Disclaimer: Me own Square Enix? Thanks for the moral support, but I don't. Sorry.
Warning(s): Axel's foul mouth. Axel's obsessed habit of molesting his favorite spiked blond. Axel's tendency to not give a shit…when he bashes on Oprah and other people… Oh. And the whole reason why you guys actually came here for: the smut.
Addendum: I'm trying something new. Don't sue me, but I'd like to be well circled. -smiles- That was an inside joke, but anyways. This is humor. Meaning, I'll be typing away frantically, biting my nails, hoping this will actually be funny. Yes, this angst writer will write a funny story before she dies. That is also on her To-Do-List-Before-I-Die. Remember that useless thing?
Oh, whatever. (And I so know I should not be posting this, but g'dammit, college made me do it.)
Thanks: To reviewers, readers, my lovely beta readers, and all supporters of my stories.
"Love is the answer. But while you're waiting for the answer, sex raises some pretty interesting questions." - Woody Allen
"Axel, staring at that kid's ass is a one-way ticket to land you in jail."
I acknowledge my friend idly by giving him a not-so-nice hand gesture, hardly prying my eyes off that sauntering bum – hot, rather toned, exactly my type – that was momentarily inside the music store, until said friend practically scared the kid shitless. Stupid, dirty blond guys with weird, shitty hair…
"Hey, I heard that."
Apparently, I have the nasty habit of voicing out my inner thoughts, as to say, ones that usually ridicule people, like now. Demyx – mullet-head – shoots me a glare, which I completely ignore because that attractive rump was leaving my peripheral vision. Damn distractions.
I sigh, knowing full well that the brunette – whom I have to say, was the hottest one I've seen in an entire month, mind you – would never venture inside this little shack because of a certain somebody who felt the sudden urge to advertise the battle of the bands we were sponsoring.
I narrow my eyes. Demyx had this strange obsession of being some poster boy, talking animatedly about the damned thing whenever a customer walked in.
Sadly, I work with the music fanatic, only doing so because it provided good pay for my rent and insanely high-priced bills. Castle Oblivion is the only cool place I could think of to work at, being one of the few music stores in town. The uniform consisting of a black apron with the store's logo, a sketchy design of a penguin dancing with headphones – don't ask me how a dancing penguin would be part of the logo, just work with me here – and whatever you decided to wear that day, isn't as bad as it sounded. No strict dress code, thank god. I've had enough of those in my high school days.
The store is intricately decorated, almost a replica of Hot Topic (our town is too lazy and dirt poor to have our own HT store, so this is probably the closest to it), the whole punk-goth-emo-almost-indie theme going on in one section, divided along with our all-out range of different genres of music. We even have our own supply of recording disks, you know, the old types, before the CD was invented. Because of this, we have a handful of Hollister-wearing, beach-tanned blondes entering here to see if we have the latest of their favorite pop singers.
I almost choked one of the preppy bitches, mind you if you're one of them, when they kept incessantly – while chomping off on their gum – asking when the new Kelly Clarkson CD would come out. Hey, I had tried desperately to approach the situation with a calm attitude, yelling at them that I didn't give a damn about the stupid former American Idol. But they went on ahead, blowing away on their gum, garrulously blabbering on and on with their inquiry concerning the release date, like I had some actual sense to pay attention to boring shit like that.
Plus, to add to my suffering, Demyx had persistently nagged me about how to treat customers, saying the boss would fire my ass. Hospitality can kiss my ass, thank you very much. So can that pedophile of a boss. He's not actually a pedophile; and I'm pretty much half convincing myself now as I repeat that statement.
Speaking of Demyx, my one friend who I've kept even after high school, is busily checking out the latest shipment, eyeing one particular record with sated interest. He puckered his lips and landed a huge slobber-mess of a kiss on the laminated covering.
I cock an eyebrow towards my friend. "What the hell are you doing?"
