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hitlikehammers · 3 months

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Steddie Wrong Blind Date AU 💜

what if you meet the wrong love of your life?

He doesn’t know how the fuck he got here. At a very nice bar in a very nice restaurant.

Sitting alone.

Or well: he knows. It’s more that he can’t believe he let it happen.

Again.

Because Steve had finally (finally!) made sufficient enough threats logical arguments to curb Robin’s attempts—well-meaning, dingus, well meaning attempts!—to set him up with so-and-so’s cousin or whoever-the-fuck’s roommate. The blind dates had actually been his first successful method to ultimately shoot down, on the basis that they weren’t just fucking humiliating: they were goddamn degrading.

For reasons such as his current situation.

And of all the things Robin desired for him, they both knew she’d never knowingly cause him pain. So that left him working with awkward introductions at parties, sometimes at completely random places even, like too-weird-to-be-coincidence run-ins at the grocery store and shit, where Robin just so happened to be shopping when both her targets were there. It was borderline frightening, but. It was very Robin. And Steve adored her more than anything and struggled too much to stay mad at her—he’s definitely tried his damnedest, more than once—so. He knows her intentions come from the heart, regardless of how disastrously they pan out in reality.

Which is why Steve is allowing this once—and only once—because he’s not stupid, but. He appreciates the ingenuity.

And getting your girlfriend to make the blind date pitch was…technically honoring his rules.

So. He’s allowing this to slide once. Once. One time.

One. More. Time.

And he’s already got his justification, fucking iron clad too, to call it on sight. Failed attempt, the guy’s already twenty minutes late and that’s…that’s past fashionable, really, especially for a set up like this. He glances at his phone, just to see if he’s got anything from Chrissy as an update—Steve loves her, and Robin adores her, and that’s the only reason he’s not spending the minutes he waits, sipping stupidly-slow at the same tequila sunrise, plotting revenge against her for being so gullible, so willing to not merely enact Robin’s last-gasp efforts but to participate, actively, because apparently tonight’s ’perfect match, he’s so your type!’ was Chrissy’s suggestion—but there’s nothing. Just the last message from an hour ago reassuring him against backing out in the first place:

he’s tall, dark, handsome, 100% your type. maybe a little *theatrical*: you’ll LOVE him 💕

Steve didn’t, and still doesn’t, understand what she means by theatrical, and honestly he’s kinda wary for it—he doesn’t like playing games when it comes to romance: he’s too all-in, and too quickly, for any of that.

Which also means that, as much as he thinks it’s a fucking laughable sham to have agreed to this, and as much as he’d walked in knowing that, knowing he was entertaining the farce against his own will: it still…doesn’t sting, exactly. But it definitely squeezes uncomfortably in his chest for no good reason that he’s been fucking stood up and yeah, yeah, that means it’s time to—

He reaches for his drink and notices it’s empty. Just another sign, really, so he move to gesture the bartender over to pay but—

Someone’s got a better angle, actually gets the guy’s attention before Steve can even try—a someone sitting two empty chairs down who lifts his glass for another, then gestures the exact same way with an empty toward Steve’s sad glass of ice.

“On mine,” he tips his chin Steve’s direction before the bartender grabs Steve’s glass along with the stranger’s and makes for refills, then it’s just the stranger turning the whole of his body around on the stool to face…Steve.

“For the handsome nobleman,” and he says it with a stilted lilt that’s somehow not disingenuous, and it’s odd, to put it mildly, paired with a little bow of his head that definitely matches the affected voice but also definitely gives the stranger a perfect window to run his gaze up and down Steve’s seated frame—it’s a good move, Steve can’t even deny it, no matter how…weird.

But…also, there’s a warmth in it? Maybe in the gaze, something that’s not just heat, or maybe in the tone that’s not just putting on a show.

Something.

“In fact I do say the very handsome nobleman doth sit alone beyond comprehension,” the stranger seems to correct himself, and the way his lips curl, wider and then pull back a little, like he hesitates, like he’s maybe bolder than this in other situations but is reserving himself just a touch for here and now—and goddamn but this is pretty fucking bold already, whatever it actually is:

“And he deserves plentiful libations,” and Steve didn’t even notice the new drink on the counter until the stranger reaches, tips precariously on his stool, and slides the glass closer before nodding toward it, almost like another little bow: “in his tarrying.”

Steve stares wordless for a second because, outside of that weird fucking Renaissance Fair thing the kids dragged him to, he’s never heard anyone talk like that. So the setting’s all fucked up because this is Manhattan, at a not-particularly-inexpensive bistro type venue, definitely devoid of turkey legs.

Plus the guy in question doesn’t quite look the part—gorgeous curls to the shoulders, facial structure to kill a man, legs for days draped down the stool and dressed in shades of black top to bottom, from the button up in charcoal fucking silk, to the weirdly-suited boots that might have a steel toe hiding or might just be playing, the only color on him the pout of his lips and the slight flush visible in the low bar light brushed over his cheeks before he leans a little closer, eyes maybe the darkest thing about him and kinda goddamn mesmerizing for it, especially for how they somehow tiptoe along a fine line between almost disorienting focus on Steve and Steve alone, and something close to hesitant, or maybe more bashful when he clears his throat and asks:

“Perhaps this very handsome nobleman would also enjoy some company,” and his tone’s not even playing coy about being hopeful, before he full-on lays a palm to his chest in old-fashioned apology as his lashes flutter a little and he goes all self-deprecating, and genuine in it, as he adds in that same bashfulness:

“Even if only that of a humble bard, such as myself?”

And Steve’s not above being wholesale dumbstruck for a good second, like his hearing goes tunneled and his pulse echoes for the narrowing: this man is unreal.

Very…theatrical. One-hundred percent his type. Two-hundred percent, even. Jesus.

So Steve’s quiet for a second, but he’s not known for his charm because he can’t bounce back quicker than average, certainly quicker than risking that gorgeous face falling for the dashing for the hope painted open all over it, not a stroke of artifice in sight.

Steve’s not even trying when he fucking feels his own automatic walls start to slip as he leans, meets the man move for move so they can hear each other close as the bar starts to fill a little more:

“Only if I can get the next round,” and if Steve purrs it, it’s a reflex; if it darkens those already depthless eyes, well. He’s close enough to appreciate the swell of the pupil, the deepening of the flush on those cheeks.

If Steve’s heart jumps a little, there’s not a soul who can call him out for it; tree in the woods with no one to hear it fall.

But it does. It so does.

The man does an adorable little shimmy across the seats between them, taking the one closest to Steve and then doing a little scootching of even that to settle all the closer, and it shouldn’t be endearing, but Steve feels like he can bet on his ribs being sore by the end of whatever this is, or ends up being, just for the swelling beneath them already underway.

“If my request is being so highly honored, so as to join you,” the man takes a little bundle of his curls and drags them across the corner of his lips before tucking it back and…Steve has the immediate urge to have done it for him instead, what the hell, too fucking soon, man—

“Does his majesty have a name?”

It takes Steve a couple long seconds to register that the man means him, though it doesn’t escape Steve that the reference, while it took a while to land? Never for an instant felt like it did in high school, or even shortly after. It felt…warm.

“Steve,” he says with a smile, more twisting his palm than extending his hand to shake given their proximity; “and you, my,” Steve licks his lips then presses them tight around a grin before choosing his words: “very odd but very endearing bard, was it?”

“It was, indeed,” the man lights up near fluorescent; “I’m Eddie.”

Maybe it’s the way he says it, or the way he takes Steve’s hand. But…Jesus.

It’s…a really good name.

“Then tell me, Eddie,” Steve doesn’t let go of the hand in his, their touches just slowly slide apart and it feels…like a loss but not a crushing one, Eddie’s still close enough to feel the heat of him.

“Unless I’m totally off, I think I know from exposure, not playing, that a bard’s a musician, yeah?” Or is it a storyteller, or maybe both, there’s a good fucking reason he never have in to playing the nerd game—

“Tell me what makes you introduce yourself like that right off the bat, then.”

And Eddie glows for the opening, the invitation, and the thing is? He doesn’t stop; he’s like a star unto himself, shining and bathing Steve in the glimmer as he talks about music, about growing up in a house of it, about it being tough sometimes but his mother took him to live with his uncle, the three of them and then it was easier and there was also more music, new music, and he tells Steve about bands he’s played in, joined and left, guitars he’s loved and lost, the whole shipping boxes he has piled with full notebooks of lyrics and ideas from years upon years; and then he pivots, or maybe that’s not even it, because what he really does is test the waters around where Steve thought the bard reference came from in the first place—the nerd game. Steve confesses he was a mostly an unwilling bystander but it was probably more because he didn’t get it, and honestly his reluctance was more for show than anything, he loved what his kids loved at the end of the day, what made them happy—which left Steve explaining the kids, explaining Robin, explaining his family in a way Steve hasn’t done in relationships that lasted months, let alone first conversations on very first dates.

He should be terrified. He isn’t.

He should be terrified of the isn’t. And…and yet.

