can you see right through me?

𝒆𝒗𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒆𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒆 || 23 || 𝒔𝒉𝒆/𝒉𝒆𝒓 || Masterlist || Requesting rules

[celestialevie]

I appreciate everyone interacting with my latest fic, but please note that if you're a minor interacting with my 18+ fic, I will have to block you as I am a legal adult and could very much get in trouble for having minors Interact with those posts. Please respect that, I have no issues with minors interacting with my other posts. I am also gonna have to block everyone who doesn't have age in their bio, since I do not know if they're a minor or of legal age.

[ceriseangels]

𝗕𝘂𝘀𝘆 𝗪𝗼𝗺𝗮𝗻, 𝗨𝗻𝗹𝗲𝘀𝘀 𝗬𝗼𝘂 𝗖𝗮𝗹𝗹 𝗧𝗼𝗻𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁- 𝗝.𝗔.

Pairing- Roommate!Jack Abbot x Princess!Nurse!Reader

WC-

Summary- You’re used to your roommate, Jack, doting on you and giving you everything you want. He turns cold all of a sudden when you start going on lots of dates. Clearly these aren’t connected, right?

Contains- spicy but no smut (yet hehe), kind of sexual nudity?, reader's dress falls accidentally, lowkey sugar daddy dynamic, inappropriate work relations blah blah blah jack is down so horrifically bad, making out, anxious avoidant jack come home to me, lmk if i missed any <3

A/N- header from @sweetmelodygraphics :)

Your alarm jostles you from a peaceful sleep, the incessant beeping reluctantly rousing you. You rub your eye and sink back in to the plush mattress of your new home.

The cool morning air rustles the curtains dangling from the window, a sliver of sunlight peeking through. You stretch your body, a squeak escaping your lips as your joints creak back to life.

You roll out of bed, padding to the kitchen for your first cup of coffee. Dana keeps telling you that starting caffeine moments after you wake up isn't healthy. You don't care.

You're surprised by the strong set of broad shoulders taking up space in the kitchen. Your roommate, Jack, home from work and preparing what would be his dinner. There's a latte on the kitchen island, and you instantly perk up.

A squeal escapes your lips as you clap your hands in satisfaction, moseying up to the counter.

"Hi Jackie," you greet him, resting your elbows against the marble granite.

You unwrap the straw, plunging it through the lid of the plastic cup, greedily bringing it to your lips.

Cinnamon and sugar explode on your tongue, while the caffeine hitting your system. Perfection.

You close your eyes in appreciation, taking one more sip before turning your gaze back to him.

You freeze when you see his eyes on you, heavy and laden, almost dark. Your heart drops at his slack jaw, his slightly parted lips. You stand up straight, sliding the cup back and forth on the counter, trying to fight off the butterflies in your stomach, the heat rising to your cheeks.

"Thank you for this," you mutter around the straw, taking another sip as you slink around the kitchen, his large back to you.

You take advantage of the moment, manicured nails finding his thick bicep, squeezing lightly. Just to show your thanks, of course.

"Pretty confident it wasn't mine, huh sweet thing?" He asks, craning his neck to find you behind him.

You inadvertently squeeze your plush thighs together at the pet name, and wonder if he knows what he's doing. To be fair, you know exactly what you're doing, but that's neither here nor there.

"Please, I've seen what you bring to the night shift," you start, rolling your eyes. "You don't even take milk with your coffee."

"God forbid I don't need a bucket of sugar to wake me up in the morning," he teases, continuing to make his food.

You flip him off, walking back through the hallway to your bathroom. You set the coffee down on the counter before starting your regular routine- first is skin care; face wash, serum, moisturizer.

Your conversation with Jack hangs heavy in your mind as you massage your lotion into your cheeks, heart nearly leaping with the force of each beat.

As you spread toothpaste on your brush, you ponder the new reality of your new living situation.

It's only been seven weeks since your colleague, Jack, invited you to take the empty room at his place. He'd overheard you one morning during a shift hand off, complaining to Dana about your four roommates.

You're not sure what had come over him, seeing as you didn't even really know him that much. You worked with him briefly, mainly during shift handoffs and sometimes during emergency situations, but those scenes don't typically lend well to a meet cute.

It'd been a huge surprise, and you resisted the offer for days. He spent almost a week trying to convince you, laying out the pros and cons like a research student eager for a grade.

In all actuality, it really wouldn't have taken much persuasion no matter what- your living situation was truly in the gutter before this once in a lifetime offer came along.

It's why you're still not used to the space you have in Jack's house (which he's insisted many times is yours as much as his). You twist your hair up in a claw clip as you take in the sheer size of the bathroom- your own bathroom, double the size of the bedroom at your old place.

You're slurping up the rest of your sickeningly sweet latte by the time you've donned your scrubs, sauntering back into the kitchen where Jack now sits, twirling pasta around his fork.

He pauses at the sight of you, and you can't help but slow down your steps, feeling on fire under his gaze. You saunter over to the trash can, lifting the lid with your foot and slowly lowering your now empty cup into it.

"Y'know, that much caffeine really can't be good for you, kid," he remarks, taking a bite. "Not to mention the sugar."

His eyes never leave yours, and your cheeks heat under the pressure of his gaze.

"You sound like Dana," you remark, putting on another pot to brew before you leave.

He chuckles, shaking his head in astonishment as he takes another bite.

"Can't complain too much, though. 'S probably why you're so sweet," he mutters, and your heart drops.

You flirtatiously toss a handful of hair over your shoulder, kicking your foot up as you take his compliment.

"Sweet? Really? Me?" You ask, twirling a strand of hair around your finger, eyes wide and lips pouty.

His jaw is slack as he watches you, fork suspended in midair. He brings it slowly to his lips, forcefully wrapping them around the utensil. You shudder.

"I don't know how you sleep at night," he remarks, swallowing the food.

"Like a baby, old man," you reply, a saccharine smile stretching your lips.

"You," he states, pointing his fork at you, "are trouble."

"Tell me about it, stud," you bat your lashes, quoting the last movie you picked to watch together.

You and Abbot don't have sanctioned movie nights per se, but you've both been known to come together on the couch, on one of the few nights a week your paths cross.

The first time it happened, he was in the middle of The Cowboys. You'd wandered in the living room, having snuck out into the kitchen for your nightly fix of peanut butter after a long shift. Your mouth had fallen slack around the spoon as you were swept into the story, saddling up next to Jack for the rest of the movie.

It'd happened again the next week, where he'd insisted you picked, then the week after that, and the week after that. Last time, he'd been subjected to one of the 'worst movies of my childhood', according to him.

His disdain helps you now, too, as you continue to put on a little show for him- throwing an imaginary cigarette out, twisting the ball of your foot back and forth to 'put it out'.

You then point towards him, shaking your shoulders to encourage a song and dance from him, as well. You don't miss the red tint that clouds the apples of his cheeks as he averts his gaze down to his plate.

"If you think you're going to get me to sing Travolta, you're out of your mind, girlie," he mutters, voice low but firm.

You try to tamp down the butterflies swarming in your belly, again at the name. You turn your back to hide your goofy smile and pretend to be busy, rummaging in the kitchen for all your necessary second coffee needs.

Your plan backfires, though, as Jack chooses this moment to finally decides he's done with his meal, his broad shoulders popping the Jack-less bubble you've tried to pump up around you.

You turn quickly, trying to put your cream and sugar back in their destined spots- but a big, sturdy chest stops you.

"Oomph!" You squeal as you hit Jack's sickeningly large frame, craning your neck to look up at him.

Your cheeks burn at the eye contact, and he refuses to be the one to look away first.

"Oops!" You squeal, darting around him. "Sorry, Jack, I'm just in a rush," you maneuver around him, unable to take the burning gaze of his hazel eyes any longer.

"'S okay, kid, you gotta get going," he says, resting his back against the kitchen counter.

You balance on one leg, jumping to get one sneaker on, then the other. Upon landing on two feet, you blow out air from your puffed cheeks. You freeze again, his unrelenting stare burning a laser hole right through your middle.

Your heart pounds against your chest, a throbbing that's mirrored between your legs. You brush small flyaways out of your face, trying hard to ignore the heat emanating from your cheeks.

Jack's eyes never leave your frame, scanning up and down in a way that weakens your knees. He's been like this for a while now, with the staring and the nicknames and the movie nights. It's enough to feel like quicksand, sinking you deeper and deeper into Jack Abbot's clutches.

You're not sure if he wants you there, though, seeing as he's never asked you out. You can't really blame him, you're just his roommate that he sees at work every so often. But then why does he-

"Oh!" He says, startling you from your thoughts. "It's Friday, here," he fishes in his pocket, pinching a black card in his two forefingers. "For your nails. Get somethin' pretty."

That. Why does he do that.

"Thanks Jackie," you bat your lashes at him, taking maybe one step too close to retrieve the card from his fingers. "You really gonna trust me with this thing? Might take it down to the mall after, give it a real workout."

"I'd love that," he says, low, warm, and entirely serious. "You deserve it. You work hard."

His words unzip a shiver down your spine, and you have to take a step back to hold yourself back. Any more time spent that close to him, you'll be peeling everything off of him, down to the prosthetic.

"Thanks!" You chirp, turning on your heel to fight your urges. "You have anything planned for the day?" You ask, gathering up your bag, water bottle, and coffee.

He shakes his head no, hands planted firmly in his pockets. This time, he's avoiding you, eyes drifting down the long, dark hallway. You make a show of walking over there, craning your neck down the vast corridor.

You whip your head back toward him, and he's still not looking at you. You prop a hand on your hip, brow quirked.

"Whatcha looking for down there?" You ask, wiggling your brows.

"Something not so achingly beautiful," he responds. His tone is light, but the words weigh heavy on your heart, and the air goes cold.

"Flattery will get you everywhere, Abbot," you deadpan, walking back towards the door.

"Well," you say, turning back to him one more time. "You're off tonight, right?" He nods in confirmation. "Maybe I can show you what I get from the mall."

Your heart beats as you try to read his eyes- stoic, firm, and planted on the floor.

"Maybe," he says.

You don't know how to take this response, so you walk out the door.

Jack is the only thing on your mind as you go through the motions of your shift. Charting, prepping crash carts, drawing blood, repeat. Your last interaction plays on a loop in your mind, leaving your normally fluttery tummy achingly empty.

You're planted firmly at the nurse's station, a blank document staring back at you. The cursor blinks, making a mockery of your lack of effort. You press your forehead into your palms, massaging lightly.

"Ugh!" You groan out, bringing your eyes back up to the screen.

You jump when there's someone waiting in your peripheral, heart slowing once you realize it's Trinity. Her brow is quirked, lips pursed, and she's ready to call you on your shit.

"Heyyy," you drag out, a pathetic smile on your lips as you struggle to get at least a little charting done.

"Hi," she quips. "What's your problem today?"

"Damn, right to the punch, huh?" You huff out a sad chuckle, pressing your fingers into your temples once more.

"Yeahhh," she drags out, pressing her lips together. "Sorry girl. How's it going living with Doctor Daddy? He's not being a weirdo, is he?"

Your heart warms at her concern, and at the nickname a little, but you shake your head no.

"He's great," you huff, pushing sweaty strands of hair off your forehead. "More than great, actually."

This is intriguing to her, and she rests her forearms against the desk space.

"Really?" She asks, her brow quirked. "Have you guys-" she closes her index finger on her thumb, making a show of inserting another finger in and out.

"Jesus Christ, Trinity, no!" You whisper, shoving her lewd hands out of the way, cheeks positively on fire. "That might be the problem, though."

"Really? How is it a problem to not be sleeping with your roommate?" She asks, and your heart picks up.

"Well, he does things. Says things. I don't know what he means by them," you confess to her. "Like, for the past couple weeks, he gives me his credit card to get my nails done. He calls me pet names, too- sweetheart, pretty girl…that's weird, right?"

"I mean, are you complaining that a rich, hot doctor is just throwing money at you and thinks you're sweet and pretty? Hell, I'm lesbian and I'd take it," she says, and you're thankful for the comedic relief she brings.

"I'm definitely not complaining…" you mutter under your breath. "I just…don't know what it means, y'know?"

"Yeah, I can see that. Do you guys hang out?" She asks.

"Sometimes, when we have the time. But I tried to be more overt this morning and he kind of shot me down," your mouth twists downward at this, a sinking feeling in the pit of your gut threatening to take over your whole body,

"What?" She asks, leaning in closer at this revelation.

"Well, he has tonight off, right?" You start, and she nods in confirmation. "I asked him if he'd wanna hang out, maybe see what I get from the mall later-"

"On his dime of course," she interrupts, and you nod.

"Of course, but all he said was 'maybe' in this noncommittal tone, I have no idea what to think," you bury your face in your hands once more.

"I have an idea…" Trinity starts, and you whip your head up. "It's kind of toxic, though."

You smile. It's sinister and sultry.

"Lay it on me."

To say your night has taken a turn would be an understatement. Nails and shopping were done with Trinity at your side, as she helped you score the date you're now going on tonight.

You hang up the dress you bought- a buttery yellow mini with a corset top and a flowy skirt- you can't wait to wear it.

You pucker your lips in the mirror, sliding shimmery gloss over them before rubbing them together. Scrunching your hair in the mirror, you poke and prod at any perceivable imperfection before finding your shoes, and slinking your dress over your head.

Your head is tilted, ear almost at your shoulder as you struggle to clasp your earring. Your heels clack down the hall as you make your way into the living area, stopping in your tracks when you see Jack on the couch.

"You weren't here when I got home," is the first thing that comes out of your mouth, your eyes falling shut at the absurdity of it.

"No…" he says, almost like a question. "Is it bad that I'm back?"

Your cheeks are on fire, your stomach roiling as you take him in. His shirt's off, low hanging sweatpants leaving nothing for your imagination. His chest is so thick and broad, it makes you dizzy.

Then, your phone buzzes, and you remember who you're supposed to be meeting in less than an hour. You turn your phone around, a message lighting up your phone.

"On my way :) see you soon!" it reads, and your heart sinks.

Trinity did tell you this plan was toxic. Maybe you should have thought it through a bit more before it was too late.

"Where are you goin' dressed like that, sweet thing?" He asks, the normal warmth dripping from his voice suddenly gone, the tap shut off.

"I have a date," you mention as nonchalantly as possible, scrunching your hair different ways in the mirror, pretending like you can't feel his eyes watching your every move. "Is that okay?" You add petulantly.

An incredulous chuckle wrestles out of his throat, and you finally work up the nerve to face him- only to find he's no longer looking at you.

"Perfectly fine, kid. Jus' make sure you know what you're doin'," he tips his beer bottle to his lips, taking a long swig before swallowing a bit harder than necessary.

"Are you implying that I don't know how men work?" You place your hand on your hip again. "Have you seen me? I've never had much trouble."

You're being bratty, you know it, but you can't seem to mind. You don't think he does either, if the blush creeping up his neck is any indicator.

"Nope, just remindin' ya, sweetheart," he mutters, and your heart sinks.

"Is that all?" You deadpan, stomping your foot in a way that jumps his brow.

You want to push him further, poke and prod at him until he's pushing you up against the mirror, forcing you to watch him tear you apa-

"That's all. Stop being a brat. It'll turn off your date," he bites, and your heart races.

"Maybe you'd like that," you quip, tossing your hair over your shoulder and stomping out.

The date is an absolute dud, and you feel like shit as you make your way up the narrow walkway. You slink your key into the slot, jiggling it until you stumble in, already untying the halter strap of your dress.

You gasp at the body waiting for you in the living room, still unsure why he still manages to surprise you. Your heart gallops in your chest as he watches you, hands clutched at your chest, holding your slinky dress in place.

"Jack," you breathe out, chest heaving up and down under your hands.

"Hi, sweet girl," he mutters, sitting up from his sprawled out position on the couch. "Everything go alright?"

Tears prick behind your eyes, and you shake your head.

"No," you croak. "Of course not."

He's quick to his feet, striding across the living room in long but quick steps, craning his neck down so he can get a better look at you. His large palm cups your jaw, thick fingers sinking in to pull your teary gaze up to his concerned one.

"What happened?" He asks, a doctoral tone taking over his usually sarcastic, languid voice. "Are you hurt?"

His eyes are frantic, though the rest of him is still. They're darting everywhere from your glossy eyes, your pouty lips, to your neck and your collar bone.

You allow yourself a brief moment of reprieve, relaxing ever so slightly in his arms, letting their security envelop you like a blanket. Your shimmery eyelids are heavy with affection, warm all over as he maneuvers you, his woody cologne filling your senses.

He lets go of your jaw, tutting something about showing 'no signs of distress'. This throws a cold bucket of water over the whole situation, and you remember how you got here in the first place.

You wring yourself free from his grasp, readjusting your untied dress further up your chest. Cheeks fiery, stomach boiling, eyes trained on the floor, you try to quell the buzzing desire that rings between you.

"Jack-" you breathe, eyes rolling at his blank expression. "What are we doing? What is this?" Your voice is nothing but a raspy whisper, afraid anything louder will scare him off.

"What do you mean?" He asks, a caricature of nonchalance, hands shoved in his pockets.

"I mean," you start, frustration tampering with your volume ever so slightly. "You ask me to move in on a whim, you pay for my nails, we have movie nights. But you won't ask me out. What the hell is up with that?"

He scoffs at that last question, his own eyes rolling.

"We shouldn't have this conversation," he says, going to sit back down on the couch.

"Um, nice try, grandpa," you stomp after him, a death grip on his bicep, turning him back to you. He looks a little scared when you whip him around and it boosts your ego just a little.

"Fill me in. Because I asked if you wanted to hang out this morning, and you were weird about it. Then, I went on a date instead and you were weird about that. So what gives? Is it me? Is it the living situation? I told you it's too rash, you didn't list-"

You're cut off with a swift and deep kiss to your lips, all five senses suddenly on Jack Abbot overdrive. His hands cup your face with fervor, his brows knit with the same kind of ferocity.

Your belly swims, warm with honey as he slides his lips against yours. Like before, you fall limp in his arms, letting yourself go fully this time. He has no problem propping you up against him, chests pressed together.

You take advantage of the newfound security of your clothing, wrapping your arms around his neck to kiss him deeper. Your right leg is kicked up, much like you'd done teasingly this morning. Jack got the last laugh here.

"Jackie," you moan out, little strings of spit connecting your mouth with his. "You just wanted me that bad?"

He smiles against your mouth, giving you another kiss, then another, and another.

"You still have it in you to be a brat, even when you can't stand on your own," he chuckles, shaking his head with incredulity.

"Wasn't it you who said I was trouble?" You ask, planting another saccharine kiss on his lips.

He can't help but kiss back, but you can feel the reluctance this time, him pulling your bodies away from each other. This inadvertently causes the top of your dress to fall, breasts now bare to the cold air of the living room.

His eyes immediately follow the line of your dress, jaw going slack at the sight. You also take him in, eyes drifting down to the hard length pressing up against his sweatpants.

"Fffuck, go to bed," he demands, plowing ten fingers through his hair. "Go."

That same familiar anger floods through you once more, and you cover yourself, stomping back to your room while tears fill your eyes. Once your door is closed slammed, you shimmy the rest of your dress off your hips, blindly grasping for your pajamas.

You slide the silk fabric over your skin, reveling in the comfort it provides. Your head tilts back, fingers coming up to your waterline to stop the flow.

A vicious mix of emotions swirl like a tornado inside of you- humiliation, shame, guilt, regret. You're swept in them, flailing aimlessly about the cyclone.

You pick the offending dress up from the floor, flinging it to your hamper and collapsing on your bed.

Your mind can't help but drift to its darkest parts, the rejection hitting deep. Did he not like your body? The thought persists, though you try to will it out.

You know you're not picture perfect, not like your roommate. You put a lot of effort into your appearance, and it's distracted many men in your life. It's all a sad attempt to mask the tummy pudge and thick hips you pretend aren't there, a desperate plea to seem prettier than you believe you are.

It only makes sense that once you were bare, he'd change his mind. Why wouldn't he? He's a rich, hot doctor, sitting all by himself in a huge house. Why would he pick you?

A quiet knock on the door tears you from your spiral, and you roll out of bed sadly. You pad towards the entryway, swinging the door open to reveal a horrifically guilt stricken Abbot, who's face only crumples further when he sees the tears that coat your face.

"Oh, sweet girl," he coos, trying to enter.

You put a hand out, stopping him.

"Excuse me?" You ask, hitting him with a pointed stare, even through the tears.

He caves immediately, his chin falling to his chest in a shameful exhale.

"I'm so sorry, what I said came out wrong," he starts, and you're not sure you believe him.

You cross your arms over your chest, jerking your chin up.

"Wrong?" You ask, he clarifies.

"I just- you're just so pretty," he says, and you quirk a brow, heart speeding up in your chest. "I wasn't going to be able to control myself for much longer. Your body, God, it's perfect. You had to go before I crossed a line you shouldn't."

"A line you shouldn't?" You breathe, his own words the only thing you can throw back at him, heart now in a full sprint against your ribcage.

"The nails, the names, the room," he says, gesturing behind you at your space. "It's my way of taking care of you."

These words are unexpected, and churn your heart like butter.

"But…why do you feel the need to take care of me, Jack?" You ask, brows knitted together in genuine confusion.

He chuckles sardonically at that, shaking his head and looking away. The soft hallway light illuminates the pink tinting his cheeks, and your own heat up at the sight.

He takes a minute to find a response to this, eyes searching up and down the hallway wall. You watch him during this, the air thickening between you with each passing second.

His breathing picks up, chest moving with it. Your body is on fire, from the top of your head to the tips of your toes. His hazel eyes are an open flame, your skin a vat of gasoline.

"Because it's the only way I can have you," is how he chooses to respond.

Your heart sinks to the pit of your stomach, your veins running cold at the confession.

"H-have me?" You repeat, his eyes sad.

"Goodnight," he whispers, stalking off to his own room.

You stand in the doorway and watch him go, jaw slack, hand pressed on your chest in shock.

It's the only way I can have you.

You slam the door behind you, flop onto your bed, and scream into your pillow. God, what have you gotten yourself into?

[annaevermore]

Always everywhere ⋆‧°𓏲ּ𝄢

Pairing: Jack Abbot x student!nurse!fem!reader

Summary: 4 times you and Jack almost meet + the 1 time you actually do.

Word count: 1.5k

Tags/Warnings: fluff, mentions of blood, implied age gap (but not specified)

A/N: Okay so, this is kinda ass lol. Technically the events in this happen before the events of "Gentle touch", but it can totally be read as a standalone. Just keep in mind that reader is still a student nurse and doing her rotation in the ER. English is not my first language and this was not proofread. Enjoy!

series masterlist | masterlist

The night had been going horribly — well, there have been worse nights, but Jack was really struggling to focus on the good at the moment. 

After a streak of difficult patients and even more difficult procedures, he felt like all he needed was a cup of coffee. Black, no sugar, no creamer. 

How Shen even manages to drink those sugary lattes is beyond him. 

At fist, when he entered the break room, all he could focus on was the coffee machine, but as he began to pour himself a cup, he noticed an almost empty tray, with only a few cookies left. 

Usually he would be hesitant, knowing well how territorial sleep deprived medical workers can get over their food, but the tray was left in plain sight...

Clearing up any doubt, though, there was a pink heart shaped post-it on the wall above it, with a message written with a glittery pen and a loopy handwriting. 

FYI they're gluten free, but they contain eggs and lactose :(

enjoy! 

Given the fact that whoever left them felt the need to share this information, he took it as an invitation and took one. 

Surprisingly, it was one of the best tasting cookies he had ever eaten, and so, he made it is mission to find out who was the good Samaritan. 

"Hey Lena," he began, leaning casually over the desk at the nurses' station, pretending to look over at the chart, "do you happen to know what's the deal with the cookies in the break room?" 

She didn't lift her gaze from the screen in front of her, too focused on the task at hand. "I've heard something about a day shift nurse, but I'm not sure. If you're really curious, though, you should ask Dana next time you see her." 

Jack gives her a shrug before changing the topic of the conversation, asking her if the labs he ordered came back.

The rest of his shift went rather smoothly, and no one really needs to know that, before going home, he went back to the break room to take another one of those mysteriously delicious cookies.

Unbeknownst to him, a little less than ten minutes later, you walked into that same room, and your face broke into a smile when you saw the empty tray, happy that the night shift staff enjoyed them as well.

Luck apparently was not on your side. 

After a long day in the ER, all you wanted to do was shower, have dinner and fall asleep while watching some history documentary narrated by some random British professor. 

Instead, you were back in the Pitt, only this time you were a patient. 

Triage was full, as usual, and the only thing that was keeping you from falling asleep on the chair was the throbbing pain caused by your bleeding finger. 

Turns out that trying to cut an onion the same way you've seen people do in culinary shows was not a good idea. 

Now you would likely have to spend all night in that chair, waiting for someone to do something you could do yourself, if you had the right supplies at home. 

You were so sure of this, that when you heard your name behind called you almost couldn't believe it. 

When you stood up from the chair, you could feel people staring at you, annoyed by the fact that you had to wait much less than them before getting called. 

Once you got close enough to the desk, Lupe smiled at you, before opening up the entrance and letting you inside. 

"You missed this place already?" Bridget asked you as soon as she spotted you. 

"Not in the least," you mumbled, taking a seat in the chair where the nurse had walked you to. 

"Alright, let's make it quick then." 

She began working on you, and you couldn't help but start chatting with her. 

"How's your night going? I've seen you're packed," you commented.

Bridget simply shook her head, jokingly rolling her eyes. "Tell me about it. Abbot's going crazy, and it's not even midnight yet," she replied, making you laugh. 

You had heard that name, Abbot, a lot at that point of your rotation, but still you had never actually met the man — not even during handoffs. 

Bridget finishes patching you up, and before you knew it, she discharged you. 

"You don't need me to tell you what to do with this finger, right?" 

You shook your head, a tired smile appearing on your face, and thanked her, before finally leaving the ER for the day, just a few minutes before an incoming trauma. 

"You knew that patient?" Jack asked Bridget as she helped him tie his gown. 

"Y/N? Yeah, she's a student nurse doing her rotation here. She's a sweet girl. And a great nurse." 

Abbot nodded, trying to recall if he had ever seen you in the ER, and came to the conclusion that it hadn't happened — yet. 

"Oh, Y/N would have loved this case," Langdon stated. 

Robby simply hummed in agreement, putting his readers back in his front pocket and starting to walk away, Frank following behind him. 

Here it was, that name again. 

Jack had decided to pull a double, and ever since the day shift staff arrived, it seemed like all they could do was repeat that name. 

"It would be so great if Y/N were here right now. She's great with kids", or, "That intern was such a prick. Y/N would have handled that patient much better." 

It seemed like everyone had fallen in love with this mysterious woman, and Jack felt left out. 

"Why do you keep talking about her as if she were dead?" he asked with a frown. 

"Because she's abandoned us," McKay replied in passing, before picking up another case. 

When Jack managed to look even more confused, Dana decided to put him out of his misery. "She's just sick, but everyone has a flair for the dramatic." 

Jack's mouth curled into a grin, amused by the woman's words. "Is she that good?" 

"Oh, yeah. She's one of the best student nurses we've had in years," Perlah chimed in. 

Both Princess and Dana nodded in agreement, and Jack just scoffed. 

