Author's Note: The first third of this was written between three and five one fine morning, and the rest was written the next day, on five and a half hours of sleep. That should explain some things… XD
Also, it was written for the fantabulous Jenwryn. We got to talking about Light in leather pants, and then she expressed her desperate desire for someone to write of this unlikely phenomenon, and the plot bunny attacked. It slew me. D:
Thanks much to my one and only Eltea for the beta and the usual love. And for not being scarred. Which is always good. :P
Special shout-out to MiaoShou, who's most of the reason this got written. Particularly since rereading parts of the highly-recommendable "Light Up My Darkness" helped significantly. 8D
Enjoy in a private place with the door closed. XD
I am also obliged to warn you that you may never be able to hear "Any Way You Want It" by Journey the same way again. There should be a link to the video on my profile, so that you can listen to the song if you aren't familiar with it, 'cause then I can ruin it for you better! :D
ANY WAY YOU WANT IT
"Matsuda, I don't want to go."
Matsuda turned tremendous puppy eyes on Light, who flinched a little and tried not to notice their wobbly vastness.
"But Light," he persisted. "It's for the case."
Ryuzaki munched delicately on the last of a donut and began licking his fingers, pink tongue to one pale fingertip… and then the next…
"Also," he put in, "Matsuda-san's chances of getting laid increase by almost four hundred percent when he is at a sketchy club instead of being here."
Matsuda looked at him. "There aren't any babes around here," he pointed out.
Light, mesmerized, begged to differ.
Ryuzaki smiled, tongue curving against his littlest finger. "Very good, Matsuda-san. That is the source of the astronomical increase…"
Light stopped listening and just watched Ryuzaki's lips move. Matsuda must have been holding his ground unusually well, because the gentle curve of a thumb rose to press against the bottom one, which meant that Ryuzaki was finding it necessary to think about what he was saying.
After a long foray into fantasy, Light drifted back to the conversation just in time to hear Matsuda pause.
"But you agree with me," he concluded uncertainly, "right? That we should go to the sketchy club, for various reasons?" When Ryuzaki nodded obligingly, Matsuda frowned. "So why are we arguing?"
"I would hardly call this arguing, Matsuda-san," Ryuzaki mused. "'Debating' is more accurate, I feel."
"Well, why are we debating, then?"
Ryuzaki shrugged. "Why not?"
Couldn't fault that logic.
Matsuda shook his head. "Geniuses," he muttered. "Geniuses everywhere… I'm going to have nightmares…" He cleared his throat and continued, at regular volume, "Since we should make sure to stay incognito—" Light suspected, from the relish with which he uttered the word, that Touta Matsuda had been waiting for a long time to say 'incognito.' Possibly since he'd entered the police force. "—I picked out some things for you to wear."
Light accepted his bundle and began to mistrust the nerve endings in his hands.
"Are these—are these leather pants?" he demanded incredulously.
Matsuda waved a careless hand. "You'll thank me later," he pledged.
Light stared at him. Or KILL you, he corrected, eyes narrowing.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Sucking it in didn't work. Neither did yanking hard. Neither did a series of smaller tugs. Neither did cursing his brains out, throwing the offending article on the floor, and stomping repeatedly on the damnable fabric that defied his most earnest endeavors.
Anyone who wore leather pants had to be completely insane. They were the most impossible invention mankind had managed since he'd started work on that severely-possessed and increasingly-impenetrable plastic packaging that encased everything from toys to scissors to toothbrushes, and which turned freeing objects from their boxes into a battle to the bloody death.
Light flopped down on his back on the bed, bent his knees, raised his hips from the mattress, and pulled with all his might.
He made a tiny bit of headway.
Or thighway, he supposed.
The worst part—disputably; just about everything was a bad part—was that a perfectly reasonable outright refusal to display panty-lines had forced Light to walk on the commando side of life.
It was a mortifying place indeed.
He was jumping up and down, heaving as hard as he could without getting friction burns, when a knock on the door broke into his largely-futile efforts.
