[ Angeal has seen before reflexes take over Sephiroth's motions in battle, practiced grace deadly and beautiful.
This is different. This seems more instinct, uncoordinated and determined, a need finally allowed satiation, and he would possibly get drunk on simply watching - were the stimulation not driving him higher and higher and hotter and hotter.
He is not... quite silent.
When Sephiroth's hips start moving, he manages a low, raw, ] yeah. Just like that, so good.
[ But, after that, coherence falls apart for him, and he only manages quiet groans when Sephiroth's angle is particularly good, or the pressure is just right, his pupils blown out and his body on fire.
Then Sephiroth is scrambling with his pauldrons, and he... realizes he is very far from coordinated enough to help, so he lets Sephiroth release them - himself biting at the fingertips of his remaining glove to take it off, and placing his palm on the way-too-tempting bare skin. Only for his fingers to curl, helplessly, in pleasure, blunt nails less scratching than sliding along Sephiroth's skin, trembling. So he takes his hand away, not to mar skin that is exposed unintentionally, and settles his hand to mirror the other hand on Sephiroth's hip, moving with him, encouraging, then tightening as his own world narrows down to this. Sephiroth's body moving against his, warm forehead pressed against his, curtain of silvery white hair shutting away all the rest of existence.
Then Sephiroth's breathlessly crying out his name, and Angeal comes undone, fingers digging into the man's hips and his own thrusting up, helplessly. ]
Seph... oh, Seph.
[ It's just this side of a quiet growl, not enough left to consider if the affectionate form of the name will be welcome, wanted, just caught up in him. This is ... how he wants them to be. Inextricably bound.
... later, he might concede the mess is less pleasant, but, Goddess, this feels so incomparably good, right now. ]
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This is different. This seems more instinct, uncoordinated and determined, a need finally allowed satiation, and he would possibly get drunk on simply watching - were the stimulation not driving him higher and higher and hotter and hotter.
He is not... quite silent.
When Sephiroth's hips start moving, he manages a low, raw, ] yeah. Just like that, so good.
[ But, after that, coherence falls apart for him, and he only manages quiet groans when Sephiroth's angle is particularly good, or the pressure is just right, his pupils blown out and his body on fire.
Then Sephiroth is scrambling with his pauldrons, and he... realizes he is very far from coordinated enough to help, so he lets Sephiroth release them - himself biting at the fingertips of his remaining glove to take it off, and placing his palm on the way-too-tempting bare skin. Only for his fingers to curl, helplessly, in pleasure, blunt nails less scratching than sliding along Sephiroth's skin, trembling. So he takes his hand away, not to mar skin that is exposed unintentionally, and settles his hand to mirror the other hand on Sephiroth's hip, moving with him, encouraging, then tightening as his own world narrows down to this. Sephiroth's body moving against his, warm forehead pressed against his, curtain of silvery white hair shutting away all the rest of existence.
Then Sephiroth's breathlessly crying out his name, and Angeal comes undone, fingers digging into the man's hips and his own thrusting up, helplessly. ]
Seph... oh, Seph.
[ It's just this side of a quiet growl, not enough left to consider if the affectionate form of the name will be welcome, wanted, just caught up in him. This is ... how he wants them to be. Inextricably bound.
... later, he might concede the mess is less pleasant, but, Goddess, this feels so incomparably good, right now. ]