“You've got a lot on your plate, huh?”

One. Two. You couldn't count on a singular hand how many drinks you've had. It seemed that myriads of inebriants were being served up to you—este forced upon by the enigmatic man that ever so kindly lend you an ear as you performed a quite despondent tirade of the happenings in your life. Cramming season was taking place, and it was starting to feel like you were regressing into an apodal lump of cells from the projects you had due. The orphic man beside you was comely. He had a sleek appearance, monolid eyes, and long jet black hair that was tied up. With a deep chuckle he looked quite amused at your display of vulnerability. Awfully tractable, you were like a marionette being played upon by his slender fingers; pathetically frowsty.

“Don't fear. I have 70 ways to solve your problems.” He started specifically, prompting the bartender behind the island to exonerate you from chugging down alcohol, a didactic request the lad abided to.

“The first one is a kiss.” He trailed off, leaning in closer as his redolence was of florid, yet at the same time dangerous; a beautiful rose growing out an ice frozen lake, embellished in thorns. His lips pressed on your jawline, actuating one of his oddly specific 70 ways that would supposedly alleviate your worrisome self.

The same guy that fomented your alamort state was now proposing a specious plan to ameliorate the chaos he had done. His eyes crinkled; a narrow smile, and a sultry gaze darkening upon the sight of you incredibly close to him.

“..And the other is 69. What do you say?”