Log cast: Tomo, Sephiroth
Log date: 6/18/00
In the darkness of the temple, two slender fingers are pressed to the
emerald surface of the glowing crystal and slid down with a very
deliberate gesture. It's been a few days since Nakago made the
mako-enhanced SOLDIER captured within the crystal Tomo's official
responsibility, and some time still since he ran into the SOLDIER again
in the courtyard. Knowing full well what he's doing, though not
entirely certain of the effect upon the 'sleeping' figure himself, the
illusionist tolerates the pins-and-needles sensation of high magical
content that the Materia possesses, as well as any impressions that
filter up through the pads of his fingertips to influence his frame of
mind. The greenish cast against his deathly white make up is almost
sickly, as well as the glint created in those distant golden eyes,
crimson lips stained to black. Drawing his hand back slowly once the
damage is dealt, the illusionist straightens, watching the figure
inside for a moment or two longer, then carefully arranging his arms
over his chest; his eyes wander to the statue of Seiryuu that dominates
the temple hall, then past to the entranceway, half-expecting a certain
someone to appear there and at the same time knowing that he won't.
"Hmm..." is the soft sound, as idle as the hum of a hummingbird's
wings, and then the smirk, slow and quiet, but as careful as the
wariness betrayed in his golden eyes.
And off, very far away, a certain man with white hair and eyes that are
colored the same as that darkened crystal shivers uncontrollably for a
moment. Goosebumps rise on his skin, and Sephiroth looks towards the
south and slightly west to where the capitol of Kutou and his real body
lay. Frowing softly the man none the less just ignores the one he was
talking to (read: Harassing.) and vanishes to appear on the walkway
roof before the temple. Why this location? Because he once told Yui
that if she needed help to touch the crystal and he would arrive.. so
no point in letting people know there is trouble, right? Anyway, in
finding silence, Sephiroth hops off the edge of the roof to land on the
grass outside of the railed section. His feet compress the grass with
his landing, but he makes little noise. Lowering into a crouch fluidly,
the fingers of one hand touching the earth, he watches the temple
doors.. and waits. This is a patient man and so he waits to see if
anyone will come out and explain.
It takes a few moments, as can be expected, but eventually moonlight
glints off of the gold of the headdress that could only be worn by
Tomo, shadows of the temple melting back a moment later to show off the
ghostly white of his face, the crimson and yellow of his garish attire,
the liquid amber of his eyes. He walks out, then pauses upon seeing the
black-and-white figure of the SOLDIER, footsteps coming to an abrupt
halt. His arms are still crossed over his chest, hands absently tucked
against his elbows, fingers curled loosely over the back edges of his
forearms. What was a contemplative expression a moment before relaxes
into something far more smug, the look of suspicions confirmed and
rising amusement. "Aa." Past the railing, his eyes find the slightly
taller figure of the man he's expecting to be there with ease, settling
there with no small amount of satisfaction to their depths. Arrogant
prick, isn't he? "Good evening, Sephiroth-san."
Still crouched there, the man is dressed all in black leather... and
it's that attire you first saw his adult form in. High collar, bare
chest, leather covering arms, hands, legs and feet, accented in silver
here and there with those two huge shoulder pauldrons. The things
reflect the torches that light this area, glittering a strange
combination of fire touched silver as well as the pale of his white
hair where it runs down his back to have the very ends slither about on
the sweeping cloak of black. One gloved hand dangles between his bent
knees, the other lightly touching the grass. There he watches as you
emerge, ignoring your stance and your features to look right into your
eyes. His own are back lighted all over again and the aura is somewhat
chill. Not enough to herald one of those killing sprees, but neither is
it friendly. There is a wariness there. Not so much because he knows
anything about what you and Nakago agreed, for he doesn't at all, but
because of the last time you talked. Sephiroth didn't at all feel
comfortable with the last conversation and that has carried through
until now. There is no reply from the Soldier and instead he silently
reads your eyes as his bangs gently sway.
The eyes are remarkably quiet for all the emotion that happens to be
riding their wearer behind the scenes. It's rather like the opening
night of a production, taking that first step out into the open and
preparing to thread the needle that'll begin a greater tapestry of
deceit. There's a minute edge of wariness, drawing a brown line around
the amber centers, but otherwise, he's confident and almost languidly
so, the look of a serpent who's spent the day bathing in the sun and is
now left to wonder if he wants to start searching the rocks for mice to
eat. "Don't look at me like that," the illusionist's voice softly
intrudes upon the imagery. He stops by the railing, leaning his arms up
against it, fingers idly lacing together, torchlight bringing out the
drops of red that emphasize the sharpness of his nails. His tone is
chiding. There's a smirk on his lips, but then, when ISN'T there a
smirk there? It's almost his trademark, but the feathers and paint more
than make up for that. "It's not as if I kicked it or anything."
