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WELCOME TO YOUR PRIVATE CHANNEL, avaricious. FOR SECURE COMMUNICATION, USE 012.07.333.07 * avaricious has joined 018.07.154.55 <avaricious> ithsihoitiwrks ? <BANNED USER> SCREENED MESSAGE. UNSCREEN? Y/N -- <avaricious>thdvllsnst <avaricious>** vdndrere

CONTACTS

0.0.0.0 ♦ "MASON" | Heather

TEXT ABOUT THEM GOES HERE.

0.0.0.0 ♦ STOCKE

TEXT ABOUT THEM GOES HERE.

0.0.0.0 ♦ AOBA

TEXT ABOUT THEM GOES HERE.

0.0.0.0 ♦ "JUSTINE"

TEXT ABOUT THEM GOES HERE.

0.0.0.0 ♦ KILLUA

TEXT ABOUT THEM GOES HERE.

0.0.0.0 ♦ ZOLF J. KIMBLEY

TEXT ABOUT THEM GOES HERE.

0.0.0.0 ♦ EDWARD ELRIC

TEXT ABOUT THEM GOES HERE.

0.0.0.0 ♦ "XANDER" | SANDRATH

TEXT ABOUT THEM GOES HERE.

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

dont ge t me wrong im st ll intrested

? tht s smme srt of holldy hrre right ? didn t hve itwher eim from

Edited 2016-11-02 22:44 (UTC)

It exists in a lot of worlds, my own included. It's a day to wear costumes and go to parties, once you're an adult. Children use the costumes to get candy, but the party is a separate occasion.

>>avaricious has posted an AUDIO MESSAGE. If you wish to listen, type LISTEN04

Never wanted to do anything to me? That's a little rich - [Tight, seething. Greed unwinds his fingers from the cover of the laptop, resulting in a harsh scritch of staggering plastic. The hooks of his nails drag on his side of the line. They skitter atop the lid; tuning the surface like that of cat claws sprung into an unsuspecting slab of wood. Even if the initial threat wasn't intended for him, the end's still the same.]

[Bite him once, shame on him. Bite him twice, however - ]

[The Sin's smile widens and on the recording, something brittle snaps out of place. A lonely crunch.] That much? Ha - ! Just who the hell do you think you're talking to? [While it's hard to make out, a distinct sizzling makes its way onto the receiver. It's far off, light: like that of a candle's end left to burn itself out in a pool of molten wax. The former homunculus gives his tail a lazy flit.] Sorry, but if you think that's all, you really don't know me very well. [His voice drops, then. A baritone pitch, the note of it low and broiling at the back of his jaws. Greed's mouth opens and as cool air meets his heat, a tinny trill tests against the feed.]

[Distant, yet still so dangerously, dangerously, close.]

Will you now. [He hums. The last of the device falls out of his grip. Like the other's voice, it cracks across the receiver - almost meeting it in some kind of shattered, dissonant harmony. Greed puckers his lip. A beat of thick silence is what follows. Throttles of pungent air choke the receiver. It falls weighted along the line -the taste thick, humid; a house fire's drawling crackle.] That's really too bad.

[Another piece of plastic pops. What it is, what it could be - Greed doesn't pay it much mind. Instead, he mindlessly traps it under the crook of his nail and it's there that it fissures. Creating a sound akin Styrofoam melting atop a hot-cranked oven.] Y'know, it's always better to take my offer, but I guess I couldn't talk you out of it, could I. [Rhetorical, of course. Mitsuhide's mind is a minefield laced in hornet's nest. Usually, the Sin would merely forgive and forget: his odd habits, his childish demeanor trying to balance reason with insanity. But there's a line: a distinct one.]

[And it only took the Wendigo seconds to cross it.]

[The former homunculus rolls his tongue along the roof of his mouth. He's forgotten about the shard of plastic during the conversation and while it quickly melts beneath his finger, the receiver picks up its dying gasps: the lengthy crinkle and shallow ploop bringing its demise to a final end.]

Have it your way.

[Call it a contradiction. Or say something else about prophets; someone spreading a word doesn't have to spread one of virtue.]

[Stocke exhales a long, not-quite-silent groan, a stream of colder air in among the weight of ashen embers. The shade's claws pull free of the wall in a single crack, shards and splinters of wood crackling down to fade in a fog made of devil's smoke. Shattered lights outside flicker a short lamp-light motif, a spark jumping between split wire curls - a shade's power of short-circuit snapping energy free.]

