in which frat boy bucky barnes teaches his sweet little frat pledge how to be a man
contains: frat!bucky, pledge!steve, alcohol, threesome (mfm), fingering, spitting, squirting, p in v, blowjobs, HELLA voyeurism, idk how frats or initiation or hazing work
word count: 6506
notes: this can be standalone or read with the other frat!buck fics. i love frat!bucky pls ask me to write more i will
You’re sitting in class when your phone rings, your cute bubbly ringtone interrupting your professor's lecture. A dozen and one pair of eyes land on you as you fumble to turn your ringer off. It’s an unknown number, so you turn your phone off, drop it into your bag and try to ignore the embarrassment flaming in your neck.
When you finally get out of class, you notice a few more calls from the number, and a text message too. “call me!!!” You’re curious so you press the number to redial.
You’re rummaging through your bag for your room key while the phone rings. Once, twice, you think the other end won’t pick up. When you finally hear a “hello?” it almost scares you.
“Uhm. Who’s this?” you ask, recognizing the voice but not truly knowing who it was.
“Are you kidding me, princess? It’s only your favorite guy.”
You giggle, “Hi, Bucky.” You know he’s probably just messing with you, playing with your heart and pussy before he moves on to the next girl, but you can’t help it when his attention straight goes to your head and your cunt.
So what if the campus fuckboy might be using you? Who are you to say no? He makes you feel pretty and special and lets you stay the night in his bed. You’ve never had to make your walk of shame in the middle of the night, only in the morning or in his pickup truck after lunch.
Maybe he’s not using you, maybe he really does like you and just doesn’t know how to tell you. Thats a fat load of shit, you think to yourself.
“How’d you get my number?” you ask, because in all the times you’ve seen Bucky, you’ve never once gotten his number or given him yours.
“I just asked around. Don’t worry about it. What are you doing tonight?” he asks, you can tell he doesn’t have a care in the world, probably sitting in his dorm with his feet propped up on the desk, twirling his pen with more focus than talking to you on the phone.
“Uhm. I think just studying. I have a chem test next week.”
“Boooo!” Bucky jeers. “You’re coming to my party tonight. Wear something nice, kay? One of your cute little skirts.”
You pause, really? James ‘Bucky’ Barnes, the star quarter back on thousands of dollars of athletic scholarships wants you at his party?
Well, who are you to say no?
“Yeah, okay!” You smile happily, giggling into your phone. Bucky wanted to hang out with you? And he noticed your outfits? It was a good day to be you.
“Good, I’ll see you there, babe.”
You head back to your dorm, finally grabbing your keys out of your bag before you make it to the door.
You can hear your roommate and suitemates making noise before your key even enters the door. One of them hears you fumbling and opens it for you.
Wanda opens the door for you, smiling and greeting you before you hear Natasha shouting from the bathroom.
“Hey girl! How was class?” You can smell the burnt hair and Natasha’s perfume wafting through the air.
“It was good!” You start to giggle. “You’ll never guess who called me!”
“Who?” Nat calls back, setting her curling iron down to peer past the door frame and talk to you.
“Bucky! He got my number somehow. He wants me to come to his party tonight!”
Nat smiles at you, you’re practically shaking with excitement, zero clue what Bucky wanted from you. Maybe a little clue. You knew what guys like Bucky were after, your dad had warned you almost every single day of the summer leading up to your freshman year of college. Guys like him only want one thing. But maybe what he wanted was a chance to spend some time with you and your awesome personality?
“Are you even gonna go? You didn’t seem too happy the last time we dragged you out. Nat practically had to pull you out of bed and dress you.” Your suite mate scowls, jealous that the campus heartthrob is asking you to the party. You don’t even notice her disdain. Wanda just laughs at the other girl, ignoring the aura of jealousy that radiates from her.
“Yeah! He told me he wanted me to wear a skirt. Plus it seems like fun!” you turn to Natasha who’s back to curling her long red hair. “Nat, can you help me with my makeup? Maybe my hair?”
“Of course babe.” She smiles, while your suitemate sulks.
BORDER don’t forget to insert it this time idiot
The party’s already started, but you and Nat are still in your shared room getting ready. She told you that you couldn’t show up on time to the party because that meant you were early. You just listened to her, she knew a lot more about partying than you.
Originally, you’d tried to show Nat the outfit you’d picked out, but she just laughed and smiled at you. In that loving non-teasing way she does. Your choice of a cute cardigan and a pleated skirt was vetoed by Nat and Wanda. Wanda told you to just put on whatever Nat threw at you because you were not going to a study session at the library with the ‘nerd club,’ you were going to Bucky Barnes’s party with a personal invitation.
You ended up borrowing one of her going out tops, pairing it with a short black mini skirt from the bottom of your drawer. Nat had given it to you the first week of the semester, thinking you’d be partying with her and seeing it was your size.
It’d never seen the light of day, or the gleam of the night, but today was its chance.
Your top was way more revealing than anything you’d ever worn, the deep red flooding your body, hugging your curves and breasts, and leaving not much to the imagination. The black miniskirt almost had your ass hanging out, but you kept fiddling with it until it felt right.
You’d tried to put on a pair of spandex to cover yourself a bit more, but Nat said it ruined the outfit because the shorts were sticking out, so you listened. You listened when she threw a pair of shoes at you, and you listened when she did your makeup and said you were gonna be the prettiest girl there. You listened when she teased you for all the dick you were going to get tonight, even when the dark red of your shirt blended into your hot blushing skin.
Nat had finally decided it was time for you two to leave, so you grabbed your phone and headed out the door with her.
You started to text Bucky that you were on your way before Nat told you to stop.
“He doesn’t need to know, keep him waiting, guessing. Let him think you’re not coming.”
“But why? That’s mean! I told him I’d be there.”
“Just listen to me babe. Okay?” You nodded, not understanding but trusting her.
You arrived at the frat house, the party already in full swing. The lights were flashing, music pumping, and you thought you could already smell something nasty coming from the house, but you ignored it.
Nat quickly dashed off to find one of her girlfriends, blowing you a kiss and leaving you alone in the middle of the crowded room.
You debated texting Bucky to come find you, but Nat’s voice in your head told you not to. Told you that you didn’t want to look desperate, but was it desperate to seek out the guy who invited you? You didn’t know, so instead you found your way towards the snacks.
There was a brother standing at a table, chatting up some pretty blonde and offering her a drink. You stepped up to ask for one.
“Oh heyyy, I know you! I’ve seen that video Buck’s got.” He looked at you, passing you a tall can. “I heard that Bucky invited you. We all didn’t think you’d show up!”
You laugh sheepishly, ready to go into your spiel about how he’d asked you but you cut yourself off. They didn’t need to know everything. But then you wonder, what video could he be talking about?
“Here’s a drink, hon. Buck’s around here somewhere.”
The thought of whatever video fades away, you smiled and thanked him, cracking open the can and taking a sip, before literally spitting it out. It tasted like TV static, the fruits on the front of the can lying to you about their involvement. You awkwardly set the drink on a random table, choosing instead to follow the music.
Someone bumped into you, spilling one of their drinks all over you.
“Fuck! I’m sorry girl. Here, have some of this, I’m so sorry.” The girl offered a bottle to you. Her empty solo cup now all over your outfit. It smelled strong, but she seemed nice, so you took a swig from the bottle she offered you. The taste of rubbing alcohol filled your nose, burning your nostrils and throat on the way down. You coughed as your eyes watered. You tried to fan yourself to stop the tears that would definitely ruin all of Nat’s hard work.
The girl laughed at you, asking “Never had vodka?” You shake your head. “Here. Go over to that table over there. There’s one guy giving out seltzers that suck but there’s another table with a mixed punch thingie. Jungle juice I guess, probably more up to your speed.” She’s close to your ear, but still yelling over all the voices and music.
You follow her advice. There was a table opposite the first one you went to. There were a few brothers at the table, a large punch bowl, and a large stack of red solo cups. One of the guys notices you and pours a cup for you, handing it to you while he whispers to the other guys at the table. You ignore the whispers of “Bucky” “What’s her name?” and “that video.”
You take a sip of the drink, fruity punch flavor coating your mouth and a slight burn traveling down your throat. It’s fruity, sweet, and there’s something else you can’t figure out.
You soon found yourself in the middle of the crowd, body swaying to the music, letting yourself have fun. You didn’t care where Bucky or Nat were, you were doing your own thing, whatever your own thing was, and trying to make it seem like you knew what you were doing. (Does anyone here really know what they’re doing?) There was foggy smoke all around you, smelling somewhat herbal but also kind of gross, but you just ignored it. You had your fruity little drink in hand, music in your ears, and not a care in the world. Nat would be proud of you, letting lose and getting down.
Two hands found your waist, your ass, and slid up your sides. You turned around quickly before seeing who it was. You smiled.
“Hey Buck!” A smile crossing your face, whatever was in your drink had you feeling a little looser, louder, more talkative. Your hands trailed up Bucky’s arms as you both swayed to the music. His thick muscular biceps felt electric under your soft dainty fingers. His eyes raked over your body, staring at you like a predator who’s locked eyes on it’s newest prey. Animalistic and heavy. His eyes trailed from your pretty little tipsy smile to the shiny necklace placed perfectly between your tits, to the sticky sweet borrowed red shirt, to your itsy bitsy little black mini skirt that definitely had your ass on display for the entire party.
“I started to think you weren’t coming, sweet cheeks.” Bucky smiled, hands roaming your body wherever they pleased. His hands settled on your waist with a possessive manner. He smelled like the clouds of smoke in the room, and his breath smelled like beer.
“Oh no! I’m sorry! I could’ve texted you!” You replied anxiously, going to open your phone and show him the text you’d planned to send to him. Bucky just laughed.
“It’s all good doll. No need to fret.” He laughs as he spins you, your ass straight on his bulging crotch. Your body feels so loose you can’t help but grind on him to the beat of the music, feeling yourself, feeling him, feeling the vibrations of the bass has your body all hot and sweaty in more ways than one.
You guys dance for awhile, letting Bucky’s hands roam aimlessly while he mindlessly flicks through his phone, seemingly waiting on something.
Bucky pulls you into his arms and leans into your ear, whispering soft and sensual,
“You ready babe? I wanted to have some fun with you tonight.” He grins at you devilishly, eyes flickering with something more than just fun.
You smile and nod as his hand slips into yours, dragging you through the sweaty bodies and off the dance floor. He cornered you in a somewhat quiet hallway, pushing you gently against the wall before his hand cupped your face.
“I’m glad you listened to me,” he starts, words in between soft gentle kisses on the side of your neck. You drop your mostly empty cup on the floor while your hands fly to Bucky’s bicep and pitch black hair. You hum quietly as he decorates your neck with his spit. Lips, tongue, teeth, your neck is bared to all.
“Well you asked me to come and wear a skirt. Nat told me I wasn’t allowed to wear one of my normal skirts. I had a cute little black one picked out with my purple cardigan but Wanda told me I couldn’t wear it. I hope this is okay…” Bucky cuts you off with a kiss to your lips. He grabs your ass with primal need as you yelp helplessly.
“It’s perfect baby. Seeing you on that dance floor with your ass out for the entire party gave me a boner.” He whispers into your ear, you giggle helplessly. “Made me want to take you right there on the DJ table and show the whole party who you belong to.”
“Bucky!” You cry out, hiding your face in your hands.
“What? I’m just telling the truth!” he laughs, biting your earlobe playfully.
“But thats dirty!” You squeal as your face heats up, still covered by the safety net of your hands.
“Not as dirty as all the things we’re about to do, doll.” Bucky flashes that playboy smile at you, melting your knees and your pussy sooner than you can ask what things you’re doing.
He takes you by the hand again, furiously texting on his phone with the other.
You quickly made it to a room you recognized as Bucky’s, remembering the last time you were here made your face and your core heat up.
“So uhm, what did you have in mind?” You ask awkwardly, you’re fiddling with the hem of your skirt, really noticing how tiny it is now.
“Well sweets, I got this friend, one of our new pledges, he needs some help. Thought you and I could help him.”
You smiled sheepishly, you were always willing to help people!
But then, you weren’t exactly sure how this was helping.
You were laid on Bucky’s bed, knees up in the air as Bukcy was rubbing your clit through your underwear. You were already soaking wet while he talked to his friend.
You’d seen him before, a skinny little blonde boy who always sat in the front of the class, always ready to help the teacher or any student with anything. Never thought you’d see him in this setting, with him looking at your cute underwear up your skirt. Your pretty pink panties on display for both boys, and practically anyone who could walk into the room.
“Look Steve, I’m barely even touching her and you can see how already wet she is through her panties.” Steve nodded, almost ready to pull out a pencil and paper to take notes. “Gotta find a girl like this, but they’re not very easy to come by. I got lucky with this one.” Bucky continues to play with your clit, pointing out the growing wet spot on your pretty pink panties.
Bucky’s pace is tortuously slow, letting Steve watch the way your legs shook and the soft moans you let out. You were biting your lip to hold back your noises, nervous with the new person in the room, or maybe it was the fact that anyone could walk in at any moment. But that also kind of turned you on. You weren’t really sure how to feel right now, all your blood and hormones traveling straight to your pussy.
Bucky notices the strain on your face, his hands stop and he caresses your leg tenderly, comforting, not at all evil. “Come on pretty girl, let him know how good it feels when I touch you like this. Poor Steve’s probably never gonna get some pussy. This is as close as he’ll ever get to one. You’re helping him a lot, sweets.” Bucky coos, patting your thigh as you twitch helplessly.
Bucky presses down harder, making his circles tighter, giving delicious pressure to your clit through your panties. You let out a loud moan, and a pathetic Buckyy pleaseee.
“Look Steve.” Bucky had pulled your underwear to the side, showing your glistening pussy. You were practically dripping already, your panties and Bucky’s fingers soaked.
“Wow Buck, she’s so wet!” Steve exclaimed.
Bucky stopped touching you momentarily, leaving you whining. You felt cold air on your pussy before you even registered that he’d taken your panties off. He pressed your knees to your chest, putting your entire pussy on display.
You could see the toes of your shoes just beyond your knees, you wrapped your arms tightly around them. Pressing your thighs together just a little bit of friction.
“Look Steve, could practically shove two fingers into this pussy. Barely even needs to be stretched, go on Steve, give it a try. You good with that, princess? I know I’m the only one who’s ever touched you there but I’m sure Steve will be gentle.” You let out a soft yes, back arching when Steve stuck one finger into your pussy.
“Woah.”
Bucky laughs, “You’re finally touching some pussy, man. Maybe little Stevie won’t die a virgin.”
“So, like what do I do? How do I make her feel… good?” Steve’s eyes can’t pick a spot to look at, your puffy pulsing pussy, your aching quivering legs, or a Bucky’s icy commanding gaze.
“However you want, this girl loves fucking anything. It’s why it’s good to pick out a virgin, they’re new and everything feels good.Try something.”
The air goes still, and you peek between your legs to see that Bucky’s grabbed Steve’s fingers, placed them in his own mouth, and is decorating his fingers with his saliva.
It’s incredibly hot.
Even more so when Steve’s spit covered fingers enter your sloppy pussy, you can’t help but quiver and shake as your pussy pulses around his fingers.
Steve slowly moves his finger in and out of your pussy, relishing the moans and slickness your body lets out. The way your pussy is glistening in the lowlight has Steve mesmerized. The sight alone has him pulled in, and the way your pussy sucks his finger back in has him close to cumming in his pants.
You hear Bucky and Steve conversing, lost in your own pleasure and you can’t find a map to bring you to be able to understand.
You whine when Steve’s finger leaves your gaping hole, even one finger has you feeling full, and so empty when it’s gone. No wonder you’re so obsessed with Bucky’s cock.
Bucky lets your legs rest, opening them up to show the top of your pussy. He pulls at the top, pulling the hood of your vulva up and exposing your clit to the cold air. You shiver at the feeling, squealing when Bucky playfully blows on it.
“See that? That’s her clit. She fucking loves getting that played with. That’s where I was touching her through those cute panties. Give her some love, spit on it.”
“But, why? She’s so wet, does she need it?” Steve questions, curious but willing.
“No, but she wants it. I bet her poor pussy is squeezing at the thought of it. Right, pretty girl?”
You’re too out of it to answer, letting all the pleasure go to your head, it flows through your veins like a deadly poison, infecting ever inch of your body until you can’t breathe.
It upsets Bucky when you don’t answer, enough for him to give you a quick back handed slap to your clit. His knuckles catch on your clit, making it feel that much better. You let out a little yelp whine, before trying to pay more attention to Bucky’s words.
“I’m trying to teach here, baby girl.” He chides. “You like when I spit on this tight little pussy, right babe?” He asks again.
You whine out, “Y-yes Bucky! It feels so good!” You manage to get out, the words heavy and cotton on your honeyed tongue.
“Good girl,” and that has you pussy clenching on air (the boys noticed) “See Steve. This is how lucky I got with this one. She likes everything and knows how to listen.”
Steve nods intently, still itching to dive back deep into your pussy. To study it like he does his textbooks, to trace every curve and bend with his fingers, or his tongue. To study the noises and the twitching of your pleasure.
“Sometimes you might have a girl who needs a little extra lube, or you get the ones like this who could cum at the thought of you spitting on her. Go on, Steve.”
You hear the sound of Steve spitting, the wetness landing almost directly on your asshole.
“Well damn Steve. Work on your aim!” Bucky teases him, before spitting directly on your clit. It gives you a jolt, your pussy clenching around nothing, again.
“Touch her right there Steve, that little nub. She’ll be screaming in seconds once you give her some attention.” Bucky instructs. “I mean, you remember what a mess she was when she had her panties on!”
Steve listens to him, touching your neglected clit. He barely taps it, just a gentle nudge, but your entire body shakes with a loud moan.
“Mmph! Fuck!” You cry out, as Steve plays with your clit. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, just rubbing aimlessly. It’s messy, it’s sloppy, it’s novice, but it feels so good.
“Legs up slut. Steve needs a better angle.” Bucky pushes your legs back up, making you hold your knees to your chest.
Your legs are spread open wide, like Steve and Bucky are about to study for an anatomy test, of your pussy.
“You gotta put some effort into it if you want her to cum. Like this.” Bucky pushed Steve’s hand away, replacing his softer, nerdy, fingers with Bucky’s more callous, athletic, ones.
While Steve’s fingers were studying you, taking their time to bring you to the top, Bucky’s fingers are dominating, pushing you up that hill of ecstasy.
You feel two fingers glide across your clit, rubbing in a circle motion. It has you moaning and bucking your hips, begging for Bucky to give you more.
Bucky goes faster, and you feel a familiar finger enter your tight hole. Now that Bucky and Steve have been playing with your clit and fanning the flames of your arousal, it’s not enough stimulation, you’re so used to Bucky’s huge cock.
“Please! Buck! Steve! I need more!” You cry out, hips bucking like a mechanical bull. Bucky laughs at your begging.
“Give her another finger Steve, since she’s been such a good girl.”
Suddenly two fingers are messily thrusting into your pussy, Bucky speeds up his fingers, instructing Steve how to do exactly what he’s doing.
“Flip your hand over so your palms up, yeah good boy Stevie.” Bucky teases, but you can feel the flutter of his fingers and hear the tiny whimper he lets out, and it just turns you on even more.
“Okay now, move your fingers like you’re trying to pull her closer.” Steve manages to hit your g spot just right in a way that has you screaming and begging to cum.
Your saccharine whines and begs are like a symphony to their ears, both boys are desperate for anything and everything.
“God Buck, she’s so- Fuck man I’m hard.” Steve lets out, panting heavily, embarrassment seeping into his voice, it drips through his words like honey and milk, sweet and ambrosial. His tone makes him sound like an ashamed little puppy dog, sad, submissive, ready to learn. Makes your wet pussy even wetter. The thought of sweet Steve Rogers embarrassed by pitching a tent while just playing with your pussy has your core burning. Your pussy is practically drooling at the thought of Steve’s embarrassment and Bucky’s domination ready to rip you to shreds.
“Go ahead, Steve, pull your dick out. I’m sure she’ll give it some love later. She’s a good girl.”
Your pussy loses Steve’s fingers as he quickly unzips his jeans and pulls his cock out, you hear a hiss as fingers enter your cunt again. Steve is panting as he slowly jerks his cock to fingering your cunt. Your pussy tightens even more, so incredibly turned on by the thought of it and you can’t even see it.
You can’t see the way soft, long, slender fingers slowly stroke Steve’s dick, which is practically making a puddle of precum on the floor. You don’t see the way his mouth is agape at the sight of your pussy being abused by two different men.
You don’t see the way Bucky’s thicker calloused fingers wrap around Steve’s soft thin fingers, and how he helps his underclassment stroke his own cock. You don’t see the way Steve almost draws blood biting his lower lip to hold back his sweet soft salacious moans. You don’t see Steve’s soft blue eyes lock into Bucky’s icy hard ones, or the way both boys are torn between staring at each other or your velvety folds.
The unmistakable coil in your gut is tightening, your body is practically vibrating with pleasure. Your fingers find purchase in the sheets, pretty manicured nails almost ripping holes in the cheap university provided fabric.
You can barely form the words as they fly off your tongue. “Buck- shit. I’m so close! I’m gonna cum. I’mgonnacum!” Bucky and Steve’s fingers are working together to bring you to orgasm, the perfect combination to have you unraveling.
It hits you hard, like bright paint splattering a canvas. Splatters of red passion, pink lust, and white ecstasy mixing in your mind, body and blood, all over the walls. Your body tenses as the release of pleasure has your pussy clenching so hard it forces Steve’s fingers out, Bucky’s entire hand is rubbing your clit now like a mad man.
After being hit by a train, Bucky still doesn’t stop. His fingers practically vibrate over your clit, nonstop movement despite you screaming “oh god!” “too much!” and “Bucky please!” Your body is tight and you can feel the pleasure building up. You don’t see as Bucky grabs Steve’s hand, but you feel the way Steve’s fingers enter your pussy again as Bucky tortures your clit.
You’re screaming, panting, sobbing, loud enough that the entire party can hear you, but the boys don’t relent.
The pressure and pleasure don’t stop until your orgasm overtakes you, your legs tense and your body tightens and you squirt all over the boys.
Steve hears and feels it before he sees it. He hears the wet hot squelching of his fingers crooked into your g-spot, deep, spongy, and pleasure filled. Steve almost gasps, watching you gush around his fingers. Bucky’s moan is deep, long, and low as his figure-eighting fingers collide with your long steady stream of ecstasy.
The way you scream is sexually depraved, your back is arched so high it could snap into two, your legs are so tense you could pull a muscle. It’s the best most intense feeling you’d ever had.
The boys watch in unison as one last spurt trickles out and around Steve’s finger. He’s so overwhelmed by his studious stupor that he can’t help but dive in and get a taste, tongue savoring and studying your juices. He’s got one hand holding your leg, his other hand tormenting your poor pussy. His mouth replaces Bucky's fingers as he practically licks you clean.
You’re still trying to calm yourself from your high, but the boys don’t care. You feel Steves mouth move away, his tongue relenting from its afflictions, just to be replaces by Bucky’s a moment later. Unlike Steve’s tongue, which was desperate and heady, Bucky is soft and tender, savoring you with all the time in the world. The boys are fighting over who gets to taste you, both heads between your legs as they slowly lick your nether regions.
Your screams subside to pants, as your knuckles give way to the sheets. Your body is dizzy while your mind is fuzzy, and your mind is shaking and your body is spinning. Your body feels limp and stiff, and your brain feels dumb and enlightened, all at once.
Steve pulls back, and sits there in awe, covered in and tasting your juices. Bucky’s tongue slows it’s pace and gives you reprieve. Everyone in the room is panting.
“You see that Steve? She just fuckin squirted all over you. That’s my good girl.” He gives your clit a few loving pats, jolting your entire body as you come down.
“Fuck man! She’s like- like straight out of some porno!” Steve gasps out.
Bucky just laughs at him, shoving two fingers back into your cunt, and then a third, just for good measure. The torture is relentless, but your pussy tightens around him, begging for more.
“Buckyyy-“ You whine.
“Do you need something, doll? You know you gotta ask for it.” He mocks you as he licks his fingers clean of your slick.
You whine, you bring yourself up to your elbows, barely able to look Bucky in the eye as the dirty words form on your lips in a way that would make the church ladies faint.
“I want your dick.” You mumble softly, words floating on clouds towards his ears, which practically perk up like a dog hearing it’s favorite words.
“You begging for this cock, huh baby?” You nod fervently.
“Alright baby. Give Stevie and I a show first.” You nod as you sit up on the bed, legs still shaking from your orgasm. But you obey Bucky, like always.
You gingerly take off your shirt, it’s mostly dry now, still a little bit sticky with whatever drink got spilled on you. You cups your covered breasts in your hands, giving them a little movement when you reach to take it off.
Steve’s in a pure state of disbelief and awe. He can’t believe this is happening. The way you carefully remove your bra straps, teasing them with your slow pace.
Steve’s jaw drops when you finally reveal yourself, it’s like he’d never see a pair before. Steve’s eyes are so laser focused you’re sure he’s about to bring out his notebook and take notes, or write poems about your tits.
Bucky just laughs at Steve, slapping him on the back. All your left in is your pretty little skirt, no shirt, no bra, no panties, no dignity.
“Alright alright. Ass up baby girl.” Bucky declares.
You quickly get into position, listening to Bucky’s pants fall to the ground and his quiet words instructing Steve. You hear Steve shuffling too, before he sits down right in front of you. His cock is still out, didn’t even bother to take his pants or underwear off, just pulled down enough to let his cock through.
Bucky finally gets into position, slapping your ass once he’s behind you. The pretty skirt you put on earlier is flipped up for a clear view of your ass.
“Come on pretty girl, give Steve’s cock some love. Thank him for giving you such a good orgasm.” You nod intently, coming up on your elbows to come eye to tip with Steve’s dick. It’s far different from Bucky’s shorter, skinnier, not as veiny, but still, pretty. The tip is bright pink and shiny with precum. Poor thing looks like it’s been neglected all night.
You give a small lick to his tip, tasting salt and Steve as you wait for his reaction. It comes out as a soft breathy moan, giving you pride, you continue. The noise he makes is inexperienced, embarrassed, heavenly.
You slowly lick from the bottom to the top, relishing in the high pitchy moans that escape Steve’s throat. The noises are foreign to his tongue. He sounds like a student learning a completely new language. You spit in your hand, using it as lube to spread all over his cock, letting him enjoy it before finally taking it in your mouth.
The second your mouth is fully on him, Bucky shoves his cock deep into you.
Even though Steve’s dick isn’t very long, Bucky’s thrust has you so deep you’re gagging on him, nose always to his mons pubis. Steve chokes back a moan as you choke on his dick.
Bucky doesn’t give you a moment to adjust, his pace almost unbearable. The way he pounds your pussy is familiar and comfortable. He knows what he’s doing, he knows he won’t break you.
But Steve on the other hand, his hands are fluttering everywhere, unable to decide where he wants them. He can’t keep them still but he doesn’t want to disrespect you or Bucky by touching you.
Bucky sighs, stopping his movements while you whine. He leans over you, grabbing Steve’s hands in his own and placing them on your head.
“She’s not made of glass Steve.” Steve nods. “I promise you won’t break her.”
Steve’s eyes widen, he doesn’t believe Bucky.
Bucky sighs again, tapping your hips. You slowly and hazily turn around, wincing as Bucky slaps your ass as it moves away from him. Now your ass is in front of Steve as he clumsily takes his pants off. And your mouth is in front of Bucky's long cock, just like that first time you guys had met.
Steve’s eyes glisten the way your pussy gleams, as he slowly strokes his cock.
“Just shove it in there Stevie. We don’t got all day.”
Gently, Steve grasps your hips, one hand wrapped around his shaft, and uses it to slap your clit. You moan, groaning louder and deeper the farther he went into your sopping wet hole.
He continued his slow gentle pace, still treating you like fragile glass, while Bucky fucked your mouth rough and hard.
Bucky, irritated with Steve’s carefulness, slams into your mouth, choking you with his cock, all the way back onto Steve’s cock. Steve is buried completely to the hilt, both of you screaming in ecstasy. Your vibrations carry up Bucky’s shaft, pulling at hisnerves and making him twitch.
“Come on Steve. She’s a slut, show her who you are.”
It finally settles in Steve, when he grabs your arms and uses them as leverage to fuck you. Your chest falls to the bed, making your mouth open wider for Bucky’s cock.
As if on cue, the door slams open to a group of a dozen boys with bright flashy cameras. It seems like with Bucky you can never avoid them.
The boys gather around, whooping loudly as Bucky and Steve are handed beers.
You can barely see anything, the way your ass is in the air being pounded by Steve, your tits pressed into the bed, your arms pinned tightly to your back, and your nose being buried in Bucky’s hairs.
Steve let’s put an embarrassed yelp, taking the beer like a prized possession.
“Come on Steve, you gotta drink the beer for the initiation to work!” Someone teases.
It dawns on you, you realize that you're being used for humiliation and someone’s pleasure. You’re an object used for someone’s trick.
Why is that so hot?
Why does that make you cry and pulse around Bucky’s and Steve’s cocks?
Why does Steve pounding your poor sweet pussy while beer dribbles from his chin to your ass crack make you start to squirt for the second time?
Why do the other boys' cheers and chants while squirt pulses out from you like a water gun, make you want to be used for the entire rushing class?
“There we go. That’s my good girl.” Bucky mocks you as Steve abuses your velvety dripping hole. “You want a beer baby?” he asks calmly, cupping your chin. You can barely form words, somewhat embarrassed but incredibly horny over the fact that theres so many people watching you. You shrug, a hint of uneasiness because you’ve never really had beer.
You’ve also never been fucked stupid with a cock in your mouth in front of a dozen people, but theres always a chance to try new things, right?
Bucky brings you up, telling Steve to slow down a little bit.
Steve grunts a few times, barely holding back his own orgasm.
“Come on Steve, let her have a drink first.” Steve obliges, slowing to a torturous pace, feeling every ridge and vein and the perfect little tip scrapping your entire pussy.
Bucky lets you grab onto his body like an anchor, slowly feeding you the rest of his beer can. You swallow a little bit, before choking and spitting everywhere.
“Not a fan?” he chides. You shake your head, eyes falling back to his full mast cock. He laughs but he nods, letting you go back to choking on him while he finishes his beer.
Steve returns his pace, whining and grunting, holding your hips like they owe him money. “Oh Buck- I’m- I’m gonna cum.” Steve whines, pitful and needy.
Bucky laughs loudly. “Well, ask the lady!” He pulls his cock from your mouth. “Where do you want Stevie to cum honey?”
Your brain is jumbled around and scrambled into a mess, but you can just barely make out the words “on me” before Bucky and his friends start howling.
“You heard her, Steve. Give the lady what she wants!”
Steve obliges, leaving your soaking pussy empty as he strokes his cock with quick fervent strokes. It’s messy the way he comes all over your back, white, hot and passionate.
The howling whooping boys finally leave the room once Steve is finished.
in which frat boy bucky barnes teaches his sweet little frat pledge how to be a man
contains: frat!bucky, pledge!steve, alcohol, threesome (mfm), fingering, spitting, squirting, p in v, blowjobs, HELLA voyeurism, idk how frats or initiation or hazing work
word count: 6506
notes: this can be standalone or read with the other frat!buck fics. i love frat!bucky pls ask me to write more i will
You’re sitting in class when your phone rings, your cute bubbly ringtone interrupting your professor's lecture. A dozen and one pair of eyes land on you as you fumble to turn your ringer off. It’s an unknown number, so you turn your phone off, drop it into your bag and try to ignore the embarrassment flaming in your neck.
When you finally get out of class, you notice a few more calls from the number, and a text message too. “call me!!!” You’re curious so you press the number to redial.
You’re rummaging through your bag for your room key while the phone rings. Once, twice, you think the other end won’t pick up. When you finally hear a “hello?” it almost scares you.
“Uhm. Who’s this?” you ask, recognizing the voice but not truly knowing who it was.
“Are you kidding me, princess? It’s only your favorite guy.”
You giggle, “Hi, Bucky.” You know he’s probably just messing with you, playing with your heart and pussy before he moves on to the next girl, but you can’t help it when his attention straight goes to your head and your cunt.
So what if the campus fuckboy might be using you? Who are you to say no? He makes you feel pretty and special and lets you stay the night in his bed. You’ve never had to make your walk of shame in the middle of the night, only in the morning or in his pickup truck after lunch.
Maybe he’s not using you, maybe he really does like you and just doesn’t know how to tell you. Thats a fat load of shit, you think to yourself.
“How’d you get my number?” you ask, because in all the times you’ve seen Bucky, you’ve never once gotten his number or given him yours.
“I just asked around. Don’t worry about it. What are you doing tonight?” he asks, you can tell he doesn’t have a care in the world, probably sitting in his dorm with his feet propped up on the desk, twirling his pen with more focus than talking to you on the phone.
“Uhm. I think just studying. I have a chem test next week.”
“Boooo!” Bucky jeers. “You’re coming to my party tonight. Wear something nice, kay? One of your cute little skirts.”
You pause, really? James ‘Bucky’ Barnes, the star quarter back on thousands of dollars of athletic scholarships wants you at his party?
Well, who are you to say no?
“Yeah, okay!” You smile happily, giggling into your phone. Bucky wanted to hang out with you? And he noticed your outfits? It was a good day to be you.
“Good, I’ll see you there, babe.”
You head back to your dorm, finally grabbing your keys out of your bag before you make it to the door.
You can hear your roommate and suitemates making noise before your key even enters the door. One of them hears you fumbling and opens it for you.
Wanda opens the door for you, smiling and greeting you before you hear Natasha shouting from the bathroom.
“Hey girl! How was class?” You can smell the burnt hair and Natasha’s perfume wafting through the air.
“It was good!” You start to giggle. “You’ll never guess who called me!”
“Who?” Nat calls back, setting her curling iron down to peer past the door frame and talk to you.
“Bucky! He got my number somehow. He wants me to come to his party tonight!”
Nat smiles at you, you’re practically shaking with excitement, zero clue what Bucky wanted from you. Maybe a little clue. You knew what guys like Bucky were after, your dad had warned you almost every single day of the summer leading up to your freshman year of college. Guys like him only want one thing. But maybe what he wanted was a chance to spend some time with you and your awesome personality?
“Are you even gonna go? You didn’t seem too happy the last time we dragged you out. Nat practically had to pull you out of bed and dress you.” Your suite mate scowls, jealous that the campus heartthrob is asking you to the party. You don’t even notice her disdain. Wanda just laughs at the other girl, ignoring the aura of jealousy that radiates from her.
“Yeah! He told me he wanted me to wear a skirt. Plus it seems like fun!” you turn to Natasha who’s back to curling her long red hair. “Nat, can you help me with my makeup? Maybe my hair?”
“Of course babe.” She smiles, while your suitemate sulks.
BORDER don’t forget to insert it this time idiot
The party’s already started, but you and Nat are still in your shared room getting ready. She told you that you couldn’t show up on time to the party because that meant you were early. You just listened to her, she knew a lot more about partying than you.
Originally, you’d tried to show Nat the outfit you’d picked out, but she just laughed and smiled at you. In that loving non-teasing way she does. Your choice of a cute cardigan and a pleated skirt was vetoed by Nat and Wanda. Wanda told you to just put on whatever Nat threw at you because you were not going to a study session at the library with the ‘nerd club,’ you were going to Bucky Barnes’s party with a personal invitation.
You ended up borrowing one of her going out tops, pairing it with a short black mini skirt from the bottom of your drawer. Nat had given it to you the first week of the semester, thinking you’d be partying with her and seeing it was your size.
It’d never seen the light of day, or the gleam of the night, but today was its chance.
Your top was way more revealing than anything you’d ever worn, the deep red flooding your body, hugging your curves and breasts, and leaving not much to the imagination. The black miniskirt almost had your ass hanging out, but you kept fiddling with it until it felt right.
You’d tried to put on a pair of spandex to cover yourself a bit more, but Nat said it ruined the outfit because the shorts were sticking out, so you listened. You listened when she threw a pair of shoes at you, and you listened when she did your makeup and said you were gonna be the prettiest girl there. You listened when she teased you for all the dick you were going to get tonight, even when the dark red of your shirt blended into your hot blushing skin.
Nat had finally decided it was time for you two to leave, so you grabbed your phone and headed out the door with her.
You started to text Bucky that you were on your way before Nat told you to stop.
“He doesn’t need to know, keep him waiting, guessing. Let him think you’re not coming.”
“But why? That’s mean! I told him I’d be there.”
“Just listen to me babe. Okay?” You nodded, not understanding but trusting her.
You arrived at the frat house, the party already in full swing. The lights were flashing, music pumping, and you thought you could already smell something nasty coming from the house, but you ignored it.
Nat quickly dashed off to find one of her girlfriends, blowing you a kiss and leaving you alone in the middle of the crowded room.
You debated texting Bucky to come find you, but Nat’s voice in your head told you not to. Told you that you didn’t want to look desperate, but was it desperate to seek out the guy who invited you? You didn’t know, so instead you found your way towards the snacks.
There was a brother standing at a table, chatting up some pretty blonde and offering her a drink. You stepped up to ask for one.
“Oh heyyy, I know you! I’ve seen that video Buck’s got.” He looked at you, passing you a tall can. “I heard that Bucky invited you. We all didn’t think you’d show up!”
You laugh sheepishly, ready to go into your spiel about how he’d asked you but you cut yourself off. They didn’t need to know everything. But then you wonder, what video could he be talking about?
“Here’s a drink, hon. Buck’s around here somewhere.”
The thought of whatever video fades away, you smiled and thanked him, cracking open the can and taking a sip, before literally spitting it out. It tasted like TV static, the fruits on the front of the can lying to you about their involvement. You awkwardly set the drink on a random table, choosing instead to follow the music.
Someone bumped into you, spilling one of their drinks all over you.
“Fuck! I’m sorry girl. Here, have some of this, I’m so sorry.” The girl offered a bottle to you. Her empty solo cup now all over your outfit. It smelled strong, but she seemed nice, so you took a swig from the bottle she offered you. The taste of rubbing alcohol filled your nose, burning your nostrils and throat on the way down. You coughed as your eyes watered. You tried to fan yourself to stop the tears that would definitely ruin all of Nat’s hard work.
The girl laughed at you, asking “Never had vodka?” You shake your head. “Here. Go over to that table over there. There’s one guy giving out seltzers that suck but there’s another table with a mixed punch thingie. Jungle juice I guess, probably more up to your speed.” She’s close to your ear, but still yelling over all the voices and music.
You follow her advice. There was a table opposite the first one you went to. There were a few brothers at the table, a large punch bowl, and a large stack of red solo cups. One of the guys notices you and pours a cup for you, handing it to you while he whispers to the other guys at the table. You ignore the whispers of “Bucky” “What’s her name?” and “that video.”
You take a sip of the drink, fruity punch flavor coating your mouth and a slight burn traveling down your throat. It’s fruity, sweet, and there’s something else you can’t figure out.
You soon found yourself in the middle of the crowd, body swaying to the music, letting yourself have fun. You didn’t care where Bucky or Nat were, you were doing your own thing, whatever your own thing was, and trying to make it seem like you knew what you were doing. (Does anyone here really know what they’re doing?) There was foggy smoke all around you, smelling somewhat herbal but also kind of gross, but you just ignored it. You had your fruity little drink in hand, music in your ears, and not a care in the world. Nat would be proud of you, letting lose and getting down.
Two hands found your waist, your ass, and slid up your sides. You turned around quickly before seeing who it was. You smiled.
“Hey Buck!” A smile crossing your face, whatever was in your drink had you feeling a little looser, louder, more talkative. Your hands trailed up Bucky’s arms as you both swayed to the music. His thick muscular biceps felt electric under your soft dainty fingers. His eyes raked over your body, staring at you like a predator who’s locked eyes on it’s newest prey. Animalistic and heavy. His eyes trailed from your pretty little tipsy smile to the shiny necklace placed perfectly between your tits, to the sticky sweet borrowed red shirt, to your itsy bitsy little black mini skirt that definitely had your ass on display for the entire party.
“I started to think you weren’t coming, sweet cheeks.” Bucky smiled, hands roaming your body wherever they pleased. His hands settled on your waist with a possessive manner. He smelled like the clouds of smoke in the room, and his breath smelled like beer.
“Oh no! I’m sorry! I could’ve texted you!” You replied anxiously, going to open your phone and show him the text you’d planned to send to him. Bucky just laughed.
“It’s all good doll. No need to fret.” He laughs as he spins you, your ass straight on his bulging crotch. Your body feels so loose you can’t help but grind on him to the beat of the music, feeling yourself, feeling him, feeling the vibrations of the bass has your body all hot and sweaty in more ways than one.
You guys dance for awhile, letting Bucky’s hands roam aimlessly while he mindlessly flicks through his phone, seemingly waiting on something.
Bucky pulls you into his arms and leans into your ear, whispering soft and sensual,
“You ready babe? I wanted to have some fun with you tonight.” He grins at you devilishly, eyes flickering with something more than just fun.
You smile and nod as his hand slips into yours, dragging you through the sweaty bodies and off the dance floor. He cornered you in a somewhat quiet hallway, pushing you gently against the wall before his hand cupped your face.
“I’m glad you listened to me,” he starts, words in between soft gentle kisses on the side of your neck. You drop your mostly empty cup on the floor while your hands fly to Bucky’s bicep and pitch black hair. You hum quietly as he decorates your neck with his spit. Lips, tongue, teeth, your neck is bared to all.
“Well you asked me to come and wear a skirt. Nat told me I wasn’t allowed to wear one of my normal skirts. I had a cute little black one picked out with my purple cardigan but Wanda told me I couldn’t wear it. I hope this is okay…” Bucky cuts you off with a kiss to your lips. He grabs your ass with primal need as you yelp helplessly.
“It’s perfect baby. Seeing you on that dance floor with your ass out for the entire party gave me a boner.” He whispers into your ear, you giggle helplessly. “Made me want to take you right there on the DJ table and show the whole party who you belong to.”
“Bucky!” You cry out, hiding your face in your hands.
“What? I’m just telling the truth!” he laughs, biting your earlobe playfully.
“But thats dirty!” You squeal as your face heats up, still covered by the safety net of your hands.
“Not as dirty as all the things we’re about to do, doll.” Bucky flashes that playboy smile at you, melting your knees and your pussy sooner than you can ask what things you’re doing.
He takes you by the hand again, furiously texting on his phone with the other.
You quickly made it to a room you recognized as Bucky’s, remembering the last time you were here made your face and your core heat up.
“So uhm, what did you have in mind?” You ask awkwardly, you’re fiddling with the hem of your skirt, really noticing how tiny it is now.
“Well sweets, I got this friend, one of our new pledges, he needs some help. Thought you and I could help him.”
You smiled sheepishly, you were always willing to help people!
But then, you weren’t exactly sure how this was helping.
You were laid on Bucky’s bed, knees up in the air as Bukcy was rubbing your clit through your underwear. You were already soaking wet while he talked to his friend.
You’d seen him before, a skinny little blonde boy who always sat in the front of the class, always ready to help the teacher or any student with anything. Never thought you’d see him in this setting, with him looking at your cute underwear up your skirt. Your pretty pink panties on display for both boys, and practically anyone who could walk into the room.
“Look Steve, I’m barely even touching her and you can see how already wet she is through her panties.” Steve nodded, almost ready to pull out a pencil and paper to take notes. “Gotta find a girl like this, but they’re not very easy to come by. I got lucky with this one.” Bucky continues to play with your clit, pointing out the growing wet spot on your pretty pink panties.
Bucky’s pace is tortuously slow, letting Steve watch the way your legs shook and the soft moans you let out. You were biting your lip to hold back your noises, nervous with the new person in the room, or maybe it was the fact that anyone could walk in at any moment. But that also kind of turned you on. You weren’t really sure how to feel right now, all your blood and hormones traveling straight to your pussy.
Bucky notices the strain on your face, his hands stop and he caresses your leg tenderly, comforting, not at all evil. “Come on pretty girl, let him know how good it feels when I touch you like this. Poor Steve’s probably never gonna get some pussy. This is as close as he’ll ever get to one. You’re helping him a lot, sweets.” Bucky coos, patting your thigh as you twitch helplessly.
Bucky presses down harder, making his circles tighter, giving delicious pressure to your clit through your panties. You let out a loud moan, and a pathetic Buckyy pleaseee.
“Look Steve.” Bucky had pulled your underwear to the side, showing your glistening pussy. You were practically dripping already, your panties and Bucky’s fingers soaked.
“Wow Buck, she’s so wet!” Steve exclaimed.
Bucky stopped touching you momentarily, leaving you whining. You felt cold air on your pussy before you even registered that he’d taken your panties off. He pressed your knees to your chest, putting your entire pussy on display.
You could see the toes of your shoes just beyond your knees, you wrapped your arms tightly around them. Pressing your thighs together just a little bit of friction.
“Look Steve, could practically shove two fingers into this pussy. Barely even needs to be stretched, go on Steve, give it a try. You good with that, princess? I know I’m the only one who’s ever touched you there but I’m sure Steve will be gentle.” You let out a soft yes, back arching when Steve stuck one finger into your pussy.
“Woah.”
Bucky laughs, “You’re finally touching some pussy, man. Maybe little Stevie won’t die a virgin.”
“So, like what do I do? How do I make her feel… good?” Steve’s eyes can’t pick a spot to look at, your puffy pulsing pussy, your aching quivering legs, or a Bucky’s icy commanding gaze.
“However you want, this girl loves fucking anything. It’s why it’s good to pick out a virgin, they’re new and everything feels good.Try something.”
The air goes still, and you peek between your legs to see that Bucky’s grabbed Steve’s fingers, placed them in his own mouth, and is decorating his fingers with his saliva.
It’s incredibly hot.
Even more so when Steve’s spit covered fingers enter your sloppy pussy, you can’t help but quiver and shake as your pussy pulses around his fingers.
Steve slowly moves his finger in and out of your pussy, relishing the moans and slickness your body lets out. The way your pussy is glistening in the lowlight has Steve mesmerized. The sight alone has him pulled in, and the way your pussy sucks his finger back in has him close to cumming in his pants.
You hear Bucky and Steve conversing, lost in your own pleasure and you can’t find a map to bring you to be able to understand.
You whine when Steve’s finger leaves your gaping hole, even one finger has you feeling full, and so empty when it’s gone. No wonder you’re so obsessed with Bucky’s cock.
Bucky lets your legs rest, opening them up to show the top of your pussy. He pulls at the top, pulling the hood of your vulva up and exposing your clit to the cold air. You shiver at the feeling, squealing when Bucky playfully blows on it.
“See that? That’s her clit. She fucking loves getting that played with. That’s where I was touching her through those cute panties. Give her some love, spit on it.”
“But, why? She’s so wet, does she need it?” Steve questions, curious but willing.
“No, but she wants it. I bet her poor pussy is squeezing at the thought of it. Right, pretty girl?”
You’re too out of it to answer, letting all the pleasure go to your head, it flows through your veins like a deadly poison, infecting ever inch of your body until you can’t breathe.
It upsets Bucky when you don’t answer, enough for him to give you a quick back handed slap to your clit. His knuckles catch on your clit, making it feel that much better. You let out a little yelp whine, before trying to pay more attention to Bucky’s words.
“I’m trying to teach here, baby girl.” He chides. “You like when I spit on this tight little pussy, right babe?” He asks again.
You whine out, “Y-yes Bucky! It feels so good!” You manage to get out, the words heavy and cotton on your honeyed tongue.
“Good girl,” and that has you pussy clenching on air (the boys noticed) “See Steve. This is how lucky I got with this one. She likes everything and knows how to listen.”
Steve nods intently, still itching to dive back deep into your pussy. To study it like he does his textbooks, to trace every curve and bend with his fingers, or his tongue. To study the noises and the twitching of your pleasure.
“Sometimes you might have a girl who needs a little extra lube, or you get the ones like this who could cum at the thought of you spitting on her. Go on, Steve.”
You hear the sound of Steve spitting, the wetness landing almost directly on your asshole.
“Well damn Steve. Work on your aim!” Bucky teases him, before spitting directly on your clit. It gives you a jolt, your pussy clenching around nothing, again.
“Touch her right there Steve, that little nub. She’ll be screaming in seconds once you give her some attention.” Bucky instructs. “I mean, you remember what a mess she was when she had her panties on!”
Steve listens to him, touching your neglected clit. He barely taps it, just a gentle nudge, but your entire body shakes with a loud moan.
“Mmph! Fuck!” You cry out, as Steve plays with your clit. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, just rubbing aimlessly. It’s messy, it’s sloppy, it’s novice, but it feels so good.
“Legs up slut. Steve needs a better angle.” Bucky pushes your legs back up, making you hold your knees to your chest.
Your legs are spread open wide, like Steve and Bucky are about to study for an anatomy test, of your pussy.
“You gotta put some effort into it if you want her to cum. Like this.” Bucky pushed Steve’s hand away, replacing his softer, nerdy, fingers with Bucky’s more callous, athletic, ones.
While Steve’s fingers were studying you, taking their time to bring you to the top, Bucky’s fingers are dominating, pushing you up that hill of ecstasy.
You feel two fingers glide across your clit, rubbing in a circle motion. It has you moaning and bucking your hips, begging for Bucky to give you more.
Bucky goes faster, and you feel a familiar finger enter your tight hole. Now that Bucky and Steve have been playing with your clit and fanning the flames of your arousal, it’s not enough stimulation, you’re so used to Bucky’s huge cock.
“Please! Buck! Steve! I need more!” You cry out, hips bucking like a mechanical bull. Bucky laughs at your begging.
“Give her another finger Steve, since she’s been such a good girl.”
Suddenly two fingers are messily thrusting into your pussy, Bucky speeds up his fingers, instructing Steve how to do exactly what he’s doing.
“Flip your hand over so your palms up, yeah good boy Stevie.” Bucky teases, but you can feel the flutter of his fingers and hear the tiny whimper he lets out, and it just turns you on even more.
“Okay now, move your fingers like you’re trying to pull her closer.” Steve manages to hit your g spot just right in a way that has you screaming and begging to cum.
Your saccharine whines and begs are like a symphony to their ears, both boys are desperate for anything and everything.
“God Buck, she’s so- Fuck man I’m hard.” Steve lets out, panting heavily, embarrassment seeping into his voice, it drips through his words like honey and milk, sweet and ambrosial. His tone makes him sound like an ashamed little puppy dog, sad, submissive, ready to learn. Makes your wet pussy even wetter. The thought of sweet Steve Rogers embarrassed by pitching a tent while just playing with your pussy has your core burning. Your pussy is practically drooling at the thought of Steve’s embarrassment and Bucky’s domination ready to rip you to shreds.
“Go ahead, Steve, pull your dick out. I’m sure she’ll give it some love later. She’s a good girl.”
Your pussy loses Steve’s fingers as he quickly unzips his jeans and pulls his cock out, you hear a hiss as fingers enter your cunt again. Steve is panting as he slowly jerks his cock to fingering your cunt. Your pussy tightens even more, so incredibly turned on by the thought of it and you can’t even see it.
You can’t see the way soft, long, slender fingers slowly stroke Steve’s dick, which is practically making a puddle of precum on the floor. You don’t see the way his mouth is agape at the sight of your pussy being abused by two different men.
