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Words Like Oil, Pitch As Tar

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When you two met, you fought.

Well. She kinda handed your ass to you. In all fairness, you’d been going for a while already, you were all kinds of strung out and worn down already, so it wasn’t, like, a fair fight.

Still, she did. She caught you at the tail end of a holy rage, with your vision purple and your eyes red and blood on your clubs and your claws. And she blasted you with her sick magics until your skin was raw and your pan was ringing.

And then she waited for you to recover. Didn’t take you out, didn’t up and send you to meet your makers, no. She looked at you with her eyes full of rage and void, her skin a dead, dark shade of grey, bleeding an aura of otherness. You figured you’d keep her company.

Apparently, other humans made for shitty company, for her. Whatever’s nestled herself around a sister’s thinkstem isn’t big on intelligible words. When the Seer talks, they don’t get it, they just think it’s gibberish, can’t fucking comprehend with their narrow little minds. But you, praise be, can hear her clear as song, slick as oil, pour meaning without needing the words. Don’t quite know why, but you don’t need to. If Messiahs bless you with this kind of understanding, you ain’t gonna question a miracle. But what’s clear is, if no one save you can understand, you’re clearly meant to hang out with her.

You did ask, at some point, why she all up and harshed your violence jam you had going on. And if you quite understood that right, her reply was meant to be along the lines of “Because I could.” And damn if you can’t respect that. If a weird, void-juiced human can mess you up, you just gotta get better. You like her.

 

Now, to say that you’re leaning towards the worshipful in your regard would be downright fucking blasphemous. But now and then a motherfucker gets his appreciation on. You appreciate that for some reason she’s got the mojo to not only get contact to the elder gods of the Furthest Ring, but then to contain and use their powers no less. And you, for some reason, find yourself in appreciation of the disconnect between her looks and the scale of her danger. It reminds you of powerful psionics, all of them tiny and unimposing, but able to toss starships with their pan alone.

Her frame is so much smaller than yours, her hands are dainty and her skin is soft, but deep down, you know you might not be a match for her. When she fixes you with her gaze, full of whispers from the void, there’s a tiny part of your hindbrain that wants to cower in terror because it can’t comprehend. It could never hope to understand even a motherfucking glimpse of what goes down in the Seer’s noggin. So it curls away and shakes in fright and tries to forget what it saw. Luckily, you’ve thoroughly squished this part. It has no hold on you and your actions. Never did much, but now less than any other time. You still like looking at her, with her soft hair and her round curves and her nice clothes. It’s best when you’re out causing trouble, and you get to see her tear into folks who looked at you in fright because you’re big and scary, see them realise that she’s just as.

It’s not that you’re constantly seeking out violence just for kicks, but your travels tend to bring you awfully close to large congregations of people. And the Seer is vicious and infused with eldritch, and you have an awfully easy tendency to slip into the rage, so there’s a lot of fighting. It’s not her primary purpose, though. She has some sort of plan, is looking for something. Now and then you have to stop and interrogate people, which you have a feeling she didn’t manage at all before you teamed up. Your wicked sister seems like she’s good at everything, except currently talking to anyone who’s not on your level of divine understanding.

It’s kinda fun, because people are all up and expecting her to be the good legislacerator, and you to be the bad one. And then you talk at them, and they realise you’re the bad legislacerator, and she’s the worse one. You get results. You’ve been getting results for months, moving from place to place, and in-between, you find empty places to kick it and rest for a while.

Every now and then, your wicked sister has her moments of clarity, when whatever’s got her thinkpan in its tendrils uncoils a little. Maybe focuses on something else. Maybe cares a little less than usual. How it works, you don’t know, and it doesn’t matter. But sometimes the fathomless ocean cold drains from her eyes and she looks with an all different kind of determination. She’s in it for something, you can tell; no motherfucker lets these kinds of things all up in his thinksponge if he doesn’t think he’s getting something worthwhile. And she’s not about to back out. Sometimes, in those moments, she gives you those sidelong looks like she’s sizing you up. Like you’d look at someone if they were significantly bigger than you and you wanted to grind their head into the dirt.

It’s the look she’s giving you now, and you flex your taloned paws and roll your shoulders and grin at her like she just told you the funniest jokes. She cocks her head to the side, watches you with eyes narrowed like a meowbeast, and you tip your head back, angling your horns away. An old-fashioned, trollish insult — not dangerous enough to be threatened with horns. She probably doesn’t get it. “Caegar for whatever’s going on in your pan,” you tell her. And she doesn’t shrug or ignore you.