“My turn for a question,” Eddie fills the first soft lull in conversation, one that stretches taffy-sweet and almost kinda giddy; Steve doesn’t even know what he’s feeling because he doesn’t know if he’s ever felt it before, like, ever—all he knows is that it’s kind of fucking fantastic, like something he already never wants to let go of. So of course he nods, welcomes Eddie’s turns for a question even if it doesn’t seem entirely necessary; the back-and-forths sliding so natural, so balanced.

“Why the choice of drink?”

Eddie nods at the glass almost empty in his hand while Steve squints and laughs a little.

“What?” Steve asks because he doesn’t understand, sure, but also because the unpredictability, alongside the sheer earnestness of this man is…it’s disarming in the best fucking way. Like maybe Steve’s falling but he never wants to stop and—

Too soon, too fucking soon even if that’s not what he meant, exactly; he thought it, and it’s too fucking soon—

“Everyone has a reason for ordering a drink,” Eddie explains with a grin that pops those delicious dimples; “habit, by which there’s a story of the first time you tried it,” he ticks off on his nimble looking fingers, the rings on them catching the lights; “spontaneity, by which there’s a tale of what inspired it,” and fuck, they’re so long, those fingers, Steve kinda wonders how many knuckles he could fit in his mouth; “memories, by which there’s something poking at them.”

Eddie pauses, takes Steve in, no doubt sees Steve hanging onto, damn near salivating over his every word even as he swallows and takes a breath to collect himself as discreetly as he’s capable; it just makes those dimples divot deeper.

“I could go on,” Eddie offers, a little sly in his smile, the knowing kind, but his tone is soft, like maybe Steve’s not the only one feeling…things. And maybe Eddie wants him to know it. Maybe so that he’s not alone. Maybe because they both fucking like it. Maybe—

“Habit,” Steve answers, unable to keep from smiling around the rim of his glass when he takes a sip. “I got sick on shots and swore off straight tequila, but I was always up for the, y’know, frou-frou drinks,” he swirls the maybe-two-swallows left for show: “so long as it tasted good I didn’t give a shit, y’know, and then a,” Steve pauses a second, wonders how best to describe that particular figure from his past before settling on:

“An old friend, told me once,” and then Steve pauses again, this time because he can feel the rush of heat to his cheeks because oh, shit, now he’s backed himself into having to say it—

“Oh, now you have to share,” Eddie coaxes, a singsong in his voice and a wide-eyed wonder to him, something like genuine investment in what comes next, what’s next in something solely about Steve, that almost soothes the embarrassment;

“Unless you’re displaying the answer with this,” and Eddie only just brushes the flat of his fingernail to Steve’s cheekbone, too quick to appreciate the shiver it sends down Steve’s spine, through his fucking veins, that’s not helped one bit by Eddie murmuring, a little sensual, but somehow also a little dazed, a little starry-eyed when he breathes out:

“Blush like the sunrise.”

And if he wasn’t already, fuck knows Steve is now.

He misses Eddie’s touch against it, too. Even so fleeting. Wishes he were bold enough, or foolish enough, to grab Eddie’s hand and let him feel what he’s doing, the heat in him. The way his blood rushes.

He’s not, because that’s fucking insane and way too much too soon, but.

Wanting doesn’t play by those rules.

“Almost,” Steve picks up the glass and swirls it again; “he said I was like sunshine,” Steve recalls with a little grin—it’s a softer memory now than it used to be. He laughs a little and downs the last of what’s left of his drink. “Think it was more because of a yellow sweater I wore way too much at the time, but,” and he places the empty down and so he doesn’t see it coming until it happens: Eddie’s hand. On his hand, on the glass.

“No.”

Steve looks up, barely breathes. Eddie has soft hands.

“No, I think it was more than that, Sunshine,” Eddie tells him, honest and certain and a little breathless and Steve’s of two equal minds: he’s never been so aroused. But he’s also never felt so seen.

And wanted.

“Another?” Eddie asks, but his eyes don’t leave Steve’s to look at their drinks, to be anywhere but in this moment, here with him.

“You’re sure?” Steve makes himself ask it, doesn’t bother forcing himself to sound anything but pulling for one answer and one answer alone. “Don’t have somewhere better to be?”

“Wouldn’t have asked otherwise,” Eddie does look away then, but down at their hands, strokes his thumb a little down where Steve’s wrist starts to curve. “And I’m struggling just now to think of anywhere better than right here.”

And then Eddie’s placing his fingers between Steve’s, just resting them in the middle spaces: they’d fit. So well.

They…will. They will fit fucking gloriously.

“My round, then,” though Steve’s lost count if they’re even, how many drinks they’ve actually had—not too many, he’s pleasantly buzzed at best and maybe more on the company than anything else if he’s honest, but he likewise doesn’t know how long they’re been there, sipping between baring their fucking souls in the most mundane ways that…

That Steve thinks have started to kindle something in him. Started to breathe life into a part of him he didn’t know was dormant, forgot he could feel until it started unfurling like this, deep in his chest.

“Need something to cut through the sugar,” he says idly, but he doesn’t miss the way Eddie’s breath catches when Steve tightens his fingers to catch Eddie’s before letting go, sliding the glass forward so the bartender can see and then he orders: “The Glenlivet 14,” he points; “neat,” then he glances at Eddie’s glass of melting ice—he’s been on Black Russians the whole time;

“Keeping at it, or something new?”

“You make a compelling argument for easing up the sweet,” Eddie cocks his head, taps his chin consideringly; “especially when you’re agreeing to remain as my company,” he shoots over a heated glance and a smile too big to be as wicked as Steve thinks Eddie might have aimed for but it doesn’t matter, it has the same bewitching, pulse-stuttering effect either way.

“Bulleit Rye, on the rocks,” Eddie taps his glass with a certain finality.

“A man after my own heart,” Steve comments with a nod; it’s a good order. He doesn’t think about the words themselves before they come out.

“And if I wanted to be?”

And then Steve thinks about the words with every goddamn cell in his body, like his blood repeats them and the electricity that works his brain as much as his heart is making little lightning storms around the comment, then the question, and then the implication because Steve…

Steve’s never wanted anything more. Steve’s never been offered anything even close and here’s this man? And he can’t be saying what Steve..thinks he has to be saying because what else can those words mean—

“Too quick?” Eddie pulls back the slightest bit and Steve misses him immediately; “I usually am, I’m so—“

Steve misses him, and will not have him doubting because Steve knows that feeling intimately, knows this man deserves none of it, and knows it’s anything but warranted when Steve’s heart, the one Eddie might want to be after, just took up leaping in his fucking chest like a goddamn gazelle.

So Steve doesn’t think, at all, when he grabs the hand Eddie placed on his a few minutes ago and cups it to his chest, the best proof he knows that can’t be overthought, or rationalized away.

Eddie’s eyes are confused, for a second, until he feels it.

And then: but, fuck.

Steve’s never watched a flower blossom all at once before but…that’s all he can think of with the slow crawl of a smile, the bright gleam of something like wonder in eyes that get impossibly wider, a chest that rises and falls heavy abd quick under the silk Steve wants to unbutton a little, see more of that milk-smooth throat save now that he’s looking, he can see enough to take note of Eddie’s pulse there: riotous.

It’s too good. It’s too much.

But Eddie feels it with his own hand. Steve sees it with his own eyes.

Here they are.

“That’s usually my line,” Steve finally exhales, tries to make it a joke between them, an understanding and maybe it works, maybe they’re both too distracted by the hinting promise of maybe never needing to have such a joke again:

“Not too quick.”

And Eddie stays there, riveted, beaming something blinding and Steve just…feels his own heartbeat. Under a hand that doesn’t seem inclined to want to move.

Not too quick.

Eddie blinks at him, almost like he’s waking up from something he wasn’t even aware he’d been sleeping through, or walking through half-dazed. Like he’s seeing something real for the very first time. His breaths are fast, a little shaky, and then he’s standing, pulling Steve’s hand from his chest up to Eddie’s mouth and kissing his knuckles, watching Steve every second as Steve’s own breath hitches, and then pulling away, but not letting go yet. Like he’s reluctant to.

“Let me hit the head real fast, throw some water on my face to make sure I’m not dreaming,” Eddie whispers to him, breathless still and looking almost like he’s trembling; “while he gets those poured,” he tips his head toward the bar where their drinks are still waiting their turn.

Then Eddie’s brining Steve’s hand to his lips again and whispering there, and yeah, the man’s shaking a little as he breathes, almost shy:

“Don’t go anywhere?”

As if it’s even a question.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Steve promises with all he’s got, because he thinks…it’s insanity, but he thinks maybe he walked so reluctantly into this bar however many hours ago and somehow, by some act of benevolent fate, he’s…found the man who’ll prove to be the love of his life?

Steve could not be moved for anything.

Eddie walks half-backward for how much he turns to look back at Steve, and Steve waves a few times, makes a few stupid faces just to see Eddie struggle not to giggle, and it’s…

He did say his chest was gonna be sore by the end of the night but, Jesus. He doesn’t know if he even has ribs left, or if they’re all broken, crushed to smithereens, for how full his chest feels. Nothing so common and simple as the bones of him could stand up to this and not be changed.

