Dominae
By Save
Authors Note: Just a little one-shot. No point at all. Edgar x Locke shounen-ai implications, 'cause I love 'em so much. And Squaresoft owns them, though I may steal them during the night and torture their darling little minds...
It was getting rather dark. Now that he thought about it, it'd been dark for quite some time, and the floundering lamps lighting the bar hardly helped with the dim aura projected; the atmosphere of this place wasn't so great. Moonlight flickered in, on and off, bouncing through the dusty glass windows, dousing everything in an eery gray shade. Even the sounds were dying down, and with the departure of the many booze-hounds and honkey-tonk floozies, the air stopped seeming so stale. But nothing would cover up that wretched, rotten stench of too many drunks packed in too small a room.
Locke sighed.
Over in the corner, having finally dragged himself away from the bar, the High King of Figaro sat, piss drunk and hardly any different from the others who milled about, drowning sorrows in drink. His body was perched rather cautiously atop a stool, and the thief had to applaud his ability to remain so regal while his mouth craved liquor and his liver protested in vain. If it weren't for the sweat beading on his forehead and the half-empty glass of Zozo Dark clutched in his hand, one could almost mistake him for the sober fool they usually saw, though it was becoming rather obvious that Edgar Roni Figaro had swallowed a tad too much alochol for one night- in Locke's opinion, for a lifetime.
Some things would never change.
Sure, he was probably wasting his liver away, but he wasn't hurting himself or anyone else... Locke could wait a few more minutes before stepping in, or pray that someone else did before he was able. Escorting skirt-chasing drunks home wasn't his favorite passtime; he'd avoid it if he could, but it didn't seem like anyone else from their party was still hanging around to accompany the wasted King.
...And now he was flirting with the waitress. Great. Edgar had the poor, blushing girl atop his lap, and he seemed to be crooning sweet nothings into her ear. Locke grunted and stood from his seat by the door- so much for not getting involved. Striding over to the misbehaving king and his unwilling cargo, the thief paused to apologize to the current tender, then continued over to gently remove the frightened girl from Edgar's loose grasp. He didn't fight back- there was amusement in his eyes, some sparkle there that made Locke, for a split second, believe that Edgar wasn't really drunk, and this whole thing was a joke.
The noise made as the floor rushed up to meet the king's face was enough to convince him otherwise.
And now, at twenty-past what ever God-forsaken hour it was, the bar fell silent. Prying eyes stared at the fallen figure, clad in his rich green and blue robes; the townsfolk only payed attention when someone dared to make a mockery of themselves, and they made no exception. As the drunken, stammering laughter filtered in, then echoed to a rumbling roar, Locke bent downwards, hiding himself behind the table, next to Edgar's prone form; he buried his head in his hands, muttering.
"Edgar, you goon..."
This wasn't going to be a good night.
Ignoring the howls, he hefted the fallen king upwards, gripping him from behind. Clasping his hands at Edgar's chest, he could almost hobble away comfortably- or as comfortable as one could be while carrying a larger man out of a bar wracked with laughter. Locke mentally cursed the alcohol; they would have never found this situation to be funny if they hadn't been utterly wasted. Fighting the urge to tell them all to sober up (the statement including quite a few vulgarities), Locke parted the few hosers that remained blocking his exit- one of which made note of the fact that Edgar was still staring rather forlornly at his neglected bottle of Zozo Dark, left abandoned at his table. Comments about leaving a drunk to his drink followed just behind.
If he hadn't been so off balance, a good kick to the shins would have probably ended any more of this bothersome discourse, but the disgruntled, and rather embarassed thief was only able to shove the nearby door open, and tug the groggy king out of the madhouse. As the door closed on the upturned soles of Edgar's polished boots, Locke sighed with relief, shutting the sound out behind them.
"Thank the Gods the bar was next to the Inn, eh, Ed'?" Locke said, eager to break the silence now that the only noises were the heavy, hollow echoes of his boots on the floor, and the occasional screach of Edgar's heels. The man slumped over him responded with only incoherent gibberish, followed by a drawn-out snort of a snore. Shaking his head, Locke tossed a room's worth down on the counter, and slid off with his human baggage in tow.
Another door open, another hallway crossed, and a final doorish obstacle was nudged out of their way. Locke didn't bother to pause as he did so, but whatever Gods were out there were thanked yet again, and Edgar was dropped unceremoniously down onto the knoted spring bed. It was the "dropping" idea that didn't seem to sit very well with his hammered friend.
