Summary: Bucky eats you out and he’s nasty about it
Warning: ABSOLUTE FILTH, Bucky eating your pussy, smut smut smuttt, cum eating, pussy spanking
Word count: 1k+
Nasty!Bucky who spits on your pussy while eating you out just to watch it slide down your puffy folds until it dips to your entrance. shoving his tongue inside your hole and fucking his saliva deeper inside, chuckling against you when he feels you clench around his hot tongue. “you like that, sweetheart?” words hot and thick against your sticky cunt.
Bucky gets impatient with not having an answer and pulls away just to spank your pussy, using his metal hand. “asked you a question,” he says sternly, catching your attention. you immediately squeal, voice breaking with a “y-yes! oh god, i love it, Bucky!” you can barely make out a muffled, “good girl, just needa use your words f’me” before he’s spreading your folds open wide, watching as you blossom pink and flushed for him before licking up your slit and sucking your clit directly into his mouth.
Nasty!Bucky who lets his tongue wander when he’s going down on you, slipping inside your ass and feeling your pussy clench around his metal fingers that are still stuffing your cunt full. “quit squirmin’, doll,” he pulls his fingers out, coated in your slick, just to meanly slap your pussy, again, twice before spreading your thighs further.
His tongue licking around your puckered hole, “gonna let me fuck you? want me to fill you up the way no man ever has?” his voice deep and rough, eyes flaring with something possessive, getting off on corrupting you.
Nasty!Bucky who fucks you hard just to see you squirt all over him. his thrusts are nothing short of cruel, swollen tip pushing against your abused g-spot over and over again. you feel the pressure building, your thighs threatening to close from the intense feeling but Bucky won’t have it.
His strong palms are shoving your legs apart and driving his hips even harder into the same spot. you try to warn him, voice wavering with each rough crash of his pelvis against your ass, but he only presses his hand down on your lower stomach, amplifying the sensation until you finally spray.
His chest is glistening from your gushing pussy and you feel a wave of embarrassment knowing you’re the direct cause for the sheen on his abs. Before you can think too much about it, Bucky’s pulling out and diving face first into your cunt. “Hey hey, it’s okay sweet girl, you just needed a good fucking huh?”
He licks at your folds, thumb rubbing harsh circles into your clit as your juices continue to flood his face despite you trying your hardest to make it stop. he runs his face back and forth across your silky skin and groans hoarsely, basking in your taste as he shoves his tongue inside your pussy.
“James!! s’ too much—fuck!” you cry out, muscles giving out as you try to push his head away. he pulls his head back only to spit on your pussy, giving her two more rushed licks before sitting up on his knees once more, stroking his cock and fucking you right back in the same rhythm, a dirty combination of slick and squirt decorating the lower half of his face, coating his lips and that damn smirk you love so much.
Nasty!Bucky who fucks you in missionary just to watch you cry. the way he rams his cock into you is nothing short of mean, his eyes half lidded in lust and his fingers intertwined with your own as he holds them above your head. you’re rendered helpless, forced to take every rough thrust of his hips even when it’s too much. your cunt begins clenching around him too tight, the slight pain that the stretch of his fat cock gives you growing more intense with each relentless thrust.
You can’t even help the big tears welling up in your lash line or your bottom lip quivering as you begin to pout at him. “B-Buck, it’s too deep. fuck, you’re too deep!” you begin to whine out, head turning back and forth against the plush pillow, body being run for all its worth and feeling the twitches throughout your frame in an unfamiliar pattern—you’re at your limit. and he’s still not through.
“just gotta make sure i get all of it, you know this, doll,” his nose is dragging along the column of your throat, his balls slapping wetly against your ass as he ensures every inch of his cock is snug inside your overstimulated pussy. your eyes shut and the tears begin to fall, your heels digging into the dip of his spine to pull him even deeper, body conflicting itself and somehow still begging for more.
“there she is, that’s—fuck sakes—that’s my good girl,” he praises once he feels you pulling him in even closer, head pulling back to look you in the eyes before flattening his tongue against your jaw, licking all the way up your cheek and savoring the salty taste of your tears.
“taste so sweet. you’re cryin’ for it. My baby’s poor little pussy can’t get enough even with all your whinin’,” his words are punctuated with a soft chuckle before he begins lapping at the opposite side of your face. his wet tongue moves slowly across your skin, the humiliation causing soft sobs to fall from your swollen lips but his hips never stop moving. his leaky tip rams against your cervix with each thrust while he presses a wet kiss to the corner of your eye. “so pretty when you cry, we both know how much you want this, how much you need it.”
Nasty!Bucky who can't help himself from eating his own cum out of your pussy. he'd long since lost count of how many times he felt your cunt flutter around him, coming over and over from his insatiable desire to fuck you for all he's worth. he didn't give you time to recover after an orgasm, and if you're honest, you can't be sure you can tell the difference between one ending and the next one washing over your overstimulated body.
Bucky had inhumane stamina, the super serum obviously had its perks, and the bedroom happened to be one of the places it showcases the best. He can go for hours, never getting tired of your broken moans ringing through his ears or that frothy ring of your cum that coats the base of his cock. but when he does finally come, it doesn't mean he's anywhere close to being done with you. He could never get tired of you.
Nasty!Bucky who fills you with so much of his cum that it can't possibly all fit inside of your pussy. it spills out even with him still driving his hips forward to push it deeper, making a mess of your thighs, and his heavy balls as it overflows. The soft silk sheets beneath you now soaking with a mix of your cum. Bucky simply doesn't care and groans out in a raspy tone as he feels his orgasm last longer than normal, his cock somehow still filling you with more of his hot, sticky load.
When he eventually pulls out, he's immediately dropping to his stomach and pushing the backs of your thighs towards your chest. you've never looked so messy before, he's sure of it, as he licks up the thick stream of white pouring out of your sloppy folds. his eyes shut as he revels in the taste of your combined cum, bumping your clit with his nose while his tongue laps at your quivering entrance as he cleans up the mess he made of you.
He humps the sheets with messy thrusts, “open those eyes for me angel.” You open your eyes and Bucky groans against your cunt, he sucks and bites your clit and it has you whimpering. The look in his eyes is so soft in comparison to how he’s wrecking you. He kisses your clit and moans loudly, his cum spilling all over the sheets but his eyes never left yours.
did you like being noticed by tom because of his friend?
how insightful, anon. you've managed to identify the real issue here: its not that an actor harassed me but that another actor noticed me. ofc my experience of harassment is secondary to the dynamic between two men. its always about them, isn't it?
this anon is fucking disgusting, by the way. do you realise that HE noticed that his co-star was the fucking problem and not literally notice beca???? i hope u know you’re fucking dumb and misogynistic.
Synopsis: A game of cat and mouse turns into something far more sinister when you run from Steve—and he catches you. In the depths of the forest, under the moonlit sky, you learn the hard way that he doesn’t just take what he wants. He makes sure you never want to run again.
W/C: 1.6k
Warnings: 18+ explicit content. cat/mouse, dub-con, knife play, unprotected p in v, outdoor sex, mouth fucking ????? / m receiving oral. lol kind of insane but also very canon typical behaviour of steve i fear……..
masterlist
The forest is silent, save for the pounding of your footsteps against the damp earth. Twigs snap beneath you, branches claw at your skin as you push forward, lungs burning from the effort. You don’t know how long you’ve been running—minutes, maybe hours—but it doesn’t matter. He’s still behind you.
Somewhere in the distance, Steve’s voice carries through the trees, low and teasing. “You can run, rabbit… but you can’t hide.”
Your pulse thrums wildly as you weave between the trees, heart slamming against your ribs. You know he’s toying with you. He’s always been faster, stronger. The only reason you’re still on your feet is because he wants you to be.
Then you hear it—the steady crunch of footsteps, closer than before. Your breath catches.
He’s here.
Panic surges, and you push yourself harder, sprinting blindly through the dark. But the second your foot catches on a hidden root, the world tilts. You crash forward, dirt and leaves scraping against your skin.
And then—warm hands. Strong. Unyielding. A weight settles over you before you can crawl away, pressing you down, trapping you beneath him.
“Caught you,” Steve murmurs against your ear, his breath hot against your skin.
You thrash, but he only laughs, effortlessly pinning your wrists above your head. His grip is bruising, possessive. Final.
“I let you run farther this time,” he muses, as if he’s considering letting you go again. But you both know the truth. The game is over.
You’re not going anywhere.
His free hand dips into his jacket pocket, and when he pulls it out, the moonlight glints off cold, silver steel. A knife.
Your body goes still.
Steve notices. His grin widens, the blade catching the light as he turns it slowly between his fingers. “Scared?” he taunts.
You don’t answer. You can’t.
He hums, pleased with your silence, then drags the flat of the blade down your arm, slow and deliberate. The metal is icy against your overheated skin, a stark contrast to the heat of his body pressing into yours.
The tip of the knife grazes lower, skimming over your ribs, your stomach. “I should punish you for running,” Steve muses, almost thoughtful, as if deciding just how far he wants to take this.
You shudder, the thrill of fear mixing with something else, something darker.
He notices that, too.
“Interesting,” he murmurs, the edge of the blade pressing a fraction harder. Not enough to break the skin—just enough to make your breath hitch. “You like this, don’t you?”
You shake your head quickly, but it’s a lie. The way your body reacts betrays you—the way your breath stutters, the way your thighs press together involuntarily.
Steve smirks. “I think you do.”
The knife trails lower, catching the hem of your shirt. With one swift motion, he slices through the fabric. The cool night air rushes against your bare skin, and a gasp slips from your lips.
“You should see yourself,” Steve murmurs, pressing the blade lightly against your hip now. “All spread out beneath me. You ran so hard, but look where you ended up.”
His eyes darken, drinking in every inch of you, the way your chest rises and falls, the way your body trembles—whether from fear or anticipation, you’re not sure anymore.
Then, just as suddenly as it appeared, the knife is gone.
Steve buries the blade into the dirt beside your head, the handle within reach but completely useless to you now. His focus is elsewhere. On you.
His hands slide up your thighs, rough and demanding. His fingers press against the heat between your legs, finding you soaked through your thin shorts.
You whimper.
Steve’s smirk deepens. “That’s what I thought.”
Then, without warning, he rips the last barrier of clothing away, his mouth ghosting over your throat, your collarbone, sharp teeth grazing sensitive skin.
“Tell me you want this,” he commands, his voice a low growl.
You hesitate for only a second.
“Say it.”
Your body is already arching into his, craving the contact, desperate for more. You want to fight it—you should fight it—but there’s no use pretending anymore.
“… I want it.”
Steve exhales sharply, like he’s been waiting for those words. His lips crash against yours, claiming, consuming. His hands roam freely now, rough fingers leaving bruises in their wake.
And then—he takes you.
It’s brutal. Unrelenting. He pushes into you in one hard thrust, stretching you, filling you completely. You cry out, nails digging into his back, but Steve only groans, his grip on you tightening.
“There it is,” he breathes against your ear, voice thick with satisfaction.
Your legs wrap around his waist instinctively, pulling him deeper. His pace is merciless—driven by raw possession, by the knowledge that he’s conquered you in every way.
The world fades into nothing but heat and movement, the scent of sweat and earth mixing in the air as he fucks you into the cold dirt. His name falls from your lips, breathless and desperate, and that only spurs him on, each thrust more punishing than the last.
He wants you to know you belong to him.
His fingers find your throat, pressing just enough to make your vision blur at the edges, just enough to make you feel him in every possible way.
“You’re mine,” Steve growls, his teeth sinking into the curve of your shoulder, marking you. “No more running.”
His rhythm stutters, his grip tightening as he buries himself deep inside you, the sharp sound of his breath hitching in your ear as he spills into you, claiming you.
Even after, he doesn’t move away. His body is still heavy against yours, his breath still warm against your skin. His fingers trace slow, lazy patterns over your thigh, possessive even now.
Finally, he lifts his head, his lips ghosting over your temple as he whispers:
“You’re not going anywhere.”
Steve doesn’t move right away. He stays pressed against you, his breath hot against your skin, his hands still trailing possessively along your body. The weight of him is suffocating, intoxicating.
You should be spent, but you’re not.
He must sense it—the lingering tension in your body, the way your lips part like you want to say something but can’t. His fingers curl around your jaw, tilting your face up until your glassy eyes meet his.
“You’ve got more in you,” he murmurs, thumb stroking over your lips.
It’s not a question.
Your breath hitches, your thighs instinctively pressing together at the implication. But Steve notices—of course he notices—and his smirk deepens.
“You know what to do, rabbit.”
His thumb drags lower, pressing against your bottom lip before slipping past. You open for him without thinking, your tongue grazing the rough pad of his fingertip. He watches you, eyes dark and hooded, as you suck lightly—testing him, teasing him.
His gaze flickers with approval. But he’s done letting you play coy.
