ꉂ`𖦹.ɢʜᴏᴜʟ₊⊹

dominant Light Yagami / submissive Matsuda Touta / begging / praise kink / first time blow jobs / gagging / frotting / showering together

AO3 link here

─── ⋆⋅ ♱ ⋅⋆ ───

They never did compare the notes.

Tomorrow had come and gone quietly, and then it had slipped into a string of days that all felt the same.

Matsuda kept the papers close, poring over them whenever he could—on his breaks, late at night, hunched over his desk until the numbers blurred and his eyes burned.

Each time he thought he’d found something worth bringing up, self-doubt crept in just as quickly. Maybe Light would explain it better when they finally sat down together. So he waited, and tried not to let Light's easy avoidance get to him.

He's busy.

In the meantime, he learned how to keep quiet. He smiled through meetings, the edges strained to those who looked close enough, laughed just a hint too late. More than once, Aizawa’s gaze lingered on him a second too long—or is it just in my head?—or Ide voiced a concern that struck uncomfortably close, and Matsuda felt the words climb up his throat before he forced them back down. It tasted like bile.

Trust, he reminded himself every time. Light had trusted him with this.

Even when Near seemed to be closing in, puppeting them right under their noses. Even though Matsuda is terrified that their ignorance only makes them easier to control.

The nights were the worst. Sleep came in fragments, the notes folded and unfolded until the creases softened, coffee stains adorning the edges. But still, Matsuda chose silence. He believed, earnestly, that waiting was the right thing to do.

A splash of hot coffee burns his hand. He hardly flinches, nerve receptors sluggish with exhaustion. He sighs and pours two cups: one for himself, and one for Light.

The other cups he had set out remain empty. He's too preoccupied to remember to fill them. Because today—today will be the day he grows a pair and tells Light that he's ready to compare notes.

As ashamed as he is to admit it, most of that burning motivation to comb through such an extensive amount of information stemmed from a painful urge to please Light when they reconvene.

Good work, Matsuda. I didn't expect you to be so thorough.

The idea sends a shiver down his spine, chased quickly by guilt. Wanting Light’s approval this badly—using his trust as fuel for that thrill—leaves a sour taste in his mouth. But it doesn’t stop him.

He makes his way down the empty hallway, footsteps a hollow echo around him. He checks his watch. Its 05:30.

The others won't arrive for another thirty minutes. Usually, he enjoys the peace of the early morning. Today, he can't stop glancing over his shoulder, shoulders rigid with tension.

The office door opens with a creak. He glances around the empty room—grey, peeling wallpaper, stiff couches that seem to swallow up most of the space, file cabinets stuffed to the gills—before stepping inside and setting the coffee down on the desk that Light usually occupies.

His self-designated space is pristine, not a paperclip out of place, with precisely organized folders stacked together and pens laid in a perfect line. Matsuda is careful not to disturb it.

He's rubbing his tired eyes and contemplating another quick check over Near's files when the receiver on the other side of the room suddenly crackles to life.

He practically jumps out of his skin, hand instinctively flying for the gun in his belt. When his mind catches up with the fact that there's no threat, he slumps in relief.

“Task Force headquarters. This is Near.

“The person who arrived first this morning, please respond.”

The staticky voice is calm and monotone.

Near?

He glances around one last time, as if trying to confirm he really is the only one here, before he hurries over to answer.

His finger hovers over the button on the microphone for a moment—stupid, why is he nervous?—before he presses it down.

“Uh—this is Matsuda speaking.”

The sound of dull clattering on the other end, then:

"I see. Let's talk, then."

Matsuda leans in, palms a bit clammy with anticipation. After spending the entirety of his week hyper-analyzing the young investigator, he feels weary speaking with him.

“Before we continue: please confirm something for me. The Shinigami described by Mello… is real, correct?”

Matsuda blinks, swearing under his breath. Near got to Mello before they did? He fumbles with the receiver to answer.

"Y-yes, but—wait. Mello? Are you with him?"

A measured pause.

"No." Matsuda hears a muted clack on the other end before he starts again.

