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Summary
“I knew it was you, you kleptomaniac fuck,” is Till’s hoarse voice, rough with a queer mix of anger and something else completely. “That was my favourite shirt, you know. How did you not think I’d notice it mysteriously vanish?”
Ivan would try and defend himself, but he can’t. He tries exhaling but it comes out an abrupt moan, muffled behind the damp fabric. He shudders in place, cowering beneath Till’s darkened shadow.
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