Meadow

For now, however, you have my attention. Jaskier was not the sort— not yet, anyway— whose heart could be moved by the poetry of words. But if he was being honest, the gold tovero had his attention too; had him captivated in a way that no other creature had before. And whether it was desolation or desire that had sparked the impulse, the striped buckskin wanted to show Enya everything that he had to offer. Not that the list of his accomplishments was long or impressive. So far in his short life, the best he’d done was making the perilous journey from the mainland to the islands in relative safety. Well, except for that little near-drowning, but who was counting that?

Certainly not Jaskier.

Watching his companion lift her body into the air, the slender stallion rose beside her— for a moment every bit as graceful and powerful as she. But then Enya’s teeth grasped for his shoulder, and the young male became all fumbling bravado again. There was no way to twist away in time, so he could only embrace the painful pinch of teeth with a pinning of ears and a harsh grunt. A heartbeat later, his own body began to descend— and Jaskier, relying on impulse and instinct over his underdeveloped combat skills, pushed himself into the ivory-and-gold mare, striking out at the curve of belly with a single foreleg. A chaotic flurry of motion followed when the pair broke apart, Enya bucking and her brindled partner spinning away from the imminent threat of her hooves.

Then it was her turn to retreat— and for Jaskier, breathing in ragged gasps, the dance took on an entirely new purpose. As if their exertions had somehow intensified it, the mare’s scent had become overpowering; irresistible. And so when the buckskin pursued, his original purpose lay forgotten somewhere behind him. Lip curling, he was so determined to catch Enya that he was slow in avoiding the thrust of her hind legs— sidestepping enough to soak the blow on his broad chest instead of his face, but not enough to avoid it entirely. The sound of the impact was a dull slap, and the force of it more than enough to bruise, though he didn’t feel anything at the moment. Not with the twin surges of adrenaline and desire that flowed like fire through him. Not with the sight of her turning again— more graceful than he could ever be, a true dancer— and lifting one foreleg in a kick that sent him skittering to one side.

Jaskier was humbled as he slid to a stop beside her, but not humiliated. Not broken. Even before he’d offered her this violent outlet, the young stallion was certain he’d glimpsed the briefest flicker of interest in her gaze. It was only a matter of pursuing that single weak thread doggedly, of tugging at the tangle of her self-restraint until it finally gave. So even though he was all too aware that the battle was over, Jaskier reached out and quite intentionally aimed a bite at the base of her mane. If his teeth found flesh, they wouldn’t pinch together hard— the gesture was not intended to harm, but as a mimicry of the act that had become his ultimate purpose.

Enya might have won, but she could still choose to yield a measure of that victory to him. To share a triumph of an entirely different sort with the bright, bold stallion who dared to continue courting her in spite of his blunders.