“We managed to apprehend him briefly and question him before he escaped. He told us several things of interest, including the existence of Shinigami.”

"Oh." He cant think of anything else to say, throat tight. What else had Mello handed over? How exposed are they? His stomach clenches.

“With that confirmation out of the way, I can move on to the matter I contacted you about.

“There is a rule written in the Death Note that, according to Mello, is fabricated.”

Matsuda goes rigid.

"Fabricated?" He repeats, dumbfounded. "Which one?"

"Using process of elimination, the most likely rule to be false is the clause stating that a user who fails to write a name within thirteen days… will die.”

Another clacking sound. Matsuda's blood goes cold, air leaving his lungs in a rush.

“You understand the implication, Matsuda-san. If the rule is false, any deductions that relied on it must be reconsidered.”

His knuckles are white on the microphone. "I-I'll tell the others."

Will he?

"Please do. I imagine we’ll speak again once you’ve discussed it."

The line dies, silence a dull roar in his ears.

He stays frozen in place for a heartbeat.

Then he’s on his feet, chair scraping back as his thoughts scatter in a thousand directions at once, stomach turning at the implications of Near's poisonous words.

A fake rule. A fake rule?

He forces himself to take a breath.

Breathe.

He wipes his damp palms on his slacks and downs a mouthful of bitter coffee, barely tasting it. Focus. There’s an obvious first step. Of course he needs to tell Light.

But… should he tell the others, too?

This is dangerous information. Part of him screams that the Task Force shouldn’t be blind to something this big, feels nauseous at the idea of staying quiet—but… part of him hesitates. The part of him that’s spent days combing through Near’s files, that can see the trap before it springs.

The part of Matsuda that Light trusts.

So, he decides on no.

It all seems too deliberately designed to cause panic, hinged on an untested rule and Mello's less-than-reliable word. Panic that would conveniently point towards someone who has proven himself innocent time and time again.

Charging in blind is what he usually does, what Near is expecting. This cannot be one of those times.

He takes a slow breath, unclenching his fists. Light trusted him with those confidential files, so he can trust him with this, too.

He’ll tell Light first, let him decide how to bring it to the others.

He feels like he should be reassured, but a rock settles heavy in his gut. Cold, seeping through his skin to the tips of his fingers.

Keeping secrets costs him.

He stiffly settles back down onto the couch, taking out his laptop for some idle work while he waits for the others. His fingers shake on the keyboard, and he can't stop glancing at the receiver, as if it would spark to life once again and the voice on the other end would tell him it was all just a joke. Unsurprisingly, it remains silent.

It isnt long before he's nodding in greeting to his colleagues as they file in one after the other. He doesn't say a word to any of them. He's scared something in his tone will give him away.

Instead, he buries himself in the laptop, trying to appear more busy than he is. He's not sure if the others will buy it, but nobody mentions anything anyways.

He can practically feel the moment Light arrives—a heavy gaze burns into his side profile, unmistakeable. Matsuda doesn't even glance up, he can't. Looking at Light feels like hurling an accusation, broadcasting every thought in his head to the entire room.

He curls his fingers into the couch cushion beneath him instead.

Gradually, the heat of Light's eye passes, taking far longer than usual to disappear. He reminds himself to breathe, but it doesnt do much to soothe his nerves. It feels as though Light can read right through him.

By the time the afternoon has rolled around, Matsuda has hardly moved from his spot. Every word spoken has been carefully measured, every expression trained to neutral, and it's beginning to grate on his composure. His back aches from sitting in the same position. His lips are chapped. He taps his pen against the table, over and over again.

Over the course of the last hour, the distance between him and Light seems to be shrinking—so much so that Matsuda sometimes feels him at his back, a constant awareness prickling warm at the nape of his neck. He can only take so much.

Eventually, he gets up to stretch his legs, unable to take it any longer. He needs a break from the stifling atmosphere, from the heavy weight of secrecy held close to his chest.

He walks down the hall. In the corner of his eye, a cockroach scuttles out of sight. When he looks to see where it went, its disappeared. He wonders if his exhaustion is making him hallucinate, finally catching up with him.

