kingdom hearts | kā( r )ma
Kingdom Hearts | Xigbar/Demyx | 5500 words | AU | beta'd by kokanshu.
Part of kokanshu's Dark Windows verse. Sequel to her story Sunburn, in correlation with blizzardseason's prequel-seems we're chronicling the sundry adventures of Xigbar and Demyx, bounty hunters and impromptu married couple extraordinaire. I wake up one morning to find the prompt Demyx does yoga abandoned on my doorstep and, well, it's not as if I could leave it there to die or something. D:
Banner art by the awesome pouikee, best queen fanartist this side o' the space rift. Dedicated to and beta'd by kokanshu, god bless her southspace accent.
Kā( r )ma
a long, slow singing into vacuum
First time Demyx came aboard Xigbar's ship, he said it was a sweet ride. 'Course, he'd just chained Xigbar to the bed and nicked his clothes at the time, but it was still an honest sentiment, and when he boards the plank again it's pretty much a done deal. He takes to the old thing like a cat to a sheet roof, and no amount of thrown boots can persuade him to let go.
“Aw, man,” he says, walking the corridors with a big stupid grin on his face, peering through doorways and fiddling with random wall switches. The lighting system makes an indignant sound of protest and flickers warningly. “It's even better when I ain't worried you're gonna tranq my ass.”
“Keep pushing buttons like that and I just might,” Xigbar growls, but it's without any real bite. The blinking clock panel informs them it's godforsaken o' clock-no lights on at the station, two blinks away from tomorrow. They spent the night at the party, dizzy with adrenaline and newfound freedom, but the highs have finally simmered down enough for Demyx to declare a strategic retreat. There are still neon designs around his eyes and face, smudged into new patterns. Some of the paint's rubbed off on Xigbar's fingertips, the base of his palm. He sticks his hands in his pockets, feeling vaguely hungover.
Demyx shoots him a glance from where he's hip-deep in a supply closet Xigbar didn't even know he had until now. “Heya,” he says. “What's wrong, sugar? I'm just havin' a look-see, no harm done.”
“Nothing,” Xigbar says, pushing himself off the wall. His spine complains silently, joints aching. Maybe he really is too damn old to be chasing jailbirds around space stations at the far end of Nowheresville. “It's just pretty late, y'know? I ain't never been what you might call a youthful partying type.”
“Shucks, that's a lie,” Demyx grins, all cheek. “You were a wild thing out there on the dance floor. Never figured you had it in ya.” And when Xigbar raises a sceptical eyebrow, he quirks a smile, softer than you'd expect from a guy with nine prison hickeys on his arm. “Alright, alright, don' look at me that way. Let's get to bed, how's that?”
“Sounds mighty fine,” Xigbar says. “Think you remember the way?”
“Who'd ever forget a boat sweet as this?” Demyx strokes a hand down a doorframe, wearing an expression of immense fondness, and that's it, right there, when Xigbar knows this one's definitely for keeps.
*
He wakes up with rumpled sheets and a head stuffed full of lead wool, feeling strangely cold through the blankets. It takes a full minute, then he remembers-no room on the bunk, so Demyx had merely crawled atop him and lay down, sweet as you please. He was half tiger, purring and digging claws into Xigbar's ribs, 'cept it didn't feel half bad and he sort of misses it now that it's gone.
The trip from the bed to the door is short but dynamic, eyes still bleary and mouth tasting like his engine throttle after it hasn't been cleaned for a week. He stumbles out and into the main hold, where he's greeted by the sight of Demyx standing on one leg, the other extended behind him in a straight line, bent at the waist and arms reaching out towards the wall. He's breathing deep, even breaths, and doesn't seem to consider anything about the situation bizarre, which is where he and Xigbar clearly differ in opinions.
“Uh,” he says, but Demyx doesn't hear, still caught up in the magical world of living statuary and looking like one of the Nebari's user-friendly roadsigns, the sort they stick before prison rocks saying “WELCOME” in capitalized neon. It always prompts new kids into mortified laughter or tears-he's seen both, from the other side of the protective barrier. Demyx was probably the laughing kind, if he wasn't stoned off his ass; but again, he'd gotten plenty of chances to get used to the scenery.
“Hello,” and Xigbar blinks; the kid's switched positions, moving from a human table to some sort of praying mantis impersonation. He speaks so quietly it barely goes past his lips, but the ship's pretty silent, only got the hum of the generators whirring in the background. Xigbar can't figure out whether it's because Demyx is so calm, or if he's calm because of the quiet. He asks.
“Hmm,” Demyx says, and doesn't elaborate further. Xigbar watches him from the sidelines, leaning against the entrance, equally mystified and incredulous.
“This a way of keeping your youthful figure, toots?” He asks at length. “Don' worry, you're plenty skinny enough as is.” Which is disconcertingly true, actually, and either Demyx has gotta start wearing smaller rags or Xigbar's gotta start feeding him more, because he ain't having no skeleton shavers wandering around on his deck.
Demyx exhales, slow and measured. “Ain't that kinda exercise,” he murmurs, and slides into a pose that should by all rights dislocate his shoulder. His ankles are facing in opposite directions. Xigbar stares.
“Oh, got a name, has it?”
Demyx pauses in his arcane breathing rhythms to spare him a seriously annoyed glance. “Yoga,” he says, a tad pointedly, and goes back to stretching.
Xigbar considers this. “Looks as weird as it sounds. Got a point, our yoga?”
Demyx doesn't answer, just shifts again, smooth as a turn in zero g, and suddenly his ass is waving hello to Xigbar, legs braced wide open on the floor, and he's bending at the hips, leaning forward and down with a small groan. He takes a deep breath, keeps it in for a beat. Exhales.
Xigbar snaps his mouth shut and makes a point of looking.
There follows a strange exhibition of poses wherein Demyx, wearing a look of utmost concentration, does things with his pelvis that Xigbar thought were the exclusive territory of Kalish dancers. He moves from one stance to another with controlled ease, like switching well-oiled gears, smooth and efficient. Xigbar leans against the door and silently counts: at least four are certified sexual positions.
The coup de grace is five full minutes of lying spread-eagle on the floor, dovetailed between piles of junk and old metal piping, unmoving. Demyx's fingers are splayed facedown; he looks like he's trying to reach through the floor and touch Earth space. Xigbar can see his bare feet, his bony elbows, how every inch of his body expands with his breathing. He looks like he's singing into vacuum.
Xigbar starts clapping, slow and offbeat, amused. Demyx's eyes snap open.
“Nice show you got there, toots,” he says. “So in what language does 'yoga' translate to 'foreplay'?”
“Fuck,” Demyx huffs, twisting upwards hastily. “Fuck you.” He brushes past Xigbar and into the bedroom. The electronic door slides shut behind him with a faint whoosh, unhurried but still vaguely accusatory.
*
It takes contraband coffee and the promise of a complimentary breakfast to get Demyx to lower the drawbridge and come down from his tower. Xigbar's in the kitchen, doing stuff over the hob and rummaging in his devastatingly bare pantry for spice boxes. He ain't got much, but what's there is damn high quality. There's rice porridge and injera bread; a hot, sweet tea boiling over the stove; hastily chopped salad and a jar of real honey. He even managed to cook up some chutney, grinding tamarinds and cinnamon the way the old gypsy woman taught him after she gave him the eyepatch. It comes out all right, and the medley of smells is such that two minutes after he sets down the tin plates, Demyx appears with another musical whoosh, freshly-showered and scowling.
