nestingdevil | (no subject)

Entry tags:

*contact,
*ryslig

(no subject)

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

[Something like a familiar ritual — or Greed is exceedingly skilled at making it seem that way — is anything but to a newly-human thing who wears his own skin like something foreign; there's always that element of entrancement, and it may be more acute now that Mello's defenses are nearly non-existent in the face of something with even a hint of greater power than any human can possess. A low hum somewhere in this throat; curious eyes follow each nuance and movement of the Sin's process — a drop of blood, a permanent stain.]

[Your choice~]

[The serpent coils around a withered branch with his tongue extended, the apple hangs from the tree — if you wish — always been your choice in the end — but I can show you — and curiosity is a thing that plagues the brilliant in diseased pangs that draw them out so much farther than they should ever go. And reach, Mello does: he's pulling his coat off without a word, leather exposing untarnished skin on the right, but the left?]

[Oh, he's been marred. Long ago — plans shattered and flames licking at his very name — but the scars remain in jagged patterns along his shoulder, extend and ruin the skin along his torso where the damage has mercifully halted. The risen, discolored skin has long-since healed over; no amount of intervention from the Gods seem to alter a thing about it.]

[Well, there's Mana, but that's another issue altogether. For now, he only slips out of the vest beneath, sets the bottle on a nearby chair while fabrics are meticulously laid over a surface — stolen or no, they're expensive.]

Worse than this? [For the first time, the extent of his damage is fully visible. Really, a needle? No matter how many times Greed pokes and breaks skin, no pain exists like flesh burning endlessly for what seemed like weeks on end — before he gave in, before he took whatever he could just to make it stop — and no matter the size of what he's asking for, a little bit of cognac and a lot of previous nerve damage is bound to help him along the way.]

[The where of it is irrelevant, Mello would consider his surroundings less than sterile by surgical standards; one glance around the area confirms that no matter where he ends up, the result will be the same. So he'll circle around to face his host for now, ever-curious nature taking precedence over caution. Between two fingers, he offers Greed a slip of notebook paper with a completed design, something scribbled haphazardly on lined sheets until it began to take form, eventually becoming the one thing that Mello knows he has no right to mark himself with.]

[But God had no right to toss him here, so there's that.]

Should cover most of it.

[Well, save for his face. Somehow, scarred flesh is more appealing to him than something infinitely difficult to conceal that's bound to draw far more eyes. But before he lays himself bare and vulnerable before the demon with a too-smug demeanor—]

Does it matter how much is in there? [Tips his chin towards the inkwell while he hoists himself up on a table, slipping up with the same grace he possessed when he was less (or more) than human.]

[Because there's possession, then there's possession. If The Sin's blood has the power to grant entry into an entire city, Mello would be a fool to believe serving as a key is the extent of its ability.]

[And maybe, it is a kind of ritual: one made in the backrooms of motels, washed under neon limelight and stroked by the finger's physical price checker. The worth of touch, of feeling, pressed and rubbed to gauge a worth. Greed hums softly to himself - his tilted head and half-heavy eyes sliding as slippery as sweat trolling down a glass. He extends his hand; the piece of paper and its design pinching in his knuckles like a business card with no name, no forwarding address, and no trace of when and where it came from.]

[Anonymous, undefined, and just like the very shadow he's known for: oil-slick and ambiguous to keep them guessing, guessing, guessing.]

[For curiosity? Well - ]

[The Sin's mouth puckers. He traces over the design only once; his pace slow and entranced. It's as if, somehow, there's a secret message hidden inside only he can see. Only he can read. The side of his finger peels back the edge and as the cross develops, the paper's fringe begins to shrink. The heat of the blasphemous meeting its holier counterpart like a spell-bound fire tamed by a barrier. It won't pass any further. Instead, the warmth from his hand teases the coils - the loose pieces browning, blackening, until all that remains is dust.]

[Greed taps the paper once and one of the corners crinkles away.] No, it doesn't matter. [He starts in, idly. He leans forward and as his smile straightens along the points of his teeth, the paper and its design disappear into his back pocket.] Though, that's a pretty specific design. Didn't really take you for the sort - [While he talks, a pilfer of smoke wheezes from the corner of his mouth. Religious, the good book - it would be stupid to think he isn't aware. It's changed through the ages. Where it had once been the deciding Cree of the land, as the years went by, the meanings had waned. Giving birth to science, advancement, questioning, doubt. Not that there aren't and weren't still zealots clinging to the notion. The deciding few, preaching and shouting savor and saint, damned and sinner, as if their voice and theirs alone could cleanse. The former homunculus pinches his fingers together and the ink swelled in his nail stretches. It thins and sparks - the threads mimicking that of still-hot tar forever bottling its pockets of primordial heat. He springs his hand open not a moment later and the strings snap apart.]

[No, no - there's really no going back. Not now, not later, and certainly - ]

[Greed shoves his middle finger into the well.] You're sure about this, right? Remember - no regrets. [He says, his smile exposing in a hint of too-white teeth. If Mello really had his doubts, though, he wouldn't be here. The other knows which direction he wants to go - has it planned, second for second, down to the T. He's ambitious and raw; thirsty and vicious. Whatever hesitation he may have had, it's already been talked away or ignored.]

[He doesn't need to ask twice.]

Like I said before, it isn't too pleasant. Though, I guess I wouldn't really know. [The Sin hooks his foot around a stool nearby and as the curve of his boot latches on, he carelessly drags it towards him. The legs of skip dryly along the floor - their shiver causing a layer of soot to drift from the boards like an old book thrown from its shelf.] But it'll take a while - just try not to move too much, hmn? [While he talks, those eyes of his churn. They flip their color: the red-pulse softening to a purple both eerie and toxic. It leaves his face lit up like a black-light: the dips and angles sharpening, sharpening - ]

[Thnk, goes the stool and under a shed of smoke, Greed wraps about the seat. What little he knows about the other, the scars are enough of an indication. They all have their wounds, their reminders - his own with their stories mapped out by each and every situation that led them here. A brief snarl teases on his lip, but before it can stay too long, the Sin waves his hand. Effectively shrugging off the moment with the same, standard nonchalance.]

[No, he doesn't need to ask. Nor does he plan to. And as Mello spreads himself open, the former homunculus touches two of his claws above his collarbone. He swipes downward to get the shape - the tips of his nails gingerly seeping out ink like the hollow fang of a viper delivering its dose.]

[Possession may be one thing, but possessions? Oh, oh - ]

[Be it Avarice that knows them all-too well.]

greed
have you seen dante recently

["Greed." Not "boss." That's... odd...]

