Disclaimer: Don't own Death Note.
-Dedicated to my lovely beta, hyperdragonfyre, for her birthday. I miss you, Marshmello-
Darkness Hits Hard
He never knew it could feel like this.
Like every pore of his skin was a black hole or an ocean or a fisheye, gazing inward and outward all at once, or a mouth, lips opening and closing in unspoken pleas to be filled, for every one of his microscopic orifices to be satiated…full…complete.
He'd never realized before the sheer amount of skin, the whole loping countryside of it, in some places dry and barren like desert plains, in others, dark and hot and moist, jungle valleys all over with thin sheen, sparkling in the darkness with sweat.
How some parts of him seemed alive, jumping and twitching and rippling in godlike perfection, even when he was still; the telling swell of abdomen, slight inhale to deep gasp, to held breath, to quivering shudder.
He had never known ecstasy, awe, before this.
Before the slick of sweat turning his hair two shades darker, perspiration beading beneath the hair on his knuckles and behind each knee, in the hollows of ankles still shackled by denim because he just couldn't wait, because he had never learned how.
Where it felt like one or more touch, one more gratuitous stroke of hand or tongue would send his nerve endings unraveling, and the only thing left to brace him would be those thin, slender arms around his waist; only those left to bind and compress and hold him together while simultaneously breaking him apart.
He had never taken pain before (had never taken, period)
—teeth around the skin of his shoulder, his neck, leaving red moons and hot spit—sharp black nails, worn ragged, sowing rows of quiet fire along his vertebrae—
Barbaric.
Savage.
The best thing he'd ever felt.
A gentle restraint, a tight release, leather, percussion, enfolding.
How his breath made a wind against his ear, a hollow sound, but such a feeling it incurred, just above his hip, like a swarm of golden stinging bees—before the hot eel of his tongue plunged inside.
And he held him.
And he broke him.
He imagined a typhoon of black gold and liquid fire; he imagined himself a grain of sand in the unfathomable star sapphire sea of his eyes, endlessness, horror, endlessness.
And it wasn't eternity or infinity or supernova; had nothing to do with spin cycle cosmos or sky castle heavens. It had nothing to do with anything outside of the bed or the couch or whatever sanctuary they melded into without dimensions, without time. None of that bullshit.
It was impulse. Infatuation. Distraction.
It was the puddles of sweat collecting in his scaly elbows.
It was perfection. Love. Disaster.
It was the sound of his fingers kneading hipbones and ass, the triumphant constriction of his palm around his prick.
It was greed. Malevolence. Animal.
The grunt, the snarl, the sighing moan, the taut bowstring of body arched above him, keening, a slash of white and gold against the darkness, sinuous life in all its twisted malice, until it built up into nothingness and burst forth with a feeling like apocalypse and rain.
And then breathing, buried alive in a mess of sheets and sweat and heat and heartbeats.
He had never known pressure until he laid his body on top of his. A lead blanket. A corpse. And maybe…for him it was worse. Maybe, for him, it was a slow suicide, kamikaze in a time warp.
Maybe it was a catalyst, instead of an antidote.
Maybe it was letting go.
He didn't know. He never knew what his presence was like, in the soft breathtaking mornings afterwards.
But he touched the warm, empty space left beside him, softly, like he would a butterfly, or a fading memory, afraid it would flutter out from underneath his fingertips and disappear.
He never knew it could feel like this.
"Midnight has a harder touch than you think, love," he says. "Darkness hits hard."
He looks at him, and answers:
"Not as hard as the sunlight does. After."
A/N: Erm...yeah...I don't really have an explanation for this one. Sorry about the pronoun confusion. But I didn't want to put any names. Yeah, I'm weird.
-scratches head-
All I know is that I like it. And it came out of absolutely nowhere. I just got inspired by a poem I heard by Marty McConnell and this...was the result. O.O
Maybe this will tide people over until I can get up the next chapter of Miserlou. Anyway.
-hopefully- Reviews?
x0x0 Raven