“You ain't off the hook yet,” he informs Xigbar as he plops down in a chair, manoeuvring three helpings of porridge simultaneously. He looks fair pissed, so Xigbar doesn't indulge in sarcasm, just shuts his trap and focuses on the serving. Turns out eating's not the problem so far as Demyx's concerned, because he ain't even sat down when he needs to get up to bring out second helpings and reinforcements. It still comes out too little; he's not used to cooking double.
Demyx smells of steam and the rough soap Xigbar's got in the water room; his hair is damp and there's a stray drop of water sliding down his neck. He's wearing several loose layers, dully coloured, which Xigbar recognizes from his own wardrobe. The sight makes his stomach lurch unexpectedly, like the ship when a bit of space trash suddenly catches in the engine-he swallows down a mouthful of tea, burning-hot, and tries not to look at Demyx's collarbones, left bare by the overlarge shirt-neck, or his fingers under long sleeves.
“So,” he coughs, tongue stinging. “What's this yoga thing all about?”
Demyx shoots him a sharp look. “Funny you bein' interested, cowboy.”
“Goddamn,” Xigbar mutters. Seems there's no way but forward, but damn if this boy ain't turning him into a big fat pile of mush. “I'm sorry about earlier, okay? I know fuck all 'bout these things, wasn't expecting to find you out there, playing at zen. It ain't every day I wake up to find scrawny blond guys stretched out in my hold, y'know.” That last comes out faintly reproachful. He glances at Demyx, at his bicep, hidden under roughspun wool, where the tracing armband is still imbedded. Demyx follows his gaze and quiets down, lurking behind the rim of his mug, and Xigbar can practically hear the cogwheels turning in his head.
“I was raised Hindu,” he says after a long silence, fingers deftly snatching up another slice of bread. “Big fuck off crack religion, got more gods than it knows what to do with. Started with my folks, an' I got into it later down the road.” He takes a bite, wipes a smudge of honey from his mouth. “Don't drink cow milk, try to keep my karma clean. The usual stuff.”
Xigbar takes it all in, fiddling with a convenient breadknife. He only knows the outlines of Demyx's background, not that they've had the chance to familiarize, but this is definitely a promising start. He grunts in what he hopes is a companionable fashion. “Ain't much danger of that 'round here, toots, the way food prices are nowadays.”
“Well, I'm just sayin', ain't I,” Demyx shoots back, holding a cup of tea between two fingers. “Anyhow, fair big on enlightenment and the like, we are. That's where yoga comes from-supposed to lead you to a better state of being. Name originally means union.”
“That so?” Xigbar arches an eyebrow at him. “Seems I weren't too far off, then.”
“Well,” Demyx takes a dainty sip, raises an eyebrow right back. “It ain't the most wholesome o' religions.”
“I'm starting to like the sound of that.” One of the perks to living in a one-man ship: no matter where you are, the bedroom's always two steps away. “You were doing some awful suggestive posing back there, if you don't mind me saying.”
“Naw,” Demyx kicks back the chair, rises to his feet with a generous sway of the hips. “Tol' you before, I'm real flexible. But you're forgettin' one thing, sugar.”
“An' what's that?”
“I said you ain't off the hook yet.” And with that, he's up and out of the room, still holding half a loaf smeared liberally with honey, licking it off his fingers like he knows what it's worth. The electronic door slides shut behind him with a decisive whoosh. Xigbar's seriously growing to hate that sound.
“Hey,” he says, rising from the table himself. “The fuck, Walker? Get back here!”
“Suck cock, Taylor!” Demyx's voice from beyond the door, which he's doubtless locked by now. It's almost sing-song. “An' don't think you're gettin' none tomorrow, neither.”
“What the,” Xigbar mutters, standing like a fool in an empty kitchen with one neon lamp flickering above the oven. He can't even muster the words for a counter. “Union, my left eyeball,” is what he settles for eventually, shot from under his breath as he starts clearing the table, grumbling all the while.
*
Xigbar knows Demyx is a man of his word, more or less, so's long as that word is kept in plain sight at all times and denied any potentially sharp objects, but he really had no idea what he was getting into this time. Technically speaking, they'd hooked up the day before; everything was still supposed to be in the honeymoon phase. Except apparently, they'd decided to save time and skip right to the divorce.
“Mmph.” He wakes up slowly, eyelids heavy; the ship had demanded work long into the night, and he ain't never one to refuse his baby. Demyx was still absent from the bedroom when he turned in, smelling of oil and engine cleaner and looking 'bout the same. The side room's door was still locked. Staring into the chipped wall mirror, Xigbar couldn't exactly blame him-figured if he'd've turned up at that ol' bar looking like that, Demyx would've handed himself to the Nebari willingly, Gravedigger's or no.
He closes his eyes, remembering the night before-a warm weight on top of him, nails scratching down his sides. He'd been looking forward to that. Hell, been looking forward to a lot of things.
Bloody Hindus.
Rolling off the bed is a painful process, muscles still aching from yesterday's work down at the hull, and his spine's definitely not getting any younger. Usually he'd suck it up, lay on the hot water and grimace his way through the morning, 'cept now that Demyx is here he keeps coming up with new possibilities. Backrubs. Lazy mornings. Joint showers. Nothing in the ship's big enough for two people, not that Xigbar considers this as a particularly bad thing.
Demyx isn't in the water room, either. He showers alone, grimacing twice as much.
When he stumbles out the door and into the main hold, yoga time is apparently over, 'cause Demyx is in the kitchen but he's still unwashed, tousled from the exercise. He's messing with something over the stove that smells like coffee and there's a half-assed sort of breakfast on the table-it's a sight so completely unfamiliar in the context of his ship that Xigbar actually has to stop in the doorway and let it sink in. Demyx spares his entrance a glance and goes back to manoeuvring around the cupboards, unimpressed.
“Thought you'd be hungry,” he says, banging down a pot of good ol' steaming mud on the table. “Found some leftovers in the cracks. Better restock soon, though, 'cause we ain't got so much as a Grue's eyeball left for eatin'.”
“Right. Er, thanks.” He sits down gingerly, pours himself a cup of tar. The food's all hot, freshly-made. He thinks, the last time someone other than him cooked in the ship was when he still had two eyes, which makes it ancient history. “Where'd you learn your way 'round a frying pan?”
“Livin' all by my lonesome. Same as you, I'm guessin'.” Demyx plops himself down across from the table, snagging a bit of toast. “Seemed a shame to leave the table empty, what with me already up an' you workin' like a dog yesterday.”
Xigbar raises an eyebrow. “Does this mean-?”
“Forget it,” Demyx interjects with finality. “It ain't over 'til I say so.”
“Don't y'think we oughta save the bickering for a later date?” Xigbar leans across the table, aiming for a reconciliatory expression. His face ain't exactly best suited for it, but fuck that for the time being. “After all that running? You led me on a damn fine goose chase, toots.”
For the first time since Xigbar offered up the tracing brand, Demyx hesitates. “You're pretty good at chasin', yourself,” he mutters, and Xigbar takes this as permission to lean closer, reaching across the cramped table and staring at Demyx over a tin pitcher.
