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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

[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.]