"Guess I'll have to meet her someday." 

Making fun of Shen's obsession with Dunkin is always one of the highlights of Jack's shift. 

So when he spotted the fellow attending, holding his signature coffee filled cup, he was already prepared to make fun of him, until he noticed the gift card John was holding in his other hand. 

"Who's the lucky person?" "Y/N." 

Was Jack going insane? Was it an inside joke that everyone agreed on, just to mess with him? How was it possible to hear that name at least one time a day and having never met the woman? 

"What? Why?" he asked, looking like a confused German Shepherd.

"You remember I switched to the day shift a few days ago? Me and Y/N had a bet, she won, and now I gotta pay up." 

Jack remained silent after that, and now it was Shen's turn to question him. 

"What is it?" 

"It seems like everyone knows her except me." 

"Wait, you've never met her?" John asked incredulously, and Jack shook his head. 

"Going on for weeks without meeting Abbot? Sign me up," Ellis teased him.

"Parker, you've met her too?" "Yup. She's great. Really pretty as well." 

"Abbot, I've got a patient for you in Room 7." 

"On it!" 

Today, like many other days, Jack decided to show up earlier, and Dana didn't waste a second, immediately putting him to work. 

When he gets to the room, he knocks on the door before walking in. 

And you're there as well.

The patient is laying on a gurney, and at her feet is sitting a young kid, currently trying out your pink stethoscope, much to your and his mother's amusement. 

"Hi, I'm Dr. Abbot. But I don't think you'll need me since there's already a doctor in the room," he jokes, earning a laugh from the young boy. 

"Dr. Abbot, this is Ms. Taylor. She came in for an abdominal pain. I've already taken her medical history." 

Jack looks at you a second too long before nodding and turning his attention back to the patient. 

After hearing everyone talk about you for weeks, he almost can't believe he's actually meeting you. 

Throughout the examination you're quick to help, seemingly reading his mind, and whenever you ask him any questions, you listen to the answers with a focused look on your face, scrunching your eyebrows in a way that Jack finds incredibly endearing. 

Once you both walk out of the room, Jack finally offers you his hand. 

"By the way, I'm Jack. Good job in there, kid."

You take his hand and shake it, smiling up at him. "Thanks, Dr. Abbot. I'm Y/N, nice to meet you." 

And who can blame Abbot when he spends the rest of your shift trying to get Dana, and in consequence you, to work on his cases?

A/N: This was the fic! Reblogs and comments are always appreciated, even if it's criticism (as long as it's constructive). I love talking with you angels, so my dms and inbox are always open!

All the love, Anna ♡

[slutdier]

❝ 𝑬𝑿𝑻𝑹𝑨 𝑪𝑹𝑬𝑫𝑰𝑻 ❞

lesson 02 : 𝐛𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐠 & 𝐚𝐬𝐬-𝐢𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬

jocks!steve & bucky x f!tutor!reader

summary : From café strawberries to filthy homeworks, you turn Steve and Bucky into straight A obsessives. Escort service all week, jersey chases and halftime double-teaming.

word count : 15,4k (must have been the wind)

warnings 18+ : college au, no use of y/n, explicit sexual content, vaginal sex, anal sex, double penetration, oral sex (f & m receiving), fingering, rimming, squirting, multiple orgasms, cum play, protected & unprotected sex, public sex, anal plug training & wear, praise kink, light degradation, overstimulation, female masturbation, aftercare, jealousy, possessiveness, nudes

author’s note : I don’t even know what possesed me while writting this chapter.... it’s just FILTH + FILTH + EXTRA FILTH, like these two are UNHINGED and I’m just the messenger, but also… they’re stupidly in love with her, okay? hope y’all are ready cuz steve & bucky are on demon time with heart eyes <333

lesson 01 | masterpost | lesson 03

You’re completely boneless, breath slow and even, dead to the world between them. Steve’s heartbeat thuds steady against your spine; Bucky’s breath fans warm across your cheek. Every time one of them shifts, the mattress dips and they both instinctively tighten their hold, like they’re afraid you’ll vanish if they leave even an inch of space.

Your phone lights up the nightstand like a bomb.

Nat 1:03am

girl where ARE you

Nat 1:03am

hello????

Nat 1:04am

if you’re dead in a frat bathtub istg

Nat 1:04am

i will call campus safety

Steve reaches over your hip, he snags it first before Bucky can.

“Easy, Rogers. She's sleeping.”

“She's also apparently MIA.”

He angles the camera down, no flash.

Soft blue glow, you curled on your side, lips parted, fist clutching Steve's tee; Bucky's forearm across your waist, thumb circling the hickey under your ribs; Steve's fingers woven through your hair like he's afraid you'll float away; thigh-highs mismatched, one halfway down your calf, the other still perfect; a galaxy of bite marks from collarbone to hip.

CLICK.

Bucky steals the phone, types one-thumbed while his lips stay on your temple.

You 1:06am

[📸]

alive. hydrated. thoroughly tutored. keeping her till further notice.

Nat 1:06am

OH MY GOD

Nat 1:06am

THEY ATE YOU ALIVE

Nat 1:07am

look at rogers’ shoulder i’m DECEASED barnes that hand placement is ILLEGAL my baby finally got railed good i’m so proud

Nat 1:07am

also she’s GLOWING

Nat 1:08am

8am pickup or i’m kicking the door down with receipts and a megaphone

Steve huffs a silent laugh, breath warm against the back of your neck. “Eight am? She really is coming with a megaphone.”

“Let her try,” Bucky whispers. He saves the photo to the hidden folder labeled “evidence” then flips the phone face-down.

Screen goes dark.

You shift in your sleep, mumbling, “find the derivative of x squared…”

They both freeze.

Then Bucky loses it, quiet, shaking laughter into your hair. “She’s literally doing homework in her dreams.”

Steve’s smiling so hard it hurts, pressing a reverent kiss to the bite mark on your shoulder. “We broke our perfect little tutor.”

“Sleep, baby,” Bucky breathes against your ear. “We’ve got watch.”

Outside, the quad is silent. Inside, two quarterbacks hold you like youre the only equation they ever want to solve.

The room is thick with sweat, and the ghost of last night still clinging to every surface. Sunlight slices across the bed in molten gold, catching on dried salt tracks on Steve’s abs, the faint red crescents your nails left on Bucky’s shoulder, and the way Steve’s oversized tee is bunched under your armpits, breasts bare and dotted with tiny, perfect teeth marks.

You wake up aching in the best way: thighs sticky, pussy swollen and fluttering like it never got the memo that last night ended.

Every small shift makes slick noises you can hear, obscene little wet sounds that make your face burn hotter than the sunbeam on your cheek.

Steve’s awake first, propped on one elbow, blond hair a wreck, blue eyes already dark with that lazy, hungry look. “Morning, baby,” he rasps, voice gravel and sin. “Already squirming for us?”

Bucky’s arm slides higher between your thighs, nudging them apart with zero hesitation. “Jesus, doll,” he groans, inhaling deep like he’s addicted. “You’re fucking drenched. Dreamin’ about us wrecking you again?”

His fingers ghost through your folds, spreading you open, teasing your clit until your hips jerk and a high, needy whine slips out.

You bite your lip so hard you taste copper. The question that’s been burning since last night finally tumbles out, small and mortified.

“Guys… about last night. When you were talking about… the anal stuff?” You can barely say the word. “Were you… serious? Like, serious-serious?”

Silence.

Then Steve’s low, filthy chuckle rumbles against your ear. “Dead serious, sweetheart.” His big hand cups your ass, spreading you just enough that cool air kisses your untouched hole and you squeak. “Been thinking about sliding into this perfect little ass while Bucky’s got your pussy stuffed so full you can’t breathe.”

Bucky nips your shoulder, soothing the sting with his tongue. “We want every inch of you, doll. Every single one.”

Steve kisses your temple, soft despite the steel-hard cock pressing against your hip. “Only when you’re ready, angel. No rush.”

Bucky’s eyes go molten. He starts a slow crawl down your body, pressing open-mouthed kisses to your collarbone, your sternum, the slope of one breast.

“Hold that thought,” he murmurs against your skin, voice rough. “First I gotta say good morning to my pretty girl properly.”

Steve’s hand replaces Bucky’s between your legs the second he moves. Two thick fingers sink into you without warning, slow, deliberate, stretching you open with a wet sound that makes your toes curl.

He curls them instantly, dragging over that spot inside you that has you gasping his name, walls fluttering helplessly around the intrusion.

You can feel every ridge of his knuckles, every deliberate twist as he spreads his fingers just to hear you whine. Your pussy clenches greedily, trying to pull him deeper, and he hums in approval.

Bucky settles between your thighs, spreading you wide with strong hands on your knees. “Look at her,” he breathes, reverent and filthy. “Still swollen from last night and already dripping for us.”

He leans in and licks one long, flat stripe from where Steve’s fingers are buried all the way up to your clit. Then he seals his mouth over you, sucking hard while Steve keeps fucking you slow and deep with his fingers, the dual rhythm making your back arch off the bed.

The sounds are obscene: Steve’s fingers pumping in and out with wet, rhythmic squelches; Bucky’s tongue lapping greedily; your own broken moans bouncing off the walls.

Steve watches for one heartbeat, eyes blown black, then growls and shoves Bucky over just enough to make room. “Move,” he orders, voice rough. “We’re doing this together.”

They rearrange you like you weigh nothing, Bucky on his stomach between your thighs, Steve lying on his side next to him, both broad shoulders forcing your legs impossibly wide. Two mouths descend at once.

Steve’s tongue circles your clit, slow and worshipful. Bucky’s spears inside you, fucking you with it, curling and thrusting until your back arches off the bed.

They trade, Bucky sucking your clit hard enough to make you see stars while Steve’s tongue pushes in deep, tasting last night’s mess and this morning’s desperation. Steve’s fingers stay buried inside you the whole time, crooking and scissoring in time with their tongues.

The stretch is overwhelming: two thick fingers plus two tongues fighting for space, stretching you open, lapping up every drop like they’re starved. Your own slick and their saliva drip down your ass, coating the sheets. You’re sobbing, hands fisted in blond and brown hair, hips grinding shamelessly against two mouths working in perfect, filthy sync.

Then-

BAM BAM BAM BAM.

“I CAN HEAR THE FOREPLAY FROM THE FUCKING PARKING LOT, OPEN UP.”

Nat. Of course.

Steve freezes, two fingers still buried knuckle-deep and curled inside you. Bucky pulls off your clit with an obscene wet pop and grins like the devil himself, chin glistening.

Another furious knock.

“I BROUGHT ICED COFFEE AND THREATS. TEN SECONDS BEFORE I BREAK IN.”

You squeak, mortified, trying to yank the blanket up to your chin.

Bucky yells back, voice muffled against your thigh, “Romanoff, we’re in the middle of very important extra credit-”

“I HEARD THE WORD ‘ANAL’ THROUGH THE DOOR, BARNES. I’M SCARRED FOR LIFE.”

Steve drops his forehead to your stomach, shoulders shaking with silent laughter. “She’s gonna wake the whole damn floor.”

“Worth it,” Bucky mutters, then dives back down like a man possessed, tongue spearing inside you alongside Steve’s fingers, stretching you even fuller.

Nat again, deadly calm through the door, “I will stand here and narrate until you let me see with my own eyes that my roommate is alive and consenting. Tick-tock, nerds.”

You manage a breathless, wrecked, “Nat, I’m fine- go away!”

A beat of silence.

Then Nat, smug as hell, “That sounded suspiciously like two tongues and a whole hand talking. I’m proud, babe. Hydrate. Text me when they’re done destroying you. Love you!”

Footsteps retreat. A final shout down the hallway, “USE LUBE AND SEND PICS.”

The door stays blessedly closed.

Steve and Bucky both lose it, quiet, shaking laughter against your soaked thighs.

Bucky crawls back up, presses a kiss to your flushed cheek, tasting like you. “Your roommate’s terrifying.”

“She loves you,” you mumble, hiding in Bucky’s chest.

Steve eases his fingers out slow, making you whimper at the sudden emptiness, then licks them clean right in front of you, eyes locked on yours. “Good. Means she won’t murder us when we ruin you all over again.”

You kick the dorm door shut with your heel, still wearing Steve’s giant tee and one lonely thigh-high that’s halfway down your calf like it’s fleeing the scene. Arms full of last night’s pleated mini and twisted cami, you look like a walk-of-shame tornado.

Natasha’s already camped on your bed in a silk kimono, two iced coffees sweating on the nightstand.

“Sit your freshly-railed ass down,” she commands, patting the duvet. “Shirt up. Legs open. Hickey inspection starts now.”

You flop face-first with a dramatic groan. “Nat, my vagina needs an ice pack and a priest.”

She yanks the collar down anyway. "Holy fuck. That's not a neck; that's Morse code for 'Property of Rogers-Barnes, do not separate!’”

You roll over, still half-dead. “How’d you even find their dorm this morning?”

“Sam Wilson’s been my little birdie since week one. Traded their dorm number for psych notes. He sent crying emojis and ‘about damn time.’”

You chuck a pillow at her. “Traitor.”

She dodges it, smirking while she sips her iced coffee. “Spill, slut.”

You grin, cheeks on fire. “Hallway makeout, then dorm, condoms lined up like good little soldiers. Steve started slow, missionary, whispering ‘so perfect’ while Bucky watched like he was taking mental notes. Then Buck flipped me, doggy, one smack on the ass, ‘good girls get extra credit,’ and fucked me stupid. Switched to reverse cowgirl on Bucky while I sucked Steve off, came so hard I squirted on Steve’s abs like a damn fountain. He just laughed and licked it off like it was holy water.”

Nat fake-gasps, clutching her iced coffee like it’s the only thing keeping her alive. “Wait, wait, wait, hold up. You’re telling me you got absolutely obliterated by both of them… and you’re still walking? Like, upright? With functional legs?”

You just stare at her, cheeks blazing, coffee frozen halfway to your mouth like a deer caught in very horny headlights.

Nat raises one perfectly sculpted eyebrow, waiting.

You swallow hard and keep going, voice tiny. “Morning round was two tongues and four fingers before my eyes fully opened. I saw God and his name is apparently ‘Stevie-Buck.’”

Nat’s grin turns downright demonic. “Mhm. And I still have trauma from screaming ‘I HEARD THE WORD ‘ANAL’ THROUGH THE DOOR, BARNES. I’M SCARRED FOR LIFE.’ at eight this morning, so don’t play coy. Details. Now.”

You bury your face in the pillow, voice muffled. “They want to play with my ass, butt plugs and all. Described it perfectly: tiny pink with a rose-gold heart jewel. Bucky growled, ‘Gonna open that perfect ass up slow, doll, so every time you sit in lecture you’ll feel that heart winking at us under your skirt.’ Steve kissed my temple and murmured, ‘Only when you’re ready, angel. We’ll make it feel like heaven.’ I nearly combusted on the spot.”

Nat fans herself with your crumpled syllabus. “That’s not just a plug, that’s a damn promise ring for your ass.”

You’re still half-hiding behind your hands, voice cracking, thighs pressed so tight together it’s a miracle you haven’t fused into one nervous, throbbing entity.

“I’m… I’m scared,” you whisper, the words trembling out of you, “but also so stupidly horny I can’t think straight. Because… because Steve and Bucky are filthy. Like, actually disgusting in the hottest possible way. The things they said they’d do to me, together, the way they looked at me like I’m a fucking meal they’ve been starving for… God, I should be running. I should be calling the police. Instead I’m soaked. I’m ruined. I’m terrified and I want it so bad it hurts.”

Nat’s eyes go darker, if that’s even possible. She sets her iced coffee down slow, like she’s savoring the way your confession just cracked the air in half.

“Yeah, babe,” she purrs, leaning in until her lips brush the shell of your ear, “I can tell.”

Her hand slides up your bare thigh; possessive, reassuring.

“Steve and Bucky are absolute animals,” she murmurs, voice dripping heat. “And you’re trembling like a good girl who just realized she’s about to get devoured by her two favorite wolves.”

She nips your earlobe, just hard enough to make you whimper.

“But trust me, sweetheart… the fun’s only just beginning.”

The rest of the weekend melted into a lazy, sex-drunk blur. Nat vanished for her afternoon yoga class with a wink and a “don’t break the bed without me.”

Door clicks.

Silence.

You peel off the borrowed tee, kick away the lonely thigh-high, and step into the bathroom.

Lock.

Crank the knob all the way to H.

Steam billows like a curtain call.

Water pounds your shoulders, races down your spine, drips off the hickeys like rain on stained glass.

You brace one palm on the tile, forehead against cool ceramic, and let the memories hit harder than the spray.

The hallway, Steve’s mouth soft and certain, Bucky’s teeth on your lower lip.

Your breath hitches.

Hand slides south on autopilot.

The dorm lights dim, condom foil ripping, Steve whispering “you’re perfect” as he pushes in slow.

You mirror him, one finger, two, curling exactly where he did.

A soft moan bounces off the tiles.

Bucky flipping you, one sharp smack

Your free hand lands on your own ass, sting blooming fresh.

You gasp, push back against nothing, water sluicing between your cheeks.

The reverse cowgirl on Bucky, mouth stuffed with Steve, the moment you squirted.

You add a third finger, thumb frantic on your clit, chasing that same free-fall.

Legs tremble.

The jewel of memory glints: two tongues at sunrise, lapping you clean.

You rewind, rewind, rewind

Steve’s praise in your ear, Bucky’s growl in your throat.

Your hips rock into your hand, water drumming the rhythm they set.

‘Pretty girl, good girl, our girl-’

The orgasm barrels in like the final play clock.

You bite your forearm to muffle the scream, knees buckling, clear arcs mixing with the shower spray.

You ride it out, fingers still buried, pulsing around yourself like they never left.

Steam swallows the sound.

You sag against the wall, giggling, boneless again.

Soap forgotten, you just stand there letting the water rinse the evidence and the echo.

Phone buzzes on the sink, through the fogged glass you see two names light up.

You smile, lazy and wrecked.

Round two can wait.

You dried up and stayed curled under the covers, blissed-out, replaying every kiss, every moan, every “good girl” on loop.

Monday morning sneaks through the blinds like it knows it’s interrupting something filthy. Your phone buzzes twice on the pillow beside you, screen lighting up your sleepy grin.

Steve 7:01am

morning angel missing you already when’s our next tutoring session?

Your stomach does a full cartwheel. You can’t stop smiling like an idiot.

You 7:03am

chem midterms are literally two weeks away Stevie but study room 3B is free after my 2 pm lecture bring your notebook… and Buck too

The three dots appear instantly, then:

Bucky 7:04am

wouldn’t miss it doll bringing snacks and maybe a few new problems to solve, ones that don’t fit on the whiteboard ;)

You actually squeak out loud, kicking your feet under the duvet like a teenager. Nat, half-asleep across the room, throws a pillow at your head without opening her eyes.

“Tell Rogers and Barnes if you moan their names before 8am again I’m charging admission.”

You fire off one last text before you force yourself out of bed.

You 7:06am

i’ll bring highlighters and that short pleated skirt you like behave in public or don’t… your choice

Steve 7:07am

zero promises baby see you at 2 wear the thigh-highs underneath we’ll check

Bucky 7:07am

and the pink heart’s coming with us just in case

Your knees literally wobble. You drop the phone like it’s on fire and stare at your closet like it’s a lingerie runway.

Shower.

Lotion.

The cutest matching bra-and-panty set you own, white lace, because innocence is a choice today.

Soft pink thigh-highs with the tiny bows at the back. Pleated mini skirt that definitely violates the student handbook. Oversized cream cardigan buttoned just high enough to look sweet, low enough to tease.

Every step across campus feels like foreplay. The tops of the thigh-highs rub together when you walk, the cool morning air sneaking under the skirt to remind you exactly how many bruises are hidden beneath. Your phone buzzes again in your pocket.

Steve 9:12am

just saw you cross the quad that skirt should be illegal countless dress-code violations thank you for your service

Bucky 9:13am

counting down the hours doll bring that pretty blush we’ve got plans for it

You bite your lip so hard you taste cherry balm, heart racing like you just ran suicides at practice.

2pm can’t come fast enough.

1:47pm - Psych 301, front row (because you’re a good student, mostly)

The lecture hall is half-empty, stale coffee and anxiety thick in the air. Dr. Smith’s projector flickers through Freud’s stages like a bad PowerPoint presentation from 2008.

Your cardigan is buttoned to the throat, pleated skirt pressed neat, thigh-highs whispering every time you shift. You’re counting minutes till 2:00 like a kid waiting for recess, leg bouncing under the desk.

Your phone buzzes once, silent, but the vibration shoots straight between your legs like a lightning bolt.

Steve 1:47pm

[video - 0:12]

open when prof turns to the board

You glance up, Dr. Smith is scribbling “oral fixation” in red marker, back turned. You slide the phone under the desk, thumb hovering, heart jack-hammering so loud you’re sure the girl two seats over can hear it.

Tap.

The screen fills with Steve, locker-room bathroom, hoodie half-zipped, hand wrapped tight around his cock. Slow strokes, veins bulging, precum glistening at the tip like he’s been edging for hours. His voice is low, ragged, just for you.

“Can’t wait to stuff that tight little ass, pretty girl,” he rasps, voice rough. “Been hard since breakfast thinking about your mouth… your pussy… and finally getting to open you up back there.” He groans, hips jerking into his fist, abs clenching under the hoodie. “Study room. You better be ready.”

The clip ends on a choked breath and a thick bead of cum sliding over his knuckles.

You slam the phone face-down so hard the desk rattles. Cheeks lava, thighs clenched so tight the chair creaks. Dr. Smith turns. “Everything okay, Miss…?”

You nod, strangled: “Fine! Just… dropped my pen.” Your voice cracks like a thirteen-year-old’s.

Your hands are shaking. You shove the phone into your bag like it’s radioactive, but the image is burned into your retinas: Steve’s fist, the precum, the way his abs flexed when he said your name.

The rest of the lecture is torture. Every time you shift, your thighs rub your swollen clit. Every time Dr. Smith says “fixation,” you picture Steve’s cock. Every time someone coughs, you flinch like they can smell how wet you are.

1:59pm

The second the slides end, you’re up, backpack slung, cardigan askew, legs whispering run, run, run. You sprint out of the hall, sneakers squeaking on linoleum, dodging freshmen and coffee spills.

Study room 3B is ten feet away, door already cracked, light spilling like an invitation.

You pause outside, hand on the knob, heart in your throat.

Inside: two sets of footsteps, low laughter, the rustle of a backpack zipper.

Game on.

You shoulder the door at 2:01 pm, palms sweaty around your backpack strap, heart trying to beat out of your throat. The room smells like old textbooks, fresh lube, and the cedar-and-boy-sweat scent that is 100 % Steve Rogers.

Steve leans against the wall in his letterman jacket, arms crossed, soft smile, eyes already dark.

Bucky sits on the edge of the table, legs spread, spinning a tiny pink box on one finger like it’s a basketball.

Steve’s voice is low, gentle, but you can hear the horniness under it. “Close the door, angel.”

Click.

Lock engaged.

Steve flips the “Occupied” sign with a wicked little grin. “Miss us, Teach?”

You nod so hard your glasses slide down. “I- um- hi. I’ve been thinking about your video nonstop Stevie, but I’ve literally never… back there. Like, ever. I want to, but I’m scared it’s gonna hurt and I’ll ruin everything and-”

Steve is in front of you in two steps, big hands cupping your burning cheeks. “Hey, hey. Breathe, sweetheart.” His thumbs stroke your cheekbones.

“We’ve got a system so nothing ever hurts unless you want it to. Colors. Green means go harder, feels amazing. Yellow means slow down, check in. Red means full stop, no questions, cuddles only. You are in charge. Say red and the whole world stops. Okay?”

Bucky nods, voice softer than you’ve ever heard. “You’re the boss, doll. We just wanna make that pretty little ass feel stupid good.”

Your knees wobble. “O-okay. Colors. Got it.”

They move like they’ve practiced this in their heads a thousand times.

Bucky drops to his knees, peeling your thigh-highs down slow, kissing every inch of skin he uncovers. Steve bends you over the desk like you weigh nothing, skirt flipped up, cardigan buttons popping one by one. “Quiz time,” Steve murmurs against your neck, stubble scraping. “Out loud. No notes.”

You start shaky: “Find the derivative of-”

Bucky’s tongue cuts you off, one long, filthy lick from your dripping hole to your clit. Your voice cracks into a squeak. He hums, eyes flicking up. “This okay?”

“Mhm,” you whimper.

Steve feeds you the next question, fingers tangled in your hair. “What’s the integral of-”

Bucky slides two thick fingers inside your pussy, curling hard. You sob out the answer while he eats you like he’s starving.

Then Steve opens the small box. The plug gleams, cold metal, heart jewel, bigger than you expected.

He drizzles lube over his fingers, warms it between his palms with a soft, wet sound. “This is your new favorite toy,” he says, voice pure filth wrapped in kindness. “We’re gonna warm you up so good you’ll be begging for it. Color?”

You squeak, hiding your face in your hands. “Yellow… I want it, but I’m freaking out.”

Steve kisses your forehead. “That’s why we have yellow, angel. Breathe with me.”

He presses one slick finger to your rim, just pressure, circling soft. “Push out like you’re kissing me back there.”

You do, trembling. The finger slides in slow, slick, burning sweet. “Oh my god-”

“Color?” Bucky whispers, thumb rubbing your clit to distract you.

“Green… don’t stop…”

Steve crooks his finger, scissoring gently, adding a second, stretching you open while Bucky laps at your clit like it’s candy. The room is nothing but wet sounds, your broken little moans, and their constant, horny praise.

“Fuck, look at you taking it.”

“So tight and perfect.”

“Our brave little girl.”

Steve pulls out slow, coats the plug in lube until it drips. “Ready for the real thing, baby?”

You nod, tears in your lashes. He presses the cold tip to your hole. “Breathe. Push out. Let us in.”

The stretch is intense, burns so good your toes curl. You sob, forehead on your forearm. “Too much- oh god-”

Steve kisses your spine. “You’re almost there, angel. Color?”

“Green- green, please”

Pop.

The widest part breaches. The jewel seats flush against your skin, heart winking between your cheeks like a filthy secret.

You clench experimentally, full, stuffed, owned.

Steve’s already got a condom rolled on, cock flushed angry red, leaking at the tip. He lines up at your pussy, eyes on yours. “You ready?”

“Yes,” you gasp. “Please, Stevie-”

He slides home in one slick thrust. The plug presses against him through the thin wall; you both gasp.

“Feel that, baby?” he groans, voice cracking like a teenager. “Both holes full. You’re fucking perfect.”

Bucky’s fingers circle the jewel, gentle pressure, while Steve fucks you slow and deep. You come instantly, pussy milking him, ass clenching around the plug, squirting so hard it splashes Bucky’s letterman jacket on the chair.

Steve follows with a broken “fuck, angel-” hips stuttering, filling the condom.

You’re still trembling on the desk, skirt barely tugged down, thighs slick, glasses completely steamed. Your breath keeps hitching like you can’t remember how lungs work.

Steve’s kneeling on the ground, wiping you down with a warm wipe, but his eyes keep flicking to the little heart jewel peeking between your cheeks every time you shift.

Bucky’s behind you, big hands rubbing slow circles on your lower back, but he can’t resist giving the plug one gentle nudge, just enough to make you jolt and squeak.

