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senditcolton · 1 year

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It’s Just A Question

summary: when a party brings back memories of your past with Jack, it leaves you wondering if there are answers to the questions left lingering between the two of you.

songs: X X word count: 2k warnings: alcohol & apprehension

Your head was spinning.

Not from the drinks you had consumed. Not from twirling around on the makeshift dance floor with Nico. Not from any of that.

No, it was spinning from the fact that every time you hazard a glance over at Jack, you already found his eyes trained to you. And you felt his eyes on you even when you weren’t looking.

It was Halloween. It was the annual New Jersey Devils Halloween party. You were supposed to be having fun. And you wanted to say you were. You danced with Nico, you laughed with Gravy, you even managed to convince Dougie to take a quick lap around his cul-de-sac for trick-or-treating, coming back with a purse full of fun sized candy. But still, Jack’s eyes never left you and after hours… it grew to be too much.

Without saying a word, you slip away from the crowd, silently grabbing your purse from its spot on the table in the foyer before pushing open the door and walking into the chilled October – well, technically November – air.

There was a reason why you couldn’t handle staying a second longer. It was the same reason you were even hesitant about attending in the first place. And that reason wasn’t just Jack Hughes or the Halloween party. It was the combination of the two that killed you. Because being there felt like déjà vu.

Last year. Devil’s Halloween party. Jack’s eyes following you almost the entire night. A few drinks. A dance. A kiss. Your friend’s laughter turning to cheers as the two of you continued to kiss, the rest of the world becoming inconsequential.

And how it ended as swiftly as it began.

You pull your phone from the lining of your bag to order an Uber but sigh in dismay as the screen stays black, the battery drained long ago. You debate going back inside and finding a charger, hiding in a bedroom until your cell had enough juice or pulling Miles away to drive you home since he was your ride here. The choices bounce around in your head until a familiar voice calls out to you.

You spin to find Jack standing in the porchlight, eyes on you once again.

“Hey,” he says, the first words he’s spoken to you all night. “What are you doing out here?”

“I was just going to head home,” you explain briefly.

“Oh,” he replies and you try to ignore the little drop in his tone. “Do you need a ride?”

You sigh, weighing your options once more. You did need a ride. But did you need it that badly that you would be willing to suffer through the time it took for Jack to drive you home, the silence heavy with unsaid words.

“Yeah, I do,” you finally say, admitting that his offer was the quickest way to get you home. “If you don’t mind,” you tack on, giving him an opportunity to back out of this. Just in case he realized how fucking awkward it would be and decided to spare the both of you.

No such luck.

“Not a problem. Let me just run and grab my keys,” Jack replies before turning on his heel and disappearing back into the house.

Another deep breath escapes your lungs as you stare at the empty space he used to occupy before spinning back and wandering down the sidewalk, coming to rest against the side of Jack’s car. It isn’t long before Jack is bounding down the path towards you and unlocking door, allowing you to slip into the all too familiar passenger seat.

“You remembered,” Jack muses as he slips into the car, staring the engine, the headlights piercing through the dark night.

“What?”

“Nothing, you just remembered which car is mine,” he fumbles, concentrating a little too intently on pulling out of the makeshift parallel parking outside Nico’s house.

“And?” you ask again, not entirely sure why it was such a big deal for him.

“It’s just been a while.”

“I still hang out with the team enough to know which car is yours, Jacky,” you reply, then cringe when the old nickname falls out of your mouth without warning. Jack is graceful enough to not mention it. Instead, he just shoots a glance back in your direction as he pulls out of the neighborhood, driving down the New Jersey streets on the way back to your apartment.

The drive is quiet, exactly like you expected it to be. And, exactly like you expected, the silence was not a reprieve. Instead, it was suffocating; your efforts to keep your gaze on the passing scenery, the obvious heighted tension in the confined space, Jack’s refusal to not let his eyes land on your frame in the passenger seat every few seconds.

“Eyes on the road,” you mutter under your breath when you catch him looking at you again when stopped at a red light. A sharp exhale of laughter is the only reply you get from Jack as he turns his head back to the street in front of him. It’s quiet until he speaks again.

“Hard to help it when you look as beautiful as you do.”

You hate the way your skin heats up at his words, the compliment laced with more than just friendly praise. Your chest rises in another deep breath as you try to steady your heartbeat. It works for a split second until you feel Jack’s fingers all but innocently caress the side of your thigh.

You know that you could easily jostle your leg, throwing his hand off and that would be the end of it. But as much as you knew how it was going to end if you let it continue, you didn’t care. You missed him enough to let his hand continue to slide across your skin before it settles, his palm setting a fire against your skin and deep within you.

And in the few short remaining minutes, you feel his gaze land on you less than before.

Jack pulls up outside your apartment and you start to hop out before you hear Jack kill the engine, the sound of the driver’s side door closely shortly behind it. You look back at him, an eyebrow raised.

“Let me walk you into your apartment. Just to be safe,” he says and you swear you hear an edge of desperation underneath the suave bravado. Regardless, you give a shrug of your shoulders in some kind of acceptance and let Jack follow you as you unlock your buildings front door.

You feel his presence behind you as you check your small mailbox and even still as you climbed up the carpeted stairs to your third-floor studio apartment. He’s right there as you punch in your keycode and swing open your apartment door. You leave the door ajar, a silent invitation for him to come in, one which he silently accepts before closing the door behind the two of you.

And just like that, it’s as if you two go through the regular motions, as if arriving home together was commonplace. As if being with him was meant to be.

You kick off your shoes by the front door and wander over to your small vanity before removing your rings and placing them in the little trinket dish. In the mirror, you watch as Jack takes off his coat, draping it gently over arm of your couch before walking over to you.

His hands gently bat yours away from the nape of your neck, his fingers deftly unclasping your necklace, arms dropping to set it down on the wood of the vanity. A hand comes to rest delicately on your waist and you can’t stop the shudder that runs through you as your feel his lips press gently against the skin of your shoulder.

You spin in his arms, the tension finally becoming too much. Your hands desperately reach towards his face, grasping at the back of his neck and tangling into his slicked back hair before you are pulling his lips onto your cherry red ones.

Jack gives into the kiss easily, pulling you tighter as his tongue traces the seam of your lips, silently asking for access which you gladly accept, deepening the kiss. He blindly pulls you away from the vanity, walking you across the wooden floors before you feel your mattress hit the back of your legs. You collapse back onto the bed willingly, pulling Jack down with you, the feeling of his body weight on top of you still comforting after all this time.

Jack breaks away from your lips only to trail across your jawline, down to the column of your throat where he lingers for a moment. You relax back into the sheets, the sensation all too familiar and it is easy to get lost in the feeling of him.

But the past finally rears its ugly head, pushing into your brain and taking you out of the moment. You heave a sigh before placing your hands on Jack’s shoulders, pushing him off you and lifting yourself up into a sitting position. Jack takes a step or two back and the two of you stare at each other for a brief moment before you break the silence.

“What the fuck are we doing?”

Jack doesn’t have an answer. Neither do you. So, the question lingers there between you, a phantom haunting whatever history you two shared.

“We can’t keep doing this,” you continue with a sigh.

“I know,” Jack whispers, although in the silence of your apartment, it feels as loud as a gunshot.

“Then why do we keep finding ourselves here?” you ask.

“I don’t know.”

Another pause, the space between the two of you growing further, in all ways but physical.

“Hypothetically speaking,” Jack speaks, breaking the silence again. “What is so wrong about this?”

“Hypothetically speaking,” you reply, drawing out the words in hesitation, “it’s wrong because we know how it’s going to end.”

“And you don’t want it to end,” Jack posits.

“I don’t know if there’s any way to stop it from ending. We’ve tried it before and it’s always lead us here.” You sigh again, picking at your fingernails in anxiety.

“Is there anything I can do to prove that it will be different this time? Hypothetically, of course,” Jack asks again and you can’t stop the chuckle that falls from you at his addendum.

“Perhaps,” you muse, connecting your eyes with his. “If you can answer this question.”

Jack nods and you hate the way your heart leaps at the pure desperation in his eyes, a desire not just for your body but for your trust. The way it was obvious that he wanted to make it up to you.

“When you left the apartment of the girl that you kissed in the middle of a crowded Halloween party dancefloor in front of your friends,” you say, letting the use of these hypotheticals distance yourself from the actuality, “did you regret it? Do you regret not fighting for her?”

You let the question hang there, watch as Jack processes it, watch as he flicks through the memories of that night when you two came crashing down.

It’s a drawn-out moment before Jack looks at you, taking a deep breath before walking back over to you, standing between your legs, his hand cupping your jaw, guiding your face to look up at him.

“I’ve regretted it ever since I closed the door of her third-floor studio walkup that day,” he whispers down to you, his thumb gently caressing your cheek. He leans in close to you, ready to capture your lips in his once more. But you stop him again.

“Is it also true that you’ve been seeing someone else?”

“It’s true. A few dates, nothing official. I’ve heard the same about you.” You nod your head gently in concession. “Would it change anything if I said every time I was with her, I couldn’t stop thinking about you?”

“It might. Considering I felt the same way whenever I was with him. Hypothetically speaking, of course.”

“Of course,” Jack chuckles and you can’t stop the small giggle that escapes you as well before Jack finally swallows your laughter by placing his lips on yours, the hypotheticals melting away into the truth.

Whatever hardships you two had and my have, this was meant to be. You would always find your way back to each other.

#nicole writes #midnights mashups #jack hughes fic #jack hughes imagine #jack hughes angst #new jersey devils fic #new jersey devils imagine #nhl fic #nhl imagine #hockey fic #hockey imagine #not sure how i feel about this one #kind of love it kind of hate it #but i'm still getting over a cold so my head spins if i think too long about it #so here it is

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phdmama · 2 months

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For the trope mash-up post, may I request Fake Dating and Soulmate AU for Drarry please, if it sparks any fun inspiration?

(P.S. you're wonderful and I will love literally anything you come up with, even if it's not for these prompts, I just got super excited when you posted this 💜)

No, YOU'RE wonderful!!

So this is what came to me - and I can actually see the rest of the story but I have to go adult for a bit, but I am going to come back later and write some more of this! (As per usual, this is pretty much SOOC and unbeta'd, etc etc.)

Draco’s known since the Final Battle.

He’s pretty sure Potter has no idea, whether it’s that no one’s remembered to tell him about soulmates, or that his mark hasn’t activated yet, but he treats Draco exactly the way he’s treated him since they'd all arrived at University. He’s unfailingly polite, cool and distanced, and deeply disinterested in one Draco Malfoy.

Which isn’t, you know, how you’re supposed to treat your soulmate.

