Author's Note: I'm in a mood tonight. That's where this came from. Don't even try asking what it is; my Mello-muse has been craving something he can't have lately, and he wrote this for me to vent his frustration.

To everyone waiting on me to update Game Over; I'll get around to it. My muse has been completely dead lately. In fact, this is the first piece of fanfiction that I've been able to write in months. I try to write, and nothing comes out. But summer is on the horizon, and I'll spend some serious time working on my stories once I've got an entire day to devote to them.

Thanks for reading, guys. I mean it. The fact that people are still keeping tabs on me never fails to make me smile.

Disclaimer: I do not own Death Note. I make no profit from these fanfictions. I just like the smut that can be wrenched from Death Note's amazing characters.

Warning: Sexual References, Cussing

There are days when I don't want him to be sweet.

Matt cares in ways that no other has cared, but that doesn't keep me satisfied. After going through hell, I don't want the soft touches and gentle kisses.

I want my leather.

I want a mask on my face, gag in my mouth, eyes rolling in agony. I want the sadistic smirk. I want the sound of leather hitting skin. I want to be chained and abused.

But Matt doesn't work like that anymore. Not since the accident.

Before I blew myself up, we would play late into the night. Our bodies belonged to one another. Our desires dripped from our mouths in passionate moans, encouraging screams. He knew the most creative ways to make me come. He knew where to hit me, where to bite me, where to burn me.

Now, I'm his fragile doll.

Now, he always asks if I'm feeling all right. He wants to know if he's going too fast. He wants to know if I'm hurting.

I want to scream, "Yes, Matt, I'm hurting. Hurt me more."

But Matt doesn't work like that anymore. Now, if he thinks I'm in pain, he stops and pops another pill in my mouth. I'm fucking tired of those pills. Painkillers cause me more pain than Matt could imagine. It dulls the effect of what we do in bed. I don't want that.

I want him. I want him inside me, hurting me, making me bleed. I want him to slap me when I cuss him. I want him to treat me like before. Before the accident, we had nothing to fear.

Now, we have everything to fear.

This scar makes people remember. They'll know my face if they see it. I stick out in a crowd. I can't talk to anyone but Matt. I can't leave the house without my hood covering my face. Kira is close, but I want to be closer. I want to see Kira's arrogant face as I fire round after round into his dying body.

That's just a fantasy, sadly. In reality, Matt is working on a plan to track Kira. I've swallowed enough pride to call an old acquaintance of mine. I know what we've got to do.

But damn it, Matt.

I want him to keep me up all night, sweat pouring from my body, crying out and cussing and hissing in pain. I want him to burn me again, to push that cigarette to my skin and tell me I'm his. I want him to pull me by the hair until our lips are crushed together.

I want him to treat me as though I hadn't been hurt.

These are dangerous times. I want to know that I can rely on my best friend, my partner in crime. If I can't trust him to give me what I need in bed, how are we going to defeat this Kira bastard?

The days are counting down; I'm feeling weary.

I want one night, just one night, for things to work out like they used to. I don't want to be Matt's scarred lover. I want to be his fuck buddy. I want to be his Mello again. I want to do dirty things to him, and I want him to do dirtier things to me. I'm open and waiting, but his hands are still too fucking soft. I want to have one night for us to be us, just for old time's sake. We don't have long.

The world is going up in flames. But we all know how much I love to burn.