DN -- Pure Chance (2/2)
Title: Pure Chance
Part: 2/2
Fandom: Death Note
Pairing: Matt/Mello/Near
Rating: R
Word Count: 11,770
Warnings: sex, snark, profanity, light fetishism, AU
Summary: Five years after the events of "Dumb Luck," Near invites Matt and Mello over to celebrate their victory over Kira. So begins the kinkiest tea party in the history of mankind.
Author's Note: PART DEUX! Read Part Un first, or you will regret it immensely. And possibly be sakujo'd.
PURE CHANCE (2/2)
The stairwell was freezing, and goosebumps sprouted eagerly all over Matt’s extremely exposed skin. Mello had him by the arm and was dragging him practically blindly, with a desperate carelessness that was almost sweet.
He probably needed to get his head examined.
He would be more than happy, however, to let Mello examine some other parts of him in the meantime.
Mello darted-and Matt stumbled-through the door clearly labeled “19,” and then Mello shoved open the first door he saw in the hall into which they’d emerged.
A rubber bumper obediently prevented the doorknob from denting the subtle off-white wall, but Mello had eyes only for the demure double bed in the center of the room, framed by an oak nightstand on either side. The thick down comforter was the same pure, immaculate white as the old-school curtains at the window and stretched, smooth and unruffled, over the breadth of the mattress.
For, Matt estimated, about three seconds more.
As it turned out, it only took Mello two and a half to heave the both of them onto the bed, pulling Matt down on top of him, seizing his hair to yank him in for an absolutely destructive kiss, at the same moment confiscating Matt’s hand and shoving it against the failing restraint of the laces where they dangled, half-looped, between the impedimentary leather that swathed his legs.
Yeah, Matt agreed, biting Mello’s bottom lip. That shit had to go.
Some deft squirming and a lot of tugging solved that problem, and then Mello hooked a finger in the waistband of Matt’s lucky Triforce boxers and divested him of the final flimsy barrier.
Kneeling over him, everything laid open in the rosy glow of the deepening evening, Matt looked into Mello’s eyes, and the world stopped spinning.
Fuck, yes.
…Literally.
“Lube,” Mello whispered.
Matt stared down at him. “Fuck,” he replied.
Lingual fixation? Nah.
“The point,” Mello responded. He motioned towards the adjacent bathroom with his chin. “Shampoo.”
“Shampoo?” Matt repeated dumbly, momentarily dazed by the prospect of how much soap bubbles would complicate this already impossible procedure.
They both jumped as a slightly metallic voice interjected coyly from a speaker on the wall by the door.
“Try the drawer in the bedside table to Matt’s right,” Near recommended.
Mello looked around Matt at the far wall. Matt turned and saw the unrepentant indigo eye of the unobtrusive camera mounted near the ceiling.
“Little perv,” Matt muttered, grinning at it over his shoulder, having expected nothing less.
Mello reached out and searched for the drawer handle. “Well,” he replied, “let’s give him a good show.”
Matt intended to exaggerate a little for Near’s benefit, but the second Mello smeared a palm drenched in viscous liquid over him, his brain departed via the window and wandered off into the city somewhere, leaving him with a few fragments of internet instruction, some burgeoning primal instincts, and a shit-ton of horny enthusiasm.
Which he supposed wasn’t too bad, all told.
He was Wammy-bred. He could figure it out.
Mello, for all his tough talk, writhed at one finger, whimpered at two, and fisted the comforter, gasping, when Matt replaced them with something a little more potent. Through the blurry veil of consummated lust Matt memorized the fierce pink in Mello’s cheeks, the glimmer of sweat on his forehead, the tangling of his eyelashes as his eyes fell shut and his face contorted, his spine twisting like a thing alive. Mello had always been the master of mixed signals-
Hesitantly, he began, “Are y-”
“Don’t stop.”
It was less an order than a plea, and unequivocal enough.
Matt attempted to establish a gentle, gradually-quickening rhythm, though it was extremely difficult to concentrate through the heat breeding in the pit of his stomach and pooling in his throbbing cock, the blood racing in his ears, the stars dancing before his eyes. It just felt right to be so damn close to him, to be merging, melding, running together, hair mixing, sweat mixing, spit mixing, skin on skin on glorious skin. To be in him, to be a part of him.
And to be abusing prepositions, apparently.
He made a great deal of what were probably embarrassing groans, liberally supplemented by the panting, the straining, and the delirious mumblings of he-knew-not-what into Mello’s ears, neck, throat, and mouth. He supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised, but it was still dizzying to discover just how strongly Mello tasted of chocolate.
He was thrusting deeper and more confidently now, bracing himself against the headboard as Mello’s fingernails scraped at his ribs, carving out stinging wakes that only emphasized the local blaze. Those fingers clenched as the two of them slammed together harder still, and Matt thought, distantly and with a bizarre satisfaction, that he’d have cuts and bruises to show for it. That there would be proof.
There wasn’t time to dwell on it, however, because it was at that moment that Mello’s hips bucked, pushing him even further into the constricted passage that he’d claimed. Matt’s brain burst into fairy dust, and Mello-Mello writhed, bruising Matt’s arms blindly as his fingers tensed, blond bangs clinging to his forehead, made a small sound like a sob, and came vehemently.
Matt took one look at the gold hair splattered across the pillow, the hazy, half-lidded angel’s eyes, and the gloss of sweat across the collarbones, and the edge rose up to meet him, the tidal wave cresting to smash down with staggering force on his defenseless head.
He tasted Mello in the air.
Trembling now, everything sated and shaking, he disentangled himself and flopped heedlessly onto the bed at Mello’s side, laying an arm over the heaving chest that still silently begged for his kisses.
Something foreign, something that wasn’t cool bedspread or searing skin, met his fingers.
He eased the crucifix out from where it had slipped under Mello’s shoulder. His fingertips brushed over the imprinted flesh it had left as a souvenir, and, wordlessly, he righted the rosary on Mello’s breastbone.
Mello’s hand rose and laid itself over his.
Matt just breathed for a long time.
Mello lifted their twined hands and kissed his palm.
“Near?” he prompted.
There was no answer.
“Hey,” Mello said, louder, a rich and exhilarating note of contentment humming, just audible, in his voice. “Mister Voyeur. I’m talkin’ to you.”
“So I gather,” Near replied crisply, sounding slightly out of breath.
“Bring chocolate,” Mello commanded.
Rolling his eyes was mandatory, Matt decided. He’d heard that so many times that sarcasm had become an involuntary response.
“I do try to be accommodating,” Near noted acerbically, further credit to the strategy.
Mello grinned. “Look, kiddo,” he drawled. “We just gave you the best damn orgasm of your life. The least you can do is bring me some damn chocolate.”
