Death Note, Insomnia (The Games We Play Remix)

Title: Insomnia (The Games We Play Remix) [Raito/L]
Authors: marksapelli (Marksykins and Mousapelli)
Rating/Warnings: R
Summary: Raito hasn’t slept in days, and L takes matters into his own hands.
AN: Written for the 2006 Remix Redux exchange. Original story Charade by Arislan.

Insomnia (The Games We Play Remix

The first time L jerks Raito off, it’s an act of self-defense.

It’s his own fault really, he’s the one who’d brought it up a few days ago, when Raito began to get snappish and the slightest bit sloppy from the insomnia, and had demanded what L suggested since he was such a big genius expert.

L really just said “jerking off” to get a rise out of him.

And truthfully, it was a sound theory. The average teenage boy begins puberty at age twelve. Statistics suggest that 90% of boys over the age of thirteen masturbate at least once a day, with eight times a week given as the most common statistic. The sexual peak in the human male begins at eighteen years old. 5% of males between the ages of fifteen and eighteen will commit a violent crime. Not counting those that escape prosecution, of course.

L thinks of this, over and over, as the bed creaks and the bedding shifts and the cuff around his wrist jerks a little, even though L knows Raito is right-handed. This has been going on for fifteen minutes, no, twenty now, and just as L is wondering if he’s experiencing the first case of insomnia-by-proxy, a hitching breath and moan escape from the next bed over.

Yagami Raito is not an average boy. He’s also the least stealthy masturbator on the planet.

Schuff goes Raito’s hand in the darkness, then schuff and a few seconds later schuff again. L wonders how it can be that after almost a decade of practice Raito has still not figured out how to get himself off in anything approaching an efficient manner. He calculates that, at his current rate of speed and factoring in the frequency and length of his breaths, that Raito will finish himself sometime in his late twenties.

L thinks about turning on his webcam and begging Kira to kill him. He’d do it too, if he wasn’t 63% sure that Kira was in the next bed failing utterly to achieve orgasm.

“Maybe if you used your dominant hand, Yagami-kun.”

Both of them freeze, Raito because he possesses the quaint sense of social shame that the Japanese seem to need like sharks need motion, and L because he wasn’t aware that he was even speaking out loud until Raito stops right in the middle of a lackluster schuff.

There is a long pause, where L entertains the possibility that Raito is going to ignore him completely or perhaps convince himself that L speaking had been a figment of his imagination. The idea that Raito might delude himself into thinking L’s voice is a side-effect of getting off isn’t something L really needs to think about at the moment, though.

Raito exhales, and L shudders involuntarily. “Did you say something, Ryuzaki?”

“Your dominant hand,” he repeats. “It wouldn’t take as long and then we could both sleep.”

“I’ve always done it this way,” says Raito. Unorthodox and backwards.

“You must not do it often, then.”

“Not really, no.”

L thinks of porno magazines, carefully tucked into every crevice of a teenage boy’s bedroom and raises his eyebrows in the dark. 64%. He reaches over to turn on the lamp on the bedside table. “Perhaps I could assist you, Yagami-kun.”

“That’s not necessary,” Raito says through gritted teeth, and is pulling his hand away and curling on his side, but L grips his hip as he sits on the edge of Raito’s bed and forces him back down onto his back.

Raito glares at him with ringed eyes, and L thinks about how he read once that owners and their pets start to look like each other after prolonged cohabitation. What would have happened, he wonders, if he had got a hamster instead of a serial killer?

“It’s nothing to smirk about,” Raito snaps, making L’s grin widen. He tugs the sheet down from Raito’s waist, and Raito looks away with a clenched jaw, but doesn’t stop him.

He takes his time inspecting the situation; as an investigator, he must consider all the angles before formulating an appropriate response. He decides, after taking a second to admire the angry flush creeping down Raito’s sun-starved chest, that the hands-on approach would be best.

Raito jerks his head forward again to glare at L when the sound of L spitting into his palm cracks the silence of the room.

“I’ve always used my dominant hand. Unfortunately, it’s somewhat restrained at the moment,” L says. He wipes the corner of his mouth and lowers his hand. The chain between them clinks and Raito’s glare melts into surprise. “Though that didn’t seem to bother you before, so perhaps this isn’t a problem.”

Raito can push him away, but doesn’t. Instead, he closes his eyes and sinks his teeth into his lower lip, like he’s afraid to make any noise that he didn’t cause himself. Self-centered. L grips a little tighter and strokes a little faster. There’s a challenge in this, and the slightest chance that Raito might actually give something away.

Raito tilts his head back, exposing the pale line of his throat, and moans even through the clenched jaw. Mostly, L just likes dangling something over Raito’s head for once.

Wrapping his hands in the sheets and glaring, Raito’s breath is coming in sharp pants, but he is lying rigid against the mattress rather than pushing into L’s grip like any normal person would be. L is taking Raito’s pulse through his cock, 96 beats a minute and he reflects, as he draws his thumb through the precome beading Raito’s tip, that Raito is going to give himself an aneurysm if he doesn’t just blow his wad already.

