Week #82 - Fetish
Title: Explaining Will Get Us Nowhere
Rating: M
Characters: Mello/Matt
Warnings: Cursing and naughtiness
Word Count: 1358
Notes: You give me "fetish," I'm going to give you smut. :D The title and cut text are from Richard Siken's stunning poem, "Snow and Dirty Rain".
Matt realizes he has a problem at the mall, when the smell from Wilson's Leather gives him a hard-on.
He talks himself down by getting pissed off, cursing under his breath at the clearly random shelving of cables at the computer store. He can handle doing the involuntary Exorcist head-spin whenever he passes a cute blond. He's even trained himself not to react when Mello chooses to ignore the concept of personal space. But this? This is fucking stupid. This is his damn fool brain infecting everything with Mello, when god knows Mello already thinks he's the actual center of the fucking universe.
He's still annoyed when he gets back to the warehouse. He kicks dismembered mannequins out of the way to crisscross the floor with wiring. Mello's out doing who knows what, but getting the machines set up burns off most of Matt's irritability.
Until Mello saunters in and brings it all right back. "Aren't you done yet?"
"Fuck you, this takes time." Matt bangs the top of the case back on the server, and sucks at the finger he burned on the soldering iron earlier.
"What the fuck's gotten into you?" Mello says.
"Maybe I'm tired of you thinking I'm at your fucking beck and call, Mello. What was it, five years, and not even a 'thanks for coming' or 'nice to see you'?"
Mello looks stunned, but he would, wouldn't he? It's not like he's ever thought that the shit he does affects other people. "You make it sound like I put a fucking gun to your head."
"Fine. That, you didn't do. Not to me, anyway." He can feel the frustration echoing backwards, overwriting the memory of his worry and haste. He doesn't care right now. He lights another cigarette, and even the way Mello starts to object and obviously thinks better of it, his mouth tensing briefly, is infuriating.
"I'm not a fucking mind-reader, Matt."
"You don't think at all. Not about anything but your goddamn plans."
"And you don't fucking get it." Mello's voice has gone cold.
"Would I even be here if you didn't need a tool?"
"I can't worry about you on top of every other fucking thing!" His eyes flash green, but Matt isn't intimidated. "And if you can't handle that, you should bugger off right now." He stalks back to the door and flings it open. "So?"
And Matt, hating himself for it, calling himself twenty different kinds of coward, shakes his head.
"I didn't think so," Mello says, and slams out.
Good thing, Matt tells himself, with belated bravado. 'cause I was just about to- Oh, fuck it, who am I kidding?
Even with Mello gone, Matt can hear him saying, Don't fucking sulk, so he does, with a vengeance, chainsmoking, playing mindless games, leaving half-empty Mountain Dew cans and chip bags around. It's totally pointless rebellion, but it makes him feel less like a pussy.
The sound of the door opening startles him out of a nap he didn't mean to take. It must be well after last call. Mello smells like booze and that stupid fucking sexy leather, and when he tosses his coat over the arm of the couch and sits down, he's close enough that Matt can feel the chill coming off it.
"So, what was that really about?" Mello says.
Matt stares at him for a moment. This is more than unfair. It's a fucking ambush. He struggles to push away layers of sleep, sets his goggles back to rights over his eyes. "It was about what I said. What, you think you're so great, no one can be pissed at you for being you?"
Mello's eyes narrow. "You wouldn't have come to LA if you really thought that."
"Maybe I forgot how fucking frustrating you are!" He gropes around for his smokes.
"And yet, you're still here." He's got that look Matt knows well, something up his sleeve, like he's calculating when to reveal it for maximum effect. He shifts, and the pants creak almost imperceptibly.
"I should've known it would be just the same," Matt says.
Mello's still eyeing him with that weirdly calm intensity. "You want this to be something it isn't."
"I want you to treat me like a person, not like your pet hacker." He lights a cigarette and takes a huge, angry drag.
"Put that out."
"Oh, fuck you."
"I'm not fucking kidding, Matt." He shifts with that sudden, lithe grace, and before Matt knows it, Mello's standing over him and has plucked the cigarette away.
"What the fuck-" Matt begins, and stops dead, because Mello drops the butt into a can and leans in very close, and the pants and vest look, god, painted on, sleek and shiny, and Matt's fingers twitch to keep from reaching out.
"Like a person?" Mello echoes back, smirking. He bends even closer, so his hair almost brushes Matt's face.
"Yeah," Matt breathes. It's getting awfully hard to remember why he was mad.
"I did tell you," Mello murmurs, almost against his mouth. "Can't afford to worry about you."
"So don't," Matt whispers, and pulls him down.