“Aww, listen to her,” Bucky laughs, low and mean and fond all at once. “One little tap and she’s already makin’ those kitten noises again.”

Your face flames so hot you’re scared your glasses are gonna melt. You try to hide in your forearms but he just chuckles and tilts your chin up with two fingers.

“Nuh-uh, pretty girl. Don’t get shy on us now.” His voice is pure honeyed filth. “Not after you just came so hard you painted my jacket.”

Bucky holds up the soaked sleeve of his letterman, grinning wolfishly. “Smells like our favorite nerd had a real good study session.”

You make this mortified little wheeee sound and slap both hands over your face. Your glasses fog instantly.

“Oh my god, Stevie, look,” Bucky crows, leaning in so close you feel his breath on your ear. “We got her glasses fogged up again. Think that’s a new record?”

Steve’s laugh rumbles against your cheek. He taps the edge of your frames. “These poor lenses don’t stand a chance around you, do they, baby? Every time we touch this tight,” he slides one palm down to cup your ass, thumb brushing the jewel, “soft,” squeezes hard enough to make you gasp, “perfect little ass, they just give up.”

You’re squirming so much the plug shifts and you choke on a moan. Your voice comes out a squeaky mess. “S-stop it, you’re awful-”

“Awful?” Bucky mocks gently, pressing a kiss to the shell of your ear. “Doll, you’re the one sittin’ here stuffed full of our heart, dripping down your thighs, makin’ those big eyes all watery behind smudged-up glasses. Who’s really the menace here?”

Steve leans in until his forehead touches yours, voice dropping to that dangerous soft register that always ruins you. “Tell the truth, angel. You love it. Love knowing exactly what we’re gonna be thinking about in fifth period, how you’re walking around with our claim sparkling between these pretty cheeks.”

Your whole body tries to curl in on itself, but they’ve got you pinned between them, Steve’s chest to your front, Bucky’s heat at your back like the world’s horniest weighted blanket.

“I-I can’t-” you whimper, voice cracking. “People are gonna notice I’m walking funny-”

“Let ‘em,” Bucky growls, nipping your neck. “Let the whole damn school wonder why the smartest girl in senior year keeps blushing like a freshman every time she sits down.”

Steve kisses the tip of your nose, sweet and filthy. “And when those glasses fog up in calc tomorrow? We’ll know exactly why.”

You’re a puddle. An actual puddle. There’s no coming back from this level of flustered. You just bury your face in Steve’s neck and mumble something that might be “I hate you both” but sounds suspiciously like “please never stop.”

They laugh, soft, reverent, proud and Bucky zips his letterman over your shoulders, tucks the empty plug box into your bag like contraband.

“Homework,” he whispers, tapping the jewel through your skirt. “Keep our heart in till 10, Text proof. Then tomorrow we upgrade you.”

Steve kisses your temple, voice wrecked and sweet. “You were so brave, baby. So fucking good for us.”

They flank you the second you step out of Study Room 3B.

Left side: Steve, big hand resting possessively on the small of your back, thumb sneaking under the jacket hem to brush the waistband of your skirt every few steps, reminding you exactly what’s hidden underneath.

Right side: Bucky, fingers laced through yours, swinging your joined hands like you’re middle-school sweethearts while his other hand keeps “accidentally” grazing your ass, tapping the jewel through the fabric whenever no one’s looking.

You’re blushing so hard your ears are hot.

Every time you clench, which is every five seconds because walking makes the plug shift deliciously, both of them smirk like they can feel it.

Random freshman walking past, “Yo, Rogers, Barnes, nice jacket on your girl!”

Steve just smiles, all dimples and charm, “Thanks, man. Looks better on her anyway.”

Bucky adds, deadpan, “Yeah, fits perfect in all the right places.” You squeak and hide your face in Steve’s shoulder.

At the crosswalk Bucky leans down, lips brushing your ear so only you hear, “Bet you’re dripping down your thighs right now, doll. That heart rubbing your pretty little walls with every step?”

Steve’s hand slides lower, cupping your ass cheek under the jacket, giving the plug one gentle push that makes your knees buckle. “Easy, angel,” he murmurs, steadying you. “Gotta make it to class without coming in the quad, yeah?”

You’re a human tomato by the time you reach the humanities building.

They stop at the steps.

Steve kisses your forehead, soft and sweet. “Sit in the back row. Text us if you need a bathroom break… or if you need us to come pull that heart out and replace it with something bigger during breaks.”

Bucky taps the jewel one last time through your skirt, eyes dark. “Be good, Teach. We’ll be thinking about how stuffed you are the whole practice.”

You waddle up the stairs, letterman sleeves flapping, plug pulsing, Steve’s cum still warm in the condom you’re secretly carrying in your pocket like a filthy trophy.

The plug has been a warm, pulsing secret all day, a steady heartbeat tucked between your cheeks, reminding you with every step, every shift in your chair, every time you bent to pick up a pen.

You finally kick the textbooks shut with a soft thud, laptop glowing on the bed like a tiny moon.

Cardigan long gone, pleated skirt swapped for Steve’s oversized tee, stolen from last week, the fabric soft and worn, smelling faintly of cedar and his skin. Thigh-highs peeled off hours ago, the jewel winks between your cheeks every time you shift, a cool kiss against the heat of your body.

Your phone buzzes. Homework reminder.

Steve 9:48pm

pic at 10 plug still in or we come collect in person

Your stomach flips so hard you have to sit down. You’ve literally never taken a nude in your life. Not one. Zero experience. Your camera roll is 90 % lecture slides and cat memes.

You lock the door, kill the overhead light, and turn on the fairy lights like they’ll somehow make this less terrifying. Hands shaking, you peel off Steve’s oversized tee. The plug shifts when you bend over and you whimper out loud, because it feels obscene and perfect at the same time.

Mirror propped against the closet door. You try the first pose: tits pushed together, knees on the bed, phone in selfie mode.

Delete.

You look like a deer in headlights with a glittery butt.

Second try: on your back, knees up, trying to “artfully” hold them up.

Delete.

Your face is the color of a stop sign and your glasses are fogging.

You frantically open an incognito tab, cheeks on fire, and type: “how to take actually cute nudes when you’re horny, shy, and your brain is 90% static”

Results:

soft lighting (check)

arch the back (trying)

angle from above (???)

confidence is key (LIES)

You settle on your knees, thighs spread, phone angled down. The rose-gold heart winks between your cheeks like it’s mocking you. Your pussy is visibly swollen, slick glistening on your inner thighs. You feel like you’re about to combust, but you hit the shutter anyway.

CLICK.

Another from behind, one hand pulling a cheek aside so the jewel is front and center.

CLICK.

A third with two fingers spreading yourself open, the plug gleaming, your wetness literally dripping onto the sheets.

You stare at the previews, mortified and stupidly proud at the same time. Crop. Slight filter. Heart racing so hard you can hear it.

You 10:02pm

[📸📸📸]

homework submitted first time ever taking these pls be nice still full still yours miss u so much <3

Three dots explode.

Then your phone starts ringing: FaceTime, both of them.

You answer with a squeak, half-hiding behind the pillow.

Their faces fill the screen: Steve in a gray hoodie, Bucky shirtless, both sprawled on the bed, eyes already black with hunger.

“Baby,” Steve breathes, voice soft and wrecked, “those pictures just murdered us.”

Bucky leans closer, grinning like a wolf. “First time ever and you send us straight-up porn? Jesus, doll. Turn the camera around. Let us see live.”

Your hands shake harder, but you flip the lens, prop the phone against a stack of textbooks, and slowly lie back. Legs fall open. Knees to chest. The plug glints under the fairy lights, your pussy glistening, swollen, aching.

They both groan so loud you feel it in your spine.

“Fuck, look at our heart,” Bucky rasps. “Sitting so pretty in that perfect little ass.”

Steve’s voice is pure velvet. “Yeah, just like that, angel. Hold yourself open for us. Wider. Show us how soaked our toy made you all day.”

You whimper, spreading yourself with trembling fingers, slick coating everything, dripping down to the plug.

“Such a good girl,” Steve murmurs, reverent. “Doing so fucking good for us. Look at you: stuffed full, dripping, blushing like crazy. Our perfect little tutor.”

Bucky’s eyes are locked between your legs. “First nudes and you look like a goddamn dream. Bet you were nervous as hell taking those, weren’t you, doll?”

You nod, biting your lip. “S-so nervous… deleted like ten before I sent anything…”

They both make the softest, hungriest sound.

“That makes it even better,” Steve says, voice thick. “You did that for us. Spread those legs again, sweetheart. Tug the plug just a little. Show us how greedy that pretty hole is.”

You reach down, fingers wrapping the base, giving the tiniest pull. The stretch burns sweet; you moan loud and broken.

“Fuck,” Bucky hisses. “Hear that? She loves it. Gonna take us so well when we finally replace that heart with the real thing.”

Steve smiles, soft and lethal. “Leave the plug in till morning, sweetheart. Sleep stuffed full of us… and dream about both of us taking you. One after the other… or at the same time.”

Your thighs shake so hard the phone wobbles.

“You’re perfect,” Steve whispers. “Our perfect, filthy, nervous little girl. A+ tonight.”

Bucky blows a kiss. “Sweet dreams, princess. Tomorrow we grade in person.”

The call ends on their twin smiles: hungry, proud, completely obsessed.

You collapse back, plug pulsing with every heartbeat, pussy aching, their praise echoing like the filthiest lullaby you’ve ever heard.

The campus is still half-asleep, dew glittering on the grass. You’re speed-walking across the quad in yesterday’s rumpled cardigan, buttons mismatched, sleeves pulled over your fists, leggings hugging your thighs, and that jeweled plug buried deep, shifting with every hurried step.

Each clench sends a hot, filthy pulse straight to your clit, a constant reminder as you head straight for the study room where Bucky and Steve are already waiting, probably smirking, definitely hard, ready to wreck you all over again.

Your phone buzzes.

Steve 7:28am

you on your way? door’s cracked. coffee’s hot. bring that pretty plugged ass here now, baby.

You practically sprint.

The door sighs open. Morning light stripes the carpet in gold.

Steve’s leaning against the desk, two paper cups steaming, gray hoodie zipped high, hair a tousled halo, eyes already dark and starving.

Bucky’s sprawled in the corner chair, hood up, arms crossed, legs spread wide like he’s been waiting to devour you since sunrise.

The second they see you, the air changes.

Steve’s voice drops to pure gravel. “Fuck, there she is. Been hard since 6 am thinking about pulling that heart out and replacing it with my tongue.”

Bucky sits up, slow, predatory. “Get over here, doll. Sit on my lap and let us see how full we kept you all night.”

You cross the room on shaky legs. Bucky pats his thigh once. You straddle him, legs over his thighs. He wastes no time; big hands slide under your cardigan, spreading over your ribs, thumbs brushing the underside of your tits.

“Still got our toy in?” he growls against your neck.

You nod, clenching just to feel it. The jewel shifts; you moan.

Steve drops to his knees behind you like a man about to pray. “Color, baby?”

“Green,” you whimper. “So fucking green.”

Bucky’s fingers hook your waistband. “Up.”

You lift. He peels leggings and panties down in one slow drag, cool air hitting your soaked skin. The rose-gold heart winks between your cheeks, glistening with lube and your own slick that’s been dripping all night.

They both curse, low and wrecked.

Steve’s pupils are blown black. “Jesus Christ. Look at that perfect little hole stretched around our heart. Took it like a goddamn champ.”

Bucky spreads you wide with his thumbs, voice shaking with hunger. “Fuck, doll. You’re gaping for us already. So pretty and pink and ready.”

Steve drizzles warm lube over his fingers, spreads it slow, filthy circles around the rim. “Push out for me, sweetheart. Let me see you give it up.”

You bear down. The plug slides free with a wet, obscene pop that makes all three of you groan. Your empty hole flutters, desperate, and Steve doesn’t hesitate.

He dives in.

Hot, wet tongue licking a long stripe over your freshly opened ass, swirling around the rim, pushing inside like he’s starving for it.

You squeal, hands flying to Bucky’s shoulders. “Steve! That, that’s my ass, oh my god, that’s so filthy-”

Bucky pins your hips, growling into your ear. “Relax, baby. Let him eat his breakfast. He’s been dreaming about this ass since we put that plug in.”

Steve moans against you, the vibration making you sob. “Tastes so fucking good. Sweet little hole, all soft and open for us. Gonna tongue-fuck you till you’re dripping down my chin.”

He does. Thick tongue spearing inside, curling, lapping like he’s trying to drink you dry. Bucky’s hand slips between your legs, two fingers sliding into your soaked pussy without warning, curling hard.

“Look at you,” Bucky rasps, pumping slow. “Ass getting tongue-fucked, pussy stuffed with my fingers, and you’re still begging for more. Greedy little thing.”

You’re babbling, tears pricking your eyes from how good it is. “Please- please-”

Steve pulls back just enough, lips shiny, voice wrecked. “Can’t wait to finally get my cock in this perfect ass,” he rasps, pressing a slick thumb against your aching rim. “Gonna stretch you slow, make you shake and drip until you’re begging me to ruin you completely.”

Bucky adds a third thick finger spreading you open with a slow, burning stretch. “We’re gonna wreck you so fuckin’ good, doll,” he growls, curling them hard enough to make your thighs tremble. “Gonna leave you dripping, aching, stuffed full of us for days, until every hole remembers exactly who it belongs to.”

You come hard, sudden and violent, squirting over Bucky’s wrist, ass clenching around Steve’s tongue. They don’t stop; they ride you through it, praising you filthy and sweet.

“Good fucking girl.”

“That’s it, soak us.”

“Ours. All ours.”

You’re still limp and shaking in Bucky’s lap, thighs slick, pussy fluttering around nothing, when Steve reaches into his hoodie pocket and pulls out a small black velvet pouch.

He dumps it on the desk with a soft clink.

A new plug rolls out. Same rose-gold, same heart jewel… but this one is visibly thicker, longer, the swell in the middle fat enough to make your breath catch in your throat.

Bucky whistles low, voice dripping sin. “Look what we brought for our favorite little nerd.”

Your eyes go huge. “That’s… that’s not-”

“Exactly what we’re gonna fuck you with right now,” Steve finishes, already hard again just looking at it. “Not keeping it in. Just stretching you open and making you come so hard you forget your own name.”

You squeak, half terrified, half desperate. “It’s bigger than anything I’ve taken.”

Steve cups your burning cheek, thumb stroking your lip. “Color, angel?”

“Y-yellow,” you whisper, voice trembling. “It’s… a lot.”

Bucky kisses your temple, soft and sweet. “Yellow is perfect, baby. We go slow. You’re in charge.”

Steve drizzles warm lube over the new plug until it drips, then coats three fingers thick. Bucky keeps you pinned across his lap, hand stroking your back, the other hand lazily circling your clit so you stay soaked.

Steve starts with two fingers, no warm-up needed after the tongue bath, then three, scissoring wide, stretching you with wet, filthy sounds. Your hips rock back on their own, chasing more.

“Fuck, she’s ready,” Bucky groans, feeling you flutter.

Steve adds a fourth finger, slow and relentless, opening you up until you’re sobbing into Bucky’s neck.

“Color?” Steve checks, voice shaking with restraint.

“Green,” you cry. “Green, please-”

He pulls his fingers free, lines the cold, fat head of the new plug against your rim. “Breathe, baby. Push out. Let that pretty hole swallow it for us.”

The pressure is obscene, delicious. You whine high and needy as the widest part stretches you open.

Bucky’s teeth sink into your shoulder. “Look at you taking every fucking inch like a perfect little slut.”

Pop.

The plug seats deep, the bigger heart jewel nestling perfectly between your cheeks.

You clench hard and nearly black out from how full you feel.

Steve exhales shakily, palming his cock through his joggers. “Jesus… you look obscene. Perfect.”

Bucky gives the jewel one gentle tug, just enough to make your breath hitch, then starts fucking you with it, slow, shallow thrusts that make your eyes roll back.

Steve drops to his knees, tongue lapping at your pussy while Bucky works the plug in and out, stretching you open with every filthy slide.

You come so hard you squirt over Steve’s face, ass spasming around the thick toy, vision whiting out.

They don’t stop, Bucky keeps fucking you with the plug while Steve sucks your clit until you’re crying and shaking through a second orgasm.

Only when you’re a boneless, whimpering mess do they ease the plug out slow, kissing every inch of your trembling body.

Steve licks the last trace of lube from your tender rim, slow and reverent, like he’s savoring dessert. “Good girl,” he murmurs against your skin, voice rough with awe. “Took that fat plug so fucking well.”

Bucky wipes you clean with warm wipes, kissing every tear that slipped free.

They tug your leggings up gently, button your mismatched cardigan, press the oat-milk latte into your trembling fingers.

Then they walk you to class, one on each side, arms brushing yours, smirking every single time you wince or clench around nothing.

At the lecture hall doors. Steve leans in first, lips soft against your temple. “Study hard, Teach.”

Bucky crowds you against the brick wall for a second, hand sliding down to cup your ass possessively, voice a dark whisper that makes your knees buckle.

“Saturday. Home opener. Row 12, seat 3. Wear my letterman. Let the whole stadium see who this perfect girl belongs to.”

He pulls back just enough to meet your wide, flustered eyes.

“After the final whistle we’re bringing you straight back to the dorm, locking the door, and finally fucking you the way you’ve been begging for. Both holes. All night. No more toys, no more waiting. Just us, raw and deep, until you’re dripping our cum and wearing our names inside and out.”

Steve’s hand finds yours, laces your fingers, squeezes once.

“So will you come watch us play, pretty girl? Will you sit in our section wearing Buck’s letterman and let ten-thousand people know you’re ours?”

Your heart is pounding so loud you’re sure the entire quad can hear it.

You nod before the word even forms, voice tiny and breathless.

“Yes. I’ll be there. I’ll wear it. I’ll-” you swallow, cheeks on fire, “-I’ll wear the bigger plug too.”

They both exhale like you just handed them the championship trophy.

Bucky kisses you quick and filthy. “That’s our good little rookie.”

Steve kisses you softer, lingering. “Then Saturday night you’re officially ours, baby. On the field, in the stands, in our bed. Forever.”

They let you go with one last teasing tap to your empty, aching hole through your leggings.

You float into the lecture hall, coffee warm, body throbbing, heart racing toward game day when the plug comes out… and they finally, finally fill you completely.

Coach is mid-rant, veins popping, screaming at the defense for blowing coverage again when Steve and Bucky just… peel off.

One second they’re hauling ass through ladders, the next they’re yanking off helmets, jogging off the field like they’ve got somewhere better to be.

“Rogers! Barnes! Where the fuck-”

“Equipment issue, Coach!” Steve hollers back, already halfway gone.

Bucky flashes a shit-eating grin and flips him off with both hands. Steve does the same without even looking back.

Coach’s whistle drops out of his mouth. “Motherfuckers-”

Twenty minutes later they’re downtown, hoodies up, cleats swapped for sneakers, ducking into the fancy jewelry store that smells like money and old ladies.

The saleswoman takes one look at two 6'4" football players dripping campus clout and immediately starts sweating.

Steve’s already leaning over display case #3, voice low and lethal-calm. “Rose-gold heart pendant. Exact match to this.” He slides his phone across the glass.

Lock-screen: a zoomed-in, post-orgasm shot of the jeweled plug’s heart winking between your cheeks, blurred just enough to be legal, filthy enough to make the poor saleswoman choke on air.

Bucky leans on the counter, smirking. “Yeah, but make it dainty. Tiny heart, thin chain. Something she can wear to class without people knowing it’s a perfect replica of the plug we’re stretching her ass with.”

Saleswoman: “…I beg your pardon?”

They ignore her.

Steve points to a delicate 14k rose-gold heart, maybe half an inch, on a paperclip chain. “This one. Engrave the back: Property of S.R. & J.B.B.”

Bucky immediately scowls. “No fucking way. That’s tacky as hell. We’re engraving our numbers, 12 ♡ 17.”

“That’s even worse, it looks like a sports bet.”

Bucky, leans against the counter with his arms crossed, deadpans, “Better than branding her like cattle.” The saleswoman’s eyes go comically wide.

“It’s romantic!”

“It’s possessive.”

“Exactly.” Steve finishes.

They glare at each other over the velvet tray like they’re about to throw hands in the middle of fine jewelry.

Saleswoman tries to intervene: “Perhaps just her initials-”

Both, in unison: “No.”

Bucky picks up a different necklace, this one a slightly larger heart, pavé diamonds around the edge, still rose-gold. “This one. Classy, sparkly. She’ll blush every time it catches the light and remember exactly where the match is sitting.”

Steve’s eyes narrow. “Too flashy. Everyone will ask where she got it.”

Bucky grins, slow and evil. “Good.”

Steve lifts the third necklace: a thread-thin rose-gold chain with a heart so tiny it’s practically secret. He flips the pendant, revealing the micro-engraved coordinates on the back.

The exact latitude and longitude of the Sigma Chi hallway just outside the basement door, where, after hours of teasing glances across the beer-pong table, they finally pinned you against the wall, hauled you up by the thighs, and kissed you breathless while the party raged on.

Bucky actually pauses. “…Goddamn it, that’s smooth.”

Steve smirks, victorious. “Told you. Subtle, permanent, only we know what it means.”

Bucky flicks the little heart with his finger, testing the weight. “Fine. But we’re adding a second charm.” He points to a tiny rose-gold football helmet, no bigger than a fingernail. “So when people ask, she can say it’s for the team. But we’ll know it’s because we’re gonna fuck her on the field one day.”

Steve’s grin turns feral. “Deal.”

They buy both charms on the same chain, plus a second identical set, one for everyday, one for… rougher wear. The saleswoman’s hands are shaking as she rings up four grand like it’s grocery money.

Steve adds at the register, casual as hell, “Gift wrap it in something cute. Our girl’s shy.”

Bucky snorts. “Yeah, wrap it in the same color as the plug box. She’ll combust.”

They leave the store arguing again, this time over who gets to clasp it around your neck first.

The sun is high, the air crisp with late-fall bite. You’re speed-walking across the quad, cardigan sleeves flapping like surrender flags, iced coffee sweating in one hand, flashcards clutched like a lifeline. The plug is gone, but the phantom stretch still ghosts every step, a secret heartbeat between your thighs.

A low whistle slices the air.

Bucky leans against the old oak tree, hoodie half-zipped, arm catching sunlight, grin sharp enough to cut glass. Steve’s beside him, arms crossed, letterman jacket slung over one shoulder, hair still damp from the morning practice they definitely skipped.

“Lost, Teach?” Bucky teases, voice lazy. Steve’s already reaching for your bag, fingers brushing yours. “We’re kidnapping you for lunch. Non-negotiable.”

You don’t even pretend to protest.

They flank you, one on each side, steering you toward the campus café like bodyguards with a mission. Steve’s hand settles low on your back, thumb tracing the waistband of your leggings. Bucky’s fingers brush yours, then lace, then squeeze.

The place smells like cinnamon rolls fresh from the oven, espresso, and the faint sweetness of spilled syrup. They slide you into the plush corner booth first, then crowd in, Steve on your left, Bucky on your right. No escape. Perfect.

The table is already set like they called ahead: a tiny chalkboard sign reads Rogers-Barnes Party of 3, three mismatched mugs waiting for refills, a paper bag from the bakery with grease spots blooming.

Bucky flags Maya, ponytail, nose ring. “Whatever she wants. On us. And the biggest cinnamon roll you’ve got. Extra icing. Like, drown it.”

Steve adds, soft, “And a side of strawberries. The good ones.”

Maya grins, scribbles, vanishes. You laugh, cheeks warm. “I have class in twenty-”

Steve cuts you off, voice velvet. “You have us right now. Class can wait.”

He pulls a tiny black velvet box from his hoodie pocket, flips it open.

Inside rests the necklace they bickered over, delicate rose-gold chain, tiny heart pendant, exact match to the plug they just fucked you with few hours before, a miniature football helmet charm beside it, the back engraved with the Sigma Chi hallway coordinates.

Steve steps in close behind you, the necklace cool against your throat as he fastens the tiny clasp. His lips graze the sensitive skin at your nape, breath warm.

“For our favorite over-achiever,” he murmurs, voice velvet and possessive. “So every time that little heart rests between your pretty tits, you remember exactly who you belong to.”

Bucky’s fingers trace the chain, eyes dark. “Wear it under my letterman Saturday. We wanna see it bounce when you’re cheering… and later, when you’re riding us.”

The tray arrives: your usual oat-milk latte with foam heart intact and cinnamon dusted on top, a cinnamon roll the size of a softball drowning in icing with a fork stabbed in like a victory flag, a bowl of strawberries glistening with one dipped in chocolate “just because,” a tiny pitcher of extra icing on the side.

Steve tears off a piece of roll, holds it to your lips. “Open, pretty girl.” You do. The icing melts on your tongue, warm and sticky.

Bucky feeds you the chocolate strawberry next, thumb brushing your lower lip, lingering. “You deserve this,” he murmurs. “Deserve everything.”

You swallow, heart fluttering, fingers touching the new necklace. “I just tutored you guys-”

Steve shakes his head, eyes soft. “You saved our GPAs. And our sanity. And gave us the best mornings of our lives.”

Bucky leans in, arm sliding across the back of the booth. “Let us spoil you. Starting now. Ending never.”

They take turns like it’s a game. Steve wipes a smear of icing from your chin, licks it off his thumb slow.

Bucky steals a sip of your latte, leaves a foam mustache, kisses it off with a grin.

Steve feeds you another strawberry, chocolate smudging your lip.

Bucky licks it clean.

They argue over who gets to carry your bag to your next class, Steve wins, Bucky pouts, then steals your flashcards to “quiz you” with kisses as answers.

Steve laces his fingers through yours under the table, thumb stroking slow and deliberate over your knuckles. “Game’s Saturday, baby. Can’t wait to watch you jumping in the stands with that little heart flashing every time you move.”

Bucky leans in, voice gravel-rough against your ear. “And text us the second class lets out. We’re walking you to every single one this week… gotta make sure our girl stays full and safe.”

You finish the last strawberry, lips sticky, necklace warm against your skin, heart stupidly full. “I could get used to this.”

Steve kisses your temple, lingering. “Good. Because we’re not stopping. Ever.”

They walk you to your 12:15, one on each arm, bags slung over their shoulders, coffee refills in hand. The campus stares. You don’t care. You’re floating, sugar-high, spoiled rotten, the tiny rose-gold heart resting between your collarbones like the sweetest, filthiest promise.

Wednesday

Outside Psych 301, the bell tower chimes. Steve hands you your bag, already on his shoulder, fingers brushing yours. Bucky steals your empty coffee cup, tosses it with a wink. “Next class?” “Bio lab. Basement.”

They nod in sync. Steve takes your left hand, Bucky your right. You walk the long way, past the fountain, under the maple turning red. Students stare. You float.

At the bio lab door, Bucky spins you, fingers cool on your waist. “Text when you’re done. Vending machines.” Steve kisses your forehead. “Study hard, Teach.”

By the vending machines, they’re arguing Doritos vs. Cheetos. You appear; fight ends. Steve wins. Bucky feeds you one, orange dust on your lip. He licks it off. “Lit seminar’s across campus. Move.” They carry your books like nothing.

