Don’t go baking my heart (part 1): Prologue

A/N: By popular demand, here you have a secret involving a bakery. The main character of this story (aka the reader) is a black woman, so there’s that. Hope you guys love it as much as I do, this idea has been shimmering on my brain for a loooooooooong time. This fits in a very common trope but I’ll let you see which one it is. (Also recommend checking the orc family tree to see who Brick is, also I think you can guess who the minotaur is, good luck). Enjoy!

Orc [Aleksander “Brick”] x fem!reader || sfw

“What the fuck is that? It looks like a unicorn puked in here,” somebody says next to you as you hum lowly as you roll on some more paint under the window.

But his words make you stop. You turn around in time to see the back of a heavily tattooed orc hitting his minotaur friend’s shoulder and chuckling. The minotaur next to him is not laughing, but looking at him as if he’s stupid. You are almost glad you aren’t the only one thinking such a comment is shitty as hell.

“You shouldn’t be saying stuff like that, they are our new neighbors,” the minotaur says, very seriously. You blink at that comment, realizing they must be the owners of the tattoo parlor next to your bakery.

The orc is still chuckling, looking at him as if he grew a second head. You are fuming because you are standing there, roll of paint still in your hand and they didn’t even see you. You know you aren’t the biggest human out there (even if some people would like to remind you about your “few extra pounds”), but good damn it, you are right there. You thought monsters would be more aware of their surroundings, but apparently not, they are completely obvious to you.

“Come on man, don’t be a sourpuss, you can’t tell me this doesn’t look like a little girl’s room. Look at all that pink and rainbows… Look at that! There’s a panda on the wall.” He’s laughing as if it’s the most ridiculous thing he’s ever seen. “What is even that?” He says pointing at the cute cat you drew there but haven’t been able to paint yet.

The cat looks a bit rough, you can give him that, but it’s a trust-the-process kind of thing. The cat will look cute after you are done. You are sure of it. But his words sting as he lets out another chuckle. What an asshole, ugh. You are used to most people making fun of the things you like, but your bakery looks cute, you are sure of it. You aren’t about to let an insolent orc make you doubt your choices.

The minotaur further from you realizes first that you are standing there, you are probably looking a bit crazy, your hair in a messy bun, your clothes dirty with stains of paint, and your ebony skin shiny with perspiration after a few hours of painting. Shit. You probably look like a madwoman, but you aren’t the one making fun of other’s peoples’ efforts and looking like a stupid prick.

You get up from your crouched position, dusting off your yoga pants. They still haven’t seen you, so when you say: “That, asshole, is my bakery.” There’s fire in your words and he shuts up immediately.

The tattooed asshole turns around in a rush, and the second you see his face you are hit with a sudden surge of desire. He looks good enough to eat, and you know about it, you are a baker damn it. But that only makes your anger worse. He might be the most handsome monster you’ve ever seen, but he’s also the most disrespectful one.

He’s gaping, looking down at you as if you are some kind of entity that just materialized in front of him. You frown at him, dropping your painting tools and walking to the store door in a dismissive manner.

You hear him behind you almost screaming: “Wha- Wait!” But you don’t, you walk right in and closing the door behind you with a soft thud.

The little tinkle of the doorbell over your head makes your blood boil as you think back to the orc-hole you just met. You don’t look at the window, and you don’t see him gaping after you like you just hit his solar plexus with a hammer. You are fuming, walking to the back of the store and grabbing one of the cookies cooling on the tray, they are still a bit hot.

The orc is still spinning in your head as you munch on your caramel and cheese cookies, his strong tattooed arms, his words, the way his thin shirt looked stretched across his muscles… How could he be so infuriating? And, especially, how could he be so fucking hot?

Ugh, life is so unfair.