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rhysismydaddy · 4 years ago

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An Artful Revenge Pt. 2

Feyre’s part of The Damnation Series. Part 1 is here.

I am proud of myself for finishing this shit, because it’s long as fuck. Whoops.

~Feyre~

Honestly, I should’ve known.

I should’ve known that somehow, with whatever endless resources he has, he would find me.

That’s all I can think as I find my way into the Impressionists exhibit and find Rhysand Azara, real estate agent to the stars, leaning against the wall, sipping a cup of coffee and looking at Dancers in Blue with narrowed eyes.

It’s been five days since our date, and like the cliché I am, I’ve spent the entire time thinking about him. I’ve checked my phone countless times, and I even decided to stalk him and Googled his name.

When--just like he’d said--nothing came up, I googled Dancers in Pink. He said he had it, but it had been sold a few years ago in an auction to “Amren Valenta.”

Unless Rhysand had a stage name, that was definitely not him.

I dug some more, but after three hours all I discovered was that he owned Azara Industries, which owned a lot of buildings downtown. Oh, and he never let himself be photographed.

Which was upsetting, because it means I had nothing to stare at whilst stalking him.

Pathetic. I am so pathetic.

But anyway, I should’ve known he’d come here. He’d said he’d call, but he didn’t have my number. Plus, I’d told him I come here pretty much every day, so really, what did I expect?

I still laugh as I spot him though, somehow surprised, and ask, “Here to flirt with more art students?”

“Just one,” he answers, running his eyes over me as I draw closer.

Gods, this man is seductive. He’s just looking at me, but I feel his gaze like a touch, dragging over my entire body with slow, intentional grazes.

My breath hitches, and his eyes twinkle, like he’s well aware to the dirty place my mind has wondered. I can tell he’s holding in some likely-male comment, but he refrains from embarrassing me and he holds out another cup of coffee.

I take it, grateful for the caffeine boost, and find it somehow made exactly the way I like it. Maybe I’m not the only one stalking.

Although his methods have to be better than mine if he already knows about the definitely unhealthy amount of sugar I put in my coffee.

“How many times have you been here this week?” I ask, curious to see his level of devotion.

“Three. Not a very convenient way of communicating with someone, I admit. I was about to send a smoke signal.” He watches me sip the coffee, watches my tongue dart over my lip. “Plans tonight?”

I fight a sigh and decide to be a student worthy of my scholarship for once. “I told myself I’d work on my senior project.”

His lips twitch at my dejected tone. “What is it?”

A ginormous pain in my ass. “Bad,” I say simply.

He shakes his head, sipping his coffee and eyeing me over the rim of the cup. “Details.”

For someone who offers no information, he loves demanding it from me. Instead of fight it, I groan and give in to the patriarchy. “It’s just bad! It’s supposed to be a mix of different styles and mediums, but it’s going so poorly I might just start over. Or drop out and become a starving artist a year ahead of schedule.”

Rhysand smiles at my phrasing. “I would never let you starve. And what do you mean, mixing styles and mediums?”

“For someone who frequents museums and has millions of dollars in art, you don’t know much about it, do you?”

“I have people for that.”

“Amren Valenta?” I ask without thinking, exposing myself as a stalker.

He pauses, cup halfway to his smirking mouth, and raises a brow. “Clever, creepy little woman,” he teases. “But yes. Amren is my curator, and we use her name because I don’t want media attention. As I’m sure you know.”

Busted and blushing to high hell, I roll my eyes and become a junior detective. “Isn’t it illegal to buy something with someone else’s name? What if the IRS comes after you?”

Rhysand looks at a loss for words at that. If I weren’t serious, it would make me laugh how shocked he looks. “I guess,” he says after a moment, “I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.”

I roll my eyes again, because we both know he doesn’t give a shit. It’s not like the IRS actually enforces rules for the one percent, anyway.

“Now tell me about your project.”

Rolling my eyes at how bossy he is, I tell him, “I wanted to combine photography and painting. And I wanted it to be kind of abstract, but also realistic enough.”

“Ambitious.”

I sigh, not able to repress it this time. “Stupid, is what it is. I don’t even know where to start. I have no motivation, let alone inspiration, to work on it.”

A contemplative look crosses his face. “I know where you could find inspiration.”

I raise an eyebrow and gesture around us, because in case he’s missed it, we’re in a museum. Inspiration abounds. But he scoffs and whispers, “This is child’s play compared to a certain someone’s private collection.”

“Oh yeah?” I ask, playing along and pretending I don’t know the someone he’s talking about.

He nods, looking around as if making sure there are no spies in the completely empty room listening we’re standing in. “He has Degas, Monet, Dali, you name it. And he’s generous enough to let you come over tonight.”

Pursing my lips, I scan his face, trying to see if he’s serious. I mean... I am dying to see his collection. But, “Is this just a ploy to get me naked?”

He puts a hand on his chest, offense written across his face. “You think I’d try to seduce you while you study?”

“Yes.”

“You’re probably right.” He chuckles, then says, “If you need to get naked to look at art, I certainly won’t complain. But no, Feyre darling, this isn’t a ploy.”

I pause, half stuck on the whole darling thing and half contemplating what to do.

Ploy or not, I know that if I go to his apartment or house or mansion or castle, I’ll probably sleep with him. He’s too attractive, and my resolve just isn’t that great where’s he’s concerned.

Plus, I know it’s insane, but art just... Never mind.

I tell myself nothing’s going to happen and that I’m going because of the art--both lies--as I say, “Okay.”

He extends a hand, and I slide mine into it, almost sighing at how perfect we fit together. Would that be the case everywhere?

Feyre.

I avoid looking at him as he leads me from the room and outside, where a very beefy guy holds open the door to a black sedan. “Seriously?” I ask Rhysand as he ushers me in the back, then climbs in beside me.

“I usually drive myself,” he says in defense, smiling when I roll my eyes.

The city blurs around us as Beefcakes drives, and I’m about to ask where the hell he lives when the car pulls to a stop and the door opens. Climbing out, I look up at the black, shiny penthouse tower, and say, “Of course you live here.”

It’s expensive and in the city and has a million floors, and I bet he lives at the very tippy top.

He gives me a strange look but pulls me in the lobby, then into an elevator. We shoot up flight after flight till we reach the penthouse, confirming my suspicions.

For what feels like the millionth time, I ask myself why the hell Rhysand’s taken an interest in me. I mean, a year of therapy got me to admit I’m decent looking and all, but I’m... I’m a college student. He’s older and richer and has his life together. Why does he want me?

I don’t have long to contemplate life’s great mysteries because the elevator doors slide open, revealing his apartment, and I become too busy trying to mask my surprise.

I thought the place would be... I don’t know, like him. Sleek. Modern. Luxurious.

And it is, at least that last part. Everything is obviously expensive. But there’s also a homey quality created by a fireplace, plush couches, decorative rugs, tapestries.

It’s burgundy and black and cream, and so unexpected I smile.

I step in and walk automatically toward the huge windows, taking in the view and realizing we’re at the dead center of the city. In all directions, Chicago’s spread out, lights and traffic and Lake Michigan surrounding us.

Even though the place is beyond wonderful, there’s one thing missing.

I turn to Rhysand and raise a brow. “No art?”

“One floor down.”

I have to press my lips together to keep the questions in. One floor down, as in it takes up the whole floor. As in he has a private museum. As in I’m so fucking excited I can hardly walk.

But he seems to be baiting me, seeing how long I’ll last before demanding to be taken down there, so I casually walk around his apartment, taking in all the little details. “It’s more... lived in than I would’ve thought.”

He nods, knowing what I mean even though it was a poor way of explaining it. “I have a few places around the city, but this is the one I prefer.” Nodding to the kitchen, he asks, “Hungry?”

“You cook?” The thought of him covered in flour seems absurd, but we all have our hobbies.

He smiles like I’ve said something funny. “No, but I have takeout menus in there.”

“Hopeless,” I tease, going to the kitchen and opening the fridge like I’m the one who lives here. “I’ll find something.”

I end up finding beer, wine, cheese, and various fruits and vegetables.

Not a lot, but enough to make a charcuterie board, which just so happens to be my specialty. I search for a few minutes before finding a wooden cutting board, then start to assemble whatever snacks I can find.

Cherries and grapes, two types of cheeses, carrots, and crackers fill most of the board, and I fill in gaps with blackberries and chocolate chips I’m surprised he has.

Once it’s completed and visually appealing enough, I slide it over to where he’s seated on a barstool and bow dramatically. “I’m a master cheese plate maker.”

“I see that. Wine?”

Nodding, I reach in the fridge and grab the first bottle I see. Setting it in front of him, I move to the cabinet and get two glasses and an opener.

Rhysand takes the opener and eyes the bottle, lips twitching as he smoothly uncorks it.

“What?” I ask, unable to figure out what’s funny. Was it weird to make a board or something? Surely even rich guys like cheese and crackers, right?

He pours two glasses, shaking his head and silently refusing to let me in on the joke.

Eyes narrowed, I sit next to him and suspiciously take a small sip from my glass. He watches me, probably expecting me to say something about it, so I offer, “It’s good.”

He bites his lip but can’t keep the laugh in at that, so I finally demand, “What?”

“It’s an $800 bottle of wine, Feyre.”

I almost spit it all over him, which would indeed be a shame, because there’s probably $50 in my mouth. Managing to swallow it down, I sputter, “You... you should’ve said something!”

He’s still laughing, but he stops to take a huge swallow and shrug. “I say we drink the whole bottle.”

I put my head in my hands, blushing. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I couldn’t care less.” He pries my hands away. “Seriously. I just wanted to tease you.”

Now that, I believe. But I still ask, “You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.” He smiles, taking another sip. “I keep the really expensive stuff at the townhouse, anyway.”

I roll my eyes and drink some more, somehow trying to taste it better or something now that I know it’s liquid gold. Shifting to put my foot on the stool, I lean across him to grab the platter.

His gaze glides over me slowly, and there’s surprise in his eyes, like he can’t believe I’m sitting in front of him so casually.

It’s probably weird to be so... open around a stranger, but he’s not exactly normal, so I don’t feel any pressure to be, either.

Regardless, it’s a little hard to breathe with him looking at me like that, so to break the tension, I grab a cherry, pull the stem off, and hold it an inch in front of his face.

“Ready?”

His eyes cross and he pushes my hand away so he can actually see what I’m holding. “Ready,” he confirms.”

I stick the stem in my mouth, using a trick I spent three hours teaching myself on a rainy afternoon to tie it in a knot, then pull it out with a victorious grin.

“Very impressive,” he notes, but before I can gloat about my supreme cherry-knotting abilities, he steals the stem and sticks it in his own mouth.

My eyes are wide, but I don’t have time to ask what the hell he’s doing before he pulls it out.

Unknotted.

“Impressive,” I repeat, actually meaning it. “How’d you do that?”

“I’m good with my tongue,” he says immediately, obviously having been lying in wait for the question, and I huff a laugh.