In one of his stranger moods, the Soldier rises to his feet, pooled
water rising from the earth in a defiance of gravity and nature,
leather hushed in sound as it slides over the grass to brush at the
backs of the man's calves. Two steps bring him forward to the edge of
that walkway. They are stalking things, the panther come our to play
gain. Moving quickly, Sephiroth seeks to cover your hands there on the
railing, the leather of his gloves cooler than they should be if a
human had been wearing them. It lends a light sense of imcompleteness
to his form. Something to lend creadance to the fact it isn't quite
real. Leaning forward, a smirk pulling over his own lips, the man tilts
his head to one side as lips part. There is a cold glitter to his
strangely crystaline eyes. Alien eyes. "Then how shall I look at you?"
he murmurs there, breath brushing against your painted face. "There is
brown in your eyes, Tomo."
Allowing the touch of cold leather upon his hands, Tomo doesn't flinch
or otherwise outwardly react. It's also to be put to reason that
leather isn't a fabric commonly used in garment making except in armour
and boots, so the slickness of the black material is an unfamiliar
sensation to pale hands more used to clothing made of silk and woven
reed. He doesn't shake off the touch, but nor does he encourage it
further, instead almost seeming as if he were simply tolerating it. "Is
there?" he asks mildly, head canting to the side ever so slightly,
those brown-edged eyes still holding the other's mako-green eyes, their
lucent regard that much more vibrant in the dark and against the ashen
shade of the SOLDIER's face. Tomo flicks an eyebrow upward, smirk
unwavering. "What does that mean?"
"It means I'm wondering why you summoned me, Tomo." Is this what he
really thinks? No. Sephiroth commented before that you only touch the
things you don't care about, and the last time you talked you patted
his hair. On the rooftop with the arrow you caressed his face. Now you
let him grip your hands. It's telling him things and he doesn't much
like what he reads. On the rooftop the man had briefly thought the
touch might have been some strange kindness, but he's now talked
himself out of that possibility. Just to see if you give a reaction,
those hands over yours begin to tighten. This man can lift a thousand
pounds if he were to find the need to. Breaking your bones would be
simplicity itself were he so minded. Thankfully that is not his
intention, and so the grip will only grow somewhat painful. The aura
slithers around you, chilling. There is nothing of Jenova in it at all,
but it should be a good indicator as to Sephiroth's current mood.
"To see if it would work," Tomo answers truthfully. And it IS the truth.
Of course, it's not the entire truth, but that's a matter of perception
anyway, isn't it? Sephiroth did say that earlier indeed, but to which
the illusionist quickly rebuked with the statement that it was women's
touch that he cared nothing for. Of course, this doesn't mean that the
grain of truth in the SOLDIER's observation isn't pure. Nor does it
stop him from pulling on his hands the moment that he feels the
pressure there, building from the pressured joints and spreading out
into the surrounding muscles, until a wince finally splashes across the
illusionist's face. The chill doesn't help much either. Ah, he knew
this wasn't going to be easy, so he isn't exactly surprised. That
doesn't make the grip on his hands any less painful though. "Sephiroth-san,
I really wouldn't appreciate it if you broke my hands," he informs
the leather-clad figure lowly, just the slightest edge to his voice.
Well, it did work, didn't it. Now what are you going to do with your pet
that he's arrived at your call? A playful grin spreads over the man's
lips as you ask admit part of the truth and then actually ask him to
let your hands go. "You should know by now I only break the things I
intend to." It's a silky, purring statement, but with it Sephiroth goes
release your hands. Long digits covered in black leather lift, twisting
so that the palms are facing you before the man sweeps his arms upwards
and then outwards in a graceful, if pointless, motion. Hands meet again
at his abdomen and there the fingers thread together as he steps back a
pace and then two. Shiny leather gleams in the torch light even as the
silver on his shoulders reflects. "So, it works. Now what?" He asks,
eyes partially closing as features arrange themselves into something of
the emotionless mask you recieved so many times during your first
talks. The mask that betrays no emotion and yet tells you so much of
what he is really feeling.
