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the-kr8tor · 9 hours ago

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250 Years of Longing

Pairing: Vampire! Hobie Brown x Fem! Vampire! Reader

Word count: 5.8k

Synopsis: A brief misunderstanding leads to years of heartache. You mourn 250 years of love while his heart remains to you and only you.

Tags: No use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader, vampire AU, divorced! Vampire! AU, established relationship, CW blood, talks of marriage, hurt/comfort, some fluff.

A/N: Special thanks to @pleaktale !!! This au was born in our dms lol

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Hobie's words are muffled in your ears as you try to hide your trembling, lovelorn body. Your head is in your hands, wide eyes downturned towards the same scruffed floors you've lived in for thirty years with him. You still remember the day you moved in, the walls were in bright yellow back then, wooden floors hidden by some gaudy shag carpet from the 70s. You still remember that decade like it was yesterday, maybe it was just yesterday, being a vampire means that time has moved differently for you. Time is merely something you gloss over, years flying by in a wink. Barely a flutter in your immortal eyes.

Even technology is moving faster and innovating quicker than you could manage to keep up. The next thing you know, you've been alive for more than 250 years.

250 years of being with him, 250 years of wearing the same identical ring, 250 years of loving him. All those 250 years are going through your mind a thousand miles per hour, your first kiss with him, your confession. Or was it him who confessed to you? Were you the one who got sick and he had to find a vampire to turn you and in turn to change him? Or was it the other way around? Memory is a fickle thing when you're older than any living human on earth. You've forgotten a lot of things, memory hazy and foggy like a dream you don't quite remember the second you wake. You wish this was just a dream, a nightmare that you'll wake up from.

“I need to try— I need to go, love.” His words wake you up from the lucid nightmare. He stands in the middle of your shared room, eyes forlorn, brows pinched together like he's in agony. “I can't stay ‘ere like this.”

If his words could kill, you'd be staked through the heart by now. 250 years of being together, practically joined at the hip. A love beyond a simple marriage on paper. And he's just standing there, breaking your long dead heart.

You look up at him through bloody tears, nails digging into your scalp as you try to hide your wails. An impossible feat. “Was it me? Did I do something?” You've faced vampire hunters together, faced horrors beyond belief to survive and continue to live with him. But you were never terrified, until now.

He immediately shakes his head, moving closer to you to take your trembling hands. The identical rings on his and your finger clinks together as he clasps your hand. “No, it's not you, love.” Kneeling down, he gazes at you through wine red eyes, bloody tears threatening to spill over his cheeks that you would always caress in your shared coffin that's hidden beneath the canopy bed you're currently languishing in.

“That's what they all say.” You utter in a small voice that he hasn't heard in decades.

Grasping your hands, he rubs his thumbs over your pulse where your heart would beat. Something he still does even though your hearts haven't beat together in sync ever since that fateful day.

“You didn't do anythin' wrong. I jus’ need to find myself, go out and see the world in my own eyes.”

You nod bitterly. “Without the burden of me.”

“That's not true, you're not a burden.” His hands reach towards your cheeks, wiping the bloody tears cascading down them like rain drops on a cold autumn day. “There are people I could help out there—”

“And I can't? Why can't you just bring me with you?” You wrench yourself away from him, walking away from the bed to give him space lest you let him see you like this. “Just say you're tired of me.” Hugging yourself, you feel his arms wrap around your middle, face tucked in the crook of your neck right where your scar sits.

“‘m not tired of you.” He says against your skin.

Your twist in his arms to face him fully, palms resting on his chest, eyes dim and scared. “Then why leave? Why do you want to leave me?” His shirt is bunched around your fists, desperate to cling to him despite his wishes. “250 years, Hobie. I've known you for more than that, been with you through all of it. I deserve to know why.” You try to reign in your anger and frustration but your fangs suddenly appearing betrays you.

“I don't want to leave you— Time, love. I jus’ need time. That's all we've got.”

You're tired, tired of asking why, tired of clinging to him like a life raft. Tired of your chest aching and feeling heavy as he looks at you with pity— was it pity? Or something else? So you let him go. Fists unfurling, palms leaving his chest as you step away from him.

“Alright.” You sniff, expression falling stiff as you straighten up. “I won't stop you.” If your love for him keeps him from doing what he loves, then you'll let him go. You can still love him from afar, even if he doesn't want you anymore.

“Love.” Hobie reaches your hand, palm sliding up to your elbows as he pulls you closer to embrace you fully. “250 years, not once did I feel I didn't love you.”

You close your eyes as you find yourself hidden atop his throat, memorizing his scent and how he holds you. Feeling how his own tears drip down on you, how his skin feels against your own. Memory is a fickle thing, you'll soon forget, but you don't want to. So you'll cling to him, even if it's just a memory of him.

“I love you, y’know that right?” He whispers to you, and only to you.

“I—” you falter. If you say it back, it feels like goodbye. And you don't want to say goodbye to the one person you have loved for centuries. “—I know, Hobie.” You could only say, saying it back means that you're never going to see him again. Saying it back means it's the end.

He could only hold onto you tighter, lips pecking the crown of your head so gently that you barely felt it in your lovelorn state.

You've got time, but it won't be spent with him. Eternity would feel empty for you now.

—

It's been six months of being alone, six months since he moved out to find his purpose. He wanted to leave partly so you could also find yourself and be yourself without his presence. 250 years of being together would do that. He doesn't know where he ends and begins when your soul and his own are tangled together for eternity. And he wants that for you too— to be your own self and not just another vampire in the cursed flock.

To be a better eternal partner for you is one of his goals, he needed to leave so he could be better, so he could be good to you for another 250 years more.

And he's willing— wishing that he gets to spend eternity with you after he's satisfied with what he has done to help people. He just hopes that you'd be home to welcome him back once he does. He's sure that you're already making good progress in finding yourself. He already misses you. A lot.

He's already aching for home and your embrace.

So much has happened in those six months, he's excited to tell you everything he has encountered. And even more excited to hear your voice again, to hold you again and sleep in the same coffin with you again and not the shoddy temporary coffin he made out of planks to rest in. He can already see your ecstatic face when he enters the abode again.

Ned has told him that he won't last a year without you. He'd know, Hobie has been friends with him for almost a hundred years now. But he refuses to let him win, even though he really wants to see you right now, or even call you on one of those phones that people seem to be addicted to. But you haven't picked up his calls, or even answered his letters. He has sent one everyday since he left, he's starting to worry now. Even the crew who urged him to go on a worldwide mission with him has placed bets on when he'll run back to you. With the earliest being tomorrow, and the longest being a year. He intends to make them lose, but by god, he misses you so damn much that he's starting to see you in his dreams. And see glimpses of you in the corner of his eyes.

He doesn't regret his decision, but a part of him thinks that you were right— that he should've brought you with him on his journey. Without you his frozen heart feels like it's out of his own body. Walking around without him, living without him. But he knows that it's for the best. It's only temporary, he keeps repeating to himself every night. He'll be with you soon.

As he writes today's letter, he smiles, hands scribbling his day away on the fragrant paper that he knows you'd love especially when it's sprayed with his own perfume.

He can't wait to see you back home.

—

You were absolutely losing it in that house. You keep seeing him everywhere. With every clatter in the halls, you run towards it in hopes that it's him making a ruckus in the kitchen. With every shadow cast on the walls, you see him walking towards you, arms outstretched to hold you. And then for a moment, he's gone, like a whiff of smoke billowing from a lit cigar.

The house that has love built within its walls seems to tilt in your vision. Weighed down by your grief. You don't know where to place your feeling of abandonment, do you place it in the kitchen where you two used to feed together? Or do you put it right next to your withdrawal, your need to be with him once again?

You choke on your own need.

So you take a page from Hobie's book and left. After just two days of him being gone, you packed your bags and headed out to nowhere. You can't stay anywhere that you have stayed with him before, you're afraid that you'll burst into bloodied tears if you even get a whiff of the same place where you two met all those centuries ago.

You haven't felt this alone since you were nineteen, well, you haven't been nineteen in a long time. You could barely remember your days before you were turned— died. It's like looking into a window of a well lit house whose occupants you once knew well but couldn't talk to anymore. In that well lit house is you and him. Just you and him, him and you.

The lamp posts are hazy in your eyes, buildings whizzing by in a blur of crimson tears. You took the midnight bus, hand never leaving the ring on your finger, and just sat there until the route ended. Then you rode a train, then a boat. And again and again until you reached a little coastal town with a name you could barely remember on good days. And with bad days, the crying comes and goes. Chest still aching, claw marks left all over the tiny cottage you brought.

A dark cloud has settled on you, but with each day passes, with each interaction from the town’s people with their good nature and good intentions, the dark cloud slowly ebbs away. The sun shines on you once again after a year and a half without him, it doesn't burn you nor scorch your skin anymore, it lights your way. The people and the soft sea breeze helped you cope through the uncertainty of being alone.

250 years of togetherness, and not one day you've felt alone, or felt like you've wasted your time with him. 250 years of memories, not one you felt like it went all down the drain. It was worth it, all the calm days to the rough one, it was all worth it.

You still wish to see him, to talk to him, to taste his saccharin ichor on your tongue; to kiss him until you're both laughing against each other's kiss bitten lips. It's a normal feeling, a neighbour once told you after you told her your story (excluding the vampirism). It's alright to miss someone who might not miss you back.

There's a hole that he left in your chest, and you find that you can't fill it in no matter how much you try to fill it with friends and good moments. But it shrinks, it gets smaller with time. It gets better with each day that passes. It has gotten better.

No longer do you feel that time has passed in a blur of colours. It has slowed for you, time. You go outdoors and breathe in the salty air, you talk to people, people you would've ignored back then. You do things you haven't done in decades. And you find that time has barely passed. You live each day, savour it, conquer it with warmth akin to his palm atop your own.

You wish him nothing but the best, and as you promised yourself on that day, you'll continue to love him from afar. The moon gazing down on you reminds you of him, everything reminds you of him. And that's alright, love does that. And it will continue to do so for the rest of eternity.

You've got nothing but time to heal and fill the void with as much light as you can.

—

Hobie's gnawed with exhaustion, but happy, incredibly happy. After two years of being away, he has helped so many lives with his ‘abilities’. He has plucked away corrupt officials with his own clawed hands, fangs coated in a sheen of rubies, eyes bright and almost glowing in its pools of crimson. He's proud of what he has accomplished, he hopes that you would be too.

