♡ AN: omfg idek, thinking about reader!Kira kept by yandere!L...
The day was like any other day—quiet with an undertone of something very loud but unspoken, though not unknown.
It had been that way for a while.
He was on the floor in his usual unusual position, like some type of bug trapped in a human body. A few plates of different cakes and an arrangement of games splayed out in front of him, the type that were made for children or otherwise those you’d resort to during a power outage, such as stacking cards, folding papers into different types of planes, and placing dominoes into satisfying patterns, until that proved satisfying no more.
You could tell, but you wouldn’t look at him—you wouldn’t give him the satisfaction, not yet, at least, not until he made the first move and begged for it. It'll be any second now. When he gets like this, you can feel his restlessness a mile away, the way his wide inkblot eyes turn to you every now and again, gearing up to something with his thumb stuck in his mouth—not exactly biting it, but resting it between his lips—like some child waiting for the courage to ask their parent an unwanted question.
He fails to place a card just perfectly, and the castle falls. And after a mournful silence, he looks at you again. And out finally comes, “Do you regret it?”
You were lying on the couch just in front of him, trying to read, or pretending to at least. The book was something fictional and stupid—something you’ve never had the patience for. But lately, he hasn’t been giving you any other options—no news, no nothing.
You’d been pondering whether he might have finally gotten bored discussing ethics and politics with you, or that he maybe just took pleasure in depriving you of the outside world, wanting your undivided attention focused on him, playing his games instead of yours.
You can’t blame him. After all, playing your game nearly had him killed. In fact, it very nearly killed you both.
And yet, despite that, you still answer a truthful “No.”
He lets it sit in the air for a moment before continuing in his usual monotone drawl, “Do you even know how many you murdered?”
It’s funny, but he doesn’t ask it in a very accusatory way. Rather, he’s just curious, like always, wanting to pick you apart like a frog in science class or like roadkill to an up-and-coming serial killer—his favorite pastime.
But as always, he's not the only sociopath in the room, and two can play that game.
And so you twist it with a scoff, “Tch,” still not returning his stare, still pretending to be into the drivel written on the paper in front of you, you turn the page nonchalantly as you challenge him. “Do you?”
It’s small, but you could tell the features on his face ever so slightly shift into a vague expression of confusion, joined by apprehension. And hidden there, underneath it all, in the ever-so-slight quirk of his slim lips, there's even a hint of excitement.
His acts of childish goofiness dissipate, leaving the alien on clear display. A bit more emotion in his voice as he states, challenging you right back, “I’m not a murderer.”
This time, you scoff with more humor. “Don’t make me laugh, L.” Smiling now as you rebut, “Of course you are.”
You let the book drape your stomach like a tent, casually slanting your head to the side, looking down at him.
“Exactly how many people have you sent to jail?”
He doesn’t answer at once. You don’t need to count the seconds to know he’s struggling to find one. In fact, if he could blush, which you’re not sure he can, you bet he would have right now.
He makes his defeat with a sigh as he gets up—most likely prompted by the view of you looking down your nose—straightening his legs as he stalks over to the armchair matching the sofa, hunched over, answering you through a faked yawn, “I’m not a judge, I can’t—”
“Good grief.” You don’t let him finish. It’s beneath him, and otherwise, too late for him to try and act cool now.
You get up as well, letting the book tumble uncaringly to the floor like the trash you both know it is as you step before him.
"You know I love it when you play dumb, but I'd be a liar if I said you were any good at it," you snicker, lifting your leg and mounting his lap like it were only natural.
He accepts you nearly as naturally. A little stiffer to the touch than you, though that’s just part of the amusement.
“Let me rephrase,” you murmur—sultry, very nearly sweetly.
Gliding your hands up his chest, fingertips first, tracing his jagged collarbones around his throat, before interlocking them on his nape, tickled by his black hair. Faces close, lips even closer, speaking to him in no manner a prisoner should speak to their warden.
“How many have been given the death sentence after you’ve proved them guilty?”
Again, he doesn’t have an immediate answer.
And so you smile—this time widely. This time, proudly. “You might as well have been signing their names in a little book of your own.”
His eyes slant to the side, looking off while thinking. Hands placed comfortably upon your haunches, thumbs drawing light circles, playing with the crinkle of your shirt—or well, his shirt as a matter of fact.
“That’s a funny way of looking at it, but I suppose you’re not entirely incorrect,” he mumbles.
You lean in closer, chest pushed up against him, until your lips rest just by his ear, whispering, “We’re different only by law, and you know it.”
He doesn’t flinch—he never has, really, no matter how brazen you get. He remains calm and collected, turning his cheek right against yours, nuzzling your ear with his lip the same way, returning it with a similar whisper, “Wrong.”
His breath is hot on your neck. It’s actually you who has to withhold flinching as he continues speaking to you just so, in that low and droning voice of his, “I worked to catch my victims. All you did was write their names down.”
You retreat, leaning back with a quirked brow.
“You’re petty because I cheated?”
Again, he looks off to the side for a moment, then back at you, but his answer doesn’t come after long, “You could put it that way.”
“Tch," you sneer. "Don’t act like you didn’t break the rules too. I wouldn’t be here otherwise.”
He looks unfazed at your teasing, answering plainly, “No, you’d be dead. As you said yourself, you’d get the death sentence.”
You throw your head back at that. “Hah! Don’t flatter yourself, L.” You look back at him, eyes staring directly into his sunken ones, nearly giving him a nose-kiss as you bob your head in taunt. “You’d have never proven me guilty.”
Then you scoff, “If you didn’t decide to break the rules all of a sudden, I’d have won.”
He gives you that small, amused smile again, enjoying the banter, throwing it back at you, “The very fact that you’re sitting here proves that I won.”
You open your mouth to argue, but this time he lifts a finger before you get the chance—slim and pale but long and precise, placed right up against your lips like a singular prison bar.
“Sure, maybe if I stuck to the rules even though you didn’t, you could have won in the end. But that would hardly have been fair. We both played dirty, and in doing so, I beat you at your own game, proving that you never once stood a chance against me, not in a fair fight or a foul one.”
You don’t let his finger stop you from grinning, kissing it as you speak, “So, then, you agree? You are just as bad as me.”
He sighs, dropping his pointer and shaking his head, “No—”
“You just said it yourself,” you insist.
“I’m better,” he bites back.
Still, you continue grinning. “You keep telling yourself that, L. Wanna know what I think?”
Tilting your head, you let your voice drop again, back into a whisper, “I think you’re worse.”
“How so?” he asks, intrigued, his lips still holding that small wry smile.
“I was simply gonna kill you. You, however?” You click your tongue three times in a row. “I know they say keep your friends close and enemies closer, but I’ve never heard about locking them up to play house.”
You keep fiddling with the locks on his neck, and he does the same with the shirt on your hips, hooking a thumb beneath the hem.
“Hm…” The rest of his hands join soon after, feeling your skin—no longer curiously like he used to, but familiarly—affectionately. “You wanna know what I think?”
Your heart stutters in your chest at the sensation. You try your hardest not to let your breath do the same.
“I think…” His grip increases in pressure, betraying that brutal sleeper build he keeps hidden, his smile becoming more salacious as he leans after you, ghosting your lips with his, eyes skimming the other with so much within them.
“If you really wanted to kill me, you wouldn’t have needed a book to do it.”
You swallow thickly, voice just under your breath, “And there you have my point. Killing you without it would have been real cheating.”
“Mh, well…” he hums. “Real sad you won’t ever get the chance…”
cw; L is his own tw, imposter syndrome, explicit nsfw, mdni 18+
genie's notes; yayyy commissioned piece for @ozzgin !!! thank you ozzy my beloved for giving me the opportunity to write about my man ♡ if this feels long that's bc it is LOL i was having sm fun writing it got to 4k words,, can you tell i'm bonkers for this guy,, nevertheless, i hope you enjoy reading as much as i did writing :D
“Take a picture,” you murmur. “It’ll last longer.”
“I know.”
You spare the man sitting besides you a quick glance. Despite the numerous dossiers emptied out onto the oak table before you, the detective’s attention is transfixed solely on you. Has been, for the past few hours.
“Ryuzaki?” You try again, hoping he’ll get the hint this time.
Stop fucking staring at me.
No such luck. He only tilts his head to the side expectantly and you wonder, not for the first time, whether he enjoys playing the fool, or if he’s just truly ignorant of your discomfort.
