She'll do anything for him.


She will steal for him. She will pretend for him. She will kill for him. She will even die for him. The impulse to obey and perform is as much a part of her as her smooth, pale skin, as much as her almond-brown eyes, as much as her high-pitched, adolescent voice. The impulse to serve him, to give him anything and everything he could possibly desire from her. Slaughter. Submission. Sex. It is all the things that he wants, and she obeys without question, nothing more than doe-eyed admiration and adoring reverence shining forth from those hazel orbs, as she writes down the names that he wants in her Death Note, as she waits for his calls night after night, as she lowers her slender, desire-slicked sex over his in his favorite position.

In their somewhat peculiar relationship, it is without question that he has complete control and power. He possesses the Death Notes. It is he who decides the time, the location, and the way someone dies. And yet, she follows with an obedience that unnerves the Shinigami, and at times, even him.

Because she loves him. Because he is her Knight. Because he is her supposed boyfriend in a pretence of a one-sided relationship that is the world to one and a convenience to the other. Because he is Kira. Because he is Light.

He is her Light. Without him, there is only darkness. And because he is her Light, and because he is her Love, she will do anything and everything for him.

But, also, albeit subtly, she still feels.

Her relationship is nothing alike those that she would dream upon when she was but a little girl. She is not the Princess, but the slave. And he is not the Prince, but the master. Effectually, she occasionally views their relationship from a more foreign perspective, seeing it as little more than a perverse simulacrum of a twisted, meaningless fetish.

And it hurts.

And she cries.

So many are the nights that she lies on her bed, Rem watching impassively from the corner, the mobile phone in her hand that represents the symbol of her hope and desperate wish that maybe, maybe this night he will call, and she will hear his voice again, only to be disappointed by the shadowy, static silence of the screen. And she watches him, watches as he so meticulously and marvelously creates his flawless vista of existence piece by piece at a time, as he plots and implements every trivial and yet crucial modicum of his fantasy of a perfect world with an affection and devotion so tender and intense that she longs for him to look upon her with the same depth in his eyes. She contemplates, whilst seething with a broiling furnace of jealousy and an ocean of hate, as he so casually attracts and seduces other girls with his charisma, with his presence, until they are but hapless, nervous whores bewitched by the spell of a perfect god.

And she cries.

He is cold. He is merciless. Ruthless. Flawless. And there are times where his cold, calculating way of analyzing all possibilites and circumstances that can work to his advantage leave her so torn and broken, but all of that matters naught when the rare times come that he follows his more base whims, when he is willing to kiss, to caress, to lavish with his lips and possess with his hands and body, and she becomes breathless again. It is as if her soul is but a crystalline structure, once perfect and pristine, but now so filled with flaws that the slightest hint or touch of malignant intent will shatter it into a million tiny little pieces.

But he knows, oh yes, he knows all too well. And he is careful. And he is cautious. Cautious to ensure that he always touches her and holds her at the moments that she is about to break, to heal her latest scars and wounds with a touch that only he can provide, for she is all too useful and advantageous a tool to be disposed of so whimisically. And, alternatively, he uses her as the outlet for his more animalistic instincts, which dominate his mind with increasingly frequent occasions of late, and she is willing. She is more than willing. And every time he enters her, every time his lips trail along her jawline, along her neck, across her breasts and beneath her legs, every time she breathes and moans in an ecstasy that only he can provide, she wishes, she hopes, she pleads, that maybe this time, maybe now, finally, he will love her.

And the morning after, when she sits on the bed, covered only in sparse layers of sheets, the room filled with the scent of filthy, desperate sex, and watches him pull on his jeans and shirt whilst tersely telling her to get dressed, she knows that he will never love her.

And she cries.

There are times when he is filled with rage, with despair, with indecision, stress and the probability of being discovered and his dreams and plans destroyed too high for his liking, and he takes it out on her. With fist, and boot, and chair, and glass. And every whimper or cry that escapes her lips as he hurts her, again, and again. And the sounds of her blood from a split lip spattering upon the glass. And the wet, gasping breaths that leave her lips as he pounds out his fury and his vengeance upon her in a way that is nothing like her Light, in those few, fleeting moments that he loses his carefully maintained and restrained control. And her eyes, shining with unshed tears from a bloodied, broken face, continues to gaze up into his own with nothing but adoration and shameless love within them as he breaks her heart again in ways that she never believed possible. There are times when Rem, and even Ryukku, try to intervene, and she pleads, she insists, that they do not, only that they help her some way, somehow, with their unnatural powers, to heal her physical hurts and wounds so that she is perfect again, on the outside.

So she can be perfect for him. But for him, perfect will never be enough.

And with each passing day that she watches him manipulate and slowly create his flawless, ideal world, she feels her own dreams for her own perfect world fade and shatter, piece by piece.

And she cries.