Disclaimer: I don't own Kingdom Hearts
A/N: So this is a request I'm fulfilling for Kawaii-Gaara-Chan and they requested an Axel/Roxas.
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A.M. 180
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Rush, rush, shut the fucking door.
Newly polished, rich, wood falls against an equally rich and polished door frame, shuddering and moaning as its slammed shut. He's small, nearly shorter than you by a foot but it doesn't stop you from pushing him against the wall, fierce and fast, your lips eagerly devouring every part of his supple, young, skin.
No ones home.
You engage in a battle, him fighting with you pulling. You won't give him dominance no matter how hard he wants to fight for it. This is your dance, he knows this and yet he's still determined to break it. You slam him up against the wall again, covering every last bit of his visible skin with your hands and lips. Your lips and tongue find that little sensitive spot his ear and partially down the nape of his neck and you know you've found it once you hear him whimper slightly into your ear, his small hands winding themselves in the fabric of your shirt.
(Does he finally get the message?)
You pull back, just enough to look at him briefly. You catch the look of misted lust and want in his clouded cobalt eyes. He's getting there, you know he is.
With a rough tug, you pull him down from his spot pinned on the wall and manage to pin him against his mother's kitchen table—(leaving him withwonderful thoughts during his family dinner that night, no doubt)—failing to listen to his vehement protests that you two retire to somewhere more private.
Ha, fuck that.
You don't take your time with getting his—and your (he can take forever trying to strip you down at times)—clothes off and shortly there's nothing but a clusterfuck of clothes pooled around your feet which you dismissively kick off to the side as you hungrily devour him with your eyes.
This is when he gets shy. Shy. Of all things. Fucking shy! It doesn't matter how many times you've done it (twenty-three, you've been counting) he still gets all fucking shy and stupid whenever you see him naked. Not like you care, there's only one thing on your mind and that's pretty much to fuck the living daylights out of him.
He's panting slightly as you lean over him to start that "foreplay shit" (he's still young) that he always needs because unlike you, he's not a fucking hornball despite being at one of the peak levels of his sexual life. You're able to coax him up pretty fast with an assortment of licks, gropes and fondles—and oh, he's really fucking ready. Those sounds he's making aren't anything short of sinful and you definitely want to hear fucking more.
As he's laying there on the table moaning your name to hurry up and do something, you tell him to fucking wait a second so you can go find the lube you left in your back pocket (fucking sex addict, always prepared, aren't you?) so you first take the precautionary steps to preparing him. As badly as you want this, him, you don't want to hurt him in some way that would cut off your steady supply of sex on a somewhat weekly? No, that's a lie. DAILY occurrence.
Slow, sloooww, slow. God, you have to remind yourself all the fucking time. As soon as he starts to move those hips and groan, you know it's time to go in for the real deal. You grimace slightly, gripping his hips with your hands as you mount his legs up onto your own and push forward.
The facial expressions he makes are pure fucking gold, honestly.
It doesn't take long for you to find his little sweet spot and once you do, it's no mercy. You're hammering against him, his legs flailing and digging into your back as he sobs and screams out profanities, as always, unable to process what he's feeling a calm manner. He tells you to slow down; you simply ignore him and continue on your merry way. Then you see his face twist up, him biting his lip and his chest is heaving heavily and in a minute, he reaches climax, you following a few minutes later.
Oh, you are good.
You fall over on top of him on the table, not exactly wanting to stand anymore since your legs are buzzing. With your famous asshole of a grin plastered widely across your face, you ask him: Same time again tomorrow, hm? You always ask him the same question, knowing how much it irritates the hell out of him.
He ignores your question, looking away from you and frowning at the mess you've left on him and part of the kitchen table cover. Looks like an impromptu trip to the washing machine is in order.
But yeah, you know it, even if he won't answer you. Definitely same time tomorrow.