“I could go for a cigarette,” Matt added, “if you’ve got any.”
Mello raised an eyebrow at him. “Yeah, I figure Near’s definitely the chain-smoking type, Matt.”
“He’s eighteen,” Matt mumbled into Mello’s arm. “He can go buy some.”
“Or,” Near remarked, “I could bring you the pack that’s in your pants pocket.”
Matt smiled. This was why Near was Number One.
That was okay; he’d just fucked Two, and the Number One in question was probably still highly hot and bothered from having observed the proceedings.
That definitely counted for something.
X
Matt was drifting in and out of a dream that was almost indistinguishable from reality when Near shuffled through the door, which they hadn’t bothered to close, bearing another cardboard box. He set it down on the corner of the bed.
Mello, who had done a great deal of muttering about being cold until Matt had lifted him up, pulled the comforter loose, and draped it over him, sat up interestedly.
Matt wondered if this was what heroin junkies were like when they saw needles.
“This isn’t chocolate,” Mello was declaring, surprised and affronted, as he stared into the box. “This is chocolate syrup, and whipped cream, and… sprinkles?”
Near blinked vast gray eyes innocently. “We had a sundae-making party last weekend,” he explained. “In bed.”
“That’s the ticket,” Matt decided. “Everything’s better in bed.”
“Like your mother,” Mello muttered, presumably automatically.
“Precisely,” Near confirmed. “Incidentally, Mello, I believe it is your turn in bed.”
Mello rolled partway over and looked languidly at Matt. “Truth or dare?”
Matt avoided looking at the sundae box. Much better to play it safe. “The truth will set you free,” he averred.
“Was that the best sex in the history of ever?” Mello inquired.
Matt tried to blow his bangs out of his face with a breath and found that he had to push them off of his sticky forehead with his hand. “Oh, God, yes.”
Mello grinned. “Good.”
Matt traced the tapering line of Mello’s collarbone as it subsided into his shoulder. “Very.” He glanced absently over at the pale boy smirking by the sundae toppings. “Turth or dare, Near?”
“Dare,” Near replied smugly, “in bed.”
Matt wondered how many times Near would underestimate him before he learned just how malicious Matt could be.
He settled contentedly against Mello’s side, leaching warmth, the soft smoothness of the comforter rustling. “Hmm,” he remarked idly. “I dare you to let Mello handcuff you to a chair and permit him to do whatever he likes to you for a full five minutes.”
Near opened his mouth. Then he shut it.
Matt smiled and snuggled closer to Mello’s warm body.
Mello gazed at him, and Matt’s brain almost malfunctioned irreparably as Mello offered him the smile-the pure smile, the sweet smile, the one without a trace of smirk, the one that generally only appeared while he was sleeping, and even then just in flickers.
“You’re so evil,” he said, reverently.
The little smile was too beautiful not to touch. Matt pushed himself up on one arm and kissed it. “Learned from the best,” he responded.
Mello slipped out of the bed, retrieved Matt’s boxers from the floor, and unconcernedly donned them.
It certainly wasn’t the first time Mello had stolen his clothes, but the theft usually didn’t leave him lying naked in somebody else’s sex-soaked bed.
Y’know. Usually.
“Hold your breath, kids,” Mello instructed. “It ain’t a party without me.”
Footsteps pattered down the stairs, and Near rummaged in the sundae supply box to recover a gallon Ziploc half-full of slightly broken Oreos, which he brought with him as he crossed the room and climbed into bed next to Matt.
“You’re going to get crumbs in the sheets,” Matt cautioned.
Near pulled the comforter up to his chin. Perhaps he sought camouflage to hide from Mello’s presumably kink-ridden whim.
“They’ll need to be washed anyway,” he pointed out, “after what you two have done to them in bed.”
Matt grinned. “Touché.”
There was an elaborate jingle, and Mello strutted in, swinging a pair of handcuffs around one finger, expression dominated by a smirk to be reckoned with.
Near disappeared under the comforter. “Save me in bed,” he pleaded, muffled both by the bedclothes and by the Oreo he’d crammed into his mouth.
Matt ruffled his barely-visible hair. “Not a chance in hell, kiddo.”
Mello snapped the handcuff chain. “I’m ready,” he sang.
“Damn you in bed!” Near wailed.
Mello grinned wickedly. “My favorite place to earn it,” he reported.
When Near merely cowered smaller under the covers (Matt couldn’t help but wonder if the escape served the additional purpose of allowing the boy to assess the goods-and not the Oreos), Mello sauntered over, hauled him out of his haven, dragged him over to a wooden desk chair Matt had been somewhat too preoccupied to notice, and pushed him into it, Oreos and all.
“I don’t think I like this in bed,” Near decided meekly.
Mello smirked, undoing the cuffs and tossing the key at Matt, who promptly lost it among the sheets.
“You started the game, Near,” Mello reminded him airily, plucking the bag of Oreos away and pitching it at Matt as well.
That he caught. He had his priorities.
Mello leaned over Near and strung the handcuff chain through the bars of the chair back before securing Near’s wrists behind him. Matt wasn’t sure the restraints would actually work-Near’s hands were so thin that he might just slip free.
Apparently Mello had tightened them sufficiently, however, because he stood back, smirking again, as Near tugged uselessly at the clinking steel.
“I didn’t know you’d play so rough,” Near protested, spots of pink in his cheeks. “…in bed…”
Mello smiled, looking like an overstated movie villain at his moment of triumph. “But Near,” he answered, “you saw how I play.”
Near raised one knee protectively to his chest and frowned. His fears were not unmerited, as Mello then descended on him, knocked his knee aside, and began calmly and deliberately to unbutton his loose white shirt. Still and silent now, Near watched the proceedings, looking as though he was striving for detachment. When Mello ran slim hands over his pale, newly-bare shoulders, he flinched, curling his toes, but said nothing.
Curiously Mello pushed the fabric further down Near’s arms, displaying the scar again, affording only the second glimpse they’d ever had of its quiet dominion of Near’s narrow chest. Mello set one palm against the white neck, bent, and pressed his ear over Near’s heart.
“Time bomb,” he commented. “Swallowed a clock.”
“I’ll have to get the valve replaced with a larger one,” Near sighed, “if I grow any bigger in bed.”
“Let me know if you do,” Mello told him, standing up straight again, the better to tousle the already-disheveled hair. “It’d be a bitch to be alone in the hospital for all that.”
Near just smiled softly, most likely to avoid ruining the moment with a mandatory verbal addendum.
Mello paused and then clapped his hands together. “Okay,” he announced; “Schmaltzy Time over. Let’s get to the good stuff.”
Near, by the looks of things, did not share Mello’s excitement.
