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[The stretch of Greed's lips is matched in a subtle tip of Mello's own; he's always been bold, hasn't he? Strutting into unknown territory the way he did that first night — a mark of audacity that has tattooed him to his core, more so than the superficial ink and irritated raises of skin that line his chest, torso. That his boss would expect anything else is laughable, but he doesn't, does he? Just a taunt, a prod that the too-human blond takes in stride when he drops his hand in some small act of compliance.]

[It wasn't his intention to snatch, after all. Just a test — true greed knows no limits, does it? All right, then.]

[Step for step — subtle as the dance is — Mello's guerilla tactics for attention have no effect on something so ancient; obvious as this is, he'll persist. What does it matter, in the end?]

Think it's fair enough, yeah.

[Slurred, maybe. Just the edges, just the nuance. Questioning authority is a step down from obliterating it completely, and if Greed only knew — oh, that would be cause for strife, wouldn't it. A subtle shake of his head, half-takes the room with it. No, it's not about revenge, because revenge is nothing more than a means to an end. A cog, an instrument: Mello knows the concept well. His own revenge was nothing more than a tool to take and take until he stood on top because, well — ]

[The half-drunk human standing before Sin has always wanted the world too, hasn't he? There are nuances to this sort of thing; no explanation is needed. Someone with ambitions so high understands full well that obstacles are just those. An endgame is far beyond that, far beyond figureheads and posing entities.]

I'd be disappointed if they were your goal. [A one-shouldered shrug; nonchalance can be matched movement for movement. Dead at nineteen, Mello knows ambition more than the average 'human' Greed might have encountered, but hubris is something to be kept at bay until it's needed. Because I'm nothing you've ever known is an idiot's declaration.]

[Actions speak louder than words, when all is said and done.]

[But oh, prideful boy — don't mock the Devil, himself.]

And this town; it's a hub, I know.

[Semantics, really. But the Sin likes to speak in circles, doesn't he? Pull them round and round until their demand for answers fall to the wayside; Mello was never someone to be deterred so easily. Beneath it all, he's been trained to replace his world's greatest detective — not that he'd be particularly keen on sharing that information. A flick of his tongue over the corner of his mouth, and he'll step back if Greed thinks he's going to lead him along in a fruitless whirl.]

[Eventually]

The cities are yours — [The people? Well.] — the Gods are out of the way. [And Mello thinks he likes this game, pressing as it is. Skirt along the edges of sin; reach forward to flick a fingernail against the side of the demon's glass.] Everyone accepts your bargains —

[Demon at the crossroads.]

No one wants to take what's yours, which is — [Smirk.] everything. [A tip of his chin; Mello sways on his feet just a bit too much to make an argument for complete coherency, right now. Unimportant, dismissed with a quick righting on his balance.]

[He asks because — Because.]

There's nothing left. And you — [In this life and the last.] you're eternal. [As is Mello, as is everyone here, where immortality even after death is a curse that some of them would relish.]

Do you sit on a throne and bask in it all, or do you wait for someone to rise against you?

[If there's a hint of challenge to the question, it's unintentional. Really.]

[But for how much Mello is encroaching, the Sin returns the favor tenfold. His chest dips when the other crawls along his glass; his exposed neck open and wide as M slinks through every single one of his words like a firing-squad, lined up and packed with plenty of ammo. And he has enough to spare, doesn't he? Each one of his questions, digging further to the truth. To see the heart of it all, beat for beat.]

[However, even so, there's that little thing he's forgot. A little detail he's missed. Because while Mello may be his, while he may belong?]

[Nothing, truly, comes free.]