"Light?" a cheerful voice prompted. "Are you ready?"
"Well, try to hurry up!" Matsuda sang. "It might be a little awkward if your dad were to come back and see you this way!"
Flushed, disheveled, and eight-ninths of the way into the tartest trousers this side of the red-light district?
Light imagined it might be the slightest bit uncomfortable.
Almost as uncomfortable as these fucking pants.
"Are you having trouble?" Matsuda inquired innocently. "I could help, if you li—"
"I will KILL you!" Light shrieked.
"Sixteen-point-three percent chance that Light-kun is Kira," Ryuzaki murmured from the other side of the door.
"I'll kill you, too!"
"…is not particularly advisable, Light-kun."
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Light had to admit that, in a black ribbed-cotton A-shirt, a silver-studded belt, combat boots, and the pants, which needed no introduction, he did look pretty damn sexy.
"Damn sexy" was appropriate, given that the pants had come straight from Hell, presumably breaking all sorts of supernatural speed-limit laws to get to Matusda's filthy hands.
It was hard to stay mad at Matsuda, however, when the man was wearing black slacks and a tight black T-shirt advertising for a metal band whose concerts, judging by the abundance of flaming skulls and red-eyed dragons on the graphic, would likely prove permanently scarring. He looked strangely young and surprisingly… hot.
Ryuzaki was worse. He was decked in an untucked black silk shirt with the top three buttons undone, a set of new Converse All-Stars, and a pair of black skinny jeans that made his legs go on for miles. For leagues. For lightyears.
Lightyears, he was hoping—
No, he wasn't. That would be ridiculous.
…and so easy…
"Themed, are we?" Light asked archly, casting a critical eye over the uniformly shadowy expanses of their outfits as they strutted towards the club's front door, the city's neon blurring about them. "So why did I get stuck with the leather pants?"
"Because you've got the nicest ass," Matsuda answered smoothly, without a moment's hesitation. "It's not like I didn't think this out."
Light attempted to look over his shoulder at his own posterior and then examined the competition.
"Ryuzaki's is much nicer," he decided.
Ryuzaki paused to compare. He shook his head. "I side with Matsuda-san," he reported.
Matsuda smiled smugly and strolled towards the club entrance, twirling the key-ring around his finger. "Exactly as planned," he remarked.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
The club was bouncing, somewhat literally—the mosh pit was a force to be reckoned with, and the music was so loud Light felt the irrational urge to thread his way into the fray and commence swinging his leather-coated hips with reckless abandon.
Oh, wait. That wasn't an urge; it was a reality.
Light didn't know why people were moshing to Journey, or why a club with such a flair for sketchiness was blasting Journey in the first place, but his hips frankly didn't give a damn, and they had somehow hijacked control of the rest of him.
His arms were getting in on this action, too, out and swinging in time with his general writhing. He tossed his head to fling his hair out of his eyes.
People might have been drooling over him, but he was too busy rocking out to differentiate the droolers from the naturally damp.
She said, Any way you want it,
That's the way you need it,
Any way you want it…
The next time he opened his eyes, Matsuda and Ryuzaki had joined him, the former unearthing some moves that should have stayed buried in the eighties, the latter bobbing and weaving a little in a perfectly unsurprising—and just generally kind of perfect—way. Gray eyes gazed absently off into space, and their owner, smiling faintly, folded his fingers into fists and employed his wrists for a bit more motion as Steve Perry egged him on.
Ooh, all night, all night,
Oh, every night;
So hold tight, hold tight,
Ooh, baby, hold tight—
Light felt the irrational urge to slip both hands under the silken curtain of Ryuzaki's draping shirt, curl one finger through a belt loop, and explore a warm waist with the other hand.
God damn it; what was it with these compulsion-urges? That was blatant false advertising.
Ryuzaki's eyes widened, but he didn't pull away, and Light's fingers found and grasped the nub of a prominent hipbone.
Any way you want it,
That's the way you need it—
He hoped this song would never end.
