#baker!reader

[sunday-bug]

a baker and tattooed bucky? Sign me up!!! ❤️

Sugar and Skin

1. First Encounter || Next

Bucky’s never been sure if normalcy is something he’s cut out for. But when he meets you—a baker with a pretty smile—he starts to think maybe he could try.

TattooArtist!Bucky x Baker!Reader (1.4kw)

tw: 18+ MDNI, mild language, subtle tension, implied attraction, slow-burn, strangers to friends to lovers a/n: happy new year! this year i'd like to actually begin and complete a multi-parter story so this is my attempt!

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“Welcome in!” Bucky heard as he stepped into the bustling cafe shop. The smell of freshly brewed coffee, and baked bread quickly engulfed him. He looked around for the source of the voice while taking in the neatly curated shelves of novels, mismatched wooden tables and the large handwritten chalkboard menu boasting about an array of the day’s specials. Despite its charm, Bucky felt heavily out of place in his chipped leather jacket, and mud cracked boots. 

With the patrons weaving past him like he was another display in the shop he continued scanning the area noticing a few stray cats lounging throughout the space. They basked in the early afternoon sunlight that poured through the large windows. One, a sleek gray cat with white mittens and socks stretched lazily on the windowsill, while another a white cat with piercing blue eyes, watched the room with curious intensity.

The customers greeted the felines as they entered the shop and followed the line that formed at the counter where a young man with boyish charm and unruly brown hair was expertly managing the register. Meanwhile a man with a clean shaven jawline and an infectious grin moved confidently between the counter and the coffee makers. 

“You need some help?”

Bucky turned to the voice, finding himself at the end of the display case with a woman on the other side. Her hair was pinned up in a loose bun, a few stray strands escaping to frame her face. She barely paid him any mind as she deftly unloaded a giant tray of assorted pastries and bread into the glass showcase, her movements quick and practiced. The faint smudges of flour on her apron and the way she handled each item with care hinted at her role in crafting the delicacies.

“You look a little lost,” she said without looking up, her tone teasing but not unkind. "Can I help you find something, or are you just here to admire the cats?” she asked, finally glancing up at him. Her gaze was sharp but warm, assessing him with a mix of curiosity and amusement.

 Her teasing tone caught him off guard, making him glance up sharply. His ears seemed to perk slightly, before he quickly refocused. “Pick up,” he said, his voice low and clipped, offering her a tight-lipped smile that was more reflex than intentional. 

She let out a small hum. “Name?” 

“Steve.” 

“Oh yes–” Her demeanor instantly changed as she put the tray down, wiping her hands on her apron. “Let me get that for you.” Her hands masterfully opened a paper bag with clear cellophane, and slid open the sliding door to the showcase.

“Sam!” She yelled, causing Bucky to jolt. “I need Steven’s special.” She called out, and Bucky's eyes flicked back to her. Steven.

He heard a faint reply from across the cafe commotion and watched as she used the metal tongs to grab two bear claws from the wax paper lined tray. Bucky almost let out a snort but instead, he opted to shove his hands in his pockets, glancing down to his boots. He watched as crumbs of dirt crumbled from his shoe and littered the linoleum floor.

“What’s the Steven Special?” Bucky suddenly heard himself say. He looked at her through his lashes. He watched a small smile sneak across her lips. 

“A medium white chocolate macchiato, with two bear claws.” She said, fingers crinkling the bag shut as she slid it across the clear surface. This time Bucky let out a snort. Before he could thank her, she went back to unloading her discarded tray. He hesitated on grabbing the bag. 

“So you’re the new guy then?” She asked suddenly, quickly glancing at him. He looked at her. “Stevie's mentioned he’s expecting a new comer, and I’ve never seen you before so—” she explained. Stevie.

“Then yeah.” He gave a curt smile, reaching for the bag on the counter. 

“Thought so,” she said, her tone a hint lighter now as she turned back to her work. “He’s been talking ‘bout you for weeks, you know.”

“Nothing bad I hope.” 

 She turned to set down the now empty tray, glancing over her shoulder, a glint in her eye. “Depends on your definition of bad.” Her tone was playful but laced with just enough intrigue to make him pause. She spins swiftly, closing the display case. 

“Nah,” She shrugs with a smirk, “He’s just psyched you're here, it’s kinda cute.” 

Bucky raised an eyebrow. She waves a hand in the air.

“He’s just got this way of talking about things—”

“Order up.” 

The sudden burst out causing the both of you to abruptly turn toward the man holding out an oat-colored to-go cup.

The woman cleared her throat, shifting back to allow space for the man to step in. Her smirk faded into a polite, neutral expression, her focus now on adjusting a tray of napkins nearby.

“Steven’s special,” the man announced, his grin wide and easy, breaking through the tension that had lingered just a moment earlier.

Bucky’s eyes lingered on her for a moment longer before he turned toward the man, who was now leaning casually against the counter, holding the cup out as if he were presenting a prized trophy.

Bucky nodded and reached for the cup, his movements deliberate. “Appreciate it,” he said, his voice steady. 

“No problem,” the man replied, his tone light and teasing. “Better get it to him quick, he’s been talking about the claws all morning.” 

“Noted,” Bucky muttered, though his gaze flickered back toward the woman, who was now bent over another display, her attention fixed on her work as if the earlier exchange had never happened.

The man cleared his throat sharply, drawing Bucky’s attention. When Bucky turned toward him, he was already side-eyeing the woman before shifting his gaze back to Bucky with a deadpan expression. It wasn’t accusatory, but there was a challenge in the look—like he’d caught Bucky doing something he shouldn’t be.

Bucky’s brow twitched in response, his face otherwise impassive, and he adjusted the bag in his hand.

“Thanks again,” he said curtly, stepping back from the counter.

Sam held his gaze for a beat longer, then turned his attention away from him.

Bucky stepped toward the door, the hum of the café enveloping him once more. His grip tightened slightly on the bag as he moved, but something tugged at his attention, making him glance back one last time.

The man was now leaning against the counter, his posture relaxed, but his head tilted toward the woman. Whatever he’d said caused her to laugh softly, her shoulders shaking with the motion. The earlier ease in her posture had returned, her movements efficient and unbothered, as though their exchange had been nothing more than a routine part of her day.

She brushed a strand of hair from her face as she replied, her voice lost in the café’s hum. They shared another laugh.

Bucky’s jaw tightened, though his face betrayed nothing as he turned back toward the door. Pushing it open, he stepped into the cool air outside, the bell above jingling faintly as the door closed behind him.

As he walked down the street, the warmth of the café began to fade, but the soft intensity of the exchange lingered. He shook his head with a quiet huff of air, the bag crinkling faintly in one hand while the other held the to-go cup. His boots scuffed lightly against the pavement as he approached a sleek, dark car parked a few steps ahead.

Bucky unlocked it with a press of a button, the quiet beep breaking the stillness. Sliding into the driver’s seat, he set the paper bag on the passenger side and the cup in the holder before resting his hands on the steering wheel.

For a moment, he sat there, the hum of the café replaying in his mind. He exhaled sharply, shaking his head as if to clear it.

With a twist of the key, the engine purred to life, the quiet power of the car grounding him. As he pulled out onto the street, the cool air rushing through the window carried away the lingering warmth of the café—but not entirely.

---

Next

a/n: I know there's barely anything there but I have an idea and im jsut trying to roll with it -- so if you have any ideas let me know! i’m begging — pls reblog to support!

[dolcendior]

meet . . . BAKER!READER by ©DOLCENDIOR

pairing: rafe cameron x baker!reader. KOOK + POGUE cw: almost sex at the end a/n: sometimes i swear i have dyslexia so please, if you read this and had to reread it over and over again because it didn't make sense, it's not you it's me 💔

BAKER!READER— who owns the cutest most coziest bakery on figure 8 despite being a pogue and resorting in the cut. the café is small but big enough to fit a few tables inside and outside. the floor is made of glossy grey wooden planks, the walls are marble and concrete, and the bakery is surrounded by gorgeous arched window frames, always allowing sunlight into the intimate space. there's plants and hanging flowers in every corner, it feels like home. and of course, display glasses at the counter filled with fresh baked goods— cupcakes, cookies, bagels, anything you can think of.

BAKER!READER— who is kildare's very own sweetheart. everybody on the island adores her, who doesn't? (if you don't count rafe's irrelevant, insecure exes who try to do everything in their power to separate them).

BAKER!READER—'s passion is baking (if you couldn't already tell). she learned how to bake at the age of 11 and has been doing it ever since. she always saves up to buy ingredients and supplies for her store even if money was tight— all she cared about was making customers happy and doing what she loved.

BAKER!READER— met rafe cameron for the first time when her close friend sarah had dragged him to the bakery, introducing him as her older brother. the minute he laid eyes on her— he swore he folded.

BAKER!READER— who always makes rafe try out new desserts she makes. she'll call out his name from the kitchen, shove a caramel macaron in his mouth and look at him for approval.

"do you like it? i made more flavours, look!" she would speak quickly, holding up a tray lined up with a dozen other coloured macarons.

and rafe? he never complained about it. infact, he loved testing the pastries she made. would always praise her, "tastes amazing baby," he'd mumble, pressing a kiss to her lips.

BAKER!READER— who scolds rafe when she's in the middle of baking and he's bending her over the counter, talking about wanting to fuck or whatever.

"baby please, you been workin' all day," he'd whine, planting kisses all over her neck.

