Disclaimer: These sexy boys are not mine. Nope. If they were, I'd most likely exploit them horribly.
This is my first story for this pairing. It's kind of an odd couple, with absolutely no in-game canon to support it, seeing as how Zexion kicks it in Chain of Memories. Their personalities clash as well, but somehow that just...works.
This was written for the Zemyx Sex Tour, Dualism's LJ community. The challenge was to write a oneshot that took place in one of the Disney worlds, whether in-game or AU. My movie was The Hunchback of Notre Dame, and hence Gypsy!Demyx and Friar!Zexion were born. I hope you all enjoy.
The light slants off the water, turning the river to burnished, dazzling gold. Pink bleeds in slowly as the sun sinks behind the looming shape of the bell tower. The tower that spears into the sky like a conqueror's lance. It was built to honor God, that's what they say, but to Demyx it seems more like a challenge. Mocking god.
They pass it every year on their journey down the river, and every year Demyx feels a shiver run up his spine as the great grey leviathan rears up before them. He feels meaningless and insignificant beside it, the riverboat a mean refuge in face of something so mighty.
Today it's worse than every, today he's a mess. His sister's lying below decks, delirious with fever. None of the Romani's medicines are working, and the clan can't afford a doctor.
Demyx snorts, crossing his arms and leaning back against the side of the boat.
It's not like any doctor would touch a dirty River Rat like her. Like any of us.
So the cathedral is their last hope. A place of worship and sanctuary. But still, the sight of that monstrous work of stone fills Demyx with nothing but an ache of forboding.
Zexion swiftly performs the sign of the cross, touching forehead, chest, and both shoulders, almost unconsciously. The autumn wind is a welcome blessing after the close, windowless confines of his study. He's been in there since morning, meticulously copying a gospel word-for-word, lest a fire or blight destroy the books they already have. His fingers are stiff from holding a quill, back aching from his position bent over the writing desk. Even his eyes hurt, the result of studying by candlelight for hours on end.
When they said Friar, I wish they'd mentioned 'slave' as well. Maybe then mother wouldn't have been so insistent on me joining the clergy.
His dark, loose robes flap around his legs as he crosses the cloisters. Zexion's always been small and short for his age—there weren't any robes to fit him, so he makes due with hand-me-downs.
He paces down the stone steps that line the edge of the canal, with half a mind to go down to the riverbank and watch the sunset. Dark always creeps up beautifully in the autumn, an explosion of gold, orange, and pink across the sky. He's barely made it halfway down the stone steps, when he stops dead in his tracks.
The normally empty stretch of river bank, his normally empty stretch of riverbank, is awash with people. A boat had been tied up along the ramshackle dock. A group of dirty, bare footed children scamper along the bank, shouting out to each other in a language Zexion doesn't speak. There are people in the boat, but most of them are working on setting up camp, carrying canvass and digging a pit for a cooking fire.
Zexion stands there for a few moments, mouth hanging open, when a shout rings out from the bank.
"Hey, you up there! Grey hair!"
A man struggles up the muddy bank toward him. He stands panting for a few moments, then looks Zexion straight in the face. He's quite a bit taller, and quite a bit more muscular. His clothes are patched and weather-worn, a mis-match of colors and materials.
"I'm Demyx!" He says it forcefully, thrusting a hand forward, nearly catching Zexion in the stomach.
Zexion takes the work-roughened hand carefully. They shake, the gypsy's calluses rough beneath his soft fingertips. "Zexion," he responds quietly, a little too overwhelmed to say anything else.
"You're a monk, aren't you?" Demyx asks. His French is quite good, barely a trace of an accent.
"Yes," Zexion answers cautiously. Many of the people on the bank have turned their attention to the two of them, dirty faces shining with something that looks suspiciously like hope.
They're looking at Zexion like he is salvation.
He remembers himself then. "I bid thee welcome to our…" He trails off as he turns back to Demyx, sees the way the setting sun slants off his gold hair, turns his eyes so blue it's dazzling.
