so I heard you like strippers.
So I wrote you a Demyx. Stripping.
Moving to the music is mindless, something that's part of him with or without a heart, like the ocean and the rain and the pull of the current. He starts with his gloves, biting the tip of his middle finger before he pulls the first off with his teeth, ever-so-slowly. He runs a hand through his hair, already messed up from his preparations, and he grins at his audience because he knows it looks like sex hair. The other glove drops to the ground while his hand reaches for the zipper on his coat, but he doesn't pull; his hand smoothes down his chest instead, and the two water clones that were waiting in the wings slink up to him, watery hands caressing black leather before he pulls it down. Underneath is a white muscle shirt, clinging to his skin, and there are two studded belts holding up tight leather pants. As he begins to slip his coat off, ever-so-slowly while watery hands make his shirt transparent and pull it away, the spark of silver around his neck catches the light. He has a collar on, made out of the same black leather and silver accents as the rest of his clothing. The music shifts, hitting a key change, and the clones slip back as Demyx winks at his audience.
He moves forward, as fluid as the water he controls, and he places a foot on the edge of the stage, leaning down so the collar catches the light once more. Long fingers slide over the leather of his boots; he has the hands of a musician, and he’s playing the audience like he would his sitar as he slides the first off; there are no socks. His coat is still on, wide-open and hanging loosely around his shoulders; the cover it gives him allows him to take his other boot off a bit more quickly with the help of the water clone stroking down his legs. Demyx stands back up and turns, flashing the audience a grin before he begins to walk away, and fingers that he controls clutch as his coat; it slips to the ground.
He’s still wearing far too many pieces of clothing.
Once he’s walked a bit away, he turns again, wet shirt clinging even more thanks to the heat and the sweat and the touch of crystal-clear fingers. Demyx reaches for the hem, pulling it up slowly to reveal abs that are much more toned than one would expect from a slacker but exactly what one would expect from a swimmer. Once it’s over his head, he puts it around his shoulders, a trickle of sweat running down his collarbone, disappearing in the line of his hips. A water clone comes up behind him, running its hands over his arms and sides and leaving little glimmers of moisture on his skin, and Demyx leans his head back against it lazily.
Wet fingers dip beneath the edge of his pants, and he chuckles slightly; it’s lost in the music, but he reaches down to unbuckle the first of his belts, pulling it off with a flourish. The other is next, and when it’s free, it snaps on the empty air; this sound isn’t quite as lost, but the audience squirms, leaning forward in anticipation even as the belts fall to the ground. The clone brushes his shirt down to meet them, and suddenly the collar around his neck is the only thing he’s wearing above the waist. The audience is definitely appreciative, and even though he’s running out of time, Demyx keeps going; slowly, ever-so slowly, three pairs of hands (one flesh-and-blood, two hydrogen-and-oxygen) running over his thighs before a hand finally reaches for his zipper.
The clones fall away once again, dissolving into thin air, as Demyx pulls it down. He approaches the edge of the stage once again, leaning forward with a coy smile and blowing a kiss out into the crowd; a man in the back chuckles, but no one seems to notice. They’re completely enraptured with this siren, and as he slowly pulls the leather down to reveal firm thighs and tight black boxers, they lean even closer.
The pants fall and he steps out of them, smooth as the still surface of a mountain lake, and as his fingers curl into the waistline of his boxers, the music suddenly shrieks and stutters out. The audience looks around, completely confused, but Demyx just smiles. It’s made of shark-teeth and crashing waves, and suddenly the siren song is over; the ship has already crashed. They just don’t know it yet. “Sorry. That’s my cue.”
A portal swallows up Demyx and the laughing man in the back with the head of spiky red hair as the Heartless descend. The two Nobodies are miles away when they reappear, Demyx fully clothed once again. Axel’s stopped laughing now, but both of them are grinning, Axel’s smirk widening as he reaches out and snags the now-hidden collar on Demyx’s neck with a finger. It’s the first time Demyx has blushed all night.