Wildly, madly, before it did, he put his belt loop-snatching finger to good use, drew his captive closer, and ground his hips quite suggestively against Ryuzaki's.
A tremor shuddered through the slender frame pressed against his, and tentative hands fluttered against his shoulders like pale butterflies. Ryuzaki leaned forward, silk sliding over Light's bare skin, and feathery midnight flyaways—of which there were an inestimable number—tickled his temple as the other man positioned his mouth by Light's ear.
"I am ninety percent sure that someone just salivated on me, Light-kun," Ryuzaki announced.
Light forged through fluffy hair to reply in kind. "Maybe it was me," he purred.
Ryuzaki's fingertips flitted over his neck. "Perhaps we should take this somewhere else?" he suggested.
"Lead the way," Light bid him.
Ryuzaki grabbed his arm—Light's hands were something of a lost cause, having long since disappeared under the other man's shirt—and began dragging him out of the slightly perilous swarm of the thrashing crowd. Light glanced back at Matsuda, who seemed to be attempting to resurrect the eighties with an intricate ritual dance that entailed a deft bit of moonwalking, half of the "Thriller" routine, and a downright frightening imitation of a sprinkler.
Shame on him. Didn't he know how many silver bullets and exorcisms of the year 1990 it had taken to make the eighties stay dead?
Somebody shimmied into the way, obstructing Light's view of the unsettling spectacle, and then Ryuzaki was towing him up some stairs and through a door bedecked with a sign that read Employees Only. There was a dim hall beyond, various doors presumably leading to administrative areas, but Ryuzaki ignored them in favor of shoving Light up against the wall, crushing his chest against that of his more-than-willing hostage, and nibbling idly at the nearest ear.
"If you turn out to be Kira, Light-kun," he breathed, "I will eat you slowly, starting with your…" A slender hand brushed over an indication of approval that even the leather wasn't tight enough to hide. "…fingers."
"I'll feed them to you," Light managed, a groan building deep in his throat. "With strawberries. And whipped cream."
Ryuzaki chuckled richly and probed at the shell of Light's ear with a curious tongue. The curious tongue, the curious tongue of legend—Light's knees buckled, and if the delectable owner of the tongue in question hadn't been pinning him to the wall, he would have been quite succinctly reduced to a pile of twitching leather-clad Lightness on the somewhat dubious floor.
"I may take you up on that, Light-kun," Ryuzaki remarked airily, his breath making the wet skin tingle. "At least on the garnish; I will have to consider the cannibalism…"
Light fumbled for a grip on Ryuzaki's shoulders, but the silk shirt was like Teflon.
Clearly, the solution was to take it off, and soon.
He applied his tremulous fingers to the task, mentally commanding them to still their shaking, and found it absolutely impossible to hold himself together as one of Ryuzaki's long, long fingers trailed down his hip towards his thigh.
"Light-kun does not appear to be wearing anything beneath this stunning pair of pants," he murmured, nuzzling along the line of Light's jaw.
"Wouldn't fit," Light gasped out.
"Yes," Ryuzaki mused, "they are very tight…" His fingers wandered, a familiar thumb sweeping over an unfamiliar place. Light threw his head back, biting his tongue on a cry. "I do hope that there is space…"
Light's head was whirling wildly, but he gritted out a few syllables, his body already tensing to spasm. "Space for wh—"
Ryuzaki's dexterous fingers clasped the zipper at the side of the hellspawn pants, slid it smoothly down, and coiled around Light's newly-exposed and throbbing length. The neurons in his brain sparked heedlessly, firecrackers and flares, and Light fisted both hands in the silk shirt and hauled Ryuzaki in for an explosive kiss, conveying his approval with his lips, somewhat less than gently.
