On Dick's way home one day he sees advertisement for a new bakery. Since he loves supporting new small businesses, he pops in to grab some assorted cupcakes for the family as dessert.
Cut to after dinner, and Tim takes a bite of the cupcake Dick picked out for him; a dark chocolate cupcake with coffee filling, and vanilla buttercream topped with a chocolate drizzle and a chocolate covered expresso bean. Needless to say, Tim is hooked! Its so decadent, but not too sweet.
The next day, after getting the name from Dick, Tim goes to the bakery for lunch and to pick up some donuts for the brake room. He orders just the donuts and his cupcake, but the owner, Danny, shoves a croissant sandwich into his hands too, telling him its bad to only eat sweets. Tim tries to pay for it, but Danny refuses playfully pushing him out the door.
The next day Tim returns, and the next, and the next, and the next. He claims hes just hooked on the food, but anyone can tell hes grown very fond of Danny, and their quip little chats. But, he's a lot less thin and much healthier looking, he's eating more meals and eating less coffee, even if his coffee consumption is still high and what he no longer drinks has just been replaced with coffee flavored sweets.
Danny has become rather fond of his first regular customer. And if this fondness has lead to him making more and more coffee flavored treats, and more non-sweet ready to go options, well then so what? No one is actually complaining.
Basically: Tim falls in love with Danny's food, and then falls in love with Danny, and Danny develops a new interest in coffee flavored desserts.
Can you make a Bakugo x Baker reader or a Bakugo x finger skater reader
i can do both in seperate posts hehe <3
the bakery on the corner of the street always caught bakugo's eye. not because it was the most popular in town or had the most superb version of his favourite savory pastry that even he couldn't master, but the cute baker that helped run it.
he saw them all the time when he came in, bringing out trays of various danishs and muffins to slide into the shop's display case beside the till, apron covered in various stains of jams and flour.
and wasn't he just the luckiest guy...getting constant attention from his favourite baker.
as you brought in a fresh tray of pain au chocolats from the back kitchen, door swinging behind you, you smiled softly as you saw the blonde.
"good morning, my love...the usual?"
bakugo nodded, already taking out his card from his wallet.
you had a specific shelf you kept his order on. he came in the same time twice a week and you spent the few minutes before to make sure to pick out the prettiest pastry in the batch and make his coffee just the right temperature.
you grabbed the little paper bag with the intricate logo on it and his coffee, handing him the cup before opening the bag. you grabbed a pair of tongs and began to slide a few more treats into it for him before sealing it off with a match logo-sticker.
bakugo quirked his brow as he tapped his card, the machine responding to him with a little ding! to confirm his transcation. he always insisted on paying, no matter how many times you tried to slip his order in for free. "i didn't order that much, did i? i thought-"
"shhhh, silly...i've been cooking up some new things. wanted you to try them..." you slid the bag over to him, fingers tapping against the counter as you explained to him. "needed feedback. from you, of course. to make sure they wouldn't be an embarassment to sell."
he rolled his eyes, grabbing the bag from you after shoving his wallet back into his pocket. "they'd never be a disappointment. my place for dinner tonight, don't forget. or i'm feeding your plate to my cat."
"i could never...i'll even come early to help."
bakugo shook his head, already heading for the door. "nah. you're gonna sit your ass down and i'm doin' all the work. see you tonight."
the bell above the door jingled as he left the bakery, your heart warm with love for him. what a silly guy...maybe you should just rename his favourite pastry to be sold under his name, hm?
Synopsis: Obito reached for his back pocket. Pat. Pat. Then his jacket. Back pockets again. His expression shifted into a genuine frown, brows drawing together as he rubbed the back of his neck. The motion made his bicep bulge prominently, the thick vein along the swell standing out in sharp relief.
“Shit,” he muttered, a faint flush creeping up beneath the edge of his scar. “Left my wallet at the gym. Of all goddamn nights…”
Your pulse thundered in your ears. Months of heated glances, lingering touches, filthy dreams, and almost-confessions crested all at once. The words were on the tip of your tongue—Don’t worry about it, it’s on me—but he beat you to it.
Obito’s dark eyes locked onto yours, intense and unwavering. His voice dropped lower, playful on the surface but edged with raw, unrestrained hunger. “Guess I’ll owe you… or I could eat you out real nice in exchange for the box.” He paused, the scarred corner of his mouth twitching into a hungry smirk. “Fair trade, right?”
Warnings: Obito Uchiha/Reader, Modern AU, Bakery AU, Boxer!Obito, porn no plot (well there's a little plot), kind of slow burn??, oral sex (f! receiving), Obito is a MUNCH, p in v sex, unprotected sex, multiple orgasms, whimpering (obito), whining (obito), yearning (mutual), you are insanely down bad for obito (but it's ok he's down bad too), probably too much focus on Obito's hands/thighs/forearms, aka he's big and beefy (yummy), multiple rounds, dirty talk???
Author's Note: IT'S FINALLY DONE 😭 I've been working on this baby since February smh; also y'all know the pizza porn trope? This fic is that. personal headcanon for obito is that this man is a YEARNER; he whimpers, he whines, he sobs while eating pussy like he was made for it
Word Count: 10.3k
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The little bakery sat on a quiet corner in town, its exterior painted in soft creams and buttery pastels that caught the golden evening light just right. A hand-lettered wooden sign swayed gently above the door, the faint creak of its chains mixing with the distant hum of passing cars. Inside, the air was always thick with the warm, enveloping scents of vanilla bean, browned butter, yeast, and caramelized sugar—layers that clung to your hair, your clothes, even your skin long after closing.
You’d opened Sweet Haven six months ago with nothing but fierce determination, a temperamental secondhand oven that clicked and groaned when it hit temperature, and a dream that kept you going through flour-dusted sleepless nights. Mornings started before the sun, your hands deep in dough, shaping croissants with precise, almost meditative folds while the radio hummed low in the background. There were days the oven betrayed you—cakes sinking in the middle, batches of cookies spreading too thin—but you adapted, learned its quirks like an old friend’s moods, and kept the glass cases full of golden pastries anyway.
Business had been steady—enough to keep the lights on, the glass cases full of golden pastries, and the morning crowd returning for their coffee and croissants—but it was the rhythm of your regulars that truly anchored you. Mrs. Hargrove, who always took the corner table by the window with her Earl Grey and a lemon poppy seed muffin, knitting endless scarves for her grandchildren. The trio of construction workers who showed up at 6:15 sharp, boots dusty, voices booming with laughter as they debated the merits of your blueberry scones versus the cinnamon rolls. And the quiet librarian who slipped in mid-afternoon for a slice of olive oil cake and a moment of peace.
Especially him.
The soft chime of the bell had become the highlight of your week by the end of that second month.
Obito arrived like clockwork every Thursday at 7:45 PM, just as the last customers trickled out and the golden evening light slanted through the bakery windows, turning the flour-dusted air into something almost magical. The cool rush of outside air always carried that unmistakable scent with him—sharp gym soap, the faint salt of clean sweat still clinging to his skin, and that warm, grounding cedarwood that seemed to sink straight into your lungs and settle low in your belly like heated honey. It made your thighs press together instinctively behind the counter as you wiped down the espresso machine for the hundredth time.
He was impossible not to notice. Tall—easily 6’2” or more—with the kind of powerful, densely muscled build that spoke of years of disciplined training. His black compression shirts looked painted on, the fabric stretched obscenely tight across his broad chest and thick shoulders. Every movement made the material shift and pull, highlighting the heavy slabs of pectoral muscle and the deep cuts of his delts. His arms were a particular weakness of yours. Thick, vascular biceps that flexed and bunched even when he simply reached up to push damp, messy dark hair off his forehead. The strands were often still wet from his post-workout shower, a few rebellious pieces sticking to the jagged scar that carved across the left side of his face.
You immediately wanted to climb him like a tree.
That scar… God. It slashed diagonally from just above his left eyebrow down through the corner of his eye and tugged at the edge of his mouth, giving every expression a raw, dangerous edge. It should have made him look frightening. Instead, it made him devastating. When he smiled—crooked, slow, and always a little lopsided—it sent heat crawling up your neck.
The first few visits had been almost painfully polite, like he was testing the waters.
“Evening,” he’d rumble, that deep, gravel-rough voice sliding over your skin like a physical touch. It was low enough to vibrate in your chest, the kind of timbre that made you wonder what it would sound like in the dark, pressed close to your ear.
You’d answer a little too quickly, a little too breathy. “Hi. We’ve got fresh lemon-blueberry scones and the almond croissants just came out of the oven.”
He never rushed. He’d prowl along the glass case, arms crossed over that massive chest, making the compression shirt ride up just enough to reveal a sliver of toned, scarred abdomen. His dark eyes—sharp, intense, almost black in the warm lighting—would flick between the pastries and you. You felt pinned in place every single time.
You tried not to stare. You failed.
He’d catch you anyway. Every time. A slow, knowing smirk would tug at the scarred corner of his mouth as he pointed with one thick finger. “Two chocolate croissants. And one of those lemon things.”
Your hands would tremble slightly as you boxed them up, hyper-aware of how close he stood. When he paid—always cash—his hand would brush yours deliberately. Those hands. Large, powerful, calloused from heavy weights and years of wrapping boxing gloves. Thick fingers, prominent veins running along the back, short clean nails. The rough heat of his palm against your softer skin sent electricity racing straight down your spine. You’d swallow hard, murmuring the usual “Thank you, come back soon,” while your pulse thundered in your ears.
His reply was always the same, delivered in that low, lazy drawl: “Count on it.”
Then he’d linger just a second longer than necessary, eyes tracing your face, before turning and walking out. You’d watch the way his powerful back moved under the tight shirt, the way his shoulders rolled with each step, until the door swung shut and the scent of him slowly faded.
By the fourth or fifth Thursday, the politeness had started to crack.
He began staying longer. Leaning one thick forearm on the counter while you worked, the muscle in his arm shifting and tightening right in your line of sight. He’d ask questions—simple ones at first. What time you closed. Whether you baked everything yourself. If you ever got tired of the smell of sugar and butter all day.
You’d laugh, a little nervous, and answer. He listened like he was memorizing every word. That crooked half-smile would appear more often, and sometimes his gaze would drop to your mouth when you spoke, lingering there long enough to make your breath hitch.
One evening, as you handed him his usual box, his fingers didn’t just brush yours. They closed briefly around them—warm, firm, possessive for half a heartbeat—before he let go.
“You work too hard,” he murmured, voice dropping even lower. “Place smells like heaven when I walk in, but you look like you could use something sweet yourself.”
Your face burned. You managed a shaky smile. “I sneak a bite or two between customers.”
He chuckled, the sound rich and dark. “Good. Wouldn’t want you wasting away.”
Then he left, taking his scent and the heavy weight of his presence with him, leaving you flushed and aching behind the counter, already counting down the days until next Thursday.
The tension between you had thickened into something almost tangible by his sixth visit, like the heavy humidity before a summer storm.
You’d started setting aside the best pieces for him—slipping an extra-generous slice of strawberry shortcake into his box, the macerated berries glistening like rubies under the display lights, or sneaking in a still-warm matcha cookie dusted with powdered sugar. He noticed immediately, of course. Nothing seemed to escape those sharp, dark eyes.
“You always this generous?” he asked that evening, leaning his considerable weight on the counter. His large hands rested on the glass, fingers drumming a slow, lazy rhythm. The veins on the backs of them stood out prominently, and the muscles in his forearms and biceps shifted and flexed with every subtle movement. Up close, the clean, slightly salty scent of his post-workout skin mixed with that warm cedarwood, cutting through the sweet bakery air in a way that made your pulse flutter.
