the name's greed (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
nestingdevil) wrote2014-11-10 09:21 pm
nestingdevil) wrote2014-11-10 09:21 pm
(no subject)
WELCOME TO YOUR PRIVATE CHANNEL, avaricious. FOR SECURE COMMUNICATION, USE 012.07.333.07 *** avaricious has joined 018.07.154.55 <avaricious> ithsihoitiwrks ? <BANNED USER> SCREENED MESSAGE. UNSCREEN? Y/N -- <avaricious>thdvllsnst <avaricious> vdndrere | ||||
CONTACTS
0.0.0.0 ♦ "MASON" | Heather
TEXT ABOUT THEM GOES HERE.
0.0.0.0 ♦ STOCKE
TEXT ABOUT THEM GOES HERE.
0.0.0.0 ♦ AOBA
TEXT ABOUT THEM GOES HERE.
0.0.0.0 ♦ "JUSTINE"
TEXT ABOUT THEM GOES HERE.
0.0.0.0 ♦ KILLUA
TEXT ABOUT THEM GOES HERE.
0.0.0.0 ♦ ZOLF J. KIMBLEY
TEXT ABOUT THEM GOES HERE.
0.0.0.0 ♦ EDWARD ELRIC
TEXT ABOUT THEM GOES HERE.
0.0.0.0 ♦ "XANDER" | SANDRATH
TEXT ABOUT THEM GOES HERE.
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[Static jumps between his teeth. Touches of energy, the sting of a radio signal without a clear destination. They flip in his mouth to the beat of changing channels: going, going, going. But there's nothing on, nothing but him and his and as he flattens the other along the backside wall, the rest of the world tunes out.]
[Somewhere else might have the rights to Stocke, but here? That's not the case.]
[Greed's mouth pulls back when he feels those fingers his hair. It's desperation; a need to claim a surface when all else is null and void. Everything about it is in contrast to Stocke's definition. The solider, the operative; the cold-snap beating at him like a drawn-cracked whip. The Sin twists his heel, forcing it up and around the growing pile of disused armor and weaponry. Belts, knives, sheaths - they're just a mounting tab of Stocke's release. Silently counted, internally memorized, and as he pries the tip of his boot between the other's legs, he steals it all. Forcing them all aside in a careless sideswipe.]
[Stocke's paid his dues over and over again. Time to cough up.]
[A low laugh catches in his jaws. It ghosts along the side of the other's throat - a hot mix of steamy coal and well-kept fire.] Oh-? Should I now. [Hardly a question, hardly an apology. Greed's voice sounds pleased - a note as slurred and sultry as a jackal's salesman pitch. He shifts his thumb when Stocke exposes his throat, the smooth side of his talon retracing his steps up, up, up.] Didn't think you'd really hold it against me.
[The edge of his claw gives a light tick to the bob of the other's throat. A nip, a taste. He knows Stocke's flying blind. Where he'd usually be collected and calm, there's now an utter lack of it. Control lost to the wind: just as wispy and fleeting as a shadow.]
[And really, isn't that just fitting.]
[Greed presses his nose to the dip of the shade's collar. His smile is more clear, then; a touch of the demon through the devil. Stocke's persistent tug on his vest just adds to it and with a compliant shrug, the Sin's arms lace loosely at his back. Fur pulls back from his neck, leather drops away. A bit of give and take and here, there's no exception.]
[Equivalent exchange: the purest form of a trade.]
Guess that wasn't very fair, was it? [The former homunculus talks along the dip of Stocke's neck, his own body slinking down further and further. His knees bend as he does; causing the wall behind them to give a soft shiver of protest. He ignores it, though. A sound on deaf ears and as soft skin turns to rough scars, Greed lets his vest drop from his wrists. It meets the rest of their hoard: a mixed pile of Stocke, of him, tangled together in a fitting kind of poetry.]
[But it's those scars that really have his interest.]
[He's never had the luxury - least, not before now. Wounds had been nothing but a passing breeze - an inconvenience easily erased. And while even Ryslig's left a few of its marks, they're not the same. Greed's eyes open in a glow. Red and purple bleed together as he learns each one. A knot here, a mix of flesh and steel there. They reflect in a broil - as if somehow, they were a personal offense. As if somehow - ]
Tch - [Faint, barely above a whisper. The Sin's teeth lightly touch one another. The snarl is short lived, but still present; like a flash of static itself, the expression is raw. His own, vicious nature coming through. Hurting him is one thing. But one of his?]
[That's a theft he won't so easily ignore.]
[Greed touches his tongue to the back of his teeth. Instantly, his mouth whirls again. A pursed smile sways to one half of his face.] You really are more trouble than you're worth sometimes. [He hums. One of his hands snares the edge of Stocke's shirt, peeling it away with the ease of a hot-knife to butter. Stocke might be learning as he goes, but it's too clear that this is something expected. That he's done this before. Similar canvas, different subject, but the same, age-old result.]
