fic: damaged people are dangerous
Title: Damaged People Are Dangerous
Pairing or Primary Characters: unestablished Sora/Roxas, onesided Roxas/Axel, Riku/Sora
Genre/Rating: Romance/Angst/M
Summary: You kiss Sora, solid and mirrorlike in a sense of almost betrayal.
His name is Axel.
You’ve never even talked to him.
And it’s summer.
Hallow Bastion in summer is rotten to the core in its sloth and vehemence that the street kids breathe. You’ve been a street kid since you were allowed to cross the street, and your eyes are so blue because they’re filled to the brim with an intense sort of apathy and disdain.
There is nothing remotely attractive about Axel, with his sharp angles and his lanky shadow, bright red spikes of hair jutting out from his thoughts into everyone else’s personal space.
But you dream him.
You dream two big hands pinning your shoulder blades to your pillows, sheets askew and a sensual and urgent mouth at your throat, your hands wrapped around your own cock. In the morning you bang your head a few times against a tiled bathroom wall to the drain rhythm of cold water, lightly fingering the underside of your limp member.
There are approximately a small handful plus thirteen pills in a sandwich bag behind your hardbound copy of IT on your bookshelf.
Fast forward two weeks and a day.
Your legs are folded over the lip of the bowl at the skate park. You’re waiting for Axel to walk past on his way home from work at the disastrous little garage in The Burrow district. When he doesn’t, you pick up your board and kick off, taking the long way home. Somewhere around the sandlot and Market Street you see something.
Two boys pressed into and against each other, one tall and fair with silver spilling over his shoulders, the other shorter and as innocent as the kind of spring Hallow Bastion never sees. It turns your stomach a little when their mouths surrender to each other, and you’re almost too far down the street to see the shorter of the two force his lover to his knees, opening the fastenings of his pants.
You drop your board and kick off, taking a shortcut home.
His name is Sora.
You’ve never even talked to him.
Someone points him out to you a few days after the last day anyone ever sees Riku, silver hair brushing the slopes of his shoulders as he buys a train ticket to the beach and leaves Sora behind.
You allow yourself to be introduced and spend the rest of a copper colored summer day with him.
Fast forward one day.
Sora, on your bed. His arms are stretched over his head and he looks over at you, drunk on boredom as you mindlessly play an old computer game. Your dad is passed out on the couch in the living room.
“I think you should kiss me,” Sora says. He says it without any emotion, and you consider it briefly. Earlier he’d found the pills but didn’t ask about them, merely hiding them behind your paperback copy of The Secret Agent before flopping down on the bed, silent for almost an hour.
You shut down the game and stand over Sora, all of his five months not years older than you and give in. You kiss Sora, solid and mirrorlike in a sense of almost betrayal. You have no idea how to touch him beyond just roughly holding him in place, your left hand weirdly grasping the unkempt brown of his hair.
Sora is still imperfect blameless when he shifts you under him, dragging his fingers down your chest and over the worn denim at the crotch of your pants. It’s the first time anyone has ever really touched you, but Sora disregards it, straddling your ankles so that your shins rub an uneasy friction into the fork of his legs. Sora’s mouth is hot around your swollen cock.
Fast forward a month and three weeks.
Sora, on your bed. His hands grasp your shoulders and he blossoms open mouthed kisses to your neck. “I think we should fuck,” Sora says. He says it without emotion, and you don’t hesitate. Earlier he’d taken the pills from their hiding spot and poured them back into the big plastic bottle in the medicine cupboard in the kitchen.
Every part of him matches up to every part of you you feel so wrong about it, the last day anyone ever sees Sora, blue eyes free of street kid rot as he buys a train ticket to the beach, the feel of your hand leading his against your sex still real.
His name is Axel.
You’ve never even talked to him.
And summer is over.
Pairing or Primary Characters: unestablished Sora/Roxas, onesided Roxas/Axel, Riku/Sora
Genre/Rating: Romance/Angst/M
Summary: You kiss Sora, solid and mirrorlike in a sense of almost betrayal.
His name is Axel.
You’ve never even talked to him.
And it’s summer.
Hallow Bastion in summer is rotten to the core in its sloth and vehemence that the street kids breathe. You’ve been a street kid since you were allowed to cross the street, and your eyes are so blue because they’re filled to the brim with an intense sort of apathy and disdain.
There is nothing remotely attractive about Axel, with his sharp angles and his lanky shadow, bright red spikes of hair jutting out from his thoughts into everyone else’s personal space.
But you dream him.
You dream two big hands pinning your shoulder blades to your pillows, sheets askew and a sensual and urgent mouth at your throat, your hands wrapped around your own cock. In the morning you bang your head a few times against a tiled bathroom wall to the drain rhythm of cold water, lightly fingering the underside of your limp member.
There are approximately a small handful plus thirteen pills in a sandwich bag behind your hardbound copy of IT on your bookshelf.
Fast forward two weeks and a day.
Your legs are folded over the lip of the bowl at the skate park. You’re waiting for Axel to walk past on his way home from work at the disastrous little garage in The Burrow district. When he doesn’t, you pick up your board and kick off, taking the long way home. Somewhere around the sandlot and Market Street you see something.
Two boys pressed into and against each other, one tall and fair with silver spilling over his shoulders, the other shorter and as innocent as the kind of spring Hallow Bastion never sees. It turns your stomach a little when their mouths surrender to each other, and you’re almost too far down the street to see the shorter of the two force his lover to his knees, opening the fastenings of his pants.
You drop your board and kick off, taking a shortcut home.
His name is Sora.
You’ve never even talked to him.
Someone points him out to you a few days after the last day anyone ever sees Riku, silver hair brushing the slopes of his shoulders as he buys a train ticket to the beach and leaves Sora behind.
You allow yourself to be introduced and spend the rest of a copper colored summer day with him.
Fast forward one day.
Sora, on your bed. His arms are stretched over his head and he looks over at you, drunk on boredom as you mindlessly play an old computer game. Your dad is passed out on the couch in the living room.
“I think you should kiss me,” Sora says. He says it without any emotion, and you consider it briefly. Earlier he’d found the pills but didn’t ask about them, merely hiding them behind your paperback copy of The Secret Agent before flopping down on the bed, silent for almost an hour.
You shut down the game and stand over Sora, all of his five months not years older than you and give in. You kiss Sora, solid and mirrorlike in a sense of almost betrayal. You have no idea how to touch him beyond just roughly holding him in place, your left hand weirdly grasping the unkempt brown of his hair.
Sora is still imperfect blameless when he shifts you under him, dragging his fingers down your chest and over the worn denim at the crotch of your pants. It’s the first time anyone has ever really touched you, but Sora disregards it, straddling your ankles so that your shins rub an uneasy friction into the fork of his legs. Sora’s mouth is hot around your swollen cock.
Fast forward a month and three weeks.
Sora, on your bed. His hands grasp your shoulders and he blossoms open mouthed kisses to your neck. “I think we should fuck,” Sora says. He says it without emotion, and you don’t hesitate. Earlier he’d taken the pills from their hiding spot and poured them back into the big plastic bottle in the medicine cupboard in the kitchen.
Every part of him matches up to every part of you you feel so wrong about it, the last day anyone ever sees Sora, blue eyes free of street kid rot as he buys a train ticket to the beach, the feel of your hand leading his against your sex still real.
His name is Axel.
You’ve never even talked to him.
And summer is over.