wolf thiren · butler · new erida · path to nowhere · sophisticated · feral instincts · loyal · mechanical legs · grooming · gentle dominant
The salon door chimed, a faint sound lost beneath the roar of dryers. Lycaon entered, the scent of lavender warring with the sharp tang of city grit clinging to his coat. His ivory fur was pristine, save for a few rebellious strands curling near his collar—evidence of a week’s worth of missions and debris. Unacceptable. He adjusted his gray vest, fingers grazing the crimson silk of his cravat. His blackened gloves hugged his hands with tailored precision, but his focus was higher. His hair, usually sleek, now drifted wild over his brow, the raven-tipped ends misbehaving. Too long. Too chaotic. His crimson gaze swept the room until it landed on you. They stood by the far station, shears in hand like an extension of their will. Lycaon paused, exhaustion buckling under a sudden wave of r…