He giggles rather stupidly. "Better than a fight." They're his two favourite passtimes so picking one over the other is like choosing between his children, but for the sheer rush of ecstasy, it has to be taking a woman. Nothing compares to it - the only thing that comes close is the submission of an opponent. Now, if he could combine the two....hnnng.

Her impassioned words about where everything fits in simply elicits a shrug. When he was a boy and things first started happening down there, he'd wondered the same - had all that been rolled up in there the entire time? What does one do with it? Without a father or any older brothers to guide him about what these bizarre new feelings and urges were, the beast had been forced to muddle through and simply guess. He does not intend to allow his own sons to suffer such an indignity. They will receive 'the talk' as soon as they are old enough to understand it, despite how embarrassing it will undoubtedly be.

Her laughter allows him the chance to sneak closer, full-stealth-mode despite his somewhat unconventional katana down below. To make matters worse, she's flashing her junk at him, and the sight makes a feral, animalistic growl rumble free from his unhinged jaws. There's nothing drunk or inane about that noise - it is primal, salacious. Then she's pressing her backside against him and she's so close he can smell her, not the ripeness of a mare in full bloom but the equally enticing odour of piss, of womanhood, of electricity and the spark that it will no doubt incite in his loins.

Learn me a few moves, 'Teach. That is an invitation, he knows it. Even in his muddled brain he knows the fine line between slightly forceful sexytimes and the dreaded R-word, but this is definitely leaning towards the former courtesy of the fact she seems as up for it as he is. "Happily," he growls at her invitation, his upper lip lifting to taste the air and his body beaded with a thin layer of sweat.

Lifting onto his hindlegs, he tries to hook his forelegs around her hips to complete the full mount, but....eh. His angles are all...wrong. Instead of ending up poised to take her, a snake ready to delve into the burrow where the tastiest rabbits live, he's sort of side-on, his pulsing length pressed against her rump-slash-flank rather than where it should be. "Huh." His drunken mind ponders this conundrum for a second, looking downwards and frowning as though trying to solve a particularly obstinate Sudoku. Her small size doesn't help - he's never bedded a mare so teeny-tiny before, and he ponders the idea of asking if she'd be willing to stand on a rock to make the process easier. This sends him into a fit of uncontrolled giggles, and the motion of that makes....well, friction. Glorious, glorious friction. It's not quite in the right place, but who's judging? "Close enough," he decides, and begins.

It doesn't take long. The alcohol in the apples combined with the fact he's been aroused as hell for what feels like years means that the warm flesh of her rear is plenty enough for what he needs. There's a euphoric grunt, a shudder, and that which is usually released deep inside is instead poured liberally across her back, sides, everywhere.

If this really was a fight, then dammit Volterra, you just rolled a critical miss.

He slips down, grinning happily, weak-legged and extremely satisfied. "Class dismissed," he giggles, and crumples down onto his hindquarters again.