InsaneJournal

ficlets - ff50 Lazard/Sephiroth #003, 029
This post contains porn! Porn, I say! It's not super-intense, but it is totally shota, ie, involving an underage (14) male. If you can't deal with that, don't click the second cut.


Prompt: 004. Message
Words: 212

Lazard’s tight-lipped frown and the cold seethe in his gray eyes told Sephiroth everything he needed to know as soon as he walked into the office. Despair settled in his gut. He waited for Lazard to say it, anyway.

“Ex-First Class Genesis and Angeal have been sighted in Midgar,” the Director said. “Your order comes from the President directly.”

“Order, sir.” He already knew what it was. He knew.

“Your order is to eliminate the rogue SOLDIERs and anyone caught in the act of abetment, General.” Sephiroth could feel the mako pulsing in his eyes, responding to the flood of adrenaline in his system; the edges of his vision were thrumming, glowing green, but Lazard never looked away.

He still held Sephiroth’s gaze even as he thumbed a hidden switch under his desk. The power in the office flickered briefly. “Short-range surge,” Lazard explained. “Good for thirty seconds of surveillance interruption. Sephiroth…” He smoothed his brow, breathed out harshly through his nose. “Army regulars will be dispatched within the hour, also with orders to kill on sight. I trust you know what to do.”

He glanced longingly at his pocketwatch, as if it held some sort of long-desired answer. “If I were the President, it would not have come to this.”




Prompt: 029. Breakdown
Words: ~2000 (lololol porn)

Follows after Prompt 003.




“Are you hungry? There’s some leftover bisque, if you don’t mind Junonian food. It’s quite good.” Lazard bustled in and flipped on a few lights, picking up stray papers and shuffling them absently, surveying his own apartment as if he’d never seen it himself before.

“No, thank you, sir.”

“Ah. Well, help yourself if you do decide you want anything. I hope you don’t mind sleeping on the futon; I don’t often have guests, you see. It’s perfectly comfortable, though. There’s been many a night when I’ve found myself to have fallen asleep on it while reading. I can air it out for you, too, if you think it’s gotten too stuffy.”

“You don’t have to, sir. I’m sure it’s much better than bivouacking.” Sephiroth’s small smile alerted Lazard to his fussiness.

“Ah. Well, then, make yourself at home. You remember where everything is? Ah, good. –Are you sure I can’t interest you in a cup of tea?” Lazard scuttled off into the kitchen before Sephiroth could even say “no”. “Water? Whiskey?”

Lazard set a kettle on for himself, hoping he still had a bit of that lovely Mideel chamomile blend left; he’d need it, if he ever wanted his pulse to drop back anywhere near normal again. He only hoped those keen SOLDIER senses weren’t offended by the hammering of his heart. Oh, bringing that boy back here hadn’t been his best idea ever, that was for sure—yes, he’d entertained the General before, but he’d also entertained wildly inappropriate thoughts of the General before, and that had been nothing like—like this! A four-month tour of Wutai had returned Sephiroth taller, more defined, a youth clearly well on his way to the full blossom of manhood.

He could feel the tips of his ears turning pink. Having thoughts like that about a—a fourteen-year-old boy…!

“Whiskey, please.” Sephiroth had crept up behind him, silent as a ghost, to sit himself comfortably at the counter. Even at ease, even without his duster and shoulder armor, the young man cut a commanding figure.

“You’re a bit young for that, don’t you think?” Lazard teased, but he rattled through his cabinet anyway. “Ice?”

“No, thank you. And don’t worry, Lazard, sir, I won’t tell anyone.”

Lazard snorted, pouring the boy a neat inch of the amber fluid. “You’re old enough to fight; you’re old enough to drink.”

“Mako enhancement negates any side-effects of alcohol consumption, regardless,” Sephiroth mused, delicately sniffing the contents of his glass before taking an experimental sip. His arms, Lazard noticed, had filled out with muscle since he’d been gone, pushing pliant-looking, blue-tinged veins close to the surface. The Wutanese sun seemed not to have touched the boy’s fair skin, though; every inch matched the soft underside of his upper arm, the luminous pearl-colored skin and the few silvery hairs that could be glimpsed when the General lifted his drink.

