OPEN POST; [ SEPHIROTH / FFVII ]

[supersoldier]

those chosen by the planet.

(( despite the ominous choice of music i default to a pre-nibelheim canon point, but can play post-nibelheim upon request! ))

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[supersoldier]

[He wants to watch him quiver with anticipation, reacting to the slightest touch. He wants to watch his body struggle to hold itself back from the precipice of release because he has demanded it, watch him writhe beneath him while acutely aware of the steel standing sentinel near the arteries in his neck. Is Yazoo’s willpower unwavering because Sephiroth commands it, or will he still fall to pieces under the sensate ministrations of his maker, regardless of the danger of disobedience? And which excites Sephiroth more?

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.

[velvetshot]

( 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.

[supersoldier]

[A predator who's pinned down his prey, picking it apart one fragment at a time; the comparison is apt in both imagery and conceptualization, made fitting by the way the edges of his teeth linger against the curve of Yazoo's clavicle, then trailing inches downwards. The heat bakes off his skin, resonating against the sensitivity of his lips, as his mouth catches against the hardened bud of his exposed nipple. Sephiroth's tongue flattens and laves against it — slowly at first, then in tandem with the languorous ministrations of his brother's cock, as though to suggest the joining of the two ideas.

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.]

[velvetshot]

( 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.

[supersoldier]

[If he makes it clear, such a precarious contingency to hinge itself upon. There is something stirring about letting him interpret it as he will, after all, to let Yazoo push how far he’s willing to let his hands explore Sephiroth’s body before an invisible line is crossed, and they’re back to where they began. Like sticking one’s head into the open maw of a behemoth, and hope that its jaws don’t come down to rend skull from body before the task is complete.

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.

[velvetshot]

( 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. )

[supersoldier]

[In this way, it is almost as though they are prostrated before each other, were it not for the red slashed across the back of Yazoo’s leg, or the clear hitch of a wince marring his features. As always, even when they are equal, they are decidedly not, the clear advantage of both physicality and demeanor perpetually skewed in Sephiroth’s direction.

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.