Steve shifts, moving onto his knees, dragging you up with him until you’re kneeling between his legs. The motion makes you dizzy, your body still reeling from everything he’s already taken from you.
But it’s not enough for him.
One hand grips the back of your neck, guiding you forward, while the other unzips his jeans, freeing his already-hard cock. The sight of it makes your mouth water—thick, flushed, still glistening from the last time he was inside you.
“Open.” The command is sharp, leaving no room for hesitation.
You do.
Steve groans as he presses himself past your lips, his grip tightening in your hair. “That’s it,” he rasps, watching as you hollow your cheeks, taking him deeper.
He doesn’t start slow. He doesn’t ease you into it.
He thrusts forward, forcing you to take him all at once, the head of his cock hitting the back of your throat. You gag around him, fingers digging into his thighs for balance, but he only growls in approval, his other hand cupping your jaw to feel the stretch of your mouth around him.
“Fuck, you were made for this,” Steve breathes, his voice thick with satisfaction.
Your throat flutters around him as he sets the pace—deep, relentless. Your eyes well up, tears spilling down your cheeks as he fucks your mouth without restraint, using you like he owns you. Because he does.
His head tilts back slightly, a low moan escaping his lips as he watches you struggle to take it all. “Messy little thing,” he muses, dragging his thumb across your cheek, smearing the saliva and tears that drip down your chin. “Keep going.”
You do. You take it, ignoring the ache in your jaw, the burn in your throat. You want this—you want to make him fall apart.
And he does.
Steve’s rhythm stutters, his grip tightening as he forces himself as deep as you can take, groaning as he spills down your throat. You swallow instinctively, the taste of him coating your tongue as he pulls back with a satisfied sigh.
You’re a mess—lips swollen, spit glistening on your chin—but Steve only grins.
“Good girl,” he murmurs, thumb swiping over your bottom lip before he leans down, pressing a slow, lingering kiss against your mouth.
summary: Bucky didn't mean to fall in love with his little sister's best friend, but you were just so sweet and caring, he just couldn't help himself, you were younger, but when you looked a him, he suddenly didn't care about people's whispers.
content warnings: age gap (Bucky is 26, reader is 19. both legal!!) mentions of war, waayyyy too many fluff. /if i'm missing any, please lmk!/
a/n: i am so excited about this fic because i love me a good soft 40's Bucky fic. hope u guys enjoy this and don't forget that requests are open!
It was the 1940s, and the world was at war. Rules were different then. Women wore red lipstick to keep morale high, men left with only duffel bags and hope, and people clung to love like it was the last cigarette in a storm.
No one really cared if a girl dated a guy older than her—at least, not out loud. But Bucky Barnes cared. God, did he care.
You were nineteen, barely out of school and still clinging to the naivety of youth. He was twenty-six, a soldier wrapped in leather, grief, and duty. But more than that—he was your best friend’s older brother.
Rebecca Barnes had been your best friend since you were six, and you’d practically grown up inside her brother’s Brooklyn apartment. At first, he barely noticed you. You were just the quiet girl with the big eyes who always had her nose in a book and offered to do the dishes after dinner.
But as time passed and you grew into yourself, he started seeing you differently. You weren’t a child anymore. You laughed louder, teased him more, brought sugar cookies every time he came home on leave. And each time you knocked on that door, you unknowingly chipped away at whatever walls he tried so hard to build.
Bucky had always tried to keep it casual. Just Becca’s best friend. Just the girl who lingered after movie nights. Just the kid who smiled too brightly. But the truth crept in when he least expected it—when you fell asleep on his shoulder, your breath soft and steady. When you patched up a tear in his uniform, sitting cross-legged on the floor. When you cried the night the news reported another battalion lost and he held you through it all.
He fought it at first. Of course he did.
“I’m not good for her,” he told Steve one night on the rooftop. They both had cigarettes hanging between their lips, the stars above doing little to light the city. “She’s just a kid.”
Steve gave him a knowing look. “She’s not a kid, Buck. And you’re not as bad as you think.”
But Bucky wasn’t convinced. He was used to getting blood on his hands. You were all cream and softness and Sunday morning warmth. He didn’t want to ruin that.
Still… he couldn’t stay away.
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The moment it shifted between you two wasn’t dramatic. It was soft, almost quiet. You had stayed late after Becca fell asleep early with a headache. It was just you and Bucky on the worn-out couch, listening to the radio hum jazz through the static.
You leaned your head on his shoulder without asking.
“Hey, Buck?” you whispered.
“Hm?”
“Do you ever think about the future?”
He stiffened. That was dangerous territory.
“All the time,” he admitted. “But lately… I only think about it when you’re in it.”
Your heart skipped. “I didn’t think you noticed me like that.”
He chuckled, low and warm. “That’s the problem, doll. I noticed you too much.”
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After that, it became harder to pretend. Harder to brush his hand against yours and act like it meant nothing. Harder to watch you laugh with someone else and keep his fists from curling at his sides. He was gone more often than not, but whenever he came back, you were always the first person he wanted to see.
It wasn’t easy. Rebecca wasn’t thrilled when she found out.
“You’re my best friend. He’s my brother. Do you know what kind of mess this could turn into?” she had snapped, arms crossed, jaw tight.
“I know,” you’d whispered. “But I love him.”
Rebecca stared at you for a long time, then shook her head. “You better not break him.”
Funny. Because Bucky said the same thing about you.
He didn’t care what people said, especially not Steve, who always tried to be the voice of reason.
“People are gonna talk, Buck. She’s young. They’ll think—”
“I don’t care,” Bucky interrupted, sharp but not angry. “They can talk all they want. As long as I have her, I’m fine.”
And he meant it.
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Behind closed doors, he called you his baby. He kissed your forehead every morning, even when he had to leave before sunrise. He read the little notes you left in his coat pocket, sometimes tearing up when no one was around.
You weren’t just a distraction from war. You were the only piece of peace he ever found.
“I ever get out of this thing alive,” he whispered one night as you laid on his chest, fingers tracing lazy circles over his ribs, “I’m gonna marry you. I don’t care what anyone says. We’ll get a little house, you’ll bake those cookies I love, and I’ll finally get to sleep in past five.”
You laughed softly. “You never sleep in.”
“Exactly. You’ll wear me out.”
You smacked his chest and he laughed. But then he kissed you—slow, like the world wasn’t burning around you.
It was a strange time, and you were a strange couple. But it worked. Because for every explosion overseas, there was a quiet moment between you. For every wound he brought home, there was your voice reading poetry into the night.
No one else needed to understand. It was enough that you had each other.
And maybe that was all anyone could hope for in a world at war. But then, he got sent away, again.
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The day he was supposed to come home, you didn’t sleep the night before. Your hands wouldn’t stop shaking and your heart wouldn’t slow down. Bucky’s last letter had been short, urgent—
“Orders changed. I’ll be home sooner than we thought. Wait for me.”
You re-read it so many times the ink was beginning to fade. The words blurred together in your mind like a prayer you didn’t know you were whispering.
He was coming back.
Bucky was finally coming home.
You stood on the platform at the train station, fingers fidgeting with the hem of your dress. You’d picked the one he liked best—the soft blue one with buttons down the front. Becca had offered to come with you, but you told her no. Not because you didn’t want her there, but because this moment… it had to be yours and his.
The whistle blew.
And your breath caught.
Dozens of soldiers stepped down onto the platform, some greeted with cheers, others with tears. And then you saw him.
He was thinner. His face looked a little sharper, like the boyish roundness had been scraped away by war. His uniform hung differently on him, and there was a weariness in his eyes that hadn’t been there before.
But when his eyes found yours—That same boy, the one who used to blush when you offered him cookies, was still there.
“Bucky!”
You didn’t mean to shout it, but your body moved before your mind could catch up. You ran, and he dropped his duffle bag and caught you mid-step, wrapping you in his arms and lifting you slightly off the ground. You clung to him, burying your face into the crook of his neck.
“I missed you so much,” you breathed. “I know, baby. I missed you more.”
He pulled back just enough to look at you, hands cupping your face like he was memorizing every inch.
“You didn’t change a bit,” he said, voice rough with emotion.
You smiled through tears. “You did.”
He nodded. “But I still love you. That didn’t change.”
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Back at the apartment, Becca wasn’t home when you brought him back. The air was quiet, the soft light of dusk slipping through the windows. Bucky stood just inside the doorway, looking around as if everything had changed in his absence.
“You hungry?” you asked gently.
He shook his head, eyes still scanning the familiar furniture. “I’m home, but I don’t feel home yet.”
You walked over and wrapped your arms around him from behind, pressing your cheek between his shoulder blades.
“You’re safe now,” you whispered. “You’re home, with me.”
He turned, his arms finding your waist, holding you tighter than he ever had before.
“You know what got me through over there?” he asked softly, looking down at you.
“What?”
“You.”
He leaned down and pressed his forehead to yours. “Every time I closed my eyes, I thought about you baking in my kitchen, waiting for me to walk through the door.”
You let out a soft laugh, tears falling freely now. “That’s exactly what I did yesterday, actually. Just… you didn’t walk through the door.”
He tilted his head, his thumb brushing under your eye.
“Well,” he said, voice quiet and full of meaning, “I’m here now.”
That night, you lay curled into his side, his fingers tracing gentle lines down your arm. The room smelled like soap and laundry powder and something distinctively him. He was quiet for a long time, staring at the ceiling.
“You think I’m different now?” he asked suddenly, his voice barely audible.
You looked up at him. “I think… you’ve been through things I’ll never understand. But no, Buck. You’re still you. You’re still mine.”
He looked down at you with such open vulnerability it nearly broke you.
“I don’t know how long peace will last,” he said. “But if it doesn’t—if they call me again—”
“Then I’ll wait again,” you interrupted. “Every time. Always.”
He leaned in and kissed you softly, like a promise sealed in silence.
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A few days later, Steve came by, wearing that sheepish smile of his. Bucky welcomed him in with a hug, and you gave him some coffee. The three of you sat around the kitchen table, and for a moment, it felt like the world was normal again.
“So,” Steve said with a grin, nudging Bucky’s shoulder, “you gonna tell her yet?”
“Tell me what?” you asked, eyebrows raised.
Bucky cleared his throat, suddenly bashful. He reached into the pocket of his coat and pulled out a small velvet box—worn, like it had been carried across oceans.
“I’ve had this since before I left,” he said, opening it to reveal a delicate gold ring. “I just didn’t want to give it to you until I could do it properly.”
Your heart stopped.
“Bucky…”
“You waited for me. Through the worst. Through all of it. I don’t want to wait anymore.”
He got down on one knee.
“Will you marry me, baby?”
You barely got the “yes” out before you were in his arms again.
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The wedding came three months later.
You married him in the back of a small church, wearing your mother’s old dress and a veil sewn by Rebecca herself. Steve was there, tears in his eyes, smiling like he’d waited forever to see Bucky happy.
And Bucky? He didn’t take his eyes off you for a second.
“My baby,” he whispered as he slipped the ring onto your finger.
“My wife,” he whispered later that night, holding you under warm blankets as the snow fell outside.
“My always.” he promised, again and again, long after the lights were out and the city was asleep.
And you believed him.
Because he came back.
Because he chose you.
Because love—real love—waits, survives, and heals.
Even after war.
a/n: ahh im gonna cry, i love them!! also, i've been trying to write ome smut but i've come to the realization thatt i'm not THAT good at writing it, so it'll definitely be a while before i post or add any smut to my fics. i know, i know, we all love smut and i AM trying to read more smut so i get inspired to write it.
anyway, remember, reblogs and likes are incrdibly appreciated! <333
Imagine our poor old man Bucky catching a glimpse of his girl prancing around the house in a skimpy little sheer dress with no underwear, as she’s just bent over the balcony maybe taking a hit of her joint, & he just can’t contain himself…
tehe
…
the breeze just pushes the sheer dress just right over your ass and his cock throb sin his sweats and within a second he’s behind you as you’re bent over the balcony “admiring the view”
“buck—!” you gasp out, feeling him bring against your bare cunt.
“shh, baby.” he coos, pushing his sweats down enough to free his cock before teasing your hole with his tip. “keep smokin’ that joint, doll.”
you whine softly as he rubs his tip over your wet folds as you take another hit. he sinks into you slowly, looking up for a second and scanning the area but not finding anything
and afte that he sinks all the way into you, a mosn bubbling past your lips as you exhale your smoke, leaning your forehead against the rail
he doesn’t like that
he grips your hair at the root and pulls your head back up, making you moan again and seating further on his fat cock — tip snug in your cervix
“that’s right baby, head up when daddy’s fucks you on the balcony. gotta keep an eye out, you hear me?”
Pairing: fatws!Bucky Barnes x oblivious!fem!reader (pre relationship)
Word count: 1.9k
Summary: You're the barista at Bucky's local coffee shop. You become fast friends, and Bucky cherishes that you don't care about his past. Until he's assaulted for his crimes in front of you and he quickly realises that you don't know what he's done.
