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Exaction
Author: vagrancy
Rating: R
Ryuzaki’s body, they don’t get rid of it right away.
The body, it lays in one of the empty hotel rooms, under layers blankets and air-conditioned cold, preserved until it can be buried on government land, under six feet of soil, deep in a forest in the country. Light, he thinks this is fitting: L lived a life of secrecy, and his death, well, that’s all secrecy and deception too.
The skin of Light’s wrist is still pale from where the handcuffs were, where the chain dangled and clinked and connected him to Ryuzaki, a metal umbilical cord between suspect and investigator. It’s gone now–no one suspects him any longer (he’s more of an authority figure, now that nothing’s standing in his way, and really, that’s just one step from god), and he gives advice and comforts the scared investigators, convinces them that they aren’t going to die.
L, he’s the only one who’s going to lose their life. He’s the only one that they’ll bury.
Unless someone knows too much, Light thinks, smiling, his hand on his father’s shoulder. Unless someone knows too much, you’re all going to live.
Matsuda roams the halls, searching for Rem with rapid-blinking eyes. Everyone, they are so scared that the shinigami is going to reappear and kill them.
Oh, it’s so funny. They’re policemen, and what they should be, is brave. But what they are, is terrified. Scared children.
It’s disgusting.
Light stands, sighing, and he says, “I’m going to take a nap. I recommend that all of you rest. We’ve been working nonstop since Ryuzaki . . .” He looks away; he feigns concern. “Since what happened to Ryuzaki, and I think we need to rest. Overworking ourselves isn’t healthy.”
Ryuk laughs at this, his voice sandpaper-scratchy, and slinks off behind the boy. His breath, it reeks of decay and sweet burning skin, wafting under Light’s nostrils, making the small brown hairs on the back of his neck (the same place L would run uneven fingernails down every night, breathing percentages and accusations across the warm shell of his ear) stand up straight.
The smell follows him down the hall, and as he passes the door to his room, shoves hands in his pockets and keeps on walking, it nearly makes him sick.
His hands are sweating when he opens the door to L’s makeshift tomb, bile is burning his throat, and Light, he almost loses his nerve. He almost turns around and walks out, walks to his room and closes his eyes and sleeps alone, in his own bed. But he’s Kira, and Kira, Kira is never, ever scared.
There are no cameras in this room. No microphones, because the dead, they don’t do anything. But it’s hard to think of L as dead, and as Light peels back the covers of the bed with shaking hands, touches his fingertips to the cold skin stretched taut over the detective’s cheekbones, all he wants to do is leave.
Ryuzaki, he looks so peaceful. So happy. And he doesn’t deserve to be happy, even in death. He doesn’t deserve this. Had Kira any say in his death, he would’ve died horribly, in some domestic accident gone tragically wrong. And Light, he would’ve cried, he would’ve screamed louder, he would’ve locked himself in his room and pretended to be so heartbroken, so depressed.
It’s funny to think that the heart within the black-haired man’s scrawny chest will never beat again, that those dark-rimmed eyes will never open again, that his thin bluing lips will never curl in that horrible, horrible lopsided smile again. Yeah, it’s funny, because L has lost (but in the grand scheme of things, he’s won, and Light knows this but will never admit it).
He’s dead, but he still smells like sugar.
There are still bruises on Light’s neck, still bite marks stretched across the muscular junction of neck and shoulder. His mouth still bleeds from where the chain cut into his cheeks like a bit, and oh, he swears he can still taste the metal. Can still taste the salt-sweat of Ryuzaki’s fingers in his mouth, the sickening sweetness of his mouth, how his tongue felt grainy with sugar as it brushed over Light’s perfect white teeth. And this, it happened night after night. It was no one’s fault.
It was no one’s fault when he had L up against the wall of the shower, when he had pale legs wrapped around his hips, the water beating, hard, against his back. It was no one’s fault the first time, no one’s fault when it all came out pouring at 3 am, when L held onto him so tightly it hurt, his fingernails digging into Light’s chest and shoulders, when Light gasped and twisted, sweating and warm beneath him.