A soft snort as Tomo straightens, taking his own hands back with a
rueful expression. "Now I'm going to try and work some feeling back
into my fingers, thank you very much," he informs the leather-clad man
dryly, the brief crack of knuckles heard as the illusionist tugs on his
fingers, waking up the irritated joints from their forced sleep.
Letting his gaze drift away from the emotionless visage presented him,
the illusionist affects his own change in mood, lips pursing slightly
before he pouts, adding beneath his breath in a quiet mutter, "If my
hands bruise from that, I'm not forgiving you for it." Culturally, a
rather grevious slight, even if Tomo isn't entirely serious about what
he says, but depending on how much culture that Sephiroth has managed
to absorb during his time here in Kutou, he may not realize the
significance of such a statement. Looking like an irrepentant child,
the painted Shichiseishi seems to all but forget about the other's
presence for the moment, concentrating on his poor abused hands.
No, Sephiroth doesn't have any clue about the significance of your
statement. All he can see your petulant child stance, which he finds
terribly amusing. "Fitting." He chuckles out. Why doesn't he at all
take it seriously? Mostly because he's jumped on you and nearly torn
out your throat with his hands and you are still talking to him. What
the hell is a bruise going to matter at this stage? "However, your game
isn't one I wish to play today, Tomo." With almost a bounce to his
step, the lean man turns himself around with his enough speed to make
his long hair flow out behind him in a wide arc. Not enough to brush
against you there on the walkway, but just a few inches shy all the
same. Long snowy strands spreading out as they drift effortlessly over
the air before settling gracefully down against the leather covered
back once more. Talk about petulant child... Almost matching your
additude, Sephiroth starts to move away, beginning that departing fade.
Better do something fast or he's going to be gone.
Almost tearing out his throat didn't leave any lasting marks except ones
purely psychological in origin! i.e. It scared the shit out of him, but
there wasn't any bruises left to tell the tale. Gaze lifting from his
abused hands as Sephiroth makes his chuckling remark, Tomo frowns a
bit, still on the sulky side, and straightens, letting his hands fall
back to his sides. Eyes narrow, then suddenly there's a flicker of
energy. A moment later, and there's Tomo standing in front of
Sephiroth, standing straight in path. Of course, it'd be rather easy to
just sidestep him (though he may mirror the other man's movements, just
to be impertinant) or fade away completely, but maybe the startle
tactic of randomly appearing in someone will work to his advantage.
"Why not?" he demands, but in a quiet tone; golden eyes, still lined in
that traitorous brown, study the SOLDIER's smoothly sculpted features
before lifting to peer in his lucent gaze. Then he smirks. "Did I pull
you from something of remarkable importance?"
One black booted foot comes to rest slightly before the other and the
man shifts his weight to be evenly distributed, almost presenting you
with more of his side. However his face is indeed directed at you, and
crystaline eyes are locked on your own features - most noteably your
eyes. Yes, there is still that ring of brown, a tell tale sign if ever
there were one. You are given no smile, no smirk.. nothing beyond milk
pale skin and a pair of softly glowing green eyes. "Did you pull me
here for anything of worthwhile importance?" He asks in way of reply,
voice a caress of sound. Too bad it's still ruined with the chill of
his aura. Arms hanging at sides, the fingers of one hand fold inwards
slowly. The leather of his glove creaks quietly with the action, time
worn to a smooth, perfect fit. He doesn't hold a fist, but instead
allow his hand to relax. Beyond voice this is the only sound the man
makes. That white hair seems almost a living thing at the moment, for
although there is little to no wind, the white length ripples about,
brushing against silver paundrons silently.
A sign of nervousness, that's what it is. At least in this instance.
Opening night jitters. Heh. But as is always the case with Tomo, you
could never tell to watch the rest of him. Arms crossed over his chest,
he shifts his weight to one foot, the other crossing behind it at the
ankle, toe touched lightly to the paved ground. "Of course," the
illusionist tells him confidently. He doesn't even blink when the sound
of creased leather touches the air, instead raising a cool eyebrow
upward, pulling the stretch of black paint with the gesture. Then he
relaxes the smirk into a smile, though it's still a tad smirkish around
the edges, littered with dry humour. Only the chill aura has any real
effect, making the hair at the nape of the Seiryuu Shichiseishi's neck
stand on end, but of course he's not going to say anything about THAT.
"To see if you would. Isn't that worthwhile enough?" But Tomo knows
this game isn't going to last very long. Sephiroth was already walking
away; he needs to think up something new to keep him here, obviously.