“C'mon,” he says, and swallows thickly, nervous as a damn schoolboy. It's true, though, so he says it. “This place's your home now. You can stop running.”
Demyx looks up at him, and he don't shy away when Xigbar leans down. Their lips are almost touching when he smiles suddenly. “This is my home,” he says, easy as good drink going down. “But don't tell me you've stopped chasin', sugar.”
Next thing he's gone, and there's a whoosh of the bedroom door closing, the blip that means it's locked. Xigbar is left making bedroom eyes at the clock panel in the wall, where Demyx's head was moments ago. He grits his teeth, and for one long moment seriously considers renovating into an open-door layout: just a network of easily-accessible, interconnected spaces.
Then he straightens slowly, and woodenly starts clearing away the dishes. Bloody Hindus.
*
They meet again when Xigbar strolls out the toilet, zipping up his fly, and nearly walks into a shirtless Demyx waiting outside the door. He's wearing a determined expression, and the way his right shoulder's ever-so-slightly tensed tells Xigbar that it's time to get down to business.
“The tracing brand, huh?” he says, and Demyx just nods, hands stuffed deep into his pockets. Xigbar doesn't need to look in order to know they're clenched tight as fucking walnuts. Kid's made of tough shit. “It'll hurt, you know,” and Demyx nods again, so Xigbar just says “C'mon then, toots,” and steers him off by the shoulder.
Removing a tracing brand ain't a pleasant experience no matter how you cut it, so Xigbar figures it's best to get it over with quick. The equipment's all in the rear hold, as well as a low operating table pushed up against a corner that Demyx uses as a makeshift seat. He looks like a kid coming to the doctor's for his first shot, all pale and jittery; not that Xigbar as any real experience on that front, seeing as he can't even remember his first visit to a doctor, other than after his run-in with the Grue.
“Right, the first part's real quick,” he says, and Demyx relaxes a bit. “Still gonna hurt though, so don't get stupid,” and he takes his forearm, twists it so the elbow's facing down. His thumb presses down on the inner skin; it's pale, almost translucent, and pocked with a few needle scars. He rubs slightly, up and down, feeling the difference between his calloused skin and Demyx's. The kid quirks an eyebrow at him.
“It ain't gettin' any quicker, sugar,” he says, and Xigbar nails him with a sharp look, mouth flat.
“No heart, Walker,” he says, and turns his attention to the armbrand. It's a crude thing, grey and plain except for a small panel with six buttons, inlaid in neat pairs. He punches in the code, and the little light that had blinked on upon activation blinks off again, simple as that. Demyx's arm jerks as the spikes that had perforated his skin slide out again, all the way back from the bone. Xigbar's watching his face-the kid grits his teeth, face twisted into a snarl, but he don't cry out or look away from the armband. Tough shit.
He grips the device and slides it off, careful with the wound, while Demyx stares at the eight holes bleeding down his bicep with a mixture of disgust and fascination.
“Fucking Nebari,” he spits out, right fist clenched tight. Instead of replying Xigbar merely tosses him a compress, signals for him to get started on the bandaging. He turns on the halogen lamp above the table, activates a local sterilizing scan, and fishes out a pair of nitrile gloves.
“How long've you been hunted?” he asks, as Demyx bites off the stray end of a bandage and ties it off with a couple of firm tugs.
“Dunno. A while,” Demyx says, shrugging listlessly. “There was a couple o' small fry fore you stepped in. Been wanted since my first time outta Widow's Belly, an' it's been an awful long time since.”
“Lots of running, eh?” Xigbar puts on the gloves, and Demyx lies down on his stomach without being told. He could do so much with the scenario in any other context but this. Well, shitcakes. He lays a hand on the bare curve of Demyx's back. “So how'd you get out of Crematoria that time, anyhow?”
Demyx twists around to shoot him a look of pure murder, and fuck if the medgun in Xigbar's hand don't almost shatter from the force.
“Alright, alright, later,” Xigbar says, and inserts the tip into the tense muscle between Demyx's neck and shoulder; the kid lets out a half-groan and slowly goes limp, and from then on it's just Xigbar and the good ol' surgeon's needle.
*
“So where's it at?”
Seventeen hours later and Demyx is up and kicking, or at least vaguely staggering around. He's still shaking off the tranq, speech slurred, eyelids heavy even after a long shower. Xigbar'd offered a backrub to work out the stiffness clamping down on his shoulders and back, but Demyx just tsk'd at him as if he could see right through that and stumbled off. Now he's positioned back-to-mirror in the water room, craning around and trying to get a look at the shot.
“You ain't gonna see it, toots,” Xigbar's cleaned up the scene and whiled away the hours. Now he's feet-up on the table with a glass of rotgut chilling in his hand. “First-rate nanotech, told you as much.”
'Nother good thing about a one-man ship, no shouting across rooms 'cept if you feel like punching the other motherfucker in the face. Or you have a really great orgasm. Xigbar's finger twitches.
“But where?” Demyx calls back, still fucking around with the glass. “Get your ass here, sugar, I'm 'bout fit to kiss you right now.”
That gets Xigbar up and moving, no questions asked. Demyx is standing barefoot on the wet floor, staring at his reflection with something akin to wonder. He's still shirtless, damp from the shower, and Xigbar's trousers hang low on his hips, smooth skin dipping all the way down to an oversized belt. At Xigbar's entrance he grins, wide as a galaxy and burning like a sun. He looks right on the other side of ecstatic.
“Got a free man with you now, sugar,” he says, eyes big and shining. “No more prison rocks, no more fuckin' bounties.”
“Unless you do something reckless again,” Xigbar says, leaning against the doorframe. “Then you'll have to start running, and I'm gonna have t'catch you all over again.”
“Aw, shucks,” Demyx demurs, still smiling fit to swallow planets. “You sure that's such a bad thing? Y'know I'd give you a decent chase.”
“I've chained you down once before,” Xigbar warns. “Don't think I ain't fit to do it again.”
“Course you are,” Demyx says. “S'part of the reason I came along for the ride.”
That catches Xigbar off-guard. His silence makes Demyx glance up, head tilted, and something about his expression must have struck a chord, 'cause Demyx's smile slips at the edges, falters into something soft and open that's a complete one-eighty from his usual swagger. He stares at Xigbar, and Xigbar stares back, and those three seconds are enough to drive home what he's done-not one night, not five, but from now 'til the fucking evacuation notice, Crematoria and Hindu yoga and all.
“C'mon,” Demyx says, low and rough. He steps closer to Xigbar, hands at his sides. “C'mon, I have a kink in my back.”
Now Xigbar, he can't make heads or tails of that comment. He follows Demyx out of the water room and through the bedroom door, into the main hold, completely nonplussed. Once there Demyx kneels down, curling his feet under his ass and placing his palms to the floor.
“Right, push down,” he says, and Xigbar suddenly gets he was called here as an assistant; steps over and hastily lays his hands over Demyx's upper back. The muscles are all tense as wound-up springs, stiff from drugged sleep and the operation. He pushes hard and Demyx lets out a mighty groan; his hands slide forward and his head falls to his knees, leaning down like a man in prayer.
