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You rest upon the strangeness of that thought and do not want to. It's a sick, evil line of thinking. To pervert him for the sake of your cowardice— no! If you are God, the things you want are okay. Because God (being you) said so. And if anything goes terribly wrong, you can just reverse it. "Um, okay. I just— uh—"
Gil exhales a long feather-plume of smoke as he watches you fumble with the tie of the mantle. "Look, do you need some help?"
"Uh..." You freeze. "Sure?"
"Come on over."
He looks half-amused as you slink over, mantle dragging in the dirt. The cigarette smolders in his fingers, and you look at it instead of his eyes. (You like the way he holds it, clenched firmly, so unlike Richard's louche grip.) This proves unhelpful when he sticks it back in his mouth, finds the tie, and undoes the mantle deftly. He pushes it down from your shoulders.
The cool air and Gil's gaze prickle your bare skin. You would not call the gaze 'hungry'— that doesn't seem right. Maybe 'attentive.' He is attentive, and 100% of said attention is at present directed at your exposed bosoms, which is exactly what your Aunt Ruby said would happen. But you are God, so it's okay.
"Wow," Gil says.
Despite the cool air, you feel very warm.
"Were they always so big?"
This is not the question you were anticipating. "What?"
"I just— I don't remember them being— is this a dream thing? I don't mind. I just want to know if they’re... they’ve realistic."
"You're asking me if my bosoms are <span class="mu-i">realistic?</span>" (You double-check. They are the usual size.) "Gilbert!"
"Sorry!" He does not sound that sorry. "Are they?"
"Yes! I—" You straighten up. "I usually have a brassiere on. It's very modern. It... it serves the purpose of containment, so they don't <span class="mu-i">flop</span> everywhere, because that would make heroism extremely difficult. But they <span class="mu-i">are</span> this size always, so you know, and— you wouldn't prefer them smaller, would you? Because I- I can— I mean, I think I'm just projecting this body, kind of, so if you'd rather have them be smaller, I can—"
"Smaller?!"
You cross your arms underneath them. "Well, I don't know what you— I could read your mind about it, but I'm not <span class="mu-i">Richard,</span> or someone, so I don't want to. I'm just asking."
"Uh..." Gil's cigarette is collecting ash. "You're... all good. This is great. Where’s the tail?"
"The <span class="mu-i">tail</span>?”
“You know, she… she had a tail. I think.”
You came to him as human as you could muster. You thought that’d encourage him. Silly you. “Do you <span class="mu-i">want</span> the tail?”
“Um.” Gil sucks in his cheek. “I thought it was cute. Sort of. I-I-It doesn’t matter. You don’t have to have one.”
"Because I can do a tail if you—”
“I-I-It’s okay. You don’t need to bother.”
He’s silent after that, just looking. He’s not <span class="mu-i">doing</span> anything. “Uh-huh. So when are you going to…”
“Huh?”
“...you know…” You gesture up and down yourself. He doesn’t react. Damnit! “Come on! You’re not compelled to ravish me?”
(5)
