:3

hiii. I mostly post my writing on here. I love to talk so feel free to request or give me series or fic ideas. just turned 21. this isn't really a nsfw blog but I don't mind writing some if asked 111.

[magicalgirlypop]

when i say "misa amane deserved better" just know i mean it in the "misa amane deserved to have her personality, backstory, and internal monologues expanded upon just as much as her male counterparts and shouldn't have been written as just an extension of light" and not in the "misa amane is a poor baby angel who did no wrong" way.

[sola-nater]

one of his habits | l. lawliet

synopsis: Anyone who knows L knows that he's got his own way of doing things. He values efficiency in his work. However, despite his almost robotic-like work ethic, he's not absolved from the feeling of arousal. L jerks off sometimes, but it takes long when he's alone. He knows he already cums quick when thinking of you, so when you walk in on him one day and don't seem to mind, L thinks of a perfect proposition!

pairing: l lawliet x fem!reader

word count: 3.8k

tags/warnings: mentions of porn, male masturbation, cum licking, pervy L, walking in on L, L HAS BUSH, L is very straightforward, fucking your coworker, blowjob, brief mention of cunnilingus, UNCUT KING, whimpering, crying during sex, L licks up your tears, reader mentioned to have glasses, coworkers to lovers, chair sex, reader refers to L as "Ryu" until implied further into arrangement, "L" used in certain moments

a/n: larping bc i STILL haven't finished death note but like please L is my friend #larplarplarpsahur

divider cred: @chrisssiren

L Lawliet is a man of routine. Meticulous routine, that is. Routine that has allowed him to do efficiently what is called of him.

L’s unconventional. He works for days without sleep, his signature pose has him hunched over and his knees tucked up to his chest, he showers differently, he lives off of sweets to a degree that would probably be counterintuitive to the productivity of anyone else, and yet, no one bats an eye. Not when he was one of the greatest living detectives in the world. Not when there was a case as big as Kira needing to be solved.

All that being said, L’s quirks didn’t absolve him from the natural pulls of human instinct. He was human still, after all. When he worked too long, sleep would call, and he’d give in quite reluctantly, understanding its necessity but not without the thought of how much time he’d be wasting passing his mind. L saw these actions as simple roadblocks, tasks that needed to be completed in order for him to execute his job well, that opting to not give into these urges would most likely result in more harm than good. L wasn’t a stupid man. He knew what human limits were.

L’s relationship with sexual pleasure was not very exciting. At least, not before you. He discovered self pleasure like anyone else. Puberty boners and a damned need to make them go away, finding that if he rutted against his bed long enough this euphoric feeling would rip through him and last just few seconds before he’d beleft panting, satisfaction evident in the drool that manages to slip out the corner of his mouth.

As he got older, he discovered porn. He’d concluded early on that the end result of finishing was much more pleasurable when he had a stimulus to jerk off to. He noticed he liked looking when women bent over, when they had low-cut tops. He’d make mental notes of the color of their panties or their bras, using the stored memories to fuck his hand to during the nights he felt release was needed. So, the discovery of porn to him was…nice. Porn, he found, was convenient. He didn’t have to scrounge his mind for old memories, or leave his workspace to gain new ones. Porn gave him more than he was even looking for. It introduced his mind to an entirely new web of information; he gained tastes for certain categories and favored actions he saw in videos that one could deem “kinks.”

He didn’t have a purpose for much of this information though, aside from decreasing the search time for him when finding a video to jerk off to, it mostly buried itself in the farthest corner of his mind until he felt he needed to orgasm again.

Then you were put on the Kira investigative team.

And suddenly the need to masturbate came more frequently. He’d start to feel it in his gut when you were near him, arousal building in his lower abdomen when you leaned in closer to listen to what he had to say, how your lips looked wrapped around a strawberry plucked off his shortcake he so graciously offered you. Suddenly, he spent a little longer masturbating; it wasn’t only to get it over with anymore. He liked thinking of you.

When you leave his office he allows his mind to wander, like clockwork he’d have to relieve himself after working with you. He hums contentedly at the feeling of his cock swelling up, growing thicker and harder in his pants as he closes his eyes, the vision of the strawberry in your mouth transforming into his leaky red tip resting on your lips. His hips twitch into the seam of his jeans, just enough friction to elicit a gasp from his lips.

“Oh, god.” he hushes, steeling himself for a moment before slipping from his normally hunched position, and slouching in his office chair, letting his feet touch the cold floor below as he lifts his white shirt up higher to expose his abdomen. His pale skin lacks much hair, except for the patchy dark happy trail of his, leading to a much thicker, unkempt bush. 

Like routine, his slender fingers fiddle with his jeans, undoing the button, then the zipper, before sighing at the lack of restriction, and the light breeze from the colder room that ghosts over his sensitive dick, a wet spot visible at the front of it.

He pulls his pants down just enough, before peeling his sticky briefs off enough to free his cock, heavy and needy resting on his thigh, leaking more by the second.

L wraps a hand around himself, hissing at the contact, closing his eyes as he squeezes harder, working himself faster at the thought of you. Your pretty, wide eyes, your laugh, your thighs in the skirts you wear to work. God, he’d never felt this way about anyone before. Sure, he’s acknowledged when a woman was attractive, but you were more to him. He had an affinity for you. To your wit, your kindness, your easygoing attitude that charmed him the second you were brought on. You had him appreciating traits he didn’t care much about when it came to others.

Heavy, high-pitched huffs leave his mouth as he gets closer, twisting his fist harder, faster. His pre cum drips from his tip and falls down into his bush, traveling down the length of his cock and lubing his actions, actions that produced echoing, lewd, sloppy noises. Noises he shut his eyes to and envisioned to be your sopping pussy.

“F-fuck…I’m close.” He whispers to himself, more of a statement (it always is with him), so lost in his pleasure that he barely hears your voice at his door, knocking thrice. Every logical cell in his body tells him to stop and check but he can’t help himself. Maybe he was hallucinating your voice, maybe he was dreaming, maybe, just maybe, he wanted you to see him like this, a dirty, hopeful part of him that trusts you to reciprocate his feelings.

You walk in.

You walk in just as he’s cumming. An impressive amount of white shoots from his dick, covering the exposed expanse of his lean chest that heaves up and down. He makes no effort to open his eyes. He supposed it’s too late now.

He hears your gasp. He lets himself smile at it. You’ve got your hands clutched over your mouth and you sputter out apologies, but he notices you don’t make any motion to leave—not to run off down the hallway, not to curse him out in shock, not to shut the door and step out. In fact, he heard you step in.

And close the door. Behind you.

