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He waited five days before he called, which was two more than usual. L arrived at Light’s private residence – a cottage on the edge of an English forest with doors that locked from the outside – an afternoon later. Watari flew the helicopter, and he waved when Light waved. This was an improvement on their relationship, as two summers ago Watari aimed a gun at Light’s head the entire duration of L’s walk from copter to doorstep.
A moment after they were inside, Light buried his nose in L’s hair. Arms wrapped around the detective’s torso sunk into a new softness: L always buffered himself before a big case. Good thing Light called, then. He wouldn’t hear from L for at least three months, if the case was tough enough.
“I didn’t shower for two days,” L said. “I don’t know why. I premonitioned you wanted me.”
“Premonitioned?” Light snorted – his breath kicking up greasy black curls on L’s neck. “Not a word. You’re getting stupider without me around.”
“I am exactly as intelligent as I was a month ago. Do you want to fuck me, or not?”
Light dragged them to the couch, which he set across from his fireplace. An electric fire crackled within the red brick. L laid across the cushions without his usual fuss, taking Light aback enough for him to pause sniffing L’s armpit.
“You’re going limp on me,” he said.
“I just” – L bit his lip and sighed. “I just miss you. But you’re not supposed to know.”
Warmth started in Light’s gut and spread through his lower half. An erection fattened against loose linen trousers and grew as he went back to sucking, kissing, and inhaling all of L. He hauled the detective’s shirt to his face. A deep, powerful whiff told him how his captor was living: sugar floss flecks, human sweat, and tobacco clinging to cotton fibers. L never had to say he missed Light. He smelled like longing.
Under the shirt, L was tacky from sweat dried over sweat. It was thrown aside, as were L’s jeans after being scented by Light. No new smells there: only coffee stains and cheap cologne. L often let other, stupider men suck him to get their awful stink rubbed where Light would catch it later. With the jeans gone, Light bit L on the hip – full teeth, full strength – and the detective wept blood from his fangs’ puncture points. That’d leave a mark.
Bare skin carried the same organic perfumes as L’s hair touched by salt. L couldn’t stay still now – endlessly ticklish in a way Light discovered early and exploited often. His nose brushed along waist, hip, and thigh skin and delighted in their little twitches. L curled his toes as Light took a long, deep inhale over his stomach.
“You’re so mean to me.” L wiped small, angry tears from his cheeks. “Bite me. Tickle me. Call me all the time.”
“That’s what you wanted.” Light kissed the waistband of L’s briefs. “And I bit you to make sure you know who owns who.”
When he first stuck Light away in his beautiful prison, L insisted they never fuck again. The Kira case was closed, and he never had sex with a closed case. Light went mad in the house alone. He tore everything up, taped everything back together, and cried in the bathtub. His family was gone; his heart was broken; and no one would ever love him again. As he searched the pre-furnished house for an escape, Light found the red phone. The red phone called only one number, and only one person picked up. After that, L came whenever Light called. For some reason, that made life worth living again.
“I dreamed about you.” L moaned while Light tore down his underwear. “Maybe that’s why I knew not to wash myself. You told me in my dreams, just by being there.”
“Where were we in the dream?” Drool pooled in Light’s mouth as humidity from between L’s legs wafted up. “Here?”
“No. Do you remember at your university, when we walked under the cherry blossoms? You laughed when I told you my suspicion.”
Light closed his eyes and buried himself into the black pubic curls surrounding L’s cock. The length itself was small, as was the sac he huffed, but it hardened a hair bigger. Musk ruled the scent here, though sour touches came through as Light sniffed over velvet shaft skin. L groaned and scratched the couch. His whimpers nearly shot Light’s orgasm into his trousers.
“A memory dream,” Light murmured. “You smelled like an angel under those flowers. I wanted to kiss you right there.”
“You did,” L sighed. “In the dream, you did.”
They have sex on the couch with Light pounding himself into L until their stink was one miasma. Foreplay – especially getting scented and manhandled – drove L deep into his submissive sweetness. His legs spread, arms draped over his head, and pink-bitten lips purrring, L gasped on every thrust as though he’d never been fucked before. Despite his better judgement, Light believed this perpetual innocence. Why not? It turned him on to take L’s virginity every time.
Another session rolled them on the carpet beside the blue-and-orange faux fire. Bathed in its artificial glow, L was half shadows and half flesh. Sweat collected under his arms, on the squeeze where his thigh touched his crotch, and in the divot above his lip. Light took his prize from each place: a heavy sniff and languid, almost torturous lick. L came three times over the course of their copulation, but Light came once. He closed his eyes and imagined his cum fertilizing an egg hiden within L’s impossible womb. How might pregnancy tender L and turn his scent sweeter?
Light woke up the next morning in an empty bed next to a pile of clothes. L left his unwashed laundry as a gift, and presumably dressed in Light’s shirt and pants upon departure. They would come back to him when the case L works on is over, and Light would smell everything he’s missed.