longwillows | ✨ somnia inbox

Entry tags:

✨ somnia inbox

reach out?

[He's so focused, though, that he almost misses her thank you. The paintings alone are enough for him to get lost in (their purposeful strokes, the want soaked into them that's far softer than any sort of desire he could possibly hope to understand). It's not like he hasn't seen art before. Over the years, he's crossed paths with a few. Talented people history would never remember, pouring themselves, their admiration, their need, into works that would, eventually, fade as all things do. But in the moment, for him, they're still as fresh as the day they were made. Drafts, half-finished pieces, and the rare, final products, glowing faint in the warm dim of hearths and oil lamps.]

[The genuine gratitude, however, shatters every, single thought in his head. And as the Sin finds himself (standing there, stupid), his body goes stiff as a board. The only movement, the telling snap of his tail as it jumps wildly at his ankles.]

Oi, oi, oi. The hell are you thanking me for? [He barks, his bite clearly missing, as he flicks his fingers curtly off the edge of his hip.] Don't start getting any wild ideas about it, would ya? I told you, figured you'd be able to use it better than I could. [The tether, however, hints at a different story. How it throttles itself like a fist trying to choke out a string.]

[But she gives him an out, and oh, is it a godsend.]

[Because he knows exactly what she means: becoming invested. Becoming too invested. It's what brought him here tonight in the first place. Not that he needed an excuse to see her. He'd visit her any time. Like an old haunt he knows will always have a glass for him ready and waiting, no matter how many years have passed.]

[The Sin slumps into his shoulders, and the end of his tail knots loops around his calf.] Invested, huh. [He repeats, more to get a feel for it himself. Admitting it isn't something he'll ever do. He can't, really. Not in the way most people can. His sort weren't made for that kind of love. Sure, he knew what it could look like. Of course, he's heard the stories. But it's a language he can't comprehend. Not then, not now, not ever, no matter how much something in his chest rattles back.]

[Greed closes his eyes, and his grin slowly crawls up one side of his face.] Some people, right? Can't stop yourself, no matter how well you know it's probably a bad idea. [More a tell on him than her, but the point still stands.] Humans get the wrong idea all the time. What it means to have, what greed really is. Can't blame you for trying to find a way to keep it from getting too complicated.

[Again, the single arch of her eyebrow is questioning, near challenging, as she watches the whip of his tail. The way he raises his voice and shows his teeth, yet absent any real aggression or distress along the tether— she might call it flustered, if she were asked to describe it. There is something else along the woven threads of their connection, but it's hard to identify when he's trying to smother it so.

This is not doing anything to disprove her theory nor discourage her thoughts on what he actually wants from her. Besides the sex, of course.

He snaps up her explanation of the artwork like bait off a hook. So she gives it to him for now. Her expression smooths to something more thoughtful as her eyes find the graphite sketch of Greed, clearly a source of something for her guest, some rattling thing inside of a cage she can't see into. The ear closest to him flicks, a twitch like it's caught a stray current of air.

The soothing breeze she brings with her assurances over the Murmur lives in her voice too, her words airy and easy even in this moment of contemplation.] I don't mind attachment. Or complication. Living, thinking beings will always be complicated, so loving them will be complicated too.

[Much as they might seek simplicity. Much as Greed tries to choke out whatever it is that colors his want in such an uncomfortable way.

Carefully, she lifts the necklace and unhooks the clasp halfway up the serpent's tail to open the loop. Then she slips the curl of it over the back of her neck, claws clicking against the gemstones that remain, the sound of making a point without saying anything at all. Clipping it closed over the dip of her collarbone punctuates the candor with which she continues:] I don't like the way this place makes me feel about them sometimes. But I can't force those feelings away, so this is where I put them. So that it won't hurt any of them.

[Whatever the moment had been (a twitch, a tremor, a lie for him alone) slips away, however. Another grain of sand in his long, tall hour glass, trickling down to lose itself in the sea of it. Love. It's been a subject that's been brought up more than once in his short time here. And while the circumstances were always different (the tethers and their need to hold things close, Sleep and her poisoned admiration), in the end, it all boiled down to the same thing. The same thing he's seen for centuries, rising and dying again like crops in a cycle.]