Two years went by without you, he may have won the bet by a long shot but he can't stay for another day more. He needs to go home to you or he feels like he'll combust into searing flames if he doesn't get to see you and hold you within the day. He longs for your warm ichor on his tongue, and how you always laugh at his antics after all these years. He smiles at his ring, excited to see its partner in your finger once again.

So he forgoes to write you a letter in an attempt to surprise you with his return. He packs his bags, waves goodbye to his old and new found friends, going home without wasting another second. You're his bright spot amidst the dark eternity, his sun that lights the way, and he finally feels that he's worthy of you. Worthy of your time.

He knows himself better than he did when he was just nineteen and lost in the threads of life. He feels as if he traveled back in time, back when he was a human who craved to leave his mark in the world. Only this time, he accomplished the latter. Now, as he promised himself that day, he's coming back home.

He's going back home to you.

—

A letter mysteriously arrives at your doorstep. Its pitch black envelope and red wax seal with the unmistakable seal of the vampiric council sends anxiety coursing through your frozen veins.

Is it Hobie? Has something happened to him? Did he fight a council member again? Did you unintentionally and unknowingly break a rule? Or perhaps it's just a newsletter? You could only hope that it's a newsletter.

You open it immediately to calm yourself. Sharp nails ripping the black envelope open. Reading the contents, you sigh in relief at the invitation. An invitation to a soiree, the kind you and Hobie were never invited to because it's well known that you two have been together for centuries. Hell, it's in their records to begin with.

Tamping down your yearning thoughts, you skim the invitation some more. You find that it's a masquerade, ‘to make it interesting in finding your eternal partner,’ it read in its fancy gold lettering. They need to find a better writer to write their invitations, you thought.

You feel like scoffing at the idea of you dressing up and looking pretty just to find a person who may or may not leave you after they feel the urge to change. As you flip the matte paper around, your mind changes with the words ‘goody bags will be given to those who don't find a partner by the end of the day.’ You can't resist a good party favour, especially when it's from the rich vampire council who once gave away mustangs and harleys to the vampires who made it to a hundred. You might hate their guts, but you can't deny how well they can plan a good soiree.

Leaving your cottage, you don your thick coat and take out your trustee umbrella to wade through the sun illuminated town in hopes of buying a somewhat presentable gown to wear. You might've skipped the part in the invitation that says, ‘satisfaction guaranteed!’

—

Hobie stands on the porch of your shared home with a big giddy smile on his face. He notices all the plants you loved so much have wilted, grass turned into a shade of murky brown, and the porch is littered with dust and grime. He ignores the state of his home in favour of the thought of you being too busy traveling and meeting friends or trying out different hobbies. He could only hope that you're well. That you feed whenever you're hungry, he knows how much you hate hunting, especially without him. He remembers that you always make it a night, basically a date night with him that ends with a dead asshole in an alleyway with four unmistakable pin pricks on the side of their neck.

He should've planned more before he left, made sure that you'd be prepared for anything while he's gone. He'd hate to be gone when a would be vampire hunter attacks your home. His fists clenches around his suitcase, now his fear of you being staked through the heart in his own house takes hold of his entire body. You can handle yourself in a fight, but he's afraid of losing you in such a violent way when he could've been there to save you.

With fear clawing at his chest up to his throat, he unlocks the front door with a creak. Then the door stops, as if something is blocking the way.

“Love?” He calls for you in the dark foyer. The vase you always kept filled with flowers that sits on a desk near the door has completely covered in dust, roses wilted. Flowers no longer blooming in its porcelain form. His iced heart shudders in his chest. “Love, it's me, don't attack, yeah?” Chuckling nervously, he pushes the door fully despite the resistance.

The sound of papers crinkling under the pressure of the door sends him into a tizzy. His eyes narrow downwards at the piles upon piles of envelopes next to his feet. Squeezing inside, he tosses his suitcase haphazardly further into the foyer. It thumps loudly on the wooden floorboards, contents tumbling out and spilling over the floors.

His frantic eyes scan the letters, kneeling down, he finds that the letterbox flaps on the door is practically bursting with the amount of envelopes that were shoved in.

Frowning, he takes one in his trembling fingers, thumbs running along your name that he wrote himself.

“What the fuck?” He asks breathlessly into the void. He finds that every single one of them remains unopened.

Standing upright as quick as lightning, he runs around the house like a headless chicken looking for its head. He checks the living room, none, except for spiderwebs clinging on his guitar perched on the wall. His anxiety eats him from the inside out with every door he flings open. The sounds of his thundering footsteps echo inside the shared home, oil paintings of you and him are threatening to fall from its fixtures as he sprints through every door, looks through every crevice for you. And opens every cabinet and even climbs up to the attic to no avail.

There's no blood nor sign of a fight or forced entry. At least he knows that you haven't been attacked. But his mind lingers on one question, ‘where are you?’

He heaves in the middle of the bedroom where he saw you last. The shared coffin was left revealed and out in the open, he can still smell your perfume lingering in the velvet walls of the coffin, fingers running along the sides as he desperately tries to feel you through the fabric.

You're not here. You haven't been here for a long time.

“Fuck,” he balls up the fabric in his fist. There's no sign of you anywhere, not even a letter for him to read. It's unlike you to not leave a note. You always leave one, even if you're just going to the garden. “Where the fuck are you, love?”

The sound of the deep sounding doorbell startles him in place. With his quick movements, he makes it to the door within a half second. That could be you outside.

Hobie practically rips the door open with both hands as he wretches it away in hopes that it could be you. With a grin, he only sees a bat flapping away, and a dark envelope left at his doorstep.

“Fuckin' council.” Quickly grabbing the letter, he closes the door behind him. He could only hope that the letter is for him, that they're chastising him for what he has done. It can't be a letter of condolence pertaining to you, it can't be.

—

Your champagne flute filled with blood is starting to coagulate. Crimson staining the sides of the fancy glass as you slosh it absentmindedly. You stand in the corner right next to the fountain of warm blood gushing out of a mermaid's vase. At least you get to drink your fill.

The party is in full swing, the grand hall is filled with single vampires mingling with each other. Their mindless chatter falls on deaf ears as you look up at the crystal chandeliers illuminating the event. Cigar smoke rises up from the bloodied lips of vampires, turning the air more acrid than the scent of sweat and drying blood from the feeding area just below the event hall.

You're starting to think that the goody bag isn't worth it anymore, even if it has the meaning of life tucked inside it.

The sound of tinkling glass and footsteps takes your attention from the foggy ceiling. The stranger smiles at you through his domino mask. Lips smirking as he makes his way towards you with two bloody cups.

“May I join you?” He asks in a low soothing voice. His suit is in velvet blue, golden charms hanging off him like fine gold threads weaved over him. You raise a brow at him, hopefully he can see it rise above your flowery mask. “Someone as pretty as you shouldn't be spending the night alone like this.”

You scoff quietly, refraining from rolling your eyes. “How would you know that I'm pretty under this mask?” He grins wider at your comment. “For all you know, I'm hideous under this.”

Chuckling, the platinum haired man shrugs. “I just know. You give off the aura of someone gorgeous.”

You scoff light-heartedly against the rim of your glass. “I bet you've said those exact words a dozen times tonight.”

He smirks, fang poking out from his lips. “No, just this once.” Plucking your coagulated drink from your hand, he swiftly and gracefully replaces it with a new one. The drink is still warm, fresh from the veins. “I only use my skills wisely lest it be wasted.”

You stare at him with a raised brow, the corner of your lips curl into an unsure smile. “Wasted on who?” Taking a step away from the man who clearly wants his fangs in your neck, you dawdle on drinking from the glass he gave you.

Chuckling, he glances at the vampires milling about the ballroom, their fancy clothes swishing from side to side as they try their best in recreating a moment in the past.

“The…unremarkable vampires.”

“And you think I'm remarkable enough for you…?”

The stranger takes your hand without another word, leaning down to press a cold kiss against your skin. “Just call me Count Tepes.”

You blink at his name, then you feel it, a recognizable warmth flooding your frozen veins akin to a gentle summer's breeze upon your cheek. A comfortable heat pressing against your throat, a familiar presence making its way towards you in haste.

“Who's this, love? You chattin’ up my wife?” Hobie's arm is suddenly around your waist, calloused hand pressing gently atop your bodice, fingers slithering under the ribbons on your hips in a comfortable and welcomed possessive nature. “Didn't know we were lookin' for a third. If we were, I wouldn't choose this bloke.”

As you crane your neck to stare at him, your expression morphs into a combination of pain and relief. “Hobie?”

“Yeah, lovie?” He pulls you closer against him, a pearlescent mask hiding half of his face but you could recognize him by mere touch alone, by his tone, by his warmth. You could lose him in the crowd and you'd know him from the sound of his footsteps. His smirk turns into a frown at your expression, hand squeezing your side once for comfort. “You alright?”

“Is he bothering you?” The count asks with an annoyed tone. Golden eyes narrowed to slits at the punk holding you close.

“I think you're the one bein' a bother ‘ere, mate.” Hobie sneers, tugging away at your glass to chug it in one gulp without leaving his glare at the fellow vampire. He licks at his bloodied lips, fangs bared, blood dripping down from the corner of his smirk.

Tepes raises a sharp brow at you, you, whose mind is running a thousand miles per hour. With a heavy inhale, you give him your best smile. “No need to worry, I'm with him.” Hobie puffs out his chest smugly.

The Count chuckles with a shake of his head in reply. “Not again, just my luck, hm?” Taking a swig, he swallows down the thick blood. “It's either couples looking for a third, a fourth, or even a fifth. Or someone who just went to the party to inspire jealousy in their husband.” Glancing at you, he sighs and nods curtly at you before leaving without another word.

“Really, love, him?” Hobie scoffs with a grin, ringed finger tapping on his— your glass. “You could do better—”

You whirl away from him, not having the heart to fully push him away. “What are you doing here?”

“What are you doin' ‘ere?” Hobie furrows his pierced brows, his identical ring still on his ring finger. The ruby glows under the chandeliers, the same shade as his immortal eyes.

You stare at him with bemused shock, “you left!”

“On a bloody soul searchin’ not leavin' you!”

