...And the Morning Will Scare the Shadows Away - S.R.
Type: standalone omegaverse fated-mates one-shot with all three basic food groups (angst, smut, fluff)
Pairing: alpha!nomad!Steve Rogers x reader Word count: 6k (close enough)
Summary:
|| And first and foremost, you were an omega who knew with every fibre of her being that seeing the shadow of this alpha among the trees, a familiar outline by now, never posed any threat to you.
You were his omega. Even as you weren’t.
Warnings: nsfw, 18+, smut, oral (f receiving), PIV, biting/marking/bonding, omegaverse, allusions to overstimulation and squirting, a few drops of angst, so many f-bombs, nomad Steve Rogers because he’s a warning, me writing omegaverse which is… pretty new
A/N: HELLO. This is my early submission for Siri's Birthday Bash, because smut queens deserve early presents to open whenever they want. Prompts: Omegaverse, “You have no idea what you scent does to me.”, oral sex (f receiving); divider by @firefly-graphics
You were on your knees, scooping a pile of earth over the seeds you’d just planted, quite literally elbows deep in work, when you got a whiff of him.
It stopped you right in your place, hands freezing mid-motion. Your gaze snapped up instantly, all senses suddenly on highest alert, body strung, your inner omega shuddering on an instinct as old as time.
An alpha.
Woods caressed by fresh wind after summer rain, leather and pine, dipped in a musky scent that had your breath catch.
An alpha.
An alpha at the edge of your property, nothing but you and him and your house and a lonely road and woods around for miles. The outline of him, a tall figure with shoulders insanely broad compared to his narrow waist, thighs visibly thick even from the distance, all that spoke of exactly how much chance anyone, let alone an omega, would stand against him.
He was brimming with explosive power and yet. Yet, it was not out of fear you straightened to your full height immediately; for you weren’t just any omega.
You were an omega with a good friend in a beta doctor in town who was not hesitant to hand out suppressants for an omega who could otherwise be in danger at her isolated property, should a stray alpha come knocking at her door.
You were an omega whose mother taught her how to handle a shotgun and a rifle before the age of ten, because the world wasn’t always the kindest to those of your designation.
And first and foremost, you were an omega who knew with every fibre of her being that seeing the shadow of this alpha among the trees, a familiar outline by now, never posed any threat to you. It did not, even as he would sometimes argue about it in a hushed voice, the reminder he meant so strikingly painful every time he left.
You were his omega. Even as you weren’t.
The first time he skimmed around the edge of your property, it had been two days since you had crossed paths at the hardware store in town. His scent had your body going haywire, plummeting you towards the closest thing to a real heat you had in years, all that on a single whiff and a wordless exchange with his startled blue gaze piercing your very soul.
Two days of questioning your body and mind as you could not think straight, deep rooted instincts guiding you to build a nest, barely moving outside of it, almost 48 hours of burning skin and scorching need nothing seemed to sate. Two days until you managed to eat at least a few bites and have a small walk in order to water the plants in your garden despite the tremble in your limbs and incessant ache between your legs and the echo of a deeper ache within your ribcage.
You realized who he was to you the second your inner omega had gone mad.
You realized who he was to the world the second you saw him standing in the shadows of the pine trees, the outline of a man who could only be real in a world where superheroes existed.
You made your decision at the former realisation and solidified it at the latter, sensing his hesitation to approach almost as strong as your pull towards him and his to your home, his feet moving as if of their own accord.
You left the door open that day, stepping in to make tea and coffee and to serve cookies of all things, blindly driven to take care of your alpha, to please him, to make a home; your breath caught, your trembling heart pounding the moment he actually walked in.
You never got to eat or drink, even as you tried to be polite, both of you, to think it through. To fight the natural designation breaking through your suppressants and scent masking with ease, because where modern medicine might be able to fool an omega’s body and alpha’s and beta’s sense of smell, it was useless in face of the precious phenomenon of fated mates.
He was yours. You were his.
There was no fighting it – not completely. Neither of you had the willpower to stay underwater when the air you needed to breathe was at your fingertips, your scent all over your house enticing him, his seeping into it in perfect harmony, like puzzle pieces falling into place.
Before you knew it you were standing inches apart, his nose trailing along your wrist with a groan, your mind hazy, body vibrating in anticipation, voice breathless even as you breathed quick and shallow in order to remain composed and at least a tad rational. Exchanging names was the least you could do and the most you managed before you could not hold back any longer.
You knew who he was; he knew you knew. You knew his situation, or enough of it, the star he had been carrying on his chest faded and torn away, his golden boy persona and looks long gone.
It didn’t make a goddamn difference.
If anything, the ragged bearded man who stood but two inches from you was the embodiment of an alpha and everything about him had your inmost carnal instincts and soul-deep longing scream mine.
My Steve. My alpha.
The kiss he pressed to your wrist was tender, the chirp escaping you nearing a whimper, knees wobbling under the overwhelming sensation rushing through your body. He caught you with arm firmly wrapped around you and a kiss that was all teeth and desperate need and laying a claim and you reciprocated with fervour, inhaling his intoxicating scent and the rest were days to remember spent in a haze and pleasure you had never known to exist before.
And pain. Sharp and dull at once, its echo resonating in your ribcage even now as you shed the gardening gloves and went to wash your hands, starting the kettle and laying out ingredients for a warm homecooked meal Steve – former Captain America turned fugitive from the law of several countries – deserved and got to eat scarcely.
Sometimes, you didn’t make it past a hello, his hands on you wishing to recreate the imprints they had left weeks if not months ago, exploring you anew, nose against your neck, teeth scraping over the most sensitive part of your throat to induce pleasure so intense you forgot how to make a sound or think.
Other times, you held each other first and inhaled softly, allowing yourselves to reacquaint with someone who was fated to belong with you, who was yours with every fibre of their being, the cracks in your ribcages mended at last, body, soul and home rebuilt.
Today, it seemed, was the case of the former.
You were ruminating through the cabinets, trying to figure out what to cook, when Steve’s arms circled you from behind and pulled you to his front, nose instantly at your collar, breathing in deeply with a satisfied rumble in his chest that had your omega shivering with delight. Heat rushed all over your skin as you inhaled deeply, hands covering his, body melting in his hold already as you felt familiar burn at the apex of your thighs respond to his presence like clockwork.
“Alpha…” you whispered, shuddering when he hummed behind you, arms squeezing tighter, mouth pressing to the side of your neck, lingering, a quick lap of tongue over your skin making him groan; and you clutch at his forearms, legs turning weaker as your blood rushed elsewhere.
It was torture; torture of the bittersweetest kind, a tease of a promise never delivered on and never as much as made. It twisted your stomach in knots, the ache of his absence, the agonizing absence of a bonding mark already flaring through you and chasing tears into your eyes, deep-bone agony you knew would come again, because you had been here before. Every single time.
Every single time he came, after weeks, months apart, gloomy and deprived, to forget the rough world he somehow still believed deserved saving even after they had called him a criminal for choosing his best friend, for choosing his own morals instead of being a good little soldier; days of utter bliss and intangible happiness that would slip through your fingers again and again, because it was not safe to stay. Not for him. Not for you.
Bonding would be worse. You heard enough horror stories to know them to be true; that mates, true mates in particular, could not spent more than weeks apart, slowly withering without each other and dying of grief. They said parting was like a piercing one’s heart with needles; and losing your mate to death then was like severing all limbs one by one and then reaching into your chest with an iron fist and ripping your heart straight out.
