Chapter Text
The world had shrunk to the four walls of that godforsaken apartment; and there was the scent of Touta’s aftershave, and there was also the possessive heat of his hands on L’s skin.
Touta moved above him, and he was sweating, and he was breathing hot against L’s throat while fucking the man underneath him hard—punctuating the sweet, sweet things he whispers into L’s ear with his thrusts—and each one drove a choked sound from L’s lungs, a sound that was half-protest, half-plea. L couldn’t tell what he was saying anymore, and his throat felt so, so tight, and his mind was mushy. There was a push, a shove, a pull, and L panted heavily, his eyes squinting, vision becoming blurry with his tears.
“Fuck-” Touta panted, hips snapping forward, burying his cock to the hilt, making L’s body jolt. “I- I love you, dammit, I love you so much, L-” Touta slurred out, and L closed his eyes, panting softly trying to catch his breaths while Touta quickly worked inside him out.
L could only cling to him, slender fingers digging into the hard muscle of Touta’s back, his own knees hooked over Touta’s arms, holding himself open. L’s mind—which was usually somewhat a mixture of analysis and probability and every other form of logistic—was a blissful, white-hot blank. There was only this; the friction, the stretch, the overwhelming fullness, the way Touta’s cock seemed to find a place deep inside him that unraveled every last thread of his composure. He was being unmade, piece by piece, and the terror of it was inextricably linked to the most profound pleasure he had ever known.
L came with a broken cry, body seizing, his release striping his own stomach and chest. The clenching of his body around Touta’s length was all it took to push the other man over the edge. Touta’s rhythm faltered down hastily, letting out a grunt while he spent himself inside L, body collapsing atop him.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of their harsh, synchronizing breaths. The lie of his life, the ghost of L, the fear—it all felt distant than usual, soothed by a reality where Touta was with him and the smell of musk and sex.
But the mind, once conditioned to seek patterns, never truly stops. And as he stood hours later before the glass-paneled building in California, a file clutched in his hand, a different, more visceral pattern reasserted itself. It was the pattern of being watched. The pattern of a trap he could not yet see.
“Never mind,” L muttered- the words coming out in a self-admonishing exhale. L’s posture.. well, it was a study in defensive geometry honestly, like that permanent slouch that seemed to draw his body inwards, protecting its core—while his thumb, a nervous metronome perhaps, brushed against his lower lip. Touta Matsuda, his boyfriend of like, two years, narrowed his eyes, picking up on the subtle frequencies of L’s unease.
“I think.. I’m slightly unsettled by the prospect of proceeding alone. I think having you by my side would be… preferable.” L said, devoid of the anxious tremor he felt internally. A faint flush, a purely physiological betrayal, warmed his pale cheeks. He had rejected the offer initially, a performative act of independence, but the creeping paranoia—the old, familiar sensation of invisible crosshairs on the back of his neck—had returned with a vengeance.
“As you wish.” Touta said with a grin.
The building before them was big. Touta had paid the cab driver, while L stood motionless, his dark, wide eyes performing a passive scan of the structure, analyzing sightlines, potential blind spots, and points of entry and egress as if it were a hostile fortress. “You should come inside with me, I suppose.”
Touta chuckled, letting out a dry, affectionate sound. “L, you’re the one interviewing to be a personal assistant, not me. I’d just be in the way.”
“A temporary presence. Just until the process is initiated,” L insisted, grip on Touta’s hand tightening as he physically tugged him through the revolving doors. And see, the choice of this menial position was a previsioned one because his intellect, his past—these were currencies he refused to spend. L existed on the inheritance of his alias, but Touta, whose world was built on tangible materials of the world, greasy truths, provided a stability he craved. This job was a step toward a different kind of truth, one he built himself.
The truth of normalcy.
“You know, if that whole.. mess hadn’t happened, you’d probably be consulting for Interpol or running some global security conglomerate by now,” Touta said, voice hovering between a joke and a genuine statement of belief as they entered the vast, airy reception area. The space was quiet, and the air smelled of lemon-scented cleaner but it was nice. A single woman sat behind a vast marble counter- focus entirely consumed by the glow of her monitor.
“I will go,” L murmured, shuffling forward. “Good morning.”
The receptionist looked up- long dark hair cascading around her shoulders. “How can I help you, sir?”
