pargoletta (pargoletta) wrote,

Hysterical Paroxysm

New fic time! For anyone who has heard about the "Light Yagami/his right hand" fic in the works, this is it.

Title: Hysterical Paroxysm
Author: pargoletta
Fandom: Death Note
Main Pairing: Light Yagami/his right hand
Summary: Light discovers a new aspect of the notebook that burns away a little more of his humanity and moves him that much closer to godhood.
Rating: Hard R.
Warnings: This takes place just after the end of the first Death Note story arc, so there may be spoilers for the first twenty-six episodes lurking within. Also, that "Hard R" rating? I mean it. Whether or not this is porn is a judgment call, but it's definitely an adult story.


Note: Welcome to this story. I’d call it a one-shot, but in view of the subject matter, that would probably seem like a terrible pun, so let’s call it a one-chapter story instead. It’s set just a few weeks after the first arc of Death Note, in that lull right before Mello and Near and that crew are introduced. Light is eighteen, possibly nineteen years old here.

This story originally grew out of a somewhat tongue-in-cheek discussion of fannish OTPs, in which I allowed as how my Death Note OTP would probably be Light Yagami/his right hand. There was the appropriate laughter, and then some of us started to debate seriously how that pairing might work. This story grew out of that more serious discussion. Accordingly, it is quite explicit, though I don’t know that I’d call it porn, precisely. But it is an adult story, no doubt about that.

As for the title, I chose it because I liked the clinical sound of the phrase. It seemed appropriate for Light’s state of mind regarding the whole event. “Hysterical paroxysm” has an interesting place in the social history of medicine. Look it up sometime, and be prepared to laugh.

And now, on to the story!



Hysterical Paroxysm



To say that Light Yagami had issues regarding sex would be akin to describing the Pacific Ocean as a large patch of ground covered by water; while technically accurate, such a description would utterly fail even to approach the true nature of the situation.

It wasn’t that Light didn’t know about sex. Between the timid and generalized sex education lessons at school, his father’s equally awkward but rather more comprehensive lecture when Light was eleven, and, at twelve, an educational afternoon spent browsing an older cousin’s comic book collection until his aunt caught him at it, Light had a good understanding of the basic mechanics, purposes and dangers of sex. Like all the pubescent boys in his junior high school, he had suffered through the humiliation of getting spontaneous hard-ons during swim class. And like them, he had also been astonished at the speed with which the girls began to fill out their uniforms upon starting high school. Light even had a small collection of carefully selected pornography, and after he had acquired the notebook, he had made sure to stash his dirty magazines where they would draw attention away from the secret compartment in his desk.

Light also understood that he was physically attractive. It hadn’t been all that difficult to notice. From the first day of high school, the girls would gather in clumps in between classes to gossip and giggle. Whenever Light would pass such a clump, perhaps on his way to or from the restroom, the chatter would always cease. There were times when Light could feel the pressure of the girls’ stares as he took his seat in the classroom. Later on, he began to find the occasional note in his shoe cubby. Once, there had even been an advertisement for a love hotel.

When Light had begun to keep company with the up-and-coming fashion model Misa Amane, no one had really been surprised. There had been sighs of jealousy, but everyone Light knew had agreed that such an attractive young couple was meant to be. Ryuzaki had even shared some of the more salacious gossip from the university, with an amusement that Light sometimes thought had a slight tinge of jealousy.

Light would have liked to ask Ryuzaki about that, but Ryuzaki was dead. It had been necessary, and the victory had been as sweet as Light had hoped. But still, it would have been nice to have another chance to sit down with Ryuzaki, watch him devour an enormous slice of strawberry-and-cream-filled cake, and learn more about his mysterious private thoughts concerning Light’s world. Perhaps he might even have gained some new insight into the terror that had consumed his mind until Kira had come and offered him the blessed relief of purpose.

Even now, safe and secure in a tower of steel and glass, guarded by security cameras and the total dedication of his father’s most trusted police officers, the terror still crept into Light’s mind. It came on little black tendrils whenever he caught a glimpse of his handsome face in a mirrored surface, it floated in when Matsuda tried to worm tips on impressing women out of him, and it threatened to seize him completely when Misa came to visit his quarters late at night to “chat,” dressed in flimsy creations of black satin and lace that left just enough to the imagination. He had always managed to send her away before anything . . . irreversible could happen, but the terror still left him angry and shaking for quite a while after Misa was gone.

On those nights, even Ryuk knew better than to try to strike up a conversation with Light, as he wrestled with the flashes of memory that the terror brought. Often, the memories involved his furtive moments of solitary weakness, especially the first time, when he was twelve and had taken his newly discovered erection into his hand to examine it more closely and had then discovered that he simply could not let it go until . . .

