[Not quite so merciful for Sephiroth, however. He might echo those sentiments, that the quiet hunger to feel that weight in his arms and a head against his chest again (and not just anyone-- Tseng) just unnecessarily complicates things. ...It doesn't make it any less prevalent a wish.
And it's funny, really, that Tseng should be so fascinated with him... because he's quite beautiful in his own right. An elegant mix of contradictions. A fair visage that contrasts with a strong jawline. Graceful lips that often press into a stern line. Fine, angled brows that furrow into daunting scrutiny. Long, immaculately kept hair (except, of course, for the endearingly messy bun it's currently in). Of everything, however, Sephiroth finds that he's drawn to his eyes. They're vivid and sharp-- a rich, dark brown often hiding imperceptible secrets. Always chilly, always calculating... but right now, they're subtly warmer.
...Perhaps Sephiroth has spent more time studying Tseng than he'd willingly admit-- and if he pauses his meticulous first aid routine, letting his eyes and touches linger more than they ought to... Well, he doesn't bring attention to it.
Tseng offers a bullshit excuse and a shadow of a smile. Sephiroth, in turn, curves his lips similarly, humming a soft laugh. In hindsight, it probably beckoned more than a few odd stares and certainly some questions-- Tseng bleeding from his forehead and tucked away in the arms of Sephiroth, who sported several messy streaks of that blood on his cheeks.]
Perhaps. Quite the place you wound up in.
[He dabs some ointment on his fingers and begins smoothing it along Tseng's forehead, taking care not to poke and prod the injury too much.]
[ It's not a bad feeling at all, working a laugh out of Sephiroth. It makes him feel powerful in a different sort of way, the same swell of pride in a more profound key. Tseng loves the way it sounds. ]
No. Last night was a... special occasion.
[ There are many secrets Tseng keeps that no one else needs to know. Just like how Sephiroth does not need to know that it was a jealous despair drove him to a sub-plate booze shanty, where he'd—erroneously, it seemed—believed that he could wallow in his foul mood in the comfortable anonymity of an unfamiliar crowd.
Besides, it hardly matters anymore. That mood is gone, replaced by something far lighter. Turns out you can drink all your troubles away. Or maybe it's the concussion—whatever.
He tilts his head to rest his chin against his curled fingers, watching. The rattling AC has kicked on again, and it's giving Sephiroth's silver locks a reason to rustle in that ephemeral way, the same way moonlight dances across the black waters of a midnight sea. He's always wondered what it must feel like, what a singular pleasure it might be to stroke his fingers through the endless fall of it. ]
That could mean a lot of things, but Sephiroth gets the sense that it's likely none of his business.
Whatever the case, Tseng seems to slowly be coming around, feeling more comfortable. Comfortable enough to casually watch him when he couldn't bring himself to maintain eye contact several minutes ago. He tilts his head just so, propping his chin against his hand, and... it's enough that Sephiroth pauses to stare back. It's then that he becomes acutely aware of their proximity, of how Tseng is looking at him. It's very subtle-- and if he weren't painfully observant already, Sephiroth wouldn't have noticed. But the quiet way Tseng's eyes rove over his face, his hair, does something strange to his chest-- as if his heart is rebelling against his rib cage.
He questions it - because he always questions the sincerity of others and their interests in him - and pointedly returns to his task. He... is not good with feelings. Certainly not ones like this. It didn't go well for him, the last time he started feeling like this, and he's leery about repeating that mistake.]
Mm. I don't drink. [And even if he did, there's not much point to it. Several dozen of Hojo's invasive tests have found his metabolism to be abnormally fast and highly resistant to most things.] I was searching for an errant puppy. [By which he - of course - means Zack. Angeal lost track of him, and somehow Sephiroth got roped into it, and-- well.] Finding you was a pleasant accident. Your company is preferable, even when inebriated.
[He doesn't actually mind Zack, but he knows better than to make that public knowledge. He'll leave the puppy wrangling to Angeal.]
[ If Tseng was only privvy to the Sephiroth's wariness of him and his intentions, he'd likely encourage it. The few people he trusts personally are only considered so because they never stop disproving what he considers a career-appropriate sense of paranoia. He is a Turk, after all, and it's likely that if Sephiroth himself were to take a step out of turn and fall out of favor with the Shinra elite, then it'd probably be Tseng's gun flashing in the dark, quietly disposing of him before he became a bigger threat to public security.
