DN Fic: Breaking Point
Sep. 28th, 2010 10:57 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
darklunaTitle: Breaking Point
Rating: NC-17
Characters: Mello/Matt
Warnings: Language, slash, abuse of second person.
Word Count: 850
Notes: Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
hentai_contest's "angry sex" prompt.
Summary: You're sure he does it on purpose.
He's always been like this, always treated your personal space like it's his to crawl all over, but this, his hand on your thigh, is really too much. You tell yourself you can't feel the heat of those skinny fingers through the denim, that Mello's hands aren't even warm, fucking cold as this warehouse is, but that doesn't stop the heat slowly snaking upward, and you'll be damned if you get turned on because he never learned to keep his hands to himself. So you shift your leg sharply to throw him off, and somehow he pulls the injured-party card, What the hell, Matt?, all wide eyes and giving innocence a pretty fair go, considering he looks like sin itself, with those eyes and that mouth. Don't touch me, you tell him, but what you're really saying is, Don't touch me unless you mean it, and you have a crazy feeling that's what he hears.
Which is as good as a challenge, and you ought to know by now not to do that, but hell, maybe you're just as much of a stubborn prick, in your own way, as he is. So you hold your ground and meet his eyes, letting the challenge stand.
He puts his hand back, fingers digging in this time, and that's when you snap.
You lunge for his mouth, and he doesn't dodge, just gives this little laugh into the kiss that only pisses you off more. Is this a fucking game to you? You bear him down with your weight, fingers scrabbling for purchase on leather, finally sliding up and into his hair, and tugging hard, and that draws a sharp breath. Isn't this what you were after? you say, and when you go in for another kiss, he sinks his teeth into your lower lip. You taste copper, and realize, in shame and fury, that you've never been this hard in your life. Mello arches against you with a smirk that says he knows it too, and you catch those skinny wrists and pin them over his head. A few seconds tearing one-handed at those stupid laces, and you peel the leather open, rummage in the table detritus for the lube you know damn well is there, because doesn't he bring guys here to fuck them, where you have to listen, all the time?
The second you lean, Mello wrenches his arms free and shoves, and you end up on the floor. And now you're the one pinned, and he's squeezing you through the jeans, the smirk back at full force. Bet I can make you come in your pants.
Fuck you, you say, and he shoots back, You wish, and licks at your stinging lower lip, his hand working at the jeans, and suddenly there's chilly air on your cock, and you were right, Mello's fingers are hot when they wrap around it, and you shudder and try to keep your hips from bucking up.
Has anyone had you? he demands, and there's a hitch in his breath that makes you answer instead of fighting, No, no one.
Good, he says, the conceited bastard, and no. Not like this. Not just because he can.
You twist and kick, and it all goes over, both of you and the table, in a tangle of limbs and a shower of paper and ashes, but you end up on top, hot and cold with lust and anger. Mello stares up at you like maybe he didn't know what kind of fire he was playing with after all, and you drag him tight against you as you find the lube in the remnants of the table.
You were trying to make me snap, you say. He doesn't deny it. Why? Of course he doesn't answer that either, but he hisses a breath in through his teeth when you press two slicked fingers inside. You need to pretend you don't want it? you guess, twisting your fingers, and he bites his lower lip. Need to pretend it's my fault? You pull your hand free and slick yourself. That's the real answer, you know it is, and you're not remotely gentle when you drag his legs up and slam in. He grabs for your shoulders and digs his nails in, and you think even he might not know if he's trying to hurt you or asking for more. And you fuck him fast and hard, infuriated by his silence, by the noises he chokes back, by how you'd touch him if he'd fucking ask, but he won't. He stripes claw marks on your back, bites your shoulder, and you're the one who gives in and works your hand between the two of you to jack him, and he gasps out Matt as he comes, and the fucked-up thing isn't that you know it's your reward for cracking, but that you don't give a shit, that the one barely-breathed word makes you come so hard you see stars.
