Note: So now I've written for Death Note. Whoo. I hope it's not OOC, and I hope this makes sense. Cause, uh, I haven't read the series in a year. O.o

Disclaimer: I own nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing…

Venus' Poison

"To be in love is merely to be

In a state of perpetual anesthesia:

To mistake an ordinary man for a Greek god

Or an ordinary woman for a goddess."

--H.L. Mencken

"The romance novels are all wrong, you know."

He hardly deigns her worth a turn of his head as she leans forward, blonde tresses falling over her expensive new lingerie. Blood red satin wraps its way around her perfectly curved figure, and the mere form of her breasts rounded beneath all this lace would have been enough for any teenage boy—any man, for that matter—to quit fiddling with his collar and gaze at his treasure as she awaited upon the bed.

Yet this goddess had found herself a god instead of a man, and nothing god-like can remain interested in treasures for very long.

"They're all messed up," she continues, lips curving into a red grin. "Everything's pretty much wrong from the beginning, but it's when they enter the bedroom that everything falls apart for me."

He's not listening, but that's never stopped her before. She crosses her legs and watches as he unbuttons his shirt so slowly, oh, painfully slowly. It's nothing she hasn't already seen, but the anticipation thrills her; only she can map out the expanse of his body, know him so intimately yet give herself to him so freely. Crawling forward on her arms, she sighs.

"When you watch a movie, everything is so different, isn't it?"

The pants and boxers fall to the ground: a formality to him, nothing more. He approaches her, eyes smoldering with possession, and his hands methodically work at her clasp, freeing her body from its scarlet prison. His mouth is in a thin, taut line; his eyes are dull, jaded. He has seen it all before, and he can afford to move slowly. He is missing nothing.

"The way we love, you and I," the blonde gasps, kissing him once quickly, deftly, "is so much faster. So much stronger. Some days, I feel as if—" A laugh. "—as if we're trying to kill each other."

A smirk lights up his face as he pins her to the covers, her hair sprawled behind her like a halo of gold. "Now, Misa," Light laughs, the first emotion he's shown her in days, "where would you get an idea like that?"

His lips are cold upon her own, and her heart jumps, for she has made him laugh. Usually, it is only she who cries out. She, and she alone.

"Love is as strong as death; its jealousy as unyielding as the grave. It burns like a blazing fire; like a mighty flame. Many waters cannot quench love, rivers cannot wash it away."

--King Solomon

Some nights, as she lays aching in bed, she gets the nightmares. Sometimes it's a young boy smiling at her, blonde and beautiful, before he pulls the trigger of a shining, glittering gun and falls to the ground drenched in crimson blood. Her stomach lurches, but it's a beautiful dream in its twisted way: death by a broken heart. She twists herself towards her sleeping companion, and her pale hand will extend for him, desiring comfort. The fingers unfurl so that her wedding ring sparkles in the moonlight, and just as she tugs upon his sleeve, his eyes snap open and she finds his hands—his perfect, god-like hands—clasped about her throat, his eyes wild.

"Don't. Threaten. Me," he hisses, and she learns to bottle her tears. She has failed him, again. Curling away from him, she hopes, for a brief moment, that his hands will drape about her, claiming her for himself.

But he is turned away, and the night has not yet ended. So she counts the number of days she's loved him, until the sun breaks through the window and he is no longer hers to hold.

"Love is always bestowed as a gift—freely, willingly, and without expectation…

We don't love to be loved; we love to love."

--Leo Buscaglia

Catcalls aren't unusual for her. Men, old and young alike, will whistle, or at least crane their heads to get a better look at this lovely model as she saunters by. The wind loves her, loves to play with golden hair and the ruffles of her skirts. The sun, too, adores her, never burning her snow white face. So perfect, the world sighs. Such a perfect girl. A goddess.

"Misa, I need you to do me a favor," he coos in that flawless, velvet voice, and this goddess willingly chains herself to his will. And oh, what she wouldn't do for this voice, what laws she wouldn't trample, what sins she wouldn't commit! For him, anything. Her body, her soul, her sight, her life: all are his possessions, to dispose of however he sees fit.

He could have her life, because he is the only reason she lives.

"Take away love, and our earth is a tomb."

--Robert Browning

The metal is cool upon her brow, and the gun cocked just so in her hand. She can feel the round of the barrel pressed against her skull, and her other hand hesitates, briefly, to play with the ring in her palm. Her body trembles and quivers and shakes, but not out of fear. It is desire, this fire, not madness. She has never been mad, only loved.

He wouldn't want her to cry, but it's getting harder and harder to stop this stream of tears from flowing as she blinks them back, one by one. No one can kill a god. No one, and yet his body has been found upon the ground, a twisted husk of the man she loved. No—the man she loves.

And that is all he is, now. A man.

So she, too, wishes to become mortal.

The shot is clear, clean, precise. Her body collapses onto the bed behind her—the bed where they had last made love—and a crown of scarlet dribbles about her brow. It could have been crowned with laurels, once, when he would have become king of this empty, lonely world.

Her heart comes to a slow stop, but it's stopped long ago, and all she chooses to leave behind is her body—her lovely perfect body of a goddess—for the earth to swallow. They will come into her room and they will gasp and cry. They will wonder how anyone so young, so lovely, could bear to leave this world. Kira could not kill her now, they will gawk. She had been free.

What they do not know is that she has never been free, and that even in death, she will always be his. Her very love for him has poisoned her, transformed her from Venus into Juliet. So Kira takes one last victim before erasing himself from this world, and heaven loses one more angel.

For Venus, too, can be killed by love, for love is the greatest poison of them all.

"For he being dead, with him is beauty slain,

And, beauty dead, black chaos comes again."

--William Shakespeare, Venus and Adonis

End Note: Reviews are lovely. Flames are meh-worthy. Ignoring is practically expected. :)