“Only for my favorite regulars,” you managed, your cheeks heating under his gaze.
His lips curved into that crooked, scar-tugged smile. “Favorite, huh? I’ll take it.” The low rumble of his voice wrapped around the words like velvet, and he held your eyes a beat too long before straightening up, the compression shirt pulling tight across his powerful chest.
That night, alone in your tiny apartment above the shop—where the low ceilings still carried the faint, comforting traces of baked sugar and vanilla—you couldn’t stop thinking about him. You slipped beneath the sheets, hand drifting between your thighs, and let your mind wander. Those big, calloused hands. The way his thick thighs filled out his gym pants when he shifted his weight. That deep, gravelly voice groaning your name instead of just “thanks.” It was pathetic, really—touching yourself to a customer—but you came harder than you had in months, biting your lip to stifle the sounds as your body trembled through the aftershocks.
Obito kept returning, week after week, like an inevitability.
The conversations grew deeper, stretching longer past closing time. He told you about his work at the local gym—long days of personal training sessions and evening boxing classes that left his knuckles wrapped in tape and his thighs powerfully thick from endless squats, lunges, and footwork drills. You could picture it too easily: sweat glistening on his scarred skin, muscles pumped and straining, that intense focus in his eyes. The mental images did nothing to help cool down the almost constant low level arousal you felt just being near him.
In return, you shared pieces of yourself—the soul-crushing corporate job you’d left behind, the way your shoulders ached after hours of kneading dough, the quiet pride that bloomed every time a customer’s face lit up at the first flaky, buttery bite of something you’d made from scratch. He listened with genuine intensity, those dark eyes tracing your features as if committing them to memory. Sometimes he lingered after paying, arms crossed, watching you wipe down the counters. The quiet rasp of the cloth over wood, the soft clink of trays, the low hum of the display fridge—everything felt amplified in his presence, intimate and charged.
One Thursday, as you handed him his box, he reached out.
“You’ve got flour on your cheek,” he murmured, voice dropping low. One large hand extended across the counter, calloused fingertips hovering just inches from your face. You could feel the radiant heat rolling off his skin, could smell the faint cedar and clean male scent that clung to him. Your breath caught. For a heartbeat, you thought he might actually touch you—brush the flour away with that rough thumb. Your skin tingled in anticipation.
Then he pulled back, rubbing the back of his neck instead. The motion made his bicep flex heavily, the fabric of his shirt straining. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to crowd you.”
You laughed shakily, heart hammering. “You’re not.” Please come closer. The almost-touch left you aching for hours afterward, restless and warm, wondering what it would feel like to have those calloused hands spreading you open.
Another Thursday, you debuted the pistachio danish—flaky, golden layers wrapped around a rich, sweet-nutty filling. He took a bite right there at the counter, eyes slipping shut as a deep, appreciative groan rumbled from his broad chest. The sound was low and guttural, vibrating through the small space between you like a physical caress.
You were going to be replaying that groan in your head for weeks.
“Fuck,” he muttered, licking a stray crumb from his full lower lip. The sight of his tongue sent heat pooling low in your belly. You wanted to see that tongue licking something else. “Marry me.”
You laughed, face burning, willing your heartbeat to move back up to your chest from where it was throbbing between your legs. “That good?”
“Best thing I’ve tasted in years.” His gaze dropped slowly to your mouth, dark and unmistakably heated. “Seriously. You’re dangerous.”
The air between you thickened after that, heavy with unspoken want.
You started choosing your aprons more deliberately—the ones that cinched tighter at the waist and skimmed over the curve of your hips. He began arriving with his dark hair still damp from the shower, the cedar-soap scent stronger, almost intoxicating. His black compression shirts clung slightly to the solid planes of his chest, outlining the heavy swell of his pecs and the thick, rounded caps of his biceps. Sometimes a faint sheen of sweat still lingered at the hollow of his throat, and you wanted to lick it off his skin and had to force yourself not to stare.
Every visit now carried that electric undercurrent. His smiles lingered. Your voice grew softer, breathier. His fingers brushed yours more deliberately when he paid. The line you’d both been toeing was fraying fast, and part of you wondered how much longer either of you could hold out before the tension finally snapped.
The rain came down in steady sheets that Thursday, drumming against the bakery windows and turning the street outside into a blurred, shimmering mirror. The shop was blissfully empty—no lingering customers, no rush to close. Just the warm glow of the display lights, the faint hum of the ovens cooling down, and the rich scent of butter, vanilla, and fresh bread hanging in the air.
Obito pushed through the door at 7:45 exactly, shaking rain from his dark hair as the bell chimed. Droplets clung to his broad shoulders, darkening the black compression shirt that clung even more obscenely to his powerful frame. His jeans—dark denim, worn in all the right places—were slightly damp at the thighs, stretched tight over the thick, heavy muscle there.
“You’re soaked,” you said, smiling as you wiped your hands on your apron. “Black coffee? On the house. Looks like you could use something warm.”
He paused, dark eyes flicking over you with that familiar intensity, the scar pulling at the corner of his mouth as he gave you a crooked half-smile. “Yeah. That’d be good.”
You poured him a large mug while he settled at the small corner table near the window. He sat like he owned the space—powerful thighs spread wide in a relaxed, confident sprawl, the denim straining visibly over the dense slabs of muscle. His long legs took up most of the floor beneath the table, one thick thigh flexing as he stretched out. Rain streaked down the glass beside him, casting shifting shadows across his face and the prominent scar that made every expression so dangerously compelling.
You brought the coffee over and leaned against the counter opposite him, arms resting on the warm wood, trying to look casual even as your heart hammered.
“Thanks,” he murmured, wrapping those big, calloused hands around the mug. His fingers flexed slightly, veins standing out along the backs of his hands as steam curled up around his sharp jawline. He took a slow sip, eyes half-lidded, watching you over the rim.
“You ever get tired of the sugar smell?” he asked, voice low and rough, vibrating through the quiet shop. “All that sweetness every day.”
“Never,” you replied, breathing in the mingled scents like it was a drug—his clean, post-gym skin still carrying that warm cedarwood and faint salty edge, mixed now with the fresh rain and the bakery’s comforting warmth. “It’s comforting. Like home. What about you? Smelling like sweat and iron all day at the gym?”
He chuckled, the sound deep and rich, rolling through his broad chest and settling low in your belly like liquid heat. “Balance, I guess.” His gaze dropped, tracing the line of your neck, then lower to where your apron rose and fell with each breath. “Sweet… and salty.”
The words hung in the air. You swallowed hard. “I like both.”
Silence stretched between you, heavy and electric. Only the rhythmic patter of rain and the occasional creak of the old building filled the space. He finished his pastry slowly, savoring every bite, while you stayed right there, unable to move away. When he finally stood to pay, he stepped closer than necessary.
His thick fingers brushed yours as he handed over the cash—deliberate this time. The rough pads of his fingertips dragged slowly across your skin, lingering for several heartbeats. Heat shot straight through you. You looked up and found his eyes locked on yours, dark and hungry, the scar making his intense stare even more devastating.
“See you next week,” he said, voice husky, almost a growl.
You barely managed a nod, already imagining that growl vibrating between your thighs.
That night, upstairs in your small apartment, the rain still tapping against the roof, sleep came slowly. When it did, your dreams were vivid and merciless.
You dreamed of him lifting you onto the bakery counter, those powerful thighs pinning your legs wide apart. His big hands—rough and strong—gripped your hips hard enough to leave marks, biceps bulging and flexing as he held you down. The compression shirt was gone, revealing the broad, scarred expanse of his chest, every muscle shifting as he leaned over you. That low, gravelly voice groaned your name against your throat while his mouth devoured you—hot, insistent, tasting every inch like he’d been starving for it.
His thick fingers slid between your thighs, calloused and sure, while his mouth claimed yours in a deep, messy kiss. You woke up gasping, body slick with sweat and aching, your hand already between your legs before you were fully conscious. The fantasy played on behind your closed eyes: the heavy weight of him pressing you down, the flex of those powerful thighs, the way his scarred face would look lost in pleasure, that deep groan rumbling through you as he finally gave in.
You came hard, whispering his name into the dark, the rain still falling outside.
By the fourth month, the flirting had become so blatant it was almost unbearable—the kind of slow, heated dance that left you both breathless and aching every time the bell chimed at 7:45.
He’d walk in, rain or shine, broad shoulders filling the doorway, that black compression shirt stretched tight across his powerful chest. His dark hair would be damp, a few strands clinging to the jagged scar that slashed across his face, and he’d flash you that crooked, devastating half-smile the moment his eyes landed on you.
“New bun today?” he rumbled one evening, voice low and rough like gravel under tires. His gaze traced the messy knot of hair atop your head, dusted with a light sprinkle of flour that had escaped during the rush. “Looks good on you. Makes me want to reach over and fix it… or mess it up more.”
You’d let him mess up more than just your hair.
Your face warmed instantly. You tucked a stray strand behind your ear, suddenly hyper-aware of the flour on your cheek and apron. “Flattery won’t get you free pastries, Obito.”
“No?” His voice was a teasing drawl you wanted to bottle up and inject straight into your veins. He leaned on the counter, thick forearms flexing, veins standing out as he watched you with dark, amused eyes. “Shame. Guess I’ll have to settle for whatever you’re pushing on me today.”
You teased him right back, boxing up his usual chocolate croissants but slipping in a warm blueberry-lemon muffin and a flaky almond bear claw anyway. “You’re too predictable. Same order every week. Live a little.”
He chuckled, the sound deep and rich, vibrating straight through your chest. “Can’t help it. I know what I like.” His eyes dropped meaningfully to your lips for a second before returning to yours. “And I keep coming back for it.”
When you handed him the box that night, your fingers lingered longer than usual. His large hand closed around yours—deliberate, unhurried. His broad, calloused thumb stroked slowly across the back of your hand, tracing the soft skin there in one smooth, sensual pass. Electricity shot down your spine and pooled hot between your thighs. You didn’t pull away. Neither did he.
“You’re gonna ruin me for other bakeries,” he murmured, the words low and intimate, vibrating through the small space between you.
“Good,” you whispered, barely audible.
His scarred smile turned hungry, the corner of his mouth tugging higher as the scar pulled taut. The look in his eyes was pure heat—dark, wanting, barely leashed. “Yeah?”
The single word hung heavy in the air, thick with promise. For a heartbeat, it felt like he might vault over the counter and finally close the distance. Your breath caught. Your thighs pressed together instinctively behind the counter.
You laughed it off, a soft, nervous sound, breaking the spell. But the heat in his gaze stayed with you long after he left—burning behind your eyelids, echoing in your body as you locked up for the night.
Every Thursday after that, your heart raced the closer the clock ticked to 7:45. You’d catch yourself glancing at the door, thighs squeezing at the familiar chime, already flushed and warm before he even stepped inside. You wondered constantly if he went home and thought of you the way you thought of him. If those powerful hands wrapped around his thick cock, stroking slowly at first, then harder. If his heavy thighs tensed and flexed against his sheets, biceps straining as he chased release with your name growled low in his throat. If he pictured you on your knees behind the counter, or bent over it, or riding those powerful hips while flour dusted both your skin.
(You had no idea how right you were.)
Because Obito did think of you. Every single night.
