The Ones who Love
This is sort of like the chapter 'The ones you Hate'.
Summary at the bottom for skippers. Warning, this chapter contains Het.
Her name's Halle Bullock. And yes, she's heard all of the jokes before. She went to highschool too, thanks. That's 'Bullock' as in 'Bullocks'. As in 'cajones'. As in what she's metaphorically got more of than every man here, and can usually say that about any room that she walks into.
But she goes by 'Lidner' now, and she's not sure that the description above fits her at all anymore.
Halle Lidner is a CIA agent, now second in command of the SPK, former secret service member, and a consummate professional. But, every second night since she got here, she waits for the dark-haired man on the floor to fall the fuck asleep already so that she can stretch out, bury her face in the pillow, and make herself ridiculous. It hasn't happened yet; she can tell when she hears his deep breaths and chorus of soft snores. Why won't he just get to sleep?
She's pathetic. She's 29. (She's been 29 for two years, running, actually.) She shouldn't getting her panties wet thinking about gay 23 year olds. She shouldn't be thinking about what they're doing to a 21 year old, who is also… was also… her boss.
Outside the room she hears murmuring, then silence. Then, eventually, Giovanni's breath evens, and soft snores begin. Music to her ears. She begins to play her own kind of soft music between the cotton of her hypocritically modest nightdress and her now unnecessarily pretty underwear, with the accompaniment of her unknowing orchestra on the other side of the apartment.
God damn, she's a sleezebucket. But it's unfair, unfair, un-fucking-fair. She shouldn't be stuck in Japan, in a tiny apartment, with a fake name, with no one to really talk to, and a professional façade that's growing more threadbare than the knees of the albino's pyjamas. Kira shouldn't still be out there, killing whoever he wants without thinking of who gets caught in the crossfire, ruining everything that's good about Goodness by removing the choice.
She tried so hard to stop that. She hedged her bets… Honestly, if you had walked into that gleaming metal Midtown tower - through its banks of security, and walls of glittering tech - and seen a dishevelled, mousy, Rainman Jr. at the helm like a living joke when there's so much at stake, would you put all your money on that lame pony?
She wishes that she had. She's come to respect him so much since then. And even more since four days ago, when he offered his precious arrogance – the only thing he had left - for their safety. When she starts to sweat and breath faster, pushing her face into the pillows that smell vaguely like Giovanni's hair, she can almost hear the boy moan in a beautiful breathy voice as Mello punishes him, "I take this for you, Halle." (Even though she'd take gladly anything, if it was Mello doing it.)
She shouldn't mommy Near, she thinks. She can tell he resents it. But she can't help it; She's a protector. When she was a little girl, and her friends dreamed of marrying a prince, she dreamed of saving the president. Her, in her dark, dark glasses and black, black slacks and blazer, would spy the sniper in the building on the corner before anyone else did... She should also try be nice to that snoring, inferior-organization fratboy, she thinks. Should have talked to him about how his outburst made him look like the biggest sputtering asshole she's ever seen, rather than possibly let him think that its ok with her if he wants to whip out his heterosexual male privilege and wave it around like a big swinging dick.
Great. Now she thought about his dick. Actually, that's fine with her. She thinks about it again, imagines it insultingly small, and imagines clothes pins pinching the scrotum, administered by Mello while his redhaired assistant binds the older man's arms above his head. Mello, in thigh-high boots and nothing else. Maybe gloves, or a harness, but nothing substantial. The redhead is completely naked, completely hard, and Near, just happily curled up in the nice leather chair stacking chocolate truffles, remarks that this is a much better deal for absolutely everyone who matters. Mello has a large dildo in his hand, suddenly. He holds it to Giovanni's face, now gagged (always gagged), in a threatening way, teasing the line of the man's jaw and tracing down his bare, probably slightly hairy chest. All the way down, past his tortured genitals to his waiting (auspiciously already-lubed, as if it matters) virgin ass.
Then he turns and offers the object to her with his naughtiest smirk, "Care to do the honours, Halle?"
She would love to. But it's him that she throws down, not the older man. And the toy is double ended now, so that she can feel what she's doing to that dangerously beautiful body of his.
"Mello, you little slut, this is what you get fore teasing all the boys. For teasing me," she thinks, as she fucks him in her mind, her fingers slipping between her wet inner walls, plunging, like the fake cock deep-dicking Mello in her dreams. Her clit rubs against her own soft, moistened palm as she thrusts against her own hand, against the shitty futon mattress that springs back in a way that's nothing like a warm human body.
Her motion is too rough, she realizes, and she doesn't want the bed to squeak. So now she's sitting on one of the other one's faces (She doesn't care which), riding their soft little tongue, (which is really a glisteningly wet knuckle) and sucking a beautiful, blonde-nested cock, cupping the firm ass (still accentuated by thigh-high boots) with her hands so that she controls his thrusts completely. The tongue beneath her is very skilled because she knows what she likes. She is the biggest creep that she's ever met, so how about it's Near doing this?
