[ There is no order to salvage here. They are in a cramped space, awkwardly angled. The way Tseng's head lands against the armrest threatens to put a crick in his neck, and he's sure that Sephiroth does not find these accomodations luxurious in the least. He will make it up to him in subtle ways, yielding to the slip of his tongue, rising beneath the slide of his fingers. For once today, he is glad for the embarrassing state of himself; were he better composed and adequately dressed, these touches would not come so easily, would they?
His fingers close around the straps crossing Sephiroth's chest and drag him down. They are already so close, but Tseng needs this, for the sake of control, a wordless message conveyed by one abrupt jerk of his wrist. What it says is that this will never be enough. Nothing either of them have to give each other will ever be enough. He has already made up his mind on the matter.
His tongue uncurls in one broad lash against Sephiroth's. Before he can withdraw, Tseng's lips purse, capturing his tongue for one lingering suckle. His fingers work in Sephiroth's hair, routing it like a river so it does not fall between them, threading through, burying until his blunt nails can scratch against his scalp. Sephiroth has eyes like a cat; Tseng finds himself smiling against his lips, wondering if he purrs like one too. If so, it'd be the finest secret in his storied collection of them.
The hair in his hand is collected in his fist, gently, just firm enough to turn Sephiroth's head to a slight angle. He rubs his lips over his mouth, less of a kiss than it is the appreciation of the shape and softness of these two perfect planes. He speaks against them: ]
Have dinner with me.
[ The fingers hooked in his straps clench tighter, tug decisively. ]
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His fingers close around the straps crossing Sephiroth's chest and drag him down. They are already so close, but Tseng needs this, for the sake of control, a wordless message conveyed by one abrupt jerk of his wrist. What it says is that this will never be enough. Nothing either of them have to give each other will ever be enough. He has already made up his mind on the matter.
His tongue uncurls in one broad lash against Sephiroth's. Before he can withdraw, Tseng's lips purse, capturing his tongue for one lingering suckle. His fingers work in Sephiroth's hair, routing it like a river so it does not fall between them, threading through, burying until his blunt nails can scratch against his scalp. Sephiroth has eyes like a cat; Tseng finds himself smiling against his lips, wondering if he purrs like one too. If so, it'd be the finest secret in his storied collection of them.
The hair in his hand is collected in his fist, gently, just firm enough to turn Sephiroth's head to a slight angle. He rubs his lips over his mouth, less of a kiss than it is the appreciation of the shape and softness of these two perfect planes. He speaks against them: ]
Have dinner with me.
[ The fingers hooked in his straps clench tighter, tug decisively. ]
Tonight.