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.”
There you are. I knew you would stay.
The Masterlist is here. If that still does not satisfy you, Requests are open.
contains virginity loss, power play, mutual teasing, light mocking, possessiveness, praise, soft domesticity, inappropriate office flirting, suggestive notes, chess metaphors, unprofessional behavior, sleep-deprivation, clinging/cuddling, also almost 25k words
Your office was quiet, the morning light filtering through the blinds in pale gold stripes. You had been running late, coffee cooling in your hand, when you pushed the door open and froze at the sight waiting for you.
A neat little pyramid of sugar cubes sat perfectly balanced in the center of your desk. Next to it, folded with meticulous care, was a square of paper.
You didn’t need to guess who it was from.
The note was written in that peculiar script, neat but angular, as if every letter was weighed for balance.
“I estimate this structure will last approximately 2 hours and 14 minutes before collapsing. If it falls sooner, please inform me. Also, I hope you slept well. —L“
You pressed your lips together, fighting back a laugh. Typical. Always strange, always calculated, and yet somehow charming. It wasn’t the first time he had left you things, chess pieces in your drawer, half-written riddles on scraps of paper, and once, an origami crane made from the margin of a case file. For three years, this had been your normal. Working with him. Not really seeing him, he preferred his shadows, his screens, but always feeling him close.
And lately, closer.
You set your bag down, sliding into your chair, and let your eyes linger on the sugar pyramid. There was warmth at your chest that you weren’t sure you wanted to name.
Your phone buzzed once, the vibration sliding across your desk until it stopped just by the pyramid of sugar cubes. You didn’t even glance at the caller ID—you already knew.
“Good morning,” you said, settling back in your chair, lips curving faintly.
There was silence for a beat. Then his voice, low, carefully enunciated, as though each word was chosen:
“Good morning. You arrived later than usual.”
Your eyes drifted to the sugar cubes. He had probably balanced them with the precision of a surgeon.
“I had traffic. Don’t sound so concerned.“
“I wasn’t concerned,” he corrected gently. “Only observant. You tend to arrive at 8:06, not 8:32. It is—” there was the faintest pause, “—a disruption of your pattern.”
You smirked, tapping your pen against the desk. “And you don’t like your patterns disrupted.”
“I don’t dislike it,” he said. A quiet rustle on his end, like he was shifting. “But I prefer predictability. Sugar cubes on your desk, for instance. Predictable. You’ll smile when you see them. Predictable. Though—” his tone softened almost imperceptibly, “I also find I like being the reason you smile.”
Your chest tightened a little at that. Three years of this strange, delicate orbit around each other, notes in drawers, chess pawns tucked in your pockets after late nights, his voice in your ear while the rest of the task force slept. Yet you’d never seen his face. “You could just show up and smile at me yourself,” you murmured.
Another pause. Longer this time. Then: “That would be considerably less safe.”
“But you’d like to, wouldn’t you?”
A very faint intake of breath. “Yes.”
The word lingered between you like static. You leaned back in your chair, fingers brushing the rim of your coffee cup. “You know, for someone who prides himself on logic, you can be terribly sentimental.”
“Only with you,” he admitted, and his voice dropped just enough to make your stomach twist.
Your hand trembled slightly as you set your pen down. That careful, slow burn, the kind where three years of patience pressed against your ribs, whispering for more. You hesitated, then tilted your head toward the sugar pyramid. “What exactly do you expect me to do with these?”
“Eat them one by one,” he said softly. “While thinking of me.”
“You little flirt.” You smirked at the sugar pyramid, leaning back in your chair with your pen still between your fingers.
“…Flirt,” he repeated, like the word was unfamiliar in his mouth. “I don’t believe that’s the correct classification. I was merely… honest.”
You chuckled under your breath. “Honest about wanting me to think of you while I’m sucking down sugar cubes? Sounds like flirting to me.”
Another pause. Longer this time. Then, in a voice lower, almost hesitant: “Then I suppose I am flirting.”
The admission slipped through the line so quietly it made your breath catch. Your hand hovered above the pyramid of cubes, brushing the edge of one before you pulled back and let it be.
“I’ll let you get back to work then,” he said at last, more controlled again, though there was something softer beneath it. “But don’t forget to take one cube every hour. I’ll know if you don’t.”
You laughed, shaking your head as you put the phone down, your pulse unreasonably quick for a conversation that lasted only a few minutes.
The sugar pyramid stood at the center of your desk like a dare.
“I hate sugar,” you muttered to yourself, fingers sliding over the keyboard as your laptop hummed awake. The screen’s glow washed over the little pyramid on your desk, casting long shadows across the cubes.
“…You don’t hate sugar,” his voice came, dry, almost amused. “You hate that I know you’ll still eat them, because I asked you to.”
Your head snapped toward the phone, lips twitching despite yourself. “Were you—listening?”
“I never hung up.” A small pause, then the faintest curl of warmth in his tone. “I wanted to hear you complain about me.”
You huffed a laugh, shaking your head and sinking further into your chair. “Three years, L, and you still don’t understand boundaries.”
“I understand them,” he countered smoothly. “I just don’t respect them when it comes to you.”
That one hit deeper than you’d expected, heat flickering up the back of your neck. You tried to steady your breath, eyes darting once more to the perfect little sugar pyramid like it was mocking you. “I’m going to work now. Properly.” You emphasized the last word, fingers already moving over the keys.
“Then I’ll let you.” His voice had softened again, slow, deliberate. “But don’t forget—I’ll be watching.”
The line clicked dead this time.
You stared at the phone for a long moment before muttering under your breath again, “Creep.” But there was no hiding the smile that tugged your mouth as you bent back over your laptop.
The clock ticked toward 12:30 p.m., the quiet hum of your office left behind as you shrugged into your coat and locked the door. The hall was empty, save for the muffled sounds of distant conversation and the squeak of your shoes against the polished floor. You needed fresh air more than anything—your eyes were burning from the screen, your fingers aching from typing.
Outside, the air was crisp, sharp with the scent of asphalt warming in the sun. You pulled the pack of cigarettes from your pocket, tapping one loose with the ease of habit. The little flick of your lighter flared briefly, and you leaned into it, shielding the flame against the breeze. The tip glowed as you inhaled, letting smoke fill your lungs and curl out from your lips.
Your phone buzzed in your other hand. You didn’t check the screen. You didn’t need to.
“Yes, sweetheart?” you answered, voice smooth with a teasing lilt, the cigarette already between your lips.
There was a pause on the line, faint static—then his voice, measured, precise, the kind of voice that weighed every syllable. “You should quit smoking.”
You laughed quietly, exhaling a thin ribbon of smoke into the air. His words carried that familiar detached tone, but you’d been listening to him long enough to hear the layers beneath—concern dressed up as observation.
“And you should stop watching me,” you murmured, lips curving as you leaned against the cold stone of the building. “But here we are.”
The silence that followed was heavy in its own way, filled with things unsaid. You imagined him somewhere inside, crouched over his phone the way he crouched over chessboards and sugar pyramids, thumb pressed against his lower lip. He was watching. He always was.
“You know it’s harmful,” he said finally. “The habit reduces life expectancy by an average of ten years. It also causes your fingertips to—”
“Turn yellow?” you cut him off with a little laugh, flicking ash to the pavement. “You don’t have to list my vices back to me, L. You’re already keeping score.”
“I’m not keeping score,” he corrected softly. “I’m invested.”
Your smirk faltered for a fraction of a second at that word. Invested. From anyone else it would sound casual. From him, it sounded dangerously close to intimate.
You took another drag, more out of defiance than desire. “Then what’s your plan? Gonna leave me sugar cubes until I drop the habit?”
“If it worked, yes.” His tone was flat, but there was the faintest shift, like he was smiling and suppressing it. “I’d leave them every day until you couldn’t bear the sight of them.”
“Maybe I’d just eat them all out of spite,” you teased, smoke curling past your words.
“I’d still win,” he murmured, voice dropping low. “Because then I’d know you were thinking of me with every one.”
The smoke caught in your throat at that, leaving you momentarily breathless. You tilted your head back toward the sky, the cigarette burning low between your fingers, and whispered into the phone with a grin you couldn’t suppress: “You really are a little flirt.”
This time, he didn’t correct you. He only went quiet, the weight of his silence pressing against your chest as if he were standing right there beside you.
The call ended with a quiet click, the static gone from your ear, but his voice still echoing in your mind. You lingered outside, leaning back against the rough stone wall of the building, cigarette dangling loosely from your fingers. The air was sharp, biting against your skin as your head tipped back, eyes closed, exhaling smoke like you were trying to ease the ache he’d left inside you.
Footsteps. They stopped just in front of you.
You didn’t look up at first, probably just someone passing. But then—“I told you smoking isn’t good for your health.”
The voice hit you like a gut punch. Familiar. Too familiar.
Your eyes snapped open, breath caught in your chest as the cigarette was plucked neatly from your fingers. You froze, staring, and there he was, close enough to touch. Taller than you’d imagined, posture slightly hunched but presence unnervingly steady, almost calming despite the way your heart spiked.
He wore a plain white sweater, soft at the edges like he’d pulled it from a drawer without care, blue jeans slightly loose around his long legs, and black Converse scuffed with wear. A medical face mask covered the lower half of his face, but it didn’t hide the sharp, unreadable darkness of his eyes. His hair was longer than you thought it would be black, disheveled, strands curling toward his neck like he hadn’t bothered to tame it.
Your throat went dry. “What the fuck—” you whispered, panic stirring low in your stomach. He was standing there.
He only tilted his head, gaze locked to yours like he was dissecting every flicker of expression. Then, with a voice that carried its usual detached cadence but now edged with something dangerously amused, he said: “This isn’t how you greet people.”
You stared at him, utterly stunned, pulse hammering.
“But,” he continued, almost mocking, though the softness beneath betrayed him, “I will allow it for now.”
The cigarette smoldered between his fingers, forgotten, as if even that small rebellion had no power against the weight of his presence standing there in front of you.
“You know this is expensive, right?” you snapped, the sharpness in your voice betraying the panic you were trying to smother. You watched as he casually dropped the cigarette to the pavement and ground it beneath the rubber sole of his black Converse, the ember snuffed out with a muted hiss.
He didn’t flinch at your tone. Those dark eyes, flat yet impossibly perceptive, pinned you in place. “Technically,” he said, the cadence of his words measured, “you paid for the right to accelerate your own death by approximately ten years, possibly more depending on your genetic predisposition and environment. So in that sense, I have just saved you money. A rather significant return on investment, if you wish to calculate it properly.”
You blinked, momentarily caught between outrage and disbelief. “You destroyed my cigarette and called it saving me money?”
“Yes,” he answered simply, voice calm, almost bored but his eyes glimmered faintly, betraying some amusement. “That is correct.”
You pushed off the wall, arms crossing tightly against your chest to mask the unease winding through your stomach. He was here. Not behind a phone, not hidden in shadows. Real. Close enough to breathe the same air. And he was infuriatingly composed about it.
“You could have just said you don’t like the smell,” you muttered.
His head tilted, hair slipping slightly over his mask. “I don’t like the thought of you damaging yourself when I’ve spent years making sure others don’t. The smell is very irrelevant.”
The words sank into you, low and dangerous, twisting in your chest in ways you didn’t want to acknowledge. You stared at him, searching for cracks in his mask, anything to give away what he was really thinking.
“You’re impossible,” you whispered, though your voice had softened.
“Perhaps,” he said, rocking back slightly on his heels, still crouched like some eerie apparition you’d conjured by accident. “But you haven’t walked away.”
And he was right—you hadn’t moved an inch.
“And what are you doing here?” you asked, narrowing your eyes as he rose fluidly from his crouch, tall and steady in front of you.
His posture was strange, shoulders rounded, hands slipping into the loose pockets of his jeans as if he’d been standing there for years. Those black eyes didn’t waver from yours, and though his mask hid most of his expression, you could feel the curve of amusement threading through his words before he spoke.
“I work here too,” he said flatly, as though it were the most obvious answer in the world. Then, after a beat, he added with a dry edge, “I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but most of the criminals don’t catch themselves.”
You blinked, caught between a laugh and disbelief. “Oh really?”
“Yes,” he continued, shifting his weight slightly, his voice carrying that careful monotone that made every statement sound like a mathematical proof. “It’s quite a complicated system. I investigate. I think. Sometimes I eat cake. And then, eventually, I solve the case. You should try it—it’s very productive.”
Your lips twitched, fighting back a smile. “You’re unbelievable.”
“I’ve been called worse,” he replied without missing a beat. His eyes lingered on you, that strange mix of detached and intent. “But if it helps, consider this my lunch break.”
“Lunch break?” you echoed.
“Yes. Others take walks. Some socialize. I appear in front of you and confiscate dangerous objects.” He nudged the crushed cigarette with his shoe, as though to underline the point, tone almost mocking but never losing that strange eloquence. “It seems a far better use of time.”
This time, you couldn’t stop your laugh. The sound escaped before you could catch it, and his eyes flickered at the sound, sharp, calculating, and just slightly softer.
“I have to go back,” you sighed, flicking a glance at the building behind you before tilting your chin up at him. “Maybe you should come to my office if you’re bored. So you can eat your sugar cubes.”
You stepped closer, daring, and tapped your finger against his chest as though he were just some ordinary coworker and not the most brilliant, reclusive man alive. The fabric of his white sweater was soft beneath your fingertip, a warmth beneath it you hadn’t expected.
For a moment, he froze. His breath hitched so faintly you would have missed it if you hadn’t been watching him so closely. Behind the plain medical mask, a flush spread across the tops of his cheekbones.
You didn’t notice. You were too busy smirking, enjoying the way his eyes flickered down at your hand like he wasn’t sure what to do with it. “That’s a rather dangerous invitation,” he said finally, voice quieter, though still carefully measured. “If I come to your office, I won’t be eating sugar cubes.”
You raised an eyebrow, amused. “Oh? And what would you be doing instead?”
His gaze lingered, steady and unreadable, though the faint pink still colored his skin above the mask. His lips parted as if to speak, then he stopped himself, lowering his eyes briefly to the pavement before looking back at you with that same eerie calm.
“Working,” he said at last, tone flat again, though the faint waver betrayed him. “Obviously.”
But the way his fingers curled in his pockets and the stubborn blush creeping higher told another story entirely.
You chuckled, soft and low, the sound curling between you like smoke. Your hand lingered just long enough to brush against his arm, before you turned, slipping past him.
He didn’t move, didn’t follow, only stood there with that strange, still presence that seemed to swallow the space around him. You felt his eyes trace the back of your figure as you walked away, the faintest tension humming between you both.
“I will hear from you,” you tossed over your shoulder, voice carrying your usual teasing lilt.
There was the slightest pause, and then his reply, smooth and deliberate, cut through the air: “You will.”
It followed you all the way back inside, echoing in your chest with far more weight than it should have, like a promise sealed in his low, unshakable tone.
The hallway was quiet when you returned, the only sound the click of your shoes echoing off the walls. You slid your key into the lock, twisting until the mechanism gave a soft snick. The door opened, and you stepped back into the familiar space of your office.
At first, nothing seemed out of place—the faint hum of your laptop, the chair angled just how you’d left it, the blinds half-drawn against the afternoon light. But then your eyes landed on the center of your desk.
You froze.
The pyramid of sugar cubes still stood, perfectly balanced as if not a second had passed since you’d left. But resting delicately on top was something new. A single flower. Small, fragile, its petals curved outward in perfect symmetry.
Your breath caught when you recognized it. Your birth flower. Not just any bloom plucked from a florist’s shelf, but yours.
You approached slowly, setting your jacket down with more care than usual, as though any sudden movement might shatter the little display. The flower seemed impossibly out of place among the sterile papers and harsh edges of your desk, soft and alive, its quiet presence commanding all your attention.
A folded slip of paper lay beneath the stem. You reached for it, fingers brushing the delicate bloom as you lifted the note free. His handwriting sprawled across it in the familiar slanted scrawl you’d seen countless times in hidden drawers and chessboard pawns: “You looked better smiling than smoking. Please keep this instead.”
You stared at the words for a long moment, the corners of your lips tugging upward despite yourself. He had been here. Silent, invisible, and yet everywhere.
You sat down slowly, turning the flower in your hand, letting your fingertips trace the edges of its petals. The faintest blush crept into your cheeks as the memory of his voice, low and steady, slipped back into your mind.
You whispered into the empty office, as if he might still be listening: “You’re impossible.”
But the smile tugging at your lips betrayed just how much you didn’t mind.
The building was nearly silent by the time you finally pushed away from your desk, the only sound the faint buzz of the fluorescent lights above and the occasional groan of the old heater cycling on. You rubbed your eyes, exhaustion prickling behind them, and shut your laptop with a sharp snap. Papers stacked into neat piles, pens clicked back into their holder—anything to mark an end to the long, aggravating day.
When you finally locked your office door and slung your bag over your shoulder, it was nearly 9 p.m. The corridors felt deserted, eerie in their stillness, the kind of silence that makes your own footsteps sound too loud. You’d only just reached the end of the hallway when your phone buzzed in your hand. Without looking at the ID, you pressed it to your ear.
“It’s dark outside,” his voice said immediately—low, quiet, as if he were speaking right beside you instead of across a line.
You sighed, already smirking despite your fatigue. “My car is in the parking lot. I’m not walking home, sweetheart.”
“Darkness increases risk,” he replied evenly. “Statistically, assaults are more likely to occur between 8 p.m. and midnight. And your parking lot, while moderately lit, contains at least four blind spots I can calculate without difficulty.”
You reached the elevator, heels clicking, shaking your head. “Are you actually surveilling the parking lot right now?”
“I don’t surveil,” he corrected gently, though his tone carried that familiar thread of amusement. “I observe.”
“I’ll be fine,” you assured him. “I’m a big girl. Three years working under you, remember? I can handle getting to my car.”
Another silence. Then, softer, almost reluctant: “I’d prefer not to test that theory.”
You paused mid-step, his words threading under your skin like static. He never asked. He only stated, observed, calculated. This was different—subtle, but different.
Your lips curved as you unlocked your car, tossing your bag inside. “Sweet of you to worry. But I promise, I’ll call if the shadows start looking dangerous.”
“Shadows,” he murmured, as if testing the word, then fell quiet again. For a moment, you could almost swear you felt eyes on you—steady, unseen, and far too close.
The cool elevator air pressed against your skin as the doors slid shut, a sigh of machinery swallowing you whole. You leaned back against the rail, phone pressed to your ear, half-listening to the faint hum of the cables above.
“Wait for me. I will walk you to your car.”
His voice filled the small space, low and certain, no room for argument hidden in the quiet syllables. For a second, your heart stalled, then stumbled, rushing too fast in your chest. You’d heard him say countless things over the years, but never this—never a simple, human offer.
A smile tugged at your lips before you could stop it, heat rising to your cheeks despite the fact that you stood alone. “Okay,” you murmured, voice warm, playful, though you knew he’d hear the faint tremor beneath it. “Then hurry.”
The elevator jerked into motion, gliding downward floor by floor. You smirked at your own reflection in the steel of the doors, brushing hair back from your face, cheeks still flushed. You could almost feel him drawing nearer, closing the distance.
“You’re blushing,” he said finally, and though his tone was smooth, calculated, there was an undercurrent—soft, amused, maybe even pleased.
You bit down on a laugh, heat flooding higher in your cheeks as you tried to mask it with bravado. “You can’t possibly know that.”
“I can,” he replied simply. “Your voice changes when you do.”
The elevator chimed, the doors sliding open to spill you into the dim lobby. You stepped out slowly, scanning the empty space, phone still against your ear. Somewhere in the building, he was closing in, and the thought sent another pulse of warmth rushing through you. “Then you’d better get here quick,” you teased softly, heading for the doors that led to the lot. “Before it fades.”
“I’m already on my way,” he said, and the promise in his voice made your breath catch, the blush on your cheeks refusing to go anywhere at all.
You lingered near the glass doors, arms crossed loosely, phone still clutched in your hand though the call had ended minutes ago. Each second stretched, your eyes flicking toward the elevator with a mix of anticipation and nerves you didn’t want to name.
The soft ding broke the silence. The doors slid open, and there he was. He stopped a few feet from you, gaze fixing on yours with that steady, unreadable weight. For a moment, neither of you spoke. Then, without a word, he pushed past you gently, nudging the glass door open with his shoulder. The cool night air swept in.
You followed him outside, the faint click of your shoes echoing on the pavement. Only then did he pause, glance around once as if checking for shadows, and tugged the mask down from his face.
The sight struck you harder than you expected. His lips, soft and pale; the sharp line of his jaw; the faint flush across his cheeks from the cool air. He looked younger without the mask, human in a way that made your chest ache.
“Hot,” you said instantly, mockingly, the word slipping out before you could stop it. You smirked to cover the way your pulse jumped, tilting your head at him like you were teasing an old friend.
He blinked, startled just slightly, then turned his gaze away. His hand lifted in a half-shrug, fingers twitching near his mouth as if debating whether to hide again. “That is not a statistically accurate description,” he said evenly, though his voice carried a faint, unsteady undercurrent.
“Oh, come on,” you laughed, brushing past him toward your car, your smirk widening. “Don’t tell me you’re shy now.”
His eyes flicked back to you, dark and unreadable, but you didn’t miss the faint pink still clinging to his skin as he fell into step beside you. His shrug was small, awkward, but the way he stayed close was answer enough.
The night air was still, your car waiting under the dim halo of a lamppost. You slowed as you reached it, the keys cold in your hand, but your attention wasn’t on the car. It was on him—silent, looming just at your side, his presence both unsettling and strangely grounding.
You stopped, turning toward him fully. For once, he didn’t move, his posture oddly stiff as if he were bracing for something unseen. A smirk tugged at your lips.
Without warning, you stepped into his space, closing the distance until your arms slid easily around his waist. His sweater was soft beneath your cheek, his frame taller and leaner than you had imagined, the faint warmth of his body seeping into yours. “Thank you for walking me, big scary dog,” you murmured mockingly, your voice light and teasing as you held him close.
He went utterly still. His breath caught, shallow and sharp, his hands hanging stiffly at his sides as though he had no idea what to do with them. You tilted your head slightly to look up at him and were met with wide, startled eyes. They locked on yours, dark and unblinking, as if you had just done something beyond comprehension.
For a man who’d unraveled countless minds with ease, he looked utterly undone by a simple hug.
Your smirk softened, just a little, as you felt the rapid thrum of his heartbeat beneath your ear. He didn’t push you away, didn’t move at all—only stared at you like you were something impossible standing in his arms.
Your chin rested lightly against his chest, the soft knit of his sweater pressing against your skin as you tilted your head back to look at him. From this close, he seemed even taller, his silhouette cutting against the dim glow of the parking lot lights. His heartbeat thrummed quick beneath your ear, betraying the stillness of his body.
A slow, mischievous smile spread across your lips. “What? Did you never get a hug?” you teased, voice low and mocking, the words curling between you like smoke.
For a moment, he only stared, eyes wide, his lips parting just slightly as if you’d asked something that truly didn’t fit into his carefully ordered world. You felt him tense beneath your arms, every inch of him taut, as though the simple contact was far more dangerous than the cases he’d solved or the killers he’d outwitted.
“Not..like this,” he admitted at last, the words quiet, halting. His voice still carried that detached eloquence, but there was something raw underneath, something you’d never heard before. He looked down at you as if studying the shape of your face, memorizing it in some unspoken panic.
Your smirk only deepened, chin nudging against his chest in playful defiance. “You’re serious? Twenty-five years old, and you don’t know what to do when someone hugs you?”
His gaze flickered away for the briefest second, the tips of his ears flushing faintly in the cold light. “Physical contact is statistically unnecessary. Most people use it as a social gesture, but it complicates rational thought. My mind doesn’t—” He faltered, and then added with a faint frown, “—doesn’t usually allow it.”
You chuckled softly, your breath warming the fabric of his sweater as your arms tightened around his waist just a little. “So I’ve broken the great L with something as simple as a hug.”
His eyes snapped back to yours, wide and sharp, but he didn’t move away. Instead, after a long, tense pause, his hands lifted hesitant and awkward until his fingers hovered at your back. Slowly, like he was handling something fragile, he let them rest there.