You don’t know which answer would be worse.
What you do know is that you can count on both hands the number of times you’ve been alone in a room with L. After all, it’s the exact same number of times that you’ve silently prayed for Kira to do you a favour and take you next.
The memory of the rest of the task force’s departure is still vivid. Yagami’s sympathetic smile. Matsuda’s shameless commiserations.
You can barely think. The sensation is strangely claustrophobic. Even now, you can feel the weight of his gaze settling over you like a burden.
With a weary sigh, you turn back to the pictures you’re thumbing through. All images of Kira’s most recent victims; their pale faces and milky eyes stare back at you with accusation. Months have passed without any sufficient leads and sure, you pull at loose threads when you can—but the mystery never quite unravels itself the way you hope for it to. There are no frayed edges. No loose seams.
Whoever this guy is, you can tell the smug son of a bitch takes pride in his work. Has you working overtime, too.
The wall clock across the room reads twenty minutes until five, but you didn’t really need to check the time to know that. With how high up you are, you can already glimpse the makeshift beginnings of dawn through the narrow gaps between Tokyo’s neon-lit buildings.
Screw this.
You’re going to cut your losses; already know you’re not getting any work done in these conditions. Better to mull over the details in the privacy of your own space—far from prying eyes.
You take the opportunity to flick through the pictures of civilian corpses once more, committing the details of the dead men’s faces to memory before finally tossing the alarmingly heavy file down onto the desk in front of you, where it lands with a resounding, strangely satisfying thud.
L doesn’t even flinch.
“I’m going home,” you announce, actively making an effort to avoid meeting the man’s eyes. Your chair scrapes against the floor as you stand, and the noise is unbearably loud within the otherwise silent room.
“So soon?”
You laugh at that. “It’s four in the morning, Ryuzaki.”
“Hm. So it is.”
“Time flies,” you shrug on your coat. “When are you going to leave?”
You ask out of politeness rather than any genuine curiosity. The question mumbled absently as you rummage around in your pockets for your hotel keycard.
You’re not from Tokyo. Just staying here for as long as the task force needs you to. Called in months ago from a nearby prefecture because of your stellar track record. You like to think you’re intelligent, and that Japan’s top minds recognised that about you. You suppose it doesn’t really hurt that you’ve got some connections to the national police force.
Though you’re glad to be trusted with the case, and happy to be here—you’ve never really cared much for the city of Tokyo itself. You miss the humdrum of the countryside; the constant chirping of cicadas hidden amidst tall blades of grass. A clear, blue sky unblemished by the fine points of soulless skyscrapers. Weaving through crowds without wondering whether one of them might be the mass murderer you’re hunting down.
L’s monotonous drawl snaps you out of your thoughts. Brings you back to exactly where you are right now and not necessarily where you’d prefer to find yourself, instead.
“I won’t.”
“You won’t?”
“Yes,” he repeats. Enunciates the syllables as if speaking to a child. No further clarification.
“I’m sorry.” You’re really not. “Are you seriously going to sleep here again?” You honestly don’t mean to sound disrespectful but the incredulity in your tone is difficult to mask. Much less in the presence of the world’s greatest detective.
The stories are true. You found them difficult to believe at first, but since then, you’ve confirmed the extent of L’s genius with your own observations. The man before you can function perfectly without any sleep for days on end. You remember the first time you’d left the office; come back the next morning to find L hadn’t moved an inch from where you’d left him last night.
Even still, it’s hard not to notice the prominent bags under his black eyes. The state of his clothes, all crumpled. The greasy, unkempt hair that frames his face. Despite his intellect, he’s still only human.
Even if it can be alarmingly easy to forget that.
“Why?” L asks blankly. “Are you offering me an alternative?”
Briefly, you think of the deputy director learning, come morning, that you’d left L to his own devices; The hard lines of disappointment marring his features. The disapproval in his otherwise polite gaze. He can’t be left alone. Something about being far too valuable, if you recall correctly. Or did he say vulnerable?
Regardless, you already feel like some charity case, even though you know that you’ve clawed your way to be here; called in favours and kissed the feet of men far beneath you. You deserve to be on the Kira task force as much as everybody else. Yet, you know what your answer will be long before you’ve even said anything.
Something tells you L knows, too. He’s never been the sort of man to ask questions that serve him no greater purpose.
Sometimes, you detest people like Matsuda for the ease with which they inhabit such unwelcoming spaces so boldly. The ability to exist so openly, without inhibition. But you detest yourself most of all, especially in moments like this where you’re burdened by the need to prove your belonging.
Well–
Are you offerring me an alternative?
–Shit.
“Yes.” you concede, not even bothering to look back at him as you reach to call for the elevator. Press the button with considerably more force than you should. “I suppose I am.”
You’re not nice. You’re certainly not charitable. But you are easy.
You spare him an exasperated glance over your shoulder when the doors finally slide open with a yielding sigh. From behind you, L makes no indication to move. You begin to doubt if he’s even heard you. Or, more specifically, whether he was ever really listening to begin with. His black eyes can feel so fucking vacant, sometimes.
“You coming?” you impatiently tap your foot against the carpeted floor as you hold the elevator open with narrowed eyes. “Or do I need to send you an invitation, Ryuzaki?”
“No need.” At that, L finally stands. He offers you one of his rare, private smiles; “I believe you already have.”
-
There are a couple of things you come to notice about L that day, when the ongoing investigation isn’t at the forefront of your buzzing mind.
It’s there, of course, because it’s difficult for any person to forget all of those dead faces; the list of unanswered questions growing by the hour—but the moment you slide your key into the lock and it turns with a satisfying click to open right into your little hotel room, it feels like a weight’s been lifted off your shoulders.
Take, for example, L’s penchant to be barefoot. He immediately steps out of his shoes the moment you kick the door shut behind you. Sinks his toes into the carpet (stained, and scratchy) with a blissful sigh.
You're choosing to ignore that.
Better not to drive yourself up the wall by paying attention to every little thing he does.
“Hungry?” you shrug off your coat and toss it onto the sofa.
“Sure.” And it’s not exactly a response, but you think this is the best you’re going to get from the man. Go rummaging through the fridge straight away, as you wave for him to take a sit in the tiny living room across from you.
“I know you have a sweet tooth,” The leather sofa crackles beneath his weight as he perches right on the edge, legs tucked up against his chest and his head resting over his knees sideways; so that he’s watching you in the kitchen. “So I’m cutting you a slice of some cake I made last weekend. Couldn’t finish it by myself if I tried.”
You eye him wearily as you set down the plates on the coffee table before the sofa, making sure to leave as much distance as is possible between the two of you when you sit down.
He sort of reminds you like a cat when he's like this, all curled up and comfortable. When he tries his first spoonful of sponge cake, he might as well start purring with delight. “This is good,” he mumbles between bites. “I didn’t know you could bake.”
“Yeah?” You impatiently drum your fingers against the armrest. “Well, there’s a lot you don’t know about me.”
The moment stretches for longer than it should.
You meet the detective’s eyes head on, find they’re as wide as saucers, staring back at you; and peering right inside. It feels downright voyeuristic and so fucking violating, the way you can feel him peeling back everything that you are to assess something nestled much, much deeper within.
You look away first, and the moment you do, you hear L hum approvingly—he sounds pleased, almost.
And though you know he would never seriously consider you competition, you still can’t shake the strange feeling that you’ve lost at something.
“No." L concludes. "No, I don’t think so.”
He sets his plate down on the table with a clink and you’re not surprised to find he’s already finished eating. All that remains is a single cherry; so violently red against the pale porcelain it sits on.
“Tell me,” He pinches the stem between his forefinger and thumb, and it’s the first reprieve you’re gifted from the weight of his calculating gaze; as his attention shifts to the sweet fruit he holds. “Why do you hate me?”
Shit, you realise your fingers are digging into the cracks in the leather armrest; flex your hand a few times before making an attempt to calmly fold them in your lap. Maybe because you make me feel like a fucking failure?
“I think you’re too smart for your own good.”
He gives that some thought. “As are you.”
It’s laughable, really. L is leagues above you in terms of intelligence. Prestige. Power. Who are you standing next to one of the greatest minds in the world? Who are you to deign that he recognises you?
You refuse to even recognise yourself.
“You don’t believe that,” you scoff.
“I do. I knew it from the moment you were first introduced to me.”
You pick up on something strange about the way he phrases it; the necessity of awareness required from both parties in a first introduction.
