#ppascal

joel looked down at his shirtless body, pinching lightly at his stomach. scales are not something one finds nowadays, but joel doesn’t need one to tell he’s gained some weight. he’s not sure whether to be happy because that means he’s eating well for once or whether to be upset as most are at the sign of weight gain. he’d have no thought of being upset if he didn’t think that the men he cruises for might not want him anymore. queer men have a culture of needing to be fit and taut to be fuckable, and despite having significant muscle, joel was not lean cut by any means. 

he decides that going out can’t be that bad. the worst that can happen, other than being caught by fedra, is he gets rejected. 

he enters a bar, one of the few spots guys go to find hook ups in the qz. he sits himself down at the bar and orders a whiskey. he stays there, sipping at his drink for a while before he feels someone sit next to him. 

“hey, handsome,” you say, turning yourself towards joel, “i’ve always wanted to try a silver fox. you down?” joel almost chokes on his whiskey with how forwards you’re being. he turns to face you, being met by someone who is almost certainly half his age.

“no way, kid,” he scoffs, “go find someone your own age.” you frown as he turns back to staring into his drink.

“i don’t like guys my age,” you say, “i always prefer them older.” joel chuckles, cocking his eyebrow.

“sure, kiddo,” he smirks, “ya do this often?” 

“quite regularly,” you say, smiling proudly, “i’ve fucked many older men, none as stunning as you though.” you’re really trying to lay it on thick, hoping to break the old man. he finally turns back to you. it might be working. 

“oh, yeah?” he says, “i’m sure ya say that to all ‘f ‘em.” 

“no, just you” you smile, “what’s your name?” 

“joel,” he replies. he sculls the rest of his drink, swearing under his breath. “fine, kid. let’s do this.” you smirk, filing with pride, knowing you’d won. you walk into the bathroom, checking behind you as joel follows you in. 

you tug on the collar of his flannel shirt, pulling him into a stall and kissing him hastily on the lips. he kisses back, trying to slip his tongue into your mouth just as you pull away. he groans, making you smirk as you drop to your knees. you unbuckle his pants, pulling them down slightly. you flick his shirt up to reveal his beautiful chubby belly. the mere sight of it makes you drool. joel freezes up as you run your hands across his belly, kissing it, and nosing his navel. 

“relax,” you coo, “i told you, you’re my type.” joel groans as you grab his cock out of his pants. you grin, seeing how big he is. you assumed he’d be big by the bulge in his pants but now he’s hard he looks to be about 7 inches. 

you peck a kiss on his stomach before wrapping your lips around him. you suck tentatively at his head, teasing him as you run your tongue around it. joel groans impatiently. he grips his fingers into your hair and shoves his cock down your throat. you gag, choking with how far down your throat he reaches. he starts bucking into your mouth, hitting the back of your throat with each thrust. your jaw hurts slightly and spit can’t help but fall from your lips. his cock is suffocating you, as much you love the feeling of him on your tongue you’re starting to feel lightheaded. you hit joel’s hips a few times and he pulls you off his cock. 

“ya a’ight there, kiddo?” his panting southern drawl and the nickname ‘kiddo’ make your aching cock twitch. he rubs his dripping cock your cheek, completely fixating on your spit covered lips. 

“i’m okay,” you say, turning your head to run a stripe up his cock, “i was just choking a little.” 

“i apologise,” he chuckles, “i get carried away. you wanna keep goin’ or does my boy wanna get fucked?” you palm your hand into the visible bulge in your pants. you take his cock back in your mouth, bopping your head to the frantic pace you're palming your cock to. joel moans, throwing his head back against the stall and tugging on your hair again. your pace is a little too much for joel and he pushes you off. you fall back on your hands watching joel panting, holding himself up against the stall as his cock twitches. 

“sh–shit, kid,” he groans, bending down to grab you under your armpits. he pulls you up and slams you against the stall, holding you by your ass. you wrap your legs around his waist and your arms round his neck as he kisses you. you kiss back, flicking your fingers through his hair and gnashing teeth together in desperation. 

joel pulls your pants down enough for his cock to rub against your hole. you groan, slipping your cock out of your pants to feel it rub against joel’s torso. he practically folds you in half as he moves to slip his cock inside you. it hurts as he slowly pushes in. 

“jesus christ,” you groan, biting your lip, “how far in are you?” joel laughs at you.

“that’s jus’ the tip, kiddo,” he says, rubbing your ass softly. 

“fuck,” you pant, dropping your head on his shoulder. he pushes in further and feels like you’re being split in half. suddenly, he snaps his hips up and you feel his crotch touch your ass. he’s finally all the way in and it feels like he’s gonna come out your throat. 

“ahh! fuck, daddy,” you moan, not processing what you’re say because of how much it hurt. joel freezes, pulling his head back from you. 