The garbled mess that she speaks sounds closer to human English than usual when she’s like this, but it’s still neither here nor there in manners of a proper language. But what she means in her tar-bubble syllables is that she’s wondering how easy it would be to crush you. How easy it would be for you to crush her if she wasn’t filled to the brim with the eldritch void. How she wonders what you’re really in it for, why you don’t just go and do whatever else. Her words-not-words wash over you and you laugh.

Why would a motherfucker wanna go? Where would a motherfucker wanna go? You’d just roam the place all ambling onwards with nowhere to go. But a sister here has got a goal. Got some powerful as fuck allies, got some real juice. The whispers in your pan like it, urge you to go along. And you like being challenged. It’s all kinds of refreshing to be around someone who could fuck you up six ways to seventh perigee when usually you tear through people like paper, snap bones like sticks. You tell her as much, and also that she’s a fine piece of meat for a tiny human.

A moment stretches between you while she seems to think over your answer, then she stands up and discards her wands, those tiny sticks that blaze with sickening energy. They clatter to the floor in the corner. You look back to her.

“Fight me,” she gurgles. You lock gazes with her, stare into her ganderbulbs and she looks dead serious.
“What?”
She repeats the same noise, the one that makes your blood boil pitch. There’s a soft sound coming from her now, a faint hum of power that itches in the back of your thinkpan and makes you want to tear shit apart.

Well. If she insists.

You leap across the room from where you were crouching in one bound. Your hands reach out, claws ready to bite into the meat of her tiny human body, but she’s gone and your hands crash together with nothing between them. Of course. With a frame that small, anyone would go for the dodge. You turn left, following your ears more than your eyes, and swipe again with a meaty paw. She ducks under neatly, pivots around the follow-up swipe like a comballet dancer, doesn’t attack back. It’s like she’s just teasing. Your face breaks into an unholy grin, maw filled with too many fangs.

If she wants to play, you can play. The human is fast and vicious, but you have limbs for days. You drop into a crouch and swipe your leg along the ground, and she doesn’t retreat, just jumps over it because she’s not taking you seriously at all, and that’s when your backhand catches her square in the chest with a sick crack. She flies across the room and slams against the wall. That does the trick. The Seer is on her feet quick as a whip and goes for your chest, which you only just so manage to dodge. You trade a few blows, none of which hit. Both of you focus on dodging, hoping to make the other stumble, and then you break rhythm. You catch one of her blows across the meat of your shoulder, which aches like a motherfucker, and manage to grab her around the torso.

Before you can hoist her up proper, she kicks so hard your elbow buckles and you drop her, cursing loudly. She’s on you like lightning, strikes you in the abdomen and you wheeze. You drop to your knees and throw your head, left-to-right, and your horns catch her in the side, sending her stumbling. While you still can, you get to your feet and swipe again. This time you manage to catch her, bring both hands around her thorax, claws in her skin. The Seer shrieks in what might be pain, and then the sound changes, crackling sounds that make lights flash behind your eyes, and you realise that she’s laughing.

She wrenches an arm free and strikes your wrist, fast and cruel as a scalebeast. It hurts enough that you loosen your grip and she wriggles out of your grasp. She’s still laughing, and her blood is on your claws, as slick as oil, and you laugh too, revel in the hurt and madness. You go for her in big, open-handed swipes, one, two, three, all of which she sidesteps. Step, dodge, duck. She’s hard to hit. You switch it up and actually connect, a clumsy backhand smacks her right in the face and she stumbles back a few paces.

It dawns on you too late that you’re being tricked. Suddenly she’s behind you and before you can turn, something slams into your back hard and knocks the wind out of you. You fall forward, try to catch yourself on your hands, but something wrenches your head back and you land on your chest hard.

She has you on the ground, a foot between your shoulder blades, her hands on your headgear. The force makes your skull creak. If she wanted, the bitch could snap them right off. You bellow your rage and struggle, but she doesn’t yield, holds you down even though you’re twice her size and a hulking highblood. It sends pitch fire through your blood and your growl of frustration changes tone to the rasping buzz of a pitch solicitation. You may feel all sorts of ways about this human, but a contest of strength is just so deep black you’re about to vomit spades.
For a few long seconds, the Seer lets you squirm in her grip, then she lets go unexpectedly and your face smacks to the ground. Her heel is on the back of your head and you buzz again, thoroughly beaten. Her weight disappears off your back then, she steps in front of you, goes on one knee to inspect you. You raise your head and grin up at her. Your lip is split from hitting the ground and grinning stings, makes your deep purple blood trickle over your face-paint.