It was better this way. That was what you told yourself when screaming and weeping into your pillows wrapped in the shirt he would always leave behind, soaked in his scent to sooth your pain, like a band-aid over a gunshot wound still oozing blood.
You knew he felt the same. You knew that when he left when you were awake, he was a wreck no one would never recognize as the once nation’s most beloved hero.
But every time, every time he came back, you knew. You knew that the bliss, the happiness you could steal away for just a few moments, was worth it all. Because being with Steve did not just satisfy your inner omega, didn’t quench the fire that was already creeping through your veins when all your senses were drowned in him; it was the contentment that settled every fear and met every longing your heart ever felt, softness and delight threading through your very being.
The same overwhelming emotion that chased your tears away now, for when he was here, there was no space for mourning him leaving in a few hours or days.
Your sunk into his body, saying his name like a plea and a prayer, feeling his smile over the scrape of his beard, a devious little thing against your collarbone, one of his hands sliding lower, spreading over your thigh, hips rutting against you to make you feel exactly how much your runaway soldier had missed you too. His lips began to wander and so did his hands, stilling and squeezing hard when you tried to turn and face him to taste his mouth.
“’mega… smell so sweet…”
You whimpered, thighs clenching when he returned to the ministrations over the sensitive skin of your throat, your head falling back to his shoulder to give him space, hand sinking into his locks to keep him there, slick already gathering in your underwear and threatening to soak through your panties and sweats alike. His hand slipped under your shirt, sneaking past your bra until his fingers found your hardened nipple and pinched it lightly.
“Steve—oh my god-“
Your clutched at his hair when he nipped at your mating gland, still playing with your hardened nub, gush of arousal leaking down your thighs, your other hand gripping the counter as your legs threatened to give out completely. And yet, somehow your hips had a mind of their own, pressing against the hard bulge of his crotch.
“Sweet, sweet ‘mega… you have no idea what you scent does to me, I swear… wake up hard every fucking morning I’m not with you.”
“I dream of you-“ you echoed his desire softly, a confession so intimate it would be dangerous with any other.
But Steve… his breath hitched, a firm yet gentle grip of your jaw and throat appearing so fast your head spun, face angled so he could claim your mouth and trap you against the counter all the same, his groan swallowing your whimper, fingers digging into the muscle of his forearm, his gripping your hip, lips locked in a searing kiss that had your toes curl, all tongue and teeth – and shockingly slow and indulgent, licking the taste of longing from each other’s mouth.
Deprived of oxygen for too long, you had to part after what felt like an eternity passing in a blink of an eye, too fleeting.
For a moment you stilled, lips still laid over his, unwilling to separate further than a hair’s distance.
“I missed you so much, honey… so fucking much,” he rasped and the profound pain was like a drag of a rusty nail against your skin, chasing the burn of tears to the base of your nose; because yes.
Yes, Steve suffered too, every time he walked away, each time harder than the one before.
He feared, too, he had once admitted; in a post-orgasmic haze and tender pillow talk where you had both opened your hearts raw.
About how scared you were that one day, he wouldn’t come back; because he’d get killed trying to atone for the sins of having his own moral compass and falling out with the law; because he’d realize this wasn’t living, that the pain wasn’t worth it.
About how scared he was that one day, he’d find your door closed or shut to his face, because less than the half-relationship and the rivers of tears he caused you were a beast of a burden you did not want to bear anymore; that he did not deserve your love when all he did was to disturb your peace.
But neither of you had had a choice in this, in fate or natural laws or whichever having ruled over you, making you belong together.
And you still chose each other.
You used the momentary weakness in his grip to turn in his hold, palms riding up his chest slow, over his sternum, heart vigorously beating under your palm, until you could cradle his face, gorgeous features distorted by ache and vulnerability he so rarely revealed. Deeply sad blues observed you like you were a goddess he had no right to pray to; gaze holding onto you like you were the last shred of sanity in the insane world.
And when you whispered you loved him, he gripped you tight and kissed you like you were the only home he’d ever known.
“Take me to bed, love,” you whispered against his mouth, hands sneaking under his hoodie and t-shirt to feel and roam the wide planes of muscle, the heat of his skin and the taste of his mouth, the press of the hard ridges of his body giving you a high you wouldn’t exchange for anything.
You rocked your hips against his when he didn’t make a single move towards the bed, a needy sound pushing past your lips when he rippled his mouth away and trailed lower, strong hands gripping the fabric of your shirt and ripping, buttons clinking all over the floor. Your bra went next, offending to the path his mouth took, sensitive skin all but tickled by his beard when he took your nipple to his mouth, teeth grazing, hands grabbing your hips bucking impatiently despite the onslaught of pleasure.
“Steve— Steve, please-“
He chuckled against your breasts, mumbling about impatient little omegas and you would have been offended had it not had your core clench, just how easily he torn the sweats down to your ankles, tearing your soaked panties away. Your fingers had tangled into his hair god knew when, holding on for dear life when he hoisted you up on the counter, sliding your sweats off of one of your ankles just so he could push your legs apart and make space for his wide shoulders.
“Alpha—aaah-!”
There was no warning. No teasing. He slanted his mouth over your opening without preamble, the burn of his beard on your tender flesh causing you to yelp, the sound bleeding into a pathetic whimper when his tongue pushed deep inside you, lapping at your core with vigour. Your head tipped backwards, knocking against the cupboard and you didn’t give a shit, your hips already pushing against him, the tension in your core skyrocketing at Steve’s appreciative growl.
You might have pulled at his hair too hard too. You weren’t sure. You didn’t care.
“That’s it, ‘mega, give it to me…”
You did. The weeks apart, endless days of longing and withholding had the fire licking at your insides exploded at once with a broken shout of ‘alpha!’, violent tremble shaking your body, your grip falling slack as he didn’t relent, a half-sob pushing past your lips when he sucked on your oversensitive clit and pushed you over the threshold for the second time, having you gush all over his face, thumb pressing against your thighs where you tried to close them.
Your wanted to tell him to stop, to say that it was too much, but you couldn’t remember how words worked, tongue heavy, head spinning from the pleasure pulsing through your every nerve ending. He chuckled against the apex of your thighs when he finally did relent, nipping on the slick skin of your inner thighs, gathering your juices on his tongue as if it was the most exquisite liquor.
Your jerked in his hold when he sucked what would be a spectacular bruise, only then letting you off the hook, mouth travelling back up over your overwrought body, giving you a taste of yourself when he kissed you and licked into your mouth the same way he did into your centre.
His jeans were straining when he gathered your trembling form in his arms, laying you on the bed with unfair tenderness, shedding his hoodie and t-shirt before sheeting your body with the length of his own, the warmth radiating off his skin and the scent of arousal, both you and his, oozing off of him, willing your shaking hands to make a quick if clumsy work of his belt and the button of his jeans.
You didn’t bother pushing his jeans and boxers beyond what you needed to hold him in your hand, the familiar weight spiking your arousal anew, his growl at your soft ministrations and thumb gathering the beads of precum all but music to your ears.
“Be good, ‘mega… don’t tease your--- alpha,” he said, not nearly as firmly as he’d wish, voice cracking at a little twist of your hand, having him grip your wrist in warning.