Zexion drops the mannerism of the dutiful monk. No doubt it would be lost on these people anyway. "Can I help you and your people with something?" The surprising thing is that he really does want to help, really does want to fulfill his duty as a man of god. And of course, it has nothing to do with those two beautiful blue eyes looking at him with so much trust.
"Yes," Demyx says, "Yes, you can."
Zexion doesn't want to risk the Abbot turning away the river people, so he allows them to bring the sick girl into his own quarters. She is small and thin, body shrunken with the fever. Her hair is the same shade as her brother's. She somehow matches the spun, un-dyed wool that covers Zexion's tiny cot, just as the bleak congregation that gathers inside the room matches the grey stone walls.
"She's been sick for weeks," the dark, strong-browed leader of the Romani tells Zexion. His name is Leon, and he doesn't seem to approve of Demyx's idea of going to the Cathedral for shelter. "Is there anything you can do?"
Zexion puts his hand on the girl's forehead, feeling the heat of the fever even beneath the wet, clammy skin. Her eyes roll beneath their lids, and her breath comes short and labored. Zexion has seen this before.
"I believe I can," he says, standing up and turning to the assembled gypsies. Demyx, two dark haired women, and Demyx's brother Cloud, who is standing with his hand entwined with Leon's, eyes on his sleeping sister. "I just need to get some things from the apothecary."
"You hear that, Cloud?" Leon says, squeezing the man's hand and pressing a soft kiss to his temple. "She's going to be alright."
"I've never been in an apothecary before," Demyx comments excitedly. He has insisted on accompanying Zexion on his medicine-collecting mission. Zexion is less than pleased with this arrangement. Not because of Demyx's loud voice or his tendency to talk constantly, but because of the way his whole body seems aware of him, the way his skin prickles whenever Demyx brushes up close to avoid a muddy pothole in the road. Carts and wagons rumble by them, pulled by underfed horses and sad-looking mules, on their way to market in the central square.
"I remember Paris being a lot bigger," Demyx says, as they turn a corner into a dirty side street. "I haven't been here for years."
"This is only a small section," Zexion tells him. "There are parts far larger, and far worse."
Demyx chuckles. "Yeah, Cloud warned me about the evils of Paris."
"You know, harlots and hustlers, disease-ridden ale-houses. Opium. That sort of thing." He laughs again. "I think his exact words were, 'Better not fuck around with anything in this city, Dem. You'll get sicker than Namine.' That's our sister's name, Namine."
"Do you normally—." Zexion clears his throat. "Fuck around?" The word feels foreign and dirty in his mouth, and he can't suppress the little thrill he feels from using it.
Demyx gives him a cheeky grin. "Every chance I get." His eyebrows twitch, and Zexion can't help feeling like he's being propositioned. A sudden image flashes through his brain—pinning the gypsy to the grimy brick, plundering his pink mouth with a hungry tongue, grinding their hips together—
Zexion shakes himself, cheeks reddening despite himself. He turns away, trying to think of something to say. Unfortunately, the first thing that comes to mind is along the same train of thought.
"Your brother…Cloud, are he and your leader…together?"
Demyx kicks at a lump of something that looks suspiciously like a mud-covered human finger. "If by 'together' you mean they sleep in the same bed, fuck loud enough for the whole boat to hear, and care for each other passionately, then, yes, they're together." He grins at Zexion's look of dismay. "Gypsies have different ideas of right and wrong, Friar Zexion. What your people call sacrilege, we call love."
Zexion stares at him for a few seconds, then points to a ramshackle building at the end of the lane. "There's the apothecary."
Demyx offers him his arm. "Well, let's go then!"
By noon the next day, Namine's fever has gone down, breath evening out. By twilight, there are five monks down by the river, informing Leon that he and his people will need to move somewhere else.
Leon crosses his arms, grey eyes stormy with menace. "We're not leaving until we've finished what we've come for."
It is Zexion who reminds the monks that the river is classified as public property, and that Notre Dame has no right to police it. He gets latrine duty for the next few days.