Warnings: innocent/ditzy/oblivious reader, discussions of bucky's time as the Winter Soldier, trauma, bucky hating himself, me pretending alpine exists, coffee shop au kinda, some asshat pours hot coffee on bucky for existing :(
Requested: yes, here by my love @fluentmoviequoter. i don't think i got the ditzyness quiet there but hope you like it <33
A/N: bonus points to anyone who figures out the taylor swift song this is based on and gets the references (its very obvious). also my first bucky fic so BE NICE.
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“For the last time, ma’am, we don’t serve frappucinos here. If you want one of those, you’ll have to go to the Starbucks across the street.” You repressed the urge to roll your eyes as the woman across the counter from you started a tirade about how you really should be selling ‘basic drinks’ like Frappucinos and Strawberry Cobblers – whatever the hell that was. She ended her speech by storming out of the store and declaring you’d lost a costumer, to which you mouthed ‘good’ to yourself.
You took a moment, pinched the bridge of your nose, before plastering a smile across your face and looking up to the new costumer in front of you.
“Hi, sir,” you started, “I’m sorry about her.” Your eyes flicked over the man’s face, taking in his dark hair, shorn short, and icy blue eyes. He was… wow. And in a leather jacket too? It seemed like God was making up for your shitty previous customer.
“It’s fine,” the man said, a dull smile tugging at his lips. “You probably weren’t mad to see her go, huh?”
You bit back a smile, trying to maintain some professionalism. “It wasn’t the worst part of my day, no,” you admitted. The man in front of you hummed, shifting slightly to pull down the sleeve of his jacket. You caught a glimpse of something dark and shiny beneath the leather but didn’t pay it much attention. “What can I get started for you?”
“A medium flat white, please,” He answered, and you almost sighed in relief at his normal order. You had too many bizarre, impossible ones already and you might’ve thrown him out if he’d tried to order something too crazy.
“No problem. What sort of milk?”
The customer frowned. “Are there… different types?”
“Of course,” you chuckled gently, “We can do full cream, skim, lactose free, oat, almond, s-.”
“Just milk from a cow, please.” He cut you off, but it wasn’t aggressive, more… confused. Not that you minded, of course. Though you could’ve sworn you heard him mutter to himself about there only being one type of milk in the forties.
“Perfect!” You smiled, “That’ll be $5.40. Can I grab a name for that one?” You looked up at the man in front of you, meeting his eyes over the till. God, they really were the most startling, icy blue.
“Uh, Bucky,” replied the costumer. Where had you heard that name before? Bucky… holy shit. You glanced back down and realised that the black shiny thing you’d seen was a hand. A metal hand.
Your jaw dropped. “As in Bucky Barnes?”
Bucky’s shoulders tensed, if metal could really tense, and his jaw set into a hard line like he was expecting confrontation. “Yes, that Bucky,” he said dully, waiting for the fight. What he wasn’t expecting you to say was:
“Holy shit, you’re a hero!”
“I, uh,…” Bucky floundered, thrown off by your words. When was the last time someone, let alone a beautiful woman, had called him a hero? Never, surely. But the tension slowly released from his shoulders and, slightly unsure what to say in response, he stuttered out, “Um. Where- where do I pay?”
“Oh, no, please,” You waved away his hand, clicking a button to push through his order, “It’s on the house.”
The frown was back, a perfect crease between two blue eyes, “I can pay, miss, it’s-.”
“I insist.” You cut him off. “Your coffee will be out soon.”
As he walked away, coffee in hand, Bucky couldn’t help but let his mind wander back to you. The way your eyes had sparkled as you handed him his coffee, the way your smile lit up your whole face. The awe in your eyes when you realised who he was. Awe, not fear. Admiration, even.
He started going to the café every day, just for the chance to talk to you. To feel like- like something other than a monster. You started having actual conversations with him. You learnt that he had a tiny white kitten one day when you accidentally saw his phone lockscreen. He learnt that you were the eldest of three children, and that you grew up in Chicago before you moved out to Brooklyn. He quickly became your favourite costumer, though your hero worship of him dissolved quickly as he became less Avenger and more human to you. Once, you asked him if he’d ever met Frank Sinatra.
He laughed and rolled his eyes.
“Is it heavy?” You asked once, nodding at Bucky’s arm. You were sitting with him on your break, drinking a coffee of your own across the table from him. “It looks heavy.”
Bucky always got awkward when you talked about the arm. You didn’t get it, really. The black vibranium was, frankly, gorgeous, and he’d only ever used it to help people. This one, anyway.
“Um… not really. I’m used to it, and vibranium’s a pretty light metal, so…” Bucky looked down, focusing intently on the sandwich you’d dropped in front of him.
“Hmm,” you hummed in consideration, “Does it make fighting easier? Saving people? Surely, right? Cause you can do all this extra stuff.”
Bucky shifted uncomfortably as you rattled off questions, and when you looked back at him, your smile dropped instantly.
“I- I’m sorry, I’m pushing. You don’t have to tell me-.” You scrambled for an apology, hating the way tension sat in Bucky’s whole frame at your questions.
“No, it’s fine, doll. It’s, uh, not the easiest thing to talk about.” It wasn’t a lie, per se. But the real, full truth was that Bucky simply couldn’t comprehend you talking about the arm like it was- it was a power of something. Something he used for good. Not all the things he didn’t that he could barely speak about but revisited him every night in his dreams.
You didn’t ask Bucky about the arm again after that. But you didn’t understand his shame around it. Not really, anyway. Sure, he’d done bad things with the one Hydra had given him, but that wasn’t him, not in any way that mattered. And it wasn’t the arm he wore – wore? – anymore. Still, you dropped it. In fact, you dropped anything even related to Bucky-the-soldier, instead focusing on Bucky-the-person that you were quickly falling for.
That was, until, someone else brought it up for you.
It was September 27th when it happened. Bucky had been visiting you for months, and you’d started spending nearly all your breaks with him. If he didn’t hurry up and ask you out soon, you’d do it for him.
Anyway. It was the middle of a rush, and Bucky was waiting patiently for you to be free in the table he always sat in. He’d pulled off his glove to better turn the pages of his newspaper (he’s such an old man, you thought to yourself whenever you saw him flicking through the pages), and his metal hand sat visible on the edge of the table. His dog tags had slipped out from under his shirt.
You hadn’t even noticed it happen, not until you heard him curse. Someone had walked straight over to him and poured their freshly ordered espresso onto his chest while giving him a dirty look. You didn’t hear what he said, too busy trying to drown out the ringing in your ears that had suddenly started, but from the way Bucky’s face flickered then shut down, you could guess.
You excused yourself from serving your customer, called over a coworker and raced to Bucky, grabbing a handful of napkins on your way. In an instant, you were seated beside him and patting at his chest.
“Hi,” you said, concern lacing your words, “Are you okay? What the fuck was that about?” You pat Bucky’s chest gently, sopping up the remaining coffee.
Bucky shook his head, “’S nothing, doll. Don’t worry about it.”
You pulled back, “The fuck do you mean ‘it’s nothing?’ He just assaulted you!”
“It’s okay. Nothing I didn’t deserve,” Bucky murmured.
“Bucky.” You deadpanned, “Are you kidding? What could you possibly have done to deserve that? What did he say to you?”
A dull shrug, “The usual. Called me ‘Soldier,’ said I should’ve been, uh, ‘put down.’”
Called him Soldier? If you weren’t focused on comforting Bucky – though he seemed insistent on denying you – you would’ve chased down his attacker and punched him. Instead, you focused on “’The usual?’ What do you mean – Buck, does this happen often?”
He nodded slowly, unable to meet your eyes. “There’s a lotta people angry at me, doll.”
You frowned, confused, “What on Earth for?”
Bucky looked at you then, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “I am- was the Winter Soldier.” He forced the name out like it was glass in his throat, like he deserved every bit of coffee spilt on him and anything else anyone wanted to give him.
It didn’t help.
“So what? You’re not the Winter Soldier anymore, right? Right. So why does it matter?”
Bucky continued to stare. “I’m a murderer.”
You chuckled, “Bucky, don’t be ridiculous.” You swiped at his chest again before setting down the napkin.
And then he frowned. And a fear overwhelmed him as he realised that you didn’t know. You didn’t know what he’d done, that’s why you’d never been scared of him. He considered lying – of course he considered it. But, God, he was falling for you, and he couldn’t be with someone who didn’t… who didn’t know. So he took your hand, with his flesh hand and held it. “What do you think I did, as the Winter Soldier?” He asked slowly.
You shrugged, “I didn’t really think about it. Spy shit, I assumed.”
Something shattered in Bucky. God, he was really going to have to do this, huh? He said your name gently. “I was an assassin. I killed- God, I killed hundreds of people. That’s why that man – why so many people – hate me. Why I deserve their hatred. It wasn’t me who did it, Hydra brainwashed me, but I still did it. I was the Winter Soldier, even if I’m… not now.”
You paused, digesting the information. What did you say to that? Eventually, you settled on, “So?”
Bucky did a visible double take. “What do you mean ‘so?’ I killed people, doll.”
You shook your head. “No, the Winter Soldier killed people. Bucky, you aren’t… who you are is not what you did back then. What they made you do.” You frowned, “People shouldn’t hate you for something you couldn’t control. That’s dumb.”
Bucky just stared at you like you were something holy. “You don’t care?” He asked softly, reverently.
“Why would I care? I care about you, Buck. The real you. No one should hate you; you don’t deserve it. Anyone who does is an idiot.” With a soft smile on his face, Bucky squeezed your hand. He opened his mouth to thank you, but nothing came out. He couldn’t find the words to express the relief he felt at your forgiveness, if he could even call it that. You smiled back, squeezed his hand in return, and despite his coffee-stained shirt and his attacker’s words still ringing in his ears, on that Wednesday afternoon in a softly lit coffee shop, he felt safe. And more to than safe, he felt like maybe, just maybe, he was good.
summary: Bucky didn't mean to fall in love with his little sister's best friend, but you were just so sweet and caring, he just couldn't help himself, you were younger, but when you looked a him, he suddenly didn't care about people's whispers.
content warnings: age gap (Bucky is 26, reader is 19. both legal!!) mentions of war, waayyyy too many fluff. /if i'm missing any, please lmk!/
a/n: i am so excited about this fic because i love me a good soft 40's Bucky fic. hope u guys enjoy this and don't forget that requests are open!
It was the 1940s, and the world was at war. Rules were different then. Women wore red lipstick to keep morale high, men left with only duffel bags and hope, and people clung to love like it was the last cigarette in a storm.
No one really cared if a girl dated a guy older than her—at least, not out loud. But Bucky Barnes cared. God, did he care.
You were nineteen, barely out of school and still clinging to the naivety of youth. He was twenty-six, a soldier wrapped in leather, grief, and duty. But more than that—he was your best friend’s older brother.
Rebecca Barnes had been your best friend since you were six, and you’d practically grown up inside her brother’s Brooklyn apartment. At first, he barely noticed you. You were just the quiet girl with the big eyes who always had her nose in a book and offered to do the dishes after dinner.
But as time passed and you grew into yourself, he started seeing you differently. You weren’t a child anymore. You laughed louder, teased him more, brought sugar cookies every time he came home on leave. And each time you knocked on that door, you unknowingly chipped away at whatever walls he tried so hard to build.
Bucky had always tried to keep it casual. Just Becca’s best friend. Just the girl who lingered after movie nights. Just the kid who smiled too brightly. But the truth crept in when he least expected it—when you fell asleep on his shoulder, your breath soft and steady. When you patched up a tear in his uniform, sitting cross-legged on the floor. When you cried the night the news reported another battalion lost and he held you through it all.
He fought it at first. Of course he did.
“I’m not good for her,” he told Steve one night on the rooftop. They both had cigarettes hanging between their lips, the stars above doing little to light the city. “She’s just a kid.”
Steve gave him a knowing look. “She’s not a kid, Buck. And you’re not as bad as you think.”
But Bucky wasn’t convinced. He was used to getting blood on his hands. You were all cream and softness and Sunday morning warmth. He didn’t want to ruin that.
Still… he couldn’t stay away.
∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘
The moment it shifted between you two wasn’t dramatic. It was soft, almost quiet. You had stayed late after Becca fell asleep early with a headache. It was just you and Bucky on the worn-out couch, listening to the radio hum jazz through the static.
You leaned your head on his shoulder without asking.
“Hey, Buck?” you whispered.
“Hm?”
“Do you ever think about the future?”
He stiffened. That was dangerous territory.
“All the time,” he admitted. “But lately… I only think about it when you’re in it.”
Your heart skipped. “I didn’t think you noticed me like that.”
