@illusoirereveur [continued from here because my damn formatting kept messing up and deleting half of your post. ._.]
‘But Demyx, you don’t understand. I want you to let me fall. I want to fall f-for you.’
And for a second, Demyx himself felt like he was falling – floating – spiralling – like the bed and the ground had dissolved away beneath them and they were plummeting together, plunging into unknown depths-
Or maybe his mind was simply presenting him with sexual symbolism again.
It was, after all, difficult not to be wildly aroused when Zexion’s warm weight rested atop his lap, when every single point of contact between the pair sparked like an electric charge. They stirred up the very air around them, Demyx felt – because surely the world was blazing by now, kindled by the calamitous impact of each and every touch.
It wasn’t only the physical things. That wasn’t it. It was the sincerity, too – the fragile, radiant honesty of this moment. Zexion might as well have peeled back his skin and bones, and presented Demyx with his beating heart – damaged (oh, yes, he could see that things in Zexion were broken) but resplendent, a pulsing jewel that the singer would cherish, even as he offered up his own. They were, both of them, exposed. Permitting themselves to be exposed, in all the most terrifying ways. The only thing that soothed Demyx was that they were in this together.
He could be brave, because Zexion was.
“That’s good, then,” he whispered, as if speaking too loudly might break this, “because I’m fairly certain I’ll be too busy falling for you to catch you.”
And then Zexion’s mouth was on his and he was lost. Found. Gone and present at the same time, jumbled but oh so clear. In such a short time, in so few kisses – never enough kisses – they’d become so fluent in each other’s unspoken languages. Demyx knew the taste of Zexion like it was a sweet he’d devoured a thousand times, a revered sensory recollection he’d never part with. He knew how to translate every brush of the mouth and every shaking breath-
’Mine.’
Yes. Yes, yes, yes.Yours, yours, yours.
This kiss spoke of need. Raw desire on both ends. And affection – oh yes, the warmth was there. But it sizzled into something carnal so quickly that Demyx almost panicked – was he rushing this? Was he-
Oh. There went Zexion’s jacket.
It was a simple enough act, but the removal of clothing – any clothing – spoke of staying, and presented the shining possibility of more garments flying off, and for god’s sake, Demyx made a little noise that even he couldn’t disguise as a cough. Who got this excited over a jacket flying off? Lame, lame, lame.
The singer’s breath shuddered and his heart thundered, but his body was so yielding, so deferential to Zexion’s desires, that he managed to somewhat gracefully follow the other’s movements and stretch atop him, arms braced on the blanket either side of Zexion’s head.
‘Demyx. Please.’
The singer wouldn’t question this. He knew, instinctively, that he needed to let Zexion dictate – verbally or otherwise – what he wanted here. Needed to give that respect. He wasn’t about to be the guy that asked if the other was sure, because there was nothing certain about this moment and all he knew was that he wanted the man beneath him in every way imaginable, and the hope had taken root that the sentiment was returned.
No, he wouldn’t hesitate. He’d give Zexion anything he desired, just as long as he could see that heat in the other’s eyes, that delicate glaze that told the singer that this was right.
“Anything you want,” he murmured, drawing in a shaking breath.
The singer’s mouth traced Zexion’s throat and followed the dip of his collarbones – he was a slave to this now, good intentions replaced by infinitely filthier ones. He’d tried, oh he’d tried, to restrain himself, but he’d never wanted anything so badly. His heart thrummed against Zexion’s palm – want, want, want. Demyx’s fingers closed gently around Zexion’s other hand, the one that gripped his upper arm, and he squeezed lightly.
“Zexion…” he mumbled against the other’s throat, tongue flicking out to taste – “Touch me? Please? I… I need…”
It was too much. The entire night, too much. This beautiful man, too much. Demyx was ablaze – he ached – and it threatened to consume him. He relocated Zexion’s hand to the hem of the singer’s own shirt, let it slip beneath the fabric. His hold was gentle – he was guiding, requesting. Please, touch me.
His entire body, his entire self, he’d put it on display for Zexion if the other wished it. Scars blemished his golden skin – cigarette burns sprinkled over the toned planes of his chest, circular holes above his hips where piercings had once lain, angry marks across his back – tangible echoes mapping past pain-
But he wouldn’t think of that. If ever he was with someone usually – not that he was assuming here, he was just considering the possibilities – but usually, if this happened, he’d turn the lights off. Not with Zexion, though. He was already laid bare to Zexion in every way possible.
So the singer didn’t think of scars, or fears. He merely reattached his mouth to Zexion’s and lost himself in the sweet, addictive taste.
