Baker!reader - Blog Posts

Daisy's are frequently associated with purity, childbirth, new beginnings, and cheerfulness. Daisy petals symbolize innocence and are commonly associated with childhood memories of collecting wildflower bouquets.

Pairing: Marcus Perez (oc) x AFAB! reader

(general) Warning: age gap (he's 50, reader is in mid/late twenties), virgin reader, inexperienced reader, daddy issues™, marcus is a dilf, daddy kink, angst, lots of food/baking, size difference, reader is not overly described but is implied to be skinny & small breasted, able bodied reader, hair length is not defined but will be mentioned, reader is feminine and AFAB but gender is undefined, Marcus drinks and smokes, eventual smut, slow burn-ish, series fic

Authors note: as always do not trust old men who wanna get in your pants! Keep sex safe and always consensual. This is purely fictional and just an expression of sexual fantasy. This chapter is just the beginning so it'll just be establishing the setting and what's going on.

I hope y'all enjoy! Idk when I'll be posting updates as this kinda me trying to grit through writer's block so I'm sorry if chapters are not consistent! Kinda just shouting into the void with this if I'm being honest 🙈 comments, reblogs and likes will always be appreciated!

Moodboard |Part 1 |

For years, Marcus lived in an empty nest, a single man trapped in an unchanging routine. Marcus quits his small-town life and heads to the city, but it's certainly no glamorous ride. Movies painted an enticing picture of freedom—packing up one's life and leaving behind the shackles of monotony, as if shaking off cobwebs layered over dusty memories. Yet, for Marcus, the reality felt more like swallowing cotton balls, each memory sheathed in layers of bubble wrap and tape, heavy boxes straining his weary back as he huffed and grunted. His work buddies rallied around him, lending their arms to help load the cramped pickup truck, but the weight of the moment lingered in his chest.

Though everyone urged him to seize this fresh start, he couldn't abandon that itch to remain in his cycle. He was set in his ways, hesitant to dip his boot-clad feet into new waters, yearning for a life with a touch of difference without completely overhauling the comfort of his past. A constant contradiction of wanting more but unable to muster the greed to take it with unyielding hands. After much contemplation, he settled into a modest apartment above a bakery, cheesily named "Whisk Me Away." Nestled not too far from the city's sprawling park, a purposeful spot he sought out. Marcneededing to venture beyond the habit of staying indoors—something he had lately become all too familiar with. Tucking himself in his solitude, waiting at the phone or rotting his mind with uninteresting TV. Exhausted from work and devoid of friends outside his occasional drink, he dreaded the thought of spending yet another night in the stench of stale beer and listening to another pointless argument or the screams of grown adults outraged by the favorite team losing.

Despite the insistence of his friends that this was his chance to step into retirement, he found it laughable. He never planned to retire. He couldn't. What would he do with himself? After a week of steady toil with boxes, however, he marched into a part-time handyman role for the bakery’s owner. They struck up a friendship, the connection based on the similarities of two middle-aged men sharing dry laughter and nostril-stuffed grunts about sports games that Marcus had little interest in. Or a comment here and there about the youth of today.

Yet, amidst the bustling streets and the chaos of the city, what truly captured his attention wasn’t the sprawling skyline or the rigorous life around him; it was something sweeter, far more delicate. As if biting into a tender sponge of a cupcake. Icing much too sweet for his aged pallet but the rush reminded him of his youth. How he ached to drag his tongue along the creamy sugar that coated this pretty treat. Curling his tongue until he lapped every last bit and got to the true flavor beneath. Untainted and heavenly.

A temptation that should have never crossed his mind at his age. He often scoffed at the very idea of a fling with someone so much younger, dismissing the notion with fierce disapproval. His friends had joked about having a young, pretty thing latched to their hip, and Marcus had rolled his eyes. Perhaps given a pal or two a smack around the head. He considered himself wiser than that—better than that. Or so he thought.

The change within him began quietly. Invading defenses the day he settled into his new life. The difference between him and his little truck and city-slinging people. It lacked the polish of the sleek vehicles roaming the city. The contrast between his humble truck and the flashing, modern cars of the city just screamed ‘fresh meat’ to the scowling, slimmer city living was looking for a bakery with a big fancy bay window - or Italia, Nate as his buddy said. Whatever the fuck that meant wasn'tsn't like he had to Google what it was, s and it wasn't like he was drifting along the busy road, phone propped up on the dashboard, threatening to fall over if he didn't grumble and keep it still, peering between the image and the buildings around him.

