He is not naturally loud, as they both know. A new pain clusters along his scalp, jerking his head, and at the command he lets devotion trump natural tendency.
“I said, ‘fuck,’” he gasps amidst a thrust. Another, another. “Light--” Shuddered but nonetheless audible, along with every gasp that follows.
Up until there’s a trembling within, and L holds his breath. Not out of anxiety or pain, but because -- “Mm” -- he hopes to savor this, to feel Light come undone entirely as no one else has or will, with how that composure’s so otherwise held close to his chest.
What he feels is hot and jittery and stunted, that last bit of resolve finally released. Then there’s a cool drip at his cheek, warm lips to follow, and the freedom of his hands followed by his own self-induced freedom of his ankles with two small steps.
A turn, then, to ensnare a mouth with his own in a kiss that’s almost reverent. A more piercing need is temporarily pushed aside for one more soft as slender fingers rise to dance along the sides of Light’s throat, his jaw, his ears.
For God’s sake, let me touch you.
And desperate as his touch is, there’s nothing hostile about the way his hands move, as though the flesh beneath is a holy map with corners he hopes to burn in his palms. Even when his grip drops to each side of Light’s ribcage, nails scraping between bone, it’s not malicious.
His kiss lasts until he’s out of breath. Then, breathing hot against Light’s cheek, he takes the first good look he’s been allowed for a long while, from honey eyes less wild to a physique that is admittedly, classically beautiful.
“Please,” he says, alien to his own ears.
He’s never hated Light more than in this moment.
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