#fictionalmen

[velvetghoul]

Evidence of Desire

✩ L Lawliet

contains virginity loss, power play, mutual teasing, light mocking, possessiveness, praise, soft domesticity, inappropriate office flirting, suggestive notes, chess metaphors, unprofessional behavior, sleep-deprivation, clinging/cuddling, also almost 25k words

Your office was quiet, the morning light filtering through the blinds in pale gold stripes. You had been running late, coffee cooling in your hand, when you pushed the door open and froze at the sight waiting for you.

A neat little pyramid of sugar cubes sat perfectly balanced in the center of your desk. Next to it, folded with meticulous care, was a square of paper.

You didn’t need to guess who it was from.

The note was written in that peculiar script, neat but angular, as if every letter was weighed for balance.

“I estimate this structure will last approximately 2 hours and 14 minutes before collapsing. If it falls sooner, please inform me. Also, I hope you slept well. —L“

You pressed your lips together, fighting back a laugh. Typical. Always strange, always calculated, and yet somehow charming. It wasn’t the first time he had left you things, chess pieces in your drawer, half-written riddles on scraps of paper, and once, an origami crane made from the margin of a case file. For three years, this had been your normal. Working with him. Not really seeing him, he preferred his shadows, his screens, but always feeling him close.

And lately, closer.

You set your bag down, sliding into your chair, and let your eyes linger on the sugar pyramid. There was warmth at your chest that you weren’t sure you wanted to name.

Your phone buzzed once, the vibration sliding across your desk until it stopped just by the pyramid of sugar cubes. You didn’t even glance at the caller ID—you already knew.

“Good morning,” you said, settling back in your chair, lips curving faintly.

There was silence for a beat. Then his voice, low, carefully enunciated, as though each word was chosen:

“Good morning. You arrived later than usual.”

Your eyes drifted to the sugar cubes. He had probably balanced them with the precision of a surgeon.

“I had traffic. Don’t sound so concerned.“

“I wasn’t concerned,” he corrected gently. “Only observant. You tend to arrive at 8:06, not 8:32. It is—” there was the faintest pause, “—a disruption of your pattern.”

You smirked, tapping your pen against the desk. “And you don’t like your patterns disrupted.”

“I don’t dislike it,” he said. A quiet rustle on his end, like he was shifting. “But I prefer predictability. Sugar cubes on your desk, for instance. Predictable. You’ll smile when you see them. Predictable. Though—” his tone softened almost imperceptibly, “I also find I like being the reason you smile.”

Your chest tightened a little at that. Three years of this strange, delicate orbit around each other, notes in drawers, chess pawns tucked in your pockets after late nights, his voice in your ear while the rest of the task force slept. Yet you’d never seen his face. “You could just show up and smile at me yourself,” you murmured.

Another pause. Longer this time. Then: “That would be considerably less safe.”

“But you’d like to, wouldn’t you?”

A very faint intake of breath. “Yes.”

The word lingered between you like static. You leaned back in your chair, fingers brushing the rim of your coffee cup. “You know, for someone who prides himself on logic, you can be terribly sentimental.”

“Only with you,” he admitted, and his voice dropped just enough to make your stomach twist.

Your hand trembled slightly as you set your pen down. That careful, slow burn, the kind where three years of patience pressed against your ribs, whispering for more. You hesitated, then tilted your head toward the sugar pyramid. “What exactly do you expect me to do with these?”

“Eat them one by one,” he said softly. “While thinking of me.”

“You little flirt.” You smirked at the sugar pyramid, leaning back in your chair with your pen still between your fingers.

“…Flirt,” he repeated, like the word was unfamiliar in his mouth. “I don’t believe that’s the correct classification. I was merely… honest.”

You chuckled under your breath. “Honest about wanting me to think of you while I’m sucking down sugar cubes? Sounds like flirting to me.”

Another pause. Longer this time. Then, in a voice lower, almost hesitant: “Then I suppose I am flirting.”

The admission slipped through the line so quietly it made your breath catch. Your hand hovered above the pyramid of cubes, brushing the edge of one before you pulled back and let it be.

“I’ll let you get back to work then,” he said at last, more controlled again, though there was something softer beneath it. “But don’t forget to take one cube every hour. I’ll know if you don’t.”

You laughed, shaking your head as you put the phone down, your pulse unreasonably quick for a conversation that lasted only a few minutes.

The sugar pyramid stood at the center of your desk like a dare.

“I hate sugar,” you muttered to yourself, fingers sliding over the keyboard as your laptop hummed awake. The screen’s glow washed over the little pyramid on your desk, casting long shadows across the cubes.

“…You don’t hate sugar,” his voice came, dry, almost amused. “You hate that I know you’ll still eat them, because I asked you to.”

Your head snapped toward the phone, lips twitching despite yourself. “Were you—listening?”

“I never hung up.” A small pause, then the faintest curl of warmth in his tone. “I wanted to hear you complain about me.”

You huffed a laugh, shaking your head and sinking further into your chair. “Three years, L, and you still don’t understand boundaries.”

“I understand them,” he countered smoothly. “I just don’t respect them when it comes to you.”

That one hit deeper than you’d expected, heat flickering up the back of your neck. You tried to steady your breath, eyes darting once more to the perfect little sugar pyramid like it was mocking you. “I’m going to work now. Properly.” You emphasized the last word, fingers already moving over the keys.

“Then I’ll let you.” His voice had softened again, slow, deliberate. “But don’t forget—I’ll be watching.”

The line clicked dead this time.

You stared at the phone for a long moment before muttering under your breath again, “Creep.” But there was no hiding the smile that tugged your mouth as you bent back over your laptop.

The clock ticked toward 12:30 p.m., the quiet hum of your office left behind as you shrugged into your coat and locked the door. The hall was empty, save for the muffled sounds of distant conversation and the squeak of your shoes against the polished floor. You needed fresh air more than anything—your eyes were burning from the screen, your fingers aching from typing.

Outside, the air was crisp, sharp with the scent of asphalt warming in the sun. You pulled the pack of cigarettes from your pocket, tapping one loose with the ease of habit. The little flick of your lighter flared briefly, and you leaned into it, shielding the flame against the breeze. The tip glowed as you inhaled, letting smoke fill your lungs and curl out from your lips.

Your phone buzzed in your other hand. You didn’t check the screen. You didn’t need to.

“Yes, sweetheart?” you answered, voice smooth with a teasing lilt, the cigarette already between your lips.

There was a pause on the line, faint static—then his voice, measured, precise, the kind of voice that weighed every syllable. “You should quit smoking.”

You laughed quietly, exhaling a thin ribbon of smoke into the air. His words carried that familiar detached tone, but you’d been listening to him long enough to hear the layers beneath—concern dressed up as observation.

“And you should stop watching me,” you murmured, lips curving as you leaned against the cold stone of the building. “But here we are.”

The silence that followed was heavy in its own way, filled with things unsaid. You imagined him somewhere inside, crouched over his phone the way he crouched over chessboards and sugar pyramids, thumb pressed against his lower lip. He was watching. He always was.

“You know it’s harmful,” he said finally. “The habit reduces life expectancy by an average of ten years. It also causes your fingertips to—”

“Turn yellow?” you cut him off with a little laugh, flicking ash to the pavement. “You don’t have to list my vices back to me, L. You’re already keeping score.”

“I’m not keeping score,” he corrected softly. “I’m invested.”

Your smirk faltered for a fraction of a second at that word. Invested. From anyone else it would sound casual. From him, it sounded dangerously close to intimate.

You took another drag, more out of defiance than desire. “Then what’s your plan? Gonna leave me sugar cubes until I drop the habit?”

“If it worked, yes.” His tone was flat, but there was the faintest shift, like he was smiling and suppressing it. “I’d leave them every day until you couldn’t bear the sight of them.”

“Maybe I’d just eat them all out of spite,” you teased, smoke curling past your words.

“I’d still win,” he murmured, voice dropping low. “Because then I’d know you were thinking of me with every one.”

The smoke caught in your throat at that, leaving you momentarily breathless. You tilted your head back toward the sky, the cigarette burning low between your fingers, and whispered into the phone with a grin you couldn’t suppress: “You really are a little flirt.”

This time, he didn’t correct you. He only went quiet, the weight of his silence pressing against your chest as if he were standing right there beside you.

The call ended with a quiet click, the static gone from your ear, but his voice still echoing in your mind. You lingered outside, leaning back against the rough stone wall of the building, cigarette dangling loosely from your fingers. The air was sharp, biting against your skin as your head tipped back, eyes closed, exhaling smoke like you were trying to ease the ache he’d left inside you.

Footsteps. They stopped just in front of you.

You didn’t look up at first, probably just someone passing. But then—“I told you smoking isn’t good for your health.”

The voice hit you like a gut punch. Familiar. Too familiar.

Your eyes snapped open, breath caught in your chest as the cigarette was plucked neatly from your fingers. You froze, staring, and there he was, close enough to touch. Taller than you’d imagined, posture slightly hunched but presence unnervingly steady, almost calming despite the way your heart spiked.

He wore a plain white sweater, soft at the edges like he’d pulled it from a drawer without care, blue jeans slightly loose around his long legs, and black Converse scuffed with wear. A medical face mask covered the lower half of his face, but it didn’t hide the sharp, unreadable darkness of his eyes. His hair was longer than you thought it would be black, disheveled, strands curling toward his neck like he hadn’t bothered to tame it.

Your throat went dry. “What the fuck—” you whispered, panic stirring low in your stomach. He was standing there.

He only tilted his head, gaze locked to yours like he was dissecting every flicker of expression. Then, with a voice that carried its usual detached cadence but now edged with something dangerously amused, he said: “This isn’t how you greet people.”

You stared at him, utterly stunned, pulse hammering.

“But,” he continued, almost mocking, though the softness beneath betrayed him, “I will allow it for now.”

The cigarette smoldered between his fingers, forgotten, as if even that small rebellion had no power against the weight of his presence standing there in front of you.

“You know this is expensive, right?” you snapped, the sharpness in your voice betraying the panic you were trying to smother. You watched as he casually dropped the cigarette to the pavement and ground it beneath the rubber sole of his black Converse, the ember snuffed out with a muted hiss.

He didn’t flinch at your tone. Those dark eyes, flat yet impossibly perceptive, pinned you in place. “Technically,” he said, the cadence of his words measured, “you paid for the right to accelerate your own death by approximately ten years, possibly more depending on your genetic predisposition and environment. So in that sense, I have just saved you money. A rather significant return on investment, if you wish to calculate it properly.”

You blinked, momentarily caught between outrage and disbelief. “You destroyed my cigarette and called it saving me money?”

“Yes,” he answered simply, voice calm, almost bored but his eyes glimmered faintly, betraying some amusement. “That is correct.”

You pushed off the wall, arms crossing tightly against your chest to mask the unease winding through your stomach. He was here. Not behind a phone, not hidden in shadows. Real. Close enough to breathe the same air. And he was infuriatingly composed about it.

“You could have just said you don’t like the smell,” you muttered.

His head tilted, hair slipping slightly over his mask. “I don’t like the thought of you damaging yourself when I’ve spent years making sure others don’t. The smell is very irrelevant.”

The words sank into you, low and dangerous, twisting in your chest in ways you didn’t want to acknowledge. You stared at him, searching for cracks in his mask, anything to give away what he was really thinking.

“You’re impossible,” you whispered, though your voice had softened.

“Perhaps,” he said, rocking back slightly on his heels, still crouched like some eerie apparition you’d conjured by accident. “But you haven’t walked away.”

And he was right—you hadn’t moved an inch.

“And what are you doing here?” you asked, narrowing your eyes as he rose fluidly from his crouch, tall and steady in front of you.

His posture was strange, shoulders rounded, hands slipping into the loose pockets of his jeans as if he’d been standing there for years. Those black eyes didn’t waver from yours, and though his mask hid most of his expression, you could feel the curve of amusement threading through his words before he spoke.

“I work here too,” he said flatly, as though it were the most obvious answer in the world. Then, after a beat, he added with a dry edge, “I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but most of the criminals don’t catch themselves.”

You blinked, caught between a laugh and disbelief. “Oh really?”

“Yes,” he continued, shifting his weight slightly, his voice carrying that careful monotone that made every statement sound like a mathematical proof. “It’s quite a complicated system. I investigate. I think. Sometimes I eat cake. And then, eventually, I solve the case. You should try it—it’s very productive.”

Your lips twitched, fighting back a smile. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I’ve been called worse,” he replied without missing a beat. His eyes lingered on you, that strange mix of detached and intent. “But if it helps, consider this my lunch break.”

“Lunch break?” you echoed.

“Yes. Others take walks. Some socialize. I appear in front of you and confiscate dangerous objects.” He nudged the crushed cigarette with his shoe, as though to underline the point, tone almost mocking but never losing that strange eloquence. “It seems a far better use of time.”

This time, you couldn’t stop your laugh. The sound escaped before you could catch it, and his eyes flickered at the sound, sharp, calculating, and just slightly softer.

“I have to go back,” you sighed, flicking a glance at the building behind you before tilting your chin up at him. “Maybe you should come to my office if you’re bored. So you can eat your sugar cubes.”

You stepped closer, daring, and tapped your finger against his chest as though he were just some ordinary coworker and not the most brilliant, reclusive man alive. The fabric of his white sweater was soft beneath your fingertip, a warmth beneath it you hadn’t expected.

For a moment, he froze. His breath hitched so faintly you would have missed it if you hadn’t been watching him so closely. Behind the plain medical mask, a flush spread across the tops of his cheekbones.

You didn’t notice. You were too busy smirking, enjoying the way his eyes flickered down at your hand like he wasn’t sure what to do with it. “That’s a rather dangerous invitation,” he said finally, voice quieter, though still carefully measured. “If I come to your office, I won’t be eating sugar cubes.”

You raised an eyebrow, amused. “Oh? And what would you be doing instead?”

His gaze lingered, steady and unreadable, though the faint pink still colored his skin above the mask. His lips parted as if to speak, then he stopped himself, lowering his eyes briefly to the pavement before looking back at you with that same eerie calm.

“Working,” he said at last, tone flat again, though the faint waver betrayed him. “Obviously.”

But the way his fingers curled in his pockets and the stubborn blush creeping higher told another story entirely.

You chuckled, soft and low, the sound curling between you like smoke. Your hand lingered just long enough to brush against his arm, before you turned, slipping past him.

He didn’t move, didn’t follow, only stood there with that strange, still presence that seemed to swallow the space around him. You felt his eyes trace the back of your figure as you walked away, the faintest tension humming between you both.

“I will hear from you,” you tossed over your shoulder, voice carrying your usual teasing lilt.

There was the slightest pause, and then his reply, smooth and deliberate, cut through the air: “You will.”

It followed you all the way back inside, echoing in your chest with far more weight than it should have, like a promise sealed in his low, unshakable tone.

The hallway was quiet when you returned, the only sound the click of your shoes echoing off the walls. You slid your key into the lock, twisting until the mechanism gave a soft snick. The door opened, and you stepped back into the familiar space of your office.

At first, nothing seemed out of place—the faint hum of your laptop, the chair angled just how you’d left it, the blinds half-drawn against the afternoon light. But then your eyes landed on the center of your desk.

You froze.

The pyramid of sugar cubes still stood, perfectly balanced as if not a second had passed since you’d left. But resting delicately on top was something new. A single flower. Small, fragile, its petals curved outward in perfect symmetry.

Your breath caught when you recognized it. Your birth flower. Not just any bloom plucked from a florist’s shelf, but yours.

You approached slowly, setting your jacket down with more care than usual, as though any sudden movement might shatter the little display. The flower seemed impossibly out of place among the sterile papers and harsh edges of your desk, soft and alive, its quiet presence commanding all your attention.

A folded slip of paper lay beneath the stem. You reached for it, fingers brushing the delicate bloom as you lifted the note free. His handwriting sprawled across it in the familiar slanted scrawl you’d seen countless times in hidden drawers and chessboard pawns: “You looked better smiling than smoking. Please keep this instead.”

You stared at the words for a long moment, the corners of your lips tugging upward despite yourself. He had been here. Silent, invisible, and yet everywhere.

You sat down slowly, turning the flower in your hand, letting your fingertips trace the edges of its petals. The faintest blush crept into your cheeks as the memory of his voice, low and steady, slipped back into your mind.

You whispered into the empty office, as if he might still be listening: “You’re impossible.”

But the smile tugging at your lips betrayed just how much you didn’t mind.

The building was nearly silent by the time you finally pushed away from your desk, the only sound the faint buzz of the fluorescent lights above and the occasional groan of the old heater cycling on. You rubbed your eyes, exhaustion prickling behind them, and shut your laptop with a sharp snap. Papers stacked into neat piles, pens clicked back into their holder—anything to mark an end to the long, aggravating day.

When you finally locked your office door and slung your bag over your shoulder, it was nearly 9 p.m. The corridors felt deserted, eerie in their stillness, the kind of silence that makes your own footsteps sound too loud. You’d only just reached the end of the hallway when your phone buzzed in your hand. Without looking at the ID, you pressed it to your ear.

“It’s dark outside,” his voice said immediately—low, quiet, as if he were speaking right beside you instead of across a line.

You sighed, already smirking despite your fatigue. “My car is in the parking lot. I’m not walking home, sweetheart.”

“Darkness increases risk,” he replied evenly. “Statistically, assaults are more likely to occur between 8 p.m. and midnight. And your parking lot, while moderately lit, contains at least four blind spots I can calculate without difficulty.”

You reached the elevator, heels clicking, shaking your head. “Are you actually surveilling the parking lot right now?”

“I don’t surveil,” he corrected gently, though his tone carried that familiar thread of amusement. “I observe.”

“I’ll be fine,” you assured him. “I’m a big girl. Three years working under you, remember? I can handle getting to my car.”

Another silence. Then, softer, almost reluctant: “I’d prefer not to test that theory.”

You paused mid-step, his words threading under your skin like static. He never asked. He only stated, observed, calculated. This was different—subtle, but different.

Your lips curved as you unlocked your car, tossing your bag inside. “Sweet of you to worry. But I promise, I’ll call if the shadows start looking dangerous.”

“Shadows,” he murmured, as if testing the word, then fell quiet again. For a moment, you could almost swear you felt eyes on you—steady, unseen, and far too close.

The cool elevator air pressed against your skin as the doors slid shut, a sigh of machinery swallowing you whole. You leaned back against the rail, phone pressed to your ear, half-listening to the faint hum of the cables above.

“Wait for me. I will walk you to your car.”

His voice filled the small space, low and certain, no room for argument hidden in the quiet syllables. For a second, your heart stalled, then stumbled, rushing too fast in your chest. You’d heard him say countless things over the years, but never this—never a simple, human offer.

A smile tugged at your lips before you could stop it, heat rising to your cheeks despite the fact that you stood alone. “Okay,” you murmured, voice warm, playful, though you knew he’d hear the faint tremor beneath it. “Then hurry.”

