Hey there! Welcome to my multifandom g/t blog, where I write sfw character x reader fics with size-difference (g/t) elements.
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These are the tags I’ll be using so you can navigate my profile easily:
#doe writes - all of my fanfics will be tagged with this.
#doe yaps - anything under this tag will be g/t related but not a story/fanfic.
#doe answers - used for responses to asks.
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Additional Information
A little bit about me: my name is Doe, I’m nonbinary, and I use they/them pronouns.
I heavily encourage feedback and comments on my work! I get so giddy when someone takes the time to respond to my writing. While you’re under no obligation, I’d absolutely love to hear your thoughts.
Mello anon here and I ABSOLUTELY LOVED IT (≧▽≦)! The wait was totally worth it. I feel like requesting more is too much so don't feel pressured to do it! (◞ ‸ ◟ㆀ)
Could you do gn!borrower reader with Matt from Death Note? Reader isn't familiar with video games and technology in general so when they see Matt playing all day they want to play too. Thanks! (I think it's obvious who are my comfort characters)
AAA hello Mello anon!! :D I’m so happy you liked it. Also, I’m SOSOSO sorry it took me as long as it did to write it—I was lacking the motivation 💔 BUT I’m more locked in now, so hopefully that won’t happen again. Also, no worries about requesting!! You are more than welcome to do so. Getting requests makes me excited because it feels like I’m not writing purely for myself, ykwim?
I will ABSOLUTELY do your request! It’s SUPERRR cute :). I genuinely love this idea—it’s so unique, and I already have some thoughts brewing about how I can lay it out. ♪~
Synopsis : After a mission leaves you injured, Mello finds you trying to ignore the pain atop a cluttered desk. Sharp words and precise hands follow as he carefully tends to your wound, insisting you stay still and safe. What starts as irritation slowly shifts into quiet care, steadying touches and deliberate movements. Perched on his shoulder, removed from the chaos below, you notice the closeness in the way he moves around you, in the careful attention and unspoken focus that keeps you from further injuring yourself.
CWs / Notes : Giant/tiny dynamics (size-difference, gentle handling). No explicit content (entirely SFW, focused on emotional intimacy). Physical injury (the reader character gets hurt and there’s attention to wounds and bandaging). Mello is his normal-sized self, while the reader is small (around 5 inches tall). The reader’s physical characteristics, gender, and name are ambiguous.
WC : 2.2k, hope you enjoy reading! ♥︎
The desk was an utter disaster.
Papers lay scattered in uneven piles, some slipping off the edge entirely. Maps were pinned haphazardly to the wall, corners curling where the tape had lost its grip. A few had fallen halfway, hanging crooked like they’d just given up. Chocolate wrappers—silver and gold—were crumpled together near the side, pushed out of the way but never cleaned up. The air smelled faintly sweet, mixed with ink and dust.
And right in the middle of it all, you. Perched awkwardly on the edge of the desk, trying very hard not to shift too much. Trying very hard to ignore your arm. It wasn’t working.
The pain had settled in now. Not the distant, muted kind you could push aside during a mission—but something sharper. Deeper. It pulsed steadily, each heartbeat sending a fresh wave of heat through the injury. Your fingers tightened around your sleeve without thinking, like holding it would somehow keep it from getting worse.
You hadn’t noticed it much before. There hadn’t been time. Now there was nothing but time. Your breathing came out a little uneven, quieter than usual, like you were trying not to draw attention to it—even though there was no one around to notice. At least, not yet.
Heavy footsteps broke through the silence. Measured. Familiar. Getting closer. You didn’t have to look to know who it was—but you did anyway.
“…What the hell happened to you?”
Mello’s voice cut through the room before he even fully stopped walking. When you looked up, he was already staring—eyes locked onto your arm. The moment he registered the blood, something in his expression shifted. Not dramatically. Not enough for anyone else to catch. But you saw it.
“It’s not that bad—”
“Don’t lie to me.”
Immediate. Flat. Final. Before you could argue, he was already moving. He dropped into a crouch beside the desk, the surface dipping slightly under his weight. One hand braced near you, steady and grounded. The other reached toward your arm and paused. Just for a second.
His fingers hovered close to the injury, barely moving, like he was calculating something. Angle. Pressure. Damage. How not to make it worse. Then his jaw tightened slightly.
“Hold still.”
His voice was still sharp. But quieter than before. More controlled. You tried to brush it off, even as your shoulders tensed. “I am—ow—”
“Then do a better job of it.”
The words came out irritated, but his touch didn’t match. He was careful. Careful in a way that didn’t fit his tone at all.
He adjusted your arm just enough to see the wound properly, his grip firm enough to keep it steady but not enough to hurt. His brows pulled together as he focused, attention narrowing until everything else seemed to fall away.
Up close, you could see the details—the tension in his jaw, the way his eyes tracked every small movement, the precision in how he handled even the smallest shift.
Like this mattered more than he was willing to admit. The antiseptic hit. It burned immediately, impossible to ignore.
You hissed under your breath, your whole body reacting before you could stop it. “Seriously, that burns—”
“Obviously.”
Dry. Almost dismissive. But he slowed down. Just slightly. His movements softened—not obvious enough to call out, but enough that you felt the difference. He worked more carefully after that, more deliberate in how he cleaned the wound.
The bandage came next. Wrapped snug, but not tight. Secured without pulling too much. His fingers lingered just a fraction longer than necessary as he smoothed it into place, checking it like he didn’t fully trust it to hold on its own.
“…You were sloppy,” he said after a moment. Quieter now. Less bite. More weight.
You frowned, instinctively defensive. “Hey, I did what you asked—”
“You got hurt.”
The interruption was immediate. And it landed harder than you expected. You didn’t have a comeback ready for that. For a moment, the room went still again. His grip tightened slightly as he finished securing the bandage, fingers pressing just enough to make sure it held. They didn’t pull away right away.
“…You’re a valuable asset,” he added, like the admission irritated him. “Don’t act like you’re expendable.”
You blinked, caught off guard by that phrasing. Then you let out a small huff. “Didn’t realize you cared that much.”
He scoffed instantly. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.” Too quick. And he still wasn’t looking at you. You opened your mouth, ready to push a little more—when his expression shifted again. Subtly. His eyes flicked back to your arm. Then to your posture. The way you were holding yourself just a little too stiff, like you were forcing it.
His jaw tightened.
“…You’re done.”
You blinked. “What?”
“For now,” he clarified, standing up in one smooth motion. “You’re not going on any more missions until that’s healed.”
You straightened slightly, frowning. “That’s overkill. I can still—”
“No.”
The word cut you off instantly. Not raised. Not loud. Just completely non-negotiable.
You stared at him. “Mello—”
“I’m not sending you out like that.”
No sarcasm. Just blunt certainty.
“You’ll slow things down. You’ll make mistakes. And next time it won’t be something you can sit here and pretend isn’t a problem.”
That stung more than the antiseptic had. You crossed your arms—then immediately regretted it and loosened them again. “I’m not useless.”
“I didn’t say you were.”
He glanced at you then—brief.
“You’re injured.”
A beat.
“And I’m not dealing with the fallout of that twice.”
There was something layered under that. Something he didn’t explain. But he didn’t give you time to press it. Before you could argue again, the world shifted.
“Hey—”
You barely had time to react before you were lifted off the desk, his grip firm and steady as he moved you like it was nothing.
“Relax.”
And then you were on his shoulder. Higher. Steadier. Completely repositioned before you could process it. You blinked, instinctively adjusting your balance, your hand catching against his jacket. The fabric was warm under your fingers, solid and smooth.
“…What?” you said, glancing down at him. “Why’d you put me up here?”
Mello rolled his eyes, already turning as he started walking. “It’s a safe spot.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
You narrowed your eyes slightly. “Your shoulder is a ‘safe spot’?”
“Less chance of you nearly getting stepped on,” he shot back. “Or falling. Or screwing something up again.”
There it was. That sharp edge again. But it didn’t land the same. Not when his hand came up a second later, resting lightly against your side to steady you as he moved. Not when he adjusted his jacket so you wouldn’t slip. Not when he didn’t even consider putting you back down.
You exhaled softly, some of the tension leaving you as you settled against him despite yourself. From up here, everything felt… different. Quieter. Safer. Even if you’d never say that out loud.
“You could’ve just said you were worried,” you muttered.
“Don’t push it.”
Automatic. But softer than before. And he didn’t move you. Didn’t argue further. Didn’t deny it again. For Mello that was about as clear as it got.
For a while, neither of you said anything. The quiet didn’t feel empty—it stretched out slowly, settling around you instead of pressing in. The only sounds were the steady, muted rhythm of his footsteps and the soft, occasional rustle of his coat shifting with each step. Somewhere farther off, something creaked faintly, but it didn’t reach you fully. Not up here.
From his shoulder, everything felt… removed. Higher. Safer. You could feel him beneath you in a way you hadn’t before—not just the obvious warmth of his body through the fabric of his jacket, but the steadiness of him. The controlled way he moved. The balance in every step, like nothing he did was careless, even when he acted like it was. Alive, in a way that made it easier to let your guard down without really meaning to.
Your breathing slowed to match the rhythm of his movement. The tension in your shoulders eased, just a little at a time. And then a loose strand of his hair had fallen slightly out of place near you, pale against the darker fabric of his jacket. It caught your attention without trying to. Soft-looking. Out of place in a way that felt… strangely approachable.
You hesitated. Just for a second. Then reached out. Carefully, like you were testing something you weren’t entirely sure you were allowed to touch, you took the strand between your fingers. And started twirling it. At first, it was absentminded. Something small to focus on. A quiet distraction. The strand slipped easily between your fingers, softer than you expected, light enough that it barely resisted as you wound it loosely, then let it fall free again. You repeated the motion without thinking, slow and steady, matching the pace of his steps.
For a moment nothing changed. And then Mello stilled. Not fully. He didn’t stop walking. Didn’t jerk away. But there was a shift. Subtle, but unmistakable. His next step came just a fraction slower. His shoulders tightened, barely noticeable unless you were this close. The rhythm you’d settled into faltered for half a beat before smoothing out again.
“…What are you doing?”
His voice cut through the quiet, low and edged—but not sharp enough to actually stop you. You didn’t.
“Nothing.”
“That’s not ‘nothing.’”
You huffed softly, still twirling the strand between your fingers, watching it catch and unwind. “It’s just your hair. Relax.”
He didn’t answer right away. And that hesitation said more than anything he could’ve said out loud. Because if he really wanted you to stop, he would’ve made you. Instead, he kept walking. If anything, his pace slowed just slightly, like he was adjusting without acknowledging that he was doing it.
You tilted your head, glancing down at him. Up close like this, it was easier to catch the details he usually kept buried. The way his jaw was set—not tense with anger, but held a little too tight. The faint shift in his breathing. The way his focus stayed forward, like looking at you would make it worse somehow.
Not irritated. Not exactly. Just… aware. Hyper-aware. It made something small and amused curl in your chest. You shifted your grip slightly, letting the strand slip free before catching it again, twirling it a little more deliberately this time. “Didn’t think you’d be this sensitive.”
“I’m not.”
“You literally froze.”
“I didn’t freeze.”
“You totally did.”
His tongue clicked against the roof of his mouth, sharp and automatic. “You’re imagining things.”
“Mmhm.”
The quiet returned but it wasn’t the same kind as before. This one felt closer. Because he still hadn’t stopped you. Hadn’t brushed your hand away. Hadn’t snapped at you to cut it out. Hadn’t moved you. Instead his hand lifted. Slowly. Deliberately.
You felt it before you really saw it, the shift in his posture as his arm came up. It hovered near you for just a second, like he was deciding something—then settled lightly against your side. Not gripping. Not restraining. Just there. Steady and present. A quiet kind of contact that didn’t demand anything but still said enough. Making sure you didn’t fall. Or maybe just… keeping you there. You softened at that without meaning to. Your fingers slowed, the motion gentler now as you continued to play with the strand of his hair, less fidgeting and more… lingering.
“You know,” you murmured, voice quieter to match the moment, “for someone who ‘doesn’t care,’ you’re being pretty accommodating.”
“Don’t start.”
There wasn’t much bite in it.
“Just saying.”
He exhaled through his nose, the sound faint but telling, his gaze still fixed ahead like he could avoid the conversation by not engaging with it directly.
“…You’re injured,” he said after a second. “Don’t read into it.”
“Right.”
The word came out light. Unconvinced. You let it hang there, not pushing further—but not agreeing, either. His fingers shifted slightly against your side. A small movement. Easy to miss. But you felt it. A faint, absent back-and-forth motion of his thumb, like he wasn’t fully aware he was doing it. Not enough to be distracting. Just enough to be… there. Protective. You leaned into it without thinking. Just a little. Your weight settling more comfortably against him as your hand stilled for a moment, the strand of hair slipping loose from your fingers before you caught it again. The quiet stretched once more. But now it felt warmer. Softer.
