[Letting go, giving in; it always happens eventually. A few days may pass, a couple of months might go by. But by the end of it all, inevitability catches up. The suggestions and nuances slipping in like a slow-acting poison. It strikes firm between the heartbeats - catching the guarded off their guard and it's all just too little, too late.]
[And now here - here's the moment. The head-on collision and someone's cut the brakes.]
[A blister of red draws along the Sin's face. This close, he can feel every hitch of breath; every twist and curl of Stocke's tendrils as they blindly stretch and touch their way along the wall in a desperate search for an exit plan. Greed idly traces the point of his knuckle along the other's spine. It's an unraveling at its finest. A thread caught on the edge of a nail and here he is. Pulling away the defenses piece by piece, thread by tread. All of it purposely yanked to the right key.]
[The devil's bargain in A-Minor.]
[Greed prompts his heel forward. Its soft edge rolls along the floor, sending the jagged tip of his boot skyward. He's elongated as he moves; like that of a fat-bellied adder chasing down its meal. The venom's already there, it's just a matter of waiting at this point. And wait, he does. Taking the time to count the seconds, to feel the anticipation tightening just a snap out of reach. The edge of his boot lines up neatly against Stocke's and within the moment, he tightens the gap. The bones of his hips meeting the other's in a soft, promising pressure.]
["Show me." So be it.]
Your choice - [Lowered, a whisper flickering on his tongue. Greed's lips pull tight along the Stocke's skull, threatening teeth to skin akin to that of a soft-sided blade. The flat of his boot taps along the other's ankle as he does so - a suggestion to take a step back. To let go and just give, give, give.]
[Because he can never change. There's no cleanse in the world, no baptism strong enough. The cruel incarnation of mortal Sin and here it is: the moment of confession.]
[A sigh of warm air slithers out behind him. Greed leans forward, his freed hand slowly forming along the other's face. A twist of his wrist sends his fingers through Stocke's hair. Bits and slivers thread between his knuckles - the strikes of flash-blonde a stark contrast to the blackened pitch Ryslig's defined him to be. And perhaps, that's what it all boils down to: two, opposing forces drawn together in a clash out of need, out of want, to have. God, have.]
[And oh, oh, does he want it.]
[The Sin's wings fan outward. With Stocke's fingers padding underneath, the ripple effect is almost curtain-like. Leathery skin stretches along the ceiling, its jagged tips drawing into old paint and tobacco stain like a hell-fire sketch. It's there that they anchor. A private shade and finally, his time is up.]
[Greed's teeth meet the side of Stocke's neck with a tentative taste. Not yet biting, not fully. Just existing there - a wolf showing its Alpha colors. A curl of his thumb presses along the other's ear as he does. An access point to trail nip after nip. He follows them down until his that collar stops him again. A beat, a pause, then:] Ah, right. Sorry - [He starts. Though from the tone of it, the apology's half-assed at best. Greed lifts his chin. An industrial whine is what follows - his nails slicing buckle after buckle like that of heat-popped buttons.]
no subject
[And now here - here's the moment. The head-on collision and someone's cut the brakes.]
[A blister of red draws along the Sin's face. This close, he can feel every hitch of breath; every twist and curl of Stocke's tendrils as they blindly stretch and touch their way along the wall in a desperate search for an exit plan. Greed idly traces the point of his knuckle along the other's spine. It's an unraveling at its finest. A thread caught on the edge of a nail and here he is. Pulling away the defenses piece by piece, thread by tread. All of it purposely yanked to the right key.]
[The devil's bargain in A-Minor.]
[Greed prompts his heel forward. Its soft edge rolls along the floor, sending the jagged tip of his boot skyward. He's elongated as he moves; like that of a fat-bellied adder chasing down its meal. The venom's already there, it's just a matter of waiting at this point. And wait, he does. Taking the time to count the seconds, to feel the anticipation tightening just a snap out of reach. The edge of his boot lines up neatly against Stocke's and within the moment, he tightens the gap. The bones of his hips meeting the other's in a soft, promising pressure.]
["Show me." So be it.]
Your choice - [Lowered, a whisper flickering on his tongue. Greed's lips pull tight along the Stocke's skull, threatening teeth to skin akin to that of a soft-sided blade. The flat of his boot taps along the other's ankle as he does so - a suggestion to take a step back. To let go and just give, give, give.]
[Because he can never change. There's no cleanse in the world, no baptism strong enough. The cruel incarnation of mortal Sin and here it is: the moment of confession.]
[A sigh of warm air slithers out behind him. Greed leans forward, his freed hand slowly forming along the other's face. A twist of his wrist sends his fingers through Stocke's hair. Bits and slivers thread between his knuckles - the strikes of flash-blonde a stark contrast to the blackened pitch Ryslig's defined him to be. And perhaps, that's what it all boils down to: two, opposing forces drawn together in a clash out of need, out of want, to have. God, have.]
[And oh, oh, does he want it.]
[The Sin's wings fan outward. With Stocke's fingers padding underneath, the ripple effect is almost curtain-like. Leathery skin stretches along the ceiling, its jagged tips drawing into old paint and tobacco stain like a hell-fire sketch. It's there that they anchor. A private shade and finally, his time is up.]
[Greed's teeth meet the side of Stocke's neck with a tentative taste. Not yet biting, not fully. Just existing there - a wolf showing its Alpha colors. A curl of his thumb presses along the other's ear as he does. An access point to trail nip after nip. He follows them down until his that collar stops him again. A beat, a pause, then:] Ah, right. Sorry - [He starts. Though from the tone of it, the apology's half-assed at best. Greed lifts his chin. An industrial whine is what follows - his nails slicing buckle after buckle like that of heat-popped buttons.]
[He only has so much patience, after all.]