The elevator jerked into motion, gliding downward floor by floor. You smirked at your own reflection in the steel of the doors, brushing hair back from your face, cheeks still flushed. You could almost feel him drawing nearer, closing the distance.

“You’re blushing,” he said finally, and though his tone was smooth, calculated, there was an undercurrent—soft, amused, maybe even pleased.

You bit down on a laugh, heat flooding higher in your cheeks as you tried to mask it with bravado. “You can’t possibly know that.”

“I can,” he replied simply. “Your voice changes when you do.”

The elevator chimed, the doors sliding open to spill you into the dim lobby. You stepped out slowly, scanning the empty space, phone still against your ear. Somewhere in the building, he was closing in, and the thought sent another pulse of warmth rushing through you. “Then you’d better get here quick,” you teased softly, heading for the doors that led to the lot. “Before it fades.”

“I’m already on my way,” he said, and the promise in his voice made your breath catch, the blush on your cheeks refusing to go anywhere at all.

You lingered near the glass doors, arms crossed loosely, phone still clutched in your hand though the call had ended minutes ago. Each second stretched, your eyes flicking toward the elevator with a mix of anticipation and nerves you didn’t want to name.

The soft ding broke the silence. The doors slid open, and there he was. He stopped a few feet from you, gaze fixing on yours with that steady, unreadable weight. For a moment, neither of you spoke. Then, without a word, he pushed past you gently, nudging the glass door open with his shoulder. The cool night air swept in.

You followed him outside, the faint click of your shoes echoing on the pavement. Only then did he pause, glance around once as if checking for shadows, and tugged the mask down from his face.

The sight struck you harder than you expected. His lips, soft and pale; the sharp line of his jaw; the faint flush across his cheeks from the cool air. He looked younger without the mask, human in a way that made your chest ache.

“Hot,” you said instantly, mockingly, the word slipping out before you could stop it. You smirked to cover the way your pulse jumped, tilting your head at him like you were teasing an old friend.

He blinked, startled just slightly, then turned his gaze away. His hand lifted in a half-shrug, fingers twitching near his mouth as if debating whether to hide again. “That is not a statistically accurate description,” he said evenly, though his voice carried a faint, unsteady undercurrent.

“Oh, come on,” you laughed, brushing past him toward your car, your smirk widening. “Don’t tell me you’re shy now.”

His eyes flicked back to you, dark and unreadable, but you didn’t miss the faint pink still clinging to his skin as he fell into step beside you. His shrug was small, awkward, but the way he stayed close was answer enough.

The night air was still, your car waiting under the dim halo of a lamppost. You slowed as you reached it, the keys cold in your hand, but your attention wasn’t on the car. It was on him—silent, looming just at your side, his presence both unsettling and strangely grounding.

You stopped, turning toward him fully. For once, he didn’t move, his posture oddly stiff as if he were bracing for something unseen. A smirk tugged at your lips.

Without warning, you stepped into his space, closing the distance until your arms slid easily around his waist. His sweater was soft beneath your cheek, his frame taller and leaner than you had imagined, the faint warmth of his body seeping into yours. “Thank you for walking me, big scary dog,” you murmured mockingly, your voice light and teasing as you held him close.

He went utterly still. His breath caught, shallow and sharp, his hands hanging stiffly at his sides as though he had no idea what to do with them. You tilted your head slightly to look up at him and were met with wide, startled eyes. They locked on yours, dark and unblinking, as if you had just done something beyond comprehension.

For a man who’d unraveled countless minds with ease, he looked utterly undone by a simple hug.

Your smirk softened, just a little, as you felt the rapid thrum of his heartbeat beneath your ear. He didn’t push you away, didn’t move at all—only stared at you like you were something impossible standing in his arms.

Your chin rested lightly against his chest, the soft knit of his sweater pressing against your skin as you tilted your head back to look at him. From this close, he seemed even taller, his silhouette cutting against the dim glow of the parking lot lights. His heartbeat thrummed quick beneath your ear, betraying the stillness of his body.

A slow, mischievous smile spread across your lips. “What? Did you never get a hug?” you teased, voice low and mocking, the words curling between you like smoke.

For a moment, he only stared, eyes wide, his lips parting just slightly as if you’d asked something that truly didn’t fit into his carefully ordered world. You felt him tense beneath your arms, every inch of him taut, as though the simple contact was far more dangerous than the cases he’d solved or the killers he’d outwitted.

“Not..like this,” he admitted at last, the words quiet, halting. His voice still carried that detached eloquence, but there was something raw underneath, something you’d never heard before. He looked down at you as if studying the shape of your face, memorizing it in some unspoken panic.

Your smirk only deepened, chin nudging against his chest in playful defiance. “You’re serious? Twenty-five years old, and you don’t know what to do when someone hugs you?”

His gaze flickered away for the briefest second, the tips of his ears flushing faintly in the cold light. “Physical contact is statistically unnecessary. Most people use it as a social gesture, but it complicates rational thought. My mind doesn’t—” He faltered, and then added with a faint frown, “—doesn’t usually allow it.”

You chuckled softly, your breath warming the fabric of his sweater as your arms tightened around his waist just a little. “So I’ve broken the great L with something as simple as a hug.”

His eyes snapped back to yours, wide and sharp, but he didn’t move away. Instead, after a long, tense pause, his hands lifted hesitant and awkward until his fingers hovered at your back. Slowly, like he was handling something fragile, he let them rest there.

You felt the faintest shiver run through him, his body unsure but unwilling to pull away. “You’re mocking me,” he said at last, his tone almost flat again but softer, as if he didn’t mind half as much as he claimed.

“Of course I am,” you whispered back, smiling against him.

His breath hitched once more, and though he tried to shrug it off, his grip against your back tightened, the truth of it written in the way he refused to let go.

You tilted your head up, your arms still loosely wrapped around his waist, and before he could retreat into that strange, awkward stillness again, you pressed a soft kiss to his cheek. His skin was warmer than you expected, smooth beneath your lips, and you lingered there for the briefest moment—just long enough to make sure he felt it.

“Good night,” you whispered as you pulled back, your voice low and almost tender against the quiet hum of the parking lot.

For the first time, something shifted in his expression. His wide, calculating eyes softened just slightly, as though the ground had tilted beneath him in a way he hadn’t accounted for. His lips curved, not much, barely there, but enough to be unmistakable. A small, fragile smile, like he was testing out a foreign shape on his face.

It made your chest tighten unexpectedly.

He didn’t answer right away, only looked at you with that faint, impossible smile still ghosting across his lips. Then, almost reluctantly, he murmured, “Good night.”

His voice was quiet, careful, but it carried a warmth you’d never heard from him before.

You’d slept better than you had in weeks. His voice, his face, that fleeting smile—all of it had followed you into your dreams and wrapped you in a kind of warmth you hadn’t expected. Morning came too quickly, but you didn’t mind. You curled your hair, crisp black slacks hugging your legs, a white button-up shirt tucked neatly at your waist. Classic. Composed. Almost like armor.

The walk through the building felt ordinary until you unlocked your office door, pushed it open, and jolted so hard your bag nearly slipped from your shoulder.

He was sitting in your chair.

Legs drawn up, spine curled, his knees hugged loosely as he swiveled lazily side to side. His familiar messy black hair falling into his face. His dark eyes flicked up at you, sharp and casual all at once.

“My fucking heart,” you snapped, hand pressing to your chest. “You scared the life out of me.”

“Mm.” His head tilted slightly, like your reaction was being catalogued for future analysis. “Good morning to you too.” A pause, and then his nose wrinkled just faintly, sharp gaze narrowing with precision. “Do you wear new parfum?”

You blinked, caught off guard, before a laugh slipped out. “That’s your way of greeting me after almost giving me a heart attack?”

“It’s an important observation,” he replied smoothly, shrugging one shoulder, his voice carrying that detached eloquence even as his eyes lingered on you longer than they should have. “Scent is one of the strongest triggers for memory. If you’ve changed it, I will notice.”

You rolled your eyes, stepping into the room and setting your bag down on the desk he’d claimed like it belonged to him. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Statistically, yes.” His lips curved almost imperceptibly, like the ghost of last night’s smile was threatening to return. “But it suits me.”

Your pulse kicked up again as you met his eyes, realizing just how different the office felt with him there—real, tangible, unsettling and magnetic all at once.

“So do you?” he asked, his voice quiet but direct, eyes fixed on you with that piercing stillness that never let anything slip by unnoticed.

You closed the door behind you with a soft click, the sound echoing faintly in the office’s stillness. His gaze followed you as you crossed the room, every movement catalogued, measured, as if you were under a microscope. You dropped your bag onto the desk with a soft thud, sliding your jacket from your shoulders and tossing it over the back of the chair he was currently occupying.

“Yes, I do,” you admitted, smoothing your shirt before resting one hand against the edge of the desk, standing close enough to look down at him.

He shifted slightly in the chair, knees still drawn up, posture strange but so distinctly his. His head tilted, black hair falling into his eyes as he studied you.

“I thought so,” he said finally, tone thoughtful, almost pleased with himself. “It’s lighter. Less sharp than your usual choice.” His lips parted faintly, and you caught the smallest flicker of color across his cheeks before he masked it again. “It suits you.”

You arched an eyebrow, smirking. “What, are you critiquing me now? Going to keep a catalog of all my perfumes, too?”

“If it helps me understand you,” he answered matter-of-factly, “then yes.”

The corner of your mouth curved, warmth stirring in your chest despite the teasing. You leaned just slightly closer, voice dropping soft and playful. “You’re paying far too much attention, sweetheart.”

He didn’t flinch at the nickname this time. His eyes stayed on yours, dark and unwavering, and though his face remained composed, there was no mistaking the quickened breath that left him as he murmured back: “Only when it comes to you.”

“So, are you gonna let me sit,” you teased, circling around the desk, “or should I take my seat on your lap?”

The words hung in the air like smoke, deliberate, playful, sharp enough to cut through his practiced calm.

For the first time since you’d stepped into the room, his composure cracked. A flush spread high across his cheeks, the pink stark against his pale skin. His eyes widened, dark and unblinking, and he shifted just slightly in the chair, as though your suggestion had rooted him to the spot and stolen all the air from his lungs.

You froze just long enough to savor it, then burst into a laugh, pointing at him with triumphant glee. “Hah! Got you!”

He blinked, still caught, lips parting as though he had something logical prepared, only to find himself speechless instead. The blush only deepened.

You leaned a hip against the desk, smirking down at him, finger still aimed at his chest like you’d just checkmated him on a chessboard. “Three years, L, and I finally found the trick.”

He glanced away, thumb brushing against his lower lip in a nervous tic, but not fast enough to hide the flicker of amusement in his eyes. “Statistically,” he murmured, almost under his breath, “that was an unfair strategy.”

Which only made you laugh harder.

He rose from your chair in one slow, deliberate movement, unfolding his tall frame until he was standing directly in front of you. The air shifted immediately, your smirk faltering just slightly as you realized just how little space existed between your bodies now.

He was close. Too close.

The faint scent of clean cotton and sugar clung to him, the kind of softness that felt jarringly at odds with the sharp, calculating intensity of his gaze. Your back brushed against the edge of your desk, nowhere else to retreat as he loomed over you, posture still hunched but presence overwhelming all the same.

Your laughter from a moment ago seemed to echo faintly, swallowed by the sudden quiet. His dark eyes locked onto yours, unblinking, studying every twitch of your expression. You could see the slight tremor in his breath, the faint rise and fall of his chest, and though his face remained calm, that betraying flush still colored his cheeks.

You tilted your chin up, stubborn and teasing even with your pulse racing. “You’re awfully quick to get up when I mention your lap,” you murmured, voice low, challenging.

He didn’t flinch. He only leaned fractionally closer, so slight you wondered if you’d imagined it, until you could feel the warmth of his breath fan against your cheek. His fingers twitched at his side, as though fighting the urge to move, to touch.

“I stood,” he said carefully, his tone still calm but softer, rougher at the edges, “because I refuse to give you the satisfaction of that particular victory.”

Your lips curved, heat sparking through you as you stared up at him. “Looks to me like I’ve already won.”

His eyes flickered down to your mouth for just a heartbeat, betraying him completely. He froze again, caught in the tension he couldn’t calculate his way out of, his composure unraveling thread by thread in the quiet, dangerous space between you.

You tilted your head just slightly, leaning in until the barest breath separated you from him. The corner of your mouth curved as you whispered, soft and playful, “You are shy, Ryuzaki.”

The name lingered between you, tasting sweeter on your tongue for how close you were. His eyes followed yours instantly, dark and intent, dropping to your lips for a fraction of a second before snapping back up. That betraying flicker was all you needed.

“I am not shy,” he said at last, voice quiet but strained, each word drawn out like it cost him something. “I am cautious.”

You smirked wider, refusing to back away, chin tilted up in defiance. “Mm. Looks the same to me.”

He blinked, as though you had just made a move in a game he hadn’t anticipated. His shoulders shifted, body taut, his hands tightening at his sides like he didn’t know where to put them if not on you.

The silence between you thickened, the hum of the overhead lights fading into nothing compared to the sound of both your breaths, uneven and too loud in the tiny space. And still you didn’t pull back, and neither did he.

You eased yourself back, sliding onto the edge of your desk with a soft thud, the wood creaking faintly beneath you. The shift put you at the perfect height, forcing him to stand between your knees.

Before he could retreat into that eerie stillness of his, you reached out, fingers finding the warm skin just above the collar of his sweater. Your hand slid deliberately over the side of his neck, your thumb brushing slow circles against the sharp line of his pulse point.

His breath caught. His eyes widened just slightly, lashes lowering as if the weight of your touch was something unbearable.

You leaned forward, close enough that your lips almost brushed his ear, your voice dropping to a whisper meant only for him. “Your heart’s one second away from beating out of your chest, love.”

The nickname, the intimacy of it, seemed to unravel him further. His pulse thudded hot and frantic beneath your thumb, proof against all his practiced calm. His lips parted, silent at first, before he finally managed: “You’re observing me.” His voice was soft, halting, as though he didn’t know whether to be unnerved or drawn closer.

You smirked, thumb pressing a little firmer against that frantic rhythm. “I’ve learned from the best.”

He stood frozen, caught between fight and surrender, his hands twitching faintly at his sides as though gravity itself was pulling them toward your hips but still, he didn’t move. His eyes searched yours, wide and dark, his composure unraveling thread by thread under your touch.

Your thumb lingered over the frantic rhythm in his neck, savoring the way it betrayed him. He was still frozen, caught between restraint and need, his eyes locked to yours like he was calculating a thousand possibilities and still couldn’t find an answer.

You smirked softly, then tugged gently at the back of his neck, closing the last sliver of space between you. His breath hitched just before your lips brushed his, soft, tentative, the kiss slow enough to give him every chance to retreat.

He didn’t.

The stillness that had gripped him broke. His lips parted against yours, hesitant at first, the faintest tremor in the way he responded, as though he had no map for this, no strategy. You tilted your head, deepening the kiss just a fraction, your hand steady at his neck while your other braced against the desk for balance.

He let out the smallest sound, muffled, surprised, almost helpless, before gathering himself enough to kiss you back, awkward but warm, unpracticed but real.

When you finally pulled back, only an inch, your lips still brushing his, you whispered with a grin, “Told you—shy.”

His cheeks burned, his dark eyes blown wide and unguarded, and yet he didn’t move away. Not even a little.

The kiss broke with the faintest pull of breath, your lips still brushing his when he finally moved. His hands, pale and slender, lifted with a sudden urgency, both cupping your face as though he needed to hold you still, to confirm you were real.

His thumbs hovered at your cheekbones, brushing against the faint heat rising in your skin. His touch wasn’t confident—it was careful, searching, each fingertip trembling ever so slightly as though he was tracing the outline of something fragile and unexplainable.

He leaned in, close enough that you could feel his breath ghost against your mouth, his dark eyes wide and unblinking, drinking you in with a desperation that didn’t match his normally calculated calm.

“Fascinating,” he murmured, barely audible, though the word trembled as though he hadn’t meant to say it aloud.

You smirked faintly, chin tilting into his touch. “You’re analyzing me right now?”

His gaze flicked over every detail, your lips still parted from the kiss, the curve of your jaw beneath his palms, the rise and fall of your chest. His voice came quieter this time, uneven in a way you’d never heard before: “Yes. I can’t help it.”

His thumbs stroked slowly across your cheeks, almost reverent, as though cataloging the warmth of your skin. “Your pupils are dilated. Your breathing elevated. You…” he faltered, eyes snapping back to yours, “you enjoyed it.”

The smirk on your lips widened. “And what do your calculations say about yourself right now?”

For once, he didn’t answer right away. His eyes softened, the flush across his cheeks deepening as his grip against your face tightened just slightly, not enough to hurt, but enough to keep you right there, suspended in his gaze.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low, almost raw: “They say I don’t want to stop.”

His grip shifted just barely, thumbs brushing across your cheekbones again, as though memorizing the shape of you. The intensity in his gaze didn’t falter—not for a second. Then, with a sudden certainty that left no room for hesitation, he closed the space between you once more.

His lips met yours again, still hesitant, still unpracticed, but this time with more weight behind it. He held your face as if you were something impossibly delicate, porcelain he might crack if he wasn’t careful. His hands anchored you in place, cool fingers trembling faintly at your temples as though the act itself was overwhelming him.

The kiss was soft, almost achingly so, his lips moving against yours with a slowness that made your chest tighten. It wasn’t hunger but something deeper, something cautious, reverent. He kissed like someone who’d never allowed himself this before, and maybe never thought he would.

You tilted your head, leaning into his palms, letting your own hands rest lightly against his wrists. His breath shuddered against your mouth, uneven and quick, but he didn’t pull away. If anything, he pressed closer, holding you like you might slip through his fingers if he dared to let go.

When you finally broke for air, his forehead rested against yours, his eyes still closed, his hands steadying you as though to prove you were both still there. His whisper, warm and uncertain, slipped between you: “I don’t know how to stop.”

“Then don’t. We are alone here,” you whispered, the words brushing his lips as you leaned in to kiss him again, softer this time, deliberate. Your mouth lingered on his, coaxing him into it, savoring the way he followed with more confidence than before.

When you pulled back, his eyes opened slowly, dark and wide, searching yours as though he was still calculating whether this was real. His hands didn’t leave your face, he cradled you like he was still afraid you might vanish.

A beat of silence stretched. Then, in that calm, matter-of-fact cadence that was so undeniably him, he said:

“If we are alone, statistically, the probability of me kissing you again is one hundred percent.”

The faintest, crooked curve tugged at his lips as he said it, half-serious, half-mocking himself, and it only made your chest tighten more.

He leaned in again, his lips brushing yours with a gentleness that almost startled you—just a press, soft and fleeting, like he was testing reality itself. When he drew back, his eyes lingered on you, wide and unsteady, his voice hushed as though confessing something forbidden.

“This feels unreal.”