“…Get some rest,” he muttered after a while, voice lower than before. “You’re going to need it.”
There was something firm under the words. Not a suggestion. Not really optional. You hummed softly in response, the sound barely louder than his footsteps. Your hand slowed completely this time, giving the strand one last, absentminded twirl before letting it fall back into place.
“Yeah… yeah, okay.”
But you didn’t pull away, didn’t shift back, didn’t stop leaning against him. And he didn’t move you. Didn’t comment, didn’t pull his hand away, either. If anything his grip adjusted just slightly. More secure. Like he’d already decided you were staying right where you were.
i feel like when levi is sometimes set as the cold captain thats ruthless and shit, you would think that automatically applies to tinies too, if not more so. but on the contrary you write him so well in that he’d be more cautious if anything, wanting to protect them from the horrors he’s been through while still being firm but adorably protective. like he probably tries to hold up that tough scary leader image infront of tinies but they all know he’s full of crap and would drop anything if they needed help
Yeah, that’s exactly how I see him. Like, on paper you’d expect him to be as cold with tinies as he is with normal-sized folks, but I feel like it’d be the complete opposite. If anything, he’d be more careful because he knows how brutal the world is and wouldn’t want them anywhere near that. He’d still keep up the whole “don’t get in my way” attitude, but it’s kind of see-through. Like he’s trying to act intimidating for their sake, but the second something actually goes wrong, he’s immediately there—no hesitation. Hovering, making sure they’re safe, probably acting bothered or annoyed about it the whole time (not like a tsundere, but I hope you get what I mean XD). And yeah, tinies would 100% catch on. Like, they’d know he’s all talk and that he’s actually super protective, just in a quiet way. He’s not overly soft about it, but the fact that he shows up every time for them says more than anything about how he behaves.
Ahh Tender Armor is so sweet! Levi would be so so gentle with tiny reader and he'd feel so bad abt injuring them, love love
Ahh, thank you so much!! 💖 I totally agree—he would be so careful with them. I feel like he would be almost overly cautious, and he’d lowkey mentally beat himself up for injuring the reader. I think that kind of guilt would stick with him for a while, even if it wasn’t a serious injury. I’m really glad that came through in the writing—that genuinely makes me so happy to hear :). Overall, I just think Levi would be really soft with tinies.
Hi! I loved your Death Note fics and I wanted to request a Mello one (timeskip Mello)! Preferably male reader but can be gender neutral too, and fluff/comfort. Mello is his normal size and reader is a tiny. I would like if reader was Mello's helper (like Matt but could be like a mini spy) but anything you come up with is good! Thanks!
Hello! I’m so glad you loved my Death Note fics, that makes me so happy :D. I’ll definitely write this for you. No promises it’ll be perfect, but I’ll try my best to incorporate the helper/spy idea! ♪~ 💖
Synopsis : In a quiet moment, Levi Ackerman refuses your request to join him on a mission, but the argument takes a sharp turn when his instinctive strength accidentally hurts you. Shaken, Levi drops his usual composure, apologizing and handling you with newfound care as his fear of losing you surfaces. As he holds you close, he admits his refusal isn’t about your weakness, but his knowledge of the horrors beyond the walls and the losses he’s endured—revealing that his protectiveness comes from deep-seated trauma and a quiet attachment.
CWs / Notes : Giant/tiny dynamics (size-difference). Physical pressure/harm (accidental physical force causes pain and fear). Trauma/psychological distress for Levi (themes of fear, past loss, and anxiety). Hurt/comfort angst. No explicit content (entirely SFW). Levi is his normal-sized self, while the reader is small (around 5 inches tall). The reader’s physical characteristics, gender, and name are ambiguous.
WC : 2.3k, hope you enjoy reading! ♥︎
Levi held you in his palm like something fragile, something that didn’t belong in a world as brutal as his. His hand was warm, steady, the faint rise and fall of his breathing shifting you ever so slightly where you sat. The lines of his skin formed uneven ridges beneath you, like a landscape scaled down to something you could fit inside.
You sat cross-legged near the center of his palm, careful not to drift too close to the edges, your hands resting in your lap as you looked up at him. From your position, he felt impossibly large. Towering. The sharp angles of his face softened slightly in the quiet, though his expression still carried that same distant edge he always wore. You’d gotten used to it. Mostly.
“I want to come with you on your next mission,” you said quietly, your voice small but steady despite the way your fingers curled slightly into your clothes.
He didn’t even hesitate.
“No.”
The word was immediate. Flat. It didn’t rise or fall, didn’t carry anger or hesitation. It simply existed, heavy and immovable, like a door slamming shut before you could even step through.
You frowned, shifting slightly where you sat, your balance adjusting with the subtle movement of his hand. “Levi—”
“We’ve had this conversation before and my answer is still the same.” His voice stayed cold, controlled, each word measured like he’d already decided how this would end long before you spoke. It wasn’t loud, but it carried weight. Finality. “I’m not going to argue about it again. It’s too dangerous.” His fingers twitched faintly beside you, almost imperceptible, but enough for you to feel the tension there. “I’m not gambling your life because you want to tag along.”
Your hands clenched tighter in your lap, fabric bunching between your fingers. Frustration bubbled up, familiar and stubborn. “That’s not fair… I can handle myself—”
“I said no.”
This time it came out sharper.
Not louder, but harsher. The kind of sharpness that didn’t need volume to cut. It slipped under your words and stopped them completely, leaving a heavy silence in its wake.
And without thinking, his hand tightened around you.
It wasn’t deliberate. It wasn’t even conscious. It was the kind of reaction that lived deep in his muscles, ingrained after years of constant vigilance. Years of loss. Of fights that ended too quickly, of people slipping through his grasp no matter how hard he tried to hold on.
That tension coiled through his fingers before he could stop it.
But you weren’t a soldier.
You weren’t someone braced for impact, trained to endure it.
The pressure came all at once, sudden and overwhelming in a way your body wasn’t prepared for. A small, strained sound slipped out of you before you could catch it, thin and unsteady, your breath hitching as your body went rigid. Your hands pressed instinctively against his skin, like you could push back against something far too strong.
Levi froze.
Completely.
For a split second, his mind didn’t register what had happened. The tension was still there, locked in place, until another small, frightened sound cut through it.
Then his eyes dropped.
Down to his hand.
To you.
His breath caught sharply, like something had struck him straight through the chest.
“…shit.”
The word came out under his breath, rough and disbelieving.
His fingers opened immediately—too fast, too sudden, like he couldn’t get them away from you quickly enough. The pressure vanished just as abruptly as it had come, leaving behind the echo of it in your body.
“I—”
His voice faltered.
Actually faltered.
The word died halfway out, like he didn’t even know how to finish it.
“I’m sorry.”
It came out quieter than anything he’d said before. Unsteady in a way that didn’t fit him.
You curled in on yourself without meaning to, your body reacting before your thoughts could catch up. Your limbs pulled in tight, shoulders hunched as you tried to make yourself smaller, safer, even though there was nowhere to go. Your heart was racing, each beat sharp and uneven, your chest tight as you tried to steady your breathing.
It wasn’t just the pain. That had been brief, already fading into something dull and distant.
It was the fear.
Levi’s hand remained stationary beneath you, fingers slightly curled, trembling in a way that was almost too subtle to notice unless you were looking for it. He didn’t touch you again. Not yet. Not when he wasn’t sure he wouldn’t make it worse.
“I’m sorry,” he repeated, quieter this time, the words coming faster now, uneven, like they were slipping past whatever control he usually held so tightly. “I didn’t mean to— I wasn’t thinking.”
That wasn’t like him.
Levi always thought. Always calculated. Always stayed in control. But right now, his mind was somewhere else entirely.
Flashes of memory he couldn’t shut off. Faces he couldn’t forget. Comrades who hadn’t made it back. The weight of every loss pressing in all at once, tangled up with the image of you in his hand—too small, too fragile, too easy to break.
You’re too easy to lose, and that irrefutable fact makes him so, so, so uncomfortable. He tries to push those thoughts aside so he can focus on the situation—more specifically, on you in the present moment.
“Are you okay?”
His voice shifts when he asks it.
It’s still low, still controlled in that way you’re used to, but something underneath it has changed. There’s a faint break in the steadiness, something quieter threaded between the words—hesitation, uncertainty.
It sounds like someone who isn’t sure what answer they’re about to get. Something close to fear lingers there, barely contained.
You slowly begin to uncurl, your movements small and careful, like even shifting too quickly might set something off again. Your muscles are still tight, your body reluctant to relax, but you manage to lift your head just enough to look up at him.
From this close, he looks… different.
Not the unshakable captain everyone relies on. Not the man who cuts through titans like it’s nothing, who stands at the front without hesitation or doubt.
Just himself.
His brows are drawn tighter than usual, his gaze fixed entirely on you in a way that feels almost too intense. There’s no distance in it now, no cold detachment. Just focus. Concern. Something raw that he isn’t bothering to hide.
Worried.
“I’m fine,” you say, though your voice comes out softer than you intended, a little uneven at the edges. You swallow, trying to steady it. “It didn’t… it didn’t really hurt.”
That isn’t completely true. You can already feel the faint soreness settling in along your waist, a dull ache that will probably bloom into bruises later, dark and tender to the touch. But compared to everything else—the fear, the shock—it feels distant. Secondary.
That’s not what’s making your chest feel tight. You hesitate, your fingers curling slightly against yourself before you force the words out. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have pushed it.”
The reaction is immediate.
His expression tightens, something sharp flashing across his face before it settles into something firmer.
“No.”
The word is quieter this time, but it lands differently than before. There’s no edge meant to shut you down, no coldness meant to end the conversation. It’s steady in a way that feels… corrective.
“Don’t do that.”
His tone is restrained, but there’s a clear weight behind it, like he’s stopping something before it can take root.
He exhales sharply through his nose, the tension in his shoulders shifting as he looks away for a brief moment. His jaw tightens, like he’s sorting through something he doesn’t quite want to put into words.
When he looks back at you, his gaze steadies again.
“It’s not your fault.”
There’s frustration there—but it’s not directed at you. It sits heavier than that, turned inward, coiled tight beneath the surface.
“It’s… rough. For both of us.”
The words come out slower, like he’s choosing them carefully, unused to saying something so open. They don’t sound practiced. If anything, they sound unfamiliar on his tongue.
He pauses after, the silence stretching just a bit too long. Levi Ackerman isn’t someone who struggles with action. But this? This isn’t something he knows how to handle. For a second, he just looks at you, like he’s trying to figure out what the right next move is and coming up short. Then, carefully—far more carefully than before—he moves.
Both hands come into play this time, deliberate and steady. He slides his fingers beneath you with slow precision, making sure you’re supported before lifting you from his palm. There’s a noticeable difference in the way he handles you now, every motion controlled down to the smallest detail, like he’s acutely aware of just how much strength he has.
And how easily it could go wrong again.
He brings you closer to his chest, one hand supporting your back while the other curves protectively around you, creating a barrier more than a hold. It’s not tight. Not restricting. Just… secure.
Like he’s shielding you. Like even the air around you might be too much if he isn’t careful. His movements stay slow. Intentional.
The moment you’re close enough, you hear it.
His heartbeat.
Strong. Fast. Much faster than you expected. Each thump is deep and heavy, echoing through your small frame where you’re pressed against him. It’s steady, but not calm. There’s a restless edge to it, a rhythm that hasn’t settled yet.
He doesn’t say anything right away. But the way he holds you says enough. Gentle. Careful. Unwavering now, like he’s anchoring himself as much as you. Time passes quietly like that, stretching into long, still minutes where neither of you moves much. The tension doesn’t disappear completely, but it softens, shifting into something quieter. Something more manageable.
Then, finally, he speaks.
“I’m not letting you come with me.”
There’s no anger in it this time. No sharpness meant to cut the conversation short. Just certainty.
His hand shifts slightly as he speaks, his thumb moving in a small, hesitant motion near you. It brushes lightly, almost uncertainly, like he’s attempting comfort without fully knowing how to do it.
“It’s not because I think you’re weak,” he continues after a pause, his voice quieter now, more grounded, like he’s forcing himself to slow down, to choose each word carefully instead of shutting the conversation down the way he normally would. “It’s because I know exactly what’s out there.”
His gaze doesn’t waver from you, but there’s distance in it now—like part of him isn’t fully here. Like he’s remembering once more.
The words settle into the space between you, heavier than they sound. They carry more than just meaning. There’s weight behind them—years of it. Battles fought in places no one should have to see. The constant, suffocating awareness that survival is never guaranteed, no matter how skilled you are.
You can feel it in the way his chest rises under you, just a little uneven now. In the faint tightening of his fingers where they hold you, careful but firm, like he needs to remind himself you’re still there.
He knows what’s out there.
He knows how quickly things go wrong. How even the strongest soldiers get caught off guard. How plans fall apart, how people disappear in an instant, how sometimes there isn’t even enough left to bring back.
