Notes: I chickened out on the sex for some intangible reason. I also kinda missed the kink of heavy bondage... God, this is actually a kinda failish attempt at killing writers block and filling kink meme requests. Sorry guys.
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Demyx doesn't like Silent Hill -full of things the creep and crawl and squeal and ooze and scream- and all the unpleasant little things that make it home.
Beatles skitter over his robes and boots and Demyx is grateful for the leather so he doesn't have to feel their tiny claws on his flesh. He's seen them devouring people but they don't seem to care for him other than delighting in crawling all over him and never mind if they go squish under filthy boots. This isn't his place.
His home was a little lakeside resort town full of people and this place is sick. Everything is rotting, oozing, and growing -everything's sick and dying or dead.
If he had his heart he would have been relieved to see another person but here and now and circumstantially Demyx is suspicious.
Why isn't he sick with everything else?
What's wrong with him? He still has a heart; that much is obvious -when you've been without for a while you tend to notice such things. He can't help but be curious really.
What makes Him so special?
Demyx quickly finds he isn't the only one watching this man; he isn't quite sure what the other watchers are. Both dressed in robes, one wears a leathery mask and the other a hulking helmet -the two twitch and writhe like the other dead-living things, both reeking of rot and gore. Neither bother with him, like the bugs -they don't seem to see him nor care if they do.
He'd be scared if he had his heart, then again, if he had his heart he probably wouldn't see this -no, Demyx was a good boy; not like this other man -he knows enough to say this man did something terrible.
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This was unexpected.
Blondie-boy (he'd recently learned was named James) really is quite bad.
Tying him up by his belt to one of those rusted iron pipes.
Aroused, Demyx squirms and writhes like the tortured beasts. Unable to touch himself with his hands bound; he demands the other man's attentions. James gives it willingly -but Demyx can't help but think of him as a lonely stray dog. He knows it's unfair to judge such as he's the one tied and begging but a wry voice in his mind still suggests it.
James sticks to frotting, as far as he knows, neither of them have anywhere to clean off. He wasn't entirely sure just what he was doing until the younger man was bound and he was fumbling with the zippers of pants. James isn't-wasn't-is not gay; this was sort of spur of the moment.
He finds himself reminded of the nurses at the hospital, with their twitching-jerking almost erotic movements.
Demyx moans and presses his hips against the touches as erections rub together and against James' calloused hands and altogether unfeminine hands.
Their actions becoming more erratic and urgent as orgasm approaches -finally stopping as James' hand and their stomachs are spattered with semen.
Demyx somehow isn't surprised when James walks off without another word but he supposes he should be thankful blondie untied him.