[He lets his hands stretch, then. They spread about the backs of the other's legs; a loose knot of crooked nails and smooth scales wandering up, God, up. Because for as much as he's correction in the artificial, there's something beautiful in the opposite. The uneven edges, the slightly askew. Perfection in the not-so-much and as Greed's grin peels from Stocke's skin, the heels of his palms mold into his backside. Forcing his knuckles to gently skip along the damaged wall.]
[For this is how it is and always will be: the nights of today, of yesterday, written and tallied in claw marks.]
[Faint ribbons of shadow play at his wrists. He can feel them even now; their protest half-assed. Like someone hanging on the edge between the need to hold on and the desire to let go. The last bits sigh across his scales. They linger for a moment; the final threads of a snapping rope and as they give way, the devil releases a breath of his own. Hot, heavy - a question without words:]
["Why don't you show me who you really are."]
[The grip on his shoulder just confirms the answer. Stocke's fingers burrow into his muscle. They're tense, hard, and as the wall behind them cracks in a splinter, a satisfactory tone flips in the Sin's throat. It sticks there - causing bits of lukewarm ash to break free in a tease. Greed shifts his teeth away, moving instead towards the bend of the other's stomach. Most times, Stocke has a look of emaciation. Something skeletal holding the rest of him together like a leaky cage. But in the moment, there's solidity; a surface he can actually touch.]
[And touch he does. Nip by nip, snap by snap, until the edges of his teeth snare the hem of the other's slacks.]
[Greed pins a piece of leather on the points of his jaw.] That so? [As he talks, that smile of his yanks again. A belt loop stretches in a snare; mimicking that of a chew-toy in the mouth a playful canine. The stitches keeping it together are barely holding as is and when he slowly tips his head to the side, he can hear their final moments; the needlework all but giving up the ghost in a protesting hitch.]
[Tck, tck, tck. The last of them let go and here it is: the final locks picked, pulled, and thrown apart.]
[The Sin draws out his nails.] Almost thought you made a habit of it. [He remarks. The tips of his claws jump on a spring of knuckles. There's pressure now - the hooked edges of his talons skipping across leather to draw a faint line. Greed slips both hands between Stocke's thighs. It's a prying pull, a hint. Before his forehead settles along his companion's stomach, allowing his jaws to peel each clasp apart.]
no subject
[For this is how it is and always will be: the nights of today, of yesterday, written and tallied in claw marks.]
[Faint ribbons of shadow play at his wrists. He can feel them even now; their protest half-assed. Like someone hanging on the edge between the need to hold on and the desire to let go. The last bits sigh across his scales. They linger for a moment; the final threads of a snapping rope and as they give way, the devil releases a breath of his own. Hot, heavy - a question without words:]
["Why don't you show me who you really are."]
[The grip on his shoulder just confirms the answer. Stocke's fingers burrow into his muscle. They're tense, hard, and as the wall behind them cracks in a splinter, a satisfactory tone flips in the Sin's throat. It sticks there - causing bits of lukewarm ash to break free in a tease. Greed shifts his teeth away, moving instead towards the bend of the other's stomach. Most times, Stocke has a look of emaciation. Something skeletal holding the rest of him together like a leaky cage. But in the moment, there's solidity; a surface he can actually touch.]
[And touch he does. Nip by nip, snap by snap, until the edges of his teeth snare the hem of the other's slacks.]
[Greed pins a piece of leather on the points of his jaw.] That so? [As he talks, that smile of his yanks again. A belt loop stretches in a snare; mimicking that of a chew-toy in the mouth a playful canine. The stitches keeping it together are barely holding as is and when he slowly tips his head to the side, he can hear their final moments; the needlework all but giving up the ghost in a protesting hitch.]
[Tck, tck, tck. The last of them let go and here it is: the final locks picked, pulled, and thrown apart.]
[The Sin draws out his nails.] Almost thought you made a habit of it. [He remarks. The tips of his claws jump on a spring of knuckles. There's pressure now - the hooked edges of his talons skipping across leather to draw a faint line. Greed slips both hands between Stocke's thighs. It's a prying pull, a hint. Before his forehead settles along his companion's stomach, allowing his jaws to peel each clasp apart.]
[One daunting flick at a time.]