He drums his fingers on the desk, the printer whirring and clicking at a maddeningly slow pace. Irritation prickles—shitty printer—and as he's about to give up on it, the creak of the door snaps his attention sharp.

Footsteps follow, stopping only inches behind him. A brand of heat along his back.

"Matsuda," he greets, hand casually coming to rest on the printer—trapping him. The sharp scent of aftershave fills the tight space. It's suffocating.

Captivating.

"Oh, hey, Light." He clears his throat as he turns to face him, back hitting the edge of the desk when he tries to inch backward. It digs into his spine.

"You've been acting strange today." He cuts right to the chase, eyes narrowed, searching his face. Matsuda's pulse jumps under the scrutiny.

"H-have I? Sorry," he apologizes, chuckling nervously. He keeps glancing towards the door. What if someone catches them like this, whispering back and forth like they're hiding something?

Well, they are. Hiding something, that is. He doesn't know why it bothers him so much.

I'm doing the right thing.

He attempts to move, only for Light to step closer, boxing him in with both arms now.

"What's wrong?" He asks, concern lacing his tone, voice dropped to a quiet murmur. His brows are pinched with worry, lips pursed.

Matsuda's heart squeezes in his chest. He hates avoiding Light like this, worrying him, but he can't risk messing up such a delicate situation. The only way to do that is to keep his distance, just for now.

"I'm—fine," he assures. "We should talk later, though. Alone."

Light tilts his head, considering. His hair curls softly around his ears. Matsuda almost cant meet his eyes.

"…Tonight, then," he finally decides. "We can continue this at your apartment."

Matsuda's eyes widen and he nods again. He tugs at his watch, neck tingling with a slight blush that he scolds himself for, feeling silly.

"Okay. Tonight," he confirms, swallowing, and Light appraises him one last time with those painfully sharp eyes before releasing him.

He swipes the papers from the printer, fumbling in his haste to leave. He holds them close to his chest like a shield as he makes his exit.

Light follows soon after. A shadow in his wake.

I need a drink, he can't help thinking, longing for the beer in his fridge at home. He would do anything right now to ease the vise locked around his chest, squeezing tighter and tighter as he nods to Aizawa and Ide and settles beside them.

He just wants to do the right thing. Even when it burns down his throat like bile.

So he smiles, lets the jokes fall flat, and pretends everything is normal.

˚₊‧⁺⋆♱

Light is scarcely ever as impulsive as he has been with Matsuda. Somehow, it makes sense. Matsuda doesn’t need plans—he just happens. That, in its own strange way, is part of why Light indulges him.

And it’s not like being a bit reckless has cost him anything. On the contrary, he seems to have gained something quite valuable.

He always imagined Matsuda would flourish in his New World. He simply never expected to see proof of it so soon.

"No. God, no, I didn't—could never—doubt you." Matsuda’s eyes are wide and desperate. He almost steps forward, then aborts the motion at the last second, locking himself stiffly in place instead.

Light lifts his gaze slowly, lashes low over his eyes, and breathes out through his nose as though steadying himself. Maybe he's putting it on a bit thick, but Matsuda wouldn't notice anyways.

“I believe you,” Light says, quiet and thoughtful. He softens his shoulders. “Of course I do.”

Matsuda practically deflates, sighing heavy through his nose at Light's reassurance.

Light smiles, lips threatening to curl into something sharper, before he smooths it out as quick as it had appeared.

“I knew I was right to trust you, Matsuda. If this had fallen into someone else’s hands…”

He lets the thought fade, watching the praise land. And the thing is—it isn’t even a lie. If Aizawa or Ide had taken that call, Light would be scrambling right now, forced into damage control before he’d had time to think.

How fortunate that he “trusted” Matsuda.

Sweet, loyal, catastrophically blind Matsuda.

He closes the distance between them, resting a soothing hand onto Matsuda's stiff shoulders.

“You did the right thing. The last thing the Task Force needs right now is false suspicion tearing us apart.”

