Synopsis: Mello and Near are handcuffed together and the cuffs will not come off unless certain specific circumstances occur...they require your assistance.
Warnings: Explicit smut
A/N: I know this is different.. I had to get creative. I felt a forced situation was the only way Mello and Near would ever do this together. For the anon who suggested poly- I hope you enjoy this.
wc: 1.8k
_________________________________________
You’re curled sideways in an office chair, one leg draped over the armrest, a cold energy drink sweating in your palm. The ops room is a wreck of cluttered desks, empty takeout boxes, loose wires, the smell of three different kinds of instant noodles clinging to the air like regret.
Mello’s pacing like he’s got a bomb ticking under his skin. Every few laps, he runs a hand through his messy blond hair like it personally offended him.
Near’s on the floor, cross-legged in a sea of puzzle pieces, holding a stylus between two fingers and methodically building a tower of numbered data cards. He hasn't looked up in at least forty-five minutes.
Matt’s the only one enjoying himself. He’s half-sprawled on a desk, red goggles pushed up to his forehead, Game Boy forgotten in his lap, a smirk twitching at the corners of his mouth as he digs through a dusty lockbox labeled ARCHIVE: CLASSIFIED – UNUSABLE ARTIFACTS.
“Hey,” he calls lazily. “You guys ever hear of ‘conflict-resolution cuffs’?”
Near doesn’t respond. Mello doesn’t stop pacing. “The fuck is that, a kink toy?”
Matt pulls something shiny from the box. Metal glints under the overheads—sleek cuffs, silver but inscribed with something that shimmers when he tilts them.
"Magical containment? Binding rituals? You know how they loved that esoteric bullshit"
Near speaks without looking up. “Most of the Archive is unstable or unproven. Do not engage with any items marked in red.”
“They weren’t red,” Matt says, squinting. “They were.... more of a soft rose gold.”
Mello mutters, “If this is another one of your dumbass jokes—”
“Relax.” Matt flicks the cuffs open one-handed, grinning. “They probably don’t even—”
He’s suddenly beside Near. Near looks up. First mistake. Matt snaps one cuff onto Near’s wrist with a sharp click.
“Matt.” Near’s voice doesn’t change, but his fingers freeze mid-stack.
Mello whirls. “Are you fucking kidding me—”
Before you can say a word, Matt turns and slaps the second cuff onto Mello’s wrist.
Click.
There’s a flash of cold light—like a camera bulb and static hitting skin—and then the air feels wrong. Heavier. You feel it. The room does. The whole dynamic shifts.
Mello’s hand twitches. The chain between their wrists is taut. Seamless. No lock. No hinge. No keyhole.
“Matt—” you start, rising.
Matt’s already backing toward the hallway, arms raised in surrender. “Hey, look. If it makes you feel better, I genuinely didn’t think it would work. I was just bored.”
“You moron!” Mello yells, yanking at the cuff. The chain doesn’t even creak. “You cuffed me to him?!”
“You’re welcome!” Matt’s already halfway out the door, grabbing his console on the way. “You two have unresolved tension! This is basically therapy!”
“This is magical fucking bondage therapy!” Mello shouts.
Matt winks at you before disappearing into the hallway. “Good luck, sweetheart. You’re their emotional support peacemaker now.”
The door slams shut.
You've been reading up. The archives are vast. Obscure tomes on magical devices. You finally find it—Soulbind Cuffs: R13 series. Intended as a last-resort bonding tool for high-stakes diplomacy or… couples therapy??
You read the fine print.
Cuffs will only disengage upon shared, consensual emotional alignment. Intimacy accelerates process. Completion of mutual release—emotional, physical—breaks the tether.
You reread that line five times.
Then look up. The boys are glaring at each other across the coffee table, one shared wrist between them. Mello’s sweating, hair stuck to his cheek. Near is tapping a Rubik’s Cube, unblinking.
You clear your throat.
“So. I figured it out.”
Two sets of eyes snap to you.
“They won’t come off unless you both—” you gesture vaguely “—achieve mutual climax. Together.”
Dead silence.
Mello goes red instantly. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
“It’s magic!” you throw your hands up. “It doesn’t care about gender or preference or grudges. It wants to see two bonded souls climax together. Emotionally. Physically. Whatever. It's metaphysical synergy.”
Near’s head tilts. “A forced sexual ritual.”
“Don’t call it that,” you groan.
Mello’s voice drops. “We’re not doing it.”
Near nods. “Agreed.”
You sigh. “Then you’ll be like this forever.”
“I’d rather die,” Mello snarls.
“I’d rather wait,” Near says blandly.
You just shake your head.
Mello growls, yanks at the cuff again—still nothing.
You don’t speak either. You just walk toward them. Unhurried. Hands loose at your sides. You kneel in front of them—between them—rest your palms on your thighs. Steady. Present.
“I’m not saying you two have to fuck each other.” That gets their attention. You breathe. “But I can help. If you let me.”
Mello narrows his eyes. “You’re joking.”
“I’m not.”
Near’s eyes are fixed on your mouth. “You believe... you could stimulate both of us to simultaneous orgasm?” His voice is calm, clinical, but there’s a flicker there. A pulse under his skin.
You sigh. “You’re the ones chained together. Unless you’ve got a spell I don’t know about, this is the only way.”
Mello rubs his face. “I can’t believe this is happening. With him.”
“I’m not pleased either,” Near replies, adjusting the angle of his knees.
“Oh shut up, you don’t feel anything.”
“I feel irritation...you are the source.”
_____________
The room’s warm. Lamp low. No one’s talking anymore. The air feels loaded, like static—like something wants to snap.
You’ve peeled your shirt off, unhurried, sitting cross-legged in front of them on the rug. Mello’s leaned back on his hands, arms tense. Near sits perfectly upright, but his jaw flexes.
They’re both watching you. Their bodies still separated by the inch-thick chain, wrists close but nothing else. They refuse to touch.
So you crawl forward.
“This isn’t about you two liking each other,” you murmur, reaching up to rest a hand on each of their thighs. “It’s about needing each other. Right now. In this moment. To get out of this.”
Mello doesn’t answer. He’s biting the inside of his cheek. Near nods once, robotically.
You start slow. Fingers first, brushing over the front of Mello’s pants. He’s already half-hard. No surprise. All that rage, tension, frustration—it’s sitting right there under the surface, waiting to break.
He lets out a breath through his nose, sharp and ragged. “Don’t tease.”
“I’m not,” you whisper.
You turn to Near, and his eyes are on your hands, blinking slow. His cock is delicate, flushed against pale thighs. You palm it gently. He exhales.
Mello scoffs. “Bet he’s never even been touched.”
“By people with manners? No,” Near replies evenly.
“Fucking hell—” Mello grits
“You’re really responsive,” you say, and smirk when he glares.
You turn to Near, he doesn’t even blink. Just watches the whole time as your hand slides against him. His breath stutters when your fingers close around him.
You stroke them both—two different bodies, two different pulses. Mello wants pressure. Speed. Your wrist aches trying to keep up. Near needs rhythm, precision. He twitches if you deviate. They’re both trying so hard not to show how much they want this.
“Still emotionless, Near?”
His voice is breathy, distant. “Physical responses are not proof of emotional depth.”
Mello barks a laugh. “You’re hard as fuck. What’s that—data collection?”
“Observation,” Near says, eyes fluttering as your thumb brushes his tip.
Two different rhythms. Mello fast, tight, frantic. Near slow and steady, your thumb circling the head of his cock in lazy little patterns that make him twitch. They’re both panting now, shoulders rising and falling like they’ve run miles.
Mello’s eyes are glued to your chest. “Fucking take it off.”
You smile and unhook your bra. Mello groans. Near reaches up like he’s unsure if he can, but you guide his hand to your breast and gasp as his thumb brushes your nipple.
Your moan gets both of them to freeze.
“She’s loud,” Mello mutters. “You like that?”
Near presses his palm against you. “It may assist with... alignment.”
Mello snorts. “Just admit it turns you on.”
“Admitting that would alter the results,” Near murmurs.
You laugh softly, then lean back to peel the rest of your clothes off.
When you’re fully naked, they stop arguing. They’re just watching. You crawl up into Near’s lap, straddle him, and reach back for Mello.
You guide him behind you, feel the burn in your thighs as you press back into his body. Mello groans as his cock glides between your cheeks, hands gripping your hips.
“Still want to kill each other?” you whisper.
Near is breathless. “Temporarily... distracted.”
Mello’s mouth is against your neck now. “You’re lucky you’re hot.”
You slide down onto Near first. His cock fills you, inch by inch, and his breath punches out of his lungs. He’s frozen beneath you, gripping your thighs like they’re lifelines. Then you brace yourself and reach back—
Mello pushes in slowly. Gritting his teeth. “Jesus, fuck—”
You’re full. Too full. Both of them buried deep in you, your whole body trembling as you try to breathe around the feeling. They don’t move. Just pant. Wait.
“Move,” Mello growls. “Please.”
You do. It starts slow—grinding your hips, feeling both of them rub against your walls, your insides pulsing around them. Mello thrusts once, sharp. You cry out. Near groans softly, his head tipped back.
You ride Near with long, rolling motions, your clit brushing against his stomach. Mello fucks into you harder now, faster, his hands sliding up your spine. One of his fingers tangles in your hair, pulling just enough to make your breath catch.
“You’re taking it,” he growls. “So fucking good.”
“She’s very warm,” Near says softly. “Tight. Applying correct amount of pressure.”
“You say that like you’re grading an assignment,” Mello snaps, but his voice cracks on the last word. He’s close. So close.
You’re shaking now—full, stretched to your limits, Near seated deep inside you while Mello drives in from behind, his pace steady but cruel, testing your limits.
You’re not just between them—you’re the bridge. Their bodies only joined through yours. And they’re not giving in easily.
“I don’t see how this is supposed to help,” Mello growls against your shoulder. His breath is ragged, cock twitching inside you with every grind. “He’s not even touching you right.”
Near blinks up at you from below, cheeks flushed, hands tightening on your waist. “Incorrect. Her pupils dilate when I stroke her clit counterclockwise.”
You laugh through a gasp. “He’s not wrong.”
Near’s thumb slides between you, slow and exact, pressing just under your clit in a way that makes your body jerk. Mello’s grip tightens. You feel the cuff pulse with magic, heat flaring between their wrists like it knows they’re teetering.
You roll your hips forward, squeezing both of them from inside. Mello groans. “Shit—don’t do that—”
You smile, breathless. “You close already?”
“I’m not—” he growls, but he thrusts harder, desperate to regain control.
Near’s voice is thin now. “I believe your pelvic rhythm is faltering.”
You moan, sharp, overstimulated now. Near’s cock presses deliciously against that tender spot inside you, and Mello’s rutting deep, his thrusts rough enough to make you tremble.
“Come on Mello, prove you’re better,” you whisper. “Fuck me harder.”
That does it.
Mello grabs your hips and slams into you, rhythm quickening, chasing something now. You gasp, clutching Near’s shoulders, your body caught between them like a live wire. The air smells like sweat and sex and magic burning out.
Your moan cuts them off—high and broken, thighs trembling as your orgasm threatens again, creeping up, so damn close.
You clench around both of them. They both twitch. You slow your movement just enough to make them groan.
“Don’t stop,” Mello growls, panting now. “I swear to god—”
“She’s edging us,” Near says, tone somehow still flat.
“She’s gonna kill us.”
You’re close. But you don’t let go yet.
You slow it down again—grind forward, rolling your hips just right. Near twitches inside you, whimpering, his forehead pressed to your chest.
You glance over your shoulder. Mello’s watching you both like he’s been denied air. You lean back into him, and he licks a stripe up your spine. He’s losing control. You can feel it.
“She’s gonna cum,” he pants. “You can feel it. She’s—fuck—she’s squeezing so hard—”
“We have to time it,” Near gasps.
“I know.”
Mello’s hand snakes around you, joining Near’s, both thumbs pressing your clit now in rhythm. You scream—raw and real—as your orgasm surges up, almost there—
But you don’t fall- Not yet. You ride the edge. Over and over. Your body clenching, thighs shaking, everything strung tight as they both work you toward it. One more second. One more thrust. One more slow, circling press—
And then Mello snaps.
“Now—fuck—now—”
Near arches under you, voice breaking.
And you let go.
It hits like fire—every nerve bursting open, you're clamping down, you scream—legs shaking, body convulsing around them as you lock down hard, milking them. as both of them cry out, twitching inside you, pouring into you, their hands locking on your body as they lose everything.
The cuffs explode.
A flash of white light. A high-pitched crack. Metal hitting the floor with twin clinks.
You collapse, limp and slick with sweat, breath heaving in your throat.
Mello slumps forward, panting against your back.
Near goes still beneath you, eyes closed, his chest rising and falling fast, but even.
Nobody speaks. Until—
“You edged me for fifteen minutes,” Mello says, voice hoarse.
You smile. “You needed the attitude adjustment.”
“She’s... efficient,” Near murmurs.
You roll off them with a groan. “I need water”
No one moves for a while. Then Mello says, “You’re seriously not gonna look at me right now, are you?”
“I’m preserving what little sanity I have left,” Near murmurs.
“You literally came while I was inside her.”
“So did you.”
“I hate this.”
From the hallway, you hear:
“Yo, did it work?” Matt’s voice. “Are the chains off?”
Mello throws the broken cuff at him. “I hope your controller gets stuck on ‘up.’”
Matt grins and ducks. You laugh. Your thighs hurt. Your whole body aches. But the cuffs are gone. “Next time he plays matchmaker, I’m burning the Archive.”
Synopsis: You and the task force debate another topic: Can men tell if a woman is faking an orgasm?
Warning: suggestive topic
wc: 1.5k
_________________________________________
It starts the way most tragedies start: Misa’s legs across your lap, a spoon of parfait hanging mid-air, and too many men in one room.
"So anyway," Misa chirps between bites, "I faked it. Obviously."
The room suspends in time. Matt slowly lowers his goggles. Mello freezes mid-chocolate-chomp. Matsuda makes a sound like a car hitting a mailbox. Light—Light simply sets his pen down and exhales like someone just broke a vase in his soul.
"I’m sorry," Mello says slowly, turning to her like she’s a crime scene. "What the hell did you just say?"
"I faked it," Misa repeats, all sunshine and murder. "He was all, 'yeah, baby, take it,' and I was mentally checking my Amazon wishlist."
You burst out laughing.
Light cuts in, adjusting his collar like he’s trying not to strangle himself with it. "This is already spiraling. But…it is a good question."
You raise an eyebrow. "You interested in the academic pursuit of fake orgasms, Yagami?"
"I’m open to discussion," he says calmly, but his voice has that dangerous let’s-solve-this-with-math edge. "We’re clearly in uncharted territory here. So let’s clarify: can men reliably tell when a woman fakes it?"
"Absolutely not," you say.
"I can," Mello declares confidently, which is how you know he absolutely can’t.
"No," Misa says. "There’s a difference between being attentive and narrating your own p*rn script while we do all the acting."
"They can’t tell," you say, tone firm. "And if they say they can, they’re lying, delusional, or both."
"That’s bullshit," Mello snaps. "I always know."
"You always think you know," Misa corrects. "Very different."
"You think moaning means it's real?" you snort. "Sweetheart, sometimes I moan to match rhythm. Like a metronome."
"Okay, then explain what you’re doing. Lying there, giving Oscar-worthy fake moans?"
"Sometimes, yeah," you say sweetly. "Sometimes we even toss in a twitch or a leg shake to sell the performance."
Mello looks genuinely betrayed. "*You guys have moves?"
"We have full choreography."
"But why?!" Matsuda says, devastated. "Why would you fake it?"
"To get it over with," you and Misa say together, flatly.
"Sometimes," Misa adds, "it's either that or crush your ego like a wet paper cup."
