Should he be concerned that the plunging of that knife right into the space between his wide-open shirt doesn't even make him flinch? Haha, no, of course not. He couldn't have predicted it, exactly, the exactly when and exactly where and exactly how, but he was ready for it, and he's totally relaxed. Reno only reacts when he glances down, lips parting with a sigh, relieved almost. When he gets a look at Tseng's face and sees the inspiration dawn on him, that critical eye that finds the beautiful angles in every bloody canvas he's ever seen him take a blade to. It's kind of amazing, honestly. Reno's never been that particularly artful. Not like this, anyway. His art is movement, a flick of the wrist, quickness and dexterity, the absolute mastery of his body and what it can do. What it can do to others, specifically. He's certain he looks a picture when he's in the moment, whether that moment is fighting or fucking or kissing or killing, but he doesn't think he could ever leave such precisely beautiful destruction on anyone's body the way Tseng does.
His head tilts to try to watch, his upper lip occasionally twitching when something hurts, his eyes widening as that scar of his runs a river of blood all over again, only this time it transforms into something mystifying. He can make out that it's lettering, a language he certainly doesn't know how to speak or read, but he's got a pretty good sense without having to ask. That's when the back of his head hits the wall with a dull thunk and he laughs. The sound shudders in his chest, breathy, made weak by the stinging persistence of that knife over his heart. With all the tender, loving care of some thing he knows he isn't and doesn't think he can be, Reno strokes Tseng's hair back from his face, tucking it behind his ear to keep it out of his way while he works. Then on down the side his neck, following that absolutely irresistible curve of Tseng's dangerous body right back to that scar. His nails curl into the jagged edges of it, and this time when he finds that uneven overlap in his skin where it never could've healed cleanly, he digs in hard. Digs in and scratches and pulls at the back of Tseng's hip for counter-balance so that he can apply pressure and pressure and pressure until it starts to tear and bleed.
"Y'know," he starts casually, the words thick in his throat as that blade bites into the same spot again for the fourth time and fuck, that one was a little deep, jesus, he's getting hard, he claws harder, "If you hadn't come back, I'da just taken this all out on myself."
This isn't the first time that Tseng has had to concentrate while someone tore him apart. Now it's easier than it ever was, because this is good work, proud work, the manifestation of which takes precedence over all else. Reno's blood obscures his vision of it, but he has a tongue with which to wipe it all away. He likes the way that Reno's pale skin opens with each stroke, gaping like lips parted in whisper, meat and muscle glittering like rubies beneath.
Another line, another stroke to bridge them. Is he bleeding too? He can't think about that. One slip, one twitch of his hand could throw these perfect angles into oblivion, and then he'd have to strip Reno of all his skin and bleed him until it's time to begin anew. That's an option, now. He doesn't want it. It only means what he wants it to mean if he gets it right the first time.
Something buzzes, set so far away from the quiet stillness of this place. He can spy Reno's mouth moving out of the corner of his periphery, but it's hard to see anything beyond where his gaze has narrowed. Can't hear him. Does Tseng really need to? Doesn't he already know everything Reno is ever going to say?
"I know," he answers, speaking sound into the world again. It's so loud here and he's tempted to just dive back under again, find another reason to begin carving. But his work is done, veiled by a thick fall of running blood and gobs of congealing blood. Tseng rubs his cheek against it; Reno must have liked the way it looked upon his skin, because he keeps returning to that touch again and again. He's never wanted to look beautiful for anyone so badly before, and now he's painting his face like a whore with dashes of red, staring up at Reno with heavily-lidded eyes that darken with potent desire every time his nails tear into him just right.
It's so pretty, so perfect. Reno wants nothing more than to give the same thing back, even though he knows it'll never look as lovely and definitive. He's got his way of making his mark, and he's got so much more to work with. His scar, the one Sephiroth left him, wasn't very big, only flat and wide and very clean and neat. Now it's a branding he can wear with pride. He'd batted around the idea of retailoring his uniform to hide it, or maybe to show it off. Now he knows for sure he'll want it covered, but it isn't out of shame or modesty. It's because this is something he wants only for him. Something he wants others to see only if he lets them. Now, mind you, he lets people see his body all the time without any care in the world about it, but maybe now... he'll change that up a little. Just to keep it special and sacred. You know, for a little bit. Until that sort of thing loses meaning for him again, like so many things do. Tseng is lucky enough not to have the need to wonder, and yet the same benefit of only showing this to those he wants to have see it. Reno intends to give him something to want to keep sacred. His hands twitch—he wants that fucking knife. He wants so much, and Tseng makes it hard not to want so much, covering his pretty face in blood and gazing at him in a way that Reno knows is just as good as adoration on anyone else's face. He rewards by probing his fingers into the tear he's made to widen it, enough to really start the blood trickling, but not flowing. Not digging that deep yet. Not yet— ugh.