[The former homunculus scuffs the lip of his glass with his finger. The smear he leaves is oiled and grainy; the taste like that of charcoal coughed up and spat out from the mouth of a lead pipe. He gives his teeth a playful click. A porcelain chime.] Pretty persistent, aren't you. [Greed rolls his tongue against the roof of his mouth. It follows the arch of his gums, traces the grooves; his smooth talk as subtle and brazen as a lover-for-hire trying to raise the stakes. This town: it's just the start of his empire, isn't it? His very making binding him, choking him, and only the cure is more, God, more, more, more, more - ]

[Greed's expression bristles and as the forks of his tongue lap away, the spark they leave pops off in cheek; forcing the skin to hum from the inside out like that of a negative, thrown up for inspection. He pats the side of his glass.] Oh, don't I wish I was immortal - I may be built a bit tougher, but that doesn't mean I haven't died before. And taking from them - [The Sin pucker his mouth; his smile, now an appreciative purse.] - I don't care what anyone else does. Human, monster, something else. That'll be their choice. I did tell you, didn't I? I'm not a good guy, M. But forcing someone to do something they're not interested in - I wouldn't really be me, now, would I.

[It isn't a question. Mello isn't new to this. He's heard the song, seen the dance. Listened to the same rhythm, over and over, knowing that they would end up in the same place that they started. The former homunculus dips his chin and as the flats of his boots brush the floor, he begins to tighten his coil. The hold of his claws loosens, then drops - the glass and whatever's left all but given to the other without a word.]

[Greed pops two of his fingers into his mouth and with a brisk flick, he cleans the brim.] Everything's mine, friend. Now, later. [While he talks, the Sin's eyes dreamily drift. A hint of smoke teases in front of his face. Like a thin veil, it blurs his colors. Brightens his glow. The gassy fume carving him out and sinking in as jagged as neon paint, calling from an alleyway. No, he's not like the rest of them. And in the end, oh in the end - ]

[The Sin abruptly pulls himself away. A shred of soot chases him while he goes - its fingers trying, almost desperately, to weave their way along Mello's collar.] My turn. [His back to Mello, the former homunculus stretches out his hand. He makes a pile along the edge of his dresser: his sunglasses, his vest, a clip of keys, and a couple of loose coins tossed aside in a mound more suitable to a bachelor's uncaring collection. One of his claws traps a stray piece of copper and as his nail pins in, Greed slumps into his back.] That ambition of yours - you didn't get to finish everything you started, did you?

[The surface of the coin brightens. Slowly, the stray-orange copper starts to fade away. It warps and peels. Reddens and simmers. The shade of it, an electric grill, cooking, cooking, cooking. Greed lifts his talon away and when it breaks, the hole left is black and smokey. A bullet's exit wound, leaving behind a reminder. Mello isn't the only one in the 'Nest who's life was cut short.]

[Which -]

Even if you don't stay here, the possibilities are endless. There are other worlds out there, after all. [He pauses. At the corner of his jaw, a thin snuff of smoke twirls about his head. It delicately tangles in his horns - a touch soft, loose, and oh, oh, oh.]

[The Sin pats his foot and immediately, the halo around him drops.] You asked if I'd wait for someone else to try to take over, but that's not how it works. [Greed pinches the coin, lifting it into his palm.] What's mine is just that and my offer always stands. You, the others, and everyone else. It'll be your choice. A one time deal -

[After all, doors take a bit of effort to open, don't they? A key, something else, and if there ever was a payment to be had - ]

[Dnk, and his heel snaps back along the floor.] Think that's enough for now. If you want to stay, feel free - [Greed shoves his hands back into his pockets - his slight cant, chiding and sarcastic.] - you can have the rest of that, if you need it. [He motions to the bottle lazily with his elbow. A second goes by, another.] Unless you need anything else?

[Because, really, sin can only give so much. He's built in selfishness. Molded by desire. A serpent made, constantly and forever chasing its own tail.]

[There are very few times in Mello's short life during which he hasn't been completely on guard; as a child, he thrived on rivalry, made an enemy out of someone who was nothing less than indifferent. Later, a true enemy breathed down his neck with a dragon's heat, meeting him move for move, and the boy with too much to prove nearly burned the world to see the other sink into a grave that he so deserved. Now, human, he should be on guard more than ever — he's the thing that monsters eat — but this human's been granted sanctuary here, and the carefree back-and-forth doesn't hold the levity it would if the situation were any different. There's something else to Greed handing over the glass the way he does — Mello's sure of it as much as he's sure that everything is something in the Sin's intent — but the what of it will remain a mystery. Don't come off too insistent, too paranoid.]

