Lion Head Mesa [M]No filter on your mouth

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Backdated to the night of February 15th

Lying on the floor, her chest was heaving. Dizzy.

In that morning, Machiavelli had been brought over from Muat-riya to ready for the traveling band. Eset had been clear. Mazoi listened. As she did. As she would. She collapsed later in the evening and did not return to the upper 

The wall of her room was kind to her eyes. By week, irritation had woven into her behaviors, and it was drastic each time. Aimless and disoriented, her rounds between Muat-riya and Akashingo became limited. Primarily, her residence dwelled in the palace. How many times had it been now, that she had felt this way? Enough times it made the demon born bitter and rowdy at it. This was not the same, however, was it?

In her lower stomach, a broil. She focused on it so intensely that it nauseated her and made her vision break into a sprint across the wall, before it fluttered itself back out. From her nose, pointed breaths, and below it at the edges of her mouth, cries. Continued, forceful breathing that was loud in a tearless weep. Her shoulders were firm to the ground, and a once cold cheek turned aggressive with heat with unbearable waves. It was sickening, and her belly, it was on fire. Her own scent fell upon her earlier in the day. Now it would not leave. Now this would not stop.

It would only strengthen.

It would not tame.

So, she breathed. Breathed rough. Whined and rumbled very softly in her room and found her vision hazy with no focus. Her eyes were lifeless, miserable, in what had been hours of stillness. 

edited because I have 0 reading comprehension lol

Machiavelli had arrived in Akashingo early in the day with a specific mission: to collect the sparkling crystals that grew in the caves, a precious bounty to be traded strictly on behalf of the kingdom.

After safely stowing away the bundles of gems to prevent any sticky paws, he turned his attention to tidying up the palace, straightening what needed straightening, and dusting away any stray particles with the swish of his fluffy tail. With his chores done, he looked forward to finally retiring to the room set aside for the fellahin, eager for some well-deserved rest after an exhausting day.

At least, that had been the plan until he had passed by the Mazoi's room and heard the dreadful noises coming from inside. He took one step past the door, then two—whatever was happening in the woman's chamber wasn't any of his concern.

After several moments of debate, nosiness won, and the man turned, pausing in the hallway beside the door. Legend, are you feeling all right? He called from the entry. You sound like you're trying to birth a moose without anyone finding out, one light eye peeked around into the room. That isn't what you're doing in there, is it, dear?

The imp's chest heaved with erratic breaths; her senses engulfed in fires of distress. As Machi's voice pierced through the turmoil, her ears twitched, and she struggled to focus on his words.

"Maaaaaaaahhh-chi." A call between all of his terrible words and even more terrible voice in the moment! Perhaps, more annoyingly, she decided immediately that sex would solve all of her problems.

No. No it would not.

Why was she thinking awful things! Then, now everyone sounded appealing and handsome, and then they sounded absolutely repulsive.

"No. No moose. Does Machi see moose? 'ahma-qu, 'ahmaq!--Ma-chi. Machi should bring me snack if it bothers him so much." She was growing attached to handouts! Food now! Now a plead and a pout. Because she wanted something now. 

The other eye appeared around the doorway as the fractured name was howled from inside the chamber. Bother me? he asked, thoughtfully. I doubt I would have even noticed had I not passed by.

A quick peruse of the room to try and spy interesting things. Now that I know there's no moose to be found, I suppose I should leave you to... whatever it is that you're doing, He called, pulling his head away from the entry. Have fun.

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The turning tail of Machiavelli wreaked havoc.

"No." The sudden push from her mouth was trembled out.
Stumbling up from position, the imp scrambled. Forward, forward, until her body blocked his haphazardly from leave. A low head, and pondering, watery eyes that dug through Machi's. Her voice turned soft, to a near whine. Pathetic and cruelly, disastrously splayed before the man. "You are leaving?"
"Don't leave me." 

Oh, and her head shook slowly, side to side as it consistently lowered farther and farther, smaller and smaller in frame. A frown on inked lips, and fur that clung snug to skin. Plead, and a beg, oh, so now this man would stay a little longer. Be here a little longer. "Stay?" The edge of her muzzle, inching closer to the neck of his. The mazoi barracks were not thick in walls, and Legend spoke hushed. "You stay with me?" Quick, antsy, quieter and quieter in whines, in voice. With a tail anchored to the ground from how it tried to belly and ears that were tight against her scalp. A voice and soul that now asked, tell me you'll stay with me. Stay. Stay. Stay. Stay.