[Greed takes it slow, stretches it out through the fall of an hourglass, and it's just too much. Stocke inhales to speak - breaks off in a strangled sound as the Sin hums, vibration traveling what feels like all the way up the shade's spine. Tries again -] Boss - Greed - [Name and title and reflection of 'Yours, aren't I?' all together now,] - please -

[Stocke's not oft one to beg, but just this once he'll make an exception.]

[The shade's not watching, and that's his mistake; there's the whooshing spread of the Sin's wings, fire buffeted up by wind and fuel, and then Greed pulls back and pauses, daringly. Stocke's eyes snap open, and he stares down wild-eyed and near-feral. Free tendrils lash, a snick of partially-formed shadow against the walls. Prophet help him, boss, you're going to kill him.]

[But he can't say he hasn't been enjoying the ride.]

[The shade's fingers curl into the hair at Greed's nape, pulling tight but in no particular direction. Even breathing hard as he is, even a-quiver with tension, Stocke can't bring himself to take in the way the Sin's challenging him to do; too hard and fast a dagger against who he is. But he can match the game his own way.]

[A tendril snakes under the border of Greed's built, tracing slowly down. Winds in careful loops around the Sin's shaft, stroking up the underside.]

thts ri ght. hd somthing like thrt thellst time

sprate hu h ? hy not. coulnnt hurt.

What was it like? The last 'something'?

Then, I hope I'll see you there.

whih ch time?

don t see whhy not. bavn right?

It's starting at nightfall.

[An address is sent along with the message.]

His friend was kind enough to loan her castle.

[Trickles of fire snake around his ear. This is what he's been waiting for: the last chord in a string tuned too tight. It plays on every note: from the tremble of stolen electricity forced off its wire to the squelch of a wall as its peeled back and exposed. Under nails so tense, so full of disregard that they forget their place. Greed eases his mouth open. The strangle of shadows between his legs brings a heat to his smile; a delicate lick of humidity testing on the points of his razors as they frame around the tip of the other's cock like the threat of a testing trap.]

[And there it is, the final throes: "Please."]

[Greed pushes backward. The base of his skull forms into Stocke's twisted fingers - applying the pressure, giving him the answer without the need to communicate. It's cruel, really: how much he's played the other. How long he's plucked that string bit by bit. The Sin drags his hand backward and with a casual flick of his nail, he leaves his mark across skin. A delicate reminder of where he was and where he'd always be.]

[But never be said that the devil doesn't give as good as he gets.]

[Further away, the underside of his palm huffs in a wad of steam - as if the aftermath of a shower had been trapped between his nails, desperate for freedom. Greed extends his index. He churns it twice, twirling both fog and smoke in a tight, relentless knot.] Turn around - [He starts in; an order as cool as fresh-dipped carbon. No, he's been far too coy and now, now - ]

[A strum of steel shivers from behind him. His tail's on the move; wandering, searching, for something in particular. The Sin's jaw closes up to a faint line and as wood catches on the spade of his tail, his lips offer a mild crack: that vicious line of his coming back to view with terrible intentions in mind. A drawer nearby springs open, a couple of items rattle. And with a light clap of his heels, the former homunculus rises to stand. He pops the button to his pants blindly open - by a the dip of his nail, the quick-jerk snap of a thumb that's as ingrained into him as everything else.]

[After that, it's just logic. Greed guides his free hand across Stocke's hip as a pivoting motion. Slow, like a dance better people might take under finer circumstances. He spreads his knuckles along the thin of the other's torso: mapping black scales to dark tendrils with only his tattoo to separate the differences.]

[Because oh, is this just fine. Up against the wall, spread out, for him and him alone.]

[The Sin pushes his nose into the back of Stocke's head. Whatever he went searching for, it disappears into his other hand. Greed hooks the tips of his talons into the lip of it. Plastic whines back, a lick of burning pops away. What remains is the warped cap of a bottle - its last effort falling helplessly between the two in a singular ping and a vicious crunch.]

[Greed spits something to the floor.] Don't hold back - [Trilled, whispered. The Sin slides his hand between Stocke's legs. Slick oil warms on the backs of his knuckles, along his nails made quickly short. He guides one finger inside, then another. A slow coating inch by inch until he can go no further.]

Edited 2016-11-15 02:03 (UTC)

prtty imprssive

an ything else i shulld know?

[There's a delay between the two messages. Until:]

guss ill seyou there thn

Edited 2016-11-17 02:59 (UTC)

The man behind the scenes prefer it be monsters only but aside from that, nothing.

I'll see you there.

