dn-hc

[dn-hc]

OMG! I meant erections 🤦‍♀️😂 but I mean I won't deny some of them were probably elective 🤣🤣

What if the reason L sits that way is to hide all the random elections he gets around Light

[dn-hc]

What if the reason L sits that way is to hide all the random elections he gets around Light

[dn-hc]

How about a story where Misa and the guy's girlfriends just shaved and she wants them to feel how smooth she is.

L Lawliet

“L, feel my smooth.” You toss your leg up on the desk.

He blinks slowly from his perch on the couch, spoon mid-air with cake halfway to his mouth. “Why?”

“Because I shaved and exfoliated and moisturized and I am dolphin.”

He stares at you blankly, then presses the pads of his fingers against your skin.

“…Hm.”

“Hm what?”

“It’s statistically unlikely for human skin to feel this soft without a filter. Are you sure you’re not an android?” He stated, making an attempt at humor.

You laugh. “Just say you’re impressed.”

He nods, expression neutral. “I am. May I continue touching your leg ... for research purposes?”

Light Yagami

“Light, feel my leg,” you say, holding it out dramatically. “It’s criminal how smooth I am right now.”

He arches a brow but obliges, letting his fingers sweep over your leg.

“You exfoliated, didn’t you?”

“I did everything. Sugar scrub. Shave. Lotion. I’m basically a baby seal.”

He smiles that charming Yagami-smirk. “It’s impressive. You could cause traffic accidents with these legs.”

You giggle. “You think?”

“I know. You’re glowing. It’s almost distracting.”

“…Distracting from what?”

He leans in. “From trying to be a respectable man.”

Mihael Keehl

“Mello. Mello. MELLO.”

“What?” he grunts, halfway into a chocolate bar.

You stick your leg in his face. “Feel how smooth I am.”

He pulls back. “Are you trying to assassinate me with skincare?”

“No. Just admire my effort.”

With a sigh, he runs his palm along your leg, then freezes.

“…Holy shit.”

“I KNOW!”

“You could slide down a waterslide at the speed of sound with these legs.”

You beam. “So, I win?”

He narrows his eyes. “Win what?”

“Whatever game we’re playing. I’m the softest.”

He scoffs, but rubs your leg again. “Yeah, okay. You win.”

Mail Jeevas

You straddle Matt’s lap and plop your freshly shaved leg across his arms like it’s a gift. “Touch me.”

He doesn’t even look up from his game. “Babe, context?”

“I just shaved. I'm dangerously soft. You need to feel this.”

He grins, finally pausing the game and dragging his fingers lazily down your leg. “Whoa. It’s like velvet had a baby with satin.”

“I exfoliated. Then moisturized. Twice.”

“You’re smoother than my controller.”

“High praise?”

“Highest.” He smirks. “Now come closer. I need to compare your skin to every object in the room.”

Nate River

“Near. Feel my leg.”

He blinks up from his tower of dice and blocks. “Why would I do that?”

“Because I shaved and exfoliated and I’m so soft I might actually levitate.”

You hold your leg out expectantly. Near stares at it like you just handed him an unsolvable equation. Still, he reaches out and brushes your skin with the back of his fingers.

“…It is smooth.”

“Right? Like… illegal levels of smooth.”

He blinks again. “I’ll update my data on skincare routines. Your process is… effective.”

“…You gonna keep touching it or—?”

“Yes.” He resumes gently stroking your leg without looking up.

Misa Amane

“Misa!” you squeal, bursting into the room. “Feel my leg!”

Misa gasps, dropping her mascara wand. “Did you do the sugar scrub I gave you?!”

“YES! And the pink grapefruit moisturizer!”

She claps her hands excitedly and rushes over, running her hands up and down your shin with reverence. “You’re smoother than my silk pillowcases!”

“I FEEL LIKE A GLOSSY MAGAZINE PAGE.”

“You look like one, too!” She hugs you tightly, then pulls back. “Tonight we’re wearing skirts. Short ones. Everyone needs to see how fabulous you look.”

“Deal.”

“And next time—matching skincare night!”

[dn-hc]

can you do anxious reader going to the dentist with the DN cast?

L Lawliet

L sits beside you in the sterile waiting room, his knees pulled to his chest, bare toes curled against the tile. He watches you bite your nails.

“You’re anxious,” he states plainly, voice calm. “Your pupils are dilated, your breathing shallow. Do you want to hold my sleeve?”

You look at him with a small, hesitant nod.

He offers his oversized sleeve without hesitation. “If you faint, I will ll catch you. If you run, I will follow. But I don’t think you will. You’ve endured worse things than a dental cleaning.”

“…You really think so?”

“I know so.” He peers at you, head tilted, making an attempt at a joke. “Besides, if you do not go in, I will have to delay my cake for another week. Cavities are contagious, you know.”

You blink. “They’re not.”

He shrugs. “I’m not risking it.”

He waits the whole time, right outside the room, whispering riddles and logic puzzles under his breath just loud enough for you to hear through the door.

Light Yagami

Light walks you into the dentist’s office like a well-practiced routine. He’s calm, polite, all perfect son-in-law energy. You, on the other hand, feel like your ribs are trying to climb out of your chest.

“You’re doing great,” he murmurs, rubbing your back gently as you sit down. “I know this is hard, but you’ve faced Kira suspects. You can handle a check-up.”

“But what if they use that drill thing?”

“They won’t unless they need to. And I already called ahead. I asked them to explain everything to you before they touch you. You like knowing what’s going to happen, right?”

You nod, clutching his sleeve like it’s a lifeline.

Light bends to meet your gaze. “If it’s too much, squeeze my hand. I’ll be here. I’m not going anywhere.”

You don’t let go of his hand until it’s over. He doesn’t mind.

Mihael Keehl

Mello is pacing. You’re shaking.

“You don’t have to do this,” he says suddenly. “Screw this place. Who needs teeth? Let’s go home. We’ll drink soup and eat pudding forever.”

“I have to,” you mutter. “But I don’t want to.”

He crouches in front of your chair, his gloved hands gripping yours. “Okay. Then we go in. We get through it. If they hurt you, I’ll set the place on fire.”

“Mello!”

“I’m kidding. Kinda.”

You laugh—shaky, startled—and he leans in close. “You’ve survived way worse than this, yeah? You got this.”

When you come back out, he’s waiting, holding a chocolate bar. “Here. You earned this.”

“But I’m not supposed to eat sweets…”

“Screw that too.”

Mail Jeevas

Matt watches you squirm with your fingers clenched in your hoodie.

“Dude, you look like me during finals,” he says, offering his handheld game console. “Here. Play something dumb to take your mind off it. Or pretend this is a boss fight.”

“I feel like I’m going to throw up.”

He reaches into his pocket. “Gum?”

“No.”

“Cigarette?”

“Matt!”

“Worth a shot.” He nudges your shoulder. “Look, you’re gonna be fine. They’re not gonna drill your skull. Just say ‘ahh,’ close your eyes, and imagine you’re in a Mario Kart map.”

You manage a weak smile. “Do I get a gold star if I survive?”

He grins. “Nah. You get bragging rights and dinner on me.”

You survive. And you make him buy you something ridiculous, like rainbow pancakes.

Nate River

Near sits in the corner, quietly assembling a white robot out of puzzle pieces. You can’t sit still. Your leg bounces. Your hands tremble.

“You’re experiencing anticipatory anxiety,” he says, not looking up. “Your sympathetic nervous system is flooding you with adrenaline. Try counting the tiles on the ceiling.”

You blink at him. “What?”

“Distract the mind, calm the body. 1, 2, 3…”

You do. It doesn’t fix everything, but it helps.

When they call you back, you look over your shoulder.

“I’ll be here when you’re done,” Near promises. “And if they hurt you, I’ll tell Giovanni to see to it that they're licenses are pulled.”

“…You’re kidding, right?”

He gives you a straight-faced blink. “Try not to bleed. I find blood unpleasant.”

Misa Amane

Misa clutches your hand, bouncing in her seat beside you. “I hate dentists,” she pouts dramatically. “But we’re doing this together, okay?”

“I’m the one with the appointment,” you mutter, anxiety curling in your stomach.

She tilts your chin up. “And I’m your emotional support girlfriend. We’ll get through it, then go get something soft and sweet to celebrate. Maybe ice cream?”

“But what if they have to pull something?”

“Then we’ll get matching pirate eye patches and pretend you lost it in a sword fight!”

You laugh despite the nerves, and she beams like that was the whole mission.

When the hygienist calls your name, Misa kisses your cheek and hands you her sparkly pink compact mirror. “When it’s over, check out that pretty smile. You’ll thank me.”

[dn-hc]

Can you do a story of L hearing Figure You Out by Viola when his crush is dating someone else

The glow of the monitors bathed L in pale blue light, soft and flickering like an artificial moon. The rest of the task force was scattered throughout HQ, busy with files or coffee or just exhaustion. But not her.

She was at the far end of the room, tucked on the couch beside Light. Her head on his shoulder. Light’s hand absentmindedly ran up and down her arm in a gesture that felt too casual for how deeply it burned into L’s retinas.

A soft instrumental began to play from her speaker on the desk—something she’d queued up without much thought, maybe even subconsciously.

L didn’t look, not directly. He didn’t need to.

He knew the shape of her. The rhythm of her presence. And more painfully, the way her laugh came easier when Light was around. He heard her humming along, quiet and off-key. Then her voice dipped into the lyrics:

> "And I hate that, I could love you with my eyes closed, Kiss you with a blindfold, Figure you out..."

L's hand paused over the keyboard as he took in the words - words he could’ve written himself.

The lyrics hit too clean, too sharp—like someone had opened a door inside his soul without asking.

He turned just slightly, eyes finding her as she mouthed the next line:

> "I might hold you with my hands tied, Show you I’m the right guy, To figure you out..."

It wasn’t fair. L understood her better—or at least, he thought he did. The smallest details. The way she tensed when she smiled too long. How she spoke quickly when nervous but backtracked when afraid. He saw her—really saw her—and not just the version she handed over.

He had figured her out.

But she wasn’t his to hold.

She glanced across the room, met his eyes just for a second.

And smiled.

L looked away instantly. His heart stuttered, his hand moved without permission—grabbing a sugar cube and crushing it between his fingers like it might absorb everything he couldn’t say.