I'm losing it.
You shake your head, abandoning the tendrils of something akin to unease that had just begun to creep up on you. When else would he have first known you? It's a stupid thought. You’re not exactly the sort of person preceded by some magnificent reputation.
“Sure,” you decide to entertain him nevertheless, if only to see how far he’ll go. You wonder whether this is as close to gratitude as L can express, but is it for the hospitality or for the cake or for something in between? “And why was that, Ryuzaki?”
“L,” he corrects you. “Because even then, you wanted nothing to do with me.”
“And that’s what supposedly makes me a genius?” you scrunch your nose, “because I don’t like you?”
“So you insist on maintaining,” he drawls.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Did you know, detective,” L ventures thoughtfully, “your heart rate always spikes quite dramatically whenever you’re alone with me.” His black eyes flicker to meet yours as he breaks off the stem—pops the cherry between his grinning lips.
You dig your nails into the skin of your palm. Focus on the sharp sensations of precise pain; imagine the little indents of crescent moons that will litter your skin later on.
“Ah,” your voice is unfamiliar even to your own ears. “Is that so?”
He eats the stem next, and you notice, not for the first time, that the man's skin is so pale, it’s like a thin sheet has been stretched tight over brittle bones. You can easily trace the jagged lines of blue and purple veins that curl around and underneath his face.
L’s lithe fingers reach into his mouth where the dark stem sits between his teeth. You catch a glimpse of his tongue as he pulls out the stem, now damp, and examines it between his fingers; holds it up to the light.
It takes you a few moments to realise he must be admiring his efforts. Or, rather just observing them. You’re not really sure if L is capable of awe. Whether he cares for it, given how easily he earns it; must not mean much to him.
(You’ll find out later that he is capable of awe, though there are more important things he hopes to garner.)
The cherry stem’s all folded up on itself; he’s tied it into a knot with his tongue.
Instinctively, your eyes dart to his mouth. “I didn’t know you could do that,” you confess lowly. “Neat party trick, huh?”
And the moment you voice the thought, you wish you’d stayed silent. The curl of his lips is infuriatingly self-satisfied, as if he’s in on some grand secret you’re not quite privy to; it feels the closest L will ever get to outright mockery, yet even then, there is something you must have mistaken for sincerity in his gaze.
You’re not sure whether that makes you feel better, or worse.
“There’s a lot,” L confesses slowly, “that you don’t know about me.”
It doesn’t escape you that even something as simple as this sounds truer when L says it.
-
Later, the dishes have been cleared away and though you can barely keep your eyes open, you’re rummaging through your suitcase to pass him a new toothbrush because, you insist, you always carry spares. L admits he's never had to brush his own teeth before.
One hand on his jaw, and another curled around the brand new toothbrush you'd managed to dig out for him, you give him a reluctant demonstration.
You don't think he listens to a word you say; his attention seems to be focused elsewhere.
After his turn, you pad into the attached bathroom and brush your own teeth with the overhead lights switched off.
Tired, you don’t notice as you unscrew the lid of your old toothpaste that your own brush’s bristles are wet, whereas the toothbrush you’d handed to L is still unopened in its plastic packaging, left positioned neatly by the basin.
-
L is garishly tall.
It can be easy to forget that considering how often he’s hunched over a desk or curled up in a chair. When he stretches to yawn, his shirt rides up his abdomen, revealing a pale sliver of skin underneath. You avert your gaze. The last thing you need is to be caught staring.
“Take the bed,” you offer, already sinking into the loveseat's cushions.
L stares at you as he scratches his jaw. “I don’t sleep in beds.”
You don’t even want to begin deciphering that statement. You’re beginning to think this cryptic act is purposeful; that he gets off on being evasive. Out of reach.
You’re not even sure if he can see you, considering how dark it is in the room, but you put on your sweetest smile all the same. It feels vindictive and thrilling and you believe it’s the least he deserves.
“Well, cheers to trying new things, Ryuzaki.”
He says nothing in response, and even though he’s nothing more than a vague silhouette in the absence of light, you manage to make out the slowly way he climbs into the bed—crawls to the edge of the Queen bed that’s closest to your own spot. Pulls up the duvet to his chin, and lies on his side so he's directly facing you.
It’s unnerving. You wish desperately in times like these that you could click his head open like a purse and look inside; it's impossible to tell what he's thinking.
And then he starts talking.
-
Finally, there’s a lull in your conversation that stretches far too long.
You make no effort to salvage the exchange, relishing in its conclusion, and much to your relief, neither does your partner. It’s not necessarily that L’s bad company but it’s also not not that he’s impossibly infuriating to talk to. You just want to sleep. It's been a long fucking day.
You close your eyes, allowing a welcome silence to settle inside the stuffy room.
…
Then you try to ignore it.
…
You really, really do.
…
Much to your dismay, even your best efforts prove futile. The quiet doesn’t last nearly as long as you’d like.
“Ryuzaki,” In the face of overwhelming fatigue, all niceties are forgotten and honesty reigns supreme. “Why the fuck can I feel your eyes on me?”
“I can’t sleep,” he simply responds, in lieu of a proper answer.
You might’ve laughed if you weren’t so tired. Unlike him, you unfortunately do not have the seemingly inhumane ability to function properly without multiple consecutive nights of sleep. So, with a long sigh, you decide to let it slide.
Just one more time.
Then, with disapproval evident in your weary voice, because it would feel too much like accepting defeat to say nothing at all; “you know, normal people usually just count sheep.”
“Mm." The sheets rustle. "Sleep well.”
“...Thanks. You, too.”
Behind the heavy blackout curtains of the hotel room, the sky turns a soft, dreamy lilac.
Outside, some parts of Tokyo wake up to the mellifluous sound of morning’s first birdsong, and others take that as their queue to drunkenly stumble home in search of a warm bed to fall into.
On the busy streets dozens of stories below yours, the city moves as it always does. Vibrant and alive—though waiting with bated breath in anticipation of death; Kira the only constant in this new world.
You don’t even realise you’ve dozed off in the armchair; sleep is simply a welcome reprieve from such a long day. A privilege, and not the routine it used to be.
You dream of running away from something. Of simply falling through a solid floor.
Conversely, though he has taken your advice, L finds rest evades him.
Content with staying awake, he takes the rare opportunity to simply observe you from across the room, and it’s such a fascinating sight, to finally see you so at peace. You usually run on such a short fuse. Well-meaning, but difficult to deal with nonetheless. You like to be seen; hate to be stared at.
Aren’t you a charmer?
In the pale beginnings of dawn, he is a silent shepherd. He smiles at the thought, whilst gnawing on his thumbnail.
The sheep he counts all have your face.
-
You’re not sure what exactly it is that wakes you up, but it’s quiet when you do.
Even still, something causes you to stir, and before you know it, you’re pulled out of a sleep you hadn’t even realised you’d fallen into with bleary, blinking eyes that adjust to the dark and land on—
Nothing. A startling absence where L’s body should be.
The bed’s empty, and the crinkled duvet has been hastily tossed to one side. You notice that the warm glow of the nauseatingly yellow bathroom lighting spills out from behind the door, left open just a crack. It strikes you as strange, that the door’s not fully closed. You feel justified in looking in. Call it concern. Curiosity.
Does it really matter?
“Ryuzaki?” you venture, stepping closer. No answer. The silence is strangely more overbearing when you’re standing right in front of the bathroom door. With a hand resting on the brass knob, you decide to try once more. “Hey. L?” Silence, still and true.
It feels a lot like peering into Pandora’s box, when you inevitably do push the door open.
Look inside. And, huh—
There is L, hunched over the sink.
In one hand, he is holding what is unmistakably your underwear. You recognise the soft cotton instinctively, even though it’s balled up tight in his fist and he’s pressing the fabric against his nose; shuddering when he breathes in, languidly long and deep like a desperate smoker's drag of his last cigarette.
The lighting overhead casts sweeping shadows over his pale face, but despite the darkness the rest of his features are enshrouded in, you still manage to make out those black eyes; blown wide, wide open. Thick and heavy like eerily lucid, deep, dark pools of tar you can feel yourself getting sucked into.
His hand works at a methodologically steady pace. His breathing is perfectly controlled as he works at his cock with deft fingers. His tip is flushed a painful pink, leaks pre that’s been smeared down the shaft’s length. Between glimpses, you manage to make out prominent veins that eagerly pulse in response to his touch.
Proud. Heavy.