He’s lived through it. Over and over again. And you—you’re small enough to fit in his hands. Fragile in a way the world beyond the walls would not forgive. He doesn’t say any of that out loud. He doesn’t need to. It lingers in the quiet, pressing in from all sides, filling the silence with everything he refuses to put into words.
Another brief pause follows, but it doesn’t feel empty. It feels heavy. Full. Like there’s too much there to even begin sorting through.
Then—
“And I’m not losing you to it.”
The words come out lower this time, softer, like they’ve been pulled from somewhere deeper than the rest. There’s no edge meant to end the discussion. Just something honest. Something real.
His grip shifts slightly around you once more, adjusting—subtle, protective, like he’s instinctively drawing you closer without even realizing it. His thumb moves again, brushing lightly against you in a small, almost absent motion, like he’s grounding himself through the contact.
He looks like someone who’s already lost too much. Someone who knows exactly what it feels like to come back with less than he left with. His breath leaves him slowly, a controlled exhale that seems to carry some of that tension with it, though not all. It never really disappears.
He leans back slightly, but his hands don’t loosen around you. If anything, he keeps you close, steady against him, like putting distance between you now isn’t something he’s ready to risk.
“You stay where it’s safe,” he murmurs, his voice softer now, quieter in a way that almost blends into the rhythm of his breathing. A quiet insistence. “That’s all I want. Please.”
The words settle gently, but they don’t feel light. They feel incredibly certain, almost desperate. Beneath you, his heart is still racing, each beat strong and unmistakable, echoing through your body where you’re pressed against him. It hasn’t slowed much, still carrying the remnants of panic, of what almost happened, of what could have happened if he hadn’t stopped when he did.
If he hadn’t noticed.
If he had been even an extra second too late.
His hands remain steady now, careful in a way like he’s constantly aware of the line between holding you and hurting you.
What he almost did.
Everything he’s trying to protect you from.
Before, you heard his words. Now, you understand his feelings behind them. His protectiveness comes from experience, trauma, and attachment—not dismissal.
A/N : This fic was requested by an anon! Thank you for sending it in—this was so fun to write. I hope I didn’t write Levi too out of character. I really did try my best to keep him accurate to how he behaves, so I hope it turned out decently accurate! :)
could you please mayhaps write an AOT hurt/comfort of tiny reader wanting to go with Levi on a mission because they’re worried but Levi knows the horrors outside the walls and keeps telling them it’s too dangerous, maybe not realising his strength, accidentally grabs or holds them too tight and then profusely apologises even if that’s something he’s not use to, spending the rest of the day comforting them and assuring he only wants them to stay safe, that’s why he doesn’t want them to join his mission
YESSSSS, I WILL ABSOLUTELY BE WRITING THIS FOR YOU, ANON!! This is so precious omg. 💖‼️
Synopsis : When a tiny bookworm struggles to read a story trapped on impossibly large pages, Kento Nanami steps in with quiet practicality, offering a better solution—his shoulder and his voice. What starts as simple assistance soon becomes a moment of gentle comfort, as Nanami reads aloud in his steady, calming voice, allowing the reader to finally relax and enjoy the story.
CWs / Notes : Giant/tiny dynamics (size-difference, gentle handling). No explicit content (entirely SFW, focused on emotional intimacy). Nanami is his normal-sized self, while the reader is small (around 5 inches tall). The reader’s physical characteristics, gender, and name are ambiguous.
WC : 1.2k, hope you enjoy reading! ♥︎
The book was the problem.
Not the story. Never the story. The words were perfect—exactly the kind you could get lost in for hours if the world would just cooperate for once. But the pages… the pages were enormous. Each one felt like a wall you had to climb just to read a paragraph, the text stretching endlessly in every direction.
You tried anyway.
Bracing your hands against the paper, you leaned forward, squinting as your eyes traced line after line. The ink was crisp, the sentences flowing, but it took forever just to get through a few. Every time you shifted, the page rustled under you like something alive, threatening to push you back.
It was slow. Frustratingly slow.
Your shoulders slumped a little as you paused, catching your breath, staring up at the next block of text like it had personally offended you.
A shadow fell over you.
“You’re struggling.”
You didn’t need to look up to know it was Nanami. His voice was as even as ever—calm, matter-of-fact—like he was pointing out the time of day rather than your very obvious predicament.
“I’m fine,” you said, a bit stubbornly, leaning forward again as if that would prove your point. Your fingers pressed harder against the page, trying to inch yourself closer to the next line.
A pause. You could feel his eyes on you, assessing, calculating.
“You are not,” he replied bluntly.
You huffed, pushing at the edge of the page again. It barely shifted, the thick paper refusing to cooperate. “I can manage,” you insisted, even as your foot slipped slightly against the smooth surface.
Another pause—longer this time.
“…May I?”
That got your attention.
You glanced up at him, brows knitting together in confusion. “May you what?”
Nanami adjusted his glasses slightly, his gaze steady but not unkind. “Pick you up.”
Oh.
The answer came easier than you expected. “Oh—yeah. Yeah, that’s fine.”
He gave a single, small nod, as if confirming a straightforward request, then reached down.
His hands were steady and precise, movements controlled in a way that made it obvious he was being careful on purpose. When his fingers closed around you, the touch was gentle—firm enough to support you, but never tight. He lifted you as if you weighed nothing at all, bringing you up without a single jolt.
For a brief moment, the world shifted—desk, book, everything falling away beneath you—before settling again as he guided you upward.
“I will place you on my shoulder,” he said, voice low and even. “Tell me if you are uncomfortable.”
“Okay,” you murmured, instinctively steadying yourself against his hand.
He adjusted his grip slightly, then set you down on his shoulder with careful precision. The fabric of his suit was smooth beneath your hands, warm from his body heat. You instinctively leaned in just a little, finding your balance as the new height gave you a completely different view. However, you remained stiff so as to not disturb him.
The book no longer looked like an impossible wall.
It actually looked… readable.
Nanami shifted slightly, making sure you were secure. One hand hovered nearby for a second longer than necessary, just in case, before he seemed satisfied.
“Are you stable?” His voice was calm, steady, the same measured tone he used for everything, but there was a slight undertone—just enough to suggest that he genuinely cared about your comfort, not just out of politeness.
“Yeah,” you said, a small bit of relief slipping into your voice, a soft exhale that carried some of the tension you hadn’t even realized you were holding. “This is… way better.” The words felt almost silly in their simplicity, but you didn’t care. There was comfort here, in this quiet moment, in the fact that someone else noticed and cared about the smallest details of your position, your ease.
“Good. I will read,” he said. The authority in his voice didn’t feel intimidating—it felt careful, intentional. “Follow along if you wish.” His words were an offer, no expectation beyond whatever made you feel settled.
He picked up the book with one hand, his fingers long and precise, curling around the spine with effortless familiarity. He held it at a comfortable angle, tilting it slightly so the light caught the pages just right, while his other hand subtly adjusted the positioning so you could see clearly, your line of sight unobstructed. The movement was small, almost imperceptible, but there was a thoughtfulness behind it that made your chest feel lighter, warmer, like a quiet acknowledgment that your presence mattered in ways he didn’t need to announce.
Then he began to read. His voice wasn’t dramatic. He didn’t try to act out the characters or exaggerate anything. It was steady, low, and clear, like he was presenting information in a meeting. And somehow… it worked perfectly. Every word landed exactly where it should. The rhythm was easy to follow. No rushing, no dragging. You didn’t have to strain anymore.
Minutes passed.
Maybe ten.
At some point, you stopped sitting so stiffly. You didn’t consciously decide to, didn’t even notice it happening at first, but slowly your muscles loosened, your shoulders dropped, and the tension that had wrapped itself around your spine uncurled. You leaned slightly to one side, then a little more, letting gravity guide you until you were fully settled against the side of his neck. The warmth radiating from him seeped into you—not the kind that makes you fidget or pull away, not harsh or suffocating—but steady, grounding, tangible. A quiet anchor in the world around you.
Nanami didn’t stop reading. His eyes scanned the page with the same calm precision he always carried, his expression carefully neutral, as if the presence of the book mattered more than anything else. And yet, there was a subtle shift. A quiet exhale escaped him, barely more than a soft puff of air through his nose. It wasn’t irritation. It wasn’t impatience. It wasn’t anything you could even label fully—it was something gentler, an almost imperceptible acknowledgment of your proximity, a sound that somehow reassured you even without words.
His shoulder shifted just slightly under you, a near-invisible adjustment, enough to support the lean of your body without drawing attention to it. He didn’t pause or glance down, didn’t make a show of the movement. He just turned the page, the gentle rustle of paper filling the tiny spaces between the beats of your own breathing. “…and so,” he continued evenly, his voice smooth and measured, “the matter was resolved without further incident.”
You realized you weren’t paying much attention to the words anymore. Not really. Instead, you were listening to the cadence of his voice, the steady rise and fall, the way it threaded through the room without filling it completely, like a quiet river winding through open spaces. You could feel its weight in your chest, in a way that made your thoughts slow, your pulse calm. Safe. That word floated unbidden into your mind, simple and undeniable. Safe.
Nanami didn’t comment on the weight of your body against him. Didn’t remind you to sit properly or shift yourself. He didn’t acknowledge the small intimacy in any overt way. He simply kept reading.
And yet… if you paid attention, really closely, you could sense it. The way his posture stayed just a little more careful than before, how his movements were just a touch more deliberate, as if every small motion had been measured so as not to disturb you. You would never hear him admit it aloud. He didn’t mention it. And somehow, that made it even more reassuring.
A/N : This fic was requested by @kittycat2837! (I hope you meant a small reader and not the other way around—LOL. I just assumed you wanted big Nanami because it wasn’t specified.) I’m so sorry for my long absence and for how long it took me to actually make/publish this, I have been so insanely busy. Anywho, I really hope you enjoyed reading this fic!
Hey everyone! Sorry for not posting lately. I haven’t had much motivation to write anything these past couple of weeks, and I still don’t at the moment. Just wanted to give a little update.
Can I request platonic kento nanami from jujutsu Kaisen x male bookworm reader
I really want fluff
Um, this is irrelevant, but will you be doing platonic yandere
Ooo, Nanami! Cute request. I’ll start working on it as soon as I can! 💜
Platonic yandere? 🤔 Hm, I’m not really sure how to make a yandere platonic—I don’t quite know what that entails, so I probably won’t be doing anything like that. If you could be more specific, that’d be helpful so I can understand what you mean. :)
Synopsis : On a quiet morning bathed in sunlight, you watch Naruto—usually so lively and untouchable—sleep peacefully, unguarded and serene. Your gentle birthday greeting wakes him, setting off a cascade of warmth, laughter, and tender moments, from being nestled in his hand to sharing playful affection. Though tiny in stature, your presence grounds him amid the chaos of his shinobi life. Throughout the day, you craft a secret gift—a delicate origami fox in his favorite color—pouring care and love into every fold. When he returns from a long mission, weary but radiant, his reaction when he spots you reveals a side few ever see: grateful, truly tender, completely open-hearted.
CWs / Notes : Giant/tiny dynamics (size-difference, gentle handling). No explicit content (entirely SFW, focused on emotional intimacy). Naruto is his normal-sized self, while the reader is small (around 5 inches tall). The reader’s physical characteristics, gender, and name are ambiguous. Birthday/domestic fluff (the story is heavily focused on warmth, domesticity, and soft romantic moments).
WC : 6.8k , hope you enjoy reading! ♥︎
The morning sunlight filtered softly through the thin curtains of Naruto’s room, spilling golden warmth across the tangle of blankets and the messy mop of blond hair half-buried beneath them. Dust motes drifted lazily in the light, and every so often, a soft snore broke the silence—a quiet reminder of just how deeply he slept after a long day. The glow touched his whisker-like marks, making them stand out against his tanned skin, softening the usual energy in his face into something unguarded. You’d woken before him—again. Lately, it was becoming a pattern; you couldn’t help it. There was something strangely comforting about watching him like this, peaceful and still for once, when the world wasn’t demanding so much from him.
You stretched and began your careful climb up the rise and fall of the blanket, the fabric bunching beneath your feet like soft dunes. Each step brought you closer to the steady vibration that anchored you—the rhythmic, deep thump of his heart beneath his ribs. It was strong yet steady, an ever-present reminder of how vast he was compared to you, how alive. When you reached his chest, you paused, taking a moment to steady yourself against the subtle rise and fall of his breathing. The vibrations rumbled faintly through your body, like the faraway roll of a storm, soothing in their constancy. You smiled and spoke into the quiet, “Happy birthday, sleepyhead.”
