[Tseng is waiting for the other shoe to drop, waiting for Sephiroth to brandish cruelty upon him and tear him apart. But Sephiroth's mind is in a much different place, far removed from any callousness. The previous night had been plagued with terrible restlessness, fraught with attempts to ignore the incessant way Tseng kept weaving his way into Sephiroth’s thoughts. Restlessness that bled easily into the morning when it came, pressing upon him until he finally pulled up Tseng's number.
Sephiroth realizes now that he'd just been looking for an excuse to see him.
What else could he possibly want, could he possibly be thinking about-- but this? When Tseng is so voraciously giving him everything he didn’t dare allow himself to want moments ago? Tseng’s fingertips dig against his jaw, a hungry refusal to let him go, and Sephiroth finds himself humming his approval. What an enticing look on Tseng, this assertive abandon of niceties.
--Suddenly, Sephiroth becomes aware of an alarm sounding in the back of Tseng's apartment, then his phone, and then… Tseng is pulling away. Ah, he thinks-- this is where it ends. This is where they’ll part, attempting to gather themselves into some semblance of professionalism, going on about their business and pretending this never happened. He tries not to think about how much that makes his chest ache. But Tseng is a Turk, and it's important business, no doubt. Sephiroth shouldn't keep him, but--
Tseng surprises him again; he's still cradling his face in his hands, eyes hazy with wonder.
Sephiroth - in all of his inordinately superhuman glory - doesn't get winded-- but you'd never know as he is now, the way air softly clatters its way around his chest and through his throat. You'd never know, because the way Tseng looks at him leaves him perfectly breathless. It's not shallow admiration. No-- not at all. Tseng - genuinely and thoroughly - looks at him. And it strikes Sephiroth with all the force of a freight train-- this sensation of being truly seen for the first time, of being known.
Whatever remarks he might have made about the alarms, about the phone buzzing across the table-- they die on his tongue, lost to oblivion the moment Tseng crashes against him, snaring and pulling him down.
Relief, thrill, delight-- a few of the million things that swell in Sephiroth's chest. It's terribly selfish of him, this desire to monopolize on Tseng's attention, to keep him from his business-- but to hell with it. He adjusts, trying to better situate them on the couch in all its futility. They end up a tangle of limbs, with Sephiroth eventually settling for half-straddling Tseng's hips. One hand remains tucked underneath him, fingers splayed against his back, but the other-- it can't help but wander. Not too much-- but enough that his fingertips graze just under the hem of Tseng's shirt in finding a spot to rest against his waist.
Tseng's fervent kisses are returned in kind, and this time, Sephiroth is the one taking what he wants, teasing Tseng's lips apart with his tongue and a little graze of his teeth, seeking access.]
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Sephiroth realizes now that he'd just been looking for an excuse to see him.
What else could he possibly want, could he possibly be thinking about-- but this? When Tseng is so voraciously giving him everything he didn’t dare allow himself to want moments ago? Tseng’s fingertips dig against his jaw, a hungry refusal to let him go, and Sephiroth finds himself humming his approval. What an enticing look on Tseng, this assertive abandon of niceties.
--Suddenly, Sephiroth becomes aware of an alarm sounding in the back of Tseng's apartment, then his phone, and then… Tseng is pulling away. Ah, he thinks-- this is where it ends. This is where they’ll part, attempting to gather themselves into some semblance of professionalism, going on about their business and pretending this never happened. He tries not to think about how much that makes his chest ache. But Tseng is a Turk, and it's important business, no doubt. Sephiroth shouldn't keep him, but--
Tseng surprises him again; he's still cradling his face in his hands, eyes hazy with wonder.
Sephiroth - in all of his inordinately superhuman glory - doesn't get winded-- but you'd never know as he is now, the way air softly clatters its way around his chest and through his throat. You'd never know, because the way Tseng looks at him leaves him perfectly breathless. It's not shallow admiration. No-- not at all. Tseng - genuinely and thoroughly - looks at him. And it strikes Sephiroth with all the force of a freight train-- this sensation of being truly seen for the first time, of being known.
Whatever remarks he might have made about the alarms, about the phone buzzing across the table-- they die on his tongue, lost to oblivion the moment Tseng crashes against him, snaring and pulling him down.
Relief, thrill, delight-- a few of the million things that swell in Sephiroth's chest. It's terribly selfish of him, this desire to monopolize on Tseng's attention, to keep him from his business-- but to hell with it. He adjusts, trying to better situate them on the couch in all its futility. They end up a tangle of limbs, with Sephiroth eventually settling for half-straddling Tseng's hips. One hand remains tucked underneath him, fingers splayed against his back, but the other-- it can't help but wander. Not too much-- but enough that his fingertips graze just under the hem of Tseng's shirt in finding a spot to rest against his waist.
Tseng's fervent kisses are returned in kind, and this time, Sephiroth is the one taking what he wants, teasing Tseng's lips apart with his tongue and a little graze of his teeth, seeking access.]