Lion Head Mesa [M]No filter on your mouth

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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.