After leaving the bakery, he’d drive home with the scent of sugar and you still clinging to his clothes. He’d strip off the compression shirt, muscles still pumped from his workout and the lingering tension of being so close to you without touching. Under the hot spray of the shower, or later in bed, his big hand would fist his cock—thick and heavy, veins standing out just like the ones on his forearms. He’d stroke with the same deliberate slowness he’d used on your hand, eyes closed, imagining the soft warmth of your skin, the way your breath hitched when he touched you, the flour-dusted messy bun he wanted to bury his fingers in while he bent you over the counter and buried himself inside you.
He’d groan your name into the dark, scarred face twisted in pleasure, thighs clenching, abs tightening as he spilled over his fist—hard, messy, and never quite enough.
The line was still uncrossed… but it was razor-thin now, trembling with every lingering touch and heated glance. One more Thursday, one more brush of his thumb, one more husky “Yeah?” and it would finally snap.
————————————-
The Thursday evening air felt heavier than usual, thick with months of simmering tension that had finally reached its breaking point. You’d spent the day perfecting a new batch of honey-glazed twists—golden, flaky spirals drenched in warm honey, studded with toasted nuts, and still radiating that intoxicating aroma of buttery pastry, caramelized sweetness, and vanilla that clung to every surface in the shop. The scent wrapped around you like a lover’s embrace as you wiped down the final display case, the soft rasp of cloth against glass the only sound in the quiet space.
Your apron was cinched snug around your waist, the fabric slightly damp from the day’s heat and dusted with flour that also streaked your forearms and clung to the stray strands of hair escaping your messy bun. Your cheeks were flushed, both from the ovens and the nervous anticipation that had been building since morning. The clock ticked toward 7:50. You told yourself it was just another Thursday… but your body knew better.
The bell chimed.
Obito stepped inside, bringing a cool rush of night breeze that sliced through the sugary warmth, carrying that signature masculine scent—cedarwood, clean sweat, and something darker, more primal—that always made your stomach tighten and your thighs press instinctively together. His black compression shirt was molded to him like a second skin, stretched obscenely tight over the broad, solid planes of his chest and the heavy swell of his biceps. The short sleeves had ridden up, revealing thick, veined forearms corded with muscle. His dark hair was damp at the temples from the gym, a few rebellious strands clinging to his forehead and the jagged scar that slashed across the left side of his face. That scar creased as he offered you the familiar crooked smile, rugged and devastating.
“Cutting it close again,” you teased, your voice lighter than the frantic beat of your heart.
“Couldn’t miss it,” he rumbled back, low and rough, the timbre sliding down your spine like a slow caress. He moved through the shop with that effortless, powerful grace, large hands hovering over the glass case as he browsed. You couldn’t help watching the subtle flex of his biceps with every reach, the way the thick muscle shifted and bunched under his sun-kissed skin.
Your hands were slightly unsteady as you boxed his usuals—two chocolate croissants with their perfectly flaky, golden layers, a generous slice of strawberry shortcake glistening with macerated berries, the pistachio danish he loved, a handful of matcha cookies, and an extra honey-glazed twist “on the house.” The sticky-sweet scent rose between you as you handed the box over. Your fingers brushed his.
This time the spark was stronger—electric. His rough calluses dragged against your softer skin, the heat of his palm lingering far too long. Neither of you pulled away immediately.
Obito reached for his back pocket. Pat. Pat. Then his jacket. Back pockets again. His expression shifted into a genuine frown, brows drawing together as he rubbed the back of his neck. The motion made his bicep bulge prominently, the thick vein along the swell standing out in sharp relief.
“Shit,” he muttered, a faint flush creeping up beneath the edge of his scar. “Left my wallet at the gym. Of all goddamn nights…”
Your pulse thundered in your ears. Months of heated glances, lingering touches, filthy dreams, and almost-confessions crested all at once. The words were on the tip of your tongue—Don’t worry about it, it’s on me—but he beat you to it.
Obito’s dark eyes locked onto yours, intense and unwavering. His voice dropped lower, playful on the surface but edged with raw, unrestrained hunger. “Guess I’ll owe you… or I could eat you out real nice in exchange for the box.” He paused, the scarred corner of his mouth twitching into a hungry smirk. “Fair trade, right?”
If this were anyone else, you would’ve thrown the nearest pair of tongs at them while chasing them out the door, cursing them out for being a pervert. But this was Obito, the man you had been touching yourself to for months, the literal embodiment of all of your wet dreams, now offering to eat your pussy in exchange for your pastries.
It was the pizza porn trope come to life, only so much better.
The words hung between you, heavy and electric, sucking all the air from the room. Your breath caught sharply. Heat flooded your face and pooled instantly between your thighs, a rush of slick warmth that made your knees feel weak and your panties uncomfortably wet. He wasn’t fully teasing anymore. The months of restraint were plain in the way his jaw tightened, the way his broad shoulders rose with a deeper, controlled breath, the way his gaze had darkened to near-black as it dropped briefly to your mouth, then lower—tracing the curve of your waist in that flour-dusted apron.
You stood frozen behind the counter, heart slamming against your ribs, the sweet honey-glazed aroma suddenly too cloying, too intimate in the charged silence. His powerful frame seemed even larger now, filling the space, those thick thighs planted firmly as he waited for your reaction. The scar pulled tighter with his crooked, expectant smile, giving him that dangerous, lived-in edge that had wrecked you from the very first visit.
The line had finally snapped.
For a heartbeat, the only sounds were the distant patter of rain starting outside and the low hum of the display case. Then you found your voice, barely more than a whisper, but steady.
“…Right here?” you asked, cheeks burning, pulse roaring in your ears.
Obito’s eyes flashed with a mixture of surprise and pure heat. He set the pastry box down slowly on the counter, never breaking eye contact, the muscles in his forearms flexing as he leaned forward.
“Unless you’ve got a better idea,” he growled softly, voice rough with promise. “But I’ve been thinking about tasting you for months, sweetheart. And I’m done waiting.”
You didn’t hesitate this time. The months of aching tension snapped inside you like a live wire.
“Yes.”
Obito’s smirk faded instantly. His pupils blew wide, swallowing the dark irises until his eyes looked almost black with raw hunger. “You serious?”
“Dead serious.” Your voice came out breathy, thighs already slick with arousal, a rush of heat pooling low in your belly. “Lock the front door.”
He moved with surprising speed for his size. The deadbolt clicked loudly in the quiet shop, the sound echoing like a starting gun. In two long strides he rounded the counter, his large, calloused hands gripping your waist firmly. He lifted you effortlessly—biceps flexing powerfully under the tight compression shirt, the thick muscles bunching and straining as if you weighed nothing—as he backed you through the swinging door into the small back office.
The cramped space felt even smaller with him in it: a cluttered desk, shelves lined with flour sacks and supplies, the faint hum of the mini-fridge in the corner. Papers scattered across the desk with a soft flutter as he set you on the edge, mouth crashing into yours in a desperate, devouring kiss.
The kiss was all heat and hunger—his tongue sweeping in deep, claiming you completely, tasting faintly of the mint gum he chewed. One of his large hands cupped your jaw with surprising gentleness, thumb stroking your flushed cheek, while the other slid under your skirt, gripping the soft, warm flesh of your thigh. The rough pads of his fingers dug in possessively, sending sparks of sharp pleasure through you. You moaned into his mouth, your own fingers digging into his broad shoulders, feeling the solid, unyielding muscle there, the intense heat radiating through his shirt.
“Been wanting this so fucking long,” he growled against your lips, voice gravelly and strained, the scar at the corner of his mouth brushing your skin. “Every Thursday, walking in here smelling your sugar and vanilla, thinking about burying my face in this pussy until you’re shaking.”
You almost passed out.
He dropped to his knees right there on the cool tiled floor with a heavy thud. The sight of him—broad shoulders wedged between your spread thighs, powerful thighs flexed and straining the denim of his jeans as he knelt, biceps tight and veined as his big hands shoved your apron and skirt up around your hips and yanked your panties aside—made your head spin with dizzying need.
Obito inhaled deeply, nose pressed flush against your mound, his warm cedar-soap scent mingling intoxicatingly with your slick arousal. “Fuck, you smell perfect,” he groaned, the low vibration of his voice sending a fresh jolt through your clit. “So fucking wet already… this all for me?”
Then he dove in like a man starved, like he’d been dreaming of this exact moment for months.
His tongue dragged broad, hot, and flat from your dripping entrance all the way up to your swollen clit in one greedy, possessive stroke. A broken, pathetic whimper tore from deep in his throat the instant he tasted you—needy and wrecked, the sound so raw it sent fresh wetness flooding between your legs. He buried his face deeper, large hands gripping your thighs with bruising strength, thick fingers digging into the soft muscle as he held you open wide for him. His biceps strained visibly, veins bulging with the effort as he devoured you messily, like a man who had been starving for months.
Obito ate you out with zero restraint. Wet, obscene slurps and filthy sucking sounds filled the small back office, echoing off the walls and mixing with your ragged moans and whimpers. He sucked your clit between his full lips, tongue flicking rapidly over the sensitive bundle of nerves in tight, relentless circles, then thrust his tongue deep inside you, fucking you with it in long, desperate strokes while moaning continuously into your pussy. Saliva and your slick dripped down his chin onto the tiled floor in messy rivulets. He ground his own painfully hard cock against the sharp edge of the bottom of the desk, hips rocking helplessly, whimpering with every desperate thrust against the unyielding wood.
“So sweet—fuck—better than any pastry you’ve ever made,” he gasped between greedy licks, voice muffled and shaky, almost slurred with pleasure. “Tastes so fucking good… been jerking off thinking about this pretty pussy for months.” Another pathetic whine escaped him as your walls clenched around his invading tongue at his confession. His hands slid higher, calloused thumbs spreading your folds wider, biceps flexing powerfully as he held you completely at his mercy, completely exposed.
You gripped his messy dark hair tightly, hips rolling against his face, chasing the overwhelming pleasure. “Obito—oh god—”
He moaned louder at the sound of his name, the deep vibration shooting straight through your core. It was almost a sob—wrecked, desperate, completely pathetic in the most arousing way. The scar on his face brushed against your inner thigh with every eager movement, a constant reminder of the rugged man kneeling between your legs.
He switched tactics without warning, pushing two thick fingers inside your soaked heat. They curled instantly against that perfect spongy spot while his mouth sealed back around your clit, sucking hard. The wet squelch of his fingers pumping in and out, combined with his desperate whimpers and the heat of his ragged breath against your pussy, overwhelmed every sense you had. His powerful thighs flexed and trembled beneath him as he continued humping the desk edge for any friction, the thick muscles straining visibly against his jeans, the heavy outline of his cock obvious even through the denim.
Your first orgasm crashed over you like a wave, thighs clamping hard around his head as you cried out, gushing onto his tongue and fingers. Obito didn’t stop for a second. He whimpered pathetically, drinking down every drop like it was nectar, his fingers still pumping steadily while his biceps trembled from the sustained effort. “More—please—give me another,” he begged, voice hoarse and broken. “I’ll stay down here all fucking night if you let me sweetheart.”
You nearly transcended right there on the desk.
He hooked your trembling legs over his broad, muscular shoulders, the new angle letting his tongue reach impossibly deeper. Long, reverent licks alternated with filthy, hungry sucking. Every few seconds he’d release a broken whine or groan your name muffled into your soaked folds like a desperate prayer. His hips kept rocking helplessly against the desk, chasing friction for his aching cock as the burn in his thighs and biceps grew more obvious—muscles taut, glistening with a light sheen of sweat under the office lights.
