#red and green eating flan...my life is complete

[eemiejab]

lets eat! :D

[jangofctts]

Quix·ot·ic (The Mandalorian x Reader)

Rated: Explicit

Word Count: 2.8K

Summary: He's an enigma. Something completely unattainable, but after finding yourself on the wrong end of trouble, that all changes. Who knew getting beat up would end up with a handjob.

Warnings: Smut, language, dirty talk, handjobs, mentions of blood and violence, reader gets beat up :(

You never knew for sure what you would end up doing in your life. You imagined you'd become a moisture farmer on Tatooine or a bartender on Coruscant, maybe get to see a drunken fight or two if you were lucky. Or maybe you'd end up in some Wild Space planet where you'd live out the rest of your days eating berries and soaking up the sun. Whatever the case, being hired by a Mandalorian was not on your list of positively exuberant made up occupations. Or, you know, having a teeny tiny crush on said man.

It's generous pay, a gracious 12 percent of his quarries, and you feel sorta bad because, truly, you don't do anything besides babysit the little green monster and occasionally fly the Razor Crest. You do however, manage to get the hyperdrive working up to a staggering 68 percent functionality rate that you're quite proud of. You're not sure if he cared when you mentioned it to him, but he did offer an impartial tilt of his helmet. You like to believe it was his way of saying that, Ah, yes, of course. I needed that fixed. Thank you so very much my beloved companion. What would I do without you?

He would never say that. In fact, he doesn't really say anything at all. You're used to bustling crowds and chatty folk and talking your way out of things because, hey, not everyone is a walking armory that's nigh indestructible. You don't think you've ever been this silent in your meager life, and so you've pushed yourself into a corner. You don't ask questions even if that miraculous shiny helmet and smooth modulated voice makes a million of them spring forth. You don't know a thing except for the highly exaggerated or just plain wrong theories you've heard about the Mandalorians, and you don't want to offend him. You're not willing to poke at his patience even if it is tempting.

Sometimes, when he brings back bounties, it offers you a bit of in-house entertainment. Seeing him wrestle them into carbonite is really, if you're being honest, hot. It shouldn't be and it terrifies you that he's that strong, but your dirty, disgusting ape-brain still gets a kick out of it.  

You end up just talking to the kid most days. It just coos and babbles, understanding jack-shit, but the Mandalorian is unattainable, a lonesome planet that's not even in your fucking orbit,  and you're pretty sure he forgets you exist most of the time.

And then everything shifts.

You go outside for once, antsy from being cooped up in the Crest for so long and you need stuff for the kid (and caf for yourself). Naturally, you wander through the markets, not really thinking, just letting your eyes graze over things, take in the buzzing crowds. It reminds you of home and you get so lost in your head (you blame it on your constant isolation) that you wander into some grubby cantina. They're playing Sabaac in the corner and somehow you're roped into playing. Stars, you don't even know how to play Sabaac very well and of course you end up loosing.

It wasn't even your money to begin with; you took the seat of a Bothan who angrily threw their cards down, but for some reason the stupid Rodian sitting to your left got the idea that you did, in fact, owe him a great deal of Calamari flan. You thought you outsmarted him by feigning the need to take a piss and then squeezing through the much too small window in the bathroom. Unfortunately, when you're halfway sticking out, wriggling around like some weird earthworm, the Rodian's got two more buddies with him and they yank you out the window.

Really, you're lucky that all they did was beat the living shit out of you instead of selling you to some Spice mine or to some seedy guy with a penchant for half-naked slaves. You tell yourself this as you manage to pick yourself off the grimy ground and limp, somewhat conscious, back to the Razor Crest.  

Your head is pounding noticeably by the time you reach it and fuzzy darkness is creeping at the edges of your vision. You're relieved that he isn't back yet, because this is embarrassing and you don't want him to think that you're some sort of trouble maker. He doesn't need more problems added on to his plate. You have just enough time to lower yourself onto the floor and pass out against a cargo crate.  

Hours pass before you wake up, and you know this because the sun is melting against the horizon like butter (wasn't it just morning?) and oh—the Mandalorian is hovering over you. The sun is reflecting off his armor and it almost hurts to look at him. You have to blink a few times to make sure you aren't hallucinating and he really is saying your name in that lovely baritone voice of his, all raspy and modified by the vocoder.

"Ah, shiny, you're back." You don't know why that's the first thing you say and you want to knock yourself out again.

