The first time he calls you 𝒽𝑜𝓁𝓎, you laugh it back so hard your sides 𝔥𝔲𝔯𝔱. The second time, you ᴍᴏᴀɴ gospel around his fingers between your teeth. He has always surprised you into surprising yourself. Because he’s an angel hiding his нαℓσ behind his back and nothing has ever felt so ғιlтнy as plucking the wings from his shoulders— 𝕦𝕟𝕕𝕣𝕖𝕤𝕤𝕚𝕟𝕘 his softness one 𝒻𝑒𝒶𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓇 at a time. God, if you’re out there, if you’re listening, he ｆｕｃｋｓ like a seraphim, and there’s no part of scripture that ever prepared you for his hands. Hands that dɐɯ a communion in the cradle of your hips. Hands that kiss hymns up your sides. He confesses how long he’s looked for a place to 𝔴𝔬𝔯𝔰𝔥𝔦𝔭 and, oh, you put him on his 𝓀𝓃𝑒𝑒𝓈. When he sinks to the floor and moans like he can’t help himself, you wonder if the other angels 𝖋𝖊𝖑𝖑 𝖘𝖔 𝖘𝖜𝖊𝖊𝖙. He says his prayers between your thighs and you dig your heels into the base of his spine until he blushes the color of your ғɪʟᴛʜʏ tongue. You will ruin him and he will thank you; he will say ｐｌｅａｓｅ. No damnation ever looked as cozy as this, but you fit over his hips like they were made for you. You fit, you fit, you fit. On top of him, you are an ᗩᑎᑕIEᑎT god that only he remembers and he offers up his skin. And you take it. Who knew 𝔰𝔞𝔠𝔯𝔦𝔣𝔦𝔠𝔢 was so 𝓅𝓇𝑜𝒻𝒶𝓃𝑒? And once you’ve taught him how to hold your ᴛʜʀᴏᴀᴛ in one hand and your 𝓱𝓮𝓪𝓻𝓽 in the other, you will have forgotten every other ω𝓞яĐ, except his ɴᴀᴍᴇ.
—
PROFANE, by Ashe Vernon (via latenightcornerstore)
