Narcissus’ Second Chance

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Centuries passed before he began to realize that anything had changed.

He would wake from a long nothingness, and then would catch a glimpse of himself in the still dark waters of the pond, and fold himself low on the bank in order to get a clearer view. His full dark eyes, shuttered with full dark lashes, were wide and beautiful until the perfection was marred by the silver flicker of a little fish from under the water. His skin was golden as the sun, smoother than the rocks tucked against the shore, smoother than the water on the calmest day of the year. His hair fell dark and wavy across his forehead — a perfect expanse marred with neither a freckle nor a crease — but the color blended with the color of the water and for a moment he could not believe that imperfect muddy swath could be a part of him. He raised his fingers to his hair, stroked the waves as smooth as silk, and realized that — of course — it was only the pond’s imperfection reflecting back on him. What his fingers touched was softer than a spider’s strand, and when he plucked a single hair from near the back of his head he saw with relief that it was as pitch black as he’d remembered. He would watch himself, and smile, and his teeth were perfect opals in the glinting of the sun. Utter perfection.

But the sun would change to sunset, and when the gods saw nothing had changed, they would set the cycle in motion again.

For a long while there would be only that blank nothingness. Uncountable more centuries passed before he began to recall flutters of light and memory within those blank times.

She was sharp and soft as she touched him, yellow and black velvet prickling against his petal-soft flesh. She’d lick him all over with her tongue and suck hard, until his stem bowed under the pleasure and he felt she’d sucked him dry. That was all there was – and sometimes a wind whipping across his face, sometimes cool rain against his roots — but mostly the tapping touch of her tiny feet and the occasional fluttering kiss of alabaster wings as she came and went.

And then he would awaken again, come to himself again, and know that it must all be a dream. It could only have been a matter of hours, of course, since he had caught sight of his flawlessness in the pond and been unable to draw his gaze away. I must return home soon, he thinks— Surely my traps will be full—

But his gaze remains caught, and he falls into the daze. If he had torn his gaze away for even just a moment, he would have seen the trees grow up and out by miles, and he would have noticed the wilderness encroaching upon him until the pond was no longer surrounded by a large clearing of flowers, but by a forest.

The fluttering yellow and black memories play with him again as he drifts through another century, over and over, sucking and tugging and humming, so that when he comes to himself this time and looks bostancı escort upon the youth in the water — so wondrously gorgeous and of a much better color scheme — his whole body feels like it is aflame.

“O darling, O Narcissus, would that I could touch my lips to yours,” he says, and bends even lower over the bank. “I would stroke your tongue with mine, and it would taste of woodland berries. I would…”

A soft giggle wafts through the air and through his words. He doesn’t take note of it, that grating sound, thinking it nothing more substantial that the imaginary buzzing memories that plague him. “I would take your cock in my hand and stroke you; your balls would be tight and hard, and your cock even harder…”

His voice breaks suddenly, and he pushes himself to his knees in the grass. His body is visible all the way down to his thighs, now, and the youth in the water appears to be haloed by the sun. “Clearly even Apollo thinks the view divine.”

He raises his chiton to his waist in a single motion, and wraps his long fingers around his own cock. It’s hard and pulsing already, slightly veined, a drop of cum balanced on the tip. In his reflection in the pond, his mouth quivers and his eyes fall half-shut.

“Fuck,” he mouths. “Your cock is like a bar of gold, hard and smooth; harder than I’ve ever felt it…”

There is a gasp this time, and then another giggle much closer than the last. A shaft of anger lodges in his chest.

“You are a naughty boy, aren’t you?” says the voice. Another giggle. The voice is grating besides being practically unintelligible, and his eyes flash to the disturbance, if only to send it away. The disturbance is presumably a girl, but of an odd thick dress. She is pinched at the waist like a wasp, and the bottom half of her is round as a fucking bell. On her head is some sort of nonsense that makes her more mushroom that woman. Her voice is trembling in her throat as she says, “You are the most handsome man I’ve ever seen, even in a dress…”

He turns away in dismissal, and begins to stroke his cock faster, trying to keep his pleasure from fading under the eyes of this creature. There is a shift of fabric, a rustle, and then a hand touches his shoulder. He jerks around again more out of instinct than anything, and finds that her malformed breasts are now bare to his gaze and she is kneeling towards him. Clearly the thing is trying to seduce him. He looks back to the water as quickly as he can.

He takes his free hand from his balls, and briefly contemplates giving her a slap about the face to send her more speedily on her way. But he sees those beautiful dark eyelashes fluttering on the cheeks of the reflection in the pond, and instead he pulls the creature the rest of the way down to the grass. His cock is aching; it feels as though it’s been millennia since fatih escort he’s last had this pleasure. Enough time that that creature might be a functioning stand-in for the wet, dark cleft he craves.

