Lion Head Mesa [sc] [M] Diamonds Under my Eyes

All welcome but maybe @Legend or @Eset? <3

---

My heart could be burnin', but you won't see it on my face
Watch me dance, dance the night away
I'll still keep the party runnin', not one hair out of place

---

Machi observed as the procession dissolved into dancing couples and the resonance of jovial laughter filled the air. He scanned the crowd, searching for Senmut amidst the throng, only to catch a fleeting glimpse of the red man disappearing with a woman, prompting a bemused reflection on his own misjudgment. Ah well, he thought with a nonchalant shrug, so long as he enjoys himself, I suppose.

Surveying the gathering for any familiar faces, Machi found none immediately interesting enough to engage in conversation. Instead, he contented himself with finding a comfortable vantage point from which to observe the festivities, adopting the aloof demeanor of a feline perched high above, watching the revelers below with a sense of detached interest.

hope u don't mind me snagging now that i can HEHEHEHE

izaiah's first moon in akashingo brought quite the procession.
he'd been on the sidelines as the event slowly swelled with song and sweat. he people-watched from a corner, popping sour berries into his mouth in order to keep his heart from bursting from his chest. he felt well and truly alien, hearing the names of these desert-gods he did not know; desert-gods that were not his!
it was the other wallflower which caught his attention, scoping out the marble-carved face through the sea of drunken bodies. he'd certainly never seen him around before.
you not a fan of crowds either? the boy asks, scanning the sun-dappled eyes for unspoken thoughts. he feels as though he should be intimidated. or all the... y'know... lust.

Sorry for the long wait! I'll keep this one prioritized since it's older <3

Machiavelli greeted the newcomer with a subtle shift of his eyes and the flick of an umber ear, his tail curling and snapping with a lazy rhythm as he watched the onyx man from his periphery. The wolf-dog's mouth twitched slightly, parting as pink tongue passed over silken muzzle.

If you can't handle lust, the Red Palace is not the place for you, he replied finally, turning his head and rolling back on an elbow to study the stranger. His gaze traveled languidly down the willowy form and back up again, meeting hazel eyes before blinking back to the crowd with an amused chuff. Coyote blood suggested fellahin, but the attitude said otherwise.

You must be new to our revered palace, The man remarked, his ears pulling back and a devilish smirk tugging at the corner of his maw. He regarded the stranger through eyes half-lidded, tail flicking idly at the stone beneath. His gaze lingered, tracing the contours of the newcomer's form with an unsettling intensity.

Tell me, Machiavelli continued, his voice a low, melodic murmur, what brings you to our illustrious domain? Are you here to seek pleasure, power, or, his eyes sparkled, reflecting the light of the cold, distant stars above, perhaps a bit of both?

no worries!! u are always worth the wait (also it is payback for the ancient wren/moss thread)

i can handle it, izaiah snaps back, challenging the smirk with a bored roll of his eyes. i just don't give it out for free. for that was not the way of his God, even if His light could not reach these red-tinged caverns.
he shuffles an inch or two closer, feeling his skin burn beneath the set of eyes which watched him. he feels as if he is prey. he's not sure how to feel about it.
pleasure, power, or perhaps a bit of both; the question lingers in the humidity before he answers. hate to burst your bubble, but neither, he scratches at his arm absentmindedly, avoiding the lurid gaze and turning his own attention back toward the roaring current of bodies. i was sent here. i'm a medical scribe. or, i guess you people call it a sesh.
he sneaks another berry into his mouth, clammy palm now stained with wine-colored juice. izaiah, he then says, offering his name and the second plump fruit which sat between his pads. i don't usually partake in this stuff, but, hey, it's a party, isn't it?

Thank you <3

Don't give it out for free? Machiavelli's sudden outpouring of laughter was rich. Do you think anyone does? Here in Akashingo desires are both indulged—and weaponized, dear. Power is the ultimate currency, and pleasure the ultimate form of power, is it not? A serpentine grin illuminated his face, venomously hypnotic eyes fixed on the newcomer. Machiavelli pulled his drink close, the contents within scintillating in the dim light, a chilling glint in his gaze that suggested thoughts far from innocent.

I can appreciate a man of values, let's see how long you'll stick to them, Machiavelli murmured, his voice dropping to a low purr as he tipped back the contents into his waiting mouth.

Sesh, hmm? The fellahin repeated thoughtfully, his eyes narrowing slightly as he took another look at the man through the heavy fringe of his blonde lashes. Indeed, Machiavelli agreed. He reached out and retrieved the berry from the man's outstretched paw, rolling it under one pearl-pink nail with deliberate slowness.

