Chapter Text
It’s late at night and Light can’t stop thinking about it.
She knows she’s being watched. Knows with certainty that L is looking at her right now, dark eyes narrowed in concentration and deliberation, moving over every square inch of the room, trying to find the single crack in Light's facade. L won’t be able to find it, though.
So, then, L’s eyes would return back to her, heavy with scrutiny, a physical weight, examining her like Light might have looked at an animal she’d dissected in the seventh grade. She thinks of soft, fleshy innards, tender muscle, and how pliable it all is beneath deft, skilled hands.
Her heart kicks in her chest.
L must know she isn’t asleep. Her room is bugged, one thousand percent, and Light doesn’t doubt that L’s tech is so advanced that even the most minute changes of her breathing can be heard. But she hasn’t settled since she first climbed into bed, hours and hours ago.
Hm. Restless. Tense. Sleepless. Would L take this as a sign of guilt?
Or - could it be attributed to something a little more human, a little more base?
She could do it. She could - under the blankets, Light’s hand curls into a fist, her perfectly trimmed nails sinking into the soft cushion of her palm. She isn’t supposed to know she’s being watched. Therefore she should carry on as she normally would, though she has never done this before. But she could. She could.
Her father’s home - Light caught the sad sound of the door creaking tiredly open downstairs two hours into her insomniac haze - and so he wouldn’t see. He would never know, probably, because if L told him that would mean-
It would mean L watched.
L wouldn’t want anyone to know what it was she had watched.
Light usually has no issue with putting on performances. She lives as a different version of herself every single day. Today she was the perfect student and the beloved daughter, and tonight she can be a creature that comes alive beneath the sheets, with blood thrumming through her veins and burning through her like fire. She can be the fly observed underneath a burning microscope, wings slowly, painstakingly peeled away as she shivers and fights.
And the thing is, is that Light could pretend. She could draw her hand under the sheets and make her breathing heavy, mindlessly rut her hips and muffle her moans with her free hand while her other drew meaningless patterns into her thigh, and she would make it convincing, she could, she could fake it so well that not even L would know the difference. She could keep her dignity intact. She wouldn’t have to compromise herself, make herself an exhibitionist - she doesn’t have to take it this far, she knows that.
But.
But she is left with the aching, tremulous part of herself that wants.
She doesn’t know why. She cannot rationalize it to herself. Surely it is just the novelty of the idea, the thrill of getting away with it, of playing with L and taunting him without words, rather than any actual desire. Light is not a deviant. If she does this, it is only to make abundantly clear just exactly what human rights L is violating.
If Light does this, it is only to show L that she is nothing more than a normal teenage girl. That is all.
Besides, why would she get off to some old man watching her? That’s just sick. It’s not as if she’s attracted to any of her father’s friends - or old men in general.
Or, men, period.
But that’s - that’s only because Light doesn’t have time for boys. She’ll find a nice suitor to settle down with and marry, eventually, to make her parents proud. She’ll find a man who is loved by the community and who has parents with respectable jobs and maybe generation wealth, and he’ll be just as handsome as she is beautiful, and they’ll have children which nannies will preferably take care of while they focus on their separate careers. It’s a vague goalpost in Light’s head, too far away to really pay much mind to now.
And so. If, in the privacy of her own mind, Light molds L into a completely fantastical object of her desires, it doesn’t mean anything. It’s not as if thought crimes are actual crimes.
She’ll never actually meet the man, anyway. She just has to find out his identity and kill him. He means nothing to her beyond that. He is simply a roadblock she must eliminate.
Though…..wouldn’t it be something if L, the World’s Greatest Detective, heralded by the less educated masses as a paragon of justice, who holds Interpol and every nation’s police force in the palm of his hand, was in fact a woman instead of by default a man?
Kicking the covers off of her feverish legs, Light groans, the noise choked in the back of her throat, and arches her spine like a woman possessed. Maybe that’s what she is. This feeling ravages her, swallows her whole.
L is watching. She wouldn’t look away.
She can’t push her pajama bottoms down fast enough. She can’t stop thinking about it. L would know this was bait. She would know Light was playing with her, stringing her along, putting on a show just for the sake of it, just to tell L that Light also knows.
And there is nothing L can do but watch. Nothing L can do but purse her lips, adjust her position, rest a heavy hand against the swell of her stomach, letting her breathing sync with Light’s-
No. Even if she was alone, L would maintain distance, wouldn’t she? She would be, seemingly, unaffected. Untouched by the fumbling, wanton display of a teenager. Maybe she would be. Maybe it would take something big for her to lose her composure, lose her mind.
