the sun dissolves on the wall, bleeding its lights;

handsome son of no one ◦ mikami ◦ death note

2009-01-08T00:30:55Z

Title: Handsome Son of No One
Rating: PG/PG-13
Pairings/Characters: Mikami and his mother.
Warnings: Dark themes, character death.
Prompt: Childhood, illness, Christmas.
Word Count: 1,180
Notes: For speaky_bean at dn_contest. Secret Santa gift.

In another life, he might have saved the world.
—
His sweater’s torn at the elbows, scuffed skin raw pink and sore against the cold December winds. There’s a gash on his chin, and it burns when he turns his face east against the rushing chill of air, eyes stinging in their dryness, lips stale like paper. The world around him is dark, swollen blue and black, with little light from nearby lamp posts left to illuminate his journey home from the station. On either side of him businessmen and citizens walk, bundled in winter coats and scarves, heads ducked down, eyes turned away—should they catch sight of the young boy’s bloodied and bruised face, he’s sure they won’t say anything. They won’t stay looking long.

Why should they?

Mikami tastes something bitter in the back of his throat, but he swallows until it’s gone. The minutes slur together like warm molasses, a blur of distant consciousness in his mind, and all he really wants right now is sleep. Black, thoughtless, enveloping sleep. But he knows he won’t get even that.

His mother is waiting in the kitchen, matted black hair stiff with dried sweat, crumpled white tissue over mouth and nose, and he can’t meet her searching gaze. He knows what she’s looking for.

He swallows through the nausea, and she talks.

“Mikami, I told you,” she rasps, the raw sound of her voice making him feel helpless despite himself, making him feel somehow displaced, somehow at odds with the world. It’s a loss of control he’s not used to, so different from the rush of sick euphoria that comes with standing in the face of evil and taking the punches, breathing through the beatings. “Stop it.” It’s a plead. Mikami jerks his head, facing the wall, ashamed in a way only his mother can make him. “I can’t stand seeing you hurt like—like this,” and those last words come out on a hiccup, brittle and weak.

“Mother,” he attempts, but that’s all he can say.

Mother.
—
There’s anger, red and hot beneath his skin, and he’s afraid of it.

Afraid, watching the woman asleep under the sheets, chest lifting and falling in careful rhythm; so unbearably delicate, each flutter of warm breath between her lips the potential last.

His hands tremble when he lowers the dampened rag, spreading it gently across her forehead. There’s tenderness in the touch, but Mikami’s mind is swathed in black patches of hate, rage, fury, and

You’re a sinner.

the world has slowed down to a crawl.

He’s not watching the time; it feels frozen, caught in a web of multicolored lights and holiday cheer. Everything’s tight with invisible tension, everyone excited for a celebration they don’t necessarily believe in but cater to the commercial value despite that. Because it’s easier.

It’s easy.

He curls his fingers into the edge of the blanket, presses his head to the wrinkled edge of the mattress, and closes his eyes against the pain.

Memories of yesterday come flooding back to him on a silent, indiscernible wave of recollection: the dim kitchen light on Atsuko’s face, catching once-sweet features in sick, sallow relief, darkening the circles under already dark eyes, accentuating pale cheeks, the shallow hollows of a bare throat. Bent over the running faucet, his mother worked, knuckles gleaming pink as she scrubbed the dishes clean. They didn’t speak. At the table, his eyes blurred as he scanned his homework, unseeing. His head felt fuzzy, underwater. At last, like through a dream, he heard her whisper: “I told you not to do this to yourself. You’re not changing anything. Don’t you understand?”

It sounded desperate. Mikami bit his lip, replied, words short, “Yes, Mother.”

“I’m worried about you,” she continued unabated, voice distinctly louder, as if searching for some kind of secret momentum. “I’m worried about what you’re doing. You’re going to get hurt.”

When he didn’t reply, the static silence thickened.

And then she started coughing, great wet rasping sounds that splintered the air, that clawed up from the black recesses of sickness, that sent cold chills down his spine. Mikami saw her fall against the counter, knees giving out, weight collapsing. His mind went blank.
—
“You can’t protect everyone, Mikami.”

I’m not, I’m just—I just need to—
—
Atsuko has never been a strong woman.

As a child, she caught cold twice a year and even when she wasn’t sick, the illness seemed to have settled into her bones, crushing her, staying with her on balmy summer days spent on the coastline. Her older sister died of pneumonia three years after she was born, casting a black veil over her struggling family, pressuring them. Their genes weren’t very strong, and Atsuko always feared they would pass onto her children.

It was a miracle she’d survived childbirth, they’d said.

Holding the warm body of her son in her arms hours afterward, she believed them.
—
It’s justice, he knows.

That’s why he does it. It’s God’s will brought upon the world, because for every death he inherently lends to, more people are safe, more people can smile free and laugh from their hearts. He’s saving who deserve to be saved.

The world is full of injustices and unhappiness and suffering. He’s seen the worst of it, he’s seen life’s ugly underbelly, slick with greed and murder and selfishness. He’s experienced sorrow and misery.

And every minute of every day, Mikami works to fix it.

He works for retribution, for a peaceful world where the good are taken care of and the evil are wiped out.
—
In his heart, he denies his mother.
—
And in the end, a weak immune system doesn’t deal Atsuko the final blow, but a reckless car of teenage boys.

The same boys who beat him black and blue days earlier, struck by God’s righteous fist.

The street is lit with flashing red and blue lights as diligent policemen swarm to investigate the accident—miracle—and pedestrians linger close by, clutching their coats close, holding a lover’s hand, a child’s hand. The world has stopped to see this act and unravel what’s happened. The scene is eerie: nearby Christmas lights shine, strung across storefronts and rooftops, and the air is chilly. Time has slowed again to a crawling pace.

An angel breathes in, but doesn’t breathe out. God smiles.

At the funeral, Mikami’s tears fall cold down his cheeks, but his heart sings with disbelieving joy.

This is justice.

This is proof.

His faith has been answered by the caroling cry of the heavens above.
—
I can’t save everyone, but not everyone deserves saving.

drabbles ◦ rabi/lenalee ◦ d.gray-man

2008-11-21T01:59:33Z

bright

She smiles when their shoulders brush, a delicate curving of lips that makes his heart palpitate, makes his head hurt. They don't say anything when they pause, reach their hands forward like curious children, fingers wandering across the brittle boundary between okay and not-okay. Nobody's here, not in this warm, exclusive, private part of the world; they've sectioned off a sanctuary just for them, away from prying eyes, away from accusatory voices, away from despair. He cups the softness of her throat in his palm, and she covers one solitary green eye with the bareness of a small hand, feeling the line of his brow.

He can't help it. There's a brightness to her, an infective sort of optimism that stills the air in his chest, melts the coldness of his practice as Bookman. He can't focus when she's in the room. He can't focus when she's not.

Bringing his arms up around her shoulders, pulling her back against the stone wall, there's a moment of peaceful repose. He can feel each flutter of breath against the skin of his neck, warm and frantic-seeming, and he just holds her closer. He doesn't need to speak; words will splinter the fragility of this moment, and he needs this. He needs it more than he's ever needed anything. He doesn't know when he stopped desiring to be by Bookman's side and instead craved so strongly to be by hers, by the Exorcists that are his friends, but it's taken him over.

The light inside of her has filtered into him, has filled him up with selfish hopes, selfish dreams for the future, and this cataclysmic drive to protect what matters the most.

Fingertips find the narrowness of her shoulders, smooth down, caress the lines of smooth white skin. She hiccups a laugh, and his heart swims with love.

woman

Of all the women Rabi has ever met, from every foreign corner of the world, from every dazzling avenue of Cairo and Spain and Brazil, from every memorable face to the other, no one has ever matched Lenalee's beauty. He thinks it's dumb, thinks it's a dangerous thought, thinks it's an undeniably true claim. The way she stands in a room full of people, stealing the spotlight with a single beaming smile. The way the sunlight catches her eyes, the way raindrops petal her lips with moisture, the way her tears glisten in tracks of silver down her cheeks. It's soul-stopping.

Rabi doesn't know what to do when Bookman catches him staring, but he feels the nervous itch under his skin, and he isn't sure he'll ever get rid of it. If he'll ever want to get rid of it.

What's so wrong with looking? He's here to observe; Bookman said it himself. He's here to memorize the hidden history of the world, the hapless war between humans and their foes. It's his responsibility to keep one eye open. And he wants to keep Leanelee's shining eyes in his memory forever, her delicate smiles, her strong legs.

The old man's voice comes from the left in true stage whisper fashion: "Shut your mouth; you're catching flies."