His gaze lingered on the berry, a flicker of something dark and hungry flashing in his eyes before he looked back up at the obsidian man. You don't have to convince me, Izaiah, he said with a soft chuckle. Then, with a fluid motion, he popped the berry into his mouth, his teeth closing around it with a satisfying pop, his expression one of almost predatory satisfaction.

i would argue that knowledge is power, izaiah retorts, the hazel eyes glimmering in the cool bath of moonlight. the warm, rolling burr of the man's accent makes the hair upon the boy's shoulders stand on end. and don't call me dear. at least take me to dinner first.
the fellahin leans close, and izaiah feels the prickle of heat that pools beneath his pelt. he feels the pressure of a nail against his skin as machi takes what is offered, and the boy cannot seem to peel his eyes away as the berry slips between his teeth; watches as it is crushed, consumed, devoured.
he coughs (gayly), covering his mouth with a slender wrist. i am a sesh, yes, he repeats it again in an effort to regain his now very much lost train of thought, tall ears flicking as if unperturbed; but surely, surely the man-harlot would've noticed by now the tension that clung to his acquaintance. i was trained and sent here as-- a gift, i guess, to the pharaoh. my mentor wanted me to broaden my horizons. he thought this was the perfect way to do it.
but i shouldn't complain, he adds then, uncomfortably readjusting himself so that he may look just the slightest bit taller, though the pale man still had a good bit of height on him. this place is... entertaining.

The man-harlot savored the moment, the taste of the berry mingling pleasantly with the thrill of the game as he listened quietly to the information his acquaintance offered. 

Knowledge, hmm? he mused, his voice a soft, contemplative murmur as he traced the rim of his leaf cup with one delicate nail, the movement languid in its meditation. I daresay I'm inclined to agree.

It’s quite fascinating, really, he remarked, his tone light and conversational, Knowledge, as you say, is power, however, only when complimented by the wisdom to see the garden for the roses, no? His shattered-glass eyes flicked upward, catching the moonlight and reflecting it like fractured gemstones.

For example, Machiavelli continued, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, knowing when you're drawing one into a game... and when you're the one being played. He smiled, leaning forward slightly, pale throat stretched delicately so that he might peer up into hazel eyes directly. 

Tell me, Izaiah, he purred, the words soft and inviting, are you the kind of man that sees the roses or the garden?

izaiah, being the type of man he was, wanted to delve into this topic as much as the next guy — or, more truthfully, be wished to be lulled into blissful honey-gold wonder by the purl of machiavelli's accented voice — but the web he was beginning to spin with his words was enough to stir a fleeting moment of sobriety from him. his brows furrow, the cogs behind his eyes visibly turning, now beginning to slump forward into a lay. the raven black limbs stretch in front of him like tendrils of dark smoke.
we're all being played, all the time, he finally answers, crossing one forelimb over the other. we're all cogs in the grand machine of life. no one is truly free. sometimes you think you're neither, when you're really both.
qashon. minya. akashingo.
his tail flicks; the hazel eyes harden as if they were made of stone. i'm the kind of man who is a rose in the garden. i'm-- only a piece, a fraction, one that just makes up the larger picture. i don't matter as an individual to the garden's caretaker. i'm just... there, a pretty thing to look at. and one day i'll wilt and die, or get picked and shipped off somewhere else.
but at least i can enjoy my time as a pretty thing, one brow raises, chin tilting upward to bathe in the twinkle of the stars. machi's eyes burrow into him still, as if he were building a home of his own beneath izaiah's skin. and i can learn to appreciate being looked at.

Wonderful! A man with a philosophy, Machiavelli chuckled once more, a warm smile spreading over his lips. What a clever boy you are, you might just do well here after all, he reached out a dove-white paw to brush against Izaiah's shoulder complimentarily.

Machiavelli laid his fair head down upon his paws, listening to Izaiah with the knowing expression of someone who could have heard the same words fall from his own mouth. His stained-glass eyes remained fixed on the newcomer, glimmering with a mixture of amusement, and something darker.

Hmm... He let the sound linger in the air, his tongue flashing briefly over wetted lips. I think I can appreciate looking...imagining. The words were soft, almost ruminative, yet they carried an edge that made the air around the pair crackle.