I could love you with my eyes closed…

He hated how much he related to it.

He hated Light.

But most of all, he hated that it didn’t matter.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The song had faded, replaced by silence and flickering lights. Light had gone to speak with Aizawa and Matsuda in another room, and HQ felt emptier without the constant hum of his presence. She was still curled on the couch, absentmindedly scrolling through her phone, blanket bunched in her lap.

L hadn’t moved. Still hunched at his desk. Still too aware of the lingering taste of those lyrics in the back of his throat.

He didn’t realize she’d gotten up until she was standing behind him.

“You okay?” she asked.

He didn't respond. Didn't even look at her.

“You looked… different. When that song was playing.”

He didn’t answer.

She came around to his side, crouching just a little to meet his eyes.

“L,” she murmured. “Did it bother you? The song?”

His fingers twitched. “I don’t see why it would.”

“Because it put into words what you couldn't, didn’t it?”

That was the problem with her. She noticed everything he didn’t want her to.

When he didn’t respond, she sighed and sat cross-legged on the floor in front of him, like she was grounding herself. Or preparing for a confession.

“You have feelings for me, don’t you?”

His throat clenched. “That’s an irresponsible conclusion to jump to.”

She tilted her head. “But it’s true.”

He looked at her now. Really looked. No evasions. No distraction.

“I don’t think I realized it until recently,” he said at last, voice low and paper-thin. “Until I started avoiding looking at the way he touches you. Or when I started recognizing you by your footsteps, your perfume, your sighs... before I even saw your face.”

A pause. He blinked slowly.

“yes,” he whispered. “The song articulated what I could not.”

She was silent. Not shocked—sad. A deep, mournful sadness that sat between them like fog.

“You never said anything,” she said quietly.

“I couldn’t. You were already his.”

“I didn’t know,” she said, almost apologetically. “L… if I had—”

“You would’ve chosen him anyway,” he said, not bitter, just truthful. “He’s light. I’m… shadow.”

She gave a small, broken laugh. “You don’t know what I would’ve done.”

“Then tell me now,” he murmured. “Now that you know.”

She swallowed hard.

“…I would’ve picked you.”

[dn-hc]

Will you do a tender moment between them and their girlfriend to the song In Your Love by Tyler Childer?

L Lawliet

The room was dim, lit only by the soft glow of monitors and the pale moonlight streaming through the blinds. L sat hunched over his desk, fingers drumming absentmindedly on the edge. He wasn’t working on a case tonight. Not really. His mind was somewhere else.

Somewhere, or rather, someone.

His girlfriend was curled up on the couch in the corner of the room, wrapped in a thick blanket, one hand holding her phone and the other resting on her stomach. She was humming along to a song—one he hadn’t expected her to play, but now that it was on, it was hard for him to ignore.

“I will wait for you. 'Til the sun turns into ashes. And bows down to the moon…”

L’s fingers stilled. His heart, a quiet rhythm beneath his ribs, picked up pace. He’d always been terrified of waiting. Of uncertainty. It was why he’d buried his feelings for her so deeply, out of fear that allowing himself to care would make him weak.

But her love—so patient, so sure—it made him rethink everything.

She had waited for him. Not just when it was easy, but when he was at his worst. When he shut everyone out. When he wasn’t sure he even deserved to be loved.

And she still loved him.

She looked over at him, her eyes soft with understanding, the same lyrics echoing in her mind.

“L?” she said, her voice almost a whisper. “You’ve always been afraid of waiting, haven’t you?”

He didn’t answer at first. His gaze shifted from the monitors to her, his expression unreadable, but something flickered there. Something raw.

“I don’t know what to do with it,” he said softly. “waiting. Not knowing.”

She smiled faintly, a little sad. “But you can, L. You’ve been waiting for me in your own way. And I’ve been waiting for you. For us.”

“It's a long, hard war. Oh, but I can grin and bear it. 'Cause I know what the hell I'm fighting for…”

L let out a shaky breath. “I’ve always fought for the truth, for justice,” he murmured. “But I didn’t know what I was fighting for when it came to this. To you.”

She sat up then, wrapping the blanket more tightly around herself as she moved toward him. “You don’t have to fight for us, L. You already have.”

He looked at her, those dark eyes filled with a kind of vulnerability he only showed her. “I’m not sure I’ll ever understand it,” he confessed. “This… love. It’s not logical. But it feels real.”

“We were never made to run forever. We were just meant to go long enough. To find what we were chasin’ after…”

Her fingers brushed over the back of his hand, a soft touch that made his heart ache. “We don’t have to run, L,” she said, her voice steady. “Not anymore. We’ve found it, haven’t we? We found each other.”

He swallowed, nodding slowly. “I never thought I’d find someone who could understand me, let alone accept me.” He reached for her hand, intertwining their fingers. “But you’ve made me believe there’s more than just chasing answers.”

She leaned into him, resting her head against his shoulder. “I’m right here, L. You don’t have to chase anything anymore. Just be with me.”

“I will stand my ground. 'Cause it's cold out there. And you know some men search for ages. For the love that I have found…”

L closed his eyes, leaning back against the chair, his body tense with a mix of emotion he could barely process. "I know," he said quietly. "I know what it’s like to search. But sometimes, you find something in the places you least expect."

Her hand rested on his chest now, over his heart. “I’m not going anywhere. You don’t have to fight this alone.”

“I will work for you. 'Til my hands are tired and bleedin’…”

L’s eyes fluttered open, and he turned his head toward her, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’ll keep working. I’ll keep fighting—for this. For us.”

She smiled softly, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “You don’t have to fight for me, L. I’m already here. I’ve always been here.”

“Honey, I will wait for you. Honey, I will stand my ground. I will work for you. I will stand my ground…”

L sat in silence, absorbing the words that had settled between them like an unspoken vow. She had stood by him through every case, every obsession, every dark corner of his mind. She had waited patiently, not asking for anything, just offering her love without conditions.

And for the first time in his life, L realized something profound: he didn’t have to push away what he felt. He didn’t have to be alone in this fight anymore. He could stand his ground.

He could love her.

“I’m not sure I know how to do this,” he whispered.

“You don’t have to know,” she replied gently. “Just keep showing up. That’s all I need.”

L’s lips twitched upward, a small but genuine smile. “I can do that.”

They sat in the quiet together, the song fading into the background, but its meaning lingering in the space between them. There would be no more running, no more hiding. For the first time, L felt like he was exactly where he was meant to be.

Light Yagami

The ocean was calm tonight.

Waves lapped gently against the shore, the sky above a blanket of dark velvet dotted with stars. The world felt quieter out here—removed from the chaos of names in notebooks and masks worn in daylight.

Light Yagami stood barefoot in the cool sand, hands in the pockets of his slacks, his shoes abandoned somewhere near the dunes. Behind him, a small speaker buzzed softly with the hum of the song she’d chosen. The lyrics rolled out over the breeze like a promise meant only for them.

“I will wait for you. 'Til the sun turns into ashes…”

She was sitting on a large beach blanket, arms looped around her knees, hair tossed gently by the salty wind. When she looked up at him, her expression wasn’t dreamy—it was real. Soft, certain, like she’d already made peace with loving him despite everything.

Light sat beside her without a word. For a while, they just listened. The song, the sea, the silence.

"It's a long, hard war. Oh, but I can grin and bear it. 'Cause I know what the hell I'm fighting for..."

She leaned her head on his shoulder. He didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away. His hand found hers in the space between them and laced their fingers together.

“You know,” she said quietly, “sometimes I think if all this ended tomorrow—if the world forgot your name, forgot mine—I’d still want to be right here.”

Light looked at her then, really looked. Not as Kira. Not as a god. Just as a man. A young man who had blood on his hands and a heart too guarded for its own good. A man who had spent so long building a new world, only to realize she had somehow become his favorite part of this one.

“I believe I found it here in your love…”

“I’m not the kind of man who should be loved this way,” he murmured. “But I’m glad you do.”

She smiled. “I know who you are, Light. And I’d still choose you. Every version.”

His hand tightened around hers.

As the song swelled—talking of bloodied hands and the weight of devotion—Light leaned forward and kissed her temple. Not a kiss of hunger or urgency, but of gravity. Of promise.

“I will work for you. Like a team of mules. Pulling hell off from its hinges…”

“I’ll keep standing,” he whispered against her hair. “Even if everything else burns down. I’ll keep standing for you.”

She closed her eyes. “And I’ll wait for you. No matter how long it takes.”

The stars didn’t answer. The waves kept rolling in. But between them, something solid had formed—something stronger than fate, stronger than justice, stronger than death.

And as the final lyric played, Light closed his eyes and let himself believe, just for tonight, that maybe this was what he’d been chasing after all along.

Mihael Keehl

Mello lit his cigarette with trembling fingers. Not from fear, not from cold, just from the weight in his chest. The rooftop was quiet, save for the city murmuring below and the steady beat of a song coming from her phone, left on the ledge beside them.

She sat a few feet away, knees drawn to her chest, sleeves too long for her hands. He could see her lips moving along with the lyrics, eyes glassy but not crying. Not yet.

“I will wait for you. 'Til the sun turns into ashes. And bows down to the moon…”

Mello stared out at the skyline. “You really would, wouldn’t you?”

She didn’t respond at first. But she didn’t have to. He already knew the answer. She always waited. Waited for him to cool down. Waited for him to come back from whatever war was going on in his head. Waited through his self-destruction. Through the silence.

“It's a long, hard war. Oh, but I can grin and bear it. 'Cause I know what the hell I'm fighting for…”

He ground his teeth. “You’re what I’m fighting for.”

That made her look at him. Really look at him. And something softened.

“I never asked you to,” she said gently.

“I know,” he muttered, flicking ash over the ledge. “But I’m built for war. I don’t know how to stop fighting. The only difference now is... I actually have something worth bleeding for.”

“We were never made to run forever. We were just meant to go long enough. To find what we were chasin’ after…”

“I wasn’t made to last,” Mello said, voice barely above the wind. “I burn too fast. I always have.”

She scooted closer, until their shoulders touched. “Then burn with me. Not against the world. Not for revenge. Just… with me.”

