Week #82 - Fetish
Title: Bloodlust
Rating: PG-13 I guess, for BUCKETS O' BLOOD and weirdo sex if you squint you should be expecting this!
Pairings/Characters: Light. Misa, L, Mikami, Near also present.
Warnings: Blood. Also, this entry is stupidly quick, so take that as you will. Also also, LIGHT WITH A SUBCONSCIENCE? gross
Word Count: 711
Notes: Guys I am completely haemophobic. Blood is like my anti-fetish. I'm a fainter. Also I guess I imagine Near as one of these. Specifically, Serious illness or a major loss of blood from an injury are also causes for her to revert to common status
*
Light could never be a real murderer.
It’s too messy. Disgusting. The thought of touching another person’s fluids makes Light grimace.
Murder, in short, is gross.
So Light sits comfortably at his uncomfortable desk and writes tidy names in a clean, white notebook. His penmanship is perfect, and he never has to erase. Every so often he pauses to wipe his fingertips of graphite stains. This is how Light knows he is not a real murderer. How could something so immaculate be a sin?
(this thought process is also why Light doesn’t think he’ll ever want to have sex, but that’s something different entirely)
Light remembers when he was six years old, running down the stairs to meet his father coming home. He tripped on the last step and fell all over, and when he finished grimacing the white tile floor was smeared with his blood. He stared down somberly at his mangled knees, not with horror but with disdain, feeling only disappointed in his flesh.
(it doesn’t hurt so bad, but after that Light decides he won’t run anymore)
It's a lot worse a year later, watching his father chopping vegetables, chop chop chop and, oh, whoops - the first knuckle of his forefinger slit open like a smile, the knife sliced cleanly through the muscle to the bone. Light remembers the second between his father swearing (an occasion rare enough to warrant his immediate attention) and the blood dripping onto the carrots.
He stumbled backwards from the kitchen, away from his father’s calm request for a bandage.
(he insists, as he clutches clumsily at his chopsticks with plastered fingers, that he threw the tainted ones away, but Light can’t eat anything that night)
Light isn’t a haemophobe. Light isn’t an anything-phobe. He frowns at hypochondriacs and girls who shriek at spiders, and there’s nothing scary about blood. There’s nothing scary about blood. There's
(the queasy feeling makes him more angry than anything)
It’s so strange, then, the sick little thrill he gets when he bites Misa’s lower lip too hard in an otherwise unenthusiastic demonstration of his commitment. She hisses (but just at the pain, not at him, never) and he watches in dull fascination as a tiny bead of blood wells up, round and beautiful and simple. A mumbled apology as he stares and he’s so enthralled that she daren’t answer or wipe it away, not even when it trickles prettily into the crevice below her cupid’s bow.
(but she forgets that funny feeling when he renews the kiss with something like actual passion)
And Light could never shoot or stab a man, not face to face, because what if something got on him? One satisfying crunch, though, and a throbbing pain in his fist tell says L’s nose is broken. The detective is mumbling words Light can’t quite pay attention to with blood running brightly in the cracks between his teeth, and then the retaliatory kick clicks his own jaws together around his tongue. Light spits on reflex and for a moment they both stare at the pink saliva seeping into the carpet.
Light's heart thumps and he suggests they each take turns cleaning up.
(and if Light wasn’t taking so long in the bathroom L wouldn’t have to use his sleeve to stem the flow)
And Light couldn’t even watch a chicken being slaughtered, but he feels a bizarre and delicious glee when Mikami says, of course, of course, whatever you want and lets him touch him ever so gently with the tip of a knife. So gently that it almost doesn’t hurt, so gently that it almost never draws blood.
(and sometimes Mikami wishes it wouldn’t because then He sometimes forgets that He said He wouldn’t cut very deeply, and that Mikami is so very haemophobic. Oh he wishes he were more obedient)
Light washed his hands until the skin ached, once.
(and all he'd done that day was write)
It is perhaps the strangest thing, then, that when Light catches sight of his hand dripping steadily onto the filthy floor of the dim warehouse, under the screaming insanity he feels nothing at all.
But he can’t find it in himself to think so.