Matt wheezes, slouching deeper into his chair. "So I’ve been out here doing my best and getting simulated applause?"
"You’ve been getting politely excused from the stage," You smirk.
"I hate this," Mello growls. "So what do we do? Just ask?"
"Yes," you and Misa say in unison.
"What vibe, Mello?" you say, deadpan. "The vibe where she’s faking it to your rhythm and wondering if she left the stove on?"
"Ask? In the moment? That’s insane. That ruins the vibe."
Matt holds up a hand. "Can we get a definition of a real orgasm vs a fake one, for… scientific clarity?"
"Real orgasm?" you say. "You forget your last name, your credit score drops 20 points, and you speak in tongues."
"Fake orgasm?" Misa chimes in. "You make the same sound you do when you’re stretching. ‘Oooh yes.’”
Light sighs. "Okay, so if we remove the performative aspect—sighing, moaning, tremors—what are the involuntary markers?"
And that’s when L looks up. No warning. No sound. Just death incarnate, perched on his rolling chair, eyes dark and glittering like an abyss with a Wi-Fi signal.
"There are seven."
The room screeches to a halt.
"Seven what?" Matt says slowly.
"Seven orgasmic indicators that cannot be faked consistently unless the performer is a trained actress with an unusually detailed grasp of pelvic floor biology," L says, sipping tea like he’s saying "pass the salt."
Mello blinks. "Okay. Fuck. What are they?"
L holds up his hand and counts off with his fingers:
"Spasmodic contractions in the pelvic floor—typically rhythmic and between 0.8–1.2 second intervals."
"Clitoral retraction, followed by increased sensitivity, often to the point of pain."
"Gluteal tension release. This one’s subtle- most overlook it."
"Pulse spike exceeding 140 BPM."
"Pupillary dilation. Irregular breathing."
"Immediate shift in verbal capacity—loss of coherent speech or substitution of language with unintelligible vocalizations."
"Post-orgasmic awareness lag. A woman who came will take 7–23 seconds longer to respond to nonsexual stimuli."
Everyone stares.
"You just know that?" Misa breathes.
"I wrote my thesis on it," L replies. "It was titled 'The Climax Conundrum: Detecting Deception in Post-Coital Behavior.'"
Light looks over slowly. "I want to read that."
"You can’t," L says. "I submitted it anonymously to avoid social consequences."
"Too late," you say. "The social consequences are here."
"Jesus," Matt breathes. "You’ve been researching."
"He’s been collecting data," you say, squinting. "L, do you have a spreadsheet for this?"
"I do," L replies. "It’s color-coded and anonymous. Except Mello's entry. His was emotional."
"I never filled that out," Mello snaps.
"You screamed it aloud in the kitchen," Near says. "That counts as consent."
"I’m surrounded by freaks," Mello mutters. "I just want to be able to tell when a girl’s not into it. That’s it. Why is that so hard?"
"Because you think ‘being into it’ looks like a bad adult video" Misa says. "Meanwhile, real orgasms are messy. Unsexy. She probably says your name like it hurt."
Matt leans over to Light. "Yo, are you okay with all this?"
"Actually," Light says calmly, scribbling something down, "I find it enlightening. Women deserve to finish. If I have to alter my own technique, so be it."
Misa fans herself. "Oh my god. Say that again, but slowly."
"Women. Deserve. To finish."
"He's becoming too powerful," Matt whispers. "He’s hot and informed."
"I feel spiritually attacked," Mello mutters. "I hate that I’m the one yelling and he’s the one getting laid for it."
"Mello," Light cuts in, adjusting his tie with that exact face he makes before he says something awful but infuriatingly correct, "you’re projecting a lot of emotional distress for someone who claims to be getting women off consistently."
"EXCUSE ME?"
"If you were confident, you wouldn’t be yelling."
"I’M YELLING BECAUSE EVERYONE IS LYING."
Near finally speaks without looking up: "Statistically, women fake orgasms more often with men who lack emotional attunement or self-awareness."
"WHAT THE FUCK DOES THAT MEAN?"
"It means you're loud, sweaty, and ignoring their clit," Matt translates.
Mello grabs a throw pillow and screams into it.
L, quietly, sets his teacup down "In empirical studies, roughly 48% of women admitted to faking an orgasm at least once. Of those, over 85% stated their partner did not notice. When asked how they performed it, most cited vocal performance, timing cues, and mimicking muscular contractions."
Matt raises a brow. "So… fake moaning, squirming, some heavy breathing?"
"Yes," L replies. "Though many also described using repetition of phrases such as ‘right there,’ or ‘don’t stop,’ to hasten the process."
Light’s mouth twitches. "So encouraging sounds can mean you’re doing it right or doing it very wrong."
"Yes," L says calmly. "The average male is not trained in reading involuntary physiological responses under arousal. This, combined with ego, creates the illusion of skill."
Mello looks like he's about to combust. "You think I’m an illusion?!"
"You are statistically at high risk of misidentifying performative pleasure," L says. "Your confidence is excessive. That correlates negatively with accuracy."
"I’m going to start waterboarding people for the truth," Mello mutters. "I swear to god."
Near chimes in, softly placing another domino: "Just ask if she came, make honesty feel safe. Revolutionary idea, I know."
Light hums. "Actually, I agree. Consent culture includes post-sex check-ins."
"I want a refund on every sexual encounter I’ve ever had," Matsuda says quietly.
"Honestly?" you grin. "Probably fair."
L sips his tea again. "In summary: no, men cannot reliably detect a faked orgasm unless their partner is spectacularly bad at lying or has a seizure mid-coitus."
L begins typing furiously. "I am now creating a shared spreadsheet titled 'Task Force Climax Self-Awareness Survey.' There will be anonymous entries, follow-up questions, and an optional open mic feedback box."
"NO ONE WANTS TO DO THAT," Mello snaps.
"Already received two entries," L says, eyes flicking up. "Thank you, Matt."
"You’re welcome," Matt grins. "Typed 'pretty sure she finished once.'"
"I wrote a poem," Near says. "It’s called 'Echo in the Thrust Chamber.'"
You stand up dramatically. "In conclusion: you don’t know shit. But the good news is, you can learn. A woman body is not a Rubik’s cube. It’s not about solving it fast. It’s about turning it with intention."
There is a beat of stunned, reverent silence.
Then Light mutters: "...‘Turning it with intention’... That’s going in the spreadsheet."
And L nods solemnly. "Quoted. Highlighted. Immortalized."
Consequences:
Three of the task force members never looked each other in the eye again.
Mello threw his back out trying to prove something later that week.
Matt got a thank-you text from an ex.
Near’s poem was published online and banned in seven countries.
L laminated the spreadsheet Light from that day onward started asking, listening and ruining lives.
L’s fingers hovered over the keyboard, unmoving. He was staring at the screen, but not seeing it. The code could have been blank, for all the good it was doing him now. Numbers, words, leads—they floated past without sticking.
Because you were on the couch again. Sleeping. Too softly.
A blanket clung low to your hips, having slipped during the night. One bare leg was curled over the armrest, the other folded under you, and your tank top had twisted—one strap sliding off your shoulder, leaving the delicate slope of it exposed in the dim blue monitor light.
L had told himself not to look. He never listened. His knees were pulled up to his chest, toes barely brushing the chair cushion, thumb at his mouth—except he hadn’t bitten it in almost half an hour. Your breathing had changed.
He noticed it right away. Of course he did. It was slower now, then quicker. A sigh. Another. A soft little exhale that was just slightly different from the ones before. You shifted—twitched. Then murmured something.
His head tilted, just slightly. Then again. This time, he heard it.
“L…”
So quiet. He blinked once. Twice. You didn’t move again. Just lay there, lashes fluttering faintly, mouth open on another sigh. And then— “Feels so warm… wish you’d…”
The rest trailed off. But L was already frozen. Not out of fear- out of calculation. Because you were asleep. And you were talking about him. And something inside him—something low and old and deeply unprofessional—stirred.
He stood. Padded across the floor in silence. Each step measured, quiet, like he was approaching a crime scene. And maybe he was. Because what he found on that couch was dangerous.
You looked so soft like this- so unguarded. Your fingers were tucked beneath your cheek, hair sticking to your forehead, legs tangled in the blanket like you’d fought a dream and lost. And your lips? Still parted. Still warm with the echo of his name. He crouched beside the couch. “You’re dreaming about me..” he murmured lowly, not sure why he said it out loud.
And then—your eyes opened. Just barely. Glazed. Tired. But aware. You blinked up at him. Didn’t flinch- Didn’t move.
He swallowed. “You said my name.”
You glanced away. “Dreaming.”
“You sounded…” he hesitated, then let it hang.
There was a silence between you. Heavy, but not uncomfortable. Just honest.
Then- “You could’ve kept working.”
“I didn’t want to.”
That pulled your gaze back to him. That tiny truth hanging in the air between you now.
You stared at him. His face in shadow. His mouth slightly open. The soft twitch of nerves behind his eyes. His eyes dragged down to your mouth..then back up.
And something shifted in the room. That tight tension that had always hummed beneath the surface between you? It cracked. Split open. Filled the space like heat rising off a slow boil.
“What are we doing?” you asked quietly.
“I should go back to my chair,” he murmured.
“You should..” you said looking at his lips as he spoke.
But neither of you moved.
Your hand slid from beneath your cheek—reached, hesitated—then rested lightly on his wrist. His breath caught again. He leaned forward. It wasn’t a kiss, at first.
Just a brush. A test. A ghost of contact from his lips to yours, soft as starlight. You whispered his name again into that almost-kiss. He gave in.
The second kiss was fuller. Warmer. A pull of lips, a sigh, his hand curling over your waist as he braced himself against the couch with the other. Your fingers slipped into his hair.
And he moaned. Quiet. Wrecked. Like he didn’t know he could make that sound.
And when you shifted beneath him, arching just enough that his body slipped between your legs, both of you breathless from just the kiss—he looked down at you like you were unquantifiable. And whispered: “I don’t want to stop this.” You pulled him in again.
His body trembled as he kissed you again, slower this time—like he wanted to make sure every second sank into memory. Like he wanted to feel everything and file it away, a new puzzle only he could solve. His mouth fit over yours like he’d done it a thousand times in secret, in thought, in daydreams he’d never admit to. But now? With your hands in his hair, your thigh brushing against his hip, your lips parting for him—
Now he knew. Kissing you wasn’t hypothetical. It was real.
He sank further into the space between your legs, one hand braced beside your head, the other sliding up your side, careful, reverent, asking permission without a single word. When his palm settled just beneath your breast, your breath caught, and he froze—
Until you whispered, barely audible: “Yes.”
That one word made him shudder. He lowered his mouth to your throat, to the hollow just beneath your jaw, and kissed you there—slow, deliberate, like he wanted to test what your pulse did under his tongue. And God, when he felt it jump? He smiled against your skin.
“You’re warm,” he murmured. “And very… responsive.”
His fingers moved slowly, skimming under your shirt, dragging it higher. He didn’t push. Didn’t rush. But when you lifted your arms to help, he pulled the shirt off in one fluid motion and stared. You watched his throat move as he swallowed. His eyes dragged over your skin—slow, serious, like he was collecting data with each breath. But it wasn’t impersonal.
It was fascinated. Awed. “May I…” His voice trailed off. You reached for his hand and guided it to your breast. He exhaled like he’d been holding it since he woke up three days ago. His palm was warm and trembling slightly as he cupped you, thumb brushing across your nipple like he was trying to gauge the exact response. You gasped, body arching slightly beneath him, and he bit his lip, hard.
He leaned in and kissed your chest—soft, then deeper, lips parting, tongue flicking just enough to make your back arch again. His breath hitched against your skin. “I like the way you react to me,” he whispered.
You let out a shaky laugh, and he looked up at you, that strange, rare softness in his eyes—like he wasn’t used to being wanted this way. Like having you under him, letting him touch you like this, meant more than either of you could say out loud.
Then he pulled back—just slightly. Hands sliding down your sides. Hooking into the waistband of your shorts. “May I continue?” God. The way he said it.
So careful. So respectful. So fucking desperate to make sure it was right. You lifted your hips for him- That was all the answer he needed.
He peeled them down slow—dragging your underwear with them—eyes fixed on your skin as it was revealed, every inch of you exposed like a secret he’d waited months to unlock. And when he saw you—all of you—he went completely still. Like he couldn’t process how real it was. How perfect. How soaked you were.
He let out a soft, shaky breath. “I’ve imagined you like this,” he whispered. “I didn’t think the reality would be so…” Another pause. “..much better.” Then he lowered himself between your thighs. You reached for him, thinking he might kiss you again, but instead—
His mouth pressed gently to your inner thigh. Then higher. And higher. Soft lips. Hot breath. Reverent devotion. He kissed the spot just beside where you ached for him. And looked up at you.
“You said my name in your sleep,” he said quietly. “You were dreaming about this,” he said. “About me.” Then he dipped his head. And kissed you down there like it was the answer to every unsolvable problem. His tongue was careful at first—exploratory.
Slow strokes, like he was testing how you tasted, how your body responded to every flick and press. You gasped. Your hands clenched the couch cushions. Your hips rose—and he held them down gently, strong hands gripping your thighs as he continued.
And then?
He moaned against you. Soft. Desperate. Like your taste was addictive. Like you were addictive. And when his tongue circled your clit, slow and perfect, your whole body jerked and he grinned—that tiny, maddening smile you’d only ever seen when he cracked a case wide open.
“There,” he murmured. “That’s where you fall apart, isn’t it?”
You could barely breathe. He flattened his tongue and licked you long and slow, then again, then sucked, and you nearly sobbed. “L—!” He didn’t stop.
His fingers joined his mouth—two of them pressing inside, slow but steady, curling upward just enough to make you cry out. And with his lips wrapped around your clit, his fingers inside you, and his eyes locked to your face, it was— Too much. You came hard.
Arching off the couch. Crying his name. Grinding into his mouth like you’d die if he stopped. And he still didn’t stop. Not until you were shaking. Not until you were begging. Not until he was certain you’d given him everything. Only then did he pull back—mouth glistening, eyes dark, and voice wrecked as he said—
“That was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever witnessed.”
And when you pulled him up and kissed him again—tasting yourself on his tongue, moaning into his mouth— You knew this wasn’t a dream. And he’d never let you fall asleep on that couch again.
You pulled him into you—his body long and warm and trembling, arms bracketing either side of your head as your mouths met again, slow and thirsty, like both of you needed more but neither dared break the rhythm. He kissed like he thought it might vanish. Like if he didn’t memorize every second, he might wake up alone at the desk again, monitors glowing cold and blue, hands empty. He didn’t speak now. He didn’t analyze. He just felt.
You ran your hands over his back, underneath the loose shirt he always wore too large, finding heat beneath skin, shoulder blades tight with years of tension. He gasped softly into your mouth when your fingertips grazed the dip of his spine. “You’re shaking,” you whispered.
He nodded. His voice was barely there. “You overwhelm me.”
You smiled, brushing his hair back, thumb sliding gently along his cheekbone. “Is that a problem?”
“No.” He looked at you then. That look—the one that made people confess their darkest truths without meaning to. But this time, there was no calculation in it.
You kissed him again, and his hips dipped—tentative, instinctive, and completely involuntary—his clothed cock brushing your thigh, and you both gasped.
The contact stunned him. Your fingers reached for the waistband of his pants. "Let me help."
He froze—like prey—but didn't stop you. Just watched, as your fingers worked the button loose, as you tugged the fabric down, inch by inch. You felt him twitch when your palm brushed against him—hard, heavy, flushed against his stomach, the softest breath falling from his lips. He didn’t look away.
You wrapped your hand around him slowly—just once, just to feel how much he'd been holding back—and the noise he made was guttural, quiet and deep in his chest, something pulled out of him against his will.