[Nothing ever really changes.]
[Greed's legs bow out. Ten and two they go, allowing him to sink, sink, sink. He's half hovering over the floor by the time he's done, both of his hands slipped behind Stocke's back in interim . They fan out there; the motion covetous, ensnaring. And it's then, that he starts. The Sin leans in. Kiss by kiss, tooth for tooth, he draws his grin down the other's stomach. A marking, a signal.]
[Avarice incarnate written out in faint smoke.]
[Because oh, does he want it. Everything Stocke has, everything that he'll ever be. The Sin pauses when he reaches the jut of the other's hip. Nothing about Stocke is ever entirely there. An image of shadow and mirrors, a creature in half formation. Solid, wispy. But there - there's a point and as he wraps his mouth around bone, the devil finally shows off his teeth.]
[Greed lets the points them hover. A razor's edge hinting at skin. Again, he can feel the protest of static. Like blue electric, it flicks at him. A warning, a challenge. The Sin springs one claw out as he waits; his index merely snaking around the back of Stocke's thigh.]
[A snap, a pinch, and his teeth sink in.]
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[The shade's head drops back against the wall - he exhales, slow, trying to keep it steady. Doesn't entirely succeed.]
['You really are more trouble than you're worth sometimes.' The corner of the Stocke's mouth quirks up.] It's been said, [he agrees. The shade watches Greed in return, eyes only half-open - one hand's fingers trace, curiously, the red lines of alchemy that branch over the Sin's shoulders. Stocke pauses a claw at one of the foci, looping carefully over the circle.]
[Clean, neat, in ruled patterns like something made artificial. About as different an impression from the rest of the Sin as anything could be. But Greed seems to wear them with as much confidence as he does any title: Sin, homunculus, demon. A proud outcast, taking what's thrown to the edges and making it his.]
[And now Stocke does have to brace himself against the back wall as Greed slides further down, marking inch by inch, inevitable as sand dropping down an hourglass. A faint shiver runs up and through, the shade pressing into the spread fingers at his back. Tendrils lash with the effort of keeping the rest of him nearly still - they snap around Greed's hands as if to wrap ribbons around them, constrict into nothing more than fading shadow. It'd take more concentration than Stocke can bring to bear right now to solidify them; keeping the rest of him there is hard enough.]
[In other ways it's easier. The shade feels solid rather than shadow, more than he has in a long while.]
[The Sin's teeth sink in, a pang of sharp sensation Stocke can't describe - his hips buck once, the shade letting out a soft curse, a hissing noise. His hand on Greed's shoulder tightens, the other leaving thin scratches down the wall. Then the shade relaxes, slow; the hiss melds into a quiet, satisfied hum.]
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[For this is how it is and always will be: the nights of today, of yesterday, written and tallied in claw marks.]
[Faint ribbons of shadow play at his wrists. He can feel them even now; their protest half-assed. Like someone hanging on the edge between the need to hold on and the desire to let go. The last bits sigh across his scales. They linger for a moment; the final threads of a snapping rope and as they give way, the devil releases a breath of his own. Hot, heavy - a question without words:]
["Why don't you show me who you really are."]
[The grip on his shoulder just confirms the answer. Stocke's fingers burrow into his muscle. They're tense, hard, and as the wall behind them cracks in a splinter, a satisfactory tone flips in the Sin's throat. It sticks there - causing bits of lukewarm ash to break free in a tease. Greed shifts his teeth away, moving instead towards the bend of the other's stomach. Most times, Stocke has a look of emaciation. Something skeletal holding the rest of him together like a leaky cage. But in the moment, there's solidity; a surface he can actually touch.]
[And touch he does. Nip by nip, snap by snap, until the edges of his teeth snare the hem of the other's slacks.]
[Greed pins a piece of leather on the points of his jaw.] That so? [As he talks, that smile of his yanks again. A belt loop stretches in a snare; mimicking that of a chew-toy in the mouth a playful canine. The stitches keeping it together are barely holding as is and when he slowly tips his head to the side, he can hear their final moments; the needlework all but giving up the ghost in a protesting hitch.]
[Tck, tck, tck. The last of them let go and here it is: the final locks picked, pulled, and thrown apart.]
[The Sin draws out his nails.] Almost thought you made a habit of it. [He remarks. The tips of his claws jump on a spring of knuckles. There's pressure now - the hooked edges of his talons skipping across leather to draw a faint line. Greed slips both hands between Stocke's thighs. It's a prying pull, a hint. Before his forehead settles along his companion's stomach, allowing his jaws to peel each clasp apart.]
[One daunting flick at a time.]
