Work Text:
The December air bites at Jacob’s bare arms as he kicks a loose piece of pavement, sending it skittering toward Edward’s polished loafers. "Curry’s pretentious," he grumbles, shoving his hands into the pockets of his threadbare hoodie. "Tacos are honest."
Edward doesn’t blink, his marble-pale fingers tightening around the takeout menu he’s been studying like scripture. "Blood reduction in the sauce isn’t pretentious," he counters smoothly. "It’s refined."
Jacob rolls his eyes hard enough to strain something. "Yeah, sure. Or you could just—" He mimes drizzling something over an imaginary taco. "—boom. Blood-sauce. Hot sauce’s goth cousin."
His next step catches the uneven sidewalk, and suddenly he’s lurching forward, arms windmilling. Edward’s there in less than a breath, cold hands steadying his waist—because of course he is—but Jacob still snorts. "See? My curry would’ve been *gone*, man. Down the gutter. Tacos? They roll with the punches."
Edward’s grip doesn’t loosen. "You’d have broken your taco," he murmurs, thumb pressing deliberately into the dip of Jacob’s hipbone. "Just like you broke skin on that paper Monday. Just like the thistle *miraculously* found your palm in the garden. Just like your bike *happened* to tip over right where I was walking."
Jacob’s pulse kicks against his ribs. He ducks his head, but the flush crawling up his neck betrays him anyway. "Coincidences," he mutters, toeing the cracked concrete. "...Tacos?"
Edward’s nostrils flare. Then his gaze drops—lingers—and Jacob doesn’t need supernatural senses to feel the smugness radiating off him.
"Fine," Edward says, silk-wrapped steel. "Tacos." His hand slides lower, fingers splaying possessively over Jacob’s fly, where the fabric strains. "But I’m taking you right here after. Against the wall. Hard enough, you’ll feel it for the rest of the week."
Jacob’s breath stutters. The pavement’s rough under his sneakers, the air thick with salt and exhaust, and Edward’s mouth is a cruel, promising line. He swallows. "Yes. Please."