[A soft grace in the way warm fingers slide just above the stem, attention falling momentarily to the small amount of liquid behind translucent glass. The Sin's words roll off of his shoulders — reminders and for someone always on-edge: veiled warnings — while something who does nothing aside from simply being is a near-entrancing spectacle; something a human could cast off the following day as a mirage — a trick of the light here and there; a glitch in his peripheral — but Mello knows better, doesn't he?]

[Ambitious? Him? What would give Greed that idea?]

[Tit-for-tat, but Mello was never one to divulge unnecessary details. That he never finished what he set out to do is a thing that nips at his back with every failure, every attempt unsatisfied. A living, breathing ghost trapped in an eternal loop to complete a series of events that have long-since unfolded: the stain of his end marks him so visibly, does it?]

[What's mine is mine — is mine — is mine; oh, but Mello's dignity is his to hold, but what's Greed's is Greed's — (one of his own) — so by extension, by logical order — ]

No.

[Low; confessions aren't for devils, but here they are. Mello drains off the glass in a single motion, fluidly places it nearby without a word of gratitude (never his strong suit, after all) and it's the alcohol alone that dulls the sting that comes with the memory of loss. But he'll cover it with a half-grin, a shrug that doesn't mean a thing. Appearances and all.] But that was a long time ago. [Just a few months; just a blip in the scheme of things — Mello never was one to let go of wins that were always his to take. Not when they were snatched away by a hand weaker than his own.]

[A tip of his head; copper charring and melting away, a breath of something intangible and near enough to give off a vapor — oh, the Sin's questions are always loaded. Succinct, convoluted; does it matter? What's his is his and it's enough when Mello says it's enough; the beat of silence is enough to fill nebulas and yet — ]

[A full flavor rests heavy on his tongue when he tests it against the backs of smooth teeth, mimics something like the sound of dissidence in his throat — brazen thing that he's always been. ]

You've always got somewhere to go, don't you — [Near-condescending; he glances at the bottle offered. He'll take that later, when sleep refuses to come as it always does. Mello should know; he was a busy person himself — king of nothing and no one important when it came down to the wire; someone who didn't have time for a thing that didn't suit his end-game, but this — now?]

[Call it impudence.]

[He's long-scarred from teetering too close to fire (lessons learned and filed away) and the first step takes thought, balance, determination — the next? A matter of leisure and poise, uneven as it might be. Twenty going on what might as well be a hundred with wisdom and experience and Greed will see him because that's what he's chosen as his 'something else,' misguided as his intentions tend to be where matters of dynamics are concerned.]

[The sting of the tattoo still bites into his skin; it bypasses the numbing effects he's consumed so much to put into place. Just enough to take the edge off; just enough to dull the throb.]

Do you make it a habit of shelving your things? [Blatant as the sentiment is; a mock-curiosity creases his brow — ever the antagonist, Mello will push and push no matter the price. He'd unapologetically paid with his life once before, after all. This?]

[A grand show of immature vanity.]

Edited 2017-12-09 02:04 (UTC)

[Mello may have his fear of fire, yet still he draws in. A moth by another name, testing the waters and dipping its toes, despite any harm that may follow. It's an impressive feat - a dangerous attempt. And as the other slips in and claims his place, the former homunculus tentatively lifts his lip. His sneer is nothing sort of a smear; one made in teeth and a brush-stroke of sulfur, hot and yellow. A note of something spoils in his throat and as it dies, bits and pieces leak through his scales. The remnants, a backwash of ash.]

[Greed puckers his eyebrows together.] Didn't realize that was a problem. [He licks his words. Savoring them, tasting them. The other may his point, but then again - if that's what he really wants.]