His head cants to the side, feathers swaying briefly in the same wind
that catches the slightly taller man's cascade of spun glass hair.
Granted, not with nearly the same animation, but. "Come now. Certainly
you can indulge my ill-gotten humour for more than five minutes."
And did you stand before your mirror and practice your lines before
arriving as well? Sephiroth can still see the ring around your eyes,
and knows there is still something up here. Hmmm... then again perhaps
he is in the mood to play. Hands pull apart as arms partially spread
and the man shifts his weight back to the rear foot. With this action
his clothing changes. Melding seamlessly between shiny black leather
and... black gossamer? A lon, loose sleeved shirt make of transparent
fabric. It turns his pale skin a dusky hue and has wavy line sof silver
running down through it. Nope, doesn't hide a thing either. The shirt
hangs down to mid thigh and beneath it is a thin belt in red to hold up
a pir of pants that are slit down the sides, baring flesh from that
belt over hips and down the outsides of thighs all the way down to the
calf high suede boots. A thin lacing of silver holds the material in
place, gleaming with each and every movement. "Are you indulged?" He
asks, features never having moved even though his stance has come to
suggest playful.
Oh, you evil bastard. x.x Eyes grow wide, pupils dilating in the
moonlight as Tomo takes an involuntary step backward. You know, things
are like this are exceedingly more difficult when you insist on melting
the poor guy's brain like this. Not that he doesn't deserve it, mind
you, but. "...." Yeah, that's a good term for it. A slender hand flies
upward, a faint coughing noise heard as it's smothered by his palm,
eyes still no less wide than they were a moment ago. No, this
particularly Seiryuu Shichiseishi wouldn't last two days in Midgar.
He'd be lucky if he lasted a half hour before passing out in a corner
somewhere to retain what little mental stability he can still hold to
his name. "... quite," comes the response finally, after quite a few
moments of outright staring and the helpless scrambling for ruined
braincells. His tone, suffice to say, is a wee bit hoarse. Poor Tomo.
Maybe he'll get lucky and go blind like the elders always told him he
would if he stared at something he wasn't supposed to.
Evil? Of course he is, and you are playing with fire. So is he for that
matter, so you are both in over your heads with this whole endeavor.
Still no reaction shows on features, but Sephiroth remembers something
he hasn't seen for many years. Something he thought was without any
kind of merit, and not something he would ever bother doing.. but he
does it now. Clothe hisses against clothe as Sephiroth moves, a
whispering of sound to accompany the play of muscles beneath his
expanse of skin. You step back and he steps forward, every action just
oozing sexuality. Leaning back slightly, fingers glide up torso, over
collarbone, and into hair. Fingers thread through the stuff, which
pours down like milk over his arms to fall over his shoulders. Arms are
lifted above head to slowly descend down where they slide behind hips
to be clasped at the small of his back, even as he straightens to his
full height. Then he stops, eyes heavily lidded and a soft rumbling
issuing up through his chest to where it reverberates in his throat.
This is Tomo's brain. This is Tomo's brain on crack. *sizzle* No
difference, right? Well, this is Tomo's brain right now: "...." Any
questions? Didn't think so. This is completely and totally different
than anything that the Seiryuu Shichiseishi has ever come up against.
Sexuality has never been so blatant for him, not in this rural society.
It's something for closed doors and beneath layers upon layers of
clothing; for furtive whispers and passing glances. Ask no questions
and we'll tell you no lies. This is a society where a glimpse of leg
could be considered indecent, but this... this... ... ... Yes, he's
staring. You would too, were you in his position. This is knocking the
ball straight out of his ballpark. He's playing the wrong game. Shit.
... Shit. He's supposed to do something now, isn't he? Other than
stare. Other... than... stare... ... ... ... Yeah, this round is
definately going to Sephiroth. "... by Seiryuu," is spoken low and
hoarsely, the illusionist's voice all but raw. His hand has crept down
from covering his mouth, but hesitate somewhere over his throat,
fingers curling inward around his collar. Is it just him, or did the
night suddenly get really, REALLY hot? Chilly intimidating aura? What's
that? Actor's voice reduced nearly to a croak, Tomo mutters accusingly,
still staring blankly, "That's not fair."
"What isn't fair, Tomo?" The man asks even as he begins to move again.
He had waited for you to say something.. anything, patiently holding
that pose until your brain was able to form a rational thought.