Wide eyes, tinged with a flicker of uncertainty, tracked the woman's unsteady approach. Ears, once alert, now curled hesitantly to the back of the fair head, and the tail hovered nervously between willowy legs.

Of—of course; I made a vow to serve you, didn't I? he cooed, Your wish is my command, darling. However, there was a slight, almost imperceptible step to the side, dancing away from her touch, mightn't a healer serve you better?

A smooth smile curled over his maw, Besides, the two of us together in the barracks? Where anyone might stumble upon us? How very scandalous, he laughed with a flick of his paw, the movement slightly strained. I didn't take you for the type.

Are you sure that's what you want? Others may talk, you know, he whispered, his tone a playful tease.

He stepped away from her! He was leaving her! Leaving her! Though, then by no force, she swiftly moved from the entrance. It was open. He could leave. "Yes?" A frail whimper, and she pushed towards him again; though, not so close to touch. It was quickly after that her belly hit the ground, and the mazoi stared up to the mans face with her chin on top of her wrists.

Stay. Stay. Stay. Stay. Stay. Stay. Stay. Stay. Stay. Stay
Slow eyes to the ground, then to the opal screens of his. "Whispers-- important? Should care?" If only she knew the feeling of care and its complexities, its extremities, its own whispers. Its own intricacies.

"Would He want to stay with me?" Then next, a big frown and miserable eyes. Miserable voice. Oh, how miserable. Poor little imp. Poor, poor, little imp.
 "He wants to leave her?"

Stay.

Eyes lifted from the figure on the floor, anxiously scanning the corridor. That's up to you to decide, dear. I can't tell you what to care about, Machiavelli uttered softly, returning his gaze downward to meet hers, an uncomfortable expression etched across his features.

Legend, darling, I implore you to get off the floor; if anyone sees you, they'll think you're begging.

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The floor must have been cold on her side. She should've been conditioned to stay there, and that, she was. She could be. Her cheek rubbed vertically on the ground, eyes fluttering forward and an empty frown upon etched on pretty lips.

"I am," the imp stated, and the look offered was unkempt.

Begging. If he said begging, then there she was begging, and her neck bent away from him. Her ears tugged the floor. She was pathetic. She just couldn't accept rejection, could she? She begged to him again when her maw turned underneath him, her brows tensing as confusion riddled her face. 

Why, how easily Machi could do this to her. How quickly was she nothing? Then, looking down his neck, then up the underside of his chin and to his maw, her muscles relaxed. Pulled away, then shying away in a cower. A question to dismantle her perception of herself then in front of him. Confidence fleeing, and looking to leech, yet so quickly could it fail. So quickly could it fall. "What, you don't like it when I beg?"

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Mazoi.
Begging.
Fellahin.

You degrade yourself, a sharp snarl that never made it past curled lip, as the man stared hard at the shape in the room.

A silent step into the room as he drew closer. Fine, you want to beg? Then stop writhing on the ground like a worm, Machiavelli leaned down, breathing into the short velvet fur on the woman's neck, and do it properly—on your knees.

What do you want, love? Tell me.

Her breath, smoothed through every curve. He could leave her there. Cold after begging with a screaming heat in her chest. A sickening, vile churn in her stomach that was filthy and fearful in every way. It was how she knew things were okay again. How these pretty ideas could flourish now, and only now as her heart pushed to her throat. This was love. Affection. Adoration. She had been confused, once, by the emerald eyes of a red prince who brought calm.  Then, if that was not intimacy, this was. This was true. As it had always been.

When the devil child's pupils constricted at Machiavelli's voice, when her heart beat himself to its death and she could not speak, she thrived. This must be life. This must be living.

"Yes."

Her belly moved under her body. On her knees. Her voice stayed down, and so did she. "I want you-- stay. You'll stay, yes, Machi? While I am on my knees? Yes?"

Machiavelli returned to a stand, his voice carrying a subtle scoff, Stay with you? His inquiry came with a faint, dismissive click of his tongue. Surely you can recall what I told you last time, darling.