Tseng is sure that would never happen, but that bottom line will always be there. Either way, none of that has any bearing on simply sharing a pleasant conversation, which is precisely what they are doing right now. Just talk, uncomplicated. This is fine. And if his gaze drifts to the plush curve of Sephiroth's lips while he is speaking, that's fine too, it can be easily explained, he has a concussion after all and his eyes—clearer and brighter than ever—haven't been the same since. So.
Anyway, his brow lifts, ever-skeptical. ]
Hm. You'd prefer my company over the illustrious Mr. Fair.
[ Of course he knows who Sephiroth is talking about. All of Angeal's nicknames for new recruits trickle down to the basement levels eventually, where the rest of the black suits can titter over them in the fluorescent dark. Tseng's smirk is mostly concealed by his hand, but there's a touch of it in his gaze, anyway. ]
I'm not certain whether or not that's an honor or the lowest bar ever set for me.
[Let it not be said that the Turks aren't dangerous. Even the more... boisterous of them carry a deadly bite, and it speaks volumes that Tseng is so high-ranking. Not the kind of enemies you want to make. But... should that ever come to pass, Tseng had best be sure he can land a killing shot. Nothing is more dangerous than a wounded animal with the will to live, and Tseng would be inflicting more than just physical injury. He'd have Sephiroth descending upon him like a vengeful wraith.
--But Tseng is right, of course. Surely that would never happen.
A wisp of a smile passes across that so-called plush curve of his lips, once Tseng remarks upon his placement in Sephiroth's preferences. And he notices-- he sees Tseng's eyes drifting down his nose, towards his mouth. It's likely a mistake, he reasons-- because surely Tseng is much too professional a man to - what's the word - ogle?]
There are plenty of others lower than Fair.
[Shinra isn't without its share of idiots, after all. Or... maybe that's just Sephiroth's way of admitting that Zack isn't as bad as he'd like everyone to think. Either way... not a terrible place to be on Tseng's part.
Sephiroth gingerly finishes smoothing the ointment over the injury, wiping his fingers off against some scraps of gauze before he moves on to dressing the wound. --And then he catches Tseng's eyes again. Briefly. Just enough that he's... requestioning his questioning now, as it were. (Why does this suddenly feel more complicated than it needs to be?) For some odd hour-long seconds, he rolls it over and around in his mind, considering and reconsidering. It's certainly easier to pretend that it didn't happen-- that it doesn't keep happening. But then... when does Sephiroth ever choose the easy route?
And with that in mind, something roguish coils in the lines of his mouth. His chin remains tipped down-- his attention seemingly focused on snipping the necessary pieces of gauze and tape. But then his eyes flick up, soundly meeting Tseng's, and even through the veil of his eyelashes, Sephiroth's gaze is sharp, intent, knowing.]
Is there something intriguing to you, Tseng?
[It's a vaguely kept question, but he knows this Turk is more than smart enough to know he's been caught. Sephiroth is more… curious to see how he'll handle it, perhaps.]
[ Truth be told, Tseng likes Zack too. Probably too much. Every time they are together, he ends up regretting every smile, every laugh, each of them won far too easily. While Tseng is fond of humility as a concept, it is not good for his professional life to be routinely shown, again and again, that he is nothing more than just a regular man, just as susceptible to charm and beauty as all the rest of them. It's just not a good look for a Turk.
Like this. Tseng knows a thing or two about keeping covert—more than most, honestly. But again, the atmosphere is far too easy here. The prospect of having Sephiroth in his shitty flat was so terrifying, but in reality, it's comfortable. Too comfortable. And that is where mistakes are made.
Tseng doesn't think much of what he is doing until it is too late. He's been stealing glances without reproach this whole time, after all. And then Sephiroth bows his head and then snaps it right back up again, and there it is, he's caught red-handed. And a little shocked on top of that, because of all the people in this world, the last person he'd expect to do something so mischievous and clever and honestly sort of cute is General Sephiroth.
He ought to double down. Cast himself in stone, just like he does at work, and become as impassive as a steel wall. The problem is that he is intrigued. And the last thing he wants to do is back down in front of someone so fierce, so beautiful.