He closed his eyes like it hurt. “That’s the thing. I never planned to make it out. I just wanted to burn brighter than Near, louder than L, harder than Kira.”

She took his hand. “And now?”

His fingers curled around hers. “Now I want to make it home. To you.”

“I will stand my ground. 'Cause it's cold out there. And you know some men search for ages. For the love that I have found…”

“I searched for chaos,” he confessed. “For war. I thought being feared meant being strong. But no one tells you how empty it is.”

She laid her head on his shoulder. “I would’ve waited forever, Mello.”

He breathed out, shaky. “You already did.”

“I will work for you. 'Til my hands are tired and bleedin’…”

“I know I’m hard to love,” he whispered.

“I never asked for easy,” she said. “I asked for real.”

He turned and pressed a kiss into her hair. “I’m trying. I swear I’m trying. Every scar, every crack, everything I destroyed trying to matter—I’ll pour it into you. I’ll work for us. For something that doesn’t burn.”

“Like a team of mules. Pulling hell off from its hinges…”

Mello laughed under his breath, sharp and wet. “That’s us. Stubborn as hell. But pulling.”

She nodded, snuggling into his side. “And I’ll pull with you.”

“Honey, I will wait for you. Honey, I will stand my ground. I will work for you. I will stand my ground…”

The song ended, but they stayed still.

And for the first time in a long time, Mello didn’t feel like he was about to explode.

He felt like a man who had something to build.

Not just destroy.

Mail Jeevas

It was late. The kind of late where even the stars felt tired.

Matt's car was parked on the side of some nowhere backroad, just far enough outside the city to see the sky properly. The engine ticked as it cooled, and the music played low through the speakers—some scratchy old country-folk song his girlfriend had added to his playlist weeks ago. He hadn’t really listened to it until now.

She sat cross-legged on the hood, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands, cigarette burning low between her fingers. He stood beside her, leaning against the fender, watching the smoke curl around her in the cold air like fog around a lighthouse.

Then the lyrics hit.

“I will wait for you. 'Til the sun turns into ashes. And bows down to the moon…”

She didn't say anything. Didn’t look at him. But she hummed along, her voice cracking softly on the words.

Matt took a breath and let it out slow. “You do that a lot,” he murmured. “Wait for me.”

She glanced sideways at him, unsure if it was a compliment or a criticism.

But he met her eyes. “Even when I mess it up. Even when I check out, get too deep in my head, hide behind games and smoke and sarcasm…”

She flicked ash off the side of the car. “Because I know you always come back.”

“It's a long, hard war. Oh, but I can grin and bear it. 'Cause I know what the hell I'm fighting for…”

“I don’t think I ever really knew what I was fighting for,” Matt admitted, voice low and rough. “I just figured I’d lose anyway, so why try too hard? But you...”

He reached out, gently taking the cigarette from her fingers and stamping it out on the ground. Then, softly:

“You make me wanna fight better. Smarter. Not just survive.”

Her eyes stung. He never got like this. Not unless something inside him cracked open wide enough for her to see through.

“We were never made to run forever. We were just meant to go long enough. To find what we were chasin’ after…”

“That’s us,” she said. “That line. That’s us.”

Matt nodded. “I didn’t even know I was looking for anything. But I found you. And now everything else feels... background.”

She reached down, curling her fingers around his hoodie strings and tugging him closer. Foreheads pressed, breath shared.

“I will stand my ground. 'Cause it's cold out there. And you know some men search for ages. For the love that I have found…”

Matt shut his eyes. “You think I’m a coward sometimes. And maybe I am. But when it comes to you? I’ll stand my damn ground. I’ll wreck whatever I have to just to keep you safe.”

“I will work for you. 'Til my hands are tired and bleedin’…”

He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles, one by one. “You deserve someone who shows up. So I will. Even when I don’t know how. Even when I’m tired. Even when I’m scared I’ll screw it all up.”

She smiled, teary and tired and warm. “You don’t have to be perfect.”

“I’m not,” he said simply. “But I’m yours.”

“Like a team of mules. Pulling hell off from its hinges. It's for love that I'll keep tendin’…”

They sat in silence after that. Letting the song finish. Letting the world spin without them for a minute.

And when the last note faded and the cold crept in deeper, Matt pulled her into the car, wrapped her in his jacket, and held her like a man who finally knew what the hell he was fighting for.

Nate River

The rooftop was quiet except for the steady breeze and the low hum of music coming from a small speaker beside them. Near sat cross-legged, a puzzle cube turning slowly in his fingers. His girlfriend was sprawled out beside him, head resting in his lap, eyes on the stars.

The night didn’t ask anything of them. No cases, no strategy, no pressure to speak. Just the slow unraveling of a song that made her chest ache in that good, heavy way.

“I will wait for you, 'Til the sun turns into ashes…”

Near paused the cube, thumb brushing along the edge. “That’s a very long time,” he said, softly.

She smiled up at him. “I would.”

He looked down at her, hair falling slightly into his eyes. “I know.”

“It's a long, hard war. Oh, but I can grin and bear it. 'Cause I know what the hell I'm fighting for…”

“I used to think love was a weakness,” Near confessed, voice quieter than the wind. “A distraction. Something that would pull me away from my work, cloud my judgment.”

She reached up, letting her fingers brush the edge of his sleeve. “And now?”

“Now,” he said, eyes meeting hers, “I understand it’s something worth protecting. Maybe even the only thing.”

She didn’t speak. Just curled a little closer into his lap, hand finding his and lacing their fingers together.

“We were never made to run forever. We were just meant to go long enough. To find what we were chasin’ after…”

Near stared out at the horizon. “I wasn’t chasing love. I didn’t even know I was missing it.”

She turned her head slightly. “But you found it anyway.”

He nodded. “In you.”

“I will stand my ground. 'Cause it's cold out there…”

“I spent most of my life thinking I had to be alone. That people were too complicated. Too unpredictable.” He glanced at her again. “You are all of those things. But you’re also... worth it.”

“I will work for you. 'Til my hands are tired and bleedin’…”

He squeezed her hand. “I will work to understand you. Even when it’s hard. Even when it’s messy. Even when I don’t know how.”

A tear slipped down her cheek and soaked into his pant leg.

Near didn’t flinch. He let it happen. Let her feel.

Because he was learning. That loving someone meant showing up. Not perfectly. But fully.

“Honey, I will wait for you. Honey, I will stand my ground…”

And for once, Near wasn’t afraid of the future.

Because he wasn’t walking into it alone.

Misa Amane

The beach was mostly empty, save for the two of them wrapped up in a shared blanket, toes dug into the cooling sand as the tide whispered in and out. Misa’s eyeliner was smudged from sea spray, her lips stained a soft pink from the wine they snuck in. Her girlfriend’s head rested against Misa’s shoulder, eyes half-closed, listening to the small speaker between them playing the song Misa had picked for tonight.

She didn’t explain why.

She didn’t have to.

“I will wait for you. 'Til the sun turns into ashes. And bows down to the moon…”

Misa swallowed. “That’s how I feel about you, y’know,” she said softly, barely audible under the music. “Even when I get scared or weird or... dramatic.”

Her girlfriend looked up at her, eyes shining with warmth. “Misa, you’re allowed to be all of that. I want you just as you are.”

“It's a long, hard war. Oh, but I can grin and bear it. 'Cause I know what the hell I'm fighting for…”

“I used to fight for the wrong things,” Misa said. “For someone who never looked at me the way you do. I thought love meant giving up everything for someone who wouldn’t even meet me halfway.” She glanced down at their intertwined hands. “Then you came along and made it feel so… safe.”

Her girlfriend leaned in, resting her forehead against Misa’s. “You don’t have to fight anymore.”

Misa closed her eyes. “I still will. For you. I’ll fight for us.”

“We were never made to run forever. We were just meant to go long enough. To find what we were chasin' after…”

A quiet moment passed between them as the ocean sang and the music wrapped around them like another layer of warmth.

“I used to chase ghosts,” Misa whispered. “But I finally caught something real.”

Her girlfriend kissed her cheek. “You found home.”

“I will stand my ground. I'm a bad man looking for takers. You're the finest thing around…”

Misa laughed, low and raspy. “Okay, I’m not a man, and I’m definitely not bad…”

“You’re devastating,” her girlfriend said, grinning. “But you’re mine.”

Misa’s smile faded into something tender. “Yeah. I’m yours.”

“I will work for you. 'Til my hands are tired and bleedin’…”

“I will love you,” Misa whispered, “even when it’s hard. Even when I’m scared. Even when I want to shut down or hide.”

“I know,” her girlfriend whispered back. “Me too.”

They held each other as the last notes of the song played and the moonlight bathed them in silver. No longer chasing. No longer mourning.

Just loving. And choosing each other again and again.

[dn-hc]

Can you do a story of them hearing the song The Loneliest by Maneskin after their girlfriend died?

L Lawliet

The world didn’t stop for her.

But L did.

He sat in her chair at the edge of the task force HQ, his knees drawn up to his chest, thumb pressed to his lower lip. The monitor in front of him was black. He hadn’t turned it on. He hadn’t done much of anything in days.

No one dared interrupt him.

Not even Light.

She had been the only one who could stand this close to him without throwing off his calculations. The only one whose presence never distracted, only steadied. And now… nothing. Just absence. Just lack.

Her playlist was open on the screen.

The last song played was timestamped: ten minutes before the car hit her.

L reached for her headphones. They still smelled like her hair.

He slid them over his ears.

> "You'll be the saddest part of me. A part of me that will never be mine. It's obvious. Tonight is gonna be the loneliest…"

His eyes closed.

The words were gentle but brutal, slicing through him with a strange elegance. Like her.

> "You're still the oxygen I breathe. I see your face when I close my eyes. It's torturous…"

He could still see her.

Turning to smile at him when she caught him watching. Whispering jokes during briefings. Curling her fingers around his wrist like it was second nature.

His hand twitched. He wanted to reach for her.

He couldn't.

> "So don’t be sad when I’ll be gone. There’s just one thing I hope you know. I loved you so."

L let his forehead fall against the desk.

It wasn’t mathematical. It wasn’t rational. There was no equation for loss. No algorithm for the cold ache pressing into the hollow space beneath his ribs.

He had calculated everything.

Except how to live without her.

