ashesofblackroses - Tumblr blog

ashesofblackroses · 1 year ago

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Ok, is it wrong that I want to bean both Minthe and Hermes with a large cast iron frying pan? Like, really , really hard? Talk about two entitled idiots.😡

Hades, on the other hand, seems to be incredibly smitten with Anthea.😍 I love how he stood up to Hermes about her, truly swoon worthy.

I can’t wait to see how he makes Minthe suffer the consequences of her actions. (Rubs hands gleefully in anticipation.)

Brilliant, brilliant work, hon.💕

Earth & Fire

Chapter III - A guest or a queen

07/22/2023

Pairing: Hades (Hozier) x Anthea (OFC)

Word Count: 5,553

Warnings: language

Summary: Anthea is settling in in the Underworld, and while Hades is trying his best to make her stay as pleasant as possible, there are others who make the situation a lot more difficult than it already is.

A/N: Are you ready to meet some new characters? Enjoy!

Earth & Fire - Masterpost

Dividers by @firefly-graphics

If you like my story, you are very welcome to like, comment or reblog. Please don’t copy, repost or share my work on other platforms.

Stones and rocks and stones and more rocks. This place seemed to consist of nothing else. Apart from darkness and despair, and yet another river they had crossed on their way. Flames, blue as the one inside Charon’s lantern, rose from it to lick at the air and devour everyone who was foolish enough to get too close.

The god in front of her hadn’t cared to tell her its name. In fact, he hadn’t uttered a single word since their departure from the riverbank. Not even when, at last, a massive black building had come into view. His palace, Anthea guessed, seeing that most of the other inhabitants of the Underworld probably had no need for a dwelling as big as this. Still, it wasn’t as huge as she had expected it to be. It was almost modest considering that he was one of the big three, and the ruler of this whole realm. Even on the inside it lacked the pompous furnishings and decorations Anthea had thought to find. There were mortal kings’ palaces who were more sumptuous than his. Not that Anthea had seen any, but her father had told her about a few and at least in her imagination they were more worthy of a god than this building ever could be.

Especially since instead of using his name, many mortals used to call him Plouton, the wealthy one. As the ruler of the Underworld, all of the earth’s treasures that hid underground belonged to him. Naturally, she had assumed to find precious metals like gold or silver and the finest jewels, and not the dark obsidian he had chosen for the floors and walls, and occasionally even for the ceilings.

Above their heads, more blue flames seemed to float in the air, their cold light reflecting from the polished stone to lead their way down the indistinguishable corridors. They seemed to have walked forever, every step luring her deeper into his labyrinth of darkness, and as they finally stopped in front of a large two-winged door, Anthea was sure that, should she ever want to escape this place, it would be impossible to find her way out of it.

“These are your rooms,” he plainly stated as he pushed the door open and stepped aside to make room for her.

She didn’t know exactly what she had expected, probably a plain room, nothing better than a prison cell. It would have suited her under the circumstances of her stay here, but what her eyes found on the other side of the door was as far from a prison cell as one could possibly imagine.

Anthea was greeted by rich hues of pink and purple. The contrast to the cool blue that the rest of this realm seemed to be drenched in couldn’t be any starker. The light radiated off a myriad of crystals that were placed in several alcoves all around the room. She had never seen anything as splendid as this before.

“This is the ante-chamber.” Another plain statement, as if the magic of the room didn’t affect him at all. “And through there you will find the bedchamber and a bath.” He pointed to another door at the far end of the room. “I assume you must be exhausted from your journey.”

Anthea didn’t reply at first, too stunned by the splendour in front of her, when her senses suddenly caught a motion and she turned to find that he was about to leave.

“Wait!” she almost shouted at him in the panic that had befallen her and was quick to add a much softer, “Please.”

It wouldn’t have been necessary, she realised, as he had followed her request anyway and was already turning to face her again. As much as one could call it that with his hood still veiling his countenance.

“Please, my lord, will you let me see your face?”

There was a reluctance in his movement, but once again he did as she had asked of him. Slender fingers clutched the black fabric of his hood and slowly pushed it back until she could see him clearly. He was beautiful, not in the least what she had anticipated, but beautiful none the less. Wild curls, falling all the way down to his shoulders, framed his long face. Its features were well sculpted with high cheekbones and a sharp jawline. Half of the milky skin of his face was covered by a beard, a little lighter in colour as the hair on his head, with a touch of red as far as she could tell in this light.

It was hard to imagine that this god was in any way related to Zeus, let alone that he was his brother. They seemed to be polar opposites, especially when it came to their eyes, she thought, as his gaze met hers. They were kind eyes, compassionate, reminding her so much of her father’s eyes, even though Hephaestus’ eyes were blue and not green as the pair that was observing her carefully right now.

“How…” There had been a question forming in the back of her mind, but she needed to collect her thoughts for a moment before the words finally aligned in her head. “How can you be so sure Zeus won’t find me here?”

“Because he never sets foot into the Underworld.”

“What makes you think he won’t consider it now?”

Her question had brought the tiniest hint of a smile to his lips.

“He doesn’t dare. My brothers and I draw a huge amount of our power from our realms, which in turn makes each of us more powerful than the other in our own territories.”

“Is that why you never go to Olympus?” Her father had told her that he wasn’t the only one who kept avoiding that place. Apparently, a few other gods also chose to stay away from Olympus. Hades’ name had been among those Hephaestus had listed.

“No, I choose not to go there because I don’t give much about gossip and schemes.”

His answer made her smile. “Neither do I.” But then she became serious again. “Still, you’re his brother. Poseidon’s brother as well, and everyone knows he is no different when it comes to his…appetite. How can I be sure you are not like them?”

“You can’t. And you are wise not to trust me or anyone on that matter.” He paused for a moment, leaving her to simmer in the unease his words had caused. “I take it you haven’t seen much of the world outside your home. Being careful as you get to know more of it is a wise way to start. Still I fear, my word is all I can offer. I gave it to your father and I will give it you. Choose for yourself whether that will be enough.”

Patiently he waited, giving her time to weigh his offer, a task that was harder than it seemed. How could she trust someone she had only met today? And a god at that. For all she knew there wasn’t a single god who didn’t lie or cheat to get what they wanted. And if anything, his words had only confirmed that opinion. Still, as she looked into his eyes now, she thought that for a second she might have glimpsed something deep within, something that he had kept well hidden until now. And that was all she needed.

“I will take it.”

He nodded silently before he turned to leave again. He hesitated for a moment, as if he expected her to ask another question, but when she didn’t, he began walking towards the door.

“Rest now. I will send someone to show you around later.”

Hades kept word. However, in the everlasting gloom of the Underworld, it was impossible to tell how much time had passed since he had left her. Minutes, hours, days, it all felt the same to Anthea. All she knew was that she did not feel rested at all when the soft knock on her door woke her. It seemed to come from far away, muffled by two sets of thick doors, and just as she thought she had only imagined it, it came again, a little more determined this time.

Anthea had already gotten up and crossed half of the distance when the knocking sounded again.

“My lady?” a voice asked, velvety, yet unable to veil the thinning patience that lay underneath, and as Anthea pulled the dark wood aside, she was greeted by an already scowling beauty, her foot tapping the ground restlessly.

Her black hair shimmered in the blue light as she turned her head to look at Anthea, a defying stare, two catlike orbs of greenish blue eyeing the new arrival to the Underworld suspiciously.

“Lady Anthea, I assume.” And when Anthea was too stunned by the hostile glare the other woman still sent her, the raven-haired vision rolled her stunning eyes and pressed past her. “I am Minthe, daughter of the river-god Cocytus. My king has asked me to show you around the palace.”

“Delighted to make your acquaintance, Lady Minthe.” It wasn’t a delight really, but her father had taught her better than to be unkind to strangers who offered their help.

Minthe clearly hadn’t been as fortunate, as she just huffed, extending her arms towards Anthea, who just now realised that she was carrying something. “He also asked me to bring you this, in case you wanted to change into some clean clothes.”

Minthe’s gaze burned as she looked her up and down, signalling that even though Hades had been polite enough to leave the decision to Anthea, it was probably necessary to change after her arduous journey.

“Thank you. How very thoughtful and kind of Lord Hades.”

Anthea had already taken the peplos from Minthe and hurried back into the bedroom to put it on, when a reply came through the doors left ajar.

“I wouldn’t think too much of it. It is a customary token of hospitality, not one of sympathy.”

“Either way,” Anthea stepped into the ante-chamber again, a purple peplos, richly embroidered with golden flowers at the seams, enveloping her body, “it is the most beautiful piece of clothing I’ve ever had the pleasure of wearing.”

“Is that so? I thought I heard someone say you were the daughter of a god…”

“What does that have to do with it?”

“Well, clearly he doesn’t care about you much, or he would have endowed you with some finer clothes than the colourless rag you arrived in,” Minthe sneered, obviously very pleased with herself.

“Your misjudgement is forgivable, as you obviously don’t know my father. Because if you did, you would know that he cares more about a person’s character than their looks. The eyes can easily be deceived by beauty, but the heart will always reveal a person’s true colours.”

The naiad huffed again, “A shame purple doesn’t seem to match your true colours then.”

It was also a shame her father clearly hadn’t cared more about his daughter, teaching her that beauty was worth more than manners, probably even making her believe that it was the whole point of her, the only purpose for which she was born to attract an honourable suitor. But Anthea didn’t say that. After all, what good was to come of it?

“How about we start that tour of the palace you mentioned then? That way the look of me in this mismatched peplos won’t trouble you longer than necessary.”

Minthe’s fiery red lips twitched peculiarly, to force a grin it seemed, although it could just as easily be mistaken for a baring of teeth.

“Very well then. This way.”

The palace was much bigger than Anthea had anticipated at her arrival. Room after room, spreading across several floors, she was shown until her feet started to ache again and her head began to spin. She would need days, probably even weeks to find her way around without getting lost. So far, all she could recall was the route to her rooms and to the library. She had paid special attention here, eager to revisit the ridiculously extensive collection of books as soon as possible.

Minthe had also shown her the throne room with its impressive dais. It wasn’t used much, she had explained, as against common believe, the ruler of the Underworld didn’t preside over the judgement of every single soul that arrived in his realm. His attendance was reserved for special cases, mostly kings or those who had angered the gods and were facing an eternity in Tartarus. The fate of all other souls lay in the hands of the three judges, Minos, Rhadamanthus, and Aeacus.

They had also come past more guest rooms, the kitchen and servant quarters, which were astonishingly small, she had noted. The only thing they hadn’t come across yet, were Lord Hades private rooms and when Anthea dared ask about them, Minthe’s eyes narrowed dangerously.

“Did he not tell you?”

He obviously had not. Why else would she ask?

“They are right across the floor from yours.”

That was odd. Why would there be guest rooms in such close proximity to his private quarters?

“Oh, since we are already talking about that topic…Your rooms and his happen to share a balcony. An unfortunate detail, for you, as it means you won’t be able to use it. It would be most inappropriate to disturb the king’s rare moments of privacy, would it not?”

“It certainly would.”

Inappropriate and terribly awkward. She silently vowed not to come anywhere near that balcony for the entirety of her stay.

“I am glad we are in agreement about that.” Minthe smiled sweetly, a strange look after the hostility she had radiated from the moment of their first encounter, but it died away as soon as it had come. “Now, there is one more thing my king asked me to tell you.” One she evidently did not like too much. “You are to dine with him tonight. He will be with you shortly.”

And without a warning the nymph pushed open the door she had stopped at and shoved Anthea in. Protest was forming on her lips, but before it had the chance to be uttered, the door fell closed behind her again and she was alone.

The room was dark, like everything else in this realm, she thought, and sparsely furnished. A huge dining table with several chairs at its centre, there was only a fireplace that immediately drew Anthea’s attention. It wasn’t the mere fact that the room had a fireplace, almost every room they had been to during their tour had, but its flame that was different.

Red and yellow flames were licking silently at the logs, real logs, not their stony substitutes she had seen all day. She had never thought a fire could spark such a rush of joy, not even in the colder winter months on Lemnos had she ever felt her stomach twirl in delight upon the sight of burning wood, but now she had to hold back a squeal as she knelt down in front of the fireplace, her hands reaching out to get as close as possible to the familiar heat.

“Are you well?”

He sounded bewildered, maybe even a little concerned, but as she looked up to find him right next to her, there was also the tiniest hint of amusement on his face.

“Yes, my lord,” she answered mechanically, her cheeks burning more fervently than the fire could have ever made them. Hastily she stood, dusting off her clothes—the new clothes he had given her—before she added, “Please excuse my unseemly behaviour. I did not hear you enter the room.”

“Nothing unseemly about enjoying a fire.”

The unexpected reply made her face him again, and what she found when she really took him in for the first time since he had appeared out of nowhere beside her, was just as unexpected. He looked even taller without his cloak, and, as she had already anticipated, much leaner. The warm light of the fire suited him however, compensating the paleness of his skin and giving it a soft golden glow. He would probably look like that if he spent more time above ground, she caught herself musing for a second, but of course he couldn’t. At least not long enough for a tan to take hold. He was wearing a black chiton, falling all the way down to his ankles. It only revealed his neck and arms, void of bulging biceps or a defined chest that spoke of his divine nature. His appearance made it easy to forget that he wasn’t a mortal like herself and somehow she took comfort in that.

Wordlessly he moved, reaching for the backrest of the chair and pulling it out for her. Anthea sat down, just as wordlessly, and long after he had taken a seat at the end of the table to her left, there was still silence between them.

“I hope you find the peplos to your liking,” he finally enquired.

“Yes, thank you, my lord. It is very beautiful.”

“I wasn’t sure about the embroidery or whether the colour was to your taste.”

She averted her gaze, fingers caressing the impossibly soft fabric that covered her thighs. “As I said, it is beautiful, my lord. I’m just not used to such extravagant clothing.”

“I thought as much. Your father also never cared for fashion.”

A soft smile spread on her lips as she thought of Hephaestus and his functional clothing. “No, indeed. He still doesn’t.”