"rafe, the cookies are gonna burn!" she would exclaim in panic— but then accepts defeat when he's already yanking her panties down.

divider by @uzmacchiato

©DOLCENDIOR, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. please do not steal or copy my work. give credit if you take inspiration.

[vinyls-xreaders]

you know damn-well what you’re doing.

every time that 6’4 inch brickshithouse of a man comes into your sweet little bakery, filled with fresh breads, cookies, cakes meticulously frosted by you, and the like, you always tuck an extra treat into his little white cardboard box.

and somehow, you always manage to evade simon’s noticing. even with his sniper’s eyes and soldier’s intuition, he’s never caught you slipping the extra snack in.

every time he leaves, he’ll sit in his beat-up, old car, checking the box as his engine rattles and croaks to life, huffing in disbelief that you managed to do it again.

he thought he’d watched you so carefully.

the first time he wandered into your store was purely business, having been sent by a certain nagging Scottish man hounding him over the phone to pick something sweet up on the way to a meeting to make it slightly more bearable.

your shop was simply the first one he saw.

he’d ordered a handful of plain glazed donuts, but his eyes lingered on the chocolate Long John with a crème center for a second too long- and when he opened the box to pass them around, the long John sat at in the center of it, waiting for him.

he came back to your shop the next day, trying to pay for the extra donut, but you’d refused.

sighing, he gave up and ordered another one of the same donuts since he couldn’t stop thinking about it.

and promptly found a slice of chocolate cake next to the donut when he reached his car.

after that, his visits became an everyday thing.

partly to catch you in the act, and partly just to see you.

little does he know, that’s the same reason you sneak him so many treats.

you know that men like him, built like a bear quite frankly, have the same hunger as one, too, and you’d figured the best way to his heart was through his stomach, as cheesy as it sounded.

you know your extra treats have him caught in your web, always coming back. always treating you to the sight of him standing in your shop and watching you like a hawk, waiting for the moment that your hand will stray to tuck another treat into his box.

so you know exactly what you’re doing when simon comes into your shop, eyes softening at the sight of you in your flour-covered apron, and you fill his order of a single chocolate long John with a crème center.

he doesn’t catch you slipping anything extra into his box, although he watches you closer than ever before, and he thinks this is finally the time you haven’t managed to.

but, like always, you have.

except this time, the treat in his box isn’t another sweet but a note:

“dinner with me tomorrow?”

it’s my birthdayyyyy 😋

thank you guys for the insane support on my first post! hope you enjoyed this one, too! thanks for reading :)

[rafesorchid]

THE SWEETEST BREAKDOWN

how mechanic!rafe and baker!reader met <3

plot: when rafes motorcycle breaks down in front of a cozy little bakery, he doesn't expect the morning to be saved by a blueberry muffin and a baker with a soft smile and sass to match. one warm pastry and a folded-heart napkin later, he's wondering if fate stalled his bike for a reason

CONTENT: mild swearing, romantic tension, mild violence & emotional themes

have fun!

It was the smell of vanilla that hit him first.

Rafe wasn’t expecting to break down outside of a bakery. His bike had been running a little rough, but he figured he had at least another day before it completely gave out. Of course, it chose eight in the morning—right as the sun started pouring across the sleepy street—for its dramatic final act. With a sputter and hiss, it choked out and died at the curb. Rafe cursed under his breath, kicking the kickstand down and running a hand through his already messy hair. Great.

Across the street, you were adjusting the window display of your little bakery, rearranging croissants and raspberry thumbprints with practiced care. You’d opened only ten minutes ago, and already the air smelled like sugar and cinnamon and comfort. When you glanced up, you noticed the guy crouched next to a motorcycle, frowning like the world had wronged him. His white t-shirt was smudged in black, and his knuckles were stained like he’d been fighting engines—or demons.

You pushed open the door, the bell above it chiming softly as you leaned out. “Rough morning?” you called, eyebrows raised.

Rafe looked up, clearly surprised by the sound of your voice. His eyes flicked over you—soft sweater, apron with a little flour on the hem, gentle hands wrapped around a coffee mug like you belonged to a different kind of world. He blinked. “Rough year,” he answered, with a dry laugh. “But yeah. Bike’s being a piece of—”

“Language,” you teased, a smile tugging at your lips. “This is a wholesome establishment.”

He cracked a grin despite himself. “Wholesome, huh? You hand out cookies to strangers or just sass?”

You shrugged. “Depends. You want a cookie?”

Rafe hesitated. He wasn’t the kind of guy people usually offered things to. Not without an attitude or an agenda. “I mean, I’m not gonna say no.”

You disappeared inside, only to return a moment later with a warm paper bag and a napkin folded neatly into a heart. “Blueberry muffin. Fresh. And a little napkin art. Don’t say I never gave you anything.”

He took it like it was breakable, the warmth from the bag bleeding into his callused palms. “You always this nice to guys stranded on your sidewalk?”

“Only the ones with sad eyes and oil on their jeans,” you said, leaning on the doorframe.

Rafe sat on the curb, unwrapped the muffin, and took a bite. It was stupid good. Soft, buttery, with a hint of lemon zest. His jaw worked for a second as he chewed, and then, “Damn.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

He looked up at you again—really looked. “You got a name, or am I just gonna call you muffin girl forever?”

You chuckled, told him your name, and asked for his.

“Rafe,” he said simply, and that was it. Just a quiet name hanging in warm air between you.

You stayed at the door for a few more seconds, watching him eat like he hadn’t had anything decent in days. Maybe he hadn’t. You didn’t ask. But you did reach into your apron pocket, pull out a sugar cookie wrapped in wax paper, and toss it his way. “In case the day keeps getting worse.”

He caught it midair with a smirk. “Only if I get to come back tomorrow.”

You tapped your fingers against the doorframe, a playful light in your eyes. “We’ll see if you earn it, Rafe.”

And you swore, from the way he looked at you then, like he’d never been offered something that simple and kind before—that maybe, just maybe, he’d be back whether his bike broke down or not.

authors note!

tehe i hope you, my sweet beautiful people, had fun reading the first blurbish drabble for mechanic!rafe x baker!reader <3

[simonbrain]

No idea if this has been asked yet, but ever thought of something fluffy between Simon and Reader? I've been on a roll with Biker!Simon lately and thought of this moment where Biker!Simon fell in love first sight, seeing a pretty little thing trying to win a carnival game wanting a big plushie 😭💖 to take home, Biker!simon showing off maybe, give a little flex here and there while smoothly winning the game and giving her the plush with his number ���� or Biker!Simon x Baker!reader. Hallmark movie moment.

ohhhh biker!simon is so tasty, and i love baker!reader even more.

something about this big man squeezing through the door of your lovely little bakery every morning, dressed head to toe in all black with the addition of skeleton details printed on his clothing—his mask, his gloves, even his helmet. he's your first customer without fail, always nodding politely and grumbling mornin' at you before he goes ahead and orders.

i like to think he gets the same thing every single time. it doesn't matter which bakery, or which city, or which damn country he's in; he's ordering a hefty piece of banoffee pie (he pretends not to notice the vast difference in size between the usual servings and the ones you hand him) and sitting his ass down at a table to eat. i also see him grabbing anything caramel-flavoured if there isn't any banoffee. although there's something about your baking that hits his sweet spot, so fluffy and creamy and perfect when it runs down his tongue.

he always looks so content, hunched protectively over his plate as if someone would even think to yank it from him. eyes soft and downcast as he appreciates the dessert in front of him, and if you were close enough, you'd be able to hear the very quiet hums of enjoyment rumbling from his throat.

you glow with pride whenever he drops by the counter to thank you. your eyes always twinkle and your lips stretch into a pleased smile as you chirp out, see ya, grim! while he squeezes back out the door. you never fail to throw him a little motorcycle wave, and hearing the purr of his bike as he rides off has you cheesing, cheeks warm and slightly sore.

he calls you silly pet names, most of them related to food (muffin, chip, peanut), and in return you call him grim, short for the grim reaper, even though you're already aware his name's simon. you're dressed the part, might as well play it, you teased, and he griped at you to get lost, sounding far less annoyed than he was going for.

thinking about how long it would take for the two of you to stop dancing around each other and actually go out until simon makes the mistake of bringing johnny along with him one morning. growls at his sergeant to "leave it, don't say anythin' else about 'er" when the other casually mentions that he didn't see a ring on your finger. ignores the but ye 'aven't even taken tha lass oot! that's fired his way and gives johnny the bird.

(he will, okay? soon. he just has to stop freezing up every time you smile at him. and stop getting dizzy whenever he inhales the heavenly smells of pastries and sweets and you. and maybe find a clean shirt suitable for a date.)

imagine coaxing him to try other treats and now you're packing like five different things for him every morning </3

[softh0neycomb]

Baker!Reader X Butcher!Simon

First little noodlings

You’re sat in your local Costa, sadly picking at an overpriced, sad sandwich and lukewarm coffee. Chains are never your first option if you can help it, but this small town doesn’t have a local cafe open past 10am.

Another sigh, you could do it so much better, you think, grimacing at a bite of soggy bread. As a baker, you know good bread and this, this is not good bread.

How difficult can it be, really, you sip from your cup; musing.

You could do it, you think, you already have a steady business as an online bakery and a presence at the closest local markets, known for your delicate bakes with pretty decorations.

