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Say It's Sew	By : Emiphiste Category: Kingdom Hearts > Slash/Yaoi - Male/Male Views: 1147 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Kingdom Hearts, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Say It's Sew
- 1
A/N: My first attempt
at writing KH smut. O, the heart swells.

Say
It's Sew

by Emiphiste

There was something to
be said about the only member of the Organization who knew – or
rather, cared about – the proper methods of wielding a needle
and thread. In the morning, he would check the inside pocket of his
own coat, sliding the small tools away from fine cotton and leather,
inspecting them against whatever glint of not-light that happened to
linger in his dim quarters.

Two coats lay
half-crumpled over the down hills and valleys which careened across
his mattress, each with minuscule tears and hard-to-press-out
indentations from those embarrassing moments when a not-body harshly
met the unforgiving terrain of distant worlds. They were designed to
be sturdy and analogous, yet flaws in their original pattern
prevailed and each coat, supple with its owner's diligent wear, took
on new shapes as well as new separations in the hem.

Demyx snapped his
fingers, speechlessly demanding the formation of two controlled
anthropomorphic geysers. They swayed obediently into existence; the
scent of salt-water perfuming the dense air with each eager dance.
“Be still,” Demyx scorned them, scooping up the first
heap of black from the bed and fitting it loosely about a clone's
shoulders. “Broader,” he murmured, and the clone morphed
into some non-descript being with a prouder chest. It would have to
do. If Luxord complained of its tightness, it would rest upon the
gambler's own shoulders to fix it. Already, Demyx was developing
callouses in his index finger and thumb that were too far centred to
be caused by his sitar; he didn't need to antagonise them. After all,
he had missions of his own to accomplish. In Organization XIII, one
could hardly call out sick from a blister.

It had been difficult
to push the thin rod of metal through the impossibly thick material
at first, but Demyx had persisted, and now he found the action to be
more soothing than painful. A strange sort of anticipation blossomed
when he pressed the tip of the needle to the smooth hide, knowing
that with the slightest bit of applicable force, he could break
through the thickness; he could breach that barrier. With that
infiltration would come an empty satisfaction, one that could only be
remedied by making another stitch, pulling the needle through,
feeling the friction of silk against dimpled leather, and it would
only stop when there was nothing left to sew.

No, Xigbar would
boast, no-one could mend their coats like Demyx. The Nocturne gave a
trivial smirk. What would they do without him?

Clank. Clank. The
holographic door shuddered in flashes beneath the intruder's weight.
“Number Nine.”

Demyx paused
mid-stitch, casting a glance to the ceiling, as if the plaster and
stone would help him now against the vocal pleadings of Number Eight.
It was unmistakable. “Hang on,” he mumbled, yanking two
threads together with his teeth. He spat them out. “What do you
want? I'm busy.”

Silence persisted on
the other side of the doorway until a gloved hand pushed its way
through the barrier. “Let me in, or I'll bust in.”

His forehead resting
tiredly in the crook of his thumb and forefinger, Demyx set his work
aside and waved away the blockade. “Make it quick,
please.”

Axel
stepped into the Nocturne's room, his hair matted to his brow with
perspiration. “Look. Demyx. We gotta talk.” He shifted
his coat to one side, baring the sliced-open leather to Demyx's view.
Three clean cuts, each with a mangled finish. He recognised the
markings. Roxas.

Demyx
spun the needle beneath his palm and pulled it through Luxord's coat
benignly. “You found him, huh?”

Axel
stood straight, glaring down at the water-wielder, imploring him not
to go any further with his inquiries. He gestured sharply to the
lacerations. “I need this fixed. Pronto.”

Using
his tongue as a lever between the tension of the strings and his own
teeth, Demyx snapped the fibres in two parts. “Leave it here,
then. I'll get to it when I can.”

“Come
on!”

“Look,
maybe you all think I have nothing better to do with my time, but I'm
behind everything as it is,” Demyx chided, sliding an extra
tail of thread beneath the silken bridge with his fingers. He rubbed
those digits together until the two threads twisted beneath his
ridges, doubling over into an automatic knot. “Besides, if you
couldn't get him to come with you -”

“What
even makes you think that I found him in the first place?” Axel
snapped.