If I called my sisters and told them what I’m going right now, they’d probably try to have me committed. I’m sitting in a billionaire’s penthouse apartment, drinking expensive wine and watching him untie cherry stems with his tongue.

“How was your week?” I ask to get us back in semi-normal territory, grabbing a cracker off the plate.

He answers vaguely and asks me about mine, and just like that, we fall into easy conversation.

It’s honestly strange to me that after one date, we can talk like this. With my ex, it took weeks before I was really comfortable around him, and yet I feel completely at home with Rhysand.

He tells he’s from the south side of Chicago and asks about my hometown, and I it feels natural. It’s just... easy.

“By the way, you can just call me Rhys,” he tells me as we finish off the platter. “Using my full name reminds me of when I got in trouble in grade school.”

I drain my wine glass, a slight buzz in my veins, and ask, “So I only call you Rhysand when I’m about to spank you?”

He howls with laughter, then surprises me by asking, “What’s your middle name?”

“Adalene. Why?”

“Just trying to figure out what I’ll call you when we get around to spanking.” I blush as he continues, “Feyre Adalene should do.”

He puts the empty wine bottle in the trash and runs a finger over my red cheek. I bat it away, embarrassed, but he just laughs and asks, “Ready to go downstairs?”

For some reason, I get a little nervous, but I put on my big girl pants and nod, taking his hand when he offers it.

Then we’re back in the elevator, coasting down a floor, and just before the doors open, he says, “Close your eyes.”

Anticipation makes it difficult to follow the request but I manage, and he guides me out of the elevator and turns me slightly. “Open.”

I open my eyes and come face to face with something I never thought I’d see.

“You... you have a...” I whisper, not quite able to get the word out.

“Meule.”

One of eight left in private collectors hands, Monet’s Meules--or Grainstacks--are some of the most recognizable, renown works of art in the world. The last was sold four years ago for over $80 million.

Amren Valenta is a very, very rich woman, according to her art collection.

I’m standing inches from it now, mildly unsure of how that happened, looking at the sunset colors bleed into the shadows of the grain, taking in the easy lines and brushwork.

Turning to look at him, I see he’s leaned against the wall next to the painting, head tilted as if I’m the most interesting thing in the room.

“I can’t believe I’m here right now,” I say honestly, my voice airy and light.

He just smiles and motions to my right. “The collection goes in a loop.”

I nod, and after a few more minutes staring at the Monet, I start to walk.

Or more like mosey.

If he’s irritated with how long I’m taking, he doesn’t mention it. He follows me as I stare after pieces of art I never dreamed of being close to. Van Gogh, Rembrandt, Klimt, Pollock, Munch.

And then, at the edge of my peripheral, I see it.

Dancers in Pink hangs besides a smaller Degas, but it’s all I can look at. The dancer’s skirts are so bright in person, the tulle layers seeming to come off the canvas. The gold in the background is vibrant and metallic, in sharp contrast with the dark wall it hangs on.

Gods, it’s beautiful.

I know there are more famous paintings in here, but I’ve spent three years going to look at Dancers in Blue, never imagining I’d see one a similar work.

Tears slide down my face and a laugh bubbles out of me, the two reactions complete opposites but both somehow feeling right.

Strong arms wrap around my waist, and I feel Rhysand’s chin settle on my shoulder as he hugs me from behind. “You know,” he whispers, seeming to not want to disrupt my moment with loud noises, “I never understood how important this is to people.”

“Oh, Rhysand. It’s... wonderful.”

It’s an inadequate way to say what I want to say, but it’s all I can come up with at the moment. I lean into him, and we stand like that, me staring at the painting, him at me, for a long while.

When I start to get tired, I turn in his embrace, wrap my arms around his shoulders, and kiss him softly. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

I somehow finish the loop, and by the time we’re in the elevator again, I’m so emotionally spent I can’t hardly breathe.

“Inspired?” he questions, linking our hands and pulling me closer to his side.

I nod, but inspired doesn’t begin to cover it. I’m grateful and overwhelmed and so happy I could burst.

A professor once told me that art is a gift that lasts forever and never stops giving, and I never really understood what she meant until now. Over a hundred years after Dancers in Pink was completed, it still brings people to tears.

It’s a powerful and beautiful and eternal way to send a message, and it makes me feel like a small piece of the puzzle, but at the same time, so important and alive.

We glide smoothly back up to his apartment, but neither of us move once the doors ding open.

Because technically, there’s no longer a reason for me to be here.

I’ve seen the art, drank his expensive wine. I should get my bag and go.

I should... but I don’t want to.

Rhysand’s perfectly quiet and still beside me, patiently waiting for me to make up my mind.

The angel on my shoulder tells me how sweet and considerate he’s being. The devil tells me to reward this behavior with a few sinful ideas.

Running a hand through my hair, I debate my options. Be smart and leave, or stay and try and fight the urge to throw myself at him.

“Oh, fuck it,” I mutter, dramatically taking a step forward like I’m going into war.

He laughs as he follows me off the elevator, strolling back to the kitchen. “More wine?”

I nod, because at this point, I’m already a lost cause. He opens a new bottle and pours me some. “How much was this one?”

“Ten dollars,” he lies, fighting a smile. “On sale at Walmart.”

“I’m surprised you even know what Walmart is,” I laugh, taking my seat back at the bar.

“You forget I’m from the south side. All this,” he motions around us, as he takes the seat next to me. “Used to be nothing more than a dream.”

“How’d you do it?” I ask, genuinely curious. Most people with his kind of wealth were born into it and given every advantage possible. “What’d you do?”

He looks down at the floor, but there’s a sudden set of his jaw, a tightness in his shoulders. “Whatever I had to.”

I don’t point out he’s given me yet another non-answer. Instead I say simply, “I find working for something makes you value it more, anyway.”

His eyes find me again, and there’s something I can’t read in his gaze. “Yes, it does. And it makes you do whatever it takes to keep it.”

I swallow and nod slowly, trying to figure out what exactly he means.

He takes a deep breath, then drinks the wine in his glass in a single swallow. There’s a story there, and it’s easy to see it burdens him, but it’s his to tell in his own time.

Just to get that strain out of his gaze, I switch topics completely. “Honestly, I’m still trying to figure out how you untied that damn cherry stem.”

Rhysand smiles, a full one that showcases all his pretty little teeth, and leans in, the intent clear in his eyes.

“Come here and I’ll show you,” he whispers.

I press my lips to his and open them immediately--for the lesson, of course--and his tongue meets mine in a slow glide.

Where our first kiss was all heat and drifting hands, this one’s slow and sensual and like ice cream melting on a summer day.

His mouth fits mine perfectly, and his hands seem to be made to hold me, sliding up my thighs to settle on my hips. The hair at his nape is soft against my fingers, and I lean on the stool to get closer and wrap my arms around his neck.

I suck on his tongue, and he makes a low sound, then his hands are tightening and lifting, and I’m being settled on his lap.

Both of us on one stool isn’t ideal, but I wrap my legs around his waist and hope we don’t go crashing over.

Gravity comes into play and I start sliding, so he turns the stool and traps between him and the counter. The granite digs into my spin, but I can’t be bothered to care, because the new position gives his hands freedom to roam again, and he slides them over my thighs, across my ass, up my sides.

His thumbs brush the sides of my breasts, and they become heavy and aching against his chest.

His mouth slowly drags down to my neck, and I sigh as he finds that one spot that drives me crazy. His nips the skin, tongue smoothing the small hurt, and his name slips out of me in a quiet moan.

Everything seems to change at once.

Cursing creatively, he sweeps me into his arms and stands, then walks us into his living room and plops onto a plush couch.

My ADHD kicks in and I’m momentarily distracted by how soft the leather is, but then his tongue runs across the seam of my lip and I snap back into focus.

My hips are churning against him, desperate for some friction, and I kiss him without restraint, abandoning our slow, peaceful rhythm from earlier. I hadn’t realized I’d been working on the buttons of his shirt, but then a band of tan skin is exposed, and I dip my head to press my lips against it.

He tugs my hair to bring my mouth back to his, and I practically attack him, biting his lip and pulling his hair and generally acting like a depraved cavewoman.

He doesn’t complain, though. His hands drag my hips closer, then slip under the hem of my sweater.

The scrape of his callouses on my sides snaps me back to the shocking reality where I’m--yet again--making out with a man I hardly know, and I gasp, then curse, then practically jump backwards off his lap.

Standing in front of him, I put a hand over my mouth like that’ll stop me from using it and look him over.

He’s all sprawling legs and swollen lips and beautiful eyes, and I force my eyes to the ceiling. “You look like a hot, virginal dork I just deflowered in the back of my minivan,” I tell him.

“I feel a bit like that,” he laughs, running a thumb over his bruised lips almost in shock. “Although it’s always nice to be desired.”

I’d be embarrassed if I wasn’t so distracted by him looking so thoroughly messy.

But I know that despite what just happened, I can’t do this with him yet.

I mean, I definitely could, and it definitely would be enjoyed by all parties involved, but I would regret it.

Rhysand isn’t someone I can just sleep with and forget. I’ve known him a week, and I already feel a strange sort of bond with him.

If we slept together, then never spoke again, it would hurt me more than I’d care to admit.

“I think I should leave.”

He nods like he was expecting this, but asks, “Why?”

Putting my hands on my hips, I repeat what I said earlier. “Working for something makes you value it more, remember?”

He smiles and stands, taking a minute to straighten the clothes I’d pawed out of place.

“It also makes you do whatever it takes to keep it,” he reminds me, a shiver sweeping over me at the words. “Come on; I’ll walk you out.”

We go to the elevator and stay on opposite ends the entire ride down. I’m a little proud, because I most certainly thought about crossing over to his half.

Stepping outside, Rhysand motions for Beefcakes to open the door. “He’ll drive you home.”

“Thank you,” I say, starting towards the car.

I take two whole steps before he’s somehow in front of me, blocking the path. “Two more things.”

He kisses me, gently but firmly, then pulls back and slips a piece of paper in my hand. “It’s your turn to send smoke signals.”

I look down at the paper and see a number written in a slashing scrawl, intelligently putting together that it’s his phone number. I look back up to respond, but he’s already back at the entrance to the building.

Rhysand looks over his shoulder, winks, and disappears inside.

I get in the SUV and tell Beefcakes my address, and off we go. I study the piece of paper the entire way there, mind reeling with everything that happened today.

The easy conversation, the art, the kiss.

Is this how it feels to be swept off your feet?

And how long, exactly, do I have to wait before calling him?