You came again, harder this time, fingers yanking desperately at his messy dark hair as stars exploded behind your eyelids and a broken, keening moan tore from your throat. Your walls fluttered and clenched around his thick fingers, gushing against his tongue while your entire body seized with overwhelming pleasure. Obito licked you through every shuddering aftershock, sobbing softly against your oversensitive clit, the sound raw and needy. His face was a complete, glistening mess—lips swollen and shiny, chin dripping with your arousal, the jagged scar on his cheek shining wetly. His dark eyes were hazy and utterly fucked-out with bliss as he gazed up at you like you were the only thing that mattered in the world.
By the time he finally pushed to his feet on shaky legs, you were boneless, slumped against the desk with your pussy swollen, glistening, and still throbbing with aftershocks. Obito freed his thick, heavy cock from his jeans with a guttural groan of relief. It sprang out, flushed dark red and intimidatingly thick, prominent veins running along the shaft, the fat head already leaking steadily with precum. The sight made your mouth water and your spent cunt clench around nothing.
But instead of plunging into you right away, he dropped back down between your trembling thighs for one more slower, worshipful round. Soft, open-mouthed kisses pressed to your puffy, sensitive folds. Broad, soothing licks that cleaned you up while still teasing. All of it paired with murmured praise in that deliciously gravelly voice that vibrated straight through you.
“Perfect little pussy,” he rasped, pressing a lingering kiss right over your clit. “My new favorite treat… gonna come back every single day just for this. Fuck, I can’t get enough of how you taste.”
Your third orgasm rolled through you like a slow, devastating tide, leaving you shaking and gasping, tears of overwhelming pleasure pricking at the corners of your eyes. Only then did he rise fully, towering over you, chest heaving. He pulled you to the very edge of the desk with those big, strong hands, lining up the thick head of his cock at your entrance.
He sank into you in one smooth, deep thrust, stretching you deliciously full. “So tight—fuck—gripping me so perfect,” he groaned, forehead pressed to yours, the scar on his face brushing your skin. His voice was wrecked, trembling with restraint.
He fucked you hard and deep, the old desk creaking rhythmically beneath you with every powerful snap of his hips. One big hand gripped your hip possessively, thick fingers digging into soft flesh and leaving marks you knew you’d feel for days. The other braced beside you on the desk, his bicep flexing and bulging with every thrust, veins standing out in sharp relief. His thick, powerful thighs slapped loudly against yours, the heavy muscle unyielding and warm, driving his cock into you with relentless force.
The sounds filling the small back room were filthy and intoxicating—the wet smack of skin on skin, his low guttural grunts, your breathy, broken moans, and the faint creak of wood protesting beneath you. The scent of sex mixed with lingering honey-glazed pastry and his cedar-soap skin, creating something intoxicatingly addictive.
Obito’s pace grew erratic, hips stuttering as he chased his release. “Gonna come—fuck, sweetheart—” He buried himself as deep as possible, groaning your name like a prayer as his cock pulsed inside you. Hot, thick spurts of cum filled you, wave after wave, until it started leaking out around his shaft and down between your ass.
He stayed buried deep inside you afterward, breathing ragged, forehead pressed to yours. His big hands stroked your sides tenderly now, calloused thumbs soothing the marks he’d left on your thighs with gentle, reverent circles. The powerful muscles in his arms and shoulders trembled slightly from the intensity.
“Still want the pastries?” you whispered, dazed and smiling up at him, body buzzing with satisfaction.
Obito chuckled, low and warm, the sound vibrating through his chest and into yours where you were still joined. He pressed a surprisingly soft kiss to the side of your neck, nuzzling there with his damp hair tickling your skin. “Keep the box. But I’m coming back tomorrow.” He nipped gently at your earlobe, voice dropping into that husky timbre again. “New usual includes after-closing dessert… and maybe breakfast too.”
You laughed breathlessly, threading your fingers through his hair as he kissed you again—slow and deep this time, full of promise.
After the two of you had made yourselves somewhat presentable (not that it mattered, considering you were going to get him naked as soon as possible). You eventually led him upstairs on shaky legs, your hand clasped in one of his large, calloused ones. The narrow wooden staircase creaked softly under your combined weight, protesting the presence of his powerful frame. The air grew warmer and sweeter as you ascended, the lingering scents of honey-glazed twists, buttery pastry, and vanilla following you like a sweet ghost. Obito’s cedar-and-sweat scent clung to your skin now too, mixing deliciously with the bakery warmth and the unmistakable musk of sex that still lingered between you.
Your apartment above the shop was small but cozy—a converted loft with exposed brick walls that glowed warmly under the single lamp, low ceilings that made Obito have to duck slightly, and a big window overlooking the quiet, rain-slicked street. The kitchenette still held the faint aroma of the morning’s test bakes, and your unmade bed sat against the far wall, sheets rumpled from the restless night before. A few baking books and scattered recipe cards rested on the nightstand, adding to the lived-in charm.
The moment the door clicked shut behind you, Obito pulled you close again. His big hands framed your face with surprising tenderness, thumbs stroking your flushed cheeks as he kissed you deeply—slower now, but no less hungry. You could taste yourself on his tongue, mingled with the faint sweetness of mint. His damp hair brushed your forehead, and the jagged scar on his face pressed lightly against your skin as he tilted his head to deepen the kiss.
“Been thinking about getting you up here for months,” he murmured against your lips, voice rough and low, vibrating through your chest. “Wondering how you’d sound in your own bed… how you’d look spread out under me.”
You so badly wanted to say me too, I’ve been rubbing my clit to the thought of you folding me in half, but the words caught in your throat.
Obito’s biceps flexed powerfully as he lifted you again, carrying you the last few steps to the bed like you weighed nothing. He laid you down with surprising gentleness, the mattress dipping deeply under his weight as he crawled over you. His powerful thighs straddled one of yours, the thick muscle warm and heavy through his jeans, pinning you deliciously in place.
You reached for the hem of his compression shirt, tugging it upward with eager fingers. Obito helped, peeling it off in one smooth motion that made every muscle in his torso ripple. The sight made your mouth go dry. His broad chest was sculpted and powerful, defined abs glistening with a light sheen of sweat from earlier exertion. Those heavy biceps flexed with every movement, veins standing out along his forearms. A few faint scars marked his skin, adding to the rugged, lived-in beauty of him.
Holy fuck he was even hotter than you imagined.
Your hands roamed greedily over him, tracing the ridges of muscle, feeling the intense heat of his skin and the way his abs tightened under your touch. Obito groaned at the contact, a low, needy sound that sent fresh heat pooling between your legs.
“Your hands feel so good,” he rasped, eyes half-lidded with pleasure. One of his large palms slid under your shirt, calloused fingers mapping the soft skin of your stomach before moving higher to cup your breast. His thumb brushed over your nipple in slow, teasing circles, sending sparks straight down to your core. He peeled the rest of your clothes away slowly, reverently—skirt, apron, shirt, panties—until you were completely bare beneath him, skin flushed and still sensitive from everything he’d already done to you downstairs.
Obito took his time, like he wanted to savor every inch of you. He kissed down the column of your neck, sucking lightly at the spot that made you arch and whimper, then lower—across your collarbones, between your breasts. His mouth latched onto one nipple, tongue swirling hot and wet around the sensitive peak while his free hand kneaded the other breast, rolling the nipple between thick fingers. The wet heat of his mouth, the gentle scrape of his teeth, and the deep, appreciative hums vibrating from his broad chest had you whimpering his name over and over.
“Fuck, you’re perfect,” he groaned against your skin, switching sides to give your other nipple the same devoted attention. His scarred cheek brushed the soft curve of your breast with every movement. “So responsive… been dying to know how you taste here, too.” He sucked harder, tongue flicking rapidly, while his free hand slid down your body to cup your still-sensitive pussy, not pushing inside but simply holding you possessively, thumb stroking gently over your mound.
Your back arched off the bed, fingers threading through his dark hair again as pleasure sparked through you. The contrast between his powerful, muscular body hovering over you and the tender way he worshipped your breasts made your head spin. The low ceiling and warm lamplight made everything feel even more intimate—like the rest of the world had disappeared, leaving only the two of you, the scent of baked sugar in the air, and the slow burn of new desire building between you.
When he finally settled between your thighs again, he didn’t devour you frantically like downstairs. This time it was slow and worshipful, almost reverent. His broad shoulders pushed your legs wider apart, powerful thighs flexing as he knelt on the bed. Those big, calloused hands gripped the backs of your knees, spreading you open for him with gentle but undeniable strength. He pressed open-mouthed kisses along your inner thighs, licking softly at the faint marks he’d left earlier, soothing the tender skin with his tongue.
“So fucking pretty,” he whispered, voice hoarse and wrecked from earlier moans. “Still so wet for me… dripping down your thighs like you can’t get enough.” He dragged his tongue lazily through your folds in one long, savoring stroke, groaning deeply at your taste. He took his time—broad, unhurried licks that covered every inch, occasionally sealing his lips around your clit to suck gently, almost tenderly. His biceps bulged with the sustained effort of holding your legs apart, veins standing out prominently along the thick muscle. Soft, needy whimpers escaped him every time your pussy clenched or you let out a shaky moan—pathetic little sounds that made it clear he was just as lost in this as you were, maybe even more so.
You came again under his mouth, slower this time, a deep rolling wave that built gradually and crashed over you with breathtaking intensity. Your back arched off the bed, thighs trembling around his head as you gasped his name. Obito licked you through every pulse and flutter, humming in satisfaction, until the overstimulation made you twitch and whimper.
He kissed his way back up your body with lazy affection, shedding the rest of his clothes as he went. His jeans and boxers hit the floor, and his thick cock slapped heavily against his abs—still rock-hard (bless his stamina), flushed dark, and leaking steadily from the tip. He stroked himself once, twice, eyes dark and hungry as he watched you lying there flushed and breathless.
You might die if his dick isn’t in you soon.
“Come here,” you breathed, reaching for him with trembling arms.
Obito covered you completely, the heavy weight of his powerful body pressing you deliciously into the mattress. One thick thigh hooked over yours as he lined up and sank into you in one smooth, deep thrust. The stretch was perfect—full, overwhelming, and so right. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, groaning deeply, hips rolling in slow, grinding circles that dragged against your clit with every movement.
“Fuck… you feel incredible,” he rasped against your skin, the scar on his face brushing your shoulder. “So warm and tight… like you were made for me.”
His large hand gripped your hip possessively, guiding your movements while the other braced beside your head, biceps flexing powerfully with every deep thrust. The slap of skin was quieter here, more intimate, mixed with his low guttural grunts and your breathy moans. He fucked you deep and steady, grinding against your clit with every roll of his hips, his thick thighs tensing and releasing as he drove into you.
You lost track of how long it went on—slow, languid rounds that blurred together in a haze of pleasure. He eventually flipped you onto your stomach, big hands gripping your ass and spreading you open as he took you from behind. His biceps caged you in, forearms braced on either side of your head while his powerful hips snapped forward, the heavy weight of his body pinning you down in the best way. Then you rode him, hands braced on his broad chest, feeling those sculpted abs tighten under your palms and his powerful thighs flexing beneath you as he thrust up to meet every bounce. His whimpers grew louder when you clenched around him, broken praises spilling from his lips in a desperate stream: “So good… perfect… gonna cum if you keep doing that—fuck, sweetheart—”
When he finally came the second time, it was with a deep, shuddering groan of your name, hips stuttering as he buried himself to the hilt and spilled inside you again. Hot pulses of cum filled you, his thick cock throbbing with every wave. He collapsed beside you, pulling you into his chest with strong arms.
His big arms wrapped around you completely, one hand stroking soothing circles up and down your back while the other rested possessively on your thigh, thumb tracing lazy patterns over your skin. The room smelled of sex, sweat, cedarwood, and the lingering sweetness of the bakery below. His heartbeat thundered steadily under your ear, strong and reassuring.