At the lit seminar door, Steve smooths your cardigan collar. Bucky tucks a loose curl behind your ear. “See you at six. Dorm. Pizza. Rest day, no plug.” You nod, cheeks warm. They watch you disappear inside.

Thursday

The sky is a solid sheet of gray, rain slamming sideways against the dorm windows like it’s personally offended.

At your dorm door, Steve holds two coffees. Bucky’s behind him, hoodie zipped, breakfast sandwich in foil. “Walk you to Calc?” You’re still in pajamas. They wait while you change, long sleeve top, jeans. Bucky braids your hair on the way, loose, messy, perfect.

At the Calc hall, Steve kisses your knuckles. Bucky taps your nose. “Weight room. Text when you’re out.” You watch them go, broad shoulders, easy strides. The lecture starts; you’re still smiling.

They’re sweaty, shirts clinging. Bucky throws you over his shoulder like a sack of flour. You squeal. Steve carries your bag. “Lunch. Café again. Our treat.” You eat grilled cheese, share fries, steal their hoodies when it gets cold.

In art history, Bucky sketches you in the margin heart pendant, shy smile. Steve passes a note: You’re prettier than the Mona Lisa. You blush crimson. The teaching assistant pretends not to notice.

Friday

Steve’s got donuts. Bucky’s got your favorite playlist on his phone. They walk you to stats, singing off-key under their breath. Students part like the Red Sea.

Steve kisses your temple. Bucky steals your pen, writes ours on your wrist. “Last class. Then weekend starts.” You grin. “Can’t wait.”

They’re waiting with a single rose, campus greenhouse, stolen. Steve tucks it behind your ear. Bucky slings your bag. “Lunch. Then practice. Then game tomorrow. You’re ours all weekend.”

They walk you to the edge of the turf. Steve in full pads, helmet under his arm. Bucky in compression shirt, hair pushed back. They kiss you in turn, quick, fierce. “Row 12 tomorrow. Wear the jacket. Scream loud.” You nod, heart racing. They jog onto the field. You watch till they’re dots, then turn for home, rose in hand, ours still on your wrist.

Your dorm is a riot of fairy lights and vanilla haze. Nat’s commandeered your desk chair, spinning it like a throne, silk robe slipping off one shoulder. You’re cross-legged on the bed in nothing but a lacy white bra and the tiniest denim shorts, Bucky’s letterman jacket laid out like a royal gown beside you.

Nat holds up two lip glosses, cherry red versus cotton-candy pink. “Slutty or sweet?”

You snort. “Both. It’s a playoff vibe.”

She squeals, tackles you into the pillows. “My baby’s going to her first football game with her two boyfriends! I need details. All the filthy details.”

You shove her off, laughing. “Stop! I still need to do my hair!”

Nat plugs in the curling iron, twirls a strand around the barrel. “Tell me again how Steve kissed you under the umbrella Thursday. Slow-mo.”

You close your eyes, let the memory wash over. “Rain on my face, his hands on my waist, tongue-”

Nat fans herself. “Stop! I’m getting pregnant.”

She’s dusting highlighter on your cheekbones when she suddenly spins to your nightstand. “Oh my god, the boys sent gifts!”

She grabs the little courier box that arrived this morning, rips it open like it’s Christmas. Inside: a pair of thigh-high white socks with tiny embroidered footballs along the bands… and nestled inside one sock like it belongs there, the fat rose-gold heart plug in its velvet pouch.

Nat pulls out the socks, shakes them dramatically. The plug flies out, arcs through the air, and lands with a soft thud on your duvet, heart jewel winking under the fairy lights.

Dead silence for exactly 0.3 seconds.

Nat blinks.

You freeze, highlighter brush mid-air. Nat blinks again.

Then she just… shrugs. “Huh. Guess they really want you to feel supported tonight.” She casually tosses the plug back into the sock like it’s a phone charger, hands you the socks. “Kinky, but cute. I’m choosing not to process this.”

Your soul leaves your body and returns in the same second. You’re scarlet from hairline to toes, stammering nonsense. “I- they- it’s-”

Nat waves a hand, already moving on. “Babe, I once found a dildo in Clint’s laundry basket labeled ‘protein shaker.’ I have seen things. Put your murder socks on, we’re late.”

You die internally, then externally, then somehow manage to roll the socks up your thighs while Nat curls the last section of your hair, humming like she didn’t just discover your anal plug gift-wrapped in athletic wear.

You’re halfway through your lip gloss when your phone lights up.

Bucky 4:27pm

nat didn’t notice the plug in the socks right?? tell me she didn’t notice steve’s having a stroke

Steve 4:27pm

we are deceased if she noticed we’re transferring schools please lie to us

You type back with shaking thumbs.

You 4:28pm

she noticed and pretended she didn’t we’re all going to hell

Bucky 4:28pm

LMAOOOOO worth it now put it in baby want you stretched and dripping when we win

Your face is on fire, but you’re already sliding off the bed. “Bathroom- emergency gloss touch-up!”

You lock the door, yank down your shorts and panties, spit messily into your palm because proper lube is in your nightstand drawer and Nat is ten feet away.

The fat heart is cold against your rim. You push out, whimper into your forearm as the stretch burns bright and perfect, the widest part forcing you open until the jewel seats flush between your cheeks.

You clench once, twice, nearly moan out loud. Full again. Theirs again.

You fix your shorts, smooth the letterman jacket over everything like nothing happened, and step back out.

Nat raises an eyebrow. “You good? You look like you just saw Jesus.”

You force a smile, thighs trembling around the secret weight. “Just really excited for the game.”

She grins, tugs the rose-gold heart necklace from under the jacket collar so it glints against the wool. “They’re gonna lose their minds when they see this bounce.”

She spritzes perfume, spins you by the shoulders. “Main character energy activated. Let’s go watch your boys destroy the other team and then destroy you later.”

Your phone buzzes one last time.

Bucky 4:41pm

gate 3 baby can’t wait to look up and see my name on you and that pretty heart winking when you jump

Nat yanks you out the door, both of you giggling like middle-schoolers. The hallway echoes with your laughter, sneakers squeaking, the fat plug shifting with every step as you hurry toward the stadium lights.

Nat drags you through the turnstile like a woman on a mission, her jersey #69 flashing under the floodlights, ponytail swinging with every step.

“You’re their good-luck charm now,” she yells over the pre-game chaos, voice slicing through the brass band’s warm-up, the greasy pop of popcorn, the sharp bite of fresh turf.

You’re swallowed in Bucky’s jacket. Hem skimming mid-thigh, sleeves past your elbows, tiny denim shorts hugging your ass, frayed edges peeking beneath the jacket.

Thigh-high socks with tiny footballs riding high, white sneakers laced tight. The rose-gold heart necklace glints at your throat, their secret under the collar. Every step is a pulse, a reminder, a thrill.

The stadium is a living beast, floodlights blazing, crowd a roaring sea of gold and navy.

You slide into Row 12, seat 3, between Nat and a foam-finger-waving freshman. The field glows emerald under the lights, goalposts sharp against the bruised dusk. You spot them instantly.

Steve in #12, helmet tucked under his arm, hair golden and sweat-damp from warm-ups, stretching with the kind of focus that makes your stomach flip.

Bucky in #17, arms catching the light like a beacon, grinning as he jogs past the sideline, eyes scanning the stands.

He looks up first, locks on you, winks slow and filthy, tongue touching his teeth. Steve follows a beat later, catches your gaze, blushes crimson even under the helmet’s shadow, ducks his head with a shy grin.

Nat elbows you hard. “They’re toast. Look at Rogers, boy’s already distracted.”

The whistle shrieks like a starting gun. The ball sails; the crowd erupts. You’re on your feet, screaming till your throat burns, letterman sleeves flapping as you jump. Every tackle, every sprint. Steve barrels through the line, shoulder pads gleaming; Bucky darts past a defender, arm flashing.

The score ticks up, 7-0 home team. Steve throws a perfect spiral; the crowd roars. You scream his name; he can’t hear, but his head tilts toward Row 12 anyway.

Bucky intercepts a pass, sprints half the field, dives into the end zone.

Touchdown.

He points straight at you, finger gun, wink. Nat grabs your arm. “I’m deceased.”

Halftime - Score Tied 14-14

The marching band takes the field, drums thundering like artillery. Your phone buzzes in sync, two texts, one heartbeat.

Steve 8:15pm

bleachers now

Bucky 8:15pm

move it doll or we come get u

Nat shoves you with a grin. “Go. I’ll hold the seats. And the secrets.”

You sprint, letterman flapping, denim shorts riding up with every step, legs already jelly from the vibe’s low hum and the adrenaline. The stairs are a blur, concrete, metal, the roar of the crowd overhead.

The space is a cave of shadows and echoes. Metal beams vibrate with every stomp from the stands above; the band’s cymbals crash like lightning. Voices echo, thousands of them cheering, chanting, so close. Footsteps clatter overhead, someone’s right above you.

Steve’s waiting in the dim, helmet off, hair sweat-soaked and curling at his temples, jersey clinging to his chest like a second skin.

Bucky’s beside him, grin feral, eyes black with intent. The air smells like turf, sweat, and them raw, animal.

Steve steps forward first, cups your face with both hands. “Missed you, pretty girl.” His kiss is starving, tongue sweeping your mouth, tasting like Gatorade, salt, and want.

Bucky’s behind you in a heartbeat, fingers cool on your waist, lips brushing your ear. “Time’s short, doll. Let’s make it count.”

Steve yanks the denim shorts down in one brutal motion, the button popping, zipper rasping, fabric bunching at your knees. His palm slides under, checks, warm, possessive. “Still ours,” he growls, voice rough.

You whimper, loud. The sound is swallowed by the crowd’s roar. Bucky thumbs the plug, hard, twisting it. “Fuck, she’s soaked, hear that?”

Steve catches you, bends you hard against a cold metal beam, letterman rucked up, shorts tangled at your ankles.

“Quiet, baby,” he snarls, freeing himself, thick, leaking, condom already rolled on with shaking hands. One thrust, deep, brutal, stretching you open.

Bucky steps to your front, fingers sliding under the jacket, finding your clit with ruthless precision. He circles tight, fast, in time with Steve’s slow, punishing rhythm. The beam rattles with every thrust; the band’s drumline overhead syncs with your heartbeat.

You’re a nervous, whimpering mess.

“W-what if someone hears-”

“Shh, doll,” Bucky growls, yanking your jaw up.

Steve groans into your neck. “So tight, baby, you’re milking me-”

Bucky frees himself, thick, leaking, “Open,” he snarls.

You do, mouth wide, eyes watering. He slides in raw, salty, stretching your throat. Steve fucks your pussy, hard, relentless. Bucky fucks your mouth deeper, hips snapping.

You’re sandwiched between them under the bleachers, impaled on Steve’s cock, the fat rose-gold plug pressing against him through your walls,

Bucky’s thick length stretching your throat raw. The marching band thunders overhead, cymbals crashing like gunshots, drums syncing with Steve’s punishing thrusts.

You’re a whimpering, terrified mess, tears streaking your cheeks, drool dripping down your chin onto Bucky’s jersey.

“Scared little thing, tighter when she’s nervous-” Steve laughs, dark and filthy, hips rolling slow so you feel every inch dragging across your walls.

A group of drunk frat guys stumbles down the concrete stairs right beside you, voices booming, cans clanking. “Yo, where’s the beer line??”

“Bro, I swear it was this way-”

You freeze.

Pussy clenching around Steve so hard he has to bite your shoulder through the letterman to stay quiet. Throat spasming around Bucky, gag reflex fluttering, eyes watering.

Steve growls against your skin, hips snapping harder, deeper, the plug shifting obscenely. “Fuck, feel that? She’s terrified- so tight-”

Bucky’s laugh is low and wrecked, metal hand tightening in your hair. “Scared little doll, gonna come just from the risk-”

One of the frat guys slams his fist on the metal beam directly above you, BANG like he’s trying to start a wave. The vibration shoots straight through the steel, through your body, through the plug, through Steve’s cock.

You shatter.

Pussy clamping down in violent waves, clear arcs squirting around Steve’s base, soaking his jersey and the concrete below. Throat spasming around Bucky, milking him as you choke on a muffled scream.

Steve roars into your hair, hips stuttering, filling the condom with thick, hot pulses.

Bucky follows a second later, hips jerking, spilling straight down your throat with a choked growl, “Fuck- swallow it all, baby-”

The frat guys are still laughing, arguing about directions, one of them literally leaning on the beam you’re pinned against, none the wiser that twenty feet below them the star quarterbacks and just wrecked their shy tutor into next week.

You’re shaking, sobbing silently, cum and spit and squirt dripping down your thighs, plug seated so deep you feel it in your spine.

Steve pulls out gentle, ties off the condom, tucks it into your pocket like it’s routine. Bucky wipes your mouth with his thumb, licks it clean, smirks like a devil. They fix your shorts, zip the letterman, smooth your hair, kiss the tears off your cheeks.

You’re glowing, absolutely ruined, thighs trembling so hard you can barely walk.

They send you back up the stairs with a matching pair of soft kisses and two whispered words,

“Good girl.”

You collapse into your seat beside Nat, legs jelly, voice gone, jacket hiding the evidence.

Nat takes one look at your wrecked face and just fans you with her foam finger. “Jesus Christ, I need a cigarette.”

Second half starts. Every time Steve scores, every time Bucky sacks someone, they look straight up to Row 12 and point, two fingers, right to the heart.

The whole stadium sees it.

Final score: 28-21.

You’re theirs, plugged, dripping, freshly fucked under ten thousand people, and the entire campus just watched them claim victory.

The scoreboard still blazes 28-21 as the team spills from the tunnel, sweat-slick and electric, the air thick with the sharp bite of fresh turf, spilled cheap beer, and the dying roar of a stadium that’s just watched its heroes win.

Floodlights cut through the dusk, casting long shadows across the field, the crowd’s chants fading into a low, hungry hum.

You’re leaning against the cinderblock wall near the gate, heart pounding, thighs still trembling from the halftime bleacher bang, Bucky’s jacket around you, navy wool heavy and warm. The rose-gold heart necklace glints at your throat, catching the light like a secret beacon.

Two cheerleaders, Cassie and Madison, pom-poms long ditched, glittery crop tops clinging to their sweat-damp skin, catching every floodlight like they’re made of diamonds, cut straight through the chaos to Steve and Bucky before they can clear the gate.

Cassie’s blonde ponytail bounces as she loops an arm through Steve’s, pressing so close her sparkly body glitter smears across his navy jersey, leaving a shimmery streak on his chest.

“Rogers, you were fucking unreal out there,” she purrs, voice dripping with honey and heat, lips so close to his ear you can see her breath stir his damp hair.

“Delta’s got an open bar, VIP booth, the whole squad waiting to toast the captain. Picture it, me, you, a bottle of Patrón, and a private room upstairs where I can show you just how grateful we are.” She drags a manicured nail down his arm, lingering on the bulge of his bicep, her tits pressed so tight against him you’re sure he can feel her heartbeat.

Madison’s right there with Bucky, her red curls spilling over her shoulders as she slides up to him, fingers trailing his forearm, nails painted navy and gold to match the team colors.

“Barnes, that interception? Fucking legendary,” she coos, biting her glossy lip, eyes locked on his mouth like she’s already tasting it.

“We’ve got a keg with your name on it, baby, and a private room upstairs if you wanna celebrate… properly.” She leans in, her perfume, something cloying and floral, drowning out the locker-room smell of sweat and grass, her body so close her hips brush his thigh. “I could get on my knees for you right now, Bucky. Bet you’d love that after a win like this.”

Cassie pushes harder, pouting, her voice a sultry whine. “Come on, Stevie, one drink. You earned this. Let me take care of you tonight.” She tugs his arm, trying to pull him toward the Delta house van idling nearby, its bass thumping through the open doors.

Madison’s not letting up either, her hand sliding lower, fingers grazing the waistband of Bucky’s pants. “You know I’ve been watching you all season, Barnes. That body? Those hands? I’m dying to find out what else you can do with them.”

You shift against the wall, clutching the hem of Bucky’s letterman, your stomach twisting as their words hit. Cassie’s eyes flick to you, scowl. “Seriously? Her? She’s wearing your jacket like a fucking tent.”

Madison sneers, tossing her hair. “Aw, did the nerd finally get a pity fuck? What, she tutor you for a quickie in the library? Cute.”

Steve’s shoulders tense, his jaw tight, eyes already scanning past them, locking on you.

Bucky’s gaze finds you a split second later, his grin turning wolfish, dangerous, like a predator spotting prey.

Steve’s smile is tight, polite, but final. “Sorry, ladies. Private party.” He shoulders past Cassie with a gentle but firm push, leaving her stumbling in her glittery heels.

Bucky peels Madison’s hand off his waistband like it’s lint. “Invite-only, sweetheart. And you’re not on the list.”

He doesn’t even look back as he jogs toward you, helmet dangling from one hand, the other already reaching. The cheerleaders stand there, gaping, mouths open, glitter smudged, as Nat shoves you forward with a wicked grin. “Go get your trophy, babe.”

Steve’s hand finds the small of your back, thumb tracing the waistband of your denim shorts, possessive and warm. Bucky’s fingers lace with yours, squeezing tight, his calluses rough against your skin.

“Missed you, doll,” he murmurs, voice low and rough from screaming plays all night. The walk back to the dorm is a blur, stadium lights fading into the harsh fluorescents of the residence hall, the air shifting from turf and beer to pizza and laundry detergent.

Their breathing is heavy, synced, like they’re still running plays, but now it’s just the three of you, the hallway empty except for the echo of your sneakers and their cleats.

The dorm door slams shut like a gunshot. The deadbolt clicks, final, possessive, the sound of the rest of the world being locked out.

Steve and Bucky are still in their game pants and jerseys, shoulder pads stripped off in the hallway, hair dark and wet with sweat, skin gleaming under the buzzing fluorescent light.

The room is thick with the smell of fresh turf and that sharp, animal heat that rolls off them after a win, adrenaline and raw, hungry men. It hits you low in the belly, makes your mouth water even while your knees want to buckle.

On the nightstand: lube, wipes, two blue Gatorades already sweating rings into the wood, and one lonely red gummy bear sitting on a napkin like a tiny blood-stained trophy.

Steve’s voice is scraped raw from barking plays all night. “Jersey chase, baby. Still warm. You earned ‘em.”

Your heart is already sprinting. You’ve been soaked since the third quarter, the jeweled plug they made you wear shifting with every jump on the sideline. Now you’re here, thighs slippery, pulse thudding so hard you feel it behind your eyes. You’ve taken plugs, you’ve taken their fingers, you’ve begged for more but never both of them there. Never like this. Your hands shake as you pop the button on your shorts.

You strip slow, teasing, letting them drink you in. Shorts puddle at your feet. Bucky’s letterman jacket slips off your shoulders. Bra. Panties last, clinging for a second to the slick mess between your legs before they drop.

You’re left in nothing but the white thigh-highs they love and the delicate rose-gold necklace with its tiny football charm nestled right between your tits. When you turn, the heart-shaped jewel on the plug catches the light and winks, innocent and obscene all at once.

Bucky’s eyes go almost black. Steve drags a hand over his mouth like he’s holding himself back from lunging.

You bolt.

“Gotta catch me first, quarterbacks!”

Your bare feet slap the hardwood, laughter bubbling out of you, high and nervous. You dart around the desk chair, but they move like they’re still on the field, Steve cutting left, Bucky right, boxing you in with ridiculous ease. You squeal when Steve’s arm locks around your waist and hauls you up off the floor like you’re made of air.

“Gotcha, baby.” His grin is all teeth, but his eyes flick over your face, checking, always checking.

You kick playfully, toes brushing his thigh. “You’re disgusting. You’re dripping.”

He smells like victory and effort and him, sharp, intoxicating, filthy in the best way and it makes you dizzy.

Steve peels his #12 jersey off in one slow, deliberate pull. The fabric sticks to every ridge of muscle before it comes free with a wet sound. It’s heavy, drenched, absolutely rank with four quarters of sweat. He holds it up like a war prize. “Put it on or we put it on you.”

You fake-gag and try to wriggle free. Bucky’s already dragging his #17 off, smirking like sin incarnate.

The chase lasts maybe ten seconds. They wrestle you down onto the bed in a tangle of limbs and breathless laughter, the room spinning.

Steve’s jersey goes over your head first, hot, damp, clinging instantly to your bare skin like a second, filthy skin.

Bucky’s follows before you can even catch your breath. Now you’re drowning in two layers of soaked cotton, numbers 12 and 17 plastered across your chest like brands. The fabric sticks to your nipples and you shiver so hard your teeth almost chatter.

You flop back dramatically onto the pillows. “I’m dying. Death by quarterback body odor.”

Steve crawls over you, pins both your wrists above your head with one huge hand. “Death by getting fucked in our jerseys, more like.”

Bucky leans in, voice velvet and gravel. “Keep trash talking, doll. Makes it so much sweeter when you’re going to be crying on our cocks.”

The teasing melts away like sugar in hot water. Steve’s mouth finds yours, slow, deep, tasting like salt and desperate want. Bucky’s hand slides under the layers of jerseys, fingers brushing the plug. You whimper straight into Steve’s mouth, hips rolling without permission.

“Color, sweetheart?” Steve murmurs against your lips, thumb stroking your cheekbone soft as a prayer.

You swallow hard, throat working. “Green… but I’m- I’m scared.” Your voice cracks like a little girl’s. “We’ve never… not really there. Not both of you in my ass. What if it hurts too much? What if I can’t-”

Bucky cups your face in both hands, forces you to look at him. His eyes are storm-blue and deadly serious.

“Hey. Breathe with me, baby.” He waits until your eyes lock and your chest follows his. “We’ve got you. Slow as you need. You say stop, we stop. You’re in charge, doll. Always.”

Steve kisses your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth, soft, reverent. “We’ll make it so good, angel. Promise.”

They take their time, and it’s torture in the sweetest way. Mouths and hands everywhere, mapping every inch of you like they’re memorizing a playbook written on your skin.

Steve licks into your pussy until you’re shaking and sobbing, thighs clamped around his ears.

Bucky works the plug out slow, cooing praise while you whine at the empty ache. He replaces it with one finger, then two, then three, scissoring, stretching, curling until you’re dripping down his wrist and begging in broken little gasps.

You’re crying for real now, not from pain, but from the overwhelming certainty that you want this more than air, even though it terrifies you. They keep checking in, eyes soft even when their voices are wrecked and shaking.

When Bucky finally kneels behind you, slicking himself up with lube that smells faintly like cherries, you’re trembling so hard the mattress vibrates under you.

“Push out for me, doll. Just like with the plug. Good girl- fuck-”

He slides in slow, relentless, inch by torturous inch. The burn is white-hot, overwhelming, perfect. You cry out, a raw, broken sound, hands scrabbling at the sheets, at Steve’s hair, anywhere you can reach. It’s too much and exactly enough, the stretch so deep you feel it in your spine.

“Fuck- so tight- ” Bucky chokes, grip bruising your hips, forehead pressed between your shoulder blades. “Taking me so good, doll, fuck, you’re perfect, so fucking perfect-”

Steve kneels in front, cock flushed dark and leaking, and feeds it into your open, teary mouth. You take him deep on instinct, throat fluttering, tears streaming down your cheeks, innocent eyes locked on his even while you choke and drool.

“That’s it, pretty girl,” Steve groans, thumb stroking your cheek like you’re something holy even while his hips rock. “Suck me like you were born for it. God, you’re everything.”

Bucky sets a gentle, deep rhythm, hands worshipping your hips, voice in your ear like smoke. “Feel me, baby? All yours. You’re milking me so sweet- fuck, never had anything this tight.”

Steve fucks your throat in perfect sync, careful but greedy, the room filling with wet sounds and broken praise and the obscene slap of skin.

Your first orgasm rolls through like a tide, soft and shattering, muffled around Steve’s cock, pussy clenching on nothing, ass fluttering wildly around Bucky. You sob through it, overwhelmed, the jerseys clinging to your sweat-soaked skin.

They flip you like you weigh nothing. Steve behind now, raw, thicker, sliding into your ass in one smooth, claiming thrust that punches the air from your lungs. You scream into the pillow, fingers twisting in the sheets, the burn blooming into something unholy and perfect.

Bucky’s already under you, arm locked around your waist like steel, guiding you down. The second your lips part on a broken moan he swallows it whole, kissing you deep and filthy, tongue stroking yours like he owns every sound you’ll ever make.

Then he rolls his hips up and sinks into your pussy in one slow, relentless push, bare, trusted, nothing between you. The stretch is impossible; Steve’s cock in your ass and Bucky thick inside your pussy at the same time make you feel split open and perfectly, perfectly claimed. Every inch of you is stuffed with them, overflowing, ruined in the sweetest way.

He groans into your mouth, hips flexing, voice absolutely wrecked. “There we go, doll… take us just like that. So full of your boys.”

They move slow at first, letting you feel every ridge, every vein, then deeper, filthier, praise pouring over you like warm honey.

Steve’s voice cracks behind you. “Feel us, angel? Both your boys inside you. You’re taking us so good, so fucking tight, so innocent and still swallowing us whole-”

Bucky’s fingers find your clit, circling mercilessly. “Greedy little ass and pussy, huh? Squeezing us both like you never want us to leave. Never had a cock in this perfect ass before tonight and look at you, fuck- taking us like you were made for it.”

Your second orgasm hits like a freight train, sobbing, nails raking down Bucky’s chest, body convulsing between them in the soaked jerseys, every muscle locking and pulsing around the two cocks buried inside you.

They don’t stop. They lift you clean off the bed, effortless, legs wrapped around Steve’s waist, arms slung around their necks, clinging for dear life while they hold you pinned in the air.

Steve in your pussy now, thick, stretching, home. Bucky in your ass, slow, burning, perfect.

The rhythm turns brutal, synchronized, relentless. The jerseys are plastered to all three of you, dripping sweat down your thighs mixed with slick and precome and the obscene evidence of how many times you’ve already come.

“Fuck, so tight-” Steve growls into your neck, teeth scraping. “Scared little girl taking both our cocks like she was born for it.”

Bucky rasps against your ear, teeth grazing the shell. “Gonna fill this perfect ass, doll. Gonna mark you so deep you’ll feel us for weeks-”

Your third orgasm rips you apart, overstimulated, crying, babbling their names in a litany, pussy and ass spasming in waves that drag broken groans from both of them.

Steve’s hips stutter first. He buries himself to the hilt in your pussy, hand gripping your thigh hard enough to bruise, and comes with a ragged groan that cracks right down the middle.

“Love you, baby, fuck, love you-” Hot pulses flood you, thick and endless, marking you from the inside out until it’s dripping down your thighs in creamy rivulets.

You barely hear the words; your brain’s already short-circuiting because Bucky’s right behind him, driving up into your ass in one last brutal thrust that makes you scream again.

He spills with a guttural “Fuck, doll-” and you feel every jet of his come filling you back there, the plug long forgotten, just him, raw and overwhelming, stuffing you so full from both sides you can’t tell where you end and they begin.

It leaks out around him, hot and filthy, mixing with Steve’s until you’re a dripping, trembling mess.

You’re shaking, stuffed to bursting, dripping with them, necklace swinging wildly between your sweat-slick breasts while they hold you suspended and panting between their bodies, whispering broken praise against your skin, good girl, perfect girl, ours, ours, ours.

