[There's a kind possessiveness to his touch; a fine lining of warmed hearth and shallow need laced across his fingers in licks of long-set ash. It plays off the tips of his nails in a fever - like that of silk threading itself into a tight knot. Twisting, claiming. And as Stocke finds himself again, the Sin's right behind him; a presence living in sheets of smoke and dust just brimming with anticipation.]
[And here, here it is.]
[He can feel the cold chill of shadow as he presses into Stocke's back. It meets his skin in a bristle; the lightest touch of a charge flickering along his scales to the tune of twitching, static purple. A quick vibration. As if the last bit of doubt's finally letting go - like that of a broken-end cable firing off a final shock. And as it shreds away, the devil inhales on a hint of a grin. In the end, he can never get enough of this; the look of Stocke's face pressed into his arm, the sound of his nails beating into the wall. It's just another memory - another keepsake of what is and will always be:]
[His.]
[Between the hanging gloom, the bones of his rib-cage gently ignite from the inside out. Beats of fire and heat boom inside. They writhe and jerk, the flashes of bright white and cracked orange similar to that of a trapped thunderhead trying to pound its way out. The Sin's lips pull wetly back and as his stomach clenches, he follows the other's lead. The coil of his hip riding Stocke's arches in a soundless, daunting rhythm.]
[The possession of a creature bound by the desire to have, have, have.]
[But he doesn't forget. With one hand snared around the curve of Stocke's hip, the Sin plays the rest. His fingers tap down the length of the other's cock like a fiddle; timing every thrust to a jerk, a pull back to a coil. The curves of his nails flip inward and with a soft trace, he fingers the head of the other's cock. Rolling it, pressing it, into the pads of his fingers like that of a treasured coin worth counting over and over again.]
[And God, is it fucking worth it.]
[Greed hums into Stocke's neck. Dull reds and faint purples sink into the wall's scars. They're deeper in some places, lighter in others; the evidence of Stocke's repent a confession of bites and scratches that will probably stay far after either of them realize. The Sin lowers his head. His jaws wheeze open, then. A whirl of smoke faints between his teeth - the silent whisper akin to a wick that's been suddenly snuffed out. The hand around Stocke's hip clenches down and with a beckoning pull, the Sin finds his pace. Riding, rocking. And, as one of the lights outside clinks off, his teeth latch onto the bend of Stocke's shoulder. An anchor of points to leave a reminder.]
[No matter where Stocke goes, no matter what happens, he'd always be there; in one form, or another.]
no subject
[And here, here it is.]
[He can feel the cold chill of shadow as he presses into Stocke's back. It meets his skin in a bristle; the lightest touch of a charge flickering along his scales to the tune of twitching, static purple. A quick vibration. As if the last bit of doubt's finally letting go - like that of a broken-end cable firing off a final shock. And as it shreds away, the devil inhales on a hint of a grin. In the end, he can never get enough of this; the look of Stocke's face pressed into his arm, the sound of his nails beating into the wall. It's just another memory - another keepsake of what is and will always be:]
[His.]
[Between the hanging gloom, the bones of his rib-cage gently ignite from the inside out. Beats of fire and heat boom inside. They writhe and jerk, the flashes of bright white and cracked orange similar to that of a trapped thunderhead trying to pound its way out. The Sin's lips pull wetly back and as his stomach clenches, he follows the other's lead. The coil of his hip riding Stocke's arches in a soundless, daunting rhythm.]
[The possession of a creature bound by the desire to have, have, have.]
[But he doesn't forget. With one hand snared around the curve of Stocke's hip, the Sin plays the rest. His fingers tap down the length of the other's cock like a fiddle; timing every thrust to a jerk, a pull back to a coil. The curves of his nails flip inward and with a soft trace, he fingers the head of the other's cock. Rolling it, pressing it, into the pads of his fingers like that of a treasured coin worth counting over and over again.]
[And God, is it fucking worth it.]
[Greed hums into Stocke's neck. Dull reds and faint purples sink into the wall's scars. They're deeper in some places, lighter in others; the evidence of Stocke's repent a confession of bites and scratches that will probably stay far after either of them realize. The Sin lowers his head. His jaws wheeze open, then. A whirl of smoke faints between his teeth - the silent whisper akin to a wick that's been suddenly snuffed out. The hand around Stocke's hip clenches down and with a beckoning pull, the Sin finds his pace. Riding, rocking. And, as one of the lights outside clinks off, his teeth latch onto the bend of Stocke's shoulder. An anchor of points to leave a reminder.]
[No matter where Stocke goes, no matter what happens, he'd always be there; in one form, or another.]