no subject

[Like a wounded dog, it's the sad, wet eyes that rise up first from where he's fallen, limply raising the arm that'd been held out of trust alone, no matter the pain he suffers. There, you see? And the offering is pitiful because it is a bid at magnetism— the long draw inwards where the distance between them finally begins to shrink down, concern settled at the forefront—

And the second Fenris is in arms' reach, up comes that dagger from his other hand— 'wounded' one suddenly upsurging to try and catch him by the scruff— so that the sheathed tip of his blade can pin itself against the side of the other man's throat in befanged warning. What would be lethal were this real.

Whether it fails or succeeds, he's grinning like a damned fool.]