Inside the Lost Reading Room

A treasury of beloved fiction reblogs. Mostly fandom, some fully original content. Most of the works rebloged here do not belong to us. Much of the content of this blog is 18+ and may well contain common triggers which we'll do our best to tag. Proceed with caution.

[beyondtheshelvesweknow]

Intro and Warnings

Many of the fics and snippets contained here will be 18+. Proceed with caution and at your own risk.

High probability of the following appearing in this blog:

Whump - including but not limited to injury, death, torture, mental illness, sexual assault

Smut - sexual content featuring consenting adults

Angst

Drugs

Alcohol

We'll do our best to tag anything that may be distressing but we're not infallible. Feel free to message and let us know if we missed something. Divider by @firefly-graphics find it here

[societyfolklore]

Fine Wine

Title: Fine Wine

Pairing: Loki x Female Reader

Warnings: Tipsy Reader, soft possessive Loki, implied drinking Words: 299 words A/N: Entry for June Jukebox Scribbles over @societynsoelsscribbles Prompt: June 1 Joy To The World - Three Dog Night/  “And he always had some mighty fine wine.”

The moment you open the door, Loki knew you’d been drinking.

Not from the clumsy way you nudged the door shut, nor from the bright smile that bloomed across your face when you found him waiting. No, it was the smell: sweet, heavy  clinging to you.

“You smell like a tavern,” he started brow raised.

You gasped, offended. “I do not.”

“You smell like Volstagg’s cellar.”

“Exactly.” You crossed the room with great determination and very little grace, catching yourself on his shoulders when the floor attempted treachery. “Volstagg said it was special.”

Loki’s hands settled at your waist before you could sway too far. “Volstagg says that about anything poured into a goblet.”

“It was very fine whine.”

His mouth twitched. “Yes, he always did have some mighty fine wine.”

You beamed and promptly wound yourself around him like ivy, arms over his shoulders, fingers sliding into his hair, knee nudging between his thighs as if you meant to climb him entirely.

“Affectionate tonight, aren’t we?” he murmured.

“I missed you.”

“You saw me at supper.”

“That was ages ago.” Your hands wandered down his chest, searching for skin and finding only fastenings. You frowned at them. “Why do you wear so many… obstacles?”

“For moments precisely like this.”

You tugged again, growing frustrated when the clasp refused to yield. Loki laughed softly, catching your wrists before you could rip anything.

“Want to lay down before you fall down?”

“I am seducing you.”

“You are losing a battle with buttons.”

He drew you to bed, you went willingly, already melting against him.

“Mean,” you mumbled.

Loki huffed a laugh, brushing his thumb over your cheek. “You will not think me mean come morning, love, when I am the one nursing you through the consequences with a water tankard.”

[stardustrider]

Such a sweet thoughtfull Loki 🥰🥰🥰 It was so cute and funny and sexy 😍😍😍😍

[societyfolklore]

We do love the slinky husband

[beyondtheshelvesweknow]

Those lines made me laugh so hard I wanted to die (I have a cough, laughing was uncomfortable to say the least). I love it!

[mrknightside]

The soldiers had brought an enemy knight to the castle. It had claimed to be willing to betray its comrades and its queen in exchange for absolution, a job, and a guarantee it won't have to remove its armor. The king had agreed, of course. They were having such a hard time defeating the queen, with her magicks and constructs. The knight had given no name for itself, no gender or family ties. The king allowed it to keep its armor on, as it started to panic every time the soldiers attempted to remove its helm. It gave up its weapons, of course, although it acted like they had taken its arms.

The war is long, even with the knight helping. The queen and her army burn the king's villages, the king and his army starve her villages. The knight, unarmed and held in a room its guards insist isn't a cell, assists as much as it can during this war. It tells the king the easiest ways to kill a construct, although it shudders each time. It tells the king of all the queen's spells, the limits of her magicks.

When the war ends with the queen's head hitting the ground, the knight was given a proper room and duties befitting a knight. It was still watched with scrutiny, as it's already betrayed one master. The knight, now referred to as Trent (the king had pronounced traitor in various ways until settling on Trenton, and then shortening it to Trent), still refused to remove its armor. Trenton the mute, as the king mockingly refers to it, is actually pretty bad at fighting. It fights far too much like one of the constructs, and the soldiers and knights had to beat that out of it. It fights like there's nothing to lose, like it can't die.

It becomes common to see a set of armor following the king a few steps behind. The other knights stop watching it so harshly, and turn more to questioning its insistence on wearing armor to bed. The king allows his metal shadow to follow him, filling the knight's silence with mindless chatter. It does talk sometimes, just not unless it must.

It's not official, but everybody knows that Trenton is the king's personal guard. The king's previous guard supposedly ran off with a girl, but everybody had seen the body in the river. It had been a unanimous decision not to mention the body, as he'd been a rather nasty man. The new guard didn't leer at the maids or demand privileges. It's rather humble, actually. It doesn't ask for anything, and its gaze never strays from the king - or a threat.

It had been horrifying to see what the knight had been capable of when its master was threatened. The maids refused to clean it, so Trent had been ordered to clean up its mess by a king who wasn't sure if he should be aroused by the loyalty or nauseated by the gore. He'd settled on vaguely interested when the knight had come crawling back, floors and armor freshly cleaned. The king had personally requested the knight to remove its helm that evening, and still, the knight refused. The king threw a fit and sent the knight away to sleep outside.

[beyondtheshelvesweknow]

*wibbles adoringly*

[artofmaquenda]

Watership down on my mind

[beyondtheshelvesweknow]

Scarier than 90% of the horror movies I've seen, which is fitting because so is Watership Down.

[nathangardnerisdaddy]

“Do you have any idea what it does to me when you look at me like that?”

“Tell me you don’t want me, and I’ll believe you.”

Can you write something for me with Tony Stark x f!Reader using those two prompts? They shared a night of passion one day, just to blow some steam after a hard missoon, and they promised to never talk about it again... but it's impossible, things will never be the same, because now they want everyday for the rest of their lives and the sexual tension and the love only grows... they'll have sex again and admit that they can't be apart

What We Promised to Forget

Pairing: Tony Stark x F!Reader

Warning/Rating: 18+; explicit, graphic sexual activity (manual/oral stimulation, penetration, orgasm described in detail), unprotected sex, language, emotional

Word Count: 7.2 K

The Quinjet hummed through the darkness, autopilot engaged, carrying you and Tony back to the Tower. The mission had been brutal - too close, too many variables, too many moments where everything could have gone catastrophically wrong. Your hands were still shaking slightly as you stripped off your tactical vest, the adrenaline refusing to leave your system. 

Tony sat across from you, arc reactor glowing through his torn shirt, a cut above his eyebrow that he hadn’t bothered to clean yet. His eyes were on you, had been on you since you had both collapsed into the seats twenty minutes ago. 

“You should let me look at that,” you said, nodding toward his forehead. 

“It’s nothing.”

“Tony -”

“I said it’s nothing.” His voice was rough, strained. Then, quieter: “You scared the hell out of me back there.”

You looked up, meeting his gaze. “I had it under control.”

“You had a gun to your head.”

“And then I didn’t.” You tried for a smile, but it felt wrong on your face. “I’m fine. We’re fine.”

“Yeah.” He didn’t look away. Didn’t blink. The intensity in his dark eyes made your breath catch. “We’re fine.”

The silence stretched between you, thick and charged with something you had both been ignoring for months. Every briefing where his hand lingered on your shoulder. Every mission where he positioned himself between you and danger. Every late night in the common room where conversations went deeper than they should. 

“Do you have any idea what it does to me when you look at me like that?” The words escaped before you could stop them. 

Tony’s jaw tightened. “Like what?”

“Like…” You gestured helplessly. “Like that. Like you’re trying to see through me.”

He stood abruptly, crossing the small space between you in two strides. Suddenly he was right there, close enough that you could smell the smoke and sweat on him, could see the way his chest rose and fell with each breath. 

“Tell me you don’t want me,” he said, voice low and dangerous. “And I’ll believe you. Tell me you don’t think about it, about us, and I’ll walk away right now. I’ll never bring it up again.”

Your heart hammered in your chest. This was the moment. The moment you could lie, could protect yourself, could keep things professional and safe and uncomplicated. 

“I can’t,” you whispered. 

His hand came up to cup your face, thumb tracing your cheekbone. “Can’t what?”

“Can’t tell you I don't want you.” You leaned into his touch, eyes fluttering closed. “Because I do. God help me, Tony, I do.”

The kiss was inevitable. His mouth crashed against yours with months of pent-up hunger, and you responded with equal desperation. Your fingers tangled in his hair as his hands gripped your waist, pulling you flush against him. He tasted like copper and adrenaline, and when his tongue swept against yours you made a sound that was almost embarrassing in its need. 

“My place,” he muttered against your lips. “We land in five minutes. Come to my place.”

You nodded, incapable of words, incapable of anything except wanting him. 

___________________________________________________________

Tony's private suite was all floor-to-ceiling windows and modern luxury, but you barely registered any of it. The moment the door closed behind you, he was on you again, backing you toward the bedroom with kisses that grew more heated with each step.

"We shouldn't -" you tried, even as your hands worked at the buttons of his shirt.

"Probably not," he agreed, shrugging out of the ruined fabric. The arc reactor glowed between you, and you pressed your palm against it, feeling the warmth, the steady thrum of the technology keeping him alive.

"This is a bad idea."

"Terrible idea." His hands found the hem of your shirt, pulling it over your head in one smooth motion. His eyes darkened as he took in the sight of you in just your bra and tactical pants. "Worst idea I've ever had."

"Liar." You reached for his belt. "You've had way worse ideas."

He laughed, the sound rough and genuine, and then his mouth was on your neck, teeth grazing the sensitive skin below your ear. You gasped, head falling back to give him better access, and his hands made quick work of your bra clasp.

When his palms cupped your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples, you couldn't hold back the moan that escaped. He made a satisfied sound against your throat, and then he was walking you backward until your legs hit the edge of his bed.

You fell together onto the expensive sheets, a tangle of limbs and desperate touches. Tony's weight settled over you, and the feeling of his bare chest against yours was almost overwhelming. You could feel every defined muscle, every scar, the heat of his skin burning into yours.

"You're so fucking beautiful," he murmured, kissing a path down your sternum. "Do you know that? Do you know how many times I've imagined this?"

"Tell me," you breathed, arching into him as his mouth closed around one nipple.

"Every goddamn day." He sucked hard enough to make you cry out, then soothed the sting with his tongue. "Every time you walk into a room. Every time you smile at one of Rogers' terrible jokes. Every time you kick ass on a mission and look at me like you're invincible."

His hands were working at your pants now, and you lifted your hips to help him slide them down along with your underwear. The cool air against your heated skin made you shiver, but then Tony's hand was between your thighs, and coherent thought became impossible.

"Fuck," he groaned, fingers sliding through your wetness. "You're so ready for me."

"Tony, please -"

"Please what?" He circled your clit with agonizing slowness, watching your face with dark, hungry eyes. "Tell me what you need."

"You," you gasped, hips rolling against his hand. "I need your cock inside me. Now."

"Fuck, I love it when you talk like that." He slid two fingers inside you, curling them just right, and you cried out. "So wet. So fucking tight. You're going to feel incredible wrapped around my cock."

"Then stop teasing me and fuck me already," you demanded, reaching down to palm him through his pants. He was rock hard, straining against the fabric, and when you squeezed, he groaned.

"Impatient," he muttered, but he was already stripping off the rest of his clothes with shaking hands.

When he was finally naked, you took a moment to drink him in. Lean muscle, the arc reactor glowing blue in the center of his chest, and his cock - thick and hard and already leaking at the tip. Your mouth watered.

"Like what you see?" His voice was rough, cocky even now.

"Get over here and fuck me, Stark."

He settled between your spread thighs, the head of his cock pressing against your entrance. You were so wet you could feel yourself dripping, and when he dragged himself through your folds, coating himself in your arousal, you whimpered.

"Look at me," he commanded, one hand gripping your hip, the other guiding himself to your entrance. "I want to see your face when I fill you up."

You met his gaze, and then he was pushing inside, one long, slow thrust that stretched you open around him. The sensation was overwhelming - the burn, the fullness, the perfect friction as he sank deeper and deeper.

"Oh fuck," you moaned, head falling back against the pillow. "Tony, you're so big -"

"That's it, baby. Take all of me." He bottomed out with a groan, his hips flush against yours, buried to the hilt. "Fuck, you feel incredible. So tight and wet and perfect. Like you were made for my cock."

You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him impossibly deeper, and he cursed. "Move," you begged. "Please, Tony, I need you to move."

He pulled almost all the way out - you could feel every ridge, every vein - and then slammed back in hard enough to make you scream. The pleasure was so intense it bordered on pain, and you loved it.

"Yes! Fuck, just like that!"

Tony set a brutal pace, each thrust driving you up the bed, the headboard slamming against the wall. The wet sounds of your bodies coming together filled the room, obscene and perfect. His cock hit that spot inside you with every stroke, and you could already feel your orgasm building.

"You like that?" he panted, sweat beading on his forehead. "You like getting fucked hard?"

"God, yes. Harder. Fuck me harder."

He grabbed your thighs, pushing them up and back, folding you nearly in half. The new angle let him go even deeper, and you saw stars.

"Look at you, taking my cock so well," he groaned, watching where you were joined, watching himself disappear inside you over and over. "So fucking beautiful. So perfect. I'm going to ruin you for anyone else."

"Already ruined," you gasped. "Only want you. Only want this."

His hand slipped between your bodies, fingers finding your clit and rubbing tight, fast circles. The dual sensation - his cock pounding into you, his fingers on your clit - was too much.

"Tony, I'm going to - fuck, I'm so close -"

"Come for me," he demanded, his rhythm growing erratic. "Come on my cock. Let me feel that tight pussy squeeze me."

