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kthynes · 3 years

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THE MIXOLOGIST 🍸 (3/7)

part three: french 75

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SERIES MASTERLIST

pairing: bartender!steve rogers x fem!reader

summary: after a rough break up you find yourself frequenting the same bar every night where you’re tended to by Steve who helps you through your heartbreak.

word count: ~8.2K

warnings: 18+ nsfw. MINORS DO NOT INTERACT — This part contains: some course language, safe alcohol consumption, fun banter. Yearning and pining. Mentions of war, the military. Historical references. Actual quotes as said by SR.

Passages italicized in bold = flashbacks/past conversations

author's note: Even though I did some research there’ll definitely be some inaccuracies when it comes to following the MCU timeline — again this is meant to be a modern AU and the plot comes from my own creative integrity so take much of it with a grain of salt.

Reblogs, likes and comments are encouraged! And as self explanatory as it should be, please do not copy and/or translate my works onto any other platforms. Cheers!

taglist: @patzammit @denisemarieangelina @mrs-djokovic @bookwormchick91 @lauracontisstuff @blossombela @maroonsunrise83 @jesgisborne @ysmmsy @jennmurawski13

This series has not been beta’d so any mistakes are my own.

six months later

Steve roguishly thought of his past, running with time and the people that mattered to him the most. He was Captain America, after all. Heavy emphasis on was.

Now, he’s meant to be incognito, a nomad looking over his shoulder well after hanging up his vibranium shield. The posterioring stealth suit was kept dormant, ruminating dust in an acclimatized lab— so he’s told. But with every incremental opportunity there’s a dutiful ache in his pneuma that begs to feel the tough, rubberized leather against the chapels of his skin. He’d confer that whenever he went to bed, devoid.

Who he was and who he’d come into prosed a greater leitmotif.

If you go, you’re gone Rogers. He remembers. The stern soliloquy that infantilizes his entire existence. It’s a prophetic cri de cœur, one that Steve’s heard on many rotations, especially from Fury who would never impede his intercessions twice.

“Mrs. Erskine.” One of the attendants greets a known elitist. Steve frowns while intently going over inventory in his head, pen barely touching paper at this point. The house lights are dim and he squints at the tally, taking work as a warranted distraction.

Tito’s. Replaced. Vodka and Tequila.

Jameson. Double check.

Jarred olives and Bacardi. Check.

“I’d like to be out of sight if possible.” Marlene Erskine isn’t so thrilled. She’s looking at everyone else except the man in front of her who offers to take her mage-like coat.

“May I?” Steve hears the courteous plea, a cry for attention that stakes his subordinate at low par. He shakes his head while shifting through a cold deck of recipe cards and paperwork.

“Oh alright then, fine… Thank you.” The weight of the shrug finally comes off. She fashions a sensible tan pullover and a straight narrow knee length skirt. The long, ribboning scarf stays on for modesty as she scopes the party that honors women in STEM and business. Her beady eyes adjust, finally landing on Steve who narrowly avoids her agog gaze. “Everyone must be here.” She hums to herself.

“Ma’am?”

“Go on.” She cautions to be led. “I’ll follow.”

“Right this way.”

While heralding himself as a "man without a nation", Steve finally found normalcy, sought for it at an upscale bar in New York’s most safest, not to mention richest, Harlem’s. The covetous tavern was tucked away from his childhood domicile where much of the surrounding metropolis was absolutely aberrant; a metamorphic ghost town with strife and fast feet.

Without much consideration, he settled in a Manhattan village where the periodic scaling of the once lively, tooting 40’s architecture was now weathered down to brick lacquered buildings, remodeled businesses and an imperialist mirage of a present day borough.

Although with further retrospection, some historic memorandums were safe kept —like the tassel awnings by each shopfront, the dismal rat infested alleyways and the musty arrangement of smells that would stew up from either a poorly maintained manhole or an unbathed homeless man. It was all ornately there to reckon.

Cherry Lane theatre. Hotel Albert. 10th street studios were all slightly unfamiliar to him. But the infamous meatpacking factory stood bouldering and tall along with the neatly pigeonholed row houses that were inhabited by avant-garde residents who’d pardon their way as Steve passed them with indifference every morning and night.

As hard as it was to admit, his fondest memories of the city wore on thin and averse just as his encompassing juncture.

There’ll be a whole lifetime that articulates a fine divide between good and the myopia of chaos that ensues. You’ll have to look around to see.

“What’s going on?” Wes appears next to Steve who was stuck to his shins the whole time.

“Just trying to get my hands around these bottles.” Steve motions to the gallons of Lost Abbey ale that weren’t stocked on cart, nor were they requested in the first place. Until now that is. “I shouldn’t have to accommodate this.”

“They’re asking?”

“You bet they are.” Each brass bond bottle was pulled up and lined against the backsplash where Steve stood wistfully repentant, contemplating whether a little bleakness would save him from dumping premium alcohol down the drain. But shit happens and people of this century were colorful brutes who drank their weight, never took no or sorry for an answer.

“Here lemme get them out of the way for you.” Wes insists while upholding a barrage of decorum to set aside.

“Who in their right mind petitions for high commodity beer?” Steve runs a hand down his tired face. Clinks and clatters, the cart sinks in agony with each drop. “Actually, I haven’t checked the expiry date on those. Hold up.”

Wes takes a step back as Steve scans the bottle necks for the all clear. “Do you think there’s going to be a back order?”

“Oh one hundred percent. These are the last of what we got and they’re… good to go.”

“Nice. Maybe we can swig some shots later.” Wes continues, loading the last of the beer with a grunt that lingers. His humor is impartially bearing.

“Please do. I mean I don’t know what goes but I appreciate you guys a whole lot, day in, day out.” Steve claps his colleagues on the back as a congressional ‘thank you.’ “So go ape.”

“If you say so chief.” He strolls away, using his hip to nudge the stubborn trolley forward.

Going through the clipboard checklist, Steve crosses out his inventory, checks it twice, rounds to the nearest tee and then looks up. His reflection from the giant mantle ahead drew up a different demise. In between rows upon rows of alcohol he sheens his rugged, dreary appearance through the glimmering gold plane mirrors. This couldn’t be him at his expectant best.

You are presumed to be made up, Steve Rogers. Almost god-like to some. After all, the world's first superhero doesn’t come by easily.

“I think you’re absolutely wrong.” You giggle from a far distance, phone hotly pressed against your ear while completely engrossed. The snow swirls behind you as your booted feet stomp on the duster mat out front. You awkwardly marshal past coat check, smiling at Kenny as you girl boss your way across the loft.

“Maybe Maya can have a look at the projections and then we can talk. How ‘bout that?”

Your jaded assistant agrees on the other end as the client file gets passed mid-conversation. “Whatever. There’s no way of convincing you.”

“Not even the slightest.” You add, ending the call to stare at the blue light screen and punch in a few choice words. The phone rings again, you pick up - this time aroused by another inanity.

“You’re kidding!” Your excitement borders sheer exasperation. One of your hallmark clients, a couple at that, decided to have an open house style proposal. Georgina Scott and Andrew Morales were firm partners and astound lovers. They were on the market to buy a home until they pulled this stunt.

“The whole nine yards and a paid audience. I guess I forgot to mention it.” Juni monotonously reiterates, sucking her teeth and obviously overjoyed.

“How?”

“They’re crafty like that, Y/N. Did you not read their InTouch exposé?” She rhetorically coos as you stare at an off handed pap shot photo, trying to piece together how this all came down in a narrow two storey walk up. You'd assume that Georgina probably shed a fake tear or two whereas Andrew was inadvertently relieved from any financial stipulation. They were terrible like that, working the other like a fiddle and playing you by the ear. “She’s my wifey for lifey. He says. He’s my sweet money man. She says. Fucking head cases.”

“I have no words.”

“Lucky for you, this is their home. A two bed plus den townhome on 22nd, I believe.”

“That’s not….” You’re at a loss, slowly approaching the vacant roundabout where Steve resolutely sluices beer steins. His eyes cut to you and in your splay of thoughts you grimace. He’d do anything in his power to see for it, halting to wipe his hand on a small tea towel. “Oh my god, wait. No…” You groan, a hand plastered to your forehead.

Steve’s not crazy about a lot of things but he’d surely hang the moon when you were around. Matt would tell him not to, warning the rueful Captain that his kindness could turn on him. But the light you were made it nearly impossible. He’s taken to you by the frightful upheaps that akin night and day.

“The deposits in, Y/N. What’s the big deal? It’s not like you have offers stacking up and besides these two are absolute cash cows.”

“Juni.” You chide, tiredly rubbing your face as Steve wordlessly pours a mug of hot water for your cold hands to grasp. He’s mindful like that— to the point where your eyes narrow and twinkle. If he wanted to he would.

“Sure there are factoring alternatives but with them, we can both finally eat.” She quips, matter of fact.

“You know we’re in the midst of a crazy bidding war, right? Thanks Steve.” You gently tell him once you wrap your palms around the steaming mug. Your frigid hands embrace the soldering heat, eyes briefly falling shut. “Let’s be pragmatic here.”

“Forget that! Are you with sexy big dick Steve?” If your face was ever hit with a hot cast iron pan, the sensation would be similar to the warm numbness you felt from the peak of your hairline down to the back of your neck. Steve smirks while hearing it all, flattered and contentious by this interaction. He lets you come undone, not truly inciting if you ever took to the name. He liked it just as much as he liked you.

“Wouldn’t you like to know.” You mutter a threat.

“Hey Steve!” Juni loudly swoons on the line. Steve stops to say something, mouth agape for you to fill in the blanks.

“Don’t.” You instantly signal him, sweating like a spit roasted pig. “He says hi. Can I…” you pause to clear your throat. “Can I call you back later?”

Your heart batters down to a normal BPM. Steve smiles to himself knowing the impact was more human in nature than anything else.

“Do you still want the reports?” She finally jesters.

“Yes Juni, spare me will you.”

Like the summer solstice, Steve knows of Juniper ‘Juni’ Williams, your longtime assistant and quirky best friend. He also knows of Maya Cortez, the other ‘more-serious-to-charm’ associate who works alongside you at the agency. And then there’s Matt your small town bestie who you'd belittle like a brother, looking out for the other when the going got tough. Your circle was just them, small and let in by a few.

“Ok you need to— Oh I know… Alright, fine! Whatever, yes, ok, ok, bye!” You laugh through sprightful exhaustion, ending the call for good. “Can’t believe her.”

Steve found your sense of self to be superlative. He would indirectly make note, observe these versions of you that are elemental and obsolete yet make you, you. But under the perils of his forlorn pretense and the misfortune white knight complex, you didn’t have the slightest clue about him, who he was, is and can be. To you, Steve was just a sterling mixologist and not to mention a good friend.

Friend. Now there’s an impending notice.

Infrequently after Steve’s inquisition, you showed up almost every night with newfound ease and wonderment while deprecating his falsified commodore at face value.

He did good by you, for you, unrequited, over and over again. And that was it.

For many months on in, Steve was at the bar awaiting in spirit, unserious by his dues but so very grateful of you.

“You don’t look so good.” You unveil yourself under the glimmering fairy lights strung above, perfectly in season. Steve scoffs at the utterance. He’s pitiful while on the side there’s a long clutter of tools, big and small, laid along the bar strip to dry. The dishwasher was out of order, huffing and puffing like the dapperly super soldier himself.

“I was just told to serve four cases of high premium beer at a strictly wine and champagne event.” He unloads, snapping you a blazoned look and your head jerks back.

“Is that it?” You question, slowly slipping out of your prickly, cold cocoon coat and setting it aside.

“As much as I hate to say it, I’m not running a charity bar here.”