Patience is a bitch of a thing to pretend to have. Reno's smile widens, positively enamored. He'd love to tell Tseng exactly how he thinks he looks, what he wants to do, how he feels... like how he'd said all that stupid shit to Rude yesterday. Stupid shit that burns such an amazing contrast to how he feels here, like two sides of a coin. The kind of uncontrollable attraction, admiration, love, physical and emotional that makes him feel safe and human and normal and good—and then the kind that makes him feel wild, impulsive, and violent. He's never been so... complete, before.
Almost. Almost complete.
He takes one hand away, fishes in his pants pocket and luckily he's got another lighter handy. He pulls it out and clicks the wheel, the flame sparking close to Tseng's face. The flickering reflection in his inky gaze sends a shock of pleasure straight to his groin as good as if they were rutting around like teenagers and not tearing each other apart. "Seal the deal," he says, as if he really needs to tell him what the fire's for.
Tseng knows that Reno will not flinch. He has been here before; his eyes have had ample time to scour the storied volumes of harm that Reno wears upon his flesh, all those brands and burns and cuts and furiously dug tunnels through his skin, like he'd sat alone with a blade more than once and tried desperately to dig himself an avenue of freedom from his torment. Pain is as much a constant in his world as it is for the rest of them. That is not why Tseng lifts a hand to keep him still.
There should be something profound about this. There ought to be meaning. And that meaning comes naturally when Tseng's fingers collect at the back of Reno's head and pull him closer, when he bows his own head and they tip together, foreheads pressed. It's as ritualistic as the carving, the inscription in skin and blood, a private act of reverence between them.
Still, he cannot quell the impulse to lick at Reno's lips as the flames tongue over his skin, searing his wounds. The pain must be remarkable and all of Tseng's skin is alive and electric with it. The touch of fire is very careful; to char his own work would be an atrocity, a sin he could never absolve himself of. He holds his tiny flame back, wields it like he did that knife, graceful and fluid, every stroke just as purposeful as the last.
And there it is, his name etched in stark relief. Blood is thundering in his ears. His heart slams against his chest like it has been driven mad by its imprisonment within the boundaries of his skin. It is still too delicate to touch, but his fingers curl over the lighter and reach, do not brush but linger. He cannot wait for the day when he can press his hand there and feel the swollen topography of it. It cannot come soon enough.
This is where this day should end. They have duties to tend to. They are so behind schedule. But Tseng cannot take his eyes or his hands off of Reno, no matter how hard he wills it so. Perhaps a fundamental part of him never came back from that fleeting journey into the beyond and now he is cursed by his taste for this flesh, his hands forever compelled to want to wander, over his hips and up his back, smoothing and holding and dragging him in.
That part hurts. Yeah. Reno hisses as he's seared, brows drawing together, and sighs a soft sound into Tseng's mouth as he laps at him. Tastes his own blood and blinks his eyes open, roused from weakness as if the flavor of it is like smelling salts. He lifts his chin and brushes their mouths together, but no amount of touching lips and tongues really makes it a kiss by definition, there's no solid press, no seal of their mouths. Still room to breathe. And room to look down and watch Tseng's name in fancy characters stand out on his chest, bloody and burned. Guess he's been claimed. It reminds him of his early childhood, running the streets of Junon, when the petulant kids who were just like him but not a thing like him refused to uphold anything as sacred, and that's mine! was always met with well, i don't see your name on it. He always thought that was funny, because he didn't have a name. Not until he came here, to Midgar. And even then, it's a made-up word he saw somewhere and knew how to pronounce and thought it sounded cool.
The Turks love to allude to, but never reveal, this mysterious concept of a real name. Someone they were before they became who they are. Reno has always taken great pride in having no such thing. He simply did not exist before he was a Turk. And that's why he's better than the rest.