Mello ran a knuckle along the boy’s cheekbone, underlining the mistrustful gray eye peering out from beneath white bangs.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said. His victim had time to look slightly relieved before he specified, “I’m just going to sex you up a little.”
Near was not amused.
Flashing a grin at Matt, Mello approached the sundae box and unearthed a bottle of chocolate syrup. He returned and gave Near a hyperbolic onceover. “Tilt your head back,” he ordered.
Near set his jaw and obliged, his eyes closed. “I don’t want to know in bed,” he muttered.
“Nope,” Mello confirmed cheerfully, straddling the boy shamelessly and raising the bottle in both hands. “But you will anyway.”
Carefully and deliberately, Mello squirted syrup from a few inches above Near’s cheek and drew the outline of a somewhat lopsided heart.
D’aww, Matt thought, quite against his will.
Then Mello set the bottle aside, cupped Near’s face in both hands, and licked it off.
God, they were like kittens.
…the sexiest kittens ever…
Near’s nose scrunched as he tried not to recoil, and he cracked an eye open. “Mello,” he asked, voice slightly strained, “what are you doing in bed?”
“You next,” Mello answered calmly, sliding one set of fingers into the pale hair for leverage and lapping at a persistent smudge.
“Forgive my lack of enthusiasm in bed,” Near mumbled.
“I’ll chalk it up to erectile dysfunction,” Mello assured him. “Matt, c’mere.”
“No pants,” Matt explained eloquently.
“Try the dresser in bed,” Near remarked distractedly.
“But Near,” Matt countered innocently, grinning, as he clambered down and went for the bureau. “There is no dresser in the bed.”
Near rolled his eyes, then opened them incredibly wide and squeaked as Mello’s hands drifted down his chest. “Don’t touch that in bed!” he gasped.
“I’m not in bed,” Mello replied, ducking to apply his tongue idly to Near’s pale chest, “so I will.”
Matt hopped into the blue plaid pajama pants he’d recovered from the dresser as quickly as humanly possible. The less of this he missed, the better.
Mello glanced up from nibbling on various exposed portions of Near. “Matty’s excited,” he observed, smirking.
Matt raised his eyebrows. “Nothing you haven’t seen before,” he retorted.
“Fair point,” Mello conceded.
Nodding, Matt walked his fingers up the nape of Near’s neck, parting the wisps of white, twisting his fingers gently into the thick curls that rippled against his palm. Bracing himself on Near’s warm shoulder, he leaned down and started chewing on the half-hidden curve of a pale ear.
Apparently he was the puppy in this pet store.
Which was not a bad thing to be, as far as he was concerned.
“Hold the fort,” Mello instructed, kissing under Near’s chin once more before retreating to rifle through the contents of the sundae box again. Dutifully Matt explored Near’s nose, forehead, and eyelids with his mouth, which proved a hell of a lot more entertaining a Mello-given task than the mind-numbing surveillance he always got stuck with during investigations.
Mello returned, shaking the whipped cream canister like a can of spray paint.
“Let’s do this shit,” he declared, grinning wolfishly.
Near turned immense lamb eyes on him accordingly, but Mello ignored them, the better to lean in over his captive and push the plastic nozzle at an angle, sending fluffy white Reddi-Whip spurting onto Near’s chest.
“God, that’s cold in bed!” Near cried, squirming.
“Good thing you’re so hot,” Mello replied bemusedly as he laid a pair of crossed lines over Near’s heart. “X marks the spot.”
Matt gasped. “It does exist!”
Near rolled his eyes. “Haven’t we discussed the heart surgery? Doesn’t that mandate my having a heart in the first place? …in bed?”
Matt combed his fingers through the tangled white hair. “While I agree that the bed is the first place,” he noted, “this whole thing makes you sound kind of like a cyborg.”
There was a pause.
“Didn’t I always tell you not to let him play too many video games in bed?” Near asked Mello.
Mello shrugged, considered, and motioned to Matt. He indicated his latest edible magnum opus on the canvas that was Near. “Your turn,” he announced.
“Mmm,” Matt acquiesced.
Near sighed, but he seemed to have discovered by this juncture how utterly useless it was to argue.
Matt contemplated the various angles and then knelt on the floor before the chair, positioning himself between Near’s legs and spreading a palm on either one for leverage. Yes, that offered ideal access. Trailing his fingertips lightly and entirely unnecessarily along Near’s thighs, he stretched forward far enough to lick slowly and intently at the creamy ornamentation icing the soft swell of Near’s slender chest. Ivory skin warm beneath his lips, ignoring the way Near wriggled and spouted incoherent objections, he nuzzled the closest available collarbone and then probed interestedly with his tongue at the bud of the pale pink nipple he’d uncovered.
“Nnh,” Near said.
Matt chose to interpret that as “More, please; I’m sexually repressed.”
Which, all things considered, was probably fairly accurate, though he supposed that it was a self-imposed repression that plagued his albino associate.
Whatever the case, his hands advanced further up Near’s legs, which twitched away from him, and he closed his eyes and sucked gently.
“Nngh,” Near managed.
Matt chose to interpret that as “Yes, that’s the spot, thank you!” Per his translation, he traced around the circumference of the delicate protrusion with the tip of his tongue, pinched it gently between his teeth, breathed softly against the wet skin, and reveled in the tremor that thrilled through the object of his affections.
“Matt,” Near whispered unsteadily.
“In bed,” Matt finished, drawing back to meet an extremely confused pair of murky gray eyes.
Mello was running his hands through the loose curls and kneading insistently at Near’s bare shoulders.
“Jesus, you’re tense,” he remarked. “What do you do, tie yourself in knots?”
“In bed,” Near muttered, wincing as Mello’s thumb dug into a tender spot between his shoulder-blades.
Mello smoothed pale hair off of a pale forehead, raking it away from Near’s face. Mr. Genius-Boy looked significantly closer to his age when he wasn’t half-obscured by the draping disorder of his bangs.
Matt blew on the downy, almost translucent hairs dwindling downward from Near’s navel, and then he kissed his way up the slightly crooked white scar that partitioned Near’s torso.
“Good work, Matt,” Mello told him, tossing him a wink. “You’ve done a very thorough job of licking him clean.”
Matt grinned back. “Well,” he replied, “he is a very dirty boy.”
Mello went for the chocolate syrup and the sprinkles, collecting the Reddi-Whip on the return trip. “Shall we make him a little dirtier?”
“You two are awful,” Near informed them, voice slightly thin, “in bed.”
Mello smiled like a cat. “That sounds like a challenge,” he decided.
Near sighed feelingly, only to give a soft squeak as Matt’s fingertips ventured down along the insides of his thighs a few spare seconds later. In the meantime, as Near attempted to figure out whether he should shove his legs together and crush Matt’s hands or open them wider to avoid the searching fingers, Mello laid a Reddi-Whip trail along the pale shoulder, drizzled chocolate syrup over it, and garnished his concoction with multicolored sprinkles.