[But him, ah. He's always been on the outskirts of it. As if one step would bring the whole thing to ruin like a plague without a cure in sight.]

[Not that he minds. That's just how things are, and how they'll always, always be.]

[Greed sucks on one of his upper teeth, humming.] Eh, suppose that's where you and I won't agree, sweetheart. Always found it easier to keep things simple. [Not a lie, not a truth, not anything, really. Nothing but an instinct, and the only answer he has to give her.] Nothing wrong with attachment, mind. But it's a little different when it comes to me.

[It's not colors, painted wild and free. Not her warmth, bubbling over and asking for little in return. No, what it is at its core is rotten. A cancer that will claw, snare, and latch on, refusing to let anyone or anything take what it is so rightfully owed. That's the difference between the two of them. Where she's sunshine, he's a pit. An empty, hungry pit that will never be satisfied, much as he tries to fill it.]

[That's what he tells himself, at least. Keep it simple.]

[The tip of the Sin's tail slowly drags to a low, sleepy swing. He isn't looking at her, but he does hear it: the soft twittering of the gemstones that remain. The silver, unbuckling as pitched as the backside of woman's silk dress. The former homunculus lulls his head into his shoulder and as the fur around his collar pillows his ear, he shows her a sliver of his smile. Something with less teeth.] Mn. Can't blame you there, either. There are rules, lovely. And no matter what Sleep wants us to do, there are some things I won't, no matter how hard she tries.

[Desire was a street that had to be traveled because they wanted to, after all. Otherwise, it wasn't worth shit to him.]

[The tilt of her head is curious, and very nearly innocuous in its curiosity, as he slides her a sidelong smile over his shoulder. It's probably the softest—or least sharp—expression she's seen on his razorlike face. Rules. Are those his paintings? Is that what he does in lieu of satiating the unstoppable, destructive need to own those he cares about? Is that the veil behind which he obscures his investment in people?

A curious, curious creature. He is more complicated than he's willing to admit—but that is not her place to say right now. Not the kind of help she has agreed to give him. Never lead with the uncomfortable truths; it's imperative to take it bit by bit. Respect and trust in infinitesimal increments. Otherwise there's too much risk of pushing away those you're trying to help.

And she wants to help him. She doesn't want to push him away.

Her steps are silent as she drifts closer to him, the stealthy gait of the fox she so resembles. Once she's nearly at his side, she stops. Easy to brush an arm against, but hard to look directly at, the perfect line of sight over his strong shoulder and fluffy collar.] I haven't really got rules. I just fought very hard for my own freedom...so I would never do anything to take theirs away.

[The sway of her own tails is nearly in rhythm with his, though it's as quiet as her ghostly footsteps. Curious gives way to coquettish as she tips her chin up to meet his gaze, her eyes brightening with playful suggestions of color as one corner of her mouth curls up into a smile.] It is much easier to keep things simple, but...

[The smile reaches the opposite end of her lips. Spreads up to the corners of her sharp, mirthful eyes.] Simple is just so boring.

[The twitch along the Murmur is undeniable the second time. When she comes out and says it like an arrow, aimed and shot:]

["I just fought very hard for my own freedom..."]

[It's something he can relate. Something he knows personally from experience, even if the fighting part came later. Leashes. They may not always be physical ones, but they're there, nonetheless. Chains and collars built to hold people back and drag them into submission either by brutal force, or simply by the sweet lies, told and spun to hold them level with the ground.]

[Greed chases his inner cheek with his teeth, letting the skin of it drag along their points. He doesn't have any intention of opening that up right now, but the tone of his voice? Oh, is it a dangerous one.] Choice. [He answers, and the tension from his end pulls as tight as a bow string.] That's the whole point, lovely. The ability to choose - [He shrugs his shoulders, lifting his head languidly from the tickle of his collar.] - call it my nature, but I've always been a fan of that. Gives them the ability to think about it, to decide if this is what they really want, or walk away and be done with it. In the end, it doesn't really matter to me. Even if they do decide it's not worth it, I'd rather it be honest from the start.