You don’t see the way Bucky’s thicker calloused fingers wrap around Steve’s soft thin fingers, and how he helps his underclassment stroke his own cock. You don’t see the way Steve almost draws blood biting his lower lip to hold back his sweet soft salacious moans. You don’t see Steve’s soft blue eyes lock into Bucky’s icy hard ones, or the way both boys are torn between staring at each other or your velvety folds.
The unmistakable coil in your gut is tightening, your body is practically vibrating with pleasure. Your fingers find purchase in the sheets, pretty manicured nails almost ripping holes in the cheap university provided fabric.
You can barely form the words as they fly off your tongue. “Buck- shit. I’m so close! I’m gonna cum. I’mgonnacum!” Bucky and Steve’s fingers are working together to bring you to orgasm, the perfect combination to have you unraveling.
It hits you hard, like bright paint splattering a canvas. Splatters of red passion, pink lust, and white ecstasy mixing in your mind, body and blood, all over the walls. Your body tenses as the release of pleasure has your pussy clenching so hard it forces Steve’s fingers out, Bucky’s entire hand is rubbing your clit now like a mad man.
After being hit by a train, Bucky still doesn’t stop. His fingers practically vibrate over your clit, nonstop movement despite you screaming “oh god!” “too much!” and “Bucky please!” Your body is tight and you can feel the pleasure building up. You don’t see as Bucky grabs Steve’s hand, but you feel the way Steve’s fingers enter your pussy again as Bucky tortures your clit.
You’re screaming, panting, sobbing, loud enough that the entire party can hear you, but the boys don’t relent.
The pressure and pleasure don’t stop until your orgasm overtakes you, your legs tense and your body tightens and you squirt all over the boys.
Steve hears and feels it before he sees it. He hears the wet hot squelching of his fingers crooked into your g-spot, deep, spongy, and pleasure filled. Steve almost gasps, watching you gush around his fingers. Bucky’s moan is deep, long, and low as his figure-eighting fingers collide with your long steady stream of ecstasy.
The way you scream is sexually depraved, your back is arched so high it could snap into two, your legs are so tense you could pull a muscle. It’s the best most intense feeling you’d ever had.
The boys watch in unison as one last spurt trickles out and around Steve’s finger. He’s so overwhelmed by his studious stupor that he can’t help but dive in and get a taste, tongue savoring and studying your juices. He’s got one hand holding your leg, his other hand tormenting your poor pussy. His mouth replaces Bucky's fingers as he practically licks you clean.
You’re still trying to calm yourself from your high, but the boys don’t care. You feel Steves mouth move away, his tongue relenting from its afflictions, just to be replaces by Bucky’s a moment later. Unlike Steve’s tongue, which was desperate and heady, Bucky is soft and tender, savoring you with all the time in the world. The boys are fighting over who gets to taste you, both heads between your legs as they slowly lick your nether regions.
Your screams subside to pants, as your knuckles give way to the sheets. Your body is dizzy while your mind is fuzzy, and your mind is shaking and your body is spinning. Your body feels limp and stiff, and your brain feels dumb and enlightened, all at once.
Steve pulls back, and sits there in awe, covered in and tasting your juices. Bucky’s tongue slows it’s pace and gives you reprieve. Everyone in the room is panting.
“You see that Steve? She just fuckin squirted all over you. That’s my good girl.” He gives your clit a few loving pats, jolting your entire body as you come down.
“Fuck man! She’s like- like straight out of some porno!” Steve gasps out.
Bucky just laughs at him, shoving two fingers back into your cunt, and then a third, just for good measure. The torture is relentless, but your pussy tightens around him, begging for more.
“Buckyyy-“ You whine.
“Do you need something, doll? You know you gotta ask for it.” He mocks you as he licks his fingers clean of your slick.
You whine, you bring yourself up to your elbows, barely able to look Bucky in the eye as the dirty words form on your lips in a way that would make the church ladies faint.
“I want your dick.” You mumble softly, words floating on clouds towards his ears, which practically perk up like a dog hearing it’s favorite words.
“You begging for this cock, huh baby?” You nod fervently.
“Alright baby. Give Stevie and I a show first.” You nod as you sit up on the bed, legs still shaking from your orgasm. But you obey Bucky, like always.
You gingerly take off your shirt, it’s mostly dry now, still a little bit sticky with whatever drink got spilled on you. You cups your covered breasts in your hands, giving them a little movement when you reach to take it off.
Steve’s in a pure state of disbelief and awe. He can’t believe this is happening. The way you carefully remove your bra straps, teasing them with your slow pace.
Steve’s jaw drops when you finally reveal yourself, it’s like he’d never see a pair before. Steve’s eyes are so laser focused you’re sure he’s about to bring out his notebook and take notes, or write poems about your tits.
Bucky just laughs at Steve, slapping him on the back. All your left in is your pretty little skirt, no shirt, no bra, no panties, no dignity.
“Alright alright. Ass up baby girl.” Bucky declares.
You quickly get into position, listening to Bucky’s pants fall to the ground and his quiet words instructing Steve. You hear Steve shuffling too, before he sits down right in front of you. His cock is still out, didn’t even bother to take his pants or underwear off, just pulled down enough to let his cock through.
Bucky finally gets into position, slapping your ass once he’s behind you. The pretty skirt you put on earlier is flipped up for a clear view of your ass.
“Come on pretty girl, give Steve’s cock some love. Thank him for giving you such a good orgasm.” You nod intently, coming up on your elbows to come eye to tip with Steve’s dick. It’s far different from Bucky’s shorter, skinnier, not as veiny, but still, pretty. The tip is bright pink and shiny with precum. Poor thing looks like it’s been neglected all night.
You give a small lick to his tip, tasting salt and Steve as you wait for his reaction. It comes out as a soft breathy moan, giving you pride, you continue. The noise he makes is inexperienced, embarrassed, heavenly.
You slowly lick from the bottom to the top, relishing in the high pitchy moans that escape Steve’s throat. The noises are foreign to his tongue. He sounds like a student learning a completely new language. You spit in your hand, using it as lube to spread all over his cock, letting him enjoy it before finally taking it in your mouth.
The second your mouth is fully on him, Bucky shoves his cock deep into you.
Even though Steve’s dick isn’t very long, Bucky’s thrust has you so deep you’re gagging on him, nose always to his mons pubis. Steve chokes back a moan as you choke on his dick.
Bucky doesn’t give you a moment to adjust, his pace almost unbearable. The way he pounds your pussy is familiar and comfortable. He knows what he’s doing, he knows he won’t break you.
But Steve on the other hand, his hands are fluttering everywhere, unable to decide where he wants them. He can’t keep them still but he doesn’t want to disrespect you or Bucky by touching you.
Bucky sighs, stopping his movements while you whine. He leans over you, grabbing Steve’s hands in his own and placing them on your head.
“She’s not made of glass Steve.” Steve nods. “I promise you won’t break her.”
Steve’s eyes widen, he doesn’t believe Bucky.
Bucky sighs again, tapping your hips. You slowly and hazily turn around, wincing as Bucky slaps your ass as it moves away from him. Now your ass is in front of Steve as he clumsily takes his pants off. And your mouth is in front of Bucky's long cock, just like that first time you guys had met.
Steve’s eyes glisten the way your pussy gleams, as he slowly strokes his cock.
“Just shove it in there Stevie. We don’t got all day.”
Gently, Steve grasps your hips, one hand wrapped around his shaft, and uses it to slap your clit. You moan, groaning louder and deeper the farther he went into your sopping wet hole.
He continued his slow gentle pace, still treating you like fragile glass, while Bucky fucked your mouth rough and hard.
Bucky, irritated with Steve’s carefulness, slams into your mouth, choking you with his cock, all the way back onto Steve’s cock. Steve is buried completely to the hilt, both of you screaming in ecstasy. Your vibrations carry up Bucky’s shaft, pulling at hisnerves and making him twitch.
“Come on Steve. She’s a slut, show her who you are.”
It finally settles in Steve, when he grabs your arms and uses them as leverage to fuck you. Your chest falls to the bed, making your mouth open wider for Bucky’s cock.
As if on cue, the door slams open to a group of a dozen boys with bright flashy cameras. It seems like with Bucky you can never avoid them.
The boys gather around, whooping loudly as Bucky and Steve are handed beers.
You can barely see anything, the way your ass is in the air being pounded by Steve, your tits pressed into the bed, your arms pinned tightly to your back, and your nose being buried in Bucky’s hairs.
Steve let’s put an embarrassed yelp, taking the beer like a prized possession.
“Come on Steve, you gotta drink the beer for the initiation to work!” Someone teases.
It dawns on you, you realize that you're being used for humiliation and someone’s pleasure. You’re an object used for someone’s trick.
Why is that so hot?
Why does that make you cry and pulse around Bucky’s and Steve’s cocks?
Why does Steve pounding your poor sweet pussy while beer dribbles from his chin to your ass crack make you start to squirt for the second time?
Why do the other boys' cheers and chants while squirt pulses out from you like a water gun, make you want to be used for the entire rushing class?
“There we go. That’s my good girl.” Bucky mocks you as Steve abuses your velvety dripping hole. “You want a beer baby?” he asks calmly, cupping your chin. You can barely form words, somewhat embarrassed but incredibly horny over the fact that theres so many people watching you. You shrug, a hint of uneasiness because you’ve never really had beer.
You’ve also never been fucked stupid with a cock in your mouth in front of a dozen people, but theres always a chance to try new things, right?
Bucky brings you up, telling Steve to slow down a little bit.
Steve grunts a few times, barely holding back his own orgasm.
“Come on Steve, let her have a drink first.” Steve obliges, slowing to a torturous pace, feeling every ridge and vein and the perfect little tip scrapping your entire pussy.
Bucky lets you grab onto his body like an anchor, slowly feeding you the rest of his beer can. You swallow a little bit, before choking and spitting everywhere.
“Not a fan?” he chides. You shake your head, eyes falling back to his full mast cock. He laughs but he nods, letting you go back to choking on him while he finishes his beer.
Steve returns his pace, whining and grunting, holding your hips like they owe him money. “Oh Buck- I’m- I’m gonna cum.” Steve whines, pitful and needy.
Bucky laughs loudly. “Well, ask the lady!” He pulls his cock from your mouth. “Where do you want Stevie to cum honey?”
Your brain is jumbled around and scrambled into a mess, but you can just barely make out the words “on me” before Bucky and his friends start howling.
“You heard her, Steve. Give the lady what she wants!”
Steve obliges, leaving your soaking pussy empty as he strokes his cock with quick fervent strokes. It’s messy the way he comes all over your back, white, hot and passionate.
The howling whooping boys finally leave the room once Steve is finished.
summary : You survive finals week and escape with Steve and Bucky to a snowy cabin for a perfect weekend until one question shatters it. The drive home is agony, followed by two weeks of crushing silence.
word count : 19,5k
warnings 18+ : college au, no use of y/n, explicit sexual content, threesomes, double penetration, anal/oral/vaginal sex, toys, semi-public acts, filming, masturbation (solo/mutual/encouraged), humiliation, squirting, overstimulation, heavy angst, heartbreak, betrayal, ghosting, miscommunication, fights, alcohol use (drunk sex), academic pressure, exhibitionism/voyeurism
author’s note : I literally cannot stfu 💀 I TRIED to make this shorter than the last part but somehow it ended up being longer… pls bear with me. splitting it into two parts felt like too much so I’m sorry it’s huge but you’ll take it like always <33 hope you enjoy!!
lesson 01 | masterpost | lesson 02
The locker room still stank, but now it was Axe, Monster energy, and the ghost of someone’s weed pen that had exploded in a backpack last week.
Practice had ended forty minutes ago; everyone else had peeled out to pre-game at Sigma Chi or crash before their 8 am’s. Only the leaky shower in the corner kept time, like it was personally invested in their suffering.
Steve was wrestling with a hoodie that had shrunk in the dorm dryer when Bucky kicked his locker shut hard enough to make the whole row shudder.
“You’re in love with her.”
Steve’s arm got stuck halfway through the sleeve. The towel around his waist slipped an inch. “The fuck did you just say?”
Bucky leaned back against the lockers in nothing but a towel riding so low it was basically performance art. His hair was still wet, dripping onto his collarbones. The smirk was there, but it looked like it hurt.
“Don't play dumb, Rogers. I was literally balls-deep in her ass last week and you locked eyes with her and dropped a ‘Love you, baby’ like you were about to whip out a ring in the middle of the fucking threesome.”
Steve yanked the hoodie down so hard he almost strangled himself. His face went nuclear. “It slipped, alright? Christ.”
“Slipped,” Bucky echoed, deadpan. He pushed off the lockers and stalked forward until Steve could smell the Irish Spring on him. “You’ve been ‘slipping’ since she explained integrals to you in the library and you got hard over the fundamental theorem of calculus.”
Steve dropped onto the bench like his legs had given up. The wood was cold against his bare thighs. He scrubbed his hands through his hair; water flew everywhere. “Fine. I’m in love with her. Happy now, you absolute dick?”
The smirk died a quick, ugly death.
Bucky dropped onto the bench next to him, hard enough that their shoulders knocked and stayed pressed together, neither of them bothering to shift apart. His hand curled into a tight fist on his thigh, knuckles going bloodless like he was still holding onto something he couldn’t let go.
“I’m not happy,” he muttered. “I’m fucking spiraling.”
Steve twisted to face him. “Buck?”
Bucky stared at the scuffed tile floor like it owed him money. “Because I’m in love with her too. And this? Us? We don’t do this shit, man. We hook up, we ghost, we send each other the memes the next day like nothing happened. We've never kept anyone around longer than a hangover”
Steve’s heart was trying to punch its way out of his ribcage. “So what, we just keep pretending we’re chill splitting her like a Netflix account until one of us snaps and she picks?”
Bucky’s laugh scraped out, half-choke, half-wheeze. “Yeah. Picture Thanksgiving. ‘Hey, Mom, meet Steve. Meet Bucky. They take turns railing me, we're still beta-testing the ‘boyfriend’ title. Where’s the gravy?’
She’d pass out. My Ma’s already got the rosary beads out, praying for my soul. Yours would just hit you with that patented disappointed stare, the one that says ‘I raised you better than sharing a girl like it’s fantasy football.’”
Steve let out a breath that was supposed to be a laugh but landed somewhere exhausted and hollow. “Nah, she’d lead with the veggies lecture, ‘Are you boys getting your greens?’ then pivot straight to the condom talk, like we're fifteen again.”
Bucky’s mouth twitched, the corner lifting in a half-smile that almost felt real. “Point is, we’re not the boyfriend type. We’re the guys moms warn their daughters about. Except I’m done pretending it’s casual when it’s not and yeah, admitting that out loud is fucking terrifying.”
The drip from the shower kept going, counting down to something awful.
Steve swallowed so hard his throat clicked. “If we tell her and she picks one of us-”
“Then the other one’s the loser who fell in love and got traded,” Bucky finished. His voice cracked; he didn’t bother hiding it this time. “And everything gets weird forever. We lose her. We lose each other. I can’t-” He cut himself off, jaw clenched so tight the muscle jumped.
Steve nodded once, slow. “So we shut up.”
“We shut up,” Bucky agreed, too fast, like he’d been drowning and someone finally threw him a rope made of barbed wire.
They sat there a moment longer, the leaky shower still dripping its relentless countdown in the corner, the fluorescent lights buzzing.
Steve stared at the floor, scrubbing a hand over his face. Bucky leaned forward, elbows on his knees, knuckles white as he clenched and unclenched his fists.
“We are so unbelievably fucked,” Bucky finally muttered, voice hollow.
“Yeah,” Steve rasped. He pushed off the bench, grabbing his jeans from the floor. “Until we figure out how to not nuke everything good in our lives, yeah.”
Bucky rose too. His towel finally surrendered and hit the ground. He didn’t even look down.
“I hate us,” he muttered.
“Same,” Steve said.
They got dressed without talking, moving around each other in the same cramped space they’d shared since freshman year. Elbows bumped, hips knocked, same as always.
Bucky slung his backpack on, paused at the door. “If she ever calls us on the bullshit, why we didn’t say anything…”
Steve met his eyes. They were red-rimmed, exhausted. “We tell her we were scared.”
Bucky’s laugh was barely qualified as sound. “Understatement of the fucking millennium.”
They walked out together, heading back to their dorm, two idiot quarterbacks still too scared to gamble the only thing that had ever felt like home.
It’s been three days since the locker room.
The campus café is a war zone: line to the door, some sophomore crying into a $9 cold brew, barista screaming “MADDY-SIN” like the name personally ran over her dog.
You’re already camped in the shitty corner booth nobody else wants, the one with the ripped red vinyl and the table that wobbles like it’s had one too many. Your iced caramel oat-milk latte is sweating a ring onto your notes, and you’re pretending to give a damn about glycolysis when they walk in.
Steve slides in next to you like he owns the seat, thick thigh slamming against yours. Hoodie sleeves shoved up, hair still wet from practice, smelling like cheap body wash and desperation.
Bucky drops across from you hard enough to make the whole table jump, hand slapping down a crumpled Google Maps directions. Big red circle around some Airbnb cabin that looks like it was built by horny lumberjacks who only owned axes and lube.
He leans in hard, elbows digging into the wobbly table like he’s staking territory, that crooked smirk plastered on but his eyes are blown-out red and running on fumes. He smells like four Red Bulls and bad decisions.
“We’ve been plotting,” he starts, voice rough from not enough sleep, “three-hour drive upstate. Place is in the middle of fucking nowhere, no bars, no roommates blasting Skrillex at four am. Just snow, a fireplace and a hot tub built for three and whatever the hell we didn’t finish last week.”
Steve’s already got your hand under the table, fingers locked tight around yours like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go. His thumb keeps sweeping over your knuckles, slow and shaky, more for him than for you. He leans in close enough that his breath hits your ear, low and wrecked, “Long weekend, baby. No neighbors. No rules. Just us.”
His eyes flick to Bucky for half a second, quick, worried check-in before sliding back to you, all gravel and pleading.
You take a slow sip of your drink, let the ice clink, and raise an eyebrow. “Adorable. Except we locked in terms, remember? Ninety-five or better on chem midterms, or nobody gets to fuck me in a hot tub or anywhere for that matter.”
You lean forward just a touch, lips curving into a wicked little smile. “So, boys… remind me again. How’d those grades turn out?”
They trade a look, Steve pink, Bucky clenching his jaw so hard you hear it.
Steve coughs into his fist. “Ninety-eight. Clean.”
Bucky mutters into his steaming black coffee, the words dragging out like they’re caught on something sharp. “Ninety-four…”
Silence. You let it sit there, heavy and mean.
Then you uncoil a smile, slow, edged like broken glass dipped in honey. “Aw, tragic. But rules are rules: ninety-five from both of you. Guess it’s just me and Stevie peeling out for the pines. You can bunker down here Barnes, drilling polyatomic ions till they sing you to sleep.”
Bucky lets his forehead drop onto the table with a solid thud, the vinyl whining in protest. “You’re literally killing me. This is planned murder with a bonus round of cruelty.”
Steve's fingers clamp down on yours, voice dipping into that wrecked rasp that arrow-straights to your core.
“Please, baby. Cut him a break, just this once. He’ll handle your laundry for the whole semester, I swear. Venmo you two hundred bucks right now. Hell, I’ll even toss him the Jeep keys and let this maniac take the wheel. And those toys... the ones you whispered about wanting to try? He’ll bring every single one, whatever you need, no questions, no hesitation. Come on, sweetheart, say yes, for us?”
“Shut up man- please, just... I’m a damn good driver, I swear,” Bucky mumbles desperately, his words slurring against the scarred wood, face pressed down like he's begging the table for mercy.
His voice cracks with a raw, pleading edge, eyes flicking up toward you with that wide, imploring stare. “And yes, baby every single one, I promise. Whatever you want, I’ll make it happen. Just... give me a chance here?”
A soft, teasing laugh bubbles from your lips as you tilt your head, eyes sparkling with amusement at their desperate antics. “You boys are so cute when my pussy’s on the line,” you murmur, voice laced with playful mockery that hides the thrill racing through you.
You rise slowly, deliberately, your bag slipping onto your shoulder with a casual flick. The vinyl booth clings to the backs of your thighs before releasing with a sharp, sticky rip that echoes in the charged air, drawing their gazes lower.
“You’ve got until tomorrow to turn that 94 into a 95 Barnes,” you say, your tone firm but edged with that knowing challenge, lips curving into a smirk. “I hear Banner curves if you get on your knees and cry pretty enough, maybe you should practice that look right now.”
You’re halfway to the door, the bell above it jingling faintly in anticipation, when Bucky’s voice explodes through the café like a thunderclap, raw and unfiltered, turning every head in the place.
“I’LL SUCK HIS DICK FOR THAT POINT IF I HAVE TO!”
Beside him, Steve chokes violently on his macchiato, the hot liquid spraying from his nose in a messy arc, his eyes watering as he coughs and sputters, caught between horror and helpless laughter, his broad shoulders shaking.
You don’t glance back, not even a peek but the grin splitting your face is downright devilish, wicked and satisfied, as you push through the door into the crisp winter air.
It nips at your flushed cheeks, a sharp contrast to the heat pooling low in your belly, your thighs slick and sticking with every step across the frost-kissed campus paths. Just picturing their panic, the way they’d scramble and beg, has you drenched, aching with anticipation.
They’ll fix it. Oh, they always do especially when the prize is you, wrapped up and waiting like the ultimate reward.
Bucky shoulders through the sex-shop door so hard the bell gives a half-assed ding-dong like it’s personally embarrassed for them.
Place still smells like someone tried to hotbox the latex stench with a Bath & Body Works clearance rack and lost. Neon signs buzz pink and purple overhead, turning Steve’s ears the color of expired ham.
Steve’s got his hood up like he’s on a wanted poster, cap brim so low he’s basically blind. Bucky’s vibrating hard enough to power a small city, hoodie flapping open, pacing the aisle like a caged coyote.
“She’s bluffing,” Steve mutters for the eighth time, thumbing the trigger on a purple rabbit vibrator like he’s checking if a melon’s ripe. Bzzzzt. “She’s just fucking with our heads.”
Bucky snorts, snatches a star-shaped jewel plug off the wall and yeets it into the basket. CLANG.
“Tomorrow, Rogers. That’s fourteen hours to beg for one pity point to bump my 94 to a 95.” He shoots a dry, miserable look. “Otherwise I’m stuck jerking off in my bed while you two send me heart emojis from the hot tub.”
Steve eyes the sparkly star with a raised brow, lips twitching. “Going straight disco ball on her ass now? Bold move, Buck. Jumping from a cute little heart to peak star-spangled patriotism. Very on-brand for you.”
“Shut the fuck up,” Bucky hisses, but he’s already grinning. “It’s for science, alright? Different shapes, different sensations… brand-new ways for her to completely fucking destroy me.”
He snags the next size up, a hefty beast of a plug with ridges that promise sweet torment and waves it like a trophy or a threat. “This look like the face of a man who’s gambling with his dick, Steven?”
Steve bursts out a snort so forceful he nearly fumbles the vibrator, shoulders shaking with barely contained laughter. “You're such a drama queen. She thrives on this, watching us spiral like the world's ending.”
Bucky spins, fingers rattling a row of glitter dildos that look like Lisa Frank threw up on a dick. “I’ll deep-throat Banner’s red pen if that’s what it takes. I’ll write the man fucking limericks about titration. I’ll-”
“Batteries first, you poetic bastard,” Steve interrupts, chucking four packs of AAs into the basket with a smirk. “And don't forget that tripod you're claiming is for 'candid nature photography.' We both know better.”
Bucky flips him off, but his grin turns feral, all teeth and promise. “Plan B’s croissants and crocodile tears. I’m versatile.”
They dump the haul on the counter. Raven, purple buzzcut, septum ring, zero fucks left to give, starts scanning.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
She glances at the mountain of chaos, then at the two overgrown football bros sweating like they’re in a lineup. “Y’all good?”
Bucky leans on the counter like a man who’s aged ten years in an hour. “Define good.”
Raven just smirks harder. “$186.42. Bag or campus parade?”
Steve slaps down two hundreds like he’s trying to bribe his way out of hell. “Bag. Black. Opaque. Preferably lead-lined.”
Raven slides the receipt across. “Have fun, weirdos.”
As they stumble back into the freezing air, Bucky’s already muttering under his breath, half-laughing at himself, the bag of toys clinking together like a guilty little parade with every step.
Steve snags the bag from Bucky’s hand, slinging it over his own shoulder like it weighs nothing. The toys inside give another incriminating clink as they settle.
He glances at Bucky with a crooked, knowing grin. “You still think she’s bluffing?”
Bucky keeps his eyes glued to the sidewalk, hands shoved deep in his pockets. “If she’s actually bluffing, fine. If not…” He huffs a laugh that sounds more like surrender. “I’m changing my major to Professional Kneeling.”
Steve almost eats pavement laughing. “Move, clown. Office hours close in fifteen. Go beg for your life.”
The science building after six is a mausoleum: lights flickering like they’re on their last prayer, hallways smelling like scorched coffee and broken dreams. Banner’s office door is cracked open, a single wedge of warm light slicing the gloom like a distress flare for the academically damned.
Bucky doesn’t knock, he just shoves the already-ajar door wide with his boot and barrels in. Steve follows right on his heels.
Banner looks up from the corpse of a freshman lab report, red pen still dripping. One slow blink behind the glasses, then the sigh of a man who has seen every possible flavor of student desperation and is tired of the menu.
“Barnes. Rogers. To what do I-”
Bucky hits the floor. Full dramatic collapse, knees thudding into the carpet hard enough to rattle the periodic-table poster on the wall.
“Dr. Banner, I’m begging. One point. One measly, pathetic point. I’ll tattoo the Henderson-Hasselbalch equation on my ass. I’ll never call stoichiometry ‘math with extra steps’ again. I’ll-”
“You got a 94,” Banner says, flat. “That’s an A minus. Most students would kill for that.”
“It’s a death sentence,” Bucky croaks, voice cracking like he’s thirteen and his balls just dropped. “She’s leaving me behind with nothing but my hand and a tub of lube while he-” he jerks a thumb at Steve, who suddenly finds the ceiling fascinating, “gets the entire weekend in a hot tub.”
Steve clears his throat, steps forward, and gently sets the bag down on the floor. “Professor, any chance for a tiny bit of extra credit? A curve? Hell, even rounding up for good behavior?”
Steve’s voice dips, “He’s got some real… pressing circumstances depending on hitting that 95.”
Banner’s gaze flicks to the bag, then back to the two disasters currently having a joint nervous breakdown in his office. Something that might be pity or maybe just exhaustion flickers across his face.
He leans back, chair creaking like it’s in on the joke. “No curve. But there is an optional make-up practical tomorrow morning. Nine am sharp. One hour. Stoichiometry and acid-base. Nail a perfect score, I bump you to 95. Anything less, this conversation never happened.”
Bucky’s head snaps up so fast his neck pops like a glow stick. “I’ll be here at eight-thirty with a latte and a tie. I’ll wear slacks. I’ll-”
“Nine,” Banner repeats, already turning back to his bloodbath of grading. “And Barnes? Leave the theatrics outside. Just balance the damn equation.”
Steve yanks Bucky up by the hoodie before he can drop again or propose. “Thank you, Doc. Seriously.”
They spill out of the science building into the biting dark, breath fogging, the black bag crackling between them like it’s full of contraband fireworks.
Nat’s gone, some “totally platonic hangout” with the archer chick that’s definitely ending with her skirt around her ankles in a car somewhere, so the dorm is dead silent except for the mini-fridge’s dying wheeze and the lavender diffuser pretending everything’s calm.
You’re hunched over your desk in Bucky’s hoodie and leggings, hair twisted into a frantic knot, surrounded by biology flashcards, a half-colored diagram of glycolysis, and your open textbook bleeding sticky notes. Your final is on Friday, your eyes are burning, caffeine’s fading fast, and every time you try to remember the steps of cellular respiration, your brain just shuts off.
Your phone buzzes, FaceTime, Steve calling.
You answer with a murderous glare, propping the phone against your mug so they get the full view of your frazzled, stressed-out face. “This better be important. I’m trying to not fail bio here.”
“Hey, pretty girl,” Steve says, voice warm and low. “Just checking in. How’s the bio grind?”
“Hell,” you snap, rubbing your temple hard enough to leave a red mark. “I’m one chromosome away from a meltdown.”
Bucky’s smirk widens. He lifts the bag slightly into view, thick, heavy, soft clink inside then pulls it back out of sight. “We’ve got something that might help you… relax.”
You narrow your eyes. “If that bag is full of toys you’re about to tease me with while I’m trying to memorize the Krebs cycle, I will end this call and block both of you until after finals.”
Steve’s mouth twitches, amused, but his eyes soften with sympathy. Bucky, undeterred, leans closer. “Come on, doll. One little surprise. You know you’d feel better.”
“No,” you bite out, voice cracking with exhaustion and irritation. “I need to pass this final, not get off. And you-” you point straight at Bucky through the screen “-maybe worry about your own grades instead of trying to derail mine. Still rocking that 94 Barnes? Because until that’s fixed, you don’t get to play with anything in that bag, least of all me.”
The words come out sharper than you meant, stress turning them into razors. Bucky’s smirk falters completely, eyes widening a fraction.
Steve clears his throat, trying to smooth it over. “Baby, we were just-”
But Bucky cuts in, quieter now, almost sheepish. He rubs the back of his neck. “Actually… makeup lab’s tomorrow morning. Nine sharp. Banner’s giving me one shot at a perfect score to bump it to a 95.”
The room feels suddenly smaller. You blink, the fight draining out of you in one breath, replaced by something warmer, softer.
Steve’s smile turns proud. “He’s been cramming all night. Guy’s gonna crush it.”
Bucky meets your eyes through the screen, the cockiness gone, just earnest now. “I’m not gonna let you down baby. Promise.”
You exhale shakily, the tension in your shoulders loosening just a fraction. “You better,” you murmur, voice still rough but no longer sharp. “Because if you get that 95… that bag better make the trip to the cabin.”
Bucky’s grin returns, smaller this time, real. “Count on it.”
Steve leans closer, voice gentle. “Get some sleep after one more chapter, okay?”
You manage a tired half-smile. “Yeah, yeah. Now let me study.”
You hang up.
The screen goes black. The dorm is quiet again.
You drop your forehead to the open textbook with a muffled groan, half frustration, half reluctant heat.
The science building reeks of bleach and desperation. Bucky’s been camped out since 8:15, traded his hoodie for the one decent button-down he owns, hair actually neat for once. He’s gripping a venti oat-milk latte and a cranberry-orange scone like his life depends on it.
He knocks once.
“Come in.”
Banner’s already got the practical set up on the side counter: beakers, burettes, a row of reagents that look innocent and will absolutely fuck you if you blink wrong. The man himself is in the same tragic cardigan, sipping from the latte Bucky handed over like a bribe the second he walked in.
“Morning,” Banner says, not looking up from labeling a flask. “You ready to titrate or are we still in the dramatic begging phase?”
“I left the theatrics in the hallway, doc.” Bucky rolls his sleeves, cracks his neck, and steps up to the desk like it’s a boxing ring.
Banner slides the instructions over. “One hour. Stoichiometry problem set first, then the acid-base practical. 100% or you walk out with the same 94 you came in with. Clock starts… now.”
Bucky doesn’t answer with words. He just starts moving.
He weighs samples like a surgeon, pipettes like his life depends on it (because it literally does), labels every single drop of phenolphthalein turns the flask the perfect faint pink and he doesn’t even flinch, just keeps swirling, calm, steady, perfect.
Banner watches the whole time, arms crossed, occasionally scribbling something on his clipboard. He doesn’t say a word.
Fifty-six minutes later Bucky sets the last burette down, wipes his hands on a paper towel, and finally breathes.
Banner takes the answer sheet, scans it once, twice, then pulls up the gradebook.
Clicks.
94.00 → 95.00
“100% on the practical,” he says, voice flat like he’s reading the weather. “Congratulations, Mr. Barnes.”
Bucky lunges across the desk and full-on bear-hugs him, arms locked around Banner’s neck, face buried in sad cardigan.
“ThankyouthankyouHOLYSHIT-”
Banner makes a strangled noise. “Remove yourself before I dock you back to a 90.”
Bucky’s out the door before the sentence is finished.
Bucky 9:57am
95 baby
Bucky 9:57am
[screenshot of grade]
Bucky 9:58am
🍑🍆💦💦💦💦💦💦💦💦💦💦💦💦💦💦💦💦💦💦💦
He doesn’t wait for your reply.
He’s already sprinting across the quad, button-down half-untucked and flapping open in the wind, yelling “FUCK YES!” at the top of his lungs like he just won the goddamn lottery.
Somewhere in the distance a flock of crows takes off in terror.
Jacuzzi’s waiting.
And this weekend he’s not watching from the fucking kitchen table; he’s gonna be nine inches deep in the only pussy that matters while Steve records it in 4K.
You’re still dead to the world, tangled in the sheets and snoring softly, when Bucky’s SUV roars into the dorm lot around 10 am. Tires chirp on the asphalt as he slams the brakes and kills the engine, the bass thumping low for one last beat before it fades.
He fumbles the spare key you slipped him weeks back, the one for “emergencies only,” but this? This qualifies.
Your room’s still shrouded in morning gray, blinds cracked to let in slivers of winter light. You’re sprawled out in bed, dead to the world, wearing Steve’s old jersey that hangs loose on you like a nightshirt and those tiny cherry-print cotton boy-shorts that ride up just right. Suitcase on the floor half-packed, you’re curled up asleep, mouth parted softly, oblivious.
The door bangs against the wall as Bucky bursts in, no knock, no hesitation. He’s wired, bloodshot eyes gleaming with that manic triumph.
“95, baby,” he rasps, voice raw from exhaustion and victory. You stir awake, blinking groggily in the dim light. “Bucky? It’s barely morning- what the-”
He’s on the bed before you can finish, knees dipping the mattress, hands ripping the comforter away. But you’re not in the mood, not yet. You sit up, rubbing your eyes, taking him in: the wild hair, the desperate glow in his eyes. Pity hits you first, sharp and twisted.
“Oh, Buck,” you murmur, voice dripping with mock sympathy as you tilt your head. “You really begged Banner to fix your grade just for some pussy? That’s... sad. Pathetic, even.”
His face flushes, but he doesn’t back off, hovering there like he’s starving. You can see the bulge in his jeans already straining, and it only makes you smirk. “Look at you, getting hard over a stupid number on a screen. Pathetic little Bucky, so desperate for a win he’ll grovel to a professor.”
You reach out, teasing, trailing a finger down his chest through the shirt, then lower, palming him lightly over the denim. He groans, hips bucking into your hand involuntarily.
“Remember that tutoring lesson? When you ‘accidentally’ spilled water all over my tits, and I was so embarrassed I could’ve died? Who’s the embarrassing one now Buck? Hmm? Begging for scraps like this.”
He’s breathing heavy, eyes darkening with a mix of shame and heat, but he doesn’t pull away. You toy with him a little longer, stroking lazily through his jeans, watching him twitch and harden under your touch.
“So pathetic,” you whisper, leaning in close, lips brushing his ear. “So fucking pathetic, Bucky. Getting this worked up over a grade. Over me dangling pussy like a treat. What would Steve say if he knew how easy you are?”
That does it.
His hand snaps up, fingers clamping around your wrist, stopping your teasing stroke dead. His eyes go dark, dangerous, that switch flipping from pleading to predatory in a heartbeat.
“Steve?” he growls, voice low and rough, yanking you closer until you’re chest-to-chest. “Don’t worry about Steve right now, baby.”
Before you can fire back, he shoves two thick fingers into your mouth, pressing down on your tongue, making your words die in a wet little whimper. Your eyes widen, heat flooding your cunt instantly.
“That’s better,” he murmurs, smirking as you instinctively suck, cheeks hollowing. “No more talking about him. Right now this greedy mouth is busy, and this tight little pussy?”
He reaches down with his free hand, cupping you roughly over the cherry shorts, finding you already soaked. “This is all mine.”
He flips you onto your stomach in one smooth move, jersey rucked up to your armpits, shorts yanked off. You hear his zipper, the rustle of denim shoved down just enough, and then he’s dragging the thick head of his cock through your slick folds, coating himself.
You try to say something, Steve’s name, maybe a last little taunt but he thrusts in to the hilt in one brutal stroke, stretching you open, filling you so suddenly your back arches and the only sound you make is a broken, muffled moan around his fingers still in your mouth.
“Fuck,” he hisses, pulling your hips up higher, starting a punishing rhythm, deep, hard, relentless. “Told you not to worry about him. He’s not here. He doesn’t get to hear how fucking wet you are for me right now. How you’re already clenching like you’re gonna come just from me splitting you open.”
He curls his fingers in your mouth, pressing down, making you drool a little as you suck helplessly. His other hand grips your hip hard enough to bruise, angling you just right so every thrust drags over that spot that makes your eyes roll.
“Thought you could tease me, huh?” he pants against your ear, leaning over you, chest to your back. “Call me pathetic while you’re dripping down my balls? This what you wanted? Wanted me to shut that smart mouth up with my cock?”
You come hard, sudden and shattering, walls fluttering around him, moaning around his fingers like a desperate little thing. He groans, hips stuttering, and follows right after, burying deep, pulsing hot inside you, marking you in long, possessive spurts.
He stays pressed against your back for a long moment, both of you breathing ragged. Slowly, he slides his fingers from your mouth, letting you gasp properly, then presses a surprisingly soft kiss to your shoulder.
“Good girl,” he murmurs, voice gone soft and low, the sharp edge melted away as he presses a gentle kiss to your temple. “Shower, baby. Grab some breakfast. Your classes start in an hour; we’ll pick Steve up on the way to campus.”
You turn your head on the pillow, still floaty and breathless, lips swollen and tingling. The warmth of him is already slipping away, replaced by a hot, shameful twist of guilt deep in your stomach.
“You’re… not gonna tell him about this?” you whisper, voice barely there, fingers curling nervously into the sheets.
Bucky pauses, jeans half-zipped, shirt dangling from one hand. He looks at you for a long beat, something flickering across his face. Then he crawls back onto the bed, hand warm against your flushed cheek as he cups it.
“Why would I?” he says quietly, thumb stroking your bottom lip. “This was just us. A little morning celebration for my ninety-five.” His mouth quirks, not quite a smirk, but close. “Steve doesn’t need to know every time I make you fall apart before the sun’s even up.”
The guilt spikes harder, sharp and sour.
Bucky leans in, lips brushing yours in a slow, sealing kiss. “Our secret, doll,” he whispers against your mouth. “Makes it hotter, doesn’t it?”
You should argue. You should insist on telling Steve everything, like always. But the words don’t come. Instead you just nod, small and guilty, heart hammering.
He smiles, soft and dangerous, then finally stands. “Shower before you’re late. I’ll make coffee. Act normal when we get Steve; he’s got that 11 am lecture across campus.”
You watch him pull the hoodie on, casual as if he didn’t just come inside you while Steve’s name was still warm on your tongue.
He pauses at the door, glancing back. “Don’t wash me off completely,” he adds, voice low. “I like knowing I’m still dripping out of you while you’re sitting in class.”
The door clicks shut.
You lie there another minute, thighs pressed tight together, his come sticky and warm between them. Guilt burns in your chest, but so does the secret; heavy, electric, intoxicating.
You leave a little of him inside you in the shower. Just enough.
It’s just a normal Wednesday.
Except it isn’t.
It’s Friday afternoon, the day of your finals and after the boys are taking you to the cabin. The cold cuts straight through your coat and burrows into your bones like it’s moving in for the holidays.
Campus is deserted, dorms half-dark, parking lots empty except for frost-rimed stragglers. Everyone’s fled home or to warmer coasts, leaving the rest to claw through finals.
You’ve been holed up in the library since morning, grinding out your last bio exam on a stomach full of Red Bulls and burning eyes. Your brain’s mush. You’re drowning in black leggings, boots, and Bucky’s hoodie, the one that still carries his body wash and detergent, your only armor against the freeze.
You shove through the library doors into a wind that slaps hard, metallic with impending snow and bus fumes. Frozen leaves shatter under your boots.
They’re already at the curb, Steve’s black Jeep running, breath of white exhaust puffing into the air.
Steve leans on the hood in his peacoat, cheeks pink, holding a single red rose with that earnest charm that always works. Bucky’s beside him, phone up, filming your exhausted trudge with a smug grin.
“Wave for the fans, baby,” Bucky calls. “Proof you survived Banner’s final.”
You flip him off, hands numb from cold.
Nat appears like a shadow, smacks your ass sharply through the leggings, and murmurs, “Two days. No flashcards in bed. Safe word only if you mean it. Text if they get weird.” Then she’s gone, red hair swallowed by dusk.
Steve opens the back door like a gentleman. Bucky just hooks an arm around your waist and tosses you onto the warm leather seat. Heat blasts. The world narrows to pine freshener, their colognes and engine rumble.
Your suitcase is already stowed, packed at 3 am in a delirious haze while they spammed the group chat with filthy voice notes.
But beneath the thrill, guilt has been knotting your stomach for days.
It started two mornings ago when Bucky showed up alone, high off a makeup lab grade, eyes blazing. You meant to tease him, but he pinned you against the bed, hands everywhere, mouth desperate. It was fast, raw, him inside you on your unmade bed, calling you his girl while Steve’s absence loomed unspoken.
You told yourself it was just a secret celebration.
No harm.
But the guilt crashed in the moment he left, sour and relentless. You waited for Bucky to confess, for it to surface in the chat, nothing. Then the cabin trip locked in, and the secret grew heavier.
Now you’re in the back seat, sleeves tugged over frozen hands, Bucky’s warmth pressed against you. Steve drives, blond hair glowing under dashboard lights.
You stare at the back of Steve’s head and Bucky’s messy strands, wondering if they feel the weight you’re carrying, this shame like bricks in your chest.
You’ve stayed silent too. Just as guilty.
Steve meets your eyes in the mirror, smiles softly. “Buckled in, baby?”
You nod, force a smile.
Gravel spits as campus fades.
An hour and a half later, night has fallen, mountains black against a bruised sky. Snow drifts in fat flakes. Steve pulls into an empty overlook, pines sagging with fresh powder.
“Bathroom and snacks,” he says, killing the engine. “Five minutes.” Door slams, footsteps crunch away.
The instant Steve’s gone, Bucky turns, crowding you against the leather.
“Still think that 94 was funny?” he growls low, voice rough with leftover triumph and something darker. His hand slides between your thighs over the thick leggings, cupping you possessively, thumb pressing slow, deliberate circles right over your clit through the layers. The pressure is maddening, firm enough to make you squirm, not nearly enough to satisfy.
You try to hold onto the bratty edge, arching a brow even as your hips rock into his touch. “You’re still mad you had to earn your way into my-”
He cuts you off with a dark, filthy chuckle that sends heat flooding straight to your core. “Mad? Baby, I’m replaying the best morning I’ve had in months.”
His tongue flicks out, tracing a hot, wet line along the shell of your ear before dragging down the side of your neck, tasting salt and the faint trace of your perfume. You shiver hard, thighs clenching around his wrist on pure instinct.
“Remember it?” he whispers, teeth grazing your pulse point just sharp enough to sting. His thumb keeps that ruthless rhythm, slow and deliberate.
“I opened the door and there you were, wearing Steve’s old jersey and those tiny cherry shorts, teasing me about begging Banner… acting all high and mighty, like you were gonna make me watch all weekend.”
His free hand slips under the hoodie, palm splaying warm and possessive over your bare stomach, fingers teasing just under the waistband of your leggings but never dipping lower.
“Five minutes later you were on your stomach, face buried in the pillow so the whole floor wouldn’t hear you moaning my name. Spread your legs wider without me even asking, took every inch like you’d been starving for it. Begged me to go harder, to fill you up, voice all sweet and broken, nothing like that bossy little mouth you’re trying to use right now.”
You’re panting, hips rocking shamelessly into his hand, the friction through the layers turning unbearable. He knows exactly what he’s doing, keeping you teetering, reminding you with every stroke how fast you folded for him that morning.
“Where’d all that attitude go, huh?” he taunts, nipping your earlobe before soothing it with his tongue.
“Left it in your dorm along with your glasses? Or did you ditch ‘em on purpose so you could play all tough, when we both know the second I got inside, you went all blurry-eyed and needy, barely able to focus on anything except how good my cock felt.”
You whimper, actually whimper and he laughs low, delighted, the sound rumbling straight through you.
“Shh, baby,” he croons, cruel and sweet. “Don’t want Stevie hearing how fast you fall apart, do you? He still thinks you’re the big bad brat holding all the cards.”
The driver’s door yanks open right then. Cold air floods in, snowflakes swirling. Steve climbs in, shakes white powder from his hair, tosses a bag of snacks onto the passenger seat.
He pauses halfway into starting the engine, catching the scene in the rearview mirror: you flushed and trembling on Bucky’s lap, lips parted, eyes glassy; Bucky’s hand still cupped blatantly between your thighs, lazy grin sharp as sin.
“Jesus, Buck,” Steve mutters, half-laugh, half-exasperated groan as the Jeep rumbles back to life. “We haven’t even hit the cabin yet.”
Bucky shrugs, not moving his hand an inch, thumb giving one last teasing press that makes your hips jerk. “She started running that mouth again.”
You’re still shaking, thighs clenched tight around his wrist, heart racing as Steve pulls onto the snowy road.
Steve meets your eyes in the mirror, blue and amused, no clue about the secret burning between you and Bucky.
“New rule, sweetheart,” Steve says, voice low and rough. “Every time you try that bossy shit between now and Sunday, we make you sit on one of our laps and remember exactly who you belong to.”
Snow falls harder outside, tires crunching over fresh powder. You smile, slow, shaky, filthy, tasting the secret thick on your tongue.
“Then drive faster, Rogers.”
A few miles down the twisting mountain road, the Jeep coughs, dashboard dinging like an alarm clock from hell. Steve’s knuckles whiten on the wheel as the engine dies completely, momentum carrying them onto the snowy shoulder with a crunch of tires on ice.
“Fuck,” he mutters, low and venomous, slamming the heel of his hand against the steering wheel. The horn gives a short, pathetic blurt into the empty dark.
You sit up straighter in the back, still sticky and half-dressed under the hoodie, thighs aching from Bucky’s earlier ambush. “Out of gas?”
Steve doesn’t answer right away, just stares at the glowing low-fuel warning like it personally betrayed him. “Gauge is fucked. We passed a station a couple miles back.”
Bucky exhales a laugh that dies fast when he clocks Steve’s jaw. “Shit. Walking?”
“I need something sweet,” you say, voice edged with that sharp, restless hunger that comes from being wound up tight and left hanging.
Your thighs are still pressed together under the hoodie, the ache between them throbbing in time with your pulse, stomach growling louder than the wind howling outside. “Chocolate. Now. Or someone’s getting murdered.”
Steve kills the headlights, plunges the car into cold blue dark. “We walk. Grab the can.”
The three of you climb out into the whipping snow, flakes stinging your cheeks like tiny needles, wind slicing straight through the hoodie. The air smells like pine sap, exhaust, and the sharp metallic promise of a real storm. Boots crunch on frozen gravel; every breath clouds white and vanishes.
The station appears like a mirage: one lit pump under a sagging awning, neon “OPEN” sign flickering pink against the snow. Inside, the heat is stale and smells like old coffee and fryer grease. The clerk doesn’t look up while Steve pays for gas and you grab a Snickers and a burnt-tasting hot chocolate. Bucky snags gummy worms and another Red Bull.
You’re halfway through the candy bar, chocolate melting too fast on your cold fingers, when the itch shifts. The cold, the tension crackling off Steve, the way Bucky keeps sneaking glances at your mouth, it all collides into something hungry and stupid.
“Bathroom,” you murmur, tilting your head toward the side door. “Outside one.”
Bucky’s eyes flick up, sharp and hungry. Steve hesitates a beat, jaw ticking hard enough you can hear it, but he follows anyway.
Keypad code is still the lazy default 1234. Door groans open into the concrete coffin: cracked mirror, dripping faucet, single bulb flickering like it’s on its last breath. Smells like industrial bleach, stale piss, and the ghosts of a million truck-stop cigarettes. Floor’s slick in patches, somehow colder than the blizzard outside.
Door barely clicks shut before Bucky’s on you, hands rough, impatient, shoving you over the sink. Porcelain bites into your hips; the cold faucet jabs your lower back like punishment.
Steve locks the door, leans against it with arms crossed tight across his chest. “Thought we were done with the bratting bullshit,” he says, voice low and edged with warning.
You bend anyway, palms flat on gritty porcelain, ass out like you’re begging for trouble.
Bucky yanks your leggings and panties down just enough; freezing air slaps bare skin.
Steve steps forward, unzips slow, feeds his cock into your mouth, thick, heavy, deliberate. His fingers thread into your hair, guiding at first, steady and controlled.
Bucky doesn’t wait. Lines up and slams in raw, one brutal thrust that punches a muffled cry around Steve.
They find their rhythm fast: Steve fucking your throat in shallow, measured strokes that make your eyes water; Bucky pounding deep from behind, grip bruising your hips, boots scraping the disgusting tile.
You’re lost in it, heat, fullness, the way Steve’s fingers tighten like he’s anchoring himself to you.
Then Bucky, too far gone, hips snapping wild, groans it without a filter.
“Fuck… almost as good as this morning when I had you all to myself after that 95-”
Everything stops dead.
Steve goes rigid. Yanks out of your mouth so fast you choke on air, drool stringing messy from your lip to his cock. His hand stays fisted in your hair, but now it’s iron, holding you in place like he doesn’t trust you to stay put.
“Get the fuck out of her,” he says, voice low and venomous, shaking with barely-leashed fury.
Bucky’s hips jerk once on instinct, then freeze. He pulls out slow, the wet slide obscene in the sudden silence. His fingers spasm on your hips, then drop away like you’re contagious.
Steve doesn’t move. Doesn’t zip up yet. Just stares Bucky down over your bent back, eyes blazing.
“You fucked her alone,” he spits, each word sharp enough to draw blood. “That morning. And you both thought you’d just… what? Keep it cute little secret from me?”
Bucky slumps against the opposite wall, cock softening fast under the weight of Steve’s glare. “Steve- it wasn’t some big thing. She was riding me about Banner and it just happened-”
Steve cuts him off with a bitter laugh, zipping up with sharp, angry jerks. “Yeah, I bet it ‘just happened.’ Real convenient.”
You straighten slowly, yanking your clothes up with trembling fingers. Cold rushes in where heat just was; sweat cools clammy on your skin. “I told him not to tell you,” you say quietly. “I didn’t want to mess up the weekend.”
Steve finally looks at you, and the expression on his face is pure acid. Hurt twisted up with petty, ice-cold rage.
“Oh, perfect,” he sneers. “You two had a little side meeting and decided I’m too fragile to handle the truth? Or maybe you just figured I’m the safe idiot who’ll keep showing up no matter what you pull behind my back.”
He scrubs a hand over his jaw, shoulders tight, voice dropping into something small and cutting. “I share everything with you two. Every fucking thing. And you couldn’t even give me the respect of a heads-up that you’re sneaking around like I’m some side character in your story.”
Bucky opens his mouth. “Steve, come on-”
“No,” Steve snaps, pointing a finger at him. “You don’t get to ‘come on’ me. You got your solo round, congratulations. Hope it was worth it.” His eyes flick to you, sharp and accusing.