“That’s very meta, don’t you think?” He rolls his eyes, moving through the stretch like a chamois and passing stationery to his crew who’d give you a less than obligatory smile.

“Don’t get smaht (smart) with me.” He conjugates the New York and Boston accent with a half smirk that rests on his bearded upper lip. “Alright?”

Your hands are rifling through your purse lining for a thoughtful afterthought. “Well I’ve got $50 to my name. What does that cover?”

“My left shoe.” He rebuts, eyes sparkling a new haven and crisis. Day old receipts, crumpled Nature Valley wrappers, even one of your emptied birth control blister packs comes flying out for show. Steve grows weary, biting his bottom lip to hide a coy, ceaseless grin while you rip apart your small flap wallet.

“Then fifty it is.” You slot a fresh bill into the idling tip jar that is looted from last night's service.

You’re beaming. Not for too long. Steve shuffles forward and comes up right in your face. He slides his hands into fists and rests them on either side of you, flexing a river of veins that form right along his thick forearms. This is different. Strange and impermeable to decipher as wafting spearmint and the dankest whisky imaginable soon tingles your senses. He rambunctiously exhales, tucking in his chin to scorn a better look.

He’s truly fucking with you at this point and you let him, remaining innocently unbalanced in the stare off.

“How pretentious do you have to be to know your place?” He mutters as you innocently peer at him through your thick lashes.

“I… I don’t know, you tell me.” You try not to stutter. Steve studies your countenance, his eyes landing on your pillow pink lips that jut out for dreary sake. And this is how you got to him.

“Yeah right.” He deftly pulls away to your heart's titillating murmur and contrives a laugh that’s larger than life. Asshole.

“Take back the fifty and lemme do my job, sweetheart.” He reaches the overhead shelf and grabs his own mickey, trying to weigh in on the fun to no avail. “Don’t be weird.”

You mockingly ignore him and lean in with your forearms splayed on top of the counter.

“So what’s on the company menu tonight?”

After taking an abortive shot, he feigns disgust and sibilates. Unfortunately the serum only amplified his sense of taste.

“Aside from Bruichladdich, that is... You’re insane.” You comment as if you were witnessing a bloody slaughter.

“No fucking shit,” Steve growls on the low while coming to his own.

He catches that look in your eye. It's unmistakable how taken aback he is and the way you assume your own natural beauty. Soon enough you get distracted, easily so. He shakes his head, smacking his lips while turning to stiffly open another bottle of prosecco for a weak handed waitress who thanks him in return.

“Make sure you secure it tightly afterwards.”

“Got it.”

“Hey hey.” You sing-song like a true house guest, this time at Ian— the flamboyant server who loves you next to kin it seems.

“Hey ho.” He gets by with a tray plated with croquettes, deviled eggs, poached meats, cheeses, breads, pickled root vegetables and even spanakopita. It’s a worldly delicatessen of bites meant for a richer consortium, that is until your friend pipes in, “Would you like to try?”

“Oh no no. Guests first.”

“Suit yourself.” Ian gaggles with an extended eye roll. He tags along with another waiter who shifts some of the appetizers onto his own tray to distribute. You suck in a deep breath, feeling a little out of place and adjusting to the bubbly atmosphere.

“This is a nice set-up.” You remark at the sight of the trapezing tapestry coming down from the ceilings. There’s a few new installments and a Christmas tree that’s been spruced, nearly mammoth in size. The visionary directive was different, quaint and pretty to look at.

“Primark.” Steve relays the event coordinators on spiel. You sound a disgruntled ‘ahh’ that acknowledges him.

“Very nice.”

“You know there’s a truckload of bites going around, the offsite catering company has made sure of it. So don’t be shy.” Steve affirms, pulling sprigs of mint leaves to garnish the pre-poured juleps that were left out and swiped by fascinated guests alike.

“Cheers.” He occasionally salutes with an empyrean grin.

“I’m not really keen on finger foods.” You watch the two women giggle and sway, speaking in hushed tones about the cute bartender that you couldn’t digress, a fact is a fact after all. Don’t go there Y/N. “Maybe later if I work up an appetite.”

“So you’re basically on a ‘liquid diet’ then?” He points to the alcohol out on display.

“It’s like you know me.” You sardonically respond, still grasping onto your warm water glass.

“Barely.” He counters.

Steve got to know you little by little. He knew your profession, place of birth. How you were practically a novice wanderer in the apple state yet over time you've accumulated your favorite city haunts, bodegas and boutiques. He knew you by memory, down to the color of your toenails which was an even milder revelation. Ballet pink to be exact.

And if we were to compare apples to oranges, he’s never met anyone like you, humanly unique and a tough stride to meet, a challenge at best.

“Liar.” You sheepishly implore, feeling a sinful chill reach your shoulders.

Steve drops a straggly piece of twine and holds a hand out, brows questionably arched. “Give me that.”

“What? No, why?” He swipes the ruddy mug from your grasp and dumps it into the sink.

“I’ll get you a heat pack instead.” Before you could protest, he disappeared into the back room where his office presided along with the first aid kit.

“You don’t have to do all this.” You shyly state as he returns and hands you the freshly microwaved gel compress for aches and sores— and now for your cold, reptilian hands.

“Careful, it’s hot.” He sympathizes, nodding at the untouched sack in front of you. “Just wait it out before you rest your hands.”

“Thanks.” You reluctantly express your gratitude, taking in the furrowed look on his stoic face that remains a constant. “I guess poor circulation is no laughing joke.”

“It’s not.” He studies the till screen as a respite distraction, rubbing his bearded jaw while going through orders and transactions, completely emboldened by you. A low purl passes through as he smiles with affliction, “I mean I’d hold your hands but mine are a little tied up at the moment.”

With the grueling turn of winter and his super soldier ability to radiate heat like no other, Steve has held your hands before, gently twiddling with your fingers that were cold to the bone. He enjoyed providing this kind of solace and you appreciated the gesture, letting your imprudent heart skip a beat.

But from one friend to another, you kindly passed up on the offer— ultimately recoiling from his touch, for now.

“No need, I’ll sit on them if I have to.” You assure him and the silence is brief.

“Speaking of, tonight’s special is an old time classic.” Steve gruffly mentions right under while one hand reaches for a clean steel chalice and the strainer top.

You’re quick to fasten him a high brow look; thinking back to the outlandish time he made you shoot down whiskey and pickle brine, inconspicuously. He sparked your flavor palette while you feigned your malignant annoyance for him from then on in.

“You’ll like this one.” He finally promises with a gentle timbre that rumbles deep from his diaphragm. Fuck that. “I’m sure of it.”

“No you aren’t!” You playfully squeak. Steve opens his mouth to say something but then clamps it shut. He breaks out the widest Grinch-like smile as a test and you simply hover over to deride him, tongue out like a snotty school child. That mouth of yours…

“Hey boss, do you think we can get a hold of some vodka?” Matt appears from the opposite end of the bar, carrying a tin bucket and a frayed dish rag. He’s putting on the ‘I’m-busy-and-working’ act and you’re somewhat convinced, sinking back in your seat as Steve turns away to rig a couple waters for patrons that swoop in to ask. He harnesses his boyish thoughts and cranes his neck back to gauge his partner's requital.

“If there’s any…” Matt blows out under great duress while looking fit to the tee.

All the servers and backend staff parallel the same black tie regalia except for Steve who ostentatiously displays the sex appeal of a certain double ‘o’ seven agent. Languorous to the eye, his look consisted of a crisp white button down with the top buttons popped off and a quilted black vest. You’d assume he was wearing tapered slacks and wingtips but you couldn’t dare to look.

It’s almost conclusive that Steve was a coquettish man, it’d be unintentional yet forthcoming in disguise. You’d be set ablaze at every given encounter and gaze, not sure where to draw the stipulated line. Wait, is that a dick print or his phone?

“What kind?” Steve asks. You suck in a deep breath that welters out of restlessness, baiting your gaze elsewhere. Stop being a pervy little shit Y/N.

“On the rail is just fine.” Matt gathers next to him, inspecting each bottle of poison as you try to keep to yourself. “We’ve seemingly run out...”

“According to?”

“Antoine, you know how he is, always wanting to try ‘zomething new.’ This time he’s insisting on making a framboise, whatever the hell that is—'' Matt stops and sees you, his brown penchant eyes widening.

So you came up a little underdressed, wearing nothing but a black pullover and some dark washed jeans, a tired face spot free of makeup. That’s not to say you weren’t charming or beautiful or anything ordinary but the exact look you heeded told him otherwise.

“Oh hey you.”

“Matty.” Your smile brightens at the drop of a hat.

“I see you’re back for another night, as expected and out of element.” He hums and trivializes with an impervious grin. He’s used to your perennial visits by now. He doesn’t ask why or questions the merit of your stay. He keeps mum and for that you can almost hear his quibbling thoughts. “You doing alright, m’love?”

“Grand.”

“Polish potato or Russian rye?” Matt contemplates, tapping a finger over his tightly pressed lips.

“Just take the rest of the Belvedere.” Steve instructs as he starts peeling lemon rinds into pretty decorative swirls.

“Are you sure?”

“It’s fine. There’s about half a pint left?”

“Just about, yeah.” Matt rocks the bottle back and forth, letting the alcohol swoosh in its wake.

“Then have at it.”

“Alright cool, thanks man.” He grips a firm hold of the bottle that’s in his prized possession. “I guess I’ll see you two in a bit.”

“Probably not.” Steve adds, glancing over his shoulder to see Matt already sauntering down the aisle.

“Where’s he stationed?” You ask with a slight frown.

“The cart... Hey, are you sure you don’t want anything to eat?” He discernibly asks. Steve does that a lot. He cares, he coddles, he makes you feel like the only woman in the room deserving of his attention. It’s fucking sick. You’re ready to object but he’s quick to assert.

“I hear the crab cakes are divine. I’ve had one too many to count.” He bobs his head at the event coordinator who signals for a few trays and extra tulips.

“I'm good, thanks.”

“Well sue me for wanting my girl to eat.” Steve grumbles to himself, setting aside another arrangement. His girl?

“Your girl?” Your sweet melodic laughter stakes him with clowning grief. “I’m sorry Steve but that seems a little too inclined.” You cock your head to the side, a hand held to your heart, eyes twinkling a mayhem. Steve is biffed by it, by you. “At least coming from you.”

“Maybe so but it’s never just you. Lookit there’s my other girl.” He points to the ever gorgeous Shaylene who waltzes by in a fitted midi dress and stilettos. She grins at Steve who courteously winks back. They share a quick cheek kiss at the pass off and your belly flip flops at the initial sight. They were all like this, overly friendly and bashful to boot. You fell somewhere in between, keynoted as the helpless one.

“Wow.” You drawl. “There’s always gotta be someone else, huh? Heya Shay.”

“Heya bunny boo.” She chirps.

“Ain’t that life… Be right back sweetheart. I have to get this to the other end before someone loses their shit.” Steve holds up a stack of trays, crystal clean tulips, a few cloth wrapped utensils and unlit tea lamps for ambience. You let him have his way around like a true commander in chief.

“Inevitably. Need any help?”

“S’all good, I think I can manage from here.” He slides through the closest half door to you and then leans in to sing his truthful vices. You smile at his yearning charm, eyes nearly rolling as his gravelly words cut through the music above, “Keep them hands nice and warm for me, will ya?”

You were close to thwarting him with the sludgy compress but by a hair's breadth, he escapes the opportunity.

“Oh fuck off.”

🍸

You piece your heart back together to the soft trill of old 1920s jazz and the everlasting classics. The venue was booked out for a private affair as guests walked the threshold in swallowing taffeta gowns and tuxedos. You’d muse throughout the evening milieu, depreciating your past that had zero affiliation with your present. Every once in a while you’d smile at guests, share a few choice words and then be left on your own. In routine you were OK with that. Moments in this realm were meant to be ephemeral anyways.

