The Arborun watches almost helpless as she bends and twists about him. She is a dancer, he the foolish pawn following blindly in her shadow. But he does not wish to show the weakness—does not wish to show the aching desire at the sway of her hips and the tilt of her wings. He assures himself he will be strong and confident, assures himself that he will stay standing tall. He tries to stop the heavy pounding of his heart as she tosses away her mane to expose a slender, delicate neck. How he burns to leave nothing but the heat of her body and his passion between them; to touch his chest to hers and to trace the graceful line of her avian, feminine features with his own rough lips. She speaks of herself with a confidence that he cannot even fool himself into thinking he has to match. Still, he will try to fool her.

The touch of her wing to his shoulder sends a shiver across the surface of his rough, thin coat. The white hairs along his side quiver with the sensation of her delicate touch, but warm as the thermals that stir her feathers wash against his bulk. So she thinks he is trouble, then. Maybe he is.

He watches in silence as her body curves to complete the hollows in his own, bewildered by her skill. Yes, her seduction is an art. It occurs to him, faintly, that he is likely not the first to fall under this spell. It dawns upon him that this treatment is not special to her. She must get this often—she must understand the effect she has on others, and must use it to her advantage at term.

So he is being played, then. He understands that her interest in him could not be anything deeper, certainly not anything as common as love. He wonders for a moment if this is to bother him, or break his heart somewhere along the line. Eventually, Birch foolishly denies the possibility that it might. He's not a hopeless romantic or optimistic fool; he'll settle for temporary pleasures if they're all that he'll get.

She moves away, taunting him with the gentle curve of her golden back and the powerful angling of her wings to take flight. She has taken him by surprise, wrapping him into a false sense of comfort with the hue of her tones and the lust behind her words. She flies, taking away his breath, rendering him weak. The natural beauty of the avikun in flight is unparalleled; the birch-stud feels inadequately equipped to stand tall in her presence.

When she lands once more and closes the distance between them, he is stunned. His body barely tenses to prepare for her playful bite that catches him by surprise. Though he stiffens and pulls away instinctively, feeling suddenly unworthy of her touch, he still feels the scrape of her teeth harmlessly grazing his chest. He watches only for a moment as she parts and turns; he quickly pushes his shocked figure into a loping trot after her. He leans to the left, angling the powerful base of his tree to playfully knock her wing. He approaches her from the front and right, finding himself almost distracted by the glitter of her gaze as he hopes to catch it with his own, colder one. He does not stop at her side, does not aim to flaunt his body in the same manner as she. As he moves on, running past her and curling around to circle widely behind her, he understands the game that she has begun. So if it is her job to run, then is he the one to catch her?

But she is right. He knows, that if she wishes, she can always stay just out of his reach. He is powerful but slow; the thick blood of the percheron that runs through his veins and builds his muscle will never match her arabian speed or grace. He huffs with slight effort as the dry grasses crumble beneath the grind of his powerful hooves and as his metal boot traces spiked lines in the dry, ashen earth by the heart.

He slows to a halt, his thick tail whipping out to tap her right side as he approaches, and leans close to her as she had done to him. While she flaunts her beauty, he displays his strength. His own head leans closer, so that he might playfully nip her neck as she had tried to bite his chest, and his low voice lets out a reply. "I'd think that's better left to your imagination, Owless," he says aloud, letting his name for her slip without realizing. Birch will never remember to think before he speaks.

[[ PC: 3/X || WC: 798 || MU: 0/2 || AS: Phaedra's teeth graze his chest but do not catch the skin. He pivots to follow her and trots towards her right side from the front. He angles to his left, aiming to knock her wing with the rough base of his tree. Makes a wide circle behind her and ends up with his left shoulder directly beside her right. Leans his neck forward, hoping to nip her neck at the base of the skull. || N: <3 ]]