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Feb 21

Johan Liebert x L Lawliet

Cat'N'Mouse / 6.7 K / SMUT 🍷🎂

syn: with the help of an English detective, the serial murderer, Johan liebert, was finally caught and put to justice. as he awaits trial, he engages in a obssesive game of cat and mouse with his captor, detective L. one that will destroy them both. tdlr; L captures Johan n fucks him

tags: unbalanced dynamics, destructive, angst, grinding, whump, erectile dysfunction, mutual pining, obsession and control, abrupt ending, barely beta read

an: please comment, i dont bite!. this shit came to me from the heavens

It was a checkmate.

There were no smiles from Johan. No laughs, no charm, no anything. His face was dead and cold, hardened with silence, tainted with rage. His eyes circle around the sirens and the bold lights thrown his way.

L had him surrounded.

The detective really won.

Every breath he takes is slow, burdened, quiet. He calmly stands at the bottom of the stairs in his neat suit.

“Get on the ground!”

His fight against the all-knowing Detective was a bitter one. Anna and Tenma teamed up against him with a new detective from England, one who did not doubt the validity of Tenma's claim. And after a full year of efforts, the secretive detective caught him.

A year of cat and mouse.

He finally lost.

He's taken in, gruff, harsh, roughed up, and thrown into the back of a van, sitting with officers breathing down his neck. He's immediately taken to custody, stripped, searched, uniformed, fingerprinted, and given a DNA sample, the whole nine yards, before being thrown into solitary confinement.

The days blended into one massive blur, a blur Johan is sure he disassociated himself from, as when he finally came to, he found himself wrapped in the rainy, gloomy aura of a cell he wasn't all too sure how he had landed in.

It was tiny, metal, cramped. So quiet you could hear a pin drop. The blonde was dressed in a gray jumpsuit, sat on the floor, behind him, a metal bed. To his left, at the very top of the ceiling, was a window he couldn't peer into, and from it came dark, stormy blues.

Quiet.

Johan heard his breath. He heard the soft leaking from the pipes above him.

Quiet.

He felt how cold his fingertips were, how cracked and dry his lips were.

Quiet.

He could smell himself. He stunk of sweat, a sign that his body was deeply disrupted.

And quiet.

He could taste bland seasonings on his tongue.

He's been defeated. And so now…

Now what?

A sharp veering cracks the room open, but Johan keeps his eyes planted to the floor. The sound stops, and a flat glow shines before him. He sees its reflection against the tiles. A click cuts through the air.

“Johan.”

It's a heavy, distorted voice, filtered through numerous voice changers.

A voice he's familiarized himself with as the English detective's voice.

“Adjusting well to your new life? It's been a very quiet week for you.”

A week.

Johan still stares blankly at the floor.

“You've never slowed down this long, have you?” He patronizes.

“Your court is scheduled in May. Until then, you're in my private prison… Congratulations, Johan. You're one of the five who have the privilege of living here.”

The speakers buzz.

“Welcome to England.”

And with that, the speakers shut off.

—

Time passes, and Johan is unsure of how long. He can't remember the last time he heard a voice, not even his own. His throat was locked, his mind seeming to turn off for hours, only to force itself back on. He wakes, finding himself lying in bed, a soft gasp trailing from his lips.

He blinks, gazing up at the window so far out of reach. It was dark in the cell yet again, a cool midnight light pooling in from the ceiling. He swallows thickly, his heart suddenly beginning to race. He blinks it away, snuffing a sigh. But it comes back, leaping against his throat.

He lets it take over.

His first word in weeks,

“Detective…”

He hushes it beautifully. Air bends to the will of his silky, strained voice.

With no surprise, the veering sound appears, a glow takes the room, and a click starts the speakers.

“Johan.”

The detective replies instantly, urgently.

Even at this time of night, he's able to reply so swiftly.

He was watching Johan.

Had been for a while.

Johan has nothing else to say.

And so, he shuts his eyes, drifting off to sleep.

—

Lawliet can't stop ruminating on that night.

Johan, mass murderer, terrorist, arsonist, money launderer, and more, was finally caught. Stopped in a failure he couldn't erase, and now he spends his days lying near lifeless every day.

He eats like a programmed robot, neglects the timed hobbies given to him, and lies like a statue. But last night, he called out to him. Lawliet was shocked; he swore the sound was a memory. Unreal, untrue. Yet he never said a word, drifting into a strange, soft sleep.

His demeanor changed.