“Fancy a banana split?” he asked his fellow conspirator innocently.
Matt guided Near’s legs apart, disregarding the indignant sputtering noises that issued forth, and sat in the space he’d freed up, ignoring too the tingling warmth of contact. He balanced his feet on the edges of the chair and found that he occupied a prime position for snacking on Near.
And for running both hands over his chest again, making certain to favor certain twin erogenous zones that set the boy’s breath to catching.
Mello helped him suck, lick, and lap the toppings off of Near’s shoulder, rogue chocolate syrup dribbling over prominent collarbones, and between the two of them, they managed to get more of it into their hair and onto their faces than past their mouths.
Which wasn’t really a problem.
“Mello,” Matt implored, puppy-eyed, “I think I’ve got chocolate on my face. Please help me.”
Heartily, Mello obliged, drawing out the process of cleaning Matt’s face with his tongue far longer than was even remotely necessary. Near made weak sounds that Matt imagined might have been logical comments on the subject, fragmented into little murmurs by the act of observation.
Like puzzle pieces, Matt thought distantly. Like puzzle pieces scattered on the floor.
“You should shower,” Near managed feebly. “You’ve got syrup in your hair. In bed.”
Mello feigned meditation and then raised an enlightened index finger, beaming. “We should all take a shower together!” he proposed.
Matt was pretty sure he’d just died, and this was heaven.
Near backpedaled rapidly. “The showers are tiny,” he explained, words jumbling as they tumbled from his lips. “We’d never fit into one all at the same time, and besides, it’s been far more than five minutes, so my dare should be over in bed-”
Mello guzzled some chocolate syrup, nudged Matt out of the way, clasped Near’s chin in one hand, and kissed him avidly.
Near’s eyes expanded to an implausible radius, and then they fluttered shut as he succumbed-quite inevitably, Matt thought-to the full power of Mello.
Matt watched their mouths slide over each other, Mello’s lips unrelenting and unrepentant, chocolate syrup smudging everywhere, and lamented that he couldn’t think of a way to get in on this.
Mello drew back and tucked a lock of displaced hair behind Near’s ear. “Well?” he prompted.
Anxiously Near considered him. “I-” came the halting response. “-don’t think-”
Mello stroked his hair. “Leave your insecurities handcuffed to the chair,” he recommended.
Near flushed. “Just-it’d be a very tight fit-”
He stopped and went a little pinker still.
“That one doesn’t even need an ‘in bed,’” Matt remarked approvingly.
Grinning, Mello licked a drop of chocolate from Near’s jaw. “Come on,” he coaxed. “It’ll be good, clean fun.”
“You’re hopeless,” Near told them faintly, “in bed.”
“We’ll let you be the judge of that,” Matt replied cheerfully.
X
Matt was so over-stimulated and overjoyed that it seemed like his brain actually shut off for substantial portions of the three-man shower.
In the most extravagant of the guest rooms, Near turned up a master bathroom-worthy establishment with a fairly good-sized shower, though it was still a bit cozy with the trio of them jammed into the cube of its three polished marble walls, enclosed by the gilt-edged glass door.
Which was fine by Matt; the more their slick, unmitigated bodies collided, the better, as far as he was concerned.
He remembered lathering Mello’s back, dragging his fingers over the latticework of the scar where it trespassed onto the sharp angles of the shoulder, while Mello trailed a soapy finger down Near’s spine until the defenseless boy yelped and darted away from him, glaring. Matt was also fairly sure he’d spent at least three minutes massaging shampoo into Near’s scalp, working the floral-scented fluid into the thick hair with firm, aggressive fingers, and he thought he recalled Mello sidling up behind him to set a dripping, pointed chin on his shoulder to watch. Suds had seethed about his fingers as he’d rinsed the lather out again, and Near, eyelids fluttering, had made soft cooing noises that intensified into half-choked groans as Matt’s hands drifted rather lower.
He didn’t think they actually had sex in any of the possible permutations (particularly since, honestly, there hadn’t been ample space for all the thrashing that would have ensued), but the countless encounters of wet skin, the meetings of damp mouths, and the moments when sopping hair mingled-yeah, those were just about as good.
Matt wasn’t complaining, at any rate.
Unsurprisingly, things other than water and soapsuds swirled down the drain, which made it difficult to discern whether or not they were cleaner at the conclusion than they had been when they’d begun, but Matt didn’t really care.
He was also rather amused by the thick and thorough fogging of the mirrors.
A finite certainty did arise, however, and that was that Near, bundled into a thick white terrycloth bathrobe, his hair halfheartedly towel-dried, his skin scrubbed pink, his eyelids low, looking incredibly gratified and, rather more mundanely, very sleepy, was about tantamount to a milk crate full of kittens on the Cuteness Scale.
Mello, lounging exquisitely with a towel wrapped low around his waist, was a different story, and one that proved that Matt had some reserves of sexual stamina left after all.
“We should have some dinner,” he mumbled, “and then sleep for fucking ever.”
“Seconded,” Near acceded, stifling a yawn, “in bed.”
Matt stretched his arms over his head, trying to prevent the contagion of Near’s yawn from passing to him. “You can stop saying that now,” he decided. “I can’t believe you put up with it that long.”
Near smiled drowsily. “But it’s so much fun in bed.”
Mello reached for a chocolate bar, found it to be out of arm’s reach from where he was sprawled on Near’s bed, and gave up.
Matt fished his cell phone from the pocket of the pants he’d retrieved when carting all of the abandoned clothing and belongings up to this bedroom and pressed one of the numbers on his speed-dial.
Twenty minutes later, he accepted a hot pizza from a rather bewildered delivery man.
-
When Anthony Rester swiped his identification at the door, tapped in the code, and strode into the lobby of the headquarters building, it was with a bit of unshakable consternation that he headed promptly for the elevator. The previous day, Near had insisted, uncharacteristically adamantly, that his small but loyal team make the most of their victory, encouraging them repeatedly to take the day off and adding that even longer vacations might suit them well. They had earned it, he assured them, and he wanted very much for them to be able to relax a bit after so much quality work in his service.
Rester didn’t know what he was expecting, but it wasn’t to find his employer on his bed, dressed in white boxers and a striped shirt, an odd pair of orange goggles tangled in his hair, curled up between a young redhead decked in plaid pajama pants and the patterned-black-boxers-clad blond on the other side. If memory served, the blond was Mello, and if vision did, he had an arm slung around Near’s waist.
Rester paused a moment, tried and failed to unsee the image, and then backed out of the room and closed the door quietly.
The elevator dinged cheerily as it released him into the lobby again.
