[fic] These Boots Are ...

[transient_words]

[Not Made For Walking]

Disclaimer: I don't own a thing. Nor am I making any profit out of this.

Summary:  Keep those boots on. You're sexy with them on. Mello/Matt. Gift!fic for  istne_pieklo

Warning(s): some repetitive phrases, shameless indulgence in vulgar language, and possibly bad smut. A bad exercise in trying to write PWP and failing at it. While this is mostly upbeat, there are some mild hints of angst. Self-edited.

And, no, before you ask me: I'm not a leather boots fetishist. I do, however, have a thing for gloves :D

Notes: For once, not written for springkink . Posted here, in case it gets deleted off FFN. And yes, I realise this is a very bad date to be sharing this like this ._.

...

Those boots - those fucking boots.

They shine and glitter and Matt, eyes glued on those damned shoes, nearly feels like an old guy in a wheelchair lusting after a nurse with a nice, swaying behind. He swears that he's like this drooling and howling wolf in the cartoons - going gaga over a foxy maiden wearing red shoes.

Damned Mello - making me lose my cool so much.

He's got to take his eyes off them.

Yeah, he's gotta think about something else - something neutral. Something like - fuck, he can't do it.

Matt really doesn't remember where Mello got those shiny black leather boots from.

Probably nicked it off some bastard after cheating at poker.

It's not like he really cares since a) it's none of his fucking business and b) it's not like he's never stolen anything before (a few sunglasses, video games and cigarettes come to mind). If he thinks about it, nothing he or Mello own was gotten by legal means. Then, who cares about doing things legally?

(This world is just a like black market, in which no one buys but just steals and cheats).

Not Matt, at least. As long as it doesn't involve some weird shit like necrophilia or forcing little kids to act out on an old bugger's disturbing sex fantasies - which, sometimes, feature maid outfits and kitten ears and other things that make him want to barf. Stealing, compared to those, is but a mere trifle and Matt can attest that no old ladies or kittens were harmed when he stole a little there and a little here. So, he's not going to give Mello hell for stealing leather boots. Too bad, Mello keeps keeping giving hell for the most mundane sort of things.

Really, really mundane things.

Like walking around the apartment without taking his shoes off or not properly closing the lid of the toothpaste they both use - it's a bit ironic how someone as crazy as Mello is a bit anal-retentive in those aspects. But that's not the worst: the one thing Mello just won't shut up about is his smoking.

Matt isn't someone who really keeps count of things, but even he can tell that it's become something of a daily mantra that Mello chants at him every two to three hours. Mentally Matt always tells himself that it's a great thing for Mello - and for humankind in general - that he's really not easily pissed off. You'd need a volcano erupting to make Matt lose his nerves.

He's doing it again now - while wearing those fancy boots, Mello is addressing Matt's smoking for the whateverthousandth time since they've known each other.

"Didn't I tell you to cut the nicotine before -" Mello stops, just gesticulates in this frantic sort of way and there's this adorable pout on his face that makes him look cute, but Matt doesn't say that out loud. Any mention of "cute" and you're sure to have Mello's gun pressed against your forehead - and that's if he's feeling generous. Piss him off royally and you're sure that the crazy grin on his face is the last thing you see before everything goes dark.

"Oh geez man, you know that I can't stop." Mello is about to start because he really he loves Matt - loves him more than Jesus himself and all - but he just can't quit that one thing. It's like going against his credo and all: you gotta live and let live. Besides, it's really uncool for a gangster not to smoke. Unless they're Mello because Mello even manages to make chocolate look cool. "But I'd do anything else for -"

And he really would. Mostly. Of course, he'd not proclaim his love naked in front millions of people because that's something losers do - and he's not one.

But he doesn't get the chance to say that 'cause Mello interrupts him, aggressively smashing his lips against Matt's in a mocking variant of what some people would call a kiss. And this, Matt thinks ain't anything but that, but more ... like fighting - a match between lips, you'd say. It's a competition; everything with Mello is a competition, a battle over dominance. Mello just can't do anything without having to prove himself; it seems he can't operate properly without winning, which - if Matt really thinks about it - is sad because no person's objective in life should be that of always trying to be the best.

I'm not really that interested in dominating him. I just want to -

Yes, Matt thinks, as he runs his fingers through Mello's messy tangles of hair and tries to return his frantic kisses with some degree of gentleness, I just want to be with him.