He chuckled, low and warm. “That’s the problem, doll. I noticed you too much.”
∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘
After that, it became harder to pretend. Harder to brush his hand against yours and act like it meant nothing. Harder to watch you laugh with someone else and keep his fists from curling at his sides. He was gone more often than not, but whenever he came back, you were always the first person he wanted to see.
It wasn’t easy. Rebecca wasn’t thrilled when she found out.
“You’re my best friend. He’s my brother. Do you know what kind of mess this could turn into?” she had snapped, arms crossed, jaw tight.
“I know,” you’d whispered. “But I love him.”
Rebecca stared at you for a long time, then shook her head. “You better not break him.”
Funny. Because Bucky said the same thing about you.
He didn’t care what people said, especially not Steve, who always tried to be the voice of reason.
“People are gonna talk, Buck. She’s young. They’ll think—”
“I don’t care,” Bucky interrupted, sharp but not angry. “They can talk all they want. As long as I have her, I’m fine.”
And he meant it.
∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘
Behind closed doors, he called you his baby. He kissed your forehead every morning, even when he had to leave before sunrise. He read the little notes you left in his coat pocket, sometimes tearing up when no one was around.
You weren’t just a distraction from war. You were the only piece of peace he ever found.
“I ever get out of this thing alive,” he whispered one night as you laid on his chest, fingers tracing lazy circles over his ribs, “I’m gonna marry you. I don’t care what anyone says. We’ll get a little house, you’ll bake those cookies I love, and I’ll finally get to sleep in past five.”
You laughed softly. “You never sleep in.”
“Exactly. You’ll wear me out.”
You smacked his chest and he laughed. But then he kissed you—slow, like the world wasn’t burning around you.
It was a strange time, and you were a strange couple. But it worked. Because for every explosion overseas, there was a quiet moment between you. For every wound he brought home, there was your voice reading poetry into the night.
No one else needed to understand. It was enough that you had each other.
And maybe that was all anyone could hope for in a world at war. But then, he got sent away, again.
∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘
The day he was supposed to come home, you didn’t sleep the night before. Your hands wouldn’t stop shaking and your heart wouldn’t slow down. Bucky’s last letter had been short, urgent—
“Orders changed. I’ll be home sooner than we thought. Wait for me.”
You re-read it so many times the ink was beginning to fade. The words blurred together in your mind like a prayer you didn’t know you were whispering.
He was coming back.
Bucky was finally coming home.
You stood on the platform at the train station, fingers fidgeting with the hem of your dress. You’d picked the one he liked best—the soft blue one with buttons down the front. Becca had offered to come with you, but you told her no. Not because you didn’t want her there, but because this moment… it had to be yours and his.
The whistle blew.
And your breath caught.
Dozens of soldiers stepped down onto the platform, some greeted with cheers, others with tears. And then you saw him.
He was thinner. His face looked a little sharper, like the boyish roundness had been scraped away by war. His uniform hung differently on him, and there was a weariness in his eyes that hadn’t been there before.
But when his eyes found yours—That same boy, the one who used to blush when you offered him cookies, was still there.
“Bucky!”
You didn’t mean to shout it, but your body moved before your mind could catch up. You ran, and he dropped his duffle bag and caught you mid-step, wrapping you in his arms and lifting you slightly off the ground. You clung to him, burying your face into the crook of his neck.
“I missed you so much,” you breathed. “I know, baby. I missed you more.”
He pulled back just enough to look at you, hands cupping your face like he was memorizing every inch.
“You didn’t change a bit,” he said, voice rough with emotion.
You smiled through tears. “You did.”
He nodded. “But I still love you. That didn’t change.”
∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘
Back at the apartment, Becca wasn’t home when you brought him back. The air was quiet, the soft light of dusk slipping through the windows. Bucky stood just inside the doorway, looking around as if everything had changed in his absence.
“You hungry?” you asked gently.
He shook his head, eyes still scanning the familiar furniture. “I’m home, but I don’t feel home yet.”
You walked over and wrapped your arms around him from behind, pressing your cheek between his shoulder blades.
“You’re safe now,” you whispered. “You’re home, with me.”
He turned, his arms finding your waist, holding you tighter than he ever had before.
“You know what got me through over there?” he asked softly, looking down at you.
“What?”
“You.”
He leaned down and pressed his forehead to yours. “Every time I closed my eyes, I thought about you baking in my kitchen, waiting for me to walk through the door.”
You let out a soft laugh, tears falling freely now. “That’s exactly what I did yesterday, actually. Just… you didn’t walk through the door.”
He tilted his head, his thumb brushing under your eye.
“Well,” he said, voice quiet and full of meaning, “I’m here now.”
That night, you lay curled into his side, his fingers tracing gentle lines down your arm. The room smelled like soap and laundry powder and something distinctively him. He was quiet for a long time, staring at the ceiling.
“You think I’m different now?” he asked suddenly, his voice barely audible.
You looked up at him. “I think… you’ve been through things I’ll never understand. But no, Buck. You’re still you. You’re still mine.”
He looked down at you with such open vulnerability it nearly broke you.
“I don’t know how long peace will last,” he said. “But if it doesn’t—if they call me again—”
“Then I’ll wait again,” you interrupted. “Every time. Always.”
He leaned in and kissed you softly, like a promise sealed in silence.
∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘
A few days later, Steve came by, wearing that sheepish smile of his. Bucky welcomed him in with a hug, and you gave him some coffee. The three of you sat around the kitchen table, and for a moment, it felt like the world was normal again.
“So,” Steve said with a grin, nudging Bucky’s shoulder, “you gonna tell her yet?”
“Tell me what?” you asked, eyebrows raised.
Bucky cleared his throat, suddenly bashful. He reached into the pocket of his coat and pulled out a small velvet box—worn, like it had been carried across oceans.
“I’ve had this since before I left,” he said, opening it to reveal a delicate gold ring. “I just didn’t want to give it to you until I could do it properly.”
Your heart stopped.
“Bucky…”
“You waited for me. Through the worst. Through all of it. I don’t want to wait anymore.”
He got down on one knee.
“Will you marry me, baby?”
You barely got the “yes” out before you were in his arms again.
∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘
The wedding came three months later.
You married him in the back of a small church, wearing your mother’s old dress and a veil sewn by Rebecca herself. Steve was there, tears in his eyes, smiling like he’d waited forever to see Bucky happy.
And Bucky? He didn’t take his eyes off you for a second.
“My baby,” he whispered as he slipped the ring onto your finger.
“My wife,” he whispered later that night, holding you under warm blankets as the snow fell outside.
“My always.” he promised, again and again, long after the lights were out and the city was asleep.
And you believed him.
Because he came back.
Because he chose you.
Because love—real love—waits, survives, and heals.
Even after war.
a/n: ahh im gonna cry, i love them!! also, i've been trying to write ome smut but i've come to the realization thatt i'm not THAT good at writing it, so it'll definitely be a while before i post or add any smut to my fics. i know, i know, we all love smut and i AM trying to read more smut so i get inspired to write it.
anyway, remember, reblogs and likes are incrdibly appreciated! <333
i haven’t had time to upload the fic nor the cai bot because work has been CRAAAAZY these past few days, but i swear i’ll get to it as soon as i get home 🩷
1940’s age gap!bucky fic coming tomorrow (hopefully) AND I AM SO EXCITED FOR U GUYS TO READ THIS ONE 😭🫠🩷 (r’s legal!!!!! and its not that much of an age gap lmao)
pairing: avenger!teammate!dad’scoworker!Bucky x femStark!reader
summary: where Bucky Barnes falls for Tony Stark’s daughter, and she falls too. 💞
content warnings: mentions of father’s death, slight grieving, implications of sexual activity. other than that, all fluff because we love sweet, soft Bucky. <3
a/n: FIRST FIC, YAY!!! no but, tbh, this is a terrible blurb i couldn’t stop writing while creating for a cai bot, so it became too long and decided to post it here 🥰 bear with me, i’m still getting the hang of this.
୨୧ ⏔⏔⏔⏔♡⏔⏔⏔⏔ ୨୧ ⏔⏔⏔⏔♡⏔⏔⏔⏔ ୨୧ ⏔⏔⏔⏔
You’d always had a thing for your dad’s coworker.
It started when you were fourteen. He was the new addition to the team—quiet, brooding, always lurking in the corners with eyes that had seen too much. You knew he was older. Much older.
But that didn’t stop the flutter in your chest whenever he spoke near you, his voice low and gravelly, like a secret only you got to hear.
Bucky Barnes had that effect on people. But on you? It was different.
At first, it was silly—just a teenage crush. The way you’d stammer around him, the way your pulse would quicken if he so much as looked at you.
He always smiled softly, amused but kind, never crossing a line. Never inappropriate. He kept his distance, respectfully so.
But when you turned eighteen, everything shifted.
The tension you’d always felt became something more. Something magnetic. Something electric.
You noticed it in the way he would clench his jaw when you walked by in your training gear, how his eyes would flick to your lips when you talked, how his metal hand would twitch slightly, like it ached to touch you but knew it shouldn’t.
You noticed, too, how he was always near. Always watching. Always protecting. His hand would hover near the small of your back in crowded hallways.
He’d position himself beside you on missions. He’d wait until you were safely in your quarters before going to his. It was subtle, but it was Bucky—and subtle for him meant volumes.
And then your father died.
Everything changed again. You broke.
But Bucky? He was there. Not as a soldier. Not as your dad’s teammate. As himself. He sat beside you at the funeral. Held your trembling hands through sleepless nights. Whispered comforting words when the grief clawed at your chest.
He never pushed, never asked for anything. Just stayed. One night, after hours of crying in his arms, you felt his lips barely graze your hairline. Not lustful. Just… aching.
Something bloomed in you then—trust, maybe. Or love. Maybe both.
You started spending nights in his room when the loneliness got too loud.
At first, you’d fall asleep in his bed, his hand smoothing over your hair, his chest warm against your back. But eventually, things changed again.
One night, you kissed him. He kissed you back. And that night, for the first time, he let you see the softness in him—the man beneath the weapon.
You gave yourself to him, and he gave himself to you. It was desperate and tender all at once, like the two of you had been waiting years for that moment. And maybe you had.
From then on, those nights became frequent. Needed. Secret.
No one could know.
Not Tony’s daughter and the ex-Winter Soldier. The man who had murdered your grandparents. Not the Avengers who were left, not the Thunderbolts, not the public. The headlines would write themselves.
The betrayal. The scandal.
So you kept it hidden. Your stolen kisses. His fingers tracing lazy circles on your back in the dark.
The way he whispered “baby” into your neck like it was a prayer. The way you loved him more with every breath.
Because he wasn’t just your dad’s coworker anymore.
He wasn’t just Steve’s best friend.
He wasn’t just The Winter Soldier.
He was your Bucky.
And in a world full of chaos, secrets, and haunted pasts—you had each other.
And that was enough.
Always.
⸻
One night, long after the world was asleep, you lay tangled in his sheets, your head on his chest, fingers trailing slow shapes over the metal lines of his arm.
He broke the silence first, voice husky and low. “You ever think about the future?”
You looked up at him, heart doing that fluttering thing it always did when he spoke like this—unguarded. “All the time.”
His thumb brushed over your bare shoulder. “I mean… us. What this is.”
He paused, then added, “What it could be, if we ever stopped hiding.”
You blinked slowly, letting the words settle. “Sometimes I wonder what it’d be like to not worry about who’s watching. To kiss you in front of the others and not care what they think.”
His smile was small but aching. “They’d tear us apart, you know. Not just the team. The world. I’m not… the guy people want for you.”
You reached up, touching his jaw with gentle fingers. “But you’re my guy.”
He exhaled shakily, like your words were both healing and dangerous. “God, I want a life with you. I want mornings with you in my arms. I want to take you out and not look over my shoulder. I want to fall asleep next to you and wake up knowing I can keep you forever.”
You swallowed hard. “Then let’s want it. Even if we can’t have it yet. Even if the world doesn’t get it.”
He leaned down, pressing his forehead to yours. “You’re not afraid?”
“Terrified,” you whispered. “But I love you more than I’m scared.”
And he kissed you then—slow, deep, reverent. Like he was promising you a forever, even if the world wasn’t ready for it yet.
⏔⏔⏔⏔♡⏔⏔⏔⏔ ⏔⏔⏔⏔♡⏔⏔⏔⏔ ⏔⏔⏔⏔♡⏔⏔⏔⏔
a/n: okay, this is not my favorite thing but it’ll do because i have been wanting to post a blurb here, so enjoy, i guess 🥹 reblogs & comments are very much appreciated 🤍
pairing: dom!new avenger!bucky barnes x fem!reader
warnings: nsfw, 18+, minors dni, unprotected sex, creampie, breeding kink, fingering, orgasm denial, publi(ish) teasing, dirty talk do not operate heavy machinery after reading
summary: you told bucky it was your ovulation week and he took that as a challenge. you really, really, should’ve kept your mouth shut.
based on this request | requests are open!
word count: 3k
author's note: hi my loves! i had too much fun writing this and i love it so much! i'm so excited to start working on the other requests that i have received 💓. have a great time reading, love ya and stay safe out there!
