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[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.]

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