Robin Buckley has been your best friend since you were 7. She was 6.
In first grade, Robin started walking with you on the way home after classes. She swore it was too scary to do by yourself. She would make sure both of you stayed safe, no matter what.
In third grade, Robin would ask you to sleep over every weekend. She always made sure her dad picked up the best snacks from the grocery store, somehow always remembering your favorite.
In sixth grade, Robin would play her dads cassettes for you. She would point out which songs reminded her of you, and why.
In the ninth grade, Robin started telling you she loved you at the end of a conversation. She hadn't forgotten to since she had started. You said it back, never missing the chance to remind her.
Going into tenth grade was hard, Robin had told you over the summer she couldn't hang out with you anymore. It was in your backyard, somewhere between the early morning hours. She was blunt about it, telling you she just wanted space. She didn't tell you how bad you were, or how you had hurt her, she just gave you a little wave and took to the sidewalk.
Tenth grade had gotten easier though, you had separated yourself from her almost entirely. Robin was her own person and so were you. You had even made a new friend.
Well, kind of. Eddie wasn't supposed to be your friend.
You were just helping him with English, and then you and then you started hanging out with him after class. Which had eventually spiraled into spending most days after school in his trailer.
He taught you everything about his guitar, and he let you sit in during hellfire. He had even asked if you wanted to join, and after you had declined the offer he had of course acted broken-hearted. 'You've wounded me!' What ever will I do without you y/n?'
Eddie had taught you more than that though, he had taught you that being yourself was what mattered at the end of the day. Eddie was the first person you ever told, and he sat there and listened. He really listened, not that fake bullshit you were expecting, he wanted you to trust him with your story.
So you told it, down to every last detail. You kept her for last though, savoring the way Eddie's eyes shot open at mention of her name.
"Robin Buckley?"
*Yeah," you laughed it off, "she was the world to me,
"Why?” he paused,
"why don't you guys- uh?" He motioned his hands, unable to find the words.
"I think she knew, 'ya know?" A bittersweet smile finding its way to your lips, "She wasn't- you know? Into me like that."
Loves getting ridden, like adores the whole goddamn act of it. The way his partner sinks down on him, the way he knows he’s filling them fucking full. Full of his cock to the very center.
“Just like that baby…”
“So pretty…”
“Up and down, you got it…”
His breathing labored, as he guides them along him. His breath hitching before his hips stutter, rutting up into them with the most primal need.
He’s barely even pulling out, just grinding them down on him until he explodes with soft whimpers and praise.
“Welcome to—” she starts, her eyes going wide. “Steve Harrington?”
“Uh. Yeah?” He’s sure he’s never seen this woman even once in his life, even though they’re probably about the same age.
“Robin Buckley. I sat behind you in Ms. Click’s class inn ’83? ‘84? First period.”
A lot of people sat behind him in a lot of class. “Sorry,” he shakes his head. “Mostly wasn’t awake yet for first period.”
She gives him a smile that’s almost—only just this side of—a sneer. “Too busy eating breakfast, I’m sure.”
He shrugs. “Well, I had swim practice first thing.” He smiles, bashful, runs his hands through his hair.
The glint in her eye softens a little. “What can I get you?”
“Coffee. Black.”
“Need a treat to take the edge off that black coffee?” She gestures to the cases of pastries.
They look good—flakey and golden and buttery delicious, but—“Nah, not today.”
“Ookay.” She catches herself before she goes so far as to roll her eyes, turning to get his coffee.
“What brings you back in town? Here for the Christmas Market?”
“The wha--?”
“Christmas. Market.” She says it slow, like he should know, like it’s obvious.
“Uh. No? Selling my family’s house. What’s the Christmas Market?”
She sets his steaming mug of coffee (candy cane shaped handle) on the counter in front of him; eyebrows arched in contemptuous disbelief. “Have you—looked around at all?”
His eyes narrow. “You mean how it looks like Santa Claus vomited on Hawkins? Yeah, I noticed.”
She snorts. “Yeah, well, about eight years ago the auto plant outside town shut down, took out most of the jobs around here.”
He winces—his father owned that plant, it was his decision to close it, once the Harringtons had all left Hawkins for good.
“Chief Hopper and his wife Joyce got a couple other people together and came up with the Christmas Market. Started out as just an annual, holiday thing.”
“But it caught on?”
“Yeah, as you so eloquently put it, Santa threw up on Hawkins. It just kept growing until Eddie brought it to the city council, and the town decided to keep it going year-round.”
His eyelids flutter at Eddie but it can’t be the one he’s thinking of. “Soo, it’s just like this all the time?”
She snorts. “Keeps this town afloat.”
Before he can ask more, the sleigh bells clatter again, and Gordon Hall Jr. walks in. His tan is too artificial, smile too white, hair too blond, and Steve sees men like this all the time, but it unsettles him here, in this cozy coffee shop, in Hawkins.
They shake hands, exchange pleasantries, and without ordering anything from an expectant Robin, Gordon shows Steve to a table. They go over numbers, enough it kind of makes his head to start swim, and then Gordon is shaking his hand, saying they should get drinks, and maybe they could invite Tom Hagan, the man responsible for suggesting Gordon reach out to Steve.
He nods and smiles because he’s expected to, because he knows how to play this game, does it with clients all the time, but he has no intention of spending social time with Gordon ever and Tommy ever again.
“You’re not getting another deal like this,” Gordon says as the meeting wraps up.
