Archive of Our Own

Justice is a funny word.

Virtue, consequentialism, deontology- there’s layers to right and wrong, and even more to ethics, defining what even is ‘right’ or ‘wrong’, good or evil.

You went to law school to do something with promise, to dedicate your life to justice. You’d proposed real consequence for crime, longer jail sentences and stricter rehabilitation, something to truly strike fear into criminal’s hearts before they commit crimes, not after they’re caught.

They called you crazy, aberrant, an egotistical maniac for doing the only thing that could actually cause change. Real change.

They couldn’t see that there was no other way. That the world had to be fixed. 

The first time you got to work - truly work, the research and writing and publishing that you’d wanted to do for years- you felt good. Exposed your first criminal to the eyes of the law, so certain you’d make a real difference. That’s all you’d ever wanted. You kept track of their arrest, waiting to see how the justice system handles it, if you really caused change.

And they got off on a technicality four days later. You almost gave up entirely.

You dropped out, kept it up, under a new name to avoid scrutiny, and it got huge. People all across Japan read your research, and a bunch of politician and criminal scumbags were exposed for the things the law ignored. You felt… good. Like you were doing something worthwhile, even if you couldn’t work from inside the system. What’s the point of trying to join the system if it’s broken?

Then things changed. The lines you’d drawn suddenly fractalized, split, splintered, and shattered, left you with the palms of your hands and the pads of your fingers and no sense of what to do with them. 

[TWO MONTHS AGO]

You feel like you’re being watched. It’s not new. It shouldn’t come as a surprise to an investigative journalist who’s already angered lots of people in power, but you’ve always stayed alert enough to know that nobody has found your real name and face. 

It’s different tonight. 

The streets are as dark and empty as usual and no matter how many times you look around, no one’s there. The city hums and buzzes as it always has, the concrete breathing under your feet as the streetlights flicker, warm and orange. The infinitely soft pressure of eyes on your back, that skin-crawling phantom touch, just can’t seem to leave you.

Your whole body freezes when a distorted face with red eyes and rows of yellowed teeth emerges from the darkness across you. Is that a mask? It’s so textured, the eyes look naturally wet, but it can’t be a human face; humans don’t-

“Hey, kid.” Gravelled and older, the voice moves along with the mouth, the lips never quite closing over the long, stretching teeth. Oh god, as it moves forward you see the body, tall, taller than a person should be, with thin, stretching limbs, skin leathered and gray.

You try to stay cool and level-headed. It’s- he’s? got to be a random asshole scaring passers-by, not a hitman targeting you specifically. It couldn’t be– you protect your anonymity too much to let anyone know anything about you– and yet you feel hunted. Like prey, wide-eyed and defenseless. Those soulless eyes stare at you, ancient and unblinking.

“What, too scared to say hi?” he says, voice dark and amused.

“I don’t-”

“What are you scared for?” he asks, tone teasing yet still dangerous. The flickering streetlights seem to make him flicker with them, his face contorting in and out of focus. He takes more steps towards you, his movements graceful and fluid, like a predator stalking its prey. You can feel the heat of his breath on your skin, strangely musty and damp.

“I’m not-” you stammer, voice wavering, heart pounding, as you take a few steps back. “I’m not scared.”

“Oh, but you are,” he says, his eyes narrowing as his smirk turns into a full-blown grin, revealing his long, jagged teeth. "I can smell it on you. Fear.“

Everything happens in a blur: knife-sharp teeth close in around your neck as you hear a horrible wet sound, sinew, tendon, the crunch of bone , and start to feel really, really tired. Good, even. Like being carried into bed from the car as a kid, a warmth of pleasure unspools from your throat down into the rest of your body and unravels any urge to fight it. The exhaustion takes over so quickly that you forget why you’d even want to run. It doesn’t even hurt, and you know it should, but can’t find the energy to care. 

As your neck and chest grow warm and wet with your own blood, cascading down in nauseating waves, you feel dizzy and slowly realize that you’re not going to make it home tonight.

“Aw, come on, not again,” the monster groans as your body connects with the ground. The last thing you remember is being lifted up like a ragdoll, and what sounded like sheets flapping in the wind. 

Eventually you do wake up, and the monster, Ryuk, explains what you’ve become. He’s been undead, a vampire, for longer than he can remember, longer than humans have recorded, and his features have grown more and more monstrous with each passing century. 

But you? You were reborn into something beautiful. Strong, powerful limbs, sharp canines, and a constant hunger burning through you.

You could hate him for this. Kill him, maybe, if you really tried. The ever-present burning in the place your heart endured its transformation, pulsing recycled blood through hollow veins, has only Ryuk to blame. Hunger and rage buries itself heavy in your chest like a stone. 

Thinking like that overcomplicates, distracts. To be human was humiliation. Now you’re not. 

[PRESENT DAY]

Now, you don’t just get to write. You get to act. With each article you publish, a body is found. Two puncture marks between the neck and shoulder, right at the juncture of the throat, and drained of blood. Horrific crimes to the mass media, but to you? 

It’s art.

The government is panicking at the emergence of this ‘monster,’ while the people secretly celebrate and start calling you – the killer, not the journalist – Kira. Nobody knows who you are, and no one has begun to guess that whoever anonymously exposes the crimes post-death (justifying said killings) and whoever punishes them are the same person. 

God, you just wish you could go by your real name, so all your old peers and professors could see what you’d accomplished, what they failed to see before.

With lots of time to find blood with no moral dilemmas attached, you’re drunk with newfound power, living without fear. If someone tries to hurt you now? They should be the one scared. You’re just a quiet, shut-in journalist, working through your days, writing and hunting through your nights, so they wouldn’t know what hit them. It’s not like your eye bags or sickly skin tone ever changed. 

The morality of all this is bottled up on your top shelf, collecting dust.

You’re pulling up some deeply buried shit on your next target when the screen of your PC goes black. You frown, smacking the side (nothing), checking the power button (still glowing), and as you’re begrudgingly about to manually restart it, a bright letter glows white in a gothic font.

[L]

Did you get another fucking virus? Thank god for backups, but it’s gonna be such a pain to-

You freeze. Below the letter, text begins to appear. 

[Don’t bother trying to close this].

The words fill the screen, white against the stark black background. It’s not just a virus; you’ve been hacked. Great.

[You’ve been doing some interesting work as of late], more text continues to type itself out, words upon words scrolling past as the hacker types them, [and I have a proposition].

You notice a flashing cursor at the bottom of the screen and try to see if you can communicate back. 

[Who are you?] you respond hesitantly, watching the text appear as you input it. A pause.

[My name is L.]

The name hits you like a truck. Someone incredibly powerful, incredibly intelligent, and in your case, incredibly dangerous. You don’t know where he stands on Kira’s actions, but if it’s on the side of the law, you need to think fast. 

[You’ve been investigating a public figure that I’ve taken as my latest case. I propose an information exchange.]

Your chest sinks with relief as you shakily exhale. He has no idea. This is about you as a journalist, not a blood-crazed serial killer. The best detective in the world, honored by everyone in your profession as the unattainable ideal, wants your help because your research is so impressive. 

There’s still a possibility that he suspects you; if he managed to find your journalist persona, it shouldn’t have been tricky to deduce that you’re somehow connected to the weekly murders that neatly line up with the articles you release.

This could end really badly.

You sit motionless, staring at the computer screen in shock. If this is true, if this is the actual , real, world-famous detective L, and L is talking to you, this could be the biggest mistake of your life – or the best opportunity you’ve ever gotten.

Through all possibilities, a single main question beats inside your head just as fast as your heart beats stolen blood in your chest. Did he really want to find your help and not Kira? Has he been investigating you? Does he know?

L begins to type again, and you watch the words flow from one set of nails while the other distracts you from between your teeth.

[I have the deleted security camera footage of our target from the dates that I suspect will interest you the most. I’m happy to share, if you’re willing to follow this lead?]

The blue bar of a file downloading blinks onto screen, and you’re given both the security footage you’ve been looking for and a promising new eyewitness report. This really isn’t some kind of trick. This has to be the real L (no one else in the world would be able to get that footage) treating you like an equal and proposing to work together. You feel starstruck, flattered, and ready to thank the Pulitzer committee in your speech. 

[Deal], you type with hands shaking from excitement after taking a moment to browse what he’d sent you.

That’s just the beginning of your collaboration. You’re both instinctively cautious of each other at first, but L soon starts to trust you with more serious requests and rely on your abilities. He truly is smarter than you could have imagined, but still seems appreciative of your insights on the case you are both tackling from different ends. 

L is reluctant at first to share his reason for taking it, but he eventually leads you to figure out that he is working for money. Nothing to do with justice, which shouldn’t be as relieving as it feels.

You try to not judge L for doing the right work for the wrong reasons. He often has access to the missing data necessary to complete your research, and gives insanely quick and good advice. 

Already almost finished with your latest report, you and L have grown close enough to make small jokes while working, talking almost like friends would. It’s way past the time for the object of your investigation to become dinner, so much so that you can barely focus on the work, when you get another message from L:

[I have the suspect ready to be interrogated, and I’d like to have you here with me to assist.] 

No fucking way. You get to meet L in person, and get to help interrogate the person whom you’ve been researching for weeks? You’re absolutely starving for some criminal blood and feel agitated with excitement at the thought of meeting your former idol-turned-colleague (and possibly even friend). Without really thinking it through, you hit enter.

[I’m interested.] L doesn’t respond immediately, and your fingers hover above the keyboard before dropping. [Where?]

[I’m temporarily stationed in Tokyo. We'll discuss matters there. You’ll be escorted tomorrow at nine. I don't think I need to explain to you how important secrecy is.]

[No, you don’t.]

[Then we’ll continue this discussion tomorrow.]

With that, the words vanish off of your monitor, replacing your usual desktop and any trace of L along with them, the same way as always. You’re left to sit with your thoughts.

What have you gotten yourself into? Should you wear a mask? Sunglasses and a baseball cap, like the movies? No, you’re certain he already knows your identity and a million other things, but the idea of showing up with zero acknowledgement to your alter-ego is a little off-putting. 

The idea that L knows much more about you than he let on, where you live, your day job, your search history-

Best not to think about it.

[DAY ONE]

Last night was supposed to be another hunt as per the original project timeline, but you chose to postpone it in preparation for your meeting with L. Christ, the meeting you’ll be personally driven to in a few minutes. Going an extra day without feeding can be a pain in the ass, but you don't want to cause another crime scene without also having an article ready to publish. If you take care of it tonight, at the latest tomorrow, you’ll be fine.

You look professional, but not dressed up. Your hair is clean, your nails are filed, and that’s hopefully all it’ll take for him to respect your authority on the case. You have no idea what he actually looks or sounds like- just the long list of solved cases that come with his name and the stories of how elusive he is to contact.

The man that greets you at the door is an older gentleman, dressed in a sharp suit with a white mustache. He seems to recognize you and smiles softly as you step outside, gesturing for you to follow him. You’re led to a sleek black car with tinted windows. Expensive, without a doubt, but not flashy. He opens the rear side door for you to take a seat, and you notice the divider separating the front from the back as it’s slid up. As the car begins to move, it stays that way.

When the car rolls to a stop and you step out, the older man takes your phone, pockets it (to your distress), and leads you into the largest, sleekest, most intimidating skyscraper in the city. You take note of the simple, smooth interior of the building, and the many security cameras placed along the walls. He leads you into an elevator, and you chew your lip to keep from speaking and stand beside him, watching the number on the screen steadily tick up. 