[A snare of soot wilts off the back of his neck and while it extends, the Sin slowly begins to wrap around the other. He curls in where Mello's started; his winding movement forcing his fallout to tangle between them like a loose-run rope, circling its noose. And isn't it just them? Their constant a dance, a space, inches apart. Greed's eyes heavily droop. He extends a single finger - the brunt of it curved back and aimed right to the shelf of the Mello's chin. Whether he gets to tilt it back or not, that's the other's choice. But considering his proposition, considering his vanity? Well - ]

[He's always considered himself lucky on his bets.]

[The Sin lowers his head, forcing his horns a breathless minute away from his present company. Mello. M. He has a habit of pushing. Whether it's personal boundaries, his worth, his standing: nothing is ever enough. He's not so different from others he's known. His desire is thirsty, his need to be noticed more-so. The former homunculus closes in and as his body looms, one of his legs stretches out. The sharp of his heel taps ever-so-lightly outside their personal bubble; the punctuation of brunt plastic and heat more similar to that of a gunshot in point-blank range. A whiff of smoke traps around his ankle. One wrap, two wraps, three, and it envelopes them. A personal curtain drawn and asking the single question:]

["Is that an offer?"]

[Greed purses his lip.] If you've got something else, I'm all ears, friend. Didn't mean any offense. [It's almost sick, how he says it. His voice is neon-toxic. A poison, better avoided. The Sin extends his tail. The spade of it unwinds with a sense of purpose; as if it's waking up from a deep slumber, only to eat up the sun. The former homunculus rolls the forks of his tongue behind his teeth. No, Mello's a gambler of a different kind. A poker player and all of his cards, oh all of his cards - ]

[Shrrrk. The prongs along the Sin's tail catch the wood floor. They drag themselves lowly - like that of a flat-bellied serpent, crawling towards a source. Greed wraps his hand around his hip and as he tilts, those eyes of his wander. They trace the arch of Mello's throat, follow his veins; his very look as warm and vacant as a forest-fire debating its direction. He taps his boot again just once.] Though, coming from you - didn't really think you were interested. [He teases his teeth while he talks. The prongs of his tongue peek out from his jaws; a brief flicker, to get the flavor. Because, if Mello wants his company, he'll gladly give it.]

[First thing's first - ]

[The Sin drums a finger against his hip.] You're going to have to tell me what you want, though. Not really interested if you aren't. [The insinuation should be pretty obvious. Talking is fine, but company? The kind he's looking for? It's an equivalent exchange. A bargain.]

[And all Mello needs to do is sign the dotted line.]

[Hm? Oh, it's a problem. One of moderate consequence; Mello is blatant intent where Greed is something asking to be chased — and he knows it. Has to — and pursuit is something that sets his nerves on edge. Lightning sparking in a silent clap that expands his pupils, widening orbs of increasing interest. His boss never intended to take anything that wasn't given freely, did he? Funny thing.]

[Never much of a predator in this area before the Gods went and made him a hunter; it bleeds over into his intent even now in this temporary human cage. The movement towards him is a devil's promise — one he accepts willingly with an upward tip of his chin; if Greed wants to touch him, the invitation's already been laid out: long ago; a wordless beckon in each encounter, each accidental bout of contact, vies to hold the demon's attention over and over and now — ]

[No, no, no, he's nothing Greed's ever known. Not so different. T'ch. Human, maybe. But the rest? Is it so bold to reach for something that holds the ability to tear him apart? Most would say yes; Mello simply views it as a natural course of action where the dynamics between monsters and humans lie. Warm, curious fingers stretch to pad skin over the rough surface of a horn — things feel so different when Mello's body is what it was before the first change — and if there's hesitation, it's been long ago tucked away.]

[A drawn-out waiting game between the two of them; Mello was never one to be taken at someone's pace and yet — and yet. The urge to pry and take overrules habit; liquor slows his reactions to a languid, heated measure. Greed is taking because that's what he does, and Mello's always been a selfish thing.]