They never put you down. They carry you to the bed like that, still inside you, still pulsing, and collapse in a heap, three bodies tangled, jerseys ruined, the room reeking of sex and sweat and utter victory.

Gatorade is passed hand-to-hand, cool against your swollen lips. Bucky feeds you pieces of a protein bar bite by bite. The red gummy bear is split three ways, sticky and sweet on your tongue.

Steve kisses your temple, voice soft and utterly wrecked. “You’re ours now, pretty girl. Took us so perfect. So brave. So loved.”

Bucky presses his lips to your wrist, right over your racing pulse. “Forever, doll. No take-backs. You’re ruined for anyone else and we’re never letting you go.”

You fall asleep between them raw, dripping, absolutely wrecked, two jerseys clinging to your skin, their come still deep inside you, the taste of them on your tongue and the ache in your ass a promise you’ll feel for days.

The dorm is hushed, a rare pocket of stillness, no parties in the hall, no music thumping through the walls, just the sound of three heartbeats slowing together, and the soft, possessive weight of their arms locking you in place.

Morning light leaks through the cheap blinds in thin gold stripes, cutting across the wreck of the room. The air is heavy, thick with the smell of dried sweat, sex, and the faint sweetness of spilled Gatorade.

Your body wakes up before your brain does: every muscle aching in the most delicious way, thighs sticky, ass throbbing with a deep, tender burn that makes you bite your lip the second you shift.

You’re pinned.

Steve’s heavy arm is slung across your waist, hand splayed possessively over your lower belly like he’s keeping his come inside you even in his sleep.

Bucky’s chest is flush to your back, his slow, even breaths warm against the nape of your neck, one of his thighs wedged firmly between yours.

Both jerseys are still on you, twisted, ruined, crusted with last night’s everything and they smell so strongly of them that a helpless little whimper slips out of you just from breathing.

Steve stirs first. His eyelashes flutter against your collarbone, then his blue eyes open, soft and sleepy and instantly locked on your face.

“Hey, angel,” he rasps, voice cracked from screaming your name half the night. His thumb sweeps gently over the bruise blooming on your hip, his fingerprint, perfect and purple. “How’re you feeling?”

You try to answer, but it comes out a croak. Your throat is wrecked. Everything is wrecked. Perfectly, beautifully wrecked.

Bucky makes a low, grumpy noise behind you, arm tightening. “She’s hurting,” he mumbles into your hair, not even opening his eyes yet. “I can feel her shaking.”

“I’m okay,” you manage, tiny and hoarse. “Just… really full of you both. And really sore. And really…” You hide your face in Steve’s chest, suddenly shy even after everything. “Really happy.”

Steve’s smile is slow and devastating. He tips your chin up, kisses you soft and lazy, tasting like sleep and last night’s salt. “Good girl.”

Bucky finally cracks one eye open, presses a kiss to the mark he left just below your ear. “Morning, doll.” His hand slides down, cups your ass gently, careful, reverent and you hiss at the contact. He freezes. “Too much?”

You shake your head fast, cheeks burning. “No. Just… sensitive. I can still feel you both inside me.”

That wakes them up. You feel it, two cocks twitching against you, one against your belly, one nestled in the cradle of your thighs from behind. Bucky groans like he’s in pain.

“Jesus, baby. You can’t say shit like that when we’re trying to be gentlemen.”

Steve laughs quietly, but his hand is already drifting lower, fingertips ghosting over your swollen pussy. “We were gonna let you sleep. Get you breakfast. Be sweet.” His voice drops. “But if you keep talking like that…”

You squirm, thighs pressing together on instinct, and the movement makes Bucky’s cum shift deep in your ass. A fresh trickle leaks out of you, warm and obscene, soaking the sheet beneath your hip. All three of you feel it.

“Fuck,” Bucky breathes. He shifts his hips, just a tiny roll and the head of his half-hard cock nudges your tender entrance again. “You’re still dripping us.”

You whimper, nodding, eyes fluttering shut. “Can’t help it. You put so much in me.”

Steve’s fingers slip through the mess between your legs, his cum, Bucky’s cum, your own slick and he brings them to your lips. You open without thinking, suck them clean while they both watch like you’re the hottest thing they’ve ever seen.

“Color, sweetheart?” Steve asks again, same as last night, but softer now. Worshipful.

“Green,” you whisper around his fingers. “So green.”

Bucky’s hand joins Steve’s, both of them petting you now, gentle and greedy. “We’re gonna take care of you,” Bucky murmurs against your shoulder. “Gonna run you a shower, feed you that gummy bear’s cousins, kiss every bruise we left.” His teeth scrape lightly over one of the marks on your neck. “Then, when you’re all loose and warm and begging again… we’re gonna see if that perfect little ass can take us one more time before the weekend ends.”

You moan, loud and broken, already nodding, already arching between them like you were made for this, made for them.

Steve kisses you again, slow and deep, while Bucky’s fingers circle your clit with devastating patience.

Outside, campus is waking up. Inside, the three of you are still tangled in the sheets, jerseys half-off now, sunlight painting gold across your skin and the beautiful wreckage they made of you.

And when they finally carry you to the bathroom twenty minutes later, still inside you, still leaking, still whispering mine, mine, mine, you know without a doubt that you’re never, ever leaving this bed, this room, these boys.

The library study room is a war zone of caffeine and desperation. Whiteboard walls are bleeding blue marker, the air tastes like burnt espresso and anxiety, and somewhere down the hall someone is definitely crying over thermodynamics.

You’re wedged between your two quarterbacks at the smallest table known to man, knees bumping, elbows fighting for space.

Steve’s hoodie is zipped to his chin, hair still damp from a 6am ice bath, highlighter clenched between his teeth like a dog with a bone.

Bucky’s got one boot propped on the chair rung, pen spinning so fast it’s a blur, arm flexing every time he flips a flashcard.

The pizza box between you is a crime scene:

Steve’s half is pineapple (he will die on this hill).

Bucky’s half is jalapeño so spicy it should come with a hazmat label.

One slice is missing a perfect heart-shaped bite, you stole it twenty minutes ago and licked the grease off your fingers while they watched like starving wolves.

You slap a new card down. “Alkene + HBr. Major product. Go.”

Steve doesn’t even look up from his scribbles. “Markovnikov, baby. Hydrogen adds to the carbon with more hydrogens because it’s greedier.” He draws the mechanism in one smooth motion, arrow pornographically perfect.

Bucky leans in, voice low and filthy. “Kinda like how we add to the hole that’s already got more… give.” His hand disappears under the table, palm sliding high on your thigh.

You smack his wrist with a flashcard. “Focus, Barnes, or I’ll make you conjugate every verb in Spanish.”

He grins, unbothered, thumb tracing the frayed edge of denim right beside your pussy. “Sí, profesora.”

Next card. “SN2 versus SN1. Key differences. Now.”

Bucky fires first. “SN2: backside attack, inversion, single step. Concerted. Like when Steve sneaks up on you in the-”

Steve kicks him under the table. “I do not sneak.”

“You absolutely sneak,” Bucky and you say in unison.

You bite back a laugh. “And SN1?”

Steve recovers, smug. “Carbocation intermediate. Unimolecular. Needs a good leaving group and a stable mess in the middle… kinda like Bucky when he hasn’t come in two days.”

Bucky flips him off with a jalapeño finger. Grease drips onto his notes.

You underline the rate law twice. “Moving on before this becomes a sexual harassment seminar.”

Acid-base lightning round. “Conjugate acid of NH₃?”

“NH₄⁺,” they chorus, perfectly synced.

Bucky adds, “Smells like victory sweat and-”

“Stop.”

“-ammoniacal bliss.”

Steve smirks. “Our pH level around you? Straight-up basic… ‘cause we’re base-ically head over heels for you.”

You groan so loud the kid at the next table drops his Red Bull. “That was negative fourteen on the pH scale of jokes.”

The questions get harder. The flirting gets worse.

“Grignard + carbonyl -> ?”

Steve sketches the addition, labels the new alcohol with a tiny football doodle.

Bucky leans so close his stubble scrapes your cheek. “Organomagnesium halide reacts with your carbonyl… forms a new C-C bond.”

His finger draws a slow line down your spine, stopping just above the waistband of your leggings. “Just like we react with your… car-bon-diol.”

Your shiver is visible. “Technically correct,” you breathe. “Best kind of correct.”

“Benzene electrophilic aromatic substitution, Br₂ + FeBr₃.”

Bucky draws the sigma complex like he was born to it. “Electrophile attacks the pi cloud, arenium ion, bromonium bridge-”

Steve snickers. “Like when we attack your pi cloud under the bleachers.”

You drop your forehead to the table with a thud. “I am begging you to stop.”

They don’t.

By the time you snap the laptop shut, the room is a disaster of highlighter dust and pizza crusts and two very hard, very obvious quarterback problems straining against sweatpants.

“Alright. Session’s over.” You stand, slow, deliberate, rolling your shoulders back so the thin cardigan slips just enough to remind them what’s underneath. Two sets of eyes snap to you like you just called hike.

Steve clears his throat. “So… when we ace the chem midterms, we celebrate, right? Our place, no clothes, the usual victory ritual?”

Bucky grins, already reaching to tug you into his lap. “Been thinking about that reward since the calc midterms, doll.”

You plant both palms on the table and lean forward, letting them see straight down your shirt. Their mouths actually part at the same time, like synchronized thirst.

“New rules,” you say, voice sugar-sweet and lethal. You slide one hand down the front of your leggings, cupping yourself through the fabric, fingers pressing in just enough to outline everything they’re suddenly not allowed to touch.

“This pussy?” You give a slow, deliberate squeeze. Steve makes a strangled noise. Bucky’s drum solo on the table stops dead.

You turn halfway, hook a thumb in the waistband and tug it down an inch. The bruises they left on your hips last weekend, finger-shaped, purple, perfect are on full display.

“This ass? This mouth?” You drag your thumb across your lower lip, then lick it clean, nice and slow. “None of it is yours again until both of you walk out of that exam with a 95 or higher.”

Silence.

You can hear the fluorescent lights humming.

Steve’s highlighter hits the carpet with a pathetic little bounce. His face is scarlet, eyes blown wide, like someone just told him Christmas is canceled forever.

Bucky blinks.

Once.

Twice.

Then his gaze drags from your hand between your legs up to your face like he’s trying to figure out if this is a fever dream. “I’m sorry where the fuck did this version of you come from?”

Steve wheezes, “Jesus Christ, Buck, focus, she’s serious.”

You tilt your head, flicking open one more button on your cardigan so the edge of your collarbone peeks out like it’s no big deal.

“I am,” you say, voice low and sweet. “95 or above on the midterm, or this stays on lockdown till the end of spring semester.”

Bucky’s mouth opens, closes. The man who once talked his way out of a campus police escort looks like he’s buffering.

Steve drags a hand down his face. “You’re actually evil. Like… supervillain-origin-story evil.”

You smile, small and sharp. “Motivated learning works wonders, Rogers.” You lean down, kiss Steve’s cheek, chaste, sweet, the kind of kiss that makes his breath hitch, then Bucky’s, letting your lips linger just long enough for him to taste the threat. “Study hard, quarterbacks.”

You straighten, sling your bag over your shoulder, and walk out.

Behind you, the second the door swings shut:

“Did she just-”

“She just threatened to blue-ball us for an entire semester.”

“That’s… that’s terrorism, Steve.”

“Academic terrorism.”

“Shut up and open the practice exam, Barnes, I’m not failing because your dumb ass can’t remember Grignard reagents-”

The quick, frantic popping of highlighters being uncapped echoes after you as you walk down the hall.

You don’t look back, but you’re grinning so hard your cheeks hurt.

95 or we’re done for, boys.

© 𝓼𝓵𝓾𝓽𝓭𝓲𝓮𝓻 2025 (do not copy, translate or repost)

taglist : @angel-bugz @sheriff-bodecker @arsenalofproblems @imanidiotsimpforhotmen @spdrveil @shackoflove @buckybunni @fancypeacepersona @noirecherie @babygirlxos @vickynguyennn @avgdestitute @silveredpenumbrashark @latenightmatilda @thegirlfatherr @nonotwithoutu @sebastians-love @doelikedollz @wintersgirllost @ryswritingrecord @biggestfangirl @swansonnetts

[slutdier]

❝ 𝑬𝑿𝑻𝑹𝑨 𝑪𝑹𝑬𝑫𝑰𝑻 ❞

lesson 01 : 𝐩𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐫 𝐫𝐮𝐥𝐞 & 𝐭𝐢𝐭-𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬

jocks!steve & bucky x f!tutor!reader

summary : You tutor failing football gods Steve and Bucky through calculus disasters, only for a spilled-water accident to ignite weeks of filthy tension.

word count : 13,1k

warnings 18+ : college au, no use of y/n, reader is inexperienced, explicit sexual content, protected sex, multiple orgasms, fingering, oral (f & m recieving), squirting, threesome, praise, slight degradation, party drinking, shots (no intoxication beyond buzz), risk of being caught

author’s note : AHHH!! these two have me absolutely wrecked, the amount of times I rewrote this is lowkey embarrassing 💀 ANYWAYYY buckle up for steve & bucky being stupidly whipped and enough filth to fog your glasses. enjoy the ride <33

lesson 02 | masterpost | lesson 03

Another soul-crushing afternoon in the shoebox you share with Natasha. You’re wedged between a leaning tower of bio textbooks and a graveyard of empty cold-brew cans, highlighter caps chewed to nubs, neon streaks smeared across your knuckles like war paint.

Your laptop teeters on a pillow fortress atop your thighs; the cursor blinks accusingly in a half-finished lab report on mitochondrial apoptosis. One more distraction and you’ll miss the deadline, again.

Ping.

An email. [email protected]. The subject line glows red: URGENT – Academic Probation Tutoring.

You snort. Athletics? You once got lost in the gym trying to find the vending machine. Still, curiosity wins. You click.

Subject: URGENT – Academic Probation Tutoring Good evening, We have an offer for a qualified peer tutor. Two students in critical need: • Rogers, Steven G. – Calculus II (F) / Chemistry I (D-) • Barnes, James B. – Calculus II (F) / Chemistry I (F) Requirements: 2 sessions/week minimum. $22/hr. Full scholarship bonus if both pass midterms. Reply ASAP. Thank you.

Your stomach does a triple axel. Steve Rogers. James Barnes.

You’ve seen them on the Jumbotron: Steve, the golden-boy quarterback, launching a 60-yard spiral like it’s a Nerf dart; James or Bucky, as they call him, the cocky wide receiver, diving horizontal for a one-handed grab that defies physics. Both shirtless and dripping with sweat that the entire campus has memorized.

They’re not students. They’re campus gods in shoulder pads.

The door slams open. Natasha, red hair twisted into a messy knot, black sports bra and leggings like she just stepped out of hot yoga, struts in with an iced matcha in hand. She catches your expression and smirks.

“Someone died, or did you just fail a pop quiz in your head again?”

You shove the laptop toward her. “Read.”

She scans, eyes widening with theatrical glee. “Holy shit. You’re going to be tutoring Rogers and Barnes? The same duo who bench-press freshmen for fun?”

“They’re failing calc,” you hiss. “And chem. Both Fs.”

Natasha whistles low. “That’s not failing. That’s killing your grades on purpose.”

She flops onto your bed, propping her feet on your open textbook. “Pay?”

“Twenty-two an hour. Scholarship bonus if they pass midterms.”

“Dayum.” She sips her matcha, eyeing you like prey. “That’s rent, textbooks, and the fancy microscope you’ve been drooling over in the bio catalog. Do it.”

You chew your thumbnail.

“They’re… them. I’m-” You gesture at your soft cardigan, your frizzy ponytail, the highlighter stains. “I’m a walking library fine.”

Natasha snorts. “Please. You’re a 4.0 nerdy goddess who color-codes her panic attacks. They need you.”

She leans in, voice dropping to a sneaky purr. “Also? Those boys eat nerds for breakfast. And you, my sweet, innocent lab rat, are about to be served.”

Your face combusts. “Nat!”

“What? I’m just saying, Steve Rogers has forearms that could crush walnuts. And Bucky? That man’s smirk could impregnate half the sorority row.”

She wiggles her brows. “Picture it, two full hours a week, pressed up close and personal. Finally gonna get your hands on some real, thick, sweaty biceps… instead of that limp-noodle disappointment your shitty ex called arms.”

You groan, burying your face in your hands. “What if they’re mean? What if they laugh at my flashcards? What if they see me and go, ‘Who let the librarian in?’ What if they don’t show up? What if they do show up and I forget how to speak? What if-”

Natasha yanks your hands down. “Breathe, nerd. You’re spiraling harder than a bad PCR cycle.” She spins your laptop, already typing.

To: [email protected]

Subject: Re: URGENT – Academic Probation Tutoring Available Tuesdays/Thursdays, 4 to 6 pm, Library Study Room 3B.

Her finger hovers over send. “Last chance to chicken out and live in poverty forever.”

Your heart jackhammers.

What if they’re everything the rumors say, cocky, cruel, unattainable?

What if youre just the punchline?

Natasha smirks. “Or… what if you walk in there, own the room, and make them nervous for once?”

You swallow. “Do it.”

Send.

The confirmation email pings instantly. Natasha whoops, tossing you a victory fist-bump. “Operation: Tutor the Campus Gods is live. I’m claiming all the tea. You owe me play-by-play.”

You collapse back into your pillow fortress, pulse racing, Steve’s future letterman jacket already haunting your imagination.

Tuesday. 4 pm Study Room 3B. God help you.

You’re fifteen minutes early, because punctuality is your love language, anxiety is your native tongue. Study Room 3B smells like stale coffee, dry-erase markers, and the ghost of someone’s tuna sandwich.

You’ve turned the table into a war zone: color-coded notes fanned like Pokémon cards, three highlighters lined up by wavelength, yellow for definitions, pink for examples, green for warnings, a laminated derivative cheat-sheet taped to the wall like a hostage photo.

Your cardigan is buttoned all the way up, the top button practically begging for mercy. Every time you lean forward over the laptop to triple-check the chain rule, your glasses slip a little farther down your nose.

The pleated skirt sits warm against your skin, but it’s the soft cotton thigh-highs that keep catching your attention; those long, cozy socks that stop a couple inches below the hem. Every few minutes you reach down, fingers hooking under the ribbed bands, and tug them a little higher up your thighs, smoothing the fabric so it hugs you just right, the gentle pressure snug and comforting.

You rehearse your opener for the ninth time, whispering to the empty room: “Hi, I’m your tutor. We’ll start with the power rule, then move to-”

The door slams open like it owes someone money.

Steve Rogers ducks under the frame, 6’2” of golden-boy quarterback crammed into a faded NYU hoodie that’s losing the battle across his chest.

Hair damp from practice, smelling like grass and Irish Spring and nerves. His backpack thuds, spiral notebook, two Gatorades, half-eaten protein bar.

“Hi. You’re… the tutor?” His voice is softer than the Jumbotron makes it seem, like he’s afraid of scaring the flashcards.

You nod so hard your glasses slide again. “T-that’s me! Study Room 3B, Tuesdays and Thursdays, 4 to 6 pm sharp.” Your voice cracks on sharp.

He smiles, small, sheepish, devastating. “Thanks for doing this. Coach’ll bench us if we don’t pull Cs by midterms. I, uh… really don’t wanna ride the pine.”

Before you can reply, the door bangs again.

Bucky Barnes saunters in thirteen minutes late, chewing wintergreen gum loud enough to wake the dead. Dark hair a calculated mess, jersey half-tucked into gray sweatpants that leave zero to the imagination.

Blue eyes lock on you like a heat-seeking missile. He drops into the chair opposite, knee brushing yours under the table, deliberately and stays there.

“Rogers, you started without me? Rude.” He flashes a grin that should come with a warning label. “So you’re the genius saving our asses from academic exile?”

You clear your throat, shoving a worksheet forward like a peace offering. “C-calculus first. Derivatives?”

Bucky leans forward, elbows on your open textbook, chin in his hands. His gaze dips to the V of your cardigan where the top button is clearly losing the war.

“Derivative of those tits?” He taps the page, smirking. “I’m talkin’ the exact slope of that left one when you breathe in. Bet it’s a fuckin’ parabola.”

Heat floods your face so fast your glasses actually fog.

Steve’s head snaps up. “Bucky.”

“What? I’m engaging with the material.” Bucky’s grin widens, all teeth. “Or do we need to integrate to find the volume of them? ‘Cause I’d volunteer for the hands-on portion.”

You’re dying. Your hands fly to your cardigan, clutching it closed like it’s body armor. Your voice comes out a strangled mouse-whisper. “The power rule. If f(x) = xⁿ, then f'(x) = n x⁽ⁿ⁻¹⁾. For example: f(x) = x³, then f'(x) = 3x².”

Steve scribbles dutifully, but you catch him stealing a glance at your chest, quick as lightning before snapping back to his paper. His ears are crimson.

Bucky traces a lazy circle on the edge of your notebook. “Or we could talk related rates. Like, how fast those buttons are losin’ the fight when you lean over. That’s a real-world application right there.”

Steve mutters, “Jesus, Buck,” but his gaze flicks up again, just for a second before he forces it back to the page. He’s biting the inside of his cheek so hard you’re worried he’ll draw blood.

You power through the product rule, the quotient rule, the chain rule, voice cracking four times.

Every time you glance up, Bucky’s staring, lazy and hungry, like he’s already picturing the cardigan on the floor.

Steve tries to focus, but you catch him sneaking looks too: the way your highlighter leaves neon streaks on your fingers, the way you bite your lower lip when you’re thinking, the way your chest rises when you inhale to explain the chain rule. His pen slows every time.

Halfway through, you pass out practice problems. Steve attacks his like it’s fourth-and-goal. Bucky spins his pen, then “accidentally” flicks it across the table so it rolls into your lap, clattering against your thigh.

“Oops,” he says, not sorry at all. “Clumsy me. Bet you’re real good at pickin’ things up, though. Especially if they’re lower.”

Steve’s jaw tightens. “Bucky.” But his eyes dart to your lap, then back up fast, guilty.

You snatch the pen, cheeks on fire.

Bucky leans back slow, arms up, hoodie creeping just enough to flash that carved, tanned V dipping under his waistband.

“Just sayin’, Teach,” he drawls, voice low and rough. “You keep bendin’ over like that, I’m gonna need a priest, a prayer, and about thirty seconds alone with my hand.”

Steve clears his throat, voice strained. “Can we focus on the actual math?”

Bucky smirks. “I am. I’m calculatin’ how many seconds till that top button pops. My money’s on twenty.”

You yelp, and shove another worksheet at him. “Chain rule. Now.”

By the end of the session, you’ve covered half a chapter. Steve has four pages of neat notes, color-coded in your spare blue pen, but his handwriting gets shakier toward the bottom.

Bucky has one page of doodles: a football with boobs labeled Teach’s Study Aids – Handle with Care and a stick figure of you with a speech bubble: f (tits) = tits².

You start packing up, cheeks still flaming. Steve stands first, slinging his backpack. “Same time Thursday? I’ll bring snacks. And, uh… sorry about him.”

Bucky stretches again, arms overhead, hoodie riding higher. “What can I say? I’m a visual learner.” He winks, popping his gum. “Nice cardigan, Teach. Bet those tits look even better without it.”

Steve elbows him hard so hard Bucky grunts. “Ignore him. He’s allergic to filters.”

But Bucky’s already sauntering out, hands in his pockets, whistling the fight song. Steve lingers, rubbing the back of his neck, ears still pink.

“He’s… a lot,” he says, voice low. “But he’ll show. He always does. And he needs this. We both do.”

You nod, clutching your notes like a life raft. “See you on Thursday.”

The door clicks shut. You collapse into the chair, heart hammering so loud you’re sure the next room heard it.

Derivative of those tits?

Visual learner?

Holy fuck.

You glance at Bucky’s doodle one last time, then crumple it but not before snapping a mental picture.

Thursday can’t come soon enough.

You stumble into the dorm like you’ve run a marathon, backpack straps cutting into your shoulders, glasses fogged from the steam of your own panic. The door hasn’t even clicked shut before Natasha pounces.

“Spill. Every. Detail.” She’s perched on her bed legs crossed, tea in one hand, phone in the other. “You’re twenty-eight minutes late. That’s either a miracle or a crime scene.”

You drop your bag, collapse face-first onto your pillow fortress. “I need a lobotomy.”

Natasha vaults off her bed, lands beside you like a cat.

“Nope. No lobotomy till I get every detail.” She yanks your cardigan sleeve.

“So did the boys actually try to pay attention to a single word you said, or was the whole tutoring thing just an excuse to stare and smirk? Were they teasing you nonstop?”

You bite your lip so hard it might bruise, cheeks on fire.

She leans in, voice low and giddy. “Come on… was it Steve pretending to be the perfect student, or was it Bucky being a total menace?”

Your gaze flicks to Bucky’s name for half a heartbeat and you give the tiniest, guilty nod.

Nat’s grin goes full shark. “I fucking knew it was Barnes. That cocky bastard. Spill it, nerd.

You groan into the pillow. “He said, direct quote ‘Derivative of those tits? I’m talkin’ the exact slope of that left one when you breathe in. Bet it’s a fuckin’ parabola.’”

Natasha cackles, loud enough to rattle the mini-fridge. “Oh my God. He’s filthy! I love him.”

“Nat!”

“What? It’s art.” She pokes your side. “And Steve? Golden boy? Did he clutch his pearls?”

You roll over, face flaming. “He kept looking. Like quick glances, then back to his notes. His ears were pink. He wrote four pages but his handwriting got shakier every time I leaned over.”

Natasha’s eyes gleam. “He’s folding. Slowly, but folding.”

She grabs your wrist, inspects the highlighter stains. “Did Bucky touch you?”

“His knee. Under the table. The whole time.”

“Knee porn. Classic.” She flops beside you, propping her chin on her hand. “Rate the tension. One to I need a cold shower.”

You bury your face in your hands. “I need a rosary and a damn exorcism.”

“Wrong answer. Try again.”

You peek through your fingers. “Fine. I need a cold shower and a new cardigan.”

Natasha whoops, rolling off the bed.

“That’s my girl!” She yanks open your closet, rummages, and emerges with a sheer white blouse, silky, slightly oversized, the kind that turns translucent when wet. “Thursday, you wear this.”

You blink. “That’s… see-through.”

“Exactly.” She tosses it at you. “Ditch the cardigan. Keep the top three buttons open. Let the parabola breathe.”

You hurl a pillow at her head. It thwacks off her shoulder.

“I’m tutoring, not auditioning for a bad porno.”

She catches the pillow, smirks. “Same difference with those two.”

You groan, but you’re smiling. “I hate you.”

“Love you too, nerd.” She tosses the blouse onto your bed. “Now shower. You smell like library and sexual tension.”

You drag yourself up, clutching the blouse like contraband.

Thursday sneaks up like a linebacker in the blind spot.

Your nerves are live wires, sparks every time you think about Bucky’s doodle, Steve’s shaky handwriting, the way your own voice cracked last time.

Natasha corners you at the mirror, arms crossed, red hair still damp from her shower.

“Blouse. Now.” She shoves it into your hands.

“It’s too much,” you protest, clutching your cardigan like body armor.

