黄子韬

As soon as Zitao lied down, Jiyong drew like a magnetic towards him, arm around waist, ankles hooked. The blanket under them was useless, thin and itchy at the stitching, but Zitao’s body against his, tattered as it was, still warmed and comforted him that sleep was already starting to take over his senses. “I’m going to be a father, one day...” he mumbled against Zitao’s good shoulder, eyes closed, fingertips idly grazing his hipbone. He continued smoothing over the bare skin there, more and more slowly until he slipped out of consciousness for a few seconds; but he forced himself awake again, just long enough to press a kiss to the round of Zitao’s shoulder, and only then did he give in to sleep for good.