Witch's Marsh Oh [m]y God, she looks so helpless, and her body's saying: "Hell yes."

A part of him knew that, even if she were to give him her word, he’d have no way to make sure that she'd stay true to it. In order to do so he would have to return to the woods, which was out of the question. It nagged at him, the consequences, both of meeting her there and of spilling his secret. Should she speak out about his attack, what would that mean for him? Would Cicero search for him—or, perhaps, would she lead the beast right to him? A death delivered by the siblings that he’d have never of expected it to come from. The longer it took for her to speak, the greater his paranoia grew. It made him shudder and then grow still, the emotions pressing down upon him with such a terrible weight. By speaking, he’d sentenced himself to death, he knew it to be true—and then he didn’t, for she’d answered him at last and quelled whatever crisis he’d been in the middle of having.

The distance between them had been lost as lips were pressed against his forehead, encouraging him to close his eyes and draw forth a new breath. Slowly had the rapid pounding from within his chest started to grow calm, gentle, her touch acting as a soother. Unknowingly, he’d been ensnared in her web once more, leaning into her touch. His mind told him to stop, to back away or even leave entirely—to get away from her. Yet the longer he stood there, fighting with himself and trying to separate what he really wanted from what nature wanted from him, the more lost he became. Eventually, his conscious had been suppressed and his instincts left to take the reins, his body having won the battle against his mind. He sought to nip at her cheek before running  his muzzle through her fur, his steps slow as he inched towards her tail.