Hungry to sink into something far tighter than his fist.
—Your breath catches in your throat. It is impossible to look away.
The following moments are hazy, at best. Time seems to slow down to a crawl when the scene before you clicks into place, and the world moves in still frames after that; the last one lingering too long and imposing over the next.
You don’t remember saying anything, but you must have let a gasp slip past your parted lips. Stumbled backwards, perhaps. Some involuntary indication of your presence, peering in behind him.
Time fractures completely when L looks up; gaze snapping straight to meet yours in the mirror.
You catch a glimpse of yourself in the reflection, looking so laughably petrified—clearly just having rolled out of bed. There is not a single thing to be said as he lets his black eyes wander, appraisal silent and shameless as he drinks in the state of you; all tousled hair and crumpled clothes and bare feet.
His hands work faster then. His movements grow jerkier, breathing shallow. Eyes flutter shut, finally looking away from you, as his grip on your underwear tightens—knuckles white from the sheer effort of holding on, refusing to let go and inhaling your scent—nose buried desperately deep in the dirty cotton. Pathetically fervent. Chasing that blissful high with a new vigour.
You have been taught by many a smart man to never go seeking answers to questions when you do not wish to face them.
And so, when you glimpse this stranger’s tongue dart out to wet his cracking, dry lips the exact moment they wrap around the shape of a familiar name—hear the syllables repeated with a devotion akin to reverence; something like prayer—the man shudders exactly when you do.
Comes undone just as you slam the door shut.
You’re standing there in what you think might be shock, with a shaking hand resting against the doorknob. You choose to focus on the way in which the hair on your arm stands on end. Because if it’s not that, it’d be the sound of the tap running.
The door swings open abruptly. The man breezes past you, and quietly crawls back into bed. Rooted to where you stand, it’s all you can do to turn over your shoulder and observe him.
He catches you staring, merely tilts his head to the side from where he’s settled into the sheets, a coy little lilt to his lips.
For the first time, you’re the one who doesn’t look away. Couldn’t, even if you tried. Stygian strands of hair fall over his eyes, the darkest black they’ve ever been. Despite the fact that it feels like you’re staring at a stranger, facing him is familiar, as it always is; like wading into a thick tar.
Viscous and heavy and clinging.
You might’ve missed what he said if you weren’t so hyper focused on his every minute movement. His words are barely above a whisper, after all, and carry a strange lilt—as if recited, almost. Like he’s reading a line; performing some private joke.
“Take a picture,” L smiles knowingly. “It’ll last longer.”
plot: after spending most of his free time keeping tabs on you digitally, L tests the waters by paying you a visit in real life — themes: x f!reader, a continuation of last year’s smut but can be read as a standalone, stalking, warning!!: unaware reader so this teeters on a grey zone, i will warn you that he is creepy in this, so read at your own risk!!, male masturbation, L centric, yandere stalker L, clothes theft, panty sniffing — w.c: ~2.4k
pairing: L x f!reader
kinktober masterlist • on ao3
It took him a while, but finally, the lock clicked.
It wasn’t particularly a loud sound, but in the silence of your otherwise quiet home, it cut through like a clap of thunder. L sat crouched in the hallway with his hands trembling and his eyes widening in disbelief, hardly able to process that not only had he finally managed to break his way into your space successfully, but also, somehow, unseen, too.
He had this whole moment planned out for maybe months at this point. It was the next step he needed after spying on you through a webcam for longer than he wanted to admit. For a long time, he simply monitored the way you lived, trying to mimic the way you sat, or the way your eyes lit up when you read something online. He caught onto certain things, too, such as how often you got off, and how often, and what to.
However, just mere observation had its limits, and his heart, his mind—his lust(?)—demanded proximity.
Now that he was inside, though, it was as if his legs refused to move. He hovered cautiously just past the threshold, but it was as if there was some unseen force preventing him from closing the distance he so desperately craved.
What exactly was he so afraid of? He kept asking himself that, but any answers that he conjured up weren’t helpful. It’s not like you were even aware; fast asleep in the other room. He knew your sleeping pattern by heart, so he would know what signs to look out for if he got close enough, if you weren’t really and just pretending. He knew just how steady your breathing was by the sheer number of times you had accidentally fallen asleep at your desk. He knew everything, indeed, and logged it too, committing it to his mind, and yet, he hesitated all the same.
Deep breaths. He took a tentative step inside, taking off his shoes like he was a welcome guest, padding across the floor on bare feet. He flinched whenever the floorboards creaked too loudly or when the walls settled, but he tried not to let it get to him. His eyes wandered as he slowly moved through your home, drawn to the little things you had left behind, or, if he had to put it a different way, the things he hadn’t been exposed to. After all, his commitment to you—even if you were completely unaware—was entirely digital, and therefore, being physically there in your home was a huge step for him.
So, things like the nearly empty mug on your sofa likely hinted that you had tea not too long before bed, and judging by the empty plastic cup of ramen in the kitchenette sink, he could determine that you liked to dive into convenience food, rather than cook for yourself. Or maybe it was just a lazy day. Given how you left behind a crumpled jumper near the bedroom door, however, you were just a messy person. He wasn’t judging you, though, but rather seeing this opportunity to learn more of your living habits, seeing it as more of a fascinating venture than anything off-putting.
L stared at the surroundings for a moment longer, but then he heard the bed creak beyond a door that wasn’t exactly closed. He froze at the sound, stilling where he stood, but then he let out a soft sigh when you had settled again. It was probably just you turning in your sleep, so nothing to worry about.
Still… there was a gnawing feeling deep within him that begged for him to leave, for him to step away and not overstay his already uninvited entry. His luck surely must have been wearing thin by now, after all, he was becoming sure of it.
However, he couldn’t quite bring himself to go back, and when he moved, he found himself only moving forward instead of away.
Although… what was he realistically supposed to do now?
He couldn’t just approach you as you slept and watch you do that, or… could he?
L took a deep breath, trying to minimise his presence as much as possible, moving his body in such a way that would generate the least amount of sound if he could help it. Perhaps that much was a nonsensical thought in his head, but a certain fear otherwise gripped him, and no matter what, he could not face you awake. He refused. It would be better for both of you if he remained a secret that you would never uncover, if only for the sake of keeping a lid on the potential fear he threatened to unleash. For how was he supposed to explain… anything at all to you? How was he supposed to look you in the eyes and tell you with full sincerity, in a convincing enough manner, that he had been keeping tabs on you for months now, and that his intrusion into your home wasn’t supposed to be any more than him watching you sleep?
He took another deep breath.
Leaving, on the other hand, seemed like giving up.
So maybe if he just didn’t touch you, but watched (from a distance), then it would be okay.
It still pushed the boundaries of what was okay and what wasn’t, but he wouldn’t be hurting you, or at least that’s what he told himself.
“J-just… for tonight,” he whispered out loud before his breath caught. He really shouldn’t voice anything into the open… just in case.
Tiptoeing towards your bedroom, L carefully snuck inside as soon as he pressed open the door, crouching in the corner of your bedroom. You were indeed still asleep, barely illuminated from the warm lights spilling in from the street outside, bathing you in an almost ethereal, otherworldly glow. He sat down in the shadows, folding his knees to his chest and for a while, just stared, transfixed at the rise and fall of your resting shape.
Deep down, still, he understood that something like this was still very wrong. Surveillance through a screen was also bad, but in his mind, it was still slightly more acceptable than doing it in person. At least when he followed you digitally, one could argue that you could disconnect from his unrequited affections if you did find out what he did when he looked at you. This—the act of watching you in real life—so closely, too—felt violating, even to him, who was blinded by obsession.
Indeed, he felt disgusted with himself for sinking so low, and yet, he couldn’t bring himself to walk away.
L blinked up again, finding himself drawn to you in a way that he could no longer be subtle about. You just looked… so fragile like this; so perfectly vulnerable sleeping completely unaware of his watchful gaze. He stared at the way you were curled up beneath the blanket, on occasion twisting and turning as you slipped into an even deeper sleep. He watched how your lips would sometimes part as you breathed in and out, going as far as to match your breathing with his own, finding the action strangely intimate.
But then a deeper sense of shame began to surge and refused to settle, causing his stomach to churn with such need that it left him feeling desperately hungry for more than just idle observations. He pressed his forehead against his knees and squeezed his eyes shut, trying to will the disgusting thoughts away, but evident by the arousal growing hard in between his legs, he couldn’t deny the way you made him feel.