You felt the faintest shiver run through him, his body unsure but unwilling to pull away. “You’re mocking me,” he said at last, his tone almost flat again but softer, as if he didn’t mind half as much as he claimed.
“Of course I am,” you whispered back, smiling against him.
His breath hitched once more, and though he tried to shrug it off, his grip against your back tightened, the truth of it written in the way he refused to let go.
You tilted your head up, your arms still loosely wrapped around his waist, and before he could retreat into that strange, awkward stillness again, you pressed a soft kiss to his cheek. His skin was warmer than you expected, smooth beneath your lips, and you lingered there for the briefest moment—just long enough to make sure he felt it.
“Good night,” you whispered as you pulled back, your voice low and almost tender against the quiet hum of the parking lot.
For the first time, something shifted in his expression. His wide, calculating eyes softened just slightly, as though the ground had tilted beneath him in a way he hadn’t accounted for. His lips curved, not much, barely there, but enough to be unmistakable. A small, fragile smile, like he was testing out a foreign shape on his face.
It made your chest tighten unexpectedly.
He didn’t answer right away, only looked at you with that faint, impossible smile still ghosting across his lips. Then, almost reluctantly, he murmured, “Good night.”
His voice was quiet, careful, but it carried a warmth you’d never heard from him before.
You’d slept better than you had in weeks. His voice, his face, that fleeting smile—all of it had followed you into your dreams and wrapped you in a kind of warmth you hadn’t expected. Morning came too quickly, but you didn’t mind. You curled your hair, crisp black slacks hugging your legs, a white button-up shirt tucked neatly at your waist. Classic. Composed. Almost like armor.
The walk through the building felt ordinary until you unlocked your office door, pushed it open, and jolted so hard your bag nearly slipped from your shoulder.
He was sitting in your chair.
Legs drawn up, spine curled, his knees hugged loosely as he swiveled lazily side to side. His familiar messy black hair falling into his face. His dark eyes flicked up at you, sharp and casual all at once.
“My fucking heart,” you snapped, hand pressing to your chest. “You scared the life out of me.”
“Mm.” His head tilted slightly, like your reaction was being catalogued for future analysis. “Good morning to you too.” A pause, and then his nose wrinkled just faintly, sharp gaze narrowing with precision. “Do you wear new parfum?”
You blinked, caught off guard, before a laugh slipped out. “That’s your way of greeting me after almost giving me a heart attack?”
“It’s an important observation,” he replied smoothly, shrugging one shoulder, his voice carrying that detached eloquence even as his eyes lingered on you longer than they should have. “Scent is one of the strongest triggers for memory. If you’ve changed it, I will notice.”
You rolled your eyes, stepping into the room and setting your bag down on the desk he’d claimed like it belonged to him. “You’re unbelievable.”
“Statistically, yes.” His lips curved almost imperceptibly, like the ghost of last night’s smile was threatening to return. “But it suits me.”
Your pulse kicked up again as you met his eyes, realizing just how different the office felt with him there—real, tangible, unsettling and magnetic all at once.
“So do you?” he asked, his voice quiet but direct, eyes fixed on you with that piercing stillness that never let anything slip by unnoticed.
You closed the door behind you with a soft click, the sound echoing faintly in the office’s stillness. His gaze followed you as you crossed the room, every movement catalogued, measured, as if you were under a microscope. You dropped your bag onto the desk with a soft thud, sliding your jacket from your shoulders and tossing it over the back of the chair he was currently occupying.
“Yes, I do,” you admitted, smoothing your shirt before resting one hand against the edge of the desk, standing close enough to look down at him.
He shifted slightly in the chair, knees still drawn up, posture strange but so distinctly his. His head tilted, black hair falling into his eyes as he studied you.
“I thought so,” he said finally, tone thoughtful, almost pleased with himself. “It’s lighter. Less sharp than your usual choice.” His lips parted faintly, and you caught the smallest flicker of color across his cheeks before he masked it again. “It suits you.”
You arched an eyebrow, smirking. “What, are you critiquing me now? Going to keep a catalog of all my perfumes, too?”
“If it helps me understand you,” he answered matter-of-factly, “then yes.”
The corner of your mouth curved, warmth stirring in your chest despite the teasing. You leaned just slightly closer, voice dropping soft and playful. “You’re paying far too much attention, sweetheart.”
He didn’t flinch at the nickname this time. His eyes stayed on yours, dark and unwavering, and though his face remained composed, there was no mistaking the quickened breath that left him as he murmured back: “Only when it comes to you.”
“So, are you gonna let me sit,” you teased, circling around the desk, “or should I take my seat on your lap?”
The words hung in the air like smoke, deliberate, playful, sharp enough to cut through his practiced calm.
For the first time since you’d stepped into the room, his composure cracked. A flush spread high across his cheeks, the pink stark against his pale skin. His eyes widened, dark and unblinking, and he shifted just slightly in the chair, as though your suggestion had rooted him to the spot and stolen all the air from his lungs.
You froze just long enough to savor it, then burst into a laugh, pointing at him with triumphant glee. “Hah! Got you!”
He blinked, still caught, lips parting as though he had something logical prepared, only to find himself speechless instead. The blush only deepened.
You leaned a hip against the desk, smirking down at him, finger still aimed at his chest like you’d just checkmated him on a chessboard. “Three years, L, and I finally found the trick.”
He glanced away, thumb brushing against his lower lip in a nervous tic, but not fast enough to hide the flicker of amusement in his eyes. “Statistically,” he murmured, almost under his breath, “that was an unfair strategy.”
Which only made you laugh harder.
He rose from your chair in one slow, deliberate movement, unfolding his tall frame until he was standing directly in front of you. The air shifted immediately, your smirk faltering just slightly as you realized just how little space existed between your bodies now.
He was close. Too close.
The faint scent of clean cotton and sugar clung to him, the kind of softness that felt jarringly at odds with the sharp, calculating intensity of his gaze. Your back brushed against the edge of your desk, nowhere else to retreat as he loomed over you, posture still hunched but presence overwhelming all the same.
Your laughter from a moment ago seemed to echo faintly, swallowed by the sudden quiet. His dark eyes locked onto yours, unblinking, studying every twitch of your expression. You could see the slight tremor in his breath, the faint rise and fall of his chest, and though his face remained calm, that betraying flush still colored his cheeks.
You tilted your chin up, stubborn and teasing even with your pulse racing. “You’re awfully quick to get up when I mention your lap,” you murmured, voice low, challenging.
He didn’t flinch. He only leaned fractionally closer, so slight you wondered if you’d imagined it, until you could feel the warmth of his breath fan against your cheek. His fingers twitched at his side, as though fighting the urge to move, to touch.
“I stood,” he said carefully, his tone still calm but softer, rougher at the edges, “because I refuse to give you the satisfaction of that particular victory.”
Your lips curved, heat sparking through you as you stared up at him. “Looks to me like I’ve already won.”
His eyes flickered down to your mouth for just a heartbeat, betraying him completely. He froze again, caught in the tension he couldn’t calculate his way out of, his composure unraveling thread by thread in the quiet, dangerous space between you.
You tilted your head just slightly, leaning in until the barest breath separated you from him. The corner of your mouth curved as you whispered, soft and playful, “You are shy, Ryuzaki.”
The name lingered between you, tasting sweeter on your tongue for how close you were. His eyes followed yours instantly, dark and intent, dropping to your lips for a fraction of a second before snapping back up. That betraying flicker was all you needed.
“I am not shy,” he said at last, voice quiet but strained, each word drawn out like it cost him something. “I am cautious.”
You smirked wider, refusing to back away, chin tilted up in defiance. “Mm. Looks the same to me.”
He blinked, as though you had just made a move in a game he hadn’t anticipated. His shoulders shifted, body taut, his hands tightening at his sides like he didn’t know where to put them if not on you.
The silence between you thickened, the hum of the overhead lights fading into nothing compared to the sound of both your breaths, uneven and too loud in the tiny space. And still you didn’t pull back, and neither did he.
You eased yourself back, sliding onto the edge of your desk with a soft thud, the wood creaking faintly beneath you. The shift put you at the perfect height, forcing him to stand between your knees.
Before he could retreat into that eerie stillness of his, you reached out, fingers finding the warm skin just above the collar of his sweater. Your hand slid deliberately over the side of his neck, your thumb brushing slow circles against the sharp line of his pulse point.
His breath caught. His eyes widened just slightly, lashes lowering as if the weight of your touch was something unbearable.
You leaned forward, close enough that your lips almost brushed his ear, your voice dropping to a whisper meant only for him. “Your heart’s one second away from beating out of your chest, love.”
The nickname, the intimacy of it, seemed to unravel him further. His pulse thudded hot and frantic beneath your thumb, proof against all his practiced calm. His lips parted, silent at first, before he finally managed: “You’re observing me.” His voice was soft, halting, as though he didn’t know whether to be unnerved or drawn closer.
You smirked, thumb pressing a little firmer against that frantic rhythm. “I’ve learned from the best.”
He stood frozen, caught between fight and surrender, his hands twitching faintly at his sides as though gravity itself was pulling them toward your hips but still, he didn’t move. His eyes searched yours, wide and dark, his composure unraveling thread by thread under your touch.
Your thumb lingered over the frantic rhythm in his neck, savoring the way it betrayed him. He was still frozen, caught between restraint and need, his eyes locked to yours like he was calculating a thousand possibilities and still couldn’t find an answer.
You smirked softly, then tugged gently at the back of his neck, closing the last sliver of space between you. His breath hitched just before your lips brushed his, soft, tentative, the kiss slow enough to give him every chance to retreat.
He didn’t.
The stillness that had gripped him broke. His lips parted against yours, hesitant at first, the faintest tremor in the way he responded, as though he had no map for this, no strategy. You tilted your head, deepening the kiss just a fraction, your hand steady at his neck while your other braced against the desk for balance.
He let out the smallest sound, muffled, surprised, almost helpless, before gathering himself enough to kiss you back, awkward but warm, unpracticed but real.
When you finally pulled back, only an inch, your lips still brushing his, you whispered with a grin, “Told you—shy.”
His cheeks burned, his dark eyes blown wide and unguarded, and yet he didn’t move away. Not even a little.
The kiss broke with the faintest pull of breath, your lips still brushing his when he finally moved. His hands, pale and slender, lifted with a sudden urgency, both cupping your face as though he needed to hold you still, to confirm you were real.
His thumbs hovered at your cheekbones, brushing against the faint heat rising in your skin. His touch wasn’t confident—it was careful, searching, each fingertip trembling ever so slightly as though he was tracing the outline of something fragile and unexplainable.
He leaned in, close enough that you could feel his breath ghost against your mouth, his dark eyes wide and unblinking, drinking you in with a desperation that didn’t match his normally calculated calm.
“Fascinating,” he murmured, barely audible, though the word trembled as though he hadn’t meant to say it aloud.
You smirked faintly, chin tilting into his touch. “You’re analyzing me right now?”
His gaze flicked over every detail, your lips still parted from the kiss, the curve of your jaw beneath his palms, the rise and fall of your chest. His voice came quieter this time, uneven in a way you’d never heard before: “Yes. I can’t help it.”
His thumbs stroked slowly across your cheeks, almost reverent, as though cataloging the warmth of your skin. “Your pupils are dilated. Your breathing elevated. You…” he faltered, eyes snapping back to yours, “you enjoyed it.”
The smirk on your lips widened. “And what do your calculations say about yourself right now?”
For once, he didn’t answer right away. His eyes softened, the flush across his cheeks deepening as his grip against your face tightened just slightly, not enough to hurt, but enough to keep you right there, suspended in his gaze.
When he finally spoke, his voice was low, almost raw: “They say I don’t want to stop.”
His grip shifted just barely, thumbs brushing across your cheekbones again, as though memorizing the shape of you. The intensity in his gaze didn’t falter—not for a second. Then, with a sudden certainty that left no room for hesitation, he closed the space between you once more.
His lips met yours again, still hesitant, still unpracticed, but this time with more weight behind it. He held your face as if you were something impossibly delicate, porcelain he might crack if he wasn’t careful. His hands anchored you in place, cool fingers trembling faintly at your temples as though the act itself was overwhelming him.
The kiss was soft, almost achingly so, his lips moving against yours with a slowness that made your chest tighten. It wasn’t hunger but something deeper, something cautious, reverent. He kissed like someone who’d never allowed himself this before, and maybe never thought he would.
You tilted your head, leaning into his palms, letting your own hands rest lightly against his wrists. His breath shuddered against your mouth, uneven and quick, but he didn’t pull away. If anything, he pressed closer, holding you like you might slip through his fingers if he dared to let go.
When you finally broke for air, his forehead rested against yours, his eyes still closed, his hands steadying you as though to prove you were both still there. His whisper, warm and uncertain, slipped between you: “I don’t know how to stop.”
“Then don’t. We are alone here,” you whispered, the words brushing his lips as you leaned in to kiss him again, softer this time, deliberate. Your mouth lingered on his, coaxing him into it, savoring the way he followed with more confidence than before.
When you pulled back, his eyes opened slowly, dark and wide, searching yours as though he was still calculating whether this was real. His hands didn’t leave your face, he cradled you like he was still afraid you might vanish.
A beat of silence stretched. Then, in that calm, matter-of-fact cadence that was so undeniably him, he said:
“If we are alone, statistically, the probability of me kissing you again is one hundred percent.”
The faintest, crooked curve tugged at his lips as he said it, half-serious, half-mocking himself, and it only made your chest tighten more.
He leaned in again, his lips brushing yours with a gentleness that almost startled you—just a press, soft and fleeting, like he was testing reality itself. When he drew back, his eyes lingered on you, wide and unsteady, his voice hushed as though confessing something forbidden.
“This feels unreal.”
You smirked, slow and devilish, tilting your head as your fingers traced idly along the side of his neck. “Hmm, imagine how the other stuff would feel then.”
The effect was immediate. His breath caught, his eyes widening further as color bloomed faintly across his pale cheeks. For once, the brilliant mind behind those dark, calculating eyes seemed to short-circuit, frozen between fascination and panic. “Relax, L,” you chuckled, leaning back a little on the desk, watching him with that playful gleam. “I’m teasing.”
But his gaze stayed locked on you, unblinking, as if trying to reconcile the teasing curl of your lips with the wild rhythm of his own heart hammering against his ribs.
Your hand slipped lower, fingers curling into the waistband of his jeans, tugging him closer with a slow, deliberate pull. He stumbled half a step toward you, his breath hitching as the distance shrank again, but you didn’t kiss him—you let the tension hang thick in the air, feeding on the way his dark eyes flickered between your hand and your face like he couldn’t decide which one set him more on edge.
“Tell me,” your voice dipped into a velvet whisper, playful yet steady as you leaned back against the desk, still keeping him close with that firm grip at his waist. “When are you off today?”
For a moment, he didn’t answer. His lips parted, his gaze locked on you, mind clearly racing through calculations that had nothing to do with the case. You could feel his pulse pounding where your thumb brushed just above the seam of his jeans.
Finally, he spoke, voice a little rougher than usual, though he tried to keep it matter-of-fact: “My hours are not conventional. But for you, I could adjust.”
You smirked at that, tugging him just slightly closer, enough that your knees brushed his thighs. “Adjust, huh? That’s a very polite way of saying you’re clearing your evening for me.”
His eyes narrowed, the faintest blush dusting his cheekbones as he murmured, “Perhaps.” But he didn’t move away. Not even an inch.
“Good,” you whispered, the word a tease against the quiet as your fingers hooked deeper into the waistband of his jeans. You felt the subtle twitch of his stomach beneath your touch, the way his breath faltered despite his effort to remain composed.
His eyes, wide and steady, never left yours. “You are making me..slightly nervous,” he admitted, voice low and halting, though each syllable still carried that peculiar eloquence. His hands hovered at your sides, uncertain, as if caught between retreat and surrender.
Then, after a long pause, he added in that matter-of-fact tone only he could manage, “But nervousness produces heightened dopamine levels, so statistically, you are also making me happy.”
You tugged him closer by his waistband and pulled him into another kiss, tasting the hesitation that melted almost instantly once his lips pressed against yours. His body leaned over yours instinctively, caging you against the desk without even realizing it, his weight settling in as though gravity itself had decided for him.
“Then it is based on reciprocity.” You smirked, tracing your thumb along the seam of his jeans again, but before you could tease, he added in that unmistakable cadence of his:
“A mutually beneficial arrangement. Though, statistically speaking, it is highly inefficient to stop here.”
His delivery was calm, clinical even, but his pupils were blown wide, his cheeks still faintly flushed, and his hands trembled where they hovered at your waist, betraying every word.
“Believe me, for your own sake you want to stop here,” you whispered, your lips brushing close to his as your fingers lingered at his waistband. Your smirk curved sly, teasing, but your tone held a thread of sincerity. “I don’t want to rush anything.” You tilted your head, mocking lightly as you added, “Not that you’d cry because I touch you.”
His eyes sharpened, and for the first time, there was something faintly amused in the curve of his mouth. “But—do you want to touch me?” he asked, voice soft, deliberate, almost daring.
You smirked right back, refusing to flinch under the weight of his question. “What are your calculations saying, hmm?”
His dark gaze didn’t leave yours, his hands finally resting against the desk beside your hips, boxing you in. “Based on observation: dilated pupils, shallow breathing, and the way you have not released my waistband—there is a 99.8% chance you very much want to touch me.” His lips twitched at the corners, almost smiling, as he added, “And only a 0.2% chance you are bluffing. Which is statistically unlikely, given your current behavior.”
Your smirk widened at his precise little breakdown, chin tilting up so your lips nearly grazed his again. “Ninety-nine point eight, hm? That’s a confident number.”
He didn’t move back—he leaned even closer, bracing his palms against the desk on either side of you, his frame folding in around you like a cage. His eyes stayed fixed on yours, wide and unblinking, dark with something he wasn’t bothering to hide anymore.
“I am confident in my calculations,” he said, the faintest rasp breaking through the smooth monotone. “You want to touch me and I want you to.”
The admission sent a ripple of heat through you. Your fingers tugged harder at his waistband, knuckles brushing the warmth of his skin just beneath the hem of his sweater. His breath hitched and you grinned devilishly.
“I thought you didn’t like your patterns disrupted,” you whispered, thumb pressing lightly against the sharp jut of his hipbone.
“This” his voice dipped lower, slower, “is a disruption I will allow.”
You laughed under your breath, delighted, tracing the line of his waist just to feel the shiver roll through him. “Careful, Ryuzaki. That almost sounded romantic.”
His lips parted, and for a beat, he seemed caught between protest and surrender. Finally, he leaned in, his forehead brushing yours as he murmured: “Romance is inefficient. But with you, I find myself reconsidering the data.”
And still—he didn’t move away. Not even a fraction.
Your smirk deepened at his words, your thumb still teasing over the sharp edge of his hipbone. “Reconsidering the data?” you whispered, eyes locked on his. “That’s your way of saying I’ve completely ruined your precious statistics.”
His gaze didn’t waver. He was close enough now that every shallow breath he took mingled with yours, warm and unsteady. His hands still pressed into the desk on either side of you, caging you in, but now his fingers twitched, like he was fighting the urge to close the last bit of distance and claim your waist.
“You haven’t ruined them,” he murmured, voice low, deliberate, though there was a tremor threaded beneath it. “You’ve altered the baseline. A permanent shift.”
That tugged something deep in your chest, though you kept your devilish smirk firmly in place. “Careful,” you teased, your free hand sliding up his sweater to rest flat against the heat of his chest, right where his heart hammered against your palm. “If you keep saying things like that, you might start sounding like a man in love.”
His pupils dilated at your words, his breath stuttering hard against your cheek. For a long, loaded moment, he said nothing, just stared at you, utterly unguarded. Then his lips brushed yours again, softer than before, trembling but purposeful, like he was testing the truth of your words.
When he pulled back, his voice cracked on the edges but his eyes held steady. “If love feels like this,” his thumbs brushed lightly over your jaw, still holding your face like porcelain, “then perhaps I am.”
Your lips parted at his confession, your pulse leaping in your throat, but the devilish curl of your smile returned just as fast. You slid your hand higher on his chest, fingertips dragging over the steady rise and fall until they toyed with the collar of his sweater, tugging it just slightly.
“Perhaps?” you whispered against his mouth, smirking. “That’s not a very confident answer for you.”
His throat bobbed, his eyes darting between your lips and your gaze like he couldn’t decide where to anchor. You tugged at his waistband again, pulling him flush against you.
He inhaled sharply, the sound almost a gasp, and his hands finally abandoned the desk, sliding down to grip the edge of your hips, tentative but firm, as if his body had decided what his brain refused to admit.
“Your proximity,” he said, voice catching as he tried to hold onto that clinical calm, “is significantly compromising my ability to think clearly.”
You laughed low, sultry, thumb brushing his pulse again where it thundered at his neck. “Good. I don’t want you thinking clearly right now.”
He froze, breath shuddering out of him, then leaned in until his lips ghosted over your jaw, uncertain but burning with intent. The faintest brush of his mouth against your skin made you smirk wider, your voice a husky tease.“You’re going to make me think you actually want me to touch you everywhere.”
His hands tightened on your hips instinctively, a tremor running through him as he whispered back, almost desperate, almost amused: “That would be an accurate deduction.”
Your hand loosened from his waistband, fingers slipping lower with deliberate slowness. You let a single finger trail lazily along the seam of his jeans, up and down, the faint graze of your nail brushing against him just enough to make the air between you spark.
He stilled completely, eyes snapping downward, watching your fingertip trace that maddening path. His breath hitched audibly, shoulders tense, but he didn’t move away, if anything, he leaned closer, caught in the gravity of your touch.
“You like that?” you whispered, voice low and velvet-smooth, your lips curling into a wicked smirk as you tilted your head back to watch his reaction.
His eyes flicked up to meet yours, wide and dark, but they kept darting back to where your finger toyed with him through the fabric. His chest rose and fell quicker, betraying him as he swallowed hard. When he spoke, his voice was hushed, uneven, though still wrapped in that deliberate cadence of his: “I don’t dislike it.”
But the flush burning high across his cheekbones, and the way his hips gave the faintest involuntary twitch forward, told you far more than his words ever could.
Your finger lingered, dragging one more slow, teasing line along the front of his jeans before you stilled, your hand resting lightly against him. You tilted your head up, smirk still curling at your lips, though your voice softened into a velvet whisper.
“You want to stop here, sweetheart?”
His breath faltered, caught between his teeth, eyes locking on yours with a sharp intensity that almost belied the flush still high on his cheeks. He hesitated—long enough for you to feel the tremor of his pulse beneath your thumb where it still brushed his waist.
“Stopping would be the rational choice,” he said finally, his voice careful, almost strained. His eyes flicked down to your hand, then back to your mouth, lingering there as if trapped. “But rationality is compromised when I’m this close to you.”
The admission fell from him like a secret, uncalculated, and his grip on your hips tightened just enough to betray how badly he didn’t want you to move.
Your fingers toyed at the button of his jeans, brushing the metal with a deliberate slowness before you popped it open, the sound sharp in the quiet room. His breath stuttered, his eyes snapping downward to watch your hand, then flicking back up to your face like he was caught between fascination and disbelief.
You leaned in close, lips grazing the edge of his jaw, your voice a low, sultry whisper meant only for him. “Tell me what do you want, L?”
For a moment, he was frozen. You could see it in his eyes: the war between the man who lived by logic and the man unraveling under your touch. His lips parted, but no words came at first. You traced a slow line just below his waistband, dragging your nail over his skin, coaxing him. His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, eyes half-lidded now, pupils wide as he whispered back, almost unsteady: “I want you to keep touching me.”
The confession was quiet, strained, but his hands betrayed more than his voice, gripping your hips tighter, pulling you fractionally closer to the edge of the desk until your legs brushed his. His face flushed, eyes locked desperately on yours, as though he was terrified of what admitting it meant but unable to hold it back. And then, with a shaky breath, softer still: “I want you.”
It wasn’t clinical, it wasn’t careful. It was raw. And for L, it was as close to surrender as anyone could get.
Your smirk softened into something gentler as you leaned back a little on the desk, keeping your eyes on his.
