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Nailed It!

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If you ever tried to make this… and ended up with this… this is the show for you!


“Just tell us a little about yourself, and how your love of baking led you to this show,” Colton says.

Tyler inhales. Exhales. He tries to get comfortable in the chair and forget about the camera, but it’s nearly impossible. “It’s my brother’s fault,” he says, and when Colton laughs, Tyler wants to backpedal and try all over again. He gets his hands up, waves them in front of his face as if he can scrub the image from the recording. “Let me try that again.”

“As many times as you need.” Colton sits back in his chair, legs stretched out, the perfect model of relaxation. The perfect model, really, and Tyler wants to pinch himself to wake up because he’s here. He’s really here sitting on set with Colton Haynes—out and proud actor and model—and he’s going to be on a celebrity cooking show with pop punk star Tyler Posey and actress Holland Roden and he’s not entirely sure how this happened.

No, actually, he knows exactly how this happened, and it really is Tanner’s fault. Because Tanner posted those pictures of the epic fail that was Tyler’s attempt at a birthday cake for his brother, along with a video of the disaster, and the video went viral.

It just didn’t happen on purpose, and Tyler’s struggling a little with how to put it into words.

“Why don’t you just start at the beginning.” Colton leans forward, expression open and intent. When Colton smiles, Tyler automatically smiles back. “Tell me about growing up,” Colton encourages. “Tell me about learning to bake.”

“I grew up up in a very Christian family, I grew up playing baseball, and I grew up knowing I was very gay.” Tyler flushes, even though he knows that of all the people he can talk to, Colton’s not going to say anything against it. “I didn’t always fit in, and I was stressed. So, when it got to be too much, I baked. I destroyed the kitchen on a regular basis when I was in high school.”

Someone coughs, and Tyler sits up straight. He looks at the camera man, who is still staring into the lens: not him. Footsteps, clicking sharply as someone emerges from the shadows near the curtains, one hand raised in greeting.

“Dylan.” Colton rises quickly, meets the newcomer halfway. Tyler isn’t sure who yanks who into the hug, just that it seems fond and intense. Colton withdraws, turns to motion for Tyler to rise and approach. “Let me introduce you to Dylan O’Brien, our guest judge for this episode,” Colton says.

Tyler doesn’t move. He knows exactly who Dylan is. In fact, he’s eaten Dylan’s food. Perfectly prepared, ridiculously intricate, and absolutely not on his diet. He’s also seen Dylan before, both on Youtube and in person, from afar.

Those hands may have figured in a few fantasies, which… are just fantasies. Seeing them up close and in person and being told to come shake that hand? Leaves Tyler unexpectedly anxious.

“Ah, holy shit, Colton, you’ve been holding out on me,” Dylan exclaims. He closes the distance to Tyler’s chair, pulls up short in front of him, hands outstretched. “Do you hug? Because I hug. And holy shit, I have been wanting to meet you forever. I tried to get a meeting last time I catered an event for the Mets, and you’d left early. You are one of my baseball gods, on a team that’s been my favorite since childhood.”

“He doesn’t bite,” Colton says, when Tyler still doesn’t move.

“Unless you want me to. Oh god, that slipped out. Pretend I didn’t say it; I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.” Dylan wiggles his fingers in invitation, and Tyler slowly rises and lets himself be pulled in.

Good god, the man gives a good hug.

“My family hugs,” Tyler says slowly, once Dylan releases him. This is Dylan O’Brien dressed up, the same Dylan who comes to the catered banquets. Not the dressed down Dylan that Tyler remembers from Youtube, before he became a huge catering sensation.

“Good, so does mine. Beware if you meet Jules, because if she knows you know me, she’ll just assume you’ve already been prepared and tackle-hug, I’m sure.” Dylan steps back, spreads his hands. “Shit. Man. I can’t believe I’m getting to meet you. Your batting stats keep getting better every year, and you throw like a machine. And you bat left and throw right.”

“I’m not the best player on the team,” Tyler protests. Far from it. He started out fairly average for a pro ball player, just glad to be in the majors. Yeah, he’s been improving, but it’s been a tough road.

And he made it tougher all on his own, too.

“Yeah, but you’re an inspiration to kids everywhere,” Dylan says.