He exhales shakily, nodding.

Near is becoming a worse problem than anticipated. A persistent thorn in his side he can’t quite remove. And Mello? How convenient that he “escaped” under Near’s nose. No—Light is certain they’re working together now, circling him, probing for weak points.

He swallows down the irritation and lets his hand drift reassuringly along the curve of Matsuda’s shoulder.

Matsuda protected him today. Beautifully. The threat still looms—Near is like a dog with a bone. But now he's lost the advantage of surprise, and Light intends to make the most of that.

“We need to handle this carefully.” Light’s hand slides from Matsuda’s shoulder up into his hair, fingers threading through the dark, silky strands. Matsuda leans into the touch, nodding.

"I… I agree." He smiles a little, brief, and then his eyes drop to the floor, lip drawn between his teeth. Light follows the familiar motion, the one that says Matsuda is untangling his thoughts, seeking easy reassurance. Light patiently waits him out, idle fingers in his hair.

Finally, before the silence can grow teeth, Matsuda looks up.

"Shouldn't we warn the others? Before Near calls again?" There’s something nervous—almost desperate—in the way he inclines his head, fidgeting as if bracing for rejection.

Light hums, then tugs him closer until their bodies are flush. Matsuda’s ears glow a soft pink in the dim light.

“I can handle that,” Light murmurs, tilting Matsuda’s chin up with practiced gentleness. “There’s no reason for you to be worried."

At last, Matsuda’s shoulders sink, relief opening his expression. The cost of keeping secrets shows in the shadows beneath his eyes, the chewed-through skin of his lips. And yet he held fast, refused to let Light down.

Perfect.

His fingers curl a little bit tighter in his hair.

“But as for tonight, you need to sleep,” he says, tone settling into something firmer, redirecting. “You haven’t been getting enough. I can see it.”

He brushes his thumb along Matsuda's jaw, and Matsuda glances away.

"I—I have a hard time sleeping," he admits, jaw tightening where Light's thumb rests. Light tilts his head to catch his eye again.

“Of course you do. Stress like this…” His fingers slip downward, adjusting the rumpled fabric of Matsuda’s collar as if only trying to neaten it. “…it wears you out.”

But instead of straightening it, he hooks the top button. A subtle tug. The shirt loosens at the throat, exposing the curve of Matsuda’s collarbone. Light’s fingertips linger there, tracing lightly, enough that it suggests the gesture is intentional.

Heat curls in his stomach at the shiver it elicits.

Matsuda is looking at him like he’s the only solid thing in the room, and after today—after proving himself so obediently, so loyally—Light finds he doesn’t mind giving him attention.

Better yet, any doubts and questions have melted away like morning dew, burned off by Light’s hands and honeyed voice. That’s how it should be. Light intends to handle whatever comes next himself, under the simple assumption that he will lead and Matsuda will follow—no questions asked.

Matsuda sucks in a sharp breath as Light eases open the second button… then the third. The blush creeps down his throat now—soft and timid, impossibly tempting.

The desire that hits Light is sharp, rising quick and heady, mingling with the sharp trace of Matsuda’s cologne. In moments like this, it’s difficult to claim that everything he does is strategy alone.

But he would never admit to that.

"Light,” Matsuda breathes, the sound soft, borderline pleading.

It sends a subtle shiver down Light’s spine, fingers curling tighter in his hair as he guides his head back just slightly—enough to let him close the distance between their mouths.

Matsuda responds instantly. His hands grip at the back of Light’s neck and shoulders, seeking something solid and reassuring. He’s trembling. Light can feel the faint quiver of his body through his own chest.

Light takes his time with the kiss, slow and sure, coaxing. He works open the buttons until Matsuda’s shirt slips from his shoulders and falls soundlessly to the floor.

His palms glide over the newly exposed skin, tracing the line of his abdomen, the dip of his waist, the muscles along his back. Matsuda shivers under every touch, leaning into every guided movement.

Light hums against his lips, pleased at how responsive he is.