And for a moment it’s peaceful, if you try and see it that way. Neither of you speak. The room creates this bubble around the two of you. L gulps before finally opening his eyes, looking over to meet your widened ones.

“I suppose you’ve caught me.”

It’s so casual. A chill runs down your spine and you hate the way your eyes immediately flick back to his dick, framed by his dark pubes, hairs coated with dots of cum that reflect the light.

“Judging by your actions I can assume you’re not uncomfortable?” He asks knowingly, before reaching forward towards the tissue box on his desk, his other hand stretching out to you.

“Come closer.” “If you’re staying, that is.”

An airy chuckle escapes his lips as you listen, the recognizable sound of your heels clacking against the floor meeting his perky ears before coming to a pause. He watches the way you grab the tissues from his hand, a puzzled look crossing his face when you crumple them up and toss the ball onto his desk instead of using them to clean him up.

But his breath hitches when you drop down to your knees, watching the hesitance in your movements, catching the way you swallow down your nervousness, how he can tell you know he notices it. It’s comforting to know he is too though. L stammers out your name, hands clenching and unclenching while resting on the arm rests of his chair.

It’s clear you’re looking for some sort of reassurance, and when you find a glint of trust in his gaze you bend down, taking his soft dick in your mouth, licking off the residue of sticky sweet pre and his salty cum as he whimpers. L’s stomach tenses at the feeling of you lapping up the cum on his stomach, replacing the white puddles with glossy streaks of saliva in the shape of your tongue.

He thinks. His constant fantasy reciprocates his feelings and works alongside him. It makes perfect sense to start calling you into his office next time he needs to work off some arousal.

He propositions you the next day, calling you over after the work day is done, finding it sweet the way you come readily, sitting across from him in that tight skirt of yours, squeezing your thighs together as you fidget with your fingers in your lap.

“I was thinking…after yesterday.”

You swallow.

“You enjoyed that, correct?”

“I did, Ryuzaki.” “I-I apologize for walking in o—”

“No need.” He waves off your apology, before placing his hands back on his tucked knees.

“If you’re interested, I’d like to propose an arrangement.”

Your head tilts. “What do you mean, Ryu?”

“As you know, many of my habits are shaped by how efficiently they allow me to finish my work.” “However, this does not mean I do not respond to the natural urges of sexual release—as you were able to see. Noting your further choice of action yesterday I take it you’re more than understanding.”

“Therefore, I ask if you would be okay with me requesting you during my next bout of arousal.”

Stunned. That’s what you are. How could he say something like this so easily? Did he really mean it? Was it personal to you? So many questions ran through your head that you couldn’t find it in yourself to hide the surprise in your expression. Even so, you couldn’t deny the way his words made you clench around nothing, panties wetting at his direct tone, and initiative he didn’t even intend to have come off that way.

Your answer wasn’t very difficult to find.

———

“Oh…fuck! Ryu!” You cry, clawing at the skin of his back, nails painting him with red marks.

L’s got you on your back, you’re practically folded in half. He has you in the nastiest mating press, hips snapping into you hard as his eyes stay shut, consumed by the feeling of your gummy walls that squeeze at his length. He thinks that the feeling of sex should be something he’s used to by now, but instead, every time he sinks into you it’s unfathomable the amount of pleasure he feels. Familiar yet exciting, the rush of adrenaline making it feel like his first time with you every time.

His nimble fingers wrap around your ankles, securing himself with you underneath him as he continues to ram his cock inside of you, his tip kissing your sweet spot with every thrust. Dark strands of hair stick to L’s forehead damp with sweat. He’s not very chatty, only letting out heavy huffs and the occasional whimper when you clench around him particularly hard. Like when your hand reaches down to rub at your needy clit, the added sound of you rubbing your juices over yourself making his ears perk and his pace falter.

“Oh…wow, that feels good…hah..” “Are you feeling good?”

“It’s—oh..! Ryu…it’s so hmph! Deep…” you whine the hand you have slung around his shoulder moves to his jaw before cupping his face. Your thumb sits by the corner of his mouth before it’s taken into his. He sucks on it, whining and mumbling around the digit as the two of you near your orgasms. His next words make your stomach flutter, and your eyebrows scrunch as you get emotional at them.

“I-I…I want you to feel good too…it’s n-not just for me..” he says, meeting your sweet gaze. The sheer genuineness of it makes you want to melt, to give yourself over to him completely and entirely without a second thought, but you know that wouldn’t be smart. It’d be wrong to get your hopes up when the two of you had been doing this a while now with nothing of the sort.

But there was just something about it. Something about the past few months that you knew the both of you had noticed. The way your hesitant touches against each other's bodies grew practiced and knowing, how your sessions started to get longer, how he started to take his time pleasing you instead of making you orgasm in exchange for your help with his. You started to notice the way he’s picked up on what you enjoy, things you'd never said aloud, how he’d do them again and hum contentedly when you confirmed his observations, tugging on his hair as he held down your hips, laving his tongue over your weepy pussy.

You whine, eyes squeezing shut as his thrusts urge you closer to your release. You clench around him, toes curling. You don’t even realize that you're crying until you feel his tongue lap up your tears as they fall, cooing softly as he does, the wimpy tone of his voice letting you know he’s right there with you.

“D-Don’t cry, beautiful..” “I-Is it because it’s good?” He grunts, hips picking up pace.

“I’m—oh..!” “L…” you whisper, nearly silent. You deliver the moan right to his ear. It’s extraordinary.

Your pussy fucking milks him, sucking in all of what comes out of his dick as he fucks the two of you through it, shaking the bedframe as he overstims the both of you.

“Sh-shit…you are..incredible..”

———

It’s really not a shock to anyone around the two of you when the dynamic of your arrangement slips the mouth of Watari.

Whether they said it aloud or not, there was a clear shift in comfortability between the two of you—seats closer together, a hand on your shoulder, a cake offering from L. Yeah, if you weren’t secretly married, you had to be fucking. It didn’t affect his ability to work—so whatever.

———

Your phone buzzes again. A message from L.

I’d like for you to come over, please. Thank you.

You’re already smiling, a big wide grin on a woman excited to please, already starting to comb through your hair with your fingers and spritzing a little extra perfume, the scent of strawberry shortcake dusting all over you.

It’s how you end up here. Glasses tugged off your face and discarded elsewhere so he can get a better look at your eyes, watery and lovestruck from underneath his desk. You’ve got a mouth full of cock. Spit pools out the corners of your mouth during your pause, nostrils flaring as you breathe through your nose.

“Take a break if you have to.” He whispers softly, consideration evident in the way he brushes some hair out of your face, his touch gentle and appreciative.

A smile paints his features as you pull off, replacing your mouth with slow pumps of your hand that make his breath hitch.

