#thebaker

Your laughter rings in his ears - gentle, amused by his words but not at the cost of him. "I feel like that sometimes, too." And yet, you grin impishly as you set the basket on the counter before him. "Try them, please?"

Steven takes one triangular bit between his fingers, feeling the semi-sticky coating. The bake is fragrant - fruits, nuts, cinnamon - "Is this a honey cake?"

Your excitement is palpable, so sweet against his senses. Eyes bright and that soft lower lip caught between your teeth as you watch him take a bite. "Yes! It's a tiger nut honey cake! I might have done some Googling and changed it slightly."

He can't stop the small noise that escapes him, somewhere between a moan and a grunt, derived solely in pleasure. "Bloody hell, that's a fine bake." You’re smiling so brightly at him - he wonders if you taste as sweet, if you'll melt against his tongue -

Steven coughs, almost choking on the next bite, ears warm with shame.

"Oh, no. Do you need some water?"

He needs many things, none of which he can have.

-

As days turn into weeks, the tension between the two of you only grows. Often, late in the night when Steven finds himself fighting sleep and staring up at his ceiling, he is plagued with thoughts of you. Scenes of a possible life together seemingly just out of reach - dancing in his flat, introducing you to his mum.

But what is worse is the impropriety, the thoughts that have his heart racing and his cock throbbing in the confines of his trousers. He knows it is depraved, and yet he cannot stop himself from indulging so often.

-

The tonal shift happens somewhere in between friendship and the unspoken question of ‘What are we?’ The now-familiar tension between you two snaps when the you invite him to your little apartment above the bakery for dinner. A bit of wine turns into a bit more wine, amidst shared stories and laughter that leaves you gasping for breath.

Steven is listening to you talk about your ‘old, pre-Blip life’ in New York when he realizes the pair of you have almost entirely finished the bottle. He is warm, flushed, but he cannot bring himself to care as his gaze lingers over your lips, soft and pinkish and wet as your tongue peeks out. He swallows, downing the rest of his glass in hopes of keeping his hands to himself. "Woah there, Stevie," you giggle, leaning close, hand on his shoulder. "Don't wanna get sick!"

He can smell the wine on your breath, fermented grapes alongside the flowery scent on your skin. The air grows thick between them, breath coming heavy as each gazes at the other. And yet, in all his nervousness, it is Steven that moves first - lunging forward to press his mouth to yours, hands clamoring for purchase at your waist.

The kiss is rough, rife with inexperience and want. Your fingers thread through his hair, and he groans into your pliant mouth. A gasp works its way from between your teeth when he pulls you closer by your skirts, those flighty hands grasping the fabric without mercy. Your legs tremble when you stand, and he gasps as your bodies part, seemingly surprised.

"Oh, bollocks," he groans, voice thinning in shame. "I'm sorry... I shouldn't have - "

Your response is a soft noise, almost a whine as you untie the front of her dress with deft fingers. Words die on his tongue at the sight of her bared chest, gently-heaving breasts donned in soft lace. " - oh - oh my."

"Touch me, Stevie. Please."

And later?

When your intertwined forms tumblr in your poor bed, and he's between your thighs, every moment a sacrament as you lose yourselves in each other's bodies. He touches you as if he is afraid it will end, desperate and filthy, a worshipping all its own. It aches, how badly he wants to tell you that he loves you, but he can settle for pouring that emotion into you flesh. He could die there a happy man, surrounded by you - breathy moans and slick flesh and grasping hands and the squeeze of your cunt around him with each movement. He thinks he just might, suffocating in the intensity of it all.

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