How long we kiss and thrust, chasing a release that is just out of reach. Because whiskey’s got us by the balls—literally—and it ain’t letting up in the foreseeable future.

But we have this, and really, this is all we seem to really need right now. His bare skin on mine. His hot mouth sucking marks wherever he can fucking reach. Mine on his.

The salty taste of his sweat slicking my tongue.

The moans and gasps breaching our lips.

We kiss and we kiss and we kiss.

We’re grinding against each other, clawing for purchase with our nails with no regard for the pain. He bleeds. I bleed. We bleed for each other, and it feels so fucking good to be on the same side for once. Even if that side is dedicated to tearing the other apart.

Time seems to stretch and thin and boomerang back in blotchy moments of lucidity.

If you ask me tomorrow, when the mood shifted on this terrible, wonderful, perfect night, I wouldn’t be able to answer you.

It’s as if one second we’re snarling and biting at each other like we could consume one another—

And the next his tears are merging with mine, hot and wet on our cheeks. Dripping off our tired, sore jaws.

I don’t know why we’re crying, and I swear I’m drunker than I was before. I don’t feel anything, yet somehow, I feel everything, and the only thing that seems to make a lick of sense is the pressure of his lips still pressed desperately to mine.

At some point, our cocks have gone soft, even though neither of us came. Somewhere, distantly, I know I’ll regret that. Regret not seeing his face when he shatters, my name bitten from his lips. Regret not tasting his pleasure on my tongue.

Our bodies are slick with sweat, whiskey and arousal leaking from our pores. There doesn’t seem to be a lick of space between us as his hot, heavy breaths paint my lips as we try to keep kissing. As we try desperately to stay here, right here.

Don’t fucking go to sleep. Don’t leave me.

The rough grooves of wood dig into my arm, no doubt leaving little indents embedded with dirt, but still, I don’t let go. I don’t move away.

We’re no longer grabbing and clawing, but stroking one another with fluttering, trembling fingers. Memorizing each other—naked and exhausted and nowhere near sated—as we fight off the maw of sleep.

As we hold each other like it’s the only thing keeping the fading storm from sweeping us away, because we’re the center, and as long as we hold the fuck on, maybe morning won’t come for us.