✵
Send me ✵ to catch my muse under the mistletoe! : accepting.
Christmas parties. They’re loud and boisterous, the scent of alcohol lingers in the air almost as much as that of warm cinnamon and exotic spices. There’s every colour of tinsel and various seasonal decorations strewn around the place and, honestly, to Elen it looks fucking laughable. These people were mindlesly groping at each other, grappling at clothed flesh like a bunch of unskilled adolescents at an underage party. (She’s only disgruntled because that’s what she did … back in the day). Just like the archetypal scrooge, Elen hates the festivities with a passion.
Still, she doesn’t mind a few of the things that came with Christmas. Particularly, mistletoe. That peculiar little plant that somehow makes people kiss under door-frames as if they just needed an excuse to kiss in the first place (she thinks they’re too fucking pussy in the quotidian basis). Oh, Elena doesn’t need an excuse to kiss people, but people needed an excuse to kiss her – at least they liked to think so, probably. She’s a woman who knows what she wants, does as she wants when her body tells her to. She functions as a highly cohesive unit with her own libido, and always acts on her impulses like it’s the most goddamned righteous thing to do.Which brings us to this point. It’s a few minutes to midnight, and the inebriated are funding their legal frenzy with more vodka, more rum, more everything because ‘goddamn it, it’s christmas!’. But Elen? She’s targeted a voluptuous woman with a smile that could kill. A woman who Elen is certainly curious about. The blue-haired girl lingers at the door frame, and draws closer and closer to Yerin, every minute. “Look.” She gestures towards the sprig above their heads with a wicked smile. “Mistletoe. So you’re going to let me kiss you now?” She asks humouredly, as her hands settle at either side of Yerin’s hips, thumbs firmly grasping the space above the delicate bone.
“I think you’re pretty obligated into doing so. Bein’ Christmas and all. You gotta respect that tradition.” She whispers, pushing the girl back against the doorframe with a salacious smile. “Don’t,” Her gaze drops to Yerin’s lips. They’re full, pink, tinged. “You.” Yielding, delicate…”Think?” Delicious. Elen presses her mouth against Yerin’s, the tip of her tongue tracing the inner line of the upper lip. It’s teasing, terribly lingering, and Elen makes sure she doesn’t outstay her welcome but remains at least a pleasant memory to revisit at a later date.