“And you- teasing him into it, then begging me to follow you in here like nothing happened. Real classy.”
The words land like slaps. Your throat burns.
Steve turns to the door, unlocks it with a vicious twist. Cold wind and snow blast in, swirling across the wet floor. “I’m walking back alone. Don’t want to crowd the happy couple.”
He steps out, gas can banging against his thigh, shoulders hunched against the storm. Doesn’t look back once.
Door swings shut behind him with a hollow thud.
You and Bucky stand there in the bleach-stinking freeze, listening to his boots crunch farther and farther away.
Bucky exhales a shaky, “Well, shit.”
You grab the half-eaten Snickers off the sink. Chocolate’s frozen solid now. Tastes like cardboard and regret.
You push out into the storm after Steve, but you keep your distance, close enough not to lose him in the whiteout, far enough that he doesn’t have to look at either of you.
Bucky trails last, gummy worms bag dragging.
Snow falls thick and relentless, swallowing sound, swallowing footprints.
The silence is louder than any screaming match.
And Steve’s back, straight and furious ahead of you, doesn’t turn around once the entire freezing mile back to the Jeep.
Whatever was whole this afternoon feels pretty goddamn cracked now.
The last hour of the drive feels like three.
Snow’s coming down so thick the headlights barely cut through it, just a swirling white tunnel. The heater’s blasting but it’s still cold in the car, cold from the silence more than anything.
Steve’s gripping the wheel like he’s trying to choke it, jaw locked so tight you can see the muscle jumping even from the back seat.
Bucky’s got his forehead against the window now, watching his own breath fog and disappear, over and over. Nobody’s touched the aux cord. Nobody’s said a word since the gas station.
When the cabin’s porch light finally cuts through the trees, it feels less like relief and more like walking into the principal’s office.
You’re out of the Jeep before Steve’s even got it in park, boots sinking into fresh powder up to your shins. The air’s sharp, pine and woodsmoke. You grab your suitcase from the trunk, mumble something about needing a shower, and bolt inside without waiting.
The cabin’s warm at least, fire already going in the big stone fireplace, the kind of orange glow that makes everything look softer than it is. Smells like cedar and the faint vanilla candle.
Flannel blankets on the couches, string lights along the beams, the whole Pinterest-winter-getaway vibe. It’s perfect. Which makes the knot in your stomach worse.
You dump your suitcase at the foot of the king bed upstairs and lock yourself in the en-suite. The shower’s one of those big rain ones with river stones underfoot. You crank it as hot as it goes and just stand there, letting it burn.
You stay in there forever, washing your hair twice, scrubbing until your skin’s pink, trying to rinse off the gas-station bathroom, the fight, the guilt.
When you finally shut the water off, the mirror’s completely fogged. You wrap yourself in one of the giant towels, wipe a streak clear, and stare at your own blurry reflection until you can’t anymore.
Downstairs, they’ve started.
At first it’s just muffled voices filtering up through the floorboards, Steve’s low, steady rumble cutting against Bucky’s sharper, quicker words. Then the volume climbs, edges sharpening.
You crack the bathroom door, towel knotted tight around you, hair dripping cold trails down your spine. Bare feet silent on the hardwood, you pad to the top of the stairs and sink down onto the top step, knees hugged to your chest. You don’t go down. Just listen.
Steve’s pacing, boots thumping a tight circuit in front of the fireplace, back and forth like a caged animal.
“…so what, you two had a cute little secret and I’m just supposed to be the oblivious third wheel who smiles and drives the Jeep? Real fucking cute, Buck.”
Bucky’s voice is rough, scraped raw. “It wasn’t like that, Steve. It was ten stupid minutes. She opened the door looking like a wet dream and I-”
“Yeah, I get the picture,” Steve interrupts, voice dripping acid. “Spare me the play-by-play. Point is, you finished, zipped up, and decided, ‘Hey, Steve doesn’t need to know his best friend and “his” girl just fucked behind his back.’ Super considerate.”
“I didn’t want to torch the whole weekend!” Bucky shoots back, then catches himself, volume dropping fast.
“We finally had two days with no bullshit, no interruptions, and I panicked. Thought if I told you in the car you’d pull over and deck me. Then by the time we got here it felt too late, and then in that disgusting bathroom it just, slipped out.”
Steve snorts, sharp and ugly. “Oh, bless your heart. What a tragic little accident. Must’ve been so hard carrying around that big, bad secret while I was busy thinking everything was normal.”
Silence stretches, heavy. You hear the fire crackle, wind rattling the windows like it wants in.
Bucky speaks again, quieter, stripped down. “I’m sorry, Stevie. I mean it. I hate that I hurt you. I hate that I made you feel like the odd man out because you’re not. You’ve never been. I just… fucked up. Bad.”
Steve doesn’t answer right away. You hear the fridge door yank open, the clink of glass, the angry twist of a bottle cap. Long pull of beer.
Another.
“Congrats on the apology,” Steve finally says, voice flat and snarky. “Gold star. Really feeling the sincerity while I’m still tasting bleach from that shithole bathroom and wondering how long you two were planning to keep playing me.”
“I wasn’t playing you,” Bucky says, low and earnest. “I swear to God, Steve. It was one dumb, selfish moment and then cowardice. That’s it.”
“Yeah, well, your cowardice feels pretty fucking personal from where I’m standing.” Steve’s boots start pacing again, faster.
“You know what the worst part is? I would’ve been fine. Mad for five minutes, maybe, but fine. Because it’s us. But you didn’t trust me enough to give me the chance. You and her decided for me.”
Bucky’s voice cracks a little. “I know. I know I didn’t trust you with it, and that’s on me. I’m so fucking sorry. You’re my best friend, always have been. I don’t want to lose this. Lose us.”
Another stretch of quiet. A log in the fire shifts and pops, sending sparks up the chimney.
Steve exhales hard. “You remember sophomore year? When I basically lived in your dorm for two months because you were too stubborn to ask for help with that boot?”
“Yeah,” Bucky says softly.
“I didn’t leave when you were a miserable asshole to everyone. I stayed. Because you’re my best friend too, you idiot.” Steve’s voice wavers, anger bleeding into something rawer. “So don’t stand there acting like I’m about to bail over one fight. I’m pissed. I’m allowed to be pissed. But I’m not walking away.”
You hear Bucky’s relief in the shaky breath he lets out. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” Steve mutters. “I’m still mad enough to sleep on the couch tonight. I don’t want to be in the same bed as either of you right now. I need… space from the reminder.”
“Steve-”
“It’s not punishment,” Steve cuts in, tired but firm. “It’s self-preservation. I just can’t pretend everything’s peachy while I’m still seeing red. Take the bed. Both of you. I’ll be down here.”
A long beat.
“Okay,” Bucky says finally, quiet and defeated. “Yeah. Okay.”
The couch creaks as someone, probably Bucky, drops onto it heavily. Boots thud off. The fire settles into low, steady pops.
You stay curled on the top step until your toes are numb and the towel’s soaked through from your hair. Then you slip back to the bedroom, crawl under the thick flannel duvet that smells like pine detergent and cold air, and stare at the dark log beams overhead.
Downstairs, the fire burns lower. No footsteps on the stairs.
The cabin feels enormous and suffocating all at once.
You pull the covers over your head, your throat tightening as you fight the tears. College is messy, sure, but no one tells you how much it hurts when the people you care about most are hurting because of you.
And tonight, nobody comes up to fix it.
Eventually the stairs creak softly, Bucky coming up as quiet as his bulk allows. He doesn’t speak, just kicks off his boots, strips to boxers, and slides in on the far edge, leaving a careful, deliberate foot of space between you like he’s waiting for permission.
You don’t let the space stay. You roll toward him, tuck your head against his chest without asking. He exhales like the air’s been trapped in his lungs for hours, arm coming around you slow and careful. His heartbeat thuds fast under your ear.
“I’m so fucking sorry,” he whispers into your hair, voice rough with guilt.
“I know,” you whisper back, throat tight.
He kisses your forehead, holds you closer, and you both pretend sleep is coming.
It isn’t.
Eventually your mouth turns to cotton, dehydration from crying in the shower, from the dry heat blasting out of the vents, from the way your heart’s been jackhammering since everything blew up.
You ease out from under Bucky’s heavy arm. He makes a low, unhappy sound in his sleep, brow furrowing, but doesn’t wake. Moonlight stripes silver across his face: stubble dark, lips parted, the scar on his left hand catching the light like a thin white bolt.
Your bare feet hit the wide-plank floor and the cold shoots up your legs like ice water. Goosebumps prickle across your thighs under the oversized shirt you scooped off the floor and yanked on in the dark. You tug the hem down, but it still barely skims mid-thigh, leaving you half-exposed in the chilly room.
The hallway is darker, shadows thick and blue. Every creak sounds like an accusation.
Downstairs, the fire’s burned down to sullen orange coals that pulse low and resentful. The air smells like the faint yeasty ghost of spilled beer. An empty bottle lies on its side on the coffee table, a slow ring of condensation bleeding into the wood.
Steve’s on the couch, blanket kicked to the floor. He’s sitting forward, elbows on knees, head bowed, broad shoulders hunched. His hair’s a wreck, blond strands falling over his forehead like he’s raked his hands through it a hundred times.
He hears you, of course. Lifts his head slow. His eyes are bloodshot, exhaustion carved deep, but they’re sharp, too sharp, glittering with leftover venom.
“Couldn’t sleep?” he asks, voice scraped raw and dripping sarcasm. “Or did you just come down to make sure the third wheel’s still breathing?”
The words hit like a slap. You stop at the bottom of the stairs, toes curling against the icy floor. “I needed water.”
He watches you cross to the kitchen, eyes tracking the way your shirt brushes your thighs with every step. The fridge light spills harsh white across his face when you open it, highlighting the tight clench of his jaw, the storm still brewing in his eyes. You grab a bottle, twist it open, drink deep. Cold burns all the way down.
He stands when you turn around. Slow. Deliberate. Closes the distance until the heat rolling off him cuts the chill.
“So,” he says, voice low and venom-sweet, arms crossed tight. “You and Bucky have your little post-fuck cuddle fest upstairs? Real cozy, huh? Must be nice knowing exactly who you’re waking up next to tomorrow.”
Your stomach knots. “Steve-”
“Because I’m trying to figure out my role here,” he keeps going, smile thin and razor-sharp. “Am I the driver? The comic relief? The guy who pays for gas while you two sneak quickies? Or just the idiot who thought we were all on the same page?”
The snark lands hard, each word precise, meant to bruise. You can smell faint beer on his breath, woodsmoke in his clothes, cold clinging to his skin. His eyes are glassy with exhaustion and hurt, and it twists something vicious in your chest.
“Stop it,” you say, voice cracking. You step into him, close enough that his heat sears through the shirt. “Just- stop.”
He opens his mouth, more poison clearly loaded, but you don’t let it fire. You fist both hands in the soft fabric of his thermal, push up on your toes, and crash your mouth against his.
It’s messy, angry, teeth clacking, then parting. He tastes like bitter beer, salt, and sleeplessness. For a heartbeat he’s rigid, every muscle locked. Then his hands snap to your hips, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, hauling you flush against him like he’s terrified you’ll vanish.
He kisses back ferocious, all the hurt and frustration pouring out in the way he angles your head, the way his tongue claims yours like he’s reminding himself he still has the right.
You break only when your lungs scream, foreheads pressed together, both of you panting into the tiny space between.
“There’s no choosing,” you whisper, fierce and shaking. “No favorites. No couples inside the three of us. You know that.”
His breath hitches hard. His hands flex on your hips like he’s fighting himself. His eyes squeeze shut.
“I hate feeling like the extra,” he mutters, voice finally cracking wide open, all the snark bleeding away into something raw. “Like I’m the one who wasn’t in on the joke.”
“You’re not,” you say, sliding a hand up to cup his jaw, thumb brushing rough stubble. “You’re not extra. You’re just as in this as we are.”
He leans into your touch for a shaky second, then exhales like the fight’s rushing out of him. You take his hand, cold fingers laced through his warm ones and tug.
He follows.
Up the stairs, quiet and slow. Bucky’s still sprawled in the center of the bed, one arm flung out, sheets tangled low on his hips, breathing deep and even.
You climb in first, slide to the middle, shirt riding up as you settle facing Bucky. Steve pauses at the edge, shadowed, looking down at both of you like he’s still deciding if he belongs here tonight.
You reach out, catch the hem of his thermal. “Get in the bed, Steve.”
He huffs a tired, wet half-laugh that’s mostly surrender and crawls in behind you. The mattress dips deep under his weight.
For a long moment it’s awkward: three bodies negotiating space, the chill of the sheets, the leftover static crackling in the air.
Then Bucky shifts in his sleep, instinctively seeking warmth, arm draping heavy across your waist, face nuzzling into your neck, stubble scratching softly.
Steve hesitates one last beat, then mirrors it. His chest presses to your back, solid and warm, arm sliding over your hip to rest loosely on top of Bucky’s forearm. His fingers curl, not quite holding Bucky’s wrist, but close like muscle memory overriding the mess.
You’re sandwiched tight: Bucky’s steady heartbeat against your front, Steve’s against your spine, legs tangled in flannel and limbs.
The hurt lingers, heavy and unspoken. The anger’s still there, banked low like the embers downstairs. But the bed is warm now, snow muffling the world outside to nothing, and nobody pulls away.
Steve’s lips brush the shell of your ear, barely there, more breath than kiss. Bucky’s nose nudges your collarbone, a sleepy sound rumbling in his chest.
You let your eyes close.
Tomorrow will still be messy. Words will still need saying. Boundaries will still feel bruised.
But tonight, tangled together in the dark, breathing slow and syncing up, the three of you just sleep.
And for the first time since the bathroom, it doesn’t feel like anything’s broken beyond fixing.
Morning light filters through the half-drawn curtains in thin, pale blades, soft winter sun bouncing off the endless snow outside, turning the room golden and quiet. The wind died sometime in the night; the world feels paused, muffled under a thick white blanket.
Bucky wakes first, the way he always does: instant and alert, eyes snapping open like a switch flipped. He’s on his back, arm pinned under your hip, other one still draped loosely over your waist. Steve’s pressed along your back, face tucked into the crook of your neck, slow breaths stirring the fine hairs there.
For a long minute Bucky just stares.
You’re deep under, curled slightly toward him, lips parted in soft, even breaths, one hand fisted loosely in the sheets near your chin. Your has shirt ridden up in the night, exposing the gentle curve of your waist, the long line of your spine.
Your hair’s a wild tangle across the pillow, still faintly damp from the shower. There’s a warm flush on your cheeks from being sandwiched between them, and the tiniest crease between your brows like even sleep can’t fully erase yesterday.
Bucky’s voice is barely audible, rough with sleep and leftover guilt. “Look at her.”
Steve stirs immediately, lifting his head just enough to see over your shoulder. His eyes are puffy, lashes clumped, but they soften the second they land on you.
“Yeah,” he breathes. “Christ.”
He doesn’t finish. Doesn’t have to.
Bucky reaches out, slow, careful not to wake you and brushes a stray strand of hair off your forehead with the backs of his knuckles.
“She’s got that little freckle right here,” he murmurs, thumb grazing the bridge of your nose. “Never noticed how much I like it when she’s not using it to look down at me like I’m an idiot.”
Steve’s hand moves too, palm sliding gently over the exposed skin of your hip, tracing idle, reverent circles. “And the way she does that tiny huff on the exhale. Like a pissed-off kitten dreaming about revenge.”
Bucky huffs the softest laugh. “She’d murder us if she heard that.”
“She’d try,” Steve agrees, the corner of his mouth lifting for the first time since the gas station. “We’d have her pinned and begging for mercy in ten seconds flat.”
They fall quiet again, just watching the slow rise and fall of your chest, the occasional twitch of your fingers in sleep.
“She looks… peaceful,” Bucky says after a long moment. Voice low, almost awed. “Like yesterday didn’t follow her in here.”
Steve’s throat works visibly. “We were reckless as hell.”
“Yeah,” Bucky says quietly. “I was. That morning was on me, lost my head the second she opened the door. And then I kept my mouth shut like a coward because I didn’t want to lose the weekend. I’m sorry, man. For the fuck, for the lie, for all of it.”
Steve’s hand stills on your hip. He meets Bucky’s eyes over your sleeping form. “I’m sorry too. For the way I acted, like a petty asshole with a bruised ego. I turned it into a competition in my head when it never needed to be. You didn’t deserve me icing you out.”
Bucky nods once, slow. “We good?”
Steve exhales, tension bleeding out of his shoulders. “We’re good.”
They lie there a little longer, trading the kind of quiet, sappy observations they’d never say if you were awake.
How your lashes cast long shadows on your cheeks in the morning light.
How soft your mouth gets when there’s no smart remark loaded behind it.
How perfectly you fit between them, like the space was always meant to be filled by you.
Eventually Bucky untangles himself with military precision, sliding out of bed without moving the mattress more than an inch. Steve follows a second later. They trade a look over your still-sleeping body, silent agreement.
Bucky mouths: Breakfast?
Steve nods, already reaching for his sweatpants.
They pad downstairs together, shoulders brushing in the narrow hallway. The fire’s dead, just gray ash and cold stone. Morning light floods through the big windows, turning the snow outside blinding white.
In the kitchen they move like a quiet, practiced team, Bucky starting coffee, strong, black, with the oat milk waiting on the side because he knows you’ll want it, Steve pulling out the cast-iron skillet, eggs, thick-cut bacon, English muffins. There’s even a punnet of fresh berries someone thoughtfully left in the fridge.
They don’t talk much at first, just the soft clink of mugs, the sizzle of bacon hitting hot iron, the low gurgle of the coffee maker. The smells build fast: rich coffee, smoky pork, butter melting in the toaster.
Halfway through, Bucky leans against the counter, watching Steve flip eggs with that intense focus he gets about everything. “We’re really fixing this, right?”
Steve glances up, mouth softening. “Yeah. Starting with feeding her until she can’t stay mad.”
They load up the big wooden tray like it’s a peace offering: fluffy scrambled eggs, crisp bacon arranged in neat rows, toasted English muffins with butter and a drizzle of honey, bright berries in a chipped bowl, coffee fixed exactly right. Steve tucks the single red rose, still perfect, into a water glass and scribbles a note on a torn piece of brown paper bag:
we’re idiots but we’re your idiots
eat this and then come yell at us if you want
we’ll be waiting
– your two favorite assholes
They carry it upstairs together, moving slow so nothing spills. You’re still dead to the world, curled on your side now, shirt twisted around your waist, one knee pulled up, mouth open just enough for the softest little snore.
They set the tray on the nightstand carefully. Bucky kneels on his side, brushes your hair back gently. Steve sits on the edge, hand resting lightly on your bare ankle.
You stir slowly, first the rich smell of coffee hits, then bacon, then warm butter and honey. Your eyes crack open to soft golden light and the loaded tray: eggs golden, bacon perfectly crisp, muffins glistening, bright berries, coffee steaming and perfect. The rose stands proud in its makeshift vase.
“Morning, baby,” Bucky says, voice scratchy and soft. He brushes a knuckle along your cheek. “We made you breakfast. Figured you deserved it after we spent yesterday acting like complete jackasses.”
Steve’s thumb strokes slow circles on your ankle. “Especially me. I was a petty dick about the whole thing. I’m sorry... for the attitude, for the distance, for making you feel like you had to drag me back into bed.”
Bucky nods, eyes earnest. “And I’m sorry for that reckless morning fuck. For starting it, for hiding it, for letting it blow up in that nasty bathroom. I should’ve told him right away. No excuses.”
You push up on one elbow, shirt slipping off one shoulder, hair falling in your face. You blow it away and eye the tray like it might be a trap. “You two cooked without burning the cabin down?”
Bucky snorts. “Minor smoke-alarm incident. We contained it.”
“Twice,” Steve corrects, mouth twitching. “But we survived.”
You reach for the coffee first, wrap both hands around the mug, inhale deep. First sip is perfect. You hum, involuntary and pleased, and watch both of them visibly relax.
“Good?” Steve asks, quiet.
“Dangerously,” you mutter. “You’re definitely trying to bribe me.”
Bucky grins, snags a piece of bacon and holds it to your lips. “Is it working?”
You take a bite, salty, smoky perfection and chew slow just to watch him fidget. “Little bit.”
Steve shifts closer, elbow on the mattress. “There’s a note too.” He nods toward the torn paper under the rose.
You fish it out, read it aloud in a flat voice: “‘We’re idiots but we’re your idiots. Eat this and then come yell at us if you want. We’ll be waiting, your two favorite assholes.’”
Bucky winces. “We debated hearts. Chickened out.”
“Smart,” you say, but there’s no heat in it. You pop a berry in your mouth, sweet, bright, perfect. “This doesn’t magically fix everything, you know.”
“We know,” they say at the same time, then glance at each other, almost smiling.
You sigh, set the coffee down, and scoot over, patting the space you’ve made. “Get in here. I’m not eating alone like some lonely queen.”
They move instantly, Bucky sliding in on your left, Steve on your right. The tray ends up balanced on Bucky’s lap; Steve steals a strip of bacon before you can stop him.
You tear an English muffin in half, hand one piece to each of them.
“We’re talking about yesterday,” you say around a mouthful of eggs. “All of it. But not on empty stomachs. And not until I’ve had at least one more sip of coffee.”
Bucky leans his head against yours, voice soft. “Whatever you need, baby.”
Steve’s hand finds yours under the blanket, fingers threading tight. “We’re right here.”
You take another long sip of coffee, let the warmth sink in, and, for the first time since that bleach-stinking bathroom feel something close to steady.
“Pass the honey,” you say.
Bucky hands it over without a word.
It’s going to be a long conversation.
But it’s starting with breakfast in bed, tangled limbs, and two boys who are looking at you like you hung the moon even after everything.
You can definitely work with that.
By evening, the storm softens into steady snowfall, fat flakes drifting past the windows. The fire roars again, warming the living room, the air scented with pine smoke, grilled cheese, and faint eucalyptus.
The day was long and necessary: raw words on the couch, quieter ones bundled on the porch with spiked cocoa, hands finding each other again like testing fragile glass. The air felt lighter, trust bruised but mending, boundaries redrawn with careful fingers. You disappeared upstairs with a sly smile and a murmured “give me twenty,” leaving them with raised eyebrows and cautious hope.
Out on the covered back deck, the jacuzzi waits in the corner, steaming hard against the cold. The jets churn the water into thick foam that hisses and bubbles. Snow dusts the railings and gathers along the roofline, melting into sharp drops wherever the heat reaches. Beneath the surface, blue lights pulse softly, turning the foam turquoise and gold as steam rises in fragrant clouds of eucalyptus and chlorine.
Steve and Bucky are already in, shoulders just breaking the surface, heads tipped back against the padded headrests, steam curling off their skin in thick, wet ribbons that cling to their stubble and lashes. Water beads and drips from their chests, catching the light in glistening trails down hard muscle.
Bucky’s hand rests on the rim, fingers drumming lazily to the low, thumping bass from the outdoor speaker.
Steve’s eyes are half-closed, the last tension finally gone from his jaw, lips parted as he breathes in the hot mist.
The sliding door rumbles open with a groan of wood on wood.
They both turn at the sound, water sloshing.
You step out onto the snow-dusted deck wearing the skimpiest black bikini you packed, two tiny triangles up top straining desperately against your breasts, nipples already hard and visible through the thin fabric, tied with strings so fragile one tug would end them.
The bottoms are a matching low V, ties knotted high on your hips, the fabric barely covering your mound and leaving the full curves of your ass exposed to the biting cold.
Snowflakes land on your warm skin and melt instantly, cool trails racing down your cleavage, your thighs. Goosebumps explode across your body; your hair is loose and wild, lips curved in a slow, deliberate smile that says you know exactly what you’re doing.
“Goddamn,” Bucky breathes, sitting up straighter, water cascading off his chest in hot rivulets. His eyes go pitch-black in a heartbeat, cock visibly thickening under the bubbling surface.
Steve’s gaze drags down your body like a physical lick, slow, burning, possessive. “You’re trying to fucking kill us, baby.”
“Maybe,” you say, voice low and teasing over the relentless rumble of the jets. You pad across the cold wood, bare feet stinging on frozen planks, goosebumps racing up your legs until you’re at the steps. One deliberate tug at each hip and the bottoms drop, pooling at your ankles. Another tug at your neck and back and the top follows, landing in a damp little heap on the deck, nipples tightening harder in the sharp air.
You climb in slow, water rising scalding hot around your calves, thighs, hips, making you hiss through your teeth as the heat shocks your cold skin pink.
The jets slam into you like a thousand vibrating tongues, pulsing hard against your legs, your ass, your clit as you sink deeper. You settle between them, back against the curved wall, water lapping greedily at your collarbones, bubbles clinging to your breasts like obscene decoration.
For a moment it’s just the three of you and the storm: snow falling silently outside the roofline in thick, lazy sheets; steam rising in choking clouds, thick with eucalyptus and the faint chlorine tang; jets churning the surface into constant, violent motion that vibrates through your bones.
Bucky’s arm slides around your waist first, yanking you sideways into his lap with a splash that sends hot water over the edge. Steve shifts closer on your other side, big hand finding your thigh under the water, fingers digging in possessively.
“We good?” Bucky murmurs against your temple, voice rough with steam and raw want, stubble scraping your skin.
You nod, turning to catch his mouth. The kiss starts soft, relief and promise but turns filthy fast, tongues sliding wet and hungry, tasting eucalyptus and leftover whiskey from lunch.
Hands start wandering, rougher now. Bucky’s fingers slip between your legs immediately, parting your slick folds under the water, finding your clit and rubbing hard, deliberate circles that make you jerk. Steve’s palm cups your breast roughly, pinching your nipple until you gasp into Bucky’s mouth.
Then Bucky pulls back with a wicked grin, reaching for the black velvet bag on the deck edge. “Got something new for that greedy little ass.”
He pulls out the star-shaped plug, silver metal with sharp, faceted jewel edges that catch the string lights and throw tiny rainbows across the steam. Bigger than the heart one, thicker flare, the star points promising a vicious, delicious stretch.
Your breath catches, pussy clenching around nothing. “Oh, so we’re switching shapes now, huh?” you tease, voice breathy but playful, trying to hide how much the sight alone is already making you throb.
Steve laughs low, dark, hand sliding between your legs to spread you wider. “Damn right. That heart was cute, but this star? Gonna stretch that tight hole so pretty, make you feel every fucking point while we wreck your cunt.”
But first, Bucky’s eyes glint pure filth. “Turn around, doll. Straddle the big jet. We’ve seen this in porn a hundred times, girls humping jacuzzi jets like desperate little whores till they squirt. Always wanted to watch you do it live.”
Heat floods your face, sharp humiliation twisting hot with arousal but they maneuver you easily, water buoying you weightless. They position you facing the strongest jet, knees on the bench seat, hips tilted forward until the powerful stream slams directly against your clit, relentless, pounding pressure like a thick, vibrating cockhead grinding you mercilessly, bubbles exploding against your pussy lips in hot bursts.
“Oh- fuck- ” You grab the rim, knuckles white, hips bucking involuntarily as the jet batters your swollen clit without mercy. The water’s so hot it burns sweetly; the stream pulses hard enough to make your thighs quake, forcing pleasure through you in brutal waves.
Bucky presses in behind you, mouth on your shoulder, biting hard enough to mark. “Look at you, humping the jet like a needy porn slut. We knew you’d be perfect for this. Bet that greedy cunt’s clenching already, wishing it was our cocks pounding you.”
Steve’s hand tangles in your wet hair, yanking your head back so you’re arched, exposed, tits bouncing with every desperate grind.
“That’s it, ride it harder. Show us how filthy you are, squirting all over the water like those girls in the videos we used to jerk off to. You’re better than them, our desperate little whore, coming on a fucking jet because you can’t wait for real dick.”
The humiliation burns, hot and sharp but it only makes you wetter, hips rolling shamelessly against the jet, chasing the brutal pressure. Water splashes with every grind; your moans echo off the cabin walls, mixing with the hiss of snow hitting hot deck.
You come hard and fast, screaming, thighs clamping, pussy gushing clear streams into the churning water as the jet forces you over without mercy.
They don’t let you recover. Bucky pulls you back into his lap, facing him, legs spread wide over his thighs. Steve hands him the star plug, already slick with lube.
“Hold her open,” Bucky orders Steve, voice wrecked.
Steve’s fingers spread your ass cheeks wide, cool air hitting your hole for a second before Bucky presses the cold metal tip against you. The star points stretch you viciously, each sharp facet popping past your ring with a burn that makes you sob and push back for more.
“Fuck- too big- ” you gasp, but your hips rock anyway.
“That’s our greedy girl,” Steve growls in your ear, thumb rubbing your clit to distract. “Taking that fat star plug like a champ. Gonna feel us both so much deeper now.”
Bucky works it in slow, twist, push, stretch until the wide flare seats flush, the jewel base cool against your skin, points locked inside making every tiny movement electric.
Then Bucky lines his cock up with your pussy, thick head sliding through your soaked folds, sinking in raw with one deep thrust that punches the air from your lungs. The plug makes him feel massive, splitting you open.
Steve moves behind, more lube, careful but insistent, pressing into your ass around the plug? No, he pulls it out slowly and hands it aside, then he takes your ass raw while Bucky stays buried in your pussy.
Full, brutally, perfectly full, both thick cocks stretching you to the limit, the missing plug leaving you gaping and desperate. Water sloshes violently over the edge, steaming on the cold deck.
They fuck you hard, Bucky thrusting up into your pussy, Steve slamming into your ass, hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise, mouths on your neck biting marks.
The jets pulse against your dangling feet; steam chokes the air; snow hisses where it lands.
You come again, shattering, screaming, pussy and ass milking them relentlessly.
They follow fast, Bucky spilling deep in your cunt with a guttural “fuck, take it”; Steve in your ass seconds later, groaning your name like it hurts.
Water everywhere, deck soaked, steam thick.
They hold you through the aftershocks, kissing soft now, murmuring love and praise into your skin.
You stay tangled a long time, hearts slowing, bodies cooling slowly in the reheated water.
The jacuzzi high fades into a warm, lazy buzz as you all stumble back inside, towels barely clinging, skin still steaming in the cold air that rushes in behind you. The swim trunks and bikini are abandoned on the deck, no one bothers to grab them. Snowflakes melt on your shoulders as you slide the door shut, giggling when Bucky’s towel finally gives up and puddles at his feet.
“Freedom,” he declares, kicking it aside and strutting naked toward the kitchen like a peacock. Steve rolls his eyes but follows suit, towel tossed over the back of a chair.
They'd raided the bar: two bottles of vintage champagne, corks popping with a festive fizz; a tray of tequila shots, lime wedges sour and juicy.
Someone’s playlist is blasting, slow, filthy R&B with bass so low it vibrates in your bones. The heated slate floor is warm under bare feet. You let your towel drop and don’t even think about it, hair dripping, skin flushed and steaming, completely naked and giggling like an idiot.
Nobody can stand still.
Bucky starts the dance-off with the most exaggerated body roll known to man, hips snapping, abs flexing like he’s trying to hypnotize you. Steve counters with some tragic attempt at the robot that’s so off-beat it’s perfect. You jump in the middle, spinning too fast, nearly eating the floor until they both catch you, laughing.
Champagne gets passed mouth-to-mouth, tequila licked off collarbones, whiskey dribbled down stomachs and chased with tongues.
Then it gets filthy.
Steve grabs the champagne bottle, tips it slow and deliberate over your chest. Cold bubbles cascade down between your tits in a fizzy river, rushing over your skin, spilling in glittering trails down your stomach and pooling at your navel. You squeal, half shock from the chill, half giddy because you’re so fucking wasted and both of them drop to their knees instantly, like starving men at a feast.
Steve claims the left side, Bucky the right. Tongues hot and messy, they lap up every drop, sucking champagne from the soft undersides of your breasts, chasing the rivulets that run down your ribs.
Steve’s mouth closes over one nipple, tongue swirling to catch the fizz; Bucky does the same on the other, teeth grazing just enough to make you gasp and laugh at once. They fight over the stream dripping toward your belly button, Steve’s tongue diving in, Bucky shoving him aside with a shoulder and licking it clean, both of them groaning against your skin like it’s the best thing they’ve ever tasted.
You’re laughing so hard your legs shake, hands fisted in their hair, head thrown back, barely able to stand.
“My turn- my turnnn!” you slur, snatching the bottle from Steve’s hand. You push him flat on his back on the thick rug, straddling his hips. With a wicked grin, you tip the champagne again, this time right over his abs.
Cold liquid pools in every perfect ridge, drips along that stupid V that disappears into nothing since he’s already hard and naked. You dive face-first, licking slow and greedy from the bottom up, tongue tracing every line of muscle, sucking the bubbles from his skin while he groans and bucks his hips, laughing through it.
“F-fuck- that tickles- wait, no, do it again, don’t stop,” Steve stutters, words tripping over each other.
You pour the rest of the bottle over Bucky’s chest in a messy arc; it runs down his pecs, through the dark hair, pooling in the dips of his abs. You lick back and forth between them like a drunk kitten, missing half the time, just dragging your tongue over warm skin and giggling when you overshoot and end up licking a nipple instead.
“You taste like- like bad decisions,” you mumble into Bucky’s abs, then hiccup so hard you nearly fall over.
Bucky laughs, deep and slurred. “More- more, baby, we’re not done.” He grabs a half-full bottle of cinnamon schnapps, eyes glinting. “Spread for us.”
They manhandle you gently, Steve’s hands on your thighs, spreading you wide on the rug while Bucky kneels between your legs. You’re giggling, head spinning, as Bucky tips the bottle slow over your pussy. Warm cinnamon liquid drips down your folds, mixing with how soaked you already are, trickling over your clit and pooling between your lips.
You squeal again, hips jerking at the sudden heat. “Cold- hot- fuck-”
Both of them dive in at once. Steve’s tongue laps the outer folds, slow and thorough; Bucky goes straight for your clit, sucking the schnapps right off it with a filthy moan.
They trade places, tongues sliding against each other over your skin, fighting for every drop, licking and sucking. You’re laughing and moaning, hands in their hair, hips rolling shamelessly into their mouths.
“G-gonna- gonna come from your tongues,” you slur, words a jumbled mess. “Taste so- s’good-”
They keep going, sloppy and drunk and relentless, until the cinnamon burns away and it’s just them tasting you, hot, wet, giggling against your pussy until you’re shaking apart, coming hard with a bright, silly cry that dissolves into more laughter.
The bottle rolls away forgotten, and you collapse back onto the rug, still buzzing, still drunk, still perfect.
They flip you in a sloppy tangle of limbs, still giggling like absolute idiots. A whiskey glass topples somewhere, liquid glugs out, nobody gives a shit.
“W-wanna… wanna be in- inside you,” Bucky slurs against your neck, words tumbling like he’s rolling downhill. “Both- both of us, yeah? Like- like usual but… but way drunker. Drunkier. Drunkest.”
“Y-yeah,” Steve chimes in, aiming for smooth and landing somewhere near cartoon character. “Both is- is b-best. Sci- scien- fuck it, science.”
You’re wheezing with laughter as you all try to line up, total disaster.
“Ow- ow, that’s my knee, dumbass,”
“Wait- where’s the- oh, there, no wait that’s your elbow-”
“Hang- hang onnn, I got it- shit, no I don’t-”
Someone’s hair gets pulled, someone else gets tickled by accident, and you’re all cracking up so hard it takes forever.
Finally, miracle, you sink down onto Steve with a long, wobbly “fuuuuck” that dissolves into giggles when Bucky presses in behind you, muttering “slow- slow- wait, too fast- fuck, perfect-” while his hands slip twice on your hips.
The rhythm is hilariously bad, lazy, uneven, stopping every few seconds because someone hiccups, or a leg cramps, or you all just start laughing again for no reason.
“You’re s-so… s’pretty,” Steve tries, going for romantic and sounding like he’s reading a menu underwater.
“Prettiest,” Bucky corrects, dead serious, then immediately backtracks. “Wait- no, prettiessst. With… with three s’s. Fac- facts only.”
Names are a lost cause. “Steeb” comes out instead of Steve. “Bub- Bubby- no, Buck- Buh-” You can’t even finish, and every failed attempt sends you into fresh hysterics, bodies shaking with laughter while still moving together.
It builds slow and ridiculous, pleasure sneaking up through the drunk fog until you’re all trembling and giggling right on the edge.
Your orgasm hits out of nowhere, sharp, bright, uncontrollable clenching hard around both of them while you half-laugh, half-moan into Steve’s neck, actual tears in your eyes from how stupidly good it feels.
Bucky’s right behind you, hips stuttering as he comes with a garbled, breathless “love you- love you-” buried against your shoulder.
You freeze mid-giggle, brain lagging. “Wh- what was that?”
Bucky goes very still, then mumbles into your skin, voice suddenly casual like he’s commenting on the weather, “Huh? Nothin’. Nothing. You- uh- hearing things.”
Steve, still panting and giggling, doesn’t even notice, he’s too busy slurring “best- best night- everrrr” as he follows right after, fingers tangled tight in your hair, laughing through every pulse.
You collapse sideways in a sweaty, breathless heap, someone’s foot in someone’s face, elbow in ribs, legs everywhere, still wheezing with leftover laughter. Still somehow joined.
Then your phone buzzes, FaceTime, Nat’s name flashing.
Steve reaches over blindly, swipes accept, and flips it immediately to show only the log ceiling.
Nat appears, party lights strobing, music thumping. “WHERE ARE YOU FUCKERS- wait, why is the ceiling spinning? And why do you sound like dying seals?”
Bucky gives one lazy, involuntary thrust; you bite the rug to muffle the moan, fur tickling your lips.
Steve, voice wobbling with laughter, manages, “Cele- celebrating. Very… very quietly.”
Nat squints. “That is NOT quiet. That’s- are you- OH MY GOD-”
You slap the phone face-down, screen black.
Bucky wheezes into your shoulder, “Tell- tell her hi. From- from all three of us.”
The sheer absurdity sends another wave of silent, shaking laughter through you, bodies still joined, still tangled, still absolutely hammered.
Eventually Bucky grabs the phone with one trembling hand, still half inside you, and thumbs out a text:
You 10:45pm
u misssd the best drunk dnace battle in historyyy
also wereee very buzyy
Then he tosses it across the rug, kisses the back of your neck, and you all drift in the firelight, naked, ridiculous, slurring sweet nonsense into each other’s skin, and stupidly, perfectly happy.
Bucky’s the first to stir, still wheezing with leftover laughter as he scoops you up from the rug like you’re made of air. Your limp, sweaty body flops over his arms bridal-style, head lolling against his chest.
“Party’s- party’s over,” he slurs into your hair, words all mushy and tangled. “Bedtime for- for drunk princess.”
Steve hauls himself up, swaying hard enough he has to grab the couch for balance, then slaps Bucky’s bare ass with a loud smack as he staggers past. “Careful, Buck. Don’t- don’t drop our girl. She’s- she’s precious.”
“Never,” Bucky declares, super serious, then immediately almost eats the coffee table leg. You all burst into fresh, helpless giggles, yours coming out more like a wheeze since you’re too boneless to even hold your head up.
Steve kills the downstairs lights with a dramatic wave that misses the switch twice, finally smacking it on the third try. The fire’s left to burn itself out, popping lazily as he follows you up the creaky stairs, one hand on the railing, the other planted on Bucky’s back for stability. Every step is a disaster.
“Whoa- easy, watch the- watch the step-”
“Left foot, genius, left-”
“Shit- shit, wall-”
You’re all shushing each other and cracking up louder.
In the bedroom, Bucky lowers you to the middle of the bed with way too much ceremony, like he’s placing something fragile on an altar. You bounce once, flop spread-eagle, and immediately hog every blanket in a sloppy cocoon.
Steve face-plants to your left with a muffled “oomph,” Bucky collapses to the right, and within seconds they’re curled around you like giant, overheated koalas.
Limbs everywhere. Someone’s knee in someone’s stomach. Someone’s hair in someone’s mouth. The sheets smell like smoke, sex, and spilled tequila.
“Night, pretty girl,” Steve mumbles into your neck, already halfway gone.
“Night, baby,” Bucky sighs against your shoulder, voice soft and slurred.
You manage a sleepy, slurred hum and a clumsy pat to whichever warm chest is closest.
The room does one last slow spin, then everything fades to quiet, just three sets of deep, even breathing, the faint crackle of the dying fire downstairs, and snow falling thick and silent outside.
You all crash hard, naked and tangled, absolutely wrecked and perfectly happy.
Sunday morning creeps in slow and golden, sunlight filtering through the half-open curtains and painting warm stripes across the tangled sheets. The cabin’s quiet except for the gentle whistle of wind in the pines outside. Snow’s still piled high, the world muffled and white.
You wake sandwiched between them again, Bucky’s chest to your back, his arm draped heavy over your waist; Steve facing you, one leg hooked over yours, his breath warm against your collarbone. They’re both still asleep, faces slack and boyish in the morning light.
You can feel them against you: Bucky half-hard already, pressed to the curve of your ass; Steve’s morning erection nestled against your stomach. The air smells like sleep-warm skin and faint whiskey.
You shift just a little, testing and Bucky makes a low, sleepy sound, arm tightening instinctively. His hips rock forward once, slow and unconscious. Steve stirs, eyes fluttering open, blue and soft and still heavy-lidded. He doesn’t speak, just watches you for a second, then leans in and kisses you slow, lazy, morning-sweet.
That’s all it takes.
Hands start moving without discussion. Steve’s palm cups your breast, thumb brushing your nipple until it peaks; Bucky’s hand slides lower, fingers slipping between your thighs from behind, finding you already wet. You arch into both touches, a soft whimper muffled against Steve’s mouth.
They take you gently this time, no rush, no teasing. Bucky lifts your leg just enough, guides himself into your pussy from behind in one smooth, sleepy glide. The stretch is perfect, intimate. Steve watches your face the whole time, then shifts lower, mouth closing over your breast, sucking slow while Bucky starts a lazy rhythm, deep, rolling thrusts that rock you forward onto Steve’s waiting cock.
You take Steve in your mouth while Bucky fucks you slow from behind, the three of you moving like a tide, unhurried, sensual, morning-soft. No words, just breath and touch and the wet sounds of bodies. You come first, quiet and shuddering around Bucky; he follows with a low groan against your neck; Steve spills down your throat moments later, fingers gentle in your hair.
After, you stay tangled, kissing lazily, trading soft laughs when someone’s elbow pokes a rib. Eventually hunger wins. You stumble downstairs naked, wrapped in one big blanket like a burrito trio, and make a mess of pancakes and bacon. Syrup ends up in inappropriate places. Cleanup involves mouths.
Lunch is supposed to be grilled cheese by the fire, but it turns into teasing.
You’re on the couch between them, half-dressed in one of Bucky’s flannels and nothing else, when Steve pulls the black velvet bag from under the coffee table like a magician. “Dessert,” he says innocently.
Bucky’s already grinning, pulling out the remote egg and the star plug cleaned, thoughtful as always. They take their time: feeding you bites of sandwich between pressing the egg inside you, turning it on low until you’re squirming. Bucky licks melted cheese off your fingers while Steve works the plug in slow, whispering filthy praise about how pretty you look stuffed and needy.
They film bits of it, one phone propped on the mantle capturing you riding Bucky on the rug while Steve controls the remote egg’s intensity, laughing when you curse them out between moans; another handheld for close-ups of your face when Steve takes you from behind on the couch, the egg buzzing mercilessly. By the time the plates are empty you’re a wreck again, multiple orgasms deep, voice hoarse from begging and laughing.
The cameras get shut off after that, phones tossed onto the coffee table with satisfied grins, the red recording lights finally blinking out. You collapse sideways across the rug, chest heaving, thighs still twitching from the aftershocks, pussy throbbing and slick.
Steve stretches out beside you, head propped on one hand, tracing lazy circles on your hip with his thumb. Bucky sprawls on your other side, hand resting possessively on your stomach, both of them looking smug and sated, cocks still half-hard like they’re ready for more whenever you are.
You’re half-dozing, eyes closed, when Bucky’s voice breaks the quiet, low, playful, with that filthy edge that always makes your stomach flip.
“Hey… I’ve got an idea.”
You crack one eye open. He’s staring at you with that crooked, wicked grin, eyes already darkening again. Steve lifts a brow, curious, hand pausing on your hip.
Bucky props himself up on an elbow, fingers trailing lightly down your side, raising goosebumps.
“I wanna watch you get yourself off. Just you. No help from us. Spread that pretty pussy and fuck yourself with your fingers while we stroke our cocks and tell you exactly how fucking desperate you look.”
Your eyes snap fully open. Heat floods your face instantly, burning, mortified heat that spreads down your chest. You sit up a little, pulling your knees together like that’ll hide anything. “What? No. Absolutely not. That’s- no.”
Steve chuckles, low and warm, but his gaze sharpens with raw interest, hand sliding to your thigh. “Why not, baby? You’ve been coming on our cocks all weekend. Let us see what you do when you’re alone, fingering that greedy little cunt thinking about us stuffing you full.”
Your face is on fire. You bury it in your hands, groaning through your fingers. “Because it’s embarrassing! You two just… staring while I touch myself? I’ll feel like an idiot.”
Bucky’s grin turns downright feral. He sits up fully, legs spread casually, hand already drifting down to wrap around his thickening cock, slow, teasing pulls that make the vein along the underside stand out.
“That’s the point, doll. We wanna see you all flustered and needy, trying to be good for us while you rub that swollen clit. Bet you’re already wet just thinking about it.”
You peek through your fingers, heart racing. Steve’s doing the same now, fist loose around his shaft, stroking lazily, eyes locked on you like he’s starving.
“Come on,” he coaxes, voice velvet-rough. “Spread those legs. Show us how you fuck yourself when you’re in your dorm bed, pretending it’s our cocks stretching you open.”
The embarrassment burns hotter but fuck, so does the arousal. Your thighs clench involuntarily, and you know they see it. You drop your hands slowly, face flaming, but you lean back against the couch arm anyway, knees falling open bit by bit.
“That’s our girl,” Bucky murmurs, fist tightening on his cock, strokes speeding up. “Look at that pretty pussy, already glistening. Touch it. Circle that clit nice and slow for us.”
You do, flustered fingers trailing down your stomach, over your mound, hesitating before parting your slick folds. The first brush against your clit makes you gasp, oversensitive, swollen, wet sounds filling the room as you start slow circles.
“Fuck, yes,” Steve groans, hand flying faster now, precome beading at his tip. “Pinch it, hard, like I do when I’m eating you out. Imagine it’s my tongue flicking that needy little bud.”
You whimper, pinching your clit between thumb and finger, rolling it roughly. Your hips buck. “Oh god-”
Bucky’s breathing ragged, fist slick with precome. “Slide those fingers inside, doll. Two to start. Fuck yourself deep, curl them like Bucky does when he’s got you bent over. Pretend it’s my cock splitting you open while Steve watches.”
You obey, two fingers pushing in slow, the stretch burning sweet, walls fluttering around them. You pump faster, thumb grinding your clit, free hand pinching your nipple hard.
“Look at her,” Steve rasps, abs flexing as he jerks himself rough. “So fucking desperate, pussy sucking those fingers in like it’s starving. Add a third, baby. Stretch that tight hole for us. Imagine it’s both our cocks trying to fit.”
You cry out, adding the third finger, the burn intense and perfect, pumping hard while your thumb rubs frantic circles. Wet sounds echo obscenely; your hips grind against your hand.
Bucky’s close, fist blurring, voice wrecked. “That’s it- fuck yourself like the greedy slut you are. Come all over those fingers while we watch you fall apart. Show us how you squirt when you’re thinking about us filling every hole.”
You shatter, hard, screaming as your pussy clenches and gushes clear around your fingers, soaking your hand, the rug, thighs shaking violently.
They come watching you, Bucky first with a guttural “fuck, doll,” spilling thick across his fist and stomach; Steve right after, groaning deep, ropes painting his abs as he milks every drop.
Silence falls, heavy breathing, fire crackle.
You collapse back, hiding your burning face again with a mortified laugh. “Never. Again.”
They crawl over, kissing your wrists, your cheeks, murmuring praise.
“Liar,” Bucky whispers against your ear. “That was the filthiest, hottest thing we’ve ever seen.”
Steve nuzzles your neck. “And we didn’t even touch you.”
You groan first, shifting on the rug and feeling everything cling, thighs slick, lower back tacky, hair matted to your neck, cum drying in places that make you grimace. “Ugh. I feel gross. Like… actually disgusting. We’re all sticky and filthy and I need a shower or something.”
Bucky laughs, low and satisfied, nuzzling your shoulder. “That’s the mark of a good afternoon, doll.”
Steve kisses your temple, still catching his breath. “Snack run first? Then we clean up properly.”
You nod, too boneless to argue. They haul themselves up, grabbing random sweats and hoodies from the floor and head to the kitchen, raiding the caretaker’s stash: bags of chips, leftover cookies, a couple beers cracked open with that satisfying hiss. You stay on the rug a minute longer, wrapped in the discarded blanket, munching a cookie and scrolling your phone idly until the sugar hits.
But the stickiness wins. You call out, voice whiny and dramatic, “Seriously, guys. I feel like a glazed donut. Bathtub. Now. I’m marinating in us.”
Bucky pokes his head around the corner, smirking with a mouthful of chips. “On it. Big copper one upstairs, plenty of room for three.”
Steve’s already moving, clapping Bucky on the shoulder. “Let’s get it running. She’s right, she’s a mess. Our mess.”
They disappear upstairs you hear footsteps on the creaky wood, the groan of old pipes, water starting to thunder into the tub, steam probably already billowing.
You stay downstairs, curled on the couch under the blanket, crunching chips and half-watching snow fall outside the big windows. The cabin feels quiet without them, too quiet after days of constant touch and noise. You lick salt off your fingers, feeling the dried evidence of everything on your skin, and smile to yourself. Perfect weekend.
Upstairs, out of your earshot, the conversation turns.
Steve leans against the bathroom doorframe, watching water fill the tub, steam fogging the mirror. He’s quiet too long, arms crossed, jaw tight.
Bucky tests the temperature with his hand, adds a splash of eucalyptus oil. “What’s with the face?”
Steve exhales slow, rubbing the back of his neck. “This… it’s too easy. The sex, the laughs, the way she fits, it’s perfect. But it’s not fair to her.”
Bucky stills, water rushing loud behind him. “Not fair how?”
Steve’s voice is low, rough with something heavy. “We’re giving her everything physical, the toys, the tapes, the weekends but nothing real. No label. No commitment. We’re taking all of her and giving back just… this. It feels wrong. Like we’re using her.”
Bucky turns off the tap. Sudden quiet. He stares at the swirling water, hand gripping the tub edge. “You think she wants more?”
“I know she does,” Steve says. “You saw her face when things got deep on Friday. She’s falling. Hard. And we’re letting her fall without catching her properly. She deserves someone who can give her normal dates, a real relationship, one person who doesn’t make her share or wonder.”
Bucky’s quiet a long beat, throat working. “So what are you saying?”
Steve rubs his neck. “When we get back… we give her space. Real space. Pull back a little. Let her breathe. Let her figure out if this is what she really wants without us clouding everything with weekends like this.”
Bucky looks like he’s been punched. “You’re saying end it.”
“I’m saying do right for her,” Steve corrects gently. “Even if it sucks for us short-term. She deserves to know we’re serious, without the pressure of constant sex and getaways making it feel like a fantasy.”