“You shouldn’t…” he whispered, shaking. “If you keep touching me like that, I won’t be able to last.”
“That’s fine.”
His breath stuttered. And then he kissed you again—harder, deeper, needy now, hips grinding into your palm as you stroked him. You felt how much it hurt to be touched this softly, how fast it was building in him, how desperate he’d been, how long he’d imagined this exact pressure, this angle, this you.
“You… should be on top,” he breathed, a tremor behind the words. “You should… have control.”
You spoke- “I want you to have it.”
He groaned—almost whimpered. And that was it. His fingers were trembling. Not visibly, not in a way anyone else would notice—but you felt it. Where his hand gripped your thigh, holding you open for him. Where his mouth met your skin, slow, distracted, tasting, stalling.
Because L could work a 72-hour case without blinking. He could cut into a murderer’s psyche like it was cake. But sliding his cock into someone who actually wanted him?
He wasn’t built for that.
Your legs were around his waist, ankles crossed at his lower back. You were half beneath him, half guiding him, your hand around the base of his cock—hot, flushed, twitching—and he was watching your face like he was waiting for you to change your mind.
You didn’t.
So he pushed in. Slow. Cautious. Not performative, not practiced—just careful. You exhaled hard. He caught it. “Too much?”
You shook your head. “No. Just—keep going.”
He pressed in deeper, inch by inch, until he bottomed out, hips flush with yours, breath shaky in your ear. His body was warm and tight, muscles coiled like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to relax. You tightened around him instinctively. He choked on a breath.
“Fuck,” he whispered. Quiet. Shocked. “You're warm.”
You almost laughed. But you didn’t. His voice had weight now. Like he meant it more than he could explain. You ran your fingers through his hair—messy, sweat-damp at the edges—and leaned in, mouth grazing his jaw. “Move, L.”
And he did. Tentative at first—like he wasn’t sure what rhythm to use, what you needed.
Then deeper. More certain.
You gasped. He reacted instantly. Changed angle. Tried again. Data. Feedback. Adapt. And then it started to feel less like a pattern and more like him.
He kissed you while he fucked you. Soft, panting kisses between every thrust, like he couldn’t stop needing your mouth, your breath, your voice. His hands gripped your hips, but not to hold you down—to steady himself.
He started moving faster—messier—his rhythm breaking apart under the weight of it. The sound of skin on skin, of gasping breath, of your moans tangled in his name filled the room in place of code, keys, and cold calculation.
He was getting lost in it now—his hand gripping the couch cushion beside your head, the other on your hip, pulling you down against him as he thrust. Not fast. Not rough. Just focused. He was watching you. The way your breath hitched. The way your mouth fell open when he bottomed out. And when you grabbed his wrist and pinned it above your head, he let you. Didn’t fight. Didn’t even blink.
“You’re not in control right now,” you breathed against his neck.
He groaned. Low. Hoarse. Frustrated. “I know.”
You smiled. And then he fucked into you a little harder. Rhythm shifting. Deliberate.
“I still know where to put it.” His voice was different now. Still even. Still calm. But rougher.
Like it was unraveling in real time.
Your body rolled into his—meeting him now, hips arching, thighs shaking with every thrust, and suddenly it wasn’t careful anymore. It was necessary. No confessions. No poetic declarations. Just breath. Teeth. Heat.
His face hovered over yours, dark hair falling in his eyes, mouth slightly open, gasping quietly every time he bottomed out. “You’re… close,” he muttered. Almost to himself.
You were. His fingers moved—between your thighs now, rubbing, circling, slick with your wetness and his own restraint finally cracking.
“L—fuck—don’t stop—”
“I’m not going to.”
Your orgasm hit hard. No fireworks. No screaming. Just your body locking up, your breath breaking, thighs twitching as you clenched around him, and he felt all of it. And he came right after. Head dropped to your neck. Body shivering. Not loud. Not perfect. Just real.
The sound of his breathing, the wet grind of his hips slowing, the way his hand stayed pressed to your thigh like he couldn’t bear to stop touching you.
You both lay there, tangled, sweat-slick, still joined. And he didn’t say a word. Didn’t have to. Because when he finally pulled back—soft, slow, careful—and looked at you? There was no question in his eyes. Just fact.
Just you.
And what you’d done to him.
While the monitors behind you kept flashing cold data to an empty desk—
You find a stray kitten hiding from the rain on your way to HQ and the task force adopts her. Cute cat moments with the task force. Also..Near and you fight for custody.
wc: 2.1k
A/N: IDK what this is...just something fun I guess.
It had been raining all day—one of those gentle, steady drizzles that made the whole city feel a little quieter, a little slower. You had just wrapped up a solo errand run, hoodie pulled up, bag slung over one shoulder as you walked the long way back to HQ, enjoying the calm after a day full of too many voices and too much fluorescent lighting.
You were just rounding the corner of a quiet alley behind the building when you heard it.
A soft, barely-there meow.
You stopped, turned your head slowly, and spotted her: a tiny, shivering kitten tucked beneath a crooked metal stairwell, fur soaked and matted from the rain. Her big eyes blinked at you once—wary, but not hostile. Her little body was curled tight, ears flat, like she’d given up trying to stay warm.
Your heart cracked. Immediately.
You crouched down slowly, another meow, this one softer. Sadder.
You glanced around. No collar. No mama cat in sight. Just this damp, bony ball of fluff staring at you like you were the first nice thing she’d ever seen.
Without hesitation, you pulled your hoodie off and gently wrapped her up, holding her close to your chest. She didn't fight—just melted into the warmth of you like she’d been waiting for someone to scoop her up all her life.
You pushed open the door to HQ about twenty minutes later, soaked to the bone, clutching the now-muffled meows under your hoodie. Everyone was in the common area—Matt playing something loud, Mello arguing with Light, L half-listening while sipping tea, Near calmly puzzling in the corner, and Misa scrolling on her phone.
All heads turned when they saw you.
Mello: “What the hell happened to you—”
And then. Meow. A tiny head popped out from the folds of your hoodie.
Everyone froze.
Matt: “...Did you just smuggle a cat into HQ?”
“I didn’t smuggle her. I rescued her.”
Misa: (gasps) “She’s a BABY!!”
Near: “...You found her in the rain?”
You nodded and moved to the couch, carefully unwrapping the kitten burrito. She mewed again, quieter now, her eyes scanning the new space. Mello came closer, crouching to her level.
Mello: “She’s tiny.”
You: “She was freezing.”
L stood up then, setting his tea aside. “She should be dried off immediately. Matt, get towels. Misa, warm water. Light—food if there’s anything she can digest.”
No one argued. Everyone just moved.
You dried her gently in a towel Matt brought. Misa cooed the whole time. Near offered a shoebox lined with an old sweater. Light read food labels aloud like they were bomb codes. And Mello hovered awkwardly close by the entire time, pretending not to care.
Once the kitten was warm, dry, and fed, she curled up in your lap and let out a soft, rumbling purr that made everyone melt a little—even L, who paused, blinked, and murmured something about “optimal frequency for relaxation.”
Near gave her the name. "Soba," he said calmly, after watching her stalk a string with laser focus. “She’s quiet. Noodles are quiet.”
Matt: “That makes no sense, but I like it.”
You wrapped her in a soft baby blanket and set her beside you on the couch. She immediately rolled to her side and went belly-up—purring louder.
Even Mello caved when she pawed his hand, grumbling, “You’re lucky you’re cute,” while secretly letting her crawl up his chest.
L bought her toys the next day “for enrichment purposes.”
Near let her sleep next to his puzzles.
Misa bought her pink sweaters with sparkly collars.
Matt got her a custom controller-shaped chew toy.
And you?
You got a permanent shadow. A purring, noodle-legged little shadow who followed you from room to room, curled on your bed at night, and somehow always managed to find her way into the middle of Task Force meetings like she belonged there.
Soba had settled into life at HQ with all the elegance and mystery of a small, fluffy queen. Everyone doted on her, and she accepted the attention like it was owed—curling up beside puzzles, sprawling on laptops mid-work session, and occasionally knocking mugs off desks for dramatic flair.
And for a while? She was completely neutral. A fair and balanced benevolent overlord of the Task Force.
Until one afternoon.
You were lounging on the floor beside Near, idly helping with his puzzle (read: pretending to be helpful), when Soba came trotting over—tail high, eyes wide.
You grinned. “Hey baby girl, come here!” You tapped your lap.
She stared at you for one long moment. Then… walked straight past you and curled up beside Near. Like beside him. Nestled between his hip and his puzzle with her tail tucked daintily over her paws.
You blinked. “I’ve been feeding you gourmet tuna.”
Near looked down at her, then up at you, completely serious. “She respects logic.”
_______________________________________________
You’re in the kitchen making tea when Soba wanders in again. You assume she’s here for you—naturally.
Until she stops at Light’s feet.
Light, currently stirring honey into his tea, pauses and glances down. “Hello.”
Soba lets out a soft, dainty meow. Then sits. Directly. On his foot. You walk in with your mug and freeze. “Oh, come on.”
Light gives a smug little smile. “Perhaps she senses that I radiate composure.”
You squint. “You radiate something, alright.”
He kneels down, gently picks her up, and she purrs. Loudly. She tucks her little head under his chin and snuggles.
Light: “She has impeccable taste.”
Misa enters the room, sees this, and gasps.
“She’s choosing favorites! Oh no, she’s about to start drama.”
You: “You’re not even a cat person!”
-__________________________________________
Matt, however, is the first true casualty.
You’re all sitting in the common area, and he has her favorite toy out—the one that looks like a pixelated mouse. He wiggles it dramatically.
“C’mere, Soba Uncle Matt’s got games.”
Soba… doesn’t budge. She’s sitting, prim and elegant, in Mello’s lap, purring while Mello pretends not to care.
“Dude.” Matt looks personally wounded. “I gave you my hoodie drawstrings.”
Mello smirks. “Guess she likes a challenge.”
You pat Matt’s shoulder. “She’ll come back to you when she’s emotionally stable again.”
________________________________________
Soba has never really settled in Mello’s lap before—not for more than a minute or two. So when she spends a solid twenty minutes curled against his chest while he types with one hand and scratches her ears with the other?
He looks... suspicious.
Mello: “She’s planning something.”
You: “She’s literally purring.”
Mello: “Exactly.”
You lean down with a teasing smile. “You’re her favorite now.”
He blinks. “What? No, that’s dumb. She’s fickle.”
You coo at him. “Aww, you’re touched.”
He looks flustered. “I am not. I’m not—this is irrelevant.” Soba purrs louder. Mello glares at her. She licks his hand. His face softens for half a second before he says, “...Okay, but if she sheds on my jacket, she’s sleeping in Matt’s room.”
__________________________________________
It's late evening, and most of the HQ is quiet—save for the soft ticking of a wall clock and the occasional shuffle of Matt getting up for snacks. You're walking through the common room with a cozy blanket draped around your shoulders and a mission: Soba time.
You spot her immediately, curled up like a little loaf of warmth beside Near as he works on another puzzle. She’s nestled into the curve of his leg, perfectly content, purring quietly like she’s just finished reading a philosophy book and is now contemplating the void.
You freeze in the doorway, hand on your heart. "Traitor."
Near doesn’t even look up. “She chose peace.”
You step closer, gently but dramatically. “She chose you last night, too. It’s my turn. I have treats. I have warm thighs. I brushed her this morning.”
Near calmly places another puzzle piece. “And yet here she remains.”
Soba stretches slightly, her paw twitching. She doesn’t move. The betrayal stings.
You narrow your eyes. “Fine. We’re doing this the civil way.”
You leave the room and return 30 seconds later with a tiny paper sign that reads "Custody Hearing in Session" and prop it dramatically on the table next to Soba.
Near looks up this time, his eyes faintly amused. “You’re truly prepared to litigate this?”
“Absolutely.”
You sit cross-legged across from him, trying to look as dignified as one can in fuzzy socks and a hoodie. “Opening statement: I provide chin scratches, spontaneous songs of adoration, and an emotionally stable lap.”
Near gestures slightly. “Rebuttal: I offer calm, consistent affection, minimal movement, and puzzle piece entertainment.”
You squint. “She literally steps on your puzzles and ruins your work.”
“She’s expressing her critique of the current layout.”
You reach into your pocket and pull out a tiny foil packet. “Freeze-dried salmon snacks.”
Soba’s ears twitch. Her eyes flutter open slightly, and her head lifts—curious.
You grin triumphantly.
Near pulls a laser pointer from his pocket like a magician revealing a hidden card. One quick flick of the beam across the floor.
Soba: Activated.
Her head whips around. She launches off the couch, lands in a crouch, and goes sprinting after the dot.
You stare at Near, deadpan. “You keep that thing on you?”
“I plan ahead.”
You huff, watch Soba chase the laser in fast little zigzags, until she finally settles halfway between you both—sprawled out in indecision.
“Joint custody?”
Near shrugs. “Agreed.”
You scoop Soba up and plop beside him, blanket still around your shoulders, and she snuggles into your lap this time—tail brushing against Near’s knee, purring with content neutrality.
Near: “She’s a diplomat at heart.”
You glance down at her with a little smile. “She’s just milking this for the double snacks.”
He hums faintly. “She’s smarter than most humans.”
It’s well past midnight at HQ. The lights are dim, most of the Task Force is asleep or pretending to be, and a soft silence settles over the common area like a blanket.
L is exactly where he always is—curled into his chair, knees tucked, hunched over his laptop with three open monitors and an untouched cup of tea beside him. The blue glow from the screens casts soft shadows across his face.
But tonight… he’s distracted. Because just a few feet away, sprawled like the royal fluff she is across the conference table, is Soba. Her tail flicks slowly. She’s watching him with half-lidded eyes, curled around herself like a little cinnamon roll.
L glances at her. Once. Then again. He sets his cup down and—almost cautiously—reaches out a sugar cube.
L: “Would you like… enrichment?”
Soba blinks.
L slowly sets the sugar cube on the table in front of her, as if he’s making an offering to a very small, very judgmental deity. She does not move. L frowns, studies her expression, then pulls out a file folder and places it flat on the table beside her. She lifts her head slightly… and promptly climbs on top of the file.
“I should have predicted that.”
After a moment of consideration, he reaches out—gently, slowly—and scratches just behind her ear.
She purrs.
L goes still like a startled animal. Then, cautiously, he scratches again. She leans into it. His eyes widen slightly. You swear you can see the exact moment he gets emotionally compromised. He pulls his hand back for a second and murmurs: “You're... very soft.”
Soba gives a soft meow, blinks lazily, and—without warning—curls up in his lap. Like, actually chooses him. L looks utterly paralyzed.
From the hallway, you peek around the corner, catching the scene—and your heart just melts. You gently step into the room. “...I see she finally cracked you.”
L glances up at you, hesitant. “I didn’t initiate this. She… chose proximity.”
You smile and walk closer, watching as his hand rests very carefully on her back.
L glances down at her, his expression unreadable, but there’s something soft in the way he speaks next. “She’s warm.”
You lean on the back of his chair, whispering with a grin: “You like her.”
Soba purrs louder, paws tucked neatly under her chin as if she’s always belonged in his lap. And L—stoic, analytical, emotionally stunted L—goes back to typing one-handed, not once asking her to move.
You’re curled up in bed reading when Soba jumps up, kneads the blanket beside you, and curls into your side like she always does. A minute later, a soft knock taps at your door.
It’s Near, holding a small jar of cat treats.
He nods to Soba. “I believe it’s my night with her.”
It was quiet. Not the kind of silence Near usually filled with soft clicks of puzzle pieces or the hum of shifting data on a screen—this was different. Dense. Warm. Heavy.
