Ambrosia sighs, softly, as Xarithe begins to rub her tummy. There are bellyrubs, and there are bellyrubs, and any bellyrub would've made her feel better, but this is a<span style="font-style: italic">bellyrub</span>. Her wings flutter, quite beside herself, raising a halo of dust that sparkles in the bright morning light. Slowly, the veining of her wings fades from an angry red to a deep maroon. Gently, as her wings shift like a butterfly's, tasting the currents of the air, the colouring blues to a deep, passionate purple, then back to the red of heartsblood, between the two colors with every slow beat as she squirms on the ground, under Xarithe's tender hands.<br/><br/>Now, she moans, the pleasure she feels not at all matched by that of the cultist helplessly trapped within her. Xarithe first soothes her stomach, then stimulates it - stimulates its production of acid, acid that drips down its walls, smears the cultists flesh, pools around his limbs. "Settle down," she purrs, "it'll all be over soon." Indeed it would, as Xarithe hands - that could've directed muscles to massage, to caress, instead guides them to constrict and crush. Ambrosia can't deny that digesting the man feels good, feels ecstatic, and all the better because Xarithe is helping her do it...