A/N: Written for the March 2010 Springkink prompt Death Note, Light/Misa: D/s - servicing God
Warnings: D/s, oral sex, religious themes
Disclaimer: Death Note is the property of Tsugumi Ohba and Takeshi Obata
Apotheosis
It was kind of a given, that this would happen occasionally. Still, he found it unbearably jarring. Mistakes were just not within Light's concept of deity, and it had been a banner day for them. One of the criminals he'd recently passed judgment on was posthumously exonerated by DNA evidence, five years after being convicted of molesting his six-year-old stepdaughter. Worse, tonight the news was reporting on the case of a man who went to prison after his wife disappeared without a trace. Kira punished the guy ages ago. But now, the wife had turned up alive and well in Bermuda with an underage boyfriend and a whole lot of unaccounted-for cash. Extradition was unlikely, as most countries had suspended their Japanese treaties for fear of Kira. Light pondered an appropriately cruel manner of executing the bitch for her deceit.
Liiight! Oh, Liiiiight!
Misa's shrill greeting cut through the droning voice of the news announcer as she bounded into the living room laden with boutique shopping bags. Blocking his view of the television, she dumped the bags out onto the floor and began to giggle and squeal over one trampy, absurdly-priced outfit after another. Light felt his barely-restrained temper rising fast. She always seemed to sense when he was at his worst, and elevated her aggravating behavior accordingly. It was part of the game, he knew. He never felt like playing, but he couldn't help himself. She provoked him, instigated conflict, and let herself be devoured by his righteous anger — a willing sacrifice to a vengeful god.
Fuck, he hated her. He longed to wrap his long fingers around her throat, snap her slender neck and hurl her lovely, high-maintenance body down the twenty-three stories to the street below. Of course, to do so would be tantamount to Kira's utter self-defeat, as they both well knew.
Instead, he slid further down on the sofa and spread his knees wide.
Shut up and do your job, Misa.
There were few things in this world that Light loved more than being serviced. Male or female, old or young, bought or given; he didn't care. Any hot, wet mouth would do. He wasn't particularly interested in sex. Watching some slut grovel on their knees before him, degrading themselves to give him head — that was power. That's what turned him on. He was a god, the corrupt and the debauched were his followers, and this, the power to make the country's most popular idol plop down on cue and unzip his pants —
This was his liturgy.
Unfortunately, the vapid glee that Misa took in her work always got in the way of his sadistic dominance fantasies. Gritting his teeth, Light shut his eyes and attempted to ignore that obnoxious voice, while Misa busied herself freeing him from the confines of his flawlessly tailored pants.
As usual, she had to work him into an erection, tonguing his foreskin until the head began to swell and push against her pliant, pink lips. She began her slow, ritual worship of his hardening cock, tracing every ridge and crevice with the very tip of her tongue, all the while stroking her tiny fist up and down his shaft and caressing his tightening balls.
Light reveled silently in her touch until his body reached a plateau of arousal. The tightness turned to an ache and his hostility flared again. Growling, he reached out to grab a handful of golden hair, close to the crown where it hurts the most. Misa managed a whimper of pain before he shoved her down onto himself, his cock jabbing hard into the back of her throat. Her whole body lurched with the instinctive panic of a blocked airway before she remembered herself and fell into a limp relaxation.
He gave her hair a sharp, painful jerk as punishment before pushing her down again, this time finding her throat wide open and ready. He set about rough-fucking her mouth until with a snort he yanked her head back, gripped his shaft and spattered his semen across her slack-jawed face. Spent, he shoved her down to the floor and settled back into the sofa, meticulously tucking himself away and straightening his clothes.
He couldn't resist a sneaking glance at Misa, sitting splay-legged on the floor with her little girl's skirt around her waist, eyeing him intently, the grin on her face bright and triumphant.
So this is how you treat those who love you.
He could almost hear the passive-aggressive accusation as she reveled in the pangs of guilt that rippled through his lax frame. This was that game he couldn't resist playing, the one where she lured him into mistreating her, then used his remorse to remind him that he wasn't a god after all.
No matter how much of an act she put on, no matter how vivid his fantasy — this wasn't liturgy, and Misa wasn't his high priestess. It was just a game, and he always lost.