[Offense. Taunt him, taunt him and — oh, Mello will retaliate the way he knows how. Avoidance isn't an option; he's already crossed a line that threatens to snap if he takes just one more step. Just one more and — ]

I think [He accentuates the K; maybe it's the alcohol, maybe it's intentional. A moment of pause, a pensive silence that leaves way for speculation. Long enough to glance over the trap in which he's been entwined, whether or not it's calculated (ah, of course it is) on the Sin's part.] You play dense because you want to hear it. [And that slow, slow smile, it's for infatuation and enemies alike. Dropped almost as instantly as it appears; the tip of his tongue plays at the corner of his mouth for a split second — he was always one to delve head-first into risk, wasn't he?]

[Not interested. His pride would tell him a different story. His hubris would tell him that's a fucking lie; Mello is leather and intention, human or no, impossible to dismiss — he flaunts his own skin as temptation incarnate, and Greed isn't so hard to figure out. He wants and wants — more than any of them maybe — wants confessions that hold him in place while posing a question that Mello thinks was answered a long, long time ago.]

Coming from me — [Is he so difficult to read?] Is that right. [And Greed wants him to say it directly, doesn't he? A verbal contract, an agreement, an acquisition of something given freely. But what he will give, (what he has given) is an indignant, firm jerk of his chin away from the Sin's finger — claws be damned, scratches be damned — before he presses close, close, closer.] You want me to tell you what —

[And when he leans in to nip at the corner of the other's mouth, it's blood-thirsty, even for someone in human form.] Boss. [Low in his throat, and Mello's never played very nicely. Patience isn't a virtue; teasing will only frustrate him until he breaks, but Greed does love the back and forth, doesn't he?]

[Now? Mello will give it to him. Just for now.]

That I want to fuck? [His words come calculated, a backhanded mockery of having to voice it at all, but if this is what Greed needs — ]

[An unholy war: that's what this is. A game of sides, pushing, prodding, and invading each others' respectable territories with the subtly of a noose, weaving around a throat. Mello's touch is both inspection(ary) and curious; as if it's his first time seeing the world around him up close, and all he wants to do is feel, feel, feel it through.]

[Runs of sulfur key behind his teeth: white, yellow.] Oh - ? Can't say you're entirely wrong. [The former homunculus rinses his tongue along the roof his mouth. The heat locked inside squeezes smoke against his gums; the look of it, more similar to that of compacter, pressurizing its contents. Because no, he really isn't that difficult to figure out. Wants and needs; pleasure and company. They're an addiction he'll never shake. He's built by them: defined by them. And as the other's lips bite copper at this skin, the Sin's flashes back a pointed grin. His gesture, wordlessly filling in the blanks:]

["I know it's killing ya, and you gotta leave. But darlin', darlin', darlin' - " ]

["- it's all a little too late."]

[Greed drops his hand, allowing his claws to level just outside Mello's side. He isn't touching; not yet. And why would he? When he's getting everything he wants - it'd be a shame to waste the opportunity. M's interactions are always a participation of push and pull with the same tune. First, an "I'm right here." Next, the tease. The best though, he saves for last; a bored withdrawl, as blatant and smokey as a woman, chasing her shoulder over with a glance. He's seen it before. Hell, he sees it now. And if Mello's looking for a definite answer? Well - ]

[It's been said that the devil gives the warmest redemption.]

[Greed's teeth shallowly graze the other's lip - his killer-cut daggers, carefully placed.] See, that wasn't that hard, was it? [Slurring, his hand finally pries open. The underside of his palm is as slick as it is black and while he traces down the other's side and maps it out, the former homunculus nudges one of his legs closer. He guides his heel up against Mello's in a tap of plastic; the arch of his foot swinging, just swinging, as if he has the time.]

[Which - ]

[The Sin's tail unhitches from the floorboards. Prongs, gems, hooks, and steel: they slither between Mello's feet. A serpent for lack of anything else, making itself at home. For that's what he is. What'll always be. Temptation in its ultimate shell, breathing it all in. M knew it the moment they met, didn't he? That what day, they'd be here like so many others before him.]