The thumbprint on Draco’s wrist had flared to life when Potter had grabbed his arm to haul him onto the back of the battered broom that carried them both out of the fire. He’d almost fallen off at the way Potter’s magic had rushed over him, through him. Draco had always heard the stories that connecting with your soulmate could be disorienting, but since it happened to him in the midst of mortal terror, Draco’s not sure his experience was typical.

It’s also very rare that one person connects and the other doesn’t, although it does happen. It takes time for the bond to solidify, to grow into a true soulmate connection, and obviously, that’s not happened here. Basically, Potter is a faint echo in Draco’s mind, enough to distract and ache a little, nothing more than that.

All this to say, it’s weird when Potter comes dashing into their suite common room one Saturday afternoon, looking wild-eyed and somewhat disheveled. It’s a rainy day, raw and windy, the kind of day where Draco does not plan to leave the building if he can help it. Potter is damp and windblown, so he clearly had other ideas. Fucking weirdo.

Potter looks around wildly, and lights up when he spots Draco curled up on the couch under his favorite striped blanket.

“Malfoy,” he says eagerly, and Draco blinks up at him in surprise.

Potter’s never sounded happy to see Draco before.

“Yes?” Draco says cautiously. “Can I help you?”

Potter nods vigorously. “You can, yes, absolutely. I need you to pretend to be my soulmate and go to the gala with me tonight.”

“I beg your pardon?” Draco asks, trying to make sense of the words he’s just heard. “You need me to what?”

Potter hangs his coat on the rack by the door, kicks off his grubby trainers and makes his way around the couch to plop down next to Draco.

“I need you to pretend to be my soulmate and go to the gala with me tonight.”

“That’s what I thought you said,” Draco says. “But also, what the fuck are you talking about?”

Potter sighs, lets his head rest on the back of the couch and runs a hand through his unruly hair.

“You know how the press…” his voice trails off and he flushes.

“Follows you around incessantly and makes your life a living hell?” Draco says dryly. “Yes, Potter, I’m aware.”

“Well, someone thought it was a good idea to advertise that I haven’t found my soulmate, and to suggest that anyone who’s unbonded should come to the gala tonight and you know. Shoot their shot or whatever.”

Draco sits bolt upright, outraged. “What the hell? That’s bullshit. That’s not even how it works!”

Potter just sighs again and slumps down even further, eyes closed. “Yeah, I know that, but it’s turned into this whole thing, and every girl in the greater Oxford area, apparently, is now coming to the gala.”

“Can’t you just… not go?”

Potter shakes his head, looking miserable. “No. The Fund is really important to me. I promised to speak.”

“So your solution is to fake a soulmate bond with a man?” Draco asks and Potter snorts.

“Okay, well, when you put it like that, it does sound stupid. I just thought if I could get them all off my back for a bit… No, you’re right. I’ll just have to get a bodyguard again, I guess.”

He sounds so utterly miserable that Draco can’t help but feel sorry for him, which is why he finds himself saying, “Yeah, I’ll do it.”

Potter opens his eyes to stare at Draco. “What?”

Draco shrugs. “I’m not doing anything tonight, there’ll be wine at the gala, yeah?”

Potter looks excited but then his face falls. “But what about your soulmate? What if they’re out there looking for you?”

Draco looks away and swallows. “That won’t be a problem.”

Potter’s eyes narrow. “Why not?” He sucks in a breath and whispers, “Malfoy, do you know who your soulmate is?”

Draco just nods and there’s a long silence while Potter clearly puts some picture together in his head. He’s never been stupid, Draco concedes. Since for all intents and purposes, Draco is unbonded, Potter must know there’s something wrong with all of it.

Finally Potter says, “If you’re sure.”

“I’m sure,” Draco says and finally turns to look at Potter. “It’ll be fun,” he says carelessly. “What should I wear?”

#my writing #trope mashup #Drarry vignette #fic beginning #I ask that you check in with me before finishing any of my vignettes #THANK YOU FOR YOUR UNDERSTANDING

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sarahowritesostucky · 4 months

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📖"Body Heat" : a Snowpiercer-Marvel Mashup Story

Part 1 - "The Man"

Rated: Mature (non-explicit chapter, marked mature for dark themes)

Pairing: Curtis Everett x ofc

Tags: dystopia, food insecurity, post apocalypse, age difference (18/34), dark!fic, implied/referenced suicide, background character death (offscreen), poverty, arranged marriage, implied/referenced past cannibalism, hurt/comfort

Summary: She’s too young for him to be eyeing her up the way he has been, but this is the Tail section, and Curtis has caught other men looking more than once. Everything is a commodity in the Tail. Everything. It won't be too long before he has to step in and claim her.

Author's Note:

On Tumblr, forbidden ToS content categories are: "terrorism, hate speech, harm to minors, self harm, sexually explicit material, violence, threats, gore, and mutilation."

And while you ARE apparently allowed to write a fictional story about incestual, torturing, anorexic racists who rape, murder, kidnap, hate, cannibalize, terrorize, and self-injure in the plotline of said story,

you ARE NOT allowed to write an underage character who engages is any sort of sexualized conduct in a story.

For this one category and this one category alone, Tumblr staff (or at least one particular individual 😏on staff) makes no distinction between fictional stories and C.S.A.M. They can and will delete your blog without any notice.

So, in the face of this VERY SPECIFIC criteria for Tumblr's censorship choices, I have changed the age of a character in this story to 18. That's not how the story was originally written, and the story can still be read on Ao3, which does not arbitrarily censor their content. But my m/f stories seem to be most popular on Tumblr, so I wanted to include the altered version in my library here.

(To be spiteful, however, I have changed the ofc from 16 to 18 and Curtis from 28 to 34, thus WIDENING the original age gap from 12 yrs to 16 yrs😆)

🖤With that said, this is a dark story regardless, so if you're looking for fluff, I suggest you look elsewhere.🖤

Part 1 - "The Man"

The Man’s been dead for almost a day, the body already stiffened in rigor mortis and then relaxed again by the time anyone comes to take it.

They’d found him in his bunk just after breakfast yesterday, which means they’ve been keeping his wake for nearly twenty-four hours now, up at the front of the lead assembly car; his daughter and a few others who were closest to him sitting vigil with the body until the time comes. Mourning while they still can.

Jackboots visit the tail section only once per day—in the morning, with the food. That’s how Tailies tell time. So when one of their own dies, the funeral and the family’s goodbyes last only as long as the next arrival of the next pushcart with the next batch of gelatinous bars.

Bringing in food and taking out bodies—a callous reminder to Snowpiercer’s lowest inhabitants that their deaths are little different from their lives: cold, unadorned, hopeless.

Curtis keeps his distance once he’s paid his respects, and it’s quiet now as they all wait. A few people had given some nice speeches earlier, a decent eulogy capped off by the beautiful singing voice of the daughter that The Man has left behind: Rose.

Curtis watches her adjust the sheet over The Man’s body. He’s already been washed and stripped in preparation, wrapped in the old grey sheet that will be returned to them within a matter of hours. Nothing is wasted on Snowpiercer. The few pieces of clothing that The Man had owned now sit folded on the floor, ready to be given to their next occupants. The sight of his trademark checked shirt, unworn and available, is a point of mourning all in itself, Curtis finds.

New clothing always means death.

The Man had been a good person, a leader in his own right. Back when they’d first boarded, he’d been one of the first to volunteer his own flesh—though only once his wife had been killed and the mob was coming for his young daughter, too.

Curtis looks back up towards the front of the car when the heavy groans of unlatching metal come from the next section up. Rose’s face, covered in tears, also shoots up at the sound. Her eyes widen and her lip begins to quiver again. Her fingerless-gloved hand reaches for the body, clutching The Man’s shoulder one last time as the door slides open.

The jackboots bark for everyone to move back, since the funeral group isn’t sitting behind the usual yellow line of demarcation that’s taped to the floor, but then they look down and see the body. The lead guard sighs. “Oh, great,” he mutters. “Just what I wanted to do today.”

Curtis’ eyes narrow and his muscles tense, anticipating disrespect to the body—that he can handle, is used to, but if they lay a hand on her as the scene plays out, he doesn’t know if he’ll be able to restrain himself. Rose is a sweet girl despite her circumstances, with an innocence and a naivety that usually only the train babies have, and Curtis has always done what he can to look out for her.

“Right,” the one guard says to the other. “Okay. Protein blocks first, then you can load ‘im on the cart.”

Rose stays sitting by the body as everyone lines up to receive their daily portions. Curtis makes eye contact as he steps up to the lead guard and takes his portion. “Be nice,” he says. “It’s her dad.”

Luckily, the jackboots don’t seem to be in any kind of foul mood today. They let Rose sniffle over the body for a few extra seconds before hefting the corpse onto the empty protein block cart. And then they’re gone. No muss, no fuss, no fanfare. Just like it always happens when a Tailie dies.

“What do you think they do with them?” Curtis overhears Ned and Peter saying, talking with each other as they nibble off their protein blocks not too far from Rose. “Throw ‘em out?”

“How?” Peter says doubtfully. “S’not exactly an escape hatch in this thing.”

“Course there is,” Ned argues. “Where d’you think your shit goes when you flush the—”

“Hey,” Curtis hisses, glaring at them and tipping his head discreetly in Rose’s direction. “Show a little respect.”

Ned and Peter mumble an apology and move off, and when Curtis looks back to Rose, she’s blinking up at him with red rimmed eyes. “You didn’t have to do that,” she says, her voice deeper than usual as it emanates from a throat scraped raw by grief.

“I did.” Curtis walks over and slides down the wall to sit next to her. “He was a good man, your dad.”

“Thanks,” she says quietly.

Her nose sounds all stuffed up, so Curtis fishes in his pocket for his handkerchief. “Haven’t spoken to you in a hot minute,” he says, handing it over for her to blow her nose.

“Yeah well I hear you’re always planning the next revolution, so …”

Curtis scoffs. “Yeah, maybe.” He looks her over, taking in the worn knit of her sweater, the colorless felt of her coat that’d once been blue and belonged to her mother. So many of the Tailies are worn down to nothing but dull, grey husks now, just like the clothes they’ve recycled for over a decade. But Rose is different.

For whatever reason, her skin is still clear, her hair still thick. The malnutrition hasn’t affected her the way it has most others. Her soul still comes through her eyes. That inner luminance makes her pretty, maybe even the prettiest girl in the tail section. Even though she’s still very young. Probably too young for Curtis to be eyeing her up the way he has been, these past few months.

But she’s about that age now, even though it feels like only yesterday he was scrounging up materials to make her a little doll she could play with. People grow up fast in the tail whether they want to or not, and Curtis has been on high alert for a while now because he’s caught other men looking more than once. He’s even heard some bits of hushed conversation, whispered from nearby bunks where the occupants didn’t realize he was there to listen. Everything is a commodity in the tail. Everything. And there’s no one else who looks like Rose. She’s only made it this far because of her father.