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[Greed's always been the one to encourage them to embrace a monstrous nature. Nothing wrong with humans, some of them aren't so bad, but there's just as little wrong in being something other - taking advantage in anything it can give you. Fire and shadows and ice, flight and claws, something that comes to fit just as much as the old mortal shape did. It's ironic, then, that right now is when Stocke feels nearly human again. Vulnerable: the static pulsing under his skin flutters and jolts with adrenaline, unsteady like a broken-winged moth. Beating against chinks in panes of glass, as Greed picks off piece after piece of the control slipping from Stocke's grasp; more of them than the shade ever expected. And when he hits the light, oh how bright he'll burn - you might not know what comes after, but talk about a blaze of glory.]
[It's long gone past when Stocke could back off, even if he wanted to. Maybe - ever since that first night when he held a line of shining steel to Greed's throat - he never really could.]
[Greed nips a line down his stomach again, quick sharp touches one after another; the shade's breaths hitch in the occasional broken shard as he tries to stop a noise, a shudder of sensation. The Sin's having the exact effect he's probably planned to - winding Stocke up a second time, past lazy satisfaction, the coil stretching tighter and tighter until sometime soon it'll snap.]
[The demon's teeth snag on one of his belts, almost a breather. The glint of pointed teeth means he's nowhere near done, but Stocke catches himself while he can; his free hand undoes buckles Greed hasn't reached yet, with less accuracy than before, but his tendrils curve forward, reaching, reaching -]
[A huff of breath, and -] Yours, aren't I? [It's meant like this: the Nest's always been nothing but trouble; of course he's the same. Habit, package and parcel. But there's too much in it to just be teasing back.]
[Ryslig shattered him when it first made him eat souls, and he glued himself back together with Greed and the Nest, filled up the gaps of himself he lost with the same. 'Yours' is too deep a truth. Tie him here...]
[Besides: to Stocke, it's never been more trouble than it's worth.]
[For all that the shade's trying not to tumble entirely just yet - making it a last challenge? pure habit? maybe none of them, maybe all - he moves along with the Sin's every light push and pull. Greed dances him near the brink, and for a moment Stocke can almost (almost) understand what the Sin's avarice is really like. He wants, with the burning intensity of the sun he can no longer see; wants Greed not to stop, wants to push back, wants to pull the demon up and return the favour, wants everything all at the same time, with every contradiction. The shade makes a choked whine, deep in the back of his throat - the hand on Greed's shoulder scores up his back instead, and it's only what is left of Stocke's control that keeps it from sinking in too deep. The tug upward is half-hearted at best: let the Sin choose.]
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[A king for the freaks, a high-hand for the monsters; wrapped up and crowned by whatever normalcy leaves behind.]
[Maybe that's what makes this so easy. For him, the others, this is their day-to-day. The white-fences replaced by neon lights, the family dinners a table set by scowling faces and needling teeth. For them, history isn't photographed: it's memorized. Each mug of beer is an instant. Every clogged ashtray, a familiar reminder. And even as they're swiped, cleaned, and tossed out for the next big night, the stains of yesterday remain. Somehow, it's always been this way and as Stocke's words curl into his ear, a thin smile edges on the Sin's face.]
["Yours, aren't I?" "We'll always be - "]
[A light heat plays in his arrays. It's the final confession he needs and oh, does Stocke give it so well. No need to ask; no seconding guessing. Just admission in the rawest form. Greed wraps the palms of his hands around his companion's hips and with a gentle thud, his knees brace along the back wall. He matches Stocke's spread with one of his own. The insides of his thighs graze either side of the other's legs - a vice of leather, muscle. The chord of his tail curls out from behind him, then. Under a dim light, it takes on the look of an armored adder. Crooked steel peels across the floorboards, the gems catch on old ash. But it's not the floor it's looking for, oh no.]
[Because if Stocke wants to be tied here: so be it.]
[Greed wraps a loose knot around one of Stocke's ankles. Carefully, slowly. Because now, oh now, he can draw it out. That want, that need. The vice of his tail tightens and with a purposeful yank, he tries to pry the other's leg wide open. Dust skitters from the floorboards in the aftermath; like that of a desperate, centuries held sigh. The soot sticks to the air and as he pulls his head away, his image seems to disappear.]
[A ghost in the darkness.]
[One second goes by, another. But he's not far. A purple(ing) red blisters through the smoke. It filters through the grainy air like high beams in a fog; weighted, murky. All the while, the devil presses his thumbs neatly into the other's skin. He keeps the bones between his fingers trapped in a kind of vice. Not too hard, but not so soft as to let the other go. Of course, Stocke could easily slip out if he chose to. But for right now, that doesn't seem to be the case.]
[He's right where he wants to be; where he should have been all those months ago.]