But then her heart sank again. Her father. The wound still fresh, it ripped even deeper at the thought of him so far away from her. She wouldn’t be able to see him for a very long time. And under the almost unbearable weight of this truth, silence fell over the room again.

It was only stirred by the clatter of plates being brought in by two servants. They were loaded with food, more than the two of them would ever be able to eat in one meal. While they retreated without a sound, Hades had grabbed the bulbous jug they had placed on the table first and filled the chalice next to her plate with wine. He then repeated the same with his own chalice before he set the jug down.

She knew it was her turn now. As the laws of hospitality demanded, the guest always was to choose their food first. And it looked delicious, calling to her empty stomach until it was almost painful to resist.

There were different kinds of meat, the juicy lamb chops with mint smelling especially mouthwatering. Anthea could also see olives and nuts, right next to her a whole plate of creamy goat cheese and fresh figs. Beside a cruet of olive oil, the servants had placed a basket with bread, fresh out of the oven, she guessed, its insides probably still warm. For dessert they had served more fruit, pomegranate, her favourite, right under her nose. The ruby flesh that housed its seeds almost seemed to burst with juice.

“Is the food not to your liking?” His irritated tone left her in no doubt that his patience was slowly wearing thin.

“That’s not…” Before she could even finish that sentence, a loud growl from her stomach rendered any further word useless.

Now more than ever, she could feel his gaze on her, burning the guilt she felt into her skin. From the corner of her eye she saw that he was swivelling his chalice in his hand and took it as a sign of his waning composure. Soon he would set the wine down and lash out at her for the grave insult against his hospitality. But he did nothing of the sort, and when he finally spoke again his voice was soft and understanding.

“You need to eat, even though the grief your separation from your father causes you might have silenced your hunger.”

If only he knew how wrong he was. It wasn’t grief at all that made her hold back. It was her lack of trust in him. It had been Hades himself who had told her mere hours ago that she was wise not to place her confidence in him and although her father trusted him enough to leave her in Hades’ care, Anthea knew too little about him to tell whether he meant well or, like all the other gods, had merely his own interests in mind.

“Believe me, my hunger is far from silenced, my lord.”

“What keeps you from eating then?”

She hesitated again. The reason sounded foolish enough in her head already.

“There is this rumour…”

“And what is it you have heard about the food in this realm that leads you to consider starving yourself instead of touching it?”

“They say whoever swallows even a single bite of food in the Underworld is doomed to stay here forever.”

Once again, the God of the Underworld surprised her with his reaction as he began to laugh so heartily he had to set his chalice down to keep the wine from spilling all over the table.

“And pray tell, what good would that do? Sooner or later, every single soul is bound to end up here anyway. So why punish myself with keeping more nagging and moaning creatures around me than I already have to host?”

Anthea could feel her cheeks heat up again, scorching from humiliation—caused by her own foolishness and even more so by him calling her out for it. His words stung more than they should, especially the last part. Biting her tongue, she could feel her teeth drawing blood as she forced the words back down that more than anything she wanted to shout at him right now. Did he honestly think she enjoyed being exiled, trapped here without a single beam of sunlight, without her father, the only family she had ever known? Instead she was stuck here with him, a man as confusing as there had ever been one, who played the perfect host one moment just to make her even more miserable than she already was in the next.

Anthea kept her eyes lowered. She knew if they would find his, he would see the anger rage inside them like a storm, and she was painfully aware which consequences it could have to defy a god.

“Forgive me, my lord, for being the burden I so clearly am to you.”

His laugh died away immediately to make room for a silence that weighed heavier than any silence that had existed between them before. Anthea could feel her skin prickle from the charged air in the room, making her knead the purple fabric of her peplos fervently while she awaited the thunderstorm to unleash.

“No, forgive me,” he almost whispered. “That’s not what I meant to say at all.”

In an instant her head shot up, her eyes desperately searching for his, and when they finally met, she found nothing but truth there.

“Eat, my lady, I promise it won’t bind you to this realm or harm you in any other way.”

Anthea had excused herself and gone to bed a long while ago. Shortly after, Minthe’s head had appeared in the doorway, but he had shooed her away. He didn’t want any company tonight, especially not from her. It was only him now, and Cerberus. The huge dog lay to his feet by the fire, two of its three heads fighting for a leftover bone from dinner while the third had already given up and was slowly drifting into sleep, lulled by the warmth of the flames.

He had almost forgotten how pretty they were, dancing brightly as they feasted on the remaining wood. Soon the fire would die, like everything eventually did, reduced to nothing but ash. The eternal circle of life, his daily business.

He should stick with that. Death, souls, the Underworld—those were the things he understood and knew how to handle. Unlike his guest, he thought. It had always been like that, even before he had accepted his fate and come down here. The isolation had only amplified his reticence.

On top of that, he had never been good at talking to people, especially women. Minthe seemed to be the only exception. She had been radiating towards him ever since they had met. Why, he didn’t know. And much less did he want her to. It had only been one time, one moment of utter loneliness that had overwhelmed him in the early days after being assigned to the Underworld. Since then, all he had done was push her away, and still she refused to take no for an answer, sticking to him like a leech, always waiting for him to change his mind.

That would never happen though because as ridiculous as it sounded coming from the God of the Underworld, if ever he would settle, it would be for love, not to feel less alone. But who would willingly choose a life with him if it entailed an eternity here?

Anthea surely wouldn’t. Not that he wanted her to, gods no. That poor girl had enough problems already. Still she was the perfect example of the reasons people had to come here at all: to safe their own lives or to beg for someone else’s. It was always the same. No sane creature would ever journey into this realm if they weren’t on the brink of despair. There usually wasn’t much he could do for them though. The Underworld had strict rules even he had to obey, and so he sent away most of the beggars without even listening to their pleas.

Anthea was the rare exception. And he might have driven her away like all the others if it hadn’t been for the involvement of his brother. For the longest time, Hades had been growing tired of his antics, always having to deal with its consequences and cleaning up after him. There were too many examples of havoc his relentless and utterly selfish rule had wreaked, too many souls that roamed the fields of Asphodel because Zeus had decided they were disposable. He wouldn’t allow him to destroy yet another life. Not this time. Not hers.

“Dreaming about her already, uncle?” Hades jolted in his seat. “Isn’t that a bit premature, though? I hear she has only arrived today.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Not everyone is constantly thinking of any woman as their possible next conquest.”

He had no desire to look at his nephew, knowing full well that there was a sly grin playing on his lips, very pleased with his prickish teasing.

“Maybe not everyone is. But you certainly didn’t waste any time. Giving her the queen’s chambers…”

Hades couldn’t deny that he had indeed given her the rooms he had once built himself for the queen of this realm. A long time ago, when he had been young and foolish enough to let himself believe anyone would ever share this burden with him.

“She’s my guest, Hermes.”

“Exactly. So why not put her in one of the guest rooms?”

Hades sighed, “They are not—”

“What? Fitting?”

“No. Don’t twist my words.” Hades felt the need to get up and walk away from his insolent nephew. One arm leaned against the fireplace, he tried to let its warmth soothe him. It didn’t work. “It’s just, they are pretty and they have never been used. Probably never will. So why let them go to waste?”

Behind his back he could hear Hermes help himself to some wine.

“You like her.”

“That’s not what this is about.”

Judging by the sound, he gulped down the contents of his chalice in one swig, probably eager to hit him with the next inappropriate assumption.

“But you do. And who could blame you? I mean, it’s not as if the ladies are waiting in line for you, eh? After all, she’s the first woman with a pulse to set foot into your realm since…since you took over the reigns here, I guess. And as if that wasn’t enough for you to get excited about already, she isn’t a sight for sore eyes either. That long, golden hair, like liquid rays of sunshine. And paired with those dark brown eyes…mh. They hold fire, Hades. Fire! I bet she’s an even bigger sensation between the sheets than that forest nymph I fucked during Apollo’s last orgy on Olympus. Did you even look at her properly? I mean, really look at her and those lush curves? A fertility goddess has got nothing on that mortal temptation.”

“Enough!” Hades had been feeling his hand clenching into a fist ever since the impertinent little fuck had opened his mouth again, but it was only now that it flew against the wall to silence him. “Will you listen to yourself, Hermes! No wonder that poor woman fled the mortal realm with creatures like you lurking around.”

That seemed to have done the trick. With the mischief finally wiped from his face, Hermes swallowed visibly upon the sudden outbreak, brushing one of his unruly dark curls behind his ear. When Hades spoke again, his voice was much softer.

“Anthea has been through so much, thanks to your insatiable father. She was forced to leave her home and everything she knows behind. So, to come back to your point, if there were any chambers in this realm fit to soothe her sorrow even the tiniest bit, I would give them to her. Until then, the queen’s chambers will have to do.”

“Hm,” Hermes shrugged, almost back to his old sassy self again, “it’s your palace, Hades. You can do whatever pleases you.” And then he went on in a whisper, “Even keep telling yourself that you’re not into her.”

“You’re right, Hermes. I am the ruler of this place, and as such it would very much please me if you left. But there are two matters that need to be settled first.”

“One?” Hermes asked nonchalantly while shoving an olive into his mouth.

“Did you only come here to vex me or does your visit have an actual purpose?”

“Ah, you know me too well, uncle. Actually, I was escorting a few souls to the river Styx when I ran into your little…fling.”

Honest bewilderment flitted over Hades face. “Fling?”

“Minthe.”

He couldn’t suppress the heavy roll of his eyes upon Hermes’ stupid allusion.

“Hermes, how often do I have to tell you? She is not my fling. In fact, she is not my anything.”

“Suit yourself. Anyway, she told me about the newest addition to your household. And very eagerly so. Probably needed to get it off her chest, the jealous little thing. And you know what they say: where there is smoke… So I needed to see for myself whether the rumours are true und the King of the Dead has finally chosen his bride.”

Insufferable. “As I already told you, I have not. And just to make it clear once again: I have no intention of marrying Anthea.”

“Duly noted.”

“Which leads me to the second point.”

Hermes’ eyebrows shot up. “Go on.”

“I need you to swear an unbreakable oath that you won’t mention her stay here to any soul, living or dead.”

The messenger of the gods was silent for a while, merely for the dramatic effect, Hades assumed. And to let his uncle simmer a bit.

“And what if I don’t?”

Now it was Hades turn to sneer. “If you don’t,” he stated while he took a step towards him, his voice perfectly measured, “you will not leave this realm until it is safe for her to do the same.”

“You can’t hold me hostage here. You wouldn’t dare.”

There was a sizzle in the air as Hades’ magic came to life. In an instant, Cerberus stood by his side, all three heads baring their teeth and growling at the younger god who found himself backed up against the table.

“I can. And I will.”

Hermes’ eyes went wide, his hands shooting up to appease the other god.

“All right, all right. I was just joking. I will swear that bloody oath if it means so much to you.”

As quickly as it had flared up, Hades’ magic died away. For a second, Cerberus looked up at him in confusion before he finally decided his assistance was no longer needed and returned to his cozy spot by the fireplace.

Hades couldn’t wait to do the same, but first he would ensure Anthea’s safety here. He knew he couldn’t keep his brother from finding out about her whereabouts forever, but at least he could buy Hephaestus and her a little more time. Time they would need to figure out what to do next. And with the biggest tattler out of the way, they would have a few more days, maybe even weeks to do so.

In the morning, he would have to speak to Minthe as well. If it was true and she had told Hermes about Anthea, she would have to suffer the consequences of her actions.

***

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ashesofblackroses · 1 year ago

Text

The urgency in this chapter, the absolute necessity of their flight is so immediate and real. The terror Anthea must feel, being rushed away to safety by her father, but at the same time being taken to a strange world filled with the unfamiliar and unknown.

And what an ending, a real cliffhanger, we are just as intrigued as Anthea to find out who it is she has been left in the care of.

Utterly brilliant. 🥰

Earth & Fire

Chapter II - The most unlikely of places

07/14/2023

Pairing: Hades (Hozier) x Anthea (OFC)

Word Count: 2,937

Warnings: angst, heartbreak and Hades, finally Hades!

Summary: Having barely escaped the ravenous greed of Zeus' desire, Hephaestus is determined to do whatever it takes to keep his daughter safe.

A/N: Buckle up, everyone, we're finally entering the Underworld.

Earth & Fire - Masterpost

If you like my story, you are very welcome to like, comment or reblog. Please don’t copy, repost or share my work on other platforms.

There was nothing but darkness. Darkness and the biting cold that slowly crept into her bones the further they emerged into black nothingness. The only warmth came from her father’s hand that was securely clutching her own ever since they had stepped through the wide cave entrance. She couldn’t tell how long ago that had been. Darkness had wrapped around them soon after and it already seemed like an eternity ago since she had felt the last rays of sunshine on her skin. Her feet agreed, aching as if she had been walking for days on end and growing heavier with each step.

Still Anthea had no intention of asking for a rest. She knew who they were running from, knew that this was all her fault. If only she hadn’t decided to go swimming that morning and given her father a proper goodbye, none of this would have happened. They wouldn’t have been forced to leave their home in a hurry, running blindly through an icy cave to… Where to? Seeing that it was Zeus himself who was after them, hiding seemed pointless. There was no place on earth he wouldn’t be able to find them. This was his realm, and there was nowhere they could go.

“Father, please. Where are you taking me?”

He kept on walking as he spoke. “To the only place you will be safe.”

“What place?” She just had to know. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust her father. There was no one else she would ever trust more than him, but she just couldn’t think of any place Zeus wouldn’t sooner or later come looking for them, and she wasn’t sure Hephaestus could either.

“You will see soon enough,” he grunted, fastening his step as he kept on pulling her along and she knew the conversation was over. There was no use in pushing any further on this matter. He wouldn’t answer her. And what scared her infinitely more than not knowing was his reluctance to even name the place they were headed to.