For a moment, there was nothing—no reaction, no flicker of awareness. Then one of his eyes cracked open, the vivid blue dulled by sleep but unmistakably warm when it found you. His expression was slow to form, the kind of drowsy, unguarded smile that only appeared in moments like this. His lips curved into that familiar grin, lazy and fond, and a deep chuckle hummed beneath your feet. “Heh…” he breathed, voice rough and low, heavy with sleep. One enormous hand moved instinctively, his fingers brushing over the blanket until they found you. You squeaked softly as his palm hovered over your back before settling gently, cupping you against the warmth of his chest. With a sleepy tug, he drew the blanket up and around you both, cocooning you in a soft, cozy darkness that smelled faintly of him—sunlight, warmth, and something indescribably home.
“Best alarm clock ever,” he murmured at last, the words rumbling through you like a purr, carrying the faintest laugh. His eyes slipped shut again, and you felt the weight of his hand relax as he drifted back toward sleep, his breath evening out while the morning light continued to trace lazy patterns across both of you.
You couldn’t help but laugh softly, the sound barely more than a breath against the warmth that surrounded you. The world beneath the blanket felt like its own little haven—muted, safe, and filled with the gentle rise and fall of his chest beneath you. The air was tinged with that familiar warmth of his skin, faintly smelling of sunshine, fresh air, and the hint of whatever soap he’d used the night before. You could feel the subtle movement of his breathing, the way his body expanded and relaxed like a tide against your tiny frame, and beneath it all, the steady, grounding beat of his heart. Each slow thump seemed to pull you deeper into calm. Before long, your eyelids grew heavy again, and you found yourself sinking down into the fabric of his blanket, wrapped securely in the quiet shelter of his palm and the comforting darkness of your shared cocoon. The steady rhythm beneath you became a lullaby, each heartbeat whispering reassurance until the waking world slipped away once more.
When you finally stirred again, the light filtering through the curtains had shifted—brighter now, warmer, filling the room with that late-morning glow that spoke of time quietly passing. You blinked blearily, stretching as much as your tiny body allowed, and turned your gaze toward the giant still dozing beneath you. Naruto was a mess, in the most endearing way possible. Half-buried in his pillow, his blond hair stood at wild angles, defying gravity as if even in sleep it refused to behave. His face was turned slightly toward the window, soft light painting golden edges along his features, the curve of his jaw, and the faint pout that formed when he exhaled. His lips were parted just enough to let out a faint, rhythmic snore, the sound vibrating through his chest and into your bones like a tiny, comforting rumble. You watched him for a long moment, unmoving, simply breathing in the rare tranquility of it. Gone was the endless energy, the loud laughter, the restless movement that usually filled his days. Here, there was only peace—Naruto stripped of the world’s demands, just a boy at rest, gentle and open in ways few ever got to see.
You drew in a small sigh, torn between wanting to let him sleep and knowing that time wasn’t going to wait for him. Carefully, you shifted closer to his collarbone, mindful of every dip and fold of the fabric beneath your feet. “Naruto,” you called softly at first, your voice hesitant to disturb the quiet. When he didn’t stir, you tried again, a little louder, leaning closer to the rise of his neck. “Naruto, you’ve got a mission today, remember?”
His eyes shot open immediately, startlingly bright in the morning light. “Huh—mission?!” The word came out half-panicked, half-groggy, but before you could even get another word in, he was already moving. In a flurry of motion that was all too Naruto, he bolted upright, blankets flying and hair sticking up worse than ever. The sudden rush of movement sent a gust of air across you, and you barely had time to squeak in alarm before the world tilted sharply. You tumbled down his chest, bouncing lightly off the fabric of his blanket before landing squarely in his lap with a soft, startled “oof.” Everything around you still vibrated faintly from the force of his movement—his heartbeat quickened, his breath coming in short, confused bursts as he tried to shake off the last traces of sleep. When he finally blinked down at you, his expression shifted instantly from alarm to amusement, the tension draining from his shoulders as a sheepish grin spread across his face. The laughter that followed was warm and unrestrained, that familiar, boyish sound that filled the whole room with life again.
“Heh, sorry,” he said, scratching the back of his neck in that classic, embarrassed way of his. The morning light caught on the faint pink rising to his cheeks, making him look even more endearing. “You just made me remember my mission. I totally forgot about it. Thanks, baby.” His voice softened on the last word, full of genuine affection that made your heart flutter despite your exasperation. It was so him—charging into the day with all the energy of a lightning bolt, but still taking the time to look at you with that kind of fondness, like you were something precious he could never take for granted. You opened your mouth to scold him for nearly sending you flying off the bed, but before you could get a single word out, his hand moved again—quick but impossibly gentle, all instinct and care.
His fingers swooped down, the pads of them brushing against the blanket as they curled protectively around you. You felt the rush of air as he lifted you into his palm, the heat of his skin enveloping you instantly. He brought you closer, the sheer size of him overwhelming in the best way—his breath washing over you, warm and faintly sweet, his blue eyes bright and filled with a kind of quiet tenderness that words couldn’t touch. Then, with a care that melted your frustration in an instant, he leaned forward and pressed his lips softly to your cheek. The kiss was warm and encompassing, the faintest brush of his breath carrying through your whole body like a promise. The touch of his lips covered nearly your entire side, the warmth seeping through until your heart felt full to bursting. It wasn’t just affection—it was protection, devotion, and that easy, fearless love that was so uniquely Naruto’s. When he finally pulled back, the ghost of his smile lingered in the air, and for a heartbeat, the whole world seemed to still, wrapped in that simple, perfect moment of closeness.
You couldn’t help but giggle as his enormous fingertip brushed lightly beneath your chin, the pad of it warm and slightly calloused from endless training. The touch was gentle—barely there, more of a teasing scritch than a real caress—but it sent a flutter through your chest all the same. Naruto’s grin turned mischievous as he leaned in closer, his eyes crinkling at the corners with delight. “There,” he said, voice soft but laced with that sunny confidence only he could pull off. “Gotta give my good luck charm some affection before I go, ya know?” The playful tone in his voice made you laugh harder, the sound echoing like a melody in the quiet morning. You could feel the faint tremor of his chuckle beneath the air, the warmth of it as natural and comforting as the sunlight spilling through the window.
“Dork,” you managed to say through your smile, trying your best to sound unimpressed—but your voice betrayed you, light and fond. You tried to look stern, crossing your tiny arms as if to scold him, but Naruto’s expression only softened further, eyes glowing with amusement. He clearly saw right through you. His grin stretched wider, the kind that reached his eyes, full of that unshakable warmth that made your heart flutter no matter how many times you saw it. To him, teasing you like this was second nature—a ritual before every mission, as natural as tying his headband or checking his gear. He treated you like something to be cherished, his humor never masking the care behind it.
“Alright, alright,” he said finally, lowering his massive hand toward the bed. The motion was slow, deliberate, as though he were setting down something fragile and precious. You felt the faint dip of the pillow beneath you as he placed you gently upon it, the soft fabric rising up around you like clouds. “Wait for me, yeah? I’ll be back before you know it.” His voice dropped slightly on the last words—still cheerful, but edged with something sincere, something that made your chest tighten. You looked up at him from where you sat on the pillow, the sunlight outlining his figure as he straightened. For a moment, he was every bit the shinobi—strong, determined, ready for whatever came next—but he still paused long enough to make sure you were safe and smiling before he left.
You watched him tie his hitai-ate, fingers quick and sure as he knotted the cloth behind his head, the symbol of Konoha gleaming in the light. His movements were so familiar now that they felt almost comforting, a rhythm you’d grown used to—the tightening of the band, the slight adjustment of his collar, the soft jingle of his weapons pouch as he slung his gear bag over his shoulder. He turned toward you one last time, his grin flashing bright as ever. “Don’t miss me too much!” he called playfully, giving you a little wave that looked comically huge from your perspective. And before you could even reply, he was gone—darting out the door in a blur of energy, the sound of his footsteps fading down the hall. For a moment, all that remained was the lingering warmth in the air and the faint indentation he’d left on the bed beside you, as if the room itself still held the echo of his laughter.
For a while, you just sat there, letting the quiet of the room settle around you. The space still felt full of him—the lingering scent of his shampoo and warmth clung to the air, faintly sweet and sunlit, like wind over fresh grass. The pillow beneath you still bore the soft indentation of his head, the fabric faintly rumpled from where he’d lain only moments ago. It was easy to imagine him there still, grinning lazily, eyes half-lidded with sleep as he teased you with that disarming warmth of his. You let yourself sink into that thought for a moment longer, tracing the faint outline his hair had pressed into the sheets. But eventually, the silence began to stretch, heavy in the absence of his laughter. With a small sigh, you pushed yourself to your feet and started to crawl off the cozy nest of warmth, the soft blanket dipping beneath your steps as you left behind the traces of the morning.
The day stretched long and quiet without him—almost unnervingly so. Outside, the sunlight shifted slowly across the room, spilling golden patches over the floorboards and the scattered scrolls and training gear he’d left behind. You busied yourself with small things at first, wandering the length of his desk and climbing up onto a stack of notes, just to feel like you were doing something. But eventually, inspiration struck in the form of a stray scrap of orange paper fluttering near the edge of the table. A small smile tugged at your lips. Of course. Orange. His favorite color, as loud and bright as his laugh. You began gathering what little bits you could find—tiny fragments of wrapper paper, torn edges of old notes, anything close enough in hue to his beloved shade of orange. Then you sat down, determined, and started working.
Folding, cutting, and creasing took patience at your size. Every motion had to be deliberate, your fingertips careful not to bend or tear too much at once. It was delicate work, but you poured your whole heart into it, each fold shaped with thought and affection. Slowly, the scraps took form beneath your hands, piece by piece transforming into something that felt alive—an origami fox, small but spirited, its pointed ears sharp and its tail curling neatly around itself. You tilted it in your hands, admiring how the light played along the creases, how the orange seemed to glow with a warmth that reminded you of him. Every detail—the careful angles, the balance of the folds—felt like a quiet echo of his spirit: fiery, mischievous, but full of heart.
When you finally finished, you sat back and let out a soft sigh of satisfaction. “Perfect,” you murmured, smiling at your handiwork. For something made from scraps, it radiated care, every crease whispering a little piece of your affection. You held it up, turning it this way and that until the light caught it just right, making the paper shimmer faintly like sunlight on water. Not wanting to ruin the surprise, you carried it carefully across the table and found the perfect hiding spot—a small fold of fabric draped over his desk, where the fox could rest unseen until he returned. It was tucked just enough to be secret, but not so hidden that he’d never find it. You imagined his expression when he spotted it: that moment of surprise melting into a grin, his fingers holding it with an almost childlike gentleness.
Now all that was left was to wait for your birthday boy to come home. The thought made your heart swell, and though the room felt too quiet without him, there was comfort in knowing that soon, the door would creak open again, his laughter would fill the air, and his warmth would find its way back to you. Until then, you sat beside the faint scent of him still woven into the air, watching the light slowly fade into afternoon, your little paper fox standing proudly as your secret gift of love.
Naruto had been gone all day, and the hours had crept by in a haze of sunlight and silence. The village outside had gradually quieted, the sounds of training, chatter, and movement fading into the soft hum of early evening. By now, the sun was low enough that its last golden light poured gently through the window, painting the walls in strokes of amber and rose. The air was still and a little heavy, the kind of calm that only came after a long day. You’d spent the afternoon alternating between pacing, glancing toward the door, and trying not to worry, but fatigue had eventually settled over you like a blanket. By the time you finally heard the familiar click of the door opening, your eyes had grown heavy with sleep, your tiny body curled against the folds of a napkin on the table. The faint creak of hinges jolted you awake, your heart fluttering as that unmistakable voice drifted in—a sound that instantly filled the room with life again.
He stepped inside with his usual clumsy energy, the sound of his sandals scuffing against the floor followed by the quick, careless motion of him kicking them off. A faint puff of dust rose into the air as he ruffled his hair, muttering under his breath. His footsteps were heavy but not harsh, the kind of tired drag that came after a long mission. Then came the familiar thud of his gear bag hitting the ground—a sound that meant home, safety, and an end to all the day’s chaos. “Man, that mission was tougher than I thought…” he mumbled, his words slurred around a yawn. The sound of his joints popping filled the air as he stretched, his movements languid and weary but still full of that restless energy that never truly left him. Even exhausted, he was unmistakably Naruto—a little loud, a little clumsy, but warm in every motion.
You peeked from your spot just in time to see him running a hand through his hair, tugging at the tie of his hitai-ate. The soft blue cloth slipped free of his head and slid through his fingers before he tossed it casually onto a shelf, the metal plate clinking faintly against the wood. His hair was even wilder than usual, blond spikes jutting in every direction from the day’s wind and effort. A few stray strands fell into his eyes, which he blinked at irritably before giving up entirely and letting them stay. His jacket hung half open, the fabric scuffed and dusty, proof that he’d given everything he had out there. He stretched again, rolling his shoulders with a tired groan, looking every bit the overworked shinobi—and yet, to you, he still looked impossibly warm and familiar, like the sun finally coming home.