Even if you hadn’t done anything particularly special.
It was just the fact that you were there—right there—with him.
Lifting his head again, L brought himself to focus on you, finding his seeping self-deprecation momentarily forgotten as every ugly thought he had just seconds ago was drowned out by need and want alone.
The feeling was stronger than anything he had ever felt, and it made the room around him feel suddenly heavy, anchoring him in place.
There you were, indeed, so soft and peaceful, so unaware and untouchable.
L swallowed hard at that fact, choosing to simply just… embrace the wrongness of what he was about to do, thinking that maybe it didn’t matter, so it wasn’t as deep as he was making it out to be. If you were never to find out about this, then you had nothing to worry about. It’s not like he had it out to harm you, either, but rather it was just a more personal sort of need that begged for release. If giving in to such madness would sate it, then why not… try?
Swallowing hard once more, he picked himself up from the floor and crept towards the bed, drunk, perhaps even intoxicated from the sight of you. Using the faint sliver of light that he had, he stood over you, his eyes never leaving your face as he slowly unbuttoned and slipped out of his jeans, letting the pair gather around his thighs. He then pulled down his underwear, exposing his erection to the cool night air, already throbbing with anticipation for what he was about to do
Not touching you was the most difficult part to do, he found, but he refused to cross that line, even this far in. Sure, he definitely longed to feel around your body and knead the supple skin of your breasts. For certain, he absolutely wanted to slip into the bed with you, and pull you close to take in the way that you smelled to see if anything about you matched what he imagined you to be like at all… but he wouldn’t, he couldn’t, because then that would make him into someone he couldn’t bear to become.
And so, for now at least, he chose to sate the hunger in a way he still could control. He moved his hand in languid, lazy motions while standing at a respectable distance away from you, getting off on the sight of you alone, even if he grew increasingly desperate for some connection. Looking around, certain that you were still asleep, his eyes caught onto a pair of discarded underwear just near your desk, and a surge of lust shot through him from the very moment a certain idea crept into his mind. Before he even knew it, he was holding onto the pair, clutching at it like it was the most sacred thing.
Stumbling back to the corner from where he was before while holding onto the stolen cloth, he sat himself down with his jeans now pooling around his ankles, thinking that maybe… maybe… this could work.
L brought the fabric to his nose, breathing in the scent of you while returning his hand to meet with his throbbing cock, pumping his needy shaft up and down as he gradually lost himself to the heat of the moment. He stroked himself in time with the flow of your breathing—in and out—up and down—the rhythm itself feeling almost hypnotic.
His hand moved furiously at that point, and sweat beaded at his forehead as he grew closer to the point of no return. The effort of holding back from touching you was both exhilarating as well as infuriating, which in turn, left him utterly turned on and unable to finalise that curiosity. Each pull on his pulsing cock was met with that thought in the back of his mind, needing something to ground himself with, with you, but he couldn’t—he wouldn’t—not yet, at least.
Instead, he clutched at the panties harder with his other hand, his knuckles growing white from how tightly he held onto the pair. He gasped and bit back moans as he tried to bite back soft whimpers of no such closure, and also from the desperation that threatened to consume him entirely, and all he could do was shudder from the increasing urgency that was mounting quickly at this point, begging for release.
His hips bucked reflexively, seeking your touch or even just acknowledgment, but he had to hold himself back before he lost himself entirely. Holding onto his pulsing flesh, he began to glide his hand in increasingly aggressive motions, his teeth sinking into his lips to bite back any moans, his body shaking at this point, barely back to hold and—and—!
He found himself lost in a blur of forbidden want and need, working himself over the smell and feel of what you wore potentially just hours ago, still fresh with you, which only spurred him on further and with everything else combined. His arousal was at its highest peak by now, and his pleasure was mounting rapidly, the shameful act alone turning on him like nothing else, and as such, his climax was already impending.
Biting back a hoarse, breathy cry, L sped up his motions and threw himself back, tilting his head to lean against the wall as he finally felt himself come undone, spilling forth thick ropes of pent-up tension all over your now soaked underwear and partially onto his hand, his legs giving out as he sank to the floor to catch his breath.
Then, he brought himself to stand again, albeit on shaky legs, still clutching the pair while looking over at your miraculously still sleeping form, however, overcome with a whole new wave of shame. Realising the wrongness of his actions as the post-orgasmic clarity hit, he whimpered slightly in self-hating complaint, slowly, carefully backing away to the bedroom door with the pair in tow, scrambling to pull up his jeans and then flee altogether.
No longer caring about the noise he must have been making, he ran out of your home with a heavy slam, leaving the tools scattered just outside. If he were to look back or linger for any time at all, he might have noticed your disturbed state of being warily looking around with the light of your phone—he might have seen the look of horror on your face as you discovered the signs of a potential break-in—but luckily, he was already so far away.
And as soon as he got back, he fell to his knees on the floor, half-addled with panic, while the other part laughed breathlessly with utter relief that he pulled something to that extent off at all.
Not only did he quench a thirst he had for months, but now he had a physical souvenir from you.
The only problem was, though, that the scent of you would only last for so long.
yan light who starts getting watched by L, and L sees the way light was clinging onto you like you were a life supply or sum shit
Yan light who was forced to introduce you to L, and his members, and hates every second of it, jaw clenched as he tried to calm himself down by holding your soft hand. L barely glanced at you, looking away from his computer before titling his head at you.
Yan light who literally was fuming and was ready to light the whole place on fire once he saw L analyzing your face and smiling.
Yan L who kept touching you, rubbing up and down your arm, as if tryna study you. You awkwardly js sat there between them, side eyeing light who was ready to run the fades with L
(guys im watching baddies caribbean and ANYONE COULD HAVE THE FADE ON MY MAMA)
Yan L who giggled at your nervous expression and quickly became fond of you, now knowing why light seemed to clingy to you. He found all ur expressions adorable, an addiction.
Yan L who after you left, made watari find all her social media, her personal files, her background, and anyone you interacts with. L made watari also create a psychological profile of her
Yan L who now spends his time watching and monitering you instead of light, convinced hes only watching you because u have a 9% of being kira yet he has a raging boner under his sweatpants anytime he sees you bend down
Yan light who is ready to get down and throw hands with L, fists clenched whenever hes in a 5 mile radius of him. Light is no fool. He senses that L’s interest in his n/n is growing, and it infuriates him. He js wants to dig a grave and throw L's body in it, and leave him to rot.
Yan light who while ur sleeping checks your phone cuz he knows you have L's number, and checks the messages
ʏ/ɴɪsᴍʏᴡɪғᴇ
hii y/n :3
was light bothering u again?? :((
y/n u deserve better than that kira bitch.
i could treat u more better than any man could.
plus i know how to cook and clean :3
ur so beautiful.
ʟɪɢʜᴛɪsʜᴏʟᴅɪɴɢᴍᴇʜᴏsᴛᴀɢᴇ
wsg
sorry i cant talk alot this crazy mf checks my phone every hour and day bruh
ʏ/ɴɪsᴍʏᴡɪғᴇ
look i told uuu
hes no good for u:(
im a better man than him baby :((
Yan light who js wants to scream and crashout at the messages L has been sending u
yan light who becomes even more clingy if thats even possible, tryna make out every single hour, now sitting on ur lap, arms around your body, and not leaving ur side
yan light who hates L for tryna steal whats his
yan L who is ready to steal n/n away from light
IF THIS WAS BORING SORRYYY I DIDNT RLLY GET ANY IDEAS BUT YUHH
When you first met the cowboy, you were in awe of his razor sharp teeth. His many stories were flashy just like his teeth, if only more. He always managed to make you laugh and you quickly fell in love with the handsome cowboy.
When he had you pressed against the wall with his lips mere centimetres away from the pulsing vain in your neck, he finally revealed the truth. He was a vampire and he craved your blood.
However it didn’t take long before Boothill learned that his desire for your love was far greater than his blood thirst.
He visited your little bar every time he had the time. He was so friendly towards you, but so very intimidating towards everyone who gave you any type of attention. His jealousy quickly became clear.
When you walk in on him boring his teeth into the neck of a friendly regular, you screamed as loud as your lungs let you. Boothill quickly dropped the man before he licked his lips. With bloodstained teeth he tried to calm you down. As you cradled you in his arms it became clear to him; he needs to protect you. He is sure you will enjoy travelling with him. He can afford all comfortable hotel rooms from the bounties he claims. He can’t wait to travel with you for eternity. Whether you want to or not is irrelevant.