But it only seems right to blame the detective for everything that’s happened. To blame him for all that lost sleep, for all the saliva swapped and the bloodstains on the sheets and the marks on his skin, to blame him for those sleepless days in chained confinement (to blame him for forcing him to eat like a dog, hands bound behind his back, hair long and in the food), to blame him for the surveillance equipment in his room. To blame him for daring to fuck with God in the first place, and being convinced that he would win. That justice would prevail.
And justice, it is prevailing. Just not in the way that Ryuzaki had desired. It’s going by a different set of ideals. To imagine that someone would have the audacity to try and destroy his fledgling utopia, well, it makes him want to seek revenge.
And Light, as he’s unbuttoning L’s pants, tugging them down stiff legs, is going to get that revenge.
He’s going to match depravity with depravity. It’s only fair.
He’s pressing his lips to Ryuzaki’s, and this, he thinks (feeling so sick and disgusted with himself), this is revenge for your hands around my throat, for your cock in my mouth, for jeopardizing my ethical cleansing. You heretic.
Ryuzaki’s bare legs, the thick curly black hair across his hips, it stands out so starkly against his pale skin, blue-white on top and purple-red on the bottom. And this, livor mortis, it’s what reminds Light that he has a dead body beneath him. As he’s unzipping his pants, he’s reminded that a slowly decaying corpse is all that L is anymore (and this reminds him that if L had won, this is what he would be–a slowly decaying death row human being waiting for the execution that would make him a slowly decaying dead body).
He’s rubbing spit on his cock when he realizes that he hasn’t locked the door, but Ryuk is laughing and he’s starting to sweat and there’s nothing he can do now. This is a necessary act of revenge. This is the last sin L will ever cause him to commit.
On top of L, Light’s sweating hands holding tight to those hips, he thrusts into L, whimpering, and oh god, it’s so tight, so cold.
And he almost misses Ryuzaki gasping when this happens, that rasping, enticing noise. The silence, it’s overwhelming.
And he almost vomits (he’s fucking the corpse of his worst enemy, he doesn’t know whether he’s sank too low or risen too high), but he swallows and he smiles, and he starts rocking his hips back and forth.
He buries his face against L’s shoulder, breathes in against that white frosting-stained shirt, and his lungs seem to fill with cloth and the smell of him, with the disgusting decomposition scent of Ryuk’s breath.
Light groans, and he thinks, vaguely, that this is the first time he’s seen a dead body. Truth, he’s never been to a funeral in his life. He’s killed over one thousand criminals, but he has never seen a dead body. And this, it’s probably the worst way to become intimate with death.
He lays saliva-wet kisses down L’s jaw line, and this is revenge for spider-fingers creeping up his thigh, revenge for a chocolate-smeared fist connecting with his cheek, revenge for greasy black hair pressed against his nose. L’s skin, L’s cold, pale skin, it tastes bitter.
The young man starts thrusting harder, and Ryuzaki’s body moves with him, lifeless and ragdoll-limp. And again, the silence is overwhelming.
And when Light comes with a strangled moan, as he slumps against the corpse, sweating and breathing hard, Ryuk starts to laugh.
He says, “I didn’t know humans did that.” Cackling, he says, “You never stop amusing me, Light.”
The shinigami is still laughing as Light zips up his pants and staggers to the bathroom, where he leans against the sink, studying his reflection in the mirror. He runs long, lithe fingers through his hair, straightening the light brown strands. Light, he splashes cold water on his face, staring down his reflection as the water drips down his pale face.
It’s funny, but he doesn’t really feel like he’s accomplished anything. There was no exaction.
L has still won, as much as he doesn’t want to admit it.
He walks out, looks away as he puts L’s pants back on, throws the covers back over the body (and thanks a god he doesn’t believe in that no coroner will be looking into this). Light says, “Ryuk, never mention this again.”
And he opens the door, hands sweating, and walks out into the hallway, defeated and tired.
