mdni cw: m. masturbation, fantasies and such, he's actually toxic, like bro, he's toxic ANNDDDD he's a Freak! CAPITAL F!!! i do not condone his behaviour.
wc: 1.3k
for, @updownandbatty & @plutooowo
starting track…
↻ ◁ || ▷ ↺
sero is such a fucking weirdo.
it wasn’t even a real argument, small shit, minuscule shit, honestly.
the kinda of thing that could’ve been solved in like three texts max, the kind of thing that, in his opinion, you were dragging.
he thinks you enjoy being angry at him, and he doesn’t help himself, not when he lives for pushing your buttons, not when being deeply irritating is his favourite pastime.
you left your phone charger in his car by accident two nights ago, so you called him, y’know, reasonably, asking if he could drop it off at yours.
he was in the middle of a game though, and he’s not your boyfriend, was he really about to drop everything just to drive over to yours and give you a charger, if you wanted it that badly you could come and collect it yourself.
you did not like that.
he rolled his eyes when he saw it.
you were typing… and typing… and typing…
and then.
voice message, after voice message, after voice message.
he snatched his headset off with a groan, not even pressing play on the audios yet, just checking his pockets for his keys, about to drive over to your place and give you your stupid fucking charger— and maybe talk to you nicely, sit on your couch, smoke your weed, eat whatever you got in your fridge, maybe eat you, if you let him.
yeah, he had a decent gameplan.
until he accidentally clicks the play button on the first voice note.
your voice comes tumbling through his phone speaker, lazy, pissed off, carefully crafted insults.
hanta smirks.
there’s something about the way you talk down to him that always did the job.
you just sound so effortlessly sexy when you’re annoyed. hanta can imagine the way your top lip would curl in disgust, the little wrinkle that appears between your brows and, you talk with your hands.
if you were here, you would have a finger pressed into his chest, all up in his face, practically itching to bite him.
it’s always been hot.
he flops back onto his chair, phone on in one hand, the instagram chat between you two open, the 2, 3, 4, 5 voice messages from you staring down at him like a dare.
he pulls his cock out.
spits on it, a huge wad of his saliva landing directly on the tip, it makes him flinch, finger grazing his phone screen, restarting the audio as he softly starts thumbing the tip.
“don’t piss me off right now,” there’s a pause where you chuckle, sarcastically, god, it’s the hottest thing he’s ever fucking heard, straight porn crackling down the speaker, “i’m so serious, you’re such a piece of shit.”
a piece of shit? him? never….
“i can’t be fucked to deal with your shit today…., i’m so fucking serious.”
yeahhhhhh, okay, okay, you’re being overdramatic as usual, but he’s weird in the head, and his cock jumps when you—
his head tilts back, he practically crumples into the chair, he loves when you say his name, especially when you spit it out like that, the same way you spit out his load when he breeds your throat, the frothy cum that bubbles over your lips, paints your face.
he can see it now, his hand moves on autopilot, his palm caressing his cock, the friction makes his eyes roll, as he imagines shutting you up like that, his cock just stuffing your mouth full, your teary eyes looking up at him, with your cheeks all puffed up, and those soft lips of yours, the way they curl, the way they sneer, the way they look so good parted in ecstasy—
“….don’t understand why you make such a big deal out of this shit….”
he nearly laughs, he’s making it a big deal? you’re getting yourself so worked up over what, a fucking cable?
“it’s not even about the charger.” of course, “it’s about you…..you just wanna drag everything out.” drag his cock across your soaked pussy lips, up and down and up and down, drag his cock in teasing circles around your clit, round and round, get you all worked up and achey and needy.
“….you always wanna piss me off…” maybe you’d wanna suck on his fingers while he plays with your nipples, soft skin bulging around his palm as his digits toy with the puffy buds, he knows you like that, like his fingers, you tell him that all the time.
“….i just don’t understand how a guy can be so fucking stupid…..that’s probably why you got that dent on the back of your head, because you were dropped as baby and it….”
mmmmmm, you love running your hands through his hair though, the dark strands bunching between your fingertips when you tug on it, like a fucking leash, like he’s a misbehaving dog, just thinking about it makes him leak.
he pumps faster, the messy, sticky, fap-fap-fap echoes around his room, mixing in with his breathy groans and cries of your name.
god, he's so fucking pathetic.
but he can't help it, you're so fucking hot, and he really does like you, your face, your eyes, your f-fucking voice--
".....don't play games with me hanta...."
there you go again, saying his name, practically spitting it out like a curse word, and he's giggling as he looks down at himself, at his throbbing erection, do you even know what you do to him?