> "I'm sorry, but I gotta go. If you’ll ever miss me, give this song another go…"

He played it again.

He didn't cry. But his shoulders shook.

And for the first time in his life, L didn’t want answers.

He just wanted her.

Tonight was the loneliest.

And he didn’t think tomorrow would be any better.

Light Yagami

Light Yagami sat alone in the shadows of the task force headquarters, his posture rigid, his jaw clenched. The others had gone home. The Kira investigation had slowed—nothing urgent tonight. Nothing but silence, and the too-loud thoughts in his head.

It had been a week since she died.

He hadn’t cried. Not in front of anyone. Not even when they gave him her necklace, still stained with her blood. Not when Matsuda lowered his gaze and said he was sorry. Not even when L, with rare softness, offered a hand on his shoulder. Light simply nodded and carried on.

Because that’s what Light Yagami did.

But now, it was past midnight, and Light sat in the dark, her phone in his hands, her playlist pulled up. His thumb hovered over the last song she’d listened to—repeated twenty-three times in a row.

“The Loneliest” by Måneskin.

The soft intro started, and he pressed the phone to his ear like she might still be on the other end.

> "You'll be the saddest part of me / A part of me that will never be mine…"

His breath caught. He shut his eyes, swallowing down the ache rising in his throat.

> "You're still the oxygen I breathe / I see your face when I close my eyes / It's torturous…"

She had been the oxygen he breathed. The only person who saw him—not the mask, not Kira, not the prodigy. Just Light.

And he’d lost her. His reasoning, his mission—none of it could explain the emptiness gnawing at his ribs now.

He let the phone slip into his lap and leaned back, fists clenched in his coat.

She had once called him "terrifyingly beautiful," tracing his knuckles as if memorizing them. Now he could barely remember her laugh. But her ghost was in this song—every word a blade to the chest.

And then came the line she must’ve heard over and over:

> "If you'll ever miss me, give this song / Another go."

His face crumpled.

"Dammit," he whispered. His hand flew to his face as he finally let himself break.

No one would see him like this. Not the world. Not L. Not the task force. But in this moment, Light Yagami sobbed like the boy he used to be. The boy who wanted to be good. The boy who once believed he could save people, until the world took the one person who made him feel human.

He played the song again. Then again.

Because tonight…

Tonight was the loneliest.

Mihael Keehl

The church was abandoned—bombed out and hollow, just like him.

Mello sat where the altar used to be, surrounded by shattered glass and scorched stone, chocolate bar melting between his fingers. He hadn’t realized he’d been holding it that long. Didn’t care.

The sky outside was bleeding orange into black. Another day gone. Another one she wouldn’t see.

He didn’t believe in God. Not anymore. But she had.

And she loved this song.

He remembered the first time she played it—teasing him, laughing as she danced barefoot across the hideout floor, saying it reminded her of him. That it was “so dramatic and full of longing.” He’d rolled his eyes.

Now he couldn’t stop hearing it.

He pulled out his phone—her phone. He couldn’t bring himself to reset it.

He pressed play.

> "You'll be the saddest part of me. A part of me that will never be mine. It's obvious. Tonight is gonna be the loneliest…"

He froze.

His breath hitched.

Fuck.

He squeezed his eyes shut, but her face was right there anyway—laughing in the sunlight, yelling at him for being reckless, kissing his forehead when she thought he was asleep. All of it, playing back like a punishment.

> "You're still the oxygen I breathe. I see your face when I close my eyes. It's torturous…"

He punched the floor.

Once.

Twice.

But it didn’t make the pain stop.

“I was gonna fix everything,” he said through gritted teeth. “I was gonna keep you safe. I told you I would.”

He pulled out the note she left—a crumpled scrap of notebook paper shoved deep in his coat.

> “If anything happens, don’t blame yourself. You gave me more life than I ever thought I’d have.”

He read it for the thousandth time. He didn’t believe a word of it.

> "I'm sorry, but I gotta go. If you’ll ever miss me, give this song another go…"

“I miss you so bad it fucking burns,” he whispered, his voice raw. “You said I was intense, but you never saw what I’d be without you.”

He sat there in the wreckage, letting the song loop.

Because silence was louder than the lyrics.

And tonight?

Tonight was the loneliest.

Mail Jeevas

The game controller sat idle in Matt's hands, his character paused mid-run on the screen. He hadn’t moved in over an hour. Smoke curled from a half-burnt cigarette between his fingers, forgotten.

He didn’t want to be in this room.

Didn’t want to be in any room she wasn’t in.

But here he was. Hoodie still smelling like her shampoo. Her gum wrappers still on the desk. Her playlist still open on his computer.

And that one song—that fucking song—stared back at him from the top of the recently played list. A timestamp revealed it had been the last thing she listened to before the crash.

Matt clenched his jaw, hovered the mouse over the title.

Clicked.

> "You'll be the saddest part of me. A part of me that will never be mine. It's obvious. Tonight is gonna be the loneliest…"

His stomach twisted.

She always said the song was cheesy. Always skipped it after the first chorus. But something about the way her hand trembled the last time it played told him she meant more than she let on.

> "You're still the oxygen I breathe. I see your face when I close my eyes. It's torturous…"

He took a long drag of the cigarette. It didn’t help.

“Yeah,” he muttered, exhaling. “It fucking is.”

The apartment hadn’t been cleaned. He refused. Her jacket still lay draped over the couch, her boots by the door. He kept replaying the moment he got the call, the silence in Mello’s voice when he said, “Matt, it was instant. She didn’t feel a thing.”

But he felt everything. Every second since.

> "There's just one thing I hope you know. I loved you so."

Matt shut his eyes. That line wrecked him.

He could still hear her voice, the way she used to say his name like it was something worth holding. The way she’d steal his cigarettes only to complain about the taste. The way she never said goodbye unless she meant it.

And the last time…

She hadn’t said it.

> "I'm sorry, but I gotta go. If you’ll ever miss me, give this song another go…"

He punched pause. Slammed the headphones down.

Then picked them back up.

Played it again.

Because she asked him to.

Because it was all he had left.

Because she was gone—

And tonight…

Tonight was gonna be the loneliest.

Nate River

The white noise of the HQ monitors buzzed in the background, but Near didn't notice it. Not tonight.

He sat on the floor, legs drawn in, a puzzle cube untouched beside him—half-solved, like everything else lately. His fingers trembled slightly as he turned up the volume on the tiny speaker she left behind. It was dented from being dropped too many times, worn down like her voice in the final weeks.

He hadn’t meant to play the song. It had been buried in a playlist she titled “Things That Make Me Feel Too Much.” But his finger hovered, and then… clicked.

> "You'll be the saddest part of me. A part of me that will never be mine. It's obvious. Tonight is gonna be the loneliest…"

Near blinked. Once. Twice. His usually unreadable expression flickered.

She used to sing this, off-key and dramatic, arms outstretched like she was performing on stage. He used to pretend to be annoyed, but it made something in his chest flutter.

> "You're still the oxygen I breathe. I see your face when I close my eyes. It's torturous…"

He lowered his head, white bangs falling into his eyes. For a moment, he looked less like a genius and more like a child—lost, small, and aching.

She was the first person who saw him. Not the detective. Not the successor. Not the blank face behind a hundred strategies. Just Near.

And now she was gone.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. A list. Her handwriting. A silly set of rules titled:

“Things Near Has to Do If I Die (Sorry lol).”

Number one was: “Play that song. You know the one. Cry if you have to. Or just sit still. I’ll know either way.”

> "I'm sorry, but I gotta go. If you’ll ever miss me, give this song another go…"

The room blurred.

Not from tears—he wasn’t crying. Not really.

But everything felt further away. Her voice. Her warmth. Her laughter echoing in the corners of HQ she used to haunt.

> "I loved you so."

“I know,” Near whispered, barely audible. “I loved you too.”

He pressed the speaker against his chest.

And sat.

Still. Silent.

Lonely.

Just like she knew he would.

Misa Amane

The world kept moving, but Misa didn’t.

The Tokyo skyline blinked just outside the glass, a blurred mass of neon and fog. Her hands were ice cold, curled tightly around her phone as she sat cross-legged on the bed they used to share. The sheets still smelled like her—perfume, cigarettes, and something warm and sweet Misa couldn’t name.

She hadn’t spoken in hours. Barely moved. Couldn’t eat. Couldn’t even cry anymore.

Her fingers hovered over a song her girlfriend had added to a playlist a week before she died. Misa remembered the way she'd said, “This one makes me think of you, even though it kinda hurts.”

With trembling hands, Misa pressed play.

> "You'll be the saddest part of meA part of me that will never be mine. It's obvious. Tonight is gonna be the loneliest…"

The moment the chorus hit, Misa's breath broke.

She curled forward, forehead against her knees, phone clenched in her fist. A hiccupped sob tore out of her chest.

> "You're still the oxygen I breathe. I see your face when I close my eyes. It's torturous…"

“I know,” Misa whispered. “I see you too. All the time. I don’t want to, but I do.”

They were never public. Not fully. Not the way Misa dreamed. But her girlfriend had been the only one who knew the real Misa Amane. The scared little girl beneath the glitter and heels. The woman who loved too hard, too fast. Who gave her whole heart to someone and prayed they wouldn’t leave.

But she did.

Through no fault of her own.

And now the song played on, soft and devastating.

> "So don’t be sad when I’ll be gone. There’s just one thing I hope you know. I loved you so…"

“I loved you too,” Misa choked out. “I loved you so fucking much.”

The room felt too big without her. Her toothbrush still sat in the cup. Her hoodie still hung on the chair. Misa grabbed it and pulled it into her lap, burying her face in the fabric. It didn’t smell the same anymore.

> "I'm sorry, but I gotta go. If you’ll ever miss me, give this song another go…"

Misa closed her eyes. That line broke her.

She played the song again.

And again.

Because tonight… and probably for many nights after…

Tonight was gonna be the loneliest.

[dn-hc]

Can you do Mello’s thoughts, feelings, and reactions to Wrecking Ball by Mother Mother

I've not really done stuff like this, so I hope this answer is close to what you're looking for 😊

Thoughts & Reactions

His gloved fingers tighten around the leather armrest, a smirk flickering across his lips like a spark in the dark.

"That... feels like someone cracked open my skull and stitched my chaos into a melody."