With slow, deliberate care, you tugged his zipper down. The sound made his breath catch, his eyes darting down and then immediately back up, as if afraid to look at what you were doing. Your fingers slid just inside, brushing against the growing heat straining beneath the fabric. You let your touch graze over him, feather-light, teasing.
His whole body shuddered, a sharp inhale escaping him before he bit down on his lower lip.
“See?” you whispered, your voice low and velvet-smooth, thumb stroking lazily over the bulge through his briefs. “You just have to tell me.”
His dark eyes locked on yours, wide and intense, cheeks still burning but no longer running from the truth. His hips shifted almost imperceptibly toward your hand, chasing the contact, betraying him completely.
“Hm” he hummed, the sound deep, unsteady, yet carrying a thread of something new, want, steady and undeniable. His fingers dug into your hips, not rough, but firm, grounding himself on you. “Don’t stop touching me,” he murmured, his voice low, husky now, stripped of its usual flatness.
For the first time, he wasn’t calculating. He was asking. Wanting. Needing. And you could feel the change in him. Still shy, still awkward, but gaining confidence in the way his body pressed closer, hard against your palm, silently begging for more.
Your fingers slid beneath the waistband of his boxers, teasing over the soft cotton before easing them down just enough to free him. The sudden intimacy of it made his whole body tense, his hands gripping tighter at your hips as though he needed something to anchor him.
You pulled him closer between your legs, your hand wrapping carefully around him, stroking him with slow, deliberate gentleness. The heat of him pulsed against your palm, his breath breaking audibly in his throat.
“Ah—” His chest shuddered with the sound, and his eyes squeezed half-shut before forcing themselves back open, fixed on you like you were the only point of reference left in a world that was tilting off balance.
“This,” he managed, voice low and shaking though still carrying that strange precision of his, “this is highly distracting. I cannot form coherent thoughts when you—” His words broke as your thumb brushed deliberately over him, his breath hitching hard. He swallowed, trying again. “—when you touch me like this.”
The admission hung heavy in the air, his jaw tightening as if he hated how raw it sounded, yet his hips betrayed him, pressing forward into your hand, chasing the slow rhythm you gave him.
For once, he wasn’t calculating probabilities. He was unraveling, piece by piece, in your hands.
He bent down suddenly, as if pulled by gravity itself, capturing your mouth in a kiss that was more desperate than the ones before. His lips pressed firmly against yours, hungry but still careful, as if afraid he might overstep and lose you in the same breath.
You stroked him slowly, feeling the way his body trembled against your hand. The heat radiating from him made every careful movement feel magnified, every soft graze of your thumb pulling another shiver through him.
He let out a quiet, broken moan into your mouth. The sound vibrated against your lips, shaky and unguarded, a raw noise he hadn’t managed to contain. His hands clutched tighter at your waist, fingers digging into your shirt, pulling you closer as though he needed you to keep him steady.
You pulled back just enough to whisper against his lips, your breath mingling with his shallow, ragged ones. “You like this? Or should I change the rhythm?”
Your words curled soft and teasing in his ear as you kept him close, your hand stroking him with slow precision. His forehead pressed to yours, eyes fluttering half-shut as he tried to catch his breath, his voice spilling out low and strained:
“Don’t change. It’s already perfect.”
And yet the way his hips jerked faintly into your hand betrayed how badly he wanted more.
The kiss deepened, shifting from tentative to hungry in a breathless blur. His mouth moved against yours with a new urgency, almost clumsy but intoxicatingly real, as though every barrier he’d held up for years was crumbling under your touch. His fingers clutched at your waist, dragging you closer, his body trembling as if your hand on him was the only thing tethering him to the ground.
Quiet moans slipped past his lips, muffled into your mouth, each one hotter than the last, short, broken sounds that made your stomach coil with heat. He pressed harder into your palm, his hips betraying his restraint, chasing the rhythm you gave him despite his desperate attempts to keep composed.
When he finally tore his lips from yours, he was panting, forehead resting against yours, dark eyes blown wide and glassy. His voice was rougher now, shaken but still carrying that peculiar, matter-of-fact cadence that made it so undeniably him:
“I—I’m going to lose control.” He swallowed hard, his jaw tense, words breaking against a ragged exhale. “Statistically speaking, in less than a minute, if you continue.”
His confession was half an admission, half a warning but his trembling hands clinging to you, and the way his hips pressed desperately into your hand, told you he didn’t really want you to stop at all.
Your lips curved into a wicked little smirk at his broken warning, your hand never faltering in its steady rhythm. “Less than a minute?” you whispered, deliberately mocking, your tone velvet-smooth against the frantic heat of his breath. “My, my the great L undone so quickly?”
His eyes fluttered shut at your words, his body shuddering as another quiet, desperate moan slipped from his lips. This one was raw, low, and it vibrated against your mouth before he buried his face against you. His head fell onto your shoulder, his hair brushing your cheek, his breath hot and ragged where it spilled against your skin.
You smiled, softer this time, and slid your free hand up to cradle the back of his head. Your fingers threaded into his messy black hair, holding him there, grounding him as he trembled against you. His shoulders shook with each shaky inhale, his quiet moans muffled into the fabric of your shirt, the sound impossibly hot for how unguarded it was.
“Relax, sweetheart,” you teased gently, your thumb still stroking along his length with measured care. “I’ve got you. Just let it happen.”
Another sharp gasp broke from him, his grip on your waist tightening almost painfully as his hips jerked forward into your palm. His moans grew heavier, though still quiet, each one spilling onto your shoulder as if he couldn’t hold them back any longer. And you held him, firm and steady, your fingers in his hair, savoring the way he finally let himself unravel in your hands.
His whole body tensed suddenly in your arms, a tremor running through him as his hips bucked helplessly into your stroking hand. You tightened your grip, trying to shield him, your palm covering him as best you could when the sharp, guttural sound of his release spilled from his throat, half-moan, half-broken gasp.
It was too much. Hot, thick spurts filled your hand, but even as you tried to catch it, a few drops escaped, staining the dark fabric of your slacks. He groaned, muffling the sound into your shoulder, his hair tickling your cheek as his body shuddered against yours.
“God—damn it,” he muttered, the words hissed low and strained in that clipped, deliberate cadence of his, as though even his cursing was analytical. His breath came in sharp pants, chest heaving against you, his fingers digging into your waist as though clinging to the last threads of control.
You held him steady, one hand still in his hair, pressing him close to your shoulder while he rode it out. His eyes squeezed shut, lips parted against your shirt, his whole body trembling until finally, slowly, he began to sag against you.
There was a pause, heavy and quiet, the only sound his ragged breathing and the faint hum of the office lights. Then, without looking up, he shifted one hand behind you, fumbling across the desk with practiced precision. His fingers curled around something, and when he pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, he was holding out a tissue.
His voice was flat, controlled, but the rough edge beneath betrayed him: “It would be unsanitary to remain like this.”
And yet, he didn’t move away from you, not even an inch.
You laughed breathlessly, shaking your head as you took the tissue from his hand. Your fingers trembled slightly from the adrenaline, but you managed to clean your hand. Before you could toss it away, he was already reaching behind you again, plucking another tissue from the box and handing it to you without a word, his expression unreadable save for the faint flush still burning across his cheekbones.
Instead of turning it on your pants, you reached for him, your touch soft and careful. He jolted the moment the tissue grazed him, his hips twitching as the sensitivity made him flinch. For a second he almost grabbed your wrist but then, to your surprise, a low chuckle slipped out of him, quiet and breathless, followed by a whisper that almost sounded like pleading.
“Stop… please.”
You smirked, tilting your head, though your hand gentled against him before pulling back. “You could have told me you come this much, you know.”
For a long beat he said nothing, his breathing still ragged, before finally answering in that calm, eloquent cadence that was so uniquely him: “Excuse my release,” he murmured, the words precise even through his unsteady voice. “It is not something I indulge often—only occasionally, and never under circumstances quite like this.” His gaze flicked briefly downward at your slacks, then back to your face, his tone sharpening with the faintest, wry edge. “And now, of course, there are trousers beneath me that do not belong to me, which complicates the matter further.”
Despite his choice of words, his lips twitched as if suppressing another laugh, his posture still leaning heavily into your shoulder like he had no intention of moving away.
His breathing was still uneven when he finally straightened a little, tugging his boxers back into place with a faint, self-conscious precision. The rasp of his zipper being drawn up was the only sound in the quiet room, sharp and final, yet his hands lingered at his waistband for a moment as though he was reluctant to fully compose himself.
Then, instead of stepping back, he simply let his head fall forward again—onto your shoulder, where it had rested before. His dark hair brushed against your cheek, soft and messy, the faint weight of him grounding and strangely intimate.
“I will clean your slacks,” he murmured, his voice low and steady despite the flush still clinging to his skin. “I promise. It would be discourteous to leave evidence of my lapse in composure on you.” His tone carried that eloquent, analytical lilt even now, though softened by the warmth of his breath against your neck.
You exhaled slowly, your hand sliding over his back, holding him close as if to anchor him there. His arms shifted hesitantly before settling around you, long and awkward at first until they tightened, circling your waist with a careful pressure that betrayed more comfort than his words ever could.
His head stayed pressed to your shoulder, his hair tickling your jaw as the faint scent of sugar and cotton clung to him. For a man so famously detached, he clung now as though this was something he’d been starved for.
You let a soft laugh slip past your lips, brushing your fingers gently through his hair. “You’re really lucky, I’ve always had a thing for weird, hot emo-looking boys.” you whispered, teasing warmth in your voice.
The words earned a small sound from him—half-scoff, half-laugh muffled into your shoulder. His arms tightened fractionally around you, as if he’d decided he could allow himself, just this once, to enjoy being exactly where he was.
Your phone buzzed against the desk, the vibration rattling faintly through the wood. You reached for it without thinking, L’s head still heavy on your shoulder, his arms still locked firmly around your waist. He only shifted slightly, dark eyes flicking toward the phone as if already calculating who it might be, before settling right back against you like he had no intention of moving.
You thumbed the screen and brought it to your ear. “Good morning, sir?” you greeted, your voice slipping into its professional cadence.
“Ah, good morning,” Chief Yagami’s voice came through, warm but businesslike. “I trust you’re already in the office? We have updates on the current case I’d like to review with you later this afternoon.”
“Yes, of course,” you replied smoothly, though your composure faltered slightly as you felt L’s lips press feather-light against your cheek. Your breath caught, heat rushing into your face as you fought to keep your tone even.
“Are you free around three?” Yagami continued, unaware.
“Three works perfectly,” you managed, trying not to laugh at the deliberate mischief of the man still clinging to you. His lips brushed your cheek again, a soft, lingering kiss this time, and you had to bite down on your smile as you turned your face just enough to glare at him.
L, of course, only stared back with that eerie calm, his expression unreadable save for the faintest upward curve of his mouth. His head nestled back against your shoulder, and another kiss followed, quieter, softer—like he was testing how much he could get away with while you kept your voice steady for the chief.
“Excellent,” Yagami said, shuffling papers audibly on his end. “I’ll forward the documents in advance.”
“Thank you, sir,” you answered crisply, fingers curling into L’s sweater, holding him close even as your heart thundered at his quiet, relentless kisses.
When you ended the call and set the phone back down, he didn’t move away. If anything, he hummed softly against your cheek, almost satisfied, as if he’d just won a game only he knew he was playing. You finally pressed your palm against his chest and pushed him back just enough to breathe, your finger snapping up to point at him like you were scolding a child.
“You,” you said, half-warning, half-mocking, your lips twitching into a smirk despite yourself. “Will get me in very much trouble, mister.”
He blinked at you, tilting his head the way he always did when analyzing something, though the faint flush across his cheekbones betrayed him. His lips curved ever so slightly, the ghost of a smirk, as if your admonishment amused him more than it should have.
Sighing, you reached into your bag, rummaging until you pulled out a small packet of makeup remover wipes. Sitting back on the desk with a dramatic exhale, you tore one free and bent to rub carefully at the damp stain marring your black slacks. The cool swipe of the wipe left streaks of moisture, your brow furrowing as you worked at the fabric.
L didn’t say a word. He just stood there, hands slipping back into his pockets, watching you with those sharp, unblinking eyes. His head tilted a little farther, hair shadowing his face, that almost-smile tugging faintly at his mouth. He looked infuriatingly calm, like the world’s greatest detective had decided the most fascinating evidence in existence was you, kneeling there trying to wipe away the proof of what he’d just done.
“Don’t look so smug,” you muttered, rubbing harder at the fabric.
He didn’t answer right away, but the little smirk deepened, his voice dropping into that steady, flat cadence that somehow managed to sound amused anyway: “I find it unlikely that anyone else has ever made you do that in this office.”
You paused mid-rub, narrowing your eyes at him over the packet in your hand. “Unlikely?” you repeated, your voice dripping with mockery. “Listen to you, smug as ever. You make a mess on me and now you’re acting like you’ve won a prize.”
You tossed the used wipe onto your desk with a snap of your wrist, pointing a finger at him again, your smirk curling wicked. “You should be the one on your knees cleaning me, Ryuzaki.”
That finally broke through his eerie calm. A flicker of color rose over his cheekbones, his lips parting soundlessly like his brilliant brain had hit a wall. He shifted his weight awkwardly, eyes darting to the floor for half a second before snapping back to you, wide and dark.
You chuckled low, leaning back on your desk, spreading your hands in a taunting gesture. “What’s the matter? Detective speechless?”
For once, he didn’t attempt a rebuttal. Instead, he stepped closer, slow and hesitant, until he was right in front of you again. His head tilted slightly, black hair falling into his face, and after a long pause, his hands rose, trembling a little as they cupped your cheeks.
He leaned in and pressed his lips to yours again. Shy. Careful. Like porcelain, the way he had before.
The kiss was soft, a question more than a claim, but there was a weight behind it, a subtle trembling that made your chest tighten. He kissed you like he was still learning, still unsure, but determined not to retreat.
When he finally drew back just a fraction, his voice was hushed, almost uncertain. “Would that count as cleaning you?”
Your laugh spilled out against his mouth, warm and breathless, before you kissed him back. Your smile lingered against his lips as you whispered, soft but teasing, “No but I’ll allow it, because I like you.”
His eyes flickered at that sharp, but with the faintest softness buried deep within. You gave his cheek a quick stroke with your thumb before leaning back on your desk, smirk curling again.
“You should go,” you murmured, a touch of mock warning in your tone. “Before somebody sees you.”
For a moment, he didn’t move. His head tilted the way it always did when he was dissecting every word, every inflection. Then, with a low hum and the faintest upward twitch of his lips, he replied in that calm, deliberate cadence of his, though laced with rare amusement:
“Ah. So this is your method. You make me lose composure in your office, ensure I finish, and then cast me out like some discarded witness statement?”
His phrasing was clinical, almost mocking, but the glint in his eyes betrayed him, half-tease, half-challenge, as though he wanted to see how far you’d push him next.
You stood slowly, brushing past him just enough that your shoulder grazed his chest. The used wipe crumpled in your fist before you tossed it neatly into the bin. When you turned back to him, your eyes glinted, sharp and daring, your smirk dangerous.
“If we were playing by my method,” you murmured, your voice low and edged with mock-threat, “you’d be lying under me on this table. And you wouldn’t be wearing clothes.”
The air tightened between you, his eyes widening just a fraction before narrowing again, like he was filing the image away in perfect detail. Then, slowly, his lips curved, not shy this time, but sly, deliberate, a ghost of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“That would present” he paused, his tone calm, almost deadpan, but laced with unmistakable mischief, “a serious risk of structural damage to your desk.”
Your laugh broke out instantly, half a scoff, half a gasp. “You idiot.”
He only tilted his head further, hair falling into his eyes, clearly pleased with himself despite the faint color still clinging to his cheeks. “Statistically speaking, it would be irresponsible not to consider the integrity of your furniture.”
And yet, the way he stayed close, hovering just inside your space, smirk faint but real, told you he wasn’t entirely joking.
You grabbed him by the front of his sweater and pulled him into you again, your lips crushing against his in a kiss far deeper than before. This one wasn’t shy, it was hotter, hungrier, your mouth moving against his until his breath hitched and his hands instinctively gripped your waist. He yielded to you, utterly undone, and when you finally broke away, you could feel his pulse racing beneath your fingertips.
His lips were still parted, eyes half-lidded, but then he smirked, small, crooked, that rare flash of amusement flickering across his usually unreadable face. “Yes, yes,” he murmured, voice low and steady, eloquent even in disarray, “I understand. I will take my leave, before your method renders me incapable of walking away.”
You let out a short laugh, still flushed, as he reached behind you. His long fingers closed around the medical mask he’d left on your desk. He slipped it back into place, securing the elastic with slow precision, though his eyes never left yours.
Then, before you could say another word, he leaned down and kissed you one last time through a smile, leaving you with the ghost of his warmth and the taste of something unfinished.
And just like that, he pulled back, turned on his heel with that strange, loping gait of his, and slipped out the door—leaving your office charged with his absence.
You stood there for a long moment after the door clicked shut, the echo of his last kiss still clinging to your lips. Your arms folded across your chest, your smirk stubborn but faintly dazed, until a single word slipped out under your breath.
“Shit.”
The rest of the day was a blur of back-to-back meetings, reports, and strained conversations. Every time you sat down at a conference table, you caught yourself brushing your thumb against your lips, remembering the weight of his kiss. Every time someone asked a question, your mind flashed back to the heat of his body pressed against yours, his quiet moans swallowed into your shoulder. You managed, of course—you always managed—but your composure felt stretched thin.
By the time the sun had started to dip behind the city skyline, you needed a break. Badly.
You slipped out of the building, jacket slung over one arm, and dug out your lighter with shaking fingers. The crisp evening air wrapped around you as you stepped into the quiet corner where you always went. You lit up, inhaling deeply, the smoke burning its way down into your chest as you exhaled into the cooling dusk.
Your shoulders sagged against the wall, eyes closing for a moment. It wasn’t just the stress of the day you were smoking out, it was the lingering weight of him. His hands on your face. His voice low in your ear. The way his self-control had cracked in your arms.
And now, every drag of the cigarette only made you want him more.
The nicotine still hummed faintly in your veins as you pushed your office door open again, the lingering edge of stress clinging to your shoulders. You flicked on the light, dropped your bag onto the chair, and froze.
There, in the exact center of your desk, was something new.
A chess piece. This time, a knight—polished, pale, its curved head angled like it was bowing toward you. Beside it, folded neatly on a square of white paper, was one of his notes.
You stepped closer, lips already curling into a smirk as you picked it up. His slanted handwriting sprawled across the page, sharp but oddly elegant:
“A knight always protects its queen. Even when she insists on endangering herself with cigarettes.”
You exhaled, half a laugh, half a sigh, your thumb brushing the edge of the paper as your smirk deepened. He’d been here again. Silently, invisibly, and somehow closer than anyone else dared to be.
Setting the piece between your fingers, you muttered under your breath, “We’ll see who protects who, sweetheart.”
And yet, you couldn’t wipe the smile off your face as you set the knight down beside the flower still perched atop the sugar pyramid.
The halls were hushed again, long shadows stretching over the polished floors as the building settled into its nighttime quiet. You stretched out the kinks in your shoulders, yawning as you padded down to the kitchen for coffee. The machine hummed dully as you leaned against the counter, waiting, mind drifting back to messy black hair, flushed cheeks, and the sound of his voice unraveling into your shoulder.
By the time you returned to your office, cup warming your hands, you felt it before you saw it. A shift. A presence.
You set the mug down and tugged open your desk drawer. There it was—another note, folded neatly, his slanted handwriting peeking from the edge. You pulled it free, lips twitching into a smirk as you read:
“Your absence makes this room statistically unbearable. I prefer it when you’re here…preferably sitting on the desk rather than behind it.”
Your laugh broke free in a quiet burst, shaking your head. Coffee forgotten, you pulled out your phone and hit his number without hesitation.
He picked up on the first ring.
“Stop getting into my office the second I leave,” you scolded, though the smirk in your voice ruined the severity.
There was the faintest hum of static, then his low voice, calm but teasing in its own strange cadence:
“If you didn’t leave, I wouldn’t have to break in. Cause and effect.”
You rolled your eyes, even as your lips curled wider. “You’re impossible.”
“I am consistent,” he countered smoothly. Then, quieter, with that subtle warmth he tried so hard to bury: “And consistent in wanting to see you.”
The silence stretched for a beat. Your heart kicked up, the smirk faltering into something softer as you sank into your chair, the knight chess piece glinting at you from your desk. You breathed out slowly, then asked before you could overthink it: “You wanna come home with me?”
For once, there was no pause, no calculation in his answer, just the low, steady rumble of his voice. “Yes.”
“Then gather your things. I am leaving now,” you said, standing from your chair and slipping your jacket over your shoulders.
His reply came instantly, smooth, as if he’d been waiting for you to say it. “I am already in front of the building.”
You froze mid-step, a laugh breaking from your chest as you shook your head. “Creep,” you smirked, rolling your eyes even though he couldn’t see.
There was a faint pause on his end, and then his voice came back, calm and dry, yet tinged with amusement.
“Is it creepy to inhale fresh night air? If so, then the majority of the human population is guilty of the same crime.”
You bit your lip to suppress another laugh, your pulse quickening at the thought of him actually waiting outside. “You don’t make it sound less creepy when you put it like that, Ryuzaki.”
“I wasn’t attempting to,” he replied, the faintest curl of warmth threading through his monotone. “I was only pointing out that if I am a creep, I am a statistical average.”
You grinned to yourself as you locked your office, shaking your head. “Somehow that makes you worse.”
“Perhaps,” he murmured, “but you’re still coming down to meet me.”
You slipped your files into your bag, slung it over your shoulder, and shut the office door with a quiet click. The halls were dim, most of the lights switched off for the night, the hum of the building settling into silence. You made your way to the elevator, phone still warm in your palm from the call.
The doors opened with a groan, and by the time you reached the lobby, you spotted him instantly. He stood near the glass entrance, hunched as ever, hands buried in the pockets of his sweater, mask dangling loosely from one wrist. His black hair fell untamed across his face, shadowing the sharp gleam of his eyes as they tracked you.
He didn’t move when you approached, only straightened the tiniest bit, head tilting in that signature way of his.
“Come on, scary man,” you said breezily, brushing past him with a smirk tugging at your lips. You didn’t stop walking, your stride confident as the doors hissed open to the cool night air.
For a beat, he stayed rooted to the spot, just watching you. Then, almost reluctantly, his long legs carried him after you, silent, steady, his presence stretching out behind you like a shadow that belonged only to you.
You didn’t have to look back to know he was following. You could feel him.
The night air was cool and still, your footsteps echoing lightly over the pavement as you crossed the lot toward your car. You unlocked it with a quick press of the fob, the soft click breaking the silence. He followed a half-step behind, soundless save for the faint scrape of his Converse against the asphalt, until the two of you slipped inside.
The doors shut with a muted thud, enclosing you both in the quiet hum of the cabin. He folded himself into the passenger seat with that strange, crouched posture, long fingers resting loosely on them. His mask hung from one hand, his dark hair falling forward as his eyes flicked to you, studying.
For a moment, he simply watched, head tilted, lips parted like he was cataloguing every detail of you behind the wheel. Then, in his calm, deliberate cadence, he spoke: “Driving with you statistically increases my chance of survival. You are the only person I trust not to kill me on the road.”
The corners of his mouth twitched, the faintest ghost of a smirk breaking through, as if he knew exactly how absurd he sounded and that you’d call him on it.
He unscrewed the cap of his water bottle with that same meticulous focus he gave to everything, tilting it back for a sip while his eyes stayed fixed on you. The engine rumbled to life beneath your hands as you adjusted the mirrors, slipping the gear into drive.
“No,” you said evenly, not sparing him a glance, your lips twitching into a smirk as your eyes stayed on the road ahead. “I’ll just kill you in bed.”
The words landed like a live wire. He inhaled sharply at the wrong moment, the water catching in his throat. He coughed, almost choked, one pale hand flying up to cover his mouth as his dark eyes widened at you in disbelief. A strangled sound left him, somewhere between a choke and a protest, as he struggled to swallow.
You smirked, not even sparing him a glance as you guided the car out of the parking space. “Careful, Ryuzaki,” you teased, voice velvet-sweet. “Wouldn’t want you to drown before we even make it there.”