He locks eyes with him instead, brazen and daring. One simply does not get into his line of work without a taste for dangerous games. ]
[Zack has... a way of disarming even the gruffest of them. Turks, First Class SOLDIERs, generals-- they're all the same to him. He affords respect where it's due, of course, but he treats everyone he passes like a person. ...To a man who has been treated more like an object than a human being for most of his life, that sort of earnesty has a way of weaseling past even the most fortified of walls.
Perhaps that's what Sephiroth likes about this... whatever this is. It feels human, unbound by the need to remain professional and unaffected despite Tseng's initial attempt to keep it so. He's not normally the type to indulge, but-- he finds the edges of his mind continually wandering back to the previous night, of Tseng bundled contentedly in his arms. Wandering, to the endearing mess of a bun tossed atop Tseng's crown and to the imperceptibly deep eyes boldly now staring him in the eye and--
Well. Here they are.
Tseng isn't backing down, and Sephiroth... can't decide whether he ought to be surprised or not. It doesn't matter much, because-- he's glad, he thinks. Glad that Tseng isn't withdrawing behind the steely veil of indifference. He tries not to think about that too much-- or of how foolish this probably is.
A dangerous game, indeed.]
I see. [His chin tips again-- a little further up to level his gaze with Tseng's.] And do you intend to do anything about it?
[There's nothing ingenuous about the way his mouth curves, edging into a smirk.]
[ This is such a bad idea. Quite possibly the worst idea he's ever had. But when Tseng thinks back on all the things he could have done differently before this moment—well, there isn't much, is there? All he's done is dare to look at something lovely and refuse to apologize for it. If he even so much as considers rescinding those glances, explaining them away as something other than what they were, his stomach twists, sickened by the prospect. He has been around the general long enough to know how often people lie to him, out of fear or simply as a means to control, and he cannot bear the thought of becoming just another one of them.
His conviction does nothing to slow the hammering of his heart, but alas. One cannot have everything in this world. ]
While I am sure that you would make it painfully obvious if I was to err across your boundaries...
[ That smirk that he flashes has Tseng responding in kind as he drifts a little closer, his hand raising. Touching Sephiroth is absolutely unthinkable. And Tseng cannot remember the last time he touched any skin without his gloves as a barrier, so he has the occasion to remember, as his thumb draws a new and bloodless streak across Sephiroth's cheek, how startling warm and soft it can be. Or perhaps that is just him, just as captivating to the touch as he is to the eye. ]
After all that you've done, you are owed your discretion. But.
[ His eyes narrow and gleam as his smirk grows more profound. ]
Please do not mistake me for a gentleman. These are merely extenuating circumstances.
It couldn't become any clearer than the moment Tseng leans in - just so - and brings his hand up. Sephiroth is prepared for the touch-- or so he's fooled himself into thinking. Because then Tseng's thumb is tracing a line across his cheek, and suddenly Sephiroth is the one catching himself from leaning against it. He'd forgotten how intoxicating it feels, the warmth of someone else's skin against his own. Intimacy is largely a foreign concept to him, and this--
Alarming.
How quickly it overtakes him-- a swell of comfort and delight blooming in his ribs, the thrum of excitement crackling through his veins. Even Sephiroth's impeccable control falters from time to time, and for just a moment, his eyes draw shut with the faintest flutter of his eyelashes. In any other circumstance, he would be grounded immediately by it. He'd begin slamming walls back into place, retreating behind the forbidding veneer-- and he's aware that he should.
He is also aware that he has no desire to do so.]
Hm. [A thoughtful and almost melodic hum...] Am I to infer that - under normal circumstances - you simply take what you desire, then?
[Somewhere along the course of Sephiroth's words, his own hand has drifted up, finding Tseng's wrist. He uses it as leverage, pressing Tseng's palm flat against his cheek. Gradually, his fingers trail up the back of the Turk's hand, wandering into the dips between his knuckles-- almost as if he's savoring the sensation of it. After all... he can't recall the last time he's touched another person without the barrier of gloves himself. And he holds it there - Tseng's hand - when he broaches the distance between them, bringing them nose-to-nose. His eyes, vibrant with curiosity and something terribly close to hunger, are still locked on Tseng's.]