He stands abruptly, pacing with energy that’s always one misstep from destruction.

"I made a fist and not a plan? Yeah. That’s me. That’s always been me. Every time I chose rage over patience. Action over strategy. I knew it. I wanted it. I’m not some chess piece like Near—I’m the hand that knocks the board over when the game doesn't go my way."

He stops, head tilting slightly as if hearing the lyrics echo again.

"'You gotta see the artistry in tearing the place apart with me, Baby.' Damn right. There’s beauty in destruction. In not being afraid to get your hands bloody if it means something changes."

His eyes burn with that familiar fire—reckless, brilliant, aching for more than just victory.

"It’s not about winning. It’s about breaking it—the system, the silence, the lies—because we can. Because if we don’t? No one else will."

And underneath it all, maybe—just maybe—he hopes someone’s watching as he sets the world on fire, hoping they’ll understand the art in his wreckage.

Feelings

He feels a visceral, almost electric connection to those lyrics.

They don’t just resonate with him—they validate him. Every line is a mirror to the parts of himself he rarely admits exist aloud: the anger he barely controls, the impulsiveness he wears like armor, and the deep need to do something—even if it means blowing everything up.

“I made a fist and not a plan” strikes him especially hard. That is his default—lead with emotion, let logic catch up later, if at all.

The wrecking ball metaphor appeals to his self-perception: destructive, yes, but purposeful. He doesn’t just want chaos—he wants change. He wants impact. He wants the world to feel him.

The lines about breaking porcelain dolls stir something darker—he knows he hurts people. He tells himself they’re too fragile anyway. That someone has to do the hard, ugly work. Still… it weighs on him more than he’ll admit.

And the “just because I can” part? That’s where he wrestles—is it power or desperation? Is he proving something, or trying to drown out the parts of him that feel weak?

Overall, he’d feel seen—but also exposed. The lyrics call out the very impulse he hides behind bravado: a need to matter, even if it means self-destruction.

[dn-hc]

Need to let more people know this lmao

Alessandro Juliani sings "To Be a Princess" in Barbie. I remember watching it when I was young...Never knew the voice actor would be the same as my favorite anime character in eng dub lol

[dn-hc]

[dn-hc]

Announcement

Asks will be temporarily turned off til I can catch up

I currently have over 40 asks in my inbox, so if I haven't gotten to yours yet, please be patient, I'm not ignoring you 😅

[dn-hc]

A Cry for Help

L Lawliet

L was already awake.

Curled in the oversized chair near the window, knees pulled to his chest, thumb brushing the rim of a teacup. The sunlight filtered through the lace curtains, casting soft patterns across the floor. The scene was almost peaceful.

Then he heard her voice.

"I think I need help."

His gaze lifted instantly, slow but sharp.

Not alarmed. But aware. Fully locked in. No blink. No breath. Just stillness, waiting.

She stood in the doorway—shoulders stiff, face unreadable. Almost... empty. Detached, like someone who had already walked through the fire and was just now realizing they’d been burned.

There was a pause. Then she said it:

"I woke up this morning and like nothing was wrong. It was warm and sunny, clear skies, cool breeze, birds chirping, dogs playing in the yard. I should’ve been happy. But my first thought as soon as consciousness hit me, as soon as I saw the sun was, ‘Damn. Lived to see another day.’ And then I thought ‘That sucks.’”

Silence.

Merely the way she talked about waking up a few minutes ago as though it had happened lifetimes ago was enough to carry weight. But the words themselves, cut through him like a knife.

L set his teacup down with extreme care.

“I see.”

His voice was low. Measured. A hint of gravel, like it had been hours since he last spoke aloud.

He didn’t rush toward her. He didn’t overwhelm her with sympathy or panic. That wasn’t how he operated. Instead, he slowly uncrossed himself from the chair and stood, barefoot, rumpled white shirt hanging off his narrow frame.

He walked to her, stopping just a few feet away, giving her space. But not distance.

“The weather does not always reflect the state of our internal world,” he said, voice soft but steady. “You waking up to light and warmth only to feel nothing but dread—it doesn’t mean you’re broken. It means something inside is asking to be heard. And you’re listening now. That’s… important.”

She looked at him, eyes vacant and dead. He tilted his head.

“I would like to thank you,” he added, “for telling me. Most people don’t. Not until it’s much later. Sometimes too late.”

He stepped closer, slowly. She didn’t flinch. That was good.

“You say you need help. I don’t take that lightly. I don’t think you’re weak. I think you’re incredibly strong for noticing. Even more so for admitting it.”

Another quiet pause.

Then, in a movement surprisingly gentle for someone always so precise, L reached out and touched her hand—fingertips light, a tentative connection.

“We will find a way forward. Even if it’s just one breath at a time.”

He looked down at their joined hands.

“Would you like me to sit with you while the sun is out?” he asked. “It doesn’t have to mean anything. But you don’t have to sit in it alone.”

She nodded. Barely. But it was enough.

L guided her over to the window, where he curled back into his chair and opened his arms—not possessive, not dramatic, just a quiet offering. She curled beside him, and they sat in silence. No pressure. No demands.

Just the steady rhythm of two heartbeats and one shared truth: She asked for help. And L would not let that go unheard.

Light Yagami

The sun poured through the window, golden and soft, painting the room with false comfort.

Light Yagami was buttoning the cuffs of his shirt, routine and perfection stitched into every movement. He had his day already planned—classes, study time, quiet lunch break with her. Everything in order.

Then he heard her voice from behind.

"I think I need help."

His fingers froze mid-button.

He turned slowly. Not alarmed. Not yet. Just… still.

She stood near the doorframe, hair tousled, eyes blank in that way that screamed louder than panic. Her voice was even. Too even. She wasn’t crying. She wasn’t shaking. That was somehow worse.

Then came the rest:

"I woke up this morning and like nothing was wrong. It was warm and sunny, clear skies, cool breeze, birds chirping, dogs playing in the yard. I should’ve been happy. But my first thought as soon as consciousness hit me, as soon as I saw the sun was, ‘Damn. Lived to see another day.’ And then I thought ‘That sucks.’”

Light just stood there, as if the air had thickened.

The silence dragged. His brow furrowed—not in judgment, but calculation.

Inside, his heart dropped.

She wants help. She’s not okay. And I didn’t see it. I didn’t stop it.

Finally, he moved. Crossed the room in a few smooth steps and stood in front of her, carefully measuring her expression.

“I need to be sure I heard that right.” His voice was low, composed, but his jaw was tight. “You woke up… and felt that way? Not because of any particular reason. Not a trigger. Just the fact that the sun came up again?”

She nodded once. Still detached.

Something snapped in him, subtle but sharp.

Not at her. Never at her.

At the world. At himself. At the terrifying idea that she had felt that pain alone.

He reached out, gently—just placing his hand at the side of her neck, thumb brushing her jaw. Grounding. Anchoring.

“Okay. First, thank you. For telling me. You didn’t have to, but you did. That means something.” His voice was steel wrapped in velvet now. Protective. Intense.

“Second…” He took a breath, pushing down the instinct to fix it right now. He hated not having an immediate solution, but this wasn’t a math problem. It was her. “…You’re not weak. You’re not broken. Your mind is responding to something. And if you trust me, I’m going to do everything in my power to figure out what that is.”

He pulled her into his arms—not softly, but fully, arms wrapping around her like a fortress. Like if he held her tight enough, nothing could touch her. Not even her own thoughts.

“We’ll get help. Real help. A professional. I’ll do the research. I’ll handle it. All you need to do right now is stay.”

A pause.

“Stay here. With me. Let today be one day we fight it together.”

She didn’t answer right away, but her body relaxed just slightly against him. That was enough.

His voice dropped to a murmur near her ear.

“You're the one thing I can’t lose. So if that sun ever rises again and makes you feel like this… you come to me. Every time. Understood?”

And though he couldn’t fix it all in a moment—he would.

He'd turn the world upside down if that’s what it took to make sure she never woke up feeling like that again.

Mihael Keehl

The morning was deceptively calm.

Mello was in the kitchen, half-dressed, gold crucifix glinting in the early light as he stirred coffee with one hand and scrolled his phone with the other. Music played low in the background—something gritty, maybe a little aggressive. It fit his vibe.

Then he heard it—quiet, from behind him.

"I think I need help."

His fingers froze around the mug.

Slowly, he turned. She stood there like a ghost, skin pale in the sunlight, eyes dull. Her voice had no emotion, and that scared him more than if she’d been crying.

She continued:

"I woke up this morning and like nothing was wrong. It was warm and sunny, clear skies, cool breeze, birds chirping, dogs playing in the yard. I should’ve been happy. But my first thought as soon as consciousness hit me, as soon as I saw the sun was, ‘Damn. Lived to see another day.’ And then I thought ‘That sucks.’”

Silence.

Mello’s jaw clenched.

Not in anger at her—never at her—but at the world for daring to make her feel that way. At himself for not noticing sooner. At the thought that she had been carrying this around, smiling through it maybe, while he was too busy planning the next move or chasing ghosts from Wammy’s House.

He set the mug down too hard. It cracked slightly, but he didn’t even notice.

“Jesus.” His voice was rough. Quiet. Almost hoarse. “You really felt that?”

She nodded.

He crossed the room in two long strides and wrapped his arms around her tight. No hesitation. No words for a few seconds. Just his heartbeat, loud and fast and right against her ear.

“You should’ve told me,” he muttered, voice cracking. “I mean—I get why you didn’t. I do. But fuck, babe, I wish you had.”

She didn’t respond, and that scared him more than anything.

He pulled back, cupping her face with both hands, his thumbs brushing her cheeks with more care than anyone ever thought him capable of.

“Listen to me. I’ve been there. I know exactly what it’s like to wake up and resent the fact that you did. To feel like your time ran out a long time ago and now you’re just… stuck here. Like it’s a mistake you’re still breathing.” His eyes searched hers. “But it’s not a mistake. You’re here. And you’re telling me this. That means something.”

He took a breath, shaky but strong.

“We’re gonna get you help. Real help. I don’t care what it costs or who I gotta threaten or drag across the damn city—you’re not going through this alone.”

