You get me better
Warnings: SMUT, p in v, Reader is a detective, Reader is smart
Pairings: L LAWLIET X FEM!READER
The case had taken seventeen days.
Seventeen days of cross-referencing witness statements, of building timelines on whiteboards that stretched across the entire task force room, of sleeping in shifts on the worn leather couch in the corner. Seventeen days of watching L curl into that familiar crouch in his chair, thumb pressed to his lower lip, eyes fixed on the evidence board like he could solve it by sheer force of will alone.
You'd matched him step for step. Hour for hour. The task force had come and gone in waves faces rotating out for rest while you and L stayed. The same cup of tea growing cold at your elbow. The same bowl of untouched strawberries on his desk, slowly bruising.
But you'd broken it. The alibi. The financial trail. The connection that cracked the whole thing open.
L had looked at you when you laid it out — really looked, his dark eyes rising from the evidence board to your face — and he'd said nothing. Just tilted his head. A single degree. Like he was recalibrating something.
Now the case is closed. The perpetrator is in custody. And the task force has cleared out, one by one, until it's just the two of you in the quiet hum of the precinct at midnight.
---
You're packing your notes when you feel his gaze. You look up. He's still in his chair, knees drawn to his chest, bare feet on the leather seat. That oversized white shirt hangs off his thin frame. His hair is a mess — more disheveled than usual, evidence of too many sleepless nights.
"You're staring," you say.
"You're interesting." His voice is soft, a little raspy from disuse. "I've been watching you all week."
"You've been watching the case."
"Both." He presses his thumb to his lip. Considers you. "You think differently than the others. You don't pursue the obvious answer — you pursue the one that contradicts it. That's rare."
You feel heat rise to your cheeks and hate yourself for it. "Is that your way of saying I did good work?"
"It's my way of saying I want to keep watching you."
The words hang in the air. Direct. Unfiltered. So utterly him that you almost laugh.
"Ryuz—"
"Call me L." He unfolds from his chair, stands, pads toward you on bare feet. "Or don't. But I'd like to hear my name from your mouth."
---
He stops in front of you. Close enough that you can see the shadows under his eyes, the slight chapping of his lips, the way his thumb is still pressed to his mouth like he's holding something back.
He's taller than you expect when he stands straight. You've only ever seen him hunched, curled, folded into furniture like origami. But here, standing, he's all long limbs and pale skin and that unblinking gaze.
"You're not going home," he says. It's not a question.
"Neither are you."
"I rarely do." His hand comes up slowly — gives you time to move, to refuse — and his thumb brushes your lower lip, light as a thought. "But I'd like you to come with me."
A heartbeat. Two.
"Where?"
"My room. The hotel across the street." His thumb traces your lip, feather-soft. "I don't sleep well. I think you might help."
---
The hotel room is exactly what you expected — and nothing like it. The bed is made, untouched, a single suitcase open on the stand with neat rows of folded clothes. But there are towers of sugar cubes on the desk, a half-eaten plate of cake by the window, and a laptop open to a chess game he's clearly been playing against himself.
He closes the door behind you. Doesn't lock it. Doesn't need to.
"I don't do this," he says, and you can hear the honesty in his voice, the slight stumble of someone unused to saying what he means out loud. "I don't bring people here."
"Why me?"
He tilts his head. That familiar gesture. "Because you kept up. Because when I said the case was impossible, you asked 'impossible for who?' And because —" He pauses. His thumb finds his mouth again, presses. "Because I haven't stopped thinking about your hands. The way you gesture when you're explaining a theory. The way you held your pen."
Your chest tightens. "You've been paying attention."
"I always pay attention. I just don't usually say it."
He steps closer. His hand rises again, slower this time, and cups your jaw. His palm is warm, his fingers long and thin, calloused from holding a pencil for hours on end.
"Tell me if you want me to stop," he says.
"I won't."
"Tell me anyway."
You reach up, cover his hand with yours, hold it against your cheek.
"I want this," you say. "I want you."
---
He kisses like he thinks — deliberate, methodical, but with an undercurrent of something desperate. His lips are soft, tasting faintly of sugar, and he tilts his head to find the angle that works best, adjusts, adapts. One hand stays on your jaw. The other finds your waist, tentative, like he's not sure where he's allowed to touch.