Dino
The nobleman was as stern as he was busy. He met you at a ball which he attended solely because of his noble duties.
You were intimidated by the tall gloomy vampire as he towered over you. He didn’t say much at first, seemingly content with just dancing in silence.
Said silence was however broken when he told you his former wife had just left him and that he was told he should find a new wife (his son needs a mother after all). You didn’t say much to his statement, as he didn’t seem pleased with the whole wife-situation.
When you both had retreated to the balcony for some fresh air he told you that you were the perfect candidate. You were taken aback by his words. He had then scoffed and said that you were remarkable in senses he couldn’t quite describe.
The wedding had been beautiful. You would have enjoyed it had it not been for the changes in Dino’s behaviour. His touched were lingering and his gaze harsh and intense. You knew very well that humans and vampires were different in a lot of ways, but his actions became more and more confusing.
It was sudden and almost unexpected when you found yourself waking up in a locked room. It didn’t take you long to realise that banging on the door had no effect. He later told you that you were the only woman he had ever lived and that he would never let you leave. You were to be his for all eternity.
L
The lazy detective licked some cream of his fingers as his eyes bored into yours. He smirked slightly at your nervousness.
He was working on a case when he met you. You were nothing special, only an assistant of the police chief, but on L’s eyes you were everything.
He found it humorous how a genius like him could fall in love with someone as ordinary as you. Even though your intelligence and skills were ordinary, your beauty was something else’s.
It didn’t help that the mere smell of your blood was enough to drive him insane. L had always prided himself on being a collected individual, but when faced with you, his composure ravelled before him.
With a pill slipped onto your sweet tea, it was no hassle with bringing you home to his penthouse. He spent his free time with you. Either sharing some sweet cakes, sipping on your blood, cuddling or all. He knows naivety is a dangerous trait, so he doesn’t feel bad for abducting you in the slightest.
Pantalone
The black haired vampire never seem to get enough riches. Throughout his many years he has collected the finest jewels and the soft silk, but something is missing.
No matter what he buys, nothing can fill the gaping hole within his soul.
When he hires you as an assistant he can feel his hole closing. You’re the one. He needs you like humans need air.
It won’t take long before you find yourself trapped inside the four walls of a lavish bedroom that is perfectly decorated to your tastes. How does he know what you like?
He dresses you in the finest gowns as he makes sure your every need it tended to (except your need for freedom). As he drinks your sweet blood, he swears that you will never be in any harms way. He will take care of you and love you till the end of time.
Ranpo
The playful vampire is extremely unpredictable, but given his laziness he often came off as rather non-hostile.
When he saw you for the first time in one of his favourite bakeries, he just knew he needed you. So he follows you.
Your sent us so very intoxicating he can’t help but follow you around. You’re extremely naive and never look over your shoulder. It’s pitiful.
He quickly managed to tangle himself into your everyday life. He always show up at the bakery you work at and entertain you with stories of the many cases he has solved. You are completely oblivious to the obsession that’s brewing within the black haired man.
A day after a tough case, he finally snaps. He knows he will never get caught so he lures you with sweet words with a certain playfulness. He locks the door behind you as you take in his flat. Before you know it he has his arms wrapped around you in a tight embrace. Sharp fangs sink into your neck as he gently strokes your hair. He will take good care of you. He is the greatest after all.
Vyn
Vyn’s desire for human knowledge reaches far deeper than most can even phantom to comprehend. As a psychiatrist he is able to satisfy some of his thirst for knowledge.
When he gets you as a patient his entire world turns upside down. For the first time in his long life he is not in control of his emotions.
You’re so beautiful and so very human. He finds himself counting down to when your appointments are. His heart aches when you tell him about all your struggles and he swears to himself that he will do anything it takes to make you feel better.
When you tell him that a coworker of yours has made your days worse by snarky comments, he sees red. He quickly adverts your attention from the pencil that just snapped in his clutching hand.
It takes months for him to decide he can’t take it anymore. He needs to protect you, both from vampires and from humans. He keeps you in his lavish house and he spoils you. He bites you so carefully as if he’s afraid you will break like a porcelain doll. And who knows? Maybe you will.
How a Minute Spends Now [Yandere Platonic L Lawliet x Sibling Reader]
Title: How a Minute Spends Now [Yandere Platonic L x Sibling Reader]
Synopsis: Your brother is dead. What pieces are there left to pick up?
Word count: 3800ish
notes: yandere, abusive sibling dynamic, grief and death mentions
Your brother is dead.
And oh, it’s clear now: whoever said death was an inevitable cold hard fact was a liar. Or stupid. Or both. Because this fact is not cold or hard; it’s warm, oozing, feeling like so much black sludge running between your fingers.
You’ll never get it off--the death, yes, and the awful, sinking realization--
Your brother is dead and their first priority was not to tell you.
They don’t bring you into a quiet room and ask you to sit down, before explaining in sympathetic, gentle tones that something bad has happened. That the brother who carried you through hell as a child, who kept you safe (and locked away) well into your thoroughly stunted adulthood, will never be coming back again. That you’ll never hear his voice or see his face or feel his touch.
No. They don’t bother with you, first.
Their first priority is to gather together two of those damned groomed successors--Near and Mello, of course--and take them into a quiet room and explain, softly but succinctly, that L was dead.
That’s how you hear the news. You’d followed along, hackles raised when they were gathered up, and padded silently into the next room with a sourness in your stomach. And that’s how you hear it. With your ear pressed against the wall of the room next door, gleaning snatches of the conversation afterward through a horrible ringing in your ears.
(And aren’t you an awful thing? That you didn’t know until that moment? That you weren’t struck numb the moment he died thousands of miles away, that some guttural psychic primal instinct inside you didn’t say: Something is wrong and my brother is dead. Aren’t you a shitty person, that you didn’t somehow know without the muffled words through the wall?)
Mello is loudest. He cuts through that awful, disbelieving buzz that courses through you.
“Who did he pick--” And you don’t have to hear the rest to know what he’s asking. Did L pick him--or Near--as a replacement? As if he could be replaced. As if someone could simply step into his shadow and wear his skin.
“He didn’t have time,” answers Roger, and you puke a little bit of breakfast back into your mouth.
What a thought--that L had been snuffed out without warning. Without time to think about it. Without time to regret, to come to terms--to call you.
What was he thinking about, as he died? Was he thinking at all? Was there even the quickest of thoughts about you or your parents (distant, foggy beings that they were) or something else, something you would never know because your brother always kept some parts of him out of reach?
The wallpaper scratches underneath your fingernails, and a dim part of you wonders if they can hear it beyond the wall. Maybe you want them to hear you, hear the way your fingers dig into the paper and drag down as you slide onto the floor.
Your brother is dead, and you’re alone, and what the fuck was any of it for, if he was just going to get himself killed?
--
They do get you, eventually. Or rather, they find you, quiet and curled up in the corner of the room next door, a room you ought never to have been in.
You don’t respond to the quiet calls of your name. You don’t respond when they step inside and Roger crouches down beside you, asking if--and he doesn’t finish the question, because he knows that asking someone “Are you all right?” when they are in a tight fetal position after clearly hearing news of their brother’s death through an orphanage wall is a stupid fucking question.
So all Roger does is put a hand on your shoulder and squeeze. It means nothing, and you get no comfort from it. No one here could comfort you. No one alive.
“L left a letter for you,” Roger says, and it’s only now that you turn your head to look up at him. “Before he left for the Kira case.”
Kira. If only everyone who uttered that name had their tongue turned to ashes.
“Give it to me,” you whisper.
--
It is his handwriting. Not a typed letter, which could be a forgery. No, this was written by his hand, his distinct scrawl. But what sealed the authenticity was that it was written in invisible ink, revealed through a solution only you had access to; L made it himself. Because he was smart--and a pompous asshole.
But that’s how you know in the end that it’s not a fake, but a real letter. The last letter you’ll ever get from him.
You bring the paper to your nose and sniff; it doesn’t smell like him. Maybe it did, at first, before whatever filing cabinet they’d stowed it in leached away the scent. Or maybe it smelled like him before you poured the solution on, and your anticipation to read what he said destroyed your last chance at remembering what he smelled like.
It doesn’t matter.
The letter is simple and your hand trembles and the first words on the page hurt--tears drip down stupidly and turn blue when they hit the chemical solution on the paper.
