As though materialized from his thoughts, the deep blue mare appears at the edges of Sylens’ vision, floating towards him in a flashy trot. He turns to face her as she solidifies through the downpour. He opens his mouth to issue a greeting, but is cut off when the mare simply does not stop, and instead drives her shoulder into his. A wolfish grin pulls his lips away from blunt teeth even as a grunt is knocked out of him by the impact. The sound turns into a growl as she swings around and presses against him, his voice muted by the rain. Part of him is irritated by this physical interruption of his space, but a bigger part of him is buzzing with excitement. Does she really want a brawl, or does she want him to chase her?
He likes either possibility, but his confusion is not resolved when she scrapes her teeth against his neck and then follows the action up with seductive whispers into his ear. His skin shivers, and he turns to snake his neck around hers, pulling her close if she did not choose to wriggle away from him. ”Oh, am I?” he growls, circling her and pressing into her in an attempt to give the sensation of a huge snake squeezing its prey. His body is tight and buzzing with energy, his jaws ready to close on flesh in either carnal urge. His ears are cupped towards her, but they suddenly flatten as he ducks his head to nip at the soft skin of her elbow. ”You’ll have to work for that,” he taunts.
He has not yet realized that the protections and rights he has enjoyed thanks to his gender do not apply here. As a homeless stallion, he is just as much free game as a lone mare would be in this situation, but still he seeks to press the pale-faced Queen’s buttons as though their roles were reversed. He is blinded by arrogance, as he often is, and the feathered mare has only inflated his ego by approaching, even if such an effect is short-lived. He arches his neck proudly at her, puffing his muscular chest and pawing the slick ground before him. He invites her to what he thinks is a game (certainly she does not actually want to fight). His tail whips against his haunches and sends water spraying over his back, but he does not mind the rather heavy impact of the sodden locks against his skin.
Sylens assumes he is in for a pleasurable afternoon, and does not expect any wake-up calls he may or may not be about to receive.
ooc: feel free to land any and all hits, Sylens is a SNOT
SYLENS
in the dead of night, she holds me like a hand grenade