The savoury side of things though…you know what’d you’d do, sandwiches with homemade focaccia, doorstep thick toast, savoury pastries.

It’d have to be right though. The voice pops up unbidden and you bite your lip, your need for perfection is both a blessing and a curse.

You abandon the remnants of your sandwich and head home thoughts churning.

In your kitchen, you create a focaccia, flaky salt, the good olive oil, rosemary and cherry tomatoes.

Once it’s cooked you realise you don’t have the right meats and you drag yourself to the store, you stand in front of the deli meats aisle for longer than you want to admit, until your fingers start to get a little numb and you take home a selection and painstakingly try a little of everything with the bread and nothings right, nothing works.

You hiss in frustration before cutting a large chunk and wrapping it in wax paper and grabbing your keys.

You know you must look like a crazy person, stomping into the butchers and dropping the bread on the counter in front of the mountain of a man who works there, bottom half of his face covered by a black mask.

“I need help” you say shortly “I’ve tried the supermarket meats and it’s not right.”

He stares at you, shocked, confused, you can’t tell.

“Look you’re an expert right?” A slow nod. “Good. I’m fed up of having no good cafes so I’m gonna do it myself but I’m a novice at savoury, so taste that.”

You wave a hand irritably at the wax-paper wrapped focaccia “and please tell me what meat is supposed to go in it.”

There’s a beat, two, before callused hands are unwrapping the bread and tearing a chunk off, corner of the mask lifting to accommodate before being lowered.

A moan. “I know” you say, slightly smug “so I’m not putting it with mediocre fillings”

The man hums, swallowing, before turning to a leg of something along the back counter and cutting a thin slice, dropping it onto a paper plate before handing it to you.

“Try that” he rasps, you take the plate and try the meat, it’s salty, slightly smoky and so much better than whatever you brought from the supermarket and combinations throw themselves into your head.

You’re unaware of the butcher staring at you.

“How much will I need to make at least….four sandwiches?” You half ask, half demand.

“Bout 15 slices” he replies after a moments thought.

“Great, that then please” you say sweetly, “and you can keep the rest of the bread.” you add on when you’ve paid and have the wrapped meat in your hand before almost running out of the shop to get home.

Simon stares for a long time, before devouring the rest of the bread.

[holylulusworld]

No exceptions (1)

Summary: He likes your guts and your cake.

Pairing: Mobster!Frank Castle x Baker!Reader

Warnings: angst, language, mafia business, threats

No exceptions masterlist

More. More. More. They are always coming back for more.

No matter what you do. No matter how hard you try. There is no end to it.

Everyone wants their pound of flesh. Or rather, your money. There’s barely anything left for you to survive.

“Miss, the boss hates waiting,” the thug or racketeer, as the other shop owners call the guy standing in your little bakery, grunts. He holds out his hand, waiting for you to pay them for, well, nothing. If they’d offer protection, you’d happily pay for their service. “No exceptions.”

You’re already struggling and don’t know if your bakery will still exist next month.

“I can’t pay you more. People buy less and less these days,” you plead, looking at the ruthless and cold-hearted man who tries to press more money out of you for his boss. “I already paid you two days ago. Now you want more?”

“Boss said protecting costs,” the man replies, with a shrug. “No exceptions. Everyone must pay more fees today.”

You harrumph. Enough is enough.

“You don’t get it, huh?” You don’t know how you found the guts to put your hands on your hips and glare at the bastard demanding more money. “I can’t give you what I don’t have.”

“You’ll find the money if you only try hard enough.” He steps closer to the counter, glancing at the cupcakes, muffins, and cakes. “You have enough money to buy ingredients and sell your sweet treats.”

You huff and shake your head. “The costs for rent and my ingredients are over the top. You want money from me. The bank wants money from me. I must pay taxes. It feels like everyone tries to suck me dry.”

He chuckles at your choice of words before he says, “You’ve got a way with words, sweet cheeks. Still, you gotta pay.” He puts his gloved hands on the counter, impatiently tapping his fingers.

“My fridge has been empty for months, just like my stomach. I haven’t made ends meet since you started to force me to pay you for nothing. I can’t sleep because of debts, and the worry that you will kill me because I can’t pay you is eating me up!”

You throw your hands up before grabbing a cupcake to hand it to the thug. “Here you go. This is the last cupcake I ever baked. You made it. Whatever your plans are with my bakery, good luck. I’ll close it right here and now.”

He furrows his brows.

“I mean it.” You purse your lips. “I’m just done waiting for a nameless man to show up and threaten to hurt me if I don’t pay him!”

“Name’s Frank,” he casually says before stuffing the cupcake in his mouth. Frank chews loudly as you just stare at him.

“Fine, I got a name now. This doesn’t change a thing. I still can’t pay you,” you sniff and point toward the cash register. “I sold one cupcake today, that’s all. Do you want the five bucks I made?”

You open the cash register to throw the five bucks at Frank. He laughs and easily catches the money.

“Hmm…that’s not much,” he says, a smirk on his lips. “How about I help you get more customers, and you pay me for my service?”

“What? I�� What?” You furrow your brows. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I’ll be back soon, sweet cheeks,” he says and places the five bucks on the counter. “Next time, I want something even sweeter.”

Frank winks at you before turning to leave your bakery.

“What?”

“Tomorrow, your bakery will be full of customers…” He says, and you swallow thickly.

Does he mean what he says? How can he be sure that there will be more customers tomorrow?

Part 2

Tags in reblog.

[hoe4hotchner]

Knock knock! Guess who’s here again 😅 New request for our baker!reader and hotch

I literally just had this idea and I need it now! What if after reader meets the team they all look at hotch and they’re like “you two obviously like each other!” And as the good profiler he is, he knew reader had some feelings for him. But he never thought he deserved someone like her to call his.

And yk, maybe some angst on hotch trying to convince himself that he deserves a new relationship even after what happened to Haley. And when he does convince himself, he has this idea of baking heart shaped cookies for her and talk to her about his feelings. But he doesn’t know how to bake cookies so they end up burning, and reader smelled the burning coming from his house and went check if everything was alright. And they talk and boom, very fluff end with hotch being happy again because that poor man deserves it 🥲

Heart-shaped cookies [A.H]

𝙿𝚊𝚒𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐: 𝙰𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚗 𝙷𝚘𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚗𝚎𝚛 𝚡 𝙱𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚛!𝚁𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚆𝚘𝚛𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝: 𝟼𝟼𝟹  𝙿𝚕𝚘𝚝: 𝚒𝚗 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚑 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙰𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚗 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚖𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚏𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛.

𝙰/𝙽: 𝙾𝚑 𝚐𝚘𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚖𝚎 𝚜𝚘 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚝𝚘. 𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝙸'𝚖 𝚜𝚘 𝚒𝚗 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚌𝚕𝚞𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝙷𝚘𝚝𝚌𝚑 𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚋𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚛!𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

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            The scent of freshly baked bread wafted through the BAU's break room as you, the team’s new favorite baker, placed an assortment of treats on the counter. The team had quickly become accustomed to your regular visits and deliveries of cookies and pastries, a small token of gratitude for their kindness and friendship.

            One afternoon, as you were unwrapping a batch of heart-shaped cookies,  Morgan, casually remarked, “You know, Hotch, you guys seem pretty close. You two obviously like each other!” As Hotch passed the room to greet you.

            Hotch’s expression tightened slightly, but it was clear he was processing the comment. As a profiler, he could read between the lines - and he had certainly sensed the warm feelings you held for him. But Hotch struggled with the notion of deserving a new relationship after the loss of Haley. He was scared that history would repeat itself.

            The team’s teasing didn’t help. Hotch knew he was not ready to fully embrace his feelings, grappling with the belief that he might not deserve happiness after his past.

            As the days went by, Aaron found himself determined to overcome his fears. He wanted to show you how much you meant to him. His plan? To bake your famous heart-shaped cookies - something you’d probably appreciate he thought. He wanted to surprise you and, more importantly, to talk to you about his feelings.

            However, Aaron's baking skills were far from ideal. As he attempted to follow your recipe, he was met with a series of culinary mishaps. The dough stuck to his hands, the flour went everywhere, and despite his best efforts, the cookies were a burnt mess once they came out of the oven.

            The smoke alarm’s shrill beep filled his kitchen, and as the sharp smell of burnt cookies spread through his house, it didn’t take long for you to notice. You had been working late at the bakery, but the scent was unmistakable as you passed his house. Concerned, you decided to check on him.

            You knocked gently on Aaron's door, and when there was no answer, you opened it slightly, peeking inside. The sight that greeted you was a flustered Aaron standing amidst a kitchen covered in flour and the unmistakable scent of charred cookies.

            “Aaron?” you called out, stepping inside. “Is everything alright?”

            Aaron turned, his face reddened from the heat of the oven and embarrassment. “Uh, yeah, just... had a little trouble with baking.”

            You couldn’t help but laugh softly at the sight. “I see that. Mind if I help?”

            With a grateful nod, Aaron stepped aside, allowing you to take control of the situation. You quickly assessed the damage, setting aside the burnt cookies and starting fresh. As you worked, Aaron watched you with a mixture of admiration and nervousness.

            “I’m sorry,” Aaron began, his voice hesitant. “I wanted to make these for you, but I’m afraid I’m not much of a baker.”

            You smiled at him, your hands expertly mixing the dough. “It’s the thought that counts. And honestly, this is kind of endearing.”

            Aaron's eyes softened as he observed you. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about something... I’ve... struggled with moving on since Haley. I never thought I’d deserve another chance at happiness.”