The door opens with a ding, and as you step out, you see a man standing in front of you. Disheveled black hair, pale skin, darkly shadowed eyes, and a simple white shirt with baggy blue jeans. The guy scans you with a blank expression, his voice emotionless. "Come with me."

“Are you-”

He nods curtly. "You were expecting someone more exciting, I take it?"

You shake your head rapidly, eyes wide and embarrassed. Truth be told, there was something awfully ordinary and terrible about him, by just how plain he looks. First impressions reveal so little, but it seems L is designed to live in two dimensions, text on a screen. He’s not ugly, that’s not at all the word you’d use, but almost surreal. A title and role too large to fit a person, so instead they smother his real face into obscurity, into nothingness, antimemetic and flat.

The elevator dings behind you and you see the older man disappear behind the sliding door. You are left completely alone with the best detective in the world, so much larger than life that the shadow engulfs him, and the awe and reverence you start to feel leave your tongue flat and useless against the roof of your mouth.

L turns and begins to walk down the hallway outside the elevator, barefoot, you notice with confusion, and takes you into a large, near-empty, industrial-looking room.

It’s dark, illuminated solely by a lone monitor, glowing a cold white. A chair stands besides it, askew. The serial killer you’re so hungry for isn’t here. L sits down on the lone spinny chair, swiveling and facing you. His fingers drum against his thighs, and you’re almost hypnotized by the motion.

“You’re under arrest for suspected involvement in the Kira murders.”

What.

“What.”

L watches you closely as he speaks, his demeanor aloof and emotionless, almost like he’s calculating something. “You’re a prime suspect.” Leaning forward in his chair, L’s gaze never leaves your face. "Your online presence, your political views, the skills you demonstrated; it all points to you having the motive and reach."

Suddenly far out of your comfort zone, in much more danger than you’d anticipated, you do what you’ve learned to do best. Lie.

“Hold on- me? We work together. We're on the same side of justice.”

He looks at you as judgmentally as one can without making any expression at all. “I have a feeling you’re doing a lot more than you say, and for the wrong reasons.” He tilts his head, a gesture that seems almost predatory, like a cat eyeing a mouse. The comparison is just offensive.

You’d done plenty of research on your most recent victim for weeks prior to his death, as you usually do. Then you left him dead on the floor of his multi-million dollar vacation home. If L explored your files as much as he’d implied, he’ll know for certain you’ve had more to do with his death than you let on. Guilty. No, not guilty; that’s not what you are- caught, maybe. Labeled as murderer instead of savior.

"And what reasons are those, exactly?" you ask, crossing your arms and leaning against the balls of your feet, feigning nonchalance. What a complete fucking betrayal. This whole time you thought you were working with him towards something good, something right, just to be slapped in the face.

L's body language is calculating and flat. "I believe you view yourself as a vigilante, correct? You think you know better than the laws of this world, laws that you think should be circumvented to make your own personal brand of 'justice.'" Justice is said with just the slightest uptick of the corner of his mouth, and you want to smack the amusement off him. 

“You’re thinking about Kira, not me. I haven’t broken a single law.”

"This is about you. It's evident that you've taken it upon yourself to be judge, jury, and executioner, even if you refuse to admit it. Your work in exposing corruption does not equate to the right to kill."

“That’s null and void, since I haven’t killed anyone.”

L sighs, seemingly growing frustrated with your denial. "No?" he asks dryly, his fingertips continually tapping against his knee. "Your blog suggests otherwise. You openly agree with Kira, have articles released mere hours after each murder, as if you’ve been preparing for weeks. I'd say that's more than just a coincidence."

“Just give me a chance- I can get you every alibi you’ll ever need,” you say, desperately thinking of how to bullshit to that extent, then continue to lie. “You just need to see all the facts.”

“I find that difficult to believe. Either Kira’s been giving you a target and deadline, or you live a very busy double life. Which is it?” L says, fishing out a pair of handcuffs from his pocket and swinging them side-to-side across his fingertips. 

“Is neither so hard to accept?” 

“Believe me, it is. You can put these on, or I can put them on for you.” He hums, holding out the cuffs oddly, pinched between his fingertips.

You look him up and down. You’re on the weaker side after this hunger streak, but he’s so brittle you could snap him like a twig. Why not play along?

Faking begrudgement, you step closer to L, holding your wrists out. This beats being forcefully restrained, but the threat of violence still dangles from L’s fingertips.

You pull your wrist tight to your body with a hiss as the first cuff closes. Silver?  Did he seriously find silver fucking cuffs? Is he insane? Clutching your hand, you shake your head furiously and try not to start gagging from the chemical reaction the metal’s giving your wrist. You wouldn’t be surprised if an hour with this thing on melts you down to the bone. 

“I’m extremely sensitive to some- uh, metals. I forgot to- oh god, can you please find a different pair of cuffs? Please?” you choke, jutting your arm away from you and towards the key in his hand.

“You’re allergic to silver?”

“Like peanuts times a thousand, it- FUCK, it’s reaaallllyyyy really REALLY painful and immediate and if you don’t get out the fucking key-”

“Would you accept another option?” L suggests like he’s got all the time in the world, said key pinched oddly between two fingers. 

“ANYTHING, anything, oh my god I don’t have the time for this just please-” you beg, close to dropping to your knees and groveling.

He eyes you, owlishly and suspiciously, before muttering something under his breath and taking off the cuff. You hold in a groan of relief once they’re off your wrists, rubbing the sore spot tenderly. It still aches, like a sunburn. 

“I don’t think you’ll prefer the alternative,” he says, motioning for you to walk in front of him as he leads you through the building. “But beggars can’t be choosers.”

He’s right. The room is hardly preferable. It’s less of a room and more of a cell- or, to be clear, a room containing a cell. There’s no windows, no color, just the bare minimum for a human to survive in, not unlike jail. You’re ushered in without flair, and the mechanical door whirs shut behind you. The lock must be controllable from a distance, by something on L’s person. You’ve killed a lot of people and yet still feel like the more ethical investigator between the two of you right now.

You want to pace, to claw, to scratch, but because you’re a person (more or less as of late), you take a seat against the bench on the back wall and glare at L with well-concealed betrayal and malice. Apart from a single bench (your current seat), a sink (not like you’ll need to drink from it), and a toilet (self-explanatory), there’s not much to keep yourself occupied. 

"Until I’m done interrogating you, you’re going to be staying here.” He watches you from behind the imposing metal bars, thumb pressed to his lower lip.

“Do I get a time estimate for that?”

“Until I find a more promising suspect or get a confession out of you.”

You grimace. “Better keep looking, then.”

L cocks his head, his dark eyes piercing as he leans closer to you. "You seem very confident that you'll come out of this situation unscathed."

Finally, you snap. “What is wrong with you?”

If L reacts, it’s invisible. "I simply wish to solve crimes and enact justice for the victims and their families. And what do you do? Write about people for the world to see how righteous you are. That's a god complex in itself, don't you think?"

"Get in here and I'll show you what I think."

“Is that a confession?”

“An exaggeration. I’m reasonably upset.”

“Really?" He leans forward. "You’re reasonably guilty. The one thing the people haven’t noticed is that all confirmed times of death happen on a set schedule before your reports go public. Even if official obituaries get released after your articles, it still means that both you and Kira had to have simultaneously monitored the victims’ crimes- time and time again, the same people. Do you find this pattern interesting?”

"Maybe Kira's a fan."

"And maybe Kira is you." 

"Do I look like I'm capable of killing those people like that?" you say, gesturing at yourself lamely. 

He seems amused with your question and shrugs. "You look perfectly capable to me. Although Kira's killings are very inhuman in nature, which leads me to my next question. Is it true that Kira’s a vampire? Or is that just another lie spread on the internet?"

“Vampires aren't real. The blood was probably siphoned out using a pump. People just love to make things sound more exciting.”

"And yet all the victims’ necks had puncture marks with the exact spacing and size to match human canines." He rests his head against the bars. "So why would someone go through all the trouble to siphon blood with a machine, just to leave behind the mark of a human?"

“To scare people. Fear is a powerful weapon.”

"And what does Kira get out of that, I wonder? Do you relish the thought of the public being afraid to go out at night for fear of being attacked by a vampire?" He frowns. "Why kill criminals? If you’ve already exposed their crimes, why not leave it up to the justice system?"

“The justice system is ruined-” you growl, before remembering yourself and the vulnerable position he’s put you in. “I’m not responsible for any of this. I just have strong political beliefs, and a highly successful blog. I’m not a serial killer.” 

"The justice system may have its flaws, but it’s still the only thing keeping us civilized. What you’re doing is causing mass hysteria and fear.” He steps back from your cell. “Do you like sweets, Kira?"

Your eyes narrow, hoping the look you're giving will make him drop dead. "I’m not dignifying that with a response."

"Very well. I'll bring you some anyway. And I'll have them put a bed in here. Being on the floor is no way for a human to sleep." He looks back at you, tilting his head innocently. "Unless you aren't human?"

Inhaling slowly, calmly, rationally, you remember your rights. “You can only keep me here for twenty-three days, unless you manage to prosecute me before then. I have all the time in the world, L.” 

But do you? The longest you’ve ever gone without a meal has been a week, and you’re already about to beat that record. 

He looks at you with barely obscured amusement, so certain in his abilities. The door shuts behind him with a hiss, and you bite back the urge to scream. 

[DAY TWO]

L walks in as you count the grids of the ceiling for the fifteenth time, carrying a small plate. It’s almost relieving to see another person’s face, hear the click and swing of the door. You’ve grown bored of rolling your lies around in your head, cementing the story you’ve decided to use as proof of innocence. 

“You know that the Kira killings have stopped entirely? Based on the preexisting pattern, there should have been one tonight. Interesting, how that works,” he says, crouching into a strange sitting position at the edge of the cell, placing the plate down with a tink.

“You’re lying,” you lie at the ceiling, resuming your count. 

“Not at all, actually. I was planning on it, to see how you’d react, but I’ve been pleasantly surprised.” The amusement in his voice bleeds through obnoxiously. 

“Kira might be on holiday. You haven't proven a thing.” 

He discards the plate and holds a cupcake oddly between his fingers. "I'll tell you what. If you give me the truth, I'll give you this." He holds the cupcake close to your face. "Come on. It's chocolate. Don't tell me you still don't like sweets? You must, since you’re so bitter." He snorts at his own joke.

Turning your head to watch him dangle the dessert, you think about ripping his fingers off. “I'd prefer real food,” you mutter.

"I'd prefer real answers," he retorts. "Unfortunately, we don't always get what we want." He nudges the dessert toward you. "Try it, please."

Scrunching your nose, you shake your head. “I’m diabetic.” 

He stares at you blankly. “That wasn’t on your medical records.” 

You’ve seen enough medical records that you weren’t supposed to in your line of work to not ask how he found yours. You think about how similar your lives in investigative work must be, minus how you choose to resolve things.

You just glare at him. He shrugs, unblinkingly. “I’ll have it, then.” He takes a long index finger and swipes it down the middle of the dessert, collecting a long stripe of frosting, and absentmindedly sucks it into his mouth with a satisfied hum. You try not to make a face.

