L x Light

BY : Genevieve
Category: Death Note > General
Dragon prints: 5254
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.

Light is only seventeen years old.

His soft cheeks and delicate chin glow with all the innocence of adolescence,
and the terror in his eyes is evident even when he closes themóbut at seventeen
he is already responsible for mass murder.

This remains prominent and absolute in Lís mind even as he allows Light
to have at him and even as he acknowledges that yes, it really is love.

It was no accident; Kira was a fully conscious and deliberate
decision justified and insisted upon and risked for.

Light hasnít asked for pardon.

His fate is already decided. But there is nevertheless a curious affection
between them, undeniable and regretfully real,

Itís L versus Kira, and it still is L versus Kira on the office
floor against the hard side of a dimly-lit desk. The metal chain is a strange
reminder of a sentence far graver still to come, as well as a long-awaited
separation that will leave them both feeling naked.

Since Lightís release from the cell, the chain has rendered the two
exasperatingly involved, perpetually aggravated and perpetually on the
verge of a fight, and Light almost wishes he had realized he was Kira earlier
that this were over sooner.

They had tested and deliberately tormented each other, liking neither
the chain nor the undeniable curiosity it brought, and they had ever since
exerted upon each other the various frustrations it created, fighting and
touching and completely bent to eliminate.

Light thinks he has nearly gotten used to Lís thin arms on him, the
warm insistence of flesh and wet exhaustion that followed, if not for dominance
then as a helpless cry of tormented despair.

When it happens now, it echoes painfully of separation, and he feels
weak, infatuated, defeated not so much by the rival but by his own overpowering
desire to save him.

Take me, do it.

Dark strands drape and sweep downward caudally along the naked abdomen,
and for a moment L is all softness and warm regard, and, despite it all,
grateful for one transient desire to save his life. And Lightóyesóat seventeen
Light is innocent, the perfect son has taken casually to murder
as he has to leadership and achievement and anything else he could, with
vast, calm amusement, turn and unravel in his mind. It was with both innocence
and confidence that he first fell into Ryuuzakiís arms, and itís with the
same casual curiosity that he urges him forth even as surrenders.

The thin membranes at his lips run dry with expiration, head tilted
slightly back and hands urging downward, he cries for himself now, silently,
for the last moments before everything changes. The slender hands at his
Thighs press softly with a light, firm gentleness typical of Ryuuzaki,
who understands that the person in his arms is really not the one who wants
his life. Not for the time being.

Lightís fingers curl against his reddening cheeks in modesty when the
wetness of lips comes tentatively on him, with the human flicker of eyelashes
and exhalation of warm vapor; in all their battles they havenít come this
close to affection.

It might actually not hurt.

It doesnít hurt. Itís good and steady and hot, a consoling manipulation
that renders him vulnerable and curiously shy. Lís fingers at his lips
are softer now, pressing with humility he hasnít shown before, and, whimpering
inaudibly, Light allows him in. Then everything is velvety wetness and
warmth when the fingers at his lips pull downward and Lís mouth is on his.
Lightís arms come around the bony shoulders in a final gesture of surrender
when at last L takes him, and it feels almost like trust.

Light doesnít let go of the digits at his mouth, pressing with modest,
silent desperation, so L allows himóheíll allow him more tonight than usual,
because for all his defenses, he will at last grant Light an opportunity
to feel the contentment of trust and acknowledgement. But no farther. The
innocent creature in his arms will kill him.

ďDonít,Ē L whispers when, helplessly tormented, Light begins to murmur
something about regret and sorrow and love, so the boy grows quiet with
frail surrender and his arms grow tighter around Lís back. There is silence,
light and shadow and the fluidity of bones and muscle beneath white skin,
the echoing of breath and the sway of hair, until, with the relentless
grasp of fingers upon each other comes at last release, hot and real and
liquid. They fall on each other, wet and messy and tightly entangled, and
neither yet ready to let go.


To be continuedÖ



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