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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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.