They should be going back. But not yet. Not with Tseng grasping at him that way, his face streaked with blood, hovering so close. He's completely hollowed himself of emotions, because he knows if he does, it just won't stop. His anger and grief, and something else, something even worse, something tender and caring. Something that should be suggested in the way his hand strokes through Tseng's hair, settles gently at the back of his hip, and doesn't fling him to the floor but rather guides him backwards, crowding him to take a step and then another and then tilts him straight down to the floor. Not to lay in the puddle of blood from yesterday, but he finds with some delight that the crown of Tseng's head almost perfectly centers with it, his body laying away in the opposite direction. Like a mirror image, flipped upside down. Oh, it's fucking—yes. So perfect. His hand presses into Tseng's and takes the knife from him, but after a moment and a glance he flings it away. Not that one. He doesn't want that one. With his other hand he swipes through discarded tools and implements, clattering them around on the floor until his fingers blindly find what he does want—another blade, this one more like a dagger, pointed and meant for plunging into backs and hearts, not carving intricate designs.
That's the one he sinks deep into Tseng's belly, the movement so quick you'd miss it if you blinked. He turns it at an angle so that it doesn't pierce down into anything he's actually going to need, only meant to be a tool to help him tear open just the spot he wants. He finds he's salivating as he leverages the flesh from Tseng's body, and he's not sure whether that's some kind of carnal desire or if he's making himself sick. Whichever it is, he sates it by breaking the seal on that not a kiss thing they've got going on and traps Tseng's mouth with his, as if doing him the favor of stifling any sound he might make as he wrenches that vicious little blade free and slides one knee between Tseng's legs in the same motion.
The marking he makes is not on the outside. It's pressed delicately inside, scoring up into the underside of his reopened wound, so that the abrasions will still be raised, but will never, ever truly heal. Might even cause a few problems down the line. He's got no special script and no true name to put there. Instead, he simply makes a very sharp R that will dangle delicately from the jagged line across Tseng's stomach like an ornament.
It's like a dance, this backwards, backwards, down, and Tseng falls into step easily. For once in his life, he doesn't know where he is going or what is going to happen. There is no researched outcome, no auxiliary plans, no escape route. Just Reno slipping the blade from his hand and Tseng going still for him because he isn't sure what he is going to do with it, but god, more than anything, he wants to find out. Reno is the one variable he cannot predict and while it had always been a singular pleasure and an agonizing catalyst for every migraine he's ever had all at once, right now, it is the greatest thrill of his life.
The blade is flung, and Reno searches, searches. Tseng watches him, the way his eyes scan in a crazed sweep, the tension in his jaw. How lovely he looks in this condition. Like he could snap at any moment and tear them both to shreds. He licks his lips to recall the taste of him in this awful eternity of a second that he spends waiting.
And then it's just. Over. Unlike with Sephiroth, the cut does not strike fast and leave him in that shock that dulls the pain. He remembers how disappointed he'd felt, when he was spared that last great agony. No, Reno would never do that to him. He burns into him instead, so quickly that all Tseng can feel is in the aftermath, all of his nerves coming alive, screaming that something is so very, very wrong. He barely has time to inhale sharply before Reno's mouth is there to take that breath away from him. He drowns in it, in this kiss and this agony and this desire alike. Against his will, his entire body convulses with shivers. It is the most beautiful experience he's ever had, losing control this way, once again with Reno working deeply under his flesh.
Pressing into the kiss becomes an arduous task. Putting any pressure at all on his abdomen turns the pain in his gut into a furious, vision-blacking torment. And everything he can do right now puts pressure on it—gasping for breath once Reno breaks from their kiss, lifting his arms to drape them over Reno's shoulders, moving, shifting, needily rising beneath him. It seems like even looking at him exacerbates it, and Tseng cannot stop looking, cannot name the reason why he cannot tear his eyes from the image of Reno bloody and triumphant above him, but he does know this one thing.
This suffering is perfect. It is precisely what he deserves. And he is so grateful that he burns with how badly he needs to express it, though he has no earthly idea how to begin. Perhaps this is a start, the way he surges inwards again, growling from the pain, capturing the flesh of Reno's throat between his teeth. He bites for blood, chews, really, and it's so absolutely barbaric that it ought to be distasteful, but it is a special bliss instead, eating through Reno's skin.