Rabi chokes through his embarrassment.

undocumented

He doesn't question her when she steps through the door, doesn't turn her away, and the gratitude shows on her worry-worn face, bleeding out from that vulnerable place between her heart and her head. Lenalee can't will words to explain just what she's feeling, the sick grief pulling her to pieces right before her friend's eyes. She wants to apologize, dip her head forward and confess what's kept her up at night, what's kept her so far under the weather, what's tortured her state of mind into a depthless tomb of guilt. All those people who are now dead, nailed into so many separate coffins because of a fight she arrived at too late to make much of a difference in.

This is something they won't talk about in the open. This is something he knows she'll have to deal with by herself.

He kisses her furrowed brow, wraps her in his jacket, dries the tears from her chin. "Hey," that reassuring voice whispers against the shell of her ear when she cradles her head on his shoulder, buckling with sobs.

I'm so tired.

It's impossible to tell how much blood they've seen, how much death they've seen, and how much of it belongs to their beloved companions. It eats her up inside to know that the numbers have jumped through the roof. It makes her ache with guilt, with sadness, with anger. That they're forced to stand aside and watch it happen. She knows Rabi might not understand; he has another duty here in the Black Order, but sometimes she just hopes

I should have been there.

hopes there's more to it than that. There's more to him than that. Sometimes she doesn't need hope; she can see it in his eyes when he holds her, when he warms her, when he picks her up from her lows, when he cheers her on. She knows he's not fake, those gentle hands on her face aren't fake, aren't evanescent, aren't going to go away. But she can't help the desperation to keep him here, with her, with everyone, with all of their friends. She doesn't want to lose anyone.

I'm so sorry.

Some things can't be shared. Some things go untold, unrecorded, undocumented. Some things are too precious for that.

When her eyes flutter shut, exhausted from her anguish, she's safe with the knowledge that he'll still be there in the morning.

We remember what we can't ignore. We record what can't be ignored.

What someone else can't say. What someone else doesn't know.

Stories are stories. Love stories are just a little happier.

finite

The air smells like dust. Lit candles fling black shadows across the wall like animate smears of paint on a portrait, swarming every corner of the room, clogging the cracks in the stone floor. Rabi's heart is pounding against the cage of his lungs like a war drum, and his throat burns every time he inhales. He thinks, distantly, there's something he wants to say, but he doesn't know what it is. He watches her move from the corner of her eye, watches as she rolls onto her side, tugging the sheet up over one bare shoulder.

Silence settles over them like a plastic covering.

She left one of her boots at the foot of the bed and he can see it from where he lays, sprawled on his back, their fingers-almost-touching-but-not-quite under the heavy blankets. Wind beats against the outside walls, rain gathers on the windowpanes, vicious strikes of lighting illuminate a black sky. He can't stop looking at her, curled next to him, the petite stature, the smoothness of her sleeping form. He can't help himself from reaching forward and settling against her back, fatigue weighing him down.

"Lenalee," he murmurs against the silky-softness of her hair, short enough to tickle his chin, and he smiles when she hums something unintelligible in her unconsciousness.

It's not going to last. Nights like these don't last; they're impermanent.

But he's distracted enough not to think about that, not right now.

angel's rhapsody ◦ mello/hal ◦ death note

2008-09-02T01:13:35Z

Title: angel's rhapsody
Pairing(s)/Character(s): mello/hal
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 787
Notes: this is just a tiny plotless drabble. ENJOY.

you can watch me corrode like a beast in repose

she's quiet, and there's an element of surprise in river water eyes, the bloodshot whites like the foam of an ocean's nth wave sprayed with red light from a distant source. shadows descend on the majestic structures sprawling, reaching for the arced ceiling, a vermilion glow brought by the filtered glare of evening's dusk. she doesn't breathe. black heels click against the flat stone aisle; the path stretches into the belly of the beast, a gray scar that meets the decorated altar and splits into separate directions from there. the rosewood pews are empty, lacquered to a gleam she can almost see her reflection in. the room resonates with a loneliness she can't place, can't seem to bear.

the chapel is hollow. there was once belief, was once religion and holy unity of peace—but all that reflects its glory from those ancient days past is this fragmented shell full of cobwebs and confessions. it can no longer live up to the expectations of the angels above, or the delicate, lily-white faces of their painted manifestations smeared across skeletal walls.

she sees him before he sees her: angular shoulders, dusted by gold-blond hair and swathed in white bandage; the long line of his body, tall, bones sharp; and though he's turned away from her, she can imagine his face in perfect detail. those cat-slanted eyes, pinched lips, delicate jaw, prominent collar, smooth pale cheeks. she feels her heart stutter, catch, plummet. she feels like a teenage girl again, and it sends a shock through her, a ribbon of heartsickness.

"mello," she murmurs aloud, swallows the words that nearly follow, welling up against the back of her throat. the spoken name shatters the mask of serenity. she feels her eyes burn. "what are you doing here?"

it's a ridiculous question she regrets the moment the last word slides off her tongue, but hal approaches him, unable to still herself, unable to quell the urge that sinks its tiny teeth into her very power of will, her hands loosely fisted at her sides and slicked with a nervous sweat. it makes concentration a difficult feat, her thoughts blinking like fireflies behind the lids of her eyes. pale lashes flutter once: close, then open. she watches as he turns around, eyes focused into gleaming slits so narrow in that moment that he looks irrevocably dangerous, unearthly, expression seamless in its animal-like quality.

"you got my message?" his tone is dark, a soul-aching pulse of too many convoluted emotions, too much anger that it has torn him up and left him changed. "i told you." he's only partially facing her, and she's closer now, close enough to breathe in the familiar musk of man and something else— "i'm saying goodbye." —but then she sees it, and her heart seizes with horror.

mello's chest is red. the gore isn't fresh, but it hasn't fully caked over yet. she extends a trembling hand, touches the smooth crease where collarbones meet, and her palm comes away wet. the bandages are soaked through. "mello," she says, then again, voice a brittle mess that elevates, gain strengths and momentum and hardens with the quaking force of her concern: "mello. mello, what happened? what are you doing—"

hal's words are lost to a void of warm skin and swallowed gasps; he has his mouth against hers, his arms around her, this devil with the bloody chest and scarred blue eyes. they're kissing like they're dying, and he may very well be. her white shirt moistens as blood seeps between them, stains the smooth skin below dampened fabric, the curve of her breasts and the flat plain of her stomach. it burns her. she feels the slick muscle of his tongue, feels the heat of the room around them closing in, a mother's delicate womb; she feels the stone and the inevitable advance of night. she wills this to be a dream, wills it because the experience is sour, is everything she wants but can't keep.

something possesses her the moment he steps away, moves down the aisle, booted feet a quiet thud that mirrors the thunder of her own heart. she can't think, she can't move. she can't move until he reaches the alcove at the entrance, slips between the parted mouth of those wooden doors. and she follows, heels snapping against stone, hand on the cold frame of the door. she's saying his name.

outside, strained sunlight bathes the scene. a breeze cools the line of sweat on her forehead. the horizon is drowning in violent reds and golds, and the churchyard leads out to a dirt-packed road. she hears the dull purr of an engine, but she can't see it.

she can't see anything.

and the taste of dried-up hopes in my mouth
and the landscape of merry and desperate drought
how much longer, dear angels?

empire of dirt ◦ rod ross/mello ◦ death note

2008-06-15T01:20:32Z

Title: Empire of Dirt
Pairing(s)/Character(s): Rod Ross/Mello
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Which is not to imply that Rod Ross was in any way inefficient involving his ‘choice career’; oh no, he could handle the occasional delivery fuck-up, inner-circle betrayal, and everything that may or may not extend outward from there. After all, he’d been doing this since before Mello was born.
Word Count: 4,582
Notes: AU, insofar as age and situation applies. Not for the faint of heart? I FEEL DIRTY JUST WRITING THIS.

He’d bought the room four days ago under the assumption that the person it was intended for would show up within the week. There was little left to assume when it came to his former business associate and even after all these years, the LA mobster never really gave clear specifications. Or, he did, and then went back on them at the last minute. Which is not to imply that Rod Ross was in any way inefficient involving his ‘choice career’; oh no, he could handle the occasional delivery fuck-up, inner-circle betrayal, and everything that may or may not extend outward from there. After all, he’d been doing this since before Mello was born.

The theory had formulated several years back, and Mello came to a rather simple conclusion. Rod did it intentionally; he liked to make his informants, his clients, and everyone else in between sweat a bit beforehand.

“Let me get this straight,” the twenty-year-old spoke, cradling the cell against his shoulder as he peeled off the soiled strip of gauze from his calf, examining its length in front of the bathroom mirror. He was perched on the edge of the sink, naked legs stretched out over the glossy marble as he leaned his weight back against the medicine cabinet’s rosewood surface. “You just flew in. Right now. At four o’clock in the morning?”