“You look very beautiful.” He mutters softly.

You chuckle, licking your lips coated with his stringy pre and your spit, looking up at him almost bashfully.

“You think, Ryu?”

“Well. Truthfully, I have always found you to be quite breathtaking.”

His matter-of-fact praise makes you want to please him more, mouth latching back onto his heavy dick, bobbing your head and swirling your tongue around his sensitive head, pulling back his foreskin to tongue the underside. L tosses his head back while his grip in your hair tightens. His hips threaten to jerk up into your mouth and he stutters out apologies.

“It—oh…you’re so good at this…th-thank you..” he mumbles, his restraint slipping by the second before his hips are bucking into your mouth, tip hitting the back of your throat.

He groans as you hold there, the wet cave of your throat contracting around him as you gag on his cock, eyes half-lidded as you gaze up at him from where you are. Your nose and chin are buried in his unkempt bush, damp with drool as you desperately clutch at his thighs. The sharp sting of your nails combined with your throat has him whimpering, eyebrows scrunched as he praises you.

“Fuck…fuck..p-please..m-more..” he begs softly, nearly crying at the way you toy with his balls in response, rolling the skin in your hands as you swirl your tongue around him.

“Oh—yes..yes, I’m getting close..!” “Please.”

Suddenly, his orgasm tears through him. L’s eyes roll to the back of his skull and his body twitches ever so slightly off of the office chair, a sharp whine of your name leaving his lips. He jolts when you pull back, replacing your mouth with your hand as you jerk him off through his release. Your mouth sucks on his fat nuts, hand stroking up and down as white coats your pretty face, landing on your lips like white glaze on a donut.

“S-so…beautiful…” he pants out, stroking your temple. He catches the way you’re rutting against the heel of your shoe, gazing up at him with desperate eyes and he can’t help but be speechless at the sight.

“Th-thank you, for that.” “I’d like you to come up now.” He murmurs, watching the way you rise at his command, letting yourself be pulled into his lap before he’s wiping his cum off of your face.

“You’re feeling needy now.” He hums, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear.

“Oh, Ryu..there’s no need to—”

He cuts you off with a brief shush, stroking your hair.

“I want to.”

Behind you, L’s got his other hand wrapped around himself, stroking his dick back to being erect, watching the way you’re all wide-eyed and confused before he’s slipping a hand down to the hem of your skirt, and hiking it up over your hips from there. He smiles as you gasp, noting the way the beating of his heart quickens at it. You feel as a slender finger catches the waistband of your panties, tugging them down your thighs.

“This is alright?” he confirms, dark eyes meeting yours.

When you nod, he’s already grinding his cock against your folds, slapping it against you a few times just to hear the wet thud that echoes.

“Mmmphh..please..! I need it..!” You whine, pouty.

“Mhm. Patience.”

In reality, you don’t have to wait long at all. For as consequential as it might be in other contexts, he has a weak spot for you.

L starts to fill you up, stuffing your pussy full all the way to the brim. You swear you can feel him in your stomach as he starts bucking up with shallow thrusts. You sling your arms around his shoulders in response, desperate for an anchor as he relieves the ache that had been building inside of you for the last hour.

L’s hands find your waist, his grip tightening before he starts fucking you hard, ramming up into you with a surprising amount of force, like every thrust is meant to prove a point, like he’s trying to tell you something with each one. He never shuts his eyes. Instead, he trains them on you, like he needs to watch the way you fall apart for him. You were his first, and now he couldn’t dream of wanting or having anyone else. On top of the way you clench around him, there’s this never-leaving flutter in his chest that he can’t quite put a name to. All he knows is that it’s particularly pronounced whenever something involving you comes up. He used to think it was something to do with when you two had sex. Then, he noticed it when you hugged him, then the flutter was back when you were just working together, then finally, he realized his chest would tighten just at the thought of you.

“Ryu! S-so good!” You cry, snapping him out of his trance.

L leans down to kiss you. It’s messy and not necessarily “hot” but there’s something so very L about it that makes you weak. He laps at your drool, mumbling barely coherent words through it all, savoring the way you go limp against him. His cock never lets up pace, and as if that wasn’t enough, his thumb finds your poor, needy clit, rubbing circles that egg you on. 

“You’re getting close.” He points out, his voice breaking half-way through as he teeters on his own climax.

“Mmmphhh! Mhm!”

He huffs through his nose, connecting your foreheads together when he can tell you’re only a few more thrusts away from cumming, his lips pressing a gentle kiss onto your nose bridge–sustained and intimate.

“Hah..ah! L…” you choke out into his ear as you finally gush, so sweet and wimpy and overwhelmingly sincere in tone, and it makes him want to fuck his cum into you harder, to bury it so deep it stays and doesn’t leak out. 

Fuck, you were amazing. You were his.

As you lie there, panting, sweaty bodies on top of each other, L takes the moment to steel himself, finding comfort in the way your pussy pulses every once in a while, the two of you oversensitive and exhausted.

“Hey.” He hums to you.

You meet his tired gaze with one of your own, raising your eyebrows.

“Yes, Ryu?”

“Could I say something…unproffesional?”

You laugh, and his breath catches at the twinkle in your eye that you always have when you’re about to say something witty.

“Unproffessional?” “Then no.” You quip sarcastically.

He laughs with you.

“Okay, okay. I’ll say what I was thinking of.”

There’s a pause.

“I think, since we’ve started this…” he says, referencing your arrangement. “I’ve been able to identify my feelings towards you much better than before. Feelings of…fondness.” “Frankly, what I’m trying to say is…I have romantic feelings for you.” “I wanted you to know.”

You could almost yelp with how surprised you are. Oh, how nice it was to know all those times you chided yourself for being delusional were wrong. You’d never been so ecstatic about being incorrect before.

“Oh…you have no idea,” You whisper, taking his face in your hands before peppering it all over with kisses, not stopping even when he tries to speak again.

“Alright,” he laughs happily as you finally relent, holding the both of your hands in his. “I assume you feel the same then.” 

[reminicingpoet]

BUSH L REAL ✌️✌️✌️✌️✌️✌️ how are we supposed to find gold if there isnt a beautiful path leading to it ?? Mwah mwah

[aiigwm]

ABSOLUTE GEM ALERT

[yellowsandwichs]

Light vs L

[aiigwm]

This Charming Man

Ch. 1

L x fem! Reader

This is my newest fanfic! Hope you guys like it, I cross-posted it on Wattpad and Ao3 if you wanna check it out there.