You don't apologize, after, not even when you've caught your breath. But he doesn't push you away, and somehow that's enough.
Rating: NC-17
Characters: Mello/Matt
Warnings: Language, slash, abuse of second person.
Word Count: 850
Notes: Written for
hentai_contest's "angry sex" prompt.Summary: You're sure he does it on purpose.
He's always been like this, always treated your personal space like it's his to crawl all over, but this, his hand on your thigh, is really too much. You tell yourself you can't feel the heat of those skinny fingers through the denim, that Mello's hands aren't even warm, fucking cold as this warehouse is, but that doesn't stop the heat slowly snaking upward, and you'll be damned if you get turned on because he never learned to keep his hands to himself. So you shift your leg sharply to throw him off, and somehow he pulls the injured-party card, What the hell, Matt?, all wide eyes and giving innocence a pretty fair go, considering he looks like sin itself, with those eyes and that mouth. Don't touch me, you tell him, but what you're really saying is, Don't touch me unless you mean it, and you have a crazy feeling that's what he hears.
Which is as good as a challenge, and you ought to know by now not to do that, but hell, maybe you're just as much of a stubborn prick, in your own way, as he is. So you hold your ground and meet his eyes, letting the challenge stand.
He puts his hand back, fingers digging in this time, and that's when you snap.
You lunge for his mouth, and he doesn't dodge, just gives this little laugh into the kiss that only pisses you off more. Is this a fucking game to you? You bear him down with your weight, fingers scrabbling for purchase on leather, finally sliding up and into his hair, and tugging hard, and that draws a sharp breath. Isn't this what you were after? you say, and when you go in for another kiss, he sinks his teeth into your lower lip. You taste copper, and realize, in shame and fury, that you've never been this hard in your life. Mello arches against you with a smirk that says he knows it too, and you catch those skinny wrists and pin them over his head. A few seconds tearing one-handed at those stupid laces, and you peel the leather open, rummage in the table detritus for the lube you know damn well is there, because doesn't he bring guys here to fuck them, where you have to listen, all the time?
The second you lean, Mello wrenches his arms free and shoves, and you end up on the floor. And now you're the one pinned, and he's squeezing you through the jeans, the smirk back at full force. Bet I can make you come in your pants.
Fuck you, you say, and he shoots back, You wish, and licks at your stinging lower lip, his hand working at the jeans, and suddenly there's chilly air on your cock, and you were right, Mello's fingers are hot when they wrap around it, and you shudder and try to keep your hips from bucking up.
Has anyone had you? he demands, and there's a hitch in his breath that makes you answer instead of fighting, No, no one.
Good, he says, the conceited bastard, and no. Not like this. Not just because he can.
You twist and kick, and it all goes over, both of you and the table, in a tangle of limbs and a shower of paper and ashes, but you end up on top, hot and cold with lust and anger. Mello stares up at you like maybe he didn't know what kind of fire he was playing with after all, and you drag him tight against you as you find the lube in the remnants of the table.
You were trying to make me snap, you say. He doesn't deny it. Why? Of course he doesn't answer that either, but he hisses a breath in through his teeth when you press two slicked fingers inside. You need to pretend you don't want it? you guess, twisting your fingers, and he bites his lower lip. Need to pretend it's my fault? You pull your hand free and slick yourself. That's the real answer, you know it is, and you're not remotely gentle when you drag his legs up and slam in. He grabs for your shoulders and digs his nails in, and you think even he might not know if he's trying to hurt you or asking for more. And you fuck him fast and hard, infuriated by his silence, by the noises he chokes back, by how you'd touch him if he'd fucking ask, but he won't. He stripes claw marks on your back, bites your shoulder, and you're the one who gives in and works your hand between the two of you to jack him, and he gasps out Matt as he comes, and the fucked-up thing isn't that you know it's your reward for cracking, but that you don't give a shit, that the one barely-breathed word makes you come so hard you see stars.
You don't apologize, after, not even when you've caught your breath. But he doesn't push you away, and somehow that's enough.