“What?” You blink rapidly at his words. “You said you couldn't stay anymore—” a cough stops you in your tracks. An older vampire with the biggest beard you've ever seen taps his foot impatiently, thick brow raised in annoyance. “Sorry.” You murmur before leaving towards the closed balcony doors.

“Sorry, Santa.” Hobie waves him away, following right behind you as you struggle to open the double doors. “You have to—” he places the glass down to help you by putting his hands above your own. “— love, you have to push the bloody knob.”

His hands felt like how they used to, as if two years hadn't passed. With a click, the doors swing open. “Damnit, I had it.” You step into the cold air, trembling hands resting on the cool marble balcony.

The doors shut close as Hobie tentatively steps closer to you. “You look fit.” You scoff at him as his shoulders heave in an inhale. “I wouldn't leave you.”

“But you did.” You utter under your breath, you know he heard it above the breeze.

“Can I explain myself? I don't want to fight, love.” 250 years together and you've only fought a handful of times, and the serious ones are lesser than the nonsensical ones. With your apprehensive nod, he crosses the small distance, settling himself right next to you and at the same time giving you enough space. “I didn't break it off.” He takes off his mask, sighing heavily as he twirls his ring around his finger. “I should've explained it better.”

You finally meet with his eyes. The ring in your pocket seems to grow heavier. “You were gone for two years, Hobie.”

“For a good cause, I didn't feel like myself and I wanted to be better, not just for you but for myself.” He leans closer to you, the full moon bathing him in silver, the light caught by his piercings. “250 years together, do you think I'd leave you just like that?”

“You didn't have to be better for me. You're already great to me.” Your affectionate words echo in the breeze as his chest clenches, guilt stomping down on him. “I thought you didn't find me fascinating anymore. That you didn't need or want me anymore.” Your voice is small, almost broken. “250 years together could do that, Hobie.”

“I could never not find you fascinatin’, and I get to wake up next to everythin' I could ever need or want. You're anythin’ but.” With a brave hand, he reaches for your cheek, wiping a bloodied tear you didn't notice you've let out. “I thought you got hurt, or worse.”

He feels a tear run down his cheek. Gently taking your mask off of your face, he could finally see you in all your glory. He gazes into your shining eyes— he may not be able to see himself in the mirror, but he doesn't need to when your eyes are enough to reflect his own blissful face.

You lean further into his hold, palms reaching towards his chest like you used to. “D–did you do it? Did you get to do what you wanted to? Are you happy?”

Hobie nods before placing his forehead against yours to savour your close presence. “I did, all that and more. And I've always been happy with you.”

Smiling, you pat his cheek affectionatly. “Then I'm proud of you.” Leaning away, you wipe away a stray tear from his chiseled cheek. “So it was a misunderstanding? You didn't actually break off our…marriage?”

He smiles softly, knuckles gently running along your jaw. “Why’d you hesitate, hm? And yeah, I should've explained myself better. ‘m sorry.”

You thump your fists on his leather clad chest as he chuckles. “You could've saved me from a lot of fucking tears, Hobie.” You can now admire him fully, his outfit is a contrast to the other party goers with their silks and chiffon, but he makes it look good— he always looks this good.

Taking your wrists, placing it atop his still heart, he tilts his head with an affectionate smile. “You didn't answer my question. And you took off your ring.” He raises a questioning brow, fingers bracelets around your wrist as he moves your empty ring finger around. “Were you honestly tryin' to get with that wanker?”

“No,” you say immediately, “And if I remember correctly, we never technically married. I'm only here because they had nice things in the party favors. And I thought, ‘why not? The worst that could happen is that I get a bloody ipad instead of a mustang like I hoped.’” Your lips wobble as you tamp down a sob, eyes getting blurry. “I couldn't replace you just like that. It would take me a thousand years to get over you, you idiot.”

Hobie laughs wholeheartedly, a sound you dearly missed. He pauses then inhales, eyes warmly staring at you through the haze of affection. “Fuck, I missed you so goddamn much.” With a quick pull, he embraces you firmly with his face hidden on the crook of your neck, lips brushing along your throat. “You're right, ‘m an idiot for not explainin’ better, and for not takin’ you with me. ‘m sorry.”

You wrap your arms around him tighter, nose nuzzling his temple. “Could've just told me you were having a mid-life crisis.”

He laughs against your skin. “I sent you letters everyday, you didn't reply.” Subtly, he dances with you from side to side under the moonlight and the music of crickets chirping. “I went home and you weren't there. If I wasn't already dead, you would've given me a heart attack.”

“I couldn't stay there alone.” You hold him impossibly closer. “You weren't there.”

Hobie imagines you in that big house all alone waiting for him. “Fuck, ‘m sorry.”

“I know, I forgive you. Just bring me next time, okay?” He nods with a grin. You lean away, cradling his face in your careful hold, thumbs rubbing along his cheeks. “I'll read your letters, all of them once we get back home.”

“Why read ‘em when I can tell you?” He grins, temptation pushing him to meet with your waiting lips. “‘sides, ‘m a better storyteller than a writer.”

You chuckle softly as he pecks you once, twice then leaning away only to move back with another gentle kiss. “I've got stories to tell too.” You utter against his soft lips.

“Yeah?” He smiles proudly at you. “Can you tell me all about them while your lips are on mine?”

You beam at him. “I can, I have telepathy for a reason, Hobs.”

“Thank fuck for telepathy.” He says as he kisses you fervently just like he always had in 250 years of being together. “I should've married you, lovie.” His words are uttered in between kisses.

“We have time.” You whisper against his smiling lips whilst he picks your pockets and slips your ring in your finger once again.

As you kiss him, you can see that he's already planning the event in his giddy mind. You tell him the three words you've been aching to say back in his head. And in turn, he takes you further into his arms as dark wispy smoke envelopes you both in an embrace. In a blink, you're back home with him. The house feels warm again.

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songbird-and-her-fos · 2 days ago

Text

Dance Lessons

Emmrich/F!Rook

Emmrich likes to indulge in the finer arts, including dance, and wants to share this with Rook. Sadly, Rook has little confidence in her dancing abilities

A quiet day at the Lighthouse. Lyrei “Rook” Ingellvar didn’t know what drew her to the small hidden room with the big piano, but she found herself there nonetheless. There were so many more enjoyable things she could spend her time with, she told herself, so why come here? Perhaps it was the instrument itself that attracted her to this seldom visited corner of the Lighthouse; Rook loved music, though she had never had the opportunity to learn to play. So her fingers only lightly grazed the ivories, never truly pressing any of them hard enough to produce a sound.

She missed music. Be it the lengthy elegies written for funerals back in Nevarra or lively drinking songs filling the air of taverns; she hadn’t heard any of that in way too long a time.

Hadn’t Bellara discovered an ancient Elven music box not too long ago? Just as Rook resolved to ask about it soon, someone entered the room.

“So this is where you’ve been hiding, dearest. I’ve been looking for you.”

She turned around, her face lighting up with a smile. “Emmrich.”

He held up the artifact in his hands. “I asked Bellara if she would let us borrow her music box; there’s something I want us to try with it.” He placed it on a nearby table. “I had at first considered trying to teach Manfred how to play the piano for us; he was very interested, but I think he needs to focus on his magic training for the time being.”

“Now you’re making me curious”, Rook said cheerfully. “Don’t keep me in suspense like that!”

“My darling, have you ever tried dancing?”

Rook bit her lip. “I haven’t. I’m not sure I would be any good at it, to be honest.”

Emmrich stretched out his arms to pull her against him. “Nonsense. I see how you move in battle; you are a born dancer if I’ve ever seen one.”

Her eyes flitted about the room, for the first time trying to look at anything but him. “I don’t want to embarrass myself; especially not in front of you.”

Emmrich leaned forward and kissed her. “I would never judge you, you know that. Come, we'll start with a simple waltz. Without music, so you can get a feeling for the steps first.”

Rook hesitated for a moment, but found herself unable to say no to him. Not when he was so excited at the prospect of dancing with her. “...Okay, but I take no responsibility for any damage done to your toes.”

“Marvelous! It's easy, really.” He placed one hand on her waist and took hers with the other. “Start by taking a step forward with your left foot, then a sideways step with your right foot…”

This “simple waltz” felt anything but simple at first. She executed the steps just as Emmrich instructed, but kept losing the rhythm and felt her face heat up every time she stumbled. Just when she was about to ask if it was time to stop, Emmrich paused.

“Rook, my dearest, you are way too stiff. Relax. Don’t worry too much about executing every step perfectly. Just focus on me.”

Rook took another deep breath. “Focus on you. Okay. I can do that.” She concentrated on his eyes, gentle and loving as ever. No trace of judgement or annoyance. He moved, and she followed, her mind easing to a pleasant emptiness that left space for the two of them, and nothing else. She barely noticed when his hand slightly moved and the music box began playing. It was an ancient Elven song, a far cry from modern ballroom music, but it still flowed into their movements like a guiding breeze. That was her entire world in this moment; music and movement… and Emmrich, smiling at her as if she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

“I knew you could do it.” Delight lit up his eyes.

“What can I say? I have an excellent teacher.”

Step by step, they twirled through the room, allowing themselves to get lost in the moment. One, two, three…

Emmrich’s hoarse chuckle slightly pulled her from her thoughts. “You are absolutely beautiful. I can’t believe how lucky I am to have you.”

The corners of her mouth twitched upwards. “Says the stunning man in front of me.”

He laughed, and her heart did a little flip.

The song slowly fizzled out, and with a final spin, Emmrich, kissed her and then rested his forehead against hers. “I love you.”

“And I love you. And… thank you for teaching me how to dance. Maybe we can do this more often?”

“Whenever you like, my dearest.”

#dragon age veilguard #dragon age veilguard spoilers #veilguard spoilers #emmrich volkarin #emmrich x rook #fluff #my writing #I'm on a roll with writing lately

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movingmusically · 1 day ago

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Caught Feeling - Chapter 14

Synopsis:

The morning after Hank’s confessions, Y/N senses a shift in their relationship, both strengthened and delicately altered by what he’s shared. They indulge in a day cocooned from the world, wrapped in quiet intimacy. As they rediscover each other’s touch, the bond between them feels stronger than ever, leaving Y/N basking in a newfound closeness she hadn’t anticipated.

