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I sliced a piece of strawberry shortcake with deliberate care before letting it melt on my tongue, calm and unhurried, as I turned another page of the Kira case file. My eyes moved quickly, scanning each line with practiced efficiency.
I stretched my legs slightly, reached for my cup of tea—and felt L’s fingers tighten faintly around my ankle.
Across the room, Matsuda glanced at us for what must’ve been the fifth time that day, but I didn’t bother to return the look. At this point, I was long past caring.
For a moment, I lifted my gaze toward L. He sat hunched over his rolling chair, knees drawn up to his chest in that familiar posture of his, thumb pressed absently against his lower lip, the other hand resting—almost idly—on my ankle. My legs were stretched across the gap between our chairs, my feet resting on the edge of his seat like a makeshift footrest.
In the five years L and I had been friends, that was the most physical contact we had ever shared.
The first time it happened had been about two years ago, entirely by accident. I had rested my feet on the edge of his chair, a habit I’d picked up long before. At some point, while I was lost in my book and he in his investigations, his hand had slipped, coming to rest lightly over the arch of my left foot. I was so startled by the unexpected contact that I nearly choked on my tea—but he seemed utterly unaware… or perhaps he simply chose to ignore it.
With L, one could never really tell.
In any case, his hand stayed there, and eventually, I got over the surprise and went back to reading.
Over time, it became something casual. And with more time still, it turned into a quiet ritual.
Whenever L and I shared a space—him lost in his world of theories, and I in my own quiet occupations, I would stretch my legs out toward his chair, and one of his hands would, by some instinct, find its way to rest upon them. Sometimes, he’d give a faint, almost imperceptible squeeze at my ankle or foot.
Scandalous.
Within a year, it had apparently become something that helped him think more clearly. Or so he claimed. A small, grounding gesture—something to tether him to the present moment.
And since I didn’t particularly mind, I let him. Whenever he needed it.
My friendship with L had always been one of the strangest things in my life.
It had started entirely by chance—over a shared love for strawberry shortcake and sweets in a tiny café tucked away in a London alley.
At first, it had been an odd sort of connection, stitched together by long silences, broken only by the quiet clink of forks against porcelain or the occasional sip of tea.
But, over time, those silences became comfortable, even companionable. Eventually, they grew into proper conversations, rare and unpredictable, only when we both happened to be in the right mood.
Every now and then, he would visit my small apartment, or I would visit his sprawling manor, whenever one of us needed to escape from the world.
If we felt like talking, our conversations could last for hours—though I usually carried most of them, with his dry interjections and precise, analytical comments scattered in between.
If we didn’t, we’d simply remain quiet, each lost in our own thoughts, watching the rain trace paths down the glass.
With time, I learned to understand his language—the minute shifts in his expression that betrayed amusement or irritation, fleeting as they were.
I learned to recognize the tone of his voice when “clinical observation” actually meant “concern.”
I learned to read him as easily as the lines on my own palm—and, more importantly, to accept him exactly as he was.
And somehow, I grew fond of him that way.
To the rest of the world, L was the name I mentioned when people asked about my “best friend.”
Sure, I had others. I knew people, went out, lived a fairly ordinary life.
But I never doubted that L understood me better than anyone else ever had—perhaps even better than I understood myself. And I was certain that, aside from Watari, no one in the world could read him as well as I did.
It had been almost ten months since he’d gone to Japan to investigate the Kira case. A month ago, I’d received a postcard from him—with an open ticket enclosed and a single, neatly written line in his meticulous hand:
The sushi is better than in England.
I knew without asking that it was his way of saying he needed me close.
That was how he asked for help, the only way he knew how. So I took time off work, packed my suitcase, and texted him my flight details.
He never replied.
He didn’t have to.
And sure enough, when I landed in Tokyo, Watari was there at the arrivals gate, smiling, ready to drive me to the headquarters where a room had already been prepared—complete with all the small comforts that made a place mine: dim lamps (because I hated bright lights), my favorite brand of soap and bath salts, candles lined neatly on the desk, even a dreamcatcher nearly identical to the one that hung above my bed, gently spinning just above the very center of the bed.
When I finally saw L again, he didn’t hug me—he never hugged anyone, even after almost a year apart.
His tone didn’t change, his lips barely curved. But I could tell he was happy to see me.
His way of showing it was simple: he greeted me with a slice of strawberry shortcake and my favorite tea already waiting.
L was never good with words—or emotions—but if you knew where to look, he said more than enough.
The next morning, when the team arrived and found me sitting beside him—feet propped on his chair, his hand casually resting on my ankles as he watched the surveillance screens—they stared like fish out of water.
To say they were shocked would’ve been an understatement.
Two weeks later, they’d mostly grown used to me, though I still caught the occasional puzzled glance whenever something between us struck them as too strange—like when we managed a full five-minute conversation on a topic other than the case, or that time I stole a bite of his cake and he only blinked before going back to his work.
But their favorite, by far, was the quiet contact between us, the only physical connection L and I ever allowed ourselves after five years of friendship.
That one always drew the most attention.
Like now.