"...you're a fucking joke, y'know that right...."
nah, what's a joke is how quick he cums when you jerk him off. you're so good at that, you know his body so well, know how much he goes crazy for a sloppppyyy handjob, the messy kind, with one of your hands placed on his chest, holding him down, as the other hand massages his balls, your nails digging into his thighs, his tip drooling at the sensation.
"....so fucking stupid.....such an idiot...can't deal with your bullshit..."
fuck yeah, yeah, he's an idiot, a nasty piece of shit, he knows, he can't help it though, it's not his fault, it's your fault really, for enabling him, for giving him a taste of you in the first place, a taste of your pussy, god, your pussy, always so slick, and warm, and inviting. she treats him better than you do, she would never say mean things to him like you do, she just takes his cock, grips him so fucking tightly, fucking milks him every time.
ohhhh, he can't help himself, bucking his hips up into his fist like a wild animal, pretending that it's you. you look so gorgeous underneath him, all fucked out and whiney. and he’d let you bite all over him, sink your teeth into his skin, leave your fucking mark on him, stake your claim, all f-fucking yours, fuck, okay, okay, okay, shit, he almost forgets to breathe, your voice just swimming in his ears, changing his brain chemistry, holy fuck.
"you can't do shit properly, always half-assing shit.... can't even fuck me properly."
he knows you said that as a last resort, the final push.
he knows you, and you know him.
and hanta, like previously mentioned, is a fucking weirdo, so, of course, that’s what pushes him over the edge, because he knows, he knows for sure, that is a big old lie.
because, that's not what you said when this whole thing started, when you were in the backseat of his car on tuesday, and you squirted all over his leather seats, and the car reeked of pussy and sweat, and he could taste you in his mouth the next morning.
he runs a tongue across his teeth, the phantom taste of your juices in his mouth, and spurts everywhere, all over his hands, all over his sweats, accompanied by sorry's and thank-you’s and holy shit’s
he doesn't even bother to send you a reply, just likes that last voice message you sent, and starts cleaning himself up, because of course he was gonna come over, probably dangle that wire out of your reach, and then let you push him against the door, hands down his pants, your mouth on his neck, yeah.
contains cuddling, emotional vulnerability, suggestive content, possessive tension, mutual craving, L being obsessed in his quiet way, soft dominant energy, heavy eye contact
The first time L shares his dessert with you, it’s not because he’s feeling generous.
It’s because he’s so focused on the case, hunched over with dark-circled eyes and fingers tapping against the porcelain teacup, that he doesn’t notice you’ve sat beside him instead of across the table. Or that you’re staring at his untouched slice of strawberry shortcake.
“I’ll trade you a piece of mine,” you whisper, nudging your fork toward your half-eaten tiramisu. “Strawberry for espresso?”
L blinks once. Then again. “I don’t share food,” he says flatly, and your lip quirks. Of course he doesn’t.
“You just did,” you murmur, already slicing the corner off his cake with the edge of your fork, and placing it on your plate. He watches, wide-eyed but silent.
When you pop it into your mouth with an exaggerated hum of delight, he frowns, more in concentration than annoyance.
“I didn’t give verbal consent.“
“You didn’t stop me.”
“Technically, you committed petty dessert theft.”
You grin at him. “Arrest me then.”
He’s quiet for a beat. Then, carefully, he moves his plate a few centimeters closer to you.
“Take another bite. But only because I’m trying to determine how long it takes you to chew. For science.” You roll your eyes, but your heart does this fluttery little skip.
The next day, you find a slice of shortcake already plated and waiting by your chair when you walk in. A small note tucked under the fork says, in his messy scrawl.
“Observation: you smile more when eating strawberry desserts. Control sample provided.”
One week later, you’re both up too late. You’re yawning into your hoodie sleeve, curled sideways in the desk chair with your legs tucked under you, eyes barely open as L continues typing, posture as awful as ever, spoon clinking against a mug of coffee.
You don’t even realize you’ve nodded off until you feel a strange weight on your shoulder. He’s leaning on you. L. Leaning. His head is tilted just enough to graze your arm, hair brushing your skin. You freeze, heart thumping quietly in your chest.
“Should I move?” you whisper.
His voice is low, drowsy. “No. This is…comfortable.”
