[Hm? Oh, it's a problem. One of moderate consequence; Mello is blatant intent where Greed is something asking to be chased — and he knows it. Has to — and pursuit is something that sets his nerves on edge. Lightning sparking in a silent clap that expands his pupils, widening orbs of increasing interest. His boss never intended to take anything that wasn't given freely, did he? Funny thing.]
[Never much of a predator in this area before the Gods went and made him a hunter; it bleeds over into his intent even now in this temporary human cage. The movement towards him is a devil's promise — one he accepts willingly with an upward tip of his chin; if Greed wants to touch him, the invitation's already been laid out: long ago; a wordless beckon in each encounter, each accidental bout of contact, vies to hold the demon's attention over and over and now — ]
[No, no, no, he's nothing Greed's ever known. Not so different. T'ch. Human, maybe. But the rest? Is it so bold to reach for something that holds the ability to tear him apart? Most would say yes; Mello simply views it as a natural course of action where the dynamics between monsters and humans lie. Warm, curious fingers stretch to pad skin over the rough surface of a horn — things feel so different when Mello's body is what it was before the first change — and if there's hesitation, it's been long ago tucked away.]
[A drawn-out waiting game between the two of them; Mello was never one to be taken at someone's pace and yet — and yet. The urge to pry and take overrules habit; liquor slows his reactions to a languid, heated measure. Greed is taking because that's what he does, and Mello's always been a selfish thing.]
[Offense. Taunt him, taunt him and — oh, Mello will retaliate the way he knows how. Avoidance isn't an option; he's already crossed a line that threatens to snap if he takes just one more step. Just one more and — ]
I think [He accentuates the K; maybe it's the alcohol, maybe it's intentional. A moment of pause, a pensive silence that leaves way for speculation. Long enough to glance over the trap in which he's been entwined, whether or not it's calculated (ah, of course it is) on the Sin's part.] You play dense because you want to hear it. [And that slow, slow smile, it's for infatuation and enemies alike. Dropped almost as instantly as it appears; the tip of his tongue plays at the corner of his mouth for a split second — he was always one to delve head-first into risk, wasn't he?]
[Not interested. His pride would tell him a different story. His hubris would tell him that's a fucking lie; Mello is leather and intention, human or no, impossible to dismiss — he flaunts his own skin as temptation incarnate, and Greed isn't so hard to figure out. He wants and wants — more than any of them maybe — wants confessions that hold him in place while posing a question that Mello thinks was answered a long, long time ago.]
Coming from me — [Is he so difficult to read?] Is that right. [And Greed wants him to say it directly, doesn't he? A verbal contract, an agreement, an acquisition of something given freely. But what he will give, (what he has given) is an indignant, firm jerk of his chin away from the Sin's finger — claws be damned, scratches be damned — before he presses close, close, closer.] You want me to tell you what —
[And when he leans in to nip at the corner of the other's mouth, it's blood-thirsty, even for someone in human form.] Boss. [Low in his throat, and Mello's never played very nicely. Patience isn't a virtue; teasing will only frustrate him until he breaks, but Greed does love the back and forth, doesn't he?]
[Now? Mello will give it to him. Just for now.]
That I want to fuck? [His words come calculated, a backhanded mockery of having to voice it at all, but if this is what Greed needs — ]
no subject
[Never much of a predator in this area before the Gods went and made him a hunter; it bleeds over into his intent even now in this temporary human cage. The movement towards him is a devil's promise — one he accepts willingly with an upward tip of his chin; if Greed wants to touch him, the invitation's already been laid out: long ago; a wordless beckon in each encounter, each accidental bout of contact, vies to hold the demon's attention over and over and now — ]
[No, no, no, he's nothing Greed's ever known. Not so different. T'ch. Human, maybe. But the rest? Is it so bold to reach for something that holds the ability to tear him apart? Most would say yes; Mello simply views it as a natural course of action where the dynamics between monsters and humans lie. Warm, curious fingers stretch to pad skin over the rough surface of a horn — things feel so different when Mello's body is what it was before the first change — and if there's hesitation, it's been long ago tucked away.]
[A drawn-out waiting game between the two of them; Mello was never one to be taken at someone's pace and yet — and yet. The urge to pry and take overrules habit; liquor slows his reactions to a languid, heated measure. Greed is taking because that's what he does, and Mello's always been a selfish thing.]
[Offense. Taunt him, taunt him and — oh, Mello will retaliate the way he knows how. Avoidance isn't an option; he's already crossed a line that threatens to snap if he takes just one more step. Just one more and — ]
I think [He accentuates the K; maybe it's the alcohol, maybe it's intentional. A moment of pause, a pensive silence that leaves way for speculation. Long enough to glance over the trap in which he's been entwined, whether or not it's calculated (ah, of course it is) on the Sin's part.] You play dense because you want to hear it. [And that slow, slow smile, it's for infatuation and enemies alike. Dropped almost as instantly as it appears; the tip of his tongue plays at the corner of his mouth for a split second — he was always one to delve head-first into risk, wasn't he?]
[Not interested. His pride would tell him a different story. His hubris would tell him that's a fucking lie; Mello is leather and intention, human or no, impossible to dismiss — he flaunts his own skin as temptation incarnate, and Greed isn't so hard to figure out. He wants and wants — more than any of them maybe — wants confessions that hold him in place while posing a question that Mello thinks was answered a long, long time ago.]
Coming from me — [Is he so difficult to read?] Is that right. [And Greed wants him to say it directly, doesn't he? A verbal contract, an agreement, an acquisition of something given freely. But what he will give, (what he has given) is an indignant, firm jerk of his chin away from the Sin's finger — claws be damned, scratches be damned — before he presses close, close, closer.] You want me to tell you what —
[And when he leans in to nip at the corner of the other's mouth, it's blood-thirsty, even for someone in human form.] Boss. [Low in his throat, and Mello's never played very nicely. Patience isn't a virtue; teasing will only frustrate him until he breaks, but Greed does love the back and forth, doesn't he?]
[Now? Mello will give it to him. Just for now.]
That I want to fuck? [His words come calculated, a backhanded mockery of having to voice it at all, but if this is what Greed needs — ]