They walked on in silence. And on, and on, a glimpse of eternity, until she couldn’t tell anymore what was real and what was not. At some point she had thought to feel a whiff of air, carrying a mild breeze. But it was gone as soon as it had come and the more she thought about it, Anthea blamed it on her senses playing tricks on her. Just like the faint light that had appeared ahead of them a long while ago. Her eyes made her believe that the blueish shine was getting brighter by the minute, but that was impossible of course. They must be so far beneath the earth by now, and everyone knew that there was no light to be found down here.

But then suddenly a few shapes began to manifest. Sharp rocks mostly, they were everywhere, to her left and right, even above her head, black and spiky, telling her unmistakably that she shouldn’t be here. There was a noise now, too. The further they went, the surer she became what it was and when they rounded another corner, she wasn’t surprised to find herself at the bank of a wide river. It was gurgling strangely, while white mist crawled across the surface and blurred the line between water and land. Like everything down here, it held an odd, blueish glow, the source of which was still nowhere to be seen. A good distance away, the mist slowly began to part. Something was moving through it, heading towards them and Anthea could feel the tiny hairs on the back of her neck stand in unease.

A boat, she realised, steered by a cloaked and hooded figure. Its bow turned into the most hideous figurehead she had ever laid eyes upon. Nothing but a long neck, part of it entangled in thorny vines, the rest covered in fish scales, craned upwards, and topped with a human skull. Long, winding horns were rolled up to the sides of it, and between two rows of sharpened teeth, it held a lantern. Within it danced a single blue flame.

Another shiver rolled over her skin as the bark landed, a bloodcurdling, scratching noise echoing from the high stonewalls, and Anthea stopped, forcing Hephaestus to do the same as to not let her hand slip out of his. He looked back, anger flaring behind his light-blue orbs, but when he realised the horror on his daughter’s face, his eyes softened.

“Please, my flower, don’t be alarmed. You have got nothing to fear from the ferryman.”

“Indeed it is not me you should fear.” The ferryman’s voice was raspy and dark. The voice of an old man. But it also held the warmth of a bemused smile. “Lord Hephaestus,” he then greeted her father. “I would say it is good to see you again, but something tells me that the two of you are not on a pleasure trip.”

“You are right, Master Charon. Indeed we are not, yet I, too, have to admit that it is good to see you again after such a long time.”

The ferryman, Master Charon, nodded, making the grey beard that fell down his chest bob slightly.

“Come now. We need not waste anymore time with kind words for he is already awaiting your arrival.”

He helped them both inside the vessel, Anthea first, and even when her father finally sat down beside her and took her hand, it refused to bring the soothing comfort it usually did. They travelled in silence, nobody spoke a word and strangely enough, the boat didn’t make any sound either as it glided across the water. But suddenly, her ears picked up a whisper. It was not very loud at first, making her question whether it was there at all, but soon it grew louder, several voices mixing together, swelling until she could clearly make out the word they were chanting over and over again: Anthea.

She didn’t think much of it as she reached out her hand towards the source of the whispers, her fingertips already parting the mist to reveal the pitch black water underneath.

“I wouldn’t proceed if you value your life, girl.”

The unexpected warning of the ferryman made her jump, her fingers retreating just in time as a white, fleshless hand broke through the surface and reached for her. In panic she yanked her hand away, holding it close to her chest.

“Anthea!”

She could hear the same terror in her father’s voice that had befallen her own heart, and still she flinched as she turned and found his scolding stare upon herself.

“I’m sorry.”

Her voice was quiet and once again, Hephaestus face softened in a heartbeat for his daughter.

“It’s not your fault, my flower. I should have given you a word of warning.” His lips pressed to the crown of her hair, one arm wrapping around her shoulder to pull her closer. “Promise me to be more careful down here, will you?”

“I promise, father.”

It was not long after this incident, the fright still lingering in her bones, when Charon broke the silence again.

“We will arrive soon.”

Beside her, she felt her father sit up straight. His arm fell away from her shoulder in the process and with it the warmth it had brought. Anthea shivered again, her eyes drawn to the riverbank where another hooded figure slowly came into view. He was tall, taller even than her father and Hephaestus was already towering higher than any mortal she knew. In his hand, hidden by wide sleeves, he held a bident, its two sharp prongs reaching even higher than his head. Despite the cloak that added to the width of his shoulders, Anthea noted that they weren’t as wide as her father’s, not even close. And somehow this detail calmed her a little.

It was impossible to see his face behind the darkness of his hood yet, but even as they got closer and set foot onto the rocky shore, the light that came from behind his back made it impossible to glimpse even the tiniest hint of its features.

“Klytometis,” the stranger greeted her father. His voice was calm and measured. If he felt any emotions upon their arrival, he disguised them well. Still, the term he had chosen to address Hephaestus honoured her father and his skills. Anthea knew that there were others he could have used, plenty of them, that made fun of her father’s leg or diminished his craftsmanship. In her mind she thanked the stranger for showing Hephaestus the respect he deserved but so seldomly received.

“Khthonios.” Anthea watched in bewilderment as her father dropped to one knee, holding his head low. He had never done that before. A god had no need to humble himself before others. “I need your help. We need your help.”

A strange sensation befell her as she could feel a pair of eyes taking her in from underneath the darkness of his hood, for the first time since their arrival. Later she would remember this moment, remember the violent shiver it sent down her spine, but she would never truly be able to fathom whether it had been caused by his gaze or the way her father had addressed him. Khthonios—of the Underworld.

“Stand up, Hephaestus. There is no need for such formality between us.” Her father did as he was told, thanking the hooded creature with a wordless nod. “So you have come seeking my aid.” A long silence followed his words, stretching uncomfortably between them and when he spoke again, his words felt like a slap to their faces. “Yet I don’t recall owing you any favour.”

Like the cold of a rainy winter day it sank in. He wouldn’t help them. They had come all this way for nothing. It was as clear to Anthea as anything. Now all they could do to preserve their honour was leave before they would overstay their welcome. And so she reached for her father’s hand and gently pulled him towards the ferry, but Hephaestus was unrelenting.

“I am well aware of that. And believe me, my lord, if there were any other way—”

“There is always another way,” her father was cut off politely but firmly, still he refused to accept the rejection.

“Not this time. Not with him—”

Again, Hephaestus was cut short as the other lifted his hand to silence him. Anthea was in shock. She had never seen her father like this, pleading and supplicant, just to be silenced by a single gesture. Nobody had ever dared to turn him down.

“Say no more. I could already sense my brother’s foul stench on your daughter the moment you entered my realm.”

My brother. My realm. His words washed away the last of her doubts about his identity. It was the ruler of the Underworld himself that stood before them, Hades Khthonios, King of the Dead, and it was only now that she fully understood the despair her father must be in. What it must have cost him to take her to the Underworld and ask the most unpopular of all the gods for help. And to be rejected like this after all that torment.

No, she wouldn’t tolerate this one second longer. As the God of the Underworld had suggested: there must be another way. Maybe there were others they could ask for help. Her grandmother, she despised her husband enough to surely side with them. And probably other gods would follow.

She was just about to tug at her father’s hand again, to speak up if necessary, when only three words settled the matter, and decided her fate.

“She can stay.”

No. No, no, no, no, no.

“I thank you, Lord Hades. I will forever be indebted to you for your most generous offer. Anthea will be safe here with you.”

“You have my word.”

Anthea watched in disbelief as the two gods sealed their agreement. She knew what would follow now, and still she pushed the thought away as far as she could.

“You will stay with me, won’t you, father?” she pleaded as he turned around to face her. And with a glance over his shoulder she added, “You won’t leave me here.” With him, she had wanted to add, but even in her distraught state she realised it would be horrendously foolish to cross yet another god.

“You will be in safe hands, my flower. And knowing that, I will be able to fulfil my duties as a father and protect you. I need to take care of Zeus, set him on the wrong track. It will distract him, hopefully long enough for the chase to tire his greed.”

“But—”

“No,” her father grabbed her shoulders and looked at her intently, “this is the way it has to be. The only way to keep you unharmed. From the moment you came into my life, I swore to protect you, whatever it takes. Please allow me to be your father now and keep that oath.”

He was right. Her heart had known even before he had spoken that he was. Still, tears blurred her vision, and however much she tried, soon she could feel them run down her cheeks in hot and salty streams.

“I will miss you, father.”

“Sh, no goodbyes. Or have you forgotten how much you hate them?”

Anthea couldn’t help but chuckle and Hephaestus managed a smile as well as he wiped away the tears from her eyes. He then reached into the leather bag he was carrying to bring a small object to light, wrapped in cloth. Carefully he tugged the fabric aside to reveal a tiny golden robin.

“I made this a long time ago, when I was young, foolish and in love. I kept it for sentimental reasons, but I want you to have it now.” One large finger that looked as if it belonged to a giant next to the delicate bird, pushed down on its chest and the bird spread its wings before a hatch opened up its back. “You can write to me if you like and enclose your letters safely within the bird. The robin will know where to find me.”

Hephaestus pressed the button again, the hatch falling shut to be covered by the robin’s shiny wings again. Carefully he placed it in his daughter’s hands, one last token of his love for her before he had to leave.

Desperate arms reached out for him, wrapping around his strong chest while Anthea buried her face against it. His arms closed around her and for a moment, the world fell away. She could hear his strong heartbeat, the air filling his lungs and leaving them in a hurry as he released a deep sigh. His familiar scent filled her nose and she vowed she would forever memorise it, along with the image of his smile, and his eyes when they lit up in joy, his warm voice when he softly spoke her name. It would have to suffice until she could leave this place and be with him again.

She was reluctant to loosen her hold, although she was well aware of the inevitability of their goodbye. And so it was her father who softly pushed her away to look at her.

“Remember what I told you, my flower. Courageous heart, calm mind.”

“Courageous heart, calm mind,” she repeated like she had done so many times before. With a proud smile on his lips, he leaned in to leave a kiss on her forehead. She could still feel his lips there when he passed her by to join the ferryman on his bark.

They had already discarded, Charon pushing them down the Styx and away from her, when just once, Hephaestus turned to look at his daughter again, his eyes shimmering suspiciously in the gloomy light. Intuitively, she took a step forward. Not to follow him, she knew she couldn’t, but to lessen the distance, just for a moment.

Of course, he didn’t know that, and so she felt a determined hand grabbing her wrist to keep her from doing anything foolish. She hadn’t even realised he was close enough to reach her, but he seemed to take his promise to her father very seriously. His grip wasn’t unpleasantly tight, but tight enough to remind her very effectively of the only alternative to her exile.

For a second her eyes fell down to the spot where his fingers touched her. Anthea wasn’t sure what she had expected. White bones void of flesh wrapping around her wrist? Whatever horror her mind might have imagined, it was far from the slender fingers she found. Stunned, she looked up at his face, yet again she found nothing but darkness. But it made him let go of her, and when she remembered why he had reached for her in the first place, she turned around. The river lay silent now, the mist unmoved. Her father was gone.

“I know how you must feel, but Hephaestus is right. There is no other way.”

His voice was warm, full of compassion, but she hated it just the same.

“You know nothing about me,” she spat, facing him again. “Least of all how I feel.”

To her great dismay, he didn’t rise to her venomous tone. She would have loved to allow him a taste of the feelings he had just claimed to know. Instead he silently extended his arm, pointing towards the path he must have walked to come here.

Chapter 3

***

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@ashesofblackroses 🖤

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ashesofblackroses · 1 year ago

Text

Ah love, what can I say, the romance of this, the power of the descriptive prose! I could almost smell the flower wreaths in the temple. It was so evocatively charged with the strength of their developing relationship, and the conversation between them was perfect.

There are so many lines that I found heartrendingly wonderful, but I think this was my favourite.

“Good, it will forever remind me of your kindness. The mind tends to forget, but scars remember everything.”

For Geralt to know that kindness is so important. A man who has faced such dangers and hardships and here he experiences the softness and delicate touches he deserves.

They really are kindred spirits and I adored this.😍

Kindred Spirit

Part Two - To Love

07/06/2023

Pairing: Geralt of Rivia x Reeja (ofc)

Word Count: 5,848

Warnings: healed wounds/scars, mentions of monsters, language, fluff, unprotected sex

Summary: Geralt awakes at Melitele and finds himself soon after in the nightly gardens of the temple to thank the woman who nursed him back to life.

A/N: I know, I know, it's been ages since I posted the first part and I couldn't blame you if you were sure by now that the second part would never come. But here it is and there are two more planned. I just hope it won't take as long until I finish the next part. 🤞

Divider by @firefly-graphics

If you like my story, you are very welcome to like, comment or reblog. Please don’t copy, repost or share my work on other platforms.

Even before he had opened his eyes, Geralt knew exactly where he was. At first there was the heady scent of incense from the pendulum, eased by the fresh smell of water that was running through the gardens and collected in smaller and larger pools or fountains. The sound and the cool it brought was meant to calm body and mind alike. A deep inhale carried a notion of the medicinal herbs that were planted all over the gardens, riddled with lots of ornamental flowers to bring a little colour and shape to indulge the eyes as well. Slowly the sweet perfume of the flower wreaths that had been left by the temple’s many visitors as an offering to the goddess mixed with the tangy notes of the herbs, accompanied by an equally sweet scent of honey that rose from the warm wax of hundreds of candles placed all over the temple. Melitele.

For many days, he had woken to the familiar scents of the temple. He had been much younger then, at a time that seemed like a whole lifetime ago now. Yet there was hardly anything that could ease his mind like the atmosphere at Melitele. It was rooted deep inside of him, the security and peace this place offered, engraved in his bones to be remembered forever.

Still, something was not quite right about it today. There was something else, something unfamiliar mixing with the usual notes. Geralt couldn’t stop the slight alarm from crawling up on him and forcing his eyes open even though his lids still felt too heavy to abandon his sweet slumber just yet. The rich scent hung heavily in the air that filled the room, clinging to the walls and furniture despite the soft breeze that drifted through the open window. It was everywhere, on the sheets, his pillow, it even stuck to his skin.

Grabbing a fistful of cool cotton, he lifted the covers and inhaled again. Even here, from all over his naked form the unparalleled sweetness filled his nose and made him shiver. It was probably nothing, just his mind playing tricks on him, an aftereffect of the venom.

