Death Note Anonymous Kink Meme

[dn_kink]

Welcome to the Death Note Anonymous Kink Meme!

How it works:

* Comment anonymously with a kinkfic request. All requests must contain a character or pairing/threesome/moresome (any combination of guys/girls/shinigami/whatever are OK, crossovers are fine too), and at least one kink. If you need inspiration, check out this huge list of kinks by eliade.

Comments

Glory [2/5]

[anonymous]

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The room he rents is dark and dingy, and he pays an extortionate price for it. He can afford it. He comes here in the same clothes he wears for work: it's protective camouflage. The suit and shirt and tie are expensive, and hang on a dedicated rail as he steps through to the bathroom to change his clothes, change himself. Two fingers inside, stretching and preparing, just in case: they slide in easily. Paint applied to his face with an expert hand: he doesn't want to be recognised on nights like this, not ever. The clothes are extremely cheap: loose track pants and a hooded top, and a hat over his distinctive hair. Scruffy, cheap, disreputable-looking. Dressed to kill - not as he does now, on rare occasions, but as he did, long ago. The man on the train. Raye Pember.

The seedy backstreet club is inexpensive, but that makes it busy, which is what Light wants. He steps into the booth, and closes the door behind him. He's been here before. The proprietor knows him, even if he wouldn't recognise him on the street. The tiny cubicle is confessional-dark: the slot in the wall is closed with curtains. There's a padded stool in front of the gap: Light kneels there, meditative. Ready. He's come here regularly for two years, yet every time he's nervous. Doesn't quite know what to expect. His mind wanders, as he waits, and he finds it turning to religious imagery. Christian imagery, to be precise. The god who couldn't understand humanity, so made himself human. Who voluntarily took on that taint.

What use is a god who doesn't understand suffering? What use is Kira's judgement if he lacks understanding?

It's ten minutes before the customers start trailing in. Before the other side of the booth clatters with heavy breathing, and something pokes through the black curtains. It's the head of a penis, already stiff and demanding, and not as clean as it could be. A 2000-yen note comes through next to it. Light takes the money, purses his lips, grits his teeth. This is always the worst part, the first one. It's the point when what he knows he is competes with what he really is.

The hoarse voice from the other side of the curtain is impatient. "Oi. What am I paying you for?"

Light puts out his tongue, quickly: laps at its one eye, and kisses delicately, the way he would a woman. The taste and smell are sickening: he'd bet this one hasn't washed for two days. Sliding it further in, Light presses his lips together in just the right way at the base: the filth is lost in the back of his throat, where he at least doesn't have to taste it. He tightens his throat, lets it relax again. Tears spring to his eyes. Back, and forth, and back again. The voice of the man who's paid for him sighs, and swears: a hand reaches through, grabs Light's hair and starts to choke him. The squeak of protest is put on for effect. Mostly.

Light is willing to bet this is another thing he does better than anyone else in Japan.