Given the nigh-on perpetual activity of the man's mouth, it came as no surprise that Ryuzaki's kiss was a waking wet dream. His grip on Light's pulsing length tightened, his littlest finger straying to graze the tender skin of the neighboring inside thigh, and his free hand crept upward, gliding under the flimsy cotton barrier of Light's shirt, tracing its way over his abs, his ribs, up further still—
Light moaned against Ryuzaki's mouth, yanking uselessly at the buttons and willing them to undo themselves, his other hand lodging in the field of oblivion-hair to stake its claim. Ryuzaki slid his curled fingers slowly up Light's eager member, teasing, exploring, prompting a weak objection belied by a dozen helpless encouragements. Delicate fingers bathed in the warm pre-cum spilling despite his efforts to quell it, spreading it over him, and he leaned helplessly into the caress. There was an answering pressure from Ryuzaki's groin, pushing into his hip as a fingertip traced the tip of him, and the only remotely sentient thought in Light's lightning-ridden head was, So he is alive.
"Perhaps—" Ryuzaki's voice by his ear was slightly ragged, his taunting breathing labored now, and Light gleaned a faint, triumphant satisfaction from the note of strain. "—Light-kun was asking for this all along, not wearing any undergarments. Isn't that—hnh—" Light had managed to focus enough through the haze of half-fulfilled lust to take his teeth gently to Ryuzaki's throat. "—rather—suggestive?"
Light bested another button and learned the curve of Ryuzaki's collarbone with his lips, eliciting a deep-throated murmur and an involuntary jerk of slim hips against his.
Oh, God, he was doomed. It was just embarrassing to be this close this fast, but he'd always thought—always imagined—it was exactly—his fingers tangled in Ryuzaki's thick, glossy hair; pale skin warm and welcoming under his mouth, his teeth, his fingertips, sizzling with flickers of a piqued interest that he could coax to a blaze; an unassuming hand walking his chest, an unrepentant one pumping him so slowly, intently, meticulously that he choked on the screams he'd trapped and stifled and lost along with his stolen breath—
"Do you practice?" he gasped out. "Have you ever—?"
Fire-kisses down his neck; a pair of fingertips nudging the bud of his attentive nipple, rubbing on either side of the hypersensitive flesh.
"I haven't, Light-kun," came the whisper against his throat. "I am merely possessed of an extremely overactive imaginat—"
His hips bucked despite his attempts to stay them; Ryuzaki's grip closed tighter still around him, hot even against his heat, and he was so fucking close but it was too soon oh GOD Ryuzaki how—
Another button gave, but Light found himself scrabbling for a handful of the insistent shaft pushing against his thigh, clenching, cupping, squeezing harder than he intended as Ryuzaki's fingernails skimmed over the base of his own contribution to this vertiginous pas de deux, tickling softly, his knees again reduced to so much jellied cartilage—
"Ryuz—Ryuzaki—" He was panting now, sweating, melting, his legs unsteady and his head unhinged, and before he could move to think or think to move, Ryuzaki had knelt, pushing the flap of leather impatiently aside, and was following his swollen stiffness with that tongue—that mythic, agile, velvet, voracious tongue, a warm paintbrush that had known sweets and strawberries and endless quantities of cake, that was adding him, him, him to its repertoire, that was tasting him, touching him, taking him happily prisoner—
His hands, interred in the voluminous expanses of Ryuzaki's hair and seeking leverage against the curve of the other man's skull, were the only thing supporting him and preventing him from crumpling to the floor.
Too much. Too much. Too goddamn much—
He clenched his fingers in Ryuzaki's hair, every muscle convulsing, and let out something between a gasp and a groan, his back arching, the final shreds of his willpower failing at last. Ryuzaki cradled him with one hand, still lapping tenderly with that inimitable tongue, as Light succumbed at last and came—came—and slammed headlong into an ecstasy wilder, hotter, wetter, better than any he could remember in the entirety of his hormonally-charged adolescent existence.
Weakly he slid to the floor, the dingy hall swimming before his eyes, and Ryuzaki sat back on his knees, a lopsided grin playing on lips still shining with moisture. Light felt suddenly sad, though the contented mischief in Ryuzaki's eyes brooked no regret.
"You didn't," he managed to mutter.