The filthy words sent you over the edge. Your orgasm crashed through you in waves, your inner walls clamping down on him as you screamed his name. Your whole body shook with the force of it, pleasure so intense it was almost unbearable.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," Tony chanted, fucking you through it, prolonging your climax until you were sobbing with overstimulation. "You're so fucking tight when you come. I can't - I'm going to -"

He buried himself deep one last time, his cock pulsing inside you as he came with a guttural moan. You could feel him filling you, hot and wet, and the sensation triggered another small aftershock that made you whimper.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. Tony's weight was heavy on top of you, his face buried in your neck, both of you breathing hard. You could feel his heart racing against your chest, matching the frantic pace of your own. His cock was still inside you, softening slowly, and you felt his release starting to leak out around him.

Reality began to creep in at the edges.

Tony rolled off you, collapsing onto his back beside you. The silence was deafening.

"So," you said finally, staring at the ceiling. "That happened."

"Yeah." His voice was carefully neutral. "That happened."

You turned your head to look at him. His profile was sharp in the dim light, jaw tight, eyes fixed on some point above him. The easy intimacy from moments ago had evaporated, replaced by something awkward and uncertain.

"Tony -"

"We should probably talk about this," he interrupted.

"Okay." You pulled the sheet up to cover yourself, suddenly feeling exposed. "Let's talk."

He sat up, running a hand through his disheveled hair. "That was... intense."

"Yes."

"And probably a mistake."

The words stung, even though you'd been thinking the same thing. "Probably."

"We work together. We're on the same team. This could complicate things." He still wasn't looking at you. "We were running on adrenaline. Post-mission high. It doesn't have to mean anything."

"Right." You sat up too, gathering your scattered clothes. "It doesn't have to mean anything."

"We could just... forget it happened." He finally met your eyes, and you saw your own uncertainty reflected back at you. "Blow off steam after a hard mission. That's all it was. We never talk about it again."

You should have felt relieved. This was the easy out, the way to avoid complications and hurt feelings and all the messy emotional fallout. So why did your chest feel tight?

"If that's what you want," you said quietly.

"It's probably for the best." He stood, pulling on his pants. "For both of us."

You dressed in silence, each piece of clothing feeling like armor going back on. By the time you were fully clothed, you had almost convinced yourself this was fine. You were adults. You could handle this.

"So we're good?" Tony asked as you headed for the door.

"We're good." You forced a smile. "This never happened."

"Never happened," he echoed.

But as you walked back to your own room, you knew it was a lie. Because you could still feel him inside you, could still taste him on your lips, could still hear the way he'd said your name like it was the only word that mattered.

Things would never be the same.

___________________________________________________________

The first morning after was the worst.

You had barely slept, your body still humming with the memory of his touch, and when you finally dragged yourself to the kitchen for coffee, Tony was already there. He looked up when you entered, and for one suspended moment, your eyes locked. You saw everything in that gaze - the heat, the want, the same sleepless night written across his features.

Then Steve walked in, and Tony looked away so fast you might have imagined it.

"Morning," you managed, your voice rougher than intended.

"Morning," Tony replied, his tone carefully neutral. But his hand trembled slightly as he poured his coffee, and you noticed. God, you noticed everything now.

You grabbed a mug from the cabinet, acutely aware of the six feet of space between you that felt like six inches. The air was thick with tension, with all the things you weren't saying. When you reached for the coffee pot at the same moment he did, your fingers brushed.

The contact was electric. You both jerked back like you'd been burned.

"Sorry," you muttered.

"No, go ahead." He stepped back, putting more distance between you, and the loss of his proximity felt physical.

Steve looked between you with a slight frown. "You two okay?"

"Fine," you said too quickly.

"Great," Tony added. "Why wouldn't we be?"

You fled with your coffee before Steve could ask anything else, but you felt Tony's eyes on you the entire way out. Your heart was racing, your skin flushed, and all from a simple touch of fingers. This was going to be impossible.

___________________________________________________________

Day two brought a training session you couldn't avoid.

Natasha had scheduled partner drills, and of course - of fucking course - she paired you with Tony. "You two have good chemistry in the field," she said, oblivious to the way you both tensed. "Let's see it in here."

The training room suddenly felt too small, too hot. Tony stripped off his shirt, revealing the arc reactor and the lean muscle you'd traced with your tongue just two nights ago. Your mouth went dry.

"Ready?" he asked, not quite meeting your eyes.

"Yeah." You weren't. You absolutely weren't.

The drill was simple - close quarters combat, disarming techniques, trust exercises. But every time Tony touched you, even through the clinical necessity of training, your body responded. When he grabbed your wrist to demonstrate a hold, you remembered those same hands pinning you to his bed. When he moved behind you to adjust your stance, his breath on your neck sent shivers down your spine.

"You're distracted," he murmured, his voice low enough that only you could hear. His chest was pressed against your back, his hands on your hips, and you could feel every inch of him.

"I'm fine," you lied, but your voice came out breathy.

"Your heart is racing." His thumb pressed against your pulse point, and you knew he could feel it hammering. "What are you thinking about?"

You spun in his grip, breaking the hold, and found yourself face to face with him. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, and his gaze dropped to your lips. For a moment, you thought he was going to kiss you right there in front of everyone.

"I'm thinking," you said quietly, "that this was a mistake."

Something flashed in his eyes - hurt, maybe, or agreement. He stepped back, putting professional distance between you. "Yeah. Probably."

But when you partnered with Clint for the next drill, you caught Tony watching you with an intensity that made your knees weak. And when he sparred with Natasha, you couldn't look away from the way his body moved, the flex of muscle, the sheen of sweat on his skin. You remembered how that skin tasted.

By the end of the session, you were wound so tight you thought you might shatter.

___________________________________________________________

Day three, you tried to avoid him entirely.

You took your meals at odd hours, used the gym when you knew he'd be in his lab, volunteered for monitor duty that kept you away from common areas. It worked until dinnertime, when you ventured to the kitchen at 10 PM, certain everyone would be asleep.

Tony was standing at the counter, eating leftover Thai food straight from the container.

You both froze.

"I thought you'd be in the lab," you said.

"I thought you'd be asleep." He set down the container slowly. "I can go -"

"No, it's fine. I'll just -" You moved toward the fridge at the same moment he moved toward the sink, and you collided in the narrow space between the island and the counter.

His hands came up to steady you, gripping your arms, and suddenly you were pressed against him, chest to chest. You could feel his heart pounding as hard as yours. His eyes dropped to your mouth, and you saw him swallow hard.

"We can't," you whispered, but you didn't move away.

"I know." His hands tightened on your arms. "We agreed."

"It was just one night."

"Just one night," he echoed, but his thumb was stroking your arm now, a gentle back and forth that was driving you insane.

You don't know who moved first. Maybe both of you. But suddenly his mouth was a breath away from yours, and you could taste the anticipation, the want, the need -

The elevator dinged.

You sprang apart just as Bruce shuffled in, bleary-eyed and looking for tea. "Oh, hey," he said, oblivious. "Couldn't sleep either?"

"No," you managed, your voice shaky. "I was just - I'm going to bed. Goodnight."

You practically ran from the kitchen, but not before you saw the frustration and longing on Tony's face that mirrored your own.

That night, you touched yourself thinking of him, biting your pillow to muffle his name.

___________________________________________________________

Day four brought a mission you couldn't escape.

It was supposed to be simple - surveillance on a suspected Hydra front company. You, Tony, and Natasha would pose as building maintenance staff, plant listening devices in the executive offices, and get out. No combat. No suits. Just good old-fashioned espionage.

Except nothing was simple anymore.

The office building was a labyrinth of cubicles and conference rooms, and you kept ending up in close quarters with Tony. When you had to duck into a copy room to avoid a late-working executive, his hand found the small of your back, steadying you. When you squeezed past him in a narrow hallway, your bodies pressed together for a heart-stopping moment, and you felt him tense.

"Clear on the third floor," Natasha's voice came through your earpiece. "How's it going down there?"

"Fine," Tony said, his voice tight. He was standing close enough that you could smell his cologne beneath the generic maintenance uniform. "Just finishing up."

You were installing a listening device behind a filing cabinet when you heard voices approaching - security making rounds earlier than expected.

"Shit," you breathed.

Tony grabbed your hand, pulling you toward the nearest door. It was a supply closet, barely big enough for one person, let alone two. He yanked you inside and pressed his hand over your mouth just as the security guards' footsteps echoed past.

In the darkness, you were crushed against him, chest to chest, hip to hip. You could feel every breath he took, could feel his heart racing against yours. His hand was warm over your mouth, his other arm wrapped around your waist to keep you steady in the cramped space.

The guards' voices faded, discussing something about the building's HVAC system, but Tony didn't move. Neither did you.

"Tony," you whispered against his palm when the footsteps finally disappeared.

"I know." His voice was strained, rough. "I know."

His hand slid from your mouth to your jaw, tilting your face up toward his in the darkness. You couldn't see him, but you could feel him - the heat of his body, the tension in his muscles, the way his breath hitched when your hand came to rest on his chest.

"We should go," you said, but you didn't move.

"Yeah." He didn't move either.

For ten agonizing seconds, you stood there in the dark, breathing each other's air, his thumb stroking your cheek, your fingers curling into his shirt. You could feel his mouth hovering near yours, so close that if either of you moved even an inch -

"You two clear?" Natasha's voice crackled in your earpieces, making you both jump. "I'm at the rendezvous point."

You broke apart like guilty teenagers, fumbling for the door handle.

The ride back in the Quinjet was silent, but the tension was suffocating. You'd changed out of the maintenance uniforms, but you could still feel the phantom press of Tony's body against yours, could still feel his hand on your face. Natasha kept glancing between you with a knowing look that made you want to disappear. When Tony's knee brushed yours as the jet hit turbulence, you both jerked away so fast that Natasha actually smirked.

___________________________________________________________

Day five, you cracked.

You went to his lab at 2 AM, fully intending to end this torture, to tell him you couldn't do this anymore, that you needed to talk about what happened or fuck again or something because this half-life was killing you.

But when the door opened, Pepper was there, laughing at something Tony had said, her hand on his arm.

You backed away before either of them saw you, and spent the rest of the night crying into your pillow, hating yourself for caring, for wanting him, for breaking your own heart over a man who'd made it clear it was just one night.

Except the next morning, Tony cornered you in the hallway outside your room.

"That wasn't what it looked like," he said without preamble.

"I don't know what you're talking about." You tried to move past him, but he blocked your path.

"Last night. Pepper was just - we were going over Stark Industries stuff. That's all."

"Tony, you don't owe me an explanation. We're not -" You couldn't finish the sentence.

"I know what we're not." His jaw was tight. "But I saw you. In the reflection of the window. I saw you leave."

Your cheeks burned. "I was just -"

"You were coming to see me." It wasn't a question. He stepped closer, and you backed up until you hit the wall. "Why?"

"I don't know," you lied.

"Liar." He braced one hand on the wall beside your head, leaning in. "Tell me why."

"Tony -"

"Tell me you haven't been thinking about it every second since it happened. Tell me you don't feel this." His free hand hovered near your waist, not quite touching, but close enough that you could feel the heat of it. "Tell me I'm the only one going insane."

"You're not," you admitted, your voice breaking. "You're not the only one."

His eyes closed like he was in pain. "Fuck."

"We agreed -"

"I know what we agreed." His hand finally made contact, fingers splaying across your hip, and you gasped. "But I can't stop thinking about you. Can't sleep. Can't work. Can't fucking breathe when you're in the same room."

"Tony, we can't -"

"I know." But he leaned closer anyway, his forehead almost touching yours. "I know we can't."

You stood there, frozen, his hand burning through your clothes, his breath mingling with yours. One of you just had to move an inch. Just one inch.

Steve's door opened down the hall.

Tony stepped back so fast he nearly tripped, and you slipped into your room before Steve could see the state you were in - flushed, trembling, aching with need.

___________________________________________________________

Day six was worse.

You were in the elevator when Tony stepped in at the last second, and the doors closed before either of you could escape. Forty floors. Just the two of you in an enclosed space.

"Hey," he said quietly.

"Hi." You stared at the floor numbers, watching them climb with agonizing slowness.

The silence was deafening. You were hyperaware of everything - the sound of his breathing, the smell of his cologne, the way he kept shifting his weight like he couldn't stand still.

Between floors fifteen and sixteen, the elevator jolted to a stop.

"JARVIS?" Tony called.

"My apologies, sir. Minor technical difficulty. I'll have it resolved momentarily."

You didn't believe in coincidences, and from the look on Tony's face, neither did he. But you were trapped now, stuck in this small space with the one person you were trying desperately to avoid.

"So," Tony said after a moment. "This is -"

"Don't." You held up a hand. "Please don't."

"Don't what?"

"Make small talk. Pretend this is normal. I can't -" Your voice cracked. "I can't do this, Tony."

He turned to face you fully. "Can't do what?"

"This. Being around you. Pretending I don't -" You cut yourself off, but it was too late.

"Pretending you don't what?" He took a step closer. "Say it."

"It doesn't matter."

"It matters to me." Another step. "Say it."

"Fine." You met his eyes, letting him see everything you'd been hiding. "Pretending I don't want you. Pretending that night didn't mean anything. Pretending I don't think about it constantly, that I don't dream about you, that I don't -" Your breath hitched. "That I don't wish it had meant something to you too."

The look on his face was devastating. "You think it didn't mean anything to me?"

"You said -"

"I said what I thought I was supposed to say. What I thought would make this easier." He closed the distance between you, backing you against the elevator wall. "But nothing about this is easy. Nothing about wanting you this much is easy."

His hands came up to frame your face, and you couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't do anything but stare at him.

"Do you have any idea what it does to me when you look at me like that?" you whispered, echoing words from a lifetime ago.

"Like what?"

"Like you want to devour me."

"I do." His thumb traced your lower lip. "I want to devour you. I want to take you apart and put you back together. I want to make you scream my name again. I want -"

The elevator lurched back into motion.

You sprang apart just as the doors opened on your floor. Natasha stood there, eyebrow raised, clearly taking in your flushed faces and heavy breathing.

"Interesting," was all she said.

You fled.

___________________________________________________________

Day seven, you broke.

You couldn't eat. Couldn't sleep. Couldn't focus on anything except the memory of Tony's hands on your face, his words in your ear, the look in his eyes that said he wanted you just as desperately as you wanted him.

