Wiley

Two slim men with dark hair kneel on a bed, their legs spread wide as one traces fingers over the other’s bare feet, then grips their calf, thigh, and finally the knee, pressing just hard enough to make the other shift. The air hums with the slow, deliberate pull of one’s hand up the other’s leg, stopping just before the waist, where the touch lingers, unhurried. No words, no rush, just the weight of their bodies leaning into the weight of his fingers, the way the other’s breath catches when the grip tightens.