[His mouth twists when Stocke's finds it. A fitting smile for something as loathsome as him; a creature terrible to the core. Rotten, selfish. Ryslig chose right when they made him a devil. He can't pretend he's anything different. An easy canvas and while Stocke fumbles through the motions, the Sin's hands trace out his body. Not yet touching, just framing him out: guiding. Like that of a man painting the form of an hourglass between the palms of his hands, yet it's not quite that either. Because he's never been one to fight his nature: it's his cruel definition. One that he's never tried to outrun, never tried to deny, and in a press of claws, he takes it.]
[No hesitation.]
[He hears the protest of leather first; the tips of his nails skirting along the edge of the other's back - infecting, invading. Greed's eyes fall shut. In the end, it's just too much. So much, right here, in his arms. The edges of his teeth pluck at his companion's lip: a gentle warning.] Easy. No need to hurt yourself, hmn?
[A flick of red. The Sin levels his eyes to Stocke's own; seeking them out, searching for that static white that's so much a part of the other as everything else. A blip like that of a bad dial tone, a buzz like a snowed-in television screen. The former homunculus flattens his hand along Stocke's back and with a two-step of his own, he tries to coax him backward.]
[A charm for the wicked.]
[He's never been built for romance. For the kind of politeness that comes with talks over dinner and a fine glass of wine. He's raw, but even in the moment? He does take his time. Stocke's new to this. Maybe not to this particular circumstance, but to the connotation.]
[And he? Well, he's rich with time.]
[Greed peels his mouth away. A touch of smoke hangs on his tongue - like a still-burning cigarette left to extinguish in an empty glass. The smell of it ripe; a taste as scorching as hell-fire and just as potent. The Toyotomi are shelved for the moment. They're just one more thorn they'll have to deal with. Right now though - right now.]
[He couldn't give less a shit. The parasite's kept Stocke away too long and God forbid, someone try to take what's so rightfully his.]
[The Sin pulls his talons away, replacing them with knuckle. There are pieces of Stocke he'll never be able to have: intangible moments. His spine, though; it's a perfect balance. The tendrils that peel away like fog through his fingers, the anchor of a backbone to keep it all together. Greed's forehead slides along the other's temple, the shells of his horns huffing their own, black-gray exhaust. He can smell everything this close and in a second, his hidden grin comes out of its closet. Tooth for tooth against the side of Stocke's temple, a wet peel.]
[The shadow's shadow.]
[And with one snatch, he tests his limits. Greed hums along the other's ear - a broiling, thoughtless hum.]
no subject
[No hesitation.]
[He hears the protest of leather first; the tips of his nails skirting along the edge of the other's back - infecting, invading. Greed's eyes fall shut. In the end, it's just too much. So much, right here, in his arms. The edges of his teeth pluck at his companion's lip: a gentle warning.] Easy. No need to hurt yourself, hmn?
[A flick of red. The Sin levels his eyes to Stocke's own; seeking them out, searching for that static white that's so much a part of the other as everything else. A blip like that of a bad dial tone, a buzz like a snowed-in television screen. The former homunculus flattens his hand along Stocke's back and with a two-step of his own, he tries to coax him backward.]
[A charm for the wicked.]
[He's never been built for romance. For the kind of politeness that comes with talks over dinner and a fine glass of wine. He's raw, but even in the moment? He does take his time. Stocke's new to this. Maybe not to this particular circumstance, but to the connotation.]
[And he? Well, he's rich with time.]
[Greed peels his mouth away. A touch of smoke hangs on his tongue - like a still-burning cigarette left to extinguish in an empty glass. The smell of it ripe; a taste as scorching as hell-fire and just as potent. The Toyotomi are shelved for the moment. They're just one more thorn they'll have to deal with. Right now though - right now.]
[He couldn't give less a shit. The parasite's kept Stocke away too long and God forbid, someone try to take what's so rightfully his.]
[The Sin pulls his talons away, replacing them with knuckle. There are pieces of Stocke he'll never be able to have: intangible moments. His spine, though; it's a perfect balance. The tendrils that peel away like fog through his fingers, the anchor of a backbone to keep it all together. Greed's forehead slides along the other's temple, the shells of his horns huffing their own, black-gray exhaust. He can smell everything this close and in a second, his hidden grin comes out of its closet. Tooth for tooth against the side of Stocke's temple, a wet peel.]
[The shadow's shadow.]
[And with one snatch, he tests his limits. Greed hums along the other's ear - a broiling, thoughtless hum.]
Go ahead.