Some desperate sound threatens to spill from Light’s lips as her thighs squeeze together. Seemingly, even her skin is vibrating. The sheets are tangled around her feet and restricting her movements - and that just makes it better. She imagines it’s L holding her down, pinning her, refusing to grant her respite or release. L would make her work for it. L would want to see Light come undone by her touch and her touch alone.
L would want her helpless.
L would want her to beg for it.
Light’s lungs are growing heavier and heavier with held breath. She drags it out. Her nipples are peaking against her flimsy camisole because it’s the dead of night, in January, the coldest winter month, and this outfit isn’t practical or even really comfortable for sleeping in but Light wanted to wear it because she wanted L to see her in it. She wanted L to see her trussed up, made pretty, an amalgamation of sex appeal put on display, so far out of reach. Light is untouchable, too.
Until someone fits a strong hand with sure fingers around her neck and brings her to heel. That someone would have to be stronger, smarter, an equal.
Light’s throat clicks when she swallows. It sounds like a trigger pulled in the still silence of her night-black room. The cameras are probably infrared, aren’t they? Sixty-four, that Ryuk could find, all of them pinned on her, in this moment. L can probably see every last flushed, stuttering detail.
Light presses down sharply on the juts of her hipbones, stoking the ever-growing fire to burn brighter and brighter, held fast in the cradle of her hips. Her fingertips feel almost numb, light with feeling, as she skims them over the tender insides of her hips. She’s wet. She can feel it. She can feel herself pulsating, not just hungry for it, but starved.
And then, and then - L would know if she were holding something back, wouldn’t she? L would know Light wasn’t entirely uninhibited. From this shameless display, L can probably infer that Light would attempt to be quiet at first, elegant and withdrawn from the whole thing, she’d try desperately not to feel the red-hot ache of shame - but she would lose herself eventually. Light would come undone, needing it more than she needs her pride.
So, Light should just - let go.
Yes, Light works so hard, at so many things, each and every day. She carries so, so many duties and responsibilities on her shoulders that it’s a miracle she hasn’t just broken in two. She must be special. Light always does what she’s told and then goes beyond that - she’s so smart, so clever, so perfect.
L would tell her she was such a good girl. Only L would have that right. That privilege.
The street lamps glow golden, slipping in through the slits of her curtains, bathing her bare legs in heavenly tones of light. Light doesn’t even fake her sudden, sharp gasp at the first graze of her fingers over her cunt. It’s barely a whisper of a touch, not at all what she needs, and still, she can feel herself soaking through the thin cotton of her panties. She is so, so wet, so aroused it’s almost painful, nearly more than she can endure.
The heel of her hand presses hard against the swell of her lower stomach as her fingertips dance butterfly-light over her clit. She involuntarily chases her own teasing touch. She presses down sharper, suddenly, feeling herself out. She does it again, and again, quickly growing addicted to the feeling, frustrated when it starts to wan. Light steels herself and spreads her labia, dragging her quivering fingers through her slick folds, feeling herself drip wetter and wetter.
She cannot describe how it feels. It is a pressure, urgent and full-bodied, pressing against her skin, on the precipice of exploding. It is like a dark, purpled bruise that leaves lingering under her skin a pleasant ache, one Light cannot stop worrying, over and over again.
Belatedly, Light realizes her whines are growing in pitch, in fervor, falling freely from her lips.
Light rocks against her fingers, imagining what L would sound like. What would she sound like, behind that robotic voice? Her voice would be deep, rich, indulgent. Flippant. A husking drawl. She’d ask Light, sounding monotone and unaffected, how badly do you want my fingers?
Light would try to refuse her answer. She’d bite her lip and toss her head back, throwing an arm over her eyes. She’d want L to just take her so Light could pretend she hadn’t any part in it. Then she could still be unsullied. Pure. Light would be so sinful, yet so beautiful.
But L would make her want it more than anything else. L would want her to be culpable, to know what she had done, to beg and writhe and ache. L would want Light to show her just how vicious she could be.
Her wrist begins to cramp as she works faster, rubbing incessant, indiscernible, spiraling patterns against where she throbs. Her cunt clenches around painful nothingness and Light shivers from the feeling, needing to be full. Her legs fall open as Light bares herself, nothing yet everything left to hide.
She needs it. She needs it desperately, madly. Light craves with a burning hunger to be full. To be stuffed and fucked, to incoherence, to insentience, drooling and teary-eyed and naught more than a heap of trembling, exhausted limbs. She wants to feel something inside her, stretching her, forcing its way in deep, deep enough that she would want to scream. It would be the first time anything had touched her in that way. Made an indelible mark on her insides, scarred in her in a secret place she would carry forever, haunted by the phantom sensations endlessly.
It would mean something, if L was her first. If L was to be inside her. It would change something inside her, irrevocably Light thinks.
It would ruin her in a way that couldn’t be undone.
