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Bathic !!1oQZB1czRDh

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Bathic !!1oQZB1czRDh ID:Pzf/PrLJ Wed 15 Mar 2023 10:23:58 No.5601963 View View Report

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How does Gil manage to say so many things without opening his mouth? It was a mistake to bestow him with a body, that's for sure. "—by which I mean a— a state of vile, um— of foul— of negative thinking, which temporarily possessed me, and forced me to say many foul and vile things. Which was very distressing for you, I'm sure, as I am well-known for my heroic, erm, vigor. Therefore I would like to convey my apologies—"

"What are you talking about?" Gil says.

You freeze. "My apologies? Ahem. I shall henceforth pledge to ne'er slip up in such a horrible way again, and to improve on my levels of positivity, which should be easy, as I am at present feeling excellent—"

"Who gives a shit about me? You were—" His brows furrow. "Slip up?"

"Huh?"

"Are you saying it wasn't the evil gunk? You weren't just possessed? I thought you..." He trails off. "I mean, that wasn't really you."

On account of your pure and honest heart, you are not a good liar. You shift your weight.

"Aw, geez, Lottie, I-I-I..." Is it too late to ship him back to Pat? "...You don't have to put something on for me, okay? I-It's not like I don't have my own shit going on, I dom't care if you— if you're not always positive, or whatever the hell that— I-I think it might be better for you if you weren't? Shoving it all down just, um... I mean, that's when you start drinking death water."

"I don't see how those two things are connected," you say officiously, "even if I were shoving anything down, which I— I admit I said some things I would not be saying under ordinary circumstances, but I hardly see how that's the same thing. It just means I practice discretion, that's all. I filter out... negative input, as any regular person would do. Ahem. Now, I was attempting, Gilbert, to issue my retainer an apology, which I was planning to extend to the outcome of our— er— embraceage."

"Our what?" Gil says.

"Our..." You scowl. "The hug. Which you broke off prematurely, and quite rudely, I'll have you—"

It's astonishing how rapidly Gil turns pink. Is it the goo? "Um, ah, about that, I-I-I-I— I-I-I-I-I've been giving it some thought, and it's okay if you want to lick me. I-It's okay. I-I-I just really want to be told about the licking, um, beforehand, so I can— so I can mentally prepare myself for—"

"What? Why would I lick you again?" You wrinkle your nose. "Gross."

Whatever response Gil had been envisioning, this plainly wasn't it. "Ah. Ah... hah. So why—"

"Because you were sweating all over me? But your skin wasn't real, so that was weird, and then I thought you smelled like lamp oil, so I was wondering if the sweat was oil! And it was! And then you—"

"Why didn't you use your finger?" he breathes out.

"Because my hands were occupied? Duh? What was I supposed to do, touch all over your neck? It's not my fault you noticed."

(2/4)

Bathic !!1oQZB1czRDh

View Same Google ImgOps iqdb SauceNAO (i.e. panic).jpg, 42KiB, 640x920

Bathic !!1oQZB1czRDh ID:Wt6ShItw Thu 19 Jan 2023 10:20:19 No.5537798 View View Report

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Gil doesn't just stiffen: he goes corpselike. Gravelike. His fingertips dig painfully into your back— "Ouwh," you say, tongue out— and he ceases to breathe, which would worry you if not for the continued hum of the motor and/or chest beetles. "Lottie," he forces out.

Geez. You're kind of in the middle of something. "Mm-hm?"

"You're not... licking me...?"

"Ouh tah lih lah oil," you inform him.

"...What?..."

You retract your tongue. "You taste like lamp oil. Or maybe not lamp oil exactly, but some kind of—"

Gil releases you. He's gone an actively concerning shade of red, something like a third-degree sunburn, and has begun to scrub at his neck with his sleeve.

You find this somewhat offensive. "Um, okay. Good regular hug. Good job. Are you sure you don't need to lie down? By the way, I'm thinking it might be flammable— your sweat— so you might want to incorporate that into the flamethrower design. Just saying. Also, do you actively control your beetles all the time? Also— ow."

That wasn't a question. That was your head panging brutally. Gil won't look at you at first, having sunken back onto the ground, but when you switch from "ow"s to "AUGH"s he does. When you sink to your own knees, he cups his face in his hands. "What i-i-i-is it?"

>[-3 ID: 6/13]

You don't know. How are you supposed to know? It just got worse, way way way worse, like he took a chisel to your skull. There's something happening around your chest, too, weirder than pain. There's no explaining that. "I think you have poison sweat..." you say semi-coherently.

"What?" He's grimacing. He hasn't gone much less red. "What the fuck are you— how do you live like this? How are you an actual—"

"How do we live like this..." The headache is excruciating, but you're more concerned about the chest thing, which is building all too fast. "Gil..."

He laughs sharply and ducks his head and when he looks back his expression changes. "Oh, fuck. What the fuck."

"...Gil...?"

"Don't look down. Please."

You look down. There is a hand sticking straight out of you, a pale one, with manicured fingernails. Your chest is sunken in a little bit around it. "Ah," you say. "Ah. That doesn't... that doesn't usually..."

"Okay, cool. Cool goddamn fucking shit. I-I-I-I'm glad you don't— shit!" The hand lurches toward him. There's a whole arm, now, with wristwatch and shirtsleeve— with brass wristwatch, with white shirtsleeve, with fine blond hairs striping it. Gil is red and paralyzed until you grip the grass and yell "GRAB IT!" into his face, and then he bolts and grabs the hand and strains. It takes a second arm forcing itself out of your chest, and him grabbing that one too, before there's a suction noise and all-of-a-sudden two different men flying backwards past you.

(3/4)

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