Then, with a broken little smirk, he added:

“And I swear on every bullet I’ve ever dodged—if you ever feel like that again, you tell me. Doesn’t matter if it’s 3 a.m. or mid-fight. I’ll stop everything. I’ll be there.”

He rested his forehead against hers, fierce and gentle all at once.

“You matter. And I’m not losing you. Not to this. Not to anything.”

And for once, Mello didn’t try to fix it with rage or action—not yet.

He just stood there and held her, fierce arms around her like armor, grounding her back into a world that had just felt too heavy to bear.

Mail Jeevas

The glow from the TV flickered against Matt’s goggles as he sat cross-legged on the couch, controller loose in his hands, a half-played game on screen. A lazy Sunday morning—window cracked, the smell of coffee in the air, distant sound of dogs barking and birds chirping.

He heard her footsteps behind him, but he didn’t look up. Not until she spoke.

"I think I need help."

Matt paused the game.

Now he looked up, really looked.

She stood there in one of his old shirts, face blank, voice low—too calm. Like she wasn’t even connected to the words she was saying.

Then she said the rest:

"I woke up this morning and like nothing was wrong. It was warm and sunny, clear skies, cool breeze, birds chirping, dogs playing in the yard. I should’ve been happy. But my first thought as soon as consciousness hit me, as soon as I saw the sun was, ‘Damn. Lived to see another day.’ And then I thought ‘That sucks.’”

Matt blinked behind his goggles.

Took them off slowly. Set them aside.

No jokes. No sarcasm. No “It’ll be okay” platitudes.

He just patted the spot next to him on the couch.

“Come here.”

She hesitated. He didn’t push.

When she finally sat beside him, he didn’t say anything for a while. He just wrapped his arm around her and let her lean into him. One hand rested in her hair, fingers slowly combing through, like she might come undone if he let go too fast.

After a long silence, he spoke—soft and low.

“That sucks. Like... seriously sucks. I’m glad you told me.”

Another pause. His voice was gentle, but serious.

“You ever feel like that again, even for a second, you come to me. No filter. No pretending. Just like this. I’ll never think less of you for it.”

He kissed her temple—light, grounding.

“You don’t have to explain why. You don’t have to be ‘okay.’ You just have to let me be here. You’re not alone in this, alright?”

She nodded against his shoulder, still quiet.

Matt reached for the blanket draped over the back of the couch and pulled it over both of them. He didn’t make her move. Didn’t suggest anything else right then. Just held her, thumb rubbing slow circles against her arm.

“We’ll figure out the help part together. I’ll look up therapists. We’ll take it slow. One day at a time. And if all you do today is sit here and breathe, that’s enough.”

Then, a little smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“You’re still here. And even if it doesn’t feel like it matters right now… it means everything to me.”

Nate River

The morning was quiet.

Plastic puzzle pieces clicked softly between Near’s fingers as he sat curled on the floor, white pajamas slightly wrinkled, hair tousled. The light streamed through the window, casting soft gold across his scattered toys and strategy books.

Then came her voice.

"I think I need help."

Click.

The puzzle piece slipped from his hand.

He didn’t look up at first. Just… paused. Processing. Internally cataloging her tone, her cadence, the pause between words. Something about it was off. Deeply off.

Then she continued.

"I woke up this morning and like nothing was wrong. It was warm and sunny, clear skies, cool breeze, birds chirping, dogs playing in the yard. I should’ve been happy. But my first thought as soon as consciousness hit me, as soon as I saw the sun was, ‘Damn. Lived to see another day.’ And then I thought ‘That sucks.’”

Silence followed. Heavy. Waiting.

Near finally looked up.

His eyes, pale and distant most of the time, were now laser-focused on her. No blinking. No distractions. Just her.

He didn’t stand. Not yet. That would’ve been performative.

Instead, he tilted his head just slightly, expression unreadable.

“You experienced an involuntary, intrusive despair at the idea of surviving another day.”

It wasn’t a question. It was his way of understanding. Grounding it in logic. Holding her words in his hands and studying them carefully—because that’s how Near showed he cared.

“The weather, the birds, the sunlight… they didn’t matter. Because the ache was internal. Unprovoked. Persistent.”

He set the puzzle aside.

“That is serious.”

He stood now, slow and deliberate, and walked toward her barefoot across the rug. When he reached her, he stopped just close enough to be near, but not overwhelming. Respecting space.

“Thank you for telling me.”

He looked at her a long moment.

Then, with a quiet resolve, he gently reached out and touched her wrist—light, not demanding. Grounding.

“You are not broken. The mind is not always logical. That doesn’t make it weak.” A pause. “You needing help does not make you a burden. It makes you aware. That is… rare. Most people don’t realize until they’ve already collapsed.”

He let that settle.

“I would like to help you get help.” His voice was barely above a whisper, but steady. “Therapy. A proper assessment. And if needed, medication. We will take it one step at a time.”

She didn’t speak, but her eyes softened—just enough to reveal the silent panic behind them.

“I will not pretend I understand everything you’re feeling,” he said, hands now folded at his chest. “But I understand what it means to feel like your presence is out of sync with the world. Like you weren’t meant to last this long. I have… felt that before. So no—your pain does not confuse me. It doesn’t frighten me. And it does not make me love you any less.”

The light hit her face just right, revealing how close she was to breaking.

Near saw it. And, in his own way, he reached for her again—this time taking both her hands in his.

“You lived to see another day. And I’m glad you did. But if it feels like a curse instead of a gift, we’ll figure out why—together.”

He didn’t try to hug her. Instead, he sat cross-legged on the floor again and simply said:

“Come sit with me. We don’t have to talk anymore right now. Just… be.”

And she did.

And for a while, silence was enough.

Misa Amane

It was early—too early for eyeliner.

Misa sat at the vanity, halfway through curling her hair when she heard footsteps behind her. The soft pad of slippers. No hum. No morning greeting. Just stillness.

She turned, curling iron unplugged now.

Her girlfriend stood there like a ghost in her own skin. No tears. Just that blank, heavy-eyed stare that said something was very, very wrong.

Then she said it.

"I think I need help."

Misa blinked.

The words took a moment to settle in. Not because she didn’t understand them—but because she understood them too well.

She stood slowly, letting her brush drop to the floor.

And then came the rest:

"I woke up this morning and like nothing was wrong. It was warm and sunny, clear skies, cool breeze, birds chirping, dogs playing in the yard. I should’ve been happy. But my first thought as soon as consciousness hit me, as soon as I saw the sun was, ‘Damn. Lived to see another day.’ And then I thought ‘That sucks.’”

Misa didn’t cry. Not yet.

But her whole body tensed like someone had just punched her in the stomach.

She stepped forward, gently taking her girlfriend’s face in her hands, thumbs brushing against her cheeks like she needed to make sure she was really there.

“Baby…” Her voice cracked just enough to betray the tightness in her throat. “You should’ve told me sooner it gotten this heavy…”

Her hands dropped, and she wrapped her arms tightly around her, squeezing like she was afraid she might disappear if she didn’t hold on hard enough.

“I know exactly what that kind of morning feels like. Like you woke up inside a body you didn’t ask to keep living in. Like you’re disappointed to still exist.” Her voice lowered to a whisper. “I’ve had those mornings too. A lot of them. After my parents. After…” She swallowed. “After him.”

She pulled back just enough to look into her eyes, mascara forgotten, curls half-done.

“But I survived them. Not because I was stronger. Just because someone reminded me I wasn’t alone.”

She wiped her girlfriend’s cheek with her thumb even though there weren’t tears yet.

“So now it’s my turn. I’m going to help you. We’ll get you someone to talk to. I’ll be with you every step, I swear.” A tiny, determined smile broke through. “And I won’t let you pretend to be okay when you’re not. I love the real you. Even the messy parts.”

Misa kissed her forehead softly and pressed them together.

“You don’t have to shine all the time. You don’t even have to feel anything today. You just have to keep breathing, and I’ll take care of the rest for now.”

And then, with her hands still gently holding her close, Misa whispered:

“Thank you for telling me. That’s one of the bravest things anyone’s ever done for me.”

[dn-hc]

Case of the Birthday Blues

L Lawliet

The birthday cake sat barely touched.

A single flickering candle melted into the frosting, its soft glow casting long shadows across the dimly lit room. L Lawliet sat cross-legged in a chair, his hands tucked near his mouth as he stared at the woman he loved. She wasn’t crying. She wasn’t angry. She just looked… tired.

"What's wrong? You've hardly touched any of your cake." He mumbled, mouth full of cake.

“I got the birthday blues." She responded. She paused for a moment before continuing, "Like I'm not sad to be getting older nor do I feel I've done nothing with my life. It's more like a ‘why am I still here?' sadness. I feel I've ran my course and death is overdue. Like I'm not meant to still be here.”

L’s already large eyes somehow widened more. Internally, it was like an alarm went off—sirens, blinking red lights, warning signals. But outwardly, he remained eerily calm, his thumb gently brushing his bottom lip.

He was quiet for too long.

Not because he didn’t care—no, that was the problem. He cared too much, and emotional honesty didn’t come naturally to him. His mind tried to file her statement under logic, but it resisted—this wasn’t logic. This was pain.

���I see.”

His voice was quiet, almost flat, but his fingers twitched—nervous energy he didn’t know how to expend.

“You know,” he began, eyes shifting to the candlelight as if it helped him form the words, “I don’t believe in fate. But I do believe in data. Probabilities. Statistics. I’ve often calculated how long I’d live based on my habits. And I’ve thought, many times, that I wouldn’t last this long either.” He turned back to her. “But here I am. Here you are.”

He stood slowly, walking to her with soft, deliberate steps, then crouched in front of her, balancing on the balls of his feet like he always did. He looked up at her as though she were the only variable that mattered now.

“You feeling this way isn’t wrong. It’s not irrational. But it is… heartbreaking.” He tilted his head, brows knitting. “Not just because I don’t want to lose you. But because you’re one of the few people who has made my life feel more real. Like I’m not just some ghost solving crimes in a dark room.”

A pause.

He reached up, awkwardly, and took her hand. His thumb brushed her knuckles.

“Maybe you don’t feel like you’re meant to still be here. But I am glad you are.”

He wasn’t good at this. He knew it. His affection was usually masked in odd habits, sugar offerings, long silences filled with quiet company. But this—this was something he couldn’t ignore.

