sephiroth, “tol alien boy”, SOLDIER first class. (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
supersoldier) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
finalflight2019-12-14 12:21 am
supersoldier) wrote in finalflight2019-12-14 12:21 am
OPEN POST; [ SEPHIROTH / FFVII ]
those chosen by the planet.
((
those chosen by the planet.
((
no subject
Sephiroth allows the first grappling reach to make a hard purchase, but refuses the fist following it up, countering with a lift of his free forearm to knock it aside. This close, their bodies are already so alight with buzzing heat, and perhaps it isn’t so surprising that Yazoo had attacked in a way that mimicked his own, as though he should always seek to merge into him through emulation, an offered flattery made of violence.
It’s titillating in a darkly satisfying way, the thought of receiving him whole coiling pleasurably around his nerves, drifting down his spine, warm and welcome. Sephiroth tilts his chin up to better offer the tract of soft flesh that is his neck; just a tease of that bobbing Adam's apple, because he intends to tear it away in the next second, humming an amused sound that Yazoo can likely feel beneath his fingertips.
His free hand lashes out to grab him so hard by the shoulder that his brother’s bones might groan in protest, and the subsequent attempt to push him down is paired with Sephiroth's knee jutting upwards. The intent is to slam the angle straight into his middle, to better encourage him to double over and be brought to heel on the ground.]
Do you also plan to kneel?
no subject
( That he's allowed to hold onto Sephiroth's neck for as long as he is comes as a surprise to Yazoo, but having his fist knocked back is expected. There's no doubt that his brother is toying with him: Sephiroth has always enjoyed giving him an inch just to watch him try to take a mile, only to snatch it away with little more than an afterthought of effort. To call it infuriating would be an understatement. White-hot irritation lances through Yazoo at the ease with which Sephiroth is able to control their fight—a burst of real spite muddling itself in with his urge to have obedience pushed into him by force. When he offers his throat Yazoo knows he's being mocked, tries to tighten his grip just for some kind of reaction—
But then Sephiroth's hand comes down on his shoulder, and Yazoo feels his bones shift and grind under his touch. Pain flits across him in a short gust of breath, a slightly narrowing of his eyes even as black pupils draw in to tight slits, but there's no time for him to twist into a response. Sephiroth pushes him down onto the jut of his knee and pulls the air from his lungs a second time, leaving Yazoo winded and hunched with his face little more than a hair's breadth from his brother's crotch.
If he were Loz or Kadaj he might think to headbutt him. Instead, Yazoo drags in a rough breath before tilting his face up to Sephiroth's, green eyes burning with a heady combination of anger, admiration, and arousal. He shivers a little where he's knelt: one knee digs into the ground beneath them but he refuses to lower the other, and this time when he smirks he offers fangs of his own. )
... Not entirely.
( Yazoo rolls his shoulder, struggling against his brother's grip to test the strength of his hold. His bones complain again but this time he bites back any show of pain, his fists curling into Sephiroth's leathers as he tries to haul himself up. A bolt of want strikes low in his gut as he realises he could be backhanded, brutally thrown, perhaps even hauled up by his hair, and that sultry heat licks higher with every second that drags between them. )
no subject
Yazoo is one such lesser being. A shard broken off from the whole. But Sephiroth meets his eyes again, rebellion and arousal and frustration ignited behind that eerie emerald hue, clenching his hands into Sephiroth’s leathers, and what a glorious visage it is to see. He should own that, too, he thinks. Steal that expression from his fine features, stow it away in his heated core, think about how poorly it served his brother while he fucks him until he’s all used up.
It makes him release Yazoo’s shoulder so that he might rise a few inches, only to fulfill one of the other’s errant fantasies: he vice-grips into his hair, locks of silver spilling between his fingers like liquid, and pulls him up so hard that he would have no choice but to stand to his full height. It’s what he wanted, wasn’t it?
Sephiroth leans in just enough to ensure his lips brush against Yazoo’s skin, his timbre whisper smooth and coiling fondly around his ear.]
That look on your face belongs to me, too.