Synopsis: This Charming Man is an "x reader" fanfic with a fem! Reader or feminine. In this story it follows a 19-year-old L in 1999 Winchester England. Bored with no cases to solve, and all the books in the Wammy's library read, he's been to every museum already so its no use! One day, he decides to visit a local bakery. However, he has a terrible experience there due to rude service and unhygienic conditions. Frustrated, he vows never to return but repeatedly encounters a clerk from the bakery in various places around town, which adds only to his discomfort until it doesn't. Eventually he becomes…interested in you and you start seeing him around town in a way that feels less like a coincidence.

4.5k words!

The moonlight slices through the blinds as always stretching its, pale patient fingers over the floorboards and stark white sheets, touching everything with a careless intimacy that feels comforting.

Mum's voice cut through the hallway, slicing over the low hum of the radio and the metallic clatter of pans. "We need to leave in five! Get ready!"

Five minutes. I didn't move. I stared at the ceiling, trying to stretch the seconds, wishing they could morph into five days. Just five more seconds to breathe the warm, familiar air of this room.

I swung my legs over the bed and stood up too fast. Instantly, the blood drained from my head. The room tilted violently as a heavy, cold wave of dizziness rushed behind my eyes. Black spots flooded my vision, overlapping and swallowing the room until everything went pitch black. My knees buckled.

I managed two blind steps before the hardwood floor caught me, cold and unyielding. The impact knocked the breath from my lungs in a sharp gasp, the pine floor biting into my knees as my vision slowly began to pixelate back into view.

The door swung open. Yellow light spilled into the room, blinding me for a moment before casting a dark silhouette across the floorboards.

"What are you doing? Why are you on the floor?"

A sarcastic retort flashed through my mind: 'baking cookies, obviously' But I bite my tongue and reached out my hand. I could have managed on my own, but I let him help.

He sighed the way only older brothers could, his grip rough but steady as he grabbed my wrist and hauled me to my feet. "You alright?"

I nodded, though he didn't look convinced. "Get a move on. Mum's going to have a fit if we miss the double-decker."

"When is she not having a fit?" I swatted his hand away from my lower back. The heat of his palm through my shirt was too much to bear so early in the morning.

Down the hall, Dad's low voice was arguing with the crackle of the BBC Radio 4 morning broadcast on the old analogue dial, and Mum was rushing between the stove and the sink. Then, I caught the scent: burnt toast and charred metal, a morning routine so familiar I knew the bitter, smoky taste of it before it even touched my lips. Home.

Then, a bell rang. It was unusually loud, a heavy, resonant toll. Nobody looked up. Mum kept stirring. Dad kept talking over the radio. My brother kept walking.

The bell rang again, vibrating right through my teeth. Too loud.

"Do you guys hear—"

The sound swallowed my question. The kitchen blurred, the light unraveled into darkness, and my eyes snapped open.

For one impossible second, I waited for Mum to yell that we had five minutes. I listened for the shipping forecast on the radio, waited for the rich drift of coffee. Nothing came. Just the freezing air of the room and the shrill, electronic beep of the plastic digital alarm clock on my bedside table. 

No medals on the wall. 

No one there.

That house was a decade behind me now. The memory had been so complete that waking up in 1999 felt like losing it all over again. I slapped the plastic button to silence the alarm, plunging the room into a heavy, dead silence. The ache in my chest slowly settled into the older, familiar throb in my legs. 

Four-thirty a.m. Time for work.

____________

The dark street stole the warmth right out of my clothes, making my shoulders hitch up toward my ears. Crossing the street I stepped onto the empty pavement, my breath clouding in thick white plumes as I tried to manually stop the icy numbing draft, shooting straight down my throat. No amount of wishing would take me back to that house, or to that comfort. But it would take me here, along this road every day, each day. 

The chill wrapped around me, a bitter reminder that my jacket was too thin and my pockets too empty. I pulled my hands from my pockets just long enough to hit play, the heavy plastic click of the Walkman echoing down the quiet street.

After a brief hiss of tape, a blast of bright, brassy horns filled my foam headphones, dropping into a smooth, driving bassline. It was that new hip-hop cover of the old sixties track, the one that had been all over the radio all summer. The rhythm tore right through the freezing mist, locking my focus entirely forward. I walked to the tempo, single-mindedly fixed on getting inside where it was warm, completely blind to the world around me.

The bakery door swung open, the bell above it muffled by the music. "I love you, baby," hummed through my teeth while my hands mechanically ticked off the morning tasks: ovens, dough, coffee. Fixated entirely on the staff door at the back, the rest of the room blurred into background noise. Off went the jacket, my head bobbing side to side to the beat. The bright fluorescent lights were already blazing at five in the morning—a detail that should have triggered an alarm, but the music blocked it out. So did the sweet, artificial sting of freshly sprayed air freshener.

The brassy horns built a wall between me and the room, filtering the world through a warm, summer-soaked haze. I was dancing through a memory, completely immune to the fact that the chairs were already down, the glass cases already loaded with pastries. 

I was halfway across the room, when a long, cold finger firmly tapped my shoulder.

My chest went completely hollow, as if the air had been vacuumed right out of my lungs and forced down into my gut. I tried to inhale, but my throat locked up, and all I could hear was the violent, rapid thudding of my own pulse in my ears.

I let out a screech so loud it rattled my own teeth, jumping clean off the floorboards. In a blind panic, my hands flew up, violently yanking the headphone wire out of the Walkman. The music cut out instantly, plunging the bakery into a jarring, dead silence. The sudden silence left my lungs tight, my hands still trembling on the loose headphone wire as I spun around in the sudden, ringing silence, a cold shock locking my jaw as I braced to face a robber.

Instead, I was met with a very early, surprisingly unbothered customer staring back at me.

A tall, skinny man with black hair, eyes as wide as a frog's, and a strange way of standing, truth be told, his posture was shitty. That's a bit tight of me to say, he could have scoliosis, but he looks like a shrimp just standing there. I used to look like that in primary school. He had a lollipop in his mouth. 

Who comes into a sweets store already having a loli in their mouth? Fatass.

My hand dropped from my head and onto my chest, instead, a gun wasn't being pointed at my face but the wide eyes of a customer, he must've been there for a while. I let out a sharp, ragged exhale that melted into an embarrassed chuckle.

"—Shit! God, sorry. I didn't hear you come in with these on. Didn't think we were open yet, sorry about that. Are you getting sorted?"

The man didn't flinch at my outburst. He didn't even blink. He just stood there in that aggressive slouch, slowly swirling the lollipop from one side of his cheek to the other. The little white plastic stick clicked rhythmically against his teeth.

He's kind of...handsome? Like weirdly cute, like in the same way people find raccoons cute, he looks just like that with those grocery bags under his eyes.