"Who did this?" He's asking and you can't really process words right now, much less concentrate on anything but your spinning head. He sounds mad but you can't be sure if it's directed at your own stupidity.

Maker, how are you still alive?

You don't recall shutting your eyes again but two large hands that cup the sides of your face make them open. "Hey. Stay with me."

"Never left, Mando."

"Who did this to you?" He asks again and your brain finally catches up a bit and it's jarring to know that he cares about you. At least a little.

You try to sit up but he's gently holding you in place. "M'fine. Jus—jus' a few bruises."

Again, you try to stand but his hands are gripping your shoulders and forcing you back against the crate. Your heart pounds against your chest at his prolonged touch.

"Just stop—damnit! Stay still," Mando snarls as you try to wriggle out of his grip for a third time. "Let me see."

You stare up at that unforgiving mask as he pinches your chin between his forefinger and thumb, wincing at the movement. You know you have a black eye and the crusty feel of dried blood is lain on thick above your hairline and you wonder if it looks as bad as it feels.

"They did a number on you."

Yup. They sure did you wanna say but it hurts to move your mouth and your tongue feels swollen and puffy like you're allergic to your own blood.

He says something about moving you to the bunk but as his hand slips under your armpit and wraps around your waist, you're gasping in pain. Your breath gets sucked away like someone's punched you in the gut and you crumple back onto the floor. His gloved hand comes away dark red.

"Shit—Take off your shirt." He commands, leaving no room for argument.

You huff out a laugh that's closer to a faint wheeze. "B-buy me a dri—a drink first."

"Maybe later."

Now that certainly grabs your attention but you don't have time to analyze all that because he hooks his hands under the hem of your shirt and yanks it above your shoulders and off your head. You look down and holy fucking shit—when the fuck did you get stabbed? You don't remember those thugs having knives.

"Stay here."

Like I'll be going anywhere, you want to quip back. The Mandalorian shuts the hull, blocking off your view of the spectacular sunset and returns with the cauterizer in hand. You make a face and try to fend him off, because you are not in the mood to get your flesh singed back together but he's set on the idea. It doesn't take long for him to wrestle your arm down and under your back, exposing the bloody gash that stretches from the middle of your ribcage and down until it stops just above the last rib.

You don't like the way you're positioned. He's somehow got your legs trapped between him and the crate while you're half splayed over his lap, one arm stuck beneath your own weight while the other he holds in a death grip. It's too vulnerable and when he trades his hold on your arm for a hand on your hip to get a better hold so he can start pressing the laser onto your flesh, arousal sparks in your belly.

Unfortunately, you don't get to enjoy the weight of his long fingers splayed across your skin or let the fantasy of him fucking you into the next galaxy play out, because razor sharp pain is erupting throughout your whole left side. You jerk in his grip and your mouth falls open with a silent cry. You've been burned before from stray wires or way too hot sheets of metal, but this? This is pure fucking torture and you don't know how the hell he does this to himself. Let alone stay conscious.

You do end up passing out again (an embarrassing fact he doesn't mention and you're thankful for it) and you awake to something warm and calloused trailing up and down your exposed skin, avoiding the sensitive area surrounding the charred and throbbing wound. It's soothing and almost entirely masks the pain. It isn't until the tip of a forefinger is carefully tracing lines between your freckles, most certainly studying them, that you realize whose finger it belongs to. Sans gloves.

You go rigid and he stops. You bite back a whine at the loss.

"Is...is this ok?" He's saying softly through the vocoder. It still sounds warm and dark despite the mechanical tone to it. You can hardly form a comprehensive thought and you have to fight through the hazy fog to force out a jerky nod of your head.

"Y-yeah," you croak out and there's a half second delay, if not shorter, before he's touching you again. This time it's bolder, braver like his fingers are starved and the only thing available is you.

His breath comes out stuttered as you twitch under him. "You're so soft."

His hands are a beautiful sun-kissed brown, speckled with scars from past battles. You want to plant kisses over the slopes of his knuckles, trail your tongue over the lines of his palm, but you're still uncomfortably trapped in his lap against the cold beskar cuirass. It's torture.

The Mandalorian's fingers dance up your shoulder, your breath stuttering as they skim over your collarbone then sweep up the column of your throat you readily bare for him. He threads those long, warm digits through your hair, thumbing the strands then tucks them behind your ear. Your heart slams against your ribcage and you're sure it might just burst.

