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The cherry blossoms flutter around Ryuk as he sprawls across the bench, the sun warm against him. It’s not the sort of thing he’d ever admit, especially not to anyone back home, but the human world has grown on him. It’s different, at least, bright and colorful and lovely compared to the endless sand and grey of the Shinigami Realm. He’s allowed to enjoy it as he pleases, too. Light and L don’t care what he does so long as he wreaks no havoc. Between their little game and the steady supply of apples, he hasn’t found himself with any urge to disrupt anyone for years.
It’s occurred to him that he’s going soft, but he hardly minds it. Life is good, and he hasn’t been bored since Light picked up the Death Note in the grass in his schoolyard.
Lifespans and names pass by in an idle stream as Ryuk watches. He’s grown used to the constant that is humans, be his own or the countless others, but it’s been some time since he’s felt another shinigami nearby, which is why it comes as a surprise when he senses the presence of one behind him.
He listens for a moment, a bubbling, sloshing sort of sound somewhere in the grass. When Ryuk turns he’s met with a familiar visage, slimy and pale green, almost camouflaged against the tranquil background of the park.
Ryuk grins. “Oshy! Been a while since I’ve seen you. How are things?”
Oshy makes a sound that’s not quite a sigh and not quite a gurgle, oozing his way over to the bench and splattering down into it. He’s not exactly a sight for sore eyes, but he’d been one of Ryuk’s favorite card companions back home - not because of any skill he’d possessed, but because his enormous, glassy eyes had revealed his every play, reflecting his cards with hysterical clarity.
“Bad,” Oshy bubbles. “But you knew that, Ryuk.”
Ryuk tips his head back and cackles. “Boy, did I.”
Oshy shivers, his limbs a damp clatter against themselves. “I’m not here to ask about your vacation. I’m here on business.”
Ryuk cocks his head. “Oh, fancy. What kind of business?”
“A message,” Oshy clarifies, shifting against the bench, unaware or perhaps uncaring of the sludge that spills over the edge and drips onto the pavement in his wake. “From some of us back home.”
Ryuk grinds his teeth behind his lips. A shinigami with a purpose is never good news, but he’s not about to show his hand early.
“What kind of message?” he asks. “I get into trouble with the big man again?”
The spiny ridge along Oshy’s back and along the base of his skull bristles as he shakes his head. “Simply put, we’re bored, Ryuk.”
Ryuk frowns. “Bored? ‘Course you are. It’s boring back there. What’s that got to do with me?”
“Not you. Your humans,” Oshy says, webbed fingers flickering in a dismissive gesture. “They’re so stagnant now. Nothing like they used to be, chasing each other like stray dogs.”
He grins, the razor thin line of his lips parting to reveal rows of needle-like teeth. “That was fun.”
“It’s still fun,” Ryuk argues, and he means it. “They have their petty squabbles. Kill a freak every now and then. I still get my apples. What’s there to want?”
Oshy scoffs, gills fluttering. “We’ve been betting on those two to bed each other for years now. We’re tired of waiting.”
Ryuk’s a difficult entity to catch off guard, but he has to give Oshy credit - he’s just done it. It’s rare that shinigami take an interest in any specific mortal death beyond the utility, much less their lives. Idly, Ryuk wonders just how dull home could have gotten in recent years, if it's driven his fellow shinigami to become so invested in the sexual escapades of humans.
He blankets the curiosity with another rough, callous laugh. “Must be really shit back home if you’ve started betting on junk like that.”
Oshy grunts indignantly. “It’s not junk. You know better than anyone what they’re like.”
Admittedly, Ryuk does. He’d been there for Light’s subconscious, pathetic pining before he’d lost his memories, the muttering into his pillow and staring in what he’d thought was rage at the detective across classrooms. Unbeknownst to Light, he’d witnessed whatever they’d had while chained together for months, living life in sync before joining themselves at the hip after their truce. He has no complaints - it’s been terribly fun watching them chase each other in circles without ever realizing it, but he supposes it must be less so all the way back in the afterlife.
“Sure I do,” Ryuk agrees slowly. “But you still haven’t told me what any of that’s got to do with me. I don’t pull Kira’s string any more than he pulls mine.”
The rubbery tubes of Oshy’s lips spread into a smirk. “Too bad. If they don’t plan to fuck anytime soon, we’re going to do something else to make things interesting. Writing Kira’s name, mostly.”
Ryuk blinks. “Kira? I doubt his other half would take that well.”
“Precisely,” Oshy replies proudly. “We thought we’d at least let you know, since he’s the one with your note and all. You’re welcome.”
The idea doesn’t sit well with Ryuk. He doesn’t need any humans to survive, certainly not Light or his strange detective. But the constant source of apples is terribly convenient, and there’s a part of him, the shriveled, sunken black husk in his chest that might once have been his heart, that would miss having them around. Mourning is a human experience, of course, but boredom is a fear even shinigami share.
“Come on, Oshy,” he crows. “At least let me make a counter-wager of my own.”
Oshy’s buggy eyes go even wider for a moment, mismatched eyelids blinking with a horrible, slick sound. “I’m listening.”
Ryuk weighs his options. “They’ll get together. Soon.”
“How soon?” Oshy asks.
“The end of the week,” Ryuk declares, before he thinks better of it. “If they don’t, I’ll write Kira’s name myself, right in my own book.”
Oshy doesn’t even pause to consider. A week is nothing, and they both know it. “Deal.”
Ryuk holds up a clawed hand, fishing in his memory for some of his old tricks. “There should be something in it for me, right?”
“You get to keep your pets,” Oshy says. “That should be more than enough.”
“Until you get bored again and try to kill them,” Ryuk hisses. “I want some insurance. If I win, only I get to write their names. Both of ‘em, whenever I want.”
Oshy tilts his head, the jagged edges of his ears twitching like they do when he’s thinking too hard.
“Fine,” he decides. His needle-mouthed grin reappears a moment later, and he adds, “Don’t tell me you’re turning out like Rem, Ryuk.”
“Hardly,” Ryuk assures him. Neither of them have seen much of Rem since the Kira Case ended and she’d resigned herself to the rest of Misa’s life as an invisible guard dog. It’d be over shortly in the grand scheme of her life, but Ryuk doesn’t envy her 107 remaining years at the girl’s side. He supposes it’s better than what it would have been, before Misa took the eye deal and halved the impossible lifespan Gelus gave her. “We can’t exactly keep pets in the Shinigami Realm. And even if we could, these two are more entertaining than a goldfish.”
Oshy narrows his eyes, almost managing to understand he’s been insulted but apparently missing it when he finally shrugs.
“Might wanna start looking into that goldfish, anyway,” he says. “A week’s not long, and neither of them’s looking to make a move.”
It’s a salient point, and Ryuk’s grateful Oshy doesn’t realize it.
“Lemme tell one of ‘em,” he says. “Light a fire under their asses, yeah?”
“Cheating already?” Oshy gurgles.
“Not cheating,” Ryuk says. “Don’t you wanna watch Kira squirm? You’ll get what you want, regardless.”
Oshy’s ears twitch again. “Alright. Tell Kira. But you’re not getting more.”
Ryuk holds up his hands, flexing his claws in a mockery of surrender. “Deal.”
The needle rows of Oshy’s teeth flash again. “Pleasure doing business.”
His feet start to bubble, dissolving into the pavement. The rest of his body follows suit, scales and slick webbings rippling away into nothing until there’s only an acrid puddle on the ground. It’s one of the stranger ways to return to their realm, but Ryuk doesn’t think much of it. Every shinigami has their own way to follow the instinctive, invisible tether that binds them to the ash and grey of the afterlife. He usually just flies until he finds it. It leaves less of a mess, at least.
Somewhere in the distance, a church chimes its clocktower, and Ryuk smiles. Light’s due to be home from classes, and his fun’s about to begin.
Ryuk spread his wings and clambers into the sky towards the apartment. There’s a sour edge to the excitement accompanying him, that same long-forgotten fear that Light might fail and leave Ryuk bored again.