L had been watching him sleep for weeks now. Before, it was rugged, primal. A sleep unquestioned the way an animal would, sleep performed out of pure necessity. But that night, a faint softness shaped his arms. They were relaxed.

Johan, the launderer, abuser, torturer, and leader of organized crimes, called out like a child in the night before drifting back asleep. And L, the cunning detective, was left at a quiet stump, watching, waiting more eagerly than usual, to watch him sleep.

He left his mic on for so long, simply waiting. Yet nothing arrived.

Lawliet was getting a little bored with his subject.

Perhaps he needed some fun.

–

A heavy clunk broke Johan's usual silence as the slot on the door broke open. A tray was slid through the crack. The blonde stood, walking over to the door. But to his surprise, the officer still held onto the tray, as if needing it to be taken from his hands.

The officer wore a black sanitary glove.

Johan craned his head at this, the first mystery that slapped him out of his cage. His eyes briefly flickered to the camera on the ceiling, but in the end, he took the tray from the officer.

“Thank you…”

His pretty voice calls.

The door slot slams shut.

And Johan sits with his plate.

He feels it again.

Right as he takes the first bite, he feels the detective's stare all over him.

What for?

He chews the food in his mouth, finding a familiar taste on his buds. He takes in a sharp inhale, eyes flickering to the food he slipped into his mouth.

Döner.

Chicken döner.

He never paid attention to what he ate here. Half the time, his mind wasn't there. But this taste was pleasant. His head was brought low, as if protecting his reaction from the detective's greedy eyes.

What did this detective want?

When the night came around, Johan lay in bed, as he usually did, staring blankly at the ceiling. Only this time, his whole body was tense, tense as if he were aware.

A veering sound shakes the room, followed by a glow and a click.

The detective speaks,

“The police arrive at a crime scene. They find the deceased slumped over a desk in his study. In one hand, the deceased has a revolver; in the other, a voice recorder. The last recorded message is the deceased's statement. They say, ‘I can't go on. This is for the best.’ A gunshot sounds, and the recording ends.”

The sounds were foreign to the blond's ears. Every word seemed to glitter in his mind, glitter uncontrollably.

He smiles faintly.

L continues, “The police claim this is not a suicide. Why is it not?”

Johan chuckles, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “Detective, you know why.”

“I do. Do you?”

Johan pulls two fingers to the side of his skull, folding his thumb like a gun. He cocks his thumb and ring finger, his eyes hazing over, “Can a dead man end a recording?” His hand floats to his chest, and his palm rests over his heart.

“An easy one, detective.”

“You'd be correct, Johan.”

Silence overtakes the room.

After a long beat, Johan speaks. “Where are you, detective?”

“Tokyo.”

“And I am in England?”

“Correct.”

“And you gave me Döner tonight. It tasted just like Munich.”

“Correct.”

“Am I in Munich, detective?”

“Yes.”

“Are you in Munich, as well?”

“No.”

“Have you told a lie?”

“Yes..”

“How many?”

“Two.”

—

Night falls, three days have passed. Johan knows it now, as he finally begins to wake up. He remembers a little under half the days now, a rare streak for him. His routine hasn't changed. He still denies his hobbies, and eats on a program. Except that two things have changed.

The officers hand him his food, and they wait until he says thank you.

And at night, L tells him riddles.

Night falls, and Johan sits eagerly at the edge of his bed, facing the high windows. He stares at it with a sharpness ebbing in his eye, thick lashes fluttering over his cheeks.

A veering takes the room, followed by a glow, and a sharp click.

The detective says nothing.

Neither does Johan.

Johan perches the opportunity.

“A body lies on the street in front of a hospital... The damage suggests the deceased jumped from the third story and committed suicide…” his airy voice fills the room. Immediately, Lawliet is on the edge of his seat, thumb picking at his teeth.

“L decides to visit the hospital,” Johan murmurs, a humored chuckle trailing from his lips.

“What do I do there, Johan?”

“You go to the first floor... Order the staff to open the windows, and you flip a coin… It lands tails… Then to the second… You order the staff to open the windows, and you flip a coin… It lands heads. Finally, to the third… You order the staff to close the windows, and so you flip a coin… It lands heads.”

L grins, a soft chuckle trailing from his lips. The sound meets Johan's ears, and he too grins.

“The first floor lands tails… Second, heads… Third, heads again…” Johan leans back into the bed, a tranquil expression shaping his face. “Why is this not a suicide?”

“You're quite deceitful, Johan,” L speaks.

“How so?” Johan murmurs.

“This was a suicide.”

“I believe you're wrong.”

“Prove your side, Johan.”