The
Nocturne frowned, his fingers tugging at a wayward thread. Then, he
snipped it with a pair of scissors. “Fine. Don't want to tell
me, that's perfectly fine. I'm not Xemnas.” He stood from the
bed and walked around the clone once, tugging on the leather to make
sure the mend was secure. “When you find him, you will have
to tell him.”

“I
know.” The Flurry's voice sounded so distant. So – so
defeated. Demyx wasn't fooled. The only one that had
been able to inspire such strong shadows of regret and happiness in
Axel had been Roxas, and to see those shades again meant the youngest
Organization member was once more within reach.

Axel
indicated the tears in the fabric, diverting Demyx's attention away
from his face. “I would have asked Naminé, but she's -”

“With
Saïx. I know.” Demyx halted, the pad of his index finger
pressed purposefully against the needle's point, gauging the length
of it by touch alone. “When are you going out again?” He
asked softly.

“As
soon as I can.”

The
Nocturne returned his focus to the clone and made the final stitch,
pulling the last knot tight, an individual loop from the thread that
embedded itself within the leather of the gambler's coat. “I
can squeeze you in.”

Axel
breathed a sigh of relief, flopping down on Demyx's mattress as if it
were his own. “Perfect,” he grinned, wriggling out of his
own top-layer. “Just these ones on the side, and this long one
here on the shoulder. See them?”

“I
see 'em,” Demyx said plainly, pulling the black coat from
Number Eight's grasp and turning it inside-out. He traced the edges
of the fabric with his fingertip. “Next time you rent a
Keyblade, be more careful with them, huh?”

Silence.
Axel narrowed his eyes. “Uh-huh. You can fix it, right?”

“I'm
not a magician.”

Axel
groaned.

The
Nocturne smiled, slipping a doubled strand through the needle's
impossibly-small eye. He pulled a section of the coat taut in front
of him. “So, what were you doing, if not finding Roxas?”

The
Flurry shot Demyx a very plain, lethal glare. It softened when he
remembered that Demyx could very easily retract the offer of mending
his stuff immediately. If Demyx noticed, he didn't show it. “Really,
it's none of your business.” He folded his hands behind his
head and leaned back on Number Nine's headboard.

“You
want to do this yourself?” Demyx shot back, holding the
material out to Axel.

Axel
pinched the bridge of his nose, then sighed. “Demyx.”

“Entertain
me.”

The
debate raged on in Axel's mind: Comply with the musician and lose a
little control, or strangle him with his thread and live with the
rips until Naminé was available?

“I
was looking for Roxas,” he muttered at last, shifting his
position on the firm mattress. His eyes were downcast; his fingers
were playing idly at the hem of his under-shirt. “Thought I
found him,” he smirked, “but I was wrong.”

Demyx
nodded, his fingers slipping a little on the metal as he pulled the
needle through. The tears looked worse than they really were, and
once he found a stitching method that worked on the angles, he
quickly went with it. “Sorry to hear that,” he said
genuinely, standing from the bed and shaking Axel's coat out as he
did so. The needle, still attached, wobbled furiously on the string.
“Hm. Looks funny.”

“I
don't care. If it's not going to fall apart, I don't care what it
looks like.”

Brushing
the comment aside, Demyx beckoned Axel to stand with an agitated wave
of his hand. “Come here, I need to fit this.”

“Just
when I was starting to get comfortable,” Axel replied
sarcastically, swinging his legs over the frame. He took the coat
when it was offered to him, sliding easily into the confines of the
leather. “There, happy?”

“Mm-hm,” Demyx replied absently, regaining control of the
needle and pushing it into the material. It didn't yield for a
moment, and he was forced to apply more pressure. The metal finally
went through.

“Ow!”
hissed Axel, shying away from the irritating pain that had followed
the pinprick. “Do that again, I set you on fire.”

Demyx
exhaled deeply, pulling Axel back toward him by his coat. “Then
hold still.”

