WHEN THE OVEN CALLS BACK: (badly drawn mini comic)
➤ he came earlier than you expected. this whole ritual thing was just a joke, but gosh you was not expecting this to work. as the peacemaker, you convinced the hollow knight to watch mlp. you kept this yourself, but the reason why you got into MLP was because that SMILE HD video back in 2010s. you do not want him to discover the creepypasta. witche forbid this man from discovering the smile hd video
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The boys were on leave. A miracle, really. Thry decided to all stay on Price's house; it was big and comfortable, and they spent too much time together to simply be apart when off work. Price didn't mind it, on the contrary, whatever bond they shared as a pack on field seemed more tender and comfortable when off field.
The 141 pack was known in the military, it wasn't too rare for hybrids to be in military forces. Biologically different people with heightened senses made incredible killing machines when trained well.
Though outside of base, they were treated with much indifference. Maybe a few scared or disgusted looks from a few bigots here and there, but not that much admiration and submission most soldiers would have for them. It's kind of relaxing.
The thing that Price hadn't thought of when bringing his task force pack back to his home was that they'd also eventually find you.
You. Simple you. You weren't a hybrid; but you were good with animals, naturally good in reading animal body language; you fed the stray cats and dogs, helped rescue any wild life that ended up around the city, and of course, your bakery was pet and hybrid friendly.
The pretty baker downtown. His pretty baker. It's not that Price didn't want to share you with his pack, but you were so delicate compared to the hybrid soldiers that part of him was protective of you, not wanting to scare you away, you were the only thing keeping him grounded outside the field before he bonded with his boys.
So, now Price is dealing with a possessive, protective feeling as him and his pack walk in your bakery after their morning run. You're smiling and humming, your black cat purring by the window, unbothered by the hybrids. You greet him happily, always relieved to see him back, ushering him to seat so you could pamper him with some free sweets and have him taste test any new additions you're making to your menu.
You don't seem bothered by the other three canine hybrids around Price, and Price growls low in his throat when Soap starts chatting with you, tail wagging at the pretty baker he's just finding out about, more than happy with how you coo at him like he's just a puppy and not a scarred soldier.
You easily warm up, and moments later, you're patting him and idly chatting with Gaz about baking. Giggling at the attention from so many big, scary wolves. Price is torn between huffing and barking for them to get away from you and basking in the feeling of wholeness having you with his pack gives him.
They all notice that, though. Even Ghost relaxes as this calm, content smell wafts from Price in waves. Specially when you come back with special sweets for everyone, ranting to Price about the usual town gossip or tea about some friend you've previously told him. Only leaving when other customers start walking in.
Now Gaz, Ghost and Soap are watching with smirks as Price's eyes follow you all the way to the counter, just waiting until they're all back home to relentlessly tease him about keeping such a pretty bird hidden from his pack, and of course, when is he planning on making you theirs.
Thinking about domestic reader who likes baking and how that will absolutely conquer Ghost's strict military discipline resolve (I'm reader) (I stuff chocolate chunks in brownies) (and put a shit ton of cinnamon in any cinnamon recipe)
Banger ask omg
I'm thinking like after retirement, Ghost isn't trusted to live on his own due to suicidal tendencies and such and gets connected with caretaker Reader.
At first, Ghost is obviously appalled and resistant to the idea that he even needs a caretaker. He's not some teenager who has to keep the door open all the time. Doesn't matter though, as Reader takes the time to order installments in his shower, stairs, etc for his injuries/old age.
He's rude and hissy towards Reader, insulting and taking out his own helplessness on the only person trying to help. There are many times Reader considers just leaving and giving up the job to someone else, but who else would deal with a snappy old man?
So Reader takes the time to make him food, fluffing, kneading, rolling, cutting, baking, all of it whilst Ghost steals glances at whatever delicious disgusting dish is being made this time.
He turns up his nose the first time a cookie is placed on the side of his sectioned plate, looking up at Reader with a glare.
"What is this."
"Chocolate chip cookie! Made it extra sweet for you."
He glared at you, opens his mouth to retort before you shove a spoonful of curry in his mouth with that sickeningly sweet smile. Reluctantly, he eats your food, eyeing the cookie the entire time like it personally insulted him.
He was is a military operator! He doesn't have the time for sweet treats, food is just nutrition. All these.. lovely seasonings are unnecessary for his palate! He is certain he appreciates despises you with everything he has.
Eventually, once his plate is fully cleaned, you hold the cookie up to his mouth, beckoning him to at least take a bite.
"I'm happy you ate everything! Here, as a reward."
"I'm not a bloody dog, I don't need a fucking re-"
The softness of the cookie melts in his mouth, the sweet sugar and melted chocolate chips are delicious. He does well to steel his expression, but you can see that almost childlike light-up in his eyes as he eats. He swallows slowly and clicks his tongue before asking for another bite.
Yandere batfam x Baker!Reader
<Prt.1> <Prt.2> <Prt.3>
A week passed before Bruce sent out the first search order.
Two weeks before Tim hacked every international academic registry to try and find your name.
Three before Jason called in every favor he had from his underground contacts—people who owed him blood and silence.
And on the fourth week, Damian stood in front of your old bedroom door, unmoving, his sketchbook hanging limp by his side. The room had been stripped bare. The faint scent of vanilla and cocoa lingered on the air like a memory too stubborn to leave.
None of them said it aloud, but the guilt swallowed them whole.
They had lost you.
And the worst part?
They hadn’t even realized it until it was too late.
But you…?
You bloomed.
In Paris, your days were filled with sugar and spice, your fingertips dusted in flour instead of regret. You wore your hair however you liked, tied in a messy bun or cascading in waves, a streak of frosting often painted across your cheek.
People here saw you.
The professors praised your precision. Your classmates admired your creativity. Customers lined up outside the bakery where you interned, eyes wide when they saw your pastries in the window.
No one called you a cockroach. No one ignored your voice.
No one forgot you.
You had your own apartment now—tiny but warm, with walls you painted pastel pink and cream, plants on the sill, and a little record player spinning soft jazz while you whisked and folded and baked.
You smiled more.
You laughed sometimes.
And when the hurt crept in late at night, you wrote it down in your recipe book, turning pain into pastries. Loneliness into layered cakes. Heartache into hazelnut cream.
Because they might’ve left you behind, but you learned how to love yourself in their absence.
You didn’t need them anymore.
Back at the Manor...
Tim finally found you.
A name on a list. A blurry photo on a website.
He stared at the screen, heart sinking.