“More,” he grunts, and Xigbar's fingers find those twin spots right between his shoulder blades, another pair at the top of his spine; he presses down and Demyx makes the sexiest sound Xigbar's heard in his life. He starts digging tiny circles, working out the tension, and all of a sudden Demyx simply unfurls, expanding up and out like a red giant about to go. He tumbles forward with a completely lascivious moan, splayed out on the floor with his back a perfect naked arc under Xigbar's hands.
“...'kay,” he says after a moment. “That helped. Now the second position.”
There follows an exhibition of poses as bizarre as it was the first time, with Demyx breathing slow and measured, expelling the stiffness of his body bit by bit. Except now Xigbar's up close and personal, pushing and supporting and running his hands over smooth, warm skin. He don't say nothing, just does as he's told, but Demyx arches under his fingers like it's his lifelong calling, and it ain't any great surprise that by the ten minutes it takes Demyx to finish the ground exercises he's already hard as a rock. First time they got together he was all trussed up, hands cuffed to the bed, and being able to touch like this-just touch, intimate and natural as breathing-feels almost as good as sex.
“Mmm,” Demyx actually purrs, low and rumbling in his throat, head angled high with his eyes closed serenely. He's facing away from Xigbar, balanced on his arms, hips flat against the floor and his spine a perfect concave. His long legs stretch out to the back like a comet's tail, feet pointed and soles bowed in with precision. Xigbar can see how his ribs expand with each breath, deep and rhythmic as a sonar buoy.
The last thing Xigbar feels right now is deep and goddamn rhythmic.
“Bend down,” Demyx instructs from the front, “on your knees, you gotta press forward. Lower back, that's it.” Xigbar gets into position, half-incredulous, kneeling over Demyx and balanced above his ass. His hands settle around Demyx's waist, thumbs nestled snugly into the twin dips of his tailbone, and Demyx moves with the touch, a graceful outward sweeping motion that starts at Xigbar's fingertips and travels up his spine in a wave. His ass moves up, naturally, and before Xigbar can say anything it's rubbing up against him, smooth and firm and unmistakably deliberate.
“De-” But Demyx makes this sound, low in his throat, and between one moment and the next he's on his elbows, head bowed down, ass up in the air and pushed tight against Xigbar's crotch.
“Xigbar Taylor,” he drawls, amused, and nails Xigbar with a low-lidded over-the-shoulder glance. “Don't go tellin' me you're too old for this shit, eh?”
Xigbar nearly laughs out loud. He grins, all teeth, and pushes back into Demyx's touch, cock hard through the fabric of his trousers. Demyx makes this sound from the back of his throat, second cousin of a whimper, and ducks his head, so that his spine is one long snaking column from the top of his ass to the bare nape of his neck.
It is at this point Xigbar decides they won't be needing any clothes.
That leads to a pretty mean rough-and-tumble, during which Demyx says 'fuck' a lot and Xigbar learns it's a lot harder to do away with your belts when they're around someone else's waist. It ends with Demyx on his back, Xigbar pinning him down, and both of them panting fit to blow out engine fires.
“So,” Xigbar says, “am I off the hook yet?”
Demyx raises an eyebrow at him, still breathless. “What d'you think, sugar?” he says, and pulls Xigbar down to kiss him on the mouth. It's hot and wet and clicks together a lot faster than Xigbar expected, Demyx grinning sharp against his teeth. He drags his nails down Xigbar's sides, fingers splayed over the scars, and fuck, that feels just as good as he remembered. Xigbar breaks away and bites at Demyx's neck, that place where he tranq'd him earlier, and the sound it draws out almost makes him come in his pants.
“No lube,” he grunts, because fuck if that's gonna happen. Demyx seems to have realized the same thing; he swears under his breath and snakes a hand from Xigbar's back to his wrist, drawing Xigbar's hand up to his mouth and licking a long, wet stripe up his palm, tonguing at his fingers. It feels way better than it should, considering he has calluses like Widow's Belly has rings, but then he already knows Demyx's mouth is one of the most talented this side of the midzone. As if to prove himself, Demyx takes his fingers in deep, sucking at the knuckles, throat working expertly. Xigbar finds himself unable to look away, trapped in the trail of saliva down Demyx's chin, the angle of his heavy-lidded eyes.
“Ahh,” Demyx pants, letting up for air; his lips are swollen and gleaming with spit. “Have at.” He rolls his hips, and Xigbar reaches down between his legs, rough and clumsy with speed. Neither of them is exactly composed, and when the first finger goes in their breath hitches at the same time, muscles tensing. There's a moment of tightness, then Demyx starts moving with him, opening up like a locked chest, giving way with twitches and a descant of small noises. He rocks into Xigbar, shoulders steadied against the metal floor.
Third finger in, and-now, now-Xigbar doesn't have to be told twice, he's already wet with pre-come, rubbing against Demyx's stomach, his cock. They press together, Demyx hooking his arms around Xigbar's neck, and at the first thrust he emits a little ngh sound, right in Xigbar's ear.
“Say,” he whispers, breathless but laughing a little. “Know what's the-uhn-first step to enlightenment?”
“No,” Xigbar grunts, because he's fucking Demyx into the floor of the main hold of his ship and there's not much his brain can process beyond one-syllable words at this point. Demyx is tight and hot and fuck, he will never be too old for this shit.
“Kāma,” Demyx growls into his ear. Xigbar can feel the smile against his skin. “Sensual pleasure.”
And that's just-unbelievable, incredible, when of all the bloody goddamn urchins in the universe he had to choose the cockblocker-Xigbar makes a sound that's both frustration and need, and slams Demyx to the floor. He bites at his jugular, feeling the breath catch between his teeth, and thrusts and thrusts and thrusts until Demyx's hips buck and he comes, teeth gritted, trembling with the force of it.
Demyx himself is soon to follow, desperate and sweaty and grinding against Xigbar like he did on their first time together. He arches up blindly, panting without air, and when Xigbar curls a hand around his cock and rubs he comes in messy splurts across both their stomachs. There's a single, frozen moment where their chests are stuck together, slick with sweat and come, and Demyx seems to be defying the gravity system of the ship, face buried in the crook of Xigbar's neck. Then he collapses back down, dragging Xigbar with him, and they lay sprawled on the floor, breathing erratically and bumping noses.
“Demyx Walker,” Xigbar says eventually, once he can both articulate himself and muster up the energy to talk. “I'll be damned. You're one sly Hindu fucker.”
“Heh.” Demyx's breath is hot against his ear and temple, a nice contradiction to the chill of the room. “So's long as you ain't sayin' you didn't like it, sugar.”
“Shit.”
Then Demyx is pushing at him, lax but insistent, and Xigbar gets the hint, rolls over and takes the bottom rung. “Mm,” Demyx says, which could mean any number of things, but apparently signals lights-out, because he flops on Xigbar and closes his eyes, breaths evening out into that familiar deep cadence.
Well. Xigbar does a quick survey of the situation-a damn better conclusion than their first encounter, and a pretty nice lookout for the future, too. Morning'll be hell, what with his spine and the floor not being on speaking terms, but for now, Demyx is a warm weight on top of him, half-tiger purring sleepily and digging his claws in Xigbar's sides.
He closes his eyes, and on that night, dreams of their first hunt together. Tomorrow morning they'll have that joint shower.