"I have been attempting to get sorted for exactly thirty-two minutes," he said. His voice was completely flat, devoid of any anger, which somehow made it weirder. He tilted his head slightly, and my eyes naturally followed the movement, locking onto the giant, neon sign bolted to the wall directly behind his messy black hair: NO SHOES, NO SHIRT, NO SERVICE!

"Your colleagues retreated into the back room immediately after I sat down," he continued, completely deadpan.

A meeting? They're definitely just talking shit about him.

I stared at his bare toes, then back up to the sign, then at his completely blank face. Oh so he must be dyslexic. 

"So," he said, pressing a long thumb against his lower lip while keeping the lollipop anchored with his teeth. "Since you are the only one not currently hiding from me, I would like to order six slices of strawberry shortcake. To go."

Blinking rapidly, my brain trying to process the fact that the rest of the morning staff had apparently left me to deal with this so early in the morning. Whatever, if I get this done then I can move on with the rest of my day. 

"Right. Six slices," I said, forcing a smile while my hands still trembled slightly on my headphone wire. "Tell you what, since you've been left waiting half an hour and... well, for the absolute joke of an opening shift, those are on the house. Consider it an apology from us."

For the first time since I'd turned around, a tiny, almost imperceptible spark lit up his wide eyes. He didn't smile, but the rapid, rhythmic clicking of his lollipop stick suddenly stopped.

"Free of charge," He murmured, as if testing the words. "Compensated for a lack of basic courtesy. I find this outcome highly satisfactory."

"Great. Just give me a tick to box them up," I said, backing away toward the staff door. "And I'm just going to step into the back for a second. To see if they've actually bunked off or if they're being cowards."

"Take your time," he replied deadpan, already shifting his weight to hop onto a nearby stool, bringing both knees up to his chest before his feet even touched the seat. "I will be right here. Calculating how much money I just saved."

Stepping into the back of the staff room I saw exactly what I expected. Grown-ass women stationed around in a circle, hovering over each other, like primary school girls, not women pushing their 30s and 40s, some with husbands and kids of their own. 

Diane, the owner, was pressed against the wall by the staff lockers, clutching a clip-on digital timer like a weapon. Next to her was Beverly, who was thirty-eight but dressed like a pop star from the Top of the Pops chart, her fringe held back by two thick plastic butterfly clips.

The second the door clicked shut behind me, the circle broke. They swarmed me in a flurry of hushed, panicked whispers.

"Oh thank god, you're alive!" Beverly gasped, grabbing my forearms. Her hands smelled powerfully of the Impulse body spray she kept in her handbag. "Babe, we heard you scream. We absolutely froze. Did he touch you? Did he do something to you?"

"No," I said, pulling my arms back and looking between them. "I screamed because I didn't think anyone was out there and he startled me. Why are you all huddled in here like it's a bomb shelter?"

Diane smoothed down her apron, trying to reclaim her authority, though her chest was still huffing. "Darling, look at him through the spyhole. He's sitting like a proper loony. Knees to his chin, bare feet right on the fabric chairs I just had steam-cleaned last month."

Aren't we supposed to steam clean the fabric chairs every two weeks?

"He's been there since five," Beverly chimed in, dropping her voice to a theatrical whisper. "We think he's... you know. A bit simple. Or escaped from the outpatient ward down the lane. He didn't even look at the menu, just stared at the till with those massive frog eyes. I told Diane, I said, 'Don't go out there, Diane, he looks proper unstable. We can always hire another one.' So we just decided to stay put."

Oh so they just left me to die.

I stared at them, completely baffled. "You heard me scream from the counter, thought I was being attacked by a madman, and your collective decision was to just, leave me out there?"

"Well, love," Diane said, stepping forward and setting a heavy hand on my shoulder. She gave me the kind of tight, pitying smile usually reserved for toddlers who had just spilled their milk. "You've got all those fancy university degrees, haven't you? Smartest girl in the county, finished college at eighteen. But you haven't got an ounce of real-world sense, have you, pet?"

I frowned, pushing her hand off my shoulder. My jaw locked so hard I could feel the tension all the way down to my collarbone, I crossed my arms against my chest. "What does my degree have to do with you hiding from a customer?"

"If we both rushed out there, we'd have aggravated him, wouldn't we?" Diane argued, completely self-righteous. "It was much safer to just let you go out first and see how he reacted. It's called assessing the risk, sweetheart. Stick to the flour and sugar, eh? Leave the shop management to me."

"He's not a risk, he's just weird," I said, my voice rising in annoyance. "And he's been waiting thirty-two minutes. If he actually was vulnerable or confused, wouldn't that give you more of a reason to go out there and help him instead of locked in here talking shit?"

Beverly let out a sharp, offended tut, crossing her arms. "Alright, don't get your knickers in a twist. We were going to call the police for you the very second we heard things go quiet, weren't we, Diane?"

"Exactly," Diane said, sniffing as she walked over to the kettle. "We're not monsters. But since you've apparently tamed the beast, be a good girl and go back out there and finish the job, yeah? Give him whatever he wants so he clears off. We'll be in here doing the rota."

I sighed, rubbing my palm down my face, searching across the room for any satirical or joking looks. Fine then, I'll do it myself. 

I shoved the staff room door open, the heavy click of the latch sounding like a starter pistol. The anger was a hot, sharp knot in my throat, making my fingers twitch as I grabbed a cardboard bakery box from the stack.

Grown women by the way. Practically senior citizens. Leaving me to "assess the risk" while they hid behind the lockers.

He was still perched on the stool like a giant, pale gargoyle, his thumb pressed against his bottom lip as his wide eyes tracked my aggressive movements.

"I am sensing a high level of atmospheric tension," he said. His voice was completely even, but his head tilted slightly to the side. "Did the emergency meeting regarding the signage not conclude in your favor?"

"No shit," I muttered, not filtering myself. I grabbed the silver tongs, snapped them open with a vicious clack, and began lifting the slices of strawberry shortcake into the box. "I am so incredibly sorry about them. For how you were treated. It's completely unacceptable."

The man didn't blink. "There is no requirement for you to apologize for actions you did not commit. Statistically, the blame lies entirely upon the individuals Beverly and Diane. I observed their name tags before they retreated."

"Well, I'm apologizing anyway." I tucked the cardboard flaps together, my hands still shaking slightly from the leftover adrenaline and sheer annoyance. "They thought you were dangerous because they think you're an outpatient."

I set the box on the counter. The box was heavy, sweet, and completely free of charge. But looking at him, his pale toes curled against the stool rung the anger in my chest didn't fade. It just turned into a protective, irritated pity.

Leaning over the counter I reached into a jar on the counter that said: "3.75q each!" and pulled out a bright, artificially sickening lollipop. I slid it across the counter, right next to the cake box.