Your gaze snapped to his, so dark with desire there was but a circle of your beloved blue left, and you couldn’t but smile a little, flattered despite having countless prior proves of his desire for you.
“I’m always good for my alpha,” you whispered, accentuating your point by gently squeezing him, his hips buckling into your touch involuntarily, eyes fluttering shut.
“Yeah. Yes, you are.”
That was the last coherent words either of you uttered as he pushed your hand away and aligned himself with your entrance, coating himself in your slick before sliding in easily despite his more than impressive size, the resounding groan of satisfaction filling your cabin before the wet sounds of skin slapping skin replaced it, generous praise spilling from his lips when they weren’t too busy stealing air from your lungs or mouthing at your throat.
He took you slowly and he took you hard, making you feel every inch, tilting your hips to his liking and you let him, holding onto his shoulders, nose buried in his neck when his rhythm faltered and sped up only to slow down again, dragging his length all the way out only to push in again, fingers sneaking between your bodies to where you were connected, fingertips dipping in your slick before circling your clit, your hips buckling up as a shockwave of pleasure had your back arch.
When his mouth latched onto your throat, sucking at the thin skin over your mating gland, you were done for, crying out his name in ecstasy and anticipation that lit up your body with life and delight.
Instincts took over, blinding you for a moment.
But he was in control.
As impossible as you knew it was, only managing to do so very few times yourself, Steve had you, in the worst way possible, quick to offer his chest so your teeth sunk to the skin just above his collarbone, his groan as much pleasure as pain as his hips stuttered and his mouth latched onto your shoulder instead, teeth sinking in with bliss and emptiness at once.
You were still riding out your orgasm when the ache in your ribcage flared up anew, empty grief of a failed bonding ripping away the sweetest haze there could be, bliss bleeding into misery as your voice hoarse from shouting Steve’s name and designation torn up in a sob before you could stifle it for both of your sakes.
The sound Steve made at that, smothered by your skin, was nothing short of a whimper – and you hated yourself. God, you hated yourself because you knew all to well this wasn’t helping, not to you, certainly not to him and you swallowed the begging already pushing to your tongue for him to bond you, Alpha, please, please make me yours--
It was instinct ruling over reason, a pipe dream painted in the fog of peak pleasure you rationally knew was not possible, not now, if ever.
So instead of begging, you gripped Steve tighter, nails digging into his back and biceps, whispering an apology that got drowned in his ‘sorries’ and ‘I love you’s’. You were still catching your breath when you kissed his skin where you had left your mark, a patch of skin already littered by faded imprints of your teeth, not unlike the one you carried yourself.
They never fully healed.
Unlike the half-moons of your nails where you grabbed him too tight, unlike the bruises Steve sometimes left when losing control and needing you closer, unlike the first time he had sunk his teeth into his forearm to stop himself from bonding you, these bites never healed. They left scars. Brands, even. You supposed it was biology; nature’s way of saying that no matter whether a bonding mark or not, a true mate’s bite was a brand to carry with pride.
And proud you were, the little marks a cherished memory when Steve was too far for you to remember he loved you even if he hadn’t made you his or become truly yours.
You stayed in each other embrace for long minutes if not hours, to feel connected, to sooth the grief of the being robbed of the precious gift you had been given but couldn’t enjoy.
Steve cleaned you up with tenderness that ached in your bones and had you swallow the tears before they could come, soft words you managed to reciprocate even if your tongue left like made of lead. You munched on cookies he found in the pantry, the terrible store-bought ones, and drank the tea having long turned cold even as the weight on a full mug in your hands was too much. You fell asleep as soon as Steve wrapped you in his arms and pulled you to his front, nose in your hair, your hand gripping his to scent him in your sleep, and your last thought was that once you woke, you’d make him that homecooked meal you had set to prepare before you went and tore each other’s clothes off.
You weren’t sure what woke you up, mind groggy and every movement heavy, but the thin light of a crack of dawn teased your eyelids, the scent of sex – and Steve – tickling your nose and making you smile.
His fingers were lightly threading through your hair in periodic motions, fingertips caressing your temple and your cheek as your head was laid on his chest, he himself propped up with his back against the headboard.
Your smile at the simple affection quickly faded when you realized there was only one reason he could have woken you up.
He was leaving.
He sometimes sneaked away before you could be roused from your sleep, the parting easier and harder on both of you at once. Easier, because neither of you had to confront the emotion of the other or stifle your own; harder, because leaving you without a goodbye went against everything Steve wanted and stood for, leaving you vulnerable and like you were some dirty secret he’d fuck and abandon; harder, because waking up to his shirt instead of him and his warmth was like having your heart torn in two.
It was the anticipation of pain and grief combined with sleep-induced foolishness that had you plop your arm over his waist, nuzzling the warmth of his skin, lips barely moving yet speaking.
“Stay.”
You felt and heard his breath hitch above you, fingers stilling in their movement, before he was shifting under you and was pulling you up his lap to straddle him, mouth slanting over yours and having your heart skip a startled and more than pleased beat as you felt his hardness catch against your opening, still slick thanks to his presence alone.
Not leaving then. At least not yet.
Just-
“Need you, ‘mega… need to feel you need me,” he rasped, the words nothing new yet carrying a strange urgency that should have given you a pause but didn’t. Instead, it spurred you on.
Stealing a glance at him as you started to roll your hips, sliding over his length to coat him in your slick, his head fell back with lips parted and you wished you were more awake, wished you could capture the perfect image of him forever. Blissed out, mouth already red and kiss-swollen, eyelids shut, lashes casting shadows over his gorgeous face, sharp features softened by the beard, dark blond hair like a halo with the first sunrays peeking through the blinds.
He didn’t rush you, hands laid over your hips, caressing your soft flesh with indulgence, eyes fluttering open to watch you as you rose to your knees and slowly sunk down his length, a welcome intrusion despite the slight ache, a memento to just few hours prior.
His hand went to your nape then, pulling you in for a kiss, hesitant at first, until he felt you give in as easily as always, melting against him even as you never ceased the undulation of your hips, riding him slowly while he made love to your mouth, his other hand sprawled over your bare back.
“My beautiful omega… my fucking everything,” he husked, mouth trailing down your neck, pressing a desperately tender kiss over your mating gland, lingering, sighing and gently stilling your hips with both of his hands, forehead falling on your shoulder.
Emotion you could not quite put your finger on rolled off of him in waves, making you choke up, a heavy sensation settling in your stomach. You didn’t push, hand settling on his head, fingers gently massaging his scalp, fighting hard not to tremble as you remained connected, tethering on the brink of reaching for pleasure.
Haze lifted, your mind began racing, your omega shivering and shifting in discomfort as she could not read her alpha beyond him being distraught.
And suddenly, you were cold too. The temperature in the room wasn’t any lower, you were sure, but you shuddered, your free hand balling into a fist, a terrible fear rippling through.
No.
God, no, no no no.
Don’t let this be it, don’t let him to-
“I got a call… multiple calls, made a few myself,” he said, swallowing loudly and your fingers twitched as impossible tightness squeezed your ribcage, the icy fear growing in your chest, cursing at your exhaustion that had let you sleep through all that. “It was about Ross.”
Your jaw clenched on instinct.