He pressed the back of his hand against his mouth, still coughing softly, his pale cheeks burning faintly in the dim dashboard glow. When he finally managed to rasp out words, his tone was hoarse but still laced with that dry eloquence:
“That was an irresponsible remark to make while I was mid-swallow.”
You laughed under your breath, savoring the way his composure had cracked so spectacularly. He capped the bottle again with stiff precision, eyes narrowing faintly, but the flush on his face betrayed him completely.
He was still coughing, hand pressed to his lips as if he could force the sound back into his chest. His shoulders shook with each ragged breath, the water bottle rattling faintly against his knee.
You couldn’t help it—you burst out laughing, one hand on the wheel, the other covering your grin. The sound spilled warm and unrestrained into the quiet of the car.
“I’m sorry,” you said between laughs, though your tone carried absolutely no remorse. Your eyes stayed on the road, but the smirk tugging at your lips was impossible to hide.
He turned his head toward you slowly, still coughing under his breath, his cheeks flushed and his dark hair falling into his eyes. His stare was sharp, unblinking, but the faint curve at the corner of his mouth betrayed him.
“You’re not sorry,” he rasped, voice low and uneven from the choke, his breath coming shallow as he adjusted his posture again. He dragged a hand across his mouth, composed himself, and added in that dry cadence of his: “You nearly killed the world’s greatest detective with innuendo. Statistically, that should disturb you.”
But his eyes lingered on you, gleaming faintly, as if he liked the sound of your laughter far too much to truly complain.
The drive passed in a haze of low streetlights and quiet engine hum, your laughter still lingering in the air between you. He had gone silent, but not in his usual way, this quiet felt heavier, taut, like he was thinking too much and feeling even more.
When you finally pulled into your building’s lot and killed the engine, the sudden silence pressed down around you. You unbuckled your seatbelt, glancing at him with a smirk curling your lips. “Come on, world’s greatest detective,” you said, your voice warm, teasing.
For once, his composure slipped instantly. His head turned, eyes widening just slightly, the faintest blush climbing high across his pale cheeks. The title, delivered like that, in your voice, edged with affection instead of reverence, made him freeze for a moment. He shifted awkwardly, fumbling with the cap of his water bottle as though it could shield him, before finally reaching for the door handle.
You didn’t wait. Pushing your door open, you stepped out into the cool night air, jacket brushing against your hips. You glanced back at him over the roof of the car, smirk still tugging at your lips.
He followed slower, long legs unfolding, black hair falling into his face as he tried and failed to hide the flush burning across his cheeks. Even under the dim streetlight, it was obvious, and you bit back a laugh as you locked the car.
He trailed just half a step behind you toward the entrance, silent, shoulders tense, but the way his gaze lingered on you said enough.
You pushed open the door to your apartment, tossing your keys into the little bowl on the counter and slipping out of your jacket. The warm glow of the lamps lit the space in soft tones—tidy but lived-in, comfortable, with small touches that made it yours.
He stepped in behind you, quiet as ever, his long figure filling the doorway before he moved further inside. His eyes scanned the room, not with suspicion, but with that familiar, measured precision, as though even your bookshelf and coffee table were pieces in a puzzle he intended to solve. After a moment, he nodded once, the faintest curve at his lips. “Your apartment is very agreeable. Clean. Structured without being sterile. It reflects you.”
You arched a brow, amused. “That’s your version of a compliment, huh?”
He tilted his head slightly, gaze holding yours. “It is. And I don’t offer them often.”
That made your smirk soften, if only a little. You turned away, setting your bag down, but before you could say more, his voice followed—quieter, softer, stripped of its usual certainty.
“This is very new for me.” His words were deliberate, chosen with care, though his fingers twitched slightly at his sides as he spoke. “Allowing myself into another person’s private space. Accepting their invitation. Remaining here, when statistically it would be safer to leave.” His eyes flicked to yours, wide and honest, the faintest pink still clinging to his cheeks. “It makes me slightly nervous.”
His eloquence made it sound clinical, but the way his shoulders tensed and his breath caught gave him away completely. He wasn’t analyzing the room anymore, he was watching you, waiting, like you were the only variable that mattered.
You turned, closing the space between you in a few slow steps. Your hand slid around his waist, palm pressing against the soft knit of his sweater as you looked up at him, your smirk sharp.
“L,” you murmured mockingly, tilting your head, “I jerked you off eight hours ago. Do you really think I don’t know this is new to you?”
The words landed with deliberate precision, and you felt the way his body stiffened under your touch, a flush spreading high across his cheeks. His dark eyes flicked away for the barest second, but when they snapped back to yours, they burned with something raw, something he couldn’t cover with calculation.
His lips curved, hesitant but real, into the faintest smirk. “I didn’t say I regret it, did I?” he murmured, voice still careful, but warmer this time, the blush deepening even as he held your gaze.
The contradiction—smirk and blush, eloquence and nerves—was so perfectly him it made your chest ache.
He bent down suddenly, closing the last inches between you, and pressed his lips to yours. The kiss was softer than the ones before, but firmer and less hesitant, more certain. His hands lingered awkwardly at your sides before sliding, tentative but sure, to rest against your hips.
When he finally drew back, his forehead brushed against yours, his breath warm against your lips. You smiled up at him, your hand still around his waist, thumb rubbing lazily at his side.
“I can give you a spare toothbrush,” you whispered, your voice warm, teasing but sincere. “And you can shower if you want to.”
His eyes searched yours for a long moment, unblinking, as though weighing the words like evidence. Then, with the faintest twitch of his lips into something dangerously close to a smile, he murmured in that calm cadence of his: “Statistically, accepting would imply I intend to stay.”
The blush that lingered on his cheeks betrayed how much he wanted to.
Your smirk deepened as you leaned into him, fingers still resting at his waist. “Oh, you will stay,” you whispered, the certainty in your tone leaving no room for argument.
He blinked at you once, dark eyes steady, before his lips curved into that faint, almost imperceptible smile. “I don’t need to shower,” he said in his careful, even cadence, though the blush on his cheeks softened the precision of his words. “I already did this morning. But the toothbrush—I would take.”
You laughed quietly, brushing your thumb against his side as you stepped back, still smirking at him over your shoulder. “Toothbrush it is, then. Come on.”
And though his words had been calm, measured, his steps as he followed you deeper into your apartment betrayed the truth, he had no intention of leaving tonight.
You moved around the bedroom with an easy rhythm, pulling your hair free from its clips and tugging at the buttons of your blouse. Piece by piece, you slipped out of your work clothes, slacks folded neatly over a chair, shirt draped across the backrest. There was nothing deliberate in your movements, nothing designed to tease; you undressed simply because you didn’t care, because you wanted him to see that you weren’t hiding anything from him.
From the corner of your eye, you saw him. He sat perched on the edge of your bed, hunched slightly forward in his familiar crouch, hands loosely folded between his knees. His eyes followed you the entire time, dark and unblinking, the kind of stare that could peel a person apart layer by layer. But it wasn’t predatory—it was calculating, searching, as if he were committing every curve, every gesture, to memory.
You tugged a t-shirt down over your head, soft cotton falling loose against your frame, and stepped into a pair of comfortable checkered shorts. Bare feet against the floorboards, you finally turned to face him.
He was still watching, his gaze flicking from your face down to the way the shirt draped over you, then back up again. His lips parted faintly, as if he were about to say something, but no words came. Instead, he simply tilted his head, black hair falling into his eyes, and kept staring—like you were the most complicated problem he’d ever tried to solve.
You smirked softly, padding over to him. “You going to keep calculating, Ryuzaki,” you murmured, your voice warm, “or are you going to relax?”
For the first time, his eyes blinked rapidly, a faint flush climbing across his pale cheeks. “Perhaps both,” he admitted quietly, still studying you as though he couldn’t help himself.
“You need a shirt too?” you asked, tugging at the hem of your oversized tee with a smirk. “Or are you going to sleep in jeans?”
He opened his mouth to answer, but before he could form the words, you’d already crossed the room to your dresser. You pulled out another oversized shirt and dropped it into his lap.
He stared down at it for a moment, blinking as though he hadn’t accounted for you making the decision for him. His long fingers brushed over the fabric, careful, almost reverent, before he looked back up at you with that dark, steady gaze.
“I was prepared to adapt,” he murmured, voice calm as ever, though the faint blush across his cheekbones betrayed him. He held up the shirt between his fingers, studying it like a piece of evidence, before adding in his precise cadence: “But statistically, wearing this will increase comfort and improve quality of sleep. I accept.”
You couldn’t help laughing softly, shaking your head as you leaned against the dresser. “You make it sound like I just gave you a prescription, L.”
He tilted his head, eyes flicking back down to the shirt in his hands. “In a way,” he said simply, “you did.”
And then, without another word, he set about tugging his sweater over his head, slow and awkward, revealing the pale lines of his collarbones and the taut stretch of his stomach before pulling your shirt on instead. It hung loose on him and for a moment he just sat there in silence, adjusting the collar as if testing how it felt.
When he finally stood, still fidgeting at the hem as if adjusting to the softness, you stepped close. Without hesitation, you reached for his jeans, popping the button with an easy flick of your fingers. “You don’t need them,” you whispered, voice low and smooth, eyes lifting to his as you tugged at the zipper.
His breath caught, just for a second, but then his lips curved the faintest bit, his reply just as quiet. “I figured.”
He let the denim slide down his long legs, pooling around his ankles before he stepped free. Now it was just him in his briefs and your oversized shirt, the hem brushing against his thighs. The look of him, uncharacteristically soft, stripped of his armor of clothes and distance, made your smirk sharpen.
“You look domesticated like this,” you teased, letting your eyes linger on him. “Very hot.”
That earned the faintest twitch of his brows, the pink on his cheekbones deepening as his gaze tracked you while you turned away. Still smirking, you padded into the bathroom, rifling through the cabinet for a spare toothbrush. You could feel his stare following you the entire way, unblinking, like he wasn’t quite sure what to do with himself in this new intimacy—but very much unwilling to look away.
You both moved through the quiet routine of getting ready for bed, the air between you softer now, though charged with something unspoken. You brushed your teeth side by side, exchanged half-smirks in the mirror, and when you finally switched off the bathroom light, the apartment seemed to settle into silence.
In your bedroom, you slipped under the blankets, propping yourself up on one elbow as you watched him hover at the edge of the bed. He looked strangely out of place standing there in your oversized shirt, his dark hair falling into his eyes, the faint flush on his cheeks refusing to fade.
You pulled the blanket back invitingly, smirking as you patted the empty space beside you. “I won’t bite you,” you teased, laughter bubbling in your voice.
He hesitated, eyes narrowing faintly as though weighing the probability of your claim. Then, with that flat, deliberate cadence only he could manage, he murmured: “Statistically speaking, you are significantly more dangerous without teeth involved.”
You broke into laughter at that, shaking your head as you tugged the blanket higher. “Get in here, L.”
And after one more beat of silence, he did. Awkwardly, carefully, he slipped beneath the covers beside you, his long frame tense at first, but slowly, as you let the warmth of your body brush his, he began to relax into the space you’d given him.
He lay on his side, stiff at first, one arm bent awkwardly against the pillow as if he wasn’t sure how to place himself. The oversized shirt you’d given him draped over his narrow frame, bunching slightly at the collar. His knees pulled up in his usual crouch even in bed, like he couldn’t quite let go of the posture that defined him.
But his eyes never left you.
He watched as you adjusted the pillows behind your head, tugged the blanket a little higher, shifting until you were nestled comfortably against the sheets. The smirk on your lips softened into something calmer, quieter, but still amused as you glanced at him out of the corner of your eye.
He didn’t move, didn’t speak. He only watched, gaze steady and strangely intense, like every little action you made—the way your hair spilled onto the pillow, the way your hand brushed over the blanket—was being catalogued, memorized.
When you finally stilled and turned onto your side to face him, you caught the faintest flush coloring his cheeks, though his expression remained calm.
“You look different like this,” he murmured at last, his voice low, even, but carrying a subtle warmth beneath the precision. “Unarmed. At ease. It is rare for me to see you this way.” He blinked once, slowly, then added, almost under his breath, “I think I prefer it.”
Your lips curved as you settled deeper into the pillows, the warmth of the blanket cocooning you. His eyes still hadn’t left yours, dark and intent, like he was afraid you’d vanish if he blinked too long.
“You know,” you murmured, voice soft but threaded with teasing, “this is your fault. You waited three years for this.”
For a moment, his gaze sharpened, as though replaying every late-night call, every note in your drawer, every sugar cube and chess piece he’d left behind. The faintest breath escaped him, his expression unreadable save for the flush that crept back across his cheekbones.
“I waited,” he said slowly, deliberately, “because haste often leads to ruin. But—” His voice lowered, steadier now, almost tender despite its precision. “Three years may have been excessive.”
Your smirk widened at that, amused and softened all at once, your hand sliding under the blanket until your fingers brushed against his wrist where it lay tense on the sheets.
“Excessive,” you echoed, squeezing lightly. “Glad you’re catching on, Ryuzaki.”
His lips curved, small and fleeting, but real. And for once, he didn’t look away. You smirked at him, shaking your head slightly as your fingers lingered at his wrist. “All you managed was sugar cubes and cryptic little notes. That’s your idea of flirting?”
His lips parted faintly, that subtle flush still high on his cheeks, but his eyes never wavered from yours. His voice came low and deliberate, every syllable chosen, calm as always but softened in a way you’d never heard before.
“I only do it for you,” he said. “Only to you. Because I like you.”
Your breath caught for half a beat, though your smirk held steady. He let the silence stretch before continuing, his mouth curving into a rare flicker of amusement.
“And still,” His gaze sharpened, almost smug in its precision. “—you are here. Thinking of me. Fixed on me, by my method.” He tilted his head slightly, black hair shadowing his eyes, and added with a soft hum that almost sounded like a laugh: “I would call this a checkmate.”
Your smirk widened at that, heat flickering in your chest as you muttered, “Cocky bastard.”
His lips twitched higher, as if pleased you’d noticed.
His gaze lingered on you in the dim light, steady and unblinking, until finally he spoke, calm, careful, but carrying a weight that pulled you closer without him moving an inch.
“I want you to touch me again,” he said, his voice quiet but deliberate, “so I can do some calculations.”
You blinked at him, then broke into laughter, your smirk curling as you shook your head. “Really?” you teased, amusement bubbling in your chest. “That’s your excuse?”
He didn’t even flinch. His face stayed unreadable, lips pressed into the faintest line as his dark eyes bored into yours. Then, after a beat, he said flatly, without the slightest hesitation:
“No. I just want your hands on me.”
The blunt honesty of it hit harder than any teasing could. For once, there was no cloak of riddles, no clinical phrasing, just the raw truth, laid out in his steady voice.
Your laughter faded into something softer, the smirk still tugging at your lips as you shifted closer, your hand sliding deliberately up the curve of his arm. “That,” you whispered, “was the smartest thing you’ve said all day.”
And his pupils blew wide as though you’d just proven him right.
You slithered closer across the sheets, closing the last bit of space until your body brushed against his. His eyes widened slightly, but then one of his arms moved almost instinctively, sliding beneath you and wrapping firmly around your back, pulling you in against his chest. The other hand came to rest at your waist, fingers curling with surprising certainty as he held you there.
For a man who always seemed hunched and awkward, the grip was steady, grounding, as though he’d decided you weren’t leaving, not now.
You tilted your head, your fingers slipping into his messy black hair, raking through it slowly. The strands were softer than they looked, falling easily between your fingers, and you smirked when you felt the faint hitch in his breath.
“You’re so soft,” you whispered, the words laced with teasing mockery, though your voice dipped low against his ear.
His arms tightened just slightly around you, his lips parting as though he wanted to argue but instead, his head tilted the faintest bit, pressing into your hand like he couldn’t help himself. His dark eyes met yours, still sharp, but now hazy with something warmer.
“That is not the adjective most people would assign to me,” he murmured, his tone flat, eloquent as ever but his blush, spreading high across his cheeks, betrayed how much your words had undone him.
His lips crashed against yours again, no longer hesitant, no longer measured. The kiss burned hotter, hungrier, his hands holding you tighter as though he couldn’t bear to let you slip away. The nervous restraint you’d expected was gone; instead, he kissed with an intensity that made your chest tighten, your breath catch.
At this point, you would never have guessed he was unexperienced. There was nothing clumsy about the way his mouth moved against yours, nothing shy in the way his tongue brushed yours, it was raw, deliberate, almost desperate, as if he’d been waiting far too long for this exact moment.
You shifted against him, needing more, and he responded instantly, sliding his long frame a little more toward the middle of the bed, his grip firm at your waist, guiding you with a surprising certainty. The move left you room to climb on top of him, and you didn’t hesitate, swinging your leg over to straddle his lap. His breath broke at the sight of you above him, pupils blown wide, lips swollen from your kisses. His hands slid up your thighs to your hips, trembling but firm, and he looked at you with those dark, unblinking eyes—like he was both overwhelmed and entirely consumed by you.
“Checkmate,” he rasped, voice low, almost mocking, though the way his chest heaved beneath you betrayed just how undone he really was.
Your smirk widened as you rolled your hips down against him, the friction drawing a sharp gasp from your own throat. You leaned in closer, lips brushing his ear as you whispered, “Why is your king in danger?”
His fingers tightened on your hips, a groan breaking from his chest as his head tilted back against the pillow. “No possibility of evasion…” His voice was low, trembling but eloquent, every word deliberate. “No possibility of defense.”
You ground against him again, slower this time, savoring the way his body jolted beneath yours. His lips parted, breath coming hot and uneven, before his head finally fell back fully, dark hair spilling across the pillow as another groan escaped him.
“Then you lost,” you gasped, your own breath shaky as you moved over him again, your smirk curling even as heat flushed through you.
His eyes snapped open, pupils wide and black, locking on yours with desperate intensity. His chest rose and fell hard as he rasped out, voice breaking but still carrying that sharp precision: “Yes. As I already calculated—checkmate.”
The word left him on a groan, his hands clutching you tighter, as if he’d finally surrendered to the inevitability of it.
You leaned down, lips grazing along the sharp line of his jaw before trailing lower to the pale column of his neck. You kissed him there, your voice slipping between each press of your mouth.
“Let me make you feel good.”
His breath caught, a shiver running through him as his fingers dug harder into your hips. His head tilted slightly, granting you more of his throat, though his voice remained that same strange mix of flat eloquence and unraveling heat.
“You already are,” he murmured, his tone careful but trembling at the edges. “The correlation between your touch and my inability to think clearly is undeniable.”
You smirked against his neck, teeth grazing lightly over his skin before sucking softly at the tender spot just below his ear. “Undeniable, huh?”
He exhaled sharply, a quiet groan slipping out before he caught it. His hand slid higher on your waist, holding you firmly in place. “Yes. There is no logical variable that explains why I crave more. Except that it is you.”
You kissed him again, slower, harder, your lips brushing up his throat until you reached his jaw. “You don’t have to calculate everything,” you whispered, voice low and velvet-smooth. “Just tell me what you want.”
His eyes met yours, wide and unblinking, the flush across his cheeks deep and unguarded. His reply was quiet, but stripped of all pretense, painfully raw in its simplicity: “I want your hands on me. And I want to keep feeling this. With you.”
You pressed one last kiss to his jaw before slipping off his lap, his hands reluctantly loosening from your waist as you stood. His eyes followed you immediately, unblinking, wide with something between anticipation and disbelief.
You crossed the room with calm, deliberate steps, the air heavy with the sound of both your breaths. At the dresser, you pulled open the top drawer, your fingers brushing past folded fabric until they found the small box tucked in the corner. You plucked out a condom and set it carefully on the dresser’s edge, letting him see it before turning back.
His gaze was locked on you, posture tense where he still was in the middle of your bed, hair mussed, shirt loose. He looked almost wild, flushed, lips parted, chest rising and falling too fast but he didn’t move. He just watched.
You smirked faintly as you hooked your thumbs into the waistband of your shorts, tugging at the little bow until it slipped loose. The fabric slid easily down your legs, pooling at your ankles before you stepped out of them, leaving you in nothing but your oversized tee and your panties.
His breath hitched audibly, fingers flexing against the blanket, eyes darting over you with a hunger he didn’t even try to hide. For all his precision, all his carefully chosen words, he looked undone now—caught between shyness and raw need.
The smirk on your lips curved sharper as you walked back toward him, the condom in hand, your voice velvet-smooth.
“Still calculating, L?”
You stopped at the edge of the bed, tilting your head as you dangled the condom lightly between two fingers. His eyes tracked the movement, dark and wide, but when they flicked back up to yours, his lips parted—no trace of his usual composure left.
“My brain…” he started, then faltered, his voice low and rough, “…isn’t functioning right now.”
You smirked, climbing back onto the mattress, your knee brushing his thigh as you leaned in close. “Good,” you whispered against his lips, your free hand sliding up his chest, feeling the rapid thrum of his heartbeat beneath your palm. “Means I’m doing my job.”
His breath caught, his hands twitching at your waist before finally settling there again, holding on with a grip that was both hesitant and needy. His gaze never left yours, pupils blown wide, as though he’d surrendered completely to the very thing he used to fight so hard against.
For once, the greatest detective wasn’t calculating anything—he was just yours.
You leaned in, your lips pressing softly against his, tasting the heat of his breath as your hand slid down. The thin fabric of his boxers strained against your palm as you cupped him gently, stroking just enough to make his body jolt beneath you.
Breaking the kiss only enough to whisper against his mouth, you murmured, “Are you sure you want this?”
His head tilted back slightly, a quiet, unguarded sound escaping him as your touch pressed firmer. His hands clung to your waist like he was afraid you’d pull away if he let go.
When his eyes found yours again, they were wide, pupils blown, his flush deepening across his cheekbones. His voice came low, unsteady, but with that strange, deliberate cadence still clinging to it: “I am certain. No other outcome appeals to me as much as this one.”
Another groan tore from his throat as your palm moved again, and he leaned forward to kiss you back, shy but insistent, his lips parting as though trying to prove the truth of his words.
You shifted back a little, lips trailing one last soft kiss against his before pulling away. His hands lingered on your waist, hesitant to let go, but they finally fell away as you slid lower on the bed.
Your fingers hooked into the waistband of his boxers, tugging slowly, dragging the thin fabric down over his hips. He lifted slightly to help you, his breathing uneven, and when the boxers pooled at his thighs, you pushed them down farther until they were completely gone.
He was very hard, flushed, and the sight of him made heat curl deep in your stomach. You reached for the condom resting on the nightstand, tearing it open with practiced ease.
And he just watched you. His dark eyes stayed fixed, unblinking, his lips parted as his chest rose and fell too fast. There was no witty remark, no clever calculation—only silence as his gaze followed the careful movements of your hands.
You pinched the base of the condom and rolled it slowly down his length, making sure it fit snug and smooth. His body jolted beneath your touch, a sharp breath tearing from his throat, but still he said nothing. He only watched, utterly transfixed, as if every second of your touch was something he needed to memorize.
When you finally looked back up at him, smirk tugging at your lips, his blush had deepened, his eyes locked to yours with an intensity that made your chest tighten.
“You really are staring,” you teased softly.
His voice came low, rough, but precise as ever: “I don’t want to miss a single detail.”
His hands moved suddenly, long fingers curling firm around your arms as he pulled you back up to him. The urgency in the gesture startled you for half a second, shy as he was, there was no hesitation in the way he wanted you close again.
You landed against his chest, your oversized shirt brushing over his, your legs straddling his hips once more. His grip didn’t loosen; one hand slid up your back, holding you in place, the other pressing into your hip as though anchoring himself to you.
His eyes, dark and wide, searched yours with an intensity that stole your breath. His lips parted, his voice low, unsteady but deliberate: “I am more aroused than I’ve ever been in my life,” he admitted, every syllable careful but raw. His breath hitched as your hips shifted instinctively against him, a quiet groan escaping before he pressed on. “And it is not only your touch. It is your voice. The way you speak to me. The way you look at me. Even your laughter.”
You felt his chest rise sharply beneath your palms, his words spilling faster now, as though they’d been building and he could no longer contain them.