D A R K W I N D O W S V E R S E
SUNBURN <<<
>>> UNKNOWN
All characters © their respective owners; I claim no right nor profit.
Part of kokanshu's Dark Windows verse. Sequel to her story Sunburn, in correlation with blizzardseason's prequel-seems we're chronicling the sundry adventures of Xigbar and Demyx, bounty hunters and impromptu married couple extraordinaire. I wake up one morning to find the prompt Demyx does yoga abandoned on my doorstep and, well, it's not as if I could leave it there to die or something. D:
Banner art by the awesome pouikee, best queen fanartist this side o' the space rift. Dedicated to and beta'd by kokanshu, god bless her southspace accent.
Kā( r )ma
a long, slow singing into vacuum
First time Demyx came aboard Xigbar's ship, he said it was a sweet ride. 'Course, he'd just chained Xigbar to the bed and nicked his clothes at the time, but it was still an honest sentiment, and when he boards the plank again it's pretty much a done deal. He takes to the old thing like a cat to a sheet roof, and no amount of thrown boots can persuade him to let go.
“Aw, man,” he says, walking the corridors with a big stupid grin on his face, peering through doorways and fiddling with random wall switches. The lighting system makes an indignant sound of protest and flickers warningly. “It's even better when I ain't worried you're gonna tranq my ass.”
“Keep pushing buttons like that and I just might,” Xigbar growls, but it's without any real bite. The blinking clock panel informs them it's godforsaken o' clock-no lights on at the station, two blinks away from tomorrow. They spent the night at the party, dizzy with adrenaline and newfound freedom, but the highs have finally simmered down enough for Demyx to declare a strategic retreat. There are still neon designs around his eyes and face, smudged into new patterns. Some of the paint's rubbed off on Xigbar's fingertips, the base of his palm. He sticks his hands in his pockets, feeling vaguely hungover.
Demyx shoots him a glance from where he's hip-deep in a supply closet Xigbar didn't even know he had until now. “Heya,” he says. “What's wrong, sugar? I'm just havin' a look-see, no harm done.”
“Nothing,” Xigbar says, pushing himself off the wall. His spine complains silently, joints aching. Maybe he really is too damn old to be chasing jailbirds around space stations at the far end of Nowheresville. “It's just pretty late, y'know? I ain't never been what you might call a youthful partying type.”
“Shucks, that's a lie,” Demyx grins, all cheek. “You were a wild thing out there on the dance floor. Never figured you had it in ya.” And when Xigbar raises a sceptical eyebrow, he quirks a smile, softer than you'd expect from a guy with nine prison hickeys on his arm. “Alright, alright, don' look at me that way. Let's get to bed, how's that?”
“Sounds mighty fine,” Xigbar says. “Think you remember the way?”
“Who'd ever forget a boat sweet as this?” Demyx strokes a hand down a doorframe, wearing an expression of immense fondness, and that's it, right there, when Xigbar knows this one's definitely for keeps.
*
He wakes up with rumpled sheets and a head stuffed full of lead wool, feeling strangely cold through the blankets. It takes a full minute, then he remembers-no room on the bunk, so Demyx had merely crawled atop him and lay down, sweet as you please. He was half tiger, purring and digging claws into Xigbar's ribs, 'cept it didn't feel half bad and he sort of misses it now that it's gone.
The trip from the bed to the door is short but dynamic, eyes still bleary and mouth tasting like his engine throttle after it hasn't been cleaned for a week. He stumbles out and into the main hold, where he's greeted by the sight of Demyx standing on one leg, the other extended behind him in a straight line, bent at the waist and arms reaching out towards the wall. He's breathing deep, even breaths, and doesn't seem to consider anything about the situation bizarre, which is where he and Xigbar clearly differ in opinions.
“Uh,” he says, but Demyx doesn't hear, still caught up in the magical world of living statuary and looking like one of the Nebari's user-friendly roadsigns, the sort they stick before prison rocks saying “WELCOME” in capitalized neon. It always prompts new kids into mortified laughter or tears-he's seen both, from the other side of the protective barrier. Demyx was probably the laughing kind, if he wasn't stoned off his ass; but again, he'd gotten plenty of chances to get used to the scenery.
“Hello,” and Xigbar blinks; the kid's switched positions, moving from a human table to some sort of praying mantis impersonation. He speaks so quietly it barely goes past his lips, but the ship's pretty silent, only got the hum of the generators whirring in the background. Xigbar can't figure out whether it's because Demyx is so calm, or if he's calm because of the quiet. He asks.
“Hmm,” Demyx says, and doesn't elaborate further. Xigbar watches him from the sidelines, leaning against the entrance, equally mystified and incredulous.
“This a way of keeping your youthful figure, toots?” He asks at length. “Don' worry, you're plenty skinny enough as is.” Which is disconcertingly true, actually, and either Demyx has gotta start wearing smaller rags or Xigbar's gotta start feeding him more, because he ain't having no skeleton shavers wandering around on his deck.
Demyx exhales, slow and measured. “Ain't that kinda exercise,” he murmurs, and slides into a pose that should by all rights dislocate his shoulder. His ankles are facing in opposite directions. Xigbar stares.
“Oh, got a name, has it?”
Demyx pauses in his arcane breathing rhythms to spare him a seriously annoyed glance. “Yoga,” he says, a tad pointedly, and goes back to stretching.
Xigbar considers this. “Looks as weird as it sounds. Got a point, our yoga?”
Demyx doesn't answer, just shifts again, smooth as a turn in zero g, and suddenly his ass is waving hello to Xigbar, legs braced wide open on the floor, and he's bending at the hips, leaning forward and down with a small groan. He takes a deep breath, keeps it in for a beat. Exhales.
Xigbar snaps his mouth shut and makes a point of looking.
There follows a strange exhibition of poses wherein Demyx, wearing a look of utmost concentration, does things with his pelvis that Xigbar thought were the exclusive territory of Kalish dancers. He moves from one stance to another with controlled ease, like switching well-oiled gears, smooth and efficient. Xigbar leans against the door and silently counts: at least four are certified sexual positions.
The coup de grace is five full minutes of lying spread-eagle on the floor, dovetailed between piles of junk and old metal piping, unmoving. Demyx's fingers are splayed facedown; he looks like he's trying to reach through the floor and touch Earth space. Xigbar can see his bare feet, his bony elbows, how every inch of his body expands with his breathing. He looks like he's singing into vacuum.
Xigbar starts clapping, slow and offbeat, amused. Demyx's eyes snap open.
“Nice show you got there, toots,” he says. “So in what language does 'yoga' translate to 'foreplay'?”
“Fuck,” Demyx huffs, twisting upwards hastily. “Fuck you.” He brushes past Xigbar and into the bedroom. The electronic door slides shut behind him with a faint whoosh, unhurried but still vaguely accusatory.
*
It takes contraband coffee and the promise of a complimentary breakfast to get Demyx to lower the drawbridge and come down from his tower. Xigbar's in the kitchen, doing stuff over the hob and rummaging in his devastatingly bare pantry for spice boxes. He ain't got much, but what's there is damn high quality. There's rice porridge and injera bread; a hot, sweet tea boiling over the stove; hastily chopped salad and a jar of real honey. He even managed to cook up some chutney, grinding tamarinds and cinnamon the way the old gypsy woman taught him after she gave him the eyepatch. It comes out all right, and the medley of smells is such that two minutes after he sets down the tin plates, Demyx appears with another musical whoosh, freshly-showered and scowling.