There it is.

Dylan’s hands move as he speaks, gesturing at Tyler, at the world around them. “And you used the word. Do you know how few people actually use the word bisexual? You’re probably the first gay guy I know who doesn’t believe that everyone who’s bi just needs to choose a side.”

“Just because it was a phase for me doesn’t mean it is for everyone,” Tyler says quietly. His fingers flex at his side, and he looks back at his chair. “Look, I was in the middle of talking about—”

“We were recording his intro, and you walked in just when he said he was gay as fuck,” Colton says cheerfully. “Great use of cue, but we’ve got a time limit to get this done in.”

Dylan flushes brightly, the skin on his neck as warm and red as his cheeks. “Ah. Yeah. Sorry about that. Look, do you mind if I just grab a chair and hang out here while you do the interview? I’d love to hear you talk. Especially if you’re talking about being out and queer in baseball.”

Tyler sinks back into his own chair, tries not to watch as Dylan grabs a chair and drags it over. Dylan doesn’t pick one of the director’s chairs scattered around the place, but a high-backed wooden chair, and he swings it around to sit on it backwards.

It’s distracting. He’s distracting.

“So, Tyler,” Colton says. He’s grinning, and it reminds Tyler vividly of Tanner, when Tyler has somehow just wandered into a trap. “Why don’t you tell me about destroying the kitchen. Has that stopped, now that you’re an adult?”

Dylan barks out a laugh, leaning back on the chair as he does so. Tyler risks a look to his side and spots the screen where the video of himself, covered in flour, streaks of frosting on his face, is showing. 

“I still stress bake,” he deadpans. “I may not be the neatest, but it always tastes good, and there are never leftovers.”

“Doesn’t have to be neat if you’re good at it,” Dylan murmurs, and the sound of his voice curls in Tyler’s gut.


This show is going to be hard.

Very, very hard.


“This challenge is called Baker’s Choice!” Colton calls out. Dylan stands to one side, and standing is a loose term, implying that he might be still. Not true. He wavers on his feet, twists, turns, and seems to be constantly in motion. It’s distracting.

On Colton’s other side, Crystal Reed stands tall, her arms crossed, her chef’s jacket crisp and clean and white. She’s the queen of pastry, and a little intimidating, despite the dimples that appear whenever Colton cracks a joke.

“Behind door number one, are three delightfully decadent delectations. Today’s theme is a Choux for you!” Colton waves, and the door opens, revealing a table with three plates resting on raised boxes, slightly tilted to show them. A monitor, out of sight of the camera, shows each of the plates close up as Colton describes them.

“We have Choux-lax! A cream puff filled with dark chocolate ice cream and topped with blue icing, decorated with tiny icicles. Next is Craggy-Choux, a miniature croquembouche decorated like a mountain. And finally, the star of the selection, we have Eight Inches of Ecstasy—the most perfect eclair at eight inches long, too thick to hold in one hand, and perfectly filled and waiting to spill over at first bite.” Colton grins wickedly. “You’d think decorations might not matter for that last, but you always have to dress up properly before you get eaten.”

Dylan chokes. “Oh, I don’t know. Simple and naked isn’t bad. For eclairs.”

“So says the man who creates some of the most intricate designs I’ve seen,” Colton replies. “Let’s save naked for pickles, Dyl; we want to see this eclair beautified.”

Colton steps back, and it’s like a signal to the contestants. They all tense, and when Colton yells, “Pick your favorite,” they rush to the door.

Holland gets there first, and somehow Posey manages to get through before Tyler does. He looks down at the table and picks up the one remaining plate, his cheeks burning.

Because of course they left him the eclair.

He joins the others, just as Colton says, “Tyler!”

Both he and Posey look over, waiting. Colton indicates Posey, who replies, “Just call me Posey, dude, or T-pose if you’d rather. It’ll get confusing otherwise.”

“What made you choose that one?” Colton asks.

Posey holds up the Choux-lax. “There is no one as chill as me on this show,” he says with a grin.

“I like mountains,” Holland says, before Colton can ask.

“Which leaves you with—”

“Yes,” Tyler interrupts, cheeks hot.

“Can’t wait to taste it,” Dylan says, and Tyler’s flush intensifies.