Then again, Light’s not the type to fail.
Light turns the page in his textbook and presses his knuckles to his temple, frowning at the neatly printed rows of English. The subject’s hardly a challenge for him these days - three years rooming with a native speaker had sharpened his skills with the language to mastery - so his courses present little more than tedium.
When their arrangement had started, L had offered to have someone do the work for Light in its entirety, reasoning it to be a waste of time given Light’s intellect and dismissing a university degree as little more than a formality. Light had refused on principle, although the logic had rang true. A degree was worth little compared to his status as one half of the duo that solved the infamous Kira Case, but given the latter of those accolades had been won somewhat falsely, Light had resolved to gain the other the old-fashioned way.
Across the table, L clatters at his laptop keyboard with one hand, the other propped against his chin, thumb pressed to the side of his lip. The grey sweater around his shoulders and hanging loose at his wrists is new, one of the many additions to his wardrobe that Light had insisted on after they’d begun their partnership. He could abide being seen with someone as eccentric as L, but he’d been of the opinion a respectable genius should at least attempt to dress the part, and after a dozen fights about scratchy textures and stiff fabrics, L had agreed.
Light clears his throat. “Any news on that man?”
“The serial rapist?” L asks, not looking up from his screen. The pale blue light warps his sharp face as he speaks. “Yes, he died after being dismembered in a prison brawl. Just as you detailed it.”
Light folds his arms, smiling thinly. “How fitting.”
L hums, readjusting his knees beneath his chin. “It might have happened even without our influence. Statistically, rapists and child murderers are the most likely to be killed by their fellow inmates in prison. Even most criminals have moral standards beyond such acts.”
Light shrugs, setting his pencil aside and closing his textbook. He’s half ways through next week’s assignment, and terrifically bored of it. “Well, you did want it inconspicuous.”
“I did, and you wanted it painful,” L replies, bright gaze flicking up to meet Light’s as he smiles crookedly. “Isn’t it nice when we both get what we want?”
“Very,” Light says, and it’s as truthful as he’s ever been. There is, perhaps, a part of him that’s always going to miss his life as Kira, to long for the heady power rush of the world nestled in the palm of his hand, but as the years have gone on he’s come to see L point.
It was a begrudging acceptance at first, a defeat he refused to accept back when they’d been after the Yotsuba group and L had just managed to pry enough information from the world to piece Light’s guilt together, to ruin his grand plan of return. He’d anticipated the end, L’s success haunting him to his inevitable grave when his identity was revealed, only to find that L had no intention of giving him up. They’d been in agreement regarding Kira’s philosophy, L long since irritated watching his greatest victories walk free or serve little time thanks to their connections. More than that, he’d admitted he liked Light’s company, was willing to bury the truth of Kira as long as the killings stopped and Light agreed to work with him for the foreseeable future.
His confession had been flattering and surprising enough for Light to consider it amidst the onslaught of his returning memories, and ultimately survival had won out. Perhaps the offer of a life free of the boredom and surrounded by mundane people he’d always feared had helped. Perhaps the promise of L’s willing companionship would have been enough. Either way, Higuchi had hung for Kira’s crimes as well as his own, and Light and L had begun their new life as partners.
L’s phone buzzes on the table and he snatches it up, flicking it open and holding it delicately beside his ear. Light prefers his own smartphone, but there’s some things about L that might never change.
“I see. Thank you,” L says, and snaps the phone shut. “The delivery driver is here.”
Light shrugs. “It’s your turn to collect.”
L’s lower lip juts out into an expression that’s almost a pout. “Light’s going to insist I wear shoes.”
“I am,” Light agrees. “I hardly think you need your intellect to sign a receipt for a takeout.”
L shuffles out of his seat with a melancholy sigh. “I am always in need of my intellect. It’s rather lonely without it.”
Light huffs, and it’s fonder than he’s used to. It always is, where L’s concerned. “You’ll live.”
“Perhaps,” L replies, tugging on the rubber slides by the door. “But you’ve wounded me.”
There’s a familiar lilt to his words, a playful tease. They’re not at each other’s throats anymore, but their game’s continued in its own way. Their reputation as a duo precedes them, the way the world seems to view them in their own orbit, celestial bodies so far past the rest of humanity, and Light relishes it shamelessly. To the public there’s still only the singular entity L, of course, but amongst their inner circles he preens above the awed gaze of the peers they both exist beyond. Sharing the spotlight is new, and not always pleasant, but the advantages of being L’s protege while he finishes school outweighs the irritations, and Light’s always preferred games of numbers. Their apartment is spacious with a view of the park, and the entirety of the world’s criminal history is at L’s pale fingertips for their taking.
The latter they use to continue Kira’s legacy in secret, a mutual tool in the form of Light’s Note locked away in a hidden compartment beneath L’s desk to quietly end any remaining monsters who still linger in the wake of a thoughtless justice system. The former, Light knows, is at least in part a precaution of L’s, a way to keep a close eye on Kira even now.
Light doesn’t mind as much as he should. He likes L, likes working with him to solve the world’s most impossible equations, likes the thrill of their verbal spats and tennis matches alike. He likes the way L cleans up these days, too, the sharp line of his jaw and the high, sophisticated peak of his cheekbones serviced by the button ups and sweaters he’s been coaxed into.
“Don’t kill anyone while I’m gone,” L says, tugging open the front door. It’s only halfway to a tease, halfway to a challenge, and Light just grins. They’ll always be two ends of a scale, a push and pull of divine proportions, and he likes it that way.
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he promises.
L smirks. “Light would.”
The door closes on Light’s laughter as he drags his textbook back towards himself, resolving to trudge through one or two more paragraphs before L returns. He doesn’t get far before the back of his neck prickles and he stops, sensing the gaze on the back of his neck. Somewhere behind him, the curtains flutter, a familiar draft spilling into the room and hanging low like a fog.
Light sighs. “Hello, Ryuk.”
Ryuk huffs, shuffles his way up to the table and props his chin in his palms to stare at him across the wood. “How’d you know it was me?”
“I don’t have many friends who come in through my windows,” Light replies coolly, jotting down another phrase. “Much less my walls.”
“You don’t have any,” Ryuk reminds him. “I’m not your friend, and neither is Rem.”
“No,” Light agrees. He almost goes on to say he’s never considered Ryuk as anything more than an overlarge, picky housecat, but part of him thinks Ryuk would take it as a compliment, and it’s not quite true, anyway. “There’s apples in the kitchen. I’d take them now, before they rot.”
Ryuk shrugs, leaning forward to loom over the textbook. “I like ‘em rotting. You busy?”
Light turns a page pointedly. “Yes.”
“No, you’re not,” Ryuk says. “Not too busy for this, anyway.”
Light’s pencil pauses, and he looks up. Ryuk looks the same as he always has, yellowed grin and wild eyes staring back at him like a carnival mask. There’s something in his tone that doesn’t sit right, an eager edge that belies only danger as far as the shinigami is concerned.
“And what is “this”, Ryuk?” Light asks.
Ryuk’s grin twitches. “I’ve got a bet going with some other shinigami.”
Lights chair creaks as he sits back, mounting unease settling in the back of his throat like he’s eaten something bitter and lingering. “I hardly see how that’s my concern.”
“It’s about you,” Ryuk says. “Well, partially. Now that Kira’s been tamed, they’re all getting a little restless back home.”
Light’s mouth twists at the implication of Ryuk’s words, but he shoves it aside to focus on the problem at hand. “They want me to use the Note like I did before, is that it?“
“Nah,” Ryuk assures him. “Murder’s a dime a dozen for them. They’re more interested in your relationships with the living, these days.”
A cold needle of fear pierces through Light’s heart, spreading like ice across his chest. He has his suspicions, and he doesn’t know if it’s silence or speech that would damn him further. He chooses the former, presses his lips together and lets Ryuk dig further, the shape of his story quickly starting to resemble a grave.
“You and that detective, to be specific,” Ryuk continues. “Whatever it is you’ve got going on is as entertaining as it comes where humans are concerned. But you’ve stagnated, and that doesn’t sit well with them.”
