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Nothing was needed. No exchange of words; no physical contact; not even close proximity. A simple picture and a single story told were needed for the die to be cast. Their eyes met once; that was enough for Mikami to understand everything. L, Kira’s Consort, was a depraved angel. A bewitching spell, wanton and contradicting. Pinpointing what was wrong with him proved itself to be a hard task, but Mikami speculated. As a loyal believer, witnessing someone confront God in the plainest way possible, fearlessly, changed his perception of the whole world. An act so small, executed by L, of all people, had a great impact on Mikami.
That day, there was a shift in his heart.
He wanted L, overhauled and judged. It consumed his entire being.
The utter nerve inside of him, so daring and courageous, made Teru's heart palpitate in agitation. The voices within, they all longed for the same thing: catharsis. Watching L exist, it made him realize just how special a soul like his can be. How precious and important it could be, if only the correct measures were taken.
For the first time, Kira's ideals diverged from his own. It was clear Kira believed in therapy via all means possible. L had the face and the demeanor of a traumatized man, in the subtlest ways. Even so, whatever shock trauma he'd been put through certainly didn't work. Perhaps Kira's goal didn't include much more than unnecessary pain and suffering.
However— Mikami believed that if in five long years of intense treatment, the ‘patient’ showed no improvement whatsoever, changing tactics was crucial. Death, of course, was off the table. There was only one thing that could solve his illnesses. It was bound to happen sometime. Mikami wanted him , purified and meek. Free from the demons within him that insisted on resistance. And if there was a way, so be it that way.
What is skin, if not the coarsest kind of tissue? Mere thoughts about its existence all across the surface of each human body made L sick. There was nothing easier than blemishing skin. And, unlike fabric, it bruises and bleeds in response to painful dissatisfaction. Upon facing strong emotion, muscles contract and many hairs stand on end. It is raw, frail and uncontrollable to gross levels.
The restraints digging into his every joint were leather-made. A change from his usual metal handcuffs, though not quite a pleasant one. It crept to his greasy, tender flesh, relentless. Unable to squirm, L could only watch as the man before him rummaged through shiny tools. Spit flowed out his mouth where a gag was ensured tight. Muffled murmurs were the loudest sign of life coming from him.
“Mff…” he tried. Failed.
With a swift turn of his heels, the man began walking towards L, holding a platter. That was a recognizable face. No one but another murderer. Though L had a feeling this man in particular was far more relevant than the others.
… Whenever Kira gloated to him, many people were mentioned. He knew Amane, Takada, Nate, Mihael, Mail… every name but that of the X-Kira. Yet, L could presume this individual was just him, after all, no one but a trusted associate should have information about where he was located and if he still lived.
And to get him unconscious… surely, it was a feat . Did Kira allow this to happen?
He struggled harder against the restraints. After long seconds of contemplation, L was conceded with the ability to speak.
“Light-” he coughed, mumbling. “Light can't possibly have allowed you to do whatever you're doing.”
Those eyes sharpened, fixed down on the expressionless captive. “God will understand that this is what’s best for you,” came out in a calm tone.
In a gloved hand, Mikami gripped the ice pick. He was confident. No part of his body trembled as he leaned down, bowing to eye level with the detective.
“Light will kill you,” L said, still monotonous, but his inquietness betrayed something more. On the restraint chair, his back arched and his toes clenched as he eyed all of the medical apparatus in the surroundings. Given the actual predicament, Mikami thought he would react differently. After a moment of silence, L quipped again, a bit lower, “... I believe special disinfectants are needed for what you have in mind.”
Instead of making any snarky remarks, Teru responded, “I did my research and I know what I am doing.”
Aren't you going to fight? he wondered as he pulled back and a fistful of black curls found themselves in his hand. He yanked L's neck backwards, reaching for the last strap needed. Buckling it tight, his head was clearly bent at an awkward, uncomfortable angle, but Mikami couldn't care less. Feeble moments of discomfort are nothing compared to a life of clarity and lucidity.
Frog-eyed, L breathed through his mouth. “Let's make a deal.”
Buying time, I see. “You have nothing of my interests to offer.”
“What is your name?” he asked with childlike curiosity, suddenly, as though eager. The blatant superficiality made Teru's stomach churn.
He gripped the tool firmer. “Teru Mikami.”
Blown-out pupils scanned all of his figure. “May I ask what your motives are?”
“You'll find out soon.” He cupped L's cheek, lifting his head. “Look up.”
“... Soon?” L echoed, maintaining his composure. “You haven't heard my proposition yet.”
His words were regarded for a moment. Both remained stoic, though Mikami leaned the slightest bit closer, allowing himself a taste of L's sinful thought-process for the last time. “Go ahead.”