“No, detective, prove me wrong.”

He croaks, “You distract me with the coins and their outcomes. These are red herrings. You try to relax my mind with repetitions, saying the same exact words in the same monotone, so my brain will assume what you will say next… In this riddle, I order the staff to close the windows, meaning they were open before…”

He pauses, “In all of the other floors, the windows were closed… Had the story been that the deceased jumped from the second… It would be a murder, because the windows were shut at the time of death. Considering that on the third floor, they were open at the time of death, it is highly likely this was a suicide…”

“You give the detective my name to make us friendly, to make me laugh.. Then you chuckle… “ L continues.

“You don't care about the answer. You only wanted to deceive me, Johan.”

“Hahaha…. How clever… Such a strange perspective, detective… I believe it was a murderer simply–”

“You deceive me well, Johan.”

He quiets. And for the first time, Johan looks in the direction of the veering, the glow, and click, and he's met with a Television screen, with a logo of an “L”

Lawliet's breath catches in his lungs.

“First time you've looked at me.”

Johan stares, his expression filled with an itch. A desperate itch he couldn't scratch.

“What is it? What is that gaze, Johan?”

“Were you persuaded?” His eyes haze over, and an air overtakes the room. It's an air Lawliet can't place a name to, and air that forces him to gulp, and he's deeply aware of how his heart leapt. It's a needy sound, Johan's voice is.

“Yeah, I was,” L chimes.

“Detective,” Johan draws a hand through his hair, relaxing into the sheets, picking up his left leg while the other lies comfortably. He spread himself wide, and wide, he turned to face the camera, lying on his belly, propping his face with his hand, his legs cracking open.

L stares; he stares so hard. His feet barely keep his balance in his chair anymore, his knees carry his weight against the desk, and his eyes are leaning into the screen. They're blown wide.

“Trying to seduce me?” That heavily filtered voice calls.

It shocks Johan. He visibly flinches at the bluntness.

“Did you think I'd play with words forever?” L bites. “I have nothing to lose. You can't go anywhere. I already won.”

The television is retracted immediately, it clicks, the glow fades, and it makes a veering sound as it sinks back into the wall. Plates cover it.

The blonde's heart felt beating in his chest.

No matter it

He turns the thing off inside him and forces sleep.

—

L is so sure he jumped the gun. Pride crushes him with annoyance, a sharp anger. He ends it all before Johan could say anything else, spins the story however he liked. He couldn't take it anymore, Johan tried to play him as if he were stupid. Still clinging to the egregious idea that he could somehow trick him. And worse, if Johan continued, he'd surely prove him wrong.

He fooled him for a full year. He's knocked down cases that took others ten years in three weeks. Johan successfully baited him for a year. When he finally caught him, he gave him no real reaction. Not anger, not fear, not sadness, just a bottomless emptiness. Like a broken child.

He's heard his story from Tenma. He's heard things others couldn't dream of. Anna spared him rare meetings, and in them he heard nightmares. He knows all of what Johan is. He's studied him relentlessly. He denied every case until he cracked the German monster.

The monster that left no paper trails.

That had no name. Or identity.

Foolishly, he called Johan every damn false name before catching Tenma. Franz, Otto, Erich, Hans, Thomas, J. The thought alone made L's mind scream. He was fooled.

Him. The prodigy, fooled.

And when he finally won.

Johan acted like a mindless puppet on a string.

Or more befittingly, a mentally ill man lost in an endless string of disassociation. Like a heavy cloud washed over him. Every night, he slept with pale lips.

Calling out to him in the rare breaks he'd wake up, only to fall asleep as if Lawliet was his lifeline. To an extent, he was his only connection to anything.

He made him feel so possessive.

And if it all was another elaborate ruse. L would be angry because he was falling for it.

L clears his head when he hears a chime from his computer. He takes a shape breath, gazing back up at the man across the screen.

“Doctor Tenma,” L greets, a faint fondness in his voice. It was drowned out by the voice changer.

The doctor looked so much better. His hair was finally kept, his beard trimmed, and a well-loved glow glimmered from him.

“Detective, good evening!” He's cheery, but worry plagues his eyebrows.

“Settling into your new position fine, Tenma?”

“Oh yes, it's delightful to have it back. Some residents here were old patients of mine, so I can go back to caring for them again. It's fulfilling.”

“I'm glad to hear. You deserve it. It's been a long time since I caught you, Tenma. You and little Dieter. Is he well?”

“Oh yes. He's starting school next month. He's nervous, but he's a tough kid.”