Besides, piercing eyes of cold glass stared from between cracks in a porcelain face, I had assumed you found me an undesirable companion. Puppeteer tilting doll head to gaze down at the little jackdaw bowing before him.

I must say, I am dreadfully confused. He murmured, voice unnaturally composed.

"Yes. Stay with me?" Her ears fell down to her head and he dismissed her. He once looked at her and captured her still. The tilt of his muzzle made her sick. Want me, want me, want me, want me. It was all she wanted. So much so that it was sickly and foul. She wanted him to be sickly. She wanted him to be foul. Want me. Want me. Want me. Want me. I am lost. Want me.

"She told him-- she had not done anything like so before. And why shouldn't it be you?"

Despite his attempt at defiance, there was a tremor in his voice, a subtle quiver betraying the veneer he desperately fought to maintain.

Why should it be me, indeed? Machiavelli's words dripped with sarcasm, each syllable polluted by a bitterness that twisted his tone into a venomous hiss. There are plenty of desperate men around who are more than willing to fulfill your desires. The man's once charming speech was now devoid of the usual pretension and heavy with self-disgust. Would one of them not be better?

With each word, Machiavelli paced around the room with steps lighter than feathers. His movements were calculated, each step a careful dance to avoid drawing unwanted attention to the two figures concealed within the dimly lit chamber. Or perhaps he was dodging shards of invisible porcelain, fallen from the chipped mask he wore.

She could not command him; though, maybe, he is fellahin. Such a thing did not cross her mind. She only wanted to be wanted.
That could not be forced.

To be wanted.

There was a spell of power looming over that she did not dare indulge. That was odd to her. Even more odd, his pacing. His lack of leave. She opened the door and yet he did not take it, or maybe the fellahin felt as though it was a command he couldn't. But she had moved swiftly from the door. Then what fellahin argued if he thought so? It was too much. Too confusing. When he had strongly came onto her before, but now she could not tell.

Too many games! Legend didn't like this game. "Machi does not need to stay if he will not take it." Yet he prowled circles. Confusion settled. Did he not like this of woman? Or was he toying? Legend did not know how to be forward... 

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I'm so sorry Legend D:

The man's pacing had begun to escalate into a near frenzy until Legend's words pierced through the storm, freezing him in place, opaline stare snapping down to meet her own with deadly suspicion.

I'm allowed to leave if I'd like? He asked, his flaxen brow furrowing as he squinted down at the silhouette before him. And what repercussions await me beyond that doorway if I dare to depart? Machi hissed, a growl rumbling in his throat. I needn't stay, he spat. Don't think I haven't heard that one before, Legend. I had a feeling you were a liar, but I didn't think you to be so incredibly cruel.

I verbally went 'oooooooo!!' I got so excited

She heard a million voices and none of them were coherent. None were settled. Try more! No more trying! Beg more! Begging wasn't working! Why was he weird? He was weird! Weird! Why wouldn't he love her? Where was her affection? Why was he being difficult! Why wasn't he acting like a man! Why was he being strange! He was strange! It was his fault he was strange! Maybe he should have been trying to fix it- his strangeness! So, so, so, so-- so what was she suppised to do? He changed now! He was different now! Wanted her then, but not now! What weirdo didn't want a virgin? Weird! Weird! Weird! 

That was a lie, of course, but still!

Why'd he stop wanting her when she said that?

She grew angry and miserable in it. He was not behaving normally. 
Legend didn't understand.

Her eyes were pins stuck to the wall, and then they drew to a mope.
Machi didn't want her? That was..fine...she guessed...

She spoke drawn out and slow now, her stomach hitting the floor again and a big huff coming out. What the hell did rebercushion mean? Now he said words she didn't understand! "No.. There nothing, Machi. She is not royal." Stupid. "Who'd do that anyways?" Stupid. "Yes, Machi can leave." Stupid..

Eyes like marbles bore into Legend's own as Machi took a hesitant step forward, as if stepping onto ice. Lowering his face toward hers, he seemed to search for something in the woman's powder gaze.

You mean to tell me I have a choice? If I leave, nothing will happen? He asked, pink nose twitching as though if he tried hard enough, he would smell the deceit that was sure to waft from her like perfume. If I wanted to, I could simply leave? His voice wavered, an odd mixture of reluctant hope and disbelief.