            You paused, meeting his gaze. “Aaron, you deserve happiness. Everyone does. It’s okay to let yourself have it.”

            Aaron took a deep breath, nodding. “I needed to hear that. And I needed to show you that I care about you. Even if I’m terrible at baking.”

            As you finished preparing a new batch of cookies, you both sat down at the kitchen table. Aaron poured two cups of coffee, as you both enjoyed a moment of quiet together. The air was filled with a new sense of ease and understanding.

            When you finally tasted the cookies, still warm and perfectly baked, you looked at Aaron with a soft smile. Aaron's eyes sparkled with newfound hope and gratitude for you and him.

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[imaginesmai]

I missed you - Azriel

This is smut, set in the baker!reader universe. If you want a timeline, it happens before Taken for reasons you'll find out at the end of this fic. You can read it without the previous parts, don't worry.

Plot: Azriel has been away for a month and comes back to a busy, cozy morning.

Warnings: porn with a tinny bitty plot, barely there.

“I missed you”

Even though his voice sounded far away, you knew Azriel was right behind you, his chest pressed tightly against your back. You felt the echoes of his question right where his throat touched your shoulder and neck. Where, in your humble opinion, he belonged.

He had been away for a little longer than a month, and it had been the longer you had been apart. He had arrived to your shared home two days ago, and you had only left the bed for the bare minimum necessary.

You doubted you’d be able to leave the bed in another two days.

“Me too” you answered back, your voice groggy with sleep.

“Thought about you every single day” his lips, swollen from your previous activities, followed the path of your pulse point. “Every hour”

You hummed for an answer, not actually registering his words. Only the feeling of his body curved around you. You were both naked, had been since he came back, but you weren’t ready to face the rest of the world yet.

And Azriel wasn’t either. The sheets moved around you as he pressed himself closer, tighter, and you noticed his intention before he was finished. The hand that was rubbing lazy circles over your belly lowered, his pinky finger adding a soft pressure over your clit.

You barely contained your moan when he pushed you farther against him, his cock slipping between your legs and rubbing itself where you needed him. You had discovered long ago the truth behind the wingspan theory, and blissfully, you cherished it again. Azriel lowered his hand until he could touch himself and tease you at the same time.

“Move” you demanded, trying to roll you hips. All sleep left you as his arousal hit your senses, as you felt him harden between your legs.

“So demanding. Maybe I don’t want to”

His lips curved against your neck, and you could have fallen right above the edge when his canines grazed your skin. Something about the primal need of being locked together after a month away made your knees weak.

The tip of his cock retreated far enough to press itself against your entrance, only to avoid it once more. The hand that wasn’t holding you against him appeared under your neck, and wrapped his fingers across your throat. Big enough to cover it whole, you breath shuttered when he squeezed.

“Thought about you naked and moaning under me too many times” Azriel confessed, barely moving. The soft friction wasn’t enough but felt like Starfall and fireworks together. “I whished it was you who squeezed my cock dry and not my hand”

“I already did” you reminded him. And you had – repeatedly since he came back. “I’ll have your cum leaking for a while”

“Love that”

His voice was deeper, broken out by a moan. There were few things that turned him on more that knowing he was in you. That his cum tainted your underwear when you left the room, that when not even an hour later he would have a finger inside, his cum had been there.

You had trouble following the pointless conversation when that certain finger entered you. The roughness of his scars had been a sensitive topic at the beginning of your relationship, but soon you had discovered that not many things felt as good as them.

Azriel pressed it to the hilt, applying pressure against your walls.

“Did you touch yourself? While I was gone?” he whispered, one of his shadows kissing your left nipple.

“Thought about me sitting on your cock while you worked, and then you fucking me on your work table” his hand almost cut your air supply, but you managed to continue. “Played with myself right there, and – “

Azriel squeezed your throat hard enough to leave bruises, but you didn’t mind as the finger retreated as his cock replaced it. Each time you took him felt like the first time, no matter how many had come before that one. He pushed it in two thrusts, that left his pubic hair right at your entrance.

Your face was harshly turned to the right and you were met with dark, lusted eyes. There was barely any hazel left, but you loved them anyway. His mouth was parted in a deep moan, and as he bottomed in and out slowly, you were enchanted by the pearls of sweat rolling down his forehead and the sounds leaving his lips.

His perfect, o shaped lips that he ran his tongue through. There was nothing more beautiful that Azriel for you. Him training, sleeping, talking. Smiling, thinking, walking. Anything he did was a piece of art to your eyes, and your favorite part was by far lusted Azriel.

The way his eyes darkened but his expression softened in pleasure and love, only for you. The grip on your throat relaxed enough for you to push yourself up and catch his lips. With your eyes closed, you only felt his hands moving you like a rag doll until you were laying on your back, his cock still inside you and his chest pressed against yours.

“Naughty girl” he whispered against your mouth, his tongue brushing your upper teeth. “Masturbating yourself in my office”

“I bet half of the camp heard you jacking off to my name” you answered, not willing to let a provocation go without a reply. “Like a beast in heat”

You locked your legs behind his calves, and used your now free hands to press him closer to you. The meat of his ass was tender and firm, and you squeezed it hard. Azriel drowned his groan against your lips, and without further invitation, showed you just what a beast he could be.

He pitoned in and out of you with a formidable strength, giving the sun was just coming up and he had stayed up late between your legs. His left hand rose to your breast and cruelly squeezed, capturing your nipple between his thumb and pointy finger.

You threw your head back in the pillow, crying out his name and leaving him access to your neck. His mouth was rough, long gone the sweet love-making of the last day. Your arms held onto his shoulders and sneaky fingers brushed against his wings.

When he almost crumbled against you, his legs giving up and his pace slowing, you smiled proudly to yourself.

“Poor Illyrian bat” you teased him. “No one to touch your wings for so long”

“Like you wouldn’t have killed them”

You didn’t bother answering, knowing it was true. Something as intimate as touching his wings, making him shudder even when he rutted, was yours. Neither of you lasted long after that, only another soft touch from you had him shouting your name roughly against your neck, probably all Velaris hearing him shattering his high.

Just watching him crumple was enough to make you cum, but if that wasn’t enough, one of his shadows, licked a deep stripe from your entrance to your clit, squeezing your button until your legs locked tightly around him and you broke.

After more orgasms than what you could count, you were sure that was the last one in you. Not even biting your lip was enough to stop the sounds leaving your soul, Azriel whispering something in your ear as he held you against his chest with one arm, your back not touching the bed.

The first ray of sun sneaking through the window hit the side of his face when you opened back your eyes. His hair was ruffled, his cheeks pinkish and his eyes bright. So bright and happy that you could look away.

You knew his life hadn’t been easy before you, that his past haunted him when he least expected it. His line of work was hard too, and his eyes had lost the innocence long before you met him. But sometimes, when it was just the two of you, you swore the boy Azriel could have been peaked through.

His smile was more radiant than any sun that could enter the room. You felt your heart warming your whole body at the pure, absolute love that you felt for him.

“I missed you” he repeated.

“Me too. You shouldn’t be allowed to leave for so long”

“Maybe Rhys has something to say about it”

“Maybe we have something to say about it”

Azriel’s hazel eyes traveled down your chest to your belly, where he could already notice the bump. It hadn’t been there when he left, and he had spent a good hour crying about it when he came back.

Laying back on his side, he left his hand over the life that you two had created. Tears quickly appeared in your eyes as you thought about it. You didn’t want to assume the gender, didn’t want to know until the birth. Everything you had gone through, the obstacles and the pain, was worthy when you imagined the life ahead.

It would be the last big mission Azriel went for a while. Rhysand had cancelled everything he had in mind for his shadowsinger when he learned the news, only leaving the inevitable one that he had already finished.

For the next seven months, Azriel would be yours to enjoy. Mornings waiting up to his sleeping face, meals together, and long nights between the sheets. It was enough to let the first tear roll down your cheek.

Azriel caught it quickly with his thumb. He leant down to press a slow kiss to your wobbling lips, his own heart racing.

“I won’t be leaving you ever” he admitted against your lips. “Not even when you want to kick me out for the pregnancy pains”

“Glad we’re agreeing on the culprit” you chuckled.

It was a different type of kiss; one you hadn’t shared with any past lovers. His lips brushed against yours with all the care and love he could muster through the bond, trapping your lower one between his teeth. It wasn’t rough or rushed.

With your eyes closed and your hand over his right above your future babe, you cherished the months to come.

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[ashlinxsloves]

My brain just did a big brain move and gave me an idea for a fic–

Okay so hear me out, Kurt Wagner x Baker!reader where your bakery is not too far from the school and most of the students hang around there in their free time.

Of course, you support mutant rights and welcome everyone to your bakery. But the blue German fella seemed to catch your attention as he became a regular, coming in for the same pastries every day, sometimes to try something new that you've made and would make small talk with you when the day is slow and you don't have too many customers.

Kurt comes there with Peter, Scott, Jean and Jubilee to try out your new cupcakes while trying to keep you entertained. Obviously, Peter and Scott seemed to notice first, that Kurt wanted your attention, keeping up the small talk, asking about your ideas and suggestions with pastries.