[And just as he gives, he takes away. His brother is allowed to rise, only if he has forced to fall again — an inevitability, driven home by both his will and the keen, sudden edge of Masamune.
His sword, which had been blessedly idle as he was grappled against, now slides into use. Sephiroth lowers it at just the perfect angle to try to run its sting across Yazoo’s leg as he balances him up by his hair, easy as you please.]
On the ground. Crumple for me.
no subject
( Yazoo's lips part on a silent yelp when Sephiroth hauls him up by his hair, a twist of pain flitting across his features for half a heartbeat as he rises onto the balls of his feet. That he's exhilarated is evident in the way his lips curve up throughout, although when soft lips touch his skin in a whisper of words it shivers to something slack. Yazoo knows, he knows that the only thing worse than Sephiroth's showmanship is when he reels it back, when he becomes quiet, because that is the part of himself that he gifted to Yazoo. It's the part that makes it hard for people to meet his eyes, and leaves their skin rippling with a gooseflesh of fear.
Used against him, it's almost torturously erotic.
Sephiroth reminds them they're not alone a moment later. Masamune carries a weighty presence on its own: Yazoo's eyes widen at the sting as he finds that this time he has to obey—that it feels more like a compulsion than a choice—his knees weak and his flush of colour nothing to do with exertion.
Yazoo crumples. This time when he hits the ground dust rises around both of his knees, one hand thrown out to steady himself in an attempt to save what little face he can. In many ways this isn't all that different to when they spar: those fights usually last longer, it's true, possibly because they've never been coloured dark with want before, and without his weapon there's only so much he can do against such an unstoppable force.
Silence stretches between them for a moment. Yazoo wets his lips with a sliver of pink and glances up again, hungry this time. )
... You should have let me have my gun.
no subject
[—is his cool reply, fingers loosening almost affectionately in Yazoo’s hair as he falls before him. The edge of Masamune is slick and glossy where it had slid across his brother’s leg, a red, striking contrast against the dark colors that frame them both so well. Sephiroth tilts his head to allow the notion to settle, strands of silver slipping over his pauldrons, hanging like spider’s silk, and for a moment his danger is interlaced with a predator’s playfulness, eyes alight with boundless potential.
He is upon him in the next second, more presence than person. Limitless in the way his form sweeps over Yazoo’s, too much all at once, just the sensation of a forceful hand pushing him hard onto his back, a knee pressed into his brother’s fresh wound — to ensure pain coupling with mounting want — and green eyes boring down at him, knifing through him. Silver hair spooling at the curve of his shoulders.
And the awful sound of Masamune’s tip piercing the floor scant centimeters from Yazoo’s neck, grinding its way into the ground with unreal ease. The steel is hypnotic as it glides in so deeply that Sephiroth’s weight is balanced between his grip on its hilt and the contact forced against his brother’s body.]
It would be so easy for my blade to claim your neck like this. Just the slightest of effort.
[His intonation has dipped low, belligerent, self-indulgent, darkly hungry. His hand glides upwards, gripping the zipper at Yazoo’s collar between forefinger and thumb.]
You would obey me to avoid such a fate.
[A slow tug downwards.]
no subject
( Sephiroth overcomes him like the tide—just as elemental, just as unstoppable—and Yazoo finds himself flat on his back before he can so much as draw breath to speak again. It's only then that the sting in his leg blossoms into a tangible kind of pain: Masamune is surgically sharp, dealing death-blows in quick flits that seem like mere scratches before yawning dark and red, and he pulls in a short breath when that purposefully placed knee grinds the wound down into he ground. That would have been enough, Yazoo thinks, to subdue him into good behaviour, but when has "enough" ever been something that his brother would pursue?
He gives him more. That cold sliver of steel sinks into the floor and Yazoo feels his body fall perfectly still, because Sephiroth is right. One twist of the blade is all it would take. A slight shift in the balance of his weight would be Yazoo's end, his throat open and his lifeblood draining at another of Sephiroth's idle whims. It disarms him more than expected: slowly, he releases the breath he hadn't realised sat stuck in his throat, his pupils dark and wide as Sephiroth begins to ease the zip of his leathers open. )
... Do you think you could?