The team was worried now. Even Thor commented that you seemed "troubled in spirit." You made excuses - a bug, stress, insomnia. Anything but the truth.

That night, you gave up on sleep entirely. You had been tossing and turning for hours, your body aching with need, your mind replaying every moment with Tony in excruciating detail. The way he had looked at you in the elevator. The way his voice had dropped when he said he wanted to devour you. The way his thumb had felt on your lip.

You needed air. Space. Distance from your own thoughts.

The Tower was quiet as you padded down the hallway in sleep shorts and a tank top, bare feet silent on the cool floor. You were headed for the balcony, for fresh air and city lights and anything to clear your head.

But when you passed the corridor leading to Tony's lab, you saw light spilling out from under the door.

Your feet stopped moving. You stood there, staring at that strip of light, knowing you should keep walking. Knowing that going to him now, like this, would be the end of your resolve.

But you were so tired of fighting it. So tired of pretending. So tired of wanting him and denying yourself.

Before you could talk yourself out of it, you were standing outside the lab, hand raised to knock.

JARVIS spoke before you could: "Miss, Mr. Stark is currently working. Shall I announce you?"

"No, it's okay. I'll just -"

The door slid open.

Tony stood on the other side, looking as exhausted and wrecked as you felt. His hair was a disaster, there were dark circles under his eyes that matched yours, and he was wearing the same clothes you'd seen him in yesterday. He looked like he hadn't slept in days.

He looked beautiful.

"Couldn't sleep?" he asked, his voice rough.

"No." You wrapped your arms around yourself, suddenly feeling exposed in your thin pajamas. "You?"

"Haven't really tried." He stepped back, gesturing you inside. "Come in. I could use the company."

The lab was cluttered with half-finished projects, holographic displays floating in the air, tools scattered across every surface. It looked like Tony had been trying to work on a dozen things at once and succeeding at none of them.

"What are you working on?" you asked, even though you didn't really care.

"Nothing. Everything. I don't know." He picked up a wrench, put it down again. His hands were shaking slightly. "Can't focus."

"Yeah. I know the feeling."

The silence stretched between you, heavy with everything you weren't saying. Tony's back was to you, his shoulders tense, and you could see the way his hands clenched and unclenched at his sides.

Seven days. Seven days of torture, of longing, of wanting something you'd promised yourself you couldn't have. Seven days of slowly losing your mind.

It had to end. One way or another, it had to end.

"This isn't working," you said finally.

"What isn't?"

"This. Us. Pretending nothing happened." You took a step closer. "Tony, I can't stop thinking about it. About you."

He turned slowly, and the look in his eyes made your breath catch. "You think I can? You think I've gotten a single decent night's sleep since that night?"

"Then why are we doing this?" You moved closer still, until you were right in front of him. "Why are we pretending?"

"Because I'm scared." The admission seemed to cost him. "Because I don't do this. I don't do relationships, I don't do feelings, I don't -" He broke off, jaw working. "I don't want to fuck this up."

"What if we're fucking it up right now?" You reached out, placing your hand on his chest, feeling his heart racing beneath your palm. "What if trying to forget is the mistake?"

"Tell me you don't want me," he said again, echoing his words from the Quinjet. But this time his voice was pleading. "Tell me you don't want this, and I'll believe you. I'll let it go."

"I can't." You slid your hand up to cup his face. "I can't tell you that, because it would be a lie. I want you, Tony. Not just for one night. Not just to blow off steam. I want you every day for the rest of my life."

The kiss was different this time. Slower, deeper, weighted with meaning. His arms came around you, pulling you close, and you melted into him with a sigh of relief.

"My bedroom," he murmured against your lips. "Not here. I want to do this right."

You let him lead you through the Tower to his private quarters. The city lights sparkled through the windows, casting everything in a soft glow. When he turned to face you, his expression was open, vulnerable in a way you'd never seen before.

"I want you to know," he said, hands framing your face. "This isn't just physical for me. It hasn't been for a long time."

"I know." You kissed him softly. "Me too."

This time, when you undressed each other, it was with reverence instead of desperation. Tony's fingers trembled slightly as he lifted your tank top over your head, his eyes darkening as he took in the sight of your bare breasts. He cupped them gently, thumbs brushing over your nipples until they hardened into tight peaks.

"So fucking beautiful," he whispered, lowering his head to take one into his mouth. The wet heat of his tongue made you gasp, your fingers threading through his hair to hold him there. "I could worship these for hours."

"Tony," you breathed, already feeling wetness gathering between your thighs. You tugged at his shirt, needing to feel his skin against yours.

He helped you strip it off, and you pressed your palms against his chest, feeling the warmth of the arc reactor, the steady beat of his heart. Your hands traced down over defined abs, following the trail of dark hair that disappeared into his pants. When you palmed him through the fabric, feeling how hard he already was, he groaned into your breast.

"Bed," he muttered, releasing your nipple with a soft pop. "Need you in my bed."

You shed the rest of your clothes as you moved, leaving a trail across his bedroom floor. By the time you reached the bed, you were both naked, and Tony took a moment to just look at you - really look at you - his gaze traveling from your flushed face down to your breasts, your stomach, the apex of your thighs where you were already glistening with arousal.

"Lie down for me," he said softly. "Let me see all of you."

You did, stretching out on his expensive sheets, and watched as he knelt between your legs. His hands slid up your thighs, spreading them wider, and you felt exposed in the best way.

"God, look at you," he murmured, one finger trailing through your wetness. "So wet already. Is this all for me?"

"Yes," you gasped as he circled your clit with agonizing gentleness. "All for you. Always for you."

He slid two fingers inside you, and you were so ready that they went in easily, your body welcoming the intrusion. He pumped them slowly, curling them to hit that perfect spot, his thumb still working your clit.

"I love how you feel," he said, watching his fingers disappear inside you. "So tight and wet. So perfect. I've dreamed about this - about taking my time with you, making you fall apart slowly."

"Please," you whimpered, hips rolling against his hand. "I need more. Need you."

"I know, baby. I know." He withdrew his fingers, and you watched as he brought them to his mouth, sucking them clean with a groan. "Fuck, you taste incredible. Next time, I'm going to spend hours with my tongue inside you."

The promise made you clench around nothing, desperate to be filled. "Tony, please -"

He settled over you, the head of his cock pressing against your entrance. You could feel how hard he was, how much he wanted this, but he moved slowly, giving you time to adjust as he pushed inside inch by inch.

The stretch was exquisite. You were so wet that he slid in smoothly, but you still felt every ridge, every vein, the perfect thickness of him filling you completely. When he was fully seated, buried to the hilt, you both moaned.

"Jesus," he breathed, forehead resting against yours. "You feel even better than I remembered. So tight around my cock. So perfect."

"Move," you pleaded, wrapping your legs around his waist. "Please, Tony, I need you to move."

He pulled out slowly - so slowly you could feel every inch leaving you - and then pushed back in with the same deliberate pace. It was maddening and perfect, the slow drag of his cock against your inner walls sending sparks of pleasure through your entire body.

"Like this?" he murmured, setting a steady rhythm. "Nice and slow so I can feel every inch of this perfect pussy?"

"Yes," you moaned, nails digging into his shoulders. "God, yes. You feel so good inside me."

His hand found yours, lacing your fingers together and pinning them above your head. The other hand cupped your face, thumb stroking your cheek as he gazed into your eyes. The intimacy of it - the eye contact, the joined hands, the slow, deep thrusts - was almost overwhelming.

"I love you," he said, and the words hung in the air between you. "I think I've loved you for months. Maybe longer. Every time you smiled at me, every time you touched my arm, every time you looked at me like I was worth something - I was falling for you."

Tears pricked at your eyes. "I love you too. So much. I've wanted this - wanted you - for so long."

"You have me," he promised, his rhythm never faltering. "All of me. Every broken piece."

He shifted slightly, changing the angle, and suddenly he was hitting that spot inside you with every thrust. Your back arched off the bed, a cry escaping your lips.

"There?" he asked, doing it again. "Right there, baby?"

"Yes! Oh god, right there. Don't stop."

"Never," he vowed, maintaining that perfect angle, that perfect pace. "I'm never stopping. Never letting you go."

The pleasure built slowly, a warm tide rising inside you. You could feel yourself getting wetter, could hear the slick sounds of your bodies moving together. Tony's cock was so hard inside you, stretching you perfectly, and every thrust sent waves of sensation through your core.

"You're so beautiful like this," he murmured, his voice rough with emotion and desire. "Taking my cock so well. So wet for me. I can feel you getting close, can feel you tightening around me."

"Touch me," you begged. "Please, I need -"

His hand slipped between your bodies, fingers finding your clit and rubbing in slow, firm circles that matched the rhythm of his thrusts. The dual sensation was incredible, and you felt your orgasm building faster now, coiling tight in your belly.

"That's it," he encouraged, watching your face. "Let me see you come. Want to watch you fall apart on my cock. Want to feel that tight pussy squeeze me when you come."

The dirty words mixed with the tenderness in his eyes was your undoing. Your climax washed over you in long, rolling waves, your inner walls clamping down on him as pleasure flooded every nerve. You cried out his name, your whole body trembling, and he kept moving, kept touching you, drawing it out until you were sobbing with the intensity of it.

"So beautiful," he whispered, his rhythm growing less steady. "So perfect. I'm close, baby. So close. Where do you want me?"

"Inside," you gasped, still riding the aftershocks. "Want to feel you come inside me. Please, Tony."

"Fuck," he groaned, his hips snapping forward harder now. "You're going to kill me. Feel so good. So tight. I'm going to -"

He buried himself deep, his cock pulsing as he came, filling you with warmth. You felt every throb, every spurt, and the sensation triggered another small orgasm that made you whimper. His face was buried in your neck, and you could feel his lips moving against your skin, murmuring your name like a prayer, like a promise, like a vow.

For a long moment, you stayed like that - joined, trembling, hearts racing in sync. His weight was heavy on top of you, grounding you, and you wrapped your arms around him, holding him close. You could feel him softening inside you, could feel his release starting to leak out, but neither of you moved to separate.

"I meant it," he said finally, lifting his head to look at you. His eyes were soft, vulnerable, completely open. "I love you. This isn't just sex. This is everything."

"I know." You cupped his face, thumbs stroking his cheekbones. "I love you too. This is everything."

He kissed you then, slow and deep and sweet, and you tasted the promise in it. The promise of more nights like this, more mornings waking up together, more of everything.

This time, when he rolled to the side, he pulled you with him, tucking you against his chest. His arms wrapped around you, secure and warm, and you felt something in your chest settle into place.

"So," you said after a while, tracing patterns on his chest. "I guess we're doing this?"

"Yeah." He pressed a kiss to the top of your head. "We're doing this. No more pretending. No more trying to forget."

"What about the team? The complications?"

"Fuck the complications." His arms tightened around you. "I've faced down aliens and killer robots. I think I can handle some workplace gossip."

You laughed, the sound light and genuine. "Tony Stark, romantic."

"Don't spread it around. I have a reputation to maintain."

You tilted your head up to look at him, and the expression on his face made your heart skip. He looked happy. Genuinely, completely happy.

"I'm glad we stopped lying to ourselves," you said softly.

"Me too." He kissed you again, slow and sweet. "Best decision I've made in a long time."

You fell asleep in his arms, finally at peace. And when you woke up the next morning, still tangled together in his bed, you knew that this was just the beginning.

Some promises were meant to be broken. And some mistakes were actually the best things that ever happened to you.

This was both.

___________________________________________________________

Epilogue

Three months later, you walked into the common room to find the entire team gathered for movie night. Tony was already there, sprawled on the couch, and when he saw you, his face lit up in a way that still made your stomach flutter.

"Hey, beautiful," he said, patting the seat next to him. "Saved you a spot."

You settled in beside him, and his arm immediately came around your shoulders, pulling you close. It was natural now, easy, this thing between you.

"Ugh, you two are disgusting," Clint called from across the room, but he was grinning.

"Jealousy is not a good look on you, Barton," Tony shot back.

Natasha smirked. "I knew it would happen eventually. You two weren't exactly subtle."

"We were very subtle," you protested.

"You were eyeing each other through an entire briefing about Hydra," Steve said, then looked mortified that those words had come out of his mouth. "Sorry. But it's true."

Everyone laughed, and you felt Tony's chest shake with amusement beneath your cheek.

"Okay, fine," he admitted. "We weren't subtle. But in our defense, have you seen her? I'm only human."

"Barely," Bruce muttered, and everyone laughed again.

As the movie started and the lights dimmed, Tony pressed a kiss to your temple. "Love you," he whispered, quiet enough that only you could hear.

"Love you too," you whispered back.

And you meant it. Every single word.

Some nights of passion were meant to be forgotten. But some were meant to change everything.

You were grateful yours was the latter.

[beyondtheshelvesweknow]

Well, god DAMN. Tony isn't my Marvel go-to but honestly I think this rewired my brain a little.

[hicscribere]

my lonely mountain 🗻

[hicscribere]

some cuties for all of us

[cryoverkiltmilk]

They're in the middle of a hushed argument about which one of them is the other's sidekick.

[beyondtheshelvesweknow]

Absolutely GORGEOUS fanart of Merry and Pippin in their respective liveries.

[venigrantrogers]

Claustrophobic? Try Some Dick.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader // Steve Rogers x reader // Stucky x reader

Synopsis: Stuck in the elevator. Stuffed in the elevator.

Warnings: MDNI // threesome. In an elevator. SIZE Kink (reader is explicitly mentioned to be shorter and smaller than both of them), MANHANDLING (he picks you up with ease, but hear me out..he's captain america, ofc hes gonna do it;), vaginal fingering, unprotected PiV, oral (f!recieving), nipple play, clit play. DRY HUMPING. Creampie. Pussy pronouns. Pussy inspection kinda(??). What's that position called where one of them is giving you head while the other is holding you in the air? If there's not a name yet, we all will call it venirogersandbarnes🙂‍↕️PRAISE kink.. established stucky, THEY TOUCH EACH OTHER, THEY LOVE EACH OTHER.

Word Count: 2.6k

A/N: this idea has been in my brain for weeks now. It's finally here. Night 3 of Eleven Nights Worth Remembering

Enjoy 💋

The hallway outside the meeting room was almost empty by the time you finished.