He sat cross-legged on his bed, fingers tangled absently in the curls near his ear, head tilted toward you in that vaguely feline way he had when he was curious. He was watching you, but not with his usual detachment. Not clinical, not cautious. Curious. Intrigued. Wanting.
You knelt in front of him between the pale spread of his thighs, your hands resting on his knees. The room smelled like clean laundry, fabric softener, and faint tension. He hadn’t stopped you.
Not when you reached for his waistband. Not when your fingers toyed with the elastic.
Not when you looked up and whispered: “Let me?”
His only answer was the slow release of breath from his nose. His hands stayed still in his lap, white against white, one fist curled lightly against the hem of his own shirt.
And so you leaned forward. Pressed a kiss just below his navel. Felt him tense—barely.
Not fear. Not shame. Anticipation. Controlled chaos.
You drew down the waistband of his pants, slow, reverent. Exposing inch by inch of pale skin, soft hair, the twitch of a cock half-hard from nothing but your nearness.
He was beautiful. Slender, flushed, delicate—and already leaking. And he was watching you. Not demanding. Not instructing. Surrendering.
Your mouth found the base first, lips brushing the skin gently, then higher—
a kiss along the shaft, a tongue-drag that made him twitch.
His breath hitched. You heard it. Felt it. But he didn’t speak.
You wrapped your lips around the head and tasted him—salt, skin, heat—and his hips jerked once, so slight, but so telling.
Still no words. But his hand curled tighter. And when you began to take him deeper, your tongue pressed to the underside, your mouth slick and slow and worshipful, he finally made a sound.
“Hnn…” Soft. Startled. Like he didn’t know he could make it.
You moaned around him—just to feel it vibrate through him. He gasped again.
That hand in his lap lifted—hovered—paused—and then gently, so gently, brushed against your hair. Not guiding. Just… touching.
You hollowed your cheeks. Took more of him in. Let your throat tighten and your lips seal around the base with a soft, filthy slurp. His head tipped back. Eyes fluttering. Breath gone.
“You're…” It was the first word he managed. And even then, it died before it finished.
You pulled back slowly—licking the tip, swirling your tongue, teasing him with a soft smile as you whispered, “Am I doing it right?”
He blinked at you. Wide-eyed. Flushed. Breathing fast.
“That question is irrelevant,” he said, voice hoarse. “The sensation is overwhelming.”
You smiled again. “Good.”
And then you went back down. Slower- deeper.
Letting him feel every inch of your mouth, the gentle suck, the slick pressure, the soft grip of your hand at the base keeping time with your bobbing head.
He twitched. He whimpered. Yes—Near whimpered.
A sound caught between shame and bliss, high in his throat, and his hips lifted just barely into your mouth. And when you swallowed around him? He moaned. Low. Quiet. Desperate.
His fingers were in your hair now, trembling—not controlling, not pulling, just anchored. Like if he let go, he'd fall apart faster. “I can’t think…”
His voice was wrecked. He said it like it scared him. And you moaned again, letting it vibrate along his cock until his knees trembled beneath your palms.
“I’m going to…”
You didn’t stop. You looked up at him, lips stretched around his length, eyes wide, and he shuddered.
“You’re letting me…” His words broke into breath. He came with a soft, broken cry, hips stuttering forward, cock twitching against your tongue as he spilled down your throat—and you took all of it, never breaking eye contact.
You swallowed. Licked him clean. Kissed the tip.
His chest was rising and falling like he’d run a mile. He looked dazed. Red in the face. Wrecked. Beautiful. And when you sat back on your heels, licking your lips, he blinked slowly and whispered:
“You… shouldn’t be that good at that.”
You laughed. “You think I’m done?”
He swallowed hard. And then— “Data must be re-confirmed. Repeat the experiment.”
His voice had a tremor in it now—thin, fraying at the edges of composure, like the logical scaffolding he always clung to had finally started to collapse. “Repeat the experiment.”
But it wasn’t a command-Not really. It was need, disguised in the familiar shape of a request. Something he could understand.
You didn’t speak. You didn’t ask. You only leaned forward again, hand curling gently around the base of him, feeling the last shiver of his orgasm still twitching through his skin—and you kissed him again. Not a tease. Not taunting. Devotion.
The tip was still wet and flushed, sensitive to the point of pain, and the moment your tongue flicked across the slit, Near gasped like he’d been shocked. “Nn—too soon—”
But his hand was already in your hair again. Trembling. Tight. Not pushing you away. Anchoring you there.
You hummed gently around him, taking him in slow—softer this time, tongue stroking him like a lullaby, mouth warm and forgiving as he writhed under it. You kept your movements fluid, careful, deliberately slow as his thighs tensed beneath your palms.
He couldn’t keep his eyes open. His head lolled back against the headboard, white curls mussed across his forehead, lashes fluttering. His other hand curled tightly into the sheets beside him, knuckles white.
“You’re… ah—still…”
“I can’t…”
“Why does that feel even better--”
You glanced up. God, he looked undone. Glazed eyes, flushed cheeks, lips parted like he was waiting to gasp again. And so you pushed deeper. Let the head of his cock press to the back of your throat—not forcing, just meeting, just letting him know you’d go further if he wanted it.
He made a noise then—one he’d never made before. A half-sob, half-moan that echoed in the silence like it had betrayed him.
“Please—please—slow, I—don’t—know what it is—”
“Why it feels like—”
You pulled back, just a little. Mouth slick. Lips parted. Eyes meeting his as you whispered,
“It’s okay. You’re allowed to feel good. You don’t have to understand it.”
His breath hitched again. Like that—that more than your mouth, more than your hands—broke something deeper. And you went back down.
This time you stroked him with your hand while you sucked—slow, luxurious strokes of your tongue from tip to base, tracing the veins, the heat, the weight of him in your mouth. Every time he twitched, every time he gasped, every time his thighs shook under your fingers, you responded like it was gospel.
Your hand pressed to his chest now—right over his heart. He covered it with his own. Not speaking. Just holding. Because now it wasn’t experimentation.
Now it was worship.
You could feel it building again—his breathing starting to stutter, his legs tensing, his stomach fluttering beneath your palm.
“I’m… it’s happening again--I can’t stop it—”
You didn’t stop. You let him ride the edge, whimpering and helpless, as your mouth coaxed every ounce of pleasure out of his body.
When he came again, it wasn’t loud. It was shaking—the kind of climax that left you limp, destroyed from the inside out.
His hips jerked once. Twice. And then he just collapsed. Chest heaving- Eyes closed.
Sweat glistening on his throat.
You stayed between his thighs, kissing his skin, gentle and slow, licking him clean with a soft hum in your throat. And when you sat back again, lips wet, flushed and quiet—he blinked down at you. Silent. Breathless.
“That… may have been the first time I lost complete control of a situation.”
You grinned. “Did you enjoy it?”
A pause. His eyes dragged down to your lips. “Yes,” he whispered. “Too much.”
And then—very slowly—he reached for you. Pulled you up onto his lap and Into his chest. And for the first time in his life, Near didn’t try to think. He just let himself hold you. And breathe.
I really loved the fic where all the characters interacted ! can we expect anything poly ? especially with mello & near (matt too even) that would be amazing <333 thank you for your sevice queen TT
I am so happy you enjoyed it, I actually have another debate coming soon!
As far as poly, I'll see what I can come up with. It's hard for me to imagine any of the characters interacting with each other in those situations given their personalities (with exception of Mello and Matt) but I will try and see if I think of anything~~
You’re standing in the doorway in a sleep shirt and nothing else—bare legs, tousled hair, too tired to care and too awake to sleep. The hallway light casts a warm spill of gold into the dim kitchen where Mello’s perched on the counter, feet on a chair, elbow on one knee, unwrapping a bar of chocolate like it’s a grenade he’s debating whether to throw.
He looks up the second you walk in. Doesn’t even try to hide the once-over.
“Well, well,” he drawls, teeth gleaming in the dark. “Look what wandered in.”
You roll your eyes, padding toward the fridge. “Don’t start.”
“Why not?” He breaks off a piece of chocolate and pops it into his mouth. “It’s my favorite part of the night.”
You glance over your shoulder. “Harassing me?”
He smirks. “Teasing you. If I were harassing you, you’d be screaming my name for the wrong reasons.”
You raise an eyebrow. “And you think you know what the right reasons are?”
He licks chocolate off his thumb, slow. Intentional. Sinful. “I think you know exactly what I mean.”
You grab a bottle of water and lean against the counter opposite him, uncapping it like you don’t feel the heat curling at the base of your spine.
“You’re awfully confident for someone sitting barefoot on a chair like a gremlin,” you murmur.
He shrugs, unaffected. “Confidence looks good on me.”
“Arrogance doesn’t.”
“Depends on the mouth saying it.”
You take a sip to hide your smile. Mello sees it anyway. “You’re blushing.”
“I’m warm.”
“You’re cute when you lie.”
You narrow your eyes. “You’re impossible.”
He leans forward slightly, arms resting on his knees, the gold chain around his neck catching the faint light like a whisper. “And yet here you are. Midnight. Kitchen. Me.”
You pause. “I wanted water.”
“You wanted me to see you like this.”
Your laugh comes out more breath than sound. “You think I get dressed for you?”
“I think,” he says, voice lower now, “you don’t get dressed for me.”
A beat. Then you step closer—just one step. Close enough that his eyes flick to your legs again. Just briefly. But it’s enough.“You always this mouthy after midnight?”
“Only when the view’s good.”
You blink. He holds your gaze.
“And what exactly are you looking at?” you ask, tone carefully casual.
His eyes drag up—slow. From ankle to knee to thigh. Over your hips. Your waist. Your chest. Then to your mouth. And finally—finally—your eyes.
You expect a cocky grin. Instead, he says: “Something I haven’t earned yet.”
That one hits hard. You tilt your head, curious. “And what do you think it takes to earn it?”
Mello pops another square of chocolate between his lips and chews, thinking.
“Patience,” he says eventually. “Restraint. Making you want it without pushing too hard.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Is that what you’re doing now?”
“Fuck no,” he grins. “I’m losing horribly. I’ve been imagining your legs over my shoulders since you opened the fridge.”
You blink. “Jesus, Mello.”
“Hey. You asked.”
Silence stretches. Hot. Unbearable. You take another drink. Swallow slow.
“Good thing I like a man who suffers,” you murmur.
He hums. “So that’s what this is. You’re making me suffer.”
“I don’t have to do anything. You’re doing it to yourself.”
He groans dramatically, tipping his head back. “God. That’s so fucking hot.”
You shake your head, laughing softly. He leans back again, more relaxed now, the tension curling between you like a question neither of you is ready to answer.
“You’re trouble,” he says after a beat. Not accusing. Just… fascinated.
“So I’ve been told.”
He looks at you again. This time it’s softer. Less about the striptease, more about you.
“You ever let anyone get past that mouth of yours?”
You smirk. “You ever earn it?”
He smiles. “Not yet,” he says.
And then—You turn. Start walking away.
“Where you goin’?” he calls after you.
“Back to bed.”
“That’s it?”
You glance over your shoulder. “If I stayed any longer, you might actually do something stupid.”
He grins wide. “You wish.”
You grin wider. “No. You do.”
And then you're gone, the hallway swallowing you up, the click of your bedroom door echoing like the sound of a cocked gun that hasn’t fired… yet.
And Mello? He just laughs. Still on the counter. Still hard. Still losing. But god, he’ll be back tomorrow night.
The door's shut. Books open. You’re across the table from Light—notes spread between you, a debate prompt somewhere on a forgotten screen.
“Utilitarianism is flawed,” you say flatly, leaning back in your chair. “You can’t quantify human value like it’s a math problem.”
“You can,” he says. Calm. “And we do. Every time we prioritize one life over another.”
“Rationally? Maybe. Ethically? No.”
Light’s lips twitch. That half-smile he uses when he knows he’s baiting you.
“You’re thinking emotionally,” he says. “And emotion clouds judgment.”
You narrow your eyes. “Says the man whose eyes light up when someone pushes back.”
He pauses. Just briefly. Then he leans forward. Elbows on the table. Chin resting on one hand. “That’s because most people are too afraid to argue with me. You’re not.”
You smirk. “Maybe because I’m not afraid of being wrong.”
“No,” he says, eyes glinting. “You’re afraid of being outmatched.”
That heat behind his voice—not condescending. Predatory.
You raise an eyebrow. “So what, this is foreplay for you?”
He doesn’t flinch. “Yes.”
The air shifts. You blink, lips parting. “...What?”
Your heart ticks faster. You straighten in your chair. “You really think a debate over moral philosophy is sexy?”
His voice drops a note. “I think watching you get worked up is.”
You suck in a breath. He sees it.
“I think,” he continues, “that the way your voice tightens when you’re sure of your point, the way you lean forward, pupils dilated, breath shallowing—you might not notice, but I do.”
Your stomach knots. “You’re analyzing me now?”
“I’ve been analyzing you,” he says. “Since the moment you called me arrogant in class.”
You swallow. “You were arrogant.”
“And you liked it.”
You say nothing. He leans closer. His tone softens, but the weight behind it gets heavier.
“You like being challenged. You like being seen. You like someone who doesn’t back down when you push.”
You’re still. Very still.
He smiles. Slow. Controlled. Beautiful in that terrifying Light Yagami way.
“You don’t want someone to worship you,” he murmurs. “You want someone who could destroy you… but chooses not to.”
You whisper, “And you think that’s you?”
“I know it is.”
Your breath stutters.
His eyes flick to your mouth.
“Say I’m wrong,” he challenges. “Come on. You’re good at arguments.”
You open your mouth. Nothing comes out.
His grin turns smug. But not mean. Just victorious. “Thought so.”
You shift in your seat. Your thighs press together. He notices.
And fuck, he leans in like he might kiss you. But doesn’t.
Instead, he murmurs—
“If I said I wanted to put your logic to the test in bed, would you argue... or ask me to elaborate?”
Your chest rises sharply.
He leans back, satisfied. “I’ll take your silence as consent,” he says softly. “To keep imagining it.” And then? He goes right back to his notes.
He’s writing again. Or pretending to.
His pen moves over the paper like nothing’s changed. But you feel the static in the air, the way his chest rises a little faster than before, the way his jaw flexes every time he doesn’t look at you.
So you sit back. Stretch slowly. Deliberately. “You fantasize about me.”
Light’s pen stills. The pause is too long. You smile.
“You don’t want to touch me right away. That’d be too messy.”
He still doesn’t look up. But his fingers shift. Grip tightening around the pen.
Finally—finally—he looks up. But not smug this time. Measured. Careful.
You continue, voice low and velvet.
“You want to talk me into it. Watch me argue while you imagine what I’d sound like falling apart.”
"You're... projecting."
You tilt your head. “Am I?”
His lips part—ready to form a rebuttal. You cut him off.
“You imagine scenarios,” you murmur. “Where I can’t speak. Where I’ve said too much, pushed too far, and the only thing left between us is breath.”
You lean forward. “And you’d still ask me to explain why I’m moaning like that. Just to hear me try.”
His composure fractures. Not visibly. Not fully-But his pupils dilate. And he doesn't respond right away.
You smile, slow. Savor it.
“What’s the matter, Light?” you whisper. “Did I win the debate?”
He inhales, slow and deep, like he’s trying to suppress a reaction. His knuckles are white on the table.
Then he speaks. “You’re very good at pretending you’re in control.”
Your pulse skips but you muster: “And you’re very good at pretending you’re not turned on.”
He chuckles. It’s low. Dark. Wrecked, almost. He sets the pen down gently, fingers threading together.
"You’re right,” he says. “I do imagine things.”
Your breath catches.
“I imagine how you'd react if I told you, mid-argument, that I could make you cum without ever laying a hand on you.”
You freeze. He leans forward, slowly. Not too close. But close enough.
