Vroom Vroom

BY : Steph Ow.
Category: Death Note > General
Dragon prints: 1222
Disclaimer: I do not own Death Note, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

“I left my heart in San-fran-cis-co, it’s in some mother fuckin’ disco,” Matt practically yells along with the radio as the convertible shoots down the highway and the wind snaps and catches Mello’s hair. Now Mello knows one of the reasons Matt wears goggles all the time.

“You know, Matt,” he has to yell over the wind and the music, “this probably isn’t like a video game. You don’t bounce off obstacles, and you sure as fuck don’t get three lives.”

Matt glances at him, and the burns marking the side of his face, and flicks his cigarette out the window with a pointed little smile. Mello kind of has to concede that one, he’s had his share of scrapes.

“Don’t worry,” Matt reassures him, as though Matt gets to say, because Matt doesn’t worry about anything, ever, as far as Mello can tell, “I’m a safe driver.”

Mello just buckles up his seat belt.

“In the pornos,” Mello isn’t sure if he’s hearing Matt right, “this is the part where you lean over and give me a blow job.” He can’t tell if he’s kidding or not, or if he just wants Mello to think he’s kidding or if it’s some kind of veiled hint or idle observation, or if Matt’s just gone crazy or put something a little stronger than tobacco in those home-rolled cigarettes. “Besides,” Matt continues, “You kind of owe me.”
Oh, thinks Mello, distantly. Right, yeah.

“I’m pretty sure you only get the blowjob if it’s a chick and you’re parked.” He chews on the edge of a ragged fingernail, before pausing to look down at it dispassionately and pick off a bit more of the chipped black nail polish that never really seems to go away.

It suddenly becomes a very good thing that Mello buckled up his seat belt. Matt has jerked the wheel left and braked hard, and they skid to a stop in a mess of dust and tumbleweed. He’s thrown forwards hard and loses his breath, and coughs on the sandy air and realizes that when they’re not moving, there’s actually precious little wind at all here.

“You jackass,” he wheezes eventually, but Matt is ignoring him, lighting another cigarette and pushing his ratty hair out of his eyes and his striped sleeves back up his arms. The sun beats down on them and the car, and Mello wants to take off his jacket but doesn’t want Matt to think that he’s, you know, getting naked or anything. “Are you trying to get us killed?”

Matt looks over, and laughs at him, the fucker. Mello flushes in annoyance, and Matt notices, so makes a peace offering.

“There’s chocolate in the glove box.”

That’s... a hell of a peace offering. Mello is reminded of why he likes Matt (he tells himself that’s the reason) and wonders if it’ll be his favourite kind.

“How do you know?”

Matt shrugs, and says, eminently reasonably, “It’s my car, isn’t it?”

Mello doesn’t know if this makes sense or not, but doesn’t think it’s a good idea to look a gift horse in the mouth, so he just goes for the glove compartment. It is his favourite kind.

“You could drive for a bit,” Matt offers, taking another long drag of his cigarette and exhaling it into the desert air, “I wouldn’t mind.”

This makes Mello only slightly suspicious, but even slightly is enough to make him ask, “isn’t it your car, though?” Because, you know, he doesn’t have to be suspicious of Matt, but old habits die even harder than they did.

“Yeah, Mello, but when did you driving ever bother me?” Matt grins at him and offers him the cigarette, and what the hell, it’s not like it could kill him any more, right? He takes a drag and even though he’s prepared, practically coughs his lungs out for the second time in five minutes.

When he has his air back, he’s surprised to find Matt has leaned over. And then they’re suddenly kissing, and hey, this might not be so bad.

It can’t get too far, because there’s a stick shift between them (of course Matt’s car is a standard) and Mello is belted in, and Matt has one hand holding a cigarette out the window and he’s wearing his goggles, but it’s still all kinds of fucking hot and Mello has a hard time looking him in the eye when it’s over.

“So,” Matt says, conversationally, “there’s enough room for a fuck in the back seat.”

Mello thinks about choking, but decides to play it cool. He kind of wants this to happen, he’s not too startled to realize.

“How do you know?”

“I wouldn’t have a dream car that didn’t have room to fuck you in the back seat,” Matt tells him, brushing a thumb along the cheek with the scarring, “no way is my subconscious that cruel. If it was specific enough to give me a commercial free radio station, then we’re not in trouble at all.”

“How come I’m in your car?”

Matt ponders this, tracing his bottom lip with his thumb, and then hesitantly pulls his goggles off. Mello would kiss him again, but Matt’s answering.

