Axel talks about her sometimes. He doesn't really listen.

Larxene terrifies him, because she's a bitch and a sadist and he always feels like she's about to go for his throat and not in a pleasant way. He doesn't want to touch her, even if she is a woman and the Organization is severely lacking in them.

Demyx isn't entirely sure about Roxas though. Every line of Roxas is icy white perfection, which makes him feel more inferior than usual.

She's fluid refinement and unyielding power and everything that Demyx wants to be but can't quite get at. He doesn't really notice much else about her, barely acknowledges the physical traits which mark her as woman.

Demyx has scores of music composed, just with her in mind.

Static and hungry, like when she and Larxene fuck on the table in the great hall.

Warm and decadent, like when she spreads her silky body overtop of Axel's and circles her hips and makes number VIII weep like a child from pleasure.

He's always overflowing with inspiration when he sees her, but he doesn't think that he'll ever have a part in her shadow of a life.

Because she's like that, each person has their part to play in her musical, and having the role is a gift all its own. It's a compliment and an accomplishment, unlike anything else in their lives. It does something to the ego and the soul.

Demyx has music for when she fights too. Playful, exuberant, with a tremulous undertone of menace because it's easy to see it on her face how much she loves it when her keyblades hit home, sending blood flying across the tiles. She's almost tender with the way she carves flesh…

There's a secret way that she cocks her hips when she wants a fight and there's a special rhythm to her steps when she's desperate for a fuck. Even when she's succumbing to the weaknesses of her body she makes it into something wonderful and melodious. A tattoo of palpitations that ring out from the hollow place inside of her, catching the ear of all those around to her it.

Roxas doesn't dance for anyone, least of all Axel or Larxene. Demyx is secretly pleased. They would never be able to appreciate a subtle art like dancing, they would probably interrupt her, insinuate themselves into the declaration of her body.

When she fights with Demyx, he sometimes sees her cant her hips to the right. Sometimes sees how her feet dance beneath her, then sees the irritation flash across her face in a moment of cold fury. She indulges him in battle, doesn't kill him because his music does something to her.

Roxas is the precision of timbre and pitch and Demyx wants only one thing from this life. He wants to see her perfection expressed to the sound of the music he writes for her. He wants to write sonnets and ballads about the way she moves and the unstoppable power that she hides within that beautiful frame.

Her balance is exquisite, Demyx notices whenever they fight. She can stand on one foot, on her toes, and still attack with the fullness of her power without rocking even the slightest.

Sometimes her skin is sparkling with lightning; another living facet of herself and Demyx can almost see the musical notes carved into her skin as if by Larxene's knives.

Sometimes Demyx watches her, oblivious to everything else in the world around him save for the pure undiluted music that is her making. It goes in one ear and promptly out the other, always leaving him aching once the sequence has been forgotten. He has no choice but to linger near her, waiting for the phenomenon to bless him with its sinfully wicked presence again.

He watches her fight Axel. She fights, strength and loveliness wielding bursts of light and concealing shadows. Axel can't keep up with her, his dance does not coincide, far too full of masculine arrogance and raw destruction. His eyes hold too much want and his fingers hold too much fearful reverence. He has no balance, could never match her. The unnatural juxtaposition, which occurs in her, throws him off. He's trying to create fire from nothing and everything.

She's masterful, a maestro, raising her piece to its roaring crescendo. Her blades swing in cutting arch, the razor's edge slicing into delicate skin, but then she stops. The room is deafeningly quiet. Axel's stuttering gasps of breath remain muted…Roxas' eyes are the loudest thing in the chamber. Bright and thundering like tympanis.

The triangle rings out when she drops the keyblades, leaving the previous score behind, starting a new one, a coalescence of her ideal charms and Axel's wildly uncertain savagery. Demyx cannot deny that there is appeal in the sound…The steady pulse of ambiguous sex and the lust for wet and slide, be it blood or cum.