There was rough, raw laughter down the end of the line, followed by a half-assed excuse they both knew he didn’t mean. “Had to clean my hands off before I left. Flight was delayed. These things add up, Mell.”

“I’ll bet they do.” Nonetheless, the blond split his lips in a personal smirk his former employer couldn’t see. “You know where to go. Should you require my assistance,” Mello drawled, already knowing what Rod’s response would be, “feel free to get in touch.”

Another dully enthused laugh; the sound of it was scratchy and familiar, awakening a thrill of recollection and vividly reminding him of a starved childhood spent cleaning blood from under his nails. “How’s an hour sound, kid? Any fucking later and I’ll get anxious.” The thought was humoring, because Ross never did get restless unless the occasion called for his utmost and undivided attention – and sometimes even then the significant lack of unease showed through like a sore.

Mello smiled at the predictability. Through these last three years of bombshell surprises round every corner, it was a welcome change. “You woke me up. I’m supposed to drop everything and race over there? That’s a tall order, boss.”

“Nah, you weren’t sleeping in the first place, Mell.”

“You know me too well.” Which should have been a liability, so he couldn’t help but wonder why it made him want to laugh obscenely instead. The sentiment must’ve been contagious.

“See you soon, kid,” came the mobster’s hummed return.

Mello tossed the bandage into the nearby garbage bin before checking out his injury, satisfied to see that it had all but disappeared in the last week or so he’d left it to heal. The only downside being that it would probably scar, considering the ghost of a mark stretched out across three full inches of skin. “Looking forward to it.” As soon as he snapped his cell shut, the blond slid from the counter and tested his weight on his legs. His balance was smooth without inciting any pain since the laceration had healed over, so Mello promptly paced into the next room.

With a glance of amused disdain, he spotted Matt’s form sprawled out on the sheets of the bed, chest rising and lowering with deep-sleep breathing. Mello rifled through a bag at the foot of the bed and picked free a plain white t-shirt, pulling it over his head then heading for the discarded leather pants he’d worn earlier in the day. It was a good thing Mello didn’t do most of his work wearing his better clothes, if the wound on his calf was any indication; they all would’ve been in ribbons by now. After that came his leather jacket, settling comfortably across narrow shoulders, and then his laced boots.

As an afterthought, Mello snatched a post-it and scrawled something down, leaning over his friend’s sleeping form to stick it to his forehead. The note simply read: ‘Paying the lawyer. Don’t wait up. M.’ He had the impression Matt would roll over and dislodge the post-it eventually, so he decided he’d send a similar text on his way out the door.

The ride to the five-star hotel wasn’t long, and in no time at all Mello approached the glass entrance doors, ducking inside and casting a glance around. No one loitering around the high-price lobby this late at night, as expected. The twenty-year-old approached the front desk without further delay. After a quick chat and assertion of identity (fake, but oh-so convincing), Mello got his keycard up to the room on the seventh floor. The elevator had gold-plated walls and bronze bars, an impressive addition to an already sickeningly wealthy place. He didn’t put much thought into the appearance, instead focusing on getting where he needed to be.

Room 729 loomed into view and Mello reached it, sliding the key into the automatic lock and opening the door without bothering to call out his arrival. Rod turned his head from his seat on the king-size mattress, his fingers curled around a slender glass of alcohol. Seeing the leather-clad individual, Rod raised his glass in mimicry of a half-assed toast, lips pulled back into a shark-like smirk.

“With all due respect,” Mello began, mirroring the expression as he clicked the door shut behind him, “have any to spare?” The mobster nodded his chin in the direction of an unsealed bottle resting in a tub of ice cubes, a silver tray set nearby with only one remaining wine glass perched upon it.

The blond headed for the table and helped himself, filling the glass halfway. As he checked over the labeling, the older man spoke, “You sure’ve grown, kid. Never thought I’d see the day.” There was a laughing undertone to his voice, something Mello had long since grown accustomed to hearing.

Glancing up from the bottle, he caught Rod in the process of sweeping his gaze all the way down to his toes. Mello couldn’t help but arch an elegant, if suggestive, brow at the gesture, tipping his glass upward and swallowing. The taste burned his throat but warmed the blood in his veins almost immediately; when the blond lowered the glass, he noticed the older man’s eyes were still on him, watching him drink. In another minute of intermittent sipping and swallowing, he’d emptied it completely.

Rod’s mouth kissed the rim of his own glass but he made no move to finish what little remained, intent on silently assessing his former associate. “LA just isn’t the same without you.”

The blond laughed at that, speeding through his second glass and setting it aside, perching himself on the edge of the table while mindful of the wine bottle. “Is that regret I’m picking up on, or am I overanalyzing? Sorry, big guy, but living there every year was like wrapping cellophane around my face whenever I went outside.” He paused, mock-considering. “Besides. You managed long before I ever showed up.”

After sparing him a look of unveiled appraisal, the older man replied, “Spread the flattery thin, kid. Having you around lessened the headaches.”

Mello suddenly stood, a sharp glint to his eyes that probably shouldn’t have been there. He approached the mobster, sliding thin fingers beneath the larger fist holding the delicate stem of the wine glass and slipping it from the man’s lax grasp. Keeping his gaze on Ross, he tilted his head back and swallowed the rest of it in one gulp, throat working. The older man laughed and leaned back as if to take the view in fully, his hands spread behind him to support his weight. When Mello finished, he set the empty glass aside – and the real show began.

Nothing was said as Mello gracefully sidled between Rod’s knees, hooking his right leg over one and closing his thighs tightly, white teeth flashing with his wicked grin. Mello shoved his own knee forward against the crouch of the mobster’s tailored slacks, wetting his lips when the man responded oh-so-favorably, if that nearly imperceptible hitch of breath was anything to go by. He didn’t resist when he felt the hand on his waist, thick and warm and steady, shoving under the hem of his leather jacket to bunch up the white fabric of his t-shirt beneath and get to skin. Blunt nails found the bare curve of his spine, scraping lightly over each individual vertebra.

“Beautiful, fucking beautiful,” Rod hissed, and Mello felt the hum of sound pounding right along with his pulse. It was a delectable sensation that he wasn’t quite sure how to get used to. After a deliberate pause during which the blond ducked forward, rubbing the smooth plain of his cheek over the rough skin of Rod’s, Mello reached between them and hooked his fingertips under his shirt, simultaneously sliding out of it and discarding his jacket. The fluid movement left his upper body completely bare; the hand that had been caressing the strip of skin above the band of his pants skated upward with ease, callused pads of fingertips sending a shudder of arousal bulleting through him. Mello curled his toes, eyelashes fluttering briefly at the violent spark of stimulation.

He only looked up when he felt the older man’s free hand smooth the hair from his forehead, dark eyes widening when he felt the tender kiss pressed against his temple. Mello’s face burned with heat at the show of affection, a defensive scowl twisting his lips as he jerked his head back, glancing away. He felt the older man’s laugh vibrate through both of them, and with a milder frown, pulled himself up into a standing position between Rod’s spread knees.

Without a word, Mello’s fingers worked the front of his leather pants, biting his lip in faint concentration as he slid them down his thighs, forcing himself not to reach and stroke himself to completion. He hardly remembered when this arrangement had first been propositioned, but he could specifically recall plenty of times he’d gone down on the mobster back in LA, or the instances Rod had catered to his own carnal needs. They’d never properly fucked at the older man’s insistence, which kind of bothered Mello back then since it implied he wasn’t ‘worthy’ or ‘enough’ to sate the man. He’d learned eventually that Ross withheld for another reason altogether.

When Mello went to unlace his boots in order to get the leather pants off, he was stopped by a warm hand on his side, the gruff voice that followed earning a raised brow of skepticism. “Leave those on.”

Making a sound of amused incredulity in the back of his throat, the blond changed tactics, wrestling to peel off the leather over his shoes. After a moment of struggle that forced him to sit down on a nearby chair in order to keep from stumbling, he finally kicked them away. “You realize I’m not letting you get away from here without fucking me this time, right?”

Predictably, the mobster laughed, shrugging out of his own white suit jacket. “Mello—”

Recognizing the absence of a nickname before the man even had a chance to finish, he cut in. “No. It’s been three years. You fuck your whores all the time, I’m sure. Why’s it got to be so goddamn difficult with me?” Mello’s voice was like a blade, years of aggravation and frustration lying in its dark wake. He hated denial. He didn’t do rejection. If he wanted something, there was no way he couldn’t get it.

It was Rod’s turn to arch a brow at the words. “You’re not a whore, Mello.”

“Why the hell are you acting like you even care?”

The older man’s expression was firm, resolute, and slightly bemused. “Because I do.”

