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[nestingdevil]

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0.0.0.0 ♦ "MASON" | Heather

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0.0.0.0 ♦ STOCKE

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0.0.0.0 ♦ AOBA

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0.0.0.0 ♦ "JUSTINE"

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0.0.0.0 ♦ KILLUA

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0.0.0.0 ♦ ZOLF J. KIMBLEY

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0.0.0.0 ♦ EDWARD ELRIC

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0.0.0.0 ♦ "XANDER" | SANDRATH

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Comments

[thischaos]

[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.]

[nestingdevil]

[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.]

[thischaos]

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

[What is there to regret, really?]

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

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

[if you only knew; if you only knew]

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

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

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

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

[Lay yourself bare; martyr for a cause — ]

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

I'm not afraid of you.

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

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

[nestingdevil]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[After all, honesty?]

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