“the fuck did ya jus’ say, boy?” he growls, grabbing you by the chin roughly. you avoid his eyes, squirming in his grasp.

“nothin’,” you mutter. 

“nuh uh,” he tuts, “i heard what ya said. say it again.” 

“daddy,” you whine. as soon as you say it, joel pulls out and fucks back into you with full force. your head rolls back and you let out a screaming moan. you didn’t think he could get any deeper. 

“does my little boy like callin’ old men ‘daddy’?” he chuckles darkly, thrusting relentlessly as he presses you harder against the stall. 

“mhm– ahh,” you try to give him an answer but it devolves into whorish moans. 

“your real daddy not love ya right?” joel pants, you can hear the smirk in his voice, “that don’ matter ‘cause your new daddy’s gonna love you the right way, ya hear that?” you moan at his question, nodding your head as that’s all you think you can manage as he massive cock rams into you.

“your daddy asked ya a question,” joel grunts, smacking you lightly on the ass, “now answer.” 

“y–yes, daddy,” you moan, “i hear you.” 

“good boy,” he chuckles, leaning in to kiss you. as you make out, you start rolling your hips in time with joel’s, finally getting used to his size. your cock leaves precum all over his shirt as it gets the friction it needed so badly. you moan loudly into his mouth as he shifts his angle inside you, hitting just the right spot. 

you move your hand down between your bodies to wrap it around your cock. joel grabs your wrist and pulls it away. 

“nuh uh,” he says, “if ya wanna touch that ya gotta ask daddy, okay?” you nod. 

“p–please, can i touch– nghh– my cock,” you moan out, desperately rubbing it against joel’s stomach. 

“no,” joel says bluntly. your eyes widen and you let out a whine in protest. he simply chuckles at you. “ya can’t touch it, only daddy touches that, got it?” you don’t even bother nodding, pulling joel in by the neck and kissing him hard. 

“please touch me,” you pant, pulling away from the kiss. joel immediately reaches for your painfully hard cock, jerking it off in time with his brutal thrusts. he drops his head into your neck, starting to bite and suck bruises along it. your hands tug at his hair as your head falls back against the stall. the feeling of his calloused hand jerking you off, his cock ramming into your ass, and his lips on your neck is all too much.

“j–joel,” you moan, tapping him on the back, “s–slow down, i might– ahh.” joel pulls his head out of your neck and looks at you. 

“ya gonna cum, baby?” joel pants. you nod, whining as his hips buck. “a’ight then, baby, cum on daddy’s cock.” you rut into his tight fisted hand as you try and fuck yourself down on his cock, chasing your orgasm. joel returns to your neck, biting and sucking harder than before, desperate to have you cum while he’s in you. 

“oh fuck– daddy!” you moan loudly, feeling the pressure build, “fuck daddy, oh my– daddy, please daddy– oh fuck–” your expletives get interrupted by your crashing orgasm, making you moan and your hips jerk as you cum all over joel. he continues to fuck you and jerk you off as you cum, working you for all you’ve got. in your orgasmic state you clench down on joel’s cock, sending him over the edge, filling your ass up with his cum. he pulls off your neck, desperately panting and moaning as he keeps fucking his cum inside you.

“oh fuck, baby– oh goddammit,” he swears, “shit, babyboy.” he head falls back into your neck as he grabs the top of the stall to hold himself up. you both stay pressed against the stall for a moment, bathing in your orgasms and the sound of each other’s panting. 

joel slowly pulls out of you, holding you up as he does. he holds you as you drop your legs down, making sure you don’t fall over on weak knees. you hold his biceps to steady yourself and grab some toilet paper to wipe the drops of cum you got on his shirt. 

“i will say, kid,” joel says, watching clean him up, “that was probably the best fuck i’ve had in awhile.” you smile, pulling up your pants.

“i told you, i do this often,” you chuckle, “old men love this ass.” joel sneaks his arm around to squeeze your ass. 

“‘m sure they do,” he says, gruffly. he tucks his cock back into his jeans before scratching his neck and looking back at you. “would ya…uhm, wanna do this again?” 

“yeah,” you say, smiling proudly at how shy joel turned all of a sudden, “yeah, of course.” joel lets out a breath.

“o–okay, great,” he says, smiling, “would ya wanna do it at my place instead of some gross bathroom next time?” 

“that sounds nice, yeah,” you say, kissing him on the cheek and moving to leave the stall.

“wait,” joel grabs you gently by the shoulder, “how will we– when will ya come back ‘ere?” 

“i can come back tomorrow, if that’s what you’d like?” joel nods, softly. 

“yeah, i’d like that.”

“i’ll see you tomorrow then, daddy,” you smirk. joel scoffs, laughing at you.