His gaze swept lazily around the room, clearly expecting to collapse straight into bed or raid the fridge first. But then his eyes fell toward the small dining table—and froze. For a heartbeat, he didn’t move. The weariness that had weighed down his features seemed to still, his body going quiet as he took in what he saw.
On the table sat the cake the two of you had made the day before—a little crooked, one side slightly higher than the other, and the frosting uneven in places where Naruto’s heavy hand had gotten too enthusiastic with the spatula. But despite its imperfections—or maybe because of them—it was perfect. The frosting glistened faintly in the dim golden light, streaked with swirls of cream and bits of color you’d insisted on adding to make it “festive.” A few crumbs dotted the plate where he’d snuck a taste during the process, and there was still a faint smudge of icing along one edge that made you smile just to look at it. The whole thing carried the memory of laughter, of messy fingers and good-natured teasing as he’d tried (and failed) to follow your careful instructions. It was, undeniably, a Naruto cake—lopsided but full of heart, a reflection of his energy and the affection that had gone into every uneven spread of frosting. And beside it, you sat cross-legged near the edge of the table, eyes bright and full of anticipation, practically vibrating with excitement as you waited for him to notice.
“There you are, lil’ one,” he said the instant his gaze found you, his voice brightening like the sun breaking through clouds. The fatigue from the mission seemed to melt off him in an instant, replaced by that boundless warmth you’d missed all day. His grin spread wide across his face, that familiar curve that could light up an entire room, and the sound of it—the sheer affection packed into that one casual greeting—made your heart skip. “Missed ya,” he added, his tone softening at the end, a small rumble of sincerity beneath his usual cheer. His eyes crinkled at the corners, and you could tell from the way he looked at you—like you were the first good thing to happen to him all day—that he meant it.
You couldn’t help but smile back, your own excitement bubbling up until it overflowed into your voice. “Welcome home, birthday boy,” you said brightly, the words coming out like music after the long silence of waiting. The look on his face shifted slightly, surprise flickering there for a moment before it softened into something almost bashful. He blinked, clearly caught off guard, and for a brief second it was as if he’d completely forgotten what day it was.
“Oh yeah,” he said with a laugh that was equal parts sheepish and fond, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s still my birthday, huh?” His grin returned, a little crooked now, his eyes gleaming with that familiar mixture of amusement and affection. You could almost see the thoughts running behind them—the warmth of realizing someone had remembered, that someone had cared enough to make a whole moment out of it.
You nodded, folding your arms with a small, triumphant smile that you couldn’t hold back. “Mhm,” you said softly, your voice full of warmth. “I didn’t forget.” The words hung in the air between you, small but full of meaning. For all the noise and chaos that surrounded his life, this felt like something sacred. And from the way Naruto looked at you, eyes bright with both gratitude and wonder, you knew he felt the same.
He leaned down, the motion slow and easy, until his elbows rested on the edge of the wooden table. The faint creak of the wood echoed softly in the quiet room, and suddenly his face filled your entire view—impossibly close, all warmth and light. His blue eyes, always so bright and alive, caught the last traces of the evening sun and shimmered like glitter. The sheer size of him, the presence he carried, was enough to make your heart skip a beat, but his expression was nothing but soft. There was a lazy fondness there, a tenderness that made the space between you feel smaller than it really was. “Guess I shouldn’t be surprised,” he said with a grin that was half teasing, half full of awe. “You’re always thinkin’ about me.” His voice came out low and rough from the long day, but there was a playfulness to it too—a quiet sort of gratitude that made your chest ache. The way he looked at you made it feel like you were the center of his entire world, and for a second, you forgot how tiny you really were.
Then came that grin—that grin. The one that could undo you every single time. It was sheepish, all boyish charm and vulnerability, the kind of smile that made his whisker marks pull slightly. He rubbed the back of his neck, glancing away as if embarrassed by his own sincerity. “You didn’t have to do anything, y’know,” he murmured, his voice softening in that way that only came when he was being completely honest. “Just seein’ you when I get home’s enough.” The words were simple, unpolished, but they carried the weight of everything he felt—gratitude, affection, and that deep, unwavering warmth that made him who he was. You could feel the sincerity of it reverberate through the air, the kind of statement that stayed with you long after it was said. For someone who had spent so much of his life longing for connection, it was almost startling how easily he could make you feel seen, cherished, loved.
You couldn’t help but giggle quietly, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear as your cheeks warmed. “I might’ve made you something anyway,” you admitted, the words spilling out with a little shy pride. You tried to play it casual, but you couldn’t stop the tiny smile tugging at your lips—or the way your voice carried that spark of excitement that came from keeping a secret surprise.
“Oh yeah?” he asked, eyebrows lifting in exaggerated curiosity, the corners of his mouth twitching upward. The tone of his voice shifted instantly, the tiredness replaced with that unmistakable spark of energy that always returned whenever something—or someone—caught his interest. His gaze fixed on you again, eyes bright with amusement and a hint of anticipation. Even after a long day, that childlike wonder of his never dimmed.
You pointed toward the table with both hands, puffing yourself up in mock authority. “C’mon! Sit down so we can celebrate!” you said, waving your arms like a tiny commander trying to order a much larger shinobi into action. Your voice carried a mix of excitement and command, as though you’d been waiting all day for this exact moment.
He laughed, the sound bursting out of him like sunlight, bright and infectious. “Alright, alright, boss. I’m sittin’, I’m sittin’,” he said, still chuckling as he pulled out the chair. The wooden legs scraped gently against the floor as he settled down, his posture finally relaxing for the first time all day. The warmth of his presence filled the small space, his energy bright and steady even in stillness. As he leaned forward again, elbows on the table and eyes trained on you, there was a softness there that told you—without a single word—that no matter how chaotic his life was out there, this little moment, right here, was his favorite part of the day.
With his help, you lit the candles one by one, your tiny hands steadying the base of each wick while his much larger fingers hovered protectively nearby. The two of you worked in perfect rhythm—your careful movements and his gentle guidance forming an oddly beautiful dance of coordination. Every time a new flame flickered to life, the golden light reflected in his blue eyes, making them shine even brighter. The faint scent of melted wax mingled with the sweetness of the frosting, and for a moment, it felt as if the small table had become its own little world—quiet, warm, and glowing just for the two of you. His breath brushed against your back as he leaned closer, careful not to blow out the candles too soon, and you could feel the faint rumble of a chuckle when one of the wicks sputtered stubbornly before catching the flame. Finally, when all of them stood burning in a neat, uneven line, the soft light danced across his face—highlighting the curve of his cheek, the whisker-like marks that framed his grin, and the gentle fondness in his gaze as he looked at you.
Your heart swelled at the sight, and before you knew it, you were singing. Your voice was small compared to the room around you, but it carried an undeniable sincerity. The cheerful notes of the birthday song filled the air, lilting and a little uneven, but bright and full of love. Naruto’s grin softened as he listened, his eyes never leaving you, the flickering candlelight turning every blink, every smile, into something radiant. By the time you reached the last line, the quiet hum of the flames and the stillness of the room seemed to wrap around your voice, as if the whole world had paused just to listen. When the final note faded, you couldn’t help but smile up at him, feeling a soft warmth blooming in your chest. “Make a wish!” you said brightly, gesturing toward the cake with both hands like a little conductor directing the moment.
He leaned forward slightly, the movement slow and deliberate, the golden light of the candles reflecting off his lashes. His eyes half-lidded with a lazy sort of happiness, he looked at you in that way that always made your pulse skip. Then his lips curved into that familiar sheepish grin—half bashful, half honest—and his voice dropped low, barely above a murmur. “I already got what I wished for.” The words were simple, spoken without hesitation or showmanship, but they landed with the weight of a confession. For once, there was no teasing behind them—just quiet, sincere affection, the kind that made your breath catch.
Heat rushed instantly to your cheeks, the warmth rising all the way to your ears as you blinked up at him. You huffed, trying to mask the way your heart was doing somersaults, and rolled your eyes with as much dramatic flair as you could muster. “You’re such a sap,” you muttered, crossing your arms and hoping he couldn’t see just how flustered you were.
He only laughed softly, the sound low and rich, full of that easy warmth that always melted through you. His grin turned just a bit more lopsided, his eyes crinkling with amusement as he leaned back in his chair, still watching you with that infuriatingly fond gaze. “Only for you,” he shot back instantly, not missing a beat. The words hung in the air like a spark—playful and tender all at once. And even though you tried to hold your ground, your heart gave a ridiculous little flip anyway, because no matter how many times he said things like that, they never failed to undo you completely.
Later that evening, after he’d devoured a generous slice of cake—and by “generous,” you meant half the thing—and thanked you no less than five times for helping him bake it the day before, the room had settled into a soft, comfortable quiet. The remnants of frosting still smudged faintly at the corner of his mouth, which he hadn’t even noticed, and the warm glow of the candles now melted into little pools of wax, their smoke curling lazily in the air. You sat across from him on the table, legs tucked neatly beneath you, your heart still glowing from the laughter and lightness that always seemed to follow him wherever he went. You watched him chew with unabashed enthusiasm, the way his cheeks puffed a little when he smiled mid-bite, and it made your chest ache in the gentlest way possible. He’d worked hard today—he always did—and seeing him relax, seeing that boyish joy light up his face over something so simple, was the best reward you could’ve asked for.
You cleared your throat, trying to gather your courage. “Naruto, can you take me over to the bedroom?” you asked, your tone careful but hopeful. You had something special planned, and you could already feel a tiny flutter of nerves starting to form in your stomach.
Immediately, that mischievous glint lit up his blue eyes. His brow arched high, and a sly grin spread slowly across his face, the kind of grin that could only belong to someone who knew exactly how to get a rise out of you. “Whoa, already?” he teased, drawing out the words with mock shock. “We haven’t even gone out to dinner yet.”
Your jaw dropped, heat rushing to your cheeks. “That’s not what I meant!” you gasped, and without thinking, you marched straight up to his face and smacked him square on the nose with both of your tiny hands. The impact was light—barely a tap to someone his size—but it made him scrunch up his face dramatically, crossing his eyes in feigned pain.
“Okay, okay!” he said through his laughter, rubbing at his nose with the back of his hand in exaggerated offense. “Geez, you’re scary when you’re serious.” His chuckle softened as he looked at you again, eyes full of warmth even as he tried to keep the teasing alive. It was impossible to stay mad at him for long—especially when his grin was that infectious.
Still smiling despite yourself, you sighed and pointed toward the hallway. “Just—come on, you’ll see.”
“Alright, alright,” he said, still amused but clearly intrigued now. He extended a hand toward you, his fingers moving with their usual mix of strength and gentleness. You barely had time to brace yourself before he scooped you up, cradling you carefully against his palm. His touch was steady and protective, his thumb curling slightly inward to make sure you wouldn’t slip as he stood and started down the hall. The rhythmic sway of his steps rocked you gently, and the familiar scent of him—warm, clean, and faintly woodsy—filled your senses.
When he pushed the door open, the air inside the bedroom carried that same cozy, lived-in scent that always made you feel safe: a mix of his sheets, a hint of detergent, and something uniquely him that no candle could ever capture. He moved over to the desk, lowering his hand slowly so you could step off. You slid down onto the surface with practiced ease, your tiny feet landing soundlessly against the cool wood.
“Okay…” he murmured, tilting his head in curiosity, his blue eyes following your every movement. “What’re you up to, huh?”
You turned away quickly, cheeks warming again, and hurried over to the corner of the desk. The small piece of fabric you’d hidden something under earlier still sat exactly where you left it.
“Close your eyes,” you instructed.
He blinked, clearly confused, but did as you asked, shutting his eyes with a playful grin. “If this is a prank, I swear—”
“Shh! No peeking!” you said. With both hands, you tugged the fabric aside and revealed the surprise—a delicate little figure folded from orange paper, its form catching the soft lamplight. The tiny fox shimmered faintly as you lifted it, the paper crinkling gently between your fingers. You turned toward him with a shy but proud smile, your heart fluttering at the anticipation of his reaction.
You now stood atop his waiting palm. You positioned the origami fox on his hand, your hands twitched nervously as you looked up at his face.
“Okay,” you whispered. “You can open them.”
His eyes fluttered open—and widened instantly. There, resting delicately in his palm, was the tiny orange fox you’d folded by hand. Every crease was crisp, every line careful, its shape unmistakably crafted with thought and love.
His expression softened instantly, the familiar brightness in his eyes giving way to something quieter, deeper—something that shimmered just beneath the surface. The edges of his grin faltered for a moment, replaced by an almost disbelieving tenderness. He blinked once, twice, as if trying to steady himself, and when he finally spoke, his voice came out small—barely a whisper, rough and thick with emotion. “You made this… for me?”
There was something about the way he said it that tugged at your heart. Naruto had faced down impossible odds, carried the weight of an entire village, and yet somehow, this—this tiny paper fox made with your hands—left him speechless. His thumb hovered nearby, trembling ever so slightly as though he was afraid to even breathe too hard, scared that if he did, the moment might crumble.