His jaw clenched as his fingertips found the pink patch of new skin on his abdomen. That fucking arachas. Usually they were not a difficult kill, but this one had been remarkably feisty. It had surprised him in a way, or maybe that was just the lie he chose to tell himself instead of allowing himself the thought that he might be beginning to slow.

With a sigh he sat up, the idea pushed far away to the back of his consciousness for now as the room started to spin for a moment.

“Fuck,” he muttered, one hand fisting the sheets to steady himself while the other reached for his clothes that he had made out from the corner of his eye. They had been washed, mended and neatly folded before someone had placed them on a stool next to his bed. It didn’t surprise him in the least that they too carried the unfamiliar scent. Unfamiliar but pleasant and before he knew what he was doing, he found himself pressing the dark shirt to his face and letting the sweet scent invade his senses once more.

“You’re awake.”

He froze in place, feeling caught even though he had his back turned towards the visitor. There was no shame between him and the woman who had taken him in, taught him the little magic he knew and cared for him more than his mother had ever done, but still he was glad that he had already managed to put on his trousers. He hurried to do the same with his shirt before he turned, a huge smile on his face.

“Nenneke.”

She didn’t return his smile at first, worry clouding her dark eyes instead. “How are you, Geralt?”

“I’ve been better,” he scoffed, a half-smile turning one corner of his lips upward, “but I’d probably be much worse if it weren’t for you.”

“I had no hand in healing your wounds. And to be honest, I don’t think you would be at all if you hadn’t managed to reach Melitele in time.”

Slowly she made her way over to the chair that stood by the open window on the other side of his bed and sat. Geralt was not sure whether she was watching him button up his shirt or if she was observing something on the other side of the door. But he hadn’t even managed to reach the last button, when a whiff of air seemed to follow Nenneke’s path through the room and he knew.

The scent came richer than before, urging him to turn around and he had to steady himself as it rolled over his whole body, so fresh and enticing. His ears picked up a soft hum as well, as sweet as the scent it accompanied, and without noticing his hand lifted to ease along the pair of deep creases between his eyebrows.

“Who—” he started his question, but the words refused to leave his mouth as for a split second, someone came into view. She was gone as quickly as she had appeared, too fast for him to memorise whether she was short or tall, whether her hair was long, blonde or black, there was only one thing apart from her scent his mind had committed to memory: her eyes. They were beautiful, sparkling, but so were others. No, there was something else about them, something deeper, that had drawn him in in the blink of an eye, irrevocably, that had opened him up for her to gaze beyond flesh and bone directly into his heart.

“That’s Adreejana.”

For the second time, Nenneke’s voice startled him and as he turned to find an amused smile on her lips, he could feel the heat crawl into his cheeks.

“She’s the best student I ever had. I introduced her to the studies of healing, her salves and potions are extraordinary. Don’t tell her I said that, but they might even exceed my own. You would still be unconscious and lying in bed with a bad fever if it weren’t for her.”

It took him a while to find his voice again, and even then he only managed to form half a sentence. “So she’s the one—” who nursed me back to life, he had wanted to say, but it would have sounded awfully sentimental for someone like him.

“She is.”

As if the confirmation had made her reappear at the door again, Geralt turned once more. Of course the spot where she had been mere moments ago was empty, still he couldn’t help but stare foolishly at it.

“Why don’t you go talk to her? I know she may seem shy at first, but once you’ve gained her trust, I’m certain you two will find that you have much in common.”

He strongly doubted that. Whatever could he have in common with someone like her? Someone delicate, refined, someone soulful.

It was quiet now in the gardens. Without the sound of birdsong or the buzzing of insects, there was only the soft susurration of the leaves and grass, mixing with the light gurgling of water from the fountains and pools. And a little further away, somewhere in the dark, he could make out a low hum.

It was what he had come for—who he had come for—and still it made him stop in his tracks. He had put this off all day even though his thoughts had revolved around little else. It was ridiculous really to be this nervous about talking to a woman for the first time. He had talked to many women before, had uttered things in the heat of carnal passion he wouldn’t even dare repeat to his brothers, yet here he stood, lost for even a simple expression of gratitude for the person who had healed him and thus saved his life.

With a sigh he finally pushed on, his feet growing heavier with every step and once again, he contemplated turning back around and trying again in the morning, when his eyes made out her form in the deserted garden at last. As he had anticipated, she was harvesting herbs—woolly thyme, lamb’s ear, lavender, sage. Some said it was mere superstition to do so at night. He wasn’t one of them. And neither was she, it seemed, as he watched her go about her work for a while. Skilful hands moved swiftly, yet the movement was of an elegance that only sprung from long experience. She looked so innocent, the world around her forgotten while she had fully emerged herself in her task.

Thanks to the darkness and the fact that her back was turned to him, he still couldn’t make out any distinct features. From what little hair peeked out from underneath the veil that covered it, he could tell it was of a dark colour, probably an earthy tone, and long, ending somewhere just above her behind. And even though the fashion of her dress resembled that of the temple priestesses, its colour, most likely a shade of green, told him that she wasn’t one of them.

Without a sound, Geralt drew closer, eager to discover more details on the way. But all he got was more of her scent, pure, like the rest of her, as the first winter snow. The closer he came, the surer he grew that for the first time, Nenneke must have been mistaken. They had nothing in common, not in the least. On the contrary, it couldn’t have been more obvious that everything about her was a stark contrast to himself, a monster in comparison, his hands having killed so many while hers had probably saved the same amount of lives, or more.

It almost seemed blasphemous to touch her, still he found his hand reaching out for her until his fingertips found the warm skin of her bare shoulder. She jolted, rising to her feet in an instant, but it was only when she turned to face the intruder that Geralt felt her heart speeding up and caught the hitch in her breath. He fully expected her to take a step back to bring some distance between them, but to his surprise she stayed put.

“Geralt!” Her voice was steady, seeming perfectly calm, but then her words chose to betray her. “I mean Master Witcher, um, Mr White Wolf of Rivia, sir.”

“Geralt is fine.” He tried an encouraging smile, but when she didn’t return it, he feared he had messed up. He didn’t have much practice in smiling and more than once he had been told that it could strike more terror than his scowl. The only reaction he could make out was a quick nod.

“Can I help you with anything, Geralt? If you are looking for Nenneke, she’s—”

“I’m not looking for Nenneke.”

“You’re not?”

“No.” Without meaning to, he took a step closer.

“Some medicine then? Is the wound still troubling you?”

Even before her hand reached out, he could sense the movement. It wasn’t consciously made but born from instinct, leading her as far as the black fabric that covered his stomach before her senses came back to life, and she pulled away in a hurry. Wide eyes starred up at him, shocked by her own lack of restraint.

“Actually I was looking for you.”

“For me?”

If it was possible, her eyes grew even wider.

“Yes, for you. Nenneke told me who you are and what you did for me.”

Her mouth opened for a reply, but then she seemed to remember something and averted her gaze. It wasn’t hard to guess which images had come back to her judging from the flustered state she was in and another pleased smile spread across Geralt’s lips.

“I wanted to thank you for your…kindness,” he teased, reeling in the way it almost made her squirm.

“It was nothing.”

They both knew it was far from nothing. She had saved his life.

“You needed help and I knew what to do. Anyone else would have done the same.”

If Geralt had learned anything about mankind, it was that there was no help to expect. Not for a witcher.

“Believe me, they wouldn’t.”

For a moment, they just looked at each other. He wasn’t sure whether to try a smile again, but when he noticed the nervous fiddling of her fingers, he abandoned that idea. Instead, he took the freshly plucked roots she had been twisting and turning from her hands and brought them to his nose.

“Valerian?”

Immediately her face lit up, “You have an understanding of herbs?”, just to fall again when she realised. “Sorry, what a stupid question. Of course you do.”

“A little, yes. Not that my knowledge could ever match yours though.”

Geralt watched her teeth dig into her lower lip, the thread of their conversation slightly slipping from his mind.

“I probably don’t even know half as much as you credit me for.”

“And still it’s obviously more than I do.” He lifted the roots in his hands before putting them back into the basket that was still standing next to her feet. “For example I didn’t know valerian had to be harvested during a full moon.”

His deduction made her chuckle and even though he didn’t know why, he couldn’t help but smile along.

“It doesn’t. I just didn’t find the time during the day.”

“You better don’t keep your sleepless patient waiting then.”

Idiot, he scolded himself. The conversation had just begun to become less awkward and now he was practically sending her away. And judging from her bewildered look, she would be more than eager to escape him. But then her gaze suddenly cleared.

“Ah, no. The valerian is not for a patient.”

“Hm. So it is you who has trouble sleeping then?”

Her eyes fell to the ground. “I do, sometimes.”

“Do you know what I used to do when I couldn’t sleep during my time at the temple school?”

She shook her head. Of course she didn’t know, how could she? And when she lifted her head in hope of an answer, she found his hand already waiting for her to take it.

“Come, I’ll show you.”

There was no hesitation in the way her hand found his. It looked so delicate against his own, glistening in the bright moonlight like a precious jewel. He gave her a moment, waiting for her to reach for her basket, but she didn’t. And so he began to lead her through the nightly garden. Soon they reached one of the inner courtyards which housed a small fountain lined with jasmine. The air was heavy with its intoxicating aroma and he could feel it take a hold of them both.

It was silent here, apart from the string concert of a few cicadas and the steady breathing of his companion behind him. She probably knew where they were headed by now, still she didn’t let go of his hand as he stopped in front of the large wooden door. He listened for a moment, and he only allowed himself to breathe again when his ears didn’t pick up any heartbeats on the other side. With a groan the door gave way and Geralt lead her to the middle of the pitch black room.

“Close your eyes,” he whispered, his lips close to her ear, causing a shiver. And even though his command seemed redundant in a dark room, she did as he had asked of her. “Wait here.”

Soon, the black was replaced by soft hues of gold and orange that danced across her closed lids and she could feel his presence by her side even though she hadn’t heard him approach. The warmth that radiated off his body came closer and she felt it seep through her clothes and underneath her skin long before his chest met her back. Gently his arm rounded her middle until his hand came to rest on her stomach and he pulled her closer. Warm fingers touching her forehead, he guided her head back to rest against him.

“Now open your eyes.”

The soft vibrations of his low voice rumbled through his chest, spreading to her own body, rolling through her to collect deep inside her core, causing a sensation that threatened to unleash in a heady moan, when she obeyed his wish and the sight before her rendered her speechless.

She knew the room, knew the dark blue ceiling with its spots of mother of pearl and gold, but she had never seen it like this. The blue had faded to black in the dim light of the candles, the dancing flames creating a perfect illusion that made her feel as if she was gazing straight through the ceiling, up into the night sky with a million of twinkling stars.

“This is my favourite room at Melitele. I used to sneak in here many nights during my time here.”

It was his voice again. There was something about it that made her foolish and what made it even more dangerous was that it stopped her from caring. And so she closed her eyes and allowed her head to tilt towards the warmth of his cheek until she could feel the tickle of his scruff against her skin.

“I think it is something about this artificial sky, it offers a strange sense of peace.”

She hummed in agreement, her cheek moving against his in a gentle caress and his fingers pressed further into her stomach in a wordless answer.

“If people knew, they’d surely come here more often.” Not simply because of the view, but because of his connection to it. “You are quite the legend inside these walls.”

She could feel him stiffen against her back. “It seems I have quite the reputation outside of these walls as well,” he scoffed.

“Really? I didn’t know that. I don’t leave this place often. What do people say?”

“Are you sure you want to know?”

“No,” she finally whispered after a moment of consideration, wiping away the tension from his body with just one word. “I’d rather like to find out who you are by myself.”

He would have noticed much sooner, but the hand that found his neck distracted him for a moment. The heat it brought spread through his whole body, pulsing through him without restraint until the blooming desire made him dizzy. But even through the white noise that clouded his ears, he could hear it loud and clear. He also felt it, against his chest as much as underneath his fingertips, beating wildly and faster with every breath she took. There was also this scent, heady and bewitching as it evaporated from her skin freely, and he knew that it meant one thing and one thing only. She wanted him, just as much as he wanted her.

Assured by the unmistakable signs her body sent him, his hand began to wander, following the call of heat south, a heat he felt growing stronger in the valley of her thighs with every heartbeat. The grip on his neck tightened as his fingers finally reached their destination. Everything about her was ready to give in, her legs slightly spreading, allowing him more room to venture further, her lips falling apart in a gasp, aching to meet his, so close now, when the spell suddenly broke and she drew away.

His instincts told him to follow her and for the first time in forever he felt they had betrayed him when she took another step back, away from him. And so he stopped, ready to apologise and bid her goodnight. He had seen this many times, people, women, shying away from him as soon as they realised what he was. By now, he didn’t take it personal anymore. The fear in their eyes had lost its power to break his heart long ago.

But it wasn’t fear he found when her eyes met his again. At least not of him. For once, someone hadn’t fled his touch because they thought he was a monster. She was afraid of herself, afraid of giving in to her own desire.

Patiently he waited until her breathing slowed and when he took another step towards her, she didn’t shy away again. To be fair, she wouldn’t have come far anyway with one of the large pillars that supported the ceiling almost right behind her. But the smell of honeyed nectar that began to pool at the apex of her thighs as he drew in on her promised that she didn’t want to go anywhere.

She was so close now, his chest almost touching hers, the heat of her laboured breaths slipping past the buttons of his shirt to tease the hair that covered his pecs and stomach. He inhaled deeply to steady himself, a mistake, he realised at once as another strong wave of her arousal flooded his senses. One hand reaching for the cool stone behind her to keep him from crushing into her, his eyes fell closed as the world began to spin.

“Geralt?”

He wasn’t sure what caused his eyes to snap open again, the worry in her voice or the touch of her hand, squeezing his own. He thought he was dreaming as he watched her while she slowly lifted it to her face to cup her cheek. She was soft as silk against his touch and soon he found himself exploring more of her, fingertips gliding along her jaw, her chin, her lips. Somewhere along the way her eyes had fallen shut, her lips parted and she was his.

