[Another sharp point at his neck, a huff of warm breath; Stocke should be feeling on edge, threatened. And it'd be a lie to say he's calm. But danger's as far from his thoughts as it would be in the bar down below at sunrise - quiet, empty and slow-moving. Dust spiraling up into rays of sunlight cast from the windows, the crack of the door. ]
[The shade's head drops back against the wall - he exhales, slow, trying to keep it steady. Doesn't entirely succeed.]
['You really are more trouble than you're worth sometimes.' The corner of the Stocke's mouth quirks up.] It's been said, [he agrees. The shade watches Greed in return, eyes only half-open - one hand's fingers trace, curiously, the red lines of alchemy that branch over the Sin's shoulders. Stocke pauses a claw at one of the foci, looping carefully over the circle.]
[Clean, neat, in ruled patterns like something made artificial. About as different an impression from the rest of the Sin as anything could be. But Greed seems to wear them with as much confidence as he does any title: Sin, homunculus, demon. A proud outcast, taking what's thrown to the edges and making it his.]
[And now Stocke does have to brace himself against the back wall as Greed slides further down, marking inch by inch, inevitable as sand dropping down an hourglass. A faint shiver runs up and through, the shade pressing into the spread fingers at his back. Tendrils lash with the effort of keeping the rest of him nearly still - they snap around Greed's hands as if to wrap ribbons around them, constrict into nothing more than fading shadow. It'd take more concentration than Stocke can bring to bear right now to solidify them; keeping the rest of him there is hard enough.]
[In other ways it's easier. The shade feels solid rather than shadow, more than he has in a long while.]
[The Sin's teeth sink in, a pang of sharp sensation Stocke can't describe - his hips buck once, the shade letting out a soft curse, a hissing noise. His hand on Greed's shoulder tightens, the other leaving thin scratches down the wall. Then the shade relaxes, slow; the hiss melds into a quiet, satisfied hum.]
no subject
[The shade's head drops back against the wall - he exhales, slow, trying to keep it steady. Doesn't entirely succeed.]
['You really are more trouble than you're worth sometimes.' The corner of the Stocke's mouth quirks up.] It's been said, [he agrees. The shade watches Greed in return, eyes only half-open - one hand's fingers trace, curiously, the red lines of alchemy that branch over the Sin's shoulders. Stocke pauses a claw at one of the foci, looping carefully over the circle.]
[Clean, neat, in ruled patterns like something made artificial. About as different an impression from the rest of the Sin as anything could be. But Greed seems to wear them with as much confidence as he does any title: Sin, homunculus, demon. A proud outcast, taking what's thrown to the edges and making it his.]
[And now Stocke does have to brace himself against the back wall as Greed slides further down, marking inch by inch, inevitable as sand dropping down an hourglass. A faint shiver runs up and through, the shade pressing into the spread fingers at his back. Tendrils lash with the effort of keeping the rest of him nearly still - they snap around Greed's hands as if to wrap ribbons around them, constrict into nothing more than fading shadow. It'd take more concentration than Stocke can bring to bear right now to solidify them; keeping the rest of him there is hard enough.]
[In other ways it's easier. The shade feels solid rather than shadow, more than he has in a long while.]
[The Sin's teeth sink in, a pang of sharp sensation Stocke can't describe - his hips buck once, the shade letting out a soft curse, a hissing noise. His hand on Greed's shoulder tightens, the other leaving thin scratches down the wall. Then the shade relaxes, slow; the hiss melds into a quiet, satisfied hum.]