[He keeps a hard grip on her wrist through pure instinct rather than cognizant effort, but he’s still reeling too much to stop her other hand from clawing straight at his face. A sharpness burns across his cheekbones like fire — her nail’s already drawn a harsh crimson line across his skin in her harried fear and furor.
But it’s that bright pain that somehow stands out amongst the one pulsing behind his eyes; a reminder of her, not just the room spinning, not just his focus gone foggy, but Ciri being so affected that she would tear at his face rather than go for her sword, or cast magic, or take this moment to retreat. So utterly out of control, so afraid.
Even though glass has shattered in a glittering spray, and cracks begin to spiderweb across the wall, this singular thought is enough to grant Sephiroth just a brief moment of keen clarity. A single moment is all he needs. He reaches up to grip Ciri’s arm, attempting to pry her away from his face. And he pushes forward, clumsy but uncaring, until her back bumps up hard against the wall behind her.
And then— and then what? She won’t listen to him. She’s so very far beyond reason. And, perhaps insanely, he can only think back to the time when he, too, was lost in the thrall of a nightmare. A slow death, bleeding out into the snow, black feathers dusted with hoarfrost, looking up at Ciri like she were his entire world, and the way she pressed her lips against him, not knowing what else to do.
He doesn’t know what else to do, either.
Sephiroth leans forward, without any grace and without much thought, and kisses her.]
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But it’s that bright pain that somehow stands out amongst the one pulsing behind his eyes; a reminder of her, not just the room spinning, not just his focus gone foggy, but Ciri being so affected that she would tear at his face rather than go for her sword, or cast magic, or take this moment to retreat. So utterly out of control, so afraid.
Even though glass has shattered in a glittering spray, and cracks begin to spiderweb across the wall, this singular thought is enough to grant Sephiroth just a brief moment of keen clarity. A single moment is all he needs. He reaches up to grip Ciri’s arm, attempting to pry her away from his face. And he pushes forward, clumsy but uncaring, until her back bumps up hard against the wall behind her.
And then— and then what? She won’t listen to him. She’s so very far beyond reason. And, perhaps insanely, he can only think back to the time when he, too, was lost in the thrall of a nightmare. A slow death, bleeding out into the snow, black feathers dusted with hoarfrost, looking up at Ciri like she were his entire world, and the way she pressed her lips against him, not knowing what else to do.
He doesn’t know what else to do, either.
Sephiroth leans forward, without any grace and without much thought, and kisses her.]