you're too young & eager to love

More bakery AU! Featuring gossip, coffee, awkward run-ins, and some sex.

This gets smutty, but honestly not as smutty as I thought it would get.


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The coffee shop holds open mic events the third Friday and Saturday of every month. They've grown in popularity since they started a year ago, but it's still a hit-or-miss on how well the performances will be. That's the nature of improv, Sunniva assumes, standing with her arms crossed in the archway between the pick-up point on the counter and the hall designated for Employees Only. She's stiff even outside of her work clothes, her purple summer dress doing little to soften her. She hasn't smiled in half an hour. She's watching the guests drink their table wines and order their coffees split with sweet vodkas or syrupy Bailey's, and she frowns, knowing from experience how dangerous easy booze and lackluster poetry readings can be to one's will power. 

"I don't get it either," Eda tells her, stopping on her way to clear a recently emptied booth. "We should really ask why every staff member has to be here for these events. You shouldn't have to come back after working all day." She's misread Sun's expression, but Sun doesn't correct her.

"Augusta likes a full house. It's easy promotion. Besides, they're here too." Sun inclines her head to one of the far tables and Eda's eyes follow. 

Augusta is sitting with her husband, her brother, Roman, and Radomir. She's holding hands with her husband on top of the table, blatantly declaring her devotion, her fingers much smoother and younger than the ones clutching hers. Sunniva thinks her body is leaning towards Rad though, that Augusta is resting the tips of her heels on the bottom rung of Rad's adjacent stool. 

"Sort of an odd social circle, isn't it?" Eda asks, shifting her weight to one hip along with her obvious envy.

It's an accurate assessment though – odd indeed and unbalanced. The Reinhardts’ clothing alone could pay the entire staff's salary for a month, and although Harrow is just as well-dressed, his antisocial tendencies are showing. He keeps glancing towards Ita's lean figure behind the counter; Sunniva has lost count on how many times he's gone to get a refill of what might be water. Roman is texting, somehow able to manage the shop and take a whole hour of break time without actually overseeing anything, and Radomir’s bulk causes him to look out of place anywhere that isn't a war zone. It doesn't help that they're also the most serious of the clientele - the mood noticeable chillier. All the other tables are full of laughter, chatter, cheers for the performers on the half-circle stage. 

Eda and Sun watch as Radomir shifts and digs his phone from the back pocket of his working class distressed jeans. He looks down at the caller ID, answers with an apologetic glance to the table, and rises, stepping towards the bathroom. One hand holds his phone, the other covers his left ear to drown out the cacophony of noise caused by a singer’s croaking rendition of Ring of Fire. He looks a bit like the secret service, shouldering past a crowd of fresh-faced twenty-somethings. 

"Do you think he's talking to anyone?" Sunniva asks, amused. 

"What do you mean?"

"I don’t think anyone is on the other line. Watch, I guarantee Augusta follows him within the next five minutes."

"Can we just look at how he walks? Parts the crowd like Moses. I heard he used to work for the government. One of those special ops, hush-hush types of situation." Eda says, her envy shifting to judgment.

"Roman said he was a personal trainer?" 

Ita shakes her head from behind the counter, having caught the last bit of the conversation, and places two steaming cappuccinos down under the Pick-Up sign dangling from the ceiling. "Here, these are for you two. And I don't think that's true. People just assume. He told me he graduated from Harvard. Studied linguistics. He can speak a number of languages, actually." 

"Really?" Sunniva picks up one of the cappuccinos with a hint of a smile. "How did he end up working for the Vries? I don't think bakeries need translators." 

"He doesn't. Not technically. He works for Mr. Reinhardt."

Sunniva makes a hum of interest. She isn't surprised Ita knows any of this - Ita seems to know everything, but she's mostly a sealed vault, and she's never been the center of the gossip in the shop. Unlike Eda with her frank expressions and beguiling mouth. 