And now her father’s dead.

Curtis realizes he’s been staring a little too long when Rose’s eyes slide over to him in curiosity. He coughs and looks away, shaking his head when she tries to hand him back the handkerchief. “Naw. You hold onto it for me, Hon.” She tucks it shyly away in her coat, and Curtis is pleased. “So …” he hedges, not knowing what to say to her. There’s nothing he can say. All they have in the tail is each other, their people, and she’s just lost hers. “So … you still going by ‘Rosebud’?”

That gets a tiny smile from her, which warms Curtis’ chest in the same way that he can remember whiskey doing, a lifetime ago. “Nobody calls me that anymore,” she says. “Nobody but him. And you.”

“Yeah?” Curtis thinks on it some. “Well maybe you should retire it. It’s a girl’s name anyway.”

“Aren’t I a girl?”

He raises an eyebrow without looking at her. “You still have that doll I made for you?” He hears her scoff and knows the answer. Rosie helps look after the young children in the tail. Curtis has seen that shabby little doll floating around in various tiny hands for years now. “You’re a good person,” he says quietly. “Like your dad. He was good. I’ll miss him." He’s looking straight ahead across the assembly car when he says it, but he still catches her slight movement out of the corner of his eye.

“He didn’t act any different,” she says, voice tiny. “I didn’t know. He didn’t say anything, didn’t do anything that made it seem like he was going to …” She cuts herself off, swallows thickly and shakes her head. “I just didn’t know.”

Curtis holds out his hand in offer for her to hold, and she takes it. Even with the fingerless glove on, her hand still feels tiny in his. “How about Petal?” he suggests.

“Petal?”

“Yeah,” he decides. “Yeah that’s what I’ll call you. Petal. My rose petal.”

“Oh, god.” She groans. “No. Curtis.”

“No?” He turns his head to look at her, and this time he waits until she looks at him too. Her expression sobers as their eyes meet. Curtis reaches to gently tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. “It’s a beautiful word,” he murmurs. “Couldn’t I call you that?” His eyes skip over her face, soaking up the way her breath stutters, how a slow blush starts to fill the apples of her cheeks. “I promise I won’t tell anybody else,” he whispers.

She ducks her chin with a bashful smile. “Well, I guess so.”

In her lap, her other arm curls protectively around the small pile of belongings she’s been holding onto, drawing Curtis’ attention. Her father had been a large man, imposing, and yet the pile is so tiny. A whole entire life, compressed into less than one square foot in the end.

(Curtis does wonder, sometimes, what they do with the bodies.)

“He was one of our best,” he tells her. “Even in the Desperation. I remember how he was, how he volunteered. He was a leader. Brave.” His eyes slide over to the excuse for an artificial limb that's been cobbled together from an umbrella and a few old wire coat hangers, of all things. Now it sits, sad and unused, on the floor next to Rose’s leg. “You know who you’re gonna give it to?”

“What?”

He nods at the limb. “His arm. It’s the best one in the tail.”

“Oh.” She glances away from it, looking pained. “No,” she says. “I figured I’d just give it to you.”

“Me?” Curtis isn’t one of the few who’d volunteered in the Desperation—obviously, as he’s still got all four limbs intact. He wasn’t the same person back then that he is now. Back then he’d been a taker, not a giver. He looks away with a frown. “Give it to Phil,” he suggests. “He needs one, since his broke.”

Rose agrees that the arm should go to Coulson. She carefully sets the pile of clothing aside on the floor and returns to place her hand back in Curtis’ waiting one, this time pulling their joined hands into her lap. They sit there together like that for a long while, not speaking, just existing side by side. Some things have so much more value now than they did Before, including silent company and a comforting hand.

“Do you remember it much?” Curtis eventually says.

“Before?”

“No.” He never talks about Before, since it only breeds despair. “Boarding,” he says. “Do you remember?”

“Of course.”

He winces. “Oh. I didn’t know if you did. You were so young. I thought maybe … maybe you’d forgotten. A lot of the kids did, even some of the older ones.”

“Yeah. MJ was eight and she says she can’t remember at all.”

Curtis nods. “Sometimes it feels like a dream even to me, it was so long ago.” He’d been twenty-two when the world froze and people were reduced to animals all around him. Twelve years couldn’t erase that pain, but it could muddle it a lot. “I’m sorry you didn’t. Block it out.”

“I remember ... shouting,” Rose says, her voice teasing the memory out. “It was dark. And I remember getting shoved around, hiding against my mom's legs, being hungry ... how cold it was.” It’s been cold ever since, but never as cold as that night—the last night before the wind and snow and ice got shut out forever. She heaves a sigh. “It’s all a jumble in my mind, anyway. I couldn’t see past anyone’s coat.”

“You were little,” Curtis mumbles. “Short.”

“Well I was six."

He smirks and bumps her shoulder with his. “You’re still short,” he teases, while privately he thinks that it’s better that she was so young when it happened. It means her earliest memories are of cold and chaos, and that’s better than the alternative of having had more time in the World. It means less things to mourn. “What are you going to do now?” he asks, shaking his head like he can knock the past out of it. "Plans for today?"

Rose shrugs. “Same old, same old. Kids, stories. It’s my night to shower.”

Curtis turns his head towards her, brow furrowed. “You … but you’re not going back to you guys' spot, right?”

"'Course. Where else would I go?"

He doesn’t know what he was expecting, what he thought the alternative was supposed to be. Every square centimeter of the tail section is already portioned and claimed. New space doesn’t just appear. Nothing new ever appears, except babies, bodies, and the rats that Wanda breeds to supplement their diet.

“Rosie,” Curtis scolds. “No. You can’t go back there. Not where he—”

“It’s not a big deal,” she says stubbornly, pretending it doesn’t bother her. But she’s a horrible liar and that’s just another thing that's always made her so endearing ... and so vulnerable.

“Hon,” Curtis mourns,

“It’s just a bunk," she insists. "He slept there, he died there. I’ll probably die there too, one day.”

Curtis growls unhappily. “Don’t say that. Don’t you ever say that. Hey, things won’t always be like this.” He catches her throwing him side eye and he glares at her. “They won’t.”

“Right,” she says, mouth quirking sadly at one corner before her gloved hand gives his a final squeeze and then lets him go. “Well. Not everybody has the big plans that you do, Curtis. Sometimes it's better to know what the future holds, even if it's this.”

“Don’t lose hope, Petal,” he pleads, but he can see that she’s dismissive of it. People lose hope all the time in the Tail. That’s what’d killed her father.

He sighs and looks back to the opposite side of the car. Now that the jackboots are gone it’s thinned out some, with some people gone back to their bunks and others remaining behind to munch on their protein blocks in the fresher air of the assembly car. Curtis spots a man several yards away who’s been openly staring at Rose. When the man sees Curtis looking, however, he hurriedly turns away.

Curtis scowls. “Hey,” he says, intending to take Rose's hand again and offer to have her spend the night with him. But her hand isn't there when he reaches over. She’s getting up, gathering her dead father’s pile of folded clothing items in her arms. Curtis frowns and gets up with her. He hurries to pick up the artificial limb. “Wait. Where’re you going?”

“Gonna give these to Gilliam,” she says, already on the move. “I want him to have first dibs." As if her father’s clothing would even come close to fitting Gilliam's shrunken and weathered old frame.

But Curtis gets up anyway and follows after her, not wanting to let her go just yet. He hurries along as she walks surprisingly fast for having such short legs. “Hey,” he says, talking to her back as they navigate through the communal living cars and the showers, and then into the cramped passageways of the market. “Hey, you know … you could come over tonight, if you wanted. My spot’s a pretty good size.”

“So is ours—” she says, faltering when she realizes her mistake. “I mean, so is mine.”

Curtis sighs and grabs her shoulder, pulling her to a stop. “Don’t go back there,” he pleads, cornering her into a cramped spot to face him. “Hey. I mean it, Hon. Don’t. You shouldn’t go back there tonight. Not alone, not where he …” She squares her jaw and looks up at him, expression stubborn as ever, and Curtis is struck by the sudden, overwhelming urge to kiss her. “It’s too soon,” he insists, because she’d been the one to find The Man sitting up in the bed: straight backed and purple faced and all out of hope, a cord wrapped thrice around his neck. “Too soon,” Curtis repeats sadly.

“I’ll be okay,” she insists, nodding when he makes a face to show how much he doesn’t agree with that. “It’s fine, Curtis. Really. I appreciate the offer. And I get it, I do. But that's our spot, ya know? I’ve lived there for twelve years, and I—” her eyes cut away, glossy with the threat of fresh tears. She swallows thickly and won’t look at him again. “I’m not ready to leave it,” she whispers. “I’d rather stay where it still smells like him.”

Curtis isn’t sure what love feels like, but he thinks maybe it’s partly made up of the horrible feeling he gets in his guts when he sees Rose in pain like this. “... Okay,” he says quietly, taking a small step back so that she can continue on down the passage. The tail is made up of twenty cars, and they’re only several down from the forwardmost car at this point. “Gilliam’s probably at the back,” he tells her. He can see that she wants to be alone in her grief, though he hates the idea of letting her go. “Hey,” he says softly, cupping her face. “I’m right here if you need me, Hon. You know that, right?”

She smiles and nods with watery eyes, worsening the tug in Curtis’ guts. He thinks seriously about leaning in and kissing her, but winds up holding himself back like he’s done so many times already. Instead he just strokes his thumb over her cheek, finger ruddy against the clear skin of her face. “Okay,” he says again. He gently places the artificial limb on top of the stack of clothing she holds, then takes another step back. “I’ll see you at dinner?” he asks, not bothering to hide the hope in his voice. He wants to see her again, as much as possible. The more he can keep her in his sights, the better.

“Yeah,” she agrees, leaning up to plant a quick peck to his cheek. “Thanks, Curtis. For looking out for me. He'd feel better, knowing that."

He watches her go with a sense of trepidation, uttering a quiet, "Not doin' it for him," once she’s halfway down the car.

Masterlist

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boncottontail · 4 months

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Just woke up and was greeted by a surprise! ACAS, welcome to the 1k club <3

(Missed the exact number because I was asleep, rip)

I honestly never expected Along Came A Spider to make it this far, especially because this is my first fan fic in the fandom. I’m a HUGE fan of both QSMP and Marvel and consider this fic as my passion project—and I’m so glad that so many of you love and support my work!

The first story arc of ACAS is wrapping up and there’s much more in store for you guys. Thank you so much, lovelies. Kisses xxx

#qsmp #qsmp and marvel mashup fanfiction #qsmp fanfic #qsmp fanfiction #never abandoning along came a spider #along came a spider #guapoduo #cellboier #spiderbit #bonnie’s fics #cellbit #roier #happy 1k kudos!

