Almost a Vacation - Lazard/Sephiroth - NC-17
Unedited and totally RAW. Has touches of angst since it takes place during the war, but it's supposed to be a break from the overwhelming angst.
Involves Lazard in a speedo and sex in a Costa Del Sol bungalow. Also involves some hinky use of tenses (using the same tense is for people who don't write fic at 4-something in the morning!)
Might clean this up and make something of this or not.
“You know this is a clear misuse of company funds,” Sephiroth pointed out.
“Do you honestly care?” Lazard asked over his shoulder.
He’d been on a corporate retreat, which had mostly consisted of suffering through more than the usual amount of vicious, but polite, fighting about priorities, funding, and future projects. The fact that the retreat was being held in Costa Del Sol was just a cruel irony, since he’d spent every other day in a full suit.
“I wore the cufflinks you bought me,” Lazard said. “You missed it.”
“I’m sure they were a true power accessory,” Sephiroth said. He sounded terribly bored, but that was the voice of a man who came to the beach to read and, occasionally, fight mutated aberrations of nature. Mostly to read, though.
It had been completely accidental that while Lazard walked from the Jacuzzi with a nice elevated view of the men’s water polo tournament to the tiki bar where Scarlet was marinating herself that he should happen to stumble upon Sephiroth in the shade.
After the men’s water polo team, though, Sephiroth’s beach attire left something to be desired. The black wetsuit he preferred-because he actually went near water that wasn’t chorlinated and tended to be full of scaly things with very sharp teeth and many tentacles-was tight, but it covered more than his daily uniform did. His soaking wet hair, a dingy grey and speckled with grit, and oversized black sunglasses weren’t exactly Sephiroth’s best look.
Lazard had posed himself before he cleared his throat, something that, hopefully, demonstrated that the appropriate attire for Costa Del Sol was like his: more accessories than clothing.
Sephiroth had lowered his sunglasses and looked over the volume of Wutanese poetry he’d brought back with him from this latest deployment. Men’s water polo? What was that? Obviously nothing as important as the mix of emotions that Sephiroth could convey in such a subtle arrangement of his eyes and lips. Relief, amusement, exhaustion, and a touch of frustration with the overall air that he was going to reserve judgment for the moment, out of affection. That kind of look challenged a man to do something reckless.
“Where’re the others?” Lazard had asked.
“Why?” Sephiroth had replied, giving him a calm, calculating once over. “Embarrassed to be seen like that?”
Lazard had smirked and invited him back to the bungalow.
It wasn’t, therefore, exactly a vacation between them, but for the moment they might pretend that the company would ever pay for such a thing. Like most of their times together, they fitted it in between meetings and deployments and padded the minutes they were paranoid about with imagination.
The peeled off wet suit was discarded in a damp lump on the bamboo floor. The book of poetry was much more respectfully deposited on the dresser, with two pairs of sunglasses and an oversized straw hat.
Sephiroth’s mouth tasted like seawater and his wet hair, let loose, smelled like brine. With his eyes glowing in the dimness of an unlit room in the late afternoon and his wet hair spread out in grey tendrils, he seemed rather like some kind of sea monster. Something alluring and yet terribly, terribly dangerous-most likely with very sharp teeth.
As if knowing that, Sephiroth nipped at Lazard’s lower lip.
“You smell so different,” Sephiroth said. Lazard could feel his lover’s nostrils flare against his neck and bent his head against the shift of breath against his skin. He thought over the day-the nut oil heavy lotion, the chlorinated water of countless pools, the sugary alcoholic drinks he’d drunk and the oil fried shellfish he’d eaten with seaweed salad. At this moment, he knew, Sephiroth was indexing a day so different from their day-to-day lives from the smell of Lazard’s hair, shoulder, palms, and breath.
“You should dress like this everyday,” Sephiroth told him, palming his erection through the thin fabric of a swimsuit smaller than most of his briefs.
“I can see that being a hit at board meetings,” Lazard said with a laugh. He thrust intentionally against the length of Sephiroth’s palm.
“Then perhaps just for First Class briefings,” Sephiroth offered. His fingers were toying with the elastic edges with only the hint of an intent.
“Perhaps just the personal briefings,” Lazard offered, breathless and impatient.
“No,” Sephiroth said. “If it was just you and I, I’d never be able to resist felating you under that ridiculous table.”
“How perverse,” Lazard commented dryly as Sephiroth sucked at the skin over his ribs.
“You’ve been working out since I was gone,” Sephiroth said, again running his hands over Lazard’s chest.
“I had to do something,” Lazard said. He could say something about how Sephiroth has only grown more perfect since the last time he saw the other man, but those compliments always seem to fall flat. Sephiroth doesn’t purr with vanity to have his body complimented the way Lazard does, which is a shame to consider.
Sephiroth finally deigns to pulling down the front of the bathing suit and taking Lazard’s desperate erection into his mouth. It’s amazing and Lazard tells him with his sudden groan.