Bucky nods slow, reluctant, devastated. “Yeah. Okay. For her.”
They don’t say they’ll keep it secret for now. They don’t need to. It’s understood: one last perfect night, then distance when you’re home. Time for you to choose without them in your bed every weekend.
They add more hot water, swirl in extra bubbles, light the candles like nothing’s changed.
Downstairs, you’re crunching chips, sticky and happy, thinking the weekend can’t get better.
They come down smiling, masks perfect, and carry you upstairs like a prize, whispering how much they want to wash every inch of you clean.
The water’s hot. The candles are lit.
The three of you fit just barely: you in the middle, back against Steve’s broad chest, legs draped over Bucky’s thighs. Water laps gently at your breasts; bubbles cling and pop. The mood is softer now, lazy, sated, the kind of quiet that usually feels safe after a day spent tangled in each other.
You’re tracing idle circles on Bucky’s knee under the water, trying to lose yourself in the warmth, when the question you’ve been carrying all weekend finally slips out, small, almost swallowed by the soft splash.
“So… what are we?”
The words hang there, fragile in the steam.
Steve’s hand, drawing slow patterns on your stomach, stills completely. Bucky’s fingers, playing with yours, freeze.
Silence stretches, thick, heavy, colder than the snow piling against the window.
Your heart starts pounding so hard you feel it in your throat.
You try again, voice smaller. “After everything- the threesomes, the fights, this whole weekend… what am I to you guys?”
More silence.
The candles flicker. Water cools a degree. Snow taps the frosted glass like it’s trying to warn you.
Your throat tightens until it aches. Tears prick hot and sudden. You duck your head, pretending to watch the bubbles burst, blinking furiously so they don’t see.
Steve clears his throat, starts to speak, voice low and careful. “We… we haven’t really-”
Bucky cuts in, quieter. “We didn’t want to mess it up by saying the wrong thing.”
It’s not enough. It’s nothing.
Something inside you cracks, sharp, painful, final. You nod like you understand, but your chest feels like it’s caving in. You force a tiny, watery laugh that sounds hollow even to you. “Yeah. Cool. Got it.”
You pull away, gently but firmly sliding forward in the tub until their hands fall from your skin. Water sloshes, loud in the silence. You stand, bubbles sliding down your body, steam curling around you like smoke.
Neither of them moves to stop you. No hand reaches out, no voice calls you back. They just sit there, Steve’s arms resting on the tub edge, Bucky’s head tipped back against the rim, watching you with unreadable eyes.
You step out onto the cool tile, water pooling at your feet. Grab a towel, wrap it around yourself like armor. The candles keep burning. The water keeps cooling.
You don’t look back as you walk out, door clicking softly shut behind you.
The quiet that follows you into the bedroom isn’t warm anymore.
It feels like the end of something you’re not ready to name.
The drive back is three hours of pure, suffocating silence.
Steve drives like always, hands steady on the wheel, eyes locked on the snowy highway like it’s the only thing holding him together. Bucky’s in the passenger seat, earbuds in but no music on. Every few seconds he flicks a glance to the rearview mirror, meets your eyes for a split second, then looks away fast.
You’re curled in the middle of the back seat, knees pulled to your chest, wrapped in Bucky’s hoodie that still smells like him and the cabin fireplace. The heater’s on full blast, but you’re freezing. The radio stays off. No one even pretends to reach for the aux cord.
You stare at your phone for a while, lock screen frozen on a blurry selfie Nat sent from the party, her sticking out her tongue, fairy lights haloing her red hair. You don’t open any apps. You don’t text her. You just watch the battery percentage tick down, slow and inevitable.
Halfway through the drive, the tears start.
They’re quiet at first, one slipping down your cheek, then another. You turn your face to the window so they won’t see, press your forehead to the cold glass. It doesn’t help. Your throat aches like you swallowed glass. You bite the sleeve of the hoodie to muffle the first tiny, broken sob, but it shakes your shoulders anyway.
Neither of them says anything.
Steve’s knuckles go white on the wheel. Bucky pulls his earbuds out, lets them dangle, but still doesn’t turn around.
By the time the city skyline appears, ugly and familiar under a dull winter sky you’re cried out. Eyes puffy, nose stuffed, head throbbing. The tears have dried crusty on your cheeks. You haven’t made a sound in hours.
Steve pulls up outside your dorm. Engine idling. Snow flurries swirl under the streetlights.
You grab your suitcase from the trunk without a word. Neither of them gets out to help.
The Jeep pulls away before you even reach the door.
Inside the building it’s warm, too warm, smelling like burnt microwave popcorn and someone’s laundry detergent. Your boots leave wet prints on the tile. The elevator ride is endless.
When Nat opens the door to your shared dorm, she’s in sweats and a messy bun, holding a pint of Ben & Jerry’s like armor.
One look at your face and the spoon clatters to the floor.
“Oh, baby,” she whispers.
That’s all it takes.
You drop your suitcase in the doorway and crumple, knees hitting the cheap carpet, shoulders shaking with sobs that feel like they’ve been dammed up for years. Nat’s on the ground with you in seconds, arms around you tight, pulling you into her lap like you’re something small and breakable.
You cry so hard you can’t breathe, ugly, hiccupping gasps into her hoodie, fists clenched in the fabric. Everything pours out: the perfect weekend, the perfect sex, the perfect making up, and then that one question in the bathtub that turned everything cold and sharp and wrong.
Nat doesn’t ask what happened. She just holds you, rocking slightly, one hand stroking your hair while you fall apart.
“It’s okay,” she murmurs over and over, voice thick. “I’ve got you. You’re home now. I’ve got you.”
You cry until there’s nothing left, just dry heaves and exhaustion. Until your head throbs and your eyes burn and your throat feels shredded.
Eventually she helps you up, leads you to her bed, tucks you under her comforter that smells like her coconut shampoo and safety. She climbs in behind you, spooning you close, arm locked around your waist like she’s anchoring you to the earth.
You fall asleep like that, face swollen, heart raw, Nat’s heartbeat steady against your spine.
Fourteen days of nothing.
Fourteen days that feel like a slow-motion car crash you can’t look away from.
Classes are a blur, professors’ voices droning like white noise, notes you take but don’t read, group projects where you nod along and contribute just enough not to get called out.
You eat because your body demands it, but nothing has taste. The dining hall grilled cheese might as well be cardboard. You smile when friends ask how the cabin was, “amazing, yeah, super relaxing” and the lie sits heavy on your tongue every time.
Nights are the worst. You lie in your narrow dorm bed staring at the ceiling until the glow-in-the-dark stars Nat stuck up freshman year blur from tears.
You replay that bathtub moment on an endless loop: the way the water went from warm to cold in seconds, the way Steve’s hand froze on your skin like he’d been burned, Bucky’s fingers slipping from yours like he couldn’t hold on anymore.
You asked a simple question, what are we? and they looked at you like you’d asked them to solve world hunger. The silence after wasn’t just quiet. It was a wall. And when you got out of the tub, towel clutched like armor, they didn’t stop you. Didn’t reach. Just watched you go.
You keep waiting for a text that never comes. You check your phone too often, heart jumping at every notification, only to feel it sink again when it’s just a meme or a reminder about laundry.
You wear Steve’s gray practice hoodie to bed every night because it still smells faintly like him and you’re pathetic enough to want the comfort, even if it hurts. You haven’t washed it. You’re scared the scent will disappear and take the last piece of them with it.
Nat finds you in the basement laundry room at 2:17 am on a Sunday that’s bleeding into Monday. You’re sitting on a running dryer, knees to chest, the low rumble vibrating through your body like it could shake loose the ache that’s taken up permanent residence in your ribs. The air’s thick with artificial lavender dryer sheets and that faint, perpetual mildew smell. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, harsh and unforgiving.
You’re in Steve’s hoodie again, sleeves past your fingertips, hem brushing your thighs over threadbare sleep shorts and you look exactly like what you are: someone who’s been crying too much and sleeping too little.
Nat storms in like a category-five redhead, door slamming hard enough to rattle the ancient vending machine.
“Are you fucking kidding me right now?”
The words ricochet off the walls. You flinch, hug your knees tighter.
“Two weeks,” she says, voice shaking with fury.
“Two entire weeks of you turning into a goddamn zombie because those two idiots couldn’t answer one simple, human question? After they spent weeks fucking you like you were the only thing that mattered in their universe, calling you ‘baby’ and ‘ours,’ filming hours of footage like they were making a love letter?”
Your throat closes. Tears prick instantly. You open your mouth, nothing comes out.
Nat’s pacing the room now, sneakers squeaking on the linoleum. “I saw how they looked at you. I heard them going at it during that call, remember? And then you finally ask for some honesty, just a little clarity, and they freeze? Ghost you for two weeks straight? Make you feel like you imagined the whole damn thing?”
She stops in front of you, eyes blazing but wet too. “You’ve barely eaten. You flinch every time your phone buzzes. And you cry in your sleep, I hear you through the pillows.”
She sighs. “Fourteen nights. That’s enough.”
You finally manage a cracked whisper. “They didn’t know what to say.”
“Bullshit.” Her voice cracks too. “They knew exactly what to say when they were inside you. They just didn’t know how to say it when it mattered.”
Her anger deflates into something sadder. “You deserve answers. You deserve to not feel like a disposable weekend.”
Then she’s gone, door banging shut, leaving you with the dryer’s thump and the weight of everything.
An hour later your phone buzzes.
Unknown Number 3:12am
open your door. now.
Your heart slams so hard it hurts. You stare at the screen until it dims, hands shaking.
You open the door anyway.
Steve and Bucky are in the hallway looking like hell dragged them here personally. Hoodies rumpled, eyes bloodshot and sunken, hair messy from frantic hands. Steve’s beard is scruffy, tired; Bucky’s hand flexes like it’s itching for something to hold. They smell like cold night air, cheap diner coffee, and regret.
Before you can decide whether to slam the door or collapse, Nat appears like she’s been waiting in the shadows. She shoves past you, a furious red blur in her oversized sleep shirt.
She doesn’t raise her voice. She goes lethal-quiet.
“You have exactly ten seconds to explain to me why the girl who turned you both into absolute lovesick puppies, who took your cocks, your toys, your hearts, your filthy weekends, your everything has been crying herself empty for two weeks because you were too chickenshit to answer one simple question.”
Her finger jabs Steve’s chest. Then Bucky’s. They don’t move.
“You don’t get to whisper ‘love you, baby’ while you’re coming inside her, make her feel like the center of your universe, film a whole damn documentary series of it, and then vanish into thin air because feelings got scary. You don’t get to leave her thinking she was just a fun experiment you both passed and forgot.”
Steve opens his mouth, closes it. His eyes are glassy.
Bucky’s voice is gravel and regret. “We fucked up. Bad.”
“Yeah,” Nat snarls, stepping closer until she’s right in their space.
“You really fucking did. And if you’re too dumb to fix this yourselves, I swear to God I will fix it for you. I will drag you both to couples therapy. I will tattoo ‘COMMUNICATE’ on your foreheads. I will make your lives hell until you get it right.”
You finally speak, voice small, cracked from crying earlier. “You… didn’t text at all. For two weeks.”
Steve flinches like the words are physical blows. Bucky’s head drops, hair falling over his eyes, shoulders curling in.
“We thought…” Steve starts, voice hoarse.
He swallows hard. “We thought if we gave you space, you’d realize you deserve someone normal. Someone who doesn’t… share. Someone who can give you all of them without complicating everything. We thought we were being noble, letting you go before we dragged you down with us.”
Bucky lifts his head, eyes red-rimmed. “We’re idiots. Complete fucking idiots. We were scared that if we said it out loud, if we admitted we’re both stupidly, hopelessly in love with you, you’d run. Because who wants this? Who wants two guys who can’t even figure out how to say it right?”
Nat throws her hands up. “Oh my God, you absolute morons. She’s been miserable without you. Fix this before I fix it for you and trust me, my version involves a lot more pain.”
She shoulders past them, pauses at your side, cups your cheek gently, kisses your temple. “Make them grovel, babe. They’ve earned it.”
Silence crashes in, heavy and absolute, the kind that rings in your ears.
You’re shaking, anger, relief, exhaustion, two weeks of grief all colliding at once. Tears spill before you can stop them, hot and unstoppable, sliding down your cheeks in silent streams.
They move at the same time.
Steve steps forward first, arms wrapping around you like he’s terrified you’ll dissolve if he doesn’t hold tight enough.
Bucky right behind, pressing in from the back, face buried in the crook of your neck, breath ragged against your skin.
They surround you completely, warm, solid, trembling just as hard as you are, holding you so close you can feel both their heartbeats hammering against you.
“I’m so sorry,” Steve whispers into your hair, voice cracking open, raw and broken. “God, baby, we’re so fucking sorry. We hurt you. We left you alone with it. I hate myself for that.”
Bucky’s hand fists in the hoodie at your waist, knuckles white, like he’s anchoring himself to you.
“We love you,” he rasps against your shoulder, words muffled and thick with tears you can feel soaking through the fabric.
“We love you so much it scares the shit out of us. We thought… we thought if we said it out loud, you’d see how messed up this is, two of us, always two and you’d run. We thought staying quiet was protecting you. But we were just protecting ourselves. And we broke you instead.”
You sob, deep, wrenching, the kind that comes from the bottom of your chest and rips everything open. It’s ugly and loud and unstoppable, weeks of pain pouring out all at once. They hold you through every shake, every gasp, never loosening their grip.
Steve’s hand cups the back of your head, fingers threading gently through your hair. “We’re never doing that again,” he says fiercely, voice trembling but sure. “Never shutting you out. Never making you wonder. You’re everything to us. Everything.”
Bucky presses closer, lips brushing your neck, your jaw, your temple, soft, desperate kisses that taste like salt and regret.
“You’re our girl,” he whispers, voice breaking on every word. “Ours. For real. Forever if you’ll have us. We’ll spend every day proving it. We’ll scream it from the fucking rooftops. Whatever you need. Just… please don’t give up on us.”
You cling to them, fingers twisting in Steve’s hoodie, reaching back to grip Bucky’s sleeve, crying harder because it hurts and because it’s healing at the same time. The tears are relief now, overwhelming and cleansing, washing away the loneliness that’s lived in your chest for fourteen endless nights.
“I missed you,” you manage between sobs, voice small and cracked. “I missed you so much I didn’t know how to breathe.”
Steve makes a wounded sound, pulls you even tighter. “We missed you every second. We were dying without you.”
Bucky’s fingers find yours, lacing carefully, reverently. His hand cups your cheek, thumb brushing away tears that keep falling. “We love you,” he says again, like a vow. “We’re in love with you. Both of us. Completely. Stupidly. Forever.”
You laugh through the tears, wet, hiccupping, but real. The sound breaks something open in all three of you.
Eventually you end up on your tiny dorm bed, fully clothed for once, just tangled together under the covers like three survivors of a shipwreck clinging to the same piece of driftwood.
The mattress is too small for all of you, but no one complains. Steve pulls you into his chest first, arms locked around you like he’s afraid the moment will slip away if he loosens even a fraction.
Bucky curls in behind you, chest to your back, arm draped over your waist so his hand can rest over Steve’s heart, three heartbeats finding the same rhythm again, slow and steady and real.
They kiss away the last of your tears, soft, lingering presses to your wet cheeks, your swollen eyelids, the corners of your mouth that still tremble.
Steve’s lips brush your temple, murmuring “I’ve got you” like a promise he’ll never break again. Bucky’s mouth finds the curve of your neck, breathing you in like he’s relearning your scent after too long apart.
You’re crying still quiet, happy tears now that feel like rain after a drought. The kind that wash everything clean. They don’t try to stop them. They just hold you through it, letting the storm pass.
“I thought I’d lost you,” you whisper into Steve’s chest, voice small and cracked from all the crying. “Both of you. I thought the weekend was… just a weekend.”
Steve’s arms tighten, voice thick. “Never. Not for a second. You’re our home. You’re the thing we were too scared to believe we could keep.”
“We were idiots,” Bucky says softly. “Terrified idiots who thought love this big had to come with an expiration date. But it doesn’t. You’re it for us. The end of the search. The person we want to come home to every single night.”
You laugh through the tears, wet and hiccupping and perfect. “You’re stuck with me now. No take-backs.”
“Never want any,” Steve murmurs, pressing his forehead to yours.
Bucky kisses the back of your neck, voice muffled against your skin. “We love you. So much it’s stupid. We’ll spend every day making sure you never doubt it again.”
You fall asleep with Steve’s heartbeat under your cheek and Bucky’s arm anchoring you close.
And for the first time in fourteen days, the world feels whole again.
You’re theirs. They’re yours. And nothing, nothing, will take that away again.
feeling achy and in pain and the fireworks are happening again and just thinking of stoner bucky coaxing you into smoking a bit more than usual so he can take care of you in your high state
hoping that it distracts you from everything else
like he has you in his lap playing with your hair or he is reading to you, playing video games with you or feeding you yummy fruits and snacks
and everytime he has a joint rolled and lit just for you (he holds it of course) “pretty princess’s should have to hold their own joints”
and man.
at night when the fireworks are so loud and the pain is creeping higher he makes sure to give you an edible and letting you shot gun him to activate the gummy faster
and even though you’re high as hell, needy as fuck you’re touching on him and pulling him into bed and he’s just as high with you, eyes lidded and red rimmed as the two of you crash lips together and hands roaming
in which frat boy bucky barnes teaches his sweet little frat pledge how to be a man
contains: frat!bucky, pledge!steve, alcohol, threesome (mfm), fingering, spitting, squirting, p in v, blowjobs, HELLA voyeurism, idk how frats or initiation or hazing work
word count: 6506
notes: this can be standalone or read with the other frat!buck fics. i love frat!bucky pls ask me to write more i will
You’re sitting in class when your phone rings, your cute bubbly ringtone interrupting your professor's lecture. A dozen and one pair of eyes land on you as you fumble to turn your ringer off. It’s an unknown number, so you turn your phone off, drop it into your bag and try to ignore the embarrassment flaming in your neck.
When you finally get out of class, you notice a few more calls from the number, and a text message too. “call me!!!” You’re curious so you press the number to redial.
You’re rummaging through your bag for your room key while the phone rings. Once, twice, you think the other end won’t pick up. When you finally hear a “hello?” it almost scares you.
“Uhm. Who’s this?” you ask, recognizing the voice but not truly knowing who it was.
“Are you kidding me, princess? It’s only your favorite guy.”
You giggle, “Hi, Bucky.” You know he’s probably just messing with you, playing with your heart and pussy before he moves on to the next girl, but you can’t help it when his attention straight goes to your head and your cunt.
So what if the campus fuckboy might be using you? Who are you to say no? He makes you feel pretty and special and lets you stay the night in his bed. You’ve never had to make your walk of shame in the middle of the night, only in the morning or in his pickup truck after lunch.
Maybe he’s not using you, maybe he really does like you and just doesn’t know how to tell you. Thats a fat load of shit, you think to yourself.
“How’d you get my number?” you ask, because in all the times you’ve seen Bucky, you’ve never once gotten his number or given him yours.
“I just asked around. Don’t worry about it. What are you doing tonight?” he asks, you can tell he doesn’t have a care in the world, probably sitting in his dorm with his feet propped up on the desk, twirling his pen with more focus than talking to you on the phone.
“Uhm. I think just studying. I have a chem test next week.”
“Boooo!” Bucky jeers. “You’re coming to my party tonight. Wear something nice, kay? One of your cute little skirts.”
You pause, really? James ‘Bucky’ Barnes, the star quarter back on thousands of dollars of athletic scholarships wants you at his party?
Well, who are you to say no?
“Yeah, okay!” You smile happily, giggling into your phone. Bucky wanted to hang out with you? And he noticed your outfits? It was a good day to be you.
“Good, I’ll see you there, babe.”
You head back to your dorm, finally grabbing your keys out of your bag before you make it to the door.
You can hear your roommate and suitemates making noise before your key even enters the door. One of them hears you fumbling and opens it for you.
Wanda opens the door for you, smiling and greeting you before you hear Natasha shouting from the bathroom.
“Hey girl! How was class?” You can smell the burnt hair and Natasha’s perfume wafting through the air.
“It was good!” You start to giggle. “You’ll never guess who called me!”
“Who?” Nat calls back, setting her curling iron down to peer past the door frame and talk to you.
“Bucky! He got my number somehow. He wants me to come to his party tonight!”
Nat smiles at you, you’re practically shaking with excitement, zero clue what Bucky wanted from you. Maybe a little clue. You knew what guys like Bucky were after, your dad had warned you almost every single day of the summer leading up to your freshman year of college. Guys like him only want one thing. But maybe what he wanted was a chance to spend some time with you and your awesome personality?
“Are you even gonna go? You didn’t seem too happy the last time we dragged you out. Nat practically had to pull you out of bed and dress you.” Your suite mate scowls, jealous that the campus heartthrob is asking you to the party. You don’t even notice her disdain. Wanda just laughs at the other girl, ignoring the aura of jealousy that radiates from her.
“Yeah! He told me he wanted me to wear a skirt. Plus it seems like fun!” you turn to Natasha who’s back to curling her long red hair. “Nat, can you help me with my makeup? Maybe my hair?”
“Of course babe.” She smiles, while your suitemate sulks.
The party’s already started, but you and Nat are still in your shared room getting ready. She told you that you couldn’t show up on time to the party because that meant you were early. You just listened to her, she knew a lot more about partying than you.
Originally, you’d tried to show Nat the outfit you’d picked out, but she just laughed and smiled at you. In that loving non-teasing way she does. Your choice of a cute cardigan and a pleated skirt was vetoed by Nat and Wanda. Wanda told you to just put on whatever Nat threw at you because you were not going to a study session at the library with the ‘nerd club,’ you were going to Bucky Barnes’s party with a personal invitation.
You ended up borrowing one of her going out tops, pairing it with a short black mini skirt from the bottom of your drawer. Nat had given it to you the first week of the semester, thinking you’d be partying with her and seeing it was your size.
It’d never seen the light of day, or the gleam of the night, but today was its chance.
Your top was way more revealing than anything you’d ever worn, the deep red flooding your body, hugging your curves and breasts, and leaving not much to the imagination. The black miniskirt almost had your ass hanging out, but you kept fiddling with it until it felt right.
You’d tried to put on a pair of spandex to cover yourself a bit more, but Nat said it ruined the outfit because the shorts were sticking out, so you listened. You listened when she threw a pair of shoes at you, and you listened when she did your makeup and said you were gonna be the prettiest girl there. You listened when she teased you for all the dick you were going to get tonight, even when the dark red of your shirt blended into your hot blushing skin.
Nat had finally decided it was time for you two to leave, so you grabbed your phone and headed out the door with her.
You started to text Bucky that you were on your way before Nat told you to stop.
“He doesn’t need to know, keep him waiting, guessing. Let him think you’re not coming.”
“But why? That’s mean! I told him I’d be there.”
“Just listen to me babe. Okay?” You nodded, not understanding but trusting her.
You arrived at the frat house, the party already in full swing. The lights were flashing, music pumping, and you thought you could already smell something nasty coming from the house, but you ignored it.
Nat quickly dashed off to find one of her girlfriends, blowing you a kiss and leaving you alone in the middle of the crowded room.
You debated texting Bucky to come find you, but Nat’s voice in your head told you not to. Told you that you didn’t want to look desperate, but was it desperate to seek out the guy who invited you? You didn’t know, so instead you found your way towards the snacks.
There was a brother standing at a table, chatting up some pretty blonde and offering her a drink. You stepped up to ask for one.
“Oh heyyy, I know you! I’ve seen that video Buck’s got.” He looked at you, passing you a tall can. “I heard that Bucky invited you. We all didn’t think you’d show up!”
You laugh sheepishly, ready to go into your spiel about how he’d asked you but you cut yourself off. They didn’t need to know everything. But then you wonder, what video could he be talking about?
“Here’s a drink, hon. Buck’s around here somewhere.”
The thought of whatever video fades away, you smiled and thanked him, cracking open the can and taking a sip, before literally spitting it out. It tasted like TV static, the fruits on the front of the can lying to you about their involvement. You awkwardly set the drink on a random table, choosing instead to follow the music.
Someone bumped into you, spilling one of their drinks all over you.
“Fuck! I’m sorry girl. Here, have some of this, I’m so sorry.” The girl offered a bottle to you. Her empty solo cup now all over your outfit. It smelled strong, but she seemed nice, so you took a swig from the bottle she offered you. The taste of rubbing alcohol filled your nose, burning your nostrils and throat on the way down. You coughed as your eyes watered. You tried to fan yourself to stop the tears that would definitely ruin all of Nat’s hard work.
The girl laughed at you, asking “Never had vodka?” You shake your head. “Here. Go over to that table over there. There’s one guy giving out seltzers that suck but there’s another table with a mixed punch thingie. Jungle juice I guess, probably more up to your speed.” She’s close to your ear, but still yelling over all the voices and music.
You follow her advice. There was a table opposite the first one you went to. There were a few brothers at the table, a large punch bowl, and a large stack of red solo cups. One of the guys notices you and pours a cup for you, handing it to you while he whispers to the other guys at the table. You ignore the whispers of “Bucky” “What’s her name?” and “that video.”
You take a sip of the drink, fruity punch flavor coating your mouth and a slight burn traveling down your throat. It’s fruity, sweet, and there’s something else you can’t figure out.
You soon found yourself in the middle of the crowd, body swaying to the music, letting yourself have fun. You didn’t care where Bucky or Nat were, you were doing your own thing, whatever your own thing was, and trying to make it seem like you knew what you were doing. (Does anyone here really know what they’re doing?) There was foggy smoke all around you, smelling somewhat herbal but also kind of gross, but you just ignored it. You had your fruity little drink in hand, music in your ears, and not a care in the world. Nat would be proud of you, letting lose and getting down.
Two hands found your waist, your ass, and slid up your sides. You turned around quickly before seeing who it was. You smiled.
“Hey Buck!” A smile crossing your face, whatever was in your drink had you feeling a little looser, louder, more talkative. Your hands trailed up Bucky’s arms as you both swayed to the music. His thick muscular biceps felt electric under your soft dainty fingers. His eyes raked over your body, staring at you like a predator who’s locked eyes on it’s newest prey. Animalistic and heavy. His eyes trailed from your pretty little tipsy smile to the shiny necklace placed perfectly between your tits, to the sticky sweet borrowed red shirt, to your itsy bitsy little black mini skirt that definitely had your ass on display for the entire party.
“I started to think you weren’t coming, sweet cheeks.” Bucky smiled, hands roaming your body wherever they pleased. His hands settled on your waist with a possessive manner. He smelled like the clouds of smoke in the room, and his breath smelled like beer.
“Oh no! I’m sorry! I could’ve texted you!” You replied anxiously, going to open your phone and show him the text you’d planned to send to him. Bucky just laughed.
“It’s all good doll. No need to fret.” He laughs as he spins you, your ass straight on his bulging crotch. Your body feels so loose you can’t help but grind on him to the beat of the music, feeling yourself, feeling him, feeling the vibrations of the bass has your body all hot and sweaty in more ways than one.
You guys dance for awhile, letting Bucky’s hands roam aimlessly while he mindlessly flicks through his phone, seemingly waiting on something.
Bucky pulls you into his arms and leans into your ear, whispering soft and sensual,
“You ready babe? I wanted to have some fun with you tonight.” He grins at you devilishly, eyes flickering with something more than just fun.
You smile and nod as his hand slips into yours, dragging you through the sweaty bodies and off the dance floor. He cornered you in a somewhat quiet hallway, pushing you gently against the wall before his hand cupped your face.
“I’m glad you listened to me,” he starts, words in between soft gentle kisses on the side of your neck. You drop your mostly empty cup on the floor while your hands fly to Bucky’s bicep and pitch black hair. You hum quietly as he decorates your neck with his spit. Lips, tongue, teeth, your neck is bared to all.
“Well you asked me to come and wear a skirt. Nat told me I wasn’t allowed to wear one of my normal skirts. I had a cute little black one picked out with my purple cardigan but Wanda told me I couldn’t wear it. I hope this is okay…” Bucky cuts you off with a kiss to your lips. He grabs your ass with primal need as you yelp helplessly.
“It’s perfect baby. Seeing you on that dance floor with your ass out for the entire party gave me a boner.” He whispers into your ear, you giggle helplessly. “Made me want to take you right there on the DJ table and show the whole party who you belong to.”
“Bucky!” You cry out, hiding your face in your hands.
“What? I’m just telling the truth!” he laughs, biting your earlobe playfully.
“But thats dirty!” You squeal as your face heats up, still covered by the safety net of your hands.
“Not as dirty as all the things we’re about to do, doll.” Bucky flashes that playboy smile at you, melting your knees and your pussy sooner than you can ask what things you’re doing.
He takes you by the hand again, furiously texting on his phone with the other.
You quickly made it to a room you recognized as Bucky’s, remembering the last time you were here made your face and your core heat up.
“So uhm, what did you have in mind?” You ask awkwardly, you’re fiddling with the hem of your skirt, really noticing how tiny it is now.
“Well sweets, I got this friend, one of our new pledges, he needs some help. Thought you and I could help him.”
You smiled sheepishly, you were always willing to help people!
But then, you weren’t exactly sure how this was helping.
You were laid on Bucky’s bed, knees up in the air as Bukcy was rubbing your clit through your underwear. You were already soaking wet while he talked to his friend.
You’d seen him before, a skinny little blonde boy who always sat in the front of the class, always ready to help the teacher or any student with anything. Never thought you’d see him in this setting, with him looking at your cute underwear up your skirt. Your pretty pink panties on display for both boys, and practically anyone who could walk into the room.
“Look Steve, I’m barely even touching her and you can see how already wet she is through her panties.” Steve nodded, almost ready to pull out a pencil and paper to take notes. “Gotta find a girl like this, but they’re not very easy to come by. I got lucky with this one.” Bucky continues to play with your clit, pointing out the growing wet spot on your pretty pink panties.
Bucky’s pace is tortuously slow, letting Steve watch the way your legs shook and the soft moans you let out. You were biting your lip to hold back your noises, nervous with the new person in the room, or maybe it was the fact that anyone could walk in at any moment. But that also kind of turned you on. You weren’t really sure how to feel right now, all your blood and hormones traveling straight to your pussy.
Bucky notices the strain on your face, his hands stop and he caresses your leg tenderly, comforting, not at all evil. “Come on pretty girl, let him know how good it feels when I touch you like this. Poor Steve’s probably never gonna get some pussy. This is as close as he’ll ever get to one. You’re helping him a lot, sweets.” Bucky coos, patting your thigh as you twitch helplessly.
Bucky presses down harder, making his circles tighter, giving delicious pressure to your clit through your panties. You let out a loud moan, and a pathetic Buckyy pleaseee.
“Look Steve.” Bucky had pulled your underwear to the side, showing your glistening pussy. You were practically dripping already, your panties and Bucky’s fingers soaked.
“Wow Buck, she’s so wet!” Steve exclaimed.
Bucky stopped touching you momentarily, leaving you whining. You felt cold air on your pussy before you even registered that he’d taken your panties off. He pressed your knees to your chest, putting your entire pussy on display.
You could see the toes of your shoes just beyond your knees, you wrapped your arms tightly around them. Pressing your thighs together just a little bit of friction.
“Look Steve, could practically shove two fingers into this pussy. Barely even needs to be stretched, go on Steve, give it a try. You good with that, princess? I know I’m the only one who’s ever touched you there but I’m sure Steve will be gentle.” You let out a soft yes, back arching when Steve stuck one finger into your pussy.
“Woah.”
Bucky laughs, “You’re finally touching some pussy, man. Maybe little Stevie won’t die a virgin.”
“So, like what do I do? How do I make her feel… good?” Steve’s eyes can’t pick a spot to look at, your puffy pulsing pussy, your aching quivering legs, or a Bucky’s icy commanding gaze.
“However you want, this girl loves fucking anything. It’s why it’s good to pick out a virgin, they’re new and everything feels good.Try something.”
The air goes still, and you peek between your legs to see that Bucky’s grabbed Steve’s fingers, placed them in his own mouth, and is decorating his fingers with his saliva.
It’s incredibly hot.
Even more so when Steve’s spit covered fingers enter your sloppy pussy, you can’t help but quiver and shake as your pussy pulses around his fingers.
Steve slowly moves his finger in and out of your pussy, relishing the moans and slickness your body lets out. The way your pussy is glistening in the lowlight has Steve mesmerized. The sight alone has him pulled in, and the way your pussy sucks his finger back in has him close to cumming in his pants.
You hear Bucky and Steve conversing, lost in your own pleasure and you can’t find a map to bring you to be able to understand.
You whine when Steve’s finger leaves your gaping hole, even one finger has you feeling full, and so empty when it’s gone. No wonder you’re so obsessed with Bucky’s cock.
Bucky lets your legs rest, opening them up to show the top of your pussy. He pulls at the top, pulling the hood of your vulva up and exposing your clit to the cold air. You shiver at the feeling, squealing when Bucky playfully blows on it.
“See that? That’s her clit. She fucking loves getting that played with. That’s where I was touching her through those cute panties. Give her some love, spit on it.”
“But, why? She’s so wet, does she need it?” Steve questions, curious but willing.
“No, but she wants it. I bet her poor pussy is squeezing at the thought of it. Right, pretty girl?”
You’re too out of it to answer, letting all the pleasure go to your head, it flows through your veins like a deadly poison, infecting ever inch of your body until you can’t breathe.
It upsets Bucky when you don’t answer, enough for him to give you a quick back handed slap to your clit. His knuckles catch on your clit, making it feel that much better. You let out a little yelp whine, before trying to pay more attention to Bucky’s words.
“I’m trying to teach here, baby girl.” He chides. “You like when I spit on this tight little pussy, right babe?” He asks again.
You whine out, “Y-yes Bucky! It feels so good!” You manage to get out, the words heavy and cotton on your honeyed tongue.
“Good girl,” and that has you pussy clenching on air (the boys noticed) “See Steve. This is how lucky I got with this one. She likes everything and knows how to listen.”
Steve nods intently, still itching to dive back deep into your pussy. To study it like he does his textbooks, to trace every curve and bend with his fingers, or his tongue. To study the noises and the twitching of your pleasure.
“Sometimes you might have a girl who needs a little extra lube, or you get the ones like this who could cum at the thought of you spitting on her. Go on, Steve.”
You hear the sound of Steve spitting, the wetness landing almost directly on your asshole.
“Well damn Steve. Work on your aim!” Bucky teases him, before spitting directly on your clit. It gives you a jolt, your pussy clenching around nothing, again.
“Touch her right there Steve, that little nub. She’ll be screaming in seconds once you give her some attention.” Bucky instructs. “I mean, you remember what a mess she was when she had her panties on!”
Steve listens to him, touching your neglected clit. He barely taps it, just a gentle nudge, but your entire body shakes with a loud moan.
“Mmph! Fuck!” You cry out, as Steve plays with your clit. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, just rubbing aimlessly. It’s messy, it’s sloppy, it’s novice, but it feels so good.
“Legs up slut. Steve needs a better angle.” Bucky pushes your legs back up, making you hold your knees to your chest.
Your legs are spread open wide, like Steve and Bucky are about to study for an anatomy test, of your pussy.
“You gotta put some effort into it if you want her to cum. Like this.” Bucky pushed Steve’s hand away, replacing his softer, nerdy, fingers with Bucky’s more callous, athletic, ones.
While Steve’s fingers were studying you, taking their time to bring you to the top, Bucky’s fingers are dominating, pushing you up that hill of ecstasy.
You feel two fingers glide across your clit, rubbing in a circle motion. It has you moaning and bucking your hips, begging for Bucky to give you more.
Bucky goes faster, and you feel a familiar finger enter your tight hole. Now that Bucky and Steve have been playing with your clit and fanning the flames of your arousal, it’s not enough stimulation, you’re so used to Bucky’s huge cock.
“Please! Buck! Steve! I need more!” You cry out, hips bucking like a mechanical bull. Bucky laughs at your begging.
“Give her another finger Steve, since she’s been such a good girl.”
Suddenly two fingers are messily thrusting into your pussy, Bucky speeds up his fingers, instructing Steve how to do exactly what he’s doing.
“Flip your hand over so your palms up, yeah good boy Stevie.” Bucky teases, but you can feel the flutter of his fingers and hear the tiny whimper he lets out, and it just turns you on even more.
“Okay now, move your fingers like you’re trying to pull her closer.” Steve manages to hit your g spot just right in a way that has you screaming and begging to cum.
Your saccharine whines and begs are like a symphony to their ears, both boys are desperate for anything and everything.
“God Buck, she’s so- Fuck man I’m hard.” Steve lets out, panting heavily, embarrassment seeping into his voice, it drips through his words like honey and milk, sweet and ambrosial. His tone makes him sound like an ashamed little puppy dog, sad, submissive, ready to learn. Makes your wet pussy even wetter. The thought of sweet Steve Rogers embarrassed by pitching a tent while just playing with your pussy has your core burning. Your pussy is practically drooling at the thought of Steve’s embarrassment and Bucky’s domination ready to rip you to shreds.
“Go ahead, Steve, pull your dick out. I’m sure she’ll give it some love later. She’s a good girl.”
Your pussy loses Steve’s fingers as he quickly unzips his jeans and pulls his cock out, you hear a hiss as fingers enter your cunt again. Steve is panting as he slowly jerks his cock to fingering your cunt. Your pussy tightens even more, so incredibly turned on by the thought of it and you can’t even see it.
You can’t see the way soft, long, slender fingers slowly stroke Steve’s dick, which is practically making a puddle of precum on the floor. You don’t see the way his mouth is agape at the sight of your pussy being abused by two different men.
You don’t see the way Bucky’s thicker calloused fingers wrap around Steve’s soft thin fingers, and how he helps his underclassment stroke his own cock. You don’t see the way Steve almost draws blood biting his lower lip to hold back his sweet soft salacious moans. You don’t see Steve’s soft blue eyes lock into Bucky’s icy hard ones, or the way both boys are torn between staring at each other or your velvety folds.
The unmistakable coil in your gut is tightening, your body is practically vibrating with pleasure. Your fingers find purchase in the sheets, pretty manicured nails almost ripping holes in the cheap university provided fabric.
You can barely form the words as they fly off your tongue. “Buck- shit. I’m so close! I’m gonna cum. I’mgonnacum!” Bucky and Steve’s fingers are working together to bring you to orgasm, the perfect combination to have you unraveling.
It hits you hard, like bright paint splattering a canvas. Splatters of red passion, pink lust, and white ecstasy mixing in your mind, body and blood, all over the walls. Your body tenses as the release of pleasure has your pussy clenching so hard it forces Steve’s fingers out, Bucky’s entire hand is rubbing your clit now like a mad man.
After being hit by a train, Bucky still doesn’t stop. His fingers practically vibrate over your clit, nonstop movement despite you screaming “oh god!” “too much!” and “Bucky please!” Your body is tight and you can feel the pleasure building up. You don’t see as Bucky grabs Steve’s hand, but you feel the way Steve’s fingers enter your pussy again as Bucky tortures your clit.
You’re screaming, panting, sobbing, loud enough that the entire party can hear you, but the boys don’t relent.
The pressure and pleasure don’t stop until your orgasm overtakes you, your legs tense and your body tightens and you squirt all over the boys.
Steve hears and feels it before he sees it. He hears the wet hot squelching of his fingers crooked into your g-spot, deep, spongy, and pleasure filled. Steve almost gasps, watching you gush around his fingers. Bucky’s moan is deep, long, and low as his figure-eighting fingers collide with your long steady stream of ecstasy.
The way you scream is sexually depraved, your back is arched so high it could snap into two, your legs are so tense you could pull a muscle. It’s the best most intense feeling you’d ever had.
The boys watch in unison as one last spurt trickles out and around Steve’s finger. He’s so overwhelmed by his studious stupor that he can’t help but dive in and get a taste, tongue savoring and studying your juices. He’s got one hand holding your leg, his other hand tormenting your poor pussy. His mouth replaces Bucky's fingers as he practically licks you clean.
You’re still trying to calm yourself from your high, but the boys don’t care. You feel Steves mouth move away, his tongue relenting from its afflictions, just to be replaces by Bucky’s a moment later. Unlike Steve’s tongue, which was desperate and heady, Bucky is soft and tender, savoring you with all the time in the world. The boys are fighting over who gets to taste you, both heads between your legs as they slowly lick your nether regions.
Your screams subside to pants, as your knuckles give way to the sheets. Your body is dizzy while your mind is fuzzy, and your mind is shaking and your body is spinning. Your body feels limp and stiff, and your brain feels dumb and enlightened, all at once.
Steve pulls back, and sits there in awe, covered in and tasting your juices. Bucky’s tongue slows it’s pace and gives you reprieve. Everyone in the room is panting.
“You see that Steve? She just fuckin squirted all over you. That’s my good girl.” He gives your clit a few loving pats, jolting your entire body as you come down.
“Fuck man! She’s like- like straight out of some porno!” Steve gasps out.
Bucky just laughs at him, shoving two fingers back into your cunt, and then a third, just for good measure. The torture is relentless, but your pussy tightens around him, begging for more.
“Buckyyy-“ You whine.
“Do you need something, doll? You know you gotta ask for it.” He mocks you as he licks his fingers clean of your slick.
You whine, you bring yourself up to your elbows, barely able to look Bucky in the eye as the dirty words form on your lips in a way that would make the church ladies faint.
“I want your dick.” You mumble softly, words floating on clouds towards his ears, which practically perk up like a dog hearing it’s favorite words.
“You begging for this cock, huh baby?” You nod fervently.
“Alright baby. Give Stevie and I a show first.” You nod as you sit up on the bed, legs still shaking from your orgasm. But you obey Bucky, like always.
You gingerly take off your shirt, it’s mostly dry now, still a little bit sticky with whatever drink got spilled on you. You cups your covered breasts in your hands, giving them a little movement when you reach to take it off.
Steve’s in a pure state of disbelief and awe. He can’t believe this is happening. The way you carefully remove your bra straps, teasing them with your slow pace.
Steve’s jaw drops when you finally reveal yourself, it’s like he’d never see a pair before. Steve’s eyes are so laser focused you’re sure he’s about to bring out his notebook and take notes, or write poems about your tits.
Bucky just laughs at Steve, slapping him on the back. All your left in is your pretty little skirt, no shirt, no bra, no panties, no dignity.
“Alright alright. Ass up baby girl.” Bucky declares.
You quickly get into position, listening to Bucky’s pants fall to the ground and his quiet words instructing Steve. You hear Steve shuffling too, before he sits down right in front of you. His cock is still out, didn’t even bother to take his pants or underwear off, just pulled down enough to let his cock through.
Bucky finally gets into position, slapping your ass once he’s behind you. The pretty skirt you put on earlier is flipped up for a clear view of your ass.
“Come on pretty girl, give Steve’s cock some love. Thank him for giving you such a good orgasm.” You nod intently, coming up on your elbows to come eye to tip with Steve’s dick. It’s far different from Bucky’s shorter, skinnier, not as veiny, but still, pretty. The tip is bright pink and shiny with precum. Poor thing looks like it’s been neglected all night.
You give a small lick to his tip, tasting salt and Steve as you wait for his reaction. It comes out as a soft breathy moan, giving you pride, you continue. The noise he makes is inexperienced, embarrassed, heavenly.
You slowly lick from the bottom to the top, relishing in the high pitchy moans that escape Steve’s throat. The noises are foreign to his tongue. He sounds like a student learning a completely new language. You spit in your hand, using it as lube to spread all over his cock, letting him enjoy it before finally taking it in your mouth.
The second your mouth is fully on him, Bucky shoves his cock deep into you.
Even though Steve’s dick isn’t very long, Bucky’s thrust has you so deep you’re gagging on him, nose always to his mons pubis. Steve chokes back a moan as you choke on his dick.
Bucky doesn’t give you a moment to adjust, his pace almost unbearable. The way he pounds your pussy is familiar and comfortable. He knows what he’s doing, he knows he won’t break you.
But Steve on the other hand, his hands are fluttering everywhere, unable to decide where he wants them. He can’t keep them still but he doesn’t want to disrespect you or Bucky by touching you.
Bucky sighs, stopping his movements while you whine. He leans over you, grabbing Steve’s hands in his own and placing them on your head.
“She’s not made of glass Steve.” Steve nods. “I promise you won’t break her.”
Steve’s eyes widen, he doesn’t believe Bucky.
Bucky sighs again, tapping your hips. You slowly and hazily turn around, wincing as Bucky slaps your ass as it moves away from him. Now your ass is in front of Steve as he clumsily takes his pants off. And your mouth is in front of Bucky's long cock, just like that first time you guys had met.
Steve’s eyes glisten the way your pussy gleams, as he slowly strokes his cock.
“Just shove it in there Stevie. We don’t got all day.”
Gently, Steve grasps your hips, one hand wrapped around his shaft, and uses it to slap your clit. You moan, groaning louder and deeper the farther he went into your sopping wet hole.
He continued his slow gentle pace, still treating you like fragile glass, while Bucky fucked your mouth rough and hard.
Bucky, irritated with Steve’s carefulness, slams into your mouth, choking you with his cock, all the way back onto Steve’s cock. Steve is buried completely to the hilt, both of you screaming in ecstasy. Your vibrations carry up Bucky’s shaft, pulling at hisnerves and making him twitch.
“Come on Steve. She’s a slut, show her who you are.”
It finally settles in Steve, when he grabs your arms and uses them as leverage to fuck you. Your chest falls to the bed, making your mouth open wider for Bucky’s cock.
As if on cue, the door slams open to a group of a dozen boys with bright flashy cameras. It seems like with Bucky you can never avoid them.
The boys gather around, whooping loudly as Bucky and Steve are handed beers.
You can barely see anything, the way your ass is in the air being pounded by Steve, your tits pressed into the bed, your arms pinned tightly to your back, and your nose being buried in Bucky’s hairs.
Steve let’s put an embarrassed yelp, taking the beer like a prized possession.
“Come on Steve, you gotta drink the beer for the initiation to work!” Someone teases.
It dawns on you, you realize that you're being used for humiliation and someone’s pleasure. You’re an object used for someone’s trick.
Why is that so hot?
Why does that make you cry and pulse around Bucky’s and Steve’s cocks?
Why does Steve pounding your poor sweet pussy while beer dribbles from his chin to your ass crack make you start to squirt for the second time?
Why do the other boys' cheers and chants while squirt pulses out from you like a water gun, make you want to be used for the entire rushing class?
“There we go. That’s my good girl.” Bucky mocks you as Steve abuses your velvety dripping hole. “You want a beer baby?” he asks calmly, cupping your chin. You can barely form words, somewhat embarrassed but incredibly horny over the fact that theres so many people watching you. You shrug, a hint of uneasiness because you’ve never really had beer.
You’ve also never been fucked stupid with a cock in your mouth in front of a dozen people, but theres always a chance to try new things, right?
Bucky brings you up, telling Steve to slow down a little bit.
Steve grunts a few times, barely holding back his own orgasm.
“Come on Steve, let her have a drink first.” Steve obliges, slowing to a torturous pace, feeling every ridge and vein and the perfect little tip scrapping your entire pussy.
Bucky lets you grab onto his body like an anchor, slowly feeding you the rest of his beer can. You swallow a little bit, before choking and spitting everywhere.
“Not a fan?” he chides. You shake your head, eyes falling back to his full mast cock. He laughs but he nods, letting you go back to choking on him while he finishes his beer.
Steve returns his pace, whining and grunting, holding your hips like they owe him money. “Oh Buck- I’m- I’m gonna cum.” Steve whines, pitful and needy.
Bucky laughs loudly. “Well, ask the lady!” He pulls his cock from your mouth. “Where do you want Stevie to cum honey?”
Your brain is jumbled around and scrambled into a mess, but you can just barely make out the words “on me” before Bucky and his friends start howling.
“You heard her, Steve. Give the lady what she wants!”
Steve obliges, leaving your soaking pussy empty as he strokes his cock with quick fervent strokes. It’s messy the way he comes all over your back, white, hot and passionate.
The howling whooping boys finally leave the room once Steve is finished.
summary : You tutor failing football gods Steve and Bucky through calculus disasters, only for a spilled-water accident to ignite weeks of filthy tension.
word count : 13,1k
warnings 18+ : college au, no use of y/n, reader is inexperienced, explicit sexual content, protected sex, multiple orgasms, fingering, oral (f & m recieving), squirting, threesome, praise, slight degradation, party drinking, shots (no intoxication beyond buzz), risk of being caught
author’s note : AHHH!! these two have me absolutely wrecked, the amount of times I rewrote this is lowkey embarrassing 💀 ANYWAYYY buckle up for steve & bucky being stupidly whipped and enough filth to fog your glasses. enjoy the ride <33
lesson 02 | masterpost | lesson 03
Another soul-crushing afternoon in the shoebox you share with Natasha. You’re wedged between a leaning tower of bio textbooks and a graveyard of empty cold-brew cans, highlighter caps chewed to nubs, neon streaks smeared across your knuckles like war paint.
Your laptop teeters on a pillow fortress atop your thighs; the cursor blinks accusingly in a half-finished lab report on mitochondrial apoptosis. One more distraction and you’ll miss the deadline, again.
Ping.
An email. [email protected]. The subject line glows red: URGENT – Academic Probation Tutoring.
You snort. Athletics? You once got lost in the gym trying to find the vending machine. Still, curiosity wins. You click.
Subject: URGENT – Academic Probation Tutoring
Good evening, We have an offer for a qualified peer tutor. Two students in critical need:
• Rogers, Steven G. – Calculus II (F) / Chemistry I (D-)
• Barnes, James B. – Calculus II (F) / Chemistry I (F)
Requirements: 2 sessions/week minimum. $22/hr. Full scholarship bonus if both pass midterms. Reply ASAP. Thank you.
Your stomach does a triple axel. Steve Rogers. James Barnes.
You’ve seen them on the Jumbotron: Steve, the golden-boy quarterback, launching a 60-yard spiral like it’s a Nerf dart; James or Bucky, as they call him, the cocky wide receiver, diving horizontal for a one-handed grab that defies physics. Both shirtless and dripping with sweat that the entire campus has memorized.
They’re not students. They’re campus gods in shoulder pads.
The door slams open. Natasha, red hair twisted into a messy knot, black sports bra and leggings like she just stepped out of hot yoga, struts in with an iced matcha in hand. She catches your expression and smirks.
“Someone died, or did you just fail a pop quiz in your head again?”
You shove the laptop toward her. “Read.”
She scans, eyes widening with theatrical glee. “Holy shit. You’re going to be tutoring Rogers and Barnes? The same duo who bench-press freshmen for fun?”
“They’re failing calc,” you hiss. “And chem. Both Fs.”
Natasha whistles low. “That’s not failing. That’s killing your grades on purpose.”
She flops onto your bed, propping her feet on your open textbook. “Pay?”
“Twenty-two an hour. Scholarship bonus if they pass midterms.”
“Dayum.” She sips her matcha, eyeing you like prey. “That’s rent, textbooks, and the fancy microscope you’ve been drooling over in the bio catalog. Do it.”
You chew your thumbnail.
“They’re… them. I’m-” You gesture at your soft cardigan, your frizzy ponytail, the highlighter stains. “I’m a walking library fine.”
Natasha snorts. “Please. You’re a 4.0 nerdy goddess who color-codes her panic attacks. They need you.”
