DN -- Affirmation
Title: Affirmation
Fandom: Death Note
Pairing: Matt/Mello
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 350
Warnings: language, various allusions to sex
Summary: Come on. What is there to care about?
Author's Note: Just something I cooked up the other day, taking a study break... please imagine the happy ending of your choice, because odds are I won't manage to write a sequel with my version of it. XD
AFFIRMATION
Hey, I don’t care.
We’re just fuckbuddies. That’s what we decided on-mutually, together. I figure it’s mostly because this shit is just that intense-we’ve got to blow the steam off somehow, and this way’s a lot more private than gambling.
And a lot less expensive.
I also have my suspicions that Mello is a victim of satyriasis.
…yeah, that was the only unit of Psychology I paid any attention to.
Well, who can blame him? It’s great. It feels great. It’s liberating, and warm, and personal right when you need it, when you’re starting to forget what the alias stands for.
Not that it’s-you know, personal-personal. That would defeat the whole purpose of fuckbuddyhood. It’s just… real. And anchoring.
Mello wasn’t a highly-coveted whore for nothing.
The way I see it, he just needs the affirmation, and the release. It’s another service I can dutifully provide.
And I’m fine with that.
I am. It’s cool. You know me. Chillin’. So laid-back I might as well be sleeping. It’s not like I care.
Come on. What is there to care about?
It’s stupid, though-because I know better than anybody how hard it is even to look Mello in the eyes and not fall in love with him. He’s just so much, so wild, so over-the-top that he’s on a first-name basis with the weather balloons-but when you get close enough, and look hard enough, and the bravado slips and shines like cellophane… you start to see the fissures where the whole of him falls to pieces. You start to see how fragile the cussing and the confidence really are. You start to see that neither gleaming leather nor a crucifixion carried on his chest are enough to fill the empty place, and you start to see the creeping horror than nothing ever will be.
And that’s just looking.
Touching-learning-melting with him, with that, with the nightmare-daydream crucible that he is… I should have known from the start what that would do.
Maybe I did.
Maybe that’s why I took it when he gave.
Fandom: Death Note
Pairing: Matt/Mello
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 350
Warnings: language, various allusions to sex
Summary: Come on. What is there to care about?
Author's Note: Just something I cooked up the other day, taking a study break... please imagine the happy ending of your choice, because odds are I won't manage to write a sequel with my version of it. XD
AFFIRMATION
Hey, I don’t care.
We’re just fuckbuddies. That’s what we decided on-mutually, together. I figure it’s mostly because this shit is just that intense-we’ve got to blow the steam off somehow, and this way’s a lot more private than gambling.
And a lot less expensive.
I also have my suspicions that Mello is a victim of satyriasis.
…yeah, that was the only unit of Psychology I paid any attention to.
Well, who can blame him? It’s great. It feels great. It’s liberating, and warm, and personal right when you need it, when you’re starting to forget what the alias stands for.
Not that it’s-you know, personal-personal. That would defeat the whole purpose of fuckbuddyhood. It’s just… real. And anchoring.
Mello wasn’t a highly-coveted whore for nothing.
The way I see it, he just needs the affirmation, and the release. It’s another service I can dutifully provide.
And I’m fine with that.
I am. It’s cool. You know me. Chillin’. So laid-back I might as well be sleeping. It’s not like I care.
Come on. What is there to care about?
It’s stupid, though-because I know better than anybody how hard it is even to look Mello in the eyes and not fall in love with him. He’s just so much, so wild, so over-the-top that he’s on a first-name basis with the weather balloons-but when you get close enough, and look hard enough, and the bravado slips and shines like cellophane… you start to see the fissures where the whole of him falls to pieces. You start to see how fragile the cussing and the confidence really are. You start to see that neither gleaming leather nor a crucifixion carried on his chest are enough to fill the empty place, and you start to see the creeping horror than nothing ever will be.
And that’s just looking.
Touching-learning-melting with him, with that, with the nightmare-daydream crucible that he is… I should have known from the start what that would do.
Maybe I did.
Maybe that’s why I took it when he gave.