[ Tseng does not think that he could deny Sephiroth anything when he looks at him this way. What a terrifying prospect it is, that anyone should hold so much power over him that was not earned by rank or in blood, but by a single flash of eyes gone so bright with something intriguing that Tseng cannot help but to be entranced by them. And now he is in the most perilous position of all, because he knows how Sephiroth's lashes drift when Tseng touches his face, how peaceable and sweet and breath-taking he can look against the open plane of his palm, and that image will haunt him with longing for as long as he lives. The curse has spread and now Tseng's got it too—not just in spades, but in all the suits to boot. ]
Yes.
[ Tseng agrees, and that revelation is where it is supposed to end. He is a scoundrel with a cold heart, a ruthless predator, the nefarious—but necessary—shadow cast by Sephiroth in all of his resplendence and glory. That Sephiroth found him in such an unseemly arena in the first place ought to be his first tip that Tseng can do nothing for him but pollute his waters, but now Sephiroth is drifting closer, and there is that look that he would happily debase and destroy himself for, so he supposes that they are both feeling ruinous tonight.
He says "show me," and it is as if he's sunk strings into Tseng's skin, because Tseng is moving before he knows it, his other hand raising to clear away a drift of silver hair. Every kiss he's ever known has been a quick and dirty set-up for an equally disposable punchline, but kissing Sephiroth is more like a song, a soft introduction that culminates into a ravenous chorus. The issue is that Sephiroth's lips fit the act so perfectly, so plump and pleasant to hold within his suckling mouth, that there is little choice he has but to kiss him breathless right there upon his shitty thrift store couch. ]
dear g o d, your tags are to die for-- i had to take a Minute
[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.]
[ There have been ample opportunities for Sephiroth to pull away, to rise above, to rebuke him as cruelly and ruthlessly as he likes. No one would ever know; the only Shinra agent who knows this address is Tseng himself—and now, mysteriously, Sephiroth as well—and none of the neighbors would even notice a few shouts and one long shriek of a blade. Tseng is sure of it. He is entirely at the mercy of Sephiroth's desires here.
Nothing like that happens at all, though Tseng begins with the expectation that it might at any moment. Instead, what he gets is Sephiroth's arms winding around him, his fingers dragging sizzling shivers down his spine. He finds Sephiroth's mouth so perfectly pliable, his lips parting so easily to admit the slow sweep of his tongue. The things clattering to the floor are hardly a distraction, and if they are, then Tseng fights tooth and nail to stay immersed in this, his fingers locking more adamantly against Sephiroth's jaw to keep him in place against the urgent motions of his mouth, held breath burning in his lungs from his reluctance to be the first to break away.
Eventually, it becomes impossible to ignore the very plain and simple implications of this kiss, this visit, the looks: Sephiroth wants this, perhaps just as badly as he does. That is when he stops caring entirely, when caution is thrown to the wind and he couldn't give a fuck where it lands because he is kissing Sephiroth, not the beautiful, infallible, perfect one, but the one with tender hands and clever little schemes and the softest lips he's ever known.
The pillow joins the gauze on the floor. One of his alarms starts going off in the single bedroom. Soon, it's joined by his phone buzzing on the chipped coffee table. And still, the only occasion Tseng can find to part from the kiss is this one fleeting moment in between, which is spent not quieting the alarms or checking his messages but pulling away just to look at the face he is holding between his hands the same way he looked at it before, full of wonder and intrigue, wholly captivated. Sephiroth with well-kissed lips is truly a sight to behold, but he can hardly bring himself to do so for very long because he can kiss them better, harder, hungrier, and drag Sephiroth down into this embarrassingly awful floral-printed sofa with him along the way. ]
[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.]
[ 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. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
And it's funny, really, that Tseng should be so fascinated with him... because he's quite beautiful in his own right. An elegant mix of contradictions. A fair visage that contrasts with a strong jawline. Graceful lips that often press into a stern line. Fine, angled brows that furrow into daunting scrutiny. Long, immaculately kept hair (except, of course, for the endearingly messy bun it's currently in). Of everything, however, Sephiroth finds that he's drawn to his eyes. They're vivid and sharp-- a rich, dark brown often hiding imperceptible secrets. Always chilly, always calculating... but right now, they're subtly warmer.
