Could not resist posting some of the new one. This isn’t funny! Well, only in small places. It’s angsty and gloomy and depressing, insane and twisted. Sigh... autobiographical... XD XD

It’s also yaoi-filled, so please beware if you are underage, easily offended or likely to be offensive if you read this kind of thing ;)

Dedicated to recipe for insanity who has been kind enough to beta it and convinced me it was worth carrying on with when doubt assailed and I was convinced it was the ramblings of a disordered mind – thank you :)

SPOILERS: Up to episode 58 manga/25 anime

DISCLAIMER: Death note and its characters do not belong to me. If they did I would not admit it. No, that is not Japanese language screaming you can hear from my cellar.

Adorn magnificent costume

For I come to judge the world

Be with me here in my dark place

Let yours be mine

Bare witness to this orgy of glory

Groping at my naked privacy

Unleashing pure bitterness

And I did bleed over them

From – The Bitterness and the Bereavement by My Dying Bride.

I have to confess I don’t care for your choice of reading matter. Your father is appalled but I’m just – disappointed. I have to smile to myself as I reassure Yagami Soichiro that it’s normal for you to look at soft porn. Or maybe I’m laughing at myself. What did I expect you to be reading, Zipper? Boyz in Chainz? Twink Torture? That says a lot more about me than it does about you, Yagami Light. But I had wondered – well, I was misled by your appearance, no doubt, very far from the normal heterosexual semi-slobbishness I’d expect from someone of your age. But it’s useful, your neatness, your precision, your insistence on a place for everything and everything in its place, even when it comes to the way you present yourself. Obsessiveness and narcissism would fit nicely with my picture of Kira.

You put the magazine away quickly when your sister comes knocking at the door. She needs help with her homework, the girl is apparently a mathematical moron. Which you don’t see fit to mention, in fact you end up doing most of the questions for her. I get a sense that you’re close, which doesn’t surprise me. You have an absent father and a mother who’s an airhead, who else have either of you got to talk to when you’re at home?

Watching you together, I smile, working out what’s going on here. She’s a bright girl, perfectly capable of doing the work herself. So either she’s lazy and won’t do it while she has you to do it for her, or she simply wants your attention and finds this a convenient way to get it without losing face. I wonder how intelligent she is, really? It’s not uncommon in families where the eldest sibling is a brilliant overachiever, for the younger one to react against academic success even if they’re capable of it.

It makes me think of the manipulative boys at Wammy’s, not that I know them in person. But I get reports and what I read tends to make me alternately want to howl with laughter or tear my hair out in frustration at the thought that these maladjusted, self-serving delinquents are my only choices to succeed me should I die. I wonder, suddenly, if things would go better if I took a more direct hand in their education. Of course, that would necessitate their knowing me, what I look like, other things I might reveal through personal contact. But perhaps it would be worth it. We’d certainly make a dysfunctional unit, but at least they wouldn’t be able to get the better of me in the way that they do with the staff at Wammy’s. I smile again, with the Addams Family theme running through my head.

Your father’s gone home now. You left your room, went down to greet him. I watch you on the screen, you’re unaware of the cameras that track your every movement as you return to your sanctuary. What will you do now? It must be nearly your bedtime. Yes, you’re undressing. I can’t hold back a sigh of satisfaction. Your behaviour during the evenings you spend alone are my prime concern as an agent of justice, but from a personal point of view I have to admit I like this part best. For a moment it crosses my mind to wonder what you’d think if you knew I was watching you. Recording your every move and sharing your most intimate and private moments. I imagine you’d be horrified, I really don’t think I’m the kind of person you’d invite into your bedroom, even though my presence is vicarious. I know what people think of me – I’ve heard it all; at least I used to hear it before I created my own haven of privacy that travels with me and keeps unwanted intruders and their disparaging comments at bay.

I wonder what you’re like when you’re angry. I suppose it’s not something you show, it’s a flaw and you don’t apparently have any of those, unlike myself who am basically all flaws strung together by the redeeming factor of my mind. The one thing that enables me to fit into my niche and exist in relative harmony with the world. I picture you enraged, those gorgeous caramel eyes flashing fire, angry with me for invading you. Would you become physical? Throw me out? Well, attempt to, I hardly think you’d succeed. Or perhaps you’d just shout and gesture at me, unwilling to touch me even to make a point that needs underlining with violence.

I shake the thoughts away and concentrate on what you’re doing. You normally head for the shower at this point but instead you take off your pants, undo your shirt and start rummaging on a bookshelf, the same one the girly magazine came from. Are you going to masturbate? That would be – interesting. But this isn’t a magazine you’re bringing out. It’s a drawing pad and pencils, stashed away in a file box. Are you hiding them? What would you draw that you need to hide?