?

no tt excttly. thou ghh it shoulnnt be ll too sssurposing

somm thin i sh uld kn ow ?

Edited 2017-07-25 03:48 (UTC)

[...Prophet, this feels strange. Superiors are for using, if you have them at all, not for having gotten attached to.]

[...]

mm
maybe
the lab cure worked

[The delay on his side is telling. How the seconds drag on, how lifeless the screen seems to flicker over the hooks of his claws like a camera shutter on the fritz. Greed reads the words once, a second time, before - ]

>>avaricious has posted an AUDIO MESSAGE. If you wish to listen, type LISTEN01

The cure, huh. [At the edge of the receiver, the waft from the furnace is alarmingly soft. It hisses along the line - like a bundle of rattlesnakes slowly unraveling to see who or what's decided to try their luck. The rumors about the cure have been minimal at best. Something Bavan cooked up and dished out; offering a chance, a hope, to regain the humanity so many have lost. Still, everything's got a price. Every miracle, a payment. And if history's anything to go by, well - ]

[The Sin presses one of his claws into an ashtray nearby. The tip of it skirts along the bottom; the forgotten cigarette all but snuffed out in a single, whispering hooof] Not sure what he has to do with it - [His tone hums between his teeth. Most, if not all, of his had been human before hand. Given the chance, the opportunity, the option seems pretty clear.]

[Still, he? Oh, he's just not interested.]

[The former homunculus picks his claws and on the recording, the quick-lit sparks let out a trickling flurry; the sharpness more similar to a match striking, striking, striking 'till lit.] - so, you took it then? Guess I can't really blame you. [A soft tck-tck-tck trills on the line; the barbs of his tail seeming to catch just out of eyesight.] Always said it was your choice.

[Though - ]

[Greed shrugs and the furnace curdles through the receiver. It's as if the fire is questioning that one, simple phrase; the flames themselves growing as trill and thin as porcupine under assault. Because there's something. A red flag, coiling and twisting like a tell-tale tick. It's been some time since Stocke's used his actual name, after all. And maybe, maybe - ]

Ehhh - never mind. [He waves his hand. The recording crinkles for a second on his side; the brush of both heat and smoke creating a brisk, suffocating static.] Just make sure to get back here when you can, hmn?

[The thing is, oddly enough...]

not willingly
[That's what Dante has to do with it.]

[...]

right
i'll be bringing raynie back when i find her

[...]

keep an eye out
mitsuhide is planning something

>>avaricious has posted an AUDIO MESSAGE. If you wish to listen, type LISTEN02

[For a while, the Sin's oddly quiet. He reads the message once, a second time. And as the points of his eyes thin, the furnace on the other side of the room begins to bang. The fire seeming to grow hotter, tenser, like the heckles of a dog rising to meet a threat. Because, while he doesn't know Raynie personally and Mitsuhide is a problem in itself, it's the other part that catches his attention. A scream in static that sends his teeth snapping with a quiet whine:]

["not willingly"]

[One of the laptop's keys plicks on the receiver and the Sin rolls his shoulder.] That so. Someone we know? [Greed's voice is viciously thin. It hisses into the recording; the trill similar to that of a kettle quickly coming to a boil. It could be anyone, really. Mitsuhide, one of the Fourth's followers - the former homunculus flattens his foot. Already, the broiler is beginning to slip through its gauges; the resulting squeal climbing, climbing, climbing to a persistent, petulant whiiiiiir.]

[Even as a carbon copy, the 'Nest? It still knows it's rightful owner.]

[However, the moment is just that. A minute, a second, and the pipes cool to a simmer. The Sin taps his heel. Something rustles out of view, then; the movement of leather and fur, a tell-tale sign.]

[If Stocke thinks he's about to wait, well - ]

Where are you? [Greed asks, further away. It's clear that he has no plans on sticking around. If the other is close enough, the distance should be easy to cover. A mile, maybe more. The Sin reaches and as his claws snare the ring of his keys, the collection chimes off.]

[Cnk.]

you could say that

[There's a sudden deep, intense conflict between the urge to force Greed to keep safe, whether the Sin likes it or not, and the urge to share his injected affliction. In the end, all Stocke types is:]

don't recommend heading out
but i guess that won't stop you

[He names a spot on the outskirts of Bavan.]

[And when Greed gets there, Stocke's perched on a low brick wall, waiting. Entirely human, of course, and maybe that's the only reason something about him might (might) feel marginally off.]

[But then again: he's smiling, faintly. You'd think it was a good thing - Prophet knows he doesn't smile enough - but it doesn't match the situation, nor the rest of his pose. He's too much on alert for it to fit. For all its friendliness, and for all that it is a smile you could genuinely get out of Stocke (not too wide, not too manic)...]

[It's a mask, much like his usual impassive one.]

[There's a battered leather bag slung over his shoulder. It's full of something that clinks faintly when he shifts.]

Greed, [he greets, tipping his head. Again, there's a distinct lack...]

[There are those, including himself, who would tell Mello that exposing himself this way in front of a thing who is bound to have known humanity long before Mello, before L, those who preceded them — generations upon lifetimes, and without his power that he cursed with every breath, the figure that stretches himself before something that could be old enough to pre-date Christianity, asking him to mark one of his own up with something that might just offend him in every possible way.]

[A half-chuckle before he swigs the bottle; nerve damage or no, Mello knows that no part of this is going to be pleasant. Might need another when this one is through.]

Mm? [He doesn't bother capping it. Another sip will come soon enough. Now, liquor his him like it did before his first bout of changes — eons ago — hard and fast; the too-ambitious boy with on a blazing warpath never did have time for such things.] Never asked, [he murmurs, stretching his neck in some idle gesture that denotes nothing at all. Because this? Is far too personal for his liking. Even with intent, Mello has always been the type to keep his distance.]

[And, well. He's also always been the type to jab.]

Does it offend you?

[He watches the other with sharp, unguarded eyes; the yellow has long-since dissipated from his irises, leaving his natural blue in its wake. Whether or not his humanity is temporary, Mello is going to operate as though it has always been this way. There was never any slaughter, no mindless feeding resulting in messes that took more precision than he cared to exact.]

[No, he won't move, because this is something that will mark him eternally and unlike the scars that will remain in raised patterns beneath: Mello has a choice this time. He doesn't offer over the bottle, has no intention of doing so. He'll need every drop.]