"That is one rich man," Eda says, turning her attention to Augusta's husband and his expensive suit. Even from a distance, the three of them can see the glare of Augusta's wedding ring. "How do you get that rich?" 

"Bonds?"

Sunniva shrugs. "Sell your soul, more like it."

"Maybe you should start taking bets," Eda teases, heading to the booth still in need of cleaning. She's got her coffee in one hand but she motions subtly with the other towards Augusta. She's standing and smoothing her hands across her skirt. She whispers something to her husband before following Radomir's path. 

"Told you," Sunniva says to Ita, the blonde merely shaking her head in response. 





"I want to fuck you," Radomir speaks into the shell of Augusta's ear, his need outlined more clearly by his roaming hands than his voice. There's a slight hitch to his words - some accent long-ago muffled - that warps his consonants whenever he gets like this, but Augusta doesn't think anyone else would notice. She doesn't think anyone else has the same effect on him as she does - at least not in two years - or that he talks much without first being prompted. 

"No, you don't," she corrects him, pushing a hand against the center of his broad chest. 

She's perched on the edge of the wide sink, her slim-cut skirt pushed up against her thighs, her silk shirt missing its top two buttons so the lace of her bra and the swell of her breasts are showing. There's scratch marks there, against her cleavage, from where Radomir's beard has rubbed her skin raw. 

"Augusta." Rad says her name the way a petulant child might, and she tsks at him, feigning disappointment. 

His giant hands trace the length of her calves, roaming upwards, circling the curve of her knees, until he treads her thighs with his fingers. Standing between her legs, he looms above her, her hands tiny, pale butterflies that flutter over his chest and shoulders. He could crush them, could pin both her wrists above her head with only one hand, but he doesn't. Rad leans down instead, pushing his forehead against hers, and she lets him kiss her the way he likes to - soft and too tender, like he would swallow her if he could, if it meant he could keep her safe inside of him. 

Augusta runs her sharp, pointed nails down the back of his neck and bites his bottom lip hard enough to taste blood. He jolts a bit, groans, and when she snakes a hand between their bodies, she finds him painfully hard. She cups him with her palm. He's hot and straining against his jeans. His groan is wet against her mouth. Needy. 

"Hands only. And make it quick," she tells him in her best boss-voice. The noise he makes in response is a tortuous sob. 

But he's eager - eager and willing and thrilled by her. He slides one of his hands between her legs, tearing aside the flimsy strip of lace he finds there to push three fingers into her. She's wet enough, but it still hurts, a kind of burn-ache that fills her as much as his fingers do. Her legs are confined by the contours of her skirt, so his knuckles dig into her thighs. Her gasp is more of a grunt, an exhale of hot air. She keeps her nails like claws in his neck, anchoring him as she arches up from the sink, his head buried against her chest, teeth scraping down over her bra and biting at the hard point of her nipple. He's mouthing all types of obscenities against her skin as his fingers piston in and out of her. He's only ever loquacious during times like these. 

A stoic thing, undone by her. 




Fifteen minutes after Augusta has returned to her table, looking a little warm but otherwise composed, Ita takes out the garbage. 

The alley smells damp and dark with an herbal sweetness that drafts towards her. Ita shoulders the trash, headed to the dumpster, and gives a yelp of surprise when one of the shadows speaks. 
"Do you want me to get that?" 

She recognizes the outline of his jaw and the way he carries his shoulder before she places his voice. "... You startled me." It comes out quiet and tongue-tied. Ita clears her throat. "Most people don't lurk in alleys, you know." It's meant to be joking, but it comes off as a scold, which makes a blush creep awkwardly across her cheeks and the bridge of her nose. 

"Sorry." Chason flicks the last of his joint to the ground, smears it in the gravel with his work boot. She's not sure if he's apologizing for smoking or for startling her. "I like things back-alley. Used to them."

Ita doesn't know what to say to that, so she doesn't say anything. She's distinctively aware of the trash bag in her hand and how it's started to leak. 