“I have an appointment regarding the assistant position. The name is Rue Ryuzaki.” L said, and offered the alias—a piece of cryptographic code designed to deflect any searches, any inquiries, especially from him.
“Oh, you’re Rue Ryuzaki?” The woman asked, eyes darting to the screen. He responded with a single nod. “Please, have a seat over there. I’ll inform Ms. Takada that you’ve arrived.” The woman said, and then she gestured toward a cluster of low-slung, minimalist couches.
“Thank you,” L said, voice flat. He returned to Touta and sank onto the couch, body folding into its habitual pose, knees drawn up to his chest. “My nervousness has grown lower,” L muttered, and Touta hummed, and then he committed an agreeable disruption in L’s ordered field of personal space. “I can provide a distraction.”
“A distraction?” L reiterated, tilting his head curiously.
The kiss was soft, fleeting, a transfer of warmth that momentarily overrode the cold logic of his anxiety. It was a pleasant, illogical variable. But the system’s peace was immediately shattered by a sharp, high-pitched intrusion.
“Ugh, can’t stand seeing this stuff everywhere! Do people have no sense of decorum?” A voice snapped, and then L and Touta pulled apart, a faint blush colouring L’s cheeks—another inconvenient physiological response. L turned around and saw this blonde haired chick.
Another woman appeared beside her—her dark hair was sharply cut, a solid bang framing a face of poised, almost severe composure. “Oh please, Misa. Your entire brand is built on your fans’ romantic projections. A little self-awareness would be refreshing.”
Misa Amane—the famous model whom L had seen in magazines a few times, pouted—doing an exaggerated expression. “You’re so mean! Misa-Misa’s just saying what everyone’s thinking! Public displays are so.. tacky!”
Kiyomi Takada adjusted her glasses, letting out a sigh. “And I’m saying you’re projecting your own frustrations. Again.”
Touta blinked- expression one of pure, uncomprehending bewilderment. “Uh.. what’s happening?”
Misa giggled, and flipped her hair. “I’m Misa Amane, duh! Supermodel, and actress! And this is Kiyomi Takada, my super-strict secretary who’s, like, way too serious for her own good so don’t mind her.” Misa said, and L stared at them. I might mind you more than her though, L thought, silent for a second.
“Good morning. I’m Rue Ryuzaki,” L said, and then Touta stood, checking his watch with a jolt. “I gotta head to work. You’ll do great, L. You’re the smartest person I know.”
“Hmm,” L humphed, his grip on Touta’s hand tightening minutely.
Touta chuckled, squeezing his hand back. “You’re overthinking it. You’re too brilliant to mess this up. And way too cute to be rejected.” Touta said, and then pressed a quick kiss to L’s forehead.
“I will see you at the residence.” L affirmed, and Touta hummed.
“Bye!” Touta said, and then waved, his exit a clumsy sprint while almost collapsing all over his way out.
“Aw he’s adorable!” Misa squealed, her focus laser-locking onto L. “Those cheeks! That lost-puppy look! Misa-Misa totally gets why he’s got a boyfriend!”
A tall man with severely slicked-back hair and an expression of perpetual disapproval cleared his throat. “Ms. Amane, we’re in a professional setting. I must insist you refrain from such.. personal commentary.” The guy said, adjusting his glasses, and Misa grunted in annoyance.
“Ugh, Teru, you’re such a buzzkill! You sound just like he does sometimes, always telling Misa-Misa to be more professional!” Misa snapped, and L arched an eyebrow at the pronoun, and almost felt a jolt of pure ice running through his veins. What the actual fuck was that.
“Ryuzaki-kun, I’ll take you to the interview room, c’mon. I should be the one doing it anyway,” Misa began, and L followed her suit, and Teru and Kiyomi walked behind them. They made their way to the elevator, and once all four of them got inside, there was a small awkward pause.
“Seriously, I’m not even sure why I’m doing the interview because Ryuzaki-kun to me is already a perfect candidate already- we need to be more inclusive and what’s better than having a man with a boyfriend.” Misa piped, and Kiyomi let out a sigh from behind her, and Teru had his arms crossed.
