. .

⋆.˚ ⟡ 𝒞𝑜𝓆𝓊𝑒𝓉𝓉𝑒 𝒟𝒾𝓋𝒾𝒹𝑒𝓇𝓈 .˚ 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

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・❥・I’m here with you (it hasn’t been so easy being lonely)

: ̗̀➛ l lawliet x gn!reader

: ̗̀➛ cw: angst, allusion to sex, reader is referred to having a "plush" body like once

: ̗̀➛ wc: 800+

: ̗̀➛ author's note: holy crap it's been 3 months since I've posted anything... sorry about that. anyyways enjoy this little one shot about L.

reader is a civilian and doesn't know L's name

In the bright light of early dawn, you run your hands over an empty spot on the bed warmed only by the forgiving sun. He’s left already. It wasn’t uncommon for him to leave without saying goodbye. He told you earlier on that he hated goodbyes, so you both agreed to this arrangement. You weren’t so keen on the idea when he first brought it up, but you hated the idea of him not being with you at all more. He would return in a few weeks time and you would quickly wipe away your tears and he would ignore the streaks left on your cheeks as he greeted you. But the first day was always the hardest. Just when you were getting used to him being around, making enough breakfast for two and waiting to wash his white shirts, he would leave. 

You gingerly slip out of bed and slumber towards the kitchen. Taking out a pan and two eggs, you busy yourself with making breakfast but you can’t concentrate. Your mind slips away to him. What was he doing that he couldn’t share with you? What was so dangerous about his job that even one little slip up on his part would cause him to disappear for months? In the dead of night, when all the buildings quiet down and their people sink into slumber, he would whisper prayers against your skin. Though you never understood a word he said, between your half lucid mind and his soothing Russian tongue, you could sense a tone of reverence in his voice, hands squeezing your waist and head bowed between your chest. 

The smell of burning eggs invades your nostrils. You let out a heavy sigh and begin to scrap away at the charred bits of yolk. 

Weeks pass with no call, not that he ever calls, and soon long nights turn to long days as trees begin to straighten up and cicadas poke their heads out of the ground so they can dance with the rise of the sun. Kids run around with ice cream dripping down into their chubby hands and on the concrete where little ants graciously scoop up the liquid gold and offer it to their queen. Shirts stick to backs and eyes squint in submission to Helios galloping through the sky. You’ve never been a fan of summer, but he always made it better. Waking up early in the morning to get berries at the farmers market, and buying every sugary dessert at the carnival and getting on the chair swing ride. 

It was so peaceful up there. People shrunk to the size of ants, scurrying across in search of food, the bright lights blurred together forming a constellation below just for you. Your feet swayed in the wind, the light breeze caressed your cheeks providing a much needed respite from the stuffy carnival floor. His hand inched closer to yours, long fingers ghosted against yours asking for permission, and you opened your palm welcoming him home. He didn’t say anything, being a man of few words, but he squeezed your hand in thanks. Thanks that you have stayed with him for this very moment to happen. His messy hair got pushed back, better revealing his onyx eyes holding only love and adoration for you. 

That night he told you he loved you. Amongst the shrills of children and the rumble of wobbly roller coasters, he proclaimed his devotion against the back of your hand held to his chapped lips. You walked home together, smiling and giggling like fools, with bellies full of sweets. 

You stumbled through your bedroom door, clammy hands hastily ripped off clothes eager to feel skin against skin hot to the touch. All efforts of looking suave on both parties flew out the window as a carnal need took over. Teeth clashed against each other in a messy kiss as your hand carded through his hair and then settled on the nap of his neck. His hand held your cheek as the other pushed the small of your back against him. He curled over you, protected you, devoured you. The need for oxygen overtook, and you parted as a string of spit connected his lips to yours. He stayed close, his forehead bumped against yours, and let out a shaky pant as you took a deep breath, in tandem with each other pushing and pulling. You fell against the bed, yanked him with you, and felt him smile against your skin. 

In the afterglow, wrapped up in fuzzy blankets and the cool moonlight, he said, “this is the happiest I think I’ve ever been.” You held him tighter, kissed the crown of his head, and drifted off to sleep. 