Her fantasy is so stupid, but she's spent her whole life pursuing a childish fantasy, hasn't she? She did it all for black, black sunglasses, red, red lipstick, and an ID badge with her name on it under the letters C.I.A. It's already destroyed her, so why stop now?
She can hear his moans – real ones – through the walls. His tongue looks so soft and pink. His warm, bony fingers, with their delicate square knuckles, massage her labia and tease her clit like he's actually done this before. Even in her own fantasy, when she looks down at his smooth, boyish face, he seems vaguely like he doesn't want this.
Imaginary Matt hasn't been molested yet, she thinks, but she's already close. He's off the imaginary hook for now, while Imaginary Mello and Near taunt her to breathless orgasm.
She shakes, draws out the feeling, so that she can stave off the guilt for a bit longer, and then relaxes completely.
"It wasn't supposed to be like this," she thinks.
Sharing a cramped room, far from home, unable to escape the feeling of foreignness that was once exciting. Now even subtle differences in the architecture mock the fact that she'll probably never be home again. This is what losing feels like.
Halle Lidner. Halle B-. She's spent her whole life pursuing childish fantasies, and up until right now, she's never had a problem taking what she wants. She's not really a protector, though. It was all selfish masturbation.
When she was a little girl, she played make-believe. She dreamed of saving the president. She, with her blonde pigtails and red, red grown-up-lady lipstick, would jump in front of the .50 caliber bullet, save the president on TV, and be a hero. A hero, shattered to pieces and buried in a black, black coffin, draped with the American flag.
She slips the heavy collar off as soon Light's gone because she's no prisoner. She's anxious to dress and fix her makeup before she sees Mrs. Yagami and Sayu-chan.
"Misa," L says, trying to get her attention from the floor.
He wants the balm that he uses to soothe the welts and the bleeding, but she doesn't have time, and, well, she doesn't want to do anything for him.
They were supposed to be friends, weren't they? The three of them. But he was lying. He was nothing like Light, pure, and good, and perfect. L was dark, and mean, and flawed.
She was supposed to be the queen of the new world. She won! But why is he at Light's side too?
The two women sit across from God on lavish Louis XIV style sofas, a modern glass coffee table hosts a tea service. Even this small, private sitting room feels cumbersomely huge with its high ceilings. There's no escaping the burdensome ostentatiousness, no way to feel at home, to convince yourself sit any other way than with your back perfectly straight.
But Light does look at home.
"Are you going to tell me that I'll finally be allowed to audition to become one of your Adjudicators?" Sayu asks, in the familiar but terse way that she does which mocks her former cheerfulness. She hasn't sounded the same since she started talking again.
"Please, don't ask again," Light says with his soft, easy charm, "You know that I can't make my sister one of my top officials. It'll look like I'm playing favourites. If you want to be closer to the palace, I'll just buy you a new apartment," he teases.
"Bro-ther!" Even the childish outburst lacks a certain innocent quality that only the less perceptive would miss. "I've been doing really well at the academy, and placed third on the exams. And you said that you had something to tell me."
"I do," he smiled.
"Then what is it?"
"I want you to go to an omiai," he said seriously, still positively swishing with his effortless grace.
An bothersomly old-fashioned arranged marriage meeting. A beautiful blushing girl in a nice kimono. Perhaps a little paper parasol. Maybe, in the background, a path of rustic stepping stones in a sunny garden with old-world shrine or a little stream with a bridge over it. Sayu's face can't really be said to fall, since she had barely perked up to begin with, but her eyes still sink to the floor.
"How nice," her mother says for her, smiling. She always said little, only when necessary, and always the thing that seemed perfectly right… to the outside observer. There was defiantly a little bit of her in both of them.
Light leans forward and the look on his face is more solemn, "It's with my top Judge," he says.
"Sayu, isn't that nice?" Sachiko prompts.
"I'm honoured," she replies with a graveness which could easily be mistaken for sincerity.
An older man, Sayu knows him by sight and doesn't think much. There's little chance, she knows, that the couple's impressions of one another will change the outcome. She'll be 'encouraged' so much by her family that there's no way to to see this meeting as anything other than a sentence.
Luckily, she further reply is not necessary. Misa, bright and bubbly, bursts in and greets them with a multisyllabic 'Hi', and plops down next to Light. She inquires for the news then dominates the conversation, offering her congratulations and and suggestions on outfits that Sayu could borrow.
AN: Haha, I made you read not-porn again. Actually, I feel kind of bad, updating after so long and it's not even porn, so I slipped some porn in there. I am kind of going somewhere with the plot, so it kind of has a point. The next scene should defiantly be back to Near-domination again.
Summary: Halle has thoughts, masturbates, and feels guilty about thinking about having the hots for every guy around her, as the stuff from the last chapter happens.
The scene at Light's Palace continues with Misa leaving L in the throneroom.
Sayu, now speaking, has become serious and driven to achieve at 'the academy' and become a 'Judge' in Light's theocracy. She thinks that her scores might have been noticed by her brother, but Light indicates that he doesn't want her to achieve this position because he doesn't want to show favoritism (and possibly other reasons), and tells her that he actually wanted to talk to her about a possible arranged marriage with Mikami.