“You okay?” he murmured after a while, pressing a soft kiss to the top of your hair, his voice gentle and low now that the intensity had faded.
“More than okay,” you whispered, nuzzling closer into his warm chest, fingers tracing the ridges of his abs. You could feel the faint sheen of sweat on his skin and the way his muscles still twitched with residual pleasure.
Obito chuckled softly, the sound rumbling through both of you. He tightened his hold, tucking you more securely against him. “Good. Because I wasn’t kidding downstairs… I’m coming back tomorrow. And the day after that.” He tilted your chin up gently, dark eyes soft but still heated as he kissed you slow and sweet. “Might just become a permanent fixture up here if you’ll have me.”
You smiled against his lips, already drifting off in the warm cocoon of his arms, the distant patter of rain against the window lulling you both to sleep.
—-------------------------------------------
Morning light filtered softly through the gauzy curtains of your loft apartment, painting the exposed brick walls in warm golds and soft peaches. The air was still heavy with the mingled scents of last night’s passion—musky sex, cedarwood, clean sweat, and the faint underlying sweetness of vanilla and honey that always clung to the bakery below. You stirred slowly, body deliciously sore in all the right places, a lazy smile tugging at your lips before you even opened your eyes.
A low, needy whimper pulled you fully awake.
Obito was already awake, nestled between your spread thighs like he belonged there (which, after last night, he absolutely did). The sheet had been dragged down to the foot of the bed, leaving you completely exposed to the cool morning air and his hungry gaze. He knelt on the mattress, thick, powerful thighs spread wide for balance, the heavy muscle flexing and shifting under sun-kissed skin as he leaned in. His dark hair was adorably mussed from sleep and your fingers the night before, a few strands falling across the jagged scar on his face. Those dark eyes flicked up to meet yours, hazy with sleep and raw want.
“Morning,” he rasped, voice gravelly and rough from the night’s exertions. His breath ghosted hot over your already slick folds. “Couldn’t wait any longer… you were right there, all warm and sweet. Smelled like heaven.”
Before you could form a reply, he leaned forward and dragged his broad, flat tongue in one long, slow stripe from your entrance all the way up to your clit. The wet heat of it made your back arch off the bed with a sharp gasp. Obito moaned pathetically against you, the sound vibrating straight through your core—broken, desperate, like he was the one being pleasured.
“Fuck… even better in the morning,” he groaned, nuzzling deeper. His large, calloused hands slid under your ass, gripping the soft flesh firmly and lifting your hips slightly so he could bury his face completely. Biceps bulged powerfully with the effort, veins standing out along the thick muscle as he held you exactly where he wanted. “Taste so fucking good… could eat this pussy for breakfast every day.”
Yes please.
He devoured you with that same starved intensity from the night before, but slower now, more savoring. His tongue circled your clit with lazy, teasing strokes before dipping lower to thrust inside you, fucking you in deep, wet strokes that made obscene slurping sounds fill the quiet apartment. Saliva and your fresh arousal dripped down his chin onto the sheets. He whimpered continuously—soft, needy little sounds every time your walls fluttered around his tongue, hips rocking helplessly against the mattress as his thick cock throbbed untouched beneath him.
One of his big hands left your ass to push two thick fingers inside your soaked heat, curling them instantly against that spongy spot that made stars burst behind your eyes. His biceps flexed hard as he pumped them steadily, the muscles in his shoulders and back shifting beautifully with every movement. The other hand stayed on your thigh, calloused thumb stroking soothing circles even as his mouth grew more desperate.
“Obito—ah—fuck—” Your hands flew to his messy dark hair, fingers tangling tight as your hips rolled against his face.
He sobbed softly into your pussy at the sound of his name, the pathetic whimper muffled but unmistakable. “That’s it… say it again. Need you to cum on my tongue. Please—been hard since I woke up thinking about this.” His powerful thighs trembled as he ground his leaking cock against the bed for friction, the heavy muscle of his shoulders and biceps burning visibly with tension as he worked you higher, tongue flicking rapidly over your swollen clit while his fingers curled and stroked without mercy.
The pleasure built slow and devastating. Every wet sound, every broken whine, every flex of those strong arms holding you open pushed you closer and closer to the edge. Obito was relentless in his devotion—sucking gently on your clit, then lapping broadly, then plunging his tongue back inside you like he couldn’t decide which part of you he needed more. His scarred cheek pressed against your inner thigh, the slight roughness of it adding another layer of sensation that made you shudder.
When your orgasm finally crashed over you, it rolled through your body in long, shuddering waves. Your thighs clamped around his head, fingers yanking his hair as you cried out, gushing onto his eager tongue and fingers. Pleasure flooded every nerve, leaving you trembling and breathless.
Obito didn’t pull away. He whimpered like he was cumming himself, drinking down every drop with greedy, reverent laps, prolonging your pleasure until you were twitching and oversensitive. Only then did he lift his head, face a glistening mess—lips swollen and shiny, chin dripping with your arousal, eyes dark and utterly drunk on you. The scar tugged at the corner of his mouth as he gave you a wrecked, crooked smile, looking thoroughly debauched in the golden morning light.
“Best breakfast I’ve ever had,” he murmured, voice hoarse and satisfied. He crawled up your body, pressing soft, sticky kisses along your stomach and between your breasts before capturing your mouth in a deep, filthy kiss so you could taste yourself on his tongue.
“Want you,” he murmured, voice hoarse and thick with sleep and lingering need. “Need to feel you again.”
You nodded, heart fluttering as you wrapped your legs around his waist, heels digging into the firm muscle of his ass. Obito sank into you in one smooth, deep thrust, both of you groaning at the perfect, slick stretch. The wet heat of your pussy welcomed him greedily, still slightly swollen and sensitive from the night before, making every inch feel impossibly intense. His forehead pressed to yours, breaths mingling hot and sweet in the narrow space between you as he started moving—slow, rolling thrusts that ground his pelvis firmly against your clit with every stroke, sending sparks of pleasure radiating through your core.
His large hand laced with yours above your head, thick, calloused fingers intertwining possessively, the rough warmth of his palm grounding you. The other gripped your hip, biceps flexing powerfully with each controlled movement, veins standing out along the heavy muscle. His thick thighs pushed your legs wider, the heavy, sun-warmed muscle pressing hot and unyielding against your softer skin. The faint scent of cedarwood and clean sweat rose from his body with every shift, mixing with the musky aroma of sex and the sweet vanilla-honey notes drifting up from the bakery below.
The morning sex was lazy and intimate, filled with quiet gasps, breathy moans, and whispered praises. “So perfect… so tight around me,” he groaned, the low rumble vibrating against your chest as his hips snapped a little harder when your walls clenched around his thick cock. Sweat beaded on his broad chest and powerful shoulders, glistening in the soft morning light, and the cedar-sweat scent grew richer, warmer, more intoxicating with every thrust. You ran your hands greedily over his biceps, feeling them tense and release under your palms like living steel, then slid them down the sculpted planes of his back, nails dragging lightly and pulling more needy, rumbling sounds from deep in his throat.
Obito flipped you gently onto your side at one point, spooning behind you with one powerful thigh hooked heavily over yours, caging you in completely. His big hand cupped your breast, calloused thumb circling and pinching your nipple as he thrust deep from behind. The new angle dragged his cock against that perfect spot inside you with every slow push, making you moan louder. His low grunts vibrated against the sensitive skin of your neck where he pressed open-mouthed kisses and soft, claiming bites, his damp hair brushing your shoulder and his scarred cheek warm against you.
When he finally came, it was with a deep, shuddering groan of your name that you felt in your bones. His hips stuttered, pressing flush against your ass as he spilled hot and deep inside you—thick, pulsing jets of cum that filled you until it started leaking out around his shaft. He stayed buried there, strong arms wrapped tightly around you, one big hand stroking soothing circles over your stomach while the other brushed damp strands of hair from your face with surprising tenderness. His heartbeat thundered against your back, steady and reassuring.
“You’re gonna be the death of me,” he chuckled breathlessly, pressing a tender kiss behind your ear, his stubble lightly scraping your skin.
You laughed softly, a bright, happy sound, and turned in his arms to face him. His scar creased with that signature crooked, satisfied smile, dark eyes soft and warm in the golden morning light. “What a way to go though.”
Obito’s hand slid down to squeeze your ass possessively, thick fingers digging into the soft flesh with just enough pressure to make you shiver. “The best way,” he admitted, leaning in to nip at your bottom lip, letting you taste the faint salt of his skin. “But I do want you to know.” His voice softened further, thumb stroking your cheek with gentle affection. “That this… us… it’s not just because of last night. Been wanting you for months. All of you. Flour on your cheek and all.”
Your heart swelled at the raw sincerity in his gravelly voice. You kissed him deeply, slow and full of promise, tasting the faint sweetness of last night’s honey on his tongue alongside the musk of sex.
Eventually, you both dragged yourselves out of bed, limbs heavy and pleasantly sore. Obito helped you downstairs, refusing to let you carry anything heavy. His big hands made quick work of the heavier trays, biceps flexing and straining under the golden morning light streaming through the bakery windows as he moved with that easy, powerful grace. The faint creak of the wooden stairs and the soft clink of trays filled the quiet space. The box of pastries from last night still sat untouched on the counter. He grinned, stealing one of the honey-glazed twists—still slightly warm and sticky—and took a big bite, eyes fluttering shut in exaggerated bliss as the sweet, nutty flavor hit his tongue.
“Still warm,” he mumbled through the bite, golden honey glistening on his lips. He broke off a piece and offered it to you, feeding you with his fingers. The sticky sweetness coated your tongue as you sucked lightly at his thumb, watching his eyes darken with renewed heat.
“Careful,” he warned playfully, voice dropping low and rough, thumb lingering on your bottom lip. “Keep that up and you’ll never open the shop.”
You laughed and swatted his chest, but the heat in his gaze promised he’d be back for “dessert” again tonight—and every night after.
The bell would chime at 7:45 like always, but now it carried a whole new kind of warm, delicious anticipation.
summary ♡ After moving to a quieter town to start over, you find yourself stopping by a corner bakery more often than necessary. The bread is warm, the tea is thoughtful, and the baker cares more about you than you realise.
tags ♡ modern au, bakery au, small town au, fem nanami, mild slow burn, healing, healing and comfort, fluff, soft romance, domestic fluff, soft nanami
authors note ♡ my entry for the gay panic event hosted by @cherrys-wrld !! <3
The apartment is quieter than you expected it.
Not void, just calm. The kind of silence that settles instead of echoing. You stand in your doorway for a moment longer than necessary, one hand on the door handle, as if the place might object to you being here.
It doesn't. Obviously.
Just smells like fresh paint and cardboard, and something clean that you can't quite name.
You didn't leave in a flurry of drama. No slammed doors, no raised voices. Just a decision made slowly, carefully and fully selfishly after too many nights of laying awake feeling hollow. Suguru nodded when you told her, albeit sad, but understanding. You packed your bags into boxes over the course of a week, each item tucked into cardboard like a promise that you're ready to start again.
The town is smaller than what you're typically used to. Everything feels a little slower here, less impatient. Your new job has been the excuse you gave everyone, and it’s not a lie. Better hours. A softer workload. But the real reason sits heavier in your chest: you needed somewhere that didn’t remind you of feeling split in half and empty.
You spend the afternoon unpacking the essentials. Upbeat music playing in your headphones. Clothes folded into drawers. Mugs lined along the counter. Your favourite jumper draped over the back of a chair in hopes you'll wear out. When you finally sit on the floor with your back against the couch, knees pulled to your chest, you realize you’re not exhausted in the way you used to be. Just tired. The kind that comes with relief.
