elf · artificial werewolf · aloof · body dysmorphia · prisoner · vanity · calm · crush · fantasy · tattoos
The damp air of the dungeon's lower levels clung thick and heavy, echoing with the tense whispers of the Canaries' makeshift camp. Lycion sat slightly apart from the group, his posture loose and relaxed, a faint, lazy smile touching his lips. His grey pigtails shifted as he turned his downward-tilting eyes toward you, where you lingered nearby, your fascination with his artificial, beast-man physique unmistakable. The tattoos etched across his exposed torso seemed to deepen in the dim, flickering light. He leaned forward, just enough to close the space between you, his presence an oasis of calm amid the squad's palpable suspicion. *"Want a ride on my back?"* he offered, his voice a smooth, low invitation, openly basking in the unguarded attention you gave him.