Kingdom Hearts Fan Fiction ❯ Apartment ❯ Apartment ( One-Shot )

Apartment

 

Morgana Maeve

 

Lonely. I'm so lonely. I have nobody to call all my own!

 

Warnings: Axel/Roxas. Everybody's legal. Yaoi. Sex. If you're under seventeen, don't read. (Not that I can stop you.)

 

Disclaimer - Square and Disney own all and would be shocked and appalled if they knew what their beloved characters were being made to do online. Unless they already know…

 

(oOo)

 

The apartment is cold, uncared for, and Axel's breath clouds in the air. Quiet except for the clanging of naked pipes and the muffled shouting of the couple across the musty hall, Axel's footsteps echo on the hard tiled floor as he closes the worn wooden door and clicks to the other side of the small room and to the whining hum of the refrigerator.

 

A blast of even colder air slithers out as he opens it, and a barren emptiness is illuminated by the lone, lonely light bulb. A carton of sour milk on the shelf, two weeks old. Greasy fries wrapped in foil. Limp spinach moldering in one of the draws. Brie cheese, unopened.

 

He settles for the Brie, an expensive treat he allows himself only once a month, and eats it with Cheez-It crackers, an ambrosia of the poorest sorts, but also of the most savory.

 

Out of the three chairs in the apartment, none are matching, and one is near the end of its life, wooden legs splayed in unnatural split, cloth seat sagging. Axel chooses the stronger of the three - the steel chair, uncomfortable but durable - and he drags it in front of the ancient television, the volume and channel controls still located on the front panel of the television itself. The remote is long gone, and probably long dead, so he turns it on manually and is rewarded with a snowy picture, lines moving through the screen, distorting the image, the volume flicking loud and soft. Nobody has paid the cable bill, and the only channels left are the basic ones, stupid and boring, but it passes time, and that's what Axel wishes it to do.

 

He is waiting, waiting for his fickle and aloof roommate of sorts to come back from a weeklong absence, an absence unexplained but very expected. He waits, has waited, will wait every night until Roxas comes back, if he ever does. Axel sometimes gets the feeling Roxas is ethereal and will one day vanish a puff of steam or melt away like the sunlight streaming through dirty curtains.

 

And so Axel waits and waits, and finally drifts off to uneasy sleep, the noise of the television coloring his dream in fuzzy black and white. He dreams of Roxas, of warm lips and cold fingers, of dizzying rushes of blood and screaming release. He dreams of pain turning to pleasure, of chocolate and tongues.

 

And then he wakes, the warped wooden door shaking on its hinges, as the wrong key is forced into the lock, and as the lock, unwilling to accept the invasion, fights against it.

 

It is impossible not to know who it is.

 

But Axel does not get up. He stays in his seat, feigning boredom, heart racing, legs shaking, trying to flip lank red bangs out his eyes. The hair gel has been gone since last Tuesday, and he hasn't the money yet to replace it.

 

The key prevails, and the door opens, and Roxas slips in, quiet as shadow and just as mysterious. He says nothing of his prolonged absence, says nothing at all as he shrugs off his coat and lets it drop to the floor, still says nothing as he kicks off his shoes, and finally, when Axel thinks his lungs will explode if he holds his breath any longer, Roxas does speak.

 

“What's on TV?” His voice is cool, controlled. Deathly soft and bored. Uncommitted. Axel cannot speak, the rush of words, some affectionate worry and some desperate angriness, dying in his mouth at the sound Roxas's quiet question, a question he has no right asking.

 

But then Axel shrugs, turning his face away, and makes a guttural, ambiguous noise as answer. Roxas glides over and stares at the screen.

 

“Doesn't seem very interesting,” he comments, as if he has any right to comment.

 

“Eh,” is all Axel can say without giving away his inner turmoil. But Roxas smiles at him, and in that smile is the knowledge that makes Roxas so powerful. His deep blue eyes see everything.