________________________________________________

This took me so long to edit holy FUCK. Part 3

@perseusannabeth @cursebreaker29 @a-bit-of-a-cactus @elriel4life @girl-who-reads-the-books @shinya-hiiragi @aelinfeyreeleven945tbln @ireallyshouldsleeprn @highqueenofelfhame @nahthanks @ghostlyrose2 @tillyrubes10 @claralady @tswaney17 @rowanisahunk @superspiritfestival @thegoddessofyou @awesomelena555 @booksofthemoon @greerlunna @jlinez @studyliketate @over300books @justgiu12 @maastrash @aesthetics-11 @bamchickawowow @b00kworm @sleeping-and-books @musicmaam @hizqueen4life @maybekindasortaace @elorcan-trash @emikadreams @alpha-omegas @joyceortiz13 @sapphic-beauty @meowsekai @ahappyhistorianreader

#feyre #feysand #feysand fanfiction #rhysand #acotar #acomaf #acowar #acofas #acotar fanfiction #a court of mist and fury #a court of thorns and roses #a court of wings and ruin #feyre archeron

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writings-of-dumpy · 5 years ago

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Bad Guy

Because fuck that bitch Steve Rogers—he needs to get his ass kicked.

-White shirt now red, my bloody nose/Sleeping, you’re on your tippy toes/Creepin’ around like no one knows/Think you’re so criminal-

As I laid there, totally disoriented with my nose bloodied from the last hit I took, I heard my assailant start to creep around the apartment. The Winter Soldier had been mine to take in by the Russian government, so I was laying low near his apartment in Bucharest. Turns out, the guy was actually not the worst, contrary to what my employer would have me believe. Even though I had mostly done PI work for civilians, the Bolshevik revolution-types that existed in the Russian government had employed me to take this beefcake in, telling me stories about how awful he was and how he was extremely dangerous. Much to my dismay, I had no choice but to take the job because if I didn’t I would be tailed for the rest of my life. So here I was on the floor of a man I had been stalking for 3 months with America’s biggest asshole trapsing around like he owns the place.

-Bruises on both my knees for you/Don’t say thank you or please/ I do what I want when I’m wanting to/My soul? So cynical-

“You sure put up a pretty big fight for a simple hit,” he said when I stood up. I could feel the ache in my knees from the days I had spent crouched down and watching James Barnes before today. “That’s why you’re here, right? To kill him?”

I rolled my eyes. “Oh please. Not everything is life or death, but I guess it is for you.”

“Is that a veiled threat?” he challenged.

“I thought it was an overt threat, but I guess you need more blunt phrasing: get out before I literally throw you out,” I spat at him.

“Listen, maybe we can work this out—I don’t want to have to kill you.”

“Aw, so sweet.”

And with that, I threw Captain Asshat across the room.

-So you’re a tough guy/Like it really rough guy/Just can’t get enough guy/Chest always so puffed guy-

It was clear that he was getting nervous. I wasn’t someone who could be so easily beaten through brute force—which was what he relied on. See, I had the serum, too. But I also had the Tesseract power, which gave me the advantage of knowing most of his moves before he made them.

“Who do you even work for?!” he spat at me as I dodged a punch and tripped him.

“Myself,” I responded.

“Really? Then why is Bucky of interest to you?” he asked and threw me off of him before I could choke him unconscious.

“Because he’s an interesting person worth a shitload of money—which I need,” I told him with a scoff and kicked him in the groin.

“Low blow,” he groaned.

-I’m that bad type/Make your mama sad type/Make your girlfriend mad tight/Might seduce your dad type/I’m the bad guy, duh-

I shrugged and kicked him in the face, then heard the door click and in walked my target. Closing in, the police made quite the racket.

“The hell is this,” he muttered.

“Don’t worry about it. Come with me, though—you’re no use to anyone dead.”

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ivyfics · 6 years ago

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When you’re sober — (fic)

When air is back in his lungs he manages a, “Whoa. Who’re you?”

Long fingers land on the bridge of black rims, pushing them up even when they haven’t moved an inch. “Tsukishima.” Eyes behind glass settle on him for a second before their gazes break, jump away. The blond snack stands straighter and asks, “And you are?”

“Not straight,” Tetsurou replies, dazed and with a croaky throat.

Rating: Mature Pairing: Kurotsuki

Read on AO3

The night is lost between strobe lights, deafening beats, and way too much tequila for four people to consume—three and a half if the shots Akaashi’s given away as to protect his liver are brought into consideration.

He’s not sure if his face is numb or his entire skin is on fire but he’s swaying slowly between those two the same way he sways on the dancefloor, the amount of alcohol in his blood caught up with his motor skills and taking him from frantic head-nodding and hip-popping to that sweet, sweet rocking of his knees to a beat that does not match whatever the DJ is playing.

Crowded, loud, hot both in the way that leaves Tetsurou with the kind of glow people buy exorbitantly priced fine-milled stardust to achieve and in the two tutoring sessions the bouncer’s niece is getting out of Akaashi to agree to let them cut the long ass line curving around the block.

Do not be fooled, this is not your usual club.

It’s an epiphany, one they get to experience only after being vouched by Terushima’s minute nod to the gatekeeping stack of muscle. Not that his man, his bro, the hot piece of ass he lives with could not take him if things went south. He has absolute faith that Bokuto is more than capable of decking the dude if necessary, as much as he has in the knowledge that he would never deck anyone undeserving of having their bone structure re-arranged.

Bokuto is out of his sight down to the tippy-tips of his frosted hair, a feat considering they tower over almost everyone else in the area around the booth they claimed for themselves when they arrived—courtesy of Terushima, as long as Kuroo pulls through with a hot number burning the contact list on his phone.

Bokuto was holding the Jose Cuervo and the fantastic, demonic amber liquid inside of it when he hopped into the crowd and vanished. The last thing anyone needs right now, especially Tetsurou, is to have Bokuto get completely fucked; there is no way in any ring of hell that any of them have the steady gait it takes to transport a completely fucked Bokuto anywhere. Oikawa, maybe, but the last Tetsurou saw of him was grinding down on the nearest unknown beefcake so that’s a total loss. Good night for Oikawa’s ass, terrible for them if they need some muscle to transport their own beefcake out to wherever they’ll head to next.

Somewhere with a bed they can all throw themselves on, or at least some blankets on a floor. Whatever that place turns out to be, Tetsurou will not be the one leading them there this time. He and Bokuto ran into some other friends with commodities on Terushima’s radar; they got some nice Dictador shots out of it, and Tetsurou is feeling it in the raging pit burning his guts.

Before anyone can go all judgey on them, they don’t usually do this. Going for a drink usually involves lots of beer, finger foods because Bokuto gets snacky when he drinks, and a place where they can all sleep over when they eventually get beaten by the blessed sleep that comes with getting a little more than buzzed. Also, fuck whoever judges them even if that weren’t the case. They do what they want.

The floor shifts, dancing party-goers along with it, and Tetsurou’s arms spread out to find some balance. He takes a second or two to steady himself and to realize that the floor is as solid as a rock, that he’s the one doing the walls-caving-in thing, and that maybe those shots hit him a little harder than he thought. He waddles through the crowd trying his best not to look down, eyes blinking faster than they should.

Vertigo doesn’t seem plausible when you’re only about six feet high (which he’s not because his feet are on solid ground even though his head technically is,seeing as that’s the height it would fall from if Tetsurou was to take a little spill) but Tetsurou’s felt some things before and there is no other way to explain the wave that rolls over you when you’re head-diving face first into a sticky, disgusting floor of a club.

Landing on the booth with his hip, Tetsurou admits that whatever line exists between him getting out of this club by his own means and not has been crossed—meaning: after all the undeserving mental bitching he’s being doing in slander of Bokuto’s name, he’s the one who is completely fucked. Luckily for him (and the ones who now have the responsibility to make sure he doesn’t wash up in a random alley somewhere when the sun comes up), he’s not impossible to transport.

A little wobbly, sure, but easy enough to maneuver.

When the swirling of his sight calms down, he can see Oikawa in his line of sight. The brunette is doing something that Tetsurou will call dancing because he might be drunk out of his wits but he’s polite, ass not so discreetly backing up into the wall of muscle that is Oikawa’s prey tonight.

He looks pretty solid. Maybe he can carry Tetsurou out.

Writhing bodies flash in and out of darkness, eyelids growing heavier and then not until he feels a massive amount of warmth at his side, groaning. It’s a familiar feeling and Tetsurou groans back, setting some of his weight back on Bokuto. Guess it wasn’t all slander.

“I think it’s time we left,” Akaashi speaks up loud enough to be heard over the thrum of the music. He sounds sober, too sober, and Tetsurou envies him furiously around the spinning of the room and the numbness of his face. How nice it would be to have control of his physical form. Tetsurou turns to blink at Akaashi blearily, overshooting a little to the left and having to compensate. He finds him with a hand on Bokuto’s hair, the motion of his fingers combing through and working at the strands hypnotic to Tetsurou’s alcohol-addled brain. Bokuto agrees with another groan, face flopping on Tetsurou’s rib cage. It should hurt, that with Bokuto’s nose being extra jabby, but Tetsurou is above that kind of sensory input right now. Tetsurou tries to move, his neck craned in a way that doesn’t bother him now, but that would hurt if he were any more sober than he is. “Oikawa is not going to be happy about that.”

Bokuto groans again, the sound barely audible from where it’s muffled at Tetsurou’s sweaty side. “Leave him. I wanna sleep.”

Akaashi hums, letting Bokuto deal with himself while he locates Oikawa on the dance floor. “He’s had too much to drink to leave behind, he’s not going home with anyone tonight.”

Bokuto’s head snaps up, eyes squinting to catch Akaashi’s line of sight. “Oh. Yeah.” The couple of strands of Bokuto’s hair that have come loose from being a sweaty gross mess flop against his forehead, cheek resting on Tetsurou’s shoulder when he’s tired of seeing Oikawa’s ass grind down on whoever that is.“He’s going to bitch at me about cockblocking him until he falls asleep.”

“But he’ll make pancakes for everyone as thanks for not leaving him alone with a serial killer.”

“Fuck yes, pancakes. Can we have pancakes, Keiji?”

Akaashi makes a noise of agreement. “When we get home and you guilt Oikawa into making them.”

“Can we go home now?”

“There’s a tiny problem,” Tetsurou says, because he owes it to them to disclose exactly how much it’s gonna take to lift him from this booth.

Tetsurou is the presentable drunk; he doesn’t puke, doesn’t slur his words or does crazy shit if he’s left out of sight even for a second—and how is Suga doing these days, he wonders?—but he does become a floppy meat puppet for a while, all while looking like he’s just over-danced and overheated. “I’m soooooo drunk, Akaashi, I can’t feel my legs.”

Akaashi’s face twist, just a little, at having two people to drag out. They try, really, to balance out who stays sober enough to make sure everyone’s safe (or keep an eye on Suga when he tags along—except Bokuto. Suga has the uncanny ability to drag him along in his shenanigans), but Akaashi has been it for the last three times they’ve gone out. He can’t cook for shit so it won’t be pancakes but Tetsurou is going to do something nice for him this week.

“I guess walking back to your place is off the list.”

Right. That was the plan. Their shared apartment. The apartment that is at decent walking distance when you’re only planning to dance a lot and drink a little. Like they were supposed to do tonight.

“Keiji, I’m sorry,” Bokuto moans. “Tequila was a bad choice.”

Tetsurou makes a noise of agreement. He agrees with that all the way to his soul. “Tequila is always the right choice until it’s not. It’s always not.”