She grips your hair and drags you a bit higher, so you’re eye level with her. The syllables that bubble off her lips say pleased, enjoying, fun. Let’s do this again, she’s telling at you, hark, I could wipe the floor with you anytime. You just buzz at her, that sinuous growl of pitch solicitation, ramped up to a downright lewd level. She leans in and licks along the line of blood on your lip, and then she’s kissing you, and you’re kissing her, and she’s so warm against your highblood cool. It’s good, reminds you how alien she is, even though her skin is dark and grey like yours, even though she’s as strong and fierce and bloodthirsty as you, you’ve got an alien biting at your lips and pulling at your hair. Fucking divine. When she pulls back, her black lips are smudged white with your paint.

She grins at you with blunt teeth and lets go of your hair, which you were honest to Messiahs not expecting, and you faceplant against her torso. It makes her laugh again, in quick gurgling sounds, and leaves a white paint smudge on her dress. You push yourself up and sit back on your haunches, raise one of your fronds. Her blood is still on your claws. It should be brightest heretic candy-red, red with iron, red as miracles, but there’s a dark shimmer to it that makes it shine like filmy oil.

You lick it off slowly, put on a little show, let your tongue curl around your finger. The Seer watches you with a rapt stare. There’s something hungry in her face and it makes your blood run hot. After all this time, you still don’t know how much she knows of pitch solicitations, if she understands that licking your pitchmate’s blood off your claws is the blackest tar you could show, but the gaze she’s fixed you with is all kinds of concupiscent.

So, you take action. You’d shred the shirt right off you, just for convenience, but a motherfucker keeps a shred of countenance about him, so you just take it off like a person. She perks up with interest, leans a bit closer, and you beckon her in.

There are two hits. She hits your thorax and you hit the ground. Before you can regain your breath properly, she’s on you, knees on either side of your waist. It’s like she’s blind and trying to learn you by feel. Her hands frame your throat, trace the lines of your neck, follow the angles where your shoulders meld into your arms. But she’s not looking at you like someone blind. There’s a fierce hunger in her for the new, for the knowledge, and you realise that even though you’ve dispatched plenty of trolls together, she probably hasn’t had a chance to get all up and close with one of yours, not like this. It’s nice, all that attention on your own blessed person. A motherfucker could get used to it.

You squirm a bit when she traces your grubscars with the pads of her fingers. So of course, she immediately repeats the motion with her nails. They’re not as sharp as claws, but only by a small margin, and you hiss at the sting. She smiles, smiles with your paint on her lips, and does it a third time, and it makes your bulge throb in its sheath. You reach up and yank at her dress to make your intentions known — she can take it off now, or you can shred it off her, which would be terribly romantic, but also leave her without clothes, and a motherfucker is anything if not considerate.

She stands, and even though she is tiny compared to you, she looks tall from this angle. You like this angle. It’s a nice view, especially when she grabs her skirts and yanks the dress off over her head. She’s all soft curves and grey skin, darker than yours, where yours hasn’t yet toughened into black chitin plating. The claw punctures in her thorax have stopped oozing that filmy blood, it has congealed into shiny dots, and you like the look on her, like the reminder that you put them there. As she probably likes putting you on your back.

You’re yanked from your moment of reverie by a wicked sister perching on you again to continue her detailed study of your thoracic support structure. She traces your chitin plating, scratches over it hard to see if it’ll make you squirm again, and Messiahs, you’re itching to return the favour. Now, a troll with his claws made to rend flesh has to keep his fucking care on or be one human short. You smooth your palms over her soft thighs and big hips. The heat of her body seeps into your cool skin like sopor.

Again, she returns to your grubscars, merciless witch. She yanks her nails along them and you close your hands around her hips hard. Before your pan can catch up with your fronds, your claws are in the meat of her hips, her miracle blood oozes out. She moans for it, though, no sense of ire in her. Retaliation though, because she stretches over you and grips your horns, runs her hands down into your hair, and digs her thumbs into your hornbeds. Your vision goes hazy around the edges and there’s a pressure in your aural spongeclots, like your head’s full with nowhere to go, everything is softer and sharper at the same time, and Messiahs, you hear her laugh again with the voice of monsters and gods.