“I'll give you whatever you want,” rolled out of his lips without missing a beat. “The information you're looking for, the opportunities you're seeking, everything— if you proceed with this, you'll never achieve your goals. But if—”
“I'm not aiming for either of these things.”
Slowly, agonizingly, gently; the sharp edge of the ice pick was traced up soft pale skin. L blinked. “What is it that you want, then?”
“I want-” Mikami swallowed- “to judge you.”
“... You're one of them,” L noted, tone deadpan, lacking hesitation as he dropped the facade. “You’re Kira’s latest acquisition. You’re the murderer of my last successor. The illusion you believe in, that you are special, is false. You will die; under his fist, everyone does. Doing this to me will only accelerate-”
This time, he was cut off by the slightest caress of a thumb on his cheek. “You are enchantingly intelligent. The New World deserves someone like you.”
Mikami had a straight face. Such words did not get to him. And the ice pick inched closer and closer to L’s eye. With those words, he may have revealed his motives, but at this point, omission held no importance; not when L uselessly tried to distance himself, flexing his neck back and forth.
“Look up,” he ordered again, sharp metal grazing deep eye bags.
“... Light can't possibly have agreed to this,” L murmured vacantly, gaze roaming through the room as he attempted to gather any information. The only illumination hovered right above him, huge and intense. Any other corner was pitch black. Walls were decadent, and the windows all covered. Nothing helped soothe his spirit. “... Light wouldn't want this to happen.”
“Everyone shall understand someday. When your improvement begins, they will all understand,” Mikami said in an equally quiet voice. More repetitive words left his mouth, sounding like a mantra. The ice pick poked L's sclera. More ugly realizations dawned on him.
“Sterilize it again,” he said with a slight quiver, eyes fixed down on the shiny edge. “... I can see how dirty it is. There's spots all over it.”
Mikami almost thought it was another attempt at distraction and time-passing, but, watching how L started to shake only at the prospect of dirty apparatus, he wasn't sure. “... It’s clean.”
He managed to shake his head, movements stiff. “Mikami,” he breathed out, now staring up at him. “Please. If you want submission, I'll give it to you. If you want…help…I'll give it to you… Anything.”
There it is. Begging, pleading. Lies. Mikami couldn't bring himself to listen to the rest. The voices were deafening. Lost in the groove of L's dull gaze, static flooded his mind. Not a single one of the whispers said no to what he was about to do. Along the lines of holiness, they affirmed success. Mikami was driven by the hand of God— because he was the hand of God— because God needs a right hand— because this will make him God, too.
It's all he needs.
“Mikami-”
“Stay still,” he warned, at last.
Then cold metal slid under L's eye socket. Neither man trembled, neither man moved. From the looks of it, the ice pick seemed to have been inserted right on the perfect spot, pressed to the skull. Agony is what first bit into L's senses, followed by sharp smarting. Moments were spent perfectly still.
Now, a petite hammer came in hand. It was brought closer with reverence.
Their gazes were locked. Silent words spoken, while emotions flowed free from every unblinking moment. Despair. Grief. Pain. And, firmly, Mikami hit the ice pick, breaking the thin bones around L's upper orbit, digging the metal into his brain, all at once. Cries were torn from the depths of L's heart, not as loud as Mikami would have liked, but pleasant enough to drink in. All of his body tensed. Blood leaked in unexpectedly large quantities. That wasn’t supposed to happen, but there was no time for discouragement now. Even if he actually missed the spot… it wasn’t a lost cause.
“Calm down,” he whispered, attempting to hush himself and L even as he started twirling the ice pick around. “It will be over soon.”
L blabbered, heavy breaths escaping his hung mouth, sweaty skin flushed pink. The words were incomprehensible.
Mikami just kept going. Severing the connections. This is the brain of the world's greatest detective. That fact rescued back the pure, quick palpitations of his heart. He couldn't help it— his hand moved faster, uncaring, or perhaps ignorant to its profound damage.
Disrupting the fibers in L’s prefrontal cortex, future was his bright fantasy as the ministrations proceeded. “You're doing well,” he hissed, inching his body closer to the strapped one struggling.
“Nn…!” L protested. Or moaned. Or cried. Perhaps lamented. It was hard to tell. What Mikami did know, however, is that the noise went straight down to his interested cock. What an inappropriate timing, he thought to himself, biting his lip. Though it was hard not to get affected. Those big, big eyes, so devoid of life in all of their previous wake, now glimmered, coated in tears and blood, fixed up right on Mikami's face. Skinny limbs wriggled, legs shook and parted, leaving a beautiful lily exposed to the world. Because Mikami is the world. Because, greater than killing L’s successor, is the act of perfecting L himself. Because now, now L was ready for the New World.