“As you like, mounotricha.” He half-drags and half-lifts her, so that her head is mostly over the bank of the pond. She obeys in a daze, and he is glad she doesn’t wriggle about like a hooked worm after he hoists her skirts. He can see the face of the reflection through the valley between the creature’s breasts, and he catches its taut gaze. The youth stares at him, unflinching, urging him forward, and forward he goes.

He shoves himself deep inside, straight to the hilt. At first he rocks in hard and then slowly out, circling, dragging out the pleasure, but those deep brown eyes prove too much for him. He grinds his hips hard with each thrust, a sound grating out of his throat that sounds more wolfish than human. He watches the face in the pond contort with pleasure, its mouth working silently. The passage is slick and hot around his cock, and the youth in the pond is bouncing up and down with his thrusts, and when he finally deciphers the sounds emerging from both their mouths, it is “At last, at last, at last…”

When he comes, more quickly than he would have liked (but he can blame that on the chaste millennia), it is with thick hard spurts and seems to last for an eon. The reflection comes at the same time, exactly, and he shouts “I love you” and the reflection mouths the words with the same breaths, and he never breaks its gaze. He has never felt so intimately connected with another being in his life. As he and the reflection gaze at each other, blissful, the creature finally begins wriggling, and he rolls off her and into the grass.

“Ruined it,” he grumbles at her.

When the girl comes to a little later, she feels much more in control of herself than she had earlier in the day. She can’t quite think why she… except he was already half-naked, and so very handsome it was almost love at first sight. But she must have fallen asleep — a little cat-nap at least — because she is all alone at the bank of the pond with nothing but a tall daffodil for company, nodding its head regally at its reflection in the water.


He is drenched when he wakes, and shivering besides, with yet another large ink blotch spread across his memory. He clearly remembers sunlight spread golden across his back, yet now the rain is slicing down in sheets, in knives, and he is in his bare arms and legs with his cloak sitting useless at home. Hades forbid he should catch a chill — he would be unfit for the world’s eyes, then, with a red snot-filled nose. Even the youth in the pond would not deign to look upon him— With a jolt, he bows down low over the water, searching for the reflection, but there is nothing more than a smudge of bağcılar escort color in the rain-churned grey. He lets out a hoarse groan and sits back on his haunches.

“O Narcissus, come to me,” he whispers, and then he calls it out aloud. There is no response except the smudged image disappearing altogether in a gust of wind. A tear slides down his cheek, and then another.

There is a sound from off to his right, and he ignores it. But the sound is persistent. With a chuckle, it says, “You can come wait under the tree, where it’s dry. This rain came outta nowhere.” A pause, and then, “You look like Narcissus, staring down at his reflection.”

At the sound of the name, he twists his head around and catches a glimpse of yellow and black under the boughs of a pine. He glances back at the pond, but the surface is still choppy and dulled. He pushes himself to his feet, his attention momentarily caught, and takes a few steps towards the pine tree. And he sees her there, huddled into the burnt-out core of the tree, a faun with hoofed feet and skin a strange yellow and black. Something tugs in the back of his mind, and his cock stirs to attention. It is not until he is within arm’s reach of her that he realizes the colors are cloth, so tight as to be a second skin; black around the legs, and yellow hugging her breasts. What he had mistaken for hooves were unwieldy thick sandals.

“Xaire,” he says, a little unnerved at hearing his name from an unknown’s lips.

“Hello,” she replies, and the corners of her mouth quirk up. “Boy, speak of old myths; look at that outfit. You must be an actor.”

He shakes his head, unable to draw his eyes from the movements of her lips. The words are strange, but her lips appear almost as soft and red as those of the reflection in the pond. A spark begins burning low in his stomach. His gaze travels up her face — high smooth cheekbones, a strong nose — and then his gaze meets her eyes. They are a dark deep brown, though there is a touch of gold, and framed in ermine lashes. He feels another jolt. When she tips her head to the side to study him, wavy dark hair spills across her brow, and he reaches his fingers out toward it. It feels nothing like silk, and he quickly pulls his hand away.

He glances back once more at the pond, and there is nothing to be seen through the branches of the tree except the sheeting rain and the dank water.

He looks back to the apparition. “Are you a nymph? I do not recognize you.”

She throws her head back and laughs when she hears it, a rich sparkling sound that matches the twinkling in her eyes — eyes that are never marred by the flick of a tail or the ripples from a raindrop.

“Nice line,” she says. “What’s your name?”

He opens his mouth to say it, but then he remembers her teasing, and for some reason he does not want to ruin the moment. Instead he asks, “What is your name?”

She smiles again, wider this time, and her teeth are not perfectly spaced opals. Not only that, but the smile causes creases to appear at the corners of her mouth and eyes. And to his amazement, he finds he does not care. He asks again, “Come now, what’s your name?”

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