Word count: 8,617

Masterlist

The morning light filtered softly through the blinds, casting gentle, fragmented patterns on the walls. I lay there, tangled in sheets and silence, my mind still retracing the lines of Hank’s confessions from last night. Every word, every hesitant glance, each rough-edged moment had settled into me like pebbles dropped into a pond, creating ripples I couldn’t still. Each memory hovered just beneath the surface, stirring emotions I was only beginning to name.

It wasn’t like Hank to share things so openly—not like this. He’d built his own fortress over the years, thick walls crafted from unspoken hurts and old wounds, carefully fortified and guarded. But last night, he’d let me glimpse beyond them, allowing me to see the scarred pieces he usually kept locked away. Piece by piece, he’d handed me parts of himself that felt weathered and raw. I wanted to believe that sharing his past had lifted a weight from him, that he felt lighter now, freed somehow. But the way he’d held me after—the tightness, the quiet—made me wonder if he felt exposed rather than unburdened, as though he’d given away something he didn’t know if he could ever take back.

His secrets now lived in the space between us, shifting the fragile foundation we’d built into something both stronger and shakier all at once. I could feel the weight of them pressing into the silence, settling in the creases of the sheets, sinking into my own heart. It felt as if we’d crossed some invisible line, leaving the easy familiarity of before behind us. And yet, the warmth of his body next to mine, his steady breathing, the feel of his hand still wrapped around mine—it all grounded me, a quiet reminder that whatever this was, we were in it together.

Eventually, he stirred, blinking slowly as he adjusted to the morning light. For a moment, he looked at me, his gaze still carrying the shadows of last night, the memories still close enough to feel in the early morning quiet. There was a vulnerability there, a quiet hesitance that made me realise he was still trying to piece everything together, still finding his way back from the place he’d allowed himself to go.

“Didn’t think I’d sleep at all after…all that,” he murmured, a soft, uncertain smile tugging at his lips. “Guess I was wrong.”

I returned his smile, feeling a familiar warmth in my chest, something reassuring in the simple honesty of his words. “Maybe that’s a good thing. Sometimes…letting it out is what we need most, even if it doesn’t feel that way at first.”

He nodded, his gaze lowering for a moment as if considering, his fingers tightening slightly around mine before he looked up again, his eyes meeting mine with an intensity softened by a hint of doubt. “Feels strange, though. Like…I handed you all these pieces and don’t know how to put them back together.”

“You don’t have to, not alone,” I replied gently, my hand resting between us in the space that felt both close and infinite. “I’m here. For all of it.”

He gave me a look that held a thousand unspoken words—gratitude, fear, maybe a flicker of relief. For a few heartbeats, we just stayed like that, searching each other’s faces, and I could feel the distance between us shrinking, inch by inch. There was something in the way he looked at me—like he was seeing parts of me even I hadn’t fully discovered yet. It was terrifying and thrilling all at once.

His fingers brushed lightly against mine, his touch tentative but steadying, as though testing the reality of it all. In sleep, he’d looked almost boyish, the weight of his past hidden away. Now, in the light of day, he seemed both softer and stronger, as though the openness from last night had reshaped him in some unnameable way, something both fragile and enduring.

Without thinking, I let my hand move, reaching out to gently trace the curve of his eyebrow, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath my fingertips. His eyes softened, his breathing slowing as if settling into the quiet rhythm between us. He didn’t move, letting me take the lead. My fingers drifted down, following the line of his cheekbone and along his jaw, where rough stubble met the softness of his skin. The feeling was familiar but electric, each touch revealing something new, something I hadn’t noticed before, like he’d always been waiting for me to look closer.

A few stray strands of hair had fallen across his temple, softening his usually sharp features. I reached up, hesitating for just a second before tucking the hair back behind his ear, the gesture so natural it felt like breathing. It was something he’d done for me countless times, a quiet intimacy that now felt strangely reverent with the roles reversed.

He looked at me with an openness I wasn’t used to, something soft and vulnerable lingering in his eyes, and my heart clenched with a mix of emotions I couldn’t quite name. Slowly, tentatively, I leaned forward, letting my lips press gently against a faint freckle on his cheek, feeling him exhale softly as if even that small touch lifted something from him, letting him know he was seen, he was safe.

I kissed each tiny mark, tracing an invisible path across his skin, each kiss a silent promise, a quiet assurance that I was here, that he didn’t have to put himself back together alone. When I pulled back, his eyes held a warmth that felt like sunrise, steady and reassuring, a look that said he knew I meant every word I’d promised.

And as we lay there, tangled in each other and the soft light of the morning, I knew we had something real. Something worth holding onto.

Hank shifted slightly, his arm tightening around me as he settled into the quiet comfort between us. His voice was soft, still thick with sleep, as he murmured, “I don’t have to be back at work until Monday night. So…looks like we’ve got the whole weekend together.”

A warmth spread through me, gentle but thrilling, as I met his gaze. The thought of having him all to myself for two whole days felt both rare and perfect. I leaned into him, closing the small distance between us, my fingers brushing lightly over his as I let the quiet anticipation settle around us.

For a moment, neither of us moved, simply soaking in the closeness. His thumb stroked a soft, idle pattern on the back of my hand, a touch that felt like a silent promise. I brought our entwined hands up to my lips, pressing a gentle kiss to his knuckles, my eyes meeting his with a soft smile.

“Bud’s probably wondering why breakfast is late,” I said softly. “Stay here,” he murmured, his voice low and warm, as though he couldn’t bear the thought of even a brief separation. His fingers tightened around mine, a gentle but insistent pull that made me want to sink back into him completely.

I smiled, lingering just a heartbeat longer, and then shook my head with a playful sigh. “I’ll only be a minute. Bud needs me too.” I slipped out of his arms, feeling his reluctant release as I slid out of bed. He groaned playfully, flopping back onto the pillow, but his eyes followed me, a warm, sleepy gaze that made me want to hurry through the task just to return.

I padded to the kitchen, where Bud waited with a patient stare, rubbing against my leg as I filled his bowl. “Alright, big guy,” I murmured, stroking his head before setting his food down. He purred contentedly, and I couldn’t help but smile at his simplicity—the straightforward needs of a cat, so different from the tangled emotions swirling between Hank and me.

The second I returned to the bedroom, I felt the pull of his presence, something soft and magnetic. Hank had shifted, lying on his side, arm outstretched in invitation. I climbed back into bed, and he wrapped himself around me, pulling me close until I fit perfectly against him, my back to his chest, his arm draped over mine.

We lay there, bodies pressed together, warm and secure. His fingers intertwined with mine, holding gently, his thumb tracing lazy circles on the back of my hand. I could feel his breath against my neck, each soft exhale centring me, drawing me deeper into the quiet intimacy of the moment.

“This,” he murmured, his lips close to my ear, “this is all I need.”

I smiled, closing my eyes as I settled into his embrace, letting myself be completely held. The weight of his arm across me, the warmth of his skin against mine—it felt like a kind of trust, a silent promise that didn’t need words. I nestled closer, feeling his steady heartbeat against my back, a rhythm that seemed to match mine, syncing us in a way that felt new and yet completely natural.

Neither of us spoke for a while, letting the silence carry us, content just to be close. The world outside felt distant, unimportant, as if this bed, this room, was the only place that mattered. His fingers brushed up and down my arm in soothing strokes, and I felt myself relaxing even more, sinking into the softness of the morning.

Eventually, he whispered, “I could stay like this forever.”

“Then don’t move,” I whispered back, a smile playing at my lips.

His hold tightened just a little, as though he wanted to anchor me here, to keep me in this moment with him. I felt his lips press a soft kiss to my shoulder, the touch featherlight but filled with so much warmth that it made my heart ache in the best way. In the stillness, there was a tenderness that made time feel irrelevant, and as we lay there, I knew this was a memory we’d both hold onto—a morning where the world felt far away, and we had nothing but time.

Time passed in a quiet blur, marked only by the steady rise and fall of our breathing, the faint sounds of the world just beginning to stir outside. Every now and then, his hand would shift, fingers grazing my arm or drawing small, aimless patterns along my skin, as though he wanted to memorise the feel of me, of this moment.

At one point, he shifted slightly, resting his chin gently atop my head. “I don’t think I’ve ever done this before,” he murmured, the vulnerability in his voice pulling at something deep within me.

“Done what?” I asked softly, letting my hand cover his where it lay draped over me.

“Just…lay here. Doing nothing. Letting it be enough,” he said, a quiet wonder in his voice, as though the simplicity of it both puzzled and amazed him.

A soft smile curved my lips, and I turned just enough to catch his gaze, my eyes reflecting everything I couldn’t quite put into words. “Then let it be enough, just this once.”

He held my gaze, his fingers lacing with mine as he drew me back against him, his arm wrapping around me with a gentle but steady hold. I felt his chest press warmly to my back, his breath brushing against my neck in a way that felt intimate and safe, as if he was anchoring me to this moment.

Slowly, I turned my head just enough to close the distance, my lips finding his in a kiss that was soft and steady. His hand tightened around mine, and I could feel the warmth of his smile against my mouth, a quiet reassurance that we both felt the same pull. His thumb brushed gently over my knuckles, the movement small but filled with so much tenderness it made my heart ache.

When we finally pulled back, he nestled his face into the curve of my shoulder, pressing a light kiss to the back of my neck. The simple gesture sent a shiver through me, anchoring me deeper in the closeness we shared, with no need for words or explanations.

He pulled me even closer, his arm tightening around my waist, our fingers still intertwined. His hand rested just over my heart, where he could feel each steady beat, matching his own. In his embrace, I felt completely safe, as if time had slowed to give us these rare, unhurried moments of peace.

The world outside became a distant hum, unimportant and quiet, as though it had taken a step back, giving us the space to just…be. In the warmth of his arms, I felt my eyes grow heavy, lulled by the steady rhythm of his breath, and I let myself drift back to sleep, content and weightless, held in a moment that felt endless.

As I stirred awake, the morning light was still soft, casting warm hues over the room. Hank’s arm was wrapped securely around me, his chest pressed against my back, a comforting weight that kept the outside world at bay. I lay there, sinking into the feel of him, the quiet intimacy settling in my bones.