She leans in, voice dropping to a sneaky purr. “Also? Those boys eat nerds for breakfast. And you, my sweet, innocent lab rat, are about to be served.”
Your face combusts. “Nat!”
“What? I’m just saying, Steve Rogers has forearms that could crush walnuts. And Bucky? That man’s smirk could impregnate half the sorority row.”
She wiggles her brows. “Picture it, two full hours a week, pressed up close and personal. Finally gonna get your hands on some real, thick, sweaty biceps… instead of that limp-noodle disappointment your shitty ex called arms.”
You groan, burying your face in your hands. “What if they’re mean? What if they laugh at my flashcards? What if they see me and go, ‘Who let the librarian in?’ What if they don’t show up? What if they do show up and I forget how to speak? What if-”
Natasha yanks your hands down. “Breathe, nerd. You’re spiraling harder than a bad PCR cycle.” She spins your laptop, already typing.
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.
smoking my bed time bowl and wanna share one with bucky before we both go to sleep and he lets me cockwarm him for the night
and fuck he’s so needy in the middle of the night when you’re dead asleep that he just fucks yoh while he’s half awake. he’s grunting and moaning and whining just to cum but he holds off.. he just needs to move and feel you wrapped tightly around him
“even when you’re pussy is so fuckin’ sleep she grips me tight…” his own face buried in your neck as you press your hips subconsciously his — deep in sleep but somehow… translating a bit to whatever the hell you were dreaming about
he could just feel you squeeze him with each rock of your hips. his name falling from your sleepy lips as you settle again.
summary : You survive finals week and escape with Steve and Bucky to a snowy cabin for a perfect weekend until one question shatters it. The drive home is agony, followed by two weeks of crushing silence.
word count : 19,5k
warnings 18+ : college au, no use of y/n, explicit sexual content, threesomes, double penetration, anal/oral/vaginal sex, toys, semi-public acts, filming, masturbation (solo/mutual/encouraged), humiliation, squirting, overstimulation, heavy angst, heartbreak, betrayal, ghosting, miscommunication, fights, alcohol use (drunk sex), academic pressure, exhibitionism/voyeurism
author’s note : I literally cannot stfu 💀 I TRIED to make this shorter than the last part but somehow it ended up being longer… pls bear with me. splitting it into two parts felt like too much so I’m sorry it’s huge but you’ll take it like always <33 hope you enjoy!!
lesson 01 | masterpost | lesson 02
The locker room still stank, but now it was Axe, Monster energy, and the ghost of someone’s weed pen that had exploded in a backpack last week.
Practice had ended forty minutes ago; everyone else had peeled out to pre-game at Sigma Chi or crash before their 8 am’s. Only the leaky shower in the corner kept time, like it was personally invested in their suffering.
Steve was wrestling with a hoodie that had shrunk in the dorm dryer when Bucky kicked his locker shut hard enough to make the whole row shudder.
“You’re in love with her.”
Steve’s arm got stuck halfway through the sleeve. The towel around his waist slipped an inch. “The fuck did you just say?”
Bucky leaned back against the lockers in nothing but a towel riding so low it was basically performance art. His hair was still wet, dripping onto his collarbones. The smirk was there, but it looked like it hurt.
“Don't play dumb, Rogers. I was literally balls-deep in her ass last week and you locked eyes with her and dropped a ‘Love you, baby’ like you were about to whip out a ring in the middle of the fucking threesome.”
Steve yanked the hoodie down so hard he almost strangled himself. His face went nuclear. “It slipped, alright? Christ.”
“Slipped,” Bucky echoed, deadpan. He pushed off the lockers and stalked forward until Steve could smell the Irish Spring on him. “You’ve been ‘slipping’ since she explained integrals to you in the library and you got hard over the fundamental theorem of calculus.”
Steve dropped onto the bench like his legs had given up. The wood was cold against his bare thighs. He scrubbed his hands through his hair; water flew everywhere. “Fine. I’m in love with her. Happy now, you absolute dick?”
The smirk died a quick, ugly death.
Bucky dropped onto the bench next to him, hard enough that their shoulders knocked and stayed pressed together, neither of them bothering to shift apart. His hand curled into a tight fist on his thigh, knuckles going bloodless like he was still holding onto something he couldn’t let go.
“I’m not happy,” he muttered. “I’m fucking spiraling.”
Steve twisted to face him. “Buck?”
Bucky stared at the scuffed tile floor like it owed him money. “Because I’m in love with her too. And this? Us? We don’t do this shit, man. We hook up, we ghost, we send each other the memes the next day like nothing happened. We've never kept anyone around longer than a hangover”
Steve’s heart was trying to punch its way out of his ribcage. “So what, we just keep pretending we’re chill splitting her like a Netflix account until one of us snaps and she picks?”
Bucky’s laugh scraped out, half-choke, half-wheeze. “Yeah. Picture Thanksgiving. ‘Hey, Mom, meet Steve. Meet Bucky. They take turns railing me, we're still beta-testing the ‘boyfriend’ title. Where’s the gravy?’
She’d pass out. My Ma’s already got the rosary beads out, praying for my soul. Yours would just hit you with that patented disappointed stare, the one that says ‘I raised you better than sharing a girl like it’s fantasy football.’”
Steve let out a breath that was supposed to be a laugh but landed somewhere exhausted and hollow. “Nah, she’d lead with the veggies lecture, ‘Are you boys getting your greens?’ then pivot straight to the condom talk, like we're fifteen again.”
Bucky’s mouth twitched, the corner lifting in a half-smile that almost felt real. “Point is, we’re not the boyfriend type. We’re the guys moms warn their daughters about. Except I’m done pretending it’s casual when it’s not and yeah, admitting that out loud is fucking terrifying.”
The drip from the shower kept going, counting down to something awful.
Steve swallowed so hard his throat clicked. “If we tell her and she picks one of us-”
“Then the other one’s the loser who fell in love and got traded,” Bucky finished. His voice cracked; he didn’t bother hiding it this time. “And everything gets weird forever. We lose her. We lose each other. I can’t-” He cut himself off, jaw clenched so tight the muscle jumped.
Steve nodded once, slow. “So we shut up.”
“We shut up,” Bucky agreed, too fast, like he’d been drowning and someone finally threw him a rope made of barbed wire.
They sat there a moment longer, the leaky shower still dripping its relentless countdown in the corner, the fluorescent lights buzzing.
Steve stared at the floor, scrubbing a hand over his face. Bucky leaned forward, elbows on his knees, knuckles white as he clenched and unclenched his fists.
“We are so unbelievably fucked,” Bucky finally muttered, voice hollow.
“Yeah,” Steve rasped. He pushed off the bench, grabbing his jeans from the floor. “Until we figure out how to not nuke everything good in our lives, yeah.”
Bucky rose too. His towel finally surrendered and hit the ground. He didn’t even look down.
“I hate us,” he muttered.
“Same,” Steve said.
They got dressed without talking, moving around each other in the same cramped space they’d shared since freshman year. Elbows bumped, hips knocked, same as always.
Bucky slung his backpack on, paused at the door. “If she ever calls us on the bullshit, why we didn’t say anything…”
Steve met his eyes. They were red-rimmed, exhausted. “We tell her we were scared.”
Bucky’s laugh was barely qualified as sound. “Understatement of the fucking millennium.”
They walked out together, heading back to their dorm, two idiot quarterbacks still too scared to gamble the only thing that had ever felt like home.
It’s been three days since the locker room.
The campus café is a war zone: line to the door, some sophomore crying into a $9 cold brew, barista screaming “MADDY-SIN” like the name personally ran over her dog.
You’re already camped in the shitty corner booth nobody else wants, the one with the ripped red vinyl and the table that wobbles like it’s had one too many. Your iced caramel oat-milk latte is sweating a ring onto your notes, and you’re pretending to give a damn about glycolysis when they walk in.
Steve slides in next to you like he owns the seat, thick thigh slamming against yours. Hoodie sleeves shoved up, hair still wet from practice, smelling like cheap body wash and desperation.
Bucky drops across from you hard enough to make the whole table jump, hand slapping down a crumpled Google Maps directions. Big red circle around some Airbnb cabin that looks like it was built by horny lumberjacks who only owned axes and lube.
He leans in hard, elbows digging into the wobbly table like he’s staking territory, that crooked smirk plastered on but his eyes are blown-out red and running on fumes. He smells like four Red Bulls and bad decisions.
“We’ve been plotting,” he starts, voice rough from not enough sleep, “three-hour drive upstate. Place is in the middle of fucking nowhere, no bars, no roommates blasting Skrillex at four am. Just snow, a fireplace and a hot tub built for three and whatever the hell we didn’t finish last week.”
Steve’s already got your hand under the table, fingers locked tight around yours like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go. His thumb keeps sweeping over your knuckles, slow and shaky, more for him than for you. He leans in close enough that his breath hits your ear, low and wrecked, “Long weekend, baby. No neighbors. No rules. Just us.”
His eyes flick to Bucky for half a second, quick, worried check-in before sliding back to you, all gravel and pleading.
You take a slow sip of your drink, let the ice clink, and raise an eyebrow. “Adorable. Except we locked in terms, remember? Ninety-five or better on chem midterms, or nobody gets to fuck me in a hot tub or anywhere for that matter.”
You lean forward just a touch, lips curving into a wicked little smile. “So, boys… remind me again. How’d those grades turn out?”
They trade a look, Steve pink, Bucky clenching his jaw so hard you hear it.
Steve coughs into his fist. “Ninety-eight. Clean.”
Bucky mutters into his steaming black coffee, the words dragging out like they’re caught on something sharp. “Ninety-four…”
Silence. You let it sit there, heavy and mean.
Then you uncoil a smile, slow, edged like broken glass dipped in honey. “Aw, tragic. But rules are rules: ninety-five from both of you. Guess it’s just me and Stevie peeling out for the pines. You can bunker down here Barnes, drilling polyatomic ions till they sing you to sleep.”
Bucky lets his forehead drop onto the table with a solid thud, the vinyl whining in protest. “You’re literally killing me. This is planned murder with a bonus round of cruelty.”
Steve's fingers clamp down on yours, voice dipping into that wrecked rasp that arrow-straights to your core.
“Please, baby. Cut him a break, just this once. He’ll handle your laundry for the whole semester, I swear. Venmo you two hundred bucks right now. Hell, I’ll even toss him the Jeep keys and let this maniac take the wheel. And those toys... the ones you whispered about wanting to try? He’ll bring every single one, whatever you need, no questions, no hesitation. Come on, sweetheart, say yes, for us?”
“Shut up man- please, just... I’m a damn good driver, I swear,” Bucky mumbles desperately, his words slurring against the scarred wood, face pressed down like he's begging the table for mercy.
His voice cracks with a raw, pleading edge, eyes flicking up toward you with that wide, imploring stare. “And yes, baby every single one, I promise. Whatever you want, I’ll make it happen. Just... give me a chance here?”
A soft, teasing laugh bubbles from your lips as you tilt your head, eyes sparkling with amusement at their desperate antics. “You boys are so cute when my pussy’s on the line,” you murmur, voice laced with playful mockery that hides the thrill racing through you.
You rise slowly, deliberately, your bag slipping onto your shoulder with a casual flick. The vinyl booth clings to the backs of your thighs before releasing with a sharp, sticky rip that echoes in the charged air, drawing their gazes lower.
“You’ve got until tomorrow to turn that 94 into a 95 Barnes,” you say, your tone firm but edged with that knowing challenge, lips curving into a smirk. “I hear Banner curves if you get on your knees and cry pretty enough, maybe you should practice that look right now.”
You’re halfway to the door, the bell above it jingling faintly in anticipation, when Bucky’s voice explodes through the café like a thunderclap, raw and unfiltered, turning every head in the place.
“I’LL SUCK HIS DICK FOR THAT POINT IF I HAVE TO!”
Beside him, Steve chokes violently on his macchiato, the hot liquid spraying from his nose in a messy arc, his eyes watering as he coughs and sputters, caught between horror and helpless laughter, his broad shoulders shaking.
You don’t glance back, not even a peek but the grin splitting your face is downright devilish, wicked and satisfied, as you push through the door into the crisp winter air.
It nips at your flushed cheeks, a sharp contrast to the heat pooling low in your belly, your thighs slick and sticking with every step across the frost-kissed campus paths. Just picturing their panic, the way they’d scramble and beg, has you drenched, aching with anticipation.
They’ll fix it. Oh, they always do especially when the prize is you, wrapped up and waiting like the ultimate reward.
Bucky shoulders through the sex-shop door so hard the bell gives a half-assed ding-dong like it’s personally embarrassed for them.
Place still smells like someone tried to hotbox the latex stench with a Bath & Body Works clearance rack and lost. Neon signs buzz pink and purple overhead, turning Steve’s ears the color of expired ham.
Steve’s got his hood up like he’s on a wanted poster, cap brim so low he’s basically blind. Bucky’s vibrating hard enough to power a small city, hoodie flapping open, pacing the aisle like a caged coyote.
“She’s bluffing,” Steve mutters for the eighth time, thumbing the trigger on a purple rabbit vibrator like he’s checking if a melon’s ripe. Bzzzzt. “She’s just fucking with our heads.”
Bucky snorts, snatches a star-shaped jewel plug off the wall and yeets it into the basket. CLANG.
“Tomorrow, Rogers. That’s fourteen hours to beg for one pity point to bump my 94 to a 95.” He shoots a dry, miserable look. “Otherwise I’m stuck jerking off in my bed while you two send me heart emojis from the hot tub.”
Steve eyes the sparkly star with a raised brow, lips twitching. “Going straight disco ball on her ass now? Bold move, Buck. Jumping from a cute little heart to peak star-spangled patriotism. Very on-brand for you.”
“Shut the fuck up,” Bucky hisses, but he’s already grinning. “It’s for science, alright? Different shapes, different sensations… brand-new ways for her to completely fucking destroy me.”
He snags the next size up, a hefty beast of a plug with ridges that promise sweet torment and waves it like a trophy or a threat. “This look like the face of a man who’s gambling with his dick, Steven?”
Steve bursts out a snort so forceful he nearly fumbles the vibrator, shoulders shaking with barely contained laughter. “You're such a drama queen. She thrives on this, watching us spiral like the world's ending.”
Bucky spins, fingers rattling a row of glitter dildos that look like Lisa Frank threw up on a dick. “I’ll deep-throat Banner’s red pen if that’s what it takes. I’ll write the man fucking limericks about titration. I’ll-”
“Batteries first, you poetic bastard,” Steve interrupts, chucking four packs of AAs into the basket with a smirk. “And don't forget that tripod you're claiming is for 'candid nature photography.' We both know better.”
Bucky flips him off, but his grin turns feral, all teeth and promise. “Plan B’s croissants and crocodile tears. I’m versatile.”
They dump the haul on the counter. Raven, purple buzzcut, septum ring, zero fucks left to give, starts scanning.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
She glances at the mountain of chaos, then at the two overgrown football bros sweating like they’re in a lineup. “Y’all good?”
Bucky leans on the counter like a man who’s aged ten years in an hour. “Define good.”
Raven just smirks harder. “$186.42. Bag or campus parade?”
Steve slaps down two hundreds like he’s trying to bribe his way out of hell. “Bag. Black. Opaque. Preferably lead-lined.”
Raven slides the receipt across. “Have fun, weirdos.”
As they stumble back into the freezing air, Bucky’s already muttering under his breath, half-laughing at himself, the bag of toys clinking together like a guilty little parade with every step.
Steve snags the bag from Bucky’s hand, slinging it over his own shoulder like it weighs nothing. The toys inside give another incriminating clink as they settle.
He glances at Bucky with a crooked, knowing grin. “You still think she’s bluffing?”
Bucky keeps his eyes glued to the sidewalk, hands shoved deep in his pockets. “If she’s actually bluffing, fine. If not…” He huffs a laugh that sounds more like surrender. “I’m changing my major to Professional Kneeling.”
Steve almost eats pavement laughing. “Move, clown. Office hours close in fifteen. Go beg for your life.”
The science building after six is a mausoleum: lights flickering like they’re on their last prayer, hallways smelling like scorched coffee and broken dreams. Banner’s office door is cracked open, a single wedge of warm light slicing the gloom like a distress flare for the academically damned.
Bucky doesn’t knock, he just shoves the already-ajar door wide with his boot and barrels in. Steve follows right on his heels.
Banner looks up from the corpse of a freshman lab report, red pen still dripping. One slow blink behind the glasses, then the sigh of a man who has seen every possible flavor of student desperation and is tired of the menu.
“Barnes. Rogers. To what do I-”
Bucky hits the floor. Full dramatic collapse, knees thudding into the carpet hard enough to rattle the periodic-table poster on the wall.
“Dr. Banner, I’m begging. One point. One measly, pathetic point. I’ll tattoo the Henderson-Hasselbalch equation on my ass. I’ll never call stoichiometry ‘math with extra steps’ again. I’ll-”
“You got a 94,” Banner says, flat. “That’s an A minus. Most students would kill for that.”
“It’s a death sentence,” Bucky croaks, voice cracking like he’s thirteen and his balls just dropped. “She’s leaving me behind with nothing but my hand and a tub of lube while he-” he jerks a thumb at Steve, who suddenly finds the ceiling fascinating, “gets the entire weekend in a hot tub.”
Steve clears his throat, steps forward, and gently sets the bag down on the floor. “Professor, any chance for a tiny bit of extra credit? A curve? Hell, even rounding up for good behavior?”
Steve’s voice dips, “He’s got some real… pressing circumstances depending on hitting that 95.”
Banner’s gaze flicks to the bag, then back to the two disasters currently having a joint nervous breakdown in his office. Something that might be pity or maybe just exhaustion flickers across his face.
He leans back, chair creaking like it’s in on the joke. “No curve. But there is an optional make-up practical tomorrow morning. Nine am sharp. One hour. Stoichiometry and acid-base. Nail a perfect score, I bump you to 95. Anything less, this conversation never happened.”
Bucky’s head snaps up so fast his neck pops like a glow stick. “I’ll be here at eight-thirty with a latte and a tie. I’ll wear slacks. I’ll-”
“Nine,” Banner repeats, already turning back to his bloodbath of grading. “And Barnes? Leave the theatrics outside. Just balance the damn equation.”
Steve yanks Bucky up by the hoodie before he can drop again or propose. “Thank you, Doc. Seriously.”
They spill out of the science building into the biting dark, breath fogging, the black bag crackling between them like it’s full of contraband fireworks.
Nat’s gone, some “totally platonic hangout” with the archer chick that’s definitely ending with her skirt around her ankles in a car somewhere, so the dorm is dead silent except for the mini-fridge’s dying wheeze and the lavender diffuser pretending everything’s calm.
You’re hunched over your desk in Bucky’s hoodie and leggings, hair twisted into a frantic knot, surrounded by biology flashcards, a half-colored diagram of glycolysis, and your open textbook bleeding sticky notes. Your final is on Friday, your eyes are burning, caffeine’s fading fast, and every time you try to remember the steps of cellular respiration, your brain just shuts off.
Your phone buzzes, FaceTime, Steve calling.
You answer with a murderous glare, propping the phone against your mug so they get the full view of your frazzled, stressed-out face. “This better be important. I’m trying to not fail bio here.”
“Hey, pretty girl,” Steve says, voice warm and low. “Just checking in. How’s the bio grind?”
“Hell,” you snap, rubbing your temple hard enough to leave a red mark. “I’m one chromosome away from a meltdown.”
Bucky’s smirk widens. He lifts the bag slightly into view, thick, heavy, soft clink inside then pulls it back out of sight. “We’ve got something that might help you… relax.”
You narrow your eyes. “If that bag is full of toys you’re about to tease me with while I’m trying to memorize the Krebs cycle, I will end this call and block both of you until after finals.”
Steve’s mouth twitches, amused, but his eyes soften with sympathy. Bucky, undeterred, leans closer. “Come on, doll. One little surprise. You know you’d feel better.”
“No,” you bite out, voice cracking with exhaustion and irritation. “I need to pass this final, not get off. And you-” you point straight at Bucky through the screen “-maybe worry about your own grades instead of trying to derail mine. Still rocking that 94 Barnes? Because until that’s fixed, you don’t get to play with anything in that bag, least of all me.”
The words come out sharper than you meant, stress turning them into razors. Bucky’s smirk falters completely, eyes widening a fraction.
Steve clears his throat, trying to smooth it over. “Baby, we were just-”
But Bucky cuts in, quieter now, almost sheepish. He rubs the back of his neck. “Actually… makeup lab’s tomorrow morning. Nine sharp. Banner’s giving me one shot at a perfect score to bump it to a 95.”
The room feels suddenly smaller. You blink, the fight draining out of you in one breath, replaced by something warmer, softer.
Steve’s smile turns proud. “He’s been cramming all night. Guy’s gonna crush it.”
Bucky meets your eyes through the screen, the cockiness gone, just earnest now. “I’m not gonna let you down baby. Promise.”
You exhale shakily, the tension in your shoulders loosening just a fraction. “You better,” you murmur, voice still rough but no longer sharp. “Because if you get that 95… that bag better make the trip to the cabin.”
Bucky’s grin returns, smaller this time, real. “Count on it.”
Steve leans closer, voice gentle. “Get some sleep after one more chapter, okay?”
You manage a tired half-smile. “Yeah, yeah. Now let me study.”
You hang up.
The screen goes black. The dorm is quiet again.
You drop your forehead to the open textbook with a muffled groan, half frustration, half reluctant heat.
The science building reeks of bleach and desperation. Bucky’s been camped out since 8:15, traded his hoodie for the one decent button-down he owns, hair actually neat for once. He’s gripping a venti oat-milk latte and a cranberry-orange scone like his life depends on it.
He knocks once.
“Come in.”
Banner’s already got the practical set up on the side counter: beakers, burettes, a row of reagents that look innocent and will absolutely fuck you if you blink wrong. The man himself is in the same tragic cardigan, sipping from the latte Bucky handed over like a bribe the second he walked in.
“Morning,” Banner says, not looking up from labeling a flask. “You ready to titrate or are we still in the dramatic begging phase?”
“I left the theatrics in the hallway, doc.” Bucky rolls his sleeves, cracks his neck, and steps up to the desk like it’s a boxing ring.
Banner slides the instructions over. “One hour. Stoichiometry problem set first, then the acid-base practical. 100% or you walk out with the same 94 you came in with. Clock starts… now.”
Bucky doesn’t answer with words. He just starts moving.
He weighs samples like a surgeon, pipettes like his life depends on it (because it literally does), labels every single drop of phenolphthalein turns the flask the perfect faint pink and he doesn’t even flinch, just keeps swirling, calm, steady, perfect.
Banner watches the whole time, arms crossed, occasionally scribbling something on his clipboard. He doesn’t say a word.
Fifty-six minutes later Bucky sets the last burette down, wipes his hands on a paper towel, and finally breathes.
Banner takes the answer sheet, scans it once, twice, then pulls up the gradebook.
Clicks.
94.00 → 95.00
“100% on the practical,” he says, voice flat like he’s reading the weather. “Congratulations, Mr. Barnes.”
Bucky lunges across the desk and full-on bear-hugs him, arms locked around Banner’s neck, face buried in sad cardigan.
“ThankyouthankyouHOLYSHIT-”
Banner makes a strangled noise. “Remove yourself before I dock you back to a 90.”
Bucky’s out the door before the sentence is finished.
Bucky 9:57am
95 baby
Bucky 9:57am
[screenshot of grade]
Bucky 9:58am
🍑🍆💦💦💦💦💦💦💦💦💦💦💦💦💦💦💦💦💦💦💦
He doesn’t wait for your reply.
He’s already sprinting across the quad, button-down half-untucked and flapping open in the wind, yelling “FUCK YES!” at the top of his lungs like he just won the goddamn lottery.
Somewhere in the distance a flock of crows takes off in terror.
Jacuzzi’s waiting.
And this weekend he’s not watching from the fucking kitchen table; he’s gonna be nine inches deep in the only pussy that matters while Steve records it in 4K.
You’re still dead to the world, tangled in the sheets and snoring softly, when Bucky’s SUV roars into the dorm lot around 10 am. Tires chirp on the asphalt as he slams the brakes and kills the engine, the bass thumping low for one last beat before it fades.
He fumbles the spare key you slipped him weeks back, the one for “emergencies only,” but this? This qualifies.
Your room’s still shrouded in morning gray, blinds cracked to let in slivers of winter light. You’re sprawled out in bed, dead to the world, wearing Steve’s old jersey that hangs loose on you like a nightshirt and those tiny cherry-print cotton boy-shorts that ride up just right. Suitcase on the floor half-packed, you’re curled up asleep, mouth parted softly, oblivious.
The door bangs against the wall as Bucky bursts in, no knock, no hesitation. He’s wired, bloodshot eyes gleaming with that manic triumph.
“95, baby,” he rasps, voice raw from exhaustion and victory. You stir awake, blinking groggily in the dim light. “Bucky? It’s barely morning- what the-”
He’s on the bed before you can finish, knees dipping the mattress, hands ripping the comforter away. But you’re not in the mood, not yet. You sit up, rubbing your eyes, taking him in: the wild hair, the desperate glow in his eyes. Pity hits you first, sharp and twisted.
“Oh, Buck,” you murmur, voice dripping with mock sympathy as you tilt your head. “You really begged Banner to fix your grade just for some pussy? That’s... sad. Pathetic, even.”
His face flushes, but he doesn’t back off, hovering there like he’s starving. You can see the bulge in his jeans already straining, and it only makes you smirk. “Look at you, getting hard over a stupid number on a screen. Pathetic little Bucky, so desperate for a win he’ll grovel to a professor.”
You reach out, teasing, trailing a finger down his chest through the shirt, then lower, palming him lightly over the denim. He groans, hips bucking into your hand involuntarily.
“Remember that tutoring lesson? When you ‘accidentally’ spilled water all over my tits, and I was so embarrassed I could’ve died? Who’s the embarrassing one now Buck? Hmm? Begging for scraps like this.”
He’s breathing heavy, eyes darkening with a mix of shame and heat, but he doesn’t pull away. You toy with him a little longer, stroking lazily through his jeans, watching him twitch and harden under your touch.
“So pathetic,” you whisper, leaning in close, lips brushing his ear. “So fucking pathetic, Bucky. Getting this worked up over a grade. Over me dangling pussy like a treat. What would Steve say if he knew how easy you are?”
That does it.
His hand snaps up, fingers clamping around your wrist, stopping your teasing stroke dead. His eyes go dark, dangerous, that switch flipping from pleading to predatory in a heartbeat.
“Steve?” he growls, voice low and rough, yanking you closer until you’re chest-to-chest. “Don’t worry about Steve right now, baby.”
Before you can fire back, he shoves two thick fingers into your mouth, pressing down on your tongue, making your words die in a wet little whimper. Your eyes widen, heat flooding your cunt instantly.
“That’s better,” he murmurs, smirking as you instinctively suck, cheeks hollowing. “No more talking about him. Right now this greedy mouth is busy, and this tight little pussy?”
He reaches down with his free hand, cupping you roughly over the cherry shorts, finding you already soaked. “This is all mine.”
He flips you onto your stomach in one smooth move, jersey rucked up to your armpits, shorts yanked off. You hear his zipper, the rustle of denim shoved down just enough, and then he’s dragging the thick head of his cock through your slick folds, coating himself.
You try to say something, Steve’s name, maybe a last little taunt but he thrusts in to the hilt in one brutal stroke, stretching you open, filling you so suddenly your back arches and the only sound you make is a broken, muffled moan around his fingers still in your mouth.
“Fuck,” he hisses, pulling your hips up higher, starting a punishing rhythm, deep, hard, relentless. “Told you not to worry about him. He’s not here. He doesn’t get to hear how fucking wet you are for me right now. How you’re already clenching like you’re gonna come just from me splitting you open.”
He curls his fingers in your mouth, pressing down, making you drool a little as you suck helplessly. His other hand grips your hip hard enough to bruise, angling you just right so every thrust drags over that spot that makes your eyes roll.
“Thought you could tease me, huh?” he pants against your ear, leaning over you, chest to your back. “Call me pathetic while you’re dripping down my balls? This what you wanted? Wanted me to shut that smart mouth up with my cock?”
You come hard, sudden and shattering, walls fluttering around him, moaning around his fingers like a desperate little thing. He groans, hips stuttering, and follows right after, burying deep, pulsing hot inside you, marking you in long, possessive spurts.
He stays pressed against your back for a long moment, both of you breathing ragged. Slowly, he slides his fingers from your mouth, letting you gasp properly, then presses a surprisingly soft kiss to your shoulder.
“Good girl,” he murmurs, voice gone soft and low, the sharp edge melted away as he presses a gentle kiss to your temple. “Shower, baby. Grab some breakfast. Your classes start in an hour; we’ll pick Steve up on the way to campus.”
You turn your head on the pillow, still floaty and breathless, lips swollen and tingling. The warmth of him is already slipping away, replaced by a hot, shameful twist of guilt deep in your stomach.
“You’re… not gonna tell him about this?” you whisper, voice barely there, fingers curling nervously into the sheets.
Bucky pauses, jeans half-zipped, shirt dangling from one hand. He looks at you for a long beat, something flickering across his face. Then he crawls back onto the bed, hand warm against your flushed cheek as he cups it.
“Why would I?” he says quietly, thumb stroking your bottom lip. “This was just us. A little morning celebration for my ninety-five.” His mouth quirks, not quite a smirk, but close. “Steve doesn’t need to know every time I make you fall apart before the sun’s even up.”
The guilt spikes harder, sharp and sour.
Bucky leans in, lips brushing yours in a slow, sealing kiss. “Our secret, doll,” he whispers against your mouth. “Makes it hotter, doesn’t it?”
You should argue. You should insist on telling Steve everything, like always. But the words don’t come. Instead you just nod, small and guilty, heart hammering.
He smiles, soft and dangerous, then finally stands. “Shower before you’re late. I’ll make coffee. Act normal when we get Steve; he’s got that 11 am lecture across campus.”
You watch him pull the hoodie on, casual as if he didn’t just come inside you while Steve’s name was still warm on your tongue.
He pauses at the door, glancing back. “Don’t wash me off completely,” he adds, voice low. “I like knowing I’m still dripping out of you while you’re sitting in class.”
The door clicks shut.
You lie there another minute, thighs pressed tight together, his come sticky and warm between them. Guilt burns in your chest, but so does the secret; heavy, electric, intoxicating.
You leave a little of him inside you in the shower. Just enough.
It’s just a normal Wednesday.
Except it isn’t.
It’s Friday afternoon, the day of your finals and after the boys are taking you to the cabin. The cold cuts straight through your coat and burrows into your bones like it’s moving in for the holidays.
Campus is deserted, dorms half-dark, parking lots empty except for frost-rimed stragglers. Everyone’s fled home or to warmer coasts, leaving the rest to claw through finals.
You’ve been holed up in the library since morning, grinding out your last bio exam on a stomach full of Red Bulls and burning eyes. Your brain’s mush. You’re drowning in black leggings, boots, and Bucky’s hoodie, the one that still carries his body wash and detergent, your only armor against the freeze.
You shove through the library doors into a wind that slaps hard, metallic with impending snow and bus fumes. Frozen leaves shatter under your boots.
They’re already at the curb, Steve’s black Jeep running, breath of white exhaust puffing into the air.
Steve leans on the hood in his peacoat, cheeks pink, holding a single red rose with that earnest charm that always works. Bucky’s beside him, phone up, filming your exhausted trudge with a smug grin.
“Wave for the fans, baby,” Bucky calls. “Proof you survived Banner’s final.”
You flip him off, hands numb from cold.
Nat appears like a shadow, smacks your ass sharply through the leggings, and murmurs, “Two days. No flashcards in bed. Safe word only if you mean it. Text if they get weird.” Then she’s gone, red hair swallowed by dusk.
Steve opens the back door like a gentleman. Bucky just hooks an arm around your waist and tosses you onto the warm leather seat. Heat blasts. The world narrows to pine freshener, their colognes and engine rumble.
Your suitcase is already stowed, packed at 3 am in a delirious haze while they spammed the group chat with filthy voice notes.
But beneath the thrill, guilt has been knotting your stomach for days.
It started two mornings ago when Bucky showed up alone, high off a makeup lab grade, eyes blazing. You meant to tease him, but he pinned you against the bed, hands everywhere, mouth desperate. It was fast, raw, him inside you on your unmade bed, calling you his girl while Steve’s absence loomed unspoken.
You told yourself it was just a secret celebration.
No harm.
But the guilt crashed in the moment he left, sour and relentless. You waited for Bucky to confess, for it to surface in the chat, nothing. Then the cabin trip locked in, and the secret grew heavier.
Now you’re in the back seat, sleeves tugged over frozen hands, Bucky’s warmth pressed against you. Steve drives, blond hair glowing under dashboard lights.
You stare at the back of Steve’s head and Bucky’s messy strands, wondering if they feel the weight you’re carrying, this shame like bricks in your chest.
You’ve stayed silent too. Just as guilty.
Steve meets your eyes in the mirror, smiles softly. “Buckled in, baby?”
You nod, force a smile.
Gravel spits as campus fades.
An hour and a half later, night has fallen, mountains black against a bruised sky. Snow drifts in fat flakes. Steve pulls into an empty overlook, pines sagging with fresh powder.
“Bathroom and snacks,” he says, killing the engine. “Five minutes.” Door slams, footsteps crunch away.
The instant Steve’s gone, Bucky turns, crowding you against the leather.
“Still think that 94 was funny?” he growls low, voice rough with leftover triumph and something darker. His hand slides between your thighs over the thick leggings, cupping you possessively, thumb pressing slow, deliberate circles right over your clit through the layers. The pressure is maddening, firm enough to make you squirm, not nearly enough to satisfy.
You try to hold onto the bratty edge, arching a brow even as your hips rock into his touch. “You’re still mad you had to earn your way into my-”
He cuts you off with a dark, filthy chuckle that sends heat flooding straight to your core. “Mad? Baby, I’m replaying the best morning I’ve had in months.”
His tongue flicks out, tracing a hot, wet line along the shell of your ear before dragging down the side of your neck, tasting salt and the faint trace of your perfume. You shiver hard, thighs clenching around his wrist on pure instinct.
“Remember it?” he whispers, teeth grazing your pulse point just sharp enough to sting. His thumb keeps that ruthless rhythm, slow and deliberate.
“I opened the door and there you were, wearing Steve’s old jersey and those tiny cherry shorts, teasing me about begging Banner… acting all high and mighty, like you were gonna make me watch all weekend.”
His free hand slips under the hoodie, palm splaying warm and possessive over your bare stomach, fingers teasing just under the waistband of your leggings but never dipping lower.
“Five minutes later you were on your stomach, face buried in the pillow so the whole floor wouldn’t hear you moaning my name. Spread your legs wider without me even asking, took every inch like you’d been starving for it. Begged me to go harder, to fill you up, voice all sweet and broken, nothing like that bossy little mouth you’re trying to use right now.”
You’re panting, hips rocking shamelessly into his hand, the friction through the layers turning unbearable. He knows exactly what he’s doing, keeping you teetering, reminding you with every stroke how fast you folded for him that morning.
“Where’d all that attitude go, huh?” he taunts, nipping your earlobe before soothing it with his tongue.
“Left it in your dorm along with your glasses? Or did you ditch ‘em on purpose so you could play all tough, when we both know the second I got inside, you went all blurry-eyed and needy, barely able to focus on anything except how good my cock felt.”
You whimper, actually whimper and he laughs low, delighted, the sound rumbling straight through you.
“Shh, baby,” he croons, cruel and sweet. “Don’t want Stevie hearing how fast you fall apart, do you? He still thinks you’re the big bad brat holding all the cards.”
The driver’s door yanks open right then. Cold air floods in, snowflakes swirling. Steve climbs in, shakes white powder from his hair, tosses a bag of snacks onto the passenger seat.
He pauses halfway into starting the engine, catching the scene in the rearview mirror: you flushed and trembling on Bucky’s lap, lips parted, eyes glassy; Bucky’s hand still cupped blatantly between your thighs, lazy grin sharp as sin.
“Jesus, Buck,” Steve mutters, half-laugh, half-exasperated groan as the Jeep rumbles back to life. “We haven’t even hit the cabin yet.”
Bucky shrugs, not moving his hand an inch, thumb giving one last teasing press that makes your hips jerk. “She started running that mouth again.”
You’re still shaking, thighs clenched tight around his wrist, heart racing as Steve pulls onto the snowy road.
Steve meets your eyes in the mirror, blue and amused, no clue about the secret burning between you and Bucky.
“New rule, sweetheart,” Steve says, voice low and rough. “Every time you try that bossy shit between now and Sunday, we make you sit on one of our laps and remember exactly who you belong to.”
Snow falls harder outside, tires crunching over fresh powder. You smile, slow, shaky, filthy, tasting the secret thick on your tongue.
“Then drive faster, Rogers.”
A few miles down the twisting mountain road, the Jeep coughs, dashboard dinging like an alarm clock from hell. Steve’s knuckles whiten on the wheel as the engine dies completely, momentum carrying them onto the snowy shoulder with a crunch of tires on ice.
“Fuck,” he mutters, low and venomous, slamming the heel of his hand against the steering wheel. The horn gives a short, pathetic blurt into the empty dark.
You sit up straighter in the back, still sticky and half-dressed under the hoodie, thighs aching from Bucky’s earlier ambush. “Out of gas?”
Steve doesn’t answer right away, just stares at the glowing low-fuel warning like it personally betrayed him. “Gauge is fucked. We passed a station a couple miles back.”
Bucky exhales a laugh that dies fast when he clocks Steve’s jaw. “Shit. Walking?”
“I need something sweet,” you say, voice edged with that sharp, restless hunger that comes from being wound up tight and left hanging.
Your thighs are still pressed together under the hoodie, the ache between them throbbing in time with your pulse, stomach growling louder than the wind howling outside. “Chocolate. Now. Or someone’s getting murdered.”
Steve kills the headlights, plunges the car into cold blue dark. “We walk. Grab the can.”
The three of you climb out into the whipping snow, flakes stinging your cheeks like tiny needles, wind slicing straight through the hoodie. The air smells like pine sap, exhaust, and the sharp metallic promise of a real storm. Boots crunch on frozen gravel; every breath clouds white and vanishes.
The station appears like a mirage: one lit pump under a sagging awning, neon “OPEN” sign flickering pink against the snow. Inside, the heat is stale and smells like old coffee and fryer grease. The clerk doesn’t look up while Steve pays for gas and you grab a Snickers and a burnt-tasting hot chocolate. Bucky snags gummy worms and another Red Bull.
You’re halfway through the candy bar, chocolate melting too fast on your cold fingers, when the itch shifts. The cold, the tension crackling off Steve, the way Bucky keeps sneaking glances at your mouth, it all collides into something hungry and stupid.
“Bathroom,” you murmur, tilting your head toward the side door. “Outside one.”
Bucky’s eyes flick up, sharp and hungry. Steve hesitates a beat, jaw ticking hard enough you can hear it, but he follows anyway.
Keypad code is still the lazy default 1234. Door groans open into the concrete coffin: cracked mirror, dripping faucet, single bulb flickering like it’s on its last breath. Smells like industrial bleach, stale piss, and the ghosts of a million truck-stop cigarettes. Floor’s slick in patches, somehow colder than the blizzard outside.
Door barely clicks shut before Bucky’s on you, hands rough, impatient, shoving you over the sink. Porcelain bites into your hips; the cold faucet jabs your lower back like punishment.
Steve locks the door, leans against it with arms crossed tight across his chest. “Thought we were done with the bratting bullshit,” he says, voice low and edged with warning.
You bend anyway, palms flat on gritty porcelain, ass out like you’re begging for trouble.
Bucky yanks your leggings and panties down just enough; freezing air slaps bare skin.
Steve steps forward, unzips slow, feeds his cock into your mouth, thick, heavy, deliberate. His fingers thread into your hair, guiding at first, steady and controlled.
Bucky doesn’t wait. Lines up and slams in raw, one brutal thrust that punches a muffled cry around Steve.
They find their rhythm fast: Steve fucking your throat in shallow, measured strokes that make your eyes water; Bucky pounding deep from behind, grip bruising your hips, boots scraping the disgusting tile.
You’re lost in it, heat, fullness, the way Steve’s fingers tighten like he’s anchoring himself to you.
Then Bucky, too far gone, hips snapping wild, groans it without a filter.
“Fuck… almost as good as this morning when I had you all to myself after that 95-”
Everything stops dead.
Steve goes rigid. Yanks out of your mouth so fast you choke on air, drool stringing messy from your lip to his cock. His hand stays fisted in your hair, but now it’s iron, holding you in place like he doesn’t trust you to stay put.
“Get the fuck out of her,” he says, voice low and venomous, shaking with barely-leashed fury.
Bucky’s hips jerk once on instinct, then freeze. He pulls out slow, the wet slide obscene in the sudden silence. His fingers spasm on your hips, then drop away like you’re contagious.
Steve doesn’t move. Doesn’t zip up yet. Just stares Bucky down over your bent back, eyes blazing.
“You fucked her alone,” he spits, each word sharp enough to draw blood. “That morning. And you both thought you’d just… what? Keep it cute little secret from me?”
Bucky slumps against the opposite wall, cock softening fast under the weight of Steve’s glare. “Steve- it wasn’t some big thing. She was riding me about Banner and it just happened-”
Steve cuts him off with a bitter laugh, zipping up with sharp, angry jerks. “Yeah, I bet it ‘just happened.’ Real convenient.”
You straighten slowly, yanking your clothes up with trembling fingers. Cold rushes in where heat just was; sweat cools clammy on your skin. “I told him not to tell you,” you say quietly. “I didn’t want to mess up the weekend.”
Steve finally looks at you, and the expression on his face is pure acid. Hurt twisted up with petty, ice-cold rage.
“Oh, perfect,” he sneers. “You two had a little side meeting and decided I’m too fragile to handle the truth? Or maybe you just figured I’m the safe idiot who’ll keep showing up no matter what you pull behind my back.”
He scrubs a hand over his jaw, shoulders tight, voice dropping into something small and cutting. “I share everything with you two. Every fucking thing. And you couldn’t even give me the respect of a heads-up that you’re sneaking around like I’m some side character in your story.”
Bucky opens his mouth. “Steve, come on-”
“No,” Steve snaps, pointing a finger at him. “You don’t get to ‘come on’ me. You got your solo round, congratulations. Hope it was worth it.” His eyes flick to you, sharp and accusing.
“And you- teasing him into it, then begging me to follow you in here like nothing happened. Real classy.”
The words land like slaps. Your throat burns.
Steve turns to the door, unlocks it with a vicious twist. Cold wind and snow blast in, swirling across the wet floor. “I’m walking back alone. Don’t want to crowd the happy couple.”
He steps out, gas can banging against his thigh, shoulders hunched against the storm. Doesn’t look back once.
Door swings shut behind him with a hollow thud.
You and Bucky stand there in the bleach-stinking freeze, listening to his boots crunch farther and farther away.
Bucky exhales a shaky, “Well, shit.”
You grab the half-eaten Snickers off the sink. Chocolate’s frozen solid now. Tastes like cardboard and regret.
You push out into the storm after Steve, but you keep your distance, close enough not to lose him in the whiteout, far enough that he doesn’t have to look at either of you.
Bucky trails last, gummy worms bag dragging.
Snow falls thick and relentless, swallowing sound, swallowing footprints.
The silence is louder than any screaming match.
And Steve’s back, straight and furious ahead of you, doesn’t turn around once the entire freezing mile back to the Jeep.
Whatever was whole this afternoon feels pretty goddamn cracked now.
The last hour of the drive feels like three.
Snow’s coming down so thick the headlights barely cut through it, just a swirling white tunnel. The heater’s blasting but it’s still cold in the car, cold from the silence more than anything.
Steve’s gripping the wheel like he’s trying to choke it, jaw locked so tight you can see the muscle jumping even from the back seat.
Bucky’s got his forehead against the window now, watching his own breath fog and disappear, over and over. Nobody’s touched the aux cord. Nobody’s said a word since the gas station.
When the cabin’s porch light finally cuts through the trees, it feels less like relief and more like walking into the principal’s office.
You’re out of the Jeep before Steve’s even got it in park, boots sinking into fresh powder up to your shins. The air’s sharp, pine and woodsmoke. You grab your suitcase from the trunk, mumble something about needing a shower, and bolt inside without waiting.
The cabin’s warm at least, fire already going in the big stone fireplace, the kind of orange glow that makes everything look softer than it is. Smells like cedar and the faint vanilla candle.
Flannel blankets on the couches, string lights along the beams, the whole Pinterest-winter-getaway vibe. It’s perfect. Which makes the knot in your stomach worse.
You dump your suitcase at the foot of the king bed upstairs and lock yourself in the en-suite. The shower’s one of those big rain ones with river stones underfoot. You crank it as hot as it goes and just stand there, letting it burn.
You stay in there forever, washing your hair twice, scrubbing until your skin’s pink, trying to rinse off the gas-station bathroom, the fight, the guilt.
When you finally shut the water off, the mirror’s completely fogged. You wrap yourself in one of the giant towels, wipe a streak clear, and stare at your own blurry reflection until you can’t anymore.
Downstairs, they’ve started.
At first it’s just muffled voices filtering up through the floorboards, Steve’s low, steady rumble cutting against Bucky’s sharper, quicker words. Then the volume climbs, edges sharpening.
You crack the bathroom door, towel knotted tight around you, hair dripping cold trails down your spine. Bare feet silent on the hardwood, you pad to the top of the stairs and sink down onto the top step, knees hugged to your chest. You don’t go down. Just listen.
Steve’s pacing, boots thumping a tight circuit in front of the fireplace, back and forth like a caged animal.
“…so what, you two had a cute little secret and I’m just supposed to be the oblivious third wheel who smiles and drives the Jeep? Real fucking cute, Buck.”
Bucky’s voice is rough, scraped raw. “It wasn’t like that, Steve. It was ten stupid minutes. She opened the door looking like a wet dream and I-”
“Yeah, I get the picture,” Steve interrupts, voice dripping acid. “Spare me the play-by-play. Point is, you finished, zipped up, and decided, ‘Hey, Steve doesn’t need to know his best friend and “his” girl just fucked behind his back.’ Super considerate.”
“I didn’t want to torch the whole weekend!” Bucky shoots back, then catches himself, volume dropping fast.
“We finally had two days with no bullshit, no interruptions, and I panicked. Thought if I told you in the car you’d pull over and deck me. Then by the time we got here it felt too late, and then in that disgusting bathroom it just, slipped out.”
Steve snorts, sharp and ugly. “Oh, bless your heart. What a tragic little accident. Must’ve been so hard carrying around that big, bad secret while I was busy thinking everything was normal.”
Silence stretches, heavy. You hear the fire crackle, wind rattling the windows like it wants in.
Bucky speaks again, quieter, stripped down. “I’m sorry, Stevie. I mean it. I hate that I hurt you. I hate that I made you feel like the odd man out because you’re not. You’ve never been. I just… fucked up. Bad.”
Steve doesn’t answer right away. You hear the fridge door yank open, the clink of glass, the angry twist of a bottle cap. Long pull of beer.
Another.
“Congrats on the apology,” Steve finally says, voice flat and snarky. “Gold star. Really feeling the sincerity while I’m still tasting bleach from that shithole bathroom and wondering how long you two were planning to keep playing me.”
“I wasn’t playing you,” Bucky says, low and earnest. “I swear to God, Steve. It was one dumb, selfish moment and then cowardice. That’s it.”
“Yeah, well, your cowardice feels pretty fucking personal from where I’m standing.” Steve’s boots start pacing again, faster.
“You know what the worst part is? I would’ve been fine. Mad for five minutes, maybe, but fine. Because it’s us. But you didn’t trust me enough to give me the chance. You and her decided for me.”
Bucky’s voice cracks a little. “I know. I know I didn’t trust you with it, and that’s on me. I’m so fucking sorry. You’re my best friend, always have been. I don’t want to lose this. Lose us.”
Another stretch of quiet. A log in the fire shifts and pops, sending sparks up the chimney.
Steve exhales hard. “You remember sophomore year? When I basically lived in your dorm for two months because you were too stubborn to ask for help with that boot?”
“Yeah,” Bucky says softly.
“I didn’t leave when you were a miserable asshole to everyone. I stayed. Because you’re my best friend too, you idiot.” Steve’s voice wavers, anger bleeding into something rawer. “So don’t stand there acting like I’m about to bail over one fight. I’m pissed. I’m allowed to be pissed. But I’m not walking away.”
You hear Bucky’s relief in the shaky breath he lets out. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” Steve mutters. “I’m still mad enough to sleep on the couch tonight. I don’t want to be in the same bed as either of you right now. I need… space from the reminder.”
“Steve-”
“It’s not punishment,” Steve cuts in, tired but firm. “It’s self-preservation. I just can’t pretend everything’s peachy while I’m still seeing red. Take the bed. Both of you. I’ll be down here.”
A long beat.
“Okay,” Bucky says finally, quiet and defeated. “Yeah. Okay.”
The couch creaks as someone, probably Bucky, drops onto it heavily. Boots thud off. The fire settles into low, steady pops.
You stay curled on the top step until your toes are numb and the towel’s soaked through from your hair. Then you slip back to the bedroom, crawl under the thick flannel duvet that smells like pine detergent and cold air, and stare at the dark log beams overhead.
Downstairs, the fire burns lower. No footsteps on the stairs.
The cabin feels enormous and suffocating all at once.
You pull the covers over your head, your throat tightening as you fight the tears. College is messy, sure, but no one tells you how much it hurts when the people you care about most are hurting because of you.
And tonight, nobody comes up to fix it.
Eventually the stairs creak softly, Bucky coming up as quiet as his bulk allows. He doesn’t speak, just kicks off his boots, strips to boxers, and slides in on the far edge, leaving a careful, deliberate foot of space between you like he’s waiting for permission.
You don’t let the space stay. You roll toward him, tuck your head against his chest without asking. He exhales like the air’s been trapped in his lungs for hours, arm coming around you slow and careful. His heartbeat thuds fast under your ear.
“I’m so fucking sorry,” he whispers into your hair, voice rough with guilt.
“I know,” you whisper back, throat tight.
He kisses your forehead, holds you closer, and you both pretend sleep is coming.
It isn’t.
Eventually your mouth turns to cotton, dehydration from crying in the shower, from the dry heat blasting out of the vents, from the way your heart’s been jackhammering since everything blew up.
You ease out from under Bucky’s heavy arm. He makes a low, unhappy sound in his sleep, brow furrowing, but doesn’t wake. Moonlight stripes silver across his face: stubble dark, lips parted, the scar on his left hand catching the light like a thin white bolt.
Your bare feet hit the wide-plank floor and the cold shoots up your legs like ice water. Goosebumps prickle across your thighs under the oversized shirt you scooped off the floor and yanked on in the dark. You tug the hem down, but it still barely skims mid-thigh, leaving you half-exposed in the chilly room.
The hallway is darker, shadows thick and blue. Every creak sounds like an accusation.
Downstairs, the fire’s burned down to sullen orange coals that pulse low and resentful. The air smells like the faint yeasty ghost of spilled beer. An empty bottle lies on its side on the coffee table, a slow ring of condensation bleeding into the wood.
Steve’s on the couch, blanket kicked to the floor. He’s sitting forward, elbows on knees, head bowed, broad shoulders hunched. His hair’s a wreck, blond strands falling over his forehead like he’s raked his hands through it a hundred times.