He drags his fingertips up the length of Matsuda’s spine, feeling his chest stutter in response, before settling a hand at the base of his neck.

Matsuda’s eyes flutter half-lidded, lips parted, chest rising and falling with uneven breaths. Light smiles indulgently, drinking in the sight he makes.

“Relax,” he murmurs, thumb stroking the short hairs at nape of his neck. “You’ve been wound tight all day.”

Matsuda swallows hard, nodding almost imperceptibly. His hands slide down to Light’s chest as if afraid to lose contact, fingers fisting lightly in the fabric of his shirt.

The way he looks at Light—trusting and needy—goes straight through him, feeding something sharp and possessive inside him.

Light presses another soft kiss to Matsuda’s lips, then to the corner of his mouth, then lower along the line of his jaw.

“You don’t have to think,” he whispers against his skin. “Just listen to me. Let me take care of you.”

His hands slide to Matsuda’s waist, guiding him backward until his hips meet the edge of the small kitchen table. The soft thud pulls a quiet sound from Matsuda’s chest.

He dips his fingertips just below his waistband, teasing, questioning. He can feel the heat of his growing erection just out of reach—all from a bit of kissing.

“So reactive,” Light observes. “I barely touch you and you’re already like this.”

“I—I can’t help it,” Matsuda admits, voice thready, eyes darting away.

Light exhales a soft laugh, amused. “Shy?” he teases, tilting Matsuda’s chin back to meet his gaze.

He watches as a slow, burning blush spreads across his chest, and it only drives the ache between his thighs harder.

Matsuda shakes his head, a feeble denial, lips caught between his teeth. Yet his eyes betray him as he struggles to maintain eye contact. The sight is unbearable, stirring an insistent heat that makes Light grind up against him.

They gasp together, Matsuda’s fingers tangling in Light’s hair as his back arches instinctively, seeking the friction, drawn as if by magnetism.

“Look how much you affect me,” Light purrs, voice low and roughened with want. He catches Matsuda’s wrist, guiding his trembling hand down, pressing his palm firmly against the rigid line of his cock through his slacks.

Matsuda’s breath stutters like he can't quite believe it; his fingers shake, then tighten, squeezing just enough to make Light’s hips grind forward with a hiss. The pleasure spikes hot and urgent, and Light has to sink his teeth into the soft skin where Matsuda's neck meets his shoulder to muffle his groan.

“F-fuck…” Matsuda chokes, voice breaking as Light sucks at the fresh mark, pulling heat to the surface until the skin blooms a vivid red.

His hand flies to Light’s hair again, gripping tight as Light trails slow, hungry kisses down the center of his chest.

Light drags his tongue along the dip of his sternum, teeth grazing sensitive skin as he moves lower still—across the faint lines of twitching muscle, the trembling plane of his abdomen.

Matsuda sucks in a tense breath each time Light finds a new spot to tease, body tightening in anticipation when Light reaches his navel. He follows the dark line of hair disappearing beneath Matsuda’s waistband with the tip of his tongue, savoring the way Matsuda claws at his shoulders.

When Light looks up at him through parted bangs, Matsuda freezes, eyes wide, pupils blown, lips parted around uneven pants. The sight of him like this, undone and desperate, has Light smirking.

He sinks to his knees.

The motion alone makes Matsuda’s thighs tense around him. Light presses his cheek against the hard outline straining against Matsuda’s slacks, closing his eyes for a brief moment to feel the heat of it through the fabric. When he exhales, Matsuda’s hips jolt like he can feel the warmth directly on his skin.

Light tilts his head and presses deliberate, open-mouthed kisses along the length of the imprint, tongue slipping out in short sweeps that leave damp spots darkening the fabric.

Matsuda chokes on a moan, one hand buried in Light’s hair while the other white-knuckles the edge of the table behind him. His thighs are rigid.

"Light—please,” he gasps. His hips twitch helplessly, barely held back by restraint that looks seconds from breaking. The need in his voice is raw and sweet, so much so that Light can taste it. He wants more.

