[Old, latent Catholicism at work — humans turned monsters turned human still retain a conscience, when all is said and done — Sin is something to be avoided at all costs where intention is concerned. Because if he commits it — oh, and he has — if he lays his soul bare and delves into darkness: it’s conviction. But if Sin takes him, well. It’s only a slip, something to which humans have been prone since the beginning of time. The proverbial apple (and Eve was so innocent, wasn’t she) tempting, bright and sweetness laden with knowledge that was never theirs to have.]
[Too-sensitive skin tingles everywhere Greed’s mouth touches; some nerves have long-died, others so alive that it near-jolts his body upon contact, and Mello has never submitted for control. An old wives’ trick, something he’d always held his pride over but now now it’s a worthy method: give and give and he can take what’s his (and it is, it is, it is) with a feigned innocence that has never known someone like him.]
[Greed is smoke-wood and claws and teeth that can gnash him if the Sin so chooses and yet — Devil that he is, Devil that Mello’s sought — he vies for permission (let me in; let me in) and isn’t that what devils do?]
[The smooth tip of a moist tongue runs over the surface of his top lip, a human body presses and goads where it should tense in the face of something that it could perceive as a threat. Monsters know no honor — doesn’t matter what they tell themselves over and over — and the body that Greed so liberally handles and prods is a potential meal, a veritable plate thrown at his feet, willing and naïve as it is brimming with pride and a want Mello hasn’t known since the Gods made a monster of him.]
[Recognition sates him more than contact — Sin wants because Sin knows the firebomb he holds sway over, chaos incarnate shoved into a human body, a determined, unpredictable collection of sharp edges and stubborn will making himself malleable enough to lift, to urge. Mello presses closer and closer, tightens their bodies together everywhere the other touches, lifts his mouth at the corners, basks in the appreciation — (got your attention, huh) — of words and intention alike and when he snakes his arms around Sin incarnate’s neck, ghosts blunt, human teeth over a cheek, the permission there is as blatant as it would be if he’d asked for it directly and still — ]
[Yet.]
I want your attention — [Isn’t there merit in being righteous in the presence of devils? Honesty was never Mello’s mother tongue, but now — ] All of it. [And oh, Greed will say he has it won’t he? And that will be a lie in itself, but now — here — Mello will take what he can get. He tips his head back enough to put his eyes in the other’s line of sight, urges a knee against the demon’s thigh in a hard dig before he takes without permission (haven’t they long passed that?) with his mouth, fingertips digging deep into the back of the other’s neck. Teasing, tasting, tongue slicking over the prick-sharp ends of teeth, Mello’s body is svelte and pliant and if Greed wants — ]
[And he does want; that much is apparent.]
[Eager lips are trying to pry a mouth open with Mello’s own, a hunger that knows no name, a fleeting claim to something long-forgotten in the morning; this is a game he’s played too many times before to avoid the eventual outcome and right now?]
[Things like that don’t matter. Not when he’s hard and aching and as hungry as he would have been if there were a feast laid out before him after a fortnight of fasting.]
no subject
[Too-sensitive skin tingles everywhere Greed’s mouth touches; some nerves have long-died, others so alive that it near-jolts his body upon contact, and Mello has never submitted for control. An old wives’ trick, something he’d always held his pride over but now now it’s a worthy method: give and give and he can take what’s his (and it is, it is, it is) with a feigned innocence that has never known someone like him.]
[Greed is smoke-wood and claws and teeth that can gnash him if the Sin so chooses and yet — Devil that he is, Devil that Mello’s sought — he vies for permission (let me in; let me in) and isn’t that what devils do?]
[The smooth tip of a moist tongue runs over the surface of his top lip, a human body presses and goads where it should tense in the face of something that it could perceive as a threat. Monsters know no honor — doesn’t matter what they tell themselves over and over — and the body that Greed so liberally handles and prods is a potential meal, a veritable plate thrown at his feet, willing and naïve as it is brimming with pride and a want Mello hasn’t known since the Gods made a monster of him.]
[Recognition sates him more than contact — Sin wants because Sin knows the firebomb he holds sway over, chaos incarnate shoved into a human body, a determined, unpredictable collection of sharp edges and stubborn will making himself malleable enough to lift, to urge. Mello presses closer and closer, tightens their bodies together everywhere the other touches, lifts his mouth at the corners, basks in the appreciation — (got your attention, huh) — of words and intention alike and when he snakes his arms around Sin incarnate’s neck, ghosts blunt, human teeth over a cheek, the permission there is as blatant as it would be if he’d asked for it directly and still — ]
[Yet.]
I want your attention — [Isn’t there merit in being righteous in the presence of devils? Honesty was never Mello’s mother tongue, but now — ] All of it. [And oh, Greed will say he has it won’t he? And that will be a lie in itself, but now — here — Mello will take what he can get. He tips his head back enough to put his eyes in the other’s line of sight, urges a knee against the demon’s thigh in a hard dig before he takes without permission (haven’t they long passed that?) with his mouth, fingertips digging deep into the back of the other’s neck. Teasing, tasting, tongue slicking over the prick-sharp ends of teeth, Mello’s body is svelte and pliant and if Greed wants — ]
[And he does want; that much is apparent.]
[Eager lips are trying to pry a mouth open with Mello’s own, a hunger that knows no name, a fleeting claim to something long-forgotten in the morning; this is a game he’s played too many times before to avoid the eventual outcome and right now?]
[Things like that don’t matter. Not when he’s hard and aching and as hungry as he would have been if there were a feast laid out before him after a fortnight of fasting.]