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solargeist · 6 months

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ermmmm simpbur siren and utahbur r literally in love wdym… I saw them yesterday!!!! they’re literally canon!!!

siren has not been in my inbox for months but literally last night he came up on discord and NOW HES HERE ??

#ask #thats too odd of a mashup for me to ship phphphph #THIS IS LPOG NATION!!!!!!!!!#never read the fic so i dont feel comfy drawing siren :thumbsup:#i also have no idea what the context to this is i havent mentioned any of them recently adjgadjk

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estellardreams · 4 months

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I have actually made my own Sonic and Shadow variants for my Sonic Prime AU because they both got shattered. So... Here ya go!

New Yoke City: Zephyr

Boscage Maze: Rustle

No Place: Kai

New Yoke City: Tempest

Boscage Maze: Onyx

No Place: Storm

So... Yeah. Those are my designs. And here's the original fic they were featured in.

There's more art I made for it to. The pieces include:

And aa short comic in between chapter's 21 and 23.

There's also an ongoing sequel and such that needs to be updated... AND a planned third story in the works. If anyone asks, I can share stuff on it... Granted, it's done through dms.

#sonic au #sonic prime #digital art #sonic the hedgehog #sonic #Just sharing one of my older fics #The concept came early on the question “What if Sonic never got rescued in Episode 2?”#You might've assumed he'd die right? Well what if he talked his way out of it?#And it led to my story spiraling into this mashup.#So... cool 👍#🌸mine

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floralcrematorium · 1 month

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sometimes i hear a song that was used in a 2010-2015 hetalia youtube video and i feel anguish, a sense of contented nostalgia, and longing for the simplicity of being 14

basically if you show me most 2012-2015 pop i will feel this way

#“i could be the one” is what set this off #man i am looking at old fandom with rose tinted glasses rn (that's sugarcoating) it but sometimes #i miss the old videos that have been lost to time. i would put those videos on and listen to them as if they were a mashup while #playing minecraft or something #thinking about hetaoni and the old fics i used to read #the old amvs....#old fandom was a hell and a bad place but there were the gems in media i found that i can never have again #at least I still have the “glad you came” video

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senditcolton · 2 years

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Meet Me at Midnight

summary: navigating your job of being the official portrait artist for the Svechnikov royal family was hard enough. trying to keep your forbidden romance with the crown prince added another layer of difficulty. but whenever you were with Andrei... the impossible seemed within reach (inspired by this moodboard from @suitandtys)

songs: x x word count: 3.2k warnings: royalty!au (the prince and the painter) and mentions of anxiety.

Life was simple before this. You had scratched out a living as a painter in the village underneath the looming shadow of the royal castle, walking into houses that you could never dream of owning yourself for brief moments, just to memorialize the exorbitant wealth of the families whose only desire was to flaunt it even more. It true that it wasn’t much of a life but it was yours. You lived independently, made your own money, spent your time doing something you truly loved. And it was simple.

Or, more accurately, it used to be simple.

That all changed the day you were hired by the royal family themselves. Hired to paint a royal portrait that would be sent across the country to attract a royal match.

A portrait of His Royal Highness, the Prince of Karolyna, Andrei Svechnikov.

You were honored that knowledge of your talent had made its way up to the ears of the monarchy. But if you were being honest with yourself, you were also terrified. You were young and had no family left. If the prince didn’t like his portrait or if you accidentally insulted the him or anything of the kind, you would be ruined, forced into poverty and left to die.

So, when the day came and you were escorted into a private room filled with guards and some of the most powerful people in the nation, it was safe to say that you were petrified.

But then Andrei walked into the room. And when your eyes met, you were struck with the profound knowledge that although you had been painting the world for as long as you could remember, you had only seen it muted hues. When you met Andrei, the universe exploded into screaming color.

The first day had been tense, however, it was made easier every time you looked up to see Andrei staring at you with those dark brown eyes. And when you returned to continue your work the next day, the prince noticed your anxiety and ordered everyone to leave the room apart from his personal guard Pyotr.

He explained his actions and you had thanked him before resuming your work. And that was the way it continued every session afterwards: you and him sitting for hours in quiet candlelight, your eyes dancing across his frame as you pay attention to every detail and his eyes studying you just as intently. Your paint-stained fingers, your furrowed brow, your pulled back hair.

Eventually, the prince would have Pyotr stand outside of the room leaving you two alone. The first time it happened, you had assumed the worst. You knew the stink of privilege and how men wielded it like a sword. You thought a prince wouldn’t be any different but you soon learned his intentions were never anything but pure. He just wanted to talk to you, freely, as he confessed. Wanted you to feel free to talk to him. And eventually, the conversation between the two of you flowed as easy as water in a stream.

There was a spark between the two of you. You couldn’t deny or explain it but it was the truth. However, you knew nothing would come of it. As soon as you were done with the portrait, you would be paid then sent away to resume your life as normal. This would just be a fleeting, albeit magical, moment. Nothing more.

And that was exactly what it was until shortly after your employment ended, you were summoned again for an audience with the king and queen. There in the dazzling throne room, you were offered a permanent residency in the palace as the royal family’s official portrait artist.

You accepted the offer graciously, the entire time being hyperaware of Prince Andrei’s eyes on you from his spot behind his father’s throne. And it wasn’t a surprise when he found his way into your new palace studio shortly after your investiture.

At first, it was always under the guise of business: he was relaying a message or checking your progress or requesting a commission. He even asked you to paint another portrait of him, one that would remain in the castle. A task you were more than happy to take on if it meant the two of you could continue as you used to.

It was in the quiet of your studio did things start to change for you – and the prince.

It began as gentle trepidation, his questions veering from business to more personal inquiries about your life, your family, yourself. You returned the favor by asking him about his own life and willingly listened to him talk about tax levies, foreign affairs, the new stallion he bought, his elder brothers adventures at sea.

This turned into hours spent talking instead of painting, private dinners in the studio, Andrei joining you to silently work on his own duties while you created. Soon, Andrei was requesting your company in the garden, seeking you out at parties where you painted silently in the corner, and spent more time in your studio than in his personal quarters. It even led to him requesting a painting lesson from you, which led to even closer contact, whispers of praise and encouragement, lingering glances, and delicate touches.

It was a night in your studio, alone with him, where the trajectory of your life truly and irrevocably changed. It was the night he kissed you for the first time.

When you first laid your eyes on him, the world changed color. When his lips connected with yours, he revealed colors that you hadn’t known existed.

What used to be just a job turned into a forbidden romance, filled with stolen moments and long nights tangled together, staring at the ceiling. You were in love. You loved Andrei and he loved you. That much you were certain of. But you were also certain of your reality: you were a commoner and he was a prince. He was destined to marry a princess and inherit his father’s throne whereas you…

It didn’t stop you from wanting.

Even now, as you watch the flurry of gowns spinning around the crowded ballroom, watch as every fair maiden flaunts herself to try and catch the prince’s attention and secure a position as his betrothed, you can’t take your eyes off of Andrei weaving his way through the crowd. And even though the party was meant to secure a match for the eligible young prince, Andrei couldn’t keep his eyes from wandering over to you, hidden behind your easel in the corner.

With a brief shake of your head, you focus back onto your canvas and lift your paintbrush to continue your work, capturing the extravagance of the party around you. You attempt to lose yourself in the process; it was the one place where you had always found comfort and peace. And for a moment, it works until you lift your head and see Andrei weaving through the crowd, making his way over to you. Hastily, you wipe the paint off your hands and rise from your stool just as he arrives in front of you.

“My lady,” he says politely, giving you a deep bow.

“Your Highness,” you reply, curtsying before raising your body and connect your eyes to Andrei. The two of you falter momentarily, your shared desires fighting against the status quo that you were both trapped in. Andrei clears his throat before continuing.

“How are you getting on?”

“I’m doing quite well, thank you for asking, Your Highness.”

“Is there anything you need?” he questions. “More paint? New brushes? Better light?”

“Thank you for your concern but I am set for now,” you say, observing him as intently as you always had. Noticing the tension in his shoulders, watching how his eyes flit around the room nervously but softened whenever he looked at you.

“Understandable. I will leave you to your work then,” Andrei says, as he holds out a hand to you. You accept his silent request, slipping your hand in his and watching as he brings it up to his lips, kissing it gently with a bow. “If there is anything you need, do not hesitate to ask.”

“Thank you, Your Highness. I will.”

Andrei shoots you a gentle smile, his thumb delicately swiping against your knuckles once before he pulls his hand away. And as he does, you can feel him press a small folded piece of paper into your palm. You try not to react, concealing the note in the folds of your apron, your eyes following Andrei as he disappears into the crowd, only being able to steal one more glance back towards you.

You return to your seat and start to paint again, glancing around the room in what would have appeared to be taking in your surroundings. In reality, you were checking to make sure no one was paying attention to you. Even though you were often seen as the equivalent to another servant, you were still cautious as occasionally, your skills caught the eye of the nobles flitting about the room. When you determine that you were safe, you remove the folded parchment from your pocket and read the words hastily scrawled there.

Meet me at midnight. My room. The balcony.

A quick glance at the clock shows the hours between then and now. Adjusting your posture, you focus back onto your canvas, praying that time may pass by swiftly. It seems as if your wishes were answered because before you knew it, you had lost track of Andrei in the crowd and another glance at the clock showed you it was almost midnight.

You remove yourself from your spot in the corner, skirting around the perimeter of the room, keeping your head down. You manage to make it to the main exit leading to the rest of the palace but as you press on the door, a guard stops you.

“Where are you headed?”

“To my studio, sir. To pick up more paint,” you answer, head low.

“Be quick about it,” comes his reply and you curtsy lightly before disappearing from the room.

Your feet move fast across the padded floor, climbing the grand staircase with as much haste as you could muster. But instead of taking a right to head to your apartments, you turn left and begin to wander down the winding hallways, a path that you had taken many times under the cover of darkness, the path that led to Andrei.

Rounding the final corner, your eyes land on the doors to Andrei’s chambers, his personal guard Pyotr standing just outside them. You walk towards him silently and as soon as his eyes land on you, he scans the hallway for anyone else before opening the door and ushering you inside.

This was not the first time Andrei asked to see you in his room and it was not the first time Pyotr was complicit in your and Andrei’s tryst. But Andrei had explained to you that he saw Pyotr as more than a guard but as a true friend; someone who would die for him and keep his secrets to the grave. Andrei’s assurance made you trust Pyotr as well and you wouldn’t deny that having an armored guarantee that the two of you wouldn’t get caught helped to calm your nerves.

In the moonlight, you creep around Andrei’s bed and desk scattered with documents towards the open balcony doors. There you spy the prince, his hands resting on the stone railing and his back to you. You clear your throat gently, causing Andrei to turn and face you.