“You ain't off the hook yet,” he informs Xigbar as he plops down in a chair, manoeuvring three helpings of porridge simultaneously. He looks fair pissed, so Xigbar doesn't indulge in sarcasm, just shuts his trap and focuses on the serving. Turns out eating's not the problem so far as Demyx's concerned, because he ain't even sat down when he needs to get up to bring out second helpings and reinforcements. It still comes out too little; he's not used to cooking double.
Demyx smells of steam and the rough soap Xigbar's got in the water room; his hair is damp and there's a stray drop of water sliding down his neck. He's wearing several loose layers, dully coloured, which Xigbar recognizes from his own wardrobe. The sight makes his stomach lurch unexpectedly, like the ship when a bit of space trash suddenly catches in the engine-he swallows down a mouthful of tea, burning-hot, and tries not to look at Demyx's collarbones, left bare by the overlarge shirt-neck, or his fingers under long sleeves.
“So,” he coughs, tongue stinging. “What's this yoga thing all about?”
Demyx shoots him a sharp look. “Funny you bein' interested, cowboy.”
“Goddamn,” Xigbar mutters. Seems there's no way but forward, but damn if this boy ain't turning him into a big fat pile of mush. “I'm sorry about earlier, okay? I know fuck all 'bout these things, wasn't expecting to find you out there, playing at zen. It ain't every day I wake up to find scrawny blond guys stretched out in my hold, y'know.” That last comes out faintly reproachful. He glances at Demyx, at his bicep, hidden under roughspun wool, where the tracing armband is still imbedded. Demyx follows his gaze and quiets down, lurking behind the rim of his mug, and Xigbar can practically hear the cogwheels turning in his head.
“I was raised Hindu,” he says after a long silence, fingers deftly snatching up another slice of bread. “Big fuck off crack religion, got more gods than it knows what to do with. Started with my folks, an' I got into it later down the road.” He takes a bite, wipes a smudge of honey from his mouth. “Don't drink cow milk, try to keep my karma clean. The usual stuff.”
Xigbar takes it all in, fiddling with a convenient breadknife. He only knows the outlines of Demyx's background, not that they've had the chance to familiarize, but this is definitely a promising start. He grunts in what he hopes is a companionable fashion. “Ain't much danger of that 'round here, toots, the way food prices are nowadays.”
“Well, I'm just sayin', ain't I,” Demyx shoots back, holding a cup of tea between two fingers. “Anyhow, fair big on enlightenment and the like, we are. That's where yoga comes from-supposed to lead you to a better state of being. Name originally means union.”
“That so?” Xigbar arches an eyebrow at him. “Seems I weren't too far off, then.”
“Well,” Demyx takes a dainty sip, raises an eyebrow right back. “It ain't the most wholesome o' religions.”
“I'm starting to like the sound of that.” One of the perks to living in a one-man ship: no matter where you are, the bedroom's always two steps away. “You were doing some awful suggestive posing back there, if you don't mind me saying.”
“Naw,” Demyx kicks back the chair, rises to his feet with a generous sway of the hips. “Tol' you before, I'm real flexible. But you're forgettin' one thing, sugar.”
“An' what's that?”
“I said you ain't off the hook yet.” And with that, he's up and out of the room, still holding half a loaf smeared liberally with honey, licking it off his fingers like he knows what it's worth. The electronic door slides shut behind him with a decisive whoosh. Xigbar's seriously growing to hate that sound.
“Hey,” he says, rising from the table himself. “The fuck, Walker? Get back here!”
“Suck cock, Taylor!” Demyx's voice from beyond the door, which he's doubtless locked by now. It's almost sing-song. “An' don't think you're gettin' none tomorrow, neither.”
“What the,” Xigbar mutters, standing like a fool in an empty kitchen with one neon lamp flickering above the oven. He can't even muster the words for a counter. “Union, my left eyeball,” is what he settles for eventually, shot from under his breath as he starts clearing the table, grumbling all the while.
*
Xigbar knows Demyx is a man of his word, more or less, so's long as that word is kept in plain sight at all times and denied any potentially sharp objects, but he really had no idea what he was getting into this time. Technically speaking, they'd hooked up the day before; everything was still supposed to be in the honeymoon phase. Except apparently, they'd decided to save time and skip right to the divorce.
“Mmph.” He wakes up slowly, eyelids heavy; the ship had demanded work long into the night, and he ain't never one to refuse his baby. Demyx was still absent from the bedroom when he turned in, smelling of oil and engine cleaner and looking 'bout the same. The side room's door was still locked. Staring into the chipped wall mirror, Xigbar couldn't exactly blame him-figured if he'd've turned up at that ol' bar looking like that, Demyx would've handed himself to the Nebari willingly, Gravedigger's or no.
He closes his eyes, remembering the night before-a warm weight on top of him, nails scratching down his sides. He'd been looking forward to that. Hell, been looking forward to a lot of things.
Bloody Hindus.
Rolling off the bed is a painful process, muscles still aching from yesterday's work down at the hull, and his spine's definitely not getting any younger. Usually he'd suck it up, lay on the hot water and grimace his way through the morning, 'cept now that Demyx is here he keeps coming up with new possibilities. Backrubs. Lazy mornings. Joint showers. Nothing in the ship's big enough for two people, not that Xigbar considers this as a particularly bad thing.
Demyx isn't in the water room, either. He showers alone, grimacing twice as much.
When he stumbles out the door and into the main hold, yoga time is apparently over, 'cause Demyx is in the kitchen but he's still unwashed, tousled from the exercise. He's messing with something over the stove that smells like coffee and there's a half-assed sort of breakfast on the table-it's a sight so completely unfamiliar in the context of his ship that Xigbar actually has to stop in the doorway and let it sink in. Demyx spares his entrance a glance and goes back to manoeuvring around the cupboards, unimpressed.
“Thought you'd be hungry,” he says, banging down a pot of good ol' steaming mud on the table. “Found some leftovers in the cracks. Better restock soon, though, 'cause we ain't got so much as a Grue's eyeball left for eatin'.”
“Right. Er, thanks.” He sits down gingerly, pours himself a cup of tar. The food's all hot, freshly-made. He thinks, the last time someone other than him cooked in the ship was when he still had two eyes, which makes it ancient history. “Where'd you learn your way 'round a frying pan?”
“Livin' all by my lonesome. Same as you, I'm guessin'.” Demyx plops himself down across from the table, snagging a bit of toast. “Seemed a shame to leave the table empty, what with me already up an' you workin' like a dog yesterday.”
Xigbar raises an eyebrow. “Does this mean-?”
“Forget it,” Demyx interjects with finality. “It ain't over 'til I say so.”
“Don't y'think we oughta save the bickering for a later date?” Xigbar leans across the table, aiming for a reconciliatory expression. His face ain't exactly best suited for it, but fuck that for the time being. “After all that running? You led me on a damn fine goose chase, toots.”
For the first time since Xigbar offered up the tracing brand, Demyx hesitates. “You're pretty good at chasin', yourself,” he mutters, and Xigbar takes this as permission to lean closer, reaching across the cramped table and staring at Demyx over a tin pitcher.