You pull him closer. His body is all sharp angles and surprising warmth, and he makes a sound against your mouth — soft, surprised, like he didn't expect to enjoy this as much as he does.
"Bed," he murmurs against your lips.
"Are you asking or telling?"
"Both." He pulls back, looks at you with those dark, serious eyes. "I want to take my time with you. I want to know every part of you the way I know a case file — thoroughly. Completely."
Your breath catches. "Then take your time."
---
He undresses you slowly. Each piece of clothing removed with the same care he'd give evidence — examined, understood, set aside. His fingers trace the skin he uncovers, mapping you, learning you. When you're bare before him, he sits back on his heels and just looks.
"Beautiful," he says, soft and certain. "You're so beautifully made."
Your face burns. "You sound like you're analyzing me."
"I am." No shame. No hesitation. "I'm committing you to memory. Every line. Every curve."
He leans forward, presses his lips to your collarbone. His hands slide up your ribs, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts, and you shudder.
"Sensitive here," he observes.
"Perceptive."
"I try." His mouth trails lower, following the path his hands mapped, pressing open-mouthed kisses down your sternum, your stomach. He pauses at your navel, looks up at you through his dark fringe. "You're shaking."
"Because you're taking forever."
"Patience." His lips curve — barely, just a ghost of a smile. "I'm thorough."
---
His mouth finds the junction of your thigh, and you gasp. He takes his time here too — learning the sounds you make, the way your hips tilt toward him, the way your fingers tangle in his dark hair. His tongue traces patterns that make your mind go white, and when he finally presses two fingers inside you, slow and deliberate, your back arches off the bed.
"Ryuza—"
"L," he murmurs against your skin. "Say my name."
"L—"
"Yes." He curls his fingers, finds the spot that makes you cry out. "Again."
"L, please—"
He doesn't stop until you're trembling on the edge, and then he pulls back, looks up at you, his lips slick and his eyes dark.
"Not yet," he says. "I want to be inside you when you come."
---
He stands. Strips with efficiency — no ceremony, just the removal of barriers between you. His body is lean, pale, all sharp hip bones and defined shoulders. He's hard, the tip of his cock already slick, and he wraps his hand around himself, once, a brief stroke.
"Tell me you're sure," he says.
"I'm sure."
"Tell me you want this."
"I want you. I want this. L — I want you inside me."
His eyes close. A breath. Like he needed to hear it.
Then he's above you, his forearms braced on either side of your head, his body a cage of warmth and bone. He positions himself at your entrance and holds there, just the tip pressing in.
"You feel—" His voice cracks. "You feel incredible."
"Then move."
He does. Slowly at first, pushing in inch by inch, his jaw tight with the effort of restraint. When he's fully seated inside you, he stops, his forehead pressed to yours, his breath ragged.
"Okay?"
"So okay."
He starts to move.
---
His rhythm is steady, measured, but there's hunger underneath it — a barely leashed urgency that breaks through the more he lets go. His hand finds yours on the sheets, laces their fingers together. His mouth finds your throat, your jaw, your lips, tasting you between whispered sounds that might be words but come out broken.
"Faster?" he asks.
"Yes—"
He obeys. His hips drive harder, deeper, and you wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, and the angle shifts and—
You cry out, your body clenching around him, and he follows immediately, his orgasm pulled from him by yours, his breath hot against your neck as he shudders through it.
He stays there. Inside you. His weight a warm pressure. His face buried in the curve of your shoulder.
"Ah," he says, soft and breathless. "That was — unexpectedly excellent."
You laugh, weak and sated. "Unexpectedly?"
"I didn't know it could be like that." He lifts his head, looks at you. His dark eyes are softer now, hazy, unguarded. "I've never — I didn't understand why people risked so much for this. For another person." His thumb traces your cheekbone. "I think I'm starting to."
Your chest aches. You pull him down, kiss him, slow and sweet.
"Stay," you whisper against his lips.
"I wasn't planning on leaving."
He settles beside you, his arm around your waist, his face against your hair. His breathing evens out, slow and deep.
And in the quiet of the hotel room, wrapped in the warmth of his long limbs and his quiet, brilliant presence, you sleep better than you have in seventeen days.