He hears you, of course. Lifts his head slow. His eyes are bloodshot, exhaustion carved deep, but they’re sharp, too sharp, glittering with leftover venom.
“Couldn’t sleep?” he asks, voice scraped raw and dripping sarcasm. “Or did you just come down to make sure the third wheel’s still breathing?”
The words hit like a slap. You stop at the bottom of the stairs, toes curling against the icy floor. “I needed water.”
He watches you cross to the kitchen, eyes tracking the way your shirt brushes your thighs with every step. The fridge light spills harsh white across his face when you open it, highlighting the tight clench of his jaw, the storm still brewing in his eyes. You grab a bottle, twist it open, drink deep. Cold burns all the way down.
He stands when you turn around. Slow. Deliberate. Closes the distance until the heat rolling off him cuts the chill.
“So,” he says, voice low and venom-sweet, arms crossed tight. “You and Bucky have your little post-fuck cuddle fest upstairs? Real cozy, huh? Must be nice knowing exactly who you’re waking up next to tomorrow.”
Your stomach knots. “Steve-”
“Because I’m trying to figure out my role here,” he keeps going, smile thin and razor-sharp. “Am I the driver? The comic relief? The guy who pays for gas while you two sneak quickies? Or just the idiot who thought we were all on the same page?”
The snark lands hard, each word precise, meant to bruise. You can smell faint beer on his breath, woodsmoke in his clothes, cold clinging to his skin. His eyes are glassy with exhaustion and hurt, and it twists something vicious in your chest.
“Stop it,” you say, voice cracking. You step into him, close enough that his heat sears through the shirt. “Just- stop.”
He opens his mouth, more poison clearly loaded, but you don’t let it fire. You fist both hands in the soft fabric of his thermal, push up on your toes, and crash your mouth against his.
It’s messy, angry, teeth clacking, then parting. He tastes like bitter beer, salt, and sleeplessness. For a heartbeat he’s rigid, every muscle locked. Then his hands snap to your hips, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, hauling you flush against him like he’s terrified you’ll vanish.
He kisses back ferocious, all the hurt and frustration pouring out in the way he angles your head, the way his tongue claims yours like he’s reminding himself he still has the right.
You break only when your lungs scream, foreheads pressed together, both of you panting into the tiny space between.
“There’s no choosing,” you whisper, fierce and shaking. “No favorites. No couples inside the three of us. You know that.”
His breath hitches hard. His hands flex on your hips like he’s fighting himself. His eyes squeeze shut.
“I hate feeling like the extra,” he mutters, voice finally cracking wide open, all the snark bleeding away into something raw. “Like I’m the one who wasn’t in on the joke.”
“You’re not,” you say, sliding a hand up to cup his jaw, thumb brushing rough stubble. “You’re not extra. You’re just as in this as we are.”
He leans into your touch for a shaky second, then exhales like the fight’s rushing out of him. You take his hand, cold fingers laced through his warm ones and tug.
He follows.
Up the stairs, quiet and slow. Bucky’s still sprawled in the center of the bed, one arm flung out, sheets tangled low on his hips, breathing deep and even.
You climb in first, slide to the middle, shirt riding up as you settle facing Bucky. Steve pauses at the edge, shadowed, looking down at both of you like he’s still deciding if he belongs here tonight.
You reach out, catch the hem of his thermal. “Get in the bed, Steve.”
He huffs a tired, wet half-laugh that’s mostly surrender and crawls in behind you. The mattress dips deep under his weight.
For a long moment it’s awkward: three bodies negotiating space, the chill of the sheets, the leftover static crackling in the air.
Then Bucky shifts in his sleep, instinctively seeking warmth, arm draping heavy across your waist, face nuzzling into your neck, stubble scratching softly.
Steve hesitates one last beat, then mirrors it. His chest presses to your back, solid and warm, arm sliding over your hip to rest loosely on top of Bucky’s forearm. His fingers curl, not quite holding Bucky’s wrist, but close like muscle memory overriding the mess.
You’re sandwiched tight: Bucky’s steady heartbeat against your front, Steve’s against your spine, legs tangled in flannel and limbs.
The hurt lingers, heavy and unspoken. The anger’s still there, banked low like the embers downstairs. But the bed is warm now, snow muffling the world outside to nothing, and nobody pulls away.
Steve’s lips brush the shell of your ear, barely there, more breath than kiss. Bucky’s nose nudges your collarbone, a sleepy sound rumbling in his chest.
You let your eyes close.
Tomorrow will still be messy. Words will still need saying. Boundaries will still feel bruised.
But tonight, tangled together in the dark, breathing slow and syncing up, the three of you just sleep.
And for the first time since the bathroom, it doesn’t feel like anything’s broken beyond fixing.
Morning light filters through the half-drawn curtains in thin, pale blades, soft winter sun bouncing off the endless snow outside, turning the room golden and quiet. The wind died sometime in the night; the world feels paused, muffled under a thick white blanket.
Bucky wakes first, the way he always does: instant and alert, eyes snapping open like a switch flipped. He’s on his back, arm pinned under your hip, other one still draped loosely over your waist. Steve’s pressed along your back, face tucked into the crook of your neck, slow breaths stirring the fine hairs there.
For a long minute Bucky just stares.
You’re deep under, curled slightly toward him, lips parted in soft, even breaths, one hand fisted loosely in the sheets near your chin. Your has shirt ridden up in the night, exposing the gentle curve of your waist, the long line of your spine.
Your hair’s a wild tangle across the pillow, still faintly damp from the shower. There’s a warm flush on your cheeks from being sandwiched between them, and the tiniest crease between your brows like even sleep can’t fully erase yesterday.
Bucky’s voice is barely audible, rough with sleep and leftover guilt. “Look at her.”
Steve stirs immediately, lifting his head just enough to see over your shoulder. His eyes are puffy, lashes clumped, but they soften the second they land on you.
“Yeah,” he breathes. “Christ.”
He doesn’t finish. Doesn’t have to.
Bucky reaches out, slow, careful not to wake you and brushes a stray strand of hair off your forehead with the backs of his knuckles.
“She’s got that little freckle right here,” he murmurs, thumb grazing the bridge of your nose. “Never noticed how much I like it when she’s not using it to look down at me like I’m an idiot.”
Steve’s hand moves too, palm sliding gently over the exposed skin of your hip, tracing idle, reverent circles. “And the way she does that tiny huff on the exhale. Like a pissed-off kitten dreaming about revenge.”
Bucky huffs the softest laugh. “She’d murder us if she heard that.”
“She’d try,” Steve agrees, the corner of his mouth lifting for the first time since the gas station. “We’d have her pinned and begging for mercy in ten seconds flat.”
They fall quiet again, just watching the slow rise and fall of your chest, the occasional twitch of your fingers in sleep.
“She looks… peaceful,” Bucky says after a long moment. Voice low, almost awed. “Like yesterday didn’t follow her in here.”
Steve’s throat works visibly. “We were reckless as hell.”
“Yeah,” Bucky says quietly. “I was. That morning was on me, lost my head the second she opened the door. And then I kept my mouth shut like a coward because I didn’t want to lose the weekend. I’m sorry, man. For the fuck, for the lie, for all of it.”
Steve’s hand stills on your hip. He meets Bucky’s eyes over your sleeping form. “I’m sorry too. For the way I acted, like a petty asshole with a bruised ego. I turned it into a competition in my head when it never needed to be. You didn’t deserve me icing you out.”
Bucky nods once, slow. “We good?”
Steve exhales, tension bleeding out of his shoulders. “We’re good.”
They lie there a little longer, trading the kind of quiet, sappy observations they’d never say if you were awake.
How your lashes cast long shadows on your cheeks in the morning light.
How soft your mouth gets when there’s no smart remark loaded behind it.
How perfectly you fit between them, like the space was always meant to be filled by you.
Eventually Bucky untangles himself with military precision, sliding out of bed without moving the mattress more than an inch. Steve follows a second later. They trade a look over your still-sleeping body, silent agreement.
Bucky mouths: Breakfast?
Steve nods, already reaching for his sweatpants.
They pad downstairs together, shoulders brushing in the narrow hallway. The fire’s dead, just gray ash and cold stone. Morning light floods through the big windows, turning the snow outside blinding white.
In the kitchen they move like a quiet, practiced team, Bucky starting coffee, strong, black, with the oat milk waiting on the side because he knows you’ll want it, Steve pulling out the cast-iron skillet, eggs, thick-cut bacon, English muffins. There’s even a punnet of fresh berries someone thoughtfully left in the fridge.
They don’t talk much at first, just the soft clink of mugs, the sizzle of bacon hitting hot iron, the low gurgle of the coffee maker. The smells build fast: rich coffee, smoky pork, butter melting in the toaster.
Halfway through, Bucky leans against the counter, watching Steve flip eggs with that intense focus he gets about everything. “We’re really fixing this, right?”
Steve glances up, mouth softening. “Yeah. Starting with feeding her until she can’t stay mad.”
They load up the big wooden tray like it’s a peace offering: fluffy scrambled eggs, crisp bacon arranged in neat rows, toasted English muffins with butter and a drizzle of honey, bright berries in a chipped bowl, coffee fixed exactly right. Steve tucks the single red rose, still perfect, into a water glass and scribbles a note on a torn piece of brown paper bag:
we’re idiots but we’re your idiots
eat this and then come yell at us if you want
we’ll be waiting
– your two favorite assholes
They carry it upstairs together, moving slow so nothing spills. You’re still dead to the world, curled on your side now, shirt twisted around your waist, one knee pulled up, mouth open just enough for the softest little snore.
They set the tray on the nightstand carefully. Bucky kneels on his side, brushes your hair back gently. Steve sits on the edge, hand resting lightly on your bare ankle.
You stir slowly, first the rich smell of coffee hits, then bacon, then warm butter and honey. Your eyes crack open to soft golden light and the loaded tray: eggs golden, bacon perfectly crisp, muffins glistening, bright berries, coffee steaming and perfect. The rose stands proud in its makeshift vase.
“Morning, baby,” Bucky says, voice scratchy and soft. He brushes a knuckle along your cheek. “We made you breakfast. Figured you deserved it after we spent yesterday acting like complete jackasses.”
Steve’s thumb strokes slow circles on your ankle. “Especially me. I was a petty dick about the whole thing. I’m sorry... for the attitude, for the distance, for making you feel like you had to drag me back into bed.”
Bucky nods, eyes earnest. “And I’m sorry for that reckless morning fuck. For starting it, for hiding it, for letting it blow up in that nasty bathroom. I should’ve told him right away. No excuses.”
You push up on one elbow, shirt slipping off one shoulder, hair falling in your face. You blow it away and eye the tray like it might be a trap. “You two cooked without burning the cabin down?”
Bucky snorts. “Minor smoke-alarm incident. We contained it.”
“Twice,” Steve corrects, mouth twitching. “But we survived.”
You reach for the coffee first, wrap both hands around the mug, inhale deep. First sip is perfect. You hum, involuntary and pleased, and watch both of them visibly relax.
“Good?” Steve asks, quiet.
“Dangerously,” you mutter. “You’re definitely trying to bribe me.”
Bucky grins, snags a piece of bacon and holds it to your lips. “Is it working?”
You take a bite, salty, smoky perfection and chew slow just to watch him fidget. “Little bit.”
Steve shifts closer, elbow on the mattress. “There’s a note too.” He nods toward the torn paper under the rose.
You fish it out, read it aloud in a flat voice: “‘We’re idiots but we’re your idiots. Eat this and then come yell at us if you want. We’ll be waiting, your two favorite assholes.’”
Bucky winces. “We debated hearts. Chickened out.”
“Smart,” you say, but there’s no heat in it. You pop a berry in your mouth, sweet, bright, perfect. “This doesn’t magically fix everything, you know.”
“We know,” they say at the same time, then glance at each other, almost smiling.
You sigh, set the coffee down, and scoot over, patting the space you’ve made. “Get in here. I’m not eating alone like some lonely queen.”
They move instantly, Bucky sliding in on your left, Steve on your right. The tray ends up balanced on Bucky’s lap; Steve steals a strip of bacon before you can stop him.
You tear an English muffin in half, hand one piece to each of them.
“We’re talking about yesterday,” you say around a mouthful of eggs. “All of it. But not on empty stomachs. And not until I’ve had at least one more sip of coffee.”
Bucky leans his head against yours, voice soft. “Whatever you need, baby.”
Steve’s hand finds yours under the blanket, fingers threading tight. “We’re right here.”
You take another long sip of coffee, let the warmth sink in, and, for the first time since that bleach-stinking bathroom feel something close to steady.
“Pass the honey,” you say.
Bucky hands it over without a word.
It’s going to be a long conversation.
But it’s starting with breakfast in bed, tangled limbs, and two boys who are looking at you like you hung the moon even after everything.
You can definitely work with that.
By evening, the storm softens into steady snowfall, fat flakes drifting past the windows. The fire roars again, warming the living room, the air scented with pine smoke, grilled cheese, and faint eucalyptus.
The day was long and necessary: raw words on the couch, quieter ones bundled on the porch with spiked cocoa, hands finding each other again like testing fragile glass. The air felt lighter, trust bruised but mending, boundaries redrawn with careful fingers. You disappeared upstairs with a sly smile and a murmured “give me twenty,” leaving them with raised eyebrows and cautious hope.
Out on the covered back deck, the jacuzzi waits in the corner, steaming hard against the cold. The jets churn the water into thick foam that hisses and bubbles. Snow dusts the railings and gathers along the roofline, melting into sharp drops wherever the heat reaches. Beneath the surface, blue lights pulse softly, turning the foam turquoise and gold as steam rises in fragrant clouds of eucalyptus and chlorine.
Steve and Bucky are already in, shoulders just breaking the surface, heads tipped back against the padded headrests, steam curling off their skin in thick, wet ribbons that cling to their stubble and lashes. Water beads and drips from their chests, catching the light in glistening trails down hard muscle.
Bucky’s hand rests on the rim, fingers drumming lazily to the low, thumping bass from the outdoor speaker.
Steve’s eyes are half-closed, the last tension finally gone from his jaw, lips parted as he breathes in the hot mist.
The sliding door rumbles open with a groan of wood on wood.
They both turn at the sound, water sloshing.
You step out onto the snow-dusted deck wearing the skimpiest black bikini you packed, two tiny triangles up top straining desperately against your breasts, nipples already hard and visible through the thin fabric, tied with strings so fragile one tug would end them.
The bottoms are a matching low V, ties knotted high on your hips, the fabric barely covering your mound and leaving the full curves of your ass exposed to the biting cold.
Snowflakes land on your warm skin and melt instantly, cool trails racing down your cleavage, your thighs. Goosebumps explode across your body; your hair is loose and wild, lips curved in a slow, deliberate smile that says you know exactly what you’re doing.
“Goddamn,” Bucky breathes, sitting up straighter, water cascading off his chest in hot rivulets. His eyes go pitch-black in a heartbeat, cock visibly thickening under the bubbling surface.
Steve’s gaze drags down your body like a physical lick, slow, burning, possessive. “You’re trying to fucking kill us, baby.”
“Maybe,” you say, voice low and teasing over the relentless rumble of the jets. You pad across the cold wood, bare feet stinging on frozen planks, goosebumps racing up your legs until you’re at the steps. One deliberate tug at each hip and the bottoms drop, pooling at your ankles. Another tug at your neck and back and the top follows, landing in a damp little heap on the deck, nipples tightening harder in the sharp air.
You climb in slow, water rising scalding hot around your calves, thighs, hips, making you hiss through your teeth as the heat shocks your cold skin pink.
The jets slam into you like a thousand vibrating tongues, pulsing hard against your legs, your ass, your clit as you sink deeper. You settle between them, back against the curved wall, water lapping greedily at your collarbones, bubbles clinging to your breasts like obscene decoration.
For a moment it’s just the three of you and the storm: snow falling silently outside the roofline in thick, lazy sheets; steam rising in choking clouds, thick with eucalyptus and the faint chlorine tang; jets churning the surface into constant, violent motion that vibrates through your bones.
Bucky’s arm slides around your waist first, yanking you sideways into his lap with a splash that sends hot water over the edge. Steve shifts closer on your other side, big hand finding your thigh under the water, fingers digging in possessively.
“We good?” Bucky murmurs against your temple, voice rough with steam and raw want, stubble scraping your skin.
You nod, turning to catch his mouth. The kiss starts soft, relief and promise but turns filthy fast, tongues sliding wet and hungry, tasting eucalyptus and leftover whiskey from lunch.
Hands start wandering, rougher now. Bucky’s fingers slip between your legs immediately, parting your slick folds under the water, finding your clit and rubbing hard, deliberate circles that make you jerk. Steve’s palm cups your breast roughly, pinching your nipple until you gasp into Bucky’s mouth.
Then Bucky pulls back with a wicked grin, reaching for the black velvet bag on the deck edge. “Got something new for that greedy little ass.”
He pulls out the star-shaped plug, silver metal with sharp, faceted jewel edges that catch the string lights and throw tiny rainbows across the steam. Bigger than the heart one, thicker flare, the star points promising a vicious, delicious stretch.
Your breath catches, pussy clenching around nothing. “Oh, so we’re switching shapes now, huh?” you tease, voice breathy but playful, trying to hide how much the sight alone is already making you throb.
Steve laughs low, dark, hand sliding between your legs to spread you wider. “Damn right. That heart was cute, but this star? Gonna stretch that tight hole so pretty, make you feel every fucking point while we wreck your cunt.”
But first, Bucky’s eyes glint pure filth. “Turn around, doll. Straddle the big jet. We’ve seen this in porn a hundred times, girls humping jacuzzi jets like desperate little whores till they squirt. Always wanted to watch you do it live.”
Heat floods your face, sharp humiliation twisting hot with arousal but they maneuver you easily, water buoying you weightless. They position you facing the strongest jet, knees on the bench seat, hips tilted forward until the powerful stream slams directly against your clit, relentless, pounding pressure like a thick, vibrating cockhead grinding you mercilessly, bubbles exploding against your pussy lips in hot bursts.
“Oh- fuck- ” You grab the rim, knuckles white, hips bucking involuntarily as the jet batters your swollen clit without mercy. The water’s so hot it burns sweetly; the stream pulses hard enough to make your thighs quake, forcing pleasure through you in brutal waves.
Bucky presses in behind you, mouth on your shoulder, biting hard enough to mark. “Look at you, humping the jet like a needy porn slut. We knew you’d be perfect for this. Bet that greedy cunt’s clenching already, wishing it was our cocks pounding you.”
Steve’s hand tangles in your wet hair, yanking your head back so you’re arched, exposed, tits bouncing with every desperate grind.
“That’s it, ride it harder. Show us how filthy you are, squirting all over the water like those girls in the videos we used to jerk off to. You’re better than them, our desperate little whore, coming on a fucking jet because you can’t wait for real dick.”
The humiliation burns, hot and sharp but it only makes you wetter, hips rolling shamelessly against the jet, chasing the brutal pressure. Water splashes with every grind; your moans echo off the cabin walls, mixing with the hiss of snow hitting hot deck.
You come hard and fast, screaming, thighs clamping, pussy gushing clear streams into the churning water as the jet forces you over without mercy.
They don’t let you recover. Bucky pulls you back into his lap, facing him, legs spread wide over his thighs. Steve hands him the star plug, already slick with lube.
“Hold her open,” Bucky orders Steve, voice wrecked.
Steve’s fingers spread your ass cheeks wide, cool air hitting your hole for a second before Bucky presses the cold metal tip against you. The star points stretch you viciously, each sharp facet popping past your ring with a burn that makes you sob and push back for more.
“Fuck- too big- ” you gasp, but your hips rock anyway.
“That’s our greedy girl,” Steve growls in your ear, thumb rubbing your clit to distract. “Taking that fat star plug like a champ. Gonna feel us both so much deeper now.”
Bucky works it in slow, twist, push, stretch until the wide flare seats flush, the jewel base cool against your skin, points locked inside making every tiny movement electric.
Then Bucky lines his cock up with your pussy, thick head sliding through your soaked folds, sinking in raw with one deep thrust that punches the air from your lungs. The plug makes him feel massive, splitting you open.
Steve moves behind, more lube, careful but insistent, pressing into your ass around the plug? No, he pulls it out slowly and hands it aside, then he takes your ass raw while Bucky stays buried in your pussy.
Full, brutally, perfectly full, both thick cocks stretching you to the limit, the missing plug leaving you gaping and desperate. Water sloshes violently over the edge, steaming on the cold deck.
They fuck you hard, Bucky thrusting up into your pussy, Steve slamming into your ass, hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise, mouths on your neck biting marks.
The jets pulse against your dangling feet; steam chokes the air; snow hisses where it lands.
You come again, shattering, screaming, pussy and ass milking them relentlessly.
They follow fast, Bucky spilling deep in your cunt with a guttural “fuck, take it”; Steve in your ass seconds later, groaning your name like it hurts.
Water everywhere, deck soaked, steam thick.
They hold you through the aftershocks, kissing soft now, murmuring love and praise into your skin.
You stay tangled a long time, hearts slowing, bodies cooling slowly in the reheated water.
The jacuzzi high fades into a warm, lazy buzz as you all stumble back inside, towels barely clinging, skin still steaming in the cold air that rushes in behind you. The swim trunks and bikini are abandoned on the deck, no one bothers to grab them. Snowflakes melt on your shoulders as you slide the door shut, giggling when Bucky’s towel finally gives up and puddles at his feet.
“Freedom,” he declares, kicking it aside and strutting naked toward the kitchen like a peacock. Steve rolls his eyes but follows suit, towel tossed over the back of a chair.
They'd raided the bar: two bottles of vintage champagne, corks popping with a festive fizz; a tray of tequila shots, lime wedges sour and juicy.
Someone’s playlist is blasting, slow, filthy R&B with bass so low it vibrates in your bones. The heated slate floor is warm under bare feet. You let your towel drop and don’t even think about it, hair dripping, skin flushed and steaming, completely naked and giggling like an idiot.
Nobody can stand still.
Bucky starts the dance-off with the most exaggerated body roll known to man, hips snapping, abs flexing like he’s trying to hypnotize you. Steve counters with some tragic attempt at the robot that’s so off-beat it’s perfect. You jump in the middle, spinning too fast, nearly eating the floor until they both catch you, laughing.
Champagne gets passed mouth-to-mouth, tequila licked off collarbones, whiskey dribbled down stomachs and chased with tongues.
Then it gets filthy.
Steve grabs the champagne bottle, tips it slow and deliberate over your chest. Cold bubbles cascade down between your tits in a fizzy river, rushing over your skin, spilling in glittering trails down your stomach and pooling at your navel. You squeal, half shock from the chill, half giddy because you’re so fucking wasted and both of them drop to their knees instantly, like starving men at a feast.
Steve claims the left side, Bucky the right. Tongues hot and messy, they lap up every drop, sucking champagne from the soft undersides of your breasts, chasing the rivulets that run down your ribs.
Steve’s mouth closes over one nipple, tongue swirling to catch the fizz; Bucky does the same on the other, teeth grazing just enough to make you gasp and laugh at once. They fight over the stream dripping toward your belly button, Steve’s tongue diving in, Bucky shoving him aside with a shoulder and licking it clean, both of them groaning against your skin like it’s the best thing they’ve ever tasted.
You’re laughing so hard your legs shake, hands fisted in their hair, head thrown back, barely able to stand.
“My turn- my turnnn!” you slur, snatching the bottle from Steve’s hand. You push him flat on his back on the thick rug, straddling his hips. With a wicked grin, you tip the champagne again, this time right over his abs.
Cold liquid pools in every perfect ridge, drips along that stupid V that disappears into nothing since he’s already hard and naked. You dive face-first, licking slow and greedy from the bottom up, tongue tracing every line of muscle, sucking the bubbles from his skin while he groans and bucks his hips, laughing through it.
“F-fuck- that tickles- wait, no, do it again, don’t stop,” Steve stutters, words tripping over each other.
You pour the rest of the bottle over Bucky’s chest in a messy arc; it runs down his pecs, through the dark hair, pooling in the dips of his abs. You lick back and forth between them like a drunk kitten, missing half the time, just dragging your tongue over warm skin and giggling when you overshoot and end up licking a nipple instead.
“You taste like- like bad decisions,” you mumble into Bucky’s abs, then hiccup so hard you nearly fall over.
Bucky laughs, deep and slurred. “More- more, baby, we’re not done.” He grabs a half-full bottle of cinnamon schnapps, eyes glinting. “Spread for us.”
They manhandle you gently, Steve’s hands on your thighs, spreading you wide on the rug while Bucky kneels between your legs. You’re giggling, head spinning, as Bucky tips the bottle slow over your pussy. Warm cinnamon liquid drips down your folds, mixing with how soaked you already are, trickling over your clit and pooling between your lips.
You squeal again, hips jerking at the sudden heat. “Cold- hot- fuck-”
Both of them dive in at once. Steve’s tongue laps the outer folds, slow and thorough; Bucky goes straight for your clit, sucking the schnapps right off it with a filthy moan.
They trade places, tongues sliding against each other over your skin, fighting for every drop, licking and sucking. You’re laughing and moaning, hands in their hair, hips rolling shamelessly into their mouths.
“G-gonna- gonna come from your tongues,” you slur, words a jumbled mess. “Taste so- s’good-”
They keep going, sloppy and drunk and relentless, until the cinnamon burns away and it’s just them tasting you, hot, wet, giggling against your pussy until you’re shaking apart, coming hard with a bright, silly cry that dissolves into more laughter.
The bottle rolls away forgotten, and you collapse back onto the rug, still buzzing, still drunk, still perfect.
They flip you in a sloppy tangle of limbs, still giggling like absolute idiots. A whiskey glass topples somewhere, liquid glugs out, nobody gives a shit.
“W-wanna… wanna be in- inside you,” Bucky slurs against your neck, words tumbling like he’s rolling downhill. “Both- both of us, yeah? Like- like usual but… but way drunker. Drunkier. Drunkest.”
“Y-yeah,” Steve chimes in, aiming for smooth and landing somewhere near cartoon character. “Both is- is b-best. Sci- scien- fuck it, science.”
You’re wheezing with laughter as you all try to line up, total disaster.
“Ow- ow, that’s my knee, dumbass,”
“Wait- where’s the- oh, there, no wait that’s your elbow-”
“Hang- hang onnn, I got it- shit, no I don’t-”
Someone’s hair gets pulled, someone else gets tickled by accident, and you’re all cracking up so hard it takes forever.
Finally, miracle, you sink down onto Steve with a long, wobbly “fuuuuck” that dissolves into giggles when Bucky presses in behind you, muttering “slow- slow- wait, too fast- fuck, perfect-” while his hands slip twice on your hips.
The rhythm is hilariously bad, lazy, uneven, stopping every few seconds because someone hiccups, or a leg cramps, or you all just start laughing again for no reason.
“You’re s-so… s’pretty,” Steve tries, going for romantic and sounding like he’s reading a menu underwater.
“Prettiest,” Bucky corrects, dead serious, then immediately backtracks. “Wait- no, prettiessst. With… with three s’s. Fac- facts only.”
Names are a lost cause. “Steeb” comes out instead of Steve. “Bub- Bubby- no, Buck- Buh-” You can’t even finish, and every failed attempt sends you into fresh hysterics, bodies shaking with laughter while still moving together.
It builds slow and ridiculous, pleasure sneaking up through the drunk fog until you’re all trembling and giggling right on the edge.
Your orgasm hits out of nowhere, sharp, bright, uncontrollable clenching hard around both of them while you half-laugh, half-moan into Steve’s neck, actual tears in your eyes from how stupidly good it feels.
Bucky’s right behind you, hips stuttering as he comes with a garbled, breathless “love you- love you-” buried against your shoulder.
You freeze mid-giggle, brain lagging. “Wh- what was that?”
Bucky goes very still, then mumbles into your skin, voice suddenly casual like he’s commenting on the weather, “Huh? Nothin’. Nothing. You- uh- hearing things.”
Steve, still panting and giggling, doesn’t even notice, he’s too busy slurring “best- best night- everrrr” as he follows right after, fingers tangled tight in your hair, laughing through every pulse.
You collapse sideways in a sweaty, breathless heap, someone’s foot in someone’s face, elbow in ribs, legs everywhere, still wheezing with leftover laughter. Still somehow joined.
Then your phone buzzes, FaceTime, Nat’s name flashing.
Steve reaches over blindly, swipes accept, and flips it immediately to show only the log ceiling.
Nat appears, party lights strobing, music thumping. “WHERE ARE YOU FUCKERS- wait, why is the ceiling spinning? And why do you sound like dying seals?”
Bucky gives one lazy, involuntary thrust; you bite the rug to muffle the moan, fur tickling your lips.
Steve, voice wobbling with laughter, manages, “Cele- celebrating. Very… very quietly.”
Nat squints. “That is NOT quiet. That’s- are you- OH MY GOD-”
You slap the phone face-down, screen black.
Bucky wheezes into your shoulder, “Tell- tell her hi. From- from all three of us.”
The sheer absurdity sends another wave of silent, shaking laughter through you, bodies still joined, still tangled, still absolutely hammered.
Eventually Bucky grabs the phone with one trembling hand, still half inside you, and thumbs out a text:
You 10:45pm
u misssd the best drunk dnace battle in historyyy
also wereee very buzyy
Then he tosses it across the rug, kisses the back of your neck, and you all drift in the firelight, naked, ridiculous, slurring sweet nonsense into each other’s skin, and stupidly, perfectly happy.
Bucky’s the first to stir, still wheezing with leftover laughter as he scoops you up from the rug like you’re made of air. Your limp, sweaty body flops over his arms bridal-style, head lolling against his chest.
“Party’s- party’s over,” he slurs into your hair, words all mushy and tangled. “Bedtime for- for drunk princess.”
Steve hauls himself up, swaying hard enough he has to grab the couch for balance, then slaps Bucky’s bare ass with a loud smack as he staggers past. “Careful, Buck. Don’t- don’t drop our girl. She’s- she’s precious.”
“Never,” Bucky declares, super serious, then immediately almost eats the coffee table leg. You all burst into fresh, helpless giggles, yours coming out more like a wheeze since you’re too boneless to even hold your head up.
Steve kills the downstairs lights with a dramatic wave that misses the switch twice, finally smacking it on the third try. The fire’s left to burn itself out, popping lazily as he follows you up the creaky stairs, one hand on the railing, the other planted on Bucky’s back for stability. Every step is a disaster.
“Whoa- easy, watch the- watch the step-”
“Left foot, genius, left-”
“Shit- shit, wall-”
You’re all shushing each other and cracking up louder.
In the bedroom, Bucky lowers you to the middle of the bed with way too much ceremony, like he’s placing something fragile on an altar. You bounce once, flop spread-eagle, and immediately hog every blanket in a sloppy cocoon.
Steve face-plants to your left with a muffled “oomph,” Bucky collapses to the right, and within seconds they’re curled around you like giant, overheated koalas.
Limbs everywhere. Someone’s knee in someone’s stomach. Someone’s hair in someone’s mouth. The sheets smell like smoke, sex, and spilled tequila.
“Night, pretty girl,” Steve mumbles into your neck, already halfway gone.
“Night, baby,” Bucky sighs against your shoulder, voice soft and slurred.
You manage a sleepy, slurred hum and a clumsy pat to whichever warm chest is closest.
The room does one last slow spin, then everything fades to quiet, just three sets of deep, even breathing, the faint crackle of the dying fire downstairs, and snow falling thick and silent outside.
You all crash hard, naked and tangled, absolutely wrecked and perfectly happy.
Sunday morning creeps in slow and golden, sunlight filtering through the half-open curtains and painting warm stripes across the tangled sheets. The cabin’s quiet except for the gentle whistle of wind in the pines outside. Snow’s still piled high, the world muffled and white.
You wake sandwiched between them again, Bucky’s chest to your back, his arm draped heavy over your waist; Steve facing you, one leg hooked over yours, his breath warm against your collarbone. They’re both still asleep, faces slack and boyish in the morning light.
You can feel them against you: Bucky half-hard already, pressed to the curve of your ass; Steve’s morning erection nestled against your stomach. The air smells like sleep-warm skin and faint whiskey.
You shift just a little, testing and Bucky makes a low, sleepy sound, arm tightening instinctively. His hips rock forward once, slow and unconscious. Steve stirs, eyes fluttering open, blue and soft and still heavy-lidded. He doesn’t speak, just watches you for a second, then leans in and kisses you slow, lazy, morning-sweet.
That’s all it takes.
Hands start moving without discussion. Steve’s palm cups your breast, thumb brushing your nipple until it peaks; Bucky’s hand slides lower, fingers slipping between your thighs from behind, finding you already wet. You arch into both touches, a soft whimper muffled against Steve’s mouth.
They take you gently this time, no rush, no teasing. Bucky lifts your leg just enough, guides himself into your pussy from behind in one smooth, sleepy glide. The stretch is perfect, intimate. Steve watches your face the whole time, then shifts lower, mouth closing over your breast, sucking slow while Bucky starts a lazy rhythm, deep, rolling thrusts that rock you forward onto Steve’s waiting cock.
You take Steve in your mouth while Bucky fucks you slow from behind, the three of you moving like a tide, unhurried, sensual, morning-soft. No words, just breath and touch and the wet sounds of bodies. You come first, quiet and shuddering around Bucky; he follows with a low groan against your neck; Steve spills down your throat moments later, fingers gentle in your hair.
After, you stay tangled, kissing lazily, trading soft laughs when someone’s elbow pokes a rib. Eventually hunger wins. You stumble downstairs naked, wrapped in one big blanket like a burrito trio, and make a mess of pancakes and bacon. Syrup ends up in inappropriate places. Cleanup involves mouths.
Lunch is supposed to be grilled cheese by the fire, but it turns into teasing.
You’re on the couch between them, half-dressed in one of Bucky’s flannels and nothing else, when Steve pulls the black velvet bag from under the coffee table like a magician. “Dessert,” he says innocently.
Bucky’s already grinning, pulling out the remote egg and the star plug cleaned, thoughtful as always. They take their time: feeding you bites of sandwich between pressing the egg inside you, turning it on low until you’re squirming. Bucky licks melted cheese off your fingers while Steve works the plug in slow, whispering filthy praise about how pretty you look stuffed and needy.
They film bits of it, one phone propped on the mantle capturing you riding Bucky on the rug while Steve controls the remote egg’s intensity, laughing when you curse them out between moans; another handheld for close-ups of your face when Steve takes you from behind on the couch, the egg buzzing mercilessly. By the time the plates are empty you’re a wreck again, multiple orgasms deep, voice hoarse from begging and laughing.
The cameras get shut off after that, phones tossed onto the coffee table with satisfied grins, the red recording lights finally blinking out. You collapse sideways across the rug, chest heaving, thighs still twitching from the aftershocks, pussy throbbing and slick.
Steve stretches out beside you, head propped on one hand, tracing lazy circles on your hip with his thumb. Bucky sprawls on your other side, hand resting possessively on your stomach, both of them looking smug and sated, cocks still half-hard like they’re ready for more whenever you are.
You’re half-dozing, eyes closed, when Bucky’s voice breaks the quiet, low, playful, with that filthy edge that always makes your stomach flip.
“Hey… I’ve got an idea.”
You crack one eye open. He’s staring at you with that crooked, wicked grin, eyes already darkening again. Steve lifts a brow, curious, hand pausing on your hip.
Bucky props himself up on an elbow, fingers trailing lightly down your side, raising goosebumps.
“I wanna watch you get yourself off. Just you. No help from us. Spread that pretty pussy and fuck yourself with your fingers while we stroke our cocks and tell you exactly how fucking desperate you look.”
Your eyes snap fully open. Heat floods your face instantly, burning, mortified heat that spreads down your chest. You sit up a little, pulling your knees together like that’ll hide anything. “What? No. Absolutely not. That’s- no.”
Steve chuckles, low and warm, but his gaze sharpens with raw interest, hand sliding to your thigh. “Why not, baby? You’ve been coming on our cocks all weekend. Let us see what you do when you’re alone, fingering that greedy little cunt thinking about us stuffing you full.”
Your face is on fire. You bury it in your hands, groaning through your fingers. “Because it’s embarrassing! You two just… staring while I touch myself? I’ll feel like an idiot.”
Bucky’s grin turns downright feral. He sits up fully, legs spread casually, hand already drifting down to wrap around his thickening cock, slow, teasing pulls that make the vein along the underside stand out.
“That’s the point, doll. We wanna see you all flustered and needy, trying to be good for us while you rub that swollen clit. Bet you’re already wet just thinking about it.”
You peek through your fingers, heart racing. Steve’s doing the same now, fist loose around his shaft, stroking lazily, eyes locked on you like he’s starving.
“Come on,” he coaxes, voice velvet-rough. “Spread those legs. Show us how you fuck yourself when you’re in your dorm bed, pretending it’s our cocks stretching you open.”
The embarrassment burns hotter but fuck, so does the arousal. Your thighs clench involuntarily, and you know they see it. You drop your hands slowly, face flaming, but you lean back against the couch arm anyway, knees falling open bit by bit.
“That’s our girl,” Bucky murmurs, fist tightening on his cock, strokes speeding up. “Look at that pretty pussy, already glistening. Touch it. Circle that clit nice and slow for us.”
You do, flustered fingers trailing down your stomach, over your mound, hesitating before parting your slick folds. The first brush against your clit makes you gasp, oversensitive, swollen, wet sounds filling the room as you start slow circles.
“Fuck, yes,” Steve groans, hand flying faster now, precome beading at his tip. “Pinch it, hard, like I do when I’m eating you out. Imagine it’s my tongue flicking that needy little bud.”
You whimper, pinching your clit between thumb and finger, rolling it roughly. Your hips buck. “Oh god-”
Bucky’s breathing ragged, fist slick with precome. “Slide those fingers inside, doll. Two to start. Fuck yourself deep, curl them like Bucky does when he’s got you bent over. Pretend it’s my cock splitting you open while Steve watches.”
You obey, two fingers pushing in slow, the stretch burning sweet, walls fluttering around them. You pump faster, thumb grinding your clit, free hand pinching your nipple hard.
“Look at her,” Steve rasps, abs flexing as he jerks himself rough. “So fucking desperate, pussy sucking those fingers in like it’s starving. Add a third, baby. Stretch that tight hole for us. Imagine it’s both our cocks trying to fit.”
You cry out, adding the third finger, the burn intense and perfect, pumping hard while your thumb rubs frantic circles. Wet sounds echo obscenely; your hips grind against your hand.
Bucky’s close, fist blurring, voice wrecked. “That’s it- fuck yourself like the greedy slut you are. Come all over those fingers while we watch you fall apart. Show us how you squirt when you’re thinking about us filling every hole.”
You shatter, hard, screaming as your pussy clenches and gushes clear around your fingers, soaking your hand, the rug, thighs shaking violently.
They come watching you, Bucky first with a guttural “fuck, doll,” spilling thick across his fist and stomach; Steve right after, groaning deep, ropes painting his abs as he milks every drop.
Silence falls, heavy breathing, fire crackle.
You collapse back, hiding your burning face again with a mortified laugh. “Never. Again.”
They crawl over, kissing your wrists, your cheeks, murmuring praise.
“Liar,” Bucky whispers against your ear. “That was the filthiest, hottest thing we’ve ever seen.”
Steve nuzzles your neck. “And we didn’t even touch you.”
You groan first, shifting on the rug and feeling everything cling, thighs slick, lower back tacky, hair matted to your neck, cum drying in places that make you grimace. “Ugh. I feel gross. Like… actually disgusting. We’re all sticky and filthy and I need a shower or something.”
Bucky laughs, low and satisfied, nuzzling your shoulder. “That’s the mark of a good afternoon, doll.”
Steve kisses your temple, still catching his breath. “Snack run first? Then we clean up properly.”
You nod, too boneless to argue. They haul themselves up, grabbing random sweats and hoodies from the floor and head to the kitchen, raiding the caretaker’s stash: bags of chips, leftover cookies, a couple beers cracked open with that satisfying hiss. You stay on the rug a minute longer, wrapped in the discarded blanket, munching a cookie and scrolling your phone idly until the sugar hits.
But the stickiness wins. You call out, voice whiny and dramatic, “Seriously, guys. I feel like a glazed donut. Bathtub. Now. I’m marinating in us.”
Bucky pokes his head around the corner, smirking with a mouthful of chips. “On it. Big copper one upstairs, plenty of room for three.”
Steve’s already moving, clapping Bucky on the shoulder. “Let’s get it running. She’s right, she’s a mess. Our mess.”
They disappear upstairs you hear footsteps on the creaky wood, the groan of old pipes, water starting to thunder into the tub, steam probably already billowing.
You stay downstairs, curled on the couch under the blanket, crunching chips and half-watching snow fall outside the big windows. The cabin feels quiet without them, too quiet after days of constant touch and noise. You lick salt off your fingers, feeling the dried evidence of everything on your skin, and smile to yourself. Perfect weekend.
Upstairs, out of your earshot, the conversation turns.
Steve leans against the bathroom doorframe, watching water fill the tub, steam fogging the mirror. He’s quiet too long, arms crossed, jaw tight.
Bucky tests the temperature with his hand, adds a splash of eucalyptus oil. “What’s with the face?”
Steve exhales slow, rubbing the back of his neck. “This… it’s too easy. The sex, the laughs, the way she fits, it’s perfect. But it’s not fair to her.”
Bucky stills, water rushing loud behind him. “Not fair how?”
Steve’s voice is low, rough with something heavy. “We’re giving her everything physical, the toys, the tapes, the weekends but nothing real. No label. No commitment. We’re taking all of her and giving back just… this. It feels wrong. Like we’re using her.”
Bucky turns off the tap. Sudden quiet. He stares at the swirling water, hand gripping the tub edge. “You think she wants more?”
“I know she does,” Steve says. “You saw her face when things got deep on Friday. She’s falling. Hard. And we’re letting her fall without catching her properly. She deserves someone who can give her normal dates, a real relationship, one person who doesn’t make her share or wonder.”
Bucky’s quiet a long beat, throat working. “So what are you saying?”
Steve rubs his neck. “When we get back… we give her space. Real space. Pull back a little. Let her breathe. Let her figure out if this is what she really wants without us clouding everything with weekends like this.”
Bucky looks like he’s been punched. “You’re saying end it.”
“I’m saying do right for her,” Steve corrects gently. “Even if it sucks for us short-term. She deserves to know we’re serious, without the pressure of constant sex and getaways making it feel like a fantasy.”
Bucky nods slow, reluctant, devastated. “Yeah. Okay. For her.”
They don’t say they’ll keep it secret for now. They don’t need to. It’s understood: one last perfect night, then distance when you’re home. Time for you to choose without them in your bed every weekend.
They add more hot water, swirl in extra bubbles, light the candles like nothing’s changed.
Downstairs, you’re crunching chips, sticky and happy, thinking the weekend can’t get better.
They come down smiling, masks perfect, and carry you upstairs like a prize, whispering how much they want to wash every inch of you clean.
The water’s hot. The candles are lit.
The three of you fit just barely: you in the middle, back against Steve’s broad chest, legs draped over Bucky’s thighs. Water laps gently at your breasts; bubbles cling and pop. The mood is softer now, lazy, sated, the kind of quiet that usually feels safe after a day spent tangled in each other.
You’re tracing idle circles on Bucky’s knee under the water, trying to lose yourself in the warmth, when the question you’ve been carrying all weekend finally slips out, small, almost swallowed by the soft splash.
“So… what are we?”
The words hang there, fragile in the steam.
Steve’s hand, drawing slow patterns on your stomach, stills completely. Bucky’s fingers, playing with yours, freeze.
Silence stretches, thick, heavy, colder than the snow piling against the window.
Your heart starts pounding so hard you feel it in your throat.
You try again, voice smaller. “After everything- the threesomes, the fights, this whole weekend… what am I to you guys?”
More silence.
The candles flicker. Water cools a degree. Snow taps the frosted glass like it’s trying to warn you.
Your throat tightens until it aches. Tears prick hot and sudden. You duck your head, pretending to watch the bubbles burst, blinking furiously so they don’t see.
Steve clears his throat, starts to speak, voice low and careful. “We… we haven’t really-”
Bucky cuts in, quieter. “We didn’t want to mess it up by saying the wrong thing.”
It’s not enough. It’s nothing.
Something inside you cracks, sharp, painful, final. You nod like you understand, but your chest feels like it’s caving in. You force a tiny, watery laugh that sounds hollow even to you. “Yeah. Cool. Got it.”
You pull away, gently but firmly sliding forward in the tub until their hands fall from your skin. Water sloshes, loud in the silence. You stand, bubbles sliding down your body, steam curling around you like smoke.
Neither of them moves to stop you. No hand reaches out, no voice calls you back. They just sit there, Steve’s arms resting on the tub edge, Bucky’s head tipped back against the rim, watching you with unreadable eyes.
You step out onto the cool tile, water pooling at your feet. Grab a towel, wrap it around yourself like armor. The candles keep burning. The water keeps cooling.
You don’t look back as you walk out, door clicking softly shut behind you.
The quiet that follows you into the bedroom isn’t warm anymore.
It feels like the end of something you’re not ready to name.
The drive back is three hours of pure, suffocating silence.
Steve drives like always, hands steady on the wheel, eyes locked on the snowy highway like it’s the only thing holding him together. Bucky’s in the passenger seat, earbuds in but no music on. Every few seconds he flicks a glance to the rearview mirror, meets your eyes for a split second, then looks away fast.
You’re curled in the middle of the back seat, knees pulled to your chest, wrapped in Bucky’s hoodie that still smells like him and the cabin fireplace. The heater’s on full blast, but you’re freezing. The radio stays off. No one even pretends to reach for the aux cord.
You stare at your phone for a while, lock screen frozen on a blurry selfie Nat sent from the party, her sticking out her tongue, fairy lights haloing her red hair. You don’t open any apps. You don’t text her. You just watch the battery percentage tick down, slow and inevitable.
Halfway through the drive, the tears start.
They’re quiet at first, one slipping down your cheek, then another. You turn your face to the window so they won’t see, press your forehead to the cold glass. It doesn’t help. Your throat aches like you swallowed glass. You bite the sleeve of the hoodie to muffle the first tiny, broken sob, but it shakes your shoulders anyway.
Neither of them says anything.
Steve’s knuckles go white on the wheel. Bucky pulls his earbuds out, lets them dangle, but still doesn’t turn around.
By the time the city skyline appears, ugly and familiar under a dull winter sky you’re cried out. Eyes puffy, nose stuffed, head throbbing. The tears have dried crusty on your cheeks. You haven’t made a sound in hours.
Steve pulls up outside your dorm. Engine idling. Snow flurries swirl under the streetlights.
You grab your suitcase from the trunk without a word. Neither of them gets out to help.
The Jeep pulls away before you even reach the door.
Inside the building it’s warm, too warm, smelling like burnt microwave popcorn and someone’s laundry detergent. Your boots leave wet prints on the tile. The elevator ride is endless.
When Nat opens the door to your shared dorm, she’s in sweats and a messy bun, holding a pint of Ben & Jerry’s like armor.
One look at your face and the spoon clatters to the floor.
“Oh, baby,” she whispers.
That’s all it takes.
You drop your suitcase in the doorway and crumple, knees hitting the cheap carpet, shoulders shaking with sobs that feel like they’ve been dammed up for years. Nat’s on the ground with you in seconds, arms around you tight, pulling you into her lap like you’re something small and breakable.
You cry so hard you can’t breathe, ugly, hiccupping gasps into her hoodie, fists clenched in the fabric. Everything pours out: the perfect weekend, the perfect sex, the perfect making up, and then that one question in the bathtub that turned everything cold and sharp and wrong.
Nat doesn’t ask what happened. She just holds you, rocking slightly, one hand stroking your hair while you fall apart.
“It’s okay,” she murmurs over and over, voice thick. “I’ve got you. You’re home now. I’ve got you.”
You cry until there’s nothing left, just dry heaves and exhaustion. Until your head throbs and your eyes burn and your throat feels shredded.
Eventually she helps you up, leads you to her bed, tucks you under her comforter that smells like her coconut shampoo and safety. She climbs in behind you, spooning you close, arm locked around your waist like she’s anchoring you to the earth.
You fall asleep like that, face swollen, heart raw, Nat’s heartbeat steady against your spine.
Fourteen days of nothing.
Fourteen days that feel like a slow-motion car crash you can’t look away from.
Classes are a blur, professors’ voices droning like white noise, notes you take but don’t read, group projects where you nod along and contribute just enough not to get called out.
You eat because your body demands it, but nothing has taste. The dining hall grilled cheese might as well be cardboard. You smile when friends ask how the cabin was, “amazing, yeah, super relaxing” and the lie sits heavy on your tongue every time.
Nights are the worst. You lie in your narrow dorm bed staring at the ceiling until the glow-in-the-dark stars Nat stuck up freshman year blur from tears.
You replay that bathtub moment on an endless loop: the way the water went from warm to cold in seconds, the way Steve’s hand froze on your skin like he’d been burned, Bucky’s fingers slipping from yours like he couldn’t hold on anymore.
You asked a simple question, what are we? and they looked at you like you’d asked them to solve world hunger. The silence after wasn’t just quiet. It was a wall. And when you got out of the tub, towel clutched like armor, they didn’t stop you. Didn’t reach. Just watched you go.
You keep waiting for a text that never comes. You check your phone too often, heart jumping at every notification, only to feel it sink again when it’s just a meme or a reminder about laundry.
You wear Steve’s gray practice hoodie to bed every night because it still smells faintly like him and you’re pathetic enough to want the comfort, even if it hurts. You haven’t washed it. You’re scared the scent will disappear and take the last piece of them with it.
Nat finds you in the basement laundry room at 2:17 am on a Sunday that’s bleeding into Monday. You’re sitting on a running dryer, knees to chest, the low rumble vibrating through your body like it could shake loose the ache that’s taken up permanent residence in your ribs. The air’s thick with artificial lavender dryer sheets and that faint, perpetual mildew smell. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, harsh and unforgiving.
You’re in Steve’s hoodie again, sleeves past your fingertips, hem brushing your thighs over threadbare sleep shorts and you look exactly like what you are: someone who’s been crying too much and sleeping too little.
Nat storms in like a category-five redhead, door slamming hard enough to rattle the ancient vending machine.
“Are you fucking kidding me right now?”
The words ricochet off the walls. You flinch, hug your knees tighter.
“Two weeks,” she says, voice shaking with fury.
“Two entire weeks of you turning into a goddamn zombie because those two idiots couldn’t answer one simple, human question? After they spent weeks fucking you like you were the only thing that mattered in their universe, calling you ‘baby’ and ‘ours,’ filming hours of footage like they were making a love letter?”
Your throat closes. Tears prick instantly. You open your mouth, nothing comes out.
Nat’s pacing the room now, sneakers squeaking on the linoleum. “I saw how they looked at you. I heard them going at it during that call, remember? And then you finally ask for some honesty, just a little clarity, and they freeze? Ghost you for two weeks straight? Make you feel like you imagined the whole damn thing?”
She stops in front of you, eyes blazing but wet too. “You’ve barely eaten. You flinch every time your phone buzzes. And you cry in your sleep, I hear you through the pillows.”
She sighs. “Fourteen nights. That’s enough.”
You finally manage a cracked whisper. “They didn’t know what to say.”
