Hard Candy

L should not have been there. Not there. Not indulging in that, that--"hard candy," he called it, that delicious, sickeningly sweet thing hiding in his conscience. Instead, he should have been working, doing things that actually mattered to the other people, to himself, but this was necessary. Necessary--and it was not the first time.

A few had become suspicious at the time L took off from the Kira case, and not a soul knew what he did with that time. Only he, he and that lying, arrogant bastard--that pathetic excuse of a human. That one people called Beyond Birthday.

He slid himself so perfectly against L, hands roaming, wandering--yes, yes, L liked that, when he felt those long, pale fingers snake into his pants and rub at his clothed erection. He was always--hard, always--eager, nowadays, just at the sight of that cocky man, because he knew. L knew that he had something to look forward to, now.

Look forward to. A low moan escaped him, and he was guilty, guilty for letting himself be so easily persuaded. It was the same always, always the same; they fought, battled, though the outcome was inevitable, and L hissed sharply. Cold hands wrapping around his member, causing him to squirm against the wall, uncomfortable and sharp against his spine. But he didn't mind. The pain was in the back, even if just recently he had discovered the forced pleasure he received from being hurt.

Masochism? It had never occurred to L.

Perhaps--B. B seemed like that type of person, being abused, being wounded, it was all so beneficiary to him. L would take advantage of this someday, he knew, someday. However, B was too quick for him, the ripped pieces of cloth bounding his wrists to the bedpost too--quick, and to his demise, that damned extra piece between his lips, gagging him and bringing him to the edge of tears. B was too smooth, he thought, the man cupping L's cheek in his hand as though he genuinely cared.

It was all so fake. So fake, L knew.

He pretended, too.

The games were fun for B. They were satisfactory, and after all, it was only that escape L searched for, both he and B. No reason to hide it. "I just want you for this," he told B on their second meeting, his hands retracting and fingers balling into fists at every sensation. He shuddered. The feeling, it was something he loved, feeling B's fingers work him hard and fast, thumb pressing against the head of his cock and making him throw his head back against the wall, body slick with sweat. "O-only this."

Maybe it was more. He wasn't so certain, at this point. He had always wanted, wanted someone to touch him, feel him, make him numb and hurt him. Years wasted away with nothing there, and now, breathing heavily, chest rising and falling harshly against B's, he felt almost--full. The void within him slowly filling, but he was aware that it would not last. It never did.

That one instant, that moment; it was all he ever wanted.

B had never responded to L's words, which L was thankful for. B's ministrations, those fingers, it was enough, more than words could ever tell him, and besides--it was much more fulfilling, and he took in a shuddery breath, eyes closed. They had been for some time; he wasn't really sure how long they had been like that but he did not worry about it, just concentrated on that feeling, B's hand sliding against him. He could feel B also, cracking his eye open to see him touching himself with his free hand, lips parted in a soft pant. L closed his eyes again. The sight drove him mad.

Why was it so painfully arousing to watch that fucker jack off? He growled and bucked his hips, pushing himself deeper into B's hand. Yes, he wanted that. A bit of drool had began to slide down his chin, escaping him and the cloth, now causing L to have a burning sense in his throat. It hurt so, so bad. His body was frantic, coiled tightly, and he moaned throatily when B removed his hand, slick with pre-cum, and lifted his fingers to his mouth and gave them long, protracted licks, his expression full of scorn.

L hated him. He narrowed his eyes, feeling ridiculously empty. The strips of cloth holding his hands down were digging into his skin, and he knew in the back of his mind that marks would be there for some time. Coming up with clever excuses yet again was the least of his worries, though, and he groaned, annoyed, leaning his head back against the backboard of B's bed. Damn unpleasant son of a-

Oh shiiit.

L gasped, always did, when B thrust himself into L. Unprepared--the bastard, making it hurt so much. He whimpered, jaws in agony, wrists completely numb. B cooed softly in his ear, kissed him on the forehead, and rocked into him. It was fast, always so--fast, quick, hips moving with L's in a frantic motion. "Oh, oh, L--now, it's okay," he whispered, and licked the shell of L's ear. L shuddered, a prickly sensation running down his side, his hairs standing on end. So much, so much. B removed the cloth in L's mouth and caught his lips in a feverish kiss, forcing his tongue into L's mouth with a demanding grunt. L obeyed, but only because he wanted to feel too, his own tongue sliding meekly against B's in a battle of dominance.

B thrust harder.

L knew he would. Defying B was asking for it, asking for punishment, and he wanted that, wanted B to slam into him as hard as he could. "You're a bad child," B hissed into L's ear. His fingernails dug into L's wrists, deep--deep, and he slid them down, down, down, red blood-streaks burning a path down L arms to his shoulders. L gasped, then moaned. It felt like fire. Like--fire, and it felt so goddamn good. "M-more," he said shakily, lips but a quiver.

B was fascinated, mesmerized at his words, at his lips, and he licked his own and pulled back on L, fingers now on the man's hips and squeezing tight-tightly, and he slammed himself back in, a sharp moan tearing from him. L tried, but failed, to suppress his cries, curses, moans, to keep everything locked away. But he heard B, heard him moan so, so deliciously, saw his eyes slide shut, saw his shoulders wobble, falter.

He saw him mouth words that he could not make out.

"More," he demanded. L, he was never happy with anything. Nothing was not enough, never enough. He arched his back when B snarled, screaming at him, and sped, pushing him--pushing him roughly into the mattress, which creaked in protest, moved with the both of them, shaking, shaking just like L. He shook so damn much, and his fingers were limp then, the feeling fuzzy, his own mind taking the same outlook. It was all blurry, blurry and hot.

So fucking hot.

He panted, breaths coming in short turns, hips now ablaze, hurting badly--badly, but he did not think to stop; instead, he quickened, trying to drive B, drive him, and B kept up effortlessly, his arms on both sides of L's head, both of their foreheads, beaded with sweat, together. Their eyes were closed tightly, and L could feel it rising in his stomach, twisted within him. His cries increased in volume, and all B could say in return was, "Shut the fuck up."

He didn't--didn't, and didn't want to. He resisted B so well, but was always pulled back into the tide, rushing, sensations flooding over him. Gasping for breath, he could no longer think coherently or control his movements, everything a--blur. B clenched his teeth, eyebrows knitted, and shoved himself into L relentlessly, his actions brutal, and it was enough, sensory overload--enough to send L over the edge.

Panting quickly, hardly enough air to fill his lungs, L spilled over, eyes rolling into the back of his head as he felt himself release into a series of violent spasms, muscles clenching tightly, tightly--so good, so excellent. His back arched against the mattress, mouth open in a frozen yell, and B came into him hard, his body seizing up, fingers clawing at the sheets. "Fuck fuck fuckkk." A hot, sticky liquid slid down L's legs; his legs, trembling, twitching still from the shock of orgasm.

The two men fell against one another in an awful, horrible, beautiful way.

Their pants were slow and aligned, B's breathing harshly against L's neck, and L's head lolled to the side, eyes half-lidded. B didn't pull out of L--not yet, no. He shifted, feeling, and he grunted a little. L inhaled deeply, and asked in a low voice if B could untie him now. His hands were entirely numb.

This is where they would depart wordlessly--where they would return to life seemingly unfazed and continue with their lives until they were fated to meet again. L was so, so afraid that every time was the last. It was only for the feeling, though; only for those touches, the sensations tearing through his being. Only, only.

He thought, as he staggered out of the apartment, hair a mess and the scent of sex lingering on his clothes, that maybe B had mouthed the words "I love you" back there.

But he wasn't so sure.

notes: For silvereyesish. This was kind of fun to write, heh.