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Summary
Anya could just barely make out his hand in the dark, pressed palm open to Sid’s throat, tilting Sid’s chin up at what looked like an uncomfortable angle. For the barest moment her body tensed, ready to interrupt whatever testosterone-filled nonsense had them at ends. And then she saw it: Zhenya’s other hand snaked into Sid’s open fly, twisting slow and filthy. Sid thunked his head back against the wall and moaned.