(Near stares at the dried puddles and how interesting that it looks the same as his - but he's supposing, for he has never bled)
Rating: PG-13 I guess, for BUCKETS O' BLOOD and weirdo sex if you squint you should be expecting this!
Pairings/Characters: Light. Misa, L, Mikami, Near also present.
Warnings: Blood. Also, this entry is stupidly quick, so take that as you will. Also also, LIGHT WITH A SUBCONSCIENCE? gross
Word Count: 711
Notes: Guys I am completely haemophobic. Blood is like my anti-fetish. I'm a fainter. Also I guess I imagine Near as one of these. Specifically, Serious illness or a major loss of blood from an injury are also causes for her to revert to common status
*
Light could never be a real murderer.
It’s too messy. Disgusting. The thought of touching another person’s fluids makes Light grimace.
Murder, in short, is gross.
So Light sits comfortably at his uncomfortable desk and writes tidy names in a clean, white notebook. His penmanship is perfect, and he never has to erase. Every so often he pauses to wipe his fingertips of graphite stains. This is how Light knows he is not a real murderer. How could something so immaculate be a sin?
(this thought process is also why Light doesn’t think he’ll ever want to have sex, but that’s something different entirely)
Light remembers when he was six years old, running down the stairs to meet his father coming home. He tripped on the last step and fell all over, and when he finished grimacing the white tile floor was smeared with his blood. He stared down somberly at his mangled knees, not with horror but with disdain, feeling only disappointed in his flesh.
(it doesn’t hurt so bad, but after that Light decides he won’t run anymore)
It's a lot worse a year later, watching his father chopping vegetables, chop chop chop and, oh, whoops - the first knuckle of his forefinger slit open like a smile, the knife sliced cleanly through the muscle to the bone. Light remembers the second between his father swearing (an occasion rare enough to warrant his immediate attention) and the blood dripping onto the carrots.
He stumbled backwards from the kitchen, away from his father’s calm request for a bandage.
(he insists, as he clutches clumsily at his chopsticks with plastered fingers, that he threw the tainted ones away, but Light can’t eat anything that night)
Light isn’t a haemophobe. Light isn’t an anything-phobe. He frowns at hypochondriacs and girls who shriek at spiders, and there’s nothing scary about blood. There’s nothing scary about blood. There's
(the queasy feeling makes him more angry than anything)
It’s so strange, then, the sick little thrill he gets when he bites Misa’s lower lip too hard in an otherwise unenthusiastic demonstration of his commitment. She hisses (but just at the pain, not at him, never) and he watches in dull fascination as a tiny bead of blood wells up, round and beautiful and simple. A mumbled apology as he stares and he’s so enthralled that she daren’t answer or wipe it away, not even when it trickles prettily into the crevice below her cupid’s bow.
(but she forgets that funny feeling when he renews the kiss with something like actual passion)
And Light could never shoot or stab a man, not face to face, because what if something got on him? One satisfying crunch, though, and a throbbing pain in his fist tell says L’s nose is broken. The detective is mumbling words Light can’t quite pay attention to with blood running brightly in the cracks between his teeth, and then the retaliatory kick clicks his own jaws together around his tongue. Light spits on reflex and for a moment they both stare at the pink saliva seeping into the carpet.
Light's heart thumps and he suggests they each take turns cleaning up.
(and if Light wasn’t taking so long in the bathroom L wouldn’t have to use his sleeve to stem the flow)
And Light couldn’t even watch a chicken being slaughtered, but he feels a bizarre and delicious glee when Mikami says, of course, of course, whatever you want and lets him touch him ever so gently with the tip of a knife. So gently that it almost doesn’t hurt, so gently that it almost never draws blood.
(and sometimes Mikami wishes it wouldn’t because then He sometimes forgets that He said He wouldn’t cut very deeply, and that Mikami is so very haemophobic. Oh he wishes he were more obedient)
Light washed his hands until the skin ached, once.
(and all he'd done that day was write)
It is perhaps the strangest thing, then, that when Light catches sight of his hand dripping steadily onto the filthy floor of the dim warehouse, under the screaming insanity he feels nothing at all.
But he can’t find it in himself to think so.
(Near stares at the dried puddles and how interesting that it looks the same as his - but he's supposing, for he has never bled)