Heron Lake Plateau Troy, this is Midsomer

WARNING: AKA some barely PG-level vaguefading, skip a post or two if you live in a rated G world!

And unlike Screech, Quixote had a clue.  Or at least a clue what he liked and what might work for others.  There'd always be the chance to refine it later (or so he hoped), but for now he was happy that he seemed to be pushing mostly the right buttons.  He liked this part of the game, the closeness, the brief flashes of contact that only encouraged more, her responses.  He decorated Raven with nips and nibbles to tease and enthrall, paying close attention to her reactions, to answer any obviously favored spots with extra visits and, as time went on, just a hint of ferocity.  As he did so, Quixote wound around her, circling closer until each movement was lightly pressed against her.  After a little bit more final, selective attention, it was obviously time for them to get what they were at this point both likely craving.




After they parted, Quixote didn't go far, eventually settling down next to Raven to groom her tousled fur back to its earlier perfection -- except for the mud, he'd have quite a hard time trying to get all of it off.  Some of it was his fault too.  If the lingering taste of dirt was the only distraction from what he was considering a perfect evening, he'd take it.  Bonus points that it gave him a chance to enjoy looking her over from head to tail again without seeming creepy.

He wished they'd met before, that he hadn't been so wary of looking at those within the borders as well.  He'd been foolish, but when he'd headed out earlier to explore, this wasn't how he was expecting things to go.  Not that Quixote particularly minded the result, let alone the exquisite company.  He was happy.  The light smile that graced his maw was genuine, without the weight that came with sarcasm or worry.  The rest of the world was on hold.  Quixote looked to her, wanting to say something but uncertain as to what -- he settled on leaning in to nose her cheek instead.