Startled by that, Mello stood where he was; arms locked across his chest, completely naked save for the laced boots on his feet and the gleaming red rosary standing out against his skin. His throat felt too dry to get out any kind of response, thus he settled for a sharp, angry glare. Rod, lips turning upward at the corners in a faint smirk, saved him the trouble of replying. “I wouldn’t have anything to make it easier for you either way, kid. Trust me, you’d need it.”

Snapping at the chance to gain some kind of leverage, Mello immediately said, “I already have that.” The insinuation that he wouldn’t be able to take it without lube went by without comment, although internally the blond bristled with the desire to prove the older man wrong. Without a second’s hesitation, Mello scooped up his jacket from the plush carpeting and dug through one of the pockets, tugging the plastic container free. The look on Rod’s face at the sight bordered thrilled surprise, almost hunger. But he didn’t reach forward to take it. Mello, completely fed up, growled, “I’m twenty, for God’s sake! Why the hell are you treating me like I’m a prissy teenage virgin—”

“Sometimes I wonder, Mell,” came the playfully uttered interruption, sending the blond into a whole new wave of fury.

He bridged the distance between them and crawled into the man’s lap, shoving with his hands against Rod’s chest. Had this been any other person, that might’ve actually worked and forced them down onto the bed, but Rod’s size definitely brought more than mere visual intimidation. He was too strong. Mello, hating the reminder that he couldn’t physically coax the man into fucking him, bared his teeth in a vicious scowl like an animal. He slid from his seat, getting down on his knees and furiously working at the fastening of the mobster’s slacks. The movements were swift and jerky and at any given moment he might be careless enough to catch the other man in the zipper.

Rod, noticing this, insistently pried Mello’s hands away. “No need to spit fire, Mell.”

“Shut the fuck up!”

There was a pause. Rod’s brow drew together in thought. “It really bug you that much, kid?” Of course he didn’t receive a reply, and after a second of careful deliberation, Ross caved, lifting the young blond off the carpet by hooking his hands under bony elbows. “Don’t make me regret this, Mell. Give me that.” Frowning, he reached for the tube of lubricant after situating Mello across his knees. He’d backed up on the bed some so they didn’t risk falling off, and noticing the younger man’s lack of arousal, wrapped one warm hand around him, pumping curled fingers with a strong twist of his wrist.

Mello breathed out in surprise, unprepared for the spike of sensation that flooded him to the bone, his legs locking up around the man’s waist and forehead dropping down on Rod’s broad shoulder. The rumble of laughter felt like a familiar buzz by now and he closed his eyes tightly, nearly shuddering as the older man spoke, “You really are too fucking pretty for your own good, kid. Lift your hips.” He obeyed, if only because he was so overwhelmed with a frightening crave that stemmed from somewhere deep inside of him, somewhere he didn’t think he could ever reach.

The brief sound of a cap popping broke through Mello’s heavy breathing, and then the blond felt an entirely new sensation streak up his spine. “…Cold…” he hissed, the heels of his boots digging into the sheets of the bed. One blunt finger had wedged itself between his legs, pressing against a ring of muscle and then further, delving deeper. It was only one finger, yet all the same Mello tensed and dug his nails into the mobster’s bare shoulders, biting onto the inner skin of his cheek.

“Relax,” the older man said, his own voice low and heavy, as though he was having a difficult time himself without being in Mello’s situation. Once he’d forced himself to abide the request, the finger was buried past the knuckle in little time and another slid to join its brother, and from there began the stretch. Mello wasn’t used to being on the bottom since he made sure to dominate whoever he could, but this…it wasn’t unbearable yet, just mildly painful. And weird. Rod’s fingers were larger than Mello’s own and anyone else’s he’d ever let near him. That thought alone sent a thrill through him.

When movement began and the mobster pressed a third and final finger through, Mello’s spine straightened as a wash of pain overcame him. His breath hitched and he froze, eyes wide and burning. The older man stopped, heaving a sigh. “Mello, you can’t—”

Before he could even finish, the blond had a hand down between his own legs, wrapping bone-thin fingers around Rod’s wrist and jerking them upward, impaling himself on the three fingers. The mobster groaned at the display and obliged finally as he worked on loosening the blond, sliding out and thrusting up in a maddeningly repetitive motion. It went like this until Mello felt raw and overheated, gasping for each plunge in, arms wrapped tight around the older man’s neck to stabilize himself. His cock brushed Rod’s muscled stomach and chest every now and then, until the mobster lowered his free hand in acquiescence. Rough fingers encircled him and Mello sucked in breath sharply, shuddering when a callused thumb smeared a pearly drop of precome across the head.

Then came the startling sensation of being completely empty; Rod withdrew his fist, wiping the moisture from his fingers off on the nearby sheets. A whine managed to lodge itself in his throat, only bursting free from his lips when the older man removed his hand from his hardened arousal a half-beat later. He opened his mouth to argue, but Rod pressed a kiss forward and effectively shut him up. They lip-locked, tongues wet and twisting into each other’s mouths as Rod wrapped a strong arm around the blond’s thin waist. When the mobster pulled back for air he was grinning widely, a look of lust etched into his expression. “Lay down.”

Mello, unused to taking orders, scowled. His kiss-reddened lips opened to shout his own refusal, but the older man was already a step ahead of him. In one fluid movement, Rod stood up and held the blond against his chest, forcing his legs to reflexively wrap tight around his middle. Then he turned and eased Mello down onto the mattress. The blond struggled for a brief moment until his cock roughly brushed with Rod’s stomach, sending a jagged tear of arousal through him and pulling a muffled groan from his determinedly sealed lips. The mobster picked up on the reaction and pushed their bodies together, hips connecting and releasing a lesser subdued moan from the blond’s reluctant mouth. Rod was holding the majority of his weight up, towering over the other’s prone form. Mello, of course, didn’t like this one bit. He glared daggers despite the haze of arousal heavy in his bloodstream and shifted up onto his elbows below the older man.

“You’re sure taking your sweet time,” the blond hissed, tilting his head back to shake the hair from his face.

“Guess you’re not into foreplay much, huh,” Rod replied, nudging Mello down flat. Like this, the blond could almost convince himself he was being pried apart just keeping his legs spread and curled around the width of the man’s body, and the real fucking hadn’t even begun yet. Sensing the strategy of the position, he lifted one of his boot-clad feet and hooked it low over the mobster’s bicep, making sure to lock the joint of his knee tight.

“Ready?”

With a dramatic flare, the younger man rolled his eyes. Rod only laughed and reached between them to unzip his slacks, freeing his own desperately hard member. The blond almost lurched when he felt the blunt beginnings of penetration, of being opened up this way, grasping for Rod’s shoulders and scratching red welts across the muscled surface. His head fell back, eyes wide and staring up at the pleasantly white ceiling above them, swallowing through his trepidation. Gold strands of hair framed his flushed face as Rod leaned down to murmur right next to his ear, the head of his cock just-barely inside of him. “You’re tighter than I expected, Mell. You sure about that I’m-not-a-virgin declaration?”

“My asshole wasn’t built for men old enough to father me,” Mello seethed sarcastically, arching like a cat, chewing down on his lower lip in hopes to distract himself from the pain sparking through his body in cruel waves.

It worked, until the mobster currently in the process of fucking him nudged another two inches deeper.

“Fuck!”

The older man arched a brow, though Mello’s eyes were closed too tightly to see. “I’m not even halfway in, kid.”

Chewing through his agony, the blond glared, feeling the burn build up at the corners of his eyes. “Just do it already,” he demanded, his tone desperately double-edged and darkened with a mixture of pain and overwhelming lust. Rod’s lips split wide, teeth sharp and gleaming.

“Now you’re talkin’.”

And with that, the mobster proceeded to lift Mello’s hips from the expensive mattress, gracelessly bending him in half and shoving all the way up to the hilt. Mello couldn’t stifle the pained shout from getting into open air, instantly feeling shame swirl through him when he realized what he’d done. Ross, however, appeared to have a different opinion about the utterance. “Do that again, Mell. You’ve got a pretty fucking voice.”

Growling as if he hadn’t just received a compliment, Mello sought retribution. Lowering one of his arms to fist his fingers tightly into the sheets, knuckles going white, he chose his poison. “Yeah?” came only as hot breath as he clenched his body down hard around the older man, suffering through the twinge of pain it brought. The mobster’s whole body seemed to quake with the sensation of being gripped so fully, so completely, and Rod lowered his head somewhat, gasping against the blond’s throat. His lips brushed the beads of Mello’s rosary and he lingered, kissing the red strand gently.

Unsure whether or not to feel offended or obscenely turned on by that gesture, Mello pushed up insistently with his lower body. “You either…fuck me right now…or I’ll kick you off of me and we’ll never speak of this again.” The snarl was rushed, hissed through ragged panting. But Rod got the hint.