You smirked, slow and devilish, tilting your head as your fingers traced idly along the side of his neck. “Hmm, imagine how the other stuff would feel then.”

The effect was immediate. His breath caught, his eyes widening further as color bloomed faintly across his pale cheeks. For once, the brilliant mind behind those dark, calculating eyes seemed to short-circuit, frozen between fascination and panic. “Relax, L,” you chuckled, leaning back a little on the desk, watching him with that playful gleam. “I’m teasing.”

But his gaze stayed locked on you, unblinking, as if trying to reconcile the teasing curl of your lips with the wild rhythm of his own heart hammering against his ribs.

Your hand slipped lower, fingers curling into the waistband of his jeans, tugging him closer with a slow, deliberate pull. He stumbled half a step toward you, his breath hitching as the distance shrank again, but you didn’t kiss him—you let the tension hang thick in the air, feeding on the way his dark eyes flickered between your hand and your face like he couldn’t decide which one set him more on edge.

“Tell me,” your voice dipped into a velvet whisper, playful yet steady as you leaned back against the desk, still keeping him close with that firm grip at his waist. “When are you off today?”

For a moment, he didn’t answer. His lips parted, his gaze locked on you, mind clearly racing through calculations that had nothing to do with the case. You could feel his pulse pounding where your thumb brushed just above the seam of his jeans.

Finally, he spoke, voice a little rougher than usual, though he tried to keep it matter-of-fact: “My hours are not conventional. But for you, I could adjust.”

You smirked at that, tugging him just slightly closer, enough that your knees brushed his thighs. “Adjust, huh? That’s a very polite way of saying you’re clearing your evening for me.”

His eyes narrowed, the faintest blush dusting his cheekbones as he murmured, “Perhaps.” But he didn’t move away. Not even an inch.

“Good,” you whispered, the word a tease against the quiet as your fingers hooked deeper into the waistband of his jeans. You felt the subtle twitch of his stomach beneath your touch, the way his breath faltered despite his effort to remain composed.

His eyes, wide and steady, never left yours. “You are making me..slightly nervous,” he admitted, voice low and halting, though each syllable still carried that peculiar eloquence. His hands hovered at your sides, uncertain, as if caught between retreat and surrender.

Then, after a long pause, he added in that matter-of-fact tone only he could manage, “But nervousness produces heightened dopamine levels, so statistically, you are also making me happy.”

You tugged him closer by his waistband and pulled him into another kiss, tasting the hesitation that melted almost instantly once his lips pressed against yours. His body leaned over yours instinctively, caging you against the desk without even realizing it, his weight settling in as though gravity itself had decided for him.

“Then it is based on reciprocity.” You smirked, tracing your thumb along the seam of his jeans again, but before you could tease, he added in that unmistakable cadence of his:

“A mutually beneficial arrangement. Though, statistically speaking, it is highly inefficient to stop here.”

His delivery was calm, clinical even, but his pupils were blown wide, his cheeks still faintly flushed, and his hands trembled where they hovered at your waist, betraying every word.

“Believe me, for your own sake you want to stop here,” you whispered, your lips brushing close to his as your fingers lingered at his waistband. Your smirk curved sly, teasing, but your tone held a thread of sincerity. “I don’t want to rush anything.” You tilted your head, mocking lightly as you added, “Not that you’d cry because I touch you.”

His eyes sharpened, and for the first time, there was something faintly amused in the curve of his mouth. “But—do you want to touch me?” he asked, voice soft, deliberate, almost daring.

You smirked right back, refusing to flinch under the weight of his question. “What are your calculations saying, hmm?”

His dark gaze didn’t leave yours, his hands finally resting against the desk beside your hips, boxing you in. “Based on observation: dilated pupils, shallow breathing, and the way you have not released my waistband—there is a 99.8% chance you very much want to touch me.” His lips twitched at the corners, almost smiling, as he added, “And only a 0.2% chance you are bluffing. Which is statistically unlikely, given your current behavior.”

Your smirk widened at his precise little breakdown, chin tilting up so your lips nearly grazed his again. “Ninety-nine point eight, hm? That’s a confident number.”

He didn’t move back—he leaned even closer, bracing his palms against the desk on either side of you, his frame folding in around you like a cage. His eyes stayed fixed on yours, wide and unblinking, dark with something he wasn’t bothering to hide anymore.

“I am confident in my calculations,” he said, the faintest rasp breaking through the smooth monotone. “You want to touch me and I want you to.”

The admission sent a ripple of heat through you. Your fingers tugged harder at his waistband, knuckles brushing the warmth of his skin just beneath the hem of his sweater. His breath hitched and you grinned devilishly.

“I thought you didn’t like your patterns disrupted,” you whispered, thumb pressing lightly against the sharp jut of his hipbone.

“This” his voice dipped lower, slower, “is a disruption I will allow.”

You laughed under your breath, delighted, tracing the line of his waist just to feel the shiver roll through him. “Careful, Ryuzaki. That almost sounded romantic.”

His lips parted, and for a beat, he seemed caught between protest and surrender. Finally, he leaned in, his forehead brushing yours as he murmured: “Romance is inefficient. But with you, I find myself reconsidering the data.”

And still—he didn’t move away. Not even a fraction.

Your smirk deepened at his words, your thumb still teasing over the sharp edge of his hipbone. “Reconsidering the data?” you whispered, eyes locked on his. “That’s your way of saying I’ve completely ruined your precious statistics.”

His gaze didn’t waver. He was close enough now that every shallow breath he took mingled with yours, warm and unsteady. His hands still pressed into the desk on either side of you, caging you in, but now his fingers twitched, like he was fighting the urge to close the last bit of distance and claim your waist.

“You haven’t ruined them,” he murmured, voice low, deliberate, though there was a tremor threaded beneath it. “You’ve altered the baseline. A permanent shift.”

That tugged something deep in your chest, though you kept your devilish smirk firmly in place. “Careful,” you teased, your free hand sliding up his sweater to rest flat against the heat of his chest, right where his heart hammered against your palm. “If you keep saying things like that, you might start sounding like a man in love.”

His pupils dilated at your words, his breath stuttering hard against your cheek. For a long, loaded moment, he said nothing, just stared at you, utterly unguarded. Then his lips brushed yours again, softer than before, trembling but purposeful, like he was testing the truth of your words.

When he pulled back, his voice cracked on the edges but his eyes held steady. “If love feels like this,” his thumbs brushed lightly over your jaw, still holding your face like porcelain, “then perhaps I am.”

Your lips parted at his confession, your pulse leaping in your throat, but the devilish curl of your smile returned just as fast. You slid your hand higher on his chest, fingertips dragging over the steady rise and fall until they toyed with the collar of his sweater, tugging it just slightly.

“Perhaps?” you whispered against his mouth, smirking. “That’s not a very confident answer for you.”

His throat bobbed, his eyes darting between your lips and your gaze like he couldn’t decide where to anchor. You tugged at his waistband again, pulling him flush against you.

He inhaled sharply, the sound almost a gasp, and his hands finally abandoned the desk, sliding down to grip the edge of your hips, tentative but firm, as if his body had decided what his brain refused to admit.

“Your proximity,” he said, voice catching as he tried to hold onto that clinical calm, “is significantly compromising my ability to think clearly.”

You laughed low, sultry, thumb brushing his pulse again where it thundered at his neck. “Good. I don’t want you thinking clearly right now.”

He froze, breath shuddering out of him, then leaned in until his lips ghosted over your jaw, uncertain but burning with intent. The faintest brush of his mouth against your skin made you smirk wider, your voice a husky tease.“You’re going to make me think you actually want me to touch you everywhere.”

His hands tightened on your hips instinctively, a tremor running through him as he whispered back, almost desperate, almost amused: “That would be an accurate deduction.”

Your hand loosened from his waistband, fingers slipping lower with deliberate slowness. You let a single finger trail lazily along the seam of his jeans, up and down, the faint graze of your nail brushing against him just enough to make the air between you spark.

He stilled completely, eyes snapping downward, watching your fingertip trace that maddening path. His breath hitched audibly, shoulders tense, but he didn’t move away, if anything, he leaned closer, caught in the gravity of your touch.

“You like that?” you whispered, voice low and velvet-smooth, your lips curling into a wicked smirk as you tilted your head back to watch his reaction.

His eyes flicked up to meet yours, wide and dark, but they kept darting back to where your finger toyed with him through the fabric. His chest rose and fell quicker, betraying him as he swallowed hard. When he spoke, his voice was hushed, uneven, though still wrapped in that deliberate cadence of his: “I don’t dislike it.”

But the flush burning high across his cheekbones, and the way his hips gave the faintest involuntary twitch forward, told you far more than his words ever could.

Your finger lingered, dragging one more slow, teasing line along the front of his jeans before you stilled, your hand resting lightly against him. You tilted your head up, smirk still curling at your lips, though your voice softened into a velvet whisper.

“You want to stop here, sweetheart?”

His breath faltered, caught between his teeth, eyes locking on yours with a sharp intensity that almost belied the flush still high on his cheeks. He hesitated—long enough for you to feel the tremor of his pulse beneath your thumb where it still brushed his waist.

“Stopping would be the rational choice,” he said finally, his voice careful, almost strained. His eyes flicked down to your hand, then back to your mouth, lingering there as if trapped. “But rationality is compromised when I’m this close to you.”

The admission fell from him like a secret, uncalculated, and his grip on your hips tightened just enough to betray how badly he didn’t want you to move.

Your fingers toyed at the button of his jeans, brushing the metal with a deliberate slowness before you popped it open, the sound sharp in the quiet room. His breath stuttered, his eyes snapping downward to watch your hand, then flicking back up to your face like he was caught between fascination and disbelief.

You leaned in close, lips grazing the edge of his jaw, your voice a low, sultry whisper meant only for him. “Tell me what do you want, L?”

For a moment, he was frozen. You could see it in his eyes: the war between the man who lived by logic and the man unraveling under your touch. His lips parted, but no words came at first. You traced a slow line just below his waistband, dragging your nail over his skin, coaxing him. His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, eyes half-lidded now, pupils wide as he whispered back, almost unsteady: “I want you to keep touching me.”

The confession was quiet, strained, but his hands betrayed more than his voice, gripping your hips tighter, pulling you fractionally closer to the edge of the desk until your legs brushed his. His face flushed, eyes locked desperately on yours, as though he was terrified of what admitting it meant but unable to hold it back. And then, with a shaky breath, softer still: “I want you.”

It wasn’t clinical, it wasn’t careful. It was raw. And for L, it was as close to surrender as anyone could get.

Your smirk softened into something gentler as you leaned back a little on the desk, keeping your eyes on his.

With slow, deliberate care, you tugged his zipper down. The sound made his breath catch, his eyes darting down and then immediately back up, as if afraid to look at what you were doing. Your fingers slid just inside, brushing against the growing heat straining beneath the fabric. You let your touch graze over him, feather-light, teasing.

His whole body shuddered, a sharp inhale escaping him before he bit down on his lower lip.

“See?” you whispered, your voice low and velvet-smooth, thumb stroking lazily over the bulge through his briefs. “You just have to tell me.”

His dark eyes locked on yours, wide and intense, cheeks still burning but no longer running from the truth. His hips shifted almost imperceptibly toward your hand, chasing the contact, betraying him completely.

“Hm” he hummed, the sound deep, unsteady, yet carrying a thread of something new, want, steady and undeniable. His fingers dug into your hips, not rough, but firm, grounding himself on you. “Don’t stop touching me,” he murmured, his voice low, husky now, stripped of its usual flatness.

For the first time, he wasn’t calculating. He was asking. Wanting. Needing. And you could feel the change in him. Still shy, still awkward, but gaining confidence in the way his body pressed closer, hard against your palm, silently begging for more.

Your fingers slid beneath the waistband of his boxers, teasing over the soft cotton before easing them down just enough to free him. The sudden intimacy of it made his whole body tense, his hands gripping tighter at your hips as though he needed something to anchor him.

You pulled him closer between your legs, your hand wrapping carefully around him, stroking him with slow, deliberate gentleness. The heat of him pulsed against your palm, his breath breaking audibly in his throat.

“Ah—” His chest shuddered with the sound, and his eyes squeezed half-shut before forcing themselves back open, fixed on you like you were the only point of reference left in a world that was tilting off balance.

“This,” he managed, voice low and shaking though still carrying that strange precision of his, “this is highly distracting. I cannot form coherent thoughts when you—” His words broke as your thumb brushed deliberately over him, his breath hitching hard. He swallowed, trying again. “—when you touch me like this.”

The admission hung heavy in the air, his jaw tightening as if he hated how raw it sounded, yet his hips betrayed him, pressing forward into your hand, chasing the slow rhythm you gave him.

For once, he wasn’t calculating probabilities. He was unraveling, piece by piece, in your hands.

He bent down suddenly, as if pulled by gravity itself, capturing your mouth in a kiss that was more desperate than the ones before. His lips pressed firmly against yours, hungry but still careful, as if afraid he might overstep and lose you in the same breath.

You stroked him slowly, feeling the way his body trembled against your hand. The heat radiating from him made every careful movement feel magnified, every soft graze of your thumb pulling another shiver through him.

He let out a quiet, broken moan into your mouth. The sound vibrated against your lips, shaky and unguarded, a raw noise he hadn’t managed to contain. His hands clutched tighter at your waist, fingers digging into your shirt, pulling you closer as though he needed you to keep him steady.

You pulled back just enough to whisper against his lips, your breath mingling with his shallow, ragged ones. “You like this? Or should I change the rhythm?”

Your words curled soft and teasing in his ear as you kept him close, your hand stroking him with slow precision. His forehead pressed to yours, eyes fluttering half-shut as he tried to catch his breath, his voice spilling out low and strained:

“Don’t change. It’s already perfect.”

And yet the way his hips jerked faintly into your hand betrayed how badly he wanted more.

The kiss deepened, shifting from tentative to hungry in a breathless blur. His mouth moved against yours with a new urgency, almost clumsy but intoxicatingly real, as though every barrier he’d held up for years was crumbling under your touch. His fingers clutched at your waist, dragging you closer, his body trembling as if your hand on him was the only thing tethering him to the ground.

Quiet moans slipped past his lips, muffled into your mouth, each one hotter than the last, short, broken sounds that made your stomach coil with heat. He pressed harder into your palm, his hips betraying his restraint, chasing the rhythm you gave him despite his desperate attempts to keep composed.

When he finally tore his lips from yours, he was panting, forehead resting against yours, dark eyes blown wide and glassy. His voice was rougher now, shaken but still carrying that peculiar, matter-of-fact cadence that made it so undeniably him:

“I—I’m going to lose control.” He swallowed hard, his jaw tense, words breaking against a ragged exhale. “Statistically speaking, in less than a minute, if you continue.”

His confession was half an admission, half a warning but his trembling hands clinging to you, and the way his hips pressed desperately into your hand, told you he didn’t really want you to stop at all.

Your lips curved into a wicked little smirk at his broken warning, your hand never faltering in its steady rhythm. “Less than a minute?” you whispered, deliberately mocking, your tone velvet-smooth against the frantic heat of his breath. “My, my the great L undone so quickly?”

His eyes fluttered shut at your words, his body shuddering as another quiet, desperate moan slipped from his lips. This one was raw, low, and it vibrated against your mouth before he buried his face against you. His head fell onto your shoulder, his hair brushing your cheek, his breath hot and ragged where it spilled against your skin.

You smiled, softer this time, and slid your free hand up to cradle the back of his head. Your fingers threaded into his messy black hair, holding him there, grounding him as he trembled against you. His shoulders shook with each shaky inhale, his quiet moans muffled into the fabric of your shirt, the sound impossibly hot for how unguarded it was.

“Relax, sweetheart,” you teased gently, your thumb still stroking along his length with measured care. “I’ve got you. Just let it happen.”

Another sharp gasp broke from him, his grip on your waist tightening almost painfully as his hips jerked forward into your palm. His moans grew heavier, though still quiet, each one spilling onto your shoulder as if he couldn’t hold them back any longer. And you held him, firm and steady, your fingers in his hair, savoring the way he finally let himself unravel in your hands.

His whole body tensed suddenly in your arms, a tremor running through him as his hips bucked helplessly into your stroking hand. You tightened your grip, trying to shield him, your palm covering him as best you could when the sharp, guttural sound of his release spilled from his throat, half-moan, half-broken gasp.

It was too much. Hot, thick spurts filled your hand, but even as you tried to catch it, a few drops escaped, staining the dark fabric of your slacks. He groaned, muffling the sound into your shoulder, his hair tickling your cheek as his body shuddered against yours.

“God—damn it,” he muttered, the words hissed low and strained in that clipped, deliberate cadence of his, as though even his cursing was analytical. His breath came in sharp pants, chest heaving against you, his fingers digging into your waist as though clinging to the last threads of control.

You held him steady, one hand still in his hair, pressing him close to your shoulder while he rode it out. His eyes squeezed shut, lips parted against your shirt, his whole body trembling until finally, slowly, he began to sag against you.

There was a pause, heavy and quiet, the only sound his ragged breathing and the faint hum of the office lights. Then, without looking up, he shifted one hand behind you, fumbling across the desk with practiced precision. His fingers curled around something, and when he pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, he was holding out a tissue.

His voice was flat, controlled, but the rough edge beneath betrayed him: “It would be unsanitary to remain like this.”

And yet, he didn’t move away from you, not even an inch.

You laughed breathlessly, shaking your head as you took the tissue from his hand. Your fingers trembled slightly from the adrenaline, but you managed to clean your hand. Before you could toss it away, he was already reaching behind you again, plucking another tissue from the box and handing it to you without a word, his expression unreadable save for the faint flush still burning across his cheekbones.

Instead of turning it on your pants, you reached for him, your touch soft and careful. He jolted the moment the tissue grazed him, his hips twitching as the sensitivity made him flinch. For a second he almost grabbed your wrist but then, to your surprise, a low chuckle slipped out of him, quiet and breathless, followed by a whisper that almost sounded like pleading.

“Stop… please.”

You smirked, tilting your head, though your hand gentled against him before pulling back. “You could have told me you come this much, you know.”

For a long beat he said nothing, his breathing still ragged, before finally answering in that calm, eloquent cadence that was so uniquely him: “Excuse my release,” he murmured, the words precise even through his unsteady voice. “It is not something I indulge often—only occasionally, and never under circumstances quite like this.” His gaze flicked briefly downward at your slacks, then back to your face, his tone sharpening with the faintest, wry edge. “And now, of course, there are trousers beneath me that do not belong to me, which complicates the matter further.”

Despite his choice of words, his lips twitched as if suppressing another laugh, his posture still leaning heavily into your shoulder like he had no intention of moving away.

His breathing was still uneven when he finally straightened a little, tugging his boxers back into place with a faint, self-conscious precision. The rasp of his zipper being drawn up was the only sound in the quiet room, sharp and final, yet his hands lingered at his waistband for a moment as though he was reluctant to fully compose himself.