Light nearly scoffs. Of course Kira and L had attracted the attention of the afterlife. A perfect chess match, a draw for the ages. Anyone with sense would have been enraptured, and it seems at least some shinigami possess the virtue. He wonders idly when he’ll meet one.
“I see. But you’ve said they’re not interested in our resuming our old partnership,” he says. “What is it they’re looking for, then?”
Ryuk’s grin gets impossibly wider, and Light knows he’s asked the final question.
“Is it not obvious for the great Kira? They want you to fuck, Light.”
The chair clatters across the kitchen floor as Light wrenches himself to his feet, slamming his fist on the table as the revelation he’d known shatters over his head like a pane of glass.
“You’re lying,” he says through his teeth.
Ryuk crumples backwards, collapsing on the floor into a cackling pile of feathers and fur. “I wish I was! That was priceless.”
Light drags his hand through his hair, weighing the merits of Ryuk’s possible deception. He wouldn’t gain much if he was - Light’s temporary shock and rage would be fleeting, and Ryuk’s always had a taste for grander, anyway. If he really was bored enough to insist on such childish tactics, he’d have voiced it by now. Since Light’s Kira days, the shinigami has never been shy about voicing his complaints. And it stands to reason there are other shinigami like Rem, ones who develop strange, sick fascinations with humans.
Light squares his shoulders. “Well, as much as I hate to disappoint your friends, I’m not a circus animal. I have no intention to perform…that, for their twisted amusement.”
Ryuk’s grin just widens, and Light’s heart stammers. He fumbles internally, grasping.
“Unless there’s something you’re not telling me,” he says slowly.
“Now you’re getting it,” Ryuk says. “Glad your domestication hasn’t made you dull. Yes, there’s more. They want you to fuck, and they’re tired of waiting.”
“Let me guess,” Light interrupts, his stomach sinking somewhere low in his torso, a fluttering dread he’s almost entirely unfamiliar with. “They’ve given you an ultimatum, is that right?”
The clatter of Ryuk’s overlarge clawed claps echoes through the apartment, so obnoxious Light swears he hears birds retreating from their balcony. “Bingo! If you couldn’t get that scruffy friend of yours in bed, one of my buddies was gonna jot your name in their Note to add a little…intrigue to the story.”
Light’s stomach drops firmly and he glares. “Why me?”
Ryuk just shrugs. “They know what you’re like when your tether on reality is shaky. Pretty sure they’re more interested in what L’s insanity looks like.”
It’s a fair point, Light realizes. He’s never seen L out of control, either, and he realizes very suddenly the idea intrigues him, somewhere behind the rising panic that’s pervading every cell in his body. “Fine. I suppose I have a deadline, too?”
The jagged edge of Ryuk’s feathers flutters like a proudly roosting bird, or perhaps one eager to pounce. “Sure do! And it’s later than it was supposed to be, thanks to me. You’re welcome, by the way.”
Light knows better than to thank Ryuk. “When is the deadline?”
“It was supposed to be now, actually,” Ryuk says, gesturing dismissively. “But I made a little gamble of my own, and now you’ve got until the end of the week.”
“Ryuk,” Light says, vaguely aware that he’s yelling but so removed from his body that he can’t really hear himself. “It is Wednesday night.”
“See? Plenty of time,” Ryuk says.
Outside, the apartment lock rattles, and Light’s never been more grateful that L had their apartment soundproofed. “Well, I’ll leave you to it! Have fun!”
The black tangle of him vanishes back through the wall as L reenters the apartment and Light swallows his rage like a bitter pill.
“Sorry to make you wait,” L says, apparently entirely unaware of the discussion he’s just missed. He sets the plastic bag of takeout at his feet and kicks his slides off rather vindictively. “There was some confusion with the order.”
Light barely hears and hardly cares. He’s staring a hole through the kitchen table, weighing his life against the potential embarrassment of what he’s about to do. He has no desire to die, not when he’s come so far, and he has even less desire to be on the losing end of some divine bet, irregardless of its absurdity. And, well, if he’s wanted an excuse to want L since their partnership in the Kira Case, neither Ryuk nor any of his friends need to know.
Besides, he reasons, how difficult can seducing someone like L be?
The bag of takeout crinkles as L starts to unload it, stacking greasy plastic containers on the counter, crumpled napkins and tiny sauce packets. “Is everything alright, Light? You’re distracted.”
There’s a razor’s edge to the soft concern in his words, silver and thin. It’s as much an inquiry on Light’s wellbeing as it is the start of interrogation, a game.
Good, Light decides, feigning surprise and blinking at L as though he’s just been roused from his thoughts. He can play games. Their game, especially.
“It’s nothing,” he says, smoothing his most charming smile across his features, the one he’d used on countless classmates back in high school to ply favors. “I was just thinking, that’s all.”
L hums, the corners of his lips twitching. “One of your more dangerous pastimes.”
Light laughs, drags one of the takeout containers close and flicks it open. “We kill criminals, L.”
“Like I said,” L replies, curling into a chair and retrieving his own container. “One of.”
Light just smiles wider.
They eat in comfortable silence, the clatter of chopsticks and the crunch of the containers. Light’s mind reels between bites as he eyes the invisible tightrope between them, stretched taut. If he leans too far to one side, makes himself too obvious, L will see right through him. They haven’t been a threat to each other in years, but it will always be in L’s nature to be paranoid. Light admires it as much as he finds himself irritated by it.
The other side of the rope is no less treacherous. Honesty would reveal something worse than an ulterior motive - if L realizes Light’s feelings, if he pieces together the true shape of Light’s heart and refuses it, Light will be something worse than dead. He’ll be humiliated.
“Light is very quiet,” L comments, scraping his fork along the base of his container.
Not so comfortable of a silence, after all.
Light clears his throat, glancing over the table. Their containers are empty and there’s only the last one, a plastic dome over a small roll cake, overstuffed with cream and fruits. It’s a favorite of L’s, somewhere between chocolate and the iced donuts from the American style bakery a few blocks down.
“It’s just been a long day, with school and all,” Light says slowly, reaching out to pry the lid from the cake. “Maybe I just need some sugar.”
L perks up, a familiar expression that’s as close as he gets to delight appearing on his face. “A reasonable conclusion.”
Light takes a slice from the roll, tests the sponge of the cake between his fingers before taking a careful bite. It’s not as sweet as some of L’s other indulgences, pale vanilla and the slightest tart edge of strawberries. He hums, a careful purr of a sound, and when he sets the cake down there’s a smudge on his lip, a smear of white cream lingering.
He rubs his thumb beside it, misses it intentionally. What he doesn’t miss is the way L’s watching him with sudden intensity, wide eyes burning, searching.
Light tilts his head, feigns innocence. “You’re staring.”
“Am I?” L asks, and he sounds halfway lost in thought.
“Yes,” Light confirms. “Is there something on my face?”
He leans closer, just close enough that L could reach out, wipe the cream from his mouth with a brush of those long fingers or a press of his lips. His heart flutters eagerly when L’s gaze drops for a moment, rests on his lip for a few seconds longer than might be strictly polite.
“Here?” Light asks, drags his tongue along the wrong spot. L follows the motion, and he almost grins. Perhaps this game is too easy, after all.
A moment later there’s a napkin between them, brown paper dangling from L’s pinched, white fingers.
“Here,” he says flatly. “You’re always the one lecturing me on proper dining etiquette, yes? You really ought to be leading by example if my practices are unsatisfying.”
Light snatches the napkin and drags it across his mouth as the moment bursts like a soap bubble, sweet vanilla and bitter disappointment, discarded amongst the trash strewn across the table.
“Thanks,” he mutters, and L just hums, reaching for his own portion of dessert.
The rest of dinner passes uneventfully, and Light glares out his window after he turns in for the night, half-hoping Ryuk’s grinning face will materialize through the wall and mock him again so he’ll have somewhere to vent his annoyance.
The shinigami makes no such appearance, and Light sleeps anxious and irritated.