“That's wonderful to hear. I'm very proud.”

Tenma laughs, his bright smile like pureness in the wind. He was gaining his life back; it was clear in his face. But the conversation was beginning to change, change to what Tenma really wanted to hear.

“L,” Tenma's voice is tender. “How is Johan?”

“He seems to be struggling,” L admits.

He watches as a tender grimace takes Tenma's features. He shakes his head quietly, blinking sharply. In his mind, Tenma still saw him as the boy he made a wish to, which L could see.

“I believe he should be evaluated professionally. I have prepared sessions for him. They start in a week…” L speaks. Tenma nods along, a seriousness taking him. “Based on prior experience, and in your personal opinion, Doctor, are there any traits you believe Johan shows?”

Tenma leans back with a heavy sigh. “I believe Johan has an identity disorder… he may also have antisocial personality disorder… His disconnection from humanity is impulsive; it's something I've seen in residents here. I also believe he shows strong signs of complex post-traumatic stress disorder…”

Lawliet looks down, his carefully written notes lining the table. “I agree with you, Tenma.” He leans over and takes a bite out of the cake he has sitting beside him. “How do you feel about dissociative disorder? Do you feel that describes Johan?”

Tenma blinks, pursing his lips in thought. “A dissociative disorder…”

“He is heavily disconnected from reality… Most of the time spent in his cell, Johan stares at blank walls… Refuses to interact with any stimuli… But he responds well to conversation.”

Tenma hums in thought. “To add onto what you're saying… I strongly believe Johan has Dissociative Identity Disorder.”

L glances sharply. He agrees, but eggs Tenma on for more, “How so?”

“A professional evaluation is needed, but… As a neurosurgeon, I believe Johan shows symptoms of having two distinct states of varying personalities…”

“Like the sign he wrote on the water tower… Help me… The monster inside of me is about to explode…”

Tenma grimaces at the memory, “Yes. Exactly that. One side of him is crying for normalcy. The other can't control itself… I believe he also has a state of self-hatred… Johan wants to…” Tenma swallows thickly. “I believe he is suicidal.”

“Thank you, Doctor. Your consistent efforts help us in our thorough investigation of Johan. We hope to place him in proper care. Though it is lively, Johan will never leave a cell in his lifetime; we can assure him that he will not be placed in the wrong hands… He… He desperately needs help.”

Tenma nods along, pain striking his face. It was a fatherly gaze. Intense and pleading.

“If I may, detective… Could I ever visit him?”

—

Johan expected to have a normal day. But instead, he was met by an officer, who was throwing his door open. He snapped awake, immediately going to stand. Three officers entered the room, cuffing his hands tightly. He stood, confused, yet patient, staring at the final officer, who stood before him.

Once the cuffs were on, she finally spoke, “Inmate. You're being moved locations.”

Shock holds his face, but he has no time to relish in it. He's moved through the building, taking in so much that he missed before. There was an open area with nearly hundreds of inmates he'd never seen, cells big as rooms, a cafeteria, and so much staff. He was placed in extreme solidarity confinement, and now he finds himself being pushed through the front desks, six officers about him, as they carried him out of the building.

He cocked his head back to the building as he left it, catching a large sign in Cyrillic just as he was loaded onto a truck.

The detective lied.

He was not in England, nor were there only five inmates.

Meaning, the two lies he told were the very last two.

Johan chuckles quietly to himself.

He likes their little game.

He's trailing for a while. He's sure it's been a full day spent traveling in that cramped car. The officers rotated out, and he was given food; they even made stops at police facilities on the way. When he's finally let out, he finds himself standing outside a building, where the landscape around it is completely flat.

There wasn't a single hill or mountain, and so his clever eyes pinpointed a few locations.

Johan is under the assumption that this detective is bringing him closer to home. And why?

This prison was medium-sized, and the staff wasn't as tough; they carried wise eyes and gentle smiles. The intimacy here didn't look as rough either, and the cells were spacious enough. He was brought to a cell, in solitary confinement from others, with a large, grand window, bookshelves dotted with literature, desks, and a television. He had a toilet and sink, and down the hall, he passed a large communal bathroom.

A part of him weaned at the sight.

After settling work, he was dropped off in his cell for the rest of the day.

Out the grand window, he could see beautiful, flat planes, with thick fluffy clouds and a shining sun. The weather here was pleasant. It lacked the gloomy, despairing air the last prison had.

A click sounded in the room. And Johan's eyes flickered to the television.

“Welcome to your new cell, Johan.” The distorted voice cooed.

