_{Some say you're trouble, boy Just because you like to destroy All the things that bring the idiots joy} Well, what's wrong with a little destruction?

She is already a loud thing, in her bearing, her voice, the blast of her body on all five senses—and yet, somehow, she needs even more pomp, greater circumstance, a larger boom to announce her presence. The dirt and debris that flings from the explosion coats the Grey-Eye’d as he remains lying in the frosted field, tiny frozen pebbles bouncing against the bridge of his nose and his cheeks, his grey eyes ablaze and hot and so immediately, ephemerally a n g r y before he realizes who it must be. It does not take him long to connect the dots, for the picture they form is an unforgettable detonation to the senses (as she might prefer).
 
There she is—just as silly as he remembers her, something loose and distasteful disfiguring otherwise acceptable features in her face. He wonders where this looseness comes from—whether it’s a mental trait, something inside her mind that unhinges her body, her discipline, and leaves her a marionette to whatever passion crosses her way. He wonders how much of a filly she may be; he considers she may very well be stunted behind those eyes (those blue, blue eyes. The eyes are blue again. He finds himself liking blue eyes on something fuckable). His brow arches as she grins into his face—a burning thing that accuses him of a tease of long ago. Oh, yes. He does remember that particular instance—and it is a sore regret for him, to have missed a form such as that. A loose grin and stunted mind do nothing to diminish the merits of a body so nicely rounded and coupled as hers. Grey eyes turn figure eights against the curve of her spine--and if he were not so spent, his loins would surely stir.

She greets him (it is a scream).

*"SO. Don't bother getting up honey, cause once you get a load of this shit, you'll be flyin'.”*

He does not know what she means by that.

He snorts, and he is settled in the indentation of frosted foliage; he does not move. Ka’Ora hops claws closer to her master, those deep, deep eyes of hers tracking the buckskin mare and the glittering thing she carries with her. The question is sent to master before she can stop it (What is? What is? Flower?), before she can detect the ignorance in her master’s mind. He indulges the curiosity of his bonded; his brow remains cocked as grey eyes rest on the contraption. “Are you trying to poison me with those herbs?” He asks as cool and lax as his eyes, the bite in his tongue a cheeky thing, spirited and boyish. He shrugs from where he lays in the grasses. “I wouldn’t blame you, from the way I left you…lacking…like that, the last time we crossed paths…”

He snorts again, but it is the ghost of a chuckle, allowing the memory of that time to speak for him. Duty always calls, even when the blood is rushing and one is quite ready to indulge, so to speak. “…I’ll have to warn you, though,” he continues in a changed tone, a handsome thing that drips much darker, sultry as it weaves from his throat, “that I can spit something far, far more dangerous.”

"talk talk talk"