hop-timist

Hattori's eyes narrowed into thin, judgemental slits. He had been her age once, moody and pensive as teenagers tended to be, but he had never once dared to speak to an elder like that, least of all his own sire. He had no idea where she had gotten such an attitude, but it simply would not be tolerated. Hattori would have been beaten, she was fortunate he was so lenient. His stare was cold, his displeasure making itself known in the sneer on his muzzle, whiskers twitching.

And yet he said nothing, he had not made a request. It was an order, and he was intent on insisting if need be.

Barging forward, Hattori slammed into Mochi, did not pull his punches as he ought to. As if he'd forgotten that she was his daughter, not the woman he felt betrayed by.