You knew very little about Senator Thadeus Ross. You knew he was a political figure, he was a dick and he was the leading man in the hunt for the rogue Captain America and his band of misfits as he liked to paint it.
Getting a call about him could only mean a terrible thing.
And yet, when Steve sighed, hands gripping your hips, fingers digging into your flesh, head rising to meet your gaze, there was a spark in his eyes you had never seen before. It was a stark contrast to the apprehension written in his features and you could feel the anxiety in your gut ease minutely.
Biting your tongue, you observed Steve without blurting out the WHAT? that clawed at your throat.
“He’s out of the picture, retired, possibly forced to retire… he’s been replaced, silently, they only now released a statement to the press,” Steve spoke slowly, carefully measuring every word. “Senator Wilkins, his replacement, he’s… he’s already managed to get things moving within the week of being in the office. And…”
Steve watched you draw in a deep breath, the smallest bloom of hope springing in your heart even when you tried your damnest not to let grow, but couldn’t quite manage, because-
“-he’s got the American government to grant us all a pardon.”
You choked on an incredulous laugh, hand flying to your mouth at the absurd sound and then you realized that you did not give a damn about whether your reaction was appropriate – if there even was an appropriate reaction when something seemed to explode in your chest and chased tears into your eyes, your heart hammering against your sternum three hundred times a minute, blood rushing past your temples, your head spinning, vision turning blurry with tears.
“Are you--- are you saying-“
Steve’s warm palms framed your face softly, forehead touching yours with gentleness incarnate that only had you crying harder, your gaze swimming but not blinding you to the fact that his eyes were glassy too.
“Yeah… I’m--- if you--- I’m yours,” he choked out, a broken chuckle tickling your lips before he brushed them with his own, voice falling into a whisper you were sure you had to dream up, because it couldn’t be true, it couldn’t— he couldn’t-- fuck, you needed to breathe, but he- “If you’ll have me, if you let me, if you still want me, if-“
You grabbed his face unceremoniously and stole whatever stupid sentence he was about to follow up with with your mouth, chest pressing to his so there wasn’t an inch left between you, claiming his mouth and swallowing his sound of surprise, stupid, stupid surprise-- as if you could ever say no to that, as if you hadn’t been yearning in pure agony for him to utter those words for over two years now.
Breaking the kiss for a breath, Steve did not waste a second and pressed his lips over sensitive skin of your throat, lapping at your neck, the sensation lighting your whole body with life and bliss, a promise never made and never delivered on, drawing a sound from your mouth that was a lovechild of a whimper and a laugh and a sob, his fingers digging into your flesh at it.
“Please, honey…. ‘mega,… be mine--- I’m yours, let me be yours…”
Voice breaking at the last word, you understood; you finally understood the apprehension you had seen. His heart-wrenching plea was dripping with hope, uncertainty and hopelessness. He was genuinely unsure you’d say yes.
For all the time he could not make promises, for Steve Rogers did not speak promises he wasn’t sure he could keep, he suddenly doubted if his promise was enough.
His tongue licked at the skin over your mating gland almost shyly, a reverent kiss, inhaling your scent deeply, the ministrations alone having your hips to begin to move again of their own accord, fuelled all the more with the carnal need to reassure your alpha that he was your fucking everything and you were never letting him go ever again.
“Yes, Steve—I’m yours too, I want you to be mine-“
A growl rippled from his throat, teeth grazing your gland and whitening out your vision for a moment with mind-shattering bliss, never breaking skin but so, so so so so close, drawing a frustrated whine from your mouth, your hips buckling at the tease of your peak – and of everything you ever wanted.
He tore his mouth from your neck, wild gaze meeting yours, the look in his eyes – utter adoration and desperate desire – your true undoing.
Balancing at the edge of a cliff, a half-step from falling into ecstasy, you were so high and dizzying you thought you must have imagined him saying it.
But you did not.
“Bond me, ‘mega— you first, please-“
Your breath caught in your throat, hazy mind coming to a screeching halt.
Bond me first, he said.
Take me. Love me. Wreck me. Was what he was truly saying.
It was a vow of its own, the most profound and binding one to exist.
Bond me first. Let me be the first one to be consumed by a bond so strong it would tear me apart if I ever left you again. Bond me first; even if it’s the only bond we seal tonight. Let it be me. Let me carry the weight. I long for it. I crave it.
And you didn’t hesitate. Not with climax on the tip of your fingers and tongue alike, already tasting the delicious thin skin sheathing his mating gland.
Not after years of pain and tears and yearning.
Your teeth broke the skin, Steve’s guttural groan of all-consuming pleasure and the stutter of his hips triggering your peak, wave of bliss washing over you as you sobbed into his throat, the scent of copper sweet where it blended into him; into the scent you so desperately wished to drown in for months and months to no end.
You felt him fill you the moment his teeth sank into your flesh in return, whiting out your vision with the slightest tinge of pain and blinding ecstasy, your shout stiffened in his neck as it felt as if someone reached deep inside you and set you aflame, core spasming with another peak that had you seize in Steve’s arms.
In your alpha’s arms.
Yours, yours, yours.
You shook against him as you both rode the waves of pleasure as carnal as tender, delighted laughter and relief shaking your ribcage even as no sound came out, tears streaming down your face and his alike.
You breathed against the fervorous beats of your heart and all you could sense was him.
His affection seeping thought every cell of your body, his longing, his guilt, his violent delight piercing his very bones. He trembled against you all the same, hot tears soaking the hair on your nape, his whispers of ‘thank you’ and ‘mega breaking your heart and making you sob and laugh at once.
His unsteady hands shifted, grasping your nape and jaw and pulling you away just so he could cradle your face and see you, his heavy-lidded eyes shining even as his pupils nearly swallowed the gorgeous blue you dreamed of every night. Your lower lip trembled with the undiluted adoration in his gaze as if you weren’t an utter mess soaking not only down your thighs and his, but in sweat from exertion and overwhelm too.
You had never felt more beautiful.
Never felt more cherished.
“My omega… my beautiful, perfect omega… mine,” he murmured, lips already chasing yours before you could respond, your husky whisper of ‘my alpha’ swallowed by his demanding mouth.
It was long, long moments before you both settled enough to clean up, only to cover each other in your scents again, caring little for rolling around in sheets that were nothing short of filthy with your love; marvelling in it instead.
And in the late hours of the morning, you fell asleep once more; Steve’s large body sheeting yours from behind, lips still attached to your freshly formed bond, pulsing with content, something within you moved and transformed forever.
You felt his serene heartbeat against your back, inside you, all over you, and clutched his hand to your chest even as you suspected he could feel and hear your heart anyway.
You held him like he held you, relaxed but firm, for you were never, ever again, letting go.
S.R. masterlist // Complete masterlist
Title and entire fic inspired by Sen by Lucie, lyrics loosely translated below.
Thank you so much for reading! I wanted to wait but I was so excited to have finished the story early and to have been in the flow after what felt like forever 🥹 If you enjoyed, I'd be delighted to hear your thoughts 💕
I hope July has been kind to you and so will August 🥺💕
And of course, many thanks to @stargazingfangirl18 for not only hosting this challenge, but also for being such a positive presence in the fandom 🥰 hope you'll have a blast on your birthday 😍
-lyrics follow for those who are interested-
The shadows of the days and dreams
are turning over and towards
the hands of a dark dream
that are trying to cover your eyes.