Then, instead of stepping back, he simply let his head fall forward again—onto your shoulder, where it had rested before. His dark hair brushed against your cheek, soft and messy, the faint weight of him grounding and strangely intimate.

“I will clean your slacks,” he murmured, his voice low and steady despite the flush still clinging to his skin. “I promise. It would be discourteous to leave evidence of my lapse in composure on you.” His tone carried that eloquent, analytical lilt even now, though softened by the warmth of his breath against your neck.

You exhaled slowly, your hand sliding over his back, holding him close as if to anchor him there. His arms shifted hesitantly before settling around you, long and awkward at first until they tightened, circling your waist with a careful pressure that betrayed more comfort than his words ever could.

His head stayed pressed to your shoulder, his hair tickling your jaw as the faint scent of sugar and cotton clung to him. For a man so famously detached, he clung now as though this was something he’d been starved for.

You let a soft laugh slip past your lips, brushing your fingers gently through his hair. “You’re really lucky, I’ve always had a thing for weird, hot emo-looking boys.” you whispered, teasing warmth in your voice.

The words earned a small sound from him—half-scoff, half-laugh muffled into your shoulder. His arms tightened fractionally around you, as if he’d decided he could allow himself, just this once, to enjoy being exactly where he was.

Your phone buzzed against the desk, the vibration rattling faintly through the wood. You reached for it without thinking, L’s head still heavy on your shoulder, his arms still locked firmly around your waist. He only shifted slightly, dark eyes flicking toward the phone as if already calculating who it might be, before settling right back against you like he had no intention of moving.

You thumbed the screen and brought it to your ear. “Good morning, sir?” you greeted, your voice slipping into its professional cadence.

“Ah, good morning,” Chief Yagami’s voice came through, warm but businesslike. “I trust you’re already in the office? We have updates on the current case I’d like to review with you later this afternoon.”

“Yes, of course,” you replied smoothly, though your composure faltered slightly as you felt L’s lips press feather-light against your cheek. Your breath caught, heat rushing into your face as you fought to keep your tone even.

“Are you free around three?” Yagami continued, unaware.

“Three works perfectly,” you managed, trying not to laugh at the deliberate mischief of the man still clinging to you. His lips brushed your cheek again, a soft, lingering kiss this time, and you had to bite down on your smile as you turned your face just enough to glare at him.

L, of course, only stared back with that eerie calm, his expression unreadable save for the faintest upward curve of his mouth. His head nestled back against your shoulder, and another kiss followed, quieter, softer—like he was testing how much he could get away with while you kept your voice steady for the chief.

“Excellent,” Yagami said, shuffling papers audibly on his end. “I’ll forward the documents in advance.”

“Thank you, sir,” you answered crisply, fingers curling into L’s sweater, holding him close even as your heart thundered at his quiet, relentless kisses.

When you ended the call and set the phone back down, he didn’t move away. If anything, he hummed softly against your cheek, almost satisfied, as if he’d just won a game only he knew he was playing. You finally pressed your palm against his chest and pushed him back just enough to breathe, your finger snapping up to point at him like you were scolding a child.

“You,” you said, half-warning, half-mocking, your lips twitching into a smirk despite yourself. “Will get me in very much trouble, mister.”

He blinked at you, tilting his head the way he always did when analyzing something, though the faint flush across his cheekbones betrayed him. His lips curved ever so slightly, the ghost of a smirk, as if your admonishment amused him more than it should have.

Sighing, you reached into your bag, rummaging until you pulled out a small packet of makeup remover wipes. Sitting back on the desk with a dramatic exhale, you tore one free and bent to rub carefully at the damp stain marring your black slacks. The cool swipe of the wipe left streaks of moisture, your brow furrowing as you worked at the fabric.

L didn’t say a word. He just stood there, hands slipping back into his pockets, watching you with those sharp, unblinking eyes. His head tilted a little farther, hair shadowing his face, that almost-smile tugging faintly at his mouth. He looked infuriatingly calm, like the world’s greatest detective had decided the most fascinating evidence in existence was you, kneeling there trying to wipe away the proof of what he’d just done.

“Don’t look so smug,” you muttered, rubbing harder at the fabric.

He didn’t answer right away, but the little smirk deepened, his voice dropping into that steady, flat cadence that somehow managed to sound amused anyway: “I find it unlikely that anyone else has ever made you do that in this office.”

You paused mid-rub, narrowing your eyes at him over the packet in your hand. “Unlikely?” you repeated, your voice dripping with mockery. “Listen to you, smug as ever. You make a mess on me and now you’re acting like you’ve won a prize.”

You tossed the used wipe onto your desk with a snap of your wrist, pointing a finger at him again, your smirk curling wicked. “You should be the one on your knees cleaning me, Ryuzaki.”

That finally broke through his eerie calm. A flicker of color rose over his cheekbones, his lips parting soundlessly like his brilliant brain had hit a wall. He shifted his weight awkwardly, eyes darting to the floor for half a second before snapping back to you, wide and dark.

You chuckled low, leaning back on your desk, spreading your hands in a taunting gesture. “What’s the matter? Detective speechless?”

For once, he didn’t attempt a rebuttal. Instead, he stepped closer, slow and hesitant, until he was right in front of you again. His head tilted slightly, black hair falling into his face, and after a long pause, his hands rose, trembling a little as they cupped your cheeks.

He leaned in and pressed his lips to yours again. Shy. Careful. Like porcelain, the way he had before.

The kiss was soft, a question more than a claim, but there was a weight behind it, a subtle trembling that made your chest tighten. He kissed you like he was still learning, still unsure, but determined not to retreat.

When he finally drew back just a fraction, his voice was hushed, almost uncertain. “Would that count as cleaning you?”

Your laugh spilled out against his mouth, warm and breathless, before you kissed him back. Your smile lingered against his lips as you whispered, soft but teasing, “No but I’ll allow it, because I like you.”

His eyes flickered at that sharp, but with the faintest softness buried deep within. You gave his cheek a quick stroke with your thumb before leaning back on your desk, smirk curling again.

“You should go,” you murmured, a touch of mock warning in your tone. “Before somebody sees you.”

For a moment, he didn’t move. His head tilted the way it always did when he was dissecting every word, every inflection. Then, with a low hum and the faintest upward twitch of his lips, he replied in that calm, deliberate cadence of his, though laced with rare amusement:

“Ah. So this is your method. You make me lose composure in your office, ensure I finish, and then cast me out like some discarded witness statement?”

His phrasing was clinical, almost mocking, but the glint in his eyes betrayed him, half-tease, half-challenge, as though he wanted to see how far you’d push him next.

You stood slowly, brushing past him just enough that your shoulder grazed his chest. The used wipe crumpled in your fist before you tossed it neatly into the bin. When you turned back to him, your eyes glinted, sharp and daring, your smirk dangerous.

“If we were playing by my method,” you murmured, your voice low and edged with mock-threat, “you’d be lying under me on this table. And you wouldn’t be wearing clothes.”

The air tightened between you, his eyes widening just a fraction before narrowing again, like he was filing the image away in perfect detail. Then, slowly, his lips curved, not shy this time, but sly, deliberate, a ghost of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“That would present” he paused, his tone calm, almost deadpan, but laced with unmistakable mischief, “a serious risk of structural damage to your desk.”

Your laugh broke out instantly, half a scoff, half a gasp. “You idiot.”

He only tilted his head further, hair falling into his eyes, clearly pleased with himself despite the faint color still clinging to his cheeks. “Statistically speaking, it would be irresponsible not to consider the integrity of your furniture.”

And yet, the way he stayed close, hovering just inside your space, smirk faint but real, told you he wasn’t entirely joking.

You grabbed him by the front of his sweater and pulled him into you again, your lips crushing against his in a kiss far deeper than before. This one wasn’t shy, it was hotter, hungrier, your mouth moving against his until his breath hitched and his hands instinctively gripped your waist. He yielded to you, utterly undone, and when you finally broke away, you could feel his pulse racing beneath your fingertips.

His lips were still parted, eyes half-lidded, but then he smirked, small, crooked, that rare flash of amusement flickering across his usually unreadable face. “Yes, yes,” he murmured, voice low and steady, eloquent even in disarray, “I understand. I will take my leave, before your method renders me incapable of walking away.”

You let out a short laugh, still flushed, as he reached behind you. His long fingers closed around the medical mask he’d left on your desk. He slipped it back into place, securing the elastic with slow precision, though his eyes never left yours.

Then, before you could say another word, he leaned down and kissed you one last time through a smile, leaving you with the ghost of his warmth and the taste of something unfinished.

And just like that, he pulled back, turned on his heel with that strange, loping gait of his, and slipped out the door—leaving your office charged with his absence.

You stood there for a long moment after the door clicked shut, the echo of his last kiss still clinging to your lips. Your arms folded across your chest, your smirk stubborn but faintly dazed, until a single word slipped out under your breath.

“Shit.”

The rest of the day was a blur of back-to-back meetings, reports, and strained conversations. Every time you sat down at a conference table, you caught yourself brushing your thumb against your lips, remembering the weight of his kiss. Every time someone asked a question, your mind flashed back to the heat of his body pressed against yours, his quiet moans swallowed into your shoulder. You managed, of course—you always managed—but your composure felt stretched thin.

By the time the sun had started to dip behind the city skyline, you needed a break. Badly.

You slipped out of the building, jacket slung over one arm, and dug out your lighter with shaking fingers. The crisp evening air wrapped around you as you stepped into the quiet corner where you always went. You lit up, inhaling deeply, the smoke burning its way down into your chest as you exhaled into the cooling dusk.

Your shoulders sagged against the wall, eyes closing for a moment. It wasn’t just the stress of the day you were smoking out, it was the lingering weight of him. His hands on your face. His voice low in your ear. The way his self-control had cracked in your arms.

And now, every drag of the cigarette only made you want him more.

The nicotine still hummed faintly in your veins as you pushed your office door open again, the lingering edge of stress clinging to your shoulders. You flicked on the light, dropped your bag onto the chair, and froze.

There, in the exact center of your desk, was something new.

A chess piece. This time, a knight—polished, pale, its curved head angled like it was bowing toward you. Beside it, folded neatly on a square of white paper, was one of his notes.

You stepped closer, lips already curling into a smirk as you picked it up. His slanted handwriting sprawled across the page, sharp but oddly elegant:

“A knight always protects its queen. Even when she insists on endangering herself with cigarettes.”

You exhaled, half a laugh, half a sigh, your thumb brushing the edge of the paper as your smirk deepened. He’d been here again. Silently, invisibly, and somehow closer than anyone else dared to be.

Setting the piece between your fingers, you muttered under your breath, “We’ll see who protects who, sweetheart.”

And yet, you couldn’t wipe the smile off your face as you set the knight down beside the flower still perched atop the sugar pyramid.

The halls were hushed again, long shadows stretching over the polished floors as the building settled into its nighttime quiet. You stretched out the kinks in your shoulders, yawning as you padded down to the kitchen for coffee. The machine hummed dully as you leaned against the counter, waiting, mind drifting back to messy black hair, flushed cheeks, and the sound of his voice unraveling into your shoulder.

By the time you returned to your office, cup warming your hands, you felt it before you saw it. A shift. A presence.

You set the mug down and tugged open your desk drawer. There it was—another note, folded neatly, his slanted handwriting peeking from the edge. You pulled it free, lips twitching into a smirk as you read:

“Your absence makes this room statistically unbearable. I prefer it when you’re here…preferably sitting on the desk rather than behind it.”

Your laugh broke free in a quiet burst, shaking your head. Coffee forgotten, you pulled out your phone and hit his number without hesitation.

He picked up on the first ring.

“Stop getting into my office the second I leave,” you scolded, though the smirk in your voice ruined the severity.

There was the faintest hum of static, then his low voice, calm but teasing in its own strange cadence:

“If you didn’t leave, I wouldn’t have to break in. Cause and effect.”

You rolled your eyes, even as your lips curled wider. “You’re impossible.”

“I am consistent,” he countered smoothly. Then, quieter, with that subtle warmth he tried so hard to bury: “And consistent in wanting to see you.”

The silence stretched for a beat. Your heart kicked up, the smirk faltering into something softer as you sank into your chair, the knight chess piece glinting at you from your desk. You breathed out slowly, then asked before you could overthink it: “You wanna come home with me?”

For once, there was no pause, no calculation in his answer, just the low, steady rumble of his voice. “Yes.”

“Then gather your things. I am leaving now,” you said, standing from your chair and slipping your jacket over your shoulders.

His reply came instantly, smooth, as if he’d been waiting for you to say it. “I am already in front of the building.”

You froze mid-step, a laugh breaking from your chest as you shook your head. “Creep,” you smirked, rolling your eyes even though he couldn’t see.

There was a faint pause on his end, and then his voice came back, calm and dry, yet tinged with amusement.

“Is it creepy to inhale fresh night air? If so, then the majority of the human population is guilty of the same crime.”

You bit your lip to suppress another laugh, your pulse quickening at the thought of him actually waiting outside. “You don’t make it sound less creepy when you put it like that, Ryuzaki.”

“I wasn’t attempting to,” he replied, the faintest curl of warmth threading through his monotone. “I was only pointing out that if I am a creep, I am a statistical average.”

You grinned to yourself as you locked your office, shaking your head. “Somehow that makes you worse.”

“Perhaps,” he murmured, “but you’re still coming down to meet me.”

You slipped your files into your bag, slung it over your shoulder, and shut the office door with a quiet click. The halls were dim, most of the lights switched off for the night, the hum of the building settling into silence. You made your way to the elevator, phone still warm in your palm from the call.

The doors opened with a groan, and by the time you reached the lobby, you spotted him instantly. He stood near the glass entrance, hunched as ever, hands buried in the pockets of his sweater, mask dangling loosely from one wrist. His black hair fell untamed across his face, shadowing the sharp gleam of his eyes as they tracked you.

He didn’t move when you approached, only straightened the tiniest bit, head tilting in that signature way of his.

“Come on, scary man,” you said breezily, brushing past him with a smirk tugging at your lips. You didn’t stop walking, your stride confident as the doors hissed open to the cool night air.

For a beat, he stayed rooted to the spot, just watching you. Then, almost reluctantly, his long legs carried him after you, silent, steady, his presence stretching out behind you like a shadow that belonged only to you.

You didn’t have to look back to know he was following. You could feel him.

The night air was cool and still, your footsteps echoing lightly over the pavement as you crossed the lot toward your car. You unlocked it with a quick press of the fob, the soft click breaking the silence. He followed a half-step behind, soundless save for the faint scrape of his Converse against the asphalt, until the two of you slipped inside.

The doors shut with a muted thud, enclosing you both in the quiet hum of the cabin. He folded himself into the passenger seat with that strange, crouched posture, long fingers resting loosely on them. His mask hung from one hand, his dark hair falling forward as his eyes flicked to you, studying.

For a moment, he simply watched, head tilted, lips parted like he was cataloguing every detail of you behind the wheel. Then, in his calm, deliberate cadence, he spoke: “Driving with you statistically increases my chance of survival. You are the only person I trust not to kill me on the road.”

The corners of his mouth twitched, the faintest ghost of a smirk breaking through, as if he knew exactly how absurd he sounded and that you’d call him on it.

He unscrewed the cap of his water bottle with that same meticulous focus he gave to everything, tilting it back for a sip while his eyes stayed fixed on you. The engine rumbled to life beneath your hands as you adjusted the mirrors, slipping the gear into drive.

“No,” you said evenly, not sparing him a glance, your lips twitching into a smirk as your eyes stayed on the road ahead. “I’ll just kill you in bed.”

The words landed like a live wire. He inhaled sharply at the wrong moment, the water catching in his throat. He coughed, almost choked, one pale hand flying up to cover his mouth as his dark eyes widened at you in disbelief. A strangled sound left him, somewhere between a choke and a protest, as he struggled to swallow.

You smirked, not even sparing him a glance as you guided the car out of the parking space. “Careful, Ryuzaki,” you teased, voice velvet-sweet. “Wouldn’t want you to drown before we even make it there.”

He pressed the back of his hand against his mouth, still coughing softly, his pale cheeks burning faintly in the dim dashboard glow. When he finally managed to rasp out words, his tone was hoarse but still laced with that dry eloquence:

“That was an irresponsible remark to make while I was mid-swallow.”

You laughed under your breath, savoring the way his composure had cracked so spectacularly. He capped the bottle again with stiff precision, eyes narrowing faintly, but the flush on his face betrayed him completely.

He was still coughing, hand pressed to his lips as if he could force the sound back into his chest. His shoulders shook with each ragged breath, the water bottle rattling faintly against his knee.

You couldn’t help it—you burst out laughing, one hand on the wheel, the other covering your grin. The sound spilled warm and unrestrained into the quiet of the car.

“I’m sorry,” you said between laughs, though your tone carried absolutely no remorse. Your eyes stayed on the road, but the smirk tugging at your lips was impossible to hide.

He turned his head toward you slowly, still coughing under his breath, his cheeks flushed and his dark hair falling into his eyes. His stare was sharp, unblinking, but the faint curve at the corner of his mouth betrayed him.

“You’re not sorry,” he rasped, voice low and uneven from the choke, his breath coming shallow as he adjusted his posture again. He dragged a hand across his mouth, composed himself, and added in that dry cadence of his: “You nearly killed the world’s greatest detective with innuendo. Statistically, that should disturb you.”

But his eyes lingered on you, gleaming faintly, as if he liked the sound of your laughter far too much to truly complain.

The drive passed in a haze of low streetlights and quiet engine hum, your laughter still lingering in the air between you. He had gone silent, but not in his usual way, this quiet felt heavier, taut, like he was thinking too much and feeling even more.

When you finally pulled into your building’s lot and killed the engine, the sudden silence pressed down around you. You unbuckled your seatbelt, glancing at him with a smirk curling your lips. “Come on, world’s greatest detective,” you said, your voice warm, teasing.

For once, his composure slipped instantly. His head turned, eyes widening just slightly, the faintest blush climbing high across his pale cheeks. The title, delivered like that, in your voice, edged with affection instead of reverence, made him freeze for a moment. He shifted awkwardly, fumbling with the cap of his water bottle as though it could shield him, before finally reaching for the door handle.

You didn’t wait. Pushing your door open, you stepped out into the cool night air, jacket brushing against your hips. You glanced back at him over the roof of the car, smirk still tugging at your lips.

He followed slower, long legs unfolding, black hair falling into his face as he tried and failed to hide the flush burning across his cheeks. Even under the dim streetlight, it was obvious, and you bit back a laugh as you locked the car.

He trailed just half a step behind you toward the entrance, silent, shoulders tense, but the way his gaze lingered on you said enough.

You pushed open the door to your apartment, tossing your keys into the little bowl on the counter and slipping out of your jacket. The warm glow of the lamps lit the space in soft tones—tidy but lived-in, comfortable, with small touches that made it yours.