She doesn’t let up, and sweet grief, she must have gotten at least some of her know on about how trolls all up and function. You buzz for her from deep in your chest, pull your claws from her hips, reach for the abundant amount of rumblespheres that she has, all easy in reach because a wicked sister is stretched over you to reach your horns. When you cup them in your fronds, she mimics your buzz good as she can with her human equipment and her pan all messed up. It comes out more a gurgle, but the intent is clear. She’s right there over you, hot as heresy, hands on your horns, doing the best as she can to give you a troll’s concupiscent call, and Messiahs both, you want her.

You let go of her, reach down to shred your trousers off, but before you can get going, the Seer tugs at your horns. What now? A motherfucker was getting his strip on. You pause for a second, and she lets go, shuffles forwards on her knees until she’s right over your chest. Then her hands are on your horns again like they’re handles, pull your head up, and ah, yes, you’re really close to her thighs now.

She gurgles her bizarre mimic of a pitch buzz again, like bubbling tar, and you take the hint. When your talons shred the underwear away, she doesn’t seem to be sporting a bulge, but you weren’t holding expectations at this weird soft alien’s junk. Whatever this is, you’ll work with it. You slide your tongue out, she grabs two fistfuls of your hair and pulls you in.

The first rule in getting your freak on with an alien is improvising. You’re bitchtits at improvising and give the fuzzy area she’s looking to put near your mouth a generous lick. And ah, yeah, jackpot. She’s slick and salty here, a bit bitter, and spreads her legs when you lick her, so you repeat the motion. There’s a little nub there, right where her bulge should be, and that’s exactly where she wants you. Falling into a rhythm is easy with the movement of her hips and her hands cradling your skull, and she grinds her soft human nook against your mouth with enthusiasm.

You roll your tongue up against her and she gasps, and that must’ve been all kinds of righteous shit, because she rewards you by rubbing against the base of your horns again. And it would be ridiculous if a motherfucker couldn’t follow such clearest direction, so you do it again. Your paint smudges against her fuzz and her slick coats your lips and down your chin. It’s the most divine experience you’ve had since you got paint together and made some wicked holy art, three cities ago.

She grinds against your face with an urgency you feel in your blood. There’s not enough air in your chest, not enough touch on you, and her hands on the base of your horns make everything fuzzy. Your voodoos spark violet around the edge of your thoughts. You growl at her all pitch as tar, because she’s wrecking you, and she makes some noise, wicked as sin in your ears. With a full-body shudder, you unsheathe in your pants, too worked up, and you need her to touch you, like, yesterday. It doesn’t take long and then she’s shuddering against you too, her thighs flex against your hands, she pushes your head back and catches her breath.

You stare up at her and lick your lips, wet and sloppy. She stares back, and there’s something satisfied in her face, something pleased. A liquorice-black smile, just for you. Her hands let go of your horns and you feel boneless without the pressure against your headgear, like all your joints are just that bit out of sync. Instead, she slides her hands into your tangled hair, cradles your skull in her tiny human palms. It’s nice. Horribly condescending, makes your bulge twist against itself. You lick over your fangs and trace the punctures in her thighs, then the ones in her thorax. All you. A wicked motherfucker went and got in a good grip, and her smile is lethal at the reminder.

There’s a question in the low bubble of her voice. About touching you. In that voice from the abyss, with sounds like no human chatterbox should be making, the Seer asks you if you want her touch, and Messiahs, do you ever. You tell her hell yes and grin at her with all your teeth, and this time you’re expecting her to suddenly let go of you and catch your weight on your arms.

She takes a few steps back and before you can save your pants by taking them off, the fabric tears under her hands. Great. Now a motherfucker is gonna have to find new threads, and that shit isn’t easy what with your size. Still, you’re not about to give her the satisfaction of complaining, so you just kick away the sad remnants of what used to be your pants.

To say your wicked sister here looks delighted would be an understatement. She’s got her appreciation on about what you’re packing, and damn, you could get used to that kind of enthusiasm. She kneels between your legs and watches your bulge twist around itself for a few seconds, and you almost flinch when she touches you. Her hand is just that warm, hot as sin against your junk when she presses her palm against you. Your bulge seeks the friction, makes short work of curling around her fingers, and the Seer gurgles a sound of delight.

Now, what a motherfucker was expecting was that she’d touch at you all gentle and delicate-like. Because while a bulge is the equipment of a clawed fanged species that tears each other up for kicks and romance, it doesn’t look the part, all squirmy and wicked soft. But your Seer here, you should’ve known, because she’s the one that immediately went after your grubscars with her wicked fingernails, she lets your friendly crotch tentacle wrap around her fingers nice and snug, and then she tugs. You’re too vexed to hold back your noise of pleasure, dig your claws into the floor, and she snickers triumphantly.

