[I am a trashcan and I am so sorry ;-;]


He wonders, even then, if he should have eaten her.

She sidles to him, sticky with her sweat and her woman-scent, her eyes fluttering everywhere except towards sense. She is displayed before him, speaking in sultry tones that turn ribbons in his head, bowties and loop-de-loops and everything that refuses to secure the knot. Ridiculous ribbons, he decides. Her scent is overpowering.

His eyes obey the wishes of a dancing body, and prey upon her flesh intensely, shamelessly, appraising a body thrown at his feet (for that is what she is doing, yes?).  He decides she is--inadequate. Not quite an ugly specimen, but she could’ve done without the absurd blue hues on her legs (ridiculous ribbons) the unseemly splashes of white against her face, her rear hocks. A solid black would’ve been much more appropriate, he decides. Her form is correct, as well, although it is smaller than he would like, thin and boney, his taste for the female body spoiled by the sweet rolling hills and valleys of his herdmate Shida: he is forever ruined by the lewd, arbitrary pleasure of a fleshy mound that ripples when struck.

He settles back on one rear hoof; his brow is cocked, pleasantly so, and he sighs a deep, purring sigh. To stall for time to allow his brain to work, to placate her dazzling, expectant blue eyes (always, always blue eyes). Before, perhaps, he would’ve bedded her and been done with it, washed of her company and forgetful of the incident within hours—but some caution whispers in his ear, perhaps from Ka’Ora’s slender chest, her worrisome, careful heart. The results of his conquest now walk the earth—powerful Oizys, sharp Enyo, savage Merlin— and their births have stirred something within him, an awakening, the dawning of a new age and destiny. He has learned his sperm is valuable, and he must cast the seed carefully, in fertile grounds, where the monster that grows from it is great indeed. He must be fastidious.

This mare here—this black harlot on the verge of ugliness, skating the borders of ridiculousness, of stupidity—could she bear him a child that is worthy of his seed and blood? And if not, how hard would it be to kill it—and her, if it should come to pass? Would it be worth the effort, the trouble, to, perhaps, rear a child born by this sweaty creature?

He wonders again: perhaps he should’ve eaten her?

The growl that erupts from his throat is a purr, a thick sigh of subtle longing. “I’m not sure about hero,” he teases, and his tail curls behind him, and his eyes are handsomely set beneath those strong brows of his, “or a villain, or anything such as that. Perhaps—I am just a lost little boy, just as you are a lost little girl.” The words twist on his tongue playfully, skilled in timbre, in volume and tone. He strokes her velvet spine with his tongue—studying her, deciding where she would fit in his plans, if she were to fit, indeed.“You must’ve wandered far from your home, wherever it may be, just to find some…help…for your dilemma…”

His eyes are sly, the light sparkling with a wicked light as they fall upon her. Predator's eyes. "How is it that you've failed to find someone from your home to help in your...problems?"

”Watch for Circe.”