InsaneJournal

ficlets - ff50 Lazard/Sephiroth #011, 049
Today's installment of the ff50: PG-13 for brief sexuality (no shota this time!), cussin', and a general malaise. Oh, and the last one is a total joykill.



Prompt: 011. Text
Words: 620

This follows after Prompt 029.


He didn’t get any work done all morning. He’d start to fill out a form or sign his name, to dial a number or type up a requisition order—and then he’d stop, utterly sidetracked, until his secretary had to come in and ask him if everything was all right.

“Hm?” Lazard had been leaning on his hand so long that his cheek was bright red with the imprinted stitching of his glove.

“I said, Mr. Deusericus, are you feeling well? Maybe you should go home the rest of the day.”

“Uhm,” Lazard said. “Maybe.”

But when he packed up his attaché case and headed out, it wasn’t straight back to Sector Six; he went the few blocks to the Loveless District instead, to one of the more reputable-looking bookstores. They had a low shelf of heavy textbooks and encyclopedias in the back, including some promising-looking tomes on developmental psychology and human sexuality. They also had a lovely comfortable chair in a peaceful corner.

He skimmed through a few chapters but found little that seemed of use. Of course Sephiroth knew the birds and the bees—didn’t he?—but all social connotations of sex seemed to have completely passed him over. That wasn’t a startling conclusion, given the environment in which he had been raised, but… What the hell was Lazard supposed to do with him now?

He had a few ideas, and not a one of them was good.

He bought the books anyway and dragged them back home to the privacy of his study. The futon, though it had been put back in order, had the print of a body in it and the faint scent of a foreign presence, something halfway between mako and leather and some strange spice from Wutai. He chose to sit at his desk.

How to explain things like desire and relationship and appropriateness to a blithely unaware teenage war veteran? Lazard knew full well why Hojo had failed to explain such things—the scientist probably didn’t believe in them, for one, and certainly wouldn’t think it necessary to equip his finest weapon with such frivolities. Everything superfluous, everything humane, had come accidentally or after his release into wartime—friendship, gentleness, affection, all of it learned between battles, in some mud-floored tent or seated before Lazard’s desk. The full burden of Sephiroth’s poor socialization, the alien ways Hojo had gifted him, fell to Lazard to cope with as best he could. It had never seemed so heavy.

There was no way out of this, was there? Neither Genesis nor Angeal were eligible for any kind of furlough for at least another month, by which time Sephiroth would be back in Wutai himself. The few other SOLDIER Firsts and Seconds still seemed to make the General freeze up. Hollander wanted nothing to do with Hojo’s projects, and Hojo himself was right out. Lazard was the only one available who Sephiroth trusted, and in any other circumstances Lazard would have been happy to discuss any topic with the General that might enhance his quality of life. That was, any topic except this one.

He just didn’t have the fortitude, he feared, to politely, firmly, and gracefully explain to the youth he found so very attractive why it was completely unacceptable that such attraction be given any kind of allowance. Something was going to misfire somewhere, he just knew it. He just didn’t know what kind of effect it might have, a frightening unknown when dealing with matters of sex and illegal minor and Sephiroth.

The cat was, though, as they said, already out of the bag.

“Fuck.” Lazard pulled off his glasses, put his head down in the crease of his new Developmental Psychology textbook, and despaired.




Prompt: 049. Collapse
Words: 247

It felt so good to collapse against Sephiroth’s broad chest, wet with sweat and come as he was, still panting for breath and shivering. They hadn’t done anything extraordinary, just rocked against each other, pressing hips and mouths, but it’d been a long time—too long, and with too much stress, too much sorrow, with Genesis gone mad and Angeal just gone—

He lapped at the pit of Sephiroth’s neck, tasted his heartbeat slowing down, watched green eyes open, lazy, like a leaf unfurling towards the sun.

“Sephiroth…” Lazard kissed him, not even taking advantage of the way the other man instantly parted his lips for him, just resting, paused, hoping one second would never give way to the next. “Sephiroth, I—”

The General’s PHS, still in the pocket of his discarded pants, started ringing. “Shit,” Sephiroth hissed, turning away and slipping out of Lazard’s grasp, trying to wipe come off his belly and root for his phone at the same time and still managing to look graceful. He caught it on the second-to-last ring. “Understood. Yes. I’ll be right there.” He snapped the PHS shut and started to pull his clothes back on in a hurry.

“Sephiroth…” Lazard squinted, trying to make out the shape of his pale, lovely face in the Midgar gloom. For a second his General came into perfect focus, as he leaned in for a swift kiss.

“I’m sorry, I’ve got to go,” Sephiroth said. “I’ll see you later.”

…No, he wouldn’t.





These two are short, sry2say. Moar next time?

I'm going to have to make a seperate table of the prompts in chronological instead of numerical order. O Weh!