He smiles as he pulls his phone out—when was the last date he had where he didn’t look at his phone? Has he ever been on one before?—and he registers they’ve been sitting here, sharing themselves in a way that feels more like laying a foundation, deliberately, and that’s, that is…

Steve’s spent a very long time wishing for someone who’d want that, with him of all people. He was pretty sure he’d made his peace with never finding it. And then: here he is.

He bites his lower lip, lest his grin crack his face, when he thinks of texting Chrissy real quick and just…thanking her. Because, yeah.

Steve did, in fact, end up loving him.

Like…too-soon-but-for-real-pitter-patter-heart-skipping-beats shit.

So he thumbs open the chat and sees…unread messages.

He doesn’t full-on frown, too high on, just, everything, so he opens the texts before he can assume the worst of someone texting him during a date they, you know. Played a key role in setting up:

he may be running late for traffic, if you haven’t left please STAY I promise he is WORTH IT 🙏🏻💞

Steve’s not even sure Eddie was late, maybe they’d been sitting a few stools away for twenty minutes: it feels like a lifetime ago, now, and—

Then Steve sees the timestamp. Sent…like two hours ago.

He’d been at least two tequila sunrises in, with Eddie versus on his own, by then so, what was Chrissy even talking about—

He scrolls to the most recent message.

Seventeen minutes ago.

omg Steve I’m so sorry and *he* is so sorry, he’s absolutely cut up about this he’s still in traffic but he says he’s determined to try, he’s got flowers for you and everything he’s SUCH A GOOD GUY STEVE I swear I wouldn’t have done this if if I didn’t think he’d treat you like you deserve and this isn’t his fault, I even checked waze and it’s a mess but he understands if it’s too much and—

“Everything okay?”

Eddie’s already taken his seat, and is looking at Steve with polite interest, not leaning to see what’s on his screen like so many people do on instinct, but there’s actual concern underneath, and investment in it. Like whatever’s wrong, Eddie wants to help fix it.

Steve, reeling over the way the puzzle pieces are slotting into place—namely that, by all accounts, the earliest his intended date could have arrived was maybe ten minutes ago—looks up at Eddie, turns his phone screen-down on the bar and clears his throat, bites the bullet.

“This may seem like a,” Steve takes a deep breath, because he has to ask even if he is almost dead certain of the answer; “a kinda out-of-nowhere question but.”

And then Steve meets Eddie’s eyes square on, lets them wash over him and fucking hell: they steady him. Already, they’re an anchor for him in the worst of storms.

“Were you, by any chance, here for a blind date?”

Steve watches Eddie’s face cycle through maybe the five stages of…shock, more than grief given the context, he guesses, but they’re somehow closer to one another than Steve would’ve thought, definitely considering they only just met, though then he’s gotta consider that it feels like Eddie’s burrowed safe in his chest amidst all the blossoming joy, all the warm fullness like he lives there to be kept inside it always and also to maintain it, preserve it, as its sole cause and reason to be: but Eddie—Eddie looks at him with eyes that go wide, that fall with the rest of his face and then shutter a little, and that tears into Steve the hardest, to see something come up like barrier when Eddie’s the reason Steve feels so raw right now, and alive for it; he can’t let Eddie feel less than that, feel the need to pull back from that, from him—

Then he’s placid. Calm. Accepting.

But he deep wells in his eyes: they’re wet. They’re devastated, somehow.

And…no.

But before Steve can move, can speak: there’s a bright, colorful thing that stands out in his periphery—he catches it, flowers near the hostess stand—and his eyes flick to the person holding them, looking dismayed and definitely out of breath; attractive, brunet, weirdly familiar, and then he’s gesturing just so and…

Oh. Oh, that’s…

Steve made the comment two weeks ago, after the show he and Robin had gone to at the Gershwin, that he’d climb the lead like a goddamn tree. She’d groaned, pushed him into a nasty-ass wall that’d earned her the bill for dinner and drinks—but she’d had that look in her eye. And he’d ignored it but now—staring said lead, out of costume, still very handsome even while so fucking distraught, wilting more by the second as Steve tries not to stare too obviously, but then add in that Chrissy knowing half the standbys, that her being the reason they even got tickets, and Robin’s look—well.

“Theatrical” being…fucking literal, like a little clue, suddenly makes a whole lot of sense.

“Oh, shit,” Eddie says it under his breath but there’s…way more disappointment than their objectively-brief encounter should merit as he processes, eyes already having followed Steve’s, and puts the pieces together: no matter how late, Steve’s very-probable blind date’s entered the building.

Which—if Eddie answers the question the way the resignation making its home on his face suggests he will—makes Eddie…

“No, sweetheart,” and Eddie’s gathering Steve’s hands slowly, gently, and his face is mostly lax and his mouth tries for a smile but it’s just this side of a grimace as his eyes, god, they’re so bright, like maybe if you can’t stare you won’t see the hurt but Steve doesn’t have to look long for it to burrow into his own chest and flay at his beating fucking heart.

“No, I wasn’t.”

And Eddie looks down at their hands, like he did before, and the tenor to the staring is wholly different, now, subdued and mournful, and Steve’s mind’s already made up but, if it hadn’t been?

The unthinkable reality of witnessing this beautiful man’s heartbreak would seal the deal entirely.

“You know what?” Steve grabs Eddie’s hands back, and squeezes them tight as he makes to stand:

“Neither am I.”

Eddie’s lips part, and his brow furrows, eyes cutting to the front entrance, to the flowers, to a man who isn’t him as if that man could ever somehow be preferable, be more…more anything—

“But,” Eddie tries to protest, confusion undergirding the heartbreak, holding it still. Like…like breathless waiting, held in a frightful uncertainty, like weighing hearts against feathers: some cosmic importance in the balance.

Steve honestly couldn’t agree more. He just already knows how this scale tilts.

“You wanna get out of here, continue this conversation at any of the hundreds of other bars nearby?” Steve says, buttoning his blazer and reaching out a hand, hoping it stays steady; praying Eddie will read his conviction, his certainty, his heart and want to reach back.

And all the slow-rotting sickness in his stomach trying to climb upward and puncture all the buoyant joyful wonder in him for for every second that ticks by without Eddie’s hand in his, it’s all wiped away, burned by the flame of wanting and then getting, of Eddie’s hand in his properly held and Steve was fucking right.

They fit together gloriously.

“It would be my heart’s-sworn honor, my liege,” Eddie breathes, like maybe he’s afraid to hope and Steve won’t have that; and he thinks he knows what Eddie’s saying, knows what the fanciful words mean but he needs to be sure, so he lifts a brow and waits until Eddie grins again so his dimples start to show and he huffs, relief in it:

“I’d fuckin’ love to.”

They down their drinks in one go, gather their things and leave double their bill, barely paying anything so much as a glance when they could look at each other and marvel instead. They walk out opposite the flowers, paying neither the blossoms nor their holder any mind. The thing blooming between them, in Steve’s chest all the bigger and full and brighter for every step he takes with Eddie’s hand in his: it’s so much more than anything with stems and leaves, that grows in the ground. Like Eddie’s glow is more than a star could even hope for. Like the sunshine that’s maybe not Steve at all, that’s really just this feeling, and the way that it grows—it’s beyond explaining. It’s held between their hands alone.

And maybe Steve will text Chrissy and explain, ask her to send his regrets to the theater guy. Tomorrow.

Then Eddie tugs him closer unexpectedly, his laughter all music as he brings Steve’s hand to his lips again, then to his chest where this time, Steve catches the wild gallop of his pulse as proof.

He doesn’t think either of them have a fucking clue where they’re headed. They have every option in front of them, and want nothing more than the touch of the other, and the promise it holds inside.

So Steve does the tugging, now; curls one hand around Eddie and draws him in, his hand caught between their chests so perfect and tastes the coffee liqueur beneath the rye on his tongue and thinks of nothing else, not texting, not set-ups, not waiting: because he’s here. Right here.

And Eddie’s heartbeat feels like home somehow already; the taste of him is nothing short of divine. They’re fully clothed on a New York street and this is the most intimate thing Steve’s maybe ever felt, after the most meaningful evening he’s maybe ever spent with anyone. At a bar. Drinking tequila and grenadine.

He starts laughing, right against Eddie’s lips, right into Eddie’s mouth, so maybe some of the joy will trickle down into his chest, inside his heart so he’ll know even just a fraction of the joy that’s making Steve feel not lighter than air, or dizzy with the speed of it all—but again, maybe for the very first time: real. Solid. Worth something this momentous.

And maybe—increasingly likely, even, as if that’s not the most incredible, unfathomable, heart-starting thought he’s ever entertained but he thinks maybe he might just actually have a shot here, or can even already say just a little bit that he’s—

Loved.

Fuck. Fuck.

Scratch maybe sending a text by tomorrow—he’ll process getting ahold of Chrissy (and that conniving girlfriend of hers) to invite them to the goddamn wedding.