“Bullshit.” Her voice cracks too. “They knew exactly what to say when they were inside you. They just didn’t know how to say it when it mattered.”
Her anger deflates into something sadder. “You deserve answers. You deserve to not feel like a disposable weekend.”
Then she’s gone, door banging shut, leaving you with the dryer’s thump and the weight of everything.
An hour later your phone buzzes.
Unknown Number 3:12am
open your door. now.
Your heart slams so hard it hurts. You stare at the screen until it dims, hands shaking.
You open the door anyway.
Steve and Bucky are in the hallway looking like hell dragged them here personally. Hoodies rumpled, eyes bloodshot and sunken, hair messy from frantic hands. Steve’s beard is scruffy, tired; Bucky’s hand flexes like it’s itching for something to hold. They smell like cold night air, cheap diner coffee, and regret.
Before you can decide whether to slam the door or collapse, Nat appears like she’s been waiting in the shadows. She shoves past you, a furious red blur in her oversized sleep shirt.
She doesn’t raise her voice. She goes lethal-quiet.
“You have exactly ten seconds to explain to me why the girl who turned you both into absolute lovesick puppies, who took your cocks, your toys, your hearts, your filthy weekends, your everything has been crying herself empty for two weeks because you were too chickenshit to answer one simple question.”
Her finger jabs Steve’s chest. Then Bucky’s. They don’t move.
“You don’t get to whisper ‘love you, baby’ while you’re coming inside her, make her feel like the center of your universe, film a whole damn documentary series of it, and then vanish into thin air because feelings got scary. You don’t get to leave her thinking she was just a fun experiment you both passed and forgot.”
Steve opens his mouth, closes it. His eyes are glassy.
Bucky’s voice is gravel and regret. “We fucked up. Bad.”
“Yeah,” Nat snarls, stepping closer until she’s right in their space.
“You really fucking did. And if you’re too dumb to fix this yourselves, I swear to God I will fix it for you. I will drag you both to couples therapy. I will tattoo ‘COMMUNICATE’ on your foreheads. I will make your lives hell until you get it right.”
You finally speak, voice small, cracked from crying earlier. “You… didn’t text at all. For two weeks.”
Steve flinches like the words are physical blows. Bucky’s head drops, hair falling over his eyes, shoulders curling in.
“We thought…” Steve starts, voice hoarse.
He swallows hard. “We thought if we gave you space, you’d realize you deserve someone normal. Someone who doesn’t… share. Someone who can give you all of them without complicating everything. We thought we were being noble, letting you go before we dragged you down with us.”
Bucky lifts his head, eyes red-rimmed. “We’re idiots. Complete fucking idiots. We were scared that if we said it out loud, if we admitted we’re both stupidly, hopelessly in love with you, you’d run. Because who wants this? Who wants two guys who can’t even figure out how to say it right?”
Nat throws her hands up. “Oh my God, you absolute morons. She’s been miserable without you. Fix this before I fix it for you and trust me, my version involves a lot more pain.”
She shoulders past them, pauses at your side, cups your cheek gently, kisses your temple. “Make them grovel, babe. They’ve earned it.”
Silence crashes in, heavy and absolute, the kind that rings in your ears.
You’re shaking, anger, relief, exhaustion, two weeks of grief all colliding at once. Tears spill before you can stop them, hot and unstoppable, sliding down your cheeks in silent streams.
They move at the same time.
Steve steps forward first, arms wrapping around you like he’s terrified you’ll dissolve if he doesn’t hold tight enough.
Bucky right behind, pressing in from the back, face buried in the crook of your neck, breath ragged against your skin.
They surround you completely, warm, solid, trembling just as hard as you are, holding you so close you can feel both their heartbeats hammering against you.
“I’m so sorry,” Steve whispers into your hair, voice cracking open, raw and broken. “God, baby, we’re so fucking sorry. We hurt you. We left you alone with it. I hate myself for that.”
Bucky’s hand fists in the hoodie at your waist, knuckles white, like he’s anchoring himself to you.
“We love you,” he rasps against your shoulder, words muffled and thick with tears you can feel soaking through the fabric.
“We love you so much it scares the shit out of us. We thought… we thought if we said it out loud, you’d see how messed up this is, two of us, always two and you’d run. We thought staying quiet was protecting you. But we were just protecting ourselves. And we broke you instead.”
You sob, deep, wrenching, the kind that comes from the bottom of your chest and rips everything open. It’s ugly and loud and unstoppable, weeks of pain pouring out all at once. They hold you through every shake, every gasp, never loosening their grip.
Steve’s hand cups the back of your head, fingers threading gently through your hair. “We’re never doing that again,” he says fiercely, voice trembling but sure. “Never shutting you out. Never making you wonder. You’re everything to us. Everything.”
Bucky presses closer, lips brushing your neck, your jaw, your temple, soft, desperate kisses that taste like salt and regret.
“You’re our girl,” he whispers, voice breaking on every word. “Ours. For real. Forever if you’ll have us. We’ll spend every day proving it. We’ll scream it from the fucking rooftops. Whatever you need. Just… please don’t give up on us.”
You cling to them, fingers twisting in Steve’s hoodie, reaching back to grip Bucky’s sleeve, crying harder because it hurts and because it’s healing at the same time. The tears are relief now, overwhelming and cleansing, washing away the loneliness that’s lived in your chest for fourteen endless nights.
“I missed you,” you manage between sobs, voice small and cracked. “I missed you so much I didn’t know how to breathe.”
Steve makes a wounded sound, pulls you even tighter. “We missed you every second. We were dying without you.”
Bucky’s fingers find yours, lacing carefully, reverently. His hand cups your cheek, thumb brushing away tears that keep falling. “We love you,” he says again, like a vow. “We’re in love with you. Both of us. Completely. Stupidly. Forever.”
You laugh through the tears, wet, hiccupping, but real. The sound breaks something open in all three of you.
Eventually you end up on your tiny dorm bed, fully clothed for once, just tangled together under the covers like three survivors of a shipwreck clinging to the same piece of driftwood.
The mattress is too small for all of you, but no one complains. Steve pulls you into his chest first, arms locked around you like he’s afraid the moment will slip away if he loosens even a fraction.
Bucky curls in behind you, chest to your back, arm draped over your waist so his hand can rest over Steve’s heart, three heartbeats finding the same rhythm again, slow and steady and real.
They kiss away the last of your tears, soft, lingering presses to your wet cheeks, your swollen eyelids, the corners of your mouth that still tremble.
Steve’s lips brush your temple, murmuring “I’ve got you” like a promise he’ll never break again. Bucky’s mouth finds the curve of your neck, breathing you in like he’s relearning your scent after too long apart.
You’re crying still quiet, happy tears now that feel like rain after a drought. The kind that wash everything clean. They don’t try to stop them. They just hold you through it, letting the storm pass.
“I thought I’d lost you,” you whisper into Steve’s chest, voice small and cracked from all the crying. “Both of you. I thought the weekend was… just a weekend.”
Steve’s arms tighten, voice thick. “Never. Not for a second. You’re our home. You’re the thing we were too scared to believe we could keep.”
“We were idiots,” Bucky says softly. “Terrified idiots who thought love this big had to come with an expiration date. But it doesn’t. You’re it for us. The end of the search. The person we want to come home to every single night.”
You laugh through the tears, wet and hiccupping and perfect. “You’re stuck with me now. No take-backs.”
“Never want any,” Steve murmurs, pressing his forehead to yours.
Bucky kisses the back of your neck, voice muffled against your skin. “We love you. So much it’s stupid. We’ll spend every day making sure you never doubt it again.”
You fall asleep with Steve’s heartbeat under your cheek and Bucky’s arm anchoring you close.
And for the first time in fourteen days, the world feels whole again.
You’re theirs. They’re yours. And nothing, nothing, will take that away again.
𑣲 steve rogers who doesn't realize his own strength
you hadn't expected your sweet, super soldier boyfriend to grow so desperate and needy for your pussy so quickly. right now, you were almost on the edge of the bed as steve drove into you from behind. his hands on your hips drove you down with each thrust reshaping your insides. he was lost into the pieces by desperation, wrapped in his need for you.
you still remembered the way he held back when he first fucked you, “big stretch—just like that, my girl.” he'd been more gentle, letting you fuck yourself back onto his cock and he groaned and whimpered, mumbling sweet nothings about how tight and desperate you were for him. he'd been much bigger than you thought—his cock reaching parts of you that you didn't even know was possible.
“fuck, sweetheart,” the snap of his own hips, burying his cock so deep into your pussy, made him whine. it was as if he couldn't think for himself and has succumbed to letting his dick think for himself. “please… please, don’t stop. i can’t… i need…” were the only words you could mutter out as you tried to arch back against him. somehow his palm kept you subdued, and impaled on his cock “steve…!”
“i know, i know,” he babbled. he shifted and his other hand looked for yours, holding your fingers together in the sheets above your head as he pounded deeper. you'd arched your back further, giving him more access as he moved with more strength. “just… just let me—i need it so bad. you feel so good. more…? can i…? please, tell me i can.”
you don't even know what you said anymore but you pushed your ass back against him. he only whimpered in response, still keeping your hands above your head while the other held onto your hip “thank you… you're so good to me. so perfect. i’ll never get enough.”
summary: a starving, homeless man who was once a knight saves you when you are attacked in the midst of a famine raging across the kingdom. james protects you instinctively, not knowing who you are, and moved by guilt, admiration and an immediate affection, you insist on helping him. still feeling unworthy of your touch and kindness, james’ devotion to you becomes absolute, shaped by gratitude, love and obsession.
warnings: she/her pronouns for reader; age gap (reader's in her 20s; bucky's in his late 30s); forbidden love/secret relationship; angst; mention of poverty & famine; terrible parents; brief attempted sexual assault; reader gets tipsy in one scene; wounds & blood; one brief panic attack; sword training; virgin!reader; reader wears dresses & has hair; bucky is called james; dark-ish!bucky; obsessed!bucky; protective!bucky; devoted!bucky (he’s pathetically whipped); size difference (yes he’s huge, yes he has a big dick); jealousy & possessiveness; yearning; feelings of guilt; mentions of religion; self-loathing; fluff; smut; masturbation (f & m); handjob; nipple play; oral (f & m); outdoor sexual activities; intercrural sex; unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it pls); multiple orgasms; creampie.
word count: 20.3k
a/n: big disclaimer → I wanted to set this in a time with no technology but with certain comforts, like running water 🥲 so don’t look too much into it pls. in general, I took as reference the middle ages in europe but I don't think there are many references/details about the reader's fashion and the general aesthetic of the story, so feel free to imagine whatever you want! also, the language is not accurate because I only speak present-day english. I tried to embellish it but I’m not sure, especially in the smutty parts. I’m also sorry if some parts feel a little rushed, but I was very tired.
hope you’ll enjoy!
The town is quieter than it should have been. The market stalls stand half-empty, their awnings flapping like broken wings in the wind. Smoke curls from chimneys, thin and bitter, carrying the smell of boiled roots and old grain. You walk slowly, your cloak drawn tight, counting the steps so you would not seem lost.
You needed to see it for yourself. The damage done by Father’s foolish delusions of grandeur. The heavy taxes levied to fund a recent failed campaign were destroying your kingdom. The court spoke of victory delayed, of honor salvaged from defeat, but the streets tell a different story. Grain sacks are gone. Meat is a memory. Even the dogs are thin.
The people bow to your image in the tapestries, yet curse your shadow in the streets, and never once saw your face.
Your parents never let you be anything but a symbol. At the palace, hands guide your steps; voices decide when you sleep, what you eat, whom you might speak to. They dress you in silk and call it protection, as though walls and guards could keep the truth from you forever.
But a symbol does not ache when it sees a child with hollow eyes. A symbol does not feel shame.
You slow near an alley, your breath fogging the air. Once, this place was loud with haggling and laughter. Now, it is only acrid smells and hunger.
If you stayed inside, you could pretend this is necessary. You could pretend Father was right. That's why you are here. Not to be brave. Not to be reckless. But because if you did not look, if you did not know, then you would be complicit in the lie.
Your heart thuds painfully as you pass a man crouched beside a wall, hands wrapped in rags. He does not look up.
The sound of footsteps behind you come too fast, too close. And for the first time since leaving the palace, you feel afraid. A shout breaks the stillness.
“Oi! You.”
You turn.
Three men stand near a shuttered stall. Their clothes are patched, boots worn to the sole. One holds a cudgel, another a knife more suited for bread than flesh.
“You lost?” One asks. “Or just brave?”
You swallow, trying to appear confident but not provoking. “I’m going home.”
“Not with a cloak like that.” The one with the knife says, pointing at you with the utensil. “Not when my children haven’t eaten in three days.”
He dives for you. But he never reaches you.
The air moves.
Someone strikes him from the side, hard enough that he stumbles into the stall, sending rotten apples rolling across the stones. The second man swings blindly and misses as a hand seizes his wrist and twists until the cudgel clatters to the ground.
The third fleds immediately.
The man before you sways dangerously, breath coming in sharp bursts. He is so much taller than you, yet terribly thin. His coat is threadbare, his boots rimed with frost. Dried blood darkens his knuckles.
“You should not walk here.” The stranger utters, still giving you his back. “People are hungry. Angry. They don't see faces anymore.”
“You saved, you were watching.” You marvel, still shocked.
He shrugs faintly. “Someone should.” Then he takes a step forward, possibly to leave, and falters, but you catch his arm.
“Careful.”
He stiffens instantly, pulling away as though your touch hurt.
“Don’t,” he whispers. “Please.”
You notice then how badly he is shaking. “You’re freezing.”
“I’m used to it.”
You study him properly now: the way he carries himself despite his weakness, the scars on his hands, the instinctive way he had placed himself between you and danger. Your lips part to ask more, but within moments, you are flanked by several men in armor, men he immediately recognizes as royal knights.
“Princess! Oh Gods! Please return to the castle. The King and Queen are worried sick.” Your Father’s trusted man throw a disgusted glance at the shivering man, who had carefully moved to the side when he saw them arrive. “It is not wise to interact with… Beings such as this one.”
You shoot the knight a look that quickly makes him cower in shame. “If I were to ignore a dying man when I am able to help, who am I to call myself a princess of the people?”
The man attempts to pull his head away, but is both too weak and too mesmerized by your beauty to do anything. He lets you feed and nurture him as he is taken back to the palace.
Over the next few days, James is taken care of thoroughly by the palace staff, his every need tended to. As he recovers, you visit him as much as your “duties” allow, chatting with him and making sure he is being treated well. He feels strange when he starts looking forward to your visits, even wanting to recover faster so he can stay by your side at all times.
And he is able to achieve that wish: his old rank is restored and eventually, you convince your Father to appoint James as your personal guard. It is not easy to get back in the field, although the training is deeply ingrained into his mind and muscles, James still has to get back in shape.
And almost six months later, he kneels before you as your personal knight. He pushes his limits and regains his strength… Only for you.
Gaining your trust, well, that is not difficult at all. After all, you are a kind and fair princess. You do not judge him for being a dishonored knight.
And now he is your knight, and you believe in his strength.
James learns the palace the way a starving man learns the sound of bread breaking. Not by comfort, but by need.
He stands at the edges of rooms, where tapestries dull sound and shadows gather like confessionals, and he observes. Observing had once saved his life. Observing had saved yours.
He tells himself his actions are righteous. He repeats it until it feels carved into his bones. Devotion is not desire, it is vigilance. It is the willingness to be unthanked and unseen. It is standing between cruelty and gentleness even when the cruelty wears lace and smiles.
You move through the halls like something unspoiled by them. Kindness clings to your form— not the rehearsed sort, but the quiet habit of it. You thank servants by name, you listen too long. You assume goodness where there is only spite and envy. It makes you radiant, yet vulnerable.
And it makes something inside him tighten until it hurts.
James hates that tightening. He names it sin. He names it presumption. He reminds himself nightly of the distance between what he is and what you represent. A dishonored knight with cracked hands and a body that still remembers cold; a man who has slept beside rotting food and rats. He does not deserve to look at you longer than duty required.
So he watches the others instead.
He sees how the maids soften their voices when you walk by, how admiration blooms briefly on their faces before souring into calculation once your back is turned. Compliments become comparisons. Gratitude twists into grievance. They speak of your gowns while scraping plates clean; of your gentleness as if it is ignorance. As if you are not the only reason some of them still eat.
He catalogues it all.
Names. Times. Corridors. Patterns of malice that hide behind familiarity. He notes which butlers linger near doors, which knights laugh too quickly when your name is mentioned; the younger, loud, good-for-nothing knights and squires following your curves with nothing more than lechery in their eyes. And then the servants who pass rumors like currency.
He listens for repetition and invention.
At first, he convinces himself this is still duty. Then he begins waking already angry.
The palace guards trust him, he has bled with them after all. The servants fear him, though they could not understand why. James does not threaten, nor accuse without proof. He simply knows too much, and he remembers everything. Evidence gathers itself naturally around a man who knows how to move in the shadows.
Reports are made and dismissals follow. A maid vanishes from service. A butler is reassigned, then imprisoned when the lies unravel under scrutiny. A knight is stripped of rank for words spoken in what he believed was privacy.
And James feels no guilt.
Each removal feels like clearing rot from a wound, and each punishment is proportionate, necessary. Mercy toward wolves is cruelty toward lambs. He tells himself he is protecting the realm by protecting you.
However, it is not enough.
James watches you too closely— not out of distrust, but reverence. He memorizes your routines, the way you tire in the evenings after hours spent studying foreign languages and basic accounting. The moments when the weight of your crown bends your posture just slightly. He learns the cadence of your footsteps, notices how often you smile when you should have hardened.
Love creeps in not like fire, but like frost: silent, consuming, undeniable.
He loathes himself for it.
James has never been a religious man, yet he kneels in the chapel, though his prayers do not ask for forgiveness for desire. They ask for eradication of it. He begs to be made smaller. Less wanting. Less aware. But the gods are silent, too indifferent, and leave him with a heart that would gladly stop beating if it meant you never learned how ugly the world could be.
He does not imagine you loving him. That would have been blasphemy.
What he imagines, what terrifies him, is a future in which you are hurt by someone he has failed to notice in time.
That thought hollows him. So he tightens his watch, narrows the circle. Recommends replacements chosen for loyalty rather than charm. He shapes your household into something cleaner, quieter, safer. A controlled environment.
James refuses to acknowledge this is no longer just devotion. However, he does not stop. Because if love is a sin, then he would commit it fully— wordlessly, invisibly, with his hands forever stained so yours could remain clean.
For most of your life, safety has been a public thing. Guards at doors, walls thick with stone, rules spoken in your name but never to you. You have been protected like an untouched object preserved behind glass. Your parents love the idea of you. The symbol. The promise. They raised you to be admired from a distance, not known. Needs were anticipated only in the broadest sense; no one noticed the small ones. No one ever asked what frightened you when the halls went quiet at night.
James noticed.
He does not overwhelm you with affection. He does not flatter, nor treats you as something delicate that might shatter if handled honestly. His care is deliberate, almost severe, as if your well-being is a task that demands his full attention and exacting standards.
And somehow, this makes you breathe easier.
You feel it in the subtle shifts of the palace; the way certain voices are now a distant memory, the way the air around you grows less sharp. Malice retreats without spectacle, removed so quietly that you never have to confront it directly. You simply wake each morning feeling less braced for disappointment.
Of course, this did not happen by accident.
James stands closer now. Not intrusively, but constantly. His presence is like a held breath— steady, grounding. He watches your surroundings with an intensity that makes you feel chosen, worth the effort. Worth the vigilance.
And no one had ever guarded your mind before.
You realize one evening that you no longer replay conversations in your head, searching for hidden meanings or mockery. You no longer wonder who smiles at you out of obligation or resentment. The burden of discernment, of emotional defense, has been lifted from your shoulders and placed, willingly, on his. And you trust him with it.
Perhaps you should have questioned the depth of his seriousness, the way his attention never truly strays. But you have grown up invisible in rooms full of people. To be the center of someone’s unwavering focus feels less like danger and more like coming home.
The cost of his devotion is engraved in the lines of his restraint. In how little he asks for himself. James looks at you not as something to possess, but as something to preserve, even from the uglier truths of the world.
And you begin to love him for that. Quietly. Fiercely. With the kind of love born not from fantasy, but from relief.
With James, you do not have to perform kindness or strength. You are allowed to rest. To be uncertain, human. His protection extends beyond blades and walls— it wraps around your thoughts, your fears, your softest hesitations, and holds them without judgment.
If others might have called it excessive, you do not. Because for the first time in your life, someone decided that your peace was worth defending at any cost.
And you have never felt safer than you do in the care of a man who watches the world so closely, so that you do not have to.
What James did not anticipate, is how his quiet work would come back to hunt him in the sweetest of ways.
It is late at night when he first sees your bare back. You are bathing, him standing by the door, facing it to guard you, standing stiffly as his eyes squeeze shut at the sounds of fabric falling on the floor and water rippling as your body slowly lowers into the tub.
Having been pampered your entire life, you do not exactly know how to properly bathe yourself. Now that all your maids have been removed, you do not know what to do with yourself. Your knight has yet to find new ones.
“James?” Your voice is soft, hesitant, carrying the faintest edge of embarrassment. “Could you… Help me, please?”
A sharp pang of panic runs through him. He had never imagined he would be entrusted with such an intimate task— not in all his years of service, not in any scenario he had ever faced. The thought of seeing you bare, of grazing the delicate flesh of your skin, makes his stomach twist and his heart race.
He swallows hard, forcing his voice steady. “Yes, Your Highness. I can help.”
The tips of his ear turn red when he finally turns, seeing your naked back turned to him. It is enough to have his cock straining in his pants.
“I cannot wash my back by myself. The new arrangements… I don’t know how to manage without you.”
He nods once, stiffly, and approaches, careful to avert his eyes for a moment before lifting his gaze reluctantly to meet your body. Every motion is deliberate, measured, his mind screaming with the need to maintain propriety while the reality of the task presses on him.
Moving the washcloth against your soft flesh feels almost sinful. You are his Princess, and yet he is touching forbidden territory. Your skin is warm, and with his gloves meticulously removed to move freely, his rough pads end up accidentally brushing it. His pulse spikes violently. James clenches his jaw to keep from faltering, focusing only on the sponge. His hands are surprisingly steady, but every fiber of his body is aware, painfully aware, of the proximity, of the trust, of the vulnerability you display with him.
“I–I didn’t expect–” James starts, but stops himself. Words fail him. Did he create this? By clearing out the staff? He only wanted to protect you, and now… His chest tightens. The room seems unbearably small, every breath too loud, every heartbeat a reminder of the delicate balance between duty and desire.
You glance over your shoulder, expression collected, and entirely unaware of the storm inside him. “I’m glad you’re here.” The softness in your voice tears him apart, both from relief and a quiet shame flooding his veins.
James swallows again, simply nodding and forcing his composure. This is his responsibility, at least until he finds the perfect staff for you. He must remain a knight first, a protector. Nothing more. No misstep. No lapse.
But as he finishes lathering your skin in soap, your back straight but not tense, he realizes something unsettling: he had not planned for this— never imagined that by protecting you, he would also be drawn into this intimate, fragile space where obligation and lust intertwine.
And yet, he would not flinch. He would not let his internal struggle interfere with your well-being.
“Better?” He asks quietly, stepping back.
You smile faintly and serene, almost turning completely to face him. “Much better. Thank you, James. Truly.”
He nods, breath hitching and eyes inevitably falling on your arm, pressed against your soft breast, the supple flesh squished up for him to admire.
His thoughts are a tumult of guilt and restrained longing as he quickly turns back to the door, ashamed of the painful pressure of his cock against the armor.
Days pass quietly, but with an undercurrent James cannot shake. The palace staff has been pruned, but their absence left gaps he had not anticipated. Small tasks, once invisible, now fall squarely on him: arranging your dresses, ensuring your meals are properly presented, checking that your chambers are warm and secure.
He moves through these duties with the precision of a knight, but each time you summon him closer, he feels that old, familiar ache— the impossible combination of desire and guilt. You never demand more than you need, never tease or provoke him, yet the intimacy of your blind trust weighs on him as heavily as any sword in battle.
“James.” His name falls softly from your lips, too familiar, and he curses the day he insisted you dropped the 'Sir'.
He appears instantly, seeing you standing by the window, struggling with a necklace clasp, and he approaches carefully, trying to quell the familiar heat in his belly.
“Allow me.” He simply answers, taking your hands gently. The slight tremble of your fingers makes him swallow hard. You offering him a space he should never enter digs a hole in his chest.
When the clasp clicks into place, he steps back for you to turn with a faint smile. “Thank you. I do not know what I would do without you.”
James’s jaw tightens. By removing those who were unkind, he made you rely on him in ways he never anticipated. And now, he must remain constant, always vigilant, always near.
The day continues, and small tasks repeat: adjusting your gowns, fetching books, preparing for audiences, making sure you have what you need. Each time he approaches, his mind wages war between propriety and the intimate closeness that both terrifies and captivates him.
At night, when he checks on your chambers before taking his own rest, he finds himself lingering, hesitant to leave your side. Sometimes you are already asleep; sometimes you are sitting quietly, reading by candlelight, and he would stand nearby, silently present, the steady beat of your life a tether to his own restraint.
He had sworn to protect you, and he would. But this proximity, the trust you place in him for even the smallest details, tests him in ways he had never expected. James cannot act on his longing; to do so would mean betray your trust and his honor. Yet every quiet glance, every small touch he offers in service, carries a weight he cannot escape.
The problem is, he does not wish for this closeness to end. He could not imagine a life where he is not your shield, your constant, your quiet presence.
James exhales softly, closing the door behind him, his hand lingering on the frame for a moment as if to reinforce the promise he has made to himself— and to you. He would serve you in all ways, endure the tension, and keep his heart restrained, no matter how excruciatingly close they become.
The afternoon sunlight gently spills through the glass as James kneels by a small stack of books, organizing them for you. You sit in the window alcove, your skirts pooled neatly around you, idly alternating between admiring the palace gardens and watching him.
“James.” A playful lilt to your voice. “You do take your duties quite seriously, don’t you?”
He glances up, austere as always. “A knight must be thorough. Carelessness invites danger.”
Your lips slightly curve up, eyes sparkling. “But must you hover so close even when I am perfectly capable?”
His chest tightens, and he swallows, aware of the weight of your gaze and the subtle challenge in your tone. “I… Cannot risk your well-being, Your Highness. It is my responsibility to remain near.”
You lean forward, resting your chin on your hands, teasing now. “You act as if I am made of glass.”
James’ lips press into a thin line, his jaw tight. Every word reminds him of your vulnerability, your trust in him, and the ache in his chest intensifies. “Glass can be shattered, after all.” He admits quietly.
You chuckle softly, and the sound is like the first rays of sun touching his face after a long, rigid winter. “Then I suppose I must rely on you to remain unbroken.”
He freezes, heart hammering against his ribs. You trust him and lean on him, and yet you tease, lightly, as if to test the boundaries he cannot cross.
For a long moment, you simply look at each other, the unspoken tension stretching taut between you. Then you smile faintly, the way you do when you feel safe enough to let your amusement peek out.
The silence lingers until James clears his throat. “There is… Another matter we should discuss.” His voice is quiet, tinged with hesitation.
You raise an eyebrow, curiosity piqued. “Oh?”
“I cannot always be within reach.” His eyes set on your skirts. “And if you ever are in danger, you must have some means to defend yourself.”
Your eyes widen slightly, the mischievous curve of your lips dims a little. “Are you suggesting I— learn to fight?”
James nods. A knot in is throat forms at the sole thought of you facing danger alone, however theoretical. “I will talk with the King and the Queen and then teach you. It is prudent.”
Your eyes soften, warmth threading through your gaze. “James, you are quite serious, aren’t you?”
“I am always serious about your safety.” He frowns. But beneath the calm, his heart lurches at the mental image of him guiding your hands on a sword, of being close enough to correct your stance, to instruct you, and watch your strength grow.
You lean back against the window frame, a faint laugh escaping your lips. “Very well, then. I trust you, of course. But I suspect this will be more entertaining for you than it should be.”
Your trust is a tether, your teasing a challenge. And for the first time in days, he allows himself a small, private acknowledgment of the truth: he would do anything, risk anything, to see you safe, to see you grow strong, and to remain by your side.
You meet before dawn four days after that conversation.
The practice yard lays half-swallowed by mist, the stones damp beneath your feet. James has chosen the hour carefully after your parents’ affronted reaction to his proposal— no servants awake, no guards lingering. Even the birds seem reluctant to speak.
He places the sword in your hands with reverence that borders on fear.
“It’s heavier than it looks.” He warns, already adjusting your grip before you could answer. His fingers barely touch yours, as if even that contact might betray him.
“I’ve held heavier expectations.” The corner of his mouth twitches despite himself, then his expression sobers.
“This isn’t play. If you ever draw a blade, it will be because something has already gone wrong.”
You glance at him. “You are very cheerful this morning.”
James does not smile. He steps back, eyes scanning the empty yard out of habit before settling on you again. When he speaks, his voice is lower, rougher.
“There may come a moment when I am too far from you.”
The words lodge in his throat. He swallows once, hard, as if forcing down something bitter and choking.
“Too far.” He continues, slower now. “To place myself between you and someone who means you harm.”
His eyes change. They always do when he imagines it— darkened, unfocused, as though he is seeing something layered over the present. A corridor too long. A door too slow to open. Your voice cut off mid-breath.
His hand curls unconsciously at his side.
“You look as though you’re facing an execution.” You try to lighten the spirit.
Yet he drags his gaze back to you, haunted. “I am.”
You laugh then, a soft, unguarded sound that mists in the cold air. “James, if danger ever finds me, I’m certain you will find a way to reach it first.”
He stares at you. That, more than anything, terrifies him. Certainty is fragile. It breaks.
“I would rather you never need to rely on that.” He utters. “Not even once.”
You lower your chin, solemn. “You tried to convince my parents of this.”
“Yes.”
“And they said no.”
“They said,” he starts tightly. “That no daughter of theirs will learn to wield a weapon like a common soldier.”
You hum, lips pressed together. “As if harm recognizes breeding.”
“Exactly.”
He steps closer behind you, correcting your stance, positioning your shoulders. This time he does not flinch from the contact, his hands are steady. Controlled.
“Feet apart,” he instructs. “Balance is survival. Strength is secondary.”
You follow his guidance easily, too easily, as if you were always meant to stand this way.
The warmth of your body seeps through his armor. “Promise me something.” His eyes fix on the side of your face.
“That sounds ominous.”
“If I say run,” he quietly continues. “You run. Not toward guards. Not toward courtiers. Away. Distance is defense.”
“And if you say fight?”
His jaw tightened. “Then you fight like your life depends on it. Because it does.”
Having your back pressed against his front as his hands engulf yours on the hilt of the sword, watching as you get flustered as he inevitably breathes against your neck, makes something warm stir in his belly.
“Again.” James exclaims, this time leaving your softness to face you, lifting his own blade. “From the guard position.”
Steel meets steel, and though he keeps repeating to himself this is preparation for a future he prays would never come, James could not stop the thought that haunts him most.
If the world ever reached for you, it would have to go through him— or leave you armed enough to survive without him.
Both possibilities terrify him equally.
James does not follow you back to the palace. He waits until your footsteps fade, until the mist thins and the yard feels abandoned again, before allowing his hands to tremble.
The sword lays where he has placed it, resting against the stone as if nothing sacred had just passed between them. He stares at it for a long time, breathing through his nose, counting each breath the way he once did in battle to keep himself from vomiting fear.
He has imagined you bleeding before.
The thought arrived unbidden, vivid as memory: your silky sleeves darkened, your breath catching in that small, shocked way bodies do when they realize they are wounded. The image makes his vision blur.
James bends sharply at the waist, palms braced on his knees.
This is what devotion does when it goes too far. It punishes imagination and weaponizes love.
He presses his thumb into the old scar on his left wrist, grounding himself in pain that was once real, not hypothetical. He reminds himself you had laughed, trusted him enough to point the blade meant to slay for you, at you. And you are confident in his ability to reach you no matter the distance.
That belief is heavier than armor.
“I will not fail you.” He whispers into the empty yard, the words torn from him before he could stop them.
The vow settles into his bones, ancient and irrevocable. He straightens slowly, forcing his breathing to steady. Control is the difference between protection and possession. He repeats that like doctrine, though he no longer knows where the line lies.
As he walks the perimeter of the yard, habit takes over. He checks sidelines, counts exits, measures distances between walls. How long would it take to cross them at a sprint? How much time would he lose if the ground were slick with rain? If the halls were crowded?
James sinks onto the cold stone bench near the wall and finally allows himself to sit with the truth he has been refusing to name.
He loves you.
Not as a knight loves a liege. Not as a man loves an idea. James loves you in the way starved things love warmth, with desperation and fear, and the knowledge that one day it might be taken away.
He abhors himself for it.
Love made him want to narrow your world until nothing could reach you. It made him want to decide for you, shield you from pain. Your laughter vibrates through the inside of his ribs, waking his numb, reluctant heart.
Although he would give his life to protect you, he hopes he never has to. Not for fear of dying– no death could be more honorable than the one in your name– but because every moment at your side is a blessing he is not worthy of, yet needs more than oxygen itself.
He stands at your door every day, longing for the moment when the sun rises and he is the first person you see when you open your pretty eyes. And then you smile at him, a lowly knight. And it feels as though the Gods have knelt before him.
And you have chosen him. Not with declarations or promises, but with trust. With your presence in a forbidden yard at dawn. With your willingness to place a blade in your hands because he asked you to.
That trust is sacred.
James bows his head, forearms resting on his thighs, and closes his eyes.
He prays then, for restraint. For the strength to guard without caging. To love without claiming. To be sharp enough to cut down threats and gentle enough not to become one.
If the Gods are listening, he does not know, but when he finally rises, the trembling has stopped.
The world remains dangerous, and the distance between him and you would never truly disappear. But he would bear it. He would bear everything. Because if his fear is the price of your safety, James would pay it every morning, in silence, long before the sun rises.
The city smells different now.
Bread, for one. Fresh, yeasted, unmistakable. Smoke comes from hearths instead of ruins. Laughters resound through the streets— still thin, cautious, but real. James walks beside you, who are hidden in a plain cloak with the hood thrown back despite his earlier insistence. Your head turns slowly as you walk, eyes bright taking everything in as if afraid it might vanish if you blink.
He hates crowds.
Not because of noise, but because of angles. Too many hands. Too many blind spots. Too many ways to lose you in the space of a single breath.
He stays close enough that his shoulder brushes yours when the street narrows. His hand hovers near the hilt beneath his cloak, fingers flexing, measuring distance with every step.
You notice, of course.
“Look.” You say, stopping suddenly. James nearly collides with you.
You gesture toward a baker’s stall where a line has formed— not orderly, or desperate, just waiting. A woman chuckles when flour dusts her nose. A child clutches a warm loaf like treasure.
“They are smiling.” You exhale, as if a boulder was removed from your chest. “They are not in despair.”
James scans the faces automatically. Hope does not erase resentment.
“They do not know who you are.” He answers under his breath.
“That’s the point.”
Then, it happens. A man brushes past you, jostled by the crowd. James’ hand snaps out before he can stop himself, fingers closing around the stranger’s wrist with bruising force.
The man yelps, and the street goes still.
James realizes what he has done a heartbeat too late.
The stranger stares at him, wide-eyed, more startled than angry, and the knight releases the man at once and steps back, forcing his hands to unclench.
“My apologies.” He utters stiffly.
The man nods quickly and hurries away, rubbing his wrist amongst the whispers rippling through the nearby crowd. Curious glances linger but the crowd resumes its organized chaos.
James feels it then, the familiar heat behind his eyes, the rush of imagined outcomes. A blade hidden in a sleeve. A knife meant for your ribs. Blood on stone.
Always blood.
He shifts, placing himself between you and the others without thinking.
Your hand touches his arm. Light. Steady.
“James.” You call quietly. “I’m here.”
The words anchor him more firmly than any command.
He draws in a slow breath. Then another. The city does not erupt. No one rushes them. The moment passes like a storm that decided, at the last instant, not to break.
“I apologize, Your Highness.” His cheeks heat up, unable to look at you. “Crowds make me… Vigilant. I did not mean to frighten you.”
You study his face, the tight control, the faint tremor he could not quite banish.
“You did not frighten me. You frightened yourself.”
He says nothing, but his back tenses at your simple yet smart answer.
After that, you move on more slowly. You linger at stalls, speak with vendors, listen to stories of loss and cautious recovery. James stays close, but he forces his hands to remain still, his posture relaxed. At one point, you laugh— openly, brightly— at something a cloth merchant said. The sound turns heads and the urge to pull you back, to protect your smile from the world’s hunger is torturing.
Yet James swallows it down.
When you finally reach a quieter square, you stop and turn to face him.
“You do not need to carry all of this alone.” Your voice is gentle, like a man coaxing a scared, hungry mutt. “I know the world is dangerous. But it is healing.”
His gaze drops to the stones between you.
“I cannot unsee what it has done to you.” He confesses. “Or what it could still do.”
You step closer, lowering your voice. “And I cannot pretend I do not feel safer because you see it.”
Your eyes meet. Something passes between you, something unspoken and fragile, broken by James straightening, discipline reasserting itself like armor locking into place.
“Shall we continue?” He asks.
You smile at him, soft and certain. “Yes. Together.”
And as you walk on, James keeps his control, telling himself that this, too, is protection: allowing you to stand in the light, even while he remains watchful in the shadow.
The ballroom is blazing with light tonight. Gold and crystal catch the music and scatter it back across the polished floor. The banner of the Stark kingdom hangs side by side with yours, stitched together in forced harmony. Peace celebrated loudly, insistently.
James stands where he always does in these occasions: near enough to reach you in three strides, far enough to pretend that is all he wants.
You move from partner to partner with practiced grace. Hands offered. Bows exchanged. Smiles given.
Not the ones reserved for him. Never.
These are the polite ones, when your mouth curves careful and symmetrical, but your eyes remain distant. The smiles you wear the way one wears gloves: necessary, correct, impersonal.
The real ones reach your eyes first, soften your shoulders. Steal a fraction of your breath, as if joy surprises you every time it arrives.
Men try their luck anyway.
One laughs too loudly, leaning in too close. Another lets his hand linger at your waist longer than custom allowed. James feels each trespass like a blade dragged slowly across his ribs.
He catalogues them. Faces. Names. Countries. How their fingers press. How your shoulders tense by degrees so small no one else would notice.
No one else would know that your tension is the price of politeness.
James’ jaw aches halfway through the night. Thus, when the chance comes, he takes it without hesitation.
The knight steps forward during the brief chaos of a song’s end and inclines his head toward your current partner. “Your Highness,” he turns to you evenly. “There is a matter requiring your attention.”
Relief flickers across your face before you can mask it. “Of course.” You exclaim, already withdrawing your hand. “If you’ll excuse me.”
The man bows, disappointed but powerless.
James does not look back at him.
You move through the crowd and out into the night. The gardens greet you with cool air and darkness scented with flowers; the loud roar of chattering replaced by the crickets singing.
And that’s when your shoulders drop at once.
“You saved me.” A touch of laughter in your voice. “I was beginning to think I’d danced with half the room.”
The corners of his mouth lift slightly but it is too late to hide it. You smile at him, not the careful one.
Your steps are unhurried as your heels carefully hit the pebbled path. Lanterns cast warm pools of light across hedges and marble statues. You speak of the foreign dignitaries, the strained conversations, the effort of celebrating peace with people who had once cheered for blood.
“They’re trying to ignore what happened.” You sigh. “Some of them, at least.”
“They are too busy trying to impress you.” James corrects.
You glance at him, lips thin to hide your amused grin. “You say that as if it is a crime.”
“It is when they forget themselves.”
Your lips curve in betrayal. “I knew you were watching.”
“I always watch.”
You reach a bench half-hidden by ivy, and you sit with a tired sigh, tipping your head back to look at the stars.
“I love it out here.” You hum. “No expectations. No hands I have to pretend not to notice.”
“You should not have to pretend.” He grits out. Your head twists toward him, your eyes bright— too bright. Wine, he realizes. Not enough to dull your mind, but enough to soften your edges.
You raise suddenly and hold out your hand.
“Dance with me.”
The words hit him like a physical blow.
“No.”
You blink, taken aback. “That was very fast.”
“I won’t.” He corrects, suddenly recognizing how it came out. “I can’t.”
“Why not?” You tilt your head to the side and James wants to avert his eyes at the adorable action.
Because I want to tear apart every man who touched you.
Because if I hold you like that, I will forget who I am.
Because I will never want to let go.
“Because I am not meant to.” He opts to say instead.
But you do not give up, stepping closer, close enough that he could smell wine and flowers and something uniquely yours. Your fingers rest lightly against his breastplate.
“You are always protecting me.” You whisper. “Tonight, protect me from the memory of that ballroom, James.”
Your smile, gentle, coaxing, unbearably sure of him, undoes the last of his defenses.
He closes his eyes once, then takes your hand.
The music drifts faintly through the open doors, lutes and harps weaving a melody too light for the weight it carries. He leads you closer, aware of every point of contact: your palm warm in his, your other hand on his shoulder, his arm around your waist where no one could see.
James forgets to breathe.
Your gown catches the moonlight like something living, fancy silk and threads of gold shifting with every measured step. It is not extravagance that makes you radiant, but the way you hold yourself— chin lifted, shoulders straight, your movements deliberate and calm. They lend you a gravity no jewel could grant.
Noblemen came to you one by one, offering hands heavy with rings, and bows practiced to perfection. They touched your hands, turned you beneath raised arms. Drew too close, lingered too long. He told himself he had no right, no title, no place in this bright circle of silk and music. He is only a knight, standing guard as he has been taught, watching as others enjoy what duty denies him.
And yet you fit here best, in his arms.
To them, you are beauty and alliance, grace wrapped in soft gowns. To him, you are the woman who has looked at a freezing stranger with tenderness and who spoke his name as if it mattered.
For a moment, James forgets the armor, the crown. The distance that should have stood between you two. Your bodies move harmoniously at once, laughter ghosting across your lips as he spins you once, twice, your head tipped toward his chest.
“This,” You murmur. “is much better.”
His heart thunders.
James feels the echo of fury still coiled inside him, the memory of other hands where his now rest. It flares, and then dissolves, replaced by something dangerously tender.
He is not your guard now. He is just a man holding the woman he loves, under the stars, while the world pretends to be at peace.
And when the song ends, James knows— terrifyingly— that forgetting would be far harder than remembering.
Reality hits like cold water.
It rushes in the moment the music fades, the gardens fall quiet, and the distance between you, social, moral, irrevocable, reasserts itself with cruel clarity. He releases you at once, stepping back as if you burned him, bowing his head to hide the flush that creeps up his neck.
You do not look offended, too busy to unsuccessfully try to stifle a yawn.
“Let me accompany you back to your chamber, Your Highness.” He jumps immediately, softer than intended.
The palace corridors are dimmer now, most guests still lingering in the ballroom, their laughter echoing faintly through marble. Your steps are slow as you walk, the tipsiness you had shrugged off in the garden making itself known.
You sway once and James catches you without thought, his hand firm at your elbow, his other steadying your waist. Your body leans into his for a fraction of a second, unguarded.
Every muscle in his body locks.
“I’ve got you.” He murmurs.
“I know.” You sigh content, and let him guide you the rest of the way.
He focuses on the path. On the cadence of your steps. On anything but the warmth of you through the thin silk of your gown, the way the fabric shifts beneath his fingers when you move. He keeps his hold precise, innocent, as though he were escorting you across ice.
Your chambers door open onto quiet and candlelight, the familiar scent of parchment and flowers settling around you. You slip from his grasp reluctantly, sinking onto the edge of the bed with a sigh that speaks of utter exhaustion.
“James.” You start, rubbing your eyes. “Would you help me?”
He freezes.
“With… ?” He asks carefully.
“My dress.” You whine softly, gesturing vaguely over your shoulder. “It’s late, and Natalia is already asleep. I do not want to bother her.”
His mind stutters, then reels.
“I— Your Highness—” He stops, recalibrates. “If you are certain.”
You smile at him, small and drowsy. “You already helped me before Natalia and Wanda's arrival. I trust you.”
That is the problem.
He approaches as one might approach a sacred thing: reverently, and acutely aware of the consequences of a misstep. His fingers find the laces at the back of your gown, knotted more tightly than he expected.
“Tell me if I pull too hard.” He warns with a voice steadier than he thought.
“I will.” You promise.
He works with painstaking care, eyes fixed on the task, not the person wearing it. Still, when the laces loosen, the fabric parts just enough to reveal a sliver of bare skin, warm and undeniably real.
His breath hitches.
The sight alone is enough to make his heartbeat quicken. He turns his head slightly, giving you what privacy he could while finishing the last tie by touch alone.
“There.” He replies hoarsely. “You should be able to manage the rest.”
You nod, already shrugging the gown from your shoulders with a tired clumsiness that makes his chest seize.
“I’ll wait outside.” He steps back quickly. “Just beyond the door. In case you—” He stops himself. “In case you need more help.”
You look at him over your shoulder then, something soft and grateful in your expression.
“Thank you.”
He bows once and steps out, closing the door gently behind him.
The corridor feels colder without you.
James rests his forehead briefly against the marble wall, breathing slowly, deliberately, until the world steadies. He told himself this is composure. That restraint is not weakness. That love, real love, is proven by what one refuses to take.
He straightens as footsteps echo inside the room, alert again, every sense attuned.
“I’m in bed.” You call softly.
Only then does he allows himself to exhale.
He remains there until he is certain your breathing has deepened into sleep, standing watch in silence, guarding not just your door, but that fragile line, held together by nothing more than his will.
And tonight, he holds it.
Barely.
James returns to his quarters, shutting the door behind him with deliberate care. For a long time, he simply stands there.
The image of you— drowsy, unguarded; the warmth of your back beneath his fingers. The silk sliding away. The way his name had sounded on your lips, softened by weariness and wine.
James closes his eyes.
That was the moment.
Not the dance. Not the jealousy. Not the fury at men who had touched you carelessly. Those things are familiar, almost manageable. He knows how to master violence, how to endure hunger and cold and rage.
But that— standing behind you in the quiet of your chamber, entrusted with your vulnerability— has nearly undone him.
He wanted to stay.
James crosses the room and kneels at the foot of his bed, not in comfort but in discipline, as he had once done when vows still felt unbreakable. He presses his palms flat against the floor and bows his head.
He does not pray for forgiveness. Never. Forgiveness implies he intends to repeat the transgression. Instead, he takes account.
He measures the distance between who he is and who he is supposed to be. He acknowledges the truth without embellishment or mercy: his love has crossed into longing; his devotion is no longer pure. The line he guarded so fiercely has thinned to a thread.
He would not touch you in ways you had not asked for. He would not take advantage of trust offered in exhaustion or wine. He would not mistake your need for safety as permission for closeness.
These are not the rules imposed by rank or law. They are the last pieces of himself he still respects.
James raises and paces the room, restless. He imagines futures he must refuse: a kiss stolen in weakness, a night allowed to blur into something irreparable, a moment where you wake and see not your protector, but a man who has taken what he wanted.
The thought makes him sick.
He presses his fist to his chest, grounding himself in the steady, unyielding beat of his heart. You deserve better than his hunger. And yet, James acknowledges this too: he would not stop loving you.
Love, unlike desire, does not ask permission. It does not retreat simply because it is inconvenient, or forbidden. It settles in and demands responsibility.
If this is his burden, he would carry it. Because devotion, if it is to mean anything at all, has to be proven not in what he takes—but in what he denies himself, again and again, for your sake.
James tosses in his bed, cursing himself for having such good senses. He woke up in the quietest hour of the night and with his headboard against the wall his quarters share with yours, the small, breathy noises from behind your room travel to his ears so easily.
It is evident what you are doing, and James stares at the ceiling, his jaw tight and his cock erect in his pants.
Logically, you are a grown woman with needs. No man would be allowed to satisfy you, James would not let that happen, yet it is the first time he witnesses you pleasuring yourself. A knight should have a better hold on himself in this kind of situation, there is no reason to care for it, for a proper knight's feelings would have been that of indifference beyond protecting and serving their Princess.
But James’ situation is entirely different since he holds more fondness for you than is perhaps wise. More fondness than what is reasonably allowed.
He flexes his hand around the soft pillow. Your soft moans keep filtering through the wall and James finds himself slowly kneading it, trying to find distraction. It works momentarily, until the smooth, cool fabric turns into your thighs in his imagination.
The knight knows that even when you are lost in the throes of passion, you must look so elegant, for you possess endless grace. And your eyes– those gentle, sparkling eyes of yours, could pin a man to the floor better than any spear. They could heal a wound better than any herb and read a man’s soul like a book.
Realizing what he is doing with the pillow, James goes rigid. To show his greed so clearly, selfish and unfair as he indulges in your intimate moment, makes his stomach churn with uneasiness. You must be unaware of the volume of your the breathing, the noises, the soft creaking of the bed as you shift. As a matter of fact, the moans and whimpers grow. Unknowingly, James’ breath matches yours. Shakily in, shakily out. And then…
His hand squeezes his throbbing dick over his pants.
James gasps loudly, withdrawing his palm as if it burned. He wants so badly to remove the thin layer of clothing that bounds him, limbs trembling with the need to connect his lips to yours. He yearns to hear his name on your lips, whether whispered or cried out.
His fingers hesitantly trace his lips, imagining it is your hand tenderly stroking his face. His eyes close as his palm runs down his chest, stopping just above the hem of his underwear. Maybe with a little bit of saliva on his finger he could pretend it is your tongue grazing him, making sure to outline the still covered head.
Perhaps, if James could release some of the pressure, he would be able to face you with much less strain. Or maybe it is just a "reasonable" explanation in order to feel less guilty about jerking off to his Princess’ own pleasure. Shame curls hot in his belly as he finally removes his pants with a single, strong motion. Painfully hard, his body buzzes with lust and the risk of being heard by you. Maybe the sound of his desperation would carry through the paper thin walls and you would hear how crazy you make him.
Oh, to even entertain the thought that you could desire an older man as rough, hairy, and battle scarred as him.
His hand wraps around his leaking cock, hips thrusting up and mind conjuring the softness of your palm, instead of the rough callus on his. He shakes his head as if to condemn himself in real time. A part of him feels dirty, manifesting in the way his wrist stops for a moment, the temporary loss of contact almost bringing tears to his eyes.
In this dark, cold room, James accepts what he has become: a slave to his own pleasure.
“James.” Your soft whines of his name almost make him come on the spot. He squeezes his eyes close, too desperate to analyze the situation. Did you really call for him while plunging your fingers into your sweet core, or was it just a figment of his pathetic imagination? What he wouldn’t give to be in that room with you. To get lost in the tangle of your sheets, sweat, and arousal. To sink deep into you and mark you as his, and feel your hands on his chest as his fingers abuse your clit. The idea of absorbing every sound you make into his mouth makes James shiver, drooling as his hand squeezes once his cock, pretending it is your pussy clenching around him as you come.
