[mature] you were a vision in the morning when the light came through, rhaegor (holiday party)

[Rhaegor]

Rhaegor

the playboy

In truth, the boy would have been sufficiently dazed and wanting of her even if he couldn't reach into the depths of her mind and pluck out the exact, explicit details of that which she imagined them doing together. And yet he can, and it drives him all the more to his physical need - yet even more than that, it drives him to loving her. By the way she thinks of him, he knows that she has abandoned all the doubts he'd previously implanted there, in the deep recesses of her mind; though he cannot guarantee that he will be perfect to her, he can promise to try.

They love each other, after all; that will be enough.

(He thinks that, now.)

In utter abandonment of logic and good sense, the stallion loses himself to the angel's voice. She whispers her name, that single syllable which brings him fully to attention. Already the sound of her voice is pleading, the blue mare's obedience and neediness overtly clear from his vantage point, ears pressed thickly into the sound of her voice. I want you, she moans, flinching away from the hot air he expels onto her only to lean back for more. Rhae grins, obliging her without hesitation.

And I need you.

Well, he couldn't argue with that, either, now could he?

Without warning, Rhaegor breaches the small gap he had left between his lips and hers. He is immediately reminded of what heaven might feel like (warm, soft, and sweet) as he presses himself to her. In these initial moments, all intentions of making her his disappear, and he loses himself to the present moment of simply being hers himself. As his tongue sweeps across the delicate folds which tumble wetly into and out of his mouth, he listens euphorically to the sounds she makes, forgetting his own need as he fulfills hers - after all, that is all it has ever been about, for him. Making sure her needs were met first, and his, second. His life would be a testament to that, he would live that truth out with his every action.

Stop torturing me, please!

The loud, whimper-like words cascade from her lips to his and cause him to break his connection from her. He blinks in quiet confusion at the sight of her before him, knock-kneed and trembling all over; he'd been so lost in his exploration of her that he'd not even realized that she'd peaked. The euphoria of it all slams into him with the strength of a mountain, and indeed, that is the density to which he returns as his angel grinds her hips into his chest, clearly not satiated despite his lucky first attempt at pleasuring her.

Licking his lips (and still tasting the sweetness of her ecstasy there), Rhae gives into his impulses; and, guided by instinct and the shape of Chryseis' body, he rises up and slips smoothly atop her back. With the sounds of her climax echoing through his mind, all previous thoughts of making her beg and of making her his are cast aside. As his mouth brushes and finds the sensitive tissues of her ear, all he can think of is his love for her: his undying love.

Flustered and dazed and utterly vulnerable to her, Rhaegor does not speak a word; instead, he presses a kiss to the damp curve of her jaw. Stepping closer, the head of his shaft finds the curves he'd left wet and waiting.

Shuddering, he steps closer again - and in one smooth, gentle motion, plunges the full length of himself into her. The ecstasy of it (of being this close to the woman he has loved since before he became a yearling, of being one with the woman he sees himself standing next to as equals until the end of time, of being so completely himself as their union is solidified) leaves him gasping and clutching tightly to her withers. He stays like that for a long moment, inserted and motionless, his eyes closed and head pressed desperately into her neck as he drinks in the feeling. Words he cannot identify slip from his lips, or perhaps from his mind - but he knows that they have to do with loving her, and he knows that he will only speak those words more and more as the years go by.

At long last, the more carnal parts of himself overtake the control center of his mind. Breathing raggedly and utterly unaware of everything around them - the beautiful enclosure, the ice, the twilight - Rhaegor retreats completely, pausing as the tip of his head catches just on the final ledge of her. Then, without warning, he thrusts - this time with much less gentleness, and much more need.

"God, Chryseis," he moans, his teeth unknowingly finding the thick base of her mane and withers as he repeats the motion again, teeth grasping tighter at the sounds emitted by his lover. "Fuck me." There will surely be more marks, he thinks darkly as he rams into her again, readjusting his grip on her withers just to accomplish that goal. With each stroke, the stallion moves quicker - and before long, he is again lost to the ethereal nature of her insides, a kind of bliss he had never previously imagined overtaking any chance of coherent thought.

...my name on your tongue and your tongue on my...