Rating: R
Exaction
Ryuzaki’s body, they don’t get rid of it right away.
The body, it lays in one of the empty hotel rooms, under layers blankets and air-conditioned cold, preserved until it can be buried on government land, under six feet of soil, deep in a forest in the country. Light, he thinks this is fitting: L lived a life of secrecy, and his death, well, that’s all secrecy and deception too.
The skin of Light’s wrist is still pale from where the handcuffs were, where the chain dangled and clinked and connected him to Ryuzaki, a metal umbilical cord between suspect and investigator. It’s gone now–no one suspects him any longer (he’s more of an authority figure, now that nothing’s standing in his way, and really, that’s just one step from god), and he gives advice and comforts the scared investigators, convinces them that they aren’t going to die.
L, he’s the only one who’s going to lose their life. He’s the only one that they’ll bury.
Unless someone knows too much, Light thinks, smiling, his hand on his father’s shoulder. Unless someone knows too much, you’re all going to live.
Matsuda roams the halls, searching for Rem with rapid-blinking eyes. Everyone, they are so scared that the shinigami is going to reappear and kill them.
Oh, it’s so funny. They’re policemen, and what they should be, is brave. But what they are, is terrified. Scared children.
It’s disgusting.
Light stands, sighing, and he says, “I’m going to take a nap. I recommend that all of you rest. We’ve been working nonstop since Ryuzaki . . .” He looks away; he feigns concern. “Since what happened to Ryuzaki, and I think we need to rest. Overworking ourselves isn’t healthy.”
Ryuk laughs at this, his voice sandpaper-scratchy, and slinks off behind the boy. His breath, it reeks of decay and sweet burning skin, wafting under Light’s nostrils, making the small brown hairs on the back of his neck (the same place L would run uneven fingernails down every night, breathing percentages and accusations across the warm shell of his ear) stand up straight.
The smell follows him down the hall, and as he passes the door to his room, shoves hands in his pockets and keeps on walking, it nearly makes him sick.
His hands are sweating when he opens the door to L’s makeshift tomb, bile is burning his throat, and Light, he almost loses his nerve. He almost turns around and walks out, walks to his room and closes his eyes and sleeps alone, in his own bed. But he’s Kira, and Kira, Kira is never, ever scared.
There are no cameras in this room. No microphones, because the dead, they don’t do anything. But it’s hard to think of L as dead, and as Light peels back the covers of the bed with shaking hands, touches his fingertips to the cold skin stretched taut over the detective’s cheekbones, all he wants to do is leave.
Ryuzaki, he looks so peaceful. So happy. And he doesn’t deserve to be happy, even in death. He doesn’t deserve this. Had Kira any say in his death, he would’ve died horribly, in some domestic accident gone tragically wrong. And Light, he would’ve cried, he would’ve screamed louder, he would’ve locked himself in his room and pretended to be so heartbroken, so depressed.
It’s funny to think that the heart within the black-haired man’s scrawny chest will never beat again, that those dark-rimmed eyes will never open again, that his thin bluing lips will never curl in that horrible, horrible lopsided smile again. Yeah, it’s funny, because L has lost (but in the grand scheme of things, he’s won, and Light knows this but will never admit it).
He’s dead, but he still smells like sugar.
There are still bruises on Light’s neck, still bite marks stretched across the muscular junction of neck and shoulder. His mouth still bleeds from where the chain cut into his cheeks like a bit, and oh, he swears he can still taste the metal. Can still taste the salt-sweat of Ryuzaki’s fingers in his mouth, the sickening sweetness of his mouth, how his tongue felt grainy with sugar as it brushed over Light’s perfect white teeth. And this, it happened night after night. It was no one’s fault.
It was no one’s fault when he had L up against the wall of the shower, when he had pale legs wrapped around his hips, the water beating, hard, against his back. It was no one’s fault the first time, no one’s fault when it all came out pouring at 3 am, when L held onto him so tightly it hurt, his fingernails digging into Light’s chest and shoulders, when Light gasped and twisted, sweating and warm beneath him.