“Your Highness,” you say with a brief curtsy.

“I told you not to call me that when we’re alone,” he smiles, to which you gladly return his grin. You walk towards him, Andrei moving as well and it isn’t long before the two of you meet each other in the center of the balcony. The feeling of one of Andrei’s hands pressing into the small of your back relaxes you, as does his other hand cupping your jaw. You look up into his soft eyes before he pulls you in and kisses you passionately. You return the kiss with as much desperation and desire. The two of you continue like that for a few moments before finally pulling away from each other. But you don’t move far. You stay close, your foreheads touching, your arms thrown around his shoulders, your hands tangled into the hair at the nape of his neck.

“I’ve been wanting to do that as soon as I laid eyes on you tonight,” Andrei whispers to you.

“I’ll admit, I had the same feeling,” you giggle, sending a chuckle through Andrei as well. “Is that why you called me here?” you continue. “Just to kiss me?”

“It wasn’t the only reason but I won’t deny it was a part of it,” he quips back, drawing another bought of laughter from you. “But what I really wanted to do was dance with you.”

“Dance? With me?”

“Yes. I would’ve much preferred it if we were able to dance together in the ballroom. But…”

He didn’t have to finish his sentence; you both know how it ends. In every clandestine meeting you two shared, neither of you spoke the truth that weighed heavily, preferring instead to remain in this dizzying daydream of ignorance.

You wouldn’t break that fantasy tonight.

You nod your head gently, a silent acceptance of his request to which you see Andrei’s eyes alight. You feel his elegant fingers move on the small of your back, untying the knot that held your apron in place before tracing up your spine and hooking his fingers underneath the strap around your neck. He lifts the strap over your head, removing the paint splattered fabric from your frame before resting it on the railing.

He turns back to you, that beautiful smile on his lips and takes you up in his arms. You throw your arms around him in return before the two of you begin to sway, the only accompaniment to your movements being the swishing of your skirt against the stone and the chirping of insects in the darkness.

You let yourself get lost in the feeling of being wrapped up in him, the warmth of the summer air, and joy of being alone with him, just the two of you dancing in the lavender night. It is clear to you that Andrei feels the same way; you notice it in the way he holds you closer, how his lips press into your hair.

“I love you.”

Those whispered words reach your ear and there is small pause before you truly register their meaning. You pull away, a hand resting on his chest, the surprise painted on your face. It wasn’t that his words were a shocking revelation; it was more so his brazen confession that startled you.

“What?”

“I love you,” Andrei restates, just as self-assured as before. “I thought that it would be obvious.”

“But – you’re the prince,” you stutter out. “This – us… it isn’t right.”

“I am,” he says, his hand coming to cup your jaw once more, drawing your eyes to his, his thumb gently brushing your bottom lip. “And it isn’t. But that doesn’t prevent me from falling for you.” Your eyes lock with his as you stand there in the moonlight, his words hanging over you both.

“Where is all this coming from Andrei?” you ask and you watch how your words sink into him. The initial reply you get from him is a short humorless chuckle.

“How do you do that?” he questions.

“Do what?”

“See me so clearly.”

“I’m a painter,” you lightly laugh, “It’s my job to notice the little things.” You feel Andrei’s chest rise beneath your palm as he breathes a heavy sigh, gathering his thoughts before speaking again.

“Tonight, when I was dancing with all the eligible ladies that my parents arranged for me to meet, I realized that every one of them only wanted me for my titles. For my crown. They didn’t see me as a person. They just saw a prince. But you… you see me. And I don’t mean in the way that you see other people, through a painter’s eye. No, you see me for who I am, who I truly am. My flaws, my history, my melancholy. And still, you accept me, completely.”

You listen to his words, allowing them to invade your heart and fill you with his love.

“And I know how this next part is going to sound,” Andrei continues, “but tonight, I am supposed to find my future wife. My betrothed. And I realized I already found her.”

With that statement, he pulls away from you and it takes a moment for you to register what he is about to do. It hits you mere seconds before Andrei drops to one knee in front of you, looking everything like the prince from all the fairy tales.

“If you feel the same way as I do, which I believe you do, I wanted to ask you if you would marry me.”

You watch as he reaches into a pocket within the lining of his jacket and you aren’t sure what you expected him to reveal to you but your mind flashes with images of massive sapphires, sparkling diamonds, beautiful emeralds, or even the Svechnikov ruby. Instead, Andrei pulls out a small braided loop of what looked to be multi-colored string.

“I wish I could give you a proper ring but this will have to do for now. It's braided twine from the edge of your canvases. It’s not much but, still. So now, my lady, I formally ask you: will you marry me?”

“I… I don’t know what to say,” you speak, the words faltering.

“Just say yes.”

The overwhelming emotions cascade in your head: shock, confusion, fear. But even though the buzz invading your brain was deafening, it couldn’t drown out the beating of your heart and its loud steadfast truth. The truth that you knew from the moment you laid eyes on him that first fateful day.

“I love you, Andrei. And yes. Yes. I will happily marry you.”

A smile breaks out on his face and it is mere moments before Andrei surges up to meet you, scooping you into his arms and lifting you, spinning you around on the balcony. You cannot stop the laughter that escapes you, your heart feeling lighter than it ever had before. Andrei gently sets you down and takes your hand in his, sliding the makeshift ring onto your finger. You let yourself adjust to the feeling of it against your skin before smiling up at Andrei once more. He shares your smile before leaning forward and capturing your lips in a kiss so full of love that it paled in comparison to every other kiss you two had shared thus far.

Both of you remain that way for a moment, happy and contented, until you finally pull away and voice the one concern that had always lingered in your mind since this romance begin.

“You do realize there are rules against us getting married.”

“Yes. But when I ascend the throne, I will simply overturn them,” Andrei replied, that cocky arrogance that you had grown to love appearing. Your only response is a light laugh.

“That’s going to take a lot of work.”

“I know,” Andrei says, lifting your chin and leaning into you until his lips barely brush against yours. “But, the promise of being able to call you mine forever, will be worth it.”

#nicole writes #midnights mashups #andrei svechnikov fic #andrei svechnikov imagine #andrei svechnikov royalty!au #andrei svechnikov fluff #carolina hurricanes fic #carolina hurricanes imagine #nhl fic #nhl imagine #hockey fic #hockey imagine

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ineffablemossy · 7 months

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Flufftober / Good Omentober Day 1

Mashing up the fluff and GO prompts because I love my fluffy celestial beings <3 Posting on AO3 tomorrow as its late now, I'm as tired as a hard-working angel

Prompt: I got you / Pre-Fall

Words: 2419

Rating: Teen I guess (SFW, kissing only)

---

They padded down the long, bright corridor, the white flagstones cool under their feet. Leaning round pillars and corners as they moved lightly on the balls of their feet. A shock of ruby curls bounced around their ears as they half-ran to and fro.

"Stars, where are you? Uhh, I hate these offices, go on forever and ever just boring white, white, pale white, off-white, bone white, bright white..." Raphael stopped and sighed, planting their hands on their hips. "Aziraphale! Where are yo.. oh!" They called out and turned, spotting an opening in the sheer white wall. Through the doorway, they could see a desk piled high with parchments and scrolls.

Grinning, they approached the entrance slowly, dragging their fingers on the smooth surface of the wall as they peered in. On the desk amid the stacks of documents, soft white curls peeked out. Something fluttered in their chest. Oh, now that's a nice white, white as the brightest star. They let out a soft hum, the heart beating in their corporation suddenly feeling twice as big as a moment before.

Raphael took only three steps to reach the desk, their long gainly legs almost dancing across the room. They knelt down to better see the chaos around the Principality and chuckled softly. Some of the papers had toppled, falling over the angel's head which lay unmoving, cheek pressed against the translucent surface. Aziraphale was half sprawled across the desk, one hand still holding onto a quill. His back rose and fell slowly. Raphael rested their forearms on the edge of the desk and leaned towards the peaceful, sleeping face of their beloved. Aziraphale let out the softest of snores, and Raphael scrunched their face in delight.

"Look at you," they whispered, "you're gorgeous."

They raised a hand to move the fallen bits of parchment from Aziraphale's sleeping form, then gently plucked the quill from his hand. The angel snorted a half-snored intake of breath then let out a long, low moan of displeasure, brow furrowing. Raphael moved to smooth the brilliant curls, making soothing noises.

"Shhh sshhh, it's alright Angel. You fell asleep, you must be exhausted," said Raphael. They didn't habitually sleep, but sometimes these new corporations they'd been issued with seemed to get very weary. It would all settle down in time, they'd been reassured, just a matter of getting used to it.

Aziraphale huffed and moved his forearms under his head, glaring up at Raphael through tousled hair and dust motes from the papers. He closed his eyes and pressed his head into the redhead's palm. And huffed again.

"What have you been up to? I expected to see you ages ago. I guess you've been buried in plans for Earth, hmmm?" Raphael grinned and wiggled their eyebrows. Aziraphale moaned in response, but they could see his ears move with a smile hidden behind those robust arms.

Raphael bounced up and circled the desk, placing a delicate hand on the other angel's back, between the shoulder blades. Aziraphale felt warm, even through their robes. He always felt warm, it made it feel so cosy being next to him. He was like a tiny Sun all for them, and when he smiled at them, well. It made them feel all shimmering and liquid inside, like a brand-new nebula shifting and twinkling in a perfect sky.

"So...much...paperwork..." Aziraphale's voice was muffled by his sleeves. Raphael slipped their hands down and around his waist, giving a gentle tug.

"Come on Angel. You need some rest. The paperwork will be here later," their voice dropped to a mumble, "s'not like anyone else is going to do it for you."

Aziraphale either didn't hear it pretended not to, and pushed himself up off his arms. He turned towards the tall angel, eyes hooded and dark with sleepiness. Raphael giggled and reached up to peel a scrap of parchment that had stuck to his cheek. Aziraphael cleared his throat and half smiled up at them.

"My dear, what are you doing here? Has so much time passed already? I am sorry if I missed our rendez..." he yawned widely, "vous."

"Oh don't be a silly angel, I knew you'd be here," they gestured widely towards the long corridor, "somewhere. Come on now, let's get you up." They tugged at Aziraphale's waist again with one arm, holding out the other to catch his hand.

Aziraphale pushed back in the chair and rose, enveloping the angel's slender hand in his own. Raphael saw him blush and turn towards the doorway.

"Oh no. I don't. I don't want anyone to see me taking my leave on work time though. That's why I stayed here, I was only going to rest my eyes for a moment. I should stay, I really MUST stay." He turned back towards the desk. Raphael tugged on his hand and bit their lip to stop the exasperated sigh that rose unbidden.

"Oh no you don't! You are coming with me!" They said firmly. Aziraphale spun back around, eyebrows knitting together and lips pursed in annoyance.