Sephiroth turns from you arms lifting again, hands flowing over the
air. Maybe later he will feel mildly disgusted with himself for having
used the very things that he saw other people attempting to use on him,
but for now this is damn funny and so he goes through with it. Besides,
unlike those people he honestly never intends to lay a hand on you. The
otherday you saw him using Ti Chi. Now he uses it again. The only
difference is this time it is a dance. Long, graceful limbs moving in
concert to sound out a song of seduction. One action flows into another
with supernatural grace, a dusky clade white panther silvered over in
the moonlight. Isn't this your game, Tomo? The one you said he
shouldn't play because he doesn't understand the rules? Perhaps he
understood some aspects of it better than even he knew. Living in
Midgar does leave a mark, especially in the circles he used to move
through.
This is indeed his game, but the rules are totally different. Well, not
totally different, but diverse enough that they've kicked the ground
out from beneath the illusionist's feet and left him floundering
weightless in the air. "... this..." The voice that escapes painted
lips is weak, breathy. Abruptly, he turns away from the dance as it
begins to unfold, his mouth gone dry, his fingers trembling. The
movement is sharp, almost violent, and the next moment finds the
illusionist gripping the railing with one hand while the other is
reaching to his headdress. An inelegant yank pulls it off, the weight
of the headdress jerking his hand downward heavily, the feathers
trailing over the ground. His bangs, set free of the confines of the
headdress, fall over his brow and eyes in haphazard layers. His other
hand pulls away from the railing, pushing fingers through his bangs to
keep them back from his eyes, a shaking breath draw inward slowly. "...
/this/," he then says with a little more strength, a little more
certainty, a little more anger to his tone. He hates being aroused so
easily this way. Sometimes it's fun, but sometimes it can just foul
everything up. "/This/ isn't fair, you... You... You... dancing around
half-naked in the middle of the courtyard! I... that... ..." Oooh, you
make him so mad. >.< "... what are you doing!?" Ooh listen. High note.
Sephiroth stops midpose, arms partially lifted, one foot touching the
grass only via toe. His hair continues through his his momentum, adding
one last shivering over the lean body before all action ceases. "Are
you done being indulged?" He asks ever so quietly, expression just the
same as it had been before... a white mask accented only in moonlight.
Slowly arms lower and the man straightens, assuming a far more normal
posture. Maybe it would be easier to deal with if he were showing some
kind of emotion, but all you get is a beautiful automaton, posing there
for you. Well, he was posing at any rate. There is little in the way of
emotion in his voice as well. Just a soft sound, quiet like it normally
is. Even lacks the purr. "Or shall I stay a while more?" You did ask
that he stay after all, so here he is. Aren't you pleased with this,
Tomo? Then out of no where he says dispassionately, "I've upset you
again." Well, if that isn't the understatement of the year I don't know
what is.
What follows then is a bout of absolute silence. Straightening slowly
from his hunched, shaking posture, Tomo turns his head, his long,
ragged bangs casting dancing shadows over the painted visage, bringing
out violence and embarrassment from the ghostly white, fire to the
angry golden eyes that flash like two pieces of amber held to the
light, yellow and red at the same time, blending together to great a
heated orange with a blue-white fury stoking the coals. Tension
crackles over the illusionist's form rather audibly, in pops and snaps
of chi not unlike popcorn held over an open firepit. And then,
abruptly, he laughs. It's a soundless, weightless, voiceless sound, and
yet it fills the area as thoroughly as Sephiroth's own aura, trembling
the illusionist's shoulders and making him bow his head, shaking it
back and forth in an expression of denial, free ebon tresses swinging
animatedly with the movement. And when he's done laughing, Tomo
declares hoarsely, "I am a fool." Does Sephiroth expect him to approach
him now, after backing away and staring from that safe distance? He
does, and he does so with a careful confidence that doesn't quite match
the harsh note that betrays a breaking point in his normally soft,
hissing voice. He leaves the headdress behind, arranged carefully on
the pavement; beads of sweat have left barely noticeably trails through
his make up, nothing blurred, but slightly wettened in the moonlight.
"A stupid fool," he reaffirms to himself as he approaches slowly. "To
let you get you to me this way. To... Gods." Only one man has ever
effected him in this manner, and Nakago would never be so provocative.
Maybe it's the foreignness about the two powerful beings that intrigues
him. The dangerous mysteries that he can't quite unravel. Soft-soled
footsteps stop a stride away from Sephiroth, and it's from there that
the painted Seiryuu Shichiseishi just ... stares at him. His eyes hard,
unflinching. As if they meant to bore holes straight through that
porcelain mask to see whatever lay beyond it.
