Through the Glass (FFVII yaoi, Rufus/Lazard, Dark #39 Maria (Mother Mary)) Title: Through the Glass Fandom: FFVII Pairing: Rufus/Lazard Theme set and #: Dark Theme, #39 Maria (Mother Mary). Disclaimer: Don’t own. Rating: NC17 Summary: Some things are supposed to stay in the family. A/N: I am sorry if I butchered Lazard, I don’t really know much about him. This will also probably get a sequel. Warning: Incest? Pr0n? Bondage? Word count: 2261
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Dealing with Lazard isn’t hard. Actually, it’s quite easy. It isn’t like the two of them don’t share a number of similarities, one of them definitely being the feeling of pure hate towards their father.
Oh, what an interesting thing that was, getting a confirmation. Rufus isn’t an idiot and could see far too many similar characteristics on one person not to wonder, not to ask Tseng to dig deeper, fullest discretion of course. Unlike his… no, unlike their father, Rufus isn’t an idiot. Neither is Lazard.
Besides, some things are supposed to stay in the family, correct?
Rufus flicks the hair out of his face and crosses his legs, an action that tends to make the other crazy, in that strange ‘no one else would understand it’ sort of way. Lazard is a kinky man. Well, both of them are; another similarity Rufus learned quickly. He is all groomed, suits and formality during the day (again, as is Rufus), but after the shift is over, he has his sleek ways of crawling under one’s skin and waking up the worst in them.
Lucky for Lazard, Rufus’ skin is quite soft, pliant, and the abyss that lies underneath is too deep even for his brother’s liking.
“That tie could be put to better use,” Rufus purrs as he unconsciously sucks the tip of his index finger. It seems to be driving Lazard insane; the words or the gesture, Rufus is not sure. He doesn’t really care.
A small smile creeps to Lazard’s face, the lips twitch into a purse in a futile attempt to hide it. Lazard relaxes in the humongous overstuffed leather chair that probably costs more than some people earn in a trimester. “Is that so?” he says, tries to hide the tremor in his voice that always seems to be there when he’s excited about something. He’s probably unaware of it. Rufus’ awareness seems to be quite grand, though.
Placing his palms onto the desk, Rufus pushes his body off it and into a standing position. Good thing he has a thing for frilly clothes at least three sizes too big. Besides being classy, they tend to be unrevealing just right. No way for Lazard to see how turned on his brother actually is with the prospect of things to come.
The executive’s eyes travel up to connect with Rufus’ and they mirror each other’s smiles. Rufus doesn’t wait much longer. His fingers take hold of the expensive metallic frame on Lazard’s nose, holding it between the lenses, like Lazard always does, and pulls them off.
Lazard blinks, keeps staring at his brother, smile growing wider. The air becomes thick, sticky, as Rufus places the frames onto his nose, his own smile growing wider too as his fingers find their way to Lazard’s neck and untie the object in question masterfully. Considering suits a necessity more than a luxury counts for something, right? Lazard practically purrs as Rufus pulls the long article of clothing away from him and wraps it around his hand.
“The buttons, please,” Rufus says, pushes the far too heavy glasses up his nose and waits, thinking what he sees is a smile on Lazard’s lips, but he’s not sure.
Lazard complies, of course he does. He tries to pull the gloves off his hands, but a simple headshake gesture from Rufus stops him. His smile widens, mind travelling through an array of reasons why the gloves would be necessary. He doubts any of them is bad, though.
Concluding that he’d rather watch, Rufus leaves the glasses on the desk carefully, circles around the chair slowly, waiting for Lazard to be done; then grabs his hands and pulls them behind roughly. The fact that Lazard doesn’t even squirm makes him feel warm somehow. And even when he ties the knot, pulls the tie to secure it, the only reaction he gets is a quick gasp, more of a surprise than anything else.
He grabs the backrest of the chair and pulls it forcefully, the executive quickly raising his feet off the ground not to stop the movement.
“I think I should leave you like this for the rest of the working hours,” Rufus says, his face dangerously close to Lazard’s as he looms over him, holding the top of the backrest still with his hands.
Lazard just licks his lips, hard to misinterpret that gleam in his eyes, the one that makes him look like a child in a chocolate factory. Just another reason why Rufus is having the time of his life during office hours for the past weeks. Nothing beats finding ways to make his brother happy, right?
Forcefully again, Rufus turns the armchair back to its original position, facing the desk, checks the knot for the last time and slowly walks around Lazard, fingers of one hand not leaving Lazard’s palm, then arm, then shoulder as they slowly slide and follow their owner. They travel up the neck and then pause on the jaw and Rufus smiles, leaves a perversely chaste kiss on his brother’s lips and steps back to admire his creation.
Lazard is pretty. He’s thin and lacks properly defined muscles Rufus is so used to seeing in his Turks. But it’s no wonder, he’s the man who spends his days sitting and plotting instead of chasing those who dare step in his way. Though, he’s prettier naked, Rufus can’t argue with that. So, instead of waiting, he quickly unbuckles the belt and pulls it out quickly. The friction burns Lazard’s skin, makes him create a short gasp again and buck his hips up, more than hopeful the pants would get off as well.
He rolls the belt around his arm and leaves it on the desk, then looks down onto his own suit and smiles, liking the way his mind works. His own belt gets out equally fast as Lazard’s, though there’s no friction since he is still fully dressed. He glances towards his tied brother, corners of his lips spreading some more because Lazard looks fucking hopeful by now.
He places his own belt next to his brother’s and, while he’s not certain, Lazard seems to be looking disappointed. He’s also not quite certain why that makes him feel all warm inside, but well…
“Not undressing me?” Lazard asks, voice hopeful, but his face is unreadable, except for that semi smile, that is.