His eyes dropped to the plastic wrapper. The rhythmic ticking of the lollipop currently in his mouth stopped instantly.

"An additional item," the frog man murmured, lowering his feet slightly but keeping his knees bent. "This was not included in the initial compensation agreement for the thirty-two-minute delay."

"It's a bonus," I said, planting my elbows on the cold counter and resting my cheeks on my palms. "For dealing with the management. Consider it a reward."

He looked at the blue lollipop, then up at me, analyzing my expression with a frighteningly sharp intensity. Then, with a lightning-fast flick of his thumb and forefinger, he pinched the plastic stick and lifted it into the air, holding it up to the light. 

"Blue raspberry," he noted, his voice flat but his eyes wide. "The artificial dye used in this specific flavor yields a 40% higher sugar concentration perception in the human brain compared to standard strawberry. This is an exceptionally high-utility apology."

A "wow you're so nice and pretty and sexy we should kiss as an apology and then have rough sex on the counter" would be an efficient apology but sure, science facts work just as well too. 

"I would really appreciate it if you left now, sir," I chuckled, shaking my head.

"Understood." He hopped down from the stool in one fluid, silent motion, putting his bare feet on the floor I'm gonna have to clean, snatching the cake box with two hands, the only time he used them both this whole interaction. He paused at the door, the blue lollipop tucked safely into his pocket. "Your university degrees have clearly not impaired your capacity for logical customer relations. Good day."

_______

The next morning, the smell of damp tea bags and bleach hung heavy in the narrow staff break room. A slow drip from the pipes hummed behind the plaster, keeping time with the tiny, rhythmic clicks of Beverly's plastic butterfly clips as she shook her head.

"You're mental, Mandy. You absolutely are," Beverly said, leaning against the Formica table and nursing a mug of instant coffee. "The Sundays have proper atmosphere. It's that voice, isn't it? Harriet Wheeler could sing the phone book and make you weep. The Cranberries are just a bit too shouty for five in the morning, their too shouty for any time of the day actually!"

Mandy snorted, adjusting her apron. "Oh, please. Dolores O'Riordan has actual passion. What about The Cardigans, then? That 'love me, love me' song was literally everywhere last year. You can't tell me that's not a perfect pop tune. And Carnival? Literally made me want to tattoo the lyrics on my ears."

I set my travel mug down, pulling my hair back into a tight bun for the kitchen shift. "Speaking of music, there's a Fatboy Slim concert coming up in May. Im not really a fan of his but at least there's a band coming here finally, not even the Cardigans are touring England."

Mandy's eyes lit up, her fringe bouncing. "No way! Where at? London?"

"Right here in Winchester," Beverly confirmed, tapping her spoon against her mug. "May twenty-ninth. My cousin's already trying to source tickets. It's supposed to be massive."

The door flew open, finally cutting the debate short, Diane marched in, her sharp eyes scanning the three of us. In her right hand, she held three identical plastic drinking straws, their bottoms concealed tightly inside her fist.

"Right, girls, listen up," Diane said, her voice dropping into its business-only register. "The regional numbers came in, and our pastry sales are stagnant. We need fresh ideas. Corporate wants a bit of...market research. One of you needs to go out to the other high-street bakeries, buy a few samples, take notes on what makes them good. 'Extended Market Field Research', if you want to call it something fancy."

I leaned back, crossing my arms. "I'm just fine staying right at the counter, Diane. I'd got 75 sterling in tips last time."

Diane sighed dramatically, rolling her eyes. "Oh, that's such a shame, darling. Because corporate is paying a premium hourly rate for this specific shift. Time-and-a-half, plus expenses covered for the tasting." She sighed and almost immediately pulled her hand back and turned toward Mandy, handing over the short straw. "Mandy, looks like you'll have to—"

I raised an eyebrow. Paid hours? Like fully?

Before she could finish the sentence, my hand shot out. I snatched the plastic right out of Diane's fingers. "Actually, I think I'll go," tucking my notepad into my apron pocket. Extra pay meant I could maybe have enough left over to buy a sausage roll before work. "The counter can wait. I'm off."

Immediately rushing out of the break room I grabbed my jacket and was hit with the smell of water, it must've started raining when I got into work, just my luck. 

Thirty minutes later, I stepped into a rival bakery on the opposite side of town. The air here smelled different, less like that pine spray that made my nose hairs curl and more like real, high-quality sweet cream butter.

I pulled out my small notepad, pretending to be a picky customer browsing the glass display cases. I leaned down at the display cases, resting my index and my thumb on my chin and nodding like I was actually about to buy something. My eyes drifted past the éclairs and settled on a tall, thin man perched on a wooden stool near the corner counter. Perfect subject.

He was wearing an oversized, slightly rumpled white long-sleeve shirt. His knees were pulled entirely up to his chest, his bare feet gripping the rungs of the stool, he had a large assortment of sweets, cake, and candy in front of him. He clearly seemed to be enjoying the food.

If I wanted to find out why this snobby bakery was beating our sales, I needed to ask someone who clearly took their sugar seriously. A customer who didn't seem to care about carbs either.

"Excuse me," I said, pitching my voice into a polite, inquiring tone. "I'm trying to decide what to order. How is the sponge? Would you say the crumb structure is tight enough to hold the moisture content, or is it leaning toward dry?"

The man didn't flinch. He didn't even look up at me. He just slowly rotated his fork, 

picking up a minuscule crumb of cake between two fingers.

"The moisture content is optimal," he said. His voice was a flat, clinical drone, exactly as I remembered. "A common flaw in high-street Victoria sponges is the premature evaporation of liquids during the cooling process. However, this specific establishment utilizes a rapid-cooling technique immediately post-bake, likely under a controlled inverted rack environment. It prevents the internal steam from collapsing the delicate air pockets while retaining a 12% higher hydration level than average commercial cakes."

"An inverted rack rapid-cool?" I asked, leaning in closer, my pen hovering over my notepad. "But to achieve that without hardening the outer crust, they'd have to introduce a precise amount of ambient humidity into the cooling chamber," I sat my notepad down on his table, taking the seat across from him as I continued. "Otherwise, the starch retrogradation happens too quickly and the crumb goes stale within hours. Uh, I mean, how can you taste the fat ratio?"

He tilted his head up, locking his intense, dark gaze directly onto mine. Those wide, unblinking eyes assessing my every move, the way I leaned forward when I spoke, the way my hands gestured. 

"Correct," The man murmured, holding the fork between his thumb and forefinger like a pair of forceps. "They utilize a micro-vapor misting system at exactly eighteen degrees Celsius. It delays the crystallization of the amylose. It is a highly irregular and expensive method for a standard high-street bakery."