...Perhaps Sephiroth has spent more time studying Tseng than he'd willingly admit-- and if he pauses his meticulous first aid routine, letting his eyes and touches linger more than they ought to... Well, he doesn't bring attention to it.
Tseng offers a bullshit excuse and a shadow of a smile. Sephiroth, in turn, curves his lips similarly, humming a soft laugh. In hindsight, it probably beckoned more than a few odd stares and certainly some questions-- Tseng bleeding from his forehead and tucked away in the arms of Sephiroth, who sported several messy streaks of that blood on his cheeks.]
Perhaps. Quite the place you wound up in.
[He dabs some ointment on his fingers and begins smoothing it along Tseng's forehead, taking care not to poke and prod the injury too much.]
Is that a regular occurrence for you?
no subject
No. Last night was a... special occasion.
[ There are many secrets Tseng keeps that no one else needs to know. Just like how Sephiroth does not need to know that it was a jealous despair drove him to a sub-plate booze shanty, where he'd—erroneously, it seemed—believed that he could wallow in his foul mood in the comfortable anonymity of an unfamiliar crowd.
Besides, it hardly matters anymore. That mood is gone, replaced by something far lighter. Turns out you can drink all your troubles away. Or maybe it's the concussion—whatever.
He tilts his head to rest his chin against his curled fingers, watching. The rattling AC has kicked on again, and it's giving Sephiroth's silver locks a reason to rustle in that ephemeral way, the same way moonlight dances across the black waters of a midnight sea. He's always wondered what it must feel like, what a singular pleasure it might be to stroke his fingers through the endless fall of it. ]
I didn't crash one of your secret haunts, did I?
no subject
That could mean a lot of things, but Sephiroth gets the sense that it's likely none of his business.
Whatever the case, Tseng seems to slowly be coming around, feeling more comfortable. Comfortable enough to casually watch him when he couldn't bring himself to maintain eye contact several minutes ago. He tilts his head just so, propping his chin against his hand, and... it's enough that Sephiroth pauses to stare back. It's then that he becomes acutely aware of their proximity, of how Tseng is looking at him. It's very subtle-- and if he weren't painfully observant already, Sephiroth wouldn't have noticed. But the quiet way Tseng's eyes rove over his face, his hair, does something strange to his chest-- as if his heart is rebelling against his rib cage.
He questions it - because he always questions the sincerity of others and their interests in him - and pointedly returns to his task. He... is not good with feelings. Certainly not ones like this. It didn't go well for him, the last time he started feeling like this, and he's leery about repeating that mistake.]
Mm. I don't drink. [And even if he did, there's not much point to it. Several dozen of Hojo's invasive tests have found his metabolism to be abnormally fast and highly resistant to most things.] I was searching for an errant puppy. [By which he - of course - means Zack. Angeal lost track of him, and somehow Sephiroth got roped into it, and-- well.] Finding you was a pleasant accident. Your company is preferable, even when inebriated.
[He doesn't actually mind Zack, but he knows better than to make that public knowledge. He'll leave the puppy wrangling to Angeal.]
no subject
Tseng is sure that would never happen, but that bottom line will always be there. Either way, none of that has any bearing on simply sharing a pleasant conversation, which is precisely what they are doing right now. Just talk, uncomplicated. This is fine. And if his gaze drifts to the plush curve of Sephiroth's lips while he is speaking, that's fine too, it can be easily explained, he has a concussion after all and his eyes—clearer and brighter than ever—haven't been the same since. So.
Anyway, his brow lifts, ever-skeptical. ]
Hm. You'd prefer my company over the illustrious Mr. Fair.
[ Of course he knows who Sephiroth is talking about. All of Angeal's nicknames for new recruits trickle down to the basement levels eventually, where the rest of the black suits can titter over them in the fluorescent dark. Tseng's smirk is mostly concealed by his hand, but there's a touch of it in his gaze, anyway. ]
I'm not certain whether or not that's an honor or the lowest bar ever set for me.
no subject
--But Tseng is right, of course. Surely that would never happen.
