[Without the dire strumming of static through his veins, snapping under his skin like lightning running to the heights - an insistent drum of 'more' over and over, and maybe other 'please's that the shade didn't voice - Stocke finds it easier to start drawing in his surroundings again. Catching something more than just the feeling of Greed on him, in him, a vicious desperation like a circuit freshly closed.]
[The Sin could drag him back there, he knows, given nothing more than a bit of time. But right now he feels like a candle charred to the bottom, burnt out, warm and languid as the pool of wax left when the fire snuffs out.]
[For now he'd rather this. It's easier to hear the soft hiss of Greed's breath, in and out, feel the way the demon's muscles tense and go lax. Wings spreading as if the Sin can't keep them pulled close, the splinter of claws in wall and fire glimmer sown below the wood. A scorching satisfaction like sparks at the edge of a bonfire; a reaction, felt instead of given.]
[Stocke's head drops back. He curls his mouth against Greed's neck, deliberate, a hum buzzing soft and electric down his spine and through his throat, up to his teeth. The shade leaves one elbow braced, but the other falls; Stocke's fingers slide down the arm leading down to his side, then run claws in a circle around a crimson-bright Ouroboros. A snap of his hips - the demon's greedy greedy greedy, but Stocke has just avarice enough to want to yank the Sin over the edge in return.]
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[The Sin could drag him back there, he knows, given nothing more than a bit of time. But right now he feels like a candle charred to the bottom, burnt out, warm and languid as the pool of wax left when the fire snuffs out.]
[For now he'd rather this. It's easier to hear the soft hiss of Greed's breath, in and out, feel the way the demon's muscles tense and go lax. Wings spreading as if the Sin can't keep them pulled close, the splinter of claws in wall and fire glimmer sown below the wood. A scorching satisfaction like sparks at the edge of a bonfire; a reaction, felt instead of given.]
[Stocke's head drops back. He curls his mouth against Greed's neck, deliberate, a hum buzzing soft and electric down his spine and through his throat, up to his teeth. The shade leaves one elbow braced, but the other falls; Stocke's fingers slide down the arm leading down to his side, then run claws in a circle around a crimson-bright Ouroboros. A snap of his hips - the demon's greedy greedy greedy, but Stocke has just avarice enough to want to yank the Sin over the edge in return.]
[There's a different kind of pleasure in this.]