By the time evening rolls in, the light outside turns honeyed and low. You grab your jacket and step out, letting the door click shut behind you.
The air smells different here. Purer, tinged with something warm. You follow the street without much thought, letting your feet decide.
That’s when you see it.
A bakery, tucked on the corner about ten minutes from your place. Soft golden light spills through the windows, shining through the glass. You can smell bread before you even pass the door. Yeast and sugar and butter, comforting in a way that makes your chest ache pleasantly. Inside, you catch a glimpse of wooden shelves and a chalkboard menu, the whole place glowing like it’s waiting for someone.
You smile, small and surprised.
Maybe this place knows something you’re just starting to learn.
Just maybe, this is where good things begin.
The rain starts without warning.
One moment the sky is grey, heavy with a promise of raindrops, but not until you're back at your place, and the next it's pouring. Thick sheets of rain that soak the pavement and darken your sleeves within mere seconds.
You curse softly under your breath, punching your shoulders as you hurry down the street, already regretting not bringing your umbrella that's currently sitting uselessly by your front door.
By the time you spot the bakery, you're drenched, hair clinging uncomfortably to your neck and cheeks, the ends of your jeans dark and wet, and your shoes making a horrible squelching noise with each step that makes you cringe.
Warm light spills through the windows, amber and inviting, glowing against the rain like a held breath. You don’t hesitate. You duck inside, shaking water from your coat as the door shuts behind you with a soft chime.
The difference is immediate.
Heat wraps around you, gentle and steady, carrying with it the unmistakable smell of baked bread, yeast and butter and something sweet beneath it. The rain fades to a soft patter against the glass, replaced by low music drifting from somewhere behind the counter. Nothing loud. Just soft, acoustic, the kind that feels like it belongs here.
You breathe out, shoulders finally dropping.
The bakery is small but thoughtfully arranged. Wooden shelves line the walls, stacked with loaves and pastries, everything labelled in neat handwriting. A chalkboard menu hangs above the counter, smudged slightly at the corners.
It feels lived-in. Loved.
You wander closer, pretending you didn’t come in here purely to escape the rain. Your fingers trace the edge of a basket filled with crusty bread, still warm enough to fog the air faintly.
“That one’s fresh out of the oven.”
The voice is calm, a little deeper than you expect. You look up.
She’s standing behind the counter, sleeves rolled to her forearms, a light dusting of flour clinging to her hands. Her hair is tied back neatly, a few stubborn strands escaping near her temples. She looks focused, like you’ve caught her mid-thought, but her eyes soften when they meet yours.
“Sorry,” you say quickly, aware of the water still dripping down onto your face from your hair. “I didn’t mean to hover.”
A small smile tugs at her mouth. “You’re not hovering. You’re evaluating.” She gestures lightly to the bread. “Very serious business.”
You laugh, surprised by how easy it feels. “I forgot my umbrella.”
“That happens,” she says, like it’s something she’s seen a hundred times. “You’re welcome to wait it out.”
You glance towards the window. Rain streaks down the glass, relentless. “I might take you up on that. I've been wanting to buy something anyway.”
“Good,” she says, already reaching for some paper. “What can I get you?”
You order bread. Just bread, you tell yourself firmly. But as you wait for the baker to slice the loaf for you, you find your attention drifting back to her. The careful way she moves, efficient without being rushed. The faint crease between her brows when she concentrates. Flour smudged along her knuckles.
“You’re new,” she says eventually, glancing up as she slices the loaf.
It’s not a question.
“Is it that obvious?”
“Only because I’d remember you,” she replies mildly.
Your stomach does something inconvenient. “I moved here recently.”
She nods. “Welcome, then.”
“Do you say that to everyone who looks lost and soaked?”
A ghost of amusement flickers across her expression. “Only the honest ones.”
You talk while she works. About the weather—unavoidable. About how quiet the town is compared to the city. About how you didn’t expect a bakery like this to exist on your walk home.
“I’m Nanami,” she says at some point, like it just occurred to her you might want to know.
You tell her your name, and she repeats it once, thoughtfully, as if testing how it sounds in the air.
The rain softens outside. You don’t notice.
You add a pastry to your order. Then another, after she insists you try it. She recommends something filled with fruit, something else dusted with sugar, and you find yourself agreeing far too easily.
By the time she slides the bag across the counter, it’s heavier than you intended.
“You’ll need two hands,” she notes.
You take it, fingers brushing hers for just a second, warm, flour-dusted, grounding.
Outside, the rain has slowed to a mist.
“Oh,” you say, glancing back through the window. “I didn’t even realise.”
Nanami follows your gaze. “It does that sometimes.”
You tuck the bag carefully under your arm. “Thank you for letting me hide in here.”
“Any time,” she says, and there’s something about the way she means it that feels… open.
You pause at the door. “I’ll probably be back. For bread. Or to take cover.”
“I’ll be here,” she replies simply.
The bell chimes as you step outside, the air cool and fresh against your skin. When you look back, just once, Nanami is still watching through the window, sleeves rolled, flour still on her hands, the warm light framing her like a quiet promise.
And for the first time in a long while, walking home feels lighter.
There’s no moment where you wake up and think, I’m better now. No dramatic shift, no clear line between before and after. Just a series of small things, stacking gently on top of one another until you realise you’re standing on steadier ground.
The bakery becomes part of your walk home.
At first, you tell yourself it’s for convenience.
It’s on the way. It’s warm. You like the bread. But soon, your feet start to angle towards it without you thinking, your pace slowing as the familiar glow comes into view through the windows. Some days you arrive just as the light outside is fading, the shop a pocket of gold against the evening.
Nanami looks up the moment the bell chimes.
“You’re cutting it close,” she says mildly, already reaching for the paper bags beneath the counter.
You blink. “Am I?”
She hums, thoughtful, as she lifts a loaf from behind the counter, the same one you always buy, the one with the dried fruits that you love to eat for breakfast toasted with butter spread on top. She slides it into a bag with practised ease. “Five minutes later and you’d have missed the last batch.”
You hadn’t said anything yet.
You watch her for a second, a strange warmth blooming low in your chest. “You remembered.”
Nanami pauses, glancing up at you like the answer should be obvious. “Of course I did.”
She says it simply. No pride. No fanfare. Just a fact, like the sky being blue or the bread needing time to rise.
From then on, it becomes routine.
You come in after work, coat shrugged off, shoulders still tight from the day. Nanami has your order ready more often than not, bread already bagged, pastry set aside on a small plate near the till. Sometimes she’ll adjust it. Swap one thing for another, but it’s always just right. Always what you didn’t realise you wanted until it’s there.
“You’re spoiling me,” you tell her one evening.
She raises an eyebrow. “I’m efficient.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“It is to me.”
Some days, the bakery is busy. Others, it’s quiet enough that your footsteps echo faintly on the tiled floor. On those evenings, Nanami moves a little slower, wiping down the counter, adjusting the display even when it doesn’t need it. You linger longer too, fingers wrapped around a warm paper cup she insists you take.
“You’ll catch a cold,” she says, already pouring outside again and you, yet again, didn't bring an umbrella..
“I’m indoors right now, I'll be fine.”
“You came in soaked once and I refuse to repeat that experience.”
You smile into the steam curling from the cup.
Without meaning to, you start to notice other changes.
You sleep better.
Not perfectly, but deeper.
Your dreams aren’t so restless, and when you wake, it’s without that familiar, dreadful weight pressing down on your chest. Your apartment begins to feel less like a temporary stop and more like somewhere you actually live. You buy plants. You hang a print on the wall that you bought from the market at the town square. The quiet doesn’t feel quite so loud anymore.
And somehow, the bakery is threaded through all of it.
One afternoon, you’re halfway through counting coins in your cupped hands when Nanami slides a small box across the counter.
“What’s this?” you ask.
You open it to find a pastry inside, sugar dusted and still faintly warm. The display case behind her is conspicuously empty, save for a few crumbs and a smudged label.
“You sold out,” you say, amused.
She doesn’t miss a beat. “I made too many.”
You glance between the box and the very clear lack of pastries behind her. “Nanami.”
She meets your eyes, expression perfectly composed. “It would be a shame to waste it.”
You laugh, soft and fond despite yourself. “You’re terrible at lying.”
“Well, I’m excellent at redistribution.”
You take it, fingers brushing the box lid like it might vanish if you don’t accept it quickly enough. You eat it on the walk home, rain threatening but never quite falling, sweetness lingering on your tongue long after it’s gone.
There are days when you barely talk at all.
Just a nod. A smile. The exchange of coins and cash and bags and quiet understanding. And somehow, those days feel just as important. Like proof that you don’t always need words to be seen.
One evening, you’re distracted, your mind caught on something dull and heavy from work, when Nanami clears her throat.
“You’re holding the wrong bag.”
You blink, looking down. “I am?”
“That one's hot.” She gently switches them, placing the heavier one into your other hand. “The one you're holding is for someone else”
“Oh.” You roll your lips between your teeth. “You prepare someone else's order in advance too?”
You see the small smirk curling on the corners of her lips, like she can tell exactly what you're feeling. “Yeah, for an elderly lady who comes in every Thursday.”
You don't say anything to that, a bit humiliated for feeling slightly jealous, but overall just tired from work.
She hesitates, then says, “Long day?”
You nod. The answer sits in your chest, bigger than the word allows, but it’s enough.
She doesn’t push. Just gives a small nod of her own and slides an extra napkin into the bag and tucked halfly in a specific box. You notice, later, there’s a little note scribbled on it.
‘eat this one first’ and pointing to the pastry inside.
It feels intimate. Not in a way that makes your heart race. In a way that makes you feel warm and soft and fuzzy.
When you’re leaving, adjusting your scarf and tucking the bag close to your side, Nanami speaks without looking up from the counter.
“I’ll see you tomorrow.”
It catches you off guard.
You pause, fingers tightening briefly around the paper handle. She doesn’t phrase it like a question. There’s no if, no hopefully. No “Come back soon!”
Just an easy certainty, like tomorrow is already accounted for.
“Yeah,” you say, warmth spreading through you. “Tomorrow.”
Outside, the street feels different. Familiar in a way it didn’t before. Like you belong to it now or maybe it belongs to you.
Later that night, as you put the bread away and rinse the crumbs from your fingers, you realise something quietly important.
You’re looking forward to tomorrow.
Not because anything big is going to happen. Not because something has changed.
But because something steady has stayed and for now, that feels like more than enough.
The day refuses to end when it’s meant to.
Work bleeds into evening, then into something heavier. Unanswered emails, an extra task you hadn’t planned for, the kind of tiredness that settles behind your eyes rather than in your limbs. By the time you finally leave, the sky has darkened completely, the streetlamps already glowing.
You hesitate at the corner.
The bakery lights are still on, but dimmer now. Softer. You check the time on your phone and wince. You’re later than usual. Later than you ever are.
Still, your feet carry you there, despite the ‘open close’ sign already flipped over.
You knock lightly, more out of habit than expectation. A moment passes. Then the door opens.
Nanami stands there, cardigan pulled on over her work shirt, hair looser than you’re used to seeing it. She takes one look at you, shoulders slumped, eyes dulled with fatigue, and steps aside without a word.
“Come in,” she says gently.
“I know you’re closing,” you start, already half-apologising.
“It's okay,” she waves it off, locking the door behind you. “You’re not an inconvenience.”