Matt's got trouble breathing when Mello's done assaulting his mouth; his lips feel sore - he's fairly certain that Mello bit him. God, aggressive much?

But he can't stop grinning, though he knows that Mello hates it when he grins like that. It's just that he's glad Mello wants him like this, enough to bite him. Enough to mark him as something that belongs to him - and that's great because, very rarely, do people in this grand, big world belong to anyone but themselves. But now's not the time to think about belonging, Matt knows that Mello is staring at him, his eyes blazing and him just waiting, simply waiting for the dices to start rolling. Matt - always willing to play - grins a bit more, trying to look smug.

Grinning smugly will make him think I've got something up my sleeve.

Matt doesn't have anything up his sleeves, of course, but there's nothing bad about looking cool, right?

"I thought you hated the taste of nicotine," he says, though he knows very well that Mello doesn't hate it or Matt would have very well had his head blasted off by now. Seriously. You don't get on Mello's bad side.

"Hmm. It's not chocolate, but ... I guess, it's all right."

What Mello really means to say is : it's you and everything about you is delicious.

And no, Matt isn't delirious because he knows that Mello can't get enough of him. He's just that sexy and awesome.

"So...?" Matt says, taking a last draw of his cigarette before tossing it on the ground and ending its meagre existence with the heel of his shoe. "You want to -"

Make out? Have wild, animalistic sex right here against the wall? Fuck me until I can't stand straight anymore?

He never really gets to finish the question because Mello - impatient as always - has him pressed against the wall, shoving his tongue into his mouth without further ado. He's even more forceful this time, his hands right at Matt's belt and tugging - tugging and pulling so harshly that Matt wonders how it is that his jeans haven't been ripped to shreds yet. And he doesn't want that to happen because he kinda likes those jeans - they're not some fake goods, but from an original brand. Of course, stolen.

Mello stops the kiss for a second and kneels - an unholy smirk that promises nothing good is on his face. Matt only has time to ask "what -" before any vocal protestations on his part turn to a long-drawn out hiss of "fuck".

He's forgotten how talented Mello is with his mouth - especially when he put it to good excuse - no pun intended.

Mello's tongue is on his cock, licking it the way he usually licks his chocolate: surreptitiously and with every intention of drawing out the moment as long as he can. Right now, Matt knows he's doing a very undignified display of eloquence - what with his hisses and grunts - but he can't help himself; his hands are shaking and he's sweating. He's sure that he his knees are buckling.

Goddam tease.

Mello has no intention of finishing though, stopping right before things get really hot. It's cruel, but Matt has long since accepted that Mello is only nice when he feels like it - and that happens once every blue moon.

"Don't stand there like an idiot," Mello says, wiping his mouth with his hand. "Do something productive."

At this point, Matt - having been around Mello long enough - knows that Mello wants him to get naked. He doesn't need to be told that twice. "Yes, your Hig -"

Mello throws a pillow at him - once again demonstrating that - through the sheer power of mild domestic violence - you really can get people do your bidding.

"Shut up and just start stripping, okay? Before I get unpleasant, Matt."

Oh. And verbal abuse works wonders too.

"And what if I don't, Mello?" Matt asks, as he takes off his shirt, hoping to sound sexy and intimidating.

Unfortunately, Mello doesn't seem to think him intimidating at all.

"Then, I'll just rip those pants off your hips and have it my way, smartass."

What Matt has always liked about Mello is that, when it comes to sex, he's very straightforward and doesn't dither. There's none of this "will us having sex change anything?" or "do you really love me?" shit. None of those false, nauseating reassurances he has to utter before he can finally get the other party to lie down on the bed.

Mello is undressing - tugging at the zipper of his black jeans; they are riding low on his hips and Matt can see the lithe form of Mello's body, all pale and marred with scars that he got from not minding other people's business. Not that it matters - Matt thinks that the scars are kind of hot - just like a map telling a story.

This is scar, right above his left hip is from the brawl he had with this drunken guy who told him he was nothing but a dick-sucking whore.

Yes, Matt knows that he's corny. Then again, it's not like he's saying those things aloud. He really just -

Damn Mello.

Mello is kneeling now - ready to take off his boots. Those shiny black boots. An idea suddenly awakens within Matt's mind. "No, don't take those off."

Mello raises an eyebrow. "Why?"