He parked awkwardly, the truck’s tire nudging the curb more than he would have liked, but he'd been edging back, and forth, forth trying to spot any space to park, and this was the only one that seemed to work. Cars blaring their raging horns at him. Taking a moment, he stared at the building, suddenly aware of the labor that lay ahead: unloading his entire life into a narrow s; this time, there was no team of buddies at his side.

Letting out a heavy sigh, he pressed his forehead against his palm, feeling the weight of fatigue and apprehension tug at him as if the city itself conspired against him. He glanced at his watch—still an hour until the moving crew arrived—and silently cursed. Always early to everything. That's how his parents raised him to be. But now and again it bit him in the ass just like now. His truck couldn’t possibly contain everything he owned, but he had clung onto those precious few keepsakes he couldn't bear to part with. The sheer price of it all ate into what spare funds he had on the side, meaning he'd be behind a while on groceries and emergency money. The tho ht hung in his mind like a fleeting shadow, provoking a frustrated click of his tongue.

Finally mustering the resolve to abandon the vehicle, Marcus trudged around to the back of his truck, retrieving a few boxes one by one, only to falter when he searched for an alternative entrance—be it a back or side door—anything but the front. But there was none in sight, and he didn't trust leaving his truck unattended in a new place. He's heard all the stories of what kind of hooligans we're skulking around in cities like these. With a resigned grunt, he slammed the truck door shut, trudged towards the bakery, and pushed open the front door, the chime announcing his arrival. Another curse leaving him.

He saw photos of the bakery and its interior but entering the space was a whole experience on its own. Greeted by a large square dining space with tables rowed at the walls most having four wooden chairs snuggly tucked in. All the chairs have a cushion on the seat with ruffles framing them. The tables were light wood and circular with a doily cover draped over it. Two menus in small stands on either side of each one. In the middle were small glass vases filled with daisies and baby's breath, pale yellow ribbons tied into bows at the neck of each vase. The floor creaked, covered In wooden panels. However, it was fake as it didn't have the same squeak he's used to hearing. At the windows there were white lace curtains and shutter blinds rolled and tucked out of view to let the sunlight pour in and soak the building in its natural warmth.

The rays of light bounced against the hanging ceiling lights; each one glass with various flowers engraved on a petal-like base. A turned-off bulb perched in the middle. At the edge of the dining space was a curved counter with a cash register, and a glass display case filled with various baked goods such as pastries, bread, and cakes, though it seemed to be half empty still. Behind the counter, there are shelves stocked with more baked items and different types of porcelain plates with flowers printed on them. A door sealed shut between the many cupboards and shelves.

To his relief, the bakery was empty—until a man appeared from behind the counter, wiping his hands on a faded, threadbare rag, surprise flickering across his face, soon giving way to a light-hearted chuckle. With a playful shake of his head, he approached Marcus.

“Let me help you with that! I didn’t expect to see anyone for a while,” he said, his voice laden with an unexpected warmth.

Marcus raised an eyebrow, skepticism lacing his voice as he shifted his grip on the precariously balanced boxes. “You’re the owner, right?” He knew he shouldn't be so stereotypical, but the man before him didn't seem like the type to enjoy a much…dainty interior.

“Yeah, that’s right. I’m Randal,” he replied as he took a step closer. “And you must be the new neighbor. If you had texted ahead, I could have given you better directions.”

That just made Marcus grunt. Shrugging one of his shoulders. Randal effortlessly plucked one of the heavy boxes from Marcus's arms, letting out a small grunt as he did, a look of approval crossing his features as he assessed Marcus's strong arms. A flicker of respect for a man able to keep his strength up.

“There’s an alley behind the building. If you don’t mind, I can drive around back and help you out. It’ll save you from getting honked at all day,” Randal suggested, his eyes twinkling with knowing. He's been listening to the chorus of honks since the other man's arrival.