[A snap of his thumb and Greed peels Stocke's pants wide open.] Remember - you can't really hurt me. [His words come in a drift. He applies a bit of pressure, pushing the pads of his fingers up just for the feel of it. While Stocke's usual form is nothing but bone and shadow, something here has changed. A bit of muscle bleeding on through and fuck if it isn't a sight.]
[Greed curls his fingers into a leather hem and with a bristle of heat, he snatches a zipper, catches a belt. Pulling the last bits apart so that he can finally have what he so rightfully deserves.]
[Months, after all, are a long time to account for.]
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[The tug like rope's his prompt; he slips down the wall an inch as his legs slide further apart, re-braces himself. he air hangs heavy in the room, too warm, heat caught in soot and ash; a furnace behind a grate still makes itself known, and a Sin's presence isn't so easily forgotten. A symphony of brimstone dust.]
[The shade raises himself from the wall with a push of his elbows as Greed pulls away, his sound of protest snapped in half and dropped into silence. That same scale swinging up and down - on the one side, learned instinct beaten into him over the years (keep hold, keep control); on the other, everything else, conscious thought and want both telling him to give in. (By now, the Sin could hold it tipped with one finger).]
[He's still pinned in place; Greed's not leaving. A smear of purple and red through the smoke like a smirk worn in the eyes.]
[The Sin's fingers press in, and Stocke writhes, desperate noise strangled through his teeth - he's more than half-hard already, as Greed pulls the last bit of leather down. 'Remember - you can't really hurt me.' That's something you could near call an invitation; the shade curves forward, his claws digging into the Sin's back just above where his wings connect. His breath comes in soft, startled pants.]
[The shade just stays for length of two heartbeats, strung taut as a wire. Then his eyes flare bright with determination, claws sinking in just that little bit deeper; there's a whiplash of shadows from his back.]
[His tendrils reach around his back, winding. But this time they're just on the other edge of corporeal, a misty but physical touch - one snarls about one of the Sin's legs, another traces lightly up his arm. Stocke's head drops as a third runs down Greed's spine, between his shoulderblades, and the shade's grip loosens. He exhales, slow and ragged - he can feel all of them...]
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[And yet, not at all unpleasant.]
[Blood swells from the sharp pricks, the beads of which take on the look of a fresh-rung sweat. Greed arches his back into the feeling, into the tug of desperation practically begging him to get on with it. The last domino falls into place and just like a prod of a maniacal finger, he topples it over: a full exposure. Of everything Stocke's become, accepted, and thrived to be, steadied between the palms of more covetous hands.]
Hn - [Greed's click of laughter huffs along Stocke's stomach.] - see, wasn't that hard, was it? [In his exhale, the air is steamy and toxic - a poisonous cocktail of addiction that seems to answer the friction in the tendrils around him; as if they're fed up and worn with Stocke's stubbornly-human control. "Be the monster," they seem to say. "Take what you want." And oh, could the Sin not agree more.]
[Monsters and those there of have always been his best company.]
[Greed splays his palms open. Stocke's hips fill neatly between them - as nail after nail, claw after claw, he takes what he wants. A grand theft of the personal variety and with sizzle at the tip of his tongue, the devil prepares himself for the final grab. Muggy vapor lifts from the sharps of his teeth, the pucker of fire extinguishing silently in his throat. Greed rolls his lips inward and with that, the insinuation's clear:]
["Better hold on tight, lovely - lest you want to get bit."]
[Stocke's already started showing the symptoms far before the devil takes him in. The Sin's forehead presses into the dip of the other's stomach, exposing his horns like a pair of lifelines in a turbulent sea. Despite his second's clear inexperience, after the initial introduction's over, the former homunculus holds no more bars. He swallows Stocke inch by inch, the threat of his teeth a reminder of just who and what he is.]
[A man, but not; a ghost, only slightly. But still a guru for the unabashedly needy.]
[With a serpentine flick, Greed's tongue slides out from the bottom of his jaw. The forks split along the other's cock - an elongated trace hinted with a pinch of sulfur. He can taste all of it now; the shade's corporeal design a chill, DC-charge. Positive and negatives do battle in the shell of his throat, causing his shoulders to roll and undulate. Igniting his internal hearth and when they meet, he disregards any kind of warning. Greed's talons bite into the handle of Stocke's hips. They try to force him forward - dragging him, plunging him deeper down his gullet as simple and drowning as a devil's bargain.]
[Because oh, how easier it is just to fall.]
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[Then the Sin's mouth wraps around him, and Stocke's thoughts snap over like a jarred switch - the shade's head and shoulders jerk back, hitting the wall again. He breathes out a word with his eyes suddenly shut, too staggered and soft to truly make out; 'Prophet,' maybe. Or maybe something else.]
[Whatever it is, the touch of Greed's tongue twists it into a thin, pleading sound; Stocke's claws drag up the demon's back, sharp points in deep, then release and catch a tight grip on the Sin's shoulders. As if the shade's slipping, trying to hold on. A tendril brushes gently over the marks left, then settles into a loose, dangling coil at Greed's neck.]