I swing a leg over the counter, and hoist myself over it, walking over to Demyx. I run a hand abrasively through my red locks, feeling the icky substance of hair gel I put on every morning through my fingers. Wincing in disgust, I bend down to Demyx's level.
Demyx scoffs in my direction, throwing his nose the other way. "Axel, I can't believe you don't know." He cast a crestfallen expression towards the record disk in his hands. "We've known each other for how long…?" He put up a dramatic show of placing the back of his hand on his forehead. "Six years, and counting! And yet…and yet you totally forgot my dedication to the Beatles!" At this, he grabs the object in his hands and thrusts it right under my nose.
His face is ecstatic, so I couldn't just tell him off. Which I do, but you couldn't really blame me. I hate that smell of freshly manufactured products. And mullet-head let us lose a precious customer – and my perfect chance for a potential fuck – before even uttering the words "Welcome to Castle Oblivion" and assaulting the unsuspecting brunette with those gay-ass flyers.
"Fuck the Beatles, mullet-head," I say spitefully, waving the record out of my face. "Don't jizz in your pants from your grandparents' musical yesterdays."
"…All my troubles seem so far a-waaaaaay!" Demyx crooned in song.
… Guess I kinda walked into that one.
I get up, only to receive another glare from said mullet-head. He shoos me away, probably offended after I bashed away on his music tastes, going so far as to slap me on the ass with the damned record.
"What the fuck?" I yelp, half-amused by the fact someone had the balls enough to strike my ass, half-scandalized that it was my friend who did it. "I feel molested. And used."
Demyx laughs, waving his hand with the object of onslaught facetiously. "That's what you get for hurting my pride, pyro," he chuckles away, brandishing the record like a weapon of mass destruction. Which it is, like Oprah's fat ass, and that's a lot of ass, let me tell you.
Anyways, aside from a particular talk show host's huge butt, because that's a very touchy subject for some people. It still traumatizes me to even think about it, but back to the whole part where Demyx is giving me a coy expression, smirking like a fox, as he wags the Beatles' disk like one would wag a finger at a naughty kid who has done something wrong.
I grimace, took that as a warning to return to my haven behind the counter, giving the dirty blond another unkind hand gesture.
The asshole is going to pay. Hello, not only did he just calmly sexually harass me with the fruit-cake-Beatles no less, he let me miss the opportunity to snag an attempt to get that brunette's number. And a name. Damn it, to hell with friendship. I'm killing the mullet-head during lunch break.
I hope Burger King has some poisoned pickles I can shove down his throat.
I rub my abused bum once more before flipping through the magazine I was skimming through before the chocolate-haired angel walked into my life. Yes, I'm a clichéd romantic, but that's my bitch of a conscience talking to you.
To be honest, I ain't the type of guy to maintain a long-term relationship. You can ask Demyx, or my other friend Larxene to clarify that for you. And elaborate it, if you want the full details. Anyways, I'm more of the one-night stand guy, the kind of person who doesn't expect much after the climax.
Hey, don't blame me for my dysfunctional personality. Blame my uncontrollable libido.
Demyx also goes back to work, sorting out the shipment into their rightful places – alphabetically, because our boss has an obsessive-compulsive disorder, anal as a cranky bitch on permanent PMS – whistling a catchy tune under his breath.
I smile inwardly. Okay, maybe the poisoned pickles would be overdoing it. I'll just slip an unlocked safety pin in his meal.
Um…no. I am NOT homicidal. Maybe I have some tendencies that involve physical harm to others, but c'mon. I'm not the only one.
I sigh for what seemed like the umpteenth time this afternoon, my hand lazily dropping the magazine onto the counter. I had been reading the same goddamned sentence about some tabloid rumor that was probably sugarcoated to stretch the actually fucked-up truth. Besides, celebrities love that kind of shit, always grabbing for peoples' attention.
Who gives a fuck if you just broke up with your two-week boyfriend you loved? Certainly I don't.
