[Any glimpses past Tseng's immaculately put-together presentation have invariably pointed in the same direction-- that he is not bluffing when he declares that he is not a gentleman. The mere fact that he is a Turk insinuates that even his characteristic civility belie a man who isn't afraid to take without asking-- who isn't afraid to slit a few throats if that's what the job demands.
He is - without question - unnervingly intent when it suits him...
And yet, somehow Sephiroth is taken aback by the nonexistent hesitation. Tseng makes good on his word before Sephiroth has time to so much as blink, taking his mouth against his own none too shyly. Slowly, at first-- time enough for Sephiroth to commit every detail of Tseng's lips to memory. They're slightly chapped from a rough morning, but it does nothing to take away from the supple way Tseng's mouth forms against his, or how he tenderly favors his lower lip first, drawing it between both of his...
Whatever Tseng finds in his slow exploration of Sephiroth's mouth beckons curiosity into voraciousness, welling out until he is soundly ensnaring him.
Until then, Sephiroth had been content to let Tseng work his magic-- to revel in the delectable warmth of it. But when Tseng decides that's not nearly enough, so too does he. Because it's not enough to admire Tseng from afar, to quietly ache for his weight against him.
It's not enough to simply kiss him.
Sephiroth tilts his head in, lips parting -- inviting, challenging -- and returns that ravenous chorus in kind. Gauze and tape ends up carelessly cast aside, swept off the couch and sent clattering to the floor. He's far more interested in occupying his free hand with Tseng-- with dragging his fingers up his back - tangling in his endearingly pitiful Gold Saucer shirt - until they rest squarely between his shoulder blades.
That ungentlemanly and unflinching intent that Tseng seems to think ought to be a warning, Sephiroth only finds himself thoroughly allured by.]
dear g o d, your tags are to die for-- i had to take a Minute
He is - without question - unnervingly intent when it suits him...
And yet, somehow Sephiroth is taken aback by the nonexistent hesitation. Tseng makes good on his word before Sephiroth has time to so much as blink, taking his mouth against his own none too shyly. Slowly, at first-- time enough for Sephiroth to commit every detail of Tseng's lips to memory. They're slightly chapped from a rough morning, but it does nothing to take away from the supple way Tseng's mouth forms against his, or how he tenderly favors his lower lip first, drawing it between both of his...
Whatever Tseng finds in his slow exploration of Sephiroth's mouth beckons curiosity into voraciousness, welling out until he is soundly ensnaring him.
Until then, Sephiroth had been content to let Tseng work his magic-- to revel in the delectable warmth of it. But when Tseng decides that's not nearly enough, so too does he. Because it's not enough to admire Tseng from afar, to quietly ache for his weight against him.
It's not enough to simply kiss him.
Sephiroth tilts his head in, lips parting -- inviting, challenging -- and returns that ravenous chorus in kind. Gauze and tape ends up carelessly cast aside, swept off the couch and sent clattering to the floor. He's far more interested in occupying his free hand with Tseng-- with dragging his fingers up his back - tangling in his endearingly pitiful Gold Saucer shirt - until they rest squarely between his shoulder blades.
That ungentlemanly and unflinching intent that Tseng seems to think ought to be a warning, Sephiroth only finds himself thoroughly allured by.]