With another sigh, Marcus hesitated but nodded. He tightened his grip on the boxes. “That would be helpful. My keys are right here,” he replied, albeit with a lingering twinge of wariness. Yet, considering Randal’s age there was a certain level of reliability. He was put in some faith another man his age would be true to his word, especially considering he'd be living above his business. With a slight pop of his hip, he revealed the keys dangling from his belt loop, which Randal deftly took after putting the box he had taken onto a nearby table.

“Oi! Honey, mind being helpful? The neighbor’s here!” Randal hollered out suddenly, narrowing his eyes as he peered expectantly at the back door, as if willing it to swing open.

A moment of stillness hung in the air, broken only by a muffled voice drifting through the closed door. At last, it swung open with a loud creak, held wide by a stout stopper. You stepped into view, cradling a tray overflowing with an array of delectable treats, the faint scent of fresh-baked pastries wafting through the air. A displeased huff escaped your lips as you expertly slid the tray into the display case at the cashier, a light dusting of flour still lingering on your fingertips.

As you looked up, your eyes finally met those of your new neighbor. A radiant smile broke across your soft features as you hurried around the desk, eager to assist him with the heavy box he was struggling with.

“Grab the one on the table,” your father commanded from behind you, his voice firm, almost dismissive he retreated further into the back.

Your arms fell, swerving around to grab the box, and let out a noise of surprise at the heavyweight. Another huff escaped you. Of course. You looked back at Marcus, and the smile returned to your features. “Let's get these up.” adjusting the box in your grasp as you began to walk to the corner of the bakery where a staircase was tucked away. You already began trudging up as the matching wooden steps became less cared for and rustic compared to the dreamy softness of the bakery.

Marcus followed behind you, his heavy footsteps echoing through the bakery as he lugged the boxes. He couldn't help but notice the way your hips swayed as you climbed the stairs. He didn't mean to stare at your ass but it was right in front of him. Nicely rounded and snug in pale blue jeans. Or at least, that was his excuse until he pried his eyes away to watch his step. Though with the two boxes clutched to his chest, it wasn't the easiest task.

"I really wish they had an elevator." You joked, hoping to clear the stiff silence between you two.

"Yeah, I bet. It would definitely make this a lot easier," he replied, his voice gruff but tinged with amusement. He shifted the box in his arms, feeling its weight pressing against his chest. After a few steps, he spoke again, glancing back toward the dim light of the building that faded into the shadows of the staircase walls.

"So, your pops owns this place?"

"Yeah," you said, your voice trailing off slightly as you nodded. "He handles the numbers and works the cash register, but the bakery is meant to be mine. It just helps to have him manage the stuff I'm not so good at." You shrugged your shoulder as you forced yourself up a few more steps with a large stretch of your leg. The box was already making your arms ache, but that could also be due to hours of mixing and the grocery crates you had hauled in that morning.

"Ah, right. Makes sense with all the—" He cut himself off and cleared his throat. "He just doesn’t seem the type," Marcus muttered hastily as he tried to maintain the good manners that had been drilled into him since he learned to talk.

Following your lead, he hurried up a bit, knowing he still had plenty more boxes to carry. These stairs were going to be well acquainted.

He couldn't help but feel a twist at the bottom of his belly. He worked as a maintenance technician before coming here. I always get calls and texts for even the smallest of issues, like a slow coffee machine. Not exactly a business his Eliana was ever interested in. God knows she wasn't even interested in staying in town once college hit.

“good that you two can do something like that together.” he tried to put a smile in his voice but each word was like a bitter tar coating his tongue.

"yeah!" You agreed but there was a strain to your voice. Finally reaching the top, there was a narrow hallway with two doors on either side and another staircase leading to the people just above. You put the box down outside his door, which was on the right. You patted around your pockets and let out a surprised noise as you felt the bulk of keys in your front one.

"Dad gave me the keys to hold onto, wasn't sure if I still had them." You breathed out, pulling them out and unlocked the front door to his apartment. A singular small window illuminated the hall.

"Thanks, kid," he muttered, stepping into the apartment. The space was small, but it was clean and well-maintained. Though he could tell it was recently gutted of most of what furniture was in it from the streaks on the floor here and there. The walls were a soft beige, and the floors were covered in a worn but comfortable-looking carpet. A small kitchenette was tucked into the corner, and a narrow hallway led to what he assumed was the bedroom and bathroom.

