Death Note, Misa/female!L, a proper lady
It's not that she doesn't love Light. Light is her world, her everything, her knight in shining armor. But he keeps her at arm's length, even in his most loving moments, and sometimes she just gets itchy.
Especially since Ryuzaki keeps looking at her, kohl-dark eyes fixed and unblinking.
Misa wonders occasionally whether Light has noticed that Ryuzaki has no adam's apple, that in certain lights and at certain angles there are hints of a feminine build under that loose white shirt. Not that she herself takes much interest. It's just something she notices, that's all.
After a few weeks, when the investigative team decides to put a few more feet of slack in the thin chain that connects Light and Ryuzaki's handcuffs and Misa can count the number of times Light's kissed her on one hand, the stir-crazy feeling of wanting more than this big empty building and a cloud of sweet empty flirting.
She goes upstairs with her makeup bag and marches straight into Ryuzaki's room, being careful not to let herself get clotheslined by the chain.
Ryuzaki is sitting near the door, all hunched over, a book held delicately in one hand and a half-eaten strawberry in the other.
"Light-kun is in the other room--" Ryuzaki manages, but Misa shakes her head.
"Look, I know, okay? About what you are."
Ryuzaki blinks.
Misa grabs the slender, un-cuffed wrist in one hand, hauls her to her feet. The book drops to the floor. Ryuzaki looks uncertain and distinctly uncomfortable, almost angry--and then she sees the lipstick in Misa's other hand, and freezes.
"That's not necessary," she says.
"The hell it's not. Do you know how sick it makes me to see a girl who doesn't take care of herself? Honestly, it's enough to drive you nuts! Tokyo's one of the fashion capitals of the world and here you are bumming around like some kind of--of--" Misa's so thoroughly, inexplicably mad she has to cut herself off and just start in with the makeup before she goes on some kind of ranting bender.
Ryuzaki's lips are thin and warm, and when Misa applies the lipstick her mouth practically glows red against china-pale skin. She's not really pretty, not in a conventional way, but with her complexion and her hair and the odd sharpness of her features, she could be like a Victorian illustration of Snow White: gothic, nearly consumptive, bizarrely appealing.
If she stood up straight, if the curve of her spine could be corrected and someone in the fashion district could find the right foam of frills to drape over her skinny frame, she could almost be a proper lady.
Misa likes the thought.
She lets go of Ryuzaki's wrist, flattens her hand against one thin shoulder to push Ryuzaki upright. She's so tall, and the sweeping arch of her neck fills Misa with sudden envy and a frustrated want she can't control.
When Ryuzaki drags the strawberry across her lips (cool and sweet and wet) with a softly murmured "I like this color better," Misa feels her hands go numb.