( Yazoo isn't sure he wants to know for certain. Cool air slips under his leathers and peaks his nipples into raspberry-pink little nubs, which stand out starkly against the pale curves of his torso revealed by the zip-tag's process. )
Would it hurt you to get rid of us?
( He suspects it wouldn't. He suspects Sephiroth could just as easily dispatch them as he could anyone else in his way; that if it weren't for Mother, he might have done it when his Remnants first started to bite at the hand that feeds them. Masamune quivers by his throat. Yazoo tilts his chin up to bare further it as he holds his brother's gaze, heat stirring between his legs to push against the snug stretch of his trousers. )
no subject
[What a notion, so strange that it almost feels foreign on his tongue. What can hurt him any longer, so detached from the mortal chassis he was once chained to? Perhaps he can be beaten back, or banished into the veins of the Planet, or dispersed in a coil of black feathers, wheeling into Gaia’s heart — but to hurt something is to find its weak spot and impale a knife through the vulnerability, and Sephiroth is too nebulous and omnipresent for anyone to locate that crux, that core.
Perhaps he no longer has one, just a dark thing that winds through the Lifestream, a god choking back life for the sake of Mother, and every fragment of weakness has long been shucked off. Perhaps Yazoo is just one of them, and to push his neck against Masamune would make him stronger for the loss.
Maybe.
But in this moment, trailing the curve of his exposed neck, watching his leathers loosen around his flesh like an unfurling flower as the zipper clacks lower, he cannot say that Yazoo is anything lesser than precious to him. His cells sing to his own, imploring closeness, to be subsumed, and while that doesn’t save him from the danger of neighboring steel, it ensures that Sephiroth’s focus remains fixed squarely on his brother. His promise will be fulfilled, even if obedience has to be bought with a pint of blood.]
You’re free to test the limits of my mercy, if you wish to know.
[Of course he’ll not unspool the risk by offering confirmation or denial. He shouldn’t have to, and Masamune seems to shine brighter as if to remind him.
Yazoo’s coat is undone down the middle, exposing the canvas of his unmarred skin. Sephiroth’s palm splays against his abdomen, sending electric warmth spinning in his stomach; soon, his wandering touch meanders further downwards, and deft fingers unfasten the workings of his trousers, allowing him leeway to slip in.
The flat of his palm runs smoothly against Yazoo’s cock, his fingers half-coiling around the length of it. Just a maliciously teasing touch, the promise of more, and his half-lidded look never leaves his face.]
You can come only when I tell you that I allow it, and not a moment before. My will overrides your own. Do you understand, Yazoo?
[Of course he does. But he wants to hear the puling reply.]
no subject
( Yazoo watches as Sephiroth turns the question over in his mind. Hurt me? He realises then that such an eventuality isn't something his brother has considered in a long, long time; that he's so far beyond ideas of pain—whether physical or emotional—that it seems little more than a novelty. Something meant for lesser beings, no doubt, to which he can no longer relate. Yazoo finds himself wondering whether he ever could.
Fortunately, the palm against his abdomen drags his attention elsewhere. Sleek muscle jumps beneath his skin as Sephiroth's touch heats his flesh like a silk-wrapped brand, his pulse fluttering in his neck, his wrists, his cock, another swirl of lust dulling the razor-edge of his words. When Sephiroth made them, did he know that their touch could spark need like this? Did he have any idea of how it might feel for them to be close to one another?
Probably not. Yazoo is under no illusions about the reason for which he came into being: the Remnants were little more than a back-up plan that almost smacks of desperation, and he suspects that the only thing Sephiroth intended was ensuring he had a way to return.
The heat of his palm runs against his cock and Yazoo's lashes flutter again. That he manages to keep his hips still is a surprise even to himself, but then Masamune has always been an incredibly effective deterrent. He exhales softly just the once before drawing in a slow, steadying breath, his fingertips flexing against the dusty floor as he looks up into that beautiful, predator's face. )
Yes.