You don’t say anything else. Neither does he. You both fall asleep like that, the monitors glowing, strawberry shortcake crumbs still on the table.
You wake slowly.
The room is quiet—only the soft hum of the computer monitors and the occasional distant drip from the coffee machine. It’s not the usual harsh, blinking alert that pulls you out of sleep. No. It’s warm. Heavy. Solid.
You shift slightly and— There’s someone pressed into your side. Not just someone.
His body is curled around yours in a way that’s so unlike him, it makes your breath hitch. One arm is awkwardly hooked around your waist, his cheek resting against your shoulder blade, his hair tickling the side of your neck. His knees are bent behind yours, socked feet tangled with your own.
You blink. He’s still asleep.
L. Sleeping.
His fingers twitch a little in his sleep like he’s thinking even now. Then he mumbles something too quiet to catch. You turn your head, watching him, trying not to move too much. His expression is softer. The perpetual tension in his face—gone. No furrowed brows. No staring. Just a quiet, strange calm.
And then, as if your thoughts stirred him, he shifts. Breathes.
“Mhm…” he murmurs. “You’re still here.”
“You’re… still wrapped around me,” you whisper back.
He blinks one eye open lazily, looking at you like he’s been half-awake this whole time.
“I had a hypothesis that your body heat would improve sleep quality,” he mutters, completely serious. “It did.”
You stifle a small laugh. “Is that why your hand’s on my waist, too? Scientific purposes?”
A long pause. “…Partially.”
Your laugh is soft this time. You reach back and brush a bit of hair from his face. “You could’ve just said you wanted to hold me.”
“I’m not certain I do,” he says. Then, a beat later: “But I haven’t let go yet, have I?”
You smile. “No, you haven’t.”
He’s quiet for a moment, fingers resting against your side now. Light. Almost shy.
“I don’t sleep near others. I don’t touch. I don’t… do this.”
You stay still, letting him speak.
“But with you, it’s…less unsettling.” He frowns faintly, like the admission tastes strange in his mouth. “More tolerable. Perhaps even…nice.”
You twist slightly in his hold to look at him. He lets you, just watching.
“Well,” you murmur, brushing your knuckles against his jaw, “if you’re looking for a regular sleep experiment partner… I might be available.”
L stares for a moment longer.
Then, very slowly, he moves closer—pressing his forehead to yours. His fingers curl gently into your shirt.
“I’ll need… consistent data. Every night.”
You grin. “For science?”
“For comfort,” he whispers.
You stretch, wandering barefoot through the building’s maze of sterile hallways in one of L’s oversized white shirts—he offered it this morning after realizing your clothes had strawberry mousse on them. Of course, he tried to phrase it as “a sanitary recommendation.” You just smirked and took it.
Now you’re perched on the arm of the couch in the monitoring room, a cup of tea in your hand, watching L slouch in his usual crouch before the wall of screens.
He hasn’t looked at the monitors in five whole minutes. He’s definitely broken.
You tilt your head innocently. “You good over there, Ryuzaki?”
He blinks, once. “Yes.”
“You’re staring at the same tab of Light’s search history like it’s going to grow legs and walk away.”
L shifts. “I’m…processing.”
“Oh? Are you also ‘processing’ the fact that your hand brushed mine earlier and you flinched like I cursed you?”
“That was not a flinch. That was a recalibration of personal space—”
“You spooned me all night,” you interrupt flatly.
He says nothing.
From across the room, Light turns slowly in his chair. “Wait. What?”
You raise your brows dramatically. “Oh, nothing. Ryuzaki just fell asleep on me and apparently used me as a very spiky, unconsenting body pillow. For science.”
“I didn’t sleep on you,” L mutters, almost defensively. “I slept adjacent to you. With some contact.”
“You were humming in your sleep,” you say, deadpan.
L blinks, then whips his gaze toward you, a tiny panic flaring in his eyes. “That’s not scientifically documented. You have no proof.”
Light squints at the both of you. “Ryuzaki, are you okay?”
L’s eyes dart toward the monitors. “Perfectly. In fact, I’m operating at peak emotional stability.”
You cough loudly into your tea to cover your laugh.
Light still looks suspicious.
You lean closer to L and murmur, just low enough so Light won’t hear: “You’re the prime suspect now, you know. You act any softer and they’ll arrest you for conspiracy to cuddle.”
L’s hand brushes yours under the desk. This time, he doesn’t flinch. He hooks his pinky with yours.