You looked older. Happier. Dressed in a pale yellow apron, a piping bag in hand, laughing with another baker whose hands were dusted in powdered sugar and who looked at you like you were his whole world.
Tim closed the laptop slowly.
He didn’t tell the others what he’d found. Not yet.
Because for the first time, he wasn’t sure if they had the right to go after you.
Would it be selfish?
Would it be cruel?
They had hurt you. Over and over again. Dismissed you. Laughed at you.
And yet you had still given them sweet things, soft things, pieces of your heart wrapped in cinnamon and cream.
What had they given you?
Nothing but silence.
But Bruce…
Bruce kept your room untouched now. Left a slice of chocolate cake by your door every Friday like an offering to a ghost.
The others followed suit—placing little things they remembered too late.
Damian left a sketch of a girl holding a tray of cupcakes.
Jason added a dog-eared copy of your favorite novel with a note scribbled inside: “You’d kick my ass in trivia, huh?”
Dick placed a ribbon you used to tie your apron with, gently curled like it had never been dragged across the floor of your heartbreak.
Even Alfred, who had always known, walked past your door every morning with a quiet, lingering glance, as though waiting for your voice to call out again.
It never did.
You were gone.
And they could only hope that, one day, maybe you’d come back.
Not for them.
But to see how much they had changed.
How much they had learned—far too late.
Because the kitchen never smelled like chocolate again.
Tags: fluff, bakery au, Robert x nerdy baker reader, oblivious reader, yearning robert, pining robert, down-bad robert, crushes, reader is a horrible cook, plot gets a little random towards the end, its really cute i swear, suggestive, 18+ AT THE END MDNI, Oral f!receiving, pussy drunk munch robert strikes again whoops <3
WC: 5.6k (hehe)
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Robert was always in the market for a sweet treat. He just hadn’t realized it was going to be you.
On one of his rare days off, he found himself wandering past a bakery he’d never noticed before. The windows were opaquely frosted, shelves crowded with pastries that looked almost too good to eat. Curiosity—and a lifelong weakness—pulled him through the door.
The bell chimed softly.
“Hey there,” you said, reaching up to grab something from the top shelf. “What can I get for ya?”
Robert looks around the shop, eyes darting over the impressive spread of baked goods. Rows of cakes, pastries, and desserts stared back at him like a challenge.
“Uh,” he said thoughtfully, “one of everything?”
You laughed, bright and easy. “Yeah, I hear that every day. Anything in particular you’re looking for?”
“Something sweet.”
“Well, that about narrows it down to most of the store—except some of the bread.” Then you turn to fully face him. And just like that, he was speechless.
You were cute—unfairly so. The kind of cute that short-circuited his brain and made his chest feel oddly light. For one reckless second, he had the absurd thought that he wanted to scoop you up and feed you crème brûlée if you’d let him.
Maybe if he does get one of everything, he can stare at you for just a little bit longer.
“So,” you said, gesturing to the display, “maybe you can start by telling me what you like.”
You, for starters.
Robert stared blankly at the wall behind you, trying desperately to gather his thoughts. “I, uh… I like Twinkies.”
You raised an eyebrow, amused. “Have you ever tried cannolis before?”
“I can’t even pretend to know what those are,” he said, laughing—short and breathless.
You slid a plate from the display case and held it up. “They’re Italian pastries. A golden, fried dough shell filled with creamy ricotta cheese. They’re crisp on the outside but soft and fluffy on the inside.”
He barely heard the words. What he did notice was the way your face lit up as you explained it—how nerdy and animated you were, how easily enthusiasm spilled out of you. Maybe you were just skilled at selling sweets. Maybe you just loved the little things.
He didn't care.
You could’ve recited the entire history of cannolis, and he would’ve listened and maybe even die happy, content.
“Sounds amazing," he replies in a daze. “How much?”
“One for four dollars, or two for five.”
“Well,” he said, nodding decisively, “I guess I have to get two.”
You smiled knowingly. “That’s how we get ya.”
As you rang him up, a new, unfamiliar problem set in.
How was he supposed to come back without looking like an addict—or worse, a creep? He mulled it over as he took the bag from you, already knowing the answer. He’d just have to try something new every time.
After all, there were plenty of sweets in the case.
All very good reasons to keep coming back.
Robert returns the next day in good spirits.
“Back again, are you?” You tease from behind the counter.
He looks around in mock confusion, squinting at the walls like he’s just woken up somewhere unfamiliar. “Oh. Huh. I guess I am. The smell of fresh bread must’ve hypnotized me, making me walk in here on autopilot.”
You laugh, shaking your head. “That does happens. We’re not legally responsible for it, though.”
“Well, that’s good to know,” he says. “I am concerned about losing control of my legs though.”
He drifts closer to the display case, studying the pastries like he’s taking them very seriously this time. “So, if I were a man with absolutely no plan, what would you recommend?”
“Well, Sir Twinkie, I—”
“Dear God,” he cuts in quickly. “Please do not call me that.”
You laugh. “Very well, what shall I call thee then sirrrr-?”
“Robert.”
“All right then, Robert,” you say, indulging him. “What do you fancy today? Cake, pie, macarons, cookies, mousse—” you tick them off on your fingers.
He leans closer to the glass, hands tucked into his pockets, and sighs. “I told myself I was going to be responsible… But then I remembered yesterday’s cannolis,” he says, glancing up at you. “And all bets were off.”
You smile, pleased. “Up to trying something new again then?”
“Always.”
“Any allergies? Strong opinions? Lifelong grudges against certain desserts?”
“Only raisins,” he replies immediately. “They’re traitors.”
“Agreed,” you say solemnly. “We don’t trust them here,” you warn, already selecting something from the case and sliding it forward. You set a small plate down between you. “These are macarons. Sweet little French cookies—almond flour, meringue, icing sugar, and ganache, to put it simply.” Robert nods along again, not understanding what language you're speaking to him but smiling anyway.
“I made these last night.” You push the plate towards him.
“You made these?” His eyes widened. Could you see the hearts forming in his eyes? He stares at the neat row of pastel shells, the colors soft and inviting, like tiny, elegant fruity burgers.
“Go on,” you say. “They don’t bite.”
He hesitates for half a second, then carefully picks one up, like it might crumble under the weight of expectation. He takes a bite.
There’s a pause.
“Oh,” he says quietly.
You raise a brow. “Oh good, or oh I’ve made a terrible mistake?”
“Oh, very good,” he corrects quickly, already chewing again. “This is—wow. I don’t even know what this flavor is, but I feel emotionally supported by it.”
