Disclaimer: I do not own Death Note.
A/N: Last warning - This is a non-consensual lemon. That means rape, folks.
I had never thought deeply about colors, never ruminated in their influence, until I snapped. My precarious sanity shattered as easily as a cold chunk of chocolate is crushed between my teeth.
Before me, your body was a blank canvas, pristine and pure, flawless and so cold to the touch. Perfectly white and smooth, it invited me to paint it with colors of frustration and desire, pretty hues of lust and pain.
The stronger the feeling, the more vivid the color.
The sensation of your flesh beneath my fingers? Words cannot paint such a beautiful image. That is why, instead of expressing my hatred for you in mere words, I use a paintbrush dipped in sickly yellow and eggplant to adorn your once annoyingly perfect frame with ugly bruises. They stand out against the pallid tones of your skin so nicely, I think you need a few more.
Don't cry just yet, Near. We're getting there, be patient.
I let my head rest against yours for a few moments, wisps of my hair mingling and contrasting brilliantly against yours. The silver threads attempt to curl and shy away from the touch, but golden locks are not so easily dissuaded, confronting the silver directly in bone-straight chunks. Maybe I'm getting ahead of myself, or seeing what I want to see, but this interaction seems to foreshadow the events to come.
Are you ready? I know I am.
Red is such a sinfully lovely color against the lily-white of your skin. That's why I want to see ample amount of it. Crimson beads sprout at the tips of my black-stained fingernails as I rake the length of your body. Even my teeth have a taste, tearing at the hollow junction where throat meets shoulder. My delicacy of choice is chocolate, but your liquid life is just as dark, rich, sweet. Does it hurt when the soothing sandpaper of my tongue scrapes the fresh gash?
I've always considered pink a weak color, inferior to the lust and prowess of ruby red. But both you and I are proving me wrong. The rosy flush on your cheeks is delectable, making you look almost as childish as you act. My tongue snakes around your blushing nipple, pink against pink.
You're trembling now. Shaking like a leaf. Your head thrashes from side to side; perhaps it's some desperate and frantic attempt to free yourself. Usually you're so levelheaded, Near. But don't think I'm complaining. In fact, I feel downright privileged to watch you unravel. I'll even hold the string.
The desperate pleas that are tearing from your throat fall on deaf ears. If anything, they egg me on. Even if I did feel some sort of sympathy for you, I'm too fervent to stop now. You always predicted that the lack of control I possess over my emotions would lead to my downfall. Did you ever, in your dizziest daydreams, think that they would lead to yours, too?
I shove you down, eye level with black leather laces. At this point, I'm seeing green. Humiliation and resentment flash violent lime and deep olive tints pulse before my eyes as I see myself just below you in every aspect of my life. And the aloofness with which you've always regarded me fuels my fire. Being number two might gratify pathetic people, but second place is really just first loser.
You know what's expected of you, so why not get on with it? You're too stubborn. You think you still have your dignity? Near, I've long since stripped you of that, as easily as I stripped you of those worn cotton pajamas.
Fine, I'll cut you some slack. Quickly, my nimble fingers untie the laces, but you still refuse to open your mouth. A rough tug to your curls is a quick fix, your gasp of pain is all the invitation I need to enter the hot and hesitant cavern that is your mouth. I hit the back of your throat, eliciting a gag, but I won't let up, even when a blend of saliva and pre-come dribbles from the corner of that small mouth. Your inexperience is apparent, but that doesn't stop me from seeing white. It could be the white of your curls that blurs my vision, or maybe I'm just that ecstatic.
The thrill proves too much, and I quickly pull back before I get too close, leaving you with a chance to catch your breath, creak your aching jaw back into place. Pulling you in for a long-overdue kiss, I find myself stunned at how your lips melt to mine, but it could be that you're so fatigued and defeated that you cannot bring yourself to fight. The mere thought has my cat-like grin widening. Your tongue stirs a bit in my mouth; I can taste myself.
Near, there's nothing stopping me from taking you here and now. The way your body is writhing on mine makes me think you want this as much as I do. I can't be bothered to prepare you, it is a frivolous waste of time and I won't allow myself to be so courteous; the pain will turn to pleasure soon enough. Or maybe it won't. Either way, I couldn't care less. I'm doing this for myself.
I thrust into you and slam my body into yours recklessly, without grace or mercy. I don't even bother to pick up a rhythm at first, but then I find a spot inside of you that makes your eyes well and a scream tear from your throat. Looks like you didn't require stretching after all; the blood of your deflowering is a fine lubricant. All your defenses have been completely destroyed. I've proved that you're human. Your shell of a person who is unfeeling and logical is cracked and shattered by me and me alone. My name rips from your lips and never has a single word sounded so erotic.
I hate you, Near. I hate you. The words drip black and venomous from my tongue, as black as the leather I've discarded. Black as the feelings you must have for me now.
It's not enough for me to take your virginity. Do you really think I'd be so shallow? I'll force you to enjoy this. Your pride and self-respect are things I value as much as, if not more than, your innocence. Snow-white head and snow-cold heart scream for this to stop, but your body begs me to continue. I'm all too happy to comply.
Your hurt is palpable. I can feel it with every tremor of your ashen flesh, hear it with every rickety breath you take, breaths that seem to rattle your weak lungs against fragile ribs. I see it in those bottomless grey eyes of yours. You close them tightly, but whether it is from pain or embarrassment or some other emotion you are desperately trying to keep hidden, I do not know. Or care.
Gloved fingers grip your chin roughly. Your jaw is so delicate; I can feel the bones beneath your paper-thin skin. I could crush them as if they were made of glass. Would they make a tinkling sound before dissolving into a fine powder, I wonder?
I rasp for you to open your eyes and look at me. Eye contact from you is precious somehow; watching those liquid eyes glisten and fill to the brim with hurt arouses me that much more.
Can you feel it now-the shame and ache that I've felt my entire life from coming second to the likes of you? The bruises and bleeding wounds are the culmination of the pain I've always felt, the feeling of my body thrusting mercilessly into yours, the humiliation. Perhaps it would seem to you that despite what I've been through, I'm taking this too far, that it pales in comparison to the havoc I'm wreaking on your body and soul. But having to play second fiddle to someone you abhor, trying so hard but achieving so little – it takes a toll on you, and, as it's been said time and time again, I've never been the most put-together of people.
When you begin pleading again with me to stop, I know that I've done what I set out to do. But I'm not done yet. The strokes and squeezes I give to your arousal may be harsh and insistent, but you should be grateful that I'm even trying to make you feel good. The truth is, I just want you to revel in the shame of an orgasm you did not want, to see you completely humiliated at your body's betrayal.
It isn't long before I feel you tense up. You come, hard, into my hand and over the both of us, fingernails lodged in the quilted leather of my vest. It's the first consensual contact you've made with me all night, but you apparently no longer feel the need to fight. Your orgasm sets mine off and I spill inside of you; I hope it stings and burns the walls of your raw orifice. The feeling is pure bliss, but so is the sight of you lying before me, curled into yourself and trembling, so evidently and beautifully broken.
Did you think I'd hold you when it was all over? Caress your curls and whisper soothingly in your ear? Even if I wanted to, I know you wouldn't allow it; that it would be an insult to your pride – if you had any left.
I've finally won, Near. And do you know what the best part is? I didn't need L's title or even a fucking murder notebook to do it.