#dn reader

Sometimes, life led you down a path that you weren’t keen on treading, but had to anyway. One day, you were a normal person with a boring office job and with limited prospects for the future. The next day, you were confronted with the reality that there were beings and worlds that were well outside the scope of your very understanding. 

When you were about to put away your shoes from a day at work, you saw a scrap of paper on the floor. Unobtrusive and trivial, you didn’t think much of it when you bent down, shoes still held in one hand, and your fingers brushed against a corner of the paper. As you stood up from your bent posture, you flipped the paper over, expecting to see maybe a hastily scrawled address or phone number, but found that there was nothing, only creases. Shrugging, you relaxed your posture, but as you did so, you were face to face with the most grotesque creature you had ever seen in your life. 

Uselessly, you could only back up against your apartment door, the shoes tumbling from your hand and onto the floor. Instinct had you opening your mouth to scream, but social convention had you at gunpoint. Downstairs, you had elderly neighbors and most of the time, it was thoughtless to even think about earning their ire for making more noise than what was necessary. Instead, what came out of your mouth was a hushed gasp that was caught between a shriek and a whimper. 

The creature, with its strange skeletal structure, oddly dyed hair, and piercing one-eyed gaze, skulked forward. Even though it was taller than you by at least a foot and its hulking mass took up most of the width in the hallway, its steps were silent and almost graceful. Oddly enough, you were reminded of a ballerina–that was just how elegant the creature was. 

All of your analysis stuttered to a halt when the creature spoke. 

“It’s about time we talked.”

About time? What did that mean?

You balked, cognizantly aware that all you had to do was reach behind you, grasp your doorknob, and then twist. It didn’t matter if you were hallucinating or if there was truly a specter of horrific features–you had to leave. The longer you stood at the precipice of your apartment, fleeting freedom only moments away from being available to you, the more you knew that your chance of getting away was becoming less and less viable by the moment. However, when you finally got the chance to right your head upon your shoulders, the creature appeared in front of you, almost as if teleported in front of you.

You swallowed. 

Hallucination or not, this felt too real. 

“Forgive me for disturbing you,” the creature apologizes. It bows its head, almost in shame, but you can tell it hopes that you will forgive it. There’s something earnest in its posture, but at the same, you can only remember the slit in its sickly yellow eye. A predator, you can’t help but think. A creature that could easily eat you alive if you let it. “But I couldn’t wait any longer. I had to introduce myself now.”

It’s at this point that you speak. Your words are shaky, a stammer that was reminiscent of young children giving their first presentations in school. Still, you press on, and hope that whatever this encounter was, it would end soon. 

“Go on then,” you mumble, moreso out of self-preservation than out of true curiosity or politeness. “What’s your name?”

Something told you that this creature already knew yours.

“Rem.” It paused, as if preparing for the grand reveal of information that would change your life. And it would. “I am a shinigami and I have fallen in love with you.”

If the first admonition stopped your heart in surprise, the second one restarted it and then caused it to beat even faster. You’ve heard of shinigami before, of course, but you thought that they were only objects of superstition! There was no way that this strange being could take away your life with a simple thought! As that thought settled deep into your mind, you tried to read into the second thing the creature had told you.

It–no, Rem–loved you.

Shinigami don’t love people.

They couldn’t. They only took away people’s lives. 

The shock and disgust must have shown on your face because the shinigami bowed its head low, but its one lone eye continued to stare hungrily at you. Predator, you couldn’t help but think again. An apex predator who was cornering helpless prey. 

Rem took something from behind them. At first, you thought that maybe it would be something gruesome, like a severed head or a beating heart, but you felt yourself calming down slightly when you saw that it was a pitch black notebook. Atop the cover, there was something written there in English. It took a second for you to decipher the foreign language, but years of classes were enough to let you know that this notebook was called “Death Note”. 

“A gift. For our first meeting.”

Rem held out their hand, the bony carapace that reminded you of a human skeleton clicking with every moment, notebook still in hand. The shinigami waited and despite yourself, you hesitantly reached out and took it. The notebook felt… normal. It shouldn’t have disturbed you as much as it should–you’ve used notebooks for your entire life–but when you compounded the normalcy of something a student would use with the presence of a god… It blew your mind. 

“Why?” Your voice was tight, a quiet whisper that most humans could not hear. 

But Rem wasn’t human, now were they?

“Because I want you to trust me.”

Swallowing thickly, you couldn’t help but ask, “Why should I trust you?”

The shinigami didn’t smile, but you could tell that there was the seeds of glee and ecstasy in their gaze. “Because you can use the Death Note to kill me… if you so wish it.”

The notebook felt even heavier in your hand. 

