[The other. It's always been his definition - the man on the other side of the tracks, the creature that could easily pass for human if he ever cared to try. So close, but yet so very, very far. He's a step from the normal, a heel in the everything-but, and even against all Ryslig's attempts otherwise, the result's still the same:]
[A king for the freaks, a high-hand for the monsters; wrapped up and crowned by whatever normalcy leaves behind.]
[Maybe that's what makes this so easy. For him, the others, this is their day-to-day. The white-fences replaced by neon lights, the family dinners a table set by scowling faces and needling teeth. For them, history isn't photographed: it's memorized. Each mug of beer is an instant. Every clogged ashtray, a familiar reminder. And even as they're swiped, cleaned, and tossed out for the next big night, the stains of yesterday remain. Somehow, it's always been this way and as Stocke's words curl into his ear, a thin smile edges on the Sin's face.]
["Yours, aren't I?""We'll always be - "]
[A light heat plays in his arrays. It's the final confession he needs and oh, does Stocke give it so well. No need to ask; no seconding guessing. Just admission in the rawest form. Greed wraps the palms of his hands around his companion's hips and with a gentle thud, his knees brace along the back wall. He matches Stocke's spread with one of his own. The insides of his thighs graze either side of the other's legs - a vice of leather, muscle. The chord of his tail curls out from behind him, then. Under a dim light, it takes on the look of an armored adder. Crooked steel peels across the floorboards, the gems catch on old ash. But it's not the floor it's looking for, oh no.]
[Because if Stocke wants to be tied here: so be it.]
[Greed wraps a loose knot around one of Stocke's ankles. Carefully, slowly. Because now, oh now, he can draw it out. That want, that need. The vice of his tail tightens and with a purposeful yank, he tries to pry the other's leg wide open. Dust skitters from the floorboards in the aftermath; like that of a desperate, centuries held sigh. The soot sticks to the air and as he pulls his head away, his image seems to disappear.]
[A ghost in the darkness.]
[One second goes by, another. But he's not far. A purple(ing) red blisters through the smoke. It filters through the grainy air like high beams in a fog; weighted, murky. All the while, the devil presses his thumbs neatly into the other's skin. He keeps the bones between his fingers trapped in a kind of vice. Not too hard, but not so soft as to let the other go. Of course, Stocke could easily slip out if he chose to. But for right now, that doesn't seem to be the case.]
[He's right where he wants to be; where he should have been all those months ago.]
[A snap of his thumb and Greed peels Stocke's pants wide open.] Remember - you can't really hurt me. [His words come in a drift. He applies a bit of pressure, pushing the pads of his fingers up just for the feel of it. While Stocke's usual form is nothing but bone and shadow, something here has changed. A bit of muscle bleeding on through and fuck if it isn't a sight.]
[Greed curls his fingers into a leather hem and with a bristle of heat, he snatches a zipper, catches a belt. Pulling the last bits apart so that he can finally have what he so rightfully deserves.]
[Months, after all, are a long time to account for.]
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[A king for the freaks, a high-hand for the monsters; wrapped up and crowned by whatever normalcy leaves behind.]
[Maybe that's what makes this so easy. For him, the others, this is their day-to-day. The white-fences replaced by neon lights, the family dinners a table set by scowling faces and needling teeth. For them, history isn't photographed: it's memorized. Each mug of beer is an instant. Every clogged ashtray, a familiar reminder. And even as they're swiped, cleaned, and tossed out for the next big night, the stains of yesterday remain. Somehow, it's always been this way and as Stocke's words curl into his ear, a thin smile edges on the Sin's face.]
["Yours, aren't I?" "We'll always be - "]
[A light heat plays in his arrays. It's the final confession he needs and oh, does Stocke give it so well. No need to ask; no seconding guessing. Just admission in the rawest form. Greed wraps the palms of his hands around his companion's hips and with a gentle thud, his knees brace along the back wall. He matches Stocke's spread with one of his own. The insides of his thighs graze either side of the other's legs - a vice of leather, muscle. The chord of his tail curls out from behind him, then. Under a dim light, it takes on the look of an armored adder. Crooked steel peels across the floorboards, the gems catch on old ash. But it's not the floor it's looking for, oh no.]
[Because if Stocke wants to be tied here: so be it.]
[Greed wraps a loose knot around one of Stocke's ankles. Carefully, slowly. Because now, oh now, he can draw it out. That want, that need. The vice of his tail tightens and with a purposeful yank, he tries to pry the other's leg wide open. Dust skitters from the floorboards in the aftermath; like that of a desperate, centuries held sigh. The soot sticks to the air and as he pulls his head away, his image seems to disappear.]
[A ghost in the darkness.]
[One second goes by, another. But he's not far. A purple(ing) red blisters through the smoke. It filters through the grainy air like high beams in a fog; weighted, murky. All the while, the devil presses his thumbs neatly into the other's skin. He keeps the bones between his fingers trapped in a kind of vice. Not too hard, but not so soft as to let the other go. Of course, Stocke could easily slip out if he chose to. But for right now, that doesn't seem to be the case.]
[He's right where he wants to be; where he should have been all those months ago.]
[A snap of his thumb and Greed peels Stocke's pants wide open.] Remember - you can't really hurt me. [His words come in a drift. He applies a bit of pressure, pushing the pads of his fingers up just for the feel of it. While Stocke's usual form is nothing but bone and shadow, something here has changed. A bit of muscle bleeding on through and fuck if it isn't a sight.]
[Greed curls his fingers into a leather hem and with a bristle of heat, he snatches a zipper, catches a belt. Pulling the last bits apart so that he can finally have what he so rightfully deserves.]
[Months, after all, are a long time to account for.]