It’s a relief when Colton sends them off to their stations. “You have two hours,” Colton says. “Let’s see that perfection!”

Two hours. That’s plenty of time. How long could it take to make one eclair?

No, wait, maybe he should make more than one. Just in case he gets it wrong. Because let’s be real, he’s going to get it wrong. That’s the whole point here. The point is that Tyler’s a terrible baker, and Tanner made sure the entire internet knew it. Which doesn’t change the fact that Tyler still loves it and he’s going to have a blast here making… oh god… eight inches of ecstasy.

When he looks over at the judges, Dylan is watching him.

Oh boy.

Tyler brings up the recipe on the tablet provided. So. First thing he has to do is make dough. That can’t be too hard. He’s never made choux before, but he knows it’s one of those things that you just make and shove in the oven, and it makes all the air bubbles inside on its own. Easy, right?

Everything’s going great to start. He beats the flour into the heated liquid, and for once he isn’t covered in dust. This might be a good recipe to master, eventually. Seems a little neater, so far. Much easier on the cleanup after he’s had a night of stress baking.

It goes to hell with the first egg.

He drops the egg in and starts beating it furiously, but he’s not fast enough, and there are little bits of cooked egg threaded throughout the batter. 

“…stand mixer.”

Tyler looks up, not sure who that was. Colton’s sitting back, but Crystal and Dylan are leaning in front of him, talking.

Stand mixer.

Oh, wait. There is one of those. He can use that to beat the eggs in and it’d probably be easier.

He dumps the dough so far into the bowl, shoves the beater in.

“He’s got the muscles for it,” Crystal says.

“It’s always good to know that a man knows how to properly beat it by hand,” Dylan replies.

He’s not going there.

He’s not thinking about any other kinds of beating (off).


Tyler is really glad that he’s behind his workstation and has something else to focus on. Like the fact that the eggs keep cooking when he tries to add them. By the time he’s done, it doesn’t look too bad, although he can definitely see some distinct threads of scrambled egg throughout the dough. He briefly thinks about picking it out, but he glances at the clock, and somehow he’s already a half hour in and he needs to get this in the oven now.

He does fish out the piece of eggshell he notices. Sharp things are never good when you’re eating eight inches of ecstasy.

Tyler quickly scrapes the dough into a pastry bag, and cuts off the tip. He leaves a wide hole because he just needs to pipe these long strips for his eclairs. He glances at the sample—eight inches long and very thick. Okay. Fine. He tries to match that and pipes out four long lines before he runs out of dough. He picks up the tray and quickly gets it in the oven, grinning to himself when he sees that Posey’s putting a tray in without using parchment paper, and that Holland’s standing with her nose glued to the oven door, peeking in every two minutes and letting the heat out.

He’s got this. He’s seriously got this.

He spends the first ten minutes gathering up both dark chocolate and white chocolate for garnish, as well as finding the pre-made pastry cream that his recipe assures him is in the fridge. He finds a tub of something labeled “pastry cream” that has the right consistency but doesn’t smell like much. It’s not going to win him any awards which means he either needs to improve on it, or make his own.

He really doesn’t have time to make his own.

Fine, he can improve on it then. He runs back to his station just in time for the timer to go off, and he lowers the temperature on the oven. He resists opening the door, trusting that the eclairs are fine, cooking according to the recipe, and will be done after this next round.

Tyler goes through the pantry and picks out vanilla, cinnamon liquor, and almond extract. The recipe doesn’t call for any of this, but he can go off book. He’s going to nail the taste, even if he hasn’t really thought about decorating it yet.

He grabs a clean bowl, dumps in the pastry cream, then adds a dollop of vanilla, and a larger dollop of liquor. He goes easy with the almond—that’s a lesson he learned long ago, that a little goes a long way where almond extract is concerned. Then he stirs it up quickly and decides that maybe it’s time to start thinking about how he’s going to fill and decorate this thing when it’s done.

And oh, yeah, he didn’t get a good look at the sample in the beginning. But now that he looks, the chocolate pattern on the sample is definitely more bulbous at one end. And the white chocolate looks distinctly like veins.

He’s probably wrong. After all, this is an all ages show. No one’s going to put something this sexually suggestive on it. Although he does remember the cake pops, and Colton gleefully showing how the finger pop fit inside the ring pop. So.

