Well, loves, if you haven't noticed, I love Demyx. I love making him a little whore, and I love people who write him as smart, manipulative and seductive. I'd imagine he's a wonderful liar, and I'd imagine he's definitely a lot more cocky and just plain evil. This one may seem OOC, but honestly, I can see him taking the lead any day. That scene where he whips around and gives Sora the "Evil Eye"... let that stand as proof. I still get fan-girly chills from that.
Warnings: XigbarxDemyx lovin', mention of drug-use, slight yaoi... lemons may come later if I decide I want to continue this.
Disclaimer: I own nothing :'(
Edit!
So yes. I have a beta now - best beta ever, mind you - and my beloved Mousewolf has been working her arse off to make my stories beautiful (better than I could ever manage...).
I should start calling these collaborative henceforth. Amazing stuff. So here's the updated better version. LOVE!
::: High :::
He's the color of peaches and gold and sunset and that clear vodka that you just tipped back, tipped back, tipped back again, the cold-fire burn that trails from your hollow chest to your groin. He's the cascading foam on a breaker's tip, the white water, the rapids that cascade across you in nothing but a pair of boxer-briefs and a sweater that's about eight sizes too big for him.
His face smiles as he dances and sways to the music. He's wearing ankle-high crew socks and sliding around on the tile floor madly, laughing, laughing, laughing from all the white powder.
"It's like ice-skating!" he screams, and you laugh. You just laugh and laugh, and you rise up, your pants hanging from a thread. You're vain. You look down and make sure that you're showing just a little more than you know you should, and you know that you are.
You catch the raving blond in your arms and hush him with a kiss.
"Shhh! Everyone's sleeping, little dude. You gotta hush." You explain, but he's not listening. He's leaning up and pressing his lips against your chin because his knees have buckled and he can't stand up any more.
"I want you now!" he pants desperately, almost snarls, slinging thin arms around your neck. His eyes are clouded aqua, like shallow tropical waters stirred up with sand. He gazes up at you so endearingly; sagging limp in your arms and with his lips cracked only the littlest bit, lower lip pouting only the slightest.
And you want him, too, so badly.
Within, without, and holding up and breaking down and falling skyward and forever. You want to fly.
You hold onto him and manipulate whatever the hell it is that you can push around and all of a sudden, you're both on the ceiling staring down at the marble floor, and the blond is racked with laughter. He looks like he's going to pass out, he's just that high and happy.
You let him swing down, and he defies gravity, floating on the air like it was water, stealing your trick all too easily, and before you know it, you're kissing him back. It's not a wimpy kiss either. This boy, so significantly younger than you, is encroaching on your mouth, pressing past the barriers in the most delightfully hungry way.
You kiss him back with matching fervor, biting, playing, and sliding a hand into that sweater to caress a sensitive nipple. The kid shudders, pulling back.
"And I thought Axel was bad!" he laughs, grinning cutely.
"Him? He's a total rookie, little dude. Where d'you think he learnt it?" you drawl, pulling the object of your lusts back up against you effortlessly. You can't help but wonder if you're going to regret all this. Isn't this someone else's toy, the only truly flame-resistant one among them? Did you not just get the kid stoned off of his ass and yourself drunk just so that you could indulge this little fantasy? Is it even fair?
Your alcohol addled brain has no time to register, though, as you are roughly taken into hand by this seemingly innocent slip of a boy. He grins.
"You think I play my sitar well?" he whispered, breath hot and heavy, sultry eyes like you'd see a desperate hooker glaring at you with, the bottom of the ocean where there's no light, no air, but there's still life, rich and strange. His teeth look like perfectly straight tombstones, and each one has your name carved on it. "Let's see what I can get out of you, sweetie…"
A hand slides up your bare chest, up because you're turned over with feet to the ceiling. Really, he's going down, fingers following the lines demarking each territory of a muscle, and his fingers are just barely touching your skin. The hand on your throbbing member is rough, hard, callused from years of manipulating the strings of his instruments, but the way he's playing, the way he caresses and fondles you is just impossible to describe. A shudder tingles up and down your spine. You've never been so aroused in your entire life.
"Tonight," the blond whispers, the sounds of waves breaking over rocks in the night, "I'm going to make you sing."