I sighed, resigned. I couldn’t really blame them for their fascination. L was peculiar, reserved to the point of opacity, and for people who didn’t know him the way I did, seeing him touch another person at all must have been borderline disturbing.
The afternoon dragged on in quiet monotony, and night fell softly over the headquarters as the rest of the team wrapped up their shift.
I was still reading through the Kira files at my usual pace. Soichiro had been firmly against it at first, but after L had—more or less—ordered that every piece of information in the office be made available to me, no one dared to object.
The gesture had touched me more than I cared to admit. In return, I’d made sure to buy an oversized bag of his favorite lollipops, leaving them one by one in various places for him to discover over time.
A quiet exchange of affection, our strange way of saying thank you.
From the chair beside mine, L’s thumb traced a slow circle against my ankle, and I blinked in mild surprise without looking up from the file.
That was new.
“You’re stressed” I murmured after a long moment.
I’d caught his third sigh of the day, barely audible, but unmistakable to me.
“Yes” he said simply. “We’ve reached a dead end in the investigation. We’re wasting time circling the same data we already have.”
I hummed thoughtfully, lifting my gaze toward him. As always, his eyes were fixed on the screens.
“Is that why you asked me to come?”
“Yes. Your presence helps me think more clearly.”
His voice was flat, factual, nothing more than a statement. Still, I smiled faintly, knowing it was the closest thing to an I missed you I was ever going to get.
“Maybe you should take a break” I suggested softly. “A couple of hours away from the case might help you see it from a new angle.”
I closed the file and slid it aside, stretching my back like a cat before crossing one ankle over the other. His hand didn’t move.
“I’ve read about that” he said. “Most recommended stress-relief activities are social in nature, like dancing. Art is also frequently suggested, though I’m not currently interested in any form of it. A global favorite seems to be sex, as it combines physical exercise with a notable increase of neurochemicals in the bloodstream.”
“Oh, I’m sure that would do wonders for you” I said, dry amusement coloring my voice.
“There’s a sixty-eight percent probability it would improve my concentration and general well-being,” he replied matter-of-factly, turning his head at last to look at me, his thumb absently brushing over his lower lip. “Perhaps sixty-nine.”
I blinked, taken off guard.
“You’ve actually thought about it” I said, half in disbelief.
“I’ve been considering it for several weeks now” he answered, tone unchanging.
For a moment, a thought flickered in my mind—an inconvenient one—but I pushed it away as quickly as it came.
The silence that followed felt heavier than usual.
“I don’t think that’s why it’s a favorite” I murmured, my voice softer now. “But you know what? Never mind. You’re probably right.”
L tilted his head slightly, that small motion of his that always meant he was weighing possibilities.
My eyes drifted back down to the files, though my focus had already slipped elsewhere. A thought—an image I’d buried more than once over the past few years—rose uninvited to the surface. I sighed, reaching for my coffee.
He suddenly spoke, catching me off guard, his voice perfectly even.
“What would you say if I asked whether you would have sex with me?”
The sip of coffee went down the wrong way. I choked, coughed, and barely avoided spilling it all over the case files. My face burned, and I prayed it was from the coughing.
L blinked once, watching me in silence, utterly unbothered.
When I finally caught my breath, I managed to rasp out, “Are you asking me what I’d say if you asked whether I’d want to—”
“No” he clarified calmly. “It wouldn’t be a matter of wanting to. Only of whether you would.”
There it was, the precision, the redundancy that only surfaced when he was uncertain. A rare, telltale sign that even he could be nervous.
“Usually” I said, steadying my voice, “doing something like that implies wanting to.”
I shifted slightly, but his hand tightened—barely, just enough to stop me. So I stilled.
He was still looking at me, the glow of the monitors catching the faint reflection in his dark eyes. For the briefest instant, I thought I saw something that almost resembled insecurity.
Or whatever passed for it in someone like him.
“Then yes” I said finally, choosing my words with care. “I probably would.”
“Good.”
The word was neutral, but his eyes widened just a fraction—too quick, too subtle for anyone else to notice. “Would you have sex with me?”
“Yes” I whispered, before I could talk myself out of it.
The corners of his mouth moved barely enough to suggest the ghost of a smile before he turned back toward the screens. His thumb traced another slow circle against my ankle, and the gesture, once absentminded, suddenly felt unbearably intimate.
“Then it’s settled” he said. “Tomorrow night, after the shift.”
For a long moment I could only stare at him, wondering if I’d imagined the entire exchange.
Not that the thought had never crossed my mind. He was, in his own strange way, a remarkably handsome man, and his social detachment had always struck me as endearing rather than cold.
But L was devoted to his work, to his screens, to his endless chain of logic and deduction. He wasn’t someone who let the world touch him.
So I’d long since filed that part of my feelings away; an unspoken, impossible affection that had become a quiet companion instead of a hope.
Until now.
“You’re certain about this” I said, not a question.
“Positive” he replied without looking away from the monitors. “My reasoning suggests a considerable chance of improved performance, should the objective—mental relaxation—be achieved, even at fifty percent efficiency. The risk-to-benefit ratio is acceptable.”
He spoke as if he were discussing the weather.
I sighed lightly and nodded, sensing he was waiting for my acknowledgment before continuing.