By the Sabbath, Namine is sitting up and speaking to Zexion as he administers her herbs and tonics, eyes lucid and free of fever-glow. Cloud seldom leaves her side, and Demyx seldom leaves Zexion.
He sits across from him while Zexion copies from the Bible, squinting in the bad light and attempting to write his name on a spare piece of parchment. After a few hours of this, Zexion leaves off his scribing and settles next to Demyx, teaching him the letters of the alphabet and listening to him sound out words.
Demyx follows him through the cloisters, watching him say his prayers and asking incessant questions about God and the angels, and why the hell Mary had agreed to bear the son of god in the first place.
Sometimes Zexion spends the evening on the river boat. The gypsies' food is a welcome change to the dry bread and meats that are allotted to the Friars. There is spicy stew and lamb roasted on spits, wafer-thin breads that melt sweetly in the mouth. After several evenings of urging, Zexion tries the burning, pungent alcohol called Vodka. His eyes water the whole time, but his head floats happily. So happily that he doesn't mind when Demyx slides an arm around his shoulder, drawing circles on his thigh with long, dexterous fingers.
As he walks back to the cloisters that night, he can't ignore the throbbing ache between his legs. He tries praying, tries thinking of disgusting things, but nothing can chase out the image of Demyx and his golden hair, the exotic slant to his eyes, the way his skin looked in the riverboat's warm lamplight.
He rubs a hand over the lump in his trousers, nearly gasping as pleasure shoots through his stomach. The gardens are empty this time of night, and as he steps behind a climbing rose bush, he knows he won't be disturbed. He slides to the ground, back against the outer wall, hand darting inside his robes and unbuttoning his trousers.
This is a sin, he knows it is. Abuse of his body and soul. Still, he can't make himself care as he wraps a warm hand around his aching length. He hasn't done this in years, not since he was a young boy and unable to control himself. A few strokes is enough to send his thighs shaking, the flushed head oozing clear liquid, making his hand slide easier. Zexion tips his head back, groaning softly and jerking himself harder. His cock twitches, the pleasure building so intense it's almost pain.
Years and years of celibacy build up inside him, and he has to stuff a fist inside his mouth to muffle the cry of release as he spurts, Demyx's face flashing across his mind, seed spattering to the dirt. He gives his cock a few more weak strokes, before letting the fatigue take over him.
He meets no one on his dash to the washroom, smelling of semen and mortal sin.
"This was his sanctuary?" Demyx asks, and Zexion nods listlessly.
The legendary bellringer of Notre Dame is gone. With the death of Judge Frollo, his isolation ended. According to rumor, he'd made the Court of Miracles his new home. Demyx had wanted to see the place where he'd lived, here, hundreds of feet above the streets of Paris, in the company of the great leviathans of cast iron and bronze. The monks ring the bells now. To Zexion, it just doesn't sound the same.
"You've met him, haven't you?" he asks, crossing his arms and leaning back against a wooden support beam. The setting sun catches on the hanging mobiles of broken glass, reflecting on Demyx's hair and turning it a dozen different colors. It's so beautiful that Zexion has to shut his mouth tight. He's afraid that if he isn't careful, he'll tell Demyx how much he adores him.
"Quasimodo? No. I've never been to the Court of Miracles."
Zexion frowns. "But you're a gypsy."
Demyx laughs, voice deep and throaty. It sends fire through Zexion's blood.
"Not all gypsies know each other, Zexion. Just like we don't all cheat and steal."
Demyx silences him with a wave of his hand. "I know. Sorry." He settles on the stone floor, laying out full on his back. He stretches luxuriously, linen shirt riding up to reveal a few inches of flat stomach. Zexion closed his eyes against the sight.
God, please help me.
"They might be wrong, you know."
Zexion's eyes snap open. He flushes, feeling vulnerable. "What?"
Demyx has his head propped on his hands, blue eyes narrowed lazily. "You always go quiet, like you're afraid of something. Don't let them rule you."