Because right now? Steve’s kissing the man he’s gonna spend the rest of his life with, the man he’s going to live and die learning to love better with everything he is and ever could be: one hand pressed between both their chests, and it’s not too much because Eddie’s pressing them together tighter, body to body and hanging on like he’s trying to hold Steve’s heart in from the back of his ribs just in case; and it’s not too soon because it feels like every single goddamn thing he’s waited for his whole life, beating and clinging and gasping and melding into place finally, finally because it’s…everything. This is everything.

They are everything.

For @starryeyedjanai, who requested 'Wrong Number/Wrong Blind Date AU' at my HOBBIT-STYLE BIRTHDAY MONTH PROMPT FEST and incidentally also for @steddie-week for the Day Three prompt 'Long' (which is employed in a couple of abstract ways here)

✨permanent tag list: OPEN (lmk if you want to be added/removed): @pearynice @hbyrde36 @slashify @finntheehumaneater @wxrmland @dreamwatch @perseus-notjackson @estrellami-1 @bookworm0690 @imhereforthelolzdontyellatme @nerdyglassescheeseychick @swimmingbirdrunningrock @goodolefashionedloverboi @sanctumdemunson @theheadlessphilosopher @lawrencebshoggoth

divider credits here

ao3 link here ✨

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littlediscoveredstars · 2 months

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I have a fanfic idea that I haven’t really committed to writing, so you can have it here.

Idea: Batman and Superman decide to finally put the bro-mance to rest and go on a proper date. The thing is, they both plan to reveal their identities at the restaurant.

Bruce focuses so hard on looking like Bruce Wayne, but also more himself that he does at galas. He’s wearing a turtleneck and his comfy work shoes. His hair is less organized and he lets himself slouch.

Clark isn’t sure whether to slick back his hair like Superman but keep the glasses or keep everything Clark Kent but leave the glasses home. He decides to just wing it and go as much like himself as he can: jeans, boots, and glasses. After all, he’s a Kansas farm boy under every layer of identity he’s created.

So, then comes the day for them to meet. They expect to see each other, be a little surprised, then go about their date as normal.

It turned out…not like that.

With neither knowing what name the table was reserved under, they both assume they’ve arrived first and watch every man that fits their date’s general build pass them by.

Clark sees Bruce Wayne and thinks, “Wow! What are the odds Bruce Wayne happens to be at the same restaurant? Funny.” Then he sits down at a booth and waits for Batman.

Bruce, to his credit, watches Clark pass by with suspicions. The guy looks kind of like Superman but those curls are so dense and he honestly cannot imagine Big Blue dressed like a cowboy, so he waves it, especially when the man doesn’t stop to confront him. He just stares the way everyone else has after seeing a celebrity out in public and moves on.

An hour passes. Then two. Both are sitting a few tables apart, looking around desperately for their hero coworker to show.

Bruce gets impatient first. He understand Superman has a lot on his plate and a single free night is a lot to ask. Maybe they’ll try again. Or they won’t, since Bruce has convinced himself this was stupid to begin with.

It’s as he’s preparing to go that he sees that cowboy again. The gorgeous man is looking down, crestfallen at also being stood up.

So, Bruce does something a little spontaneous. Bruce sits in front of the guy. He blames it on the glasses of wine he had while waiting.

Bruce: “I’m Bruce. May I be blunt?”

Clark, blinking in surprise: “uh, sure?”

Bruce: “I watched you walk in over an hour ago and no one has accompanied you. Seeing as my date did the same, I’d like to fill the space.”

Clark, again, surprised he’s even being talked to by a billionaire outside of his job: “Y-yes? Yes! I mean, sure! By all means!”

It’s not like Batman’s going to come crashing in from the window. Well, he could, but Clark’s been listening to the city around them. No sign of Batman’s grapple.

So, Bruce and Clark meet. They fall into conversation easily, even make each other laugh. It’s so effortless and slightly suspicious, but they’re having a fun time and Bruce isn’t self-sabotaging enough to break away now. Not when he’s needed this for a while.

Then, at the end of the date, Clark listens for Batman’s heartbeat. He tries to hear where his friend might be, to understand why he didn’t show, but the heartbeat is standing right in front of him. There, in Bruce Wayne’s chest.

And/or, Clark removed his glasses to clean them and it clicks in Bruce’s mind. He reaches out to smooth all of Clark’s hair back and a single, rebellious curl pops out.

They’re both so furious, Clark has to fly them to the roof to properly shout about it.

#fanfic #writing #batman #bruce wayne #clark kent #superman #superbat #misunderstandings #these idiots #I love them #blind date #accidental dating

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xexedraws · 5 months

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They went on their date!! 🥹💖💖✨

#staticradio #radiostatic #voxal #staticlovetune #xexedraws #THEY WENT ON THEIR DATE #alastor is the prettiest fr #Vox is down bad #so am I #alastor is growing fond of the silly man #they called alastor a goat and Vox took that personally #UHM EXCUSE YOU #ARE YOU BLIND #HE’S A DEER #Vox internal thoughts said #he barely held them back

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weepingfishturtledragon · 1 year

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You know what I'm curious about… how does Billy have any sense of time??? When I was a child (I still kinda am) I had no idea what time meant. You could have told me that I would need to wake up at 5:30am tomorrow and I would be awake till 2:00am. I can't imagine what it's like for a homeless kid who has no one keeping him accountable and no routine.

So because of this I think Captain Marvel is sporadic when showing up, none of his villains have any idea when he's going on patrol. They probably think he doesn't sleep at all, he just disappears into a different dimension and then reappears whenever. He'll only start to keep track of time when he joins the justice league so he's not late to meetings or monitor duty.

#billy batson #shazam #dc comcis #captain marvel #dc captain marvel #justice league #he just tell the league it's because he lived too long #time blindness????#don't get me started on calendar dates #you are just talking about the far FAR future #please ignore any spelling or grammar mistakes

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kaiaelsher · 6 months

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Why is MC of LnD so overlooked?

I've seen so many people calling mc a redflag, hating her even sl*tshames her for things that... wasn't even her fault?

It's not her fault that she is destined to be entwined with three men in her lives? All she did was being kind and then fall for each one of them, MC, too, have never had a choice to begin with, in every universe she always have this heart problem, in every universe somehow the men always knew things more than she does. About her forgetting the men, it's not her fault? She literally never wished to forget any of them. She is an innocent kind soul that was dragged to the mud in every universe she gets to live in.

I'm completely BAFFLED when I saw people starting to call MC a redflag because, are we playing the same game? 😭

How could someone who, despite her mortality in the middle of immortal people, wished for her immortal crush to get what he wanted upon the starfall that only happened once a century, when she couldve wished something for herself instead: is a redflag?

How could someone who is a redflag, accompany and love the cruel and cold foreseer, never leaving his side even as he is dying by his mistake of betraying his God, embracing him, crying for him when he couldn't even do that for himself? How a could a redflag be the warming sun of Zayne's life, that is filled by coldness?

How could someone who is a redflag, willingly gave out her heart to her "slave" so he could save his people when, all her life, she has been thinking the only thing she's lived for was for the kingdom that trapped her inside a suffocating castle? How could this someone who is called a redflag, at the end, willingly abandon the kingdom she wanted to protect just to be with her beloved?

Her sacrifices, loyalty, and suffering is so overlooked that it drives me mad. Just because she is unaware of things doesn't mean she never suffered, just because she is destined to fall in love with different men in different universes doesn't mean she's disloyal, it's clear that in each timeline MC wasn't aware of other men's existence beside her beloved, had she been aware, she would not fall in love with three men like that, but unfortunately, the storyline make her did. And all of you blaming her for this thing is messed up.

#love and deepspace #otome game #dating sim #love and deepspace rafayel #rafayel #love and deepspace xavier #xavier #love and deepspace zayne #zayne #rafayel love and deepspace #xavier love and deepspace #zayne love and deepspace #lnd #lads #love and deepspace mc #main character #yall are so blind it makes me so mad #bye

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scary-grace · 1 month

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blind date (part ii) - shigaraki x reader

After endless failed attempts to help Tomura up his game, his friends have settled on their last resort: A blind date. Even before you show up, it's not going well. No quirks AU, female reader.

Part 1

Part 2

“No.”

“Yes,” you say. You look sort of embarrassed. “Eight times.”

“No way.” Tomura studies you across the table. His eyes feel blurry with exhaustion and alcohol, but he’d prop his eyelids open with toothpicks before he’d let you think he was falling asleep. “I don’t buy it. Two, maybe. Not eight.”

“Why would I lie about this?” You take a sip of a drink. It might be yours, or it might be Tomura’s. There are so many mostly-empty glasses on the table between the two of you that Tomura’s forgotten which ones he ordered. “If anything, I’d lie the other way. Being stood up for eight first dates isn’t exactly a good sign.”

Tomura finds another drink, finishes it, and gives his verdict. “It’s a sign you met eight stupid guys.”

“I don’t think that’s it,” you say. “If it was one person, or two – but eight? At that point it’s more likely that I’m the problem.”