Matt just grins, despite the fact that he knows very well it's pissing Mello off. But - as the idea in his head gains more shape - he thinks it's worth the risk of being kicked in the balls. Or something else of the sort- Mello is anything but uncreative when it comes to inflicting corporal punishment.

"Keep those boots on. You're sexy with them on."

It's incredibly cheesy and, for a second, Matt wonders whether he's watched too much porn, but then - looking at those shiny boots again - he can't help it. Maybe it's just one of those days where some alien force seems to have gained possession of him and makes him say and do things he'd never be caught dead doing or saying.

Or maybe, Matt just can't say no black leather.

Mello just stares at him for a second - his eyes wide like that of a kid's, making him look younger than he really is for a moment or two. He's frowning and Matt is pretty sure that the wheels in his head are turning (always overthinking, always running into hasty conclusions that lead often lead nowhere). And for a moment, Matt wishes that Mello - stupid, stupid wonderful Mello - could just take things as they are and not always put up resistance.

If only Mello could accept - accept that Near is the second L and that, no matter what he'll do, he'll never be better because that's how things are.

But it's alright because simply being Mello is enough - for Matt, it's more than enough. He should stop trying so hard because Matt loves Mello for what he is - and not what he could or should be.

But Mello wouldn't be Mello if he didn't want to be the best and one of the reasons why Matt loves Mello as much as he does is because he never stops trying. If only he weren't so obsessed about it - so obsessed with beating Near.

Matt clenches his fist: there's always Near. Gosh, that fucking name - Matt's a peaceful guy usually and doesn't give a shit what other people do with their lives, but he hates that rat-faced white little bastard. But he doesn't have time to think about that now, not when Mello is naked, wearing nothing but black heels. And about to say something really important.

"You're one perverted bastard, Matt. You know that?"

Mello nearly makes it sound like a bad thing, but it's just a façade.

Because Mello's grinning and there's a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. And before Matt can say anything he's pushed down the bed - a red little number that looks more like something that belongs into a brothel than here, but then Matt wasn't the one who chose it. Besides, as he's currently being straddled by Mello, he figures that it's not really the time to be musing over his partner's rather questionable taste in furniture.

Gosh, he really needs to work on his concentration.

"I can't believe you're still half-dressed," Mello is saying as he pulls Matt's jeans down, throwing them on the floor; he's hasty today, Matt notices and, though he likes it, it's a bit too -

Fast, too fast, Matt thinks as he grabs Mello by the hips and quickly flips them over, I won't allow you to gain upper hand that quickly.

There's a brief look of surprise on Mello's face, but it quickly fades. He really doesn't mind bottoming - hell, they're both open-minded guys and neither of them is more of a wimp for taking it up the arse. Indeed, Matt often thinks that one is more of a man for being able to handle that position in bed without making a big deal out of it.

"Now I really think you're perverted, Matt." Mello are blazing more fervidly now and licks his lips.

"I know," Matt whispers into Mello's ear, making the other shiver, "but it turns you on, doesn't it?"

Mello's skin - for all its scars - is surprisingly soft, especially around his neck; Matt places a soft series of kisses there - it's not often that he gets to be this gentle. But Mello groans in frustration.

"Too slow, Matt - too slow. If you're just going to kiss my neck all day, then maybe I should get on top."

Mello really is mean, Matt thinks as finds himself pushed away; Mello is sitting up on the bed and rolling his eyes. Damnit, he should have remembered. Mello isn't that easy to impress, after all. Should have remembered that he's one aggressive and pushy bastard.

Yet, despite his threat of topping, Mello hasn't pounced Matt yet - he's waiting.

It's a challenge, Matt realises.

Okay, you'll get what you deserve, Mello.

Matt looks at the boots - and chuckles. Surely, Mello has incredibly shitty taste in furniture, but when it comes to boots, he really knows his stuff.

I wonder where he picked up his fetish for leather though.

Matt knows that he's testing Mello's patience again when, instead of paying any attention to his body, he turns to examining his boots - devouring them with his gaze, just like a snake observes its prey before snatching it and gulping it down with one long swallow. And yes, Matt can't quite tear his eyes away - they're so shiny and, maybe he is insane, but he wants to lick them. Yeah, in spite of all the germs and what not on them, he wants to lick them. Trace his tongue over the soft material, feel its cold surface and -

Shit, he's really doing it. And the leather does feel cool - wonderfully cool - and soft against his tongue; to his surprise, they're new - Matt can tell because the leather isn't worn and there's this smell of novelty to them. He should be hating this because, in a way, this isn't quite normal and, yet, he's getting hard over this.