Clearly desperate measures. L doesn’t stop the rhythm of his hand, the slight twist of his wrist, as he bends down to flick his tongue against the soft, hot skin his fingers are baring and covering in quick repetition.

“What are you doing?” Raito demands, but it isn’t so much a demand as it is a thin moan, and finally, thank the gods of electronic surveillance, Raito gives a tiny thrust as L wraps lips around his tip and sucks like Raito is the last stick of green tea pocky.

Actually, L kind of wishes he had some pocky right now, since Raito kind of tastes like sweaty boyhand and delayed orgasm. Even that might be good with some whipped cream, though. L slides his hand down to make more room for his mouth, tugging his wrist so Raito’s hand jerks forward to rest right above his hipbone. Their bonds are not usually so restrictive (literally speaking, at least), but all the bed shuffling has gotten it tangled up in the sheets and under Raito’s body.

L’s thumb and index finger now form an ‘O’ at the base of Raito’s cock, the rest of his fingers fanned out so his pinky just barely touches Raito’s hand. L slides down until his lips press the O and Raito makes a strangled noise that makes the boyhand taste worth it. But it’d still be better with whipped cream.

He isn’t expecting Raito’s hand to clutch suddenly at his cock in a grip that would be punishing if it didn’t feel so damned good after being subjected to Raito’s self-masochism for the last half-hour. Not suffering from some unnamed psychosis, or at least not the same one, L has no problem pushing into Raito’s clenched fingers. He grins around Raito’s cock at the thought that the perfect posture Raito is so smug about surely wouldn’t let him enjoy this position as much as L does, if Raito wanted to enjoy anything, that is.

And even though it is in his nature to be quiet and watchful, in this as in all things, L feels it’s his responsibility to show Raito how it’s really done and lets a long, low moan buzzing in his throat do some of the work for his tiring lips and fingers.

Raito makes a strangled noise, and finally, fucking finally L thinks as Raito’s body shivers under his in a wave and the first breaker of salt bursts against his tongue. Raito’s eyes are still open, widening in surprise and release as L meets them and keeps his mouth right where it is, sucking Raito down in a slow pull.

He could make some trite comment about imbibing the essence of the enemy, L thinks as he finally does straighten, but he lets Raito see it instead in the curl of his tongue as it gathers the stray stickiness at the corner of his mouth.

Raito sprawls out against the sheets, looking dazed and utterly debauched, and L nods to himself over another job well done as he climbs off the bed to put insomnia behind them for another twenty-four hours. The chain between them is suddenly pulled taut, and it’s just luck that keeps L from falling back on his ass in the space between their beds. L looks over his shoulder and finds Raito staring back.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Raito’s voice sounds fuzzy with the aftereffects of his orgasm.

“To bed, Yagami-kun,” L replies. “Go to sleep.”

“Get back here.” This is the voice of someone who could easily control millions of people. 66%. “Now.”

L stares, wide-eyed, then counts to five before getting back into Raito’s bed.

He can’t say he’s surprised when Raito rolls over to crush his body into submission with his own, but the kiss catches L off-guard just a little, Raito’s lips forcing his to part inexpertly. As if Raito’s repertoire consisted of anything other than brute force, L thinks, and he would roll his eyes if they weren’t already rolling back from the pressure of Raito’s hips against his own, Raito’s skin still damp with L’s spit.

It’s more than good enough for L to thrust into the crease of Raito’s hip, and even when Raito shoves a hand in between them to clutch at L again, ragged fingernails catching at L’s skin, L’s too far gone to care. Part of the chain is caught between them, digging into L’s chest, and L lifts his right hand to draw the rest of it over the small of Raito’s back and pulls it tight, forcing Raito into the rhythm and the angle L wants.

Raito struggles, demanding control, but he apparently hasn’t learned the lesson that the top can only have as much power as the bottom gives him, and all his focused thrusting against the pull of L’s hands and the chain only creates more friction exactly where L wants it.

He could draw the moment out, since Raito is so much fun when he knows he’s being played, but he decides to just let go, to sink teeth into Raito’s lower lip and slick both himself and Raito, who is already half-hard again.

Raito might be the worst kisser ever, L realizes as things drift back into focus, and he ponders asking Raito exactly what he’s got a supermodel for, but decides to yawn into Raito’s mouth instead.

“My apologies, Raito-kun,” he murmurs when Raito jerks back, but he doesn’t bother to wipe away the sleepy smirk, “it is very late, you know.”

Raito gapes at L for a second, then simply rolls off him, rolls onto his side facing the wall and curls himself tightly up. L stretches out where he is, limbs far too heavy to stumble back to his own bed. Maybe this way the angry red marks on his wrist from the dangling chain will fade a little before morning.

He lets his eyes drift closed and his muscles relax, but it is only a few minutes before the soft shufflings start up beside him again. Cracking one eye with a silent sigh, L reaches over to run the ridge of the handcuff lightly over the bumps of Raito’s spine and wonders if he’ll ever get a decent night’s sleep ever again.


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