Common

Her laughter was like birdsong to his ears: it lifted him up; it filled him with ecstasy. This—this was the way it should have gone from the start. He smiled with her, and when she moved a little closer, reaching out to return his playful nip, his smile faltered just a little in surprise before returning to full brightness. He laughed. He had not expected this from her—he had expected to have to be the one to guide this interaction, like a shepherd gently tapping the flanks of his flock—and so he felt his face growing hot, and his heart thumping that bit harder. The inexperienced boy within him quailed at Mercy's nearness, but the stallion in him—the part of him flooded with hormones and desperate to prove himself—champed hotly at the bit.

He let out a faux-indignant squeal at the tug on his mane, and shuffled in place, energy vibrating through his legs. He was suddenly very aware of Mercy's scent, thick and heady like a perfume in his nostrils, and it made him almost dizzy. The red and gold and brown of their surroundings might as well have dissipated into mist; there was nothing else in this moment, for Abraxas, than him and Mercy.

"Maybe so," he replied, barely aware of what he was saying. He looked at her a moment, his youthful features almost solemn, his hazel eyes glassy with desire. The ghost of a smile lingered on his lips, little more than a gentle curve. He dipped his chin slightly, his neck arching, and flicked his silver tail across his hindquarters. "Mercy," he said, and gaped uselessly for a moment, searching for words among the sludge of his brain. Then he pressed in close to her, the velvet of his muzzle reaching for her own. His words were hurried, almost breathless, like he was sharing a secret. "Mercy—come with me. I have some place safe we can go: somewhere you can tell me off as often as you like. Would you like that?" He smirked, his breath clouding between them.