( He understands it deep in his bones—understands that Sephiroth will always have the final say when it comes to the actions of his Remnants. Yazoo is in pain, he can smell his own blood, and still he wants to give everything to the man above him. If that isn't the most pure form of power he doesn't know what is. )
I understand.
( Leather-clad thighs tip open a fraction, and his back arches into a smooth curve as his cock twitches against Sephiroth's hand. )
Use me, brother. Let me please you.
no subject
Sephiroth knows that it is taking no small amount of willpower for him to remain relatively still beneath him, to not buck against his hand as his touch firms around the Remnant’s already-pulsing cock. His teeth show a little behind his smile, head canted down as he speaks again.]
You will. But I want to test your resolve, first.
[That teasing touch retracts just enough to push the thick leather of his pants below the sharp bones of his hips, freeing him of any prior bulging constriction. Blessedly, his hand soon returns, stroking Yazoo’s arousal torpidly, just a slow, languid tempo.
Still, Sephiroth’s eyes never leave his brother’s face, roving across every minuscule change in his expression.]
Can you restrain yourself until I allow you to unravel? I wonder.
no subject
( And just like that, Sephiroth has given himself access to all of Yazoo's most vulnerable parts. His throat, his chest, the thick veins curling up the inside of his groin—it would be so easy for him to twist his blade and bleed him out with a wound far deeper than the cut on his leg. Yazoo feels like an experiment—some trapped creature being pulled inside out for closer inspection—fed pain and pleasure in complimentary amounts just to see what the end result might be.
The way Sephiroth watches him, Yazoo thinks he might not be too far from the mark.
Dark lashes flutter, his pulse jumping in his throat as that palm moves over the ridge of his cock. The longer he does it, the harder it is for him to keep any shivering little reactions to himself, and he spreads his thighs as far as his pants will allow as if to encourage Sephiroth's strokes. His body feels like it's throbbing in so many different ways, and a strained little sound pulls itself from the back of his throat as his hands curl into loose fists. )
I can.
( But that isn't the truth, is it, because how could he possibly know? If Sephiroth were anyone else, Yazoo would still feel as though he could exert some modicum of control over the situation. He'd have no qualms in rising to a challenge, or brushing it off as though such a suggestion was somewhere far beneath him.
Sephiroth offers him no such control. Sephiroth simply takes, as Yazoo had asked him to do, and a tremor of anticipation curls down the length of his spine as a bead of moisture pearls at the tip of his cock. )
... I want to try.
no subject
Both seem equally pleasing prospects, he thinks, as the smooth curl of his palm glides up the length of Yazoo’s firming erection, smearing over the moisture left by his precome and slickening it over his cockhead. It makes the following stroke even more effortless for what minute amount of friction has been banished away, and the movement repeats itself, from base to tip.
His brother has the right of it. Sephiroth takes, entirely and without question, but these next passing moments will be an exercise in doling out pleasure — too much of it, perhaps — and his generosity will reflect in every act accordingly. His knee shifts from Yazoo’s weeping wound, lifting some of that perpetual pain away. And while his hand continually works at his brother’s cock, the pressure warmer, the tempo at a slight rise, Sephiroth dips in lower; the tresses of his bangs have long coiled its tips against the Remnant’s skin, pooling near his jawline, and they drag across his neck like small rivers of mercury as he grazes his teeth against his collarbone.
So close, that Yazoo can undoubtedly feel the curve of his smile, lips soft against his skin — but the pressure of his teeth a bit of a sharper bite, enough to split his focus between two areas of his body, gifted two different modes of attention. He feels his blood pulsing in both.
And when Sephiroth speaks, it's impossible to ignore the wetness of his tongue brushing past for two murmuring syllables.]
Then try.
no subject
( When Sephiroth lifts his knee Yazoo feels heat flush into his leg. The pain peaks sharply before dissipating to something more manageable—something less noticeable—but he knows better than to imagine the relief is a simple act of kindness. Sephiroth isn't a kind man, he's a man built from cool steel and dangerous resolve, and when slivers of silver tickle over his chest Yazoo realises that he might be about to find out what it cost.