"Well, most individuals don't realize that baking is pure chemistry," I said, a genuine smile breaking across my face as I jotted down the notes, pointing a finger up I continued. "Fun fact! If you don't control the protein bonds in the flour, you're just guessing and baking is like chemistry, if you guess you either make a new chemical or you make a fool out of yourself." 

"A precise deduction," He said, his eyes tracking the movement of my pen. "The application of scientific principles to structural confectionery is highly logical. I find your line of questioning significantly more stimulating than standard casual conversation."

I don't even get to talk to people like this at school, it's always either a "sod off" or they ignore me.

"And did you know abou—"

"What on earth do you think you're doing?!"

A harsh, shrill voice shattered the moment. The bakery manager, a stout woman with an aggressive scowl and a flour-dusted apron, marched right up to our table. 

She looked between my notepad and him, her face turning a bright, angry red.

"Are you bothering my customers?" she demanded, snapping her fingers at me. 

"Who are you? You don't work here. You're from that rubbish shop down the street, aren't you? I know that apron!"

I scrambled backward, my face heating up. "I—I was just asking about the menu—'

"She did not inquire about the menu," He interrupted bluntly. He didn't look at the manager, his eyes remaining fixed on his cake. "She approached my station and asked a series of highly specific questions regarding the internal moisture content and suspected cooling techniques of your Victoria sponge."

He fucking snitched on me?! No loyalty at all! I thought, my jaw dropping as I stared at him.

The manager's eyes narrowed into slits. Before I could even attempt a defense, her hand shot out and snatched the small notepad right out of my fingers. She flipped through the pages, her scowl deepening as she saw my scribbled notes on their humidity levels.

"Corporate spies!" she barked, shoving the notepad into her own apron pocket. "I knew Diane was getting desperate! Out! Get out of my shop right now before I call the local wardens and have you done for harassment!"

"Hey, that's a company notebook!" I protested, but she grabbed my upper arm, firmly steering me toward the front exit. "We'll be suing for that back! It's expensive, 50 quid!"

I looked back over my shoulder one last time as the door swung open. The man hadn't shifted an inch. He was calmly sliding another forkful of cake into his mouth, his wide eyes watching me get thrown out into the street with absolute, deadpan indifference.

Traitorous cunt. Next time I see him, I'm sorting him out.

________

A/N: Hey guys hope you enjoyed this cringyahh first chapter! So I hope yall like this one, any British readers can you guys tell me if I didn't stereotype the dialogue please!! I really wanna please the innits, I love British culture. Not the part where you guys colonized my country but the rest is fun :( give critiques in comments please!

[artist-lord]

[aiigwm]

This is SO fucking cool omgggg!

[chidorrrita]

・❥・I'm your puppet

You bring up the idea of L using you to distress. He agrees. Absolute filth follows.

: ̗̀➛ l lawliet x gn!reader

: ̗̀➛ cw: smut (pretty obvious), heavy degradation, slight praise, breeding, slapping, slight cum eating, being called pretty little thing and slut, reader is a freak for L

: ̗̀➛ wc: 1000+

: ̗̀➛ a/n: two posts in a week, who would have guessed. anyways please enjoy the degenerate activities here. 

L positions you in the way he wants, pulls you up by your throat, long fingers curling around constricting your breaths, until your body is pressed against his, as his hips snap against the fat of your ass causing a “pap pap” sound to echo throughout your room. 

He’s relentless in his search for pleasure, paying you no mind, as his hand begins to squeeze your throat, the other snakes its way to seize your hip in a bruising grip, and hot pants and low grunts escape his chapped lips as they brush against your ear. Your mind turns to mush, no longer able to distinguish pain and pleasure as it creates a sinful mix tricking you into begging for more. All that comes out is a series of babbles, drool dripping down onto your chest, and L smugly laughs at your pathetic self. Too drunk off this moment to say or do anything as he bends you over, forcing your head into a pillow, to hit that sweet spongy spot inside. You let out a scream of delight as if he understood your pleads, and in return clench around his cock deliciously. He lets out another grunt, deep from within his chest, and smacks your ass letting the sting linger before smacking it again with just as much force. It sends your body jolting forward, too much for your broken mind to handle, and you try to squirm from his grasp, but he drags you back to where you belong. Taking his cock like you were made for this, made to be ruined by him. 

Muffled mewls and a feeble excuse of thrusting yourself back on his dick makes his mind lose focus. Normally crippled by the weight of his cases, L kneels taller now, filled with thoughts of fucking you full. He pulls out, just kissing your hole with his flushed tip, until ramming himself back in, setting a brutal pace on your body. You couldn’t be more delighted. 

It was your idea to help him distress. A method, other than eating a concerning amount of sweets, to relax him. 

You picked at the threads on your sweater as you watched him reach for another stack of macarons after downing two boxes. His fingers danced across his keyboard, quickly typing out a report in some language you can’t discern, before he spots you shyly inching over. 

L stuffs a strawberry macaron in his mouth before asking “woul’ ‘o’ ‘ike o’e” offering you a vanilla one. 

“No it’s okay” you say trying to hide a chuckle bubbling its way out. “I was actually wondering how your job is going.”

He continues to violently chew, “ ‘qui’e ‘ell,” he swallows thickly, “why do you ask?”

“Well,” you peer down to your socks, rubbing your toes against the carpet, “I was just worried if you were stressed. You’ve eaten almost three boxes of those.”

“Sugar keeps the brain awake,” he states matter-of-factly as he goes to grab another one.

Your hand stops his, holding it in place, and he looks up to you slightly confused with his bottom lip tucked in between his teeth. He’s trying to read you.

“Maybe you should rest a while. Let your brain reset, you know?” His gaze shifts to his laptop. The report is nearly finished, and it has been weeks since he could sleep for more than an hour. He can never fully rest on a job like he can when he’s with you. His mind is plagued by images of known friends and nameless faces calling him, but you keep them at bay. Perhaps resting will do him some good. 

His voice softens to barely a whisper, “that would be good,” until he corrects himself “then I can continue working.”

“I’ll help you distress.”

L starts to get ready for bed, gingerly changing into his pj’s which really only consists of taking off his pants, and begins to slip into bed until he notices your apprehensive self still standing at the doorway. “What’s wrong?”

“Oh. Nothing, nothing,” but you still remain at the door.

His eyes squint in suspicion, letting silence question you instead of him. You quickly relent. “I mean… Well I feel bad now.”

More silence.

You sigh, frustrated at the fact your will power breaks so easily for him. “I was going to ask if you wanted to have sex to distress, but then you were actually going to sleep and now-”

“I would very much like to have sex with you.” 