Other times, his subconscious would dredge up the night he had spent with Kiyomi Takada at a love hotel located a discreet distance both from the university campus and from the shopping arcade where Misa had been doing a photo shoot that night. He remembered the cheap décor, the private disgust he had felt upon thinking of just how many other couples had used the bed that he and Kiyomi now occupied, the oddly slippery sensation of skin upon skin, and the intoxicating scent that had arisen from the place where their bodies had joined, a scent that stripped him of the will to do anything but thrust and thrust and thrust and . . .

And each time the memory brought with it a taste of the pleasure the activity had brought, an experience so profound that, even now, Light could not find words to describe it, though he remembered every jolt of glorious fire shooting through his groin. And he also remembered his shame and horror. Something fundamental happened to him when he stroked himself, and when he had rutted atop Kiyomi’s writhing body. His rational, conscious mind, the part of himself that he had always associated with “Light Yagami,” had simply vanished. In its place was an inelegant, desperate creature, helplessly driven by sheer animal need.

In the throes of orgasm, Light Yagami was not Light Yagami, the most brilliant student in high school, well known at university, with a shining future within his grasp. Neither was Light Yagami Kira, the god of the world-to-be, blithely carrying out his appointed mission beneath the very noses of the police who tried to stop him. None of those achievements mattered when sex was in the air. Nothing went off exactly as planned, including Light himself. He was sure that looking into the screaming, yawning void of eternity could not terrify him more than the utter loss of his self that came when he did.

Of course, there was a simple solution to his dilemma. It was the sort of thing that Ryuk would have pointed out with a chuckle, if Light had been so foolish as to discuss his private fears about sex with a shinigami. The simple solution was to abstain from sex altogether, and Light dearly wished that that were as easy as it sounded.

For the next few years, until he finished university, he could stave off the inevitable by claiming that his time was occupied with studying, and he might even be able to delay even further by announcing his total devotion to the Kira case. But if he wished to keep up his façade of a normal life much beyond that, he would have to get married and possibly even produce a child or two. And there would be no shortage of candidates ready and willing to become Mrs. Light Yagami.

There was nothing for it. Assuming that he could continue to fend off Misa’s advances, Light would have a few years of grace, but then he would have to surrender to the normal path of life, making himself vulnerable every time he slipped into bed with his wife, inviting the dark terror of self-annihilation into his mind night after night after night. . .

For just one moment, he wished that Ryuzaki were still alive, to offer Light a few words of his peculiar wisdom or at least distract him by building a replica of the Petronas Towers out of sugar cubes or something equally ridiculous. But Ryuzaki was dead, and Light had stood over his grave and laughed. Well. Light gave himself a light shake. There was nothing he could do to change the past, and it was no use sitting alone in the situation room brooding over a day that would not come for several years, if indeed it came at all.

The atomic clock on the wall – Ryuzaki had thought of everything when he had designed the tower – noted that it was almost one in the morning. Light didn’t have class in the morning, but it was no use staying up all night with his thoughts when he could be sound asleep. He cycled the power in the situation room down to “sleep” mode, and left for the living quarters.



In his quarters a short time later, Light had brushed his teeth, changed into the pajamas that he had affected since he was fifteen, and locked the door against Misa. He crawled beneath his comforter and clicked off the light, and waited in the darkness for sleep to come.

He had thought that it was exhaustion that had left him vulnerable to his dark thoughts, but even the cool darkness of his bedroom brought him no relief. His mind continued to race, and he could not seem to find a comfortable position or be able to relax. As a very small child, when he had been exhausted, but afraid of the dark and unable to sleep, he had cried, and his mother had come to sit on the edge of his bed and rub his back in soothing circles until he could allow himself to surrender to sleep. For a moment, he wished that he could do that again. But he was eighteen years old, and a university student, and was not sleeping in his mother’s house any more.

Light sighed, then decided that it was no use expending so much energy trying to sleep. Perhaps reading would do the trick. He clicked his lamp on, squinting in the sudden brightness, and rubbed his eyes. He considered his bookshelf for a while, but nothing appealed to him at the moment. He had read all of the novels already, and even as dry as they were, his university textbooks tended to keep him awake rather than soothing his frantic mind. His throat filled with the sour taste of frustration and helplessness, and he made a brief, fervent wish for something that would give him the calm, pure high that came to him in the moments after he killed and knew that no one would ever discover his crime.

It was then that the thought struck him. There was one book that he could page through. The notebook was a powerful tool, but perhaps it could be used for more mundane purposes as well. And it was still easily accessible. In the chaos surrounding the task force’s discovery of the existence of shinigami and their notebooks, Light had ensured that Misa’s notebook was locked away in a safe, but he had retained his own, stowing it in a secret pocket he had made on the back of his nightstand, a place that no one would think to check even if they searched his room. As a further precaution, he had covered it with a piece of paper printed with the Code Geass logo. Even if the surveillance cameras in his room were still on – which Light doubted, as the quality of surveillance had declined markedly since Ryuzaki’s death – it should be safe to take at least a quick peek.