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DISCLAIMER: I do not condone yandere behavior outside of fictional settings. Please don’t mistake the actions of fictional characters displayed in works of fiction to be considered harmless in real life.

If you want to donate a Ko-Fi, feel free: https://ko-fi.com/devintrinidad.

Mello was grumbling again. 

That in itself was not something out of the ordinary. 

What you would consider unusual or weird was that Mello wasn’t grumbling about Near. For some odd reason, the second best student of Wammy’s House was incensed about something other than grades or rankings. Whatever the case, you did not want to be within Mello’s radius whenever he was in one of his moods. You didn’t care if his grudge was usually reserved for the likes of Near and anyone else who dared to get into the top three; an angry Mello was a potentially dangerous Mello. 

As you were about to leave the library and away from the dangers of a brooding blond, you heard footsteps plodding behind you. Somewhat apprehensive now, you thought about hurrying towards the exit, but then dismissed that thought. Running from predators only drove their prey instinct to the forefront of their minds and you already knew that if you didn’t answer to Mello’s summons now, you would pay for it tenfold later. 

Slowly, you turned around, careful not to look too scared or too obstinate in Mello’s presence.

If there were two things that Mello hated, it was people who looked too quiet and too passive like sheep (characteristics that reminded him of a certain rank one) and those who thought it a good idea to challenge him at first glance. It was like tiptoeing on a tightrope, but the rope was slick with oil and there were gale force winds forcing you to lean unsteadily to and fro. For some people, this task was easy; for you, not so much. 

Uncertainly, the both of you stood at an impasse, the silence in between sounding like a death knell as your heart pounded in your ears. 

“Did… did you need something?” You didn’t want to ask, but you also didn’t want to incur his wrath by just staring stupidly. Like a sheep waiting for slaughter. 

The blond grunted, his light brown eyes darkening underneath the library lights. “We have that stupid charity fundraiser next Friday.”

Not a question. A fact. 

While not many people were aware of the true purposes of Wammy’s House, there were still people who knew that this was first and foremost, an orphanage for the brightest minds. While your benefactor provided more than enough funds to keep the premises maintained and the resources necessary to keep your minds sharp, it wasn’t a smart move to completely turn one’s back on society. There were connections to be had and maintained, and if that meant that the orphans of Wammy’s House were supposed to parade about and put on a show as if you were all mere children instead of the world’s brightest, then it would have to do. 

The upcoming charity event was supposed to be a dance and all of the children were expected to attend the evening’s gathering. For the past few days, your instructors had eased off the subjects concerning solely academic pursuits and had been preparing all of the children under their care with etiquette and simple dances to entertain potential donors. Things were simple enough for you, but not every child was keen on getting prettied up or showcasing whatever little physical talent they had in front of an audience who only pretended to care about orphans. 

Only the very young and those who did not function well in high intensity environments were allowed to stay within Wammy’s House. 

For someone like you, average and well below anyone’s radar, you were supposed to attend whether you liked it or not. 

For Mello, he was expected to attend as well. Although he was particularly emotionally volatile in school, he was able to keep a level head during outings and was expected to play nice while at the event. Furthermore, Near wasn’t allowed to go; his apathy towards societal expectations was more than enough to convince your minders that it was best that the first rank remain behind and have the second ranking student represent them. 

You were sure, even if you dare not ask, that the reason why Mello was so miffed was because while he was allowed the honor to represent Wammy’s House, it was because Near couldn’t go. A reward that was given mostly out of pity. 

“Yeah, we do.” You furrowed your brows, not understanding what Mello was getting at. “Are you not going?”

“‘Course I am.” He sneered at you. You hated to admit it, but it felt like a return to form; until now, the rest of this strange encounter was like entering the Twilight Zone. “The thing is, the old man wants me to lead the first dance and I need a partner to do that.”

You blinked. 

And then all of the pieces came together to form the weirdest puzzle you have ever seen. 

This was certainly a situation that you didn’t imagine ever occurring to you. 

“And you’re… Are you trying to find a partner for the first dance?” Was this revelation also the source of all of his grumblings? If so, he could have his pick of any of the other orphans in the House. Sure, there were those who had standards and favored self-preservation over being paraded like a show pony next to Mello, but still. There were countless other girls and boys who liked the spotlight and what better way to go about that than being arm and arm with a top ranking student? 

He seemed pained to admit this, but he nodded reluctantly. “It’s fucking stupid, but if I don’t do it, I get some of my privileges revoked. And you’re not as clingy or as whiny as others so…” 

Ah, so it was out of convenience. 

Not that you truly minded. If Mello targeted you because of some nefarious reason other than convenience, then you would be perplexed. (Realistically, you would be terrified. No one wanted to be one Mello’s hit list). 