"Raphael it's not so simple! You know the rules, we..." he stopped as Raphael placed a long finger against his lips.

"Sssh, now, tired angel. Stroppy angel," they winked at him mischievously and rubbed their thumb across his knuckles, feeling the wide strong bones found there. "I know a place. No one ever goes there, I promise." Aziraphale sighed heavily them met their gaze, all the fight and heat drained out of his face.

"Promise? You're sure?"

"Absolutely! Just a couple of..." they looked up and waved their spare hand around, "Ngh I don't know. Units of time, we've not really nailed down a name for them yet. But you know, a couple of units let's say. Then you'll feel all better, and no one will have noticed a thing."

They looked down at him, tilting their head forward with wide eyes, and blinked a few times in succession. "Pleeease..."

Aziraphale blushed again as he met their gaze. "Alright then, but just for a little while!" He rushed out the words.

Raphael wiggled on the spot, feeling very pleased with themself. Squeezing that big, strong hand they led Aziraphale to the doorway before popping their head around the edge and looking both ways. The corridor was empty in both directions.

"All clear, come on!" Raphael said. They rushed through the doorway, hopping along the shiny floor as though it prickled their soles. They turned back the way they'd come in, heading in the vague direction of the stairwell.

They turned around, feeling Aziraphale's hand heavy in theirs. The angel was yawning again and they couldn't help tilting their head and letting out a soft sound of adoration. When they turned back, the door to the stairwell was suddenly in front of them.

"I'll never understand your offices, Angel." They pushed through the door and the two angels found themselves in a white and grey space, with stairs spiralling up and down. Raphael looked over the railing and shivered when they saw the gloomy blackness swallowing up the stairs far below.

"Right, we're going up. Come on Angel! It's not too far."

"I do hope not or I might just fall asleep right here on the stairs," Aziraphale said tritely. They started up the stairs together, side by side.

"Mm, don't think that'd be too comfy. What I've got in mind is much better." They flashed a smile at their companion.

After a few turns around and up the spiral, the stairway narrowed. They ascended one more flight and found themselves in front of a nondescript grey door.

"This is it," Raphael fizzed inside. They loved showing their Angel new things, little secrets they found here and there across the Universe. It made them feel something divine when they shared these moments. They raised their hand to the door and pushed, leading Aziraphale in by the hand.

The door closed behind them, and it was dark. A warm, velvet dark that lapped over them.

"Let there be light," Raphael whispered and made the tiniest motion. It was important that no one find this place, so they used the tiniest miracle they could. A small orb appeared in their hands glowing just enough to show them the floor and close surroundings.

They started forward again with Aziraphale trailing very close behind. They could feel his breath on the back of the neck. It sent tingles down their spine.

The shape of a doorway materialised out of the shadows and they stepped through. There was more light here, and Raphael snuffed out the light. They drew Aziraphale forward and snugged their arm around his waist. He was looking at them quizzically.

"Angel, look up," said Raphael and they both craned their heads back. Aziraphale gasped then.

Above them, the ceiling was not high. But it was entirely made of glass. Beyond the transparent canopy, the Vaults of Heaven were laid out in all their glory. The dark sky shifted through shades of dark blue, to purple, to almost black, with ribbons of lilac and pink and green meandering across the firmament. Golden stars twinkled, scattered across the vista like thousands of tiny lamps straining to shine the brightest. It was a singular, ethereal beauty. Despite all the work Raphael had done creating star systems, nebulas, and novas; there was still something a bit special about that view. The light coppery hairs on their arms prickled and stood up at the sight.

"Whaddya think?" They whispered.

"It's.. it's.. just divine! Beautiful!" Aziraphale paused for a moment. "Gorgeous, even!" Raphael grinned from ear to ear.

"I hoped you'd like it."

"Oh, I do. Very, very much." Aziraphale turned towards them, a contented smile creasing his eyes. "Thank you so much dearest! It really is wonderful!" Raphael felt their cheeks heating up.

"Aha, and that's not all!" They moved further into the room, easier to see as their eyes adapted to the low light. The room didn't appear well kept, strewn with a variety of oddly shaped dark shadows. Some of them looked like boxes.

In The middle was a particularly large shadow. Raphael smiled and reached down, clutching a large piece of fabric and pulling dramatically. They spun round and let the fabric flutter down to the ground, revealing a dusty, but soft-looking chaise longue with plush navy blue velvet.

"Now, come over here Angel," they stretched out their hand. Aziraphale took a few steps and then lurched forward, arms flailing. Raphael rushed towards him a step and felt the full force of the angel slam into them. They toppled backwards, tripping in turn against the end of the bed.

"Ouf!" Aziraphale said as he fell on top of the fiery-haired angel, who had instinctively wrapped their arms around his shoulders. "Oh darling, I'm so sorry. I tripped on something." He tried to raise himself up but Raphael tightened their arms around him, giving him a reassuring squeeze.

"S'alright Angel, I've got you," Raphael whispered into Aziraphale's ear and nuzzled into his soft curls. The smell of him was intoxicating. They felt him relax into their embrace, their breath rising and falling together.

"We should probably move a little dearest," Aziraphale's voice was muffled again, this time by Raphael's robes. "Shame to not make full use of this lovely spot you've found."

"Mm, I suppose you're right. I was just, you know, enjoying this for a moment." Raphael unwrapped their arms to release the angel, then scooted up onto the recliner which was practically a bed. Conveniently sized for two angels in fact. They leaned back and beckoned to Aziraphale with wide open arms.

Aziraphale climbed onto the bed on both knees and almost crawled upwards towards them. The sight made them feel giddy and glad to be lying down already. The Principality leaned over, planting a thick arm roped with muscle on each side of their fire-crowned head. They licked their lips, taking in as much detail as they could in the dim half-light. Looking up, they found Aziraphale's gaze. His eyes sparkled, shifting tones of grey and dark blue. Feeling his tender smile beaming down at them Raphael thought they might just discorporate there and then.

Aziraphale shifted and Raphael felt his hand against their cheek. Their breath hitched in response to the touch.

"You never cease to amaze me, my dearest darling Raphael." The angel's voice was warm. "My existence wouldn't be nearly as interesting without you."

Then they felt their lover's breath hot on their face, and they reached up to swing their arms around his back.

"Come here Angel."

Aziraphale dipped and they felt his soft, plush lips meet theirs. Sparks shivered through their limbs as they kissed, contented sounds escaping them. They closed their eyes, losing themself in the moment, in the warmth and love rolling off of their Angel's mouth and tongue. When Aziraphale broke their touch Raphael sighed into the space between them. They brushed noses affectionately, and they couldn't help but grin lazily when their beloved shifted to place a soft kiss on their forehead.

"I do love doing that you know," Aziraphale murmured into their hair.

"Mm, me too. S'great" Raphael replied. "But you should be getting some rest now. Come and lie down here." They patted the velvet beside them. "We can kiss some more next time you're free and not falling asleep under paperwork!" They teased.

Aziraphale shifted to lie down and they both looked up at the star-lined vista above them. Raphael wriggled closer, nestling into Aziraphale's shoulder and breathing deeply, trying to inhale the very scent of him, to capture the olfactive memory of the moment.

They shook out their wings then and draped one across the both of them. Aziraphale slid an arm under their neck and reached down to stroke the downy feathers st their shoulder blades.

"That you my dear, that's very nice. Very, what was it that word you found again? Cosy?"

"Mm, yeah, cosy," they sighed, tingles running through them as the angel's fingers stroked their feathers.

They both looked up in silence at the celestial skyscape, their breathing gradually slowing.

"I think I might quite like to come here again, with you darling." Aziraphale's voice was thick and heavy with sleep.

"Me too Angel, me too."

Raphael heard gentle snores and smiled happily. Then, tucked up warm and cosy and loved, they closed their eyes and slept.

---

tagging @disaster-dog thank you for the pre-Fall prompt!

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sarahowritesostucky · 1 month

Text

📖"The Taste of You"

Rating: Explicit

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Bucky Barnes

Tags: Fresh AU, dark rom-com, dark!Bucky, pre-serum Steve, cannibalism, kidnapping, yandere/basement wife, meet cute-ish, gay sex n' stuff, dub-con

Summary: Just when he's given up on ever finding Mr. Right, Steve meets the - seemingly - perfect guy at the grocery store.

A dark, cute, funny, fucked up, and very tasty love story.

A.N.: It's not as murdery as it sounds 😅 But, as per usual: minors DNI. It's a Fresh AU. "If you can't handle the cannibalism, get out of the kitchen"--or something like that

1. Specialty Ingredients

Steve watches, mouth literally hanging open, as it happens again: his date is stomping away, mad.

He just called Steve a scrawny, cock-teasing twink for making out a little on the sidewalk, but then declining to go back to his place to hook up. The guy pressed the issue and Steve got frustrated and told him tersely that he wasn't interested because they just met, okay? That went over like a lead balloon.

Steve scowls as the jerk disappears around the corner at the end of the block. “Well fuck you too,” he mutters, feeling put out—and okay, a little hurt, too. He’s not a cocktease. He’s not scrawny.

Well, maybe that second one is kind of true, but Steve hates how guys will act like they’re into his small stature when they think he’s a sure thing, but then get all derogatory and mean about it once he tries to tell them he’s looking for more than a hookup and wants to take it slow—and not even hetero people slow; gay guy slow, which is super fast in comparison! Steve just wants to get to know a guy for once before sleeping with him. Is that really so bad?

He huffs and turns around, walking dejectedly back to his car. Another handsome asshole, another hope dashed, another pathetic date. He really does have the worst luck, and he’s getting plain sick of it. He checks his phone before he drives away.

Clint: Well???

Steve sighs. He types back a reply to his friend

Steve: another dud

Clint: dude …

Steve rolls his eyes and chucks the phone onto the passenger seat. He turns the key in the ignition, the radio coming on to an old eighties love ballad that just worsens his sense of dejection. “Fucking figures,” he mutters, putting the car into drive.

He leaves the song playing though, because sometimes wallowing is called for.

The next morning, Steve wakes up in a glum mood. He tries to focus on his work for most of the day, rather than his horrible luck with dating, but as he paints the hours away he winds up pouting about it anyhow. He sinks further and further into a depressing pit of self-pity and despair.

Clint texts him, asking if he wants to go out and sing karaoke or something, and Steve knows he’s just trying to cheer him up and all, but he really can’t stand the thought of being cheerful right now.

Steve hates gay guys, he thinks, stomping over to the crappy small sink in his crappy small apartment’s kitchen. He runs the water and rinses off his brushes with a vengeance they don’t deserve. Gay guys suck. Steve hates how shallow they all are, how vapid and self-centered. All they want is to go clubbing and fuck around and that’s it. None of them want a real relationship, and they think Steve is boring for wanting to have a meaningful conversation instead of suck their dicks right away. He gets grumpier about it the more he thinks, and he even has the thought that at least if he were straight he could find someone with feelings, a desire for genuine connection. “Gay guys suck,” he mutters to his poor, abused paint brushes.