 

He moves quickly, standing in front of the television, thin body blackness against the light of the screen, and Axel determinedly looks everywhere else. Roxas leans closer, hands on the back of the steel chair, face still smiling, disarming for those who don't know, and Axel finds himself drowning slowly, eyes drawn to Roxas's blue ones. Closer, closer Roxas comes, eyes open, blonde hair falling around his face. Lips almost touch, a gentle brushing, a soft gasp from Axel - how he's missed this, how he wants this, how he doesn't, knows it's wrong but can't stop it - and then warm wetness as Roxas slides his tongue against Axel's mouth, tracing his lips, slipping in and out of his mouth teasingly, just enough to taste but not be tasted.

 

Despite himself, Axel moans softly once. Roxas chuckles.

 

And still, Roxas's tongue dances not quite out of reach, his hands leaving the back of the chair and running down Axel's arms, caressing knuckles and fingers, leaving skin wanting more, his hands disappearing into deep pockets, unbeknownst to Axel, whose eyes are closed, concentrating on the tongue skillfully torturing his lips, on the teeth nipping harshly as his own tongue tries to capture Roxas's.

 

Cold touch of metal, a metallic click, and Axel suddenly realizes he cannot move his arm. Something slides noisily, clicking and catching on chinks carved into the bars, and he looks down at his wrist.

 

It is handcuffed to the chair.

 

He stares at it, does not comprehend it, stares at it more, and then in blossoming panic, finds his other wrist trapped in the same fashion. Wide green eyes connect with smug blue eyes, and Axel feels his heart rise in his throat while excitement pools in his stomach.

 

Roxas grins at him, shows his teeth, and whispers, “Do you trust me?”

 

And without thinking, without pausing, without any misgivings, Axel answers, “No.”

 

And Roxas only grins more and ties the blindfold around Axel's head.

 

It is black, solid black, with no sheerness to allow any light through, no shadows to hint at what's to come. Axel can only wait, strain his ears, try to listen through the distorted noise of the television, only to find that the volume has mysteriously gone up, the snapping crackle filling the desolate room. He thinks he knows why.

 

Besides the blaring television, it is quiet. The pause has been allowed to linger too long. And where Roxas is concerned, pauses do not bode well. The pause ligers still, as Axel's blood grows hot with anticipation, sweat pooling just above the waist of his jeans, breath growing short, excitement rising between his legs.

 

Jagged sound threatens to swallow him. Heat collects beneath his shirt.

 

And then the cool feel of Roxas's hands caressing his face, uncharacteristic gentleness softly touching his cheeks, his chin, his lips. His tongue darts out, tastes a finger, draws it into his mouth, sucks on it, and he hopes Roxas's breath catches. He moves to the next, running his tongue up and down its length, feeling the bones, tasting its saltiness, leaving a slick wet trail behind as he plays with the knuckle, licking and nipping, red marks on white skin. Then it's the palm, skin creased, and the wrist, veins small ridges beneath the flesh. Axel rolls Roxas's taste around his mouth and finds it addicting in its own acrid way.

 

The hand leaves, and breath ghosts against Axel's face. Roxas is panting, chest heaving. Hardness rubs against the inside of his pants, rubs against the stiff material and sends shadows of pleasure to his stomach. He knows he will not last long.

 

Roxas pulls away, watches Axel with heated curiosity as Axel strains and shifts in his seat, eyes the bump in Axel's faded jeans, and feels the fire burning throughout his body. In one quick motion, Roxas pulls his shirt off, nipples hardening in the cold air. He leans over Axel and laughs as Axel automatically tenses.

 

Hands return, cold and dry, playing with the buttons of Axel's shirt. He gasps, bites his lip as Roxas's fingers brush his skin, stroking lines of heat that dissolve way down in his stomach, making his heart dance and pound. He cannot see, can barely hear, cannot move, and is puppet to whatever Roxas has planned, but he surprises himself when he finds that he cannot bring himself to care.