Zexion could have shut down, could have mumbled he didn't know what Demyx was on about, but it would be a lie.
He smiles sadly. "And who says you're so wise?"
Demyx shrugs against the flagstones. "No one, I guess. But I think it's a pretty good philosophy, don't you?" He grins cockily. Zexion wants every inch of him.
He sits down as well, far enough away to retain his wits, but close enough to carry on a conversation comfortably. Close enough to see every detail of Demyx's face.
And that's when the gypsy asks, "So, can Friars have sex?"
Zexion's whole body burns—it feels like he's drowning in heat. "I-I." He can't get his tongue around the words, he's distracted by the juncture of Demyx's neck and shoulder, and how much he wants to lick and taste it.
Demyx grins at his discomfort. "You don't have to answer. I was just curious. I know the church doesn't allow clergy to marry or partake in any…" His eyes narrowed slightly. "Carnal lusts." Zexion feels dizzy. "I was just wondering if it was the same for Friars."
Zexion swallows several times, then shakes his head. "No, it's not. They—we—aren't sworn to celibacy yet."
Demyx stretches again, shirt riding up even higher than before. "Damn. I could never do something like that. Guess you gotta get all your frustrations out now, huh?" He grins cheekily.
Zexion colors, partly with desire, partly with shame. He doesn't want to tell Demyx he's a virgin, doesn't want to reveal his naiveté. Especially with the man lying spread out on the floor like this, hair tousled and gleaming in the setting sun. So open, so vulnerable.
He doesn't know how it happens, exactly what demon possesses him, but Zexion finds himself on his hands and knees, mouth lowering to the bare skin above the band of Demyx's trousers.
Muscles flutter and breath comes in a soft gasp. The blond whispers something that sounds like, "Finally," before a hand grips Zexion's hair loosely, fingers gently messaging his scalp, as he moves his tongue over the soft skin, tasting sweat and something distinctly warm and human.
He can't believe he's doing this, can't believe he's unlacing another man's shirt, throwing it aside, exploring the dips and crevasses of his bare chest with fingertips and tongue.
He's hungry for it, starved for contact. He wants every inch uncovered, wants to taste his whole body.
Demyx breathes his name like it's a prayer and a curse at the same time. His hands slide to Zexion's shoulders, pulling him up the length of his body. The gypsy's eyes are blue fire, intense and consuming. Zexion brushes gold hair away from his face, before he leans in and takes what he wants. He's betraying the church, betraying God, but how can he care when Demyx's mouth tastes like heaven?
The tangle of tongues is sloppy and wet for a few moments, before they fall into the rhythm of it, Demyx's hands clasping his waist. He shifts his leg, and Zexion breaks away with a soft gasp, as a thigh brushes his groin. It shocks through him, and he suddenly realizes how desperate his body is for pleasure—how much a life of piety denies the nature's desires. He wants this so much it's frightening.
Demyx is smiling at him. "Did I finally drop enough hints?"
Zexion laughs breathlessly, but the temptation of all that bare skin is much too intense for him to say anything else. Demyx seems to understand his aching need for touch—he tips his head back, sighing as Zexion's mouth descends on his pulse. He trails
kisses across the rigid tendons of his neck, licking down to his clavicle.
He moves into a full straddle, considering the two nubs of puckered flesh Demyx's nipples have become. They're pale pink and tender looking, and when Zexion sucks one into his mouth, Demyx arches up off the flagstones.
"Fuck," he gasps, as Zexion bites softly.
The friar suddenly finds himself on his back, staring up at a face burning with something feral and intense. Demyx's hands scrabble at his heavy robes, forcing them up over his head. Cool air hits his skin like a baptism.
"I don't suppose you've done this before?" Demyx mutters in his ear.
Zexion shakes his head against the floor, suddenly ashamed.
"That's alright." Demyx's breath huffs softly across his neck. "I'll help you make up for lost time."