You lie down on the bed and start flipping through the pages of the pad. It seems to be a story and despite the fact that I feel by now as if I’ve seen everything under the sun during the course of my investigative life, I blink in surprise. There are no big-breasted women here. Instead, a young man, leaning against the wall of a Mediterranean kind of building, I can see the pantiles roughly drawn overhead. He’s wearing loose pants, no shirt, barefoot, dark hair curling around his face. Further images follow your protagonist’s progress as he walks away, down a narrow street, knocking at a door. Which is opened by another man and this is where things get really astonishing. When the two pencilled figures lose no time in throwing off their clothes and leaping into or rather onto the bed together. To say I’m startled is an understatement.

You’re a good artist. And what you’ve drawn – is both detailed and accurate. You’ve obviously spent plenty of time studying positioning and possibilities, if you haven’t put them all into practise yourself. Not that I can imagine the perfect Yagami Light engaging in homosexual activities unless he was one hundred per cent sure he wouldn’t get found out. On the other hand, Yagami Light, gay mangaka, isn’t an idea that’s crossed my mind before either.

You pick up a pencil and start to draw, working on a scene where the original dark-haired man is lying on his back and being penetrated by his lover. I notice you have the common artist’s trait of storing your pencils between your fingers rather than putting them down and picking up a different one. Hedgehog hands. I smile, leaning to metaphorically look over your shoulder as you draw, your face tilted down, concentrating. What would you think if you knew I was there, like a ghost at your side, close enough to touch you, distract you? What if I was really there, would you do this in front of me? Would you be embarrassed? Or would you ignore me as something irrelevant whose presence does not need to be considered...

It’s some time before you seem satisfied with what you’ve done, but finally you put down all the pencils and turn back to the first page, the man alone, leaning against a wall in the sunshine. I take the opportunity to study the figure more closely. He’s probably your own age, slim and toned, more pretty than handsome but not insipid. So is that what you like? You certainly seem to be giving your own creation a look of more interest than you did the girls in the magazine. He doesn’t look Japanese either, but then, manga characters rarely do, so is his appearance merely an artistic convention on your part or do you actually prefer Caucasian men? Dark haired Caucasian men – which could describe myself! Apart from the curly hair, because mine doesn’t, apart from in a damp atmosphere. I wonder if you and I were alone together, somewhere steamy, maybe caught in a light rain shower, would you find me attractive? Well – probably not.

You sigh and get up, putting the pad and pencils back in their hiding place. Head for the bathroom. Shower time.

I lean forward, watching as you slip your shirt slowly off your shoulders, almost as if undressing for a lover. But there’s no-one there apart from you and you can’t possibly know that I’m watching you – can you? Then I remember the slight possibility that you’re Kira. Which is, of course, why I’m watching you. Kira kills in a way that seems supernatural or at least, inexplicable. So perhaps there is some way for you to know I’m watching. If you’re Kira.

But if so – why would you tease me? Why would you even think I’d be impressionable enough to be teased by you? Don’t you care that – no, you know your father’s not watching. You waited until he was home before you started this session of undressing and artwork.

I shrug the thoughts aside to return to later. Watch the boxers come off. Damn, you undress like a stripper, Yagami Light, sliding the thin cloth down over your slim hips, a smile on your face. Then you’re left with just your socks between you and total nudity. White sports socks, though why you’re wearing those I can’t imagine as there’s no sports mentioned in your school timetable for today. Maybe you just wanted to have sexy feet? Socks, unfortunately, aren’t appealing to me, I like naked toes. I wonder what it would be like to have your naked toes in my mouth? As if that would ever happen, I can only imagine your horror at the idea of having me sucking on your feet, drool all over your perfect pedicure. A comic-book picture drifts through my head of myself creeping like some predatory beast toward your toes, you leaping onto a chair yelling ‘eek, pervert!’ and the laughter this conjures up tastes bitter in my mouth.

You remove the socks, standing on one leg and then the other, precisely balanced, elegant even in that stork-like position. Get into the shower and I have to switch cameras, watching you turn on the water. It’s a Japanese style shower, low, meant for sitting in, but you’re standing so the water sprays over your chest and abdomen.

Then I realise that your hand is sliding up your body, your long elegant fingers caressing your own nipples. I make a sound I’d never make if there was anyone here. I’d never be so – so squeaky – in front of another human being. At least, I hope not.

It really doesn’t seem fair that you should be so beautiful. So undeniably irresistible. But you are, and thank God, at least it gives me a reasonable excuse for the arousal I’m unable to subdue.

I stare, fascinated, as you play with your body, touching yourself, stroking and caressing. Is this all you do then? You don’t have a girlfriend. You’ve dated, sporadically, but not long enough to call any of your brief encounters a relationship. Now it seems you’re gay or at least bisexual, and quite aware of it. Looking like you do, you must have male admirers as well as female. Do you have sex with them? Or do you only take pleasure in yourself, in some fantasy you inhabit, where whatever sleek, submissive bodies you choose make it their business to pleasure you. I almost feel a sense of kinship for you at that thought.