“Ah. Okay.” You shifted your feet, your body subtly–but not so subtly–aiming to head towards the exit. Unfortunately for you, his eyes narrowed, as if trying to take in you sudden audacity of leaving without apparent dismissal. “If that will be all…?”

Instead of waving you goodbye, Mello instead moved forward, his long legs covering the distance between the two of you faster than you wanted. He kept his eyes trained on you, predatory as always, but there was a sliver of something else there that kept you rooted to the spot, but assured you that you weren’t going to get mauled any time soon. Finally, when he was merely two feet away, he spoke again. 

“We also need to practice or else Roger will get on my ass.”

You nodded, your head still trying to grasp how surreal this ordeal was steadily becoming. 

“Like, right now or…”

Mello groaned, as if suddenly realizing just how out of depth you–and possibly him–were. 

Before you could apologize or run away, he executed a textbook perfect bow and extended his hand in front of you, his eyes steadily holding your gaze. There was still a faint sense of irritation darkening his irises, but you could see how earnest he was and that his hand never wavered. 

“Can I have this dance?”

At the end of the day, you’ll head back to your dorm bed and sink into it thinking that the dance was a dream. However, in that moment when you took his hand and swept you into a waltz, you would almost think that you actually liked dancing with Mello.

Next Friday couldn’t come faster. 

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In retrospect, that should have been your first clue about L’s true nature.

You’re far from naive. 

You know that L isn’t some innocent, heroic entity hellbent on punishing all the criminals in the world. You’ve known since the beginning that he was a man who supposedly stood for justice, but he was only pursuing criminals for the challenges that they presented. Were this another life, you were sure that L would have been a master criminal with no hope of ever stopping him. After all, there were few people who could hold a candle to L’s intelligence, but you have borne witness to people who aptly fit the description of L’s monsters.

They were terrible people who were ruthless, cunning, and willing to eschew any morals that they must have at some point but had long since disregarded. With nothing holding these degenerates from their base desires, they wreaked havoc on whoever they targeted. Sometimes, they had no underlying cause to their behavior, but to show that they had the wherewithal and the audacity to be apart from the crowd.

For the more interesting and challenging of these people, L chose to track them down and play those games with him. 

It was hard not to feel appreciative of his work. With many murderers, terrorists, and criminals slammed behind bars, anyone could easily turn a blind eye to L’s less than ethical ways of handling investigations. Like any of the organizations or clients that enlisted L’s help, you trusted him. 

L was smart.

L was thorough.

L brought results and that’s what mattered the most.

So, it wasn’t all too surprising when L requested that you stay inside the Task Force inside during the night hours. Curfew? At your age? It was laughable, but you understood his reasoning. With Kira’s influence spreading throughout the world and especially in Japan, many criminals were trying to lash out and find out if there were any chinks in Kira’s armor. You were innocent in all of this, which meant you would have never landed yourself as Kira’s future victim, but L insisted.

And you trusted in L.

L always brought in results, no matter the cost.

So you acquiesced. 

At first, you were fine with the arrangement. You were still free to roam the streets to entertain yourself with your own devices or perhaps investigate on your own. However, L began to ask that you stay inside the building more and more—often citing that it was for your own protection. 

You believed him.

However, doubts started niggling at the back of your brain when you found yourself bumping into Watari, Matsuda, or Mogi outside the Task Force building. It seemed to be a coincidence, especially when it came to Matsuda’s clumsy but charming personality and Mogi’s stolid presence, but Watari himself? There was more to the old man—you knew that he made himself known on purpose.

Which meant…

L wanted to let you know that he was sending members of the Task Force to tail you.

But why?

You asked and a part of you felt relieved when L had said that it was all for your protection. Don’t you know that there have been riots lately? Or that there were a string of terrorist attacks due to Kira’s propensity to anger and divide the public? You’re important, don’t you realize that? 

You have nothing to fear.

You relented and eventually, you found yourself shadowed by one or more of the Task Force members on your outings.

And then—

And then you found out that you were allowed less than two hours of time spent outside, that your room was being relocated closer to L’s quarters, and that you were forbidden from interacting with any of the members outside of Watari and L himself. 

The fetters around your wrists had been slowly weighing you down ever since L had started restraining your movements, but now you realized that you were positively chained. Angry now and no longer trusting in L’s methods, you tried leaving your room so that you could rush to the command center. Unfortunately, you found that the door had been locked on the outside and that you were all alone. Confused now, but still very much angry, you tore through your apartment as you tried to find one of the many cameras that L more than likely hid. 

When that didn’t work, you shouted for him to meet you now. 

Cameras were never enough for the world’s greatest detective.

There had to be microphones too.

Roaring with rage for what seemed like hours did nothing but waste away your vocal chords. When the most that you could do was whimper and mumble incoherently at yourself, you began throwing objects at the door until finally—FINALLY—you heard the phone ring. Hurriedly, you picked up the receiver, eager to give L a piece of your mind. 

