[If this is war, a sketched line drawn haphazardly in the proverbial sand has long-since been breached. Human on initial approach, human now — Mello's penchant for dipping curious fingers into poison has always held true. Never one to give (weakness and subjugation and everything in-between), that's precisely what he's doing now, isn't it?]
[Because Greed is methodical — dripping with intent — where Mello is throwing his vulnerability into the flames twice-over. A voice that wasn't quite so unearthly when Mello was more than human is something transcendent now; confident: the teasing dance between the two of them ends here, where the human's too-responsive flesh consumes touches and breaths and words alike.]
[I wanna hear you — ]
[And when has Mello ever been one to give in to demands? Oh, but Greed would phrase it as an exchange, wouldn't he? Give me what I want, and I'll give you, (I'll give you) —]
[A b s o l u t i o n.]
[There are no saints here.]
[The blond pinches the tip of his tongue between grit teeth; alcohol or no, nerves dance along with contact in prickles of electric staccato rhythm. A tip of his head to further expose a smooth, pale throat — (never give in to the hunter ) — he invites nips and wounds and everything so far-removed from heaven. A swallow, throat bobbing in nothing short of a blatant request, he peeks at the sin through lowered lids, grips at fabric to seal the frustrating minute distance between them once and for all.]
[All of the liquor in Ryslig wouldn't hold the ability to raise his body temperature enough to match a demon's; the warmth is engulfing as much as it is alarming and it's the minute hesitation that surges Mello's resolve. Thin, practiced fingers slide up the side of his boss's neck, find purchase in the hair just at the nape where he grabs and tugs toward him, hips inviting and clamoring in their insistence — never one for anything resembling patience, their mutual need to size each other up like enemies who are anything but plants an ache in him that tenses and tightens and begs to be absolved like an unspoken prayer.]
I want you —
[I want everything.]
— to stop fucking around.
[Sin incarnate, older than breath, born-again monster; Mello wants Greed unleashed in ways that would nullify religion in all its fickle forms. He punctuates the murmur with a hard, lingering press of warm lips against Greed's temple, with a chuckle low enough in his throat to be mistaken for a taunt. His next words are muffled against skin, bold in their clarity.]
Don't play coy with me. [Because they both know that either of them are anything but.] And don't give me a choice. [Breathless, anticipating.] I think you know I never had one to begin with.
[Not with his resolve upon first setting eyes on someone who Mello knew was so much more than he appeared.]
no subject
[Because Greed is methodical — dripping with intent — where Mello is throwing his vulnerability into the flames twice-over. A voice that wasn't quite so unearthly when Mello was more than human is something transcendent now; confident: the teasing dance between the two of them ends here, where the human's too-responsive flesh consumes touches and breaths and words alike.]
[I wanna hear you — ]
[And when has Mello ever been one to give in to demands? Oh, but Greed would phrase it as an exchange, wouldn't he? Give me what I want, and I'll give you, (I'll give you) —]
[A b s o l u t i o n.]
[There are no saints here.]
[The blond pinches the tip of his tongue between grit teeth; alcohol or no, nerves dance along with contact in prickles of electric staccato rhythm. A tip of his head to further expose a smooth, pale throat — (never give in to the hunter ) — he invites nips and wounds and everything so far-removed from heaven. A swallow, throat bobbing in nothing short of a blatant request, he peeks at the sin through lowered lids, grips at fabric to seal the frustrating minute distance between them once and for all.]
[All of the liquor in Ryslig wouldn't hold the ability to raise his body temperature enough to match a demon's; the warmth is engulfing as much as it is alarming and it's the minute hesitation that surges Mello's resolve. Thin, practiced fingers slide up the side of his boss's neck, find purchase in the hair just at the nape where he grabs and tugs toward him, hips inviting and clamoring in their insistence — never one for anything resembling patience, their mutual need to size each other up like enemies who are anything but plants an ache in him that tenses and tightens and begs to be absolved like an unspoken prayer.]
I want you —
[I want everything.]
— to stop fucking around.
[Sin incarnate, older than breath, born-again monster; Mello wants Greed unleashed in ways that would nullify religion in all its fickle forms. He punctuates the murmur with a hard, lingering press of warm lips against Greed's temple, with a chuckle low enough in his throat to be mistaken for a taunt. His next words are muffled against skin, bold in their clarity.]
Don't play coy with me. [Because they both know that either of them are anything but.] And don't give me a choice. [Breathless, anticipating.] I think you know I never had one to begin with.
[Not with his resolve upon first setting eyes on someone who Mello knew was so much more than he appeared.]