"Guess a girl like you wouldn't know anything about that though, huh?" Chason shoves a hand through his dark hair, his eyes bright beneath his lashes, and grabs the trash before Ita can protest. He throws it up and into the dumpster easily. 

With her hands empty, Ita can't decide what to do with them. She settles them on her hips and again is aware that this was the wrong choice. She looks like a mom about to begin lecturing. 
He stares at her, waiting, but she doesn’t know what for. It seems to be her perpetual state of being whenever he’s around: confusion. The silence sinks over them. She feels crushed. Chason looks amused.

He quirks an eyebrow. “Well.”

When she still doesn’t respond or even move, he laughs, a bit of a biting, scoffing noise that’s meaner than it should be. “Okay. Nice talking to you then, tiny dancer.”

She turns to her side when he passes, avoiding the brush of their bodies.
When she gathers herself enough to go back inside and continue with the last orders for the night, her hands are shaking.





The girls forget to lock the back door, the one that leads to the alley. Whoever closes for the night inevitably remembers before leaving (thanks to the security alarm), but throughout the duration of the shop’s business hours, the door is unlocked – there’s too many smoke breaks and trips to the dumpster. Sunniva, more fastidious as a manager than Roman, rarely thinks to complain about it, but she makes a mental note to mention the need for added security at the next staff meeting when Palmer pulls her into a supply closet by her wrist.

She hates the way her heart skips and the quick moment of panic that causes her pulse to startle before she realizes its him.

He smells like the bar and cigarette smoke and leather. She hits him square in the chest, which causes him to laugh, then pulls her hand free. “Palmer. Jesus. What the fuck? What are you – twelve? I’m trying to help Ita close up here.”

“Shut up,” he murmurs, pressing his taller body against hers and circling an arm around her waist. She’s as stiff as a board, unrelenting, and the sigh she exhales is pure annoyance.

“You’re coming off more than a little rapey.”

“I thought you hard-to-get types liked an element of surprise.”

“Let’s not start that again. Do you ever actually work at that job of yours? Don’t you need to be pouring some shots right now?”

“Got off early.” He keeps his voice low, the same grey murmur, but when he looks down at her, his mouth splits into a grin that makes him boyish. He looks younger than his age, and Sunniva knows that’s supposed to be part of his charm. “Speaking of getting off …”

When he thumbs the hem of her dress, she smacks him across the side of his head. Palmer rolls his eyes, catching her hand mid-air when she tries to hit him again, forcing her backwards until her spine collides with the cold metal of a shelf. Supplies tumble and there’s the sound of breaking glass. Sunniva thinks she hears sugar scratch beneath Palmer’s shoes.

“I’ll scream,” she threatens.

“Bullshit.”

She opens her mouth, and Palmer clamps his palm over it immediately, turning his face into her neck and bracing his body against hers. He hisses when she bites, but he pushes the heel of his palm further against her teeth. It doesn’t really hurt, and she isn’t really fighting, and he knows if he were to skim his hand down across the insides of her velvet thighs that they’d come back wet.

She’s a good faker though, and he appreciates the game.

She makes a noise against his hand, her eyes throwing daggers at him, and he trails his mouth up to her ear. Palmer thinks she shivers. “If you insist on screaming, at least let it be on my terms, Sunshine.”

He kisses the hot curve of her neck, scraping his teeth down to her collarbone, mouthing the thin strap of her dress at her shoulder. She isn’t exactly responding, but she isn’t trying to leave either, so he plays his odds and lets go of her mouth, his hand falling to clutch her hip.

“I hate you,” she finally says, voice twisted into a tangle of emotion that another man would think more about.

“That’s fine.”

“… Five minutes.”

Palmer keeps one hand on her side but reaches back to click the lock on the closet. “Good, I like a challenge.”