It’s a job well done.
Moving to the music is mindless, something that's part of him with or without a heart, like the ocean and the rain and the pull of the current. He starts with his gloves, biting the tip of his middle finger before he pulls the first off with his teeth, ever-so-slowly. He runs a hand through his hair, already messed up from his preparations, and he grins at his audience because he knows it looks like sex hair. The other glove drops to the ground while his hand reaches for the zipper on his coat, but he doesn't pull; his hand smoothes down his chest instead, and the two water clones that were waiting in the wings slink up to him, watery hands caressing black leather before he pulls it down. Underneath is a white muscle shirt, clinging to his skin, and there are two studded belts holding up tight leather pants. As he begins to slip his coat off, ever-so-slowly while watery hands make his shirt transparent and pull it away, the spark of silver around his neck catches the light. He has a collar on, made out of the same black leather and silver accents as the rest of his clothing. The music shifts, hitting a key change, and the clones slip back as Demyx winks at his audience.
He moves forward, as fluid as the water he controls, and he places a foot on the edge of the stage, leaning down so the collar catches the light once more. Long fingers slide over the leather of his boots; he has the hands of a musician, and he’s playing the audience like he would his sitar as he slides the first off; there are no socks. His coat is still on, wide-open and hanging loosely around his shoulders; the cover it gives him allows him to take his other boot off a bit more quickly with the help of the water clone stroking down his legs. Demyx stands back up and turns, flashing the audience a grin before he begins to walk away, and fingers that he controls clutch as his coat; it slips to the ground.
He’s still wearing far too many pieces of clothing.
Once he’s walked a bit away, he turns again, wet shirt clinging even more thanks to the heat and the sweat and the touch of crystal-clear fingers. Demyx reaches for the hem, pulling it up slowly to reveal abs that are much more toned than one would expect from a slacker but exactly what one would expect from a swimmer. Once it’s over his head, he puts it around his shoulders, a trickle of sweat running down his collarbone, disappearing in the line of his hips. A water clone comes up behind him, running its hands over his arms and sides and leaving little glimmers of moisture on his skin, and Demyx leans his head back against it lazily.
Wet fingers dip beneath the edge of his pants, and he chuckles slightly; it’s lost in the music, but he reaches down to unbuckle the first of his belts, pulling it off with a flourish. The other is next, and when it’s free, it snaps on the empty air; this sound isn’t quite as lost, but the audience squirms, leaning forward in anticipation even as the belts fall to the ground. The clone brushes his shirt down to meet them, and suddenly the collar around his neck is the only thing he’s wearing above the waist. The audience is definitely appreciative, and even though he’s running out of time, Demyx keeps going; slowly, ever-so slowly, three pairs of hands (one flesh-and-blood, two hydrogen-and-oxygen) running over his thighs before a hand finally reaches for his zipper.
The clones fall away once again, dissolving into thin air, as Demyx pulls it down. He approaches the edge of the stage once again, leaning forward with a coy smile and blowing a kiss out into the crowd; a man in the back chuckles, but no one seems to notice. They’re completely enraptured with this siren, and as he slowly pulls the leather down to reveal firm thighs and tight black boxers, they lean even closer.
The pants fall and he steps out of them, smooth as the still surface of a mountain lake, and as his fingers curl into the waistline of his boxers, the music suddenly shrieks and stutters out. The audience looks around, completely confused, but Demyx just smiles. It’s made of shark-teeth and crashing waves, and suddenly the siren song is over; the ship has already crashed. They just don’t know it yet. “Sorry. That’s my cue.”
A portal swallows up Demyx and the laughing man in the back with the head of spiky red hair as the Heartless descend. The two Nobodies are miles away when they reappear, Demyx fully clothed once again. Axel’s stopped laughing now, but both of them are grinning, Axel’s smirk widening as he reaches out and snags the now-hidden collar on Demyx’s neck with a finger. It’s the first time Demyx has blushed all night.
It’s a job well done.