“If you’re concerned that our friendship might be compromised,” he went on, “there’s no need. Consider it… an exchange of favors. A practical arrangement. You may request something in return at a later time. I dislike the idea of an unpaid debt.”
I blinked, utterly speechless.
After a moment, he turned his head again.
“Have I made you uncomfortable?”
His tone softened by a shade, just enough to reveal something I rarely heard in his voice: a hint of guilt. It pulled at something deep in my chest and suddenly the need to reassure him was almost painful.
“No” I said honestly. “You just caught me off guard. But I’m not uncomfortable.”
His shoulders relaxed barely a millimeter, but I saw it.
“Good” he said simply. “Then tomorrow night.”
I nodded faintly and turned back to the files, though the letters had begun to blur on the page. I reached for the one nearest to me and opened it, fingers trembling just slightly.
L made a small sound in his throat, the quiet hum he always produced when he was lost in thought, and his hand pressed lightly against the top of my foot again.
A ripple of warmth spread through me, sharp, disorienting.
I forced myself to stay still, to breathe evenly, to ignore the rush of sensations clawing at the edge of my composure.
What on earth had I just agreed to?
The next morning unfolded like any other—or almost.
The same screens glowed, the same coffee steamed faintly in white mugs, the same restless tapping of keyboards filled the air. But beneath all that routine, a subtle current ran between us—quiet, taut, invisible.
L was there before anyone else, already half-curled in his chair, eyes scanning the live feeds as if nothing existed beyond them. Yet the moment I stepped into the room his gaze flicked toward me, just for a second. A glance so brief it could’ve been imagined, and yet it landed like a pin dropped in still water.
“Good morning” I murmured, setting down the files beside him.
He didn’t answer right away. His thumb pressed against his lip, a familiar gesture, but the rhythm was off—too fast by half a second.
“Good morning” he said finally. “I ordered tea.”
“You didn’t have to.”
“I wanted to ensure it was done correctly.”
I smiled faintly and took my seat beside him, pretending to study the new reports.
Around us, the rest of the team was already in motion—Aizawa on the phone, Matsuda trying to act competent, Soichiro’s steady presence grounding the chaos. To anyone else, L looked as detached as ever. But I could see the edges: the way his posture was a little too precise, his focus a little too sharp, as though he were clinging to the case to keep his mind from wandering elsewhere.
At one point, he asked me to cross-check a timeline with the surveillance logs. His voice was even, neutral. But when I leaned in to read from his screen I saw his hand hesitate for a fraction of a second before scrolling.
Not much, but enough.
The day dragged on. The investigation yielded nothing new.
I caught L staring at the monitors longer than usual, his fingers unmoving, a rare stillness settling over him. I could almost hear the thoughts behind his eyes, the methodical rearranging of logic trying to make room for something irrational.
By the time evening came, the room was dim except for the cold glow of data and the occasional rustle of papers. One by one, the others packed up and left, too tired to question why L seemed even more unreadable than usual.
When the door finally clicked shut behind Soichiro, the silence that followed was deafening.
L straightened slowly, stretching his spine with that peculiar grace that always surprised me.
“I made arrangements” he said simply.
I didn’t ask what he meant.
He stood, still barefoot, and gathered his usual assortment of sweets into a paper bag as if this, too, were part of some elaborate plan.
Then, without looking back, he added, “There are too many cameras here. It would be… inconvenient.”
Of course there were.
We left the building in silence, the night air cool and damp against my skin. Tokyo shimmered around us; lights reflected on wet pavement, the hum of life still alive at the edges of the city that never really slept.
The drive was quiet. L sat with his knees drawn up on the seat, eyes fixed on the passing lights, saying nothing.
I wondered, absurdly, if his heart was racing as fast as mine.
When we stopped before the hotel—a tall, understated building whose façade gleamed like brushed steel—I felt the world narrow to a single, slow heartbeat. L stepped out first, his shadow stretching against the marble entrance as he turned back to glance at me.
He didn’t smile, but his eyes softened just enough to betray the smallest crack in his composure.
Inside, the check-in was quick. L just whispered a name and the receptionist hurried to hand him the keycards with an overly friendly smile and a poorly concealed look of curiosity. That startled me, though perhaps it shouldn’t have.
L had probably booked the entire floor hours ago, under one of his many aliases.
He accepted the keycard, handed me mine without a word, and turned toward the elevator.
For a moment, standing beside him in the quiet lift, all I could hear was the faint hum of machinery and the echo of my own pulse.
Neither of us spoke.
And when the doors slid open to reveal the suite—silent, immaculate, unreal in its calm—L finally exhaled, as if releasing a thought he’d been holding onto all day.
The suite smelled faintly of citrus and expensive soap—the kind of clean that claims to erase the world for a few hours. A single lamp cast a warm pool of light across the low table; the rest of the room surrendered to soft shadow. Outside, Tokyo was a scatter of distant stars translated into neon.
L moved as if through a rehearsal: he set the paper bag of sweets on the table and lined them up with surgical precision, then paused, hand hovering as though uncertain whether to complete the motion. He placed the remote on the armrest, then picked it back up and put it down again. Tiny adjustments, each one purposeful, each one betraying a mind that hadn't known how to be still all day.