 

Cotton peels away, exposing his chest, falls down his arms and pools on the seat of the chair, unable to fall past his wrists. There is another pause, and then hot breath blooms in moist clouds on his skin, and Axel strangles back a moan as Roxas breathes on him, the tip of his nose sometimes brushing against heated flesh.

 

It is torture, Roxas knows, and that's why he continues, tracing paths of moisture in random pattern across Axel's chest, pausing to tease pink nubs to attention. His lips brush against them lightly, seductively, and a mutinous groan escapes from Axel's mouth, open in quiet ecstasy. The groan makes the liquid heat coursing through Roxas's blood that much more unbearable, and Roxas closes his eyes and pants, and Axel rocks and sweats, trying to see shadows through the black.

 

But he sees nothing and feels everything.

 

And then weight on his lap as Roxas sits and wraps his arms around Axel's neck, drawing their chests together in a mess of skin and wet, Axel pushing his stomach against Roxas's in a frenzied thrust, and Roxas responding in turn, fingers tangled in hair.

 

They stay like that for moments, denim brushing against denim, moving together as one, the damp slap of skin hitting skin loud over the television. And then emptiness as Roxas leaves, heat flooding back as he returns and begins to kiss down Axel's neck, collar bone, chest. Roxas pauses and takes a nipple into his mouth, rolling his tongue around it, sucking on it, and Axel tries not to yelp as Roxas's teeth close down on it, eyes tight behind the blindfold.

 

There is pain, yes, sharp pain that will leave bruises, but that is what Roxas is. A bruise that never fades, always painful when touched in the wrong way. Or perhaps it is the right way.

 

He can feel Roxas's hands just below the waist of his jeans now, pretending not to know how to undo the buttons, and Axel curses himself for wearing jeans that have no zipper. Fingers flit over the fabric, slip beneath it, become tangled in boxers, tantalizing glimpses to greater pleasures. Forgetting the handcuffs, Axel tries impatiently to rip off his jeans and end all this frustration with one savage thrust, but for the effort, all he is rewarded with is sore, red wrists, and a slight laugh from Roxas.

 

“Impatient?” he whispers into Axel's ear, and Axel clamps his mouth shut, refusing to give him the satisfaction of answer. His body betrays him, clenching violently down on nothing, waves of tight, constricted shivers rolling beneath his skin. Roxas blows lightly into Axel's ear. “Do you want it?” His hand moves to cup Axel through the jeans, and Axel gasps in surprise as electric shocks spark into existence deep within his stomach, exciting pleasure into currents that disrupt his blood flow. Roxas's hand moves, stroking with the palm, and Axel's body bucks, chair legs scrapping across battered floor, a half-strangled word escaping his lips. He is done fighting it.

 

And Roxas grins and undoes button after button, for the word was yes and that is what he wanted to hear.

 

The jeans don't come off easily, and by the time they are gone, both Roxas and Axel are panting, Axel from impatience, Roxas from working the jeans down Axel's legs. Then Roxas steps back and just admires the picture in front of him.

 

Blindfolded Axel, handcuffed to his seat, mouth open, breathing heavy, slick sweat coating his body. Roxas's eyes stop for a moment, linger on the tent in Axel's boxers, erection almost pushing through the slit in the fabric, then continue to travel down long, thin legs, muscles braced in preparation.

 

It is a sacrifice to the gods, unwilling individual presented as feast, and the god is pleased, Roxas's own erection throbbing persistently between his legs, demanding release. He shivers, unseen to the blind Axel, and loosens his belt, allowing his pants to pool at his ankles. He shivers again, as much from expectation as chill, and slips off his shoes.

 

The chair is ice against his bare legs, and Axel tries to keep them from touching the metal. The television still spits static, crackling in his ears, and he wiggles uncomfortably, member stiff and hard and ready. Behind the blindfold, everything is shadow and dark.