“It’s fine. I think I have a place we can crash at nearby. Let me go call first.” Akaashi gets up, pulling his phone out of his pocket because he’s an angel. “Don’t go anywhere.”

Tetsurou laughs a little. “Couldn’t even if I tried.” Then, he adds, “Maybe if I tried really hard.”

“Don’t try.” Akaashi gives him a sharp look, shutting him down before disappearing to work his magic.

Bokuto doesn’t move an single centimeter, only looking up when Oikawa comes back with the swole dude in tow.

Oikawa looks like an add for expensive, overpriced perfume. “Kuroo, you ratty bitch.”

Tetsurou is hurt. “How come I’m the only ratty bitch here? I’m not even the drunkest one.”

“Koutarou can do what he wants.”

“You heard him. I do what I want,” Bokuto laughs, followed by a groan. Kuroo rests his eyes for a while, enjoying the warmth at his back and the portion of Oikawa’s conversation that floats his way. Time disappears for an infinite moment, his body loose on his seat.

Akaashi comes back after an unknown amount of minutes, letting his presence be known by a flick to Kuroo’s forehead that makes him jolt, and in turn, makes Bokuto groan again. A quick glance tells Kuroo that his eyes are closed and he’s snuggling against Kuroo’s side. If they don’t get moving soon he will fall asleep on this booth. On cue, Bokuto says, “I don’t wanna get up.”

“Bokuto, get up right now. I can’t carry you by myself when you’re like this.” Akaashi’s voice is stern but Kuroo knows in his gut that his words are paired with his hands slicking Bokuto’s hair back from his sweaty forehead gently.

“I can help,” Oikawa’s catch of the day speaks up. “It looks like you could use a hand.”

He certainly looks like he can help, muscle tee showing off arms that would make sculptors weep. He can probably take care of Bokuto by himself. It’s not that any of them are puny, it’s just that Bokuto is so fucking ripped. He’s a wall of heavy, dense muscle, dragging down whoever carries him with his drunk dead weight. This new dude looks like he can keep up, though.

Tetsurou’s mouth goes off. “Thank you, ripped stranger.”

The stranger shakes his head, amused. “Iwaizumi,” he offers. That must be his name.

“Thank you, ripped Iwaizumi,” he amends.

Huh, maybe he’s drunker than he thought.

They somehow manage to get out of the club in one piece and without leaving anyone behind. Tetsurou doesn’t really know where they’re going, but the last two brain cells not taking a bath in booze are too busy trying to put one foot in front of the other without toppling over the pavement to care. Akaashi is leading them somewhere safe, he hopes. And comfortable. Please, be comfortable. He’s so done with walking.

Tetsurou leans a little heavier on Tooru. He’s rosy-cheeked and his eyes are half-lidded, Tooru’s energy level dropping a little without the dim lights and heavy music to amp him up. The toll of the night out is showing in his slow gait, sturdier that Tetsurou’s. Tooru is the one leading him but he leans his weight on Tetsurou, too, their combined efforts keeping them moving and upright.

Kind of like the less blind leading the blind.

They’re at the back of their little group, Akaashi chatting with Iwaizumi with Bokuto between them in front of them. The road is quiet and glowing under the streetlights, aiding to the surreal feeling carried by the fresh breeze.

Tetsurou gets lost in the flexing muscles of Tooru’s dude’s arms for about two seconds before almost tripping and Tooru’s tensing arm around his shoulders break him out of it. “He’s hot, Tooru. God job.”

“You mean ‘good job’?”

“That too.”

Tooru laughs, a big free guffaw fueled by the late night air and whatever level of drunk he still is, his body against Tetsurou shaking more than it should have for something so unfunny. The pair of them warble in their steps a little, and it’s Tetsurou who makes them still so that they don’t fall. Tetsurou looks forward and catches Tooru’s dude looking back at them, risking an unsteady Bokuto that clings to him for a glance at a laughing Tooru. He falters, minutely—but enough to have Tetsurou notice and Iwaizumi’s cheeks go red even under the dim lights before he quickly faces front.

The building they arrive at is so incredibly familiar that Tetsurou doesn’t doubt he’s been here before. Even without clinging to Tooru’s shirt his feet would find their way around, and he follows without paying attention to where they’re going because his body leads the way for him on autopilot. It takes them an eternity and Tooru’s death grip on his shirt to climb the steps to the second floor, but they make it relatively unscathed. Kuroo does bang his shoulder against the wall a little too hard, but the pain fades almost immediately.

They stop near the stairwell, the door a pale gray with a metal ‘2B’ above it. Kuroo fades out at this point, gaze weirdly entertained by the shiny ceramic frog sitting next to the doorframe. It’s pink, for one, and it has a yellow ribbon around it’s throat. It stares back at Tetsurou with jumpy eyes and a forever smile on its face.

It’s hauntingly familiar. He’s seen that frog before. He knows the frog. So much that he says, “I know that frog.”

Tetsurou’s voice is only for himself, but Bokuto manages to catch it. “ ‘Course you do. That’s Lola.”

What? How does Bokuto know the frog? How does Tetsurou know the frog? Before he can voice his concern the door opening cuts him off, and Tetsurou, he’s—he’s dumbfounded.

Standing in front of him is the damning proof that god is real, because the devil made whoever this is. He’s gorgeous , standing in the entryway in blue sweats and a white t-shirt. Soft fabric and a tall frame, pretty and short curls over sharp eyes.

When air is back in his lungs he manages a, “Whoa. Who’re you?”

“Not straight,” Kuroo replies, dazed and with a croaky throat.

Everyone goes quiet at that, stun broken by Akkashi’s groan of ‘not this’ and Oikawa’s ‘pffffft!’

After they manage to move past Tetsurou’s mouth, the shuffle in to the apartment slowly. It’s small, but surprisingly free of clutter. The feeling that Tetsurou’s been here before grows by the second, down to the pleased sound he makes when his butt decides to rest on one of the stools by the kitchen counter.

Iwaizumi chuckles next to him, hands free now that Bokuto is starfished on the couch as much as he can.“I think that’s my cue to leave.”

“Are you sure you don’t wanna stay, Iwa-chan?”

He shakes his head. “I’m good. I have to go back to my people.” Coming closer to Tooru, he places a hand on Tooru’s nape. “I’ll see you?”

Oikawa pouts, but nods, face shifting to mischief almost immediately. “Thank you for your service. I’ll be sure to make it up to you,” he purrs. Oikawa leans in closer to his ear, probably to whisper dirty things, but Kuroo does not care even a single bit, not an ounce. He’s much too busy looking over at their host, their literal saviour. The very recent but very intense apple of Kuroo’s eye.

He’s still as pretty as he way when he opened the door.

Tetsurou stares at him awhile before a smile takes over. He leans forward, elbow catching his weight on the counter. “You know,” he drawls, “If I had a dollar for every time I saw someone as pretty as you, I wouldn’t have money to take you anywhere.”

Oikawa’s choked laughter fills the air behind him followed by, “You don’t have it now.”

Tetsurou whips to face him. He whispers furiously across the room, hand shooting out to point at the blonde. “Shhhhhh! He doesn’t know that!”

The outburst makes a quiet chuckle come from behind him, and when Tetsurou looks over his angel has a barely there smile on his face and is pointedly looking away from him. It brings a goofy smile to Tetsurou’s face. He’s making progress!

He clears his throat, brain going a mile a minute trying to come up with his best work. “So are you a bookworm or do you just dress like one?”

“Why?”

Tetsurou shrugs because duh, “Glasses.”

Tsukishima gives him a glance for less than a second before rolling his eyes. Akaashi’s bored tone speaks up, “That was terrible. ”

“Worse that terrible, that was lame,” Oikawa says.

Alright, okay. A hit and a miss, but he can do better. “You’re like a long water bottle.”

Everyone goes silent until Akaashi’s tentative, “Did you mean a tall glass of water?”

“Yeah. Are you acid? Because I’m tripping over you.”

Oikawa sleepily boos in the background while Akaashi walks over to stand next to Tsukishima. “Do you have anything we can feed him? He needs to sober up.”

Tetsurou doesn’t stop. “I see you and my eyes hurt.”

Akaashi’s trek to the fridge stops. Then, he shrugs and keeps going. “I got nothing.”

Tsukishima hums, face fully in his fridge, giving Tetsurou the best view of his ass. It’s small but it’s so cute. “All I have is leftovers, but that usually doesn’t go over well. The only thing that won’t make him puke is cheese and crackers.”

Tsukishima plates it up for him, along with a glass of water. He sets it in front of Tetsurou and tells him, “Eat.”

“Thank you,” Tetsurou smiles at him, enamoured. He starts on them slowly, nibbling on the cheese. Tsukishima—and that’s so clunky to say, so long. He needs a nickname, something as cute as he is.

Tsukki, maybe. He tests is on his tongue. “Tsukki.”

“Yeah?”

“Tsukki. Tsuuukki. Tsu—kki.”

“What?”

“You’re so pretty. Your hair is so yellow,” Tetsurou says with a lilt, staring at the slice in his hand. Then, his eyes widen as he thrust it higher in the air. “Like cheese!”

Tsukki chuckles again, eyes closed and head shaking. “You’re going to regret so many things tomorrow.”

That might be true, but Tetsurou won’t regret trying to make him smile. “Are you a 175 degree angle? ‘Cause I hope you’re not straight.”

Akaashi sighs, “A nerd, even when he’s drunk.”

“You’re a punch to the face.”

It’s Bokuto who speaks up this time, laugh muffled by his face resting on the cushion. “A Knockout.”

“You’re a filthy thief! You stole my hea”— Tetsurou emphatically swings his arm, causing his cheese to slip and land on the floor—“Oh, my cheese.”

His cheese. His poor cheese. Tsukki gave him that.

Oikawa lifts his head from where it rests on Bokuto’s back. “Awww. Tetsu, that one was kind of cute.”

“Of course it’s cute. It has to be cute, cause he’s cute,” Tetsurou grumbles, “He’s like a—a“— Tetsurou’s hand shoots out, gripping the arm nearest to him and asking—”what’s the word that’s not mop?”

The arm nearest to him happens to belong to the blonde, who just stares down at him. After a second of Tetsurou’s inquisitive look, he responds. “Not mop. Broom?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m like a broom.”

“Uh-huh.”

Tsukishima closes his eyes. Takes a deep breath. “I’m going to regret this. Why?”

Tetsurou lets go of him and leaps to stand straight. “Cause you sweep me off my—”

And everything goes dark.

Tetsurou is dead. He’s either dead, or dying, or being digested by a giant beast but he’s dead. Something crawled into his mouth, took a shit and then died there, too.

After furiously praying to whatever god there is to please let him him succumb back to sleep until he’s not dead enough to feel like this—and failing—he slowly blinks awake, eyes tacky. The room is blessedly dark, and the familiar light green sheets underneath him are soft.

He, very carefully, gets up in search of people. While the room’s curtains had been drawn, the rest of the apartment is sunny. Tetsurou blinks against the light, keeping his hand on the doorframe for support.

“Morning, Romeo.”

