[It takes Stocke a moment, as Greed's hands run over his hips - but:] ...I am learning from the best. [His voice is tinged with the same heat that seeps over the floorboards, spills as smoke from Greed's words.]
[Then the Sin's mouth wraps around him, and Stocke's thoughts snap over like a jarred switch - the shade's head and shoulders jerk back, hitting the wall again. He breathes out a word with his eyes suddenly shut, too staggered and soft to truly make out; 'Prophet,' maybe. Or maybe something else.]
[Whatever it is, the touch of Greed's tongue twists it into a thin, pleading sound; Stocke's claws drag up the demon's back, sharp points in deep, then release and catch a tight grip on the Sin's shoulders. As if the shade's slipping, trying to hold on. A tendril brushes gently over the marks left, then settles into a loose, dangling coil at Greed's neck.]
[Stocke's hips twitch as the Sin's nails dig in, trying to restrain himself from thrusting forward with Greed's lips curled around him. An audible 'hhh-h' of breath, stomach tensed against the demon's horns, a heavy inhale in the seconds after - Stocke's flushed, skin shading dark gray rather than red. His fingers drop off the Sin's shoulders to sink into the wall behind him a second time, and he mouths what might be a curse, might be a prayer.]
[He follows the pull with unsteady legs, leaning forward.]
[The shade's tendrils are more sure where Stocke's not - almost with a mind of their own, but it's nothing but the shade's own eagerness fueling them. The one wound about Greed's leg snakes higher, cupping the front of the demon's pants with a faint pressure; another curls around the Sin's back entire, just under the seam of his wings, and traces a nearly possessive line across his chest.]
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[Then the Sin's mouth wraps around him, and Stocke's thoughts snap over like a jarred switch - the shade's head and shoulders jerk back, hitting the wall again. He breathes out a word with his eyes suddenly shut, too staggered and soft to truly make out; 'Prophet,' maybe. Or maybe something else.]
[Whatever it is, the touch of Greed's tongue twists it into a thin, pleading sound; Stocke's claws drag up the demon's back, sharp points in deep, then release and catch a tight grip on the Sin's shoulders. As if the shade's slipping, trying to hold on. A tendril brushes gently over the marks left, then settles into a loose, dangling coil at Greed's neck.]
[Stocke's hips twitch as the Sin's nails dig in, trying to restrain himself from thrusting forward with Greed's lips curled around him. An audible 'hhh-h' of breath, stomach tensed against the demon's horns, a heavy inhale in the seconds after - Stocke's flushed, skin shading dark gray rather than red. His fingers drop off the Sin's shoulders to sink into the wall behind him a second time, and he mouths what might be a curse, might be a prayer.]
[He follows the pull with unsteady legs, leaning forward.]
[The shade's tendrils are more sure where Stocke's not - almost with a mind of their own, but it's nothing but the shade's own eagerness fueling them. The one wound about Greed's leg snakes higher, cupping the front of the demon's pants with a faint pressure; another curls around the Sin's back entire, just under the seam of his wings, and traces a nearly possessive line across his chest.]