Steve knows he won’t. The development company scouting out of Chicago wants it bad, which makes a lot more sense considering Hawkins festive makeover. The offer number has s a lot of zeroes. A lot. More than his brain can wrap around.
There’s a line at the counter now, the streets outside more packed than before, this time jammed with children fresh out of school.
The meeting with Gordon sits on his skin like an oil slick, and instead of heading to the Poinsettia Inn to check-in, he strolls down the sidewalk, letting the chill in the air and the lively chatter erase his unease.
A Christmas carol—Silver Bells—rings out from unseen speakers, fresh kettle corn and cinnamon roasted almonds scent the air. There’s a little cart parked on the curb up ahead, Robin’s Nest logo prominent, serving cups of hot cocoa and giant marshmallows (ho-made! proclaims a wooden sign on the counter).
As he nears the end of the street, his eyes catch on a building he doesn’t recognize. He thinks—if his memory can be relied on—that it used to be an auto shop, but now it’s freshly painted a warm red, white trim around the doors and windows, the garage bay door replaced by a barn door, slid wide. From within, a cacophony of voices, many of them sounding young, but one that’s deeper, resonant, familiar.
It takes a second to place, and then he’s shaking his head. Of course, it’s not that voice. Not after so long, not when leaving Hawkins was always the goal.
He edges closer, sees that it’s some kind of workshop and showroom, filled with toys and boardgames and dozens of things unfinished. A group of kids, he thinks high school age, are gathered around a low table, arguing loudly.
Two sharp claps proceed a voice that booms, “Now, now, children. This is a serious place of business.”
“You make toys and games,” a girl with long red hair sasses.
Steve can’t help but to move closer, stepping just over the threshold of the store. He can better see the group of teens—six or eight of them; they’re moving too much for him to tell, and the man standing behind the counter, running a pencil between his ring-clad fingers. His long hair is pulled away from his face, a few errant tendrils framing his cheeks. The sleeves of his sweatshirt are rolled up to the elbow, revealing slim hands, bony wrists, and swirling ink.
The room narrows to pin pricks, his tongue suddenly too big for his mouth, and he’s back in another time, surrounded by hazy summer sun. Thin white curtains flutter in the faint breeze, and the beautiful boy beside him smiles wide, happy, leans in for a kiss. And it’s a kiss that steals his breath, his mind, and not just this once but every time.
He blinks and they’re in his car, the windows rolled down, flying down backroads, and the beautiful boy’s hair streams behind him and he laughs, wild and free and Steve’s never felt like this, the way his heart stutters and tumbles.
He blinks and they’re in a trailer’s cramped, lovely, kitchen, and the beautiful boy smiles at him, smiles so hard it crinkles his whole face, and he says, he says, “You keep this up and I’m gonna fall in love with you.”
Steve never bothered to say goodbye. He fled Hawkins with only what he could fit in his car—not that he wanted to keep that much anyway—leaving behind the boy, and what could have been, and everything he’s ever known, and he never let himself look back.
He's looking now. Staring directly into the brown eyes he got lost in every single day the summer after his senior year. They’re just like he remembered, an unfathomable brown, deep and shining like gemstones; warm and inviting like freshly tilled earth.
“Steve Harrington?” Eddie Munson asks.
He does the only thing he can think to in that moment—turns back onto the street, to the cold Hawkins day, the carols (Little Drummer Boy), the wafting scent of kettle corn and cinnamon almonds.
He doesn’t look back.
-
-
-
Just a little festive teaser for something in the works 🎄
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, jocks!steve & bucky, 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
masterpost | lesson 02
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.
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.”
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.”
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.
thinking about being between frank and matt, caught up in their conflicting personalities and the dynamic that comes with it.
matt is so mean, such a tease. he’s constantly playing with you, riling you up just to deny you. he loves how you squirm, how you pout up at him when he tells you no. you’ll beg and beg and he’ll eventually give in, but only after you work for it.
“awh, sweetheart, you think you’re gonna cum tonight? you’re gonna have to convince me if you want that.”
frank is the opposite. he’s such a giver and his soft spot for you is way too big to keep you wanting for anything. you say the word and he’s giving you whatever you want until you can’t take it anymore. you’re his good girl and he can’t resist the way you bat your eyelashes and say his name in that tone. he’s weak when it comes to you.
“ya look so sweet sucking my thumb like this, baby. such a good girl for me.”
or maybe matt is the softie, giving in to your every desire. you want to go out to dinner? reservations are at eight. you want a new pair of shoes? a shiny pair of red bottoms are waiting for you on your bed. you want matt to eat you out? he’ll lay between your thighs and pleasure you until his jaw aches.
“when i get home, i want you wearing that new set i bought you. get that toy out too, your favorite one.”
maybe frank is the strict disciplinarian who will put you over his knee if you get a bit too mouthy with them. he’ll grip your jaw and make you look him in the eye when you misbehave. you hate it when you get in trouble with frank.
“who’re you talkin’ to like that, huh? cause you sure as shit don’t talk back to me like that.”
they bicker back and forth on the best way to treat their girl. matt and frank will never see eye to eye on anything, especially when it comes to you.
Heloo:). I’ve been quietly stalking your blog and I see you write for Klaus from tua and said you were gonna write something for him a couple months ago. I just wanted to ask if you were still working on it. I’d feel bad if I’d ask for a little story and you’re not taking requests or even in a writing mood. But I hope all is well and I’m wishing you the best!
hi!! i’m actually still very much working on it, i’ve just had a bunch going on lately. but i’m still writing when i have time, and i am always taking requests! if you have one, please send it my way and i will get on it asap :))