Unfortunately, after you ranted at him for five full minutes, you could only hear a brief intake of breath on the other side. You may not have been as close to him as previous investigators or as intimate a relationship as Watari’s, but you could hear the vague amusement and irritation. The sound rankled at you. It was as if he was treating this situation—you—as if you were nothing more than an annoying chore that he had to complete before Watari would box his ears.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing? I’m not a suspect in your investigation, so why am I restrained like Mr. Yagami and Miss Amane?”

You heard L chuckle on the other side, the quality of the phone rendering it crackly and even more monotone than his usual vocal quality.

“You’re not restrained. You’re free to do whatever you like and I’ve already stipulated that you can have two hours of free time outside.”

“You call staying in one room and only two hours of freedom ‘doing what I like?!?!’” If you were any stronger, you knew that the phone in your hand would have been crushed in your trembling grasp. “I’ve turned a blind eye to your methods before, L, but I question how any of this is related to me. So, explain.”

His voice dropped and the crackling on the line had you straining to hear him. 

What you heard next had you dropping your phone, the clattering doing little to calm the racing of your heart.

“Don't you remember? I’m a monster. And monsters like me would do anything to take and protect what’s theirs.” He paused. “You should be honored. I was originally going to give you only an hour outside, but Watari insisted on your behalf.”

You didn’t want to listen to him anymore. Before he could beat you down with his cold logic, you threw the phone at your apartment door, the clunking sound of plastic slamming into wood doing anything but calming you. 

You had to leave.

But in a world of monsters, who was to be your knight?

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DISCLAIMER: I do not condone yandere behavior outside of fictional settings. Please don’t mistake the actions of fictional characters displayed in works of fiction to be considered harmless in real life.

If you want to donate a Ko-Fi, feel free https://ko-fi.com/devintrinidad.

Sometimes, you thought you knew a lot about L. Despite his propensity for secrecy, a part of you believed that you had known him long enough for you to glimpse into the innermost workings of his mind, to catch sight of what lay beneath his seemingly unknowable facade and see the human living underneath. He was a man not beholden to the laws that governed humanity or the morals and ethics that ruled one's souls.

Was he a higher being? 

Surely not, but there were times when his brilliance and his sheer alien nature far outweighed what you thought you had known about him.

So, it was with much trepidation—and maybe a little curiosity—that you woke up in the morning, a few seconds after your alarm had gone off to see that the world's greatest detective was in your bedroom peering down at you. 

As was said before, you had known L for quite some time, even if he did take most of the credit for the cases that you worked on together. Most of the time, L opted to stay behind the computer screens and had coerced you into representing him when Watari could not, but there were other times, rare and unusual, when he would actually venture out into the field and pursue criminals and the like for himself. You may not always see him in person, but whenever you did, the memory of what he looked like burned itself to the sensitive flesh of your eyelids like a brand on livestock.

You would always remember the shaggy hair, the dark black eyes that belied only passive disinterest. Most of the time, he would wear an oversized shirt with long sleeves, the color of an off white shade that must have been pure alabaster at one point. His legs, long you thought, were encased in even baggier jeans that only barely hid his bare feet.

Not once had you seen him wear something outside of this particular getup.

You had asked a particular question once when you were younger and not as kind to L. Yes, you regarded him as your superior—who in their right mind wouldn't?—but you didn't think of him as anything more than that. Reputation wise, you would have thought him aloof and arrogant (which he was and more), but you also saw in him a strange charisma. You saw in him someone who was determined to solve any puzzles that piqued his curiosity just for the sake of knowing and being the one to know it in the first place. It was leagues short of noble, but his detective work had put many criminal organizations behind bars, so you couldn't bear too much judgment against him.

It was that strange charisma that reached out to you and made you  want to seek out what was common to all humans: a chance for connection.

You asked, "Do you always wear the same thing?"

Not wanting to seem rude, you had softened your words and added a teasing lilt so he could shrug it off as a joke if he so wished. Looking back, you knew that he would take the question apart in his own way, always so serious in that distant way of his, but at the time, you were earnestly looking forward to his answer. There was only so much you knew about him and only so much courage you had to enact upon your curiosity.

It was with bated breath that you heard him say:

"No."

And that was that.

He returned to his computer screen and sheaf of documents that lay underneath a tray of French and Italian pastries and pointed you in the direction of your next assignment. You had scoffed, almost in awe at just how much effort he put into that one response (which was absolutely none), but you had accepted it. At the very least, you were paid a hefty sum for your diligent work and because you were L's little underling, you didn't have to worry too much about job security. 

He handled that for you.

