07-19-2018, 10:50 PM
/another shit mobile post H
He hears her before he sees her, and when he parts his maws once more he catches wind of a slightly more distinctive scent than of the group itself — a feline. Miamihorror’s gaze follows her as she rounds the corner, watching with cool expectancy as the unfamiliar creature nears. He’s sizing her up, his tongue running across his teeth to taste the lingering flavor of nicotine; he’s full, and felines tend to be too small to satisfy his appetite, but he regards her like he’s considering taking a bite. Maybe it’s because he can tell she’s at least somewhat intimidated — though he’s barely proficient at reading others, the spots the anxious flicking of her tail catches his eye. She speaks with a bit of spunk, and he quirks a brow. “Depends — “ the wolf says in reply, baring his yellowed teeth in a forceful smile, “ — on where the hell here is.”
Another set of gentle footfalls joins them, and his attention shifts as his gaze moves to Suiteheart. Her words garner only a flick of an ear and a sharp exhale through his nose, copper eyes resting on her mildly. He seems completely uncompelled to respond, as the male pauses to watch the others arrive one by one, silently judging each as they come to a quiet halt. He doesn’t particularly like how swiftly the tides have turned against his favor, especially with the biggest one in the helmet. Then again, Miamihorror has never been one to back down from a fight, regardless of the odds; matter of fact, he rather likes a challenge. The wolf straightens and rolls his shoulders, attempting to appear larger, broader. Though well-muscled he’s still somewhat lean — a result of his own scrappy youthfulness. Those who’ve come forth after the second feline have not spoken a word, prompting him to return his attention to Suiteheart. “What, they your fuckin’ entourage?” he asks coolly, jerking his head at the silent group who have since gathered. It’s clearly a kind of joke — there’s a certain measured glean behind his eyes, even if his tone remains steady.
He glances briefly at the four and then focuses once more on the admiral, the only to introduce herself. The wolf eyes her a bit and then offers, “Miamihorror, by the way.” He finds himself licking his lips again and the metallic tang reminds him to look down. He’s still covered in blood — he’s almost forgotten. He looks back up with a smirk upon the realization that this has been his first impression. God, he could really go for another cig. “You guys live ‘ere?” Miamihorror finally asks, shifting his weight on his paws.
He hears her before he sees her, and when he parts his maws once more he catches wind of a slightly more distinctive scent than of the group itself — a feline. Miamihorror’s gaze follows her as she rounds the corner, watching with cool expectancy as the unfamiliar creature nears. He’s sizing her up, his tongue running across his teeth to taste the lingering flavor of nicotine; he’s full, and felines tend to be too small to satisfy his appetite, but he regards her like he’s considering taking a bite. Maybe it’s because he can tell she’s at least somewhat intimidated — though he’s barely proficient at reading others, the spots the anxious flicking of her tail catches his eye. She speaks with a bit of spunk, and he quirks a brow. “Depends — “ the wolf says in reply, baring his yellowed teeth in a forceful smile, “ — on where the hell here is.”
Another set of gentle footfalls joins them, and his attention shifts as his gaze moves to Suiteheart. Her words garner only a flick of an ear and a sharp exhale through his nose, copper eyes resting on her mildly. He seems completely uncompelled to respond, as the male pauses to watch the others arrive one by one, silently judging each as they come to a quiet halt. He doesn’t particularly like how swiftly the tides have turned against his favor, especially with the biggest one in the helmet. Then again, Miamihorror has never been one to back down from a fight, regardless of the odds; matter of fact, he rather likes a challenge. The wolf straightens and rolls his shoulders, attempting to appear larger, broader. Though well-muscled he’s still somewhat lean — a result of his own scrappy youthfulness. Those who’ve come forth after the second feline have not spoken a word, prompting him to return his attention to Suiteheart. “What, they your fuckin’ entourage?” he asks coolly, jerking his head at the silent group who have since gathered. It’s clearly a kind of joke — there’s a certain measured glean behind his eyes, even if his tone remains steady.
He glances briefly at the four and then focuses once more on the admiral, the only to introduce herself. The wolf eyes her a bit and then offers, “Miamihorror, by the way.” He finds himself licking his lips again and the metallic tang reminds him to look down. He’s still covered in blood — he’s almost forgotten. He looks back up with a smirk upon the realization that this has been his first impression. God, he could really go for another cig. “You guys live ‘ere?” Miamihorror finally asks, shifting his weight on his paws.
TIME TO MEET THE DEVIL