Ooh, lucky me.

Yes, lucky you.

His eyes are captured; even when the subtle growl of a snow cat reaches his ear, he cocks it, idly, and pays no more attention to the aggravated feline. Ka’Ora soars above, vigilant; Ka’Mate beats his wings with ever, ever simmering anger, ready to dive and sink his vicious beak and furious claws into whatever might endanger his liege. Reginald does not feel himself in harm’s way—although, it should be noted, his attentions have become intoxicated and preoccupied with a mare who’s proving to make this much easier than he had intended.

He would wonder about it if his brain were not so inflamed—this ease of the womanly kingdom, her gaiety, her ferocious, adamant demand for pleasure. This grey thing with the acceptable eyes and adequate form is not the first to tempt the serpent with a sway to her hips that nearly begs with its willing shiver. They see him; they like what they see, and they are conquered by grey eyes and body and sperm. It is such a different picture than what he remembers from his boyhood, the image of the sniveling, jeering, tearful, prancing plague of a filly. He would wonder why his childhood had to be such a storm of torment and frustration—he would wonder, but then, his brain is inflamed, now, with a good thing.

He would think that it was worth it in the end, for moments like these.

“Come now, don’t treat me like that. I don’t notice ‘all the girls’ like I’ve noticed you,” he says with a false mope, a genuine purr, the words polished smooth by a tongue that caresses with ever-growing care and cunning. She stops in her tracks; he steps past her, a façade of jaunty disinterest, an opportunity for her to see all angles of him—every powerful edge, every subtle sinew that bulges with his movement—even as his own gaze rakes across her body as well.

The game is played loosely; they both know why they’re here. He only makes it warmer, sliding into it, leaving her with a memory worth saving.

Who might you be?

He snorts slowly, and his breath billows around him in the soft flurry. “A poor little boy, lost in the snow and far from home,” comes the smooth sigh of words. His eyes cut to her, and the greys are not so coy in their granite depths. The withholding of his name is a key: that is not what we’re here for. We don’t need names for this kind of thing. “Tell me: who is it that I’ve noticed?”

”Watch for Circe.”