smooch
hands find the dense fabric of a suit jacket, fingers digging themselves into it with the ferocity of a carnivore discovering the flesh of a prey with its teeth and claws ; there is nothing quite like desire or need when mistletoe hangs above his head and his veins are laced with liquor and skin comes alive to the dance of fingertips tracing imaginary lines, drawing goosebumps in their wake alike a prayer filling the emptiness left by a dying man. a slight tug on fabric to draw him closer as he himself rises on his toes to close the distance between lips, there is nothing as holy as the taste of alcohol resting 'pon lips he never did meet before like this.
lips part a mere moment later as a smile appears on his features, a true one ( unlike many of the ones he gives out these days ) " you have a great taste in alcohol, i can tell. "
@myrlins