You know, a vacation sounded pretty nice.
Part: 2/2
Fandom: Death Note
Pairing: Matt/Mello/Near
Rating: R
Word Count: 11,770
Warnings: sex, snark, profanity, light fetishism, AU
Summary: Five years after the events of "Dumb Luck," Near invites Matt and Mello over to celebrate their victory over Kira. So begins the kinkiest tea party in the history of mankind.
Author's Note: PART DEUX! Read Part Un first, or you will regret it immensely. And possibly be sakujo'd.
PURE CHANCE (2/2)
The stairwell was freezing, and goosebumps sprouted eagerly all over Matt’s extremely exposed skin. Mello had him by the arm and was dragging him practically blindly, with a desperate carelessness that was almost sweet.
He probably needed to get his head examined.
He would be more than happy, however, to let Mello examine some other parts of him in the meantime.
Mello darted-and Matt stumbled-through the door clearly labeled “19,” and then Mello shoved open the first door he saw in the hall into which they’d emerged.
A rubber bumper obediently prevented the doorknob from denting the subtle off-white wall, but Mello had eyes only for the demure double bed in the center of the room, framed by an oak nightstand on either side. The thick down comforter was the same pure, immaculate white as the old-school curtains at the window and stretched, smooth and unruffled, over the breadth of the mattress.
For, Matt estimated, about three seconds more.
As it turned out, it only took Mello two and a half to heave the both of them onto the bed, pulling Matt down on top of him, seizing his hair to yank him in for an absolutely destructive kiss, at the same moment confiscating Matt’s hand and shoving it against the failing restraint of the laces where they dangled, half-looped, between the impedimentary leather that swathed his legs.
Yeah, Matt agreed, biting Mello’s bottom lip. That shit had to go.
Some deft squirming and a lot of tugging solved that problem, and then Mello hooked a finger in the waistband of Matt’s lucky Triforce boxers and divested him of the final flimsy barrier.
Kneeling over him, everything laid open in the rosy glow of the deepening evening, Matt looked into Mello’s eyes, and the world stopped spinning.
Fuck, yes.
…Literally.
“Lube,” Mello whispered.
Matt stared down at him. “Fuck,” he replied.
Lingual fixation? Nah.
“The point,” Mello responded. He motioned towards the adjacent bathroom with his chin. “Shampoo.”
“Shampoo?” Matt repeated dumbly, momentarily dazed by the prospect of how much soap bubbles would complicate this already impossible procedure.
They both jumped as a slightly metallic voice interjected coyly from a speaker on the wall by the door.
“Try the drawer in the bedside table to Matt’s right,” Near recommended.
Mello looked around Matt at the far wall. Matt turned and saw the unrepentant indigo eye of the unobtrusive camera mounted near the ceiling.
“Little perv,” Matt muttered, grinning at it over his shoulder, having expected nothing less.
Mello reached out and searched for the drawer handle. “Well,” he replied, “let’s give him a good show.”
Matt intended to exaggerate a little for Near’s benefit, but the second Mello smeared a palm drenched in viscous liquid over him, his brain departed via the window and wandered off into the city somewhere, leaving him with a few fragments of internet instruction, some burgeoning primal instincts, and a shit-ton of horny enthusiasm.
Which he supposed wasn’t too bad, all told.
He was Wammy-bred. He could figure it out.
Mello, for all his tough talk, writhed at one finger, whimpered at two, and fisted the comforter, gasping, when Matt replaced them with something a little more potent. Through the blurry veil of consummated lust Matt memorized the fierce pink in Mello’s cheeks, the glimmer of sweat on his forehead, the tangling of his eyelashes as his eyes fell shut and his face contorted, his spine twisting like a thing alive. Mello had always been the master of mixed signals-
Hesitantly, he began, “Are y-”
“Don’t stop.”
It was less an order than a plea, and unequivocal enough.
Matt attempted to establish a gentle, gradually-quickening rhythm, though it was extremely difficult to concentrate through the heat breeding in the pit of his stomach and pooling in his throbbing cock, the blood racing in his ears, the stars dancing before his eyes. It just felt right to be so damn close to him, to be merging, melding, running together, hair mixing, sweat mixing, spit mixing, skin on skin on glorious skin. To be in him, to be a part of him.
And to be abusing prepositions, apparently.
He made a great deal of what were probably embarrassing groans, liberally supplemented by the panting, the straining, and the delirious mumblings of he-knew-not-what into Mello’s ears, neck, throat, and mouth. He supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised, but it was still dizzying to discover just how strongly Mello tasted of chocolate.
He was thrusting deeper and more confidently now, bracing himself against the headboard as Mello’s fingernails scraped at his ribs, carving out stinging wakes that only emphasized the local blaze. Those fingers clenched as the two of them slammed together harder still, and Matt thought, distantly and with a bizarre satisfaction, that he’d have cuts and bruises to show for it. That there would be proof.
There wasn’t time to dwell on it, however, because it was at that moment that Mello’s hips bucked, pushing him even further into the constricted passage that he’d claimed. Matt’s brain burst into fairy dust, and Mello-Mello writhed, bruising Matt’s arms blindly as his fingers tensed, blond bangs clinging to his forehead, made a small sound like a sob, and came vehemently.
Matt took one look at the gold hair splattered across the pillow, the hazy, half-lidded angel’s eyes, and the gloss of sweat across the collarbones, and the edge rose up to meet him, the tidal wave cresting to smash down with staggering force on his defenseless head.
He tasted Mello in the air.
Trembling now, everything sated and shaking, he disentangled himself and flopped heedlessly onto the bed at Mello’s side, laying an arm over the heaving chest that still silently begged for his kisses.
Something foreign, something that wasn’t cool bedspread or searing skin, met his fingers.
He eased the crucifix out from where it had slipped under Mello’s shoulder. His fingertips brushed over the imprinted flesh it had left as a souvenir, and, wordlessly, he righted the rosary on Mello’s breastbone.
Mello’s hand rose and laid itself over his.
Matt just breathed for a long time.
Mello lifted their twined hands and kissed his palm.
“Near?” he prompted.
There was no answer.
“Hey,” Mello said, louder, a rich and exhilarating note of contentment humming, just audible, in his voice. “Mister Voyeur. I’m talkin’ to you.”
“So I gather,” Near replied crisply, sounding slightly out of breath.
“Bring chocolate,” Mello commanded.
Rolling his eyes was mandatory, Matt decided. He’d heard that so many times that sarcasm had become an involuntary response.
“I do try to be accommodating,” Near noted acerbically, further credit to the strategy.
Mello grinned. “Look, kiddo,” he drawled. “We just gave you the best damn orgasm of your life. The least you can do is bring me some damn chocolate.”
“I could go for a cigarette,” Matt added, “if you’ve got any.”
