Hi everyone, and thanks for the interest in my story. This is my first Into the Woods fanfic, and is centered mostly around the Baker and his wife, and Jack and Little Red, though it will feature all the other characters as well. Movieverse, so no Narrator, unfortunately. Sorry.

Just a few warnings, this story is high T/M for later content, including intense sexual situations (mostly implied, but it's there) and possible triggers. I will be posting warnings in my Author's Notes, so keep an eye out and I hope you enjoy. This story is not Beta read, so if you catch anything while reading that you think I need to fix or change, please let me know in your reviews!

Anyway, here's the story and I'll try to keep updates frequent.

- Raven

Ch. 1-

The oven poured out thick black smoke, choking the stooped man who bent over it, yet he refused to let out a cough, knowing his wife would hear and scold him again. He wiped the sweat from his brow with an awkward jerking movement, his arm slamming into his head and temporarily dazing him for a moment. His grey-green eyes were squinted against the heat and the light, and his clothes were stained white in patches from years of working with flour. He strained against the weight of the wooden pan, and lurched backwards as it gave suddenly and slid out of the fiery hole in the wall, a black stone sitting in its center.

"That's the fifth loaf you've burnt this morning!" His wife's voice rang in his ears, and he jumped, startled, slamming his head against the low brick arch of the oven.

He straightened, biting back a curse, and turned to face his wife with a sheepish expression. "I know," he said, wincing as he rubbed his head. "I'm sorry."

Her expression was less than forgiving, her dark brows drawn low over sharp green eyes, taut cheeks and small lips pulled down in a frown. Her hair was drawn halfway across her face, tied up loosely with a once-red cloth, and her hands rested on her hips.

"You're distracted," she said plainly, her tone sharp, but eyes betraying something else. "I know you can churn out more than ten loaves by noon, while I manage only four or five."

"Well, I have been at it longer," he replied cheekily, grinning at her, and her eyes twinkled as she threw a rag at him from the table beside her.

"Only by three years!" She cried, laughing, and he joined her, the sound bringing a feeling of life to the otherwise dismal looking cottage.

Only one wooden table stood between them in the center of the room, the brick oven the sole source of warmth when the winter months dragged on, like they tended to do these days. Raw dough sat in misshapen heaps on one side of the table, and on the other, the future that lay in store for them; neat little rolls, the outer skin of the bread perfectly crisp, with a soft and sticky center. The air smelled of ash, with a faint taste of wood, along with the broken promise of perfect bread.

Her laugh died first, and he followed soon after, inwardly tensing at the small frown that threatened to deepen if he said something to displease her.

"What is it you're thinking of?" she asked, her voice gentle, and he sighed, glancing away from her and staring forlornly at the door, which was barred now, signifying their closed shop.

"It's not the witch, is it?" his wife asked, a note of worry and disapproval creeping into her tone.

"No, of course not!" he cried, so caught off guard by her guess that he nearly dropped the pan. He placed it on the wooden table and took a knife from his soiled apron, cutting into the bread with the hope that maybe the inside would be salvageable…and sighed in disappointment as he discovered that the inside was just as burnt as the outside, if not more so, and he chopped the bread into smaller pieces before tossing it into the small bucket they kept for this purpose, already full of the other loaves he had burnt.

"Because you know she likes to make empty threats," his wife continued behind him. "And besides, she isn't due for another two days."

"I know," he said, a little harsher than he intended, and he could almost hear her stiffen. He turned around and sighed, gently placing his hands on her shoulders and running them down her arms.

"Lissa," he said softly, but she refused to look at him, a haughty expression on her face and her eyes fixed on a spot past his head. He shifted his weight to place himself in front of her, and she turned her head the other way.

"Lissa," he said again, a plea in his tone. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to snap at you, you know."

She still refused to look at him, though her lips twitched, and his own mouth twisted into a sly grin. He slid a little closer, moving around so his arms wrapped around her from behind, and he slowly began working them up and down her back, gently kneading the tense muscles there. He could feel her slowly relax back against him, and he smiled even wider when he finally heard her give a small moan, and he leaned forward, pressing a kiss to the nape of her neck. She gave a small squeak, and turned on him, eyes flashing, but mouth smiling.