He stepped in behind you, quiet as ever, his long figure filling the doorway before he moved further inside. His eyes scanned the room, not with suspicion, but with that familiar, measured precision, as though even your bookshelf and coffee table were pieces in a puzzle he intended to solve. After a moment, he nodded once, the faintest curve at his lips. “Your apartment is very agreeable. Clean. Structured without being sterile. It reflects you.”

You arched a brow, amused. “That’s your version of a compliment, huh?”

He tilted his head slightly, gaze holding yours. “It is. And I don’t offer them often.”

That made your smirk soften, if only a little. You turned away, setting your bag down, but before you could say more, his voice followed—quieter, softer, stripped of its usual certainty.

“This is very new for me.” His words were deliberate, chosen with care, though his fingers twitched slightly at his sides as he spoke. “Allowing myself into another person’s private space. Accepting their invitation. Remaining here, when statistically it would be safer to leave.” His eyes flicked to yours, wide and honest, the faintest pink still clinging to his cheeks. “It makes me slightly nervous.”

His eloquence made it sound clinical, but the way his shoulders tensed and his breath caught gave him away completely. He wasn’t analyzing the room anymore, he was watching you, waiting, like you were the only variable that mattered.

You turned, closing the space between you in a few slow steps. Your hand slid around his waist, palm pressing against the soft knit of his sweater as you looked up at him, your smirk sharp.

“L,” you murmured mockingly, tilting your head, “I jerked you off eight hours ago. Do you really think I don’t know this is new to you?”

The words landed with deliberate precision, and you felt the way his body stiffened under your touch, a flush spreading high across his cheeks. His dark eyes flicked away for the barest second, but when they snapped back to yours, they burned with something raw, something he couldn’t cover with calculation.

His lips curved, hesitant but real, into the faintest smirk. “I didn’t say I regret it, did I?” he murmured, voice still careful, but warmer this time, the blush deepening even as he held your gaze.

The contradiction—smirk and blush, eloquence and nerves—was so perfectly him it made your chest ache.

He bent down suddenly, closing the last inches between you, and pressed his lips to yours. The kiss was softer than the ones before, but firmer and less hesitant, more certain. His hands lingered awkwardly at your sides before sliding, tentative but sure, to rest against your hips.

When he finally drew back, his forehead brushed against yours, his breath warm against your lips. You smiled up at him, your hand still around his waist, thumb rubbing lazily at his side.

“I can give you a spare toothbrush,” you whispered, your voice warm, teasing but sincere. “And you can shower if you want to.”

His eyes searched yours for a long moment, unblinking, as though weighing the words like evidence. Then, with the faintest twitch of his lips into something dangerously close to a smile, he murmured in that calm cadence of his: “Statistically, accepting would imply I intend to stay.”

The blush that lingered on his cheeks betrayed how much he wanted to.

Your smirk deepened as you leaned into him, fingers still resting at his waist. “Oh, you will stay,” you whispered, the certainty in your tone leaving no room for argument.

He blinked at you once, dark eyes steady, before his lips curved into that faint, almost imperceptible smile. “I don’t need to shower,” he said in his careful, even cadence, though the blush on his cheeks softened the precision of his words. “I already did this morning. But the toothbrush—I would take.”

You laughed quietly, brushing your thumb against his side as you stepped back, still smirking at him over your shoulder. “Toothbrush it is, then. Come on.”

And though his words had been calm, measured, his steps as he followed you deeper into your apartment betrayed the truth, he had no intention of leaving tonight.

You moved around the bedroom with an easy rhythm, pulling your hair free from its clips and tugging at the buttons of your blouse. Piece by piece, you slipped out of your work clothes, slacks folded neatly over a chair, shirt draped across the backrest. There was nothing deliberate in your movements, nothing designed to tease; you undressed simply because you didn’t care, because you wanted him to see that you weren’t hiding anything from him.

From the corner of your eye, you saw him. He sat perched on the edge of your bed, hunched slightly forward in his familiar crouch, hands loosely folded between his knees. His eyes followed you the entire time, dark and unblinking, the kind of stare that could peel a person apart layer by layer. But it wasn’t predatory—it was calculating, searching, as if he were committing every curve, every gesture, to memory.

You tugged a t-shirt down over your head, soft cotton falling loose against your frame, and stepped into a pair of comfortable checkered shorts. Bare feet against the floorboards, you finally turned to face him.

He was still watching, his gaze flicking from your face down to the way the shirt draped over you, then back up again. His lips parted faintly, as if he were about to say something, but no words came. Instead, he simply tilted his head, black hair falling into his eyes, and kept staring—like you were the most complicated problem he’d ever tried to solve.

You smirked softly, padding over to him. “You going to keep calculating, Ryuzaki,” you murmured, your voice warm, “or are you going to relax?”

For the first time, his eyes blinked rapidly, a faint flush climbing across his pale cheeks. “Perhaps both,” he admitted quietly, still studying you as though he couldn’t help himself.

“You need a shirt too?” you asked, tugging at the hem of your oversized tee with a smirk. “Or are you going to sleep in jeans?”

He opened his mouth to answer, but before he could form the words, you’d already crossed the room to your dresser. You pulled out another oversized shirt and dropped it into his lap.

He stared down at it for a moment, blinking as though he hadn’t accounted for you making the decision for him. His long fingers brushed over the fabric, careful, almost reverent, before he looked back up at you with that dark, steady gaze.

“I was prepared to adapt,” he murmured, voice calm as ever, though the faint blush across his cheekbones betrayed him. He held up the shirt between his fingers, studying it like a piece of evidence, before adding in his precise cadence: “But statistically, wearing this will increase comfort and improve quality of sleep. I accept.”

You couldn’t help laughing softly, shaking your head as you leaned against the dresser. “You make it sound like I just gave you a prescription, L.”

He tilted his head, eyes flicking back down to the shirt in his hands. “In a way,” he said simply, “you did.”

And then, without another word, he set about tugging his sweater over his head, slow and awkward, revealing the pale lines of his collarbones and the taut stretch of his stomach before pulling your shirt on instead. It hung loose on him and for a moment he just sat there in silence, adjusting the collar as if testing how it felt.

When he finally stood, still fidgeting at the hem as if adjusting to the softness, you stepped close. Without hesitation, you reached for his jeans, popping the button with an easy flick of your fingers. “You don’t need them,” you whispered, voice low and smooth, eyes lifting to his as you tugged at the zipper.

His breath caught, just for a second, but then his lips curved the faintest bit, his reply just as quiet. “I figured.”

He let the denim slide down his long legs, pooling around his ankles before he stepped free. Now it was just him in his briefs and your oversized shirt, the hem brushing against his thighs. The look of him, uncharacteristically soft, stripped of his armor of clothes and distance, made your smirk sharpen.

“You look domesticated like this,” you teased, letting your eyes linger on him. “Very hot.”

That earned the faintest twitch of his brows, the pink on his cheekbones deepening as his gaze tracked you while you turned away. Still smirking, you padded into the bathroom, rifling through the cabinet for a spare toothbrush. You could feel his stare following you the entire way, unblinking, like he wasn’t quite sure what to do with himself in this new intimacy—but very much unwilling to look away.

You both moved through the quiet routine of getting ready for bed, the air between you softer now, though charged with something unspoken. You brushed your teeth side by side, exchanged half-smirks in the mirror, and when you finally switched off the bathroom light, the apartment seemed to settle into silence.

In your bedroom, you slipped under the blankets, propping yourself up on one elbow as you watched him hover at the edge of the bed. He looked strangely out of place standing there in your oversized shirt, his dark hair falling into his eyes, the faint flush on his cheeks refusing to fade.

You pulled the blanket back invitingly, smirking as you patted the empty space beside you. “I won’t bite you,” you teased, laughter bubbling in your voice.

He hesitated, eyes narrowing faintly as though weighing the probability of your claim. Then, with that flat, deliberate cadence only he could manage, he murmured: “Statistically speaking, you are significantly more dangerous without teeth involved.”

You broke into laughter at that, shaking your head as you tugged the blanket higher. “Get in here, L.”

And after one more beat of silence, he did. Awkwardly, carefully, he slipped beneath the covers beside you, his long frame tense at first, but slowly, as you let the warmth of your body brush his, he began to relax into the space you’d given him.

He lay on his side, stiff at first, one arm bent awkwardly against the pillow as if he wasn’t sure how to place himself. The oversized shirt you’d given him draped over his narrow frame, bunching slightly at the collar. His knees pulled up in his usual crouch even in bed, like he couldn’t quite let go of the posture that defined him.

But his eyes never left you.

He watched as you adjusted the pillows behind your head, tugged the blanket a little higher, shifting until you were nestled comfortably against the sheets. The smirk on your lips softened into something calmer, quieter, but still amused as you glanced at him out of the corner of your eye.

He didn’t move, didn’t speak. He only watched, gaze steady and strangely intense, like every little action you made—the way your hair spilled onto the pillow, the way your hand brushed over the blanket—was being catalogued, memorized.

When you finally stilled and turned onto your side to face him, you caught the faintest flush coloring his cheeks, though his expression remained calm.

“You look different like this,” he murmured at last, his voice low, even, but carrying a subtle warmth beneath the precision. “Unarmed. At ease. It is rare for me to see you this way.” He blinked once, slowly, then added, almost under his breath, “I think I prefer it.”

Your lips curved as you settled deeper into the pillows, the warmth of the blanket cocooning you. His eyes still hadn’t left yours, dark and intent, like he was afraid you’d vanish if he blinked too long.

“You know,” you murmured, voice soft but threaded with teasing, “this is your fault. You waited three years for this.”

For a moment, his gaze sharpened, as though replaying every late-night call, every note in your drawer, every sugar cube and chess piece he’d left behind. The faintest breath escaped him, his expression unreadable save for the flush that crept back across his cheekbones.

“I waited,” he said slowly, deliberately, “because haste often leads to ruin. But—” His voice lowered, steadier now, almost tender despite its precision. “Three years may have been excessive.”

Your smirk widened at that, amused and softened all at once, your hand sliding under the blanket until your fingers brushed against his wrist where it lay tense on the sheets.

“Excessive,” you echoed, squeezing lightly. “Glad you’re catching on, Ryuzaki.”

His lips curved, small and fleeting, but real. And for once, he didn’t look away. You smirked at him, shaking your head slightly as your fingers lingered at his wrist. “All you managed was sugar cubes and cryptic little notes. That’s your idea of flirting?”

His lips parted faintly, that subtle flush still high on his cheeks, but his eyes never wavered from yours. His voice came low and deliberate, every syllable chosen, calm as always but softened in a way you’d never heard before.

“I only do it for you,” he said. “Only to you. Because I like you.”

Your breath caught for half a beat, though your smirk held steady. He let the silence stretch before continuing, his mouth curving into a rare flicker of amusement.

“And still,” His gaze sharpened, almost smug in its precision. “—you are here. Thinking of me. Fixed on me, by my method.” He tilted his head slightly, black hair shadowing his eyes, and added with a soft hum that almost sounded like a laugh: “I would call this a checkmate.”

Your smirk widened at that, heat flickering in your chest as you muttered, “Cocky bastard.”

His lips twitched higher, as if pleased you’d noticed.

His gaze lingered on you in the dim light, steady and unblinking, until finally he spoke, calm, careful, but carrying a weight that pulled you closer without him moving an inch.

“I want you to touch me again,” he said, his voice quiet but deliberate, “so I can do some calculations.”

You blinked at him, then broke into laughter, your smirk curling as you shook your head. “Really?” you teased, amusement bubbling in your chest. “That’s your excuse?”

He didn’t even flinch. His face stayed unreadable, lips pressed into the faintest line as his dark eyes bored into yours. Then, after a beat, he said flatly, without the slightest hesitation:

“No. I just want your hands on me.”

The blunt honesty of it hit harder than any teasing could. For once, there was no cloak of riddles, no clinical phrasing, just the raw truth, laid out in his steady voice.

Your laughter faded into something softer, the smirk still tugging at your lips as you shifted closer, your hand sliding deliberately up the curve of his arm. “That,” you whispered, “was the smartest thing you’ve said all day.”

And his pupils blew wide as though you’d just proven him right.

You slithered closer across the sheets, closing the last bit of space until your body brushed against his. His eyes widened slightly, but then one of his arms moved almost instinctively, sliding beneath you and wrapping firmly around your back, pulling you in against his chest. The other hand came to rest at your waist, fingers curling with surprising certainty as he held you there.

For a man who always seemed hunched and awkward, the grip was steady, grounding, as though he’d decided you weren’t leaving, not now.

You tilted your head, your fingers slipping into his messy black hair, raking through it slowly. The strands were softer than they looked, falling easily between your fingers, and you smirked when you felt the faint hitch in his breath.

“You’re so soft,” you whispered, the words laced with teasing mockery, though your voice dipped low against his ear.

His arms tightened just slightly around you, his lips parting as though he wanted to argue but instead, his head tilted the faintest bit, pressing into your hand like he couldn’t help himself. His dark eyes met yours, still sharp, but now hazy with something warmer.

“That is not the adjective most people would assign to me,” he murmured, his tone flat, eloquent as ever but his blush, spreading high across his cheeks, betrayed how much your words had undone him.

His lips crashed against yours again, no longer hesitant, no longer measured. The kiss burned hotter, hungrier, his hands holding you tighter as though he couldn’t bear to let you slip away. The nervous restraint you’d expected was gone; instead, he kissed with an intensity that made your chest tighten, your breath catch.

At this point, you would never have guessed he was unexperienced. There was nothing clumsy about the way his mouth moved against yours, nothing shy in the way his tongue brushed yours, it was raw, deliberate, almost desperate, as if he’d been waiting far too long for this exact moment.

You shifted against him, needing more, and he responded instantly, sliding his long frame a little more toward the middle of the bed, his grip firm at your waist, guiding you with a surprising certainty. The move left you room to climb on top of him, and you didn’t hesitate, swinging your leg over to straddle his lap. His breath broke at the sight of you above him, pupils blown wide, lips swollen from your kisses. His hands slid up your thighs to your hips, trembling but firm, and he looked at you with those dark, unblinking eyes—like he was both overwhelmed and entirely consumed by you.

“Checkmate,” he rasped, voice low, almost mocking, though the way his chest heaved beneath you betrayed just how undone he really was.

Your smirk widened as you rolled your hips down against him, the friction drawing a sharp gasp from your own throat. You leaned in closer, lips brushing his ear as you whispered, “Why is your king in danger?”

His fingers tightened on your hips, a groan breaking from his chest as his head tilted back against the pillow. “No possibility of evasion…” His voice was low, trembling but eloquent, every word deliberate. “No possibility of defense.”

You ground against him again, slower this time, savoring the way his body jolted beneath yours. His lips parted, breath coming hot and uneven, before his head finally fell back fully, dark hair spilling across the pillow as another groan escaped him.

“Then you lost,” you gasped, your own breath shaky as you moved over him again, your smirk curling even as heat flushed through you.

His eyes snapped open, pupils wide and black, locking on yours with desperate intensity. His chest rose and fell hard as he rasped out, voice breaking but still carrying that sharp precision: “Yes. As I already calculated—checkmate.”

The word left him on a groan, his hands clutching you tighter, as if he’d finally surrendered to the inevitability of it.

You leaned down, lips grazing along the sharp line of his jaw before trailing lower to the pale column of his neck. You kissed him there, your voice slipping between each press of your mouth.

“Let me make you feel good.”

His breath caught, a shiver running through him as his fingers dug harder into your hips. His head tilted slightly, granting you more of his throat, though his voice remained that same strange mix of flat eloquence and unraveling heat.

“You already are,” he murmured, his tone careful but trembling at the edges. “The correlation between your touch and my inability to think clearly is undeniable.”

You smirked against his neck, teeth grazing lightly over his skin before sucking softly at the tender spot just below his ear. “Undeniable, huh?”

He exhaled sharply, a quiet groan slipping out before he caught it. His hand slid higher on your waist, holding you firmly in place. “Yes. There is no logical variable that explains why I crave more. Except that it is you.”

You kissed him again, slower, harder, your lips brushing up his throat until you reached his jaw. “You don’t have to calculate everything,” you whispered, voice low and velvet-smooth. “Just tell me what you want.”

His eyes met yours, wide and unblinking, the flush across his cheeks deep and unguarded. His reply was quiet, but stripped of all pretense, painfully raw in its simplicity: “I want your hands on me. And I want to keep feeling this. With you.”

You pressed one last kiss to his jaw before slipping off his lap, his hands reluctantly loosening from your waist as you stood. His eyes followed you immediately, unblinking, wide with something between anticipation and disbelief.

You crossed the room with calm, deliberate steps, the air heavy with the sound of both your breaths. At the dresser, you pulled open the top drawer, your fingers brushing past folded fabric until they found the small box tucked in the corner. You plucked out a condom and set it carefully on the dresser’s edge, letting him see it before turning back.

His gaze was locked on you, posture tense where he still was in the middle of your bed, hair mussed, shirt loose. He looked almost wild, flushed, lips parted, chest rising and falling too fast but he didn’t move. He just watched.

You smirked faintly as you hooked your thumbs into the waistband of your shorts, tugging at the little bow until it slipped loose. The fabric slid easily down your legs, pooling at your ankles before you stepped out of them, leaving you in nothing but your oversized tee and your panties.

His breath hitched audibly, fingers flexing against the blanket, eyes darting over you with a hunger he didn’t even try to hide. For all his precision, all his carefully chosen words, he looked undone now—caught between shyness and raw need.

The smirk on your lips curved sharper as you walked back toward him, the condom in hand, your voice velvet-smooth.

“Still calculating, L?”

You stopped at the edge of the bed, tilting your head as you dangled the condom lightly between two fingers. His eyes tracked the movement, dark and wide, but when they flicked back up to yours, his lips parted—no trace of his usual composure left.

“My brain…” he started, then faltered, his voice low and rough, “…isn’t functioning right now.”

You smirked, climbing back onto the mattress, your knee brushing his thigh as you leaned in close. “Good,” you whispered against his lips, your free hand sliding up his chest, feeling the rapid thrum of his heartbeat beneath your palm. “Means I’m doing my job.”

His breath caught, his hands twitching at your waist before finally settling there again, holding on with a grip that was both hesitant and needy. His gaze never left yours, pupils blown wide, as though he’d surrendered completely to the very thing he used to fight so hard against.

For once, the greatest detective wasn’t calculating anything—he was just yours.

You leaned in, your lips pressing softly against his, tasting the heat of his breath as your hand slid down. The thin fabric of his boxers strained against your palm as you cupped him gently, stroking just enough to make his body jolt beneath you.

Breaking the kiss only enough to whisper against his mouth, you murmured, “Are you sure you want this?”

His head tilted back slightly, a quiet, unguarded sound escaping him as your touch pressed firmer. His hands clung to your waist like he was afraid you’d pull away if he let go.

When his eyes found yours again, they were wide, pupils blown, his flush deepening across his cheekbones. His voice came low, unsteady, but with that strange, deliberate cadence still clinging to it: “I am certain. No other outcome appeals to me as much as this one.”