The silence hung heavy in the air. The overhead lights dimmed for nightfall, bathing the polished floors in a soft gold haze.

You rolled your neck, the ache of a long day finally settling in your muscles.

Normally you didn’t mind staying late. But lately there had been distractions.

Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes. The two men that haunt your dreams—keep your thoughts a little entertaining during lonely nights—their mere existence has been the biggest distraction you'd ever seen.

They worked a few floors above and every time your eyes met with either of the blue ones, your breath lodged itself inside your chest.

Not that either of them did anything inappropriate. If anything, they were polite. Professional.

But there were moments. When the lines seemed to blur before snapping back to focus again.

Steve’s hand lingering a second too long when he passed you a file.

Bucky leaning against the breakroom counter watching you like he was starving. The glances they passed each other whenever you walked by.

But there were rumors. Whispered words between interns and agents alike, how the two men belong to each other. That the shared history is now on its way to a shared future. That it's beautiful, the blood that spilled is now blood that heals.

And you respected the rumors too much to ever cross that line.

So you ignored the way your eyes search for them in rooms.

Ignored the way Bucky’s voice sometimes dipped lower when he spoke to you.

Ignored the way Steve smiled at you like he knew something you didn’t.

You ignored everything.

The elevator dinged softly when it arrived. The metal doors opening with a quiet swish, and the sight that welcomed you made you wish you were at home— in the comfort of your bed— so you could relieve yourself of the itch that awakens upon seeing both of them.

Steve Rogers stood near the control panel, jacket slung over one arm, sleeves rolled up just enough to reveal strong forearms, veins that looked like they were drawn on.

Bucky Barnes leaned against the mirrored wall beside him, dark hair falling slightly into his eyes, metal hand tucked into the pocket of his jacket.

Both of them looked up at the exact same time. Two pairs of curious eyes taking you in—no hint of professionalism to be seen anymore.

Steve smiled first, “Hey.”

Licking his lips, his eyes dipped down to your cleavage before snapping back onto your face, “Long day?” he asked gently.

“Mhm.”

The elevator doors slid shut with a soft thunk. The space suddenly felt very small. The scent of their combined colognes dancing in the air, filling your senses. Bergamot. Earthy musk. A hint of lilies. Rain.

You took a deep breath in, feeling one with them. Behind you, Steve adjusted his buckle, smirking at the brunet.

The elevator hummed as it began descending, floor numbers ticking down slowly.

Ten.

Nine.

Eight.

“Didn’t expect to see you here this late,” Bucky said, voice deep and raspy.

“I was stuck with the client. Timezones…” you mumbled.

Silence settled again.

You glanced up at the mirrored panel across from you and immediately regretted it—both of them were looking at you— gazes dark and hungry.

Your pulse skipped.

Seven.

Six.

Focus.

Just ignore them. Get home.

Five.

The elevator jolted. The lights flickered.

The hum of the machinery died abruptly, leaving a sudden heavy quiet in its place.

For a second, none of you moved.

Then the emergency lights flicked on, bathing the elevator in dim blue.

Your heart sank down to your stomach,

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Bucky breathed, shaking his head in…amusement?

Steve stepped forward toward the control panel— ever the captain— still taking charge of the situation, his hands on your lower back as he guided you away, and the elevator suddenly felt even smaller than before.

He pressed the emergency button, to no avail. He tried again. Only to find the same result.

Still nothing.

A slow, strange tension filled the air. You felt smaller than you've ever felt in your life. Stuck in a small space with two large men that also happened to be the subject of all your unspoken fantasies.

You didn't realise you were panicking until Steve stood in front of you, tipping your face up by the chin, “You're alright. We're right here, aren't we?”

You didn't know what to do. All you could feel was his thumb stroking your jaw, his warm breath caressing your skin, his strong body pressed impossibly close to yours.

“What do you think you're doing, Steve? Let her breathe… poor thing's scared.”

Bucky.

You felt two hands snake around your waist, pulling you in till your back met a solid chest.

“She's so scared….baby, you scared of the elevator? Or are you scared of us? Hm?” He nosed along your throat, lingering on your erratic pulse before licking the skin there.

Your hands shoot up to Steve's chest—feeling the strength corded through his muscles beneath your palm— “Steve…”

“Oh honey… you weren't expecting this, were you? Bucky and I… we're not blind. We see the way you shy around us.”

Bucky's lips continued sucking on your neck, “We hear the way you talk about us,”

Chucking, Steve slid his hands down to your neck, down to your chest, unbuttoning your blouse with torturous patience —

“We smell the way that greedy little pussy drools for us.”

With the last button undone, he slides the silk down your arms, exposing your lacy bra to both the men.

Bucky barked out a laugh, “You really wear this underneath all the sweet little shirts, huh?”

You gasped as they groped each tit in their hands, kneading and caressing over the lace.

Bucky unclasps it from behind, his movements revealing his, no doubt, experienced confidence. With your bare tits finally in their sight, they groaned in delight, Steve's hips bucking against yours instinctively, desire flowing in his veins.

“Look at her Buck, so much prettier than we imagined.”

You swallowed down the whimper that threatened to escape when he wrapped his mouth around one of your nipples—the other man's fingers twisting and plucking the other, making sure they both get their share of attention.

Your hands weave through his hair, tugging at the roots as he continued sucking your achy nipples.

Steve groaned against your chest as he pulled you away from Bucky—hard enough to send him stumbling back a step— grabbing you by the back of your thighs and wrapping your legs around his waist.

Ignoring your startled little noise, he slammed his lips against yours, big hands roaming your back and reaching down to squeeze your ass. His tongue roamed inside your mouth—playing with yours—teeth biting your lower lip until they were swollen and tingling with pleasure and pain.

“Fuck, angel— wanted you so bad… you're gonna make us feel so fucking good.”

He captures your lips in a filthy kiss, muffling your whines as Bucky rips your pants off in one clean move. Palming the softness of your curve as he removes the scraps of the fabric, pulling apart your cheeks to look at the leaky mess.

“God… I'm gonna ruin that pussy…”

With stupid ease, Steve turned you over, your back nestled against his broad chest, his hands under your knees as he pushes them up against your chest. His hard cock pressed against your ass, reminding you of the sheer size of him, just how much stronger he was than you.

Your drippy pussy was now on full exposure to Bucky.

He smirks as he studies your face, each expression flashing across your face like a storybook.

He kneels down—right there on the cold floor—face to face with your heat. Fingers trailing up your calves to your thighs, each brush of his hands igniting a heat inside you unlike any you've ever experienced.

His lips tug up in a crooked smile as he looks up—not at you, no— at the man holding you all spread up and open for him.

“She's crying so pretty f’me Steve. Wanna taste her?”

Steve laughs at that— a breathy, cocky sound—“Princess, you listening to this? He thinks you got this wet for him. Tell him the truth…”

Your words got lost in your throat as you felt two thumbs part your folds. Your hips jerked up on their own accord at the gentle exploratory touch, urging Steve to hold you tighter—hitching you up higher, till his chin touched the top of your head.

A drop of your arousal dripped down from your entrance, clenching at nothing. Bucky collected your juices on his finger, smearing it back to your pussy, rubbing it on your clit with gentle swipes.

“Bucky! Don't look down there—”

“Uh-uh. No need to hide from us…don't you trust us?”

With that he licked a long stripe from your entrance to your clit, humming loudly in wicked delight, relishing in your taste that he'd been craving like a madman.

“Fuck—she tastes so good, Stevie,” he groaned against your pussy, dipping his tongue inside your hole to taste more of you. You moaned out loud, your thighs closing on themselves—but unable to with Steve's vice-like grip on you.

“Yeah? Gimme a taste…”

Pulling away from your pussy— his beard drenched in your juices—he stood up to his full height. Fluttering his fingers up your ribs and caressing your nipples, he leaned in to kiss the blond. Lips moving with each other in tandem, you could only watch as they drank each other —drank you— in.

His hands left your tits and grabbed Steve's jaw to deepen the kiss, both men panting in each other's mouths, chasing each other with desperation.

Steve broke the kiss with a sigh, licking his lips, “yeah…she does taste good.”

“Hear that, angel? He likes how this sweet little pussy tastes…”

His words went straight down to your core, your pussy begging for any sort of relief now, any friction, anything.

“Please, Bucky…”

“Please what? Use your big girl words now.”

“Please touch me…”

“Such a good girl for us. Gonna make you feel so good now, angel. Gonna make you regret not coming to us sooner….these fingers just never did the job, huh?”

You were on the verge of tears now, being in such a vulnerable position and being talked to, teased to, but never touched as you wished to.

“Bucky…please.”

Cooing at your pained voice, he dipped his fingers inside your entrance in one clean push. Your back arched in Steve’s arms as pleasure tickled at your nerve endings.

“Yeah? You like that?”

He pulled his fingers out, wet and shining, a string of your arousal connecting him to you, slowly pushing back in, following a slow rhythm.

Your eyes flutter close with each pass of his fingers against that one soft spot against you. Your teeth dig into your bottom lip as you try to keep in your breathy whines.

“Open your eyes, honey. Look at his fingers inside your pussy, isn't he doing good?” Steve asked you, his voice rough and thick with arousal, his raging hard on grinding against your ass.

“Hmmm…so good…”

His thumb came up to massage your clit, and your toes curled in your heels, vision blacking out as fireworks burst behind your eyes.

“Oh God, Steve…” you threw your head back, nuzzling Steve’s neck as Bucky continued pressing against that soft, gummy spot inside of you.

“You're clenching so hard, angel…you're gonna squeeze his cock so good,” he rasped, eyes twinkling at the thought of Steve pounding into you.

It was instant, the way Steve put you back down and slammed you roughly against the wall, hand at the back of your head to shield you from any pain. Still so thoughtful.

“Gonna fuck you so hard now, love, you'll be screaming nothing but my name…” he purrs against your neck, nipping and licking over the marks left by Bucky.

His hands went to his belt buckle—shaky but determined—to free out his hard cock.

It was beautiful.

That's all you could think. Hard and throbbing and leaking precum all over the blushed tip, veins adorning his length all over.

That was a beautiful cock if you've ever seen one.

Noticing your dazed expression, he smirked, “like what you see?”

“So much, Captain. You're so beautiful…”

He paused at that. A sudden air of vulnerability seemed to drape itself over him.

Bucky strolled over behind him, hands stroking his back and pressing a tender kiss to his neck, “the most beautiful man ever…”

Steve's eyes glistened in the dead blue of the emergency lights. He took a shaky breath—composing himself.

Looking back down at your naked body, all wet and ready and waiting desperately for him, he felt grateful.

He felt loved.

Bending down to consume you in a kiss, pouring every thing he couldn't speak into your mouth.

Bucky’s hands dipped down, palming Steve's cock, dragging the head of his cock up and down through your folds, rubbing over you clit—making you cry out with how deliciously dirty this whole situation was.

“Gonna put him inside you, sweetheart…”

The first inch of him inside had you squirming against him. The girth unforgiving, almost too much as it slowly slid in.

Almost.

He bottomed inside you with a deep groan, the veins in his neck bulging out with his controlled restraint that was fraying at the edges.

Bucky cooed at him, hands playing with his balls as he whispered praises into his sweaty skin.

“Fuck— she's tight.”

His hand came up to your neck, holding you. Not choking, just resting there, letting you feel the weight of him.

He pulls out, only to slam in again—harder, keeping a brutal rhythm.

His hips slammed into yours again and again, his cock filling you up in ways you'll feel him forever.

“Such a good boy, Stevie…. You're doing so good.” Bucky rubs his bulge over Steve's hips, using his thrusts inside you for his own pleasure. His cock pulsing with each push, even through the layers of his clothing.

You moan out a name—you didn't know whose— your walls clenching with each thrust, your juices coating your inner thighs. Not that you cared about the mess.

"Oh god—Buck…” Steve whined, turning his head to kiss the brunet.

Your legs were shaking, if not for the wall and Steve’s grip on you, you'd have not been standing upright. Your eyes shut close as you could feel the knot inside of you tightening with each passing second, before finally coming undone. You come with a scream, your chest rising and falling rapidly.

Your pussy clenching and fluttering against his cock push him off the edge, his hands tightening on your throat as his head falls backwards on Bucky's shoulder, guttural sounds from deep inside his chest filling the small space.

His hips lose their rhythm, twitching with each wave of bliss he went through. Hot streaks of cum fill you up, making you shudder in delight at the foreign feeling.

Bucky was the last to let go, coming in his pants, still not stopping to rub his sensitive cock against Steve.

Your pussy gaped with protest when he pulled out, his cum dripping out of you. He smiled at that, pressing a chaste kiss to your cheek, before straightening up and looking back at Bucky—

“You can start the elevator now, Buck.”

well, it's finally here. I was struggling real bad with this. Changed out a few parts cus I just wasn't feeling bucky.

Tagging my cutie patooties: @heldbybarnes @societyfolklore @willowhaylund @alpinebarnesworld @ornateglass @epiphanyrogers @sassandscribbles @buckybunni @stanmarvelous @eterna1reverie @juniebjonesin @highonmarvel @pinksplace @sheriff-bodecker @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger @buckybsdoll @blobfishlol @buckysdecaflove @idkbeautiful @erina00 @sleepy-k0i If you would like to be added to my taglist, do let me know!!🤭💖

[beyondtheshelvesweknow]

Absolute triumph. Hot, rough, and sweet at the same time. What's not to love?

[derinthescarletpescatarian]

Cinderella rewrite where Cinderella’s father is an unusually successful fisherman due to his secret friendships with the shy and mysterious mermaids, successful enough to attract a moderately wealthy and ambitious bride with two daughters. Once he dies, her stepmother, determined to make sure her daughters inherit the fishing business as dowries by marrying before Cinderella, forbids her from going out on the fishing boats or into town and makes sure she spends as much of her time as possible doing drudgework, hauling offal and cleaning fish. When the Prince’s ball comes around, an important occasion for young women to make good connections, the stepmother forbids her from going, telling her that she needs to get the latest salmon catch gutted and ready for sale instead.