“I’m willing to risk incarceration,” he says, voice barely audible. “But only if you’ll serve time with me.”
You blink. Then grin. “I knew it. You’re catching feelings.”
He stares at you blankly. Then pops a sugar cube into your tea without breaking eye contact.
“For science,” he says.
It starts off completely normal.
You follow L to the secure file room to “grab a record” (aka follow him because you’re bored and like how dramatic he looks holding folders). The second the door closes behind you, you hear a soft click—and then nothing.
You both pause.
L turns around, eyes narrowed. You try the handle. Click. Locked.
There’s no intercom. The lights are dim. The air is faintly cool. You glance over your shoulder at L.
“Well. That’s suspiciously on brand.”
He tilts his head. “I didn’t lock it.”
“Oh, I know. The universe did it for you.” You walk backward slowly into the room, arms crossed. “It’s giving fate wants you to make a move already, weirdo.”
L blinks. “Make a move? I didn’t bring a chessboard.”
You snort. “No, I mean like—romantic tension move, not pawn to E4.”
“I… see.”
He doesn’t see. You lean your back against the table and grin at him. “So. What do we do now, Ryuzaki? What does your genius brain suggest?”
He chews his thumb thoughtfully. “We could attempt to pick the lock using a paperclip.”
You hold up your hands. “Oh no. No. We’re doing this. We’re trapped. Together. Alone. In a dim room. With tension. And I’m onto you.”
He stares. “Onto… what?”
You tilt your head, smiling wickedly.
“That you’ve been looking at my mouth more than the crime scene photos lately.”
A long pause. L’s voice is soft. “That’s slander.”
“You’re blushing.”
“I don’t—blush.”
“You’re a little creepy,” you say, stepping toward him. “A little weird. You hover, you don’t blink enough, and you analyze things like you’re doing a background check on my soul.”
He frowns faintly, eyes flickering between yours.
You stop just in front of him and smile.
“…But tragically, that’s exactly my type.”
He stares at you in complete silence.
Then, flatly: “That’s deeply concerning.”
You laugh and lean up, brushing your fingers over the lapels of his oversized shirt. He stiffens slightly but doesn’t move away.
“I think you like it.”
“I think you’re instigating.”
You grin. “I think you’re about to short-circuit.”
And then—your hand brushes his. His fingers twitch like he’s fighting every instinct not to retreat. Instead… they curl.
“I find you very distracting,” he murmurs quietly. “Inconveniently so.”
“And I find you ridiculously hot in a slightly-malnourished-goth-savant kind of way,” you tease, voice low now. “So what now, genius?”
He swallows. “…Now I test a hypothesis.”
His hands lift, just slightly, brushing your face. He hesitates—looks at your mouth like it’s made of explosives. Then, awkwardly, slowly, he leans in and presses the softest kiss to the corner of your lips.
You hum. “Hm. Was that the whole test?”
“No,” he says, eyes dark and voice steadier now. “Just the opening statement.”
This time, he kisses you properly.
And when the door finally unlocks—twenty minutes later, triggered by some delayed security auto-reset—you’re both standing suspiciously far apart, but L’s shirt is still a little crooked, your lips are definitely a little swollen, and there’s a faint trace of pink on his ears.
When Light opens the door and squints, you just wave casually.
“Door locked,” you say, straight-faced. “We panicked. Did weird things. Very traumatic.”
L adds, with no inflection at all: “There was… a lot of touching.”
Light just stares between the two of you and mutters, “What the hell is going on today.”
Late That Night
Sleep wraps you deep, tangled in warmth and the quiet hum of distant electronics. You’re curled into your pillow, dreaming of something hazy and sweet—until your instincts scream.
Something shifts the mattress.
Your eyes snap open. A shape. A person.
You barely get a gasp out before a pale hand claps over your mouth, a low voice whispering fast against your ear.
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you.”
Your eyes adjust. It’s L.
In your bed.
At three in the morning.
You shove at his chest, and he pulls back just enough to let you speak, his body tense, crouched beside you like he’s about to leap into a ceiling vent.
You scowl, voice a hoarse whisper. “What the fuck! What do you want?!“
He stares, wide-eyed. Like he’s not entirely sure either. Like he’s been possessed by something he can’t name.
“I couldn’t sleep,” he says quietly. “The bed. It was… cold.”
You blink. “And you thought sneaking into my bed like a haunted Victorian child was the solution?”