He’s probably not actually wrong.

Should he play it up? Make it look even more like a dick? Should he fail on purpose in that direction, just for the laughs?

Who is he kidding? It’s not like he really has any capability where decorations are concerned. He didn’t even get that far with Tanner’s cake. He never got the chance.

The timer goes off, and Tyler yanks open the oven and pulls out the tray.

Oh shit. These things are huge.

Not just big. Not a mere eight inches. They’ve expanded, puffed up and become absolute monsters. This is no longer a delightful delicacy but a monster dick.

And they don’t look done, either.

There’s laughter behind him, and Tyler refuses to turn around, just shoves the pan back in the oven and sets his timer again. Another ten minutes. Sure. This is what the blast chiller is for; thank god for all those baking competitions he’s watched. But he can’t do the chocolate yet—he knows it’ll cool too much. Which means he’s waiting. Staring at the wall so he doesn’t look at Dylan and Colton, who he can hear laughing still. And he’s trying so hard not to think about how dick-like this thing is going to be.

When the timer goes off again, Tyler pulls the pan from the oven. He doesn’t care if they’re done; the clock is ticking and he needs to get these things filled and decorated. He shoves the pan right into the blast chiller and starts melting his chocolate in a bowl over a pan of hot water.

Someone whistles and stomps; he thinks that one’s Crystal.

He tries to breathe easily, to slow the rate of his heart. To his left he can hear Holland swearing like a sailor at her craggy bush, no wait, croquembouche. Craggy-choux. Even Posey’s lost his chill, yelling, “Dude!” repeatedly; Tyler’s not sure who “dude” refers to, but he gets the feeling it might be everything from the utensils to the sugar icicles.

Calm. Calm. He has to be calm.

He forces himself to walk to the blast chiller and take out the tray. He swears the things doubled in size during the last ten minutes in the oven, even though he knows that couldn’t have happened. Every single one of them is at least a foot long, except for the last one he piped when he figured he’d just use up the last of the dough. It’s about fourteen inches in length, and he’s pretty sure he’ll need both hands to lift it.

There is no way he’s not going down in flames.

On the other hand, if he’s going to go down, he might as well go big.

Tyler carefully lifts the largest of the puffs from the tray and sets it on a plate. Now he just needs to fill it and decorate it. Easy, right?

Hah, maybe not.

He gets the cream into a piping bag, then realizes that he forgot to put in a decorating tip. When he tries to shove the bag into one end of the eclair, it just bends limply in half.

Howling laughter from the judge’s table. Tyler would try to guess who it is, but he’s pretty sure it’s more than one. Maybe all of them.

“I don’t think your cream is stiff enough,” Dylan calls out.

“The cream isn’t the part that’s supposed to be stiff,” Tyler retorts. He needs to find a solution, and Dylan’s actually right. He needs something stiff to push through so that he can stuff this eclair full of cream.

He drops his head forward. Fuck. That wasn’t an image that he needed.

Holland shouts gleefully, but before he can look over the sound changes to a cry for help. Crystal rushes over just before something thuds on the floor.

“Dude,” Posey says.

“Five minutes!” Colton calls out cheerfully.

Tyler looks around wildly, grabs a set of skinny tongs from the bin on the counter. He jabs them into one end of the eclair, but the hole is still too small, so he carefully scissors the tongs to work it open until it’s gaping just enough for him to see the soft, fluffy interior of the eclair. Perfect. He pulls them out and does the same to the other end. This time when he places the tip of the piping bag at the hole, he can slide it in, pressing down to fill the eclair with cream until it’s dripping out the hole.

“Looks good!” Dylan yells, and Tyler’s not sure if he’s talking to him, but he blushed anyway and fills the other hole.

The eclair is stuffed thick and full with cream, distended enough that the cream is dripping out both ends. Tyler juggles it, cream coating his hands as he tries to get a good grip while more cream squeezes onto his skin. He finally grips it carefully in both hands and shoves the top of it into the chocolate, flipping it back in an attempt to keep the chocolate only on one side of the eclair.

It drips down the sides, over his hands, and onto his wrists. He reaches up to scratch an itch on his nose without thinking, and smells chocolate and vanilla cream.