There had been someone once who had told him he had a choice and had meant it. Could Legend be like that person too? But such people were rare, weren't they? If they weren't, wouldn't he have encountered more of them by now?

Theyre horrific for each other and im eating it alive

A moping mess and misery all in one. Stupid Machiavelli. A strange man who did not take opportunities given to him, and why? Why not? Why would a man be different? Behave so abnormally? When there was desire not long before in heated breaths from him. Was she not pretty anymore? Did he like different types? Legend thought very hard about how to be different, that way she might be desirable. Pretty enough. A better robe to wear. She wanted to be good again and he was not letting her be.

So, when he asked a stupid question of if there were to be consequences, she answered forwardly with her flattened heart. "Yes."

"Yes"

Disappointment was etched into her words, etched into the lines that made up the furrow of her brow, yet there was a raw honesty that cut through the air like a blade. She was speaking the truth, and he could feel it like a heavy weight upon his chest.

Anger surged through him like a wildfire, blazing white-hot as he jerked his face away from hers, a snarl contorting his lip in a fierce grimace. How dare she extend kindness to him? How dare she offer decency when he had shown her so little?

However, the bitterest pill to swallow was the confirmation that he was not the only one. There were others—others who had turned a blind eye, others who had failed him when he needed them most.
How dare she.

He paced a circle around the room in deafening silence, hackles raised like spears, and ears tight to the skull.

I need to leave, Machi managed finally, his voice gravelly and harsh with emotion, I'll return soon, just... please, don't go anywhere.

— —

It was nearly an hour later when the man returned to the room, his earlier blaze of fury now extinguished, leaving behind a cold, icy calm in its wake. Legend, are you there? Machi inquired, his tone softened by contrition. After a brief pause, he continued, I apologize for my earlier outburst. I've brought food... and wine.

She missed her baby. Missed being called baby. But that had been time ago and that was then, and this was now.

He didn't want her now? Didn't want her now. All done. Legend moped horrifically with a wandering mind. How many had there been? Legend thought only for what she needed to. There had only been two. Even so, she got awfully confused now as Machiavelli left. Turning in her place and waiting for the call and leave; surely, everyone was quite busy waiting to go. Gucci was to be carried. Much was to be done. They had food to bring, but it wouldn't be enough, so they would need to serve hunts.

It was beyond her of how to really hunt, anyways.

For a moment, she frustrated herself on why she kept wanting to say there had been a third. There was no third. Even if she truly tried to think of it, and squint impatiently with a building annoyance to it, there was no third.

The imps eyes fluttered exhaustion.
Oh well.

---

The time between his leave and return was filled with an emptiness. She didn't know that he was going to return at all. Had he told her this? She didn't remember. That was stupid. It was also stupid that she wasn't sure. So, it didn't happen.

They'd yet to leave still. It would be soon, but there was time.

Wine. Food. Enough to cause her nose to twitch in eager flares that she didn't know what eager. "Yeah." A wanting stare that happened with her all too poor nose. It could still smell food. Legend lie in the place he'd left her, but this time perking with an interest. Still upset, but there was no point in pushing if he did not want. Food was okay. "It's okay."

"The good wine? Good wine towards the," she motioned with her paw clumsily, "back of the store." She'd know! She knew lots. Hunger ate at her just enough to distract her in a mild manner.

The good wine? Machi scoffed,Reserved for the nobility, of course. We humble peons must make do with what we have. The man continued, dipping his head to nose the fermenting fruit, Although, it does smell rather strong.

As he lingered in the doorway, Machi's gaze drifted momentarily towards the room beyond, though his attention remained somewhat distant. The weariness of a mind once burning with anger now left with nothing but embers, a heaviness settling into his bones with each passing moment.

May I come in? he inquired with a sigh, his voice carrying a note of exhaustion. Without awaiting a response, he pressed his back against the wall tiredly.
So very, very tired.

If Machiavelli was so stupid as to grab wine that hadn't even aged, then maybe even Fellahin wasn't suitable for him. Legend felt her tongue wanting to lash itself in a petty, quippy mouth. 

Her self restraint wished to spiral itself just for a quick word, and then she did not know why he frustrated her so much. He made her wish to curse. 

"Yes." Yet he asked to come in, and her body moved swiftly to clear space. So that they could drink on a clean surface. "Good-- 'nough space?"