He was hers too, although he couldn’t tell when exactly it had happened. Had it been when he had first laid eyes on her, that brief moment after he had regained consciousness? Or had it been while he had watched her work, the moonlight washing over her form and making her glow? Or was it now that his lips touched hers for the first time, barely even so, careful, probing, then deeper, more intimately until her arms and legs wrapped around him and they tasted each other fully, breathed each other in as if they could do the impossible and become one.

Not here though, not in an act of fleeting passion against a stone pillar. He wanted to enjoy this, wanted her to enjoy this, to celebrate whatever it was that was blooming between them, all night long. And then all morning, all afternoon and evening and then all night again, until they were blissed out and spent.

And so he carried her to his room, her lips not once leaving his until he had set her down on her feet again. Gently he took her hands from his neck and brought them to his mouth to kiss her fingertips.

“Tell me what you want me to do, Adreejana.”

“Call me Reeja, please.”

“Reeja.” A shiver washed over her skin as his lips and tongue caressed her name, speaking it with a softness no one ever had. “What else do you want me to do?”

She pondered his question for a while, aching to feel him close again, to kiss him, and yet there was something that would make all of this even sweeter.

“Undress yourself.”

She had expected him to raise his brows in astonishment or at least tease her a little for her request, but he did nothing of the sort. He simply did as she had asked of him, starting with the buttons of his shirt. Reeja remained close, watching as determined hands yanked the dark fabric out of his trousers before it glided from his wide shoulders and fell to the ground. He didn’t stop, not one second of hesitation as his fingers repeated their actions on his trousers and they, too, fell away to reveal every last bit of him.

Geralt watched the same twitch in her hand that he had seen earlier tonight when she had asked after his wound, but this time, he hoped, she wouldn’t pull away.

“Go ahead, nothing you haven’t touched before.”

The sensation of her caress tempted him to close his eyes when her fingers finally found his skin, but even more he wanted to see them move, wanted to watch her explore his body, no matter how much it would cost him not to go insane with want while doing so.

The movement of her hand mirrored that of her other, tracing the lines of his shoulders and clavicles until her fingers touched right underneath the dip where his neck and chest met and ventured further down to graze through his silky fur. She let them rest there for a while, her right hand close to his heart.

“I always thought a witcher’s heartbeat is supposed to be much slower than a humans.”

“It usually is,” he smirked.

“Oh.”

She was adorable when she was flustered and he couldn’t help his hand from gliding into her hair to bring her lips to his again. All senses dazed by his kiss, he could feel her touch loosing grip and her hands began to drift down his stomach. Lazily they followed the slight up and down of his muscles, moving closer to the prominent V that lined his hips when they came to an abrupt stop and then left his skin altogether.

Bewildered by the sudden absence of her touch, Geralt broke the kiss to search her eyes for the reason of her retreat.

“Does it still hurt?”

It was clear that he didn’t understand, his eyebrows knitting even closer together than before her question.

“Your scar.”

He still looked a little puzzled, but then he followed the line of her finger that pointed at the latest edition to his collection. It was hardly any different from the many other scars that decorated his skin, only a touch of light rose hinted at the fact that it was the most recent of them all.

“No, it doesn’t.” He hadn’t even noticed a difference when her fingers had crossed it. And even now, when they found the freshly healed wound again, her touch didn’t cause any discomfort. On the contrary.

“I’m afraid it will stay though.”

Slowly his hand pushed across hers, sealing it in place.

“Good, it will forever remind me of your kindness. The mind tends to forget, but scars remember everything.”

“I know.” Her voice was but a mere whisper, her eyes suddenly avoiding him once more and when she freed her hand from underneath his, he let her. Shaky fingers began to unclasp the plaited leather belt that set on her hips before they travelled up to the simple golden fibula on her shoulder, the only thing that held her dress in place. By now her hands were trembling so violently that it kept gliding out of her fingers over and over again.

“May I?”

It seemed that her words had abandoned her once more, still she consented with a nod and Geralt was quick to finish the task for her. He could have watched forever as the olive fabric cascaded down her form, like a curtain, falling instead of rising, to reveal what his eyes had longed so much to see. The moment was over too soon, but the effect grew stronger by the second, until every single fibre of his body was fighting the urge to sink his fingertips into her skin to feel her, all of her, inch by inch by inch.

Instead he forced himself to look up into her eyes again. She was about to turn when he caught something in her gaze that sent a cold shiver down his spine. And then he understood. Almost all of her back was covered in a huge, angry burn mark, spreading all the way from her shoulders down to her pelvis. Simply imagining the pain it must have caused her made his stomach turn and red heat course through his veins. He wanted to touch her, to soothe the memory of the pain however long ago it might have subsided, but then he remembered how hesitant she had been to touch his scars and halted midway.

“It’s appalling, I know,” she spoke lowly, and he knew he had messed up again, his hesitation leading her to believe that he was repulsed.

“No, it’s not. Not in the least. Nothing about you could ever be appalling to me.”

She sighed and he knew she didn’t believe him even before she spoke again. “Then why did you pull away?”

“I didn’t want to hurt you.”

A myriad of emotions washed over her face at once and Geralt hadn’t identified them all when she took his hand and brought it closer to her face. Softly her fingertips glided along his palm, inspecting it as if she could measure whether his hand held any danger.

“You would never.”

No, he wouldn’t. He couldn’t. And he was eager to show her when she guided his hand to her back and placed it right in the center of her scar. He was astonished how smooth it was, silky and soft like the rest of her skin. The tissue was nothing like the scars on his body, not bulgy or messy to show at first glance how much the wounds had hurt. But he knew all too well the agony she must have been through.

“What happened?”

She turned in his arms, burying her face in the crook of his neck, and he pulled her tightly against himself.

“Let the past be the past. Just for tonight. I promise to tell you another time. But for now I’d rather forget about it.”

“Then let me help you forget.”

The touch of her lips was light, barely even palpable against his strong pulse, but he hadn’t just imagined it and it was all the confirmation he needed. He left an open mouthed kiss on the top of her shoulder, his tongue darting out to taste the salted honey of her skin. A few inches away, he repeated his movement, venturing further with every kiss until he had reached the exact spot her lips had met his skin mere seconds ago and a loud moan broke the silence as he began to tend to her sensitive flesh. It was heaven and he needed more of it. Luckily he knew how to get it, not waisting a single second to let his fingers glide right into the heat they had tasted before. Slick with arousal, she welcomed him in, sharp nails digging into his shoulder the further he ventured.

“Geralt,” she breathed, sending a flash of lightning straight to his loins that coaxed an unholy grunt from the depths of his chest. “If you keep on using that technique I will have forgotten even my name come morning.”

He stopped immediately, a deep chuckle telling of his amusement as he softly removed his fingers.

“Well, we can’t have that, can we?”

She had wanted to reply something witty, but when the two glistening fingers he had pleasured her with vanished in between his lips with a delighted hum, her mind went completely blank. Speechless she watched as he walked over to the bed and sat down on the edge, his massive chest bouncing enticingly in the process. If he had already registered her dumbfounded state, he didn’t let on. Not even the slightest hint of a self-satisfied smirk played on his lips as he extended his hand and bade her join him.

He had probably anticipated she would take the place next to him, but she chose to climb his lap instead. She could feel him against herself, hard and heavy, twitching in anticipation as she pulled herself even closer against him. There was a need in his kiss she hadn’t felt there before. But not only in his kiss, it was in his hands, too, as they eagerly grabbed her behind and guided her up and down. It matched her own, matched the growing heat inside of her, from a fire only he could quench.

“Have you…have you been with a man before?”

“With men, yes. But never with someone like you.”

“A mutant?” He didn’t know why he had assumed that was what she meant, a reflex probably. But it made her stop and that was the last he had wanted.

“No,” she laid her palm against his cheek, her eyes holding his intently, “a gentle soul. A kindred spirit.”

“Reeja.”

His voice was shaky, overwhelmed by the goodness her heart held. And thankful for it because maybe it was that very goodness that made her see beyond what everyone else saw in him and helped her fathom the goodness in his own heart. And however little of it still remained, it was hers, entirely hers.

“Geralt,” she moaned his name as she aligned his tip with her entrance and lowered herself in an agonisingly slow pace. Their names were the last that was spoken. There was no room for more words, all they needed was to feel. Feel the way he filled her so perfectly as if they were made for each other, feel the velvet of her walls embracing him tightly, welcoming him deeper with every slow roll of her hips. It was anguish and delight, they were delirious, lost in each other and yet they had never been more at peace.

Every kiss, every thrust they celebrated with the longing of the first and the hesitancy to let go of the last, their bodies completely tangled in each other after he had turned them both over. She was writhing underneath him, drawing him down against her to feel more of his delicious weight on her. Grunts and groans, mewling and moaning filled the silence of the night, rising, rising, rising until they both came apart in each others arms. Once, twice, losing count somewhere in the spiral of desire and satisfaction long before morning came.

For Geralt’s taste, it came far too soon. His limbs were still entangled with Reeja’s, impossible to unravel. Not that he had wanted to. He loved to lie here, nestled in between her breasts, her fingers woven into his hair to keep him close. In the still of the approaching morning he could hear her heartbeat against his ear. Steady now, needing the peace after the heated passion of the past night. He pushed the thought aside for the moment as it threatened to fan the embers of his desire anew, but he didn’t want to wake her. There would be time enough to spoil her again after she had rested.

He smiled when he recalled the original plan to leave as soon as his wound had healed. Everyone always chided him for not allowing his body to properly restore itself. Maybe it was time to try something new and listen to them, just this once. Just to make sure.

***

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ashesofblackroses · 1 year ago

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Wow, what an opening chapter!! To say I gasped at the ending is an understatement. “No, Bucky, no!”

I’m really excited to see where you take this.

Time and Tines (1/3)

Plans (see series)

Steve Rogers x Villain!Reader for @sweeterthanthis's Bittersweet Symphony Writing Challenge

Can’t change the way we are, One kiss away from killing. —Bishop Briggs, River

Summary: Steve meets the mysterious woman staring at him from across the room.

Warnings for vague injuries, mention of needles, manipulation/brainwashing, SEMI-DARK fic (like I've read worse but it ain't sunny, folks). MINORS DNI 18+ ONLY. This work has heavy themes unsuitable for minors. There is plenty else to read on my Light Masterlist if this is not your cup of tea! WC 3.6k

The event isn’t overly loud, but the lights are lower and he is surrounded by people. Steve isn’t fond of crowds, not when he’s not working, not when the event is actually meant to be fun for him. He isn’t Captain America right now. He isn’t the center of attention. He isn’t bothering to mingle. Instead, he’s chosen to humor a long-winded medical rant from the Avenger’s resident doctor of the past half-year.

Salvatore Avani enlightens Steve on several ways he can assess and replicate Erskine’s serum without taking a drop of any super soldier’s blood. It would be an interesting project if Steve hadn’t heard it all before, over and over, from every hopeful doctor and scientist to cross his path. At least Steve gets to be out of his suit for a while and…in another suit, though this one is significantly more forgiving to his stance and skin.

“You see, Captain, your strength can be wielded for so much more than fighting. It could give safety and security to people working unmechanizable jobs,” Dr. Avani points out.

“Not sure that’s a word, sir, but I understand.” Steve swirls whisky around in his tumbler, ice long melted, and wishes—not for the first time—that alcohol still had an effect on him. “A certain amount of modernization does protect those same workers from danger…and no one had to be dosed with anything,” he concludes before emptying the glass in hand.

As Avani opens his mouth to retort, a weight lands on Steve’s shoulder.

“Sorry, Doc,” Bucky interrupts, “just a quick word.”

“Of course, gentlemen.” The doctor turns back around to the bar to order himself another cocktail.

Bucky leans to whisper in Steve’s ear.

“So, punk, we got a situation at three o’clock.”

His whole body tenses, which doesn’t look all that different because Steve has excellent posture, but he deposits the finished glass on the counter and looks over his right shoulder past his friend.

Eyes. Intense and focused eyes meet his before darting down. A few people meander in the space between but you’re all Steve can see for a long moment.

“There it is,” Bucky mutters in recognition.

“Did you just make me look at a dame across the room?” Steve runs a hand over his freshly shaven law and hisses. “Jerk.”

“Uh, that dame’s been staring at you for a solid twenty minutes, but you weren’t noticing. You’re welcome.”

Steve lowers his head, suppressing a grin as best he can and glancing again to his right.

You’ve turned away. You’re fiddling with a glass of clear, bubbly liquid. Vodka soda? Gin and tonic? Those are Steve’s first guesses, but he can’t tell which since both lemon and lime wedges float above the ice.

“Two of whatever she is having,” Bucky asks the bartender helpfully, clapping a pat of encouragement on Steve’s back.

The man behind the bar gives a quizzical look and then shrugs.

Buck winks at him as Steve heads for your high-top table. No one else stands around you. No rings on the hand beside your drink. No way you don’t know he’s coming over even with your eyes down.

“Hi, mind if I join you?”

You smile without looking up. “Only if you brought gifts.” Your voice is small, a little shyer than Steve would expect from someone brazen enough to watch him that long from afar, but he sets his offering on the table anyway.

“I do,” he replies softly, matching your tone, “although what it is is a mystery to me.”

Still smiling, you drain your original glass quickly and confess, “Sierra Mist.”

Steve sucks air through pearly white teeth. “Yikes. More of a 7-Up man myself.”

“Go figure. Captain America has brand loyalty.”

He fails to stop the burst of laughter punched from his chest. It doesn’t scare you though. He’s actually pleased it seems to relax you. He sets his own hand on the table approximately an inch from yours.

“Touché.”

A faint tremor rolls through that hand but stops after you make a fist and release it.

Steve just starts saying random things that come to mind, and shockingly, it works.

Conversation flows for while as he notices that your dress straps don’t stay put very well and there is a barely visible seam at your hairline. Why you would need to wear a wig, he has no idea. He finds himself almost compelled to say your natural hair is perfect, just like you.