The squelch, when the ice pick was pulled out, echoed. Mikami threw it away without a care.
Just like that, a spell had been broken.
What felt like the most exciting turbulence of his life a second ago grew torturously silent. His heart continued beating out of his chest, but now, it was the only thing he could hear. No more static; no more whispers; no more struggles; no more crying. Detached from his own sharp exhales, he watched as L went limp. His head fell forward just slightly, body heaving with what was undeniably death. Again, so sudden. Mikami could not find the will to react.
L, from inside out, to the end, rebelled. There he was, the object of Mikami's obsession for the last months, whom he had pictured bright, clean fantasies with, dead. Died in simplicity, in the softest and dirtiest way possible. Died amidst holy judgment; a resistant soul. The solemn audacity burnt the whole expanse of his skin, disappointment tugging on his gut and arousal melting his resolve.
But this was still what had to be done, correct? Shock slowly mingled with pride. Watching blood and unshed tears, thick, dripping from L’s obscured face, Mikami understood that, perhaps, not every failure meant defeat. He peeled off his gloves. Inched closer. Gripped every sliver of pale flesh that wasn’t restrained by tight belts.
This was his third time so close to a corpse. There was his mother, several years ago, at a grey, unfeeling funeral. Then, it was the SPK, the task force, all of them. That day, he was filled with ecstasy. Not too long after, now, he stood before the greatest enemy. The root of all evil. Forcing L’s chin up and making that lifeless stare beam holes into him, Mikami lost his edge. Kira, the God of the New World, Lord himself… hadn’t been able to take this life away. For any feelings within, or ill intentions, L hadn’t been killed. But His Hand of God did it. Instead of fearing death and punishment, he drank in his triumph, crashing his lips into L’s with all the love he could muster up.
How dare L die? he grieved internally, not for the detective, but for the world. L Lawliet, the great L, would have been a valuable instrument. On the day his life was to receive a meaning, he died… truly, not a life worth keeping.
He took a long time to notice the frantic movement of his hips against L’s form, too immersed in his spiraling thoughts. Breaking the sloppy kiss, he fiddled with his pants desperately, struggling to get them off. Upon managing to tug it down his knees, his pace faltered.
L, gone, had his legs spread apart as much as possible with the restraints, having dozed off struggling and suffering. It seemed like he left a gift for Mikami.
There was no more patience inside of his body, so he didn’t even bother with undoing any bondage. Sickly milky thighs found themselves in his grip. Mikami’s cock brushed against L’s lips, tracing down the swelling bundled in between. As soon as he found a hole, timid yet damp, not another second was spent before he thrusted forward, sinking all of himself inside L.
He was unable to hold back a hiss. L was still warm. He forced his hips down, attempting to bring him closer, to deepen the connection, to feel him pulsing. Although nothing came, the tightness and the look on his face were enough to lead Teru on. His thrusts weren’t experimental, they were frenzied. The firm way his cock was embraced by L’s walls brought a new mania to his movements, and he couldn’t help but quicken his pace. Perky, bruised breasts bounced, along with unruly curls, every time he shoved inside with special violence. Mikami could not, for nothing, take his eyes off the scene.
This was the most uncomfortable he had ever been. Hunching over a chair of rough material, half-naked, taking advantage of a cadaver he was sure belonged to the man he called God. Discomfort, as Mikami was used to, came in the form of eyes, of beholders everywhere and anywhere he fails. In the corners of the room he avoided looking. Whilst continuing to drive his length forward harshly, taking hold of round globes, pleasure grew, but he couldn’t ignore the shivers that cooled his spine more and more by the second. L’s aching core continued warm, continued slick with pre-cum, and his piercing gaze remained ajar. The delicate tip of his every end, however, told a different story. As Mikami twisted hard nipples, the coldness there was undeniable. Not mine, he recalled, and dead. At this point, he was too far ahead to stop. The whispers now did urge for him to stop, but, blending in with those who demanded for him to continue, everything turned into static again. Loud. Painfully loud. With one last faulty, stuttering snap of his hips, he came, fast and intense like never before, bursting inside of L as his vision whitened out.
The well-loved crook of L’s neck was cold, too. No heavy, ragged breathing helped warm it up. Once more, while he drifted away, with eyes fixed on the shiny, distant ice pick, he attempted to process the loss of such a great mind, wondering if God could accept his consort back in these conditions. After all, no matter how, a beloved is always useful, is he not?
If Kira disagreed, then there was no problem. That would simply mean it’s Mikami’s turn to atone.