Your light reveals how I know
that it will come back with the new day.
The clouds are rolling
the wind breaking them in halves.
The shadows on your soul
disperse in the gloom –
like waves they leave after hours
and the moon scares new shadows away.
Kaleidoscopes of butterflies carry away fears
stardust is falling on fluttering leaves
flaring through fire and disappear far away.
Soundless steps in the celestial rhythm
swing and sing to us that soon
in the morning the fears get swept away.
The shadows of the days
will grow old and disappear.
All celestial signs
are lit up by our stars
that know all, and from the distance
they lead us on our paths
and the moon scares new shadows away.
Kaleidoscopes of butterflies carry away fears
stardust is falling on fluttering leaves
flaring through fire and disappear far away.
Soundless steps in the celestial rhythm
swing and sing to us that soon
in the morning the fears get swept away.
Kaleidoscopes of butterflies carry away fears
stardust is falling on fluttering leaves
and they scare new shadows away, away.
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.
Summary: At one of Tony’s many parties, Steve decides to wear that blue button up shirt that just looks amazing on him. Of course, you can’t stop staring and it definitely has an effect on you. You go to your room to have a little alone time, but you do not expect Steve to show up. Things go in a very interesting direction and the two of you end up having a little after party of your own.
Pairing: Steve x Fem!Reader
Warnings: Masturbation, smut (oral, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it folks)), orgasm denial, slightly dom!Steve, Steve’s a smug little shit and a tease
Requested by: @theoneandonlysaucymo
A/N: Thank you to @mo320 for being my wonderful beta!!
Summary: In which you can’t take your eyes off of Steve’s rather glorious abs.
This story was heavily inspired by “Counting One, Two Three” written by @brighterlights. Naturally, this one’s for Jade as she shares my fangirl feelings about Steve/Chris.
A/N: This is my first Steve story, and I thought it’s finally time to bring it out of queue-purgatory. Because I’ve gotten so used to writing for Bucky, switching over to Steve was a little bit of a challenge. However, I adore him so I’m going to try my best. Hope you enjoy! - j xx
“Sssh, guys it’s happening.”
Right when you look up, a tall figure stops running and pulls off his shirt, revealing a body Michelangelo’s David would have envied. The sunshine and sweat add a shiny gleam to the ridges of his pectoral and abdominal muscles, making him look like a fallen god from the skies of Olympus.
That is, if fallen gods wore tight gray running shirts and track pants.
“And there it is,” Wanda breaths, her already-large eyes widening. She and Nat start a slow clap, the latter adding in a couple of whistles.
“I can’t tell believe you dragged me out of bed at six in the morning on a Wednesday to watch someone take off his shirt,” you sigh as you tiredly rub your eyes. You look around - there’s no one at the track but three of you and the hottie with the abs.
“You can grumble all you want, (Y/N), but you have to admit this is hell of a view,” Nat grins. Her steely gaze turns pensive and she muses, “You think those abs are completely gym-manufactured or made through sports?”
“It’s got to be both. That,” Wanda moves her hand in the direction of the abs in question, “is too incredible and has to be a result of magic.”
“It’s too early for this,” you sigh. But Nat is right, those abs are rather glorious, and you can’t help blush as you watch the athlete’s chest rise and fall as he catches his breath.
Right then the half-naked person of their discussion squints their way, his hand shielding his eyes from the sun. While you’re too slow to react, Wanda immediately drops her eyes to the phone while Nat casually blows a bubble with her gum.
His eyes stop on you, and his lips turn up into cheekily smile. He first waves before sending you a two-finger salute. Something in your brain clicks as soon as he salutes, and you gasp, “Holy motherfu -”
T+ | Steve Rogers x fem!Reader | Meet-cute/meet-ugly & idiots in love in a dance class. 2,562 words.
Time for something different, something that would perhaps feel more natural than messaging. Something a little more traditional. Something that felt like the beginning of a beautiful fairytale, not like more emotional labor thrust upon you by men that couldn’t even hold a conversation. And well, if they couldn’t do that, then there was no way they would get to hold your heart.
Which was why you had ended up signing up for a dance class.
WARNINGS: Previous Bad Experiences With Dating (Not With Steve) Referenced
Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies | Romance | First Meetings | Meet-Cute | Meet-Ugly | Dancing | Falling In Love | Romantic Fluff | No Use of Y/N | Steve Rogers Is A Gentleman| Steve Rogers Is a Sweetheart | Idiots in Love
AO3 | Tumblr Masterlist| Fic Sideblog
NOTES: A rather belated birthday gift for the wonderful @anika-ann, who not only shares my love for Steve and writes him amazingly but has been such a supportive and encouraging reader of my work. Please do check her fics out if you haven't already.
If you can spare the time, please let me know your thoughts. Comments mean the world to me and provide the Muse with proverbial caffeine and chocolate. Thank you for reading, and enjoy!
Reader Specifics: Adult, she/her. No description of appearance besides being dressed in a skirt & blouse and being shorter than Steve, who is 6'4.
Alternate Universe: The Avengers Initiative (AVIN) continued SHIELD's work after its collapse to corruption. The Avengers are living together in the Tower & Compound - Bucky has healed, and Civil War never happened because Tony and Steve worked through their differences like adults.
I do not own anything Marvel-related. This is an unofficial fan work. No copyright infringement intended. This is a work of fiction. Any similarity to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events, is purely coincidental.
Missteps
You had given the dating apps a fair chance — after all, they seemed to be the popular way for the people your age to meet others. But after a string of dates ranging from exhausting (the guy who talked about nothing but cryptocurrency for three hours) to disastrous (the guy who had, just after sitting down, declared that he hoped your children would inherit your beautiful eyelashes), it was time for a change.
Time for something different, something that would perhaps feel more natural than messaging. Something a little more traditional. Something that felt like the beginning of a beautiful fairytale, not like more emotional labor thrust upon you by men that couldn’t even hold a conversation. And well, if they couldn’t do that, then there was no way they would get to hold your heart.
Which was why you had ended up signing up for a dance class.
It had seemed like a brilliant idea at the time. Surely that was a way to meet others, and a chance to have a chat while also having an activity that would prevent awkward silences from stretching too much. After some internet searches, you’d been able to locate a studio that did weekly walk-in classes that one could sign up for either alone or with a partner. You’d found a complete beginner class that fit your schedule, and had enrolled yourself in the next available one with a fluttering stomach.
Like it was with many ideas, the theory checked out. The practical, however, was another story.
As you entered the dance studio in Brooklyn and squashed into a packed coat room, it became abundantly clear that you might be in the wrong place. All you could see were couples, and judging by the soft looks exchanged and the number of diamond rings, most were here to learn their wedding dance.
Despite all the grievances people were having with online dating, going to offline events with the explicit purpose of meeting potential partners might not yet have become mainstream. Or if it had, the trend didn’t seem to have reached this particular studio.
This was not my brightest idea.
You shoved the thought back. True, most people around you appeared to be couples, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t anyone here who might have had the same idea as you. All you needed was that one person, the elusive Mr. Right. Backing out now wasn’t going to do you any favors, and the dance studio had explicitly mentioned that it was all right to sign up without a partner. If nothing else came out of this, you might have an interesting lesson and some basics of a new skill from dancing with one of the instructors. It wasn’t that bad.