“Every action, every calculated move you’ve made tonight, it leaves me undone.” The honesty in his tone, that strange mix of precision and trembling desire, made your smirk soften into something warmer. His hands tightened on you, his lips brushing yours as he whispered, almost pleading: “I don’t want you to stop.”
Your smirk softened into something gentler as you slid one hand down between your bodies, fingers curling around him carefully. He gasped, sharp and unsteady, his grip on your waist tightening instinctively as his dark eyes locked on yours.
You shifted your hips, guiding him into place, the heat of him pressing against you in a way that made your pulse trip. You held his gaze, deliberate, savoring the way his breath broke in shallow bursts while you lined him up.
Then, slowly you sank down onto him.
His head fell back against the pillow, lips parting as a ragged groan slipped free, unrestrained this time. His hands clenched at your hips, trembling as though he couldn’t decide whether to pull you down faster or hold you still.
You moved with steady control, inch by inch, taking him in, your body tightening around him as you pressed deeper. His eyes fluttered shut, lashes dark against his flushed skin, and another broken sound spilled from his throat.
When you were finally seated fully, your thighs snug against his, you leaned forward, one hand braced on his chest, the other stroking along his jaw. “Breathe, baby,” you whispered, soft but teasing.
His eyes opened slowly, wide and glassy, fixed on you as though you were the only thing tethering him to reality. His voice came rough, cracked, but still carried that deliberate cadence: “I am entirely overwhelmed.”
And yet, his hips shifted faintly beneath you, betraying how badly he already wanted more.
His head tipped back against the pillow, messy strands of black hair spilling over his forehead as a ragged sound escaped him. His fingers dug into your hips, trembling with the effort to stay composed, but the words slipped out of him in a mutter, raw and unpolished: “God…damn it.”
The corner of your lips curled as you leaned closer, your voice dropping to a velvet whisper right against his ear. “You feel so good,” you breathed, drawing your hips into a slow, steady roll that made your body grip him tighter with every movement.
A sharp groan broke from his throat, muffled only by his attempt to bite it back. His nails pressed harder into your skin as if anchoring himself, his dark eyes snapping open to find yours, wide and desperate.
Your pace stayed unhurried, teasing, making him feel every inch of you as you moved on him. His chest rose and fell too quickly, his lips parting with shallow, uneven breaths.
“You” he gasped, his voice low but still laced with that odd, eloquent cadence, “you are reducing me to nothing but instinct.”
You smirked against his jaw, rocking your hips just a little deeper, relishing the way his composure cracked further with every slow grind.
You kept the pace slow, deliberate, savoring the way he stretched and pulsed inside you, but he wasn’t handling it with the same control. His breath came in ragged bursts, and every time you rocked down on him his voice betrayed him, sharp groans slipping free, low moans catching in his throat, as if he was fighting and failing to hold them back.
“Ah—” His head tipped back again, hair falling wild across the pillow, his jaw tight, throat exposed as he groaned deeply. His hands clutched your waist harder, his nails biting into your skin. “You—God—”
You leaned forward, your palms splaying against his chest, kissing his jaw as you whispered, soft and loving, “Easy. I’ve got you. I’ll be gentle.”
That made him snap his head toward you, eyes wide, glassy, pupils blown. He shook it, lips trembling as another choked moan broke out of him when your hips pressed down. “No,” he rasped, voice hoarse, but precise in its desperation. His fingers slid up to grip your hips like steel, trying to guide you. “Not gentle. I—” he gasped as you shifted deeper, his back arching helplessly, “I don’t want gentle.”
Your smirk softened into something almost tender, but your rhythm grew sharper, rolling your hips with more weight, more heat. His moans spilled louder now, guttural sounds you’d never imagined hearing from him, broken into little cries when you moved just right.
“God—yes,” he groaned, hands dragging up your sides before clamping back down on your waist, forcing you harder against him. His voice cracked again, and he buried his face into your shoulder, groaning openly into your skin, trembling as his teeth caught against the fabric of your shirt.
Every thrust pulled him further apart, no detective, no control, just raw, hungry need. And through every sound he made, every moan and curse, you kissed him softly, held him close, whispering against his ear, “I’m right here. I’m not stopping.”
And he shuddered hard, clinging to you as though you were the only thing holding him together while he unraveled beautifully beneath you.
Your steady rhythm faltered when his grip on your waist suddenly changed, less clinging, more deliberate. His arms slid further around you, one hand pressing firmly into your lower back, the other sliding up between your shoulder blades. In one fluid, startlingly sure motion, he pulled you flush against him, chest to chest, his lips brushing your jaw as his breath came hot and ragged.
Then his hips snapped upward.
You gasped, your head tipping back as he thrust into you with a force that stole the air from your lungs. The slow, careful gentleness you had been giving him was gone, now he was moving, his body meeting yours with raw, desperate precision.
His breath was loud in your ear, broken, almost harsh as he groaned into your skin. “I—can’t—let you control everything,” he panted, his cadence fractured but still undeniably him. His arms tightened, holding you in place as he bucked his hips up into you again, sharp and deep.
Your hands clawed into his hair, tugging, smirking breathlessly against his mouth even as your voice cracked. “So the detective wants control?”
He groaned, low and guttural, his hips slamming into you again, driving another sharp sound from your throat. His lips grazed yours, open and trembling, as he whispered in that strained but eloquent tone, “For once yes. I want to know how it feels—to make you lose your breath instead of the reverse.”
And with another rough thrust, he proved it, his body shaking but relentless as he buried himself in you again and again, pulling you closer as if he couldn’t stand a single inch of space between you.
You opened your mouth to mock him, ready to toss something sharp and smug into his ear but the words died the second his hips hit that perfect spot inside you. A startled moan ripped free instead, your hands clutching at his shoulders as your smirk dissolved into something breathless.
He groaned, as if he’d felt the way your body clenched around him. His arm slid higher up your back, deliberate, guiding you until his hand cradled the back of your head. Gently but firmly, he pressed you down against his shoulder, the exact way you’d held him earlier, when he’d come undone in your hands.
“I got you,” he whispered, the words shaky but steady enough to make your chest tighten. Another moan tore from him right after, muffled into your hair, his body trembling as he thrust again.
You tried to laugh, the sound breaking off into a moan as your voice caught. “That’s my saying,” you gasped, clawing at his shirt as your head stayed buried against his shoulder.
His lips curved faintly against your temple, a breathless groan tumbling out of him as he whispered back, voice rough but precise: “I am a fast learner.”
And the way he drove into you right after, hitting that same devastating spot, left you gasping against his neck, realizing he meant it in every sense.
Your body clenched tighter and tighter with every thrust, heat pooling low in your stomach until it was almost unbearable. You clawed at his arm through the soft cotton of the shirt, your moans spilling into the crook of his neck, and still he held you fast—his arm locked around your waist, his hand cradling the back of your head as though he was afraid you might vanish if he let go.
Each sharp snap of his hips drove him deeper, harder, until your body pulsed and gripped around him so tightly he groaned against your hair, raw and desperate. His breath broke into ragged gasps, his control unraveling as quickly as yours.
“God—” he choked out, his voice rough but still laced with that strange, deliberate cadence of his. “You’re constricting around me with such force—it’s nearly impossible to maintain composure.”
His head tipped back, a guttural sound tearing from his throat as his hips bucked into you again, almost helpless. “I am very very close,” he admitted. His lips brushed your temple, voice cracking as he whispered: “You are unbearable when you feel this perfect.”
And his whole body shuddered beneath you, as undone as you’d ever seen him.
Your nails dug into him as your body clenched hard around him, pleasure coiling so tight it made your voice break. “Fuck, L—shut up,” you gasped against his neck, your words half a plea, half a laugh.
Instead of going quiet, he chuckled, the sound vibrating against your skin. It was the first time you’d heard him laugh like that, rough and completely uncalculated.
And then he moved.
His hips snapped faster, sharper, every thrust angled just right, relentless now. The shift stole the air from your lungs, the teasing smirk on your lips dissolving into a ragged cry as your body gave out. The tension broke in a blinding rush, your climax hitting you hard, your thighs trembling around his hips as you cried out against his shoulder. Your body tightening, choking him, pulling him under with you. He groaned, loud and guttural, clinging to you as if his life depended on it. His hips drove into you once, twice more before his body shuddered violently, undone.
“Shit—” His voice broke into a raw moan, the sound spilling against your skin as he buried his face into your shoulder. His hands held you like porcelain even as he came hard inside you, every tremor of his body betraying how completely he’d lost control.
When it was over, he stayed there, breath ragged, arms locked around you. And for once, the great detective said nothing—only held you close, as if words had finally abandoned him.
You stayed draped over him, chest still heaving, your thighs trembling from the intensity of it. His arms were locked around you, one hand splayed across your back, the other tangled loosely in your hair as if he didn’t trust himself to let go.
“Fuck—what was that?” you gasped, still catching your breath, turning your head until your cheek pressed into the damp warmth of his neck. His pulse hammered under your lips, fast and unsteady. “I thought you were a virgin.”
For a moment, all you heard was his uneven breathing, the quiet rasp of air dragging in and out of his lungs. Then his chest shook faintly under you, whether from the remnants of pleasure or a soft, breathless laugh, you couldn’t tell.
His voice, when it finally came, was rough but still precise, his cadence never wavering even as it cracked:
“I was.” His lips brushed your hair as he turned his head slightly toward you. “But I am also a fast learner. And you are a merciless teacher.”
You laughed into his shoulder, weak but genuine, your smirk hidden against his skin. He tightened his hold on you just a fraction, and for all his eloquence, you could feel the truth of it in the way he clung to you, as though he’d been waiting three years to lose control like this.
You stayed there, pressed against him, listening to the ragged rhythm of his breathing as his chest rose and fell beneath you. His grip hadn’t loosened—if anything, his arms clung tighter, his hand still cradling the back of your head like you might slip away if he dared to relax.
After a long silence, his voice broke through, low and uneven, threaded with that unmistakable cadence of his.
“I should excuse myself.” He paused, drawing in another shaky breath before continuing, softer, “For not holding out longer.”
You turned your face slightly in the crook of his neck, your lips brushing his damp skin as you smirked faintly. “What?”
He shifted, his body still trembling beneath yours, his blush hot against his pale cheeks. “It was less endurance than I would prefer,” he murmured, precise as always even through his roughness. “I underestimated how overwhelming you would feel.” His fingers flexed against your back, the smallest groan slipping past his lips before he could stop it. “And my response was statistically faster than is ideal.”
You couldn’t help but laugh softly into his shoulder, shaking your head. “You’re really apologizing for that? After what you just did to me?”
His lips twitched against your hair, the faintest ghost of a smile. “I don’t wish to disappoint you. Not in this. Not in anything.”
Your smirk softened into something warmer, your fingers tracing lazy circles at the nape of his neck. “Trust me,” you whispered. “You didn’t.”
His arms tightened around you, and though he stayed quiet, the way he buried his face into your shoulder said he believed you. You shifted a little, meaning to slide off him so he could breathe easier, but the second you moved his arms tightened, almost possessive, pulling you right back against his chest. His face pressed into the crook of your neck, his breath hot and uneven against your skin.
“Don’t,” he murmured, voice rougher now, stripped of eloquence for once. Then, after a pause, softer but precise: “Don’t get off me yet.”
You stilled, your smirk tugging faintly at your lips as you nestled back down, cheek against his shoulder. “Comfortable, are we?” you teased, your fingers raking idly through his messy black hair.
“More than comfortable,” he answered, the words muffled into your skin but still deliberate. “This is optimal.” His chest rose sharply as he inhaled, his hold firm but careful, like he was cataloguing the shape of you in his arms. “You’re warm. Your weight is grounding.”
You laughed quietly, pressing a soft kiss against his jaw. “You’re ridiculously sappy when you’re worn out.”
He tilted his head just enough to glance at you, dark eyes half-lidded but unwavering, and whispered, “I only want to be sappy for you.”
The room fell quiet again, only the soft hum of the city outside filtering through the window. His arms never loosened, his hand still resting protectively at the back of your head. And as your own breathing slowed, you realized he wasn’t just holding you, he was clinging, as if letting go wasn’t an option.
You shifted against him, still nestled in his arms, and let out a breathless little laugh against his throat. “As much as I’d love to stay here,” you whispered, your voice low but firm, “I have to get down. Otherwise, if you get soft the condom will slip and I don’t intend to get pregnant.”
His arms tightened around you immediately, almost reflexively, his long fingers splaying across your back like he could keep you there by sheer will alone. His dark eyes cracked open, fixing on you from beneath messy strands of hair. For a moment, he said nothing, only studied your face as if weighing whether you truly meant to move.
Then, with a twitch of his lips into that strange, off-kilter smirk of his, he answered in his calm, deliberate cadence: “Then you don’t have to worry.”
You blinked at him, one brow arched, caught between amusement and disbelief. “What exactly is that supposed to mean?”
He tilted his head slightly, the smirk lingering even as the blush still colored his pale cheeks. “I have no intention of becoming soft while you are still on top of me. Statistically, the likelihood of that occurring is—” His voice cracked into a quiet groan as his hips shifted instinctively beneath you, proving his point in a way words couldn’t.
You laughed softly, shaking your head as you raked your fingers through his hair, tugging lightly. “You’re ridiculous,” you murmured, though your smirk softened. “Completely ridiculous.”
His arms stayed locked around you, his forehead pressing to yours as he whispered, a little rougher but no less eloquent, “Perhaps. But I am also telling you the truth.”
And with the way his body still pressed hot and hard against you, you knew he wasn’t lying.
He shifted beneath you, his hips giving the faintest upward press. The movement made you gasp softly, your hands tightening on his chest, and his lips curved into that rare, strange little smirk. “Sorry,” he murmured, voice low but threaded with amusement. “Just proving my point.”
You narrowed your eyes at him, though your smirk gave you away. “Proving it a little too well,” you teased, your body still pulsing from the first round as you adjusted against him. You let your hand slide down his chest, your fingers idly tracing the hem of the shirt you’d given him. “You want a second round? Because either way, I have to get up for another condom.”
At that, his arms tightened around your waist again, holding you in place as though he feared you might vanish the second you left his body. His eyes fixed on yours, wide and dark, still hazy with the intensity of before, but unflinching.
“If you promise you’ll come back,” he said. His tone was calm, deliberate as ever, but his voice cracked faintly at the edges, betraying the raw need beneath his words.
You tilted your head, studying him, smirk tugging at your lips. “You think I’d leave you like this?”
His gaze softened slightly, though the intensity never left. “Statistically improbable,” he admitted, his thumb stroking along your back. “But..I’d rather hear the promise from you directly.”
Your laugh spilled quietly against his mouth as you kissed him once, slow and lingering. “I’ll come back, L.”
Only then did his arms relax just enough for you to slip away, his eyes following you with unblinking focus as you padded toward the dresser for another condom. And the way he watched you made it clear he already couldn’t wait for your return.
The night bled into hours you barely counted, every time you thought you were finished, every time you thought exhaustion had claimed you both, he’d surprise you. Sometimes it was the strange precision of his words whispered against your skin, sometimes just the way his body sought yours again and again. Sleep came in fragments, if at all, tangled between kisses, laughter, and the quiet sound of him unraveling under your touch.
When morning finally broke, it wasn’t the sun that pulled you back but the shrill buzz of your alarm. You stirred against the sheets, warmth cocooning you in the small, quiet space of your bedroom.
It was then you realized: you were completely bare.
And so was he. L’s long body was pressed against your back, his bare chest radiating heat where it molded into your spine. One arm draped firmly over your waist, locking you against him, while the other was tucked under your head, his hand curled almost protectively against your cheek as if he’d been holding you in place the entire night.
The alarm rang again, insistent, but he didn’t move, if anything, his arm around your waist tightened just a fraction, his breath steady against the back of your neck. His messy black hair brushed your skin with each exhale, and though his hold was loose enough to be gentle, there was something possessive in it too, something that made you smirk even half-asleep.
You reached out blindly to silence the alarm, then let your hand fall back to rest over his arm, whispering, voice rough with sleep but amused: “Guess the world’s greatest detective is also a human blanket.”
Behind you, his breath hitched faintly, but he didn’t lift his head. His voice came low, roughened by sleep, yet still in that precise cadence that belonged only to him.
“I’ve never slept better.”
You shifted carefully in his arms, turning just enough to face him. His hair was a wild mess, dark strands falling into his eyes, and there was something disarmingly soft about the way he looked at you half-awake—his sharp, calculating gaze dimmed, his cheeks still faintly flushed from the night before.
You leaned in and kissed him, slow and unhurried, your lips brushing his until his arm around your waist tightened reflexively. When you pulled back, your forehead rested against his, your voice still husky with sleep.
“We have to get ready,” you whispered.
For a moment, he only stared at you, lips parted like he was weighing whether or not to argue. Then that crooked, rare smirk pulled at his mouth.
“No” he murmured, his tone smooth but tinged with quiet amusement. “You have to get ready. My hours are not conventional.” His arm slid lower on your back, pulling you flush against him, his smirk deepening just slightly.
You laughed softly, brushing his messy hair out of his face with your fingers. “So what, you’re just going to lay here all day while I drag myself to meetings?”
His eyes narrowed faintly, the smirk never leaving. “Statistically, yes. Unless you insist on joining me in staying here.”
The suggestion hung in the air, tempting, as his hand splayed warmly across your spine. For once, you realized, he didn’t care about schedules or cases, he only cared about keeping you in his arms.
You had been careful that morning, slipping out before him so no one would suspect at work, your hair brushed into order, your expression calm enough to pass. But no amount of practiced composure could hide the quiet glow in your chest. Every time you caught your reflection in a glass pane or paused between tasks, the faintest smirk tugged at your lips. You’d woken up wrapped in him, and the memory lingered with every breath you took.
By midday, you were returning from yet another meeting, file tucked under your arm, heels clicking softly against the floor. The office was quiet again, the hum of fluorescent lights familiar. You pushed open your door, already expecting the comfort of your desk and the half-finished coffee waiting there.
But then you saw it.
Set neatly in the center of your desk, just where you couldn’t miss it, was another chess piece. Not just any—this time it was a queen, deep black and gleaming beneath the light, as if it had been polished just for you. Resting beside it, folded with his usual sharp precision, was a small note.
Your chest tightened as you crossed the room, setting your folder aside. You picked up the piece first, rolling the cool weight of it between your fingers, then opened the note. His handwriting stretched in those deliberate, slightly slanted strokes, but the words made your lips part in a quiet, breathless laugh.
“Your performance last night has left me unable to focus on the case. Consider this a declaration: you own my king, my board, and all my moves. Statistically speaking…I am already yours. But if you require further proof, I am prepared to demonstrate again. In private. Preferably tonight.”
You smirked, heat crawling up your neck as you pressed the note flat against your desk, eyes flicking to the untouched sugar cube pyramid still perched beside it. He was bold now—bolder than you’d ever expected.
Leaning back into your chair, you twirled the black queen between your fingers, whispering under your breath with a devilish smile: “Filthy little man.”
And yet, you couldn’t deny how much you wanted to collect on his offer.
Your phone buzzed against the desk, vibrating beside the chess piece and note. You didn’t even glance at the screen before answering, lifting it to your ear as the beginnings of a smirk tugged at your lips.
“Goddamn you,” you said, half a laugh in your voice, leaning back into your chair. Your eyes lingered on the black queen standing proudly in the middle of your desk.
There was a brief silence on the line, only the faint static of his breathing—and then his voice came, low, deliberate, but edged with something darker than usual.
“Last night suggests otherwise,” he said smoothly. “If I remember correctly, it was you who was swearing my name into the pillow while you begged me not to stop.”
Your breath caught for just a second, heat prickling at the back of your neck, but you covered it with a sharp laugh. “Oh, you’re getting filthy now, love?”
“Not filthy,” he countered, his tone calm, almost clinical, though the husky undertone betrayed him. “Accurate. You wanted the truth. I am merely stating it. Statistically speaking, if I had you on this desk right now, the result would be the same—or worse.”
You pressed your fingers to your temple, shaking your head even as a smile tugged at your lips. “You’re dangerous with that mouth.”
“And yet you keep answering my calls,” he replied without hesitation, the faintest amusement threading his voice. “Perhaps tonight I should use less speech, and more action.”
The silence after his words was heavy, thick with tension, and the smirk on your face gave way to something warmer, needier. You drummed your fingers against the note he’d left, biting back another laugh.
“Careful, baby,” you whispered. “Promises like that? I’ll hold you to them.”
“I expect you to,” he said simply. And then the line went quiet—leaving you staring at the black queen, your heart racing, already counting the hours until nightfall.
The office had gone quiet, the kind of silence that only came when the building emptied after hours. You tugged your jacket on, slid your laptop into your bag, and as you zipped it closed you noticed the corner of white paper peeking from under the edge of your keyboard.
Another note.
You plucked it up, unfolding it with that mix of anticipation and heat that only he could inspire. His handwriting, neat and deliberate, sprawled across the page.
“The knight never moves straight. Always in L-shapes. Much like me—awkward, sidelong, unconventional. And yet, last night, you still let me inside your defenses. Statistically, that means you want me to bend your rules again tonight. Consider this your warning.”
Filthy—yes—but cute in its strange, riddle-like cadence, his humor woven into the words. Your lips curled into a grin before you even finished reading. Without hesitation, you folded it back up, slipped it into your pocket, and grabbed your bag.
Downstairs, the cool night air brushed against your skin as the automatic doors slid open. And there he was. Waiting.
He stood just beyond the glow of the lamps, hair messier than ever, his posture a familiar hunch, but his eyes fixed on you the second you stepped out. He didn’t have time to say a word.
You closed the distance, grabbed him by the front of his collar, and crushed your mouth against his. The kiss was fierce, messy, your bag bumping against your hip as you leaned into him. He made a low, surprised sound into your lips, his hands lifting halfway like he wasn’t sure where to put them before finally gripping your waist tight.
“Never stop doing this,” you whispered against his mouth between kisses, breathless, smirking. You slid the folded note from your pocket and pressed it against his chest with your free hand, still holding him close.
His lips curved faintly against yours as his fingers closed around the paper, his voice dropping low and precise even as it trembled with heat:
“Not even if you begged me to.”
There you are. I knew you would stay.
The Masterlist is here. If that still does not satisfy you, Requests are open.
I saw you said your open to Death Note characters. Could you write an inexperienced/perverted L fic? Since I’ve found your account I’ve been binging your armin fics, they are so good!
"I'm a... pervert?" - Lawliet
Summary: L doesn’t have a rope and a blindfold hidden away for no reason!
L, your beloved boyfriend, was absolutely devoted to you, even though his emotions didn't often show it. While it took some nagging to get him away from the Kira case, when he did give in to you, he was alllll yours.
It didn't take too long to find out he didn't have much sexual experience. L's whole body would tense up whenever he was close to cumming, a point that only took him a few minutes to get to. The pleasure he gave you was riveting, sure, but he came so quick it felt like it was over in a flash.
Oh well. Stamina builds slowly.
One thing L hadn't shared with you was his more...perverted viewpoint. Late at night, when he was especially pent up, he would gaze at you peacefully sleeping in the plush hotel bed, imagining you in the filthiest ways.
He wanted you tied up, all for him to use.
He wanted to see you crying and writhing under him while struggling to take his cock, and he would get off on the sight of your tears.
And those were his tame thoughts.
Everyone else of the task force was either passed out on the couch or up in their hotel bed. L, on the other hand, seemed to be superglued to his chair, staring at the achingly bright computer screen in deep thought.
“L, it’s late.” You said, tone disapproving. You placed your hands on his shoulders leaning down over the chair. Too much sleep was sacrificed from everyone while working on the Kira case, but at least they slept. It takes more convincing than it should to drag L to bed.
“It’s not.” L replied bluntly, slender fingers extending towards the keyboard. You grabbed his right hand, stopping him to catch his attention. L looked up at you, eyebags disappointingly prominent.
“Yes?” He questioned. You sighed. All L did was overwork himself, and his body was so used to the burnout that it no longer reacted.
“Please, L, come to my bed with me. Sleep just a few hours, or at least relax.” You begged. L almost said no, but he knew better than to let you go to sleep upset.
He got up from his chair, which evoked a grin of gratitude. “I suppose I could take a small break.” He mumbled, following you up to your floor.