He's as silent as his blade. Teeth scrape against the front of his throat and Yazoo's whole body clenches, his cock jumping against the heat of his brother's palm, and his lashes flutter briefly closed when those lips unfurl into a smile. This is what it's like to be prey. Yazoo no experience of it: he was moulded into being by a predator and immediately unleashed on their shared quarry, but with the threat of sudden violence hanging over him? He finds it speak to his cells all the same.
He exhales softly, then again when teeth sink into his skin just that bit harder, his body caught between excited and confused as he tries to understand the dual sensations. More than anything, having Sephiroth's hands on him feels better than those who came before. What he remembers of those experiences fades to insignificance in the space of a heartbeat; nothing mattered before this, nothing matters beyond this, or so the hum in his core seems to believe.
It's probably right. Yazoo likes to play with the idea of defiance, but he belongs to Sephiroth. It's an inescapable truth. )
Can I touch you?
( He lifts a hand, lets his palm hover a hair's breadth from the leather-wrapped curve of Sephiroth's bicep. Yazoo wants desperately to hold onto him as his hips quiver against the ground; as his cock thickens and fills itself to full hardness under the rhythmic pull of his fist. )
Please.
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After all, if he teased his wet and searching tongue from the base of Yazoo's arousal, sliding all the way up to its throbbing tip, how would he react? Would he fall to pieces at the mere hint of taking his entire length into his mouth, surprising him with an act that seems to run counterintuitive to Sephiroth's constant show of dominance? Would he come then, without his maker's permission, and would Masamune's sting against his neck be the proper punishment? It's a tempting thought, one easily visualized and considered, barely jarred loose by Yazoo's question.
He could ignore the request; he could simply deny him, to press the point of dominance with no give. It would not be unlike Sephiroth to edge his pleasures in cruelty, as well, and the lack of response seems to imply as much — but he knows, too, that an extended generosity now will mean an increasingly satisfying breaking point later, and there is nothing he wishes to see more than ecstatic, exotic agony of play across his brother's marble features. To watch him beg with his eyes, not having to say a word.
Sephiroth's grip slackens from Masamune's hilt, and that palm comes down to press flat beside Yazoo's shoulder, hovering above him in earnest. More torturously, the hand around his cock unfurls and drifts up his torso, still faintly moist with the precome smeared against his palm.]
Perhaps you'd like to undress me with that same touch of yours.
[There is no denying that his duster feels more restrictive by the moment, though it is a middling vexation at best. The burgeoning pressure between his legs is far more noticeable, should he tear his attention away from Yazoo to focus only on himself.]
no subject
( That hot, slick tongue against his nipple pulls Yazoo's lashes low over his eyes. He's beginning to understand that Sephiroth has an ulterior motive in mind as he plays with his body: pleasure for pleasure's sake isn't something that either of them are known to deal in, yet as he mouths over his nipple Yazoo finds it impossible to resist giving in to it all the same. Unbeknownst to him, he's already falling into his brother's all-too easily constructed trap: the slow roll of his tongue and the pull of his hand muddle into one luxurious sensation, and Yazoo's mind wanders towards the impossible fantasy of having Sephiroth's tongue between his legs.
He doesn't let it linger. It can't linger; letting himself ache for something so unlikely would be pointless, but most disappointing is the way his banishment of the thought seems to manifest in Sephiroth's actions as well. The hand working his arousal drifts up to his chest, hot and tacky as it finds his torso, which prompts a slow blink as Yazoo tries to catch up with what he's doing to his body.
No. Not that. More important is what he's saying. )
... Yes.
( Why deny it? Sephiroth is perfect—marble-hard and immaculate in a way the Remnants all strive to be, and another pulse of desire heats Yazoo's cock at the idea being able to run his hands against smooth planes of skin. Slowly, he reaches out to brush his fingertips against skin-warmed leather. Keeping his hands steady is a struggle that reroutes itself to his breath: he exhales a trembling little sigh as he lets them curl into the material, not pulling or moving, but simply holding until Sephiroth makes what's expected of him clear.