They
stayed like that for a short while – though to Axel, it felt
like hours – and after a tug or two, Demyx straightened. He
started to thread the needle once more.

“Are
you finished yet?” Axel asked, impatience all but glistening in
his tone.

Demyx
came closer, yanking a bit of material from Axel's collar back for
easier access. “I'm doing the shoulder now. Don't be so testy.”
He inclined his neck for a better view, his nose nearly touching
Axel's clavicle.

The
Flurry shuddered involuntarily at the sensation of Demyx's warm
breath cooling and condensing on his skin. “Stop breathing on
me, will you?” The request itself was tentative, and part of
him wished he hadn't said anything at all. It had felt nice. Close.

“Sorry,”
Demyx said sheepishly, moving to work from the back. “I had to
see if this angle would work.” He tugged on the leather a few
times, grunted a little in frustration, pulled Axel's torso
to-and-fro, then let out a defeated sigh. “I have to come back
around.”

Axel
gave a small, indifferent gesture.

Bracing
the outer flat of his fist against the tight muscle in between Axel's
throat and shoulder, Demyx leaned in again, diligently stitching
away. His breath was shallow and moist, curling from parted lips and
settling in a faint mist on the exposed flesh beneath him. Axel
swallowed. Hard. “You – uh. You gonna be done with that,
soon?”

Demyx
glanced up, placing his thumb over the needlepoint to prevent the
puncture of his subject, and furrowed his brow. Axel was flushed,
small beads of perspiration dotting his forehead. The Nocturne
frowned. “You look like you're going to hurl. Please don't do
it in my room.” With that, he leaned down and tried to bite the
thread in two. His lips brushed momentarily against Axel's skin.

It
was more than Axel could bear. Each time the Nocturne shared his
personal space, he remembered those rare episodes of pseudo-emotion
when he was able to wrangle a rare laugh – or an even rarer hug
– out of his best friend. He recalled the loneliness and
betrayal he'd felt when it was gone – he was sure he
felt it, the memory of it was so strong – even though the
thought of a Nobody being able to feel anything at all was bordering
on preposterous. Now, with the occasional brush of skin against skin,
of hot, humid breath against his flesh, the dull ache that echoed
through the hull of the nothingness that settled where his heart
should have been grew until it was too late.

Demyx
never knew. Therefore, he was unable to explain to himself why Axel
suddenly tore his coat out of the other's grasp and pressed against
him; he didn't know it was a feeble attempt at gaining back what he'd
lost. “Axel,” he muttered quickly, “what are you -”

“Shut
up,” Axel snapped, his eyes closed against the strands of blond
hair that were trying to mingle with his eyelashes. “You'll
ruin it.” Even then, Axel knew it was futile. Everything was
fake. It was ruined before it began. He didn't care; it wasn't as if
anything would make a difference. Roxas didn't remember and that was
that. He would move on.

The
Nocturne let the needle drop to a halted pendulum's tapping against
the leather and pushed Axel away, holding him at arm's length. He
wanted to tell him to stop pretending, to stop weakening and
making himself a liability, to stop lying to himself,
to stop lying to him if he wanted to get anything
accomplished whatsoever –

Instead,
he pulled Axel toward him by a cluster of red hair and crushed the
Flurry's lips against his own. Fine. He'd play along.

Axel
stiffened, then slid his fingers along the back of Demyx's neck,
clutching the leather of his coat feverishly when he found the
wrinkles of his hood. Demyx smiled. He parted Number Eight's lips
with his tongue, forcing the muscle against the smooth, slick surface
of his teeth until they yielded as well.

Throwing
a hand back against the wall to prevent himself from stumbling
backward, Axel drew in a sharp breath around Demyx's tongue and
briefly pulled his head back. The emptiness was still there, unmoving
and taunting in its pitiful non-existence. “It won't work,”
Axel whispered fiercely.

Demyx
arched an eyebrow. He thought it was working fine, whatever “it”
was, and proved it by jutting his chin forward, nipping at the skin
by Axel's jaw. “I don't know,” he replied
conversationally, “I think it's all right.” The Nocturne
reeled Axel in by his waist, slipped a cool hand inside his coat,
beneath his shirt, and pressed it to the small of his back.