Your hands are beautiful. Watching them straying languidly over your smooth skin as my own fingers drift into my lap, I wonder what you’re seeing, what lover lives behind your closed eyes, causes your lips to part, the smallest of smiles to turn your face from the perfect beauty of a marble Hylas or Ganymede into something warm, alive and potentially available.

But not to me. I pull down my zipper almost absently, realising I’ve forgotten to put on any underwear today. Well, isn’t that convenient.

I become aware of stickiness. How long have I been in this state? I didn’t realise, so absorbed in you as I was. But I wait. I know you will, so I wait for you. It doesn’t occur to me that this isn’t a good idea, although in the back of my mind I know that thought is waiting to happen. I place my hand on my lower abdomen, absently rubbing the streaks of fluid over my skin. Watching you, with nothing to distract me apart from the sound of my own breathing, slightly rapid, and your occasional murmurs of pleasure.

You wash yourself like a caress, there’s nothing clean about it. I’m pinned to the screen as if you actually had hold of me and that image takes over my mind, making me draw in my breath and lick my lips in imaginary anticipation. Thoughts of being alone in the shower with Yagami Light, my own skin stroked and touched by the dirty boy that hides inside that perfectly polite exterior.

Your hand is rambling downward and I find myself nodding in agreement, yes, Light, a little further. Just grab it already, you tease! Your fingers stroke through your pubic hair, the same color as that on your head, surprising, really. I thought you must dye it. Maybe an occidental ancestor somewhere in your background?

Then my background thoughts dissipate as you finally reach your goal, your hand encircling yourself, shoulders leaning back against the tiled wall, an expression of lust and concentration on your face, good grief, do you even take this seriously? Your face, as if by accident turns toward my camera, your half-lidded eyes seeming to gaze at me invitingly. My own hand follows your lead and I grasp myself, feeling the power of your languorous eyes warming me, engorging me as I start to stroke along my length. I find I’m unconsciously matching my movements to yours and mentally shrug, letting myself go with it.

Your elegant hand moves up and down, stopping occasionally to let your thumb rub over the swollen head of your extremely pretty cock and I follow you like a dance partner. Watching you, not what I’m doing, that way it’s easier to imagine your hand, your slim fingers on me. Arousing and exciting me. Your eyes hold me and I can almost feel you around me, the heat of your body behind me, your arm stretching around me to touch and squeeze and tempt, ignoring the fact that something like that could never, ever happen between us. Nor would you want it to.

I’m not quiet any more. Muffled sighs and grunts that seem to join with the gentle murmurs and occasional soft moans you emit as you work yourself, the shower water running down you, hanging in droplets from your moving fingers, running down your shaft, mixing with the tears of precum.

I shift around on my chair, impatient now. You stare uncompromisingly at the camera, you can’t know it’s there but you keep looking and I almost feel you’re looking into my eyes, yours alight with some unholy fire that burns me and makes me groan, deep in my throat. Our pace intensifies and I wonder briefly if you picture your man, the man you draw, there with you. I want to be him. I want the impossible, to be what you want, who you want, in the shower with you, together and wet. Pressed back against you, feeling you hard against me, rubbing yourself over my skin, your lips on my neck. Your hands holding me. Your voice moaning in my ear, demanding that I come for you.

Your hips move, thrusting yourself into your hand and your expression changes to a look of pleasure so intense it’s nearly pain, a low cry coming from between your perfect lips, the same from mine. Your seed spatters out, splashing over your smooth skin and my body spasms, my legs sliding down to the floor, flinging myself back in my chair as I come, the intensity shocking me, sheer pleasure with no control at all, my hips rising and falling, unbalancing me until I fall to the floor, still pumping my hand, still spurting.

Eventually, I crawl back onto my chair. Peer into the monitor to see you washing, face flushed, slightly breathless but back in control. As I convince myself I am. I fasten my jeans, deciding I probably need a shower now and a change of clothes.

I sigh, staring at your graceful movements on my screen. What I’ve done is wrong. Not wrong in the sense of sin or evil or perverted, I don’t care about any of that. But wrong because – you’re my suspect. Letting you arouse me like this, conjure thoughts and wishes from me that I didn’t even know I had, that is what’s wrong. It gives you the chance for dominance in our dance and that’s something I will never allow.

I shrug, telling myself I’m making something out of nothing. You don’t even know you have a dance partner and if you wanted one, it wouldn’t be me, I’d be the one left standing against the wall as you swirl across the floor with someone else. Half smiling, I realise that this is a foolproof opportunity to indulge my sometimes annoyingly persistent sexual nature. Better than magazines or even porn DVDs, a real live boy to watch and you’ll never know about it. After all – it’s not as though we’ll ever meet, is it, Yagami Light?