"I'm forgiven then?" he asked, his cheeks aching from his smile, and she playfully swatted him again with the rag before moving to the other side of the table, placing one of the half formed lumps onto the wooden pan and working to form it into a ball, all thoughts of the previous argument fleeing in the comfortable silence.

A knock on the door startled the man so violently that his knife slipped, and he felt a sharp pain as the blade sliced the back of his hand. He cursed then, and his wife gave him a severe look, but it fell when she saw the cloth pressed to his hand, and the telltale red stain. She moved quickly around the table, motioning with her hand for him to remove the cloth. He did, hissing, and she examined the wound for a moment before relief relaxed her furrowed brow, a glint in her eyes as she swatted at him.

"I thought you had cut a finger off or something!" she scolded him lightly.

"I'm dying," he moaned pitifully, and she grumbled back at him.

"It's only a small cut," she said, crossing her arms.

"Small!?" he protested, but she shooed him away.

"Go and answer the door, Paul."

He frowned, but moved to do as she bid, struggling for a moment before sliding the wooden bolt up with one hand, pulling the door open a crack and peering out into the darkness. It took his eyes a moment to adjust, but then he raised his brows in surprise.

"Hello?" he said carefully, and the girl smiled at him, relief in her eyes.

"Oh, you are open!" She exclaimed, leaning forward as though to come in. "I was afraid for a moment…"

"I'm sorry," Paul said, not quite meaning it. "But we are closed, you'll have to come back in the morning."

"Please?" She begged, standing on her toes. "Just a loaf of bread, that's all I need, I swear! And then I'll be gone."

"We have none," the baker lied, peering anxiously over his shoulder at his wife, who was just pulling one of her loaves from the oven; the one that would be their meal.

"But…" the girl began, then her head jerked up, whipping around to glance nervously behind her. She froze for a moment, then relaxed, turning back around and continuing her sentence in the same breath. "You're a bake shop. How does a bake shop run out of bread?"

It was an impertinent question, and the baker scowled, annoyed and in pain. "You'll have to come back tomorrow," he told her again, adding a stiff, "Good night," before wrestling the door closed.

He turned back around, to find his wife scowling furiously at him, the loaf of bread in her hands, wrapped neatly in a white handkerchief. She looked about ready to yell, and he braced himself for it, but then she stopped, and simply shook her head, a heavy expression settling in her eyes. She turned away from him, placing the loaf in a small basket laid on the table, then she untied her apron and hung it on its hook on the back wall, and let her hair down from the bandana, shaking out her stringy brown curls and wiping the remaining flour off with the cloth.

"What?" he asked her, moving into the room and copying her actions, though his own short hair he swept through with his fingers, combing out any bits of flour or egg that might have wound up in it.

She didn't look at him, or speak to him, instead continuing to clean the small shop, sweeping the floors and straightening the chairs around the table, while the baker followed behind her like a kicked dog, silently tidying up as well, dousing the flames in the oven and scraping the ash from the bottom, trying not to scratch the clay too much, as he knew his wife hated the noise, and emptying the ashes into the ash bucket, which he then emptied out the window, silently vowing to bury it in the morning. When he finished that he bound his hand in some clean bandages, knowing it would most likely scab over somewhat overnight. All the while, there was silence, and when they finally blew out the lanterns and candles in the kitchen, the Baker felt a sort of dread fill him as he followed his still-silent wife into their bedroom, which was attached to the main kitchen and separated by a smaller version of the front door.

He watched her undress, still silent, her back to him, and as she began to pull her thin night-dress over her head, he slid up behind her, his arms wrapping gently around her and his hands wandering slowly up her stomach.

"Lissa," he pleaded gently. "What is it? What have I done?"

But she was stiff and cold in his arms, and pulled away from him, the dress falling down to her ankles. She walked over to the bed and slid under the sheets, curling up with her back to the door, and to him. He sighed and undressed himself, pulling on his own night shirt and a fresh pair of pants, sliding into the bed beside her and trying to draw her into his arms, but she stopped him with a curt, "Don't," and he pulled away, rolling over onto his back and staring at the shadows on the ceiling, which danced and flickered in time with the candle on their bedside table. He wondered what he had done, tried to think of his actions throughout the day, and pin point where he had gone wrong. The only thing he could think of was when he had snapped at her, but he had thought he was forgiven for that.

