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How could one horse have this much of an effect on her?
It was his….presence; the weight of his existence in the world and atmosphere. The shadowmere felt every piece of The Dauntless as he moved, the air groaning from under his might; his neck flexed, his legs shifted the earth with every step, those golden eyes of his cut through the thin air as a stiletto might slip through the chains of mail armor; his voice was an avalanche, a rumbling harbinger that destroyed Circe from the inside, pieces of her falling away into the timbre of his speech.
Down into the bare bones of Circe’s heart, she at least understood the embarrassment she was feeling. How could she fall to pieces like this, in front of her General? Her decorum was slipping; the façade of her soldier’s confidence had fallen into the snow, and suddenly it was hard for the shadowmere to breathe, much less meet his eye anymore. He approached her, and even in his shadow there was weight to be felt; his touch was electric against her skin, his musky scent reaching her and causing an ache to settle in the sorceress’s chest, the urge to press herself against the sinew of his neck and chest, to lose herself in the inky darkness of his pelt. As his muzzle touched her shoulder, the fireflies that adorned her mane scattered, a burst of light, and flew away from the heat that ran underneath her skin. She didn’t notice; Circe’s breath fluttered ever so slightly, her neck arching as she resisted the urge to reach out to him, reacting to his raw, physical passion. She realized it was one of the things that attracted her; Archibald wasted no time with twisting words and mindless games of speech. He used the basest form of communication available, the most direct and honest, the most sincere.
The warmth grew in Circe’s body as she listened to him speak, the rumble of his voice resounding in her ears and his touch lingering on her body—the urge for closeness still throbbed in her bones, try as she might to contain it. It wasn’t until a rustle caught her attention, and Circe noticed how the red bitch retreated into the darkness of the forest, before her eyes searched out Archibald with an inquiry in those blue depths. What came from him was most unexpected, and with every word her eyes grew a little, widening with shock at his confession.
*"Circe, I—I should not have left you.” *
Her gaze never left him, even as he turned away from her, her ears hearing and listening to the barest revelation of the Dauntless’s heart. And it was this, more than anything, that gave Circe the most amazing sense of simplicity; her trepidations, her embarrassments, even the buzz of fancy was thrown to the wind, because they were the embellishments of a childish game of love, and this was something of a different sort all together. He was pleasing to her; she was pleasing to him. Why should it be complicated with mundane things such as rank and regard? They were warriors; the world was made guileless by their creed. When she realized this, all the pieces fell into place for Circe like something out of the blue, and she watched him regard the horizon, waiting for her reply.
The words turned over in Circe’s mind, a litany that brought waves upon waves of contentment with every revolution: I have silently claimed you for my own, and likewise myself to you.
The longing for him, to feel him against her once again, came in greater evidence—but Circe didn’t restrict herself this time. There was no need to complicate the desire of her heart. Here….it was their place, their moment for each other, and the curve of his neck as he watched the sunless sky was inviting to her. Taking a step towards him, Circe reached upward with her own muzzle, wanting to trace that bulge of a tendon she was so partial to; the casual display of his strength and brawn that attracted her like a magnet. “You’ll forgive me,” she murmured, her voice caught against his shaggy coat, “If I’m not so silent about my own claim on you." Her lips felt the tautness of that muscle as they ran against it, coming to rest upon the crook of his cheek before she pulled away from him slightly.
“Of course I’m capable of those things,” she whispered, her tail curling behind her as a cat’s might in pleasure, “Just as you are capable as well. We are at liberty to use our life and freedom to take whatever pleases us—Archibald, you’re pleasing to me. I’ll take you.” Her eyes were heavily lidded; her voice was nothing but that throaty purr that snaked from her maw against him. “Go ahead and take me.”
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