Ryuzaki scuttled forward and settled next to him, leaning partway over him to dot his cheek with damp kisses like snowflakes. "That's fine," he promised. "Next ti—"
Light pushed him onto the floor, the gray eyes widening as he snatched the last of the buttons free, and flicked the two halves of the shirt aside, exhibiting the contoured canvas of Ryuzaki's chest. Light kissed, licked, nipped, and nuzzled his way upward until he reached a whimpering mouth and sealed it with his. With one hand, he smoothed incorrigible hair from a forehead furrowed with bewildered concentration, and with the other, he expertly unbuttoned and unzipped the close-fitting jeans between him and his goal. Ryuzaki was clutching at him, breaths hitching, heart pounding, cheeks flushed and flaming, and he pushed plain cotton boxers hurriedly out of the way.
He grasped Ryuzaki's waiting cock and started pumping feverishly, driving deeper into the kiss, circling the hardened resistance of the nearest nipple with the pad of his thumb, keeping time, his tongue flicking against Ryuzaki's lips. Thrusting his knee between two legs seeking purchase on the questionable linoleum, pressing harder when they tightened on either side, he gripped Ryuzaki's hair and poured more, more, more into his hand and the relentless kiss at once.
Ryuzaki's hips rose six full inches off of the floor, and he caught his breath and came.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Splattered and half-exposed, Light set his forearm on the tiles and stroked Ryuzaki's narrow chest with his free hand, watching thick eyelashes rise regally as misty eyes opened slowly. Ryuzaki swallowed.
"I cannot help," he mumbled, "but pity the janitor."
Light lay down at his side, not worrying, for the first time, about the unsanitary conditions. His mind had room for nothing else but Ryuzaki, nothing else but his soul-bonded friend turned newfound lover. The rolling landscape of Ryuzaki's ribs enthralled him, and the silk shirt was cool under his warm cheek as he laid his head on the available shoulder.
Capable fingers worked through the tangles in his damp hair.
"Perhaps we would be wise at least to put ourselves back together," Ryuzaki murmured.
Light laughed softly. "Worried someone will see us like this?" he inquired.
"Worried someone will see you," Ryuzaki corrected, "and spirit you away to become their sex slave."
Light shifted, reaching languidly reluctant hands for the fastenings of his damn leather pants. "You'd be jealous?" he prompted.
Ryuzaki replaced his jeans, smiling thinly. "'Jealous,' Light-kun," he replied, "was not exactly the word I was thinking of."
The zipper yielded to Light's wrenching, and the pants enclosed him afresh. "Oh?"
Ryuzaki sat up and began buttoning his shirt, nodding sagely. "I," he explained, "was thinking more along the lines of 'homicidal.'"
Light grinned lazily and folded his arms behind his head. "Nothing wrong with that," he drawled.
Ryuzaki winked. "Sixteen-point-five."
Stomach dropping suddenly, Light looked away. "Figures," he muttered.
Ryuzaki gathered himself to his feet, flicking creases out of his clothing. "The probability that Light-kun will prove a phenomenally mind-blowing lover, however, is at least ninety-six percent, and that is a conservative estimate."
Light raised an eyebrow. "What makes you think," he asked slowly, "that I'm going to be blowing your mind?"
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Matsuda took one look at them and stopped trying to summon the eighties from the pit of Retro Hell.
"What the fuck did you do?" he demanded. He gave them the onceover again. "Or is that 'each other'?"
Light shrugged. "You can play next time," he answered, "if that's okay with Ryuzaki."
Ryuzaki's shoulders lifted briefly. "The more the merrier," he conceded.
Matsuda appeared to indulge in a short victory dance. Then again, it was difficult to differentiate from the usual one.
Having worn themselves out, Light and Ryuzaki made for the door, Matsuda beaming as he followed in their wake. Light whistled to himself over the music roaring in the heart of the club behind them.
Ryuzaki's gaze was on Light's lips, but he inquired, perfectly politely, "What song is that, Light-kun?"
Light grinned at him and then started singing softly.
"Any way you want it, that's the way you need it, any way you want it…"