[Greed runs the back of his knuckles down the other's spine.] You can still say no, y'know. I'm not about to force you into anything you're not interested in, friend. Just not my style. But if this is what you really want - [He leans his head in, giving his company plenty of room. Whatever he wants touch, where ever he wants to go - the choice?]

[It's so, decidedly his.]

[Shrrrnk, and the former homuculus presses his hip against Mello's; the meeting of leather to leather, sticky and shrill.] You're right, though: I wanna hear you. Everything you want, everything you need - give to me, sweetheart, and I'll be sure to return the favor. [As if mirroring M's K, Greed purposely clicks a tooth on his R. It's been a long-time coming for the two of them and his selfishness? It heeds no warning nor does it know any bounds. It's endless that way: his core all but a bottomless pit, opened to swallow. The Sin catches a piece of Mello's shirt on his claw and his nose tucks sleekly under his ear.]

[Mello may usually see himself in the company of saints, but in the end?]

[It's their cardinal opposite who'll always come creeping back.]

[If this is war, a sketched line drawn haphazardly in the proverbial sand has long-since been breached. Human on initial approach, human now — Mello's penchant for dipping curious fingers into poison has always held true. Never one to give (weakness and subjugation and everything in-between), that's precisely what he's doing now, isn't it?]

[Because Greed is methodical — dripping with intent — where Mello is throwing his vulnerability into the flames twice-over. A voice that wasn't quite so unearthly when Mello was more than human is something transcendent now; confident: the teasing dance between the two of them ends here, where the human's too-responsive flesh consumes touches and breaths and words alike.]

[I wanna hear you — ]

[And when has Mello ever been one to give in to demands? Oh, but Greed would phrase it as an exchange, wouldn't he? Give me what I want, and I'll give you, (I'll give you) —]

[A b s o l u t i o n.]

[There are no saints here.]

[The blond pinches the tip of his tongue between grit teeth; alcohol or no, nerves dance along with contact in prickles of electric staccato rhythm. A tip of his head to further expose a smooth, pale throat — (never give in to the hunter ) — he invites nips and wounds and everything so far-removed from heaven. A swallow, throat bobbing in nothing short of a blatant request, he peeks at the sin through lowered lids, grips at fabric to seal the frustrating minute distance between them once and for all.]

[All of the liquor in Ryslig wouldn't hold the ability to raise his body temperature enough to match a demon's; the warmth is engulfing as much as it is alarming and it's the minute hesitation that surges Mello's resolve. Thin, practiced fingers slide up the side of his boss's neck, find purchase in the hair just at the nape where he grabs and tugs toward him, hips inviting and clamoring in their insistence — never one for anything resembling patience, their mutual need to size each other up like enemies who are anything but plants an ache in him that tenses and tightens and begs to be absolved like an unspoken prayer.]

I want you —

[I want everything.]

— to stop fucking around.

[Sin incarnate, older than breath, born-again monster; Mello wants Greed unleashed in ways that would nullify religion in all its fickle forms. He punctuates the murmur with a hard, lingering press of warm lips against Greed's temple, with a chuckle low enough in his throat to be mistaken for a taunt. His next words are muffled against skin, bold in their clarity.]

Don't play coy with me. [Because they both know that either of them are anything but.] And don't give me a choice. [Breathless, anticipating.] I think you know I never had one to begin with.

[Not with his resolve upon first setting eyes on someone who Mello knew was so much more than he appeared.]

[It's one of the few times he actually listens. Sure, he acknowledges their grievances, their strict no(s), their wants and needs. But in this moment, in this precise second where heart beats thud and a drum pushes at the skin, demanding attention - the Sin's movements are both elongated and coy. The touch of Mello's lip at his temple is a breath; his tug at his vest, a demand. And really, he's always had a knack for it, hasn't he? Pushing himself forward, toeing the line, chancing his luck. Until finally, finally, salvation's opposite comes to collect its dues.]