“I imagine what you'd look like, trying to keep your tone even, your voice sharp, while you grind against my thigh under the table.”
Your mouth opens. No sound.
“And I imagine,” he says softly, “how long it would take before you break down and beg me to stop being so calm.”
A pause. His gaze drops to your lips. “And I’d ask you,” he whispers, “why you waited this long to admit it.”
You inhale like you’ve been underwater. Light smiles. Not the smug one. Not the golden-boy one. The one he never shows anyone.
Quiet. Raw. Something aching under it. But then— He leans back again, reaches for his notes and flips the page.
“That concludes the philosophical portion of our evening,” he says coolly, scribbling something half-heartedly.
You stare. Still breathless. Still warm. Still wrecked. And he doesn’t even glance up when he says—
“I assume you’ll be sleeping poorly tonight- You’re welcome.”
The room smells like paper and graphite and static. The only light is from a desk lamp beside a teetering tower of books. The air is still. Heavy. Outside, the rain taps gently against the windows like it’s trying not to interrupt.
Near is seated cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by puzzle pieces—scattered like constellations only he can read. His thumb is pressed to his bottom lip, unmoving. The white curl of his hair falls over one eye. He’s deep in thought.
And you’re watching.
You don’t mean to be obvious. But he’s got that gravitational pull—quiet, clinical gravity. He makes silence louder.
“You’ve been staring for nine minutes,” he murmurs, not looking up.
You blink. “...I have not.”
“You have.” He picks up a piece. Rotates it between his fingers. “Thirty-seven glances. Two prolonged. Three sighs. One shift of posture meant to draw my attention.”
You flush. “You're keeping count?”
“It’s data.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Data for what?”
A pause. He looks up then. Those pale eyes don’t blink.
“You,” he says.
A beat. A drop of thunder outside. You exhale, sinking back into your chair. “That’s creepy, Near.”
“Curiosity is not creepy. It's natural.”
You hum. “And what exactly are you curious about?”
He doesn’t answer immediately. Places the puzzle piece into its slot—click—like the moment itself was part of the game.
“I’m curious,” he says finally, “what kind of person flirts with someone who never flirts back.”
Your breath catches. You lean forward slightly. “Who says I’m flirting?”
He tilts his head. “People don’t make themselves this visible unless they want to be seen.”
You smile, slow. “So you’ve seen me.”
“I always do,” he replies, voice barely above the hum of the lamp. “I know the way your eyes linger on my hands. The way you watch the way I think. You’re not flirting with my body- You’re flirting with my mind,” he says.
And then he looks back down, like it’s nothing. Like he didn’t just eviscerate you with the softest scalpel ever crafted.
You cross your arms. “Well. Is it working?”
He doesn’t look up. But his fingers hesitate on the puzzle piece.
You catch it. That half-second twitch. That crack in the stillness.
“I’m not unfamiliar with arousal,” he says calmly. “But I don’t experience it the way others do.”
“That’s not a no,” you whisper.
“It’s not,” he agrees.
You’re quiet for a while after that. The rain picks up. The shadows deepen. You stretch out on the couch, shifting, just enough to let your shirt fall open at the collar, casual but not careless.
Near finishes the puzzle’s corner. Sets the last edge piece with perfect precision. Then speaks without looking at you.
“I wonder,” he says softly, “what you would do if I described you right now.”
Your lips part.
“What I notice. What I imagine. What I suspect you want me to say.”
You sit very still.
“Would you stop me?” he asks. “Or would you stay quiet and see how far I go?”
You exhale—shaky. “Say it.”
Now he looks up.
“You’re stretched out to make your hips look relaxed,” he begins. “But your left hand is twitching. That means restraint. You’re controlling yourself.”
You blink.
“Your collar is open just enough to draw the eye, but not enough to be vulgar. Calculated.”
He shifts, leaning slightly closer.
“You’re wet. Likely. Based on the flush on your cheeks and the dilation in your eyes.”
You inhale sharply.
“And you’re waiting for me to crack,” he says leaning back “But I won’t.”
You sit up now. Elbows on knees. Voice quiet. “Why not?”
“Because it would be too easy.”
You laugh. Soft. “And you don’t like easy.”
“I like… precision.” His voice drops a note. “Control.”
Your breath hitches. “What about chaos?”
He smiles—just barely. “That’s what you’re for.”
You stare at him. Silence stretches like a tight wire between you.
“Do you want me to leave?” you ask.
“No.”
“Do you want me to touch you?”
“No.”
“…Do you want to touch me?”
He doesn’t answer right away.
Then, quiet as snowfall:
“I want to imagine touching you.”
And that—that—somehow feels filthier than anything Mello would scream into your ear with your panties in his pocket.
You nod slowly. Voice a whisper. “Good.”
He turns back to the puzzle, placing one more piece.
Then another. Your heart’s still hammering.
And neither of you say another word.
But the room is heavy with things you’ve both said without speaking
It’s always when the others are gone. When the fluorescent buzz settles into a warm hush, and the war room feels less like a battlefield and more like an after-hours chapel. Sacred in its emptiness. L’s in his usual crouch, spidery limbs drawn up in his chair, long fingers laced under his chin, eyes half-lidded as they read line after line of case data off the monitor.
You’re on the couch- stretched long. One leg draped over the armrest, the other bent, thigh exposed just slightly beneath the hem of your skirt. Your boots lie discarded on the floor, tights intact, blouse unbuttoned to the comfortable sweet spot—not to seduce. Just to breathe.
He hasn’t spoken in ten minutes. But you know he’s aware of you. So you test the silence.
“L.”
“Yes?” His voice is soft, distracted. But not uninterested.
“Do you think most people are vanilla?”
You say it with a kind of innocent curiosity, like you’re asking about weather patterns or migration routes. You stretch your arms up above your head, the movement arching your back slightly, the rise of your chest pulling the fabric tight.
He doesn’t answer right away. You wait.
“Statistically? Likely. Most people are drawn to sexual familiarity. Repetition creates safety.”
“That’s boring,” you murmur.
“Safety often is.”
You roll onto your stomach now, chin resting on your arms as you face him, skirt riding up over the curve of your ass. Still tasteful. Still casual.
“What do you think about?” you ask.
That makes him pause. His eyes lift, dark and bottomless, lashes long and heavy as he studies your face.
“You’ll need to be more specific.”
“Sex,” you say plainly. “Desire. Bodies. People. Do you think about it?”
Another long pause. “Of course.”
“How often?”
“Often enough.” He says it like it’s not a confession. But it is.
You bite your lip. Not because you're trying to be cute. Just because it feels good to do it.
“Do you get turned on when I talk like this?”
His eyes don’t flicker- Not once. But something shifts behind them—like a ripple beneath the surface of deep, still water. “I don’t think that question is scientific.”
“It’s not.” You grin, soft and knowing. “It’s for me.”
He shifts in his seat. Not much. Barely perceptible. But enough for you to see it.
“You’re very… open,” he murmurs.
“You say that like it’s strange.”
“It’s unusual,” he replies, eyes flicking to your knees, then back to your face.
“Most people conceal desire. You offer yours like it’s currency.”
“It’s not currency,” you say, stretching again, this time slow and catlike. “It’s a toy.”
That earns a sound from him. Not a laugh. Something lower. “And you like to play.”
You meet his gaze now, full and bare. “Don’t you?”
He leans forward finally. Not to pounce. But to study you more intently. Like a riddle.
His fingers curl under his chin again.
“You’re very good at seduction,” he says softly. “But you’re even better at getting people to reveal themselves.”
“Maybe that’s what turns me on,” you murmur. “Knowing what people want. What they imagine. What they touch themselves to in the dark.”
L’s expression doesn’t falter. But you feel his attention now. Undivided. Piercing. He doesn't answer. So you press.
“Do you imagine things about me, L?”
“Yes,” he says, without flinching. Just that. Yes.
Your throat tightens. Not from fear. Not even from surprise- From thrill.
“Do you want to tell me what?”
“No.”
You blink. And then grin. “Even better.”
Because it’s not about control. It’s not about power. It’s about knowing. Peeling back layers without ever touching. Dancing on the edge of confessions, trading breath for breath in a game where the first to move loses. But no one wants to win- not really.
You lie back down on the couch. Silent. Smiling.
And L? He returns to his monitor. But his hands—They don’t stop twitching.
You roll onto your side on the couch again, one hand resting under your cheek, the other tucked under your ribs like you’re holding a secret. Your legs are tangled, the slit in your skirt revealing the long stretch of thigh in the warm, dim light.
L hasn’t looked away from his monitor in nearly ten minutes. That’s fine. You can be patient.
Patience makes the moment better.
“L.”
He blinks once. Hands still. “Yes?”
“Can I ask you something… hypothetical?”
His eyes flick to you—just barely. A silent permission.
“Let’s say,” you begin, slow, deliberate, “we weren’t colleagues.”
“Alright.”
“And we weren’t in this room. We weren’t in the middle of a case. We were…”
You pause, dragging your tongue lightly across your bottom lip.
“Alone. Somewhere private. I was sitting next to you on a couch. Like this. Saying the same kinds of things. Smiling the same way.”
His fingers twitch once. He doesn’t interrupt.
“What would you do?”
The question hangs. Not flirtatious. Not a trap. Just soft. Curious. Pure desire for his mind.
L tilts his head slowly, as if recalibrating.
“Is the hypothetical version of me aware that you enjoy pushing boundaries without crossing them?”
“Of course.”
“And am I… the version of myself who chooses restraint? Or the one who wonders what happens when I don’t?”
That earns a slow grin from you. Your voice goes quieter- softer.
“Whichever version wants to answer.”
He turns fully now. Body still curled in that impossible crouch, but his whole attention wrapped around you like silk threads.
“Then hypothetically,” he says, voice low, “I wouldn’t touch you. Not first.”
“Why not?”
“Because you like the build-up. You like the delay. You like to imagine the other person imagining it. For hours. Days. So I would stay where I was- And I would tell you exactly what I’d do.”
Your breath catches, lips parting, air suddenly thick.
“Hypothetically,” he adds.
You nod, eyes locked on his mouth now, on the way his lips barely move when he speaks.
“I’d describe where I’d kiss you first,” he murmurs. “Your knee, probably. The place your tights stop.”
Your thighs tense, involuntary.
“Then I’d tell you how long I’d stay there. Kissing. Just kissing. Not letting you move. Not letting you guide me.”
You swallow.
“Then I’d ask if you were wet.”
The word burns between you.
“And I’d tell you to use your fingers to check. And I wouldn’t watch you do it. I’d make you describe it instead.”
Your mouth is dry now. Eyes wide. Breathing unsteady. But you don’t move.
“And if you lied,” he adds softly, “I’d know.”
Silence. It stretches out like tension drawn on a bowstring. L stares. You stare.
The hum of the monitors is the only sound in the room. Then, voice soft as velvet dragging across skin:
“So,” you whisper,
“Why don’t you?”
His gaze sharpens. “Because you haven’t asked me to.”
(Very intimate, he wants to try being as close as possible but still wants to see your reactions)
L has always been an enigma, unreadable, untouchable—until now. Now, he’s beneath you, his lean body sprawled against the mattress, those dark, calculating eyes locked onto yours with an intensity that makes your breath hitch. His hands grip your thighs, holding you open as you sink down onto him, the stretch slow, deliberate, filling you inch by inch until you’re seated flush against his hips.
This position leaves no space for hesitation, no room to hide. His lips part in a quiet gasp, brows knitting together at the feeling of you wrapped around him, but he never looks away. His fingers dig into your flesh, guiding your movements as you start to roll your hips, the friction sending shocks of pleasure rippling through both of you.
“You’re perfect like this,” he murmurs, voice low, almost thoughtful, as if he’s analyzing every shudder, every twitch, every soft sound that escapes you. His hands travel up, one trailing along your spine, the other slipping between your bodies, fingers brushing over your clit in slow, torturous circles.
A sharp gasp tumbles from your lips, and L’s gaze darkens, something almost smug curling at the edges of his expression. “Fascinating,” he muses, his grip tightening, forcing you to grind down harder. “The way your body reacts to me… it’s intoxicating.”
His hips snap up suddenly, driving into you with a force that steals the air from your lungs. The change in pace is jarring, overwhelming, his thrusts sharp and unrelenting as he fucks up into you, meeting you halfway with every movement. Your hands scramble for purchase, nails dragging over his shoulders, his chest, and he shudders under your touch, his control fraying at the edges.
Your moans grow louder, more desperate, and L drinks in every sound like it’s data he’s cataloging for later use. “I wonder,” he murmurs, voice strained as his rhythm turns rougher, more erratic, “if I could make you cum just from this alone—just from the way I move inside you.”
His fingers press harder against your clit, his pace relentless, the angle devastating. Your body tenses, the pleasure building, surging, until it crashes over you in a blinding wave. Your walls clench around him, your vision going hazy, and L lets out a ragged groan, his grip tightening as he thrusts up hard one last time, spilling deep inside you.
For a moment, all that remains is the sound of your mingled breaths, your trembling bodies still locked together. Then, L leans up slightly, his lips brushing against your jaw, his voice a low murmur against your skin.
“A fascinating experiment… one I’d very much like to repeat.”
(He likes to be in control and pinning you underneath him fuels his ego)
Mello’s got you pinned, his body weight pressing you deep into the mattress, every inch of him flush against you. His breath ghosts over your ear, hot and ragged, matching the relentless rhythm of his thrusts. The prone bone position leaves you at his mercy, his chest pressing against your back, the heat of his skin searing into yours. His hands are greedy—one gripping your wrist above your head, the other tangled in your hair, keeping you right where he wants you.
"Look at me," he growls, his voice rough, commanding. His other hand slides under your chin, forcing your head to the side so your eyes meet his. His golden hair falls over his face, sweat-slicked and disheveled, but his gaze is sharp, unyielding. Those icy blue eyes bore into yours, devouring every flicker of pleasure and desperation. You moan against his fingers as he presses them against your lips, silencing your cries, owning every sound you make.
His pace is brutal—each thrust forcing you further into the sheets, the friction making your nerves scream in overstimulation. His grip tightens as he leans in, teeth grazing the shell of your ear. "You feel that?" he murmurs, his voice dripping with satisfaction. "Taking me so well, like you were made for this."
The bed creaks under the force of his movements, each deep stroke pushing you closer to the edge. The intensity leaves you trembling, toes curling as you struggle to hold onto any semblance of control. But Mello doesn’t allow you that luxury. His hand snakes around to press against your abdomen, right where he can feel himself stretching you open.
"Fuck," he hisses, eyes darkening as he watches the way your body reacts to him. "So tight—so fucking perfect." His fingers slide lower, brushing over your swollen clit in lazy, teasing circles, making your whole body jerk. "Gonna cum for me?" His smirk is pure sin, knowing, taunting. "Do it. Cum while I’m inside you. Let me feel you break."
He fucks you through it, never slowing, never relenting, dragging you through wave after wave of pleasure until you’re left a shaking mess beneath him. Only then does he allow himself to let go, his thrusts turning erratic, his breath shuddering against your neck as he spills into you with a deep, guttural moan. He stays there, chest heaving, fingers still tangled in your hair, his lips ghosting over your ear.
Matsuda's arms wrap around you from behind, pulling you tight against his chest, his breath warm and uneven against the nape of your neck. The spooning position keeps you close, his body molding to yours, his cock stretching you slow, deep, filling you completely. One of his hands grips your hip, steadying you as he rocks into you, the other slipping beneath your chin, turning your head so he can press his lips to your cheek, your jaw, the corner of your mouth.
"You feel so good," he murmurs, voice rough, edged with something almost reverent, almost desperate. His thrusts are deliberate, the angle perfect, the way he holds you leaving no room to escape, to do anything but take it. The heat of his skin sears into you, his heartbeat a steady rhythm against your back, his breathing growing more ragged with every stroke.
