The handsome beast of bronze and bistre had always been a natural born casanova, his effortless talent of portraying himself as whatever it was that the... situation called for always seeming to lean into his favor. He could be that bad boy with a heart of stone that melted only for the nearness of the lovely creature before him, making it seem as though he were falling for her pretty face despite his best efforts not to. But it seemed that the image most mares suggested was the best way to gain their trust and their desire was the tried and true, almost unfailing image of a knight in shining armor. Sure, he'd run into a handful of feisty maidens that wanted that mischievous man with a wolfish grin and robust as well as handsome appearance - a part that he played almost naturally when he had taken to running around looking for ladies to swoon into a false sense of security to perform his ever constant "hit and run" routine at the end of the night swallowed in passionate touches and empty promises. It had always been the ones that played hard-to-get, the ones that he needed to hunt and chase time and time again that were his favorite... flavor. Like a kid in a candy store, he would go to the same aisle every time and grab greedy handfuls of them. Then, there were the ones that were softer, whether they were simply broken from another stallion and his broken vows to her or they were simply naïve as they longed for that prince of dreams to appear before then and promise an eternity of endless love and devotion. Again, his player's talent would shift him easily into the part he needed to play, and it did not take long for these women to fall for him. It just goes to show the world that if one were as devilishly handsome as Bastille very well knew he was, then all it would take is knowing what the maidens wanted in a man and the great talent to shift and change to be something plucked out of their imagination and fantasy. Then, the game was won when the final goal was reached and it was time to start all over with another unsuspecting mare.

That was back before Mist Meadows had been swallowed by the suffocating fog, though. Perhaps even before that, really. After he'd abandoned the dense forest with his darling dove beside him unwillingly, he could remember that heated evening at the lake in the spring when he'd taken advantage of the season and eloped with several mares. His lustful nature had his testosterone flaring and his desire insatiable as he ravaged the women that he'd caressed softly, each and every touch intoxicating them further and further until they were nearly numbed to the world around them and all sense of time and judgement. He'd taken them beneath him, revelling wildly at the fierce pleasure the wicked deed gave him. He was a stallion that did not mount mares for the desire to plant his seed into their womb, he was a stallion that mounted them for the fierce and burning sensations of arousal, lust, and the ultimate elation that came with release. His acts seemed so mundane and unusual on the outside from those that watched him on the sidelines, thinking that he was one of those males that wanted to spread his genes as far and as wide as he possibly could. And again, this was just another perfect example of just how little others truly understood the handsome lusitano stallion. He wasn't looking to earn f*** trophies. Heavens, no! If there was such as thing as the ability to avoid the likely consequences that came with the act he could almost have considered himself addicted to, he'd want that more than any other stallion on this spit of land. Offspring where just the unfortunate side effect of that deed he enjoyed almost too much. Now, he was somewhat of a different beast... In the end, none of the fine young women were quite as fine as Larka, his Larka.

The filly standing nearby decided to speak now, her words cold and hard as she glares at the beast of bronze and bistre, who only takes his eyes away from Larka to meet the filly's for a fleeting moment, audits twitching almost absently as she tries to insult him. Key word here being "tries". Had he not been so enthralled with the presence of his ravishing doveling, he might have laughed or something at her petty and meek existence. She was just background noise to him, background noise that he wished would just go away. She was like that splattered bug on his windshield that his wipers just couldn't wipe away for some stupid reason. No matter, though. He doesn't even offer her a scoff, a chuckle, a snort, or even a single word. He just meets her gaze and for the smallest sliver of a moment before he figuratively shrugs his powerful and sloping shoulders (if horses could shrug, he definitely would have) as his attention leaves the filly at the presence of Larka's nearly hissed words as she, too takes note of his illegitimate daughter he would never claim, a sense of hurt hidden in her words. Now, he is unable to resist as he reached out to her, handsomely arched nape stretching only a little as he dares to caress the delicate curve of her cheek. Just the softness of her skin was enough to arouse him to where he couldn't nearly handle it. She ushers a singlr word softly, her honeyed tones cracking beneath the effort to put force and intention into it, but he can only feel himself wanting her more and more each second that passes and he moves closer to her now, his skin brushing against hers. A moment passes only briefly as her newfound fire flares, strength seeming to find her voice again as she tried to tell him that she wasn't his dove anymore. His wolfish smile only grows, mischief burning wildly beneath his mocha gaze as she tries to pivot her hips away from him, but being this close to her he was able to move with her, matching her step for step smoothly snd effortlessly like they were dancing together in some kind of tango.

"Oh, you'll always be my darling dove. Fire or no fire.... although I must say I do prefer fire."

His deep and smooth baritones usher into the cold winter air hungrily, lustfully, and yet truthfully, the last string of words whispered softly into her flattened ears now with his nearness. She would always be his, no matter how hard she might not want to be. After all, she had come back to him, had she not? His wicked smile grows as again he traces his velvetines along the curve of her cheek, his movements slow and gentle as he savored the feel of her skin, hoping to further intoxicated his lovely little doveling before he moves away now. He didn't want her senses dulled too much, didn't want her drunken and numb like she'd been the many times he taken her beneath him. His chiseled shoulders press against her softly, hungrily and audits flicker as she speaks once again of his lack of fatherly qualities.

"That silly girl over there means nothing to me, sweetheart. I promise. The only one that really matters here, is you."

It was never like Bastille to make such promises, and when such words did dance across his whiskered lips, they were simply to gain the trust of the woman he was swooning over. This was different, though. Just as he'd promised he would always find her, that she would always be his, this promise rang true. Would she hear it? He almost hoped that she didn't for fear that she might see just how much power she seemed to have on him. While he was the one with the intoxicating touch, she was also his drug as he was hers... Funny how things seemed to get twisted around just now, isn't it? He'd hunt her down until the world's end to keep her as his, and while that sounded more wicked that it was, he was content to let it appear that way. He wanted her in every meaning of the word, even in a way he'd told himself he would never feel for a woman. Ah, but the gods worked in mysterious ways and this was certainly a good example of that. A lady killer and casanova, stuck on a woman. The irony of it all could kill just about anyone who could see it, wouldn't you agree dear reader?


__________________________________________

I'LL GIVE YOU FEELINGS
THAT YOU WON'T WANNA FIGHT
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Bastille

Stallion

9 years

Lusitano

Seal Brown Cream (Brown Buckskin) [image!]

Two hind socks, thin blaze in the shape of a jagged lightning bolt, starting in a pointed star in the center of his forehead and ending in a thick snip between his nostrils.

Ee/A^ta/nCr/nSpl