I sat on the edge of the couch, the fabric cool under my palms, and watched him watch the room. My chest kept a rhythm that felt too loud for the soft apartment, as if my heartbeat had been invited to a strict, observant audience and refused to be discreet. I breathed slow and careful, a practiced cadence meant to convince myself I was composed.
“You're quieter than usual” I said finally, the words simple, an offering and a test.
His head tilted—an inflection I know well—and he replied without theatrics. “The environment is different. Variables change. I am noting them.” The sentence was clinical, but the space between those words contained a dozen admissions: annoyance at his own distraction, the irritation of losing control, the awkwardness of being expected to perform emotion.
“Do you want to discuss the case?” I offered, leaning forward. It was the safe place—work, numbers, patterns. He could retreat into that with ease.
He held my gaze a beat longer than necessary. “No,” he said. “Not now.” His voice did not tremble, but there was a softness at the edges—an almost imperceptible loosening.
Finally, he moved and sat beside me on the sofa. Three seconds passed before he turned fully toward me.
“I don’t know how to do this,” he admitted, his voice quieter than usual — careful, almost defensive, as if each word were measured against the risk of saying it. “I’ve done some research. I believe I understand enough to make this… pleasant for both of us.”
I felt my expression soften. Only L, in all his peculiarity, could sound endearing while discussing something so intimate I reached for his hand slowly, giving him every chance to retreat if he wished. His shoulders stiffened — the instinctive recoil of someone unaccustomed to touch — but when my fingers closed gently around his, tracing slow circles over his knuckles, he didn’t move away.
"It's okay," I reassured him. "We can take this slow, one step at a time." He nodded once, precise and mechanical.
"I thought we should establish a rule," he continued, his tone steady but his cadence slightly faster than usual, betraying his nervousness. "If either of us feels uncomfortable and wants to stop, we should do so immediately."
“That sounds fair,” I murmured, still brushing my thumb across his hand. A part of me couldn't help but notice the softness of his skin. When I gave my consent his posture eased, enough for me to know that it had been a concern for him. "Is there a specific way you'd like to begin?"
" My studies suggest such interactions usually start with a kiss" he explained. " It seems the most efficient way to determine if there is... what do they call it? Chemistry."
I offered him a slight smile and moved closer, just enough for our knees to brush, sending a ripple of awareness through my skin. I was acutely conscious of every point of contact between us.
"Alright" I murmured, making no other movement. " Would you like to start, or should I?"
His hand twitched faintly under mine. “You can start, if you don’t mind. You likely have more experience than I do.”
I held his gaze and nodded slowly, taking a deep breath. A stillness settled over us, not awkward, but fragile, as though the air itself waited to see what would happen. I leaned toward him carefully, watching every small reaction, letting the distance between us narrow by degrees.
I approached his face as I would a frightened animal, slowly, giving him time to process the intrusion into his personal space. I stopped for a couple of seconds when my lips were a hair's breadth away from his, savoring the sensation of our combined breaths while my belly tightened with anticipation.
The air trembled with something unspoken.
A part of me wondered if he was feeling the magnetic pull that seemed to urge me to close that small distance.
However, when the need to kiss him became too overwhelming and I was about to move toward him, it was L who surprised me by tilting his face just enough for his lips to meet mine.
My heart raced, and my breathing became heavy.
L's lips were soft and warm, and for a couple of seconds, neither of us moved. Through my slightly open eyelids, I could see that his eyes were wider than usual, surprise clearly written in them. I moved my mouth slowly, exploring, testing.
The first moments of the kiss were awkward. There was no particular rhythm, and L felt hesitant under my touch. As if he wanted to move but wasn't sure how.
So I sighed, placed one of my hands on his cheek, and closed my eyes, beginning to set a gentle, calming rhythm. I was rewarded with a slight sound from his throat, barely an exclamation of surprise, and he started to follow my rhythm with the same slowness.
When his hand fell on my cheek a moment later, a small part of me did a victory dance in my chest.
L was a quick learner. A few moments later, his hand slid gently to the back of my neck, and his lips pressed a little more firmly against mine, more confident, less rigid. His mouth softened slightly and opened just a bit, increasing the rhythm for barely a second.
I shivered and mirrored his action, sliding my hand to the nape of his neck, my fingers gently tangling in his hair. L gasped in surprise, and his mouth parted under mine, allowing me to slowly trace his lower lip with the tip of my tongue.
A soft sound, a mix between a gasp and a moan, escaped him, and his body leaned into mine, his other hand resting on my shoulder. His tongue explored the corners of my lips, mimicking my movements, and I whimpered, opening my mouth instinctively. Waves of heat spread from my lips to the rest of my body.
Emboldened by my response, L gently slid his tongue into my mouth, his movements almost analytical at first.
I met his tongue with my own, and when our tips touched, sliding through the moisture and heat, we both moaned softly.
He shifted closer on the sofa, his hand pressing more confidently against the back of my head, and his mouth opened wider under mine, his tongue seeking more contact.