“Professionalism, Ms. Amane. It’s a concept you might try embracing.” Kiyomi said, and L offered a soft hum. They went inside the office room, and as soon as they did, apprehension kicked in. L assessed the environment carefully; the placement of the furniture, the type of lock on the door, the quality of the light, the absence of visible surveillance. L’s instincts screamed that the parameters of this situation were all wrong, but the core data point remained elusive.
Because what the fuck could possibily go wrong, anyway?
“Sit, sit!” Misa piped, and gestured to a chair opposite her desk while she made her way to the front. “So, you wanna be Misa-Misa’s assistant? That’s, like, a super important job! You’d be helping with schedules, photoshoots, fan events- oh, and the most important thing, keeping my coffee just right! It has to be perfect!” Misa piped, his voice coming out high-pitched.
L perched on the very edge of the chair, actively focusing and ensuring to not bring his knees up out of habit. “I understand the primary function of the role is to provide comprehensive organizational and logistical support,” L clarified, and she dumbly blinked at him. “Could you clarify on the specific, delineated responsibilities and the key performance indicators for the position?”
Misa blinked, momentarily derailed by the directness. “Wow, you’re, like, all serious and stuff! Okay, um..” Misa trailed off, then she tapped a manicured finger against her chin, eyes losing focus for a second before snapping back with renewed, forced brightness. “Basically, you’d make sure Misa-Misa’s life runs perfectly! Like, making sure my outfits are pre-approved, handling my social media engagement metrics, and acting as a primary buffer against unwanted external interactions. Oh, and you’d totally have to come to my shoots! They’re so fun! You look so bored, it’d be nice for you.”
L processed this, head tilting to a slight, bird-like angle. The description was banal, a list of mundane tasks. But the context raised every internal alarm. Was this a front? An elaborate mechanism to draw him out into the open?
“The decision-making hierarchy for this hiring process interests me. Who, ultimately, is the final arbiter? And to whom would I report, beyond yourself?”
Misa giggled, a nervous, fluttering sound, and waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, you’re so formal! I like you already. Let’s see.. you’d work directly with Kiyomi- she’s my head secretary, super smart but kinda boring—and Teru, my other assistant, who’s all about rules and order. And sometimes you might have to interact with my husband, but he’s, like, super busy and aggravated like most of the time and doesn’t usually get involved in Misa-Misa’s day-to-day.”
L’s internal processing stuttered for a nanosecond. Husband. “Your husband?” L reiterated, and then Misa nodded her head a few times.
“Yeah- I mean, he’s the real big boss of this whole building.” Misa said, her chest puffing out with performative pride. “He’s away on business a lot, but he’s so dreamy. You’ll probably meet him eventually.”
I don’t think I want to, L thought and then his thumb pressed against his lip. “I would like to understand the corporate structure more thoroughly and my potential position within its organizational chart. Could we discuss the full scope and limitations of the assistant’s authority?”
Misa’s pout was immediate, a mask of frustration at being pressed beyond her script. “What the fuck, you’re like a detective or something and ask a lot of questions. Okay, fine. You’d be the primary point of contact for my calendar management, you’d coordinate directly with brand representatives, and you’d be responsible for the initial triage of my fan correspondence- because Misa-Misa gets tons of it! Oh, and you’d need to be super discreet. I’ve got paparazzi and crazy fans trying to find out all my secrets.”
“Discretion is a baseline competency, not a specialized skill,” L stated flatly. “What are the travel obligations? You mentioned a trip to a metropolitan center in the Midwest.”
“Oh, right! Chicago!” Misa chirped, and then she clapped her hands together. “We’re going to this huge exclusive fashion event! You’d be part of the core team coming with me, Kiyomi, Teru, and a few others. It’s gonna be so glamorous! Your function would be to ensure all my personal and professional requirements are met on-site, including itinerary adherence and accommodation standards.”
L’s head tilted to the other side. “And the selection algorithm for the travel cohort? What are the determining factors?” L asked, and Misa blinked again, her fluster becoming more pronounced. “Wow, you ask a lot of questions! Um, I just pick who I think will be the most useful. And since you’re new, it’s, like, a trial by fire. A chance to prove your total devotion to Misa-Misa.”
The door swung open and Kiyomi walked in. “Ms. Amane, I’ve prepared the preliminary briefs for the Chicago trip. Shall I include Mr. Ryuzaki in the distribution?”