“-I feel like an asshole- wait what?”

“I said I would like to have sex.”

The air in the room turns thick with the smell of sweat and sex cut by your pornagraphic moans, and L’s harsh pants, and the sound of his heavy balls hitting your ass. 

The position he has you in makes him hit even deeper than you could imagine, leaving you incapable of moving let alone thinking, but no need to think. A pretty little thing like you doesn’t need to think when you have L as your lover. He knows what you need is to be a good little slut and take his cum.

Your hoarse voice says “‘is too much. Can’t take it.” between moans, legs shaking underneath L’s thighs.

He accentuates each word with a thrust. “Yes.” “You.” “Can.” forcing the bed frame to hit the wall. 

He bends over your hunched frame, lips leaving sloppy wet kisses against your neck until he reaches your neck and he whispers “be good for me,” and you cum.

Stars dance around the corner of your vision as a soundless scream escapes you, and your hole tightens around L’s cock making him hiss. He drops to his elbows, succumbing to only shallow thrusts until it’s all too much and he cums filling your hole and pushing it back in with his cock. He stays until he softens and falls out, and his eyes fall on your thighs. His cum is smeared across your inner thighs, dripping down between your ass and on to the bed. He scoops it back up and pushes it in, not wanting to waste a single drop, and you moan at the intrusion. 

He takes his cum covered fingers to your parted lips, already familiar with routine, and you wrap them around his fingers, tongue swirling to get every last bit. You release them with a ‘pop,’ eyes waiting patiently for your reward, and he obliges, kissing you deeply, tasting himself on your tongue. 

He gets up to get a towel and begins to get you cleaned up, kissing each bruise he left, and massaging your sore limbs. 

“You did so well for me.”

“Would you say you’re sufficiently relaxed?”

“Yes, very relaxed. Thank you.”

He kisses your head, and tucks you into bed smiling to himself. How he ever got you to be his lover, he will never know, but he is forever grateful you are.

[n0th1ngsp3ci4l]

🍰

[skipcartoon17]

Study. Rly hope his hair looks wet T-T

[aiigwm]

L Lawliet as a husband !! ꧂

mostly fluff, when your husband would rather call you his favorite anomaly than say “I love you.” (a/n: I put a cat gif because I think being married to L would be a lot like with a cat who just won’t leave you alone.)

He’d sometimes just… stare at you. When you’re sitting next to him, after you kiss him goodbye for work. Or sometimes, whenever he’s deep in thought, his eyes lock onto you as if you are the one who stimulates his brain the most. Maybe he’s staring at you because he can’t believe that he’s with someone — not just anyone, but you. He can’t believe it. Or maybe he’s just hungry. Either way, he has a bit of a staring problem.

You’d be stacked for LIFE. L has vast amounts of wealth from consulting and no real expenses beyond absurd amounts of sugar and monitors. He’d quietly pay off anything you care about in an instant if you asked, but roll his eyes if you ever tried to be a martyr and say, “well I don’t want you to spend a lot of money on me :((((“ You’d basically never have to spend money ever again. He’d spoil you if you asked.

Very loyal to a fault. He has neither the time nor the energy to cheat on you. Once he likes you, you’d become one of the 3–4 humans that he’d tolerate on a day-to-day basis; that puts you in an ultra-exclusive club.

He isn’t very flashy when showing affection. He shows love through actions: remembering tiny details about you (down to which brand of lip balm you prefer), making sure your favorite snacks are restocked before you even notice they're low, or suddenly appearing with an extra hoodie when you're cold. Physical touch ramps up slowly but intensely once he's comfortable — expect a lot of leaning against you while working, fingers hooked in your sleeve, or him draping himself over your back like a sleepy cat. And on the regular, when he’s more comfortable, he might be a bit bold and just lean on you. Like literally, he’d walk up behind you and put his entire body weight on your back and expect you to let him sleep there until you’re finished.

He likes to pull you places. When he wants to show you something, he’ll walk over to you and pull you over by your arm, or when he’s feeling particularly bold, by the waistband. He just wants attention, but when you plant your feet down and ask why he’s pulling you, he’ll say “come” quietly and pull you further.

He prefers proximity, more specifically your proximity. And that could be in any way, shape, or form to him. Sitting together while you read and he works, he’ll be happy to be in the same room as you. He’ll pull you into his lap while he works so he can feel your body heat on him; he’s naturally cold due to his shitty health, so you warm him up.

Pet names are very rare and most likely not said aloud. The ones that he does say aloud are always weird, but he’s trying; give him a break. "My dear colleague in existence” , “you," said with unusual softness, or occasionally just your name in that low, serious tone that makes your stomach flip. In his head, he refers to you as “my anomaly.” Always “my” thrown in somewhere because he likes to be reminded that he is yours and you are indefinitely his.

He’s very protective. Some might say overprotective, but there’s nothing wrong with installing a tracking device in your wife’s phone so you can monitor her at all times, he says. You'd have security you never see, contingency plans for your safety he updates constantly, and he'd drop everything if you were ever in real danger.

Like I mentioned before, sitting in his lap while he reviews evidence or whatever he does works because he doesn’t sleep. Sleep schedule? What sleep schedule? He operates on 2–4 hour naps. You'd adapt or live in opposite time zones in the same house. He has a “perfect” system he’s crafted so he can stay awake for 100 hours and sleep for only 6–17, which is also labeled as self-imposed insomnia, but don’t get so technical about it.

His eating habits are food-stamp poor. Breakfast is strawberry cake, lunch is strawberry cake, and dinner is strawberry cake… with some tea on the side to balance it out. You know, gotta balance those calories! If you cook normal food, he'll eat it… But only after drowning it in syrup or whipped cream. Many spouses end up in a lifelong battle to sneak vegetables into the diet of a 25-year-old man with the metabolism of the average hummingbird.

Dates are usually what he’d consider a “date,” which likely means staying in and eating takeout with him and letting him steal your food, unless he’ll drone on and on about “spousal property rights.”

He’s not very socially aware of what’s considered normal. He doesn’t care, that is, but that also means he doesn’t know what to do a lot of the time. So to you, it’s always a small victory whenever he’s more bold and decides to link your pinky into his in public or put his hand on your thigh at home. He thinks that this is “max seduction” and gets confused when you smile instead of getting his incredibly vague hints and start kissing him.

He'd be a deeply unconventional, high-maintenance, low-drama husband. You'd feel simultaneously like the most important person in the world to someone who barely tolerates most of humanity… and like you're married to an extremely intelligent cat who pays the bills and occasionally remembers to kiss your forehead at dawn.

(which in my opinion is right up my alley!!) okay!! This is one of my first of these things; I believe I characterized him well. (semi proofread)