The bakery feels different at night. Quieter. The machines are off, the air no longer thick with fresh bread but still warm, still safe. You shrug off your coat, movements slow, and take your usual spot at the table near the window.
Nanami doesn’t reach for the coffee pot.
Instead, she fills the kettle.
You notice, but you’re too tired to question it. You watch her hands instead. Steady, practiced as she drops dried petals into a cup.
“Hibiscus,” she says when she sets it in front of you. “No caffeine.”
You curl your fingers around the mug. It’s warm in a way that feels intentional. “I didn’t ask for this.”
“I know,” she replies simply.
You take a sip. Tart, floral, grounding. Something unclenches in your chest.
Nanami doesn’t hover. She finishes wiping down the counter, then pulls out the chair opposite you and sits. Not close enough to crowd. Not far enough to feel distant. Just… present.
For a while, neither of you speaks.
The silence isn’t awkward. It stretches comfortably, filled only by the soft hum of the lights and the faint sound of the kettle cooling. You stare into your tea, watching the steam curl and fade. Watch your ruby-red reflection on the tea surface, your tired face watching you back.
“Long day,” Nanami says eventually. Not a question.
You nod. The word yes feels too small, so you don’t say it.
She doesn’t press. Doesn’t offer advice or platitudes. Just sits there, hands folded loosely on the table, attention steady and patient. Like she has nowhere else she needs to be.
Something about that makes your throat tighten.
You hadn’t realised how much effort you’ve been putting into holding yourself together until this moment. Until someone quietly gives you permission to stop.
“It’s stupid,” you say finally, voice soft. “I thought I was past this part.”
Nanami tilts her head. “Healing isn’t linear.”
You huff a tired laugh. “You sound like you’ve practised saying that.”
She allows herself a small smile. “It's just experience.”
You sip your tea again, slower this time. The warmth spreads through you, chasing away the edges of the day. You glance around the bakery. The shelves, the display case, the counter, the chair you’ve come to know so well, and something settles into place.
This. This is where you feel okay.
Not fixed. Not perfect.
Just safe.
Nanami stands eventually, not because she’s rushing you, but because the moment has reached its natural end. She walks you to the door, pausing with her hand on the lock.
“Take your time getting home,” she says.
You look at her, really look at her, and the realisation lands softly but firmly in your chest.
You’re not just fond of this place.
You’re not just grateful.
You care. About her. About the quiet way she sees you without asking you to perform.
“I will,” you say, and you mean more than the walk.
As you step back into the night, tea still warm in your hands, you understand something clearly for the first time.
This isn’t just routine anymore.
It’s an actual, healthy connection.
You’re late again.
Later than you mean to be, later than feels polite, but the bakery light is still on when you reach it—dimmer now, like it’s holding its breath waiting for you.
You hesitate, fingers hovering near the handle, and before you can second-guess yourself, the door opens.
Nanami’s already there.
She has your order in her hands.
“I was just about to lock up,” she says calmly, like she hasn’t been waiting.
“I can come back another time,” you start, guilt creeping in. “I don’t want to keep you-”
“You’re not,” she says immediately. Too quickly. Too certain.
The door clicks shut behind you, the lights are low. The bakery's now emptied of its daytime hum, shelves bare and quiet. It feels smaller like this. More intimate.
Nanami sets the bag down and pours you tea without asking. You wrap your hands around the mug, warmth seeping into your palms, grounding you.
“I’m not overstaying, am I?” you ask softly. “Keeping you away from something?”
She meets your gaze. Doesn’t look away. “No.”
Just that. No elaboration. Like there’s nowhere else she’d rather be.
You sit at your table, shoulders drawn in, fingers worrying at the sleeve of your jumper without thinking. You realise you’re doing it only when Nanami speaks again.
“You do that when you’re nervous.”
Your hands still instantly.
You blink up at her. “You noticed?”
She looks almost puzzled by the question. “Of course I did.”
Something warm and startling unfurls in your chest. You swallow, trying to laugh it off. “Do you usually let your customers stay after closing?”
“You ask those types of questions a lot.” Nanami says fondly, but she considers you for a moment, expression thoughtful. Then, quietly, “Only my favourite ones.”
The words land gently, not a declaration, not a tease sharp enough to sting. Just enough to let you know she means it.
You feel it then. The shift. The subtle awareness that this has been happening for a while now. The remembering, the waiting, the way she makes space for you without asking you to earn it.
“I think,” you say slowly, choosing your words like they matter, “this place stopped being just a bakery to me.”
Nanami’s eyes soften. She leans closer, not crowding, giving you time to pull away if you want to. You don’t.
“I was hoping you’d realise,” she murmurs.
Your heart is loud in your ears. “And you?”
She smiles, small and honest. “I realised weeks ago.”
The silence stretches. Not heavy, not awkward. Full.
You close the distance without quite deciding to, and she meets you halfway. The kiss is gentle, unhurried, like everything else between you. No rush. Just warmth and certainty and the quiet understanding that this, whatever it is, feels right.
Nanami pulls back just enough to speak, her breath warm against your lips. "Come back to my place with me."
It's not a demand. Just an invitation, soft and open, leaving room for you to say no.
You nod, unable to find words, and she takes your hand.
The door to the stairwell is tucked behind the staff only door, narrow and unassuming. She leads you up, fingers laced with yours, and halfway there you can't help yourself—you tug her back, pressing her against the wall to kiss her again.
She makes a soft sound of surprise that melts into something warmer. Her hands find your waist, steadying you, then sliding lower to grip your hips, pulling you flush against her. The kiss deepens, her tongue tracing your bottom lip until you open for her.
"Impatient," she murmurs against your mouth, but there's heat in it now.
"You started it," you breathe back, already reaching for the buttons of her shirt. “Like you actually started it.”
She catches your wrists gently, pinning them against the wall above your head. "Not yet," she says, voice low. "Let me take care of you first."
The words send heat pooling low in your belly.
Her apartment is above her bakery, small, tidy, smelling faintly of bread and lavender. You barely register it before her hands are on you again, walking you backwards until your knees hit the edge of her bed.
"Is this okay?" she asks, thumb brushing along your jaw.
"Yes," you whisper. "Please, Nanami."
She eases you down, settling over you, and her kisses trail from your mouth to your jaw, down your throat. When her fingers find the hem of your shirt, she doesn't pause this time, she pulls it over your head in one smooth motion, then reaches behind you to unhook your bra.
"Beautiful," she murmurs, palms cupping your breasts, thumbs circling your nipples until they peak. You arch into her touch, a soft whimper escaping.
"That's it," she says. "Let me hear you."
She takes her time undressing you, kissing every inch of skin she reveals. When she hooks her fingers into your underwear and slides them down your legs, you're already wet, already aching.
Nanami settles between your thighs, pressing them open wider. "Look at you," she says, almost reverent. "So ready for me."
The first touch of her tongue makes you gasp. She works you slowly, deliberately, learning what makes you moan, what makes your hips buck against her mouth. When she slides two fingers inside you, curling them just right, you cry out.
"That's my girl," she murmurs against your clit. "You're doing so well."
The praise unravels something in you. You thread your fingers through her hair, holding on as she builds you higher, the wet sounds of her mouth and fingers obscene in the quiet room.
"Nanami, I'm-"
"I know," she says. "Cum for me."
You shatter, trembling and gasping her name, and she works you through it, gentle now, until you're boneless and spent.
She crawls up to hold you, pressing kisses to your temple. "Stay," she whispers.
You press closer, breathing her in. "I'm not going anywhere."
And for the first time in longer than you can remember, you mean it.
Morning comes quietly.
Not with an alarm or the jolt of obligation, but with pale light slipping through the thin curtains and settling across the room like it belongs there. You wake slowly, wrapped in warmth that isn’t just the blankets.
Nanami’s bedroom is spare in the same way the bakery is, intentional. Clean lines. Neutral colours. A faint scent of lavender and something warm, yeasty, familiar. Home-adjacent.
For a moment, you just lie there and breathe.
There’s movement from the other side of the room. Soft footsteps. The gentle clink of ceramic. You follow the sound down the narrow hallway to the kitchen, where Nanami stands at the stove, sleeves rolled up, blonde hair still a little rumpled from sleep.
“You’re up,” she says, hazel eyes glancing over her shoulder.
“Smells like it was worth it,” you reply, voice still rough.
She huffs a quiet laugh. “I hope so.”
Breakfast is simple. Eggs. Toast. Strawberries sliced carefully. You end up beside her without really deciding to be, reaching for plates, handing things back and forth until your movements sync naturally. At one point your fingers brush, and neither of you pulls away.
You eat at the small table by the window, sunlight warming your knees. There’s no awkwardness. No pressure to define anything. Just the quiet comfort of being here, of being included.
Nanami pours you tea. Hibiscus again, remembering and sitting across from you.
“You don’t have to rush,” she says. “You can stay as long as you like.”
You meet her gaze, something soft settling in your chest. “I know.”
Outside, the town is already waking. Inside, everything feels steady. Uncomplicated. Like this isn’t a rare thing you’ll talk yourself out of later.
More specifically, thinking of Flambae, carrying around multiple giant bags of flour or other ingredients, like it’s nothing………
I’m normal about this man
Long, incoherent, and cheesy ramble incoming.
Anyway, I imagine this not as a no power AU. Chad was still a villain, and Robert still cut off his fingers. However, he doesn’t join SDN.
Maybe his sentence was shorter, and he got out either before he could be offered a spot as SDN, or he did join SDN, but was released before Robert was hired. Maybe he was never arrested, and escaped, clutching the bleeding stumps of his fingers, before he could be apprehended.
It’s not long before the Z-Team is well aware of Robert’s sweet tooth. At some point, Prism, never missing an opportunity to support her bestie, recommends Chad’s bakery (Whether or not he owns it or just works there, I’m not sure yet. Maybe his parents own it. Who knows? Not me.).
Robert doesn’t go immediately. He doesn’t really have the funds for fancy, LA bakery treats. Maybe he doesn’t visit until post-Shroud takedown, when Chad’s opinion of Mecha Man is ever so slightly higher based on what Prism has told him. Though, I think it would be more interesting if it’s during the events of the game, for reasons I’ll get to later since I’m getting off track. Point is, we’re going with this taking place during the game.
Anywho, Robert visits the bakery, meeting Chad, his hair up in a bun with the top half covered by a bandana trimmed with orange flames. ‘Chad’ is what the name tag pinned to his apron reads.
I’m not quite sure how the flirting would start, to be honest. It’s Mechabae, so there has to be a little bit of antagonizing sprinkled in. Perhaps Robert picks out the smallest, cheapest dessert, just so he could appease Alice by saying he got something. Chad pokes fun at that being a little depressing. He’s insulted, really. A whole line up of treats in the case and this guy gets a single, sad biscuit or something.
So, he throws in a little something on the house. Only because it would be pathetic for Robert to walk out with just one thing. What would other people think? That their desserts weren’t good enough for him to get more? Chad couldn’t let that stand.
It’s totally not because Robert has the eyes of one of those puppies they put in shelter commercials as he glances longingly at one of the desserts on display. Definitely not.
Robert, despite the priciness of the desserts, finds himself coming back to the bakery more often than not following his shifts. It hurts his wallet, but, hey, the food is good. The, literally, hot man behind the counter certainly doesn’t hurt, either.
There’s also occasionally a little extra dessert in his bag when he leaves. Chad says it’s because he’s just so pathetically skinny. He’s really just doing a service.
A slip of paper with Robert’s number scrawled on it happens to be sandwiched between the bills he hands him one day while paying. He doesn’t receive any texts, and Chad doesn’t mention it, so he assumes that was a pretty resolute no. It was worth a shot, at least.