Nevermind that Steve himself is incontrovertibly homosexual and has no choice in the matter of what his dating pool consists of. After all: ‘Haters gonna hate, players gonna play’. “Gaays gonna gay, gay, gay, gay, gay.” Steve sings the tune under his breath. He just hates it, hates it all. He’s sick and tired of playing the game.

He sends Natalie a nastily self-deprecating text:

Steve: Know any of your girlfriends who might want to date a faggot?

It’s not nice, and he knows she won’t like him using that word in that context.

Natalie Potential Rich!! Buyer: another douche huh?

He sighs and texts back an apology with a huggy emoji.

Steve: Sorry 🤗 Just frustrated. All the good ones are taken and I’m not interested in the skanks who’re left over.

Natalie responds with the “Give that man a Snickers” Diva-meme, which makes Steve realize that he is, in fact, hungry. He needs to get something to eat. He needs to focus on himself for a change. Maybe it’s finally time to stop looking for Mr. Right and just enjoy Steve Rogers. Maybe he should join a gym, start a new hobby, anything to fill up his time with himself rather than another person.

He goes into the kitchen, thinking that he’ll make something yummy and binge watch a new series off his Netflix list, but scowls at the barren interior that greets him when he opens the fridge door. Nothing good to eat. “Fuck,” he mutters. He’s got to go to the grocery store now before he can sit down with a meal and relax.

And it’s raining outside, too. Just his fucking luck.

His phone ‘pings’ and he looks over at where he’d set it on the counter. The screen is lit up with a new notification from Grindr:

Henry super liked you!

He picks up the phone and opens the app. Henry’s profile pic is only from the neck down, showing off his abs. Steve rolls his eyes. The next picture is his lower half, a pair of tighty-whities stretched over his erection making it lewd, but still within the app’s no dick pic rules. The third pic is of his bare ass in a jockstrap.

Steve spends a second more than he intends appreciating the guy’s backside, but then he growls and jabs his finger at the screen to reject the guy. He’s fucking fed up with this entire thing! On a sudden, right-feeling whim, he exits the app and holds his finger down on the screen until all the icons start wiggling with their little x’s. He quickly proceeds to delete Grindr, Scruff, and Hornet from his phone.

He’s fucking done with dating. He’s giving up. Steve is just not meant to find Mr. Right. Not this year, anyway. He feels lighter after deleting the apps, and he slides his unburdened phone into his pocket with a sense of accomplishment and a shiny new idea: He’s not going to date for a whole year. He’s going to make this The Year of Steve.

Fuck yeah.

He goes to the hall closet to grab his umbrella and rain boots.

The walk to FreshMart is only four blocks from his apartment, but he still arrives at the grocery store a little damp from the gusting rain. He shakes off his umbrella by the door, grabs a basket, and directs himself towards the produce aisle. He’s added fingerling potatoes and some asparagus spears to his basket, and has just started perusing the meat section when he hears a man’s voice say,

“Hey, have you ever had this?”

Steve looks over. The guy is holding up a package of bloody red … something. Steve blinks. “Um …”

The stranger twists his lips and shakes his head, looking at the meat. “It’s venison. I thought I’d freak my sister out with something a little different.”

“Your sister?” Steve asks, feeling very odd at being asked his opinion in the middle of the meat department. He looks between the package of raw meat and the stranger—He’s unusually handsome, tall and strong-jawed, brown hair styled in an effortlessly flattering cut. Steve licks his lips nervously. “Um, isn’t that like, deer meat?” He takes a step closer to peer down at the label. “Huh.” He didn’t know regular grocery stores sold that kind of thing. “That’s … exotic,” he says, for lack of a better word.

The stranger chuckles. “Yeah, well. I actually don’t eat animals, so …” he shrugs. “But her and her husband and kids are total carnivores. Thought I’d bring something other than my usual bottle of wine.”

“Oh.” Steve peers up at the man, trying to figure him out. The man smiles sheepishly and Steve winds up smiling, charmed, if somewhat baffled. He looks the man in the eyes and is taken by how pretty they are, how intense. Damn he’s good looking. “Well I, ah, couldn’t tell you what it tastes like. I’ve never had it.” He makes a face. “Like I said, it’s exotic.”

“Oh I love to cook with exotic ingredients. I’m kind of an amateur cuisinier. Or at least I try to be.”

“Oh. Right.” Steve gestures to the blood package. “But you ah … you don’t cook only vegetarian stuff?”

The man grins (and shoot, he’s got an unfairly attractive smile, too). “I guess I just like to satisfy other people’s appetites,” he says, lips parted enticingly. And then his tongue darts out in this totally casual, should-be-illegal sort of way. “I take it you’re a meat eater,” he says knowingly.

Is that a double entendre? Steve thinks it might be a double entendre. Yes! he wants to scream. Yes! He is 1000% a meat eater. He gulps as the guy’s eyes flick down and back up his body in a heated onceover, and Steve may not always be the brightest bulb in the box, but he can tell when he’s being considered. Is this guy really flirting with him? Here? In the freaking grocery store? Is that even a real thing that happens, anymore? Steve flushes and pulls his shopping basket up higher in front of himself, like a shield. “I–I see,” he stammers. “Well … um … yeah.” God, he’s hopeless.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Venison’ll probably be … different.” He nods at the stranger, awkward and aware that the other man isn’t moving away. “Well. Good luck.” He turns and vacantly peruses the meats, pretending that he’s more invested in searching out the perfect porkchop than he really is. He hears the guy’s footsteps moving away.

“Fuck it,” the man says, and turns right back around. He takes a deep breath. “I like your boots.”

“What?”

The guy nods downwards. “Your rain boots. They’re really cute.”

Steve looks down at his feet. His rubber boots are pink and printed with the golden girls’ faces. He looks back up at the stranger, stunned. No straight guy on planet Earth would ever say such a thing. “Um. Thanks.”

The guy holds out his hand, friendly, like he’s not aware he’s acting weird as shit. “I’m James.”

Steve probably stares too long at the offered hand, before he hurries to shove the handles of his shopping basket up onto his one arm so that he can take the guy’s—James’—hand and shake it. It’s pleasantly large over his own hand. “Steve.”

James smiles. He’s arrestingly handsome when he doesn’t smile and Steve feels like an even weaker creature when he does. “Sorry,” James says, looking down shyly. “I uh, I don’t usually do this.”

“Do what?” Steve asks, keenly aware that he may just be about to be propositioned. He winces at the idea of having to turn down another good-looking jerk.

James tilts his head. “Would you …” He hesitates, eyes flicking up and over as a woman passes them. She turns and goes down the soda aisle. He looks back to Steve, distracted. “I was gonna be crazy and ask for your number,” he says, flushing. Steve doesn’t even get a chance to say anything before James is scrubbing his hand over his embarrassed face. “Fuck, I’m sorry. You’re probably not even—” He looks back to the soda aisle where the woman had gone. “Sorry,” he mumbles again, and starts to walk away. “Human disaster in the meat aisle. Just ignore me, please.”

“Wait!” Steve blurts. James turns back around. “Why do you want my number? Were you gonna ask me out? Like on a date?” He uses the word purposefully.

“Well, yeah.” James looks apologetic. “Sorry. I know it’s weird.”

It is weird. But Steve is kind of charmed by the guy’s odd methods. He promptly pushes away his resolution of The Year of Steve. “James,” he says, taking a step closer. “Um, you can. Have my number.” He peeks up at him shyly. “If you want.”

James' happy-surprised-enthused smile is the best one yet. They exchange numbers.

Clint: Wait, wat do you mean, the grocery store??

Steve: he came over and just started talking to me.

Clint: … that’s weird, man. That’s shady.

Steve: actually it was kind of cute. Kind of idk old fashioned.

Clint: Kind of weird. Whats his Insta?

Steve doesn’t hear from James for almost three days. He alternates between finding it refreshing, and being disappointed. Maybe Clint’s right. Maybe the guy was just a weirdo.

Then, on the third day, Steve is leaving from his morning shift at Michaels when he hears his phone ‘ping’ with a notification. When he sees the name “Weird Meat Guy” on the screen, his face splits in a grin.

Weird Meat Guy: Been thinking about you since the other day.

Happy butterflies come to life in Steve’s stomach at the flirtatious tone of the text. His first instinct is to force himself to ignore it for at least thirty minutes, so that he doesn’t seem overeager. But then he thinks, fuck it, just like James had said in the grocery store before turning right back around to ask him out.

Steve types a reply.

Steve: hey stranger. Yeah I was wondering how that venison worked out for you. 😂What’s it taste like?

Weird Meat Guy: I don’t eat animals, not even for my sister’s Sunday dinners. But she said it was fine. Not as good as regular old cow, though🐄🥩

Steve: not surprising.

There’s a bit of a pause where he can see James is typing and deleting and typing again. Then,

Weird Meat Guy: Do you want to go out tonight? We could grab drinks or something?

Steve bites his lip, bad memories of “casual” meetups and “just grabbing drinks” dates and what they’ve always led to, in the past.

Steve: let’s go out to eat. At a restaurant or something. A real date.

James texts back almost immediately, and his answer makes Steve beam like a fool.

Weird Meat Guy: Hell yeah. What’s your favorite kind of food?

Steve can’t help it; he has a good-verging-on-great feeling about this guy. He tries to tuck away his expectations that this time it’ll be different. He can still do The Year of Steve if or when this goes wrong. He’ll just try this one last time though. Just once more before he swears off being a “meat eater” for the year.

He tells James that he really likes Italian food, and the next thing he knows, James is sending him the link to a really nice and expensive Italian place in Brooklyn. Steve thrills at James' enthusiasm, and grimaces at the three dollar signs that Google has lined up beside the restaurant’s name.

He tells James okay, figures he’ll just tighten up his budget a bit for a few weeks after.

James meets him inside the restaurant, at the bar. He’s already got a drink in his hand. “It’s an old fashioned,” he tells him sheepishly. “Sorry to start without you.”

“No, it’s fine.”

“I just get a little nervous when I ask a cute guy out to dinner.”

Steve freezes, but then his mouth twitches. “Oh,” he says. “You, ah … you think I’m cute, huh?”

James grins and winks at him in a way that is devastating and should-not-be-allowed. “Yeah. I sure do.”

Steve is charmed.

The hostess seats them in a dark and cozy booth in the back of the restaurant. Steve settles in and looks around, impressed. “This is a really nice place,” he says, genuinely meaning it but also kind of anxious to open his menu and get a look at whatever prices garnered a $$$ on Google.

