God I'm in such a yearning mood. Literally losing my mind over thinking about slow makeouts with Zhao
OHHHHHH that's such a sweet thought!! 🥺🥺 I hope you don't mind if I just—
———
It was inevitable, the way you were drawn to one another. It was true when you first met many months ago on a sunny day in Ijincho, and it's true now, watching movies together on opposite ends of the couch. It always starts off that way, just something innocent in intent; a means to spend more time together laughing and talking, but there's always something, some unspoken, unseen force that draws the two of you together until you meet halfway.
And that's about where you both are on the couch right now, the movie playing in the background, forgotten, while you hum, content, in between kisses. You're not quite the tangle of limbs or clothes just yet—though the night is long, and he has nowhere that he needs to be tomorrow—the two of you simply exist within each other's spaces, sharing heat and tender caresses. Of a cheek, idly stroking with his thumb. With a hand splayed down and around your neck, right in that little junction where it meets your shoulder, where his nails graze. Of your lower back as he drags you closer until you're almost, almost, on top of him.
You both have every opportunity to slip a hand beneath clothes, knowing full well that that's all it takes for them to come off, but that's just too messy for this quiet moment. All either of you really want from the other is nothing more than this; an organised mess and kisses that are both gentle and forceful; where you lean into him, and he accepts all that you are.
His eyes are gleaming and his smile is somehow sleepy when you pull back. But not for breath. Not when you both breathe the other full of love and life. No, you part from him with a final peck at his lips to reach up and pull his glasses of his face, folding them slowly, gently, and then reaching past him to put them somewhere safe. He lets you do this, watching you all the while with an easy smile. Zhao turns his head as you lean past him, his lips finding your pulse just to feel its rhythm; the unshakeable proof that he has you. He kisses his way up it until he finds your lips again, anchoring you into place with a hand on the back of your head. He tilts his head just so, pulling you closer, as if that alone will let him taste you all the more.
He swears it does.
And all the while, the movie continues to play, until the credits roll and the screen darkens, and all that remains is white noise.