“Hang on,” he warned with dark humor, pulling his cock almost entirely out of the blond’s body before moving forward in one harsh movement. The friction was excruciating. Tenfold more intense than three fingers could ever hope to achieve, and Mello called out again without meaning to, mouth open wide and smeared with moisture. He curled himself as best he could around the mobster’s waist and shoulders, riding through the first few thrusts with an insufferable combination of agony and pure bliss.

Then, something changed.

“Holy fucking shit,” he hissed at the simultaneous reaction of having the head of his cock meet a rough, muscled abdomen and the head of the other man’s cock piston in against his prostate. He suddenly locked up, refusing to move with Rod’s body. The mobster stopped even though he was certainly strong enough to continue whether or not the blond wanted to. But he stopped.

“You okay down there, kid?”

The concern was met with slitted blue eyes and teeth clenched down hard, jaw bulging. “Sit up,” he said desperately, using the hand that wasn’t twisting the sheets into a mess to scrape the back of Rod’s neck. The man obediently moved as requested, taking Mello with him and being careful not to dislodge their joined bodies. Mello kept his legs stretched across his thighs, making sure they were eye level when he decided to act. Using the heels of his boots to dig into the mattress, both hands shifting to Rod’s shoulders, Mello pulled himself up several inches and slid slowly back down into the mobster’s lap.

This new angle sent a shockwave of arousal rocketing through his blood and numbing the pain away until all he could feel was the grind of friction, the rough in-and-out motion of Rod’s hardened cock filling him again and again, stretching him literally to the limit. Mello lifted his hips once, twice, three times and then over and over, gasping for the oxygen that eluded him during this crucial moment of tension. The room was unbearably hot and he couldn’t help but linger on how disgustingly wrong this whole situation was, wondered why he hadn’t realized it until now, wondered why it turned him on that much more.

As the pressure in his gut built, Rod moved his hands all over the blond’s lithe body, slick with sweat, caressing Mello’s hip and thigh before moving upward. Thick fingers stroked over his erection, jerking in time with the younger man’s thrusts. Mello felt the burn in his legs almost achingly vivid, but he kept it up, unable to help but be vocal when Rod gripped his hip in his free hand and began to orchestrate the thrusts. None too soon, every push of Rod’s cock inside of him targeted his prostate, and Mello was sucked into a sea of euphoria to the point where he just about forgot to breathe.

Crying out in a muffled moan against Rod’s throat, the blond was acutely aware of the moment his orgasm overtook his body, his erratic pulse throbbing as he came. The white-hot fluid felt like fire against his stomach, and the reflexive tightening of his passage around Rod’s cock drew the older man over the edge with him. The burn of the man’s seed inside of him shouldn’t have felt as erotic as it did; Mello damned himself silently, ignoring the brush of red rosary beads as it smeared through his own come.

After a long moment during which the both spent catching their breath, Mello forced himself to recover. “All right, big guy, time to get out of me before I’m permanently sore. Christ, this is going to hurt so motherfucking badly tomorrow…”

Rod hummed his laughter against the younger man’s cheek, baring white teeth in a smirk. “Bathe in some ice or something, kid.” He gingerly lifted Mello off of him and they both shared a hitch of breath as Rod slid free. Mello was fully prepared to whine for the next few hours he would more than likely spend in the mobster’s company, carefully picking his tender body up from the soiled sheets and putting his best effort into standing still. It was hard to keep balance. He kind of wanted to dive right back into bed and sleep the next twelve hours away.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you, Mell.”

“Shut up or I’ll gut you,” Mello slurred, pausing to lean his weight against the nearest wall and pry his shoes off at last. Curling his toes into the cool carpet, he glanced back over, watching as the older man stretched in contentment. “What was that deal with the boots, anyway? Secret kink of yours?”

Rod just laughed. “Sure, kid. Sure.”

elysium on the red walls ◦ kisame/itachi ◦ naruto

2008-06-12T01:52:35Z

Title: Elysium on the Red Walls
Pairing(s)/Character(s): Kisame/Itachi
Rating: R
Summary: Itachi suffers; Kisame observes.
Word Count: 1,569
(his face is a slated wall built around a manifestation of emptiness)

bullet to the back ◦ matt/mello ◦ death note

2008-06-12T01:51:09Z

Title: Bullet to the Back
Pairing(s)/Character(s): Matt/Mello
Rating: NC-17 for violence, language, and sex
Summary: Mello's a dangerous predator wading high waters and it's impossible to tell where he'll strike next, and that's probably the thing Matt likes best about him. He's an honest-to-god riot.
Word Count: 1,840

He feels warm all over. The warmth sits under his skin, a golden sheen pulsing through him. It's something more than contentment despite the surroundings, the choking air of the club pumped full of smoke from more than just the ends of cigarettes. Everything's a haze of colors, of blacks and whites and reds and the bright neon shades of the pretty girls' clothes. The chatter is louder than the music in his ears, a bone-deep reverberation shaking loose the calm and collected visage he usually maintains. The I-don't-give-a-shit frontage, an ace up his sleeve even when he doesn't know it.

He feels warm all over, right down to his toes. And out of the corner of his eye is that smile, that shit-eating simper not more than twenty feet away, and he knows, knows so fucking easily he doesn't have to be here. Mello told him it'd be for back-up in case he needed it, but he knows he isn't completely necessary. Mello can very well take care of himself. Mello hadn't needed him when he'd pulled himself from death's doorstep; and only afterward, only then asked Matt to back him up in case he needed it. Because Mello isn't dependent. He doesn't really need back-up, which is okay with Matt; Matt just likes the action. He's perfectly fine taking the shotgun seat and watching everything else play out, watching Kira and Near and Mello pace circles around each other. So long's he can watch and not get killed.

He's here because Mello told him to come, not because Mello actually expects to get in trouble. That's one thing Mello's so sly and straight-forward about.

And Matt's okay with it.

Their eyes meet across the distance and there's some brilliant flash of something between them. He doesn't know what but he doesn't think he cares. Not when all that attention is narrowed down on him, making him feel like his lungs are constricting and the rest of the world exists so fucking far away, just a blur in his peripheral. It's better than getting high or having sex. Mello's a dangerous predator wading high waters and it's impossible to tell where he'll strike next, and that's probably the thing Matt likes best about him. He's an honest-to-god riot. Not a moment's dull around number two, second best, not even when Matt's getting the shit beat out of himself because he made a wrong, snide comment. Not even when he gets locked out of the apartment because Mello 'isn't in the mood to deal with his immature bullshit' despite instigating the argument himself.

Not even then.

The meeting doesn't last long; neither does the informant. Mello plays coy with the bastard, reels him in like a fly to honey and keeps him on his toes long enough to get the information out of him before the man even has a chance to get his side of the deal fulfilled. That's one of the amazing things about Mello; he's almost wickedly charming, with both looks and the things he can say. He can change his strategy three, four times in one single conversation; he can wrap the whole goddamn mess around you before you even know what the fuck's happened. And he's got this guy in his back pocket, by the looks of it. Playing around with him. God, this guy's such a fucking retard, even Matt can tell. Falling so easily for the bait, sticking his hand right in the middle of the steel-teethed trap. Then again, anyone would. Matt has, on more than one occasion. Sometimes he wonders why the hell he had to fall for something like that.

At the same time, Mello's still giving him these looks. These sharp, beseeching glances way too often and making it impossible for Matt to turn his focus away from the table Mello and the informant are seated at. He's in the perfect vantage spot to watch the whole scene play out, and damn Mello for that. He's not jealous when he sees the man put a hand on Mello's knee, or when Mello leans in and whispers something, the words like poison on his tongue, because Matt knows it's not real.

Matt can't even concentrate on the pretty girl pressed up against his side. He's warm all over, practically trembling with the heat in his body, and fuck it all, he just wants to get out of here so he can get Mello back for his little stunt.

It doesn't last long.

Mello drops the informant like a rock mid-conversation; just stands up and shrugs his shoulder, makes a vague motion with his hand, an implying sort of demand that has the ignorant man on his feet in seconds flat. And Mello walks right out the door with him in tow. Matt follows, give or take a minute, in time to step out into the chilling cold night air, in time to hear a muffled crack and a muffled shout. Around the corner, Matt finds Mello with a gun loose in his hands; obviously he hasn't used it, just beat the man over the back of the head hard enough to likely cause brain damage - he isn't quite sure, but it's Mello, so he doesn't put it past him. And that's that.