[Stocke watches Greed pull back, soft huffs of slightly colder air slipping between his teeth into the blanketing furnace of the Sin's room. For a moment he doesn't move; then he unwinds his fingers, letting the demon pull away without protest, though his free tendrils lash with held-in energy. Even the faint prick of the Sin's teeth brushing over his cock, the sharp-edged almost-warning: that's nothing to deter him. The tip leaks, slowly, a dark smoke - barely a shade or two lighter than Stocke's shadowy blood.]

['Turn around' - the shade's eyes flicker, and for a moment he hesitates. His tendrils have tangled themselves well and good about Greed's limbs, and though they start to slowly unwind, he watches the demon with an odd glint to his expression. One last time, before his limbs retreat: he leans forward to taste the Sin's mouth again. Less tense than the first attempt, more heated, if not quite slow; with a charge like contained lightning. Tendrils run over Greed's shoulders, his sides. The one below his belt snakes away haltingly, as if reluctant.]

[Finally Stocke draws back and turns, eyes half-lidded - orders are orders, after all.]

[The shade braces upper arms against the wall, stretching into the spread of the Sin's knuckles; a quiet hum runs up and down his throat as Greed presses a grin against the back of his head. One errant tendril takes the chance to curve again over the demon's shoulders. It's almost proprietary; Stocke can't say he's not started to learn some habits from the one standing behind him.]

[Despite everything, Stocke goes momentarily stiff at the first press of a finger inside him - a soft, static hiss pushing past his tongue at the sensation. He reins in his breathing, steady and controlled, and relaxes very deliberately; the Sin's unhurried and careful, oil making it easy instead of rough, and the feeling's.... not quite comfortable, but not quite unpleasant. As the seconds tick by, the shade starts to go slack by reaction instead of calculated choice.]

[Then the Sin's fingers push against a spot that makes Stocke jolt full-bodied, knees buckling against the wall. He pulls in a startled mouthful of air, eyes wide and bright.]

[Lips against his, a curl of shadow along his shoulder; they bring about a wicked smile. A press of razors to the electric charge - stealing from it, inhaling it, as sweetly as a Siren's kiss. A soul's cost in a devil's transaction. Not tangibly per his nature, but still the idea of it. As if he could swallow everything Stocke is, everything he could ever be, in a parade of grins and a striking touch. The very embodiment of sin itself tracing him from end to end with nothing more than a sharp inhale along the points of his teeth. Greed leans forward and with a flick, his free hand opens wide. The tips of his tails shrilling a low, industrial whine.]

Easy - [He starts. The curls of his fingers go slack as he talks; something a touch ginger, more relaxed. A hum vibrates at the back of his jaws and while his wrist bends, while his hand forms between Stocke's legs, he follows him through. Pushing just one knuckle deeper, one length further, until there's no more to give. Greed's mouth purses to a line, his breath fingering into the shell of the other's ear with a heated temptation.] - no need to hurt yourself, hmn?

[Under a smokey haze, his fingers tentatively pat down the other's hip. Claw after claw, nail after nail, he counts his skin; pressing the pads of his fingers along the thin of Stocke's torso like that of blind man tracing his surroundings. For as much as he's seen the other, this is something different. It's a moment to convey to memory. Each of his scars a tally; every intake of breath, a piece to count. The former homunculus spreads his fingers one, last time - pressing his pinkie and thumb along the other's rear before he pushes past the last knuckle. Steadying himself, closing the gap, and it's there, that he holds.]

[For, if nothing else, he's at least going to make it count.]

[Where the wall gives, Greed motions his palm along Stocke's stomach. Fragments and pieces, static and shadow; they play between his fingers as he goes. His curved nails draw along muscle, their edges following the other's bend like that of a surgeon's knife hovering at a starting point. But instead of cutting, he merely trails. Until he finds just what he's looking for and with an underhanded grab, he wraps his palm around the base of the other's cock. A daunting move done one finger at a time.]

[Relentless, egotistical, and oh, isn't it just him.]

[Greed's mouth opens behind Stocke's head. His nose back against the crook of the other's neck, he slowly glides his fingers out. A touch of a noise tickles at his jaws, then; a smile, perhaps. An expression a little more sincere, a hint of appreciation. The Sin runs the back of his knuckles around the other's curves. They're subtle in parts, sharper in others, and when he grazes a hipbone, his hand makes a grab for it. Coaxing, leading, the other back, back, back.]

[When they meet, he's already ready. Greed spreads his knees. His stomach hitches, his hips roll. Until the two of them are merely skin to skin, allowing the tip of his cock to press between Stocke's legs. The movement is easy, slow - like he's savoring the moment. Letting it simmer on baited breath, holding it out one second at a time. The Sin's jaws open wide and as he threatens it along Stocke's shoulder, he finally gives in. Sinking himself deep in one, gliding arch.]