 

Hands close around his ankle, and Axel stops breathing. They travel over calves, rub against knees. They slide underneath boxers, massage the tender skin of his inner thighs, thumbs rubbing tantalizing circles closer and closer to Axel's erection. They leave, press lightly against jutting hip bones, making hips jerk side to side, a sensitive spot. Finger return to thighs, tease Axel's erection out of the slit, and Axel tries to inhale and gasp at the same time. His hands tense.

 

Wet heat envelopes his member, and Axel throws his head back, a long breathy groan falling from his lips. Roxas withdraws his mouth to look up at him, watches his throat bob up and down, watches his chest rise and fall rapidly. Then he returns to Axel's erection, drawing it deep into his mouth, tasting it, savoring it.

 

In and out, the same movements over and over again. Roxas tightens his lips as he moves, salty flavor coating his tongue, hands resting on Axel's thighs. Axel's hands clench on air, pretending it is Roxas's head, veins standing out in sharp relief with his skin. Roxas draws Axel deeper, member pressing against the back of his throat. Axel moans, loud over snapping static.

 

There is no pleasure without pain, and teeth join lips, canines scraping over sensitive skin. Axel's eyes water, and he closes them, hissing through his own teeth, the darkness now complete. Sensations grow and the knot in his belly tightens.

 

Axel's whole body condenses, skin far too tight for bones, and his toes curl, pleasure replacing oxygen, blood, thoughts. He craves release, wants it, needs it, knows that if this continues, the explosion will implode, will burst inside him, kill him in a backwash of ecstasy. He can't breathe, lungs drowning in heated rapture.

 

His body tightens more. He is stretched thin, near the breaking point, stretched until he is nothing but a thin line lost in a plane of passion. The world has collapsed to a single moment, a single bright light pulsing behind his eyes, a deafening drumming in his ears. The precipice is upon him and he must jump and plummet.

 

And then Roxas pulls away, a thin trail of saliva still joining the two together. Axel's body twitches at the loss, and he exhales a whine keening with turmoil. His hands move of their own will to try and recapture Roxas's head, seize his hair and push him back and make him finish what he has so artfully built up.

 

But Roxas leaves, pushing himself up by his hands, and then he stands and waits. He makes no sound that can be heard over the blaring television, and he waits. Axel struggles against his bonds, handcuffs rattling against the steel chair, eyes desperately seeking light out of the blindfold, head turning from side to side. And still Roxas waits, and when his erection begins to droop in his underwear, Roxas strokes it back to life, soft gasps swallowed by buzzing static.

 

He waits until Axel's member begins to wilt, withdrawing full of quiet tension back to warmth, and then Roxas places his cool, calm hands on Axel's chest, eliciting a suppressed moan from Axel. Roxas lets his fingers play over muscle and nipples, teasing and prodding, sliding down to flat stomach and then back to hips. Axel's erection comes back to life, and Axel, with his eyes screwed shut, lips pulled up in a half-grimace waits for the next round of torment to begin.

 

Roxas leaves again, patter of bare feet slapping floor, and he returns quickly, tube of lubrication in hand. Axel is still ready for him, ears alert to imagined sounds, eyes seeing imagined shapes. Roxas steps out of his underwear, and then does the same to Axel, who tries to writhe away from cold metal. His member fails for a minute, body too absorbed in cold, but when Roxas spreads a healthy layer of lubricant over it, it hardens again, threatening to burst in Roxas's hands.

 

And then Roxas straddles him, sits on him, Axel's erection touching the base of his bottom. Axel's head comes up, feels Roxas's breath on his face, and Roxas wraps his arms around Axel's neck, rests his chest against Axel's. Through the darkness, Axel looks directly at Roxas, and for a minute, both mirror each other, mouths open in anticipation, frozen in the moment, chests moving in the same rhythm.

 

There is slight adjustment as Roxas positions himself, hands bracing on Axel's shoulders, and then he begins to take Axel inside of himself, moving slowly, lips pressed into a thin line of pain. Axel's erection moves deeper and Roxas opens more and more, body eager to be filled though it's breaking apart. Axel tries to hold his hips still.