And this is why Steve doesn’t let himself out much.

During one comment regarding the other guests, he sneaks a peek over at Bucky—still beside Avani—and is flashed a thumbs up which he immediately hopes you did not see.

Chatting continues.

Steve isn’t a good flirt, but it seems he’s getting lucky with little lines tonight. He’s willing to push his luck.

“Well, after all this sweetness, maybe we should dance off some energy.” Yet sugar, like alcohol, has no discernible effect on Steve Rogers.

“Oh, no. That’s not necessary. I’m a miserable dancer.” You lift your bejeweled clutch up alongside your lemon-lime soda. “Besides how would I carry it all?”

“Well, if they’d make dresses with fuller skirts like they used to,” Steve teases, pushing his half-full glass aside, “you wouldn’t have that problem. The world regressed that way. Real shame.”

“Not a fan of form-fitting gowns?” you cock your head with wide eyes.

Steve’s gaze snaps to his shoes, hoping to choke off the heat rising in his cheeks. It only chokes his words. “Oh, oh god, no. They’re lovely. I meant, ya know, pockets and…I just—I didn’t want anything to stop you.“

“Me neither.”

You take him in with warm assessment and one last evaluation of the room, tucking your lip between your teeth briefly. “You’re in luck,” you add with a laugh. “I’m about to blow your mind, Captain.”

He watches you open the clasp, fish around inside the tiny bag—barely an envelope, really, but Steve learned from Natasha that ladies can hold a scary amount in those things,— and pull out a silvery length like a party trick from the minuscule confines. The new strap allows you to toss the purse over your shoulder.

You present the transformation like it’s a superpower.

“Nifty,” Steve coos.

You nod an acceptance of his awe. “I am nothing if not prepared.”

“And now—“ he offers his hand again “—out of excuses. Bucky tells me I am ‘a sight to behold’ and not in a good way. Shall we prove him right in solidarity?”

You head to the open floor, guided by Steve’s lead. “Not gonna try to prove him wrong?”

He swings you around to face him. “How would I always win as Cap if I bet like that?”

You hum while Steve settles a hand over the satin at your waist. “Picking your battles, huh?” Free and delicate hands land at his shoulders before one smooths down his sleeve, your eyes never leaving his. “And I’m a fight waiting to happen?”

He gets lost for a few bars until he shows his true colors and winces.

“Well, my toes are fighting with yours, clearly.”

But you simply laugh.

Steve’s brain turns over the steps and his apologies and then finally lands on a good line way after the fact. “Or, no, wait, I’ve got it now.” He squares his shoulders a little more and deepens his voice, comically.

“You’re worth fighting for.”

The snort huffed in his face is perfect, the grin that splits your painted lips over shiny white teeth blinding and well worth his efforts.

“Oh wow. See!” He earns a featherlight slap to the chest. “You do have your charming moments, Captain Rogers.”

“Steve, please—“ he fakes leading you off the floor “—and could we go repeat that in front of—“

“—the extremely grumpy man gripping a beer bottle?” Your sights land across the room toward the bar. “I don’t know, Steve. Your critic looks pretty…something.”

Steve frowns when he sees Bucky. As his friend speaks with Dr. Avani, Bucky’s face pinches solid as stone, overly serious beside the doctor’s casual body language. Buck indeed looks pissed for no reason.

Steve squints in apology. “He’s not—that’s just—I promise he’s not like that—“

Where’s that teasing joy from a minute ago?

He contemplates that still when your hands release him, and his focus snaps back.

“I need to use the ladies’ room anyway,” you shrug, rubbing a palm up and down your bare arm.

“And then fireworks?” Steve inserts hopefully, almost removing his suit jacket right then to drape over your shoulders. He sounds like an excited schoolboy, and he’s again glad that Bucky is far enough away not to know how obvious he’s being.

You smile, a graceful tug at the dark, matte lipstick sculpted over your full—Rogers. Then a little nod is all you offer before turning to the hall, bag bouncing at your hip on its magic chain.

Steve watches you go, meandering over to Bucky while glancing in your last known direction, until his friend grunts to get his attention.

Avani is gone, but Buck’s face remains sour.

“What on earth did Doc say? Some intel for a mission?” Steve’s only half-curious and fully-distracted though.

His friend just waves off the mood. “Where’s your girl?”

“She’s not…” Steve shakes his head.

“Fine. Where’s your girl for the night?” Bucky raises one eyebrow.

“You know that sounds even worse now than it did back then, right?”

“Well?” Bucky looks around inquisitively.

“Powder her nose—” Steve smirks with rosy cheeks “—then watching the light show.”

He gets a solid smack between his shoulders and a proud nod.

Steve tries to remain patient, he really does, but after a few minutes and nearly every guest settled into their own viewing spot across the long balcony, he checks back over his shoulder.

Nothing.

He excuses himself from Bucky’s side and wanders toward the hallway.

Yes, he knows he’ll look too interested and a bit stalker-esque, but he doesn’t want to miss the show—he doesn’t want you to miss the show with him. There’s gonna be this beautiful display in the sky and you’ll be engrossed enough that he can just look at the changing colors glow across your…

What?!

Around one corner of the wall, Steve sees a foot, one shiny, brown men’s dress shoe, and then another. Someone’s kneeling—shaking if rolling toes are any indication—and then there you are standing over him.

“Doctor Avani?” Steve croaks, watching you raise a syringe and needle high over the man’s head.

You ignore Steve’s arrival.

The doctor’s eyes don’t break from you as he shrieks, “Captain, she’s mad. She—“

“How dare you? Bastard,” you bite out, heaving your weapon at the doctor’s exposed throat as Steve lunges forward.

It punctures the thick, luxurious navy fabric of Steve’s suit, and he feels the slight swelling pressure of liquid entering his forearm.

You release your grip, eyes wild and teeth bared. Gone is the sweet and serene woman with whom he shared a drink and danced.

The syringe stays lodged in Steve’s flesh as he pushes the doctor aside to shield him, but it’s too late for you.

Bucky followed behind him and now wraps your arms behind your back while you struggle to inch toward Avani, spitting insults.

“What was it?” Bucky demands. “What’s in there? What poison?”

Steve rips the needle out, checking it for any clues.

With a scowl, your fierce gaze stays on the doctor.

“Ask him. It’s his brand of suffering.”

Steve watches behind the two-way mirror for a while, deciding how to approach you. After chatting with you for the better part of an hour at the event, he still knows absolutely nothing about you. Every single piece of your preliminary file is news to him. He has to start from scratch, which is, ironically, what you are trying to do to the seam of your wig when he finally enters the interrogation room.

“Tea or water?” Steve sets down the cups.

You stop fidgeting for a beat. “Water is fine. Thank you.”

Polite. You stabbed him with a needle, injected him with an unknown substance, and you’re polite about it? He doesn’t understand the nonchalance. If you meant to kill Dr. Avani, then why aren’t you upset that you failed?

With your hands cuffed and the chain laced through a handlebar built into the table, it’s an awkward strain on your neck. You shove your shoulder high and pulse your head back and forth. Your wrists are thin, thin enough that one good, hard pull might actually snap one.

Polite and uncomfortable. Steve figures showing some courtesy might loosen your tongue.

He unlocks the cuffs and places the water in easy reach, keeping the tea for himself.

He sits and you sip. It’s peaceful when it shouldn’t be.

Avani has no clue who you are or what you want, but Steve couldn’t get many answers during the chaos that ensued after your attack. His own heart rate skyrocketed for a few minutes before normalizing. Otherwise, he’s fine.

He tilts the tea in your direction.

“Here’s hoping you didn’t waste truth serum on me,” he cheers. “Might be the only drug completely useless both after and before Erskine’s formula.”

You’re amused, a smirk lifting fading, dark lips. “Ah yes. Good, honest Captain America.”

“To a fault.”

“No.” Your seriousness stops him cold, and Steve’s smile fades. ��It’s not a fault. You’re just rare.”

You value honesty. He can work with that.

“Is that why you chose a drug specifically for the doctor? You didn’t want to harm anyone else, even by accident?”

That shuts you down instead. Steve’s jumped too far, too fast. He’s not allowed to use the same easy tone as before this mess. Maybe he should have found some 7Up…

Silence descends until broken by your heavy swallows of water.

You’re staring down at your reflection in the table’s surface.

“I love stainless steel,” you mutter to no one in particular. “It’s like diffusion. I almost look normal.”

“You mean because you look different?” Steve pulls out your ID found in that small purse. “Why don’t you look ‘normal?’”

You shrug, finally dislodging the precarious strap and it dangles down your arm. “Lost weight.”

“And the hair?”

He was right. Your natural hair in the photo is beautiful. Why the hell are you wearing a wig? If it were obscuring your identity, he imagines you would know not to carry around a real ID.

“Time” is your only answer.

You’re skirting around the truth, lying by omission, waiting for the exact right questions which Steve doesn’t know yet, so he asks something for peace of mind, something that will tell him how long to play this game. “Are you gonna be honest with me?”

Your answer comes easily enough. “Are you gonna be helpful to me?”

Simple. Straightforward. Cutting. It’s said with sorrowful eyes.

He can’t promise anything when he doesn’t know why. “If your purpose is to kill a man then, no, I can’t help you with that.”

Your empty cup lands on the table with a light tonk.

“Maybe I’ll wait until someone who can help walks through that door.”

“In this situation, I believe I’m what’s known as the ‘good cop,’” Steve sighs. “Don’t think you want to dance with the ‘bad cop.’ He’s pretty annoyed he didn’t peg you for an assailant first.”

Nothing about your demeanor changes, not a flinch, not a blink. “Good thing I don’t want to dance with him.”

“He’s not much of a talker either. I’d be a better—“

“I didn’t say I’d talk to him either.”

Steve leans on his elbows, splaying wide across the table. “Just tell me your story. I am here to listen.”

“That makes this sound like a first date.”

“Bucky would likely agree—“ he snorts “—and he’d make a point to say this is going about as well as any date I’ve been on this century. Please,” Steve tries again, “ talk to me.”

There’s a long pause. Your intense gaze remains steady. Whatever your reasons, they don’t strain your moral fortitude. You are a believer, faithful to this unknown cause.

Carefully, quietly, you respond. “It’s not my story to tell. Ask your doctor.”

“If it’s not your story, where are the others? Can they tell it? Are they alive?”

Steve is more perceptive than you counted on judging by your slight head shake.

You flop yourself backward in the seat.

Steve was right. It’s not a what you act for, it’s a who. And they are dead.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” he says earnestly.

This—that simple sentiment—gets the greatest reaction so far. Your lip twitches, and you shimmy against the hard chair. You scratch at your wig again, before your focus returns to the table. There are tears welling in your eyes.

No one has said that before now, he realizes. How long has it been since they passed? Why are you the only mourner? Why aren’t you moving on?

Suddenly, irritation stirs in Steve, and he can’t believe how stubborn you’re being when he is your best option. He is the only one that will have this soft spot for you, the only one who truly wants to help because he truly wants to know why.

“So you’re avenging,” he bursts, tossing his arms out, dramatically looking around the bland room.

Protocol dictated they take you to the nearest precinct for questioning. Only if you were enhanced, only if you had special abilities would you be transported all the way to the compound. So on his night off, while attending a party that actually entertained him for once, you’ve shown up with a syringe that doesn’t do anything and made him miss the fireworks. You’ve made him lose time being content, a rare gift in his line of work.

Steve is frustrated, to say the least. He stands to pace his side of the table.

“Avenging, huh? Gosh, I wish I knew anything about that… anyone in this building even… wherever will we find someone who understands?”

“You don’t do sarcasm very much, do you?” you snip, energy level remaining low compared to his spiked bluster. “I’d like to tell ‘bad cop’ what a terrible dancer you are now. He’s not going to be surprised you made me cry, is he? That’s probably normal, too.”

“Surprised? No.” Steve knocks on the mirror, sick of playing, sick of being wrong, sick of choosing unwisely. “How could he be when he’s been listening this whole time?”

You’re trapped, but you aren’t acting like a caged animal. Something is…off, and Steve realizes he’s too close to the situation—ridiculous as that may be—after just two hours of knowing you. His best friend will have better luck.

Bucky opens the door a few seconds later, armed to the teeth as an intimidation tactic.

It’s disconcerting that your expression brightens once a man sporting three guns and—counting the hidden few—eight knives enters the room. That’s got Steve’s attention.

“So she’s giving you trouble?” Bucky mutters.

He’s grateful Buck doesn’t go the ‘you sure can pick ‘em, Rogers’ or ‘better luck next millennium’ route. Steve shakes his head.

You itch at your wig, face twisted, and glance up at Steve.

“May I take this off?”

Still polite. The niceties are actually making his blood boil at this point because he does not get it yet.

“Fine,” he snaps, rolling his eyes when Bucky purses his lips at Steve’s tone.

“Listen, doll, I think the best course of action is to let you stew in here for a while. When you’re ready to tell us what you know, then—“

“Oh, I can tell you what I know now,” you say casually, pulling out bobby pin after bobby pin to tuck between your teeth. “I know the protocol for a low-level threat like myself is the nearest local law enforcement facility, I know that—due to an unfortunate instance of food poisoning from a birthday cake earlier today—most of this precinct is empty. I know that all three of you would prefer to incapacitate your targets rather than kill them.”

You set the little pile of pins down on the table by your undone chain, pulling a hair comb from the back of your wig to finally release it.

“There’s only two of us here,” Steve says in confusion.

“No.” You point the forked hair comb at Bucky and push yourself out of the chair. “Winter’s in there.”

Before the words can even register, you slam the tines of the tuning fork against the edge of the steel table. The noise is piercing and specific.

Steve covers his ears, but Bucky doesn’t move. He can’t turn away from you.

“Restrain him,” you order, “and get me out of here.”

“Buck, wait—“

The vibranium arm threatens to crush Steve’s windpipe as the force slides him up the mirrored wall.

The Winter Soldier’s cold, vacant grey eyes watch as Steve’s vision fades to black, and Steve wonders how the hell he could be so wrong.