Twisting about, Edgar tugged the resisting thief down with him, before flipping him downwards and pinning him to the heavy sheets. Upon arriving in the rather suggestive position, however, the king's short-lived sobriety seemed to give out, and he collapsed softly onto Locke's chest, breathing heavily. Shifting his body, Locke struggled to remove the bulk of his friend's weight from his chest, before wearily shoving upwards, hands on Edgar's shoulders- to no avail. Edgar did not seem to be moving any time soon.
"Uh... Edgar? Ed'? You in there?" Locke asked, noting that his friend had eased up. Now on his hands and knees, head bowed, eyes shut, Edgar reached a hand upwards, blindly feeling for a face in the dark. Opening his eyes, he leaned forward, hesitantly staring down at the nearly cowering Locke. That straying hand moved upwards again, to trace the thief's jawline with an oddly smooth finger, pausing as Locke froze.
His hand rested at the base of Locke's neck, kneading there softly, drawing outwards to rub the collar, the broad shoulders of this man below him. Edgar's hair was down, and it pooled about their faces, shielding them and spreading the slightly cinnamon edge that Edgar always smelled so strongly of, blue eyes gazing with strong, undeniable emotion, inhibition cast away...
"Shh... Locke, just move with me." And upon that note, without further explaination, the King of Figaro leaned down to gently take the rogue thief's lips in a kiss.
It was not a kiss for claiming, for playboy notions, for bragging rights, it was without haste or bruises. Sweet and slow, Edgar slid his tongue into the suprised Locke's mouth, tasting, head canting to the right as he did, daring to take this closeness a step further. One hand remained at the thief's shoulders, though without enough force to hold him there, the other lifted to trace calloused fingertips along his chest. He felt and circled through the thin fabric of his shirt, breath locked in his lungs for only this moment. There was nothing held back, no pure desire waiting to be unleashed, though the thoughts may have lurked beneath the surface-- absolute purity. Tentative, Locke responded, gripping the king's hair lightly with one hand, shifting his head upwards to improve the angle. Just a flash between them, eyes open, and a realization struck at least the latter of the two--
Locke broke away. A gasp, a twist, and he pulled himself out from Edgar's warm embrace. And as the mighty fell, grip lost, he stumbled away to his own cot, leaving the abandoned king to curl into himself, face buried in the pillow.
Still, for the silence that followed, Locke could not escape the remembered feelings, the warmth of Edgar's flesh, the taste and scent of him, the tense hardness lingering in his lower body, his eyes--
"Sorry."
There was no slur in Edgar's voice- perhaps the realization of what he had done had sobered him up, or perhaps he had been completely coherent to begin with, and knew exactly what he was doing... The latter option was something Locke was too hesitant to think about, however, so he silenced himself, waiting for further word.
None came.
Slowly, Locke turned, noting the fetal position Edgar had placed himself in, and the fact that his friend was utterly silent, facing away. So he had gotten a little drunk, and had made a mistake, right? And Locke hadn't exactly resisted... The thief rose.
Edgar heard the motion before he felt it, a presence shifting about behind him, before finally settling in beside him on the bed. A gentle hand found his shoulder, turning his body slightly, though he could not bare to look into the other's eyes.
The kiss that followed was no repeat of the last, but reassured each of what they knew to be true, and amended the former broken bind. Upon Locke's initiation it began, a hesitant, wary thing, though the embrace he fell into echoed all the previous passion. Edgar's experienced hands traced patterns along his sides, continuing their trails even after the short kiss broke, weaving along the theif's back and up to clutch at his ashed hair. Locke fell into it, without a desire to resist or part, simply enjoying the feel of it. And, after the motion stopped, as each remained wrapped in the arms of the other, there was no effort made by either party to separate.
"Domi.. dominae," whispered Edgar, sliding the word softly into Locke's ear, face pressed warmly against that of his friend's. The meaning would be lost, perhaps, but it didn't matter; his brief term of endearment was hardly remembered as it was.
Locke's brow furrowed, thinking over the ancient term- a lost language, a word for their idols, a word for their Lords...
"God."
And with that, Locke slipped away, leaving the sleeping king with nothing but a fragrant, earthy scent to remember the night by.
Fin.
A/N: This is the first thing I've written in a while, and I'll probably revise it shortly, depending on what kind of- if any- reviews I get. I also know how cheesy it is, and don't know where the "Dominae" thing came from.
The fanficiton gods bless you for reading!