He will return soon enough. He has too. And then you’ll go to the carnival and eat funnel cake until you’re sick and share syrupy kisses on the ferris wheel and laugh and smile. For now you wait, ignore the dreaded emptiness in your chest, and wait. He will return. And you’ll wipe your tears. 

mhm

Hey babes! How has your day been?

I read something a bit recently where a character slips into their native tongue when they're having sex, and I was wondering what language you think L would talk in when he's too flustered to translate in his head and what he would say tp you

Anyways thank you for sharing your amazing writing! I haven't stopped thinking about your drunk L oneshot, so thank you so much for posting it!

I am so happy someone asked, honestly. I could and might just write a headcanon regarding the specifics of Drunk L but I’ve been having a lot of writers block recently so it was a lot of fun. Apologies in advance for anyone who has/does/will ever speak Japanese, French/Italian, or Russian; I don’t know a single lick of any of those languages so this piece was carried by Google translate and websites claiming to know phrases in those languages. Also, there’s sex mention in this one, just FYI.

Really depends. Probably one of the first questions he’s asking early in a relationship is whether you speak more than one language, and if you do he will not use that one. If you do not speak a language other than English, it depends on how flustered he is. In level of severity it goes Japanese, French, Russian, with Russian being the most severe.

These are not hard and fast— there is bleeding over between languages because duh— but this is how it usually goes:

Japanese: Really nothing important; it’s most likely just an observation that really has nothing to do with the task at hand but is just a thing that he noticed. Typically how it goes is he’ll say something in Japanese and then say some wild, out of nowhere thing that then turns out to be true. Word of advice: if he is totally on board with an activity, says something in Japanese, and then is suddenly not on board with that activity and is quietly trying to remove you from that activity, let him remove you two from the activity; there is a reason that has nothing to do with his enjoyment of the activity that you guys shouldn’t do that thing.

Example: one time the two of you were watching a stupid home renovation TV show hosted by a married couple. In the middle of a conversation regarding the aesthetic merit of white on white, he mumbled, “彼女は彼の視線に会っていない,” around his drink. When asked what he said, instead of telling you, he claimed that the seemingly happy couple was going to be divorced by the end of the year. He went on to predict that the man would still be in love with her years into the future but the woman would have lost all interest by then and would ask to break it off. Sure enough, two months later, the tabloids were reporting on their totally not at all expected break up.

French (+ Italian but he is no longer fluent): this has something to do with you. You can’t prove it because you don’t speak French or Italian, but it 100% has something to do with you. This is going to be your mushy shit, the “you’re so beautiful”s and the “I love you so much”s. This is also where most snide remarks and insults are going to stay; if he’s looking at someone else and he’s speaking French, odds are whatever he’s saying isn’t particularly kind. Once and a while he’ll grumble out a “Vaffanculo a chi t'è morto” at the TV or at a particularly ridiculous lie or slight, but you’ll never hear him say anything longer than a sentence in Italian. This also qualifies for any sort of rant; if he’s talking for a long time in French he’s probably not thrilled about whatever he’s talking about (usually this something regarding general police incompetence on a case he’s working on, the details of which you are not allowed to know.)

Example: The two of you watched a movie together on the couch, his head laid on your lap and your fingers gently scratching his scalp. You were talking about something you noticed— an actor you liked, some discrepancy in the script— when his hand found your thigh, giving it a gentle squeeze. “Tu es un ange. Qu'est-ce que j'ai fait pour te mériter?” When you asked him what he asked, he apologized and claimed it was something to do with the topic at hand, even though you could tell from his tone that he was lying.

Russian: Incredible shock/pain/sex stuff. If he’s having an issue with a word, it’s probably an issue of translating a Russian word to English, which happens almost never in his professional life but at least once a week when in your company. If he is legitimately having some sort of panic, he’s communicating that in Russian. If he is fucking you and he’s out of it to the point of not being able to talk properly, it’s in Russian. If something catches him completely off guard and he doesn’t know how to respond or react, it’s in Russian.