He pulled the notebook out of the pocket, adjusted his pillows, and settled in to read. For all the writing he had done in the notebook, he had never gone back through the entries, and he was surprised at how many there were. Many of the names were routine, simply criminals that he had killed as experiments or to send messages or to throw his father and Ryuzaki off his trail. But some names were more personal, and Light found himself lingering over those, savoring them like the memory of a fine feast.

There was the man who had taken an elementary school hostage, the first criminal Light had ever killed. He remembered the thrill of power that had surged through him at the time, the delicious realization that he could reshape the world to suit himself and no one would be able to do anything about it. There was Ray Penbar, the FBI agent who had come so close, but Light had defeated him in the end. He could still see the look of horror on the man’s face, as all the pieces finally came together even as his heart gave out on the train platform. Light’s skin tingled, and he squirmed a little, suddenly aware of every place that his old, comfortable pajamas touched his body.

The next name that caught his eye was that of Naomi Misora. Light was especially proud of her death. She had been a clever one – almost as clever as L, perhaps – and it had taken all his skills at improvisation to get her to reveal her true name. He still had her driver’s license, tucked safely away in a hidden compartment of his wallet. If anyone had asked, he would have claimed that he kept a memento of a Kira victim to remind himself of the importance of continuing the investigation, but he had reached such a high level of security clearance that no one had ever searched his wallet. He wondered if it would be safe to take a quick peek, just to make sure that the license was still there. This was his own room, after all, and surveillance had become lax, but still . . .

Light compromised by clicking off the lamp, getting out of bed, and fumbling in the dark for his trousers. As he moved around the room, a powerful flood of sensation from his groin nearly knocked him down. He ignored it long enough to locate his wallet, find and open the secret compartment by touch, and slide the license out into his hand. As he crouched down to return the wallet to his trousers, he was stunned to notice the heaviness growing between his legs. He limped back to the bed, stuffed the license into the Death Note, then clicked the lamp on again.

His erection was full and strong, pushing insistently against his pajama bottoms. Light stared at it for a few seconds, not quite comprehending what was happening to him. He recognized the symptoms of physical arousal well enough, and he both had and seen enough nervous hard-ons in swim class to know that a man did not necessarily need a particularly sexual stimulus to become aroused. But just from sitting in bed reading? And the really strange thing was that that he had experienced no trace of the shame and fear that usually accompanied his sexual explorations. There was only a sense of . . . of urgency, as if something was going to happen, right now, and Light had to abandon all his previous plans and go along with it.

He glanced at the driver’s licence, tucked next to the torn page where he had written the details of Naomi Misora’s suicide. He remembered her slim, graceful body, the way her hair had framed her pale, heart-shaped face, and the active mind that had flashed behind her eyes. Then he remembered how the appointed moment had come, and he had confessed to being Kira. At that moment, he had seen the spark in her eyes flare with horror and then go out, as easily as if he had blown out a candle, and he knew that she belonged to him.

Her body had been found two days later, hanging in her apartment, dressed only in a brand-new negligee and peignoir, in crisp white. The tissue-lined box lay open at her feet, and a card inside indicated that the nightgown had been Penbar’s gift to his fiancée in anticipation of their wedding night. She had gone to her grave dressed as the bride she would never be, and in the end, she had belonged not to Penbar, but to Light Yagami.

His erection twitched, rubbing against the elastic band of his pajama bottoms, and Light gasped. Quickly, he disentangled it, pulling the band down and exposing himself to the cool night air. The swollen shaft lay heavy and warm against his stomach, and he could see the tip emerging from the foreskin, glistening in the glow from the lamp.

The rapidly shrinking part of Light’s mind that remained rational observed that this must be the sensation that normal people felt when they were in the presence of a potential lover. This was what people like Matsuda meant when they talked about being “turned on.” The realization puzzled Light briefly; he was alone in his room, doing nothing more erotic than remembering a dead woman. His porn magazines remained untouched in their drawer.

He flipped through the pages of the notebook, shuddering and twitching as he read the names of Kira’s hundreds of victims and recalled or imagined their death throes. All of a sudden, another memory crowded into his mind. It had been a cold, stormy day, when the wind had driven the rain in vicious, aimless loops. On that day, Light had experienced vulnerability more perfect than he had ever permitted himself to embrace before, and then, moments later, the greatest triumph of his life.