Light’s classes on Thursday don’t start in the mid-morning, but he’s up well before his alarm.
He lies in bed for longer than usual, staring up at the ceiling and thinking. L’s almost certainly already awake - months of being chained to the man had given him more insight into his personal habits than he’d ever cared to know, including that he only seems to sleep a few hours every night and replace the remaining time with coffee and the occasional saccharine energy drink. He’ll be home all day while Light’s at class, holed up in his room and staring down his computer monitors until Light returns in the evening and drags him out for something that isn’t packaged cookies.
It’s hardly an ideal situation to lose so much time given his deadline, and Light decides his morning class is worth a tardy mark if it means he’ll actually be alive to attend it on time the following week and make up the work.
He tugs on some clothes and folds down his sheets, shoulders his satchel and locks his bedroom door behind him. L’s never snooped, not to his knowledge, but it’s an old habit and he’s come to accept there’s things neither of them are going to outgrow - sweets, paranoia, each other.
L’s door hangs slightly ajar, the hum of his computers and the clacking of his keyboard echoing out into the hallway. Light knocks briskly with two knuckles.
“Come in,” L says, between the keyboard.
Light does, wincing at the heat. There’s a plastic box fan whirring nearby, but it does little to combat the glowing plane of screens and the row of PCs rigged up along the windowed wall. L’s a dark shape in front of them, crouched in his chair with his chin tucked between his knees.
His bed’s unmade in the corner, and Light swallows.
“I’m going to the train station shortly,” he says. “Did you eat?”
L pauses his typing, cocks his head. “No.”
“You should,” Light says, and even all these years later he sometimes can’t believe how sincere L’s made him. “You’re getting groceries on Saturday, remember. I don’t want to be throwing out rotten food.”
The wheels on L’s chair squeak as he turns it, unfolding his legs and pushing himself to his feet. He’s wearing one of his button-downs, a rarity, and the collar is crumpled from being tucked against his torso for what Light can only assume is hours.
Perfect, Light decides.
“That’s one of the many advantages of snacks, you know,” L says casually. “They don’t tend to rot quickly. Unlike vegetables.”
“We’ll both rot without vegetables,” Light replies, starting across the room, still glancing down at that mangled collar. “That’s why we get them.”
As he’s learned, the detective is actually perfectly capable of buying, making, and eating a balanced diet - he simply chooses otherwise more often than not, and grumbles when he’s made to.
L pouts. “Light is still trying to kill me, I see.”
“I never said I stopped,” Light lies. He reaches for L, catches his collar and fingers the cotton carefully. “Now stand still.”
He doesn’t watch L’s face, but he hears the way his breath stammer ever so slightly, catches the bob of his pale throat as he just barely brushes at it. The collar smoothes beneath his touch as he restores the fold of it, runs his hands down to L’s collarbone to press away the wrinkles and leaves them. The detective’s heart flutters beneath his palm, and Light runs his tongue over his teeth.
“There,” he says, and looks up, lets his lashes hang low, his lips parted ever so slightly. It would be nothing to close their distance - the slightest bow of L’s head, the tiniest shift of Light’s footing.
L just stares, his eyes impossibly dark, abyssal. It’s not the first time Light’s stared down hell in anticipation instead of fear, and he hopes it won’t be the last. He likes this part of the game, likes it as much as he always has, no matter how deadly its edge.
The chair spins again as L retreats and crumples back into it, immediately undoing Light’s work.
“Thank you,” he says blankly, enveloped by the screens’ glow once more. “Light should leave soon, if he plans to catch his usual train.”
Light stands in the heat and listens to the whirring of the fan for a long moment, counting to ten over and over in his head.
“Right,” he says, and if the syllable is clipped to the point of fury he doubts L notices. “I’ll see you later, then.”
“I should hope so,” L says, and it takes everything in Light not to slam the door behind him.
Playing is fun. Losing is not.
Light’s alarm rings Friday morning and he wonders if his error lies in taking initiative himself.
L’s never exactly been a passive sort of person. He takes action when he wants something - impulsive, absurd action, more often than not - so it seems reasonable to conclude if he wants Light - if everything Light’s been noticing isn’t just his desperate delusions, or L’s own strange quirks - he’ll take him if Light simply presents him with the opportunity.
He sits up in bed and pushes his hair back from his face, weighing his options, fishing in his mind for something that compels touch, something that’s neither too subtle nor too obvious.
Halfway through getting dressed he remembers the vest.
He rifles through his closet for a few minutes to find it, tucked away between one of his suit jackets and a sweater his father had lent him two holidays before and he’d forgotten to return. The tag is still attached, thick cardboard dangling from the collar and stamped in gold with some designer label.
The vest had been a gift from Misa on his last birthday. They’re not dating anymore, a fact she seems to forget rather often as evidenced by the garment’s price tag. It’s all thick, layered silk and satin in shades of red, shot through with steel boning and embroidered with gold apple blossoms to structure it. It’s not exactly gaudy - Light probably could have found the occasion for it, if it weren’t for the lacing in the back, a complex corsetry of ribbon that requires a helping hand, and thus relegated the thing to the corner of his closet indefinitely.
Light presses his lips together and runs a finger over the embroidery, feeling it catch on his skin. Yesterday he’d been willing to risk a late markdown, but the lecture this morning is all but superfluous. He doubts his professor would even care if he missed it.
Light’s never called out sick of a lecture. Then again, he’s hardly a stranger to desperate times, or the desperate measures they call for.
“L!” he calls, cursing under his breath as the single syllable cracks in his throat. “L, come here for a second.”
He wonders briefly if the detective won’t answer, if he’s lost in thought and unable to be disturbed. The fear is assuaged moments later when L appears, frowning in the frame of Light’s bedroom door.
“Did you need something?” he asks. His eyes flicker briefly down to where Light’s boxers hang beneath the hem of his shirt, the stocking garters around his calves. “Trying a new trend, are we?”
“Something like that,” Light replies, schooling his face into something that’s equal parts pleading and confident as he plucks the vest from the bed. “I found this in the back of my closet. I think it’s from Misa. It seems a shame to just let it gather lint.”
L hums in passive agreement. “Customized to your measurements. I surmise Miss Amane found those out at some point in your relationship.”
There’s an edge of bitterness to his words that Light hopes he’s not imagining. He just shrugs, slipping the garment over his shoulders and fastening up the front. “She must have guessed from my other clothes. I don’t recall her ever asking.”
“No, I don’t suppose you would,” L muses. “You had many other things on your mind during that time.”
Instead of a response, Light turns, offers the laced back of the garment to L. He peers over his shoulder to meet the detective’s gaze, shadows his eyes with his lashes just so. “Lace me?”
The corner of L’s mouth twitches. “With pleasure. It’s not often I get to see Light ask for help.”
Light laughs. “You try putting one of these on by yourself.”
“I’d rather not,” L says quickly. “In fact, you would not catch me dead in one of these.”
He steps up behind Light and he turns his head, fixing his gaze on a spot on his wall. “Well, I’ll make sure Misa doesn’t gift you one. I’d prefer to catch you alive.”
L hums, a distant sound, the same he tends to let out when he’s working out a tricky case. His fingers trace along the ribbon, giving it an experimental tug at the top of the corset.
Light lets out a breath, a tiny, practiced sound.
“Is Light alright?” L asks.
Light hums. “Just fine.”
He says nothing else, just waits for L’s next move, a thrilling, familiar sensation. He makes it in the form of another pull, and the pressure around Light’s ribs increases, a subtle echo of pain. He lets his breath catch in his lungs, another shred of noise that makes L pause.
He doesn’t ask after it this time. The next tug comes from the center of the lacing, where the garment draws to its narrowest point. It’s a hard tug, confident, and the pretty little whimper that Light lets slip from his mouth isn’t entirely a farce.
L stops again, and it’s all Light can do to stop the shiver that attempts to dart down his spine. He feels L’s eyes on the back of his neck, dark and smoldering like coals.
“Light,” L says, and Light’s stomach twists, eager.