Tomura doesn’t think so. Tomura’s been talking to you for a while. Probably hours. He lost track of time at some point, probably around when he lost track of which drinks were his and which were yours, and there’s nothing about you that looks like a problem to him. Except the fact that nobody else is dating you, and that looks more like a crazy stroke of luck for Tomura than anything else.

Tomura might not be good at this shit, but he’s not naïve. He keeps checking in with himself, trying to make sure his interest in you isn’t just because you’re a woman who’s talked to him for longer than five minutes without looking at your phone. He hasn’t seen you take your phone out except once, and that was to put it on silent. Which was – hot isn’t right, but Tomura doesn’t really have a better word, except nice, which isn’t right, either. It’s not just because you’re a woman who talked to him or held his hand or ran to meet him even though you were late. He likes a lot of other things about you, too.

He likes that you showed up looking the way you actually look most of the time, instead of dressing up like Magne told you to. He likes that you don’t try to pretend to be something you’re not. When Tomura started talking about video games, you didn’t act like you knew something about them – just like he didn’t pretend he knew something when you started talking about horror movies or novels or manga. You’re funny, but not on purpose. Or at least that’s what Tomura thought, until he glanced at your face after you’d said something that made him laugh and realized that it was what you’d been hoping to do.

“Sorry,” you say, and Tomura snaps out of it. “Talking about past dates on a first date is kind of a red flag, isn’t it?”

“I asked,” Tomura says, wondering if you called this a first date because you’re hoping for a second one. You shrug. “If you’ve met that many shitty guys, how come you agreed to this? What did Magne tell you about me?”

“What did she tell me.” You finish one of the drinks and grimace slightly. “Um, she said you were my age.”

“Okay.”

“She said you have a job,” you continue, “and friends.”

“Yeah,” Tomura agrees. “We have an apartment. We were friends before we had the apartment. It’s not just because we have an apartment.”

“Magne said you’ve all known each other forever,” you say. You smile slightly. “It sounds nice.”

It’s a good thing Tomura’s known them forever. He hasn’t had a lot of luck making friends as an adult. The closest he’s come to making a friend as an adult is probably Dabi’s stupid fiancé, and that’s only because he never leaves. Toga keeps saying that she thinks he’ll like her girlfriend, but she also never lets her girlfriend within a kilometer of the apartment. One time Tomura asked her why not and Toga gave him the weirdest look he’s ever seen. “You’re all boys,” she said. “You’re gross.”

Maybe that’s true. Tomura’s never been in a woman’s apartment, so he doesn’t really have a way to confirm. How gross could it be, really? He should probably ask Toga for specifics. “Did Magne say anything else?”

“She said online dating and the apps weren’t really working for you,” you say. “You do better in person. I don’t know what you’re like online, but – I feel like she was probably right.”

Tomura’s face flushes. He finishes another drink to cover it up. “Your turn,” you say. “What did Magne tell you about me?”

“Uh,” Tomura starts. He finds another drink, but can’t quite stomach finishing it just yet. He’s already about to screw this up, and it’s going to be worse if he throws up on you afterwards. “Not much. Just that you were a girl and you were my age and that you agreed to it.”

You laugh at that. “That’s the important stuff,” you say. “She did a good job managing your expectations.”

“No,” Tomura says. You blink. “She should have told me more.”

“She doesn’t really know more,” you say. “I only see her at work. She got my number so I could tell her when I’m on shift and my boss is off.”

“What’s your boss’s deal, anyway?” Tomura asks. “Just an all-purpose asshole, or –”

“He’s not great to us. The employees, I mean.” You don’t like talking about this. Tomura can tell. “But he makes things really hard on customers who have certain prescriptions. HRT and stuff like that. He doesn’t do anything they can report him for, but he makes it so miserable for them that they don’t want to come in to pick their meds up.”

Tomura knows that type. Magne runs into that type a lot. If it happens when all of them are out together, Tomura and the others take care of it, but they can’t be there every second. “A few people have my number,” you continue. “I give them a heads-up when their prescriptions are in and he’s out.”

“Why didn’t she tell me that?”

“She did,” you say. Tomura meant before, and says so. “Maybe she thought you’d think I was too nice.”

Tomura snorts. “That guy who tried to cut us in line didn’t think you were too nice.”

If he’d been by himself, Tomura would have let it slide just because he doesn’t care enough, but you blocked the guy’s way with your arms crossed, and when he told you to move, you stared at him until he backed off. “Okay, so not too nice,” you say. You pick up another glass, see it’s empty, and wince. “But if she’d told you more about me, you’d have found a reason not to show up.”

“If she’d told you more about me, you’d have said no.” Tomura feels pretty confident in that, and more so with however many drinks under his belt. “She told you I was bad at app dating.”

“Lots of people are.”

“So bad at it that I’ve never been on a date.” Tomura feels pretty good about one-upping you right up until he sees your eyes widen, but his mouth is way ahead of his brain. “Beat that.”

It’s quiet for a second. Tomura stares at you, feeling his face heat up with embarrassment, while you peer into glass after glass, trying to find one that hasn’t been emptied yet. “I don’t know,” you say. “I think being stood up eight times is worse.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“My record is terrible,” you say. You find one more glass and drain it. “Your record, on the other hand – you’re one for one. I’d say that’s pretty good.”

“One for one on what?” Tomura asks.

“Dates,” you say. “This one’s going well.”

“Yeah?” Tomura’s mouth goes dry. He looks around for a glass with something in it, so that he’ll be able to speak without swallowing his tongue, but he comes up empty. You slide your water glass across the table to him and Tomura gulps half of it. “You think it’s going well?”

You looked pretty calm until he said that. Tomura sees you getting nervous. He slides the glass of water back across the table to you in case you want to drink it, but you leave it alone. “I mean,” you start, “we met up at five-forty-five, and it’s almost last call. Maybe it’s just me, but I wouldn’t spend eight hours hanging out with somebody if it wasn’t going well.”

“Last call?” Tomura says, like a dumbass, only for the bartender to shout it out to the room at large a few seconds later. “Eight hours? Really?”

You nod. “So either it’s going well,” you say, “or you just didn’t have anything better to do.”

If Tomura doesn’t want to be somewhere, he goes home even if there’s nothing better to do. He’d rather spend hours watching the most boring vintage simulation game streams in history than spend two seconds longer being social than he wants to. Eight hours hanging out with one person is a record, even once Tomura subtracts the bathroom breaks he had to take because he was dumb enough to break the seal four drinks in. Has he ever spent eight hours doing nothing but talking with someone without getting bored? No. Not even close.

“It’s going well,” he says, and you look relieved. Not happy, just relieved. That’s – not good. “They’re kicking us out now.”

“Yeah.” You get to your feet and stagger a little bit. You probably drank at least as much as Tomura did, but you’re shorter than him, and you’re a woman. Are you okay? “I’m going to go pay. We should figure out rides home. The trains don’t run this late.”

Tomura fucked up somehow. He can’t figure out how, but he’s pretty sure he did. But you’re still about to get kicked out, and somebody has to pay the tab – and somebody has to figure out how you two are getting home. He gets to his feet, too. “I’ll get it. It can’t be that much.”

You look back at all the glasses on the table. “I think it’s going to be a lot. We’ll split.”

Even with the split, it’s more than Tomura’s spent on a night out, ever – and the longer he spends upright, the clearer it is that he’s trashed. You’re trashed, too. Maybe less than he is, because you’re still trying to work out how to get home. “It’ll be cheaper if we split a rideshare,” you say, and hold out your phone. “Put in your address.”

Tomura forgets his own address for a second. Then he types it in, and you take your phone back. “Okay. It’ll drop you off first, then me. Let’s go.”

Tomura follows you out, only weaving a little bit, and then the two of you are on the sidewalk again. The air’s still warm and humid, but at least there’s more of a breeze than there was before. You lean against the boardwalk railing and Tomura copies you. He leaves one hand open at his side in case you want to reach for it. You don’t, so Tomura goes for yours instead, and you look up at him. “Tomura?”

“It’s going well,” Tomura says. Your eyes slide away from his, and he asks a question that’s been on his mind since an hour or so in. “Want to do it again?”

“Stay out until two am on a work night and blow five times my hourly rate on drinks?” You shake your head. “Go on another date? Yeah.”

Tomura hears all of that in the right order, except the thing in the middle that he actually asked about. “It’s a work night?”

“For you, too. You said earlier.” Your hand moves in Tomura’s, unfolding your fingers to lace them together with his. “We should have called it quits four hours ago.”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t want to.” Tomura shouldn’t have had this much to drink. He’s saying stuff he probably shouldn’t. Or should he? He doesn’t see the point in lying about shit on a regular basis. Why start now? “I still don’t.”

Next to Tomura, you take a deep breath, then let it go. “Okay. Give me your phone.”

Tomura fishes it out of his pocket with his free hand and passes it to you, then has to take it back to unlock it. He watches as you navigate to his contacts and add yourself to them – your first name, plus the words “blind date”, like Tomura’s going to forget who you are. How many women do you think he has in his phone? You hand it back to him after saving your contact and Tomura waits for you to hand yours over so he can add his number to yours. You don’t. “I need your phone. You need my number.”

