Not Once

BY : GoddessMU1313
Category: Death Note > General
Dragon prints: 1002
Disclaimer: I do not own Death Note, and I do not make any money from these writings.

The wind whipped past B, ruffling his dyed black hair as it invaded the car he was driving through the fully-opened window. No keys were dangling from the ignition, as B was never one to legally obtain his vehicles. This particular jet-black corvette had caught his attention as he was walking past a parking lot – of where, he wasn’t quite sure – an hour or so before sunset that day. It had been easy work getting inside and hotwiring the thing, and before he knew it, the semi-suburban landscape was whipping past him, the sheer speed the vehicle could reach keeping him entertained until nightfall.

B forced a laugh, figuring it would suit the situation quite well.

“Hahahahahahahaha! Oh, that sounded a bit forced… Ah, well! Hahahahahahahaha!”

B threw his head back, bouts of false laughter ripping out from within him. In the back of his mind, he was grateful that no cops were to be seen; in a relatively peaceful neighborhood, even during the night, there wasn’t much need for them.

That was, if B were not passing through.

B gripped the steering wheel painfully tight, slamming on the brakes momentarily as he rounded a corner that was not meant to be rounded at such a high speed, narrowly missing a mailbox as he skidded round the turn. In mere seconds, he was out of the peaceful neighborhood, speeding onto a slightly busier street. Though, really, it couldn’t be construed as ‘busy,’ per se. Had he been counting, B would have seen ten, maybe fifteen (if he was being generous) cars pass him that night. Quite the peaceful atmosphere – for B, at least.

Just get over the sound of screeching tires and strained laughter, and you could find it peaceful, too.

Yes, all was going quite beautifully for B that particular evening. Nice car, nice weather, nice overall traffic situation…

Until he got to the light.

The light, which he would think of years later and curse, then laugh at.

The light, just doing what it was programmed to do.

The light, having the audacity to glow red in B’s path, when only the passing few cars would ever go through it, thus rendering its services virtually useless.

How B wished desperately to keep his foot pressed firmly on the pedal, to speed past the light without a care, but a cop chose that exact moment to drive up the right turn of the intersection. Scowling, B slammed once more on the brakes, skidding to a stop just before he drove into the center of said intersection. He saw the cop’s head turn, shooting him a glance that clearly told him to cut out the reckless driving, and B smiled warily back, though he knew the cop couldn’t see it. The last thing he needed was to get in trouble with the law before he could carry out his plan.

B gripped the steering wheel even tighter, scratching his nails along it, as he waited for the cop to drive away. Once he was out of sight, B flung open the car door and rushed out of it, glaring disdainfully up at the still-red light. How dare it spoil his fun?! Stupid fucking traffic light…

B ran over to the pole planted firmly into the ground, jumping up and wrapping his legs around it when he was at a proper distance (A.K.A., a distance that wouldn’t result in him on the ground, in crippling pain, clutching the area between his legs). Using what any gamer would call “mad skill,” he climbed up the pole, then crawled overhead to where the light was hanging. B scowled – it was still red, how long did it think its services were needed?!

Gathering up an almost inhuman strength, fueled by rage and extreme hatred of certain traffic light, B gripped onto the pole with both hands and a leg, and used the other one to kick the light with incredible force. He mentally noted that he had picked a good day to wear shoes, rather than go barefoot as his idol so often did. After a few good, hard kicks, the light crashed to the ground, landing just next to the still-running corvette. Smirking devilishly, B retreated, sliding down the pole and landing to his feet in a most dignified manner.

He strode over to the light, and noted with glee that the fall had successfully made the lights flicker out.
Even through a haze of red – partly from his eyes, partly from his rage – this was apparent.

But it still wasn’t enough.

B wanted to make the stupid light pay, to make it see that no light should ever dare to glow red when he didn’t want it to. He grabbed the light, yanking it forcefully off the ground, half-dragging it off to the side of the road and behind a waiting bush.

“Stupid thing,” he said, though his face still shone with maniacal delight. “How dare you interrupt the great B’s drive?!”

In anger, B kicked the device, cracking another one of its lights. He felt a certain satisfaction in doing it, making his smirk grow wider. A few more kicks, and a thrilled chill ran down his spine. He knew what that feeling was associated with, as he’d felt it on more than one occasion (though mostly, it was while fantasizing of L admitting B was superior and falling to his knees in worship). B dropped to his knees then, though of course it wasn’t in the way he so loved to imagine L in.

“Fucking bitch,” he spat, though his face didn’t betray the same malice that his voice did.

He allowed his nails to run down the side of the light, scratching its surface while making a horrible screeching sound, akin to one scratching their fingernails down a chalkboard. He pulled his hand away abruptly, curling it into a fist before punching the light. It hurt, and he’d probably have some ugly bruises on his knuckles come morning, but the pain really wasn’t that bad. It wasn’t extreme, but B had his masochistic tendencies. This only served to increase the pleasurable feeling brewing deep in the pit of his stomach, and he could feel his jeans grow ever tighter the more he pulverized the light.

A few more punches, and B couldn’t take it anymore. He paused in his barrage of attacks to allow his hand to drift to his pants, attempting to tease himself by pulling down the zipper slowly, but giving up about halfway through and yanking it down roughly. Still, he eyed the light warily, as if he expected it to try and make a run for it while it had the chance, but (of course), it did not. He pulled out his hardened length, shivering in some sort of twisted delight as the cool night air ghosted over it, and ran his fingers over himself lightly.

“You thought you could dominate me, huh?” B taunted, crimson eyes taking in the sight of the battered traffic signal with sick satisfaction. “I’ll show you who’s in charge…”

His fingers sped up, moving swiftly over his member, and a breathy moan escaped his parted lips. With his free hand, he once again struck the broken-beyond-repair light, moaning a little more deeply at the crunching noise his fist made as it collided with the thing.

“Haha… Broken Beyond repair,” he noted, still finding humor in the situation – humor and perverse satisfaction. “Silly little light… You had no idea… ngh… what you were getting into, did you?”

He beat the light a few more times, his pleasure increasing with every noise it made, until he found that he was dangerously close. Gasping, he re-positioned himself so that he was on all fours – well, almost all fours, excluding his “busy” hand – above the light. He rocked his hips into his hand, smiling down at the light all the while, sweat running down his brow and one eye screwed shut.

“You like that, huh?!” he cried, giggling to set the atmosphere even further. “Keheheheh… You like being my bitch, you stupid light?!”

A few more thrusts into his own hand, and B gasped once more, harsh spasms overtaking his body as his orgasm washed over him. He made special care to make sure that his semen splattered over the offending red light, laughing cruelly when the aforementioned substance seeped through its many new cracks. He panted over the light for a few more moments, before he zipped himself up and ran back to “his” car, grateful that he’d left the door open. With his cleaner hand, he opened the glove box, fishing out several napkins to wipe his hands with. He sat them on the seat when his hands were clean, pulling from his pocket a pair of gloves he kept with him and more napkins, taking great care to wipe down everything in the area – traffic light and poles included – before speeding off again, barking a laugh back at the light.



“A top. I haven’t once been submissive to anyone. It’s one of the few things I can boast about. Not even a traffic light,” B, now a bit older, stated proudly, smiling at Naomi Misora before him as they stood at the scene of his first murder.

“You really should,” she said disapprovingly, wearing a look that B knew meant she didn’t like him – he’d known that from the moment they met, and frankly, he didn’t care, as long as she served her predetermined purpose.

“Never,” he said, smirk widening as fond memories danced before his eyes.

B wasn’t one for exaggerations.

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