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It was meditation. A way to let the stress drip off, the expectation be shed little by little until it was gone, even if that only lasted a short while. Difficult, at first; not so much to hold still, to breathe deeply and evenly, but to let go of everything else. The quiet, concise murmuring of what was next to be touched had been new and different enough to keep him from entirely slipping into the mindset needed, so they’d tried other things. Soft music in the background had helped for a while. The motions, sensations, had eventually become so familiar that he hardly noticed when the process was done.
All the more reason to change things around, sometimes. New knots, new positions, new configurations. All beautiful. Deceptively delicate cords around the epitome of strength, perfection. Red against alabaster and silver. Sometimes also against some black, if the mood struck, leather or silk. The colors he belonged in, so said his… captor? Keeper.
Lazard took a few steps away from the night’s masterpiece to let his eyes trace the lines he’d created. Muscled arms bound snugly behind a strong back, silver left to cascade over thick crimson cord. Walking around to the front, thighs bound spread open for him, cord pulled into open diamond patterns across a solid chest, and only that proudly erect cock remained unbound. Telling him exactly what the captured thought of the situation, leaking a slow stream from the tip.
“Exquisite.” Lazard finally commented, quiet, as if his words might break the moment. As if the moment could be broken.
Mako eyes slowly opened and focused, gazing at him. The same measured breaths. Calm. Centered.
Time to shatter everything he could. Taking out his phone, he saw some alarm in Sephiroth’s eyes. Holding the phone at arm’s length, he took the first picture. “Don’t worry. These are just for me.” Another artificial click. “Like you.”
The first sign: one twitching thigh. Good.
Another picture taken before he moved to the side for another angle. “This.” Lazard whispered, taking his time with framing several shots, each click of his phone camera a reminder of exactly what he was doing. “No one else gets this.”
Then from behind, again. There was little to reflect, little to do but watch him, though Sephiroth tended to refrain from turning his head when he was being… admired. Studied. Another click, Lazard leaning forward. Leaning in. Whispered but true, “Mine.”
There was a low sound in the SOLDIER’s throat, but he did not protest.
“Everyone sees you. You are in every eye in this building at all times, whether you’re present or not.” Lazard continued, another click (too close, of course; he knew it would be a useless shot) before a held breath. “This is mine. Tell me.”
Head dropping forward just a bit, enough to shift the curtain of his hair, Sephiroth remained silent for a number of seconds before he complied. “This is yours.”
“And you?” He didn’t pause, didn’t miss a beat, taking one more picture from the back before pocketing his phone again.
Another pause. A breath. “I am yours.”
The slightly rough cotton of his suit pressed against Sephiroth’s back, Lazard reached around with a gloved hand and gripped the other man’s shaft firmly, a glint of moisture forming at the tip. “And this?”
The effort to keep himself still was felt in the near vibration of his entire body, but Sephiroth’s breath barely shuddered. “Yours.”
Lazard smiled. And he would use it, but first… “I’ll make us some dinner, shall I? We’ll need the energy. Don’t go anywhere, now.”
Another low sound signaled some displeasure that came with sudden lack of contact, Lazard taking his hand back and striping the glove. He could wait. They both knew he could. Wait and fall back into that steady breathing, the meditation. “I am yours, after all.”
Hm, well. That was low-level sass at best. Acceptable levels for dessert, in any case.