A Madman’s Devil

Kefka/Edgar. PG-13. ~400 words. Dubious consent. Pastfic.
Vassal and slave, said the manic light burning in Kefka’s eyes.

“After you, dear King,” Kefka murmured, stepping over the threshold and gesturing his guest inside with a smooth flourish. Thin lips twisted into a smile, pleased like the devil with a saint’s soul in his pocket.

Edgar followed the prompt, boots silent on the thick carpeting. Kefka’s rooms were lush, opulent, and a mad riot of the world. Fine, dark Thasmian silk covered the windows, blocking the ugly view of mechanical Vector. Several mismatched pieces of tinker’s art from his own country of Figaro lay scattered across the low table, the steady tick of their clockwork gears making the unnatural hush of the residential wing that much more pronounced.

The back of Edgar’s neck prickled. Kefka’s attention focused entirely on him; he could feel the weight of it, heavy enough to shorten his breath. He hated the required state visits, hated the pomp and ceremony and the dagger-sharp words meant to remind him of his position.

Ally and friend, Geshtal had boomed to the cheering crowds. Vassal and slave, said the manic light burning in Kefka’s eyes.

Kefka stood by an ornate cabinet, two faceted glasses held between long, slender fingers. “Wine?” he inquired, already pouring generously into both. “Much better than that provincial swill you try to poison me with.”

“I’m a simple man,” Edgar said, taking the offered glass. He forced an easy smile, keeping his stance casual, open. “With simple pleasures.”

Liquid as red as blood swirled as Kefka drank deeply, flicking the tip of his tongue over even redder lips. He pressed a fingertip to the corner of his mouth and wiped away the dampness. Suddenly he laughed, slow, dark laughter that did more than hint at the madness that surrounded him.

A chill icy enough to burn settled at the base of Edgar’s spine. He watched Kefka smile with clear intent, felt fingers touch his face light as cold as snow. Slowly, Kefka stroked his features, traced the line of his brow, the sharp curve of his jaw and the dry softness of his lips. A painted mouth left a slash of crimson on his cheek as it whispered promises of sex and shame, pleasurable corruption. Dark things born in darker minds and not afraid of the light of day.

The flash of pain when claw-like nails scratched his neck always surprised him.


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