Approach? No, from all past meetings he thought that you might have
merely said for him to go away. The anger certainly would have brought
you to that, wouldn't it? Always has before, but now.. now you do
something unexpected again. Softly glowing eyes watch the headdress set
down on stone, the fall of your hair as you shake your head, noting the
silver amid black, the spark of your chi as it registers on the open
air. Yes, Sephiroth is very much aware of you, Tomo. Then again he
always has been. Unlike your flustered countenance, the Soldier is
pristine there in the moonlight, a creature of otherwordly beauty.
Etheral, ephemeral, something so nearly human it seems almost wrong if
just for those slight differences. Eyes of crystal are still showing as
little as the long face, the narrow features. No, Sephiroth gives away
little tonight, for it is his design to do so. He waits as you walk
over, holding perfectly still except for the cascade of his hair as the
wind touches him. Except for the brush of the transparent clothe over
his upper body. A statue of white marble that someone decided was
appropriate to put clothing on. Then you are there, one step away, and
the man only looks into your eyes, "Yes, Tomo?" He asks quietly.
What an odd picture the Seiryuu Shichiseishi must present. For a man so
anal retentive about his appearance as Tomo is, to look so out of sorts
and disarrayed seems rather terribly uncharacteristic. His breathing is
ragged, betrayed by the unsteady rise and fall of his shoulders. His
hair, freed with such unforgivable violence from his headdress, is out
of place, individual strands of obsidian having freed themselves from
the topknot in some places, his bangs as disorderly as they ever are.
They fall over his eyes, darkening them to the point that the
frustration they hold within their depths seems wild, almost
animalistic. And the heat. His body just radiates with heat, exuding it
like a second, stagnant aura beneath the first cerulean-tinged one. His
tongue flicks out, moistening his lips carefully so as not to disturb
the paint there. All the while, a deep voice speaking low in his mind.
Break him. Beneath that, an even quieter voice, far more insistant. Far
more plaintive. Far more difficult to ignore. A slow breath steadies
the trembling of his shoulders, then a black boot slides across the
ground another half-step, only that final half left between them unless
Sephiroth becomes the one to move away first. "You had to make this so
difficult, didn't you?" he asks bitterly, but there's a thickness to
his voice, still hoarse, as heady as the vagueness of his thoughts. The
wind whispers through the SOLDIER's snowy fall of hair, lifting the
individual strands up to the air weightlessly, so touchable-- and
suddenly, the illusionist seems to give in to impulse, a hand reaching
out to touch that hair unless it's taken from arm's reach.
Do you notice at all in your current state that Sephiroth shows none of
the signs of arousal? You are a furnace of heat while he only radiates
the moonlight off his already luminous skin. Cool, calm, chest rising
and lowering in the slow patterns of rest. His voice when he speaks has
none of your hoarseness. None of your need. What you might not know is
that his need has always been intellectual. Or at least he's assumed.
Can he be brought to arousal? Brought to a similar state such as your
own, panting and needing? Of certainly... but not like this. Not while
playing a game he doesn't fully understand through a means he's always
thought of in snide terms. "I thought you wanted something." Your eyes
had a brown circle, meaning there was a goal. What is it? The man
hasn't a damn clue. Then you have to go and speak. You reach out to
touch even as Sephiroth lowers his eyes and looks away. The face bows
somewhat, leaving vividly colored eyes only visible through the pale of
his lashes. It is a strange thing seeing someone with white eyelashes,
and yet Sephiroth has them. Just one more tiny thing that claims him as
other. It's a thing that isn't obvious, but all the same screams out at
one that something is unusual. People expect dark around someone's
eyes. Not the same snowy pale as the hair... you are allowed to touch.
He makes no effort to move in any way out of the range of your hands,
simply looks to the grass to the side of you. That hair is just as it
might appear. Somewhat heavy for the length, but cool and thick, silky
in texture. He is a feast for all of the senses. Still no expression
however. The statue has changed position on body, but not face.
That absence of reaction is really what cinches Tomo's frustration and
bewilderment. How can one exude such sensuality at one moment, then be
utterly blase in the next? It confuses him to no end. For now, he
doesn't look to the other's face, especially not his eyes, nor the rest
of him; his gaze is solely for the lock of hair he now holds in his
hand, staring at it with such a fierce intensity as if he meant to sear
it in half with his eyes alone. Silky strands slipping through his
fingers, as colourless as glass and of as much substance as spun snow.