“go home, kid,” he says, pushing you out of the stall.

☆☆☆☆

chocolate cake.

that’s what he orders, every time there’s a event at the private equity firm. it’s always a huge batch order of chocolate cupcakes, with white chocolate chips. you know he’s older, and you know he comes from old money, and that means, so clearly, that he is set in his ways. 

the batch of chocolate cupcakes leaves your kitchen with brown cocoa powder floating in the air for days, coating each surface. you’ve had an asthma attack every time it’s happened, and you don’t think your lungs are ready to be coughed out again. 

you prefer more fruity flavours, strawberry, pineapple, mint choc chip in your cakes. anything that lets you experiment around with the flavour and recipe, this most recent weekend you’d perfected the pina colada cake, with coconut cream and pineapple shavings.  

and then there was this man, with his stupid chocolate cupcake order. 

“is he on the phone?” you ask your colleague, bea, as she writes down his order, “or is it his assistant.”

she shushes you, finger on her lips, phone against her ear and shoulder (but you can hear him anyway) as she writes down the order for the next party. 2500 to be finished by wednesday.

“are you fucking serious?” you say, hearing his voice from the phone, at least it’s not his assistant this time. there’s no fun in yelling at some poor woman over the phone for her boss’ poor choices, you aren’t a cartoon villain.   

“give me the phone, right now.” and bea is shushing you again, but you could not care less, and you grab the phone from her shoulder.

“hello, mister?” you hold the phone in front of your mouth, enunciating very clearly, “ever thought of getting another flavour?”

“…what..?” he says, after a moment. 

“the cakes! they’re always chocolate!” your hands are already stained with cocoa powder, and it’s so bitter that you’ll sneeze if you taste it, “why don’t you try something new for a change.”

another pause, the phone line crackles, bea’s looking at you like you’ve lost the order. 

2500 cupcakes at $4.50 a cupcake equals to a lot of money, oh you’re sure of it. 

but surely it doesn’t cost you another minute of being stuck in a room full of cocoa powder, an asthma attack incoming. 

“what do you have against chocolate?” he sounds ticked off.

“everything?” you snipe back, “it’s basic, there’s nothing to play around with, and it’s so sickeningly sweet.”

“but it’s also a classic , it’s got so many variations, and it’s a perfectly good amount of sweetness, thank you.” he sounds all condescending, and you don’t like that tone in his voice.

but he sounds…nice. he sounds nice, and you don’t know why your mind’s gone there.

his voice rich and smooth like thick chocolate, even through the tinny speaker.

“can’t you just try changing it up, for once, old man?” you say, whilst your flour-covered hands swipe up against your chin to itch a scratch. “your company can take it. vanilla cupcakes, red velvet, have a tropical theme with coconut instead.”

he doesn’t say anything, but you assume he’s up in his office. you can hear him swallow, and then the phone cuts.

“he hung up on me?” you say, in shock, placing the phone down onto the counter. “all i did was give him a suggestion, and he hung up on me.”

bea just sighs, but she’s looking at you in a way that’s beyond the usual ‘well done, you lost us another order!’ 

the phone buzzes, and you see a notification popup. 

h. castillo (client): keep 2500 cupcakes at current rate of $4.50/piece 

can work around flavour issue. 

you smile, your hands jerk towards the phone and you text back.

 you:👍

you end up being the one delivering the cupcakes. bea told you very nicely that since you were the one who yelled at him, you were the one who was going to end up giving the cupcakes. 

which was fair enough. but you didn’t want to be around him, you’d yelled at him. you’d come out here and shouted in his face over the phone, when he hadn’t done anything really. just nicely asked you to make chocolate cupcakes for his event, and you’d just exploded on him. all the rage pent up in you exploding on some guy who didn’t even deserve it.

thank god he hadn’t blacklisted your bakery from catering events, you and bea couldn’t take it. he’d even kept the order. 

the boxes in the cart were full of different flavours of cupcakes, your favourite pina colada inspired ones, but also some others - red velvet, strawberry, vanilla, blueberry. you’d done your best to get a whole range of flavours, but the one box you carried in your hands was the dearest to you. 

you’ve him a batch of chocolate and fudge cupcakes. six of them, five with a letter on them, spelling out “SORRY”, and the other with a sad face on it. 

you’ve just started arranging the cupcakes in the central table of the ballroom, when you feel fingertips on your shoulder, and you turn around to see a man. tall, older, with greying curly black hair combed back. fashionable scruff on his jaw, mustache on his face. 

he’s tall, and fucking broad. your mind just, reboots, and all you can think was how wide his chest is, and how good it looks in that shirt.

you blink, “…hello?”

“you’re not bea.” is all he says, frowning. it’s a two person bakery, apart from bea’s mom who helps from time to time. and you’r obviously not bea’s mom.