Your room was dark, only lit by the glow of a warm lamp in the corner. You hoped the darkness would make L sleepy.
L slipped off his shirt before crawling into bed with you, something that took him ages to start doing. Maybe he didn’t like to be undressed in the presence of others? You truly didn’t know. What mattered was that he was comfortable with you.
Minutes passed.
L was still wide awake, you could tell.
Suddenly, he sat up, turning to look over at you.
“I would like to have sex.” L said, just as straightforward and monotone as ever. His words caught your attention, eyes snapping open.
“Now?” You asked, sitting up as well. You could feel his curious eyes roaming over your body.
L looked away, thumb catching in between his teeth. “Yes. I feel as though it would give me some relief.” His answer almost made you chuckle. “Alright.” You smiled, leaning in, face less than an inch from his.
Feeling awfully bold, L closed the gap, kissing your soft lips with his own. You could tell he had tension that needed to be relieved just from how desperate his kiss was, and how his tongue immediately found its way into your mouth.
Clothes were stripped from your bodies, and now your bare pussy was grinding on his dick. L was rutting upwards, pathetic whines flowing from his mouth and it had only been a few minutes.
“I’m gonna…” he moaned, blushing at how he was already close to cumming. L grabbed your hips, forcing you to a stop. “What’s the matter?” You asked.
“I would like to try a new method of having sex. I’ve been thinking about trying it for some time.” L softly shifted you off from on top of him, getting up from bed to pull on his clothes.
You were incredibly confused, wondering if you were about to be left high and dry. “I’ll be back shortly.” L said before leaving your room.
You sat on your bed for about five minutes before L returned, holding a rope and a long piece of cloth.
“Are you opposed to bondage?” L inquired, getting back into your bed. You quickly shook your head no. The idea of L being into tying you up wasn’t something that had ever crossed your mind. But now that he was in front of you, rope in hand…
The only answer that rang in your head was “yes”.
L helped you get into position below him, raising your arms and crossing your wrists to tie you to the headboard. The knot L tied was sturdy, perks of him having taken Light and Misa into confinement.
L wrapped the soft blindfold around your head, fully obstructing your vision. He lifted your legs, admiring your pussy in the dim room.
“If you need me to stop…” L started, fat tip rubbing against your slit, a soft whimper coming from you. “Then tell me. Your pleasure is important.”
With those final words, L thrusted all the way into your cunt. Your warm walls enveloped his dick so wonderfully, he had to take a second and mentally prepare himself to not cum quick.
L gazed down at your vulnerable state, silently admiring your breasts, curves, the way your hair fell so perfectly around your face and onto the pillows.
He slowly started to move his hips, trying to find the right pace. L wasn’t on top most of the time when things got intimate, and wasn’t overly experienced on how to use his dick.
Good thing he was a fast learner.
“Faster, L.” You begged quietly, his slow and steady pace agonizing to put up with. You had to give him some grace, he was a bit new to this. Kira was to blame for less sex than you would prefer.
Raw instinct kicked in, and L was finally finding his way of doing things, motivation fueled by the sight of you bound under him. His eyes watched carefully as your breasts bounced up and down with each deliberate thrust of his.
The poor thing was so pent up, all he could do was push your legs so far back your knees almost met your ears, and drive into you with no sign of stopping. L had never felt something like this before; something so raw.
“Fuck, L! Keep- nghh going!” You moaned loudly. You had never been so grateful about the fact L had gotten you your own floor until now.
L wasn’t the loudest during sex, but this was awakening something in that sharp mind of his. Low groans and whimpers escaped his mouth, a clear sign he was enjoying being buried deep in your pussy.
“You feel incredible.” He moaned out quietly, those few words holding great meaning to you.
L continued to pound into you, tip hitting your g-spot with every animalistic thrust. His hips slapped against yours, bones colliding.
The sounds of your desperate moans mixed with the wet sloppiness of your cunt was like a symphony to L. His steady hands held you in place, the only thing keeping you grounded while he fucked your brains out.
“I’m close, baby- fuck, L, I’m gonna cum!” You shouted, tummy convulsing and hips bucking upwards. Once L felt you clench around his dick, he pulled out. You gasped as the cool air hit your empty pussy, whining in response.
It became an ongoing pattern. L would drag you to the brink of climax, and then deny it, pulling out. That didn't stop any orgasm of his own, though.
You were stuffed full of L's cum, easy access for him to slip in and out of your pussy. Every time he split from you, he would watch his semen drip from your cunt after releasing yet another load.
The tears that streamed down your rosy face only made L harder, and gave him more of a reason to keep teasing you.
"Pl-please, L!" You cried, pussy clenching around nothing. L rubbed his tip against your sore clit, debating in his mind whether or not to let you cum. The sight of your tears staining the blindfold was just so attractive, it would be a shame for it to be over so soon.
You tried to wring your wrists, rope rubbing against the skin in a way that was definitely less-than-pleasing. L reached forwards, massaging your warm tits as he took a painfully long time to decide his next move.
At last, he spoke: "I suppose." He murmured, shoving his slippery dick back into your puffy walls. Your back arched off the bed, hips rolling upwards with every hard, rough thrust of his.
It didn't take long before you were about to finish once again, hoping L wouldn't turn back on his reluctant word. L pressed down on your tummy gently, a silent, relieving invitation to cum
It was no understatement to say this was the best orgasm you had ever had. It washed over you like the feeling of jumping into a cool body of water on an agonizingly hot day; in other words, it was perfect.
L's orgasm followed suit, and he came into your overflowing pussy once again. You threw an arm over your face, breathing erratic as you took a few minutes to come down from your high. L pulled out, cock heavy and dripping, so he could undo your bounds.
L untied the ropes, setting your scratched wrists free, and then took off the blindfold. He waited until your panting stopped and your eyes adjusted before he started to talk.
"I think this has relieved a great amount of my stress. Thank you." He said, fully laying down next to you, placing a soft kiss on your cheek.
"Will you...go to sleep now?" You turned to lay on your side, pulling the covers up to your chin. L paused, but he didn't want to disappoint you.
"I will." L answered shortly, letting you snuggle up against his chest. He spent a few minutes listening your delicate breathing, before finally dozing off into a much-needed sleep.
༒︎ 7 Minutes in Heaven ༒︎
Includes - Light, L, Misa, Matsuda, Teru, Mello, Matt, & Near
Content Warnings - N/A
Notes - I haven't written them in a while, so I apologize if they're ooc.
♱ Light Yagami ♱
Once the two of you are locked in the closet, the timer begins. For a moment, you both stand there in silence, neither of you wanting to make the first move. Then, after a moment, you finally open your mouth to speak. Light beats you to it.
"Why haven't you kissed me yet?" he asks. You blink at him.
"Have you ever considered that maybe I don't want to kiss you?" you fire back at him in a slightly teasing manner. Light stills, very obviously taken aback, and a little hurt, by your rebuttal before he quickly recalibrates his next move. He clears his throat and maintains his composure as if it never slipped to begin with.
"I don't see why not. Unless you have bad taste in men, that is," he teases with a charming, yet sharp, grin. You ignore his comment.
"Do you even want to kiss me, Yagami?" You scoff and eye him sternly for a moment.
"Of course. You're not too bad looking yourself. I wouldn't mind kissing you." He's quick. Too quick. You can't analyze any of his moves when he's standing so close to you.
"Then why haven't you kissed me yet?" you ask, throwing his own words right back at him. He scoffs and turns his head to the side. You smile to yourself and save that little victory in your head for later.
"Maybe I'm just waiting for the right moment," he challenges through gritted teeth.
"Time's running out," you remind him as you lean in closer. You tap on the side of his watch, emphasizing the time limit the two of you have in here. "You better decide when to do it."
Then, without another word, he grabs your hips in his hands and kisses you. His lips collide with yours hard and fast in a way that is completely unlike him. It's messy and rough. It's completely different in comparison to the controlled and mature way he typically carries himself outside of this closet. His tongue, teeth, and lips collide with yours in a meaningless mesh of haste. And yet, there is an underlying rhythm to it—a method to his madness. There always is.
♱ L Lawliet ♱
L is sitting in his usual crouch on the floor of the closet. You sit on the floor across from him and stare at the man.
"Have you ever kissed anyone before, L?" you ask. He simply shakes his head.
"No, I have not. I don't really have the time for frivolous activities like that." You stare at him for a moment, a bit shocked at his blunt response. Then after a beat, you slowly crawl over to him.
"Would you like to try now?" you ask lowly. L looks at you before he tilts his head to one side.
"Yes," he hums, "I would. Although my rationale may lower after the interaction, it couldn't hurt to know what the common human experience is like."
"You talk too much," you chuckle. "Just a simple 'yes' would've been fine," you tease. You lean in closer, your soft breaths mingling with his as the air slowly gets more heated. L seems to get the hint.
"Then, yes, I would like to try kissing you."
You smile before leaning in and pressing your lips to his. You move your lips against his slowly, making sure that he can keep up with the pace. L, ever the fast learner, keeps in time with you perfectly. You hum in approval against his lips, not surprised, but a little impressed. You're careful not to slip your tongue in just yet, holding back until he gets used to the feeling of your lips. Then, without warning, L slips his tongue between your lips. You let out a soft noise of surprise at the intrusion, but quickly accept it as L slowly swirls his tongue, trying to get used to the feeling of it.
Without pulling away from his lips, you shift forward and settle in his lap, straddling his hips and trapping your legs on either side of him. L pulls away and looks up at you, clearly not expecting you to make that move. You simply smile down at him before capturing his lips in yours again.
♱ Misa Amane ♱
Misa is on you within seconds of the door closing. She immediately wraps her arms around your neck, wasting no time in making sure that each second of these seven minutes is not wasted. You freeze at the contact, arms stilling at your sides in shock. Misa kisses you just as soft and sweet as her personality would suggest, but before you can relish in the situation for too long, she pulls away. You blink at her, slightly dazed from the force at which she clung herself onto you.
"You're doing it all wrong," she huffs, pouting slightly before you can even get a word in.
"What?"
"You're kissing all wrong! You're as stiff as a board, and your hands are at your sides!"
"Wha-well then what should I be doing?" you sputter, clearly confused by her outburst, and still not yet recovered from that first kiss. Misa groans and tilts her head back before she lets out a deep sigh.
"Here." She takes your hands in hers and guides them over to the slight dip in her waist. "You're supposed to keep your hands here," she instructs sharply. "And stop being so stiff! Move your mouth, your hands. Be human." You nod.
"Human, yeah. Got it," you mutter out, still a bit dazed from earlier. You swallow down the dryness in your throat as you gently trace your hands up and down Misa's waist.
"Now, try it again," she sighs, clearly exasperated with the fact that she seemingly had to teach you how to kiss properly. Her lips are on yours before you get the chance to say anything else. You do as she instructed, moving your mouth against hers like some form of ballroom dance. You gently trail your hands along her waist, down to her sides, and back up again, mindlessly running your hands where they please as you kiss. Misa sighs, this time with content, before she pulls away again. "Better." She grins before pulling you back into another kiss.
♱ Touta Matsuda ♱
Matsuda is visibly nervous. His hands are shaking so violently you think that they'll tear off at the wrist.
"Man, I shouldn't have agreed to play," he mumbles underneath his breath. He hasn't looked up at you once since the doors closed on you two, but you can't really blame him.
"Hey, it's alright." You place a reassuring hand on his arm. "We don't have to do anything in here if you don't want to."
"No, but I-" he cuts himself off. "Sorry! Forget I said anything!" He waves his hands around in that usual, flustered fashion of his.
"What? What's wrong?"
"I-" Matsuda takes a deep breath before speaking again. "I do want to kiss you," he says. "I mean, really want to kiss you. You're-so nice, and good looking, and pretty, and I-"
You cut him off this time, finally bringing your lips to his. He gasps for a moment, eyes flying wide open with shock before he quickly melts against your lips. He instinctively brings his hands to your hips, resting them there comfortably as if this is the most natural thing to him. And, as you continue to kiss him and he continues to meet the movement of your lips, you can't help but think so too.
♱ Teru Mikami ♱
"May I?" he asks, already reaching out one hand towards your face, hovering just above the skin of your cheek. You nod, your body already thrumming with anticipation. "I need verbal confirmation if we are to continue." You smile for a moment before nodding again.
"Yes, Teru. You may kiss me." It's like a switch flips in his brain, and you can see it in the way he both relaxes and tenses all at once. He lets out a shaky breath and takes a step closer to you.
"Oh. Thank you." He shudders as he finally cups one side of your face in his hand. "Thank you," he mutters again. "You're so soft." He seems almost infatuated with you as he reverently rubs his thumb against the skin of your cheek. "I don't deserve to be here, to kiss you," he mumbles. Despite this, he leans in, his lips barely brushing yours. "Forgive me," he says breathlessly before kissing you slow and soft.
Teru moves his mouth against yours slowly, making sure to take his time with you. He kisses you like he's at an altar, or a temple. He treats every inch of you as holy as one hand cups your face, and the other gently holds onto your hip. He doesn't change the pace, doesn't try to speed up or get rougher with you as time passes and the kiss goes on. He's content with this, with you. You can feel it in the shaky breaths he intakes from his nose, and the slight tremors throughout his body that he's been trying to contain as he focuses more on kissing you. At this rate, you wouldn't be surprised if Teru didn't hear anyone opening the door to tell you two that seven minutes are up.
♱ Mello ♱
"I always thought this game was stupid," Mello scoffs. He doesn't try to breach your established side of the closet. He presses his back to his side, keeping his distance.
"Why is that?" you ask, taking a step forward towards him. He shoots you a look, but not one that holds any aggression in it. Just slight irritation.
"It's idiotic, that's why," he huffs. You can see his shoulders tense just slightly. "It's so illogical that there's no reasonable explanation for its continued existence," he scoffs. "Who wants to be locked up in a cramped space with someone for seven minutes under the guise that you either kiss or have sex?"
"You're such a pessimist," you muse, chuckling slightly. "You're getting so worked up over it too. It's just a game, Mello. It's supposed to be fun, there's nothing serious about it."
"I still think it's stupid."
"We'll see how long that lasts." You grin and take another step forward, finally stepping into his established side of the closet.
You're closer now. Much closer than you were just a second ago. You're not sure if the pounding in your ears is coming from your own pulse or Mello's, but you honestly can't find it in you to care. Even in the dim light of the closet, you can see Mello's cheeks dusting pink. You smirk at him, tilting your head to one side before opening your mouth to make a smart remark, but Mello is quicker. So much quicker.
He shoves you back against your side of the closet, your back hitting the wall as Mello hovers over you, completely caging you in. Your breath hitches in your throat before he smashes his lips against yours. It's hard and rough, all clumsy teeth and tongue. You're not sure if the wetness in your mouth is from blood, saliva, or Mello's tongue, but God you couldn't care less at this point. He's so rough it hurts to breathe as his hands grip your hips in a bruising hold, as if he's simultaneously trying to ground himself in this moment, and keep you remembering this moment for as long as those bruises stain your hips.
He finally pulls way, his face flushed and lips swollen with your shared kiss. You can hardly catch your breath as you pant heavily into the heated air of the closet. You swallow down the dryness in your throat before speaking.
"I thought you said this game was stupid," you tease, panting hard and grinning against his lips.
"Shut up," he snarls. You don't tease him any further. You can't, really. Especially not when he surges forward and claims your lips in another rough kiss.
♱ Matt ♱
Matt's fingers twitch at his sides, itching for something to keep his hands occupied. A cigarette, a console, a lighter, anything. But, in this small closet, there's nothing there. Nothing except you, that is.
"Damn," he mutters to himself. You eye him oddly from your side of the closet. "I, uh, kinda need something to do with my hands right now. Didn't bring my lighter or my Gameboy with me," he elaborates.
"Ah, I see." You continue watching as his hands twitch. He occasionally flicks his thumb against the bottom of his forefinger, mimicking the sound of a lighter flicking. You sigh before taking a step closer to him, deciding to finally put the poor man out of his misery. "Here." You grab his hands and guide them to your hips. You feel Matt's gloved hands twitch as he stares at you, blinking slightly behind his goggles.
"Jesus. You're feeling ballsy today," he mumbles, barely holding back the grin on his lips. Matt finally tightens his hold on your hips, if only a little. He feels more secure now that his hands are occupied, albeit, on your hips whilst the two of you are pressed incredibly close together in this small closet.
"Yeah?" You tilt your head to the side as you look up at him. "Are you feeling ballsy today, Matt?" You grin. His face shifts, now matching yours with an even more mischievous grin.
"Maybe," he hums before leaning down, his lips now just inches away from yours. "Maybe even more so."
You shudder at the newfound proximity before he finally presses his lips to yours. It's slow, but so deep and downright filthy. Matt wastes no time in slipping his tongue into your mouth, moving his lips against yours in the slowest, most erotic way possible. You wonder how he got this good with his mouth until he kisses you deeper and you can taste the faint, lingering taste smoke.
♱ Near ♱
"I don't understand," Near says, staring at you blankly.
"We explained the rules to you already, Near," you huff, chuckling slightly.
"I understand the rules of the game and how it operates," he corrects. "I just don't understand what the purpose of the game is."
"It's fun." You shrug. He continues to stare at you. The slightest flicker of confusion flashes on his face.
"Fun?" he repeats slowly, as if the word is foreign on his tongue.
"Yes," you reply, nodding simply.
"Stacking dice is fun. Playing with my cars and robots is fun. I fail to see how this supposedly meets that same level of enrichment." His words cause you to sigh deeply.
"You're thinking too much about this. Here, let me just-" You slowly and gently cup Near's face in your hands. He tenses just a bit, but says nothing. His gaze never leaves your face.
You carefully bring his lips to yours as you gently brush his cheeks with your thumbs. Near is still so tense, he won't let up. You hum against his lips and tilt your head, changing the angle slightly and continuing to kiss him softly. It's only then that you can feel him slowly begin to melt against your lips. Near's hands stay still at his sides, simply letting you take the lead and not intervening too much, if at all. Once you pull away, he simply stares at you again. This time, however, you can't help but notice the slight shade of pink that dusts his cheeks.
"So?" You grin, tilting your head to the side.
"That was not fun," he replies. Your smile falls a little at that before he speaks up again. "But, it was very pleasant. I would not mind doing it again." Your smile returns as quickly as it left, and your lips are on Near's even quicker.
"Oh you may not think I'm pretty, but don't judge on what you see, I'll eat myself if you can find a smarter hat than me."
my book and fiction obsession creeped out to my seventeen delusion and how better it would be to imagine the beautiful men in our loving hogwarts universe! i couldn't help myself and i desperately wanted to write so here it is! my letter of acceptance to svt to hogwarts as they get sorted by straw hat who loves to strew up different songs. (and their predictions)
hatstall* - the moment of consideration varied in time period from less than a second to over five minutes
choi seungcheol - no hatstall
difficult, not so much for my old self though— ambitious and prideful like a slytherin could do anything to get your way, huh? but so bold and courageous and loving. you sweet boy are better suited to GRYFFINDOR ; quidditch captain (beater) ; prefect
yoon jeonghan - hatstall of ten seconds
pretty hard i must say, caring like a true hufflepuff, wits and cunning of a ravenclaw yet mischievous and full of prank— driven by your ambition to win— boy i give you SLYTHERIN ; prefect, advisor for quidditch team
hong jisoo - hatstall of one minute
fooled me here boy, gentle nature and kind but so much of a prankster and ambition, suited to nearly all houses but i deem you will do well in SLYTHERIN ; prefect
wen junhui - hatstall of twenty seconds
driven, passionate and hardworking, fun and lovely to all your peers, yet quiet and shy— what do you want boy? you trust me? hmm... dare I say, you would be suited most to HUFFLEPUFF ; prefect, quidditch chaser
kwon soonyoung - hatstall of five minutes
kind, charitable and hardworking, empathetic boy— you want to achieve a lot, don't you? that hunger in you— your ambition wants me to say slytherin, your gentle nature wants me to say hufflepuff and your bold, fearless and courage to any problem or adventure screams gryffindor— if only you had a hunger for knowledge I would have been stuck in a pickle! boy, i better give you GRYFFINDOR ; quidditch beater (vice-captain), prefect
jeon wonwoo - no hatstall
closed off yet kind, fun yet reserved, thirst of knowledge and urge to do good— no wonder i place you in RAVENCLAW ; prefect
lee jihoon - hatstall of four minutes
interesting... very interesting...drive and ambition to work hard, closed off yet kind and caring to your friends, bold enough to step into any danger out of your loyalty? should I say hufflepuff for your heart or ravenclaw for your brain or slytherin for your desire or gryffindor for your soul? hmm... i give you RAVENCLAW ; prefect, quidditch beater (captain)
kim mingyu - hatstall of two minutes
yet another interesting boy, charming and kind, aren't you? yet still smart enough to be considered a ravenclaw. not suited for gryffindor or slytherin at all— you my sweet boy, where do you want to thrive? now, that decision is based on me, isn't it? clumsy and lovable, loyal, intelligent and smart— yet i still give you HUFFLEPUFF for your kind heart ; prefect, quidditch keeper (captain)
xu minghao - hatstall of ten seconds
blunt, mentally strong and hardworking— too many hardworking students this year! kind but sharp, seeker for knowledge but I believe SLYTHERIN will make you thrive! ; prefect , quidditch seeker
lee seokmin - no hatstall
sunshine, strong, charitable and kind, boy there is no house more suited for you than HUFFLEPUFF ; quidditch chaser
boo seungkwan - hatstall of fifteen seconds
sharp, quick wit and fairly bold— a guilty pleasure for gossip!? scandalous boy— but oh so kind, you can thrive well in any house but your mental strength must be appreciated above all, i personally give you GRYFFINDOR ; prefect
chwe hansol - hatstall of five seconds
quiet, bold, unwavering, you could do well in gryffindor but your level headed nature can't be replaced, better give you RAVENCLAW ; prefect, quidditch keeper
lee chan - hatstall of five seconds
optimistic and hardworking, you're a sweet and caring child, aren't you? things get to you easily, don't they? i applaud you for your bravery all these harsh years my child... your heart is as tender as of a hufflepuff but your soul is as strong as a GRYFFINDOR ; quidditch seeker / chaser
inspired from amortentia by @http-mianhae — do check it out! the series is amazing!
Synopsis: In which you major in astronomy and scaramouche is the biggest astronomy hater (in your eyes). What happens when someone confesses their feelings for you, and you not knowing how to handle affections, suddenly blurt out that you are already taken. By who? Well, scaramouche of course.
Themes: modern au, enemies to friends to lovers, actually more like rivals to acquaintances to friends to lovers, both of u banter constantly, fake dating trope, fluff(?), crack, smau, college au, slight angst(?), arrange marriage but not between you and scara
Warnings: kys/kms jokes, both of you suck with emotions, swearing, dn & ur mom jokes, talks of feeling unwanted and not being enough, lack of communication, misunderstandings, main characters don’t like to admit their feelings(i understand that could be frustrating), scaramouche is an asshole and you are too, mentions of alcohol and consuming it
Status: irregular updates 😭
A/N: taglist is closed!! reader is gender neutral. ✍︎︎ = written portion.
profiles — [ fruits basket | emos 🖤⛓🥀 + childe ]
❥ 01 — three more days
❥ 02 — everything’s fine
︎ ✍︎︎ 02.5 — how it happened ︎
❥ 03 — haha what if i just 🏃♀️
❥ 04 — (✍︎︎) you can’t run from me
❥ 05 — enemies to lovers 🤭
❥ 06 — a good bf
❥ 07 — wikihow how to be romantic, first dinner date, and being a third wheel
— "a forest ranger’s guide on how to read a 🦊 fennec fox’s mood" by [name]
◇ characters ◇ tighnari
◇ tags ◇ pure fluff
◇ a/n ◇ who gave him the right to be this cute and sassy i wanted to make an actual journal entry with like cute stickers and pictures and stuff but i have 0 artistic talent so yeah that's not happening
𝑚𝑎𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡 ⬙ 𝑡𝑎𝑔𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡
𝐟𝐨𝐱 𝐨𝐛𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐣𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐚𝐥 #𝟏
✦ 𝑠𝑝𝑒𝑐𝑖𝑚𝑒𝑛 —
fennex fox hybrid | 𝑣𝑢𝑙𝑝𝑒𝑧 𝑧𝑒𝑟𝑑𝑎
✦ 𝑑𝑖𝑒𝑡𝑠 —
‘shrooms, fruits, meats, leaves?? (saw him eat some this one time?? for research??)