Rufus chuckles, pulls himself onto the desk again, places the tips of his feet on Lazard’s knees, more as a symbolic gesture than a real need for support. Lazard freezes, works hard not to be pushed away, since chairs with wheels have that tendency. “Patience is a virtue, brother,” he whispers. It makes the other raise an eyebrow, one of those gestures that somehow tend to sum up this entire charade perfectly – the younger brother lectures the older one on things the older one excels at.
Looking at it that way, perhaps it is absurd. Looking at the way Lazard’s cock twitches under his clothes is a completely different matter though. Somehow nullifies the first.
It’s hard for Rufus not to lick his lips now, because there is a pulse between his legs he can’t ignore anymore. He spreads his feet, jumps off the desk with Lazard’s knees between his legs, seats himself onto his brother and purrs, fingers touching only the button and zipper on purpose.
He likes the way Lazard wiggles, if ever so slightly, to get a better… treatment, handling. Makes him chuckle all over again, but still doesn’t take a bit of force away from his arms as he pulls the pants down Lazard’s hips. He doesn’t pay much attention to kindness and, as Lazard’s cock gets stuck under the underwear waistband, the executive moans loudly.
It hurts. Oh, hell, Rufus knows how much something like this can hurt, but the way Lazard relaxes in the chair, as though nothing happened, makes Rufus want to hit him with that belt until he screams, or bleeds, whatever comes first.
But then Lazard starts fighting to pull his shoes off and Rufus can’t help but stop and enjoy the view. He likes him like this, struggling yet compliant.
At last, both the shoes and the clothes slide down his legs and all that remains is one very naked (from waist down, sans the dark blue socks) and very aroused executive, the way he looks practically begging to be molested.
Rufus thinks he should have taken the jacket and the shirt off while he had the chance, but he’ll just have to accept a bit of cloth hanging on Lazard’s shoulders and arms. Not that it’s in the way or anything.
He grabs one of the belts and can see Lazard swallow, his throat moving up and down, not being quite sure what it is for, but also not being able to make up his mind whether he’ll love it or not.
“Spread your legs,” he orders and Lazard is more than happy to comply. He doesn’t wait long, grabs that thin thigh, pulls it up and slides the belt under it quickly. The belt is long, he encircles it twice around the thigh and the armrest, then pulls it through the buckle, quite happy as the skin puffs on both sides, because that means the grip is tighter than necessary and tighter means more painful.
He does the same with the other thigh, using his own belt this time. He pulls tight, as much as his strength allows, and Lazard is still making no sound. It’s driving Rufus insane. In one of his rare moments of madness, he loses control, frowns, quickly sucks two fingers and pushes them into Lazard’s ass, which just happens to be quite within reach right now.
He refuses to be gentle and doesn’t care that spit offers close to no lubrication, especially after some time. He just wants to hear the man lose it, even if it takes two hours of fucking him with his fingers alone.
Lazard’s face relaxes, eyelids fall shut, but besides breathing, he is still making no sound and Rufus feels his fingers hurt. He tries to add the third one but some things are easier said than done. Without proper lubrication, it refuses to happen. Slightly annoyed, he pulls them out and Lazard yelps.
Well, at least that’s something.
Rufus composes himself, takes a seat on his desk, places his feet onto the chair, loves the way his brother’s eyes stay on his boots that are dangerously close to his balls. Everything is so much better now. He crosses his legs and spots the glasses on the desk right next to him.
He can’t help but smile and put them on and shoot another look over their upper rim. He looks around, wondering what to do now, because he sure as hell won’t fuck him right away, then remembers there’s a book he’s been reading for the past week in his drawer. He leans back and searches through the desk until he finds it and places it on his lap.
Not that he can actually see the letters, but who the fuck cares, right? He knows how much it takes him to read one page (one minute and four seconds) and he’s good in counting until sixty four, then one hundred and twenty eight, then he flips the page.
Three pages get flipped, Lazard is still quiet. His breathing is somewhat deeper, his cock is still hard (so is Rufus’, but it’s under the book, so it doesn’t count) and he looks all the way like begging, but refuses to make a sound.
“Tell me what to do, Lazard, and I shall,” Rufus says casually, head travelling from left to right as though his eyes are actually reading, but it’s not like either of them is a fool.
“Whatever you wish, Rufus,” comes the reply, voice like velvet, but still too formal for Rufus’ liking.
A small smile creeps on Rufus’ lips, though he doubts Lazard can see it from the way his hair shadows his face. “Be careful what you’re saying, executive,” he adds, flips a page, continues reading from left to right. “You can never know what’s hidden in my head.”
Lazard chuckles, if ever so slightly, looks a bit too dominant for Rufus’ personal taste. “I think I can get a fairly good idea.”
The words are enough to unlock the cage of the beast inside Rufus. Above all, he is not predictable and he’ll do anything to make sure the other never suspects such a thing. Again. His head pauses for a moment, then continues moving, but three rows lower, it stops.
He closes the book shut, places it neatly on the desk next to him, leans back to reach the phone and presses the button. “Maria?” he asks and waits for a moment for his secretary to react.
“Yes, sir?”
Rufus glances towards Lazard, a smile spreading on his lips as his brother turns a whiter shade of pale and swallows hard. “Send in Tseng, please.”
“Right away, sir,” comes the reply and Rufus pushes himself back into his sitting position, cleans the invisible dust off his suit and waits until he hears the knock on the door.
He casts the final glance towards Lazard over the rim of the glasses, his smile growing ferally wide. Lazard looks like he’s willing to beg but he’s still thinking about it.
Too late, though. Rufus crosses his legs, pushes the glasses up his nose and looks towards the door.