Stupid assholes with hearts in their throats. Really now, what is it with the whole love thing anyway? It's just a fucking four-letter word, nothing too special about it, and nothing to get so obsessed about.
Having a sappy romantic as a friend – guess who that is? If you said Larxene then you're so messed up in the head you need to get that checked – I have to suffer with Demyx's never-ending irksome talks on how if love came my way I'd be a totally different person that didn't easily open my legs.
I had corrected the little bitch by first saying I have never been on bottom. I ain't no submissive little whore; two, has he seen the many sad people who sunk into infinite depression simply because they were rejected by that so-called love?
I mean, I'm not saying I'm afraid of some pussy shit like that. I'm only saying that I'm a cautious person; I'm only trying to protect myself when no one else will.
Got it memorized?
Good. 'Cause I'm not repeating that meaningless shit ever again.
So I'm idly standing behind the countertop, bored as hell and back, blowing at some random strand of my hair, because it keeps coming back inside the corner of my mouth. My hair gel does not taste as appealing as I thought it would. Again I blow at the annoying thing, only for it to come right back.
I'm about to have a sudden, sick penchant of grabbing the sharpest thing in this store and chopping the little red hair. I'm on the verge of spontaneously combusting because of the immense amount of boredom I just simply can't tolerate any further. I'm on the counter, hands starting to tighten as if positioned around the nearest person's neck.
I'm going to bet – though on the side I'm hoping – it's another gum-popping, Abercrombie & Fitch prick come to ruin my already horrible Monday so I could have a plausible reason to choke him.
Had I only known that the potential victim was giving me the most peculiar look, eyeing the current position I was in.
Did I mention that being on your knees, hunched over with a feral expression adorning your face, hands clawed into what could turn into a chokehold looked professional and welcoming for a customer?
No, I disagree. It doesn't.
The person arches two blond eyebrows. The side of his lip is twitching upwards, as if not sure whether to smirk or grimace. He blinks slowly, his blue eyes mesmerizing.
"Interesting," he states in amusement. "I didn't know the people here were so…friendly." His lips form an elegant smirk, and it brightens his face a bit.
One glance is all it takes for me to return back to standing behind the counter, sheepishly coughing away the awkwardness of the predicament I was in. Nice going, Axel.
"Uh…ha, welcome to, um, ah, this shit hole?" My mind apparently isn't fast enough to stop my big mouth from blurting out such tactful sentences. I blink three times before noticing again that I've done the second most stupid thing for this Monday afternoon.
I smack my forehead with the heel of a palm, quietly muttering a million curses. I return my attention back to the customer who is idly fingering at the key chain display next to him. "I'm sorry. That was idiotic of me."
The blond deepens the smirk, tilting his head to the side innocently. "Oh, it really was."
My mouth goes agape. Did some short–yet attractive–kid not only just insults me right under my nose, but said it so matter-of-fact, so conceitedly that I can't believe my ears?
Yes, Axel, you dumb excuse of a one hundred percent MAN. He did.
What the hell is going on with my already fucked-up afternoon?
I shrug it off, acting like I didn't care. But for some odd reason the remark did sting a little. A little. Like, this much, you guys. "Yeah, it was. I tend to do that."
I see something blurry behind the blond kid's wildly styled hair – not like I'm one to talk, but still. Had he ever heard of a comb? Because he certainly knew about a blow dryer; no way in hell could he manage a smooth-in-direction hair wave without a blow dryer's assistance. And loads of gel.
However, that's beside the actual point.
The blurry thing I noticed previously is actually Demyx waving his arms frantically, maybe signaling something. An eyebrow of mine arches in inquiry. What was mullet-head doing?
Then I see the finger pointed towards the door. I lean the other way, following the finger's path, and my stomach does a full split before sinking back into the bottomless pit.