Light drags his mouth along him again, relishing the way Matsuda’s cock twitches under his tongue. The heat radiating through the cloth is intoxicating, and the thought slips through his mind—

Has Matsuda imagined this before?

Has he ever touched himself while thinking of Light on his knees like this, lips parted, breath hot against his cock? Has he pictured Light’s mouth wrapping around him, imagined himself spilling over Light’s tongue while Light held him steady by the hips?

He can see it. Matsuda’s head thrown back, face flushed, breathless and shaking as he comes, pitifully whining Light’s name.

His own cock is heavy in his slacks at the imagery. Losing patience, he works his belt free and opens his zipper, shuffling closer until the head of Matsuda’s erection nudges at his lips.

One glance up finds Matsuda's eyes fixed on Light like he’s afraid to blink and miss something, his cock pulsing with heat and already leaking shamelessly against Light’s mouth.

Light hesitates, a shallow uncertainty clouding him for the briefest of moments. It's so brief he's sure Matsuda misses it.

How hard can it be?

If Matsuda can do it, surely it isn’t difficult.

He tentatively curls his tongue around the head, just tasting, just testing. Its bitter and salty, just unpleasant enough to make him pull back and readjust. Then, he schools his expression and eases forward, taking more. His eyes sting as he takes him deeper, breath thinning through his nose.

He focuses on control—on not embarrassing himself—but its hot in his mouth, heavy, and by the time it hits the back of his throat he's gagging despite himself.

Matsuda's hands are fisted in his hair now. Even through the haze, Light registers the tremor in his hips, the effort it takes for him to not thrust.

Light pulls away with a wet cough, cheeks burning. A tear leaks from the side of his eye that he wipes away with an irritated swipe, and before Matsuda can say a word he leans in again—more determined this time.

"L-Light," he gasps out, hands tightening. "It's—It's okay, you dont have to—"

Light cuts him off by swallowing him again, stubborn, choking around him until the words dissolve into a broken groan. He forces himself to relax, flexing his tongue, breathing hard through his nose. Saliva trails down his chin and throat, undignified.

Still, it doesn’t last. After only a few movements he’s pulling back again, gasping, coughing, frustration flaring sharp.

Matsuda tugs his hair, forcing his head up. He looks utterly debauched. But his eyes are clearer now, a humiliating edge of concern shining down on Light.

Matsuda flushes, shy even now, and takes himself in hand. Light knows his own face must be bright pink, hates it—and yet his heart is pounding, stomach fluttering as Matsuda stares down at him.

The focus in his eyes clouds over again, gaze dragging from Light’s mouth to his chest as his strokes turn faster, rougher.

“Light, Light,” he whines, grip on his hair tightening with every pump.

He opens his mouth without thinking, looks up through his lashes, and knows the effect it has by the way Matsuda’s breath stutters.

The embarrassment melts into something hotter. Needier. A craving to keep Matsuda looking at him like this—like Light is the only thing that exists, like even his messy, unpracticed attempt at a blowjob is the best thing he’s ever felt.

Matsuda's knees quiver and his strokes grow disjointed, hips kicking. He keeps Light in place, torn between throwing his head back and watching him with his cock inches from his face.

"Please, Light, please—" he's begging now, as if Light isnt the one on his knees, blushing with lust and residual embarrassment as he looks up at the older man. His first instinct—beautiful and innate—is to beg for permission, even when Light is practically handing him the reins.

That’s what finally drives Light’s hand to his own zipper. He wraps his fingers around himself, stroking in time with Matsuda, startled by how good it feels, how fast it pulls him toward the edge.

"Please what, Matsuda?" He asks, voice more breathless and strained than he intended.

Matsuda's shoulders curl, fingers digging into Light's scalp as he bites his lower lip so hard that blood wells on the swollen flesh.

"Can I—please, please can I come?" he gasps.

Light is already dangerously close. Matsuda’s willingness—his almost unconscious readiness to give up control— is dizzying. Light barely has to do anything at all because Matsuda is more than willing to serve himself up.

Light chokes out a broken sound as he pinches himself hard at the tip, halting his own release with a hiss.