He tilts his head curiously, revealing more of his neck, and god, the hunger in you is fighting for control. His skin is cream-white and smooth as porcelain, with the most incredible blue veins lightly streaking below. You can almost feel the way they’d push back against your tongue, blood racing, pulse beating-

You're pulled from your thoughts when he speaks again, eyes locked on yours. The detective's heartbeat is steady and slow, and the sound of it is almost hypnotizing, if not infuriating. He isn’t scared at all, is he?

“Do you feel like talking now?" He leans on his knees, and his sleeve slides up his arm to reveal a very pale wrist, decorated with protruding blue veins. Your throat aches.

“Do you usually treat your suspects like this?”

"This isn’t how my interrogations usually go, no.” There's a moment of silence before he continues speaking, hopefully to contemplate his lack of humanity. "But I am not an ordinary detective, and you are no ordinary suspect. What a curious situation we've found ourselves in." He shifts his body, turning toward you a little more.

You nearly choke from his proximity, head still tilted to expose his long expanse of neck, obscured cruelly by the long beams of metal separating the two of you. 

“You seem distracted by something. Care to tell me what it is?" He leans in a little more, so that there's only a foot of space between your noses. "I don't bite."

“I don’t either, contrary to popular belief,” you smile bitterly, ignoring the painful stretch of your gums from your fangs straining their way out. 

"We both know that's not true, don't we?" He shifts again, and now you're so close. His scent hits you like a freight train, and you have to ball your fists to stop from reaching out between the bars. 

You use your immediate-painful-death-vampire-power glare on him (the name’s a work in progress), and are incredibly disappointed to see it still does not seem to exist. You’re certain he’ll give you reason to practice it into existence.

He seems to take your lack of a response as a sign to continue. Cocking his head, he exposes the slender column of his throat once more. Starting to get a sickening feeling that he’s doing it on purpose, you look away. “Why are you doing this? All this… small talk?”

L leans his chin on his knee, still studying your face. “I’d be a lousy detective if I didn’t try every angle.”

“And what angle are you going for at the moment?” You raise a brow, hesitantly looking back towards him.

“I’m testing for a specific reaction.” He pauses, pressing a thumb to his lower lip and kneading. “And I have reason to believe I’m getting it.”

He reaches for your poorly shared cupcake again, and you watch the treat with horror as he takes some more frosting off the top with a long swipe of his index finger. He holds it up and brings it to your lips through the bars.

He gives no warning before pressing it against your mouth, pushing at the seam of your lips. You’re struck by several warring thoughts all at once, the most prominent being what the fuck, and it’s only by the grace of your supernatural self-restraint that you don’t bite his finger clean off.

Fuck it. You wrap your mouth around his finger, pinching it between your teeth, threatening to bite, just to see how he'll react. If he'll give you reason to.

You feel him freeze as you take his finger in your mouth, holding it against your teeth, and a small jolt of adrenaline rushes through you. You can feel the rapid pulse as it jumps through his skin, feel the heat rushing through it. He’s staring at you in a way you’re struggling to read, the faintest flicker of surprise still etched onto his features, maybe? Yet he doesn’t move.

Fine, then. You'll give him more. You meet his gaze, biting down slightly harder- not enough to hurt, or break skin, but a promise to get there. His brow furrows as your jaw tightens, and you don’t miss the shudder that goes through him, or the way his eyes flutter half shut before he catches himself and snaps his attention back onto you, gaze hardening into something intense. He doesn’t pull his hand away, though.

There’s a dangerous light in his eye, and you feel a thrill shoot through you. “You should be careful,” he says lowly, as his thumb brushes your bottom lip.

Dumbfounded, shocked at his audacity and lack of fear, your jaw drops slightly.

His thumb freezes on your lip as you subconsciously open your mouth. He stares with that same indecipherable look, watching intently. His heart is beating faster, you can hear it in his chest. L would make a perfect martyr, he must want to, the way he twirls his safety like a fishing line into deep water.

Slowly, like he’s giving you plenty of time to protest, he dips his thumb into your mouth, rubbing gently against your lower teeth, joining his index. So he is an adrenaline junkie. Your fangs throb in warning, more than ready, and you tell them to shut up. His thumb moves to your canine, tracing the edge, pressing lightly at the tip as if to test its sharpness. You push down a moan at the heady scent and warmth, gaze still meeting his, challenging him, unsure of as to what.

His eyes flick down to your mouth, and you can see a muscle along the edge of his jaw twitch as he swallows hard. His skin is hot against yours, and you can feel the blood rushing through the digit, a dull heat against your tongue. You could not care less about the frosting right now.

L pulls almost out, then pushes back in again, and now you can’t hold back the sound that escapes you, eyes rolling back. You rip your head away, shaking a little from the effort, panting. 

"You're not getting a reaction out of me. Fuck you."

He lifts the finger slowly, the one you’d licked, and brings it to his own mouth. His tongue slides up in one long, slow, deliberate stroke, collecting the remnants. He pulls it out, a thread of saliva connecting his finger to his mouth, and you’re struck with how incredibly disgusting and incredibly… hmm. It’s definitely doing things to you you’re going to question later.

He leans forward, resting his forehead against the bars, and looks at you through his lashes, eyes hooded. “Don’t worry. I have other ways.” Unceremoniously, after wiping his hand on the leg of his jeans, he stands, taking one last glance at your kneeling form on the floor before turning towards the door. 

You glare, the aftertaste of him still burning warmly on your tongue.

L leaves, the door clicking shut behind him. Escape is so close, yet impossibly out of reach. A hunger gnaws in your chest, and even worse, a loneliness. You and L are two sides of the same coin, spinning on its side, waiting to see which one of you ends face-up. 

[DAY THREE]

A little red ball to bounce against the wall would be fitting, you think, fighting the urge to gnaw off your hand. Contrary to popular opinion, vampires do sleep, and you’ve been spending the majority of your time in here either failing to meditate or knocked out completely. The food you’ve been given is inedible, might as well be compost, you can’t even pretend to stomach it to drop suspicion. The last two days of conversation with L race through your mind, and you seethe at every way he’s already caught you slipping up. 

How do you plan on getting out of this? Twenty one more days and you’re already at the end of your rope. Your neck’s scar itches, your throat burns, your eyes feel dry and oversensitive to the light. You feel like your skin might slough off at any moment, and the hunger. Your stomach may be trying to digest itself with the way it burns through your chest, throat, sizzling inside your head. 

Next time L leans close to the bars to fuck with you, or tries to shove his stupid fingers in your mouth, you can grab him. You’re incredibly fast and strong, and could most likely pull most of him messily in with you and take the key like that. But are you still that powerful? You barely feel strong enough to stand now.

You envision the hypothetical anyway. It’s cathartic. When you’re this bored, there’s not much else to do but envision hypotheticals. He’ll move his face right up to the bars, look you dead in the eyes, and continue to taunt you, hoping for a confession. That microscopic ghost of a smile will show up when you refuse, his eyes widening, head tilting, watching you, always watching, and you’ll grab him by the collar of his shirt and pull-

Are you actually fucking blushing right now? Shouldn’t Stockholm syndrome take a little longer to kick in? Ugh, you’ve got to be the world’s best hostage. 

The door to the room unlocks and you jolt, nearly falling off your bed. You nonchalantly fix the way you’re sitting and give L your usual good-morning-glare. 

“Morning,” you scowl.

“It’s four in the afternoon.”

“Which one of us has a clock? Or windows, for that matter?”

Unaffected as ever, L’s eyes flick over you, his tone becoming more melancholic. “You don’t look well.”

You roll your eyes. “Riveting observation. I can see how you got your success rate.” 

“You haven’t been eating what I’ve given you.”

“Hunger strike.”

“Largely ineffective.”

“I’m patient.”

“Your body isn’t,” he says bluntly.

You scowl at his unfairly true remark, and clutch your knees to your chest, hoping the pressure will stop the burning sensation in your gut.

“These symptoms, the lack of eating. You are a vampire, aren’t you? You need blood,” he says matter-of-factly.

“I’m not falling into your trap. You’re out of your mind, and you’ve wrongfully imprisoned me to get a false confession,” you groan, palm sliding up your forehead to push the logic and reason back into your skull. You feel his gaze on your skin. 

He shrugs. “It’s not a trap. I’ve been watching your condition worsen by the day, and it’s really just intriguing.” His tone is completely conversational, if not interested. “Are you really going to let yourself die to keep up this act?”

"I’m not a liar," you try to growl, dizzy from hunger, but it comes out as more of a slur.

He takes a step closer to the bars, and his scent washes over you again. It’s not even special, your personal brand of heroin, it’s just blood and it’s good. You hate your stupid vampire brain for wanting to pull him closer, and you hate him for using it against you.

“You want blood. I can help you,” L murmurs, glancing down at himself then back at you with intent.

“No, god, I only want to get out of here.”

“You’re starving.”

“You’re insane.”

“Sometimes that's the only way to get things done.”

“Kira only kills corrupt politicians, human traffickers, criminals. You don’t meet the bar. If I was Kira, I couldn’t kill you, not for justice,” you huff, trying to convince yourself. You never once had blood solely out of self preservation, it’s always been excused and seasoned by justice, but is L really undeserving of any punishment for what he’s done to you?

“If you want to bite, to feed, then do it. But don’t do it for some idea of justice. Do it for yourself,” he persuades, before his voice softens as he steps right up to the bars. “Do it because I’m asking you to. Do it because I’ve made myself your prey.”

You stand on shaky legs, stepping back and further away from him, shaking your head, jaw clenched shut for fear of what might happen if you open it. He frowns. He might need proof of your vampirism, but he has to be insane to actually ask you of this. 

To use himself as bait.

“Doesn’t it hurt, holding yourself back? Hiding what you are? Don’t you want to feel better?”

Can he hear how shakily you exhale? You pull your head to the side like it hurts, because it does, teeth grit. Feeling your fangs lengthen the way they do before a kill, venomous saliva pools on your tongue, and it takes every ounce of strength for you to shake your head and swallow back the poison. 

“I’m not Kira, and Kira isn’t a fucking vampire. I’m not what you want me to be, L,” you rant. “I won’t be framed for someone else’s crimes.”

L watches, moving closer to the cage. “You’re hungry,” his tone rings with mock sympathy. “And I’m here. If you don’t eat, you’ll go insane. So why don’t you give in?” His voice lowers to barely a whisper, teasing, taunting. “I promise I won’t struggle.”

It’s such a farce, and you remind yourself of that like it’s the one thing keeping you anchored to reality. He’s faking it, all he wants is to get evidence of your teeth, your bite, and it’ll be concrete proof that you’re Kira. You can’t let him- you can’t. You’re fucked enough as it is now that there hasn’t been a Kira murder in a record length of time, but you can at least try to save face and plan another way out, one that isn’t… this. 

Would this really be that bad? Do you not owe yourself one more simple pleasure before being condemned to whatever he’s got planned for you once sentenced? You’re fucked, there’s really no promising alternative, and something about the way he looks right now, the way he smells, makes you think this isn’t as much of a loss as it is a compromise.

With shaking legs you take a step forward, then another, edging yourself towards him. Each movement is torture with his heady scent clouding the room. You take shallow breaths through your mouth, using every shred of remaining restraint to stop yourself from pouncing. 

L doesn’t pull away, or flinch. He watches you unblinkingly as you lean close and wrap your hands around the bars. 

“Get in the cell, and I’ll give you what you want.” You look up at him, eyes half-lidded and pupils blown inhumanly large.

“You know I can’t do that.”

“You know why you have to. You want evidence? Earn it.” 