Wouldn't be here if I wasn't sure — [But ah when the smooth-sharp prick of claws draws against his sensitive skin, the hiss is barely concealed with a sudden, acute clench of his stomach, ribs clear and exposed along his thin frame. Somewhere beneath his eternal, glaring pride, Mello knows he's a weak thing beneath the demon's hand, something devoured and tossed away under any other circumstances.]

[And if he never regains any power from the Gods? What use will he be then? He's tipping the bottle up again before the shock of pain can truly set in, this time barely taking the opportunity to breathe before he's swigged more than he should.]

Tell me what you get. [Anything to distract him from the sting.] Marking us this way. [Because he doesn't believe for a second that it's all about an incurable need to possess. There's some dark magic in it; he's almost positive. Yet here he is, handing himself over to something that has nothing but impure intentions, staining him with something that has been a glaring symbol of purity for thousands and thousands of years.]

[Off. It's the best way to put it. The way that smile seems to stick to his face as thin as a paper-glued mask. The way his voice is distant, far-off. Like that of a doppelganger's trying approach, getting so, so close. It causes him to pause, slightly. The strike of a visible nerve forcing the muscles in his back tense. Still. Because there's a familiarity in that ploy. One he knows, one he's seen, time and time again.]

[All that's left is the snide, puckered-lip punch line - ]

[Because how easier it is to hit, when the territory's personal one.]

[The Sin keeps a short distance. The brick wall separating them is worn down in places. Most of the stones have toppled to the side from disuse, leaving the structure uneven and worn like the remnants of a building wilted over time. It draws a kind of punctuation: a limbo between human and the not-so-much, striking its border. A pilfer of dust fades on his boots and as the former homunculus watches the other, the expression on his face begins to sour. His look darkening, stiffening, and questioning with a hint of a sneer barely twitching on his lip.]

Oh-? That's new - [Greed's tone hisses through his teeth. The lack of anything, save his name, is a sign all its own. Usually, it's followed: Boss, something else. The former homunculus wraps his fingers around the thin of his torso and as his nails trail of his thigh, a brief glare shines off behind him; the steel of his motorcycle seeming to bake under the coming afternoon as distant and sharp as salvation on a long, drought-stricken road. No, something is missing. Out of place. The sensation more similar to one of his own, preforming its best trick.]

[The points of his eyes shrink to still.] You were saying before - something about knowing who it was. [He starts back in, his voice airy. The list of culprits isn't exactly slim when it comes to Stocke. His involvement in the aftermath following the Fourth has put him in a delicate position. One wrong move, one false acquaintance, and - ]

[Greed's tail gives a petulant flick, sending one of the stones skipping across the dirt.] Got a name?

Boss, [Stocke amends, finally. The word feels strange in his mouth.]

[He ducks out from under the loop of that bag, setting it balanced on the brick wall, and slides off himself. Lands light on the ground - not so light as when he was a shade, but that's no surprise, is it? - and reaches up to transfer the bag back to his shoulder more safely.]

Hm? [He looks over his shoulder, then turns to face Greed again. His back settles against the wall, and that mannerism is very Stocke, as if in contrast to so much else being just a little wrong.]

[You'd think it would have been one of Stocke's enemies. It's not like he's got a dearth of them. But:] Dante.

[A short pause, and then he adds,] In his defense, it wasn't entirely of his own volition. [Or - no. Stocke tilts his head to the side slightly, as if considering. That's not quite right, is it? Dante was plenty willing.] ...at the least, being human's changed him far more than it has me.

[Or so he says. Nothing to prove Stocke isn't lying about not having changed that much. Maybe he doesn't even intend to - he just doesn't feel a large difference.]

[But he doesn't deny at least some change.]

Ah-? [On his first swipe, the Sin gingerly presses his fingers. The swells of ink cupped in his nails spread out like a Rorschach test under a spider's spell. The lines thin and smooth over skin, the edges turn sticky and wet. Greed curls his middle finger to a hook and as a drop dangles from his claw, the single drip sinks into Mello's chest. A baptism for the foulest, permeating its way through scars, through flesh, to redesign their meaning. The idea that the image would somehow offend him is laughable. It's merely a thing: a symbol. A concept used one or twice, in the hopes of banishing him back to the proverbial pit. However, those rules - they simply don't apply.]

[Not then, not before, and certainly, not now.]

[The former homunculus leers in and as he inspects his work, a sigh of a laugh fumes from his mouth. It trickles out of his jaw in a cloud of steaming-smoke; the feel of it as humid as a lover whispering their intimate promise. However, there is a kind of intimacy here, isn't there? Not the kind he prefers, no, but one none the less. How Mello spreads out, how the dim glow of red-neon shrouds them like a secret. Greed shakes his finger, forcing a wad of ink deep below the surface.] I told you before, didn't I? Takes a lot more to offend me, friend. Besides, those don't really work. [For emphasis, he gives one of Mello's ribs a light tap. It wasn't like they didn't try. It had come up before, centuries ago. A devotee, thrusting their necklace forward. A priest, flashing his cross to bare, proclaiming: "Begone, begone, begone." But him, his: they were just that. A source for the stories and superstitions of monsters lurking, lurking, in the dark. But given time, rumors?]

[They eventually lose their original meaning.]

[Greed lifts his hand, motioning it back to the bottle. He dips his fingers again, two this time, before returning to the task.] No you wouldn't, would you. That's just not how you work. [Distracted is his tone - those eyes of his focused and ghastly still. What does he get, what he gains; the former homunculus pats his lips together. Despite their surroundings, the smile on his face is almost genuine. An expression of fondness that speaks of a far, different time. The Sin lifts a shoulder and while his eyes close, his eyebrows dip together. His look somehow soft, distant.] What I get, huh. Sorry - couldn't really tell ya. Seems to be a way to make sure we don't run into any more trouble. [The forks of his tongue smooth along the top of his mouth. No, what little he knows is just that: he can't track them. Can't sense them. The brand is simply a ticket in and out. A way to make sure history doesn't decide to repeat itself a third time, signed, sealed, and delivered. Greed mindlessly reaches out to his side, his soaked hand appearing an impossible dark.] Don't get the wrong idea, M. If I thought it was going to do anything else, I wouldn't have bothered. I may not be good, but I still have some standards.

[He smears a bit more black on his palm. The dye begins to boil, then. It pops atop the scales of skin, bubbles between his fingers. Greed lifts his other hand in the direction of the bottle and as the paint stretches, he knocks the side of it. Once, twice, a third time.] Sorry, this'll be a little unpleasant. Might want to take that first - [He cautions. The smudge on his hand is already beginning to swelter as he does; the look of it similar to fresh asphalt blistering beneath a desert's relentless sun. The Sin waits a second for it to finally cool. The stain fumes along his knuckles - the color of oil fresh from the vat. When he finally presses it against Mello's chest, the reaction is instantaneous. It shoots from his skin with a mind of its own, the trail of ink appearing to follow the initial design as if, somehow, he's trained it. Taught it. A mark guided up, up, up to blot out Mello's forever reminder.]