“One more minute, bakers!” Colton calls out. “Finish up those decorations and get your desserts under wraps!”

Shit. Tyler has a piping bag of white chocolate set up, but the chocolate’s started to set already and is too thick to squeeze out in thin decorative lines. It blops onto the top of the eclair in a glob, and he digs his fingers in, trying to massage it along the length of it. When Colton calls out that there are only ten seconds left, there’s nothing left to do but drop the eclair on a plate, as drips of cream fall around it, and try to fit the cover over it.

The cover ends up balanced on one end of the eclair, the hole oozing cream out the side as it peeks at the judges.

Colton, Dylan, and Crystal approach, and Dylan crouches down to peek at the eclair. He reaches out one fingertip, gently massages the hole and scoops up a fingerful of cream. He slides it into his mouth, and Tyler watches helplessly as he sucks his long finger clean.

“Good flavor,” Dylan says.

“We’re supposed to look before touching,” Colton points out. “Style points, then taste.”

“How was I supposed to resist it? That eclair was dripping. It was ready to be eaten.”

Crystal snickers.

“Tyler, let’s take a look at the original, and then see how you did,” Colton says. He picks up the plate with the sample eclair, showing it to the judges, then motions for Tyler to remove the bell dome from his eclair.

He lifts it with a flourish, laughing when his eclair lets out another small glop of cream. “Nailed it.”

Dylan licks his lips. “It’s certainly… big.”

“A bit more than eight inches, I’d say,” Crystal muses. “Would that even fit in someone’s mouth?”

“It’ll fit in my mouth,” Dylan says.

“I think that has to be the final test,” Colton suggests. “It’s not a valid eclair unless it fits in Dylan’s mouth.”

Dylan smirks. “Believe me. I can fit a lot.”

They critique his complete lack of style, and allude to the fact that Tyler’s eclair looks even more like a dick than the original. He doesn’t care because he can’t stop thinking about Dylan trying to fit that fat thing into his mouth.

“We need to taste it, too,” Crystal reminds him as Dylan carefully picks it up in both hands, wrapped tight around the middle.

“I’ll eat this end, you can have the butt,” Dylan says. He holds it up in front of his face, licks his lips before his tongue darts out and delicately cleans the drip of cream from the hole. He squeezes it as he brings it to his mouth, and impressively manages to fit the entire end in. Dylan grins, withdrawing it without taking a bite. “See?” he says, squeezing harder with his enthusiasm.

The eclair explodes, squirting cream all over Dylan’s face.

He blinks, looks at Tyler. “Your eight inches of ecstasy just gave me a facial.”

“It’s more like fourteen inches,” Tyler says, because he can’t think of anything else. Not when Dylan’s standing there with cream on his eyebrows, dripping over his nose, and Tyler’s doing his damnedest not to think of other creamy substances and what it might look like if Dylan were on his knees right now.

Dylan’s gaze drops to Tyler’s crotch; Tyler’s pretty damned sure his own cock is obvious in his pants right now, thick and hard as it is. “Okay,” Dylan says slowly. “Fourteen inches.” His grin builds slowly. “If the choux fits, eat it,” he says, shoving the eclair in his mouth again.

Tyler groans as Dylan sucks the cream filling out of the eclair.

“You know, I don’t think I need to taste that one after all,” Colton says quietly.

“Jesus,” Dylan moans around a mouthful. “Almond and vanilla and cinnamon liquor, and fuck this is good.” He groans again, licking cream from his lips.

Crystal blinks slowly. “Um. Yeah. We’ll just trust Dylan’s observation that your taste is good.”

“He tastes good. Nailed it,” Dylan mumbles. “I’d nail him.”

Tyler shivers and slips behind his baking station, hidden enough that he can press one hand into his crotch as he tries to will his erection away.

It’s a baking show. With pastry cream. Dylan’s fingers and tongue should not be this hot.

Oh fuck him, he’s lying to himself. He’s going to have fantasies involving Dylan and chocolate for a long, long time to come.

Someone brings out a damp towel and takes the remains of Tyler’s eclair away from Dylan and helps him clean up. He looks presentable by the time he joins the others at Posey’s chilled choux that looks more like a rainstorm than icicles, and then Holland’s mountain that’s missing the entirety of its top.

