Disclaimer: I do not own any of this stuff. Square Enix does. Praise them for coming up with these amazing, slashible characters.

Warning: yaoi, LazardxTseng, traumatization of minors, etc etc. Lemon. If you've got problems with any of these things, run away now.

Author's Note: I would like the subtitle of this one to be "Returning the Favor". Mwahaha.

THE CALL OF DUTY (part 3)

It was wishful thinking, to be sitting behind the monstrously sized wooden desk on the top floor of the ShinRa Tower, with sprawling views of Midgar twinkling behind polished glass on all sides. The President was currently traveling around on business, a small army of Turks tagging along with him. The camera system had been turned off since no one was supposed to be up there in the President's absence.

That did not stop, though.

A low moan escaped his lips as he leaned his head back on the plush leather of the executive chair, eyes rolling back, shut, as he relished in the sensation. The cavity beneath the President's desk was the perfect size for this. He let a white gloved hand slide down, fingers running through tightly bound locks of black hair, tugging them free of their bindings. He finally looked down, seeing the cascade of silken black hair splayed across those shoulders, fluttering as that head bobbed up and down.

Despite how amazing it felt, Lazard pushed himself back in the chair, its rolling away from where Tseng was knelt between his legs, making that back arch in its new angle, that mouth continuing its diligent work. Standing, Lazard spoke in his usual low, smooth voice for Tseng to stand. The Wutaian Turk did so, a glare in his hawk-like brown eyes, so much more defiant than Lazard usually saw.

That was perfectly fine. Tseng could glare at the hardwood of the President's desk.

With a quick, practiced motion, Lazard spun Tseng, sprawling him out across the President's desk. This was so wrong on so many levels, but Lazard had been dying to do this ever since he learned that fat pig was in fact his father. Lazard worked his own pants open slightly more, not enough to fall down, but enough to not get sweat or other fluids on in the act. His other hand was working Tseng's pants open, letting them drop to the Turk's knees before he used his hand to push Tseng down, face beside a stack of unattended to papers.

Tseng, with his sculpted, gun-worn hands, held on to the edge of the desk, brows furrowing towards the center sharply, distinctly, as Lazard started pushing in, without any previous preparation, Tseng's own saliva the only lubricant. They did this too often to need very much prep. That, and Tseng liked pain.

Thrusting hard, Lazard finished the stroke, bending over that pressed black Turk jacket, biting Tseng's ear as soon as he had gotten that curtain of gorgeous black hair out of the way. It was smooth and clean and smelled faintly like cherry blossoms. It was a relaxing scent. It was one Lazard had grown used to.

Pulling almost entirely out, he pushed in again, skin of Tseng's muscular ass smacking against that of Lazard's lower abdomen. The way Tseng trembled just slightly, no doubt unwillingly, as the Turk was usually so purposefully collected, pushed Lazard closer to the edge, which he was tumbling for much too quickly, no thanks to Tseng's earlier ministrations.

Establishing a rhythm, Lazard reminded himself that this was his scum father's desk, and that he wanted to defile it wholly before the President could return home in a day's time.

Slowly, uncertainly, he crept up the last round of the stairs, piquing his head up. No one was supposed to be in his father's office. He wasn't even allowed in there, but when he found the door unlocked, Rufus could not just stand idly by. He had to find out who was in his father's office. If he could apprehend whoever it was, perhaps then he could finally take the seat of Vice President for himself. That sounded too delicious, so he snuck close to the floor, hiding behind a fake plant in a massive, painted jar, made purposefully to look exotic.

What he saw, peeping through those plastic leaves, made his blue eyes widen in horror.

There was the top of his father's Turks, usually a stoic man, with a gun in hand, looking handsome and intimidating, being pounded into the big hardwood desk by none other than Rufus' primary and only rival, Director Lazard. The blond man's face was covered in a thin sheen of sweat, pleasure on his face, in his mostly closed blue eyes. Tseng's knuckles had turned white from how hard he was clutching the edge of the desk, a sort of pained pleasure painted across his foreign features.

Rufus tried swallowing back his horror, his confusion, and willed his body to move, to leave.

That was when a moan cut through the barely audible slapping noise of their bodies meeting, Rufus looking up again, shocked that it had come from Tseng. Another moan, longer, more purring, came from the Turk, his back arching, bare, muscular rear angling up to better meet the Director's thrusts. Rufus was absolutely mesmerized by the sight of Tseng's seemingly glowing skin, the fire of lust burning in his eyes, the sounds issuing from his throat, and no matter how much his brain told him he had to move, he could not will his body to.

And then, a cell phone started ringing. Rufus kept watching as their motions slowed, stilled, and how the sharp gaze of the Turk narrowed on the fake plant Rufus was hiding behind. That was when he recognized the ring tone, fumbling quickly to silence it.

"Keep going." That low voice was most definitely from the Wutaian Turk, and Rufus' eyes widened as he brought his gaze back up from his cell phone to the pair. "He has already seen us. There is no point in leaving me hanging."

With that, Director Lazard complied, Rufus watching in absolute enthrallment as they finished.