There’s a surprising amount of grace to the way he slinks to his knees in front of her, fisting her dress up to her hips. Sunniva wishes her stomach didn’t twist with lust at the sight; as repercussion, she sweeps her fingers back through his dark hair and pulls – hard. Palmer doesn’t seem to mind though. He’s too busy wrapping a hand around the backs of her thighs and nudging her back. She complies, stretching her arms out on the shelves and leaning back, settling her weight into the metal frames. It’s surprising how easy it is for her to straddle his face like this – he keeps his hands on her thighs, her ass, supporting her as much as the shelves, her knees draped over his shoulders. His own knees must be killing him, and the angle cannot be the easiest, but she doesn’t want this to be easy. She wants him to suffer a little.

“Four minutes,” she says, fingers still tight in his air, and feels his laughter against her slick skin.

There’s a minute to spare when Sunniva all but tumbles out of the closet. She’s smoothing her dress across her legs, fixing a strap from where it fell down her arm, and shoving her hands back through her hair. She isn’t as disheveled as she thinks she is, but her eyes scan for Ita nonetheless.

Palmer steps out after her, rubbing his jaw, smirking.

She takes one look at his face and rolls her eyes. “Oh, fuck off.”

“My dick’s hard as a rock, but you’re the one who’s angry? That makes sense.”

She doesn’t bother answering, already heading to the front.

Palmer opens the back door and takes a step out, pausing in the threshold. “Sunshine?”

Sunniva doesn’t stop or look back. “What?”

“You should really keep this door locked.”

Bakery AU! This is so cute and fun and how nice is it to write something that doesn't require pressure?

Thanks to my Muffinpants for letting me join in her madness.

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Roman’s hair is sweat-slicked and pulled up into a bun - it’s the type of hairstyle that Lene knows he adopts with an attitude of apathy that is too forced to be genuine. Lene smirks a bit, picturing him in front of a mirror, adjusting the stray strands that fall against the sides of his long face, trying to capture what he imagines effortlessness looks like. They catch his eye and he grins, bypassing the counter and Ita’s expectant face to stalk towards their corner. In typical Roman fashion, he ignores Lene’s paperwork and in-work-mode expression, standing so close that his crotch is nearly eye-level. Lene knows that’s intentional.

“You smell like the gym.”

“You’re very observant on this fine Tuesday morning.”

“I meant you stink. Fucking bad.”

As if reveling in the effect, Roman lifts his arms and stretches. He’s wearing grey sweatpants that dip across his stomach, and his sleeveless shirt lifts enough to show his hard-worked, finely etched abdomen and the cut of his hipbones. “Stop acting like you’re unimpressed. This body takes hours of dedication. Hours.”

Lene’s eyes roll. They’re about to say something or even jab him with an elbow and demand a refill on their coffee, but the door’s censor twangs its familiar chime, interrupting the banter before it can really begin.

“Saved by the bell,” Roman quips, heading back to the counter where he meets Radomir and Augusta.

Augusta looks flushed in running pants and a slim tank-top, but her dark hair is still neatly held in its French braid and there’s barely a sheen of sweat on her. She’s already transitioning into her more formal professional self, scanning the shop for any signs of disarray or problem spots to report back to Harrow while the men nod at each other with an easy familiarity. Radomir is just as sweat-stained as Roman, but he’s all bulk and force where Roman is lean, carved marble.

When they approach the counter, Ita catches some talk about weight lifting and sets between the men. They’re engaged with one another while Augusta stands to Rad’s left, but there’s a pivot to their stances that Ita thinks says more than they realize – the way Rad is a half-step behind, the subtle lean of Augusta’s hip towards the man’s mountainous form. Ita smiles when they finally turn to her and knows it’s too tight, but the good morning she chirps at them still manages to be cheerful.

“Soy Tazo Chai Tea Latte,” Augusta orders without looking up from her phone. “Medium. He’ll have a coffee. Black. No sugar. What size?”

“Small,” Rad answers.

“And for you?” Ita asks Roman, her fingers hovering over the cash register.

“Same as him.”

None of them say please or thank you, but Augusta slides her Platinum American Express across the counter.

Ita hesitates, trying for another smile. “You really don’t have to pay, Miss Vries.”