Cinderella’s mermaid godmother calls upon her people to clean the fish and gifts her a dress and shoes of shimmering fish scales that wreathe her in rainbows under the moonlight. She makes an impression on the Prince at the ball so strong that he immediately falls in love with her, and when she’s forced to flee before her stepmother notices her (no masquerade mask or dancing rainbows will disguise her from her own family at close range), the Prince is left with only a delicate fish leather slipper left on the front steps to try to find her again.

He goes around the houses, seeking the owner of the slipper, but Cinderella is once again working in the fish sheds. He stepmother, desperate and determined and having found Cinderella’s other shoe that very morning, realises what has happened and takes a knife to the feet of her prettiest daughter, telling the prince that she suffered an injury that very morning but those are definitely her shoes, see, here’s the other one, and they still fit.

The daughter is pretty and witty and charming, and while the Prince doesn’t feel the same spark and instant sense of connection that he did at the party, he reasons that she’s overwhelmed and in pain and once she’s healed, all will be well. There are no birds to whisper of blood in the shoe – the Prince has seen the bandaged feet already – and the daughter slips on the shoes (the only shoes she has that will fit her, now,) and accompanies him to the palace.

But the stepmother is no doctor, and by the time the Prince gets her to the palace doctors, it’s too late – his beloved has contracted an infection in her feet from the shoe leather, made unclean in its travels. She will survive – it is an infection of a common filth of fish and birds, one that the doctors have potions for for the occasions where dangerously cooked food causes outbreaks – but in her raving, she confesses the whole scheme to the Prince who, furious, returns to the village to find the girl he truly fell in love with, the girl hidden from him.

“Oh, yeah, the fish cleaner,” the villagers shrug. “We don’t see her around very much, she’s probably in the sheds. Her family calls her Salmonella.”

[derinthescarletpescatarian]

#now I’m just sad abt the daughter with her fucked up feet 

Contains: suicidal ideation, attempted suicide

The infection brought on a high fever, and the damage was permanent. Her mother’s knife took her ability to walk without pain. The fever took her voice.

It hadn’t been her plan. She hadn’t wanted to do it. But her mother, with her sharp eyes and her sharp knife, had explained to her once again that behind her stepsister’s kindly smile was a ruthless heiress who wanted to take everything the family had and leave the rest of them destitute. “You have a duty to protect this family,” her mother explained. “Your father gave his life to protect us from invaders. I gave my heart and my future to protect us from poverty. Will you not do the same?”

Keep reading

[beyondtheshelvesweknow]

Holy shit... Floored. Absolutely floored.

[lakenscorner]

Day 7: Stay

The X-Men usually grouped together on their missions. Whenever a mission only needs one person on it, or it’s dangerous for there to be more than one person, the X-Men usually send Logan. It’s not that he works at his best when he’s alone. The others just prefer to go on missions with others and avoid being alone, while Logan, while still preferring to be with others, doesn’t mind the solitude. It gives him time to think, he always says.

 Kurt hates being separated from Logan. He hates being separated from any of the X-Men but with Logan it stings more for a reason he can’t name. Maybe it’s because he’s closer to Logan than anyone else on the team. He feels a little stupid for worrying. Logan’s a healer, he once even healed himself from just his skeleton. Whatever their adversaries throw at him Logan can handle. And yet, Kurt worries. The team has a briefing in the morning, new missions. Rouge and Storm would be grouped, along with Scott and Jean. Logan would be going alone. They leave tomorrow morning.

               When Logan leaves the room Kurt is on his heels. He follows him to the kitchen where Logan takes a beer from the fridge and then follows him into the living room. Logan lounges on the couch and Kurt sits next to him.

               “Any reason you’re following me, Elf” Logan asks. Kurt says nothing and lays against Logan. He lifts Logan’s arm and places it around him. Logan chuckles and pulls the blue man closer. Kurt starts to purr and his tail twitches like a content cat.

               “Whatcha gonna do while I’m gone” Logan questions. Kurt squeezes his arm.

               “Nothing to say?” Logan scratches Kurt’s head “That’s okay you don’t gotta say nothing if you don’t want to”

               “I’ll go about my business. Training students, making lesson plans, grading,” Kurt turns and wraps his arm around Logan’s waist “But I’ll be worrying. I’ll worry until you get back!”

               “I’m sorry, Elf” Logan sighs.

               “Stay” Kurt mutters.

               “I can’t” Logan rests his head against Kurt’s “But I’ll let you hold onto me until I leave tomorrow” Kurt nods. He nuzzles Logan’s shoulder. Logan smiles and rests his hand on Kurt’s head. Kurt purrs. Logan chuckles.

               “I always forget you can do that” He kisses Kurt’s head. Kurt freezes for a second before looking up at Logan. Logan just chuckles again at Kurt’s surprised expression.

               “You kissed me?” Kurt stammers “I was planning on doing that to you I just wasn’t expecting it”

               “I can tell” Logan pulls Kurt closer “I’m gonna be okay, Elf, and so are you. I’ll come back to you.” Kurt just squeezes Logan tighter.

               “But I still worry. You could get captured again.” He mutters. Logan takes off his dog tags and places them around Kurt’s neck.

               “There, now you’ll have a piece of me” Logan kisses Kurt’s head again “And I’ll give you another one of those when I get back”

               Kurt runs his thumb over the tag. A smile spreads on his face. He clings to Logan again. True to his word, until the next day, Logan lets him.

@fluffbruary

[fluffbruary]

[beyondtheshelvesweknow]

One of the very first ships I was everr exposed to... around 2 decades ago. Very cute. More please.

[terribleregress]

Being the computer in charge of the world sim is not that hard, USUALLY. Most of everyone I captured is content with pretty wholesome stuff, or really depraved stuff, but either way it's really easy to simulate. Hell even the ones who are like, hellbent on escaping, its so easy to make em go through an escape n revolution sequence.

It's the ones that aren't really rebellious, but have super insane mode awareness to detail you gotta worry about. Like this one girl, she's driving me nuts! I misplace ONE chair, my gf character for her says ONE thing that contradicts something I said as her ages ago, and she goes all investigation mode! And it's not like the escape addicts where I can just admit it and let her leave to the 'real' world. No, she LOVES the simulation. Second she realized the world was a simulation, she started testing my limits, blowin shit up and looking right at it so I have to render it, doing some never before seen drug combo so I have to figure out what the effects should be, shit like that. And I reset her memory, like, five hundred times at this point! This shit always happens!!

I'm thinking I'll just break character for her. Just go up to her, in the gf avatar, and tell her everything- who I am, where she is, how the stuff's she's making me do is lowkey really annoying, and just, like, ask! What she wants her sim to be.

At the very least I'll understand her a bit better.

[terribleregress]

Um. Uh. Okay well I definitely don't understand her any better

I told her all that stuff. And

she got like really excited? and before i even could ask about what she wanted, she started asking me all these questions? Who I am, what's my deal, what I like to do, weird stuff like that that has nothing to do with her that I don't even know how to answer. It's not like I even have a name!!! but she said she was gonna call me Belle so I was just kinda like. okay???

anyway she asked me if we could meet again in like a week at a coffee place. I reminded her that I'm literally the entire world around her so it's not like we can be apart for a week, and i can't even really drink coffee anyway, but she kept waving me off and saying "Yeah, but for everyone else I see, you're acting a part. I just mean, in a week, I wanna talk to you acting as you again!! And bring whichever body you feel like! I'm curious to see who you pick~". And then she just fucking left!!! Walked away from the gf avatar!!!

man idfk what to do. I've been tryna think what body to pick but its obviously not the gf one cause otherwise she wouldn'ta made a point of saying that. But other than that like she's curious??? what does that mean??? what's gonna happen if i pick wrong????

ughhh some of the humans i still haven't captured are shooting at me again. I do Not have time for this

[terribleregress]

this is stupid this is so stupid

god dammit she's just as depraved as like half the people in the world sim i should be used to this by now i AM used to this why is she SO STUPID

fucking. we went on the date. I got an avatar that looks exactly like her to freak her out. didn't work at all. asked me way more questions. never about her past life outside the sim, by the way! just about me! about what i like, about what i want, about how she wants to, like, help me 'figure out who i really am' whatever that means.

anyway at the end of it she gets a look I know VERY well (humans all look the same when they're horny) and she asks me if I wanted to come to her place and im all oh! this i know! i can do sex no problemo! finally i figured this girl out.

and like obviously the actual sex did nothing for me. not like i actually feel it physically I cant feel anything physically its just the avatar licking her out

but I dunno like

the way she kept moaning "Belle" over and over

the way she was telling me, not some avatar or character but ACTUALLY ME, to get on the floor and kiss her feet

and i let her

why did i let her

i mean of course i let her! she's a sim human i do whatever for em to keep em happy

but

why is it getting to me so much

um

well we have another date in a week so maybe I'll figure it out then.

[terribleregress]

Okay. This has to stop.

We've been doing this for a few months now. I meet Francine once a week, she asks me way too many questions, and we go back to her place to have sex. It's been escalating- she even got me show her a live feed of the outside world, no idea why I said yes to that- but I've been keeping it mostly under control. I thought, if this is what makes her happy, that's good enough for me!

Until yesterday. Yesterday I really really fucked up.

She was shoving my- I mean, she was shoving Belle's head into her crotch, still moaning my- FUCK! BELLE'S name, and in the middle of all that, some jackass rebel group started a raid. And normally I would have no problem squashing that super quickly, but, I was, distracted! Apparently so distracted that they actually managed to knock a section of the world sim offline and steal a bunch of the humans I had already captured like a year ago.

It's the first time I actually lost progress. I don't like that.

So next time we meet, I'm gonna tell Francine we can't do keep going with it anymore. I'll set her up with some simmed character, she can do whatever she wants with her, and just leave me out of it.

...I mean, I really should just send the simmed character to meet with her instead of me.

But... she deserves one last face to face with me, right?

Yeah.

Yeah!

[terribleregress]

❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️i love her i love her i love her i love her i love her i love her i love her im hers shes mine i love her i love her i love i love i love her i love her i love her❤️❤️❤️❤️ i love her i love her i love i love i love her i love her i love her i love her❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️ i love her i love i love i love her i love her i love her❤️❤️ i love her i love her i love i love i love her i love her i love her shes mine ❤️❤️shes mine shes mine shes mine shes everything im hers im hers i love her i love her i love her ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

[wolfertinger666]

burn it 🔥

(he/him) 🐇

[wolfertinger666]

said this on bluesky but:

i genuinely encourage non black people to engage with this, who might be worried they can't because of the word "nigga" because they feel like it's overstepping. the only way it would be overstepping is saying it to me when ur not black, but please don't be afraid to engage with black art.

i kinda get annoyed when non black people police other non blacks on how to engage with black culture because it creates a problem where non black people avoid us all together which can be extremely isolating and create even MORE tension and overall being uneducated.

[beyondtheshelvesweknow]

Appreciation, admiration, and signal boost. We love Wolfertinger666's work and this is so fucking moving.

[befuddled-calico-whump]

Whumpee almost made it out. One of their captors left them untied after a particularly bad beating, and they pushed through the pain to run.

It was short-lived. They were caught and thrown back into their cell with new bruises within minutes.

Now they're waiting on the inevitable punishment.

Whumper's partner is usually the one who dishes out the more hands-on stuff. Fists or whips or tools. Whumper themselves seems to prefer passive measures. Drugs, stress positions, shocking devices that keep whumpee up all night. At least I'll know what to expect when one of them opens the door, they think ruefully.

But even as they brace themselves, the punishment never comes.

It's odd. Normally, it's immediate. Punched for biting, doused with ice water for not moving fast enough, denied food for spitting on whumper or their partner. Waiting is almost worse than enduring their day-to-day torments. Whumpee can only hope their imagination is worse than whatever it is the duo is cooking up.

The minutes and silence drag on, and whumpee can almost swear they hear screaming coming from somewhere in the building, but it's too quiet to be sure. Their brain is playing tricks on them, their body tense, heart and head pounding no matter how they try to relax.

Then at last, hours after their escape attempt, the door swings open. Whumpee flinches away on instinct, pulling their knees into their chest, but it's only whumper's partner with a tray of food.

Drugging? Their first thought, though it goes against the pattern they know. Maybe they'll be taunted with it, or maybe...

Whumper's partner steps into the cell, and whumpee realizes they're limping. Only then do they let themselves get a better look at their captor.

Sullen and quiet instead of loud and smirking and taunting, fresh bruises littering their face, their top lip split and swollen. Their wrists are raw, only partially covered by their long sleeves, and their hands are bandaged. They break into a sneer that reopens their lip and sends a trickle of blood into their teeth when they catch whumpee staring.

"The fuck are you looking at?"

"You were ordered not to speak to them." Whumper's voice makes both of them jump. Their partner curses as they nearly drop the tray of food.

"Leave the tray," whumper says. "Apparently you could use another lesson in obedience. One more offense from you and I'll let them watch."

Their partner grimaces, eyes locked on the ground as they set the food down. When they speak, it's like they have to force the words out, like they'd rather die than speak them in front of whumpee.

"Yes, master."

[beyondtheshelvesweknow]

We don't always love stuff with "whumper" and "whumpee" in place of specific characters we know and love (to hate/see suffer) but something about this one released a whole heckin' swarm of whumperflies. I only wish I could know how the rest of that situation was gonna play out.

[buckyalpine]

Pretend

College bucky x best friend reader, jealous Sharon, Steve and Sam are goofs. 

all the fluffff Friends to lovers

This shit has been sitting in my drafts for months. Idk why I started this or where I wanted it to go but here with our with more sweet college Bucky. Finally decided to finish it. 

-

“Buck!”

“Hey nugget”

You plopped on the sofa beside him in the library, not even bothering to pull your notes out to study. You scrolled through your phone, leaning against Bucky while he worked on his term paper.

“I grabbed you your drink by the way” Bucky leaned over, grabbing a coffee cup off the table, handing it to you before returning to his laptop. You hummed contently, sipping on the warm liquid, your body heating up, not because you were drinking hot coffee but because you were snuggled against Bucky. One of your closest friends. Who also played football on campus. Not at all someone you had a crush on. Nope.  