If Sephiroth makes what's expected of him clear. )
I would like that.
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And yet who’s to suffer for it? Sephiroth would only give leeway until tearing it away again, and Yazoo would be the one bereft of his supplication and his back pressed bruisingly hard into the ground a second time. As always, the sense of danger hangs not over maker’s head, but the remnant’s beneath him.
Sephiroth pushes himself up to his knees, uncaring for Yazoo’s touch twisting into his coat. It’s not unlike simply lording over him at a different angle, quicksilver strands of hair falling loosely around his pauldrons, or framing his face, but it gives his brother room to move where there was none before.]
Slowly. [Voice like silk, but eyes sharp enough to carve him hollow. The heat coiling between them resonates, even at their newly lengthened distance.] Hands, teeth, tongue— whatever you want, wherever you like, at your disposal.
[Until.]
Until I tell you to stop.
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( Until I tell you to stop.
There it is. Yazoo exhales softly, too enticed by the offer of freely using his hands, teeth and tongue to much care for the caveat, and pushes up onto an elbow as though compelled to follow his brother by some kind of magnetic pull. It may as well be precisely that: whatever this is that's happening between them isn't something he's certain he'd be able to stop, not with the way each cell thrums and aches for Sephiroth as he kneels there above him. )
And what happens then?
( The very tip of his tongue wets the plush curve of his lower lip as Yazoo lets his gaze rove down over the exposed parts of Sephiroth's chest. He's never really looked at him before; if there had been a hint of a sexual element to his awe it wasn't something he'd ever lingered on, but now that he can freely soak in it Yazoo finds himself unable to get enough. The desire to consume and be consumed ...
It's stronger than he'd realised. )
When I stop, do you start?
( Yazoo shifts again. This time he pulls himself up properly so that he can kneel before him too, although unlike his brother he sits back on his ankles with a just a hint of a wince. For all Masamune is planted deep in the ground it still stings at the back of his leg; a cold, strange pain that seems so far removed from the heat of Sephiroth's flesh before him. He reaches out with no small amount of reverence and slides his hands in beneath the leather, palms skimming hot, smooth skin to feel the unyielding muscle beneath.
... It would be a lot easier without the coat, wouldn't it?
Slim fingers drift to the buckles holding Sephiroth's pauldrons in place. Yazoo rises just enough to reach his throat, his lips brushing against the beat of his pulse as he works the fastenings open, before curling into a smile that parts for the slick flat of his tongue. He licks slowly, savouring his flavour before scraping his teeth against taut skin, and lets the pad of his thumb glance over a nipple as he works on those leather straps. )
no subject
But now is a time of temporary indulgences for both, and he knows that his brother experiences the same buzz of lancing anticipation when he draws so near on his own accord. Yahoo’s deft and questing fingers make quick work of the fastenings that keep his pauldrons snug against the hill of his shoulders, and the leather straps that cross his chest are worked upon next; every brush of his fingertips is like fire -- or maybe a shard of ice -- against his skin, unsurprisingly lascivious despite how transiently it sweeps past.
Sephiroth’s voice is a quiet, rumbling vibration through the hollow of his throat as his brother presses the flat wet of his tongue against his skin. He angles his chin upwards, revealing more of the contoured line of his neck, his gaze half-lidded and fixed on an invisible point.]
Yes.
[His words may as well be a low hum, just the essence of a languid timbre, but Sephiroth is articulate all the same. Often to the detriment of others, though perhaps “detriment” is a misnomer on this occasion.]
I know it’s what you want. That desperate desire rolls off of you, Yazoo.
[His brother's thumb brushes an exposed nipple; his teeth relish across pale skin. Sephiroth's nerves are alight, the strain between his legs warm and wanting.]
It’s why you’ll push the limits of what you are allowed. You’re considering it now, aren’t you? [The leather straps eventually give, falling loose around his frame.] Hungry for the my retaliation, even in all your revelry.