The internal battle he wages ends shortly and in your favor. Risking himself for this evidence is still more logical than letting you out of the cell, and there’s no way he can get the proof of your bite otherwise.  

“You won’t kill me?” 

“I promise,” you say, like that means a thing.

The door locks shut behind him with a click and mechanical whirr. He tucks the (fingerprint activated?) remote into his pocket and eyes you warily, not stepping any closer. Waiting for your move.

The caution you took bringing yourself to him vanishes entirely. In a flash, your teeth are buried in L’s neck, hands fisted in his hair and shirt like he might slip through your fingers, crumble like powdered sugar. His back slams against the wall, head cushioned by the hand cradling his scalp. You can’t let him go, you can’t stop, oh my god, he’s -

Heaven, cloyingly sweet the way candy once was, like hummingbird food dripping thickly down your chin. You forget where you are, who you’re drinking from, and bury yourself in the taste, taking time to pull away to lap at the blushing wound. Pleasure melts into your body, wet and ecstatic, soaking your jaw and cheeks like juice from a peach. You yearn to bite down harder until your teeth meet the pit. 

Everyone else is so bitter, and maybe it’s just the delirium from starvation, but L is morphine, hot and heavy on your tongue like honey. You can feel his pulse under your touch, and you’re not sure which one of you is making those noises.

L’s body is so warm, his skin so soft as you hold him like a partner rather than a predator. As you suck on the mark lazily, high and weightless, your senses start to sharpen. You remember where you are. Who he is.

Fuck.

Pulling away with Edwardian effort, you take an unsteady step back, tense with horror. Oh shit, he isn’t dead, is he? You didn’t take that much. 

He’s… a wreck. The entire side of his neck is stained cherry-red, soaking the collar of his once pristinely white shirt, and he doesn’t look that mad about it. He doesn’t look mad at all. Thick black hair falls across the side of his face, shadowing glassy eyes bordered by thin gray crescents. His chest rises and falls rapidly, and he sways lightly on his feet. His cheeks are deeply flushed, and his hands clench and unclench every few moments.

All this you would attribute to shock, blood loss, and the satisfaction of getting the upper hand, if it wasn’t for the tent in his jeans. Interesting choice of a post-major-trauma blood circulation response, but hey, you aren’t his circulatory system.

“Are you….?” Alright? Hard? Gonna let me out now? Words can’t leave your mouth, as your jaw is too busy hanging while you oogle him. 

“Didn't think… didn't think it would... feel…” L slurs, panting and throwing his head back with a frustrated groan. 

You watch him, suddenly feeling very conflicted. He’s- okay, he’s vulnerable. And a lot more attractive than you’d originally thought. He’s also your one way out of here. Christ, even you can’t think straight, and you’re suffering from the opposite of blood loss. Your vampire body is screaming at you to jump him and finish the job, and your human body is screaming the exact same thing in a very different way.

You could take the key, slide it against his thumb. It would be easy. He’s so fucking out of it right now, you could just slip out and lock him in the cage. 

Quick vampire math: L is still standing and speaking, meaning you’d taken, judging his body weight, less than 30% of his total blood volume. In order to really get to full power, you’ve gotta drain the whole body. All in all, you’re both in somewhat-okay-mostly-shit shape. 

It’s hard to believe that with how he’s looking right now, a soft rivulet of blood trailing down the column of his throat, soaking into the ruined fabric of his shirt.

His face is showing more emotion than ever before, and 90% of it seems to be panic. Internal conflict is plastered onto his face, and his gaze flicks from you to the key in his pocket. You can practically hear the cogs working in his head, deciding his next move, assessing how bad he’s bleeding, how much of a danger you are.

“Don’t,” you say softly, your own breathing still just as ragged, as he begins slowly reaching a hand to the key in his pocket. He startles a bit at your voice, and stops, fixing you with an unreadable look.

“I think I understand now,” he murmurs, shifting on his feet, before shaking his head. "I need to leave."

You choke on your words, unsure of what to say. Your hands flex by your sides and your throat aches, the whole body just begging for another taste. You can’t keep yourself from licking your lips, and he flinches, breath hitching in response.

L takes a few steps back, pulling out the key and pressing his thumb to it. The door opens, and he takes two unsteady steps into the hall, before you finally get up to move. Your hand darts out to grab his wrist, holding him in place. He looks back at you, unbelieving. “This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

"Stay,” you plead, unable to bear the thought of being left alone again. When he shakes his head your hand goes slack as you stare at the ground in defeat. 

“I can’t." L's jaw clenches, feet wavering, as he pulls his wrist from your grasp. "I just need a moment to- I need to think.”

Fighting every urge in your body, you decide for once in your life to have some humanity. "Okay."

You watch his feet pad along the floor as he moves to the door, see it swing and click shut. Hiss, click, whirr. Locked up and alone, again. Falling to your knees, your forehead drops to rest against the cold metal bars. 

The hours seem to tick by like days after he leaves, your thoughts growing darker the more time passes. You’ve left a pretty damning mark on the most dangerous person possible. Now that the initial rush of biting him in the first place has worn off, you’re left to deal with the implications of what you’ve done.

What the fuck did you do? You can still taste him, drying on your cheeks and down your throat, staining your fingertips. You feel like an animal, and wish you had a change of clothes (and a drink strong enough to actually work). 

You lay on the shitty makeshift bed, staring at the dark ceiling, searching for answers like one might in the stars. One thing you're trying to ignore is how much better you feel. All that weariness, that anger, has melted off of like snow and left a warm feeling in your chest.

Drifting off into a deep sleep, the only thing you can remember from your dream is a pair of silver-gray eyes.

[DAY 4]

He’s late. There’s no way to tell the time in this shithole, but your body’s developed a natural L-clock the last few days with nothing much else to do, and you can feel it. If he was going to come, he already would have. This raises questions you have nothing but time to ponder.

Is he dead? Did you take too much, infect the wound, turn him? A part of you feels horror, guilt, unimaginable shame at the prospect of killing someone who’s not a criminal, someone who's done so much for justice. But fuck, the voice inside your head bitching about not grabbing the key and walking out if he was gonna die anyway will not shut up. 

Are you caught? Is the evidence of the bite enough for a death sentence or whatever he’s got planned? The next time the door swings open, you’re not sure what to expect. It could be L again, but it also could be armed guards sent to detain you. 

The door does eventually open. Frustratingly anticlimactic, the man who steps inside isn’t who you want to see. The older gentleman from before, Watari, steps inside carrying a silver tray. Food. Usually you wake to food on that tray across the cell, slid onto a mounted tray, but this time you’re awake for it. Maybe your internal clock is further off than you’d previously thought. 

Tucking your knees to your chest, you watch as he deposits the food, gives you a soft wrinkled smile, mustache perking, and heads back out the door. Getting up to examine, you check out what’s been delivered. 

Steak, broccoli, mashed potatoes, and a bottle of water. Human you would’ve pounced on this, but it looks as appealing as mulch. A part of you had hoped that L would have tried to insult you by replacing the food with a blood bag. 

Abandoning the food, you return to the bed, curling to face the wall.

Overthink, pace, wallow, sleep, overthink. The ache you feel in your chest isn’t even a metaphor. This shit hurts. 

Day five is the same. It passes in a boring, disorienting blur. 

You’re still hungry.

[DAY 6]

You’re awake when L returns.

L’s dressed the same as always, save the white bandage along the side of his neck. His face is pale, his eyes ringed by deep dark circles, more pronounced than usual. As usual, he smells good. He hesitates for a moment when he sees you sitting on the bed, staring at him expectantly. His hand tightens on the handle of the water he’s carrying. Somehow, his return makes you more sad than anything. It’s a quiet kind of distress, drowned out by the deafening silence of the room.

You don’t know what to say, so you say something anyway. “Still with the pretense?”

His eyes dart to the water bottle in his hand, before looking back at you with a frown. “I suppose there’s no point, is there?”

Shrugging, you huff out a noise of nonchalance. “You decide, detective.”

L takes a long breath, letting the air out in a labored exhale. He looks like he hasn’t slept since you’d last seen him, moving to sit on the floor in front of your cell. “I came to talk.”

You raise a brow. Concealing how excited you are to finally see him is easy- you’ve just got to keep playing hard to get. L’s fingers fidget in his lap, and he pointedly avoids your gaze.

“I did some research,” he starts, voice hesitant. “I had Watari check on some things, do tests and analyze the data I collected. But all signs point to you being…” he trails off, looking up at you with uncertainty.

“Don’t make me say it,” you groan, dropping your head with disappointment.

L shakes his head. “What you are isn’t the issue. It’s what you’ve done,” he pauses to meet your gaze. “You’re a vampire, correct?”

“I said not to make me say it! ”

“You’re quite difficult,” he mutters. “Alright. I won’t force an answer from you, but I assume this means I’m correct.”

“You may assume.”

“And I’m sure you’re aware I have concrete evidence of your being Kira.”

You glare at him flatly and give no response. You’ve gone too far to keep playing the nuh-uh yuh-huh game.

“As I said, I did some research,” he says slowly. “I have some more questions.”

“Oh, I’m sure.”

“First, I’d like to ask about the blood consumption,” he starts, voice a little uneven. “Does it have to be human blood, or would the blood from any animal suffice?”

Blanching, you stick out your tongue with a gag. “Blegh. Human blood, for sure.” 

Grimacing, he suggests, “Have you tried any other blood?”

“Have you tried earthworms? Cockroaches? I’ve heard they’re very nutritious.” You mock, disgusted amusement slipping out.

“Human, then,” he repeats, almost to himself. “The amount?”

“Ideally? Five liters a week. I can live off two.”

Slowly, after a moment, L nods, eyes melting onto the wall from thought, before gliding back to you. “I’d like to try again.”

You recoil like you’ve been slapped. What?  “You- you leave me in here, alone, for fucking days-”

“There’s no need to yell.”

“-to ask for round two?” You’re panting, shaking a little, all of this stupid overthinking for WHAT?

L’s expression hardens and his jaw clenches, all humor leaving his tone. “Believe me,” he spits, “I’ve done more thinking than you could imagine over these past days.”

You laugh in disbelief, whipping your head to look at him, disbelievingly-wide eyes to creepily-wide ones. 

“I’ve done some calculations, and it should be possible without you taking enough to kill me.”

“And this benefits you how?” you stress, trying to ignore your memory of how he looked the night of the incident. Flushed, pupils blown, completely… fuck. 

L looks you dead in the eye, and you don’t miss the shiver that runs through him. “I’ve never been more interested in anything as I am in you,” he says bluntly, not missing a beat. “In order to truly understand you, I think I need to have a little more firsthand experience.”

"Anything... " you murmur to yourself, before snapping out of it. "....ok. I'm- yeah , I don't have many alternatives to that."

“Then it’s settled, I suppose.” His fingers fidget in his lap again, his gaze dropping once more to the floor. “If I did let you feed off of me, how exactly would the process work?”

"Same as last time. I'm not as hungry, so I can be, um. Gentler. If you'd prefer that."

L’s breath audibly hitches, the look of fear and determination replaced with a strange sort of anticipation. "I think I'd like that, yes." He hesitates for a moment. “How frequently do you need to feed?”

“Is this becoming a routine?”

“It would have to be at least… twice a week, if not more, considering the amount of blood you’d be drinking. If you’re able to be trained, that is.”

"What am I, a dog?" You laugh. "Am I a good girl?" you tease with an exaggerated edge to it. 