As for you - [His heel dips, his body sways, and the former homunculus coolly pivots to face her; his slouch more akin to that of a buzzard with a tale it has no plans on telling.] - good. One day, you'll have to tell me. About who they were, and what you're owed. [Owed. A guarantee, if nothing else. That if whoever tried to drag her down, tried to tame her, showed up even close to his doorstep, Hell would be a more merciful option.]

[Thankfully, he lets the moment pass as soon as it comes - a slip down his back as jumping as water from a slick-oiled feather.] Mnn. Simple is boring, huh? That what you think? [He teases with a snap of his teeth. However, he is closer. One step, bringing him nearer and nearer to what he came here for in the first place.]

[Greed reaches out, trailing the backs of his knuckles along the slope of her hip.] Dunno, love. Might be able to show you that simple can be a whole lot more than you think.

[It is about choice. What she does, where she goes, who she is—she spent so long unable to choose any of it. In her formative years, when the pathways of her mind were still being paved, the void left where choice should be became a part of her. She builds, and builds, and builds, and oftentimes she's happy within what she's built. But that emptiness always awaits beneath, ready to swallow her should she ever miss a step and take a fall.

It's the same for him, then, in some way. Whatever his nature, whatever his past, he's taken whatever choice was left for him and made something of it.

For an infinitesimal moment, her easy pleasantness flickers, the curtain pulled back to reveal the girl who pays too much attention. In that moment, she searches his expression, seeing if it will reveal what he's owed. Because all the things she is owed? Can't be given back once they are taken. Growing up with family, with love, with some understanding of where in the world you belong—that is what childhood should be about. And youth is finite, for mortals like her.

No one loved that little girl. Now she's gone, and no one ever will.

Kalmiya got what she wanted: a life away from Sanctuary. But what she's owed? She's still taking inventory of all that.

Then she chuckles, the swelling current of it lightening her demeanor as he skulks closer to her. He's easily half a foot taller, even without the horns, but she meets his eyes like they're equal in frame and build, with intrigue in her eyes and mischief in her mouth.] I don't know if you'd want to know all that. Could get complicated.

[Because the situation with Sanctuary is far from cut and dry. This, though—the heat that rises beneath the brush of his knuckles—is simple enough. When she leans in, curls her fingers into the thick fluff of his collar and tugs, she does it like she's owed this too; up onto her toes, nose tucked beneath his jaw, impressing like the hiss of pressure releasing.] Show me, then. I know you won't bore me.

[Messy as the thoughts may be, she makes good on her word the moment she takes him by the collar. If nothing else, the language of what is one he does understand. What drives people to do the things they do, what makes them crave the things they want, even if all the world is against them. He's already said it before: it's easier this way. Easier to drop the problems at the door and take, if just for a moment of clean, effortless satisfaction.]

[So, he shelves it for now. Another book he'll pick up when the time is right, and when his own selfishness takes a turn for something a bit more kind.]

[Greed gently nips his lip. The growl in his throat is a pleasant one; the pitch of it like an alligator, shaking its plates on water.] Mn. You should know by now that's bullshit. I want everything, sweetheart. Another time, though. I did say I wouldn't bore you, right? And it would be such a shame if I did. [Smoothly, as if he's done this a million times before, the Sin slips one of his arms out of his vest, leaving it hang on both the chokehold of her claws and the stronger part of his opposing shoulder.] But you're gunna have to do a little thing for me. Nothing big, though, I promise.

[However, he's already guiding her. The flat of his hand at the small of her back, the tap of his boots, pushing her towards the window from whence he came. The former homunculus smiles (wicked, toothy) and as he reaches out, he sinks his nails into the lip of the sill.] A view, right? Go ahead and take a look, love. There's a whole world out there just waiting for the taking, after all.

[It's gentle, the way he does it. How he slides the window down until he can hear its faint, telling clck. The way he leads her arm off his neck, down the side of his chest, and across the point of his hip. He's spinning her and in the end, it's all a dance. Similar in tune, but different in pitch every, single time.]

[Greed plants his nose at the back of her neck once he has her spun 'round, and his vest falls weighted behind him; its hidden trinkets and keepsakes, slapping to the ground like a softly closed door. He's all over her a second later: his hands, drawing out the bends of her hips. The chord of his tail as it begins to wrap, link after link, around the lower part of her leg. One tug, and he tries to spread her the tiniest bit apart; the tease of his claws, tickling at the hem of her slip as gingerly as a moth's kiss.]