You should’ve kept your damn mouth shut.
It was just a whisper, a breathy, heat-laced confession, murmured with your face buried against Bucky’s throat last night while straddling his lap.
The compound was quiet, the television playing some netflix movie neither of you were watching. His hand had been sliding slow, comforting circles across your lower back, and your thighs were clenched tight around his hips, slick with want.
You hadn’t meant to say it, but your hormones clearly had other plans.
“It’s my ovulation week,” you breathed, nuzzling against his stubble. Your voice trembled with need, barely a sound. “Everything… feels extra.”
His hand had stopped, just for a second.
Then, danger. Pure danger. The way his fingers tightened possessively at your waist, the low hum he gave in response, and that glint in his eyes, it was not just mischief, his gaze was hungry almost as if he couldn’t wait to claim you.
That’s when you knew you were in trouble.
Now, the next morning, you’re standing in the mirrored gym on trembling legs with a kettlebell in your hand, sweat sliding down your spine, and your boyfriend is watching you like he’s about to drag you into the nearest closet and fuck you into the drywall. Not that you minded though.
He’s leaning against the wall across the mat. Casual on the surface. But the tension in his jaw and the weight in his stare?
It was anything but casual.
His sweatpants hang low on his hips, framing the sharp cut of his v-line and doing absolutely nothing to hide the thick, heavy outline of his cock beneath the cotton. His black tank is soaked through from sparring, clinging to the hard planes of his chest and abs like a second skin.
Bucky's got that calculated look in his eye almost like he’s pretending to assess your form, but really, he’s picturing bending you over the nearest bench and wrecking you six ways from Sunday.
You shift on your feet, stretch your arms overhead, arch just enough to let your back curve and your chest push forward.
If he’s going to tease you, you’ll tease back.
That’s your first mistake.
The second is letting out a moan, quiet, soft, instinctual as you bend down to touch your toes. It was barely audible, but he hears it.
The moment it escapes your lips, his eyes flash. And then, he moves.
Not a walk. A stalk.
He pushes off the wall and prowls toward you across the mat, slow and deliberate, like a wolf scenting its prey.
You straighten up too quickly, nearly dropping the kettlebell.
“Need a spotter?” he drawls, his voice pitched low and lazy, but his eyes rake over you like he’s already got you on your knees. “Or are you just making those noises for fun?”
You swallow, trying to look as unimpressed as possible. “Just warming up.”
He hums, circling behind you.
You feel the heat of him before he touches you, his presence like the sun, warm and overwhelming. You can smell him, too, sweat and cedar and something feral. And then, he kneels behind you, dragging his palms slowly up the backs of your thighs like he’s not in the compound's gym right now.
“Mm,” he murmurs. “We should stretch you out more.”
Your breath catches.
He parts your legs wider, his metal hand sliding between your inner thighs to nudge them open. You gasp as the fabric of your shorts pulls taut across your aching core, the pressure sweet and cruel.
“Bucky—” you whisper, heart racing.
“Shhh.” His breath ghosts over the curve of your ass. “You’re being so good. Standing still like this. Letting me see just how fuckin’ desperate you are.”
His fingers dance under the hem of your shorts, barely grazing your skin. Teasing your soaked, sensitive flesh without mercy, but he doesn’t touch you where you need though. Just close enough to ruin you.
“You’ve been wet since last night, haven’t you?” he murmurs. “Could feel you clenching around nothing when you were grinding on my lap. Bet you soaked through your panties when you slept.”
You tremble, the heat between your legs now unbearable. You want to scream, maybe even cry, perhaps drag him into the supply closet and beg him to fuck you until you can’t walk.
And he knows it.
“You told me it’s your ovulation week dollface” he whispers, voice dark and sinful. “That means this little pussy’s hungry, huh? Just aching to get filled.”
“God, you’re evil,” you whisper through your teeth, trying not to fall apart in front of the squat rack.
He chuckles. Presses a kiss to the side of your thigh. And then—he stands. Just like that.
Leaves you there, shaking, soaked and empty.
You spin around, panting, barely restraining the urge to launch your kettlebell at his head.
Bucky smirks, that infuriating, self-satisfied look that says he’s enjoying your torment a little too much.
“I think Yelena’s done with the sparring mat,” he says, voice loud enough for everyone to hear. “Why don’t you grab it, sweetheart?”
Your face burns and your clit throbs. And Bucky walks off like he didn’t just edge you in the damn compound gym.
You turn and meet Yelena’s smug grin.
She’s still jogging on the treadmill but slows to a bounce-walk as she tosses you a towel. “You look like you need a different kind of workout, sweetheart.”
“Don't.”
Yelena leans on the handrails. “No, no, I’m just saying—” she lifts an eyebrow— “the mat isn’t the only thing that’s going to get stretched out today.”
You throw the towel at her face.
She catches it mid-air, laughing.
“Tell Bucky to let you finish next time,” she calls as you storm off to the locker room, “Or at least let us know so we can film it!”
Somewhere near the dumbbells, Bob chokes on his protein shake.
You don’t even know what this briefing is about.
There’s a map stretched across the table, John is mid-rant about “optimal insertion points,” Alexei’s chewing sunflower seeds with the enthusiasm of a man watching spring training, Ava is checking her knives for the third time, Yelena’s leaned back in her chair, scrolling through her phone, occasionally snorting at whatever she’s watching.
And Bob, well Bob is asleep.
But none of it matters.
Because Bucky is sitting next to you. And his fingers are buried between your thighs.
From the outside, everything looks innocent. His flesh hand rests gently in your lap, your own placed demurely over his like the two of you are just quietly close, sweet, even.
But beneath the table, where no one can see, his metal hand is sliding past the waistband of your shorts with deliberate, devastating precision.
He doesn’t even pretend to rush. Two thick fingers move in slow, torturous circles over your clit, skimming with maddening pressure, barely enough to satisfy, but just enough to make your legs tremble.
Your breath catches, body frozen in place, every muscle tight with restraint. He knows exactly what he’s doing, how to touch you just right, how to coax those tiny, helpless reactions from you while you try to sit still and pretend you’re paying attention to a goddamn map.
His fingers stroke like he has all the time in the world, like there isn't a room full of operatives around you and a mission briefing happening overhead. A soft whimper curls in your throat and dies behind your teeth.
You squeeze your thighs together, trying to catch more friction, but that only makes him chuckle under his breath, barely audible and smug as sin.
And still, he doesn’t go deeper. Doesn't give you what you're aching for. Just keeps circling, teasing, controlling. Like this is a game, and you’re already losing, pathetically.
You sit stiffly, back ramrod straight, every muscle locked as you try not to make a sound. Your tablet is open in front of you, gripped so tight your knuckles ache and it's the only thing grounding you in this room while your body burns.
He leans in, voice low, lips grazing the shell of your ear. “You’re fuckin’ soaked,” he murmurs, and you can hear the smirk in it. “You really gonna cum in front of the team, princess?”
Your breath hitches. “Bucky,” you whisper, voice sharp like a warning, like a prayer.
He doesn’t stop. If anything, his touch gets lazier. Crueler. His cold vibranium fingers part your folds like he owns every inch of you, and he dips just barely inside, only to pull away, dragging the wetness back up to swirl gently over your clit again.
“You said you needed me,” he continues, brushing his nose against your temple. “Said your body’s beggin’ for it. I’m just helping”
“Are you two doing this again?” Yelena asks flatly, without even looking up. Her tone is dry as dust. “She’s vibrating like she’s possessed, someone get her a snack before she faints.”
You glare daggers at her, but it’s weak, your body is already betraying you.
Alexei squints at you across the table. “I thought she had blood sugar issue”
“She’s ovulating,” Bucky announces casually, not even bothering to lower his voice.
Ava groans. “Jesus, Barnes, you can’t just say that.”
“She told me,” he shrugs, like he’s reading weather reports. “I’m being supportive.”
You make a choked sound as he presses down harder in tight, purposeful circles now, inescapable. Your hips twitch without your permission, Bucky's not even fucking you yet, but you can already feel the orgasm winding tight in your belly like a wire stretched too thin.
“I hate you,” you grind out under your breath, nails digging crescents into your palm.
He turns just enough to meet your eyes, that wicked glint in his blue gaze that makes your lungs seize. “Say that again when you’re cumming on my fingers, pretty girl.”
But he doesn’t let you get there.
Each time your body trembles on the cusp, he pulls back, slows, teasing you with strokes so feather-light they feel like punishment.
You’re soaked, shaking, every inch of your skin flushed with heat. He’s wrecking you in silence, in full view of your teammates, and no one’s the wiser, save for the few who clearly suspect exactly what’s happening under the table.
“Bucky,” you beg, barely audible, lips barely moving. “Please.”
He tilts his head, brushing his mouth over the corner of yours. “Not here, sweetheart.” His voice is velvet, low and dark and dripping with promise. “You wanna be bred, honey? Stuffed full like you’re meant to be?” You whimper, and he smirks. “Then you’ll wait.”
“Okay,” Walker claps his hands like a kindergarten teacher trying to salvage control, clearly frustrated. “Unless Bucky would like to finish fucking his girlfriend under the table, can we maybe circle back to the infiltration routes?”
“Bold of you to assume he hasn’t started,” Yelena mutters, not even glancing up from her screen.
You want the ground to swallow you whole. Or set the whole damn briefing room on fire. Maybe both.
Bucky withdraws his hand with excruciating slowness, fingers slick with your arousal. He doesn’t bother hiding it. Instead, he drags them along the inside of your thigh, leaving a glistening trail before wiping them off on your skin like he’s branding you. A silent, possessive mark that has your breath catching in your throat.
He leans back in his chair like nothing happened, legs spread in that display of dominance, expression unreadable but infuriatingly smug.
Completely relaxed. Completely in control.
And you? You’re ruined. Wrung out and twitching. Every nerve ending crackling with frustration, your body screaming for the release he just denied you.
Then he turns again, tilting his head so his lips hover at the shell of your ear, voice so low it shivers through your bones.
“Kitchen. Twenty minutes. Don’t wear panties.”
You almost beat him there.
Almost.
You're already perched on the edge of the kitchen island, legs swinging slightly, thighs pressed tight together in a poor attempt to dull the ache pulsing through your core. Your shorts are somewhere back in your room, discarded in your frenzy to get here fast enough, and you’re bare underneath his black t-shirt, no panties, no shame.
Just soaked thighs and need.
The cotton of his tee clings to your skin, damp with sweat and arousal. Your nipples are pebbled against the fabric, the cool air in the kitchen brushing over them each time you shift. You’re a mess of frustration and anticipation—hot, dripping, ruined—and all because he didn’t let you finish at that stupid meeting.
Then the sound of footsteps.
He strides in like he owns the whole fucking building—sweatpants hanging low on his hips, dark tank sticking to his chest, muscles flexed, jaw tight. But it’s his eyes that stop your breath. Cerulean blue, blazing and feral.
He takes one look at you—legs spread, thighs gleaming, lips parted in silent plea and something in him snaps.
He crosses the space in two steps and his hands are already on you.
“You waited like a good girl, huh?” he rasps, voice wrecked and raw, lifting the shirt up and over your chest. “Sittin’ here all wet and desperate, no fuckin’ panties like I told you. Fuck.”
You don’t get the chance to answer—he’s already kissing you. Hard and possessive. Open-mouthed and filthy, all tongue and teeth and the sharp edge of punishment. You moan against his mouth, clawing at his waistband, nails scraping the hard lines of his hips.
His vibranium hand slides between your legs and you nearly sob. He groans into your mouth as he feels how wet you are, how ready.
“Been leaking for me all fuckin’ day,” he growls, dragging slick fingers through your folds. “You know what I want, don’t you, baby? Want that sweet little cunt full. Stuffed so deep you feel me for days.”
“Please,” you pant, grinding shamelessly against his hand, desperate. “Need it—need you to fill me up, Bucky, please—”
That’s all he needs.
He spins you around and bends you over the island, chest pressed to cool marble, ass bared and ready. There’s no teasing this time. No patience. You feel the thick, blunt heat of him at your entrance and brace yourself—
Then he slams into you with a brutal thrust.
You cry out, loud and unrestrained, one hand slapping the counter, the other gripping the edge like a lifeline. Bucky bottoms out instantly, stretching you open, splitting you around the thick length of him.
“Fuck,” he groans, snapping his hips. “Tight fuckin’ pussy. You were made to be filled by me.”
He sets a relentless pace, hips slamming into your ass, the sound obscene and echoing off the tiled walls. Each thrust drives your body forward, forces breath from your lungs, drags you closer to the edge with reckless, punishing efficiency.
