Michael was staring at his lips, eyes dazed with lingering drunkenness. His tongue darting out, licking his own mouth, as if he were dry and needed to drink, drink Lucifer. He leaned in and Lucifer, frozen, heard the prince’s low, shuddering breath. When Michael brushed his lips against his, it was the simple tap of always, but slow and forward — like the press of ink to paper, like Michael wanted Lucifer’s lips to read of him forever.
You’re killing me here
