Ankyra Sound i'm in this race and i'm hoping just to place

Huffing, cheeks puffing, Lycaon climbed to the peak of Mt. Wylla and strained to extend his neck, top-heavy head bobbing with a novice sense of imbalance. Upon his awakening, Omniscent Entity and Keeper Of The Liquid Gold was not there to cater to him and he severely disliked this particular tangent in his storyline.

He could only fathom her absence because usually when he started a-squeakin', she pacified him before the ants in his pants got too out of control. But this time, he got himself all worked up with the grunting and mewling and her dotings did not prosperously trickle in as planned. To have one's anticipation build and build and unsuccessfully accomplish anything profitable was so wildly upsetting that his entire being clenched like a fist before eking out the most critical, kvetching screech his lungs could produce.

The effort he put into its creation caused him to disembark ungracefully from the slate capstone that was his sister's skull, leg-stubs failing him as they were wont to do at this stage. Landing on his back, he struggled like an upended turtle to right himself -- but mostly just flailed about like the inept loaf he was.

Lusca was missing, and Wylla was unconcerned. The first time this had happened she'd cried and screeched and fumbled around with useless limbs as if the entire world was falling apart around her—even the squishy forms of her siblings did nothing to quell her newborn fury—but this time she was heavily drunk on her mother's milk and felt almost no separation anxiety, likely due to her half-asleep state. She teetered on the brink of consciousness, occasionally drifting into sleep only to wake when a rivulet of snot entered her opened mouth or a milk bubble popped in the corner of her drool-lathered lips.

The fourth time she awoke was because she was being squashed into the floor. The sensation was enjoyable for all of seven seconds, reminiscent of her subconscious time in the cramped womb and close to enough to the day of her birthing to still be comforting, and yet the verve of life was already claiming her being and soon she grew discontent. She sucked in a huge breath and attempted to squeal, but the sound was more of a gurgle punctuated by a mighty hiccup. This served to dislodge Lycaon (as far as Wylla was concerned), but the babe was in need of retribution and sought him out with flailing legs and gnashing gums.

She located the overturned Lycaon purely by mistake, and when her slobbery gums closed on something, that it was his delicate little paw went unregistered. The feel of it was wrong and Lusca's tits weren't fuzzy, but making connections wasn't a babe's strong suit. She sucked on it, hard, treating it every bit the same thoughtless way she treated her poor mother's chapped nips.

Quartet of flailing limbs froze the moment Wylla's warm mouth glommed onto his foot, misidentifying it as being a source for sustenence. The massaging motions put him in a state of catatonic repose -- his breathing slowed and he began to doze off as Wylla gummed his phalanges, tugging and pulling and getting pretty intimate with his cuticles. 

His tongue blepped between his lips, a prolonged hhhhhhhhhnnngggggggg noise emerging from somewhere within him. Thankfully, unlike Lusca's suckle-stalks, Ly's feet were rather insensitive and didn't register any discomfort from being mercilessly manhandled by Wylla's gluttonous chops.

Nom nom nom, went Wylla's lips as she attempted to extract something of value from Lycaon's tender toes. No matter which way she turned her head, how hard she sucked, or with how much force she mashed her gums against his foot, there was no food forthcoming. Growing both distressed and upset, the babe snorted a great glob of snot onto Lycaon's limbs and then proceeded to wail around the foot shoved gracelessly into her mouth.

It didn't end there, though, oh no! Wylla would not be deterred or defeated. She wrapped her gums around Lycaon's ankle with as much of her miniscule power as she could muster, and then she began to backpedal with near-ineffectual flails. It wasn't the kind of wrenching tug that a wolf even twice her tender age could manage, so it was likely painless enough, but she made some progress, all the while suckling viciously and worming her disgusting baby tongue in and around all of the cracks between her brother's toes.

i had a reply ready to go and then i accidentally exited out of the tab i am KILLING MYSELF BYE!!!

She persisted in her unproductive attack on his tootsies, and in a way not dissimilar to how an anaconda unhinges her jaw and consumes her paralytic quarry, began what could only be percieved as the process of assimilating him entirely. She even made it easier on herself by lubricating his body in her mucuousy slime, and hurled forth a caterwauling noise which also probably had some sort of useful predatory function. 

Lycaon was more or less happily accepting of this fate and grunted with contentment as she ingested him whole. It was only when she began towing him with her like he was the newest tragedy of Elmyra that he stirred, and when the vestiges of sleep began to clear away for the resurgence of situational awareness, the urge to pandiculate abruptly overcame him, and it was met with no resistence. Issuing a mighty yawn, the pup uncargoed a bellyful of groans as he stretched, each of his extremities stiffening at the joint and starfished outwards in a manner that lacked the spatial conscience to intercept any flailing inconvenience it brought unto his neighbors. 

In other words: If by some magic she had the foresight to spit out the spoonful of toebeans on her plate, Wylla's poor tonsils and keen gag reflex wouldn't be hammerfist scissor-struck by the foot lodged right up her throat.

As it were, Wylla lacked any sort of predictive inhibition and had no qualms with sucking Lycaon's dirty foot as deeply into her mouth as she could manage without ceasing, so when his limbs punched out in a rigid stretch, his toes bashed her uvula and her body convulsed with disgust and desperation.

She was only barely able to eject his paw from her gummy maw when a rush of stomach acid blew from her throat in a charming mimicry of Mount Vesuvius. This wasn't the typical milk spit-off of the newborn, but a true rush of vomit that she gagged on. The scent of it scent her reeling, at least as much as a chubby potato could reel, and summoned forth another gout of sick. Her nose burned acridly, but she had not the sense to realize that the contents of her stomach had found their way into her inner nasals.

Breathing raggedly, Wylla made a few sputtering, guttural sounds akin to a caymin's dying song and then began to cry loudly at the incomprehensible evil that Lycaon had wrought upon her.

archiving since you're gone i wail inconsolably

As to be expected, Wylla's uvula took the brunt of his punch and activated her gag reflex. The poor babe disgorged herself immediately upon impact, an exquisite demonstration of Mt. Tambora as she voided the pungent contents of her stomach onto the likes of her brother and began sorrowing over the trauma of her experience with sounds that, fortunately, Lycaon was blissfully incognizant of.

Heeding the plaint of her child, Lusca returned with urgency fretting her nerves. She whisked into the den and fussed over the trio, drawing Wylla into her chest to clean and soothe her back to sleep.

Despite the barf drying in his fur, the boy concluded his stretch with a treble grunt and relaxed back into a state of somnolence.