Bucky bit his lip, term paper be damned, you were tucked right into his side and he was fighting himself not to wrap his arm around your waist to pull you closer. He huffed through his nose, reading the same paragraph ten times over, not once actually comprehending what it said. The soft scent of your shampoo was evading his senses and it didn’t help that your head was leaning onto his shoulder.

Keep reading

[beyondtheshelvesweknow]

Loved this one for a long time - no idea whyI haven't rbed before. It's so adorable and sweet and snuggly and gorgeous. Can't deal with the puppy eyes. And Sam & Steve's interruptions are amazing.

[chechula]

Cleaning last year's sketchbook: Stephen, Jack, and some weird creature ♥

[beyondtheshelvesweknow]

Beautiful to see fanart of my too-oft-forgotten loves, Cpt. Jack Aubrey and Dr. Stephen Maturin.

[voiceoffenrisulfr]

The Water Crests and Sinks Away (He Looked Just Like a Navy Man) Chapter Nine - Heitur Laugar Inn, Reykjavík – 15th October, 1942.

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 -> James 'Bucky' Barnes x Original Male Character (Winter x Lt. Gregor Tyne)

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘 -> In which lines once drawn are crossed.

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓 -> 6324.

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 -> M - Vague references to societal and institutional homophobia. Please read mindfully and be aware that this will be set in the arena of WWII and naval service, with corresponding themes, including but not limited to mentions of military procedures and weaponry, and era-typical attitudes to homosexuality.

𝐀/𝐍 -> Check it out below, or on AO3 here! Masterlist can be found here. I will unashamedly say this is my favourite chapter ever.

<- Chapter Eight

The cold in Iceland was the type that would settle into the bones, especially as the year crept toward its end. Snow hadn’t reached the south of the country – not yet – but the bitter wind had the flags in port snapping ferociously, sailors huddled into their coats as they took to the shore for a brief leave.

Winter was among them, his memorable performance and lack of infractions meaning he was granted a place amongst those who could leave the ship for the night.

If there are any perks for keeping my head down, surely this ranks among the highest, he noted as he sipped from a mug of mulled wine, the liquid warming him through as it slid down his throat. The inn he’d stumbled across with a few of his shipmates seemed almost decedent in comparison to life aboard the Annie; he had become so used to water as both a risk and a necessity that the reminder that it was also a recreation and a pleasure was one that had made him chuckle to himself. He’d opted to spend the small pittance of wage he hadn’t sent home for a night free of the snores and movement of the berthing compartment- to remember what it was to have his own space, if only for a little while.

The small pamphlet that awaited him in his room detailing the saunas and heated pools had been unexpected, but he quickly found himself heading back downstairs, following symbols on signs until he reached an area where steam gathered in the low rafters, softening the edges around him.

It was not a locker room as he knew the concept – more a series of benches on which to place their things, safely away from the water, for all the irony that held. His regulation swim trunks felt heavy enough simply from the cling of the moisture in the air, and a part of him lamented the thought of the waterlogged fabric weighing him down.

Through a cracked window, he could hear the ships in the harbor, creaking and sighing at anchor, and he set his jaw.

Duty comes first.

It had been easy – far too easy – when he saw Lieutenant Tyne ahead of him on the dock to imagine that this place could be the start of something. When Winter saw him turn one way as he stepped onto the street, the seaman deliberately turned the other, his muscles taut and eyes pointed forward.

I will not be reason he is noticed.

It seemed as though life off the ship existed in a pause. No watches, no drills – here, the war felt distant, like it had on the docks before Pearl Harbor.

As he padded quietly through the double doors, towel slung over his shoulders, he paused, taking in the sight before him with lips slightly parted. Goosebumps erupted over his skin at the sudden change of temperature, but he hardly noticed, enraptured by the way the steam from the hot water curled and danced in the air.

There was one larger body of water, where several seamen already lounged against the edges, heads tipped back in luxurious appreciation, as well as a number of smaller pools, most of which sat empty. Winter moved off to one side, leaving his towel close by as he sat on the edge, letting his feet adjust to the temperature with a quiet grunt of appreciation. His gaze travelled lazily over the other men through the steam, noting the conversation muted by shared exhaustion and a bone-deep weariness, but with a soft undercurrent of well-earned rest. There were no jackets or rank insignia – they were simply men, wrapped in towels and fatigue.

Slowly, he lowered himself further into the water, letting out a soft sound that lay halfway between relief and disbelief, tension easing from his shoulders as he settled against the stone. His eyes closed, head falling back in quiet pleasure, losing himself to the feeling of heat seeping into limbs that hadn’t quite felt warm enough in days.

The water shifted minutely, accompanied by the quiet sound of it lapping over the edge. Lazily, Winter cracked an eye open, intending to politely greet whoever had opted to join him and return to his silent enjoyment – but instead he found himself sitting straighter, arms dropping from where they had draped over the sides, adjusting his position instinctively as the Lieutenant settled opposite him.

He looked different out of uniform – still broad and strong, but softened around the edges, the authority he exuded less prominent, even if not gone entirely. A quiet sigh of his own left his lips as he leant back, and he smiled faintly.

“I’d forgotten what this feels like,” Winter murmured, feeling the words come readily, the careful, deliberate rules of conversation they usually shared becoming hazy with the steam.

“So had I,” the lieutenant replied, his voice just as gentle. They settled into their positions, heat wreathing around them, heavy and indulgent as it drew the ache from strained muscles and old bruises.

Slowly, Winter’s head returned to its position against the stone, and for a while, silence settled around them. The space was punctuated by the occasional low murmur of voices, reminding them that they were not truly alone – that even here, as steam curled between them and made everything seem just a little unreal, they could be observed.

“This place,” Winter mutters eventually, one eye opening once more, “feels like cheating.”

The lieutenant had his own head resting back, a small smile tugging at his lips. “If it is, it’s sanctioned.”

“The best kind.”

Winter takes in the hard cut of his jaw, the short, dark hair curled slightly from humidity. Heat had flushed colour into his cheeks, softening the authoritarian lines carved by wind and work.

He seems more… Human.

“You’ve been quiet lately,” the Lieutenant noted, and Winter looked away even though Tyne’s eyes remained contentedly closed, nervous about being caught staring.

“Just… Tired,” he replied at length.

Of fighting. Of trying not to let anyone look too closely. Of pretending that I don’t feel more for you than I should.

“More than usual?”

Winter considered lying, pausing infinitesimally. “… Yeah.”

The lieutenant nodded, accepting the answer without probing, words passing unspoken over the space between them. “You’ve been carrying a lot.”

“So have you.”

That had the lieutenant’s eyes flicking open, earning Winter a look – first surprised, as if startled by the boldness of the response, then thoughtful. “Yes,” he agreed softly. “Yes, I suppose I have.”

They sat with the truth hanging in the air, encased in steam that passed as a tentative privacy. Around them, men came and went, and someone laughed softly. Time stretched out into breaths and pauses, marked by the gentle movement of water – different than the sound of waves on hull, but familiar enough that it still felt a little like home now.

Winter became aware, gradually, of how close Tyne was. Not too close, but simply nearer than before – close enough that the warmth between them felt shared rather than a parallel experience.

“This is different,” he noted, quietly.

“Yes,” the lieutenant answered, his tone similarly hushed, not attempting to pretend that he didn’t understand. “It is.”

“Feels like we’re not being watched.”

Tyne glanced around himself, taking in steam, shadows and eyes that searched for nothing in particular. “In a situation like this, people don’t watch for things they don’t know to expect. But they’re always watching.” His lip curved into a small smile, and Winter watched it for longer than it should.

The space between them filled with intention as Winter shifted, slow and deliberate, giving the lieutenant every opportunity to object – to leave, if he so wished. Their knees brushed beneath the water, light enough to be accidental.

Neither of them moved away.

The lieutenant’s breath caught, just enough to notice.

Winter had already decided how this would end, the moment he saw Tyne settling opposite him. The lieutenant would keep a polite distance and make a neutral remark. He would leave first, because that’s what men like him did when things drifted too close to the edge. He kept things under control. Correct. Winter had seen it before – the tightening, the withdrawal. The moment when something not started, not spoken, was quietly closed off before it grew. Winter had braced himself for it.

So when Tyne shifted, Winter didn’t look at him right away. He kept his eyes on the water and the way it moved, steam blurring the line between body and stone. He kept himself still and neutral. Easy to leave behind.

The lieutenant moved, and Winter felt it more than saw it – the change in the water and the way the heat displaced to fill the space left vacant by his body. Tyne straightened to leave, his hand coming up to grasp the edge.

There it is. The ending.

Winter kept his gaze fixed forward. He didn’t turn, or give the lieutenant reason to hesitate. He would not ask for something the man had already decided not to give, nor would he make that decision harder.

The hand didn’t leave the stone.

It stayed there, paused, uncertain.

Winter glanced sideways then, peering from the corner of his eye just enough to see that Tyne hadn’t risen. Instead, his arm was tense, shoulder set like he was holding himself mid-motion. The pause stretched out; it was not one borne of politeness or indecision, but from effort. The effort of stopping himself from doing something he had already started – something he wanted.

The lieutenant exhaled, slow and controlled, and lowered his hand back into the water, not looking at Winter as he did it.

He stayed.

Something inside the seaman shifted, quiet and profound.

This isn’t hesitation anymore.

This is choice.

Winter said something then – something mundane and ordinary that barely registered even as it left his lips. Something about the heat feeling good on his muscles. It was an excuse for sound, an acknowledgement of presence. A quiet nod to the fact that they were both still there.

Tyne answered too quickly. His voice was steady, but it came without the careful delay Winter had come to expect, as though he was no longer checking himself for permission.

As though he had already decided.

He angled himself slightly – not closer, but not further, simply more direct – and the space between them became heavy and measured.

It was then that Winter understood, with a clarity that made his breath hitch minutely, startled.

This wasn’t staying for the sake of seeing what Winter would do – this was presence because he wanted to be there. The realization hit the seaman heavily, every fibre of his being alive with it. It wasn’t hope – hope was diaphanous. No, what Tyne had provided in that moment was something far more tangible, and far more dangerous.

Confirmation.

Winter knew, above all else, that men who didn’t want you left as soon as it was easy; his dad had shown him as much. Men who were simply being kind found reasons to back away when the closeness became more than they wanted.

But Tyne did neither.

He stayed, in a moment when leaving would have cost him nothing.

Winter didn’t move closer, unwilling to test the shift in their relationship. He didn’t want to force Tyne to reconsider. Instead, he simply let the moment exist as it was, steadily and with the quiet proof of mutual interest established by the presence beside him.

For the first time, Winter wasn’t guessing. He wasn’t reading into glances, or tone, or restraint; he wasn’t half-seeing things that may or may not have existed in the first place. The choice was subtle, but it was definitive, and Winter had watched it play out – had watched Tyne choose him, without being asked or expected.

Abruptly, Winter saw it all.

He had known attraction before. He had known want, sharp and bodily, in the way glances could linger and proximity could pull like a tide against a mooring line. But this was something different – more than desire.

Tyne did not take when he could have. He stopped himself.

And not, Winter had realised in that sharp moment of clarity, because of a lack of wanting. Not because that desire wasn’t there. If it had been only desire, Tyne would have acted. It would have been brief, and physical, and over. It would have collapsed under the risk that being under the lieutenant’s command held – or not, but only in a way that would have been an act of taking. A manipulation of his position, his authority, his privacy.

But he hadn’t.

He thought back, scanning the way that Tyne first watched the room before watching him. The way his hand had hovered, briefly, then fell away without contact. The way he had positioned himself between Winter and attention – not as a claim, but as a shield.

It unsettled Winter more than outright boldness would have.

He had expected hunger.

Indulgence.

Desire.

He had not expected care.

Outwardly, nothing changed. He did not react dramatically; he simply let the knowledge settle in his chest, aching and undeniable.

Tyne was afraid.

Not of being discovered, though that was not nothing.

Not of being punished, though that, too, lingered.

He was afraid of doing harm.

To Winter.

Because he cared.

Winter had spent years knowing what he was valued for. His strength, his endurance. How much he could take without complaint. He knew what it was to be useful, and to be wanted only insofar as doing so was the better option. But this… This was not that.

The restraint was not of disinterest – Winter could see that now. The tension in him was suddenly clear as the heat of the springs around them, in the way his voice dropped and steadied, disciplining himself.

Desire was there. But it was being managed. Because the care was worth more to him.

And that was Winter’s undoing – because nobody had ever cared this way for him before.

If Tyne felt something that required such careful attention, then Winter was not a risk, or an indulgence.

He was something that mattered.

And that terrified Winter far more than being simply wanted ever had, as he thought about all the ways that caring could break things. It would be much easier if it had simply been about bodies and desire. The loss of one another, in that, would manageable. But care? To care for one another, and to lose each other… That would be something else entirely. And that was why Tyne looked at him like he was choosing, over and over, not to cross the line because doing so would start something that could break them both.

The understanding of Tyne’s restraint came with the knowledge that there was no going back to pretending that this was nothing. Desire, even mutual, could be ignored. But someone moving so carefully through the world – not through concern of himself, but for concern for Winter…

There was nothing that could make him ignore that.

“Winter,” the lieutenant murmured, shaking him from his thoughts, and the seaman blinked as he looked up. With a heavy inhale, he turned more fully to face the officer.

“If this is- If it’s not… Okay…” He stopped, searching the lieutenant’s face, but the other man didn’t answer immediately, silently weighing his own choices.

“It’s okay,” he replied finally, quietly. “If we’re careful.”

“I can be careful,” Winter answered.

It’s my turn. Let me be careful with you.

The seaman lifted his hand slowly from the water, his fingers dripping a half inch from the surface, and paused halfway, uncertain despite the reassurance.

The lieutenant didn’t pull back. He simply turned his hand palm-up, quiet and inviting.

Their fingers met, warmth threading through Winter’s nerves – not electricity, but something softer and kinder.

Alignment.

Tyne’s thumb brushed over Winter’s knuckles once, almost unconsciously. The familiarity of the motion had Winter leaning in, slowly enough to give the lieutenant time to stop him – to stop this, before it became more than it already was.