“You want it in you, huh?” he pants, gripping your hips like he’ll never let go. “Gonna fuck you full, baby. Gonna fill that greedy pussy ‘til it’s dripping down your thighs. Want my cum deep, want me to breed this needy little cunt?”
“Yes!” you scream. “Fuck, yes, yes, please, Bucky, fill me,"
He snarls, pace turning savage. “Gonna take it. Gonna fuck a baby into you right here on the goddamn counter. My needy little slut, my good girl.”
You unravel, shaking, twitching, walls spasming around him as your orgasm hits you hard, pleasure burning through your bloodstream, exploding behind your eyes. You sob his name, voice wrecked.
Bucky’s right behind you.
He grits out a curse and drives in deep, cock twitching as he spills inside you, hot, thick and endless. He keeps grinding forward as if he could somehow fuck his cum deeper, claim every inch of you from the inside out.
And then you heard voices and footsteps from the hall.
Yelena’s voice rang out, “You know we eat food on that counter, right? Like with our mouths?
Alexei exclaims, “Walker owe me twenty bucks!”
John retorts, dry as ever “at least she's not complaining now.” Ava laughed, “Told you they wouldn’t make it to sunset”
And you could vaguely hear Bob asking if they were supposed to see this.
You bury your face in your arms, groaning. “Kill me. Kill me now.”
Bucky chuckles, actual laughter, low and warm, chest shaking against your back, he presses a kiss to the base of your neck, then another to your spine. “Don’t worry, sweetheart,” he murmurs.
He pulls out slowly, a filthy squelch of sound following, then hums when your thighs glisten with his release. “Look at that,” he says softly. “Already leaking. Just how I like it.”
You melt when he wraps his arms around you from behind, chest to your back, still warm and panting.
“You did so good for me,” he whispers, brushing your hair off your cheek. “So perfect. Gonna clean you up, put you in bed, and hold you all night. You earned it, needy girl.”
You sigh, body boneless.
And when he lifts you off the counter like you weigh nothing, bridal style, you don’t even resist. You just curl into his chest, letting yourself be carried away, dripping and satisfied.
“I love you,” he says softly into your hair as he walks past the rest of the team like you two didn’t just fuck in a common area.
Despite everything, despite the chaos, the teasing, the way he just wrecked you in the kitchen, you smile.
“I love you too.”
Even if you’re banned from the kitchen forever.
a/n: thank you so much for reading my sweethearts! ❤️ please leave a comment or a reblog if you enjoyed this fic! it keeps me motivated 🥰
summary: You’re a literature student. He’s your English professor — brilliant, composed, and entirely off-limits. But the more you write, the more he notices you. And what begins as admiration quietly unravels into something far more dangerous.
You slammed your dorm door a little too hard behind you. Not on purpose. But kind of.
Your bag slid from your shoulder, landing with a dull thud by your desk. You kicked your shoes off without bothering to untie them, paced once across the room, then sat on the edge of your bed—and stayed there.
Frozen.
Staring at your phone like it might blink first.
God.
What the fuck was that?
You hadn’t done anything. It wasn’t your fault some guy sat next to you, smiled, introduced himself like you were a normal person in a normal class—not someone tangled in a secret affair with the professor who’d stared daggers through him the whole lecture.
Not your fault.
Still—James didn’t even look at you when he left. Didn’t nod, didn’t blink, didn’t breathe in your direction. Just turned and walked out like you weren’t the girl he had whispered I love you to, had cooked dinner for, had kissed so softly the night before you thought your heart would burst.
Your stomach twisted.
Was he really mad?
Jealous?
The thought made your heart beat harder—frustration and confusion and something smug curling in your chest all at once.
Why would he be jealous?
You didn’t flirt. You didn’t even talk back. You were literally just sitting there, awkward as hell, trying not to make it worse.
But he was mad. Definitely.
You lay back on the bed with a groan, dragging a pillow over your face and letting out something between a scream and a laugh.
You should text him.
No. Fuck that.
You didn’t do anything wrong. You weren’t going to apologize for… what, being looked at? For breathing? For being his and not saying it out loud?
You weren’t going to chase him.
Not this time.
Still, your fingers hovered over your screen for way too long—over his name, the message bar, the unread silence that felt heavier by the second.
You threw your phone across the bed and grinned. Just a little.
Because if James Barnes was jealous?
Good. Let him stew in it for a while.
———
The next morning you turned the corner of the English building, clutching your travel mug and trying to walk slow enough that you wouldn’t be the first person in the classroom again. Your nerves had already done enough damage last night—spiraling into every version of Was he mad at me? Did I do something wrong?—and you weren’t about to make yourself an easy target for another cold shoulder.
Not today.
But of course, fate had a flair for cruel timing.
Because just as you passed the cluster of students lounging by the classroom door, he called out to you.
“Heyyy! Come here!”
Theo.
You blinked, surprised. He was leaning casually against the wall, surrounded by two other guys and a girl you recognized from one of your gen eds. All of them looked up when he waved you over.
You hesitated. But only for a second.
Because the truth was… you didn’t really have friends on campus. Not besides Sarah. And Theo didn’t seem that bad—just a little too friendly, maybe. But harmless.
You stepped toward the group.
“Hey,” you said, your voice more unsure than you meant it to be.
Theo smiled, shifting to give you space. “You heading to lecture?”
“Yeah,” you nodded. “Just about to.”
He grinned. “Cool. We were thinking about hitting that bar just off campus later. You should come with.”
“Oh,” you blinked again. “Um—maybe.”
“You should. Bring your roommate if you want. Or not.” He chuckled. “It’ll be chill.”
You smiled, polite. “Yeah, sure. Sounds fun.”
And that’s exactly when you felt it. That drop in the air. That shift. Like something passed through the hallway and sucked the warmth right out of it.
You didn’t have to turn to know who it was.
Professor Barnes walked straight past the group—dark suit, jaw tight, stride purposeful—and didn’t even glance in your direction. Not a flicker. Not a twitch.
Like you weren’t standing there. Like you didn’t exist.
Your stomach flipped. Heat crawled up your neck.
Theo was still talking beside you, something about what drinks they were planning to order, but you couldn’t hear a word.
Your eyes followed James as he disappeared into the classroom, his shoulders tense, his hand clenching slightly around the stack of papers he carried.
“…he’s so annoying, isn’t he?”
Theo’s voice pulled you back into the moment. You blinked, realizing too late that you were still staring at the door James had walked through.
You turned to Theo, trying not to look as rattled as you felt.
He smirked, misreading your expression entirely. “Professor Barnes,” he added, jerking his chin toward the classroom. “Total hardass. Always gives us way too much homework for no reason.”
You forced a laugh. Just a little huff of air, nothing too revealing. “Right.”
He chuckled. “Bet he thinks this is the only class we’re taking. Like we don’t have lives.”
You didn’t respond.
Because you couldn’t.
Your jaw was tight with the effort it took not to snap, not to correct him, not to defend the man you’d had your legs wrapped around the other night. The same man who kissed you like you were made of glass. Who whispered “I love you” into your mouth like it meant something sacred. Who was now… cold, distant, and glaring daggers at Theo from inside the classroom.
You didn’t dare look back at the door again. You just gave Theo a faint nod and an even fainter smile.
“Yeah. I should probably head in,” you muttered.
And then you stepped away, leaving him mid-sentence, heart pounding as you crossed the threshold and stepped into the classroom.
There were already a handful of students scattered throughout the room, chatting quietly, flipping through notes, setting up their laptops. James didn’t look up when you stepped inside.
You kept your gaze down as you walked toward his desk, clutching the paper he’d assigned yesterday—neatly stapled, with your name at the top. Just like everyone else, you set it down without a word. Didn’t linger. Didn’t meet his eyes.
You felt his stare, though. Burning through you.
You turned away and made your way to your usual seat near the front. But instead of sliding into it like normal, you paused—just for a second—and glanced over your shoulder. Just enough to catch him.
He wasn’t looking at your paper. He was looking at you. Jaw tight. Brow tense. Hands still.
Jealous.
And god—god—you kind of loved it.
You settled into your chair, letting your bag drop softly to the floor. You pulled out a pen with careful ease, flipping open your notebook, pretending like you didn’t notice the heat of his stare still dragging over your shoulders.
He didn’t know. He couldn’t know what it did to you—seeing him like this. So composed on the surface, but brimming just beneath. That sharp, simmering edge of possessiveness, jealousy, frustration.
He didn’t know you’d spent the entire night thinking about him. That Theo meant nothing. That no one could ever mean anything the way he did.
The lecture hall buzzed with low conversation until James stepped up to the front, setting down his leather-bound folder with that familiar quiet authority. The moment he cleared his throat, the room hushed.
Your pulse ticked up. You sat up straighter.
Then—the door creaked open.
Theo.
He strolled in like it was no big deal, half-grinning as he made his way toward you again. And of course, of course, he dropped into the seat beside you with a casual little hey, like this was some meet-cute instead of the slowest unfolding death of your sanity.
But James?
He didn’t let it slide.
“You’re late, Mr. Reeves,” James said flatly, not even looking at him as he flipped open his notes.
Theo blinked, pausing mid-sit. “Oh—yeah, sorry, just lost track of time—”
“Time isn’t yours to lose in this classroom,” James snapped, still not raising his voice, but cutting clear through the air. “This isn’t a coffee shop. If you want to chat and drift in whenever you feel like it, I suggest transferring to a less demanding course.”
The room went dead silent. Every pair of eyes flicked to Theo.
And you.
And Theo just sort of… sat back. Awkward. Tense. Mutters an “okay, yeah, sorry, won’t happen again” under his breath.
You wanted to die.
You could feel the red crawling up your face, your ears burning, hands locked in place on your desk. It wasn’t directed at you, not really—but sitting right next to the target of James’s very obvious disdain made you feel like a spotlight had landed on your chest.
You could barely even look at James after that. Not when he finally started the lecture, not when he spoke like nothing had happened.
But you didn’t miss the quick glance he gave you.
Sharp. Possessive.
A flicker of something territorial buried beneath his otherwise controlled expression.
You looked away fast, heart pounding.
Oh, he’s mad.
The moment James dismissed the class, the room buzzed to life—chairs scraping, backpacks zipping, soft murmurs filling the space. You were still packing your things, and you barely had a moment to breathe before Theo turned toward you.
“Okay, what is this guy’s problem?” he muttered under his breath, voice tinged with annoyance as he nodded toward where James had already vanished through the side door.
You blinked, trying to keep your expression neutral. “Well… you were a bit late.”
“Yeah, like two minutes. Two,” Theo groaned, dramatically slinging his bag over his shoulder. “He’s always on my ass. It’s like he’s got something personal against me or something.”
You hummed, noncommittal, keeping your eyes on your notebook as you slid it into your bag. God, if only he knew.
Theo leaned a little closer. “Anyway—as I said bar tonight. Few of us are going. You should come. Seriously. Could use some backup in case Professor Grump shows up again and tries to ruin my life.”
You laughed softly despite yourself. “Okay, okay…” you said. “I’ll ask my roommate too.”
“Cool.” He grinned. “See you there.”
He left with a little wave, and you lingered for just a second longer, glancing once at the empty desk at the front of the room—already missing James’s gaze, even if it had been narrowed with jealousy.
God, if only he knew there was no one else. There couldn’t be. Not when your entire heart already belonged to the man who’d just stormed out without a word.
And something told you… his office hours were about to get very, very interesting.
———
Back in your dorm, the door clicked shut behind you, and the scent of Sarah’s perfume still lingered faintly in the air. She was lying across her bed, flipping through a magazine, legs kicked up lazily in the air.
“Hey,” you said, dropping your bag onto your chair.
She glanced up, humming.
“So, uh… this guy from one of my lectures asked if we wanna go to a bar tonight. Him and his friends.”
That caught her attention.
“Ooooh,” she said, sitting up. “A guy, huh? Is he cute?”
You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help smiling. “He’s… fine. I mean, yeah, I guess. I barely know him.”
Sarah raised a brow, suspicious already. “Wait. Is that the guy?”
“What guy?” you asked, playing dumb as you walked to your dresser, pulling open a drawer with slightly more force than necessary.
“The guy you’re… y’know. Seeing. The one you won’t tell me anything about?”
You paused for a second too long.
“No. It’s not him.”
Her brows knitted, and she tilted her head. “Okay, then what about that guy? Your boyfriend or whatever he is?”
You looked over your shoulder, and your voice came out soft, careful.
“He’s not my boyfriend.”
Sarah blinked. “Right.”
You sighed, grabbing a sweater and sitting down on your bed. “It’s just a bar hangout. Some drinks. Nothing more.”
Sarah stared at you for another beat, then shrugged. “Well, I’m down. I need a drink and some bad decisions. Let’s go be hot and mysterious.”