A slight movement from him brought me back into awareness, his fingers tracing gentle circles on my stomach. I shifted slightly, and his arm tightened around me, his touch becoming more deliberate. His breath, warm against my neck, sent a shiver through me, and my lips parted in a soft exhale as he brushed a tender kiss along the curve of my shoulder.

I felt him then, his arousal pressing against me, solid and real, and instinctively, I pressed back into him. He responded with a low murmur, his hand sliding up my side, fingertips grazing my skin as though he was memorising every inch. He continued his slow, reverent kisses along my shoulder, up to the base of my neck, his mouth lingering, each press of his lips soft but loaded with intent.

My pulse quickened as his hand moved higher, grazing the side of my breast. His fingers brushed my skin with a gentleness that made me ache, his touch unhurried, as though he wanted to savour every moment. I leaned back into him, letting myself be held, feeling the steady beat of his heart against my back, our breaths syncing in a quiet rhythm.

Hank’s hand moved over my breast, his palm warm as he cupped me gently, his thumb ghosting slow circles over my nipple, which hardened instantly under his touch. I closed my eyes, absorbing the sensations as a soft moan escaped my lips, my hand finding his, lacing our fingers together as he continued his slow exploration.

He pressed another kiss to my shoulder, his mouth soft, lingering there as if he was pouring every unspoken feeling into that touch. His other hand drifted lower, slipping over my hip, his touch light but intentional as he guided my leg forward, opening me to him. My breath caught as I felt him adjust behind me, the unmistakable press of him against me, filling me with anticipation.

Slowly, I reached down, my fingers trailing along my body until they found his, and together, they guided him into place. I felt the warmth of him, the promise of his body ready to join mine, and a thrill ran through me as my fingers brushed both my own heat and his hardness at the same time. I lingered there, touching myself while feeling him, the dual sensation heightening the intimacy of the moment.

Hank moved slowly, his hands steadying my hips as he eased himself forward, filling me inch by inch, his breath a warm whisper against my neck. We moved together in a rhythm that felt as natural as breathing, my body adjusting to his, meeting him with a softness that felt both tender and grounding. His fingers continued their slow circles on my skin, reassuring, each touch a silent promise.

My hand found his at my waist, and I entwined our fingers, holding on as he moved within me, his thrusts slow and deep, as though he wanted to savour every second of our connection. I leaned back, letting myself feel him fully, feel the reaffirming way he held me, the way he moved with me as if this was exactly where he belonged.

We stayed wrapped in that gentle, unhurried pace, our breaths and heartbeats becoming one, our bodies speaking all the words we didn’t need to say. I reached back, running my fingers through his hair, pulling him closer until I felt his lips against my shoulder again, pressing kisses that felt reverent, anchoring.

With each slow, deep thrust, I felt myself surrendering more to the rhythm we’d built between us, each movement drawing me closer to him. His hand drifted to my hip, gripping me firmly, pulling me to him as he pressed himself deeper, filling me in a way that felt like he was leaving a part of himself with every motion.

A soft, needy sound escaped my lips, and in response, he tightened his hold on my hip, pulling me closer still, pressing his mouth to the curve of my neck. I could feel his breath, warm and heavy, before his lips found my skin, grazing and then pressing, a kiss that lingered and grew into something more. His mouth worked softly at first, but as his teeth grazed and his lips closed around my skin, I knew he was marking me, leaving something behind that felt like both a claim and a promise.

Ordinarily, I’d shy away from something so visible, but now, wrapped in the warmth of his arms, I wanted it—I wanted him to leave a trace of himself on me, something to carry with me beyond this moment. I tilted my head slightly, offering him more of my neck, feeling a thrill run through me as his mouth pressed harder, drawing a soft moan from me, his mark imprinted on my skin in a way that felt both possessive and tender.

My hand drifted down, fingers finding the heat between my legs, touching myself with a gentle, circling motion, heightening each sensation as his body moved in sync with mine. I felt the rush of warmth build under my fingertips, every touch sending ripples of pleasure through me. My hand slid further down, fingers brushing over where he entered me, feeling the firm, steady rhythm of him moving in and out, a connection that felt so profoundly intimate it made my breath hitch.

Hank’s grip on my hip tightened, his rhythm growing just a fraction deeper, each thrust deliberate and affirming, as though he wanted to imprint this moment on both of us. My breathing quickened, and I pressed my fingers harder against myself, the pleasure building into something urgent, something I couldn’t hold back.

I could feel him tense behind me, his breath heavy and uneven against my neck, his mouth still grazing the mark he’d left, his hand tightening on my hip as if to steady himself. The sounds he made, soft and barely restrained, were like a whisper of everything we felt but didn’t need to say. And as my body moved closer to release, he matched each movement, guiding me there with him, his every touch a promise that he was right there, holding me, carrying me through.

I felt the wave crest, my body clenching around him, my hand pressing harder as I spiralled into release, a soft cry escaping my lips as he held me, his grip on my hip steadying me, his mouth pressed to my neck, murmuring words I couldn’t quite catch but that only drew me deeper into the moment.

As I trembled in his arms, I felt him reach his own edge, his hold on me tightening as he let go, his body shuddering against mine, his hand still holding me close, as though he never wanted to let go. We stayed like that, entwined and connected, our breaths slowly finding a rhythm again as we came down, tangled together in the quiet aftermath of our shared release.

A gentle stillness settled around us as our breaths began to slow, the warmth of his body enveloping me like a blanket that felt both secure and freeing. His hand, still wrapped around my waist, softened its grip, fingers tracing soothing patterns over my skin as if to reassure me that he was here, that he wasn’t going anywhere. I nestled back into him, letting the remnants of our connection linger, my body still humming with the aftershocks of our closeness.

Hank pressed a soft kiss to my shoulder, a silent thank you, a reminder that every moment we’d shared was as real for him as it was for me. His lips lingered, trailing up to the mark he’d left on my neck, and he touched it with his thumb, a small, almost reverent gesture that sent a shiver through me despite the calmness between us.

I smiled, reaching up to cover his hand with mine, our fingers interlocking. “Guess I’ll be wearing a scarf for the next few days,” I murmured with a soft laugh, the warmth of his touch still fresh against my skin.

He chuckled, his breath a warm whisper against my ear. “Good. That way, you’ll have a reminder… of this,” he replied, his voice quiet but full of meaning. “Of us.”

The weight of his words settled over me, comforting and exhilarating all at once. I squeezed his hand, letting the silence speak for us, because words felt unnecessary, almost too small for the magnitude of what I was feeling.

We lay there like that for a while, our bodies entangled, our hearts still beating in sync. The world outside was still distant, and there was a peacefulness in the quiet rhythm of our breathing, as though time itself had slowed, allowing us to savour this fragile, beautiful moment.

Eventually, Hank’s fingers began a lazy, comforting stroke along my arm, tracing an invisible line up and down, each touch calming and centring. He rested his chin gently on my shoulder, his presence a steady warmth that felt like home.

“What do you want to do today?” he asked softly, his voice warm, carrying a hint of curiosity but mostly a willingness to simply be wherever I wanted to be.

I tilted my head back to catch his gaze, smiling. “I kind of just want to stay right here…with you.”

He smiled, his eyes softening, and he pressed a tender kiss to my temple. “That sounds perfect to me.”

We stayed wrapped up in each other for a while longer, drifting in and out of quiet conversation, his arm draped over me, fingers tracing small circles along my back. At one point, I shifted to face him, nestling into the curve of his shoulder, my hand resting against his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart under my fingertips. The morning felt soft, untouched by any need to move or be anywhere but here.

A sudden pounce on the bed signalled Bud’s arrival. He nestled himself right between us, his small body curling into the gap as though he, too, wanted to be part of our little world. I laughed, reaching out to scratch behind his ears, and Hank’s fingers brushed over mine as he joined in, both of us petting Bud until his purring filled the room, a soft, steady hum that seemed to lull us all back into a comfortable quiet.

Eventually, a thirst for water made it impossible to stay cocooned in bed any longer. With a soft sigh, I slid out from under the blankets, grabbing his T-shirt from the floor and slipping it on, the fabric hanging loose around me, warm from the feel of him. Hank stretched, rolling onto his back, his gaze following me with a lazy warmth.

“Come on,” I murmured, smiling over my shoulder as I padded to the kitchen.

He pulled on his boxers and followed me, tousled and unhurried, his hand grazing my waist as we reached the kitchen. I filled two glasses with cold water, passing one to him, both of us taking long sips, feeling the refreshing coolness spread through us after the warmth of bed.

“Stay here. I’ll make us something,” I murmured, flashing him a soft smile as I reached for the ingredients.

He settled into one of the kitchen chairs, looking completely at ease, his gaze following me with an unguarded affection that sent a warm flush through me. Moving around the kitchen in his T-shirt, I felt a strange comfort and intimacy, as if the shirt itself were an extension of him, wrapping me in his presence.

I grabbed the waffle iron and the ingredients, quickly mixing up the batter. His eyes stayed on me as I worked, the shirt skimming my thighs. I poured the batter, watching the steam rise as the waffles cooked, filling the kitchen with a cosy warmth and the familiar scent of maple syrup.

A few minutes later, I plated the waffles, drizzling them with warm maple syrup, and handed him a plate. His eyes lit up, and he wasted no time digging in, a soft groan of appreciation escaping as he took his first bite.

“These are… amazing,” he said between bites, looking up at me with a grin that made my heart flutter. “You’re holding out on some serious waffle skills.”

I laughed, taking a seat across from him with my own plate. “Just something I picked up along the way.”

We ate in companionable silence, each bite filling and warm, the simple act of sharing a meal keeping us rooted in the moment. I sipped my orange juice, watching him polish off his waffles and then down his water, a content expression settling over his features. He looked satisfied, relaxed in a way I didn’t often see, his gaze drifting out the window where the Hudson stretched in the distance, the city calm beneath the late morning light.

Leaning back in my chair, I propped my feet up on the table’s edge, letting the moment linger. His shirt had slipped a little higher on my thigh, and I noticed his eyes catch on the bare skin exposed there, a flicker of heat in his gaze as he realised I wasn’t wearing anything underneath. A quiet thrill moved through me, the awareness between us simmering just beneath the surface.

I raised an eyebrow, a small, teasing smile playing on my lips. “See something you like?”

His eyes met mine, that warmth deepening. “More than a few things,” he replied, his voice a touch rough, the hint of a smirk tugging at his mouth. He reached across the table, his fingers brushing mine, a simple touch that felt both grounding and electric.