Tetsurou stumbles out into the room, pouring himself on his usual stool. Long minutes pass by before,“Did I— Did I call your hair cheese?”

“Yes. Yes, you did.”

Tetsurou whines, his forehead hitting the cool surface of the counter. “ Tsu—kki, why do you let me embarrass myself?”

Tsukki stands by the stove, glass of water in his hand. His laptop is next to Tetsurou on the counter, along with a stack of papers. By the looks of it he’s been awake for a lot longer that Tetsurou. With the most neutral expression, he answers, “It brings me joy.”

“Where is everyone?”

Tsukki hums. “Bokuto kept saying something about pancakes, so he and Akaashi left to get some.”

He would. Fuck Bokuto and his inability to suffer through hangovers like the rest of them. He probably woke up peppy and ready to face the day.

“Oikawa”—Tsukki makes a pinched face at his name. Knowing Oikawa, he made sure to annoy Tsukki as much as possible before taking off. Not that it was that hard for him, it took some time for Tsukki and Tooru to get along—”left to get ready for his date with, and I quote verbatim, ‘The adonis who is going to destroy whatever there is of me later.’ ”

Tetsurou frowns, going through the watery memories of yesterday. “I remember someone big and muscly.”

“That’s the one.”

Tetsurou hums into the counter. He remembers most of last night the way he does childhood memories, with vague and veilied understanding of what happened.“How could I forget you? And Lola!” Tetsurou looks over to the door, raising his voice. “I’m sorry, Lola.”

Tsukki lets him sulk in his head for a bit. He comes closer and Tetsurou can feel his elbows resting on the other side of the surface, in front of him. “Hey, Kuroo?”

“Hnn?”

“How come you never hit on me when you’re sober?”

He chokes. Tetsurou is too hungover to be having this conversation, because for a second there—and he doesn’t want to get to ahead of himself, here—it sounded like Tsukki was… pouting. That has to be a mistake, because Tsukki doesn’t pout. He snips.

“It just doesn’t seem fair that I have to put up with your terrible flirting when we aren’t even on a date. Don’t you think?”

While he’s right and Tsukki is decidedly not pouting, he’s also not not pouting.

And sure, Tetsurou’s given it some thought. Everyone’s given it some thought; he’s had nights chatting with Oikawa where he, too, admitted to having a thought once. Granted, Tetsurou might have given it a little more than just some thought to it.

A little but too much of it sometimes, when they spend time together and all he does is think about it, along with fleeting idea when someone mentions the blonde in front of him. Or when he sees someone trying to hit on Tsukki—which, why wouldn’t they? He’s all of that —and there’s this sudden sourness in his tongue he pretends isn’t there.

“It seems to me like you should rectify that, seeing as there is this huge backlog of your awful drunken flirting to make-up for,” Tsukki continues, like he’s not destroying Tetsurou’s mind.

“How—How would I go about rectifying that?” Tetsurou’s voice wobbles.

“Lunch, for starters. Or coffee. I just—I need to know.”

“Know what?”

“If your flirting is actually that bad.”

“You want me to flirt with you? On a date.”

Tetsurou knows he sounds incredulous. It’s so unexpected. He never imagined Kei would be interested. How many times have they been here before? How many times has Tetsurou drunkenly flirted with him, only to make like it’s nothing the next day? Tsukki has always brushed it off good-naturedly to the point that Tetsurou thought he was so far off Tsukki’s radar that the only way he’d ever take any advances from him would be as a joke.

Kei sighs, “Forget it.”

He sounds so disappointed. Tsukki is (badly) pretending not to be, but Tetsurou can hear it. It makes him desperate to rectify this, hope making him jump even if his head will kill him for it. “No! No take-backs! I’m buying you lunch. And dinner! As a date, not friends—well, obviously friends, but friends that are on a date. Romantically. Full romo. And I’m flirting with you!”

Tetsurou’s head is pounding, his voice too loud but he takes a quick breath and sucks it up. “I’ll flirt with you right now. You’re—”

“Please don’t,” Tsukki interrupts him.”You look like you’re about to die.”

He’s not about to die, and he’s not missing this shot because he made Tsukki misunderstand.

“Save it for later,” Tsukki says, and there’s a light blush on his cheeks, his voice so flustered while he looks away and, oh, oh.

Tetsurou is so incredibly fucked.

#my writing #kurotsuki #haikyuu!!#hq!!#fanfic

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navybrat817 · 1 year ago

Text

The Red Woods

Pairing: Lumberjack!Steve Rogers x Female Reader Summary: Steve tells you a story as he keeps you warm by the fire. Word Count: Over 2.7k Warnings: Implied sex, spooky story (violence), attempted scare, humor, Steve Rogers (he’s a warning, okay?). A/N: Fic #5 for Navy's Trick or Treat Nonsense belongs to Lumberjack!Steve thanks to this poll winner. ❤️ Not beta read and written on my phone, so any and all mistakes are my own. Divider by the talented @firefly-graphics. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

The moon and stars lit up the night sky, beckoning you to go outside and bask in the beauty. Cold settled into your bones as you stepped outside and shivered. It was chillier than you expected and you debated going back into the comfort of the cabin. Steve had already started the bonfire nearby though and you knew the heat from the flames would warm you up.

So would your lumberjack.

Steve carried an extra load of wood from the shed as you walked toward the fire. He set up a spot for you to sit beside each other, but you had a feeling he'd have you in his lap as the night went on. He liked having your body close to his, whether it was after a long day of work or coming home after a mission. You enjoyed it, too, because he enveloped you with his love.

"Sorry, sweetheart," he said, catching the slight tremble in your body as you took a seat. "When I suggested the fire, I didn't think it would be this cold."

"It's okay," you assured him as he added another log to the fire. The rich and powerful scent from the smoke soothed you as you stared into the flames. "But what made you so adamant to have one tonight?"

"No particular reason," he replied casually, wiping his hands before he sat down beside you. It was a bit too casual, but the red and orange from the flames dancing along his face distracted you. The urge to reach up and touch his beard was strong. "Wasn't something I really got to do in the city."

Part of you would always love the city. So would Steve. There was always something to do and inspiration could be found around every corner. It didn't mean it was home though. It was a place to visit, to remember. Your place in the woods with each other was where you were meant to be.

And the love of your life provided plenty of inspiration if you ever needed it.

"I don't remember ever having a fire there," you said after thinking about it. There weren’t many places to have fires. Your old apartment didn’t even have a fireplace.

"Hardly ever saw the stars," he added.

You nodded a little, your fingers scratching along his chin. If your touch was too cold, he didn't make a big deal out of it. "I didn't really get to appreciate the stars from my old apartment either," you said, tilting your head to look up at the sky. "But out here? It's like they serenade us. It's a chorus that resonates with the moon until the sun comes up."

Steve wrapped an arm around you, allowing your body to heat up more. He was your own personal heater. "Even when you're not writing, your words are beautiful."

You couldn't blame the fire or his body for the heat that filled your face. His opinion on your writing meant the world to you. "You're just saying that to get in my pants," you teased.

He chuckled as his mouth moved close to your ear. "I already did that this morning," he whispered.

You exhaled, remembering the two of you tangled up in each other. Lazy, soft kisses and lingering touches as he made love to you. His large body pinning yours to the mattress, his hips thrusting in a slow rhythm like the gentle waves of an ocean. You nearly sobbed when you came, his head thrown back in ecstasy as he quickly followed.

You had lovers before Steve, but he taught you the true meaning of making love.

"And I'm sure you'll do it again before the sun comes up," you whispered.

"If I have my way," he said, pulling you closer. Your hand fell to his shirt, gripping the flannel. Your super soldier was insatiable some days, but you weren't going to complain when you both reaped the benefits of his appetite.

"It's too bad the gang isn't here. Otherwise we could tell spooky stories," you said. Maybe you could invite Bucky and Jewel over another night for dinner. It was nice that Steve had one of his best friends not too far away. Sam also didn’t mind making trips to visit.

"Well, you and I can still tell stories to pass the time," he said, kissing the top of your head. "How about I start? Even though I’m not the best storyteller."

“That’s a lie. You’re a great storyteller,” you said, lifting your head and seeing a hint of a blush in his cheeks. With his deep, commanding voice, the man could read the phone book to you and you'd listen. You teased at times that he could do a podcast if he wanted to. Or erotic recordings. "And I don't scare easily, but you can try."

You didn’t mind a healthy dose of fear now and again. It was natural and helpful in some situations. It was also fun and exciting in the right setting, like this.

"I'm sure you've heard all sorts of different stories about creatures and spirits who live in the woods," he began, which earned a nod from you. "Local legend says there's a spirit right here who controls part of the forest: The Lumberman."

"Wow. A lumberjack is telling a story about a lumberman? How original," you said, your deadpan expression dropping when he pinched your side. "Hey! I was kidding."

"Let me tell the story," he said, brushing his lips against the top of your head again as an apology. "They say long ago that a lumberman lived in the deepest part of the woods. He had no family or friends and mostly kept to himself. He only ventured into town to sell the wood he chopped down."

"A loner," you said, already invested.

"Yeah, he was. Not unfriendly. Just a quiet man. And all was well until a local woman went missing. The town searched everywhere for her and couldn't find her. It was like she vanished without a trace. Her family demanded answers, so people shifted the blame to him," Steve explained, a slight breeze rolling by.

You frowned as you listened. It was just a story, but you knew how dangerous mob mentality could be. "What happened?"

"A group of men confronted him in his home and demanded to know what he did with her body. He swore he didn't know what happened and that he would never hurt a soul, but they didn't listen. They were out for blood,” he said, sadly shaking his head. “When he still refused to admit to any wrongdoing, the men took turns hacking him up with one of his axes and burned his cabin to the ground. They even brought the axe back as some sort of trophy, stained with his blood."

"Jesus," you whispered, scooting a bit closer.

"It was only after they killed him did the girl show back up in town alive and well. Not a scratch on her. She had gone a couple towns over to meet up with some guy," he said, rubbing your arm.

"So they condemned an innocent man to death," you said.

"They did," he said, nodding toward the trees. "Most of the townspeople didn't venture to his part of the woods out of fear that his spirit would seek revenge. And they were right."

You raised an eyebrow and waited for him to continue.

"Over the years, hikers and locals who were brave enough to go on his old land went missing. Their bodies were never found, but people say you can hear their screams echo through the air if you get close enough,” he said, pausing to look around with a somber expression. "And that they became part of the trees."

Glancing around as well, it was difficult to make out the trees in the darkness. "They became part of the trees? How?"

"As you get closer to his land, you can see faces twisted in pain in the bark if you look closely enough. Some even say there’s blood in the sap and dripping from the branches. They even renamed that part of the forest the Red Woods since the paths have inexplicable red dirt, like blood had seeped into the soil," he said, lowering his voice as if to tell you a secret. "It’s like a warning to turn back."

"That is not why they call it the Red Woods," you argued, though you weren’t completely sure now. You actually had no idea why the area got that name.

"That’s how the story’s told."