Watari, that fussy, meddling old man forever toadying to Ryuzaki, had died in a full minute of agonizing pain, and the last thing that he had ever done was to delete the data files that would have led the investigators to Light. Light sighed at the remembered satisfaction of that, and even the slight air currents of his breath sparked a new jolt from his erection. And, at last, he understood.

It was power. It was power, and control, and the sense of ownership over another human being. When Light held the notebook, he held a person’s life in his hands, and he could do with it exactly as he pleased. With the notebook in his hands, he could be – would be – the god of the new world, the ultimate arbiter of life and death. It was only fitting for a god to become aroused by his power, for he operated in a plane of existence so far above that occupied by mere petty mortals that he could not be bothered with human notions of the erotic. The notebook was the source of Light’s infinite power, and it was fitting that it should be his only lover.

He fumbled in the drawer of the nightstand, which someone had thoughtfully equipped with basic toiletries, including tissues and hand lotion. Light squirted a generous dollop of the rose-scented lotion onto the palm of his right hand, then reached down. Slowly, almost delicately, he smoothed the cool, sweet lotion over the hot skin of his cock, shuddering at the touch of the only hand worthy of a deity.

For Light was a deity; he understood that now. His associates might have been horrified at the sight of Rem, but they had not comprehended the true state of things. With her stringy hair and flaccid gray skin stretched over enormous bones, Rem was terrifying to behold, but in the end, she had been as vulnerable to Light as any human. He had masterminded her demise, manipulated her into destroying his most hated enemy and herself with a few strokes of a pen. She had given Light his heart’s desire and had crumbled into dust for her reward.

Light’s grip on himself tightened, and his right hand found a comfortable rhythm, stroking up and down, occasionally sweeping his thumb across the tip of his cock. When he did so, lights danced behind his eyes, and he imagined that Rem had seen something similar in her last moments, as she sacrificed herself to Light’s will.

Ryuzaki was dead because of that sacrifice. He had lost the battle, had been brought low by Light’s superior intellect. That thought encouraged him, and he began to thrust with his hips, a motion he recalled from his night with Kiyomi, but which held much more meaning for him now.

Ryuzaki hadn’t said a word after the power of the notebook had seized his heart. He had simply stared at Light, his eyes wide, conscious to the very end. Light could still feel Ryuzaki’s limp body in his arms, a useless construction of flesh and bone slowly crushing out the brilliant mind it housed.

Light’s balls had become almost painfully tight, and he was sure that they would burst into flame at any second. His thighs began to shake, and his lips pulled back into a rictus-like grin. Perhaps it was similar to the smile he had given Ryuzaki then, the one that had told him, without the need for words, I am Kira. I am the friend you denied yourself and the enemy you sought. And I have won. You are mine now, and I give you death as your consolation.

Light’s fingertips burned where they touched the notebook and his cock, and his back arched. Ryuzaki had known, at the end. Just as death closed his eyes forever, he had known who Light was, and he had surrendered to Light’s superior wit and intellect with nothing more than a little sigh.

At the memory of that sigh, Light’s cock suddenly became even stiffer in his hand. His heart pounded wildly, and pulses of pleasure so sharp that they almost hurt shot through him, and his cock spat gobbets of warm fluid over his hand and his belly.

Slowly, the pleasure faded, just as the spark in Ryuzaki’s eyes had faded. Light’s hand continued to move on his cock almost of its own accord, slowly massaging it down from stiffness into relaxation. Light lay limp on his back, his muscles throbbing as though he had played an hour of tennis, his mind finally empty of all thought, calm and pure and still. He smelled his own earthy, musky scent, and it was pleasing to him, the odor of a god’s pleasure.

At last he knew. He had penetrated the great mystery of sex, and the thought of it would never again bring cowering horror in its wake. He owned that part of himself now, just as he owned the lives of everyone he knew, whether they were aware of that or not. The world was once again under his control.

As his everyday consciousness began to recover itself, Light finally stirred. He set the notebook down carefully, then mopped his body and hand with the tissues. There was a wastebasket a few steps away, near the desk, and, with a supreme effort, Light roused himself to walk the few steps to dispose of the soiled tissues. He crawled back into bed, tucked himself back into his pajama bottoms, and snuggled beneath his comforter. He gave the notebook one last fond caress before dropping it back into its secret pocket.

Weariness finally flowed through his veins, and the sensation was far more pleasant than mere exhaustion. Light clicked off the lamp and prepared to welcome the oblivion of sleep. Just before it came, he thought about what he had just learned, and realized that, now that he owned himself, he had the key to own Misa as well. The only person who knew his secret would fall under his power, and his godhead would be secure forever . . .





END



Final Note: Many thanks to valmora and wizefics for working through this idea with me. Now look what you made me do!
Tags: death note, fic, hysterical paroxysm
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