InsaneJournal

Current mood:	SHIT SUCKS
Current music:	Du Hast - Rammstein

This is sucky, yet again. Man, are all these drabbles sucky?
I've got 12 days to finish 24 prompts. So expect a flood of these babies. 8D This prompt brought to you by Chris, who chose the number 7~!

Title: Deadline
Author/Artist: temptationwaits
Fandom: Death Note/Another Note
Pairing: Beyond Birthday/L
List and #: Alternate #7 - hourglass
Rating: R (for non-graphic sex)
Disclaimer: Death Note, L, etc. © Ooba Tsugumi, Obata Takeshi, etc. Beyond Birthday, Another Note, etc. © Ishin Nishio. Song lyrics are from "Misery Business" by Paramore and "Deadline" by Blue Oyster Cult.
A/N: Spoilers for B and Another Note. OMG IS THIS SMUT!? Hahaha, not really--it's smutty, but it's smut hidden behind a velvet curtain. ;)

The clock above his head tick-tocked, tick-tocked, tick-tocked. A repetitive click-click, a monotonous circle of time, so vast, so powerful and yet, nothing but a soft tick-tock. The room was dark, except for the blue shades of night and the moon's glow pouring through the window. The milky light rolled out on the ground, slow and soft and strange, just like the blood that bubbled out along the tile, slow and soft and strange. The clock ticked again and this time, he looked up.

B watched the little hand jump to the next digit. It was almost midnight now. He glanced down at the fresh corpse at his bloodied feet. He had to hurry up and clean if he wanted to be out of there before dawn. Quickly, B picked up the machete beside him and held Bottomslash's arm up.

The clock continued to click, tick, tock.

The clock in that room was the same as this one. A round, white and black sphere, dull and simple, clicking away loudly into the darkness. A pair of slim fingers groped accidentally at the blinds on the window, causing them to shutter and jump, before a hand shot up and yanked the other back down. The only source of light that allowed each boy to at least make out the others face came from the crack under the door. The clock gave another tick as weight hit the ground hard, followed by a grunt and thud as more weight collided on top of it.

In the ticking shadows, both men wound around one another, twisted and turned, writhed and wiggled. One hand pushed violently into the others face, another squeezing his wrist. Scrambling and scrambling on the floor, making no noise but grunts and heavy gasps of air, the clock doing most of their talking. He sunk his fingers underneath the faded levis' waist band and pulled down his pants and boxers, exposing him.

The clock ticked.

His red eyes, managing to shine even in the darkness, seemed to be saying, Don't fight, don't fight, I don't have the time to do this. Not now, at least. And as this little wrestling match went on, his dark black ones seemed to understand and agree with him, before finally, four sets of arms entwined around two bodies and two pairs of bruised, pale and chapped lips pushed violently against the others, two muscles working in two different mouths. Kissing hard, kissing forcibly, kissing bitterly.

The clock ticked. The little hand danced to a new number.

His fingers, much longer than the one beneath him, ran smoothly along his frame. So thin and fragile, yet shoulders were broad, stomach tight. Over mountains of shoulders, down streams of arms, along the fields of hips and thighs, down into the caves of oblivion, darkness and sacred territory. At the cold touch, his knees buckled together, but were quickly parted again. A beautiful body of curves and alabaster, smelling of musk and cake icing. His hands shook a little; part of him wondered if this would be the last time he'd ever touch this body of his.

The clock ticked.

Tongue lashing on fingers, going inside, grunts and tugs and hisses and sighs. He thrust himself inside, and it felt cold and wonderful, painful and bitter, all at the same time. Chewing on his bottom lip, he pumped harder and harder inside of him, rocking in swift, steady jerks. Beneath him the body rubbed along the carpet, harsh and itchy and burning on his exposed skin.

The clock ticked--

--They dropped their heads back into the air, the ground, gasping and stiffening--

--And rang in loud chimes. Ring, ring, ring; ring, ring, ring.

"Midnight."

B had glanced back up at the clock in that dark room just as he did in this blood stained chamber. "It's midnight," he said then as he said now. B looked down at L; looked down at Backyard's body. "It's time to go," he told him just as he told her.

"Your game's starting now, is it?" L had asked, but the corpse didn't speak.

B, however, had replied to him, and said to Backyard's body: "The game's all ready begun."

The clock stopped ringing. It clicked again. Time was catching up to him. Soon, very soon, the hourglass would run out of sand and the game would end. Yes, the time of resolution had all ready been decided, just as the entire game plan had been.

The only thing that had been left open for speculation: who would be the winner, and who would be the loser? B told himself he knew who, but deep down inside, there was still a 50% chance he was going to be wrong.

When B returned to his shelter early that morning, after hours upon hours of cleaning, he'd see one final straw doll laying on a pile of newspapers.

That was the deadline.

The clock ticked.