They had all been sensual, but safe memories. The big man balled his hands into his black, blood-soaked shirt, and tore it like it was paper. That brings me to another problem, he said. What's up? My voice sounded breathy even to me.
She-who-made-us said once that the scar saved his life, because without it, his hair was more blond than hers, his eyes more blue. You're homophobic, I said. No, I said, you can't. He had a wrist sheath, empty, and a larger sheath at his neck, hidden by the jacket's collar.
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