L would be able to manipulate her body effortlessly. She’d manhandle her, get her on her hands and knees, on her stomach, ass high in the air, regardless of how desperately Light tried to squirm away. She’d hold her down with a hand tight around the back of her neck, face trapped against the mattress, but her moans would be so loud the sheets could do nothing to muffle her, drown her out - Light would be forced to face the full depth and weight of her own desires.
Without being fully cognizant of doing so, Light has kicked off the sheets in a fit of fevered delirium, rolled onto her stomach and yanked her pillow from behind her head to squeeze her thighs around. The first brush of her burning cunt against the soft, malleable thing has Light biting savagely at her sheets. This is too much, Light realizes, with a jolt of panic that only seems to reach her as if grasping from a distance. She is going too far. Showing one too many of her cards.
But she can’t stop. To stop now seems impossible. It would be unbearable. Light grinds down, soaking her pillow, seeking friction. Breathy little noises are punched from her lungs as itching sparks of pleasure sparkle hot in her belly like shooting stars.
L’s still watching, isn’t she? Of course, she must be. She must. She wouldn’t be able to look away - she wouldn’t be certain whether or not this was a trap, if Light was counting on this to shock her into a stupor, lower her guard, to distract her from her main objective. Light wonders foggily if this is getting to L. If this is infuriating her. Making her head spin. If L is watching her with grit teeth and knuckles turning white against the armrests of whatever computer chair she’s watching this live feed from.
Light wonders, can’t not wonder, if this is doing anything for L. Anything at all. She wonders if L is aroused too, if she is ignoring it in some attempt to preserve her investigative integrity - her moral integrity, at that. Or maybe not. What sort of integrity could L really have, when she so easily slipped surveillance into a family’s home without any real, concrete evidence? A home with two teenage daughters - surely L had to anticipate something like this?
What if L was hoping for it?
Light is panting, breathless from the force of her rocking hips. She’s going so fast that she’s dizzy and weak-limbed, but it still isn’t enough. She’s been reduced to this, acting no better than an animal, humping the nearest available object, like a damn dog in heat.
Frustration mounts her like the phantom version of L cannot.
With a wet, ugly sob, Light rises shakily to her knees - and gasps as she almost loses her balance and falls right over the side. As she reorients herself her cheeks smart with mortification - if L was here, she would be able to hear her as she scoffed, as she tugged Light back by her hair and whispered scathingly in her ear, you’re so desperate for me, it’s pathetic.
Light would curse her out. Light would try and turn around and slap her, bite her, reverse their positions, maybe, so she could finally have the upper hand - but L would grab her wrist as soon as she lifted her arm to strike, stunning her. L would effortlessly and easily twist her arm behind her back, pulling her wrist high between her shoulder blades, immobilizing her. She would set a firm arm across Light’s waist as she struggled and pull her flush against her chest, fully getting her on her lap, and then L would spread Light’s thighs with her legs, keeping her spread open, powerless, vulnerable as she plunged her fingers deep into her aching cunt. And, exposed, L would fuck Light like this until she succumbed to orgasm - or perhaps not. Maybe she’d draw it out, until Light was mindless, crying for it, pleading for her-
With a start, Light realizes she is crying. Tears drip down her cheeks in rivers, as she draws in sharp, heaving breaths. A wordless, almost inhuman noise crawls up Light’s throat, threatening to choke her, because - she is so horribly, painfully empty and she needs - she needs to be full.
Light grinds down against her pillow once, twice, dragging her oversensitive clit and her fluttering hole against the rough fabric with a bitten-through lip and stinging eyes before the inevitable sunders her. She falls gracelessly onto her side, rolling back onto her back, before she spreads herself anew and tentatively begins circling the tip of her index finger over her rim.
She has to get off. She can’t not get off. No, not after - after all of this, how could she bear to give up now? After having come this far?
And besides, what would L say, if she knew Light couldn’t even properly get herself off?
Light sucks in a stifling breath, another, and another, but the air in the room feels too thin, too intangible. Her heart pulses like a wound inside of her chest, bleeding through the cracks of her ribs, effusing her limbs with a bone-deep heaviness. Yet, she feels as if the wires holding her together have been cut, as if she is no longer tethered to reality, lost in the space of her mind. She can feel everything, especially the buzzing of her nerve endings, sensitive and unspeakably tender.
So, with one last serrated breath, Light begins to work a finger inside of herself. It’s a shock, at first, to have something foreign wiggling inside of her, to feel sensation from opposite ends of her body. Her finger is entirely ensnared in wet, warm heat that attempts to reject it, clenching around an intrusion it, on a biological level, does not quite understand. Her legs fall open as she thrusts in halfway, her mind quickly working to forge a connection she can understand.
