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.
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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!