His fingers slide down, skimming over the softness of your belly before dipping lower, finding your clit, circling it in slow, teasing motions that make your body twitch, your thighs pressing together in response. "Matsu—" You barely get his name out before he rolls his hips just right, and your words crumble into a broken moan.
"Yeah?" His voice is teasing, but there's a breathlessness to it, a hint of strain. "Tell me how good it feels, baby."
The slow drag of his cock, the way his fingers work you in sync with each thrust—it's too much, but not enough, pleasure building in hot, rolling waves. His lips brush your ear, whispering filth, encouragement, promises of making you fall apart for him.
His grip tightens as his pace picks up, thrusts turning sharper, deeper, chasing his high. His fingers move faster against you, determined, and you arch against him, body trembling, nails digging into the arm wrapped around your waist as that pressure coils tighter, tighter—until it snaps.
You cry out, legs shaking as you cum around him, your walls fluttering, gripping him in a way that drags a low, guttural groan from his throat. He thrusts through it, chasing his own release, his movements growing sloppy, desperate. And then he's spilling into you, burying himself deep with a shuddering gasp, his grip locking you against him as he rides out the aftershocks.
For a long moment, there's nothing but the sound of your breathing, the sweat cooling on your skin, the lazy circles he keeps tracing over your thigh.
Then, a breathless chuckle. "Damn," he murmurs, pressing another lazy kiss to your shoulder. "We should definitely do that again."
Near has always been quiet, composed—so much so that you never imagined this side of him. But now, he’s above you, pinning you beneath him, his pale hair falling in soft waves around his face as he fills you, slow and deep. The missionary position leaves no distance, no barrier between you, his body flush against yours, every thrust pressing you further into the mattress.
His hands are firm, but there’s an almost reverent touch to the way he holds you, his fingers threading with yours, pinning them beside your head. His breath is unsteady, warm against your lips as he watches you, his silver eyes dark with something raw, something unspoken. He’s usually so reserved, so detached—but now, he’s wholly present, completely focused on you.
“You’re beautiful like this,” he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper, as if the words are more for himself than for you. His hips roll into yours in a slow, deliberate rhythm, each movement precise, measured, dragging out every sensation. He watches your expression closely, cataloging every reaction, every gasp, every shudder, like he’s memorizing the way you fall apart beneath him.
The stretch of him is perfect, the depth making you tremble, and when his pace shifts—when he begins thrusting just a little harder, a little deeper—it sends sparks of pleasure racing through your veins. His grip tightens, one hand breaking free from yours to slide down your body, tracing your curves, ghosting over the sensitive skin of your waist before settling between your thighs. His fingers find your clit, rubbing slow, teasing circles, making your body arch into him.
The sound you make has his breath hitching, his rhythm faltering just slightly before he regains control. His usually impassive face is marked with something new—desire, need, something just as overwhelming for him as it is for you. His lips brush against your temple, then lower, his mouth trailing along your jaw, your neck, leaving soft, lingering kisses that contrast the way he’s fucking you now—deeper, more urgent, as if he’s losing himself in the sensation.
“Near—” His name slips from your lips in a breathless moan, and the way his body tenses, the way his fingers tighten against your skin, tells you that it affects him more than he lets on. His thrusts grow faster, rougher, the precision of his movements unraveling as he chases both of your highs.
He swallows hard, his breath growing ragged, and when you tighten around him, your body writhing beneath his, he groans, deep and quiet, burying his face against your neck as he cums, his hips pressing flush against yours.
For a moment, neither of you move, bodies tangled, his heart pounding against yours. Then, slowly, Near lifts his head, his eyes searching yours, his fingers brushing against your cheek in a touch so gentle it almost undoes you completely.
(it's fitting, right? Basically loves any position w/ you on top- but with a twist)
Matt lets you think you're in control—lets you roll your hips at your own pace, hands braced against his chest, sweat beading along your skin as you take him deep, dragging slow, teasing motions just to watch the way his brows knit together, jaw tightening. But he's patient. He lets you have your little moment.
Until he doesn’t.
His grip snaps onto your waist, fingers digging in firm, bruising, and before you can even let out a gasp, he's driving you down onto his cock with a force that knocks the breath out of you. His hips slam up to meet you, the sudden impact sending a sharp wave of pleasure burning through your core. A broken moan tumbles from your lips, and Matt chuckles darkly beneath you, eyes half-lidded behind his tinted glasses, knowing damn well what he’s doing.
"That’s more like it," he murmurs, voice thick with amusement, with want. His fingers tighten, guiding you into a punishing rhythm—no more lazy rolling, no more teasing. Just raw, desperate motion, his cock hitting deep, over and over, his hips meeting yours in perfect, devastating timing.
You claw at his chest, struggling to keep upright with the way he’s fucking up into you, making your body tremble, your thighs burn from the sheer effort of trying to keep up. But Matt isn’t about to let you falter. His grip slides up, one hand splaying across your lower back, the other trailing to the back of your neck, pulling you down until your forehead presses against his.
"Keep up, baby," he taunts, breathless, voice laced with pleasure. "Thought you were gonna ride me—what happened?"
You whimper, trying to form words, but they dissolve into a sharp cry as he angles his hips just right, dragging a full-body shudder out of you. The way he moves—sharp, controlled, relentless—it leaves you helpless, reduced to nothing but sensation, his hands forcing you to take it all, take him deeper, faster, harder.
"You feel that?" His voice is rough now, his own control fraying at the edges, each thrust growing more desperate, more demanding. "You're mine, sweetheart. Gonna make sure you remember that."
And the way he fucks you, the way he slams you down to meet him with every bruising stroke—it leaves no room for argument.
(did you guess it before you got here? We all know he likes control, what better way to assert his dominance than this?)
Light’s never been the type to lose control. Always so composed, so deliberate in every move he makes. But now—now, he’s got you bent, folded, completely at his mercy. His arms hook under your knees, locking you in place, your body suspended in the ruthless hold of a full Nelson. The stretch is intense, exposing every inch of you to him, leaving you utterly vulnerable.
You didn’t expect this from him.
The first deep thrust knocks the breath right out of you, his cock splitting you open in one smooth, unforgiving stroke. Your head lolls back against his shoulder, a sharp gasp slipping past your lips, but Light doesn’t slow. He doesn’t give you a moment to adjust, doesn’t give you anything but the relentless pace of his hips slamming up into you.
“Didn’t think I had it in me, did you?” His voice is low, teasing, but there’s something dark beneath it—something dangerous. His grip tightens, pulling your legs further apart, forcing you to take him even deeper. “You should know by now—I always exceed expectations.”
The angle is devastating, each thrust hitting places that make your body convulse, pleasure crackling through your nerves like wildfire. His breath is hot against the side of your face, lips grazing your temple, your ear, every little brush sending shivers down your spine.
You can’t move—can’t do anything but take it.
“That’s it,” he breathes, watching you fall apart in his hold. His fingers dig into the soft flesh of your thighs, keeping you spread wide, keeping you where he wants you. His pace is brutal, precise, every stroke calculated to push you closer, closer—until you’re nothing but a trembling mess in his arms.
Your moans are desperate, wordless, and Light drinks them in like they’re proof of his victory. “Look at you,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss just below your ear, his voice thick with satisfaction. “Completely ruined for me.”
His cock twitches inside you, his rhythm faltering just slightly, and you know he’s close. The way your walls squeeze around him, the way your body trembles in his hold—it pushes him over the edge. He groans, deep and guttural, thrusting hard one final time before he spills into you, heat flooding deep inside.
He holds you there, still buried to the hilt, panting against your skin as the aftershocks pulse between you. Slowly, his grip loosens, letting your legs down, though he doesn’t let go of you completely. Instead, he keeps you against his chest, his lips brushing over your shoulder, his breath still ragged.
A quiet chuckle rumbles against your back. “You’ll never see me the same way again, will you?”
Pairing: Fem!reader x Multiple death note characters (L, Near, Mello, Matt, Matsuda, Light -without the death note)
Synopsis: They've been avoiding you all day...they know what day it is.
Warnings: Highly suggestive, Language
wc: 4.5k
L
L sat curled in his usual position, knees drawn up, long fingers delicately balancing a fork with a half-eaten slice of strawberry shortcake. His dark eyes flickered toward you warily, calculating—always calculating.
"I know what you're trying to do," he murmured, voice soft but edged with certainty.
You had been at it all day—subtle touches, lingering glances, the way you'd stretched just a little too much in front of him, arching your back with a coy smile. You were sure you'd seen his fingers tighten around his cup of tea at least twice, a fraction of tension betraying him. But no matter what you tried, L remained unmoved, unmoving, unrelenting.
And now? Now he was addressing it outright.
You smirked, moving toward him, placing a hand on the table to lean in closer. "And what exactly am I trying to do, L?" Your voice dripped with innocence, though you both knew better.
He took another slow bite of his cake, chewing thoughtfully, before setting his fork down with a soft clink. His thumb ran absently over his bottom lip as he studied you. "You're ovulating today," he stated, as if it were as simple as stating the weather. "Your behavior has been... particularly persistent. Statistically, women are more inclined to seek out physical intimacy during their fertile period." He tilted his head slightly. "You're not exactly subtle."
You felt your pulse quicken at his words. The sheer audacity of him to analyze you so clinically, to reduce your desire down to mere biology, all while sitting there with that maddening calm. But behind those sharp eyes, you could see it—the strain, the restraint. L might have been a genius, but he was still a man.
You slid onto the table in front of him, crossing your legs, your knee just barely grazing his thigh. "So, you're saying I'm acting purely on instinct?" you mused, tilting your head. "That this has nothing to do with you? Nothing to do with how much I want you?"
L’s lips parted slightly, but no words came immediately. His fingers twitched against the table, betraying the first real crack in his composure.
You leaned in even closer, close enough to catch the faint scent of sugar and coffee on his breath. "I think you're overthinking this," you whispered, brushing your lips just shy of his. "You're always thinking. Maybe, just for once, you should stop."
His breath hitched. Just a fraction.
Then, suddenly, he pushed back his chair, putting a frustrating amount of distance between you. He stood, hands slipping into the pockets of his loose jeans, his dark eyes never leaving yours.
"I can't," he said simply.
You frowned. "Can't... or won't?"
L’s gaze flickered with something unreadable. He hesitated, which was rare for him. "Both," he admitted after a moment. "If I give in, I'll lose control. And if I lose control..." His voice trailed off, his fingers curling into a fist.
Your stomach tightened at the implication. L had always been careful, always precise, but the idea that he was holding himself back from something deeper, something darker, something he couldn't quite name—it sent a shiver down your spine.
He turned on his heel, walking away as if the conversation was over, but you weren’t about to let him slip through your fingers that easily.
Not tonight.
Not when you could feel the heat of his gaze lingering on you, even as he walked away.
“You don’t want to get me pregnant?”
L stopped mid-step. His spine straightened, his hands still shoved deep into his pockets. You watched the subtle way his shoulders tensed, the way his head tilted just slightly—as if recalculating, running a hundred different outcomes in his mind at once.
For a long moment, he said nothing.
Then, finally, he turned, his dark eyes unreadable as they locked onto yours. "It's not a matter of want," he murmured, voice quieter than before.
You slid off the table, stepping toward him, your movements slow, deliberate. "Then what is it a matter of?"
L's gaze dropped for the briefest second—just a flicker—to your lips, to the slow rise and fall of your chest. His hands twitched inside his pockets before he pulled them free, pressing his thumb against his lower lip, a nervous habit you had come to recognize.
"Control," he admitted. "Rationality." A beat. Then: "You know what this would mean."
You did. You knew exactly what it would mean.
But that didn’t stop the heat in your belly, the way your body ached for him, for the weight of him, for the way he could shatter every last logical thought in your mind the moment he let himself have you the way you wanted him to.
"You think I haven't thought about it?" you challenged, stepping even closer, close enough that you could feel his breath against your skin. "You think I don’t want that? You think I wouldn’t let you—?"
His hand shot up, fingers pressing gently against your lips, silencing you. His breath was unsteady now, shallow, his pupils slightly blown. You could feel the way his fingers trembled just slightly against your skin.
"This is exactly what I mean," he whispered. "You're thinking emotionally. You're not considering the consequences."
You parted your lips just slightly, enough that his fingers barely ghosted against your tongue. His breath hitched, a sharp intake of air, and for the first time that night, you saw it—his restraint cracking, his mind warring against his body.
"L..." you murmured, voice barely above a whisper.
His name on your lips nearly undid him. You could see it—the way his lashes fluttered, the way his jaw clenched, the way his fingers twitched like he was fighting every single urge to grab you, to press you against the wall, to forget every last bit of logic he clung to.
But then, in an instant, he was gone. He pulled back, stepping away, retreating into himself once more.
"I won't," he said, almost more to himself than to you.
Your chest tightened. "Why?"
L exhaled slowly, his hands slipping back into his pockets, his posture slouching just slightly, but his eyes never left yours. "Because if I start..." His voice was low, raw, his words slow, deliberate. "I won’t stop."
You’ve tried everything—lingering touches, whispered words, sitting in his lap and tilting your head just so when you spoke, letting your lips brush against his jaw. Nothing. He’s been dodging you with that same perfectly composed, infuriatingly rational demeanor, lips curving into a knowing little smirk every time he denied you.
Like he was enjoying this.
Like he thought he could win.
But now, it’s late. He’s sitting at his desk, reading, glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, completely relaxed. Like he isn’t fully aware that you’ve been aching for him all day.
Your patience is gone.
You stride over, pressing your palms flat against his desk, leaning in close.
"You don’t want to get me pregnant?"
Light blinks once. Then—slowly—he closes his book, setting it aside with precision. His gaze flicks up to you, utterly calm. “That’s what this is about?”
You tilt your head, daring him. “Isn’t that why you’re resisting?”
His lips curl slightly, almost amused. “It’s not that I don’t want to,” he says, voice maddeningly smooth, “I refuse,” he continues, shifting back in his chair, lazy, composed, his fingers lacing together, “to let hormones dictate my choices.”
You bristle. “Hormones?”
His smirk deepens. “Admit it,” he muses, tilting his head. “If today wasn’t today, you wouldn’t be nearly this desperate.”
Oh, fuck him.
You climb onto his lap.
Light’s breath catches—but his hands stay firmly on the armrests of his chair, his jaw tight. He’s holding the line.
You lean in, lips ghosting over his ear. “So that’s it?” you murmur. “You’re scared?” His hands twitch.
“You’re scared,” you continue, pressing a slow, teasing kiss to his neck, “that if you give in, you won’t stop.”
Light exhales sharply through his nose. His composure is cracking.
You grind down just slightly, feeling the evidence of his restraint, the way his breath shudders—
And then—His hands snap up, gripping your hips, holding you still. You freeze. Light smirks.
“I’m not scared,” he murmurs, voice dangerously low. His fingers tighten, deliberate, firm. “I’m in control.”
You swallow hard. Then—suddenly, effortlessly—Light lifts you off his lap, setting you aside as he stands. His movements are smooth, composed, like he planned this.
You stare up at him, breathless, frustrated, aching.
Light adjusts his glasses, lips curling. “You lose.”
Matsuda is dodging you like his life depends on it. Every time you brush your fingers against his wrist, he flinches. Every time you lean in, voice dripping with suggestion, he finds an excuse—oh, he has work, oh, he needs to check in with Aizawa, oh, he has a headache (as if he’s ever turned you down before for something as ridiculous as a headache).
But you know why.
You see it in the way he won’t meet your eyes, the way he’s sweating through his shirt even though the AC is blasting. Matsuda is the picture of nervous energy, hands fidgeting, feet bouncing, that dumb, boyish charm of his faltering every time your fingers skim too close to his belt buckle.
