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[nestingdevil]

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

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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

NO SWEAT

[nestingdevil]

[It's the sensation of a power surge; the jump of erratic static, the blip of a current finally finding its ground. He expects it to sting; the threat of electricity all but teasing the smalls of his hairs. Any moment, it could jolt through his bones. Burning him, igniting him, in a thundercloud's charge. But it doesn't happen. Instead, the sensation is of in mid-collapse; a chord unraveling under his fingers piece by piece until he's reached its last tether. And at the end of it, a faint shrill - Stocke's shudder a mere echo playing through his skull as wordlessly as feedback on a bad connection.]

[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.]

[makehistoria]

[Without the dire strumming of static through his veins, snapping under his skin like lightning running to the heights - an insistent drum of 'more' over and over, and maybe other 'please's that the shade didn't voice - Stocke finds it easier to start drawing in his surroundings again. Catching something more than just the feeling of Greed on him, in him, a vicious desperation like a circuit freshly closed.]

[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.]

[nestingdevil]

[The current speaks more to his core than anything else. A battery power on the rough Stocke's fingers, a shock on the edge of his lip that coaxes like a black widow's kiss. It's poisonous and commanding; the small jolts and static cling enough to grip his rottenness to the bone. The Sin's wings suddenly go lax and as the other leads him on, the roles feel oddly switched. As if he's being baited, being coaxed, over the edge with nothing more than a silent promise:]

["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.]

[makehistoria]

[A soft sense of victory kindles in Stocke's chest, with the strain and the break and the fall - fed by sigh and gentle ringing of metal and the pulse of firelight, cupped carefully in his thoughts like something to be protected. From absences, from the troubles of rival factions, from all the rest of it; there's that, to worry about in good time, and then there's - this.]

[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.]