"So an innocent man was hacked to pieces in his home," you said slowly. "And now he kills anyone who steps into his territory?"

"Condemned to a terrible fate. Just like he was," he said as simple as that. "And people still go missing to this day."

You smiled a bit. There was nothing at all uplifting or funny about the story, but Steve spoke with such seriousness that you almost believed the tale was real. "Okay, but why is he still haunting the woods? If it's revenge on the men who killed him or the townspeople in general, he wouldn’t go after random, innocent hikers."

Steve’s head tilted as he looked at you, something a bit more sinister in his gaze. "Isn’t it obvious? They took his axe. He’s waiting for someone to return it."

A heartbeat passed before you huffed. "Of course, he is. The axe that the men brought back as a trophy," you said, gesturing toward the toolshed. "It’s too bad you don’t have it. You could help put his soul to rest."

"What if I told you I do have it?" he asked.

Your heart rate increased before you huffed again. "You’re a great storyteller, but a terrible liar, Beefcake."

His eyes shot to yours, maintaining eye contact as he reached beside him. You raised an eyebrow when he held up an axe. You had to admit, you knew his tools well and that was one you didn’t recognize. "See? Still stained with blood," he told you, holding it closer to the fire so you could see the blade. "Should we go into the Red Woods and return it?"

You didn’t admit that your stomach turned a little as you brought your hands up and slowly clapped. "Bravo. You went all out for this story. And, no, I’m not going into the woods when it’s this cold out," you said before a snap from a twig nearby drew your attention, making you tense up. "What was that?"

"What was what?" he asked, setting the axe down.

"Oh, you had to have heard that. Your hearing is ten times better than mine," you argued, standing up and narrowing your eyes to try and see when you heard another twig snap. You froze before you began to giggle. "Okay, Bucky! Come on out! I know Steve put you up to this."

Steve jumped to his feet and pushed you behind him. He wouldn't let anything happen to you. "Buck isn’t here. He's at home with Jewel," he said in a hushed tone.

"Wait, you didn’t convince him to come out of the woods to try and scare me?" You asked, placing your hands on his back when he shook his head. "Okay. It’s probably just an animal then."

SNAP.

"I don’t think an animal did that," he whispered, guiding you toward the cabin. Maybe it wasn’t a joke after all. "I think we should-"

"Give…" you stopped at the sound of a demonic voice just beside the toolshed, your heart thumping. "Me…" a man stepped out of the darkness, dragging his left foot behind him. "My…" His decayed skin was caked with blood as he lifted a hand. "AXE!"

Your eyes widened before you snapped out of your stupor. "Oh, fuck this," you muttered, pulling away from Steve who called after you. Grabbing your shotgun from the porch, you brought it to your shoulder and cocked it. "I don’t have an axe, Lumberman, but I’ll shoot you in your fucking face if you take a step closer."

"Whoa!" Steve shouted, holding out his hand for the "zombie" to stop. "Don’t move. She’s serious!"

"Fuck," the zombie muttered, tapping the side of his neck. "Seriously? I really thought I’d get you," the demonic voice fading to a normal tone.

"CLINT?!" you guessed, lowering your gun. The former Hawkeye nodded. "What the hell are you doing?!"

"For the record, this wasn’t my idea," Steve said, an innocent look in his blue eyes. "And I told you she wouldn’t get scared. I don’t know why you insisted on this."

No wonder he wanted to have a fire tonight.

"Okay, okay. It was my idea. Everyone is off doing their own thing and I just wanted to have some fun," Clint explained, walking closer toward the fire as he began to peel the makeup away and toss it in to burn. "This didn’t work on Jewel either! She grabbed one of Bucky’s knives and almost stabbed me."

You laughed a little. No doubt Bucky was both proud of and scared for his girl for that move. "Maybe because, I don’t know, in the story Steve told the Lumberman was hacked to pieces and you’re clearly not. There was also no indication that the Lumberman could leave his territory. Everyone went missing on his land. So why would he be here?"

Clint exchanged a look with Steve. "She has a point," your husband said.

These men are defenders of the universe.

"Yeah, okay. Thanks for that," you said, putting the gun back where it belonged. "I have to ask though, why prank me? And why prank Jewel?"

Clint shifted a bit on his feet. "So the guys could be heroes? But seeing as how you grabbed a gun and Jewel grabbed a knife, I think you two are good."

You had to smile as you turned your attention back to Steve. "You wanted to be my hero and protect me from a zombie?"

With a sheepish smile, Steve nodded and scratched the back of his head. "Yeah, I did," he said in a small voice. "It’s stupid, right?"

Your man, a true hero who saved hundreds of lives, simply wanted to protect you from anything bad. You never loved him more. "It’s not stupid. I think it's kind of sweet," you assured him. "Clint, please, put out the fire and get the hell out of here. Steve, get inside so we can have sex and get warm."

Clint coughed into his hand. "Can I at least get a coffee before I go? I was out there for a while and it’s a little chilly."

Steve ignored his friend as he gave you a smile. "You’re really going to sleep with me after we tried to prank you?" he asked, looking at his feet for a split second. "And you know I’d never want to scare you, right?"

"Yeah, I’m really going to sleep with you. And I know the last thing you’d ever want to do is frighten me. All you want to do is protect me," you smiled. You weren’t going to deny yourself pleasure, especially since you were starting to get cold again. "But for the record, this is pity sex for failing your prank and not grabbing the gun first," you added, giggling when he took two large steps toward you.

Clint stared after you as Steve grabbed and pulled you toward him, fastening his mouth to yours. "So, is that a no on the coffee?"

Your friend eventually got his coffee before he went on his way. After Steve thoroughly wore you out, he promised to stick to cuddling in front of a fire moving forward. Making love in front of a fire was also on the table, whether it was in front of the fireplace or outside under the stars. Though he never did tell you where he got that axe or why it really looked like it was stained with blood.

But maybe you could convince Clint to take that axe into the Red Woods and show Steve how to really scare someone.

Oh, these two. Love and thanks for reading! ❤️

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navybrat817 · 2 years ago

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Looks Better on You

Pairing: Lumberjack!Steve Rogers x Female Reader Summary: Steve can't stop thinking about how good you look in his shirts. Word Count: Over 1.6k Warnings: Mentions of explicit sexual content, referenced vaginal sex (wrap it before you tap it), a bit of fluff, talks of having a family, slight feels (it's me), Steve Rogers (he’s a warning, okay?). A/N: Last "planned" writing for January belongs to Beefcake and Tippy. ❤️ Not beta read and written on my phone, so any and all mistakes are my own. Moodboard by yours truly, banner by the wonderful @sgt-seabass and divider by the talented @firefly-graphics. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Please reblog or comment as it means the world!

Steve loves seeing you in his shirts.

After he received the serum, his blood ran warmer than he could remember. Cool weather or a chill in the air didn't bother him the way it used to. You, on the other hand, couldn't stand being cold. If you set your foot on the floor in the morning and it wasn't warm enough for your liking, you immediately went back under the covers.

He bought you a pair of slippers to leave by your side of the bed to help.

Not that he minded when you used the weather or chill in the cabin as an excuse to cuddle.

"Please, warm me up."

He happily obliged every time.

It was the first time he saw you in his shirt though that he was done for.

One early morning after his run, you were in the kitchen making breakfast. The crackling bacon beckoned to him as he went to greet you. The food was long forgotten when he walked in and took in the sight of you. Your bare legs were on display as you faced the stove, giving him the chance to admire the beauty in front of him. In fact, the only thing that seemed to cover you at all was a red and blue flannel shirt.

His flannel shirt.

You smiled over your shoulder before you began to plate the bacon. "Good timing. Just needs to cool off," you said.

He almost asked you to repeat yourself when you went to the end of the counter. You didn't even bother buttoning the shirt all the way. He never understood the appeal of seeing someone else in his clothes until now. It was like he was touching you without his hands being on you.

A visible claim for others to know who you belonged to, but thankfully it was the two of you in your home.

Being both jealous and in awe of a piece of fabric was something he could add to his list of things he never thought would happen.

"That's mine," he said in a low voice.

"Yeah, I know it's yours," you teased, holding up his coffee mug. "I'm just filling it up."

He had something he wanted to fill up, too.

"Not that. My shirt," he said, his fingers twitching when you looked yourself over.

"Oh, yeah. Sorry. It was just laying there and it smelled good and I-"

"Are you wearing anything under it?" he asked, moving forward until he trapped you between his wide frame and the counter.

You smiled as you carefully set the mug down. "Why don't you check?" you suggested, gripping his hand and guiding it between your legs. He groaned when his fingers brushed your folds. "Oops. I must've forgotten," you said, widening your stance so he could explore.

Breakfast was cold that day since he was too busy fucking you over the counter. And on top of the kitchen table, which you commented later how incredibly sturdy it is. And in your bed.

All with his shirt on.

At some point your breasts spilled free, giving him the opportunity to watch them bounce as you eagerly took his thrusts. He appreciated every inch of your body the way you deserved and wondered how his other shirts would look on you in the throes of passion. Part of him felt guilty because you wore his shirt to cover up and now he couldn't keep his hands off of you. Or his cock out of you.

"That's it," you panted once he gave you a breather. "I'm stealing all of your shirts from now on."

"Doesn't stealing imply that you won't give them back?" he asked, kissing your warm forehead.

Between the sex and his body being close, you wouldn't get cold anytime soon.

"They're mine now," you smiled, shutting your eyes as you curled up against him. "Sorry."

"I guess that's fair," he said, touching your back through the flannel. "They look better on you anyway."

After that, it became a normal thing to leave his shirts around for you.

On the colder days when he had to get to work before you, he made sure to leave a warm shirt for you to put on when you got out of bed. Other days he had a tendency to leave a sweatshirt on the back of your desk chair. It was adorable how you pushed the sleeves up before you focused on writing. T-shirts were easy access when you exercised, even though you had a drawer full of shirts suitable for working out.

"I thought you only liked to exercise in the bedroom."

"That's my favorite kind of exercise, but I need to do more than that to keep up with you, Beefcake."

You didn't look at all ashamed when he later caught you spritzing his cologne in the air and walking through it.

"What?" you shrugged as you put the bottle down. "It didn't smell enough like you, okay?"

"I'm not judging," he chuckled.

Why would he? The fact that you wanted to keep wearing his clothes, with his scent on them, made him happy. Especially when he went away for missions, unsure of when he'd be back. Coming home to you in one of his shirts was the best kind of welcome.

He made sure to get another bottle of that cologne so you wouldn't run out.

He also decided early on that he liked his flannel shirts on you the most. Maybe it was because it was the first shirt of his he saw you in. It could have also been because it reminded him of the man he is now, the lumberjack who made a home with you. If he looked at you just right, he could imagine a child in your arms wearing a matching shirt.

Someone to make your home even brighter.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" you asked one day, narrowing your eyes as he leaned your hip against the bedroom door frame.

"Like what?" he asked innocently.

"Like you want to ravage me."

"I always want to ravage you."

He smirked when you sharply inhaled. It was the truth. He couldn't help that you made him an insatiable man. It elated him that you felt the same way.