“Yes?”
L sighs, and finishes tightening the vest. “It’s done.”
He steps back and the tension dissipates like ice in the sun, wisps of steam leaving Light half-dizzy and frustrated. He glances towards the mirror on the wall and takes in the garment.
He’ll have to thank Misa, after all. It’s terrifically flattering.
“It’s tighter than I’d expected,” he admits.
“I believe that’s intentional,” L replies, and there’s a rough edge to his voice. He’s looking somewhere between Light’s jaw and shoulder, pointedly avoiding the place where his waist tapers, the way the vest sculpts his body into something out of a fashion magazine.
Light can’t tell if it’s because looking would entice or repulse him. “What do you think?”
“I think the vest is, as I said, perfectly tailored to Light’s measurements. Therefore it suits him well,” L replies.
He turns on his heel to leave. “I also think Light should be leaving soon, if he plans to make it to his lecture on time.”
He vanishes down the hall, the door to his office closing with a click.
Never in Light’s life has he been so irritated to make it to class on time, nor to be so well dressed. He taps his eraser against his notebook irritably throughout the lecture, ignores the admiring, giggly stares from some of the freshman girls in the front row. He half expects one of them to be waiting outside the lecture hall afterwards, heart in hand for him to carelessly brush aside.
It would have been preferred to the person actually waiting for him.
“Light! How goes it?” Ryuk crows. He looks laughably out of place in the beige halls of the institute, students phasing between his jagged black form.
Light fishes his phone from his pocket and holds it to his ear, feigning a call. “I’m sure you’d like to know.”
“Course I do,” Ryuk says cheerfully. “That’s why I asked.”
“My sex life is none of your business,” Light hisses, shouldering his bag and making for the courtyard where he won’t be overheard so easily.
Ryuk trails behind him, wings lazily beating the air, the sulfur scent that always seems to cling to him searing at Light’s nose. “No, but your life is. And right now, those things are linked.”
“Thanks to you,” Light mutters.
“Thanks to me!” Ryuk agrees. “You really should be thanking me. Pretty sure you both need this.”
“Apparently not,” Light says, before he thinks better of it.
Ryuk lets out a displeased cackle, writhing in the air, dark and foul like exhaust from a car’s tailpipe. “You’re striking out? All that charisma and you can’t get his hands on you?”
“If it matters so much to you, why don’t you tell him about your bet?” Light snaps, ignoring the way Ryuk’s words settle beneath his collarbone like a bruise, a painful reminder of the reality he’s doing his best to ignore. “I’m sure he’d prefer not to die for your stupid hobbies.”
Ryuk wheezes out a scoff. “You think they’d be happy with that? A pity fuck out of self preservation?”
“I wasn’t aware there were stipulations!” Light snaps, loud enough that the professor he’s passing flinches and drops his laptop bag with a clatter. Light ducks outside before he can be recognized, cursing as Ryuk glides after him.
“Well, I wouldn’t say that exactly. They’re not just in for the sex, Light,” Ryuk clarifies, making a vaguely lewd gesture with his claws. “They’ve been watching you two since your Kira days. They want a show.”
“I hate you,” Light declares, and means it. “You and all the rest of them.”
Ryuk grins, shoulders bristling. “Alright, new bet. You’ll be changing your mind when that guy’s tongue is - “
“Goodbye!” Light yells, yanking the phone from his ear and shoving it into his pocket. It doesn’t make Ryuk go away, or silence the cacophony that is his laughter, but it seems to end his onslaught effectively enough.
Not for the first time, Light envies Misa. In the moment, Rem seems a far preferable companion.
Apparently, Light decides, L is just oblivious. A genius in all things related to their field, yes, but entirely and utterly senseless when it comes to matters of the heart that don’t involve stopping it.
Light’s grown used to meeting L in the middle, but for once he finds himself willing to go further. If the detective’s going to remain unconscious of any reasonable hints, Light can give him obvious, obnoxious seduction.
He steps carefully into the shower, sighing as the hot water pours across his skin, seeps into his muscles. In his head, he starts to count, perfectly in sync with the ticking of the hallway clock as it bleeds through the crack in the door
It’s earlier than he’d like to shower - he prefers evenings, hates the feeling of wet hair on the way to campus - but his classes are over for the week and starting in the mid afternoon gives him time to prepare, to go slowly and use the upscale salts and perfumes that Sayu sends him every birthday and Christmas in hopes he’ll finally get a girlfriend again. When he turns off the shower and steps out into the steam he’s all rose oil and bergamot, a honey trap dripping onto the bathmat.
There’s exactly six minutes until L gets home when Light pads out into the living room, turns on the television to some variety show, and drapes himself over their sofa.
L goes to the old headquarters every Saturday at the same time to meet with Whammy and discuss ongoing leads. There’s an open invitation for Light, but these days he’s content to let L handle the cases they take. He’d never admit it, but the detective has a better knack for the task, a sixth sense about exactly the challenges that suit them both, the criminals they’d both prefer dead in the ground.
In the hall, the clock ticks, and Light continues to count down to the last second.
Right on time, the lock to the apartment rattles hollowly behind the door, the distant jangling of keys echoing. Light shifts on the sofa, props his arm up across the satin pillows just so. The hem of the towel curls above his knee as he arranges his legs, reveals just a sliver of his thigh, scrubbed smooth. He shakes his hair back, feels a drop of water roll down his cheek and linger at his jaw.
He looks good. Good enough to eat, he hopes.
The door swings open and Light keeps his gaze on the television as he counts to five in his mind, just long enough for L to step inside and see his prize.
Light turns quickly, jaw slackening in feigned surprise. “You’re home early.”
L doesn’t look any different from his usual self, but the expression on his face is a sight all on its own. His eyebrows flicker and vanish beneath the dark jag of his hair, lips parting in a silent exclamation as he takes in the sight Light’s carefully prepared for him.
Light tries not to preen, or shiver as something static flickers up through the room, dances along the threads that pull tense between the two of them, a livewire.
“Light is mistaken,” L says. He sets his bag on the rack by the door, the contents clattering. His eyes don’t leave Light. “I’m home exactly when I always am.”
He steps closer, and Light can’t quite tell if it’s intentional. He bites back another grin.
“Oh?” Light hums, glancing at the clock, the numbers a perfect match to the time he’s been keeping in his mind. “I guess it is. I must’ve lost track of time.”
The next step is certainly intended. L leans forward as he moves, shoulders swaying hunched like a prowling beast, hunting the prey that Light’s made himself into. The desire that strikes through Light at the thought startles him and he manages a pleasant smile to mask both. It’s innocent - too innocent, and they both know it.
“Light never loses track of time,” L muses. He presses his thumb to his lip, the pressure molding the plush pink of his skin, revealing the barest edge of his teeth. “As I recall, keeping time was once rather instrumental to him.”
“I’m only human, L,” Light laughs, trying to banish the thought of L’s teeth sinking into his neck, bruising into his thigh. “Is it so difficult to believe I made a mistake?”
“Yes,” L replies immediately. He’s lingering at the edge of the couch now, shoulders still bowed, his form arching ever so slightly over Light’s. “Rather impossible, I would say.”
Light wets his lips, surveys the board. L’s pieces lay scattered before him, glittering and black like his eyes, and he decides to make his move in turn.
He untucks his ankles slowly, drags his calf across the velvety cushion of the couch to spread his legs. The towel slips lower on his waist, the damp arcs of his hip bones cooling in the air of the living room. L’s eyes follow every motion with the attentiveness of a surgeon, ready for the cut.
“What do you believe, then?” Light asks. He cocks his head to the side, lets the line of his throat catch the light for that blade in L’s gaze.
L’s hand lands on the back of the couch, propping him up so he can lean closer. His other hand twitches towards Light’s face, fingertips ghosting at his jaw for just a moment. His presence is vaguely sweet, the edges of him softened with lingering sugar.
“Light is lying to me,” L breathes.
“Am I?” Light asks.
“Yes.”
Light closes his eyes, and L pulls away.