It gives Tyler time to relax. To laugh with the others over their mishaps and to cheer for Holland for winning the round.

Colton ushers them all to the second door for the final challenge—Nail It or Fail It—then someone calls “Cut!” and the light in the room shifts.

“We only film the first half on the first day,” Colton says, as Tyler blinks in confusion. Holland’s already deep in discussion with Crystal, and Dylan’s talking to Posey as if he’s met his new best friend. Dylan drums against the nearest counter top, and Tyler watches his fingers move.

“Didn’t you read the filming schedule we sent?” Colton asks, and Tyler does his best to shift his attention back to the host. Who is charismatic and thus deserving of attention. And charming. And grinning like he knows a secret.

Tyler hasn’t known Colton Haynes long, but that grin gives him the impression something’s about to either go really well, or really terribly.

“Not that kind of detail,” Tyler admits. “I saw two days, but I figured we had to get through all the baking in one day, and have retakes the next day. Or interviews.”

“Oh, there’ll be more interviews and some specific sound bites about what you actually did, but tomorrow’s still more about the final challenge,” Colton says. He wiggles his fingers, and Dylan pauses in his conversation and waves to Posey before moving to join them. “And tonight Dylan, here, is going to make sure to see to all your creature comforts. And probably grab some more sound bites while he’s at it; if anything good comes up in conversation, take notes.”

“If anything’s up, I am not stopping for notes,” Dylan retorts. Colton claps him on the shoulder and walks away.

Tyler has no idea what to do with his hands, other than crossing them in front of his crotch and praying that nothing’s visible. Unfortunately, something’s still a bit up.

“So….” Dylan draws out the word. “How do you feel about dinner while I fanboy all over your ass, because damn you are even more my favorite ball player now?”

“Only if I can return the favor.” Tyler waits for Dylan to meet his gaze, before adding, voice low, “Particularly the fanboying over your ass part.”

“You don’t even know who I am.” Dylan dismisses the statement—and the double entendre—with a flick of his fingers.

Tyler reaches out to catch his hand, strokes along the length of those fingers. “I know exactly who you are,” he says. “I know how your food tastes, and just how good it looks. I’ve seen what you can do to food with these fingers, putting it together.” He swallows hard. “I’d love to see what you do when taking someone apart.”

It’s the most blunt either of them has been, and Tyler’s heart is hammering as he wonders if he got the signals wrong. If it was all just for the show.

When Dylan stares at him, mouth open in a perfect O, something twists in Tyler’s gut.

Shit. He got it wrong.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“Oh hell yes, I hope you meant that,” Dylan counters quickly, grabbing onto Tyler’s hand before he can retreat. “You know why you’re my favorite ball player?” he asks, and Tyler has to shake his head, because right now he has no idea, even though he thinks they talked about it earlier. The morning interviews seem a lifetime away right now.

“When all that shit exploded about locker room talk in the majors, you stepped up,” Dylan says seriously. “It’s not that you’re a great infielder—and yes, you are, but that’s not what makes you incredible. It’s not the fact that your batting average gets better every season, or the fact that honestly, I could watch you crouch down by second base all day because that ass is a fucking work of art. It’s that you stood up for every queer athlete by saying that that shit was not okay. You came out, and you didn’t have to. There’s no one waiting for you, nobody feeling like he’s a dirty secret waiting for you to make him an honest man or something. You just came out because you felt like queer kids deserved someone to look up to, and because those kind of locker room slurs were shit and someone needed to be called out for it.”

“Oh.” There needs to be some kind of response to that. Something equally serious and without the kind of implications everything else has had all day. “I wish you hadn’t stopped making videos,” Tyler says quietly.

“Those ridiculous videos?” Dylan says, both eyebrows going up. “Why?”

“Because you were you,” Tyler says, not sure that even comes close to saying what he means. “Because you were just this guy who loved to bake. To make these intensely incredibly intricate things. And you’d sit there, in your t-shirt and jeans, with your hair looking someone had just run their fingers through it while they fucked you, and you’d explain why pate choux worked, or why you were trying to temper the chocolate, or you’d talk about sculpting things out of fondant while working it with your long fingers. I bought fondant for the first time because of you. And modeling chocolate. And it was so fucking hard to work with; I made a mess of the kitchen. Again. But I kept watching because it was like you were patient and just talking to me. Like you were trying to help me. When I get stressed, I bake. And I watched a lot of your videos while baking.”