“Yeah it’s one of my favorites.” James is grinning at him from across the table. “I was so glad you picked Italian, cause then I knew I had the perfect place to bring you.”

Bring you. Steve looks down and tries not to smile too obviously at the words. “I like it so far,” he says, peeking up coyly at James so that he knows Steve doesn’t just mean the restaurant.

James seems to get it, if his expression is anything to go by.

They open their menus and Steve’s stomach drops at the forty dollar appetizers. Shit. He wishes he’d found a way to mention to James that he’s kind of a starving artist.

“Do you like mushrooms?” James asks, oblivious to Steve’s internal panic. He’s looking across the table at him with eager eyes. “They’ve got the best stuffed mushrooms I’ve ever had. I think they put crack in ‘em.”

Steve laughs despite himself, then decides ‘fuck it’ once again, and closes his menu with a nod. “Sure,” he says. “Let’s do it.” He’ll live frugally for a month if he has to.

James orders them the appetizer and an entire bottle of wine that he knows by its specific name and year. All Steve makes out is the “‘94 ” part of it, and his heart rate picks up. He’s about to really worry about how the hell much a place like this is going to charge for an entire bottle of wine that’s older than he is, but then when the server delivers it and pours for them, James shoots him a wink and tells him, “S’my treat.”

Oh. Steve’s heart flutters as much at the gentlemanly gesture as it does at the possibility that maybe James will pay for the whole meal. A guy can dream.

The mushrooms arrive and Steve gushes to James about how he was right: they are amazing. They get to talking, covering the standard ‘first date’ questions, and it’s stupid and awkward like it always is; but also it isn’t, because James seems to laugh about the awkwardness of it, too. And that makes it kind of fun.

James is thirty-seven to Steve’s twenty-seven (Daddy kink: activated). He has a place in Manhattan but his sister lives in Brooklyn, which is why he was shopping at the FreshMart in Steve’s neck of the woods the other day. He’s got one parent still living, grew up with a loving family but “pretty poor” in Jersey. He hasn’t been in a relationship or even been on a date in “a really long time.” He wants to travel more but he lets his work consume him too much. He doesn’t eat animals.

He’s also really good at making the whole first-date interrogation-phase go smoothly. It’s fun with him, Steve realizes, not awful and strained like it usually would be. Their conversation just seems to flow naturally and easily, both of them smiling almost continually as they chat and joke.

Steve is utterly charmed.

“Okay,” James says, as he pops another mushroom into his mouth and then talks around it. “I’ll do another boring one: what do you do for work?”

Steve gulps and delays answering by taking a sip of the wine—a red that downright tastes expensive. “Um, well my passion is my art. It’s what I went to school for.” He tucks his lips in and shrugs. “But, ya know, ‘starving artists,’ and all that. So I work part time at Michaels, too.”

James doesn’t look like he’s thinking that Steve’s a stereotype or a loser or anything like that. “That’s awesome!” he says, sounding like he genuinely means it. “What kind of art? Or like, what medium do you work with?”

Steve blinks. Nobody ever asks him good questions like this, like they actually care and want to dig deeper into who he really is. “Um, mostly acrylics. Some watercolors and pencil-charcoal sketching,” he says, flustering at the way that James pays such close attention to his answers. “I like to mix it up sometimes, but mostly it’s those three.” He shrugs. “I sell online. I have one really loyal patron—she keeps me afloat. S’nothing that special.”

“Sounds like you know your stuff,” James counters, not letting him insist on his own mediocrity. “If you went to school for it and all, then you must be pretty good. Don’t you have to, like, audition for art school?”

Steve blushes and looks away. “Well. Yeah.”

“And I bet you get all your supplies cheap with the side gig, huh?”

Steve stares at him. “Yeah,” he says, impressed. “Employee discount.”

James nods sagely, as if he’s ever had to worry in his life about the utility of an employee discount. He might’ve grown up poor, but he’s clearly well-off now. Steve can tell that the suit he’s wearing is a custom tailored deal, and the wine he’s ordered for the table has a bouquet of oak and dollar bills. “I think it’s really brave of you,” he’s telling Steve, looking like he admires him or something ridiculous like that. “That you’re following a passion like that? That you can just …” he makes a shaping gesture over the table with his hands, “make something with your own two hands and then sell it? That’s incredible.”

The more James talks, the more Steve gets his hopes up that he might actually be A Really Great Guy™️. Steve can hardly stand to take all the compliments, so he turns the question back around on James: “What about you? What do you do for work?”

James hesitates. “... I’m a surgeon.”

Steve’s eyes go wide and his mouth drops open, making him look like A Gold Digger™️, probably. He closes his mouth. “Oh. Wow, that’s … that’s neat. Medical school, then, huh?”

James smiles through a wince, as if being a freaking doctor is no big deal. “Yeah. It was rough for a few years, but I got through it. I’m in a good place now. It’s pretty smooth sailing.”

“So do you work at like a hospital or something?”

“Not exactly.” He stares at him for a long moment, then suddenly says, “Gosh, I’m just really attracted to you, Steve.” Steve blinks, taken-aback. He reaches for a hurried sip of his wine and tries to think of a response to the weird shift in conversation. “Sorry,” James hurries. “I just felt like I had to say it.” He gives Steve a tender look rather than a lecherous one, which is a welcome change from the usual script. “I think I might really like you.”

Steve flusters and averts his eyes to the tabletop, peeking back up at James a few times. The guy is totally focused on him. It’s intimidating, but not in a bad way. “Yeah,” Steve eventually manages to murmur. “Yeah I think you might be nice.”

James teases him about the ‘nice’, and they fall into easy banter again as they finish the mushrooms and open up their menus to choose their entrees. Steve’s once again fixated on the prices, and he immediately starts trying to see if there’s anything under sixty dollars …

“By the way,” James says casually, not looking up from where he’s reading his menu. “I know this place is fucking ridiculous: I got it covered.”

He says it all easy and nonchalant, like it’s no big deal that he’s treating Steve to what’s probably a three hundred dollar dinner, and Steve once again feels like he’s on a date with a hero, a real gentleman. “Kay,” he says smally, feeling delighted and hopeful as heck on the inside.

He orders a seafood linguini, and James gets a spinach and cheese tortellini dish. “This is so good,” Steve practically moans around a mouthful of his food.

James makes a noise of agreement, stuffing another tortellini shell in his mouth. “Mmph.”

“So you really don’t eat any meat?” Steve winds up asking. “Like, not even fish or chicken or anything?” Where does he get his protein? James looks like he keeps in good shape …

James chuckles. “Nope. Haven’t touched the stuff for … gosh, almost fifteen years.”

“Wow.” Steve spears up another shrimp from his pasta and wonders if it offends James. “So like, is it an ethical thing or just …”

“No, no. I just kind of had this epiphany one day—while I was tenderizing a thigh, mind you—that all the things I was eating were living creatures, that we’re animals just like they are.” He makes a thoughtful face as he considers it. “It’s not a moral viewpoint so much as it is a …” he trails off and his eyes return to Steve with an apologetic shrug. “I dunno. My viewpoint shifted that day. Couldn’t shift it back. I’ve tried so many other things now, animal meat just doesn’t taste the same anymore.”

“I can respect that.” Steve wiggles his fork that’s speared with a juicy scallop. “As long as you don’t mind this.”

“No, no way. Don’t you remember where we met?”

Steve snickers. “Oh yeah, how could I forget. What was it you said? You like to ‘satisfy other people’s appetites’?” He chances a flirty look across the table. “Wasn’t that how you put it?”

James chews, smirking, and he winks at Steve again. Goddamn. “Yeah,” he says lowly. “Yeah. I sure do.”

On the sidewalk outside the restaurant they stand close together, bundled in their jackets. Neither one of them seems to want to leave. “Thanks again,” Steve says. “For dinner. It was really nice.”

“My pleasure.” James takes a step closer, so that they’re almost toe to toe. “I was so excited to go out with you,” he says. He brings a hand up and traces the side of Steve’s face with the backs of his fingers, not looking at Steve’s eyes but rather where he’s touching his cheek. “You’re different,” he murmurs. "And I knew it the moment I met you."

Wow, what a fucking intense thing to say. Steve … doesn’t hate it. “I am?” he whispers, watching his breath swirl on the air between their faces.

“Mmhm. I can tell.”

Steve shivers and fights the urge to press into James’ touch on his cheek. It feels unduly intimate, and they’re already so close. “I was excited for tonight, too,” he confides. “I’ve had a lot of bad luck with dating. Was getting sick of trying, to be honest.”

“But?” James asks softly, and Steve looks up at him, for once feeling open and honest enough to just admit,

“But I didn’t meet you on some app. And you liked my stupid Golden Girls boots.” James chuckles and Steve looks up, taking in his face up close: the dimple in his chin, the creases of age that’ve barely begun to collect at the corners of his eyes, that one tiny patch of grey in his beard. It makes him all the more insufferably handsome. “And you’re charming,” he whispers. “So there’s that.”

James smiles softly. “Aw, shucks.”

“I think you’re a really nice guy, James. I’d like to see you again.”

James' smile widens hopefully. “Yeah?” he says, leaning even closer.

“Yeah. I think, well … I just think …”

“What?” James touches his face again, this time palming his cheek. “Tell me.”

“Oh, it’s nothin’.” Steve finally lets his eyes slip closed, enjoying the feeling of James’ hand on his skin, the cologne he gets a whiff of when they’re standing this close. “You smell nice.”

“Thank you. Still haven’t told me what you were gonna say.”

Steve smiles sadly. “Oh, I’m just getting my hopes up about you, is all.” He’s still got his eyes closed when James kisses him. He inhales sharply through his nose, surprised. But he doesn’t pull away, and they just … keep kissing.

Eventually James cups his face with both hands and Steve moans, because the way James is kissing him feels so natural and good. He feels like he can taste James' good intentions as they make out softly, right there on the sidewalk.

When they part they’re both panting a little, heavy-lidded eyes flicking over one another, gauging, desire tinged with uncertainty. “That was …” James breathes.

“Yeah,” Steve says, and they both stare at each other for another long moment, before Steve says, “Fuck it,” and surges in to grab James by his jacket and kiss him again, this time harder. James whimpers needily into his mouth, and heat shoots through Steve’s belly at hearing it, arousal flaring to life faster than he can handle. Suddenly his pants feel a little tight, and he wants James so badly he can hardly stand it. “Oh man,” he groans, pulling away from the kiss, grimacing at himself for what he’s about to say. “I really, really never do this,” he promises against James' lips. “But … Do you want to go back to my place?”

James' eyes widen. “Yeah,” he breathes. “Fuck. Yeah, okay.”

They kiss eagerly one more time and then hurry off, giddy, hands clasped, and headed in the direction where James says he’s parked his car.

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