For a time, you conceded that the most that you would ever know about your employer and pseudo-confidant was that he was insanely rich, brilliantly intelligent, and that he liked pastries with strawberries best.

And that he liked wearing the same outfit every day.

Until now.

L cocked his head to his left, looking like a bird who was seconds away from pecking your eyes out should you make the wrong move.

Fortunately for you, the world's greatest detective wasn't keen on getting his hands dirty. Instead, he leaned closer to you, tip of his thumb resting at the bottom of his lip, and hummed.

"You shouldn't leave your laptop resting on the bed when it's still on. The heat absorbed by the sheets and mattress could damage the insides."

You blinked, not quite willing to understand that your employer was in your bedroom—squatting atop your clean bed sheets while barefoot!—you took in something that probably should have alerted you from the start that today was going to be an adventure in not going insane. 

Because. 

L.

Your boss. Your employer. The man who signed your paychecks. 

Was wearing the top half of your pajamas. 

You blinked, not willing to believe what your eyes were telling you. However, instead of seeing an old shirt that you had repurposed into being your nightwear disappear into his customary attire, it seemed to become clearer and more apparent that your boss was wearing your clothing. 

You had to ask, though. 

To be sure, of course. 

“Thanks for the advice.” You cast your gaze to the laptop that hummed sleepily at the foot of your bed, fully knowing that you were going to end up sleeping with it like a pillow for the rest of your life if you could help it. 

Not wanting to ignore the L shaped elephant in the room, you faced him again and blanched when you realized that he was staring at you again as if you were a tumor and he was the surgeon tasked to extract it. And yes, it was not as comforting as it sounded. 

“Is… that my shirt you’re wearing?”

“Yes. It’s remarkably… comfortable.” He paused for a moment to chew his thumb—to which you noticed his nails were once again close to the quick—and said as an afterthought, “It’s short notice, but I have another case and I need to use this particular location as headquarters. Until then, you will be compensated well for your discretion.”

Without waiting for your reply, L hopped off the bed—was he wearing your repurposed pants too?—and shuffled towards the door and exited. 

Sometimes, you thought you knew a lot about L. 

Today, you just realized that you didn’t know him at all. 

Well.

There is one thing to be gained knowledge-wise: he rocked your shirt better than you ever could.

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“If you have a question, it’s better if you just ask it rather than spending the majority of your time fussing about it and then not saying anything.” L pressed a few keys onto his laptop, the gentle tapping of his fingers a stark contrast to the low monotone of his voice. To anyone else, he would have seemed blunt and callous, perhaps even irritated at your inner frustrations, but you knew him well enough—or fooled yourself into thinking you had—to know that he was actually quite gentle. If it were anyone else, he would have ignored you. 

You pursed your lips together and thought some more about the question you dreaded asking. Finally, when you knew that he was only a call button away from summoning Watari, you said, “It might be a stupid question.”

“If it is,” L murmured lowly, “I’ll be sure to inform you.”

Again, he tapped on his keyboard, the clacking of the keys serving as ambience. You could almost hate L at that moment. To him, most questions were probably frivolous; they were mere repetitions of the observations and patterns that he saw daily. If anything, he probably knew what you were going to ask just from your reactions alone. 

You sighed and resigned yourself to the horror of impending humiliation. “Okay… Am I pretty?”

Sometimes, you didn’t know what to expect from L. Yes, there were times when he resembled the mechanical workings of a computer—all algorithms and binary code—but there were times when you could swear that he was just as mysterious as the crimes that he solved. That is, to say, you would never know what the answer was, but L knew. 

He always knew. 

And his response? 

He continued typing, but gave you a sidelong glance at you that was more irritated rather than surprised. Figures. 

“Pretty, alongside most other adjectives, is a subjective matter.” He cocked his head to the side and brought a thumb to his lips, which he absentmindedly chewed as he continued to regard you. Dark and foreboding, his eyes bore into yours. They were wide and unblinking, but even as you stared back at him, you could barely make out the reflection within those dark pools. “I have no opinions regarding aesthetics.”

And that could have been it. 

Even before you began ingratiating yourself to L, you knew that he preferred form following function. He was practical and pragmatic, often choosing clothing that he knew would suit his sensory preferences rather than wearing outfits that could have suited him better. For him, the idea of objects that were purely made just for the novelty of looking at something good looking was far beyond his comprehension. 

Despite yourself, you prodded him. 

“Fine then, what about beautiful? Do you think I’m beautiful?” You were getting heated now, your voice slightly cracking at the end. It’s not like looks were everything, you knew that, but this was important to you. Your body… It felt like it wasn’t yours sometimes, like a thing that was only meant to be maintained and kept clean, but never to be seen as something attractive. What were you other than a vessel for a soul? A bag of meat and bones?

