Not for the first time, he wishes he could read minds. Or, more specifically, hers.

If he could see the images inside Isopia's head - images he's had mirrored in his own mind time and time again - then it would send his heart soaring. To his dragons, who lurk in the distance after their frantic flight beside him, he queries hopefully; can't you ask Hubris what she's thinking? To which the response is a resounding, flat "no". Even the dragons have their limits. Both have no qualms about delving into the deepest, darkest sanctum of Volterra's own crooked mind, but the thought of interloping into the mind of another dragon-bonded horse...the two scaled beasts have very few boundaries they refuse to break, but this is one of them.

The demi-god's words snap him from his musings, from his focus on the steady, determined path that his muzzle is making towards her skin. He gargles a throaty chuckle, a rasping ache of a laugh. "I am a man." He isn't quite sure why that needs saying, but the words leave his lips all the same - as though to remind her what he is, as though he can appeal to the primal mare part of her that drives women to hunt out the biggest, strongest, most virile males to sire their offspring. Of course, siring isn't what's on his mind, but the logic hopefully still applies. She surely wouldn't even deign to humour a boy, so best he reiterate that he isn't one anymore. There is weight between his thighs, there is a crest to his neck and a thunderous growl to his voice, all things he hopes will sway the woman in her.

Then, suddenly, they're face to face. Eye to eye. Normally he'd have to look up to meet her gaze - a fact which makes his manly pride ache - but she's lowered her head as though she wants to initiate and maintain eye contact. Perhaps that's just wishful thinking, and it's actually just tiredness that commands her skull to lower, but the brute doesn't care. He just knows that he's looking at her, and her horned head is so close he could touch it.

So close.

The beast inhales deeply, still making a valiant attempt to hide his deep air-gulps behind the masquerade of tiredness from their flight. And, indeed, there's a level of exhilaration in his breaths from what they'd just experienced, but his main reason is to drink his fill of her warm Isopia-scent. Ever since he was a child, he has valued touch, taste and smell; he puts great faith in them, relying on them as much as his eyes and ears. There is a lot you can glean from somebody by how they smell, how they feel beneath the delicate caress of a muzzle, how they taste when their body is sweaty from exertion, aching and quaking with pleasure.

She isn't moving. They are two chess pieces, king and queen, checkmate on a board of churned soil; he can feel his pulse racing in his ears, his blood pounding through his body. He realises that the presence of his dragons has become distant - he half-notices the fact that they've flown into the distance, as though to leave their bonded alone with his addiction.

She still isn't moving. Neither is he; they are two statues, monoliths, eroded temples. Her moreso, as she's beginning to melt into the ground beneath them. The titan casts a cursory glance downwards, breaking their eye contact, but it feels like ripping the lungs from his chest - he wants to gasp and choke without it, without her gorgeous golden gaze fixed upon his face. He soon lifts his colossal head to capture another eyefull of his drug, drinking in her features as he would quench his thirst from a pool.

But they can't stand like this, staring at each other, indefinitely. Something has to give. Somebody has to make the first move. Volterra is a bold creature, who knows what he wants and isn't afraid to take it - he's impulsive, rash, quick to act and slow to think. And yet every iota of his body knows that what he does next could make or ruin their friendship, their relationship. She doesn't seem like she's about to bolt, to leave him stood alone and quivering with the sweat from their flight drying on his skin, but he fears that she might if he is too forward. She is a stray dog, with the potential to be nervous and jumpy - one wrong move and she'll be gone.

But the Volterra she knows is the creature that he undoubtedly is - impulsive. Brutish, hedonistic, unthinking. Could it be that she likes him because of what he is, rather than in spite of that? In which case, she will be expecting him to make a move, to seize the opportunity placed in front of him. She might be disappointed if he shows caution, if he suddenly chooses this moment to begin thinking with his brain instead of his balls and heart.

This is what he convinces himself. If he stands here, or backs away, she'll be disappointed in him. And he can't let her down.

So he breathes out a deep, rumbling sigh, then pushes his muzzle forwards and down; he moves gingerly, still afraid she'll startle and run. He aims to caress the muscular contours of her neck with his nose, lips planting soft nibble-kisses upon her flesh. His urges tell him to bite hard, to mark her as his own and bruise her with his strength, but with a colossal force of will he resists. For now, his touch is gentle, with a clear invitation for her to reciprocate if she so pleases.

He has dreamed of a moment like this with her for months, years. Now it's upon him, he doesn't quite know what to do. So he goes with his instincts; they've never let him down before. His chest shifts forwards, to try and press against her own whilst his jaws perform their hopeful ministrations.

And all the time, his heart pounds out the rhythm of a thousand war drums.