Hushed Willows my bones are headstones, darling

Drogon is not unobservant to the hunger of her gaze, as if she wishes to devour him ( though not in the way that the tundrian thinks; he’s not quite aware of attraction on that level yet ). She rolls her eyes at him and the soturi’s shoulders stiffen, maned chest rising slightly in indignation. “I am sure there are plenty of usurpers out there that would be more willing than you think.” He offers with another lofty shrug of his shoulders, though in truth, he certainly wouldn’t want to be stuck babysitting other kids …and he was still a kid himself. Perhaps not quite so much mentally, though. “You’re right, though, that sounds like a fucking headache.” Trying to handle Neo and Vaati had been exhausting enough …no, Drogon’s got no love for kids of his own age ( or even those close to it ). Drogon scoffs at the reasons she provides, not caring if he insulted her or not. After all, he has no idea what this Rannoch fellow might be to her but whether they are siblings or lovers or nothing of the sort is of no consequence to the tundrian and he’s not cared about the feelings ( or whether he insults them or not ) of others for quite some time. “So just because he’s the oldest and largest means he’s the most dominate? That he knows what he’s doing?” Drogon inquires with a quirk of his brow. It wasn’t his place to question and didn’t really matter in the end: it’s not as if he was ever going to join the pack. She didn't have to answer and Drogon had no intentions of pushing because he didn't actually care. Merely, he was looking to sate his curiosity.