“Enjoy your night, darling.” The older woman sweetly parts with one free hand ghosting your back while the other nurses a half full glass of champagne that’s gone disappointingly flat.

“You should get another.” You comment.

“That I will.” She cackles, finishing off the rest before doing so. “It was so nice chatting with you though.”

You punt a squinty eyed smile as she sashays away in a beautiful rose colored gown, a designer who you couldn’t recall for the life of you.

In some instances you aspired to be like her. Possibly married, maybe even divorced with compounding settlement money and a giant empty French styled home. A realtors sex dream. You’d think to yourself.

But would you be happy with all that? Proud, even? Temporarily.

“Thank you for coming.” Marlene stands just behind the barrier, greeting her most esteemed guests who flocked past the foyer. Each sharing their own sentiment, she briefly casts a slight glance your way as you twirl your drink around, being unfavorable in your own right. She presses her lips together, possibly coming up with her own conclusions about you. Her fascination becomes pitiful as returns to welcome another couple.

Seasonal transgressions were starting to fill the void with December right around the corner. Time, perceptively, flew by. There’s a strong flurry of snow that blows outside the ceiling to floor windows that face the front entrance, entrapping everyone in a worldly snow globe.

Being here saved you.

But seeing him meant everything unimaginable.

“Al-right let’s get this show on the road.” Steve breathlessly emblems a compliant smile, clapping his hands together while greeting each patron, all older and astute with expertise.

You were still seated in the same spot where he left you, bemused by bespokeness, attention at full mast.

“You good?” He whispers, a tender rasp that comes from genuineness.

You gently nod your head, still grasping onto the warm compression pack from earlier. He putters another smile that churns away your insides, turning to gather his amplitude of ingredients and tools to chasten.

“A French 75,” He infinitely booms to the crowd, retouring a different candor. “Similar to the fast-firing 75 mm field gun but delectably better.”

Steve begins his delving pour, it’s graceful and quick. The people next to you cock their heads slightly, fascinated by the highs and lows that come with his servitude.

“To start we’re gonna work in 1 ounce of gin,” Pour. “½ ounce of freshly squeezed lemon juice, ½ ounce of simple syrup,” Splish splash. “…And 3 ounces of, you guessed it Bert—” The older lonesome gentleman to your right chuckles as Steve pauses to carefully prop open a bottle of champagne.

The cork pops and white sand foam fizzles right down his broad bony knuckles. It’s a clenching sight as the alcohol free flows into the iced shaker without missing a drop. He’s sneaky, swiping his tongue against the flat ridge of his fist, indiscreetly slurping up some of the sweet fizzy nectar that was impartially leftover.

Incriminating piece of shit, you mentally curse as the fleeting sight makes your inner coil twitch.

“And that’s that.”

“Hmm.” You tightly hum a curt appraisal as do the other women who struggle to cling onto their partners. Steve smirks, taking his two Midas hands to jerk the tumbler back and forth. He says something and your mind instantly falls right into the gutter as you mutter a low, “Fucking hell.”

“This drink, a lot friendlier than the name implies, made its first appearance in 1927 at the height of the Prohibition era and was soon after immortalized in the 1930s by a chap named Harry Craddock. Now, it’s served without an exact reason.” He unscrews the top and pours the chilled drink into each flute.

“Thank you.” You mouth as soon as he passes you a glass, the first of many.

“Cheers.” He takes a lightheaded sip with you and everyone else.

“This is lovely.” Steve smiles at the compliment. People begin to disperse, taking their drinks on the go and leaving you two to be. “Certainly has character... like yourself.”

“You think so?”

“I’d somewhat conspire. But then again who is Steve Rogers?” You take another swig, unwavering from his propinquity that turns a new leave.

“You’re asking me?” He disbelieves, dredging a heavy handful of ice into the blender that’s left propped open. Your resolve is to watch him work, admiringly so, it becomes a fettering colloquy.

His smirk says it all and you quirk up. “That I am!”

He smooths a hand over his apron before turning the machine dials up three clicks, murmuring a few incantations and then hoisting the lid down as the contents sit in the clear vault for a bit. You’re still awaiting his answer, he exhales a little too pestiferous.

“Well for starters I’m not running with the mafia.”

The Avengers could be considered one but never in the slightest. Steve's underworld was extraterrestrial at best, a costa nostra of good doers and luminaries. Even Marlene Erskine would vouchsafe for this as she hosts tonight’s jubilee with great matador.

“Although,” He starts up again, the metal strainer comes apart in his hold while he assesses the inside and then does another toss up.

“The Evans's are one of my more reverent customers. I keep the tab open for them to do business and in return there’s hardly any bloodshed.” He forces a boyish smile, making you feel things you shouldn’t feel.

“Good to know.” You stifle a chanced laugh.

“While thankful of my time,” he runs a few metal spoons and spools under the water faucet, distantly boisterous. “I did have the highest honor in serving the military as a colonel.”

Steve fabricates a partial truth into a whole caucus lie. A part of him couldn’t egg on the fact that he was a century old super soldier, by defect. So he chose to relive his pre-serum existence, a life that made the most sense to relent.

“Oh wow.” You caw, mouth going dry like a fish out of water.

Steve refuses to meet your eyes, blending frozen rosé in a sectioned Ninja blender. It’s loud, emulsifying a rich concoction to go with the winter chill. He sighs, hands on hips while taking a greater stance.

“Yeah I did two separate tours before settling down.” He cautiously explains his rotation and the time he fought alongside the original 6—now minus him, of course. But then thoughts of the Howling Commandos came flooding in, silencing him in the very bar that has been reverted since then. He goes to open the ice rack and stings a heady glance, face illuminating a pensive white glow before remembering to grab a bag of frozen berries.

“Now I’m good for nothing.” He slams the cooler shut and you can’t say much there so continue your parade of questions.

“How long have you been in the military?”

“About nine years, on and off.” Another lie.

“I see.” You thoughtfully nod, watching him use his teeth to rip open the plastic bag. You wet your lips, curiosity at peak. “Have things changed ever since you got back?”

70 years later and Steve doesn’t recognize himself anymore. A mirror is a mirage to him. But you weren’t supposed to know that.

“A whole lot.” While multitasking Steve reaches over and slides you another flute to sip on. It’s a stern, redundant plea. He tells you that it’s harmless to celebrate the night even if there’s nothing substantial worth celebrating. You drank to drink, wearily trying not to slur your words like you did the first night you met him. But it’s like they say you meet people for a reason.

Steve Rogers was a walking encyclopedia. He was finally turning the pages in his life and you were simply seeing for it, trying to be a placating olive branch in his ceaseless meadow, one he hasn’t looked to with hope. Until now.

“I had to cut my losses and relearn a life that was completely different from how I last remembered it…” he pours the thick, icy mix into Cosmo funnels and shelves them on a tray with diluted concentration.

“A part of me feels insouciant but I know kids these days would phrase the term to be FOMO. You know, Fear of missing out.” His eyes widen and without failing to miss a beat, you giggle. “The severity of the circumstance is far less scathing but here I am making up for it.”

“At the Grotto? Of all places?”

“Believe it or not sweetheart, this place has a lot of personal history and indignation. Like the time my father who lost one too many bets at that standalone,” Steve gestures to the small wooden circle table where guests left their drinks to idle, “Somehow managed to get my shy mother to dance with him while being a complete chad.”

“And it worked.”

“Sure it did! I mean how else would I be around?” He winks. There's an unassuming waitress, quietly waiting for the tray of froze’s to be passed. She’s trying to do her job and not be torn to shreds by another housewife. There were plenty of hopeful piranhas in disguise, some even in plain sight.

“Here you are my love.” He lifts the tray before walking over to the short stewardess who lowers her stance at the hand off. “You think there might be more to come?”

“I don’t think so.” She huffs and all while unenthused he gives her a knowing look that bellies his constant concern. She shakes her head, attempting to level with him. “It’s fine— I’ll bug Matt, you’re busy anyways.”

“Don’t tell me that.” Steve took it as a playful push and she simply shrugged while moving away from the haughty bartender.

He lightly sighs before coming to a sudden cognizance. His eyes widened, tongue firmly planted against the inside of his cheek, a finger drums the table top as if he were pointing to it —and he was. His embodying surroundings painted a vivid picture that fell back to the year of 1945.

“You know right at this spot...” He loudly enchants, soon remembering Bucky out of all people.

“That spot?” You signal to the opposite end where he stands and smiles as your chin falls into the grooves of your palm, intrigued.

“This bend ri’here...” His excitement is unparalleled. You laugh while he continues to fraternize his telltale manifestos. “Is where my best friend and I had our first round of initiation beers after being enlisted in the army. We ran it back then...”

“I bet you did.”

“Now it’s just me, honoring my time and sharing war stories with veterans twice my age.” Steve towers in front of you and exhales a small laugh, not meeting your blank stares. “I know it’s a bit chary but I see my purpose here Y/N and my life—“

“Your life comes full circle.” You nod. “Is your best friend doing alright?”

“I fucking hope so… He’s been, um, overseas for a while now so we chat when the connection is there otherwise it’s a ‘nice-knowing-ya’ ordeal.” Steve reprimands himself for being so unforgiving. He misses Buck more than anything and being an averse fugitive was no help in the cause.

“God I shouldn’t have said it like that.” He laughs, “I promise you he isn’t dead.”

You smile slightly. “And what about her?”

“What about her?” Steve deadpans, not expecting you to ask about Peggy.

“She who shall not be named…” You tread lightly. “Did you keep her waiting while you were away?”

“No.” He impassively states, there’s some coldness that enables his contempt.

To Steve, Peggy was strategically displaced in his past. When the large-span aircraft came pummeling through the stratosphere he made a paltry promise, one in a few that he’s kept to himself. So if anything, there was hardly ever a wait.

“But you loved her?” You prod. Love. There’s another dysphemism.

“Not quite.” He sighs, Matt catches his peripheral and that’s when the super soldier reveries. “Say, what exactly do you know about me?”

“I know that you’re a good man who chooses to deliberately let go.” You articulate, seeing his façade crumble. “You run because you can’t hide and now that you’re here, you’re stuck. Possibly looking for a sign.”

“If the universe says so.”

“I think we owe it to ourselves to live a lifetime where we don’t have to wonder why or when or how. We just live, be virtuous and free from inhibition. You deserve to show up for yourself first, Steve.”

“And yet here you are.” He murmurs. Your lips quirk up at the corners, forfeiting a soft smile.

“My point is that you can’t do good by everyone even if you’re made to believe otherwise, Cap.”

“You’re not wrong.” He studies your face up close. “But I hate that you’re so fucking right. Now can I please get you something to eat?”

You laugh. “If you insist.”

“It would bring me absolute joy in filling you up.” He provokes a double entendre. You’re stunned silly, cleverly hiding behind a champagne flute that is part way empty. You’re surreptitiously drinking tonight. It becomes a unanimous decision from hereinafter.

🍸

“Thank you for tonight.” You gratify in Steve's warm, engulfing embrace. His head is tucked in between your neck and shoulder while your chin is perched up, reeling in the sanguine closeness. It’s a sweet embalming attempt as faint notes of his lust cantering sandalwood cologne mixes with your white saffron perfume. Chest to chest and the drowning heartbeats that synchronized into one, you cherished this just as much as he did.

“Of course.” Steve flattens a kiss against your temple before pulling away, his broad hands hold onto your elbows at arm's length. “I just hope you had a good time.”

“I did…” You check your purse to make sure everything’s in place, nervously depreciating Steve's adjacency and sucking in a deep breath. He slides a large hand up your back, nudging you in close as people pass by to get out the door. Your phone flashes white in your clutch.

