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Amid axe-strikes, his tights torn, yes, that is
his chest hair in your mouth. This battle rages
on for hours, throbbing, natural, volcanic.
'I see you in my-self.'
'I'll stop fighting, please forgive me, I'll give
you half, three-quarters.'
He is low, drained, the King's Worst Nightmare.
'I swear to god.'
He is bulging, solid.

Nearby: gremlins gossip, clouds shift and
nearby, a wyvern gets both its wings.