Normal Activities

This is what happens when people start whining about wanting to see Roxas do things a "normal" fourteen-year-old boy would do. Anyone who thinks that request is nonsexual obviously doesn't know any fourteen-year-old boys. Or much about basic biology, really. Or really remember being fourteen themselves.

Not under shota, since Roxas isn't actually having sex with anyone or anything...?

---

He woke breathless, the dream still fresh in his mind -- faceless people, free of color or detail, leaning in to kiss and touch him again and again...

Roxas sat up gingerly, and bit his lips shut to stop a gasp. It ached, heavy and thick and hot between his legs.

This again.

The sheets would need changing.

At least he knew what to do now. Not like the first time, when he'd been too scared, too confused, to do much more than lie in bed paralyzed until it went away on its own. Dragging a hand down over his belly, under soft sheets, to ease the pressure was really much more efficient.

The first slide of palm made his heartbeat so loud in his ears, and at first he thought of nothing, focused only on the sound of his own steady breathing, soft pants and the occasional thin moan. Peaceful, almost; relaxed, except the rhythmic motion in his wrist as he tugged slowly on the shaft of his erection. Slowly, always slowly, because you had to or else the pleasant friction would turn to pain. This much he'd learned.

But the longer it went on -- the closer he got to that edge -- the harder it was to keep everything nice and slow, and the more he found his scattered thoughts drifting back to the dream, to the way another hand might have felt in place of his own...

He never tried to imagine the people without faces. In the dreams they were familiar, but awake they were strangers, and he couldn't sustain the whatever-it-was that let him touch them there without feeling confused or irritated.

Others...

Xemnas might have been willing. His eyes lingered sometimes, and the intensity in his gaze might have been that sort of interest, albeit distant, almost as though when he looked at him the older man saw someone else. And Roxas had no doubts that he would be attentive, precise, careful to go slow enough that everything felt exactly as it should. He would make it good, or as good as it could be, and his hand sped as he pictured it.

Only--

Only it would be cold, too. Impersonal. Empty. Xemnas saved his passion for being complete again someday, whatever the hell that meant, and nothing else seemed to really penetrate his shell. Oh, yes, he'd tend to whatever "needs" the Key of Destiny expressed, but tending to them was all he'd ever do. His mouth wouldn't be eager, hot, wanting. It would only be a hole to thrust into repeatedly until he finished.

As for most of the other numbers, well, screw them. They treated him like a kid, even when he came back from battle stained with somebody else's blood, the scent of darkness thick and curling in the air around him like coal smoke.

No, none of those bastards would do.

Although...

They weren't all like that. That one guy -- the one who'd wanted to make sure he remembered his name, with the red hair like sugared cherries and the too-bright green eyes and the marks on his face that looked like tattoos -- he'd never pretended that looking fourteen made you fourteen.

So stark against the colorlessness of Never Was. And he was a bastard, too, really, staring at him endlessly until he could feel that poisonous green crawling all over his skin like spiders, but that stare was fascinated, challenging, anticipating, and every once in a while Roxas thought a crooked little half-smile was just the man's way of begging him to make a move, any move, even and especially if it meant shoving him up against the nearest wall to see if he was as fragile as he looked.

A-X-E-L. He'd be guaranteed heat, at least, if not warmth.

Roxas closed his eyes and arched a little and wondered what the redhead looked like naked. Tall and wiry but muscular, like they all were, like you couldn't help being if your job was killing billions upon billions of agile monsters.

Maybe he'd be crisscrossed with scars from close calls in the past; maybe his skin would be smooth and soft and close to perfect. Maybe there'd be more of the weird tattoos, a little lower down...

Would Axel like the taste of him? Would he wet his lips and open his mouth wide like a snake and then suck it down like he was starving for it?

And he'd know how everything worked, too. You could tell that much just by looking at him. He'd have it all figured out.

He would make it good, too.

And -- for some reason, as he arched off the bed, stroking hard and fast but so slick with sweat now that it didn't matter anymore, Roxas was sure of this -- it would be all about him. The way Axel watched him, eyes hot with something close enough to hunger, he might not have even asked for anything in return. It might have just been a liquid fire mouth, swallowing him, drinking him deeper and deeper, maybe sucking, maybe even licking, and in Roxas's head he had this long tongue that curled all around him, oh god --

-- he was there, he was there, yesss --

That strange part, that part where his whole body went rigid, muscles everywhere straining, and then the world around him shattered, streaks of red and black squeezed so tight it looked almost green. Everything released in thin, off-white jets that caught his thighs, the sheets, even one of his ankles, before he finally collapsed, spent.

And all the while there were green eyes burning bright on the wrong side of his eyelids.

*

Roxas woke again more than an hour later and climbed out of bed groggily, heading for the shower. He ducked his head under the steamy spray, his bangs flattening instantly to his forehead, and ran idle fingers over his stomach.

That had been better than usual, he decided, and felt satisfied.

Maybe he'd think of Axel again the next time.