[Greed's fingers run down his torso like someone strumming an instrument, plucking strings, tracing over scars and skin. As if the Sin's trying to figure out how to tune the notes, play the scale. But it's the fingers inside Stocke that are really playing him, now that he's gotten used to the feeling - he groans into his arm, muffled, at the twist of them. Pushes backwards himself for the bit more sensation.]

[Greed's huff of breath on his ear has him turning his head to give the Sin a sideways, half-hearted glare - part dry, part pleading. He's been catapulted between too much and too little what feels like thirty, forty times; the roulette's stopped on the latter again, and he just wants Greed to move.]

[The tendril around Greed's shoulders pulls tighter, and Stocke reaches down to give himself a bit of friction, but the Sin gets there first. Stocke's hand pauses, catching on the seam between black scales and skin - he drops his head forward into the curve of his arm as Greed's fingers wrap around. Carbon-coating warmer than a shade's fingers, and a texture smooth like diamond in snake-skin patterns. Stocke's eyes shut a moment, a soft sound catching behind his tongue.]

[His free hand traces up the Sin's arm with slightly less urgency than before.]

[Stocke's head lifts again as the Sin eases his fingers out, another tendril lashing out to wrap around Greed's wrist, then loosening without a pull. He hardly needs any coaxing to move - just the cue. Shadowy limbs twist impatiently out of the way as Greed takes his time, then dissipate entirely into incorporeal shapes and smoke. Gone like they've never been to leave room for drawing closer.]

[There's another quiet shade's hiss when the Sin finally pushes in, tone and tinge and taste of it more pleased than anything. It's a faint burn and stretch, but also a pang of static like broken stars all through him - Stocke breathes, snagging at air heavy enough that he's nearly panting again. Clenching and relaxing, feels his pulse strum through with a shade's electric energy. Then, after a beat of maybe five - slow and careful, he rolls his hips forward and back again.]

[There's a kind possessiveness to his touch; a fine lining of warmed hearth and shallow need laced across his fingers in licks of long-set ash. It plays off the tips of his nails in a fever - like that of silk threading itself into a tight knot. Twisting, claiming. And as Stocke finds himself again, the Sin's right behind him; a presence living in sheets of smoke and dust just brimming with anticipation.]

[And here, here it is.]

[He can feel the cold chill of shadow as he presses into Stocke's back. It meets his skin in a bristle; the lightest touch of a charge flickering along his scales to the tune of twitching, static purple. A quick vibration. As if the last bit of doubt's finally letting go - like that of a broken-end cable firing off a final shock. And as it shreds away, the devil inhales on a hint of a grin. In the end, he can never get enough of this; the look of Stocke's face pressed into his arm, the sound of his nails beating into the wall. It's just another memory - another keepsake of what is and will always be:]

[His.]

[Between the hanging gloom, the bones of his rib-cage gently ignite from the inside out. Beats of fire and heat boom inside. They writhe and jerk, the flashes of bright white and cracked orange similar to that of a trapped thunderhead trying to pound its way out. The Sin's lips pull wetly back and as his stomach clenches, he follows the other's lead. The coil of his hip riding Stocke's arches in a soundless, daunting rhythm.]

[The possession of a creature bound by the desire to have, have, have.]

[But he doesn't forget. With one hand snared around the curve of Stocke's hip, the Sin plays the rest. His fingers tap down the length of the other's cock like a fiddle; timing every thrust to a jerk, a pull back to a coil. The curves of his nails flip inward and with a soft trace, he fingers the head of the other's cock. Rolling it, pressing it, into the pads of his fingers like that of a treasured coin worth counting over and over again.]

[And God, is it fucking worth it.]

[Greed hums into Stocke's neck. Dull reds and faint purples sink into the wall's scars. They're deeper in some places, lighter in others; the evidence of Stocke's repent a confession of bites and scratches that will probably stay far after either of them realize. The Sin lowers his head. His jaws wheeze open, then. A whirl of smoke faints between his teeth - the silent whisper akin to a wick that's been suddenly snuffed out. The hand around Stocke's hip clenches down and with a beckoning pull, the Sin finds his pace. Riding, rocking. And, as one of the lights outside clinks off, his teeth latch onto the bend of Stocke's shoulder. An anchor of points to leave a reminder.]

[No matter where Stocke goes, no matter what happens, he'd always be there; in one form, or another.]