Example: Once, after a particularly long period away from you (about 3 months with little contact) he came back rattled. You left him morning after he arrived to go pick drinks up (coffee, tea, what have you) without telling him. You came back, holding your drinks, when you saw your boyfriend digging through a duffel bag up of work stuff. He looked up at you, blinked once, and let his eyes close, slumping over the bag. “Где ты был?” His words came out harshly, shakily, and quietly. “ты забыл свой телефон. а если бы ты поранился?” After being told where you had gone and reassuring him that nothing happened, he calmed down.

Hello.

I don't know if you are taking requests, but if you do, I would be more than happy if you could do a one shot with L x female reader making love and then be caught during the act by some members of the Taskforce. I understand if you dont want or dont have time to write it so no pressure :)

Have a nice day.

This ask may or may not have had me in a choke hold. Possibly. Maybe. I can neither confirm nor deny. Anyways, enjoy.

This is dumb.

The statement applied to most of the things that were happening. It was dumb of you to agree to come to a foreign country because your boyfriend asked you to via letter. It was dumb of you to agree to wear a stupid mask because he was paranoid. It was dumb of you to get in the car that brought you to this giant, expensive-looking hotel, dumb of you to go through as much security as you did, and dumb of you to not even bother to buy an English-to-Japanese book so that you could at least ask the men and one woman there what all the computers were for. But you were dumb, so you showed up and introduced yourself in what you were sure was obviously bullshitted Japanese, trying not to appear as out of place as you so obviously were. Your boyfriend- who, upon your arrival, had not even bothered to look up from his computer– spoke to the group, the only indication that it had anything to do with you being his vague gestures in your direction, presumably explaining what you were doing there, only to be lead by him into a bedroom and told quietly to stay there and not come out until he said.

For a week, you had no idea what was going on, your boyfriend– who apologized endlessly for the circumstances and encouraged you to explore the city while he found some opportunity for a break– keeping you as far from the group as could reasonably be expected. From what you were able to see going to and from the building masked, they were mostly police officers, the exceptions being a nineteen-year-old boy and a girl a couple of years older than him who was, by your best estimation, in an incredibly tenuous, one-sided relationship. None of them spoke to you or looked at you longer than a few seconds, which was certainly strange but not entirely unappreciated. You figured this must be what your boyfriend did for work, so you knew the procedure; do not ask questions and keep to yourself while they did their thing.

On day eight, he managed to take some time away. He explained, first of all, that he had not invited you; Watari had insisted that you stay as “motivation, a fact which seemed to endlessly frustrate him– “Неправильно подвергать вас опасности, потому что я не мотивирован; что с ним не так?” He went on to say that he would in no way be insulted if you wished to leave, that he would take care of any fares necessary to get you out of the country safely and quietly, and that if you decided to stay you would be willingly putting yourself in mortal danger.

“Well, am I good motivation?”

“That is not the point.”

“If I’m good motivation,” you said simply, “I would rather stay.”

This was also dumb, a fact that he did not fail to point out. “If you get hurt on my account–”

“Then I’m an idiot for sticking around. That’s not your fault.”

“Yes, it is.”

“No, it’s not. It’s my poor decision to make.”

It was, so you stayed. This was without his open resistance and reluctance– you usually only saw him for minutes at a time– but it was— in your opinion at least— nice to spend any regular time with him at all. Despite his encouragement to be as far from him and his work as possible, you didn’t leave your room much (if only because not speaking Japanese was an issue when in Japan) and you took most of the time to catch up on your old hobbies and try out all the interesting foods that part of the city had to offer.

On day twenty, he had a night off. Not exactly a night off— he insisted it was just working in a different room— but what that meant in practice, the bit that stood out to you, was that the two of you were alone in a room with him, His focus on analyzing what looked to be financial documents while you passively watching a TV show on tape, some crime show that he openly had no interest in.

You left him alone, mostly. You had no intention of interrupting his work; the sooner he was finished, you supposed, the sooner he would take a rest. To say that the sight of him did not inspire concern— the clinical sharpness in his eye dulled by a combination of boredom, exhaustion and stress— would be a lie. You often thought that he looked more skeletal than human after particularly long times away, but he seemed spry and chipper then compared to how he was now; if you didn’t know better, you would think that his eyes were acrylic lenses.

“Is something wrong?”

You blinked. “Huh?”

“You’re staring at me.” He sounded detached. “Is there something wrong?”

You looked down at your hands. “You look horrible.”