I opened my eyes to look at him and found his eyelids closed, a look of intense focus on his brow.
He brushed my tongue again, more confident this time, and I tentatively circled mine around his. L moaned deeply, opening his lips wider, and imitated my movement...
And we began to kiss with a newfound passion.
L was a quick learner, replicating every new thing I showed him with almost lethal precision—biting his lower lip, sucking my tongue, tilting his head to deepen the kiss. He mastered each movement before moving on to the next.
By the time we pulled apart several minutes later we were both breathless, with swollen lips and dilated pupils. When L looked at me, his eyes were wide and bright, a look I had never seen on him before.
"I find kissing to be fully satisfying. I like it very much," he said, his voice slightly higher than usual, sounding almost breathless. I smiled at him, pleased.
"I'm glad you enjoy it" I replied. He tilted his head, his gaze falling to my mouth.
"Your lips are swollen and red, and your pupils are dilated. Are you aroused?"
I would have blushed if I hadn't already been flushed from our kisses. "I'm getting there" I said instead. He nodded, his hand on my neck moving slightly.
"Can I kiss you again?" There was a new inflection in his voice, one I didn't recognize, as if he was considering the possibility that I might say no. I smiled at him softly.
"You can kiss me as much as you want" I said. My fingers moved lightly through his hair and he flinched.
"That feels good" L blinked with something akin to surprise. "Can we kiss standing up?"
We both moved at the same time, and almost instantly, his mouth fell onto mine again.
This time there was no hesitation, no insecurity. His lips welcomed me with an intensity that was almost hungry. His tongue sought mine instinctively, and when his other hand slid behind my waist, pulling me gently against him, I whimpered softly.
L was relentless. The kiss deepened quickly, transforming into a passionate exchange of shared pants, tangled tongues, and bodies flushed together. His fingers dug into my back, pulling me as close as possible, and when I felt the unmistakable shape of his erection press against my belly, I moaned again. He bit my lower lip and broke the kiss with a gasp.
"Those sounds are pleasing. You are good at kissing."
I chuckled softly, breathless. I opened my mouth to respond, but he silenced me with another kiss.
I buried my fingers in his hair and kissed him fervently. L moaned softly and pushed me gently backward until we reached the edge of the bed. Only then did he stop kissing me.
"Can I take off your clothes? I read that it can increase excitement" L said, his eyes flickering down to the evident bulge in his pants. "Although it seems that has already been taken care of. Nevertheless, I would like to undress you, if you are okay with that."
I nodded, and he proceeded with the same calm precision he applied to everything else. His eyes roamed over every inch of skin as he removed the simple black dress I had chosen for the day. When I was left in nothing but the lace underwear I had decided to wear, his eyes widened slightly more than usual.
It was new, delicate, and soft to the touch, and hugged my curves in all the right places. L stepped back, his eyes traveling up and down my body as if analyzing new evidence. A slight blush covered my cheeks, but I ignored it, stepping closer to him.
I slowly took the edge of his sweater, and when he didn't object, I started to lift it with deliberate slowness.
“I'm having trouble keeping my focus. It's unusual.”
"You're not supposed to concentrate at these moments, L," I murmured as I slid the fabric over his torso. He raised his arms, and I finished removing it with calm.
"It's inconvenient. How can one do well if you can't concentrate?"
"This doesn't work like your spreadsheets. You don't need that type of concentration here. In these situations, you just... feel," I said, fixing my gaze on his as I brought my hands to the button of his pants. "Think of it as something instinctive. It's not something the mind needs to rationalize because the instinct buried deep within your DNA knows what to do in these situations. Something similar to the survival instinct."
As I spoke, I had been slowly sliding his pants down, and although he didn't stop me, I could feel him tense slightly under my hands. To make him feel a little more comfortable, I left his boxers on.
"Hmm..." L tilted his head, pondering my words, and I took the moment to observe him. His pale skin was flawless, and I was surprised to see that his body, though slender, was more defined than I had expected.
All that Capoeira practice had definitely paid off.
When I noticed the exquisite line of his hip bone just above his underwear, my mouth went dry.
"Acting on instinct rather than reason. It's not an appealing concept, but I can understand it" he said, his voice pulling me from my reverie. I turned my head back to his face. "Would you mind lying on the bed? I'd like to see you better."
I nodded once and quickly climbed onto the bed, sliding toward the center. The sheets were soft beneath my touch, the kind of luxurious sensation associated with high-quality places and Egyptian cotton.
As I finally lay on my back I felt my blush deepen, hyper-aware of his gaze roaming over every inch of my body. L joined me on the bed, and one of his hands hovered over my knee for a moment, a slight hesitation that spoke of doubt, before finally resting on my skin and slowly tracing a path up my thigh.
"Your skin is very soft," he murmured, his voice dropping an octave, his eyelids slightly lowered. His fingers pressed gently against my thigh, and I bit my lip. "I like soft things."
A moment later, he seemed to make a decision and pushed my knee to the side, opening me up to him almost completely. He moved on the bed until he was settled between my legs, his eyes fixed on my most intimate area, kneeling for once instead of crouching.
Finally, one of his hands reached out, and his fingers slid easily into my folds, finding me soaked.