In a moment Lazard will push him away and flip him over and break the careful, unaffected banter that they play at together. Then it will almost be like a real vacation.
Involves Lazard in a speedo and sex in a Costa Del Sol bungalow. Also involves some hinky use of tenses (using the same tense is for people who don't write fic at 4-something in the morning!)
Might clean this up and make something of this or not.
“You know this is a clear misuse of company funds,” Sephiroth pointed out.
“Do you honestly care?” Lazard asked over his shoulder.
He’d been on a corporate retreat, which had mostly consisted of suffering through more than the usual amount of vicious, but polite, fighting about priorities, funding, and future projects. The fact that the retreat was being held in Costa Del Sol was just a cruel irony, since he’d spent every other day in a full suit.
“I wore the cufflinks you bought me,” Lazard said. “You missed it.”
“I’m sure they were a true power accessory,” Sephiroth said. He sounded terribly bored, but that was the voice of a man who came to the beach to read and, occasionally, fight mutated aberrations of nature. Mostly to read, though.
It had been completely accidental that while Lazard walked from the Jacuzzi with a nice elevated view of the men’s water polo tournament to the tiki bar where Scarlet was marinating herself that he should happen to stumble upon Sephiroth in the shade.
After the men’s water polo team, though, Sephiroth’s beach attire left something to be desired. The black wetsuit he preferred-because he actually went near water that wasn’t chorlinated and tended to be full of scaly things with very sharp teeth and many tentacles-was tight, but it covered more than his daily uniform did. His soaking wet hair, a dingy grey and speckled with grit, and oversized black sunglasses weren’t exactly Sephiroth’s best look.
Lazard had posed himself before he cleared his throat, something that, hopefully, demonstrated that the appropriate attire for Costa Del Sol was like his: more accessories than clothing.
Sephiroth had lowered his sunglasses and looked over the volume of Wutanese poetry he’d brought back with him from this latest deployment. Men’s water polo? What was that? Obviously nothing as important as the mix of emotions that Sephiroth could convey in such a subtle arrangement of his eyes and lips. Relief, amusement, exhaustion, and a touch of frustration with the overall air that he was going to reserve judgment for the moment, out of affection. That kind of look challenged a man to do something reckless.
“Where’re the others?” Lazard had asked.
“Why?” Sephiroth had replied, giving him a calm, calculating once over. “Embarrassed to be seen like that?”
Lazard had smirked and invited him back to the bungalow.
It wasn’t, therefore, exactly a vacation between them, but for the moment they might pretend that the company would ever pay for such a thing. Like most of their times together, they fitted it in between meetings and deployments and padded the minutes they were paranoid about with imagination.
The peeled off wet suit was discarded in a damp lump on the bamboo floor. The book of poetry was much more respectfully deposited on the dresser, with two pairs of sunglasses and an oversized straw hat.
Sephiroth’s mouth tasted like seawater and his wet hair, let loose, smelled like brine. With his eyes glowing in the dimness of an unlit room in the late afternoon and his wet hair spread out in grey tendrils, he seemed rather like some kind of sea monster. Something alluring and yet terribly, terribly dangerous-most likely with very sharp teeth.
As if knowing that, Sephiroth nipped at Lazard’s lower lip.
“You smell so different,” Sephiroth said. Lazard could feel his lover’s nostrils flare against his neck and bent his head against the shift of breath against his skin. He thought over the day-the nut oil heavy lotion, the chlorinated water of countless pools, the sugary alcoholic drinks he’d drunk and the oil fried shellfish he’d eaten with seaweed salad. At this moment, he knew, Sephiroth was indexing a day so different from their day-to-day lives from the smell of Lazard’s hair, shoulder, palms, and breath.
“You should dress like this everyday,” Sephiroth told him, palming his erection through the thin fabric of a swimsuit smaller than most of his briefs.
“I can see that being a hit at board meetings,” Lazard said with a laugh. He thrust intentionally against the length of Sephiroth’s palm.
“Then perhaps just for First Class briefings,” Sephiroth offered. His fingers were toying with the elastic edges with only the hint of an intent.
“Perhaps just the personal briefings,” Lazard offered, breathless and impatient.
“No,” Sephiroth said. “If it was just you and I, I’d never be able to resist felating you under that ridiculous table.”
“How perverse,” Lazard commented dryly as Sephiroth sucked at the skin over his ribs.
“You’ve been working out since I was gone,” Sephiroth said, again running his hands over Lazard’s chest.
“I had to do something,” Lazard said. He could say something about how Sephiroth has only grown more perfect since the last time he saw the other man, but those compliments always seem to fall flat. Sephiroth doesn’t purr with vanity to have his body complimented the way Lazard does, which is a shame to consider.
Sephiroth finally deigns to pulling down the front of the bathing suit and taking Lazard’s desperate erection into his mouth. It’s amazing and Lazard tells him with his sudden groan.
In a moment Lazard will push him away and flip him over and break the careful, unaffected banter that they play at together. Then it will almost be like a real vacation.