You snort and point at the one in his hand. “That one’s pistachio.”
“Well,” he says, swallowing, “tell Pistachio I would lay down my life for it.”
You shake your head, laughing, and for a moment the bakery feels warmer, fuller—like this small, ordinary exchange matters more than it should. Robert looks up at you again, still holding the half-eaten macaron, and smiles in a way that feels less like flirting and more like something quietly sincere.
“I think,” he says, “I might need to come back more often. For… quality control.”
“Of course,” you reply easily. “Someone has to make sure I’m doing my job.”
“And I,” he says, setting the plate carefully aside, “am willing to make that sacrifice. How many can I take home with me?”
“Five for ten bucks,” you say easily. Then—lowering your voice just a little—you add, “Or…”
He tilts his head. “Or?”
You glance over your shoulder. Your manager is at the far end of the shop, busy with inventory, back turned. Probably not listening. Probably.
You lean closer to the counter. “Or,” you say quietly, “I could accidentally pack you a couple extra. You know. For research purposes.”
Robert’s brows lift. “Is that… allowed?”
You wince. “Technically? No.”
His smile spreads slowly. “Dangerous woman, I like that.”
“If I get caught, I will absolutely pretend I don’t know you.”
“Heartbreaking,” he says, watching you with something warm and amused in his eyes. “But I accept these terms.”
You slide the box across the counter—heavier than it should be. “Five macarons,” you say pointedly.
He lifts it, feeling the weight, then looks back up at you. “Of course. Five.”
You straighten up immediately. “Ten dollars,” you say at full volume.
Robert plays along instantly, pulling out cash. “Best deal in town,” he says, far too cheerfully.
You shake your head, trying not to smile. “Don’t make a habit of it, Robert.”
He taps the box against his palm. “No promises.”
He slyly drops a bill or two in the tip jar. And as the bell over the door rings behind him, you realize—too late—that you’d absolutely do it again.
Robert returns every day after work for the next few weeks and greets you kindly. His sweet tooth is getting the better of him. Or maybe his heart? Either way, this was easily the best part of his day.
“Listen, I know this is a bakery and all, but I hope you'll make an exception for me and him.”
“Oh my gosh, Robert! Is that your dog!?”
“This is my child, Beef.”
You bend down to give him a big pat. "Please don't tell me you're feeding him all the sweets I give you to give to him. You know dogs can't have chocolate, right?”
“Yes, I am aware he can’t have chocolate, and no, as much as I love him, he would have to fight me tooth and nail for even a single bite.”
You chuckle at that one. “Can I hold him?”
“You can try.”
You scoop him up in your arms, lifting Beef like he weighed nothing, making Robert's heart do a weird tha-thump in his chest.
Whoa.
Must be from lifting all that flour.
Could you lift him like that?
“Such a sweet little guy.” Beef licks your face.
“I'm a sweet guy.” Robert crosses his arms.
“Yes, of course you are, Robert. Are you really jealous of a dog?”
“When you hold him like that, yeah, maybe.”
You roll your eyes. “Oh wait! I have something he can try." You hand Beef back over to Robert while you run and grab something in the back.
“Here!” You present them with 3 little doggy cakes, which look like yogurt, peanut butter, and pumpkin. “They're pupcakes!”
“That might be one of the cutest things I've ever heard and seen.” Next to you, of course.
Robert sets Beef down, and he devours them immediately, licking the plate afterwards.
“Well Beef, tell her what you think.” Beef looks back and forth between the two of you before returning a blank gaze to nothing in particular in front of him and yelping out a quick bork!
“I think he wants to order some more to go.”
“That can be arranged.”
You like seeing Robert every day. It quickly becomes the best part of your day, and you look forward to him showing up near the end of your shift. You catch yourself staring at him a little too closely and shake your head to rid yourself of the thought.
“I hope your workout routine takes into account all these sweets you're eating. You're going to end up like Beef.” You chuckle.
Robert gasps. “That may be the most hurtful thing you've ever said to me.”
“W-what?! I’m so sorry it was just a joke. I—”
Robert laughs, nudging your arm. “Relax y/n, I'm messing with you.”
“I hate you.” you try to scowl but end up tipping the corner of your mouth up in a small grin.
“Actually, that's the most hurtful thing you've ever said to me.”
You glare at him for a moment, unable to keep the smile off your face.
•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••
Robert is back at the shop listening to your spiel about some new desserts in the case. His head rests on his hand as he stares at you dreamily.
“You could list every single item you've ever sold, and it would be the best thing I've ever heard.”
“Oh come on, Robert, now you're just being ridiculous.”
“I think I need a career change. Do you need a taste tester? I want to eat everything you'll ever make for the rest of time.”
“Robert… Stop, you're just saying that…”
“No, I'm really not.”
“I’ll think about hiring Beef first.” He looks up at you with his tongue out at the mention of his name.
“That's just plain rude, and you know it.” Robert grabs the plate and gets up to walk it over to you but ends up dropping it on the floor. “Ugh, sorry, y/n. Fuck me…”
Your hand flies over your heart, gasping at his swear.
“Robert! Language!”
God, were you an angel? You could be. Come to think of it, he's never heard you swear once. He laughs at the thought.
“I'm sorry to inform you I'm capable of saying much worse.”
Your cheeks flush. “Don't you have somewhere better to be than here?” Robert shrugs. “Hmm, you're here, Beef is here. You tell me.”
Beef was already licking up the mess off the floor.
“Robert! Don't let him have that!”
“Does it have chocolate or something?”
“Do you have any regard for the well-being of your fat chihuahua?”
“He's fine; a little more can't hurt him.”
“You keep saying that, but it's always just a little more…”
“It's really cute that you can't swear.”
“I can! I just don't like to… It's rude.” You glare.
“Just when I thought you couldn't get any more adorable.”
“Robert… stop teasing.”
“Oh shit, did I say that out loud?”
“Robert!”
“Sorry.” (not sorry)
Robert doesn't know how much longer he can take it. He really likes you, and he needs to do something about it. He thought his flirting was obvious enough to show his interest. But he also didn't want to come right out and say it. But maybe he would have to. It was killing him.
You were somehow being cuter than normal today. Which should be illegal. Yep, he could probably personally take you in on charges of elevating his heart rate to near heart attack levels, butterflies in the stomach, and blissful lightheadedness. Oh yeah, you were going away for a long time.
He doesn't know where to look. Your face? Your arms? Your flour-covered apron? Nah, definitely your face.
