“Wait—Stop, stop! Could you kindly stop tongue-stuffing me for five seconds? Look at yourself!”

The carousel bob of the changeling’s hips stopped, A single blue eye rolling beneath him as Gunmar withdrew, letting out a grunt of impatience.

“Why did you take that release from me?” He demanded. “The breath totem’s nearly spent!”

“Forget about the breath totem!” Stricklander argued from halfway down his chest. “Look at yourself! You’ve ruptured something!”

Gunmar’s brow furrowed as he wiped his mouth on the back of his arm.

“I have?”

In all fairness, Gunmar the Black had yet to find a painkiller on level with the electric scent of a wet and winking crux. Much like its owner, the aroma was insistent and demanded his full attention, and when it coiled into his sinuses like a scalding steam, thing’s like hunger and pain took a distant, second priority.

Stricklander swung a willowy leg, dismounting Gunmar as if her were a horse.

The spymaster crouched between his Warlord’s thighs, and Gunmar sat up; following the changelings gaze.

“Oh.” The Gumm-Gumm king gave a derisive snort. “That.”

“Yes, THAT!”

The specific ‘that’ that Stricklander was pointing at in utter horror were two wet, pulsing masses of pale blue flesh.

“It happens in older trolls.” Gunmar grumbled, “They will retract, once we finish.”

“’they?’” Stricklander did a double take. “Wait, those are your---”

"Yes?" The word growled from between his teeth, bemusement warring with impatience.