war is not an art (just a slow game of chess), l/light, PG
title: war is not an art (just a slow game of chess)
fandom: death note
pairing: l/light
rating: PG
words: 217
notes: for springkink. Prompt: Machiavellian cleverness. "He ought never, therefore, to have out of his thoughts this subject of war".
L gains territory with the press of his thumb against lips, the tilt of his head. Light loses a battalion as his fist (clenched, strained and small) crushes L’s nose but gains the splatter of blood across knuckles. Someone (probably Matsuda) pulls them apart, and the battles stutters to a temporary halt. Light turns his body (catching the faint curve of a smile, the unblinking stare) before resting his fingertips on familiar keys.
Light gambles (loses) a company with a casual remark (before tea and after a bite of apple). L pauses, murmurs something against the edge of his tea cup that sounds like falling statistics. L loses a platoon later in the afternoon, the casualties pressed in ink on the front pages of tomorrow’s newspaper and spread across his bottom lip. The spoils of the victor rest between Light’s fingers, pressed against the empty pages of a notebook.
L sacrifices a white queen for a black pawn (grinning across the table and slackening his tie) with a whisper of would you care for a bit of cake and the tap of bare feet against his chair. Light accepts with a smile, a nod and slender fingers grasp around a black queen (checkmate) and he knows you are right about me but you will never prove it.
fandom: death note
pairing: l/light
rating: PG
words: 217
notes: for springkink. Prompt: Machiavellian cleverness. "He ought never, therefore, to have out of his thoughts this subject of war".
L gains territory with the press of his thumb against lips, the tilt of his head. Light loses a battalion as his fist (clenched, strained and small) crushes L’s nose but gains the splatter of blood across knuckles. Someone (probably Matsuda) pulls them apart, and the battles stutters to a temporary halt. Light turns his body (catching the faint curve of a smile, the unblinking stare) before resting his fingertips on familiar keys.
Light gambles (loses) a company with a casual remark (before tea and after a bite of apple). L pauses, murmurs something against the edge of his tea cup that sounds like falling statistics. L loses a platoon later in the afternoon, the casualties pressed in ink on the front pages of tomorrow’s newspaper and spread across his bottom lip. The spoils of the victor rest between Light’s fingers, pressed against the empty pages of a notebook.
L sacrifices a white queen for a black pawn (grinning across the table and slackening his tie) with a whisper of would you care for a bit of cake and the tap of bare feet against his chair. Light accepts with a smile, a nod and slender fingers grasp around a black queen (checkmate) and he knows you are right about me but you will never prove it.