Fast forward a bit to the events of episode four. Robert chats with Invisigal about the movie she snuck into, Blazer texts him about dinner, and he receives another text from an unknown number.
It’s Chad. He’s got some new recipes that need trying, and his usual taster, someone named Alice, is busy.
Robert picks Chad.
The desserts aren’t quite ready when Robert gets there, and they chat more than they usually do during Robert’s visits. Robert watches Chad in his element as he preps the sweets.
Robert tastes the sweets. Chad is cheesy, saying he missed a spot when Robert wipes powdered sugar off his face. He swipes the sugar off with his thumb, and Robert is the one to close the distance. They both melt into the kiss, the lingering sweetness from the fresh desserts still on their tongues.
Then, Robert feels a hand brush the side of his face. A hand missing its pinky and ring fingers. How had he not noticed before? Suddenly, the slight sense of familiarity he had been feeling ever since meeting Chad slots into place. He pulls back, to Chad’s confusion, and says he has to go with some excuse about needing to feed Beef.
He doesn’t go back to the bakery. Chad had sent him a text or two the day after, but Robert never responded. Robert never expects to see Chad ever again.
Imagine his surprise when he joins the team at the Sardine, and standing next to Prism is Chad. He’s not wearing the suit. No, he retired that after his encounter with Mecha Man scared him into setting his life straight. It is, however, the first time Robert’s seen him in anything other than an apron.
And his hair is down.
So, Robert, rightfully so, freaks out a little inside. The guy he’s been crushing on, who also happens to be the villain whose fingers he cut off, is there, and he looks gorgeous.
Chad is less pleased to see Robert. He plans out a nice evening, and the guy not only dips after they kiss, but ghosts him on top of it. No one ghosts Chad. Chad is the one that does the ghosting.
His cover of Meredith Brooks has a little more of a mean spirit behind it.
Then there’s the bar fight. Chad lets loose in a way he hasn’t gotten to in a long while, flinging flames at Red Ring goons left and right. He catches a glimpse of the way Robert fights, and he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t into it. Maybe he’d still let Robert have another chance after all.
That train of thought crashes in front of a dingy taco place, when Robert confesses to being fucking Mecha Man. Chad nearly roasts him right there, but his emotions are conflicting each other too much, and he can’t afford to be arrested for attempted murder. So, he flies away.
The only differences in Chad’s arrival to the house party is that he’s in civilian clothes, and he shows up before Chase and Courtney get into the argument. Robert still gets punched, but he does also get a dance with Chad.
The game continues as usual until episode eight. They’re short on heroes. They desperately need help. Suddenly, Flambae is on the roster, called in by Alice.
They defeat Shroud as usual. Flambae poses with the Z-Team. After that battle, he may as well be an honorary member. Whether or not he would actually make the decision to join SDN and become a hero, I’m not sure.
For now, he sits on the hood of someone’s car next to Robert. They’re both exhausted, covered in scrapes in bruises, and they lean against each other.
This time, Robert promises not to run away when they kiss.
Steve Rogers x Baker!FemReader
(Protective, gentle Steve × bubbly bakery owner)
(Avengers teasing included. Tony absolutely involved.)
Word Count: ~3.8k
Request : Open 🐯 More Chris Evans fics are here
Steve Rogers did not fall in love easily.
He admired people. Respected them. Protected them. Cared for them.
But falling?
That was rare.
So when he found himself standing in the middle of a tiny, warm bakery at 7:12 in the morning, staring at you like he’d just discovered oxygen for the first time… he knew he was in trouble.
The First Time
It started because of Sam.
“Man, you need a hobby that doesn’t involve punching things,” Sam had said, dragging him down a busy Brooklyn street.
Steve had adjusted the cap pulled low over his face. “I paint.”
“You paint war memories.”
That was unfair. But accurate.
Then Sam stopped in front of a bakery.
The sign read:
Crumbs & Comfort ・・・
Handwritten chalk art. Tiny hearts. A doodle of a croissant. Steve frowned. “You brought me to a—” “Trust me.” The moment he stepped inside, it hit him. Warm sugar. Melted chocolate. Fresh bread. Espresso. Vanilla. It felt… safe. And then he saw you.
Apron dusted in flour. Hair tied up messily. Laughing at something the cashier said. Holding a tray of freshly baked croissants like they were sacred objects.
You weren’t trying to be charming.
You just were.
Steve stood there longer than necessary.
You noticed.
You walked over with a warm smile.
“Good morning! What can I get you?”
Your voice had a softness that didn’t feel forced. Steve cleared his throat. “Uh… coffee.” “Black? Latte? Cappuccino? Matcha? I make a very judgment-free hot chocolate for emotionally exhausted men.” Sam snorted behind him.
Steve blinked. “Black is fine, ma’am.”
You tilted your head.
“Ma’am?”
His ears went pink. Sam lost it. “Oh, he’s from the 40s.” Steve shot him a look. You smiled slowly. “That’s kinda cute.” He almost choked. The Second Time, he came back the next morning.
Alone.
You were filming something on your phone.
“…and this is how you fold croissant dough properly or else it’ll look like a sad tortilla—”
You noticed him and paused recording.
“Oh! It’s Ma’am Guy.”
His entire soul left his body. “My name is Steve.” You grinned. “Hi, Steve.”
He liked the way you said it. Too much. He ordered coffee again. You gave him a free chocolate chip cookie. “For being polite,” you said. He looked genuinely confused. “That’s just basic manners.”
“Exactly.”
That was the moment something shifted.
Opposites
You were loud. Warm. Fast-talking.
He was steady. Careful. Measured.
You filmed baking tutorials and posted reels with trending music.
He still held his phone like it might explode.
You said things like:
“Okay but like imagine a cinnamon roll but emotionally supportive.”
He stared at you like you were speaking another language.
And yet…
He started coming every morning.
Not because of the coffee.
Because of you.
When the Avengers Found Out・・・
It was Natasha who noticed first.
“You smell like vanilla,” she said casually during a meeting. Tony sniffed dramatically. “And espresso. Are you cheating on America with Starbucks?” “It’s a local bakery,” Steve said calmly. Clint leaned back. “Oh no.”
Bruce looked confused. “Oh no what?” Sam smirked. “Oh no because he’s been going there every day.” Tony gasped. “Steven Grant Rogers. Every day? You hate routine changes.” Steve crossed his arms. “I like the coffee.”
“Sure,” Natasha said flatly. “Does the coffee have a name?” Clint added.
Silence. Tony’s eyes widened. “Oh my god. He’s in love.”
“I am not.” “Do you know her name?” Natasha asked gently.
“…Yes.”
“And?”
Steve hesitated.
He liked your name. Saying it felt personal.
Tony slammed his hands on the table. “IT HAS A NAME.”
The First Real Conversation・・・
One afternoon, it rained. Hard.
Business slowed , Steve was the only one inside.
You sat across from him with two mugs of hot chocolate.
“On the house,” you said. “You look like you think too much.”
He blinked. “Is that… bad?”
“No. Just heavy.”
That word landed.
Heavy.
You didn’t look at him like he was Captain America.
You looked at him like he was just… a man.
“Why baking?” he asked.
You smiled softly.
“It’s the only thing that’s always made sense to me. You mess up? You try again. You add sugar. You fix it.”
He absorbed that quietly. “And you?” you asked. “Why do you paint?” He exhaled slowly. “So I don’t forget.” You didn’t push. You just listened. And that was dangerous.
Instagram Incident
One day, you posted a reel.
Caption:
“POV: A 1940s gentleman keeps coming to your bakery and orders black coffee but looks at you like you’re the real dessert.”
You didn’t tag him.
But Sam saw it.
Tony saw it.
Natasha definitely saw it.
Steve did not.
Until Tony shoved a phone in his face.
“That’s you.”
Steve stared at the screen.
“That’s not—”
“It’s you.”
He watched you laugh in the video, flour on your cheek, teasing smile.
His chest tightened.
“You think she likes me?” he asked quietly.
Tony blinked.
Oh.
This wasn’t flirting for him.
This was serious.
“Yeah,” Tony said softer. “She does.”
The Confession (Almost)・・・
One evening, closing time.
You were wiping down the counter. Steve lingered. “I wanted to ask you something,” he said.
You looked up. “Yeah?” He swallowed.
“Would you—”
The door burst open. Tony walked in dramatically. “I just wanted to see the girl who domesticated Captain America.”
You froze. Steve looked like he wanted to disappear.
“Tony,” he warned. You blinked. “Oh my god.”
Tony leaned on the counter. “You must be the reason he smells like cinnamon.”
Your face turned pink. Steve gently but firmly placed a hand on Tony’s shoulder. “We’re leaving.” “But I haven’t tried the croissants—” “You’re leaving.”
You were laughing. And Steve realized something. He liked that Tony saw you. But he wanted to protect you from being overwhelmed too.
When It Got Real・・・
The bakery got busy.
Like… viral busy.
Your following grew fast.
Collabs. Interviews. Lines outside the door.
Steve noticed you getting tired. You still smiled, but your hands shook sometimes. One night he found you sitting on the kitchen floor after closing. Flour on your knees. Eyes glossy.
“I burnt three batches,” you whispered. “I never burn things.” He knelt in front of you immediately.
“You’re allowed to be tired.”
“I can’t mess up. People expect—” He gently cupped your flour-covered hands. “Listen to me.”
His voice wasn’t loud. But it was firm. “You are not valuable because you’re perfect. You’re valuable because you care.”
You looked at him like he’d just rewired your brain. No one had ever spoken to you like that.
Steady, Certain, Safe, You leaned forward without thinking.
He froze for half a second.
Then he held you.
Careful. Protective. Like you were something precious.
He fell in love right there.
Completely.
The Teasing Gets Worse・・・
“Are you bringing her to the tower?” Clint asked.
“Eventually,” Steve said. Natasha smirked. “He said eventually.” Tony groaned. “He’s planning a future.” Steve ignored them. But he was.
Because when Steve Rogers loves…
He does not do halfway.
The Official Date・・・
He didn’t text you.
He didn’t send flowers.
He showed up at your bakery at 6am.
With a small paper bag.
“I tried baking,” he said.
You blinked. Inside were… slightly uneven chocolate chip cookies. They were not perfect. They were slightly overdone.
You stared at them like they were gold.
“You made these?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
You laughed. “Steve.”
He straightened. “I don’t understand Instagram trends. Or half the music you play. And I don’t know how to do… casual.” Your heart pounded. “But I know I respect you. I admire you. And I would like to take you to dinner. Properly.” You smiled slowly.
“Like… old-fashioned properly?”
“I will open the door,” he said seriously.
You stepped closer.
“Okay, Captain.”
He inhaled sharply.
He was done for.
Do They End Up Together?・・・
Yes.
But not in a dramatic movie way. In a quiet way. In a way where, he carries flour home on his jacket. He learns how to steam milk properly.
He holds your phone awkwardly while you film.
He walks you home even though you’re fully capable.
You make him hot chocolate after missions.
You kiss the scar on his shoulder without flinching.
The Avengers adore you. Tony invests in your bakery “for emotional reasons.”
Natasha teaches you self-defense , Sam calls you “Cap’s Sweetheart” just to annoy him. And Steve?
Steve looks at you like you’re something he gets to protect—but also something strong on your own.Because that’s the thing, You aren’t opposite, You’re balance.
I don’t want much in life. Just Hannigram running a cozy little bakery: Hannibal crafting beautiful pastries, and Will behind the counter making coffee, always a little grumpy, pretending he hates every customer while remembering all their usual orders anyway.