Misa waved a hand in her general direction. “Sure, sure! Oh, and Kiyomi, explain the resignation policy to him- I’m too lazy with all his inquiries.. it’s getting on my nerves by now, franky..” Misa continued and then she sighed.
“Resignation policy?” L reiterated, and Kiyomi hesitated for some reason. “It’s a standard clause in all new employment contracts. A minimum commitment of one month’s service is required before a resignation can be formally tendered. It ensures operational stability during the initial integration period.”
“A rather curious stipulation for an at-will employment state,” L mused, and his voice was devoid of inflection, yet the statement was a probe. “And if I were to decline the position at the conclusion of this interview?”
Misa’s smile didn’t falter so much as it calcified, and there was a glimpse of something cold and hard moved behind her eyes. “Oh sweetie, nobody declines Misa-Misa. The offer, once made, is.. final. Once you’re in, you’re in! Besides,” Misa began. “You’ll love it! It’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”
L’s every instinct knew better. This was no longer a job interview; it was an induction. And truth being said, perhaps it was never an interview in the first place. L’s thumb pressed harder against his lip, frowning at the other three with confusion stirring in his eyes, dizzying unease in his stomach.
Operational stability.
The phrase was a blatant lie, like- a corporate-sounding euphemism for a lock. For a personal assistant role, it was statistically anomalous, a red flag so large it should have been the only thing in his field of vision.
And god, his field of vision was blurring more and more with every second, the present reality was receding as a more visceral dataset booted up from the corrupted archives of his memory. The fear was no longer an abstract concept; it was a chemical reaction, flooding his system with a cold sweat that had nothing to do with the room’s temperature.
Why? Really, why? Misa Amane’s husband was a variable with near-infinite possibilities. A tech billionaire. An old-money industrialist. Heck, even some random old man who's built like a fucking deep breath. The probability that this specific man, in this specific city, at this specific time, was him.. was so, so infinitesimally, laughably small that to entertain the notion was a symptom of paranoia. He was L, not some trauma-addled victim seeing phantoms in every shadow. He was better than this. So why was the probability of it being him was a decimal point followed by a string of zeros—nearly not enough to calm his heart rate down? So why did his stomach feel like it was sinking to the floor? Why was his skin suddenly remembering the weight and the texture of a different, proprietary touch he had presumed to forget long, long ago?
And- and this apprehension wasn't only an abstract fear of failure but rather the physical memory of being pinned beneath a heavier body. Of larger, of warmer hands—hands that could draft a corporate takeover or snap a man’s neck with the same ease—digging into the flesh of his hips, of his waist, of his thighs, holding him down against expensive sheets. The feeling of those same hands, moments later, cradling his jaw, his head, his hair, and-and with that godawful tenderness that was more violating than the brutality of his actions. The dichotomy was the entire point. It was all a demonstration of absolute control. And how fucking much L was in fact not in control.
And he would talk. That was the worst of it—while fucking into L hard, his voice would contradict, and instead be soft, be kind even, whispering words of love or perversion.
“Your cognitive function is shutting down,” he’d observe, breathing cool against L’s heated skin, and L would writhe on the sheet because of that like an absolute DUMBFUCK. “Your mind is trying to escape, but your body.. your body is betraying you. It’s welcoming me.”
Why was he thinking about him now? Why was L's mind conjuring the specific sensation of his thumb brushing over his lower lip, which felt, and actually it perhaps indeed was, nothing more than a jab at L's own habit, right before those fingers would press into his mouth to silence him?
L chewed the inside of his mouth with shame in the present-day office.
L remembered the filthy sounds torn from his own throat, sounds that were supposed to be protests but morphed into pleas for more, harder, deeper. He remembered the way his back would arch, not to get away, but to press back against him, to take him in further, his own hips moving to match his pace.
The bedframe would hit the wall and no matter how much he claimed of making love—L knew it wasn't for mutual pleasure; it was a reassertion of ownership. Each pull, each push was a punctuation mark in a sentence L had never agreed to. And likely would never either. And he couldn’t either.
Disgust, hot and acidic, rose in L’s throat. He had to swallow it down. He had allowed it. Not just once, but again and again, over and over until he couldn’t feel his legs. There had been no force, not in the physical sense at least. There had been something worse, like some kind of psychological dismantling so complete that L’s own will had been reprogrammed to the point his role was reduced to a single, degrading function—to be a vessel for his pleasure.