That draws a twitch of a smile from L. “Well, you were hardly a shining example of self-restraint last time. You’ll have to learn some if you plan on continuing this arrangement, hm?” His eyes widen with the question as he kneads a thumb into his lower lip.

Your smile drops. “Fine.” 

His smile grows even further, before dying off as he looks away for a moment. “I was quite reactive to your fangs last time. I assume that being fed on by you is always going to be an… intense experience for me. Is that, ah, normal?”

“Everyone else was too busy dying to give me feedback.”

“...Right.”

You realize you’re not exactly making the experience appealing, and back-up the statement. “But I’d appreciate yours?”

L lets out an amused exhale, the corner of his lip twitching up again. “It’s hard to explain. I suppose I should start with the fact that being bitten was less painful than I was expecting; I suppose the adrenaline rushing through my system helped. However, it was intense in a different way. More than I had anticipated.”

You watch him with reddening cheeks, desperate for him to continue.

L shifts where he’s sitting on the floor a bit, looking up at you from beneath his messy hair. “It felt pleasurable, to some degree. There was a feeling of euphoria rushing through me, and a very strong connection with you. It must be a natural response to make the donor more complacent, but…” He swallows. “Is it similar, for you?”

"What do you think?" you say, genuinely curious as to how he thinks you react, though it comes off as sarcasm.

“I’ll be honest,” he says, thumb to his lip and sounding pleasantly strained, “you’re doing a number on my ability to think.”

“I can show you, then?” you suggest, eyes flicking to the door pointedly. Rising to his feet, L nods, and triggers the lock. 

“What’s the best, ah, orientation for me to take?” L queries, shutting the cell door behind him softly, taking cautious steps towards you.

You chew on the inside of your cheek, looking him up and down. “Chest to chest?” 

Eyes widening, he nods slowly. You lean back on the bed, back against the wall and legs hanging over the edge. You hold your breath as he steps up to you, wanting to stay focused. L slowly shifts to get comfortable, straddling your thighs. He keeps himself propped up by his knees, giving you clear access to the unbitten side of his neck. He’s silent for a moment, before letting out a shaky exhale. “Go slow, please.”

Running your fingers through his hair, you pull it behind his ear and off his neck, exhaling gently across the skin just to watch him shiver. He’s so reactive, so responsive, and it seems like even the smallest of touches are enough to make him shake.

L lets out a sharp gasp at the brush of your breath, eyes fluttering shut. “You don’t need to tease,” he mutters quietly, voice just an octave off of breathless. His hands are gripping the comforter on either side of your legs, and he’s holding himself up as if to avoid putting any pressure on you. Sweet.  

You’ll fix that.

Slowly, you line up your already protruding fangs, tracing them over the best place to bite, right alongside the external jugular. Taking your first breath in since he stepped up close, you take in his scent, and groan. You bite down. You can’t help it. He smells so fucking perfect, and god, he tastes even better. How could you forget this? How could you think about anything else?

L's hands move from the bedding to your back, nails digging into the fabric of your shirt, and you can hear him begin to let out small, soft noises of pleasure. He lets his head fall back, giving you even more access to his neck. The flavor is indescribable- it flows from your throat straight to your heart, pumps through your veins, molten, glowing, sunlight, life. 

Sucking smooth, slow mouthfuls of blood from the two small punctures, you pull back to lap at the mark. One of his hands shifts from your waist until it’s fisted in your hair, holding your head to his neck, pressing you flush against his skin.

His hips give an involuntary roll, grinding down against you, and L makes a strangled sound against your shoulder. You can easily notice the way his jeans have grown tighter over his lap and you feel his fingers slide under the hem of your shirt as he slides his hands up your sides, fingers brushing over the bare skin of your back.

All the sensations of L’s body against you, the friction, his hands on you, the taste of his blood, rich and thick on your tongue, is all becoming too much. You let out a low moan against his neck, pulling away from the bite and resting your head in the crook of his shoulder, blood smeared across your lips.

“You’re… you’re done already?” L murmurs hoarsely, his voice thick with disappointment and… something else. He’s flushed, eyes glassy, and when you pull back to look at him, you can see his chest rise and fall with each breath. His once clean white shirt is now marbled with red. 

With a breathless laugh at how disappointed he looks, you nod, biting your lip to stop a smile from growing. 

Frowning, L brings his thumb up to slowly swipe through the mess on your bottom lip. He takes a deep, shaky breath, before pulling his thumb back and staring at the red slick coating it with astonishment.

Looking back at you, he presses the digit between your lips, gently sliding it into your mouth. You suck, wrapping your tongue around it and letting out a soft moan. His hips buck up against you and he hisses, forehead falling into the crook of your shoulder with a pained "Fuck."

Your intense focus is shattered by the feeling of something pressing against your waist. Not his erection, you’ve been gloriously aware of that for the past few minutes. It’s the key . Tucked right into his pocket, this could be the chance for you to grab it and figure out some ridiculous escape plan once you’re out of the cell. You just need to grab it. 

If he feels as good as he’s making it sound, L shouldn’t notice the intrusion. Might feel it as you just trying to feel him up. Moving your hand down his waist, across his narrow hips and into his pocket, you feel your finger trace the edge of the key. If you can just snag it, then subtly press it to his thumb…

While sucking a mark into the line of his jaw, you quickly pull out the key, tucking it onto your thumb and sliding your hand across the bed to lean back on. He doesn’t seem to notice a thing. Like a blushing teenager, you take his left hand (currently gripping the bedding so hard it might rip) and thread his fingers between yours, squeezing encouragingly. 

He shudders, head falling forward into the crook of your neck with a whine and fingers tightening around yours. You take the key, slide it towards his thumb, anddddd-

Your wrist is suddenly pinned to the bed, eyes opening to L looking down at you with irritation. 

“Stop it.”

You snarl at him inhumanly but he just sighs, pushing you by the chest onto your back, breaking the noise into a moan. 

Thrashing, more out of stubbornness than actual intent to escape, you move to bite him, but he presses the flat of his palm to the side of your face, shoving your head against the bed. Your cheek is squished ridiculously against the fabric, and his chest is heaving from the effort of both feeding you and fighting you. You share a look, and think the same thing.

Maybe this can end differently.

The moment he relaxes his grip, your hands fly to his face, pulling his mouth to yours. L’s hands drop for a moment, before they come up to cup your face, fingers tracing your cheeks as he moves your head to tilt up. 

He kisses you deeply, desperately, with a sense of tenderness you hadn’t expected him to carry. Sliding your hands down his face, you trace them over his chest, ribs, waist, before gripping his thighs and pulling him down onto you. Your kisses say forgive me, forgive me, though you’re not sorry for a thing. 

Pulling away, L shakes his head with a groan. “Stop.”

“Wha…?” you pant in a daze, still blood-drunk and horny out of your mind.

His hair is a mess, shirt wrinkled, and you can clearly see the boner that he's trying desperately to conceal with his atrocious posture. "This wasn't supposed to- I wasn't-"

The rant bounces right off of you, still very focused on the outline straining through his jeans. 

“...Supposed to be a test,” he says in a daze. “Controlled exchange. Study your physiology, not explore it-”

“Oh, go jack off about it.” You huff, snapped out of your daze by him referring to you like a specimen in a petri dish.

A huff of humorless laughter, and now his head is in his hands. His voice is low as he speaks again, frustrated and flustered. “You’ve made it impossible to be impartial-”

“How’s that my fault?”

L gives a strangled noise, his head still in his hand. "I- I didn't…" he trails off with a sigh. "Just shut up for a moment." He's quiet, seemingly collecting himself, before looking up again, gaze unfocused, and rising off of your lap onto his feet. "That wasn't what I had planned," he mutters.

You raise your eyebrows in mute response, committing to shutting up.

“I need to think,” he continues, backing towards the door, “find a way to make this more clinical.”

The cell door shuts with a click, and you're left alone, breathless and frustrated. You just know he's going to stew, shut himself in and obsess over this how he did before. You just pray he’ll be quicker with it this time. 

[DAY SEVEN]

You wake with a gasp, eyes flying open to the sound of someone speaking. Whipping your head to the wall of bars, you see L standing a few feet back from the edge, looking as unreadable as usual, but even through your sleep-hazy vision you can see he's still shaken. His neck is again covered in a strip of what looks to be gauze, freshly applied. His outfit is, as always, the same (albeit free of blood). The fact that he keeps wearing the same white shirt knowing it’ll end up blood-soaked raises questions to just how smart he can be.

When he looks at you expectantly, you let out a dignified "What?"

“How do you feel?” he repeats, voice soft. Your eyes flicker to his neck again.

“…Better. Full. I’m-“ you stop, hesitating, unsure how much you want to reveal. He nods in acknowledgement. “Are you here to tell me it's over? That you're gonna trade me to the government so they can poke and prod?"

"No. If I wanted to do that, I would have already. I have the evidence.” 

“Then why…?”

He's silent for a moment, like he's picking his words carefully. "I've decided to pardon and release- or, relocate you- under a few conditions."

Your breath hitches. Could he be serious?

"I'm not done," L says, holding up a finger to cut you off before you respond. "Conditions. If you agree, you'll be my... well, to put it simply, bodyguard."

"Bodyguard?" 

“You’d be expected to accompany me on investigations, be present during the more high-risk cases, act as security, and..." He says the next part a lot more quietly. "And you can feed from me, when you need to."

You feel completely lost. Were the days of despair just delusion? Is he actually offering you a way out, or is this some cruel trap again? The evidence he’s got of your guilt is bulletproof, and you don’t intend on digging your grave any further.

L seems to pick up on your hesitation, your feelings of betrayal, and frowns. His voice is quiet, measured. “I’m offering you a chance. And I think you should take it.”

“What are the other conditions?”

“You’ll get a room and pay. A semblance of freedom. You won’t work alone, but I don’t think that’s what you want.”

“And how do you know what I want?”

He pauses, before the corner of his mouth twitches upwards, just barely so. “Because we’re the same.”

You sigh. “Fuck off.”

His trace of a smile grows. “I’m just being honest. We’re both introverted shut-ins, who spend their days and nights pursuing ‘justice,’ whatever each independent definition may be. Have you not noticed a single parallel?”

You can’t bother with a serious response. “You’ve been giving me too many reasons to focus on our differences.”

“Please, consider it. We could both benefit from working together, and I now know for certain you are smart enough to recognize that,” he says, giving you the same stare from under his hair. You do recognize that. Fuck. 

“Do I even have a choice?” you say. “I haven’t been given a lot of free reign in the past six days you’ve kept me here.”

“Not really,” he responds smugly. “I’ve got a list of alternatives involving silver if you’d like to hear them?”

You dismiss him with a groan. It doesn’t really matter, does it? You can just agree to continue playing whatever cruel game L has constructed for you this time, and maybe win yourself some hope to get out of here. 

“Fine. I’ll take this chance. I’ll get my old life back eventually.”

“Impossible,” he says simply. “It’s not going to happen. But I can ask Watari to take you to your new room.”

“Too scared to escort me yourself?” you taunt, and he frowns, pressing a palm to his forehead. 

“Fine, I’ll do it. Promise not to bite?”

“Pinky promise,” you say, grinning with too much teeth, and he sighs.  

The sound of the cell door hissing open triggers a Pavlovian response, and you flush a little and have to fight back memories of every other time you’ve heard it.

L side-steps when you walk through, watching every movement intently. You’re tempted to jump at him just to make him flinch, but decide against it in case he decides to lock you right back up.

