[Prophet, but there are none here - only the exact opposite. Everything the conventional world frowns upon, the concept of virtue living in a paradox. The Sin's mouth twists when he hears it and while it's too haughty to accurately make out, the feeling's just the same. A breaking submission - like that of the very thing he is, corrupting indefinitely.]
[And Lord forgive him, he just can't help himself.]
[A shallow grunt wheezes from his nostrils. It rides on ribbons of smoke - their tangles meeting the cool touch of shadow like some sort of informal handshake. He can smell the tint of copper, now. The taste of it is tinny in the back of his throat: a flavor riddled with charcoal and soot. He pries the curls of his talons from Stocke's thighs and with a fan of his fingers, with a spread like wildfire, he begins to take the rest of him. His hands stretch along the other's stomach, meeting dark gray to an impossible black. Taking his time, his chances, before delivering the final blow.]
[After all, Stocke just has so much to give. And give, he does.]
[Greed's hands meld into the other's ass; a handful each. He doesn't miss how much those tendrils seem to give it away. Where his second's still staggering with his choices, his nature is more primal. It doesn't question what it wants, doesn't hesitate to take what it needs. The Sin flicks his glance upward. His eyes roll lazily in their sockets: as if daring that monster to come out. To seek and take what it so blatantly needs in a shiver of cat-sliver points.]
[No need to hold back. Not anymore.]
[Another hum vibrates at the back of his throat. He presses the pads of his fingers atop the other's backside, allowing him to act where Stocke so pointedly hesitates. Bob for bob, he devours the other: the swell of a hard-on half shoved down his throat like a means of suffocation. And all the while, he can't keep his hands busy enough. They skirt down the backs of Stocke's thighs, trace lines across his skin. Only to come back again: as if he's just itching for it. As if this is just one more addiction he can never quite satisfy.]
[Never enough: it's never enough. And deep down, all he hears is the same old drum. Beating, pounding, in an indefinite loop.]
["More, more, more. Give me more, give me more - "]
[Behind him, the devil's wings suddenly snap wide. They expand from one side of the room to the other - like that of a sail in high water breaking its binds. Deeper wounds cut into the ceiling, harder scorches ferment in the walls. It's the proverbial switch and Stocke's all but thrown it. Whatever sort of control's gone now and as the Sin's fingers peel around the back of his companion's thighs, Greed eases skull back. Pulling his lips away, away, away until only the head of a cock remains.]
no subject
[And Lord forgive him, he just can't help himself.]
[A shallow grunt wheezes from his nostrils. It rides on ribbons of smoke - their tangles meeting the cool touch of shadow like some sort of informal handshake. He can smell the tint of copper, now. The taste of it is tinny in the back of his throat: a flavor riddled with charcoal and soot. He pries the curls of his talons from Stocke's thighs and with a fan of his fingers, with a spread like wildfire, he begins to take the rest of him. His hands stretch along the other's stomach, meeting dark gray to an impossible black. Taking his time, his chances, before delivering the final blow.]
[After all, Stocke just has so much to give. And give, he does.]
[Greed's hands meld into the other's ass; a handful each. He doesn't miss how much those tendrils seem to give it away. Where his second's still staggering with his choices, his nature is more primal. It doesn't question what it wants, doesn't hesitate to take what it needs. The Sin flicks his glance upward. His eyes roll lazily in their sockets: as if daring that monster to come out. To seek and take what it so blatantly needs in a shiver of cat-sliver points.]
[No need to hold back. Not anymore.]
[Another hum vibrates at the back of his throat. He presses the pads of his fingers atop the other's backside, allowing him to act where Stocke so pointedly hesitates. Bob for bob, he devours the other: the swell of a hard-on half shoved down his throat like a means of suffocation. And all the while, he can't keep his hands busy enough. They skirt down the backs of Stocke's thighs, trace lines across his skin. Only to come back again: as if he's just itching for it. As if this is just one more addiction he can never quite satisfy.]
[Never enough: it's never enough. And deep down, all he hears is the same old drum. Beating, pounding, in an indefinite loop.]
["More, more, more. Give me more, give me more - "]
[Behind him, the devil's wings suddenly snap wide. They expand from one side of the room to the other - like that of a sail in high water breaking its binds. Deeper wounds cut into the ceiling, harder scorches ferment in the walls. It's the proverbial switch and Stocke's all but thrown it. Whatever sort of control's gone now and as the Sin's fingers peel around the back of his companion's thighs, Greed eases skull back. Pulling his lips away, away, away until only the head of a cock remains.]
[The motion is deliberate. A dare:]
["Go on and show me what you've got."]