What is it about being penetrated? It doesn’t exactly carry pleasant imagery. Light has always tried not to think about it, about being defiled in such a way. To have another person thrust inside of you, into a place so tight and sensitive, kept tucked away like a secret, is undeniably an intimate thing. It hurts, it is a refined ache that spreads upwards and outwards, taking her by the throat and threatening to paralyze her.
But then she thinks about if it were L’s fingers doing this to her, forcing her open, forcing her to take . If it were L’s fingers moving skillfully inside her - Light tries to work in another finger without thinking, instinctive - Light would want to take her as deep as she could go. She’d want to feel her in places she had never felt another. She’d want to know L just as intimately as L seemed to know her. Light would want to prove herself, prove that she could withstand whatever, she’d-
She’d want to be good. She’d want to be the best.
She would want to ruin this person for anyone else. She’d want the memory of her spread open and fucked-out to haunt L forever. She’d want to be like a sacrifice on the altar, an almost religious experience, like a Renaissance painting depicting a martyr suffering for their divinity.
Light would want this little death to be made into art.
She’s thrusting her fingers in and out, her pace erratic and the noise obscene. She angles her hips, curves her fingers, and has to bite her tongue to keep from crying out when she brushes against something pulsating and sensitive. Tears slide down her temple and wet her hair, her chest is heaving like she’s dying, she’s dying, and maybe she is.
The knuckle of her thumb rolls against her clit as her fingers prod rougher against the tenderness inside of herself. Light rolls her hips and throws her head back, a socked foot slipping off the sheets so that her leg dangles loosely off of the bed. She’s close, she’s getting close, and her thighs are trembling, her muscles are starting to lock up, beginning to throb hot and unignorable.
And what if L dipped down and placed her mouth over her, leaving everything hotter and wetter. Light imagines it with a wounded whimper, imagining L stroking her tongue over her clit, again and again, licking at Light and drinking her down as if she were something delectable, honeyed ambrosia from the gods?
Her rhythm is starting to falter, the wetness of her coating her entire hand and making the friction too slippery, too weak. Light rips her free hand away from her mouth and brings those fingers down to her swollen clit, rubbing and rolling as she whines, hearing from somewhere far away the phantom taunt of does my poor girl want to cum? And with that, her heart almost stops, as she feels something deep within her burst.
When Light comes to, she’s still shivering from the aftershocks, eyes heavy-lidded and wet, and the sheets beneath her are soaked.
It jerks Light into action, her sensitive skin smarting against her blankets as she flinches. She sits herself up on her elbows, feeling glass-fragile and distant from her person, staring down at the dark patch of wetness that seems to almost faintly glimmer. Did she-
Ignoring the tremors that are still coursing through her muscles, Light shakily vaults herself off of the bed, landing on her feet feather-light, before she begins to strip the bed. Fuck. Will the washing machine turning on wake the rest of her family? What excuse will she have? She doesn’t have an excuse - but she can’t leave her bed like this. She has all but forgotten the cameras, hastily pulling her discarded shorts back up her legs as she gathers the sheets in her arms. The night is quiet around her. Too quiet.
That awareness returns to her, a shock like a heart attack, as she shamefully slinks out of her room. She bites her tongue bloody as she tip-toes down the stairs.
She knows L is still watching.
-
In the heart of Tokyo, the pitch darkness pervading the room is disrupted only by the glaring artificial light of the television.
A plate of forgotten strawberries is balanced precariously on her thigh as L’s teeth absently worry at her thumbnail, her tea long gone cold as she watches Chief Yagami’s daughter carefully stuff a bundle of sheets into the washing machine.
God, she’s going to hell.
Afterimages are burnt bright and vibrant into the retinas of L’s sleepless eyes. Her ears ring with the breathy, gasping noises the girl made as she writhed shamelessly on her bed, baring the lovely curve of her neck, just begging to be bitten and marked. Fuck - L sighs a well-worn breath. Her hair spread around her like an oil spill, her long, graceful limbs worked with feverish desire, her face when she came all over her sheets, godlike in mortal form-
What a blatant taunt.
What a little vixen.
Does she think so little of L? What goes through that pretty, clever head, what is it that Yagami Light thinks?
Maybe, was she thinking of something entirely else?
She looks over her shoulder, lashes heavy. The door is still closed. A text is sent to Watari telling him she is not to be disturbed for the next twenty minutes - L resigns herself to dealing with his suspicions later.
L throws the plate off and sinks deeper into the cushions as she slips a hand under the waistband of her jeans. She really, truly hopes the Yagami girl is Kira, otherwise, there is no reasonable excuse for how affected she herself is.
But then, what excuse is there for the murmured L on Light's breathless, trembling lips as she came?