His head lowers, knocking horns against his alter's in a lightly chiding manner. They had to be careful. Though he supposes, really, some light growling is hardly going to turn them to dragging him off, and it wasn't as if the motherfucker was going to be about speaking too much treason up against this shithive, thank Mirth for that. He doesn't wish the motherfucker to remain silent, no, but just to know it was a thing what as to be careful of. Nerves and paranoia may have him over compensating.

All what as he might have said doesn't seem worth saying now. Any and all what remained of his questions can't be answered. It doesn't occur to him that it could be a different timeline brought unto he, but he figures it doesn't matter all too much. If a motherfucker couldn't remember, the one what as he knew was as good as dead, erased. All what he knows is that now that he's got his alter back, he doesn't want him to go.

Maybe he'd gotten a little more attached to the confusing, baffling, prideful seadwelleresque version of his ownself than he'd thought and intended. Maybe it was all up in seeing him dragged off once what had done it.

And now the motherfucker's face is in his neck, without even slight chance it would be bitten through, and it's gone waking up things what he'd thought well and buried. Touch starved neediness. There's already a voice in him screaming at him to let go, that this be all sorts of disgusting, this brother ain't his Moirail, he ain't got no business, no proper troll should be like such. He offers a questioning chirrup, like to ask if they are to stay as such, if there ain't no wonder all left of a brother up at all. But he's not exactly pulling away.

Then suddenly, he laughs, remembering his color marked hands and how all it's gone being spread over his other now. He reaches blindly behind him with one hand until he feels glitter until his digits. He tosses it up over them, letting it scatter and fall onto his Other. There. Now he's really up in the wicked shit.