-Save.
By Save
Authors Note: Just a little one-shot. No point at all. Edgar x Locke shounen-ai implications, 'cause I love 'em so much. And Squaresoft owns them, though I may steal them during the night and torture their darling little minds...
It was getting rather dark. Now that he thought about it, it'd been dark for quite some time, and the floundering lamps lighting the bar hardly helped with the dim aura projected; the atmosphere of this place wasn't so great. Moonlight flickered in, on and off, bouncing through the dusty glass windows, dousing everything in an eery gray shade. Even the sounds were dying down, and with the departure of the many booze-hounds and honkey-tonk floozies, the air stopped seeming so stale. But nothing would cover up that wretched, rotten stench of too many drunks packed in too small a room.
Locke sighed.
Over in the corner, having finally dragged himself away from the bar, the High King of Figaro sat, piss drunk and hardly any different from the others who milled about, drowning sorrows in drink. His body was perched rather cautiously atop a stool, and the thief had to applaud his ability to remain so regal while his mouth craved liquor and his liver protested in vain. If it weren't for the sweat beading on his forehead and the half-empty glass of Zozo Dark clutched in his hand, one could almost mistake him for the sober fool they usually saw, though it was becoming rather obvious that Edgar Roni Figaro had swallowed a tad too much alochol for one night- in Locke's opinion, for a lifetime.
Some things would never change.
Sure, he was probably wasting his liver away, but he wasn't hurting himself or anyone else... Locke could wait a few more minutes before stepping in, or pray that someone else did before he was able. Escorting skirt-chasing drunks home wasn't his favorite passtime; he'd avoid it if he could, but it didn't seem like anyone else from their party was still hanging around to accompany the wasted King.
...And now he was flirting with the waitress. Great. Edgar had the poor, blushing girl atop his lap, and he seemed to be crooning sweet nothings into her ear. Locke grunted and stood from his seat by the door- so much for not getting involved. Striding over to the misbehaving king and his unwilling cargo, the thief paused to apologize to the current tender, then continued over to gently remove the frightened girl from Edgar's loose grasp. He didn't fight back- there was amusement in his eyes, some sparkle there that made Locke, for a split second, believe that Edgar wasn't really drunk, and this whole thing was a joke.
The noise made as the floor rushed up to meet the king's face was enough to convince him otherwise.
And now, at twenty-past what ever God-forsaken hour it was, the bar fell silent. Prying eyes stared at the fallen figure, clad in his rich green and blue robes; the townsfolk only payed attention when someone dared to make a mockery of themselves, and they made no exception. As the drunken, stammering laughter filtered in, then echoed to a rumbling roar, Locke bent downwards, hiding himself behind the table, next to Edgar's prone form; he buried his head in his hands, muttering.
"Edgar, you goon..."
This wasn't going to be a good night.
Ignoring the howls, he hefted the fallen king upwards, gripping him from behind. Clasping his hands at Edgar's chest, he could almost hobble away comfortably- or as comfortable as one could be while carrying a larger man out of a bar wracked with laughter. Locke mentally cursed the alcohol; they would have never found this situation to be funny if they hadn't been utterly wasted. Fighting the urge to tell them all to sober up (the statement including quite a few vulgarities), Locke parted the few hosers that remained blocking his exit- one of which made note of the fact that Edgar was still staring rather forlornly at his neglected bottle of Zozo Dark, left abandoned at his table. Comments about leaving a drunk to his drink followed just behind.
If he hadn't been so off balance, a good kick to the shins would have probably ended any more of this bothersome discourse, but the disgruntled, and rather embarassed thief was only able to shove the nearby door open, and tug the groggy king out of the madhouse. As the door closed on the upturned soles of Edgar's polished boots, Locke sighed with relief, shutting the sound out behind them.
"Thank the Gods the bar was next to the Inn, eh, Ed'?" Locke said, eager to break the silence now that the only noises were the heavy, hollow echoes of his boots on the floor, and the occasional screach of Edgar's heels. The man slumped over him responded with only incoherent gibberish, followed by a drawn-out snort of a snore. Shaking his head, Locke tossed a room's worth down on the counter, and slid off with his human baggage in tow.
Another door open, another hallway crossed, and a final doorish obstacle was nudged out of their way. Locke didn't bother to pause as he did so, but whatever Gods were out there were thanked yet again, and Edgar was dropped unceremoniously down onto the knoted spring bed. It was the "dropping" idea that didn't seem to sit very well with his hammered friend.
