#lechors

     He has no need to breathe and yet a panted one escapes his lips. His mouth is bloody, chin coated with the thick liquid that acts as the ichor in his veins. The taste is metallic, like the rest of him, and his red gaze peeks open, stares hard at the demon holding him. Nostrils flare for a moment, a mockery as the machine catches fake breath and his gloved fingers dig hard against Belial’s biceps. The pressure makes a wheezed sound escape Eve, sharp teeth grinding against each other and cutting his lip further as he attempts to snap at the primal.

     Sadly, it gets him nowhere but the fallen moving away and the machine notes the closeness. The hands on his waist, and the way Belial’s voice sounds like music.

     It takes him a moment to gather himself, claws dragging hard down the primal’s arms. Almost as if he were attempting to pull him closer, to keep their bodies flush against one another. The praise only fuels him further, red eyes widening for a split second before narrowing once more. A gurgled sound is made from the machine at the viscous fluid in his mouth and throat, lips pulling in a frown that he can’t quite voice what he wants, what exactly the demon can do for him. What can he do? It’s something that the machine thinks on, knowing well what they’ve done before.

     What the fallen has shown him.

     It makes his core flutter at the thought and the current situation. At the way Belial is rendering him and it’s still such a new sensation. To be broken asunder, to dish out the same kind of pain unto the man before him and be praised for the durability he holds and the damage he can do. It makes the humming of his body become louder, the already present heat rising further and Eve thinks he knows what he wants.

     He pushes the blood from his throat into his cheeks, holds it back before spitting it in the demon’s face. A laugh escapes him, a breathy noise before his hands leave the primal’s arms and reach up, cupping the sides of now bloody face. Claws grab against Belial’s jaw, yanks him close as Eve bares his teeth, a low hiss escaping him while his lips pull in a grotesque smile.

     His eyes are focused on the furred mass that creates a boa, the one the man keeps tucked on his body. It’s interesting, really, and the Sin wants ever so badly to reach out and snatch it. To pull it away and wrap it on his own body, drape it on his shoulders like a trophy of sorts. Is it soft? It has a nice color to it. He really does want to steal it so badly.

     So much so that his stare is perhaps lingering longer than it should, and the way his tongue darts out to lick his bottom lip could very well be misinterpreted.

i was boutta say they're both tits out kinda guys-

seph, baby, can i call you seph? seph, babe, i’m BETTER than you-

if you stab him, he’ll probably like it.  if you stab him, he’ll probably like it.  if you stab him, he’ll probably like it.  if you stab him, he’ll probably like it.  if you stab him, he’ll probably like it.

@lechors.

She had been trying to find some sort of solution to this unasked (was it?) situation. Of all times, of all times, Annaliese kept muttering to herself, hastily looking through the old, fragile pages of the book she was holding—one of many, one amongst many others she had already checked. For the first time in her life, Annaliese felt genuinely stupid; a grand feat for her to achieve, especially considering her brilliant self-unconsciousness. Cold sweat drops rolled down her nape, the thick religious habit making it even harder for her skin to breathe. Nimble fingers quickly flipped yet another page, careful in not wrinkling it, but all the same anxious to skim through more walls of texts, more religious formula, more things that probably were not at all what she was looking for. Damn it—if she had the spell to summon, surely there must’ve been a counter-spell of some sort. Right? There’s gotta be, Annaliese mused: teeth gently bit down her lower lip as she desperately hoped her scavenging wouldn’t end up being completely fruitless.     As soon as Belial towered over her, Annaliese let out a squeak—“A-ah!”—barely managing to keep herself properly sitting thanks to her feet stilling her position, preventing any falling back. The large book was held close to her chest and face, its cover partially concealing her expression—which was still very easy to decipher, even with her mouth covered. Those blushing cheeks and downturned brows were none less an expression of fluster. “U-um… I’m… I’m sorry?” should’ve she been sorry? The energy this man (demon, she knew, she didn’t know how but she knew he was one) exuded was far too heavy, far too much for her heart to take and her brain to comprehend. She could almost say she felt overwhelmed, and it showed in the way she avoided eye contact by looking anywhere but at Belial. “I can’t—I can’t be loud here—” her voice was barely above a whisper, in fact, but the tone did not downsize her stammering.