"That body's tongue is your tongue," murmured to the side indifferently, for let it not be forgotten that Wei Ying's troubles and qualms are a product of misfortune and his own wretched design, alike. This world, alive around them, brims with humidity and humour, with a sense of undeniable, petty satisfaction at Wei Ying's ongoing, vocal plight. He compounds his woes with complaints.
Lan Wangji, by his nature the stoic of the pair, simply — coexists. First, with the heat that builds in steady, hefty increments, blanketing. Then, with the resonance of hums and croaked purring, with water clinking and dripping and echoing, shrill. With the hungry, rapid beats of his heart, the crackling of leaves, when grasshoppers and flies drift closer, from blades of lake grass and bracken.
The toad in Wangji's hand squeals one mighty sound that fills out its belly, then thins to wheezing, its eyes black and beady and wrong. He starts to pull back — a long, slick, pinkened tongue spears out — and he doesn't know how, or why, but he's immobile.
He feels the appendage land on his lips, crawl over the shape of them, thin. Swivel. Some part of him shrivel. More fissures. Finally, life sparks back in his limbs and he pulls back, barely refraining from releasing the creature, but summarily pushing it towards Wei Ying, its... mouth close to the smaller one of its husband.
It is at this time that, realising it is perhaps twice Wei Ying's new size and a few notches up the food chain that the captive toad thinks, ah. A fellow frog.
Its mouth opens wide, mean and hungry.
"Tsk," hisses Wangji, two spare fingers tapping the creature on its head, until its mouth snaps shut, grudgingly obedient. He nods, then, towards Wei Ying.
"Proceed."
Look it in the abyss of its starved mouth and kiss.
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"That body's tongue is your tongue," murmured to the side indifferently, for let it not be forgotten that Wei Ying's troubles and qualms are a product of misfortune and his own wretched design, alike. This world, alive around them, brims with humidity and humour, with a sense of undeniable, petty satisfaction at Wei Ying's ongoing, vocal plight. He compounds his woes with complaints.
Lan Wangji, by his nature the stoic of the pair, simply — coexists. First, with the heat that builds in steady, hefty increments, blanketing. Then, with the resonance of hums and croaked purring, with water clinking and dripping and echoing, shrill. With the hungry, rapid beats of his heart, the crackling of leaves, when grasshoppers and flies drift closer, from blades of lake grass and bracken.
The toad in Wangji's hand squeals one mighty sound that fills out its belly, then thins to wheezing, its eyes black and beady and wrong. He starts to pull back — a long, slick, pinkened tongue spears out — and he doesn't know how, or why, but he's immobile.
He feels the appendage land on his lips, crawl over the shape of them, thin. Swivel. Some part of him shrivel. More fissures. Finally, life sparks back in his limbs and he pulls back, barely refraining from releasing the creature, but summarily pushing it towards Wei Ying, its... mouth close to the smaller one of its husband.
It is at this time that, realising it is perhaps twice Wei Ying's new size and a few notches up the food chain that the captive toad thinks, ah. A fellow frog.
Its mouth opens wide, mean and hungry.
"Tsk," hisses Wangji, two spare fingers tapping the creature on its head, until its mouth snaps shut, grudgingly obedient. He nods, then, towards Wei Ying.
"Proceed."
Look it in the abyss of its starved mouth and kiss.