He stops watching when she says Axel's name, sings it, really. Throaty and wanting; destructively demanding. Demyx's blood sings, replying in kind with soulful tenor to the image of her gorgeous and wanting in Axel's arms.

In everything she does Roxas somehow manages to leave a part of herself behind. A quandary, trying to the mind, as she has no self with which to leave, and yet she manages. Demyx doesn't think on it much, far more occupied watching her in the weeks to come, observing, taking in the changes to Axel's heartbeat, watching the jealousy in Larxene's step.

Demyx thinks she must be satisfied, to keep others so in her thrall, trapped in the hypnotic motions of her dance. Yet she comes to him, her eyes smiling with some sort of mirth that would otherwise have been impossible.

She reaches out her hand to trace his jaw and he shivers at the cold touch of her fingers, at the steady assertive beat of her organ heart. The sounds and motions roll over him like waves, like the ocean, and she steadily conquers him, brings him under her spell and he wonders why, because he isn't like Axel or Larxene. He can't give her rough familiar touches or be a warm solid presence beneath her.

He's wet and flighty like the tide. Her interests should elsewhere lie, yet she reaches for him, her hands are soft even though they have taken countless lives while wielding elegant keyblades wrought of mithril and silver.

Nonetheless, she's sure, and the calmness of her touch soothes him. She releases him after a moment, stepping backwards out of her boots, her small white feet silent upon the tiles. She leaves her coat in a heap a moment later, revealing her ice-white body, a flawless diamond which has left its black satin cloak behind. He still doesn't truly understand what it is that she wants from him.

Her body twists and, as fire and lightning assault him, his sitar appears suddenly in his hands. Words could not make it plainer to him and she does not bother, only indulges his fantasy. He wonders how she knew about the dreams. The ones where she dances to the compositions he etches before her and the rest of the world disappears forever. No more fighting, no more futile searching for hearts. Only his music and her flawless dance.

She twists again, impatiently. He changes the shape of his sitar and conjures forth a bow to draw across the strings and then begins, at first slowly, quietly. She moves in kind. Pushing up to her toes and taking graceful gazelle-like steps and sweeping her hands with an affection movement. She curves her body like a crescent moon and glances over at him with her sea-blue eyes awash with something that might just have been pity for his pathetic obsession.

Her eyes send his hands stringing faster, the music coming without any clear guide from his mind. His fingers can only follow the movements of her body, the rise of a leg, the sweep of an arm, the roll of her neck on round milky shoulders. She's unrivaled in elegance, seemingly maneuvering herself to where the lights will shine best off her skin.

The tempo increases again and her breasts begin to heave as she loses her reserves of air to the fervor of her dance, but she does not slow, her motions become all the more animated.

She spreads her legs wide and bends, sliding her torso along the cold floor. He's far too engrossed in his instrument to appreciate that her thighs are glistening and wet. He only notices that she's broken their carefully crafted rhythm for the sake of her display. He is not amused.

"Rox," he protests in a croak, having gone unaware of the dryness in his throat since her appearance. She writhes on the floor, turning her body back to face him and offers an impish look that even Larxene would find difficult to execute.

He begins to play again, falling back onto the gentle melodies that make her body contort and flex in striking ways that should not rightfully be possible with her hips, yet she manages. She brings a foot up all the way until the sole is parallel with the back of her head and she spins in that position. Her heart is beating like Axel's, full of unruliness that she somehow manages to execute with poise. Demyx only vaguely comprehends that this is what Axel means whenever he babbles deliriously about her.

How she destroys constructs and leaves one standing without shelter from the storm of feelings. This is how she terrifies Axel. She leaps upward, circling once, twice, then landing and gliding along the tiles as if on ice. Her supple beauty strikes no such chord in him. The way she absolutely controls nothing, makes it supple and substantial, the focus of life and music and love and jealousy…it makes the world easier for him, he never has to scrabble at his empty heart for inspiration when she is near.

She's made him.

Dancing out the beat of his heart.

Immolation, Insuccation, Imprecation

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