Twisting about, Edgar tugged the resisting thief down with him, before flipping him downwards and pinning him to the heavy sheets. Upon arriving in the rather suggestive position, however, the king's short-lived sobriety seemed to give out, and he collapsed softly onto Locke's chest, breathing heavily. Shifting his body, Locke struggled to remove the bulk of his friend's weight from his chest, before wearily shoving upwards, hands on Edgar's shoulders- to no avail. Edgar did not seem to be moving any time soon.
"Uh... Edgar? Ed'? You in there?" Locke asked, noting that his friend had eased up. Now on his hands and knees, head bowed, eyes shut, Edgar reached a hand upwards, blindly feeling for a face in the dark. Opening his eyes, he leaned forward, hesitantly staring down at the nearly cowering Locke. That straying hand moved upwards again, to trace the thief's jawline with an oddly smooth finger, pausing as Locke froze.
His hand rested at the base of Locke's neck, kneading there softly, drawing outwards to rub the collar, the broad shoulders of this man below him. Edgar's hair was down, and it pooled about their faces, shielding them and spreading the slightly cinnamon edge that Edgar always smelled so strongly of, blue eyes gazing with strong, undeniable emotion, inhibition cast away...
"Shh... Locke, just move with me." And upon that note, without further explaination, the King of Figaro leaned down to gently take the rogue thief's lips in a kiss.
It was not a kiss for claiming, for playboy notions, for bragging rights, it was without haste or bruises. Sweet and slow, Edgar slid his tongue into the suprised Locke's mouth, tasting, head canting to the right as he did, daring to take this closeness a step further. One hand remained at the thief's shoulders, though without enough force to hold him there, the other lifted to trace calloused fingertips along his chest. He felt and circled through the thin fabric of his shirt, breath locked in his lungs for only this moment. There was nothing held back, no pure desire waiting to be unleashed, though the thoughts may have lurked beneath the surface-- absolute purity. Tentative, Locke responded, gripping the king's hair lightly with one hand, shifting his head upwards to improve the angle. Just a flash between them, eyes open, and a realization struck at least the latter of the two--
Locke broke away. A gasp, a twist, and he pulled himself out from Edgar's warm embrace. And as the mighty fell, grip lost, he stumbled away to his own cot, leaving the abandoned king to curl into himself, face buried in the pillow.
Still, for the silence that followed, Locke could not escape the remembered feelings, the warmth of Edgar's flesh, the taste and scent of him, the tense hardness lingering in his lower body, his eyes--
"Sorry."
There was no slur in Edgar's voice- perhaps the realization of what he had done had sobered him up, or perhaps he had been completely coherent to begin with, and knew exactly what he was doing... The latter option was something Locke was too hesitant to think about, however, so he silenced himself, waiting for further word.
None came.
Slowly, Locke turned, noting the fetal position Edgar had placed himself in, and the fact that his friend was utterly silent, facing away. So he had gotten a little drunk, and had made a mistake, right? And Locke hadn't exactly resisted... The thief rose.
Edgar heard the motion before he felt it, a presence shifting about behind him, before finally settling in beside him on the bed. A gentle hand found his shoulder, turning his body slightly, though he could not bare to look into the other's eyes.
The kiss that followed was no repeat of the last, but reassured each of what they knew to be true, and amended the former broken bind. Upon Locke's initiation it began, a hesitant, wary thing, though the embrace he fell into echoed all the previous passion. Edgar's experienced hands traced patterns along his sides, continuing their trails even after the short kiss broke, weaving along the theif's back and up to clutch at his ashed hair. Locke fell into it, without a desire to resist or part, simply enjoying the feel of it. And, after the motion stopped, as each remained wrapped in the arms of the other, there was no effort made by either party to separate.
"Domi.. dominae," whispered Edgar, sliding the word softly into Locke's ear, face pressed warmly against that of his friend's. The meaning would be lost, perhaps, but it didn't matter; his brief term of endearment was hardly remembered as it was.
Locke's brow furrowed, thinking over the ancient term- a lost language, a word for their idols, a word for their Lords...
"God."
And with that, Locke slipped away, leaving the sleeping king with nothing but a fragrant, earthy scent to remember the night by.
Fin.
A/N: This is the first thing I've written in a while, and I'll probably revise it shortly, depending on what kind of- if any- reviews I get. I also know how cheesy it is, and don't know where the "Dominae" thing came from.
The fanficiton gods bless you for reading!
-Save.