He's never seen the like, not with this complete absence of colouring,
but then, it's becoming more and more obvious with every passing moment
that he spends in the alien's presence. "Yes," he answers in his low
tones, still looking at the lock of hair. "I do." His fingers curl very
slowly around the colourless strands, as if he meant to yank on them
suddenly and rip them from the other's scalp. He doesn't, of course.
He's not that suicidal. Instead, he releases the lock again, allowing
the strands to slip the rest of the way through his fingers until
they're caught by the breeze, allowed to float freely in the air again.
"But I don't know how to get it," Tomo finishes up wryly, only now
looking up to the other man's face. He takes in all the details, all
the minute changes, all the not-quite-human beauty there, and sighs.
Some of the tension is relieved from his frame with that sigh, but, of
course, not all. Enough, though. "You know, that Hojo person was an
idiot to ever make you keep your hair short," the illusionist states
ruefully, completely out of the blue, a moment before he turns away
from the naughtily-garbed figure, intent on walking away just then to
retrieve his headdress, waiting for him, lone and forgotten, back by
the railing.
Enough? Relieve enough tension for when you turn around and Sephiroth
moves? A simple action indeed to reach out and seek to grab a handful
of your own long hair. Not to touch, not to feel the texture against
his skin. No, instead it is used as a means to keep you from going any
further than you already have. Those mako colored eyes are bright now
as he says in a deathly quiet voice. "He didn't want to have to take
care of me any more than he had to. My cage was rather small and hair
grew easily tangled in such confines when one is a child with no where
to go. He didn't want to have to be bothered with the day to day needs
of one of his lab animals." Should he be able to hold you, that pale
form you seem to want so much moves close of it's own volition now.
Finally no longer a statue and now a predator once more. Sephiroth
leans in close with his words, breath touching your skin, caressing
just as his hands aren't. The man's head tilts, lips so very,
tantalizingly, close, "So.. what is it that you want, Tomo? What am I
making difficult?" Or are you finding your own game not as amusing as
you thought it might be? He purrs out all of the words, and near your
shoulder you can feel the reverberations of that sound as it passes
through his chest no matter that you aren't touching. Feel as well as
hear the man.
Of course he gets him. In the arrogance that always betrays him, Tomo
believed that Sephiroth would simply continue to stand there and stare
off to the side while the Seiryuu Shichiseishi stormed off to brood.
The sudden grip on his hair draws out a startled noise from the
illusionist's lungs, then the golden-eyed man turns about, startlement
followed quickly by anger flooding into his face once again. All of
which quickly dies when the sheer proximity of the other man's body in
relation to his is realized. Oddly enough, none of the physical truly
dominates his senses. His voice catches in his throat, and his eyes are
slightly wide, but really, it isn't Sephiroth's voice that he hears. It
is Nakago's, deep and commanding, slapping him back to reason. "I am
relying upon you to contain Sephiroth. Moderate his excesses." Eyes
slowly lifting from lips too close to focus on the mako of the other
man's gaze, the luminescence that casts a green pallor over what would
be skin as pale and smooth as milk. Irreverantly, the corner of the
illusionist's painted lips curls upward. He wants me to contain this?
he thinks wryly. "By Seiryuu..." comes the oath again, softer than
before. Softer still are the words that go unspoken. A crystal made of
magic couldn't even contain him, nor death or this infamous Calamity
From the Skies. But now it's his task to do just that, a task that he's
quite willingly accepted. He must be mad. Smiling very, very faintly,
the humour failing to reach his eyes, Tomo asks quietly, "Do you truly
not know, or are you just deciding to be an ass about it?"
How does one soothe the savage beast, Tomo? Soothe an angry soul when
you don't seem to be able to calm your own. It's a good thing Sephiroth
weren't privy to your thoughts, or there would be more than just this
going on. "Maybe I want to hear your say it. Say out loud the thing
your people only whisper of in dark places. That unseen thing here that
everyone thinks about." Sephiroth isn't facing you, for he had stepped
with you to be able to remain at your side. Only one step though, for
if you take others he won't move a second time. However, the hand in
your hair holds firm. You aren't going anywhere at the moment. Instead
he wants to be close to your ear, quietly speaking his words more of
against your throat, lips burshing against the skin every once and a
while as the words are formed. "I think that's what threw me in the
beginning. Your people handle things so differently I didn't
understand. Subtle actions, things seldom done directly... So unlike
Midgar. A place where people don't hide such things. At all." If you
aren't fighting him phsyically Sephiroth breaches your phsyical space
again as he seeks to slide his free arm about your waist so that he can
pull you against his chest. "Tell me, Tomo."
