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[nestingdevil]

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CONTACTS

0.0.0.0 ♦ "MASON" | Heather

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0.0.0.0 ♦ STOCKE

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0.0.0.0 ♦ AOBA

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0.0.0.0 ♦ "JUSTINE"

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0.0.0.0 ♦ KILLUA

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0.0.0.0 ♦ ZOLF J. KIMBLEY

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0.0.0.0 ♦ EDWARD ELRIC

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0.0.0.0 ♦ "XANDER" | SANDRATH

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Comments

[thischaos]

[Regret — no; Mello's never regretted a thing he's done in his life. Matters of meticulous calculation lead to desirable outcomes: even this. A brush of an arm against an arm, an unprompted glance, suggestions veiled in casual movements and words — this encounter, impromptu as it might be, is a planned means to an end that Mello decided on from the moment he honed in on something infinitely more powerful than himself. And the wry chuckle he gives at the Sin's disclaimer is overconfident, assumptive.]

[What is there to regret, really?]

What, [he murmurs between the sounds of rustling leather and metal coming undone, fabric slipping over flesh, his own breath shallowing to accommodate the sharp rise in his too-human pulse.] you think you can hurt me?

[Challenges and taunts are second nature; Greed can hollow him out and leave him for dead if he wants — Mello knows. He lets himself be taken with ease (save the fight for when it's warranted) while curious fingertips trace lines and scales and skin. Let him be exalted at Greed's mercy; the one who doesn't give a thing is handing himself over with a willingness that comes as though he's done this a hundred times before.]

[if you only knew; if you only knew]

[Lovely, huh. Mello's a jagged thing — angles and scars, a face that lies to angels and Greed? Well. He's earned every flaw, and so Mello will give it all. Without regret, without remorse, he inhales a sharp breath, bumps his teeth against his boss's cheek, drops his hands to drag tight leather down over his own hips as far as he can manage given their proximity.]

[He's pliant and sharp at once, rigid and aching and impatient because the play, the buildup — oh, it's a divine thing — but when Mello wants, he wants and right now?]

[The fresh ink stings his skin even through the haze of alcohol — won't heal for a while, he knows — and there's something relieving in the discomfort. Hones his focus where it belongs because this? This would be downright shameful under any other circumstance, a sign of weakness, a loss of power. God but it's touched with a taste of freedom beneath it all; he presses himself back, drags a boot up the demon's leg in a silent demand to get on with it. An entitled teenager's demand, a brat prince's insistence. His mouth nearly burns everywhere it comes into contact with Greed's skin, the taste of smoke and soot something new that shoots fire through his veins with every lick, ever savoring bite.]

[He might not be a monster right now, but the affinity to prey on anything he sets his intent on has been written into his DNA; the Gods' signature scrawled in code, overwriting his own with heavy hands. But he doesn't belong to them right now, does he? Never will. Just Greed's — his need to possess puts Mello's need for power to shame.]

[Lay yourself bare; martyr for a cause — ]

[A twitch of his lips; Mello leans his head back, presses a bold, reckless thumb into the demon's jugular. Just a test, just a prod of boundaries.]

I'm not afraid of you.

[Pompous thing that he is. A lift of his chin, an unblinking stare into the abyss of a monster's eyes.] Now take it before I change my mind —

[Control is a hell of a thing to relinquish. Even now, he maintains whatever semblance of it his muddled mind can muster. The blunt nails of his free hand drag down the Sin's hip with damaging intent.] Boss.

[nestingdevil]

[Regrets, doubt, complications - he's never had use of any of them. Not the second-guesses that come with indecision, not the hesitation between should-have(s) and what-if(s). No, he's a creature bound by his making; a thing dedicated to one motive and one alone, driving it close, close, close. It's the very reason he can take his time and while Mello pulls his teeth impatiently near his cheek, Greed merely slips himself into the space between his thighs. His own motion, as drawn-out and languid as a heavy curtain, lapping under a summer's idle breeze.]

[The Sin's nose pushes forward and as M's thumb digs in, the faintest trace of smoke forces itself out from his smile. In some ways, Mello is predictable. Where some may bend and beg, he grips, yanks, and pulls to get what he wants. All, under the salesman assumption that this, ah this, it's mutual beneficial, isn't it? Even if he is playing with fire, he's leveled out his options. The constant play, deliberately blowing and churning like that of a billows, coaxing the flame bright, bright, bright.]

[Yet, yet. He's still getting it oh, oh, so wrong.]

[Greed's mouth pries open and the wetness on his tongue quickly fizzles dry.] Hurt you? Ha - [A hiss of laughter slivers out of his teeth. The former homunculus presses his fingers across Mello's leg. He lets the smooth part of his skin skip atop leather; the look similar to that of rocks, easily lapping across a surface.] You should know me better by now, M. If I really wanted to do that, I would have done it already. [The crinkle-combination of leather and fur grinding down his back lingers. It causes his wings to pinch in, to invert; a contortionist's infernal display, alight with heat. It's only when the last hooks pass through, does his vest finally fall. The twist of his body, the weighted thwack that follows, more similar to that of a slippery something, emerging out of its shell.]

[Because Mello did this, didn't he. His curiosity, a cat's, killing inquisition, opening an unknown box.]

[The dull nails at his hips scrape dust and the Sin ushers his head under the other's chin - his jaws, an inch from his throat.] Good. If you were afraid of me, this wouldn't exactly work now, would it. [He emphasizes his point with a resounding clack of his teeth. No, it would do them little to no good. Sure, he needs, sure he wants, but as inhuman as he is, hurting his own? The very thought of it?]

[Well, let it never be said that the devil doesn't have his standards.]

[Greed turns his wrist. He coils his pinkie inward with a steely flick - a switch-blade's harrowing announcement. The tip of it snares the button to M's pants and as his arm casually jerks, he begins picking away at the clasp. His motion, as lethargic as loan-shark, shelling his coins.] That would be a real shame - [Purred. The former homunculus plants a trail of kisses down the other's throat. Over his pulse, he goes - the razor-edged hint of his mouth, ever-so-near. The zipper in his hand whines its protest and as the last of it unhinges, the Sin dips himself low. That grin of his, plucking at the hem as sure as a vulture, cleaning the bits off a bone.]

[Until:] Don't move too much, hmn? Wouldn't want you to make a liar out of me. [The Sin's warning is short lived and as the split of his tongue unwinds, he carefully motions his lips around the tip of Mello's cock. The sharps of his jaws, consciously in mind.]

[After all, honesty?]

[Oh, is it avarice's finest virtue.]