Gull

Your apprehension just adds to Parelia’s mirth. When you ask her to shoo away the beady-eyed bird, she only chortles freely. “He says he is watching you,” she informs you through fits of laughter, and you shake your head grimly. Great. “No kidding,” you retort drily, turning back to her. But she snuggles closer and reaches to rest her dainty head upon your back, so you suppose that you can’t really complain. Her hide presses smooth and firm against your own, and wound this tightly together, you feel the familiar surge of lust shoot through your body. As the blood courses hot through your veins, your ticklish grooming becomes more purposeful, the movement of your muzzle firm as you reach to bury it in the base of her mane. “Don’t worry,” comes her muffled voice from somewhere behind your head, “He won’t do anything if you don’t.” Puffed up on testosterone, the statement does not sit well with you. Narrowing your eyes, you swivel your head again to look back at the bird. Is that a challenge? Suddenly, you’re determined to wipe that smug look right off of that little beak of his.
 
With a solid few flicks of your tail, you swat lightly at the hawk, doing your best to encourage him off of his cushy perch on your rump. You hope he hasn’t gotten too comfortable, because if he wants to play games with you, oh, you’ll play them. And you’ll win, too, you mentally promise your feathery nemesis. He may have a beak and talons, but you have over a thousand pounds of horseflesh and its equivalent in testosterone on your side—what could he possibly do to you? Putting him in his pompous bird place will be so satisfying, you think, pulling away from Parelia, because oh, it’s on.
 
“Oh really?” you drawl, a cough accentuating the last word. You’re technically replying to Parelia’s comment but really addressing the featherball. “Well, I’ll mind my manners then. I suppose he won’t mind if I do this,” you declare with a wicked grin, sidestepping as you move past the cream-colored mare with the intention of rubbing along her side, “or this,” you continue, snaking your head in an attempt to skim you muzzle overtop her tailbone, “or this.” You pause for a moment behind her, then rise on your hind legs in a controlled rear, moving to drape your forelegs across her back lightly should she not shift away. The gesture is playful, not entirely dissimilar from that of a rambunctious foal pestering an adult, but there is an undercurrent of something earnest beneath it. “I’ll be a perfect gentleman,” you conclude, blue gaze diverting from the hawk and searching for the flirtatious mare’s eyes.

 

trouble just grew wings