Ankyra Sound This is it, the apocalypse.

Lycaon’s present stance with most of the females in Grimsnimal couldn't have been better summed up than by the phrase“walking on eggshells”—all at once, they seemed to have pulled the clutch on crazy and daresay recently found his particular presence simply intolerable. he was frugal with his expenditures of time with them, altogether not finding that their company was worth the slew of harsh reprimands when he inevitably trespassed on their boundaries that flowed and changed like quicksilver. 

it was to nobody’s surprise, then, that his self-esteem could be likened to the Tower of Terror when it came to dizzying mid-course corrections. he wasn’t confident that he could do anything right for them—suddenly the social mores of yesterday were obsolete and damn him for not knowing what they wanted at any given moment. the grotto, in comparison, was ungrudging, and he could harbor the traces of his morale in its darkened apse until whatever was causing the spate of hysteria in their female population subsided, and he felt he could interact with them secure that his snout wasn’t going to be an anchorage for angry teeth in moments to follow 

with a spirit that was more-or-less pulped by the austerity with which his existence was treated, Lycaon sulked long into the evening. like a man sent to the gallows he dragged his feet through the grotto’s familiar passages, making sure to avoid the recesses that Caiaphas favored lest he catch her at boiling point measured by sustained eye contact. 

slouchy ears gathered swiftly over his brow, his nostrils sampling the air with a reservedness that might have been punctuated by a prompt wince were it not for the scent transported on it like a fussilade--a titillating rendition of the smell Caiaphas possessed not long ago; yet he did not feel the instinctual recoil upon its fresh discovery. instead, his pulse dilated and quickened with vibrancy, all senses sucked into the undertow of biological imperative the moment it coiled its tendrils around his toes.

he floated to the ingress of the grotto, meeting her there like their anticipation of eachother was practiced to utter refinement. it didn’t keep the captivation from springing to life on his features when he came upon the form of her uniquely lit by strands of moonlight, body language tense and steadily diplomatic (yet hopefulness slipped a note) as he regarded her sensibilities. trepidations pounded with his outreach--if she let him draw near her, tension would spill out from beneath him like breakwater and he would press his body deeply against her in a most intimate greeting, muzzle seeking to part the fur of her nape and strew warm air against the flesh beneath.