“If you text me, then I’ll have it,” you say. “If you don’t, I won’t need it.”

Tomura feels weird about that. “Is this some kind of test?”

“I’ve gotten stood up eight times. I’m done chasing after people who don’t want me.” You loosen your grip on Tomura’s hand, like you’re giving him the chance to let go. “I ran sixteen blocks to meet you. You can send me a text.”

Tomura can see where you’re coming from. Sort of. The rideshare shows up, and the two of you slide into the backseat. Going from standing up to sitting down gives Tomura some kind of drunken headrush, and he slumps sideways against you. “Sorry –”

“It’s fine.” You shift around in your seat until Tomura’s cheek is resting on your shoulder. You’re still holding his hand. “I don’t mind.”

Tomura doesn’t mean to fall asleep, but the next thing he knows, the rideshare’s coming to a stop outside his apartment building and you’re shaking him awake with the hand that was holding his. “We’re here,” you say. “It was nice to meet you, okay? I had a really good night.”

Tomura nods. His mouth tastes like something died in it, and his mind feels foggy, but not so foggy that he can’t figure out how he wants to say goodbye. Maybe you know. “What do we do?”

“How about a hug?”

Sounds good. Tomura’s mouth tastes too bad for kissing, anyway, and his lips are gross enough to make you wish you’d never met him. He reaches out and drags you awkwardly across the backseat and into his arms, and you – fit. Tomura normally hates touching people, and he hates it even more when he’s drunk, but you fit, still and quiet with your head tucked in against his shoulder and your eyelashes brushing the side of his neck when you blink. Tomura could go back to sleep like this, easy. He’s having a hard time keeping his eyes open.

“Hey,” the driver says from the front seat. “Are you staying or going?”

“Are you in a big hurry or something?” Tomura pulls away from you with an effort and gets out of the car. The door shuts behind him, and Tomura turns to say goodbye, but he’s too slow. All he gets is a glimpse of your face through the window as the rideshare drives away.

Tomura should text you right now. The thought occurs to him, but then a mosquito bites him, and he slaps it a second too late. He’ll get inside the stupid building and get to his room, and then he can text you. It’s a good plan. Whether Tomura will remember it by the time he gets to the apartment is an entirely different story.

Tomura and his friends live on the top floor. The entire top floor. It used to be a penthouse, back when both the building and the neighborhood weren’t shit, but now the rent is cheap enough that the seven of them can afford it together. They all get their own rooms, three bathrooms is usually enough for everybody, and usually there’s at least one person who’s willing to cook dinner and let the rest of them mooch. Tomura and his roommates all keep weird hours, but by two-thirty in the morning everybody’s usually in their rooms, even if they’re awake. He’s not going to bother anybody as long as he’s quiet.

Or at least that’s what Tomura thinks. He’s dead wrong, because when the elevator doors open, he finds all the lights on in the living room, and most of the people he lives with sitting in there, wide awake. It looks like they’re waiting for something. It occurs to Tomura with slowly dawning horror that they’re waiting for him.

He makes the first move out of shock more than anything else. “What the fuck?”

“We decided to wait up for you. Since it’s baby’s first date and all,” Dabi says with a smirk. His stupid fiancé is here, too, perched on the arm of the chair Dabi’s in. “So how’d it go?”

Tomura doesn’t want to talk about this when he’s drunk. He wouldn’t want to talk to Dabi about it stone sober. He shakes his head. “Come on,” Twice announces from where he’s sprawled out on the rug next to Toga. “Nobody comes back from a date at three in the morning and gets to shake his head about it. Spill. No, don’t spill! I don’t want any nasty details.”

“I want all the nasty details,” Magne says. “What happened?”

“Perhaps we shouldn’t quiz him,” Sako says from the other chair. “Shigaraki will tell us what he wants to, when he wants to.”

Sako is officially the only person Tomura’s not pissed at right now. “No, he has to tell us now,” Toga says. “We’ve all been working on this for a month. We have to hear how it went!”

“Give us at least a few details,” Dabi’s idiot fiancé says. “We need something to base our wild speculations on.”

“You don’t live here,” Tomura says. Dabi glares at him. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Wait, it was bad?” Spinner runs the opposite way with it. “Why didn’t you just come back? Or you could have called us – we’d come drink with you –”

“It wasn’t bad,” Tomura snaps. “I got her number.”

He was hoping that would shut everybody up. Instead they all trade glances. “That’s it?” Dabi asks, incredulous. “You get back an hour after last call and all you got was her number?”

That’s not all Tomura got. “She said we should go out again. And we held hands.”

“Are you thirteen or something? That’s so lame,” Dabi’s idiot fiancé says. “Was she like, not –”

“She’s not that kind of girl,” Magne says. She reaches over from the couch to punch Dabi in the arm, even though it was the goddamn fiancé who said it. “You think I’d set Shigaraki up with that kind of girl?”

“Yeah, because that’s the kind of girl he’ll be dealing with in Vegas. Did you time-warp back to the fifties when I wasn’t looking?” Dabi grimaces. “You’re supposed to be upping your game. This is a setback.”

Tomura finally gets his feet under him. “No, it isn’t,” he says. “I had fun.”

He feels weird saying it, even though it’s true. He had fun walking around with you trying to find a bar you both wouldn’t hate, because both of you hate when things get too loud. He had fun talking about any of the fifty things the two of you talked about over the course of the eight hours you spent together. He liked seeing you square off with the asshole who tried to cut you both in line and he liked seeing you order the weirdest drink on the menu, even though it was disgusting and neither of you could finish it. He liked that he didn’t notice you trying to make him laugh until it already happened. He liked holding your hand.

Tomura had fun on his date, end sentence. “You guys are assholes. I’m going to bed.”

“We’re not assholes! We want to help,” Twice protests. “You don’t need our help! You’re doing fine.”

“Yeah, I’m with Twice,” Spinner says. Twice starts arguing with him, but Spinner ignores it. “It’s a win if you say it’s a win. Hanging out with somebody who’s not us for that long is definitely a win.”

“It’s not a game,” Toga says. She rolls over on her back and stares up at Tomura. “Are you going to text her?”

Right. Tomura was going to do that. He fumbles his phone out of his pocket. “No,” Dabi and his fucking fiancé say at the same time. Dabi keeps talking. “It hasn’t even been an hour. Are you trying to look desperate?”

“I texted Ochako while I was on the train home from our first date,” Toga says. Toga’s the only one other than Dabi who’s in an actual relationship, rather than a bunch of situationships, friends-with-benefits things, and hookups they block the next day. “I wasn’t desperate.”

“You’re the most desperate person I’ve ever met. But you’re a girl, so it’s cute on you,” Magne says. “It’s not cute on guys. It’s weird.”

“I don’t think it is,” Spinner says. Tomura adds Spinner and Toga to the list of people he doesn’t hate right now. “Sending a dick pic or begging for nudes would be desperate. Just saying something is – nice. I’ve never had a date text me the same night before. I wouldn’t mind.”

“In that case, your date would be a girl,” Magne points out. “Cute when girls do it. Weird when guys do. I’d know.”

Tomura lost the plot a few sentences back. “I wasn’t going to send a dick pic. I don’t even have a dick pic.”

Dabi’s fiancé wheezes. “What?”

“Okay, that’s enough!” Toga pops up off the floor. “Tomura-kun has work tomorrow and so do I – and so does Spinner – so we’re all going to go to bed.”

“We are?” Spinner asks, then yelps as Toga yanks him off the couch. “Hey!”

“That’s right,” Toga sings out. She grabs Tomura’s arm, too, and Tomura barely manages to avoid getting yanked off his feet. He stumbles down the hall after her, colliding with Spinner a few times. It’s all he can do to keep ahold of his phone.

Toga’s bedroom, Spinner’s, and Tomura’s are all along the same hallway, sharing the same bathroom. Once they’re in the hallway, Tomura plants his feet. “Why are you kidnapping me?”

“We’re not kidnapping you. Your room is right there.” Toga points, like there was any way Tomura was going to forget. He’s drunk, but not that drunk. “They were being mean. I’m happy for you. So is Spinner. Right, Spinner?”

“Like I said. A win’s a win.”

“It’s not a game.” Toga elbows him. Then she looks at Tomura. “They’re making it sound complicated and it’s not. If you like her, text her. If you don’t, don’t. Easy. Now go to bed.”

It’s not a puzzle game. It’s a yes or no question. Tomura likes that a lot better than whatever the hell the others wanted him to do. Still – “Do I need a dick pic?”

It’s quiet for at least a minute. “You know what,” Spinner says finally, “we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it. I’m with Toga. Go to bed before you get yourself in trouble.”

Tomura’s tempted to tell them both that he’s doing it because he wants to, not because they’re telling him to, but then he decides not to waste the air. The sooner he goes to his room, the sooner he can send you a message without everyone bothering him about it. He shuffles back to his room, flops down on the bed – which he didn’t make this morning, because he’s just going to get back in it later – and pulls out his phone. When he taps the contact icon, the first thing he sees is the contact you set for yourself.