Your bulge is getting real friendly with her hand, finally got something to curl around and move against, and the friction is delicious. And you may be bitchtits at improvising when facing alien junk, but all shits holy and otherwise, she’s a miracle between your legs. She draws your bulge out to almost its full length, with just the tip wedged between her fingers, and inspects the length of it like she’s hungry. Waits. Lets you squirm under her eyes, probably just to fuck with you. And then she squeezes her entire other hand around as much as she can and you holler.
You’re busy catching your breath when you realise that she’s leaning down, and shit, you can feel her breath on your bulge. It wriggles inquisitively, curious little motherfucker, and this is a thing that’s happening, she’s doing it—

Your pan shorts out. It’s like fucking a furnace, her mouth is so hot on you that you could just catch fire. And with a troll, especially any above jade, you’d be worried about fangs on your delicate shit, but she ain’t got none of those, teeth flat as a mud-sucking rustblood. So you tip your head back and let her melt the wicked pleasure right out of you. It makes your thoughts spin. There’s too much to fit into her mouth at once, though the Seer makes a valiant effort, but then she pulls back until it’s just the end of it against her tongue.

She strings you out again by the tip, holds it in her fingers, and then she leans in and sucks a long line all the way down to where it meets your nook and your spine turns liquid. You toss your head backwards so hard your horns strike the floor with a force that puts a ringing in your aural spongeclots. She laughs at you, a terrible crackling sound, because she likes how she can grab at you and make you all fucked up, make the big bad clown lose his shit like that.

And then she does it again, and slips two of her tiny fingers into your sopping nook, and it’s not as much as a motherfucker would like, but it’s something, and your pan does an artistic fucking flip off the trapeze. Your claws shred the floorboards under you and you spit some nasty words her way once you regain some semblance of control over your chatterbox. When you manage to pry open your ganderbulbs, it occurs to you that not only has she stopped, she’s waited for you to notice she’s stopped. Your bulge, lonely and sad, curls along its own length again.
“Again,” you growl, because she’s not gonna leave you here high and dry. Not this time. The bitch is definitely someone who’d do that, sure. But you know her, and you saw the delight on her face when she got up close with what you’re packing. She might fuck with you more in the future, but now, she really enjoys taking your slurry-making bits for a ride.

The two of you hold eye contact for a long, tense moment, her unsaid threat to stop hangs in the air, but then the moment snaps all brittle when she looks down and smiles. Maybe she’s surprised you called her bluff. You spread ‘em a little more. All inviting and nice, and your bulge does a nice ripple that catches her eye. You don’t think she notices how hungry she licks her lips.

It does spur her into movement. She gets closer, and for some reason, swings a leg over you so she’s sitting on you all backwards. Shame. Missing out on your quality looks here, and some nice pitch makeouts, but the view of her glutes is admittedly fucking choice. You can’t gander at her face like this, and you don’t like that you can’t get your know on what kind of smug shit the human is doing with her face.

That line of thinking loses like all of the relevance it had when she fits her scorching human crotch all up and close with your junk, and hello there. Your bulge gives a friendly wiggle and gets very well acquainted with her thighs, leaves barely visible trails of your shiny purple slick on her skin to join the paint you got there. She seems content to grind against the base of your bulge, just where it escapes from the bone shield that usually protects it, but if a motherfucker is quite honest, you were more of a fan of the shit she was pulling before.

You roll your thorax up a bit more, keep your weight on one frond and fit your other paw around one of her ample rumblespheres. It’s a bit of a strain on one as vertically gifted as you to lean your noggin down into such a small human’s neck, but the things you do for romance. You touch your cheek to hers, leave a nice white smudge too, press fangs against her the side of her throat. You wouldn’t, of course, but the gesture is nice, and she smells good.

“You havin’ fun there, chica?” you intone into the skin of her, breathe her in, the weird human salt and the colourless film of eldritch magic that tints her skin and steals her words. One of her little hands finds the base of your horn again, squeezes hard and your pan goes fuzzy again, voodoos thrumming in your skull. She grabs your other horn and tugs, and you hold against it, and suddenly it registers that she's not pulling you down, she’s pulling herself up, just enough so your bulge can move under her. The texture of the fuzz around her human nook is weird on you, but it’s still a nook, and your junk finds where she’s slickest with a fluid curl.

It’s scorching.