LIKE AAAAAGHHHH, I WANNA WRITE THIS FIC, I WANNA WRITE CHRISTMAS FICS AND IT SNOWED TODAY– I LOVE KURT SO MUCH I WANNA WRITE 😭😭😭 this can literally be for any x men character.. might make it into a series idk–

(I'm not burnt out, just too many exams :,])

Blue baby my beloved–

[sunday-bug]

oooh this slow burn is so slow I LOVE it 🙂‍↕️

Sugar and Skin

2. Second Impressions || Previous - Next

a simple favor for Steve leads to an unexpected second encounter and a lingering trace of powdered sugar that's harder to ignore than it should be.

TattooArtist!Bucky x Baker!Reader (3.9kw)

tw: 18+ MDNI; mild language, subtle tension, implied attraction, slow-burn, strangers to friends to lovers. a/n: NOTE!!! If u see "{{...}}" then that means i think u can skip it and be fine. and i think i finally decided on a weekly schedule.

“White chocolate macchiato?” Bucky called out as he pushed the glass door open with his back, swinging around to face an empty storefront. 

“Don’t judge!” He heard from the back room, as he set the bag and cup on the counter. 

“Never pegged you for the type.” Bucky smirked, watching his best friend practically float towards the pastry on the counter. He watched in bewilderment as Steve tore the bag open and took an enormous bite. 

“Yeah well, how many years has it been?” Steve asked with a mouth full of bread, crumbs of almond slipping from his lips. Bucky didn’t say anything. Steve took a swig of the hot coffee and melted into the seat beside him. 

“It’s like Christmas in a cup.” He held the cup with both hands to his chest, a dopey grin plastered on his face. Again, Bucky just stared.

“Listen, you may not get it but once you actually slow down you start to find things you never even knew you could enjoy.” Steve rolled his eyes. 

“I didn’t say anything.” Bucky held his hands up in defense as he leaned across the counter. 

“You didn’t have to, I know that look on your face.” 

“Just never thought I’d see you practically jizz in your pants over a cup of coffee, and a danish.” Bucky jabbed at the blonde in front of him.

He watched as Steve stilled in his throat before groaning, dragging a hand down his face as he shook his head. “You’re impossible,” he muttered, though the grin tugging at the corner of his mouth betrayed him.

“And you’re apparently unpredictable,” Bucky shot back, slouching against the counter with a smirk. “White chocolate macchiato? Really? Who are you, Steven?”

Steve glared at him, from the corner of his eye. Eyebrows furrowed. 

“Just never thought I’d see you practically cum in your pants over a cup of coffee and a bear claw, is all Stevie,” Bucky quipped, emphasizing the name as he rocked forward against the counter, arms crossed.

Steve froze mid-sip, his eyes narrowing slightly before he set the cup down with exaggerated care. “Guess you met Y/N,” he said, his tone casual, though there was an edge of something unspoken.

 “Y/N,” Bucky repeated, testing the name as he tilted his head, studying him. “That the baker?”

Steve nodded slowly, leaning back in his chair. “Yeah. She runs the café with this guy Sam. They’re partners. She handles the baking and the day-to-day stuff; he’s the coffee guy.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow, tutting his jaw forward. “Didn’t realize you were so invested in her business model, Steven.” He continues to study his face, resting his leather padded elbows against the granite. 

Steve gave him a dry look, shaking his head. “They’re good people, Buck. Been going there for years since before this place opened up. Y/N’s always just somehow been there for me. You know how it is—some people just stick.”

Bucky just stared. He locked eyes with Steve, and watched as the jewelry attached to the end of his eyebrow quirked up as he silently questioned him.

“What’s the big deal anyway? Why do you even care?” Steve finally blurted out, his fingers crinkled the paper bag in his hands, signalling that not only he was getting irritated but that Bucky was behaving strangely. He stepped back, and blinked.

“Nothing—I don’t care—just didn’t expect you to have something like that going on,” Bucky said, his voice quieter now, though his words still carried a pointed edge. He put his hands against the counter, studying Steve’s reaction.

Steve blinked, his head tilting slightly as if trying to figure out what Bucky wasn’t saying. “Something like what?” he asked, his tone casual, but his gaze sharp.

Bucky hesitated for a beat, his jaw working as he tried to shrug it off. “I don’t know,” he muttered, gesturing vaguely toward the coffee cup. “This whole… thing. The bear claws, the macchiato, the… normalcy.”

Steve’s lips quirked into a faint smirk, his tongue brushing lightly over the ring adorning his lip, though a slight furrow creased his brow. “It’s not a thing, Buck. She’s a friend—a good one. Don’t make it weird.” He took another swig of his sweet drink. 

“I’m not making it weird,” Bucky shot back quickly, his voice defensive. He shifted his weight, suddenly uncomfortable under Steve’s gaze. “Just didn’t peg you for it, that’s all.”

“For what?” Steve pressed, leaning forward slightly, his eyes narrowing.

Bucky straightened, his smirk returning though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “For someone who’s got his coffee order memorized by a baker, Steve. That’s all.”

Steve snorted, shaking his head as he leaned back in his chair. “You’re reading way too much into this,” he said, but there was something unspoken in his tone, something that made Bucky’s jaw tighten again. 

“Maybe,” Bucky muttered, pushing off the counter as he adjusted his stance.

The sound of the door swinging open cut through the moment, the brass bell bouncing sharply against the frame. Bucky glanced toward the entrance, catching the figure stepping inside, but his attention quickly shifted back to Steve.

Steve’s gaze flickered to the newcomer, then back to Bucky. He squinted slightly, as if assessing something unspoken, before pushing himself up from the chair. Grabbing the remains of the danish, he took one last bite before tossing it casually onto the desk. Without another word, he moved to greet the client, leaving Bucky standing there, the earlier conversation still hanging heavily in the air.

“But it’s still a hell of a danish, apparently,” Bucky muttered under his breath, his eyes flickering to the discarded pastry before walking towards the back office.

Bucky lingered by the doorway, watching as Steve greeted the newcomer with that same easy grin he gave everyone. The client, a guy in his early twenties, handed over a folded piece of paper—probably some Pinterest-inspired design that would drive Steve nuts later.

Steve took the paper with a nod, already slipping into professional mode, but Bucky’s thoughts stayed stuck on their earlier conversation. The weight of Steve’s words hung in the back of his mind.

He leaned against the office door frame, absently running his thumb along a faint tear in the leather of his jacket. It wasn’t the baker herself that was bothering him, he told himself—it was the way Steve had talked about her. Like she was more than just someone who made a good danish.

Bucky huffed quietly, glancing toward the counter where Steve was already sketching something out for the kid. He tried to brush it off, but the thought lingered, like a splinter under his skin.

Pushing off the doorframe, he headed toward the back. He didn’t need to stay and hear more—it wasn’t his business anyway. At least, that’s what he kept telling himself.

—

{{As you threw your head back to laugh at a joke Sam had suddenly thrown out, the bell above the door jingled lightly catching your attention. You glanced up just in time to see him—the man in the leather jacket—pushing the door open, stepping into the cool afternoon air.

Your gaze lingered briefly, watching as he walked past the window, his broad shoulders hunched slightly against the chill. There was something about the way he moved—deliberate, careful, like he didn’t quite belong here.

Sam’s voice cut through the café’s hum as he leaned against the counter, watching the door swing shut behind the man in the leather jacket. “What was his deal?”

You looked away from the window, your brow furrowing. “Who?”

He gestured toward the door with a sharp nod. “Steve’s “friend”. Looked like he was ready to bolt the second he walked in.”

You huffed a quiet laugh, shaking your head as you placed loose napkins back in their holder. “Maybe he’s just not an outside person.” 

Sam scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest. “Right. Like that explains the way he was looking at you.”

That made you pause, your hand hovering over the counter as you turned to him. “Looking at me? He wasn’t—”

“He was,” Sam interrupted, his tone flat but edged with something harder. “Like he was trying to figure you out or something.”

You rolled your eyes, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face as you turned back to your work. “You’re imagining things. He didn’t even say more than a few words to me.”

“Doesn’t mean he wasn’t looking,” Sam muttered under his breath, the smirk tugging at his lips doing little to mask the irritation in his voice.

Your lips pressed together as you glanced toward the counter, catching Peter juggling cups and fumbling with the register, his expression one of barely concealed panic. You exhaled sharply and jutted your chin toward him. “I think Peter needs your help,” you said, keeping your tone casual, but the shift was deliberate.

As the café settled back into its usual rhythm, you found yourself distracted, your hands working on autopilot as you adjusted the remaining pastries in the display. It wasn’t like you to dwell on customers—especially not ones who had barely spoken a word to you—but something about him stuck.

It had to be the contrast, you decided. Steve was always so easygoing, the kind of guy who fit in anywhere, his warm demeanor making even the busiest days feel manageable. But his friend? He couldn’t have been more different if he tried.

Where Steve carried himself with an open confidence, the man in the leather jacket had felt... closed off. He hadn’t looked uncomfortable, exactly, but there had been something guarded about him. Like he didn’t belong here and was painfully aware of it.

You shook your head, brushing the thought away as you wiped your hands on your apron. That’s all it is, you told yourself. The difference has you caught off guard, that’s all.

Still, as you moved to refill the sugar containers, you couldn’t shake the image of him standing at the counter, his quiet presence somehow filling the space. You huffed softly to yourself, determined to let it go. You had more important things to think about than some friend of Steve’s who probably wasn’t planning on sticking around anyway.}}

“Please, please, please.” You crossed your arms over your chest and rolled your eyes, biting your cheek to keep from smiling. 