He set the boxes down on the floor, stretching his arms above his head. His muscles ached from the exertion, but he welcomed the pain. It was a reminder that he was still alive, still capable of hard work. He didn't like to laze about for too long. Just the drive to the city made him itch to just do something. He ran a hand through his hair, trying to smooth down the unruly strands that had come loose during the move. His heart was racing in his chest, and he couldn't quite figure out why. Maybe it was just the exertion from carrying the heavy boxes up the stairs, or maybe it was something else entirely. The daunting loom of this was it. He was really starting fresh.

You handed him the keys, a bit surprised by the rough scrape of his palm against your fingers. The hands of heavy labor were worn and built with a protective shield. You quickly retreated your hand back to your side, mouth opening to say something but then a call from downstairs echoed through.

"Hon! You up there still? C'mon! Am I doing all this lifting myself?" Your dad yelled with the sound of something heavy being smacked into.

"Shit- you get yourself sorted, we'll help you with the boxes." You were already making your way out of the apartment, switching between turning to him and the staircase. Another call from your dad made you spin back around and trot down the stairs with thunderous steps. "Yeah I'm coming-!"

Marcus watched as you hurried down the stairs, your footsteps fading away as you disappeared from view. He let out a heavy sigh, running a hand over his face. He couldn't help but feel a twinge of disappointment at your abrupt departure. Your presence would have been a nice distraction to the acid threatening to burn at his throat. He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. But he just shook his head. He was being ridiculous. Empty nest syndrome or whatever they called it, that's all. Just wanting to cling to anything familiar. Anything that reminded him of who he once was.

He marched down the stairs not long after you. "My boxes, your handling, can't have you doing all the work." He called back and heard a chuckle from your father. A mutter of ‘I like this one' just caught in his ear as he marched down the steps.

And that was his day; at some point, he had to take over completely as the bakery opened u,p, and both of you had to turn your attention back to your business. The moving guys arrived 30 minutes late and well, they made up for it by their speedy rush and getting his furniture set up. And then, he was alone one more. He turned back to the boxes, unpacking them methodically. He had a system, one that he had perfected over the years. First, he would unpack the essentials - toiletries, a change of clothes, his coffee maker. Then he would move on to the more sentimental items - photos, mementos, his wife's old perfume bottle. Lastly, he would tackle the miscellaneous items - books, tools, knick-knacks. It was a process that he found comforting and familiar. It grounded him and reminded him of who he was and where he came from.

Everything was new, unfamiliar. Even the smell of the apartment was different - instead of the comforting scent of his over-burnt wood and spice candles, there was a faint whiff of vanilla and cinnamon, a remnant of the bakery below. It was disorienting, unsettling. He felt like a stranger in his own skin.

He paused, leaning against the wall as he caught his breath. His heart was pounding, his palms sweaty. He closed his eyes, trying to calm himself. He had done this for a reason, he reminded himself. He needed a change, a fresh start. He couldn't keep living in the past, couldn't keep clinging to memories that only brought him pain. He had to move on. He couldn't take staring at those empty seats at the dining room table.

He looked at the inner pocket of his jacket and sighed. Unable to bring himself to have the energy to attempt to scold himself. The nasty habit he was unable to kick. Lighting up the cigarette with practiced ease and placing the stick between his lips. Inhaling slowly as he slumped against the wall. What a fucking day.

Pairing: Marcus Perez (oc) x AFAB! reader

(general) Warning: age gap (he's 50, reader is in mid/late twenties), virgin reader, inexperienced reader, daddy issues™, marcus is a dilf, daddy kink, angst, lots of food/baking, size difference, reader is not overly described but is implied to be skinny & small breasted, able bodied reader, hair length is not defined but will be mentioned, reader is feminine and AFAB but gender is undefined, Marcus drinks and smokes, eventual smut, slow burn-ish, series fic

Plot: Marcus seeks out a fresh start living the city life, renting an apartment above a small business bakery. That's where he met you. His sweet temptation.

Note: update schedule currently unknown.

Sunshine and whiskey:

Part 1 | ??? | ??? | ???