Regardless, you couldn’t completely ignore the sinking feeling in your gut as you slowly took off your coat and brushed off your swing skirt, ensuring it fell to your knees and wasn’t bundled on your butt. You took a steadying breath, doing your best not to embarrass yourself by desperately trying to find someone who hadn’t signed up with a partner. It was out of your hands now anyway.
You let yourself drift into the dance studio with the group and found a place near a corner. Quiet, yet excited murmurs filled the air around you as you eyed the airy, well-lit space. Two of the walls were just mirrors, and you recognized the ballet barres mounted on the wall from an exercise class you’d taken. Today, they wouldn’t be needed.
A tall man, perhaps in his fifties, was going around carrying a clipboard and marking down the attendees. It was obvious he was going to be one of the instructors; there was an agility to him, a bounce to his step that would’ve made you think that he was in his twenties if it hadn’t been for the gray streaks in his hair. In front of the studio, a woman about the same age was setting up some sort of microphone system, her airy skirt revealing shapely legs. Well, if nothing else, this would obviously be a good form of exercise.
“Welcome to the beginner’s classical dance class,” the man said as he stopped in front of you. “It is very nice to meet you. May I have your name, Miss?”
You introduced yourself politely, and the man spent a beat consulting his list.
“Ah, there you are. It looks like you’re signed up by yourself; we have one gentleman who is in the same boat, so I shall send him to you once I find him,” he said with a smile.
You nodded, thanking him as he was already moving to the next person. A group of latecomers arrived through the door, and you heard a few murmurs of conversation from that direction. You were curious about this lone gentleman who had had the same idea as you, but you were doing your best not to stare and seem like some weird creep. It was still almost ten minutes until the beginning of the class, so he might not even be here yet.
And regardless of how he was, you had at least gotten out here, and met one person — assuming he would turn up. That was a start, right?
Before you could spiral any further, a deep voice coming behind you interrupted your thoughts:
“Excuse me, miss?”
It wasn’t the instructor; that much you could tell even before turning around. You spun slowly and looked up.
And up.
Resisting the urge to swallow, you realized that the man was tall, much taller than you even though the most appropriate shoes you’d had for this excursion were ones with some heel on them. He was dressed in a blue button-down that was obviously tailored to his impressive frame, and when your gaze was finished with the long trek upwards — gone faster than you would’ve liked — you realized why exactly his form was so impressive.
In front of you stood Steven Grant Rogers, Captain America, the first super-soldier, the Head Strategist of the Avengers Initiative.
Your tongue felt like it was tied in a knot in your mouth, but somehow, you managed to meet his eyes and pull something like a smile onto your face. It wasn’t that you didn’t like him; it was just that out of all the possible things that you had imagined could happen at this class, you certainly hadn’t expected to run into one of the most famous and venerated people on Earth these days. Not to mention the fact that he was, in essence, more a demigod than a man.
“Can I help you, Captain Rogers?” you finally asked, just as a small, questioning wrinkle appeared in between his eyebrows.
It would’ve been pointless to pretend you didn’t know who he was. Everyone and their dog knew who he was, and your reaction had already made it obvious that you were not the exception to the rule. He gave you a tense smile and cleared his throat.
“Yes, I was just… Mr. Martinez told me that you also signed up without a partner and suggested we dance together today, if that is alright with you?”
Your brain was not processing the words. Yes, as far as you — and various nosy tabloids — were aware, Captain Rogers was not seeing anyone, and honestly, it was hard to imagine that he would go behind any partner’s back like this. But was he here because he had had an idea similar to yours, to meet someone? Or was he here just to learn something he hadn’t had the time or the means to pick up prior to the 21st century? It could very well be the latter and you shouldn’t make assumptions about his motives, no matter your own embarrassing crush on him. But you imagined that the salary he was paid by the Avengers Initiative, which was public record, would have easily covered any private lessons he could possibly want, if he wasn’t interested in meeting new faces.
But even if he was here to meet someone, was it to make friends or to see if it could be something more than that? To your knowledge, back in the day dancing had been a way of meeting romantic partners, but you did not want to assume.
You needed to speak. You needed to form words and make sure they came out of your mouth. But the surprise made your head spin, as if all your neurons had been scrambled like eggs. Before you regained control of your vocal cords, something closed in Steve’s eyes, like a curtain drawn in front of the beautiful light that had been there just a moment before.
“I’m sorry,” he said tightly. “I am obviously making you uncomfortable and that is not my intention. I am sure there is some alternative solution where you don’t have to…”
He trailed off, looking slightly away from you. His jaw was tight and his shoulders squared, but you didn’t sense any aggression from him. Just tension, perhaps even disappointment.
Somewhere in the back of your head existed the notion that it could not be easy for him to be getting out here due to his very public role. He was a national icon, and while his statements in the media made you fairly sure that he wouldn’t have had it any other way, there had to be times when that was simply inconvenient. You took a centering breath and just as he was about to turn away, clearly with a plan to go ask the instructor how this could be solved, reached out to touch his forearm.
It was just a light brush of your fingers, a tap to get his attention, but it seemed to run through his body like an electric shock. He stopped dead in his tracks and turned his gaze back to you just as you managed to gather your courage:
“No, I’m sorry. You don’t need to apologize for anything. I’m not uncomfortable at all, I was just surprised I ran into you, that’s all. Surprised we would be dancing together, if that’s something you’re still all right with,” you said. “But you are clearly here as whoever you are behind your public self, and it was unfair to stare at you like you’re a zoo animal.”
The shadow in his gaze disappeared, and the tension that had overtaken him seemed to bleed out. One corner of his mouth twitched up into what you had to admit was a very attractive, almost boyish smile that had your knees feeling dangerously wobbly.
“Well,” he said. “I’m not sure I would say that I found a pretty lady staring at me unfair.”
Was he…?
Was he actually flirting with you?
Suddenly coming here didn’t seem like such a terrible idea after all.
“Thank you,” you said softly, not knowing what else there was to say, but making sure you smiled in return.
He took a step closer to you and extended his hand.
“So, start again? Hi, I’m Steve. It’s nice to meet you. I look forward to learning to dance with you tonight, Miss…?”
Yes. That sounded like a wonderful way to proceed, and there was something very alluring in the way he was able to just roll with the punches, immediately discarding the rough start you’d gotten. Even if you were wrong about the whole flirting thing, he hadn’t wanted to embarrass you or call you out on your awkwardness.
“Nice to meet you, Steve,” you said, following up with introducing yourself and a smile. “I look forward to dancing with you too.”
You were dreaming.
You had to be dreaming.
Steve’s hand was resting on your upper back in a manner that was entirely proper and followed the instructor’s guidance down to the millimeter. Through the thin fabric of your blouse, you could feel its warmth sizzling on your skin. His other hand, extended to the side, was cradling your other fingers with an infinite gentleness to it, and yet, it was an entirely certain grip.
You had to summon every last drop of your focus to be able to recall the beginner steps you were supposed to be taking, even as Steve’s lead was making it easy for you to follow. The way he guided you made you feel your feet weren’t touching the ground at all, and it would probably have made a certain level of sense if that had been the case — your left forearm was resting on his ridiculously thick bicep, your hand on the round muscle of his shoulder, and it was easy to believe that he could’ve carried you for the entirety of the hour-long class without even breaking a sweat.
But all of that was nothing compared to the way his attention was entirely on you.
