d:
Roxas can see it in the length of his stride.
It's the one-two-step that's defiantly dignified and haughty-as-fuck and now that internal bottle is about to come down; splinter across his face in smattered, white droplets.
Xemnas is criminally rough.
His almost-black hands grab at XIII, force a red-light slave-collar around his throat; cuff his wrists with that same bloody, glowing nothingness he derives his weapons from.
zip
Roxas' coat tumbles from his shoulders.
zip zip
Down come his pants with a furious tug of The Superior's teeth.
rustle
And the final piece of lifeless clothing flutters across the hall.
"Nn."
Roxas is constantly drenched in this animalistic film of warm, dark sweat because he's always ready; hot and bothered like some dirty slutt, aching for his Master's cum.
"Nn!"
There's been tension in the boardroom as Xemnas' baritone words rumble on about the such and such of Castle Oblivion and Kingdom Hearts and the littlest Keyblade Master and Marluxia sits a tiny bit straighter in his high-backed chair and Axel is clenching unclenching clenching unclenching his bloodless fists and Roxas only slouches deeper into his coat 'cause he has a hard-on and Our Lord knows why—it's in that glimmer of a lash and shadow of a nod that XIII and I share as they both depart—it's there; it's obvious; he knows.
And Axel does, too.
The boy mewls, scrambling his nails down the other's flexing hips. Xemnas bucks, squelch; climax dims, zip—his pants were never off—he stands.
"You did well, my dear, little Keyblade Master."
Roxas is still hard.
aldksfaje.
fuckin' sean paul.
my spine wasn't meant to pop that way.
thank you, grey.