[ Mikasa is thankful, because she doesn't need it to be more than this; there is a quiet part of her that wonders what it would be like to deepen it, to allow herself to try kissing in a way those desperate people had been - soldiers who came back and found their wives and dipped them, lovers reunited, the whispers she heard in the barracks. All the things she thought were both out of her reach and utterly below her with her singular focus.
It's good like this, to press small, soft kisses against Jean's mouth, to let herself press her kiss against him with a sharpness that betrays her inexperience. It's all a myriad of sensations; soft hair in her fingers, the warmth of his body, the way he draws her closer, as if afraid she might disappear.
A shiver runs through her as she grips a little tighter, afraid herself, like she might wake up at any moment. ]
me with my one kissing icon
It's good like this, to press small, soft kisses against Jean's mouth, to let herself press her kiss against him with a sharpness that betrays her inexperience. It's all a myriad of sensations; soft hair in her fingers, the warmth of his body, the way he draws her closer, as if afraid she might disappear.
A shiver runs through her as she grips a little tighter, afraid herself, like she might wake up at any moment. ]