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! ))

Comments

[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.