"Light," Matsuda trembles, thighs shaking, sweat sliding from his collarbone to his flushed chest. "Im—oh, Im so close—"

Light catches his wrist. Matsuda jerks, instinct flaring, and then stills. He could keep going.

He chooses not to.

Instead, he whines, low and pained, discipline holding. Its so pitiful it has Light's pinched erection pulsing.

“No,” Light breathes. “Not yet.”

He rises, Matsuda hauling him up by the wrist. They're both shivering when Light kisses him again, swallowing Matsuda's pathetic whimpers. Light manhandles him to the couch, pushing him into the cushions with ease. Matsuda doesnt resist.

Clothes are stripped away in rough, clumsy motions. Skin meets skin, hands everywhere, bruising grips and heated mouths. Light barely remembers what this was supposed to achieve in the first place.

He pins Matsuda down, spits into his palm, and wraps his hand around them both—but it’s awkward, too tight, not enough room.

He huffs, growing impatient, until Matsuda covers his hand with his own. Broader, calloused, easily encompassing his hand. He strokes them together, slick and obscene, their cocks sliding hot against each other.

He squeezes Light’s hand and cock with a firm, unthinking surety, and it steals Light’s balance outright. Matsuda catches him, an arm solid around his back—effortless and strong.

The low sound of another man’s pleasure, the weight of his grip, the mingled scent of heat and cologne; there’s a quiet thrill in it, in fucking a man. So different from the chore-like sex with Misa.

Its an urge he’s long learned to disguise. But not now, not with Matsuda.

Their kiss is messy, more like frantic panting into the others mouth than a proper kiss. Matsuda's whimpers are driving him fucking crazy.

"Light, I'm close—please." Its thin and pitiful, and his cock is throbbing so hard against his own, so close to the edge he's surprised Matsuda hasn't just come yet.

But he couldnt tell him to stop, not even if he wanted to. Because his little pleas and disjointed strokes have his control snapping now. It's all too much, and suddenly he's tumbling over the edge embarrassingly fast.

He sinks his teeth into his shoulder as he comes, eyes rolling. Wave after wave of pleasure crashes into him until he cant tell up from down and all he can focus on is the ecstasy and the faint sound of Matsuda following close behind.

It takes a minute for the bliss to dissolve into something more akin to awareness. For a long moment, there’s nothing but panting.

Warm spurts of white coat their hands and Matsuda's chest, trickling down Light's forearm and onto his abdomen. Some of it even managed to hit Light's chest—he's unsure who it came from.

Matsuda blinks, registering the mess, cheeks coloring. "Hold on, let me get some tissues."

But instead of moving to let him up, Light sighs and keeps him in place with another kiss. It’s soft again—simmering. Matsuda relaxes into it, careful to keep his messy hand from brushing against him. Light appreciates it.

When they part, Light tilts his head. “Why don’t we shower?”

Tissues wouldn’t be enough to keep him from feeling sticky.

“O–oh,” Matsuda says, eyes widening. “Like… together?”

Light shrugs, already easing back. “Yes. Together.”

˚₊‧⁺⋆♱

When Matsuda ushers them to the bathroom, it becomes apparent that he isnt as stringent on organization as Light is. He sheepishly kicks aside some strewn clothes near the door; Light gives him the grace of pretending not to notice.

The bathroom is cramped. Their shoulders brush as Matsuda checks the water temperature, though he seems to lean closer than necessary. The pink on his ears betrays him.

Matsuda is never as subtle as he likes to think he is.

They step beneath the spray of the shower when it finally warms enough. Light takes Matsuda in as they face each other: he looks content, eyes half-lidded, any residual anxiety dissolved into the steam steadily curling in the air.

Light is pleased, but the feeling doesn’t settle cleanly. Matsuda is calm, unguarded—exactly as intended—and Light notes, detached, how little effort it took to get him there. The thought should reinforce his sense of control. Instead, he feels careless. He doesn’t like not knowing where intention ends and want begins. Matsuda isn’t meant to confuse him.