Another groan tore from his throat as your palm moved again, and he leaned forward to kiss you back, shy but insistent, his lips parting as though trying to prove the truth of his words.

You shifted back a little, lips trailing one last soft kiss against his before pulling away. His hands lingered on your waist, hesitant to let go, but they finally fell away as you slid lower on the bed.

Your fingers hooked into the waistband of his boxers, tugging slowly, dragging the thin fabric down over his hips. He lifted slightly to help you, his breathing uneven, and when the boxers pooled at his thighs, you pushed them down farther until they were completely gone.

He was very hard, flushed, and the sight of him made heat curl deep in your stomach. You reached for the condom resting on the nightstand, tearing it open with practiced ease.

And he just watched you. His dark eyes stayed fixed, unblinking, his lips parted as his chest rose and fell too fast. There was no witty remark, no clever calculation—only silence as his gaze followed the careful movements of your hands.

You pinched the base of the condom and rolled it slowly down his length, making sure it fit snug and smooth. His body jolted beneath your touch, a sharp breath tearing from his throat, but still he said nothing. He only watched, utterly transfixed, as if every second of your touch was something he needed to memorize.

When you finally looked back up at him, smirk tugging at your lips, his blush had deepened, his eyes locked to yours with an intensity that made your chest tighten.

“You really are staring,” you teased softly.

His voice came low, rough, but precise as ever: “I don’t want to miss a single detail.”

His hands moved suddenly, long fingers curling firm around your arms as he pulled you back up to him. The urgency in the gesture startled you for half a second, shy as he was, there was no hesitation in the way he wanted you close again.

You landed against his chest, your oversized shirt brushing over his, your legs straddling his hips once more. His grip didn’t loosen; one hand slid up your back, holding you in place, the other pressing into your hip as though anchoring himself to you.

His eyes, dark and wide, searched yours with an intensity that stole your breath. His lips parted, his voice low, unsteady but deliberate: “I am more aroused than I’ve ever been in my life,” he admitted, every syllable careful but raw. His breath hitched as your hips shifted instinctively against him, a quiet groan escaping before he pressed on. “And it is not only your touch. It is your voice. The way you speak to me. The way you look at me. Even your laughter.”

You felt his chest rise sharply beneath your palms, his words spilling faster now, as though they’d been building and he could no longer contain them.

“Every action, every calculated move you’ve made tonight, it leaves me undone.” The honesty in his tone, that strange mix of precision and trembling desire, made your smirk soften into something warmer. His hands tightened on you, his lips brushing yours as he whispered, almost pleading: “I don’t want you to stop.”

Your smirk softened into something gentler as you slid one hand down between your bodies, fingers curling around him carefully. He gasped, sharp and unsteady, his grip on your waist tightening instinctively as his dark eyes locked on yours.

You shifted your hips, guiding him into place, the heat of him pressing against you in a way that made your pulse trip. You held his gaze, deliberate, savoring the way his breath broke in shallow bursts while you lined him up.

Then, slowly you sank down onto him.

His head fell back against the pillow, lips parting as a ragged groan slipped free, unrestrained this time. His hands clenched at your hips, trembling as though he couldn’t decide whether to pull you down faster or hold you still.

You moved with steady control, inch by inch, taking him in, your body tightening around him as you pressed deeper. His eyes fluttered shut, lashes dark against his flushed skin, and another broken sound spilled from his throat.

When you were finally seated fully, your thighs snug against his, you leaned forward, one hand braced on his chest, the other stroking along his jaw. “Breathe, baby,” you whispered, soft but teasing.

His eyes opened slowly, wide and glassy, fixed on you as though you were the only thing tethering him to reality. His voice came rough, cracked, but still carried that deliberate cadence: “I am entirely overwhelmed.”

And yet, his hips shifted faintly beneath you, betraying how badly he already wanted more.

His head tipped back against the pillow, messy strands of black hair spilling over his forehead as a ragged sound escaped him. His fingers dug into your hips, trembling with the effort to stay composed, but the words slipped out of him in a mutter, raw and unpolished: “God…damn it.”

The corner of your lips curled as you leaned closer, your voice dropping to a velvet whisper right against his ear. “You feel so good,” you breathed, drawing your hips into a slow, steady roll that made your body grip him tighter with every movement.

A sharp groan broke from his throat, muffled only by his attempt to bite it back. His nails pressed harder into your skin as if anchoring himself, his dark eyes snapping open to find yours, wide and desperate.

Your pace stayed unhurried, teasing, making him feel every inch of you as you moved on him. His chest rose and fell too quickly, his lips parting with shallow, uneven breaths.

“You” he gasped, his voice low but still laced with that odd, eloquent cadence, “you are reducing me to nothing but instinct.”

You smirked against his jaw, rocking your hips just a little deeper, relishing the way his composure cracked further with every slow grind.

You kept the pace slow, deliberate, savoring the way he stretched and pulsed inside you, but he wasn’t handling it with the same control. His breath came in ragged bursts, and every time you rocked down on him his voice betrayed him, sharp groans slipping free, low moans catching in his throat, as if he was fighting and failing to hold them back.

“Ah—” His head tipped back again, hair falling wild across the pillow, his jaw tight, throat exposed as he groaned deeply. His hands clutched your waist harder, his nails biting into your skin. “You—God—”

You leaned forward, your palms splaying against his chest, kissing his jaw as you whispered, soft and loving, “Easy. I’ve got you. I’ll be gentle.”

That made him snap his head toward you, eyes wide, glassy, pupils blown. He shook it, lips trembling as another choked moan broke out of him when your hips pressed down. “No,” he rasped, voice hoarse, but precise in its desperation. His fingers slid up to grip your hips like steel, trying to guide you. “Not gentle. I—” he gasped as you shifted deeper, his back arching helplessly, “I don’t want gentle.”

Your smirk softened into something almost tender, but your rhythm grew sharper, rolling your hips with more weight, more heat. His moans spilled louder now, guttural sounds you’d never imagined hearing from him, broken into little cries when you moved just right.

“God—yes,” he groaned, hands dragging up your sides before clamping back down on your waist, forcing you harder against him. His voice cracked again, and he buried his face into your shoulder, groaning openly into your skin, trembling as his teeth caught against the fabric of your shirt.

Every thrust pulled him further apart, no detective, no control, just raw, hungry need. And through every sound he made, every moan and curse, you kissed him softly, held him close, whispering against his ear, “I’m right here. I’m not stopping.”

And he shuddered hard, clinging to you as though you were the only thing holding him together while he unraveled beautifully beneath you.

Your steady rhythm faltered when his grip on your waist suddenly changed, less clinging, more deliberate. His arms slid further around you, one hand pressing firmly into your lower back, the other sliding up between your shoulder blades. In one fluid, startlingly sure motion, he pulled you flush against him, chest to chest, his lips brushing your jaw as his breath came hot and ragged.

Then his hips snapped upward.

You gasped, your head tipping back as he thrust into you with a force that stole the air from your lungs. The slow, careful gentleness you had been giving him was gone, now he was moving, his body meeting yours with raw, desperate precision.

His breath was loud in your ear, broken, almost harsh as he groaned into your skin. “I—can’t—let you control everything,” he panted, his cadence fractured but still undeniably him. His arms tightened, holding you in place as he bucked his hips up into you again, sharp and deep.

Your hands clawed into his hair, tugging, smirking breathlessly against his mouth even as your voice cracked. “So the detective wants control?”

He groaned, low and guttural, his hips slamming into you again, driving another sharp sound from your throat. His lips grazed yours, open and trembling, as he whispered in that strained but eloquent tone, “For once yes. I want to know how it feels—to make you lose your breath instead of the reverse.”

And with another rough thrust, he proved it, his body shaking but relentless as he buried himself in you again and again, pulling you closer as if he couldn’t stand a single inch of space between you.

You opened your mouth to mock him, ready to toss something sharp and smug into his ear but the words died the second his hips hit that perfect spot inside you. A startled moan ripped free instead, your hands clutching at his shoulders as your smirk dissolved into something breathless.

He groaned, as if he’d felt the way your body clenched around him. His arm slid higher up your back, deliberate, guiding you until his hand cradled the back of your head. Gently but firmly, he pressed you down against his shoulder, the exact way you’d held him earlier, when he’d come undone in your hands.

“I got you,” he whispered, the words shaky but steady enough to make your chest tighten. Another moan tore from him right after, muffled into your hair, his body trembling as he thrust again.

You tried to laugh, the sound breaking off into a moan as your voice caught. “That’s my saying,” you gasped, clawing at his shirt as your head stayed buried against his shoulder.

His lips curved faintly against your temple, a breathless groan tumbling out of him as he whispered back, voice rough but precise: “I am a fast learner.”

And the way he drove into you right after, hitting that same devastating spot, left you gasping against his neck, realizing he meant it in every sense.

Your body clenched tighter and tighter with every thrust, heat pooling low in your stomach until it was almost unbearable. You clawed at his arm through the soft cotton of the shirt, your moans spilling into the crook of his neck, and still he held you fast—his arm locked around your waist, his hand cradling the back of your head as though he was afraid you might vanish if he let go.

Each sharp snap of his hips drove him deeper, harder, until your body pulsed and gripped around him so tightly he groaned against your hair, raw and desperate. His breath broke into ragged gasps, his control unraveling as quickly as yours.

“God—” he choked out, his voice rough but still laced with that strange, deliberate cadence of his. “You’re constricting around me with such force—it’s nearly impossible to maintain composure.”

His head tipped back, a guttural sound tearing from his throat as his hips bucked into you again, almost helpless. “I am very very close,” he admitted. His lips brushed your temple, voice cracking as he whispered: “You are unbearable when you feel this perfect.”

And his whole body shuddered beneath you, as undone as you’d ever seen him.

Your nails dug into him as your body clenched hard around him, pleasure coiling so tight it made your voice break. “Fuck, L—shut up,” you gasped against his neck, your words half a plea, half a laugh.

Instead of going quiet, he chuckled, the sound vibrating against your skin. It was the first time you’d heard him laugh like that, rough and completely uncalculated.

And then he moved.

His hips snapped faster, sharper, every thrust angled just right, relentless now. The shift stole the air from your lungs, the teasing smirk on your lips dissolving into a ragged cry as your body gave out. The tension broke in a blinding rush, your climax hitting you hard, your thighs trembling around his hips as you cried out against his shoulder. Your body tightening, choking him, pulling him under with you. He groaned, loud and guttural, clinging to you as if his life depended on it. His hips drove into you once, twice more before his body shuddered violently, undone.

“Shit—” His voice broke into a raw moan, the sound spilling against your skin as he buried his face into your shoulder. His hands held you like porcelain even as he came hard inside you, every tremor of his body betraying how completely he’d lost control.

When it was over, he stayed there, breath ragged, arms locked around you. And for once, the great detective said nothing—only held you close, as if words had finally abandoned him.

You stayed draped over him, chest still heaving, your thighs trembling from the intensity of it. His arms were locked around you, one hand splayed across your back, the other tangled loosely in your hair as if he didn’t trust himself to let go.

“Fuck—what was that?” you gasped, still catching your breath, turning your head until your cheek pressed into the damp warmth of his neck. His pulse hammered under your lips, fast and unsteady. “I thought you were a virgin.”

For a moment, all you heard was his uneven breathing, the quiet rasp of air dragging in and out of his lungs. Then his chest shook faintly under you, whether from the remnants of pleasure or a soft, breathless laugh, you couldn’t tell.

His voice, when it finally came, was rough but still precise, his cadence never wavering even as it cracked:

“I was.” His lips brushed your hair as he turned his head slightly toward you. “But I am also a fast learner. And you are a merciless teacher.”

You laughed into his shoulder, weak but genuine, your smirk hidden against his skin. He tightened his hold on you just a fraction, and for all his eloquence, you could feel the truth of it in the way he clung to you, as though he’d been waiting three years to lose control like this.

You stayed there, pressed against him, listening to the ragged rhythm of his breathing as his chest rose and fell beneath you. His grip hadn’t loosened—if anything, his arms clung tighter, his hand still cradling the back of your head like you might slip away if he dared to relax.

After a long silence, his voice broke through, low and uneven, threaded with that unmistakable cadence of his.

“I should excuse myself.” He paused, drawing in another shaky breath before continuing, softer, “For not holding out longer.”

You turned your face slightly in the crook of his neck, your lips brushing his damp skin as you smirked faintly. “What?”

He shifted, his body still trembling beneath yours, his blush hot against his pale cheeks. “It was less endurance than I would prefer,” he murmured, precise as always even through his roughness. “I underestimated how overwhelming you would feel.” His fingers flexed against your back, the smallest groan slipping past his lips before he could stop it. “And my response was statistically faster than is ideal.”

You couldn’t help but laugh softly into his shoulder, shaking your head. “You’re really apologizing for that? After what you just did to me?”

His lips twitched against your hair, the faintest ghost of a smile. “I don’t wish to disappoint you. Not in this. Not in anything.”

Your smirk softened into something warmer, your fingers tracing lazy circles at the nape of his neck. “Trust me,” you whispered. “You didn’t.”

His arms tightened around you, and though he stayed quiet, the way he buried his face into your shoulder said he believed you. You shifted a little, meaning to slide off him so he could breathe easier, but the second you moved his arms tightened, almost possessive, pulling you right back against his chest. His face pressed into the crook of your neck, his breath hot and uneven against your skin.

“Don’t,” he murmured, voice rougher now, stripped of eloquence for once. Then, after a pause, softer but precise: “Don’t get off me yet.”

You stilled, your smirk tugging faintly at your lips as you nestled back down, cheek against his shoulder. “Comfortable, are we?” you teased, your fingers raking idly through his messy black hair.

“More than comfortable,” he answered, the words muffled into your skin but still deliberate. “This is optimal.” His chest rose sharply as he inhaled, his hold firm but careful, like he was cataloguing the shape of you in his arms. “You’re warm. Your weight is grounding.”

You laughed quietly, pressing a soft kiss against his jaw. “You’re ridiculously sappy when you’re worn out.”

He tilted his head just enough to glance at you, dark eyes half-lidded but unwavering, and whispered, “I only want to be sappy for you.”

The room fell quiet again, only the soft hum of the city outside filtering through the window. His arms never loosened, his hand still resting protectively at the back of your head. And as your own breathing slowed, you realized he wasn’t just holding you, he was clinging, as if letting go wasn’t an option.

You shifted against him, still nestled in his arms, and let out a breathless little laugh against his throat. “As much as I’d love to stay here,” you whispered, your voice low but firm, “I have to get down. Otherwise, if you get soft the condom will slip and I don’t intend to get pregnant.”

His arms tightened around you immediately, almost reflexively, his long fingers splaying across your back like he could keep you there by sheer will alone. His dark eyes cracked open, fixing on you from beneath messy strands of hair. For a moment, he said nothing, only studied your face as if weighing whether you truly meant to move.

Then, with a twitch of his lips into that strange, off-kilter smirk of his, he answered in his calm, deliberate cadence: “Then you don’t have to worry.”

You blinked at him, one brow arched, caught between amusement and disbelief. “What exactly is that supposed to mean?”

He tilted his head slightly, the smirk lingering even as the blush still colored his pale cheeks. “I have no intention of becoming soft while you are still on top of me. Statistically, the likelihood of that occurring is—” His voice cracked into a quiet groan as his hips shifted instinctively beneath you, proving his point in a way words couldn’t.

You laughed softly, shaking your head as you raked your fingers through his hair, tugging lightly. “You’re ridiculous,” you murmured, though your smirk softened. “Completely ridiculous.”

His arms stayed locked around you, his forehead pressing to yours as he whispered, a little rougher but no less eloquent, “Perhaps. But I am also telling you the truth.”

And with the way his body still pressed hot and hard against you, you knew he wasn’t lying.

He shifted beneath you, his hips giving the faintest upward press. The movement made you gasp softly, your hands tightening on his chest, and his lips curved into that rare, strange little smirk. “Sorry,” he murmured, voice low but threaded with amusement. “Just proving my point.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, though your smirk gave you away. “Proving it a little too well,” you teased, your body still pulsing from the first round as you adjusted against him. You let your hand slide down his chest, your fingers idly tracing the hem of the shirt you’d given him. “You want a second round? Because either way, I have to get up for another condom.”

At that, his arms tightened around your waist again, holding you in place as though he feared you might vanish the second you left his body. His eyes fixed on yours, wide and dark, still hazy with the intensity of before, but unflinching.

“If you promise you’ll come back,” he said. His tone was calm, deliberate as ever, but his voice cracked faintly at the edges, betraying the raw need beneath his words.

You tilted your head, studying him, smirk tugging at your lips. “You think I’d leave you like this?”

His gaze softened slightly, though the intensity never left. “Statistically improbable,” he admitted, his thumb stroking along your back. “But..I’d rather hear the promise from you directly.”

Your laugh spilled quietly against his mouth as you kissed him once, slow and lingering. “I’ll come back, L.”

Only then did his arms relax just enough for you to slip away, his eyes following you with unblinking focus as you padded toward the dresser for another condom. And the way he watched you made it clear he already couldn’t wait for your return.

The night bled into hours you barely counted, every time you thought you were finished, every time you thought exhaustion had claimed you both, he’d surprise you. Sometimes it was the strange precision of his words whispered against your skin, sometimes just the way his body sought yours again and again. Sleep came in fragments, if at all, tangled between kisses, laughter, and the quiet sound of him unraveling under your touch.

When morning finally broke, it wasn’t the sun that pulled you back but the shrill buzz of your alarm. You stirred against the sheets, warmth cocooning you in the small, quiet space of your bedroom.

It was then you realized: you were completely bare.

And so was he. L’s long body was pressed against your back, his bare chest radiating heat where it molded into your spine. One arm draped firmly over your waist, locking you against him, while the other was tucked under your head, his hand curled almost protectively against your cheek as if he’d been holding you in place the entire night.

The alarm rang again, insistent, but he didn’t move, if anything, his arm around your waist tightened just a fraction, his breath steady against the back of your neck. His messy black hair brushed your skin with each exhale, and though his hold was loose enough to be gentle, there was something possessive in it too, something that made you smirk even half-asleep.

You reached out blindly to silence the alarm, then let your hand fall back to rest over his arm, whispering, voice rough with sleep but amused: “Guess the world’s greatest detective is also a human blanket.”

Behind you, his breath hitched faintly, but he didn’t lift his head. His voice came low, roughened by sleep, yet still in that precise cadence that belonged only to him.

“I’ve never slept better.”

You shifted carefully in his arms, turning just enough to face him. His hair was a wild mess, dark strands falling into his eyes, and there was something disarmingly soft about the way he looked at you half-awake—his sharp, calculating gaze dimmed, his cheeks still faintly flushed from the night before.

You leaned in and kissed him, slow and unhurried, your lips brushing his until his arm around your waist tightened reflexively. When you pulled back, your forehead rested against his, your voice still husky with sleep.

“We have to get ready,” you whispered.