“Something wrong?"
Fuck. He was staring, wasn't he? “Oh no, sorry… you just have a little flour on your face.” (you didn't)
“Oh!” You absently rub at your cheek. Robert takes the opportunity to reach out and rub off the imaginary flour. Fuck, why is your cheek so soft? Did you use icing for moisturizer?
You blushed, nervously looking away. “Thanks…”
“What do you have for me today?” Robert asked, already leaning on the counter.
“I was actually hoping I'd get you to try something for me.”
He lifted a brow, mouth curving into that familiar grin. “I think you’ve got me in a much tighter chokehold than you realize, so please—give it to me.”
You disappeared into the back of the shop and returned with a small plate and delicate glassware, setting it between you. “They’re gourmet marshmallows.”
“Gourmet,” he repeated thoughtfully, before plucking a sticky square from the plate and tossing it into his mouth.
The reaction was immediate. His eyes fluttered shut, and a low content hum slipped from his throat as the flavor exploded on his tongue.
“Oh yeah,” he said, opening his eyes again, clearly pleased. “I’m definitely going to need thirty of these to go.”
“Robert!” You laughed, swatting lightly at his arm, heat creeping into your cheeks.
“On the double, Baker,” he teased. “You’ve got a starving customer on your hands.”
“I only made a small test batch to see if they were good enough.”
He scoffed softly. “Do you even know who you’re talking to? You could make a sponge taste good.”
“You're unbelievable, Robert.”
“I’m honored I got the first taste,” he said, glancing down at the plate again. “So what makes them gourmet? Is it because you made them?”
“Not quite,” you said, smiling despite yourself. “It just means I used fancy, expensive ingredients.”
“Coulda fooled me.”
“You're silly, you know that?”
“Did you bake these just for me?”
You froze. “W—what? Come on, Robert, don’t tease me…” You hesitated, then sighed. “Okay, maybe I had you in mind while I was baking. But that’s only because you’re here all the time. You did say you’ll eat anything.”
His grin softened. “Careful,” he said quietly. “You keep talking like that, and I’m gonna start thinking I’m special.”
You rolled your eyes, but you didn’t look away. “You are special.”
“Funny,” he murmured. “I was about to say the same about you.”
Your hand definitely lingered too long when you reached for the plate again, but neither of you pulled away.
Robert’s voice dropped. “So,” he said, eyes flicking to your mouth, “do I get to try anything else today?”
You barely had time to inhale before he leaned in, finally getting to taste you.
Your lips were sweet—chocolate and cinnamon from whatever you’d been snacking on earlier. His hand came up instinctively, steadying you at the counter. Your hair smelled like freshly baked bread, warm and comforting, and he smiled against your mouth like he’d just found his favorite flavor.
Your eyes fluttered underneath your lids as you melted into him. Your heart jumped to your throat when his hand carefully settled on your cheek. When you parted, he looked at you with such a warm, earnest expression.
“…Yeah,” he murmured. “Definitely gourmet. And my favorite thing on the menu.”
It's weeks later, and you're at Robert's place. He finds out the hard way that you're ONLY a baker.
The kitchen smells… fine. Not bad, exactly. Just confusing. Something is sizzling too loudly in a pan that looks like it hasn’t been touched in a while, and there’s a thin haze in the air that definitely wasn’t there ten minutes ago.
Robert leans against the doorway, arms crossed, watching you move around the kitchen with the same confidence you have behind the bakery counter—except this time, the confidence somehow feels wildly misplaced.
“Wait, wait, wait,” he says, holding up a hand as the pan hisses ominously.
“I don’t understand.”
You glance over your shoulder. “What?”
“How can you be an amazing baker,” he continues, biting back a laugh, “and a horrible cook?”
“I am not horrible,” you say defensively, poking at whatever’s in the pan with far too much commitment. “I just… improvise.”
“That,” he says gently, pointing at the pan, “is not improvisation. That’s an act of chaos.”
You shoot him a look. “You said you’d eat anything.”
“That I did,” he admits. “I just didn’t realize that included emotional distress.”
The pan lets out a sharp crackle. You wince. Robert finally pushes off the doorway and steps in, reaching past you to lower the heat.
“Okay,” he says calmly, “rule one. We don’t fight the stove.”
“I wasn’t fighting it,” you mutter. “I was negotiating.”
He laughs softly, and it does something stupid to your chest. He moves closer, shoulder brushing yours as he presses a kiss to your cheek and peers into the pan.
“What was this supposed to be?” he asks.
“…Chicken.”
Robert pauses. “Was.”
You groan, covering your face with your hands. “I can pipe buttercream roses in my sleep, but ask me to season a protein and suddenly I’m helpless.”
“Hey,” he says, nudging you with his hip. “Baking is science. Cooking is vibes.”
You peek at him. “You’re saying I don’t have ‘vibes'?”
“I’m saying your ‘vibes’ are very specific,” he replies. “Measured in grams. With instructions.”
“I did follow instructions! Kind of…”
He reaches for a spoon and tastes the sauce. His face goes carefully neutral.
“…It’s not terrible,” he says slowly.
“That pause was too long.”
“But,” he adds, turning to you with a grin, “it does need saving.”
You cross your arms. “Oh? And you’re the hero now?”
“Obviously.” He grabs salt and a splash of something from the fridge, adjusting the heat again. “You make the desserts. I’ll make sure we don’t die before we get to them.”
You watch him work, surprisingly competent, sleeves rolled up, brow furrowed in concentration.
“…You’re enjoying this,” you accuse.
He smirks. “A little.”
The smoke thins. The kitchen starts to smell genuinely good.
You step closer without thinking, leaning into his side. “If I burn something else, will you still eat it?”
He glances down at you, soft now. “Yeah,” he says. “But only because it’s you.”
You smile, bumping his shoulder. “Good. Because dessert’s already in the oven.”
His eyes light up. “Now that I trust.”
You're in the shop with Robert after hours cleaning up, but he's distracting you.
“You taste like icing.” He says, running his tongue over your bottom lip before planting another quick kiss.
“Mmh—” you attempt to protest, but the way he's kissing you is making your head spin.
“Thanks for giving me some sugar, gingerbread woman.”
“Robert, stop! I have to get back to work!”
“Hmm? I thought I was helping clean up.”
“The shop, not my face.”
“Hmmmmmm, I like the face option better.”
“Robert!”
He laughs against your mouth, soft and cheerful, before finally pulling back just enough to look at you. There’s flour dusted on your sleeve and a smear of icing at the corner of your lip—his fault entirely.