"Here, let me help," he says, regaining composure when he sees Matsuda reach for the shampoo. He smiles sleepily when Light takes it from him and squeezes a generous amount onto his palm.

He leans into Light's touch like a wilting flower to sunshine. Light massages his scalp—its soothing, but efficient and quick. Just enough to wash him clean, no lingering touches.

He rinses and repeats with conditioner, running his fingers through dark strands. The only sound that passes between them is the spray of the shower and Matsuda's yawn.

When he's done, Matsuda turns to face him, swiping wet hair away from his eyes until he can see Light, glowing with gratitude. He looks like a wet puppy, earnest and disarming, not even realizing it.

Light blinks, looking away.

Matsuda offers to return the favor, which Light promptly declines.

"No need," he says as he works the soap into his own hair. It smells like Matsuda. His throat feels dry.

He can feel eyes on him for the rest of the shower.

They towel off in silence and redress. Matsuda tugs on sweatpants and a t-shirt, and Light his suit. He doesnt bother with his tie.

On the couch, he situates himself just close enough that Matsuda can lean on him if he so chooses. Of course, he does.

Again, silence stretches. Light glances at him. He's already half-asleep, eyes drifting closed seemingly against his will, as if fighting to stay awake.

Before he tries to stave it off again, Light speaks up.

"You've done well, Matsuda. You should sleep now." Its permission, and Matsuda accepts it with a smile tugging at his lips.

"I won't let you down," he murmurs, almost absentmindedly. He takes Light's hand, intertwining their fingers. Light allows it, even though he should probably leave now.

"I know," he says. It's equal parts wishful and adamant, because he refuses to imagine him as an investment that won't yield returns.

This will be worth it.

Soon enough, Matsuda's breaths even out, warm puffs of air tickling Light's collar. He's heavy on his side, a warm line of contact seeping beneath the fabric of his suit.

Light waits a minute, maybe two, before he gently extracts himself from Matsuda's side. He lies him down on the couch, careful to keep him from stirring, and then covers him with a blanket.

He reaches to turn off the lamp, hesitates, and then looks back at Matsuda briefly. He's breathing deeply, lips parted, damp hair framing the angle of his jaw.

He flicks the lamp off and leaves.

Tomorrow will prove to be an eventful day, and he cant afford to wait around.

─── ⋆⋅ ♱ ⋅⋆ ───

A/N: I appreciate everyone's patience. I'll be honest guys, this was physically painful for me to write. Im having a really difficult time with real life stuff, and this fic isnt really easy to write.

I really, really want to finish it. I really think that I could finish it, too. My issue is that Im stuck with it right now. I have the first scene written for the next chapter, but after that? Its so difficult to know what to do next. I feel like ive overwhelmed myself and have set too high of standards for myself, and so im suffering as a result.

I guess there are 2 options here. Im not sure which one im going to pick yet.

A) I take awhile to finish this fic. Im talking months, because real life shit is making it really hard to focus on this fic and making it into what I want it to be. I dont want to have a shitty end.

B) Someone else picks it up and finishes it. I can give them the unfinished scenes and my general notes/ideas and they run with it on the condition that I get to beta and edit it. Id be more than happy for them to take it their own direction given what I have.

As of right now im on option A. Im going to wait things out, and see if things get better. See if I finally figure out how Im going to finish this fic. I know exactly how its supposed to end, its just the getting there thats the issue. I want to be able to make something im proud of, so Im going to wait it out. Wait for my real life to stabilize, wait for my inspiration to hit me again and rekindle.

If this doesnt happen, Ill go for option B. If it gets to the point where option B cant happen, then Ill write out my general plot points and post them here for you guys to see, along with the unfinished scenes. I wont leave you guys on a cliffhanger, is what im saying lol. No matter what, you guys will get resolution.

Anyways, all that rambling aside, thank you guys so much for the patience. I feel so guilty for not being able to give you guys the best that I can in a short time frame, because I know exactly how it feels to be a reader when an author starts to flag out. It sucks to not see the resolution of a fic you like, and I dont want to leave everyone hanging.