“Steven, I have a shop to run.” You said, switching the “open” sign to “closed” after locking the double doors. 

“It’s Wednesday. You guys close early on Wednesdays—Please.” Steve begged over the phone, his tone dripping with exaggerated desperation. 

“I already did you a favor by ordering the books for you, and now—“ 

“I’ll owe you one.” 

“That’s what you said last time,” You deadpanned, switching the phone to speaker, so you could begin counting the money in the register. 

“And I still mean it. Just add this to the tab,” He said, his obnoxious smirk practically audible through the phone.

“Fine, Rogers you win.” You scoffed, reaching for your phone “I’ll stop by when I’m done.” You hung up and pocketed your phone with a sigh. 

“You headin’ over to Steve’s place?” A voice behind you asked, making you jump. 

“Sam, you scared me,” you said, counting the last of the dollar bills in your hand before compiling it into a neat pile and handing it off to your colleague. “And yes. I have to drop off that box over there.” You nodded toward a medium sized box on a folding chair in the corner of the back room. 

Sam swiftly took the stack from your hand and switched spots with you. “And he couldn’t come because?” 

“Said something about back-to-back bookings,” you replied, standing off to the side and wiping the counter for any remaining crumbs.

“You think his friend is gonna be there?” 

You paused, your movements halting mid-swipe. “I-I don’t know—” The sudden stutter caught you off guard, and you tensed. “What’s with all these questions anyway?” you added, more annoyed than curious.

“Nothing, just…I can take it if you want.” Sam said, slipping some money into a plastic bag and putting the rest in the register before shutting it with a soft click.

“Oh,” you said, feeling silly for your earlier outburst. “Thanks, but that’s okay. There’s some stuff I have to talk to Steve about anyway.” Was that a lie? Sam looked at you. Crap. It was. 

———

The entire walk there, you wracked your brain trying to think of anything you actually needed to talk to Steve about. The books were already paid for, and the pastries were an afterthought—a gesture more for your own sense of courtesy than anything else. There wasn’t anything urgent, not really. 

If you were being honest, Sam could’ve just as easily dropped the box off himself if you’d let him. 

You adjusted the boxes in your arms, and the purse on your shoulder, feeling the rough edge of the worn cardboard dig lightly into your palm. The other box, filled with leftover pastries from the café, teetered slightly on top as you shifted your grip.

The early afternoon sun filtered through the trees lining the sidewalk, casting dappled shadows that danced at your feet. The air was crisp but not biting, a faint breeze carrying the warm scents of bistros and freshly fallen leaves. It was a pleasant enough walk, you supposed, though you couldn’t quite shake the feeling that you were overthinking it. 

Maybe it was Sam’s question that had thrown you off. Or maybe it was the memory of Steve’s friend—the man with the leather jacket and the sharp blue eyes. The way he’d lingered at the counter, quiet and guarded, but somehow impossible to ignore.

You exhaled, shaking your head as if to dislodge the thought.

It doesn’t matter, you told yourself firmly. You’re just doing Steve a favor. That’s it.

Still, as you neared the shop, you shifted the boxes in your hands again, noticing the faint warmth building against your palms. The moisture made the edges of the cardboard feel slicker than they should have, and you tightened your grip to steady them.

When you reached the door, you nudged it open with your back, the faint chime of the bell ringing overhead as you stepped inside.

“Hello?” you called out, your voice cutting through the quiet hum of the tattoo machine in the distance.

You looked around the small tattoo parlor, the black furniture standing out in contrast to the white walls. More stuff had been added since the last time you’d stopped by—large and small plants now decorated the interior, their vibrant greens softening the otherwise sharp and minimalistic space. A new piece of art hung on the far wall, bold lines and intricate designs that drew your attention for a moment before your gaze shifted.

The space felt more lived-in now, more personal, like it wasn’t just a shop but a place someone cared for. The faint hum of the tattoo machine came from one of the rooms in the back, mingling with the subtle scent of antiseptic and something faintly woodsy, maybe a candle burning somewhere out of sight.

“Steven?” you called again, balancing the boxes in your hands as you glanced toward the counter.

It wasn’t unusual for him to be tied up with a client, but the shop felt quieter than usual. Setting the boxes down carefully on the counter, you adjusted the pastry box to the side  before looking around again. 

“Steve?” you called again, your voice louder this time as you leaned slightly over the counter, scanning the back area.

The faint hum of a tattoo machine that buzzed steadily suddenly stopped in the back room, but no one answered. You sighed, stepping back and glancing around the shop once more, your eyes lingering on the plants and new art pieces scattered throughout.

The soft creak of a door caught your attention, and you turned just as someone stepped out from the back.

It wasn’t Steve.

Your breath hitched briefly when you recognized him—the man from the café. Except this time there was no leather jacket adorning his figure, he wasn’t wearing it, just a black t-shirt that clung to his broad shoulders. His sharp blue eyes locked onto yours, and for a second, neither of you said anything.

“Oh,” you said finally, trying to mask your surprise. “I thought Steven would be here.” 

“He had to step out.” 

You nodded, pursing your lips as you glanced toward the counter. “I just brought some stuff for him,” you said, gesturing vaguely to the boxes. “Books he ordered. And some leftover pastries from this morning.”

His eyes flicked briefly toward the counter before returning to you. “I’ll make sure he gets them.”

“Thanks,” you murmured, brushing your hands off on your jeans, though they weren’t dusty. The silence stretched for a moment, the faint echo of the tattoo machine still lingering in the air. You shifted slightly, glancing toward the box of pastries before blurting out, “You… can help yourself too… if you want.”

His brow arched slightly, his sharp blue eyes holding yours for just a second longer than you expected. “Appreciate it,” he said simply, his tone even, though you thought you caught the faintest flicker of amusement in his gaze.

You felt your cheeks warm, and your hand drifted to the seam on the side of your jeans, fidgeting with the fabric as though it might keep you steady.

He didn’t move from where he stood, leaning casually against the doorway, his arms crossed over his chest. His steady gaze made your fingers itch, and your nail dragged against the denim fabric audibly now.

That’s when you noticed the black latex glove on his left hand, the stark contrast of it catching your eye. His arm, adorned with intricate tattoos you hadn’t noticed before, drew your attention—the sharp lines and shading that curved around his forearm and bicep were as striking as they were detailed.

When he crossed his arms, the movement only emphasized the muscles beneath the ink, the casual strength in his stance making it hard to look away.

“You’re Steve’s friend, right?” you said, the words leaving your mouth before you could stop them. You’re startled by your own voice, and for a moment you wondered why you hadn’t just left right then and there. 

He didn’t answer right away. His head tilted just slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching like he was deciding whether or not to engage. “Yeah,” he said finally, his voice low and deliberate.

Silence stretched between you again, heavy with something you couldn’t quite place. You nodded as you shifted your weight. “Well... I should get going,” you murmured, your tone quieter now. “Just let Steven know I stopped by.” 

You turned, ready to make your exit, when his voice cut through the stillness.

“Bucky.”

The name came softly, but it carried weight, stopping you mid-step. You froze for a moment before turning back, your brow furrowing slightly. “What?”

His arms were still crossed, the black latex glove on his left hand catching your eye again as he adjusted his stance. “My name,” he said, the words simple but steady. “It’s Bucky.”

“Oh,” you said, feeling the word catch awkwardly in your throat. You glanced at him, searching his face for a moment, then straightened slightly. “Nice to meet you... Bucky.”

The corner of his mouth twitched, not quite a smile but close enough to make your chest feel a little tight. “And you are?”

You hesitated for a second before giving him your name, the sound of it hanging awkwardly between you as you watched for a reaction. 

“Y/N,” he repeated, the weight of your name on his lips making your cheeks flush. Before you could respond, Steve’s voice rang out from the back.

“Hey, glad you made it!”

You turned to see him emerging from the back room, wiping his hands on a rag, his grin easy and familiar. “Y/N, can you bring the books back to my room? I just need to finish cleaning my station.”

“Sure thing,” you replied quickly, eager for something to busy yourself with.

“And Buck, mind ringing up this guy while I handle things over here?” Steve added, gesturing toward the lone customer waiting at the counter.

“Got it,” Bucky replied simply, stepping aside to let you pass.

As you moved toward the back room, you felt his gaze linger a little too long, the weight of it brushing against your skin in a way that made your steps falter slightly. You didn’t look back, though the heat crawling up your neck made you wish you had.

Bucky’s focus only shifted when Steve cleared his throat, nodding toward the counter. His sharp gaze flicked toward Steve, a quick, pointed look passing between them, before he turned to handle the transaction, his movements deliberate but unhurried.

You stepped into the back room, the soft scuff of your shoes blending with the faint hum of the tattoo machine in the distance. Steve was already moving to clear off a cluttered table, his grin easy as ever.

“Thanks for doing this,” he said, nodding toward the box of books you carried.

“Don’t mention it,” you replied, setting the box down carefully. “Though you might want to remember I’ve been keeping track, and it looks like you’ll be paying me back for the rest of your life.”

Steve let out a short laugh, shaking his head. “You’re relentless.”

You smirked. “And you’re lucky I’m nice.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he teased, pushing off the doorframe. “Thanks again, Y/N. Seriously.”

His sincerity caught you slightly off guard, but you brushed it off with a shrug. “No problem, Stevie.” 