“You should find some clothes before you catch cold,” L says, retreating towards the kitchen. He yanks open the freezer and retrieves a carton of ice cream, eyeing the label disinterestedly. He’s the very picture of nonchalance now, hardly sparing Light a glance as he stands, hastily gathering his towel before it drops to the floor.
“How kind of you to take such an interest in my health,” he manages to mutter.
L sets the carton on the table. “Much of Light is of interest to me.”
Much. Not all.
The words crash over Light like a cold bucket of water, a sharp, painful contrast to the way his cheeks burn. He storms from the living room, uncaring of how childish he must look, how utterly, foolishly vulnerable he’s become. If L’s a predator, Light’s just shown him his stomach, and watched him walk away without a care, his flesh unmarred and ignored.
In bed he screams into his pillow until he’s hoarse. He leaves his door unlocked, but L never comes to see him.
It’s Sunday, and Light’s never felt farther from salvation in his life. He suspects he never will, given his looming deadline only a few hours away.
L’s not stupid, as often as Light’s flung the insult his way, particularly in the early days of their arrangement, when their jagged edges hadn’t quite settled into each other. Between all his tricks he’s certain the detective must have figured something out, come to the conclusion Light’s been asking him to bed with lidded eyes and careful touches and bare, sweet skin. Worse, he must be giving Light his answer in his lack of response - a resounding, damming rejection.
It’s rather uncharacteristic of L, to attempt to spare anyone’s feelings with such a gentle approach, but Light can’t bring himself to be moved by the gesture, not when it’s so close and yet so far from what he needs.
It hurts to lose the game, almost as much as it hurts to realize L doesn’t want him. He never thought he’d be the type to just lay down and die, to take a loss in pathetic silence, but he’s not about to beg Ryuk for help, and all other doors seem as firmly shut as L’s, where his executioner sits at his computers while Light mindlessly scribbles down equations. He’s past the necessary ones, reduced to only the tedious bonus problems to give his mind something to do that isn’t wallow.
He flicks the page over when he hears a click and a creak from the hallway, the telltale almost-silence of L’s feet on the hardwood floor.
He scribbles down another equation, the numbers distant in the back of his mind as he listens to the detective’s footsteps. They pause a few paces from the mouth of the hallway and he can feel L’s eyes on him, trailing up the back seam of his shirt like he’s making an incision.
His heart stirs at the attention, a traitorous, eager thing.
“I’m surprised,” L says. He doesn’t quite sound it, but Light’s learned by now that L’s internal world rarely reflects on his external visage. “Light hasn’t come to see me all day.”
“Is that surprising?” Light mutters. “Did you need something?”
L steps closer, pausing behind where Light's sitting. His presence looms over his shoulders like an encroaching sunrise, seeping into the crevices of Light’s secrets.
“I’ve been under the impression you needed something from me,” he says. “But you’ve been avoiding me for hours.”
Light gestures to the notebook and open textbook in front of him. “I’ve got homework, L.”
L’s voice is wry. “Light’s scores indicate little to no need for additional practice work, even in maths.”
With a sigh, Light closes the textbook and pushes it across the table, pushing out of his chair to turn and face L fully. The detective watches, eyes running down the length of him curiously. There’s no bait to take in this time - no cream on his lip, no vest around his torso, no towel knotted loosely around his waist. He’s just Light, slacks and socks and one of his university pullovers, and he gets the distinct feeling L’s still found his answers anyway.
“If this is about something that’s happened recently,” Light starts, picking his words carefully, “You can forget it. I’m not…it’s not happening again.”
He means it as a promise and a threat, and L seems to take it as both, tilting his head, staring.
“It seems I haven’t made myself clear,” he murmurs to himself, and suddenly he’s crowding into Light’s space, hands braced against the table, fingers splayed over the granite, effectively caging him in. The edge digs into the small of Light’s back, a sliver of pulsing pain.
“I’ve found your advances rather charming,” L says. He leans closer, breath ghosting over Light’s skin, rich with coffee and too much sugar.
“Charming?” Light asks. He knows he hadn’t misheard, even as he tries to quell the butterflies flickering up his inside.
L hums. “The sort of thing I’d been dreaming about for years, yes. Unexpected, impulsive.”
Light grips a chair with one hand and reaches up with the other, letting his fingertips trail up the soft cotton of L’s shirt before settling at the collar, curling halfway between a brace and a beckon. He meets L’s gaze, fixes his own into long-lashed pleading. L’s breath hitches.
I’ve done it, Light thinks, just moments before L kisses him and the world collapses into the searing mesh of their mouths.
Light moans, the sound raw and only halfway theatrical. He winds his arms around L’s neck, parting his lips as the detective licks into his mouth, running his tongue across his teeth and tangling it around his own. Victory is bittersweet, coffee and sugar, and Light drags his salvation closer.
L’s mouth parts cruelly from his, the slick tear of their lips separating grating at Light’s ears. He gives chase for only a moment and stops himself, panting against L’s lips as they form his next words.
“But you don’t do impulse, Light Yagami,” L declares. “So let’s hear it. What’s really happening here?”
Light’s heart stammers and he scrambles for his composure. It comes out sideways, thin and wavering. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
The smile that crawls up L’s face is already victorious, and Light gets the distinct suspicion he’s been walking into this trap all week.
“I think you do,” L says. “No, I know you do.”
“Do I?” Light asks, an invitation to the challenge he’s already lost. L’s still so close, the warmth of his body ghosting along Light’s skin, the scent of him curling through his senses.
“To begin with,” L starts, fingers idly flicking the point of Light’s collar. “Your desperation is palpable. Few things make Light desperate that don’t involve his life. So, I can only assume your life is, in fact, on the line.”
Light scoffs, the back of his neck prickling. “In what world would my life depend on - “
“You’ve also been performing more than usual,” L continues. He pulls his finger away from Light’s collar and presses it to his lip, still slick from their kiss, from Light’s mouth. “Perhaps that’s a generous term. Lying. And you lie most when you want something. You must want this very terribly, then.”
“If my life was on the line,” Light manages. “It would be reasonable for me to want to save it.”
“It would,” L agrees. “But that’s not the full story, is it? You’re an exceptional liar, Light. But not to me.”
He spares Light the indignity of a response and continues, wide eyes searching eagerly. “You got bolder as the week wore on. Getting my hands on you. Sprawling naked on our couch. You have a deadline. It might even be today.
And, of course, there’s the pervasive absence of our ever-present shinigami companion. I even ordered apple danishes the other day and not a single one has gone missing. I’ve no doubt he’s involved in all this, too.”
There’s something thrilling about being unraveled by L. There always has been, really. Light curses himself, curses the chill that twists eagerly up his spine and beats, yearning, alongside his heart. His collar sits twisted and hot on his neck, his pants tight, and still he’s more naked than he was last night.
He closes his eyes, awaits L’s verdict. If he’s going to die, he can do it with dignity.
“But I don’t particularly care,” L says at last, catching Light’s chin and pulling their faces close together. “The game was fun, but let’s skip it next time, hm?”
Light speaks around the thumb tracing his lower lip, breathless, caught in the same place he always ends up. “Skip it?”
“If Light wanted me to fuck him,” L says, “he could simply have asked.”
They crash together, tongues and teeth and raw, rough-edged sound. The kiss dissolves into sloppy smears of mouths, wandering hands and rolling bodies. L presses close, makes a motion with his hand, and before Light can bring himself to separate them and ask what it was, he gets his answer in the sound of textbooks and pencils clattering to the floor.
“Watch it,” he manages, the syllables worn thin and soft. “My textbooks aren’t cheap.”
L huffs, bites his tongue. “I’m aware. I bought them.”
He hooks his hands under Light's knees before he can protest, shoves him up onto the table. Light winces at the sudden motion, but the remainder of the sound is quickly swallowed a L surges back into him, sucking his lower lip as Light winds his arms around his neck and threads his fingers through his hair. L’s hands claw beneath the hem of Light’s pullover in response, cold fingers catching on his ribs as they wander up his chest. The pads of his thumbs find his nipples, rubbing across them to pry more delicate sounds from Light’s throat.
