[Trickles of fire snake around his ear. This is what he's been waiting for: the last chord in a string tuned too tight. It plays on every note: from the tremble of stolen electricity forced off its wire to the squelch of a wall as its peeled back and exposed. Under nails so tense, so full of disregard that they forget their place. Greed eases his mouth open. The strangle of shadows between his legs brings a heat to his smile; a delicate lick of humidity testing on the points of his razors as they frame around the tip of the other's cock like the threat of a testing trap.]
[And there it is, the final throes: "Please."]
[Greed pushes backward. The base of his skull forms into Stocke's twisted fingers - applying the pressure, giving him the answer without the need to communicate. It's cruel, really: how much he's played the other. How long he's plucked that string bit by bit. The Sin drags his hand backward and with a casual flick of his nail, he leaves his mark across skin. A delicate reminder of where he was and where he'd always be.]
[But never be said that the devil doesn't give as good as he gets.]
[Further away, the underside of his palm huffs in a wad of steam - as if the aftermath of a shower had been trapped between his nails, desperate for freedom. Greed extends his index. He churns it twice, twirling both fog and smoke in a tight, relentless knot.] Turn around - [He starts in; an order as cool as fresh-dipped carbon. No, he's been far too coy and now, now - ]
[A strum of steel shivers from behind him. His tail's on the move; wandering, searching, for something in particular. The Sin's jaw closes up to a faint line and as wood catches on the spade of his tail, his lips offer a mild crack: that vicious line of his coming back to view with terrible intentions in mind. A drawer nearby springs open, a couple of items rattle. And with a light clap of his heels, the former homunculus rises to stand. He pops the button to his pants blindly open - by a the dip of his nail, the quick-jerk snap of a thumb that's as ingrained into him as everything else.]
[After that, it's just logic. Greed guides his free hand across Stocke's hip as a pivoting motion. Slow, like a dance better people might take under finer circumstances. He spreads his knuckles along the thin of the other's torso: mapping black scales to dark tendrils with only his tattoo to separate the differences.]
[Because oh, is this just fine. Up against the wall, spread out, for him and him alone.]
[The Sin pushes his nose into the back of Stocke's head. Whatever he went searching for, it disappears into his other hand. Greed hooks the tips of his talons into the lip of it. Plastic whines back, a lick of burning pops away. What remains is the warped cap of a bottle - its last effort falling helplessly between the two in a singular ping and a vicious crunch.]
[Greed spits something to the floor.] Don't hold back - [Trilled, whispered. The Sin slides his hand between Stocke's legs. Slick oil warms on the backs of his knuckles, along his nails made quickly short. He guides one finger inside, then another. A slow coating inch by inch until he can go no further.]
no subject
[And there it is, the final throes: "Please."]
[Greed pushes backward. The base of his skull forms into Stocke's twisted fingers - applying the pressure, giving him the answer without the need to communicate. It's cruel, really: how much he's played the other. How long he's plucked that string bit by bit. The Sin drags his hand backward and with a casual flick of his nail, he leaves his mark across skin. A delicate reminder of where he was and where he'd always be.]
[But never be said that the devil doesn't give as good as he gets.]
[Further away, the underside of his palm huffs in a wad of steam - as if the aftermath of a shower had been trapped between his nails, desperate for freedom. Greed extends his index. He churns it twice, twirling both fog and smoke in a tight, relentless knot.] Turn around - [He starts in; an order as cool as fresh-dipped carbon. No, he's been far too coy and now, now - ]
[A strum of steel shivers from behind him. His tail's on the move; wandering, searching, for something in particular. The Sin's jaw closes up to a faint line and as wood catches on the spade of his tail, his lips offer a mild crack: that vicious line of his coming back to view with terrible intentions in mind. A drawer nearby springs open, a couple of items rattle. And with a light clap of his heels, the former homunculus rises to stand. He pops the button to his pants blindly open - by a the dip of his nail, the quick-jerk snap of a thumb that's as ingrained into him as everything else.]
[After that, it's just logic. Greed guides his free hand across Stocke's hip as a pivoting motion. Slow, like a dance better people might take under finer circumstances. He spreads his knuckles along the thin of the other's torso: mapping black scales to dark tendrils with only his tattoo to separate the differences.]
[Because oh, is this just fine. Up against the wall, spread out, for him and him alone.]
[The Sin pushes his nose into the back of Stocke's head. Whatever he went searching for, it disappears into his other hand. Greed hooks the tips of his talons into the lip of it. Plastic whines back, a lick of burning pops away. What remains is the warped cap of a bottle - its last effort falling helplessly between the two in a singular ping and a vicious crunch.]
[Greed spits something to the floor.] Don't hold back - [Trilled, whispered. The Sin slides his hand between Stocke's legs. Slick oil warms on the backs of his knuckles, along his nails made quickly short. He guides one finger inside, then another. A slow coating inch by inch until he can go no further.]