Mello raised an eyebrow at him. “Yeah, I figure Near’s definitely the chain-smoking type, Matt.”
“He’s eighteen,” Matt mumbled into Mello’s arm. “He can go buy some.”
“Or,” Near remarked, “I could bring you the pack that’s in your pants pocket.”
Matt smiled. This was why Near was Number One.
That was okay; he’d just fucked Two, and the Number One in question was probably still highly hot and bothered from having observed the proceedings.
That definitely counted for something.
X
Matt was drifting in and out of a dream that was almost indistinguishable from reality when Near shuffled through the door, which they hadn’t bothered to close, bearing another cardboard box. He set it down on the corner of the bed.
Mello, who had done a great deal of muttering about being cold until Matt had lifted him up, pulled the comforter loose, and draped it over him, sat up interestedly.
Matt wondered if this was what heroin junkies were like when they saw needles.
“This isn’t chocolate,” Mello was declaring, surprised and affronted, as he stared into the box. “This is chocolate syrup, and whipped cream, and… sprinkles?”
Near blinked vast gray eyes innocently. “We had a sundae-making party last weekend,” he explained. “In bed.”
“That’s the ticket,” Matt decided. “Everything’s better in bed.”
“Like your mother,” Mello muttered, presumably automatically.
“Precisely,” Near confirmed. “Incidentally, Mello, I believe it is your turn in bed.”
Mello rolled partway over and looked languidly at Matt. “Truth or dare?”
Matt avoided looking at the sundae box. Much better to play it safe. “The truth will set you free,” he averred.
“Was that the best sex in the history of ever?” Mello inquired.
Matt tried to blow his bangs out of his face with a breath and found that he had to push them off of his sticky forehead with his hand. “Oh, God, yes.”
Mello grinned. “Good.”
Matt traced the tapering line of Mello’s collarbone as it subsided into his shoulder. “Very.” He glanced absently over at the pale boy smirking by the sundae toppings. “Turth or dare, Near?”
“Dare,” Near replied smugly, “in bed.”
Matt wondered how many times Near would underestimate him before he learned just how malicious Matt could be.
He settled contentedly against Mello’s side, leaching warmth, the soft smoothness of the comforter rustling. “Hmm,” he remarked idly. “I dare you to let Mello handcuff you to a chair and permit him to do whatever he likes to you for a full five minutes.”
Near opened his mouth. Then he shut it.
Matt smiled and snuggled closer to Mello’s warm body.
Mello gazed at him, and Matt’s brain almost malfunctioned irreparably as Mello offered him the smile-the pure smile, the sweet smile, the one without a trace of smirk, the one that generally only appeared while he was sleeping, and even then just in flickers.
“You’re so evil,” he said, reverently.
The little smile was too beautiful not to touch. Matt pushed himself up on one arm and kissed it. “Learned from the best,” he responded.
Mello slipped out of the bed, retrieved Matt’s boxers from the floor, and unconcernedly donned them.
It certainly wasn’t the first time Mello had stolen his clothes, but the theft usually didn’t leave him lying naked in somebody else’s sex-soaked bed.
Y’know. Usually.
“Hold your breath, kids,” Mello instructed. “It ain’t a party without me.”
Footsteps pattered down the stairs, and Near rummaged in the sundae supply box to recover a gallon Ziploc half-full of slightly broken Oreos, which he brought with him as he crossed the room and climbed into bed next to Matt.
“You’re going to get crumbs in the sheets,” Matt cautioned.
Near pulled the comforter up to his chin. Perhaps he sought camouflage to hide from Mello’s presumably kink-ridden whim.
“They’ll need to be washed anyway,” he pointed out, “after what you two have done to them in bed.”
Matt grinned. “Touché.”
There was an elaborate jingle, and Mello strutted in, swinging a pair of handcuffs around one finger, expression dominated by a smirk to be reckoned with.
Near disappeared under the comforter. “Save me in bed,” he pleaded, muffled both by the bedclothes and by the Oreo he’d crammed into his mouth.
Matt ruffled his barely-visible hair. “Not a chance in hell, kiddo.”
Mello snapped the handcuff chain. “I’m ready,” he sang.
“Damn you in bed!” Near wailed.
Mello grinned wickedly. “My favorite place to earn it,” he reported.
When Near merely cowered smaller under the covers (Matt couldn’t help but wonder if the escape served the additional purpose of allowing the boy to assess the goods-and not the Oreos), Mello sauntered over, hauled him out of his haven, dragged him over to a wooden desk chair Matt had been somewhat too preoccupied to notice, and pushed him into it, Oreos and all.
“I don’t think I like this in bed,” Near decided meekly.
Mello smirked, undoing the cuffs and tossing the key at Matt, who promptly lost it among the sheets.
“You started the game, Near,” Mello reminded him airily, plucking the bag of Oreos away and pitching it at Matt as well.
That he caught. He had his priorities.
Mello leaned over Near and strung the handcuff chain through the bars of the chair back before securing Near’s wrists behind him. Matt wasn’t sure the restraints would actually work-Near’s hands were so thin that he might just slip free.
Apparently Mello had tightened them sufficiently, however, because he stood back, smirking again, as Near tugged uselessly at the clinking steel.
“I didn’t know you’d play so rough,” Near protested, spots of pink in his cheeks. “…in bed…”
Mello smiled, looking like an overstated movie villain at his moment of triumph. “But Near,” he answered, “you saw how I play.”
Near raised one knee protectively to his chest and frowned. His fears were not unmerited, as Mello then descended on him, knocked his knee aside, and began calmly and deliberately to unbutton his loose white shirt. Still and silent now, Near watched the proceedings, looking as though he was striving for detachment. When Mello ran slim hands over his pale, newly-bare shoulders, he flinched, curling his toes, but said nothing.
Curiously Mello pushed the fabric further down Near’s arms, displaying the scar again, affording only the second glimpse they’d ever had of its quiet dominion of Near’s narrow chest. Mello set one palm against the white neck, bent, and pressed his ear over Near’s heart.
“Time bomb,” he commented. “Swallowed a clock.”
“I’ll have to get the valve replaced with a larger one,” Near sighed, “if I grow any bigger in bed.”
“Let me know if you do,” Mello told him, standing up straight again, the better to tousle the already-disheveled hair. “It’d be a bitch to be alone in the hospital for all that.”
Near just smiled softly, most likely to avoid ruining the moment with a mandatory verbal addendum.
Mello paused and then clapped his hands together. “Okay,” he announced; “Schmaltzy Time over. Let’s get to the good stuff.”
Near, by the looks of things, did not share Mello’s excitement.
Mello ran a knuckle along the boy’s cheekbone, underlining the mistrustful gray eye peering out from beneath white bangs.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said. His victim had time to look slightly relieved before he specified, “I’m just going to sex you up a little.”