[An eclipse of history, stroked by the devil's hand.]

[Greed stops just short of the other's collarbone and with a flick, he cleans off the left overs. The splotches of ink seeping into the wood as light as a watered-down varnish.] Still with me?

[He can't pretend. Everything about Stocke: it feels like he's talking to a shadow. To a shell, trying to replace and shove itself in a slot that's decidedly saved. Yet, the mannerisms - the way he casually slinks down the wall: it's as if nothing's changed at all. And as Stocke lands, the Sin's mouth presses to a line. An enemy would have been so much easier, yet the change had come within. An attack from a face they know, striking where they least expect. Even so, there's something about it that's wrong. Dante may treasure his humanity, but to force it? To play a hand without even a hint of hesitation?]

[The numbers simply don't add up.]

[Greed watches the other, his neck tense. It's like he's being subtly robbed: what he wants, what's his, slipping through his fingers without a visible source. He doesn't notice when his jaw sets and as his teeth grate, the slits of his eyes wildly thicken and expand. The memories of a lifetime, trying to put the pieces together.]

Dante, huh. [He says without meaning to. Stocke looks just like he should: human. Mortal, frail, and with a fate that'll long burn out far before his own. The former homunculus unconsciously touches his thigh. He knows the other like the back of his hand. His scars, his wounds, his sacrifices, burned to his mind like a brand. Greed sucks briskly at the back of his teeth and if he's snarling, if there's a twitch of it on his teeth, it briefly goes unnoticed. That is, until sheer pressure lets itself known and in an instant, he dips his chin. The usual smile of his forcing to the surface.]

Doesn't sound right to me, but - [But, what. They were human before, weren't they. All of them. Dante, to a point. Heather, Kimbley, Lady. M, Dawn. Stocke. Greed lifts his shoulder, shrugging off the idea.] - guess it doesn't matter.

Nothing else has changed, has it? [He questions. Because, even while the physical changes are clear, it's the other half that catches him. Something below the surface, wiggling like a cancer. He can't place it - couldn't, if he tried. Yet, when the bag rattles, his glance quickly shifts. As if, somehow, the noise is a threat. One tolling, tolling, tolling as softly as a conscious instinct screaming to run.]

[Greed touches the lick of his pocket. The curl of his nail scratches into leather: the fume of smoke, tentative.]

[The Gods have already taken from him, the Bloody Bones have tried. To threaten anything else? It's practically a suicide mission.]

[Because avarice, oh avarice: it never forgets its dues.]

[There's a trick to avoiding the conscious pain that comes with injury — be it willing or no — that Mello picked up a long time ago, when the acute sting of fire prickled at his skin for weeks after the initial bomb that tried to take him down with everyone else; something beyond medicating or actively soothing the source because in the end, it's all triage and when that wears off? It leaves him with a lingering discomfort that distracts from missions and breathing. Unacceptable, and while Greed speaks and works with a sharpness that should have him reeling, the human body beneath his claw is actively softening, relaxing while Mello focuses on the finer nuances of what's happening here.]

[Soot and reassurances, a forced surrender on his part that he gives to no one, but Greed always did stand out among the rest. Something in the demon's claim draws the blond's attention to the present, the here and now, and a smug, knowing smirk lifts the corner of his mouth. He knows these damn things mean nothing; he's an intellectual, after all — but there's something in comfort of the familiarity and what it represents. He's protected because he's above the rest — always has been — and the symbol covering raised skin and marred flesh that should have resulted in his death is a testament to how hard he's fought, how infallible he was, even then.]

[A mark of pride scrawled over his body disguised as something more intimate — it's always been about victory, in the end.]

No such thing as 'good,' yeah? People who draw lines in the sand never end up on the right side.

[And that's all he's saying, because with words come full awareness, and with full awareness comes a near-agony that will black him out if he lets it.]

[Somewhere along the line, sharp eyes have fallen shut, the bottle slack in his hand. The tap against his rib elicits a glance, nothing more, and he thinks that even L wouldn't be so brazen with something as volatile as Mello. Then again, he came here of his own accord — undeniably human and disgustingly weak — and if it were even a possibility in his mind that the sin had intentions to bring him more pain than necessary, he would have taken something smaller, quick. Hidden and effective; no one outside of Djävulenstad would know of his associations. Earlier, he wanted to keep low, and Kira was the mission.]

[Now? They can all burn in Hell for all Mello cares; he's found a place where status doesn't mean a fucking thing, and yet still somehow sets him apart from those who reside outside of their city's gates. There's an intimacy here despite their sprawling streets, one reflected in this — here where a human sets himself at the feet at something that could tear him apart with a trust reserved for no one.]

[Fingers grip the bottle's neck when the demon's hand knocks against it, and unpleasant is an understatement when Mello tips his head back to drain more than he should in a few, large gulps that go down like the fire that has burned, is burning, will burn — and oh, Greed makes good on his warnings, doesn't he? No matter his skill at distraction, the final swallow is punctuated by a long, sharp hiss between clenched teeth, and when the edges of his vision begin to hollow and go dark, it's only his innately stubborn nature that keeps him from snatching at the other's wrist; anything to make it stop.]

[But Mello chose this, so.]

[So he'll stop just short of cringing, gooseflesh rising in the wake of Greed's work — something intricate and permanent left with a fleck of a claw — and the buzz of dark liquor has taken its toll enough for Mello's head to swim where he should react; that was the point after all, wasn't it?]

Mm?

[He lifts his chin in some slow movement, offers a nod that hardly tells the story of how difficult it was to bear the pain of something that shouldn't have done a thing to someone who has seen death and walked out on the other side. A pale arm slips over his eyes, and focus isn't something that will come easy any time soon. Mello's never been much of a drinker, and the half-empty bottle is probably more than he's consumed in a short period of time, ever.]

[He was only nineteen when he Kira stopped his heart in his chest, after all.]

It's not so bad, [He lies, and oh it's a blatant one. Barely concealed because even now, pride is bleeding just beneath the surface, seeping out through sanguine droplets over ink and newly-damaged skin. When he stretches, it's with a languid sort of movement, and here is all right, for now. It's quiet, and Greed's company isn't all that unwelcome considering that while human, Mello is nothing more than a potential meal out there. Doesn't matter that he's armed to the teeth — and he's prayed for this so many times, and now that he has it? He would prefer to have his power back.]