"You're aroused" he said flatly, stating a fact. I gasped as he urged me to open a bit more and leaned in slightly, inhaling as one of his fingers pressed gently against my clit. "You smell good."
I choked on my own saliva and felt my blush intensify, but any trace of embarrassment vanished when he pressed against the pearl at the top of my thighs before beginning to circle it with small, tight motions.
I moaned softly, and he made that small sound of appreciation he had started using tonight.
"This is your most sensitive spot, correct?" His fingers slid down, gathering more of my wetness, and returned, coating me completely before continuing to explore, changing from circles to small strokes up and down that had me trembling in seconds.
L fixed his eyes on my face with an intensity that left me breathless as his fingers moved over my damp folds, exploring, testing.
When one of his fingers slid inside me, I felt my walls clench around him, and I moaned louder at the wave of pleasure that rippled under my skin. His hips jerked forward instinctively and his movement paused for a second, and he looked at his own body, blinking in surprise, before he continued pumping his finger in and out of me with gentle precision.
"Ah, instinct. I understand it better now," he said, his voice definitely darker than usual, with a smoky tone that made my insides throb. L gasped, opening his eyes wider in surprise. “Of all the topics I studied during my research, most sources agreed that cunnilingus is one of the most enjoyable sexual activities for women. I would like to try it, if you don't mind.”
I focused on stopping my moans and nodded in his direction, unable to speak. L slid his finger out of me and lay down on his stomach, his hands wrapping around my thighs, and fixed his gaze on mine.
"Remember that if you don't feel comfortable, I'll stop if you tell me to" he said. I smiled and murmured my agreement, suddenly touched by his concern.
But the feeling lasted no more than two seconds until he stuck out his tongue and, in a quick movement, ran it over my throbbing clit.
I moaned loudly, and my hips bucked slightly upward. He blinked at me, surprised, and his fingers tightened around my thighs before repeating the movement. Then he stuck out his tongue fully and, without breaking eye contact, slid it from bottom to top along my folds, gathering my arousal in his mouth.
I was left breathless for a moment, paralyzed, partly because the sight had no right to be as erotic as it was and partly because for a moment, I felt a pang of panic that he might dislike the taste.
The panic lasted a total of three seconds in which he stayed absolutely still while his throat worked to swallow, and, opening his eyes wider than I had ever seen, he groaned deeply in his throat before burying his mouth between my folds without mercy, tasting every inch, dragging every drop of my wetness to his mouth before his lips closed over my clit and sucked greedily, over and over in a relentless assault that reduced me to a trembling, whimpering mess in a matter of minutes.
God, how was he so good?
L released my core with an audible, wet pop, and his head lifted toward me as he panted heavily.
"I find the taste of your excitement to be extremely pleasurable. It tastes almost as good as candy" he said, his eyes drifting back to my center while I did my best not to beg him to continue. "I deduce from your constant moans and the way your body trembles that you are enjoying this as much as I am."
"Yes" I whimpered, clenching my fists in the sheets as my core pulsed almost painfully.
"Do you want me to continue?" His voice shifted slightly to an inflection I recognized all too well, but heard very rarely: It was amusement. The bastard knew full well that I needed him and was playing with me.
"L!" I protested, and he rewarded me with a sight as rare as snow in the desert: a small, genuine smile flashed across his face for a moment before he buried himself between my thighs and started devouring me like a starving man presented with his first meal in days.
L sucked, licked, and played with every part of my pussy at his leisure, lapping up every drop of arousal that flowed from my core, groaning shamelessly in his throat.
I moaned and panted as I writhed on the bed, and at some point, I realized that I had my fingers buried in his hair, urging him closer—when had that happened?—and more astonishingly, I noticed that he would occasionally thrust his hips against the sheets and moan softly each time, no doubt the friction providing him with a pleasure he was unfamiliar with.
"My underwear is bothering me" he said, releasing my overstimulated clit a moment later, and I gasped at the sudden loss of his mouth.
"T-Take it off" I babbled, my voice barely a whisper. I focused on breathing as he slid his underwear down his long legs, and the brief glimpse of his painfully throbbing hardness left me breathless.
L was a tall, slender man, and his masculinity more than lived up to the popular belief about men of his kind.
However, when his mouth fell back onto me, I could barely think, feeling my orgasm building rapidly in my core.
"L" I gasped, pressing my fingers into his scalp, opening my legs a little wider. "L, if you keep this up..."
I couldn't finish the sentence because he decided it was a good time to finally prop himself up on his elbows.
"I would like for us to have coitus. Now."
I dropped my hands from his head and nodded at him almost gratefully, a mix of anticipation and nerves fluttering in my chest.
L slid over me and settled his hips over mine, keeping his weight on his forearms. When his gaze met mine again, I caught a brief flash of uncertainty in his pupils, and I embraced him softly, lightly caressing his back with my fingertips, which helped calm my own excitement a bit.
"I don't know if I can make this pleasurable for you" he said, his voice laced with a rare vulnerability.
I chuckled softly at his comment, my heart swelling with affection.
"You're doing excellently. Just... feel," I murmured before lifting my face and capturing his lips in a kiss that was meant to be gentle but quickly became almost desperate.