Then it’s quiet and he wonders no more.

A/N: This story is a doozy, gang, but I promise, explanations are ahead!

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Taglist (please let me know if you want added or removed): @supraveng @1950schick @patzammit @whiskeytangofoxtrot555 @yiiiikesmish @bucky-fricking-barnes-reads @fallinallinmendes @deandreamernp @darsynia

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ashesofblackroses · 1 year ago

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Absolutely speechless at how perfect this is. I melt into a puddle of emotional goo every time I read your Steve. I love, love, love him…oh, and did I mention I love him?🥰

Threadbare (Finale)

Steve Rogers x Fashion Designer!Reader

Part Five: Reversal Point (see previous or series)

Summary: The big day (and date) has arrived. Tonight is the Hellfire Gala!

Warnings for floof, fuff, foofin', double-floofery, and death by fluff. WC 3872

(art by DonAguillo on Facebook)

You’re nervous, but it’s hard not to be.

Steve sent a text five minutes ago saying he’s almost to the shop, so instead of pacing around upstairs, you made your way down and are locking up.

Above you flutters the reflective blue tarp over the window Steve broke into nearly two weeks ago, but that only makes you smile.

The whirlwind of a successful show—one where not only did you kill it on stage, no one actually died—has brought a wave of press and a lovely flood of new clientele, men who would never have thought to bother with your designs when they’d only ever seen you cater to bulky physiques. It’s an honor (and a testament to the efficacy of Tony Stark’s stupid manipulation) to dress more an more unique souls, but you’ve been left no time to handle the ‘break-in’ damage.

The media buzz keeps you busy enough that all four of your employees have been at work at least six days a week, in addition to finishing the trimmings of Captain America’s suit for this Gala and creating an entirely new gown of your own. People can’t stop talking about the fashionable woman fielding bullets with no training. Lately, the press likes to think of you as the amateur engineer version of Black Widow. You’ve been dubbed the ‘Red Weaver’ by some shitty blog that got traction in the messy aftermath of your show.

You couldn’t really care less. You got to spend the night and day after Fisk’s attack isolated in your upstairs bubble of a studio with Steve Rogers.

The new nickname, however, gave you the idea for your dress. You knew you would want to compliment Steve’s patriotic palette, but since you’re not very well going to rewear the gown from your show, you’ve leaned into the Red Weaver/Black Widow persona and built an ombre gown. It has a cheeky casualness compared to your date’s formal three-piece, double-breasted, matching overcoat ensemble.

[Image offered as example, not reflective of Reader's race, size, shape, or skin tone.]

It’s all very fancy and promotable.

In truth, you prefer ‘Button,’ specifically being Steve’s Button, and tonight that is exactly and entirely what you get to be: a button on Cap’s handsome arm.

It’s Hellfire Night.

There’s a crackle of road gravel as the limousine pulls right up to your curb, but you don’t see Steve first. Sam Wilson pops his head and torso out of the sunroof with a beaming white smile.

“Ah yes, the woman of the hour,” he coos before glancing back down into the backseat. “Close your mouth, buddy. You’re gonna swallow a bug.”

You giggle and approach the shiny black car. The door latch opens from the inside.

“You look ama—“

Thud. Steve whacks his head on the door rim trying to step out.

“Oh gosh, are you okay?” You make it to him just as Steve stands up straight on the sidewalk.

It’s easy and instinctive, meant to be, the way his hands settle against your arms and sweep down to hold your delicately gloved hands.

“You’re stunning,” Steve whispers.

“That’s not a concussion talking?”

“He’ll survive,” Sam yells from inside the car. “Pretty sure he ran through several solid walls just to get to the showers after our run.”

“It was one glass door and I didn’t see it close after Davis,” Steve barks over his shoulder.

You tick your head up toward your apartment. “You and the windows, handsome. Not friends, huh?”

He rolls his glittering blue eyes playfully, huffing, “Don’t you start.” Steve releases your hands and straightens his jacket. “How do I look? Do I have designer’s approval?”

You shimmy his tie a little tighter. “Yes,” you sigh, “always perfect.”

Steve’s grin matches Sam’s as he helps you into the limo. On the relatively short drive over to the venue, since Wilson is there, too, Steve holds your hand over his thigh and runs his bare thumb over your red glove. You can’t for the life of you pay attention to their conversation, so you gaze back and forth from the city lights to their glow and shadow flickering over Steve’s face.

The wonderful thing about this ‘first’ date is you and Steve are already baptized by fire; in every crisis, you’ve complimented each other. He hopes to protect you but doesn’t treat you like a fragile innocent. You admire him but don’t stand on the sidelines. Best of both your worlds, together, in harmony. (Also, you’ve already kissed so there’s definitely chemistry.)

You’re happy tonight is about him. Captain America has been a pillar of the superhero movement and a cornerstone of the Avengers team for over a decade (and famous for a fair few before that), so you squeeze his hand in encouragement when Sam lets himself out onto the red carpet first.

You can hear the roar of paparazzi in the seconds the door is open and shut.

Steve, in no hurry at all, shifts in his seat and studies your face with soft eyes.

“I don’t want to…” his gaze darts down to your lips and back “…mess up your makeup,” he finishes, tongue darting to wet his own.

You don’t let him get away with just a hope this time, cupping his face and planting a huge smooch square on his beautiful pout.

“Waterproof,” you tease. Your finger sweeps over his not-reddened—but not unaffected—lips, and you wait the extra few seconds for Steve to snap out of his distraction and clear his throat.

“Right,” he breathes. “Will you hand me my cloak and I’ll help you out?”

“Sure thing, Handsome.”

Captain America steps out into a flashing sea of people, a navy blue suit with red pinstripes sculpting his frame. His grey vest, skinny black tie, and neutral, muted shirt all harken back to his original army days, and you offer the statement of the whole getup when he turns back around.

He tosses the red satin-lined, bold blue trench coat loosely over his broad shoulders and holds out a hand for your to take.

Steve’s eyes never leave you.

There are questions shouted incoherently in the chaos, but step by step, you two make it to the entryway.

You jump when you hear a voice much closer and clearer than the press.

“Sheers!” Tony wastes no time holding out his hand, but not to shake. In between two fingers is a folded paper, and he peers at you over his trademark shades.

Knowing he won’t lay off until you answer, you pluck the offer from his grasp, read it, and shove the bit into his breast pocket.

“What is this, Tony?” Steve tries to ask.

“No,” you answer simply. You curl around Steve’s arm and nudge him to lead you both inside.

The billionaire playboy is not pleased to lose, his face falling in a flat line of disappointment, but he doesn’t follow. You doubt that’ll be the last you’ll see him tonight.

Imagine the most extravagant and enchanting display. Stark has put that to shame.

You’re practically blinded by the opulence, but of course, everyone in the building knows and loves Steve Rogers, so even the foyer is the start of a dozen conversations. You expect the shaking hands. You expect questions to focus on him. What you don’t expect is how he introduces you to every single agent, mutant, and superhero to cross your path.

This gorgeous lady…this stunner here…this beauty…

This is my genius date.

Then there’s the response.

“Oh, I know who Tovarich is.”

“Don’t worry! She’s already a legend.”

“I’ve watched every show a dozen times on YouTube.”

“I’d just die to be wearing something of yours!”

Whenever someone gushes about your dress or Steve’s suit, he preens and echos every flattery. Steve’s enthusiasm seems directly linked to his obvious habit of ‘bragging’ about you at work, and he easily folds you into conversation like you’ve always been by his side. It’s not fake. He’s animated, comfortable, and downright loving.

Your heart races with a contact high from so much praise.

At one point mid-mingle in the ballroom, a hand lands on your other shoulder.

“Stark,” you say, turning away from Steve and several agents’ small talk. “To what do I owe—oh!”

Another piece of paper. He’s insistent. He waits with impatient arms wrapped over his chest and stares at Steve whilst you mull over his proposal.

“My god, you’ve managed to keep him the second sexiest man in the building while completely covering his ass. That’s talent.”

You open the paper, shake your head, and return it. “I know. How else do I stake my claim?”

Tony, obviously believing himself the first among sexy men in the joint, checks his watch and grumbles.

“One day you’ll call me ‘Tony,’” he mutters. “Alright, Sheers. You drive a hard bargain. Give me twenty minutes,” and he’s off like a shot, phone to his ear.

Steve wraps an arm around your waist. The gesture is a cocoon of comfort with his long coat still on, his grip gentle and steady, fingers fiddling with the layering of black tulle as it puffs out from beneath your thick belt.

“Everything ok?” he whispers in your ear, kissing your temple.

“Oh yes,” you sigh, moving to lace your own hold around him, “man just can’t read a room.”

You’re not sure when or how it happens—given the blur of hundreds of people spread out through a dozen rooms—but as the event wears on, Steve finds you seats, brings over food to share, hangs his coat over the back of the chair, and folds his jacket as well. He specifically asks if it’s ok to take out his cufflinks in order to roll up his sleeves.

“Don’t want to ruin the look,” he jokes.

Carefully, you remove your gloves and offer to style him all over again.

Steve smiles, leans in, and flips his wrist over, letting you deftly remove the cufflink which he just now notices is an exact match to your earrings.

As you fold over one starched sleeve, he smirks.

“Thank you.”

You’re precise with your task, and at first, he doesn’t elaborate. The venue is bustling, people all around, even a trio who sat at the other side of the round table, but Steve’s blue eyes are only on you. Each exposed forearm flexes to aid your work, and during your finishing touches, he lets his fingers brush your lap.

You’re about to ask what he’s thanking you for when the look in his eyes stops you hot.

Steve reaches out, running his knuckles behind your mirroring earrings and letting his skin graze yours. He fluffs up the tulle around your wide collar. “Just…wanted to contribute,” he whispers in the din of the party, blushing, his fingers lingering across your collarbone.

“Capybara,” Stark bursts from behind you again, “I can see the bottom of the lady’s glass. I know I’ve taught you better than that.”

Steve shoves his sleeve up a smidge higher like a nervous tick and winks at you, squeezing your knee gently through your skirts.

“I was just going to refill them, Tony. Cool your jets.” He heads to the bar in the next room over.

Stark unceremoniously drops into the chair behind you, sliding a third, folded paper over the tablecloth.

“Final offer. I think you’ll find it…tempting,” he says darkly.

You open the note and try to keep your face neutral until Stark also points his phone screen at you. He lets you flick through a string of pictures.

“And this is a done deal?” you clarify. “Not a hypothetical?”

“Yes, why else would it have taken me—“ he checks his watch again “—what?—thirty-two minutes to secure? I’m losing my touch…”

You feel light-headed with the possibility. Tony Stark really has outdone himself this time, and yes, he has finally read the room—read you—correctly. It’s perfect. You’d be a fool not to accept.

Stark raps his knuckle triumphantly on the table once you nod.

“Talk contracts tomorrow?”

“No,” you laugh, biting your red lips, “not tomorrow, Tony. But soon.”

“These glasses—“ Stark taps the thick wire and acetate rim of his spectacles “—now have video confirmation of your verbal agreement. So that’s a handshake deal. No take-backsies.” He stands just as Steve returns.

You’re settled by a quick peck to your temple when Steve leans to place two icy drinks on the tablecloth.

Stark hasn’t wiped the smug look off his face.

“What do you want? A pinkie promise?” you bite sweetly.

“Unnecessary,” he scoffs, “but for reference, I want a coat like that—“ he points to Steve’s chair “—in red and gold, obviously, and now, I leave you with the knowledge that I win. You called me ‘Tony.’”

Stark winks and puffs out his chest, smoothing a ringed hand over his velvet lapels.

“Tah-tah. Oh, and don’t you two dare sneak off before my speech.” He holds you and Steve’s gazes for a long, forceful second. “Excellent.”

“What on Earth was that about?” Steve ponders, nudging his chair under the table but coincidentally closer to you. “Everything alright? What’s he been bothering you with?”

You’re too curious to go into it without some confirmation.

Casually, you pick up your drink and clink glasses with your date, thinking about whether you can call him your boyfriend yet, wondering if you’ve just overplayed your hand.

“You grew up in Brooklyn, right?” you start. “Do you miss it?”

Steve sighs and looks longingly into the distance. “All the time,” he says with a soft smile. “I suppose the neighborhood isn’t the same—maybe not even close—but it still feels like home every time I get over there.”

You try not to let the dewy tumbler slip through your clammy fingers. “How often is that?”

“It’s not even far.” Steve knits his eyebrows in shame. “Too long between visits, but…that separation—not being at that Tower and enjoying the feel of normal life—that is nice while I’m there. Why do you ask? You ever been?”

“Of course,” you shrug, “like passing through. Nothing… long-term.”

Oh boy, you’ve got to steel your nerves. You wiggle into the upholstered seat, taking a few fortifying gulps.

“Tony has just succeeded in recruiting me,” you admit.

“Ah, I see.” Except, Steve clearly doesn’t see the connection. He simply gathers his attention back to you instead of his far-off reverie. “How many zeros did you make him add since we walked in the door?”

Here we go, you think. “Words. I made him add words, but he finally got me.”

Steve snorts. “Did you make him change ‘million’ to ‘billion?’”

This could go very well or very poorly. It’s technically your first date, but you’ve defeated a villain together, spent weeks sharing everything from meals to colored pencils to sunset sit-downs, and might be working closely long-term. If you can’t admit what you want for your future now, when can you?

“No—“ you fiddle with one of your gloves on the table “—he changed ‘billion’ to ‘Brooklyn.’”

Steve stops moving entirely, his eyes fixed on the glass in his hand.

“An address,” you clarify. “Tony’s secured me a house in Brooklyn. I’ll have my own place. I won’t live where I work anymore.”

Steve’s expression morphs constantly as if he’s trying to cover up a bad poker face. “That’s wonderful,” he says warily, with just shy of a grimace. “Better than I’ve managed to do in ten years…”

You take a sip and clear your throat. This is hard to fathom saying to Captain America in a building full of people who can do anything and have whatever they want.