[Being prey never did suit him, anyway.]

Edited 2017-08-17 21:00 (UTC)

You don't have to do that, y'know - [Greed tongues his teeth while he talks. Mello: he always has to put on airs. To put up a front, an armor, so that no one even has the opportunity. The Sin slides his fingers away from the other's skin and while his palm lifts, the last beads of ink drool of his hand; their drops drip-drip-dripping like the saliva of a carrier, born from disease. And it is a disease, isn't it? The infection of want, the sickness of need, terrible and incurable. Even so - the Sin brushes his leg, smearing the leftovers in one cool, clean swipe.] - must have hurt, getting this. [He remarks, absently. Whatever, whoever, gave Mello the scar: he won't ask, nor will he pry. There are assumptions, sure, however that's his secret. The mark is merely something for the Sin to keep in his back pocket: a trinket saved for the right moment when he can return the favor, inch for inch.]

[For no one, no one, touches what's his.]

[The former homunculus takes the ink well again and while his fingers dip, he idly snags a cigarette from an ashtray nearby. Already, the mark is beginning to take shape. It strikes along Mello's skin - a black cross blasphemously painted and smeared by the devil's own hand. Why Mello chose the design: it doesn't matter to him. The decision is his to make and with another healthy helping, the Sin lifts his nails out of the bottle; their shells soaked as heavily as a preacher cupping his holy water.] Though, you're right - what's good, what's not: it's never mattered to me. [Greed answers, thickly. The intimacy here; it's almost like a confession. A private booth reserved for him and his under a blanket of dim glow more suitable for a room rented out for one, particular purpose.]

[The irony isn't lost on him.]

[When he presses his hand back a second time, the burn's all but gone. What remains is lukewarm; like a massage in oil, rubbed to the right key. The former homunculus drags the backs of his knuckles upward, coaxing the dye to fill the shape. Mello isn't like the rest of them, not entirely. He comes and he goes: distances himself, then demands. It's as if he's committed to a point and whether or not that's his other "boss" talking or simply strategy, it's a moot point.]

[At the end of the day, he always comes back: one way or the other.]

[Greed eyes the tattoo. The ink's already thick in places; the touch of it soaking like water to a sponge. It won't take him long to finish the rest, but as he drags his nail closer to the thin of Mello's bones, he stops again; the top of his nail hanging along the dip of his shoulder like an appraiser testing a value.] Ehhh - take a second. Think you deserve it, right?

[The Sin plucks his fingers away and with a flick of his other hand, a shoo of fire erupts on his nail. He coaxes it low: benign. The flash of orange trickling down, down, down to a gas-fire's blue. Trauma is something he knows. Maybe not in the same sense, maybe not even close, but his? The ones before? They had had their share. Be it bullet holes from war, the misfires of an experiment gone awry. Something worse. Greed lifts his hand to his face and as the tip of his cigarette blisters, he quickly fists his thumb; forcing the fire out in one huff of wayfaring smoke. He doesn't ask where Mello got his scars because he doesn't have to: it's simply par-for-the-course. A history before him, written out in flesh and stained to memory as bitter as bile bubbling to the surface. He takes a drag, his one leg spread and stretched. And if it's too close, too near.]

[He simply doesn't notice.]

Still, I meant what I said. Taking it like that - it's pretty impressive. But if you think I'd hold it against you - [Greed exhales and while the smoke unwinds from his mouth, the turn of his eyes crawls into focus. They watch Mello like a beacon: a creature, a thing, reading for a pulse. Because, while Mello can certainly handle it, harming one of his own? Putting them through the wringer?]

[It just won't, won't do.]

[The former homunculus plucks his cigarette from his mouth, leaving it on the edge of the ashtray.] - kids like you should be energetic, don't get me wrong. [A hiss and the last of the smoke wheezes through his nostrils.] - but push yourself too hard. You don't need to prove anything to me, M. [A hum warms in his throat. No, he doesn't have to prove anything: he's already made his point by coming to him now with nothing more than naked flesh and mortal skin bared like teeth. Greed turns his eye back to the bottle again and as he positions his nails, the scoop of his shoulders rises around his neck.] Though, I guess it was always your choice, wasn't it.

This is the last part - get ready. [It's his last cue. One, final approach before his claws sink and as the dye seeps off the tips like an injection, the Sin keeps it steady; his glance watching and waiting for any skip or jump in Mello's throat.]

[Stocke, on the other hand, notices every uneasy twitch and tense. It's near his job to, and with someone else it'd put him on the alert, but -]

[Stocke's Hyde isn't quite so blind as Heiss was to the true thoughts of those he wanted to (hoped would) fall in line with him. But he's still overconfident as to the paths those thoughts will take. Greed won't harm him. Greed wouldn't harm someone he calls one of his, even if Stocke's acting strange. There's no reason to raise his guard.]

Did say he wasn't acting quite himself.

[The former shade stretches, eyes closed, hands laced together above his head. The bag clinks against his side.] If I said no, that'd be an obvious lie, wouldn't it?

[There's a pause, just long enough to seem as if he's done talking - then his arms drop, and one eye slits open.] ...relax, boss. You already know I can put on an act. If I were trying to trick you, I wouldn't be doing such a shoddy job of it. [Read: he'd be pretending to be the old Stocke, and there'd be no way to tell the difference.]

[Or is that just a different approach to smoothing down Greed's wariness?]

[Maybe not, but proving that he can take it to himself is more important than anything. That Greed is present only sweetens the victory: a witness to his pride and strength that while feigned at times, stands true when it matters most. Months of searing heat relentlessly itching at his skin far surpasses the significantly less drawn-out process of what they're doing here. The languid relaxation that rises slowly as the liquor seeps deeper into his blood makes it easier; that he thought he would possibly make it through without was a fool's game he'd intended to play — regardless of Greed's understanding, anything less than acute alertness has always been unacceptable in the company in any but one and he is long-dead, most likely never to arrive in this place where monsters masquerade as things with human hearts.]

Do what — [And even now, through the false comfort and ease, Mello will always, always have pride on the tip of his tongue, ready to spill lies if it suits the image he seeks to project in everything he does. Half-curious eyes watch the Sin's hand as it draws away, moves to the other's face for a sign of disapproval he knows won't surface in this situation. And Greed's reassurance confirms it; tells him that unlike other's he's operated under, this one doesn't hold judgment in menial demeanor. Above it, maybe: something as old as the demon has witnessed more than any crime-boss in a filthy city could ever hope to muster. It might be why the confession that comes doesn't hold the weight it should; he can only keep up a front for as long as it's believable.]