“What else is new?”

“Worse than normal.”

“That’s rude.”

“It’s true.” You rolled over onto your stomach, your face closer to his, you laid on the bed with him sitting on the floor at the foot of it (which he did at his insistence). “You aren’t even sleeping the way you usually do. You haven’t stayed here long enough to sleep in weeks.”

“That’s because I haven't slept.”

You slid your body a bit off the bed, arms dangling towards the floor. “You don’t think you can get work done like that, can you?”

“Watch me.”

You rolled your eyes. “Whatever, Ryuzaki.” You pressed your hands flat against the ground to keep yourself from falling over. “When were you going to tell me your name? They get to know and I don’t.”

“Never. It’s not my name.”

“That’s how people get your attention, though.”

“You didn’t want an alias.” He turned the page. “You wanted my name.”

You let yourself go down onto your forearms. “I guess that’s fair.” You were now about eye level with his lap.

“What are you doing, exactly?”

“Dunno, but I’m here now.”

He glanced over at you, face softening ever so slightly. “Tu es un beau fou.”

You met his eyes, trying and failing to hoist yourself up. “What?”

“I said you look like an idiot.”

You huffed. “Whatever.” Resigning yourself to your fate, you let yourself collapse at his side, face flat against the carpet. “The floor is very soft.”

“Good.” He took one last look at the paper, sighed, and set it aside, stretching his legs out in front of him. “How have you been?”

You managed to get yourself back into a semi-normal position. “Lonely,” you answer honestly. “It’s hard being in a country where you don’t speak the language.”

His response sounded genuine. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” You smiled brightly. “This was my own decision and I’m sticking to it.”

“Stupidly.”

“That’s neither here nor there.” You waved him off. “More importantly, how come you haven’t been sleeping?”

He rested his head on your shoulder. “Work.”

“You sure do work a lot.”

“Mhm.”

“I can’t imagine you’re very efficient.”

He looked up at you. “How do you figure?”

“People aren’t typically very efficient when they’re on the brink of death all the time.”

He scoffed. “I’m not on the brink of death.” You could hear a shadow of hysteria in his voice. “I've got at least five more days before I have to deal with that, and who says I’ll live that long if I take care of myself, anyhow?” He gestured to the papers. “That’s the first time I’ve put those down in a month and I still feel like I have no time.”

You brought a hand up to his hair, scraping your fingers against his scalp gently. “I’m assuming I’m not allowed to ask what the issue is?”

“It’s not that you’re not allowed to ask. I just won’t tell you.”

You nodded, expecting as much. “Is there anything I can do?”

He smiled. “Do you know anything about how Japanese taxes work?”

“Not even a little.”

“Then probably not.” He wrapped his arms around your waist, pressing his forehead into your shoulder. “I’m sorry that you were brought here.”

“I’m not.” You pressed a kiss into the top of his head. “I’m happy to spend time with you; I like knowing that you're nearby, even if I can’t really come down to talk to you.”

He exhaled slowly. “I’ve put you in a great deal of danger.”

“How do you figure?”

He paused. “I am currently working on a project that people would rather I not work on.” You could feel him take a portion of your shirt into one of his hands, playing with the fabric. “So long as I care for you and I am working on this project, your life is in danger. That’s why I told you to forget me if I didn’t come back; if someone suspected that you were involved in me and might care if I died, they would come for you too.” His arms tightened around you. “I can’t allow myself to fail. You won’t be put in danger because of me.”

You reached your other hand over, gently detangling his hair; you can’t tell when the last time he combed it out was. “So to motivate you, I’ve basically been made into a lowkey hostage?”

He nodded.

You sighed. “Well, that sucks.”

“Mhm.”

You pursed your lips together. “There’s nothing I can say that won’t either put an incredible amount of pressure on you or make you feel like shit, is there?”

“Probably not.”

“Cool, cool. So I’m probably going to die?”

“Probably.”

“Awesome.” You offered the only idea you had to improve the mood. “Wanna fuck?”

“Desperately.”