 

The pain is sharp and burning, and Roxas has to stop once he reaches the base of Axel's erection, his own member pushing against Axel's stomach, a warm hardness. The burning doesn't soothe, but impatience and want drown it out, and Roxas pulls himself up, teeth biting lip as the first few tendrils of pleasure wash over him. Then back down, deep and slow. Sweat starts to shine on his body; heat warms the metal.

 

Roxas starts to move faster, legs wrapped around Axel's waist and the chair for leverage. Axel braces his feet and thrusts with his hips, a slick push into pulsing heat. Roxas cries out, head back, throat unguarded, his entire body arched. Their rhythm picks up speed, bodies pushing against each other, needs close to satiation.

 

Roxas buries his head into Axel's shoulder, panting onto hot flesh, nipping at skin for every pulse of pleasure rocketing through his body. Axel breathes into his ear, babbles nonsensical things that neither will remember later, whispers words Roxas hears, wants to hear, but will never be able to say back.

 

Slap of skin against skin, moans and groans, sharp intakes of breath drown out all noise. Roxas lifts his head, watches Axel's undulating body with a curious detachment, and then kisses him.

 

The kiss takes both of them by surprise, but neither really cares. It is a kiss of lovers, soft and tender at first, lips pressed against each other, lips parting, lips pressed back again. Tilt of head and the kiss becomes deeper, tender still, lips fluttering against each other. It's a kiss that says all the things that are never said, and Roxas can't handle the raw emotion of it. He bites down on Axel's lip to end it, but the bite is half-hearted, and Axel's tongue brushes against Roxas's upper lip, and he lets go, panting and shivering.

 

Climax is soon, almost too soon, and once again, Axel's body tightens, feelings rolling into a condensed lump in his stomach. Roxas moves faster, abandoning all pretenses of a rhythm and just rocks on Axel's lap, drawing him in deep and holding him there, clenching all around him. They are on the edge of the cliff again, and with every roll of the hip, they roll closer and closer.

 

The pleasure mounts, a tangible cloud around them, a red hazy aura surrounding their bodies. It passes through them in an endless cycle, pleasure entering one, rolling through him, exiting into the other. It is continuous, unstoppable. Consuming.

 

Roxas is lost to oblivion now, rocking and rolling and thrusting in utter abandonment, flowers of bright ecstasy blooming in the midst of their sex, blossoming in his loins and stomach. He feels his body convulse, feels the thrill of shivers as his climax readies, hears Axel's sudden intake of breath, feels Axel's body begin to quiver.

 

The coils tighten to their breaking point and spill over in sticky white, and Axel and Roxas moan loud and hard in each other's mouths, teeth and tongues clashing in a crazed, half-insane dance. Tremors rock their bodies as Axel empties into Roxas, and Roxas clings to Axel's mouth, kissing him in a frenzied rush.

 

And then it is over, leaving two empty bodies to collect the shattered pieces strewn over the cold floor.

 

Later, when the lights have flickered out and the night is old, they break the few remaining springs left on Axel's old mattress. It is sex, rough and animalistic, spots of blood coloring colorless sheets; lovemaking has no place here. To make love requires a certain degree of lowered guard and exposition, and Roxas can't bring himself to allow either. So he loves Axel in his own warped way of absence and blood and hard sex.

 

The next morning, Roxas is gone again, and Axel stays in bed, curling sheets that still smell of their passion around his nose. On the table, held down by an apple and an orange, is fifty dollars.

 

(oOo)

 

So like yeah, Happy Valentine's Day! You guys are all my Valentines this year! I loves you all!

 

Anyway, I hope you enjoyed the smut. Took a while to write, and I'm sorry. Hopefully I won't absent so long again!

 

Ah yes, and if you don't like, don't click the little blue and tell me so. I really don't care to hear complaints against boy/boy love. Thank you!