Lazard blinked. His kettle was starting to hum. He sat opposite from Sephiroth with his mug of tea, trying very hard to keep his attention and his eyes on the faint wisps of steam curling off of the steeping liquid.

Sephiroth, though, was staring thoughtfully right at him. “Lazard, sir,” he said at last, “do you really think that leaving Lord Godo alive was the correct course of action?”

That was the last thing on Lazard’s mind. Startled, he took a few moments to reacquaint his mind with the subject of war and Wutai before answering. “I think that, in the long run, we will find Godo’s presence beneficial to Company interest, yes. Why do you ask, if you don’t mind saying?”

“Because I did not act with Company interest in mind, sir.”

“Ah. Well, regardless…”

“I acted specifically to antagonize Professor Hojo, actually. Sir.” The formality with which the young General spoke, as if he were making an entirely routine report in front of the Board, made Lazard grin a bit.

“Well, mission accomplished, then. Though I do think it really will all work out in your favor, Sephiroth.” He laughed, thinking of the extraordinarily cross mail he’d received. “Here’s to antagonizing Hojo!”

Sephiroth seemed puzzled at first by the gesture of toasting, but he caught on soon enough. It wasn’t much of a toast, anyway, Lazard thought, with herbal tea and a half-drunk glass of whiskey, but he wasn’t about to pour himself anything, not with such temptation around.

True to his words on mako, Sephiroth made short work of his drink with no apparent effect. Lazard, however, was feeling pleasantly sleepy; this was the tea he prized for its ability to knock him right out when his schedule demanded he sleep. Confident that his guest was adequately aware of kitchen, bedroom, and facilities, Lazard bid Sephiroth goodnight and fell promptly, deliciously asleep.

--And woke up at some godawful hour with a terrible hard-on.

He squinted at the green numbers on the clock. Four-fucking-AM. He had to piss, too, thanks to that tea.

“Go away,” he grumbled at the tent in his boxers, rolling unwillingly out of bed and padding into the bathroom. He flipped on the light over the shower, as was his habit so early in the morning; the diffuse glow of the single bulb behind frosted glass hurt his eyes less. Just holding his cock to try and pee made the damn thing throb, mindlessly self-satisfied. After a frustrating wait, he managed to relieve his bladder, if not his aching balls.

Figures. At least he wasn’t in the middle of a board meeting, this time.

He tried not to make a lot of noise, but he didn’t even bother trying not to think about who was sleeping two rooms over. The thought that those keen SOLDIER ears might pick up the wet, repetitive sounds of his hand made him shiver. It was wrong, so damn wrong, to let his mind’s eye supply him with an imagination of the young man’s maturing body, strong with muscle but still soft with plush youth, and white, so white—

“Hahh… Sephiroth,” he breathed, before he could catch himself. He tried to back it down a little, to contain his panting breaths and the now-regular slick of his palm over skin slippery with precum, but it was a vain effort, soon lost altogether in the slow-building warmth gathering at the root of his cock. “Mmh…” He imagined soft-glowing, wide-pupiled green eyes with their lush verge of long, arching silver lashes, half-mast and expectant, that smooth rich voice purring his name—

“Lazard?” And that was Sephiroth’s voice, less purring than concerned, and spoken from not far outside the bathroom door. “Lazard, are you alright?”

He gritted his teeth in agony. Damn SOLDIER ears. “I-I’m fine,” he managed, voice roughened with arousal.

“Are you sure, sir? You sounded unwell. Your breathing— Are you having a heart attack?”

“N-no! I’m quite alright, thank you, Sephiroth.”

Well, that took care of his erection, too. He ran some cold water and splashed some on his face—what was he thinking? Was he really so helpless, so swayed by his own fleshly needs, that he’d beat off thinking of his underage subordinate? He glared at his reflection in the mirror, and brushed his teeth a little more ruthlessly than was perhaps necessary. Lazard Deusericus was a bad man, yes, but by the Gods, he was not going to take advantage of someone he valued so highly as a peer, an ally, and yes, damnit, a friend, too. And he was certainly not a child molester.