The man rolled onto his back, gazing up at the stars dancing in the distance. Have you had anything to eat yet, Izaiah? he asked finally, his voice a gentle murmur that contrasted sharply with the ferocity of his gaze.

i'm not stupid, izaiah makes a tch sound with his teeth, the boredom returning to the obsidian-carved face. i think you'll find i'm a man of many talents.
he would do well here because he had to. not for the sake of hassan, but for the sake of himself.
i think i can appreciate looking... imagining. perhaps it was the wine which now circulated his bloodstream and brought heat to the tips of his ears, but now the boy felt himself laughing, a bellow that purled from somewhere deep in his chest. i'm not sure whether i should take that as a compliment or not.
there was something like a shift to machiavelli's demeanor; it read immediately as histrionic, one flashy mask torn off only to reveal another. perhaps izaiah was doing the same, entertaining it, taking the bait that was so clearly tied to a string. perhaps he could not help himself.
no, he replies, gaze now unabashedly roving from the pale chest down to the slender hips. which isn't good. i shouldn't 'drink' on an empty stomach.
are you offering?

A low, wicked snicker resounded from the man, his thin wrist coming up to cover his mouth as his eyes blinked shut in amusement. I'll leave that up for you to decide, Sesh, he purred, the words slipping from his lips like honeyed venom, rich and sweet, yet with a hint of something darker lurking beneath the surface.

Machiavelli's smirk deepened, a serpentine curl to his lips, allowing his words to hang in the air. I'm sure it will help you keep a clear head, he continued, his voice a silken whisper to wrap around the man like a noose. Avoid all the lust you do not want to give out for free. Machiavelli's eyes lingered on Izaiah's throat, the delicate curve of his neck, the faint pulse that beat just beneath the surface.

His smile widened, revealing a flash of pearly teeth, and he rolled his eyes back to meet Izaiah's. There was a hunger there, a barely restrained desire that flickered like candlelight in his gaze. Machiavelli stretched, his lithe body arching gracefully, toes curling and uncurling in a cat-like manner.

Me? he drawled, the word dripping with faux innocence, I'm afraid not. I'm not working tonight.

i have morals, he retorts, raising his brows as he watches machi move, the way the willowy legs stretch and the muscles beneath his skin flex. unlike some people.
but there was hunger there, too, in the boy's gaze and in the way he swallowed the lump which sat heavy in his throat. a want which he had never allowed himself to indulge in; a want which he was not about to give into. he was going to have to get a lot more hammered than this in order for that to work.
so he thought.
what? you're not working, so you're suddenly not allowed to eat? izaiah snorts, rising now to his elbows and his knees, not yet committing to a full stand. come on. i'm sure there's refreshments somewhere. maybe if you come with me, we'll look less lonely.

Unlike some people? The wolf-dog echoed, a brow arching in amusement as he rolled onto his stomach.

Machiavelli's lips curved into a playful smirk, Hmm... Well, I suppose I could go for a bite, he mused, standing and giving his multi-colored coat a vigorous shake, the hues catching the light in a dazzling display.

Are you feeling lonely, Izaiah? he inquired, tilting his head in a gesture that was both sympathetic and teasing. During the Shmu ceremony? Machiavelli clicked his tongue, a soft, almost maternal sound of disapproval. Why that simply won't do.

With a decisive nod, he hopped off the rock, his movements as fluid and silent as a dove. He moved through the crowd with an almost supernatural ease, a serpent slipping seamlessly among the bodies. Machiavelli paused, glancing over his shoulder to ensure that Izaiah was following, a beckoning look in his eyes.

Stay close, he murmured, the words a gentle command.

izaiah follows behind at a rather leisurely pace, content to watch the long tail bob and curve over the dove-white hips for a luxurious second before turning his gaze quickly away. the shmu ceremony? he gives a confused look before his lips straighten into a thin line.
it is how it is, he scoffs. a hint of defiance rises in his throat before he swallows it back down, biting the inside of his cheek. he wanted to scream from the hilltops that these were not his gods, and yet he could not bring himself to.
especially not as machi led him through the sea of dance and drink so confidently. izaiah shrinks down beside him, head disappearing into the ruff of his own neck as if he were trying to make himself invisible. he wished he was.
the warmth of the air is suffocating. his ears flatten to the sides of his skull, lip curling a few times as patrons nearly step on him. the brutal reminder that here, and everywhere else, he is invisible.
the dedicated fellahin pass around fresh meat and dry herbs, which the sesh can only assume is for seasoning, of some sort. it's meticulously butchered and pre-skinned; there are even some cuts served boneless. when he's handed a leaf-pouch with a portioned serving, he mindlessly grabs it with a mumbled thank you before returning to machi's side like a dog.

Sorry for the wait!

The wolf-dog watched his companion with an amused grin, Come along, turtle, he chirped, his voice a melodic lilt that cut through the cacophony of the gathering. Prancing gracefully through the throng of bodies, he beckoned with a flick of his tail, there are more this way.