Wonderful, he replied, his voice laced with a hint of exhaustion as he brought in the wine, along with a plump hare that he placed before the dark-coated woman. I'm not sure if you like these, Machi said, nudging the rabbit closer to Legend before surrendering to the fatigue that weighed heavily upon him, sinking down to rest beside her with a soft thud.

He observed the jackdaw with his offering for a moment, hoping to gauge her mood, before turning his attention to the wine, savoring each mouthful with the practiced ease of someone well-acquainted with seeking solace in its depths.

As the comforting embrace of alcohol enveloped him, Machi extended the bowl towards Legend, his gaze unwavering as he studied her, thoughts swirling in slow, contemplative circles.

It was only after several seconds that he finally spoke, his voice soft, I'm sorry for what happened earlier. It was... uncharacteristic of me.

Sitting beside her, he couldn't shake the gnawing guilt that tugged at his conscience; whether it was his own fears or a genuine concern for Legend's feelings, he couldn't say for certain.

Guilty, guilty, guilty.
Regret nipped at him, a reminder of his stubbornness and the unnecessary conflict it had caused. Why did he need to be so difficult? He had bedded many before her without desire; there had been no need to be so obstinate this time.

Make it up to her, pacify her, appease her, win her back.

Here in this other place, floating on bubbles of liquor, clarity emerged, and Machiavelli found himself clinging to old habits, despite the pain they caused. That was a pain for a future him to deal with.

Hesitantly, he reached out to brush a strand of loose fur from her arm, letting his touch linger.

Win her back.

I really don't know what came over me, love, the man murmured meeting her moon-glow gaze finally, Perhaps, if... you'd still like, I can make it up to you now.

Win her back.

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She could take a no.

At least, that was what she thought when Seth had told her no. In a way that was not no, he said no. No, he said when she met him. He said-- no, when she asked if it would end poorly. No, he said. No, he said. She thought she was good at noes. And in reality, she didn't care about Machiavelli. She didn't care that much when he looked at her, or how he made her feel. She wasn't sure if she felt much when he said no, anyways. Rather, she couldn't fathom, and her brain couldn't function, when she tried to understand why he would say no. No, when he had pushed forward upon her a yes. When desire is all she could run through a pretty, broken mind with loose ends and broken wire.

She'd walked many fine lines. From wandering eyes, to wandering arms. From raw minds, to empty words.

He touched her.

He was not Seth.

She leaned gently from him, as if his touch demanded her away from him in an instance. Where his breath then intertwined with hers as alcohol traced his breath, and snuck out from her own throat. A poison they indulged in. Just as a poison they indulged in now. Yet, in his eyes, a fade, and like clockwork, her body mimicked. This was what she was supposed to do. This was how she was supposed to behave.

He was not Seth.

And he was not Senmut.

This was how she bended. There was hesitancy in his touch, yet his words told her another, and she could respond in the only way she knew how. She felt a chill then in her spine, and yet her eyes were glazed over with a dirtying lust that she offered. It was what was wanted. How to respond. Because I don't want this was too hard to say, and it was essier to melt into familiarity. Where he touched, and she stilled. Where he started a spark and she fueled it to flame, because burning was better than the feeling of nothing. I don't want this, his touch said. I don't want this, said hers. So, why was it when she moved from him, she came back again?

He was not Seth.

She moved into the brush then, and in the flutter of dainty eyes, she asked him what she'd asked herself. Advancing with the sorrow in her stomach, as if her pain was then a snare she asked him to indulge in. But Legend did not let that slip intentionally as she had many times. Why now, did it feel involuntary? I don't want this. Her cheek brushed into his wrist. "Do you want me?" The thrum in her chest was nauseating. A whine to a pretty voice, she would make it believable it was a beg.

He was not Senmut.

With the quirk of her head, she leaned her muzzle towards his own, bowed and restrained. She would turn the nausea into fire. Something he would enjoy. Legend would be desirable, and if it meant then that he wanted her, if his touch was the desire she knew it to be, she would be fuckable. She would be good. There would be no indication of hesitancy anymore, and she had been bad to show it before when they were wrapped in his room. Bad. Bad. Bad. Make it up to him. Make it up to him. They wanted this. They wanted this.