It's a sloppy, desperate kiss, awkwardly angled and fueled by anger twisting itself into lust. Mello starts to move away, and Matt growls and tugs him back, palms sliding slickly across the vest. No more talking, he thinks. Just this.
Mello doesn't object out loud, but he fights free, drags Matt's shirt aside, and goes for his neck with his teeth. His breath's hot and shuddery in a way that makes Matt wonder if maybe Mello has a fixation of his own.
And then he can't think at all, because Mello hauls the shirt off and straddles him determinedly, and he's all hot skin and warming leather and the jagged press of the zippers. He slides a hand down Matt's chest and pops the button of his jeans. Makes an impatient noise and starts to peel the glove off, but Matt shakes his head.
I see, Mello's eyes say, but he still doesn't speak. He dizzies Matt with another kiss that leaves his mouth swollen, and slips still-leather-clad fingers into his boxers. Matt throws his head back, babbles something meant to be Oh god like that, but it's incoherent even to him. Mello swoops in and gives his neck a sharp nip, as if to remind him what rules they're playing by here. Then he gets his hand around Matt's cock and starts stroking.
It's urgency, it's apology, it's all the words they're not saying, and Matt gives himself up to it. Mello's shifting under his hands like a chimera, skin and chains and leather and the still-cool cross, only it's Matt who's reeling and grasping at him, and Mello who's steady. His lower lip's caught between his teeth. Matt's haphazard caresses have disheveled his hair. He's never looked more beautiful or dangerous. Those fingers glide and squeeze and press, and Matt cries out. It means Almost, and Mello nods as if he heard that, but Matt wants to see, and squirms backward. Mello gets that too, leans away just enough. His breath is hitching in jerks and gasps like he's the one about to come, and Matt looks down at his hand working faster now. The leather's hot as skin; the drag of it, the friction, is maddening and fucking perfect, and he tangles his hands into Mello's hair and comes so hard he thinks he blacks out for an instant.
When he can manage something like linear thought again, he opens his eyes to Mello still sitting above him, looking just like a cat who's gotten into the cream. "I wish I'd known about that sooner," Mello says.
It doesn't make everything okay. Maybe nothing can. But this is a space carved out of the fucked-up world just for them, and if it's all they can have, Matt thinks, it'll have to be enough. He grins, stretches to bare his neck, and doesn't miss the spark in Mello's eyes as he does. "Now you," he says. "Don't tell me when I'm getting warmer. I'll know."
Rating: M
Characters: Mello/Matt
Warnings: Cursing and naughtiness
Word Count: 1358
Notes: You give me "fetish," I'm going to give you smut. :D The title and cut text are from Richard Siken's stunning poem, "Snow and Dirty Rain".
Matt realizes he has a problem at the mall, when the smell from Wilson's Leather gives him a hard-on.
He talks himself down by getting pissed off, cursing under his breath at the clearly random shelving of cables at the computer store. He can handle doing the involuntary Exorcist head-spin whenever he passes a cute blond. He's even trained himself not to react when Mello chooses to ignore the concept of personal space. But this? This is fucking stupid. This is his damn fool brain infecting everything with Mello, when god knows Mello already thinks he's the actual center of the fucking universe.
He's still annoyed when he gets back to the warehouse. He kicks dismembered mannequins out of the way to crisscross the floor with wiring. Mello's out doing who knows what, but getting the machines set up burns off most of Matt's irritability.
Until Mello saunters in and brings it all right back. "Aren't you done yet?"
"Fuck you, this takes time." Matt bangs the top of the case back on the server, and sucks at the finger he burned on the soldering iron earlier.
"What the fuck's gotten into you?" Mello says.
"Maybe I'm tired of you thinking I'm at your fucking beck and call, Mello. What was it, five years, and not even a 'thanks for coming' or 'nice to see you'?"
Mello looks stunned, but he would, wouldn't he? It's not like he's ever thought that the shit he does affects other people. "You make it sound like I put a fucking gun to your head."
"Fine. That, you didn't do. Not to me, anyway." He can feel the frustration echoing backwards, overwriting the memory of his worry and haste. He doesn't care right now. He lights another cigarette, and even the way Mello starts to object and obviously thinks better of it, his mouth tensing briefly, is infuriating.
"I'm not a fucking mind-reader, Matt."
"You don't think at all. Not about anything but your goddamn plans."
"And you don't fucking get it." Mello's voice has gone cold.
"Would I even be here if you didn't need a tool?"
"I can't worry about you on top of every other fucking thing!" His eyes flash green, but Matt isn't intimidated. "And if you can't handle that, you should bugger off right now." He stalks back to the door and flings it open. "So?"
And Matt, hating himself for it, calling himself twenty different kinds of coward, shakes his head.