“Hey, it’s sexy. Enjoy ‘em while you can.” She winks, smacking your butt. “Go get ‘em, parabola.”

You lose the argument.

The blouse is softer than expected, silky, breathable. But the fabric clings to your chest like it's been paid to stay there. Every breath lifts the hem a fraction, the collar a fraction; every nervous tug only draws more eyes. You pair it with jeans anyway.

You push through the heavy glass doors of the library and the air-conditioning hits like a slap: icy, sharp, goosebumps exploding across your arms.

Your backpack thuds against your hip with every step, the white blouse already sticking from the humidity outside: cotton clinging to the small of your back, underboob, nipples faintly visible through the weave.

You scan the carrels: empty, empty, occupied.

Bucky’s early a miracle.

He’s claimed the seat directly across from yours like a throne, long legs stretched, sneakers planted on the scarred oak table.

One thumb scrolls TikTok in lazy loops; the other hand crinkles a half-eaten protein-bar wrapper, silver foil flashing. His fingers drum a silent beat against the armrest. He doesn’t look up, but the corner of his mouth twitches, like he felt you walk in.

“Sup, nerd.”

The bag of Flamin’ Hot Cheetos arcs through the air without warning, red comet. Thwap, dead-center on your closed laptop, dust puffing like a tiny explosion.

“Brought snacks. Steve swore he would, but he’s late.” The last word drips with fond exasperation, eyes still glued to his screen: some clip of a dog failing parkour, volume low enough to tease.

You open your mouth, to say something, anything, when the door behind you bangs open hard enough to rattle the hinges.

Steve barrels in, a whirlwind of damp hair and turf-scented wind. Practice bag slung high over one broad shoulder, cleats dangling by their laces.

His letterman jacket tied around his waist, T-shirt clinging to every ridge of his abs, nipples hard from the cold, sweat making the fabric translucent in patches.

“Coach ran film. Lost track of time, sorry.” He drops into the seat beside Bucky with a huff, notebook already flipped open, pen uncapped between his teeth.

He pulls it free, offers you a sheepish half-smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes. “Ready when you are.”

You sit across from them, slide your laptop forward, and open to page 187. “Related rates. Balloon problem. Air pumped in at 10 cm³ per second, find dr/dt when r = 5 cm.”

Steve leans forward, elbows on the table, pen poised. Bucky leans back, arms folded behind his head, eyes already locked on your chest like it’s the only equation that matters.

You start writing the equation on the textbook with a black pen. Ink glides smooth. “Volume of a sphere, V = (4/3)πr³, differentiate with respect to t-”

Bucky’s elbow slips.

The move is subtle, almost lazy: a casual lean forward, a brush of knuckles against your stainless-steel bottle. The cap’s loose, you loosened it two minutes ago for a sip you never took.

Physics takes over.

The bottle topples with a hollow clunk, then a liquid whoosh. Ice water detonates across the narrow table in a glittering arc, a cold slap that punches the air from your lungs.

It soaks the open textbook first, pages warping, ink bleeding, then bridges the gap to your chest like it was magnetized.

White silk drinks it in, turns sheer in half a heartbeat.

Your lace bra, delicate, floral, the one you wore because it made you feel secretly powerful, maps itself in cruel high-def against your skin. Every swirl of embroidery, every scalloped edge, every shiver of gooseflesh.

The cold bites; your nipples tighten instantly, hard, aching. Fabric clings like it’s been paid overtime, suctioned to every curve, every breath a betrayal that lifts the soaked hem a fraction higher, revealing the soft curve of your breasts.

Time stalls. The fluorescent lights turn the wet patch into a spotlight. You hear your own inhale, sharp, mortified, echo off the cinderblock walls.

“Sorry Teach,” Bucky drawls from across the table, voice low and syrupy, zero remorse in those storm-cloud eyes.

His gaze is a brand, slow, deliberate, tracing the waterline where silk meets skin, lingering on the lace like he’s memorizing the pattern for later. A smirk tugs the corner of his mouth, fingers flexing once against the table as if savoring the chaos he engineered.

“Fuck, look at those beauties on full display. Lace looks expensive. Bet it feels even better wet.”

Your arms fly up, crossing tight over your soaked blouse like that’ll hide anything. Heat explodes across your face, scorching your ears, tingling in your fingertips. You’re stuck, half-wanting to bolt, half-wanting the floor to swallow you, heart slamming so hard you’re sure the whole room can hear the frantic thud-thud-thud.

Steve moves like a reflex.

He’s out of his chair in a flash, metal legs screeching across the floor. Two long strides and he’s right there, crowding into your space before the little shocked squeak even finishes escaping your lips.

Letterman jacket rips off his waist in one fluid motion, still warm from his body, heavy with cologne, fresh turf, and something unmistakably him. He drapes it over you like a shield. The sleeves swallow your hands whole; the hem brushes mid-thigh.

The weight of it grounds you, a sudden cocoon of safety in the middle of the storm. “Thanks,” you manage, voice a croak, fingers clutching the lapels like a lifeline.

Steve lingers half a second longer than necessary, one hand brushing your shoulder as he steps back. Then he’s retreating to his seat beside Bucky, ears scarlet, jaw tight.

But his sweatpants, gray, thin, do nothing to hide the thick bulge straining against the fabric.

Hard, obvious, twitching with every breath. He sits fast, thighs spreading to try and hide it, but the angle only makes it worse, the outline of his cock clear, veins, head, everything.

“No problem,” he mutters, the words clipped, almost angry at Bucky, at himself, at the universe. His pen hovers, trembling slightly, above the margin where he’d been scribbling.

A bead of water rolls off the table’s edge and lands on his sneaker with a soft plink.

Bucky leans back, smirk lethal. “Jesus, Rogers, your dick’s about to rip those sweats. Can’t even hide it, huh? Poor guy’s aching for those wet tits.”

Steve’s knuckles whiten around the pen. “Shut up, Buck.”

But his cock jumps at the words, visible, throbbing, a wet spot forming at the tip where precum is already leaking.

You teach the rest of the session in Steve’s jacket, sleeves bunched at your wrists, wool heavy and warm against your damp skin. The cedar-turf scent clings to every inhale, a quiet reminder that he’s watching even when he pretends not to.

Every breath is a negotiation with gravity. The zipper, thick brass teeth, creeps upward a millimeter with each expansion of your ribs, then settles again.

Up.

Down.

Up.

Bucky notices first, of course. His smirk starts lazy, a slow curl at the left corner of his mouth, and widens into something predatory every time the metal teeth flash.

“So, Teach,” he muses, voice pitched low enough to vibrate under the table. He taps his pen against his lower lip, tap, tap, tap, like he’s keeping time with your pulse.

“Water level rises… does the volume go exponential?” His gaze dips deliberately to the narrow V where the jacket refuses to close.

“Askin’ for science, obviously. Or maybe I just wanna know how hard those nipples are right now. Bet they’re begging for a mouth.”

Steve’s trying, God, he’s trying.

His pen scratches across the margin in tight, furious loops. Jaw locked so hard you can see the muscle jump beneath the skin. Shoulders rigid, like he’s bench-pressing the weight of his own restraint.

But every time you lean forward to underline a formula- “V equals one-third pi r squared h, so dV/dt equals…”

His eyes betray him. A flicker. Zipper. The shadowed hollow between collarbones. The place where wet fabric meets dry wool. Back to paper. Repeat.

You count the slips like heartbeats.

One: a half-second too long, lashes sweeping down before snapping up.

Two: a swallow that bobs his throat, pen pausing mid-stroke.

Three: the faintest exhale through his nose, almost a sigh.

Four: the pen snaps. Cheap plastic cracks; ink bleeds a blue comet across his notes.

“Sorry,” he mutters, so low the word barely disturbs the air between you. He doesn’t look up. Just flips the broken pen over, grips the barrel like it owes him money, and starts writing again with the jagged stub.

His ears are the color of brake lights. His cock is throbbing, leaking, the wet spot now the size of a quarter.

Bucky chuckles, soft, dark, delighted. “Easy, Rogers. You’ll flood the page next. Or your pants. Look at that stain man, leaking like a fucking faucet for her.”

Steve’s knuckles whiten. He doesn’t answer. Just shifts, thighs clenching, trying to hide the obvious.

You keep teaching, voice steady by sheer spite. But every breath still lifts the zipper. Every lift still earns that smirk. And every stolen glance from Steve still burns hotter than the last.

You snap the notebook shut with a crisp thud that echoes off the cinderblock walls. “Quiz yourselves on problems 12 through 18. We’ll go over them Tuesday.”

Steve is already on his feet, duffel slung over one shoulder, the strap cutting a line across his broad chest. He pauses, fingers tightening on the nylon.

“Thanks. Seriously.” His gaze flicks to the jacket, still draped around you like borrowed armor, then skitters away to the ruined textbook, the puddle on the table, anywhere but the place where wool meets wet silk. “This is… helping.”

Bucky rises slower, a deliberate stretch that lifts his hoodie just enough to flash a strip of toned stomach. He yawns, arms overhead.

“Yeah, Teach. Real educational.” The wink is pure sin, slow and pointed. “Jacket looks better on the floor, Rogers. Or around her ankles while we-”

Steve’s elbow finds Bucky’s ribs, hard. The impact lands with a muffled thump; Bucky exhales a laugh that doesn’t quite hide the wince. “Bucky.”

You clutch the lapels tighter, knuckles whitening against the wool. “Tuesday. Same time.”

Bucky drops his arms, salutes with two fingers to his brow. “Wouldn’t miss it, doll.” He saunters out, sneakers scuffing the linoleum, the door swinging shut behind him with a lazy whoosh.

Steve lingers. The room feels suddenly smaller, the air thick with cedar and leftover tension. He shifts his weight, cleats dangling from the duffel strap clacking softly.

“Keep it,” he says, voice softer now, almost shy. “Till your blouse dries. Or…” He swallows, the word longer hanging unspoken between you. “See you.”

The door clicks a final time.

You sink into the chair, knees weak.

Steve’s warmth seeps through the wool, wrapping you like a promise.

Bucky’s stare still burns phantom trails across your skin, lazy, deliberate, impossible to scrub off.

Bucky kicks a pebble; it skitters across the cracked sidewalk and pings off a bike rack with a metallic clink.

Steve’s half a step behind, duffel bouncing against his hip, jaw still clenched so tight the muscle jumps under the stubble.

“Subtle,” Steve mutters, voice gravel-rough. “Real fucking subtle, Barnes.”

Bucky snorts, hand shoved deep in his pocket, the other lazily spinning his keyring around one finger. “What? Gravity did ninety percent of the work. I just gave the bottle a little love tap.”

He glances sideways, grin sharp enough to cut glass. “You’re welcome, by the way. Did you see that lace, Steve? White floral. Little satin bow right between her tits like a goddamn present.”

Steve’s ears flare crimson again, the flush crawling down his neck. “I caught you staring like a creep.”

“Please.” Bucky mimics the pen snap with his flesh fingers: crack. “You murdered your Bic in cold blood. One second you’re solving for r, next second you’re eye-fucking the bow on her bra like it’s the Super Bowl halftime show.”

Steve exhales hard through his nose, breath fogging in the cooling night air. “She’s our tutor.”

“She’s also twenty-one, single, and just spent the lesson marinating in your jacket while her nipples tried to drill through layers of wet fabric.”

Bucky bumps Steve’s shoulder, deliberate. “Tell me you didn’t picture peeling that wool off her slow, inch by inch, till she’s standing there in nothing but those thigh-highs she wore last Tuesday.”

Silence. A cicada screams overhead, then dies.

Steve finally speaks, voice low, almost pained. “She’s… careful. Like she’s waiting for something.”

Bucky arches a brow, keyring still spinning. “Waiting, huh? You think she’s still-”

“Don’t.” Steve cuts him off, but the word hangs in the air anyway, thick and electric.

Bucky shrugs, softer now, but the smirk never leaves. “Wouldn’t matter if she was. Just means we’d take our time. You’d be all gentle and golden-boy, kissing her like she’s made of glass. I’d be…”

He licks his bottom lip, slow. “Educational. Spread her out on that table, show her exactly what related rates feel like when it’s my tongue doing the differentiating.”

Steve stops dead under a streetlamp. The orange light carves harsh shadows across his cheekbones, turns his eyes storm-blue. “We’re not betting on her virginity, Buck.”

“Wasn’t a bet.” Bucky steps closer, voice dropping to that filthy purr he saves for locker-room talk and dark corners. “Just curiosity. Girl blushes like that: ears, neck, chest, all the way down to her pretty little-”

Steve shoulders past him hard enough to rattle the duffel strap. Boots crunch gravel. “Tuesday. Hands to ourselves.”

Bucky falls in step, smirk audible in every word. “Sure, Rogers. Hands off. Eyes, though…” He whistles low, two notes, filthy promise. “Eyes are fair game. And my mouth’s got a mind of its own.”

Steve shoots him a look that could freeze fire.

Bucky just grins wider, spinning the keyring faster. “Come on, admit it. You’re hard again just thinking about it. I saw that wet spot in the library, size of a quarter and growing. Bet you’re still leaking thinking about that bow. Bet you’re imagining tying her wrists with it while I-”

“Jesus, Buck.”

“-slide my tongue under that lace, suck those nipples till she forgets the chain rule. Bet she’d sound so pretty begging: ‘Please, Bucky, please, Steve, I’ll do the homework, just-’”

Steve grabs the front of Bucky’s hoodie and shoves him against the nearest tree trunk, forearm across his chest. The bark scrapes. Bucky’s breath whooshes out, but the grin never wavers.

“Finish that sentence,” Steve growls, “and I’ll break your jaw.”

Bucky licks his lips, slow, deliberate. “You’d have to catch me first, Rogers. And we both know you’re too busy picturing her on her knees between us: mouth full of you, my cock in her-”

Steve’s forearm presses harder. Bucky’s laugh is low, filthy, delighted.

“Relax, Stevie. I’m just saying what we’re both thinking. She’s dripping for it. You saw how she kept tugging that jacket closed like it could hide how hard her nipples were. Bet if we’d slipped a hand under that table she’d have come just from a thumb on her clit.”

Steve’s breathing is ragged. The streetlamp flickers overhead. Somewhere a car door slams.

Bucky softens, just a fraction. “She wants it. You saw her eyes. Scared, yeah. But wet. Curious. Tuesday we play nice. After calc midterms…”

He shrugs, smirk curling again. “After calc midterms we find out how far down that blush really goes.”

Steve lets go, steps back, runs a hand through his hair. The duffel thuds against his thigh.

“Tuesday,” he repeats, like a vow and a threat at once.

Bucky pushes off the tree, brushes bark from his hoodie. “Tuesday we’re perfect gentlemen. Eyes only.”

He leans in, voice a dark whisper against Steve’s ear. “But after midterms I’m gonna have her screaming my name so loud the librarian files a noise complaint. And you’re gonna thank me for it.”

Steve doesn’t answer. Just starts walking again, faster now.

Bucky follows, hands in his pockets, whistling that same filthy two-note tune.

Behind them, the library windows glow gold against the dark, warm light spilling onto the empty sidewalk like a promise neither of them intends to keep.

You’re early again, cardigan buttoned to the throat like a chastity belt, sleeves tugged over your knuckles so far only your fingertips peek out.

The table is a fortress: flash cards stacked in perfect towers, two freshly sharpened pencils aligned like soldiers, and a single laminated midterm formula sheet taped to the whiteboard like a hostage note.

No water bottle in sight. Lesson learned.

The door bangs open at 3:59. Steve ducks in first, hoodie swapped for a tight black thermal that clings to every ridge of muscle. He drops a paper bag on the table: two iced coffees, one labeled oat milk, two pumps vanilla, condensation already beading on the plastic. His fingers drum the bag nervously.

Bucky follows, slower, but his usual swagger is cracked, gray sweatpants ride low on his hips, hoodie half-zipped to reveal a sliver of collarbone and the dark trail that disappears beneath the waistband. He carries nothing but a smirk and a single red pen he twirls between his fingers like a baton: except the twirl is a little too fast, betraying jitters.

“Final boss level, Teach,” Bucky drawls, sliding into the chair opposite you. His knee finds yours under the table immediately. “Quiz us. Break us. Then we break you.”

Steve elbows him hard, but his ears are already pink. “Ignore him. We’re ready.” His voice wavers just a hair. “Mostly.”

You clear your throat, shoving the first flash card forward. “Related rates. Conical tank, water draining at 4 ft³/min. Radius 6 ft, height 12 ft. Find dh/dt when h = 8 ft.”

Steve’s pen scratches instantly, the sound loud in the quiet room but his hand trembles slightly.

Bucky leans back, arms folded, eyes locked on the V of your cardigan where the top button strains against the swell of your chest.

He forces a grin. “Volume of a cone is (1/3)πr²h. Similar triangles, r/h = 6/12 = 1/2. So r = h/2. V = (1/3)π(h/2)²h = (1/12)πh³. dV/dt = πh² dh/dt. Plug in-”

“-h = 8, dV/dt = –4,” Steve finishes, voice low, focused: but he exhales shakily. “dh/dt = –4 / (π*64) = –1/(16π) ft/min. Right?”

You nod, impressed. “Good. Next.”

Bucky’s turn.

You flip the card. “Optimization. Rectangular garden, 100 ft of fencing. One side against a barn. Maximize area.”

He doesn’t blink, but his knee bounces under the table. “Let x be parallel sides, y the side against the barn. 2x + y = 100, y = 100 – 2x. Area A = x*y = x(100 – 2x) = 100x – 2x². Derivative A’ = 100 – 4x = 0. x = 25. y = 50. Max area 1250 ft².” He pauses, then adds with a nervous smirk, “Unless I just maximized the wrong variable and tanked the whole thing.”

Steve whistles low. “Show-off.” But his laugh is tight.

Bucky’s grin is sharp, but his eyes flick to you for reassurance. “Just warming up, Rogers. Gotta impress her before she realizes we’re one wrong derivative away from flunking.”

He leans forward, voice dropping to a filthy murmur: but there’s a tremor in it. “What do I win, Teach? A gold star? Or…”

His gaze flicks to your cardigan button, then lower. “One less layer? Bet if I pop that top button we’ll see that little bow again. The one that made Stevie leak in his sweats last week, might distract us from the fact we’re about to bomb L’Hôpital’s.”

Heat floods your face so fast your ears ring. You shove another card at him. “Integration by parts. ∫ x² ln(x) dx.”

Steve takes this one, eyes never leaving the page: but his free hand rubs the back of his neck. “u = ln(x), dv = x² dx. du = 1/x dx, v = x³/3. ∫ u dv = uv – ∫ v du = (ln(x)*x³/3) – ∫ (x³/3)(1/x) dx = (x³ ln(x)/3) – (1/3)∫ x² dx = (x³ ln(x)/3) – (x³/9) + C.” He looks up, hopeful. “Nailed it?”

You blink. “Perfect.”

Bucky’s fingers drum the table: fast, anxious. “My turn again. Make it hard but not too hard, or I’ll forget my own name tomorrow.”

You flip the toughest one. “L’Hôpital’s Rule. lim (x→0) (sin(x) – x)/x³.”

He doesn’t hesitate but his voice cracks on the first derivative. “Indeterminate 0/0. Derivative: (cos(x) – 1)/(3x²). Still 0/0. Again: (–sin(x))/(6x). Still. Again: (–cos(x))/6 = –1/6.” He exhales hard. “Please tell me that’s right, or I’m switching majors to art history.”

Steve’s jaw drops. “You memorized that?”

Bucky shrugs, eyes on you: pleading under the bravado. “Had motivation. Your flashcards are hotter than my GPA.”

You swallow. “Last one. Partial fractions. Decompose 1/(x²(x+1)).”

They tag-team it like they’ve rehearsed but Steve’s hand shakes as he writes.

Steve sets up: “A/x + B/x² + C/(x+1).”

Bucky solves: “1 = A x (x+1) + B (x+1) + C x².”

They plug in x = 0, x = –1, x = 1. Coefficients fly, Bucky mutters “If this is wrong, I’m blaming the coffee.”

Final answer: –1/x + 1/x² + 1/(x+1).

You stare at the page, then at them. “You… you just aced the practice final.”

Steve’s smile is soft, proud, but his eyes are wide. “Told you we’d make you proud but holy shit, we might actually pass.”

Bucky leans in, voice velvet and venom but there’s a nervous edge. “Now the real quiz, doll.” He taps the red pen against his lower lip slow, deliberate, but his hand trembles slightly.

“How many buttons till we see that lace again? I’m betting on three. Pop, pop, pop.” He mimics the motion with his fingers, eyes locked on your chest. “Then we find out if your nipples are still pink when they’re hard. Bet they taste like vanilla, might be the only thing sweeter than a passing grade.”

Steve’s hand finds your knee under the table, warm, steady, but his thumb strokes the inside seam of your skirt like he’s grounding himself.

“We’re done studying,” he murmurs, voice rough. “But we’re not done with you, unless we flunk tomorrow and have to beg for extra credit.”

You clutch the flash cards like a shield. “Calc midterms are tomorrow. Results come out next week. Go back to your dorms and review everything. No distractions.”

Bucky’s grin turns feral, his laugh is shaky. “Fine, Teach. Dorm. Study. Sleep.” His eyes rake you from cardigan to knees and back up.

“Next week, when we ace them… we ace you. Gonna spread you out on this table, hike that little skirt up, and take turns eating you till you forget the fundamental theorem. Then we’ll flip you over, bend you over the whiteboard, and fuck you so hard the dry-erase markers rattle, assuming we don’t bomb and end up retaking Calc 101.”

Steve squeezes your knee once, gentle, promising, before letting go. “You heard her. Dorm.”

They stand in sync, chairs scraping.

Bucky flicks the red pen across the table; it spins, stops pointing at your chest like a compass needle. “Next week, doll,” he says, voice low. “Cardigan optional. Panties definitely optional, unless we fail and have to wear them as a badge of shame.”

Steve lingers at the door, eyes dark, thermal stretched tight across his chest. “Lock up after us, Teach. Don’t wait up and pray we don’t forget L’Hôpital’s at 9 am.”

The door swings shut.

The room is suddenly too quiet, too warm. The air smells like iced coffee, cedar, and the faint metallic tang of Bucky’s nervous smirk.

You’re alone.

Your thighs press together under the table, slick and aching. The cardigan feels heavier now, every button a countdown. You exhale shakily, fingers brushing the top button, then stopping.

One week later, sunlight slants through the high library windows, turning dust motes into slow-motion glitter. The room hums with tension: whispers, page flips, the occasional groan of despair.

You’re camped at your usual table, cardigan sleeves pushed to the elbows, revising integrals. Color-coded sticky tabs bristle from your textbook like neon porcupine quills.

Then, thud-thud-thud. Sneakers pounding down the hall.

“We fucking passed!”

Steve bursts through the doors first, golden in the afternoon light. Hair windblown from sprinting across the quad, letterman jacket flapping open, exam clutched triumphantly in one fist. He skids to a stop beside your chair, chest heaving, grin wide enough to eclipse the sun.

Bucky strolls in right behind, lazy swagger intact. He hops up onto the table’s edge in front of you, boots dangling, hand braced on the wood. His paper is folded into a paper airplane; he flicks it open mid-air and lets it glide onto your open notebook.

“Look, doll. Ninety-fuckin’-two.” Wink sharp enough to cut glass. “Prof drew a smiley face. Bet he’s crushin’ hard.”

You snatch both sheets. Steve’s 94 is circled in triumphant red. Bucky’s 92 sits beside scrawled professor handwriting: “Outstanding improvement!”

The numbers hit you like tequila shots.

You did this.

Two weeks of whiteboard marathons, spilled water, snapped pens, Bucky’s tit doodles, Steve’s stolen glances: it paid off.

“Woah, boys…” Your voice cracks. You look up. They’re both staring like you’re the only equation in the room. Steve’s smile soft, shy. Bucky’s pure filth.

Bucky leans forward, elbows on knees, voice a low rumble. “So what do you say, pretty girl? Sigma Chi basement. Tonight. You. Us.”

He punctuates each word with a finger drum next to your highlighter. “We earned it. You earned it.”

Steve steps closer, shoulder brushing Bucky’s. “We’ll be good,” he promises, but his eyes lock on your mouth, linger.

“Scout’s honor.” His thumb grazes the frayed cuff of your cardigan, calloused skin on soft wool. “Low-key. Teammates, music, cheap beer. We’ll stay with you.”

You swallow. “I’ve never really been to-”

“Never?” Bucky’s eyebrows shoot up, mock scandal.

He slides off the table, boots hitting the floor with a thud. Suddenly he’s close, heat radiating, cutting through the library chill. “That’s a goddamn crime. A girl who makes related rates sexy deserves one night of bad decisions.”

Steve’s hand finds the back of your chair, fingers brushing your neck, not accidental, warm, possessive.

“It’s casual,” he coaxes, voice warm. “If it’s lame, we bail for milkshakes. Deal?”

Bucky’s grin turns lethal. “Besides, you’ve seen us at our worst: flunking calc, drowning your tits in water-” He gestures at your chest, eyes raking slow.

“Let us show you our best. Dancing. Shots. Beer pong where the stakes are…” He leans in, breath hot on your ear, stubble grazing your skin. “Your cardigan. My hoodie. Steve’s boxers. Kidding.”

A pause. “Unless you’re into it?”

Steve elbows him, but he’s laughing, cheeks pink. “Ignore him. One hour. You, me, Buck, shittiest playlist on campus. Let us ruin you, just a little.”

Your pulse is louder than the stacks. You hook your pinky around Bucky’s. “One hour. But I’m wearing this cardigan.”

Bucky’s grin could power the campus. “Fuck yes. Cardigan’s stayin’. For now.”

Steve squeezes your shoulder, firm, reassuring before letting go. “Ten sharp. We’ll bring liquid courage… and condoms.”

Bucky blows a kiss. Steve just smiles, slow, devastating.

The doors swing shut. Sunlight pools where they stood. You stare at the perfect grades, heart racing like it’s already midnight.

You knock once, cardigan sleeves tugged over your knuckles like armor.

Natasha yanks the door open before the second rap, red hair twisted in a towel turban, silk robe slipping off one shoulder, cigarette dangling from her lips.

“Perfect timing. Strip.”

You clutch your cardigan tighter, knuckles whitening. “I’m wearing this. It’s… comfortable.”

Natasha’s eyes narrow to sniper slits, smoke curling from her nostrils. “Comfortable is for study hall nerd. Tonight you’re walking into Sigma Chi with two campus gods who’ve been eye-fucking you ever since they first saw you in that wet blouse. Cardigan says tutor. We’re saying trouble.”

She grabs your wrist, tugs you inside, kicks the door shut with her heel.

The room smells like vanilla, cigarettes, and chaos. Clothes explode across her bed: leather, lace, satin, denim. She rifles through like a general choosing weapons.

“Skirt,” she declares, holding up a black pleated mini, two inches shy of legal. “This one. The second you bend over in it, Steve’s gonna forget he was ever a gentleman and Bucky’s gonna start speaking in tongues.”

Your voice shoots an octave. “Nat, that’s… a belt.”

“It’s fashion, baby.” She shoves it into your hands, already unzipping your jeans. “Try. Or I’ll do it for you.”

You peek at the mirror, then back at the skirt. “I’ll freeze. And bend over wrong and-”

“You’ll bend over right.” She yanks the cardigan over your head before you can protest; cool air hits your arms, goosebumps racing.