He’d make fun of you for crying, before wiping your tears with his shirt, so you’d call him gross and smile and feel a bit better. He would do that, if he were alive. But he can’t, because, as the letter says--
If you are reading this, I am dead. Kira has killed me.
I was aware that this was a possibility--
Oh, fuck him. Fuck. Him.
There is the urge to crumple the paper now. To find a fireplace and make someone light it and watch the paper burn, chemicals sparking, with satisfaction. How dare he. How dare he chase after this case, knowing it was a possibility, knowing that you might end up staring at this letter. Knowing that you’d be so utterly fucking alone.
Breath coming in shallow pants, you keep going.
I was aware that this was a possibility and I’ve prepared for it, as such. You don’t need to worry about money. It’s taken care of. You don’t need to worry about a place to live. It’s taken care of.
You realize, dimly, that one of your hands has begun to pound against the wall. Who-cares-who-cares-who-cares. You don’t want to know that there’s money and a place to stay.
What you want is your brother.
You want him here so you can grab his shirt and tug him close and tell him he’s a massive asshole and you love him. You want him to tentatively wrap his arm around you, to give you a pat, to murmur something about being too clingy.
You want him to suddenly pull your hair so you can stomp on his foot. You want to curl up in bed, like you used to, and wait for him to stroke your back to sleep while you asked him questions about anything and everything. His voice would be soft and dull, walking that fine line between patience and annoyance. You’d fall asleep while he told you something especially important, and he’d debate flicking your head to wake you up, a 50/50 chance that he’d do it.
But he can’t do any of these things. Not now. Not ever again. He has no voice to speak with, no body to touch. He has no more life in him at all.
You couldn’t even visit his grave, assuming he had one.
The tears are hot against your eyes as they drip-drop and stain the page now. It’s not fair, none of this. The death and the letter and the gray future ahead of you.
But you have to keep reading. Every word is precious, the last ones you’ll read from his hand. And maybe--this is awful, isn’t it--maybe this letter is where he finally has to admit that he’s been selfish. To keep you locked away, to put his need for control over your need to live a real life, to stay away as much as he does--as much as he did.
Maybe this letter is where he admits his faults as a brother, so you can cry over something other than the feeling of a gutted cave inside your chest.
Maybe this is when he admits he’s kept you wrapped in a useless bubble, and that was wrong, and now you’ll get to--
I have given instructions that my successor will care for you like a brother.
The pounding on the wall stops. Thoughts come quick, snapping, punctuated by a red hot stings of electric hate. The bastard--how could he--why would he--the words don’t even seem to make sense, so you read them over and over and over, trying to understand.
I have given instructions that my successor will care for you like a brother. I have given instructions that my successor will care for you like a brother. I have given instructions that my successor will care for you like a brother. I have given instructions that my successor will care for you like a brother.
But no matter how many times you read them, the words don’t register as anything but a jumble of phrases put together. He couldn’t have written that. But he did. Yet the very thought that someone else would care for you like a brother--
No. Your brother is dead, and no one can replace him. Not as the best detective in the world, not as your brother, not as anything. How could he, why would he, there’s no answer that comes so you let the questions singe the air instead.
There’s a woozy, hazy fuzz that descends on your head like a net, and you lean against the wall. Red-hot anger simmers, bubbled with a hazy grief, as you force yourself to continue.
I have left them detailed instructions on how to care for you.
The words drop into your stomach hard, with no reprieve. He left instructions for your care, like you were a pet being looked after on a vacation. Fucker. You try to determine if it was a joke, or an intentional slight meant to irritate you, or not something he put any spite into at all. Was he being sincere?
Because--well.
Is it entirely wrong? You and the figurative pampered dog both leapt to attention whenever your owners--whenever your brother--deigned to come home from vacation. From solving crimes. Both whined when he left. Both circled and moped, staring out the window, hoping for their return.
Not that there would be any return for L.
You will be safe and protected, as you were under me.
A hand goes to your mouth, covering a smile that no one else is here to see. Safe and protected, sure. Like a princess in a fairy tale, like some maiden kept under lock and key in a dragon-guarded keep. Only the dragon never breathed fire--only familiar platitudes and a comforting sameness that chained you down as well as the actual locks on the doors, the security cameras, the strict instructions for the security guard at the gate.
But you were safe, and you were protected. And here you are, now, wet tears on your cheeks, anger in your stomach and a smile on your face, because your brother apparently put you in his will like some sort of inheritance for whoever takes up his mantle.
Please don’t do anything foolish now that I’m gone. Not that it stopped you, before.
A flash in your mind, the image of your brother’s smirk, curling up at the ends. A thumb in his mouth to soften it.
It aches and it doesn’t, this image, the clear sense of L in these words. Why can’t he be here? Why this pain, this gouged sense of reality that makes you feel like screaming until there’s no more air in your lungs?
Your hand finds the wall again, scratching at the paper with as much force as you can, rippled scratches following in their wake.
Better the paper than your skin--your skin will heal. They’ll have to replace the wallpaper if they want to fix the jagged scratches. Let them replace it. Let them replace it like they want to replace your brother, and see where it gets them. You’ll be there in either case.
There’s nothing more on the paper. You’re not sure if you expected there to be; you can’t imagine him writing soft, sweet words of comfort. He never said them, not exactly, so why write them now? No “I love you,” no “You’ll be fine without me.”
But, ah. There’s more to that, isn’t there? L would never write “You’ll be fine without me,” because he didn’t like to lie.
And who is the successor that will receive these so-called instructions? He hasn’t chosen anyone. Roger, you’d heard, suggested Mello and Near work together. Fat chance. Like they would--like they could.
They couldn’t, and they can’t, and they don’t. It isn’t long before Mello leaves and there’s one less orphan in the building, and Near steps in.
To be trained, to be raised, to study the Kira case--to take care of you, so says your dead brother in his last letter.
But Near isn’t L.
And you’re alone.
--
It is not terribly long after you become brotherless--and rudderless--that you walk into your room to find Near sitting on the floor, stacking rows of gray, pattern blocks that resemble a cityscape in the center of your private little space.
The sight of him is wrong. He looks--not like L, not in that way. But the posture. The outfit. If you squint--and you do--you can blur him into something like a younger version of your brother. Different hair, of course, but didn’t he sometimes sit like that when he played? When he refused to share his blocks, and made you watch him play, and occasionally deigned to let you place a piece or two as long as you put it exactly where he told you?
And you always did, little fingers trembling, because you wanted him to think you were good enough to listen. Good enough to do what he says, because he was older, and smarter, and you should listen to him.
There’s a lump in your throat before you realize it.
”Why are you here?” Your own voice is a croak, rusted from ill-use. Crying. Shouting. Not talking for hours until you had to.
It’s not like you had too many people to talk to, anyway; but if you get him to talk, then this blurry vision will vanish. Near might look a bit like your brother, might have the same penchant for picking things apart, but he wasn’t L. Never would be, not really.
He doesn’t look up when you speak. Thank God for small mercies. Instead, he takes one finger and pushes it in the center of a block tower, creating a window.
“Roger said you were upset.”
The temptation to blur vanishes with the sound of his young and decidedly not-L voice, and it’s easier to cross your arms, to put up the defenses.
“Obviously.” A little less dry now. A little more sarcastic. And a little more alive than you’ve sounded in weeks, or months, or however long it’s been since your brother ceased existing and your life at Wammy’s became all the more bleak. “My brother died.”
Near’s eyes finally flick up to you before they dart back down to the blocks. He carefully slips a block figure--a bland smiling thing--into the window.
He speaks softly, with little intonation. You hate how familiar it is.
“That is, upset about me.”
The sound of your stupid little intake breath in the quiet room is a little too much to bear, and you try to focus on the sound of the blocks instead. The small shift of the pieces as he slides them here and there, the clacking sound as they stack together.
Click. Clack.
What does Roger know, anyway?
“Not about you… in particular,” you admit. It’s the most you’ve admitted to Near in--well. Ever. It’s not like you were eager to talk to many of the children at Wammy’s, especially when you outgrew them. Yet unlike the orphaned faces that faded from memory in time, you weren’t adopted, weren’t eased into some other life outside these walls; instead, L kept you here, guarded, safe, and completely stuck.
And you are stuck. You’re an adult. You could’ve stormed out the doors the minute L died, you’re sure, legally speaking (before that--even--before that you could’ve left); started walking and taken up a job at some shitty diner and rented a room in a seedy motel until you were on your feet.