“who’s asking..?” you turn back to arranging the cupcakes, you’re doing them in colour order, a gradient from light to dark. the colours pastel, and cute, even in this gala. not the boring chocolate you’ve always seen bea take in. 

“oh i’m just part of the castillo company.” he says, very carefully. 

you’re turned away from him, but harry castillo can recognise your voice anywhere. nobody’s yelled at him on the phone like that, nobody’s given him a run for his money or his choices, he’s always called the shots for god knows how many years, and here this baker was, complaining to his face about something which was so minuscule to him. 

he’d never even realised he always put chocolate down as a flavour almost consistently, until you’d told him on the phone. you’d been so passionate, so intense. it was…hot. 

it was hot, and he just had to meet you. to fuck with you, just a little bit. 

so he doesn’t give you his name, just a flick of the wrist. 

his eyes land on the cardboard box, and he goes to open it, but you slam it shut. 

“it says mr castillo on the box?” you keep your hands over the lid, “is your name mr castillo?”

it is, actually. but that’s not the point.

“that’s what i thought.” you say, clicking your tongue as you go back to arranging the cupcakes. you’ll get it to mr castillo after, maybe before the gala starts. you want to get it to him any way, you felt awful about yelling at him on the phone. 

the gala preparations take another few hours, and by the end of it, you’re sweating. you’d spent a good three hours decorating each cupcake on site, it would be easier to pipe them once you got there,with the frosting being buttercream and all.

once you’re finally (finally) done, you sigh, leaning back over the table. the ballroom still looks majestic, high ceilings, painted and beautiful. 

you need to get out of here, wearing your ditzy print dress, marching the pastels of your cupcakes. it’s not what one would wear to a black tie event. 

one of the event planners points you to the 47th floor of the building, that’s where his office is. you clutch the box of cupcakes to your chest, and step into the lift. the mirror is cool against your skin, and you sigh, screw this job, you were too much of a perfectionist for this. spending too many hours fixing and adjusting recipes and designs. 

you buzz into the office, and the assistant is there, she looks nice. you’re happy you didn’t end up yelling at her, she looked far too nice. 

you’re expecting some greying old man, stuck in his ways, stuck in his family’s wealth.

you aren’t expect the same man with the scruff and the moustache, slipping on a suit jacket. 

oh fuck.

you turn to leave, but he catches you through the window, a small smile on his face.

“you’re not bea.” he says again, you’d hoped that he’d forgotten you, probably meeting a hundred people working on the party that day, but there is buttercream frosting on your face. clearly you were the one bringing the cakes.

“mr castillo!” you squeak, placing the box of cupcakes down onto the desk, wooden and mahogany. the whole room was wooden, filled with shades of browns. amber paperweights and maroon bound books. “i just wanted to say how truly sorry i am about this.”

“you don’t sound like the same woman who yelled at me through the phone two days ago.” he smiles, and there’s a twinkle to his eye.

“i’m sorry about that,” you make a face that’s closer to a grimace than a smile, “you know, just got a little mad…i wouldn’t call it yelling, per say.”

“raising your voice then?”

“…making a loud and clear statement?” you counter.

“it was loud alright.” he huffs a laugh out, and he’s clearly not being serious with you now. if he was serious with you, he’d have called security or something.

“i’m sorry, you caught me at a bad time.” you say, pushing the box towards him on the other side of the table. 

“i think you might have been planning that one.” 

you just laugh, and he thinks your laugh is the most beautiful thing in the world. hand coming over to cover your mouth, eyes squeezing shut. 

“how are you so short, and so full of anger.” he looks down at you, and he’s taller than you by quite a bit. he doesn’t mean it, that much is obvious.

“i’m also full of baking talent, here.” you open the box, and he sees your apology piped onto the cupcakes. you’re a perfectionist, and it looks good. 

“chocolate.” he frowns, and you shrug. 

“it’s fudge actually, but you seem to like chocolate a lot.”

“it’s a safe flavour,” he says after humming in thought, “like vanilla, but it tastes a bit nicer. can’t go wrong with chocolate.”

and he gets hit with the vision of you coughing your lungs out in the kitchen after a bag of cocoa explodes, and he laughs again, “i mean, except for you.”

“gee thanks.” you nod, “but the cupcakes are pretty good.”

he gives you a thumbs up, and eats one right there, in front of you. yoh. notice some frosting sticking to his mustache, and your thumb comes up to wipe it off. 

he lets you, he doesn’t push your hand away or anything. it’s so soft, you’re like a gumball, all hard on the outside, but soft and gooey inside. 

“so,” he says, as nonchalantly as possible, 47 floors up in the sky, the whole city below them, “do this for every boss you yell at?”

your mouth twitches, “only the pretty ones, who let me yell at them.”