"Hmm. You're thinking about something else."

"Still thinking about you," he said truthfully.

You set your hands on your hips and he did his best not to let his eyes drift down. The fabric of the worn red and blue top brushed your thighs as you tapped your right foot, like you sometimes did when you tried to get a read on him. He didn't give anything away.

"It's quiet today," you said as you let your arms drop. He wasn't expecting you to say that. "Sometimes I wonder…"

"Wonder what?" he asked, his blue eyes watching as you tugged at the hem of the shirt.

"What it would be like if the cabin wasn't so quiet, aside from the noises we make," you said with a coy smile. A hand went to your stomach as you sat on the edge of the bed. "Laughter, even crying. The pitter patter of little feet."

His heart pounded when you gave him a loving smile.

"Is that what you were thinking about?" you asked.

He pushed himself off the door frame and took light steps toward you. He hadn't given away what he was thinking, but he should've known you'd figure it out. The two of you were in tune with each other.

"You a mind reader?" he teased, towering over you as you leaned back on the mattress.

"No," you answered, reaching up to frame his face. "You've just had this tiny, but different, smile on your face lately when I wear one of your shirts. And you keep looking at my stomach or resting your hand on it."

"I didn't think I was being obvious," he said sheepishly.

"I'm pretty sure you started baby-proofing the place without realizing in between working and keeping me in bed," you teased, brushing your lips against his.

"But if you don't want that, I understand."

"You think I don't?" you asked sadly.

"I just don't want you to feel like you have to take a certain path in life because of someone else."

Family was something he wanted, but didn't think he'd have after everything. You changed how he envisioned his future. You changed everything.

He refused to put any pressure on you though.

What kind of man would I be if I asked that of you?

"Steve," you sighed with a slow shake of your head. "I'm pretty sure you changed my path in life the moment you set foot on my property. I had my work and I loved it, but you made me want more than that. So whatever it is that we want, we'll figure it out together."

He kissed you again, wishing he could put into words how you changed him for the better. How you gave him hope. He'd continue to show you through his actions.

"But I'm not having twenty kids," you smiled when he moved his kisses along your jaw.

"No, sweetheart. How about ten?" he joked.

"Two. That way the number of kids doesn't outweigh the adults," you teased as he moved you to the center of the bed. "And should that day come that we decide to make a family, you may have to buy some bigger shirts for me."

"I'll buy you as many shirts as you want," he smiled, making you gasp when he settled over you. "Like I said, they look better on you anyway."

You think he can convince you to have ten? Bahaha. Love and thanks for reading. ❤️

Masterlist ⚓ Steve Rogers Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

#navybrat writes #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x female reader #steve rogers x you #steve rogers x y/n #steve rogers #nomad!steve rogers #lumberjack!steve rogers #lumberjack!steve rogers x reader #nomad!steve rogers x reader #steve rogers imagine #steve rogers fanfiction #steve rogers au #beefcake and tippy #chris evans x reader #chris evans x female reader #chris evans x you

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navybrat817 · 2 years ago

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Is our lumberjack nervous to be a dad?

A little bit, nonnie.

Prepping the Nursery

Pairing: Lumberjack!Steve Rogers x Female Reader

Summary: Steve reflects as he readies the nursery.

Word Count: Almost 900

Warnings: Fluff, ki-ssing pregnancy, slight feels (it's me), canon divergent, Steve Rogers (he's a warning, okay?).

A/N: Set in Into the Woods AU. ❤️ Not beta read and written on my phone, so any and all mistakes are my own. Divider by @firefly-graphics . Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

It was a warm and sunny day when Steve decided to paint the nursery. After testing a few colors and picking a theme, he wanted to get to work. You wanted to help, of course. He requested that you wore a mask, even though he had the window open the fumes wouldn't overwhelm you. He also asked you not to climb on the ladder.

"Hope you don't mind me using this," you said, putting on one of his old shirts before you joined him. You didn't button it though, keeping your bump exposed.

Still look better in my shirts than I ever do.

"Don't mind at all. Just stay off the ladder. That's an order," he half teased.

"You do remember I'm a perfectly capable human being who can take care of herself. I had a whole career as a writer before I met you and still do," you teased softly, observing one of the walls. He knew the room was going to be beautiful. "Between you and Bucky, I swear."

"Between the two of us, what?" he asked.

Bucky already proclaimed himself as an "uncle" and expected Steve to be the same to his baby. He couldn't believe both of you got pregnant around the same time. Maybe fate was trying to give them more of the happiness they deserved.

"The baby proofing. The restrictions. It's just a shock you don't have bubble wrap around me."

The sheepish smile on his face along with his mumbled apology made you laugh away your exasperated expression. You insisted on sticking with your routine, even on your tired days, and you wouldn't push yourself more than necessary. It was in his nature though to be protective of those he cared about. You were no exception and neither was your precious cargo. And if anything happened to you or your baby, he'd-

"Steve?" you asked.

He didn't answer as he set his paintbrush down and guided his hand to your stomach. He'd never forget the pure, unbridled joy he felt when he learned he was going to be a father. He may have shed a happy tear once he wore you out with celebration sex. It was a dream come true.

There was also an exposure of fear when all he wanted to do was wrap himself around you and keep you both safe from harm. Physically, he was now more than strong enough to keep you both safe. But with the ailments he had from his childhood, would any of those pass on? Would the serum wipe those chances out?

He just wanted his baby to be healthy.

You had enough to worry about being attached to the former Captain America. It made it easier to walk away from missions completely for the time being with a baby on the way. He had seen enough of the horrors of the world and felt the blood on his hands. He didn't want that on his doorstep.

"Steve," you said again, your eyes filled with understanding. "I'm teasing you, okay? If it makes you feel better to keep an extra eye on me within reason or be a little protective, that's more than fine."

You weren't just saying that to placate him and that alone made him relax. "Thank you. I appreciate that," he said, kissing your temple.

One of the things Steve cherished about your relationship was the give and take. You didn't cave to his whims without a second thought and he didn't enforce rules just to stay in control. Balance and communication made your bond stronger.

"And, peanut, your mama really is a strong, perfectly capable human being. A brilliant writer and a loving woman," he smiled, rubbing your stomach. The best person he knew. "I just can't help myself and I'm very lucky she puts up with me."

"We're the lucky ones, Beefcake," you said, placing your hand over his. He knew you were smiling behind the mask.

"I just want to do right by both of you," he said.

He wanted to be a hero in both of your eyes by simply loving you.

"Peanut will hear all sorts of stories about you one day and wonder how he got so lucky to have you as a dad," you said. From the moment you found out you were pregnant, you thought you were having a boy and he wasn't going to argue with your instincts. "You'll be his whole world."

You two are my world.

"Not as lucky as he'll be to have you as a mom," he said, tugging the mask down to give you a proper kiss.

You moaned a little as his beard scraped against your face. "Are we going to get any painting done?"

"You come in here wearing my shirt and saying sweet things and you expect me not to take advantage of that?" he smirked, pulling you close by your hips.

"Oh, no you don't. You said I have to wear my mask," you teased, trying to cover your mouth again. "That was an order."

"Fuck the orders," he half growled, kissing you again.

The two of you eventually got the nursery painted and he couldn't have been prouder with how it turned out. The room represented love and a new beginning. And he couldn't wait for the day his baby made his home complete.

Steve and Bucky will both be amazing fathers. Love and thanks for reading! ❤️

Masterlist ⚓ Steve Rogers Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

#navybrat writes #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x female reader #steve rogers x you #steve rogers x y/n #lumberjack!steve rogers x reader #beefcake and tippy #steve rogers #lumberjack!steve rogers #into the woods au #steve rogers imagine #steve rogers fanfiction #steve rogers au #chris evans x reader #chris evans x female reader #chris evans x you

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navybrat817 · 2 years ago

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Our beautiful lumberjack! Look at him! ❤️ This is him having a quick video chat with Bucky so he can see how you and Jellybean are feeling. But Bucky is also concerned about Tippy and Peanut. ❤️ Everyone is currently happy and healthy.

"You're not finding out what you're having either? I can tell you. You're gonna have a little boy and he's going to be a punk just like you." "Hey, don't talk about my Peanut like that."

"I mean it in a good way. Just try to keep him from fighting in any alleyways."

"No alleys by the cabin, so I think we're good."

There's no possible way the guys knocked their girls up around the same time, right? The boys are also planning playdates for Jellybean and Peanut because that's what they should do.

Love and thanks! ❤️

#navybrat answers #gif ask #steve rogers #lumberjack!steve rogers #woodworker!bucky barnes #jellybean ❤️#peanut ❤️#jellybean and peanut ❤️#into the woods au #beefcake and tippy #i still nicknames for bucky and his girl #undutchable11 #sending love ❤️#asks are always appreciated

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navybrat817 · 4 months ago

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Our Lumberjack boys?👀

https://www.instagram.com/reel/C9XPJlmR2h6/?igsh=MXNncGIzMDAxZjMzNg==

Yes, my dear nonnie! My god. Where can I go to see these beautiful men?

But can you imagine Tippy and Jewel talking Steve and Bucky being talked into doing something like this? A fun and friendly competition, but it's really just an excuse to watch these beautiful men flex their skills and muscles and they get to take pride in knowing these beautiful men are going home with them.

It's even better watching Steve and Bucky encourage each other like the best friends they are.

Love and thanks! ❤️

And sorry it took me so long to answer.

#navybrat answers #ig video #lumberjacks #steve rogers #lumberjack!steve rogers #bucky barnes #woodworker!bucky barnes #beefcake and tippy #hunk and jewel #into the woods au #sweet nonnie

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navybrat817 · 1 year ago

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Hi Navy!! Hope you’re doing well! 🧡

I just want to sit in his lap and put my hands on his face so he can give me forehead kisses 🥰🥰🥰

Today was the most Monday Monday of Mondays. 😂 I hope you're doing well!

And yes. Let's talk about those forehead kisses. Curl up on his lap so he can hold you close and press his lips against your skin. Or maybe you manage to curl on the bench and set your head in his lap. He teases that you have to lift your head and meet him halfway. He still bends down further to press a kiss to your forehead. Even better if you have nowhere else to be. You can soak up each other's company.

Complete with unlimited forehead kisses.

Love and thanks. ❤️

#navybrat answers #blog love #character ask #steve rogers #lumberjack!steve rogers #it gave me lumberjack vibes #beefcake and tippy #koolerthanice-tea #sending love ❤️#asks are always appreciated #lumberjack!steve rogers x reader

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navybrat817 · 1 year ago

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I adore your Bucky content, but I'm in love with lumberjack Steve! He deserves a life like that after everything and he has the best person by his side.

I appreciate this so much, nonnie. Lumberjack!Steve is a comfort character of mine. I don't think it's a secret that I hated his film ending, so I changed it. 😂 I also love his relationship with Tippy. Not only is he the best partner for her, but he's the best father to their son. ❤️ I really should pay them a visit soon.

