quinn.
He likes the attention she gives him. Quinn has come to the conclusion that this mare is one whose eye is difficult to catch, and even more so to hold; yet, it seems she has decided to gift him with her gaze for several delicious moments now, and the coffee-colored stallion cannot sense that she intends to let him go any time soon. He smiles a smug little smile to himself; Quinn
likes women, in the sense that most horses
like a ripe apple within reach, one that had not fallen and rotted, nor grown plump so high within the branches that only those critters who can climb will be able to enjoy it. Such treats are consumed quickly, the opportunity taken advantage of before it passes, and neither the woman nor the apple in Quinn’s life ever lasts very long. He may possess a tasty treasure, and discard it one it has lost its flavor, but Quinn never possesses for long, because nothing holds onto that sweet burst of sugar for more than the first few bites.
In this case, however, Quinn does not suspect the silver bay mare to lose her sweetness so quickly. He feels, in part, to be the apple himself in this transaction, his skin taught and taunting, waiting for her to take a bite. The stallion, who so often is the one to
take, seems to be confronted by another who
takes.
The pale-haired woman pulls away from his greeting then, blinking up at him. He chuckles, a half-smile pulling one corner of his dark mouth upwards.
“No, I wouldn’t say easy is my type,” he muses,
“but who among us wouldn’t take the low-hanging fruit, if it was right there?” His tone is… nearly playful, uncharacteristically friendly. Flirtatious.
“Not that the taste compares, to those for which I have to work a little to get a bite.” Boldly, he reaches out to flick a strand of mane away from her neck, and then traces a circle lightly in the patch of fur now unguarded by ivory hair.
“It’s not so often I find myself to be the fruit, and someone else to be reaching for a bite.”
He pulls away to watch her face with curiosity. His blue gaze is confident, expectant.
“My name is Quinn,” he says.
“I used to live here, years ago. I see that some things have changed.” He shifts his weight, thick tail swaying lazily around his hind legs, the very tips dragging in the grass.
“And who might you be?”
stallion. spanish mustang mutt. 15.3hh. smoky black overo.