[And when it returns and soothes, his abused skin is grateful for the temporary alleviation — comes to light in a soft exhale and lashes brushing each other when hazy blue eyes fall nearly shut from the reprieve. Greed is terrible and merciful, more forgiving than anything the blonde's ever known. Paranoia remains on the back-burner; might not exist at all where their dynamic comes into play.]

Almost killed me, [a thousand times over. No amount of opiates were enough to quell the constant agony to where Mello felt anything less than the verge of death nipping at his heels until the skin began to heal over, deaden what was beneath in enough places to allow him to breathe long enough to go on with his then-mission without a stagger in his step.]

[Oh, but it didn't kill him, did it? No, something far worse than his own self-destruction took care of that well enough. And despite his hubris, despite the front he fights so hard to maintain, relief comes with the allowance of temporary rest; maybe the other can read him better than Mello had anticipated. He makes a note to never inebriate himself this way again, even as he uses the allotted time to hoist himself forward on an elbow, tip the bottle up and let the dark substance flow down his throat in too-large gulps that warm and burn his chest the moment it hits. He's bordering on dizzy, eyes unfocused when he regards the demon, and there's a trust here reserved for no one. Not even L would experience the pleasure of Mello letting go so easily in his presence, but he's not foolish enough to believe that Greed wouldn't have wiped him from the face of Ryslig a thousand times already if it suited him.]

[The withholding of power is what earns Mello's respect, in the end. Like Dante, who could level cities with a swing of his sword if he so chose, Greed keeps it beneath his skin, lets it show in small tufts of smoke and flame — heat he would cherish and actively seek if he were still a Manticore, but now? It's enough to torch his skin a second time if the other so desired. And no, the proximity doesn't go unnoticed, is something he would move away from out of sheer desire for the maintenance of personal space if the circumstances were more dire.]

[But here? Now? Mello's too lazy-headed and flushed to care at all.]

M'not a kid.

[And oh, there it is, rearing its head even though it doesn't mean a thing. By something so ancient's standards, maybe, but Mello hasn't been a kid since he went off on his own, even at the age of fourteen. Life hit him sharp and fast, and he's as hardened from it as any seasoned soldier poised to fight. If his stomach tenses when the Sin moves back to return to his work, it's a lingering memory of discomfort, nothing more. Mello prefers his games straightforward and brutal, smirks that turn to sneers and a determination that brings whatever he wants to his feet like an offering, a sacrifice unto his resilience. The thick swallow might be the only indication of anything resembling hesitance he might possess at this point, and if it's an indication of weakness, he doesn't notice. Doesn't notice much of anything at this point but the lack of space between something that could burn him alive and his too-human body that isn't truly resilient to a single thing.]

[He's silent, because words aren't going to do him any good slurred this way; he'll finish off the bottle when they're finished, erase any lingering sign of soreness that might yet arise.]

[The warning goes unheeded; even in this state, Mello is hyper-aware of a demon watching him like an insect, a thing to be analyzed and ascertained. It's when that pierce comes — sharp and invasive — that in a moment of clarity, he realizes he should have prepared as much as possible. It stings and throbs, inked wounds half-jerking him from his comfortable position, and when he grits his teeth and emits a hiss indicative of swift, agonizing affliction, the hand that instinctively grabs at the other's wrist is an unintended response to a heightened spasm through his nerves that he hadn't expected.]

Fuck — [Grit and downright shameful; teeth dig into his lip hard enough to draw blood, and a relaxed spine straightens to attention as he seeks to steady himself against it all. He'll deny it tomorrow, pretend he took this as calmly and nonchalant as ever, but now?]

[Oh, it hurts: a mark painting his skin as proof of ownership scrawled across the scars of failure, and if Greed takes this as an indication that Mello can't bear another moment, he'll insist, assure him that it was a fluke, nothing more.]

[Because even now, more than half-drunk and unbearably vulnerable, he'll claim his strength is infallible to the very end. What use is he if something so small causes such a blatant reaction?]

You did, didn't you. [Greed reiterates, the flat of his tongue tense. Dante, Stocke - how far the cure goes, the side-effects. He couldn't even begin to make a guess. But when the other smooths out the proverbial bumps, the intention meets its mark. The stiffness in the Sin's spine slacks, if only slightly; the comfortable slouch relaxed, yet hesitant. No, Stocke's more talented than that. If something were really off, he'd bury it as deep as he could. That training of his a poker face of sorts, swindling and trickling even the most veteran scrutiny.]

[Still - ]

[The Sin's brows scoop together, causing a ripple of wrinkles to crease along his forehead. His keeps his hands hanging at his sides; those claws of his ripe with sunlight and touched as delicately as a gathering of well-tended kitchen knives. The former homunculus chases a glance at the bag before, finally, he arches his shoulders. He gives off a nonchalant shrug; a gesture to shake off and bury the notion without a single shred of doubt.] Ehh -

[He crosses one foot over the other, the dust lodged in his heels freeing itself in a pilfer of smooth, skating sand.] You think it has something to do with the cure? [Greed tongues, his voice caressing and wet. Any sort of cure is bound to have its negatives. The science of such a thing, though - the art of it: it's beyond him. Of course, that doesn't mean he couldn't put together at least some of the pieces. Where some claim to have a miracle, there's always certainly a catch. A bit of fine print written in last minute mostly ignored by anyone desperate enough. Because, by definition, hope? It's just another want.]

[And want? Want is something he knows best.]

[The curb of his boot smothers a stray stone and as he closes in, the pressure of his heel forces it to a skitter. The small slab bounces atop the street - its movement similar to flat-rock skipped for good luck. Greed traces one his belt-loops with the shell of his thumb.] And you? Still all there? [Again, he watches Stocke. However, the suspicion in his eyes is gone now. Replaced by something like an inspection; as if he's trying to see, trying to evaluate, just how much the other's changed.]

[Because, even if Stocke is human, to him?]

[It truly, truly, doesn't matter.]

[Mello's scars - they're not so different. To battlefield blemishes of a detonated grenade, to the quick-slap patch jobs done purposely sloppy so that the chance of survival was slim at best. He knows the story like the back of his hand. Not the other's specifically, but the bones of it - it's close enough. A fate so similar, it'd be hard for anyone to ignore. Them: the ones from before - Greed's mouth visibly tightens and as the last drops of ink belly-out from his claws, he presses his hand along Mello's skin. The run-off of both dye and blood smearing under his palm like a paint brush in water color.]