[Ah, but what is they say about the devil?]

["How merciful he can be."]

[Behind the sway of Mello's back, Greed's nails suddenly skate together. They brush against each other with a sharpening trill; the sound, similar to that of a butcher's block, plucking out its best. The former homunculus shrinks his head a bit lower and as the other's fingers play at he dip of his skull, a longing hum fights behind his teeth. The world's desires, all but hissing like prisoners beating against an overcrowded cell.] Oh - ? Is that what you think? Maybe you did, maybe you didn't. But this - [He hushes and one of his claws barely skips down Mello's spine.] - sorry, but that's all you, sweetheart. Don't get me wrong. I'm not complaining. I told you before: in the end, it is your choice. You just have to tell me exactly what you want, hmn?

[Though, he already knows his answer. Need. If anyone is an expert, he's certainly it. And as M's chuckle teases his ear, the Sin slyly pivots his heel. He forces his boot up and in; its dramatic tip, nudging aside Mello's legs as a wordless inquiry:]

["If you let me - oh, babe. I'll show you exactly what it's like."]

[A rush of soot shakes from his horns and the former homunculus plants a trail of kisses down M's exposed throat. He does it with a purpose - the bottom of his ear, first. Right outside his pulse, second. The action is continuous. Slow. The love of a sewer drain, sighing out its smoke, tasting the air, and feeling the life up above for the short, quick time that it has. No, even with all the centuries he's had, these are the moments he savors. And if he's taking too long, if he's dragging it out - ]

[Greed's mouth wrenches open; his exhale, humid and dank. One of his hands keys up Mello's side and as the tips of his fingers come upon his scar, a blatant pause steals his touch. All of his have their stories. Be it something they did, something out of their control, a mix of both, or just simply, an unfortunate case of wrong place, wrong time. Whatever the reason, the scale is vast. A human spectrum of the worst kind, bringing them here, here, here.]

[And what finds them but none other than avarice, avarice incarnate.]

[It's one of the reasons he hesitates. The former homunculus hovers his thumb above the start of Mello's blemish. The skin underneath's healed, sure enough, however - its wrinkled. Garish. Taut. The other's metaphorical rubber band, pulled tight and if one gets too close, if one pushes too much, the whole thing could snap right back. Greed skips over it, instead choosing to outline the mark with a soft, tracing touch of his own. No, here? Here, even he knows his limits.]

[And some things just aren't worth the trouble.]

Ah - you really are something, aren't you. [Whispered. Greed talks into Mello's skin like a promise. He maps him out with the very tips of his teeth and as one of his hands drifts further down M's chest, the other presses boldly into his back. Forcing their skin to meet as close as dancers, plotting inches of space. He leads and suggestions. Guides and coaxes. The clip of his heels and the not-so-subtle prod of his fingers, an effort to keep his lover stepping back, back, back.]

[Eventually though, he pauses again - the tips of his claws, barely tucked into the hem of the other's pants. One of his knuckles brushes Mello's hip.]Lovely - [The Sin's slurs, his mouth hitching a hair off Mello's neck. He pops the button to M's leathers not a second later and as his thumb circles, he gingerly brings his eyes upward. Unlike before, the thirst in them is more blatant. Red pounds in his sockets; a string of purple slinks between. The former homunculus hooks his talon at the inside of the zipper and as the tip of it connects with steel, he shoots an inspection(ary) glance over M's shoulder. The dresser behind them is anything but organized. Empty bottles line the mirror, odds and ends pile themselves dangerously on the edge. Yet, considering the circumstances -]

[Greed's smile splits and without even a hint of hesitation, he moves to snag the other's thighs. He makes an effort to snare both of Mello's legs behind the back of the knee - a notion to hold, to spread, and an offer for him to take, take, take.]

[Because if he loses a few bottles, a few trinkets? Well - ]

[Nothing in this world is free now, is it?]

[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.]