The Scott/Morales report comes toiling in. Juni later shoots you a text and signs it off with an eggplant and tongue emoji. She was onto you. Steve splays a decrepit grin, nodding at an older gentleman who has devoured many of his mixes on the tap. Their conversation flows when you choose to read her jaunty little text.

No harm no foul if you do. Just make sure you don’t neglect the balls.

“Jesus Christ.” You quickly pocket your phone.

“What was that?”

“Nothing.” You clear your throat a few short bursts, one hand goes to lay on Steve’s chest, stopping him as he tries to get a good look at you. “Hey look I have a few wagers to sort out in the next couple of days so if I’m not around pulling your tail then you know why.”

“You know I don’t always expect you, right?” He teases, barely at eye level.

“You might as well, pal.” You gently pat him, feeling his muscles jump with laughter. There’s a sound, tires crunching under the fresh snow. You turn your head away to look out the side window and that’s when you spot a Blue line cab slowly rolling up to the curb. “I think that’s my ride. I’ll see you later then?”

“Sure. Text me when you get home.” So you both exchanged numbers, a very normal 21st century thing to do except for the fact that Steve has an old school Nokia and has almost always left you on read. You raise your brows at the leveling proclamation. Something tells you that maybe he’s figured it out this time.

“We’ll see about that.” You finally adjourn, taunting him a look of endearment. “Have a good night, Steve”

“You as well.” He whispers, releasing you from his brazen hold that falls into fists. You easily gravitate away, completely ardent by the inseparable feeling.

Within a few short steps the waspy winter air nips you under the toque you had thrown on. Your feet trudge across the snow paved crosswalk, shuddering as the cabbie rolls down his window. The interaction is brief, Steve hypothesizes and that’s when you hop into the back seat, smiling brightly at the partition ahead. That smile.

Your mouth moves, animating a long night that wields exhaustion but through and through again you always ask the other if they’re doing OK. And for that you were a good woman.

“Pretty girl.” Marlene comments and that gyps Steve who loses sight at the white snow glare and the winding tire tracks left behind. You were long gone, so he’s aware. “There’s obviously no way in hell you’re being honest with her.”

“Marlene.” He turns his head and eyes her up and down. Her fashion is demure, nothing like his own mother yet she imparted with some acuity and care.

“So nice to be acquainted again, Steven.” She pleasantly recalls the first time they chatted. It was over the Accords, the anger that admonished him was truthfully inconceivable. Marlene had never antiquated his capabilities but she knew something in him burned like a phoenix rising from the ashes, a stubbornness that commands a fair wager - one she could appease.

“Would you like me to hail you a cab?” Steve patiently imposes, wringing his overworked wrists in the process.

“No thanks, my driver should be coming up right around the corner. But in the meantime I thought we could talk.” She coaxes, infringing her unsaid graces. Steve emotionlessly steps back, making room for guests to announce their departures.

“About?”

“Whatever is running through your veins.” She bows at his form and physique. If Steve could crawl out of his skin and bleed out, he would. He wasn’t a proud man. He was living in the ubiquitous shadows and cowering to his superhuman abilities. He has saved almost everyone except himself.

“Ah the serum.” He finally tuts, guiding her back to his workstation where they continue a long overdue conversation in private.

“It’s practically in you to give, darling.” She jokes the blood drive slogan. “But that’s where I rest my case.”

“How’s your family doing?” He slowly pulls up a seat behind the bar, feeling the resolute shin splints the second he settles down. She mimics him and does the same with a smile that barely reaches her ghastly eyes.

“They’re doing good, thanks.”

“Good. Good.”

“And what about yourself? Are you happy to be home again?” She postulates some more. Steve’s eyes flicker to his floor staff who are quietly dispersed, cleaning up areas of the bar and lounge while shuffling to Led Zeppelin, another band added to his growing ‘To Know’ list.

“I don’t know, I’m starting to think that I’ve outgrown this place.” He drones on while catching Matt do a broom guitar solo to Moby Dick that plays along with his elaborate riffs. The cacophony of laughter sets precedence for Ms. Marlene’s wise choice in words. Steve couldn’t hear any of it.

“It’s restless New York, what were you expecting?”

“Not this.” He quacks under his breath. Marlene presses her lips together, agonizing Steve’s misfortunes as a play out of time.

“You should’ve lived and then made peace with your existence a long, long time ago.” She kindly surveys. “Being a hundred years old, chronic and mighty is a sad cause to probate. Your work truly never ends.”

“Now you know what keeps me up at night.” Steve plucks a used coaster and tosses it aside, his tone wavers - thinking of all the possibilities to fall back into line and serve.

“Blame my great grandfather for putting you through it.” She chides with light laughter. “For some odd reason, he just knew it was you for him. The whole resolve was irreparable, that man was out of his mind.”

“I find that statement holds some water.”

“As it should.” She confirms. “Look Steve, I’ve observed you through a far away lens. Stories and revelations about you were miraculous, like the coming of god almost.”

“That couldn’t be me even on judgment day.”

“Possibly so.” She hums, grave in thought. “But here’s the thing, Fury thinks you're his guy and so does Stark. I think you have far more potential than the hand you've been dealt with... You can be your own man again Steve and not some nomocratic puppet.”

“You sound exactly like your great grandfather." Steve shakes his head. "But cocksure."

"The apple does not fall far from the tree."

"So what am I in for this time?”

She exhales, slumping her shoulders that have been stiff all night. “Well ever since the HYDRA invasion there’s been a lot of reinventive measures. Over time, no one’s gotten the super soldier serum to synthesize down to the exact molecular bond except for the late Dr. Wilfred Nagel, a good friend of mine.”

“You mean your lover.”

Marlene ignores him and her defeat is apparent but so is the ulterior motive.

“By his way of grace, my team has done something beyond extraordinary. After years of rehashing, we managed to extract sample proteins from his initial formula to create an impermeable catalyst bond. This newly reproved serum stops the regeneration of new cells whereas the conceding variants enable greater mutation spans."

"With succession and the utmost confidence, I want to give you a possible way out.” She solemnly proposes. “Ease you into a life that’ll surely come to an end.”

“So the cure for immortality?” Steve retells, briefly entertaining the idea of death and the coming into his human self.

“Exactly that.”

“You know Bruce has been going on a tangent about the serum and effects of gamma radiation. Maybe he could benefit from this program.”

“I'm asking you, Steve. I’m giving you a choice here, not an ultimatum.” She enunciates, evidently flummoxed.

“I don’t know Marlene. From how I see it there’s still a lot of unfinished business.” Steve calibrates on his own.

“The world has everyday heroes—“

“—That lay their lives down. I don’t deserve to do anything less than them. This isn’t about me.” He interjects. She has a permanent frown tugging at the corners of her mouth. “I know we’re not perfect but the safest hands are still our own.”

Her silence is punctuated with a sigh. “There’s no convincing you Steve Rogers.” She picks herself up and back on her feet. “So I won’t ask again.”

“I appreciate that.”

“But if you look to those around you, you’d know that the greatest fight is only ever within you.” She sternly reminds him.

Steve looks down at his hands and surrenders. “Isn’t that half the battle?”

“Of course.” She gently scoffs, sliding her visiting card against the marbled counter. “Indubitably, I’ll leave you with this… Goodnight.”

“Goodnight to you as well.”

Her proposition leaves an embittered taste in Steve’s mouth as he watches her leave. If he was asked to revert right at the end of the Second World War he might’ve considered it; just to live life anew with acute normalcy.

Now the stakes were high and someone was bound to be on the lookout. People turned on people, willful experiments were often bipartisan of failed synergies. The risk to reward ratio was now incremental. He’d be counting his losses all over again and burning a whole new bridge while at it.

And then there’s you. A different side of the coin that he’s flipped for show.

#steve rogers series #steve rogers x y/n #chris evans #chris evans x reader #chris evans fanfiction #steve rogers x you #chris evans x you #chris evans x female reader #chris evans x y/n

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mmmmalo · 3 years

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@homestuckhomestuckhomestuck I'm putting this in a new post because the thread (x) was getting long, but wrt Rose and lightning stuff, she's on a slightly different tack than before

First lightning symbol we see for Rose is probably the little green W magnet. Rose holds it between her fingertips to make a mustache, but it also functions visually as a spark traveling from one side to the other, the sort of lightning that wizards throw around. Hence Eridan having a lightning gun before upgrading to a wand, hence Cronus mirroring the Amporan WW quirk with double-lightning scars a la Harry Potter.

The original lightning-scar symbol in Homestuck would probably be the Scratch itself, as represented by the broken record pattern on Dave's shirt that becomes the yellow zigzag on the Beat Mesa. The scars and cracked record both kind of disrupts the reading from before (lightning as a life-force that fills empty vessels), suggesting that lightning can itself be a negative space, a void.

The arrow ==> has similar contrasting features. It precedes commands and thus can (like lightning) represent the inserted Pneuma, but since it also carries the reader from panel to panel, the arrow can also represent the void between pages. And in the same way that Sburb destroys a world even as it creates a new one, the arrow is regarded as something that /destroys/ a panel in order to proceed to the next. Moment to moment, the (image of a) character is destroyed on one page and reconstituted on the next.

The possibility of not emerging intact from such a process worries Rose: ascending scares her in the Epilogues because she's not sure she will awaken as the same person, teleporting with Jaspers turns Rose's thoughts towards mutation from mixed cat atoms, abandoning the doomed timeline with Davesprite leaves Rose wondering how/if her soul will persist... all of these could be grouped under 'death/rebirth' probably.

And I think 'death/rebirth' is part of what Mom (and therefore motherhood??) means to Rose, that terrifying leap from one state of being to another. Mom gets introduced with a lightning flash as Rose jumps over a gap. And more to the point, that a mausoleum leads to Mom's ectobiology lab becomes a metaphor for this whole motif of perpetuation that requires passing through death, as though ectoplasm were the ghostly essence that persists in the void between inter-page 'teleportations'.

The glowing chessboard of green power cubes even maps to the little array of green W's on the refrigerator, with Rose removing one unit from each: the lightning-zigzag magnet becomes a literal power source... though within a paradigm comparing the power sources to the Pneuma (the life source), that only one was ultimately accessible is almost like Rose is looking at a dizzying array of potential selves, only to find that there was only one thing she could actually become...? I'm losing track here and getting into stuff I don't quite get. Anyway,

With respect to how Rose's Light stuff relates to lightning, I think her jabbing her needles into the power socket bears a symbolic relation to her jamming her needles into an ogre's eye sockets (the Handmaiden later flows directs from Scratch's "eyes" to a power outlet to reiterate the association). This suggests a connection between Rose's interest in being a wizard (charging her wands with lightning), going all Oedipus Rex (being blinded by forbidden knowledge), and some sort of suicidal impulse (which has a transformative aspect to it, to whatever degree death entails rebirth)

#sorry this is so muddled #summary isn't my strong suit

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seb-owns-these-tatas · 4 years

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Witcher Of The Night (Chapter 10.1)

THIS IS MODERN ERA READER WHO WOKE UP IN THE DIMENSION OF THE WITCHER.

WITCHER OF THE NIGHT MASTERLIST

CHAPTER 10

Characters: Geralt of Rivia x small!Naive!Reader

Summary: You’ve woken up after the possession without remembering how it went, nor did you remember yourself confessing for the witcher. Three wishes were said with an comfortable feeling that seemed irresistible for you and for the white wolf himself too; leading into having renowned stress and frustration for Geralt with tensions that seemed to be carnal deep inside.

Warnings: Sexual tension. Frustration from both. Reader being one naughty woman for some bum staring and keeps on bothering a sleeping Geralt. Soft, soft, soft, Geralt of Rivia. Anxiety filled reader. Captain America is mentioned.

