"Let's compare dicks."
Oathran said solemnly, as if he were proposing a military strategy rather than whatever this was.
Arkai, still lying on his back on the bed, limbs sprawled, chest still heaving, turned his head. Eastiel, mid-pour, ripping open a paper sachet of water flavoring, his fingers clumsy, froze. Both of them stared.
Oathran shifted out of the way.
There, sitting on the toilet, was Cecilia. Her face was crimson, her hands pressed flat against her cheeks, her fingers splayed wide, covering everything but the tips of her ears, which were also crimson.
"I got lodged into her colon." Oathran said calmly and clinically. Yet it was flatly unhelpful in this situation. "I don't think it's a good thing if it keeps happening."
Eastiel's hand, still holding the sachet, lowered slowly.
