the zootopia one? prompt: first date
This wasnât a date. Didnât matter what others thought, no matter how much they stared at his claws and how they lightly sunk into Belle Frenchâs lovely blue dress as he steered her throw the crowd. It was on the warm side for an autumn day, so she had on a three-quarter sleeve plum cardigan that bared part of her lovely striped arms, her most prominent okapi feature, along with her long, elegant neck. It made people stare, giving him the uncomfortable urge to shout at complete strangers that they were just two acquaintances who happened to have a similar interest in antique books. He just happened to mention going to an antique book fair and offered to let Miss French accompany him when he saw her eyes light up. Her salary as a librarian did not stretch to the point that allowed her to own a car and it seemed stupid to deny her a space in his roomy Caddy for the outing.
At midday they just both happened to get hungry, which meant they stopped by a roadside diner, something charming and blessedly inclusive of both their diets, to get something to eat. Wasnât a date, no matter how much people looked at them as if they were doing something dirty in public. It was just lunch between two friends, if he even dared use such a word.
It was worse once they got to the book fair itself. The crowded nature of the event often forced him to secure a paw around Miss Frenchâs velvety-soft hip. Instead of stiffening under his touch and secreting fear the daring little thing moulded herself against his side, one hoof securely holding on to a lapel of his suit, pulling him close instead of pushing him away. Every now and then she used her hold on him to drag him towards something she wanted to investigate and he let himself be led, letting out a warning little growl when a passerby seemed to find his tameness funny.
It was definitely not a date, scarcely an outing even. Didnât even matter that they felt peckish enough on the way home and stopped by that lovely dinner again, sharing a piece of strawberry shortcake purely because it happened to be both their favourite and the only piece left. And so what if he spent more time staring at the way Miss Frenchâs long, sleek tongue wrapped around her fork as she took a bite than actually eating? It did not mean anything, certainly didnât make him fantasise about her tongue on his person or, better yet, his own raspy tongue taking slow, lazy licks along her neck, laving the spot where heâd bite her ever-so-gentlyâŚ
He didnât let himself be bothered when Ruby Lucas wolf-whistled at them as they drove by- what other sound was to be expected from her, after all?- or even when mousy little Ashley Boyd wrinkled her little whiskers at them in frank disapproval before scurrying away, lest he raise the rent for the shoe box-sized apartment she rented from him. Storybrooke was a small town with a small town mentality and no matter how much people talked about herbivore/carnivore coexistence there was still much taboo about a true mingling of the species. And though there was no mingling going on, not at all, he still felt angry, angry at the evidence of such backwards thinking.
By the time he helped her unload what treasures Miss French had unearthed it was evening, and he could no longer find any reason to prolong their day. Even in the dim light he could see her clearly, even more beautiful to his nocturnal vision that sheâd appeared during the day. He prepared himself for the moment where sheâd turn her back on him and heâd be nearly overcome with the urge to chase her, to bear down on her, to clamp his mouth on the sweet spot where her neck met her shoulder and tear at her clothing, perhaps exposing her striped, lovely flank to his needy, hungry gazeâŚ
âMr Gold! Are you even listening?â
The librarian chuffed in obvious amusement at his rather pronounced absentmindedness and he struggled to focus, knowing his fantasies could wait till he was in the privacy of his own home, where he could sink his claws into his favourite scratching pole and daydream about Belle French to his heartâs content over a bottle of whiskey, which he could blame in the morning for his inappropriate thoughts.
âIâm sorry, my dear, you where sayingâŚ?â
âI was saying that this is the part of the date where you kiss me goodnight.â
He took a step back, focusing all of his attention on not reacting, not letting even a whisker on his face move without his permission. He expected Miss French to get the hint, drop her gaze, all demure, and bid him good night, having clearly read the situation wrong. But, instead, she looked slightly past him, to something on his back and shook her head.
âYou hopeless little darling.â
He wouldâve been offended by the words, if they hadnât been purred in the gentlest, most loving manner, and if he hadnât suddenly become aware of his tail, swishing about in clear, excited interest. Like before he didnât fight her little hooves when they wrapped around his neck, didnât fight them when they took hold of his glorious mane of hair to position his head just so, didnât fight when she finally kissed him, the taste of her as sweet and succulent, as mouth-watering as he had imagined. When he finally gave up and wrapped his arms around her, claws finally going past her flimsy cardigan and lacy dress to lightly sink into her velvety-soft coat she moaned, the sound undoing the last vestiges of his self-imposed denial.
When she weaned him off with slow, sipping kisses and made him promise to fetch her lunch so they could share a meal in the morning he could only nod, completely at her mercy.
@phoenixwrites for reasons.