Words: 7.6k (SHEEIT. THIS IS LONG AF. WHAT THE HECK TATA HAHAHA. I WAS TOO HAPPY THAT THERE’S SOME TENSION NOW. HAHA! I’VE BEEN WAITING FOR THIS MOMENT!)

A/N: Smut will be up soon. (Maybe around chapter 14-16) There will be! Patience is a virtue, bb’s! Also, this is one of my favorite chapters that I’ve written! Heehee! I hope you’ll love it! 💖

TAGLIST IS STILL OPEN FOR THIS ONE! Heehee! Don’t forget to REBLOG, COMMENT OR GIVE FEEDBACK IF YOU DID LOVE THIS CHAPTER! IT’LL MAKE ME SMILE!

Disclaimer: PNG’s used in edits are not mine even the GIF’s too. However, the edits and oneshots are definitely from moi. Characters, places and said monsters aren’t from moi as well. GIF’s INCLUDED ARE CREDITED TO THOSE WHO MADE THEM! I DO NOT OWN THEM! (Some Gifs are from demivampirew)

MY WORKS ARE NOT NOT NOT NOT NOOOOOOT TO BE POSTED ON ANY OTHER WEBSITES. My official username in Wattpad is “TATATHEPOTATO” and that’s the only other site I have for writing aside from Tumblr. Thank you, Tater tots!

After the aberrant incident with your Djinn, you'd happen to wake up in the arms of the witcher. Geralt didn't know what happened; nor does he have any as to what explanations can be said. Nobody knew your wishes, not even yourself as you woke up sitting on a saddle; with Geralt's arms surrounding you in a warmth that tells you he was protecting the person in front of him; which was you.

He'd deeply pondered about it as the gang hiked back towards their path going home. What was the reason that you've been possessed by some sort of pneuma? Better yet, what have you really wished for?

All he remembered was your ebony eyes that consumed you from that time being. Though, drinking black blood was ticked off the list because he never even gave you the opportunity to try it nor is it possible for your tiny frame to take the elixir with no immunity like his.

You were definitely possessed; but then it left once you'd given him a barf of black smoke as explained by the bard who saw everything before his eyes.

He wasn't sure of it, but he couldn't be steadfast that the spirit wasn't in your body anymore; keeping you as a host. Though, the bard's explanations interprets that you've given the spirit to him.

Geralt would rather much prefer that than for you to painstakingly have it.

Hence, there was still a lot of questions especially that you woke up like finding a djinn never happened. Those words that was whispered out of your lips sounding like Elder speech.

He'd only understood the first word you've said which was 'Cáerme,'.

It meant Destiny. The word he hated the most.

The latter shouldn't have searched for the Djinn in the first place and just chose the latter option, but he just had to be so stubborn for wanting to flip the bird back at destiny who was trying to play him like a puppet and also at Durriken who began to spat shit back in the Tavern.

"Geralt," Jaskier extolled as the witcher walked Roach out of the forest. The way his pitch turned higher; sounding so mesmerized by the image he was seeing. The vast meadow sitting before him as a petite stone house castle appeared before them. Their wooden cavern long gone as another house has been magically changed; a stone house that probably had a second floor and rooms to provide for the whole family.

The bard gasped and stood in the middle of the field, his eyes shimmering in delight as he loomed before the new house; arms all wide as he exclaimed, "THIS IS SPLENDID! A MIRACLE, INDEED! What did she even wished for?!"

You were oddly silent. For Geralt, it was strange as he'd noticed that the first thing you've asked when you woke up in his arms was 'what happened?' as your eyes were weary and somehow filled with fatigue.

Your quietness was disturbing him to the fullest because he was fond of how you were always asking stuff whenever you see something uncanny in the midst of trailing down the path; which your naivety and curiosity lead to having a Hirikka living in his home. But, now; you were just staring out of nowhere as you sat on the saddle.

All your energy has just been taken from you when you've woken up in wonder; leaving you drained.

"What did you wish for, midget?" Geralt asked out of nowhere as he yanked on Roach's reigns as the horse galloped forward, towards an unspecified small, stone castle that you weren't accustomed with.

You've cocked your head to the side, squinting your eyes back at the larger house sitting in front of you and at the question that the witcher has asked, "What? I haven't yet. We were about to go to the swamps, remember?"

It was a sapped response that made the witcher hum in wonderment; shrugging to himself as the horse maneuvered to the side of the house to see that he'd still acquired his stable but not made of wood; but made in stones.

The house totally looked sumptuous to Geralt's surprise. He was used to the penurious looking stuff, but not the lavish life. He'd been sleeping in brothels before, had no home and friends other than his horses. Yet, life seemed like surprise him to the fullest.

"You've already made your wishes and we have already went to the lake," the witcher surly grumbled, his voice vibrating against his chest as you could hear the cavernous timbre that surely always does give you a touch to the spine.

Howbeit, once you've heard the velveteen gradient passing through; the effect was rather much profound. Kindling with the sparks that seemed to give your spine a shiver.

Totally bewildering, overwhelming and suddenly pleasurable.

"I...didn't? What are you saying?" you softly chided as your body went stiff by the patent purl of his effect on you. The witcher detected your body turning rigid like you've been shot to the head; yet he paid no thorough heed to it as he thought you've just shivered from the benumbing breeze of the night.

You've felt shifting from behind and noticed Geralt who'd gotten to jump off his horse first. No movements were made other than you who was stupefied at whatever stupendous feeling you were having. Beseeching peepers peering down at the witcher who had his beautiful amber eyes on you; silently watching like a hawk with his expression stoic but somewhat pliable that only you had the liberty to.

Very weird indeed.

"Jump." the witcher ordered, his voice sending more overwhelming ripples of shivers that made you subtly shake your head but it was noticed by Geralt as his mouth formed a firm, thin line; eyebrows slightly creased together from the reaction he got.

You timidly hauled your leg off his horse. The witcher's robust fingers spontaneously grabbing onto your hip before you could even jump then fall to the ground; like an instinctive reflex coming from the man himself, carrying you down with no effort. You were gently placed to the ground with much caution.

The wavelet of pleasurable specter traveled through every parts of your body, involuntary stepping an inch away from the latter which has made his hands stay where they have been, cocking his head to the side as he blinked in confusion.

He stared at his fingers far too long; seeming to be feeling what you were also feeling as of the moment. But, he never planned to tell; thinking that it was just probably the side effects of what has happened prior to the Djinn incident that has occured.

"Ughm," your heart was beating fast, giving you an unrewarding feeling when you've subtly moved away from the witcher; your actions never liking what it did when you've felt weight laid upon your chest, making you want to groan out loud in ire, "T-Thanks,"

Geralt could only raise a brow in silence from your reflexes; a weird abrupt feeling of frustration spreading through his chest but he paid no regard as he wanted something he couldn't quite understand.

The witcher was the first to leave, his mouth in a small frown by whatever was irritating him. You tailed behind Geralt stepping foot on their door step with quick marches. From the moment you've thrown yourself in the space of their new humble abode, you were awestruck as you've scanned the whole place with stupefaction.

The interior design of the whole house was in cardinal and wood brown, floor in stones. Geralt stood in the middle of a rather medium sized living room, thoroughly inspecting the place with his scrutinizing amber eyes with Jaskier, Cirilla and Kolby entirely delighted by the miracle that has been given.

You've stood behind Geralt, his Herculean back shown to you as you were staring at it far too long. A sudden thought for wanting to see his body bare which earned a mental slap for your untamed brain.

What were you just thinking right now?

The brooding witcher puttered an exquisite groan to himself, a phantom of satisfying prickle of your stomach giving your insides a warmth that seemed to slowly become insufferable as he'd turned around to meet your doe-eyes; guilelessly peering up at the witcher who was all colossal and strong.

"Tell me your wishes---" he firmly started, roughly spitting out his demands when Geralt met your vindicated gaze that could get him antsy. But, now he was just beyond feeling irked. His gaze simply falling on your lips that held nothing but kindness; those lips that he suddenly wanted to savor all night long.

What was wrong with you both?

Geralt exhaled a calm breath; tightly gritting his teeth as he sharply snapped his eyes away from your vermillion, "---right now. If I were the Djinn,"

Kolby was yelping in the background in his own way; the Hirikka way. Albeit, Jaskier was trying to avoid the harmless monster as it was trying to stand in his path, asking for something from the bard, "No! Bad Hirikka! Stay away!"

You've given the witcher a look of peculiarity; studying how rigid his stance was before you. Eyes closed and seeming to be breathing deeply. The latter couldn't help but take note of how unyielding your scent have been, a sudden feeling that he couldn't withstand and just want to bury his nose in the crook of your neck.

It made Geralt hum a dangerous and displeased short-lived grumble deep inside his chest.

Lemon with a hint of peony. His new favorite scent since the moment you came running off the forest.

"Why---"

The witcher has sharply cut you off out of the blue, jaw clenching as he'd fluttered his eyes for you to see; piercing, obscure and penetrating. "Just tell me, midget."

Those eyes seem to always take your breath away; maybe even your soul as well because of those lascivious thoughts whispering inside your head; scorching your spirit to the fire wanting to be flamed.

"A..A bigger, better house for your family," you hesitantly murmured, soft and quietly which made Geralt's eyebrows twitch. The sound was delicate and utter convincing for him with a perilous want to satiate.

The type of satiation that he wanted to covet; all night long.

It was definitely sudden and treacherous.

Jaskier gave you both a once over across the kitchen, eyes bulging out of its sockets when he'd noticed it was bigger than what they had before; more comfortable and homey. Kolby was trailing behind the bard like he was his shadow which was still being ignored by the lean man himself, "Which explains why we have a small castle house right now, thank you very much, small rat! I can now bathe without Roach staring like he wants me to breed him,"

Jaskier's laugh was loudly resonating around the house which accompanied with the silence you were having with Geralt. One thud and you've noticed the witcher came closer, glowing amber eyes solely on your small frame as he continued his interrogation, "And the second?"

"Enough...food and clothes for everyone,"

Jaskier has seen a basket full of apples, oranges, grapes and everything you can ever wish for. His face twisting in oddity when he'd given the basket of apples to the Hirikka who'd devour it like he has been famished. The bard continued to listen, hearing Cirilla's loud stomps of excitement coming down the stairs of their new two-storey stone house, "Kolby is certainly loving it," he cajoled, stepping away from the Hirikka with a cringe on his face before looking at the princess who was now twirling around with a new pretty yellow gown that she held to herself; a huge beam on her face, "---Also, Cirilla."

You've stayed rooted on the ground, accepting the witcher's presence like it wasn't giving you the shivers and a weirdly palpable desire for wanting him close. Closer than you can ever imagine. Geralt also wanted you nearer, maybe even more. A lot more. Your irresistible scent clouding his mind as he'd taken several steps closer, your scent crashing his palates like a damn delicious snack he'd wish to devour.

The latter lowly whispered crude profanities to himself when the 'want' was starting to get to him. It wasn't like this before; the cravings and utter such. Only for tonight. He ceased his steps once he was an inch away from your feet, looming before you like a skyscraper as you've felt the heat of his stare totally irresistible as time goes by.

It was creating an enigma for your silent mental thinking; heedful of keeping your thoughts in a haywire.

"The last one?" It was a mere grumble, a volume that only you could hear as you were thoroughly enchanted by those amber eyes trying to burn your vindicated soul.

"The happiness of all, especially...yours," your heart was running a mile as you were consumed by the fire in his eyes. You softly stuttered with utmost sincerity. Never wanting the overwhelming sensation to go away as he was now closer; seeming that your desire to touch him was turning deep-seated.

You wanted to touch his face. Badly. The warm feeling threatening you to do it.