Light gasps for air, tries to pull himself above the haze. “As fun - hm! - as this is, I think we’d both prefer a bed?”
L hums thoughtfully. “An excellent suggestion.”
He yanks away and Light follows like a magnet, like the chain they shared all those years ago still remains, tethering their souls instead of their bodies. Their clothes hit the floor along the way, and by the time they’re stumbling into L’s room, L groaning as Light slams him against his door to kiss him, they’re naked, garments trailing behind them like breadcrumbs.
“Your room, then?” Light rasps, seizing L by his bony shoulders and shoving him towards the unmade bed. L goes willingly, collapses as Light pounces and pins him to the sheets by his wrists. “The great detective, letting me fuck him in his own room?”
L peers up at him from the fringe of his hair, eyes bright beneath the sharp, dark shape of it. The corners of his lips curl.
“Oh, Light’s going to fuck me?” he asks, as though he’s coaxing a child.
Light huffs, skin blazing, flames licking up the base of his neck and spiraling along his jaw. He grips L’s wrists tighter, knuckles going white at the sheets. L’s fingers twitch.
“Yes,” he says, and the confidence is melting ice, already cracking beneath the firm weight of L’s stare, words dissolving into melting shards on his tongue. “You think I can’t?”
“Can’t?” L muses. “Not exactly.”
Before Light can demand he explain himself - a fruitless task more often than not, anyway - L’s ankle catches at the small of his back, hooks their bodies together with a flex of his thigh so he can yank them off balance, rolling them to the side in a tumult of bedsheets and a chorus of squeaking springs and Light’s cry of protest.
His head hits the pillow and the world refocuses around L’s face once more, hovering over him, smirking infuriatingly with those long fingers splayed across the mattress on either side of Light’s head.
“I think you won’t,” L says. “You won’t, because you crave your own submission.”
Light pushes himself onto his elbows to sneer, to scoff at the assertion, but L’s fingers wind through his hair and yank again, pain prickling across his scalp like rainwater and dripping down between his shoulder blades, another moan pouring from his lips.
“I thought we’d moved past baseless accusations,” he breathes, and it’s ragged, a threadbare sound that’s all bark and no bite.
L makes up for his lack of the latter by sinking his teeth into his throat, lapping along the mark in his skin, lingering in each bruised hollow.
“Baseless?” L croons into the crook of his neck. “You’ve spent the better part of a week preening and presenting yourself to me. Flaunting yourself like a paid whore for my attention. Those aren’t the actions of a man who wants to be in control, Light.”
He reaches across both of them to grasp at the cluttered bedside table, clattering through the mess to retrieve a half-filled bottle. Light’s heart pounds as he eyes it, too dizzy with anticipation to offer a comment on its existence among L’s belongings.
L tosses the bottle somewhere in the sheets and resumes his endeavors, the lines of his body fitting into Light as he starts to lap at his collarbone. Light just gasps, every point where L’s pressed into him, where he kisses the flat of his sternum, the pattern of his ribs, and the soft round of his stomach, sparking like a cinder.
Distantly, he remembers they were arguing, or something like it, and struggles for the words to fight back.
“I was,” he starts, breath catching in time with L’s teeth catching at his stomach. “I was trying to get your attention. You’re painfully oblivious.”
“I’m not,” L says firmly. “I simply had no interest in your shameless playacting.”
He presses his lips to the peak of Light’s hipbone, mouth lingering. “Besides, there were more assertive ways to get my attention. Countless ones, really. But they didn’t occur to you, did they?”
They hadn’t, but Light’s not about to admit it, not when it’s taking everything in him not to whimper at the sensation of L’s tongue on the fold of his skin where his thigh meets his pelvis. He searches his mind for a chance at victory, a final trump card to play in their game and comes up empty, groaning.
L’s still watching him, kissing tenderly along his inner thighs. The dark shape of his hair is framed between pale limbs, and he’d look small if it weren’t for the intensity in his eyes, the unmistakable knowledge that it’s Light caught in his will, and not the other way around.
“You look pretty submissive right now,” Light lies, the words thin as paper, dog-eared and crinkled.
L’s lips brand a smirk into his skin. “Don’t mistake service for subservience, Light.”
He lunges suddenly, wraps his lips around Light’s cock and swallows him down, and any remaining thoughts still lingering in Light’s mind are washed away by the hot wet of it all. His head cracks back against the pillow, a broken sob wrenching its way free of his throat. L’s tongue works along the length of him, tracing the veins along his cock and lingering in the slit. Distantly, he feels fingers press between his legs, cool and slick with lube as he’s worked open with a precision that’s as gentle as it is vicious.
L drags him to the edge with his tongue and wrenches him away from the precipice, pulling off with a satisfied smirk that drags a helpless whine from Light’s lips. The cool air sears his skin, the loss of sensation gnawing as the tremble in his legs oozes out of him like a bloody wound.
L just scoffs fondly, crooking his fingers to press into Light’s prostate. “Brat.”
His voice is ragged from Light's cock and Light stifles another humiliating sound. “Shut up.”
L doesn’t reply this time. He’s watching him closely as his fingers move, fascination written across his features at every twitch of Light’s limbs and shift in his face. He coaxes at him, lets the pleasure simmer low and distant until Light’s steeped in it. The bedsheets and the room and the hum of L’s computer monitors slip away, and it’s just them, push and pull.
“How does it feel?” L asks, and he’s almost breathless. “Finally having me like this?”
Light’s eyes flutter closed, his head falling back against the pillows that drip with L’s coffee and vanilla scent.
“Good,” he says. “So good. Fuck.”
L’s fingers slip free and settle at his hips, pulling him close. Light spreads his legs obediently, waiting.
“I find myself wondering,” L muses, the rough syllables lilting curiously. He runs his hands up Light’s ribs and back again, palms pressing with just enough force to strain. “What would you have done if I’d rejected you?”
Light drags his head up from the pillow, his thoughts leaden and coated in molasses. “What?”
L’s watching him still, hunger written into every hollow of his face, burning in his silvery gaze. “You heard.”
“You didn’t reject me,” Light says.
“No,” L agrees, thumbs settling across his nipples, retracing the shape of them with a curious reverence. “But humor me.”
“What a pointless - “
“Would Light have begged?” L asks, and his voice scrapes so low in Light’s mind that it settles in his stomach, sets his limbs trembling, and he realizes he’d have done just that at exactly the same moment he realizes L wouldn’t have asked the question if he hadn’t already known the answer.
“Will Light beg?” L asks again.
Light shudders.
“Yes.”
L’s lips brush his ear, the head of his cock teasing as his entrance. “Then beg.”
Light swallows his pride, nearly chokes on it. “Please.”
“Please what?” L asks, and there’s the slightest pressure, a whispered promise of the cure to the ache that’s staining every millimeter of Light’s skin, throbbing beneath it.
Light closes his eyes. “Fuck me, L, please.”
L sheathes himself with one single thrust, the motion smooth, capped blunt by the smack of his hips at Light’s ass, and Light screams.
Somewhere between the sound of their skin, the way the drag of L’s cock is rendering Light’s thoughts worthless and static, Light hears the detective speak.
“That’s it,” L says. “Take it. Take it, good boy.”
Electricity snarls up Light’s spine with every press of L’s cock at his prostate, a steady beat that coils tighter and tighter in his stomach. His limbs tremble and his mind bleeds from his ears, helpless, and he wonders briefly if his victims felt anything like this, if the rumor that death and orgasms are the same is really true, after all.
Perhaps he’d been a merciful god than he’d given himself credit for. Or maybe it’s L that’s the god now. The line blurs with each passing second, the one between god and man, between victory and loss, between L Lawliet and Light Yagami.
“L,” Light says, cries. “L, I’m - hah!”
L rocks his hips, teeth pressed to Light’s throat as he grinds into him. He trails his tongue over his Adam’s apple, drinking in the whimper that ripples beneath his skin.