The bell tower isn't particularly comfortable, so they make their way back down the spiraling stone stairs, across the cloisters and down the bank to where the river boat is still tied up. The children are gone this time of late afternoon, no doubt scampering around making trouble in some other part of the city. Several chiseled, bearded men sit around the fire, smoking pipes and speaking in that low, guttural language of theirs. Zexion has heard Demyx speak it to his sister and brother, but it always sounds musical, beautiful.
Demyx takes him by the hand the moment they set foot on the boat. It's as if they've entered into somewhere safe, a place Zexion can stare at Demyx and let the lust fill his eyes. The gypsy leads him across the deck down into a long, mildewy corridor. His cabin is near the stern. He used to share it with Cloud, before his brother had begun sleeping with Leon.
As soon as they close the door, Zexion kisses him again, burying his fingers in that soft blond hair. Demyx sighs into his mouth and warps his arms around his waist, pulling him close.
"Lie down, gorgeous," he mutters, smiling and pushing him towards the pile of furs and cushions over a hard spring-board bed. "Sorry it's so rustic."
Zexion laughs, sitting down on the edge and laying back. "I'm a monk, Demyx. Not exactly accustomed to luxury."
They undress slowly, Zexion savoring every inch of golden skin he uncovers, licking at Demyx's neck, nipping the soft flesh and loving the sounds this elicits. There's so many things he wants to do, to try. He doubts they could get to them all in one night.
"We'll start slow," Demyx says, voice low and warm, when they're both nude and lying together on the bed. His hands drift through Zexion's hair as he kisses him softly. Their cocks brush together, creating delicious friction whenever one of them moves.
Zexion's never seen another man's erect penis before, and he finds himself fascinated by how different Demyx's is from his own—thicker, darker, the skin silky under his fingertips as he strokes it slowly. Demyx's hips follow the motions of his hand, and he purrs in his ear.
Zexion speeds up the strokes, listening as the whimpers increase in volume, the way Demyx's face flushes. He screws his eyes up, gasping, "I wanna be inside of you."
He pushes Zexion's hand away, picking himself up off the bed and walking on unsteady legs over to a roughly made trunk pushed against the wall. He rummages for a few moments, emerging with a little opaque bottle. He gives Zexion a flippant smile. "Do you want to try it?"
The truth is yes, Zexion wants to try it. Wants to go all the way. But what comes out is, "How badly does it hurt?"
Demyx grins again, crawling in between Zexion's tented legs. "No more than you'll like," he says, messaging the head of his cock with a finger.
Zexion lets out a startlingly animalistic yip. "I want it." He nods. "Go ahead."
Demyx obeys straight away, opening the vial and pouring a generous amount of golden oil into his palm. He coats both his hands, spreading Zexion's legs and slowly stroking his hands down his thighs.
They take it slow, Demyx messaging the tight ring of muscle around Zexion's entrance. It feels wonderful, having such a sensitive part of his body touched. One, two, three fingers stretching him, until his cock is dripping and he's writhing in anticipation. When Demyx finally enters, it's a smooth glide to the hilt, the blond bracing himself over Zexion and stroking slowly in and out.
Zexion throws his head back against the pillow, moaning out in bliss when something deep inside him is touched, sending shocks of pleasure through him. Demyx's thrusts become wilder as his excitement mounts, and soon he's bent Zexion nearly in two, driving into him so hard the bed shakes, until their voices meet in crescendos.
Demyx suddenly goes still, jaw clenched, and Zexion feels heat burst inside him. The gypsy cries out, arching his back. One of his hands wraps around Zexion's twitching cock, bringing him to climax along with him.
They drift off to sleep like that, sticky and sweaty in Demyx's tiny bed. In the morning, Zexion wakes to find the gypsy watching him, blue eyes lazy with sleep and something else that he can't find a name for.
"How do you feel?" he asks, smoothing his slate grey hair back.
"Good," Zexion mutters, leaning over to kiss him.
And he does. It doesn't matter if he's betrayed God or the church, or the teachings. What matters is that Demyx is warm beside him, licking the curve of his neck and rolling on top of him, pinning him down to the bed.
"Let's make up for lost time, shall we?"