But, it seemed like the witcher was also feeling the same way and was somehow more immune to the irresistible repulsion. You've seen his eyes faltering, changing into a look of frustration, anger and depletion as he snapped his head away from you. The veins to his temples throbbing as deeply growled to himself; fighting off something he was feeling that you couldn't decipher.

Then, it was like he'd broken the spell as he abruptly shifted away from you; shaking his head. The overwhelming sensation changing into dismay and pain. His reaction sparking you to feel downhearted. Shouldn't he be happy that you wished for his happiness as well?

You've blinked back at the witcher with a frown, the way his eyes shun away kept your heart at bay, pondering of the fact if he felt it too or was it just another one of your ridiculous hallucinations? There were voices inside your head, screaming that you've told the witcher you liked him, though you never remembered when and where.

Maybe, it never happened?

Hence, why does the idea felt incorrect?

Jaskier, a great eavesdropper; managed to slid his way to where you both were. The bard's ocean eyes raking both of your rigid forms like you were acting pretty strange. Especially, the witcher who seemed to be having an internal battle within himself, "Alas! It seems like this is the wish that broke my heart because the witcher doesn't appear happy at all,"

Geralt gritted his teeth as he spoke; clearly upset of your last wish as he was glaring you down. The sudden change of his attitude making you scrunch your nose in dismay; his frustration seeming to also be given as you had your fists on either side, huffing out a breath; "You didn't wish to go back to that earth you call your home?"

"By the sound of my last wish, I think I did."

"It didn't sound like it," the witcher roughly spat. Bruising that selflessness and naivety of yours with his simple words. You crippled under his fierce gaze and felt yourself thwarting, "I really did! I didn't want to be selfish and wish for myself! Coming home makes me happy! Obviously, it would've been for you too based on how persistent you are in throwing me away! If I did say that to the Djinn then I should've portaled back home already!"

The sudden high-pitch timbre of your voice was an accident. You didn't mean to burst like a mad man at the witcher who had been wincing since the moment you've spat spiteful words after words. You were utterly infuriated; from the heavy, unrelieved feeling and also disheartened by how he was strong willed about how you should go back to where you came from.

Jaskier was rooted on the ground. Hands fidgeting over his cup of water, tapping the lid when you've started dropping a bombshell back at the unnerved witcher who now had a stoic expression carving his features once again; giving you each other looks as his mouth was in an 'O' form, staring back at Geralt; waiting for another mistake that he could do because he was that type of lout as Jaskier knew.

But, to the bard's surprise; his expectations had been high as he waited for the witcher to yell back like how he did to him back in the days; accidentally hurting his heart.

Yet, there was no angry witcher coming forth.

"You should've been more specific," Geralt calmly murmured, audibly sighing from the anger you've poured down on him; leaving Jaskier to his astonishment, "---you're too fucking selfless," the latter went on with his gruff rumbles, shaking his head in disdain as he turned his heel to drop his heavy metal sword on a medium sized brown mahogany table, "---to even include us in your wishes,"

Cirilla was nowhere to be found; currently in her room as she was jumping on her pretty large new bed. Jaskier wearily blinked back to the both of you who seemed to be in a mess; nodding to himself from the moment the witcher was the first to even calm down when you were maddened.

The simple action was enough for Jaskier to get blown away because he rarely does that when someone was proving a point to the witcher, especially when the point was actually about his rickety attitude that he couldn't control. The bard left you both to your argument, never wanting another quarrel and trying to cease the war by waving the white flag.

His firm and calm response made you feel bad. Totally bad especially when you've seen his frown. Howbeit, you were pondering why was he even thwarted about the fact that you included them in your wishes when he should've been thankful?

Witchers were complicated, you thought to yourself. The pent up aggression now leaving your body when you've tried to reason out to the witcher; though, it was still there deep inside. You just tried to shake it off.

You've tread on the heels of Geralt; throwing questions after questions as you were hot on his wheels, "But, did we get the Djinn?" First. "What happened?" Second. "Are you really not going to answer me? Is this a part of your brooding charm, then?" Third.

He'd ceased his steps before the first block of the stairs, your forehead hitting his beefy back. You've immediately hissed at that and caressed the part that was hit, silently groaning out for being an annoying idiot.

The witcher wasn't moved at all.

You were beyond awestruck from how you were acting. You've never been seeking for his attention before yet here you are; kindling with his patience.

"I'm sorry," the guilt was eating you alive. Your sudden caterwaul and needy attitude making you feel strange. You were never like that. Ever. You genuinely apologized to the witcher, biting at the pillows of your chapped lips from the anxiety, "---I didn't know you want me to leave that bad, Geralt."

Still, no answer from the witcher. Albeit, that was his problem with each passing day with you; the thought of you leaving was slowly penetrating his will on watching you go. He was slowly hating to see you leave.

If Destiny was hearing his thoughts, it'll be celebrating by how she was playing her cards right. It's what she wanted from him; from Geralt.

To accept his destiny. As always.

"---Also, thank you." you continued, trying to communicate with the silent hunk of a man, "---For always saving me when I should've been killed already,"

You've given him a small, sad smile without him even looking. Catching you off guard when he'd momentarily turned around to see a partial of his apologetic amber eyes.

"I---"

Though, it seemed like destiny didn't want that from Jaskier's brash interruption; Geralt didn't have the chance to continue what he wanted to say. A subtle roll of his eyes as the bard hollered from the second floor, being happy as a box of birds when he was welcomed with a bed that seemed so comforting to sleep on. He was just looking through the set of rooms; deciding to give Geralt the chambers that had wider windows then leaving to catch up on the others. There was also a pretty much medium sized bath room that took up most of the proximity of the home itself.

It was rather fantastic.

"THERE'S ANOTHER SPARE ROOM! HOWEVER, IT IS PRECISELY ONE ROOM DESTINED FOR ME!" he shouted from above, hearing him uttering out the most unfamiliar words he'd excitedly said as he continued to yell, "---YOU ARE AN ANGEL SENT FROM AN UNKNOWN PORTAL, Y/N! I SEND MY KISSES TO YOU! MUAH!"

Geralt's features was masking in complete fatigue and dismay; sighing from the bard's horrible interaction.

You bit your lips together, beaming back at the witcher who had a tight scowl on his face as you'd stealthily stepped back; planning to flee from his presence. Your thoughts thinking that maybe he was already annoyed, "Okay then, I'll give you your wanted silence."

You've side-stepped, cautiously aware of how heavy his gaze rested upon you. But, you were too bashful to even look back. Nervous that he would notice that you were already deeply fond of him.

But, something inside you says he already knows which is why it added more butterflies in your stomach; lately becoming uncontrollable and raucous.

"Where are you going?" Geralt bluntly questioned, you've ceased from escaping within his presence and gave him a look that tries to state the obvious, "To my chambers?"

The brooding witcher cocked his head to the side, curiosity filling his cat eyes. His lips twitching for a smirk to carve because your reasoning was hilarious, "The kitchen?"

You gave him a tight crease of your forehead, finding his queries rather abrupt and weirdly strange because he seemed to be pointing out that it wasn't your room and so you've laid down your opinions and viewpoint, "I know you were kind enough to lend me your bed because I was wounded. But, I think the medicine still works like a miracle and---"

Therefore, it was enough for the witcher to simper. The strange sentiments of keeping you close as he tries to sleep assaulted those strange senses that continues to give him impelling decisions.

"No," Geralt wanted to wince. It was not what he wanted to say. His crooked smile fell when you eyed him like he was a weird one, "What do you mean, no?"

"You can have my bed,"

The latter's nose was scrunched, subtly snapping his head to the side as he lowly cussed, "Ugh, fuck." when that was abruptly said out in the open.

He wanted you with him. On his bed. With reasons that can get him to sleep and also because of that feeling he couldn't get off his chest.

You puckered your lips in quick ponder, before shrugging to yourself and suddenly sleeping on his bed seemed to be normal, "Okay--What?"

Geralt calmly exhaled a breath, blinking back at you with a scowl as his body went stiff; uttering his next words with contrived annoyance, "You can suffer from Jaskier's lute strumming in the middle of the night; non stop like a dragon in heat," his teeth gritted against each other. Though, you didn't notice that and was more heedful of his anomalous attitude, "Is...Cirilla's room not available?"

The witcher shook his head, to the question sent and for his random actions, "You can't always sleep in her room," pause. He'd started again with doubt dripping in his baritone pitch, "---There are...peril instances that may occur when she is deep in her slumber,"

You clicked your tongue, "So, I have no choice but to sleep in your bed?"

"Hmm."

All you've gotten from him was a raise of his brow and a low menacing hum that seemed displeasing to the ears, "I think that was a yes," you avoided his intense golden peepers, thoroughly tentative of how your fingers fidgeted with the hem of your long mustard colored sleeved sweater; his demands giving your heart another blush, "---You are acting...weird today, Geralt."

With you stating the obvious ignited a grudging groan from the latter. Words were in a surly rumble as he languidly spun in his booted heels and took his flight up the stairs. His heavy, muscly weight making the floors creak with every step he takes; following him from behind, "Fine. Sleep with Kolby for all you want."

The way up was steep and narrow. Having an ounce of space for the person below the latter when he walks up. You were lost in wonder as your focal point was fortunately on Geralt's abounding derriere that made your mouth dry. 11/10, you rated inside your brain. Totally A+ with that tight leather pants he wore. He had a better bum than you, which made you look back at your own tushie, lighting up a scoff to your disappointment.

"---He seems quite unstable before we went to go get that faux of a Djinn,"

Halfway up the stairs, the witcher ceased. Sensing something was going on as he slightly turned his body to see you staring straight at his tushie. Geralt eyed you down in confusion, his amber eyes skeptical as he just caught you ogling at his firm glutes. The witcher couldn't help but scorn, seeing your mouth shut and in awe from what you were seeing.

You've blinked back to see him staring you down with that guileless curiosity of what you were just doing. Maybe staring at a witcher's bum wasn't exactly the brightest idea when he had heightened senses. A loud clear of your throat got him smirking before he continued to ascend.

"You--You called him Kolby!" you stuttered and tried to ignore that you were caught red handed by the witcher. You went after him and feel the blush creeping up your face, "Don't--Don't you turn your back away from me when I'm talking to you, Rivia! "

Your eyes scanned the way up the stairs, utterly surprised to see their house magically transformed into something better, "---So, I really did made the wishes already! Your house has a second floor right now?"

A crane of your neck as you watch his dirty, tousled hair bounce with every step you take. Those buns of his also jiggling when he took his final step and you couldn't avoid but silently give a chef's kiss; understanding how he was ravishing and utmost pleasing to the eyes of women.

Until your foot caught the ends of the stairs and you stumbled. One knee falling flat on the floor and a loud thud erupted from your clumsy accident. Too much bum staring. But, it was probably worth it. "Oh---Geralt! Ow!"

There wasn't much struggle as the witcher effortlessly grabbed your weight in one second; keeping you still as you were given a whiplash by those spellbinding eyes.

The witcher had one knee dropped to the ground, never hesitating to give assistance to your dextrosity. You were a lummox when you were bashful and shy; uttering out the most ungraceful confessions, opinions or even being an utter clutz because your fingers fidget from the embarrassment.

"So fucking selfless with her wishes and utterly cloddish,"

Geralt checked your bandages in haste, straightaway pulling the hems of your sweater in the right, respectful amount to see them all bloody and looking like you've stitched them open because of your accident. Touching you seemed to be the least of his worries when you've arrived; like he couldn't feel the prickling, delightful sensation that he pours out on you whenever he does.