“Is Light going to come?” he asks, words lilting with affectionate mockery, the way they always do when he’s not expecting an answer.
He almost gets one, a strangled, broken moan that pours from Light’s mouth like spilled red wine. His nails dig into the pale flat of L’s shoulder blades, bloody crescents forming beneath his touch. He’s wracked with pleasure, choking on the rich, helpless feeling as it coils in his stomach, seeps across his chest and thighs.
It feels like nothing ever has.
“Please,” he says, the word a worn groove in his mouth. “Please, please, fuck - !”
“Go on,” L coaxes, sucks along his jaw like it’s something sweet to be savored. “Come on my cock, Kira.”
The coil snaps and Light obeys, writhing, sobbing, pretending it hadn’t been the moniker, honey and gravel between L’s lips, that pushed him over that razor’s edge into blissful oblivion.
“Good,” L praises, voice slipping low beneath the fog of the afterglow, slurred like smeared paint, like dried blood. The sharp peaks of his hips roll against the plush of Light’s thighs with each lazy grind, not so much chasing his orgasm as sauntering towards it, content to savor Light’s trembling body as he does all delectable things.
“Good boy,” he gasps, and his body stammers, his groan snared between his teeth as warmth floods Light’s abdomen. “Good Kira.”
Light shivers, overstimulation pulsing through his being, a thick, syrupy pleasure crystallized at the edge with pain. He feels L in his stomach, his chest, his throat, and something like a delirious little laugh escapes him when he realizes the truth of it all. L’s bested him again, won him over so thoroughly he’ll never be the same.
Then again, as L extracts himself gingerly, deposits himself beside Light on pale, shaking limbs that he quickly wraps around him, kisses the shell of his ear with more wisped words of praise, Light can’t help but preen at the thought that L won’t be the same after this, either.
As always, they’re changed together.
L licks his earlobe, a playful flicker of a gesture. “Does Light have nothing to say?”
Light shifts, curses as he feels cum drip between his legs. It’s not so much unpleasant as strange, a sensation wavering somewhere between disgusting and satisfying. “Light’s going to be sore tomorrow.”
L laughs, a rare, precious sound. His fingers play up the pattern of Light’s ribs where his arm lies draped across his midsection. “That was my intention. I find myself sincerely doubting you mind in the slightest.”
“Minding and anticipating are two different things,” Light admits. “And I suspect your anticipation of it differs from mine rather severely.”
L clicks his tongue approvingly. “Always so clever, my Kira.”
The curve of his mouth splits into a grin where it’s pressed to Light’s throat as Light shivers at the name, and he elects not to give L the satisfaction of a rebuttal.
Instead, he hears himself ask, “Is that still all I am to you?”
L’s thoughtful hum resonates up his jaw like a bass. “Is that no longer enough? Have you already outgrown your role as my greatest equal?”
“No,” Light says, a little too quickly. He can still feel L’s smirk against his skin, knows he’s playing right into his pale hands and finds he doesn’t care. “Maybe. In light of recent events, it may be wise to reassess where we stand, that’s all.”
“Ah,” L says, thumbing along the shadow of Light’s collarbone, just above the aching edge of a fresh bruise. “You want another title. Something befitting your status as the bedfellow of the world’s greatest detective.”
Light groans, pressing the back of his head into one of the pillows. “Not when you put it like that.”
“Partners,” L offers.
Light huffs. “We’ve been partners for three years.”
“Boyfriends?”
“Childish.”
“Lovers.”
Light thinks it over.
“Alright.”
L tugs him closer, presses a kiss that’s barely a brush of lips to the hollow where his neck meets his shoulder. “My partner. My Kira. My Light. My lover.”
“All yours, hm?” Light asks.
“Yes,” L replies, and the certainty is his voice suits him as well as it always has. “I’d advise you not to even pretend to protest. I believe this evening was a satisfactory enough experience to prove as such.”
“It was,” Ryuk says, somewhere nearby.
Light jolts up in bed, wincing as his muscles twinge. He seizes his covers, yanking them up to his collarbone as his eyes find the jagged shape of the shinigami skulking by the window, grinning from ear to ear. “You!”
Ryuk bursts into cackling laughter and L also sits up, apparently uncaring of his nakedness in front of a death god. In hindsight, Light feels stupid - it’s likely Ryuk’s seen worse, and his panic had done nothing but amuse him.
“Should I have mentioned he was here?” L asks calmly. “I’m aware Light enjoys attention, but I had thought perhaps this time he’d be more comfortable in ignorance.”
“Oh, don’t worry,” Ryuk grins. “He got plenty of attention.”
L tilts his head. “How fascinating. I was unaware shinigami held any interest towards human copulation.”
“We don’t,” Ryuk clarifies. “You two are a special case.”
Light’s face sears like he’s pressed it to a hot stove and he collapses back into his bed, burying his face in his hands and briefly considering fetching the Note from its trapped compartment beneath L’s desk to beg the detective to write his name and spare him the humiliation.
He can’t decide if it’s better or worse when L comes to his rescue.
“Flattering. But, as delightful as your company has been, Ryuk,” L says, and Light scoffs.
“It hasn’t been,” he mutters.
“I would appreciate it if you took your leave now,” L continues. The bed shifts and when Light opens his eyes he sees L above him, propped up on one arm with the dim light from the open doorway outlining him in gold. His other hand traces the line of his jaw, coaxing, his gaze bright and calculating as if he’s deciding how best to deconstruct Light next.
The thought makes his heart stammer and he wets his lips. L’s eyes catch the movement, and the corners of his mouth twitch.
“Fine, fine,” Ryuk grumbles, his claws clattering as he makes for the window. “I suppose you’ll be wanting me to request my friends turn away for a bit, too?”
L hums. “If they would. I’m a selfish person. I think I’d like Light all to myself for the time.”
Ryuk shrugs, the wavering shape of his body halfway through the wall. “No promises. See you around, Light!”
He’s gone a moment later, and Light sighs, trying to banish the thought of him from his mind. It’s not as difficult as he’d feared, not when L’s still observing him, lower lip caught between his teeth in place of the hand that’s occupied mapping the shape of Light’s Cupid’s bow.
“You keep looking at me like that,” Light says.
L tilts his head. “Like what?”
“Like you’ve never seen me before,” Light replies.
His lover - the title rolls strange and pleasant in his mind again, a warm summer tide on the shore of his thoughts - chuckles, a hollow rumble somewhere in his chest, tinged with the slightest edge that can only be satisfaction. Light knows because he feels it himself, bone deep and inextricable. They’ve been waiting for this - a mutual victory.
“I have always seen Light with ease,” L says. “Seen through him, more often than not.”
Light opens his mouth to protest and L stops him, slips his thumb between his lips and presses on his tongue. Light’s thoughts waver, and the only sound that escapes him is a needy moan.
“I’ve seen myself, too,” L continues, that smooth, unbothered tone he takes on when he knows he’s not going to be interrupted. “What I have not had the pleasure of witnessing is us together. Not like this, at least. The way your body reacts to mine. The sounds you make against my mouth.”
To prove a point his thumb presses harder into Light’s tongue and Light gasps, the fluttering noise quickly captured with a kiss as L pulls his hand free.
“Like all sweet things, I wish to savor it,” he breathes, the words settling like steam on Light’s skin.
He grins, lets the flat of his teeth press into L’s lip before he bites, relishing in the wince L gives. “I’ve never been sweet a day in my life.”
L tuts. “Light misunderstands me. Or perhaps I’ve simply fucked that brilliant mind right out of him, hm?”
Light huffs. “You wish.”
“Never,” L says fondly. “You are not sweet, Light Yagami. But this is.”
He grabs his chin and kisses him, firm, hungry. Light tangles his fingers through dark hair in turn, hooks his other free hand around L’s hip bone to pull him close.
“I hate you,” he says against L’s mouth, and he knows L knows what he means when he smiles and their teeth catch. L always knows what he means.
“Light has never hated me a day in his life,” L replies, and as he kisses Light’s next spun sugar lie into nothing, Light knows what he means, too.