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His head tilts to try to watch, his upper lip occasionally twitching when something hurts, his eyes widening as that scar of his runs a river of blood all over again, only this time it transforms into something mystifying. He can make out that it's lettering, a language he certainly doesn't know how to speak or read, but he's got a pretty good sense without having to ask. That's when the back of his head hits the wall with a dull thunk and he laughs. The sound shudders in his chest, breathy, made weak by the stinging persistence of that knife over his heart. With all the tender, loving care of some thing he knows he isn't and doesn't think he can be, Reno strokes Tseng's hair back from his face, tucking it behind his ear to keep it out of his way while he works. Then on down the side his neck, following that absolutely irresistible curve of Tseng's dangerous body right back to that scar. His nails curl into the jagged edges of it, and this time when he finds that uneven overlap in his skin where it never could've healed cleanly, he digs in hard. Digs in and scratches and pulls at the back of Tseng's hip for counter-balance so that he can apply pressure and pressure and pressure until it starts to tear and bleed.
"Y'know," he starts casually, the words thick in his throat as that blade bites into the same spot again for the fourth time and fuck, that one was a little deep, jesus, he's getting hard, he claws harder, "If you hadn't come back, I'da just taken this all out on myself."
no subject
Another line, another stroke to bridge them. Is he bleeding too? He can't think about that. One slip, one twitch of his hand could throw these perfect angles into oblivion, and then he'd have to strip Reno of all his skin and bleed him until it's time to begin anew. That's an option, now. He doesn't want it. It only means what he wants it to mean if he gets it right the first time.
Something buzzes, set so far away from the quiet stillness of this place. He can spy Reno's mouth moving out of the corner of his periphery, but it's hard to see anything beyond where his gaze has narrowed. Can't hear him. Does Tseng really need to? Doesn't he already know everything Reno is ever going to say?
"I know," he answers, speaking sound into the world again. It's so loud here and he's tempted to just dive back under again, find another reason to begin carving. But his work is done, veiled by a thick fall of running blood and gobs of congealing blood. Tseng rubs his cheek against it; Reno must have liked the way it looked upon his skin, because he keeps returning to that touch again and again. He's never wanted to look beautiful for anyone so badly before, and now he's painting his face like a whore with dashes of red, staring up at Reno with heavily-lidded eyes that darken with potent desire every time his nails tear into him just right.
no subject
Patience is a bitch of a thing to pretend to have. Reno's smile widens, positively enamored. He'd love to tell Tseng exactly how he thinks he looks, what he wants to do, how he feels... like how he'd said all that stupid shit to Rude yesterday. Stupid shit that burns such an amazing contrast to how he feels here, like two sides of a coin. The kind of uncontrollable attraction, admiration, love, physical and emotional that makes him feel safe and human and normal and good—and then the kind that makes him feel wild, impulsive, and violent. He's never been so... complete, before.
Almost. Almost complete.
He takes one hand away, fishes in his pants pocket and luckily he's got another lighter handy. He pulls it out and clicks the wheel, the flame sparking close to Tseng's face. The flickering reflection in his inky gaze sends a shock of pleasure straight to his groin as good as if they were rutting around like teenagers and not tearing each other apart. "Seal the deal," he says, as if he really needs to tell him what the fire's for.
no subject
There should be something profound about this. There ought to be meaning. And that meaning comes naturally when Tseng's fingers collect at the back of Reno's head and pull him closer, when he bows his own head and they tip together, foreheads pressed. It's as ritualistic as the carving, the inscription in skin and blood, a private act of reverence between them.
Still, he cannot quell the impulse to lick at Reno's lips as the flames tongue over his skin, searing his wounds. The pain must be remarkable and all of Tseng's skin is alive and electric with it. The touch of fire is very careful; to char his own work would be an atrocity, a sin he could never absolve himself of. He holds his tiny flame back, wields it like he did that knife, graceful and fluid, every stroke just as purposeful as the last.
And there it is, his name etched in stark relief. Blood is thundering in his ears. His heart slams against his chest like it has been driven mad by its imprisonment within the boundaries of his skin. It is still too delicate to touch, but his fingers curl over the lighter and reach, do not brush but linger. He cannot wait for the day when he can press his hand there and feel the swollen topography of it. It cannot come soon enough.