But it only seems right to blame the detective for everything that’s happened. To blame him for all that lost sleep, for all the saliva swapped and the bloodstains on the sheets and the marks on his skin, to blame him for those sleepless days in chained confinement (to blame him for forcing him to eat like a dog, hands bound behind his back, hair long and in the food), to blame him for the surveillance equipment in his room. To blame him for daring to fuck with God in the first place, and being convinced that he would win. That justice would prevail.
And justice, it is prevailing. Just not in the way that Ryuzaki had desired. It’s going by a different set of ideals. To imagine that someone would have the audacity to try and destroy his fledgling utopia, well, it makes him want to seek revenge.
And Light, as he’s unbuttoning L’s pants, tugging them down stiff legs, is going to get that revenge.
He’s going to match depravity with depravity. It’s only fair.
He’s pressing his lips to Ryuzaki’s, and this, he thinks (feeling so sick and disgusted with himself), this is revenge for your hands around my throat, for your cock in my mouth, for jeopardizing my ethical cleansing. You heretic.
Ryuzaki’s bare legs, the thick curly black hair across his hips, it stands out so starkly against his pale skin, blue-white on top and purple-red on the bottom. And this, livor mortis, it’s what reminds Light that he has a dead body beneath him. As he’s unzipping his pants, he’s reminded that a slowly decaying corpse is all that L is anymore (and this reminds him that if L had won, this is what he would be–a slowly decaying death row human being waiting for the execution that would make him a slowly decaying dead body).
He’s rubbing spit on his cock when he realizes that he hasn’t locked the door, but Ryuk is laughing and he’s starting to sweat and there’s nothing he can do now. This is a necessary act of revenge. This is the last sin L will ever cause him to commit.
On top of L, Light’s sweating hands holding tight to those hips, he thrusts into L, whimpering, and oh god, it’s so tight, so cold.
And he almost misses Ryuzaki gasping when this happens, that rasping, enticing noise. The silence, it’s overwhelming.
And he almost vomits (he’s fucking the corpse of his worst enemy, he doesn’t know whether he’s sank too low or risen too high), but he swallows and he smiles, and he starts rocking his hips back and forth.
He buries his face against L’s shoulder, breathes in against that white frosting-stained shirt, and his lungs seem to fill with cloth and the smell of him, with the disgusting decomposition scent of Ryuk’s breath.
Light groans, and he thinks, vaguely, that this is the first time he’s seen a dead body. Truth, he’s never been to a funeral in his life. He’s killed over one thousand criminals, but he has never seen a dead body. And this, it’s probably the worst way to become intimate with death.
He lays saliva-wet kisses down L’s jaw line, and this is revenge for spider-fingers creeping up his thigh, revenge for a chocolate-smeared fist connecting with his cheek, revenge for greasy black hair pressed against his nose. L’s skin, L’s cold, pale skin, it tastes bitter.
The young man starts thrusting harder, and Ryuzaki’s body moves with him, lifeless and ragdoll-limp. And again, the silence is overwhelming.
And when Light comes with a strangled moan, as he slumps against the corpse, sweating and breathing hard, Ryuk starts to laugh.
He says, “I didn’t know humans did that.” Cackling, he says, “You never stop amusing me, Light.”
The shinigami is still laughing as Light zips up his pants and staggers to the bathroom, where he leans against the sink, studying his reflection in the mirror. He runs long, lithe fingers through his hair, straightening the light brown strands. Light, he splashes cold water on his face, staring down his reflection as the water drips down his pale face.
It’s funny, but he doesn’t really feel like he’s accomplished anything. There was no exaction.
L has still won, as much as he doesn’t want to admit it.
He walks out, looks away as he puts L’s pants back on, throws the covers back over the body (and thanks a god he doesn’t believe in that no coroner will be looking into this). Light says, “Ryuk, never mention this again.”
And he opens the door, hands sweating, and walks out into the hallway, defeated and tired.
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