He was prettier up close. You mentally thought to yourself, charmed by his handsome features when his focal point was on your bloody bandage, "You need those bandages changed, midget." he grumbled the thought out loud, slightly craning his head as you had the advantage on the position you both have; meeting those curious doe eyes like you wanted more from the witcher.

Something insatiable, pure and peckish.

Faces close in proximity, trapped in a spellbind that you both completely had no power in. His warm breath hitting your ajar mouth, slightly filling the curiosity you had for the witcher.

You've raked the small scars on his face, imperfections that made him more striking; wondering how many flaws did he have to take to become a monster-slayer in their world as you remembered Cirilla's stories about him. What more scars did he held on his body in which you find him still delightful.

The gap between the both of you was perilous. There it was again, the sensations that you both were having; yet no one was willing to risk.

"Geralt?" you softly whispered against the his lips; watching those eyelids of him fall shut when he'd craned his head to see your eyes staring right at him. Those gorgeous eyelashes that had been given to him; rather than to a woman like you. It was unfair to see how gorgeous he was up close.

Lemon. Peony. It was enticing for a witcher. Bringing him to a haven he didn't thought there was.

From the moment he'd heard you softly say his name, he'd slightly fell back; seeming to be caught in a vulnerable state. You've finally seen his eyes that was now filled with ire; like he was struggling with something within himself, "Hmm?"

"Did I...do something?"

The witcher exhaled a breath he has been holding, your scent catching his senses as he tried to imprint your scent by heart, giving him the advantage that it helps in making him calm and at ease, "No," he gruffly mumbled, breaking the spell and dragging his sky scraping height to the fullest; standing up with a frown on his face by wanting to achieve something that shouldn't be dreamt of, "Not at all."

Vulnerability would answer his curiosities and the witcher didn't know if he was ready yet because the last time he did, it got his heart broken.

You've had sleepless nights. Even more than you can ever imagine back in your apartment. The insomnia was kicking you in the ass for a thousand times as you kicked and stirred in your sleep, beside a witcher who has been giving your heart a marathon.

Just his breathing was keeping your breathing and heartbeat erratic.

There it was, the desire of having the big witcher close to you as he slept on the other end of the rather new large bed, his strapped, broad back away from you looking like the space he'd given himself was rather too little for his large frame.

It was funny to see him struggling with the small space as you've twisted and turned for the hundredth time. You couldn't hear anything other than the eerie, buzzing sounds of the night. Jaskier finally had shut up from creating new epics and strumming on his lute, so to say; it was probably three o'clock in the morning in their time.

You were wondering if that was how the witcher slept. Only on one position; never moving like he was dead. It has already been two hours and you had nothing to do but tap on the mattress with your fingers and stare at his clothed back. Did he also have scars on his back too? you mentally thought to yourself and gently turned your body to look at the wooden ceilings.

Sleep wouldn't consume you tonight. You'd rather have a different type of sensation that would consume you all night. Your breath hitched at the thought of that, wordlessly dragging the sheets above you to wrinkle your nose from the damaging ideas inside your head. Your soul probably tutting because of how you've become from the moment you've fainted and remember nothing.

There was a sigh. Your head snapped towards the witcher who seem to shift in his side of the bed, placing a hand underneath his pillows as his face was morphed into distress. He couldn't sleep at all because you were restlessly moving like a worm, also for the heavy feeling tugging at his chest since the moment he'd woken up from being attacked by the djinn.

"Geralt?"

He didn't answer.

"---It's cold, like really cold." with that, he deeply sighed; never planning on opening his eyes. The latter was hoping you would stop turning around the mattress and also for the uncomfortable feeling resting on his chest with every breath you take.

"Not for me,"

Geralt knew you were pouting at his response; but he paid no heed and tried to silently have his slumber. The brumal temperature of the night never giving him a headache because his body heat was taking it nicely as it was also helping the heat that began to start from his chest up till the every end and nerves of his body; making him groan to himself when you've unintentionally whimpered to yourself when he'd rejected the idea of closing the windows.

The sound you make was making him crazy.

Also, the clothes he was wearing to sleep was making him crazier; even hotter than it was supposed to be.

"Geralt," he grabbed onto the pillows a little more tighter, drowning himself in the fluff of his pillow as you continued to disturb him because you somehow couldn't find your own sleep as well.

"Yoo-hoo~ Beefy Legolas?"

It went on and on. Your twists and turns also did as he finally had to tiredly grumble.

"Let me have my nap."

You were lucky your wound was given medicine because it wasn't hurting anymore. An elbow on the bed to support yourself as you peeked to see Geralt's shiny hair glimmering beneath the candle light. Tempting you to give care and probably spend a little time tugging at it as well. Those thoughts make you shake your head, clearing your throat as you asked the witcher with utmost purity lacing your tongue.

"Geralt, can I braid your hair while you sleep?"

"No."

"Did you bleach your hair then? You know, it’s like a way of coloring your hair and such---"

"No."

You softly huffed in disappointment, lower lip jutting out as you sighed from the energy and itch that you couldn't fight off, trying to see if he had his eyes opened but his burly form was making it difficult. You could only see his back and ivory hair, "Where's the gym? I mean, obviously you do go to a gym with that...build. Except, if you're given a serum like Captain America's..."

The latter lowly grunted in response; making your spine shiver from the sound as he does so. You've suddenly swallowed the saliva down your throat, wincing as you subtly held onto your chest; feeling it strangely grow a temperature hotter. You shake your head to try and ignore the uncomfortable feeling.

"You are talking in riddles that I couldn't comprehend, midget."

Geralt audibly sighed, turning his sturdy body to see you wide awake and innocently blinking back at the latter. Acting all guiltless like you weren't just trying to wake him up. He exhaled an exasperated breath; amber eyes glued to the ceiling with a grimace on his face.

"So, you're...awake?" you innocently stated the obvious, trying not to act guilty that you were anxious about a lot of things and your brain doesn't seem to cooperate with your body.

"How can I sleep when you keep tossing over and over," the latter rasped before languidly turning and facing front to you. His eyes searching for whatever was keeping you awake; pondering why your energy level was at the top. Totally too much for his wearied ones, "---I'm starting to regret why I offered you my bed," he gave a soft shake of his head as he comfortably dropped his head on his fluffy pillows, watching you drop yours at the same time. You've welcomed those golden peepers drilling with your emotions; setting fire to your insides, though you've never told anyone but yourself.

"I told you so. I have insomnia when my anxiety strikes like a bitch,"

Geralt had his eyebrows in a tight knot, "A what?"

"I can't sleep." you honestly told, breathing out your frustrations as you've felt the witcher's stare heavy on you, "It's just so...cold,"

He gave a small, tender smile. It was unconscious, the witcher didn't know if he even was smiling when he had hunches onto why you couldn't sleep. Based on how you were giving him bear hugs up all night when your fever went high, a leg on his robust ones; face nuzzled on his clothed, wooly chest; he knew you were a cuddler.

Howbeit, nobody also needed to know that he had his fingers raked in between your hair like the witcher was brushing it to make him sleep.

Like it was calming him down; making his breathing steady and at ease.

"You want something." he simply graveled, thoroughly amused.

"W-What?! No!"

Did he know what you were thinking? Especially those promiscuous ones? Or only the part where you wanted to be near him as you slept?

The latter scoffed, his smile turning crooked as you've seen those teeth eventually showing as he beamed, "I didn't thought naive midgets lie. I must say, your flaws are surprising."

Albeit, despite of how he was making your stomach flutter wildly; this brooding man gives you comfort in such a weird way.

Adoration was definitely a complex part in life that nobody can ever explain. A diversity in their world and also in yours.

"You need a hug." the witcher stated as a matter of fact, knowing that it was what you needed as you continued to fidget and tap on the mattress with your fingers.

"Maybe," pause. You've peered back at the man who kept giving your heart beat a difficult time; being drawn to his amber colored eyes, enraptured by his presence as you were caught in a spell that he could only give.

Only him and nobody else.

Geralt seemed to be a good listener and so, you've done the inevitable as he was the only person you've shared a bed with for all your life. Other than your mother when you were younger. He was the only man you've approved of having your personal space infiltrated.

"I had...stuff toys and a big pillow back in my home. It was the only thing I could hold for me to sleep. The only thing that can keep me company in a cold day," you started, shifting your eyes away from the witcher who was on the far end of the bed; waiting for you to continue like he always does, wanting to know what was inside your head.

Curiosity always leads to something else.

"---So, I must say that it helps with my anxiety and insomnia. Thinking that I have someone to hold; someone to protect me from all the sadness, rejection or disappointments that seem to love me throughout my life,"

"Are they beasts?" you glanced at the latter, studying him if it was a joke. But, all you see was a determined witcher who was patiently waiting if his guesses were correct.

"Anxiety and Insomnia?" Geralt gave a quiet hum as an answer.

"What? No. Definitely---Well, maybe. If you think of it that way. They keep your mind unstable and problematic. Fifty percent would want you thinking about things that should've been left forgotten. It ruins your sanity,"

"It is a beast then,"

You've given him a small smile, memorizing each curvature of his face; never wanting it to be forgotten. The way his eyes peer back at you in curiosity for whatever you wanted to say like hearing you talk was his entertainment and pleasure.

He'd watched you move closer, letting your curiosity get the better of you as you've felt his hot breath fanning your face in a way that could give you warmth in the midst of the brisk night; his windows never closed shut and feeling him closer than you can ever ask for was giving you the warmth you needed.

A warmth that could take those horrid thoughts away.

"Tell me your stories," you softly urged him on, his voice seeming to be soothing. The only ones that could pacify your jitters to shut down.

The witcher blinked, appearing to be off-guard but utmost compliant nevertheless, "About?"

"Your monsters. The ones you've slaughtered," you joyously smiled, your eyes turning crescent shapes as it felt as if it was the moon that was giving Geralt light to his night sky, "---It might be helpful if I want to become a game developer of something,"

"I've only shared stories with my horse,"

You placed your palms under your head, craning fully to see those eyes piercing through your soul; satisfying your cravings for having him close than you can ever wish for, "You mean, Roach? You talk to your horse?!" a soft exclamation was all it took for Geralt to give a short scoff.

"Merely, now because I have Jaskier and Cirilla. But, prior before they came around; I only had my horses to talk," pause. "---You wouldn't want me talking about how I hunt monsters, it'll bore you to death,"

You firmly shook your head to show him your will-power in hearing those interesting stories he had. A monster-slayer who had boring stories? You doubt. Just learning the back stories of a main character's game was interesting, no doubt that Geralt's stories would even get you gasping from all his slaughters, "I love all types of stories," you cordially whispered, eyes twinkling underneath the candle light as the witcher blinked back, "---Also have read ones that weren't of a penchant. Yet, I've grown to love them."

With little effort of bringing out the big guns, Geralt obediently complied. The deep baritone of his pitch lulling you into having your slumber. He'd talk about his latest hunts and quests; learning about monsters that you didn't know existed. Mostly deadly as some has taken him down and eventually lead him to being poisoned. You've frowned at that, but he'd reassured you that his scorching trials created him to be immune to any poison that was harmful to humans.

He was mutated after all and it made him more compelling.

Geralt has stopped his lullabies when he'd reach at the point where he had tried saving a town called Blaviken; quietly simmering down as you were suddenly perspiring like a dog in heat and heaving deep breaths.

"Midget." he firmly stated, studying your face when you've fluttered your eyes closed as you started listening to his stories. You've nestled closer to the witcher who had a wince on his face as he was perplexed by the sudden drops of sweat that was forming on your forehead. "---Are you alright?"

You gave a quiet chortle as you've felt his breath fanning your forehead, "Maybe,"

His medallion rested on your forehead, realizing that you were cuddling him a little too closely but the bear of a man didn't seem to care, "Your answers can always leave a person guessing," he grumbled more so to himself as you felt him shift on the mattress. Curious as to why his big, rough, calloused fingers were behind you; his hand that he has used to hold a sword and yield for those men to be butchered.

