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“You sure I can’t suck your dick?” Angel asks.
Alastor refrains from committing homicide with the pen he’s holding. Rather heroically; the arterial spray would be gorgeous across white fluff. “No.”
“You ain’t nevah gonna take me up on that, are you?”
“No.”
A huff. “You ace or somethin’?”
“Mmm.”
“Wait, seriously? Why didn’t you say so?” The spider looks appalled.
“Would it have mattered?”
“Well, yeah!”
Alastor blinks, unused to this conversation receiving anything but further argument.
“You want a popsicle instead?”
“No, thank you.”
“You sure?”
The acceptance is nice, although homicide may still be on the table.