"Lissa." His mouth formed her name, but she spoke before he could, her voice tight.

"You sent her away."

"What?" he asked, sitting up and looking down at her.

"The girl," she said, still not looking at him. "You turned her away; said we had no bread when we did."

"Lissa," he said, a wry laugh slipping out with the name. His hand moved to her shoulder, but she pulled away again, frowning at the wall.

"Don't you 'Lissa' me," she snapped. "You sent her away."

He was about to snap back, but then he saw the way she lay: her arm tucked under her head, knees tucked lightly up, wrapping around an invisible bump, her free hand resting on a painfully empty stomach; and he knew what this was about. He laid down beside her, tucking himself close and mirroring her position, drawing her into his arms and resting his chin on her head. She went willingly this time, and he could feel a tear drift down onto his hand from where it was tucked under her chin.

"I'm sorry, Lissa," he whispered, and a small tremor went through her as she tried to stifle a sob.

"It's not me you should be apologizing to," she responded, her tone no longer angry, but wavering all the same.

"I know."

"What if…" she began, then caught herself once before plunging on. "What if it had been our child?"

There was a heavy silence, and he felt the guilt claw at him all the more, a sick feeling deep in his stomach that threatened to choke off his voice as he tried to speak and failed.

"What if it had been our child?" She repeated, her voice breaking. "Looking for help in the Village, and someone turned them away just as you had?"

She didn't mean it the way he took it, and he knew that, but it hurt all the same. The knowledge that he had failed her, again, that he was somehow inadequate, unworthy of being her husband, of being a man at all. What kind of man couldn't give his wife the child she so desperately deserved? Lissa was shaking in his arms, and he realized with a jolt that they were both crying, his own tears falling into her hair, though she didn't seem to notice through her own tears.

"I'm sorry," Lissa choked out finally, pressing herself closer to him. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean it."

He couldn't speak, but he nodded, knowing she would feel it, that she would understand and forgive him.

"I'm sorry," she continued, her voice clearing, though her tears did not. "I'm sorry I couldn't be the wife you deserve."

"Lissa, no," he said sharply, his voice thick with his tears. He gripped her shoulders gently, but firmly. "No, don't you say that. Don't you ever say that. You are everything I could ever hope for and more. Understand?" He gently squeezed her shoulders again before moving his uninjured hand to her back, sliding it under her dress and tracing small circles on her skin.

"You deserve a child," she continued, too lost in her own sorrow to acknowledge his words. "A son. I should be able to…" she broke off again, shaking harder, though her tears had finally stopped.

"Liss," he said, his hand stilling on her back. "Lissa, look at me."

She rolled over, her knees pressed against his, though he still held her close. Her green eyes looked almost as dark as his in the dim light, and he could see the shine of her tears on her cheeks. He gently kissed them away, tasting the salt and feeling her shift slightly under him. He drew back and took her hands, rubbing his thumbs over hers gently, a gentle smile tracing his lips.

"Lissa, I love you."

"Paul," she protested, but he shook his head.

"I mean it, Liss. I love you, child or no, and nothing will ever change that."

She smiled a watery smile at him, and he drew her in for another kiss, feeling her arms reach up to wrap around him, a soft moan whispering in his ear as he once more moved his mouth down to her throat, and even further down, until her heard her giggle slightly as his mouth found the soft skin of her stomach. He smiled against her skin. She had always been ticklish, and he tickled her side, and she squirmed and finally laughed, her tears forgotten, and he rolled over her, raising himself up to stare down at her, breathless and smiling beneath him. He rolled once more, drawing her in his arms and simultaneously pulling at the hem of her dress, slipping it up and over her head before tossing it carefully onto the floor beside the bed. She shivered for a moment, the sudden rush of cold causing gooseflesh to rise over her body, but he quickly remedied that, his hands moving gently and warmly over her skin, and she hummed softly as he continued, eyes closed, and he could feel his need for her growing, and he continued his motions with one hand, carefully maneuvering to remove his shirt and toss it down beside her dress on the floor.

Lissa's eyes opened at the shift of the bed, and she smiled a little wider, bringing her own hand to rest on his chest, feeling his heart beat in time with hers. "I love you," she whispered, and he kissed her again, allowing her to wrap her arms around him as he began to undo his pants. He shifted again, to remove them completely, then once more moved back to her as his pants also found their way to the floor. She laughed as he rolled gently on top of her, then her breath caught as he kissed her throat again, which deepened into a moan as his hands found her center, slowly moving inside her, and he felt her arch back, her body shifting to allow him to move deeper, and she gasped as he gently curled his finger, whispering her name as she clung to him.

"Please," she gasped in his ear, and he needed no further encouragement. His mouth moved once more to hers, gently teasing it open, while his hands moved steadily faster, and she whimpered, her body pressing closer to his. A breathy moan slipped past her lips, locked with his, and he too moaned as his need became almost unbearable, but this was about her, not him. So he continued his ministrations, then in a wicked impulse, he stopped, just before she reached her peak, and she let out a muffled mew of displeasure, pulling out of the kiss to glare at him, though it wasn't as sharp as it could have been in the midst of her pleasure.

"Paul!" she scolded, and he grinned at her, his eyes twinkling in the candle light.

"Say please," he teased her, and she looked about ready to protest, but then her own eyes lit, and she pressed herself closer to him, one hand pulling her head to hers, while the other trailed down to his arousal. He gritted his teeth to keep from crying out, and she grinned wickedly as she pulled away from his mouth, but her hand stayed where it was, slowly moving up and down and he groaned, a shudder running through him along with a spasm of pleasure.

"Please," she whispered, and he took her in his arms, allowing her to guide him to her entrance, and in one quick thrust he was moving inside her, slowly at first, but steadily faster, until she was panting and moaning, her fingers digging into his back as she clung to him. She shifted, arching her back, and he moved deeper inside her, his own groan joining hers as he felt his own climax beginning to near. His hands were on her back now, under her hips, lifting her and allowing him to thrust even deeper, longer strokes that caused her to shiver each time, and his mouth moved to suck gently at the side of her neck, eliciting a cry from her, and a groan as he thrust again. Her back arched again, her body shifting against him as he thrust inside her once more, and her climax hit, her body tensing and head falling back against the pillows as a soft cry slipped past her lips. He felt her tighten around him, and he climaxed as well, releasing and whispering her name as he slowly thrust a few more times as he finished, and she reached up, holding him close to her and not allowing him to pull away for a moment, her body pressing against him in a rhythm matching his own thrusts, and he groaned as another wave rolled over him, and she climaxed with him a second time, panting and laughing breathlessly as she finally laid back against the pillows, and he kissed her slowly, gently, before rolling off of her and bringing the blankets up over both of them, holding her in his arms as she drifted to sleep against his chest. He leaned over her carefully, blowing out the candle, before kissing her head in the darkness and settling back down under the sheets.

It didn't take him long, however, to discover that he was not going to fall asleep as easily as his wife had. Things had been smoothed over for now, but what about tomorrow? The girl would surely be back, and what then? He didn't know why, but he had uneasy feeling about her, something in her eyes, something that was off. It scared him, as embarrassed as he might be to admit it, but he didn't like the girl, and hoped that if only for his sake, she would have found another baker in the Village. But more than anything, he wished for a child. Sons brought more honor, that's what was believed in the Village, and throughout the kingdom, but a son, a daughter, it didn't matter to him, as long as the child was healthy and whole, and his. Theirs, he corrected himself as he felt his wife shift in her sleep. It had often occurred to him, and been suggested that he try for a child at one of the less than reputable taverns on the outskirts of the Village, at the far side, near the wood. The fault might be with the wife, the whispers said, perchance he find another? Or perchance the fault is his? Or perchance, perchance, perchance.

He cursed the whispers and the taverns, cursed himself and his failures. For the fault was his, he knew that somehow, and he whispered a final plea, a wish for a child, before finally drifting off to sleep beside his wife, the smell of burnt bread still hanging in the air.