He doesn’t flinch. But his fingers reach out slowly, tentatively. He brushes your wrist with the lightest touch—his thumb hovers over your pulse, like he’s measuring it. Feeling it. Needing it.
“Your presence calms my nervous system,” he murmurs, scientific as ever.
You stare at him. Then smirk.
“Ohhh,” you whisper mockingly. “You wanna cuddle, Ryuzaki?”
His eyes flick up to meet yours, sharp and shadowed.
“I want warmth,” he says flatly.
“Mhm,” you purr. “So does every man who crawls into my bed.”
L blinks slowly.
“I’ve never done this before.”
“Oh, trust me,” you say as you scoot back, dragging the blanket open with exaggerated flair, “that I figured out.”
He crawls in awkwardly—long limbs folding beside you like he’s preparing for a crypt analysis rather than a nap. You roll your eyes and grab his arm, pulling it over your waist as you settle against his chest.
He stiffens. Doesn’t breathe for a second.
Then. Very carefully. He exhales.
You feel the tension bleed out of him like a slow leak.
“…Is this okay?” he asks quietly.
“You’re the one who broke in,” you mumble, already melting back into sleep, cheek tucked under his chin. “You better hold me like you mean it, creep.”
His hand tightens around your waist, fingers curling against your shirt.
“I will.”
You hum. Almost smile.
Just before sleep pulls you under again, you hear him whisper against your hair:
“I liked the way you said my name.”
You smirk into his neck, barely conscious, voice slurred and teasing.
“What, Ryuzaki?”
“No,” he murmurs. “The other way.”
You’re already asleep when he whispers it again to himself. Softly. Like it means something.
“L…”
You wake slowly, the warmth of another body heavy against your back, breath ghosting steady and low near your ear.
And he’s still there.
Not just pressed to you, but holding you. His arm is snug around your waist, his legs tangled with yours like he forgot how not to cling. One of his hands is resting beneath your shirt, palm flat against your stomach—not in a lewd way, but in that unconscious I-need-to-feel-you-exist kind of way.
You try not to move. Try not to ruin it. He’s awake. You can feel it in the way his fingers shift ever so slightly—like he’s mapping your breathing pattern. And not in the calculating, “I-want-to-solve-your-brain” way.
In the “I-don’t-know-why-this-is-good-but-it-is” way.
You whisper, voice scratchy from sleep, “You’ve been watching me sleep, haven’t you?”
A pause. Then, softly: “Yes.”
You laugh under your breath. “That’s not comforting.”
“I find it comforting,” he says. “You’re… peaceful. It’s strange.”
You hum, eyes still closed. “You’re allowed to say ‘beautiful,’ you know.”
Another pause.
“I was going to say statistically calming, but… yes. That too.”
His fingers skim your side, hesitant but reverent. Like he wants to learn every nerve beneath your skin.
You twist just enough to face him. His hair’s a mess. Shirt rumpled. And his eyes—big, dark, and awake—are fixed entirely on you.
“Are you going to analyze every second of this?”
L tilts his head. “I might. But not right now.”
You smile, slow and teasing. “Then what now?”
He leans in slightly, barely brushing his lips over your forehead.
“Now,” he murmurs, “I memorize how this feels.”
The morning light is soft, filtering through the curtains in a pale wash over your sheets.
L is still curled against your back, his arm draped loosely around your waist, and for once, you’re actually warm. Your shirt is wrinkled, his hoodie is tangled between your legs, but you’re both fully clothed and—shockingly—peaceful.
And then. Click.
The door creaks open. “Hey, have you seen—“
Light’s voice cuts off. Silence follows.
You blink your eyes open slowly, just in time to see Light Yagami standing in the doorway, holding a folder, staring at you both like he’s walked in on a crime scene.
L opens his eyes too. Doesn’t move. Just stares back blankly from where he’s spooning you like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
You mutter, voice sleep-rough, “…Morning?”
Light blinks once. “Ryuzaki,” he says, slowly and suspiciously. “Why are you in her bed?”
L’s voice is completely monotone. “She was warm.”
You smack his arm lightly. “Ryuzaki.”
Light’s brows raise just slightly. “So you just… climbed into her bed in the middle of the night?”
L nods. “Yes.”
“And you let him?” Light asks you, already sounding like he regrets asking.
You yawn. “I was asleep, and now I’m warm. So I don’t see the problem.”