[Stocke's hips twitch as the Sin's nails dig in, trying to restrain himself from thrusting forward with Greed's lips curled around him. An audible 'hhh-h' of breath, stomach tensed against the demon's horns, a heavy inhale in the seconds after - Stocke's flushed, skin shading dark gray rather than red. His fingers drop off the Sin's shoulders to sink into the wall behind him a second time, and he mouths what might be a curse, might be a prayer.]
[He follows the pull with unsteady legs, leaning forward.]
[The shade's tendrils are more sure where Stocke's not - almost with a mind of their own, but it's nothing but the shade's own eagerness fueling them. The one wound about Greed's leg snakes higher, cupping the front of the demon's pants with a faint pressure; another curls around the Sin's back entire, just under the seam of his wings, and traces a nearly possessive line across his chest.]
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[And Lord forgive him, he just can't help himself.]
[A shallow grunt wheezes from his nostrils. It rides on ribbons of smoke - their tangles meeting the cool touch of shadow like some sort of informal handshake. He can smell the tint of copper, now. The taste of it is tinny in the back of his throat: a flavor riddled with charcoal and soot. He pries the curls of his talons from Stocke's thighs and with a fan of his fingers, with a spread like wildfire, he begins to take the rest of him. His hands stretch along the other's stomach, meeting dark gray to an impossible black. Taking his time, his chances, before delivering the final blow.]
[After all, Stocke just has so much to give. And give, he does.]
[Greed's hands meld into the other's ass; a handful each. He doesn't miss how much those tendrils seem to give it away. Where his second's still staggering with his choices, his nature is more primal. It doesn't question what it wants, doesn't hesitate to take what it needs. The Sin flicks his glance upward. His eyes roll lazily in their sockets: as if daring that monster to come out. To seek and take what it so blatantly needs in a shiver of cat-sliver points.]
[No need to hold back. Not anymore.]
[Another hum vibrates at the back of his throat. He presses the pads of his fingers atop the other's backside, allowing him to act where Stocke so pointedly hesitates. Bob for bob, he devours the other: the swell of a hard-on half shoved down his throat like a means of suffocation. And all the while, he can't keep his hands busy enough. They skirt down the backs of Stocke's thighs, trace lines across his skin. Only to come back again: as if he's just itching for it. As if this is just one more addiction he can never quite satisfy.]
[Never enough: it's never enough. And deep down, all he hears is the same old drum. Beating, pounding, in an indefinite loop.]
["More, more, more. Give me more, give me more - "]
[Behind him, the devil's wings suddenly snap wide. They expand from one side of the room to the other - like that of a sail in high water breaking its binds. Deeper wounds cut into the ceiling, harder scorches ferment in the walls. It's the proverbial switch and Stocke's all but thrown it. Whatever sort of control's gone now and as the Sin's fingers peel around the back of his companion's thighs, Greed eases skull back. Pulling his lips away, away, away until only the head of a cock remains.]
[The motion is deliberate. A dare:]
["Go on and show me what you've got."]
this only took forever OTL and also i'm out of icons, here's this one
[Stocke exhales a long, not-quite-silent groan, a stream of colder air in among the weight of ashen embers. The shade's claws pull free of the wall in a single crack, shards and splinters of wood crackling down to fade in a fog made of devil's smoke. Shattered lights outside flicker a short lamp-light motif, a spark jumping between split wire curls - a shade's power of short-circuit snapping energy free.]
[Greed takes it slow, stretches it out through the fall of an hourglass, and it's just too much. Stocke inhales to speak - breaks off in a strangled sound as the Sin hums, vibration traveling what feels like all the way up the shade's spine. Tries again -] Boss - Greed - [Name and title and reflection of 'Yours, aren't I?' all together now,] - please -
[Stocke's not oft one to beg, but just this once he'll make an exception.]
[The shade's not watching, and that's his mistake; there's the whooshing spread of the Sin's wings, fire buffeted up by wind and fuel, and then Greed pulls back and pauses, daringly. Stocke's eyes snap open, and he stares down wild-eyed and near-feral. Free tendrils lash, a snick of partially-formed shadow against the walls. Prophet help him, boss, you're going to kill him.]
[But he can't say he hasn't been enjoying the ride.]
[The shade's fingers curl into the hair at Greed's nape, pulling tight but in no particular direction. Even breathing hard as he is, even a-quiver with tension, Stocke can't bring himself to take in the way the Sin's challenging him to do; too hard and fast a dagger against who he is. But he can match the game his own way.]
[A tendril snakes under the border of Greed's built, tracing slowly down. Winds in careful loops around the Sin's shaft, stroking up the underside.]
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[And there it is, the final throes: "Please."]