“You’re avoiding me,” you purr, stepping into his space.
“I—I’m not.” His voice cracks at the end, which only makes you smirk.
“Liar.” You press a palm to his chest, feeling the way his heart is hammering, pounding—but not out of excitement. No, this is pure, panicked self-control.
Because today is the day. Ovulation day.
And Matsuda, despite being reckless, despite always being up for anything, despite the fact that he’s spent plenty of nights tangled in the sheets with you, is terrified of knocking you up.
“Come on, baby,” you coo, letting your fingers trail downward. You can feel him tense. “You’ve never been scared of me before.”
“I’m not scared,” he protests, but his voice is weak, wavering. His eyes flick to your mouth, then away, like even looking at you too long might undo him.
You press closer, your lips brushing the shell of his ear, voice dropping to a whisper.
“Matsuda,” you breathe. “I need you.”
He makes the most pitiful sound—half whimper, half groan—and you feel him stiffen beneath your touch, every muscle locked up. He wants this. You know he wants this. His body betrays him with every shudder, every sharp inhale, every twitch of his fingers where they rest helplessly at his sides.
But he’s holding the line. For now.
That’s a challenge.
Your smile is slow, wicked, teasing your fingers over the waistband of his pants.
Matsuda yelps—actually yelps—and leaps backward like he’s been electrocuted. “I-I have to go!” he blurts, practically running for the door.
If Matsuda thinks he’s escaping you tonight, he’s got another thing coming.
Near sits cross-legged on the pristine white carpet, fingers methodically working a puzzle cube, his gaze cool and unreadable beneath a curtain of snowy curls. Every few seconds, he peeks at you—subtle, calculating—before refocusing on the task in his hands. You’ve spent all day trying to get him in bed, brushing against him "accidentally," leaning in too close, letting your voice dip low and sultry whenever you spoke. Nothing. He’s a fortress of indifference, completely unmoved by your obvious attempts at seduction.
And you know why- today is ovulation day.
"Near," you practically purr, draping yourself over the armrest of the couch, stretching just enough to showcase the curve of your waist. He hums in response, but doesn't look up.
You slide down from your perch and crawl towards him, placing yourself directly in his line of sight. The puzzle cube clicks as he continues to twist it, still unfazed.
"You've been avoiding me all day," you murmur, resting a hand on his knee. His leg tenses beneath your touch, but still, he doesn’t react the way you want him to. "Why is that?"
Silence. A flick of his fingers rotates the cube again, the colors aligning with frustrating precision. He’s stalling. You know it.
You lean in, close enough to feel his steady breath. "Are you scared?" you tease, voice dripping with honeyed temptation.
His fingers pause. Just for a second. But it’s enough.
His cool grey eyes lift to meet yours, and for once, there's something there—something wary, something restrained. "No," he says simply, voice as level as ever. But the way his throat bobs, the slight twitch of his jaw, betrays him.
A slow smile spreads across your lips. "Then what’s the problem?"
Near sighs, setting the cube down with meticulous care, as if the conversation itself is an unwanted puzzle. "You're ovulating."
You blink, pretending to be innocent. "Am I?"
His stare sharpens. "You know you are."
You tilt your head, letting your fingers trail up his arm, featherlight, teasing. "So?"
Near shifts away from your touch, barely an inch, but enough to make your chest tighten with frustration. He’s so good at this game—so disciplined, so maddeningly in control.
"I won’t be manipulated by biology," he states, as if it’s the final word.
But you’re not done yet.
"You think this is manipulation?" You press closer, hands on either side of him, caging him in. "What if I just really, really want you, Near?" Your lips hover over his jawline, and for the first time today, his breath hitches.
"I know what you want," he murmurs, eyes narrowing. "But that doesn’t mean I have to give it to you."
Your fingers trail down his chest, over the soft fabric of his white sweater, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath. Faster than before.
"You don't have to," you whisper. "But do you want to?"
It’s one of the things you love about him—the sharp set of his jaw, the fire in his eyes when he digs his heels in. That relentless, unshakable will. It makes him dangerous. It makes him irresistible. And right now? Right now, it’s pissing you off.
Because he’s been avoiding your touch all day.
Every time you lean in, he steps back. Every time your fingers slide over his thigh, he tenses. When you tried crawling into his lap earlier, all sultry and sweet, he practically threw you off, muttering something about self-control.
Self-control? Mello?
The same Mello who usually can’t keep his hands off you? The same Mello who has spent countless nights wrecking you against the mattress, the wall, the goddamn kitchen table?
No. This is about one thing.
And you know exactly what.
He’s sitting at his desk now, all brooding intensity, gnawing on a chocolate bar like it’s the only thing keeping him sane. His hands are clenched tight, the wrapper crinkling in his grip, and you smirk. He’s struggling.
Good.
You saunter over, slow, deliberate, every step designed to make him look at you. You watch the way his shoulders stiffen, the way his jaw flexes, his grip tightening around the bar like it’s the only thing stopping him from reaching for you.
“Mello.” Your voice is a purr, dripping with honey, and you slide onto his desk—right on top of the papers he’s pretending to focus on.
He exhales sharply through his nose, eyes flicking to your bare thighs before snapping away. “No.”
You tilt your head, feigning innocence. “No? No, what?”
Mello glares at you, but you can see the way his pupils dilate, the way his fingers twitch. “You know what,” he mutters, turning his chair away.
“Oh, baby,” you croon, slipping off the desk and sliding into his lap, straddling him before he can escape. His breath hitches, his hands shooting out—but instead of grabbing your hips, they land on the armrests, white-knuckled. You can feel the heat radiating off him, the way his body aches to react, to give in.
You grind against him, just slightly, just enough to feel how hard he already is beneath you.
He groans—low, guttural—before slamming his head back against the chair with a growl. “You’re evil.”
You smile, wicked and sweet, pressing your lips against his jaw, his ear, whispering, “Then stop resisting.”
He shudders. But then, to your shock, he grabs you—firm, rough—lifting you off his lap and setting you back on the desk. He stands, running a hand through his golden hair, pacing like a caged animal.
“I can’t,” he snaps, voice tight, raw. “Not today.”
Ah. There it is.
You cross your legs, watching him with amusement. “Afraid?”
Mello whirls on you, eyes blazing. “I’m not fucking scared,” he spits. But the way he avoids your gaze tells you otherwise.
You lean back on your hands, letting the silence stretch between you. Watching him squirm. He’s so tense, muscles coiled, body practically vibrating with restraint.
“Then prove it,” you challenge, voice low, sultry.
His fists clench. His breath shudders.
Tilting your head, you let your voice drop to a slow, teasing lilt. "You don’t want to get me pregnant?"
Mello freezes.
His entire body tenses—shoulders locked, spine stiff, hands clenched at his sides. For a moment, he doesn’t breathe. He just stands there, processing, like his brain short-circuited at the mere suggestion.
Then, slowly, he turns to face you.
His eyes are burning—fierce, wild, like he’s at war with himself. His tongue darts out to wet his lips, and for the first time today, you see hesitation crack through that iron-willed stubbornness.
"You think I don’t want to?" His voice is rough, strained, edged with something dark. "You think I don’t fucking dream about it?"
Your breath catches. Oh, this is interesting.
Mello strides toward you in two quick steps, closing the space between you before you can react. He grabs your chin, tilting your face up, forcing you to look at him. His pupils are blown wide, his lips parted, his chest rising and falling in shallow breaths.
"You think I don’t lie awake at night picturing you all round and full with my kid?" he murmurs, voice dangerously low. His fingers tighten just slightly, thumb dragging over your lower lip. "You think I don’t fantasize about it every time I’m buried inside you?"
Heat floods through you, pooling deep in your belly.
You swallow. "Then why—"
"Because," he snarls, cutting you off, his grip flexing. "Because if I fuck you right now.." His forehead drops to yours, and you can feel how ragged his breath is, how close he is to breaking. "I won’t pull out. I won’t think. I’ll ruin you, baby. You’ll be dripping with me, stuffed so full you’ll feel me for days."
Your thighs clench. "Mello—"
"You want that?" His voice is a growl now, almost desperate. "You want me to fucking breed you? Knock you up? Claim you?"
Your breath stutters. Yes.
God, yes.
You don’t say it, but he sees it. He reads it in your flushed cheeks, the way your lips part, the way your nails dig into his arms.
And then, just as quickly as he closed the distance—
He rips himself away.
Slamming both hands on the desk, he grips the edges so tightly his knuckles go white, his chest heaving. His eyes squeeze shut, jaw clenched so hard you hear his teeth grind.
"Fuck," he exhales. "Fuck."
He’s losing it. And not because he doesn’t want you—no, this is something deeper, more primal. It’s because he wants you too much.
You push off the desk, stepping up behind him, pressing your front against his back. Sliding your hands over his waist, feeling the way his body shudders under your touch.
"You’re fighting a losing battle, Mello," you whisper against his neck, lips grazing his skin.
His hands twitch against the desk. He wants to give in.
Matt is a lot of things—laid-back, sarcastic, impossibly smug when he wins a bet—but disciplined? Resistant? Not when it comes to you.
Which is why it’s infuriating that he’s dodging you today.
You’ve spent the entire day testing him. Little touches, playful teasing, leaning in just too close when you whispered in his ear. Normally, Matt would have had you pinned to the nearest surface hours ago, fingers curling under your chin, murmuring something lazy and cocky like, Couldn’t wait, huh?
But today? Today, he’s playing hard to get.
And you know why.
You know because every time you get close, his jaw tenses. Because he keeps adjusting his goggles like he’s hoping they’ll hide the way his pupils dilate when you stretch, when you bite your lip, when you so much as breathe too close to him.
Because it’s ovulation day.
And Matt, despite being reckless in almost every other aspect of his life—chain-smoking, high-speed chases, hacking into goddamn government databases—is suddenly, maddeningly careful.
Which is why, when he shrugs away from your latest attempt to straddle him on the couch, you finally snap.
"You don’t want to get me pregnant?"
Matt chokes.
Not a little, either. A full-on, wheezing, air-cut-off, nearly-dying kind of choke. He coughs, slaps a hand against his chest, blinking at you like you just short-circuited his brain.
You raise an eyebrow, watching him flounder.
When he finally gets his breath back, he gapes at you. "What?"
You lean in, slow, deliberate. “You heard me.”
Matt’s mouth opens, then shuts. His hands twitch on his lap, fingers curling like he doesn’t trust them not to grab you if they move. His gaze drops—to your lips, to your bare thighs where your oversized shirt rides up—and then snaps away again.
You smirk. "Cat got your tongue?"
His jaw tightens. "Not—" He clears his throat, rubs at his neck like he can still feel the phantom of his own choking. "Not the point."
"Then what is the point?" you purr, shifting closer. You’re practically in his lap now, but he’s refusing to touch you, his arms stiff at his sides. "You never say no to me, Matty." Your fingers trace the edge of his glove, feather-light. "So why today?"
He inhales sharply through his nose. "You know why."
You tilt your head. "Do I?"
Matt exhales hard, eyes squeezing shut behind his tinted goggles. "Fuck."
Your smirk widens. "Is that a request?"
His head snaps toward you so fast it’s a miracle he doesn’t get whiplash. "You are dangerous."
"You love it."
"That’s not the point!" His voice cracks. "Do you even know what you’re saying?"
"Oh, I do." You shift fully onto his lap, straddling him, and this time he lets out an honest-to-god whimper. His hands hover near your waist, not touching, his entire body stiff as a board. "Do you?"
Matt swallows thickly. "You’re playing dirty."
You press your lips against his ear, whispering, "So stop playing and take me."
He shudders.
For a second—just a second—you feel him break. His fingers twitch, his breath stutters, his head tilts like he’s about to drag your mouth to his.
But then— With a noise that is painfully close to a whine, Matt grabs your waist and physically lifts you off him, depositing you onto the couch beside him like you weigh nothing.
"Fucking hell," he groans, scrubbing both hands down his face. He tilts his head back, exhaling hard toward the ceiling like it’ll give him the strength to survive this. "You are trying to kill me."
You stretch out next to him, arms behind your head, giving him the most infuriatingly smug smile you can manage.
"I’m just proving a point."
He groans again, dragging his goggles up to rub his eyes. "Yeah, yeah, yeah," he mutters, shifting very obviously to adjust himself in his jeans.
You watch him struggle, eyes dark with amusement. "You sure you’re winning this battle, Matty?" Matt side-eyes you, looking thoroughly wrecked. "Babe, I already lost the war."
And yet, he’s still resisting. For now.
You watch him like a predator circling prey, stretched out on the couch beside him, head tilted, a lazy little smirk tugging at your lips. Matt is wrecked—hands gripping his knees, his chest rising and falling like he just ran a marathon, every muscle in his body tense as he refuses to look at you.
But the best part? The best part is that he's still hard.
He can try to play it cool, try to pretend like he’s in control, but his body betrays him. His knuckles are white, his jaw tight, and his thighs—oh, the way his thighs are flexing, shifting, desperate for relief that he won’t let himself have.
He’s suffering. You’re loving every second of it.
"You know," you murmur, shifting just slightly so your knee brushes against his thigh, watching the way he flinches, "I won’t ask you to pull out."
Matt slaps a hand over his face. "Oh my god."
You bite your lip, watching him struggle. "Matty," you coo, leaning in. "Don’t you wanna see what happens?"
He lets out a strangled groan. "Babe, you have to stop talking."
"Why?" You brush your fingers over his forearm, feeling the way the muscles twitch beneath his skin. "Because you want it too?"
"Because I’m gonna fucking ruin you if you don’t."
Your breath catches. Because his voice—his voice—isn’t teasing anymore. It’s rough, low, dangerous.
You sit up, shifting to straddle his lap again, and this time he doesn’t push you off. He just stares at you, breath shallow, eyes dark behind his goggles. His hands hover at your hips, not quite touching, not quite pushing away.
You press closer. "Then do it." Matt growls.
He grabs your waist, pulling you flush against him, and the contact makes you both gasp—because he’s so hard, and you’re so warm, and the friction is perfect. His fingers dig into your hips, his head falling back against the couch as he exhales through gritted teeth.
"Fuck."
You grind against him, slow, deliberate, feeling the way his whole body shakes beneath you.
"Shit—" His hands twitch, squeezing tighter, like he’s about to flip you over and take you apart. But then, with a groan that sounds like he’s physically dying, he stops himself. "No," he mutters, shaking his head, "no, no, no."
You frown, frustrated. "Matt—"
"I won’t last!" he snaps. "You— this—fuck, babe, if I start, I won’t stop."
Your smirk returns. "That’s the point."
His jaw locks. His grip on you tightens. You can see him teetering on the edge, see the way he’s fighting with himself, see how much he wants it—
And then—
"Fuck it."
He snaps.
Grabbing your thighs, he flips you onto your back, pressing you down into the couch as his body cages over yours. His goggles are gone—ripped off, tossed aside—his green eyes burning as he drags your shirt up, pressing his lips to the newly exposed skin.
"You wanna play dirty?" he mutters, voice rough, vibrating against your stomach.
You shudder. "Yes—" His hands slip lower, tugging at your waistband, and he smirks against your skin.
Synopsis: You and Matsuda spend your day off cuddling while it rains then you make lunch....well, try to anyway.
Warnings: Fluff, Making out
wc: 3.2k
The rain drummed a steady rhythm against the windowpane, soft and relentless, blurring the world outside into a watercolor wash of gray. Thunder rolled in the distance, low and lazy, more of a distant rumble than a warning. The whole apartment smelled like warm blankets and the faint traces of Matsuda’s shampoo—something light and citrusy, though it had long since faded into the fabric of his hoodie.
You were tangled together on the couch, an absolute mess of limbs and blankets, neither of you particularly keen on moving. The TV flickered low in the background, some old movie neither of you were really watching. Matsuda had his arms around you, his cheek resting against the top of your head, fingers absentmindedly playing with the hem of your sleeve.