If they’re being honest, Tyler might as well lay it all on the table, as long as Dylan’s standing there looking thunderstruck. “You helped give me the idea to come out,” he admits. “There’d been an incident in our own locker room. It didn’t make the news—worse things were recorded elsewhere that week—but I wanted to unwind. So I watched your cookie episode. And you were talking about how there were as many different kinds of chocolate chip cookies as there are people. And you held up three cookies and you were like this one has milk chocolate, this one has dark chocolate, and this one has chunks, and they’re all different but all awesome, and it’s okay to be one thing or another, or to be multiple things at the same time and then you went on and made a cookie with three types of chips in it and had a long ramble about nuts. Which was suggestive. And when it was done, I just felt like—I’m a cookie. I’m a particular type of cookie, and maybe the other guys are a different kind, and that’s okay.”

Dylan’s mouth hangs open slightly. “You came out because of the cookie metaphor? Because I was trying to explain being bisexual with chocolate chip cookies?”

Tyler nods.

Dylan licks his lips. “I’m going to kiss you now. Is that okay?”

Tyler’s throat is dry, and it’s hard to form the word. “Very.” He nods, just in case Dylan needs more emphasis.

He tastes sweet and spicy, like cinnamon and vanilla and a hint of cream. When Dylan presses closer, Tyler lets him lick into his mouth, tastes the eclair on his breath. Tyler exhales, holds him close, lingering over the kiss until Dylan finally withdraws.

Someone shouts in the distance. 

“I may have told Colton that I admire you,” Dylan says softly. “And I may have used a different word than admire.”

“We could go admire each other in private,” Tyler suggests, and he loves the way that Dylan grins as his pupils go dark and wide. “You can show me how to properly fill something with cream.”

“Oh fuck yeah.” Dylan kisses him again with a loud smack. “If the choux fits,” he mumbles against Tyler’s lips. “And believe me, it’s going to fit.”


“Don’t think about the camera,” Dylan says as he sets it in place and turns it on.

Tyler’s gaze is stuck on the little blinking light and he can’t look away. “Right. Like that’s easy.”

“At least we can edit it after.” Dylan slips into position behind the tall island in Tyler’s kitchen and puts an arm around Tyler’s shoulders. “Hi there!” he says cheerfully. “I’m Dylan O’Brien and this is my boyfriend, who just so happens to be a part of the best baseball team ever.”

“Tyler Hoechlin,” Tyler says, his gaze still locked on the camera. “I play for the Mets.”

“He also happens to bat for my team, which is perfect as far as I’m concerned.” Dylan touches Tyler’s face, and as soon as Tyler turns to look at him, Dylan kisses him. “So,” Dylan says, talking to Tyler rather than the camera, “when Tyler and I first met, he said that he missed my videos. So I thought we could do one together. And you need to know that Tyler—as great a ball player as he is, and as amazing a person as he is—is a disaster in the kitchen. So today we’re starting with something simple.”

Tyler holds up a pastry bag filled with cream, glances back at the camera. “Pate choux,” he says.

“If you’ve seen Nailed It, you’ve seen my disaster of a boyfriend covered in cream.” Dylan grins. “So let’s show him how to properly handle his eight inches of ecstasy this time around.”

“You weren’t complaining this morning,” Tyler quips, and Dylan barks out a laugh.

“I’m cutting that out when I edit,” Dylan says, pressing his hand against Tyler’s chest.

Tyler gathers him in, kisses him into silence. “No, you’re probably not.”

“You’re right, I’m probably not.” Dylan licks into his mouth and when the kiss is done, Tyler’s forgotten the camera entirely. Almost forgotten. “So,” Dylan murmurs. “Let’s work on your cream handling skills. Ready to stuff an eclair?”

Tyler’s thankful for the island between them and the camera as he whispers, “I am ready for absolutely anything you’re ready for.”

“Fuck,” Dylan groans.

Yes, that too.

They’re going to have to delete this video and try again later.