Birthday Fic for Gakusei
Title: Letting Go
Fandom: Death Note
Author: Sensei
Rating: MA (duh)
Characters: L/Mello
Note: For nastygakusei with love: an angsty, smutty little tease for the birthday girl. Feel free to continue this with me in RP.
L carefully climbs in the window to Mello's room. There is no chance he has the wrong window, no possibility he has been seen. He is dead. As far as the world knows. A secretive life has become even moreso, and it suits him well. "What about the boy?" Watari, also among the living-yet-dead, had asked a few days ago. There was no need to name him, Mello. Mihael. L's boy. Even Mello himself did not know how deeply and fully that possessive description was true. And now he crouches in the windowsill, easily having entered the room, looking down at the sleeping form of the slender blonde boy. His boy.
He presses his thumb beneath his upper lip, a characteristic gesture of thought. Mello had always competed for his attention with Near-with anyone who wanted his attention. L had found it annoying, often. And yet, had the boy, barely a teen then, suddenly stopped his clinging and demanding, he would have found it insufferable. In his neediness, Mello perfectly reflected L's aloofness back to him, reminded him of his duty, his fate. The way he clutched at gifts of chocolate, shared words, or the slightest touch fueled L's appetite for living more than he cared to admit to himself back then. But now, returning to Wammy's after long absence, silence broken only by occasional letters hastily written, he faced the hard truth of a deep longing to see his little blonde shadow.
He bit his thumb gently as he glimpsed the fall of the hair on his pillow, the legs curled, knees stacked. Lanky, skinny Mello, still and childlike in sleep. Against his better judgment, L had come to Wammy's. And now, further betraying a mind that should know better, he was creeping from the windowsill to the bed, to look more closely upon him. Could he stay his hand from reaching out to sweep a strand of hair from before his face? He could not. Did he do so knowing it would wake the boy? He would not admit it.
"Who's there?" Mello said into the darkness.
"Mihael," L breathed, stroking back his hair with hands still uncomfortable with the softness of the flesh of others.
"What?" Mello sat up in bed, blinking, then rubbed his eyes, looking so young L found he could not breathe for a moment. "Who the hell?" he stuttered.
"I didn't mean to wake you," L said, absurdly, knowing it was absurd as well as a lie, even as he said it.
Mello shrugged from beneath the covers and came to his knees, grabbing L by the shoulders. In the moonlight, he squinted, trying to make sense of the sight and the sound of what had to be a dream. "You're dead," he whispered reaching up to touch L's face.
"I know," L replied, still and more grateful for the touch of those fingertips than he would now or ever acknowledge.
"So this is a dream?" Mello said, voice rising to a whimper.
"It seems so."
Mello bit his lip. If he did not believe L, he would not divulge his knowledge. Not directly. In this way, they were eerily alike. "If this is a dream," Mello mused, "which it must be since L is dead and would never fake his own death and return to torment me after all the pain I've been through, then I can…" He brought his mouth forward and kissed L, deep and hard.
L returned the embrace, safe in the falsehood that neither of them believed. He parted his lips to make way for Mello's tongue and offered his own. It was by no means their first kiss, as L had tolerated the boy's little experiments when he lived at Wammy's and the mood was upon him. And yet it was different, new. Mello was older now, clearly more experienced. But then, so was L. Reaching forward, he shoved his hand into Mello's pajama bottoms, banishing thoughts of a heartless murderer and his own heartlessness with the comfort of his grip on a slender, hard cock.
Mello moaned. "A dream," he murmured against L's lips, bucking his hips into the hand that held him so firmly. "Don't let go."
"I won't," L muttered back, knowing full well he would. Letting go was all he knew.
Fandom: Death Note
Author: Sensei
Rating: MA (duh)
Characters: L/Mello
Note: For nastygakusei with love: an angsty, smutty little tease for the birthday girl. Feel free to continue this with me in RP.
L carefully climbs in the window to Mello's room. There is no chance he has the wrong window, no possibility he has been seen. He is dead. As far as the world knows. A secretive life has become even moreso, and it suits him well. "What about the boy?" Watari, also among the living-yet-dead, had asked a few days ago. There was no need to name him, Mello. Mihael. L's boy. Even Mello himself did not know how deeply and fully that possessive description was true. And now he crouches in the windowsill, easily having entered the room, looking down at the sleeping form of the slender blonde boy. His boy.
He presses his thumb beneath his upper lip, a characteristic gesture of thought. Mello had always competed for his attention with Near-with anyone who wanted his attention. L had found it annoying, often. And yet, had the boy, barely a teen then, suddenly stopped his clinging and demanding, he would have found it insufferable. In his neediness, Mello perfectly reflected L's aloofness back to him, reminded him of his duty, his fate. The way he clutched at gifts of chocolate, shared words, or the slightest touch fueled L's appetite for living more than he cared to admit to himself back then. But now, returning to Wammy's after long absence, silence broken only by occasional letters hastily written, he faced the hard truth of a deep longing to see his little blonde shadow.
He bit his thumb gently as he glimpsed the fall of the hair on his pillow, the legs curled, knees stacked. Lanky, skinny Mello, still and childlike in sleep. Against his better judgment, L had come to Wammy's. And now, further betraying a mind that should know better, he was creeping from the windowsill to the bed, to look more closely upon him. Could he stay his hand from reaching out to sweep a strand of hair from before his face? He could not. Did he do so knowing it would wake the boy? He would not admit it.
"Who's there?" Mello said into the darkness.
"Mihael," L breathed, stroking back his hair with hands still uncomfortable with the softness of the flesh of others.
"What?" Mello sat up in bed, blinking, then rubbed his eyes, looking so young L found he could not breathe for a moment. "Who the hell?" he stuttered.
"I didn't mean to wake you," L said, absurdly, knowing it was absurd as well as a lie, even as he said it.
Mello shrugged from beneath the covers and came to his knees, grabbing L by the shoulders. In the moonlight, he squinted, trying to make sense of the sight and the sound of what had to be a dream. "You're dead," he whispered reaching up to touch L's face.
"I know," L replied, still and more grateful for the touch of those fingertips than he would now or ever acknowledge.
"So this is a dream?" Mello said, voice rising to a whimper.
"It seems so."
Mello bit his lip. If he did not believe L, he would not divulge his knowledge. Not directly. In this way, they were eerily alike. "If this is a dream," Mello mused, "which it must be since L is dead and would never fake his own death and return to torment me after all the pain I've been through, then I can…" He brought his mouth forward and kissed L, deep and hard.
L returned the embrace, safe in the falsehood that neither of them believed. He parted his lips to make way for Mello's tongue and offered his own. It was by no means their first kiss, as L had tolerated the boy's little experiments when he lived at Wammy's and the mood was upon him. And yet it was different, new. Mello was older now, clearly more experienced. But then, so was L. Reaching forward, he shoved his hand into Mello's pajama bottoms, banishing thoughts of a heartless murderer and his own heartlessness with the comfort of his grip on a slender, hard cock.
Mello moaned. "A dream," he murmured against L's lips, bucking his hips into the hand that held him so firmly. "Don't let go."
"I won't," L muttered back, knowing full well he would. Letting go was all he knew.