Fuck, Mello, it's nearly like you wanted me to lick those boots.

When Matt looks up, he sees that Mello's smirking and this confirms his suspicions like nothing else could have done. What's worse is that Mello is hard - evidently getting off on him licking his boots like some deranged sex servant. The look on his eyes - it's both triumphant and mocking. Matt quickly realises it's the "I got you" look.

Asshole.

"Continue - it seems like you quite liked giving my boots that kind of attention," Mello says contently.

"You ... Shit, I can't believe I fell for that. You actually-" Matt stammers out awkwardly, face flaming red and his fist clenched. He can just imagine how fucking funny he must have looked - acting all perverted over some inanimate thing.

"But you're turned on, aren't you?" Mello asks, as he takes off the boots this time. Matt isn't sorry about that - those boots are no longer sexy in his eyes. Indeed, Matt plans to put them on fire once he has the chance to do so.

He hates how Mello is quoting his own lines back at him, making Matt flinch that he was so impossibly cheesy about the whole thing.

Should have just fucked him from behind. Much less troublesome.

Mello is still looking at Matt, eyes glimmering with amusement. Somehow, he seems to think that this whole affair is one big joke and Matt - he just can't stop shaking his head. It's his manhood at stake, after all!

"Oh come on, Matt. Don't be hurt - it's all just good fun."

Mello kisses him again.

This time, Mello is kissing him gently - like he doesn't have anything to prove and just likes kissing Matt. Like, for that sheer second, everything's fine and it's just them - with nothing or no one to bother them. No fucking Kira, L or Near. Just them - Matt and Mello. And Matt wishes - and God, he doesn't wish for things often anymore - that it could always be like this. He wishes for all this because -

Because I love you so fucking much, Mello. So much I'd actually die for you. I wonder, do you even know that?

Matt doesn't know it, but he's deepening the kiss and pushing Mello down the bed. But then he's kinda lost in the moment, everything else - the ticking of the clock, the outdoor hooting and zooming of cars - has come second-place to the sensation of kissing Mello: Mello is nearly obliging this time, not just brutally smashing lips against Matt's but actually doing something that could be considered a slow kiss. Mostly. The tugging of Matt's hair kind of ruins the effect.

For once, Mello doesn't say anything when Matt is reaching for the bottle of lube because there isn't really anything to say. Not because it's embarrassing, but because they don't need words.

Matt hisses slightly when he enters Mello - the unexpected pleasure of feeling that tightness around his cock is still too much, too new; Mello just closes his eyes and, by firmly wrapping his legs around Matt's hips, is ready for more. As much as Matt would like to take it slow, the need to simply fuck Mello is greater - and so, he starts thrusting.

Quickly - nearly frantically - Matt thrusts into Mello as the bed creaks under both of their weights and the sounds of their mutual pants fill the room.

There's never really much time for kissing. And, this time, it is no different. Mello's fingernails dig deeply into Matt's back, urging - or more like ordering him - to be faster. It's nearly like Mello - by being taken so hardly - wishes to affirm that he's alive. Only when they're reaching climax does Mello drop his guard: his eyes close as Matt wraps his arm around his cock and pumps. Small moans of pleasure escape Mello's mouth and he comes with a harshly uttered cry of "Jesus, fucking hell".

Matt - close to climax himself - buries his face in the crook of Mello's neck, breathing in the fragrance of sweat and something that is uniquely Mello - he'll perhaps never be able to place it, but - regardless of that - always be able to remember it. Even if death itself depended on it.

And now, when he's closer and closer to coming, Matt slows down and takes his time - his last movements nearly tentative. Just as if he were tasting precious wine and afraid of every single drop being the last one.

And maybe, deep down, Matt just senses that there might not be a next time.

He guesses this the closest he'll ever get to making love to Mello because it's not like he'd ever really be allowed to slow down, to take his time and explore Mello's body the way he'd like to (trailing soft kisses from his belly button up to his collarbone, leisurely tasting sweaty skin).

But it doesn't matter, Matt thinks. It really doesn't matter.

Because it's enough to just be with Mello. So much more than enough that Matt has no regrets, even if he were to die tomorrow.

Yes, Matt thinks, if he were to die tomorrow, he'd go out with a cigarette in his mouth and a smile on his face.

...