“Yes.”

The stallion’s eyes close with the single word, nostrils flaring as he exhales a breath across her soft skin. He had been hoping she would say that—even though his pride, his glory, does not mirror hers (his own being far too arrogant and fickle to see much past Helovia’s shallow victory, the mental taxing of battle shadowed by his own stubborn ignorance) even so, Rohan is eager to see Enna rise with him. Unbound and bold, the Warlander does not intend to leave this day unsatisfied. It is the morning after a terrible bloodshed, a dawn of a new day—a fresh start—an awakening as the whole of Helovia takes its first step in its recovery from this blasted mess.

At this moment, he only feels fortunate to do so at her side—

Together.

Heedlessly, they press against one another, the stallion’s thick neck arching as his lips trail beneath her twisted mane, whiskery muzzle caressing her skin with a practiced touch. For too long he has imagined this moment, this embrace, freed now of whatever reservations had grasped him before. Perhaps it had been her innocence, somehow too pure for his own carnal brutality; or maybe it had been his concern for her health, on some level unwilling to take advantage of her in her weakness (given all of the grief that has been shoved onto her slender, too-noble shoulders). Whatever it had been, it is gone now—and in its absence, his passion surges.

Rohan turns his head to the mare when he feels her lips at his cheek, fluted ears slanting forward when her breaths turn into hushed words, speaking things that he had not expected her to say. He pulls back despite himself, if only slightly, just enough so that his eyes might meet hers. Within them he sees something that he hasn’t before—a desire, a need, a craving that is as desperate as his own. The stallion’s heartrate rises excitedly, coursing blood through his veins and thickening the heat that flares between them.

“And for you to want me in return.”

These words, in particular, cling to the stallion’s thoughts, lingering to echo from his ears and into his bones. Words leap to his tongue—Oh my dear Enna, his mind cries, pleads, out to her, if only you knew how much I have wanted you!—but they are caught in his throat, silenced by his own fear and realization of how true these cries might be. It terrifies him.

Recognizing the burning lust of his body, the Warlander clutches at it (something familiar, wanted, and expected). Lowering his head so that his eyes are closer to the mare’s level, Rohan shifts his weight forward, his bright eyes dancing beneath the shadow of his brow. “I’m afraid it’ll take longer than a moment to get to know me, darling,” there is a shadow of a smirk that twists his lips before they are pressed to the bridge of her nose, trailing upwards to brush her long forelock from her eyes and resting at her cheek, “but I think that’s time I’m willing to give.” His voice is little more than a deep rumble, an inadvertent, heartfelt promise masked by the comfort of shallower things, worldly things.

With strong legs shifting in the shallow waters, Rohan moves, his body following his muzzle as it traces down her neck to her shoulder, and then across her spine. He does not rush his motions, allowing her time to reject his advance should she wish it. With every step his heartbeat rises, until the crashing of the waves slowly fades away, leaving only the thrumming of his heart and his heady breaths to sound in his ears. The stallion does not admit how it might be different this time, how this time it might be more meaningful, more lasting—he focuses only on the now, allowing his body to guide him. Thankful that they aren’t deep enough in the ocean to where he might lose his balance in his performance, Rohan is careful not to crush her when he rises, whiskery muzzle nuzzling her withers as he finally takes her as his own. Together, they are one for a moment, risen in an ecstasy…

•        •        •
His large body now steaming in a light lathering of sweat, the Warlander moves back to the mare’s shoulder, his hot breaths billowing gently over her skin. He arches his neck over hers, embracing her in a gentle caress as he presses his muzzle to the other side of her neck, drawing her close to him again (even if for a moment). “You were right,” he murmurs softly, nearly humming delightfully to himself, “there are sweeter victories.” There is a smile in his tone, green eyes shining more brightly now when he looks to the beautiful, blushing horizon.


notes; omg<33
“Speech.”