He raised his hand, palm out, and you met it halfway with an easy high five, your fingers curling briefly around his in a quick dap before you stepped back with a small smile. “See you later,”  he said with a grin as you turned toward the doorway.

Pausing just before stepping out, you peeked your head into the front room, your eyes scanning the space. The customer was gone, and so was Bucky. The faint creak of the office door swinging shut must’ve been him slipping into the other room.

Relieved, you stepped fully into the front of the shop, adjusting the strap of your bag over your shoulder as you made your way to the front. Walking past the counter you caught sight of the pastry box slightly skewed with the lid ajar, the faintest crack catching your attention. Frowning, you reached out to fix it, fingers brushing over the edge as you led it back into place. That’s when you noticed it—a missing pastry. 

Your hand stilled, your pulse quickening despite yourself. Powdered sugar clung to the rim of the cardboard box, and littered the counter surface, a subtle, almost careless trace left behind. 

Your chest tightened, a flicker of heat creeping up your neck. It could’ve been the customer... but your mind stubbornly circled back to someone else. You shook your head, brushing the thought away as you made sure you had your things. The stillness of the space was broken by the low hum of the tattoo machine, its steady buzz filling the air once more.

The bell above the door jingled softly as you stepped out into the cool air, the lingering warmth of the shop clinging to you. Even as you walked down the street, the faint image of sharp blue eyes and a missing pastry hovered in your mind, refusing to fade completely.

----

Next

a/n: please reblog to support! I also love feedback, and comments :)

taglist (lmk if you want to be added!) : @cheezemanz @shirukitsune @miharuwrites

[writersp3noldacc]

···➯ 𝐈𝐧𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬

⋆.˚ ͟͟͞͞➳❥ 𝐅𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐢𝐬 𝐌𝐨𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐬 𝐗 𝐛𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐤!𝐟𝐞𝐦!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐑𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭: about your Francis x baker!reader what if he brings milk for the reader's pastries. >< That would be so cute.

𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞; All Francis and Baker!reader requests are like a warm-up for me, which most likely will be in the actual series once I start writing it!! Masterlist and other things regarding my blog are on my site.

07.08.24 | 𝟒𝟓𝟒 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬

✂〰〰〰〰〰

Walking down the sidewalk, milk carrier in hand the sound of the bottles softly knocking against one another. The smell of fresh pastries filled Francis's senses, as he pushed open the door, to your bakery—the bell you had placed above the door, ringing. Announcing Francis's presents, he flashed a soft smile, watching you flash one back. "Mm, special delivery for a special girl." watching you walk around the counter toward him. Taking the carrier, he held, placing it on the table, before standing on your tippy toes and wrapping your arms around his neck. Being extra careful not to touch his clothes, with your apron. Francis was a little hesitant to return the gesture, but wrapped his arms around you.

You step back first, knowing that Francis wasn’t a touchy person, even though he allowed you to hug him; A privilege that took you many months to earn. “Thank you, so much for stopping by, I know you probably have a busy schedule and what not” You babbled on grabbing the milk carrier, and motioning Francis to follow you back. Entering the kitchen you took a milk Jar out of the carrier Francis held, Pouring it into the batter you have already made. “Mm, aren’t you.. Suppose to measure it?” Francis questioned break, the comforting silence you both shared. “You should, but I bake so much I don’t feel to the need too.” you answered, setting the jar down before grabbing your whisk and mixing the milk in the batter.

Lightly hitting the whisker on the rim of the bowl, “Fran, could you grab a pan from the cabinet for me?” You question, licking off what's left of the batter, from the batter. Francis didn’t say anything but your heard his shoes against the wooden floor, and soon his chest flushed against your back as he grab a pan, just as you requested. 

He handed you the pan, and watched as you spray butter into it, before evenly pouring the batter into it. And placing it the oven and putting on a timer, “Oh, here I made these for you!” You piped, walking over the fridge and open the freezer and grabbing a box of strawberries dipped in chocolate, with powdered sugar sprinkled over them. “I made these as a thank you.” You spoke smile plastered on your face. “Mm, Thanks,” Francis murmured taking the box with a small smile spreading across his features. You knew his favorite fruit, and one of his favorite things he liked to order when he stopped by. 

Loading the rest of the milk he intended to drop off, into the fridge. He tipped his hat at you, before you walked him back to the front waving him goodbye.

[lila-went-missing]

Barkeep!Vi x Baker!Reader who close up as the other opens.

The warm smell of fresh bread wafts into the now empty bar as Vi is putting chairs away. She glad that Vander is somewhere in the back taking inventory for the night because he would never let her live it down if he saw the look on her face. She gravitates towards the open door, watching you move through the shop.

Your windows are wide open, a pie already cooling in one of the sills. The early morning is quiet, perhaps the only time the undercity is. She can hear you faintly humming a song she doesn’t recognize. Probably one mothers make up to put their children to sleep.

Against her better judgement, she stays there longer than she probably should. Just watching the way you float around- watering flowers, changing the sign.

Vander footsteps eventually snap her out of it and she returns to her work, but you never leave her mind.

You catch her a couple times but you can’t judge. After all the amount of time you’ve spent watching her carry in crates and fix old tables is outrageous.

You wonder if she’d be as hard with you as she is with the rowdy customers. Maybe she’d have a soft spot. A look and tone of voice reserved specially for you. Similar to way she is with her sister but slightly different.

One day she’ll work up the courage to buy you a drink. One day you’ll convince yourself to bake her and Vander a batch of cookies.

But until then you’re there, watching (admiring) each other from a distance.

===

Once again written on my phone instead of doing the schoolwork I’m already behind on 😐. I got this idea while baking a cake with my grandma earlier so here she issss. X

[rafesorchid]

Hii i LOVEEE your work!! I love baker reader and mechanic rafe!! I was wondering maybe you could write something of them getting into an argument!!???💕

BITE THE HAND THAT FEEDS

when mechanic!rafe & baker!reader get into their first argument

plot: when a busy day at the bakery causes miscommunication, rafe's insecurities boil over into an argument that leaves both of you hurting. but love has a way of pulling you back — even when the words cut deep.

CONTENT: heavy angst, yelling, hurtful language (driven by insecurity), emotional breakdown (crying), temporary separation, rafe leaves, hurt/comfort, soft fluffy ending, kissing, lots of apologizing, love confession

thank you so much for this idea lovie 🩵 really enjoyed writing it, have fun!

the smell of burnt sugar clung to your hair, a sweet, sticky reminder of the morning’s chaos at the bakery. you’d barely had time to throw your apron in the wash before rafe showed up at your door, grease still smudged along his jawline, knuckles raw from god knows what.

he didn’t even say hello. just stormed in like a hurricane, rattling your little kitchen with his heavy boots and heavier sighs.

"where the fuck were you?" he snapped, voice sharper than you’d ever heard it.

you blinked, still holding the basket of freshly wrapped pastries you’d planned to bring to him. "i was at work," you said carefully. "where i always am."

rafe scrubbed a hand over his face, leaving a dark streak across his temple. "i went by. you weren’t there."

you set the basket down on the counter, heart thudding loud in your ears. "i had to run deliveries," you said. "mrs. harper needed a last-minute birthday cake, and—"

"you didn’t answer your phone."

you reached for your apron, wringing the fabric between your hands. "i left it in the kitchen. it gets crazy sometimes, you know that."

he stared at you like he didn’t know you at all. like you were some stranger he didn’t recognize.

"rafe," you said, stepping toward him. "what’s really going on?"

he flinched like you’d slapped him. "what’s going on is you don’t give a shit," he hissed. "you’re too busy playing house with your fucking cupcakes to care about anything else."

you recoiled, the words slicing deeper than they should have. "that’s not fair," you whispered.

"no?" he laughed, but there was no humor in it. "i sat outside that bakery for two fuckin’ hours. waited like a damn fool. and you couldn’t even bother to check your phone."

guilt pooled heavy in your stomach. you hadn’t known he was waiting. hadn’t known he needed you.

"i didn’t mean to—"

"you never mean to," he cut you off. "but you always do."

the kitchen felt too small, the walls pressing in around you. you wanted to reach for him, wipe the grease from his cheek, kiss the hurt out of his voice — but he wouldn’t let you.

"i’m sorry," you said, and meant it with every broken piece of you. "i didn’t know."

rafe shook his head, stepping back like he couldn’t stand to be near you. "you never know," he muttered. "you’re too busy baking your goddamn cookies."

"it’s not just cookies, rafe," you said, anger sparking hot in your chest now. "it’s my job. it’s my dream. i’m building something for myself."

"and where does that leave me?" he snapped. "standing in the fuckin’ parking lot like an idiot? waiting for scraps of your attention?"

you bit the inside of your cheek, tasted blood. "you’re not scraps," you said fiercely. "you’re—you’re everything."

"doesn’t feel like it."

silence thickened between you, a heavy thing neither of you knew how to lift.

finally, rafe muttered, "i’ll get out of your way," and turned for the door.

rafe doesn’t get far.

he makes it to the truck, shoves the key into the ignition, but doesn’t turn it.

he just sits there, gripping the steering wheel so tight his knuckles go white.

his mind replays everything — your face when he yelled, the way your voice cracked when you said "you’re everything,"the goddamn basket on the counter — and the guilt crashes down on him like a tidal wave.