Johan softly turns to face the television. Meekly, he says, “Thank you.”

L takes a deep breath, his eyes shut tightly. He swallows thickly.

“Is this the Netherlands?"

“Brilliant. You're correct.”

“I realized the two lies. They were the last two, weren't they?”

“Correct.”

Johan sighs contentedly. It's evident that he adores his new cell. He approaches the bookshelves, skimming through brilliant works. He begins to pick some off the shelf, totalling nineteen out of the collection of thirty.

“Getting to reading?”

“No. I've read all of these, detective.” Johan rests a palm on his stack as he turns to the television.

“Leave those out. We'll get you new books.”

“Thank you.”

There's a fondness in the air, one neither could deny.

L is becoming trapped in the web that was Johan Liebert.

—

Johan learned that therapy sessions were an important part of life here in his new cell. They happened once in the morning, every day. They were mandatory. He meets with a therapist every day, and has a session with a psychiatrist at the end of the week.

Not only that. He gets to eat in a room with windows that peer into the court and the cafeteria. Though isolated, seeing other people seems to improve his mood.

And finally, after two weeks of adjustment, he begins to pursue hobbies. Painting, puzzles, workshops. Johan crawls out of his shell. He spends most of his time, outside of hobbies, filling up on literature, leaving the books he's finished out to be replaced.

L has started to let him be, finally picking up other projects. His time spent ruminating over Johan is coming to a close, and despite every fiber in him wanting to move on, something beckons him every now and again.

At night, he tunes into Johan, ogling him. Watching the pretty blonde, somewhere in the late afternoons of the Netherlands, reading in a corner next to the window, enjoying the rays on his face.

Maybe it was the coffee he drank, or his daily nap being two hours too short. Lawliet felt brave, playful.

He connects to his television with a click, voice low against the microphone. “Adjusting well, inmate?”

Johan perks up at the voice, his eyes soft in surprise. “If it isn't our detective... It's been a while.”

His voice, his face, his long limbs, the paleness of his skin; all of it was beautiful. Lawliet was never a handsome guy; he was a far cry from it. So his gut mixed with yearning and jealousy.

Something changes in L.

Something he needs to see through.

He spits out quickly, “I have been talking with your therapist. He believes experiencing a roommate may be good for you. A trial period. You will be moved to rooms… You are also subject to a return if Doctor Wilkman sees fit…”

Johan hums, “Understandable, detective.”

“Make a good impression, Johan… This trial period will start sometime next week. The officers will notify you.”

—

The day his cellmate arrived, Johan was up in arms. He hadn't talked to anyone face-to-face like this in such a long time. Someone other than officers, staff, detectives, or another human being. He got the notification that his cellmate had arrived in his hobby class. He finished whatever furniture he built quickly and returned to his new cell.

To no surprise, his cellmate was a normal person.

He was of average height, pale, with straight, black hair. He spares Johan a look as he kicks off his shoes, scratching his ankle with his foot. His eyes carried dark, heavy circles.

“Nice to meet you,” The cellmate mumbles, a thumb perched between his lips. “You're really handsome in person.”

The cellmate comes marching right up to him, so close they might have well been a breath away. “Johan Liebert. That kid… That murderer.” He purses his lips in thought. “Wow, how'd you get your skin so clear?”

“You know me,” The blond asks.

“Who doesn't?”

“What's your name?”

He smacks his lips, “Ryuzaki.”

Johan steps back, turning to the shelves in the room. “Oh? Are you perhaps Japanese?”

“M'yeah,” despite backing up, his cellmate returns, standing a breath away from him again. They're near shoulder to shoulder.

“How pleasant.”

“That guy who brought you down was Japanese, right? The doctor. Kenzo Tenma.”

Johan drops a heavy sigh, and he slips away yet again, going to sit on his bed. “Yes… My, you know a lot about me…”

“Who doesn't?”

“I know so little about you, Ryuzaki… What brings you here? So far from home.”

“Laundering,” Ryuzaki mutters, sitting at Johan's desk. He crawls into the chair, sitting with both feet planted on the seat.

Johan's head cranes. “Is that comfortable, Ryuzaki-san?”

-san.

Ryuzaki's eyes seem to light up, a deep grin on his face.

“Aww -san? Don't be so cute, Johan. We're equals here…” Ryuzaki pushes off against the desk, rocketing the wheeling chair straight in front of him.

Johan's face contorts; it's a mixture of intrigue and annoyance. It's a pretty concoction, one Johan's good with masking.