“Cause even if the radio station was the best in the world and the weed was all highest grade, and the video games were all just hard enough and the batteries never ran out, it’d still suck and be boring without you, boss.”

Mello remembers that Matt’s the only person who still makes him feel proud when he calls him ‘boss.’

“And since I’ve got drugs and rock n’ roll,” Mello wants to point out that what Matt’s listening to could in no world be described as real rock n’ roll, but listens instead, “I figure whoever rigged this up probably brokered on there being some sex, and...”

Mello punches him, and Matt smirks. After a moment’s thought, Mello undoes his seatbelt and climbs over his seat back, hiding his grin at Matt’s crow of delight.

Mello can’t believe they never did this when they were alive. He’s such a fucking idiot.

But how was he to know that Matt would want to lick him like that? And how was he to know his throat would feel that way when he did?

His coat has come off and Matt is biting Mello’s upper arm like he’s wanted to forever, and Mello throws his head back and it cracks against the car door really hard. Matt just laughs at him, the fucker, and undoes his belt and rucks Mello’s shirt up and his pants down and doesn’t even have the grace to look surprised at the fact that he isn’t wearing underwear.

This is all rather out of hand, Mello feels. Matt should be the surprised one here.

Also, Matt should be the one who’s lifted up and turned around, and draped over the side of the car, arms hanging down past the door, knees on the seat.

“If I scratch the fucking paint,” Mello warns, and Matt has bent over and that’s his fucking tongue and the rest of the threat is lost in Mello’s breathy little shout, and subsequent “oh god, oh god, Matt!”

It’s filthy and Mello can feel his spine absolutely melting to pieces. He arches and tries to tell Matt to do that again, but all he can do is stammer.

“You got me killed,” Matt reminds him, down and biting his way up Mello’s back, listening to the whining noise he makes and the sharp whimper when Matt slides two fingers inside him, big and sharp and intrusive as all get out, “And I didn’t mind, Mello, not really. But I really want to have sex with you.”

“Fuck, Matt, fuck,” is all Mello can say to that, and then Matt’s moving his hand, hot and slick and Mello’s hips rock and he makes this horrible, trashy sound that he’s going to be really embarrassed about if he can ever think again, now that Matt has melted his brains.

Then there’s the dramatic ‘Jesus Christ, that’s his cock!’ moment, he should have seen it coming but he’s still stunned, somehow, that this is actually happening. Matt rocks his hips and Mello scratches the paint and it hurts, and before long he’s nearly sobbing for Matt to do it harder.

This must be how Matt wants him, he thinks. After all, they’re in Matt’s car.

Then Matt wraps a hand tight around him and bites down hard on the side of his neck, and Mello comes and screams, God help him, like he’s dying again.

Afterwards, they sprawl and bask and Matt smokes and Mello looks up at the miles of clear blue sky, blowing his bangs out of his face impatiently and starts wondering more.

“So how come it’s your car?”

Matt glances over at him, because he kind of answered that question. He starts the car, and Mello doesn’t bother buckling up this time.

“I mean, why isn’t it my motorcycle? Or our apartment.”

“My apartment,” Matt reminds him, “you just moved in, remember? Anyways, my theory is that I got here first, so I got to call shotgun. But hey,” like he can tell Mello was about to punch him and yell ‘that’s not fair,’ “you know what? I bet you get to decide where we’re driving to.”

Oh thinks Mello, well that’s not so bad either. He kind of hopes it’s a long time before they get there, though, because the glove compartment is full of chocolate and weed and lube, which is just hilarious and perverse, and because he likes watching Matt be in Matt’s car.

“Hey,” but this is even better, “does that mean when we get there, I get to fuck you how I like?”

Matt glances over him, like he’s surprised Mello would want to, and Mello has to glare at him for being such a dickhead.

So they zoom off down Matt’s road trailing dust, with the radio playing silly, loud, bad music, and tumbleweed, and occasionally passing stalls that sell vegetables and little roadside diners with chequered floors and linoleum everythings.

Mello is mostly naked in the passenger seat, daydreaming about where they might be going and what Matt will look like, spread out on sheets with his stupid goggles and a pair of handcuffs tying his wrists to the headboard.

The car goes by without stopping for gas, because Matt’s batteries won’t ever run out and his engine won’t ever need to be filled up.

And L smiles at the dust trail and licks cherry pie filling off his fingers as the waitress in the pink uniform with the nametag that says ‘Betty’ and the bouffant red hair brings him more packaged sugar.

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