"fuck," he mutters, slamming his head back against the seat.

he hadn’t meant to be so cruel. hadn’t meant to tear you down when all you ever did was try to love him.

but he was scared. scared in a way he didn’t know how to name. scared that you were slipping away, that your bright, sweet world would outgrow the messy, broken boy who only knew how to fix engines and break hearts.

scared that loving you would never be enough.

he wipes his face with the back of his hand, breath hitching.

then he sees it — your silhouette in the window, sitting on the kitchen floor, curled in on yourself like you’re trying to disappear.

and something in his chest shatters.

he can’t leave you like this. he won’t.

not when you’re the only good thing he’s ever had.

you don’t hear the truck door open. don’t hear the boots crunching back across the gravel.

you only notice he’s back when you feel his arms around you, pulling you up off the floor and into him.

you gasp, clutching at his jacket, the smell of him — oil and leather and something purely rafe — hitting you like a drug.

"m’sorry," he says against your hair, voice wrecked. "baby, m’so fuckin’ sorry."

you shake your head, sob catching in your throat. "you don’t have to—"

"yes, i do," he says fiercely, pulling back just enough to cup your face in his hands. "i was an asshole. said shit i didn’t mean. i—I just get so scared, sometimes."

you blink up at him, vision blurry with tears. "scared of what?"

"scared of losin’ you," he says, voice breaking. "scared you’ll wake up one day and realize you deserve better than...this."

he gestures at himself like he’s nothing. like he’s worthless.

you grab his wrists, holding on tight. "there’s no better than you, rafe," you say, fierce through the tears. "i don’t want perfect. i just want you."

he closes his eyes, a tear slipping down his cheek. he’s always been so bad at this part — the feeling part — but right now, he’s trying.

"i love you," he says, raw and broken. "love you so much it hurts."

you press your forehead to his, breathing him in. "i love you too," you whisper. "even when you’re an idiot."

a shaky laugh escapes him. "yeah?"

"yeah," you say, smiling through the tears. "especially then."

he kisses you again, softer this time. slower. like he’s memorizing the shape of you.

when you finally pull apart, he rests his forehead against yours, breathing hard.

"let me make it up to you," he murmurs.

"you already have," you say.

but he’s stubborn. he pulls you to your feet, guiding you over to the counter where the basket still sits.

he unwraps it carefully, like it’s something sacred, and pulls out a turnover.

then he holds it up to your mouth. "open," he says gently.

you laugh, sniffling. "rafe—"

"c’mon, baby. let me take care of you."

so you do. you take a bite, the sweet peach filling bursting on your tongue, and rafe watches you like you’re the only thing that matters.

"good?" he asks, thumb brushing your cheek.

"perfect," you say.

"yeah," he murmurs, eyes soft. "you are."

he pulls you into his arms again, swaying a little like there’s music only he can hear.

and in that messy, sugar-dusted kitchen, with the taste of peaches still on your lips and rafe’s heart beating against yours, you realize something:

he’s not perfect. neither are you.

but together, you’re something damn close.

and that’s enough.

it’s more than enough.

authors note

hello my sweet beautiful people, i'm genuinely so thankful for all your support this past week <3 lov u all lots

[bradshawsvinyl]

Rafe x Baker!Reader Moodboard

all pics from pinterest! layout made using picsart :)

[softh0neycomb]

Blood & Buttercream

Chapter One - Exposition.

Baker!Reader x Butcher!Simon Riley

CW: None, SFW.

Word Count: 1.2K

You’re sitting in your local Costa, sadly picking at an overpriced, sad sandwich and lukewarm coffee. Chains are never your first option if you can help it, but this small town doesn’t have a local cafe open past 10am.

Another sigh, you could do it so much better, you think, grimacing at a bite of soggy bread. As a baker, you know good bread and this, this is not good bread.

How difficult can it be, really, you sip from your cup; musing.

You could do it, you think, you already have a steady business as an online bakery and a presence at the closest local markets, known for your delicate bakes with pretty decorations.

The savoury side of things though…you know what’d you’d do, sandwiches with homemade focaccia, doorstep thick toast, savoury pastries.

It’d have to be right though. The voice pops up unbidden and you bite your lip, your need for perfection is both a blessing and a curse.

You abandon the remnants of your sandwich and head home thoughts churning.

In your kitchen, you create a focaccia, flaky salt, good olive oil, rosemary and cherry tomatoes.

Once it’s cooked you realise you don’t have the right meats and you drag yourself to the store, you stand in front of the deli meats aisle for longer than you want to admit, until your fingers start to get a little numb and you take home a selection and painstakingly try a little of everything with the bread and nothing's right, nothing works.

You hiss in frustration before cutting a large chunk and wrapping it in wax paper and grabbing your keys.

You know you must look like a crazy person, stomping into the butchers and dropping the bread on the counter in front of the mountain of a man who works there, the bottom half of his face covered by a black mask.

“I need help” you say shortly “I’ve tried the supermarket meats and it’s not right.”

He stares at you, shocked, confused, you can’t tell.

“Look, you're an expert right?” A slow nod. “Good. I’m fed up with having no good cafes so I’m gonna do it myself but I’m a novice at savoury, so taste that.”

You wave a hand irritably at the wax-paper wrapped focaccia “and please tell me what meat is supposed to go in it.”

There’s a beat, two, before callused hands are unwrapping the bread and tearing a chunk off, corner of the mask lifting to accommodate before being lowered.

A moan. “I know” you say, slightly smug “so I’m not putting it with mediocre fillings”

The man hums, swallowing, before turning to a leg of something along the back counter and cutting a thin slice, dropping it onto a paper plate before handing it to you.

“Try that” he rasps, you take the plate and try the meat, it’s salty, slightly smoky and so much better than whatever you brought from the supermarket and combinations throw themselves into your head.

You’re unaware of the butcher staring at you.

“How much will I need to make at least ... .four sandwiches?” You half ask, half demand.

“Bout 15 slices” he replies after a moment's thought.

“Great, that then please,” you say sweetly, “and you can keep the rest of the bread.” You add on when you’ve paid and have the wrapped meat in your hand before almost running out of the shop to get home.

Simon stares for a long time, before devouring the rest of the bread.

The next few hours are spent in your kitchen, every surface covered in pans and bowls. The meat he’s given you, you learn, is called Serrano and it’s so good. 

You’re lucky enough to have a garden and a greenhouse and you pull some rocket from the soil dropping it into a colander for later. Back in your kitchen you create a chilli jam, not too spicy with a slight acidity to balance the salt. 

A quick google suggests that manchego is a common pairing but you worry that it will make the finished sandwich too salty and you bite your lip, scouring your fridge. Burrata. You’d brought it to make your own pizzas but…you wouldn’t need all of it. 

You catalogue what you have in your head, salt from the meat and the bread, acid from the jam, fat from the cheese and heat from both the jam and the peppery kick of the rocket. 

You layer the sandwich and wrap it in greaseproof paper, pulling it tight before cutting it in half with a large bread knife. 

You smile at the cross section and take a bite. The flavours explode on your tongue and you grin, victorious. It’s so much better than the sad toastie you started your day with.

You tidy your kitchen, decanting the rest of the chilli jam into sterilised jars and carefully storing the meat and cheese before washing your paraphernalia. 

You’re about to become that poor butcher’s worst nightmare, you think ruefully as you start to compile a list of other things you’d want to stock. 

You feel so guilty in advance that you assemble a peace offering, the other half of the sandwich, a jar of your new chilli jam and a caramel brownie. Is it weird if I bother him again? You shake the thought away, you have questions and your brain needs them answered. Now. 

You pack your offering into a box and head back out, chucking a notebook and pen into your bag as you pass the countertop. 

The man behind the counter looks surprised to see you, if the slight raise of his eyebrow is any indication. 

“Alright?” He asks slowly.

“Yeah,” you chuckle slightly nervously as you introduce yourself, “I think I’m probably about to become your worst nightmare.” 

“Doubt that” he mutters, “‘m Simon.” 

You nod “Simon, it’s nice to meet you.” A smile, you brandish the box containing your peace offering. 

“I need to ask you some questions about, well, everything meat so here’s a…” you stumble over your words. “Gift? In return for the annoyance I’m probably gonna cause you.” 

The man, Simon, takes the box from you and flips open the lid, “this the sandwich you made?” He asks, fishing it out with one large hand, you nod as he unwraps the paper and takes a large bite. 

His eyes close momentarily as he chews and swallows “gonna bring me one of these every time you’ve got a question love?” 

Your brain stutters momentarily over the pet name and you feel your face get warm. 

“Um, yes?” You offer as you will your face to cool down, watching as he takes another bite and groans in appreciation. 

“Best sandwich I’ve ever had.” He tells you and you can’t help but preen at the compliment. 

“Thanks,” you whip out your notebook “so, if I wanted to make a quiche with ham in it but also sandwiches, would I need different styles?” The pen is pushed against your lip as you think “Oh and I know there’s a ratio of fat to meat for everything but if I wanted to do sausage rolls and scotch eggs would they need to be different too?” 

You realise Simon is staring at you and you shuffle your feet, ears going hot, waiting for the inevitable comments about you being ‘weird’ or ‘too much.’ 

They don’t come. 

You force yourself to meet his gaze, steeling yourself for whatever expression you find there. You don’t expect fascination, appraisal. 

“You this meticulous about ever’thin love?” It’s almost a growl and your mind wanders for a split second before you manage to eek out a “yes.” 

Simon grins, taking a large bite of the brownie “fucking hell, where’ve you been hidin?”