Pietistic guidance only comes in clarity that sweats down Gravesβs body as he lies besides you in mutual anathema. Whispers of his father, holy or his own, fester from walls eager to watch periodic iniquity.
He rises from the bed, clinking of dogtags followed by rustling of porneia sheets pushed aside fill the room; he looks through you.
βListen, I only do this with you βcause you look like a chick from βhind.β His tongue lashes out in instinctive need to give hurt before you could.
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