[Greed pushes backward. The base of his skull forms into Stocke's twisted fingers - applying the pressure, giving him the answer without the need to communicate. It's cruel, really: how much he's played the other. How long he's plucked that string bit by bit. The Sin drags his hand backward and with a casual flick of his nail, he leaves his mark across skin. A delicate reminder of where he was and where he'd always be.]
[But never be said that the devil doesn't give as good as he gets.]
[Further away, the underside of his palm huffs in a wad of steam - as if the aftermath of a shower had been trapped between his nails, desperate for freedom. Greed extends his index. He churns it twice, twirling both fog and smoke in a tight, relentless knot.] Turn around - [He starts in; an order as cool as fresh-dipped carbon. No, he's been far too coy and now, now - ]
[A strum of steel shivers from behind him. His tail's on the move; wandering, searching, for something in particular. The Sin's jaw closes up to a faint line and as wood catches on the spade of his tail, his lips offer a mild crack: that vicious line of his coming back to view with terrible intentions in mind. A drawer nearby springs open, a couple of items rattle. And with a light clap of his heels, the former homunculus rises to stand. He pops the button to his pants blindly open - by a the dip of his nail, the quick-jerk snap of a thumb that's as ingrained into him as everything else.]
[After that, it's just logic. Greed guides his free hand across Stocke's hip as a pivoting motion. Slow, like a dance better people might take under finer circumstances. He spreads his knuckles along the thin of the other's torso: mapping black scales to dark tendrils with only his tattoo to separate the differences.]
[Because oh, is this just fine. Up against the wall, spread out, for him and him alone.]
[The Sin pushes his nose into the back of Stocke's head. Whatever he went searching for, it disappears into his other hand. Greed hooks the tips of his talons into the lip of it. Plastic whines back, a lick of burning pops away. What remains is the warped cap of a bottle - its last effort falling helplessly between the two in a singular ping and a vicious crunch.]
[Greed spits something to the floor.] Don't hold back - [Trilled, whispered. The Sin slides his hand between Stocke's legs. Slick oil warms on the backs of his knuckles, along his nails made quickly short. He guides one finger inside, then another. A slow coating inch by inch until he can go no further.]
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['Turn around' - the shade's eyes flicker, and for a moment he hesitates. His tendrils have tangled themselves well and good about Greed's limbs, and though they start to slowly unwind, he watches the demon with an odd glint to his expression. One last time, before his limbs retreat: he leans forward to taste the Sin's mouth again. Less tense than the first attempt, more heated, if not quite slow; with a charge like contained lightning. Tendrils run over Greed's shoulders, his sides. The one below his belt snakes away haltingly, as if reluctant.]
[Finally Stocke draws back and turns, eyes half-lidded - orders are orders, after all.]
[The shade braces upper arms against the wall, stretching into the spread of the Sin's knuckles; a quiet hum runs up and down his throat as Greed presses a grin against the back of his head. One errant tendril takes the chance to curve again over the demon's shoulders. It's almost proprietary; Stocke can't say he's not started to learn some habits from the one standing behind him.]
[Despite everything, Stocke goes momentarily stiff at the first press of a finger inside him - a soft, static hiss pushing past his tongue at the sensation. He reins in his breathing, steady and controlled, and relaxes very deliberately; the Sin's unhurried and careful, oil making it easy instead of rough, and the feeling's.... not quite comfortable, but not quite unpleasant. As the seconds tick by, the shade starts to go slack by reaction instead of calculated choice.]
[Then the Sin's fingers push against a spot that makes Stocke jolt full-bodied, knees buckling against the wall. He pulls in a startled mouthful of air, eyes wide and bright.]
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Easy - [He starts. The curls of his fingers go slack as he talks; something a touch ginger, more relaxed. A hum vibrates at the back of his jaws and while his wrist bends, while his hand forms between Stocke's legs, he follows him through. Pushing just one knuckle deeper, one length further, until there's no more to give. Greed's mouth purses to a line, his breath fingering into the shell of the other's ear with a heated temptation.] - no need to hurt yourself, hmn?
[Under a smokey haze, his fingers tentatively pat down the other's hip. Claw after claw, nail after nail, he counts his skin; pressing the pads of his fingers along the thin of Stocke's torso like that of blind man tracing his surroundings. For as much as he's seen the other, this is something different. It's a moment to convey to memory. Each of his scars a tally; every intake of breath, a piece to count. The former homunculus spreads his fingers one, last time - pressing his pinkie and thumb along the other's rear before he pushes past the last knuckle. Steadying himself, closing the gap, and it's there, that he holds.]
[For, if nothing else, he's at least going to make it count.]