[Because, despite his efforts, this is what he'll always be. His swipe a touch, a trace, so close and yet still, so very far. The movement of a creature removed, trying it's best impression of humanity. In the end, the Gods might exhaust themselves. Ryslig could collapse. But when the time comes, if it ever does, most of them will return to the standard. A life mortal and brief in the years that pass.]

[Human.]

[Greed plucks his hand away, the left overs of his work stained to his skin. Not that it matters. Given time, his heat will wash it all away. Days from now, of course, but in the meantime, it barely makes a dent. The dark pitch of his scales appearing to swallow the color and reflect it back in a deep, pitch-black shine. The Sin pushes the bottle of ink away. He caps it with a twirl of his middle finger, the points of his eyes trained hard and still on Mello's lip.]

No, you're not. [A brief pause fumes behind his teeth. Orange, yellow, a streak of white: they begin to draw pattern in his jaws. Like the slits of a window shade, stroked and prodded by a playful hand. It takes him only a second before he boldly reaches upward; the flat-part of his thumb rising, rising, rising to clean off the blood in a single stroke.] Watch it. No need to hurt yourself anymore than you already are. [He says, his hand all but shifting away. Whispers of smoke tease his exit. They're rich with the smell. Sulfur, ash, the scent of cherry-wood burning on a bonfire - they mix together with an undertone. Of liquor, of cigarettes, and the tell-tail presence of other company long before Mello arrived.]

[The former homunculus sinks his heels into the floor and as they grind against the boards, he pushes back his chair.] That should do it. I couldn't tell you how long it'll take to heal, but I'm sure you can handle it. You're not exactly like the rest - [His age, he means. Of course, he doesn't say it - Mello's sin, if nothing else, is his pride. He's too proud of his status; too stubborn to let anyone see his underbelly, least of all him. No, there's a facade he has to parade. A shield of sorts, keeping his secrets, his vulnerabilities, as hidden as possible. Whether that's due to his history, the current affair, or a mixture of both, well - ]

[Greed reaches over to the side table and as his thumb spreads, he gently plucks up one of the earpieces of his sunglasses. They snap open immediately on a hang - their weight canted and pried like that of a door on a loosening hinge. Instead of putting them on though, he keeps the pair leveled in his hand. Admiring almost, despite how many years it's been.] Humans - you're still full of surprises, even now. [He starts. The phrase is distant somehow; as if two-centuries of a lifetime are passing in his lenses, repaying each moment. The former homunculus shrugs his shoulders and as the screws of his sunglasses clck into place, he dips his hand; forcing them back over his eyes as comfortable as a shawl over the skin of a more prude and exposed shoulder.]

[Decades could pass, but that fact: it doesn't change. Not then and certainly not here. Against all the odds they have, humans will always find a way. Biting back the pain and pressing forward, with the same, stubborn desperation that keeps them going. Mello - he's not different. And maybe, maybe, that's the reason - ]

[Greed turns his hands inward, pushing them to the tops of his thighs.] You can stay here, if you want. Figured it's only fair - [Already, he's standing to move; the streaks of soot falling from his back crawling to replace his position like a polite ghost, waiting its turn. The Sin ushers one of his heels over the other - his walk drawn out and tasteless.]

[Mello may have his stubbornness, but if he decides to stay? If needs a breather?]

[It'll be sin who waits for him. The minutes, the hours: they're meaningless. Because despite the name, avarice?]

[Avarice will always take care of what's rightfully his.]

It'd have to be, wouldn't it? Only thing that's changed so many of us recently - wouldn't be surprising if it were more ways than one. [It's that or a god trying to leave that impression - and, well, neither of them are anywhere near that subtle. Not that Stocke's seen.]

[Even if both of them would have reason - the Fourth to call for reliance on only him, the Fog to have people avoid future attempts...]

[It'd have backfired, wouldn't it? There's something of addiction about this cure - the Hyde can feel his fingers shake when a dose fades to half, chills and an ache, something that'd pull on his monstrous self as much as his human one. And the Hydes - they want to live. They'll take more cure whether they'd normally resist or not.]

[Stocke's smile widens to a smirk; both eyes open again, now, he trails closer. Yeah, that's getting closer to the kind of response he was hoping to get.] Can't say a shade's advantages wouldn't be useful, but I've all my memories. Still all there, boss.

[For all that now he's the one invading Greed's space, the flip of their usual - and fearless-close to demon's fire, 'Yeah, boss, take a look,' - he doesn't reach for the glass chime inside his bag.]

[He could, and maybe - yeah, maybe later. He can feel that itch to share. But he likes Greed as the demon is, for now, and there's no harm in being a bit more... directed. Selective, while there's still so many monsters unaffected.]

[And passive comments are enabling compliments to those who are receptive to things that preen and prick at a confidence so fragile that thin glass holds an unmistakable density in comparison. No, Mello isn't like the rest — never was — and he's gone above and beyond in this life and the last to prove just that. Always teetering on the edge of self-doubt, the acquiescent statement brings a tip to the corner of his mouth; if Greed has known humans for centuries and centuries, he's never known anything like the too-human blonde thing that follows the demon's movements with eyes sharp enough to cleave even when the edges are blurred, when Mello's movements are too slow and comfortable despite the throb and sting that will take far longer to heal than he'd prefer.]

[Because when the haze wears off, the memory of discomfort will return in lingering soreness and that is when he'll know the true extent of what they've done here, tonight. For the best: his skin would have healed over too quickly with the abilities with which the Gods have both blessed and cursed him. Better to let ink mark and blacken, let human skin take on the stain in the way it was meant to be.]

[Whatever comes after, well.]

Hey.

[Because influence and overt confidence streak to a human's eyes in spades beyond average perception — the same interest piqued what seems so long ago when Mello moved through throngs of humans and monsters alike with a confidence that could have gotten him killed. Some would call it ignorance, but nothing is ever accomplished without discarding the very base of caution and fear in favor of exploration.]

[It takes more effort that he expects to push his body upright, even if one hand clenches the bottle with a sureness that will prevent it from slipping out of languid fingers. His head will pound for this tomorrow; he'll tell himself he was weak to cheat with the bottle nearly empty in such a short span of time, but for now? It dulls what it needs to dull, and when Mello slips to his feet to follow in some show of unabashed curiosity, it's stubborn pride alone that keeps him from swaying where he stands.]

Tell me something.

