He's cowed, but evidently not helpless. He moves to tug his shoulder free, his grin now more of a grimace, and he tenses like he's about to bolt. "There's nothing wrong with it," he says hesitantly, "just--"
If he says something else, OA doesn't notice, because something else has attracted their attention. At first, they'd thought the little pinpricks of light drifting around were dust, or sunspots: sometimes that shit happens, when you're out in the day. But they're increasing, and they watch, eyebrows furrowed, as one drifts down onto their gloved hand.
As soon as it touches the glove, it becomes obvious it's not a fucking dustmite.
"Fuck!" It stings like they've just been burnt, and it's shock more than pain that has them snatching their hand back. Pheres watches, wide-eyed, says something, and then he fucking chirps at you, voice pitched in a wriggler's appeal.
When they look at him, it becomes obvious why. Hidden deeper in the shade of the awning, they can actually see the way his fucking horns are sparking at them, little bursts of psionic aura pulsing from the bottom all the way to the top. His eyes are trying to do it, and it's fucking unpleasant to look at, the way the colour tries and fails to pulse around the remaining lense.
"What the fuck did you drink," they demand, incredulous. "Straight honey?"
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If he says something else, OA doesn't notice, because something else has attracted their attention. At first, they'd thought the little pinpricks of light drifting around were dust, or sunspots: sometimes that shit happens, when you're out in the day. But they're increasing, and they watch, eyebrows furrowed, as one drifts down onto their gloved hand.
As soon as it touches the glove, it becomes obvious it's not a fucking dustmite.
"Fuck!" It stings like they've just been burnt, and it's shock more than pain that has them snatching their hand back. Pheres watches, wide-eyed, says something, and then he fucking chirps at you, voice pitched in a wriggler's appeal.
When they look at him, it becomes obvious why. Hidden deeper in the shade of the awning, they can actually see the way his fucking horns are sparking at them, little bursts of psionic aura pulsing from the bottom all the way to the top. His eyes are trying to do it, and it's fucking unpleasant to look at, the way the colour tries and fails to pulse around the remaining lense.
"What the fuck did you drink," they demand, incredulous. "Straight honey?"