"Breathe," he says. You can hear the smile in his words.

Despite the shaky inhale, it's even harder to breath and you wonder if one of your lungs collapsed as well. He gently pinches your chin, cradling your jaw so you're staring up at him. You can feel is eyes on you through that shaded visor and you nearly miss the hitch in his breath when your tongue flicks out and slides along the pad of his thumb that traces your bottom lip.

Liquid heat pools in your lower belly as two of his fingers press at the seam of your lips. You part your mouth and he ever so slowly slips them in. You groan softly and curl your tongue around the two digits until the shine with sticky saliva, the surrealness of the situation making you lightheaded. Who would've thought you'd be here after getting beaten and stabbed after a Sabaac game gone wrong, and you're all but giving Mando's fingers a blowjob. You wouldn't fucking believe, but yet, here you are.

His hips twitch as you curl your tongue around his middle finger and slide it between the delicate skin there, and you can feel the firm bulge digging into your lower back. Desperate and burning for the chance to touch him, you manage to wiggle your arm behind your back, tracing the cuirass all the way down to the hem of his trousers. You palm at his cock through the material and his hips jerk into the touch, his torso hunching over you, the cold metal brushing over your arm. His fingers leave your mouth with a slick pop and he's reaching in between you to grasp at your wrist and grind your palm harder against cock. The angle in which your arm is twisted is uncomfortable at best, but your mind rears at the thought of moving. You don't want whatever this is to end.

"Shit," he hisses. "S'good—fucking good."

"Mando," you whimper. He feels just as firm as beskar if not harder and you know your underwear is far beyond salvaging as his other hand wraps around and grabs at your breast.

"You—you're so pretty an—and brave," he grunts, thrusting his hips in tandem with the hold you've got on his throbbing cock. Your heart swells and you're blushing for an entire different reason. "So b-brave for me."

There's a brief pause as he shoos away your hand and your chest seizes in worry that you've upset him somehow. That he'd suddenly changed his mind about this whole thing. Is going to kill you? Put you out of your fucking misery? Or—oh. Your fears are quickly stamped out once you realize he's shuffling his trousers down and tugging your hand back around him. He is searing hot, thick and pulsing in your hand and when you give it an experimental tug he makes a punched out sound.

It's an awkward angle, but Maker do you try. Mando doesn't seem to care and judging by the sticky wetness that's dribbling over your knuckles, he certainly likes it. Much too focused on your current task, you don't note his hand smooth over your stomach and slip under the waistband until his fingers are circling your clit. You gasp and buck your hips into his touch, your hand stopping.

"Keep—ah—going," he's muttering, lowering his helmet to rest on the curve of your shoulder. "Fuck. Don't stop."

It's hard (pun all intended), real hard to focus when his fingers are swiping down your soaking slit, gathering the wetness there then back up to draw meticulous patterns over the bundle of nerves. At this point, your brain is a muddled mess and you aren't doing much except for holding your hand loosely so he can fuck into it.

The tight circles he's drawing over your clit burn through you, drag you closer to the precipice, and you're whimpering out the only name you have for him. Wicked heat blooms in your abdomen, spreads through your core and sweeps out into your shaking legs. You arch into him and with a steady hand, he parts your lips, thrusts his fingers inside and grinds the heel of his palm where you need him the most.

"That's it. Go-good girl. Cum—cum for me." Paired with his voice as his fingers press up and curl into something sickeningly good and you're gone. "S'good girl."

Your eyes squeeze shut as light compatible to hyperspace explodes behind your eyelids. You don't think you've ever cum this hard and it almost aches how good it feels as your legs lock and your nerves are set on fire. It burns through you and you wouldn't be surprised if your body goes up in flames. You twitch and jerk in his lap, breathing ragged, as he continues to thrust into your cunt, letting you ride out each and every tendril of pleasure until you melt into his lap. He still toys with your oversensitive clit and you have to push his hand away.

An overwhelming wave of exhaustion abruptly washes over you; a mix of getting stabbed and just having the best damn orgasm of your life you think. But Mando is still rutting up against your back and you fight the urge to close your eyes and pass the fuck out. With a shaky hand, you reach for his cock once again, a fresh wave of heat flashing through you as a lovely moan, soft and vulnerable echoes through the modulator.

"Maker," he gasps, "You—I'm—M'gonna cum.."

