HairThey're - where? Brazil? Ecuador? somewhere Spanish-, Portuguese-flavoured - up against the too-hot night-dark wall in the swimming air, his hand, her back, burnt-umber bricks and the heavy bass night-club reverb, unconsciously matching that pulse, pounding rhythm, her legs around him, hands in his hair, twisting black-white, tongues tussling, thoughts fencing, blood burning - he ducks his head to breathe - in, out, her - the swell of her breasts, the nipples taut against sweat-transparent white, the curve of her stomach, his hand on her leg, his thumb just grazing where they meet, where they move, where wet black hairs curl again and against red.
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Sweat slick and moaning, half remembering this, half lost in the high, Draco pant-panting against his breasts and - no; Mike; he's Mike - thoughts slow separating, bodies slower, boneless interconnected sprawl, fingers trailing arcane patterns against skin rippled in warm breath shivers, and Draco makes a tired, happy noise, and Mike - he's Mike - chuckles and lazily lowers a hand - left; ring glitters in the candlelight - to rest in Draco's hair, to caress, to gently trail through platinum and blond, to touch and warm and press - scalp massages release endorphins; touch is safety; security; rough, deep affection - to slide through the white.
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If you asked, he couldn't tell you why it hurts, why it's any different than before, saying no children and meaning it - no expectations; no stone-set plans - and he looks up and breathes in, breathes out, the bio-scanner fading, screens gone static, no reason, no confidence - and he thinks of Christopher, Tyler, Stephen, all those soft baby futures cut away - too bad, so sad - and he breathes in, breathes out, runs a hand through his hair, runs both through and puts it all away - never-mind - never mind the little no heirs ever sign sadly flashing blue - black blue - black blue.