"I didn't think so," Mello says, and slams out.
Good thing, Matt tells himself, with belated bravado. 'cause I was just about to- Oh, fuck it, who am I kidding?
Even with Mello gone, Matt can hear him saying, Don't fucking sulk, so he does, with a vengeance, chainsmoking, playing mindless games, leaving half-empty Mountain Dew cans and chip bags around. It's totally pointless rebellion, but it makes him feel less like a pussy.
The sound of the door opening startles him out of a nap he didn't mean to take. It must be well after last call. Mello smells like booze and that stupid fucking sexy leather, and when he tosses his coat over the arm of the couch and sits down, he's close enough that Matt can feel the chill coming off it.
"So, what was that really about?" Mello says.
Matt stares at him for a moment. This is more than unfair. It's a fucking ambush. He struggles to push away layers of sleep, sets his goggles back to rights over his eyes. "It was about what I said. What, you think you're so great, no one can be pissed at you for being you?"
Mello's eyes narrow. "You wouldn't have come to LA if you really thought that."
"Maybe I forgot how fucking frustrating you are!" He gropes around for his smokes.
"And yet, you're still here." He's got that look Matt knows well, something up his sleeve, like he's calculating when to reveal it for maximum effect. He shifts, and the pants creak almost imperceptibly.
"I should've known it would be just the same," Matt says.
Mello's still eyeing him with that weirdly calm intensity. "You want this to be something it isn't."
"I want you to treat me like a person, not like your pet hacker." He lights a cigarette and takes a huge, angry drag.
"Put that out."
"Oh, fuck you."
"I'm not fucking kidding, Matt." He shifts with that sudden, lithe grace, and before Matt knows it, Mello's standing over him and has plucked the cigarette away.
"What the fuck-" Matt begins, and stops dead, because Mello drops the butt into a can and leans in very close, and the pants and vest look, god, painted on, sleek and shiny, and Matt's fingers twitch to keep from reaching out.
"Like a person?" Mello echoes back, smirking. He bends even closer, so his hair almost brushes Matt's face.
"Yeah," Matt breathes. It's getting awfully hard to remember why he was mad.
"I did tell you," Mello murmurs, almost against his mouth. "Can't afford to worry about you."
"So don't," Matt whispers, and pulls him down.
It's a sloppy, desperate kiss, awkwardly angled and fueled by anger twisting itself into lust. Mello starts to move away, and Matt growls and tugs him back, palms sliding slickly across the vest. No more talking, he thinks. Just this.
Mello doesn't object out loud, but he fights free, drags Matt's shirt aside, and goes for his neck with his teeth. His breath's hot and shuddery in a way that makes Matt wonder if maybe Mello has a fixation of his own.
And then he can't think at all, because Mello hauls the shirt off and straddles him determinedly, and he's all hot skin and warming leather and the jagged press of the zippers. He slides a hand down Matt's chest and pops the button of his jeans. Makes an impatient noise and starts to peel the glove off, but Matt shakes his head.
I see, Mello's eyes say, but he still doesn't speak. He dizzies Matt with another kiss that leaves his mouth swollen, and slips still-leather-clad fingers into his boxers. Matt throws his head back, babbles something meant to be Oh god like that, but it's incoherent even to him. Mello swoops in and gives his neck a sharp nip, as if to remind him what rules they're playing by here. Then he gets his hand around Matt's cock and starts stroking.
It's urgency, it's apology, it's all the words they're not saying, and Matt gives himself up to it. Mello's shifting under his hands like a chimera, skin and chains and leather and the still-cool cross, only it's Matt who's reeling and grasping at him, and Mello who's steady. His lower lip's caught between his teeth. Matt's haphazard caresses have disheveled his hair. He's never looked more beautiful or dangerous. Those fingers glide and squeeze and press, and Matt cries out. It means Almost, and Mello nods as if he heard that, but Matt wants to see, and squirms backward. Mello gets that too, leans away just enough. His breath is hitching in jerks and gasps like he's the one about to come, and Matt looks down at his hand working faster now. The leather's hot as skin; the drag of it, the friction, is maddening and fucking perfect, and he tangles his hands into Mello's hair and comes so hard he thinks he blacks out for an instant.
When he can manage something like linear thought again, he opens his eyes to Mello still sitting above him, looking just like a cat who's gotten into the cream. "I wish I'd known about that sooner," Mello says.
It doesn't make everything okay. Maybe nothing can. But this is a space carved out of the fucked-up world just for them, and if it's all they can have, Matt thinks, it'll have to be enough. He grins, stretches to bare his neck, and doesn't miss the spark in Mello's eyes as he does. "Now you," he says. "Don't tell me when I'm getting warmer. I'll know."