[Tone softer than usual at the edges and if there are pinprick blood droplets peeking through ink over abused skin, he doesn't notice. Not when his focus is limited to the creature who is so far beyond anything he's known retreating with a lack of care that would raise Mello's caution if he were sharper, more aware. One step, another, and it takes a conscious effort to keep his direction in line as he follows the demon with an unshakable refusal to be dismissed and forgotten.]

Edited 2017-09-12 17:56 (UTC)

Decided to keep it, then? [The Sin's question comes out distracted. The how(s), the why(s); out of the two of them, only the latter makes sense. Most of the 'Nest, if not all, had been human once. The desire to go back, the ability to choose who or what they are - the former homunculus leers forward. How close Stocke's slipping in doesn't matter. In the end, there's a unsaid trust here: a knowing that comes with years, with experience, and as the satchel rattles airily, Greed extends his hand. He tries to yank at the side - effectively peeling it back and inspecting like a creature curiously toying with an unmarked paper-bag.]

[No one said Pandora's box had to be ornate, after all.]

[The Sin grabs his hip with one hand.] Yeah, they would be. Could do a lot more with those abilities of yours. [He answers. Being normal: he's never understood it. Even before Stocke, Ryslig, he'd known a few who had wanted the same thing: a mundane life. Something base, plain, and missing all the perks the "other" had to offer. Of course, there had been exceptions. Those who had little choice or say as to what would become of them.]

[Still - ]

[A brief chnk tunes along the tip of his nail; his prodding finger all but rap-tap-tapping one of the buckles.] Little bit of a waste, if you ask me. But - [But. The Sin tongues the inside of his cheek. If Stocke wants to be human, not even he could stop him. He's said it before, hasn't he? Choice, the ability to do so - that much hasn't changed. Greed's shoulders visibly slouch. No, in the end, even the ones before had pained for the yesterdays. When things were less complicated and the world seemed so straight and simple.]

[Ryslig's really not so different.]

[The curve of his boot swings to the side and as it lifts, another puff of dry-dirt skirts beneath his boot. It dirties the leather - turning the black color dusty and dull. Greed winds his tail around his thigh.] - nevermind. Doesn't matter now. [He lulls. The afternoon sun glints off his shoulder; the image of him mimicking that of a dusty apparition. A line separating the mortal and the not-so-much.]

[Because this is how it's always been and while nothing's impossible, even here?]

[Some rules still apply.]

So, what do you want to do with it? I'm gunna guess it doesn't take just one dose. [It's a shot in the dark. Medicine, vaccinations, the rest: he only has the vaguest understanding. Maybe, Stocke'll need it constantly. Maybe not. Either way, from the sounds of it, there's plenty to go around. The Sin casts another look over to the side; the sharpness to the other's smile, missed by a mile.] Got some things to do in town. You interested? [He asks, his focus blatantly elsewhere. No, the changes are clear, but it's still Stocke. One of many, one marked, and they're his, his, his - ]

[Greed pivots and with one hand over his shoulder, he throws out two of his fingers; a gesture to follow.] We still have friends in Bavan that owe us some favors. They've been holding onto some things while we were getting situated. Think you can handle it? [From the dip of his throat, a lonely willow of smoke coils around his neck. It dives into his fur like a thread; weaving dip for dip, bump for bump, until the clear afternoon wipes it out completely.]

[Humans may not last long, but for however they do?]

[They always, always, leave an impression.]

[On the other side of the room, the Sin drifts to a pause. He already has one of his hands spread open wide, the dangles of his claws hovering like that of a witch, churning her brew. An exhale slips through his nostrils only once; his smile thinning and flattening to a hazy, basement-lull glow. The pains, the aches, the stings of where he's been - against it all, M remains unfazed. Still pushing the envelope, prodding the seal, to get the answers he so, so wants.]

[Curiosity may have killed the cat, but really, who can blame him.]

[Greed pinches his thumb and finger around the glass head of a canter, slowly turning it open.] Hmn? What did you have in mind? [He keeps his tone airy and light - the hum of his voice capturing the air. It causes a shrink of soot to peel away from his throat. A drift grainy and distant. What M's thinking could mean a million things. Ryslig, the others, him and his. The stopper to the canter unravels and with snaring plck, he takes it into his claws. The carefulness of his touch more similar to that of a jeweler admiring a once-in-a-lifetime piece. A second later, he places it down on the flat top of the dresser. Leaving a print of ash to stain its edge.]

Never said you couldn't ask. Figured it would come up sooner or later. [A tilt of his head brings his eyes teasing over his shoulder. Unlike usual, the red in them is quiet this time; the purple-pink as cool as mist chasing out the midnight hour. Greed blindly reaches for a glass. He lets his nails play inside the lip - gliding it back, smooth. Timeless. Until glass chimes glass and with a casual push of middle finger, the former homunculus levels the canter's lengthy neck. The body of it balanced at the crook of his claw like that of a teeter-totter, rocking on a point. He makes sure to level it just shy of his knuckles - the pour of liquor thick and running.]

[Because the night, it heaves with the bleakest secrets. The shadows wait in the black. And Mello, Mello, Mello - ]

[He's awake, all right. Awake and aware with the devil on his back.]

[Greed chokes the bottle, bringing it upright with a tck. As is his standard, the scotch he's chosen is rich. A top-shelf flavor, squirreled away from the main bar below. The Sin rings his hand around the edge of his portion, clipping it.] So, what do you want to know? [He murmurs. Despite only being out for a few seconds, the exposure to his heat is already beginning to pick up a film. Sweat and steam rotates inside the glass - the look of it mimicking a light fog, rolling along the shore. Either he doesn't notice it, or he simply doesn't care; the scotch all but hanging at his side like an accessory.]

[In the moment, Mello?]

[He has all his undivided attention.]

[Cnk, and one of his claws strikes out a note.] Only fair, after all. Equivalent exchange - [The Sin sing-songs, his one foot sliding forward. No, Mello's given him plenty to tonight. His body, a canvas. His loyalty. Even parts of him he's made sure to kept hidden and locked away, out of a private need for security. What questions he has, he'll answer. One for one, two for two. For let it never be said. Let it never be mistaken.]

[Honesty may be a virtue, but there's nothing so pure, so raw, than sin, sin, sin.]

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

Page 14 of 17

(no subject)

SORRY FOR SHORTNESS that's all I had lol everything else felt extra

NO THIS IS SGBKSBJ FUCKING EXCELLENT THANKS FOR THE PATIENCE

<swordpacts> during jekyll and hyde

<avaricious>

<swordpacts>

<avaricious>

<swordpacts>

<avaricious>

<swordpacts> [1/2]

-> action? [2/2]

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject