A meet cute with Javi, and we stumble on an unintentional little praise kink.
WC: 1200
It's not a thousand words, but A Picture Is Worth A Thousand Words Challenge hosted by the irrepressible @the-blind-assassin-12 ! Thank you Alyssa for hosting such a fun challenge!
The number 3 rattles on its tracks, and as it rounds a curve, the wheels start to squeal.
The P.A. crackles to life, and a staticy voice announces, Clark Street! Next Stop Clark Street!
"Clark Street? Did I miss..."
You open your eyes to the muttered question filled with worry beside you.
Turning your head toward the fellow next to you, his warm brown eyes were perfect circles, his brows disappearing into his honey brown curls. His head swiveling and his neck long to locate a sign. He looks like a meerkat.
"Where are you headed?"
He jumps a little, coming out of his little bubble of concern.
"I, ah, well, I was going to Broadway."
"Times Square Station?"
"Yes, Times Square," though his voice is anxious, it was also warm and accented.
"That's... you've overshot by a bit. Doze off?"
"I, well, no, I was going over this script I'm writing, and I just got lost in it, I guess."
He looks down at his watch, then up at the map, grimacing as he counts the stops.
"Well, it's no big deal, we're crossing into Brooklyn, but you can just jump off and pop back on going the other way."
"I think I am going to miss my appointment." Then he looks down at his feet, his brows tightly knit and the sweetest, saddest pout you've ever seen.
"Eeshh, I'm sorry. Can you text whomever you're meeting?"
He quickly nods as he pulls out his phone.
"If anyone can get this meeting moved to tomorrow, it's Nick." He starts typing away, his phone pings, he reads, snorts in embarrassed amusement at whatever it said, and types some more. Then sighs.
"Sssso, what's your script about?"
This guy. It's as if the clouds parted from the sky, his face radiant. And he launches into a summary, but then starts including asides about influences and particular shots that must reference this or that.
Chuckling, you suggest that he should name the dog after Gene Hackman's character in The French Connection.
His eyes go round again, but this time in surprised delight, and he starts scribbling the note on his script.
"Well, this is me coming up," you sigh, pointing up to nothing in particular. "Nice talking to you."
Then he takes your raised hand in both of his, cradling it and looking into your eyes, the very picture of earnestness.
"Thank you so much for - everything... I just," he sighs, "my friend Nick, he has a tight schedule tonight, so now I am on my own. I guess I can eat dinner at the hotel, but-"
You look at him, for a beat, and surprise yourself-
"Well, if you want, you're getting off here anyway, to turn around- we could have dinner, and then you can head back to Manhattan."
"You wouldn't mind? I would love that!"
"Not at all," you said, and introduced yourself.
"I'm Javi."
The train squeals to a stop, and the conductor announces again that it is the Clark Street Station.
"So where are we going?"
"Well, lots of good places to eat, along the way to my neighborhood- "
"Sounds great. What neighborhood are you in? So many cool Brooklyn neighborhoods from movies! Would I know it?"
"I dunno, I'm in Red Hook."
"Hm. It does sound familiar..."
You don't get all the way to Red Hook, regardless of how sweet this guy looks, you know enough not to bring him to your apartment. You stopped at a café with lots of open seating outside, not too far from the Station.
Javi chats away about his favorite New York movies, but doesn't forget to ask about you and your interests... and your favorite New York movies, Nick Cage movies, and if you like cheesecake.
This is so unlike you to be so impulsive with a stranger, no less. But the man just seems like a walking, talking green flag, and it was kind of nice not to just go home after work and stare at the TV or scroll on your phone... or, let's be honest, do both, only half-paying attention to the show or movie you put on. Thinking this sort of guiltily, you blurt out-
"Is it true that studios push writers to have characters narrate and repeat plot points because we're all splitting our attention between screens?"
Javi sighs the sigh of the woe-begotten and beleaguered, "It is a problem. And of course there are people who notice and complain about the writing being childish if you do it, AND if you don't do it there's people who complain about plot holes, that they didn't know what was going on!"
Suddenly, Javi looks at you suspiciously and waves a forkful of cheesecake at you. "And which one are you?"
You laugh and grimace. And he looks to the sky like he's looking for strength.
"I am both," you admit. " But, but, I don't complain. When I realize I am getting distracted and don't know what's going on, I put my phone down and rewind. I promise!" You cross your heart. "Honestly, I'm usually good, I futz with my phone mostly when I'm listening to the news or other more listen-not-look type things. But I have caught myself being bad." You look at him with big, sad, guilty eyes. "Sorry."
"Naughty," he jokes, wagging a finger. "You have to be a good girl if you want good stories."
You choke a little on your cheesecake, trying to recover with a sip of your drink. Javi just looks at you with concern.
"Are you okay?"
Relieved, he didn't seem to notice your ridiculous reaction. You try to move on-
"Fine! Anyway, Nick Cage, huh?"
The two of you veer into a small park. You know it's time to part ways, but you're just not sure how to do it. Luckily, Javi is so much more outgoing than you; he takes your hand, just like that, so easily, it doesn't feel weird, forced, or too forward... It's just friendly.
"Can I see you again?"
"Oh yes, please," you blurt out, but you refuse to feel embarrassed by it. "I'd really like that."
"Great!!" Javi is sweetly acting like he's the one who has won the big prize at the carnival. He pulls out his phone and you get yours, he takes a quick selfie with you and sets it up for you to type in your details. He texts you the selfie, and you save it and his number.
"So we just went south, you just head up a few blocks to Clark Street and hop back on the train." You press your lips together in a small smile and go to wave. But he steps into your space, brushing your cheek with his soft lips, with a small kiss. You think, oh, Europeans, and you ready yourself to kiss the other cheek... but he murmurs your name and your knees liquefy.
Then his lips reach your ear-
"Until next time. Be good."
His lips curl into a wicked smile that you are shocked to see on this Labrador of a man, and he heads toward the station, leaving you staring, mouth open just a little.
THANKS FOR READING! 💚 YOU CAN FIND MORE JAVI AND OTHER PPCU FIC ON MY MARSTERLIST!
[insert blorbo] has been enlisted by the powers that be to wear the clown costume at an upcoming birthday party. [blorbo] is not happy about it but agrees because it means they get unlimited Count Chocula.
---Jack Whiskey had few weaknesses in life. Soft leather, a nice pair of Levi's, and his three year old niece.
"Uncle Jack! Uncle Jack! Uncle Jack!" She screamed, hopping towards him with sticky hands and Kool aid stains above her lips. Her plastic dress-up shoes clacked on the floor. "Tomorrow is my birthday!"
"I know it is, sweetheart!" He beamed down at her. "Are you excited?"
She didn't so much answer him as expel a long, sharp squeal from every muscle in her body.
Jack winced, pressing his finger to his ear. "I'll take that as a yes," he murmured.
His sister forced a smile, eyes glazed over as she slouched in her seat. "Alright, baby. Tell Uncle Jack what you want for your birthday."
Her eyes grew big and round and sparkly and she grinned with every single one of her teeth. "I want a CLOOWWWNN!!!!!"
Jack's expression flip-flopped between a smile and a grimace. "A clown, huh?"
"I want YOU! To be a RODEO CLOWN!!" She growled and started head-butting Jack in the leg repeatedly.
"Uh... what was that, sweetheart?"
"I'm a bull! And you're the stupid clown!!!" She stopped head-butting him and started punching his leg with her tiny, sticky fists.
His sister sighed. "She saw a rodeo clown on TV and he had a lasso and a cowboy hat on and now she wants you to be a rodeo clown."
Jack scratched his neck as the tiny terror continued her assault. "Well, that's not quite what I do, baby girl--"
"And you have a red nose!!"
"I do, do i?" He looked to his sister to translate.
"You have to wear a red nose."
"Ah," he said. "I'm not so sure about that, but--"
"NO!" She stomped her plastic heel on the tile floor as hard as she could muster. She stared up at him with wild, furious brown eyes. "You're a rodeo clown! And you get the choco-chocula!!" She growled through gritted teeth, shaking her her head. "Choco-choco!! Choco-choco!!" She clacked her way into the other room and returned with a box of Count Chocula cereal, stuffing handfuls in her mouth and chomping. "You're a clown! You're a clown! It's my birthdaaaaaaay!!"
"Well...," Jack sighed. "Color me convinced!"
----
The next day, his niece was much cleaner with her curls braided and shoes that actually fit her feet. The living room was crowded with family.
And when Jack stepped out in a funny yellow outfit and big blue shoes and a big red nose--his face painted white--his neice burst into tears, sobbing.
"Why would you do that?!" She cried.
"Baby, it's okay! It's me, Uncle Jack!"
"Why?!?!" She moaned, wiping her tears and squirming from her mother's arms. "Why would you do that?!"
"You asked him to be a rodeo clown!" His sister tried to explain.
"No, I didnt!!" His niece fumbled away, her bright green dress all askew. "No i didnt!! No! No!" She ran from the room with her mother on her heels.
Jack smiled politely at the group before escaping to the kitchen. The kitchen was quiet, though his niece's cries echoed through the house. All the party snacks were in the other room with the guests, so he decided to snoop through the pantry. Relief poured through him at the sight of two large boxes of Count Chocula. He tucked the elastic band of his pants beneath his gut and grabbed the unopened box. He then retreated to the patio to gorge and lounge until his niece decided to come back out or until he got tired of waddling around in oversized shoes.
------
Lol this was pretty fun to write! Thank you for the prompt!
A collection of fun and fluffy one shots set in the same bakery. Twelve Pedro boys, twelve stories, twelve recipes.
Series Master List
Welcome back to the bakery!
The poll from last week was conclusive, a large majority of you wanted a certain relationship challenged man to visit the bakery. But Pedro has done so many wonderful new characters in the two and a half years it's been since I wrapped up this series, so I'm sure I'll return and bring some more visitors to, frankly, the luckiest baker girl in the world.
It was a lot of fun to re-visit this setting, the bakery was just where I left it (with Frankie, my love) and I really hope you'll enjoy this new chapter as much as I did.
Love you all!
It's funny, in the bakery, how you notice some customers more than others. It might be the busiest part of your Saturday afternoon rush, long line of customers, juggling questions from patrons about allergies, orders, requests and that really tasty treat their great aunt baked for them back in 1983 with cinnamon, could you make that please? For tomorrow?
But when the well dressed man stepped inside, you noticed, immediately.
He didn't make a scene, didn't even say anything, and his clothes were understated, muted colours and soft fabrics, but still; you noticed him, and how warm the colour of his eyes was as he smiled at you.
And ordinarily you wouldn't remember his order either, not from a customer who just came in once and bought two of your individual lemon meringue tarts. Just a guy buying a nice dessert for a date.
But when he came back a month later, you noticed him entering again, and you remembered exactly what he'd ordered.
"Hi, what can I get you?" you ask, smiling at him as he comes up to the counter, "The lemon meringue tarts, or something new this time?"
Those warm brown eyes widen in surprise first, and then he smiles back at you, "I'm impressed. Do you remember everyone's orders?"
"No, but I was extra proud of those tarts, and I remember thinking that I hoped you and your date enjoyed them," you reply, "Were they a success?"
He gives a small chuckle, shrugging, "Yeah, the tarts were great, but the date was a bust."
"I'm sorry," you say, wondering what woman would turn down a man with eyes like his. They're the same warm colour of the chocolate you melt into your ganache almost every day, a rich, dark brown that distracts you for a few moments as he smiles, "So, no second date, what can I get you instead?"
He looks almost embarrassed, and shrugs again, looking down at his hands before he glances over at the display case.
"I've actually got a new date tonight. She's making me dinner and told me to bring dessert, so; here I am."
"So you need my dessert to guarantee you a second date?" you joke, and he laughs.
"If you can guarantee that, I'll pay double."
"Might be a tough order to fill, but these passion fruit mousse cups are sure to help," you say, pointing to two delicate cups filled with a pale mousse, decorated with fresh raspberries and a dusting of powdered sugar, "The secret is the sweet caramel in the bottom."
"You have a deal," he nods, pulling out his phone, "I'll take both."
"Excellent choice, and come back and let me know how it went. I'll add it to my marketing if you got a second date."
He smiles again, tapping to pay while you pack up the dessert.
"Have a great date," you say, and he gives you a wave, still smiling as he leaves, the fine lines around his warm eyes crinkling as he does.
"Thanks, and thanks for the help."
He comes back again the very next Saturday, patiently waiting in line towards the end of the day. He's wearing a suit this time, a sharp cut model across his wide shoulders, and the curls around his ears are shorter this time, like he just had them cut. They still look silky soft to the touch, and you have to drag your eyes from them as he steps up to the counter.
"Hi," you greet him with a warm smile as you run your hands over your apron, dusting it off, "Welcome back, did you get a second date?"
He chuckles, and nods, "Yeah, actually. I've got a second date tonight, and this time I'm cooking."
"Was it the passion fruit dessert?" you ask, biting the back a twinge of disappointment, "I told you they were good."
"Might've been the dessert," he smiles, "It was stellar, really world class. I'm sure she was impressed by my impeccable dessert picking skills."
"So now you need to out do it?" you laugh, "How am I supposed to top myself?"
"I've only had two of your desserts, and both have been better than anything I've ever tasted," he says, smiling as you feel your cheeks heat up under his praise, "I'm in your hands, anything you recommend."
"Well, at least now you have a second date, less pressure on me," you joke, "It's all up to you now."
"Don't remind me," he grimaces, but he's smiling too, "First dates seem to be easy, it's all the ones afterwards where things get complicated."
"So we need a sure thing here?" you ask, looking at your selection, "How about we bring in the big guns? My absolute favourite?"
You point to the pudding cups on one of the shelves, "It requires a little bit of assembly from you, but I'm thinking that might impress her even further, what do you think?"
He tilts his head and crouches down to take a closer look, "Chocolate mousse?" he asks and you shake your head proudly.
"No, and that's part of the secret. It's chocolate pudding. So much richer, smoother and more indulgent than mousse. And they come with some candied almonds, preserved cherries and whipped amaretto cream. It's the most decadent dessert, and the perfect balance of textures and flavours."
"Sold," he says with a groan that makes your stomach flip, "It sounds incredible."
"Might even get you to fou-"
You bite your tongue before you finish the sentence, but you hear a chuckle from your handsome customer as you quickly bend down to retrieve the desserts. Covering up for the giant foot in your mouth, you spend extra time with your back to him, packing up the cups, the almonds, cherries and the double cream.
"There," you say, putting the take away bag on the counter without looking at him, hoping he can't feel the heat radiating from your cheeks, and tapping in the total in the machine. A mischievous smile is still making his lips curl up as he taps his phone to pay, you see it as you glance up, and it makes you grab a cloth and furiously begin wiping the counter as he continues to smile.
"Have a good night," he says, "Thanks again for the dessert advice."
"Bye," is the only reply you give, and when the door jingles shut, you bury your face in your hands. Never mind that he's the most handsome customer you've had in a long time, you had to go and put your foot in your mouth and suggest that he should have sex with his date.
Very professional.
Also not very professional to have a crush on your clearly not single customer.
He comes back the very next Saturday, a bit before the afternoon rush, and this time he's in a soft looking navy sweater that stretches across his shoulders even more than the previous week's suit. The sight makes you weak, slightly unsteady even, and you force air in through your nose.
Smiling when he reaches the counter, he taps the wood and grins.
"You're a genius, that was the best dessert I've ever had, and Camilla loved it too."
Camilla
Your least favourite name in the world from this moment on you realise, as an ugly feeling sinks to the pit of your stomach. You almost grimace, but school your face just in time as he gives you the look of a love sick puppy, all warm brown eyes and soft smile.
"She said it was delicious, really tasty."
"I'm so glad," you say, forcing a customer service smile to your face that doesn't reach your eyes, regretting your stupid decision to sell him that dessert. Should've sold him something bland, not that you have anything bland in your bakery.
"So what does Camilla want for dessert tonight?" you ask, the back of your jaw tight as you try to not fill the name with venom, but he frowns, just for a split second.
In all honesty, you don't even know his name, so why should you be jealous of this unknown woman? But the tone of your voice clearly said something else, and you bite back on the resentment that filled you at the thought of him with another woman.
"Well…" he replies, suddenly looking a bit shy, coy even, as he looks over your selection, "I said I'd get those chocolate mousse cups again, and-"
"Pudding," you cut him off, and he looks up at you.
"Pudding?"
"It's chocolate pudding, not mousse. That's part of why they're so good," you say, and it comes out harsher than you intend.
"Ok, chocolate pudding. I'll have two of those. And then four croissants, for tomorrow morning."
You've done it now, you see it. Your tone snapped, even though you tried to force down the green eyed monster.
And he's stiffer when he replies, the smile slipping from his face as he clearly catches on, just a regular customer now, and he doesn't say anything else when you pack up the pudding cups, the almonds, cherries, and cream. And the four croissants.
For tomorrow morning. After he and Camilla….
"46.98. Please," you say, cutting off your train of thought.
He taps to pay.
"Have a nice night."
And leaves.
He doesn't come back after that. Not for a couple of months. You guess he and Camilla are a thing now. The thought crosses your mind as you make another batch of the chocolate pudding. It's become a staple at the bakery, it turns out not only people trying to have successful dates like it. You don't enjoy it as much these days though, the uncomfortable memory of your handsome customer still sits attached to the flavour.
So it's with mixed feelings you look up when the door bell jingles late on a Saturday afternoon and spot him walking into the bakery again. Tampering down the warmth that spreads through your chest at the sight of him, you remind yourself that he's not single, and you have no business pining after a taken customer. Especially not one who clearly has money to spend on some of your most expensive desserts. Good business is good business after all.
But it's hard to not let your eyes linger over him as he waits in line, the way he stands with a simple confidence, a hand on one hip as he looks out through the big shop front window with a blank face. His hair is longer now. Not unkempt, just not recently trimmed like last time, and he's in a simple black t-shirt and jeans. He might even look a little bit tired, but he still smiles when he comes up to the counter, the lines around his eyes are deeper today.
"Hi, welcome back," you greet him, and you can't help the smile that you give him in return. He's still as handsome as before, and when his eyes soften and smile widens, you feel your resolve to be indifferent melt away.
"Hi," he says, "You still remember me?" His greeting is paired with a crooked smile as he makes an apologetic sound, clearing his throat, "It's been a while."
"I thought maybe the dessert was a flop," you reply, "Did I accidentally add salt instead of sugar?"
He chuckles a little at that, but shakes his head, "No, your dessert was perfect as always, I just…"
The pause is long as he shifts on his feet and looks down at the counter for a second, a slight hesitation in him before he continues.
"I just…haven't been buying desserts lately."
You wait for him to continue, as someone behind him clears their throat, impatient.
"Sorry, I'm holding up the line," he says, glancing over his shoulder as he straightens up, "What do you recommend today?"
"What are you in the mood for?" you ask, ignoring the rude customer stomping behind him.
"Something…simple," he replies, "Like something you'd serve your grandmother," the last thing he says with a breath of self-conscious laughter, "I just really loved the Victoria sponge cake she used to make."
You smile at him, "Victoria sponge is a classic for a reason, it's one of my favourites too."
His eyes are making you feel warm as the corners of them crinkle, and he puts his palms on the counter and leans forward, his body relaxing and coming a little bit closer to you.
"I knew you wouldn't judge me," he returns your smile, "I bet you make really good Victoria sponge too, everything of yours that I've tasted has been incredible."
You know you're a great baker, but his compliment still makes your cheeks heat up as you try to stop yourself from grinning too widely.
"Thanks, it's all about the ingredients, and finding a balance. Cakes like the Victoria seem simple, but if you don't get the balance right it will just be bland jam wedged between dry slices of cake."
"I love hearing you talk about your desserts," he replies, ignoring the shuffle of the waiting man behind him, "You're really passionate about it, I like that and-"
"Excuse me, can we skip the flirting, man? I'm on the clock here."
The man waiting seems to have run out of patience, and now he huffs, shuffling as he tries to push up to the counter.
You frown at him, opening your mouth to retort, but the handsome man shakes his head, ignoring the other one with barely a glance over his shoulder.
"Do you have any Victoria sponge?" he asks, and you have to shake your head, apologising.
"No, sorry, I don't have any today. But a coffee cake maybe? I have a really nice apple and cinnamon coffee cake with walnut crumble. It was my granny's favourite."
He nods slowly as he seems to think about the offer, and then pulls out his phone, "Sounds great, I'll have that."
Later, when you're cleaning up the kitchen, the thought of him comes back to you as you go through the tedious job of organizing all the clean dishes. The way he'd said that he hadn't been buying dessert lately; such an odd way of phrasing it. He hadn't been buying desserts from you, but why say he hadn't been buying desserts at all?
'Maybe Camilla is on a diet," you say out loud to the empty kitchen, snorting as you picture the woman who you dislike even though you've never met her. You give her a haughty look, the kind you sometimes get from bridezillas when you deliver their wedding cakes. Pinched, constricted and possibly constipated.
"Did you say something?"
The high schooler who's been cleaning the front of the bakery puts their head around the door frame, and you shake your head.
"Just thinking out loud."
The handsome dessert buying customer comes back a couple of weeks later, and you have to admit to yourself that seeing him makes your heart jump a little. Especially as this time he smiles at you as he steps inside. The shop is having a bit of a lull, and it gives you an unrestricted view of him as he closes the door. The dark brown curls are neater this week, trimmed around his ears and pushed back from his forehead.
"You got a haircut," you say as he comes up to the counter, and he grins, reaching up and carefully patting his hair.
"You sure pay attention to the details," he laughs, "Yeah, just this morning."
"It looks good, the curls suit you."
"Thanks," he smiles back, "I needed a clean up, I've got a date tonight."
Your stomach sinks, and you fight to keep the smile in place on your face, but you're sure he sees it slip for a second.
"Camilla, right?" you ask, just to have something to say as you try to not break the edge of the counter with how hard you're gripping it.
He looks surprised at first, then shakes his head, "No, no, that didn't work out. But I…uuh…got set up on a blind date, need to…get out there again. So I'm cooking for her tonight."
He shrugs, almost an embarrassed look on his face as he says it.
"Good for you," you reply, but you don't mean it, and you can hear the edge in your voice. He doesn't seem to notice it though. He's glancing over the display case, nodding at the chocolate pudding cups.
"Can I have two of the chocolate puddings? They were really great. And four croissants."
"Sure, coming right up," you say, and slide the glass door open. You want to say something, comment on his choice of dessert, but all you can think of is that he's buying four croissants too. Which means he's planning on letting his date spend the night. Croissants are for breakfast after all.
Neither of you fill the silence as you pack up his order and ring it up. It feels uncomfortable, and you want to say something, get back to that easy back and forth from his previous visit. But nothing comes to you, and he taps his phone to pay.
"Thanks, have a good night."
"Yeah, thanks, same to you, have a good date," you say finally, and he nods, just a small smile in return.
The high school kid jumps when you stomp into the kitchen as the front door closes.
"Please, can you handle the till for a while, I need some air."
They nod, and bee line to the front of the bakery as you make your way to the back door, sinking down on the small staircase.
You haven't even asked his name, he's a complete stranger, except that he's not. Or at least he doesn't feel like one. But except for his taste in desserts and expensive looking clothes, you know nothing about him. And yet the very idea of him having a date, a date that's not with you, where he'll serve your dessert, and feed her your croissants the next morning, fills you with nausea and jealousy.
Stomping your feet again, you march back into the kitchen and pull out ingredients for a brioche dough, slamming the ingredients together and forgoing the mixer for your own hands. When the high school kid looks into the kitchen again they've got a worried look on their face.
"You ok? You're kinda…grunting a lot."
Huffing, you slam the dough into the table again.
"Yeah, just seeing if this dough is better worked by hand," you lie and take a break, stepping back to glare at the dough. In reality, you're trying to not see his face as you punch your fists into it. The kid shrugs, and gives you another concerned look before the jingle of the bell pulls them back to the front of the bakery.
Stupid man, stupid desserts.
It takes you another fifteen minutes of kneading to work out whatever he ignites in your system, but eventually you give in and leave the dough to rest overnight. The only conclusion you've come to is that you won't be working front of house next Saturday.
Which is good, because he does come in the next Saturday, and he buys another dessert, and four croissants, from your high schooler while you hide in the back.
And then he comes again next Saturday, for more dessert and croissants. But this time he buys four pain au chocolate too, and through the bakery door you hear a woman tell him it's her favorite and she can't wait to try one 'when we get home'.
You can't help yourself. Slowly backing up, and holding on to the bowl you're mixing spices in, you glance through the door and catch a glimpse of them.
He's standing by the counter, getting ready to pay, as the woman he's with is looking at some of your more elaborate cakes on display. The dark green sweater on him looks both expensive and soft as feathers, but it stretches over his wide shoulders, tight around his biceps. His curls are a little bit longer now, and rumpled by the wind outside. With an absentminded smile at his date, he reaches up and pushes them back, and then he spots you.
Your face must be telling him something, because you lock eyes, and a grimace flashes over his face, or you think it's a grimace, he almost looks embarrassed for a split second, and you can't even move as he keeps looking at you. His eyes are the most beautiful shade of brown you've ever seen, and it's not like you haven't seen them before and noticed them, but now…the way the light catches them as he glances down at his hands, and then up at you again, the tiniest frown creasing his brow.
Why doesn't he look away?
"Excuse me, sir? That'll be $68.98."
"Harry, honey, you need to pay," the woman says, snaking her arm around his, and you jump back out of sight, almost dropping the bowl.
If he replies, you don't hear it over the pounding of your heart as you set the bowl down on the large kitchen counter. Your hands are trembling, and you take a deep breath. Heat is coursing through your limbs, your knees actually feel weak, like you're a damsel in a romance novel, and the image of the way his lips pulled up in a smile, just before she tucked her arm into his, burns your cheeks.
Closing your eyes, you take another deep breath and listen to the door close behind him. And the woman he was with.
Another date.
Someone he's been with long enough to bring here, to pick up things for 'when we get home'.
Whatever you imagined when he looked at you, it was just that; imagination.
Most Saturdays he doesn't come in after that. Just now and then, buying four pain au chocolate, but you make sure you never serve him. In fact, you hardly ever work front of house on Saturdays now. You just hear him come in, his voice so recognisable as he asks for the pastries. The tone of it makes you stop in your tracks every time, listening to hear if he's brought her with him again, or if he buys something different. But for weeks that's all he buys, pain au chocolate.
In your mind you see him and the woman tucked up in bed, feasting on them every Sunday morning, and you consider taking them off the menu. Make him buy her the damn pastries at another bakery.
But you don't. They stay on the menu. And so does Harry.
Weeks pass, and still even a glimpse of him makes you jump back into the kitchen. And you know he sees you, you just can't bring yourself to speak to him. How many words have you said to him in total? Barely a conversation to fill a napkin if you were to scribble it down. And yet, every glimpse of him reminds you of how his eyes soften when he smiles, the curls around his ears, the way every sweater seems to stretch across his shoulders, like he's buying them a size too small just to taunt you.
"Pain au chocolate guy wants to order an engagement cake."
The high school kid has stuck their head around the corner of the door, their eyebrows rising in surprise at the panicked look on your face.
"P-pain au chocolate guy?" you stutter, and they nod.
"Yeah, the rich guy who comes in and buys only pain au chocolate on Saturdays. He said he needs to talk to the baker about an engagement cake."
"Uuuhhh…" you stall, glancing around the kitchen as you beat back the panic in your chest, "Ok, send him in."
Fuck
You shake out your hands and quickly dry them on a towel before smoothing down your hair. The pulse of your heart beat must be showing on your neck, you can feel it beating as you hear Harry's shoes scuff over the floor of the bakery.
"Hi."
His voice is the same warm tone as always, and he's holding out his hand like you've never met, "I realised I never introduced myself properly all the other times I stopped by. I'm Harry Castillo."
"H-Hi Harry," you stutter out, "Engagement cake?"
You dive right in, small talk is the last thing you want with this man, especially not if he's going to gush about his…fuck…
Fiance.
Harry nods, and pulls out his phone, "Yeah, I've got some notes, but it's a surprise for Amanda so I couldn't ask her what she'd prefer."
There's another name you'll detest; Amanda.
"Yeah, ok," you reply, grabbing your notepad, "Tell me what you've got."
"So, I know she likes chocolate, and pain au chocolate. And…" he pauses and grimaces, "And that's it."
"I can work with just chocolate," you reply, keeping your eyes on the notepad, "Any colour preference? Decorations like flowers or patterns?"
"Ah…I'm…I'm not sure actually…" he hesitates, ending with a huffed sound that could be an embarrassed chuckle, and you glance up at him.
"I should know right?" he says, and his face is apologetic, like he's apologising to you for not knowing his soon-to-be-fiances cake preference.
"Why don't I just work with what you like? Like a version of a Victoria sponge cake maybe? I can do that with chocolate filling."
"You remembered that?" Harry smiles, his face softening, and you can't help but smile back.
"Yeah, I mean…of course? You said you liked something simple, like your grandmother's."
"I know, I just can't believe you'd remember that, with all the customers you have."
The way he's looking at you, that way his eyes are all warm and gentle, it makes your insides squirm, and you quickly look back down at the notepad.
"So, I can have the Victoria sponge as a base, and build a few layers on that, and maybe a chocolate ganache to cover it with? And I can keep the decorations clean and simple, to tie in with the classic style of the cake."
Harry doesn't reply for a few moments, and you look up at him again. He's frowning, rubbing a hand over his chin as he seems to think.
"If it was for me, I'd say yes. But Amanda, she's…she likes it a bit more decorated I think."
You nod, scrapping your notes about keeping it simple, and wait for him to continue.
"She…she's shown me the kind of engagement rings she likes, and they're all…very elaborate," Harry shrugs again, "Not really my style, but if it's what she wants."
"Why don't you bring her and you can decide on a cake that you both like," you suggest, biting back on the jealousy.
"She told me she wants the engagement to be a surprise,"
"But she knows you're proposing?"
It comes out with a surprised tone, and Harry makes a non-commital shrug.
"Yeah, we've discussed marriage, how we're going to set it up, merging our assets, the pre-nup obviously. But she told me to plan a surprise engagement party for her, and invite her friends."
"Sounds like a business deal," you reply before you can stop yourself, and you bite your tongue as you see the look on Harry's face. "I'm sorry, that was out of line, I didn't mean it like that, I just-"
"It's not a business deal," he cuts you off, "She's a good match for me. We're a good match."
"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have…let me just look at the notes and I'll come up with some ideas for a more elaborate design, but keep your Victoria sponge as the base, with chocolate of course."
You're backtracking quickly, trying to smooth over your blunder as Harry frowns, looking past you, and then down at his hands.
He nods, looking up at you, and it stops your rambling.
"I'll leave my business card, e-mail me your thoughts and I'll get back to you," he says, and now it really does feel like a business deal.
You nod, not trusting your voice, and he leaves without another word.
The afternoon shifts into evening, but you can't stop berating yourself. Sketching ideas for the cake gets you nowhere, your usually so creative brain can't seem to merge the classic Victoria sponge with a more elaborate design. It all turns out gaudy and tasteless, and you can't see Harry in the cake at all. Scraping yet another failed design, you sigh and sink down on the low stepping stool, kicking your feet to make it go rolling across the kitchen floor. It comes to a slow stop against the heavy shelf of appliances, making it rattle slightly. Pushing yourself up with another deep sigh, you open the big walk in fridge and let your eyes drift across the space.
Your eyes land on a jar of raspberry jam from last summer. You'd gone with a friend to a farm that let you pick raspberries, and you'd returned sweaty, scratched and tired, but with two buckets of the sweet berries. The jar on the shelf is the last of it.
Maybe if you make a Victoria sponge to start with, just the classic, traditional one, some idea would come to you for Harry's engagement cake. But it's not like he's going to order the cake from you anyway. Not after you went and called his marriage a business deal. You'll never see him in this bakery again.
You begin picking up the ingredients anyway, if nothing else, you can sell it in slices tomorrow. And you suddenly feel like eating Victoria sponge cake, and not because it's Harry's favourite.
As usual the act of baking calms you, focusing you on the measurements and the manual steps, beating the eggs and sugar, folding in the dry, it all comes together as you try not to think of Harry. With steady hands you pour the batter into the cake tin and put it in the oven.
The door closes with a soft click as you set the timer.
A sharp knock on the bakery door makes you jump, the glass in the window pane rattling with the force of the rapping knuckles, and you drop the bowl you've been holding.
"What the fuck…" you hiss, looking at the dent in the metal as another knock rattles the door.
Putting the bowl on the counter you stride over through the door of the kitchen and into the long since closed bakery shop. It's raining outside, and the fat drops streak across the window, blurring the outlines of the man standing outside, and it stops you in your tracks.
Harry pauses his knocking, his hand hanging in the air in front of him, as he meets your eyes. The rain has plastered his hair to his skull, soaked through his sweater, and as you watch, he lowers his hand and wipes it across his face.
For a beat you wonder if you should tell him to go away, but before you've made your mind up, your feet move to the door, and your hands unlock it.
"Harry, what-"
"You had no right," he says, his voice tight as he looks at you through the falling rain, "I was happy. And you…" he stops, biting down on the sharp words, "You… It wasn't a business deal, we were a good match."
What he's saying sinks in as you feel the rain drops begin to collect on your own skin as the wind picks up.
"You…you broke up with Amanda?" you ask, and Harry winces, or shivers, and you grab his arm, pulling him through the door, and out of the rain.
"You're soaked," you say unnecessarily, looking around for a clean kitchen towel, but Harry doesn't seem to hear you. Suddenly he's crowding you, his hand firm on your cheek, his mouth a hair's breadth from yours, warm breath teasing your lips.
Time seems to freeze as your heart stops beating. He smells of rain, wet sidewalks and damp leaves, softened by the heat of his body.
He drops his hand and steps back, and for a split second you think he's going to rush out through the door again, back into the rain.
Instead he charges into the bakery, spinning on the spot as he shoves his hands through his wet hair and glares at you.
"Why did you have to be so…." he spits, "why did you say…all that, all that…that…"
He trails off, and he seems to shrink as your eyes meet across the kitchen floor. Air escapes him, a slow exhale as you wait for him to finish his outburst.
But nothing more comes, instead he slumps, burying his face in his hands with a deep sigh.
"I'm sorry."
The words are just a low mumble behind his palms.
"I'm sorry too," you say, slowly coming over to him, and holding out a clean towel, your hand trembling slightly, "I was out of line, I shouldn't have said anything."
Harry shakes his head, and takes the towel, "No, it's not on you, you just said what I already knew."
With another sigh that seems to come from his toes he straightens up, looking at the towel in his hand.
"I already knew, even before she started talking about engagement. You…you just put your finger on a sore spot."
Shrugging, he makes an effort at wiping his face, and then drops the towel on the edge of the sink.
"Thanks, I'll leave now. I'm sorry for barging in, and for…" he trails off again, and you don't miss the glance at your lips. They still carry the imprint of his breath, and you can feel his fingers on your chin.
"Stay," you blurt out, taking a step forward. "Stay, don't…go."
Harry's eyes are impossible to read as you look at each other across the kitchen, but you hope he can see how much you want him to stay.
"Please," you whisper, "I always…want you to stay when you come here."
This time he's less sudden, crossing the short space between you with a few long steps as you wait for him by the work bench. His hand is warm on your cheek, cupping your face gently as you tilt your head up to his, your lips parting. The shirt across his shoulders is damp under your hands, but already warming up from the heat that he seems to radiate as he crowds you again. When his nose brushes against yours, you exhale, his lips teasing yours before he lets himself properly kiss your open mouth. There's no rush, just a slow taste. Your mouth closes around his plump bottom lip, tasting the rain as his hands slowly move up your back, and he steps closer, making space for himself against your body.
You can't help the moan that escapes you, his body is warm and firm, even under his rain damp shirt, and the sound makes him groan in reply, a low rumble deep in his chest. He pries his lip from your mouth, and touches it with the tip of his tongue, gently tasting, making you open up for him. With a whine you slide your fingers into the curls at his neck, tugging him closer, and the effect is instant. Harry's large hands slide down your back, onto your thighs, and he lifts you up onto the bench, suddenly pressing up against your core as he yanks you closer to him. As if he's trying to eliminate every smidge of space between your bodies as he licks into your mouth, stealing your breath.
The metal bench is cool underneath you as he pushes you further back, your legs closing around his waist, and he nudges your head to the side, licking a wet trail beneath your ear. You can feel the beating of your heart in your finger tips as they wrap around his curls, Harry's scorching breath against your neck, teeth grazing across the thin skin.
"Harry," you moan into the empty kitchen, gasping for air when he moves his hands, his thumbs drawing sharp lines over your pebbled nipple, making your breath hitch.
"You taste so good," he mumbles, moving up to your lips again, "salt and sweet, chocolate and cream. Do you always taste this good?"
"You'll have to find out," you mumble against his mouth, and you can feel him smile into your lips.
"Happily," he replies, "Are you free tonight?"
The question makes you giggle, and Harry pulls back to look down at you, raising his eye brows.
"Look at where you've got me, Harry," you say, "And tell me you think I'm not free tonight?"
His face splits into a wide grin, and he drops his head down again, pressing a soft kiss on your lips, much more chaste this time.
"I got carried away," he smiles in reply, "You taste so good, and you smell more delicious than any of your desserts."
"You taste like rain," you tell him, and he laughs, shaking his head to make rain drops scatter across your face.
"I'm not sorry I barged in," he says when you've brushed back the curls from his forehead again, "I'm just sorry I didn't realise I should've been dating you all this time. Can I make you dinner tonight?"
"I'm not sure, what's for dessert?" you ask him, and the grin on your face makes him press his lips to your neck, smiling as you squeal under him when he nips at the delicious skin.
"You," he replies, "Only you."
Why would you trust anyone other than Mary Berry to make the perfect Victoria sponge cake? Light and fluffy and filled with jam, it's a Brit
I had to include Mary Berry's receipe because who else, right? And I hope you enjoyed this re-visit to the bakery, and wish Harry all the best for his future dating life. I'm sure baker girl will make him very happy...
Tagging some of you who I know read A Baker's Dozen back when I first posted it. You all gave it so much love and I hope you want to dip back into this cosy universe!
pedro pascal stans post a picture and be like “sugar daddy🥵 dilf 🥵dom😫 spit in my mouth🥺 punch me in the stomach 🥵yes sir im your whore🥵” and its a picture of a man who looks like he would make it to the quarter finals of the great british bakeoff and then lose.
Dieter's First Yule | dieter bravo x non-binary!reader x din djarin | wc: 4.5k | read on ao3
summary: Dieter takes a giant step in his relationship, and a giant leap for his recovering heart, when he accepts yours and Dins invitation to celebrate Yule together.
tags/warnings: alternate universe, fluff, touch of angst (it's me y'all, i can't help it), dieter's pov, some tense switching, exposition out the wazoo, brief mention of a past overdose, mentions of a divorce, mentions of drug and alcohol abuse, meet-cute, a special guest appears, brief anxiety, dieter hates ashton kutcher send tweet, mando'a pet names and terms of endearment, established polyamory, din wielding an ax, ale drinking, more special guests, run-on sentences give me life, some bow-chika-wow-wow-esque shenanigans, but nothing explicit, not beta read, i cried writing the end lol
reader description: reader is non-binary and described as having curves, and there's some descriptions of clothing and accessories, but that's really it babes - the rest is up to your beautiful imagination(s)
dividers by me
a @dieterbravobrainrotclub Secret Santa exchange gift for @perotovar - hi my love, tis I your Secret Santa! 🎅 I hope my silly anon messages were entertaining enough while I was working on this. I SO wanted to have this finished earlier, but Dieter had a lot more to say than I originally thought. 😅 I hope you enjoy this silly, fluffy (with a touch of angst), borderline crack-fic AU written straight from my heart to yours. I was ECSTATIC when I found out I would be your secret santa, you have been such a great friend (despite my lacking communication skills) and the greatest cheerleader when i come to you with any fic ideas or kinky thots that pop into my mind and I hope this fic can help convey just how grateful I am to have you in my life! ❤️ I took some different Yule traditions and legends I had found and mixed them together to create the town celebration, and I so hope it reads well. This is also in a way an ode to a pairing I never would have been obsessed with if it weren't for your fantastic mind - Dieter x Din, and I had to make them poly. AND I couldn't resist writing Grogu and Dieter. I hope you had a joyous Yule and a bountiful feast, here's to many more my friend 🫂🥰
Tucked away in the northernmost valley of Washington lies the quaint mountain town of Mandalore. A place rich in community where the people, most often referred to as Mandalorians, value honor, tradition, and the seasonal festivals within the Wheel of the Year. A charming little town currently coming closer and closer into view as the airport taxi crawls closer to its outer limits before coming to a stop.
The crisp chill of the air bites at Dieter's nose as he steps out of the dry warmth of the cab, his barely worn leather boots crunching into the thin layer of freshly fallen snow; it's here, the first day of Winter.
The solstice, you would remind him, and along with it Yule— a celebration that honors the rebirth of the sun, where people come together in merriment to feast and rejoice in the promise of more light, hope, and new beginnings.
A celebration that you and Din so graciously invited him to without a second thought, so easily extending the reaches of the generosity the two of you have already shared with him within the last eight months Dieter has known the both of you.
If anyone had asked Dieter this time last year where he would be spending the holiday season he would have rolled his eyes and walked away, grumbling under his breath something trite and sadly cliched such as "probably at the bottom of the finest bottle of cognac," or "lost in a coke fueled haze," or even the all too mature response of "balls deep in your dad while your mom watches in the corner."
That last quip landed him in the hospital for a short stint after some drunken asshole thought it best to sort his feelings out via fist to Dieter's mouth.
Nothing new for the Oscar winning actor though, that moment was just another notch in that increasingly shitty year since his divorce had finalized.
Things with Anika… well, they just didn't work out. It was a whirlwind romance bred from hero worship; his guardian angel saving him from an accidental overdose. But that's all it sizzled out to be— a flash in the pan, too much too fast, and by the time it was all over Dieter was… lost.
And the drugs and alcohol were all too enticing.
"BREAKING: DIETER BRAVO GOES ON BENDER, AGAIN!"
Splashed across every tabloid, a headline on every news station almost every week. Day by day someone new would drop out of Dieter's life. Some left quietly, without warning. Others thought it best to throw every wrong doing back in his face, as if he were unaware of his own actions. At the end of the day it didn't matter how they left, they left all the same— one by one until there was no one left in his corner.
Dieter couldn't even blame them, he envied them. If it was possible, he would have left him behind too.
After he was released from the hospital, he took some time to truly be by himself— sold his house, fucked off and booked a one-way flight to somewhere in the PNW where he could peacefully dive deeper into rock bottom and luxuriate in it. He almost convinced himself it was more comfortable by his lonesome down there, that being holed up in his own misery and self-loathing was some form of karmic retribution he was destined to live out. He very well could have lived the rest of his life that way if it weren’t for one fortuitous outing: an emergency grocery run Dieter begrudgingly took on after being blacklisted from every grocery delivery service within the area.
Turns out people don't take too kindly to a drunken middle-aged man dressed in a threadbare green robe yelling at them to "get the fuck off" his property after simply doing their job dropping off his groceries.
And he was out of mac and cheese.
One barely half-assed shower and a 30 minute cab ride to the nearest store later, Dieter had found himself squinting over his sunglasses at two boxes in his hand, stuck between the tried and true Deluxe Original Cheddar and the intriguing Pepper Jack promising a "subtle jalapeño kick." He continued to weigh his options, about to throw both of them in his cart when he felt a small thud against the lower half of his leg, followed by the tiniest oof echoing from below him.
He looked down and was frozen on the spot. He didn't remember dipping into his stash of mushrooms before heading out, but tripping balls could have been the only explanation for what Dieter had been looking at in that moment.
A small frog-like creature? No, it looked nothing like a frog save from its green skin and giant black eyes. And it was wearing clothes. Clothes that looked specifically made for the little thing; a tiny black knit jumper featuring a- oh, a frog, how hilarious, a pair of black trousers that looked so cozy Dieter started to wonder where he might be able to find some of his own, and a little yellow knit hat that had to have held no purpose besides being adorable because the poor things ears were way too big to fit under. Wait, no, Dieter was wrong, there were slits in the hat specifically to fit around its ears. If that didn't make his heart grow just a tiny fraction bigger.
This…thing continued to stare back at him, almost as if it were also trying to figure Dieter out, its head cocking to the side as it conducted its own exploration of Dieter's features, looking at him from head to toe. A puzzled expression as if this thing found Dieter familiar, but confusing.
"Grogu! Where did you wander off to this time? I told you, we don't have any more room in the pantry for a tenth bag of parmesan goldfi- oh there you are!"
And then there you were. A somewhat flustered thing dressed in various textures of all black, the different fabrics highlighted your curves in ways that had Dieter gripping the macaroni boxes even harder in hopes his usual smart, and incredibly filthy, mouth wouldn't scare off the first person that had intrigued him in a long time.
You bent forward, scooping the creature up and cradled it in your arms as if it was the most normal thing in the world. Perhaps it was, maybe Dieter was the one out of touch. He had spent a better portion of his time up until that moment blasted out of his mind in one way or another, perhaps these little beings, Grogu you had called it, were normal in this part of the country?
Either way, he couldn't keep his eyes off of you. The way you fussed over the thing in your arms, fixed its clothes as you chastised it for running off, the various rings on your hands glinted in the fluorescent light of the store, the chipped black polish on your nails took hold of his interest even more— was it a by-product of working with your hands, or an insight to a possible nervous habit you were trying to kick?
It wasn't until his gaze traveled to your face that he realized you had been talking to him. A poorly hidden smirk twisted your features when you caught him staring. He felt a long forgotten heat creep up his neck as he cleared his throat, slightly embarrassed.
"I'm so sorry, I didn't catch that."
Your eyes, so gentle, softened even more when you smiled at him.
"I said, I'm sorry about this little guy running into you. Hopefully he didn't bother you too much."
He shook his head, working up the courage to introduce himself when a hulking figure rounded the corner right behind you, placed a hand on your hip, and presented what looked like a pre-prepared meal for four in front of you.
"Cyare, what about this for dinner?"
Cyare, was that your name? If so, it was fitting, a uniquely beautiful name for a uniquely beautiful person.
Your eyes never left Dieter's when you responded, "that looks delicious, my love."
Ah, of course you already had someone. Dieter gave you a slight nod as he stepped back towards his cart, he was just about to turn around when you continued.
"But don't you think that might be too much for just the three of us, Din? Maybe we should invite our new friend over for dinner?"
With that you looked up to this other man, Din, as he in turn gave you a puzzled look.
"What new friend?"
"This new friend," you held a hand out gesturing towards Dieter, the little one in your arms babbled joyously at the suggestion.
Dieter froze in his spot once more, not really knowing what to do. Were you punking him? Did that annoying show get green-lit again? Was that bastard Ashton Kutcher about to pop out, or did they get someone new and equally as terrible to host this reboot? The lights in the store suddenly felt too bright, Dieter's clothing felt a tad too tight, and he had a fleeting thought that maybe chucking the boxes of macaroni at the family of three before him might be a reasonable enough distraction for him to make his escape, but then your voice sounded out once more, mooring him to his spot.
"I mean, c'mon ner kar'ta, it's not everyday you get to dine with your doppelganger."
Din finally looked at Dieter, really looked at him, Dieter doing the same. The man beside you was most definitely taller than Dieter was, a bit more broad in stature, but there was no denying the many similarities between the two. Even their names were similar; obscure and starting with a "D."
He wasn't certain what possessed him to speak, but he couldn't help it when he shared, "I-I'm, uhm, I mean, well- my name is Dieter, by the way."
Your eyes widened just a fraction in delight, Din murmured a noise caught somewhere between bewilderment and wonder, and Grogu clapped his tiny palms together as if he had won a prize.
"Well," you started, "what do you say, Dieter? If it makes you feel more at ease, you can bring over some mac and cheese."
And that's exactly what he did.
You and Din took a chance on this physical embodiment of a scared, wet raccoon with his defenses up, and in turn Dieter took a chance on opening himself up again. Little by little, each day he got to hang out with you two, he felt more and more like he was coming home to himself. You opened your hearts, home, and relationship to him, unknowingly helping him repair pieces of himself he thought might forever remain fractured.
Yet now, as Dieter stands before your door, that worry that lives in the recesses of his mind claws its way to the forefront. Sure, eight months is a good amount of time to figure out if someone is worth keeping in your life, but… what if you and Din are still deciding? What if this invitation to celebrate Yule with your town is some kind of… test? Not that he believes you or Din are in any way cruel enough to put him through something like that, but… he's had longer relationships disintegrate over less. Maybe they just weren't as strong as what he believes he has with you and Din. Just maybe.
"Welcome back home!"
Dieter drops his bag in time to catch you in his arms, his chuckles turning into a sigh as he holds you closer to him, breathing in your scent— orange and clove. Your warmth enveloping his senses and wrapping around his heart. Home. The sentiment not lost on him as he squeezes you tighter.
"Come, come, let's get you out of the cold," you laugh as Dieter shoves his chilled nose into the warmth of your neck.
You grab his bag from the snow before he can even make an attempt to get it himself and take him by the hand over the threshold, leading him into the effortlessly cozy abode. You gently grab his chin, guiding his lips to yours for a kiss, melting into him for a moment before leaning back.
"We missed you, Dee. Din and I are so glad you were able to make it back in time to celebrate with us."
His breath hitches, the ease in which you can be so sincere and open with him never fails to catch him by surprise. He had missed you too, all three of you. He just had some loose ends left in California that he had needed to take care of; closing that chapter of his life and wiping the slate clean in a way, making way for this new, and maybe even the best, chapter to come.
"I'll take your things to the bedroom. You know the drill, go make yourself cozy. You can dress down if you want, but just warning you we'll be heading back out in the snow once Din is finished, which should be soon."
Your voice fades slightly as you bring Dieter's stuff to the bedroom the three of you will be sleeping in, Grogu getting his own room of course. The guest room is always there if Dieter ever wants some space of his own, but so far he's found nothing but solace in yours and Din's bed.
He walks closer to where that scent you were wearing smells stronger: the kitchen. Trays of dried orange slices sit on the stove top, while the counter is filled with jars of whole cloves, star anise, and bundles of pine. He wonders what you might need with all this, but before he can voice his question, someone interrupts his thoughts.
A tiny tapping on his shins brings Dieters attention away from the objects. Tilting his head down towards the source, his eyes lock with the giant obsidian of the baby's. Grogu's ears perk up in intrigue as he continues to tap Dieter's shins. Grogu's eyes stuck on the man's face, just like they always seem to do when Dieter visits. Before he has the chance to fight the urge, Dieter finds himself bending forwards, hands outstretched. Grogu raises his little arms in excitement, a cheerful "Patu!" exclaimed in response.
Dieter chuckles, taking the child's quirky little noise as a green light and scoops him up in his arms.
"Patu to you too, little one."
Grogu giggles, clearly thrilled as he excitedly pats Dieter's face while babbling away.
"Brrr… brrrr!"
Dieter can't help but laugh along with the kid, he's too cute for his own good. This isn't the first time the child has tapped at his face, babbling and making the very same noise, yet Dieter never questioned it before. His brow furrows as he speaks.
"Are you trying to blow raspberries?"
"He's trying to say buir."
Suddenly you're right next to him, your left hand coming to gently rest in the hollow of Dieter's lower back. Your head laying on his shoulder as you bring your other hand to Grogu's face, lightly pinching his cheek, eliciting another round of giggles from the baby.
"He looks awfully a lot like your papa, doesn't he Grogu?"
You get your answer when he shrieks excitedly, patting Dieter's face again as he continues to repeat "brrr! bbfrrr!"
Dieter's heart suddenly feels like it might burst, this is all too good. What if it's too much, too soon again?
He clears his throat, trying to distract his racing thoughts from ruining this moment for him.
"So, uh, where is Din anyway?"
The smirk on your lips matched with the mischief dancing in your eyes should worry him a bit, he thinks, but it only ever excites him. You guide him with your palms on his hips towards the giant glass window of your reading nook, and points his gaze towards the forest. It takes Dieter a moment to realize what it is he's looking for, but once he does oh is he done for.
Din is a vision in a tight, thick-knit deep crimson sweater, his coat laid off to the side. His nose and cheeks dusted red, no doubt from the chill in the air, yet he wipes at his brow as if he were sweating. Peculiar, Dieter thinks before taking another moment to glance at what Din was holding in his occupied hand. The sun gleams off the silver of an ax, the reflection flashing as Din moves about, setting a log in place before he grasps his hold around the wooden handle, his shoulders moving underneath his sweater— rippling under it like the still water of a lake being disturbed by a pebble. The fabric around his arms tightening as he swings the blade back before bringing it down dead center in the log. If Dieter wasn't holding the cutest baby he's seen in the world, he would be barking like a damn dog.
It also helps when Grogu starts pounding his tiny palms against the glass, chanting "brrrr! brrrr!"as he looks out at his papa chopping wood.
You laugh sweetly, absentmindedly rub Dieter's back as you take the scene in for yourself. You turn your head towards Dieter, melting his heart even more with the way you're looking at him. As if he hung the moon for you. He can't help but think he really would if it were possible, for both you and Din, and even Grogu too. He would do anything really, for this little found family who welcomed him in with open arms.
"So the town Yule Log for the festivities tonight will be chosen by The Armorer this year, but Din and I already discussed it, and we would be honored if you would like to choose the Yule Log for our home. Only if you want to, no pressure of co-"
"I'd love to. I can't believe you would even consider me for something that seems so special, I mean…" Dieter laughs at his own ramblings, takes a moment to pause and take a breath before continuing. "What I mean is, I would be honored to."
You lean into him then, nuzzling your nose into his arm before placing a kiss there.
A rap at the window pulls yours and Dieter's attention towards it, Din there on the other side smiling and waving for the three of you to join him outside.
Your voice whispers excitedly next to him.
"Let's bundle up and join the others."
Turns out all the dried oranges, spices and greenery in your kitchen Dieter was wondering about before were all gathered for the townsfolk to peruse through and choose as decorations for their trees and Yule Logs for their own private celebrations at home. You had him help you gather everything together and bring them to the town center as Din followed behind, balancing sacks of chopped wood in his hands and Grogu in a baby harness across his chest.
Neither Dieter nor you were great at hiding your cute aggression when getting Grogu dressed in his little snowsuit.
After debating what was probably a little too long over two different logs, Dieter finally chose one he thought would be perfect for the four of you. You then ushered him back to the table where you dropped off your contributions for the decorations, pointing out different options and the many different meanings behind them: the dried citrus for happiness or prosperity, the star anise for clarity or luck, the cloves and sticks of cinnamon for wealth or abundance, the pine for strength, protection, or fertility. He also noticed other contributions that must have come from some of the others— poinsettias, holly, mistletoe, nutmeg, and cranberries.
Din joined the two of you after dropping the extra firewood off for the ceremony, making it in time to help Dieter decide on some green and gold candles for the altar back at the house. You had brought a bag specifically for this occasion, Dieter and Din laying everything in there carefully so you all could enjoy the festivities without anyone having to drop everything off at home.
"Come," Din hums, the clouds of his breath floating in the air. He grabs Dieter's hand in his, intertwining their fingers together. You loop your arm through Dieter's on his other side, smiling at the two men. Din continues, "Let's grab some ale and find Grogu a spot for the show."
"Okay wait, but if the Holly King's… 'powers' are at maximum capacity on the Winter Solstice, then how does the Oak King defeat them?"
You had tried explaining the legend of the Holly King and Oak King to Dieter before the show started, but your obvious excitement over the many different versions and interpretations of the story got the better of you ending in an information overload word vomit. Dieter wasn't complaining though, he could get lost in your ramblings for as long as you'd let him.
But now he was still a little confused.
"Okay, well, I wouldn't say the Oak King 'defeats' the Holly King necessarily. It's more of a… succession? Mmm no, not the right word… Din?"
"More like a 'handing off of the baton.' Until the Summer Solstice, that is."
"Yes exactly!" You whisper excitedly, trying to keep your conversation just between the three of you.
Grogu sits in a group towards the front with the other children of the town, while you, Dieter, and Din hang out standing towards the back of the crowd. Others are seated on the logs that were placed down for this occasion, most of them busy with their own murmured conversations.
Bo-Katan flits about the open "stage" as the Holly King, dressed in heavy green robes, wearing a crown made of evergreens and holly. The Armorer moves about directly opposite of her as the Oak King, dressed in a old brown coat and donning a helmet made of gold— specially made by The Armorer herself to represent the gold of the sun.
You continue your explanation, "you see it's more of a dance than a battle."
"Okay, but they are literally dueling with spears right now-"
"Staffs, not spears," Din cuts back in.
You giggle as Dieter rolls his eyes petulantly, his gaze returning to the play duel at the front. He can't stay quiet for too long, a smirk stretches across his lips as he turns his head towards the two of you again.
"How much you wanna bet that The Armorer is gonna end the night slinging Bo-Katan over her shoulder and whisking her away from the rest of activities early, tonight?" Dieter mutters under his breath, wagging his eyes in gesture towards you and Din.
You scoff dismissively, the ale loosening your composure in a way Dieter always finds amusing. "Oh please, we both know Bo-Katan is more likely to do the whisking away," you retort as you fix him with a stare that all but screams duh, idiot.
Before Dieter could start poking fun at your sudden attitude to rile you up even more, Din cuts in, sounding a bit annoyed when he whispers "could you both please knock it off? They're like vod to me, like sisters."
Dieter never knowing when to leave well enough alone can't help but deadpan, "Well, Din, I hate to break it to you, but your sisters are fucki- ooof."
The shock of frigid snow meeting the small sliver of skin on Dieter's belly is enough to shut him up, but the weight of Din spread across Dieters back, his arm coming around to hold Dieter in a light choke-hold, is what really turns his mind to mush, loosening his tongue once more.
"Y'know big guy, I don't think this is having the effect you were hoping for."
"Actually," Din all but croons in Dieter's ear, his weight shifting as he gently but firmly pushes his knee between Dieter's thighs, "I think I'm having the exact effect I was shooting for."
Dieter has to bite his lip to keep a pitiful whimper at bay, the small amount of ale in his system doing fuck all to keep his mind out of the gutter. But can you really blame a guy when he's got a full blown hunk pinning him to the ground?
It doesn't last long though. They hear your mischievous giggle of "it looks like you two could use some cooling off," before they feel a pile of snow being dropped on the both of them.
You bring your hands to your mouth, attempting to muffle your fits of laughter, but a snowball hitting you square in the back cuts you off. The three of you turn to find Paz Vizla and Boba Fett attempting to look unbothered and innocent, but the snow on Boba's gloves are a dead giveaway.
More snowballs start flying from different directions before everyone hears Koska and Fennec shout "snowball fight!"
Luckily the impromptu snowball fight didn't put a damper on anyone's celebration; in fact most of the townspeople joined in. The Armorer took advantage of the diversion to get the last finishing touches for the Yule Log ceremony in place, only regaining everyone's attention when Bo-Katan rang the bells set out for the band.
The night goes on as the Armorer and Bo-Katan speak some words of wisdom, and recite a poem of gratitude honoring the return of the sun and the longer days that come with it before lighting the Yule Log together in front of everyone in the town as they cheer.
The band takes their place around the fire and starts up their joyous melody, a spirited tune to celebrate the resilience of the people and their hope during these darker months.
And it suddenly occurs to him.
Dieter thought that true love would hit him like a freight train, that when people said "you know when you know" it meant it was loud in its arrival; a howling, shrieking thing that made sure its presence was known.
And maybe in some cases that's true, maybe that's how it is for others.
But for him? It's this moment right here. A quiet warmth, wrapped up in the embrace of his two lovers— you snuggled in his arms as Din envelops the both of you in the wide breadth of his hold. Din's face nuzzling into Dieter's hair, Dieter's hands pulling you closer into his chest. The three of you swaying in time, enjoying the sounds of the band playing and the joy of the children as they dance and laugh along. The warmth from the fire almost feels like a physical embodiment of the warmth Dieter feels whenever he's with his three favorite people. He knows now there's nothing to be afraid of with his little family here. It's not too much too soon, too good for him to deserve.
It's simply perfect, exactly where he needs to be.
Where he belongs.
tagging those who interacted with the wip post, please let me know if you would like to be removed: @kedsandtubesocks @djarins-cyare @djarinmuse @inept-the-magnificent
Clint Flood x OFC│fluff, angst, smut│explicit, 18+
Summary: Dolly learns to trust, and Clint gives love a second chance.
Tags: Modern day Freaky Tales babysitter AU with adapted canon, slow burn, angst w/ happy ending, smut and domestic eroticism, forced proximity, age gap, found family, discussion of SA trauma from a stalker ex, Clint saves the day, canon typical violence.
A/N: This series has a very happy ending for Dolly and Clint but very heavy topics are discussed and portrayed!!! I saw Freaky Tales and immediately thought that I wish Clint was my scary mob uncle, and so this story is for all of us who never got the justice we deserved and wished we had someone like him to deliver a bit of good old fashioned street justice instead. I could've left it as a found family thing, but I liked the idea of having Clint find love again so... here we are :p Enjoy!
Summary: your casual friend with benefits slash sort of sugar daddy, Jack, invites you to meet an old army buddy of his. You end up with far more than you bargained for.
C/W: age gap (unspecified but as per usual, all my reader characters are implied to be in early/mid thirties) / friends with benefits situationship / vague sugar daddy arrangement (Jack likes to spoil you) / threesome (M/F/M) / oral (F!receiving, M!receiving) / dirty talk (they both have filthy mouths) / PIV (unprotected, wrap it up folks) / zero risk of pregnancy / cum eating / enthusiastic consent / graphic description of sexual activity (duh).
Notes: This one might end up with a part two, if requested? IDK, this fic is for my oomfies in the Salt & Pepper discord server.
Word Count: 5.5k
You wouldn’t say that you have favourites, per se. It’s hard to describe a casual situationship as anything but that, but you’d say that Jack Abbot treats you better than every ex boyfriend you’ve ever had.
You’d met him by chance, in the most ridiculous meet cute way. Something you’d write about, in fact.
You had been in your local bookstore, silently celebrating your first traditionally published novella. After three years of self publishing, dealing with Amazon (ew) and indie contracts, you’d scored a deal with a traditional printing house.
It had been kind of surreal, seeing your name on a book in a chain bookstore, something you’d dreamed of since your age had been in single digits. You’d been stealthily signing a couple of copies, hiding them in the stack, too lost in your own world to notice the older man when you’d taken a step back and almost tripped right over him.
Holding a copy of your book to your chest, you’d felt warmth rush to your face, embarrassment almost entirely overwhelming you when you realised he wasn’t not just some older guy, but handsome. Broad shoulders, salt and pepper curls, bright hazel eyes, and, if the black scrubs he was wearing were any indication, a doctor.
“Oh, god, I’m so sorry,” you had said, mortified, but he had just smiled at you, a lopsided little smirk that made the creases at the corners of his eyes more prominent.
“Don’t be. Yours?” He had asked, nodding at the book and pen in your hands.
You had been surprised, nodded, half expecting him to say something derisive about chick lit and porn in written form, but he hadn’t. He’d just smiled at you again, told you he’d noticed you signing a couple of the books.
He had been curious, sweet, bordering on flirty, and when he’d picked up a copy of your book and asked you to sign it for him, you’d taken a risk and added your phone number beneath it. You’d never expected anything to come from it, but he’d sent you a text just a few hours later.
Over the next few months, you’d gotten to know Jack better. He was an emergency medicine physician, a senior attending at a level one trauma centre. He worked the night shift. He was an army veteran, a widower, an amputee.
He was your friend, first and foremost, but you were comfortable enough with each other to let that friendship blur into sex without any sort of expectations.
Jack was still grieving his late wife, and you weren't really looking for anything serious; you wanted to primarily focus on your career, on letting your creativity bloom.
It was a good, practical, happy arrangement. Jack was lonely, you were lonely, and he made far more money than a guy who was technically single could ever need, in his words.
So while a lot of your relationship was built on friendship, on keeping each other company, there was also a part of it that was decidedly built on erotica.
Sexts, heated makeouts, long afternoons or, on his days off, nights of multiple rounds of mind blowing sex. You had no idea how a man of fifty had the stamina that Jack does, but you sure as hell had no complaints.
While you weren't together, there was an exclusivity to your arrangement. You both had attachment issues, but the maturity to know it and discuss it.
Said discussion had come about when you'd been discussing the idea of not using condoms anymore; you had had permanent contraception done in your late twenties, so it wasn't like you were going to get pregnant any time soon. Or ever, for that matter, which you preferred.
"Why would I seek out anyone else's company, sweetheart? We get along just fine, don't we?" Jack had said.
Regardless, he'd provided you with a screening to put your mind at ease, even though you hadn't asked.
You'd been pretty upfront; like him, you weren't looking for a label, but you liked the relationship you had. You weren't interested in having this sort of thing with anyone else, not when Jack was so good to you.
He took you out to nice restaurants, occasionally bought you little gifts. Jewellery, books, little trinkets for your bookshelves at home.
For a not boyfriend, he was considerate, too. He'd bought your favourite skincare products and perfume to leave at his place, bought you flowers for each chapter of your next novel you finished.
When your laptop had crapped out on you, he'd replaced it as soon as he'd heard about it.
You sometimes weren't sure if you felt right about letting him spend so much money on you, but he'd just waved his hands.
"Don't exactly have anyone else to spend it on. Besides, I like spoiling you. You deserve it, and you don't expect it. Just like I don't expect anything in return."
Sometimes you accompany him to events if he wants a plus one. You're beautiful, according to Jack, and he likes showing you off.
"My girl's a writer," he would say proudly each time he introduced you to somebody, so open and confident that nobody judged your choice of career.
Tonight is one such night; Jack tells you he has an old army friend coming down from Boston for work. A chef, he says, owns a Michelin star restaurant up that way.
They're catching up for a couple beers and rounds of pool at a bar Jack likes, and he wonders if you'd like to come along.
You don't see why not. This isn’t totally out of the ordinary; you hang out with Jack often enough, have met his best friend once or twice. Besides, you know – and like – the bar he’s talking about.
By around six thirty, you’re stepping into the bar in a pair of high-waist jeans, a deep wine red tee that shows just a peek of midriff, and a washed out black denim jacket. Cute, put together, but casual enough that you don’t feel like you’re trying too hard.
That’s another thing you like about Jack; you never feel like you have to be someone you’re not. He’d told you once – whilst he was inside you, of all times, your wrists pinned above your head in one big, gentle hand – that he didn’t care if you were wearing a casual grungy look or a pretty dress, he was always one step away from pushing you against the nearest wall. That he thought you were beautiful no matter what you wore.
It was difficult to hear things like that and not feel a little something for him, though you knew that was pretty natural, and not something to be explored. Not right now, or necessarily ever.
You spot Jack by the bar, leaning against it casually, looking far too good in a black t shirt and cargo pants, talking to someone you can’t quite see.
You’re not too sure what to expect; he hadn’t told you much about his friend, only that his name was Grant, he was ex army like Jack, they’d done a couple of deployments together, and he was from Boston.
You were expecting another guy around Jack’s age, like his friend from the trauma centre, sure. What you decidedly were not expecting, was for him to so closely resemble Jack.
Grant stands a little taller, has a bit more ease to his posture, which after spending so much time with Jack, you recognise as a trait the latter doesn’t have due to being an amputee.
His hair is a little longer, more of a tangled mess of salt and pepper curls than Jack, but he’s no less built, has stupidly thick biceps that are on the border of obscene peeking out of a white t shirt. White shirt, black jeans, laced up dark boots.
You’re staring and you know it, cough and blink rapidly, completely missing the almost knowing smirk that the two gorgeous older men share.
The bar is a nice temperature, the music loud enough to be heard but not overbearing, so you can still hear each other talk.
You slot into the conversation nicely, find Grant just as easy to talk to as Jack, even if he seems a little more cautious, a little more careful.
Two pints and a couple of games of pool later, and the three of you seem to be getting along just fine, all comfortable with each other, laughing and joking. You can tell they’ve known each other a long time – over twenty years, Grant tells you when Jack goes off to grab another round of drinks after they finally get you to agree to play a round, rather than just watching.
That explains their easy dynamic, you think as you step around the pool table, try to balance the cue properly in your hands.
It’s not that you don’t know how to play – you most certainly do – it’s just been a while and you’re not so confident around this incredibly handsome near stranger. After a couple of failed attempts at lining up a shot, you huff, consider just giving up.
Grant watches you for a moment, as if trying to decide something, then circles the table and tilts his head slightly, before he steps behind you, your back against his chest.
His firm hands are gentle as he adjusts yours, guiding your body into a different stance.
“There you go. Now try.”
His voice is low, raspy, just like Jack, but there’s a little more hoarseness to his. You suppose that’s to do with having to be heard over the sounds of the kitchen, which must be deafening.
Close to your ear, you have to resist the shiver that threatens to run down your spine. He’s so warm and solid against your back, his arms against yours as you line up your shot with his help.
You sink the right ball, look up just in time to meet Jack’s eyes as he returns from the bar; you feel your face heating again, feel almost guilty, until you notice the smirk on his face, the glint in his eyes.
For the first time this evening, you start to wonder whether he has an ulterior motive for inviting you out tonight. More importantly, you realise, you want that to be the case.
You get your wish at around nine, when the bar starts to get busier, filling up with college students, and Jack suggests heading back to his place. Not just you and him. The three of you.
The suggestion isn’t entirely surprising; he’s made a comment or two about the idea of bringing a third person into the mix once or twice. Never another woman, though. Jack gets off on getting you off, on having control of the situation, sure, but he’s not interested in making you watch him fuck another woman.
However, what he does like is the way you look when you’re overstimulated, totally fucked out and needy. He likes spoiling you, after all, and this is no different.
You end up sitting between the two older men on Jack’s couch, feeling a little nervous and giddy until Jack kisses you first, clearly the more extroverted of the pair. That or perhaps he’s simply more comfortable with you.
Regardless, when you break apart, it’s entirely clear that the other man is interested, based on the way his hazel eyes are dark with desire as he looks at you.
Somehow, you get the feeling that he won’t be the one to initiate; he seems kind of shy, at least not the same kind of introvert as Jack. That doesn’t bother you, not in the slightest. In fact, you think it’s kind of endearing. Endearing and attractive.
You lean in to kiss him, brush your lips against his at first; it’s not a case of you being nervous, more the idea of making sure that he’s okay with it too.
At first, he doesn’t move, but then perhaps two heartbeats later and he’s pulling you in closer. Two pairs of big, warm hands roam your body as you lean into him, part your lips and let him lick into your mouth.
He kisses differently to Jack, of course. Jack kisses with a sort of self assurance, a quiet confidence. Grant is a little more cautious, not quite hesitant, but with the air of taking his time to figure out what exactly you respond best to.
Idly, you hope that translates over to everything else, too.
You find yourself pressed between them both, alternating between who you kiss while the other kisses your throat, only pausing when the three of you get to your feet, stumble, all three of you almost giggly, to Jack’s bedroom.
“’s easier in here,” he’d said, nodding down at his right leg, or rather, the half of it that’s titanium. Not like you needed an explanation; you’d long since learned to adapt to the physical limitations that came with Jack’s disability.
Grant doesn’t question it either, but that isn’t surprising – they’ve known each other for so long, you suspect since before Jack lost his leg.
You expect there to be a certain amount of awkwardness, or at least to be a bit uncoordinated, considering there’s three of you. Somehow, though, it just works, and you manage to get both of them shirtless.
That in itself is an achievement, considering they work together to get you naked; you’re gently pushed backwards onto the bed while Jack sheds his pants, sits on the edge of the bed to remove his prosthetic, before he’s settling himself behind you, unclasping your pretty lace bra and tossing it aside.
His warm hands cup your tits as you feel his hardened cock pressing against your ass, making you inhale sharply. You love his cock. Are intimately familiar with the thick, heavy length of him, the freckles at the base, the vein along the underside that, when you drag your tongue along it, always makes him groan.
The mystery here is Grant.
The other man removes the rest of his clothing with that same sort of quiet caution, that same caution finally giving way to blatant desire when he sees the way you look him up and down, slowly.
Fuck, he’s handsome. His biceps and pectorals look like they could be carved from marble, there’s a slight softness to his belly, and like Jack, he’s covered in freckles.
“Beautiful,” you breathe before you can help yourself, and only then do you let your gaze wander further south.
With the physical similarities between the two men, you shouldn’t be surprised by the fact that his cock is pretty, too. Just as thick, slightly curved, achingly hard.
You’re about to say something else, but then he’s joining you on the bed, gives Jack a look before the latter is adjusting you so that the other man can settle comfortably on his belly between your thighs, nudging them apart and settling there.
Slowly, agonisingly slowly, he brushes two fingertips along the damp fabric of your panties, has the audacity to smirk as he looks up at you.
“Soaked,” he all but murmurs, raspy voice soft as his fingers hook into the waistband of your underwear.
He waits for you to lift your hips so he can pull them down slightly, then tugs them the rest of the way down with his teeth.
You whimper softly as the ruined fabric is tossed aside and he settles himself back between your spread legs, planting open mouthed kisses on your inner thighs.
That he’s a tease doesn’t remotely surprise you. What you like is the way he occasionally glances up at you as he kisses inwards, as if silently checking in with you.
Perhaps it’s because you’re so used to Jack, who knows you and your body so well by now that he touches you with a sort of ease that only really comes after months of intimacy, but this sends a thrill through you.
Speaking of Jack…
He resettles himself behind you, leans in to kiss along your bare shoulder, up your neck, his hands still cupping your tits, thumbs brushing back and forth across your nipples slowly.
“You gonna be good for us?” He breathes into your ear, just as Grant presses an open mouthed kiss to your core, making you whimper and nod.
“No, you use your words,” Jack corrects you almost immediately, settling into that comfortable, confident dominance that you adore.
Just as you open your mouth to answer, Grant chooses that exact moment to circle your clit with the tip of his tongue, moaning as he drags his tongue through your slick folds. You whimper again, go to roll your hips without even thinking about it, but then just as quickly as he started, he’s pulling away from you, just a little, looking up at you with a little smirk on his face.
“Jack asked you a question, honey.” His warm breath fans across your sensitive skin. In that moment, you think you might do anything, say anything, so long as it results in getting his mouth back on you.
“Y-yeah, I’ll be good.” You answer shakily, breath catching in your throat as you feel the purr of approval rumbling in Jack’s chest as he resumes kissing your throat.
Based on the way he touches you, featherlight brushes of his fingers across your nipples, smoothing his palms over your curves and back up again, he’s pleased with your answer. He keeps one arm wrapped around you, the other resting at his side.
Meanwhile, Grant resumes the slow, almost languid licks of your folds, intermittently sucking on your clit, moaning into you as you drip slick onto his tongue.
He’s so busy with work, the first to admit he has no life outside of his restaurant. No real hobbies, certainly no time for anything resembling a stable relationship. Hell, he doesn’t even remember the last time he spent a night with someone that wasn’t just a quick hookup.
Grant’s always loved going down on his partners. Loves the way it makes them react, loves the intimacy, and there’s a part of him that just loves the taste. You’re no different, reacting beautifully as he makes out with your pussy, drinking down your slick and teasing your entrance with two fingertips.
He eats you like you’re the most delicious thing he’s ever tasted, making absolutely zero effort to disguise the way he moans into you, the obscene slurping of his tongue and the filthy groan he gives you when he finally pushes his fingers inside you.
“Ohhh, god-” you gasp as he presses one last kiss to your puffy clit before he’s wiping his mouth on your inner thigh, sitting up as he slowly curls his fingers inside you. Jack shifts behind you and you realise he’s stroking his cock with his free hand.
“’s okay, baby, ‘s okay to want him, too-” Jack purrs into your ear, the hand that isn’t wrapped around his thick shaft sliding down to circle your clit in time with the warm fingers pressed knuckle deep inside your pussy.
You kind of assumed that was the case, but it’s still almost relieving to hear him confirm it out loud, so blatantly stated.
“Your pussy’s delicious, honey,” Grant murmurs, rests his head on your thigh for just a moment, looks up at you with pussy drunk eyes.
He kisses his way back up your body, pausing to pay more attention to your nipples, kissing and licking them, making you writhe against Jack, who laughs softly in the vicinity of your ear.
“Gonna tell us what you need, honey?” Grant breathes, brushing his lips against yours, massaging your g-spot before he slowly pulls his fingers out of you, making you whine pathetically as he maintains eye contact, licks his fingers clean with an obscene groan.
“Inside-” you breathe as Jack’s fingers circle your clit. “Want you both-”
The older men exchange a look, silent communication, a smirk, before Jack removes his hand too.
“Up you get, sweetheart. Turn over for us, yeah?”
You do as you’re told, turn onto your front, wait for Jack to move back a bit so he can lean against the headboard. Once he’s settled, you crawl up the bed to get closer to him, feeling the mattress dip a little as Grant moves up behind you, runs his palms over your ass as you settle on your hands and knees, giving him a beautiful view of your slick soaked folds, your soft skin.
Meanwhile, you’re very distracted by Jack’s cock. Fuck, you love his cock. It’s thick and fat and the perfect length, a smattering of freckles dusting the base.
You can’t help yourself – you lean in and press little kisses along the underside, from base to tip. Jack looks down at you, brushes his hand over your cheek as you look up at him, keep eye contact as you kiss the fat tip of his cock, already drooling precum.
Behind you, Grant holds your hips in one hand, grinds against you slowly, resting his equally gorgeous cock on your ass for a moment before he shifts again, wraps his hand around his shaft to guide the tip to your dripping entrance.
You’re so fucking wet. He doesn’t remember the last time someone wanted him so badly. In a moment of briefly selfish relief, he’s glad you’re not too preoccupied with blowing Jack just yet, so he can hear the moan you give him as he presses a couple of inches deep inside you.
He lets out an almost whimpering groan at the feeling of your warm, wet walls enveloping him, the way you angle your hips to give him better access.
“Oh, fuck,” he murmurs, his hands on your hips to steady himself as he slowly stuffs you full of his cock. Your attention is back on Jack by now, sucking on the tip of his cock again, before you take him in deeper, flattening your tongue so you can lick him at the same time.
It’s filthy, obscene, the way you moan around him as Grant’s hips finally meet your ass, the soft, breathy groans he rewards you with, the low almost growls Jack gives you from above.
You start to bob your head, trying to silently demonstrate how much you love sucking his cock as the other man starts to move, slowly grinding against you until he’s so deep you think he might kiss your cervix. Your appreciative moan is a little muffled, but it’s enough to encourage him.
They move almost in sync, Jack gently rolling his hips up, just enough that he’s encouraging you, whilst Grant starts to give you slow, shallow thrusts, letting you get used to the stretch of him inside you.
“Fuck,” he groans softly, breathless, “fuck, your pussy is perfect, baby-”
The praise makes you tighten around him, brief and involuntary, which draws a truly obscene groan from him, a rumbling purr that’s almost immediately echoed by Jack as you swallow around his cock.
Jack loves when you blow him, loves how sloppy and passionate you get with it, drooling all over him as you lick and suck, moaning around him as Grant picks up his pace behind you.
He steadily builds up a good rhythm, eventually giving you full, heavy thrusts, shifting to plant one foot on the mattress to give him better leverage. His hands are firm on your hips, but not bruising, guiding you back onto his cock to meet his thrusts.
“Nngh, mmmffff, fuck-”
He’s vocal, raspy voice dropping an octave lower as he grunts and groans, practically purring as he feels you getting tighter around him. The entire time as he works you up to the edge, you keep giving Jack all your attention with your mouth, wrapping one hand around the base of his shaft and stroking him, making him grunt.
“Mmmffff, shit, sweetheart, your fuckin’ mouth-” Jack groans, cups your face in one hand, brushes his thumb back and forth across your cheek.
“Doesn’t she take our cocks so well?” he asks, looks over your shoulder at Grant. Both of the gorgeous older men are a little flushed in the face, hazel eyes dark, pupils blown wide with lust.
“Nnh, such a good girl-” Grant agrees, giving you a particularly deep thrust that has you mewling.
You’re getting so close, hovering right on the edge of your climax, and they know it. Jack can tell by the change in pitch of your moans, Grant can feel you getting tighter around him, the increase in your already copious slick.
“Ohhh, you’re getting close, aren’t you, sweetheart?” Jack coos knowingly, “c’mon, we both wanna hear what you sound like when you cream all over his cock.”
Taking that as permission, you pull back from his cock, albeit a little reluctant; he really does taste delicious, clean and slightly salty, but there’s also a part of you that wants to focus entirely on your own impending orgasm.
Without having to focus on trying to make Jack feel good at the same time, you can give over to your utmost base instincts, letting yourself get lost in the feeling of Grant’s velvet soft cock pressing in and dragging out of your soaked pussy, moaning obscenely when one big hand leaves your hip to circle round, press his fingers to your swollen, aching clit and start to draw tight little circles around it.
That’s all you need, you think, you’re right there, but then he leans down over you, blankets his body with your own, just to be able to purr into your ear.
“There you go, honey, just let go. Let go for me, nnn; I’ve – I’ve got you...”
That’s what finally sends you crashing over the edge, your moans echoing around the bedroom as the tension in your core snaps, your thighs trembling with each wave of the intense, sudden orgasm.
He can feel a little trickle of your cum and slick soaking his cock, dripping out around him and onto the sheets, but all that serves to do is make him throb inside you, just prolonging your orgasm as he holds you against him.
You’re dimly aware of Jack’s familiar grunts; through the haze of your climax, you register him in front of you, one big, freckled hand wrapped firmly around his cock, giving his shaft a few slow, precise strokes as he watches his friend fuck you.
And god, does he.
Grant fucks you through your release, just keeps going, clearly chasing his own orgasm now.
His thrusts become more erratic with each one, grunting on every second impact.
“Mmff – mmm – nnngh -”
He makes no attempt to be quiet, and neither does Jack; their deep, masculine groans mingle with your breathy, high pitched moans as the room echoes with the lewd, wet sound of Grant’s hips colliding with your ass, Jack stroking his cock, matching the rhythm.
You know the tells of when Jack’s close; you lean forward again, wrap your lips around his cock, replace his hand with your ow, stroke him and bob your head, hollowing your cheeks and swallowing around him until he’s groaning, bucking his hips up involuntarily.
“Mmmm, yeah, that’s it sweetheart, suck my fucking cock-”
He runs his mouth when he’s close, so filthy that it makes you shiver, determined to get him there; just as you look up at him, make eye contact, he groans, tips his head back, giving you a beautiful view of the prominent muscle and veins in his neck, before he’s spilling down your throat.
You swallow every drop, lick him clean as Grant works you up to another orgasm; it’s only when Jack’s pulled his softening cock out of your mouth, brushed his thumb over your bottom lip, that his friend pulls out of you, gently maneuvers you onto your back.
He carefully pushes one of your thighs up to your chest, lowers it to wrap around his waist as he presses back inside you, groaning appreciatively at the way your walls almost immediately begin to flutter around him.
“Ohmygod, yes, fuck me-” You beg, your moans almost immediately swallowed in a filthy, greedy kiss, your fingers flying to his broad shoulders, scrabbling for purchase.
Thankfully, he’s merciful, gives you what you ask for, starts to all but pound you into the bed, breaking the kiss to nuzzle into the side of your neck, giving you intimate access to the huffed, breathy, whimpering moans he makes as he chases his release, fucks you through your second orgasm.
It’s only when you’re on the way down that he finally falls over the edge too, groaning a long, drawn out moan as he fucks his spend deep into you in a series of deep, erratic thrusts.
You gasp and whimper, still taking shuddering breaths and mewling softly by the time he eventually starts to go soft inside you. He stays above you, so you wrap your limbs around him, stroke his broad, freckled back as he peppers your shoulder, neck, and face with little kisses.
After he eventually pulls out of you, he follows Jack’s directions to the en suite, brings warm washcloths and a towel to help you clean up. Jack slips his prosthetic back on, heads out to the kitchen to grab chilled water for the three of you, giving you a lovely view of his ass as he goes.
The three of you work together to strip the bed, change the sheets, thanks to you completely ruining the existing ones, before finally, you’re lying in clean sheets between the two men.
“Mm, that was unexpected,” you hum, trailing your fingertips over Jack’s chest, brushing through the soft greying curls that grow there.
“Good unexpected?” Grant asks, and you turn your head to give him a long, slow kiss, breaking it to repeat the gesture with Jack.
They may look alike, but their kisses, confidence and mannerisms are so different. You kind of love it.
“Very good,” you assert, and both men laugh, exchange knowing smirks.
“Well, man, I guess you know what this means,” Jack says, lightly trailing his fingers up your sides, over your curves.
“Mm?” Grant sounds just like you and Jack, exhausted and satisfied. He genuinely doesn’t remember the last time he felt this way.
“No being a stranger.” Jack clarifies, and you giggle as his friend tuts.
“You know I have the restaurant. And you work a ridiculous schedule, too.” Grant hums, “but, I’m pretty sure I can find time. And hell, if you ever find yourself in Boston...”
You nod eagerly, too blissed out to try and be coy. As a matter of fact, you will be in Boston relatively soon for a book tour, and Jack has promised to come with you.
“We’d love to catch up with you again, but you know, she’s a big girl, she can always come visit on her own,” Jack purrs, curls into your side, nuzzles against your shoulder.
Grant raises an eyebrow at you, a silent question. You turn to kiss Jack’s temple before you lean up to kiss the other man again, liking the plush firmness of his lips.
“Mm, it’s a date,” you confirm, and you swear both men give you approving little purrs as you finally settle down to sleep.
i feel like people aren't getting how dire ai is. we are running out of drinkable water. our brains aren't engaging as much with what we see and hear. people near data centers don't get clean water and experience electricity blackouts. it's being used to make pornography of underaged people and women. it often just lies. it affirms everything. it lies. it has made people kill themselves. it lies for gods sake. and people act as if im dramatic for being staunchly against it. 'now i KNOOW you hate ai and whatever, but look at this cute video' this isn't me being a new age puritan about internet videos, this is about the fucking earth and our future living on this planet. people are suffering now, people will suffer more, and my friends and parents will roll their eyes and think im annoying for despising ai so explicitly. we need to wake up because we cannot live like this
ellievsbear
gummygunk
baratheonpilled
titsay
andulkaphoto
germansingergirl
kaledo-art
turnnoffyourmind