Light’s eyes narrow. “You two didn’t—?”
“No,” you both say at the same time, deadpan.
L adds, “Though I have developed a preference for this particular sleeping arrangement. I slept 22% longer than average.”
You blink up at him. “You tracked that?”
“Of course.”
Light stares. “You’re both so weird.”
You grin, still half-laying on your side, voice syrupy and innocent.
“Aww, don’t be jealous, Light.”
“I’m not—” he starts, then cuts himself off with a sigh and rubs his temples. “Whatever. Just get up soon. We’ve got three interviews to run through.”
He turns to leave, mumbling, “Jesus Christ, he spooned her.”
The door shuts. You burst out laughing, flopping back on the pillow. L doesn’t laugh. But he shifts closer and presses his forehead to your shoulder again, whispering: “Technically, I forked.”
“…You’re unbelievable.”
“And yet,” he murmurs, arms tightening around your waist, “you didn’t kick me out.”
Later that Day.
The three of you are back in the main room, reviewing footage. Light’s scrolling through files with mild aggression. You’re perched on the edge of the table, sipping tea. L’s in his usual crouch on the chair, knees pulled up, thumb resting near his mouth, but his eyes keep flicking over to you.
He hasn’t said much. But he hasn’t stopped watching you either.
Light finally breaks. He slams the file shut. “So. Just to be clear… we’re all pretending you two didn’t fall asleep wrapped around each other last night like a rom-com?”
You hum, casually. “Oh no, we’re not pretending. I was there. It was excellent.”
L speaks, tone dry. “There was no inappropriate conduct.”
Light scoffs. “You were in her bed.”
“I’m capable of spatial proximity without sexual motivation,” L says flatly, not even looking at him.
Light gives you a look. “And you just let that happen?”
You raise a brow. “Why wouldn’t I? I’ve had worse things in my bed.”
L blinks slowly. “Who?”
“Relax,” you say, smirking. “I meant a fever.”
Light rubs his temples again. “I’m begging you both to stop being so weird.”
You grin. “We’re not weird. We’re just… cozy.”
L’s thumb halts near his mouth. “She produces a highly favorable body temperature for rest efficiency.”
Light lets out a sound between a laugh and a scream. “She’s not a goddamn heating pad, Ryuzaki!”
You hop off the table with a soft chuckle and wander over to where L is standing now, having moved to the window like some Victorian ghost with trust issues. His arms are wrapped loosely over his middle, posture a little hunched.
You stop in front of him, head tilting.
He doesn’t look at you—he’s just watching the glass like it might hold answers.
So you walk right up and wrap your arms around his waist. He freezes. You rest your cheek against his chest, smiling softly as you murmur, “You look cold… but no one I’ve ever cuddled with has been hotter than you.”
A beat of silence.
Then: His hands twitch awkwardly at his sides.
Very slowly… he lifts them. One rests gently on your back. The other hovers, hesitates—
Then lands softly at your hip. You glance up at him, expecting his usual blank stare.
But L’s eyes are wide. Red at the tips.
He’s blushing. Actually, genuinely blushing.
You grin like a devil. “Ohhh no. I got you. You’re blushing.”
L opens his mouth. Closes it.
Light, from the corner: “Are you guys seriously flirting while we’re profiling a murder suspect?”
You don’t look away. You’re still watching L, eyes bright.
“Not flirting,” you whisper, loud enough for Light to hear. “Just running another experiment.”
L clears his throat and finally speaks, very softly: “…Initial results indicate elevated internal temperature and increased heart rate.”
You grin. “I’d call that a success.”
It’s Late Again.
It’s quiet.
You’re half-asleep in your room, the lights off, tucked under your blanket in that dreamy in-between space where time blurs and your thoughts start slipping into nonsense.
Then— Click. The soft sound of your door unlatching. A pause.
Then his voice. “Are you awake?”
You don’t move, don’t even open your eyes.
“No,” you murmur, voice thick with sleep. “But come here.”
Silence.
You shift just enough to lift the edge of your blanket, your palm waiting in the space beside you.
Still no sound of him moving. You sigh, almost smiling. “Come.”
Another beat.
Then you hear it—soft, padded footsteps, tentative. The rustle of fabric. A held breath. And then the weight of him dipping the bed beside you.
You finally crack an eye open. He’s right there. Face to face. Hair a soft mess over his eyes. Barely breathing.
You can see it—the hesitation in him, the conflict, the way he’s trying to study you and feel at the same time.