“What?” he asks innocently. “I’m very committed to quality control.”
“You are sabotaging me,” you say, though your hands are still fisted in the front of his shirt, betraying you.
“Sabotaging?” He tilts his head. “I call it morale boosting. That's very important in my line of work.”
He leans in again, slower this time, brushing his thumb under your lip like he’s debating whether to steal another taste. Your breath stutters.
“If I don’t finish cleaning,” you say, trying to sound firm, “I’ll be here all night.”
“Tragic,” he murmurs. “Just the two of us. Alone. Surrounded by sugar.”
You groan. “You’re hopeless.”
“And yet,” he says softly, eyes flicking between yours, “you haven’t kicked me out.”
You glare at him as intimidatingly as you can muster, but you end up looking like Beef begging for scraps.
“Okay,” he says, stepping back with exaggerated restraint, hands raised. “Truce. I’ll behave.”
You narrow your eyes. “You swear?”
“Scout’s honor.”
“You were never a scout.”
“Says who?”
“Robert, I know for a fact you were never a boy scout.”
You turn back to the counter, reaching for a towel.
Behind you, he waits exactly three seconds.
“So,” he adds casually, “after we’re done cleaning… ya think I could get another sample?”
You spin around. “ROBERT—”
He laughs, ducking out of reach as you lunge for him, the echoing laughter filling the empty shop.
Robert was very in love with you.
You distracted Robert so easily; he was hopeless. He was watching your lips move. Were you wearing a new lip gloss? He wondered. There was only one way to find out.
“Robert, are you even listening to me?”
He sighed. “Honestly, no, and I’m surprised it took you this long to figure it out.”
“Robert!”
“In my defense, the sound of your sweet voice is very soothing and mesmerizing. And your lips are very distracting. I can't keep my thoughts straight. You know this.”
“Maybe I should start wearing a mask to help you focus.”
“You wouldn’t… That's cruel, y/n. Do you hate me?”
“Do you even know what I proposed to you?”
He blinks. Oh god, was it a kiss? Was it a make-out session? Because if it was, the answer would be 100% yes.
“You hopeless golden retriever of a man…” You huffed, shaking your head. “What I proposed was that we grab dinner tonight. Like adults. With food. And plates. And wine.”
He blinked again. “Wow.”
“What?”
“I somehow managed to aim low,” he said solemnly. “And still overshoot.”
You laughed despite yourself, the sound soft and warm, and his gaze caught on it just like it had on your lips. He leaned forward now, elbows on his knees, voice dropping.
“So. Dinner,” he repeated. “Is this the part where I pretend I wasn’t already hoping you’d say that?”
“You weren’t listening,” you reminded him.
“True,” he admitted easily. “But I was feeling the vibe. Which, for the record, is very ‘yes to dinner, yes to dessert, and possibly yes to—’”
“Robert.”
“—coffee,” he finished, innocent. “Relax.”
You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling.
“Fine,” you said. “But if you spend the entire meal staring at my mouth, I’m charging you.”
“For what?”
“Annoyance.”
“And?”
“Ignoring your girlfriend.”
“And?”
“Bedroom eyes,” you murmured.
“Better arrest me now then.”
“Rob—”
“I do need to inspect that lip gloss, for science. Er, well, survival rather.” He pulls you forward without protest. Tongue gliding over your lips, successfully tasting it off.
“Mmmm, watermelon. That's new.” You kiss him again to shut him up. He doesn't complain.
───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────
“Can you make, like… five hundred cookies for me to bring to work?” Robert murmurs, barely above a whisper, like saying it too loudly might get him kicked out of the shop.
“I’m sorry—how many?” you ask, already reaching for a pen. “Fifty?”
“…Five hundred?”
You freeze. Slowly, you look up at him. “Five hundred??? Robert!!”
He winces, shoulders hunching. “I have a lot of hungry coworkers. And a very, very starving team. And I just thought—”
“For when?” You cut in.
He hesitates. “Wait. You’ll do it?”
“That depends,” you say, crossing your arms. “On when you need them. And whether or not you’re helping me.”
“Oh, absolutely, I’ll help,” he says quickly, nodding a little too hard. “Anything you want, sweetheart. Darling. Love of my life.”
You squint at him. “You’re laying it on real thick, Robertson. When do you need them?”
“This weekend?”
“WHAT?!” Your voice echoes through the shop. “Robert, it’ll take me a week just to prep that much dough!”
He grimaces, then offers a hopeful smile. “Then… we’d better get started?”
You stare at him for a long moment, weighing your sanity. Finally, you sigh, already mentally inventorying flour and sugar. “You are buying every single ingredient. And you’re doing dishes.”
“Done.”
“And you’re rolling dough.”
“Gladly.”
“And if I catch you sneaking cookies—”
“I’ll only sneak the broken ones,” he says solemnly.
You shake your head, a reluctant smile tugging at your lips. “You owe me so big for this.”
He grins, stepping closer to the counter. “Worth it. They’re the best cookies I know.”
You roll your eyes, already reaching for a mixing bowl. “Congratulations, hero. You’ve just signed yourself up for the longest weekend of your life.”
“But I get to spend it with you,” he says easily.
You pause—just for a second—then shove the bowl toward him. “Grab an apron, Robertson. We’ve got five hundred cookies to make.”
“Yes, dear.” he sighs dotingly.
✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧
It’s Sunday when you finally make it to Robert’s work, the wheels of the wagon rattling softly behind you as you drag it across the pavement.
You step into the office, blinking at the unfamiliar space. Rows of desks, half the lights off, the place quieter than you expected.
“Robert?” you call out. “Hellooo?”
Oh god, what were you doing here? Why did this suddenly feel like a terrible idea?
A few heads turn. Somewhere down the room, you spot him—tall, unmistakable, and already in uniform. Relief floods you.
“Robert!” You wave and start toward him, the wagon bumping along behind you.
His head snaps up. “y/n?” He looks around, eyes widening just a little, panic flashing across his face. “What are you doing here?”
“I tried to call,” you say, gesturing vaguely with your phone. “It went straight to voicemail.”
Before he can respond, a voice cuts in from your side—smooth, accented, and curious.
“Well now,” the man says as he approaches, eyes flicking from you to the wagon. “Who’s this?”
Robert stiffens.
The man grins, leaning slightly over the wagon to peer inside. “And what have you got here, aziza?”
You blink, caught off guard. “Uh—cookies?”
