It is a battle of a different kind, though no less brutal. LightxL, not quite NC-17 sexin'.
(recollect me darling raise me to your lips.)
He is not in love.
Nothing even close, really.
L's body arches against his, and he smiles brutally - despite the haze of pleasant stimulation, he is clearly in control.
How strange, Light thinks; L does not react like a lover should. He will not drag any sound beyond a throaty growl from those thin, sugar-coated lips. Reedy fingers may scramble and fist into the sheets and the tender flesh of his back and thighs, but those dark eyes will never close, not even at the peak. It is a battle for dominance, one of the more interesting ways they fight. (And they do. It is savage and animalistic, teeth and nails and sweat and one would think they are trying to rip each others' throats open with the sheer force of their lovemaking, if it could even be called that. They fuck like enemies. They are an even match.)
Even now, even while L's sharp white hips grind against him in obvious challenge, the detective is searching for Kira in his touch.
That suits Light just fine.
L's bottomless stare tracks each movement: analytical, emotionless, simply waiting for the slip. Perhaps he has learned to school his emotions better than Light; perhaps he simply does not care. Either way, Light thinks that perhaps he's losing, and the thought drives him mad.
For a moment, Light hates him more than he has ever hated anything. He wants nothing more than to destroy those black, black eyes, to force a scream of something from the cadaverous man beneath him. /Anything at all/. With a soft cry of frustration, he bows his head against L's pale chest, rocking forward hard enough to push L six inches closer to the headboard, hard enough to exact a shallow gasp of pain.
It's not enough.
Light jerks the chain that binds them harshly to one side, snarling like a dog as the aluminum links tighten around L's throat. When he raises his head, there is no mistaking the touch of madness gleaming in his dark eyes.
L's mouth shapes the words slowly, lazily. Twenty-seven percent.
Fuck you, Light hisses, but it's too late, and the slick clenching heat of L's body is too much. His body spasms and twitches as he comes, clutching the chain hard enough to leave bruises against his palm. L follows suit soundlessly, the only indication of his own release a shudder that travels the length of his body, and the sticky pool of warmth spreading between them. Perhaps he is excited by the pressure against his throat. Perhaps it is something else entirely.
Light knows he has lost. He holds the chain there a moment longer (waits for the madness to retreat), breath coming in sharp, stacatto gasps before releasing it and collapsing to his elbows. He shifts, burying his face in the damp curve of L's neck. "Why," he murmurs thickly, "are you so fucking cold?"
He is still inside him.
L snorts softly, turning his head away from the warm, soft face so close to his own. In this war, he thinks, it is impossible to leave unscathed.
"What does it matter?" L returns softly, and if Light were watching, he would see dark eyes flutter closed, a bleak look slipping across L's face. His voice does not tremble. "You don't care at all."