Your name (blind date). Tomura opens a message and gets stuck trying to think of what to say. Short is probably better. His mind is off on some weird paths right now, a lot of which have to do with you and his dick and all of which would be a lot more of a problem if he wasn’t still drunk. And none of which you need to know about. You also don’t need to know about the ambush his friends set up for him when he got home. Or the fact that Tomura’s friends only sent him on this date so he could get better at women before the trip to Vegas in two months.

That might have been why Magne set you and Tomura up, but that’s not why Tomura’s texting you. this is tomura. i want a second date. That gets the point across for sure. If you texted Tomura that he’d count it as a win, so he sends it. But Toga said it’s not a game. Spinner said it would be nice to get a text from a date. What would Tomura want you to say, if he got a text from you?

Tomura overthinks it. He overthinks it so hard that he falls asleep, and only wakes up when he drops his phone on his face. You haven’t texted back yet, but it’s only been fifteen minutes since he sent the message, and you’re probably asleep. What kind of text would Tomura want to see from you when he woke up in the morning? That you liked him. That you had fun. Maybe you’d say something funny, too. Tomura doesn’t do funny. He almost falls back asleep again, then hauls himself up to wakefulness hand over hand, sitting up in the bargain. One more message. It should be easy.

sorry I fell asleep on you is what Tomura says. He barely manages to plug in his phone before he falls asleep for good.

He wakes up to his alarm howling, right on schedule. He can hear Spinner’s alarm doing the same thing from across the hall. Tomura’s mouth tastes like he threw up in it in his sleep. He fumbles for his phone to hit snooze on the alarm, but in the split second before he does, he sees a text notification. Everybody he texts has been asleep for the last – Tomura looks at the time and groans – four hours. So who –

Tomura unlocks his phone at warp speed and taps the message icon. He remembers texting you last night, but he didn’t remember how stupid he sounded. Sorry he fell asleep on you? You’re probably texting him to fuck off. Tomura glances down at your message. His head hurts badly enough that he has to read it five or six times to process it all the way.

You gave his first text a thumbs-up, then asked what he wants to do on the second date. But you replied directly to his stupid second message. it’s okay. next time it’s my turn.

Tomura’s lips split as an uncontrollable grin crosses his face. He got four hours of sleep. He’s got a full day of work and a hangover to go with it, and the instant he sets foot in the living room, his friends are going to start up on him about how he’s handling this all wrong. But Tomura must not be handling it all that badly, because he’s got a second date, and for a few seconds, the hangover and work and everything else doesn’t matter at all.

#shigaraki tomura x reader #tomura shigaraki x reader #shigaraki x reader #shigaraki x you #reader insert #x reader #blind date au #man door hand hook car door #a bisquared production

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aaroleswapau · 9 months

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Do you have a pearl design?

sure do! as you all can probably tell, these are very old pftt, here's some doodles of her way back then :0]

copypasting from my old replies on twt LOL:

pearl's set up to be another prosecutor like her ma, she's still a very sweet girl but she is very antagonistic towards miles and franziska bc they're going against prosecutor maya, who she still loves very much and idolizes.

i thought it would interesting if she served as an angry little force to be reckoned with during investigations instead of being helpful in what would be considered jfa in the swap au

she does grow a lot more chiller once she grows up pftt

also, kind of been thinking of pearls and simon friendshipisms bc when i was like doing an age table of all the swap au characters in excel, i realized that they'd be the same age which is WILD lol (i mean athena and pearl are the same age too so i should've seen it coming, but still!! wild!!!)

in my heart of hearts, pearl and simon are some flavor of aroace and whatever pearl wants to do with anybody's love life doing is going to be a disaster ASKSKS sorry queen </3

#get simon out of the blind date pearl devised for him please!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!#den's aa roleswap au #ace attorney #pearl fey #aa swap au art #aa swap au asks #im feeling impulsive so thats why im answering asks whoops dghj #sorry gusy . i cannot control what i can do most of the time orz <- adhd

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diamondsunbursts-and-marblehalls · 8 months

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always and forever love and cherish annabeth chase for proving to my 14-year-old self that being a super-intelligent badass that people admire and look up to can co-exist with the part of you that is upset and insanely jealous when you find out that your best friend and boy you've been in love with since you were 12 is friends with other girls.

because fr she watches him stand there like a dead fish while this rando writes her number on his hand, says it's fine, and then replies with one-syllable answers every time he tries to talk to her for like a whole 24 hours.

he's out here acting like he doesn't even want to know this girl, and she's out here like fine, if you know another girl what if i'm just super rude to her and then don't talk to you for the rest of your life. what then?

the best part is that she's so mad at him because he knows other girls, and then mad at herself for being mad at him for knowing other girls and he's so oblivious as to why she's mad because to him she's the only girl ever.

#they are goals #they are the blueprint #absolutely nothing like the blind rage you feel when you boy you fell for at 12 knows other girls #of course they're not dating but she's still pissed #she is me #thanks for validating everyone ever rick #me and the homies appreciate it #percy jackson #annabeth chase #percy and annabeth #percabeth #percy jackson and the olympians #percy jackon and the olympians #pjo series #pjo #the battle of the labyrinth #the last olympian #annabeth chase pjo

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lavender-lemon-ade · 4 months

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I made three "blind date with a book" books for my cousin who's starting to get into reading young adult fiction! Titles of the books in the tags.

#book #books #crafts #book lover #aesthetic #craft #craftblr #book blog #young adult #fantasy #romance #bookblr #booklr #blind date with a book #the lunar chronicles #the falconer #Red queen

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hbyrde36 · 3 months

Text

Inspired by this TikTok

I wrote this instead of everything else I should be working on, enjoy! 😂

Rating: G | WC: 2494 | AO3

Eddie took a deep breath, preparing himself mentally for the night ahead as he walked up the street towards the place he was supposed to meet his blind date.

He couldn’t believe he’d agreed to this, but it wasn’t like he was having any luck finding love on his own.

After several failed long-term relationships with fuckboys that weren’t worth his time and heartache, who ran the second things got real, he joined the apps—quickly realizing that most of the guys he found on there were only looking for sex. Which was fun and all, but Eddie wanted more.

He was looking for romance, a spark, someone he could see spending his life with, who was also looking for a partner. Someone who wasn’t allergic to commitment.

So, he’d quit the apps.

And when Chrissy told him she had a guy she wanted him to meet he figured, fuck it, he’d tried everything else.

Steve Harrington.

He was a friend of Robin’s, Chrissy’s new girlfriend who Eddie hadn’t had the chance to meet yet, but apparently the three of them had gotten together last weekend, and now Chrissy was convinced the man and Eddie were perfect for each other.

“On the surface it’s giving opposites attract,” she’d said, “but under the carefully styled hair and button down shirts, Steve is not at all what you’d expect. He’s kind, funny, a little weird, and way different than the guys you usually go for—but in the best way. Just give it a chance. I promise at the very least you’ll have a good time and maybe make a friend.”

Eddie wasn’t so sure that’d be the case, but he was here, willing to give it a go, and he had a trick up his sleeve. A little idea he’d stolen from a TikTok video that had, so far, a 100% success rate for exposing duds.

He reached his destination and pushed open the door, entering the warm dimly lit restaurant, and before he’d even reached the hostess stand noticed a man rising from his seat, smiling and waving—waving at him.

And oh, oh Chrissy had better count her days because Eddie was going to fucking kill her. Steve, assuming this was the guy, was quite literally the hottest man he’d ever seen in real life.

She couldn't warn a guy?

Eddie raised his hand, absently returning the wave as he continued to stare a little dumbstruck at his date.

Get it together, Munson.

Mercifully, Eddie was able to snap out of it enough to put one foot in front of the other again and make his way over to their booth.

There was an awkward moment where Steve couldn’t seem to make up his mind between shaking Eddie’s hand, or hugging him in greeting.

Honestly Eddie wasn’t sure of the protocol either since it was his first blind date. He supposed this was to be expected. Not only were they about to embark upon the supremely awkward adventure that was every first date ever, but they were also meeting for the very first time having never seen or spoken to each other before.

In the end it became one of those half-and-half bro hugs with the little pat on the back, before they took their seats opposite one another.

Steve was the first to break the silence. “It’s good to meet you, Chrissy told me a lot about you.”

“Wish I could say the same.” Eddie muttered under his breath.

“Oh, um.”

“Sorry, it’s—I didn’t mean,” Eddie shook his head at himself. “Ignore me.”

“No, I'm sorry.” Steve raked a hand over his face. “It’s weird right? This is weird. I tried to tell Robin—I mean, who even goes on blind dates anymore!”

It surprised a laugh out of Eddie that he couldn’t have held back if he tried. He quickly slapped a hand over his mouth, but it was too late.

Great job, Munson, laugh at the guy—great way to make a first impression.

But then Steve was cracking a little lopsided smile, the corners of his eyes crinkling ever-so-slightly with it. He didn’t seem offended, or mad.

Fuck.

He wasn’t just dangerously hot, he was cute too.

Eddie tugged lightly on his shirt collar, and cleared his throat. “It’s a little weird, sure, but that doesn’t mean it’s bad.”