They're in the car. The heater's cranked up and the smoke still sits in his chest like a delicious pressure, curling in his lungs and warming him from the inside-out. It doesn't take long to pull into the parking lot; by that time it's nearly three AM, and Matt doesn't mind, not when Mello turns the car off and laughs, just tips his head back and laughs in the dark and slides out of his seat, into Matt's lap. It's all leather and jeans and friction, hotter than smoke and the heater's that's already been switched off with the engine. When their mouths meet Matt can't help the anxious, desperate way he grabs at Mello, the way callused fingertips fumble for the metallic zipper at his front and slides it down in one smooth motion; the way his tongue scrapes past the danger of teeth to meet hot, pliant muscle. If there's one thing he likes the most when they get like this, it's kissing Mello, because it tastes like chocolate and Mello's the best performer out of anyone he's ever kissed. It tastes dangerous, like death and life and risk all at once, everything in between.

He'll never get used to it; he'll never get tired of it.

Mello's hands work their way between their close-pressed bodies, to the closure of Matt's jeans and slips the button free, slides the zipper down. Hooks two fingers into the closest beltloops and yanks down just as he whispers "Lift your hips a bit," and Matt does it. Then Mello's wrapping one warm palm around his cock and Matt chokes on his own saliva, makes this keening noise in the back of his throat when Mello jerks his wrist in a steady rhythm once, twice. "Oh, fuck," he says as their lips come apart, as Mello shifts and grinds himself against Matt's thigh, mouth moving to the slope of his neck and sucking hard. The wet pull on his skin drives Matt somewhere near the edge and if he doesn't do something right now oh fuck, he's going to lose it.

The hand lifts and Mello balances his knees on the sides of the seat, reaching to push the chair back as horizontal as it'll go before shoving Matt down. He meticulously works the laces of his own pants, shoving them down until they tangle at his knees before crawling back over Matt's body, mouth everywhere at once, teeth scraping just below his nipple, followed by the lave of his tongue. And Matt's panting hard by this point, the warmth in his lungs sliding lower into the pit of his stomach, his groin, gathering until he almost hurts his need is so sharp, so prominent. One of Mello's hands is on the window for balance, fingers splayed and smearing fingerprints all over the place. Their breath has already fogged it up since the air outside is so cold, and he wonders how conspicuous they must seem to any unlucky passersby, then realizes he doesn't give a fuck because the next moment Mello's fumbling with a tube of lube, wherever the hell he got it, lathering it onto his fingers and shoving two at once inside himself. The gaudy, perverse sight is probably the hottest thing he's ever seen in his entire life. And that's saying something.

"Oh, fuck," Matt says again, straining with his jeans riding up on his thighs, shirt pushed all the way to his throat and hands clutching the leather seat like it's going to keep him still. He feels the tension in every part of his body like a tingling presence, feels the pressure mounting to unbearable heights and Mello doesn't spend that long fingering himself, thank fucking god. That's probably why - holy fucking shit - he's so fucking tight and hot when he finally, finally lowers himself down onto Matt's cock. "Mello, fuck," he says again, voice more breath than voice as Mello lets out a high-pitched sound somewhere nearby his ear, bare thighs trembling against Matt's own where they're stretched across the seat. All Matt wants to do is push himself up again, again, again into that engulfing sensation, that burning heat stretched around him. But he stills himself.

It doesn't last long. Nothing with Mello lasts long.

"Move, motherfucking hell, Matt," Mello hisses out and that's all the incentive Matt needs before he's completely out of control, each individual grind a scrape of hypersensitive flesh wrapped tight around his cock until he hits the perfect rhythm. It's harder when he's the one on his back but Matt doesn't mind, doesn't mind when his body screams and aches from the exertion and there's sweat soaking into his shirt, because, fuck, Mello's got his hands around his own cock and the sight of him touching himself is almost too much to bear. Matt's moved his hands from the seat to narrow hips, fingernails digging here as if in reprieve he won't find until he's through, until he's completely spent.

Matt comes harder than he thinks he ever has before, head hitting the back of the seat and mouth open, panting, crying out some incomprehensible shit Mello doesn't bother listening to because he reaches his end moments after. Comes all over the both of them, and Matt's clothes are utterly drenched but he really doesn't care, not when the afterglow starts to set in.

Mello slides off of him but stays a moment sitting on Matt's knees, watching him with the same open expression, same intense focus where all his attention's in one place and it's impossible to miss. Matt feels like he's laid his soul bare and doesn't know how to cover it back up again, but that's fine.

Matt's okay with it.

waste what we have, want what we don't ◦ matt/mello ◦ death note

2008-06-12T01:48:06Z

Title: Waste What We Have, Want What We Don't (part 1?), for propertyofgaara
Pairing(s)/Character(s): Matt/Mello
Rating: PG-13
Summary: The acrid scent was everywhere.
Word Count: 914

The acrid scent was everywhere, permeating skin and clothes and furniture and air itself, fused with everything. It seemed wherever he went he couldn't escape it: even the fucking closet smelled like smoke, even the fucking towels held the scent, despite having been recently washed. It should've been soap that clung to the ragged cloth he held tight around him, the faded white material just-barely concealing the sharp jut of a hipbone and the shadow of its juncture.

The acrid scent assaulted him and sometimes he wondered why he even bothered.

"You're living in my apartment," was Matt's witty, half-assed comeback every single time Mello brought it up, voice slurred and devoid of all possible concern that may have lurked there at some point in time. (Though he was always only half-aware, as if the drugs had really gotten to him over the years; he hadn't even been very fazed when a half-dead, ex-best friend had collapsed on his mattress and demanded morphine as though he had all the fucking entitlement in the world.) Like he really gave a shit whose name (or fake name, for that matter) the property was under; behind closed doors, Mello dominated just as much as he had back at Wammy's when the teacher's had their heads turned, and Matt knew it. But he never relented when it came to the smoke. The goddamn smoke.

"You're a fucking junkie," he clipped, sweeping a naked arm over the kitchen table, sending more than a few boxes of Marlboro Reds and other quite conspicuous substances to the floor.

Matt canted his head from where he'd been intently focused on the television screen, forefinger hovering over the pause button. "Hey," he said as if he wanted to be offended, only to decide the effort really wasn't worth it.

"Guess what Kira's doing right now? Sitting on his goddamn ass killing unsuspecting victims by the handful," the blonde began darkly, tone considerably controlled with only the barest hint of contempt beneath the surface. Then again, that was always there, rain or shine, success or failure. "And what are you doing? Sitting on your goddamn ass killing unsuspecting victims, too." A pause. "Oh, wait, they're not real. Who would've fucking thought! Just a virtual rip-off. Oh, well."

Mello brought his foot down on the newest-seeming pack of smokes to punctuate the finality of his words, satisfied as the flimsy box material gave way beneath his heel. Funny the blonde could still look intimidating when he was half-naked, wrapped only in a towel, drenched hair clumped around his eyes and plastered to his cheeks, neck, chin.

"Hey!" At least Matt had the dignity to sound offended this time.

"Guess I'll have to throw this shit out," Mello continued, bending to pick up the trashed box of smokes, and Matt reacted as soon as the last word left the other's mouth, jumping from his seat on the couch and lunging at Mello instinctively. The impact was off-target and sort of awkward because Matt was simultaneously trying to grab a fistful of wet hair for better leverage, only it didn't work and the blonde strands kept sliding from between his fingers, slippery and aggravating as all hell. And Mello was still leaning over in an attempt to grab the cigarette box, so all he'd really received was a shove to the side that sent him toppling against the table in a disheveled mess, inevitably pulling Matt with him.

Mello's head hit the edge of the table, drawing a string of curses from his lips as he shoved at Matt's shoulder which was digging into his ribs, a painful weight against his chest. "Fuck, fuck you," he hissed, one hand holding onto the edge of the table like a lifeline so he wouldn't get pulled beneath the table completely. "Fuck, get off, you're fucking heavy."

"You smell good," Matt mumbled, his face somewhere between throat and mid-chest, apparently having already forgotten why he'd attacked Mello in the first place.

"You smell like shit and I want to put some goddamn clothes on. Get the fuck off."

Matt just laughed. Like it wasn't true.

"Why do you let me do it, then, if it pisses you off so much." The smoke.

Mello face twisted into something not unlike high-strung frustration. "My ass doesn't appreciate rug burns, so get the fuck off."

"Okay," the redhead replied lazily, clumsily placing his hand somewhere on Mello's thigh, seemingly to use it to sit up, but the hand only slid higher until Matt was groping Mello's hip through the faded towel, and then he started pulling the knot loose like he expected to get something out of it.

Mello scowled and kneed him in the stomach with a "I'm not going to let you fuck me under a table, Jesus Christ," forcing Matt to roll back. He did. But he went laughing.

"You should try them," Matt said once he'd somewhat recovered, half-sprawled on the carpet while he watched the other climb to his feet.