She releases your horns, lets her weight drop back on her legs, and your voodoos just fucking go. Everyone in a radius of several blocks is gonna be fucked with nightmares for a week straight with how hard you just accidentally plastered the place in your whispers, but shit, at this point, who can blame you? Fuck controlling your psychic power, people are just gonna have to deal with your miraculous harshwhimsy because this human is melting your junk right off. She’s much hotter than her hands here, more than her mouth, and your bulge lashes inside her.
It’s like she’s burning down right into your core, this tiny fierce mammal with her oil words and her ozone magic. You’re made of sand and cold ocean and violet rage, razor teeth and capricious powers, and she holds your own against you, a brand blazing bright as heresy, her skin on your chitin.

The Seer’s making some fuckin’ noise for you now, more than what you got out of her when you got your mouth all cozy with her bits. You’d love to cram all of your bulge into her just to feel how fucking hot she is all over, like it could burn the sin right off you, but some shit just ain’t happening when your spade’s full height’s the size of your leg. It’s almost enough, the feeling of her, and you nibble at her small round ears and soft shoulder, whisper praise and prayer and whatever your thinkpan drifts to, addled as you are. For a second, you think she’s shivering, but no, actually it’s you who is, hard at handling the ecstasy when your nook is all empty and cold.

She does shiver when you lick a wet stripe up her neck, rolls her hips down on your bulge and you ripple inside her. “Hey,” you rasp. “Does a wicked sister wanna put one of those nice li’l hands to use?” She doesn’t say anything, but there’s a confusion on her you can feel in your horns. You twitch a leg further apart. “A motherfucker could use something up his nook, would be all nice like,” you elaborate. “Would be your bulge. Should be.” Realisation flickers in her, hits the voodoos still thick in the air and echoes back into your pan. You spread your frond against her chest, an implied promise to hold her up, and she leans into it so she can reach. She tips her weight forward and reaches down, and Messiah’s blessings, you moan for it when she slides hot little fingers into your nook.

Much better. She curls her fingers in you, and the pressure against the base of your bulge from the inside is so urgent and good your stomach clenches. The stark difference between your body temperatures makes you hyper-aware of where she’s touching you, where you’re touching her, and she wrings the coherence right out of you. Must please your lords, to have such a tiny, heretic-hot human get so deep under your chitin. Mirthful fuckery that it is.

It makes your blood sing with wicked delight. Gods, she feels amazing. At this point, both of you are making a ruckus, her moans harsh and distorted, you chirring for all the pleasure she’s doing at you. She fucks you with her firm fingers, you fuck her with your bulge, and it lights all your nerves with righteous fire. You let your bulge ripple inside her and it makes her squirm, and she curls her fingers, and fuck, yeah, that’s it
A motherfucker just straight-up whites out for a moment. When you get your pan back into meatspace, the Seer is shaking over you, fucking her hand in short, hectic motions, then seizes up and shudders harsh and good. She doesn’t quite let herself drop against you, but she does relax against your thorax, trusts you to hold both of you up. You just hold for a second, sitting in slurry and the ruins of your legwear. Catch your breath.

 

You pick up afterwards. Both of you are kind of a mess, so you get cleaned up. She perches on the edge of the ablution trap and watches you redo your paint. You don’t like being barefaced around people, s’not supposed to happen, especially around those what don’t share your faith, but she’s okay. In the end you’re sure she’s put here with her fierce ambition for the same pleasure of the Messiahs as you, so you let her watch. Idly, you think about what kind of paint she’d wear, if she were the same as you. She’d make a terrific subjugglator, maybe even better than you. A sister’s got the drive, and she’s got the devotion. Either way, you know you’ll get your paint on her again plenty, which is the next best thing as far as you’re concerned.

As a celebratory gesture, you crack open a bottle of Faygo. As a thanks to the Messiahs for letting a brother please them in such most miraculous manner, you pour some out. And because you’re just an all-around amazing dude, you offer your pitch-bitch some. You’re not expecting her to take you up on it. It’s not that she doesn’t eat and drink, sometimes she does, but doesn’t need it the way you do, and mostly forgets how bitchtits indulgence is. But, to your surprise, she takes the bottle and has a sip, looking all gracious about it like she’s a dignitary or some shit. And while she has mostly lost the lucid look, deep in her bond with the Furthest Ring again, she’s still looking at you like a person and not just like a vessel for something else. Which is nice. Maybe you can convince her to go out and get you some new legwear, because you’re kinda butt-naked at the moment.

She makes you get it yourself, and blows you a kiss when you head out of the door.