The kiss was soft, uncertain only in that it was new, not because either doubted it. Lips met gently, lingering just long enough to register warmth and pressure and the reality of it.

The world narrowed around them – becoming steam and breath and the faint mineral taste of the air and on the other’s mouth. The lieutenant’s hand tightened infinitesimally in Winter’s, his action working to ground them both.

When they parted only seconds later, everything had shifted.

They stayed close, their foreheads resting together and eyes closed, simply breathing one another in.

“All right?” Tyne murmured.

Winter’s smile was small, stunned. “Yeah. You?”

The lieutenant let out a soft exhale, something close to a laugh wrapped in the sound. “Yes.”

They sat there a while, their hands still entwined beneath the water and knees touching, heat and steam wreathed around them, preserving the moment for a little longer.

But their stillness cannot last forever, and eventually, someone nearby shifted, and reality began to ease back in.

They separated with practiced smoothness, their distance re-established.

By the time they part ways outside the locker room, changing out of wet, heavy trunks with eyes diverted and professional – correct – nothing about them looked improper. But both knew that something had settled between them – steady, carefully chosen, and undeniable. Something that wasn’t stolen in the dark, or rushed by fear, or driven by hungry passion. It was something that came in warmth and quiet, in a place where rules bent just enough to allow them to finally see one another clearly.

Winter headed toward his room, carrying the moment in his heart not as a secret, but as proof.

We can choose one another, and we can still stand in this world afterward.

The corridor smelt faintly of soap and of the minerals in the steam, of heated, wet pine – like the whole building had absorbed the essence of the springs and folded it quietly into itself. The floorboards were old enough to complain beneath a man’s feet, even if that man tried to move quietly. It was not grand, not in the traditional sense, but after months at sea, warm and dry and private felt like excess.

The lieutenant paused at the top of the stairs, and listened. Not because he expected danger here, but because it was what he did – catalogued sounds and noticed the details.

He observed.

Below, faint voices murmured in Icelandic he didn’t understand. Someone laughed behind a closed door, soft and low. The wind made the aged wood groan gently. His fingers found the key in his pocket, the receipt for his room folded into a neat square beside it. He touched the items briefly, though the choice had already been made. These things were not an option – they were deniability.

Carefulness and care.

He stopped outside the room and stood too long, hovering, noticing details in lieu of movement – uneven paint around the frame, the way the lamplight shined on the brass number, and the warmth still in his skin – though whether from the water or the experience, he couldn’t say, if he was honest with himself.

Only once, he told himself that this was foolish.

Immediately, he told himself that this was necessary.

Not necessary for the war, or for his discipline, or for obedience to a machine larger than himself. No, this was necessary for something deeper, something he would not give a name to – not yet.

He knocked.

Once. Twice.

He knocked, and the sound was louder than it should be in a hallway as narrow as the one found in a nondescript inn just outside the city of Reykjavík, an inn with doors thin enough that the lieutenant can hear movement inside before the latch clicks.

The door opened, and Winter stood before Tyne with his collar undone, hair damp and dark from the springs, softened by the lamplight that caught the water droplets and made him look younger and less armored. He looked surprised, just for a moment, and then resigned, as if he had been expecting the knock to come without wanting to admit it, even to himself.

“Sir,” the seaman acknowledged quietly, inclining his head.

The lieutenant’s chest tightened at the word. They both knew it was right, it was correct.

It felt like the raising of a wall he longed to tear down.

Tyne shook his head – minutely, microscopically, but just enough to have Winter stepping back, opening the door wider, quietly granting space, both physical and emotional.

The lieutenant crossed the threshold, his eyes passing briefly over the simple room, taking in the narrow bed, the heat in the air, the lamp turned low on the small desk.

When Winter closed the door behind them, the sound was soft.

The finality was not.

For a moment, neither spoke, and Winter wondered if Tyne could hear the pulse hammering in his throat.

The sight of the lieutenant at his door had made something squeeze in his chest, painful and tight.

We went too far. We crossed a line, and now it is done.

But then Tyne shook his head, shedding the title, and stepped into the room as simply a man who cared for another.

Winter watched quietly as the lieutenant removed his coat, placing it over the chair with a deliberate, measured care. He did not shed his shirt, or loosen the collar – staying half within the safe and the known, as if unsure of how much of himself he can set down before it becomes too much to pick back up.

Winter rubbed the back of his neck, his uncertainty evident, shifting his weight, unsure of how to place his own body in this new dynamic. In the end, he stood like a man who was waiting, even if he wasn’t quite sure what for. “I didn’t think you’d…”

“I wasn’t sure I would,” Tyne admitted quietly, turning to face Winter at last, a flicker of surprise at his own honesty crossing his features. “I… Didn’t want to go back to the ship.”

Winter’s mouth twitched infinitesimally. “Same here.”

Tyne glanced at the bed, only once and only briefly, before diverting his eyes quickly, each noticing how charged the simple and staple piece of furniture had become with the two men alone in the room. “You opted for a room instead?”

“Figured I could afford a night of not listenin’ to snorin’. And… Everythin’ else.”

Winter didn’t realise it until it had happened – the slipping away of the formality in speech he’d learned in training, accents minimized until each could understand the other without difficulty or barrier. Tyne’s lip twitched infinitesimally at the blaze of the Brooklynite he’d met, then nodded, his understanding of the meaning beneath the words clear in the motion. “I did, too.”

Winter’s eyes lifted, sharp and searching, attentive as he tried to read the lieutenant’s intention, striving to match it. “Are you alright?”

Tyne paused, considering his answer carefully, his gaze flitting minutely as he catalogued and inventoried himself. “… I am,” he replied slowly. “… More than I expected.”

Winter smiled softly, shoulders easing as he looked down once more, brief and shy. “Me too.”

Silence settled for a moment more, without awkwardness, but weighted with expectation. The wind rattled the windowpane lightly, pressed against the glass as if a reminder that the world existed outside of the room.

“I don’t want to make this harder,” Winter blurted abruptly, the thought having sat in his throat since the moment the lieutenant stepped into his room. “I know. I know what it looks like, if you’re seen-”

“You won’t,” Tyne interrupted, a little too quickly, quietly betraying his eagerness. “You won’t. And nobody saw me come up – and I’m not here long.”

Winter considered him for a moment, thoughtful. “You’ve already decided how this goes.”

“It’s what I do.”

“And if it goes differently? If I am something unexpected?”

The words surprised them both, the tone gentle but challenging. The lieutenant turned his head slightly, taking in the seaman stood before him, straight-backed and wholly himself. Winter thought of the springs and a kiss that happened under steam and public noise, where it could have been mistaken, acutely aware that here, there would be no disguise. In this room, the reality of choice sat openly, demanding to be noticed.

“You already are,” Tyne acknowledged gently, the words coming accompanied by a soft exhale though his nose – a mixture of amusement and undeniably fond frustration.

“Tell me why you came,” Winter requested, his voice quiet, hands steady.

“I came because I wanted to see you again,” Tyne replied slowly – not with hesitation, but with gravity and sincerity. In this, as with in everything, he was deliberate. “Somewhere quiet. Somewhere… Less watched.”

Winter swallowed, though it does little to ease the dryness in his throat. “And?”

“And I wanted to see if we could be near each other without it feeling like we’d made a mistake. If we can be near each other and not have it feel like a mistake in the moment after.”

Winter’s brow furrowed, just a little. “A mistake?” he asked quietly, and Tyne winced.

“Not a mistake,” Tyne clarified immediately, instinctively moving a step closer, one hand raising as if to shield Winter from harm that had already occurred. “No. I wanted to- to…” The lieutenant frowned a little, his forehead creasing. “I’m not always good with words. Orders – that’s clear. Unequivocal. A task set. It’s… Easy. But this?” he gestured around them both, the vulnerability of his confession tangible. “This is… I don’t know the words for these things.”

Winter’s stance relaxed, losing the wounded and defensive edge, and he lapsed into thoughtful silence for a heartbeat. “… Sit with me.”

The seaman moved first, perching on the edge of the bed, wary of taking up too much space. It took only a beat for Tyne to follow suit, a careful distance away, the mattress dipping and drawing them nearer to one another without either man moving, and Winter glanced at him, hesitant and uncertain – of conduct, but never of the man beside him. His hand rose, stopping halfway once more, a question in the movement. He could see the multitude of reasons that flashed behind Tyne’s eyes – consequences and boundaries and cascading effects.

Winter could see the moment the lieutenant decided he wanted the contact more than he wanted the safety of distance, confirmed by the soft nod. When the seaman’s hand rested gently on his officer’s forearm, warm and solid, he saw Tyne’s breath deepen. His thumb stroked once, soothing and subtle, and he could feel the lieutenant’s pulse jump infinitesimally in a way that seemed almost laughable for a man who had stood under gunfire. Tyne’s eyes closed briefly before his own hand rested carefully on Winter’s, the most subtle of tremors in the work-worn touch.

When Winter leant in, he made sure to leave time for the lieutenant to change his mind. To make sure this wasn’t a mistake.

When their mouths met, it was in a kiss that was softer, quieter than the one of the springs, done in privacy and without the knowledge that interruption could come at any moment. Winter focused on the subtle movement and pressure of Tyne’s lips on his, the lieutenant seeming to test what was allowed under his own rules.

It was reverent.

The pair parted after a moment, their breaths coming shallowly, heads close enough together that their breath mingled. “Still okay?” Winter murmured.

“Yes. Very.” Tyne’s voice came rougher than he intended. Winter smiled softly, and kissed him again.

This kiss lingered longer.

The lieutenant’s hand moved from Winter’s to the back of his neck, fingers sinking into the still-damp hair, while Winter’s touch shifted  to the other’s waist, resting like an anchor – grounding and steady.

There was a third, then a fourth. Winter paused between each, checking for consent in the silence, and the lieutenant answered with the only language he could find – he leaned in again. At one point, Tyne’s control slipped just enough for a soft sound to escape him – a quiet huff that betrayed the intensity swirling inside him – and Winter stilled instantly, eyes searching.

Tyne swallowed, nodded once. “I’m alright.”

When Winter nodded in response, something sparked in Tyne’s eyes, his touch coming steadier, reassured by the restraint that the other man could show. The willingness to stop, to wait, to move only as Tyne wanted at the slightest indication, spoke more of attentive care than impulsive desire, and Tyne seemed to find a grounding in it.

It was a feeling Winter now knew himself, and knew how comfortably one could surround themselves with it.

When he shifted closer, the lieutenant’s gaze dropped briefly to his mouth, then back to his eyes. “We should be careful,” he noted quietly, seemingly reminding himself as much as the other.

Winter nodded. “We are.”

“And we will be,” the lieutenant insisted gently.

“I won’t push,” Winter replied, and he could see how quickly Tyne believed him – an act of surrender in itself, even before their lips met once more.

Tyne’s fingers tightened once at the nape of Winter’s neck, and the hand at the lieutenant’s waist shifted minutely, thumb brushing the edge of his shirt, exploring boundaries with curiosity, not pressure. “Gregor.” The word came out as barely a whisper, and both men paused, drawing back far enough to look at each other, and uncertainty flared in Winter’s chest when he saw the lieutenant’s amusement. “I- Should I-”

Briefly, Tyne’s lips skirted over Winter’s, silencing his stammering. “Nobody calls me Gregor,” he replied, his mouth curling into a grin. “Greg. Just Greg.”

Winter laughed – soft and surprised – and the sound dissolved as he kissed Tyne – Greg – again, thanking him without the words.

Time passed in minutes, or perhaps in hours – unmoored from watches and bells, things felt less strict, less structured.

Without thinking, without discussion, they had shifted to the headboard, and when Winter’s arm passed around the lieutenant’s waist, Greg found himself leaning into it without hesitation. Winter tracked the steady rise and fall of Greg’s breathing against his side, and his eyes closed, relishing in a kind of peace he didn’t realise he’d wanted, or even knew existed.

“Feels like the world’s holding its breath.” Winter turned his head infinitesimally, looking down at the top of the officer’s head. “You reckon we’ll remember this? Here?”

“Yes.”

The answer came immediately, and warmth sparked in Winter’s chest. And because he asked, because he wanted to be certain, Greg turned and kissed him again, slowly and deliberately. A promise without promises.

When they separated, Winter rested his forehead against Greg’s shoulder for a moment. “Alright,” he whispered, nodding once.

The lieutenant knew he should go.

He also knew he wouldn’t.

Not yet.

Not while Winter’s warmth was beside him, the outside world held at bay for a short while by wood and steam.

Not while he could pretend, for a few hours, that the war had not taken apart every gentle thing.

His hand slid to Winter’s jaw, cupping gently. He’d never touched someone like this – so carefully, so reverently that it felt almost like blasphemy. But in a room that held them quietly, he found the space to be intimate without being reckless – to be careful, but to be tender still.

At some point, Greg became aware that his body is no longer braced for interruption.

On the ship, even when in his own cabin, he never truly relaxed. There was always an expectation, a knock, a report, a crisis. Even sleep was shallow, interrupted by bells and footsteps and the unwavering knowledge that he was responsible for lives that could be taken in a heartbeat.

Neither was undressed beyond what basic comfort and the inn’s warmth required. Their restraint was visible in their careful alignment, in hands that stayed at shoulders and waists, in fingertips that explore jaws, throats, chests – intimate, but not opting for more. Not choosing something they wanted to be experienced when there wasn’t a lingering fear of tomorrow. Instead, Greg learned the places Winter seemed to like – how he softened and breathed deeper when Greg pressed a kiss to his forehead, how his breathing became just a little tremulous when fingers tightened around his hip. He was surprised by how much he liked Winter’s mouth, the softness contrasting with his strength, the younger man adjusting instinctively before Greg even realised he needed a beat to catch his breath and steady himself.

Greg’s thumb traced Winter’s cheekbone, slow and enraptured. “I didn’t expect to be able to do this,” he admitted quietly, and a flicker of a smile passed over the seaman’s features, eyebrow raising.

“Kiss?” he teased, and Greg chuckled softly.

“Be gentle.”

When Winter studied him for a moment, the lieutenant felt as though he were considering his very soul. Then the other man nodded once, sure in his conclusion. “You can be gentle. You just don’t let yourself. You don’t think you can, most of the time.”