Machiavelli moved with almost predatory grace, his piebald coat glowing under the moon's silver light as he slipped around to the far side of the displayed refreshments, away from the crowd. He paused by the makeshift stone table laden with an assortment of delicacies, a glint dancing in his stained-glass eyes as he reached for a bowl of fruit fermented to perfection.

The man took a few, popping them between shining teeth with a smile. These are somewhat different from what you tasted before, but their effect remains quite the same, he purred, his voice low and inviting. He took a berry between his clear-pink nails, holding it up to the man. May I? Machiavelli asked, his tone a low, persuasive murmur. His gaze traveled down the length of his companion's arms, briefly wondering at their strength.

Just a taste, he coaxed, leaning in slightly, his breath warm against the other’s skin. It will help with the nerves.

Mature Content Warning

This thread has been marked as mature. By reading and/or participating in this thread, you acknowledge that you are of age or have permission from your parents to do so.

The participants have indicated the following reason(s) for this warning: horn knee

izaiah did as was asked of him, mindlessly shuffling beside the fellahin as if he, too, were only a lowly servant. he was certainly beginning to feel like one. the stuffiness of the room was beginning to make him feel clammy, heat rising to his features and lingering there upon his cheeks.
the berries from before were, too, beginning to make him feel uncomfortably uncoordinated; just enough to where he was somewhat afraid of tripping over the tall man beside him. he only half-listens as he's introduced to yet another fermented fruit — and if he was to answer honestly, no, he did not want it;
but then his gaze trails down the slender arm that is raised toward him, the visible tendons, the flexing muscles. he lingers there before he feels the iridescent eyes boring into him, and he realizes he's never quite been this close to — anyone.
and he crumbles. or perhaps it was more of a snap.
defiance hardens his stare. he dips his head down, enclosing his lips around the digits and stealing the berry away with his tongue. a hum vibrates in his throat; heat, simmering, coiling like a viper in his belly. when he pulls back, one slender limb wraps around the pale neck, nails pressed to skin, and he presses his mouth to machiavelli's, offering the berry between his teeth.
hooded eyes, coy smile; wordless, smug.

Mature Content Warning

This thread has been marked as mature. By reading and/or participating in this thread, you acknowledge that you are of age or have permission from your parents to do so.

The participants have indicated the following reason(s) for this warning: heavy suggestion

A thin arm wrapped around his neck, onyx lips pressed to pink, and Machiavelli's eyes widened in surprise, before settling closed. He decided then that he would have Izaiah.

Turning his head, his tongue slipped from his mouth into the other's, wrapping around the berry and pulling it free. The fellahin drew his head back, meeting the man's hazel gaze with disgusting smugness as the fruit burst between his teeth with a succulent pop.

Machiavelli leaned in again, his mouth pressing against Izaiah's hungrily. The taste of him, mingling with the berry's flavor, sent shivers cascading down his spine. He kissed him deeply, greedily, until his lungs burned for air. Forced to pull back, his chest heaved with each breath, and he gazed at Izaiah through half-lidded eyes.

Cupping the Sesh’s dark jaw in his hand, the halfbreed's voice emerged as a sultry purr. Shall we go somewhere more private, Izaiah? he murmured, dragging a thumb across the man's lips.

he —
well, this was certainly new.
here was izaiah, the lowly priest's son from qashon, the straight-laced scribe from minya, now a whore in akashingo. and the worst part was that he enjoyed it.
the boy all but melted into a puddle, completely at the mercy of the man who now had him snared in his widow's web. his lack of experience was evident, and yet he was eager, needy, needy, needy; his teeth found machi's jaw, his lower lip, the soft curve of his ear, and he was whimpering, this pathetic, hormone-addled mess reduced to nothing but the nerves which lit aflame beneath every ministration.
he was lost in it, a slave to his own body, doing as was instructed of him by the deepest reaches of his subconscious. hips rocking, back arched; he would have allowed himself to be thrown like a doll if it was what machiavelli desired.
until —
oh, dear.
the silver-cloaked voice of the fellahin breaks him from his spell long enough for him to drag his head away, heaving, suddenly all too aware of where he was and what he was doing and who he was doing it with. this was — it was —
he glances over the golden-hemmed shoulder before he says, quietly, sheepishly, i-i can't.
i mean, fuck-- i-i want to, so bad, i just, i-- reduced to nothing, dissipating, whittled to his raw core. i can't go further th-than this. with you, or with anyone. i'm-- i'm sorry.