A living, breathing object whose only purpose was to prove that even L could be reduced to a writhing, desperate animal, drunk on the mixture of fear, pain, and the brutal, unwanted pleasure he could wring from his body.
L remembered his hands on his throat. Not squeezing, just resting. The thumb would press gently against his pulse point, monitoring the haste, rabbit-like beat. Perhaps to remind L even his own breath belonged to him.
And now, here he was, applying for a menial job to build someowhat of a normal life with Touta here in California, far, far from Japan, from Tokyo, and his shattered rationality was conjuring his face onto the unknown husband of a shallow model with no brain and only looks. It was clinical insanity. It was paranoia of the highest, most illogical order. Misa’s husband was a random variable in a dataset of millions. The odds were beyond astronomical. So why couldn't he shake the visceral, gut-deep certainty, the cold dread seeping into his bones, that he was willingly walking back into the lion's den?
L forced a response to one of Misa’s questions about travel itineraries and he thought of some more of the resignation policy she’d mentioned earlier. A minimum commitment of one month’s service. A golden cage. It was exactly the kind of petty, bureaucratic, perfectly legalistic trap he would enjoy—a way to ensure a toy couldn't be easily discarded, to drag out the game of cat and mouse under the guise of corporate policy.
L had to leave. Now. The logic was gone, completely overwritten by a primal, shrieking instinct for self-preservation. He needed to find Touta, to feel the simple, uncomplicated warmth of his boyfriend’s hand, to smell his aftershave and force himself in a present that wasn't stained by the past.
L stood up abruptly, mumbling something about needing the restroom. Misa waved him off, already distracted by her phone. L didn't look at Kiyomi or Teru. He just needed out of that room, out of that building, out of the chances.
L shuffled into the hallway with a vortex of fragmented, warring images playing in his mind again and again, swirling—Touta’s affectionate, stupid-ass grin. He needed to get out of here, because sure, his paranoia was futile because in the end, it was nothing, more than paranoia, L presumed, while he walked, not paying attention to where he was going- focus turned entirely inward. The odds of someone from his past being here, in the same country as him, in the same state as him, in the same city as him, in the same building as him was really really, extremely unlikely, and seriously, what are even the odds??
L turned a corner, his head down, eyes blurred, and walked directly into something—someone, and god fucking dammit. The world snapped back into hyper-focused, brutal clarity in an instant.
A cascade of white papers erupted into the air, fluttering around them like startled birds. The bitter scent of freshly spilled coffee bloomed between them, a dark stain spreading rapidly across the marble flooronmg and soaking into the leg of L’s shoe.
“Watch where you’re—” A deep, irritated voice began, then cut off abruptly.
Time seemed to stretch, then snap. L’s gaze, wide, fearful, and- and mortified, traveled upward from the ruined papers and the spreading puddle, over the dark suit, and the black tie, and finally, finally, locked onto the face of the man he had collided with.
The air left his body in a soundless rush.
The man was tall, naturally so, perhaps around L’s own height, with sharp features that seemed carved from marble- auburn hair appearing slightly messy. And his eyes—a rich, gleaming brown—were wide in surprise and awe so profound it mirrored the icy dread currently freezing L’s blood in his veins.
It was, fuck, him.
Recognition was not a slow dawning; it was a nuclear detonation behind L’s ribs, obliterating every rational thought, every carefully constructed wall. The world, Touta, California, the job—it all dissolved into meaningless static. There was only this man. Only him.
Light Yagami.
For a long, very very long moment, neither moved. They were a frozen tableau of surprise, and disbelief amidst the drifting papers. Light’s expression cycled through sheer astonishment, and there was a glimpse of something unreadable, and then settled into a look of familiar intense, consuming focus, his eyes boring into L as if trying to verify a ghost or something.
Light’s lips parted. The voice that emerged was lower, more controlled than L remembered, yet it held a familiar resonance that vibrated deep in L’s bones.
“L?”
It wasn’t a question. It was a statement of fact, an accusation, and a disclosure, all wrapped into a single, devastating syllable. The sound of that name—his name—on Light’s tongue was a key turning in a lock L had thrown away and buried. And just like that, the cage door slammed shut.