you're only as sick as your secrets

[Narcisus]

I would never understand the allure. Mares, that is. The weaker of the sexes assigned to this world and others like it. Mares simper and smile, bat their eyes and have their way with whomever or whatever will give them the attention they seek and they constantly seek it out from sources not exactly primed for giving it, and I think this one in particular might learn a hard lesson in that area. She’d picked me when the throng of other horses in the distance was ripe for better plucking. She’d picked the outlier, and that alone made her dull when otherwise she would’ve been a sparking interest for me.

Her winning trait is that she says nothing in response to my baiting.

But it unnerves me. Every horse had a thing or two to say in response whenever I opened my mouth; this palomino is the exception. Not exceptional, mind you - just a rare exception to the rule of thumb. I wonder what her damage is, with the speechless stare and the curious smile, but wonder isn’t enough. I’m not curiously willing to take her offer up. I blink, fully aware that she must’ve been the one to implant that sudden thought (picture?) of the forest into my head, and return her coy, irksome smile with a much more steadfast one of my own. It cements itself there on my dark lips, unmoving and unswayed by the persuasion of a mute whore.

“No. I think not.” My laughing response rings out where hers cannot, or doesn’t want to.

“I think right here is good enough. Don’t you?” The question was rhetorical. Underneath the twist of my black hooves there’s the sound of dirt and grass being torn, disheveled, uprooted, and then I’m facing her.

I want to touch her, and so I will. I want her to feel the way I loosen instead of tense, and I’m watching her so closely for that spark of recognition because I don’t think - I don’t know if she’ll utter a word in response. Ochre and warm, the tinder sparks of fire in my eyes expand and so does my reach from within, invisible hands that move to finger and play with the soul without consent, longing and searching to attach strings from myself to her. To feel her from the inside out, so foreign and utterly wrong. Heinous.

I’m happy to violate. I love to violate, and she (like all the others) will come to love me violating her, too. Mimic and warp and twist, this is who I am. This is what I do. Mimic and warp and twist myself into something everyone loves. The tips of my reach brush against her, testing the pliability of her strength and sheer will against my power, and I smile my bastard smile just for her. Just for the silent girl and her pretty pictures.

Narcisus

@[Aela]