He laughs, delighted, and crouches just enough to lift the edge of the cloth. “Cookies,” he repeats reverently. “She’s real, Robert. You undersold her.” the man nudges you. “I thought he was exaggerating.”
Robert groans quietly. “Fla—”
“Flambae,” the man says proudly, straightening and offering you a hand. “Z Team. And you must be the miracle worker.”
You shake his hand. “y/n. And I wouldn’t go that far.”
Another man thats nearby a desk turns around, eyes bright. “Wait—you’re the baker?” He stands, brushing crumbs from his jacket. “I’m Sonar. Please tell me those are chocolate chip.”
“And oatmeal. And peanut butter.”
Sonar makes a sound of pure joy.
More faces start to turn. Curious. Friendly. Tired. A few nods, a few quiet hellos—people who clearly trust Robert enough to trust you by extension.
Robert stands a little closer now, like he’s anchoring himself. “Everyone, this is Y/N,” he says, voice steady but softer than usual. “She… helped me out this weekend.”
Flambae smirks. “Helped him. That’s one word for it.”
Robert shoots him a look. “Behave.”
Malevola pats your head. “Oh, she is so cute, Robert; I could just eat her up.”
“Do not. That's my job.” You can see the immediate embarrassment and regret as soon as the words leave his mouth. You're both blushing.
“Atta boy, lad." Punch up says, slapping him on the ass.
“Alright, alright, enjoy your cookies; we’re leaving.” Robert grabs his coat and ushers you away.
“Yeaaaah, get that cookie, Robert!” Sonar whoops.
“Robert—hey, slow down,” you call as you step into the shop behind him. “You okay, Rob?” you add with a chuckle.
He stops short, rubbing the back of his neck and laughing quietly. “I just—” He exhales. “You didn’t have to meet them like that.”
“You mean all at once?” You tease. “With cookies?”
“Yes. Exactly that.”
You stop walking and turn to face him. “Are you embarrassed?”
“No,” he says immediately. Then, softer, “Just… surprised.”
“Well,” you say, rocking back on your heels, “they seem nice. Loud. Dramatic. But nice.”
“They grow on you,” he says.
“I can tell.” You smile. “Flambae called me aziza. Should I be worried?”
Robert groans. “Please don’t encourage him. He wouldn't go for you anyway.”
You laugh. “It was kind of cute. They really seem like your family.”
Robert rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah, I guess they kinda are now.” He looks at you, not rushed, not distracted. Just looks at you. “Thank you,” he says. “For all of it.”
You shrug lightly. “You owe me dishes. And sleep.”
He nods solemnly. “Deal.”
You move behind the counter, glancing at him over your shoulder. “So,” you say lightly, “now that I’ve met your work family… What’s next?”
His gaze drifts to the display case, lingering on one dessert in particular. “Do you like crème brûlée?”
“Uh, yes?”
His eyes light up. “C-can I feed it to you?”
“Oh, um, you don't have to—”
“I want to,” he says quickly, already moving closer. He reaches out and gently takes your hands. “Please.”
You smile at the hopeful, almost desperate look in his eyes. “Okay. Sure.”
You pull a serving from the case and grab a spoon, but he takes both from you with a quiet, victorious, “Yesssss.” Robert takes the dish and spoon from you, he cracks the caramelized top, scoops up custard and sugar together, and lifts the spoon toward your mouth. You glance at it, then back at him.
“You’re so weird, Robert,” you say fondly—then take a bite.
His smile is immediate and soft. He reaches up, thumb brushing a tiny smear of custard from the corner of your mouth into his. “This is… kind of a fantasy of mine.”
“What, feeding me sweets?”
“God yes.”
You snort. “Do you have a food fetish or something?”
He hesitates, then smirks. “More like a you fetish.”
“Robert…” You let him feed you the rest slowly; watching you like this is the best part of his day. When the dish is empty, he leans in, kissing you gently—just enough to steal any lingering sweetness.
“You’re the sweetest thing I’ve had in a while,” he murmurs.
“You’re crazy, Rob…”
“For you?” He grins. “Yeah. That’s for sure.”
“You eat sweets literally every day.”
He presses a kiss to your cheek, lingering just a second longer than necessary. “There is one more thing I'd like to try.”
You roll your eyes, amused. “Oh yeah? What’s that?”
His eyes darken, a toothy grin spreading across his face.
“You.”
Robert is feasting on you like his life depended on it. Licking into your sweet entrance. His lips are all over your folds. He's got two fingers curled into you while also gripping onto your ass for dear life. He is sure now that he could die happy.
“Hhng, R-rob… please—” You involuntarily grind further on his tongue, hands yanking and tugging at his hair. You need to stop before he gets a bald spot. He had you in such a way that anchored him to you, blissful, euphoric. He was not letting you go. Groaning into you with every flick of his tongue. Devouring you. Slurp after slurp. Rolling his tongue over your clit till you're clenching down on his fingers hard. Every lick of your clit is electric, and you can't escape. Only feel the pleasure he's giving you.
“C’mon, I need to finish tasting you.”
“Robert, no more! Mnnn,” you try to push his head away to no avail.
“Please, y/n, mmh, one more, please.” You're heaving, begging for him to at least take a break before he returns his sweet attacks on your clit.
“You really mean it this time? Want me to stop?”
“Well… I just—” You hesitate, fiddling with his hair.
“Yeah, exactly what I thought. You're just as bad as me.” He picks up his pace, hammering his fingers into you, tongue dancing on your clit.
“M’please—” You don't even know what you're begging for anymore. “Ah! Robert! Am not I-I oh fuck- coming!” You spasm, legs shaking, vision going white. He licks you through completion, making sure to clean you off. He pulls off of you with a wet pop and satisfied hum.
“Look at that. Your first swear.”
“S’all, your fault, Robert.” You furrow your brows but you couldn't be mad at him if you tried.
“My fault? You're the one who said it.”
“I’m gonna—”
“What? Swear at me some more? Go ahead, I dare you.”
“I liked you better when you were eating…”
“You want more? Cause I’m more than happy to go aga—”
“Robert.”
“Yeah?”
“Kiss me.”
He does without hesitation. You can taste yourself on him, but you don't care. You both hum into each other before Robert breaks the kiss.
“Oh yeah, you're definitely the sweetest thing I've had in a while.”
➽──────────────❥ ⋆˚࿔ ♡
A/N: Ahhh, definitely one of my favorite things ive written so far. If you're noticing a pattern to these fics no you don't. I'm just preaching the gospel. Oh munch Robert, they could never make me hate you.Hope yall enjoyed <3 Have a good one!
