[Greed's teeth release, leaving pinpricks of darker shadow in a jagged semi-circle; Stocke pulls his claws free of the wall as if in echo, leaving curls of wood, broken splinters behind. His hum peters off, soft. Almost content, but with a bit more...]
[Greed's always been the one to encourage them to embrace a monstrous nature. Nothing wrong with humans, some of them aren't so bad, but there's just as little wrong in being something other - taking advantage in anything it can give you. Fire and shadows and ice, flight and claws, something that comes to fit just as much as the old mortal shape did. It's ironic, then, that right now is when Stocke feels nearly human again. Vulnerable: the static pulsing under his skin flutters and jolts with adrenaline, unsteady like a broken-winged moth. Beating against chinks in panes of glass, as Greed picks off piece after piece of the control slipping from Stocke's grasp; more of them than the shade ever expected. And when he hits the light, oh how bright he'll burn - you might not know what comes after, but talk about a blaze of glory.]
[It's long gone past when Stocke could back off, even if he wanted to. Maybe - ever since that first night when he held a line of shining steel to Greed's throat - he never really could.]
[Greed nips a line down his stomach again, quick sharp touches one after another; the shade's breaths hitch in the occasional broken shard as he tries to stop a noise, a shudder of sensation. The Sin's having the exact effect he's probably planned to - winding Stocke up a second time, past lazy satisfaction, the coil stretching tighter and tighter until sometime soon it'll snap.]
[The demon's teeth snag on one of his belts, almost a breather. The glint of pointed teeth means he's nowhere near done, but Stocke catches himself while he can; his free hand undoes buckles Greed hasn't reached yet, with less accuracy than before, but his tendrils curve forward, reaching, reaching -]
[A huff of breath, and -] Yours, aren't I? [It's meant like this: the Nest's always been nothing but trouble; of course he's the same. Habit, package and parcel. But there's too much in it to just be teasing back.]
[Ryslig shattered him when it first made him eat souls, and he glued himself back together with Greed and the Nest, filled up the gaps of himself he lost with the same. 'Yours' is too deep a truth. Tie him here...]
[Besides: to Stocke, it's never been more trouble than it's worth.]
[For all that the shade's trying not to tumble entirely just yet - making it a last challenge? pure habit? maybe none of them, maybe all - he moves along with the Sin's every light push and pull. Greed dances him near the brink, and for a moment Stocke can almost (almost) understand what the Sin's avarice is really like. He wants, with the burning intensity of the sun he can no longer see; wants Greed not to stop, wants to push back, wants to pull the demon up and return the favour, wants everything all at the same time, with every contradiction. The shade makes a choked whine, deep in the back of his throat - the hand on Greed's shoulder scores up his back instead, and it's only what is left of Stocke's control that keeps it from sinking in too deep. The tug upward is half-hearted at best: let the Sin choose.]
no subject
[Greed's always been the one to encourage them to embrace a monstrous nature. Nothing wrong with humans, some of them aren't so bad, but there's just as little wrong in being something other - taking advantage in anything it can give you. Fire and shadows and ice, flight and claws, something that comes to fit just as much as the old mortal shape did. It's ironic, then, that right now is when Stocke feels nearly human again. Vulnerable: the static pulsing under his skin flutters and jolts with adrenaline, unsteady like a broken-winged moth. Beating against chinks in panes of glass, as Greed picks off piece after piece of the control slipping from Stocke's grasp; more of them than the shade ever expected. And when he hits the light, oh how bright he'll burn - you might not know what comes after, but talk about a blaze of glory.]
[It's long gone past when Stocke could back off, even if he wanted to. Maybe - ever since that first night when he held a line of shining steel to Greed's throat - he never really could.]
[Greed nips a line down his stomach again, quick sharp touches one after another; the shade's breaths hitch in the occasional broken shard as he tries to stop a noise, a shudder of sensation. The Sin's having the exact effect he's probably planned to - winding Stocke up a second time, past lazy satisfaction, the coil stretching tighter and tighter until sometime soon it'll snap.]
[The demon's teeth snag on one of his belts, almost a breather. The glint of pointed teeth means he's nowhere near done, but Stocke catches himself while he can; his free hand undoes buckles Greed hasn't reached yet, with less accuracy than before, but his tendrils curve forward, reaching, reaching -]
[A huff of breath, and -] Yours, aren't I? [It's meant like this: the Nest's always been nothing but trouble; of course he's the same. Habit, package and parcel. But there's too much in it to just be teasing back.]
[Ryslig shattered him when it first made him eat souls, and he glued himself back together with Greed and the Nest, filled up the gaps of himself he lost with the same. 'Yours' is too deep a truth. Tie him here...]
[Besides: to Stocke, it's never been more trouble than it's worth.]
[For all that the shade's trying not to tumble entirely just yet - making it a last challenge? pure habit? maybe none of them, maybe all - he moves along with the Sin's every light push and pull. Greed dances him near the brink, and for a moment Stocke can almost (almost) understand what the Sin's avarice is really like. He wants, with the burning intensity of the sun he can no longer see; wants Greed not to stop, wants to push back, wants to pull the demon up and return the favour, wants everything all at the same time, with every contradiction. The shade makes a choked whine, deep in the back of his throat - the hand on Greed's shoulder scores up his back instead, and it's only what is left of Stocke's control that keeps it from sinking in too deep. The tug upward is half-hearted at best: let the Sin choose.]