[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.
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.