Apparently our esteemed governor of South Vandare has earned you something of a fan.
A newbie just messaged me asking about you and your crew.
They may or may not drop by the 'nest at some point, they seem kind of rude and just this side of demanding from what I got.

Oh ? thatso ?

not like ihvent dealt withit before. idd youget a name or ?

Wouldn't say it if it weren't.

No name, pretty tight lipped this one. Possibly more so than me.

[It's like the roar of a forest fire or volcano's eruption, a force of nature, consuming. The lights at Greed's throat and ribs and wings and scales act brimstone illumination and pulsing rhythm alike, and Stocke can near feel the Sin's satisfaction in the very blood and breath of the air around them - ashen haze and glimmer in the walls, an inhale whistling through a Cheshire's grin of pointed teeth. The hum at the base of Stocke's neck he feels more in sensation than in sound.]

[It's hardly alone. The shade stifles small, faintly needing noises with every rock of the Sin's hips, writhing with the careful-casual play of Greed's fingers, relentless as the gleam of gold. Presses back even into the flicker of the demon's ribs, storming lights and all, moves with the beat the Sin's found.]

[In the end it's the bite of Greed's teeth that does it, just one feeling too many when Stocke can already hardly think - the shade comes apart under the Sin's fingers, shuddering. A wordless cry that's too glitched-recording to have come from a truly human throat, nowhere near the strength of a shout but still a volume above what came before.]

[Stocke's eyes slide half-open a moment later (when did they close?). Though he's still catching his breath, there's a lazy feeling seeping deep through his bones - as if he were basking in sunlight, were he still a creature of day. An ease of tension on a level he hasn't felt in weeks, if not much longer.]

[But there's only a stutter of a second before he starts moving again - time to pay it back.]

does nt leve mch. thou gh its not lke itshrd to find

le t meknow if youhe re anyth ing else hmn ?

Edited 2016-12-19 02:24 (UTC)

I'm sure you'll know him soon as he walks in.
Not like he'll blend in with your regular crowd by the sounds of things.
Came off kind of like a pompous ass but with a brain.

I might or might not, depends on interesting anything else I hear is.

left thyt kindof impression huh>?

figurd asmch

[It's the sensation of a power surge; the jump of erratic static, the blip of a current finally finding its ground. He expects it to sting; the threat of electricity all but teasing the smalls of his hairs. Any moment, it could jolt through his bones. Burning him, igniting him, in a thundercloud's charge. But it doesn't happen. Instead, the sensation is of in mid-collapse; a chord unraveling under his fingers piece by piece until he's reached its last tether. And at the end of it, a faint shrill - Stocke's shudder a mere echo playing through his skull as wordlessly as feedback on a bad connection.]

[But oh, oh, is it satisfying.]

[The Sin's teeth pluck themselves from the other's shoulder. He moves his hands away from him, then; the stretch of his palms pressed flat against thighs that seem warmer, more solid somehow. And as his would-be partner collects himself again, a small hitch of an inhale hisses along the Sin's teeth. It puckers there; a sharp sound sparking behind his teeth like a struck match fighting an alleyway wind. Stocke doesn't take long to find his rhythm. It comes in clear; the mild haze leaving as quickly as an burnt-out overcast and it's the devil that nips at his heels. Following every rock, every roll, with exhaustive attention. As if he could still take his time; as if he could make the seconds last for hours to take in every moment with selfish disregard.]

[The very definition of his namesake.]

[Greed lifts one of his hands away. It plants itself close to the wall - a sprung-trap snarl of nails and claws burying itself between the scratches Stocke had left not minutes before. Smokey lines cut along the marks. They bear in heavy; a spread of gauges meeting the Shade's own in breathy strokes of chill, quick-fire smoke. Where there had been splinters before, only a couple of curls remain. And as the Sin grips the other's hip for leverage, the spread of his wings fans them out. Creating small speckles that glint deep inside the wood like fireflies blinking out in the night.]

[When he speaks again, all that comes out is a short exhale. Something tinny, sharp - like that of tea-kettle plucked off a stove-top and while his muscles tighten, while his stomach knots, the Sin's mouth snaps into an unyielding grin. Allowing a thin huff of steam to whistle and whine between the points of his teeth.]

All in the way they talk.
Or write in this case.
Open-minded too, getting a feel for his options.

Aw you make me seem downright predictable.

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this only took forever OTL and also i'm out of icons, here's this one

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<ShootsFirst> - backdated to Kouen's recent welcome post

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short but this has been sitting long enough already OTL

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NO SWEAT

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