Title: Dreams and Bitter Nights
Rated: R, just to be safe.
Warnings: Semi-bloodplay, slash (L/Raito).
Notes: Erm. Don't know where this came from... ;;;


L had never liked the taste of blood.

It tasted like metal and left the suggestion of dark in the back of his mouth. Sometimes, he'd bite at the skin of his thumbs until they rose into wrinkly flaps, then bite some more, until the area around his nails dropped into unhappy canyons, teased by his tongue. Only when he wasn't thinking would he gnaw until he broke skin, and then he would lick away the blood only out of habit.

Occasionally, when he woke up from a particularly bad dream, head eighty-two degrees from where he had put it last to sleep, he'd go to the bathrooms and realize that the bad taste in his mouth came from the rivulets of red soaking their way from his gums through the cracks of his teeth onto his tongue and into his dreams.

He dreamed bloody dreams now, where Raito stood in chains, blindfolded and bare. He would draw a knife down Raito's chest, straight between the hollows of his ribs, and watch the blood bead slowly, until the weight of the droplet increased and it would reluctantly part from the cut. He would lick it off, feeling Raito's breath quicken and his pale skin turn pink and Raito would twist and strain in his bonds after L drew a pretty picture in red and oh he was beautiful. L would make him bleed, just to lick it off his chest, his tongue tracing the faint lines of muscle and feeling Raito inside his mouth.

It was better-- and worse-- than the times he touched himself while watching videos of Raito alone in his cell. L would stay in his hotel, computer screen glowing blue in the dark, and Raito would stay in his cell, breathing slow and deep until L couldn't tell if he was awake or not. And the surreal focus that set in past four in the morning sharpened his eyes until all he could see was Raito, Raito with his hands tied and his body open and there for L to watch. His hands would creep down until there was Raito with pleasure and his body and-- oh-- watching. His hands didn't taste like blood then, but it was another flavor he didn't love, and he would lick it off his fingers because it was one more sensation of Raito.

Late at night, Raito was real, but in his dreams, Raito was in his hands, and during the day when Raito was by him, L would chew his thumbs until they bled, the flavor splashing dreams and bitter nights into his mind.

It was the only time he liked the taste of blood.