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Summary
Pure Vanilla's eyes snapped open, heterochromatic irises blazing with something ancient, something repressed beneath centuries of forced constraint. His lips parted, and a low exhale escaped the space his so called "prayers" never reached.
Shadow Milk's tilted his head to the side, revealing the line of his neck. "Take it," he told him, soft, and the church sighed under the weight of what was to be done.
And Pure Vanilla did.
A gift for my best friend, Sage.