[Where the wall gives, Greed motions his palm along Stocke's stomach. Fragments and pieces, static and shadow; they play between his fingers as he goes. His curved nails draw along muscle, their edges following the other's bend like that of a surgeon's knife hovering at a starting point. But instead of cutting, he merely trails. Until he finds just what he's looking for and with an underhanded grab, he wraps his palm around the base of the other's cock. A daunting move done one finger at a time.]
[Relentless, egotistical, and oh, isn't it just him.]
[Greed's mouth opens behind Stocke's head. His nose back against the crook of the other's neck, he slowly glides his fingers out. A touch of a noise tickles at his jaws, then; a smile, perhaps. An expression a little more sincere, a hint of appreciation. The Sin runs the back of his knuckles around the other's curves. They're subtle in parts, sharper in others, and when he grazes a hipbone, his hand makes a grab for it. Coaxing, leading, the other back, back, back.]
[When they meet, he's already ready. Greed spreads his knees. His stomach hitches, his hips roll. Until the two of them are merely skin to skin, allowing the tip of his cock to press between Stocke's legs. The movement is easy, slow - like he's savoring the moment. Letting it simmer on baited breath, holding it out one second at a time. The Sin's jaws open wide and as he threatens it along Stocke's shoulder, he finally gives in. Sinking himself deep in one, gliding arch.]
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[Greed's huff of breath on his ear has him turning his head to give the Sin a sideways, half-hearted glare - part dry, part pleading. He's been catapulted between too much and too little what feels like thirty, forty times; the roulette's stopped on the latter again, and he just wants Greed to move.]
[The tendril around Greed's shoulders pulls tighter, and Stocke reaches down to give himself a bit of friction, but the Sin gets there first. Stocke's hand pauses, catching on the seam between black scales and skin - he drops his head forward into the curve of his arm as Greed's fingers wrap around. Carbon-coating warmer than a shade's fingers, and a texture smooth like diamond in snake-skin patterns. Stocke's eyes shut a moment, a soft sound catching behind his tongue.]
[His free hand traces up the Sin's arm with slightly less urgency than before.]
[Stocke's head lifts again as the Sin eases his fingers out, another tendril lashing out to wrap around Greed's wrist, then loosening without a pull. He hardly needs any coaxing to move - just the cue. Shadowy limbs twist impatiently out of the way as Greed takes his time, then dissipate entirely into incorporeal shapes and smoke. Gone like they've never been to leave room for drawing closer.]
[There's another quiet shade's hiss when the Sin finally pushes in, tone and tinge and taste of it more pleased than anything. It's a faint burn and stretch, but also a pang of static like broken stars all through him - Stocke breathes, snagging at air heavy enough that he's nearly panting again. Clenching and relaxing, feels his pulse strum through with a shade's electric energy. Then, after a beat of maybe five - slow and careful, he rolls his hips forward and back again.]
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[And here, here it is.]
[He can feel the cold chill of shadow as he presses into Stocke's back. It meets his skin in a bristle; the lightest touch of a charge flickering along his scales to the tune of twitching, static purple. A quick vibration. As if the last bit of doubt's finally letting go - like that of a broken-end cable firing off a final shock. And as it shreds away, the devil inhales on a hint of a grin. In the end, he can never get enough of this; the look of Stocke's face pressed into his arm, the sound of his nails beating into the wall. It's just another memory - another keepsake of what is and will always be:]
[His.]
[Between the hanging gloom, the bones of his rib-cage gently ignite from the inside out. Beats of fire and heat boom inside. They writhe and jerk, the flashes of bright white and cracked orange similar to that of a trapped thunderhead trying to pound its way out. The Sin's lips pull wetly back and as his stomach clenches, he follows the other's lead. The coil of his hip riding Stocke's arches in a soundless, daunting rhythm.]
[The possession of a creature bound by the desire to have, have, have.]
[But he doesn't forget. With one hand snared around the curve of Stocke's hip, the Sin plays the rest. His fingers tap down the length of the other's cock like a fiddle; timing every thrust to a jerk, a pull back to a coil. The curves of his nails flip inward and with a soft trace, he fingers the head of the other's cock. Rolling it, pressing it, into the pads of his fingers like that of a treasured coin worth counting over and over again.]
[And God, is it fucking worth it.]
[Greed hums into Stocke's neck. Dull reds and faint purples sink into the wall's scars. They're deeper in some places, lighter in others; the evidence of Stocke's repent a confession of bites and scratches that will probably stay far after either of them realize. The Sin lowers his head. His jaws wheeze open, then. A whirl of smoke faints between his teeth - the silent whisper akin to a wick that's been suddenly snuffed out. The hand around Stocke's hip clenches down and with a beckoning pull, the Sin finds his pace. Riding, rocking. And, as one of the lights outside clinks off, his teeth latch onto the bend of Stocke's shoulder. An anchor of points to leave a reminder.]