“Stay,” he said softly. “Even if it doesn’t make sense. Even if it feels surreal. You haven’t run your course. Not to me.”

The candle finally burned out behind them.

But in his eyes, there was light enough for both of them.

Light Yagami

The words hit Light like a cold splash of water.

Not because he didn’t expect them—he’d noticed her demeanor all day: the distant gaze, the barely touched slice of cake, the smile that never quite reached her eyes. But hearing her say it aloud, with such brutal honesty, forced a crack in the perfect image of the world he tried so hard to control.

"I just feel like, why am I still here. I didn't think I'd make it this far. It doesn't feel real. I feel death is overdue. Like I'm not supposed to still be here."

He stared at her in silence, his fingers laced neatly in his lap. Behind his calm expression, his mind was racing—not with judgment, not even with solutions, but with something deeper. Something heavier.

He cared.

And that complicated everything.

Light rose from his seat and walked slowly to her side, every movement precise, like he was walking through a delicate equation. He sat beside her—not too close, not too far. Just enough.

“I wasn’t expecting that,” he said softly. Not coldly. Not dismissively. Just…honestly. “But I’m glad you told me.”

He studied her profile—the way her eyes didn’t meet his, the weight in her posture. For someone who usually had a perfect answer for everything, he found himself grasping for the right words. This wasn’t a debate. It wasn’t a test. It was someone he loved confronting something beyond logic.

“Death is not overdue. You’re not a mistake in the timeline,” he said, voice gaining a quiet firmness. “You’re here because you're meant to be. Even if you can’t see it right now.”

She looked down, a flicker of emotion tightening her expression, and Light—Light Yagami, who could bluff entire governments—felt his own façade threaten to slip.

“You’ve impacted more lives than you realize,” he added. “You’ve impacted mine. Do you know how rare that is?” A soft breath. “You're the one constant I can’t control, and I don’t want to. I want you here. Not as a piece in my plans. As…you.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was sacred.

Then, in a move uncharacteristic for someone as carefully composed as him, Light reached out and gently pulled her into his arms. Not possessively. Not with motive. Just…genuine warmth. Something human. Something real.

“You haven’t ran your course,” he whispered into her hair. “You’ve just started writing the part that actually matters. And I’ll be here for all of it—if you let me.”

He held her until the air felt a little lighter. Until the weight of the words she spoke didn’t feel quite so heavy. And for once, Light Yagami wasn’t thinking ten steps ahead. He was just there.

With her.

Mihael Keehl

The birthday candle was still burning.

One single flame. Flickering. Fragile.

Mello leaned back in his chair, leather jacket creaking as he slouched, one boot resting on the table. He was smirking about something, probably teasing her about getting "old," when she said it.

"I think I got the birthday blues." She paused, looking down at her fidgeting hands. "Like not because I'm 'getting old'. But because why am I still here. I didn't think I'd make it this far. It doesn't feel real. Like I've ran my course. Like death is overdue. Like I'm not meant to be here still."

And just like that, the smirk died on his lips.

He sat up slowly, eyes narrowing—not in anger, not exactly, but in that fierce, calculating way Mello had when something mattered. He studied her face like it was a puzzle he didn’t know how to fix.

“The hell kind of thing is that to say?” he said, not harshly—but like it physically hurt him to hear it.

She looked down, ashamed.

He stood up, chair scraping against the floor. Then, without thinking, he crossed the space and dropped to one knee in front of her, grabbing her hands, rough fingers closing around her trembling ones.

“No. Don’t do that. Don’t you dare say that like your time’s already up.” His voice was low, raw, like smoke catching in his throat. “I’ve watched people burn out way too fast. People who had so much left. And yeah, maybe life doesn’t always make sense. Maybe we weren’t supposed to last this long.”

His eyes locked on hers, fierce and blazing.

“But you’re here. You’re here. And you sure as hell didn’t survive all the shit you’ve been through just to fade out like that. Your time's not overdue. You’re unfinished.”

He brought one of her hands to his lips and kissed her hand, fierce and desperate, like he could keep her grounded with touch alone.

“You think you’ve ran your course? Then I guess you don’t know how much you’ve done for me. I’m still here because of you. Because I had someone who made this twisted world a little less cold.”

He leaned his forehead against hers, breathing hard, trying to slow the storm building in his chest.

“You don’t get to check out early. Not while I’m still here. Not while I need you.”

They stayed like that for a long time—his hands tight around hers, her eyes wet with quiet tears.

Finally, Mello broke the silence with a crooked, exhausted smile.

“You wanna feel alive again? Fine. We’ll go somewhere. Do something reckless. Eat something illegal in three countries. I don’t care. Just… don’t leave me in the dark, okay?”

And for once, she smiled—just a little.

And for Mello, that was enough.

Mail Jeevas

The glow from the TV screen painted the room in shifting blue light.

Video game sounds echoed softly, and the smell of smoke lingered in the air, curling like thoughts Matt didn’t want to speak out loud.

She was curled beside him on the couch, knees tucked up, a blanket draped over her legs. It was supposed to be a chill birthday. Games, junk food, peace.

Then she sat up, looking down at the ground, and she said it.

"Matt." Pause. "I think I got a case of the birthday blues." Another pause. "Like I'm not sad that I'm getting older or haven't done anything with my life or anything like that. I just feel like I wouldn't make it this far. Like why am I still here? I feel I've ran my course. Like death is overdue. Like I shouldn't be here still."

Matt didn’t even pause the game.

He just… set the controller down. Let the character idle on screen. He sat there for a second, leaning back, processing it.

“…Shit.”

He muttered it like a confession. Not annoyed. Not shocked. Just... hurting. Quietly.

He looked at her, really looked, goggles pushed up into his messy red hair, eyes bare for once. Tired. Honest.

“I don’t know what to say that wouldn’t sound like some corny Hallmark card,” he mumbled, scratching the back of his neck. “But that—that hit me. More than I want to admit.”

A beat passed.

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands dangling.

“You know, I’ve thought that too.” His voice was soft, barely above the hum of the game. “Not in a dramatic way. Just… wondering if I’ve already peaked. If this world was never built for someone like me to last.” He glanced over at her. “But then you showed up.”

He turned toward her fully now, sliding down to the floor to sit cross-legged in front of the couch, facing her.

“You don’t have to feel okay right now. Or fake it. But don’t you dare think you’ve already run your course, alright? That’s not how this works.”

He took her hand and held it between both of his, thumbs brushing her knuckles absentmindedly.

“You’re still here. That means something. That means everything to me.”

The silence after that was warm, heavy with meaning.

Then, in classic Matt fashion, he added:

“Also, if death was overdue, trust me, I’d have hacked the schedule and rerouted it.” A crooked grin tugged at his lips. “You’re not going anywhere, babe. Not unless we go together in a blaze of glory with, like, lasers and fire and shit.”

She laughed—softly, but it was real. And that was all he wanted.

He tugged her down gently, resting his head in her lap, cigarette still behind his ear, and looked up at her like she was the only thing keeping him grounded.

“You don’t have to be sure about why you’re still here. I’ll be sure enough for both of us.”

Nate River

The room was quiet, save for the soft click-click of plastic blocks being stacked on the white floor. Near sat cross-legged, his usual expression of focused detachment on his pale face. But as soon as she spoke, his hands stilled mid-motion.

"I got the birthday blues." She mused more to herself than to him. However, upon noticing she had caught his attention, she elaborated "I'm not sad that I'm getting older. I'm sad because why am I still here. I feel I've ran my course and death is overdue. Like I'm not meant to be here."

His fingers slowly lowered the block.

Silence. Not the cold kind. The thoughtful kind.

Near didn’t immediately meet her eyes. He never was good with direct contact. But his entire body shifted ever so slightly toward her—an almost imperceptible signal that she now had all his attention.

“I see,” he said softly. His voice was calm as always, but the edge of his tone was gentler than usual. “I’ve thought about that too. Not in the same way, perhaps, but… about the strangeness of still being here when others are not. About the feeling that survival can be arbitrary.”

A pause.

He picked up a small white knight from his nearby chessboard and turned it over in his hand.

“You feel like your presence is a mistake in a system that’s already moved on. But I would argue—very logically, I might add—that your continued existence disrupts that system in a necessary way.” He looked toward her, just briefly. “You matter, not because you're meant to survive. But because you did, and you kept shaping the world around you—mine included.”

His fingers brushed a lock of hair behind his ear.

“People often associate emotion with chaos. But feelings like this—hopelessness, detachment—they’re not signs of irrationality. They’re signs of being aware. Aware of time. Of loss. Of meaning.” He tilted his head. “And those who are aware… tend to have more to give than they realize.”

Near set the chess piece down and rose quietly, padding across the room to sit beside her. He didn't touch her—he rarely initiated physical contact—but his closeness was deliberate. Reassuring.

She turned toward him, and for a moment he held her gaze.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he said simply. No theatrics. No grand gestures. Just the truth, offered plainly.

They sat in silence again, but this time it was different. Shared.

Near picked up a blank puzzle piece and held it out. “If you like, we can build something. Something that exists only because you're here.”

And quietly, without saying anything more, he waited for her hand to reach out and take it.

Misa Amane

The apartment was dressed in glitter and balloons.

Streamers clung to the walls like hope trying too hard, and a pink-frosted cake sat untouched on the table, its candles melted halfway down. Misa Amane, in her frilly black dress, had tried so hard to make it special. Cute. Perfect.

And then she heard it.

"I'm sorry, Misa. I know you put a lot of work into making today special, but I got the birthday blues." She paused. "Like why am I still here? It doesn't feel real. I feel like my time is overdue. Like I'm not meant to be here anymore."

Misa froze.

She stared at her girlfriend like she’d just confessed something unthinkable—like the world had tilted, and for once, Misa didn’t know how to smile it away.

“W-What?” she breathed, her voice cracking on the edges of the word. “You feel like you’re not meant to be here?”

There were tears in her eyes before she even realized she was crying. She dropped the sparkler she was holding, its tiny fire fizzling out on the floor with a sad hiss.

She crossed the room in two fast steps, cupping her girlfriend’s face in trembling hands.

“Don’t say that. Please don’t say that. I’ve already lost too many people I love. I can’t—” Her voice broke. She sniffed, trying to gather herself. “I can’t lose you too."