You laughed a little, but your smile faded quickly once she turned back to her magazine.
Because no—James wasn’t your boyfriend.
But he wasn’t nothing either.
———
The bar was already packed by the time you got there.
Music thrummed low through the floorboards, the scent of beer and perfume hanging thick in the air. The lights were dim, soft amber spilling over polished wood and half-empty glasses. You and Sarah slid into a corner booth, cheeks flushed from the wind outside, laughing about nothing as you pulled off your coats.
Theo waved the moment he spotted you, then gestured you over with two fresh drinks in hand. You didn’t even have time to think before Sarah gave you a little shove.
“There they are,” Sarah said, nodding toward the bar.
You turned, heart lurching for no reason at all. You headed there with Sarah.
Theo grinned and handed you the drink. “Wasn’t sure what you liked, so I gambled.”
You took it, gave it a small sip. “Not bad.”
He leaned against the bar, a little closer than necessary. “So… you made it. I thought for sure you were gonna bail on me.”
You smiled, polite but guarded. “I said I’d come, didn’t I?”
He raised his eyebrows. “Fair. Gotta admit, I’m glad you did. I was hoping we’d get a chance to talk, y’know, outside of all the ‘Modern Narrative Voice’ doom and gloom.”
You took another sip. “Yeah, it’s definitely… intense.”
“You’re one of the good ones though,” he added. “Barnes clearly likes you.”
That made your stomach flip. You looked down into your drink quickly.
“Anyway,” Theo continued, completely unaware, “he’s still a hard-ass. Gave me a B- last week and wrote a whole paragraph about ‘voice dissonance.’ Whatever the hell that means.”
You laughed a little, halfhearted. “Yeah, he’s… passionate.”
He grinned. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”
You shrugged and took another sip.
He leaned against the bar, comfortably close but not too much, taking a sip of his own drink. „It’s good to take the edge off after all that homework Barnes gave us.”
That pulled a quiet laugh from you. “Yeah, it was a lot. Feels like he’s always pushing us to work harder.”
Theo nodded, making a face. “Right? The guy’s intense.” A pause, then his eyes slid to you again, warm and curious. “But you must be his favorite. Every time we get grades back, I swear he’s looking at your essay like it’s the Holy Grail or something.”
Your stomach did a funny little flip, though you covered it with a shrug. “I just… try hard. That’s all.”
“I bet.” Theo grinned, taking a drink. “Anyway, I’m really glad you came tonight. Thought you might skip out after class today.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Why would I do that?”
“I dunno,” he said lightly. “Figured you’d be busy. Or maybe you just had better plans.” He held your gaze as he spoke, playful but not pushy.
You felt your lips curve into a small smile. “Nope. No better plans.”
“Good,” Theo replied, looking satisfied. “That means I’m officially winning my first bet of the night.”
You laughed—a real one this time—and took another sip of your drink, feeling the knot of tension between your shoulders ease just a little.
After some time of drinking and talking with Theo your phone vibrated against the table at the same time Theo’s did.
He frowned, unlocking his screen. “Looks like Barnes already graded the homework,” he said, turning his phone so you could see.
You quickly pulled yours up, breath catching as the grade appeared.
New Grade Posted: ENG 304 — Modern Narrative Voice
Assignment: Analysis of implicit desire in The Lover.
Grade: B-
Feedback: Needs more depth.
Your stomach dropped.
You stared at the screen in disbelief, rereading the short comment — “Needs more depth.”
More depth?
Your hands tightened around your phone. You’d spent hours on that assignment. Even reading it back last night, you’d thought it was good. Really good.
And he knew that.
Beside you, Theo groaned, “Ugh, I only got a C. That guy seriously hates us.”
You didn’t say anything at first, a strange mix of emotions burning in your chest — surprise, indignation… and, under it all, a sharp sting of jealousy.
God, was this because of him seeing you with Theo?
Your cheeks heated at the thought. You wanted to believe it wasn’t that petty, that James was better than that.
But then again, the look he’d given you yesterday—the way he’d been so clearly pissed—flashed back in your mind.
You swallowed, setting your phone face-down on the table.
“That’s ridiculous,” you muttered, mostly to yourself, but Theo caught it.
“Right?” he replied, nudging your elbow. “Your stuff is always A-worthy. Probably just a bad mood.”
You forced a smile, but your chest was tight.
More depth.
More like… you weren’t sure what the hell this game was anymore.
And god, you weren’t sure if you were mad at him or dying to see him—probably both.
“I gotta go,” you said abruptly, already reaching for your coat.
Theo paused mid-sip. “Wait, already? Thought we were going to stay a while.”
But you weren’t really looking at him anymore.
You grabbed Sarah’s wrist. “Come on,” you muttered, weaving through the crowded bar toward the door.
Sarah hurried after you, confused. “Hey—what’s going on?”
The cool night air hit you as you pushed outside, heart thudding in your chest.
You exhaled hard, feeling your hands trembling as you pulled your phone back out. That stupid B– was still glaring up at you like an accusation.
“That guy,” you said bitterly, shoving the phone into your pocket and rubbing your face with both hands.
Sarah frowned. “Your guy? What happened? Did he say something?”
You let out a short, humorless laugh. “No. He didn’t say anything. That’s the whole fucking point. That guy is fucking with me again.”
You started pacing, shoulders tight with a mix of frustration and disbelief.
“I try so hard and he…,” you muttered, voice climbing, “he’s trying to piss me off. Like some kind of petty revenge because I was talking to someone else.”
Sarah’s mouth fell open. “Wait — seriously? You mean he’s jealous?”
You threw up your hands. “I don’t know! Probably. I just feel like he’s playing some game with me—and I’m so sick of it.”
Your heart was still racing—part of you wanted to scream, part of you wanted to cry, and the other part wanted to march straight to his office and demand an answer.
Sarah moved a little closer, brows furrowed. “Damn,” she murmured. “Sounds like he’s really under your skin.”
You pressed your lips together, the heat rising to your cheeks.
“God,” you groaned. “He’s so under my skin.”
Sarah stepped closer, rubbing your arm. “That’s bullshit,” she said gently. “Come on. Let’s get you back to the dorm. You deserve better than this.”
You nodded, forcing a smile as you tried to keep yourself together— knowing that whatever was going on with him, whatever this was between you two, was something you couldn’t even begin to explain.
———
The next morning, you woke up with a bitter taste in your mouth.
Your alarm buzzed at the usual time—plenty of time to make it across campus, slip into your usual seat before the room filled up—but you stared up at the ceiling instead, lips pressed together. Normally you’d already be rushing to get dressed, double-checking your notes, telling yourself to breathe.
But not today.
Today you wanted to piss him off as well. Skip his class, simply out of spite.
So you rolled onto your side and grabbed your phone, thumb hovering over the school schedule. Ten minutes until his class would start.
Your heart gave a stubborn thump.
And then you switched it off.
You could already picture him looking up at the door the moment the class began, expecting you to slip inside. Maybe even hoping you would.
And you weren’t going to give him that satisfaction.
With a defiant huff, you burrowed back under the blankets, squeezing your eyes shut and telling yourself you weren’t going to overthink it—weren’t going to spend the whole hour wondering if he noticed, or if he cared.
But of course you did.
Every tick of the clock felt loud. Every page of the book you tried to read went fuzzy. Even when Sarah texted you a dumb meme halfway through the hour, you barely smiled.
And still you stayed put, feeling equally smug and miserable. Because skipping his class wasn’t going to make you miss him any less.
If anything, it just reminded you exactly how tangled up you were in this whole mess.
But fuck it. Today you needed to rest, to clear your mind.
And to prepare yourself before facing him at his office hours tomorrow.
———
You didn’t bother knocking.
The door to his office was already slightly ajar, so you pushed it open with a tight jaw, heart thudding. James looked up from his desk, pen held between his fingers, expression carefully blank the moment he saw you.
You closed the door behind you with a sharp click, making sure they’re locked.
“What the fuck was that grade?” you demanded, hands balling into fists at your sides.
His brow barely twitched. “That was your grade,” he answered evenly.
Your blood boiled. “That was not my grade. That was nowhere near what I deserved—I did good on that homework!”
He set his pen down slowly, gaze dropping back to the papers. “You could do better.”
That fucking icy tone.
You took a step closer, voice trembling with fury. “That’s such bullshit, James. You know it is.”
A tense silence stretched, humming between you like a live wire.
And then it hit you—the one thing that explained the sharp edge in his voice, the way he wouldn’t look at you.
Your lips parted in disbelief. “Are you jealous?”
His shoulders went stiff at that, hands flexing once against the desktop. He didn’t reply. Didn’t deny it. Just kept his eyes fixed anywhere but your face.
Your heart flipped.
“Oh my god,” you breathed, more astonished than angry now. “You are.”
He finally looked away, his jaw ticking, mouth pressed into a thin, stubborn line.
And there it was—James, perfectly composed on the outside but seething under the surface.
You stared at him across the desk, your breath coming quicker, feeling that reckless thrill rise in your chest despite the tension, despite the fight.
“You’re jealous,” you repeated, softer this time, like you couldn’t quite believe it yourself.
And still—he didn’t say a word.
You let out a sharp, incredulous laugh—dark and bitter in the quiet of his office. “God,” you scoffed, “can’t I even talk to other people without you losing it?”
That finally got him to look at you properly, something heated flashing in his eyes as his voice dropped. “That was not just talking,” he shot back, a muscle jumping in his jaw. “You were clearly flirting with him.”
Your mouth fell open. “That’s not true,” you fired back, feeling heat rise up your neck. “We were just talking. I barely know him!”
James’s gaze stayed locked on you, sharp and unyielding, his hands curling into fists at his sides like he was holding himself back.
“You were in my class laughing with him. I saw how he looks at you,” he ground out, low and taut. “And then you skipped my class like I wouldn’t notice. Don’t play innocent with me.”
Your heart thudded faster, disbelief and that strange thrill tangling together in your stomach. “You really think I’d just go after someone else? After everything we—”
“You tell me,” he interrupted, voice rougher now.
You stared at him for a long beat, breath caught halfway in your chest, realizing just how much this was eating him up—and somehow, that twisted knot of jealousy and want left you trembling for a reason that had nothing to do with fear.
You felt the tension humming between you like a live wire as you took a cautious step closer.
“God, James,” you breathed, your voice softer now—trembling but sure. “I would never.”
He went very still at that, his eyes darkening as they searched your face like he was looking for any trace of a lie. But all you could do was look up at him—lips parted, hands aching to touch him.
You inched even closer, close enough that your knees nearly brushed his, close enough that you could see the way his chest rose and fell a little faster.
“I’m yours,” you whispered, and something in him finally broke.
In one harsh breath he pulled you flush against him — hands gripping your hips like he never wanted to let go — and his mouth crushed against yours, hot and needy. You moaned into the kiss, hands fisting his shirt as he pushed you back until the edge of his desk dug into the back of your thighs.
“Say it again,” he growled into your lips, voice low and raw.
“I’m yours,” you gasped, pulling him closer like you could never have him close enough.
He grabbed the backs of your legs and lifted you up onto the desk ass he kissed you deeper, messier — hands sliding up under your skirt, thumbs brushing your inner thighs as he groaned into your mouth.
“That’s right, you hear me?” he murmured against your lips, fingers tugging your panties aside, the pad of his thumb rubbing over your clit and making you whimper. „Just mine.”
Your hands flew to his belt, trembling, desperate—aching to feel him as much as he clearly needed you. And when you finally pulled him free and felt him hot and thick against your palm, the needy sound he let out was enough to make your whole body throb.
He broke the kiss with a low, feral sound—hands gripping your hips and dragging you off the desk just enough to turn you around.
Your palms hit the surface with a thud, papers scattering as he bent you forward, his body pressing up against yours until you could feel the hard line of him at your backside.
“I think I gotta teach you a lesson,” he groaned into your ear, voice gone husky.
You whimpered, cheek brushing the desk as his hands bunched up your skirt around your waist. You could feel him yank your panties down in one smooth motion — his fingers gliding between your folds as you arched into him.
“You’re mine.” he growled, dragging his thumb through your slick and circling your clit just once before positioning himself at your entrance, „don’t you dare fucking forget that.”
“I’m yours,” you gasped, breathless, trembling with need.
He pushed into you in one deep, unforgiving stroke, filling you so perfectly you moaned aloud—hands clawing at the edge of the desk for leverage.
“Fuck,” he hissed, hands gripping your hips tight enough to bruise as he pulled back and thrust into you again, and again—rough, relentless, every inch of him driving into you like he was claiming you, like he needed you to feel him for days.
“You like that?” he rasped, leaning over your back as his mouth brushed the shell of your ear. “You like knowing you’re the only one who gets me like this?”
“Yes,” you choked out, dizzy and aching and so goddamn full of him.