[No matter where Stocke goes, no matter what happens, he'd always be there; in one form, or another.]
short but this has been sitting long enough already OTL
[It's hardly alone. The shade stifles small, faintly needing noises with every rock of the Sin's hips, writhing with the careful-casual play of Greed's fingers, relentless as the gleam of gold. Presses back even into the flicker of the demon's ribs, storming lights and all, moves with the beat the Sin's found.]
[In the end it's the bite of Greed's teeth that does it, just one feeling too many when Stocke can already hardly think - the shade comes apart under the Sin's fingers, shuddering. A wordless cry that's too glitched-recording to have come from a truly human throat, nowhere near the strength of a shout but still a volume above what came before.]
[Stocke's eyes slide half-open a moment later (when did they close?). Though he's still catching his breath, there's a lazy feeling seeping deep through his bones - as if he were basking in sunlight, were he still a creature of day. An ease of tension on a level he hasn't felt in weeks, if not much longer.]
[But there's only a stutter of a second before he starts moving again - time to pay it back.]
NO SWEAT
[But oh, oh, is it satisfying.]
[The Sin's teeth pluck themselves from the other's shoulder. He moves his hands away from him, then; the stretch of his palms pressed flat against thighs that seem warmer, more solid somehow. And as his would-be partner collects himself again, a small hitch of an inhale hisses along the Sin's teeth. It puckers there; a sharp sound sparking behind his teeth like a struck match fighting an alleyway wind. Stocke doesn't take long to find his rhythm. It comes in clear; the mild haze leaving as quickly as an burnt-out overcast and it's the devil that nips at his heels. Following every rock, every roll, with exhaustive attention. As if he could still take his time; as if he could make the seconds last for hours to take in every moment with selfish disregard.]
[The very definition of his namesake.]
[Greed lifts one of his hands away. It plants itself close to the wall - a sprung-trap snarl of nails and claws burying itself between the scratches Stocke had left not minutes before. Smokey lines cut along the marks. They bear in heavy; a spread of gauges meeting the Shade's own in breathy strokes of chill, quick-fire smoke. Where there had been splinters before, only a couple of curls remain. And as the Sin grips the other's hip for leverage, the spread of his wings fans them out. Creating small speckles that glint deep inside the wood like fireflies blinking out in the night.]
[When he speaks again, all that comes out is a short exhale. Something tinny, sharp - like that of tea-kettle plucked off a stove-top and while his muscles tighten, while his stomach knots, the Sin's mouth snaps into an unyielding grin. Allowing a thin huff of steam to whistle and whine between the points of his teeth.]
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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.]
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["Come, come, monster. Just a little closer - "]
[Greed's mouth cracks. It splits a hair open - a broken smile made in wicked teeth and deadly desire. He inhales sharply against the back of his throat; taking in the smell, swallowing the charge. This is it: his would-be kingdom made in the touch of it. The feel of everything that's his ripped down to the bare minimum. Avarice's greatest reprise and Stocke's playing all the right chords. All the right notes plucked and pulled with the silent composition of giving in.]
[The Sin's wings snap into the walls and as their tips scrape aside old paint, his stomach knots; a sigh escapes him. Like the first, needed take of breath. Greed buries his cock, the last twitch of muscle exiting on the spade of his tail. It shivers once - the jingle and chime of steel a distant, yet haunting echo.]
[The devil's quiet satisfaction.]
[A brief wave of fire silhouettes through his wings then; the tight membranes drawing out a kind of flutter like the backside of a tapestry with a story to tell. Orange taps through his veins, gold chases through his scales. Greed plants his hands flat against the wall and as his body eases back, the touch of his nose grazes against Stocke's neck. Tasting it, taking in each scent as if it's some sort of gift. He only pauses once he gets to the other's collarbone - the last draft of smog slipping from his nostrils in a thin, silvery-shine sheet.]
Why don't you stick around this time, hmn? [Greed's voice slurs. It's not so much as a suggestion as it is an inclination and while the Sin pulls away, the backs of his knuckles gently graze Stocke's hip. An informal invitation that needs no repeating.]
[The rest of the day, for what it's worth, can wait.]
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[The shade's circuit-hum abates, receding back to that quiet, static pattern always circling his bones. He blinks slow, eyelids starting to drop once again; the Sin drawing back leaves him feeling slightly colder, and he leans into the graze of the demon's knuckles at his hip, the breath at his neck. Which almost answers Greed already, but -]
[The slur of words pulls that quirk from the edge of Stocke's mouth again. It changes, somehow, into a faint smile even with his eyes shut - small, soft, momentary, but solid as anything real. His tendrils wind slow.]
[Stocke's fingers brush over the brilliant-gold veins in the leather of Greed's wings.] I'll stay, [he says, but it sounds a little bit like an 'Of course.' After all the rest, he can burely call it a plunge.]
[He follows Greed with his eyes still closed, trusting sound and Sin as guides.]