“Top, here.” A silky camisole, thin straps, neckline plunging just enough to make your heart stutter. “Tucks in, shows the waist you’ve been hiding under fleece like it’s a federal offense.”

You hold the cami like it might bite. “This is revealing.”

Natasha snorts, already behind you zipping the skirt. “It’s strategic. Shows legs, hints at cleavage, leaves them guessing about the panties. You want Bucky short-circuiting or Steve praying? This is the uniform.”

She spins you to the mirror, hands on your shoulders. “Look. Dangerous. Like someone who knows exactly what she’s doing with two football players who’ve been jerking off to your flashcards.”

Your reflection stares back: skirt skimming mid-thigh, pleats swishing when you move. The cami drapes like liquid. You tug the hem lower, cheeks burning. “I look like I’m about to get arrested for public indecency-”

Natasha slaps your hands away and grips your shoulders, forcing them back so the cami pulls tight across your chest.

“Exactly. That’s the point.” She smirks, eyes gleaming. “You tutored the hottest jocks on campus through calculus. Tonight they’re your project. Own it.”

She produces a tiny leather jacket, cropped, studded. “Layer for the walk, ditch it inside. Mystery. Tease.”

Natasha circles you one last time, cigarette pinched between two fingers, eyes narrowed like she’s inspecting a weapon that still needs one final tweak.

“Hair: perfect. Lips: lethal. Legs: illegal.” She stops in front of you, reaches for the glasses perched on your nose. “These, however, have to go.”

You slap her hand away so fast the frames skid down the bridge of your nose. “No. These stay on. I don’t wanna be practically blind at a party.”

Natasha arches one perfect brow. “You’ll be able to feel where Steve and Bucky are just fine, trust me.”

“Nat. I won’t even be able to tell which one is groping me.”

She snorts, smoke curling. “That’s half the fun.”

You fold your arms, stubborn. “I’ll trip over a cup and face-plant into a keg. Or worse, walk into the wrong dorm room and accidentally give some random lacrosse guy the night of his life.”

Natasha’s grin turns evil. “Imagine the headlines: Calc Tutor Mistakes Sigma Chi for Phi Delt, Accidentally Invents New Position.”

You glare over the rims. “Not happening.”

She taps ash into a coffee mug, considering. “Fine. Glasses stay.” She adjusts the frames with two fingers so they sit just right, low enough to look effortlessly sexy, high enough that you can actually see. “We’re making them part of the look. Sexy librarian who’s about to grade two very eager students.”

A beat. “And these.” She tosses a pair of sheer thigh-highs onto the bed: delicate, lacy tops with tiny satin bows. “Trust me. They’ll be on their knees before the first beer pong ball drops.”

You sit on the bed, rolling one stocking up slowly, cheeks on fire. The lace band hugs your thigh like a promise, the little bow sitting perfectly at the top.

Natasha kneels in front of you, smoothing the lace with military precision, fingers lingering on the soft skin just above. “Mmm. Look at that. Bucky’s gonna lose his entire mind when he sees these bows. Steve’s gonna recite the pledge of allegiance backwards.”

You squeak. “Nat!”

She grins, feral. “What? You think golden boy isn’t gonna drop to his knees the second he spots this lace? These are weapons, babe.”

She stands, offers both hands. “Up. Final check.”

You rise. The skirt flutters. The cami clings. The cropped leather jacket hangs open just enough. The lacy thigh-highs grip your legs like a secret. Your glasses sit perfectly on your nose like you were born to wear them while getting ruined.

Natasha rests her chin on your shoulder, meeting your eyes in the mirror. “Repeat after me: ‘I’m not the tutor tonight. I’m the final exam, and they’re about to fail spectacularly.’”

Your cheeks burn. “Nat-”

“Say it.”

You swallow. “…I’m the final exam, and they’re about to fail spectacularly.”

“Louder. With conviction.”

“I’m the final exam and they’re about to fail spectacularly!”

Natasha smirks, satisfied. “Good girl.”

She shoves the tiny purse into your hand: lip gloss, ID, emergency twenty, two condoms, and a spare glasses wipe “just in case things get steamy.”

She walks you to the door, slaps your ass hard enough to make the pleats bounce and the lace tops shift deliciously. “Go make Steve Rogers forget the rules of football and Bucky Barnes forget his own name. And if anyone tries to take those glasses off, tell them you need to see exactly how hard they’re failing.”

You pause on the threshold, heart hammering. “Nat?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks.”

She winks, blowing smoke. “Go win the war, soldier.”

You step off the porch into pulsing bass and red Solo cup confetti. The pleated mini swishes with every nervous step; thigh-highs grip your legs like a secret. The leather jacket hangs open, cami plunging, heart hammering louder than the music. You’ve never been to a frat party. You’ve never worn anything this short.

Steve 10:08pm

you already here pretty girl? can't wait to see you

You barely hit send on here before the front door flies open.

Steve is there, flannel unbuttoned, tight white tee clinging to his chest, jeans slung low. His eyes rake you from thigh-highs to cami, linger on the cleavage, then snap to your face.

His ears go pink. “Jesus, angel.” The words slip out before he can stop them. He swallows hard, offers his arm like a lifeline. “You came.”

You clutch it, fingers trembling. “Promised one hour.”

Bucky materializes behind him, three shots in hand, hoodie half-zipped, hair a mess. His gaze locks on your legs, slides up slow, stops at the cami neckline.

He licks his lips.

“Fuck me,” Bucky breathes, voice rough as gravel. He slides the shot into your hand, fingers brushing yours, then clinks his glass against it with a wicked little grin. “To 92%… and whatever filthy little thing this is turning into.”

You knock it back. Tequila slams down your throat like liquid fire. You cough hard, eyes stinging.

Steve chuckles low beside you while Bucky just smirks, both of them steering you inside with big, warm hands on your back like they’re afraid you’ll vanish if they let go.

The party is chaos: strobe lights flash blue-red-blue, sweaty bodies grind to Future, beer pong screams echo off cinderblock walls.

You’re wedged between them on a sagging couch, Steve’s thigh warm against your bare one, Bucky’s arm draped along the backrest, fingers brushing your shoulder. You’ve never sat this close to anyone.

Bucky dips close, breath hot against your ear, voice a low, velvet growl. “Ever let someone feel you up, Teach?”

You shake your head, tiny and frantic little jerks, cheeks blazing hotter than the string lights overhead.

Steve’s voice is husky. “We’ll take care of you.”

His hand rests on your knee, innocent, then slides an inch higher. Bucky’s fingers toy with your cami strap, tugging it down a fraction. “Cold?” Bucky murmurs. “Or just happy to see us?”

You shiver. The AC is arctic; the cami is thin. Your nipples peak under the silk, traitors.

Steve notices. His thumb traces a slow circle on your thigh. “You okay?”

You nod, voice small. “One hour.”

Bucky grins. “Whatever you say, doll.”

They drag you to the dance floor. The bass drops low and filthy, bodies pressing in from all sides. Steve’s hands find your hips, guiding you back against him, slow and deliberate. Bucky crowds in front, sandwiching you between them.

“Move with us, sweetheart,” Steve whispers against your hair, breath hot. His hips roll, guiding yours in a lazy grind. The skirt flips up with every sway, brushing the lace tops of your thigh-highs.

Bucky’s hands slide down your arms, lacing his fingers with yours, lifting them above your head so your body arches.

“Fuck, look at you,” he groans, eyes dark. He drops your hands, spins you so your back is to his chest, Steve still in front. Bucky’s thigh nudges between yours, parting them just enough for the skirt to ride higher.

Steve’s hands settle on your waist, thumbs brushing the bare skin above your skirt. His fingers brush the edge of your glasses. “These stayin’ on, Teach?” he murmurs, voice rough with amusement. “Gonna watch us ruin you in perfect focus?”

Bucky leans in, lips at your ear. “Bet they fog up real pretty when you come.”

You’ve never danced like this. Never felt two bodies moving against you, hard and insistent. The music is a heartbeat, thumping through your ribs, your thighs, your core.

Steve’s hips press forward, the ridge of his cock unmistakable against your stomach. Bucky’s hands slide lower, cupping your ass, pulling you back so you feel him too, thick, throbbing, grinding slow.

“Feel that?” Bucky’s voice is gravel in your ear. “That’s what you do to us.”

Steve’s mouth finds your neck, open-mouthed kisses, teeth grazing. “So fucking sweet.” His hands slide up, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts through the cami. Your nipples ache, straining against the lace bra.

He spins you again, facing Bucky.

Bucky presses in close, chest to chest, one hand on your lower back, the other reaching up to tap the bridge of your glasses. “Gonna need these to see exactly how hard you make us, doll.”

The strobe lights paint everything in flashes, sweat-slick skin, Bucky’s tongue tracing the shell of your ear, Steve’s teeth nipping your shoulder. The music is so loud you feel it in your bones, in the pulse between your legs.

Bucky’s hand slides down, fingers slipping under the hem of your skirt, grazing the bare skin above your thigh-highs. “So soft,” he murmurs, voice rough. “Bet you’re soaked already, Teach.”

Steve’s hands slide up, cupping your breasts over the cami, thumbs circling your nipples through the fabric. “Fuck, angel. These are perfect.” He leans in, breath fogging the lenses of your glasses. “Look at that, already steaming up.”

You’re breathless, dizzy, the tequila and the heat and the hands and the mouths all blurring together.

“One hour’s up,” you manage, voice shaking.

Bucky grins against your neck. “Clock’s broken.”

Steve kisses your temple, lingering. “Stay.”

The bass thumps like a second heartbeat. Bucky growls, “Need you now.”

He grabs your wrist, yanks you off the dance floor. Steve follows, hand on your lower back, guiding you through the sweaty crowd like bodyguards.

They herd you into a dim hallway, music muffled to a low throb.

Bucky pins you to the wall, hands on your hips, mouth hovering an inch from yours. “Tell me, doll,” he murmurs, voice low and filthy. “You ever had a boy actually care about this pretty pussy?”

You bite your lip, heat flooding your cheeks. “Twice,” you whisper. “But… he didn’t… I didn’t…”

Steve’s fingers trace the edge of your skirt, gentle. “Didn’t what, sweetheart?”

You swallow. “Didn’t come. Either time. He just… finished. Didn’t touch me after. Didn’t even try.”

Bucky’s eyes darken, jaw tight. “Motherfucker.” He cups your face, thumb brushing your cheek. “That ends tonight.”

Steve’s hand slides higher, fingers ghosting over the damp lace between your legs. “Ever had a tongue on your clit till you’re shaking?”

You shake your head. “No. Never.”

Bucky’s mouth brushes your ear. “Ever had fingers curl inside you, hitting that spot till you see stars?”

“No,” you breathe. “He just… put it in. That was it.”

Steve groans, forehead dropping to yours. His breath fogs your glasses instantly, lenses clouding white. “Jesus. Never had your nipples sucked slow? Never had someone worship you?”

You shake your head again, trembling. “No. Never.”

Bucky’s hand slips under your cami, palming your breast, thumb flicking your nipple through the lace. “Ever had two mouths on you, taking their time?”

“No,” you whisper. “Never.”

Steve’s fingers press gently against your clit through the lace, slow circles that make your knees buckle. “Soaked already, angel. You’re dripping for us.”

He smirks, watching the fog spread across your glasses. “Look at that, can’t even see us through these anymore. Guess we’ll have to make you feel it instead.”

Bucky’s mouth slams into yours, raw tequila and sharp mint and pure, frantic hunger. His tongue slides in deep, filthy, claiming, like he’s been starving for this exact taste. A broken little whimper slips out of you; your knees actually give.

Steve watches, jaw clenched, fisting his flannel so hard the seams creak. He reaches up, gently slides your glasses down your nose just enough to clear the lenses, then pushes them back up with a filthy grin. “Better keep these on, sweetheart. You’re gonna wanna watch what we do to you.”

Bucky pulls back, lips swollen, eyes black. “Your turn, Rogers.”

Steve steps in, gentle at first, one hand cradling your skull, thumb stroking your cheek. His kiss is slow, worshipful then he groans and devours you, tongue sliding against yours, hips rolling slow.

Bucky’s hands slide under your cami, palming your tits over the lace bra. “Fuck, so soft.” He pinches your nipples, rolls them until you squeal into Steve’s mouth.

Steve breaks the kiss, breath ragged. “Tell us to stop and we will.”

You don’t. Can’t. You’re shaking, soaked, terrified, aching, glasses completely steamed.

Bucky spins you, back to his chest, yanks the cami up to your ribs. He bites your neck, sucks a bruise under your ear. “Gonna mark you up, doll. So everyone knows who you belong to.”

Steve drops to his knees, hands on your thighs, pushing the pleated mini up to your hips. “Spread for me, sweetheart.”

You obey, legs trembling so hard your thigh-highs slip an inch.

He nuzzles the lace panties, inhales deep. “Smell so fucking good.” His tongue licks a stripe over the fabric, groaning at the wetness.

Bucky rolls his hips slow and deliberate, thick cock dragging against your ass with every grind. “Hear that, doll?” he rasps, lips at your ear. “That’s Stevie down there praying.”

His hand glides down, cups you possessively right over Steve’s buried face, fingers pressing the soaked fabric against your clit. “Fuck, you’re drenched. Good girl.”

Steve drags the soaked lace aside with two fingers and buries his tongue deep, licking straight into your dripping folds. Your cry cracks in half; your legs turn to jelly.

Bucky’s strong arms band around your waist from behind, hauling you up so you don’t collapse. His fingers find your nipples again, pinching and tugging hard enough to make you sob.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he rasps against your neck, voice pure gravel. “Let Stevie devour that pretty pussy like it’s the only dessert he’ll ever need.”

You come hard, screaming into Bucky’s hand clamped over your mouth, glasses completely useless now, lenses white with steam.

They don’t stop.

Steve stands, kissing you with your taste on his tongue, salty, sweet, filthy, his breath fogging your glasses one last time.

Bucky spins you fast enough to make the room tilt, drops to his knees right there like a man possessed, and rips your soaked panties down to your ankles in one rough yank.

“My turn, doll.”

Your legs feel weightless and unsteady. Your thoughts are a blur of white noise.

And they’re just getting started.

You’re still trembling from the hallway, thighs slick with your own release, the cool air licking at the wet heat between your legs like a second tongue.

Panties gone: Bucky’s fist had closed around the damp silk and stuffed it in his pocket with a low, possessive growl.

Your pleated mini is twisted high on your hips, the hem catching on the lace tops of your thigh-highs, which bite into the soft flesh with every wobbling step.

The cami clings to your skin, damp with sweat and the faint salt of Steve’s kisses; your nipples are so hard they ache, rubbing raw against the lace with every ragged breath.

Steve’s hand engulfs yours, calloused, hot, slick with sweat, fingers laced so tight your knuckles blanch.

Bucky’s palm spreads across the small of your back, guiding you forward. He’d stripped off his hoodie the second you stepped out of the dim hallway, the fabric still warm from his body, heavy with cedar, smoke, and the musk rolling off his skin.

He zipped it around you in one motion, metal teeth scraping your nipples as he pulled it tight. “No one sees what’s ours,” he’d murmured, teeth grazing your ear. “This pussy, these tits, that mouth... all ours tonight.”

The party’s dying pulse thumps behind you as they hustle you out the side door. The metal handle is ice under your palm; the night air slaps your bare pussy like a shock, making you gasp.

Your arousal has cooled into sticky trails down your inner thighs, and every gust of wind kisses the swollen lips, sending sparks up your spine.

Bucky tugs the hoodie tighter, zipper teeth dragging over your sensitive skin until you whimper.

The hem falls mid-thigh, swallowing the twisted mini, hiding the way your cami is twisted sideways, one breast half-spilling out, nipple dark and peaked beneath the wool.

The quad is dark, wet grass squelching under your heels. Every step makes the slick between your legs shift, cool then warm again as your thighs brush.

Steve’s hand slides under the hoodie, cupping your bare ass, fingers spreading you open just enough that the night air hits your hole. You stumble; he steadies you, two fingers gliding through your folds, collecting the mess there and spreading it up to your clit in a slow, filthy circle.

“Still dripping for us,” he rasps. “Fuck, listen to that, so wet I can hear it. You’re gonna soak our sheets, aren’t you, sweetheart?”

Bucky’s thumb finds your nipple through the hoodie, rolling it until it’s a hard, throbbing point. “Tell me you want this,” he says, voice rough. “Say it out loud, doll. Tell us how bad you need these cocks.”

“Yes,” you breathe, the word cracking. “I need it. Need you both. Please.”

The dorm hallway smells like industrial cleaner and stale pizza. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, harsh on your flushed skin.

Bucky’s keycard scrapes, plastic on plastic, until the door unlocks.

Steve pins you to the wall the second it clicks shut, mouth crashing into yours, tongue thick and wet, hips grinding so you feel every inch of his cock straining against his jeans. “Feel that?” he growls against your lips. “That’s all for you. Gonna split this tight little pussy open.”

Bucky grinds against your ass from behind, the thick line of him hot through his sweats, sliding between your cheeks with a low groan. “Gonna wreck you so good, doll. Gonna make you forget every shitty fuck you ever had.”

The room is a haze of male heat. The beds are shoved together, sheets rumpled and smelling of detergent, sweat, and sex. Cleats caked with dried mud sit by the door; a half-empty tub of vanilla protein powder sweats on the desk. Condoms glint on the nightstand like foil-wrapped promises.

Steve fists the hem of Bucky’s hoodie and tears it upward in one savage pull; the soft cotton scrapes over your skin and drops in a hushed heap to the floor. Your cami follows right after, he drags it over your head without a word, leaving you in the thin lace of your bra, nipples already straining against the cups.

Bucky’s hand slides to your back, fingers finding the clasp; one sharp flick and the elastic snaps open with a sting. The lace loosens, slips from your shoulders, and only then do your breasts spill free, heavy, flushed, aching, straight into his waiting palms.

He cups them, heavy and warm, tongue dragging over your nipples until they’re slick with his spit. “Fuck, these tits,” he groans, bending to lick a hot, wet stripe up the valley between them. “Been dreaming about sucking these while I jerk off. Gonna leave marks all over ‘em.”

Steve drops to his knees. His hands grip your hips, fingers sinking into the soft flesh hard enough to bruise. The pleated mini unzips with a slow, metallic rasp, pooling at your ankles in a soft rustle.

You step out of it, naked except for the lacy thigh-highs and your glasses, frames slightly fogged from the hallway, lenses catching the golden dorm light.

Steve spreads your legs wider. His nose drags up your inner thigh, stubble scraping raw skin, breath scalding. He inhales deep, a guttural sound that vibrates through your clit.

“Smell like fucking sin,” he mutters, then licks, one long, flat stripe from your entrance to your clit, tongue curling to suck the swollen bud into his mouth. You cry out, knees buckling. “Taste even better. So sweet, baby.”

Bucky’s behind you now, cock out, thick and flushed, veins pulsing. He guides your trembling hand to wrap around the base, hot, velvet over steel, slick with precum. “Stroke me, doll,” he says, voice strained. “Slow, yeah, just like that. Fuck, your little hand feels so good.”

Your glasses slip down your nose as you sink to your knees, the carpet rough against your skin. You lean in, lips brushing the flushed head. The taste explodes, salt, musk, a hint of copper. Your tongue swirls, tentative, heart hammering so loud you’re sure they can hear it.

Bucky’s breath catches in a low hiss, both warm hands cradling your head as his fingers slide gently, reverently, through your hair.

“Open up, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice rough with awe and raw hunger. “First time ever wrapping these pretty lips around a cock, and you’re already down on your knees for us… fuck, that’s the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”

You do.

The stretch is immediate and overwhelming, his thick, blunt head forcing your jaw wide as it glides heavy over your tongue and nudges the back of your throat. A sharp gag rips out of you, eyes flooding behind your glasses, tears already clinging to your lashes.

Bucky eases back just an inch, thumb sweeping tenderly over your wet cheek. “Easy, baby,” he soothes, voice low and wrecked. “Breathe through your nose for me. That’s it… now look up, fuck, let me see those big, teary eyes while you choke on my cock. Perfect. You’re fucking perfect.”

Steve’s tongue is merciless, lashing your clit in fast, tight circles that make your hips jerk against his mouth. Two thick fingers sink deep into your pussy with a lewd, wet schlick, curling hard and dragging over that spot inside you until your thighs tremble uncontrollably.

Every muffled moan you try to swallow spills out as raw vibration around Bucky’s cock, the sound humming straight through his shaft and pulling a ragged groan from his chest.

Bucky’s hips roll forward in a slow, deliberate push, feeding you another thick inch until the swollen head nudges deep at the back of your throat. Another helpless gag tears through you, your whole body shuddering with it.

Saliva spills past your stretched lips in a slick rush, sliding down your chin and splattering onto your chest. The lenses of your glasses fog completely, turning the world into a hazy blur of heat and motion and him.

Bucky groans, the sound ragged and broken, hips stuttering as your desperate vibrations ripple through him.

“Fuck, look at you,” he rasps, thumb smearing the spit on your chin, “drooling down my cock, glasses completely steamed up like we’re shooting a goddamn porno. You love this, don’t you? First time on your knees and you’re already our perfect little slut, choking and shaking for it.”

You pull off with a wet pop, gasping, tears and spit stringing from your swollen lips to his cock, glasses opaque.

Bucky’s hands cup your face, gentle now. He slides your glasses off slowly, folding them with reverence, setting them on the nightstand. For the first time tonight they see you completely bare-faced.

Steve lifts his head from between your thighs, mouth glistening, lips swollen and red, eyes pitch-black with lust.

“Jesus, doll,” Bucky whispers, voice shredded. “You’re even sexier like this, no glasses, just… fuck, those eyes.” He tilts your chin higher, forcing you to meet Steve’s hungry stare. “Look at her, Stevie. Look how fucking gorgeous she is when she’s wrecked for us.”

Steve rises slowly, hands still dripping with you, and cups your face like you’re something fragile and priceless. His thumbs smear the wetness across your cheekbones, reverent.

“Gorgeous,” he breathes, voice hushed with awe. “So fucking beautiful without them.” His forehead rests against yours for a heartbeat, eyes locked on you like he’s memorizing this version of you, wrecked and bare. “Should’ve taken ‘em off hours ago, baby. Needed to see you like this the whole damn time.”

You blink up at them, suddenly shy without the shield of your frames, cheeks burning hotter than ever.

Bucky kisses your forehead, tender. “Glasses stay on next time so we can watch you fall apart behind them. But right now? We wanna see every inch of you when you come undone.”

Steve lifts you onto the bed, sheets cool and crisp against your back. He climbs over you, missionary, knees forcing your thighs wider until the lace tops of your stockings dig in.

The head of his cock drags through your folds, slicking itself in your wetness, nudging your clit until you whimper. “Feel how hard you make me?” he rasps. “This cock’s been aching for your pussy since that water spill.”

He lines up, eyes locked on yours, no glasses, nothing between you now. “Tell me you want it, sweetheart. First time with someone who actually gives a shit about making you feel good.”

You nod, breathless. “Want you both. Please.”

“Ready?” he asks, voice raw.

“Please,” you beg, hips lifting. “Fuck me.”

He pushes in slow, inch by inch, the stretch burning, your walls fluttering around the intrusion. You gasp, nails raking his shoulders. He bottoms out with a groan, balls pressed tight to your ass, the fullness overwhelming.

“So fucking tight,” he rasps, pulling back until just the head remains, then sliding in again, slow, deliberate, letting you feel every vein. “This pussy was made for me. Look at you taking every inch like a good girl.”

Bucky drops to his knees beside you, foil ripped open, latex already rolled down his thick length. He fists himself once, slow and lazy, eyes locked on you while his free hand guides your trembling body back against the mattress.

He leans in, mouth closing hot and wet around one aching nipple, sucking hard, tongue flicking, teeth scraping just enough to make you arch off the bed with a broken gasp.

“Watch him fuck you,” he murmurs, lips brushing the stiff, wet peak. “Keep those pretty eyes open and watch Steve’s fat cock disappear inside your cunt inch by inch.” His voice drops to a filthy growl against your skin. “Gonna be so fucking pretty stretched around him.”

Steve’s rhythm turns relentless, hips snapping forward with deep, measured strokes that rock the bedframe in a steady, creaking groan. Sweat beads on his brow, one hot drop breaking free to splatter against your chest, sliding down between your breasts.

His hand wedges between your bodies, thumb finding your swollen clit without hesitation. He circles it hard and sure, matching every thrust, the pressure perfect and unforgiving until your back bows and your breath fractures into sharp, desperate cries.

“Come for me, baby,” he growls. “Let me feel this pussy squeeze me. Wanna feel you milk my dick.”

Bucky switches nipples, biting gently, then soothing with his tongue. “You’re gonna come so hard for us,” he says. “Gonna ruin these sheets with how wet you are.”

The dual sensations, cock dragging inside you, thumb on your clit, mouth on your tits, send you over. You come hard, walls clamping down, a gush of wetness soaking Steve’s cock and the sheets beneath you.

Your scream rips out raw and desperate, half-buried in the pillow as your whole body seizes, pussy clamping down hard around him in waves.

“That’s it,” Steve growls, voice shredded, hips never slowing as he fucks you straight through the climax. “Fuck, yes, soak me, baby, drench my cock.” He slams deep one last time, grinding against you, riding every pulse. “Good fucking girl, coming so hard for us.”

He pulls out, flipping you onto your hands and knees. Bucky lines up behind you, rubbing the head of his cock through your folds, slick, hot, teasing your entrance. “Gonna fuck you like this,” he says, voice rough. “Gonna make this pussy remember me.”

He pushes in slow, the angle different, deeper. You cry out, fingers clawing the sheets. He bottoms out, balls pressed to your clit, and stills. “Too much, doll?”

“No,” you gasp. “Move- please.”

He does, long, slow strokes that drag over every sensitive spot inside you. His hands grip your hips, fingers bruising, pulling you back onto him with every thrust.

The wet slap of skin on skin fills the room, mingling with your broken moans. “Listen to that,” he groans. “Hear how wet you are? This cunt’s fucking dripping for me. You love getting fucked like a slut, don’t you?”

Steve kneels in front, feeding you his cock again, tasting of latex and your own release. You take him deep, gagging, saliva dripping down your chin. He groans, guiding your head. “Suck it, baby. Suck my cock while he reams your pussy. Fuck, your mouth’s so hot.”

They find a rhythm, Bucky thrusting into your pussy, Steve fucking your mouth. The fullness is overwhelming, every nerve alight.

Bucky’s balls slap your clit with every stroke, sending jolts up your spine. “Gonna come again?” he says. “Gonna squirt all over my dick? Do it, doll, let go.”

You do, harder this time, squirting around him, soaking his thighs and the sheets. He growls, thrusting faster. “Fuck, yes, that’s my girl.” He slams in deep, hips stuttering, filling the condom with a guttural groan. “Take it, take every drop.”

He pulls out carefully, tying off the condom and tossing it aside. Steve lifts you, turning you to face away from Bucky.

“Your turn to ride,” Bucky says, lying back on the mattress, cock still hard in its fresh condom. “Reverse cowgirl, doll. Sit on this dick and show us what you’ve got.”