“Mrs. Reinhardt,” Augusta corrects with a touch of annoyance creeping into her voice. She flashes her left hand where a rock of a wedding ring burns against her finger. “You must be thinking of my brother. And I’d like to pay. As a principle.”

“Oh, um, right. Yes. Of course. Sorry, I forgot.” Ita gives a little shake of her head, sliding the other woman’s card in the machine.

“Can’t imagine why,” Roman murmurs, and Rad turns his head to hide his grin.






“They all work out together?” Eda asks later, helping Ita wipe down the counters. It’s the mid-afternoon lull, so the two clean to keep themselves busy.

“Apparently. I had never seen them come in together before.”

“What does Augusta look like outside of pencil skirts and silk?”

Ita lifts a narrow shoulder in a shrug. She doesn’t like to gossip, but Eda has a sweetness about her that’s difficult to ignore. Some of the workers distrust her, and Ita isn’t naïve – she’s seen how Sunniva and Eda talk – but Ita sometimes longs for the easy female comradery she sees between others. “Pretty. But she’s not the type of woman who looks like herself in casual clothes. She’s so …”

“Severe?” Eda offers.

“Do you think she’s that serious when she fucks?” Palmer interjects. Ita hadn’t heard him approach, but she should have guessed given the time – Sunniva’s shift is about to end, and Palmer always seems to arrive around that time.

Eda laughs, but Ita blushes. “I don’t like to think about it,” she says, and she means it.

“Ask Rad,” Palmer suggests without any slyness, and Ita chews on the bottom of her lip, wiping an already clean counter. Radomir has never been rude to her, not in the blunt way Augusta has, and he’s never disregarded her in same cold manner as Augusta either, but there’s something about him that unnerves her all the same. Ita doesn’t want to think about how the feeling amplifies whenever she sees Augusta touch Radomir’s arm, when he idly brushes a chunk of the woman’s hair from her neck with all the easy entitlement of intimacy, or how much stronger it might be when they’re alone and less restrained.

Ita would rather not go to bed imagining their particular forms of depravity, but Palmer might, if his grin is any inclination.

“Palmer!” Eda snaps her towel at his leg disapprovingly, echoing Ita’s unspoken sentiments. “She’s a married woman. That counts for something to some people, you know.”

Palmer’s grin is wolfish, and he catches Eda’s towel easily when she tries to snap it at him a second time. He pulls her forward until he can wrap an arm around her tiny waist and speaks against her temple. “Ever the romantic, aren’t you?”

Eda lets him tease for a moment longer before wiggling out of his grasp.

She bumps Ita’s shoulder good-naturedly when making her retreat, curving towards Sunniva’s office. “Careful with this one,” she sing-songs over her shoulder. “He can’t be trusted.”





Kim is mixing batter for a new batch of White Chocolate Blueberry Oat Cookies in the kitchen when Sunniva sticks her head through the door to check in a final time before leaving. She can hear Palmer arguing about the upcoming Red Sox game with that construction worker Ita is clearly fond of, so she’s in a hurry to get going and is grateful Kim is never demanding.

Kim raises her eyes, her dark hair caught in a knot at the nape of her neck, and wipes her hands on her apron. “We’re almost out of whole milk.”

This is usually how Kim interacts; she disregards niceties and generalities, heading straight to the point, hence Sun’s appreciation. “I’ll have Roman pick up some on his way in for tonight to hold us over and adjust the order for Calder next week. That all?”

“Do people really eat these?” Kim glances to the batter pointedly while pouring in a cup of oats.

“One of our best sellers. Why, you don’t like them?”

“Too sweet.”

“Some people like their sugar.”

“Some people are morons,” Kim suggests, and Sun laughs.

She’s about to linger, to seize the opportunity to exchange a few more words with her typically aloof baker, but she hears Palmer’s voice pitch to a tone he usually reserves for political rants and ducks back out the door, one hand waving a quick goodbye.