* Death Note, Light/Misa, would you shut up already? -- "Lesson" Lesson death note Mithrigil Galtirglin
Even with his cock in her mouth she still makes noise. More noise than he does, even—it’s been a while since she worked him up enough to coax more than a heavier-than-usual breath out of him. But she’s off the edge of the bed, with his cock and his fingers stuffed into her mouth and her own hands busy somewhere under her skirt, making little whirring noises obscene enough that he starts to wilt, starts to entertain thoughts of taking care of this himself. He presses his palm to himself a little harder, tightens his thighs a little more.
“Misa,” he says—like he’s chiding, so she can’t mistake it for a compliment. “This isn’t working.”
The protesting sound she makes gets her cheeks fluttering against him, determinedly. He translates; a generic but, a hopeful assertion that her love and her skills and whatever else she’s using this for will overcome her sheer ineptitude and annoyance. He’s always been better at making himself come.
It occurs to him that Misa doesn’t know that.
Gritting his teeth—from frustration as much as the change in texture—he pulls out, reaches down with spit-roughened fingers and grabs her by the bra-straps, hauls her up to the bed. That gets another one of those sounds out of her, a high-pitched, dramatic, manga-style oof that sends a flare of anger down from Light’s solar plexus to his balls. (Is this the stereotype of testosterone-driven aggression that gets men to beat their wives? Light thinks, and thinks he understands. No wonder.)
Light leans on one leg, bending her over the edge of the bed and pinning her spread thigh with his knee. Her panties twist, the thong raised and only half-covering her. When she flails, murmuring a tangle of his name, he pins her arms as well, up over her head, in his left hand. “Would you just shut up already?” he snarls, and takes himself in hand. “And keep your eyes open for this.”
He jerks off hard, with haste—she bites her lip, her hollow throat and soft stomach shivering from the suppressed simpering noises. But that look on her face, the muscles twitching under his grip—the wild dart of her eyes as she obeys him unquestioningly—that’s a contrast, that’s depth, that’s wanting one thing and doing another, and that’s closer to what he wants. He doesn’t tell her so but the breaths shove out of him, pitched and heavy, quickening—one hoarse cry of hers tries to mix in and she stifles it, she’s watching him, learning this. Her spit’s dried off of him by the time he comes, all over her skirt, her underwear, her stubbled inner thighs.
Her wrists go limp—her hips lift off the bed—
“Like that, next time,” Light tells her, and lets her go, steps back—not as shaky as he could have been?—and takes a deep breath before stepping over her stockings on the way to the bathroom.