Your voice is barely a whisper, hot between you.
“You know you can touch me if you want to. Right?”
His brows twitch. He searches your face like he’s trying to detect sarcasm, deceit—anything to explain why you’d say that so openly. Then slowly, so carefully, he lifts a hand. Fingers ghost along your arm. Featherlight over your elbow. Like he’s reading your skin instead of touching it. You shiver.
And then he whispers, voice as quiet as the night air: “You’re… very kind to me.”
Your heart stutters. That softness. That strange, clumsy confession. You smile lazy, wicked.
“Well, Ryuzaki,” you murmur, “maybe I just have a weakness for strange, emotionally constipated men who break into my room at 3am.”
You feel it—the faintest tightening in his hand against your arm. A twitch of tension.
Got him.
“You’re blushing again, aren’t you?” you add, voice teasing, lilting.
“I am not—”
You lean in slightly, lips ghosting the space between you. He freezes. And then you tilt your chin up. And kiss him.
His breath catches in the back of his throat. For one heartbeat, he doesn’t move.
Then his hand moves to your waist—tighter this time—and he kisses you back. Slow. Deep. Careful like he’s still calculating everything but surrendering anyway.
When you pull away just enough to breathe, your nose brushing his, you whisper: “Observation: you’re a really good kisser.”
His eyes are wide. Lips parted. Voice low. “Would you allow me to test that further?”
You smirk. “Only if you stay the whole night.”
He nods, already curling closer like he never wants to leave.
“I was planning to.”
The kiss doesn’t stay innocent for long.
It deepens naturally, softly, your lips dragging against his, your fingers sliding up under his hoodie, finding the bare line of his waist. He makes a sound, barely there, like he doesn’t know he’s allowed to enjoy this.
You shift closer. One hand cups his cheek, the other trails down his side and he flinches. Not violently. Not enough to pull away. Just a twitch, a sharp intake of breath.
You freeze immediately. Your hand stills. His lashes flutter.
Then: “I’m sorry,” he whispers. Barely audible. “I didn’t mean to—”
“Hey,” you cut in, gently. “You’re fine. You’re okay.”
He won’t look at you.
So you take his hand, bring it to your chest, and press his palm over your heartbeat.
It’s steady. Warm. “I’m not going anywhere, Ryuzaki,” you murmur, softer now. “You can touch me when you’re ready. Or not. I just want you to feel safe.”
He swallows thickly. Then nods — just once.
And when he shifts again, it’s slower, more cautious. He buries his head in your neck, hair brushing your jaw, arms wrapping around your waist like a shield.
You cradle him against you. No teasing now. Just your fingers stroking gently through his hair, slow and rhythmic, lulling him.
His body stays tense for a while — but eventually you feel him melt. You’re not sure when he falls asleep. But you feel it in the way his grip softens. His breath evens out. And for the first time since you met him, L sleeps like he trusts something.
Like he trusts you.
You wake to the feel of him curled into your chest, still breathing softly. The sunlight filters in through the slats, warming the room in a soft golden haze. L’s face is relaxed — no furrow in his brow, no darting eyes, no quiet calculating muttering. Just… calm.
His mouth is slightly parted, and his hair’s a mess against your collarbone. His hand is still holding yours.
And your heart aches. You’ve seen him at every angle: hunched, analyzing, picking apart corpses with eerie precision, biting into sweets like his life depends on it. But this?
This is something he never lets anyone see.
You run your fingers gently through his hair, thumb brushing his temple, careful not to wake him. He shifts a little but doesn’t pull away. Just nestles closer.
You whisper, barely audible: “Good morning, secret genius.”
He doesn’t reply. But you swear, for just a second, the corners of his lips twitch.
You’re still stroking his hair when you feel it.
The shift. The subtle lift of breath. The quiet tension in his chest. The unmistakable awareness that comes when someone’s watching you very closely.
You glance down—and there he is.
Awake. L’s eyes are wide, blinking up at you from your chest, and the second your gaze meets his, he doesn’t look away.
You smile.
“Morning.”
He doesn’t speak.
He just keeps watching you—his head still resting against your sternum, the weight of his stare heavier than anything else in the room.
And then he tugs you closer. There’s no hesitation in the movement. Just pure need. His arm tightens firmly around your waist, pulling you down until your mouths are almost touching, your breath tangling.
And then he kisses you. Not soft like last night. Not hesitant.