You nodded, your own voice soft but sure. “Mm-hm. Happy birthday, Naruto.” The words came out with a gentle warmth, your smile small and shy as you held up the delicate fox between your palms. It wasn’t perfect—the folds weren’t even, and one ear bent a little off-center—but somehow, that made it feel even more right. It reflected him: bright, a little rough around the edges, but full of heart. You’d folded every crease with him in mind, pouring into it all the affection you could never quite say out loud.
For a long moment, he didn’t move. He just looked at it—and at you—with that same stunned, open expression, his eyes glimmering in the soft lamplight. You could see the way the tiny reflection of the origami fox danced in his pupils, the way his breathing hitched like he was trying to swallow down a lump in his throat. It was as if he was trying to memorize everything—the texture of the paper, the faint traces of your effort, the sincerity behind such a small but meaningful gift.
Then, finally, his mouth curved into a grin so radiant it nearly stole your breath away. It was that signature Naruto smile—unfiltered, genuine, the kind that lit up his whole face and made his eyes crinkle at the corners. “Man…” he exhaled, shaking his head slightly, the sound half a laugh and half a sigh. “You’re too good to me.”
His hand shifted, and his thumb moved closer—not toward the fox, but toward you. The gesture was instinctive, gentle, and full of warmth. He brushed the pad of it near your side, close enough that you could feel the faint tremor in his skin. It was an affectionate touch, careful and reverent, like he needed to ground himself in the reality of you being there. His gaze flicked back and forth between your face and the little orange fox, his lips curling again into a softer, more fragile smile.
In that quiet moment, the whole world seemed to still. The only sound was the faint rustle of the paper fox between your hands and the slow, steady rhythm of Naruto’s breath—deep and real and full of emotion he didn’t have to put into words. You could see it in his eyes: gratitude, affection, disbelief, and that unshakable joy he always carried for the people he loved most. And when his thumb traced a slow, invisible arc through the air beside you, as if trying to say what words couldn’t, you knew he’d treasure your gift more than anything else in the world.
He lifted you back upward with a slowness that felt deliberate, almost reverent—like he didn’t want to rush a single second. His fingers curved just slightly inward, cradling you in a way that made his palm feel less like skin and more like a warm, living platform. You could feel every subtle flex of the tendons beneath his skin, the faint roughness of his calluses brushing lightly against your feet as you steadied yourself. The scent of him—sunlight, warmth, and a hint of something faintly spicy from his favorite ramen—filled the air around you, making the moment feel impossibly cozy. As he drew you closer to his face, the world around you narrowed until all you could see was him—those bright blue eyes, lashes still a little messy from the long day, and that boyish grin that could outshine any light.
You walked across his palm carefully, each step sinking softly into the warm skin. His breath fanned across you in steady, gentle gusts, ruffling your hair and sending a delicate shiver down your spine. The closer you got to his face, the more details you could make out: the faint sun-kissed freckles across the bridge of his nose, the soft curve of his lips still faintly smeared with a bit of frosting, and the way his whisker-like marks shifted slightly whenever his grin grew wider. It was impossible not to smile back at him.
Finally, you reached the edge of his hand and leaned forward, balancing on the balls of your feet to stretch just that little bit higher. You steadied yourself with one hand lightly against the slope of his nose—warm, firm, and slightly cool at the tip—before pressing a delicate, barely-there kiss right on the center of it. The gesture was small, but against someone as big as Naruto, it felt like everything. “Chu,” you breathed softly, the tiny sound barely louder than a whisper, but it carried easily between the two of you in the quiet room.
For a heartbeat, he froze—blinking down at you with wide eyes as though caught off guard by the sheer tenderness of it. And then the reaction came, quick and bright. A laugh burst from his chest, deep and unrestrained, the sound rumbling beneath your feet like distant thunder. The vibration traveled up through his palm and into your legs, warm and ticklish, wrapping around you like a hug you could feel with your whole body. His head tilted back just slightly, blue eyes crinkling at the corners as that sunshine smile of his bloomed to its fullest.
“Best birthday ever,” he said, voice thick with affection, the edges soft and unguarded. You could hear the sincerity in every syllable, see it in the way his gaze lingered on you as if you were something precious. The tips of his ears were flushed a faint pink, and the warmth in his expression was so overwhelming it made your chest ache in the best way. This wasn’t just a thank-you. It was Naruto letting you see just how deeply loved you were, without needing a single fancy word to prove it.
A/N : Sorry I’m a bit late with this! I know Naruto’s birthday was yesterday, but I’ve been sick and couldn’t write properly. I still really wanted to finish it though, so here it is today!
Synopsis : After waking from a nightmare that blurs the line between memory and fear, you find yourself caught in Light Yagami’s careful hands—safe, or something like it. His voice is calm, his touch deliberate, his warmth almost convincing. But as his thumb traces slow circles against your trembling form, the echo of your nightmare refuses to fade. You know what he’s capable of, what he’s done, and yet here you are—held close by the man who decides who lives and dies. Between the steady rhythm of his breathing and the pounding of your own heart, one question lingers like a shadow: are you being protected, or are you trapped?
CWs / Notes : Psychological tension: fear and anxiety. G/t (size difference): power imbalance with themes of control and vulnerability. Ongoing sense of danger without physical harm. Ambiguous comfort: tenderness mixed with underlying dread and mistrust. Mentions of death, murder, and Light’s actions as Kira. Emotional manipulation undertones. Descriptions of fear, panic, and a nightmare sequence. Gentle physical contact in a psychologically intense context. Light is his normal-sized self, while the reader is small (around 5 inches tall). The reader’s physical characteristics, gender, and name are ambiguous.
A/N : Please read with care if you’re sensitive to controlling or manipulative dynamics, or to themes of safety being questioned.
WC : 2.0k , hope you enjoy reading! ♥︎
The world felt like it had collapsed in on itself—an implosion of darkness and sound that left your pulse racing and your lungs aching for air. You woke with a start, a sharp gasp tearing through the stillness, the sound of your own breath impossibly loud in your ears. For a moment, you didn’t know where you were; the space around you felt too vast, the shadows too deep. Your small chest rose and fell in quick, uneven bursts, every inhale trembling like you’d been running for miles from something that refused to stop chasing you. The remnants of the nightmare clung to you like cobwebs you couldn’t brush away—thin, invisible threads of fear that refused to break. You could still see it behind your eyes: his face, illuminated by a terrible light. His gaze—brilliant, sharp, divine—had burned with something both holy and cruel. The kind of gaze that judged the world and found it wanting. His hand, vast and pale, had descended through the darkness of your dream—not to comfort you, but to end you.
You flinched at the memory, curling into yourself, a fragile thing swallowed by dread. And when you blinked, trying to orient yourself, you froze. Because that same hand—the one from your dream—was there, real and immediate, hovering right above you. The air shifted with the subtle motion of his breath, and your heart nearly stopped. For one dizzy second, you couldn’t tell if you were still dreaming.
“Shh…” The sound came low and soft, smooth as silk drawn across your skin. Light’s voice cut through the fog of your panic like a steady current, calm and deliberate, the exact opposite of what you felt inside. His fingers moved carefully, deliberately, curling around you without ever tightening, forming a wall of living warmth that sealed you away from the cold. The world beyond his hand disappeared; all that remained was the steady thrum of his pulse somewhere far above, and the faint whisper of air as he exhaled. His thumb brushed your side in slow, measured passes—gentle, precise, like he was reminding himself of your size, your fragility. “It’s alright,” he murmured, and the words came out smooth, assured, as if he could speak reality into obedience. “Just a nightmare.”
Though part of you knew that should have made you feel safe, it didn’t—not entirely. The warmth of his hand, the cadence of his voice, the control in his touch—it was all too much like the dream. You wanted to let his words sink into you and dissolve the tremor in your bones, to melt into the sound of him—the soft, careful cadence that had once meant safety, back before the Death Note, before the names, before the killings, before Kira. There was a time when his voice had been nothing more than a warm, steady place to rest. When you’d thought his hands could only hold, never harm. But now, that memory felt thin and brittle, like an old photograph left out in the sun—edges faded, colors wrong. You clung to it anyway, the way a drowning person clings to splinters of a shipwreck, even when the splinters dig into their skin.
But your heart wouldn’t slow down. If anything, it only beat harder, louder, hammering against your ribs like it wanted to break free of your body, to escape the small, fragile cage you called safety. Every thud felt like an echo of your fear, a drumbeat that shook through your veins and wouldn’t stop. It wasn’t just panic—it was something heavier, darker, the instinctive knowledge of prey recognizing a predator even when the predator is smiling.
He was too close. Too calm. Too capable. His presence filled the space around you like a shadow with weight, an inevitability you couldn’t shrink away from. You could feel the warmth radiating from his skin, the slow and deliberate movement of his breath, and every part of it reminded you of how large he was compared to you. Not just in size, but in power, in reach. He didn’t have to raise his voice to make the air feel heavy; he didn’t have to move quickly to make your heart lurch. His stillness alone was enough to terrify you.
Your mind ran in frantic circles, thoughts chasing each other in a blur of panic, tripping over one another until they made no sense at all. He’s Kira. The words repeated like a heartbeat. He’s killed so many people. Images flickered in your head—faces you’d never seen but knew were gone, a world reshaped by a name written in neat, perfect handwriting. What if he decides you’re one of them? The thought twisted sharp and cold in your stomach. Because the truth was, he didn’t even need the notebook. He didn’t need a pen or paper or rules. He had you right here, in the palm of his hand, and if he chose—if he wanted—he could end you. He could crush you, and it would take less than a second.
Light’s thumb paused mid-stroke, hovering over your side with deliberate precision, as if time itself had slowed to the beat of your trembling body. His fingers curled slightly, adjusting their hold to better encompass you, and you felt the warmth of his skin shift against yours. Beneath that warmth was something sharper—a weight that pressed down more than just physically. He had felt it. That tiny tremor in your body, the subtle shiver you thought you had masked. His gaze sharpened instantly, becoming something keen and calculating, his eyes narrowing in quiet assessment. “You’re shaking,” he said softly, his voice low and smooth, carrying both curiosity and an unsettling sort of certainty. “Was it really that bad?” The words lingered in the air, almost too gentle to belong to someone like him, yet heavy enough to anchor your fear.
Your throat went dry, the dryness spreading like fire up into your mouth, stealing your ability to answer. Words refused to form, dissolving into a lump of panic lodged deep in your chest. You swallowed hard, but nothing came. So you simply nodded, a small, helpless motion, curling in tighter against him, trying to shrink yourself further into the fragile safety of his palm. It was instinct, but also fear—fear not only of what had just happened, but of what lingered in his presence. You could feel his gaze on you still, measuring, reading you as if you were something delicate and complicated all at once.
He smiled then—gentle, practiced, a smile that could almost disarm, if not for the tension that lingered in the air. But his eyes… there was something there that unsettled you far more than his smile ever could. Something that went beyond kindness or tenderness. Something knowing. The kind of knowing that cuts past words, past excuses, to the truth hidden underneath. “You don’t have to be afraid,” he said, his tone quiet but certain. “I’d never let anything hurt you.” There was conviction there, absolute and unshaken, as though he truly believed those words, as though he could convince you with nothing more than the sound of his voice.
You almost laughed at that. Almost—because it was the kind of thing that should comfort you. But instead, it twisted the fear tighter in your chest. How could he not see it? How could he not realize that you weren’t afraid of some abstract danger lurking in the dark, but of him? Of what he was capable of? Of the truth behind those words, the possibility that in saying them he wasn’t promising safety but control? That he was already deciding what could and could not hurt you? Your mind was a whirl of doubt, of unease, and even in the trembling warmth of his hand you felt something cold stirring inside you.
The fingers around you shifted, moving with a deliberate slowness, as though the motion itself was meant to soothe—but also to observe. His touch became lighter now, almost reverent, as if he were handling something fragile enough to shatter under the faintest pressure. It was intimate in a way that unsettled you, and yet, somehow, impossible to pull away from. “Your heart’s racing,” he murmured, his tone dipping lower, soft enough to make you lean toward him without meaning to. There was something in the way he said it—something quiet but loaded, like he wasn’t simply noting a fact, but understanding something deeper. “You really were frightened.” The words carried more than observation. They carried certainty.
If he noticed the way your pulse jumped again at hearing him say it—how your breath caught in your throat, how the tiniest quiver ran through your chest—he gave no sign. He didn’t question it. He didn’t press. Instead, he continued to hold you, his fingers curling gently, securing you in the hollow of his palm. He held you like something precious, like an object so rare it deserved to be kept safe at all costs. You could almost imagine him believing it, too—that he was your shield against the world, that the vastness of his strength could keep you untouched. Maybe he even told himself that, in the quiet spaces where no one could hear.
But you knew better.