He motions for you to walk in front of him, and you give a yeah, yeah gesture with your head. The change of scenery, if still indoors, is nice.

It’s on a different floor, thank god. You’re not sure if you could survive another minute living underground. The elevator has so many buttons you lose count and assume L either owns the corporate high-rise or is doing some shady shit the owner’s unaware of, and with his net worth? You wouldn’t be surprised if it was the former. 

“So, do I get free range?”

“No. Most doors require a keycard, and I’ve had silver embedded into the knobs of those that don’t.”

“You’re just evil,” you growl, and he smirks.

“You’ll be able to explore much more when we travel for my next case.”

“Yayyy,” you sigh, though you actually are excited by the idea. L is known to solve cases internationally- who knows where that could take you?

The door opens with a ding, and you follow L down a hallway with a few doors lining the walls. Yours is alllll the way at the end. He hands you a plastic keycard, and you press it to the electronic patch on the door handle, watching as it whirrs open. 

You have your own room in L’s Tokyo headquarters. The idea would be completely ridiculous a few weeks ago, and yet. You were basically a convicted prisoner, and yet here you are standing in a big white room, with a normal bed and floor windows even in the large clean bathroom as an en-suite. You wonder if all the pristine white was a poor design choice considering your nature, but you don’t care. It’s nice. 

You quickly find most cameras and wiretaps in your new room, but it is still evident that L trusts you more now. He’s got his (and Watari’s) eyes on you, and you can’t really leave the building or access any means to reach the outside world, and yet there definitely is progress in your relationship, whatever that is. It’s good. 

“Make yourself comfortable. I’ll be back in the morning. Do not leave.”

Later that night, you leave. You take the nicest fucking shower of your life first, explore every nook and cranny of the room, and enjoy your replenished energy from last night’s meal.

The elevator may be locked, but it’s just standard building safety that stairways need to constantly be accessible. Wrapping a pillowcase around your hand, you twist the doorknob, and look into the stairwell. 

You go up. The exit sign glows a liminal green, and you walk out the door and onto the roof. There’s definitely cameras. You don’t care. Leaning on the railway, you watch the city, the beautiful glowing buzz of people out for dinner, the sun setting streakily over the horizon in shades of pink and orange. 

You missed this side of humanity. Had almost forgotten it existed, for a while there. Too absorbed in the scum at the bottom of the pond to watch the fish. 

Walking down the stairs, you make it back to your floor, not stopping to think about what would happen if you kept going down without looking back. 

That night, your bed is soft, the ache in your stomach is sated, and for once in your life, you feel  fulfilled.

You stop counting the days, now that you’re out of the cell. It’s a little too over dramatic to act like a prisoner scratching lines into a wall when you’re living this comfortably.

Since you need more blood to live than L could ever provide alone, he’s got you sipping blood bags on his off-days, which you begrudgingly accept. It’s not that they’re bad, he’s just… better. And getting to see him like that, touch him like that, improves the experience. 

The experience he keeps cutting short. Whimpering, begging, grinding against you and grasping at you, just to stumble off as soon as you’re done drinking, the ever growing list of excuses being:

-”Watari left some cheesecake in the fridge.” (“And it’s that urgent?” “We humans eat too, you know.”)
-”I need to keep working.”
-‘I’ve got a new lead to follow up on.”
-”I need to go think (leave).”
-”Shower. Need to shower. Wash the blood off.”

Is it something you’re doing? Is it because of the kiss that you’ve been thinking about for weeks? It’s got to be unhealthy at this point. It’s insane. He’s insane. But you’re nothing if restrained, so until he initiates, you’re gonna keep your claws to yourself.

With his current case absorbing most of his time, your hands-on feedings are growing fewer and far between. And while there’s nothing like the magical experience of microwaving a dumped out blood bag in a mug to sip from (after licking the plastic), you miss him. Feeding, restraint training, whatever label you put on it, gave you an excuse to be close to him, get some social contact.

He may be resilient, but you’re stubborn.

You start to spend more time in the rooms L occupies. It started off innocently, just wanting to watch what he’s doing, use your own skills on the case, but then it progressed.

Today, you lean closer over his shoulder when he shows you something, hand tracing his collarbone possessively. You stare at his neck when he talks to you, tongue running over your teeth.

“You’re staring.”

“What? No I’m not,” you say, staring harder.

He lets out a groan, and drops his head to the desk between his arms, shoulders sagging. 

“...You good?” You lean an arm against the back of his chair, fingers stroking down the lines of his arm soothingly.

“Mmm. Tired.”

“How long have you been working?”

“Sixteen hours, give or take.”

He probably hasn’t slept in triple that time frame. “You want me to drag you to bed?” you say, and don’t miss the way he shudders a little at the remark.

“That won’t be necessary.”

“My job duties require I keep you healthy and alive. Up. Come on. Up up up-” Hooking your arms under his, you drag him from the chair, and he gives a frustrated yelp. You smile. “You need sleep. And food. Maybe a shower.” 

He protests, and you hiss, yanking him by the arm as he stumbles to follow you, eye bags so dark he could be a raccoon. “Watari can-”

“Watari should be asleep, like the rest of the world.” you say, dragging down the hall to his room, wondering where the hell all the non-dessert food is kept. Maybe you will make that Watari’s problem.

Once you make it to his room, you shave him onto the mattress with the flat of your hand, and he falls without complaint. From the angle, you can see how exhausted he really is. The tension running through his body isn’t just from your touch. You wonder, for the millionth time, why he’s so determined to work himself to death, and threaten to bring him some real food in the morning. 

When you leave to grab him the case files he was so interested in, he’s completely knocked out by the time you return. Setting them down quietly, you flick the lights off. You planned on reading stretched out on the couch in his room (guarding the door in case he tries to go back to work), but quickly end up just as asleep as he is. 

You wake up to the heat of steam from the shower, and are surprised to find a blanket strung over you. Eyes still shut, you sigh a little. If he’s in the shower, you’ve still probably got like ten minutes more. Hnnnnghh. 

Most definitely not still in the shower, you realize, as you feel the brush of a hand stroking your hair. You blink a few times and find L standing over you, hair damp, in clean clothes, and a fond look on his face. “Did I wake you?”

“Mmmpghnh.”

He hums, still carding his fingers through your hair, as you push your face into the couch cushions to disfigure the warm feeling that’s threatening to bloom in your chest.

“Promised you breakfast,” you slur.

“Watari brought pancakes. I’d offer some, but.”

“But,” you agree groggily, finally sitting up and squinting in the morning’s light. You stretch, not bothering to correct the way your shirt rides up. Master of seduction, right here.

When L steps back from the couch, you watch, noticing the way water droplets still bead against his neck, his hair falling damp and clean over his shoulders. You let your gaze unabashedly rake over him, and he shifts under your stare and coughs. “What?”

"You aren't gonna offer me an actual breakfast?" you grin lazily, rolling onto your stomach to look him up and down. “I’d say I’ve earned it.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“Please, you suffer me gladly. Most people find the idea of getting fed on by a vampire terrifying. Disgusting, even.”

“Most people haven't been fed on by you," he counters, leaning closer. 

"You like it too much for your own good.” 

"I don’t deny it," he murmurs, biting his lower lip. "So if you'd be so kind," he continues, stepping up to you, "bite me." 

"Ugh, if you insist," you say as you pull him onto the couch, smile sharp and teeth sharper. He hits it with a thump, and you climb on top of him, thighs bracketing his as you push him into the cushions. He blushes furiously but doesn’t deny you.

“So good for me,” you hum as your body covers him. His hands slide under the hem of your shirt to grip your hips, but you take his wrists and force them above his head, pinning them to the couch. His eyes widen a little in surprise, and he gasps when you move, rocking your hips in a slow, deliberate roll. “Thinking I can’t tell just how much you like it. I can hear your heartbeat, you know.”

“Don’t play with your food,” he groans, hips bucking up to meet yours, and you chuckle lowly.

“Or what?” you ask, leaning in to brush your lips against the pulse point in his throat. Feeling the rapid flutter of his heart, listening to the soft whine he tries so hard to hold back. "You gonna punish me? Lock me up again? Because we both know how that one ended, hmm?”

Your tongue slips out to press flat over his pale skin as you pause in your slow, steady rocking. "Or are you gonna beg instead?”

"Hah- ah. Can’t-” L starts, before choking on his own pleasure as you nip nightly at his pulse point. “Mmmmgh. ah- can't- please-"

Taking mercy on him, you sink your teeth into his flesh. He doesn’t moan, not exactly, but the sound he lets out is better anyway. Stifled, bitten back like he’s too stubborn to admit it. L’s body arches from the couch, hands clenching and unclenching around nothing where you have them pinned down. 

You pull away early, far earlier than usual, earlier than you’d like- but it’s the only way to really make him want. Make him beg. Releasing his wrists, you lean back on your knees, straddling him.

“Please,” he pants, fingers moving to your chin to collect the blood from his throat and slide it into your mouth. “Don’t stop.” You don’t have the restraint to stop from taking them between your lips and sucking with a pained moan, pulling the hot liquid against your tongue. 

Now you know why he tastes so different to anything you’ve ever had before- the arousal. All you’ve ever tasted before was fear and anger, but this? It’s sweet like mulled wine, hot and dizzying and it makes your head spin and warmth bloom throughout your body.

“You’ll look so pretty covered in bite marks. All mine."

“Please,” L gasps, taking your face in his palms holding it, looking at you with wide blown out eyes. “I need you- I need- ”

“How about I mark you?” you murmur, placing your hands over his. “Lick you clean?” as you move them down to your waist, squeezing them, saying “Fuck you?” as you lean into him, pressing yourself against his erection. 

"Yes," his face is pressed into the crook of your neck, his eyes closed in anticipation as he sighs, moaning your name as your lips brush the wound.

Finally.

Licking a stripe up his neck, you suck a mark into the column of his throat, one below his jaw, nipping softly at the skin, then press your lips to his. He makes a choked noise like he wasn’t expecting tenderness, eyes going from wild to something else entirely. He reciprocates by parting your lips greedily with his tongue. 

You wonder if he can taste himself- no doubt coppery and bitter to him, completely unpalatable, but he moans into your mouth like he’s drinking honey. The sound spills warmth through you, arousal eclipsing hunger. 

He steps forward as you move back, moving until your shins hit the edge of the bed, then you fall back against the mattress, taking him with you. Slotting himself between your legs, he grinds into you, whimpering a little when you wrap your legs around his waist to pull him closer. He looks insane, delirious, eyes wild, lips stained with his own blood.

“Do you usually do this with-”

“Quiet,” he growls, pulling your face back against his, shutting you up with his tongue.

Who’s submitting to their urges now, L?

You lift your knees to your chest to pull your pants and toss them onto the ground. He follows suit, kicking his off, and they fly onto the end of the bed. It’s hard to take each other's shirts off while continually making out, but the two of you nearly make it work. 

Tugging his lower lip between your teeth, he groans, hands fisting tight into your hair before pulling back, moving his mouth across the line of your jaw, column of your throat, pushing. He bites you this time, a mirror to your own actions, and it’s as unexpected as it is arousing. Very.

“Let me taste you?” L breathes into the wet spot on your neck, chilling it, before pulling away to look at you, eyes half lidded and dark. His hand traces the interior of your thigh, inching closer to where you want it. “It’s only fair.”

“Will we be even?” you barter, fingers finding his hair to card through it lazily. The way he groans quietly at the action is like music. 