Without breaking eye contact, he moved his hand lower, fingers gently curling around my ankle. He held it with a gentleness that belied the intensity in his gaze, his thumb brushing soft circles against my skin. Slowly, he lifted my foot, pressing a soft kiss to my ankle, his lips warm against the delicate skin. I shivered, feeling the warmth spread up my leg, the thrill of anticipation building as he took his time, each kiss a deliberate, gentle exploration.

He didn’t rush, his mouth tracing a slow, teasing path up my calf, his eyes lifting every so often to catch my gaze, a spark of mischief and intent flickering there. As he reached my knee, he lowered my foot to the ground, but instead of rising, he slid off his chair, sinking down onto his knees in front of me. My breath hitched, heart beating a little faster as he settled himself between my legs, his hands gliding up my thighs with a quiet reverence.

His lips brushed against the inside of my knee, featherlight, lingering there as if he was savouring the feel of my skin under his mouth. I leaned back, feeling my pulse quicken, my body responding to each touch, every careful kiss. Slowly, he worked his way up my thigh, his mouth tracing a path that was both tender and teasing, each touch building the anticipation, stoking the quiet, simmering heat between us.

As he reached the sensitive skin of my inner thigh, his hands tightened their hold, anchoring me, keeping me steady as his mouth moved closer to the ache that had been building with every kiss, every glance. His gaze lifted once more, and the intensity there made my breath catch, a wordless promise that sent a thrill through me.

With a firm yet gentle pull, he drew me forward until I was perched at the very edge of the chair, his hands drifting over my knees, coaxing my legs wider as he settled even closer. His lips continued their path, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses along the sensitive skin near the apex of my thigh, the heat of his breath making my head spin. My fingers gripped the edge of the chair, anticipation thrumming through my veins as I watched him, feeling completely vulnerable and yet utterly safe under his steady gaze.

When his mouth reached the soft skin just below my hip, he paused, his breath hot and steady against me. My pulse raced, each beat building the anticipation until it felt like every nerve was focused solely on him. I watched as he lifted my legs, draping them over his shoulders, his hands gripping my thighs to hold me in place. The feel of his hands, firm and reassuring, paired with the intense gaze he held me with, sent a shiver through me that only deepened the ache pooling low in my belly.

Then, without further hesitation, his mouth found me. His lips pressed against my most sensitive spot, warm and gentle at first, a slow, deliberate kiss that drew a breathless gasp from me. His tongue traced a soft, teasing path, each movement controlled, unhurried, exploring me with a reverence that made my skin tingle. The sensation was overwhelming, every nerve ending alight under his careful attention.

A soft, satisfied hum escaped him, vibrating against me, and I felt a rush of warmth at the sound, knowing my reaction stirred something deep in him. He continued with a steady rhythm, his tongue circling, pressing, coaxing me closer with each pass. My fingers slipped into his hair, gripping as he deepened his touch, his mouth working against me in a way that was both skilled and achingly tender. The pressure built slowly, a delicious intensity that had me shifting in his hold, my breath coming in shallow, uneven gasps.

His hands tightened around my thighs, anchoring me as he adjusted slightly, pressing his mouth harder against me, his tongue and lips moving with an intensity that left me breathless. My back arched, a soft moan escaping as he found a perfect rhythm, the sensation so consuming it felt as though I could dissolve into it. My hands slid down, one gripping his shoulder, the other resting on his forearm, needing to hold onto something as he continued, each movement deliberate, thorough.

He responded with a low groan, his movements growing just a bit more focused, as though my sounds guided him. His breath, warm and uneven, washed over me with every shift, and I could feel him responding to every tremor, every gasp that escaped my lips.

His hands flexed on my thighs as he sensed my body tightening, my breathing growing shallow and quick. He pulled me even closer, the soft sounds of his pleasure blending with mine, a quiet harmony that only heightened the closeness between us. Each noise he made felt like an affirmation, a gentle promise that he was as affected as I was, completely in sync.

My back lifted off the chair as his tongue worked against me, swirling and pressing with unrelenting precision. Each deliberate movement drew me tighter, a desperate sound escaping as he pulled me closer to the edge, every flick and swirl so consuming it was as if he was unraveling me one touch at a time.

He seemed to sense the exact moment when the pleasure crested, his movements coaxing me over the edge with a precision that felt both gentle and powerful. I shuddered, my body arching as a wave of pleasure washed over me, his mouth still moving, guiding me through each tremor, grounding me in his hold. The world blurred, my senses overwhelmed, every touch, every kiss, every whisper of breath blending into a symphony of sensation.

When I opened my eyes, he was gazing up at me, a warm, satisfied smile on his face. He leaned forward, pressing a gentle kiss to my thigh before he lowered my legs from his shoulders, his hands still warm and reassuring on my hips. Rising slowly, he brought his face close to mine, his thumb brushing softly over my cheek as he looked at me with that familiar, tender intensity.

“Beautiful,” he murmured, his voice low, filled with a quiet reverence that made my heart flutter.

I wrapped my arms around his neck, pulling him closer, leaning in to capture his lips in a kiss that was soft and tender, a quiet echo of everything we’d shared. The taste of me lingered on his lips, a reminder of the closeness we’d just experienced, the quiet intimacy that bound us together in a way that felt deeper, more profound than words could capture.

Our kiss deepened, growing slower and softer, the kind of kiss that felt like sinking into something warm and familiar. But as our smiles began to creep in, it became harder to keep up the rhythm. My lips curled against his, and I could feel his mouth twitching with his own grin, the playfulness bubbling up between us. Then, just as we leaned in again, our teeth knocked together with a soft, awkward clink. We both froze, then burst out laughing, the sound filling the room as I pulled back, covering my mouth.

He raised an eyebrow, still grinning, his hand resting lightly on my waist. “Guess we’re not as smooth as we thought,” he murmured, his own laughter softening into a warm, amused smile.

I bit my lip, feeling a blush spread over my cheeks. “I just… I feel like a horny teenager,” I admitted, laughing softly.

He chuckled, eyes glinting with mischief. “Come on,” he said, grabbing my hand and leading me back toward the bed. “If we’re going to feel like teenagers, we might as well do it somewhere comfortable.”

We settled back onto the bed, lying side by side, limbs entangled as we caught our breath. After a moment, I looked at him thoughtfully, imagining a teenage version of Hank. “You must’ve had girls lining up for you,” I said, a teasing smile pulling at my lips. “Tall, athletic, funny… you probably had half the school crushing on you.”

He laughed, shaking his head. “Believe it or not, I had my awkward phase too. Gangly, too many freckles, braces—the whole package.”

I tried to picture it but struggled to imagine him anything but effortlessly charming. “Still, I bet you outgrew it fast.”

He shrugged, a sheepish grin forming. “Maybe… but I still wasn’t exactly Mr. Popular.” His gaze softened, turning curious. “What about you? I bet you were the cute, mysterious girl everyone wanted to know more about.”

I shrugged. “More like invisible, honestly. I had friends, but… no one ever really saw me as more than that. I was quieter than the other girls who were… you know, bubbly, a little louder. It didn’t really stand out.”

Hank tilted his head, studying me. “I would’ve liked you. It’s always the quiet ones, you know.” His voice was gentle, sincere, and for a moment, I felt a soft warmth spread through me.

I smiled, reaching for his hand. “Alright, so tell me—when was your first kiss?”

He grinned, leaning back as he thought about it. “I was twelve. My first date, believe it or not—my mum actually dropped us off at the movies. I remember sharing popcorn, all nerves and sweaty palms, and then… about halfway through, I made my move. Leaned over and just… kissed her.”

I grinned, picturing him as an eager twelve-year-old, nervously going in for that first kiss. “Bold. I’m impressed.”

“And what about you?” he asked, turning the tables.

I sighed, already cringing at the memory. “I was fourteen, it was at this under-16s event at a local club. They had a DJ, dance floor, the whole vibe—just no alcohol, obviously. Anyway, I spotted a cute guy, and my friend, bless her, decided to play matchmaker. She ran over to tell him I thought he was cute. I was mortified.”

Hank’s laughter echoed around the room, and I joined in, the memory both embarrassing and oddly endearing in hindsight.

“So, what happened?” he pressed, clearly invested.

“Well, he just came over and planted one on me. No ‘hi,’ no conversation. Just… straight in, and it was… awful,” I said, wincing. “Way too much tongue, sooooo sloppy. I pushed him away and went back to my friends. Never found out his name, never saw him again.”

Hank laughed, shaking his head. “Alright, I think that wins for worst first kiss. You didn’t even get his name?”

“Nope.” I smiled, shrugging. “A true mystery man. Didn’t matter though—no one else even looked my way until college.”

He leaned in, brushing a gentle kiss along my temple. “Their loss,” he murmured, and the simplicity of his words left a warmth lingering between us, settling deeper than I expected.

We lay there, tangled up in each other, sharing old memories and quiet laughter, each story revealing a little more of who we’d once been and the path that led us here. And as the early afternoon light shifted softly across the room, I realised these moments—these quiet, unguarded glimpses—were exactly what I’d been hoping to find.

We stayed curled up in bed, limbs entwined, the warmth of his body melding with mine as the hours slipped by, unnoticed. We shared more stories, our voices soft in the quiet, the closeness weaving an unspoken connection between us that felt both thrilling and achingly real. Hank’s fingers moved gently along my arm as he listened, his gaze attentive, as though every word mattered. And with each memory, every laugh, we sank deeper into a shared intimacy that felt as natural as breathing.

When words gave way to silence, our bodies took over, finding each other in gentle touches and lingering kisses. It was unhurried, a delicate dance that felt equal parts exploration and surrender, as if the only goal was to lose ourselves in the warmth and comfort we’d created together. His hands roamed my skin, fingertips mapping a path that made me shiver, and I found myself memorising the curve of his shoulders, the way his breathing shifted with each soft touch. There was something deeply grounding in the simplicity of it—no rush, no expectations, just the two of us discovering what it meant to truly let someone in.

By the time the sun had begun to dip lower in the sky, casting golden light across the bed, our stomachs reminded us of the real world outside our little cocoon. Hank’s hand slipped down to his phone, pulling up a menu. “Pizza?” he asked, a lazy grin spreading across his face. “Or are you in the mood for something fancier?”