It’s something that you’d threatened in L’s face from time to time, and he didn’t even deign to take you seriously, and it’s only now that he’s dead that you understand why.
He knew you wouldn’t leave. Couldn’t leave? Maybe it’s the same thing. Because he was right. There’s no life for you out there; no life for you in here, except for what L left you, which includes--somehow--this boy in front of you, stacking blocks, who is supposed to take up the position of older brother. In capturing Kira and everything else.
“I’m going to take care of you,” he says, all matter-of-fact. “L left instructions.”
Your chest squeezes. Those fucking instructions. You had asked--stormed up in a huff, demanded, in a tantrum--Roger to read them, and he refused. Said L indicated the letter was for his successor’s eyes only.
So all you had was your imagination; did L write down a list of things you liked, things you didn’t like? Did he rattle off your favorite foods, what time you were supposed to go to bed, what to do if you had a meltdown and began to cry over your social isolation? Or did he--the thought was tempting, however improbable it was--write something more sentimental?
Logic and bitterness win out, and you imagine Near reading the details of the letter meticulously, probably looking for the words-within-the-words, all while flying an airplane with his other hand.
“I’m not a dog.” Your eyes dart over the blocks, over the memory of all the toys you’ve seen Near playing with; there’s something painful in that image, for too many reasons. “Or a toy.”
“Yes, I know.”
Near doesn’t look up again. Instead, he flicks his hand, and knocks over the tower with the window, with the smiling person inside, who topples to your carpeted floor. Something about it makes you want to laugh; makes you want to get on the floor and ask if you can push over the next one. Tears prick at the edge of your eyes.
Instead of swooping onto the floor, you weave around the circular city he’s created in your room without permission, and climb onto your bed. The book you were reading this morning is still there, ragged bookmark jutting out of it. Your bed is unmade, otherwise. Sheets rumpled and unwashed. You haven’t bothered with the bed since L died. Haven’t bothered with a lot of things, besides.
It was an older book. A philosophical treatise from the 1930s, when Europe was on the cusp of war; translated into English and shuffled around the hands of starving artists and avant garde thinkers until, decades later, it landed, battered, onto the shelves of the orphanage for gifted children. Gifted children and you, L’s leftover baggage.
Well. If Near is going to barge into your room without permission, you won’t let it impact your day. Roger said if you didn’t start eating again, you couldn’t borrow books; that’s where you’d been, before you came back. Grabbing something to eat under his watchful eye and eating it with deliberately pointed chewing motions, as if it bothered him.
So you’ve eaten. Now you can read.
“What are you reading?” He asks, like he didn’t already see the title of the book. He probably saw it on your bed whenever he first came into your room. Probably knows exactly where it rests in the Wammy library when it’s not checked out, and who else has read it besides you.
But he’s asking anyway and something empty in you clings to that question, as you curl up on your side--body and soul aching for the physical curled-up nest of your brother that doesn’t exist anymore.
You hold up the cover and shrug, hiding the need, pushing down the urge to bury your face in your pillow and have an imaginary conversation with your dead brother. It wouldn’t be the first one you’ve had this week.
Near’s eyes flick to the book, before he works on creating another tower.
“Do you like it?”
Your heart clenches. You’re reading into it, the way it reminds you of L. The way the question is open and you can’t tell if it’s asked because he thinks the book is pointless trash and will find you silly if you like it, or because he genuinely wants to know.
It’s not a book you’d read again, that’s certain. Not because you think it’s awful, but because none of it really makes sense to you. You’d grabbed it because the thought of reading a novel you’d been eager to read while your brother’s corpse was buried thousands of miles away made you want to vomit. So a random philosophy book was the better option.
You don’t want to tell Near all of this; because of his age, because he’s little more than someone you know, and because like your brother, you want to keep some things secret.
“I don’t understand most of it,” you admit, finally, the words sticking to your mouth a little. A bit of truth would be okay, in the end. “I just wanted to occupy my time, I guess.” Reading words from someone who furiously pushed them out on his typewriter almost a hundred years ago was better than thinking about who wasn’t in the room.
Near smiles, a little, not looking away from the blocks.
“Do you want to help?”
He doesn’t stop what he’s doing, picking up each piece carefully and stacking it just-so. He leaves the toppled tower, figure and all, where it is.
You’re not sure how long you wait before deciding. All you know is that in your isolated room at Wammy’s, with only a window to the outside world you’ve barely known to give you any inkling of the passing of days, you slide onto the floor and tentatively pick up one of the toppled blocks.
Near doesn’t tell you to leave those where they are, and that’s okay.
He doesn’t tell you where to put it, either, as L would have certainly done--and somehow, that’s okay, too.
hii I'd love to know how you think that yan jouno (bsd), L(death note), Gojo and Megumi(jujutsu kaisen) would react to a short darling, have a nice day:D
Tw: Yandere themes, possessive behavior, obsession, clinginess, paranoia, specific body type of darling
🍰L initially wouldn't give it too much thought as he has other things to worry about than your small height. It's probably once he has abducted you and lives with you that he really starts paying more attention to your short height, especially since you struggle with things that he can easily fulfill since he is taller than you. For the first time he starts considering your small figure amusing, all the more whilst watching you desperately attempting to reach something that is too high up for you. If you were to give him the cold shoulder after the abduction he asks Watari to put everything on higher shelves and places on purpose only to push you into begrudgingly asking L for help when you need something but can't reach it. It's especially fascinating since he has never considered himself as someone tall yet with someone as short as his darling he looks in comparison very big. Sometimes he just feels the urge to grabs your hand and compare the size of it with his own, black eyes observing the clear difference fascinated. Other times he just wraps his arms around you and presses you against his chest when he wants to cuddle, almost managing to hide you in his hold.
Jouno Saigiku
♦️Standing at 5'11, Jouno is a rather tall man yet his height has never been something that he has paid specfic attention to nor has it ever mattered to him how tall the people around him are. It doesn't even matter to him that his darling is shorter than the average person, at least not until he either notices that you feel insecure about it or until he notices that the fact that he towers over you intimidates you whenever you do something that displeases him. In that moment it starts mattering to him simply because it is another thing that he can use to frighten you and keep you in line, a fragile spot that he can target whenever he should feel in a sadistic mood, relishing in the way your heart starts beating as he stands before you. Unfortunately he isn't able to perceive with his eyes how you look in comparison to the people and objects around you, something that has only started bothering him as of recently and especially when people like Tetchou bring your small height up. Teruko probably gets along so well with you because both of you are on a small side in comparison to others but for the sake of not letting her be a bad influence for you Jouno ensures that she stays separated from you as often as possible.
Fushiguro Megumi
💙Height isn't an aspect that Megumi has ever found himself paying much attention to, at least until he developed an obsession with you. He may stand at only 5'9 yet even he looks tall in comparison to your short build and whilst he may not say anything it is something the sorcerer starts giving more attention than he ever has before. He notices how you struggle in life a tad bit more due to your small body and subconsciously that only increases his protective tendencies. When you try to reach out for something that is placed on a higher ground he immediately walks over and gets it for you, whenever you are in a crows his blue eyes are glued to your figure even more than normally as he's worried that he may lose you in the crowd of people, especially since you're on the very short side and e's always staying only one step away from you as soon as there are other people around you two as if paranoid that they might assault you. At this rate he's just babying you but if you were to confront him about it Megumi would most likely deny it. He's helping you after all, he's seen how challenging some things are for you simply because you are so small and he just wants to make your life a bit easier.
Gojo Satoru
🩵You could not have wind up with a man who could have annoyed you more for your tiny build. Worst of all is that Gojo is over 6'3 which only worsens the way he babies and gushes over your short height. If there's one thing that Gojo loves it is teasing you, sometimes simply looking around when you talk to him as if pretending that he can't find you until you threaten to kick him, a luxury he allows you to do as you're the only one he allows to touch him. When you're talking to him he bends down or simply squats down, blue eyes sparkling with mischief the moment he notices how you start getting mad. The moment he holds something away from you there is no way that you can reach it anymore though he always tells you that if you give him a kiss he might consider returning whatever he has stolen from you back to you. It is only his luxury to tease you for your height though as everyone else will receive an intense glare from him the moment they start making comments about it and god forbid someone uses their own height in an attempt to intimidate you. Loves holding your smaller hands in his big ones or lifting you up and twirling you around.