✦ 𝑙𝑖𝑘𝑒𝑠 —
leaf and flower bookmarks, shade from the sun, mushrooms (not the poisonous ones though), tail grooming (maybe?? saw a special brush on his room one time - need to prove hypothesis)
✦ 𝑑𝑖𝑠𝑙𝑖𝑘𝑒𝑠 —
idiots (special note: read more on avidya forest survival guide + resources on sumeru jungle plantations), loud noises, heavy spices, perfumes
✦ 𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑠 —
standing tall, loose; relaxed.
standing tall, tense; alert - most likely there’s danger nearby. survey the area closely.
a twitch and a freeze and a slow swivel; alertness, observation - the fox hears something and is trying to deduce what he heard.
drooping, continuous swivel; embarrassment? anxiousness? to observe more. cute
a few continuous flicks; itchy ears - most likely he can’t scratch them at the moment. help to scratch his ears. usually will be rewarded by headpats :D
flat against head; refer to 𝑡𝑎𝑖𝑙 section.
✦ 𝑡𝑎𝑖𝑙 —
upright, loose; relaxed. !!!do not pull!!!
upright, tall and unmoving; alert, aggression - best prepare for a fight.
upright, with ears flat against head; curious - fox is interested in object. will sometimes ignore his surroundings. take care to watch over him and any possible dangers around.
moving about, with ears flat against head; needy - little fox wants scratches and pats, so scratches and pats he shall get <3
swaying softly, sideways; happy, content - note to self: to add fox’s subject of interest to ‘likes’ whenever this happens
swaying softly, up and down; excited - fox does this when he sees squirrels, fellow fox in the wild, or a new unidentified plant
“master, if we don't go soon- oh! i-i’m sorry,” collei squeaks when her violet eyes find your sleeping form hunched over on your desk, which is covered in countless papers, your arms acting as your pillow and your lips slightly open.
undoubtedly, you had been working on something and fallen asleep somewhen last night. as your soft snore fills the now-silent room, her teacher, who had been standing beside you right by your desk and motioned her to quieten down, smiles and closes the book in his hand with a soft thump.
“i’ll be there in ten minutes,” tighnari says, his tone gentle and the young ranger knows whenever her teacher takes that tone, it must concern you.
she nods wordlessly and leaves the two of you, giggling into her palms as a cloud of pink blush dust her cheeks.
back in your shared room, the fox hybrid sighs when his eyes fixes on the uncomfortable position you’re in. his arms, trained from wielding his signature bow and climbing sumeru’s terrain, wrap carefully around you, taking care to not jostle you too much as he moves your peacefully snoozing form over to your bed. after he safely tucks you in, he glances towards the desk, or more specifically, the journal that had taken his interest.
…. well, he still has at least five minutes to spare.
𝐟𝐨𝐱 𝐨𝐛𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐣𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐚𝐥 #𝟏
✦ 𝑠𝑝𝑒𝑐𝑖𝑚𝑒𝑛 —
fennex fox hybrid | 𝑣𝑢𝑙𝑝𝑒𝑧 𝑧𝑒𝑟𝑑𝑎
✦ 𝑑𝑖𝑒𝑡𝑠 —
‘shrooms, fruits, meats, leaves?? (saw him eat some this one time?? for research?? 𝗂 𝖽𝗈 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗍𝖺𝗌𝗍𝖾)
✦ 𝑙𝑖𝑘𝑒𝑠 —
leaf and flower bookmarks, shade from the sun, mushrooms (not the poisonous ones though), tail grooming (maybe?? saw a special brush on his room one time - need to prove hypothesis 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝖿𝖺𝗄𝖾-𝖺𝗌𝗌 𝗁𝗒𝖻𝗋𝗂𝖽 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗋 𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗅 𝗀𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆𝖾𝖽??), [𝗇𝖺𝗆𝖾]
standing tall, tense; alert - most likely there’s danger nearby. survey the area closely.
a twitch and a freeze and a slow swivel; alertness, observation - the fox hears something and is trying to deduce what he heard.
drooping, continuous swivel; embarrassment? anxiousness? to observe more. cute 𝗂 𝖺𝗆 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖼𝗎𝗍𝖾.
a few continuous flicks; itchy ears - most likely he can’t scratch them at the moment. help to scratch his ears. usually will be rewarded by headpats :D 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗆𝖺𝗒𝖻𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗌𝗌𝖾𝗌 𝗂𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖻𝖾𝗀
upright, tall and unmoving; alert, aggression - best prepare for a fight.
upright, with ears flat against head; curious - fox is interested in object. will sometimes ignore his surroundings. take care to watch over him and any possible dangers around.
moving about, with ears flat against head; needy 𝗇𝖾𝗀𝗅𝖾𝖼𝗍𝖾𝖽 - little fox wants scratches and pats, so scratches and pats he shall get <3
swaying softly, sideways; happy, content - note to self: to add fox’s subject of interest to ‘likes’ whenever this happens 𝗒𝗈𝗎'𝗋𝖾 𝖽𝖾𝗇𝗌𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝖺 𝖻𝗋𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗅
swaying softly, up and down; excited - fox does this when he sees squirrels, fellow fox in the wild, or a new unidentified plant
more reversed sagau brainrot!! | a lot more under the cut
- when scara sorta just ✨materializes✨ in your apartment and you’re like excuse me wtf is happening, so u pinch yourself to see if its a dream and its not apparently so you must be going insane BECAUSE WHAT OTHER EXPLANATION WOULD THERE BE FOR ONE OF YOUR FAVOURITE CHARACTERS EXISTING IN YOUR APARTMENT
- i’d feel like in the sagau or reversed sagau he wouldn’t be too fond of the all-creator bc if thats the all-creator wouldn’t that mean that you’re the one responsible for his existence and his suffering?? but when he just sees you being so genuinely nice and caring and yet strong and doesn’t take his shit he kinda lets down the guard a little
- plus he literally has nowhere else to stay so when you threatened to kick him out he realized it was either live with you or out on the streets. and he kinda hated the streets, so he ended up trying to find your place all dirty and stuff from tripping in way too many godforsaken random holes in the ground. poor gremlin.
- he is just super bratty and still has that air of “i think im better than you” but it never works on you bc you dont take his shit and you make him do half of your chores when your pissed at him (and you make sure there are no complaints)
- he wouldn't call you your grace after a while and just uses your name, you however come up with a million nicknames for him and you think its funny that it annoys him on occasion
- you argue. A lot. like so much that your neighbour and the apartment below you complained several times and also kinda tried to make the landlord kick u out so you made scara apologize to them bc hes mainly the reason its so noisy
- he will actually follow you everywhere, sorta like a guard dog. everyone around you is pretty intimidated by him but they are even more scared of you when they see that you basically keep him in check
- he can’t fucking cook dear lord. you told him to stay in the fucking apartment bc you had an important meeting today and he couldnt come with you and he was like “i didnt want to come anyway” and you just said “fuck you” (affectionate) in return
- but when you come back your apartment and kitchen especially is a mess. you forgot to teach him how to use online delivery. and hes just like chilling out watching tv with mild interest, acting like half of your apartment isnt covered in eggs and flour and who knows what else
“scara what the fuck happened here”
“the stupid stove of yours doesnt work and neither does that beeping machine”
“clean it up”
“no”
“well i guess we wont have any food today or tomorrow, until you clean. it. UP." *glare*
he then leaves it but by the next afternoon he's actually getting hungry and grumpy and eventually starts cleaning it up the next day when he can't take it anymore and you finally come home to a clean kitchen bc thank god, you didn't know how much longer you could live on your co-worker's lunches
- you're both just so stubborn. he's stubborn and so are you and that leaves the apartment just with a tense silence AND when someone sees u at that time they feel so uncomfortable bc the atmosphere is just so tense between the two of you since neither of you agree
- silent treatment happens a lot and its really fucking stupid bc you both wanna talk to each other after like a few days but neither of you want to be the first one to admit that
- omg you absolutely hate having guests now BECAUSE HOW ARE YOU MEANT TO EXPLAIN HIM??? also he has to have normal clothes now and he looked at all your clothing choices in disgust
- everyone thinks he's just a friend until they realize he actually lives with you and then they're like "oohhhh are you together??" and think that he's your boyfriend/partner. and honestly you dont even deny it bc there is no feasible way to explain who he really is (without sounding crazy) + you get your parents off your back abt getting a boyfriend bc they kept trying to make you go on blind dates and now you're free from that phew
- but some of your friends/co-workers are all like "really? this lil guy? and they often say this around him and it just annoys and offends him to no end. but also you're surprisingly defensive of him, like yes he's a bitchy emo gremlin but he's your bitchy emo gremlin
synopsis yn thought she finally escaped the perpetual doom of placing 2nd after she graduated high school. but alas! the leaderboard has her name printed under another’s! a name she thought she’d never get to see again. better luck next time, i guess.
tags genshin smau, modern au, college/university, fluff & angst, rivals to friends to lovers, academic rivals, slow burn
warnings cursing, jokes abt stalking, alcohol, unrealistic perception of college lol, self destructive behaviors, controlling and strict parents, ooc characters, will add more
status 06/13/22 — ongoing
likes & reblogs are greatly appreciated!
— taglist is open!
characters :: yn's group / scara's group
ACT I. — better luck next time, i guess.
⚖ 00. him again ✎
⚖ 01. since when was he here
⚖ 02. war flashbacks / suspicious
⚖ 03. it's B23
⚖ 04. she's just annoying lol
⚖ 05. serious talks
⚖ 06. menace to society ✎
⚖ 07. keep us updated
⚖ 08. it's none of your business ✎
⚖ 09. feeling a little goofy rn
⚖ 10. i hope you're allergic to cats
⚖ 11. when a cat meets another cat ✎
⚖ 12. and he looked cute doing it
⚖ 13. u're a moron but u can get there ✎
⚖ 14. so message him raynao
⚖ 15. hurray for yn!
⚖ 16. slowly rest your head on my shoulder ✎ / aftermath
ACT II. — you're not stupid, stupid.
⚖ 17. insecurities, insecurities
⚖ 18. uh oh best friend fight
⚖ 19. now we wait
⚖ 20. it's been five days?
⚖ 21. not yet ✎
⚖ 22. u're not actually a moron ok ✎
⚖ 23. bestie reconciliation / friendship fluff
⚖ 24. new memories
⚖ 25. one time thing
⚖ 26. falling, falling ✎
⚖ 27. symptoms of a crush
⚖ 28. so much for keeping distance
⚖ 29. string of dates
⚖ 30. i'm warning you
⚖ 31. undeniably so ✎
ACT III. — it was a mistake.
⚖ 32. finals day one
⚖ 33. i told you so
⚖ 34. finally over
⚖ 35. not so deja vu ✎
⚖ 36. hard work paid off?
⚖ 37. liar ✎
⚖ 38. why?
ACT IV. — are you happy?
a/n: aaa i'm excited!! please be nice this is my first smau and english isn't my first language, so excuse my grammar errors TT
if you want to be part of the taglist, just reply, dm, or ask!
prompt: are they a dog or a cat person? (req sent by → @stygianoir)
xtra !! notes: reader is gender-neutral, they/them pronouns, some characters are ooc since i am WAY out of practice....
DOTTORE:
he sees no point in having pets. he sees animals as a sort of experiment; something to be taken apart, observed, and then put back together properly.
but i suppose if he had to pick between dogs and cats, he'd probably pick cats.
why, you ask? his reasoning is because he hates how unneccessarily noisy dogs are.
if you asked him to get you a pet, he'd scoff at you and ask you why you would want such a troublesome creature following you around till it dies.
you'd reason with him until he finally caved and sent one of his underlings out to find you whatever pet you wanted. the first few times they came back, he brought back terrifying creatures that you quickly declined.
you had to thoroughly explain what pet you wanted. a cat, with some nice soft fluffy fur, and small enough for you to carry around in your arms and wouldn't weigh you down.
he ended up bringing back a cat with blue fur. where in the world he got it, you had no idea, but you were overjoyed once the cat was in your grasp.
you'd cuddle it to death, and bring it all over the place, especially when you visit dottore in his lab.
he'd demand you to take it out as soon as he sees the tips of its ears, claiming that it would shed fur all over the place and cause a distraction.
you'd whine, and beg, and bug him until he finally snapped, allowing you to bring it in, but only if you kept a close eye on it so it didn't run off and accidentally kill itself with all the dangerous equipment lying around.
jester got away anyways...
thankfully, it didn't fall into one of those containers with a suspicious looking liquid in it. it ended up appearing right in front of dottore, meowing at him.
he'd stare at it and then pick it up by the scruff of its neck. then he promptly kicked the both of you out of his lab.
you'd end up coming right back in, because he's used to your presence.
"you can stay in here, but be quiet, and for the tsaritsa's sake, KEEP THAT FELINE AWAY FROM MY WORK."
"is this your way of saying you want me around?"
"..."
although he won't admit it out-loud, he's gotten quite attatched to the cat. when he doesn't see it usually cuddled in your arms, he has one of his clones work on whatever project he's doing and goes prowling around the area, looking under every surface until he finds it, casually meowing like it didn't have a care in the world.
he picked it up, shoved it in your hands as soon as he saw you, and went back to being holed up in his lab.
he loves the cat <3 (his definition of love means that he's being merciful and not dissecting the cat.)
THOMA:
he'd deffo a dog lover <3
loves to give headpats to all the dogs he finds in inazuma.
when you brought up getting a pet puppy, he was practically overjoyed, explaining different breeds and how each one had specific personality traits.
you two ended up on getting a shiba dog.
practically smothers the poor pup every day whenever he can. the dogs loves all the attention you guys give it.
"who's a good boy, who's a good boy?"
"thoma, i think you're going to crush tomo."
"oh. sorry."
the pup likes following around thoma while he's working at the kamisato estate. he'll have the dog balanced on his shoulders as he dusts the place, and has the pup running back and forth as he's wiping down the floors (which is very inconvenient cause he has to keep scrubbing the areas where its paws have touched the floor).
he says that dogs are the most loyal creatures. and its true. tomo refuses to leave you and thoma's side, and so you have to carry him around wherever you go, or he'll cause quite a ruckus with all his barking and whining.
you take tons of pictures whenever thoma's too preoccupied with giving tomo belly rubs.
he's so in love with the dog, you wouldn't be surprised if he asked the dog to marry him instead of you 💀
imagine the three of you just sleeping together- oh my god that sounds so fucking cute- you and thoma on either side, and tomo in the middle, licking at your guys' faces to wake you up in the morning.
this dog has an appetite; its a monster with food, so expect it to nudge its food bowl to you and sit back on its haunches, tail wagging.
this dog is smart. it knows where you hide all the dog treats and ends up sneaking one or two out of the bag when you aren't paying attention.
you'd scold it, but how can you be strict when its giving you those adorable puppy-dog eyes?
it's best to say that thoma is a complete and total dog lover; always has been, always will be, till the day he dies. <3
XIAO:
you compare him a lot to being a cat, so he's sort of curious to see what an actual cat would act like.
when you bring back a stray black cat you found off the streets, he'd stare at it, eyes narrowed at the creature you were snuggling so lovingly to your cheek
"this is what you compare me to on a daily basis? tsk. pathetic."
the cat meows angrily in your grasp, hissing and swiping rapidly, trying to claw his face.
lets just say this cat has some anger issues....
they both have that angry sort of emo attitude towards you, although the cat is much more softer when around you.
xiao feels like the cat is trying to make him jealous by stealing his partner's affection. it even gave xiao what looked like a smug expression when you started rubbing behind its ears.
will immediately shove the cat to the side and put your hand on his head. this surprises you, but you indulge him anyways, giving him headpats and running your fingers through his silky hair. you have to hold the cat back as it attempts to claw the adeptus' face to shreds.
"your cat has anger issues."
"our cat. and no, it just doesn't seem to like you."
will constantly be glaring at the cat, competing with it for your attention and affection. it's honestly cute and amusing to watch. <3
eventually, they both simmer down and reluctantly get along with each other. you even caught alatus (the cat's name) resting in xiao's lap as he rubs between its ears. xiao denied it ever happened, calling you delusional. you have a feeling the cat would too if it could speak.
eventually they start to become more friendly in front of you, playing with each other, but they still compete with each other every now and then. probably just for old time's sake.
you now own two cats <3 congrats
SCARAMOUCHE/BALLADEER:
"what is that monstrosity you're holding in your hands?"
"what? oh, you mean this puppy? i just found it wandering outside, isn't it adorable?"
"no. no it is not adorable. can i kill it?"
this is how your conversation went when you brought back a stray german shepherd. you felt so bad for the poor puppy and was immediately drawn to it when you saw it padding around aimlessly.
scaramouche on the other hand has no interest in the damn mutt. he loathes it, hating how it received more affection than he did. he also felt very irritated when the dog would relieve itself all around the place and slobber all over him. he hated that.
you decided to name the puppy emi, which meant blessing. scaramouche scoffed at you, asking why you would name it something so ridiculous when it clearly wasn't a blessing at all.
you'd baby-talk emi all the time, nuzzling it close to your cheek and peppering its wet nose with kisses (how you could stand it, scaramouche would never understand; he'd had enough of the damn dog nosing his crotch with that cold, wet nose of its)
he'd balk at how much the dog eats and demand who would be paying for all of this, and you said casually "me, of course." he shut his mouth after that, finding nothing to retort back at you.
accidentally stepped on the dog's tail once and the scream that the dog let out sounded so terrifying, scaramouche almost jumped out of his skin. you soothed the poor pup while it whimpered and whined and writhed in your arms. scaramouche (very reluctantly) apologized to the dog, even though he complained how that would do anything, since the dog was just a dog and couldn't understand anything he was saying.
couldn't find his hat and went looking for you, wondering if you'd stolen it to wear, which was something you did a lot. instead, he found the dog, chewing on the edge of it like it was some sort of dog toy. he'd rip it out of emi's jaws and sputter angrily at the dog, pointing at it, then back at his hat until he gave up and summoned one of his underlings to get it fixed for him.
refuses to pay it any affection/attention or play with it, with the excuse of "i'm busy."
"you're busy, and yet you're sitting here, letting me play with your hair."
"..."
he grumbled under his breath the whole time, but played tug-of-war with emi. he mocked the poor puppy, holding it out for it to take before snatching it away before it could grab onto it with its teeth. finally, bored of playing with it, he let it grab onto it and immediately let go as soon as emi started tugging, watching in amusement as the pup fell back on its haunches, letting out a confused whine.
he tolerates it for your sake, but once you bring up getting another one, he'll immediately decline and say that one is enough trouble <3
BAIZHU:
he adores cats, beliving them to be intelligent creatures.
is delighted to hear that you wanted a pet cat and would immediately set out to find one to your liking. once you settled on a black-and-white tuxedo cat, you named it kushiro, which was kuro and shiro mixed together (black and white). baizhu thinks its very original
sometimes he puts his glasses on the cat and has you take a picture of him and kushiro. definitely a cat guy.
the cat is pretty clingy to him, always latching onto his clothes with its claws. the two are practically insepparable, you'd most likely have to pry them apart using a crowbar.
expect the cat to tag along when you two head out to go herb gathering with qiqi. qiqi holds the cat while you and baizhu almost break your necks trying to reach violetgrass. qiqi quickly grows attatched to kushiro and whenever its not clinging onto baizhu, expect to find it resting in qiqi's cold arms, purring contentedly.
"qiqi has grown quite attatched to kushiro, don't you think?"
"they're so adorable together though. kushiro and qiqi are kind of the same, no?"
"hm, i suppose you are right."
the two of you go out to buy several bottles of milk cause jesus fucking christ that cat can drink-
i can imagine yall just reading a book or sumthing in the kitchen and the cat is all like "mom, dad, we need more milk" and would push its milk bowl towards you with its little nose.
baizhu dislikes the way you baby-talk the cat. his eyes are slightly narrowed when he scolds you (very lightly) about how kushiro was much more intelligent than you thought and most likely took offense to the way you were talking to it. you covered your giggles in a cough, shoulders shaking lightly as baizhu frowned at you, shaking his head.
has a (mostly one-sided) conversation with kushiro, talking about the different herbs he uses in his medicines and of all the customers he's met, and about a whole bunch of other stuff. kushiro, on the other hand (or should i say, paw? no? not funny? okay-), is busy cleaning itself, licking every inch of its body.
yall have to deal with the cat's hairballs, it hacks it up all over the place. baizhu never complains about it, saying it's normal behaviour for cats to do that, but he does make a grimace every time he finds one in the kitchen or steps on one barefoot.
will be overjoyed if you ever ask to get more cats. you two are the power cat parents <33
DAINSLEIF: (more of a modern-ish au...)
i dare you to tell me this dude isn't a canine guy.
lowkey will pet every stray dog yall pass by.
he will not complain at all if you bring up getting a puppy. in fact, dainsleif will most likely pipe in quietly with a "golden retrievers are very loyal" and a "that one'll shed too much" when you guys go over what breed to get.
you end up being busy the day you two were supposed to go pick up the pup, so dainsleif goes by himself. when he lays eyes on your puppy (you two had finally settled on getting a black labrador after all those deabtes), he's immediately head-over-heels in his usual sort of way.
gets super attatched to the puppy. loves to take whatever chance he gets to pet the top of its hed or give it belly rubs. he decided that day that he would look after this puppy if it was the last thing he did.
when you get back home, you find dainsleif snoozing on the bed with your new puppy curled up in his arms, also snoring, its leg twitching slightly in its sleep. you definitely take a picture of this for keepsakes <3
you guys have another debate over what to name the puppy but you guys ended up calling it hinode (which means sunrise), because it definitely has a sense of brightness and warmth to it
istg, if you're not snuggling with the dog, dainsleif is. if he's doing research on a new lead, he'll have hinode resting either in his lap or in a dog bed he'd bought to place specifically in his office. if he's lazing around the house (which is very rare, mind you-), he'll have hinode trailing along behind him. the dog loves all the attention and will probably follow dainsleif to the ends of the world-
he doesn't normally express affection that much, always doing it in his own way (which meant chaste forehead kisses, the occasionaly hug from behind, and cuddle sessions throughout the day. he'll always bring you in closer if yall are sleeping <3), but his pda for the puppy is so obvious that it makes your heart melt just at the sight of diansleif bonding with his baby puppy.
you first, dog second, new leads/his case is third. that's his priorities.
will lowkey go crazy if the dog goes missing, but let's not go on that path, okay? 😢
this dog likes following yall everywhere. to the bed, to the couch, to the kitchen, even to the goddamn bathroom (idk why dogs like doing that? like????) he'll even follow you guys out the door if you don't command him to sit and stay there while waiting for you two to come back.
you guys aint even unlocking the door when you hear overjoyed barking coming from inside your guys' house. by the time the two of you stumble back in, hinode is literally jumping all over you, giving you both sloppy wet kisses <3
when in bed one night, he'll have his arms wrapped around you so snugly, his chin resting on your shoulder and your back pressed against his chest, and then he'll whisper, "can we get another one?"
yall end up getting three dogs ✌
PANTALONE:
this drippy dude is a cat guy. his personality lowkey reminds me of a sly cat. he'll act all sweet and innocent when that expression of his is merely a mask so he can concentrate on forming plans inside his brain and whatever other dark shit he has going on in that pretty head of his.
comes to you with two siamese cats in his hands and presents it to you like its a gift.
"i found this feline wandering around outside."
"oh. how adorable!"
"....."
"....."
"do you want to adopt them, pantalone?"
"i thought you'd never ask."