With the focus on learning, and the instructors wandering around the studio guiding and correcting everyone, there was not a lot of room for talking. But even as you weren’t saying much, Steve was so present, so alert, so focused on you, as if there was no one else in the room or the world or the universe. As if there was nothing more important than this moment, right here, right now.
“All right, everyone,” Mr. Martinez called out from the front of the studio. “We are five minutes away from wrapping the class up, so if you have any questions, please ask them now! And if you want to learn more, we have a Level Two Beginner class this same time next Thursday, meant for people who have already taken this class.”
Something changed in the air with the announcement; Steve didn’t miss a beat with it but something appeared in his eyes. The hour had flown by; dancing had been fun and not just because it was with Steve. The idea of coming back to learn more was appealing, but there was one thing…
You were fairly certain Steve had flirted with you by calling you pretty in the beginning — an opening move in a pleasant dance of a different kind — but without pushing you beyond anything you wanted.
Perhaps it was time for you to make your move, and to be brave.
“If you wanted to… I would like to take that class with you?” you murmured. “So it’s a date? But only if you want to.”
The smile overtook not just Steve’s face but his entire demeanor, and the light in it actually had you lose track of your feet and almost stumble, but his hand on your back kept you steady. It was an anchor, and the gesture was something so nonchalant, something so familiar, that it made you ache to find out more. It was as if he already considered keeping you safe so obvious that he didn’t need to make a big deal out of it.
“Well,” he said softly. “I would definitely like to make that a date. But if you were willing… In addition to that, I would love to take you out for coffee right after this class?”
You beamed at him as the warm feeling brought on by his words and the implications in them — of what he was thinking now, and what might happen in the future — spread through your entire body.
Miss ma'am, I cannot express how much I love this fic and not just because it was written as a gift for me - as much as it shows💕🥹
Yoou truly threw in the best of the best and most beloved tropes and created the perfectly delicious comfort food for me which I shall return to rather often 🥺
First of all, I do not think that the overthinking so-done-with-certain-type-of-men-and-modern-dating reader longing for a connection and the one is just... me. I feel seen 🤭
Second of all. Steve. Our perfect Steve who longs for the same, just wishing to be a Steve for a while and a meet in a little old fashioned way. Of course he gets to be the perfect gentleman, considerate to a fault. Of course he lights up so much when the lady understands - or tries to - that it if so difficult to meet people as himself rather than the Captain, admits the errors in her ways and charming Steve comes out. And the way you describe him being so present in the moment and focused on her, just-- my heart💕 also my ovaries and other lady parts
And the romance of dancing and her, despite her overthinking tendencies, asking to see him again, as an official date. #ProudOfHer. I'm not even starting on how happy Steve is at the prospect.
Hi all, here’s one where reader exercises with Chris, and Dodger being adorable as ever. If you liked this, you may enjoy the following:
Video Chat with Chris Evans
Movie Night with Chris Evans
Cooking with Chris Evans
Stay safe everyone!
—-
You are excited for your exercise date with Chris. Although you had been talking to him on the phone almost everyday, you would still get excited to see him through your phone. It was not the same as having him next to you, but you were still glad that there was technology to cushion this blow.
You had barely gotten into your exercise gear when you heard your ringtone.
“Hey, baby.” Chris said with his ever charming smile when you answered. You squealed when you saw him in his grey T-shirt and a cap. The sight of his muscles peering through the sleeves when he held up his phone had you forget what you were just doing. “That’s a very sexy exercise gear, love.” Chris smirked.
You looked down and realized that you were still wearing your pajamas shorts. “Ha-ha.” You laughed sarcastically. “’Be right back.” You rushed and changed into your yoga pants. Through your phone, you could hear Chris humming and the sound of Dodger’s feet patter on the floorboards.
When you came back, you saw Dodger seated next to Chris. “Hi Dodger!” You greeted, and Dodger barked in response at your voice. “What exercises are we doing today?” You asked Chris.
“Well, there’s an exercise I want to do with you but since you aren’t here, that’s out of the picture.” Chris laughed.
“Not in front of the kid, Chris! Dodger is here!” You tutted.
“Okay I get you. I’ll distract him with a ball the next time so that we could do it?” Chris teased again.
“Don’t make me hang up on you.” You warned, although you secretly loved it when he talked like that. Having not been with him for the past two months had been hard on you and you just could not wait until he did all the things he said he would with you.
“Okay. No more teasing before someone gets too excited.” Chris laughed. “Let’s do some stretches first and we’ll start with push ups.”
After stretching, Chris got into his push-up position. You did not realized that you were staring at his arms until you heard him called your name. “Do it with me, baby. Let’s start with 50.”
You reluctantly tore your eyes away from his arms and body and got into your own push-up position. You alternated between staring at him and doing your push ups. Midway through however, Dodger stood up and tried to get Chris’ attention. He kept putting his face close to Chris and distracting him from doing his push ups. Chris laughed and tried to avoid hitting Dodger while continuing his push up exercises.
You stopped and laughed at the scene in front of you. You would never have a boring day watching Chris and Dodger’s interactions.
When it was clear that Dodger had his own plans, Chris laughed and sat up. He gave Dodger playful pats on his head and scratches under his chin.
“It is obvious I’m not the only one who is attracted to you.” You winked at Chris.
➥ This would’ve been out sooner but I got sucked down the rabbit hole that is Ned ‘I love my wife’ Fulmer from Try Guys cheating on his wife with Alex from Food Babies, but here we are! Enjoy!
➥ banner by @maysdigitalarts | divider by @silkholland
summary: Chris heard from a friend of a friend that that pussy was a 10 out of 10
…or the one where you’re shy and Chris gets curious.
“Probably not, man. It’s late, she must be asleep.”
Chris put on his best act and rolled his eyes, sighing dramatically. He shrugged his shoulders and sat down on the sofa, holding close to him the fluffy pillows you bought for your new home. He looked up at Scott, trying to make the best use of his puppy eyes act.
“What If she has trouble sleeping?”
“That’s why you left Dodger with her, right?”
“Ugh, Scott!” Chris whined, letting his head fall back against the back of the sofa. “I don’t wike It.”
Scott chuckled, trying not to laugh at Chris and take him seriously even If he was in that drunk state. “You are not supposed to see her the night before the wedding. Mom wouldn’t forgive me If she knew about It.”
Chris laid his head back against the sofa, looking at the phone sitting in the coffee table. He picked It up and looked at Scott. “Technically, she can see me.” He grabbed the phone and pressed the recording button, holding his phone out to his brother.
“He’s going to have a full breakdown in front of the camera, but don’t worry,” Scott said from behind the camera, trying not to laugh at his brother’s constant pout.
“Is It recording?” Chris’s gloomy eyes looked at the camera watching Scott nod in affirmation. “Alright, uh…” He said, wiping the sweat off his hands on the pants. “Scott won’t let me see ya. And I miss you, dearly. I hope you still like me still. I can’t wait to marry you tomorrow and start practicing for our little family.”
Scott scrunched his nose and laughed, making Chris frown.
“It’s a really serious thingy Scott! Don’t laugh!” Chris scoffed at his brother. “I love you, baby. I love you so much. And you… you might notice I am a little bit on the drunk side, but those beers were really good. I wish you were there. Did I say I love you? I love you. Don’t abandon me tomorrow, If you do, I probably deserve It. But I don’t think I do. Do I Scott?”