Pretty wasn’t everything, yes, but you craved to be acknowledged as someone who could be desired. 

Didn’t everyone else want the same to a certain extent?

This time, you caught L’s attention. For the first time in an hour, his hands abruptly hovered over the keys in uncertainty before retreating to his sides. Although his gaze was kept perfectly blank, you could see from the bright glare from the computer screen that he looked… confused. Perhaps even perturbed? You weren’t sure how to describe the expression on his face, but it was far better than the alternative: impatience. 

In a low, steady voice, he uttered your name. In the stormy turmoil of your emotions, you hesitantly responded with a soft affirmative. 

“This is a sensitive situation, yes?”

You nodded, too choked up and lost in your racing thoughts to properly respond. 

“Before I answer, I’d like you to answer a question of my own.” He raised a hand to placate you and if you looked closely, you could see that he was taking this conversation seriously. Although his voice remained the same and he still sat hunched in his seat as if he were still in work mode, the way he held himself—unnaturally rigid and alert—told you that he had heard your distress and he was going to do everything in his power to make it right. “As they say, beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Anyone could tell you that you’re beautiful. Furthermore, anyone could just as easily tell you that you are ugly. No two person’s standards are the same. So, why should you care? Anyone could say anything, so why bother listening?”

You were struck dumb by his words before you were hit by a tidal wave of indignation and the terrifying thought that L didn’t care. He probably thought that you were being stupid and emotional about this, why did you even ask—

Why did you even ask?

“It’s because it’s you!” You cried out. So startled he was at your sudden outburst, L nearly fell out of his chair, but you paid that no heed. You left the confines of your own seat to confront him, your presence rendering him dumb as you encroached on his personal space. “I don’t care about what anyone else thinks, I just want to know what you think! You’re important to me, that's why I want to know!”

L blinked. 

“Ah.”

That’s all he had to say? Ah?

The displeasure must have been more than evident on your face because he quickly began to formulate a response that would best satisfy your needs. 

“You’re not beautiful and you are not ugly. When I look at you, I see someone important to me. Aesthetics and societal standards don’t define who you are.” His hand reached out, his movements stilted and awkward, but he managed to land a feather-like touch on your shoulder. Despite his feelings towards physical touch and expressions of affection, he held on. For you, he was willing to eschew his reservations to make sure that you were all right. “Your body shape does not matter to me. Your companionship is far more valuable.”

His light hold increased in pressure for a few seconds before he abruptly let go, his hand going back to rest atop his knee. 

You were stunned into silence before you felt a smile break out onto your face. 

“Can I please focus on my work now?” His voice was still monotone, but you could hear the distinct wheedle in his voice that was the closest to whining you’ll ever hear from him. 

In response you nodded and, respecting the boundaries between the two of you, lightly rumpled his hair in affection. He made a startled humming noise, but you only grinned in response.

If L appreciated who you are, then why did other people’s opinions matter?

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What would happen was that criminals would start committing even more heinous crimes, ones that would exploit loopholes, corrupt legal systems, and make cover-ups an absolute. 

Kira would usher in an era of paranoia and secrecy, of a generation who would seek fit to leak their friends’ or family’s names and faces should they step out of line.

“But you don’t know that!” Unlike the soft fabric of her dress paired with the girlish pigtails that lay gently on her golden locks, her voice needled and sharpened to irritating points. She lay on her stomach, her legs kicking up the air as she gazed down at you, her head cradled in the meat of her palm. 

As for you, you sat cross legged on the floor, a series of newspaper clippings and magazines either scattered on the floor or blanketing your lap like an uncomfortable quilt.  

“You’re right, I don’t.” You shrugged, almost careless in your motion before regarding Misa with the weight of your attention once more. “However, you can’t deny that killing people is wrong. Criminals are still people. Therefore, killing criminals is wrong.”

She huffed at your logic before rolling onto her back. 

“Is it really wrong if they deserve it?” 

You shrug, the small mound of papers decorating your lap shifting and sliding onto her bedroom floor. 

“That’s what the justice system is for. You just don’t pass judgment because you have the power to do so. We have a system—flawed, yes—but it’s something that keeps us in check.” You sighed and fingered one of the clippings that caught your eye. There were columns detailing pro-Kira sentiments and reading them made your stomach churn in disgust. “No one person should have that much power.”

“And if Kira wasn’t a person?”

You finally looked up at her, saw that she was lying on her back now, but kept her eyes trained on you. 

You recalled how some of the news articles—gossip rags, now that you thought about it—began talking about Kira as if he were some deity or cosmic force sent from above to cast judgment. 

“Are you saying that he’s not human?” This time, you couldn’t help the edge that was sharpening at the end of your words. “What kind of god kills their people?”