Brunette with sexy-bottom is back, ready to open the door, but he isn't alone. He is animatedly talking to, or more at, a taller guy with white hair. White? What was with the kids of this generation? Do they just have the sudden realization that maybe dying their hair in weird-super-gay colors would attract more attention and more people would like them?
Maybe, but who knows. I'm only a twenty-year-old guy trying to live life as easily and smoothly as possible, without any hazardous obstacles. One of which, I should point out, is right in front of me in the form of some high school-er with suck-ass blond hair.
My once potential bed-buddy stops short when he is beside the blond and from the looks of things as I see them standing neck-to-neck they must have been related in some way.
The two boys before me incline their heads to each other and then turn to look back at my what the fuck face. "Yes," they say in unison. "We're twins."
May we say creepy? I almost jump out of my favorite black boxers from the sight. Wouldn't you be scared too, if two random kids started speaking simultaneously and in sync?
(Ha, N'Sync. Folks, let me get this straight: Timberlake is one hundred and eighty percent gay, far more in the closet than LB is and…The hell? What the fuck is wrong with me? N'Sync? Seriously, dude. I can't be THAT off-topic…)
(…Yes. Yes, the fuck I can.)
The brunette – and the one who seemed to be friendlier than his twin – grins ear to ear. "I'm Sora Hikari." Sora makes a motion with his hands. "And this here is my brother Roxas." He jerks a thumb over his shoulder. "And the one sulking over there is my best friend, Riku." Another grin is added, as if he needs it to loosen the already awkward tension.
Too bad he only makes it worse, because I'm still gawking; Roxas is sending his brother an inquiring, yet dubious glare; Riku's burning a hole through the back of Sora's head, obviously at variance to be here; and Demyx (He's a drama queer, people, make fun of him.) is clutching his Beatles track with so much passion that I wouldn't be damned surprised if the bastard started humping it right there on the floor.
…Okay, that was not the prettiest mental image my idiotic brain has ever conjured up. Spare me, please.
"So…" I turn to chance a glance towards Sora. "I'm guessing you guys have other merchandise other than music, right?" His blue eyes glisten in elation. "Right?" He prompts his question with a pout.
Oh, shit. Calming the libido is by far the hardest thing to do. Shit, shit, shit, shit. I turn my attention to something that wouldn't attract my little friend down there – yeah, you know what I'm talking about – but there's nothing in the music store that is close to anything as exciting as dry humping Roxas.
Oh my God. I did not just have another wet fantasy while being fully awake, which can only provoke my already huge boner, obviously evident for all eyes to see. One hand instinctively makes its way to my pocket to calm the clothed erection.
The slightest of touches causes my mind to spin. My forehead becomes slick with perspiration. I gulp. Scratch my previous hardest-thing-to-do statement about the libido.
Calming this boner is by far the hardest thing to accomplish.
One of Roxas's eyebrows goes up in a fluent yet relatively questioning manner. "Sora," he says flatly, a bored yet slightly amused expression upon his façade as he neatly crosses his arms across his chest and turns to face Sora. "Why did you drag me along in your stupid fiasco to do what Mom asked, idiot?"
A nonchalant kick strikes the side of Sora's shin, courtesy of blond boy. Sora yelps in pain, his lower lip jutting out in a second pout when he attempts to return the favor. He misses; more pouting.
The brunette shoots an accusing finger at his blond counterpart. "You're the one that asked to help and you're the idiot that tagged along!" Another pout. "Stupid!"
Subsequently, the white haired teen rolls his eyes. One of his hands comes up to ruffle the top of Sora's hair. "Sora, you practically forced him to," he reminds him, laughing through his words.
His brunette friend gives some thought on the remark and could only pout in defeat, probably knowing full well that it held some truth. Riku chuckles again, and at this Sora's face breaks into a toothy grin, quite enjoying the sound of the older boy's laugh by the looks of it.
The blond narrowed his icy blue eyes.