The taste of L's lips mixed with my own arousal should not have been so appealing, but it was, sending shivers down my spine and igniting a fire within me.
When I finally felt the tip of his cock nestle at my entrance and push slightly, I gasped in surprise at his girth, and when he finally entered me in one smooth thrust, I was left breathless, my eyes widening in absolute surprise.
L was big.
Bigger than I had expected, filling me completely and stretching me in a way that was both intense and exhilarating.
"Oh!" His gasp pulled me from my thoughts, and his own eyes widened, his hips faltered for a moment before sliding back slightly and pushing back in to the hilt. "Ah!... ah... you are very... soft and... tight."
Something inside me purred with delight as his usually monotonous voice took on a dark, ragged tone of excitement, laced with a hunger I had never heard from him before.
"Yes? You like that?" I panted against his mouth, wrapping my arms around him, pulling him closer as if I could absorb him into me.
L moved again, and we both moaned in unison, the sound raw and primal, a testament to the pleasure coursing through our bodies.
"Yes. I like it. I like it very much" L admitted, his voice a low growl, recovering a bit from the initial shock. "Is this okay for you? I would like to continue, if you agree."
Although his voice was relatively controlled, I could see how much it cost him to say those words, his body trembling slightly above mine as he tried to contain the storm of sensations raging within him. I slid my hands to his hips and rolled mine toward him, causing him to gasp in surprise, his eyes flashing with a newfound intensity.
"God, yes, L, keep going" I murmured against his mouth before kissing him again, pouring all my desire and need into the connection, wanting him to feel every ounce of my passion.
He finally gave in and started moving over me, returning my kiss with an intensity that matched my own. At first, his movements were soft, tentative, as he explored the new sensations, almost dissecting the experience with his characteristic analytical mind.
But it wasn't long before he increased his pace and his breathing became erratic, his body taking over as instinct drove him forward. When he started thrusting into me with force, I let myself go completely, wrapping one of my legs around him, urging him deeper, wanting to feel all of him.
His hand automatically slid to my thigh and lifted it higher over his hip, tilting his pelvis to reach a new angle, one that sent sparks of pleasure shooting through me, making me cry out his name.
And L lost himself.
He started moving over me like a man possessed, his hips driving into me relentlessly, the sound of skin slapping against skin echoing obscenely around us amidst our moans and gasps. His mouth sought mine almost desperately, his kisses hungry and insatiable, as if he couldn't get enough of me.
"Don't stop," I whimpered against his mouth as I felt my climax vibrating just beneath my skin, ready to explode. "God, L, please don't stop."
"I'm going to... I think I'm going to..." He panted. A second later his voice caught in his throat, and his eyes rolled back as his usually expressionless face transformed into one of pure, unadulterated bliss, his mouth forming a perfect 'O' as his rhythm faltered slightly and he plunged into me one last time with a groan that tore at my soul, raw and primal, a sound of surrender and ecstasy.
The sound of his pleasure, the sight of his body finally surrendering to me, was more than enough to send me over the edge.
My own orgasm hit me hard, and I moaned deeply, feeling my walls clench around him like a glove as my body tensed like a bow before crumbling violently beneath him, collapsing into the waves of pleasure that washed over me one after another until I was completely breathless, my body spent and sated.
When I finally came back to myself, L collapsed against me, his body trembling faintly, his breathing uneven and raw. A moment later he shifted, bracing himself on his elbows to keep from crushing me. When his eyes met mine, they were alive — brighter than I had ever seen them — and vulnerable in a way I had never thought possible for him.
“That was acceptable?”
A soft laugh escaped me. I lifted my shaking hand to his forehead, brushing away the strands of dark hair that clung to the fine sheen of sweat on his skin. My touch was gentle, almost reverent.
“L, that was incredible,” I whispered, and leaned up to press a slow, tender kiss against his lips — not to prolong, but to reassure. I poured everything I felt into that small act, hoping he would understand without words how much it meant to me.
He exhaled softly and returned the kiss with the same quiet gentleness, his lips warm and hesitant, almost careful.
Then he moved onto his side, and his hands found me instantly, drawing me close until my body fit against his, as though he meant to shield me from the world. The warmth of him was overwhelming — real, solid, steady.
I relaxed into his embrace, my hand resting on his back. We stayed like that for a long while, silent, our breathing slowly falling into rhythm, our heartbeats aligning until it felt as if one pulse ran through us both.
My fingers traced idle, senseless patterns across his skin, small maps of tenderness, declarations too quiet to speak aloud.
When L finally spoke, his voice broke the silence softly, a mix of curiosity and reluctant admission.
“I find myself enjoying this far more than I anticipated.”
He paused, tilting his head just slightly, his eyes catching mine with a rare openness. “The probability that I would agree to repeat this, if you asked, is higher than I am entirely comfortable admitting.”
Something in me melted at the honesty of it, not the words themselves, but the way he said them: stripped of pretense, almost fragile. A warmth bloomed inside me, quiet and complete.
“That’s good to know,” I murmured, smiling. “Maybe I will.”