“Just call me Ryuzaki,” the brunette leans in close again. Eyes deadlocked with Johan's.

The cell door flies open, and men in thick, dark suits step forward. Ryuzaki sighs, standing immediately. He walks over, sparing Johan one final glance. “Bye, Johan.”

“Goodbye, Ryuzaki.”

—

His cellmate left him with more questions than answers. The man was impulsive, wild, playful. It was all so crafted, crafted as if the man wanted Johan to crack. To crack on him specifically. He wants to be told off, wants to push Johan to the edge. And somehow, he had no idea how to feel about it. Not yet, at least.

He was picked up by men in suits, not armoured officers, the way he was. His cellmate was surely lying.

If anything, he seemed like the kind of guy the detective would send to push him off the edge. To test his limits.

The television clicks, and Johan's eyes flicker to it. An “L” covers the screen.

“Johan.”

He stands, “Detective.”

“First impressions?”

Johan glances around the room. “I have no opinion…”

“Noted. I'll be keeping a close eye on you two.”

Johan cuts the silence, “Does he work for you?”

“Your cellmate?”

“Yes.”

Something rises up out of Johan.

“Where are you, detective?”

“Tokyo.”

Anger.

“Why are you so far away from me. If you want to test me. Come here. Test me.” Johan snaps bitterly, his face as cold as ice, his stare wild and narrowed. He knocks over his desk chair, marching straight up to the television.

Lawliet's breath catches in his lungs.

“Afraid?” Johan asks. “You hide so much of yourself… Trying to protect you from the world. You hide your voice, gender, name… Are you afraid of something?” He continues, “I don't know a single detective that wouldn't want the claim, the spotlight. Not you… You hide yourself like vermin. And you want me to respect you? Then you bring this lunatic here to what?”

Lawliet's quiet, heart steady, pumping against his bones.

“What do you want me to do? Hurt him? Would that make you feel better? Is it an order? Is it what you want? Does that prove something to you? You know what I can do. So what is it? Want me to do something to him?” Johan spits.

“What is your wish, detective?”

A beat of silence takes the room.

“Forget me.”

The television shuts off, and nothing but bitter rage stills Johan. He stands, as quiet and deadly as a mouse, and impulsive rage is ticking in him.

This detective wants to be rid of him.

He'll make him stay.

—

Night falls, and his first night with his cellmate begins. Johan sits on his bed, back against the wall, facing his cellmate with a book in his hand. One barely read, as his true intention was across the room. Ryuzaki fidgeted like a sugar-pumped child, switching between the notebook he had before him, a book, and a Rubik's Cube.

Such a peculiar man. He sat hunched over, humming, rocking like things were a playpen.

Johan stands, a dark haze over his eyes.

He steps over to Ryuzaki's side, kneeling on the floor next to his bed.

“Hm?” Ryuzaki turns, his thumb pressed against his lips. “Johan.” He hums.

Johan smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling up. His head cranes, “Do you think L is watching me right now?”

Ryuzaki's eyes widen.

Time freezes.

Just what was Johan playing at?

Was he judging Ryuzaki's character? Was he testing to see if he'd lie? And if he did, what then?

Ryuzaki leans down, staring into those widened, blown-out, psychotic eyes. “Who?”

He places his chess piece.

Testing the waters with a lie.

Pale blues narrow. “Your boss…” he hisses it.

“No detective is the boss of me,” Ryuzaki mutters.

“So you do know him. The detective.”

“Have no idea what you're saying.”

“Alright then.” Johan barks. He leans forward, pushing towards him, their noses mere inches apart. “How closely do you think he's watching us?”

Ryuzaki's eyes widen, gaze slipping to his lips. Johan catches it.

His eyes flicker to Ryuzaki's. The worn ravenette stares intently. He slips another gaze towards Johan's lips, letting it linger before flicking straight to those blue eyes.

Johan cranes his head.

What does that detective want?

What does he gain from this?

“Do you think… I'll hurt you?” Johan murmurs.

He knows the answer.

Ryuzaki believes–

“I want you to.”

A response he's never heard before.

Slender legs come falling on either side of Johan, as Ryuzaki sits normally, trapping him between them.

Johan stares.

He's bewitched men before.

Never has he done anything with them. Gender matters not to an endless bottomless pit. It spares none, swallows up all.

Still, he was tied to the culture he grew up in.

“What would you do for me?” Johan leans back, sitting on the floor, gaining space from him.

Ryuzaki hums comedically, leaning and dropping his head back. “Dunno… What do you want?”

“A friend.”