Near was not amused.
Flashing a grin at Matt, Mello approached the sundae box and unearthed a bottle of chocolate syrup. He returned and gave Near a hyperbolic onceover. “Tilt your head back,” he ordered.
Near set his jaw and obliged, his eyes closed. “I don’t want to know in bed,” he muttered.
“Nope,” Mello confirmed cheerfully, straddling the boy shamelessly and raising the bottle in both hands. “But you will anyway.”
Carefully and deliberately, Mello squirted syrup from a few inches above Near’s cheek and drew the outline of a somewhat lopsided heart.
D’aww, Matt thought, quite against his will.
Then Mello set the bottle aside, cupped Near’s face in both hands, and licked it off.
God, they were like kittens.
…the sexiest kittens ever…
Near’s nose scrunched as he tried not to recoil, and he cracked an eye open. “Mello,” he asked, voice slightly strained, “what are you doing in bed?”
“You next,” Mello answered calmly, sliding one set of fingers into the pale hair for leverage and lapping at a persistent smudge.
“Forgive my lack of enthusiasm in bed,” Near mumbled.
“I’ll chalk it up to erectile dysfunction,” Mello assured him. “Matt, c’mere.”
“No pants,” Matt explained eloquently.
“Try the dresser in bed,” Near remarked distractedly.
“But Near,” Matt countered innocently, grinning, as he clambered down and went for the bureau. “There is no dresser in the bed.”
Near rolled his eyes, then opened them incredibly wide and squeaked as Mello’s hands drifted down his chest. “Don’t touch that in bed!” he gasped.
“I’m not in bed,” Mello replied, ducking to apply his tongue idly to Near’s pale chest, “so I will.”
Matt hopped into the blue plaid pajama pants he’d recovered from the dresser as quickly as humanly possible. The less of this he missed, the better.
Mello glanced up from nibbling on various exposed portions of Near. “Matty’s excited,” he observed, smirking.
Matt raised his eyebrows. “Nothing you haven’t seen before,” he retorted.
“Fair point,” Mello conceded.
Nodding, Matt walked his fingers up the nape of Near’s neck, parting the wisps of white, twisting his fingers gently into the thick curls that rippled against his palm. Bracing himself on Near’s warm shoulder, he leaned down and started chewing on the half-hidden curve of a pale ear.
Apparently he was the puppy in this pet store.
Which was not a bad thing to be, as far as he was concerned.
“Hold the fort,” Mello instructed, kissing under Near’s chin once more before retreating to rifle through the contents of the sundae box again. Dutifully Matt explored Near’s nose, forehead, and eyelids with his mouth, which proved a hell of a lot more entertaining a Mello-given task than the mind-numbing surveillance he always got stuck with during investigations.
Mello returned, shaking the whipped cream canister like a can of spray paint.
“Let’s do this shit,” he declared, grinning wolfishly.
Near turned immense lamb eyes on him accordingly, but Mello ignored them, the better to lean in over his captive and push the plastic nozzle at an angle, sending fluffy white Reddi-Whip spurting onto Near’s chest.
“God, that’s cold in bed!” Near cried, squirming.
“Good thing you’re so hot,” Mello replied bemusedly as he laid a pair of crossed lines over Near’s heart. “X marks the spot.”
Matt gasped. “It does exist!”
Near rolled his eyes. “Haven’t we discussed the heart surgery? Doesn’t that mandate my having a heart in the first place? …in bed?”
Matt combed his fingers through the tangled white hair. “While I agree that the bed is the first place,” he noted, “this whole thing makes you sound kind of like a cyborg.”
There was a pause.
“Didn’t I always tell you not to let him play too many video games in bed?” Near asked Mello.
Mello shrugged, considered, and motioned to Matt. He indicated his latest edible magnum opus on the canvas that was Near. “Your turn,” he announced.
“Mmm,” Matt acquiesced.
Near sighed, but he seemed to have discovered by this juncture how utterly useless it was to argue.
Matt contemplated the various angles and then knelt on the floor before the chair, positioning himself between Near’s legs and spreading a palm on either one for leverage. Yes, that offered ideal access. Trailing his fingertips lightly and entirely unnecessarily along Near’s thighs, he stretched forward far enough to lick slowly and intently at the creamy ornamentation icing the soft swell of Near’s slender chest. Ivory skin warm beneath his lips, ignoring the way Near wriggled and spouted incoherent objections, he nuzzled the closest available collarbone and then probed interestedly with his tongue at the bud of the pale pink nipple he’d uncovered.
“Nnh,” Near said.
Matt chose to interpret that as “More, please; I’m sexually repressed.”
Which, all things considered, was probably fairly accurate, though he supposed that it was a self-imposed repression that plagued his albino associate.
Whatever the case, his hands advanced further up Near’s legs, which twitched away from him, and he closed his eyes and sucked gently.
“Nngh,” Near managed.
Matt chose to interpret that as “Yes, that’s the spot, thank you!” Per his translation, he traced around the circumference of the delicate protrusion with the tip of his tongue, pinched it gently between his teeth, breathed softly against the wet skin, and reveled in the tremor that thrilled through the object of his affections.
“Matt,” Near whispered unsteadily.
“In bed,” Matt finished, drawing back to meet an extremely confused pair of murky gray eyes.
Mello was running his hands through the loose curls and kneading insistently at Near’s bare shoulders.
“Jesus, you’re tense,” he remarked. “What do you do, tie yourself in knots?”
“In bed,” Near muttered, wincing as Mello’s thumb dug into a tender spot between his shoulder-blades.
Mello smoothed pale hair off of a pale forehead, raking it away from Near’s face. Mr. Genius-Boy looked significantly closer to his age when he wasn’t half-obscured by the draping disorder of his bangs.
Matt blew on the downy, almost translucent hairs dwindling downward from Near’s navel, and then he kissed his way up the slightly crooked white scar that partitioned Near’s torso.
“Good work, Matt,” Mello told him, tossing him a wink. “You’ve done a very thorough job of licking him clean.”
Matt grinned back. “Well,” he replied, “he is a very dirty boy.”
Mello went for the chocolate syrup and the sprinkles, collecting the Reddi-Whip on the return trip. “Shall we make him a little dirtier?”
“You two are awful,” Near informed them, voice slightly thin, “in bed.”
Mello smiled like a cat. “That sounds like a challenge,” he decided.
Near sighed feelingly, only to give a soft squeak as Matt’s fingertips ventured down along the insides of his thighs a few spare seconds later. In the meantime, as Near attempted to figure out whether he should shove his legs together and crush Matt’s hands or open them wider to avoid the searching fingers, Mello laid a Reddi-Whip trail along the pale shoulder, drizzled chocolate syrup over it, and garnished his concoction with multicolored sprinkles.
