Hi hello L anon has arrived wITH INSPIRATION. Please imagine it's storming in Lumiose and reader refuses to let L sleep outside (it's never explicitly stated but we all know he's doing it). Insists that he stay the night at Hotel Z. And if he doesn't want to feel like a burden by making the reader pay for a room, well, he could just use the room reader is already paying for... idk if this works better as established relationship or building up to relationship so I'll leave that for your interpretation I hope this is okay totally fine if you don't wanna do it thank you have a good day
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My lovely L-anon!! I haven't forgotten about you, so I do hope you're still lurking about.
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The storm had been building all evening. By the time you spotted him across the plaza, rain was already coming down hard—cold, relentless, the kind that soaked through stone and fabric alike.
L stood beneath a flickering streetlight, black hood drawn up, water clinging to the worn edges of his jacket. The fur collar was darkened with rain, heavy against his shoulders. White hair—shorter than it once had been—peeked out beneath the hood, plastered slightly to his temple. His beard, pale now with faint orange streaks, caught the light when he turned.
“L,” you called.
He looked up immediately.
“You shouldn’t be out here,” you said as you reached him. Water streaked down his face and into his beard. His clothes were clearly damp—the red stitching on his jacket sleeves darkened, the familiar Y-shaped patch on his right elbow already soaked through.
“It will pass,” he replied calmly. “It always does.”
“That’s not the point,” you said. Thunder rolled distantly. “It’s freezing. And you’re soaked.”
He adjusted the strap of his worn satchel, gaze drifting toward the darker edge of the city—toward somewhere with just enough cover to count as shelter.
“I have a place,” he said. Carefully worded. “Dry enough.”
You frowned. “You mean outside.”
There was the slightest hesitation.
“…Yes.”
“Absolutely not.”
He blinked. “Pardon?”
“You’re not sleeping outside in this,” you said firmly, gesturing to the rain hammering down around you. “You’re coming with me.”
His shoulders squared—not defensive, but principled. “I don’t wish to be a burden. You’ve already extended more kindness than is necessary.”
“You're not a burden. Come back to the hotel with me,” you said. “I can get you a room, just for tonight.”
“That is precisely why I cannot accept,” he replied. “I won't take what I have not earned.”
You exhaled slowly, then tilted your head. “Well, what if I’m not offering you anything extra.”
He frowned slightly. “I don’t understand.”
“You can just stay in my room.”
The thunder cracked closer this time.
Rain pooled at L’s boots—black shoes worn smooth with use, red socks barely visible beneath the hem of his gray pants, the X-shaped patch on his left knee dark with moisture.
“I would be imposing,” he said quietly.
You softened. “No, you really wouldn’t.”
He studied you then, and something conflicted passed behind his eyes. L was a man who believed deeply in balance, in fairness, in not taking more than his share.
“…Only for the night,” he said at last. “Until the storm ends.”
“Only for the night,” you agreed.
Hotel Z glowed warmly against the rain, golden light reflecting off the wet pavement. Inside, the air was dry, quiet—soft carpets, muted voices, the storm reduced to a distant presence beyond thick glass.
You led him through the lobby and into the elevator to the second level.
L paused just inside your room, hands folded behind his back out of habit. He removed his jacket carefully, setting it aside as if it were something fragile. Up close, the wear on his clothes was unmistakable: red stitching repaired by hand, fabric softened by time rather than luxury.
“I can take the chair,” he offered. “Or the floor.”
You sighed. “L.”
“Yes?”
“You don’t have to punish yourself to prove you’re grateful.”
“I am not—”
“I know,” you said gently. “But you don’t have to earn being warm.”
Silence settled between you, thick but not uncomfortable. Outside, the storm continued its steady rhythm.
“…Thank you,” L said finally. The words were deliberate, sincere.
You smiled. “Anytime.”
Later, the lights were dimmed, the rain still falling but calmer now. L stood near the window, gaze fixed on Lumiose below—watching the city as though committing it to memory.
“You can sleep,” you said softly. You were sitting in the bed.
“I know,” he replied. “But I prefer to remain awake.”
You glanced at the bed, then back at him. “There's a perfectly good bed right here.”
“It would be inappropriate,” he continued calmly. “You’ve already extended more generosity than I deserve.”
You studied him for a long moment. “…When was the last time you slept in a real bed?” you asked.
He didn’t answer right away.
“…It has been some time,” he admitted at last.
You nodded once, as if confirming something to yourself. “Then you’re taking it.”
“I cannot,” he said firmly. “I won’t.”
You inhaled slowly, then stood up from the bed and picked up your jacket. “Alright,” you said. “Then I’ll go.”
He froze. “You will—what?”
“I’ll sleep in the lobby or something,” you replied matter-of-factly. “The chairs there are actually comfortable. Take the bed.”
“That is unacceptable,” L said immediately, horror flashing through his composure. “Absolutely not.”
You met his gaze, stubborn and unyielding. “You can sleep on the bed or don't,” you said. “It won't matter to me because I won't be in here.”
His jaw tightened. “You’re serious,” he said quietly.
“Completely.”
For a long moment, L stood there—caught between principle and decency, chivalry and reality.
Finally, slowly, he sat on the edge of the bed. “…You are relentless,” he murmured.
You smiled faintly. “I’ve been told.”
When you turned to leave the room, hand already on the door, his voice stopped you.
“Wait.”
You paused.
“…Please,” L said. The word was careful, sincere. “Don't go.”
You turned back.
He exhaled once, measured but heavy. “…I will share the bed. If that is the only way you will stay.”
You nodded. “
The full-sized bed was narrow enough to be noticeable. You lay on opposite sides, space between you carefully maintained. L lay stiffly on his back, hands folded over his chest, gaze fixed on the ceiling.
You shifted once.
He stiffened further.
“…I apologize,” he said. “I am not accustomed to this.”
“Neither am I,” you replied lightly. “You don’t have to pretend to be comfortable.” You paused. "Buuuut, I highly recommend to try and relax if you want a good night's sleep."
L didn't respond.
“…You’re very quiet tonight,” you added. “More than usual.”
He considered that. “When you caught Xerneas and Yveltal,” L said slowly, “you asked me why I still wished for a more beautiful world.”
You turned your head toward him. “I remember,” you said. It was back when he asked to face you in a pokemon battle.
“I still do,” he continued. “That desire never left me.” His voice was calm, but weighted. “But I understand now that my methods… were flawed.”
You waited, letting him speak.
“I believed generosity would inspire goodness,” L said. “When it did not, I mistook humanity’s flaws as proof they could not be redeemed.”
His hands tightened briefly.
“That was where I lost my way.”
The storm outside softened, rain steady but no longer violent.
“I do not wish to destroy the world,” L said quietly. “I wish to understand how to save it without becoming its judge.”
You turned fully toward him now. “That’s…not an easy path.”
“No,” he agreed. “But it is the only one I can accept.”
Silence settled again—different this time. Thoughtful. Heavy, but not unbearable.
After a moment, you shifted closer, careful, deliberate.
L tensed—then slowly relaxed when you rested your head lightly against his shoulder.
“…Is this acceptable?” you asked.
He hesitated. Then, very gently, he moved an arm around you, drawing you closer—not possessive, not desperate, just…present.
“Yes,” L said softly. “It is.”
For the first time since you’d known him, his breathing slowed completely, body finally surrendering to rest.
Outside, the storm faded into a distant murmur.
Inside, L closed his eyes—holding onto you as though grounding himself to something real, something living.