A wisp of a smile passes across that so-called plush curve of his lips, once Tseng remarks upon his placement in Sephiroth's preferences. And he notices-- he sees Tseng's eyes drifting down his nose, towards his mouth. It's likely a mistake, he reasons-- because surely Tseng is much too professional a man to - what's the word - ogle?]
There are plenty of others lower than Fair.
[Shinra isn't without its share of idiots, after all. Or... maybe that's just Sephiroth's way of admitting that Zack isn't as bad as he'd like everyone to think. Either way... not a terrible place to be on Tseng's part.
Sephiroth gingerly finishes smoothing the ointment over the injury, wiping his fingers off against some scraps of gauze before he moves on to dressing the wound. --And then he catches Tseng's eyes again. Briefly. Just enough that he's... requestioning his questioning now, as it were. (Why does this suddenly feel more complicated than it needs to be?) For some odd hour-long seconds, he rolls it over and around in his mind, considering and reconsidering. It's certainly easier to pretend that it didn't happen-- that it doesn't keep happening. But then... when does Sephiroth ever choose the easy route?
And with that in mind, something roguish coils in the lines of his mouth. His chin remains tipped down-- his attention seemingly focused on snipping the necessary pieces of gauze and tape. But then his eyes flick up, soundly meeting Tseng's, and even through the veil of his eyelashes, Sephiroth's gaze is sharp, intent, knowing.]
Is there something intriguing to you, Tseng?
[It's a vaguely kept question, but he knows this Turk is more than smart enough to know he's been caught. Sephiroth is more… curious to see how he'll handle it, perhaps.]
no subject
Like this. Tseng knows a thing or two about keeping covert—more than most, honestly. But again, the atmosphere is far too easy here. The prospect of having Sephiroth in his shitty flat was so terrifying, but in reality, it's comfortable. Too comfortable. And that is where mistakes are made.
Tseng doesn't think much of what he is doing until it is too late. He's been stealing glances without reproach this whole time, after all. And then Sephiroth bows his head and then snaps it right back up again, and there it is, he's caught red-handed. And a little shocked on top of that, because of all the people in this world, the last person he'd expect to do something so mischievous and clever and honestly sort of cute is General Sephiroth.
He ought to double down. Cast himself in stone, just like he does at work, and become as impassive as a steel wall. The problem is that he is intrigued. And the last thing he wants to do is back down in front of someone so fierce, so beautiful.
He locks eyes with him instead, brazen and daring. One simply does not get into his line of work without a taste for dangerous games. ]
Yes.
no subject
Perhaps that's what Sephiroth likes about this... whatever this is. It feels human, unbound by the need to remain professional and unaffected despite Tseng's initial attempt to keep it so. He's not normally the type to indulge, but-- he finds the edges of his mind continually wandering back to the previous night, of Tseng bundled contentedly in his arms. Wandering, to the endearing mess of a bun tossed atop Tseng's crown and to the imperceptibly deep eyes boldly now staring him in the eye and--
Well. Here they are.
Tseng isn't backing down, and Sephiroth... can't decide whether he ought to be surprised or not. It doesn't matter much, because-- he's glad, he thinks. Glad that Tseng isn't withdrawing behind the steely veil of indifference. He tries not to think about that too much-- or of how foolish this probably is.
A dangerous game, indeed.]
I see. [His chin tips again-- a little further up to level his gaze with Tseng's.] And do you intend to do anything about it?
[There's nothing ingenuous about the way his mouth curves, edging into a smirk.]
Or is that up to my discretion?
no subject
His conviction does nothing to slow the hammering of his heart, but alas. One cannot have everything in this world. ]
While I am sure that you would make it painfully obvious if I was to err across your boundaries...
[ That smirk that he flashes has Tseng responding in kind as he drifts a little closer, his hand raising. Touching Sephiroth is absolutely unthinkable. And Tseng cannot remember the last time he touched any skin without his gloves as a barrier, so he has the occasion to remember, as his thumb draws a new and bloodless streak across Sephiroth's cheek, how startling warm and soft it can be. Or perhaps that is just him, just as captivating to the touch as he is to the eye. ]
After all that you've done, you are owed your discretion. But.
