Stetson
A/N: M for swearing and suggestive themes yeah? A nice change of pace inspired by a conversation with nicayal and tisshuuame.
Stetson
"What. The fuck. Is on. Your head." Those were the first words Roxas uttered as Axel sauntered out of the flight terminal.
Axel quirked an eyebrow, lips turning up in a grin as he fished out a pack of cigarettes. "Got a light, sugarplum?"
Roxas shot him a scathing glare before spinning on his heel and stalking towards the exit.
"Hey, hey wait!"
Roxas ignored him, knowing that he would have no problem catching up on his…long, long legs, wrapped in painted-on jeans… He didn't stop until they reached the car, Axel muttering a string of half-hearted protests in an exaggerated southern drawl for the entirety of the short walk.
Axel lounged against the driver-side door before Roxas could pull it open, calmly retrieving a book of matches from another pocket, and Roxas wasn't sure how he did it, but the way he struck the light was sensual.
Roxas crossed his arms and watched as Axel took a drag, his own mouth tight. "Axel. What. The fuck."
Axel tipped the hat, his grin growing wider. "It's a Stetson, lover." He was still affecting the southern accent. "You like it?"
"It looks ridiculous," Roxas deadpanned.
"Does it?" He was baring a dangerous amount of teeth in that smile, Roxas decided.
"Get out of the way. I'm leaving." He pushed ineffectively at Axel's arm—all that toned muscle, barely contained under the black t-shirt he wore, and Roxas was definitely losing this battle, because Axel smelled really good.
Axel was leering as he straightened, giving Roxas access to the door, and that should've been the tip-off, because shortly after Roxas stepped into the space, Axel had stepped into him, effectively trapping him against the car door.
"I missed you, darlin'." The words were spoken close to his ear, the brim of the cowboy hat a light pressure against is head.
Roxas gave one last-ditch effort. "When were you going to tell me you decided to become a rodeo clown?"
Axel chuckled, a low, suggestive sound. "Roxas, I think you know me better than that. I like to ride."
Roxas gave a whole-hearted "Fuck," and spun, grabbing at Axel's hair.
"Yes, darlin." Axel flicked his cigarette to the ground and crushed it under the heel of a boot, busying his mouth with Roxas', his hands already elsewhere. When he cursed, all of the southern drawl was gone, and Roxas couldn't help a little laugh as Axel fumbled with an oversized belt buckle. There was another, more colorful curse, before Axel pulled away.
Roxas ground his teeth. "What."
"Fucking lube, fucking airport security, fucking…" he trailed off, fishing around in his carry-on bag. "Can't a man fuck without having to jump through TSA's fucking hoops?" Roxas was about to dive in with him when he held the ziplock bag up, triumphant. He fumbled it open, pulling out the small bottle and tossing the rest back into his carry-on, and the two crashed back together with force.
From there it was a mess of hands and mouths and skin, the slick of oil as they slid together, and panted breaths echoing in the parking garage. At some point, Roxas managed to get the back door open, and they collapsed into the car, Axel's carry-on all but forgotten.
The Stetson, miraculously, managed to stay atop Axel's head for the entirety of it, and when they finished, he uttered a tired "Yeehaw!" that earned a smack from Roxas. Axel only laughed. "Don't lie, darlin'. You loved it."
Roxas hand wandered down and squeezed. "Call me darlin' one more time, cowboy."