He was on top of you in an instant, your wrists pinned above your head as he seemingly tried to swallow your soul through your mouth. A free hand crept its way up your shirt, grabbing onto the flesh underneath as he pressed himself against you with fervor and desperation nearly unrecognizable to you. He has certainly grown more confident in your time together, but your boyfriend was not typically so obviously consumed by lust or fear or whatever you supposed this was, his touches always at least mildly tentative. Such was not the case now; as his lips made their way down to your neck, sucking marks into your skin, you could feel in every squeeze and tug and whimper just how needy he was, so insistent on having as much of his skin touch yours that you were forced to wonder if he thought you were ice or wax, that you would melt away otherwise. You tried to match him to the best of your ability, letting your knees fall apart so that he may press himself further against you, but in comparison to his suffocating greediness, your responses were barely anything.

An airy laugh passed your lips, chest rising and falling heavily in response to him. “You sure are eager.”

One of his hands fell to your hip, giving it a quick squeeze before taking hold of your waistband. “What gave you that impression?”

You lifted your hips to allow him to slip your shorts off. “Do you want me to—“

“No, thank you.” His response was not harsh, but it was somewhat forceful. “For tonight, I would appreciate it if you let me take the lead on this.”

You looked up at him, his face flushed with exertion and excitement, fingers twitching around your wrists in anticipation. A smile melted across your face, and craned your head upward, pressing a kiss against his cheek before relaxing back into the carpet. You wrapped your legs around his waist. “I’m all yours.”

There was a part of you that was proud; not necessarily of the fact that your boyfriend now possessed any amount of stamina, but instead that the two of you had reached a place where you were capable of making him forget everything apart from you: his work, his fears, the circumstances that brought the two of you here. You were proud of the fact that you managed to be with him for as long as you had, that despite his work he still managed to leave time for you. You loved, more than anything, that he cared for you this much, that he feared losing you as much as you did him, that your feelings were mutual.

You were not proud of the fact that the two of you were so careless as not to check whether the door was locked.

It was one sort of embarrassment to be caught being drilled into the floor by a parent, another by a friend. It was a completely separate matter to be walked in on, clinging to your lover for dear life, by his coworkers. You did not know the names of the people who found you— the blonde girl in the bad relationship, her boyfriend, a younger-looking guy with black hair— but you certainly remembered their faces after the blonde girl poked her head in, sent with the other two to check on him, only to see the two of you fucking on the floor.

You could not see his face. What you did see is the girl immediately turn around, closing the door and presumably telling the other two the situation, saving you from the embarrassment of trying to cover up for a bunch of professional-looking men. Based on the way his grip around you tightened and the way he froze in place, however, you could make a fairly accurate guess.

Seeing as he was not moving in any capacity, you gently rolled on top of him, dismounting him with a peck on the forehead. If you were not incredibly concerned for him, you would have burst out laughing at his expression; he looked as if he was experiencing every stage of grief at once, completely catatonic. You got up, grabbed your shorts, walked to the door and prepared the best acting performance of your life.

Seeing you peek out from behind the door, the blonde girl— who had obviously been having a very heated debate with her boyfriend— spun in your direction and bowed deeply. “お邪魔して申し訳ありません!” Her voice was surprisingly earnest. “お二人が恋人だったとは知りませんでした。 もし持っていたら、ノックしていたでしょう。”

You poked your head out from behind the door properly, enough so that you could still hide your boyfriend while not seeming overly suspicious. “I’m real sorry.” You smiled sheepishly. “I don’t speak Japanese. Do any of you speak English?”

“I do!” The black-haired man, the one who everyone yelled at, bowed nearly as deeply as the blonde. “We’re so sorry for interrupting. We had no idea the two of you—“

You cut him off. “We aren’t.”

The blonde girl stood up straight again, moving behind him to be beside her boyfriend. She asked him a question, and he closed his eyes, concentrating as he answered.

The incompetent man looked up. “You’re not?”

“We aren’t.” You leaned against the doorframe, still wearing a shirt. “Well, we are, but not like that.”

He blinked. “Huh?”

You smiled. “I’m his whore.”

His face warmed. “I beg your pardon?”

“He hired me.” You shrugged. “I fuck him for money.”

The boyfriend raised his hand as his coworker (?) struggled to comprehend the information he just received. “What do those words mean?”

