It would be improper to call it anything
like an addiction, but L is well aware that he has a certain craving
for sweet things.
Expensive candies with delicate sugar carvings that melt into
splinters of sweetness, strawberries, their redness glowing through
a bitten shell of chocolate untainted with milk or cream; only the
purest form that left a faint bitterness clinging to the back of the
tongue.
Crumbly donuts to penny candy that left his mouth sticky and the tip
of his tongue sore from probing the sharp-edged crevices limned with
cheap butterscotch flavoring. It's all the same to him, only call it
sweet.
It's impractical to eat nothing but sweets so L doesn't; the risk of
diabetes, heart disease, the slow, painful atrophy of health. L
isn't afraid to die but it's not something he seeks, for the same
reasons he would generally hide his identity during an
investigation. One does not send the general in on the front lines
just the same way one doesn't eat a box of expensive truffles like
one would eat a cheap candy bar.
Whether or not there are true legal rules concerning any of it, L is
far more familiar with practicality and common sense, and he has
long since learned that on occasion the end really does justify the
means. Justice does, on occasion, leave aside the question of right
and wrong. That it is possible that Kira believes this same thing
makes L faintly uncomfortable.
It has not, as of yet, changed his opinion.
And while it might not be practicality that has him chained to
Yagami Raito, or even common sense, at the moment it's the only plan
available to him and L has learned to work with that as well.
Yagami Raito sleeps on his left side but it isn't the fact that
right now he is lying on the right that tells L that he is awake.
Surrounded by a tumble of blankets, L can't really see him in the
dark and doesn't need to. There is a faint rhythmic movement that is
unmistakable, hesitating if it seems to rock the bed at all, if the
slightest clink of the chain between them acts as a betrayer. The
way Raito is lying, facing away as he tries for any kind of modesty
in this situation, pulls the chain tight between them. Not enough to
be painful but it's distracting nonetheless and it would seem Raito
is of the same opinion. He's been trying for nearly twenty minutes
and for someone of his age it's laughable that something as simple
as masturbating is taking so long.
Even so, the discomfort of the handcuff isn't bothering L as much as
his own impractical craving for something sweet. Twenty minutes and
counting he has been listening in silence, pretending to sleep while
all he can think of is chocolate.
Really, it's all foolishness. Raito shouldn't be so shy about it.
It's completely normal for a teenager to masturbate and L is close
to asking him to roll over just to ease the awkward turn of his arm
from the cuff. He would have if he didn't suspect that Raito would
be extremely embarrassed and might stop completely. Or worse, stop
for a while and then start again. Society does have its own set of
rules, outside of any written on paper.
L bites his tongue and thinks of chocolate again, wishing that
pretending to sleep didn't also mean that he can't eat. He hates
lying on a bed, hates to be sprawled out at all, too unconfined, too
exposed, and if repeated attempts to allow him to sit in a chair
next to the bed while Raito slept hadn't failed miserably each time
he wouldn't be lying here now. And Raito wouldn't be doing what he
is trying to do.
He sighs only in his thoughts and listens to the sound of skin
against skin, the slide of Raito's hand while he works for an orgasm
that is probably going to be more of a relief than a pleasure after
all this time. Stilted little shifts of his hand that refuse to form
a rhythm and while L has never had an intention of sleeping, he
simply can't think like this.
It only makes sense to move closer, the pull on his wrist easing as
he molds himself against Raito's back, and his startled gasp is
swallowed by L's palm against his mouth, his hand carefully tilted
to keep the cuff from biting into Raito's cheek.
His other hand has already found Raito's, glides down his wrist and
into the damp heat of his pajamas because really, enough is enough.
Raito's fingertips are blunt and hot, friction-smooth and his cock
is painfully dry. L pulls his hand free long enough to lick his
palm, hears a sharp intake of breath from beneath his other hand and
ignores it to slide his hand back inside the tangle of cotton and
heat.
Raito's hand is on his own, pressing it down firmly like he thinks L
might change his mind, adjusting from shocked to eager with all the
expected quickness because Raito also has a mind that bends around
common sense and L rubs his thumb over the slickness at the head,
sweeps it through a jewel of thick fluid and he isn't smug or
surprised to know that Raito is closer now in only moments than he
has been for the past half hour.
Even with his left hand, the stupider of the two, it's easy to jerk
Raito off, the blurt of his breath against L's other hand damp and
wet, and there is the faintest flicker of tongue. It's not
unexpected that this would make him hard as well; L is not a
teenager but those years aren't that far behind him. The sudden rub
of Raito's hips against him, however, is.
There is a line of skin exposed beneath his rucked-up shirt and
sagging pants, the tilt of Raito's hips pushing backwards,
invitingly, and for a moment all thoughts of rules and common sense
leave him. For just that moment L is thinking only of the prickling
heat between his own legs, rubbing himself against Raito through two
layers of cotton and the rush of wet heat over his hand is a minor
distraction in comparison and he frames Raito's chin in the cup of
his hand, turning his face so he can just barely press their lips
together.
Afterward, neither of them pretend to be asleep, the chain stretched
to its limit between them. When L licks his fingers, it's almost
absent, letting his tongue probe between them, licking at wetness
while Raito sucks in a sharp breath next to him, watching.
The taste is sharp and bitter, heavy with salt and L licks it away
until his hand is clean and there is nothing sweet about it, nothing
at all.
Raito's mouth only tastes clean and warm, his tongue pressing
suddenly between L's lips as if seeking a taste of himself, and L
only thinks fleetingly of chocolate and common sense before letting
Raito push him back into the blankets with clumsy, eager hands,
practicality allowing that at least one of them should have a
craving satisfied.
-finis--
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mailto:keelywolfe@gmail.com
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