He wraps his hand around yours, squeezing around the hardened flesh and giving his cock a few more hard thrusts before a broken gasp rips through the modulator. His body stiffens and the Mandalorian cums hard. Hot ropes of liquid coat your hand and the small of your back, his cock throbbing and pulsing in your grip. He snarls out your name, still thrusting up into your fist, milking every last spurt of cum until it tapers off and swears are tumbling out.

Sleep is tugging at your eyelids when his rapid breathing begins to even out, his fingers spreading his seed over your back as if marking you. You shiver. "M'falling asleep."

"Yeah, ok," he's breathes. "You need rest. Brave girl—you did so well. Close your eyes."

You do just that and fall into the dark abyss of unconsciousness.

[thethotwithoutfear]

Aqui Estoy Mi Amor

Thor x Reader of Color

Word Count: 1, 797

Warnings: None

A/N: I was inspired to write this by a chat I had with a fellow woc about food being an underrated/underutilized love language in fics. I will admit the reader is expressing themselves through Latine cuisine/culture because its the culinary culture I’m most familiar with being a Latina myself. But please enjoy this never the less! The title is taken from a song of the same name sung by Lola Beltran 

Summary: In the great upheaval that is now Thor’s life after the exodus of his people, he finds himself missing home more than ever, but the reader gives him a little piece of what home means to her as a means of comfort 

It’d been a hard day, the weight of a lost Asgard seemed to sit much heavier upon Thor’s broad shoulders. Finding his people a new place to root and recover took its toll. In the midst of his countless conversations and delegations for some kind of compassion and help for his people, he’d found himself missing the comforts of home. But what was home now, for him at least?

Yes, Asgard was a people, his people, not a place. But sometimes the magic of home was an intricate tapestry of memory after memory, laced and intertwined into the fabric of so many familiar paths and rooms in which they are made. Sometimes on days as heavy as this, it  seemed to him that home was truly lost. Home was shattered to pieces among the stars and the cold vastness of space. Home rested in their graves and roamed the halls of Valhalla.

But upon walking into his little apartment, Thor’s heart could not help but beat some rhythm of hope for home...

Within the humble walls of the place Thor simply saw as somewhere to rest his head, delightful smells and enticing aromas made the cold grip of sadness on his heart (and his stomach) melt. Only one such wizard of culinary delights could conjure up such a symphony of goodness, and he really could use even just a little of that goodness right now.

She was dancing. Humming along to one of those Spanish language tunes he’d heard her play on the radio often. The tortured crooning of a broken hearted songstress a great contrast to the smile on his beloved’s face as she set the table. Some new unexplored dish of delicious looking green sauce and pork made his stomach growl so loudly he’d blown his cover from the entryway. Her eyes sparkled as they landed on a bashful but tired looking Thor.

“Ay, Amorcito! The day was rough huh? You look exhausted” she said.

Ah-morrr-see-to…

The rolling of her tongue every time she'd called him that made a tingle of electricity dance merrily down his spine. He'd known what it meant when she'd called him that for the first time, but the delicate way in which she'd said it with bated breath in the night made it mean so much more.

She walked towards him as he nodded in reply, untying her favorite apron and draping it on the peeling kitchen island as she went. Her arms wrapped tightly around his waist, face buried in his chest; Thor could not help but give a deep sigh.

He felt so deflated now, drained only to be refilled by the warmth of her. The pressures of the day expelling themselves slowly but not completely in one deep exhalation. She breathed in sync with him, her silent way of saying “I'm here. You're not alone”. She gazed up at his glacier blue eyes.

“Why don't you go shower sweetheart? Should soothe you some. And if that doesn't work maybe a good meal will! I cooked something special tonight. I had the day off so I thought I'd treat us both, plus your oven works better than mine” she said, with a gentle smile.

“I will my love,” he said, “Your food always makes me feel much better than any shower though. I won't keep you waiting.”

She let him go. Thor hurried to his room, peeling off clothes that felt as heavy as led somehow. With each layer he felt a little lighter and by the time he'd made it under the warm spray of the shower his body had found some great relief.

But that hollow longing knocked around in his mind still. Echoing just enough to still feel weighty as he got dressed in his most comfortable sweats and t shirt. He hoped a good meal would silence it just enough to sleep through the night at least.

When he made it back, Y/N was still dawdling in the kitchen, checking the oven timer with what he thought was giddy anticipation. A delicious sweetness lingered in the air, it might have been the best thing Thor had ever smelled.