This is where this day should end. They have duties to tend to. They are so behind schedule. But Tseng cannot take his eyes or his hands off of Reno, no matter how hard he wills it so. Perhaps a fundamental part of him never came back from that fleeting journey into the beyond and now he is cursed by his taste for this flesh, his hands forever compelled to want to wander, over his hips and up his back, smoothing and holding and dragging him in.
no subject
The Turks love to allude to, but never reveal, this mysterious concept of a real name. Someone they were before they became who they are. Reno has always taken great pride in having no such thing. He simply did not exist before he was a Turk. And that's why he's better than the rest.
They should be going back. But not yet. Not with Tseng grasping at him that way, his face streaked with blood, hovering so close. He's completely hollowed himself of emotions, because he knows if he does, it just won't stop. His anger and grief, and something else, something even worse, something tender and caring. Something that should be suggested in the way his hand strokes through Tseng's hair, settles gently at the back of his hip, and doesn't fling him to the floor but rather guides him backwards, crowding him to take a step and then another and then tilts him straight down to the floor. Not to lay in the puddle of blood from yesterday, but he finds with some delight that the crown of Tseng's head almost perfectly centers with it, his body laying away in the opposite direction. Like a mirror image, flipped upside down. Oh, it's fucking—yes. So perfect. His hand presses into Tseng's and takes the knife from him, but after a moment and a glance he flings it away. Not that one. He doesn't want that one. With his other hand he swipes through discarded tools and implements, clattering them around on the floor until his fingers blindly find what he does want—another blade, this one more like a dagger, pointed and meant for plunging into backs and hearts, not carving intricate designs.
That's the one he sinks deep into Tseng's belly, the movement so quick you'd miss it if you blinked. He turns it at an angle so that it doesn't pierce down into anything he's actually going to need, only meant to be a tool to help him tear open just the spot he wants. He finds he's salivating as he leverages the flesh from Tseng's body, and he's not sure whether that's some kind of carnal desire or if he's making himself sick. Whichever it is, he sates it by breaking the seal on that not a kiss thing they've got going on and traps Tseng's mouth with his, as if doing him the favor of stifling any sound he might make as he wrenches that vicious little blade free and slides one knee between Tseng's legs in the same motion.
The marking he makes is not on the outside. It's pressed delicately inside, scoring up into the underside of his reopened wound, so that the abrasions will still be raised, but will never, ever truly heal. Might even cause a few problems down the line. He's got no special script and no true name to put there. Instead, he simply makes a very sharp R that will dangle delicately from the jagged line across Tseng's stomach like an ornament.
YOU CUT ME OPEN AND I
The blade is flung, and Reno searches, searches. Tseng watches him, the way his eyes scan in a crazed sweep, the tension in his jaw. How lovely he looks in this condition. Like he could snap at any moment and tear them both to shreds. He licks his lips to recall the taste of him in this awful eternity of a second that he spends waiting.
And then it's just. Over. Unlike with Sephiroth, the cut does not strike fast and leave him in that shock that dulls the pain. He remembers how disappointed he'd felt, when he was spared that last great agony. No, Reno would never do that to him. He burns into him instead, so quickly that all Tseng can feel is in the aftermath, all of his nerves coming alive, screaming that something is so very, very wrong. He barely has time to inhale sharply before Reno's mouth is there to take that breath away from him. He drowns in it, in this kiss and this agony and this desire alike. Against his will, his entire body convulses with shivers. It is the most beautiful experience he's ever had, losing control this way, once again with Reno working deeply under his flesh.
Pressing into the kiss becomes an arduous task. Putting any pressure at all on his abdomen turns the pain in his gut into a furious, vision-blacking torment. And everything he can do right now puts pressure on it—gasping for breath once Reno breaks from their kiss, lifting his arms to drape them over Reno's shoulders, moving, shifting, needily rising beneath him. It seems like even looking at him exacerbates it, and Tseng cannot stop looking, cannot name the reason why he cannot tear his eyes from the image of Reno bloody and triumphant above him, but he does know this one thing.
This suffering is perfect. It is precisely what he deserves. And he is so grateful that he burns with how badly he needs to express it, though he has no earthly idea how to begin. Perhaps this is a start, the way he surges inwards again, growling from the pain, capturing the flesh of Reno's throat between his teeth. He bites for blood, chews, really, and it's so absolutely barbaric that it ought to be distasteful, but it is a special bliss instead, eating through Reno's skin.