“It’s a start,” he says as he moves against you, his voice tight, “but we have time.”

He’s gentler than you thought he’d be, more precise than desperate, taking his time in exploring you, as if mapping your body in his mind. The room is thick with something more than his scent, more than just the sweetness of his blood. Something so heavy that you can almost taste it- feel the heat of it pushing against your chest, crushing your ribs.

One hand cups the back of your knee, pulling your leg up over his shoulder, exposing you to him in a way that makes your stomach twist with heat. He slides your body down the bed, pulling your cunt flush to his mouth in a swift moment. You groan, squeezing your thighs around the sides of his head when he latches onto your clit and starts to suck. 

Hands grabbing the meat of your thighs, he spreads them further, giving his mouth better access to abuse your clit with his lips, tongue, and the occasional desperate graze of teeth. One hand moves as he pressing his palm flat to your lower stomach, pulling up and pressing down to work his face closer to you, fuck, his mouth-

He muffles little mmph’s and ah’s into you, brows furrowing with a mix of concentration and pleasure. You cum embarrassingly fast, and tell yourself it’s just the endorphins from feeding after so long, hands fisted in his hair, and thighs spasming around his head. He tongue fucks you through it, clawing thin pink lines down your ass and thighs, squeezing tight.

His mouth is smeared with his own blood and your own wetness, shining obscenely across his lips and down his chin and neck. He looks up at you from between your legs with low-lidded owlish eyes. 

Moving back up your body, seeming very satisfied with himself, he plants red-tinted kisses across the planes of your stomach, your ribs, chest, and neck. Taking your face between his palms he presses against your lips, slow, gentle, tender.

“You don’t know how hard it is,” you laugh breathlessly in between kisses, “to stop myself from taking more.”

"You can have anything," he pants, "everything."

"You still need some blood left," you say teasingly, sliding your palm down his thigh to squeeze him between the legs.

There’s a cut-off noise from him, a broken, pleading sound unable to be bitten back. When he speaks, the words stumble out of him in a rush. “Enough to get me by. You take what you need. Whatever you want.”

"Then I'll leave just enough for this," you breathe, working him in your hand.

He can’t seem to form complete words for a moment, his entire mental capacity focused on staying sane and breathing. “Yeah?” he manages in a huff of air, “just enough for that?”

"Yeah," you bite your lip with a smile, leaning closer against him, chest to chest, before breathing out, "you want my mouth on you?"

L pushes himself back to look at you, expression still vaguely hazy, a hint of command in his voice, albeit weakened by the hitch in his breath. “You… you have to promise to stop, if I tell you to. You'll kill me.”

"I promise,” you murmur, peering up at him coyly, “...but I wasn't talking about your neck."

“You- oh, oh-” his eyes flick down to where your hand is, and that seems to give him some context, and his whole body tenses, before relaxing with a shudder. “You’re going to kill me, aren’t you?” He says it like a joke, but there's a sliver of reality to the question.

"I thought about it."

“Did you-” he pants, then has to stop. Another breath, and he forms a full sentence. “Did you decide not to?”

"Jury's out," you smile, tilting your head like a predator, squeezing him lightly in your palm.

L’s expression is undone, completely wrecked and wanting, torn between frustration and lust. Eyes widening in mock concern, you pout, sliding your palm up and down his length. "So you are scared."

“I’m not scared you'll- hnngh- hurt me. I’m scared that-“ he freezes, shaking his head, as if unsure that he can say it aloud, “that I’ll let you do anything- ahh- that you'll make me beg."

"Now that's an idea,” you consider, sliding down his body to kneel between his legs, one hand on his thigh, the other never leaving his cock.

“You-” he swallows. “You're terrible, you know that?”

"Just awful."

“Insufferable,” he says with bite, even as his hips cant forward into your hand, “A nightmare.”

Grinning, you ask, demand. "Yeah ? Tell me you hate me."

“I hate you-” he gasps out, but his words die in a needy moan when you move your hand. “God, I hate you so much.”

You slide your hand faster, gliding your thumb wetly against the tip of his length. "Again."

L's eyes screw shut, composure fraying. “Hate you- I hate- hate everything about you-” His breath is coming in tiny ragged gasps, hips jerking against your touch. “Everything about this-”

You rest your cheek on his thigh, smiling, hand still working him quickly. "Oh?"

“Yes,” he pants, voice shaking, “I hate-” another gasping breath, “I, hah, but I-” he grimaces, and you're not sure if it's from the pain of confession or the way you're touching him. “But I can’t stop thinking about you, and- I can’t hate you- god, you’re so-” he breaks off with a cut-off noise, halfway between a whine and a moan, “you’re so- oh-”

"That's it," you praise, kissing his thigh, moving your lips to the tip of his cock like you're speaking into a microphone, before taking him into your mouth and sucking softly, his fingers curling in your hair with a frantic desperation. 

You suck your cheeks around him, humming with satisfaction at the way his nails dig into your scalp, and slide down to take him to the base. He nearly whimpers, hand dropping from your head to fist in the bedsheets.

“If you keep going, I won’t- hahh-” he gasps, pulling his hips halfheartedly from your mouth and against the mattress, fighting for any bit of distance from the wet heat of your mouth and where it’s taking him, “fuck, close-”

You keep at it for a few moments longer, down until your nose presses against skin, humming your amusement, before pulling off with a pop. 

"Monster," he exhales, looking down at you, cock twitching with sensitivity.

Shushing him, you meet his gaze, before licking him from base to tip with a slow, broad stroke of your tongue. Breaking eye contact, he throws a forearm over his eyes with an agonized groan. 

“You-“ he chokes out, “You are evil.”

Yeah fucking right. He’s the evil one, after tricking you, caging you. You look up at him, appetizer, dinner, and dessert, and laugh.

Rising to your feet, you gaze down at him, loving how completely fucking ruined he looks. His cock stands hare and wet with spit between the two of you, pink and perfect. Kneeling on the bed and climbing on top of him, you wrap your legs around his waist and flip onto your back, taking him with you. 

Taking his cock in hand, he slides it up and down the length of your slit, before slowly pressing in. Joint noises leave the two of you, equally embarrassing and erotic in nature. He starts fucking you in slow, steady thrusts, building a sense of rhythm. Looking down at you, gauzy and dazed, you feel him gauge your reaction to each movement of his hips. Sliding a hand between your legs, the other supporting himself next to your shoulder, he starts rubbing small movements against your clit. 

“Oh fuck-” you groan, “shit, just- yeah, right there.”

He hums a soft and breathless confirmation and starts to fuck you faster, eyes rolling back with a groan.

I love you, you think, though it’s hollow, just need- what’s the difference between the two, down here? You tell him all this in the form of your heels in his lower back, and he listens, fucking you harder.

He’s so deep, so good, and you wonder why it took him so fucking long to get over himself and fuck you. You don’t have it in you to complain when he grabs you by the hips and pulls, shoving you down onto his cock and ripping a moan out of you. He lifts your ass off the mattress and continues to fuck you, leaning down so that your foreheads fall flush together. You tuck your head against his throat, nuzzle your nose along the line of his jaw, drag your lips along just to watch him shake. 

He lets out a strangled gasp as you sink your fangs into his neck, his hands pulling against your hair. His blood is warm and rich and you’re absolutely gone, mouthing against his skin and he tastes so good and his whole body is shaking against yours, sobbing, cumming, maybe-

Your thoughts flap frantically through your mind like a caged bird, and you ignore all symbolism. 

I need you (gone) I need you (here) I need you (always) I need you (now) I need you (to disappear) (never leave) (never stop) (Don’t stop)-

Pleasure washes into you like rain, a torrential downpour, soaking your skin, body, stealing your breath, yanking you under the waves of bliss, and washing you onto shore to cough it all up. You throw your head back, eyes rolling, as your orgasm takes control of you, and submit to it, to him. 

He slumps into himself and onto you, panting breathlessly, head tucked into the junction between your neck and shoulder, hair falling wild and dark. 

“Stay?” he says, and there’s a note of finality to it, of mine, mine, mine, that makes you shudder and pull him closer.

Your lips brush against the planes of his throat, nuzzling your nose along the line of his jaw. 

"Ngh," L says eloquently, shuddering against your touch.

“All good, boss?”

"Not your boss," he corrects immediately, swallowing thickly as you press another kiss to his neck. You chuckle, nipping his skin a little harder than necessary. He lets out a startled moan, mechanically tilting his head back.

“Pfft. What exactly are you, then?”

“Handler?”

“Eugh. Try again.”

"Partner," he says. "Does that suit you better?"

“Makes us sound like equals,” you gasp dramatically. “Could you imagine?”

"Just because I’m in control doesn’t mean you’re worth any less than me. Besides," he adds quietly, "I need you." He lets the implications of the last comment hang in the air before continuing. "This is a partnership. Equals."

“...What was that second part?”

"I need you," L murmurs, a hint of reluctance. "I don't want to pretend I don't. You're smart, resourceful, and strong. I-” he cuts himself off, before swallowing, and looking up at you. "I need you. So do whatever you'd like. Use me. Bite me. Ground me however you see fit."

Exhaling shakily, you start to laugh. It’s soft, a bit of a broken noise, but it tumbles out of you like confetti and your face falls into the crook of his shoulder with the effort of the feeling blossoming in your chest. Cruel optimism whispers promises to you, sugar-sweet and dangerous. L’s the only person that could ever truly have your heart, you think, truly earn it, hands red to the wrist from the breaking of ribs, lost in the desperate, morbidly intimate need to need . 

“I need you too. God, I hated you- you betrayed me, but I can’t anymore, you’re so-” you break off, before starting again, pulling back to look him in the eyes and feeling a little insane. “I love you.” The words fall from your lips, infinitely stupid yet ringing true.

He freezes.

"What?” 

The moment is shattered the second he speaks, face as cold and flat as the day you first met, as his question hangs in the air like a guillotine blade.

"No, you don’t. This is an experiment, and I would expect from you to not let your instincts interfere.” He looks bored and sounds irritated. You feel incredibly small. Weak. You’re not weak, you can’t be, you’ve learned better, became better.

"This is only a partnership," he continues to lecture you in the same flat tone. "It’s difficult enough to consider us equals, but if we assume we are, that's all it is." He looks like your stupidity bores him. "That’s all it’s ever been."

You swallow, not meeting his eyes and shaking a little with emotional whiplash from the complete factory reset that your confession triggered in L. He just told you he needed you. He just told you to do with him whatever you like. “I didn’t- I didn’t think-“

“That’s why you’re not here to think. You need to learn to control your urges and impulses, instead of reacting to every compulsion from your body. It’s not love. You’re just-”

When you finally look up to meet his gaze, you are met with a mix of arrogance, frustration, and… fear? 

Your chest stutters. “Just what ?”

“Addicted to me,” he finally spits out, still staring. “You can’t love me. No one’s ever-“ he cuts himself off, a pang of pain flashing across his features before it’s replaced with the same annoyed indifference. “We can be useful to each other and we may need each other for future investigations, but that’s not love. Please don’t confuse them.”

Blinking back tears, you now shake from a mix of anger and hurt. “Just because you’ve got some fucking complex about intimacy doesn’t mean you have to take it out on me.”

“This isn’t my complex, it’s your inability to feel the full spectrum of human emotions.” You can still hear the fear behind the snark in his low whisper. “You’re not human. You don’t understand. You don’t get to feel like other people do after what you’ve done.”