The corners of his mouth lifted—barely, but enough to be real. It was a smile that belonged not to the detective, but to the man beneath all his logic. A rare, fleeting glimpse—and it was enough.
I sighed and stretched my back a little, but L’s grip around me tightened ever so slightly, just enough to make me stop.
“Don’t go,” he murmured in a tone so low, so uncharacteristically soft, that it stole the air from the room. “Stay with me tonight.”
I had never heard him sound like that, gentle, almost humanly uncertain.
I tightened my arms around him and pressed a light kiss to his shoulder, threading my fingers through his dark hair in a soothing motion.
“I’m not going anywhere” I whispered. “I was just thinking of making a quick escape to the bathroom.”
L blinked, startled, and immediately released me.
“Oh. Of course.”
I smiled at him and slipped away, taking care of what I needed and freshening up before returning to bed.
When I came back, he was already wearing his underwear and sitting on the bed, a lollipop in each hand.
“I’ve read that sex burns a considerable number of calories” he said in his usual analytical tone. “I believe replenishing our energy would be ideal, though I doubt these will be sufficient to compensate for the caloric expenditure of the past hour. Would you like to order room service?”
I raised an eyebrow, amused. “Sure, that sounds good.”
I grabbed the menu from a small table near the door, and hurried back to the warmth of the bed. L had already unwrapped both lollipops and offered one to me in silence. I took it with a small smile, then opened the elegant leather-bound menu and began scanning the dessert section.
“Chocolate would be a logical choice,” he said after a moment. “The neurochemicals it produces in the system complement those released during sex. It would give us an additional boost of energy before doing it again.”
I blinked and turned to look at him, caught off guard. By then, L looked almost like himself again, having recovered most of his composure.
Still, his shoulders were looser, his posture unguarded, a rare ease that softened every sharp line of him.
“Doing it again?” I asked, incredulous.
“I was thinking that I would like to” he said simply, his tone calm and measured. “If you’re comfortable with that. If my performance was not sufficiently satisfactory, I promise to improve.”
I blinked again, unsure whether to laugh or melt.
“Your performance was more than satisfactory, L” I murmured, a smile tugging at my lips. “If it’s up to me, I don’t mind doing it again.”
“Good.” L swirled his tongue slowly around the lollipop, and something deep inside me tightened without warning.
“You seem relaxed,” I said, my voice soft as I looked down at the menu again.
“Oh.” The faint surprise in his tone made me lift my head instantly, just in time to catch an expression of genuine bewilderment flicker across his face. “I had forgotten that was the purpose of tonight. Yes… I believe I am relaxed. I haven’t even thought about the case.”
He blinked once. Then twice.
For someone like him, it must have felt like being struck by lightning.
“I think I understand now why it is considered one of the most effective stress relievers” he continued, voice thoughtful. “Its efficiency rate is significantly higher than I anticipated.”
L pressed a thumb thoughtfully against the corner of his mouth, his head tilting slightly as his mind began its quiet analysis.
“I feel very satisfied with the decision of having asked you to do this.”
A wave of warmth spread through me, uncoiling like sunlight. I smiled softly at him, knowing those simple words carried far more than his tone would ever admit; a quiet, private confession of contentment that didn’t need to be said aloud.
For a while, neither of us spoke. The room was quiet, the only sound the low hum of the city beyond the tall windows and the faint clink of porcelain as the dessert tray arrived.
L sat crouched at the edge of the bed, tasting the chocolate cake with a concentration that bordered on reverence.
“This is acceptable” he said after a few moments, and I smiled despite myself.
His tone was dry, perfectly measured, yet there was something different behind it, something almost gentle. When he handed me a fork, our fingers brushed.
A simple touch, brief and fleeting, but in that instant I could feel the quiet current beneath his calm exterior.
He didn’t meet my eyes right away. Instead, he studied the plate, the folds of the sheets, the invisible patterns his thumb traced over the porcelain rim.
When he finally looked at me, there was a faint unease in his gaze, not doubt, exactly, but the fragile awareness of a man unused to feeling too much.
“I find myself…” he began, then stopped, his lips parting slightly before closing again. He looked almost frustrated at his own hesitation.
“You find yourself…?” I prompted softly.
He tilted his head, as if analyzing an answer that refused to be quantified.
“I find myself unwilling to try to sleep” he said at last. “Not because I am alert, but because I am… content. It is a foreign state. I wish to observe it before it disappears.”
Something in my chest ached at that, the honesty of it, so raw and disarmingly precise.
I reached out and touched his hand, letting the silence say what neither of us could put into words.
He didn’t pull away. His fingers shifted just slightly, his thumb resting atop mine in a gesture that felt almost accidental—almost.
“Then stay awake” I murmured. “We can both observe it.”
His gaze lingered on me for a long moment, dark eyes soft and impossibly deep in the dim light.
Then, slowly, he nodded.
Neither of us spoke again.
We sat there, sharing small bites of cake and quiet looks, letting the minutes dissolve into something timeless.
And when the lights outside finally dimmed, and even the city seemed to sleep, L leaned back against the headboard, one hand still faintly touching mine, as if anchoring himself to the proof of a feeling he hadn’t meant to have.