How does one ask the bird of royalty if they can pet them and feed them treats while they cuddle in his lap?
"OHO. WELL, IN THIS HYPOTHETICAL SCENARIO,
--you need not ask, my heavenly prince."
a velvety hum unfurls from deep within his feathered chest, and he gives a slow blink of the lower set of his vermillion eyes, gleaming like lanterns warming in the dark; his feathers lift in a soft, indulgent flutter of anticipation. as he steps closer, talons tick against the floor like a metronome of intimate mischief.
"I will gladly be your pet. just be warned, that if I were to settle in your lap ... mmh. you would be the one ENTHRALLED, not the other way round."
the words spill like syrup-thick wine, languid and knowing, and his beak curves in a sinister smile; a taloned fingertip rises - daring not to touch, but to hover just by michael's cheek, the gesture both intimate and withholding.
he purrs, drawing out the syllable like a silken caress;
"if you insist in knowing ... I enjoy a little … coaxing."
the avian's head tilts owlishly, feathers haloing him in opulent and conspiratorial shadow.
"I enjoy offerings--a treat, was it? something decadent-- something forbidden, like you. something you should not, by all rights, be giving to a creature like me."
a soft laugh is released in an exhale, dangerously warm and a little wicked, and the eldritch prince leans in, tone honeyed with dark promise.
"--and then ... your hand in my plumage. a slow stroke along my feathers ... and I am yours."
