'Tell me again my firecracker just how badly you want me gone, I’ll be sure to get the message this time,' he says, and Marceline can't stop herself from scoffing, the sound quickly followed by an amused chuckle. The expression she wears belies her doubt, eyes rolling in their sockets. Clearly saying it once ― quite firmly ― hadn't been enough to get it through his impressively thick skull, and she held much apprehension that saying it again would help. Best not to waste her breath on sentiments that would just go unheard. It was clear from their limited conversation at the base of the Peak that he was the tenacious type. Several times she'd told him to stick it where the sun don't shine, and when he'd failed to listen still, she'd promptly turned her back on him and walked away. No one could ever say she wasn't stubborn, and it wasn't often she would concede ground to a stallion, but her circumstances had put her in no mood to deal with any true confrontation. Not that she was in the mood for it now; it was hard to want to put up a fight when one's throat felt as dry as the desert they stood in.

She gives him her name and falls into place beside him, and though she aims to stay just far enough away, he still manages to touch his lips against the spotted plane of her shoulder. Her reply is a snap of her teeth clicking together as they come down on thin air, the wily stallion too quick for her to get in a good nip. "You're a fast one, I'll give you that, Fiero." The name rolls off her tongue easily despite the differences in their accents, a coquettish smile playing at the edges of her lips. "Hopefully not where it matters."

At last they reach the small oasis, and Marceline has never been so glad to see water in all her life. It's nothing compared to the tropical grottoes back home, but it'll do in a pinch. She barely notices Fiero reaching out until the sensation of his skin against hers provides distraction. His breath whispers across her neck, hot and humid, words murmured into the pheromone-rich sweat that and despite her best effort a shiver runs down the graceful column of her spine

It's been a long time since someone has spoken to her in such a way, with desire laced heavily in each syllable. The last time ― with her Altesse ― it'd nearly caused her to recoil in disgust. Her king had been old and lecherous, a truly vile example of a stallion. Marceline could hardly stand the rank smell of his breath or the rasp of his chapped lips against her pristine coat or the look of his scarred and clouded eye, bulging unnaturally from its socket. He bore the scarred and twisted flesh like a badge of honor, but to her it had never been more than repulsive, a thing to shy away from as if it were a disease.

But this Fiero was nothing like her old king. He was far more handsome, his suave accent a pleasant contrast to the raspy drawl of her former mate's voice. She found herself admiring the bold and rakish gleam in his eyes (which were, blessedly, both normal). It was a look she hadn't seen in far too long, and to be at the center of a stallion's attention again ― one she wasn't hideously repulsed by ― was tantalizing in the most intense of ways.

Fixing her gaze on him, Marceline lets out a low and dangerous chuckle, stepping away and wading into the crystalline water until it laps at the sweat-slick skin of her belly and hips. "You'll have to use more than pretty words if you're hoping to get lucky." She murmurs above the gentle splash of water, a wicked gleam in her amber eyes. "Unless pretty words are all you have to offer?" And sand for as far as the eye could see, but far be it from her to criticize a man for where he made his home. "Don't tell me you're all talk, Fiero. That would be such a disappointment."

altesse - highness