[It's a course he's walked down a million times. Asking with a glance. Questioning with merely a stroke of a knuckle. Mello has the notes keyed into his very fingers - the melody, the proverbial sheet, all but played back to him as smooth and egotistical as an apprentice, showing up the master. The former homunculus gives his mouth a sly test. The forks of his tongue dance briefly behind his sneer; the flicker of brimstone, the light of it, a hint of mere static to Mello's inquiry dragging him in, in, in. An inch, and the Sin hums. Another, and his teeth snag the other's lower lip. A devil's pricking kiss gentle, indulgent, and all-too familiar with suggestion.]

[For what were those words again? What was the phrase?]

["Just one bite, sweetheart. And I promise, it'll all be worth it."]

[One of the Sin's hands guides Mello by the dip of his back while the other makes short work of the nightstand. It flattens on top of it (over mounds of rolled up coins, through strands of last night's company) with a resounding thunk. What's there doesn't matter. What's in the way doesn't count. Instead, it all too-quickly goes belly-up; the cache, the collections, swiped away and over the side to the tune of a window, smashing under a brick. The former homunculus slurs something in the back of his throat and while a pulse of quick-fire melts behind his scales, the hooks of his fingers suggest at the inside of Mello's knee; motioning it up, wide, and atop the pedestal he so, so craves.]

["I want your attention," he says. The answer?]

[So be it.]

[Greed nudges his hips forward - his body, all but forcing itself between the other's thighs.] Do you now. Pretty bold, friend. But I'm glad to hear you can finally admit it. Just remember - [His thumb swipes Mello's jawline while he talks. He traces it out from one point to the other; the sharp angles, the jagged lines, the uneven skin as much as a defining characteristic as his stubborn disposition. To Sin, they're one in the same. Something to be admired and put to memory, inch by every, terrible inch. The former homunculus plucks his lips away with a satisfied smile and as his eyes focus under a toxic fume, he gingerly grazes his nose under the shelf of the other's chin. Leaving his smile, his voice, to plant at the skin of his throat.] - no regrets, hmn? If you decide you really don't want it, you need to tell me. After all, I may not be good, but I have some standards.

Now - [Two of his claws touch the sweep of Mello's thigh. They run across his leather in a skirt; the sound, more similar to loose muffler, scratching the pavement. No, he's sure Mello's plotted this entire thing out. He's weighed his options, counted the positives, the negatives. Sure, he's at a disadvantage. Being human, even for a second, is dangerous in Ryslig's terms. Though, then again; since when has he ever shied away from the idea? Since when has he hesitated? Even when they first crossed paths - M has always been the sort to cross the line. To dip his toes and challenge anyone, everyone, who dared to give him a run for his money.]

[And here? Here.]

[It's really no different.]

[The Sin's shoulders shallowly dip and as the fur along his neck peels off, the rest of his vest catches loosely at his elbows. It causes the lines across his body to steal at the air; their red color, bleeding to a bright, alleyway pink. A thin exhale of ash shakes free, then. A veil of another definition, tooling about, wrapping them, and ah, ah, ah.]

[Is it truly a shame when a saint marries the devil.]

[Greed's nails swipe the top of Mello's knee. Shrrnk.] You've got my attention, lovely. But having it all - [Purred, are his words. The way he whispers against the other's skin - it's like he has a secret. Like he has a thousand of them. And maybe he does, maybe he doesn't. Either way, the Sin creases his teeth close to Mello's pulse - their tips, a blade's delicate caress.] - I think that's asking a lot, don't you?

[Not that he won't give him what he wants. Far from it. However, avarice - it's a disease, isn't it? A vice without a cure. A cancer without a remedy. And as his thumb pulls away to nip at the zipper of Mello's pants, Greed arches his torso forward. His hips press, his bones grind. His own want creeping in, constricting, as if he could drain every inch of Mello dry, dry, dry. Because, in the end?]

[Sin's exposure will always, always, leave but a husk behind.]

[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.

[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.]

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