Your legs are jelly, but Steve helps you straddle Bucky backwards, knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his hips. The thigh-highs have slipped halfway down your thighs, lace bunched and damp.

Bucky’s hands grip your ass, spreading you open, the cool air hitting your soaked entrance. “Look at this pretty pussy,” he groans. “All swollen and dripping. Lower yourself slow, fuck yes.”

You reach between your legs, guiding the thick head to your entrance. The stretch is immediate, burning as you sink down inch by inch, the angle letting him hit deeper than before.

Your walls flutter around him, still sensitive from the last orgasm. “So fucking full,” you whimper, voice cracking.

Bucky’s hands slide to your hips, thumbs digging into the soft flesh. “That’s it, take every inch. Feel me splitting you open? This cock’s gonna ruin you for anyone else.” He thrusts up gently, making you gasp. “Bounce for me, doll. Ride me like you mean it.”

You start moving, tentative at first, lifting and dropping, the wet schlick of your pussy swallowing him filling the room. Your tits jiggle with every motion, nipples hard and aching.

Steve stands on the bed in front of you, feeding you his cock again, hot, salty, slick with your earlier release. “Suck me while you fuck him,” he growls. “Show us how greedy this mouth is.”

You take him deep, gagging as Bucky’s cock hits that spot inside you with every bounce. The dual fullness, Bucky stretching your pussy, Steve filling your throat, makes your head spin.

Bucky’s hands guide your hips faster, the slap of your ass against his thighs loud and obscene. “Fuck, look at you,” he groans. “Riding my dick like a goddamn porn star. This pussy’s gripping me so tight, gonna make you squirt again.”

Steve’s fingers tangle in your hair, guiding your mouth. “That’s it, baby. Choke on my cock while he fucks you senseless. You’re ours now, every hole, every drop.”

Bucky’s thumb finds your clit, rubbing in tight, filthy circles. “Come on, doll,” he pants. “Squirt all over me. Soak this cock, let me feel it.” The pressure builds fast, too fast, your walls clenching, thighs trembling.

You pull off Steve’s cock with a gasp, screaming as you come, a hot gush of wetness spraying out around Bucky’s cock, soaking his abs, the sheets, your thighs. The sensation is overwhelming, your vision blurring with tears.

“Fuck, yes!” Bucky roars, thrusting up hard, chasing his release. “That’s my girl, squirt for me, drown my dick.” He slams in deep, hips stuttering, filling the condom with a broken groan. “Holy shit, doll. Perfect.”

Steve pulls you off Bucky gently, your legs shaking too hard to hold you. He lays you on your back, spreading your thighs wide, your pussy swollen, glistening, dripping with your own release. “One more,” he says, voice soft but wrecked. “Gonna fuck you till you can’t walk.”

He slides in slow, the glide easy from how soaked you are, condom slick with you. He fucks you slow at first, then harder, the headboard knocking against the wall.

Bucky kneels beside you, kissing you deep, tongue lazy, tasting you. His fingers pinch your nipples, rolling them until you’re sobbing from overstimulation. “You’re so fucking perfect,” he murmurs. “Taking us both like a champ. This pussy’s ours now.”

Steve’s thumb finds your clit again, rubbing in tight circles. “Come with me, sweetheart,” he rasps. “One more time. Let me feel you fall apart.”

You do, shattering, walls pulsing, another gush of wetness soaking him. He follows with a broken groan, hips stuttering, collapsing over you, hot, heavy, panting.

Steve ties off the condom with a practiced flick, the latex snapping sharp before he knots it and tosses it into the trash under the desk, thunk. He’s already reaching for another foil packet, the crinkle loud in the quiet room, and drops it on the nightstand like a loaded promise.

His chest rises and falls hard, sweat gleaming on the cut lines of muscle, blond hair plastered to his forehead in damp strands. He looks wrecked and reverent all at once.

He leans over you, lips brushing your temple, breath scorching. “Jesus, sweetheart,” he rasps, voice raw with wonder. “You took us both like you were made for it. So fucking proud of you.”

Bucky slips from the bed, bare ass flexing as he pads to the mini-fridge. The carpet is soft under his feet; the door creaks, cold air spilling out and raising goosebumps across your thighs.

He grabs a water bottle, twists the cap and takes a long swallow, throat working, then offers it to you. Condensation drips onto your chest, icy against fevered skin; your nipples tighten instantly.

“Drink, doll,” he murmurs, rough but gentle.

You sip, throat scraped raw, a little water slipping down your chin. Steve takes the bottle next, drinks deep, passes it back. They move like they’ve done this a hundred times, wordless, whipped, eyes never leaving you.

Bucky disappears into the bathroom, comes back with a warm washcloth steaming faintly of eucalyptus. He kneels between your shaky thighs, spreads them with careful hands, and wipes you clean in slow, worshipful strokes. The cloth glides over your swollen folds, your tender clit, the sticky mess on your inner thighs. Every pass is soft, soothing, filthy in its intimacy.

Then he pauses, smirks, and picks up your glasses from the nightstand. One lens is streaked with a cloudy smear, your squirt, dried in a perfect arc.

“Well, shit,” Bucky drawls, holding them to the light. “Look what our little genius did to her own glasses.”

Steve leans in, grin slow and wicked. “Fuck. That’s the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”

You squeak, an actual, mortified squeak and try to disappear into the pillow. Your face is on fire, ears ringing, voice barely a breath. “S-stop…”

Bucky drags his tongue across the lens in one deliberate swipe, eyes locked on yours. “Tastes like you baby,” he says, low and dirty. “Sweet, salty perfection.”

Steve groans. “Jesus Buck, you're going to kill her”

You whimper, thighs trembling, arousal and embarrassment twisting tight in your belly.

Bucky crawls up the bed, kisses your burning cheek. “Don’t hide it, baby. Own that pretty mess you made.”

Steve tugs one of his soft gray NYU tees over your head; it falls to mid-thigh, swallowing you in his scent, clean sweat and warm cotton. He presses a lingering kiss to your shoulder through the fabric. “You okay? That was… intense.”

You nod, dazed, voice small and hoarse. “Never felt anything like that. Perfect.”

They tuck you between them like something precious. Steve spoons you from behind, heavy arm draped over your waist, calloused thumb tracing lazy circles on your hipbone. Bucky faces you, nose brushing yours, metal fingers combing gently through your tangled hair.

“You sure we didn’t go too hard?” Bucky asks, voice velvet-rough, all earlier fire banked into something soft and worried.

You shake your head, sleepy, blissed-out. “Perfect,” you whisper again.

Steve’s mouth finds the bruise blooming on your neck, kisses it like it’s sacred. “Best tutor in the world,” he murmurs against your skin, lips dragging slow, wet. “So proud of you, baby.”

Bucky feeds you half a protein bar, chocolate peanut butter, sweet and salty. Crumbs tumble onto the sheets; Steve brushes them from your lip and licks the chocolate off his thumb, then kisses you soft and slow.

“Messy girl,” he teases, fond.

Bucky tucks the fleece blanket around your feet, fingers lingering on the lace tops of your thigh-highs. “Leaving these on?” He snaps the band lightly, grins. “Looks like you’re still ready for round two.”

You hum, too floaty to form words.

Steve’s lips brush the shell of your ear, breath hot. “Next time… we’re playing with this perfect little ass.”

Your eyes snap open.

Steve’s lips graze your ear, breath scalding. “We’ll start slow. Warm lube dripping down your thighs while you’re on your knees. I’ll spread you open, watch that pretty virgin hole flutter when the cold tip kisses it. Just the tip at first, slow circles till you’re pushing back, begging for more.”

Bucky’s fingers drift lower, tracing the curve of your ass, feather-light. “Then one finger. Just the pad, teasing, till you’re soaked and whining. Second finger scissoring slow, stretching you open while Stevie licks your clit till you see stars. By the time the plug slides home you’ll be coming so hard you fog these glasses again.”

Steve’s hand joins Bucky’s, both of them circling that tight, untouched ring with slick fingers, barely pressing, just enough to make you clench and whimper.

“Feel how greedy you already are?” Steve rasps. “Gonna train this perfect ass till it takes the plug like it was made for it. You’ll wear it to class, to the library, to every fucking tutoring session. Every time you sit down you’ll feel us owning you.”

You make a strangled sound, half panic, half desperate heat, and hide your face in Bucky’s neck. He smells like smoke and sex and safety.

Bucky chuckles, low and fond. “Shy little thing. But your pussy’s dripping again, doll. You love the idea.”

Steve presses one fingertip just inside, barely breaching, enough to make you gasp and arch. “No pain,” he promises against your nape, voice soft. “Just fullness. Pleasure. Gonna make you squirt from both holes at once, baby. Want you so stuffed you can’t think straight.”

Bucky kisses your burning cheek. “And when you’re ready for the real thing? We’ll lay you just like this, one cock in your pussy, slow and deep, the other easing into your ass inch by inch till you’re sobbing from how good it feels. You’ll come so hard we’ll need new sheets. And then we’ll slide that pretty pink plug in to keep you full of us all night.”

Your whole body is trembling now, thighs slick, breath coming in tiny, overwhelmed pants. “That’s… so dirty,” you whisper, voice cracking.

Steve nips your shoulder, soothing the sting with his tongue. “Dirty and perfect. Gonna ruin you so gently you’ll thank us for every stretch.”

You’re trembling, blushing so hard you’re dizzy, but the word slips out tiny and shaky. “M-maybe… if it’s pink… and you’re gentle…”

They both groan, wrecked.

“Fuck,” Bucky breathes, kissing you deep and slow. “Gonna ruin us both.”

Steve presses closer, lips on your neck, voice a vow. “Worth it.”

You drift, floating in the cage of their arms, heartbeat steady against Steve’s chest, Bucky’s fingers laced with yours. The room smells like sex and eucalyptus and them.

Steve murmurs into your hair, so quiet you almost miss it. “Never letting her go.”

Bucky’s lips brush your temple. “Ours now. Gonna ruin her slow and sweet. Next time those glasses are getting another coat, pink plug in her ass while she comes so hard she cries.”

You sigh in your sleep, smiling, flushed, wrecked, utterly theirs.

© 𝓼𝓵𝓾𝓽𝓭𝓲𝓮𝓻 2025 (do not copy, translate or repost)

taglist: @angel-bugz @sheriff-bodecker @arsenalofproblems @imanidiotsimpforhotmen @spdrveil @shackoflove @buckybunni

[celestialevie]

Mastermind pt 2

Mick x Wolff! Reader smau

Part 2 to my Mick x Wolff! Reader fic. Hope you enjoy it!!

liked by mickschumacher, estebanocon, itselenaberri and 36,926 others

yn.wolff when in Australia…🌊🏄🏻‍♀️🏄🏼‍♂️

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mickschumacher best surfing partner ❤️

yn.wolff watch out jackdoohan, I am your competition now

jackdoohan I'll be sure to watch my back for you😂

itselenaberri missing you😭😭💕

yn.wolff i miss you more, you left me to deal w Esteban on my own💔

estebanocon bitch🙄

mickschumacher added to their story!

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mickschumacher happy 2 years my angel💜 here's to many more, i love you

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user3 IT'S BEEN 2 YEARS ALREADY WHERE DID THE TIME GO😭

estebanocon happy anniversary love birds!!

yn.wolff now and forever mickie💙

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yn.wolff 2 years and counting💙

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itselenaberri happy anniversary you two!!! ❤️❤️

mickschumacher 💜💜💜

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mickschumacher added to their story!

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yn.wolff 💍💙💜

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mickschumacher forever sounds ideal with you💜💍

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[celestialevie]

To Love // Pierre Gasly x Singer! reader SMAU

Liked by charles_leclerc, yourbestfriend and 62,737 others

yourusername 🐎❤️

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charles_leclerc red suits you 😉

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user72 SLAY BESTIE

user28 CAN'T WAIT TO SEE YOU AGAIN TONIGHT

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alpinef1team she may look good in red, but she looks even better in blue! 😉😁 We are happy to host our French rockstar in our very French team this weekend!!

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yourusername gotta love the French! 🤭 Thank you for the invite!! 🫶

estebanocon french revolution but make it f1 😁liked by yourusername, pierregasly

yourusername added to their story!

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pierregasly Top 5 baby!! Couldn't be happier with the result and with the way car felt this weekend. Thank you to the team and let's push for the podium next race! 👏

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charles_leclerc congratulations brother! 

yourusername congrats frenchie! Was amazing to get to see it in person 🥰

 pierregasly ❤️

user2 LETS GOOOOO!!!

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pierregasly added to their story!

yourusername added to their story!

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yourusername life lately 😋

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pierregasly 😎😎

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user28 well hello there sir😮‍💨🤤

yukierre sheeeeesh, rip all pierre girlies

yourusername nice sunglasses 

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pierregasly added to their story!

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yourusername " soft launches are stupid, I just wanna announce our relationship all at once so everyone can see how pretty my girlfriend is " - Pierre Gasly 2023 🥹

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charles_leclerc he lasted longer than I thought he would 🤣 happy for you two x

  yourusername he exceeded our expectations 🤭 thank you charlie❤️

pierregasly am I right or am I right 😎 je t'aime mon ange💖

   yourusername ❤️❤️ user09 PARENTS FR FR

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pierregasly kissing you is my favourite thing in the world (besides driving cars for living) ❤️

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yourusername just when I thought you were being sweet, you had to ruin it 😩

 pierregasly you've made your choice and now you're not getting away from me 😉 user38 lmao the caption 😭

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yourusername my new single, called To Love I wrote about wondering what it would be like if the paths never crossed with the one you love, which I always wondered about. ' To Love ' is out now, surprise!! Thank you to my amazing boyfriend for crossing paths with me again after our paths went different ways a few years ago but little did we know it would always lead us back to each other. ❤️

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user2 MOTHER GAVE US A NEW SONG AYOO

user37 she did not just drop the song with no warning beforehand 😵

pierregasly always and forever mon amour💖

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pierregasly pour toujours et à jamais mon ange❤️ go listen to my girlfriend's new song ' to love' which is out now and show her some support x

View all 1,250 comments yourusername je t'aime mon chéri ❤️🥹

I know this is basically two hours late but my wifi has been pain in my ass today and then tumblr itself also decided to be an ass so it took me way longer than it should've to upload

[billyrussohaven]

Kinktober Day 24 - Lactation

Rating: Explicit 18+

Warnings: Mentions of pregnancy, newborn baby girl, breastfeeding, sexual life postpartum,

A/N: a lil’ drabble I wrote for you guys!

Keep reading

[celestialevie]

Pierre smau fic coming tomorrow around 12 pm CET (central European time) for anyone interested xx

[chaseadrian]

here’s a little comparison for people who say engagement hasn’t gotten that bad and anyone who complains is ungrateful.

these are two posts from my first go round on tumblr circa 2014-2017, my most popular gifset of all time

& a text post

notice how the ratio is about even on likes to reblogs?

here’s from this go around, my most popular gifset

and my most popular fic

do you see how that’s discouraging?

i love being on this site. i love the little community i’ve found and the people who follow me and the mutuals i’ve made friendships with and the mutuals that i’m still getting to know. i love it. but at a certain point it’s hard to justify spending so much time on works that get bad engagement.

reblog, comment, send asks. without them, this site doesn’t work.

[celestialevie]

Mastermind // Mick Schumacher x Wolff! Reader social media au

also known as the one where Esteban plays matchmaker for his besties

liked by itselenaberri, estebanocon and 27,837 others

yn.wolff thank you estebanocon for letting me steal your girl 😚

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itselenaberri my one and only 🥵

 estebanocon betrayal   yn.wolff my queen💕

user5 queens of paddock 😤

user2 don't know if I wanna be them or date them 😩

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estebanocon went and found myself a boyfriend since my best friend stole my girl 😤

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yn.wolff wow bestie. He's cute tho, might steal him from you as well🤭

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 estebanocon I am gonna remove you from best friends list 🖕

 yn.wolff I dare you

mickschumacher never agreed to being second choice but it is, what it is😔

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user7 i aspire to be like y/n 😭 she really said I can take your girl AND man if I want to. Double threat 

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yn.wolff Like we were in Paris 🗼

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 user9 UM ARE WE JUST NOT GONNA TALK ABOUT THAT LAST PHOTO??? 

  user18 RIGHT?? WHO IS THAT?? 

itselenaberri ma cherié ❤️

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estebanocon why wasn't I in the photodump? Very rude of you best friend😠

   yn.wolff i'm deeply sorry best friend💔  next photodump will be all pictures of you I got through the years 😚

susiewolff we miss you💕 

 yn.wolff i miss you guys too😩 hug Jack for me 💖

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yn.wolff added to their story

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yn.wolff favourite person to see on grid 💕 

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susiewolff beautiful girls! ❤️

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itselenaberri I wouldn't say I'm your favourite to see on the grid…👀

  Liked by estebanocon, mickschumacher

  yn.wolff i truly hate you🫶

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yn.wolff the water was nice 

user7 istg they just need to fully announce it already 😠😠

user59 mick looking handsome on that last photo

estebanocon i thought I was supposed to be in the next photodump🤔

 yn.wolff no❤️

estebanocon added to their story

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mickschumacher what if I told you I have the prettiest girlfriend 

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yn.wolff i am blushing, stop it🥹 i love you💙

 mickschumacher 🫶🫶

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yn.wolff  alexa play mastermind by taylor swift

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mickschumacher my pretty girl 💜

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itselenaberri YOU'RE WELCOME FOR ALL THE DOUBLE DATES!!!

  yn.wolff and I love you for them🫶 estebanocon WHAT ABOUT ME   yn.wolff i guess I love you too🙄🙄

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a/n this one is my personal fave, I might try Pierre next if anyone would be interested!! :))

[celestialevie]

Merc! Admin x Mick Schumacher smau

also known as merc admin slowly revealing herself as Mick girlie

p.s. HAPPY BIRTHDAY MICK!!! my fav aries king

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yourusername 📸 by 💙

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user1 whoever it is that she's dating, he's a lucky mf

user3 AGREED, she should be dating me 😔

yourbestfriend 🤭🤭 i wonder who that blue hearted lad is? 🤔

yourusername 🖕 shut up

lewishamilton beautiful! He sure has his way with camera ❤️

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mickschumacher added to their story

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yourusername might have to keep him💙

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user5 THIS IS SO CUTE STOP

user2 about to be best couple on the grid

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mickschumacher nap time 

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yourusername well I guess the soft launch is done 🤭 been happily dating this goof for 6 months now and life has never been better.💙

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mickschumacher 6 months going on forever. I love you 💜

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lewishamilton I guess the mercedes garage secret is officially out. Happy for you two ❤️

yourusername thank you Lew, I adore you 🥰

mercedesamgf1 just an fyi, boss approved our relationship and said " he saw it coming from day 1 " 🥹

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mickschumacher spent the best 6 months just enjoying life with this angel on earth without anyone but the team knowing. Love you forever and always angel 💜

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yourusername 💙

 liked by mickschumacher 

gina_schumacher look at my little brother getting himself gorgeous girl😍 congrats you two ❤️

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[celestialevie]

I have returned from the dead after a year of not using this account 💀 I'm returning with posting an f1/ mick schumacher social media au 🫶

[celestialevie]

Hello everyone! I hope you're doing as well as you can these days. I am sorry for not posting as much but things got busy and my writing inspo is at zero, along with that I start my new job on tuesday so that's gonna take up my time as well. I'll try to be back to posting as soon as I canz but in the mean time, I would love for you to click on this poll and read about this mini series I would love to write but need to see if anyone would be interested in it.

[celestialevie]

Hello, hello!! I am very aware of not being very much active on this account but I am very active on my spam account so if you want to keep up with my shenanigans, follow me on @/celestialeviereads!! There's not gonna be any fic this week unfortunately. Haven't been in much of a writing mood or any mood tbh lately. Probably just going to post the rest of my work on AO3. Hopefully it's just temporarily the way I feel so I can fully commit to writing the way I like it and not just force myself to do it because I want to post something. If you wanna follow me on ao3 as well it's same username as on here @/celestialevie. That's all I have to say for now. I hope you guys don't mind😅

[celestialevie]

You + Me = Forever // Prince! Pietro Maximoff x Princess! Reader

WORD COUNT: 1.5k

GENRE: Fluff

WARNINGS: None??

SUMMARY: Secretly dating whilst being of royal blood isn't easy. So what do you do when your boyfriend's parents are throwing him a ball to find him a wife? You make a plan.

A/N: I'm sorry everyone but this is so shitty and it makes me so sad but I had no inspo, kept getting easily distracted and had barely any sleep this entire week. I'll probably rewrite this and post it again during the week (hopefully I'll get more inspo and feel better). Hopefully still someone will enjoy this mess of a fic!!

Keeping something a secret you wish you could shout it to entire world, was never easy. Especially when it's about you being in love. You just want to world to know they're yours and, you're theirs. But that's the thing about having royal blood...you cannot do things ordinary people could. Pietro Maximoff, the prince and next in line for the crown was the one you fell for...you a princess of Genovia, third in line after your father and your sibling. It started out as a simple hanging out with someone who lives close by, who understand what you're going through as they're going through it too, but ended up fallling in love. You never intended to fall in love with him, knowing your parents probably already had someone in plan for you to marry, same as Pietro. Now, at every opportunity both of you have you're spending it together, wanting to enjoy your time as much as you could. Only person knowing was Wanda and that was because Pietro couldn't have kept something as big as being in love for the first time from his twin sister, but making her swear she'll keep it a secret.

As Pietro was getting ready to meet up with you, someone knocked on his door. '' It's open. '' Pietro told the person behind the door, already knowing it's Wanda. '' I see you're already on a mission to get out of castle. '' Wanda commented, smirk playing on her lips as she saw Pietro in his horse riding uniform. He always takes his horse when he's meeting up with you, same as you, meeting somewhere halfway between your two countries. He rolled his eyes playfully at his sister. '' You're very much correct. Have to hurry up and be on my way before the sun starts to set. Did you need anything before I go? '' he looked at her. '' No, just assumed you'll be going to see her today. You going to tell her the news, you found out? '' She asked. ''Yeah, have to deal with that. I'll see you when I get back. '' he pressed a quick kiss to her temple before leaving his room, going to the horse stable. About 5 minutes later, he was with his horse, getting him ready for the ride and then he was on his way. He was not very happy about the news, so he didn't even have to think about what your reaction will be to the news. Two hours of riding, he was finally at the place of your meetup, you already waiting there for him with your horse. Slowly he got off of his horse leading him up to the tree where you tied your horses' lead rope and did the same, allowing them to still be able to move a little around the tree. With a biggest smile on both of your faces, he quickly pulled you into a tight hug, before placing his lips onto yours. '' Hi Iubirea mea. '' he whispered against your lips. His days becomes million times better the moment he breaths in your familliar calming scent and the feel of your body. Nobody else has ever had that kind of effect on him. '' Hi Piet. '' you smiled as you wrapped your arms around his waist, snuggling into his chest. '' Ce mai faci? '' he asked you softly, as he gently swayed your bodies from side to side. '' I'm better now that I'm in your arms. How are you? I assume you got some news since you wanted to meet up again so soon. '' With both of you being watched regularly and busy, you tried to make your meetings limited to once every two weeks. He let out a sigh before pulling away from your warm embrace, sitting down on the bench by the lake. As you sat down next to him, he took your hand into his. '' My parents are throwing a ball for my 28th birthday. But it's not just any ordinary ball for birthday, no no. It's for finding me a wife, a future queen. '' the happiness you felt couple of minutes ago dissapeared, replaced with sadness and dissapointment. You knew this was going to happen with your relationship being kept a secret from both of your parents, but it's only been a year since you properly started dating. '' Oh...so you want to breakup? '' you refused to look at him, instead focusing on the small ducklings swimming in the lake. '' Absolutely not. Until the day I am engaged, I will keep seeing you. Besides I have a plan. With you being ''single'' and having no partner, you'll be invited to the ball. If we're smart enough and pretend we've never met each other until that day, seeing how much in love we look, they'll have no choice but to respect my decision of making you my wife. I promise you prinţesă, I will make you my queen. ''

Three weeks later, it was the day of the ball and the twins birthday. Pietro was freaking out, Wanda trying to calm him down and telling him the plan will work out. Everything was ready and people were slowly start to arrive. As more people arrived the more anxious Pietro grew about the entire plan. By the time you finally arrived, he had around 4 women wanting to dance with him and become him queen. You were dressed in a long beautiful gown, making you look like a true angel you were. There was another woman in his arms, but his eyes were only on you, despite the woman in his arms trying so hard to chat him up. Smiling at him, you were approached by one of your friends, leading you to the group where the rest of your friends were. After about an hour of him constantly dancing with so many different woman, he finally made his way to where you were standing and talking with your friends. While your back was turned to him not being able to see him, didn't mean others didn't notice him approaching you, probably thinking he's coming for them. As you just begin to notice the familliar scent, someone clears their throat right behind you, making you turn around. '' My apologies for interrupting your conversation, but Princess Y/N I was wondering if I may have the next dance? '' they all giggled as you simply blushed a little despite dating the man for over a year. '' It would be my honour. '' you placed your hand into his as he lead you back to the dance floor. As you walked to the dance floor, he whispered very close to your ear. '' I'm sorry for just now being able to dance with you, I can't even breathe before a different woman shows up in front of me. It was exhausting. Dancing with you will be like taking a breath of fresh air. '' you squeezed his hand in solidarity. '' It's okay Piet. You don't have to apologise for anything, just glad you found time to dance with me in midst of this chaos. '' and with that, one of the most beautiful slower songs started playing. As you danced, he kept making you laugh, never getting tired of it. It was the most beautiful sound he ever heard. Seeing you two finally so happy publiclly, Wanda decided to make sure the parents were seeing how in love and happy you looked. Coincidentally, your parents were standing next to theirs and were very happily chatting. '' Mother. Father. Mr. Y/L/N, Mrs- Y/L/N, wonderful to see you. How are you? '' she talked with them for a minute. '' Oh I'm not sure if you've noticed but have you seen how beautiful Pietro and y/n look dancing together? There's definitely chemistry between them. '' your mother nodded. '' Oh yes, it makes us even happier since we've already talked about them getting engaged and making our countries allies. Seeing them get along so well only makes us see how right we've been about wanting them to get married. They look so in love already. '' Wanda beamed up at that. '' That's wonderful. I'm sure Pietro and y/n will be happy to hear about it. If you would just excuse me for a moment, I think Prince Vision is calling me. '' She bowed down before quickly heading towards Vision.

By the end of the night, Pietro and you danced and danced, the biggest smiles on your faces. You decided you were tired from all the dancing and went to the restroom, quickly refreshing yourself. Whilst you were in the restroom, Pietro's father and your father approached him, telling him all about the formed deal, making the smile on his face even bigger knowing the plan worked. You were going to be his Queen. As the fathers went away with their business, he was buzzing with happiness. A few minutes later, you were back and immediately he embraced you. '' I'm fullfulling my promise prinţesă...you're gonna be my wife. Our parents were already thinking about it before tonight and tonight just solified it. '' Squealing in surprise, you wrap your arms around his neck. Pietro is going to be your husband. You were going to be a Queen of Sokovia.

TRANSLATION:

ce mai faci - how are you

lubirea mea - my love

prinţesă - princess

[celestialevie]

Would it be too cliché to use Genovia as y/n's Kingdom?? 😭😭