Three Sentence Ficathon

“Who says?” Cardan asks, nonchalant as only the Folk can be as he plucks the fruit dangling from the canopy of our bed, splitting it open with a crack.

Sticky juice drips dark on my bare skin, one-two-three, and he grins, chasing each droplet away with his mouth as I squirm under him.

“We created it, after all,” he says, plucking seeds like jewels, dropping them into my mouth when I open it to make some protest; they burst on my tongue like tart bits of some memory I can’t catch, like his fingers on my lips, stained the deep red of us.

AHHH how do you love everything I love so consistently!!