For a moment, he only stared at you, lips parted like he was weighing whether or not to argue. Then that crooked, rare smirk pulled at his mouth.

“No” he murmured, his tone smooth but tinged with quiet amusement. “You have to get ready. My hours are not conventional.” His arm slid lower on your back, pulling you flush against him, his smirk deepening just slightly.

You laughed softly, brushing his messy hair out of his face with your fingers. “So what, you’re just going to lay here all day while I drag myself to meetings?”

His eyes narrowed faintly, the smirk never leaving. “Statistically, yes. Unless you insist on joining me in staying here.”

The suggestion hung in the air, tempting, as his hand splayed warmly across your spine. For once, you realized, he didn’t care about schedules or cases, he only cared about keeping you in his arms.

You had been careful that morning, slipping out before him so no one would suspect at work, your hair brushed into order, your expression calm enough to pass. But no amount of practiced composure could hide the quiet glow in your chest. Every time you caught your reflection in a glass pane or paused between tasks, the faintest smirk tugged at your lips. You’d woken up wrapped in him, and the memory lingered with every breath you took.

By midday, you were returning from yet another meeting, file tucked under your arm, heels clicking softly against the floor. The office was quiet again, the hum of fluorescent lights familiar. You pushed open your door, already expecting the comfort of your desk and the half-finished coffee waiting there.

But then you saw it.

Set neatly in the center of your desk, just where you couldn’t miss it, was another chess piece. Not just any—this time it was a queen, deep black and gleaming beneath the light, as if it had been polished just for you. Resting beside it, folded with his usual sharp precision, was a small note.

Your chest tightened as you crossed the room, setting your folder aside. You picked up the piece first, rolling the cool weight of it between your fingers, then opened the note. His handwriting stretched in those deliberate, slightly slanted strokes, but the words made your lips part in a quiet, breathless laugh.

“Your performance last night has left me unable to focus on the case. Consider this a declaration: you own my king, my board, and all my moves. Statistically speaking…I am already yours. But if you require further proof, I am prepared to demonstrate again. In private. Preferably tonight.”

You smirked, heat crawling up your neck as you pressed the note flat against your desk, eyes flicking to the untouched sugar cube pyramid still perched beside it. He was bold now—bolder than you’d ever expected.

Leaning back into your chair, you twirled the black queen between your fingers, whispering under your breath with a devilish smile: “Filthy little man.”

And yet, you couldn’t deny how much you wanted to collect on his offer.

Your phone buzzed against the desk, vibrating beside the chess piece and note. You didn’t even glance at the screen before answering, lifting it to your ear as the beginnings of a smirk tugged at your lips.

“Goddamn you,” you said, half a laugh in your voice, leaning back into your chair. Your eyes lingered on the black queen standing proudly in the middle of your desk.

There was a brief silence on the line, only the faint static of his breathing—and then his voice came, low, deliberate, but edged with something darker than usual.

“Last night suggests otherwise,” he said smoothly. “If I remember correctly, it was you who was swearing my name into the pillow while you begged me not to stop.”

Your breath caught for just a second, heat prickling at the back of your neck, but you covered it with a sharp laugh. “Oh, you’re getting filthy now, love?”

“Not filthy,” he countered, his tone calm, almost clinical, though the husky undertone betrayed him. “Accurate. You wanted the truth. I am merely stating it. Statistically speaking, if I had you on this desk right now, the result would be the same—or worse.”

You pressed your fingers to your temple, shaking your head even as a smile tugged at your lips. “You’re dangerous with that mouth.”

“And yet you keep answering my calls,” he replied without hesitation, the faintest amusement threading his voice. “Perhaps tonight I should use less speech, and more action.”

The silence after his words was heavy, thick with tension, and the smirk on your face gave way to something warmer, needier. You drummed your fingers against the note he’d left, biting back another laugh.

“Careful, baby,” you whispered. “Promises like that? I’ll hold you to them.”

“I expect you to,” he said simply. And then the line went quiet—leaving you staring at the black queen, your heart racing, already counting the hours until nightfall.

The office had gone quiet, the kind of silence that only came when the building emptied after hours. You tugged your jacket on, slid your laptop into your bag, and as you zipped it closed you noticed the corner of white paper peeking from under the edge of your keyboard.

Another note.

You plucked it up, unfolding it with that mix of anticipation and heat that only he could inspire. His handwriting, neat and deliberate, sprawled across the page.

“The knight never moves straight. Always in L-shapes. Much like me—awkward, sidelong, unconventional. And yet, last night, you still let me inside your defenses. Statistically, that means you want me to bend your rules again tonight. Consider this your warning.”

Filthy—yes—but cute in its strange, riddle-like cadence, his humor woven into the words. Your lips curled into a grin before you even finished reading. Without hesitation, you folded it back up, slipped it into your pocket, and grabbed your bag.

Downstairs, the cool night air brushed against your skin as the automatic doors slid open. And there he was. Waiting.

He stood just beyond the glow of the lamps, hair messier than ever, his posture a familiar hunch, but his eyes fixed on you the second you stepped out. He didn’t have time to say a word.

You closed the distance, grabbed him by the front of his collar, and crushed your mouth against his. The kiss was fierce, messy, your bag bumping against your hip as you leaned into him. He made a low, surprised sound into your lips, his hands lifting halfway like he wasn’t sure where to put them before finally gripping your waist tight.

“Never stop doing this,” you whispered against his mouth between kisses, breathless, smirking. You slid the folded note from your pocket and pressed it against his chest with your free hand, still holding him close.

His lips curved faintly against yours as his fingers closed around the paper, his voice dropping low and precise even as it trembled with heat:

“Not even if you begged me to.”

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ full already? didn’t think so. my masterlist’s right here.

© ᴠᴇʟᴠᴇᴛɢʜᴏᴜʟ

𝘳𝘦𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘨𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘸𝘦𝘭𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦—𝘤𝘰𝘱𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘧𝘵, 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘴𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯, 𝘰𝘳 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘺 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘴 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘢𝘪 𝘪𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵.

[glimmerfics]

To the world, he may be Kira-- but to you, he’s still Light, your stepbrother. So why does his gaze linger on you in this NSFW Choose Your Own Adventure?

🔗READ/PLAY HERE to make your own choices! [Playthrough by Anonymous] CW: Stepcest, pseudocest, noncon/dubcon, all characters are 18+!

"I'll always take care of you, no matter what," you whisper, pressing your cheek firmer against his chest.

Light remains still for a long moment, the only sound in the room the rhythmic ticking of a clock and the faint, distant hum of the city. The air in the room feels thicker, heavier, as if the confession anchors him to the bed and pulls the rest of the world away. He lets out a breath he seems to have been holding for an eternity, and his grip on you tightens. It is a possessive pull, dragging you closer until there is no space left between your bodies.

He shifts his head, his lips brushing against the top of your hair. It is a gesture that starts as familial but lingers a second too long, the warmth of his breath sending a shiver down your spine.

"You're the only one," he murmurs, his voice vibrating through his chest and into your own. "The only one who sees me and still wants to be here."

There is a raw edge to his tone, a hunger for the uncomplicated devotion you give him. To the rest of the world, he is a genius, a model student, a potential savior or a monster. To you, he is just Light. He thrives on this—the way you look at him with total trust, the way you crave his attention, the way you let him be the center of your universe.

He pulls back just enough to look down at you. His brown eyes are dark, searching your face with an intensity that feels almost predatory, yet filled with a desperate sort of affection. He reaches up, his thumb grazing your lower lip, pulling it down slightly. The touch is slow, humming with a tension that was not there before.

"What would I do if you ever stopped?" he asks. It is not a real question; it is a demand for reassurance, a flicker of the obsession that burns beneath his calm exterior.

"Onii-san. I'm yours," you whisper, the words a soft surrender against the heat of his skin.

The effect is instantaneous. Light’s breath hitches, and the hand on your jaw tightens, his fingers digging slightly into your skin. The tenderness is still there, but it is now laced with something far more volatile. He looks at you as if you are the only thing in the world that has any real substance, his pupils blown wide, swallowing the brown of his irises.

He lets out a low, guttural sound—almost a growl—and suddenly rolls, pinning you beneath him. The mattress springs creak under the sudden shift in weight. He is heavy, his body a solid wall of heat pressing you down into the sheets, his arms locking on either side of your head.

Light looms over you, his hair falling forward to veil his face, creating a private, shadowed world for just the two of you. The mask of the perfect student, the polite son, the distant genius—everything is gone. In its place is a raw, hungry intensity that makes your heart hammer against your ribs.

"Say it again," he commands. His voice has dropped an octave, vibrating with a dominant edge that sends a thrill of anticipation through you. He is not asking. He is taking control, his gaze locked onto yours with a fierce, unwavering devotion that borders on the obsessive.

He lowers his head, his nose brushing against yours, his lips just a fraction of an inch from your own. He remains there, hovering in the agonizing gap, letting the tension stretch until it is almost unbearable. He wants to feel you tremble. He wants to know that he is the only thing you can think about.

"Tell me again, Mai," he breathes, his voice a rough caress. "Who do you belong to?"

"I'm yours, Onii-san. Only yours," you whisper, the words trembling with a mixture of fear and desperate longing.

Light lets out a low, shuddering breath, his eyes closing for a brief second as if the sound of your submission is a drug. When he opens them, the intensity has shifted into something darker, something that claims you entirely. He doesn't move away; instead, he presses his weight more firmly against you, forcing you to feel every inch of his lean, athletic frame.

His hand slides from your jaw, moving down to the column of your throat. He doesn't squeeze, but his grip is possessive, his thumb resting right over your pulse point. He can feel your heart racing, a frantic drumming that mirrors his own hidden agitation. A smirk, sharp and knowing, curves his lips.

"Good girl," he murmurs. The praise is thick, laced with a dominance that makes your stomach flip.

He shifts his head, avoiding your lips but burying his face in the crook of your neck. You feel the heat of his skin, the slight scratch of his jawline against your sensitive flesh. He inhales deeply, taking in your scent as if he's trying to memorize it, to pull it into his very lungs.

Suddenly, he nips at the skin of your shoulder, a sharp, sudden bite that makes you gasp. He lingers there, his teeth grazing you, marking you in a way that will leave a bruise—a silent, hidden brand that tells the world you belong to him, even if only he knows it.

"You're the only thing in this world that isn't a lie, Mai," he breathes against your skin, his voice rough and strained. "The only thing I actually want."

He pulls back just enough to look at you again, his gaze sweeping over your flushed face and dilated pupils. He looks like he's fighting a war with himself, a battle between the controlled god he pretends to be and the obsessed brother who wants to devour you.

"Do I make you feel that way?" you ask, your voice barely a whisper, your eyes searching his for the truth.

Light remains still, his weight pinning you to the mattress, his gaze locking onto yours with a intensity that feels like it could burn. He lets out a sharp, ragged exhale, his fingers tightening slightly against the column of your throat. He looks at you not as a brother, and not as a god, but as a man starving for something he is forbidden to have.

"You have no idea," he begins, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. He stops himself, his jaw tightening as he corrects his words, leaning in until his forehead rests against yours. "You make me feel things that are completely illogical, Mai. You are a distraction. A weakness."

He says the word weakness as if it is a curse, yet he is the one trembling. He shifts his hips, pressing himself firmly against you, letting you feel the hard line of his desire through his trousers. He is not hiding it anymore. The air between you is electric, thick with a taboo yearning that has simmered for years, now boiling over in the dim light of his bedroom.

"I spend every waking hour calculating the movements of the world, planning a future where I am the absolute authority," he murmurs, his breath hot against your lips. "But when I am with you, the calculations stop. I stop thinking about the new world. I only think about how much I want to tear you apart and keep you locked away where no one else can ever look at you."

He pulls back just an inch, his eyes scanning every inch of your flushed face. He looks haunted, his affection twisted into something obsessive and heavy. He is completely devoted to you, his loyalty a sharp, jagged thing that cuts through his usual composure.

"It is wrong," he whispers, his voice shaking with a raw, emotional heat. "It is entirely wrong. And I want it more than I want my own throne."

"I love you, no matter how wrong it is," you whisper, your voice trembling as you look up at him.

Light freezes. For a moment, the only sound is the heavy, synchronised thrum of your hearts. The confession seems to strip away the last of his restraint, leaving him raw and exposed. He lets out a sound that is almost a sob, a ragged, broken noise of relief and agony. He crashes his forehead against yours, his eyes squeezed shut, his breathing coming in shallow, frantic bursts.

"You're insane," he rasps, his voice cracking. "You're just as broken as I am, Mai."

He shifts, his hand sliding from your throat to grip your wrist, pinning it firmly against the mattress above your head. The sudden movement is dominant, almost aggressive, but his touch remains desperate. He doesn't kiss you—he refuses to, as if crossing that final line would shatter the fragile world he has built around you—but he presses his body flush against yours with a crushing force.

You can feel the heat radiating from him, a feverish intensity that makes the air in the room feel suffocating. His other hand finds your thigh, his fingers digging into the fabric of your clothes, pulling you closer, urging your body to mold to his. The friction is a torture, a simmering promise of what is coming, yet he keeps the distance between your lips a mere fraction of an inch.

"I can't stop," he murmurs, his voice a dark, velvet promise against your skin. "I've tried to be the perfect brother. I've tried to protect you from myself. But I can't do it anymore. I want everything. I want every single part of you, even the parts that should be forbidden."

He lets out a shaky breath, his gaze dropping to your mouth with a hunger that is almost violent. He is trembling now, his entire frame shaking with the effort of not simply taking what he wants. The taboo of it all—the kinship, the secrecy, the wrongness—seems to act as an accelerant, fueling a fire that threatens to consume you both.

"I love you so much it hurts," you whisper, your voice fracturing with a desperation that matches his own.

The sound of those words is the final snap of the thread. Light lets out a jagged, guttural sound, and his control vanishes. He crashes his lips against yours with a violence that is more hunger than tenderness. It is a collision, a desperate attempt to merge two bodies into one, his tongue forcing its way into your mouth to claim every inch of you. He tastes of longing and a dark, obsessive need, his kiss bruising and demanding.

He releases your wrist only to slide his hand down, gripping your waist with a strength that leaves no doubt about who is in command. With a sudden, rough movement, he rips your shirt open, buttons scattering across the hardwood floor like tiny, forgotten pearls. He does not ask; he does not hesitate. He exposes your skin to the cool air of the room, but you only feel the searing heat of his gaze.

Light pulls back for a split second, his eyes dark and predatory as they sweep over your chest. "You're so beautiful, Mai," he rasps, his voice dripping with a forbidden heat. "My sweet, spoiled little sister. You have no idea how long I've wanted to see you like this."

He drops his head, his mouth finding the sensitive curve of your breast. He sucks the flesh hard, his teeth grazing you, leaving a vivid mark that claims you as his. You arch your back, a whimper escaping your throat, and the sound only seems to fuel him.

His hand slides down, his fingers hooking into the waistband of your bottoms and dragging them down with a single, forceful tug. He tosses them aside, leaving you completely bare beneath him. He doesn't stop; he moves his hand between your thighs, his fingers finding you already slick and ready. He slides two fingers deep inside you with a sudden, authoritative thrust that makes you cry out.

"You're so wet for me," he murmurs, his voice a dark caress against your skin. "Tell me you want it, Mai. Tell your Onii-san how much you want him inside you."

"I love you... I love you so much," you sob, the words breaking as they leave your lips, your voice thick with a desperate, unconditional devotion.

The admission is like fuel to a fire. Light's expression twists, his eyes darkening with a hunger that is almost frightening. He pulls his fingers out of you with a wet, sliding sound, but he remains poised over you, his chest heaving. He reaches down and grabs your ankles, shoving your legs back toward your chest in one rough, commanding motion.

You are forced into a vulnerable, open position, your hips lifted off the mattress, leaving you completely exposed to his predatory gaze. The position is jarring and demanding, stripping away any remaining sense of modesty. Light stares at you, his breath hitching at the sight of his little sister bent and broken open for him.

"Look at you," he rasps, his voice dripping with a dark, obsessive pride. "So open. So ready for your brother."

He reaches for his belt, the metallic click of the buckle echoing in the quiet room. He strips his trousers away with a frantic energy, revealing the hard, pulsing length of his erection. It is thick and veins stand out against the skin, throbbing with the same intensity that governs his mind. He doesn't waste time with tenderness. He grabs your hips, his fingers bruising your skin as he hauls you toward the edge of the bed, positioning himself at the entrance of your heat.

He doesn't slide in slowly. He drives himself into you with one singular, violent thrust, burying his entire length inside you in a heartbeat.

You scream, the sound muffled against the pillow, as your body stretches to accommodate him. It is a filling, overwhelming sensation, a physical manifestation of the taboo they've finally shattered. Light groans, a deep, animalistic sound that vibrates through your entire frame. He freezes for a second, his muscles locking as he savoring the tight, searing heat of your walls clamping around him.

"You're so tight, Mai," he hisses, his voice a raw, vulgar whisper in your ear. "I can feel you shaking around me. Do you feel how much I want you? Do you feel your Onii-san taking everything from you?"

"Harder, Onii-san... please!" you cry out, your voice cracking as you arch your back, begging for the very thing that is overwhelming you.

Light's response is a sharp, guttural growl. He obeys instantly, his hips snapping forward with a brutal, rhythmic force. Each thrust is a heavy collision, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the quiet room, echoing the violence of his need. He is no longer holding back, no longer pretending to be the composed genius; he is a storm of raw, masculine hunger, driving himself into you with a pace that leaves you breathless and reeling.

He reaches up and grabs a handful of your hair, tugging your head back to force you to look at him. His face is a mask of concentrated pleasure and obsession, his eyes blown wide and dark. He looks at you with a terrifying sort of love, the kind that wants to consume everything you are.

"You want it harder?" he hisses, his voice a jagged edge. "You want your brother to ruin you, Mai? To mark you so deeply that you can never think of anyone else?"

He shifts his grip, sliding one hand down to pinch your breast hard, his fingers digging into the soft flesh as he continues to hammer into you. The friction is searing, a white-hot burn that radiates from your core to your fingertips. You can feel every vein, every pulse of him inside you, stretching you to your absolute limit.

The taboo of the act—the knowledge that he is your brother, that this is a sin beyond forgiveness—only makes the sensation more acute. Light seems to feed on it, his breathing coming in ragged, desperate gasps. He pushes you further back, pinning your shoulders against the mattress, his body a crushing weight that makes you feel small, fragile, and entirely his.

"Tell me you love it," he commands, his voice vibrating through your chest. "Tell me you love being used by your Onii-san."

"I can't... I'm going to...!" you sob, your voice breaking as the pressure builds into an unbearable, electric tension.

Light hears the fragility in your voice, and it only spurs him on. He lets out a low, triumphant sound, his eyes flashing with a dark, manic energy. He releases your hair and instead slams his hands flat against the mattress on either side of your head, his arms locking as he leans his entire weight into you. He increases the speed, his thrusts becoming short, frantic, and devastatingly deep. He hammers into you with a rhythmic violence that rattles your very bones, each collision sending a fresh wave of white-hot pleasure crashing through your nervous system.