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In a City That Bites || Mafia Boss!Hongjoong x reader
The city fears him, but the florist who smells like sugar and rosemary is the only place he sets his weapons down.
Based on this Request !!
Hongjoong did not visit places without purpose.
Every step he took in the city was measured. Calculated. He knew which streets had cameras he owned, which alleys belonged to rival crews, which restaurants laundered money through his accounts. He did not wander. He did not browse.
So when he stopped in front of your flower shop on a gray Tuesday afternoon, he almost kept walking.
The windows were fogged slightly from the ovens in the back. Soft yellow light spilled onto the sidewalk, warm enough to feel like an invitation. There were handwritten signs taped to the glass. Fresh sourdough. Honey rolls. Buy two bouquets, get a free cookie.
It was painfully ordinary.
That was exactly why he stepped inside.
The bell above the door chimed, light and sweet, a sound that did not belong anywhere near him.
You were behind the counter arranging peonies, sleeves pushed up, flour streaked across your forearm like careless war paint. You looked up with an automatic smile that didn’t falter when you saw him.
That was new.
He was used to hesitation. To recognition. To the slight widening of eyes when people placed him.
You just tilted your head.
“Hi. Give me a second,” you said, fingers still working with twine. “These are being difficult.”
Hongjoong watched you adjust each stem until the bouquet looked balanced, like you cared about symmetry more than survival.
“I need white lilies,” he said.
You glanced up again, this time assessing him more carefully. His coat was immaculate. His rings caught the light. The faint bruise near his knuckles suggested he had handled something personally instead of delegating.
“For a funeral?” you asked gently.
“Yes.”
You didn’t press further.
The funeral was for a man who had worked under him for eleven years. Loyal. Efficient. Dead because a rival syndicate wanted to test whether Hongjoong would retaliate publicly or quietly.
He would do both.
But he would also attend the burial himself.
Respect, in his world, was currency. He did not send subordinates with flowers for men who had bled for him.
While you wrapped the lilies in crisp paper, you spoke without looking up.
“You don’t look like someone who lets other people handle important things.”
His gaze sharpened. “And what does someone like that look like?”
“Like you,” you replied simply.
No fear. Just observation.
When you handed him the bouquet, your fingers brushed his for half a second. Your hands were warm from the oven.
He noticed that more than he should have.
=====
He returned three days later.
This time, there was dried blood along the cuff of his shirt. Not his.
You noticed immediately.
“You know I sell bread too, right?” you said as he approached the counter. “Flowers aren’t my only personality trait.”
“I need red roses,” he said.
“Romantic or threatening?”
His eyes flicked to yours.
You smiled. “The number matters.”
“thirteen.”
You nodded once. “Threatening.”
The roses were for a message. A competitor had attempted to undercut one of Hongjoong’s shipments through the port. Hongjoong had responded by seizing their warehouse and leaving thirteen red roses on the office desk beside a signed contract demanding compliance.
Roses were cleaner than bullets, sometimes.
He wrapped them himself before leaving the shop. You watched his hands move with unexpected care.
“You’re precise,” you commented.
“I have to be.”
“Sounds exhausting.”
It was.
He found himself lingering longer than necessary, the scent of sugar and fresh soil softening the metallic edge that clung to him after meetings.
Before he left, you slipped something into the bag.
When he checked later in the car, it was a small paper-wrapped pastry.
For after threatening someone, the note read.
He stared at it for a long moment before taking a bite.
=====
By the second week, you had stopped asking what the flowers were for.
He had come in for white chrysanthemums after negotiating a truce that felt more like a temporary pause in violence. He bought pale blue hydrangeas before meeting a council of older crime bosses who believed he was too young to lead.
Hydrangeas signaled apology in some cultures. In others, gratitude.
He liked the ambiguity.
“You pick flowers like you’re sending coded messages,” you observed one afternoon, leaning against the counter while he examined a bundle of orchids.
“Sometimes I am.”
You didn’t laugh.
Instead, you studied him in a way that made him feel strangely visible.
“Do you ever send flowers for yourself?”
He frowned slightly. “That’s not how this works.”
“How what works?”
“My life.”
You considered that answer like you were weighing flour.
“Maybe it should.”
=====
The third week was when things shifted.
He arrived later than usual, long after sunset. The shop was closed, lights dimmed except for the back kitchen where you were pulling trays from the oven.
You jumped when he knocked against the glass.
When you saw it was him, you hesitated only long enough to check the street before unlocking the door.
“You’re bleeding,” you said immediately.
A thin line of red trailed from his temple down toward his jaw. His knuckles were split open.
“It’s handled,” he replied.
“That wasn’t my question.”
You guided him toward the small table near the window without waiting for permission. You disappeared into the back and returned with a damp cloth and a small tin of antiseptic.
He could have refused. He did not.
As you cleaned the cut on his temple, your brows furrowed in concentration.
“This is from someone who doesn’t know when to stop talking,” he said quietly.
“Did you stop them?”
“Yes.”
You nodded once, as if that answer made sense in a way it shouldn’t.
“You don’t send someone else for this?” you asked while wrapping gauze around his knuckles. “For… whatever this is?”
“I don’t delegate lessons.”
The man who had hit him had been a lower-ranked member who thought Hongjoong’s recent negotiations made him appear soft. Hongjoong had corrected that misconception personally.
You finished tying the bandage and leaned back.
“You carry everything yourself,” you said.
“I’m supposed to.”
“According to who?”
He did not answer.
You disappeared again and came back with a single sunflower.
He stared at it.
“It’s not for an event,” you said. “It’s for you. No hidden meaning. Just because it’s bright.”
“I don’t need—”
“I know,” you interrupted gently. “That’s not why I’m giving it to you.”
He took it slowly, like it might burn him.
In his world, gifts were leverage. Favors were traps.
This was neither.
=====
By the fourth week, your shop had become a fixed point in his routine.
His men noticed.
They pretended not to.
He arrived one afternoon in a dark mood, jaw tight, shoulders rigid.
A deal had collapsed. A shipment had been intercepted. He would need to respond decisively to prevent future challenges.
You handed him a cup of tea before he even asked for flowers.
“You look like you’re about to start a war,” you said.
“Maybe I am.”
You didn’t flinch.
“Then sit for five minutes first.”
He almost refused. Instead, he sat.
The shop was quiet except for the faint hum of the refrigerator and the rustle of leaves as the air shifted.
“Why do you come here yourself?” you asked after a moment. “Someone like you probably has people for errands.”
