ilyaphonia
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“You can touch me too, you know.”
You’re locked in his sight again, each of you heavy–gazed with your pupils blown a bit wide. His hands don’t move at your permission, but his thumbs tighten ever so slightly against you when you slide your fingers under them, one rubbing gently at your index.
“Hah…” His voice crackles at the edges, raspy and twinged with static. “Fork, can’t tell you how badly I want to…”
(boothill has some reservations about intimacy.)