[The claws at his back tattoo into his skin. He had almost forgotten what pain felt like - the sensation an aching sting. It's one that holds onto the bob of his throat, that tastes at the back of his jaw in a scratch of warm acid. Like that of windpipe that's been suddenly clenched shut.]
[And yet, not at all unpleasant.]
[Blood swells from the sharp pricks, the beads of which take on the look of a fresh-rung sweat. Greed arches his back into the feeling, into the tug of desperation practically begging him to get on with it. The last domino falls into place and just like a prod of a maniacal finger, he topples it over: a full exposure. Of everything Stocke's become, accepted, and thrived to be, steadied between the palms of more covetous hands.]
Hn - [Greed's click of laughter huffs along Stocke's stomach.] - see, wasn't that hard, was it? [In his exhale, the air is steamy and toxic - a poisonous cocktail of addiction that seems to answer the friction in the tendrils around him; as if they're fed up and worn with Stocke's stubbornly-human control. "Be the monster," they seem to say. "Take what you want." And oh, could the Sin not agree more.]
[Monsters and those there of have always been his best company.]
[Greed splays his palms open. Stocke's hips fill neatly between them - as nail after nail, claw after claw, he takes what he wants. A grand theft of the personal variety and with sizzle at the tip of his tongue, the devil prepares himself for the final grab. Muggy vapor lifts from the sharps of his teeth, the pucker of fire extinguishing silently in his throat. Greed rolls his lips inward and with that, the insinuation's clear:]
["Better hold on tight, lovely - lest you want to get bit."]
[Stocke's already started showing the symptoms far before the devil takes him in. The Sin's forehead presses into the dip of the other's stomach, exposing his horns like a pair of lifelines in a turbulent sea. Despite his second's clear inexperience, after the initial introduction's over, the former homunculus holds no more bars. He swallows Stocke inch by inch, the threat of his teeth a reminder of just who and what he is.]
[A man, but not; a ghost, only slightly. But still a guru for the unabashedly needy.]
[With a serpentine flick, Greed's tongue slides out from the bottom of his jaw. The forks split along the other's cock - an elongated trace hinted with a pinch of sulfur. He can taste all of it now; the shade's corporeal design a chill, DC-charge. Positive and negatives do battle in the shell of his throat, causing his shoulders to roll and undulate. Igniting his internal hearth and when they meet, he disregards any kind of warning. Greed's talons bite into the handle of Stocke's hips. They try to force him forward - dragging him, plunging him deeper down his gullet as simple and drowning as a devil's bargain.]
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[And yet, not at all unpleasant.]
[Blood swells from the sharp pricks, the beads of which take on the look of a fresh-rung sweat. Greed arches his back into the feeling, into the tug of desperation practically begging him to get on with it. The last domino falls into place and just like a prod of a maniacal finger, he topples it over: a full exposure. Of everything Stocke's become, accepted, and thrived to be, steadied between the palms of more covetous hands.]
Hn - [Greed's click of laughter huffs along Stocke's stomach.] - see, wasn't that hard, was it? [In his exhale, the air is steamy and toxic - a poisonous cocktail of addiction that seems to answer the friction in the tendrils around him; as if they're fed up and worn with Stocke's stubbornly-human control. "Be the monster," they seem to say. "Take what you want." And oh, could the Sin not agree more.]
[Monsters and those there of have always been his best company.]
[Greed splays his palms open. Stocke's hips fill neatly between them - as nail after nail, claw after claw, he takes what he wants. A grand theft of the personal variety and with sizzle at the tip of his tongue, the devil prepares himself for the final grab. Muggy vapor lifts from the sharps of his teeth, the pucker of fire extinguishing silently in his throat. Greed rolls his lips inward and with that, the insinuation's clear:]
["Better hold on tight, lovely - lest you want to get bit."]
[Stocke's already started showing the symptoms far before the devil takes him in. The Sin's forehead presses into the dip of the other's stomach, exposing his horns like a pair of lifelines in a turbulent sea. Despite his second's clear inexperience, after the initial introduction's over, the former homunculus holds no more bars. He swallows Stocke inch by inch, the threat of his teeth a reminder of just who and what he is.]
[A man, but not; a ghost, only slightly. But still a guru for the unabashedly needy.]
[With a serpentine flick, Greed's tongue slides out from the bottom of his jaw. The forks split along the other's cock - an elongated trace hinted with a pinch of sulfur. He can taste all of it now; the shade's corporeal design a chill, DC-charge. Positive and negatives do battle in the shell of his throat, causing his shoulders to roll and undulate. Igniting his internal hearth and when they meet, he disregards any kind of warning. Greed's talons bite into the handle of Stocke's hips. They try to force him forward - dragging him, plunging him deeper down his gullet as simple and drowning as a devil's bargain.]
[Because oh, how easier it is just to fall.]