A look was returned, all bitter amusement and exasperation. "I did, remember?"

Matt's turn to look amused. "Yeah, you couldn't stop coughing for like, a fucking hour. 'Course I remember. You should still try them. Everything deserves a second chance."

By then Mello was already back down the hallway, hand raking through his tangled, wet hair and the roll of slitted eyes the only thing Matt could see before the door slammed loud enough to rattle the hinges.

reduced to teeth ◦ mello/light ◦ death note

2008-06-12T01:43:23Z

Title: Reduced to Teeth
Pairing(s)/Character(s): Mello/Light
Rating: NC-17
Summary: AU. There are decisions that can be made on false judgment, decisions where only in the aftermath will one question their own motive.
Word Count: 1,869

There are decisions that can be made on false judgment, decisions where only in the aftermath will one question their own motive. It's hard to accept as the fault of your own doing simply because the consequences and inconveniences are so vast and innumerable it's obvious the best option would be to brush it under the rug and never think about it again. Push it into the crevices of your mind and only visit upon the memory in the hazy depths of sleep. The means by which to go about this are more difficult than one might be led to believe, and that isn't necessarily a bad thing, either.

Light Yagami checks his watch absently as he removes it from his wrist, smooth fingertips trailing over the craftsmanship with no less adulation. He feels the heavy weight of eyes on him, curling at the edge of his awareness just enough to breach paranoia before the thought is discarded. He turns, sliding the expensive watch into the pocket of his slacks.

In comparison, this situation is highly ill-advised. His surroundings are enough of an indication without further spectacle of his host, lounging no more than a few meters away on the lacquered surface of an oak dresser, one leather-clad thigh crossed over the other. There's a glint of something more alive than interest in pitch eyes and a curl of a sly smirk on slanted lips, and Light may have considered the man opposite him effeminate had it not been for broad shoulders, loose stature, and that familiar twist of an expression - all predator, none prey. Nothing about this man is effeminate but for the cropped blonde hair and prominent cheekbones.

"What's your name?" the stranger asks before Light can, voice darker than his eyes and meant to come off as intimidating as he dresses, words thick with an accent harder to identify than he had first considered.

Light frowns. He doesn't want to give up something so crucial, being a man of status and reputation. Any slip-up could cost him his entitlement to his business. It's irreplaceable.

"I don't want your real name," the man says next, words short and impatient, cutting through his thoughts like a blade. He means it. And then, as though casting off his original question as irrelevant, he stands and approaches. Light's body stiffens when fingers begin working at the black tie around his throat, pulling it free in a loose coil of cloth, tossing it to the floor. Not for the first time, Light recounts the preceding events of this encounter. It had been on a whim. Something illogical, a complete demonstration of thoughtlessness and one sole, single rash, reactionary moment that had sealed his fate and set it on fire.

The room is in orderly disarray, as if each cluttered spot has been made up this way specifically, but Light is not focusing on that point of detail. His eyes are on the man in front him, the man just tall enough to meet his own height by a few quarters-of-an-inch, possibly. Fingers are working the delicate buttons of the white shirt now, pleats perfected from having been ironed earlier in the day, pulling away more material to reveal toned skin stretched taut. There's an undeniable amount of talent in the way the man works, discarding the shirt as he has done the tie in much the same manner, before precision suddenly transitions into impatience.

"Kira," he says, edging Light back until there's no more room to go.

"Excuse me?" Light replies, defensive at the crude word in his native language. The man speaks fluent enough Japanese, but the way he says this one word now is almost meant for insult.

"You're Kira. That's your name here. I don't want to know your real name." After a pause and a dark look, he says, "I'm Mello to you and nothing else. Understand?"

Light isn't one for taking orders, though he scowls and offers nothing in retort. What is this, some ridiculous fantasy?

Taking the silence as an initiative, Mello makes quick work of buckles and belts, sliding the fine, black leather strap through loops until it is coiled around his hand tightly. This he doesn't discard, instead placing one firm hand on Light's bare shoulder and turning him around to face the mattress - red sheets pulled down to the foot of the bed, and though he is very aware of what's coming next, the discontent expression marring his handsome features is nonetheless difficult to miss. Mello laughs, and the sound is enticing and alluring, a deep reverberation. It's more amusement than mockery, but Light squirms when the belt he'd previously had wrapped around his waist is fit to bind his bare wrists together. Light isn't into this sort of kink, but then, he won't complain, he won't resist. That would be losing.

Mello notices the ring before Light has a chance to realize he's forgotten to remove it.

"A married man, then?" he mutters, mouth somewhere close to Light's ear, enough that the other man can detect a hint of expectancy in his voice. Light says nothing as his thoughts turn to his fiancée, and where there should be guilt only throbs a low sense of skewed satisfaction: he's breaking no rules. This encounter will hold no significance once it's all been said and done. It doesn't matter. He will get it out of his system, he will move on with his life, and that will be that.

"She must be a lucky girl," Mello continues to taunt even as callused fingers slide loose pants down over narrow hips, molding there, bare palms touching the juncture of his legs. Before Mello even says his next words Light's already complying, one knee up on the edge of the mattress, and he has to avoid smashing his face into the bedding when Mello roughly shoves because it's easy to deduce by now this blonde trickster is not one for patience and possesses more strength than he willingly lets show: "Get on your knees."

With the side of his face pressed roughly now into the sheets, Light glares easily over his shoulder from the corner of slitted eyes. "What do you think you're doing?" he asks, annoyed, despite already knowing the answer.

Mello follows, crawling easily until he's distinctly in the upper hand, both hands clutching Light's thighs, dragging the edge of his pants down to pool at his knees. Then he leans over Light's body until leather touches bare skin, mouth dangerously close the pulse of his throat, and flashes a row of teeth in likeness of a demon, eyes narrowed to gleaming slits sharp enough to bleed on. "She must be a lucky girl," he repeats, tone low, the irony in his words almost physically painful as Light waits, feeling his body tighten and ache with tension, "with such a respectable, dependable, devoted husband to rely on." As if to heighten the mocking implications, Mello brings their hips flush together and though he's still completely dressed, Light can feel his sharp need. Eyes shut and teeth clench at the unfamiliar sensation ripping through his body, the warmth spreading in his own groin.

And Mello laughs again, reaching past the man beneath him and searching for something beside the bed. Light doesn't even bother to look, not when all that warm leather feels as if it's everywhere at once, covering him and smothering him until there's no air left to inhale. When Mello moves back it's all he can do not to move with him, and despite the way he controls his own expression not to relay the sudden excitement of his own body, Light feels all wrong. Feels as if this stranger, this damned blonde bastard has torn him from his delicate haven of righteousness and dignity and left everything in bloody shreds.

The heat doesn't return in the form of leather. Instead, cold fingers are suddenly inside him, stretching enough to ache and burn. It's awkward. It's all wrong. Light has nearly half a mind to jerk free and tell this Mello guy to fuck off until a third finger slides in deep alongside the other two and touches something buried inside of him, something he knows the name of, probably knows the scientific name too, but doesn't give a crap enough to think about it because suddenly it's all raw sensation, it's all a struggle to keep himself from collapsing. Light's body seizes up, a gasp on the tip of his tongue but not quite there yet, not quite to the extreme.

Mello's still pushing, still dragging out this torture, narrowed stare a tangible weight against his skin. "Don't be such a goddamn stiff," he growls, completely comfortable with this one-sided dialogue. "That's why you're here now, am I right?" Even though his words are controlled, low enough to hide any distinguishable tremors, Light can hear the electric arousal of his voice - he's far beyond impatience. "You want this so fucking much and you couldn't satisfy yourself with some pretty little housewife."

Light jerks, reacting to his needling words with a sharp exhalation half-smothered into the bedding but audible enough to get the point across. Mello laughs again. He's getting used to that breathy sound of accomplishment by this point.

There isn't enough time to return the damage done before Mello's aligning himself accordingly, pressing himself past the tight ring of muscle with one swift, efficient thrust and burying himself inside of a man who isn't quite sure how to react in the face of this mounting pressure, this crippling sensation. Light twists his arms in their binds, eyes closed though the action only brings everything else into focus, makes him hyper-aware of the burning all along his spine and the throb of his own pulse coursing through his body hot and hard. "Am I right?" Mello repeats in another fierce growl, his lips against the back of Light's throat, teeth grazing over sweat-dappled, golden skin.

He doesn't even need to be asking.

The next movement is shaky but sets up the rhythm, and Light finds it easier to focus on the pounding of his heart against his chest rather than the way Mello slides out slower than he pushes back in, chafe even with the lubricant. There's no need for taunting or mockery now, not when Light can feel every puff of air against the back of his neck, can hear every nuance to Mello's near-silent breathing, and even in this crude act Light is at his limit. It's almost impossible to hold still when the sheets stick to his legs and rub his knees raw, when the rush of white peaks inside of him and he's overwhelmed with pure, unadulterated relief.