BRO IMAGINE IF YOUR GUYS' SIAMESE KITTIES WAS LIKE THE ONES FROM THE LADY AND THE TRAMP??? MY MOM USED TO KEEP SINGING THE STUPID SIAMESE CAT SONG OVER AND OVER AGAIN AND I HAVE IT STUCK IN MY HEAD (we are siamese if you please, we are siamese if you don't please <3)
i imagine both of them will be causing mishcief.
besides the cats, which you named daku (dark) and kage (shadow), you also have a pet fish, which is always swimming around in its secluded fish bowl. yall know that cats like fish, so i suggest you better put the fish bowl somewhere where the cats have no access to. several times, they came close to eating the poor fish, but you (thankfully), were able to save it before the cats could get the scaly thing down their throats.
pantalone is more of a subtle kind of trouble. he'll always find ways to tease you throughout the day and will find some way to cause just a little bit more trouble into your day for his own amusement. you find it endearing sometimes, but you don't mind it most of the time.
pantalone will buy the finest things for the cats to claw and tear at, and will provide the best quality cat food and fish for them to gorge themselves out on. he even bought a whole bunch of cat toys for you to use to amuse the cat, but you (both) know the cats will find some other way to amuse themselves, most likely involving trouble with a capital T.
the cats come and go as they please. sometimes, you'll hear a constant meowing at your window at one in the morning. stumbling out of bed, groggy and still barely waking up, you open it to see the two of them seated on the ground and staring up at you with innocent eyes. sighing, you'd reach down and bring them inside, plopping them onto their feet and watching as they slink off to do archons' knows what.
yall need to provide a lot of milk- since yall have two cats, they drink twice as much milk. you always make sure to use a bowl and not a saucer for the milk, because you know the two of them will come mewing at your feet, begging for more.
pantalone always finds it amusing when you can never find where the two are hiding. he can clearly see where they are, but doesn't speak up because that's just how he is that bastar-. he'll eventually give you a small hint as to where they might be hiding and you rush off to the area, eager to end the chase and to sniff down the trail he'd thrown out for you.
of course, whenever he calls their names, the two always appear out of nowhere and leap into his arms, purring lowly and snuggling their faces into his chest.
yall need to be prepared for whatever shit these cats got going on, because you never know what might happen when you turn away for a second...
let's just say you dont get anymore cats.
a / n !! : holy shit, this took so much longer than i planned (mostly cause i was out doing errands today) BUT HERE IT IS. jesus christ....so sorry for the wait @stygianoir but i hope i did as you requested?? sorry if they're ooc...but to anyone else who's reading, i hope you enjoyed!
reblogs, likes & comments are vv much appreciated!! ╰(´︶`)╯
imagine a sagau au where the reader isn't recognized by the acolytes
but they aren't being hunted down by them either
and in this au looking like the creator isn't a sin it just warrants a "damn must be truly blessed by the creator to be blessed with their face"
and the reader just kinda wants to see how long it takes for everyone to realize
also venti is the first to know and the reader literally begs him not to tell anyone
and they both just kinda
vibe as gods in disguise
Say My Name
In where you begin your journey in a fairly dull way, but that doesn't make it any less exciting.
Part two
Characters: Barbara, Noelle, Venti
Notes: Once again, I have made Venti a prominent character in a fic. I have grown far too attatched to him :( AND I WANTED TO MAKE THIS MORE ABOUT NOELLE BUT I DIDN'T HAVE ENOUGH ROOM BECAUSE VENTI'S FAT ASS TOOK UP ALL OF IT. And I didn't want to shove something in at the end, I thought it was a good stopping point so I didn't stretch the fic on longer than it needed to go. Anyways this was fun to write either way :)
warnings: fluff, cult behaviors, comical
Considering how extravagant and lively Teyvat is, your arrival was fairly dull.
You were freaking out of course, your heart beating out of your chest and breathing erratic. What were you supposed to do when you wake up in your favorite game? What was the right course of action?
Frankly, you thought you were dead or about to die. Teyvat is crawling with high level monsters. Maybe this was all a big fever dream?
You sighed, clutching your head, so many thoughts whirling around and yet none of them stayed long enough for you to get a good grasp of the situation or the best course of action.
But one thought remained consistent as your eyes drifted over to the path laid out before you. Mondstadt.
The moment you lay your eyes on the bridge leading to the Mondstadt gates you can't help yourself, running past Timmie's birds, shouting out a quick sorry to him, and sprinting as fast as you could to the gates. You slowed as you neared them and Lawrence - the gate guard - stopped you in your tracks.
"Greetings strange but respectable traveler!" He saluted, his eyes wide staring at you and you assumed it's because of the odd way you dressed, "May I ask what business you have in Mondstadt?"
"Oh! Just visiting." You grinned, feeling a tad bit dizzy at hearing his voice right in front of you and not just through your headphones. Not to mention the fact that his hair looked so real and nice.
He hummed and nodded, "Alright then, just don't cause any trouble." He waved you off.
That was easy... you mused. Though you didn't dwell on it and marveled at the wonderous city adorned with the high-noon sun and pretty flowers.
You could hear the humming of bards and birds, the sound of Flora selling her flowers, and of course Donna simping over Diluc.
It was all so familiar, from the people to the music and the tiles on the floor, it all felt like the beginning of your journey. Almost like home, you couldn't help but hum along to the merry music.
You passed by Katheryne and she waved at you knowingly but didn't say anything. You decided not to question her about it - Katheryne knew a lot of things anyways so you decided this was pretty in-character for her - and you waved back with a grin.
You wandered meaninglessly through the calming streets, still humming the tune. You came upon the fountain in the plaza and paused. Usually, you'd climb up the wall to get past but now you had to actually walk.
You chuckled, you weren't sure why but this was such a nice feeling and you sprinted to the left until you came upon a set of stairs. You climbed up them and made your way to Venti's large statue.
When you made it, you craned your neck up to take it all in, an awed smile on your face.
"Ah, are you a newcomer?" A nearby nun asked you, snapping you out of your dazed state.
"Oh! Uh- yeah I am!" You grinned sheepishly.
The nun hummed, smiling warmly, "You must be truly blessed to look so similar to our creator. You can go into the cathedral if you want to see our offerings to them." She nodded towards said building, "Hope you enjoy your stay in Mondstadt!" She waved, now even allowing you to get a word out before moving along.
You stared after her for a minute before whispering to yourself, "What the fuck-"
You turned back around and stared cautiously at the cathedral. What did she mean by creator? Stuff like this has never been mentioned in the lore before...
You'd been in the cathedral maybe a hundred times and had never seen anything that could be attributed to some... creator or whatever she meant by that.
So, naturally, you had to go and investigate.
The moment you entered those cathedral doors (with no loading screen separating the two anymore), your eyes immediately caught onto the shrine built on top of the rotating door. Two pairs of stairs leading up to it.
You gaped at the shrine, grand and well-kept, but what caught even more of your attention was the sheer amount of offerings left out at the base below the shrine. There was so much food and random shiny objects, some of which looked more than what you were worth.
Your jaw hang open at the sight, and you noticed you started to get some odd stares. You fixed your face and donned a more neutral expression, looking on at the shrine curiously.
"Ah, first time in Mondstadt's cathedral?" said a soft and familiar voice.
You whipped your head around to face Barbara, her sparkling eyes fixed onto you.
You composed yourself - both at the scene in front of you and the fact you just met Barbara face-to-face - "Yeah, it is."
"You look so much like our beloved creator!" She exclaimed, "It must be such an honor to be blessed with their lovely face!"
"U-uhm..." You stuttered, sending her an awkward smile, "I suppose so."
Her eyes shifted and you felt a jolt of unease in your chest, sinking into your heart, "Sorry, I'm just not used to Mondstadt's customs. We practice things quite differently where I'm from."
"Oh! Sorry then," Barbara frowned, "I didn't mean any disrespect, I just wanted to make sure you weren't disrespecting our creator in any ways. I suppose in the end it didn't do any good."
You hummed non-committedly and gazed back upon the shrine. There was a statue of the supposed creator upon there and unconsciously you took steps towards it. As you gazed up at it, it was as though you were looking into a mirror.
The statue was an exact replica of you, in every way shape and form it was you.
"It truly is remarkable how alike you two are," Barbara smiled up at the statue, pure devotion in her eyes, "It was an honor to look upon you and see an image that so wonderously reflects our creator's." She smiled at you.
You nodded and she left with a wave. A few moments later you left the church.
*~
The problems in this perfect world arose when your stomach started to growl and you realized...
You had no mora.
"Goddamnit I'm having a Zhongli moment," You cursed the gods (specifically Venti and Zhongli) for not giving you mora when you arrived to Teyvat.
Although you didn't have to worry about that for long, oddly enough. When you were eyeing Good Hunters, a kind little lady approached you.
"E-excuse me," Her cute voice cracked and your eyes met with Noelle's, "Are you hungry? I could um-" Her eyes diverted away from yours but always seemed to come back to stare into your eyes, "I could make you something if you so wish."
You gasped, your face lighting up in a smile that reddened Noelle's cheeks, "Really? Oh! I'd love to try some of your Tea Break Pancakes- oh! Ah, nevermind. You don't have to." You waved her offer off, "I don't even have any mora on me."
"That's fine." She grinned, "Consider it... a gift to our creator. A celebration of how much you look like them."
"Ah," You couldn't help the surprised smile that tugged up at the corners of your lips, "That's- I mean I appreciate it but I'm sure there's much better uses you could use with your time-"
"Nonsense! I insist," Her resolve was as sturdy as the sword you'd given her, "A little treat of mine."
"I-" Your stomach interrupted any argument you were going to make, "Fine..." You sighed, "But I owe you okay? If you ever need anything just ask me."
She agreed and made you the meal, which you excitedly watched her make. It was so surreal watching Noelle make the pancakes instead of just pressing a couple buttons.
Even still she made those pancakes in record time, you were impressed.
"Thank you so much Noelle! Really, you're carrying Mondstadt on your shoulders." You giggled.
Her face flushed a bright red and she waved her hands dismissively, "Oh no no no, I don't do that much. I'm... not even a knight yet." She frowned.
"Well," You said in-between bites, "You do as much if not more than the knights do. Don't put yourself down just 'cause you're not official yet."
Your smile, a replica of the ones on the statue but brighter and more personal caused Noelle to feel nearly dizzy.
"You're far too kind... Oh! Dear, where are my manners?" She huffed, "What's your name?"
"Oh! It's (Name)." You held out your hand but she didn't take it immediately.
She tilted her head, her eyes narrowed in confusion, "Isn't that... the creator's name? Did your parents name you that?"
Your mind blanked. Why the hell does this creator person have my face and my name?
You chuckled, "They did."
Noelle hummed and nodded along, "It's a bit unusual but not like it's against the law or anything," She shrugged and took your hand, "It's nice to meet you (name). I'm Noelle, though it seems you already knew that..?"
You nodded, "Yeah, I've heard of you. You're the best maid in Mondstadt. Who knows, maybe the best maid in all of Teyvat." You chuckled as her face bloomed into color once more.
"Truly, you flatter me too much," She fanned her face in an attempt to get rid of the heat, "...have you really heard of me outside of Mondstadt."
Without hesitation, you nodded while biting into the pancake, "Of course!" You technically weren't lying. You'd heard of her outside of Mondstadt... and outside of Teyvat... in your world. So it was technically true.
She covered her mouth with her hand, her eyes lit up in wonder, and a soft giggle escaped her throat, "Aha, I'm so happy..."
Without thinking, you reached over and patted her head. She had stars in her eyes. "I'm glad," You said, "You deserve it."
*~
You and Noelle had talked throughout the entire day. She had often went to go and help people and you tried your best to help her as well. Finding stray cats, helping children find lost items or getting them down from high places, collecting and delivering items for people.
You did your best to nudge Noelle away from accepting every little thing that came her way, but majority of the time she'd end up helping the person. So you settled for helping lessen her load by helping her complete the tasks instead.
When night time finally rolled around Noelle finally bid you good night and you were hesitant to leave her because...
You had nowhere to stay.
The dark Mondstadt streets, only lit up by the few streetlights still lit by candles and night owls still awake inside their houses creeped you out.
Where would you stay? You couldn't stay outside for too long, it was freezing and you only had the clothes on your back.
Maybe you could sneak into Angel's Share and sleep in the rafters? That way you'd stay warm and they were open 24/7 you believed.
Maybe you should just tell someone you got transported here from another world. That's what the Traveler did and now they're a renowned hero with a teapot to live in...
Teapot... Teapot! If you could find the Teapot...
"Shit! Where did I last set it down..." You scrounged through your memory, praying it wasn't in the inventory. You had no clue how to access that or if you even could access it.
You recalled... teleporting to Windrise to grab some crystalflies and heal up... and opening up your teapot. That's where it is then. Or at least you hoped.
Even if it wasn't there, sleeping in the big Windrise tree didn't sound like a bad idea. So long as you didn't freeze to death.
With that in mind you set out to begin your walk to Windrise, sending a wave to Katheryne as you left. She wished you good luck which made your heart swell. Her eyes always seemed to know too much... but in this case it was quite comforting.
You also waved goodbye to the guards outside Mondstadt's gate, and they saluted with kind smiles.
You hummed, tiredly making your way across the bridge once more. What a lovely day in Mondstadt, you mused to yourself, humming the quiet nighttime tune.
*~
Your legs were jelly by the time you made it to Windrise, silently thanking the gods that you weren't attacked on the way there. Tiredly, you looked around the statue and the tree for any sign of your teapot and...
nothing. Absolutely nothing.
With a groan, you sat down at the base of the statue, burying your head in your hands, too tired to hold your head up on your own.
You just needed to shut your eyes for a moment...
*~
You blinked your eyes open as the sun glared at you. Squinting up, you noticed you were now laying at the base of the statue.
You paused as a melody filled your ears, close by and unfamiliar. You turned your head to see a bard - your bard - playing the lyre and humming a tune.
"Ah, you're finally awake." He grinned, "What were you doing sleeping outside by the statue?"
You groggily sat up, "Venti?" You groaned, "I was just... traveling and ended up falling asleep."
He hummed, "You know my name?"
Goddamnit-
You nodded, "Yes, you're quite the famous bard aren't you?" The excuse flew naturally off your tongue, it wasn't necessarily a lie either.
Venti giggled, his fingers idly plucking a tune, "Quite the charmer aren't you? Though, can't say you're entirely incorrect. I am the best bard in the world! Most famous though? I can't really say." He leaned in, his face nearly touching yours, "So, how do you know me hm? You just arrived to Mondstadt yesterday after all and I don't believe you ever caught my name or even saw me."
"...You were watching me?" You questioned, your eyes narrowed.
Venti faked an offended gasp, "You make me sound like a criminal! I was merely observing my surroundings. I saw you, an odd looking traveler, and had to observe you for a bit of time. Can't blame me for being a little curious." His grin was sly and it made you roll your eyes.
"Still a bit creepy if you ask me, especially for an apparently not-so-famous bard." You challenged him, your eyes sharp as they dug into him.
He shrugged, "I gotta watch over Mondstadt. I love the city with my life, you know. Now answer the question, how do you know me?" His eyes were so playful for such a scathing question.
You hummed, surprisingly calm given how wrong this could go, "How do you think I know you, bard?"
He giggled, "Asking me the questions now are you?" His fingers switched up and started playing a much more familiar tune. One he shouldn't know, "Perhaps you've been watching me for a long time now. And whenever I saw your eyes I just knew they were the same ones that had been watching me for countless months. Hm?"
Your eyes shot open, "How do you know that song?"
"I know every song," His teal eyes sparkled with mischief and glee, "Past present and future."
Your jaw slackened, but you couldn't help the grin that tugged at your lips.
"I suppose I wasn't aware of just how far your knowledge reached, O' Anemo Archon." You snickered, and jokingly bowed.
Venti giggled, his fingers stopping his playing so he could mockingly bow back, "And I suppose I wasn't aware of how stubborn you are, O' Great Creator."
"What?" Your playful nature halted in its tracks as you stared at Venti, dumbfounded.
He blinked, confused, "Huh?"
You shook your disbelief away with a shake of your head and a laugh, "Did you just call me Teyvat's God?" You chuckled, "Then should I call you your friend's name?"
A flash of hurt took over his eyes, he whined, "Huh? What do they have to do with this, your grace?"
"What?" Dread crawled into the back of your throat, "Cut it out Venti, don't joke like that."
"But I'm not joking, your grace. Did you- did you not know?" His eyes were wide and glassy, "I'm sorry..."
You blinked owlishly, "Wha- you're serious? I thought- I thought I just looked like them!"
"I thought that was your intention!" Venti cried, "I thought this was like- a test of loyalty or something!"
"No! What? Am I actually-" You couldn't force the words out as you stared Venti in the eyes, stunned.
"Y-yes!" He shouted, "You're the creator! I can sense it! So can the slimes and animals. Don't you see?" He pointed to the nearby birds, their gaze turned towards you, "They like you! The monsters don't attack you and this statue calls out to you! Don't you feel its warmth? It's probably why you didn't freeze last night."
You were silent as the information processed, "So- so wait!" You turned your body fully facing Venti, "That shrine in the cathedral... was for me?" You asked, bewildered.
He nodded, "Yeah! Did- did you really not know?"
Immediately you were wildly shaking your head, "No! I just- I dunno! I thought I was like the traveler or something that just got dropped off here one day."
"The traveler came here of their own free will, (Name)!" Venti sighed, "I just- You look exactly like them too!"
"Listen! Denial is a powerful think, okay!" You huffed.
"Fine, I get it." He rested his head on his hands, his eyes meeting yours, "So... are you gonna tell the others?"
"... Dunno." You shrugged, "What would happen if I did?"
"Well..." Venti tapped his finger against his face and used his other hand to hold up his pointer finger, "Zhongli would go batshit. He's got a whole log up his ass when it comes to you and how to 'properly worship you' bleh." Venti stuck his tongue out, "Then there's Baal, she'll probably also go insane over you. She's like a lost puppy." He held up a third finger, "Then there's Jean and the knights. I think they'd be... alright. If you told them they'd try and throw huge festivals for you and worship you. Oh, and the church would triple their worshipping for you, obviously."
You roughly sighed, "So... I won't be treated as a human is what you're saying."
"I mean- well- yeah." He frowned, "Don't worry, I get it if you don't wanna do a whole grand reveal. It's stressful. Too much work, y'know?"
You hummed in agreement, "The thing is..." You frowned, "We don't have any mora."
Venti scoffed, straightening his back with a proud grin, "Speak for yourself! I have a mora."
You snorted, "A mora."
"Hey, better than what you're doing," He took off his hat, "It's right in here-"
You both stared at the hat that was almost as empty as your souls.
"Okay well," Venti put his hat back on, "Nothing a little begging can't do. Not like I haven't played music for money before."
You stared at the ground hopelessly, "...so... how do you think Ningguang would react to me telling her I'm the creator?"
Venti snorted, "I like the way you think but... she'd be grand. I think she'd make you live in the Jade Chamber and give you every little thing you could ever want. She can keep a secret though I'll bet."
You hummed and stared at Venti, living a life as free as a bird. Even with the status of the Anemo Archon, he was as free as his people, and just as happy as them as well.
"Not really the life I wanna live... what about Childe?"
Venti shuddered, "I love you (Name), but no. He makes... quite a spectacle of things. And, well," Venti frowned, "He'd probably leave a few corpses at your doorstep."
"Ah," You grimaced, "Okay so... we're fucked."
"Ah ah ah," Venti waggled his finger comically, "Don't you remember what I said? I can sing for money, and I'm sure with you, the creator's look-alike right by my side helping me with my performance, we'd make double the money! I mean," His eyes were alight with mischievous glee, an expression on him you were coming to dread, "That Noelle girl yesterday had no problem giving you a free meal just cause you look like the creator! So I'm sure we'll pull in lots of cash!"
You frowned and then a lightbulb went off in your head, "Wait a minute," Venti raised a brow, intrigued, "If I'm the supposed creator or god of this world... then those offerings at the altars and shrines are meant for me... right?"
Venti nodded with a tilt of his head, "Yes? ...Oh... Oh!" His eyes lit up like Christmas lights, "You mean-?"
You grinned, "So that means that if I were to... let's say... take the items and sell them, it wouldn't be wrong right?"
Venti tilted his head back and laughed, "No, I suppose it wouldn't be, your grace."
Your grin was damn near evil, "Then I suppose we have our plan then."
Venti nodded, "I suppose we do!" He hopped up and grabbed your hand to help you up as well, "Though I think my singing idea was pretty good." He kicked his legs up like a child as you both made your way back to Mondstadt, "Who knows, I might even become the most famous bard in all of Teyvat with you by my side!"
You hummed, smiling fondly at the silly bard at your side, "Perhaps."
Archons reaction to reader saying "bless you" unconsciously when they sneeze (assuming that's not already a thing there)
-
Venti:
• Is confused, but turns it into something flirty pretty quickly
• "No need for that, I'm always blessed in your presence, your grace~"
• He's not gonna ask the first time but, when his allergies start acting up cause you just had to stop and pet a stray cat, and he notices that you say it pretty much every time he sneezes—
• "Sooo, what exactly have I done to receive so many of the divine creators blessings?" There's a slightly nervous edge to his voice
• After you explain that you just do it on instinct because it was very common place where you're from, his nervousness turns to intrigue, then disappointment
• So, you weren't giving him your blessing?
• Tries not to let his disappointment be super evident, still is though
• Might actually start doing it back, but he's gonna be extra with it
• "May the all creator bless you, oh wait—"
• Can't help but giggle at himself whenever he does so and you give him the most deadpan expression
• If he does slip up and just say 'bless you', you get the opportunity to tease him back
• "Oh? A blessing from the powerful Anemo Archon Barbatos? How lucky I must be to receive such an honor."
• The first time you do it he'll immediately backtrack
• Granting a blessing to another person is kind of a way to display that you hold power over them, in a convoluted way—
• Practically trips over himself to clarify that no, he absolutely wasn't even implying that he has the right to bless you
• After he's a bit more comfortable (and nobody else is in the room) Venti will play up the sarcasm
• "Oh you're most welcome, very few blessings from the great Barbatos are even given out you know~"
• Very careful when using that sarcasm, he knows that if Zhongli heard him, he'd be given a glare sharp enough to cut through mountains, and might even be thrown into one himself-
• If he's feeling particularly starved of your praise, Venti might just seek out the nearest cat
• You won't ignore him then, right?
• "Venti, are you purposely triggering your allergies so I'll say 'Bless you'?"
• "..."
• "noooo—"
• Will deny it to his grave, but it's kind of obvious from the way he won't meet your eyes, as his own water from all the cat hair
-
Zhongli:
• "... Pardon?"
• You're... Giving him your blessing? What did he do to deserve that??
• "Oh sorry," You correct yourself, "Force of habit, that's what you say when somebody sneezes where I'm from."
• "???"
• Secretly chastising himself for not knowing that and looking like an idiot in front of you
• Starts asking you questions about how that came about, is your world full of Gods that have the ability to bestow blessings on each other?
• You could tell him it's related to the black plague, but then you'd have to explain that, to his great horror—
• And then you'd have to get into Christianity, and the idea of Monotheistic religions, and goddammit Zhongli, why do you have to ask so many questions
• A simple sneezes turns into a three hour convention on religious history, figures
• Can't stop the little flutters his heart does everytime you 'bless him', even when he knows the underlying reason
• Unintentionally picks it up as a habit and starts saying it too those around him (though not to you, because you're the one who's implied to be doing the blessing)
• Que the exact same 'The Geo Archon is blessing me?' confusion
• You may just have started a trend, though it's not as if it's the first time
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Ei:
• Ei will immediately reply back with a very tentative "Thank you your grace...(?)"
• The type to either never question you and this is just the way things are now, or break down after the hundredth time and finally tell you she doesn't know what on earth she did to earn your blessing
• After you explained it to her, she's not going to question it much, humans have strange little traditions everywhere it seems
• Since it's a tradition of your world, would you like if it was also done here? She could arrange that for you
• You're gonna have to assure her that it's perfectly fine, you don't particularly care one way or another, it's just force of habit
• She can't decide whether she likes or dislike the fact that you do it
• Sure, it's nice to hear that the most important person in all of the land and skies considers her worthy enough for a blessing
• But you also do it to other people too
• She can tell herself there's no underlying meaning a million times over, but it won't change how she feels small bursts of jealousy when yet another person stumbles over themselves to thank you for such an honor
This is cuteeeee!!! Also, I didn't know Venti had cat allergies?? Is this canon or am I stupid? Plus Zhongli asking a million questions, ARCHONS bless y/n for having so much patience to lecture the grandpa for 3 WHOLE HOURS JSHAVDJSWVCEHENSBW