“Fancy a banana split?” he asked his fellow conspirator innocently.
Matt guided Near’s legs apart, disregarding the indignant sputtering noises that issued forth, and sat in the space he’d freed up, ignoring too the tingling warmth of contact. He balanced his feet on the edges of the chair and found that he occupied a prime position for snacking on Near.
And for running both hands over his chest again, making certain to favor certain twin erogenous zones that set the boy’s breath to catching.
Mello helped him suck, lick, and lap the toppings off of Near’s shoulder, rogue chocolate syrup dribbling over prominent collarbones, and between the two of them, they managed to get more of it into their hair and onto their faces than past their mouths.
Which wasn’t really a problem.
“Mello,” Matt implored, puppy-eyed, “I think I’ve got chocolate on my face. Please help me.”
Heartily, Mello obliged, drawing out the process of cleaning Matt’s face with his tongue far longer than was even remotely necessary. Near made weak sounds that Matt imagined might have been logical comments on the subject, fragmented into little murmurs by the act of observation.
Like puzzle pieces, Matt thought distantly. Like puzzle pieces scattered on the floor.
“You should shower,” Near managed feebly. “You’ve got syrup in your hair. In bed.”
Mello feigned meditation and then raised an enlightened index finger, beaming. “We should all take a shower together!” he proposed.
Matt was pretty sure he’d just died, and this was heaven.
Near backpedaled rapidly. “The showers are tiny,” he explained, words jumbling as they tumbled from his lips. “We’d never fit into one all at the same time, and besides, it’s been far more than five minutes, so my dare should be over in bed-”
Mello guzzled some chocolate syrup, nudged Matt out of the way, clasped Near’s chin in one hand, and kissed him avidly.
Near’s eyes expanded to an implausible radius, and then they fluttered shut as he succumbed-quite inevitably, Matt thought-to the full power of Mello.
Matt watched their mouths slide over each other, Mello’s lips unrelenting and unrepentant, chocolate syrup smudging everywhere, and lamented that he couldn’t think of a way to get in on this.
Mello drew back and tucked a lock of displaced hair behind Near’s ear. “Well?” he prompted.
Anxiously Near considered him. “I-” came the halting response. “-don’t think-”
Mello stroked his hair. “Leave your insecurities handcuffed to the chair,” he recommended.
Near flushed. “Just-it’d be a very tight fit-”
He stopped and went a little pinker still.
“That one doesn’t even need an ‘in bed,’” Matt remarked approvingly.
Grinning, Mello licked a drop of chocolate from Near’s jaw. “Come on,” he coaxed. “It’ll be good, clean fun.”
“You’re hopeless,” Near told them faintly, “in bed.”
“We’ll let you be the judge of that,” Matt replied cheerfully.
X
Matt was so over-stimulated and overjoyed that it seemed like his brain actually shut off for substantial portions of the three-man shower.
In the most extravagant of the guest rooms, Near turned up a master bathroom-worthy establishment with a fairly good-sized shower, though it was still a bit cozy with the trio of them jammed into the cube of its three polished marble walls, enclosed by the gilt-edged glass door.
Which was fine by Matt; the more their slick, unmitigated bodies collided, the better, as far as he was concerned.
He remembered lathering Mello’s back, dragging his fingers over the latticework of the scar where it trespassed onto the sharp angles of the shoulder, while Mello trailed a soapy finger down Near’s spine until the defenseless boy yelped and darted away from him, glaring. Matt was also fairly sure he’d spent at least three minutes massaging shampoo into Near’s scalp, working the floral-scented fluid into the thick hair with firm, aggressive fingers, and he thought he recalled Mello sidling up behind him to set a dripping, pointed chin on his shoulder to watch. Suds had seethed about his fingers as he’d rinsed the lather out again, and Near, eyelids fluttering, had made soft cooing noises that intensified into half-choked groans as Matt’s hands drifted rather lower.
He didn’t think they actually had sex in any of the possible permutations (particularly since, honestly, there hadn’t been ample space for all the thrashing that would have ensued), but the countless encounters of wet skin, the meetings of damp mouths, and the moments when sopping hair mingled-yeah, those were just about as good.
Matt wasn’t complaining, at any rate.
Unsurprisingly, things other than water and soapsuds swirled down the drain, which made it difficult to discern whether or not they were cleaner at the conclusion than they had been when they’d begun, but Matt didn’t really care.
He was also rather amused by the thick and thorough fogging of the mirrors.
A finite certainty did arise, however, and that was that Near, bundled into a thick white terrycloth bathrobe, his hair halfheartedly towel-dried, his skin scrubbed pink, his eyelids low, looking incredibly gratified and, rather more mundanely, very sleepy, was about tantamount to a milk crate full of kittens on the Cuteness Scale.
Mello, lounging exquisitely with a towel wrapped low around his waist, was a different story, and one that proved that Matt had some reserves of sexual stamina left after all.
“We should have some dinner,” he mumbled, “and then sleep for fucking ever.”
“Seconded,” Near acceded, stifling a yawn, “in bed.”
Matt stretched his arms over his head, trying to prevent the contagion of Near’s yawn from passing to him. “You can stop saying that now,” he decided. “I can’t believe you put up with it that long.”
Near smiled drowsily. “But it’s so much fun in bed.”
Mello reached for a chocolate bar, found it to be out of arm’s reach from where he was sprawled on Near’s bed, and gave up.
Matt fished his cell phone from the pocket of the pants he’d retrieved when carting all of the abandoned clothing and belongings up to this bedroom and pressed one of the numbers on his speed-dial.
Twenty minutes later, he accepted a hot pizza from a rather bewildered delivery man.
-
When Anthony Rester swiped his identification at the door, tapped in the code, and strode into the lobby of the headquarters building, it was with a bit of unshakable consternation that he headed promptly for the elevator. The previous day, Near had insisted, uncharacteristically adamantly, that his small but loyal team make the most of their victory, encouraging them repeatedly to take the day off and adding that even longer vacations might suit them well. They had earned it, he assured them, and he wanted very much for them to be able to relax a bit after so much quality work in his service.
Rester didn’t know what he was expecting, but it wasn’t to find his employer on his bed, dressed in white boxers and a striped shirt, an odd pair of orange goggles tangled in his hair, curled up between a young redhead decked in plaid pajama pants and the patterned-black-boxers-clad blond on the other side. If memory served, the blond was Mello, and if vision did, he had an arm slung around Near’s waist.
Rester paused a moment, tried and failed to unsee the image, and then backed out of the room and closed the door quietly.
The elevator dinged cheerily as it released him into the lobby again.
You know, a vacation sounded pretty nice.