Machiavelli's breath came in soft, rapid puffs, his heart pounding so fiercely he was certain Izaiah could feel it through their embrace. That's alright, he murmured, pressing a kiss to the man's cheek. We can just kiss. That's more than okay, he added with a reassuring smile, planting another soft kiss because he simply couldn't resist.


You mentioned earlier that I should take you out to dinner, didn't you? the fellahin inquired. He traced a delicate path down Izaiah's obsidian arms. Why don't we take some of this food and sit under the stars? I know the perfect spot—away from the crowd, he suggested, his tone soft and inviting. He gently took the Sesh's hand between his own, squeezing it.

Does that sound alright? You could teach me about your medicine, and I could, he giggled, his shoulders rising in a shrug as he thought, I could teach you about flowers, or something.

he wasn't quite sure what he'd expected machiavelli's response to be. anger, perhaps, or boredom, or offense; but, in fact, it was none of those things.
so much had happened so quickly. the sesh felt the strong blaze of want deep in his gut still, and yet he — could not allow himself to entertain it any longer. not like this, not here, not while the fruit churned his innards to mush and his nerves to static, and not — without sanctimony.
overwhelmed and suddenly feeling far too vulnerable for his liking, the boy felt the hot prick of tears beginning to form in his eyes until the words being spoken to him finally began to register. machi was not mad, not disappointed, only kind; possibly the first true gesture of kindness he'd seen from the man thus far, and it sent izaiah reeling for a good long moment.
oh, he croons, voice still meek and breathy, the heave of his chest only now beginning to lessen. oh. y-- yes, yeah, okay. i'd-- i'd really like that, i think.
he eases back into the touch, the warmth of their palms pressed together. it's gonna take me a hot minute to gather myself enough to think about medicine again, he laughs, letting his gaze linger upon the marble-carved cheekbones, the curve of the long lashes. but-- fair warning, once you get me started, i'll never shut up.

Well, if you start talking too much, I know a way to get you to stop, the pale man murmured with a devilish smile. He turned, gathering a small selection of the offerings, each motion designed to captivate.

His tail wrapped around Izaiah's as he led him away from the table, swinging gently. You know, it's been a while since I've had anyone for dinner. Machiavelli continued, his smile widening as his shattered-glass gaze met hazel. I think this could be really nice.

As they walked, a pang of guilt tugged at Machiavelli's heart. The image of the jackdaw's bright, mischievous eyes and her infectious, squeaky laugh flashed through his mind, echoing as if she were right beside him. He glanced around nervously, ensuring she wasn't actually nearby. Would @Legend mind this? Would she be upset? The uncertainty gnawed at him, but he pushed it aside, focusing on the moment.

It's not too far from here, Machiavelli reassured softly as they slipped away from the crowd. The night air was cool, filled with the mingled scents of food and drink, and the hum of the celebration grew fainter with each step they took. The stars overhead twinkled like a thousand tiny lanterns, casting a gentle glow over the unending swaths of sand.

The path was unusual, winding, and long, with the piebald man pointing out the differently shaped boulders and the swathes of flora for the Sesh to inspect. He stopped occasionally to examine a delicate flower or run his paw over the smooth surface of a particularly interesting rock.

Finally, they reached a secluded spot where the dunes stretched endlessly, and the crowd was nothing more than a distant memory. We're here, Machiavelli grinned, sitting down before quickly jumping up again, his eyes scanning the ground. His dove-white paw crunched through the sand as he unearthed an unexpected object.

A bone, he exclaimed, holding it up to the moonlight. Hmm, I wonder what it's from. Maybe a rabbit? He squinted at it thoughtfully, Or perhaps a coyote. With a playful toss, he let the bone drop back into the sands with a puff.

Say, that gives me an idea for a game we could play, Machiavelli declared, dropping into a playful bow, his tail wagging in the air. You run, and I'll hunt you, he proposed, his splotched lips pulling back into a devilish grin, teeth flashing in the silver light. Are you ready? I'll give you a head start.

Go.

"Machi?"

A breath broke through the two men's isolation. The jackdaw, hidden away from the pools of starlight and lingering quietly away under the shadow of a lifted dune. Her eyes broke through in an owlish glow, and the imps figure emerged.

The desert man, and one of hers.

The silence grew thick, and there was her, soft through it. Harshly narrowing her eyes, her head moved between them.

Machi, Machi, Machi.

She did not mind who he took out to dinner and who he didn't, but they were a pair that rattled her mind. Rattle, rattle, rattle. And more importantly, she spun her paw around and pointed straight at the rowdy Sesh. "Why you with weird horny desert guy I find?"