[The Sin smiles against her skin.] You'll have to tell me. Everything you see - [He talks, and one of his nails grazes her inner thigh. Not enough to scratch, but enough to let her know he's there.] - paint me a picture while I do what I do best.

[She allows him to lead her, motions guided by his hand at her back and his toes at her feet, but she doesn't release him for a second. He is kept captive in the loop of his own vest, watched with hungry intent, her eyes unmoved with every step closer to the open window.

He's bigger, stronger, more bestial a Vessel than her. But by her gaze and her posture, she makes it very clear that he leads only by the same generosity that allowed him up into her strange little studio. Right now, she is an indulgence, given freely to a subject of fondness in a moment of need. But that could change in one quick breath, were she to flip open to reveal the blade at the center of her construction. Maybe later she'll give him a challenge, once he's gotten himself comfortable in her artsy abode. For now, she's content to take the following role, as easy a partner in this dance as in other intimate activities.

The woody seal of the window settling into its frame is decisive in the hush. Though guided, she takes every opportunity to reach for him as he adjusts her arm; wrist cocked, fingers splayed to drag a trail behind the path he takes her. Then with a titter of laughter she's twirled to face the window and the world beyond—which he offers to her under one condition.

Her ears pique, flick, swivel at the percussive clinking and jingling that accompanies the careless landing of his vest, but quickly they come to a tilt that better captures the burning brimstone of his voice, fanning hot over the back of her neck. Then comes the request: paint him a picture, a direction she answers with another laugh, this one of a more obscured amusement.

He has no idea what he's asking for, poking his roaming claws into her art like that. Just like he claims to want to know who hurt her, and what they owe her. Her skin tingles at the edges of his nails and anticipation shakes her spine when his tail comes to coax her legs open—as if she needed any convincing to let him in. Pointedly she relaxes her knee, lets her foot slip just a bit further out than it's been pulled.] You know, there are easier ways to get me to paint for you.

[Still, she plays coy, settling into his embrace while her own claws drag faint, exploratory trails over the backs of the arms wrapped around her.] What will you be watching, then? Far as I can tell, we've got the same view from here.

[Oh, part of him is all-too aware. That all of this is being done on her terms. Her invitation, the way she lets him lead her on, toe-to-heel back to the window where he's already left his signature. If she didn't want this, if she didn't want a piece of him, she would have already torn his throat wide open. Torn it open and chewed him out for even thinking, for a second, a man like him could try.]

[So, he doesn't take it lightly. He never, really, does. Simple as he likes things to be, there's still fine print to every engagement. Not the kind that would ever bind him (the thought, in itself, is laughable), but the kind where the terms are clear. The two-way street of desire, bolded out and underlined to make sure each party gets their wanted satisfaction.]

[Besides, he'd hate for her to have a bad memory of him. For her to get the wrong idea, as so many others already have.]

[Greed eases himself to the ground, folding his wings up as snug as possible against his back.] Don't doubt it. But it'd be a little boring if we took the easy way out, don't you think? [His position is, by all means, questionable. Whatever he has in mind, lost in the flood of their tether. He can't give the punchline away that easily. It wouldn't be fun that way. And that's what he's here for. A little fun, a little means of unwinding, after getting his ass raked and spat out by a fight between two men he had no business being a part of.]

[The Sin's hands wander away from her as he flips himself onto his back, settling his weight firmly on his elbows. And as he finds his spot, he taps one his knuckles twice against the inner part of one of her thighs. A nudge, a suggestion, that she should probably shift a bit.] A more interesting view, if you really gotta know. [And now, it should be clear. How he pries his hips off the ground, lifting his head slowly between her legs. He doesn't need to see past the hem of her get-up to know where to go. To seek out her slit as his horns catch silk and satin like cat's claws, kneading themselves in.]

[If she's wearing anything underneath, the forks of his tongue find it soon enough. They split out of his mouth, smoked with soaked whiskey, leaving a damp trace behind them.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

✨ somnia inbox

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

CW: NSFW, just this whole thing, do not pass go, do not collect $200

✨NSFW beyond this point✨

NSFW trumpets intensify