[ His eyes narrow and gleam as his smirk grows more profound. ]
Please do not mistake me for a gentleman. These are merely extenuating circumstances.
no subject
It couldn't become any clearer than the moment Tseng leans in - just so - and brings his hand up. Sephiroth is prepared for the touch-- or so he's fooled himself into thinking. Because then Tseng's thumb is tracing a line across his cheek, and suddenly Sephiroth is the one catching himself from leaning against it. He'd forgotten how intoxicating it feels, the warmth of someone else's skin against his own. Intimacy is largely a foreign concept to him, and this--
Alarming.
How quickly it overtakes him-- a swell of comfort and delight blooming in his ribs, the thrum of excitement crackling through his veins. Even Sephiroth's impeccable control falters from time to time, and for just a moment, his eyes draw shut with the faintest flutter of his eyelashes. In any other circumstance, he would be grounded immediately by it. He'd begin slamming walls back into place, retreating behind the forbidding veneer-- and he's aware that he should.
He is also aware that he has no desire to do so.]
Hm. [A thoughtful and almost melodic hum...] Am I to infer that - under normal circumstances - you simply take what you desire, then?
[Somewhere along the course of Sephiroth's words, his own hand has drifted up, finding Tseng's wrist. He uses it as leverage, pressing Tseng's palm flat against his cheek. Gradually, his fingers trail up the back of the Turk's hand, wandering into the dips between his knuckles-- almost as if he's savoring the sensation of it. After all... he can't recall the last time he's touched another person without the barrier of gloves himself. And he holds it there - Tseng's hand - when he broaches the distance between them, bringing them nose-to-nose. His eyes, vibrant with curiosity and something terribly close to hunger, are still locked on Tseng's.]
Show me.
no subject
Yes.
[ Tseng agrees, and that revelation is where it is supposed to end. He is a scoundrel with a cold heart, a ruthless predator, the nefarious—but necessary—shadow cast by Sephiroth in all of his resplendence and glory. That Sephiroth found him in such an unseemly arena in the first place ought to be his first tip that Tseng can do nothing for him but pollute his waters, but now Sephiroth is drifting closer, and there is that look that he would happily debase and destroy himself for, so he supposes that they are both feeling ruinous tonight.
He says "show me," and it is as if he's sunk strings into Tseng's skin, because Tseng is moving before he knows it, his other hand raising to clear away a drift of silver hair. Every kiss he's ever known has been a quick and dirty set-up for an equally disposable punchline, but kissing Sephiroth is more like a song, a soft introduction that culminates into a ravenous chorus. The issue is that Sephiroth's lips fit the act so perfectly, so plump and pleasant to hold within his suckling mouth, that there is little choice he has but to kiss him breathless right there upon his shitty thrift store couch. ]
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.]
look who's talkin 😭
Nothing like that happens at all, though Tseng begins with the expectation that it might at any moment. Instead, what he gets is Sephiroth's arms winding around him, his fingers dragging sizzling shivers down his spine. He finds Sephiroth's mouth so perfectly pliable, his lips parting so easily to admit the slow sweep of his tongue. The things clattering to the floor are hardly a distraction, and if they are, then Tseng fights tooth and nail to stay immersed in this, his fingers locking more adamantly against Sephiroth's jaw to keep him in place against the urgent motions of his mouth, held breath burning in his lungs from his reluctance to be the first to break away.
Eventually, it becomes impossible to ignore the very plain and simple implications of this kiss, this visit, the looks: Sephiroth wants this, perhaps just as badly as he does. That is when he stops caring entirely, when caution is thrown to the wind and he couldn't give a fuck where it lands because he is kissing Sephiroth, not the beautiful, infallible, perfect one, but the one with tender hands and clever little schemes and the softest lips he's ever known.
The pillow joins the gauze on the floor. One of his alarms starts going off in the single bedroom. Soon, it's joined by his phone buzzing on the chipped coffee table. And still, the only occasion Tseng can find to part from the kiss is this one fleeting moment in between, which is spent not quieting the alarms or checking his messages but pulling away just to look at the face he is holding between his hands the same way he looked at it before, full of wonder and intrigue, wholly captivated. Sephiroth with well-kissed lips is truly a sight to behold, but he can hardly bring himself to do so for very long because he can kiss them better, harder, hungrier, and drag Sephiroth down into this embarrassingly awful floral-printed sofa with him along the way. ]
no subject
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.]
no subject
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.