Love and thanks. ❤️

#navybrat answers #character ask #steve rogers #lumberjackn!steve rogers #beefcake and tippy #into the woods au #sweet nonnie #sending love ❤️#asks are always appreciated

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navybrat817 · 2 years ago

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First Mother's Day

Summary: Steve and Bucky want to give you the perfect Mother's Day.

Pairings: Lumberjack!Steve Rogers x Female Reader, Woodworker!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader Word Count: Over 2.2k Warnings: Fluff, established relationships, slight insecurities, parenthood, pet names, canon divergent, feels (it's me), Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes (yep, they are warnings) A/N: Happy Mother's Day from our Into the Woods boys.❤️ Not beta read and written on my phone, so any and all mistakes are my own. Dividers by @firefly-graphics. Bucky edit by Nix. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

Beefcake and Tippy

When Steve asked what you wanted for your first Mother’s Day, you didn’t have an answer for him. After a few seconds of silence and an eyebrow raise, you said you didn’t want anything. A touch of sadness filled the former Captain’s blue eyes when he asked you why. You shrugged a little. That answer wasn’t good enough for him.

Truthfully, you weren’t sure what to say. You knew he wanted to make the day special for you, but wasn’t it just another day? Peanut would be too young to remember it. Then again, you and Steve would be able to keep the memories close to your hearts. But it felt selfish to ask for anything, even if the day was meant to be about you.

And wasn’t that part of being a mom, willing to give, but not wanting to ask for anything in return?

“Steve, I don’t want you to feel like you have to do something for me,” you said, even if a small part of you wanted him to.

“It’s your day. I have to do something.”

“What did I just say? You don’t have to do anything,” you argued.

“Wrong choice of words,” he said, pulling you close. “I want to. Please.”

While some likely expected Steve to want a more “traditional” wife and mother to his kids, thanks to when he was born, he was a hands-on dad. Expecting you to do everything was unrealistic and unfair in his eyes. He invested time and energy into raising his child and made sure to balance responsibilities. Not only that, he took the time to acknowledge your hard work as you balanced writing and motherhood. You consider yourself lucky to have Steve as a partner and father to your son.

He makes me feel seen and appreciated.

Maybe it was the pleading look in his eyes that got to you. Or the slight pout on his handsome face. You didn’t want much. You really didn’t. So was it really selfish to ask?

“Okay. You know what I want?” you asked, not giving him a chance to respond. “I want to sleep in a little. I want breakfast in bed and I don’t care if that’s cliche. I want an uninterrupted nap in the afternoon with a warm blanket. And I want to watch a cheesy rom-com before bed with buttered popcorn.”

“From that shop in the city?” he smiled, kissing the tip of your nose.

“Yes, that one,” you smiled back. “With extra butter.”

“And that’s it?” he questioned, making sure you weren’t leaving anything out.

“That’s it,” you replied. “A simple, quiet day with the two of you. I don’t think that’s asking for too much and it’ll make me happy. My day, my rules, right?”

Steve chuckled and nodded. “Whatever you say.”

When Sunday rolled around, you didn’t wake up to the sound of Steve’s alarm like you expected. Instead, you opened your eyes to the sight of him carrying a tray with a delicious smelling breakfast. He smiled gently as he waited for you to sit up and stretch before he set the food down. He was dressed for the day, a red plaid shirt stretched across his broad chest. Handsome as ever and you probably looked like the walking dead rising from your slumber.

And Peanut was close by in the pack ‘n play, sound asleep. You noticed his onesie matched Steve’s shirt. A mini-me in the making and you couldn’t be happier.

“Good morning,” Steve said, sitting on the bed. “Already fed and changed him so you could sleep in.”

First thing on my list.

“Thank you, Steve,” you smiled, your stomach grumbling as you looked over the large breakfast. Second thing on my list. “I may be hungry, but you know you’ll have to help me eat this, right?”

“That was the plan,” he teased, uncaring of your morning breath as he leaned over to kiss you. “Would you like your present before or after breakfast?”

“You got me a present?” you asked, shaking your head as he leaned down and pulled out a large package from under the bed. “Okay, I have to open it now. How did you manage to hide that from me?”

“Because you didn’t look under the bed,” he winked, moving the tray so you could take the gift. “Thank god you didn’t because we both know I’m a terrible liar and I would’ve told you immediately what was inside.”

True.

You almost felt bad ruining the pretty wrapping paper, but you felt giddy with anticipation as you opened the box, especially since you hadn’t expected anything. Your smile widened when you saw the large bag of buttered popcorn from your favorite shop that sat on top of a soft blanket. Beside it sat a framed photo of you holding your son the day he was finally home.

“For your uninterrupted nap this afternoon and for our rom-com movie tonight,” he smiled. Third and fourth items on my list. “I thought the photo would be nice for your desk.”

The day the hospital released your son was one of the happiest days of your life. He carried so much strength in his tiny body, a reminder that hope and resilience came in all shapes and sizes. The heart of a warrior and the light of your life.

“These are wonderful. Thank you,” you said, pointing at one more small box. “But what’s this?”

“Something I had Jewel make,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. He seemed nervous about this one. “I, um, hope you like it.”

You gasped when you opened the box. Bucky’s wife was a gifted jewelry maker and she had once again outdone herself. A sparkling ring with three stones shined up at you, immediately recognizing that they represented birthstones for you, Steve, and Peanut. As you took out the ring with tearful eyes, you caught a small inscription inside the band.

Faith. Hope. Love.

“Happy Mother's Day,” Steve whispered, taking the ring and slipping it onto your right ring finger. “And here’s to many more.”

A tear fell as you framed his face to kiss him. Not only did he give you exactly what you asked for, but he went above and beyond to make you feel special. The way he did each day with faith, hope, and love.

But the greatest of these is love.

Hunk and Jewel

You didn’t have to be a genius to figure out how nervous Bucky was for your first Mother’s Day. He circled the day on the calendar with a lopsided heart and a question mark in the space. You also caught him reading an article on unique gifts, which you pretended not to see. You could’ve dropped hints here and there for him if you wished, but there wasn’t anything specific that you wanted.

You did your own research and found that some moms wanted space on Mother’s Day, like a spa or pampering day. Others liked homemade and sentimental gifts. A general consensus was that they didn’t want to do any work. Bucky already handled more than his share of chores though when it came to your home and daughter and you knew he wouldn’t let you lift a finger when that Sunday arrived.

Could you ask for anything more?

“What am I supposed to do?” he asked your daughter as he paced around the room, cuddling her against his chest. “She made Tippy a ring. A ring. How do I even top that? Not that it’s a competition. It’s not.”

You covered your mouth so you wouldn’t laugh. It was almost endearing how he had the tendency to overthink when it came to gifts for you. You assured him that no matter what he decided to get you, for whatever occasion, that you’d love it. A small bouquet of flowers would've satisfied you.

“You know I love your mama, right? Love you both so much,” he continued, kissing the top of her head. “I just want her to feel special. She works so hard and she puts up with me.”

I adore him.

Jellybean giggled as she tugged on her dad’s hair, your heart melting at the sight. Your baby girl loved you, there was no doubt about that, but she was also very much a daddy’s girl. Not that you blamed her. Bucky was a loving, protective father, always there to soothe and care for her. He’d always have a special place in her heart.

“We love you, too,” you said, finally letting out a laugh when he turned with wide eyes and saw you in the doorway. “Your super soldier senses didn’t pick up on me standing here?”

“And I thought I had stealth,” he mumbled with a small smile. “You know how I get when it comes to your gifts.”

“I do, but I don’t understand why you do, Jamie. You have nothing to worry about,” you said, smiling when you saw how content your daughter was in his arms. “I’m sure you already have a special engraved stone for me,” you pointed out, something to carry on the tradition he created. You kept the small growing collection in a jeweled box and looked forward to getting them for each holiday and special day.

“But you’re expecting that and I want to surprise you,” he said, sighing before Jellybean giggled again. “I think she’s laughing at me.”

“Oh, she is,” you teased, rubbing her back. You weren’t a perfect mother, but she was a happy, healthy baby and that was what mattered to you. “Do you remember the first time we heard her giggle? It was such a happy sound. I wish I knew what went on in her mind when she did that.”

Bucky gave you a thoughtful stare, like something clicked in his mind. “I remember,” he said, gently putting your daughter in your arms. “I need to make a call.”

“Okay,” you said, watching as he rushed out of the room. “I think your dada got an idea.”

You were right.

Bucky was much more relaxed after that afternoon. You had to admit, you were curious about what gift he had in mind. You went through a list of things in your mind before you decided not to dwell on it. As much as you wanted to ask for hints, you didn’t want to spoil the surprise.

That day you woke up to a bouquet of your favorite flowers on the nightstand. Beside it was a smaller vase with a single flower. The scent brought a smile to your face as you sat up. They were beautiful.

“She picked the flowers and chose the prettiest one for her vase” Bucky smiled, carrying your daughter with one hand and balancing a gift in the other. “We have breakfast waiting for you, but she wants you to open your gift first.”

Liar.

“Of course she did. She has good taste,” you smiled, booping her on the nose as Bucky sat her down on the bed.

Bucky gazed at you expectantly as you unwrapped the present. As expected, a heart shaped rock engraved with “Mother” awaited you on top. Fitting for a mother of pearl stone. Beneath it was a wooden bath tray that you knew Bucky made himself.

“It has room for a book or tablet, your phone, a place for your wine glass, and it extends if you want to add more stuff,” he explained, kissing your forehead. “You deserve to relax.”

I don’t deserve him.

“Beautiful and thoughtful,” you smiled, making Bucky smile in return. He knew how much you liked to relax whenever you could. “Thank you.”

“There’s one more thing,” he said, urging you to look under the tray.

“A book?” you asked, picking it up to look at the cover.

Mama, I Love You!

“That call I made? I got some help from Tippy,” he explained, clearing his throat. “So you know what's on Jellybean's mind."

You were almost afraid to open it because you knew you’d cry. Tippy was extremely talented, her words drawing a range of emotions from the reader. And with help from Bucky, you knew this one was extra special.

Don’t cry, don’t cry.

You sniffled as you opened it and turned the pages. Each page had a date, drawings of the three of you, or message of love and memories. From the day you found out you were pregnant, to the day you brought your daughter home, to her first smile, and more. It was as if Jellybean was telling you the story of her life with you so far. And letting you know that you were doing the best that you could.

By the time you got to the last page, you openly sobbed.

“Thank you for loving me, Mama.”

This was one of the reasons you loved Bucky. Jellybean couldn’t tell you through words yet how she felt being your daughter, so her father did so. At the end of the day, you wanted to be the best mother for her. This gift would help ease your insecurities if you ever doubted yourself.

“Thank you for loving us,” Bucky whispered, wiping away your tears with a tender touch before he kissed you. “Happy Mother’s Day.”

Thank you both for loving me.

I think Tippy and Jewel having a hand in the gifts make them extra special. I also know this day isn't easy for many and my heart goes out to each of you lovelies. Happy Mother's Day. Love and thanks for reading. ❤️

Masterlist ⚓ KoFi

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