I was clearing out cupboards earlier and I discovered an old notebook of mine, and on opening it up I found a piece of utter nostalgia in there: a response to a writing game challenge sent to me by
ishmeister, written on the train from Sheffield to Birmingham while on my way home after visiting with
m00nface. Ah, memories! :D
Anyhow, this is just a scrap, but in the interests of full disclosure I'm posting it. It was, according to my notebook, written on September 20th 2004, between 5:50pm and 6:08pm, to fulfill the challenge: "their relationship went well beyond the proper borders of love, hate and sex". Of course, it's Light/L.
Underthought
(Light/L)
L's fingers on his skin are cold: long and pale like those of some nocturnal creature. His fingers slide along Light's stomach with clinical desire, and Light wants to snap each of those thin white digits in turn, wants to take them in his mouth and slick his tongue across them. When he pins L's wrists (too narrow; too brittle) above his head, he shoves them too hard against the mattress until the hands flutter like trapped birds and a shard of pain cuts across L's features.
It's always at that point that everything blurs, the world melting into a vivid mess of hate and lust, pleasure drawn from the intent to cause pain. For a while all calculations and machinations are swept away, the board cleared of everything but pure physicality; such a loss of composure is a temporary thing, they both understand it, and they both know they can allow it so long as neither of them gives away even a fraction more than the other.
Light restrains himself, as he knows L does, not wanting to reveal just how much Kira wants L, wants to hurt him. (He sometimes wonders what L might be hiding, restraining, unwilling to reveal; in the long run, though, he knows it doesn't matter.) Despite this rigid control, though, Light recognises that this - this thing - is dangerous, even though it's a rational tactic. Because there's always the chance he might lose control and really hurt, or lose his mind and stop wanting to hurt, and he can always see the look deep in L's shadowed eyes that says I know, and I'll catch you.
Someday, perhaps he really will.
Afterwards Light kisses the bite marks and gently, apologetically, strokes the bruises with his fingers. His self-control is never perfect, but it's no more than could be blamed on excessive infatuation, youthful passion.
"Sorry," he says, always, and always L replies:
"That's quite all right," and pulls his sleeves down carefully over his wrists, and then they get back to work.
[/fic]
Hah, yes, this is why I never really wrote Light/L: I could never get the dynamics right. Rediscovering old fic always makes me happy, though. :D