With the rising tension, Misa rose from her bed and padded on the floor towards you. You of all people were more than aware of her short short and slim stature, how she worked out to keep fit and slender as opposed to bulking up on muscles. However, all thought of her not having the strength to do whatever she was going to do all but does your mind. 

With one, swift movement, she grabbed you by the collar of your shirt and hauled you up from your seated position and into a kneeling one. A part of you had willingly knelt on your own, but the other part had stubbornly resisted. That sort of strength that Misa had? She rarely showed and it was only when she was feeling more emotional than usual. 

“I’d rather worship a god that enacts swift justice than a legal system that lets murderers and rapists go.” 

You gently touch her wrist of the hand that held you captive. She struggled to hide it, but she was trembling with all of the passion of a religious zealot. You would never abhor her admiration for Kira—the loss of her parents and the subsequent stalking was more than enough justification—but you could never bring yourself to share her views. Looking up at her now, you saw that there was a desperation in her eyes.

She wanted—no, needed—for you to take her side. 

Kira had advocated for her, but he was a faceless entity.

You were there with her.

And if she couldn’t rely on you to share her views, then who else could? She needed someone. 

“Misa—” You started to say, but she shook her head, her brown eyes welling with tears. 

“I—” She let go of you and her head fell forward and into the crook of your neck. Hot tears coated your skin as trembling breaths greeted your ears. Carefully, you placed a hand around her back and at the back of her head. The warmth comforted her somewhat, but the stutter in her voice had you take pause. “You love me, right?”

You thought about it. “Yes.”

“Then you would take my side on this, right? Lovers are supposed to support each other! So why can’t you do the same?”

You sighed. She stiffened in your hold, but you paid her no mind as you rubbed circles onto her back. 

“That’s not how love works; you know that.” You pulled away and cupped her weeping face. “Couples don’t have to share the same opinions about everything. Obviously, sharing a few common values is a big part of the relationship, but it doesn’t have to be everything.”

“It’s just… If we argue about this, what if we argue about other things as well? I don’t… I can’t lose you!” She hid her face behind her hands, loud sobs wracking her frame. 

“Hey, hey…” You petted her hair and pulled her in close once more. “I’m not going to leave you, okay? It’s also normal for couples to argue, you know? If you want, we can talk about this later. Or tomorrow. Whichever works out for you is fine by me.”

Before you could say anything further, Misa threw herself forward and latched around your neck. You pitched back onto the floor, but thanks to the mound of newspaper articles and magazines, you were able to cushion your fall. 

You don’t notice this, but Misa was smiling into your skin. 

It was okay if you didn’t agree with her today. Or later. 

But she will try to convince you to see things from her point of view. It didn’t matter if her attempts would take weeks or even months. You will be a Kira supporter. You will support her in her ideals. 

As long as you don’t leave. 

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DISCLAIMER: I do not condone yandere behavior outside of fictional settings. Please don’t mistake the actions of fictional characters displayed in works of fiction to be considered harmless in real life.

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You bounced back on your heel, a mischievous look in your eyes as you allowed her to take you by the elbow and towards the center of the mall. 

“Oh, really? Does this mean we can both get our own little packets of french fries?” You ducked to avoid Misa’s swat at your shoulder. Her touch glanced off your shoulder, but you already knew that she would never put too much strength into her playful slaps. “Kidding, kidding… I know to expect that when you think I’m not looking, you’ll just end up stealing half of my fries and the rest of my food!”

This time, you were a little too slow to evade Misa’s next hit. Fortunately for you, even if it was a direct hit and you felt the full force of her assault, she was still gentle with you and you ended up laughing. 

“What? It’s true!”

“No, it’s not!” 

She pouted, her lips becoming fuller and more kissable as you watched in entertainment. Even when she had donned an outfit that was the complete opposite of her usual aesthetic, her cute expressions and mannerisms were all Misa. It was hilarious to know that most of the young teenage couples hanging around the food court could easily be identified as Misa-Misa superfans, but one look at your adoring girlfriend, and they didn’t give her a second glance. 

“Okay, okay!” You put up your hands in defeat, your decision to concede allowing a moment of sunshine to dawn on her gentle features. “Come on, you want a salad and an overpriced smoothie to balance it out, right?”

You graciously led Misa to one of the unpopulated tables before heading towards one of the food stalls. There was one that specialized in healthy foods, a salad being one of Misa’s go to whenever she decided to grace the mall with her presence on her off days. After procuring a salad and a smoothie, you traveled to another food stall. This time, you welcomed an aroma that you knew was chock full of the essence of fat and oil. 

If Misa were accompanying you, she would have complained that standing this close to junk food like this would have caused a breakout. You had to agree, though. Fatty foods did have the capability to make your skin somewhat oily and it was a pain trying to stick to the facial cleanses that Misa gave you.