The little egg shaped timer suddenly rang. Y/N grabbed the oven mits at lightning speed, carefully pulling out what looked like a cookie sheet with two ramekins on it. A smile more brightly than any he’d ever seen lit up her face as she delicately set the ramekins on a cooling rack.

“What IS that?” he asked, stomach rumbling awfully loud again. There was no mistaking it was a question asked in hungry curiosity and not possible disgust.

“I'll tell you about it later! For now let's eat and let these cool” she said.

As Thor sat down at the table, his eyes wandered over the delights before him. In one pot was a heavenly looking dish of bright green sauce with carefully stewed pork riblets. In another pair of pots, fluffy and delicious arroz rojo and perfect refried beans steamed coaxingly. And to Thor’s delight, her homemade flour tortillas. This really was a special meal.

The sauce, she explained, was a rich mixture of tomatillos and serrano peppers with just the right amount of garlic. Thor practically groaned when the hardy and bright flavors coated his tongue, even the sting of the chillies was oddly satisfying. She giggled at the growing redness and perspiration of his face.

“I didn't even make it that spicy! My mom would call you lengua de gato if she were here,” she said, “This was my favorite dish growing up, she'd only make it on Tuesdays for some reason. We could never figure out why.”

There was a far away but happy look on her face. The memory of home made her shine just a little brighter. It made Thor wish he'd known the charming little girl she must of been when he was just a boy himself.

They continued to eat their dinner in comfortable conversation; Y/n coaxing out the reason for Thor's blues after threatening to not let him have anymore flour tortillas. He’d been practically inhaling them at that point.

The remaining global authorities it seemed, did not want to grant the Asgardian people permission to establish the small area of Norway they’d settled as a permanent home. They'd tried to threaten Thor with pulling all aid should he succeed in doing such a thing. This rightfully saddened y/n too, angered her in fact.

“Using people's basic necessities and human rights as a bargaining chip is despicable,” she practically growled out, “Can’t they see everyone is finally starting to make progress, to start seeing the possibilities for a new life? Just the other day we managed to help a few more Asgardian citizens find jobs. Thor you should've seen how happy and hopeful they looked! It would have made days like today worth it, mi amor. You're doing so well, I promise you are. And your people love you, they know you're doing your best.”

He reached across the table to grasp her hand. Thumb rubbing delicate circles in the soft brown skin there. He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it softly. She'd truly been the best thing about his life on earth.

He gave another sigh, a tired smile on his face. “Thank you love. Sometimes it feels like my best is not enough. And it isn't, not till my people feel they are welcome and safe here. Not till earth feels like home.”

He kissed her hand again, holding his lips there for just a little longer, only to hold it to his face tenderly. It was more for his comfort than hers.

“Thor, do you know why I made this tonight?”

He shook his head; she smiled softly now at him, pressing her free hand to his other cheek tenderly.

“I wanted to give you a little piece of my home, of what it meant to me. The food of my people is rich with welcome, with love and pride. But these things in particular remind me of the person who made home mean something to me.  I don't ever want you to lose sight of what your home meant to you” she said.

She got up slowly, her hand falling away as she moved to the kitchen. He sat there confused for a moment as he heard her rummage through the kitchen again.

She returned with a simple white plate in hand, one of the ramekins placed upside down on it. She set it before him, carefully lifting the ramekin as the loveliest dessert Thor has ever seen gracefully plopped down upon it.

On the plate sat a small but elegant plateau of caramel draped custard, golden and lovely as a yellow sunset. It sat there like a jewel enticing Thor to take a bite. But instead,he looked at her, a strange need for permission in his eyes. She simply nodded.

He’d never had anything as delectable as this soft yellow desert. The delicate custard melted in his mouth. A burst of nutty caramel sauce enchanted his tongue, the slightly burnt quality of it only enhanced its flavor. It was as sweet as the kiss from the woman who’d made it and it made him just as happy too.

Thor had truly never had anything quite as delicious in all his years, and most importantly he’d never tasted love so profoundly in a piece of food in all his life. He felt it nourish his soul with every bite, scaring away the loneliness in his heart and mind like sunshine breaking through storm clouds.

She simply watched him eat. The grey in his eyes began to lift. The blue jewels of his irises becoming clear again. A small dusting of rose sat on his cheeks.