“C'mon,” he says, and swallows thickly, nervous as a damn schoolboy. It's true, though, so he says it. “This place's your home now. You can stop running.”
Demyx looks up at him, and he don't shy away when Xigbar leans down. Their lips are almost touching when he smiles suddenly. “This is my home,” he says, easy as good drink going down. “But don't tell me you've stopped chasin', sugar.”
Next thing he's gone, and there's a whoosh of the bedroom door closing, the blip that means it's locked. Xigbar is left making bedroom eyes at the clock panel in the wall, where Demyx's head was moments ago. He grits his teeth, and for one long moment seriously considers renovating into an open-door layout: just a network of easily-accessible, interconnected spaces.
Then he straightens slowly, and woodenly starts clearing away the dishes. Bloody Hindus.
*
They meet again when Xigbar strolls out the toilet, zipping up his fly, and nearly walks into a shirtless Demyx waiting outside the door. He's wearing a determined expression, and the way his right shoulder's ever-so-slightly tensed tells Xigbar that it's time to get down to business.
“The tracing brand, huh?” he says, and Demyx just nods, hands stuffed deep into his pockets. Xigbar doesn't need to look in order to know they're clenched tight as fucking walnuts. Kid's made of tough shit. “It'll hurt, you know,” and Demyx nods again, so Xigbar just says “C'mon then, toots,” and steers him off by the shoulder.
Removing a tracing brand ain't a pleasant experience no matter how you cut it, so Xigbar figures it's best to get it over with quick. The equipment's all in the rear hold, as well as a low operating table pushed up against a corner that Demyx uses as a makeshift seat. He looks like a kid coming to the doctor's for his first shot, all pale and jittery; not that Xigbar as any real experience on that front, seeing as he can't even remember his first visit to a doctor, other than after his run-in with the Grue.
“Right, the first part's real quick,” he says, and Demyx relaxes a bit. “Still gonna hurt though, so don't get stupid,” and he takes his forearm, twists it so the elbow's facing down. His thumb presses down on the inner skin; it's pale, almost translucent, and pocked with a few needle scars. He rubs slightly, up and down, feeling the difference between his calloused skin and Demyx's. The kid quirks an eyebrow at him.
“It ain't gettin' any quicker, sugar,” he says, and Xigbar nails him with a sharp look, mouth flat.
“No heart, Walker,” he says, and turns his attention to the armbrand. It's a crude thing, grey and plain except for a small panel with six buttons, inlaid in neat pairs. He punches in the code, and the little light that had blinked on upon activation blinks off again, simple as that. Demyx's arm jerks as the spikes that had perforated his skin slide out again, all the way back from the bone. Xigbar's watching his face-the kid grits his teeth, face twisted into a snarl, but he don't cry out or look away from the armband. Tough shit.
He grips the device and slides it off, careful with the wound, while Demyx stares at the eight holes bleeding down his bicep with a mixture of disgust and fascination.
“Fucking Nebari,” he spits out, right fist clenched tight. Instead of replying Xigbar merely tosses him a compress, signals for him to get started on the bandaging. He turns on the halogen lamp above the table, activates a local sterilizing scan, and fishes out a pair of nitrile gloves.
“How long've you been hunted?” he asks, as Demyx bites off the stray end of a bandage and ties it off with a couple of firm tugs.
“Dunno. A while,” Demyx says, shrugging listlessly. “There was a couple o' small fry fore you stepped in. Been wanted since my first time outta Widow's Belly, an' it's been an awful long time since.”
“Lots of running, eh?” Xigbar puts on the gloves, and Demyx lies down on his stomach without being told. He could do so much with the scenario in any other context but this. Well, shitcakes. He lays a hand on the bare curve of Demyx's back. “So how'd you get out of Crematoria that time, anyhow?”
Demyx twists around to shoot him a look of pure murder, and fuck if the medgun in Xigbar's hand don't almost shatter from the force.
“Alright, alright, later,” Xigbar says, and inserts the tip into the tense muscle between Demyx's neck and shoulder; the kid lets out a half-groan and slowly goes limp, and from then on it's just Xigbar and the good ol' surgeon's needle.
*
“So where's it at?”
Seventeen hours later and Demyx is up and kicking, or at least vaguely staggering around. He's still shaking off the tranq, speech slurred, eyelids heavy even after a long shower. Xigbar'd offered a backrub to work out the stiffness clamping down on his shoulders and back, but Demyx just tsk'd at him as if he could see right through that and stumbled off. Now he's positioned back-to-mirror in the water room, craning around and trying to get a look at the shot.
“You ain't gonna see it, toots,” Xigbar's cleaned up the scene and whiled away the hours. Now he's feet-up on the table with a glass of rotgut chilling in his hand. “First-rate nanotech, told you as much.”
'Nother good thing about a one-man ship, no shouting across rooms 'cept if you feel like punching the other motherfucker in the face. Or you have a really great orgasm. Xigbar's finger twitches.
“But where?” Demyx calls back, still fucking around with the glass. “Get your ass here, sugar, I'm 'bout fit to kiss you right now.”
That gets Xigbar up and moving, no questions asked. Demyx is standing barefoot on the wet floor, staring at his reflection with something akin to wonder. He's still shirtless, damp from the shower, and Xigbar's trousers hang low on his hips, smooth skin dipping all the way down to an oversized belt. At Xigbar's entrance he grins, wide as a galaxy and burning like a sun. He looks right on the other side of ecstatic.
“Got a free man with you now, sugar,” he says, eyes big and shining. “No more prison rocks, no more fuckin' bounties.”
“Unless you do something reckless again,” Xigbar says, leaning against the doorframe. “Then you'll have to start running, and I'm gonna have t'catch you all over again.”
“Aw, shucks,” Demyx demurs, still smiling fit to swallow planets. “You sure that's such a bad thing? Y'know I'd give you a decent chase.”
“I've chained you down once before,” Xigbar warns. “Don't think I ain't fit to do it again.”
“Course you are,” Demyx says. “S'part of the reason I came along for the ride.”
That catches Xigbar off-guard. His silence makes Demyx glance up, head tilted, and something about his expression must have struck a chord, 'cause Demyx's smile slips at the edges, falters into something soft and open that's a complete one-eighty from his usual swagger. He stares at Xigbar, and Xigbar stares back, and those three seconds are enough to drive home what he's done-not one night, not five, but from now 'til the fucking evacuation notice, Crematoria and Hindu yoga and all.
“C'mon,” Demyx says, low and rough. He steps closer to Xigbar, hands at his sides. “C'mon, I have a kink in my back.”
Now Xigbar, he can't make heads or tails of that comment. He follows Demyx out of the water room and through the bedroom door, into the main hold, completely nonplussed. Once there Demyx kneels down, curling his feet under his ass and placing his palms to the floor.
“Right, push down,” he says, and Xigbar suddenly gets he was called here as an assistant; steps over and hastily lays his hands over Demyx's upper back. The muscles are all tense as wound-up springs, stiff from drugged sleep and the operation. He pushes hard and Demyx lets out a mighty groan; his hands slide forward and his head falls to his knees, leaning down like a man in prayer.