Because the man who once walked you home, who had laughed softly when you teased him, who had offered you warmth without question—he was gone. The comfort he used to bring still lingered in the edges of his touch, like a fading fragrance, but underneath it there was something else. Something harder. Steel. Calculation. Conviction. A deliberate resolve that made his gentleness feel like a choice rather than a habit. You could see it in the way his fingers rested against you, steady and controlled, in the quiet certainty behind his voice. It wasn’t the softness of care alone—it was the quiet weight of control. And that knowledge settled in your chest like a stone.
As his breath ghosted over you, steady and calm, brushing against your skin with the faintest warmth, you couldn’t tell which was more terrifying—the thought that he might kill you one day, or the thought that he truly believed he never would. The first was sharp and easy to name, a primal fear you could articulate to yourself and bury under a layer of denial. But the second… the second was far worse. It carried with it the weight of inevitability. Because if he truly believed you were safe in his hands, then his protection was not born of mercy or love—it was born of certainty, of conviction. And conviction, when paired with someone like him, was a dangerous thing.
You pressed your face deeper into his skin, into the steady warmth of his palm, trying to steady yourself, to stop the trembling that had begun in your chest and now spread outward to your fingertips. You closed your eyes, focusing on the steady press of his thumb, the quiet, controlled rhythm of his breathing. Every instinct in you told you to pull away, but something—a blend of fear and familiarity—kept you there. Light seemed to take that as trust. He adjusted his hold slightly, curling his fingers just enough to encompass you more securely, and a faint smile brushed his lips, practiced and careful. “There,” he whispered, his voice low and even, almost intimate. “Better?”
You didn’t answer. Not with words, anyway. You just nodded softly against his skin, letting yourself lean in, letting him hold you, while the tremor in your body refused to vanish. You prayed—silently, desperately—that he couldn’t feel just how hard your heart was still pounding, how ragged your breath still was. You wanted to hide it, wanted to convince yourself it was fear of the nightmare, not of him. But deep down, you knew that was a lie.
Because the truth was—you didn’t know if you’d ever feel safe in his hands again. Not with the knowledge you carried now, and not with the man he had become. And even as his thumb pressed softly over your trembling form, even as his voice coaxed you toward calm, part of you recoiled. Not from his touch, but from the certainty in it. That kind of certainty… it was impossible to forget.
Synopsis : It’s another long night for L — glowing monitors, and endless work. You’re perched on his desk, tiny and freezing, until his loose sleeve starts to look like the coziest spot in the world. One quick climb later, you’re tucked inside, warm and safe. He notices, of course. But instead of being irritated with you, he just lets you stay — quietly adjusting, careful not to disturb you. Somewhere between the hum of computers and the steady beat of his pulse, the two of you find an unexpected kind of comfort. It’s simple, wordless, and oddly sweet — a little warmth in L’s otherwise sleepless world.
CWs / Notes : Giant/tiny dynamics (size-difference, gentle handling). No explicit content (entirely SFW, focused on emotional intimacy). L is his normal-sized self, while the reader is small (around 3-5 inches tall). The reader’s physical characteristics, gender, and name are ambiguous.
WC : 4.7k , hope you enjoy reading! ♥︎
It wasn’t unusual for L’s nights to stretch endlessly — the kind where time blurred and the dim light of a dozen monitors painted his pale face in cold hues of blue and gray. The room itself seemed suspended between hours, caught in that eerie stillness only the dead of night could bring. The only movement came from the flicker of shifting code across screens and the lazy curl of steam rising from a neglected cup of tea. Even the air felt heavy, weighted with silence and the faint, lingering scent of sugar and black coffee — the strange perfume of his sleepless world. Somewhere beneath the hum of electronics, the soft, rhythmic clink of a fork against porcelain filled the space, quiet but constant, marking the passage of time in place of a clock.
You sat watching from your perch on the edge of the desk, small and bundled up, the cool air biting faintly at your skin. You’d long grown used to this sight: the dark crescents under his eyes, the soft, unkempt fall of black hair framing a face that never seemed to change expression.
The faint warmth of the computer fans brushed over you, their hum steady and low, but it wasn’t enough to chase away the chill that drifted through the room. A draft slipped under the door and crawled across the desk, teasing the edges of your blanket until you shivered again. L, naturally, was oblivious. His awareness was a spotlight, narrow and consuming — and tonight, all of it was fixed on the labyrinth of data before him. You couldn’t even blame him; this was who he was. Still, part of you wished he’d notice the way your hands trembled slightly as you pulled the small square of fabric tighter around yourself.
You shifted, trying to conserve what little warmth you had, when your eyes caught on the loose white cuff of his shirt sleeve. It hung just within reach, the soft fabric swaying faintly each time he lifted his fork. It looked impossibly warm — brushed with the quiet movements of the man who wore it. You hesitated, biting your lip. You knew he wouldn’t mind if he noticed — L rarely minded much at all — but the thought of climbing into his sleeve without asking somehow felt… intrusive. Still, the draft was relentless, and the fabric looked so soft. Your gaze lingered on the movement of his hand, on the fine tremor of long fingers poised above the fork, and you couldn’t quite tear your eyes away.
The sleeve shifted slightly as L reached for another bite, the movement subtle. The fabric swayed with him, catching the glow of the monitors in its folds — and for a brief moment, you could see inside. It looked soft, like the world within was made of shadows and warmth. The faint crease of the fabric promised comfort, a small refuge from the cold desk and the sterile hum of machinery. You could almost imagine the heat trapped inside, the quiet heartbeat beneath it, the rhythm of life that pulsed through him while he sat so perfectly still. It wasn’t exactly an invitation, but to you, it might as well have been.
And, well… L wouldn’t mind, would he? He’d probably glance down, blink once in mild surprise, and say something so dryly literal that it would almost sound like approval. Maybe something like, “That area of my shirt isn’t typically used as a blanket, but I suppose it’s efficient.” You smiled faintly at the thought. There was a strange sort of safety in his indifference — or rather, in the quiet care that hid beneath it. He’d never say you could stay close, but he’d never push you away, either. For all his brilliance and cold logic, L had a way of making space for you in the smallest, most unexpected ways.
With a quiet, decisive huff of determination, you gathered your blanket and started across the desk. The wood was cold beneath your feet, the faint vibration of the computers thrumming through it. You had to step carefully around crumbs and the rim of his plates, the world around you a landscape of porcelain cliffs and sugar-dusted mountains. When you reached the edge of his sleeve, you hesitated for only a heartbeat. You dropped your blanket and then, with a quick breath, you ducked inside.
The world shifted immediately. The fabric fell around you like a curtain, blocking out the cold and the glare of the monitors. Everything was dim and muted — the soft rustle of his movements now a soothing rhythm instead of a jolt. The air inside was warm, infused with the faint scent of soap, sugar, and something unmistakably him. The steady pulse that thrummed just beneath the skin of his wrist filled the tiny space with a quiet heartbeat, a living sound that grounded you more than anything else could. You pressed closer without thinking, curling into the soft folds as his hand moved with delicate, measured precision above you. Each subtle flex of muscle made the walls of your small refuge shift just slightly — not enough to frighten you, just enough to remind you whose warmth surrounded you.
You let out a small sigh, tension finally ebbing from your shoulders. The warmth seeped into your bones, wrapping you in a comfort that no blanket could ever match. The faint, steady beat of his pulse became a lullaby, the motion of his hand a rhythm you could fall asleep to. Out there, L was still hunched over his monitors, face lit by cold light — but in here, beneath the shield of his sleeve, everything was quiet. You could finally breathe, safe and unseen, resting within the calm heartbeat of someone who never said the words, but always showed them.
Then the motion stilled.
The faint, rhythmic shifting that had been rocking you gently from side to side came to an abrupt halt, and the warm, living space around you grew still. For a moment, you thought you’d imagined it — that maybe he’d just paused to think, as he often did, caught in one of those long silences that could stretch minutes, even hours. But then the familiar, almost imperceptible tension ran through the fabric as L’s hand stopped mid-motion. Above you, the faint metallic clink of his fork meeting the air broke the quiet. He’d frozen halfway through lifting another bite of cake, and though you couldn’t see his face from where you sat, you could feel his attention shift downward — that razor-sharp focus of his now fixed entirely on the small, unfamiliar weight resting against his wrist.
It was strange how still he could become. Even the ambient hum of the room seemed to fade in deference to his silence. The glow from the monitors threw shifting light across his skin, highlighting the pale curve of his cheek and the faint shadow beneath his eyes as he slowly blinked. His mind, no doubt, was already running through possibilities, categorizing, analyzing. For anyone else, a stray sensation might warrant a distracted glance — but for L, every detail was a clue. The weight, the warmth, the subtle pressure against the inside of his sleeve; it all added up, and soon enough, his dark gaze dropped to the source.
“…?” He tilted his head just slightly, the motion smooth and measured, like a curious bird studying something delicate. His voice, when it came, was soft and toneless, a quiet murmur cutting through the hush. “You are… inside my sleeve.” The statement wasn’t surprised, not exactly — more like an observation delivered with the same detached precision he’d use to describe an equation. And yet, there was something beneath it, something small and unspoken — a flicker of bewilderment that, for him, counted as emotion.
You hesitated before moving, fingers pressing lightly into the soft fabric as you gathered the courage to peek out. The cuff loomed like a doorway, the light from his screens spilling in around the edges. Slowly, you pushed your head through, the world outside suddenly too bright after the dim warmth within. Your eyes met his — that steady, unreadable gaze, dark and deep and impossibly focused. He didn’t flinch. He never did. But the faintest tilt of his brow suggested amusement, or maybe confusion, or perhaps both at once.
“It was cold,” you murmured, voice small but sincere as you looked up at him. “Your sleeve looked cozy.” The words came out in a rush, shy and apologetic all at once. You gave him a tiny, sheepish smile, hoping he’d understand. From this close, the light caught on his lashes, the faint blue-gray shadows under his eyes more visible than ever. For a moment, he simply stared, silent as ever — and though his expression barely shifted, the stillness that followed felt oddly gentle, as though your presence there didn’t bother him in the slightest. If anything, he seemed quietly… intrigued.
The sound of the monitors hummed softly around you, the mechanical murmur blending with the faint echo of his breathing. His eyes met yours — those bottomless, calculating pools that seemed to sift through everything they fell upon, able to pick apart an entire psyche in seconds. It was the kind of gaze that felt equal parts examination and quiet curiosity, and under it, you felt a rush of self-conscious warmth bloom in your chest. You half expected him to scold you for interfering with his work, or to lecture you about balance, spatial awareness, or the hindrance of movement. But instead, he held your gaze without judgment, without a flicker of irritation. He simply blinked once — slow, deliberate, and almost weighty, as if acknowledging your presence but letting it stand without further comment.
“That’s…” His voice broke the silence, quiet and measured, each word weighed with thought before it left him. He set the fork down with careful precision, the porcelain plate making a faint, soft sound as it met the surface of the desk. His lips parted just a little as he seemed to consider the situation, his dark gaze flickering back toward you briefly before returning to rest on the inside of his sleeve. “…oddly endearing.” The phrase fell out almost casually, yet it lingered in the air like something carefully placed. It carried an odd weight — part observation, part quiet concession.
Your face heated slightly, and you ducked your head, a small flutter of warmth spread through you. “Endearing?” The word came out in a breathy murmur, tinged with hesitation, almost as if testing whether the sound of it could really belong in the same space as him.
“Yes.” His tone remained flat, lacking inflection, as though he were stating a simple fact rather than confessing something unexpectedly tender. But the faintest curl of a smile — barely perceptible, but undeniably there — touched his lips as he lifted his fork once more. He returned to his dessert with slow deliberation, letting his wrist relax so as not to disturb you. The movement was careful, almost protective, and the softness in it was enough to make you blink in quiet surprise.
“A small creature seeking warmth in my clothing — it’s reminiscent of how certain animals burrow for comfort,” he added softly, his voice steady yet carrying that strange mixture of detachment and observation that defined him. His words seemed more like a study than a statement, and yet, the way he said them was… personal. You could almost feel the quiet gravity of the moment lingering between you, a stillness filled with something unspoken: the fact that, somehow, you belonged here. And he had noticed.
You rolled your eyes and let out a small huff, though it came out closer to a laugh than actual protest. “You make it sound like I’m some kind of pet,” you murmured, voice quiet but touched with amusement. The teasing in your tone was gentle, more fond than defensive. You shifted a little closer, burrowing instinctively into the warmth of his sleeve as if to prove his point — though the thought made you smile. The fabric shifted with his faint movement, and for a moment, it felt like the entire world had narrowed to the soft heat of his skin and the quiet rhythm of his pulse.
“Mm.” His voice was low and contemplative, the kind of sound he reserved for his own thoughts rather than conversation. He lifted his fork again, bringing another bite of cake to his lips with the same careful precision as before. Even as he ate, his attention flicked intermittently to the edge of his sleeve, that small motion subtle but deliberate. It was almost as if he was measuring the situation, calibrating whether your presence there was something he tolerated or something he appreciated. “Perhaps. But I do not dislike you being there.” His tone was flat, the words given without flourish, but you knew from experience that this — this quiet acknowledgment — was as close to affection as L ever offered.
