[Those eyes on him makes his scales itch, not liking the feeling of being watched. Call it prey instinct, that sixth sense of knowing when something bigger and stronger has you on their radar. A pass of his hand to gesture briefly at his broken horns, to adjust the hood of his cloak, disguises a discreet check along his side; the weight of his hidden daggers is subtle but comforting, almost as much as the distance still between them.
He glances at her again, less fleetingly this time, just to make sure—and raises an eyeridge.]
You don't look much better off.
[Not when that motorcycle looks like something Optimus Prime would puke up.]
no subject
[Those eyes on him makes his scales itch, not liking the feeling of being watched. Call it prey instinct, that sixth sense of knowing when something bigger and stronger has you on their radar. A pass of his hand to gesture briefly at his broken horns, to adjust the hood of his cloak, disguises a discreet check along his side; the weight of his hidden daggers is subtle but comforting, almost as much as the distance still between them.
He glances at her again, less fleetingly this time, just to make sure—and raises an eyeridge.]
You don't look much better off.
[Not when that motorcycle looks like something Optimus Prime would puke up.]