Haughtily throwing his nose the other way, he walks away from the two friends, somehow looking rather disgusted by them, I don't know. And I am not going to pry, seeing as I have my own damned issues to deal with, such as my aggressively stubborn and erected penis – or, if you don't want to be politically correct (which I never do), dick.
Roxas sighs as soon as he reached the counter, placing his elbows upon the surface and cradling his head in the palms of his hands. He heaves another sigh, closing his eyes slowly. From my angle, I could see the shadows of the long eyelashes that cast upon his cheeks. Plus, the afternoon sun casts a glowing illumination through the glass walls of the store, the rays shining upon Roxas and giving him a soft halo. Blonds, if you didn't know, absorb sunrays because of some Universal Truth we humans do not fully comprehend.
I don't know what that means, I'm just sputtering out some bull as I'm too preoccupied by both my erection and the fact that Roxas appeared to be angelic under the light. The image almost takes my breath away.
It could have been almost Kodak-worthy if the boy didn't open his big mouth.
"Might wanna get that taken care of before you make a mess behind the counter."
My eyes widen in horror. H-he knew? He knew about…about…my problem?!
Well, yeah, I knew my cock could get on the big side when it's excited, but was it that noticeable? Then again, Roxas was practically next to the counter so he had a perfect view of it, what with me going by the nonchalant smirk marking his features.
For a moment I thought he had some X-ray vision, which allowed him to see through people's clothing. The little pervert…not like I'm one to talk, but still.
And again, realizing that my mind is again going down in the gutter and permanently staying there was not helping at all.
I mutter under my breath and tuck myself closer to a stool placed near a far corner by the wall where no one could see me. I quickly peer over to where Roxas remained behind the counter.
With one of his devious smirks I avert my eyes away from his piercing blue ones and hurriedly make my exit by slipping behind the door of the storage room on my left.
The smell of must, a horrific smell and whatever anything else pungent hits me straightforward, making me wrinkle my nose. There's even dust hovering in the air. Almost having the urge to spontaneously sneeze, I only turn back to reassure myself that I had locked the door. No one would want to see what I was about to do next.
I find a sturdy box beside the wall, which should hold my weight as I sit on it, though I'm not that hefty. Actually, I'm rather on the skinny side; curse high metabolism and genetics for deficient signs of muscular features. Relaxing a little once I finally adjust to the change of atmosphere, and obviously relieved that I escaped any further humiliation at my expense, I kick back against the wall, heaving a long sigh while I'm at it.
Then I realize something.
Glaring at the dirty and dusty tiled floor, I can't help but think over the little image of Roxas sitting there quietly, maybe appearing to be a little sad and only masking it with an ounce of irritation, under the sunlight. He had looked so – what's the word? – innocent, and maybe something you could call peaceful…yet there was that inevitable evidence of hurt in his cold blue eyes that seemed to pull me in. Maybe this was…
I almost gape at the thought that was about to pop into my brain and shake my head vigorously, as if that would solve my problem. For a moment I'm no longer attentive towards my boner because I have bigger things to deal with. (Pun fully intended.)
How can I, Axel Haycraft, even dare to think about such meaningless bullshit like…like…like…?
Ugh, it's even awful to just think about the L-word.
Sure the moment I laid my eyes on Roxas, I felt compelled to know more about the blond teen. However, I didn't think it'd come down to this. That stupid bullshit doesn't exist, that's all I have to say.
I sigh involuntarily as I slump my head into my open hands. No way is this L-word-at-first-sight. Scratch that crap with a million permanent markers. And then bulldozer it a couple million more times.
This is lust-at-first-sight.
End of Chapter One
Hate it? Love it? Don't know but you still want to review? Or flame, whichever you prefer more… I appreciate any kind of feedback, so please feel free to push that little button stating "Submit Review."
Axel is a pussy. That's all I gotta say. What's your opinion of him?
Until next time, reviews would be nice?