Ryuzaki looks over at him. Johan's demeanor changed. It was this plastic, perfect angel, with a sweet, tender smile. And it scared him, because it really worked.

Ryuzaki didn't know what overcame him.

He didn't realize it until he was on his hands and knees on the floor, crawling over Johan, and clamping his teeth together.

He pulls the blond into a deep kiss, hands planted on the floor, need burning off his body. He comes to, pulling away seconds after they connected, his breath heavy.

Johan pants, the sound airy, weak. He stares at Ryuzaki, swallowing down a deep lump.

“Sorry,” Ryuzaki snickers. “I'm not usually like this.” It's sarcastic in nature.

Johan's bewildered.

“No, you're…” But the words fail him.

For once.

Johan doesn't know what to do.

What action plan should he do next? What calculating move? His brain freezes up.

He should be doing something.

He should milk Ryuzaki.

He should.

He…

Johan's breath starts to pick up. His eyes were growing sensitive out of nowhere. The ravenette notices the change, eyes wide, intrigue bellowing in him.

Johan struggles to find words; a small stammer flees from him. “Th– I…”

It was the most uncomposed Lawliet had ever seen Johan.

In Johan's mind, a plethora of thoughts seize his body, a threat brimming. A weakness overcomes him.

What should he do to Ryuzaki?

What should he do?

What should–

Those cold lips meet his again, forcing him out of the whirlwind that held him. His mouth was cracked open, and a warm, wet tongue slid deep into him. Johan trills, laying a cold hand against even colder skin, his palm cupping the side of Ryuzaki's neck.

The man takes control of the kiss, and the blond sits back, following every whim. Their tongues dance in his mouth, hot, wet, and sweetness drools out of their mess. Ryuzaki tastes of sweets. Candy, cake, sugar.

They break, and Johan's face is still so unreal. It's painfully soft, painfully afraid, painfully meek. He opened his eyes, and they were glossy, wet, his blues not so pale anymore, but warm like the summer sun. His hand shakes against his neck.

“Johan?” Ryuzaki asks.

Silent tears dribble down his face; his head weighs down.

Ryuzaki reaches, his thumb holding Johan by the chin, bringing his face back up. His eyes haze over in admiration, desire still dancing about Ryuzaki's face.

He didn't know this monster could cry.

This wasn't Johan.

Was this the state Tenma described?

It was sweet. Cute, vulnerable, delicate. The same as any bright-eyed young man would. The face of a law student making connections everywhere he went. The face of someone innocent.

If he was being played.

He'd accept it.

Ryuzaki kisses Johan's lips yet again, just in time for the soft sniffle Johan makes. “Since meeting me, you've been at a loss, Johan.”

Icy eyes finally meet obsidian ones.

“You know, this girly look really suits you,” his monotone voice gruffs. “It's sweet… Sweet like cake.” Ryuzaki pulls him in, kitten licking sweet pink lips.

A soft cry falls from his lips.

Johan gazes so meekly.

“Don't know what to do?” Ryuzaki mumbles. He licks his lips again, enjoying the smooth curve over his taste buds. “Don't want control?”

Those are the words that speak to him. Johan struggles. With that word, he watches a haze blind those sweet eyes.

“Y'know, I could teach you a thing or two.” Ryuzaki cups Johan's cheeks. “Just let me.” That tongue comes out again, asking to be sucked.

An electric jolt flies through him. As he cranes his head, quickly his mature returns to him. An empty stare shapes Johan.

Johan leans forward, dragging teeth over that muscle; it was a soft tug, one that he’d no pain but every threat.

He pulls back after Ryuzaki hisses.

“What about this is a good idea?” Those tears dry like stains on his cheek. “Ryuzaki.”

Ryuzaki leans his forehead against Johan's, and in an instant, he can feel how hot it is against his.

“Do you have to think about this so hard?”

“The detective planted you here for this reason.”

Ryuzaki sighs, “Stop talking about him.”

“Him?” Johan chimes, “L is male?”

Ryuzaki groans. He reaches for Johan's chin again, pulling his lips open and stuffing his tongue inside again.

Their kiss is snappy this time, as Johan sucks and slurps him with a fiesty, angry passion. Ryuzaki moans, sighs, huffs, all too vocal in this new kiss. This persona lets him relax, and quickly, the ravenette is finding out why he lies so much.

His true desires are as twisted as any criminal's.

Johan eased down to the floor by Ryuzaki, as his tongue pops out of his mouth. “Ryuzaki,” he calls.

It's deep in his eyes that he sees that softness from before struggle to the surface.