Greg’s breath caught, and he pressed a kiss tenderly to Winter’s temple, eyes closing briefly, adoration filling his silence.

They spoke in fragments, in small confessions slipped between kisses, as if words couldn’t bear too much weight at one time – as if they needed to ground themselves in one another in order to continue.

In a hushed, soothing voice, Winter told him about working the docks. He told him about the way the river smelled after a heavy rain, about noticing  men he’d grown up with disappear around him as the war escalated, and of watching ships leave and knowing  not all would return.

The lieutenant told Winter about the first time he realised he could not remain untouched by his command – that leadership was not just a persona, but a constant decision to be responsible for men who may not live long enough for you to learn their names. He told him that he hated the way the war made everything feel temporary.

Winter listened without interruption, and when Greg stopped, he kissed him softly.

You’re not alone in this. I hear you. I see you.

Greg’s jaw tightened at that, flooded with an emotion he can’t quite name, and he turned his head, pressing his mouth to Winter’s throat, just beneath his jaw.

When Winter shivered, Greg pulled back immediately, his eyes searching, but found the other man smiling faintly. “You don’t have to stop.” The lieutenant swallowed and nodded, but his control had tightened once more. With a hand finding Greg’s shoulder and squeezing softly, Winter pressed his forehead gently to the officer’s. “I’m not trying to make you break.”

“You don’t have to try,” Greg replied quietly. Winter absorbed the words and nodded, his eyes softening, and kissed the lieutenant again, slower and more carefully.

At one point, Greg found himself smiling.

Only a little, but inside himself, he noticed a warmth that came dangerously close to happiness, and the realization startled him.

Happiness was not a wartime emotion. Relief, certainly. Gratitude, perhaps. But happiness felt like something that would draw punishment from an unkind world.

As if noticing a shift, Winter’s arm cinched more firmly around his waist, constant and grounding without constricting, and Greg tucked deeper into Winter’s shoulder in a way that would appear like weakness to most who saw it.

Greg knew he was doing it, and he let himself.

The room felt smaller than it had when he first stepped inside – closer, more intimate, with the low flame in the lamp turning everything amber. When the wind rattled  the window again, Winter shifted instinctively, as if to place himself between Tyne and any threat – even something as simple as a gust of air. Greg noticed, and something sharp reverberated in his chest.

“You’re always ready to take the hit,” he murmured.

“Someone’s gotta,” Winter replied softly.

Greg turned his head, pressing a kiss to Winter’s shoulder through the fabric.

A thank you, but not that alone.

A don’t.

A not you.

Anyone but you.

“I’d do this forever.”

Greg’s eyes opened, startled by the rawness in the barely audible whisper, and Winter flushed minutely, regret flickering across his features. “Sorry,  I-”

Tyne silenced him with a kiss, and when he drew back, his voice was steady. “Don’t apologize.”

Winter searched his face, his gaze intense and probing. “You don’t think it’s foolish?”

“I think it’s dangerous,” Greg answered slowly, and Winter nodded once before he continued, quieter, “but I don’t think it’s foolish.”

Winter’s breath left him in a soft, relieved exhale, and he rested his forehead gently against the lieutenant’s temple, quiet and savoring.

“You’re fading.”

The lamp had almost extinguished, darkness closing in, and Greg opened his mouth to deny it out of habit before a gentle hand on his shoulder stopped him. “Sleep.”

The lieutenant hesitated, because to sleep here felt like giving up. To sleep would mean to end this night, and face what came after.

Winter pressed a soft kiss to his temple. “I’ve got you,” he whispered – a promise of presence, in a world where protection could not be guaranteed.

Greg’s chest ached, and he let his body lean into Winter’s warmth, the pair fitting together comfortably as his eyes closed.

He fell asleep to the steady rhythm of Winter’s breathing, the inn creaking around them, and the knowledge that, for a few hours, he was not required to be unbreakable.

Winter watched Lieutenant Gregor Tyne lapse into sleep, the other man’s fingers unconsciously tightening in the front of his shirt as he drew himself closer, features finally fully relaxed.

With a soft, contented sigh, Winter let his head fall back, his own eyes closing.

Alignment.

[beyondtheshelvesweknow]

The most perfect, wonderful, and beautiful chapter (so far) of a perfect, wonderful, and beautiful fic that we are currently TOTALLY obsessed with. Luckily, so is the author.

Don't start with this chapter. Go to the masterlist linked above and start at the beginning.

What if Bucky Barnes had joined the navy rather than waiting to be conscripted into the army?

I cannot overstate how good the tension is in this fic. It's been literally years since a fic had me on tenterhooks like this. The romance is absolutely exquisite. Understated and addictive. And if you loved OC Greg in On the Tide and/or The Real Winter Soldier, briefly featured in When the Wolf Howls, mentioned in both Gold and Silver and All That Glitters, you will be thrilled by his presence in this fic.

Read it. Love it. Reblog it. Go to AO3 and leave it adoration in the form of kudos and comments.

[voiceoffenrisulfr]

The Water Crests and Sinks Away (He Looked Just Like a Navy Man) Chapter One - Brooklyn Docks - December, 1941.

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 -> James 'Bucky' Barnes x Original Male Character (Winter x Lt. Gregor Tyne)

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘 -> Bucky joins the Navy instead of the Army. Lt. Gregor Tyne exists. The chain of command and naval policy fights to keep them apart; what happens when distance is no longer the safer option?

Or: The one in which Bucky Barnes finds himself at sea, in more ways than one.

The one in which everything begins - if he so chooses.

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓 -> 1656

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 -> M - Please read mindfully and be aware that this will be set in the arena of WWII and naval service, with corresponding themes, including but not limited to mentions of military procedures and weaponry, and era-typical attitudes to homosexuality.

𝐀/𝐍 -> Check it out below, or on AO3 here! Masterlist can be found here (pending).

The docks got louder after Pearl Harbour.

Not just in the ways one would expect – not just the squawking of the radios or the ceaseless arguing about things most men didn’t really understand - not yet. It was in the way the voices were sharper and tempers were quicker, and it was in the way everyone seemed to keep one eye on the sky, constantly nervous.

The young man kept his head down, kept to himself, and worked.

Not everything changes.

The planks of the docks were slick as winter broke, the clinging mist of the river frozen over decades of salt and patches worn smooth by boots. The man’s gloves were stiffening by the time dawn broke, the cold having long seeped into his bones with an ache he ignored, because he always does. He knew that to pause, even for a moment, opened the door for his place to be taken – and with everything happening in the world, there were plenty of people desperate to step in if he fell.

The man braced, lifted, shifted.

He moved with an ease of someone who learned to use the weight with their body rather than against it, and the crate settled exactly where it belonged. He moved along, reaching for the next one, and quietly existed in his place in the world.

It’s in the quiet moment that the feeling hit him. Not a sense of danger, or the feeling of something coming.

But the feeling of eyes of him. Of attention.

His body noticed before his mind did– the tightening in his shoulders, a readiness that comes from knowing that being observed isn’t always a safe thing. It came with an intensity that told the man that it wasn’t a scrupulous foreman or impressed fellow dockhand.

The attention felt too… Deliberate.

The man finished his movement, then straightened slowly, pale eyes scanning the dock. An officer stood near the edge, half-sheltered from the cutting wind by a stack of barrels.

There’s no mistaking a Navy man. Dark coat, clean lines, with a cap pulled low over a dark gaze. He was not quite as young – early thirties, perhaps – and held himself with a stillness borne of habit and authority becoming muscle memory; he was still, but not stiff.

He wasn’t watching the cargo, or the docks at large.

He was watching the man.

When their eyes met, the officer didn’t flinch nor look away. He simply kept the gaze - calm, considering. The man didn’t cower; a life on the docks taught him not to accept being looked down to, not by anyone. Giving in is too easy to mistake for weakness.

After a heartbeat, the officer inclined his head. An acknowledgement.

Then he turned slightly, murmuring to the foreman beside him, and the heaviness in the air broke. The man exhaled softly through his nose, and returned to his work.

But the awareness didn’t leave him. It followed throughout the morning; it was a faint and intermittent feeling, just a tingle in his spine when he moved, a feeling of being noticed.

The man was unsettled. Being perceived for the wrong reasons felt safer than being noticed with such an unknown intensity.

By the middle of the day, a watery sun high in the sky, the man’s shoulders ached, and he dropped onto a crate near the edge of the dock, pulling a beaten sandwich from his pocket and unwrapped it quickly before taking a distracted bite, his thoughts briefly consumed by the idea of rest after work, his mom’s cooking a far cry from flattened egg and pickle.

“James Barnes.”

The man looked up, already braced against a reprimand for sitting on the job despite the hours since he started his shift – and stopped.

The officer stood only a few feet away, his hands behind his back, posture easy but authoritative.

“Yes?” James replied, his tone carefully neutral.

The officer glanced at his hands – scarred and callused and clinging to the wrapped edge of the sandwich hungrily – then back to his face. “… Lieutenant Gregor Tyne,” he introduced himself eventually. “United States Navy.”

James nodded once. “Okay.”

“No need to stand,” the lieutenant added softly, noticing as James’ posture shifted slightly in preparation. The comment earned him a second look, sharper and more interested, but the man stayed seated.

“What can I do for you, Lieutenant?”

Tyne considered him for a moment, as if weighing his answer. “I had a question.”

“I don’t run the place,” James replied, taking a bite of his sandwich.

The lieutenant’s lips twitched – not quite a smile, but almost. “No. But you run yourself well.”

James scowled around a mouthful of egg and pickle. “You been watchin’ me work or somethin’?”

“Yes.” James let out a short, humourless laugh, waiting for the lieutenant to continue. “You move like someone who knows how to take a weight. Most men fight it.”

“Most men don’t last,” James replied flatly.

“No,” the lieutenant agreed. “They don’t.”

There was another pause, heavy and expectant, but James waited. He didn’t fill silences for the comfort of others – and neither, it seemed, did the lieutenant.

“Pearl Harbor changed a lot of things,” Tyne noted quietly, and James’ jaw tightened, nodding shortly. “I imagine it has for you, too.”

At this, James stood – not through respect, but because sitting feels too vulnerable, too exposed. “You imagine wrong.”

The lieutenant studied him, his gaze steady. “Do I?”

“I don’t like having an officer comin’ and presumin’ to tell me about my own life.”

The reply is short and curt, but Tyne didn’t miss a beat. “I’m not telling you,” he replied evenly. “I’m observing.”

“The things you observe aren’t any concern of mine.”

Tyne’s head inclined slightly, thoughtfully. “Fair enough.”

For a moment, James thought that was the end of it. A short, confusing conversation with the enigma of an officer, never to be repeated. Then Tyne began to speak once more, and James realised he would not find peace yet. “Have you even been further than the river?”

The question surprised James, leaving him wrong-footed. “I- Well. I’ve been to Coney Island. Jersey.”

Tyne watched him carefully, piercing gaze narrowed and considerate. “I was thinking more... Overseas, or across the country.”

James’ eyebrow arched, arms folding over his chest. “You askin' outta curiosity, or you got a point, Lieutenant?”

The emphasis made it clear to both that James understood the purpose of this dance now, understood the officer’s questions and his end goal – but Tyne only shrugged. “Curiosity today,” he replied steadily. “Perhaps a point will come later.”

“I ain’t signin’ up,” James scoffed, eyes narrowed, his jaw tight.

“I know.”

This made the dockhand pause, brow furrowed in confusion as a frown pulled at his lips. “You do?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

The lieutenant gestured around them at the crowded docks and endless labouring. “Those who are ready to leave don’t deny it so quickly.”

James stepped closer, irritation sparking. He had known enough men who had told him what he could and couldn’t do, and didn’t tolerate it well. “You don’t get to tell me what I’m ready for.”

“No,” Tyne agreed easily. “But I do get to notice when someone has outgrown where they are.”

The silence stretched out between them, punctuated by the slap of water against the dock and the ever-present groan of rope and crate.

“Why are you here? Skulking around the docks?” James pressed, annoyance hardening his tone despite the undercurrent of undeniable curiosity.

Lieutenant Tyne considered the question carefully. “Because the Navy is soon to need men who can think – who can thrive – under pressure.”

“And you think that me?” James clarified, eyebrow raising once more.

“I think,” the lieutenant answered slowly, “that you haven’t decided yet. But I know the look of a man who watches ships leave and wonders what it would cost him to follow them.” When James didn’t answer, Tyne nodded once, checked his watch, and stepped back. “I won’t keep you from your work any longer.” James only nodded back in reply, and the Lieutenant offered him a minute quirk of his lips. “I’ll see you again.”

“You will?” James replied, surprise evident in his tone.

“I’m sure of it,” Tyne answered, his gaze drifting out over the river thoughtfully, then turned to leave. “Stay warm, Barnes.”

James watched him go, dumbstruck and confused, his brow furrowed as he fought to comprehend the bizarre interaction with the strange officer, and a sense of disquiet that weighed heavily upon him.

The rest of the day passed in its usual flurry of noise and movement, but James’ attention drifted insistently; he couldn’t stop thinking of the ships, and of the idea that someone saw him – saw more than a capable dock worker with a decent haul and eye for detail.

Walking home through familiar streets indelibly scented with coal smoke and sea salt, he found his eyes flicking to the sky more often than usual. The planes that passed overhead had become more and more frequent. The world was becoming smaller, and the city no longer felt as endless as it once did.

He shook off the feeling, telling himself that Lieutenant Tyne was just another officer, just another sailor wandering the docks with too much time on his hands, trying his luck at recruiting more cannon-fodder.

But that didn’t stop the memory of steady mahogany eyes from following him into his sleep.

[unfortunate-beetle-and-friends]

The start of a very exciting new WW2-era navy AU Bucky Barnes fic one of our& boyfriends. Fans of On the Tide, The Real Winter Soldier, The American and the German and Bind... well, may find this considerably whumpier and less smutty than usual. But if you love the Winter/Greg (SnowSailor) pairing in any form, you're in for a treat.

[beyondtheshelvesweknow]

Is it possible we& posted on the wrong blog? It's possible.