The
muscles in Axel's lower back twitched, and he yelped in response.
“The hell, Demyx -” His complaint was choked off
in a muffled groan, and he found his protests waning, dissolving as a
solute in the texture of his tongue and how delicious it felt
against Demyx's. He moaned, the vocalisation sending a vibration
against the surface of their lips.

His
hands wandered the surface of Demyx's coat, searching for the
fastening. He wanted to touch the Nocturne's skin; he wanted to feel
the palpable warmth as it radiated from the moisture that was
undoubtedly seething there. Demyx let him bring the zip down. It
caught at the end, and the Nocturne jerked the teeth apart, the
fastener snapping as the garment pooled at his feet.

He
would fix it later.

Their
teeth clicked against each other as both Nobodies lunged for the
other's lips at the same time, ending in a fury of awkwardly tangled
flesh and mistimed kisses, their hands groping blindly for contact
with bare skin and each for different reasons; Axel searched for that
faint mockery of completion, Demyx simply searched.

“Wait,”
Demyx breathed, taking a step back.

Axel
growled, yanking him forward again. “Like hell.”
His lips burned as they pressed into the tender skin of Demyx's
throat.

Demyx
held out a hand and whispered something that sounded eerily like
“water.” In seconds, Axel found himself pinned against
the wall by two humanoid forms of limited opacity. Each of them were
wearing coats belonging to other Organization members, and Axel would
have found that terribly amusing if he weren't so frustrated.
“I said, wait.” Demyx pulled his shirt over his
head, angling his neck a little when the collar caught his chin.

The
clones, taking their cues from the water-wielder, mimicked Demyx's
movements on Axel, holding him firmly against the wall as they
removed his shirt. The liquid chill of their surfaces brushed lightly
over taut nipples.

Axel
shivered. Demyx grinned. He liked this game. The trousers were next,
and he braced himself against the mattress while he tugged off his
own, unable to feel embarrassment for the fact that there was no
graceful way of removing leather from sweaty skin.

Another
clone materialised, kneeling with undefined limbs at Axel's feet,
leaning forward and parting its fluid lips as it pressed to the snap
of the Flurry's trousers, easing it open with its primitive, yet
somehow hardened, teeth. Axel was torn between awkwardness and insane
physical lust, mindlessly choosing the second as his hips rocked
forward, almost of their own volition. He let his head loll back, a
guttural moan twisting from his throat.

Demyx
caught Axel's hips in his hands and held himself against the Flurry,
a playful smile on his lips. He nibbled the fire-wielder's lower lip
indulgently, then trailed his hands outward until they rested lightly
on Axel's forearms. “Okay, you can let him go now.”

Axel's head snapped
forward as the pressure abated from where it had held his arms, and
once they were completely free, he found some use in them
immediately, clutching Demyx's chest with thin fingers and
unceremoniously shoving him to the floor.

“Ow!”
Demyx yelped, looking more cross than ever as he wrenched a hand free
to rub the back of his head. “What the hell was that -”
Axel's mouth suppressed his speech, and how roughly it did so,
lavishing the soft flesh there with unrestrained physical desire.
Demyx pushed him off, smirking at the noise Axel made as he hit the
floor. He then leaned into him, quickly, their legs tangling together
in a fierce yet mutual struggle, and just the motions, the pressure,
the intensity of their frantic
and off-rhythm grinding sent them – vastly inexperienced in
these sorts of exertions – into terribly uncoordinated yet
blissful spasms.

Axel
relaxed his grip on Demyx, his hand lightly brushing against Demyx's
side. He didn't care that Demyx was still clinging to his wiry frame,
positively vibrating with the urge to release until he did so,
arching into the Flurry, succumbing to the shudders that followed.

Number
Eight's mouth twisted into a strange half-grin as he shifted himself
beneath the Nocturne's weight. “So,” he said lightly,
prodding the sweat-glazed skin of the other Nobody, “you ever
finish my coat? I gotta go get Roxas.”
- 1
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Say It's Sew