So I decided to write some BB…and I realized that I'm addicted to him. He's just so…well, BB.
I don't own Death Note, okies?
………………………………………………………………………………………………..
L was the only person that BB would permit to read his work.
He would always watch it adoration as the boy's slender, powdery white fingers accepted a freshly completed poem, his lips curling into a considerate smile and nodding in acknowledgment.
Oh, that smile…why didn't his smile look like that?
And then those charcoal eyes would flit across the paper as he delved into the poem, his brow furrowing in a stunning concentration while BB anxiously stood in front of him, shifting his weight and gnawing on his bottom lip. There was never a time that he did not appreciate praise from L, his idol, his reason to thrive and breathe…
L would always review what he had read with something along the lines of, "Very nice, BB," or "Impressive as usual, BB."
It was almost better than if he had told him that he loved him, but the sweeping of adrenaline that came with his words held the same meaning.
He would say his name…there were truly no possible means of describing it. BB wanted to hear it more from those soft, pale lips, gain more sanction, more attention from the person who had shaped and molded him into the avid fan and, if he was correct, friend, that he was.
When L would hand the paper back to him with a kind smile, that chaste smile that never failed to send a mad flurry through his stomach, he would crack a jester's grin and mutter a sheepish appreciation before shuffling back to his room. It was his ritual after times like these to run the paper that had touched L's hands down his bare stomach, lingering over his groin…then rest the paper over his face and inhale the sensation the memory provided him with.
He was on his way out of his room, sonnet in hand, and saw the bare feet of his raven-haired critique on the wooden floor of Wammy's library, his usual hiding place.
The familiar stir of limmerance churned into something rancid and zealous when he was the girl standing in front of L, smiling and laughing over something that BB was not granted to be involved in.
S. The red-haired beauty that frequently occupied the far corner of the library, jotting down thoughts into a small notebook.
She was a poet as well.
BB watched from the doorway, only his head peeping out from the entrance, as the girl reached out her small hand and touched L's arm, speaking with a feminine smirk. A thick wave of horror rose in BB's throat as his idol, his hero froze, blushed, looked at the floor.
Smiled.
S leaned in quickly and pecked his cheek before flitting out of the library, passing by the boy with the paper clutched in his hand at the doorway.
…is that how it shall be, S?
BB crushed the poem in his hand and dug his jagged fingernails into his fist until the skin broke open. He felt a grin twitch at his lips when he saw the rouge trickle down his palm and wrist, and left the library before L would notice his appearance.
He would not kill her; such an act would be useless on his behalf.
But he would be certain that she would never corrupt his hero any further than she already had.
…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………
S looked up from her book in her customary table in the library, adjusting the pin in her hair before turning the page.
A paper had been wedged into the spine of her novel, folded in half and college-ruled. Cautiously pulling it out, she unfolded it and widened her eyes in alarm when she took notice of the crimson lettering, the paper stained in deep red splotches. As she read the note, she became acutely aware that she was being watched. Watched by someone…perhaps from the opposite side of the library…
"Would your blood be as red as your hair, my dear?"
She dropped the note onto the table and took in a sharp gasp, dropping the note onto the table. What type of person would send someone like her a note such as this? And for what reason…?
"…would you like to find out?"
S swallowed hard and slowly looked up from the paper and across the library from her seemingly safe corner.
A grimy hand flat against the wall and a pale face peering around at her from the doorway…a smile made of a menacing mirth chilled something in the heart of S as she stared back at him.
Just before BB slithered away, he placed a single finger against his lips in a "hush" gesture, smirking through the freshly bleeding gashes on his wrist.
………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….
Please review, my lovely readers! Until next time!
Phollie.