Once your arms were laden heavy with food, you approached your table again. 

As always, Misa was busy wiping down the table, making sure that the previous occupants’ trash and germs were eradicated. Even if she appeared to be flighty and scatterbrained to the general public who devoured the image that she portrayed, you knew in private that she was detail oriented and particular about the way things were ordered. 

There was a reason why she was quickly climbing the ranks as an actress in minor roles to starring in some of the most famed franchises in Japan. 

“All right, my fair lady!” In front of your dear girlfriend, you placed the salad and the smoothie with as much grace as you could employ. The smile on your face gradually broadened when you saw Misa pause in the middle of her studious wipe down of the table to beam at the salad and smoothie combo. Oh, if only you could see Misa without the wig, but you knew that you wouldn’t be able to spend time with Misa as you wished. 

You sat down in front of Misa, your own food taking up the space. Just as you were about to bite into a burger, the slender hand of your girlfriend deftly taking away the packet of fries caught your eye.

“Hey! Thief!” 

In vain, you tried to swat Misa away from your food, but only managed to make her shy away quicker. She laughed at you, the low chuckling a stark contrast to the overly high pitched giggle that she would use on screen or in front of the media. 

“I’m your girlfriend!” She stuffed a fistful of fries into her mouth and without even pausing to swallow, added, “This is like, a girlfriend tax!” 

“A girlfriend tax?”

Spoiler alert: 

You had to buy two more packets of fries. One more for you and another for Misa because she wanted to take advantage of the so-called ‘girlfriend tax’. 

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It never occurred to you that you would end up in an interrogation room, bright white light searing your eyes and a laptop facing you from across the table. In your line of work, it was to be expected that what you were doing was illegal and that there would be people trying to capture you, but that was the thing. Trying. 

You’ve listened to true crime podcasts and watched many documentaries. It was a sad fact, but a fact nonetheless: more often than not, the police were useless and corrupt. Many of the cases you listened to, both the mundane and bizarre, could have been resolved—quickly, you might add—had the police actually done their jobs. 

So, were you particularly perturbed that the police were on your tail? 

No, not really. 

Not many people knew this, but you were part of something greater and that something? That little something had the majority of the police force in the palm of their hands. There might have been a few cops who still upheld the law and tried to hold onto their ideals, but they would be quickly coerced to surrender into the fold. 

And if they weren’t?

Well, they certainly weren’t your problem. 

So, it had been a surprise when out of nowhere, the organization that you were part of had been felled on the inside. Someone small, weak, and unsuspecting had been able to rise through the ranks, managed to document and collect incriminating information. Exactly two weeks before, the information had been leaked and your organization scattered to the four corners of the world like vermin. 

Quickly, you tried to shed your identity and leave for a safe house. Unfortunately, it seemed that your old friends and coworkers must have let loose several secrets. Among those aforementioned secrets, it was who you were, your connections, your role within the organization, and most importantly, where you could be found. 

Two weeks ago, you were free—yet shackled by your loyalty to your organization.

Today, seated in a chair that held you captive in handcuffs, you were caught in a stranglehold. 

In front of you, the laptop’s screen turned white, a gothic looking L appearing before you. 

“Hello. I hope you’ve found the accommodations to your liking.” 

You flinched when you heard the strange distortion of his voice, seemingly both human and robotic. Already, even if the statement was meant to convey a sort of friendliness, you were becoming increasingly aware that there was sweat gathering above your brow and a tremble beginning to shake through your body. 

This was your jailer. 

And you had nowhere to run. 

Instead of answering, you simply faced the mirror in the room–the only other object that you could see other than your restraints. It was more than likely a two way mirror–maybe the person speaking to you through the laptop was on the other side, observing you like a lab experiment. 

As you frantically tried to keep your breathing level and your movements minimal, the laptop’s speakers once again crackled with noise before the voice spoke again. This time, you could almost detect a trace of annoyance, as if the speaker wanted to be anywhere other than be here interrogating you. You could say the same. Had you been able to escape earlier, you would have been either resting in an airport or living a quiet life in an another country of your choosing. 

You must have been quiet too long because no sooner did you raise your head again to look at that stupid bright white screen did that terrible voice speak again.

The letter L asked, "What? No witty remark? Nothing clever to say?"

Had you been in a better mood—and maybe if you weren't chained up like an animal, muzzled like a common dog with no more bite—maybe you would have said something snappy in return. Having lived in the shadows for so long, you had to learn how to bite back or else you would paint a target on your back.

Long story short, this letter L person... computer... thing was not worth your time.

Even if it meant that you were making things worse for yourself, you would not break. At least, not now.

If L wanted to get a reply from you, witty or not, he was going to have to try harder because you sure as hell did not care.

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