“When I was little and I'd come home crying from school, my mother would make me this flan. I didn't understand back then just why it was my favorite but the older I got the more I realized it was because it was her way of saying she loved me. My mama was my home, she was my safe place to come home to. The walls we lived in were nothing without her. I want to be that for you Thor, if you want me” she said.

He looked up from his plate, eyes glossy with the beginning of tears. He gazed at her for a moment, taking in the light of such a kind, loving woman. A tint of peach graced the brown of her cheeks and worry seemed to paint the crease in her brow. He took her face in his hands and kissed her softly, concern evaporating as quickly as it had come. Her lips parting slightly as he slipped his tongue in gently as smoke. And when they’d parted, he simply said:

“Querida, you taste like home already”...

[jennyincostarica]

Day 6

Today we woke up early to go on a river float for our last day in La Fortuna. The views this morning were much clearer than usual and we could almost see the top of the Arenal Volcano. 

We ended up being the only people on the tour, so we lucked out and had another private adventure with a guide. Today we had Fabricio, who is a biologist, and once again knew the answer to every question and could identify every animal. 

We hopped on a raft and started our tour. We saw a ton of birds. Mostly turkey vultures, blue heron, egrets, sand pipers, king fisher, and the national Costa Rican bird, the clay-colored thrush. We also saw some green iguanas in a tree and on the side of the river. We eventually spotted a bunch of howler monkeys and Fabricio was able to talk to them with his perfect howler monkey imitation. We mostly relaxed on the raft and looked for sloths, but we did have to paddle in a few spots. Fabricio said he was impressed, but we told him that we think he says that to everyone. He denied it and told us about a couple of teenagers the other day who wouldn’t even paddle and got upset that they had to walk to and from the river (?). 

We stopped at a nice farm and hung out with some horses and blue heeler puppies. 

The farm had trees for limes, bananas, guava, yucca, plantains, and some others I’m sure I’m forgetting. They fed us yucca bread, homemade cheese, fried plaintains, coffee, and pineapple guava juice. We ate and talked to Fabricio about his family, his job, and what he likes to do for fun. 

Once we got back to the hotel, we noticed the views of the volcano were almost perfect. Bob suggested we stop at the bar that we walk by everyday with a head-on view of the volcano. I couldn’t figure out why we hadn’t stopped there before. Bob had G&T and I had more Bahama Papas while we enjoyed the view, talked, and laughed a lot. We laughed particularly hard when Auntie Liz suggested with a dead-pan expression that we all blow really hard at the same time to see if we can get the clouds to move away from the volcano. 

We went back to the room to change into bathing suits and make a few calls. While I was on the phone, I heard a thud on the window. I was looking around outside to see what happened and I saw a hummingbird sprawled out on the patio. I practically hung up on my doctor to make sure the bird was ok. He looked fine but was frozen stiff. We shamefully took pictures of the poor thing while it was probably shitting itself. After a minute or two it looked almost like it disappeared. It zipped off so quickly and in a second was completely gone. 

We all went down to Los Perididos hot springs for our last time to relax before dinner.

For our last night we went to Las Ventanas, the hotel’s fancy restaurant. We ordered wine and told stories about ourselves that we didn’t know about each other. Liz and I ordered amazing squid ink pasta with sherry wine sauce, garlic, asparagus, and scallops. I have to try and recreate it at home. We were surprised and excited to see our friends, Romeo and Francisco. We spent some time talking to Romeo about his life and his nine year old son that he gets to spend time with on his days off. 

We ended up giving in and ordering dessert and more drinks. We got red wine poached pears and a flan dish that was inside of a chocolate shell and melted at the table with hot caramel. Bob got his regular offensive smelling sambouca, I got an espresso martini, and Liz got a work of art. Our waiter had suggested it and she said what the hell, sure. It’s called carajillo, which come with a glass half filled with a solid piece of ice, a separate glass of Licor 43, an espresso, and 3 chocolate covered espresso beans. At the table they mix it all together, including 2 of the espresso beans, and you eat the 3rd one. It tasted like the best cold brew coffee ever. 

After Liz finished flirting with me on Romeo’s behalf, we took some nice pictures and headed for the room. 

We stopped by the bar to say goodbye one of our bartenders, Jose Daniel, who called us his “managers”. He loved to joke with us and tell us we were about to step on cobras and that they were cooking turkey vultures for us for dinner. When we said goodbye, he told us it was a small world and we would see each other again, or nos vemos. I like to think that’s true.