“I don’t trust errands to people who don’t understand the weight of them,” he said. “If I send flowers, they need to be correct.”
“And you think you’re the only one who can get it right?”
“Yes.”
You studied him for a long second, then smiled softly.
“Maybe you just don’t like letting other people carry things for you.”
The words settled heavier than any accusation.
He looked around your shop, at the handwritten signs and uneven stacks of bread cooling on the counter.
“You’re not afraid of me,” he said.
“You’ve never been cruel to me.”
“That doesn’t mean I’m not cruel.”
You stepped closer, close enough that he could smell vanilla and rosemary on your skin.
“I know you are,” you said quietly. “I just don’t think that’s all you are.”
No one had ever suggested that before.
In the span of a month, he had buried a man, threatened another, negotiated alliances, broken a traitor’s confidence with his own hands, and tightened his control over half the city.
And yet here he was, holding a sunflower because you had pressed it into his palm.
He exhaled slowly.
“For someone who sells flowers,” he murmured, “you involve yourself in dangerous things.”
You smiled, bright and steady.
“For someone who runs the city,” you replied, “you keep coming back for something soft.”
He did not deny it.
Outside, the city continued to bite and bruise and demand blood.
Inside your shop, flour dusted the air like harmless smoke, and Hongjoong, merciless and precise and feared, allowed himself exactly ten minutes of peace before returning to war.
★When Toji Zen'in had decided to grow powerful, he lost his idea of health. When he came across you, you taught him how to love his body again.
★CW: EATING DISORDERS, vomit, Baker!Reader, angst, no comfort
★wc: 658
☆A/N: This is something I have been planning for a while! Not.. this story specifically, but I've always wanted to make a multichaptered fic, and I think this one may be it, because Toji deserves better. Anyways, I hope y'all enjoy this purely hurt no comfort initial chapter, lol.
✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧ next >>>>>
Give a man a hard life, and he'll make himself great.
Toji Zen'in had grown with this mentality. Every scar, every time he'd stumble home after a rough mission had been proof he was great. He had to be. If he was so weak to the point he wouldn't — couldn't — even have cursed energy, he'd make himself strong.
He'd eat less. It didn't matter. No meals for him until he made himself so muscular, so defined, no one would question his power. He'd be superior, right? He had to be. Eating the least he could, only drinking protein shakes. Toji would finally be seen. No one in his family would doubt him anymore.. right?
So that's what he did. For nearly four years, barely eating, starving himself so his mucles would look impressive. That'd give him everything he's ever wanted. Love, money, power.
That was the general rule of thumb, he supposes.
Until you came around.
You, whose eyes were always soft when it came to your customers. Every single one of them leaving your little bakery with extra treats you made sure to hand out.
You, whose shop he had accidentally walked into while on the search for…
Well, would it hurt if he were honest?
He went in to see what smelled so good about your shop. At first just staring from the window, eyes scanning sweets upon sweets, some glazed, some dipped in chocolate, some filled with sweet egg cream. Some coated in powdered sugar, or sprinkled with fruits, or with whipped cream decorating each and every little border.
And shit, he felt his mouth water. He'd taught himself to hate anything that didn't taste like chicken and rice.
Still, what you had in your shelves made him want to forget all about fitness. Speaking about you, you were walking outside—
"Hey!" You beam, smiling. "You hunrgy? I could give you something to eat, y'know. Anything you like?" Head now turned towards your exposition of sweets, he stares with wide eyes at your side profile, face growing increasingly red. "Huh?"
"…You're not homeless?" You stammer, also feeling yourself slowly grow flustered.
"Uh. No?" He winces, realising he sounds like a fucking asshole. You probably hate him and will never let him go near your store again, which would be good because he wouldn't eat sweets, but still—
"Oh. Sorry. You just… looked hungry. Still, I can give you some treats. Come!" You giggle, grabbing his arm. Leading him inside, where the small bakery's air is sweet, gentle, inviting. Touching him like you're not disgusted. Hand soft, almost like a genuine promise that he's not a monster.
Then, you hand him that ball of sweetness calories, sprinkled with sugar, stuffed with chocolate, and stare at him with those eyes. Like he's meant to take a bite.
He feels bile rise in his throat. He couldn't eat it. He'd grow fat, and ugly, and weird, and he'd go back to square one and be that weak kid he used to be.
"I can't eat this." He mumbles, looking away. Pale.
"Do you have any allergies? I'm sorry, I totally forgot to ask—"
"No, I don't. It's just.. how many calories are in this again? This is a bomb and—"
"What? Why would you care about that?" You smile. "It's tasty! That's the point of eating it. Feeling good with what goes in, right?" His heart starts to hammer against his chest, forced to bite his lip. Green eyes flickering away from you.
"Right. Uhm. Maybe I'll eat it at home..?"
"Oh.. I was wishing you'd eat it here. I know! I'll eat one with you!" You beam, grabbing another one of the sweet dessert.
"No. Uhm. No, I have to go—" He stammers, shoving the treat into your hands and quickly walking away, only stopping at an alleyway to throw up everything in his guts.
"My papa is the best! He is handsome and he has the biggest smile ever and-and..." the little girl stumbled through her words, her voice shaking a little as she tried to remember her words, feeling nervous in front of her class as she was doing show and tell "And he makes the best cakes ever!" She grinned as she looked up at you, holding your hand as she held your uniform's hat "He likes to put it on his head when he's working in his bakery and he let's me to put his apron in the washer when he's done working! My papa is the best! He has the biggest beer belly ever and always smells of caramelized sugar!"
The class clapped as her speech came to an end, the other parents letting out an collective "Aww" at the sight of you putting your hand on your chest at the sheer cuteness of it all, who knew that a child like her could thrive so much under the care of a step father within months? Everyone knew of her father, the bastard had left his family to struggle and the little one was under so much pressure since her crippled mother could not work much, but it seemed you were a miracle, and indeed you were.
It's just that your wife is the actual miracle maker. Your wife's innocent smile, soft voice and meek demeanor is a front to the true woman laying beneath. She does love you, don't get me wrong, it's just that she was over enthusiastic to know the new baker in the town, so much so that in fact she cried so much to her brothers that they ended up taking care of her "missing" husband for her, he deserved it all though.
Now she can make sure to secure you to herself, she loves you, she loves you, your round belly, the smile on your face, the money in your bank, the laughter you bring home, the evening massages, she loves it all, and she won't let you take that love from her, she'll make sure to tune the little one into the family matters, teach them young after all.