Feeling morally, if not carnally, satisfied, he decided that 4:30 AM was as good as any a time to start his day, and put on his glasses, a decent pair of dove-gray slacks and a fresh white shirt, ran a comb through his hair, and shuffled around in search for his house slippers. Trying not to further disturb Sephiroth, he snuck into the kitchen, and was surprised indeed to find that coffee was already on and there was a SOLDIER in his refrigerator.

“Oh,” Sephiroth said. “I’m sorry I woke you up. Would you mind if I made something?”

“Hm? Oh, make yourself at home,” Lazard waved, pouring a cup of coffee for himself, as Sephiroth had already seemed to have taken the liberty of preparing his own. The General drank it black, but Lazard shooed Sephiroth out of the way long enough to grab cream out of the door of the fridge—he’d been given sass in the corporate world for drinking “more cream than coffee”, but he liked it that way.

Sephiroth made perfect eggs and toast. “Ah, is there anything you aren’t good at?” Lazard sighed, tucking in gratefully.

“I don’t know, sir,” Sephiroth said, quite seriously, seemingly given pause by the sudden question. “I have leave today; would you like me to look for more suitable housing in that time?”

Lazard blinked. “Ah? No, it’s your time off—do what you want. Don’t feel pressured to run out of here in a hurry. You’re really welcome, no bother at all.”

Sephiroth cocked his head to the side. “Are you sure, Lazard, sir? Pardon me if I’m incorrect, but I feel like my presence has been causing you some anxiety. Your heart rate is elevated, and you seem tense—“ He pursed his lips. “Though I oughtn’t intrude on your personal business.”

Anxiety, is that what they’re calling it nowadays. “Oh, no, no,” Lazard stammered. “Uhm. Not at all.” Those slit eyes and their damned green scrutiny were making his groin twitch back to life, wickedly vengeful for its aborted attempt at attention earlier. Gods, not now, damnit! He crossed his legs, though it was really rather uncomfortable, and the pressure wasn’t particularly helping the situation. “It’s always a pleasure to have a guest—” wrong words! Oh, how wrong— “I mean. Ahm. It’s not you at all, Sephiroth. It’s that they’ve been driving me quite hard at work recently. Yes, quite hard.” Wrong again!

Sephiroth nodded, seeming to accept that answer. “I see, sir,” he said, looking blankly downwards, and Lazard winced internally to note that the bulge in his pants hadn’t gone unnoticed. For a second he thought that Sephiroth was going to get up and leave, or maybe just strike him dead at his own kitchen table, but the General only casually leaned over, uncrossing Lazard’s legs and rubbing his erection through his pants with one nonchalant, gloved hand.

“What—”

“This happens to me, too,” Sephiroth explained, almost conspiratorially. “Though I haven’t noticed it being caused by stress, it does seem to help relieve it, sir.” He unzipped Lazard and drew his cock out before the Director could protest, not pumping with his hand but rather grasping its length below the head and rubbing his thumb against the sensitive underside. Lazard groaned. So fucking wrong…

“I’m not hurting you, am I, sir?”

“What? N-no, it’s just—you don’t have to—you don’t have to do that—“

Sephiroth crinkled his sharp white brow, clearly on a different page altogether than his boss, but the motion of his hand—now gently rubbing his palm against the slick head—never stopped. “You really shouldn’t just leave it alone,” he explained. “It doesn’t go away. You have to do this until ejaculation occurs. It won’t hurt, I promise.”

Shit, shit, shit… Lazard came with a whimper, shooting all over that previously pristine black glove. Unfazed, Sephiroth cleaned himself off with a paper napkin, giving Lazard a completely normal smile before depositing the soiled article in his trashcan.

His semen. His cum. Which Sephiroth—Sephiroth!—had just milked out of him, efficiently and shamelessly as brushing one’s teeth.

“Lazard?” Sephiroth said, looking innocent as you please. “It’s five-thirty, sir; would you mind if I rode the train in with you? I’d like to use the training room this morning for kata, if that’s alright.”

“That’s fine,” Lazard said, trying to catch his breath and tuck himself back in his pants at the same time, activities oddly hindered by the detonation that had recently occurred in his brain. “That’s fine, Sephiroth.”