I smiled, nestling closer. “Pizza sounds perfect. Let’s keep it simple.”

He nodded, ordering without missing a beat, as though he knew exactly what toppings I’d choose. When he hung up, he turned back to me, his arm wrapping around my shoulders to pull me close. We lay like that, content in the warmth of each other’s presence, the quiet broken only by the distant hum of the city beyond the window.

When the pizza arrived, we sat cross-legged on the bed, laughing as we devoured each slice. It felt wonderfully normal, like we’d been doing this forever. Hank looked at me over the edge of his slice, a soft, almost hesitant smile on his face.

“So, tomorrow,” he began, tracing patterns in the pizza box with his finger, “I was thinking… we could go to the aquarium? Coney Island, maybe?”

My face lit up at the suggestion. “The aquarium? I haven’t been in years. I’d love that.”

His smile widened, a glimmer of excitement flashing in his eyes. “Good. I thought it might be fun to do something different… and I like the idea of us just… being together.”

I leaned over, brushing a gentle kiss to his cheek. “Perfect. It sounds perfect.”

We lingered there, talking about everything and nothing, spinning plans for tomorrow while sharing quiet glances that said far more than our words.

The evening unfolded in a gentle rhythm, each small moment settling comfortably into the quiet intimacy we’d built together. After we’d shared the last of the pizza, Hank wandered into the kitchen to fetch Bud’s dinner, calling for him with a soft whistle. Bud trotted over, tail high and eyes bright with anticipation. He rubbed against Hank’s leg, giving a low purr as Hank scratched him behind the ears before setting down his bowl. We stood together, watching Bud eat with contented little snuffles, our hands brushing as we leaned against the counter.

There was something deeply satisfying in this simplicity, the way even the smallest routines felt like tiny acts of closeness. Clearing the plates, rinsing them together, and putting away the empty pizza box—all of it took on a new meaning, like we were building a little world just for us, even in these fleeting, everyday moments.

Once the kitchen was tidied, Hank stretched his arms over his head, giving me a sleepy smile as he reached for my hand. “How about a shower before bed?” he suggested, his voice low, carrying that familiar warmth. There was no rush, no urgency—just the simple, comforting idea of sharing the quiet before sleep.

I nodded, letting him lead me to the bathroom, his hand warm around mine. He turned on the shower, adjusting the temperature until the steam curled softly through the air, misting over the mirror and filling the space with a gentle warmth. We stepped in together, letting the water cascade over us, creating a private world where nothing else existed but the soft patter of droplets and the quiet presence of each other.

Hank’s hands moved slowly, almost reverently, as he lathered up the shampoo and began working it gently through my hair. His fingers massaged my scalp with a tenderness that felt both intimate and unassuming, each touch a quiet reminder of his care. I closed my eyes, sinking into the sensation, letting the water and his hands wash away the remnants of the day. He rinsed my hair with a slow, careful touch, his fingers threading through each strand, ensuring that every last bit of shampoo was gone.

When he finished, he turned me gently, pressing a soft kiss to my forehead before I reached for the body wash, mirroring his careful, deliberate touch as I lathered his shoulders and chest, my hands moving over him with the same unspoken promise.

With each movement, each soft touch, it felt like we were sharing something beyond words, a connection that went deeper than the physical. As I ran my hands over his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart under my palms, I looked up to find him watching me, his gaze warm and open, his eyes reflecting the quiet understanding that filled the space between us.

When he took the body wash from me, I caught his eye, smiling softly, and he returned the look with a warmth that made my heart flutter. He started with my shoulders, his hands moving in slow, soothing circles, the gentle pressure relaxing every muscle. As he worked his way down my back, his fingers tracing along my spine, I felt the pleasant soreness between my thighs, a lingering reminder of the passion we’d shared earlier in the day.

His gaze fell to the faint hickey he’d left on my neck that morning, a soft blush blooming where his lips had been. He brushed a thumb over it, smiling to himself before his hands continued their path down my body, washing over my hips and stomach with a care that felt almost reverent.

As his hands moved lower, he paused, his touch growing more deliberate as he lathered the body wash over my thighs. When his fingers slipped between my legs, his touch was gentle, his fingers moving in slow, tender circles that sent a soft gasp tumbling from my lips. The delicate way he washed over me, his fingers brushing against my folds with careful, unhurried strokes, made me feel seen and cherished in a way that was almost overwhelming.

I opened my eyes to meet his gaze, and in that instant, something shifted between us, a quiet intensity building in the warmth of the water and the softness of his touch. He leaned in, capturing my mouth in a kiss that started soft but deepened quickly, his hands steadying me as I wrapped one leg around his waist, drawing him closer.

He pressed me back against the cool tiles, his body flush against mine, his length hard against my thigh, a promise of everything I already craved. His mouth moved from my lips to the hollow of my throat, lingering over the hickey he’d left earlier, his tongue tracing it slowly before he kissed his way down, each touch igniting a fresh wave of heat beneath my skin.

His hands moved to cup my breasts, his thumbs brushing over my nipples, sending sharp jolts of pleasure through me as he took his time, his mouth following the path of his hands, his kisses trailing down until I was arching into him, breathless and aching. The contrast of his warm, wet mouth against my skin and the cool tile at my back made every sensation sharper, more vivid, as though he were marking every inch of me.

He lifted me slightly, his hands firm on my hips, and I felt him position himself, his cock pressing insistently against me. Slowly, he entered me, inch by inch, filling me with a deliberate slowness that left me gasping, my fingers clutching his shoulders as he pushed deeper. The stretch was intense, a delicious pressure that mingled with the soft ache from earlier, heightening every sensation until I could hardly breathe.

He moved within me with a slow, steady rhythm, his hands gripping my hips as he guided me, each thrust measured, each movement unhurried, as though he wanted to memorise the feel of me. His mouth found mine again, his kisses deep and consuming, the warmth of his tongue meeting mine in a way that mirrored the slow, intimate dance of our bodies.

I reached down, my hand slipping between us to touch my clit, each gentle stroke amplifying the pleasure coursing through me. He felt my touch, a low, guttural sound escaping him as he tightened his hold on me, his pace quickening slightly as I worked myself closer to the edge. His mouth moved back to my neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin as his hands pressed my hips firmly against him, our bodies locked in a rhythm that was both tender and fierce.

The pleasure built and built, coiling tight and hot until it finally shattered, my body clenching around him as a wave of release swept over me. I clung to him, lost in the sensation as he held me steady, his movements carrying me through every tremor, every pulse of pleasure. He followed moments later, his grip on my hips tightening as he buried himself deep, a shudder running through him as he let go, our bodies locked together in the warm cocoon of the water.

We stayed like that for a few moments, his forehead resting against mine as we caught our breath, the steady beat of his heart thrumming against my chest, grounding me in the closeness we’d created.

Gently, he set me down, still holding me close as he reached for the thick, fluffy towel nearby. He wrapped it around me with a tenderness that sent a gentle ache through my chest, pressing a soft kiss to my forehead. I reached up to towel off his hair, grinning as he leaned into my touch, his eyes filled with a playful warmth that mirrored my own.

We moved to the sink, brushing our teeth side by side, standing close enough that our arms brushed now and then. I caught his eye in the mirror, and we both smiled, sharing a small, almost childlike amusement at this shared, ordinary moment. It was strange, but standing there with toothpaste foam on our mouths and a sleepy contentment in our eyes felt as intimate as any kiss we’d shared.

I took my time drying my hair, enjoying the lingering warmth of his touch, the softness of the towel around me. When I finally emerged from the bathroom, I found Hank already stretched out on the bed, his breathing deep and even as he’d drifted off, one arm sprawled across the pillow beside him. Bud was curled up near his side, a small ball of fur nestled into the blankets, his tiny body rising and falling in time with Hank’s breaths. The sight filled me with a gentle warmth, a sense of contentment settling over me as I realised how natural this scene felt, like we’d been doing this forever.

I switched off the bathroom light, leaving a soft, dim glow in the room as I climbed into bed. Sliding under the covers, I nestled against Hank’s side, fitting myself into the familiar curve of his body. Even in his sleep, he instinctively shifted, wrapping his arm around me, his hand resting lightly against my back. I could feel the slow, steady beat of his heart under my cheek, a quiet, reassuring rhythm that seemed to sync perfectly with mine.

As I lay there, the events of the day drifted through my mind like scenes in a film—our laughter, the playful teasing, the stories we’d shared, and the warmth of his hand in mine. Each memory felt like a piece of something we were building together, something that felt both fragile and resilient, like the kind of trust that could weather anything.

I turned slightly, pressing a soft kiss to his shoulder, my lips brushing against his warm skin. Bud stirred beside us, curling up a little closer, his purring a gentle hum that filled the quiet, lulling me further into the comfort of the moment. The weight of Hank’s arm over me, the warmth of his body against mine, the soft breaths that filled the room—it all felt like a promise, a silent vow that we were in this together, wherever it might lead.

With a final, sleepy smile, I let myself relax completely, letting the peace of the evening wash over me as I drifted off, cocooned in the warmth of Hank’s embrace and the contentment of a day spent in quiet closeness. And as I closed my eyes, feeling his heartbeat steady under my cheek, I realised that this—this quiet, unassuming closeness—was all I’d ever wanted.

Masterlist

#austin butler #austin butler fanfiction #austin butler fic #austin butler imagine #austin butler x reader #austin butler x y/n #austin butler x you #caught stealing #fan fiction #fanfic #hank thompson x y/n #hank thompson x you #hank thompson x reader #hank thompson #hank thompson fic #caught stealing fic #fiction #imagine

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pomegranatecrab · 3 days ago

Text

Rhodey/Tony/Steve, anyone?

Steve buys an apartment with his back pay.

It’s small, but it has two bedrooms. He converts one into a studio, and he should be comforted by the peeling paint and faded colour, covered in thousands of little fallacies, so very akin to the room he shared with his mother, where he would count each mark and stain while he was in bed, struggling to breath. Instead, the memories that the walls incite are sour.

There’s nothing stopping him from moving the minimal furniture out into the hallway, and sanding back the walls by hand. The man at the store had suggested an electric one, a round device that he had politely turned down. When he strips down the walls, Steve is still at a loss. No colour feels right for the room. There’s two windows where Steve is considering putting a house plant between, yet, no inspiration strikes. A spattering of dust floats in the air, a thick smell permeating the room. Steve opens a window, and frowns when someone knocks on the door.