You tilted your head to see him better. “I have sex with— what’s his name? Ryuzaki?” You gestured behind you vaguely. “I have intercourse with the other guy for money.”

He nodded seriously. “I see.” He paused. “What?”

“Well, he’s an adult man with urges and he obviously doesn’t have the time to go out and meet people.” You rubbed the back of your neck, crossing your legs. “So he hired me a bit ago to help with that. Not great in bed, but he’s a good tipper.”

The boyfriend translated. Black Hair looked oddly distressed. Blondie’s face went from confusion to amused understanding. She offered her hand to shake. “Hello!” She smiled brightly, pronunciation noticeably awkward. “I’m Misa Amane! It’s good there’s another girl here!”

“Oh, introductions.” Black Hair waved nervously, looking down at his feet. “Matsuda. Again, we are so sorry.”

“Dude, don’t even stress.” You let go of Misa’s hand. “Honest mistake; if I didn’t get the paycheck I wouldn’t think he was the type either.”

“Still,” Boyfriend cut in, “it was terribly rude of us not to knock.”

“It’s whatever, really.” You looked between the three of them. “So, did y’all need anything? I’m guessing he’d like to finish, but I can pass on a message.”

“It was nothing important!” Matsuda was quick to answer. “We just wanted to check on him since he hadn’t been out in a while!”

“Oh.” You nodded. “Cool.”

“Cool!”

“Cool.” You slowly started to close the door. “Imma do that then. Thanks for stopping by.”

“No problem!” Matsuda’s responses were obviously somewhat driven by nerves.

“Cool. Bye.” You shut the door, locked it, and sat down next to your boyfriend.

Your boyfriend looked as though someone had just told him he had a terminal illness.

“Hey, buddy.” You crisscrossed your legs. “How’s it going?”

He covered his face in his hands. His voice was dead. “Why was that the excuse you decided on?”

You shrugged. “Do you have a better explanation for why you would be plowing—“

“Please do not describe it.”

Your smile widened as you laid down next to him. “You’re going red.”

“Is that an unreasonable reaction?”

“No, but I’m going to give you shit about it anyway.”

He let out a distressed laugh. “And why is that?”

“Because I know you think I’m going to die now— which I am not— and making you embarrassed will probably help distract you.”

He rolled over to face you, hands falling away. He was, in fact, tearing up with embarrassment. “I hate that you’re right.”

“I am.” You did not bother to ask if he would like to continue, instead wrapping your arms around him and bringing his head to your chest. “Your coworkers seem nice.”

“Two of them are murderers.”

You paused at that. “Well,” you sighed, “we can’t all be perfect.”

He snorted. “You are going to die and it is absolutely going to be my fault.”

You brought a hand to his head. “Why would anyone kill some prostitute you hired? You’re rich enough to afford to get someone from a different country and it’s totally out of character to put someone you cared about genuinely into harm’s way unnecessarily; if my killer has any common sense they won’t do shit.”

“To say that he has sense is a very bold assumption.”

“Hypothetical murder man has enough sense to not be arrested for premeditated murder.”

He hugged you tightly, face buried into your shirt. “Because he’s a cheater.”

You had no idea what he was talking about. “A good cheater, apparently.”

“Do not compliment your murderer in front of me.”

You laughed airily, struggling a great deal to offer comfort considering the— by your estimation— inherent absurdity of someone murdering you of all people because of your connection to your boyfriend. “I think maybe today we should not talk about murder, considering the rest of the things going on right now.”

“I concur. Would you like to talk about your being my live-in prostitute now?”

“I think you should go to sleep.”

One of his hands slipped under your shirt, tracing shapes into your skin. “Nightmares.”

“Fair point.” You sighed. “Can you at least try and relax? I really don’t want you to keel over.”

“If I did, your chances of dying because of me would go down.”

You rolled your eyes. “The same moron that’s murdering literally just some hooker isn’t going to care if you’re dead, love.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Maybe let’s aim for both of us not dying.”

You heard him smile. “Imagine.”

It was a dumb thing to hope for. He knew that much, at least. But it was nice to pretend that it was not, that this would end in any way other than tragedy.

It was an inevitability, but one he could ignore for a night.

“I’d rather be the only dark power inside your body” — Astarion from BG3