“Your identity confuses you,” Ryuzaki mutters. “That much I can tell.”

Johan's eyes narrowed like daggers.

Ryuzaki leans back, still straddling Johan's lap.

“Don't think about that anymore,” he pulls his shirt off his scrawny, pale, bony body. His ribcage pokes through the skin. “You lost. There's nothing you can ever do. You won't be leaving prison. You can’t get out on good behavior… You're stuck here… There's no hole you can think your way out of.”

“Ryuzaki,” Johan cries.

“You're tame, Johan. Checkmate,” he bites.

Johan runs a hand up his stomach. The blonde's hand is cold, much like his skin. It's a mixture of two nihilistic, cold beings feeling and touching each other.

“Let go,” the black-eyed man whispers.

Johan's eyes shut like a vice, his head falling back.

So many snappy comebacks burn at his throat. But they drown under the heat. And soon, “haah…” under the friction.

Ryuzaki rocks back and forth on Johan, grinding down on his lap. Johan gasps, his sounds quiet, small. His hands grip onto Ryuzaki's ass, following him as he grinds smooth circles. His dick hardens, eyes hazing over underneath thick lashes.

Johan's figured it out.

He gave himself away.

But he loses himself, mind going blank, body taking over. A human feeling he's not used to. One that sparks passionate heat up his arms, up his body.

Detective.

Ryuzaki is you, isn’t it?

A fervent, possessive hand shoots up, grabbing Ryuzaki by the neck and pulling his forehead against his. His freehand grips his bony hip. The detective grunts, “nnhh,” before shuffling around, laying his thin legs between Johan's and bucking their hips together.

They frolic, restrained by clothes, as Johan grows relentless. He pulls Ryuzaki down, nipping and sucking his lips, bucking up into him. He smells how the raven's body stinks of sweets and coffee, hears his heavy, fervent breaths as they grinded on each other like animals.

An obsessive cry falls from Johan's lips, “Detective–” it's whiny in nature, and following it, Johan smashes their lips together. His grinding grows sloppy, fucking like some maniac. “De-tectivee,” he grunts.

“Johan,” Lawliet moans, trying to find space to breathe. Their kiss feels like a headlock; Johan's much stronger than him. Lawliet's underweight, bony, and weak. He's smothered in the mass murderer, and every alarm rings in his head.

His lips are wildly stolen, sucked off with a passion that leaves a red-hot sting.

Lawliet's only escape was to bury his teeth in the side of the monster's neck, holding his hips and fucking down into his fervent grinding.

It was hot, sweaty, aggressive, and they took to each other like wild animals.

Hands are everywhere, sweat dribbles off them. These two cold people now burned to each other’s touch.

“uhah- ich kommee,” Johan moans, gripping chunks of thick black hair.

“Come– come,” Lawliet commands, biting the blonde's lip.

And with a dangerous wave, “aaughk–” the murderer spills, fireworks firing in his mind. He groans for a while, his come heavy, intense, suffocating like a blanket, shooting messy ropes all over their hips. As he comes, he cups Lawliet's face in a vice, keeping him there, keeping him to watch his head fall, ogling at his exposed neck, watching the ecstasy steal his lungs.

He comes to, and Lawliet leans, biting the blonde's lip once again. He hugs it until it springs back into place, and messy, glossy, blue eyes stare blindly.

Lawliet pants, feeling Johan soften.

He mutters, “Did you cum?”

Lawliet glances away.

“Are you hard?” Johan bucks up into him, feeling the pressure of Lawliet's balls and soft penis. “Can't?” he asks. “Is it me?”

“No. Just can't,” Lawliet hums.

The German gestures to his face. “You don't sleep, detective. Your mouth tastes like candy. You're all bones. That's why.”

“I work,” Lawliet rests his forehead against the blonde.

“Is this work? Or is it pleasure?” He runs seductive hands through his thick, black strands. “You could stand to rest.”

“I'm small, down there,” Lawliet confesses. He knows he shouldn't. “It wouldn't help. Sex is trivial.”

“How long have you been going like this?”

Don't trust him.

“Since I was small.”

“I understand…”

Their eyes meet, obsidian to ice.

Lawliet slides off Johan, and the blonde pulls himself off the ground. He gazes at his ruined uniform, hissing in annoyance.

“I've crossed a line.” Lawliet murmurs.

The blonde looks over, ogling the spotty mess he sprayed all over Lawliet's pants.

He chuckles, “Isn't that what you wanted, detective?”

Lawliet hums, “It is.”

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