π¦ͺ... @sickrots
The vellicate savor of someone else's touch, his, left in the wake of touch. Like, the linger-felt hooking the shell of her ear where her hair had been tucked away. She lets out an instrumental hum. Her breastplate puffs out in process before she settles, slowly, back into an easier and more baseline of breaths. And then she rubs an echo on his nearest hipbone; the flat parts of the index and middle knuckle wags a natural rhythm before idling there.
He smells like rubbed fig leaves, clementines when you break the skin, a little pool water. Heβs a contrarian. Heβs sweet.
With her veiled gaze parallel to heaven, she can choose to roll her neck either way. With Elio's abiding petting it's an easy body choice. Her nose tips towards his stomach. She cozies in just a little more.
It's only than does she register her ask βΈΊ tired, she thinks, yes ... both in the ways he likely means and not. It feels too late to respond. His voice moves on. It always feels like she's out of time with the rest of the world.
His next words sound like a bookend to the evening. But his body language sounds something different. She realizes that she doesn't want to go. She keeps her eyes closed. She rolls a pinch of his t-shirt between her fingers.
Today was unexpected.
β My pleasure. You'll have to waste my day away again sometime. β