His hand that had magic was now raking through your hair, gently and slowly combing your hair as it was giving you succor and protection.

"You're not...uncomfortable?" you hesitatingly asked, voice smaller and quiet as his body was taking in your small form. The witcher had his eyes closed now; like he was in peace, "I've done far worse than to be scared of giving people hugs,"

"But, this is called cuddles and chill because you're hugging and talking me to sleep,"

"Is that what it is now? Is that what its called in your kingdom?" you've heard him tease, his lips curved in a way that tells you he was poking fun at your modern references that he certainly didn't know.

His fingers continued its ministrations; how gentle he was made your heart beat drum so loud that you could hear them ringing in your ears and you were sure Geralt could be hearing it. You gawked back at the latter, "It won't be called Netflix and Chill because I swear it has a different meaning and---"

Geralt quickly cut you off, abruptly opening his eyes to give you a compassionate look in his eyes, "Cuddles and chill it is, then." you've bit your lip in an attempt to shut your mouth.

"---Sleep, midget." the once brooding witcher demanded before giving your spine a satisfying shiver as his thick fingers raked on the hairs of your nape as he patiently untangled those locks away, "Those beastly creatures you have won't slaughter you while I'm around,"

Inside both of your chests, there was still that insatiable feeling that you couldn't comprehend. However, the fire dissipating an ounce by the tiny bit of wholesome intimacy you've gotten; was just the rattles of one's cage because there was always more.

More and more you'll be willing to take.

Hence, It was a full moon and wolves howl whenever the moon shines bright against the brumal, cold nights as a cicatrix began to shine which has rested in between the valley of your breasts.

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writeforself · 5 years

Text

Remembrance [1/?]

Brasidas x Reader

A/N: Did someone say more Brasidas? No? Well, here’s more!!

Brasidas has no idea how long he has been here, in the underworld. After a while the concept of time itself seems to escape from him, like sand slipping through his fingers, as well as the memories of his life. He is conscious that he was once a fearsome warrior, and because of it, he had done something regrettable, which resulted in where he is now.

The words from his father still resonate within his mind from time to time. Although he had stopped thinking about the meaning of it after he was assigned to this task, he is still haunted by it. Sometimes he wonders what Elysium could be, and ponders on the definition of honour. Nonetheless, it is pointless for such question down here.

Once in a while he would try to remember the previous life beyond violence and bloodshed, past honour and glory; he tries to memorise the beauty of his home state, of harmony and grace of nature, of the people he once loved dearly. Nevertheless, after spending so much time in the underworld, surrounded by misery and wailing, he cannot remember much of the life before.

The only thing that he could remember vividly is the grandeur of the golden fields. How he used to spend his spare time lying on the hills watching the tranquility; the sound of the wind sweeping across the field; the smell of the early autumn that traveled far with the cool breeze; and how the stars sang their lullaby to help him sleep beneath the twinkling canvas. Hypnos doesn’t visit the underworld, but Brasidas still slips into slumber from time to time. When he has time to sleep, he would have dreams of himself treading upon the yellow carpet, of himself hovering high in the cloudless sky among the shining waves. Yet every time he wakes up from those dreams, he would feel a sense of loss, emptiness, like most of the seconds he spent down here, weariness devours him like waking up in a dark winter morning.

But in the underworld, memories fades away like ripples above a windless lake. When duty comes, nothing else matters.

***

“Safe Journey.”

Brasidas waves at the recently reunited couple that are on their way to cross the river. These are the few enjoyable moments for his life in the underworld. He stays and watches them handing the coins to Charon, and be on their way, hand in hand with a toddler between them.

Turns out he is very adept at reuniting broken families. Maybe it is due to his exceptional observation ability that he had acquired in the previous life as a general, or the strong emotional pneuma that comes from those people. Until now, he has always fulfilled the tasks with efficiency and accuracy. Sometimes he even has time to perform a quest or two for the busy ferryman Charon.

“You are just as helpful as your friend.”

Brasidas has just helped another lost soul navigate its way across the river. Charon is in a good mood. Smile doesn’t appear on his face everyday. The queue in front of the dock has finally shortened. It has been a busy day—helping an elder realised her passing, leading a warrior to his glory, guiding an orphan to find his parents— it certainly is the busiest day Brasidas can remember.

However, this friend Charon mentioned, Brasidas can still remember clearly how she helped him find his way in the underworld. Without her help, he would still be trapped on that battlefield, fighting until eternity, soaked in boiling blood and stinging sand. Sometimes he wonders what happened to her after everything. He could not remember her name or face, but the way she fights, resonates through his mind. His memory echoes like a distant chanting, vague and away. After all, he had met many exceptional fighters in his mortal life.

“Well, if you need my help. You know where I am.”

He waves at the ferryman with a tired smile and starts walking south toward the cradle.

Shrouded by the clouds, the sun hangs in the sky, halfway through the middle, never rising nor falling. The light always seems to be dim in the underworld, lingers within the strangest hour of a day, too early and too late. The only purpose of the wind that sweeps across this deserted field is to blow sand into travellers’ eyes. Already accustomed to life in the underworld, Brasidas walks by the dusty road with his eyes half opened. When he reaches the river banks, he would stop to feel the coolness of the water, it is the few leisures he could find.

“Ah there you are. Just the one I’m looking for.”

Hades appears from nowhere behind him. But Brasidas has already familiarised himself with the tricks this god likes to play with him. He turns and bows gently as the god of the underworld gradually descends to the ground. The air always feels frozen where he emerges.

“You seem to be in a good mood.” Hades smirks at his response. “Oh? What gives it away?” “Just an instinct.” “If you are curious,” The air feels warmer as the smile arises on that stern pale face. “I have spent some quality time with my dear queen.”

Yet the warmth soon vanishes, and the usual coldness crawls into Brasidas’ bones.

“Anyway, I have a task for you.” “A task?.” His voice remains flat to constrain any emotions.

“Yes. I see you have been helping our dear ferryman. Since some of his tasks eventually fall into your hands,” He lowers his gaze down onto Brasidas, trying to figure out some reactions. “I thought, why not just order you directly?”

Care not to provide any detail, Hades raises his glowing scythes and points north, he continues without patience.

“The village at the north end of the field. Do what you must.” Then he vanishes into the dusty winds.

***

Brasidas couldn’t figure out whether Hades approves he helping Charon. Hades can be easy to read sometimes. He tends to set up a few torture shows when he’s in a bad mood. Especially when he loses bets with his brothers, or when he has a quarrel with that queen of his. Days like that the entire underworld would experience the fury from its dual rulers. On the other hand, when he’s pleased he would grant wishes for the lucky mortals—so has Brasidas heard, he never has the chance to witness such occasion so far.

Brasidas walks pass the newly arrived souls and ventures toward the opposite direction others are heading. During his time in the underworld he has yet seen any souls marching with pleasure. All of them march with a dreadful pace; their gaze fixed onto their steps; every step they take consume all of their strength, carving marks onto the ground, until eventually tucked under layers of trails.

When the village appears in his vision, he hears Charon calling for him not far away. He turns and realises there’s a small dock by the shore. Few souls come for this dock. There are only a dozen of them scattered by the road, each of them staring or toying with the drachmes in their burnt hands. Charon stands at the front of the line with a scroll in hand. He waves at Brasidas and signals him to come closer.

“Didn’t expect you to see you here.” Charon chuckles without raising his head. It sounds empty like the eyes of the souls lining behind.

“Hades asked me to come here, for another lost soul.” He answers and points at the village lying in ruins up ahead.

Charon raises his head as soon as he hears the name of lord of the underworld. But Brasidas can sense nothing in those bottomless black eyes. Nothing can escape or enter those pairs of eyes. The only clue Brasidas receive was Charon’s amusing reply as he draws a long dark line on the scroll.

“Oh, that mad one... I was going to ask you to help me with that too.” He drags his sentence as he leaves the line.

“Do you know anything? Hades didn’t say much.” Unlike Hades who enjoys trickery, Charon usually provides some tips for Brasidas’ task. But Charon merely frowns at his request this time.

“The only thing I can say is that this one is related to your main job. I guess that’s why Hades went straight to you for this one.” “Separated by war?” Brasidas mutters to himself.

“Go on then. Hades wouldn’t like you wasting time in idleness.” Charon urges Brasidas to move on before he calls for the other souls to stand in front of him.

Brasidas marches on thinking about the meaning behind their words. When he realises he is already standing in the middle of this desolate village. There is an uncanny atmosphere in this village like most of the uninhabited location in the underworld.

He looks around but couldn’t find any trace of person. Then he ventures on to the higher part of the village. Finally, among the muffled moans that drift along the river, he hears a small, almost imperceivable laugh coming down from the house next to the river.

That is you, covered in crimson, standing by the river. Your eyes glimmers when your body moves along with your soft chuckle. And you haven’t noticed Brasidas approaching you. He is baffled by your behaviour. It has been a while since the last time Brasidas saw a genuine smile. He remembers how he used to laugh under a bright summer sky, or during a chilly winter morning.

“Chaire.” The way your head turn feels like it’s all happening in slow motion. The smile on your face does not disappear when you hear his voice. It remains, like a stranded whale clings onto every bit of water. But those eyes, they shine with such lustre. “May I ask you what are you laughing about?”

You seem unsurprised at all when a stranger sneaks up from behind and asks you such a peculiar question. Brasidas could not find a word to describe his feelings. The only thing he could think of is the first meal after a long and tedious battle. He savours every particle of joy he could find.

“Just some silly memories.” You chuckle and continue, like you are talking to an old friend. “I used to spend time by the river during summer.”

If he is a free man, he would like to listen to you for eternity. He wishes to remain silent and admire the way you talk with such vibrance. It is a refreshing scene in the underworld. But he has a job to do.

“I see…” He mutters, thinking about how to break the news to you, because you don’t seem to know. “May I ask what you are doing here?”

“Just resting, river brings me such fond memories.” He sees a fragment of disappointment flashes through your eyes. Maybe you already have the idea? He hates to be the bearer of bad news. “I must be on my way. I’m meeting someone.”

“How did you get here?” He wants to be sure. “I’ve traveled a long way!” You answered with delight. “I’ve never traveled so far before.”

Yet your answer only uncovered more mysteries. Is it why Charon used the word “mad”?

“Where are you going? I may be able to help.” Somehow it would pain him to watch the lustre gradually fades away in your eyes, darkens with ambiguity like the ambivalent sun in the sky.

“Somewhere…” For a moment the smile is wiped away from your face. The muscle on your cheeks twitches while you ponder on the answer. “Somewhere… we promised each other to meet… somewhere…” You stop breathing after the last syllable. Standing, and shivering like you are being watched by the gorgons.

“Why don’t I take you to look around?” He takes your hand and has no idea why he does it. Nevertheless, when he senses the intense quivers from your arm, he only strengthens his grips. As far as he can remember, it seems to provide assurance. “I’m quite familiar with this part.”

“That would be wonderful! I’ve always wanted to travel with someone.” You snapped back to the captivating expression, like nothing had happened.

Although enchanted by your outlandish behaviour, Brasidas has not forgotten his task to help you find your way. He chooses his every word and step carefully because of a story he once heard regarding a lost soul. A story of how the devastating truth can damn the soul to an eternity of drifting. With no purpose, no memory, no thought of their own, like a madman driven into insanity, lost forever. He would never let that happen. At the same time he is befuddled by his determination.

“Let’s go then.” He didn’t know he still has the ability to smile. Not until now, when the muscle on his forehead softens and his lips press against each other to form a charming shape of a new moon. “He’s waiting.”

tbc...

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