InsaneJournal

ficlet - ff50 Lazard/Sephiroth #044
More Laz/Seph! Today's installment is not entirely worksafe, as it features a vague description of nudities and a side of Pervyroth.

It's also pretty damn cheerful, as far as things go.



044. Scars [~730]

He’d spent a good chunk of his life waiting and trying not to wriggle while other people—normal people, or at least physically normal people—inspected his body, often to great and invasive detail. Running on treadmills, saturated with mako, starved and stressed, cut open and peeled back like a cadaver—the fact that he was often called beautiful and special had never flattered him, not when those adjectives had already been liberally applied to his tapeta lucida, the oft-abused quick healing of his skin, and even the texture of his lungs. It was an interesting a pleasant change of pace to finally, for once, to be able to turn the tables.

Lazard was shy and open-mouthed about his various distastes for his own body, but Sephiroth cherished the supposed flaws. He liked to touch Lazard, in the same insatiable way that Lazard seemed to like to stare at him, infinitely interested in the tenacity of the body not enhanced by mako. The insults of the flesh that seemed like they should have made the man frail had only toughened him, made him solid beneath the pliant skin that bore a history that Sephiroth’s distinctly lacked. Lazard had scars, silvery-white old ones and pink new ones and pale tan ones in between, mostly on his arms and legs, though there was a notable long line scoring his abdomen from a childhood appendectomy. Sometimes stories could be coaxed out of the older man to accompany these markings—cat scratches, office supply attacks, wounds of clumsiness, wounds of tersely-described youthful violence that made Lazard’s eyes darken and his lips thin. He remembered and had let his fingertips learn the quality of them all.

“I’m going to be old, fat, and blind, and you’re still going to look like Adonis,” Lazard moaned, trying to swat away the hand that was petting the pad of softness just below his navel. “Don’t poke that! Ugh, I wish I had a SOLDIER metabolism. Or maybe just a metabolism at all. Ah, stoppit!”

It was fascinating, especially, that he could touch Lazard’s sides, the curve of his narrow ribs, the hollow under his sternum and the dip above his navel, the points of his ankles and the soft darker skin at the juncture of his thigh, and Lazard would shiver and cant his head just so and sigh, like a reflex. The body of the director was not a warrior’s body, just a man, unique and beautiful because of the being it housed instead of regardless of it. Lazard could moan about unsightly hairs, deposits of subcutaneous fat, office tans and sagging skin all he wanted, so long as he held still while he did so and let Sephiroth caress him.

Sephiroth shook his head, kissing a freckle-scattered shoulder, then nosing around in the blond hairs tucked carefully behind a shapely ear. Underneath the smell of shampoo and cologne was something muted, synesthetically white-scented, familiar and uniquely Lazard. Probing licks at the nape of his neck, the hollow of his throat, the vein-crossed skin of his wrist, provided tastes that were similarly identifiable. The dark gold hairs under his arms and between his legs served as catchalls of Lazardness, though the older man crinkled his nose distastefully at the suggestion.

Eventually, though, his inspection of Lazard’s person would lead to him nuzzling at the blond man’s erection, watching with rapt interest as his licks and the varied working of his hand gradually undid the prim Director, making him groan and pull warningly at Sephiroth’s hair. He never paid attention, only slipped his mouth or hand around in such a way as to catch the flavor of Lazard’s ejaculate, bitter and not particularly pleasant, but free of the burning, oppressive taste of mako. For awhile, then, Lazard would be quiet and amenable to being held close, letting Sephiroth cherish his body without vanity or complaint.

Later, when the lull was inevitably broken and the parade of people ready and willing to objectify him began again, he would ignore them for the memory of Lazard’s soft bared palm, the birthmark on his thigh, the faraway look in his gray eyes as he came. His own sight was cheap; even his insides were not private from certain insistent scientists. But Lazard, inconspicuous and blessed—perhaps only he could claim to have seen him so minutely, to have studied his skin with such diligence. He remembered it and smiled.





I've got some things to finish coloring and scan, so keep an eye out for that, too.