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“In the thicket of dark hair on his chest, her fingers entwine with Fiona’s, and a softly exhaled sigh of contentment escapes her blonde-haired lover’s lips. The symmetry of them at each side of him is imperfect, but then this is true in much of nature. Not everything is as true as a butterflies wing. She pushes her nose into his hair and basks in his scent. Nature, symmetrical or otherwise, also abhors a vacuum. It is Fiona who breaks the silence, perhaps unsurprisingly. ‘I’ve been thinking about your book.’ She murmurs, her fingers forming triangle shapes with Jutta’s beneath the cover, breaking and reforming them again in unseen silence. A game without a word between them, a twinned tickle above John’s steady heart.” — A. N. Onatopp
In the thicket of dark hair on his chest, her fingers entwine with Fiona’s, and a softly exhaled sigh of contentment escapes her blonde-haired lover’s lips. The symmetry of them at each side of him is imperfect, but then this is true in much of nature. Not everything is as true as a butterflies wing. She pushes her nose into his hair and basks in his scent. Nature, symmetrical or otherwise, also abhors a vacuum. It is Fiona who breaks the silence, perhaps unsurprisingly.
‘I’ve been thinking about your book.’ She murmurs, her fingers forming triangle shapes with Jutta’s beneath the cover, breaking and reforming them again in unseen silence. A game without a word between them, a twinned tickle above John’s steady heart.