Their server chose that moment to arrive and introduce herself, taking their drink order—some local craft beer Eddie had never heard of for Steve, a Jack and coke for himself—and Eddie used the temporary distraction to try and regain some composure. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t already hoping this would go somewhere, that Steve would be different from all the others.

But when the server had gone and it was just the two of them again, Steve opened his mouth and Eddie instantly flashed back to every bad first date he’d been on.

“So, what’s your favorite—”

Steve hadn’t even finished asking his first question before Eddie was interrupting, raising a hand to tick off each response on his fingers as he went.

“Black, metal, D&D, the 1999 cinematic masterpiece The Mummy starring our lord and savior Brendan Fraser, The Silmarillion, cheeseburgers, Halloween, aaaaand—a dog.”

Steve blinked at him. “...What?”

“My favorite color, genre of music, hobby, movie, book, food, holiday, and of course the classic—if I could be any animal, what animal would I be and why?”

Eddie let his hand fall to the table with a soft thud. “Dog—hands down. And I know I look more like someone who’d say black cat or something like that, but I enjoy attention and physical affection far too much to be an aloof feline. Shaggy lovable mutt seems way more my speed.”

By the end of his speech, Steve was grinning from ear to ear, nodding in understanding.

Eddie gave half a shrug, blushing a bit under the full force of Steve’s dazzling smile. “Thought I'd save us some time and speed-run the same old, same old.”

A moment later their drinks arrived and they both sat up a little straighter reflexively as the server set each glass down on cocktail napkins in front of them before scurrying off.

They’d been leaning in towards each other without even realizing, it seemed. It was Steve’s turn to blush now, Eddie noted with delight as he raised his glass to his lips, grateful to have something to do with his hands.

“I take it you’ve been on a lot of first dates?” Steve asked, taking a long sip from his own drink.

“A few.” Eddie said, tilting his cup to swirl the ice around. “You?”

Steve made a waffling motion with his head. “A few.”

Eddie took another sizable swig from his glass, focusing for a moment on the burn of the whiskey and the tingle of soda bubbles in his throat as he swallowed, and carefully set his cup down on the table between them. It was almost empty already—should have asked for a double.

“Okay, my turn, “ he said.

Steve raised an eyebrow. “You wanna know my favorite color?”

“No, there’ll be plenty of time to find that out later.”

“Presumptuous of you.”

Eddie hummed noncommittally. “More… hopeful.”

Steve let out a breathy laugh. “Alright, what do you want to know?”

Here goes nothing—

“What would you do if we moved in together and I started seeing ghosts and told you that our house was haunted?”

Steve tilted his head to the side, giving Eddie that soft crooked smile again, and damn if it wasn’t becoming one of Eddie’s favorite things. Can you be obsessed with something you’ve only seen twice?

Steve was quiet for a long moment, nearly draining his beer as he thought it over, but eventually set his own drink down beside Eddie’s and looked him dead in the eye. “Is it a nice ghost or a scary ghost? Are we talking banging on walls and rearranging furniture at 3am? Or a cold yet comforting presence in the corner.”

Eddie put on a show of thinking about it, rubbing his chin and staring off into space as he tried desperately to contain his excitement. He’d never had the question go over this well before.

Then their server was back, asking if they wanted another round—yes, of course—and if they were ready to order. They hadn’t even cracked open their menus yet, too distracted with talking.

“Do you know what you want?” Steve asked him.

Eddie swallowed hard.

You.

“I-I’m not picky. Order for me? Chrissy said you come here a lot so I’m sure you know what’s good.”

Without hesitation Steve ordered them a burger each, and a plate of some sort of fancy fries to share, apparently they had the best fries.

It hadn’t been another test, honest. Eddie really didn’t care what he ate, this was already turning out to be his best date in far too long—and It could have been a coincidence, maybe Steve ordered burgers there all the time, but Eddie chose to believe it meant Steve had been listening. Test or not, he’d passed with flying colors.

When they were alone again Eddie smoothed his hands along the table, drawing invisible patterns with his fingers and finally answered Steve’s question.

“Let’s go with scary ghost, but remember you have no proof, you haven't seen it with your own eyes, just my word.”

Steve waved him off as if that was inconsequential, upending his glass to get the last dregs of the beer, and wiping his lips on the back of his hand.

“Okay, well then it depends on how hands on you want to be. We could consult WitchTok, try and cleanse the house ourselves, ask the spirit to leave, that kinda thing. Or maybe find a priest who’d be willing to help us out? That might be a little more difficult since the church isn’t usually our biggest fans, but I could deal with a little homophobia to make sure you were happy and comfortable in our home.”

Eddie’s stomach flipped, heart beginning to race. He wasn’t surprised exactly, Steve had been blowing past his expectations at every turn already, but there was no more perfect answer to his admittedly insane first date question.

So naturally, he had to push.

“What if I wanted to move?”

Steve shrugged. “Then we’d move.”

Eddie stared at him incredulously. Steve said it like it was nothing, like uprooting his entire life for some crazy shit was akin to changing his socks. This was all hypothetical, Eddie knew that, and Steve could just be telling him what he wanted to hear, but Eddie had a feeling he was telling the absolute truth

“But we’d be out, at minimum, a month’s rent and security deposit, and what if the landlord won’t let us out of the lease?!” Eddie threw his hands up, suddenly taking his own game much too seriously. “Or godforbid we’d bought the place, then we’d have to sell it and all our money would be tied up in it, and—”

Steve reached out and took Eddie’s hands with his own, gently stroking his thumbs along the back of them. “Baby—baby it’s okay. No amount of money would be worth you feeling unsafe.”

And Eddie was simply going to pass away, because what the fuck—how was this man so perfect?

“Why—how are you single?”

Steve flashed a sad, self deprecating smile. “I’ve been told I can be a little… intense.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“Well, historically speaking…”

Eddie leaned over the table, pressing a kiss to the back of Steve’s hand. “I happen to like intense.”

Steve sucked in a breath, cheeks flushing again with the most glorious shade of pink. “Good to know.”

They stayed hand in hand talking for a long time, taking turns asking each other the most random questions they could think of.

“Favorite episode of The Twilight Zone?” Eddie asked.

“Oh, easy. I don’t know the name of it but it’s the one where the kid is lost and her parents can hear her in the house panicking, but they can’t see her?”

Eddie nodded his approval. “Little Girl Lost, good choice.” God he was falling more in love by the second.

“Favorite Abba song.” Steve countered.

Eddie grinned. “How do you know I even have one? Mean scary metalhead like me.”

Steve rolled his eyes, and shot him a look that clearly stated he found Eddie neither mean or scary. “Everybody likes Abba.”

“Well played.” Eddie bit at his bottom lip. He felt like a teenager with his first crush all over again. “Fine—while Dancing Queen holds a special place in my heart, and maybe this makes me a gay cliche, but Gimme, Gimme, Gimme fucking slaps.”

It went on and on like that until eventually their food arrived, forcing them to separate. They still spoke as they finished their meal, and settled their tab, but Eddie missed the warmth of Steve’s hand in his already.

He suddenly understood why some couples chose to sit together on the same side of a booth. He’d happily look like a dork right now to have the opportunity to be pressed up against Steve’s side, to be able to slide a hand along his thigh and maybe—

“Eddie?”

Steve’s slightly raised voice found him in his daydream, snapping him out of it abruptly.

“Wha..?”

“Did I lose you there for a second?” Steve asked, a knowing smile playing on his lips.

Eddie rubbed at the back of his neck nervously. “Yeah, sorry, um—you were saying?”

“I said, I'm having a really good time, and I know we already paid the bill but I really don’t want this night to end, so—” Steve slid out of his seat and moved to stand in front of him, holding a hand out—which Eddie took immediately, of course, and let Steve pull him to his feet.

“I was wondering if you’d want to take this back to my apartment? Y’know, so we can plan a second date?” He finished with a smirk.

Jesus Christ.

Warmth shot through Eddie’s body at the implications but he found his heart skipping a beat too, because as much as Steve was teasing, Eddie knew somehow that he meant it about the second date.

He couldn’t believe his luck, Steve was everything Chrissy had made him out to be, and so much more. He was going to send her the biggest bouquet of flowers tomorrow, and maybe an edible arrangement. Were those still a thing?

Eddie leaned in, letting his lips brush along the shell of Steve’s ear as he spoke. “It’s not haunted, is it?”

Steve shivered, wrapping his arms around Eddie’s shoulders and pulling their bodies flush. “No, but if you’re interested I can think of a few other ways to make you scream.”

Thanks as always to the lovely @penny00dreadful for everything😘😘😘

Permanent taglist(open): @penny00dreadful @pearynice @hitlikehammers @bookworm0690 @wonderland-girl143-blog

@goodolefashionedloverboi @themagicalari

#steddie fanfic #steve harrington #eddie munson #stranger things #steddie #steve x eddie #steve harrington/eddie munson #blind date #modern au #i wrote this in just over 24 hours #do i have wips i should have been working on?#asolutely i do #but this was SO much fun #I gotta write fluff more often #💜💜💜

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