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Summary
Raphinha tangles a heavy fist in Fermín’s hair, pulling his head back off of his shoulder forcefully. “I said gentle.”
Fermín lets himself be dragged, stumbling a bit. He makes no move to pull away or return to nibbling on his shoulder. He’s unnaturally still. Pliant. Like a scruffed cat.
“Sorry,” he whispers, blinking at Raphinha.
Jesus, are his pupils always blown like that?