He had a worried expression on his face now. It softened when Scott grinned and said a low “no”.
You closed the door behind you, letting Dodger lay by your side. The puppy did just has Chris instructed, not leaving your side during the whole evening. The light of your screen lightens up with a notification from Chris.
“It’s dad, Bubba.” You said to Dodger whose ears perked up when he heard Chris’s voice.
You smiled when you saw the man with a loosen up tie and a few buttons undone of his shirt. You could tell he was nervous. He scrunched his nose here and then and caressed his beard, something you would do for him when he felt the most anxious. You traced his features with your finger, missing him dearly. Between soft giggles, and an anxious heart, you couldn’t wait to marry the man tomorrow.
“I can’t believe you did that” you stated as your hand was gripped tightly with Chris’.
He was looking out the window of the car as you both were in the backseat, driving to your location, before turning to look at you; his brows crinkled together, a curious look on his face.
“And what exactly did I do?” he asked with a smirk on his face.
Gently hitting him on the chest with your palm, you shook your head at him. “A private plane!”
His head rolled back as he grabbed his chest, a barking laughter escaping his mouth; your favorite kind of laughter ever emitted from him. “Alright, I know it may have been a bit over the top, but I wanted to spoil you. You’re mah girl and I love you.”
You felt your face begin to get hot, him calling you his girl along with that damn Boston accent you missed so much. Leaning forward, you took his bottom lip between your teeth, giving him it a small nibble as your eyes were locked onto his. Chris’ eyes narrowed as a small growl escaped his throat; it was obvious he was trying to be quiet because of the driver.
Okay we had nomad Steve turning up in the middle of the night and that was hot as hell. What about when he has to leave though? 🥺
Oh, you had to go and make me feel things, didn't you? 😭
Word Count: Around 500.
Warnings: Fluff, a little angst, very brief smut.18+.
Waking in Steve's arms never gets tiresome. Being pulled tight against that broad chest, the heat of his body warming your cheek. The scrape of his beard against your forehead, still damp from feasting between your thighs.
You don't get a lot of sleep when he's around - and you're not mad about it. Once in a blue moon, you get to have him like this. Get to have him to yourself. Not Captain America, but Steve Rogers. And every second spent with him, you treasure.
"Good morning, sunshine." He gruffs, arms squeezing you tighter for a moment - his perfect lips brushing your nose as you lift your head to look at him.
You could lose yourself in his sleepy gaze, eyelids still hooded from slumber. He sees you wince when you prop yourself up on his chest, looking you over with concern - his eyes falling to the purple welts on your collarbone from his lustful assault.
It doesn't stop him from filling you up once more, though. He's always more careful in the mornings, always gentle and tender. Because he knows what's to come. What always has to happen. No matter how much you both despise it. Whispers of affection and promises to return. And every single time, they bring you to tears.
You make him breakfast. Pancakes, bacon, scrambled eggs, fruit, fresh juice - more food than any normal human being could stomach. Being away from him for months at a time makes you want to look after him, makes you want to remind him that there'll always be someone waiting for him to come home. Someone who wants him for more than just his strength and his honor.
He fucks you again. Lifts you onto the kitchen counter like you weigh nothing, settles himself between your legs and savours it - your pussy still quivering from the countless orgasms he's already pulled from your exhausted body.
You shower together, your arms wrapped tightly around his waist and your ear pressed up against his thumping heart. You'd stay beneath the hot spray, hidden away from the world, forever if he asked you to.
Goodbye is never easy. You hold it together, always. You know he doesn't want to leave, know that the life he's living now isn't the one he'd hoped for when he came out of the ice.
There are always dozens of last kisses, always hesitation when he moves to step out of the front door. You tell him it's okay - that you love him. Tell him to call you when he can, and come back when he's able. He always promises that he will. But every time he does, you wonder if it's a promise he can keep.
Warnings: Explicit sexual content, p in v, a little fluff if you squint.
He's been away for months, it's raining outside. You hear the pounding of his fist on the front door. You know its him. Don't even bother throwing on your robe as you leap out of bed and scramble down the stairs - fingers anxiously fiddling with the key in the lock.
And fuck, he looks so good when you rip that door open. Soaking wet, his shoulders tense and drenched with the heavy droplets falling from the night sky, catching in his thick beard and gathering at his cupids bow.
He takes one look at you. One long, lazy, hungry look at your naked form before he's on you; your body colliding with his, the roughness of his suit making your flesh tingle with excitement.
"Missed you, sunshine." He purrs, burying his scruff into the crook of your neck, lifting you effortlessly as your legs hook around his slim waist. "Couldn' wait to feel you. Be inside you again."
His lips dragging across the hollow of your throat, your body caged between his hulking form and the magnolia wall behind you - trapped in the heat of his arms as he kisses you with more passion than you've ever felt in your life.
"Remembered how good you feel, how much I want you. Only thing that got me through some of those nights." You keen, arching yourself into him as he nips at your breasts with his teeth - sucking your nipples into his mouth, one after the other. "Missed those pretty noises the most, though. Make some more for me, baby."
You're not sure when he takes his cock out, too lost in the way his mouth lathes at your throat, tongue hot against your pulse point as it throbs against his tastebuds.
That first stretch never fails to make your body stiffen and your eyes roll back, mouth falling open with a cry as he grunts in your ear - the sensation of being inside you again making his knees tremble.
"This is it. This is where I belong." He pants, thrusting into you with reckless abandon, your hand's clinging onto his biceps while he rails you carelessly against the wall. "Gonna fill this sweet pussy up 'til you're stuffed. Gonna let me, sunshine?"
Forming words is impossible, garbled cries muffled as you bite into the leather coating his shoulder, clinging onto him as the coil of bliss begins to tighten in your stomach, the burn of his hefty girth stretching you out, a pain that you never want to long for again.
"Got a lot of time to make up for, hmm?" He breathes, thrusts jagged as he pounds up into your soaked cunt. "Not gonna last, baby. Been - fuck - too long."
And he doesn't. Not the first time. But you can bet your ass you won't get a wink of sleep for the rest of the night.
Summary: On the rare occasion that you have him in your bed, you savor every last minute. Even while he sleeps.
Warnings: Explicit sexual content, somnophilia aspects, a DUBCON warning just to be safe but overall this is very fluffy and consensual, vaginal penetration. 18+.
Word Count: 1.7k
A/N: Somnus definition — the ancient Roman god of sleep, a son of Night and brother of Death.
Thank you to @ozarkthedog for basically beta’ing this for me!
It wasn’t fair, the way he crept into your bed unannounced. Every single time, showing up without so much as a warning and crushing his solid, warm body against yours. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think he was using you. Using your body as a place to slide home after a hard mission.
But you did know better.
Steve reminded you every single time of why you were willing to wait for him, why no other man would ever compare. And when he climbed into bed beside you earlier that evening, naked and eager to get as close as possible; you couldn’t help the way your heart fluttered.
You knew it in the way his big, strong arms wrapped you up. The way he brushed the hair away from your face and kissed the tip of your nose while he thought you were sleeping.
You never could bring yourself to sleep soundly when he was next to you. Always wanting to soak in the very essence of him, waiting for the moment when he’d finally succumb to his exhaustion and his beautiful eyes - eyes that had seen entirely too much death - would flutter closed.
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