[It's like the roar of a forest fire or volcano's eruption, a force of nature, consuming. The lights at Greed's throat and ribs and wings and scales act brimstone illumination and pulsing rhythm alike, and Stocke can near feel the Sin's satisfaction in the very blood and breath of the air around them - ashen haze and glimmer in the walls, an inhale whistling through a Cheshire's grin of pointed teeth. The hum at the base of Stocke's neck he feels more in sensation than in sound.]
[It's hardly alone. The shade stifles small, faintly needing noises with every rock of the Sin's hips, writhing with the careful-casual play of Greed's fingers, relentless as the gleam of gold. Presses back even into the flicker of the demon's ribs, storming lights and all, moves with the beat the Sin's found.]
[In the end it's the bite of Greed's teeth that does it, just one feeling too many when Stocke can already hardly think - the shade comes apart under the Sin's fingers, shuddering. A wordless cry that's too glitched-recording to have come from a truly human throat, nowhere near the strength of a shout but still a volume above what came before.]
[Stocke's eyes slide half-open a moment later (when did they close?). Though he's still catching his breath, there's a lazy feeling seeping deep through his bones - as if he were basking in sunlight, were he still a creature of day. An ease of tension on a level he hasn't felt in weeks, if not much longer.]
[But there's only a stutter of a second before he starts moving again - time to pay it back.]
short but this has been sitting long enough already OTL
[It's hardly alone. The shade stifles small, faintly needing noises with every rock of the Sin's hips, writhing with the careful-casual play of Greed's fingers, relentless as the gleam of gold. Presses back even into the flicker of the demon's ribs, storming lights and all, moves with the beat the Sin's found.]
[In the end it's the bite of Greed's teeth that does it, just one feeling too many when Stocke can already hardly think - the shade comes apart under the Sin's fingers, shuddering. A wordless cry that's too glitched-recording to have come from a truly human throat, nowhere near the strength of a shout but still a volume above what came before.]
[Stocke's eyes slide half-open a moment later (when did they close?). Though he's still catching his breath, there's a lazy feeling seeping deep through his bones - as if he were basking in sunlight, were he still a creature of day. An ease of tension on a level he hasn't felt in weeks, if not much longer.]
[But there's only a stutter of a second before he starts moving again - time to pay it back.]