You’d learned over time that his way of showing care was indirect, buried beneath understatement and quiet observation. It wasn’t grand or verbalized, but it was there all the same. You smiled softly against the fabric of his sleeve, hiding your expression in the warm cotton as your heart lifted a little. Without thinking, you snuggled in closer, letting the sleeve fold gently around you. His body heat seeped through the material in a slow, even wave, making the air inside your tiny haven almost dreamlike.
His movements became steadier again, deliberate but careful now, as though every flex of his fingers and wrist was measured to ensure he didn’t disturb you. You could feel it — his awareness, subtle but constant. It was a quiet kind of intimacy, the kind that doesn’t require words. You closed your eyes briefly, letting yourself sink into the sensation, the quiet hum of his breathing and the faint scrape of the fork against porcelain blending into a steady rhythm around you.
He didn’t say anything else for a long while, returning instead to his monitors with the same focus he always carried. The silence wrapped around you, neither uncomfortable nor empty, but full of something unspoken. And then, just when you thought he wasn’t paying attention at all, his voice drifted down to you — soft, deliberate, and just low enough for you alone to hear. It was quiet, thoughtful, almost fragile in the way he spoke.
“If it helps you rest,” he murmured, his voice low and steady, carrying that peculiar weight of quiet thoughtfulness that always made you lean closer to listen, “you may stay there as long as you like.” The words weren’t loud, but they weren’t dismissive either. There was an unusual warmth to them, buried deep beneath his measured tone, like an unspoken permission wrapped in his own kind of care. You felt your heart soften at the sound, the warmth of the sleeve around you deepening. It was strange, how such simple words could feel like an offering — a quiet acknowledgment that you belonged there, in this small, protected space.
You smiled sleepily, the gesture gentle and unguarded, as if the comfort of the moment had let your guard down entirely. “Thanks, L,” you murmured back, your voice muffled slightly by the fabric of his sleeve. The words came softly, tinged with warmth and trust, and you curled in a little closer, letting the sleeve fold snugly around you. The cotton felt heavier now, like it had somehow grown more protective, shielding you from more than just the chill.
His face remained composed, almost unreadable as always, but there was something different in his expression — a subtle shift, so slight you almost questioned whether it had been real. It was a softness, a delicate flicker of something that didn’t usually break through his habitual blankness: fondness. It was there for a moment, in the quiet arc of his expression, before he masked it again beneath his usual detached calm.
“…You’re welcome,” he said at last, his voice barely above a whisper. The words were quiet but deliberate, and the stillness that followed felt heavier, fuller. It was as if the world had paused for just that moment, holding its breath so you could both exist in this strange, unspoken understanding. You nestled deeper, letting yourself drift closer to sleep, aware that L — in his own quiet, peculiar way — had given you something rare: not just permission, but a safe place to rest.
Now, hours later, the world had shifted into a deeper, quieter rhythm. You had long since drifted asleep inside L’s sleeve, your small body curled in as though the fabric itself had folded you into a cocoon. The hum of the computers was constant, soft but insistent — a quiet soundtrack to the night — and the faint, steady beat of his pulse beneath you. Every breath he drew seemed measured, deliberate, and you slept without thought under the shelter of his sleeve, safe and unseen in a warmth that was entirely his own.
L continued his work with one hand, long, thin fingers moving with uncanny precision over the keyboard. The soft clicking of the keys was almost hypnotic in the stillness of the room, an understated counterpoint to the silence surrounding you both. His other hand rested lightly against the desk, wrist tilted so that you remained tucked safely within the fold of his sleeve. Against the fabric you could feel the faint, even rise and fall of his skin — subtle and steady, as familiar to you now as the hum of the machines. You were a small weight against him, and he made no effort to shift, as if your presence was something he had accepted without question.
He was aware of you the way he was aware of his own heartbeat: quiet, steady, grounding. Not in a way that demanded attention, but in a way that existed just beneath the surface of thought — a subtle, constant presence. It was a knowledge without words, a silent acknowledgement that you were there, tucked safely against him. Even his breathing seemed to slow, as though the world had narrowed to just the two of you in that quiet moment.
The weight of you was almost imperceptible to him — a shift in fabric, a faint pressure that could easily have been mistaken for nothing at all. But the warmth… the warmth was not something so easily ignored. It seeped through the cotton of his sleeve, pressing softly against his skin, carrying with it the living reality of you. It was an insistent warmth, small and tender, a quiet reminder that you existed here beside him in a way no words could capture. And somewhere deep inside, unspoken and unmeasured, L knew it mattered.
He typed for a while longer, fingers moving with the quiet precision that was his trademark, each keystroke deliberate, calculated — part of some greater pattern only he could see. Time seemed to fold in on itself in that room, stretching outward and inward all at once, until everything else faded. Then, almost without thought, his thumb twitched — a movement so subtle it seemed unconscious.
The pad of it brushed lightly against the outside of his sleeve, tracing a slow, absent circle over the soft fabric where you rested inside it. It wasn’t a gesture made with intention, not at first — more a reflex, a small acknowledgment of your presence. The contact was faint, but enough to travel through the fabric to you, and a hum escaped from somewhere deep in your sleep. It was a soft, content little sound, almost imperceptible, but L would have missed it entirely if not for the way it vibrated through the cotton into his skin. That vibration — quiet and warm — seemed to pull him from his work for just a fraction of a moment. His thumb stilled, lingering there against the sleeve. Then it resumed its slow motion, gentler this time, as though aware of its own touch.
He didn’t think about it. Not consciously. He just… did it. There was no decision, no internal dialogue; the gesture happened because it simply felt natural. That alone was strange for him. L was a man of reasoning, of constant analysis — yet here was something outside logic, a movement born of habit, instinct, and something harder to define.
It was strange, the way this had become routine — this quiet communion of two unlikely presences. Sharing space with something so small, so fragile, and yet so inexplicably trusting. You asked for nothing beyond warmth, and yet it had become an unspoken agreement between you. He’d never been good with people, never learned how to connect without dissecting, breaking them down into observations and patterns. But you… you were different. You didn’t ask him to explain himself. You didn’t flinch at his oddities or recoil at his silences. You simply existed beside him, without condition, unbothered by the mysteriousness that clung to his name, unafraid to fold yourself into his world without asking for permission.
And perhaps, in the quiet of that moment, as his thumb traced slow circles against the sleeve, L understood something he rarely admitted even to himself: that this — this small, wordless companionship — was a form of connection he had never known he needed.
His eyes remain drifted from the monitors for a moment, unfocused, as though something had pulled him out of the labyrinth of numbers and patterns he so often inhabited. For a breath, the world beyond the screen receded, leaving only the faint glow of light against his pale skin and the subtle warmth pressed against his wrist. L had known companionship before — Watari had been his only constant, the one person who remained steady through the chaos of his life. But that bond had always been built on function, on necessity. It had been an arrangement forged by practicality and obligation, not softness. Watari had been a partner in work, in survival, never in comfort.
You were different. Your presence was not something to be calculated, tested, or cataloged. It didn’t demand results, or perfection, or strategy. There was no expectation of productivity when you were there. You offered him something entirely without condition — something that felt alarmingly like peace. It was the kind of peace that didn’t require an agenda, that existed quietly without announcement. And perhaps that was why it unsettled him slightly; L was a man who lived in certainty, in conclusions and proof, yet here was something he could not dissect. Something he could not reduce to logic. It was simpler than that, and yet far more complicated: the quiet warmth of a small, trusting presence resting against him.
He caught himself tracing slow, rhythmic motions now — up and down against the sleeve, the pad of his thumb following an unthinking, steady pattern. It was a movement so deliberate in its gentleness it resembled the kind of comfort one might offer to a child or a frightened animal, something instinctive and protective. Each motion feather-light, a touch so slight it could almost have been imagined, and yet deliberate in its repetition. He made no comment. There was no acknowledgment of what he was doing, no attempt to explain. That wasn’t how he worked. This was private — a quiet thing between him and you, without words or reasoning to spoil it.
Your breathing stayed soft and even beneath the fabric, the rise and fall of your small form subtle but steady. The sleeve shifted slightly with the motion of his hand, carrying with it the warmth of his own skin and the faint scent of him. You moved just enough in your sleep to press closer against his wrist, a small sigh slipping from your lips that seemed to settle in the air between you.
He exhaled softly, the sound almost like a sigh — quiet and unassuming, yet carrying a weight that seemed to linger in the stillness of the room. It was not a sigh of fatigue, exactly, nor of irritation, but something quieter, something unspoken. “…You are peculiar,” he murmured at last, voice so low it might have been mistaken for the hum of the monitors around him. The words felt more like an observation than a statement, almost as though he were testing them in his own mind before allowing them to pass his lips. “Most people would not find comfort sleeping near someone like me.” There was no reproach in his tone, no bitterness — only that flat, quiet weight of truth that he always seemed to speak with.
No response followed, of course. You were far too deep in sleep to hear him, your breaths slow and even, your small body curled more into the warmth of him without thought or awareness. The steady rise and fall of your chest was a quiet testament to your trust — something he seemed to notice without surprise. And yet, he spoke anyway, his words drifting down softly, a murmur meant for himself more than for you.
He continued, tone quiet and thoughtful, as if testing the syllables on his tongue before letting them settle in the air. “I wonder… if that is why you fit here so naturally.” His voice was deliberate, carrying a curious softness that rarely touched his speech. “Because you don’t look at me the way others do.” The statement lingered between you, not posed as a question but as something more reflective — an unguarded truth slipping out in the rare stillness of the night. There was no expectation of an answer. You could not give one, not here, not now.
The words hung in the air for a long time. The monitors beeped faintly, their soft tones punctuating the quiet as if in agreement. His plate of cake sat untouched beside him, crumbs scattered in tiny, careless patterns across its surface, forgotten in the moment. The air was still except for the gentle hum of the machines and the faint rustles of his thumb tracing the sleeve around you. His hand lingered there, movements slow and steady, deliberate yet unthinking. It matched the rhythm of your breathing, small circles that seemed to exist for no reason other than comfort — his own and yours.
Eventually, his gaze softened — just a hint, so subtle it might have gone unnoticed to anyone not paying close attention. It wasn’t an expression he wore often. L’s face was usually a mask of careful neutrality, his emotions guarded behind that still, calculating exterior. But tonight, in the quiet hours, there was something different in his look — a flicker of something rare. He tilted his head ever so slightly, just enough to shift the light, the shadow, and the weight of the moment between you.
“…I’m glad you found warmth,” he murmured under his breath, his voice low and steady, carrying a strange mix of detachment and sincerity. The words were quiet, almost reluctant, as though admitting them required effort. “Even if it’s in something as unremarkable as my sleeve.” There was no mockery in his tone, only a plain observation, but somehow it carried weight. In his world of puzzles and calculated truths, admitting that something as small as this — you resting here, sleeping in his sleeve — brought him some quiet satisfaction was extraordinary.
He blinked once, slowly, deliberately, as if sealing the thought and setting it aside. Then, without breaking the stillness that had grown between you, he turned back to his work. His long, pale fingers began to move again over the keyboard, typing once more. The sound was steady and methodical, but the hand that rested against his wrist remained still — guarding you. There was no tense effort in it, only a careful awareness, as if he were cradling something precious without naming it. The sleeve curved softly around you, a small shelter against the cold and the world beyond.
If anyone had entered the room at that moment, they would have seen only a man hunched over a desk — pale, disheveled, absorbed in his work, the air around him heavy with the scent of sugar and quiet concentration. They would have seen nothing of the delicate exchange happening in silence beside him, the tiny truth that lay hidden in the ordinary. But within the sleeve of his shirt, hidden and warm, there rested the smallest proof that L — the world’s greatest detective, the man who dissected motives and read minds — was still capable of gentleness.
And he, for once, didn’t mind it. Not the weight of you pressed there, not the softness you brought into his calculated world. It was quiet, imperfect, and entirely yours — and in a life built on certainty and observation, that was something L allowed himself to hold onto without question.
May I ask a requests for bleach fans?Aizen please🥰
Ahhh, I feel so bad! I’m so sorry, but I haven’t watched Bleach yet. It’s next on my watchlist after I finish Naruto, though — and I’m almost done with Naruto, so hopefully I’ll be able to do this soon! All I ask is that you give me a few weeks. 💜
I’ve already done this! 😊 If you click this link and scroll down a bit, you’ll see a fandom section that lists all the fandoms I’m in. It’s mostly anime, but there are a few video games too. Over time, more things will be added — but I can only consume media so fast, lol.
stormborns
izzy806
ellievsbear
annaxmalina
jbbartram-illu
dededos
tangentwithtanner