It’s rougher now. Hungrier. His lips part yours with a slow urgency, one hand sliding up your back, the other curling into your shirt like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go. His breathing stutters against your mouth, and you gasp just a little from the heat of it.
But even with the heat, he’s careful. Always.
You could pull away, and he’d let you.
But you don’t.
You kiss him back, threading your fingers into his hair, feeling the tension roll off of him like waves.
When he finally pulls back, just far enough to speak, his voice is rough and low and so unlike the clinical tone you’re used to.
“You’re addicting.”
You blink. His thumb traces the edge of your jaw, slow, reverent. His eyes dark.
“I haven’t… craved anything in years.”
You brush your lips against his, feather-light.
“And now?”
His hand tightens against your back. “Now I can’t think about anything else.”
You smile again—this time softer. Deeper. “Well,” you murmur, nudging your nose against his, “you might need a new coping strategy.”
His lips curve faintly, eyes never leaving yours.
“I already found it,” he whispers. “And she’s lying in this bed.”
⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ full already? didn’t think so. my masterlist’s right here.
anyway the thing about fanfic is that it's not essentially bad or good; it's essentially amateur. some people are absolutely out there writing award-worthy prose (some fic writers ARE award-winning writers IRL!), but that's not the point. the point is that we're all telling campfire stories. it's a community, and it's a way to spend some more time in the worlds and stories that we love.
“That’s cheating!” Katsuki exploded, pointing the remote at you like a loaded gun. “Fucking marital betrayal!”
You sighed and flopped back onto the couch, legs crossed. “I just wanted to know what happened, okay? I was curious…”
“Curious?” he repeated with a bitter laugh. “You watched four episodes without me!” You winced slightly. “Maybe five… but who’s counting?”
The silence that followed was almost comical. Katsuki stared at you with an outraged expression, one hand dramatically placed over his chest like you’d just stabbed him in the back.
“You’re a monster. A real fucking monster.”
You couldn’t help but laugh. Katsuki growled and dropped heavily onto the couch beside you, arms crossed tightly over his chest, pouting like a sulky child.
“We had a deal. We watch together. TO-GE-THER. What the hell does that word mean to you huh?”
“Sorry kats…” you murmured, gently scooting closer to him.
“Nope. Keep your sorrys. I’m getting revenge.” He snatched the remote with an evil smirk. “I’m gonna watch the rest of Game of Thrones without you. All the episodes. And I’ll spoil you everything.”
Your smile vanished instantly. “Oh no. Katsuki.. you can’t do that!”
“And why the hell not? You watched Breaking Bad without me!”
“It’s not the same!” you protested, clinging to his arm.
“Really? Explain the difference miss traitor.” You opened your mouth… then closed it again. There was no real difference.
Katsuki smirked, clearly proud of himself. But when you rested your head on his shoulder with a guilty little pout, he stiffened for a second before letting out a long sigh.
“You’re so annoying…” he grumbled.
Still, his arm slid around your shoulders and pulled you closer. You immediately took advantage, snuggling into him and draping one leg over his.
“I can make it up to you,” you offered softly.
“Yeah? How?”
“I’ll cook all your favorite meals for the whole week.” Katsuki grunted, but you felt his body relax a little.
“Keep going.”
“I’ll give you massages after your workouts. And… we’ll restart Breaking Bad from where we left off. Together. I swear I’ll never watch ahead without you again.”
He finally turned his head toward you. His red eyes studied you for a long moment, still a bit suspicious. “You promise? On your life?”
“On my life.”
“Your life doesn’t mean shit anymore, you already broke our pact.”
You laughed softly and buried your face in his neck. Katsuki finally gave in completely. He wrapped his other arm around your waist and pulled you tight against him, resting his chin on top of your head.
“You’re lucky I love you, damn it…” he muttered into your hair, his voice still a little pouty.
You smiled and pressed a kiss to his jaw. “I know. I love you too, even when you’re sulking.”
“Shut up.” But he tightened his hold on you and grabbed the remote to start episode 8 of season 3. “And this time, if you dare watch even one scene without me, I swear I’ll blow up the damn tv.”
You laughed against his chest, happy and safely tucked against him. “Promise, Kats.”
a/n: my sis continued a series without me I felt betrayed just like Katsuki😭 ˖ (🐋) mlist _
origamiaround
romaincrisis
andulkaphoto
ellievsbear
discoholicmusic
2087
snowghoul
stormborns