"Go on, Mai," he rasps, his voice a rough, commanding growl. "Break for me. Fall apart for your Onii-san."

He shifts his angle, tilting your hips upward to drive himself even deeper, hitting your cervix with every brutal plunge. The feeling is overwhelming, a searing fullness that pushes you toward the edge of a cliff. You can feel your internal muscles clenching around him in desperate, involuntary spasms, trying to grip the only thing that matters in this moment.

Light is breathing in heavy, jagged gasps now, his forehead pressed against yours, sweat dripping from his skin onto your flushed chest. He is trembling with the effort of maintaining this frantic pace, his muscles corded and straining. He is completely consumed by you, his devotion manifesting as a physical need to possess every single scream, every shudder, and every tear.

"I've got you," he whispers, his voice vibrating with a raw, obsessive heat. "I've got you, my sweet little sister. Just let go. Give it all to me."

Wanna make your own choices and see what happens next? READ/PLAY HERE! (˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶)

🎮interactive fanfic "Your kira." by Rulu

[champagnefever]

being a girl is so much fun because one minute im laying in bed looking insane in an oversized t-shirt and then suddenly i open tumblr and now clark kent is obsessed with me and im the hottest girl alive

[juliettejwnewinesa]

Can you write about na beakjin as bf headcanons maybe a little nfws too

Imma do it for u bestie don’t worry 😌🫶

Na Beakjin bf headcanons

🖤 Emotionally Guarded, Hopelessly Devoted

He’s not good with words. He won’t say “I love you” unless you’re asleep or not looking — but he shows it constantly. Walking on the outside of the sidewalk. Pulling you behind him when a crowd gets too tight. Standing silently beside you like a shield.

He listens harder than anyone ever has. You could mention your favorite drink once, and it’ll show up in his hand every time he sees you. He notices your habits, your moods, even your silences.

Quiet jealousy. He won’t pick fights, but if someone flirts with you, he goes cold. Stops speaking. Later, pulls you into a deeper kiss than usual, gaze unreadable, voice low: “Mine. You know that, right?”

Zero PDA, but in private, he’s needy. He stiffens if you kiss his cheek in front of others, but behind closed doors, he wraps himself around you in bed like a blanket. Face buried in your neck. One arm over your stomach. Won’t let go until you’re asleep.

He gets pouty when you don’t initiate affection. He won’t say it — he’ll just sulk in silence. But the second your fingers slide into his or your hand brushes his back, he softens like clay.

He doesn’t just like your scent — he’s addicted. He’ll pretend it’s a coincidence that he steals your hoodie, but he sleeps with it every time you’re gone. He’ll pull you into a hug and inhale like he’s trying to anchor himself.

He touches you like you’re fragile, but looks at you like you’re his anchor. Thumb brushing your cheek. Hand cradling the back of your head. He doesn’t smile often, but when he does, it’s quiet and broken just for you.

Protective without permission. You won’t even know someone made you uncomfortable until Beakjin stares them down from across the room. He doesn’t raise his voice — he doesn’t have to.

He lets you play with his hands. They’re always cold, veiny, and big. You’ll mess with his fingers, and he’ll act like it’s annoying, but his eyes go soft, and he never pulls away.

🔞 NSFW — Soft Filth, Controlled Chaos

Slow, controlled, and obsessive. He starts gently — almost reverent — but if you tease him too much, he flips. Hands pinning your wrists, jaw clenched, voice low and dangerous: “You think I won’t fuck you until you cry? Keep pushing.”

Big on marking. He likes seeing the bruises. Finger-shaped prints on your thighs. Bite marks on your collarbone. Not because he wants to hurt you — he wants to own you. Quietly. Permanently.

Quiet in bed, but intense. No loud moans — just labored breaths, gritted teeth, and your name rasped against your skin. Occasionally slips — a low, “So fucking pretty when you beg” — but immediately shuts up after, embarrassed.

He stares the whole time, not just at your body, but at your face. He wants to see how you fall apart. How far can he take you? How wrecked you get just for him.

Pretends not to care about aftercare, but spoils you. Wipes you down gently. Pulls the blanket over you. Holds you against his chest, heartbeat thudding steadily. But if you bring it up later? He shrugs, “You looked like a mess. Couldn’t just leave you like that.”

[noobiestnoober]

The Gala Dance (Viraj X F!Reader)

🌹 Viraj Dobriyal One Shot – The Gala Dance

Genre: Romance | Slow Burn | X Reader

Summary: At a glittering gala, Viraj Dobriyal cuts through the crowd with the kind of presence that silences rooms. Everyone warned you of his cruelty, but when he extends his hand for a dance, his touch lingers a moment too long, his gaze holding you captive. Cruelty you could brace for—but Viraj’s fleeting kindness, wrapped in charm and possession, is the true peril.

The gala shimmered—light spilling from chandeliers, music flowing like silk, glasses clinking in rhythm with soft laughter. You stood at the edge of the crowd, clutching your drink a little too tightly, hoping to remain unnoticed among the swirl of gowns and tuxedos.

And then his eyes found you.

Viraj Dobriyal moved through the crowd like the room belonged to him. People parted instinctively as he passed, his aura commanding, his presence undeniable. The faintest smirk tugged at his lips, a dangerous kind of amusement. When he reached you, he didn’t waste words. He simply extended his hand, palm open, gaze steady.

“Dance with me,” he said. His tone was low, smooth, yet laced with something closer to an order than a request.

Your pulse leapt. Against every warning you’d heard, against your own better judgment, you placed your hand in his.

The music wrapped around you as he guided you onto the floor. His grip was firm but careful, his other hand settling at your waist—lingering just a second too long. The warmth of his palm bled through the fabric of your dress, sending a shiver up your spine. Each step felt purposeful, practiced, as though he had planned this moment long before you ever arrived.

You tried to focus on the rhythm, on the steps, but it was impossible beneath the weight of his gaze. He looked at you like you were the only person in the room, as if the gala, the music, even the world itself had fallen away. The polished floor gleamed under the chandelier’s light, but you could see nothing except the sharp, magnetic intensity of his eyes.

“Relax,” he murmured, close enough that his breath brushed your cheek. The word was gentle, but his hold was not—it was steady, claiming, unwilling to let you slip away. His thumb pressed lightly against your waist, a subtle reminder of his control. The faint scent of his cologne mixed with perfume and champagne in the air, wrapping around you almost as tightly as his arms.

Your heart thundered, each beat echoing in your ears louder than the orchestra’s strings. Was this charm? The smooth charisma that everyone warned you about? Or was there something deeper, something dangerous, in the way he refused to let go, in the way he drew you imperceptibly closer with every turn?

The song stretched on, a slow waltz that demanded closeness, and you found yourself caught in his orbit. He guided you effortlessly, his steps confident, his touch both protective and possessive. You were aware of every brush of fabric, every shift in breath, every second that he held you just a little tighter than the dance required.

When the music finally dwindled to its last note, applause rose around the room. But you barely heard it. His hand remained at your waist, fingers flexing slightly as though reluctant to release you, his eyes lingering on yours with an intensity that left you breathless.

And in that moment, you realized: cruelty you could prepare for. Sharp words, cold dismissals, you could survive those. But Viraj Dobriyal’s fleeting kindness, his quiet possession disguised as charm—those were the weapons that cut deepest.

Because charm fades, cruelty can be endured, but this subtle, intoxicating gentleness was the peril you never expected to crave.

The peril you never expected to crave.

[ellaanimates]

A Stantastic Time! by Trench Coat Productions

If you liked #swooningoverstans then get ready for #astantastictime

I was super inspired to make this with my team at TrenchCoat Studios and I couldn't be more pleased with the turnout!

Thank you to everyone who has supported our small indie studio so far!

[writingthroughthenight]

Twitter Tweety Twats #15 (Six of Crows / The Folk of the Air)

[brownsstorybook]

Stars - Anakin x F!reader

Anakin Skywalker x F!Jedi!reader smut shot

Summary: You and Anakin are on Naboo to keep senator Amidala safe. The night the three of you decide to stay on a yacht everything changes.

word count: 2.3k

Warning: Nsfw, 18+ actions, unprotected sex, kind of public sex? Lots of smut.

I sighed as I deactivated my saber. "You scared me, Skywalker." I didn't dare face him, Anakin Skywalker. One of the most gorgeous boys in the entire intergalactic universe. I remember our love-hate relationship from day one on. I got assigned to Obi-Wan Kenobi as his second padawan, as if one wasn't enough already. Anakin and I definitely didn't click at first and on missions it was even worse, it surprises me that Obi-wan didn't even bother getting me another Jedi master. Everything Anakin did annoyed me, his charms towards other women, his coldness towards me, his sarcasm and will to do as he wants. I couldn't fucking stand that man. But now I know why, and I am not happy as it is. I developed feelings for him, romantic ones. And it was absolute torture, being around him is intoxicating. But I know I cannot, I know I can't have attachments and certainly not for him.

"Earth to Y/n?" I heard him snap his fingers and I turned my head to finally face him. Oh those beautiful blue orbs stared right back at me. "Hmh?" Was all my throat proceeded to say. "I said, for the tenth time, the council requests our presence." He sighed and took my hand to pull me out of my room. "What in the world does the council need us for? We came back from a mission yesterday!" I was stern in my speech as his feet guided mine towards the council chamber, "I can walk myself Anakin." "Right, sorry." He voiced. 

"I think I do know why the council needs us. There has been an assassination attempt on senator Amidala." "And exactly what does that have to do with me?" I sighed in annoyance, knowing Anakin and the senator have something going on. Or well, I suspect so. As I finished my sentence Skywalker stopped dead in his tracks making me almost bump into him. "Anakin what the f-" "Will you stop it? With that mindset you won't be getting anywhere. You will never become a Jedi knight if you don't stop this madness!" Anakin said, but nothing came out of my mouth. I just blankly stared at this boy who thinks he can pull shit.

"Y/n listen, I know you don't like me and Padmé as much as you do yourself but drop the attitude." As Anakin ranted to me I couldn't help but notice his hair grew, a lot. And so did his body posture. I remember always being a few inches taller than him, but now he just towered over me. Jeez, intimidating. "Okay." I mumbled with a smile before walking past him and finally arriving at the council chambers. I just couldn't bear looking in his eyes any longer, and it is fucking killing me. I am growing attachments and if they grow any bigger I am doomed. 

As the door opened I put up my mental shield in case anyone tried to read my mind. "Young Anakin Skywalker and Y/n L/n, A mission for you, we have." The little green figure in front of me and Anakin spoke up, "To Naboo with senator Amidala, you will go." "I am sorry master, but why?" I acted dumb just to annoy the fuck out of Anakin. I could feel him glaring into my soul for real. "There has been assassination attempts on the senator, and she needs to go in hiding. We can't let her go unsupervised." Obi-wan's thick accent spoke up. Tsk, miss perfect is being treated like a child, I thought to myself. "We will gladly supervise her mas-" I didn't even let Anakin finish his sentence as anger built up in me due all my emotions messing with me, "Isn't it better to let her stay here in the Jedi temple?" 

"Y/n, manners!" Kenobi scolded. "Question the council's decisions, you can not young padawan." Yoda remained calm at my sudden outburst, "Before controlling your emotions and thoughts, a Jedi knight you will not be." I nodded in acceptance, and remained silent.

_______________________________

As we arrived on Naboo later with Padmé I had truly seen it all. Anakin and her being all clingy and flirty and shit. I was devastated as my emotions and love for Skywalker grew more every second I spent with him. "Miss Amidala, would you like for me to put your suitcases in your room?" I smiled, hiding my irritation. "No need for formalities Y/n, a friend of Anakin's is a friend of mine." She replied. Friend of Anakins, nice. "Ofcourse." I gritted through my teeth. Because of my so-called 'rude' action Anakin cleared his throat. I shot him a look and rolled my eyes. Just as I was about to bring Padmé's suitcases to her room she spoke up again.

"We should take my parents yacht for the night, the view on the lake is amazing with the stars shining!" Excitement spat of her. "Padmé, that is too dangerous, we can no-" "Yes! That's an amazing idea actually, that would be lovely padmé, thank you." Anakin cheered. The man didn't even let me finish my sentence, which was kind of logical since we were getting really really done with one another. What am I even saying? I could never get enough of him and his adorable, charming, breath-taking smile.

"Fine but only for tonight."

_________________________

I close my eyes feeling the hot summer wind blowing through my hair. I lean over the railing to open my eyes and see my reflection in the now pitch black lake. It was like that little slave girl from Zygerria looked back at me. A weak, full of emotion and used person. Tears rolled down my cheek thinking about him again, knowing we can never be anything. Besides, he has Padmé doesn't he? I could have snitched on him, telling the council about them. But I can't. I would never do anything to hurt him, I'd rather have a lightsaber pierced through my heart. I'm crying as quietly as possible.

Suddenly I felt a shift in the force, and a warm presence stood next to me. I wipe my tears as fast as I can. "Y/n?" Skywalker placed his warm hand on my shoulder, "Are you alright?" "I am, thanks." I smiled weakly. "You're not, are you? Tell me what's going on." He demanded. "No, really Ani, I am okay." I said. "Come on it's only me you're talking to, Padmé's gone to bed already." He beamed and turned me around to face him. He raised his hands and cupped my face, wiping away my tears. No, this needed to stop. This physical touch was making it just worse, but what was I supposed to do? 

I stared into his eyes and my heart beat faster than ever before. "It does not matter Ani, Jedi can't have attachments." My words clearly hit him, because he stepped back and let go of me. "That explains everything" He muttered, "You're in love with me." All he did was stare at me and watch me grow red. "Listen Anakin, let's forget this ever happened. My life duty is to become a jedi and that brings consequences. I would give you all the stars, my life even. But not in this reality. Besides you have padmé and-"  

Suddenly an explosion of butterflies entered my stomach, Anakin pushed me against the railing of the yacht and interlocked his soft lips with mine. From shock I grabbed onto the railing, but as soon as my nerves calmed and he grabbed my waist I gave into the kiss. I never wanted it to end, but I knew it was wrong. As his hands traveled me up and down I broke our kiss, and we both caught our breaths. "Ani we can't" I looked at my feet, "You can't do this to padmé and we have rules." My own words hurt me. "I don't love padmé. Every single thing you've seen between us was purely platonic, because she isn't the woman I love." He explained as he stepped closer, "Y/n L/n, you are the most talented, beautiful, smart and kind person i've met in my whole entire existence. I've been dreaming about you since the very first day we saw each other." Anakin's hands now laid back where they were, on my hips. 

"Please say something." his nerves grew, I could sense it. I knew I shouldn't have, but I gave in. I kissed him back with all the passion I had, finally releasing my need and attraction for him. My hands explored his hair and he lifted me up to sit on the railing, closing my legs over his hips. As I slightly opened my mouth he took the chance and slid his tongue in. Our tongues synced perfectly. Oh how I have been longing for this. When we broke apart once again we leaned our foreheads against each other, which didn't take long because Anakin started kissing down my jaw and neck. I held back soft moans by biting on my lip. "Don't be shy darling, let me hear your pretty moans." He said in between the kisses. "What.. What if padmé-"

"Words, y/n." Anakin hit the sweet spot in my neck. "What if padmé.. argh, see us?" Anakin stopped placing hickeys over my neck and brought his lips to my ears. "Then she'll know just how good I, and I only make you feel." He whispered, and I could feel myself getting wetter every second. I felt his lips curl into a smile against my ear, and before I could do anything Ani pulled me off the railing and carried me in bridal style to his room on the yacht, luckily for me not close to padmé's at all. 

He gently laid me down on the bed and locked the door. When he turned back to me his grin was wider than ever before. "I've been longing so long for this, you know?" He spoke as he crawled onto the bed above me. "And see, it paid off." He pecked my lips. "Now, are you going to be an obedient girl for me?" I nodded to him, needing his touch. I moved my hips a little. "So eager for my touch." and with that, Anakin placed hickeys all over my neck again, but this time he sat above me, with my legs in between his.  Anakin got off me a few minutes later, and I could feel my underwear pooling by now. "Undress for me love." I did as he ordered me to, and fuck how he did was hot. I sat up and took off my belt and overtunic slowly, putting on a show for the handsome man in front of me.

Then I took off my undertunic and pants leaving me in my lingerie. I sat on my knees with my hands within my thighs. I watched Anakin bite his lip lightly checking my curves out. "You're beautiful." He whispered and placed his mechanic hand around my throat lightly. "To bad I am going to fucking ruin you." I smiled at him, "I'd like to see you try, master Skywalker." 

As a wolf hungry for its prey he unhooked my bra with his flesh hand and let go of my neck. He kissed down from my chest to my stomach and stopped right above my vagina. I let out a whine of need, eager to be touched at any sensitive point. "Such a needy Jedi, aren't you?" He smirked. "Only for you." I toyed back. "I want to hear my name and moans out of your mouth darling." "Only needy for you, Anakin. Please just fuck me!" "Good girl, have patience." He praised and started to suck on my breast, while massaging the other. My moans filled the room and so did soft ones of his. I felt his bulge through his pants and stroked it, making him moan a tat harder. 

I pushed Anakin from me and topped him. He bit his lip and placed his hands on my hips, wanting to go between my thighs. "Look who is a needy Jedi now." I teased and kissed him. He chuckled and we made out again, only this time I helped him undress. When I reached his boxers I slightly gasped at his size. Seeing this pride filled him. I pulled him from the bed and when we stood he took off my panties for me. "So wet for me." He said as he placed his hand on my fold, making me gasp. He planned to toying with me more because he removed it immediately. I calmed my arms around his neck, "Ani, please." I moaned out. "Please what, y/n?" "Fuck the absolute crap out of me, please." I seductively whispered to him. He didn't hesitate tho, as he positioned me ready on the bed a second later.

He rubbed his dick against my pussy, feeling my wetness. We both moaned out loudly at the physical touch we've been wanting from one and other for so long. "Are you ready my beautiful?" "For you, always."  And he entered. A loud gasp escaped my mouth as my tight walls adjusted to his big size. He moaned and pulled out again slowly. "Fuck you're so tight." Anakin yelped and started thrusting in faster and faster. Loud moans filled the night and by now I was sure Padmé had woken up from it. "Fucking stars- Anakin I'm gonna come!" I yelled out as my nails dug in his soft skin, "Keep doing that." I whined out.

"I'm going to come, oh Y/n." His lips kissed down my jaw. And then a wave of butterflies slid through my body and the sweetest, hardest groan filled the room followed by Anakin's. My eyes rolled back and my mouth opened slightly. His juices filled me up and we placed foreheads against each other. "I love you Y/n." He muttered out of breath. "I love you too Ani." I smiled and kissed him. Anakin got out of bed and walked to the tiny bathroom attached to the room to return with a towel. He cleaned himself and I, and laid down next to me with a peck on my lips. And so we peacefully fell asleep, hugging, drifting away together.