stripper au (aka ren understands the desires of my soul)

They’re in small room, full of red smoke from a cheap machine, glitter dust plastered to the floor and it smells like liquor and semen, and L is a little claustrophobic and a little tired and a little insulted that they’d given him the most obnoxious stripper they have, who for all of his gyrations, doesn’t seem to want to shut up about the cosmos, or god living inside of him, or how the moment he’s seen L he’d known that they were going to die together.

“Yes,” L says, trying to still the boy’s hips, thin and bone-sharp and rolling against his in uneven tides, “but about the murders,” he tries, getting cut off by a hard bite on his lower lip.

“I ask the questions here, doll,” the stripper breathes in his ear, and L’s thighs shouldn’t quiver but they do.

“I’m the one paying,” L insists, and all for a shaky lead on a mess of a case that is so perfectly chaotic and well-organized at the same time that he hasn’t been able to make heads or tails or anything of it, and isn’t making much more now, with an underfed boy in leather underwear grinding in his lap.

“And this,” the boy tells him, smile sharp and drowning, “is what you’re paying for.” He thrusts against L again, drawing out a low grunt that L disclaims any association with. “After you get your money’s worth, maybe I’ll confess. You’ll just have to wait and see.”