He’s never met the man on the other side before. Tall, dark skin and carrying himself strongly. A wry smile paints his lips.

“Steve Rogers?” He offers a hand, the other hooked in the tag of a six pack of beers. “I’m James Rhodes. Tony’s talked a lot about you.”

Steve blinks.

“Tony Stark?”

James nods, peering shamelessly past Steve and into the living room. “Still moving in?”

Steve steps aside, nodding stiffly. The beers are from a brand he doesn’t recognise, and James is dressed casually, but his rigid posture gives him away.

“Army?”

“Airforce,” James says, peeling off his shoes and leaving them neatly by the door. “No work talk, I’m off duty.” He eyes the lack of TV critically.

“Do you have any board games?”

Steve would have felt like a killjoy, if not for the gleam in James’ eye, casual and easy-going. Like a wave could crash in and he’d simply ride it to shore.

“I have a pair of dice,” Steve says.

It’s one of the only things, along with his shield, that they let him take from his own belongings. A nice wooden pair that Bucky had carved for him, right down to the uneven dots adorning each side.

“Perfect,” James says.

He steps into the connecting kitchen, running an admiring hand over the arched doorway, a coil of rich timber that reminds Steve of the sprawling houses that he’d seen in movies at the theatre.

“Have you considered removing this cupboard? It’d make good space for a breakfast nook.” He peers around the back of it, considering. “Built in, but it wouldn’t take too much rewiring. Tony and I can help you out.”

“I’ll think about it,” Steve replies, eyeing the unit critically. It would be nice to have the place feel less crowded, unique, even. It’s probably the last thing he needs, but a construction project might keep his mind occupied, at least. There were only so many times that he could think about drawing instead of picking up a pencil, and only so many laps he could take around the park.

James nods, and swipes a cup from the dish rack, rinsing it once beneath the tap before placing it in the middle of the counter. Steve watches as he takes a beer, expertly popping it open with a spoon.

“How’d you do that?”

“My sister taught me,” James says, sliding a beer over to Steve, “it’s simple physics. You just hold your hand slightly over the cap, and voilà.”

Steve tips his head, impressed.

“Now, you roll the dice,” James demonstrates, “and whatever number I get, in this case six, I have to get this cap in the glass six times in a row. If I don’t, I drink. If I do, you drink.”

“You know I can’t get drunk, right?” Steve asks.

He’s also certain he won’t miss, no matter how high he rolls.

“Yeah, but it’s friday and I can,” James replies, almost cheekily, though his face is deceptively grave.

“You can laugh,” James says after a beat, composure finally cracking.

“At funny things,” Steve retorts, relaxing, the tension held in his shoulders eased by the friendliness, the firm hold of comradely, on offer to him.

“Call me Jim, or Rhodey.”

They spend a good couple of hours playing, until Steve swallows the last of his beer, and Rhodey checks his watch.

Steve’s heart sinks. His day no longer felt droll and empty with Rhodey’s visit. It had been nice, at least, while it lasted.

“What’s your phone number?” Rhodey asks, pulling out a sleek little rectangle with a smooth surface. It alights at his touch, and Steve spots a vaguely familiar face, belatedly realising that it was Tony Stark, beaming up at the ceiling.

“I don’t have a phone.”

He had been given one when he woke up, but left it on a park bench when it hadn’t stopped incessantly ringing.

And he had no idea what a data plan was, or why he was supposed to get one.

Rhodey smiles.

“I’m sure Tony will help you out there. Here’s my address. You should stop by on Sunday. We’re having a barbecue.”

He’s out the door with another kind smile and firm handshake, leaving the faint smell of expensive cologne behind him.

—-

By the time Sunday rolls around, he still hasn’t decided on a colour for his studio, or if he really does want a breakfast nook in his kitchen.

What he has decided, after a great deal of going back and forth with himself, is that he will attend the barbecue that Rhodey invited him to. Steve refuses to think about Bucky, or his mother; dead for decades while he experiences the future. He doesn’t think of quiet dinners with his mother, or sitting in dense forests with Bucky, his small fingers expertly carving the skin from a rabbit, roasting it over the fire, a fond suspire caught in Steve’s throat as Bucky complained about boredom, wishing for Nazi’s to gut or superior officers to prank. Mostly, he remembers the smell of bodies. The nauseating amount of blood had been like drowning in a sea of pennies, a thick, overwhelming metallic smell, a horrible collision with urine and excrement.

He thinks of Bucky, who didn’t even make it to sixteen.

He pulls on his shoes, and thinks of how he had to warn Bucky about keeping his feet as dry as possible in his boots, to never assume that it was mud, or something wet in his socks. He had heard too many stories from the first war about flesh peeling off, rotting and grotesque.

Steve ignores the military uniform hanging neatly in his closet and opts for jeans and a white t-shirt, pulls the punnet of strawberries from the fridge that he was sure were going to be laughed at, before beginning the long walk to Rhodey’s residence.

Rhodey lives in an incredibly beautiful two-story house, with a sprawling property that Steve figured would cost more than he would ever see in his lifetime. There’s a small porch at the front, adorned with plants hanging from the ceiling, a mat at the door and a small, ornate table with a package of bird feed on it.

He knocks on the door, and is surprised when it’s opened almost instantly.

Rhodey grins at him, wiping his hands on a yellow apron.

“Steve! Glad you could make it. Are those for the barbecue? Perfect, they’ll go perfectly with the charcuterie board.”

Relieved, Steve hands off the strawberries, peeling off his shoes and placing them in the neat little shelf by the door, already filled with a variety of joggers, leather shoes and a strange pair with holes throughout them.

The air smells like steak, sausages and something spicy.

Rhodey leads him briskly through a wide hallway with gleaming wooden floors into a large kitchen, where Tony Stark stands, arms akimbo.

“I thought flambéing would be easier than it looked,” Tony says, with a winning smile.

It’s not the wet, dormant smile of a greedy businessman; his blue eyes are warm, and he’s rolled his sleeves to his elbows, a faint flush working his way up to his neck. He looks very normal.

“Just do us all a favour and stick to chopping, a severed finger would be better than cleaning the gunk in that pan,” Rhodey replies.

Tony shrugs, and turns to face Steve properly.

“Hi, Steve. Nice to properly meet you,” Tony says, offering a hand.

His palm is calloused and warm, with long, bony fingers that his mother would say are perfect for the piano.

“I hear you’re in the midst of a construction project.” Tony opens the punnet of strawberries, and opens a cupboard beneath the bench, pulling out a beautiful wooden board, covered in rich oils that paint the surface into a bubbling ocean. Rhodey passes him a package of brie and a small knife, which all get neatly organised on the board.

“Maybe,” Steve says, scratching at the back of his neck.

There’s a cool breeze trailing in from the deck, the huge doors thrown open, curtains flapping gently.

A British voice, possibly belonging to the pale set of legs lounging half out of sight on a chaise longue, rings out.

“Master Anthony! I’m sure somewhere along the way I drilled some manners into that head of yours.”

“Are you sure?” Tony says, whisking the small platter out the door. “I don’t recall.”

Steve follows, assured by Rhodey’s benign smile as he inches around the barbeque. Rhodey lifts the lid, smoke escaping the confines and filling the air, and pokes at the sausages sizzling away alongside a row of vegetables.

“I enjoy my days off, but I don’t enjoy watching your abysmal attempt at cooking,” the older gentleman says, arranging his feet on a small table.

“Jarvis,” Rhodey replies, “stop flirting.”

Jarvis sniffs.

“Anthony, I wasn’t joking about your manners.”

Tony claps a hand over his shoulder, grinning. “Jarvis, this is Steve. Steve, this is Jarvis. He’s known me since I was in diapers.”

“You were just as stubborn about those as you are about bread,” Jarvis demurred.

“I’m not a snob for not eating white bread,” Tony defends immediately, handing a cracker piled with olives, tomatoes and cheese over to Steve.

The cheese had an interesting layer of crust, a creamy, white texture underneath.

“Are too,” Rhodey says, “you couldn’t see the looks of disgust sent my way when I dared to grill cheese on white bread.”

“There’s a perfect way to make grilled cheese, Rhodey,” Tony says, “it’s a sacred art.”

Steve’s lips twitch, and Tony grins widely at him, nodding towards the cracker.

“That’s brie. It’s okay if you don’t like it, it can be a bit rich.”

He eats it in one bite, the rich flavours exploding across his tongue immediately. Steve had been used to stale, thin waifs for crackers, and in the army, hardtack, eaten in the dark to remain ignorant about the presence of weevils. These crackers were crumbly, with hints of thyme and garlic, and complimented the tangy tomato and olives, the interesting taste of the brie eluding his palate until the last minute.

“I don’t mind it,” Steve says.

“Have you had a chance to try any other new food, Steve?” Rhodey asks, smiling charmingly, one hand pressing warmly against the small of Tony’s back as he shuffles past, offering another loaded cracker to Jarvis, before holding the other to Rhodey’s lips.

“Not really.” Steve scratches his head, darting his eyes between the three of them, no judgement in their eyes, merely curiosity. “I don’t really know where to start.”

Tony clicks his fingers. “We can remedy that, Steve. Can’t have you going to any old Cantonese restaurant. I know a place. Tiny, no signage, just a window filled with roasted duck. Best you’ll get in the city.”

Rhodey wipes his hands on his apron, a dab of oil on his lip from the olives, wiped daintily off by Tony’s gentle finger. He sucks the remnants off, and turns to gaze at Steve inquiringly.

“It’s a date, right?”

Rhodey nods, before Steve can even open his mouth.

“We’ll pick you up Wednesday night. That work for you?”

Steve, who so far had a grand total of zero friends in the future, nods reluctantly. It sounded better than sitting alone, firmly telling himself he doesn’t need company, or someone to write letters to, or listen to music with, or go to a baseball game with.

“I’ll be there,” Steve says, forcing what he hopes is a personable smile on his face.

Tony and Rhodey angle identical grins at him, exchanging a silent, pleased glance.

Steve blames the blazing sun for the prick of heat that spreads rapidly down his neck.

#tony stark #steve rogers #rhodeytony #stony #rhodeysteve #rhodeytonysteve #my writing

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