“I hope it’s not too forward of me to say…I know it’s…early on…but—“ you scoot in your seat until your knees touch Steve’s thigh “—you’d be welcome to visit—to stay—if you want.”

He’s silent. The music ramps up in time with your heart rate.

“You know, just so you can have that separation whenever. I saw the pictures. It certainly has enough bedrooms that—“

Steve bursts out laughing, shocking himself if how quickly he claps a hand over his mouth is any indication. It’s a bad time for a fit of giggles, but that’s exactly what takes him over. When he moves his hand, it lands on your trembling one, pressing down into your lap. His huge frame continues to shake, racked by contagious jubilee, and after he’s tried to stop, to calm down, to form words—twice—and failed, you break, too.

What exactly you’re laughing at, you have no idea, but apparently, your proposal of sorts is wildly amusing to your date.

“You’re right,” you backtrack in between nervous peels. “It’s ridiculous. Just forget I—“

“No, no,” he finally manages, squeezing your hand again. “That’s not—I didn’t mean to laugh at that. It’s just…it’s perfect. You’re perfect.”

He tilts your chin up to force your eyes to meet his.

“I think Tony might be dangling you in front of me like a carrot.”

“I promise I don’t have an agenda,” you offer.

He shakes his head gently, one of the longer strands of his golden hair falling across his face. “No. Just a job. Button sewing buttons in Brooklyn for the betterment of a billionaire,” Steve jokes quietly, playing with your palm, his rough fingertips tracing every line, callus, and joint of yours.

“Your Button,” you add, “suiting up superheroes in exchange for a Handsome fee.”

“Your Handsome,” he corrects, brushing over the rapid pulse at your wrist.

“Well then…” you’re frozen in his endless sky eyes, thirty-thousand-feet high on possibilities “…my Handsome deserves a home, too, don’t you think?”

Steve’s only answer is to lunge, locking his fingers behind your neck to hold your lips steady when he is anything but.

A few younger mutants start cheering and shouting for Cap to ‘get it,’ but you simply smile into his kiss because Steve isn’t at all concerned about your lipstick anymore.

He pulls back less than an inch, thumbs petting the thin bit of bare skin behind your ears. “We’re really doing this, huh?”

Your breaths mingle, but you don’t open your eyes. “It was always real for me, Steve.”

The pressure of his hold increases as you are pulled back to his lips.

“Me—“ kiss “—too.” Another kiss. “Me too.”

Before you drown completely in the bottomless pit of his affection, however, you remember that you two are supposed to stay decent until after Stark’s speech. You don’t know how long that is scheduled from now, but you won’t last lip-locked with Captain America like this.

You push your forehead to knock you apart. “We should—“

Steve shoots backward, at immediate attention. “Go see the house?!” He bounces with impatience like a kid on Christmas morning.

“I—well, I was going to say dance,” you chuckle, licking the taste of him from your surely faded but freshly swollen pout, “but I suppose—“

“No, you’re right. Of course.” Steve blushes furiously and scrambles out of his chair. “That was stupid. Forget I said that.”

“I won’t,” you promise, taking his hand to be led off to the open floor.

EPILOGUE

“And then Uncle Tony threw his hands up—“ Steve pulls his baby’s legs into the air playfully while happy shrieks ring out “—and welcomed our teammate, the Red Weaver herself—“ he wiggles the onesie back up a squishy little body “—Miss Tovarich.”

He fake-cheers very, very quietly. “The crowd went wild.”

Enormous blue eyes meet equally joyous cerulean.

“Yeah, well, I know what you’re thinking, but that was before Mommy was Misses Rogers.”

Steve dramatically heaves the freshly changed baby into his arms.

“Gosh, you’re so big.” There’s babbling in reply. “Another story? Okay. I think we’ve got time for one more…”

He returns to the living room where you work at the table, sketches spread out, a shared tin of colored pencils open in the center. “When’s Abby coming?” he asks.

“Any minute now,” you mutter with a wink. “Won’t take too long to get ready after that.”

“Alrighty!” Steve sits in the adjacent chair. “I’ll tell ya the first moment I knew she was the one.”

Your child faces you, balanced on your husband’s lap as he eyes your work not-so-subtly.

Steve describes the night of your Spring Show, how he expected to be blown away, how he didn’t expect to have his whole life flash before his eyes.

“See, that’s when I knew Momma loved me for everything I am and ever was.” He matches your sweet smile across the cluttered surface. “She had no need to prove herself. She didn’t even know I would be there. She did it all anyway.

“That’s what makes your mom the best,” he says, kissing a soft, fuzzy head. “She makes the only best for your outsides because she sees who’s inside.” He taps the baby’s tummy. “Right there. She sees beauty in there—“ giggles “—and makes sure everyone else sees, too. The whole world. She knows there is no one mold for everyone and celebrates them all. She lets them shine.”

Steve lowers his voice fondly.

“She let me shine through.”

By now he’s told you many times over, but that show—to see how he was born appreciated and glorified—healed a fissure within Steve Rogers he had not known was only connected by a rotting bridge. What he was made into by Erskine’s formula…there’s nothing wrong with him this way, but so few people in his life have ever proved the original truth to Steve.

There was nothing wrong with him before.

“That’s right, little love,” you lean over to tease your husband. “And Mommy lets Daddy wear all the sweatpants he wants because he’s comfy. He deserves to be comfy…and he looks very good in them.”

Steve chuckles, bouncing his tiny charge with the movement. “And Daddy lets Mommy measure him whenever she wants.”

You gasp in faux scandalization, placing the gray back in the single, shared case of colored pencils between you.

“Also, most importantly—“ you point a finger at a tiny, button nose and crossed eyes “—in this house, we never give Tony Stark credit for anything.”

“Uncle Tony hates not getting credit,” Steve agrees. “And Momma loves driving him nuts.”

The doorbell rings.

You pop up from the table. “It’s the little things in life…”

Abby takes the little Rogers into the family room to play while you and Steve get ready for one of those stuffy events, the ones that are a little less terrible when you suffer through them together, the ones suffered through in style.

With a final shift of his tie and flip of his collar, you pet your ringed fingers down his chest.

“Making this look good, Handsome.”

“Thanks to you, Button.”

“Anytime.” Steve leans his forehead against yours.

“Always.”

After a few calm breaths, you squeeze his shoulders to head out to the waiting car, shutting the front door of your Brooklyn home, leaving the hall light on over the family photo: the Man With A Plan in blue, the Red Weaver, and their beautiful baby in a pure white christening gown.

A/N: *incoherent weeping noises* I don't even know what to say yet, so I'll come back to it. Thank you so much for reading! 💚💜

Taglist: @shelbygeek @rogersideup @eyebagsanonymous @trudy-shams @saranghaey @bucky-fricking-barnes-reads @fallinallinmendes @deandreamernp @supraveng @1950schick @patzammit @whiskeytangofoxtrot555 @yiiiikesmish @ashesofblackroses @awkwardgiraffe726 @femefetalelevelingup

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ashesofblackroses · 1 year ago

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you ever read a fanfic and just sit back and think...someone wrote something THIS good... and then just....published it on the internet....for free.....

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ashesofblackroses · 1 year ago

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Oh my goodness, I’m so excited that you’re planning to write more for WTBOHS.😍I revisit it and AHIAR at least every couple of months on AO3. No pressure at all, I don’t mind how long you need to update it, I’ll gladly wait, it’s well worth waiting on, I absolutely adore those stories.❤️

All Heaven in a Rage Masterlist

All Heaven in a Rage* (Steve X Reader) Complete

What starts out as an honest intention to help a girl who has caught Steve’s eye following the Snap becomes a dangerous obsession.

All Heaven in a Rage Christmas*^ Complete

AHIAR Valentine Short*^ Complete

Part 1 | Part 2

AHIAR Quarantine Short*^ In Progress

Part 1

AHIAR Cooking with Steve*^ Complete

Cheating with your professor?^* Complete

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ashesofblackroses · 1 year ago

Note

The noise I made when I got this notification! You absolutely couldn’t have timed this better. Work has been kicking my butt, working 6 days a week for the last month and I’ve missed my fanfiction fix so much. This was the perfect welcome back story, I love this man so much, I’d climb him like a tree. I’m feeling all kinds of warm now and may have to slip some ice down my underwear.

Why is him calling her ma’am so hot? Why does that get me so discombobulated? And believe me I am EXTREMELY discombobulated by how you write this man. Thank you for such an amazing treat.❤️

Also, can I please be tagged in all your work, I adore your writing.

a jimmy for you 😌🤲🏻💕

Alrighty, I get that I have not posted any real story for Common Education but this pic is giving me vibes. Warnings for zero editing and GOOD CHRIST sexual tension. WC ??? It's not long.

Sad Sack, a Common Education headcanon/thing/idk

So imagine you're older-student-Jimmy Dobyne's history professor and you've had a few instances of realizing that he is not at all like your typical student based on his background. He knows hard labor. He knows early mornings and long days. He does not know partying or really getting out of the comfort zone of similar-minded people. Jimmy's roommate, Steve Rogers, being an artsy nerd is a bit of a stretch as is.

Imagine that the first big paper was due last week in your class, and Jimmy did...okay.

He's good at memorization, like a lot of college freshmen, but he's not been asked to analyze very much. His paper didn't give any insight or opinion, and you critiqued it as nicely as possible because you are rooting for Jimmy (probably more than you should). You want this young man to succeed.

Jimmy does not take it well.

You don't see him two classes in a row which means he's now missed a week. Yes, you videotape lectures for kids like Steve Rogers who have reason to not come into class frequently. Yes, Jimmy hasn't missed any assignments at all and his grade average is perfectly fine.

You're still worried.

So you spend more time than normal at that little bakery you first met him at, arriving a little earlier, staying until the last second before you have to get to your classroom. No Jimmy.

Finally, you brave asking Noah, one of the bakery employees, if he's seen Jimmy around.

Noah looks very confused.

"Yeah," he scoffs, "I love that guy. I haven't had back pain all week."

When you return an equally bewildered stare, Noah points toward the back.

"He's right out there."

You crane your head over the counter and lower your voice. "May I?" You point through the building. "Do you mind?"

You think perhaps...well, you don't know what to think as Noah leads you carefully through the kitchen and to the alleyway beyond.

Sure enough, there's Jimmy, hauling enormous sacks of flour off the back of a truck and just shooting the shit with the delivery men all taking a smoke break whilst your student does their jobs for them.

You don't mean to, but you hiss his name like a disappointed mother.

"What are you doing?" As the other workers around seem more interested in what such a professional, pristine lady is doing out on their loading bay, you step closer to continue asking, "Why haven't you come to class?"

Does he need the money? You thought he had enough of a scholarship to cover living expenses. It's not as if the man still donning his farm shirts and stained henley is a big spender.

He ignores you until tossing the flour onto a dolly Noah then rolls inside.

"Look, Teach--" Jimmy takes off his trademark hat to wring in his hands, calling out to the workers by the truck "--one sec, boys."

He juts his head out to lead you deeper into the alley, then crosses when he realizes that's near the dumpster.

"I'm not..." Jimmy pulls a pack of cigarettes from his back pocket, tapping one out and putting it between his lips. He doesn't light it. "I don't think I'm cut out for this. I don't know why I came here."

"Is this because of one paper? Did something happen in another class?" You stop yourself from ripping the smoke right out of his mouth so he'll look you in the eye.

Jimmy shakes his head and does it for you, rolling his tongue over chapped lips and then holding them in.

"No, ma'am."

You relax a little, waiting for him to elaborate. You're waiting the whole time Jimmy mulls over his cigarette. He takes out a lighter and then thinks better of it and shoves it back in his pants, leaving the hand buried in his pocket.

"Can't have you thinking of me like that," he mumbles. "Like what if I just get worse? What if I'm stupid and...I don't want you to see me that way."

His concern warms you inside, hitting lower than that heat of appreciation should.

You sigh, trying not to allow your smile to read as dismissive.

"You are not stupid, Jimmy. You proved that long before you walked into my class. You're skilled and curious. You work hard. You could never fail that way. You could certainly never--" you clear your throat "--fail me."

He looks everywhere else but at you, shyly adjusting the brim of his hat again.

"You're just saying that."

No, in fact, you shouldn't be saying that. You shouldn't be having any hushed conversation in a back alley with one of your students, but you can't stand the thought of Jimmy giving up. He deserves this. He deserves options and a way to elevate himself. He deserves to choose his own path beyond the plot of farm he's only known.

"Come back to class," you beg, chancing to reach out and grasp the arm--that thick, veiny, strong forearm--which fiddles with a cigarette like a silver dollar dancing between his fingers. You could be hypnotized by those hands, how they move, what they can do. "Please."

He flexes in your hold.

"You want me?"

His deep voice should not spark the high jump your heart does.

"I want you there," you allow, swallowing the lump in your throat.

For whatever reason, you can't for the life of you let go of Jimmy's arm, and your gaze raises. Your apologetic eyes are met with something infinitely more dangerous--confident, clear blue ones.

"Can't let you down then, can I?"

You're trapped, helpless, at the complete mercy of a gentleman you almost wish were naughty.

"So," you whisper, "I'll see you Tuesday?"

"You'll see me whenever you want, Teach."

Oh damn.

You release his arm finally, the breath you had no clue you were holding gusting out like a tidal wave.

"I'm taking this," you say, plucking the smoke from his hand. "It's a nasty habit. You should quit."

But you don't throw it on the ground or dispose of it in the dumpster, no. You're going to need this cigarette after you forcefully release the freight train of tension that just drove its way into your core.

Just as you turn, Jimmy lands an equally incendiary response.

"Yes, ma'am. I can do that for you."

Y'ALL I AM NOT OKAY. WHY. WHY HE END UP SO FUCKING HOTT? HOW???

My god, no wonder I haven't been able to write more than drabbles of these two--I'D FAINT. immediately. D.E.D. Ded.

Anyway, tagging interested parties is beyond my brainpower at the moment, so maybe in reblogs later. Fuk. I need a cold shower.

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