His body tightens and slackens simultaneously as Mello reaches his end moments after, coming hard inside of him, hands braced against the mattress beside Light's shoulders. There's the slightest shudder from the other man above him he can only feel from the product of their close-pressed bodies, and Light's eyes crack open at the same time as Mello slides out, away, backing up a few inches.

Light knows what's coming.

He laughs.

It sounds defeated.

recessional ◦ l/misa ◦ death note

2008-06-12T01:42:10Z

Title: Recessional
Pairing(s)/Character(s): L/Misa, some Light sprinkled in
Rating: PG.
Warnings: Contains spoilers.
Summary: She was used to having such profuse attention on her, but this was completely different. This was thorough scrutiny, a judging examination she didn't think she could pass.
Word Count: 2,630
(Would Misa-san like some tea?)

situational ◦ matt/mello ◦ death note

2008-06-12T01:40:04Z

Theme: 13:00 - Self-image and personal security.
Title: Situational
Fandom: Death Note
Character/Pairing: Mello
Category: Character
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Language and minor sexual situations.
Disclaimer: Death Note © Ohba Tsugumi and Obata Takeshi
Summary: Where all that’s left to do is take it like it is. Vague Matt/Mello.
(He was edgy, and no matter how many cigarette packs he chain-smoked his way through, Matt couldn’t fight it off.)

m&ms ◦ matt/mello ◦ death note

2008-06-12T01:38:59Z

Theme: 24:00 - Writer’s Choice
Title: M&Ms
Fandom: Death Note
Character/Pairing: Mello
Category: Character
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Language, some hand-licking.
Disclaimer: Death Note © Ohba Tsugumi and Obata Takeshi
Summary: Matt/Mello. To Mello, M&Ms were not chocolate, never would be, and didn’t prove to be any sort of delicious treat. Unless Matt was involved.
(A fat green thing grinned back at him. It had eyes.)

falling short of victory ◦ mello ◦ death note

2008-06-12T01:36:34Z

Theme: 18:00 - Matters of safety, protection and completion
Title: Falling Short of Victory
Fandom: Death Note
Character/Pairing: Mello
Category: Character
Rating: PG
Warnings: General spoilers apply. Slight language.
Disclaimer: Death Note © Ohba Tsugumi and Obata Takeshi
Summary: Wrong, most definitely, and even while Mello kind of wanted these idiot men around him cleaned out by Kira, he still knew it was just that. Wrong.
(Time to bail ship.)

left to the ghosts ◦ mello & near ◦ death note

2008-06-12T01:35:19Z

Theme: 19:00 - Diversity, blending or healing differences, gentle care towards others
Title: Left to the Ghosts
Fandom: Death Note
Character/Pairing: Mello
Category: Character
Rating: PG
Warnings: General spoilers apply to Mello’s character. Very mild language.
Disclaimer: Death Note © Ohba Tsugumi and Obata Takeshi
Summary: It was hard to deal with something so out of your control it left you gasping for air. But Near didn’t know how it felt. Mello and Near friendship/slight fluff.
(He tried not to be, and even went as far as keeping himself occupied by pulling out a thousand-piece puzzle he’d received just the other day. But his mind kept wandering. Kept worrying.)

driven ◦ matt/mello ◦ death note

2008-06-12T01:32:34Z

Theme: 03:00 - Determination, especially in matters that seem to hold you back
Title: Driven
Fandom: Death Note
Character/Pairing: Mello
Category: Character
Rating: PG
Warnings: Spoilers focused around Mello throughout manga, though very minimum.
Disclaimer: Death Note © Ohba Tsugumi and Obata Takeshi
Summary: They could die tomorrow, he knew. They could drop like a fly at any moment, he knew.
(“Get in, get it done, then run like hell.”)

i promise you walls ◦ itachi/shisui ◦ naruto

2008-06-12T01:28:54Z

Title: I Promise You Walls
Pairing: Itachi/Shisui
Rating: R
Summary: He knows every inch of this body so alike to his own, where each blotched inking stands out, what it says and what it means past simple words.
Words: 1,891
Notes: for bloodnblack's birthday
(A myriad of memories.)

various ◦ itachi ◦ naruto

2008-06-12T01:28:15Z

Title: Just In Time
Character(s): Itachi, Mikoto, mention of others
Rating: PG
Summary: The day has come.
Words: 205
(He'll be there just in time.)

Title: Butterflies
Character(s): Itachi, Sasuke, mild Uchihacest
Rating: PG
Summary: I'll catch you a butterfly.
Words: 339
(...like baby powder and shampoo.)

Title: Deliverance
Character(s): Itachi, Deidara, hinted Deidara/Itachi
Rating: PG
Summary: In the end, they effectively cancel each other out.
Words: 296
(Smooth, curve, force, fit.)

Title: When Pride Isn't Looking
Character(s): Itachi, Kankurou, Itachi/Kankurou
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Part of him wonders why he is deemed appropriate for such a death, when all his life he’d plotted for something just a little more…fantastical.
Words: 590
(Irony in the taste of metal on his lips.)

Title: White Flag
Character(s): Itachi, Hinata
Rating: PG-13
Summary: She’s lost sleep for not the first time this week, but somehow, has gained something more.
Words: 760
(It’s too late for me.)

transience ◦ shino/haku ◦ naruto

2008-06-12T01:27:32Z

Title: Transience
Pairing: Shino/Haku
Rating: PG
Summary: AU. Shino felt like he could take it in again and again, from now until forever, so long as Haku was there with him, a firm presence steadfast with his own. Fluff.
Words: 612
(There was more silence, but it was soothing.)

ripple ◦ sesshomaru/miroku ◦ inuyasha

2008-06-12T01:26:52Z

Title: Ripple
Pairing: Sesshomaru/Miroku
Rating: NC-17
Summary: It wasn’t like Sesshomaru to notice. But he did.
Words: 1,405
(Sesshomaru looked away and said nothing.)

breath ◦ ravus/val ◦ valiant

2008-06-12T01:26:15Z

Title: Breath
Pairing: Ravus/Val from the novel Valiant by Holly Black
Rating: PG
Summary: Ravus loved with all of him, with everything, they both knew that. It was that she loved him back, with more and more and more, that stilled the time and quickened the beat of their hearts.
Words: 699
(“I am still holding my breath.”)

the tale of triumph and tragedy ◦ itachi, sasuke, kisame ◦ naruto

2008-06-12T01:25:27Z

Title: The Tale of Triumph and Tragedy
Character(s): Itachi, Sasuke, Kisame
Rating: PG-13 for violence, slight language, and character death
Summary: There were three faults to Sasuke’s life goal. The third and final, however, would be the catalyst to his triumph in tragedy.
Words: 1,379
(But that was the way of life, and the way of the Uchiha legacy.)

just like you imagined ◦ kisame/itachi ◦ naruto ◦ part: 1

2008-06-12T01:24:50Z

Title: Just Like You Imagined
Pairing: AU Kisame/Itachi
Rating: PG
Summary: N/A
Words: 2,314
Notes: So basically this is what I would call chapter one. I've started chapter two, but before I post this story anywhere, I want to work farther ahead and have a bit done. It's a short, intro-like kind of chapter, cut into little scenes. Enjoy. ;3
(Kisame smiles just a little bit more; he's dead-on.)

aesthetics ◦ itachi/tayuya ◦ naruto

2008-06-12T01:24:10Z

Title: Aesthetics
Pairing: Itachi/Tayuya
Rating: PG-13 for language and implied sexual content
Summary: AU. She is concerned and he is even more so.
Words: 1,284
(That he should wake to see her gone does not happen.)

driver down ◦ itachi ◦ naruto

2008-06-12T01:23:35Z

Title: Driver Down
Character(s): Itachi
Rating: PG-13
Summary: ‘I’m just a driver down,’ they sang.
Words: 552
(The memory of drowning.)

bandages ◦ zabuza & haku ◦ naruto

2008-06-12T01:22:46Z

Title: Bandages
Character(s): Zabuza & Haku
Rating: PG-13 for violence
Summary: No amount of bandages could protect a wound of his if anything ever happened to the man. Because if it did, it would be Haku’s fault. And that wasn’t okay.
Words: 1,484
(He'd fail his master.)

ruined ◦ itachi/sasori ◦ naruto

2008-06-12T01:22:03Z

Title: Ruined
Pairing: Itachi/Sasori
Rating: NC-17
Summary: When Itachi fucks Sasori the third time, it lasts for hours, and the rain hits their skin like sheets of melting ice.
Words: 1,567
(I've been ruined.)