Qeya River black swift

gjalla watches as the fight bleeds from him, draining like a wound torn open. she watches, glowering, as his gaze skews away, ears wilted, pink tongue swiping between his teeth. an apology in all but words.

she had been moments from making him—forcing him—but he spares himself the indignity. he was a flagrant little shit, but at least he had some manners. very few. good—she wasn’t interested in disciplining a grown man, despite her willingness to.

The tension in her spine unwinds, sharpness melting. she is no less formidable, but no longer poised to strike. satisfied, she puffs, then flicks her tail once, dismissive.

"then concern yourself from a distance," she instructs, "not my den. you smell."

with a purposeful step forward, she pushes past him. her shoulder brushing his as she ushers him from the confines of her den as if to make her point clearer.

once he is where he belongs—outside—she stops. ”now what do you want?”