“This is nice,” he murmured, voice still a little thick from drowsiness.
“Mmhmm.” You shifted slightly, pressing your face further into his chest. He was so warm. The kind of warmth that seeped into your bones, made you feel soft and heavy in the best way. His T-shirt smelled like him, like home.
“Days like this… I dunno, I always feel like I should be doing something, but this is kinda perfect, huh?” His fingers traced lazy circles against your back, almost absentmindedly.
You hummed in agreement, too comfortable to bother with words. Outside, the rain grew heavier, fat droplets smacking against the glass in a way that made you glad to be tucked away inside, buried in the safety of blankets and Matsuda’s arms.
He shifted slightly, just enough to press a kiss to the top of your head. “You’re comfy,” he mumbled, like it was some great revelation.
You laughed softly. “So are you.”
He let out a dramatic sigh. “Guess that means we’re stuck here forever. What a tragedy.”
“Oh no,” you said, utterly monotone, but the way you nuzzled closer betrayed you.
Matsuda chuckled, pulling the blanket tighter around the both of you. “If we freeze to death, tell the others I went out heroically.”
“You’ll die first,” you pointed out. “I’m using you as a human heater.”
“Cold. In every sense of the word.” His pout was audible.
You laughed again, tilting your head up just enough to see his face. His hair was a little messy, bangs falling into his eyes, which were soft and sleepy. He looked… peaceful. It was a rare thing, with how chaotic life usually was.
Reaching up, you brushed his bangs back from his forehead, fingers lingering just a moment longer than necessary. “I like this,” you admitted softly.
His arms tightened around you just a little. “Me too.”
The rain didn’t let up. If anything, it got heavier, turning the world outside into a symphony of water and wind, a gray haze pressing against the windows. But inside, wrapped up in blankets and each other, it was warm, safe. The kind of comfortable that made time feel slow and unimportant.
Matsuda shifted just a little, adjusting his hold on you like he had no intention of letting go, ever. His hoodie was soft under your cheek, the fabric worn in just right, and you could hear the steady beat of his heart, a quiet rhythm against your ear. You weren’t sure how long you’d been lying there, and you didn’t care.
“You ever wonder what it’d be like if life was always this quiet?” Matsuda asked, his voice barely above a murmur.
You breathed in deeply, the scent of him and the faint, lingering traces of whatever detergent he used filling your senses. “Maybe a little,” you admitted. “But I think I’d get bored.”
He huffed a soft laugh. “Yeah, you probably would.” A pause. “I don’t think I would, though. Not if it was like this.”
Your heart did something slow and warm in your chest. You didn’t answer right away, just curled a little closer, letting the moment stretch between you.
“Not gonna lie,” Matsuda said after a while, his voice even softer now, a little sleepy, “I think I might be too comfortable. This is dangerous.”
You smiled against his hoodie. “Dangerous how?”
“Mm.” His arms tightened slightly, a lazy, half-conscious squeeze. “If I fall asleep, you’re never getting me up.”
“That’s fine.”
“Really?” His voice was already slipping into that hazy, pre-sleep stage, thick and low.
“Yeah,” you murmured, the weight of sleep starting to pull at you, too. “We don’t have to do anything today.”
Matsuda let out a slow breath, content. “Good,” he muttered, barely awake now. “I like that.”
And then, just like that, the conversation faded into silence, the kind that wasn’t empty, just full of warmth, of steady breathing and slow heartbeats. The rain continued outside, a lullaby against the windowpane, steady and endless.
Before you could realize it, your eyelids grew too heavy, your body too warm, too comfortable. You barely registered Matsuda’s arm shifting just a little, his fingers brushing against your back in slow, unconscious movements.
Then everything softened, blurred at the edges, and sleep pulled you under—safe, warm, and wrapped up in the quiet rhythm of the rain.
The thunder cracked through the sky like the world itself was splitting in half. The sound rumbled deep, loud, shaking the windows, the vibrations rolling through your chest. You stirred, groggy and warm, blinking as the dim light of the rainy afternoon filtered through the apartment.
Matsuda shifted behind you with a sleepy groan, tightening his hold on you like he wasn’t quite ready to let the moment slip away. His face was buried in your shoulder, and for a second, he just breathed—slow and deep, like he was grounding himself in the scent of you, in the feel of you against him.
“…That was rude,” he muttered, voice thick with sleep.
You let out a slow breath, rubbing your eyes. “Mmm. Yeah.”
Neither of you moved right away. The couch was still warm, the blankets still a perfect cocoon of comfort. But you knew how this went—stay too long, and you’d be wide awake at three in the morning, cursing your terrible sleep schedule.
You sighed. “We should get up.”
Matsuda groaned dramatically. “Do we have to?”
“Unless you wanna be eating cereal for dinner, yeah.”
He groaned again, but this time he actually moved, stretching his arms with a yawn before flopping back onto the couch like a boneless cat. “Fine, fine. What’s for lunch?”
You stood, stretching the last bit of sleep from your limbs before making your way to the kitchen. “Dunno yet. I’ll figure it out.”
Matsuda was right behind you, following like a lost puppy. You barely had time to pull ingredients from the fridge before you felt his arms loop around your waist from behind, his warmth pressing into you again.
“You could help,” you teased, feeling his chin rest on your shoulder.
“Mmm. I am helping.”
You rolled your eyes, but there was no real annoyance there. If anything, the way he clung to you was kind of nice. His grip was loose, casual, but there was something undeniably sweet about the way he held on, like he just wasn’t ready to let go of the moment you’d been having before the thunder woke you.
You started chopping vegetables, Matsuda still attached to you like a limpet. You could feel his breath against your skin, warm and slow, and then—
A soft kiss against the side of your neck.
You paused, the knife hovering just above the cutting board. “Matsuda…”
“Hm?” He kissed you again, this time lingering, just enough for his lips to properly press against your skin.
You let out a slow breath. “If you keep distracting me, I’m gonna cut myself.”
“Oh no,” he murmured, voice barely a whisper now. “Guess I’ll have to take care of you if that happens.”
His fingers splayed out against your stomach, a slow, idle touch. You felt another kiss, this time closer to the curve of your shoulder.
“Keep this up,” you muttered, “and you’re cooking lunch yourself.”
Matsuda hummed, and you could feel the smirk against your skin. “Maybe I just like seeing you flustered.”
You scoffed, but you didn’t push him away. If anything, you leaned into him just a little, letting yourself enjoy the warmth of his body against yours.
His grip on you tightened briefly, like he noticed. “What are we making, anyway?”
“Something simple.”
“Hm. Guess that means I can keep distracting you.”
You sighed, but there was no stopping the way your lips curled at the edges. “If you’re gonna be this clingy, at least make yourself useful. Here.” You handed him a cutting board and a knife, smirking. “You’re on chopping duty.”
Matsuda groaned dramatically, but he took the knife, reluctantly pulling away from you to help. “Fine, fine.”
But not before sneaking in one more kiss—this time against your cheek.
Matsuda was grumbling under his breath as he focused on chopping the vegetables, eyebrows furrowed in concentration. He wasn’t bad at it, but he was definitely a little too dramatic about the whole thing.
“You know, I really think I was more useful just hugging you,” he said, pouting slightly as he sliced through a bell pepper.
You smirked, still trapped between him and the counter, his body pressed up behind yours. He was close—so close that you could feel the slow rise and fall of his chest against your back, the warmth of him still wrapped around you even though his hands were now occupied.
Well. If he wanted to be a distraction, two could play that game.
You tilted your head slightly, just enough to brush your lips against the side of his neck.
Matsuda stiffened. The knife paused mid-slice.
“Uh…”
You pressed another soft kiss against the sensitive skin just below his ear. Then another, slower this time, letting your lips linger.
Matsuda sucked in a sharp breath. “What… are you doing?”
You didn’t answer. Instead, you let your mouth wander, trailing down from his neck to his shoulder, pressing featherlight kisses against the fabric of his hoodie. You felt the subtle shiver that ran through him, the way his muscles tensed slightly.
“I thought you said I had to focus,” he muttered, voice lower now, rougher.
“Mm.” You nipped at his skin, just enough to make him suck in a breath. “I changed my mind.”
Matsuda swallowed hard. You could hear it. Feel it. The knife clattered against the cutting board as his grip on it faltered.
“You are… such a little menace.” His voice was strained, but there was something else there, something thick and needy, barely restrained.
You kissed the edge of his jaw next, slow and deliberate. “You started it.”
Matsuda let out a shaky breath, his hands bracing against the counter on either side of you. You felt him press against your back, his body just a little heavier now, just a little more desperate.
“If you keep that up…” His voice was just above a whisper, his breath warm against your ear.
You smirked, lips ghosting over his pulse point. “Keep what up?”
Matsuda groaned. “You’re—” He cut himself off, his arms suddenly wrapping around you again, tight this time, pulling you flush against him. His mouth found your shoulder, lips brushing against your skin in return, a slow, teasing drag.
You sighed against him, pleased, letting your head tilt back against his shoulder.
“You win,” he muttered against your skin, his voice rough with something warm and heavy.
Matsuda’s arms tightened around you, his grip firm but full of unspoken warmth, the kind that made your stomach flutter. His body was flush against your back, every inch of him pressed into you, and the way he breathed—slow, deliberate, like he was trying to hold himself together—sent a slow, delicious thrill down your spine.
Your lips barely had time to curl into a smirk before he turned the tables.
In one smooth motion, Matsuda spun you around, pressing you back against the counter, his hands gripping the edge on either side of you. His face was close—too close—his dark eyes locked onto yours, hazy with something deep and unreadable. His breath was warm against your lips, and for a moment, he just stood there, drinking you in, his gaze flickering from your mouth to your eyes and back again.
“You,” he murmured, voice low, rough, “are trouble.”
You tilted your head, feigning innocence. “I don’t know what you mean.”
Matsuda huffed out something like a laugh, shaking his head, but the amusement in his eyes was quickly drowned out by something heavier, more desperate. Without another word, he leaned in, his lips brushing against yours in the barest ghost of a kiss.
And then—
His hands found your waist, pulling you into him, closing the last bit of space between you. His lips caught yours properly this time, deep and unhurried, like he wanted to savor every second. He kissed you like he’d been waiting for this exact moment all day, slow but undeniably hungry. His fingers dug into your waist, holding you like he was afraid you’d pull away.
You didn’t. You kissed him back, melting into the warmth of him, threading your fingers through his messy, sleep-tousled hair.
Matsuda let out a quiet, needy sound against your lips, something between a sigh and a groan, and the way his body reacted—pressing even closer, his hands sliding up your sides—made your skin heat.
“Thought you wanted lunch,” you teased between kisses, breathless now, your fingers tugging lightly at his hair.
“Changed my mind,” he murmured, lips trailing down to your jaw, pressing slow, open-mouthed kisses along the curve of your neck.
His hands moved, tracing the shape of your body like he was memorizing it, like he couldn’t get enough. The counter dug into your back, but you barely noticed, too caught up in the heat of his mouth on your skin, the weight of his body against yours.
The kitchen was warm now—not just from the cooking, not just from the heat of the stove still flickering softly in the background. The air between you was thick, charged, every touch electric.
Matsuda’s lips brushed against your ear, his voice low, teasing. “Still think I’m the clingy one?”
You smirked, tilting your head to meet his lips again. “Absolutely.”
He laughed against your mouth, and you swallowed the sound, pulling him closer, deeper—
And then, without warning, his grip tightened.
Before you could react, he lifted you effortlessly, his arms flexing as he hoisted you up onto the counter, settling you right at the edge. The cold surface sent a faint shock through your thighs, but it was nothing compared to the heat in Matsuda’s gaze as he stepped between your legs, settling himself close—so close.
Your breath hitched.
His hands slid up your thighs, slow and teasing, thumbs tracing absentminded circles against your skin. He was watching you now, drinking in your reaction, the way your lips parted slightly, the way your fingers curled against the counter behind you for balance.
"Better," he murmured, voice rich with satisfaction.
You let out a slow breath, still recovering from the sudden shift. "You could've warned me."
Matsuda smirked, his hands tightening around your thighs, pulling you in just enough for your bodies to press together, for the warmth of him to sink into your skin.
"Where’s the fun in that?"
His lips found yours again, more insistent this time, his body slotting perfectly against yours as he deepened the kiss. His fingers flexed against your legs, sliding up just enough to make you shiver, just enough to leave you wanting more.
Your hands found their way into his hair, tugging slightly, and Matsuda groaned against your mouth, the sound vibrating through you.
The kitchen was a blur now—the half-prepared lunch forgotten, the vegetables still sitting untouched on the cutting board. The only thing that mattered was him, his warmth, his touch, the way he fit between your legs so perfectly, the way his breath hitched as you kissed him back just as hungrily.
His hands wandered, tracing the curve of your waist, his fingers curling against your lower back as he pressed you even closer.
You smirked against his lips. "Thought you were supposed to be helping me cook."
Matsuda pulled back just enough to look at you, his dark eyes burning with something heady and mischievous.
"Pretty sure I’m helping in other ways."
And with that, he leaned in again, stealing your breath, making you forget anything existed beyond the space between you.
Matsuda’s hands were greedy now, his grip firm as he pressed you flush against him, his body slotting perfectly between your thighs. His lips moved against yours like he had all the time in the world, slow and deep, his breath hot and uneven.
Your fingers curled into the fabric of his hoodie, tugging him closer, if that was even possible. The counter beneath you was cold, a stark contrast to the heat pooling between your bodies. Matsuda’s hands slid up your waist, fingertips slipping beneath the hem of your shirt, just barely brushing bare skin.
He groaned into your mouth, his thumbs rubbing slow circles at your sides. "You're making it real hard to care about lunch right now," he murmured, voice rough, needy.
You smirked, tilting your head back just enough to give him a teasing look. "You're the one who lifted me onto the counter."
"Yeah?" Matsuda's smirk mirrored yours. "Well, you're the one who started kissing me while I was trying to be helpful."
He leaned in, his lips trailing along your jaw, warm and deliberate, his breath sending a shiver down your spine. His hands roamed up further beneath your shirt, his palms hot against your skin.
Your breath hitched as his teeth grazed the sensitive spot beneath your ear, the sensation shooting straight through you. You tightened your grip on his hoodie, your legs wrapping just a little tighter around his waist.
"Shit," Matsuda breathed against your neck, his voice thick, laced with something deeper, something raw. "You feel so good."
You smirked, fingers sliding into his hair, giving it a gentle tug. "And here I thought you were so worried about eating."
Matsuda groaned, pressing his forehead against your shoulder for a moment like he was trying to regain some semblance of control. His fingers flexed at your waist, gripping you tight before he exhaled sharply.
"Okay," he said finally, though his voice was still hoarse, rough with want. "If we don’t stop now, I’m gonna forget food exists."
You laughed softly, threading your fingers through his hair, letting them rest at the nape of his neck. "We can’t have that, can we?"
Matsuda pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, his lips swollen, his pupils dark and blown wide. He grinned, breathless but utterly enamored.
"Nah," he murmured, pressing one last lingering kiss to your lips, slow and teasing. "But I swear, the second we’re done eating, I’m finishing what you started."
The promise in his voice sent a delicious shiver through you.
You smirked. "Looking forward to it."
Matsuda exhaled, rolling his shoulders, like he needed to physically shake off the heat lingering between you. Then, with a dramatic sigh, he finally stepped back, running a hand through his already messy hair.
"Okay, okay. Food first," he muttered, though his eyes still raked over you like he was mentally counting the seconds until he could get his hands back on you.
tangentwithtanner
yousharknotpass
titsay
germansingergirl
blakekathryn
pixelskylines
prguitarman