“More,” he grunts, and Xigbar's fingers find those twin spots right between his shoulder blades, another pair at the top of his spine; he presses down and Demyx makes the sexiest sound Xigbar's heard in his life. He starts digging tiny circles, working out the tension, and all of a sudden Demyx simply unfurls, expanding up and out like a red giant about to go. He tumbles forward with a completely lascivious moan, splayed out on the floor with his back a perfect naked arc under Xigbar's hands.
“...'kay,” he says after a moment. “That helped. Now the second position.”
There follows an exhibition of poses as bizarre as it was the first time, with Demyx breathing slow and measured, expelling the stiffness of his body bit by bit. Except now Xigbar's up close and personal, pushing and supporting and running his hands over smooth, warm skin. He don't say nothing, just does as he's told, but Demyx arches under his fingers like it's his lifelong calling, and it ain't any great surprise that by the ten minutes it takes Demyx to finish the ground exercises he's already hard as a rock. First time they got together he was all trussed up, hands cuffed to the bed, and being able to touch like this-just touch, intimate and natural as breathing-feels almost as good as sex.
“Mmm,” Demyx actually purrs, low and rumbling in his throat, head angled high with his eyes closed serenely. He's facing away from Xigbar, balanced on his arms, hips flat against the floor and his spine a perfect concave. His long legs stretch out to the back like a comet's tail, feet pointed and soles bowed in with precision. Xigbar can see how his ribs expand with each breath, deep and rhythmic as a sonar buoy.
The last thing Xigbar feels right now is deep and goddamn rhythmic.
“Bend down,” Demyx instructs from the front, “on your knees, you gotta press forward. Lower back, that's it.” Xigbar gets into position, half-incredulous, kneeling over Demyx and balanced above his ass. His hands settle around Demyx's waist, thumbs nestled snugly into the twin dips of his tailbone, and Demyx moves with the touch, a graceful outward sweeping motion that starts at Xigbar's fingertips and travels up his spine in a wave. His ass moves up, naturally, and before Xigbar can say anything it's rubbing up against him, smooth and firm and unmistakably deliberate.
“De-” But Demyx makes this sound, low in his throat, and between one moment and the next he's on his elbows, head bowed down, ass up in the air and pushed tight against Xigbar's crotch.
“Xigbar Taylor,” he drawls, amused, and nails Xigbar with a low-lidded over-the-shoulder glance. “Don't go tellin' me you're too old for this shit, eh?”
Xigbar nearly laughs out loud. He grins, all teeth, and pushes back into Demyx's touch, cock hard through the fabric of his trousers. Demyx makes this sound from the back of his throat, second cousin of a whimper, and ducks his head, so that his spine is one long snaking column from the top of his ass to the bare nape of his neck.
It is at this point Xigbar decides they won't be needing any clothes.
That leads to a pretty mean rough-and-tumble, during which Demyx says 'fuck' a lot and Xigbar learns it's a lot harder to do away with your belts when they're around someone else's waist. It ends with Demyx on his back, Xigbar pinning him down, and both of them panting fit to blow out engine fires.
“So,” Xigbar says, “am I off the hook yet?”
Demyx raises an eyebrow at him, still breathless. “What d'you think, sugar?” he says, and pulls Xigbar down to kiss him on the mouth. It's hot and wet and clicks together a lot faster than Xigbar expected, Demyx grinning sharp against his teeth. He drags his nails down Xigbar's sides, fingers splayed over the scars, and fuck, that feels just as good as he remembered. Xigbar breaks away and bites at Demyx's neck, that place where he tranq'd him earlier, and the sound it draws out almost makes him come in his pants.
“No lube,” he grunts, because fuck if that's gonna happen. Demyx seems to have realized the same thing; he swears under his breath and snakes a hand from Xigbar's back to his wrist, drawing Xigbar's hand up to his mouth and licking a long, wet stripe up his palm, tonguing at his fingers. It feels way better than it should, considering he has calluses like Widow's Belly has rings, but then he already knows Demyx's mouth is one of the most talented this side of the midzone. As if to prove himself, Demyx takes his fingers in deep, sucking at the knuckles, throat working expertly. Xigbar finds himself unable to look away, trapped in the trail of saliva down Demyx's chin, the angle of his heavy-lidded eyes.
“Ahh,” Demyx pants, letting up for air; his lips are swollen and gleaming with spit. “Have at.” He rolls his hips, and Xigbar reaches down between his legs, rough and clumsy with speed. Neither of them is exactly composed, and when the first finger goes in their breath hitches at the same time, muscles tensing. There's a moment of tightness, then Demyx starts moving with him, opening up like a locked chest, giving way with twitches and a descant of small noises. He rocks into Xigbar, shoulders steadied against the metal floor.
Third finger in, and-now, now-Xigbar doesn't have to be told twice, he's already wet with pre-come, rubbing against Demyx's stomach, his cock. They press together, Demyx hooking his arms around Xigbar's neck, and at the first thrust he emits a little ngh sound, right in Xigbar's ear.
“Say,” he whispers, breathless but laughing a little. “Know what's the-uhn-first step to enlightenment?”
“No,” Xigbar grunts, because he's fucking Demyx into the floor of the main hold of his ship and there's not much his brain can process beyond one-syllable words at this point. Demyx is tight and hot and fuck, he will never be too old for this shit.
“Kāma,” Demyx growls into his ear. Xigbar can feel the smile against his skin. “Sensual pleasure.”
And that's just-unbelievable, incredible, when of all the bloody goddamn urchins in the universe he had to choose the cockblocker-Xigbar makes a sound that's both frustration and need, and slams Demyx to the floor. He bites at his jugular, feeling the breath catch between his teeth, and thrusts and thrusts and thrusts until Demyx's hips buck and he comes, teeth gritted, trembling with the force of it.
Demyx himself is soon to follow, desperate and sweaty and grinding against Xigbar like he did on their first time together. He arches up blindly, panting without air, and when Xigbar curls a hand around his cock and rubs he comes in messy splurts across both their stomachs. There's a single, frozen moment where their chests are stuck together, slick with sweat and come, and Demyx seems to be defying the gravity system of the ship, face buried in the crook of Xigbar's neck. Then he collapses back down, dragging Xigbar with him, and they lay sprawled on the floor, breathing erratically and bumping noses.
“Demyx Walker,” Xigbar says eventually, once he can both articulate himself and muster up the energy to talk. “I'll be damned. You're one sly Hindu fucker.”
“Heh.” Demyx's breath is hot against his ear and temple, a nice contradiction to the chill of the room. “So's long as you ain't sayin' you didn't like it, sugar.”
“Shit.”
Then Demyx is pushing at him, lax but insistent, and Xigbar gets the hint, rolls over and takes the bottom rung. “Mm,” Demyx says, which could mean any number of things, but apparently signals lights-out, because he flops on Xigbar and closes his eyes, breaths evening out into that familiar deep cadence.
Well. Xigbar does a quick survey of the situation-a damn better conclusion than their first encounter, and a pretty nice lookout for the future, too. Morning'll be hell, what with his spine and the floor not being on speaking terms, but for now, Demyx is a warm weight on top of him, half-tiger purring sleepily and digging his claws in Xigbar's sides.
He closes his eyes, and on that night, dreams of their first hunt together. Tomorrow morning they'll have that joint shower.
D A R K W I N D O W S V E R S E
SUNBURN <<<
>>> UNKNOWN
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