No fighting the closed physical barriers, but as the white-haired
SOLDIER's arm encircles his waist, a line of tension shoots up Tomo's
spine, stiffening muscles and stance, even as his back is molded to the
other's chest. Trapped. Shit. He's trapped. And for a man who enjoys --
no, /needs/ -- his control over things as much as Tomo does, the
feeling is not a pleasant one. He panics. Not in so many words or
actions, mind you, but with that final breaching of his personal
defenses is made, his mind becomes an utter blank. Trapped. The lower
smell of fear rises briefly to entangle itself with the arousal already
spread over the illusionist's skin like a heady film, tastable in the
air for just a moment before Tomo squelches it by gritting his teeth
and closing his eyes. Ah, how easy it would be to just relinquish
control here and now. He's done it before, to far less worthy
individuals at that. Nearly at the cost of his own life at least once
before, so why should this be any different? But that Voice wasn't
there before. There wasn't a Reason or a Plan before, and there wasn't
an Ultimate Goal that extended beyond dirty sheets and dirtier bodies
come morning. Give in now, and it means something worse than loss of
dignity, something he threw away all too casually in his youth.
Failure. He'll be a failure. The muscles of his throat tightening to
swallow beneath the gossamer touch of alien lips, the illusionist
allows himself another deep breath before turning his head, or at least
as best he can without risking the hair being torn from his scalp, and
whispers in a soft, husky tone, "No." A pause, then another curl of his
lip. "Now we both have something that we want."
Lips glide over your skin every so briefly as the man lifts his head,
pulling at least that much away from you. Your hair is released gently
even as the arm about your middle relaxes its hold, allowing you to
move as you will. "No." It's almost as if Sephiroth repeats the word,
but just the same his intent is slightly different. Fingers touch the
back of your head at the point where your hair is bound up to form that
top knot. That touch slides into your hair, seeking to loosen your
length of silver touched black, to have it cascade down over him,
allowing that dark to mingle with white for a time. "What I want is you
without the stink of fear on your skin." This is sighed out as if all
concept of passion had left the man. "I want the gold in your eyes to
show me things you aren't willing to give. Until that time... You will
never have what you want even as I will never have what I want." You
have a reason and a plan, but now he has only wants and desires. ...and
what he desires isn't in your plan. Stepping back from you Sephiroth
allows your hair to slide out of his hands, watching the long strands
slide away to reveal the pale of his fingers. His vague warmth leaves
you, the firmness of his chest against your back, the feel of his
breath on your ear. Not waiting to gain a reply from you he simply
allows his body to disperse, and his soul to leave this place. The aura
you hadn't noticed in so long is now gone. Perhaps the lack is
noticeable.
The dark-haired illusionist doesn't move in the slightest throughout all
of this, not even when his hair falls unbound in a weightless cloud of
black and silver fibers. Golden eyes seem to half-lid again, tracking
their way back to stare out straight ahead, the muscles of his throat
tensing again. An audible swallow. But then the warmth is fading from
his back, and with it the other's presence entirely, leaving him
inexplicably alone. Eyes blinking to their normal widths, they widen
and he starts to turn-- "Sephiroth--" But he's already gone, isn't it?
Tomo's painted mask shows nothing but bewilderment, then surprise as
his knees unceremoniously give away beneath his weight, bringing him to
the ground in an ungraceful fall, a quickly placed hand saving what
little he has left of his dignity and leaving him in an awkward
kneeling position. The silver-shot black hair, free of its confines,
falls down over his shoulders and face, puddling on the ground in front
of him, his painted face bowed low, eyes wide. His body's still
trembling, the stress and scarcely contained passions of the entire
situation catching up to him and leaving his muscles feeling as if they
were made of little more than jelly. Adrenaline. That's what it is.
Adrenaline, as well as other things. Realizing the position he's in,
Tomo slowly sits back on his heels, lifting a hand to his face, seeking
to massage his temples before he realizes he can't without risking
marring his make up. The sheer idiocy of the scene catches up to him at
that moment, and with a barely articulate cry, he takes that hand and
makes it into a fist, slamming the pale knot down against the ground
hard, as if cursing and blaming it for everything that transpired.
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