Her mascara smudged, but she didn’t care. She pulled her girlfriend close and held her like she was trying to shield her from death itself.

“I know what it feels like to think the world should’ve ended for you already,” she whispered. “I’ve felt that too. After my parents. After Light…” She trailed off, her arms tightening. “But you’re here. You’re here, and you’re breathing, and you’re real, and you’re mine. That’s not a mistake. That’s a miracle.”

She pulled back just enough to look her in the eyes, her own lined with red but full of fire.

“You make my life better. Just by being in it. You don’t have to do anything. You don’t have to be anyone special. Just you is enough. Always.”

And then, in classic Misa fashion, she forced a wobbly smile.

“Besides, I worked really hard on this cake, and you have to stay alive at least long enough to eat one bite, okay?”

Her girlfriend gave a soft, teary laugh. Misa’s smile widened, more genuine now, though her eyes still glistened.

She leaned her forehead against hers.

“You don’t owe the world a reason to stay. But I hope you’ll stay anyway. Because I’m here. And I love you. And I need you more than I ever thought I could need someone.”

They held each other, cake forgotten, candles long gone.

But the light between them was still burning.

[dn-hc]

do you think they'd pull out after doing it inside you?

NSFW 🔞

L Lawliet

Analytical and cautious. He’s the type to be very aware of consequences, so unless they’ve discussed birth control or pregnancy plans, he’d likely pull out.

However, if there's a strong emotional bond and trust, he might choose to finish inside as a deeply symbolic act—something he wouldn't take lightly.

He’d definitely ask first in his own awkward, roundabout way: “Are we safe? I don’t wish to cause... complications.”

Light Yagami

Control freak but romantic underneath. Light would prefer finishing inside if he's certain it’s safe—he sees it as both a dominant and intimate gesture.

If there's any doubt about contraception, though, he’ll pull out—not out of fear, but because he’s calculated and doesn’t leave anything to chance.

He might say something smooth like, “I want to... but only when the time is right.”

Mihael Keehl

Passionate and impulsive. If he’s caught in the heat of the moment and fully trusts his girlfriend, he’s more likely to finish inside without overthinking it.

That said, if the relationship is new or unstable, he might still pull out, but it would feel like he's holding himself back.

He’d probably growl something intense like, “Tell me you want this,” right before making that decision.

Mail Jeevas

Chill but very emotionally in tune. He loves the closeness of finishing inside, but only if he's sure she’s comfortable and protected.

He’d definitely ask in a relaxed but sincere way: “You okay with this? ‘Cause I really want to.”

Pulling out is totally on the table if needed, but given the chance and trust? Inside, without hesitation

Not overly concerned with pregnancy prevention. If it happens, it happens.

Nate River

Reserved and thoughtful. Near would approach this with quiet deliberation.

He’d almost always pull out unless there’s an explicit understanding between them—like confirmed birth control or mutual agreement.

If they’ve reached a deep emotional level, he may choose to finish inside as a symbol of absolute trust.

He probably wouldn’t say much, but his actions would be careful, deliberate, and meaningful.

[dn-hc]

Can you do headcanons for how hygienic they are

L Lawliet

Shaving: Rarely. He probably lets facial hair grow until it’s annoying, then shaves haphazardly.

Nails: Clean but not cut regularly. Bites them often — a nervous habit.

Showering: Infrequent but not disgusting. If he’s deep in a case, he forgets for days.

Teeth: Brushes, but it might be rushed. Lives on sweets, so he knows he has to or he’ll get cavities.

Hair: Bedhead 24/7. Never brushes it. Just dries it off and moves on.

Clothes: Same white shirt and jeans daily, but he owns like 10 copies so they’re technically clean.

Deodorant/Cologne: Probably forgets deodorant unless Watari reminds him. No cologne—too much of a distraction.

Overall: Functional chaos. Clean enough to not stink, but won’t win any spa awards.

Light Yagami

Shaving: Every. Single. Day. Even if he doesn’t have visible stubble.

Nails: Trimmed neatly, always. He probably even buffs them a little.

Showering: Morning and night. Sparkling clean.

Teeth: Flosses, uses mouthwash, and has whitening strips.

Hair: Brushes it into perfection. Uses light styling products.

Clothes: Always fresh, ironed, and chosen for the occasion.

Deodorant/Cologne: Subtle but expensive cologne. Deodorant on point.

Overall: 10/10 hygiene king. If he wasn’t secretly Kira, your mom would want you to marry him.

Mihael Keehl

Shaving: Shaves enough to keep the jawline sharp. If he grows stubble, it’s on purpose.

Nails: Keeps them short — doesn’t like them getting in the way. Probably chews on them when stressed.

Showering: Often. He’s intense, but not dirty.

Teeth: Keeps them clean. Intimidation doesn’t work if you’ve got bad breath.

Hair: Messy on purpose. He styles it to look wild but hot.

Clothes: Leather gets cleaned—he makes sure of it. Everything else is clean and tailored to his aesthetic.

Deodorant/Cologne: Wears spicy cologne that lingers. Strong deodorant too.

Overall: Chaotic sexy. He may fight you and smell amazing while doing it.

Mail Jeevas

Shaving: Shaves when he remembers. May leave a little scruff.

Nails: Not nasty, but definitely not a priority. May have gaming grime if he’s in the zone.

Showering: Skips sometimes. If he’s in a gaming marathon, he forgets.

Teeth: Brushes once a day minimum. Good enough.

Hair: Doesn’t brush it. Throws on goggles or a beanie.

Clothes: Clean-ish. He grabs whatever’s comfy. Probably owns 10 striped shirts just like L owns 10 white ones.

Deodorant/Cologne: Deodorant, yes. Cologne, no. Maybe a bit of smoke and tech-sweat.

Overall: Lovable mess. Clean enough to snuggle, but don’t sniff too close on a long gaming night.

Nate River

Shaving: Doesn’t grow facial hair, but would keep it groomed if he did.

Nails: Pristine. He cuts them regularly. Hates the feeling of long nails.

Showering: Showers daily, even if he doesn’t go anywhere.

Teeth: Very clean. Probably uses an electric toothbrush and keeps dental wipes nearby.

Hair: Slightly frizzy but clean. He doesn’t style it, but he keeps it washed.

Clothes: All white, all clean. He probably has ten identical outfits like a cartoon character.

Deodorant/Cologne: Fragrance-free everything. Doesn’t like strong smells. Uses gentle deodorant.

Overall: Quietly pristine. The type who smells like fresh laundry and baby soap.

Misa Amane

Shaving: Impeccably smooth. Never lets stubble show.

Nails: Always done. Either acrylics or polished perfectly.

Showering: Twice a day—especially after any physical activity.

Teeth: White and sparkly. She has a full brushing and whitening routine.

Hair: Brushed, styled, and sprayed to perfection.

Clothes: Always clean and coordinated. Even her pajamas are cute.

Deodorant/Cologne: Smells like expensive perfume, fruity lotions, and a hint of vanilla.

Overall: A beauty icon. Your favorite influencer and a walking Bath & Body Works display.

[dn-hc]

Can you do Matt and Mello smoking headcanons? Like how much they smoke per day, what brand, are they sharers or stingy, how old where they when they started, why did they start, do they want to stop, have they tried to stop, what's stopping them from quitting

Mail Jeevas

How much he smokes per day: Around a pack a day, sometimes more if he’s deep into gaming or hacking for hours. He’s the type to light one without thinking, almost like a reflex.

Brand: Marlboro, Newports, Menthols. Classic brand, widely available, no-nonsense. He doesn’t have to think about it. If he smokes Marlboro Menthols or Lights, it could reflect that low-effort practicality—you know, “whatever’s in the vending machine or gas station.”

Sharer or stingy: He's a sharer, for sure. He’s chill about it—if someone asks for a smoke, he’ll offer without hesitation. Especially with Mello; he’d even light it for him without a word.

When he started: Around 14–15. Started young while still at Wammy’s, probably snuck them in to rebel a bit and feel more “adult.” It quickly became part of his chill, loner vibe.

Why he started: Stress, boredom, and curiosity. He’s a naturally anxious person under his laid-back surface, and smoking gave him a sense of control and focus.

Does he want to stop: Sort of. He’s aware it’s not great for him, but he also doesn’t see himself living to old age, so he lacks motivation to quit.

Has he tried to stop: Maybe once or twice, half-heartedly. He might’ve tried switching to vapes or cutting down, but always went back. Too much of a comfort habit.

What’s stopping him from quitting: Habit, routine, and the fact that it keeps him grounded. It’s a sensory thing too—smell, taste, the act of holding the cigarette. Plus, he smokes with Mello, and that shared ritual is hard to give up.

Mihael Keehl

How much he smokes per day: Rarely, only when stressed or when he wants to chill with Matt.

Brand: Marlboro Reds. Harsh, strong, and classic. He wants something that punches back. Though he also enjoys a nice menthol from time to time.

Sharer or stingy: He doesn't usually have his own as he bums off of Matt. But when he does, he's stingy, except with Matt. If anyone else asks, they get a glare or a sharp “get your own.” But he’ll always have a cigarette ready for Matt without a second thought.

When he started: Probably around 14, just before he ran from Wammy’s. It was part rebellion, part power play—he wanted to prove he was tough enough to handle anything. Not to mention, this also when Matt started smoking and introduced the habit to Mello.

Why he started: Control and stress relief. Smoking became a ritual tied to his anger and his hunger to beat Near. He associated it with power and grit.

Does he want to stop: Deep down, maybe. But quitting would mean confronting the pain and stress he uses smoking to bury. That scares him more than cancer does.

Has he tried to stop: Possibly after a serious scare (coughing up blood or a chest infection), or maybe Matt asked him to try once. But it never lasted—he’s too wired and intense.

What’s stopping him from quitting: Pride, mostly. Bad influences from Matt, somewhat. He’s terrified that without his vices, he’ll lose his edge—or worse, feel too much.

Bonus

They have a ritual where they share a cigarette during quiet moments—leaning against a wall, Matt lighting it and passing it to Mello. Neither talks much during it, but it’s a wordless expression of loyalty and comfort. Smoking, for both of them, is as much about connection as it is habit.