“Get out.” Your voice cracks, eyes squeezing shut, and the tears you’d been fighting back begin to roll wet trails down your cheeks. Oh, like he’s so normal. If anyone were to tread the line of humanity as lightly as you, it would be L.

Tense, burning silence fills the room for a moment. It chokes you thickly like fog, and you want to lie on the floor to escape it.

“You’re still hungry.”

“Get out, or I will fucking kill you.” Eyes flashing open, you seethe, spitting each word at him hoping they cut. You think you mean it this time. Your patience crumbles like drywall.

There’s a thick look of disbelief on his face as he freezes. “You don’t mean that.”

“What? Am I not inhuman anymore?” you choke. “If I’m such a soulless fucking monster, run.”

L flinches back, something like guilt flickering over his features, and the sight just makes you want to cry harder, rage curdling inside of you. “I’m not scared of you,” he says quietly. “I’m not running.”

“You think that’ll save you?” you grit through the beginning of a sob.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he says. “You weren’t supposed to-”

“Fall in love? So fucking sorry about that. Really ruined your day, huh?”

“Ruined everything, ” he sighs, looking lost. “You-”

“Get out.”

“No.”

You’re falling off the bed and onto your feet, on him in a second, snarling “ Fine. ”

Using the strength you’d built up over the past few weeks of regular meals, you fling him to the ground. He hits it with an umph , landing on his elbows and gasping. He starts to say your name, but instead you’re kneeling over him, pinning him against the carpet by his wrists. They are thin and bony underneath your grip, and something in you twinges as you realize how easy it would be to break them. 

“I hope you’re sorry. I hope you’re scared. ”

“I am,” his voice is quiet, shaky, bordering on desperate. “I’m sorry.” But is he scared? You think you see it in his eyes, crammed to fit the shape of your reflection.

Chest heaving with each breath, you slide a wrist across your eyes to dry your tears, then pause. “I’m gonna bite you now.” 

L nods, back pressed to the ground. “Okay.”

With no kindness, no preparation, you sink your teeth into his throat and suck. Hissing through his teeth, he tenses, wrists flexing in your grip. He lets out a strangled gasp, back arching off the floor as blood soaks the carpet.

L’s hands twitch desperately, like he wants to shove you off, but doesn't have the strength to try. He doesn't make any other move to stop you as your tongue presses over the bite, drawing out more blood than necessary before pulling back to look at him.

You let it spill, let it waste, don’t even let yourself enjoy it. Why can’t you stop shaking?

“I deserved that,” he shudders out, eyes still squeezed shut to fight off pain.

“You deserve worse.” The words leave you, flat and lifeless. Why can’t you stop shaking?

He flinches, jaw clenching and a flash of pain passing over his features again. He looks smaller than you ever remember seeing him, wrists still pinned against the carpet, throat stained red. Something in you twists, but you shove it down. You can’t stop. You can’t. You. You’re not. You’re. 

Your throat feels clogged, you can’t breathe, your chest and face are heavy, dragging you under the surface, and you can’t stop fucking shaking, tears pooling up again. The dam breaks. Your shoulders shake with sobs, hands moving from his wrists onto your face, letting him go.

This time, L doesn’t hesitate to pull you into him, wrapping his arms around you as he sits up. He holds you close to his chest, rocking you gently until the sobs subside into hiccups and gasps. “I’m sorry,” he finally says, his voice ragged as he tightens his arms around you. “I’m so sorry.”

“Your fault ,” you cry, clutching at him and pulling him closer.

He just nods, not even trying to deny it, and presses you tighter against him. “I know,” he whispers, burying his head in the crook of your shoulder. You can hear the steady thump of his heart against your ear, grounding you just enough for the shaking to slow.

"Meeting you was the worst thing that ever happened to me," you whimper. 

“Are you going to leave?” he asks, voice small and wavering.

“We’re in my room, jackass.”

L lets out a soft huff as he pulls you a little closer. “Not the room,” he whispers into your hair. “Are you going to leave?” He swallows, then continues, his voice quiet but firm. “You could, you know? Get up. Walk away. Forget I ever existed.”

“The second I’m out the door,” you say weakly, “you’ll have me in cuffs.”

“I’m well aware,” he responds. He’s quiet for a few more moments, hand tracing aimless patterns along your arm. “But I’m still going to ask again,” he says quietly, a hint of pleading in his voice. “Are you going to leave?

“I should.” Your throat hurts from sobbing, your eyes feel heavy and dull, and all you have the energy to do is curl against him like this and try not to think. Try not to feel.

“Don’t. Please.”

“Why? Cause you need me? You don’t love me. It doesn’t matter.”

“Of course it matters,” he says, voice soaked with guarded desperation. “It matters because I love you. Because you’re the best thing to ever happen to me. I don’t know how to do any of this, I don’t know if I’m doing it right, but I-”

You shut him up with a hug, tight and desperate. 

"I love you," he murmurs, "I love you, I love you, I love you ."

He's still whispering against your skin, repeating those three words over and over like a prayer, when you start to tremble again, shoulders shaking. L freezes, tenses, breaks- before he realizes you’re laughing. 

"Smartest man on earth," you choke out, before falling into a fit of giggles. "We need higher standards."

L huffs a laugh, trying to sound annoyed but it just comes out exhausted and amused. “You’re one to talk. Fall in love with the man trying to catch you. Unparalleled genius.” He flicks your forehead, and you snap at his finger.

He pulls his hand away in exaggerated alarm, but the corner of his mouth tilts up in a smile. You lean back, just enough so you can see his face, but still close enough that he can hold you. He looks tired, dark circles under his eyes, and your heart still feels heavy, but something about the way he’s holding you makes you feel warm.

“I love you,” you say quietly, for the second time, just to hear yourself say it, to watch his face as the words sink in.

He looks at you, something vulnerable and open in his eyes, before his gaze flicks to your mouth. “Can I-“

“If you don’t kiss me right now-”

He doesn’t need to be told twice, mouth against yours in an instant. He kisses you like it’s the only thing he’s ever wanted to do. it's soft, gentle, slow, all lips and no tongue, unlike any other kiss you've shared, and somehow infinitely more intimate. It's not leading anywhere. You don't need it to.

L buries one hand in your hair, the other still holding you tightly to him. He doesn’t pull, doesn’t try to deepen the kiss, just holds you steady, taking your bottom lip between his and sucking gently. It makes your stomach swoop like you’re free falling, a sensation you thought you had forgotten.

Eventually, traces of your old life return.

[I’m back. Returning after a long hiatus, I never thought I'd see the day when I'd turn a new leaf. Start talking about the good instead of the bad. Believe me, I used to feed on the scum of humanity, relishing in every detail about their downfall, hell I encouraged it, encouraged Kira (God knows what happened there). But here I am, reborn, ready to shed some light on a different side of the spectrum.]

[Don't get me wrong, I'm still the same person with the same need for justice. But instead of focusing on the worst aspects of humanity, I'm here to shed light on the good. To explore what happens when people, even the most unlikely of figures, come together to contribute to a better society.]

[What triggered this shift in my perspective? Honestly, it's hard to pinpoint any one event. Most of it I couldn’t say if I tried. Maybe it was the exhaustion of always being surrounded by the darkest corners of humanity. Or maybe it was the realization that justice isn't just about punishment , but about redemption, and rehabilitation.]

[It took me becoming so angry that I became, well, a monster. You could say I lost all my humanity. Metaphorically, of course. I still have a healthy distaste for those who commit serious crimes, but instead of dwelling on the negatives, I'm more focused on fixing the broken justice system, one article at a time, and from within.]

[In my next articles, I plan on shining a spotlight on people who've made a positive impact, whether they're reformed criminals, activists, or ordinary people making a difference in their communities. And yes, I'll still talk about the worst of humanity, but with a different lens in mind, examining them not just as monsters, but as complex creatures who might have had their own demons to fight.]

[I’m not justice. You’re not justice. Justice is collective, it’s a movement, and it’s something we need to do together.]

[Sorry I’ve been gone. If I could go back, to the start of it? I wouldn’t change a thing.]

Eventually, the tables turn.

Smug as ever, L looks down on you. 

His weight atop you is so, so good. Your legs spread subconsciously, hips bucking up to press up against his, his thin layer of boxers the only remaining barrier as you grind against each other, breath coming out in uneven, desperate pants. The control you swore you’d have is already starting to slip. 

L’s drags his hands across your hips, causing another involuntary arch of your body, wrists straining against the cuffs linking them behind your back, and he chuckles. "So impatient."

You bare your teeth at him, but the threat is made obsolete by the muzzle attached to your mouth, and when he squeezes your hips as reprimand it quickly breaks into a whine. “Not fair.”

“You’ve long since found I don’t care about playing fair,” he says, gaze twisting into something dangerous. You're going to ruin him- if you're able to get out of the handcuffs, that is. Yet you both know you don’t want to, could be out the minute you ask, and isn’t it more fun this way?

He’s never looked at you like this before. Ever. It feels like he’s going to eat you. And you’d let him, if only to see what he’d look like with your blood on his mouth. This is new and hot and humiliating, and you’re so close to begging.

“I’m the one who gets to see you like this. Hear you like this. Touch you like this.” He slides his hand under your, slipping the fingers in between your legs. You involuntarily whimper a little at the feeling, and he hushes you. “I’m the only one who can make you beg.”

A little part of you wants to protest, to prove him wrong. The rest of you is too blissed out to do anything. Your body shakes, quivers, as he slides his fingers into you and curls, teasing in a way you’ve never felt from him before, and you want to say his name, desperately, but the only thing that makes it past the metal biting into your cheeks is a whine. Like he’s already got you trained, like you’re a dog straining at its leash. “Please-“

It’s perfect. L’s hands in your hair, on your face, on your body. No claws, no teeth. You, him, just like this. 

Eventually, you trust each other entirely.

You take the bullet in a heartbeat, don’t even think about it. Moments later your body spits it out, and you’re on the guy in a heartbeat, pinned to the ground by the neck in a second. Your grip is tight, and you’re mad. You may be superhuman, but shit still hurts, and how fucking dare he try and kill L? That’s your job. 

Your actual job is his bodyguard, and you’re doing a very good job of it, thank you very much. Grinning as you hold the guy’s neck in your hand like you’re about to wring out a towel, you wait for L’s word. You could squeeze, rip his head off, but you don’t. L would protect you- you’d get away with it, accidents happen, hell, you could drain the guy dry and still be forgiven. But you’re good now, and god, doesn’t being good feel great? 

When L hands you the cuffs and the two of you get him tried, convicted, and locked up in a matter of days, you think your murderous tendencies and anger issues may be more self-conditioned than stamped into you. 

Old habits die hard, and L’s helping you kill them.

Eventually, things change.

“No going back?”

“No going back.”

“You’re sure about this?”

“I’ve taken much less calculated risks with you.” 

“Everything will change.”

“Not you.”

“Never.”

When you bite, it’s gentle, tender, and it takes multiple minutes of slow mouthfuls to drain him entirely. He doesn’t fight it- pliant in your arms, the hand holding yours slowly going limp as you finish. Before his heart stops, before anything could take him, you start to push, injecting venom back where blood should be, and let it do its magic. 

You watch, wide-eyed and nervous, as he lies unmoving. He’s peaceful, you could almost imagine him just being asleep. You panic, after the first minute passes. Did you do it wrong? Did Ryuk lie about the turning process? What if you- what if -

L opens his eyes.