His mouth requires pause. It’s like whiskey. It’s deep and you feel it in your knees when you look at it or taste it too long. His tongue wisps at his teeth, framed by full lips, wisps like a string of smoke sneaking out as they part. With your thumb pulling pouting lips to parting, you know how it would feel to have his mouth on your rib cage, piercing through your skin like scissors through tissue paper, forcing the breath right out of you. His skin is smooth and firm, the skin of a breath of fall air and moonlight. There’s nature and grace and beer and musk, a will to prove himself, a will to succeed, a will to feel everything the world can offer him. It’s an old soul and a young heart, a mind on Neptune, and lips on mine.