He can hear how wet you are, your quiet whimpers overshadowed by your palm slapping against your slick skin. James fights to stay quiet, jaw tight as his thumb swipes over his tip. His hand shoots over his mouth, moaning through his fingers as you finally reach your climax, again whimpering his name. He keeps thrusting into his hand, his thumb focused on the tip and his chest heaving, bucking desperately into his own fingers. Almost close, James momentarily uncovers his mouth to reach onto his side table and retrieve the object of one of his biggest sins. One of your expensive cloaks, the one you accidentally dropped during one of your aimless strolls around the capital. A kind woman had brought it to him, yet he could not find it in himself to give it back. James presses his face deeply into the fabric, just like he did that same night in the privacy of his own room, his cheeks red and his chest aching with shame.
Draping the cloak over his face, he lets his lips fall open, coating the fabric in his spit to let your scent bless his tongue. Saliva slides down his chin, yet he does not care about the mess, too hopeful to retrieve any trace of you. Taking a deep breath, your scent penetrates deep into his nostrils, touching his soul.
With a cry of your name, his chest is splattered with cum. The heavy fabric of the cloak did nothing to muffle the sound of his own orgasm.
James has been waiting for you close to the throne room when the doors burst open with a sudden and loud noise. Your skirts tremble with every hurried step as you storm in the corridors. Tears glisten on your cheeks, yet you do not stop, sprinting with your shoulders hunched, as if trying to make yourself smaller.
“Your Highness!” He shouts, but you do not stop. You vanish around the corner and James follows after you, heart thundering against his ribs, until he reaches your chambers door.
It slams shut with finality.
The soft click of the lock reverberates like a hammer blow to his chest. He bangs on the door, voice breaking. “Your Highness! Please— open the door!”
Inside, he could hear your sobs— shattering, forlorn. His stomach knots. The world feels suddenly dark and hollow. Every instinct screams at him to break the door down, but he restrains himself, knowing you need your space, even if it tears him apart to hear you in such misery and being forced to stand powerless outside.
Natalia appears silently at his side, eyes wide with concern. “Sir James… I—I think I should tell you,” she murmurs, voice trembling. “They– the King and Queen… They—”
James’s heart drops to his stomach, anticipation tightening like a vise around his neck. He clenches his fists, nails biting into his palms. “What?”
Natalia swallows, then speaks. “They want the Princess to marry. They have arranged a ball, invitations are already being written for nobles of the neighboring kingdom. Lords, dukes…” Her gaze lowers. “Their Majesties believe it will strengthen the peace treaty.”
He faced famine, war, betrayal, and the harsh streets of the city, but nothing has ever made him feel so helpless. They’re trading your happiness, your freedom… For mere politics.
“They are already choosing gowns,” Natalia continues quietly. “The Queen wants her presented properly. Radiant. Approachable.” She hesitates. “Desirable.”
The words strike him like poisoned arrows.
James stares at the marble wall behind the maid, suddenly aware of how small the corridor feels, how thin the air is. He pictures you standing beneath chandeliers, surrounded by strangers who would smile at you and think they have a right to your body, and your future.
“How soon?” He exhales harshly.
“Very soon.” Natalia replies. “Within the fortnight.”
A fortnight.
Two weeks until men would touch your hands, guide you through dances, lean close enough that you would smell the wine on their tongues and their entitlement. Two weeks until you would be appraised, discussed, and measured like a prize horse.
“And she?” He asks, though he already fears the answer.
Natalia looks away. “She said nothing. She just… Went very still.”
James nods once, sharply. “Thank you for telling me.”
Worry etches into the maid’s face. “You’ll be there, right? With her?”
James’ answer is immediate.
“Always.”
Once Natalia steps away to return to her duties, James sinks on one knee outside the door, hands pressed against the cool wood. He cannot allow this. And yet, you have chosen to lock yourself away from him.
The rest of the day passes in a blur of agonizing waiting. He stations himself outside your door, silent and resolute. Natalia tries to coax you to eat, her voice soft and patient, but you did not respond. Eventually, the maid placed a small plate near James’ side and slipped away quietly, leaving him as your silent, immovable guard.
Finally, when the castle is engulfed by the silence of the night and the torches flicker low, the door clicks.
James’ breath hitches. He surges forward, heart hammering, and pushes the door open gently.
You are there– hair loose, cheeks wet, eyes red and swollen from crying, your gown wrinkled and clinging awkwardly to your frame. Yet still so beautiful. Your hands tremble as you tear up again at the sight of him.
James moves swiftly, closing the door behind you and wrapping an arm around your frame, pressing you to him with gentle insistence. “It’s over.” He murmurs, voice low and steady, though his chest aches. “I’m here. Nothing will touch you now.”
You try to speak, to explain, but he silences you softly. “No words. Not now. Just rest.”
Guiding you carefully to your big bed, he lets you sit on the soft sheets, trembling, before your faint whisper causes his body to go rigid. “Please, remove the armor. Stay–stay with me.”
His instincts scream against it, he has always been the protector, always armored and vigilant. But he cannot refuse. Not now. Not after seeing you like this.
Slowly, he removes the straps and plates, letting the weight of his armor fall away piece by piece. When he finally sits on the edge of the bed beside you, you tug his hand gently, drawing him closer. Your arms wrap around him, desperate, and James finally allows himself to uncoil, to give in to the moment.
He hugs you tightly, letting every ounce of fear, fury, and relief flow into the embrace. Sobbing quietly against his chest, he holds you firmly, breathing in the flowery scent of your hair, the warmth of your body, the unmistakable, unshakable presence of you.
For the first time that day, James is simply there— nothing to protect, nothing to fight, nothing to plan. Just you and him. He would move Heaven and Earth to stand by you always, no matter the cost.
He does not know how long you stay like that, surrounded by the stillness of the room and the flickering candlelight casting gentle shadows across your face. You still tremble slightly, exhausted from the day’s grief, yet his hold is firm but gentle around you, letting you lean against him.
Your heartbeat is irregular and fast, and it mirrors the tension he has carried all day. You are safe now, here with him. And yet… He feels himself choke under the weight of everything he has tried to protect you from.
Finally, your voice comes, barely above the hush of the night. “James… I—” Your eyes close. “I–I don’t know what I would do without you. You always… Always know what to do, even when there seems to be no way out. You saved me more times than I can count, and… I–”
Your words falter. James’ heart throbs painfully in his chest.
“I love you.” The words are soft, vulnerable, almost a whisper, as if saying them louder might shatter the fragile quiet surrounding you. To James… Well, they feel like a cannon ball falling directly on his chest.
For a moment, he cannot speak, nor move. He should retreat and let the door shut close behind his back, a physical wall that symbolizes his final desperate attempt to distance himself from you.
Now, faced with the impending threat of someone taking you away from him, James refuses to be the umpteenth reason for your suffering.
He leans closer, letting his forehead rest on yours. “I have for so long–” His voice breaks, hoarse. “I have for so long loved you from afar. You are everything I am not worthy of, and yet…”
Your fingers trace lightly along his jaw, and his blue eyes close gently, finally slackening against your touch like an abandoned dog looking for affection. “And yet?” You prompt softly, breathless.
“And yet,” he whispers. “I cannot imagine letting anyone or anything take you from me. I have sworn to protect you, but… I also swear to be here, with you, for you, in every way I can. If you’ll let me.”
Your smile is small through the tears, a mixture of exhaustion and relief, but James has never seen you so radiant before. “I will.” You exhale. “Of course I will. I trust you. Always.”
He hugs you tightly, not needing to speak, letting the shared confession linger in the silent space between you. No threats, no attacks– only the truth of your hearts, spoken softly, held carefully, and received fully.
Your noses brush against each other when your face emerges from the slope of his neck. Your chest heaves when you finally let out your confession.
“I have never laid with anyone before.” James swallows, shaky fingers tracing the line of your jaw.
“I have done things by myself, but…”
“I know.” He confesses. “I heard you.”
“I know. I hoped you would.” Your smile is small when you timidly utter that, and James’ breath hitches.
“Your Highness—”
“Why do you keep calling me that?” Your lips purse in a small pout.
He flinches, momentarily taken aback. “I am your knight–”
“Not only my knight now.” You whisper, slowly lifting one of your legs. James waits with bated breath as your body positions itself on his lap, tentatively yet cunningly.
“We cannot move any further.” His voice breaks, wheezing when your hands cradle his stubbled face.
“I just want to hold you, James.” It is such a simple request, yet he feels like someone has just poured a bucket of icy water on his bare body. Because that’s how he feels, bare, not only emotionally but especially physically; his armor, the symbol of everything he should be, lies carelessly on your rug, because no princess should be forced to be pressed against hard, uncomfortable metal.
His hands lie weak by his sides. Sitting like this, with a pretty woman such as yourself on his lap, James might get untoward ideas and touch you in places he is not allowed to reach.
And now you are tugging down his pants, and James is sputtering to stop you, no real heat in his voice as his hard cock springs out. You swallow, watching it with parted lips.
“It’s… Big.” You mutter, hips unconsciously making a little thrusting movement.
“Is it– alright?” James swallows, blushing.
“Yes.” You smile and he manages to reciprocate, a deep rosy blush sitting on the apples of his cheeks.
You like him, you are accepting him.
Your sparkling eyes lift to look at his damp face, one of your hands placing itself on his pec. “Can I… ?”
And James is only a man.
He nods eagerly, gasping when your soft finger ghosts over his tip. It glides down the veins as you lean in close to get a better look, curious.
“I have never seen one before.” You admit abashed, using two fingers to rub the vein on the underside. James moans, hips jumping into your soft caresses. When you hold his sac, soft and pliable, in your hand he gasps hotly, before finally wrapping your hand around his cock, stroking it to full erection while his head rolls back. His lips part when he sighs, feeling himself grow impossibly harder and thicker in your hand.
“How does it feel?” You ask and twist your wrist, pulling a long guttural moan from him.
“So good, my princess.” He bites his bottom lip, then dares to open his eyes, flitting them down between his legs. “You made me so hard.”
You press a kiss on the side of his neck that sends his eyes back into oblivion, quickening your strokes, twisting a little harder, smearing the dew drops of precum over the smooth head.
“Gods!” James growls, thrusting his hips up into your hand, his breath caught in his lungs. You smirk at his reaction, nipping at his neck yet not enough to leave a lasting mark but one he would certainly feel tomorrow. Your tongue soothes it over while your free hand traces down the expanse of his hard chest to gently hold his balls. His whines are the sweetest of melodies to your ears.
“Let go for me, darling?” You purr and James cries out, a sob echoes in the dim-lit room as a familiar shudder rolls over his body. The hair on his neck raises and his belly contracts when he finally growls out a curse that would make even the rudest of soldiers balk, coming all over your fingers.
James' body shakes as he lets himself fall back against the bed, taking you with him. You let out a elated sigh as you give him a softer squeeze before you regard your soiled hand with innocent interest, and under his stunned gaze, your tongue peeks out enough to taste his seed.
“Gods above, sweetheart.”
You do not answer right away.
The word lingers between you, unfamiliar and precious. Warmth spreads slowly throughout your body, traitorously.
“You—” you stop, smiling despite yourself. “You have never called me that before.”
He looks almost uncertain. “I won’t again, if you do not want me to.”
You swallow, tightening your hold on his shirt. “Say it again.”
James' real smile is not dazzling, but real. It softens his face, strips years from him, something boyish and unexpectedly gentle breaking through the severity he usually wears. It is not as bright as the sun, but it carries his happiness all the same. And when his lips close around another term of endearment, you know you would remember the sound of it for the rest of her life.
Your arms wrap around his torso in a warm hug, squeezing him once as your whisper presses against his chest, so timidly. “Will you… Stay until morning?”
James swallows hard. Every instinct screams at him that he should, that he must, that the world outside could wait. “Yes.” He does not hesitate, his voice barely audible. “I am not going anywhere, my heart.”
You squirm slightly, hugging him tighter. James exhales slowly, letting himself slacken on the comfortable mattress. No threats, no guards, no political maneuvering— just you and this quiet moment of pure, unadulterated love.
For once, James allows himself to simply be the man who loves you and would not let you go.
The ballroom shimmers with crystal and candlelight, but James barely notices. His eyes are fixed on you, tracking every turn, every step, every laugh that feels forced.
The King’s announcement had come before the music even began: you are to entertain suitors, men from the other kingdom, all chosen to cement the fragile peace.
James’ chest had tightened the moment the words left his mouth. He had protected you through enemies both known and hidden, and now your own parents are auctioning you like a prize.
He moves alongside the sidelines, keeping close, as you greet the nobles with careful courtesy. He can clearly see the subtle curl of your lips, polite but empty, and the tension in your shoulders. You hate this. He wants to tear the chandeliers down, strike every man who dares step too close. But James remains quiet. Restrained. Observing. Always observing.
At some point in the night, inevitably, the crowd shifts: laughter and music and drink colliding, and you are gone.
James has always prided himself on having a strategic mind, on being a reliable soldier that always knows what to do, how to act. Now, he darts through expensive gowns and glasses that cost more than his salary, asking anyone who would look at him.
“Have you seen the Princess?”
Finally, a round man says. “She went toward the balcony.”
James sprints to the other end of the room, his boots hitting the marble in harsh, irregular beats. The balcony doors open to the cool night air. And there you are.
You, cowering against the stone wall as a man's hand presses firmly around your forearm. A duke, the knight immediately recognizes him. The sharp tang of alcohol reaches James before he even sees the cocky man’s face. It takes one glance at your wide, terrified eyes for the knight to launch himself at the slimy man, fury and steel all wrapped into one.
The duke yelps as James grabs him, relentless. Some knights had noticed the chaos, their faces turning from curiosity to alarm as they saw the ferocity in James’ eyes and his agitated movements. They followed, apprehending the nobleman and restraining him immediately.
“You know not who you address! You know not who I am! How dare you turds—”
His useless words dispel in the crisp darkness as James kneels quickly beside your hunched form, lifting you gently but firmly into his arms. Your shivering body loses all its tension, falling into his, as your own arms go around his torso instinctively.
“Shh.” He murmurs. “It’s over. You are safe.”
Your forehead rests against his chest, letting the tremors pass slowly.
“I can’t believe— He—” Your voice breaks.
“I know.” James closes his eyes, voice raw with anger. “I know. But I came. I will never let anyone do this to you.”
Your arms tighten around him. “James.”
He lifts his head slightly, letting his eyes meet your. They are wide, glistening with tears, but gone is the fear.
“I—” His voice falters. “I cannot stand to lose you. Not to them, not to anyone.”
Your hand pressed to his chest grounds his racing thoughts. “You won’t. You won’t lose me.”
He shakes his head slightly, disbelief and relief mingling.
“You are my protector, my strength… And my heart.”
He swallows hard, before delicately pressing his trembling lips on the top of your head— a kiss not of passion, but of surrender.
You sigh happily at the contact, trembling less now, yet refusing to ease your hold around him.
“I love you.” You whisper.
James exhales harshly, his hold desperate around you. “And I love you. Always. Even when I hate myself for it.”
James’ boots thump on the marble with a rhythm that matches the pounding in his chest. He has been summoned to the King and Queen’s presence, and he already knows the reason— they want to reprimand him.
They do not understand. They never will, not fully.
The King’s booming voice ripples the silence like a thunder the moment the knight enters. “You assaulted the Duke of Eastpier! Explain yourself!”
James keeps his posture straight, eyes unwavering. “I did not assault him. I restrained a man who was threatening the Princess. He had no right, no claim. He was putting her in danger. My duty is to her safety.”
The Queen’s sharp gaze slices across him. “Your violence was unseemly, sir James. Reckless. A knight is not above law or courtly protocol!”
James grits his teeth. Of course they would be more worried about appearances. The thought burns in his mind. Not that a man had cornered their daughter on a balcony, pressed his hand against her arm, intoxicated and convinced he could have his way with her? Not that she could have been hurt?
They are fretting over gossip, scandal. And James is expected to care more about their fragile reputation than the fact that their daughter had been assaulted.
The rage coils in his chest like a viper. He fought frost and famine for you. He made sure that whoever tried to speak ill of you was apprehended accordingly; he kept you safe. And now, the people who brought you into this world care only about what others think over your own well-being?
He forces himself to breathe evenly, to reply not out of disregard of their words, because that could lead them to strip him of this position and banish him from the palace, far from you.
“I am her knight. It is my duty to protect her. The court’s whispers mean nothing when her life is at stake.”
The King and Queen exchange glances, unease flickering behind their anger. “We… Appreciate your work, sir James.” The Queen admits, quieter though detached. “You have done a lot for our daughter. But you must temper your actions. Be more subtle, for the sake of the court.”
Subtle.
That word makes James’ blood boil. Subtle? After what you endured? After what that scumbag tried to do to you? Subtle will not save you from men like him. Subtle will not shield you from danger. And yet that is what they care about. Their daughter’s safety, apparently, is secondary to the court's opinion.
He holds himself rigid, forcing his jaw to relax, eyes fixed unwaveringly on the Queen. Behind his back, his fists clench until little crescent marks bloom onto his palms. “I will act with discretion. But let it be clear: my priority is the Princess. Always. Nothing else matters.”
The Queen’s expression softens just slightly, a flicker of understanding in her eyes. “We are relieved she has such a devoted knight by her side. But discretion, sir James. Please.”
Discretion. Their voices grate against his brain like steel. He leaves without another word, fury still simmering under his skin and heart hammering with indignation.
He finds you pacing in your chambers shortly after, a frown on your pretty features. Your eyes land on the door as he enters, relief flickering in your eyes as you see him.
“They were angry.” You claim softly, stopping mid-step. “I did not know what they’d do to you.”
James crosses the room quickly and holds out his hands for you to take. “Nothing will happen to me. I am your knight. I swore an oath to protect you, and I will never break it.”
You hesitate in his embrace, your shoulders lowering as a fraction of the tension leaves your muscles. “I was so afraid they would punish you. Or force you away. You did nothing wrong.”
“And yet I must be careful.” He admits bitterly. “For appearances. But that does not change the truth: no one, nothing, will harm you while I stand here.”
Exhaling slowly, your chin lifts up, wishing to behold his face. “I know.” Your voice quiet but certain. “I trust you. You have kept me safe all this time. I don’t want to imagine what would happen if you weren’t here.”
James’ gaze softens, allowing his hand to hesitantly cup your cheek. “You need not to imagine it. I am always here, by your side.”
The court could fume. Nobles could whisper. But the threat is gone, and for the first time since that unpleasant event, both of you can breathe.
The infirmary is still when you open its door: no hearth lit, no servants bustling through, only the faint smell of iron and dried herbs clinging to the stone.
James sits on the edge of one of the narrow cots, his back straight despite the blood seeping through the torn linen of his shirt. He has not noticed you yet, his focus is inward, jaw clenched, one hand braced against the mattress as if holding himself in place.
You close the door softly behind you.
“James.”
At the sound of your voice, he stiffens. He turns too quickly, and pain flickers across his face before he can mask it.
“You shouldn’t be here.” He says at once, not wanting for you to see him like this, pathetic, in pain.
“I know.” Your mouth curves a little, stepping closer.
He stands, as if to put distance between you, and sways. You catch his arm without thinking. For a heartbeat, neither of you breathe. His skin is hot beneath your fingers, fevered from exertion and blood loss. His eyes drop to where you are touching him, and his shoulders go rigid.
“I’m fine,” he clears his throat, too quickly. “It’s nothing.”
“You are bleeding through your shirt.” You refuse to let it go. “Sit down.”
He searches your face, as if gauging how far he could push this before you yielded. You do not, on the contrary, you meet his gaze steadily, princess or not.
Finally, he exhales and lowers himself back onto the cot. After gathering what you need, you dip one of the edges of a white cloth in the bowl of water, before glancing at James and halting in your movements as if seeing him for the first time that afternoon.
“I believe you will have to take off your shirt.”
James’ lips press together as if to hide an amused grin at your sudden modesty. Despite that, he feels a slight pull at his nerves at the realization. You have never seen his upper body. He does not fear your judgement, not after what you had done that night. But perhaps he does feel a bit anxious to fulfill your expectations, considering the signs of battles he brings with himself like a sore reminder of his past.
The moment he slips his shirt off, gritting his teeth at the pull at his cut, you are left staring at him, suddenly mute, lips parted with a soft sigh that speaks of everything but disappointment.
James would have been a liar if he denied how your silent wonder stroked his ego. He worked for the muscles in his upper body his whole life, particularly after he decided to gain back his strength to become your protector, when his bones were too exhausted from the cold to collaborate, and his tongue could not remember the taste of bread. Now muscles adorn his torso again, alongside various scars, a souvenir of his reckless days as a Knight Banneret.
“I would never use my strength to hurt you, my heart.” You swallow, the sides of your neck heating up as he finally lets his walls crumble.
“I know.” You fret, before clearing your throat and composing yourself. “I was merely… Assessing the damage.” You wait, letting him indulge in smugness a little more. “Darling.”
James is certain his ears are on fire now.
“May I?” You whisper, already moving forward and reaching out your hand.
Your knight gulps. By all means, he longs for you to touch him, trace every line with your fingers, with your lips, your tongue–
“Of course.” He rasps instead, frowning at himself.
Your dominant hand dutifully wipes around the wound first, tender but thorough. The cut is clean but deep, an angry red line across his torso where the blade had slipped past guard and armor alike during practice.
Your other hand rests on his shoulder for balance as you stand between his legs, crouched and a little twisted, your position slightly awkward and no doubt uncomfortable.
“You were careless.” You start quietly, more relief than scolding in your tone. “You could have been killed.”
A corner of his mouth twitches. “Wouldn’t be the first time someone tried.”
“That’s not what I meant.” You dampen the cloth again. “You do not get to throw yourself away anymore.”
His gaze flicks up to your face. “And why is that?”
Your hand pauses.
“Because I—” You swallow, your eyes landing on his lap before looking him straight in the eyes. “Because you are mine now.”
His expression shifts, something raw breaking through the discipline.
“And I am yours.”
You let the words hang between you two as you go back to clean the cut. James hopes you cannot feel the way his heart is trying to crawl out of his rib cage from how quick it is beating. He decides to focus on something else, such as your beauty. It is rather unusual for him to see you from this angle, normally he towers several inches above you, having you have to tip your head back to simply look at him.
“When did you learn to dress a wound, my sweetheart?”
The hand on his shoulder squeezes the flesh once, a way for you to free yourself of the dizziness taking over you each time he lets himself indulge in your love for each other, releasing himself from duty and etiquette.
“I was a wild child.” You muse, a little smile brightening your features. “And there was a maid who would take care of me. She taught me a lot.” The fondness in your voice is evident as your eyes grow hazy, remembering a happiness long gone. “She was more of a mother than my own.”
A frown clouds your soft features with disappointment, quickly dissipating as James’ hand moves gently on the curve of your waist in comfort. You give him a small smile, before using a bit of wine to disinfect the wound.
He really did not want to show you how the sting affected him, yet he finds out that letting you, out of all people, see him vulnerable is not the worst thing to happen. When a hiss falls from his lips at the burn, your eyes raise to his with an unspoken apology; and his pain is soothed by the softest of kisses. James proceeds to steal several more, squeezing your hips, toying with the hem of your bodice before he lets you continue, demanding such compensation every time you make his jaw clench; and with each kiss, his hunger grows.
The moment you need to take a fresh cloth to bandage his torso, a squeal escapes your throat as strong arms circle your waist, dragging your body to sit on his thighs. Leaning onto his shoulders to not to fall, your breath fans his face as you shift in an attempt to find a comfortable position, inevitably brushing his most sensitive part.
Your knight claims your mouth, a hand reaching to cradle your face while his thumb gently strokes your cheek. Your body melts into his, pliant, and your lips succumb to his advances. His arm pulls you firmly chest to chest, your gasp of surprise swallowed by his mouth as your hands grab his arms. His pants are too tight all of sudden and he has no doubt it does not escape your attention.
“My dear heart…” He whispers, tasting the skin of your neck. How sweet you are, so effortlessly, unconsciously alluring to all his senses. The scent of your skin, the taste of your lips, the tender heat of your touch. Your eyes are blown with lust and wide as you feel his arousal, he cannot help himself with an angel like you resting on his lap. Your trembling hands settle on his shoulder for support, only to start grinding against him and Gods, he is so close to throw you on the cot and have his wicked way with you.
James had women in the tavern please him for money when he was younger and irresponsible, and his hand temporarily eased his lust thinking of how sweet your heat would be. Yet nothing could compare to your touch on his bare skin, and your palm around his cock.
Your lips part with a shaky exhale when his hands travel up your waist, teasing the underside of your breasts. He craves to taste them since the moment he helped you wash your back and your arm pressed against your sinful curves out of decency.
“James–” You whimper as your thighs tremble when his hips thrust up. He can feel the pressure in him building, his hands burning to untie your bodice, ruck up your skirts and pull his pants down to remove all barriers between you. Just him, you and absolute bliss.
“My heart, my sweetheart, how you tempt me.” He pants into your skin. A small pitiful sound which almost breaks his resolve has his blood boiling when his mouth meets your neck, heavy breaths expanding his chest as much as they do yours, every inhale causing your breasts to brush against his naked chest.
He dares to look up at your glistening face, instantly regretting it when his cock throbs at the sight of your own desire written all over your features. “This the most difficult and yet the sweetest trial I have ever faced. You are beautiful, so beautiful.”
James grabs your hips, forcing his own to cease the instinctive motions, preventing your own as well.
The corners of your lips lift in a shy smile. “And you are so handsome, darling.” You admit. “It is hard to not give in to sin.” You timidly mumble, caressing the hair on his chest.
His beautiful, kind, bashful minx of a Princess. How could he not fall for you?
“I feel the same, sweetheart. I love you.” Your eyes shine with affection as you cup his face and plant a soft kiss on his forehead.
“I love you too, James.” You swallow, squirming. “Promise me you will be more careful.” Your eyes flit to the wound you had not finished cleaning, but James tips your chin up gently so you can look at him.
“I promise, my sweetness.”
You clear your throat, slowly standing up from his lap under his confused gaze.
“Perhaps,” your knees land on the wooden floorboards, the discomfort unmistakable and immediate, yet your soft skirts alleviate it a little. “You need a stronger… Encouragement.”
James towers over you, still and bewildered. His Princess, kneeling before him, a lowly knight. How blasphemous!
Your hands work nimbly on the opening of his pants, finally freeing his erection from its confines.
The world slips out of focus until all that’s left is James’ shaft, leaking and proud against his abdomen. Your mouth waters at the sight– his tip is flushed red, swollen; the length throbs under your misty eyes, undeniably starved for him.
“Sweetheart–”
“Let me do it, please.” You mumble, forcing yourself to look up at his parted lips. “Let me make you feel good.” You mewl, reveling in his gasp when your hand wraps around his shaft, the head nudging your mouth, smearing his precum across your lips, now shining with him and oh, your tongue finally peeks out to taste it, and Gods above… The sight alone could have him coming untouched.
His hips rut forward automatically, pushing his tip in and out of your mouth. “S–Sorry my love.” He rushes out, unable to stop himself from feeling your velvety warmth around him. His musky scent fills your nose, and your thighs clench against each other.
“Oh Gods.” He moans, finally working his way into your mouth. You relax your throat, just like Natalia told you to do. It was quite embarrassing to ask her for this kind of advice, but your trusted maid revealed herself to be very knowledgeable, and happy to help you. She has extensive knowledge on your special relationship with your knight.
James’ head falls back, his hand involuntarily fisting your hair, before soothing your head with gentle apologies and soft caresses.
“No.” You wheeze, tightening his hold on your hair with your own hand. “Let me take care of you.” You lean forward, pressing a kiss on his hip bone. “I want you to use me, James. You deserve it.”
He stifles a groan at your eagerness as you engulf his cock as far in as you could, his balls nudging your chin. His blue eyes darken, now locked with yours as his jaw unclenches. He is utterly in love with you. Everyone else was completely ruined for him the moment you took a look at him when he was still homeless, and decided to nurse him back to health. Despite the fact that James spent the first months in denial, he knew he was truly, irreversibly gone for you.
His hand shakily smooths your hair back as your tongue licks a long stripe along the underside of his length, base to tip. Your palms slide up his thighs, feeling his taut muscles beneath your fingertips, then your right hand gently cups his balls.
“Oh princess.” His head falls forward, and you take him into your mouth again, rolling his sack in your hand, gently suckling at his tender head.
His soft whimpers blend with the warmth of your bodies.
“Sweetheart, your m–mouth–” His praise is cut off by a whine when his tip kisses the back of your throat deliciously; your hand continues to work on his balls, the other anchoring yourself to his thigh.
He forces his hips still, groaning brokenly as your cheeks hollow around him. “Where did you learn– oh Gods!” His jaw clenches, finally willing his eyes open to enjoy the show.
Small tears gather at the corners of your eyes as you gag around his cock, the sight alone makes his knees tremble, his breath stalling in his chest. He is so close, you can feel it.
Seeing your devoted, hard-working knight reduced to a moaning mess makes your hole clench around nothing. What a mess you are making in your undergarments!
Saliva pools around his length, slicking down his balls. His teeth hurt by the way he is clenching his jaw, trying to keep his hips firmly on the cot, until your hand squeezes around his thigh. He looks down hurriedly, scared to have hurt you, yet he only sees your wide eyes, before you nod at him. That’s when his hips snap forward, both his hands flying on your hair to help you bob your throat up and down his cock.
A wet gulp, a slap of his balls against your skin, your mouth slurping with every thrust.
Before you can realize what is happening, James bursts into your throat with a needy groan, hot ropes of cum painting your insides as your eyes close, forcing yourself to swallow around him to ensure not a single drop goes to waste.
Your skin is hot and sticky with sweat as the sound of heavy breathing fills the dimly lit room. Finally pulling out, James slowly loosens his grip on your hair, instantly going for your waist to help you up and on his laps. With eyes half-lidded, you regard him, quiet yet hopeful for some sign of approval.
“You are going to kill me one day, sweetheart.” His fingers brush your cheek with gentleness, searching your face for any sign of discomfort; his shoulders lower only when you giggle at his dejected voice. Then, your eyes widen.
“Oh Gods, your wound!”
This day feels like a gift. Sunlight spills freely across the gardens, warming the stone paths and waking the scent of flowers that have slept through the colder weeks. The air is gentle on your face, carrying the soft hum of insects and the distant splash of fountains scattered across the grass. For once, nothing presses at your chest. No expectations, no lessons, no whispered plans made without your consent.
You lead the way to the pond with a skip in your steps that makes James barely contain his satisfied smile. It lies tucked behind a curtain of willows, their branches trailing low enough to brush the crystalline water’s surface. The world seems to end there– the sounds are muffled, and the palace is reduced to something imagined rather than real. It has been your favorite spot since childhood, a place where you could pretend to belong only to yourself and nature.
James steps in front of you, instinctively scrutinising the surroundings before setting an old, big cloak on the trimmed grass for you to rest on. The tension eases from his shoulders when he sees no one else is near.
“There is no one around.” You smile, settling onto the makeshift cover at the water’s edge and kicking off your shoes.
James immediately understands what you mean. That's what you say to imply your wish of having him closer, out of his duties. Sitting beside you, close enough that your arms brush against each other, James closes his eyes for a moment, simply listening— to the water, the wind, the fragile peace neither of you trust to last.
Yet, it is enough for now.
Then, you lean into him. He stiffens for half a heartbeat, habit more than hesitation, before his arm comes around your shoulders. His touch is still careful, always careful— at least when his blood stays away from his loins, for he fears the world might punish him for touching you too freely.
You tilt your head up, the tip of your nose grazing his jaw. “No one can see us.”
“I know.” He murmurs, his gaze flicking once more to the trees before landing on you. He observes you with anticipation as you rise onto your knees, only to wrap your arms around his neck and kiss him.
It is unhurried, freeing, nothing like the stolen, breathless moments you usually manage. His hand slides to your waist, tentative at first, then surer when you lean into him more. When you part, James rests his forehead against yours, eyes closed.
“I wish I could give you this every day.” He confesses like a prayer.
“You already do.” Your hands cradle his cheeks, thumbs caressing his stubble. Your head turns then, brushing your lips along his jaw, his cheek, smiling when he finally chuckles, a low, unguarded sound.
You lie back together, your head on his chest as his arm wrap around your shoulders, keeping you close to his muscled body while his fingers trace absent lines along your arm. You tell him about the lessons you skipped yesterday, about a ridiculous myth you had read in one of Father's books that morning, and then you comment the swans freely playing in the water, marveling at their graceful beauty.
And James listens, because your every word matters.
Your voice dwindles into silence eventually, and when your eyes raise, they find his already admiring you with a soft, rare smile on his lips. Before long, your little haven comes alive with heavy breathes, heated gazes and wandering hands.
James draws you to him, mouth still pressed on your delicious lips, barely holding back from sinking his teeth into the supple flesh. You respond with a small, pleased noise, soft and warm against his taut body, and your tongues much more daring than the previous times you indulged in such moments of forbidden closeness.
With a grunt, James gently guides you back until you lay completely on the cloak, bracing himself with an arm above you. With growing confidence, your arms circle around James’ head, hands fisted into his hair and curiously roaming his body.
You open up like a flower under his fingers. Slowly, he kneads your chest, then your hips, your thighs, all to be rewarded with gasps and whimpers leaping from your mouth into his. You keep pulling him against you, as if you wish to melt into one. It is easy for your knight to explore what's hidden under your dress, for you chose a lighter, simpler gown today– were you hoping for something indecent to happen? Have you been luring him in all morning, only for his control to finally slip?
The skin of your inner thigh is soft when he presses his big palm to your core, causing you to buck into it clumsily.
“Gods.” James sighs, dipping his face into the inviting curve of your neck. “You are divine, sweetness.”
Your answer dissolves into sighs and whimpers as James kisses the skin of your neck and grounds his palm into you. The way you are coming apart underneath him, how your hands caress up his back, how your thighs keep trying to shut close around his arm, and most of all the soft, desperate sounds falling from your lips… It is driving James crazy. With a practiced hand, his fingers reach for the hem of your undergarments and pull down. Then, his hand finally touches the warm spot between your legs, wet and slick from pure desire. Your every breath and twitch are delightful as he slowly trails his fingers over and between your folds, lightly rubbing your hidden nub.
“James.” You whine against his lips. It is not enough. Thus James pulls the cups of your dress down, breath hitching at the sight of your beautiful breasts, and kneads the flesh with his other hand, kissing between your tits; your gasps are loud and your chest pushes insistently against his mouth as he finally tastes your turgid nipples. The hands in his hair tightens once the knight gathers some of your wetness to spread it on your sensitive peaks; sucking and moaning around them, his eyes roll back when your tangy nectar quenches his thirst for you. You whimper and arch into his touch, and James smiles satisfied with his face nestled on the soft cushion of your breasts. He is wholly and entirely endeared, you are so beautifully receptive to even the most minuscule of movements on your pussy.
“W–What…?” Your neck cranes confused when you cannot feel his warmth against your bare chest anymore. With a soothing caress on your thigh, James grips it, guiding you until you spread your legs apart, as wide as your skirt allows. And then, you squeal.
His tongue darts out to lick at your core, sending thrilling jolts throughout your body.
You quickly hike up your dress, finally catching sight of him as his mouth attaches to you. You watch transfixed, exhilarated as James sucks on your clit, swirling his tongue around it circularly, dipping between your folds with every shudder of your thighs.
His eyes are closed in peaceful bliss, and his tongue shakes back and forth, nose nuzzling in closer to your core like you are seeping nectar instead of arousal. His voice escapes in little grunts and gasps as you preen and moan above him; your thighs attempt to close around his head, yet he welcomes the sudden pressure with a loud moan, before he forces them open again.
“James!” You moan, head thrown back against the old cloak. “I feel— I think I’m–”
Besides your voice and his, you have never heard a noise so crude as the result of him fucking you with his mouth. Your hole clenches around nothing, and James decides to close the remaining distance, pressing a finger inside. It is the perfect pace and pressure that makes you grip his hair, finally humping his face as your wanton sounds resound through the willow fronds, the most melodious song that James has ever heard.
“James!” You come hard, ignoring his grin against your core as your insides tightened around his finger. He drinks your orgasm up with his cock straining in his pants, loving the way you clutch around his head like a vice, to the point where he stops thrusting his finger and instead focuses entirely on nursing on your clit until you are trembling and sobbing for him to stop.
When your mind does not feel so foggy anymore, the first thing you notice is a heavy weight on your chest: content, your knight rests on your warm breasts. You simply cradle his cheek, placing a thankful kiss on his forehead.
It is not difficult to convince him to let you help him with his own arousal. His cock slides back and forth but it passes over your clit each time. Your nails dig into the skin of his forearm as your back is pressed securely against his chest, one of his hands resting firmly on your hips to pull you back and forth in perfect rhythm with his thrusts.
“Sweetness, I know–” James gasps. “I know it feels good but you need to stay put or it will end inside you.”
You whimper, it is so wet and warm and the way your intimate parts sound together is so perverse, yet the fear of being caught faded once your swollen clit started rubbing against his thick cock, every single vein deliciously teasing your wet folds.
Lightly grabbing your jaw, James lifts it up enough so he can press a loving kiss on your lips, his free hand groping your still naked chest. “So soft and so lovely for me, my princess.”
He shakes and clutches your skin hard enough to toy with the line between pleasure and pain, grunting prayers for forgiveness in your ear until he tarnishes your pussy with his seed. Your name has never sounded so tender on someone's lips.
James is in the practice yard when he hears you running. Not the measured steps you usually take when you come to find him, nor the careful quiet of your secret meetings in his room. This is ragged, uneven— skirts hitched too high, breath breaking. He turns just as you burst through the archway, cheeks wet with fat tears and eyes shining red.
“James!” You scream, to hell with good manners. And the way his name fractures in your mouth makes his blood go cold.
He crosses the yard in three strides and catches you before you could say anything else. Not an embrace— he never dares that where stone and shadow could betray you— but his hands close around your forearms, steady. He forces his voice into the calm he uses on frightened horses and wounded men.
“What is it?” He frowns. “You are safe now. Slow your breathing.”
You shake your head, a sharp, helpless motion, and the tears spill at last. “They have decided.” You whisper, closing your eyes in pain. “My parents. They have chosen him.”
The world narrows to the irregular sound of your breathing and the dull thud of James’ own heart. Chosen. Him. The words echo, merciless.
For a moment, an image rises unbidden: a foreign lord’s hand closing over yours, a crown pressed down where his fingers brush your hair. A life sealed shut like a door slammed in his face.
He loosenes his grip before you can feel his hands tremble.
“Who?” He swallows around a knot, though the name hardly matters. Any name that is not his would have the same weight.
Your eyes land on his chest, unable to face the storm inside his. “A duke from the western side. They say he is… Suitable.” Your voice breaks again, a cruel scoff of a laugh falling from your lips. “That this will secure the border for good.”
Something fierce and ugly surges in him then— an instinct as old as hunger. Take you and run. Put steel between you and anyone who dares claim you. He has lived with less than nothing before; he could do it again if it meant you are free.
But he says none of it.
“James, I can’t– I don’t want him. I don’t want any of this. You have to do something please! I–” Your words tumble over one another, dissolving into a thin, frightened sound. A tremor runs through you, and your hand presses on your chest as though trying to hold your heart in place. Your fingers tighten in his shirt, and your gaze darts past him as if the world has started to spin at the speed of light.
James angles his body so he blocks you from any prying eyes. His voice remains low, firm. “Look at me.” His finger gently lifts your chin. “Do you trust me?” You desperately nod. “Then follow me, we cannot stay here.”
Your eyes flick to his, wide and unfocused. Somewhere beyond the archway, footsteps echo— distant, but real. Without hesitation, James reaches for his cloak, previously abandoned on a stone, and wraps it around your shoulders, drawing the hood up to shadow your face. His hands are steady even as his pulse thunders in his ears, you are more important.
“Head down.” He murmurs. “Stay close and do not speak.”
His hand on your back guides you forward, the other subtly steering you through the narrow passages he knows better than his own body. Every corner suddenly feels dangerous. Every servant, every guard a threat— not to him, but to your dignity and privacy. If they see you like this, tear-streaked, shaking, it would spread. Whispers would turn to speculation. Speculation to certainty.
James would not allow it.
You reach your chambers without incident, and James wastes no time. He locks the door behind you, and only then does he turn back to you. The moment the latch clicks, your strength weakens. You sag against the door, breath coming in short, broken gasps. James is there instantly, kneeling in front of you, his presence solid, unyielding.
“You are safe.” He utters quietly. “No one can see you now.”
Inside, fear claws at him, sharp and relentless. The walls meant to protect you are now a deadly trap, and this is only the beginning. The first crack in something that could shatter you both. But he keeps his face calm, his voice sure. Panic could take many things from him, but not you, not while he still stands between your peace and the world.
“Breathe with me, my heart.” He encourages softly, one of your hands led to his chest to match his breathing. “I am here now, nothing can hurt you.”
He knows how this world works, how little a princess’s wish could weigh against treaties and borders. His love feels suddenly small and useless, a candle guttering in a storm. He draws in a slow breath and waits until you match it, until the sobs ease into shaky inhales. All the while, dread coils tighter around his heart. He could face blades and hunger and exile, but the prospect of a future where he stands by and watches you marry a man that is not him, against your will… He would tear that future apart before he allowed it to come to pass.
Only when the blizzard inside you quiets, your legs give up under you. James promptly catches your waist, guiding you to sit on your bed with a softness that makes tears spring up in your eyes again.
“What am I supposed to do?” You whisper, hands fisted in his cloak as if it was the only solid thing left.
“You are not alone.” He chooses each word like a step across thin ice. “We’ll find a way forward.”
“I refuse to let anyone else touch me the way you should, James.” You swallow, tugging him closer by his shirt. “Let it be you, the man I love, before I am married off to someone undeserving of my touch, who only values gold and titles.”
“My love, what are you suggesting—”
“Take me.”
“Don’t—” He strangles out. “Some words are too dangerous to be spoken aloud.”
“Why?” You almost shriek. “I love you James, and you love me. Let it be you!”
“You must,” His jaw tightens. “You must think this through. If anyone was to hear… If this were spoken of, it would stain you. I won’t be the reason—”
“Please, James.” You are now sobbing, clinging to his shirt like the last thing tethering you to this world. The sight strikes him harder than any blow. “We have already indulged in each other's pleasure—”
James stares at you, disbelieving. “What you are asking is completely different. Don't say what cannot be taken back.”
Your voice shakes, but it does not falter. “I am to be given to a man who sees me as a treaty, as a chest of gold with a crown upon it. He does not know me. He does not love me.” You sniffle. “You do.”
“That is precisely why I can’t,” he replies, too quickly. “Because I love you.”
Your fingers reach up, stopping just short of touching his cheek, as if granting him the chance to pull away. “James,” you whisper. “Please. Let me choose something for myself before I am no longer allowed to.”
His ears ring. He craves to close the distance, to give you the comfort you ask for, the truth his body has known long before his mind allowed it. He needs to have you, and mark you. No one would be allowed to claim you.
“Are you certain?” He asks hoarsely. “Tell me you won’t regret this. Tell me you won’t wake tomorrow and wish I had been stronger than you were.”
You meet his gaze without flinching. “I will regret it if you don’t.”
For a long moment, James does nothing. He sits there, torn between devotion and damnation, between the man he has sworn to be and the man you are asking him to become. Then, with a care that borders on reverence, he lifts a hand to your cheek, as if even that was a transgression in this moment, and leans in.
The kiss is supposed to be brief, chaste. A promise rather than a claim. But after he pulls away, his breath unsteady, his forehead resting against yours as if he could not trust himself to look at you, his restraint snaps.
With a moan, his hand moves against the back of your neck, pulling you until your lips collide with his. His other hand finds its way to your hip, rubbing the skin through the soft fabric of your gown in a soothing motion.
“You are trembling,” he comments softly. “Are you scared of me, my heart?” You quickly shake your head, pulling him down into another breathless kiss. He groans, kissing you harder, hand finally sliding down to cup one of your breasts. Heat instantly floods your core, and he revels in your little gasps. “Gods, you don’t even know what you do to me.” Your cheeks are flaming at the veneration in his words, his compliment igniting something deep inside of you, a burning, aching need in your belly that has you wiggling your hips to relieve some of the tension.
“It's just me.” Your breath quivers as his forehead gently rests against yours. “Let me worship you, my love.”
You can only nod eagerly, and James kisses you again until you are dizzy. His hand slides back under your dress, his fingers softly caressing your skin until you tighten your hold on his shirt. He undresses you slowly, taking his time in admiring the sight of you beneath him as you slowly bare more and more of your gorgeous body to him, until you are fully exposed to his gaze, now lying on your bed.
You tentatively reach up and grasp at his shirt, helping him pull it over his head, and you moan at the sight of his broad chest. You have seen him shirtless before, but never like this. Never when he was looking at you like an animal hunting its prey. Pressing your lips to his, you continue your mission of undressing him, clumsily toying with the hem of his pants and helping him to tug them down his legs, leaving you both naked and vulnerable.
Your gaze wanders downwards before you even realize it has, and you quietly gasp at the sight of his cock, already hard and aching for attention.
James notices the way your eyes fight the urge to glance back down at his cock, and a little grin brightens his features. You can sense in his warm gaze and the way he holds you closely to him, that he understood what you crave.
He moves to straddle you, pressing his forehead to yours so all you can see are his pretty blue eyes staring right back at you, blocking out the rest of the world and your own thoughts. “Speak to me, sweetness.”
You put your hand on his heart thumping in excitement as the other one traces the expanse of his torso, until it reaches his cock. When you wrap your fingers around his girth, you both let out a loud moan. He always feels so heavy in your hand, so thick and hard under your fingertips as a pang of arousal shoots through you when he moans out your name at the contact. Oh, you could barely wait to have him inside of you.
“My greedy princess.” He exhales slowly, precum dribbling from the tip and you cannot resist the urge to thumb over his sensitive tip to collect some of it. You barely contain your pleased grin when he moans loudly at the feeling, he could come on the spot if you do not abandon your teasing motions.
To know that he is the first man you have ever seen or touched sends a sensation through him that he cannot quite describe. Something primal that fills him with the pride of being the first to have you like this. To be the only man who will ever have you wholly like this.
“I don’t believe it's going to fit.” You breathe out, drooling like a hungry mutt as you keep jerking him off.
“Then let's get you stretched until it does, princess.”
James worships you with his mouth and fingers. He makes sure to guide you so your hips roll against his eager tongue. You gain a rhythm, moving back and forth seeking out that delicious friction against your clit as you grasp his hair with both hands. Your breath comes out in short pants, and you feel the pressure deep within your pussy close to overtaking you. His fingers move with care, slipping between your thighs like he already knows your body’s secrets. The first touch makes you gasp— gentle, slow, utterly devoted. You rock down against his mouth a couple more times, two fingers deep abusing your sweet spot until you cry out, your first orgasm bursting and rippling over your body. James hums approvingly as he drinks your slick like fine wine.
“I have given you the world, my love.” He kisses you again, letting you taste yourself on his tongue, as his length teases your folds. “Let me show you the divine devotion of a true knight, loyal until the bitter end.” Slowly inching it inside you to revel in the feeling of your tight walls, you can only moan into his mouth in response. At first, he thrusts inside you slowly and deliberately to get you used to the feeling. The sensation is initially foreign to you, the stretch unlike anything you have ever known, pain and pleasure mixing together in the most delicious way as you whimper against his mouth.
“I’ve wanted you since the first time I saw you.” He starts to rut into you more roughly, abandoning his rhythm once he has a taste of you. “Just like this.” His hips snap forward, and you cry out in response.
“Oh James, Gods above!” Your back arches, legs tightening around his waist, silently begging for more.
“I'm not going to last if you look at me like that.” You can only kiss him, his hips rocking against yours to the hilt in a rhythm that makes you clutch at his bicep with one hand and his neck with the other, nails exquisitely marking his skin.
“I can't let you marry him, I can't let you go.” He needs you ruined for any other man. His fingers trails between your thighs, stroking lazy, merciless circles until your hips jerk up. His mouth closes around the swell of your breast, tongue hot and insistent on your nipples, and you cry out, arching against him.
“James.” Your voice breaks as your body trembles on the edge.
“Forgive me, my princess. I cannot stop.”
“You're not allowed to stop!” You whimper.
“You’re mine to cherish, mine to love.” James whispers, voice rough with possession. “I’ll worship you within an inch of your sanity, fuck you so tenderly and viciously that you will think of nothing but this moment.”
And when he kisses you again, filthy and slow, your body shatters for the second time, clinging to him as you come undone. Shame no longer exists; only the endless tide of your desperate touch, and your sweet moans as he tears you apart. He swears he has never seen anything more angelic than the sight of you overtaken by pure bliss.
A shiver runs down your spine when his gaze lifts to meet yours, dark and wild, and you swear he growls when his body presses you more firmly into the wrinkled sheets, his mouth at your throat, your legs disgracefully open for him and only him. James brutally thrusts into you, harder, deeper, the sound of your cries jumping on the marble walls, careless of any servant that might walk by and hear you.
Every thrust, every scrape of his teeth along your skin, every hot kiss to your breast claims you wholly.
“I can’t— Gods!” He pants your name into your neck, kissing and sucking down the column of your throat, his hand digging into your thighs mercilessly. You are so close again you can barely breathe. The world narrows to the animalistic pace of his hips, his musky scent, the heat building in your core. When your climax hits you for the third and final time, it’s like a storm roaring inside you. James feels you clench around him impossibly tighter, indulging in the way you scream his name, shaking and moaning out of control. An angel made of sinful rapture, pliant for your knight to use as he pleases. Your delicious whimpers and the sounds of your wet pussy sucking his cock back in are utterly obscene, and he knows he is not going to last much longer.
“I need—” He groans, crashing his mouth against yours in an open-mouth kiss. His thrusts grow erratic, before spilling into you with a deep, shuddering moan muffled by your raw lips, filling you with his warmth.
Clinging to each other, both of you tremble, your body exhausted yet sated. James breathes heavily against the damp crook of your neck while you gently thread your fingers through his hair. His hold around you is urgent, terrified someone might break the door down and drag him away from you. Your arms tighten around his shoulders to keep this moment forever, because no matter what is going to happen, you belong to him.
James lies on his side, staring at the gradually slowing of your chest beside him, tracing the curve of your eyelashes in his mind, the gentle brush of your hair tickling his skin.
He has always known loyalty, but today it transformed into something more. Fierce, unyielding, all-consuming. Your laughter, your sighs, the way you look at him when you think no one is watching— they are all treasures he would guard with his life. He could fight armies, bear scars, face danger without hesitation, but nothing matters as much as your happiness.
Not even his armor.
He presses his hand to his chest, feeling the rhythm of his heartbeat sing the truth he has tried to ignore for so long. He has no crown to offer you, no kingdom to claim, no power to command armies. But he has his sword, his vow. And his heart, utterly, irreversibly yours.
When his forehead rests against yours, and your fingers intertwine, your focus is solely on him.
“I have a sword to protect you, but not a crown to have you. Marry me, my sweetness, and let us leave behind this world that wants to bind you. Let us write our own story, where we are free, and happiness is ours alone.”
Your breath hitches at those hushed words, outshouting every symphony, every reprimand, every demand that has shaped your life. Tears well in your eyes, shimmering like the morning light as your free hand cradles his already damp cheek.
“Oh my beloved knight. Yes James, I will be your wife! Take me with you and let's leave this place behind. Together.”
He holds you close, feeling the weight of every fear and every doubt melt away. In that embrace, surrounded by the warm light of the candles, you allow yourselves to believe in a future untouched by duty or sorrow— a future that is entirely and beautifully yours.
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