He groaned at that — fingers tangling in your hair to tilt your face back as his hips snapped against you, the sound of skin on skin filling the room.
“You’re my good girl,” he growled into your ear, voice wrecked with possession. “And you’re gonna remember who you belong to.”
And god, you did—every perfect, brutal thrust carving him into your bones, every gasp and moan a reminder of exactly who had you trembling, aching, and ruined over his desk.
Your legs were trembling by the time his hands slid up your back, fingers gentle even as he kept you pinned against the desk. Every inch of you was on fire—breath catching in shallow gasps as you felt him slow down his rhythm just enough to lean forward and kiss the curve of your shoulder. Fucking you slow but hard, making sure you feel him well enough.
“You feel so fucking good,” he murmured against your skin, voice raw with need as his hips rocked into you again—slower this time, deeper.
A shaky moan slipped past your lips and you arched back into him, craving every last bit of his heat.
“Could anyone else make you feel like this?” he groaned, hands gripping your waist as he moved, deliberate and unhurried—like he was savoring you, like he never wanted this to end.
“N-no,” you breathed, eyes fluttering closed, body tightening around him as pleasure coiled tighter and tighter in your belly.
He responded with a low sound of approval, one hand moving up to your chest as he pulled you up slightly against him. His palm flattened over your heart, his chin resting on your shoulder.
“Good,” he whispered into your ear, lips dragging over your earlobe before his teeth grazed it. “You’re mine, baby. Every perfect inch of you.”
Your lips parted in a trembling gasp — because god, the way he was saying it, like it was forever, like he was marking every part of you as his and you were so hopelessly lost in him.
“Please,” you whimpered, voice catching.
And whatever restraint he had left shattered.
He bent you back down over the desk and gave you what you wanted — what you needed — every thrust sharp and hard and perfect until you were crying his name, knuckles white as they gripped the edges of the desk, until you were right there on the edge with him.
And as you shattered, he held you so close you couldn’t tell where you ended and he began, breathing you in like you were the only thing that had ever mattered.
He pulled back just enough to catch his breath—hands lingering on your hips as his chest rose and fell against your back. The office was still humming with the afterglow of it all when you felt him ease away and his hands guided you around to face him.
Your gaze flicked up to his, heart still pounding wildly as he brushed his thumb along your swollen bottom lip.
“On your knees,” he told you, voice deep and husky, the heat in his eyes making your whole body ache all over again.
You didn’t hesitate.
Your knees touched the floor, eyes never leaving his as you knelt before him—hands skimming up his thighs as you leaned in, lips brushing over his cock already slick from you.
“That’s it,” he murmured, fingers threading into your hair to guide you, his breath hitching as your lips wrapped around him.
You took him slow at first, tongue swirling around him before hollowing your cheeks and sinking deeper—feeling him tense, hearing that low, broken sound tear from his throat.
“God, baby… just like that,” he groaned, fingers flexing in your hair as he rocked his hips carefully into your mouth.
The taste of him, the way he was looking down at you like you were everything—it only spurred you on, hands braced against his legs as you took him deeper, letting him set the pace.
“You’re so fucking perfect,” he hissed, voice strained and needy as you felt him throb against your tongue, his control slipping more with every breathless moan you pulled from him.
And you held his gaze the entire time—so willing, so eager to please—knowing you were his, and knowing just how much he needed you.
He was trembling under your hands—breath shaky as his gaze stayed locked on yours.
“I’m close,” he groaned, the words thick with need as he brushed his thumb over your cheek. “I wanna come in your mouth.”
His voice dropped to a husky rasp as he guided you deeper, fingers tightening in your hair.
“Will my pretty girl take it for me?”
You gave him a small, breathless moan and nodded, looking up at him with parted lips, aching to give him exactly what he wanted.
“God,” he choked out, jaw flexing as his hips gave a final, shuddering thrust — and then heat flooded your mouth.
You swallowed around him instinctively, eyes fluttering as you kept him there until the last pulse of pleasure wrung through him and his hands slowly released their grip on you.
When you pulled back, lips slick and swollen, you pushed yourself to your feet—reaching blindly for a tissue on his desk.
Before you could do anything, his hand was on your chin, thumb tilting your face back to him as his gaze darkened.
“Nu-uh,” he murmured, voice low and commanding. “Swallow it.”
Your breath caught—heat sparking in your belly at the possessiveness in his tone and without breaking eye contact, you swallowed.
He let out a low, satisfied sound, thumb brushing over the corner of your mouth like a final caress.
“That’s my good girl.”
He pulled you up into his arms without hesitation, hands gentle but firm as they settled at your back.
You melted into him, breath shivering as you tucked your face against his chest. The rhythm of his heartbeat was a steady reassurance under your cheek, and for a moment you just stayed like that—held and safe.
“I never meant to make you jealous,” you murmured into the fabric of his shirt, fingers curling lightly into it.
He let out a slow sigh, chin resting on the crown of your head as his arms tightened around you.
“I know,” he answered quietly, voice still carrying that edge of tension that hadn’t fully let go. “I believe you. It’s just…”
You felt him hesitate—his thumb rubbing slow circles against your spine.
“You have no idea how scared I am,” he admitted, voice almost too soft. “That someone else will see what I see. That they’ll look at you the way I do. And that one day, I won’t get to have you like this.”
His hands held you a little firmer at those words—like the thought was too much to bear.
And you held him just as tightly, heart aching at the worry threaded through him.
You eased back just enough to look up at him, hands sliding up to rest against his chest as you shook your head.
“It doesn’t matter,” you whispered, voice firm and gentle all at once. “Because I will never look at anyone that way. I only see you, James. And I love you.”
For a moment, his gaze searched yours — like he was holding his breath, needing to believe you.
And then something in him softened. The tension in his shoulders eased, and he exhaled slowly, his hands moving to cradle your face.
“You don’t know how much I need to hear that,” he murmured, thumb brushing your cheekbone.
You held his stare, heart aching at the honesty in his eyes.
“I’m just…” he began, his brow furrowing as though he was choosing his words carefully. “That boy is your age. I’m your professor. I can’t give you a normal relationship. I wouldn’t blame you if you ever wanted something easier. Something you could show off.”
Your hands slipped up to cover his, fingers lacing together as you pressed his palm closer.
“James,” you said, your voice steady, “I don’t want easier. I want you.”
And that was all there was — the quiet hush of the office around you, and him leaning in to kiss you like it was a promise he couldn’t quite believe you were making.
You melted into his kiss, hands tangled in the back of his shirt as his mouth moved over yours—slow and claiming, like he never wanted to let you go.
When he finally pulled back, his gaze searched yours, thumb rubbing your cheek.
“Was I too obvious?” he asked, a tiny crease between his brows. “With the… jealousy…”
That made you laugh — a soft, breathless sound that felt too light for all the tension that had been between you only moments ago.
“Yeah,” you admitted, lips quirking into a smile. “A bit. But it was cute.”
He huffed a small, self-deprecating laugh and ducked his chin, the ghost of a smile pulling at his mouth. “Cute,” he echoed like he wasn’t sure if he liked the word or not.
“Very cute,” you teased, reaching up to smooth your thumb along his bottom lip. “And a little obvious. You weren’t exactly subtle telling him off.”
He exhaled, shaking his head, though there was amusement in his eyes. “God, I thought I was keeping it together,” he muttered. “Seeing him talk to you like that—I wasn’t going to wait around.”
That pulled a quiet hum from you as you leaned into him again, savoring the way the tension bled into something warm and easy between you—knowing you wouldn’t change a thing.
He laughed under his breath, brushing his thumb over your cheek as the quiet settled again. “And I did mean it about your grade,” he added, eyes glinting. “You could do better.”
Your jaw dropped. “James,” you warned, giving him a look that could have set fire to the room.
“What?” he said, hands lifting like he was innocent. “You told me not to give you a good grades just because I fuck you.”
“But I spent hours on that homework,” you shot back, narrowing your eyes at him even though you felt the edges of a smile tugging at your lips.
He grinned, leaning in to kiss the corner of your mouth. “Consider it motivation,” he murmured, his breath warm against your skin.
You groaned, half laughing as you pushed at his chest. “You’re impossible.”
“Maybe,” he agreed, voice low and playful. “But you’ll thank me when you pass with flying colors. And,” he paused, lips brushing your jaw, “I’ll reward you properly when you do.”
You chuckled and shook your head in amusement, pulling out from his embrace and grabbing your bag.
„I should probably go…” You said with a frown.
James nodded, running a hand through his hair. „Yeah… Text me when you’re home, alright?”
„Sure.” You smiled and headed towards the door.
You stopped just before reaching for a handle, glancing at him one more time. He was gathering the scattered papers from the floor already.
„Love you,” you said quietly but loud enough for him to hear.
James looked up at you and his gaze softened immediately, he tilted his head a bit and smiled genuinely.
God how you loved that smile.
„Love you too,” he answered and watched you leave.
———
You came back to your room. Your heart was still beating fast even though you felt much calmer now.
Your dorm was blissfully empty, the faint hum of the heater and the street noise outside the only company you had. Sarah had run off to who knows where, and suddenly the idea that had been tugging since you left James’ office wouldn’t leave you alone anymore.
You glanced around once, even though you knew you were by yourself. A thrill ran up your spine as you grabbed your phone and crossed to the mirror leaning against your closet door.
Your hands felt a little unsteady as you slipped your top off your shoulder just so, tugging the neckline down enough to expose a teasing glimpse of your bra. Then you ran your fingers slowly up your ribs, pushing the fabric down a bit more until you could see the swell of your chest in the reflection.
God, it was ridiculous how good this felt—knowing exactly who you were doing this for.
You tilted your chin, gave the camera your best smoldering look—lips parted, hair tousled—and took a few different shots until you found one that was downright sinful.
Your thumb hovered for a second over the send button. You felt a spark of wickedness light up in your belly.
You | 5:27PM
Thanks for the “motivation,” professor. Thought I’d give you some too.
And then you hit send.
Your pulse kicked up as you stared at the sent message and the preview of the photo—lips parted, eyes dark, shirt pulled low enough to leave very little to the imagination. Your hands were trembling, heart thudding wildly. Instantly, your body felt warm all over, a slow ache stirring between your legs just at the thought of him seeing you like that—knowing that beneath his composed professor persona was a man who could hardly keep his hands off you.
You bit your bottom lip and flopped onto your bed, phone clutched to your chest, grinning into your pillow. The air still smelled faintly like him, or maybe you were just imagining it.
And oh god, you couldn’t wait for his reply. If he was jealous before, this was going to drive him absolutely crazy.
Your phone buzzed against your chest—you nearly jumped, breath catching as you grabbed it and unlocked the screen.
James | 5:29PM
Jesus Christ. You’re making it very hard to focus right now.
Your lips curved into a slow, satisfied smile as you bit your thumb and kept reading. You could practically hear the edge in his voice, that low, tight control he always had before it snapped. A rush of heat went straight to your core.
You typed back quickly, fingers flying before you could second-guess yourself. Your heart was pounding so loud you were sure someone outside could hear it.
You | 5:29PM
That was kinda the point. Is it working?
A moment passed before the next message lit up your screen.
James | 5:30PM
More than you know.
You shifted on your bed, legs rubbing together instinctively as you replied. Your thumbs moved before you could overthink it.
You | 5:30PM
Still working this late?
The reply came quickly.
James | 5:30PM
Yeah. Too much grading left.
A wicked little thrill ran through you. Biting your lip, you shifted deeper under your blankets, already picturing him alone at his desk, sleeves rolled up, brow furrowed in concentration.
You | 5:31PM
Poor professor. Bet you wish you were here instead of looking at homework.
A moment passed.
James | 5:31PM
You have no idea.
Your smile curved into a grin as you decided to push him further.
You | 5:32PM
Mmm… wish I could help you relax. I could come over. Maybe wear something pretty just for you. Or maybe nothing at all.
Your pulse quickened.
James | 5:32PM
Careful, sweetheart. You know exactly what you’re doing.
That was the encouragement you needed—heat spilling into every word as you typed your next message.
You | 5:33PM
And I bet you’d do more than just look. Remember how you had me bent over your desk just a few hours ago? I haven’t stopped thinking about it
A few seconds ticked by—long enough that you wondered if you’d finally pushed too far—then your screen lit up again.
James | 5:33PM
God. You’re going to drive me crazy. Keep that up and I’m going to end up leaving this pile of papers unfinished.
A shiver ran through you at the raw want under his words.
And you weren’t anywhere close to stopping.
Your heart was racing, and you could feel heat climbing up your neck as you shifted on your bed, knees pressed together.
You | 5:34PM
That wouldn’t be so bad, would it? You could have me all to yourself instead.
You paused before typing the next part, already knowing it would get to him.
You | 5:34PM
And this time, I could do everything you want me to…
There was a tense, breathless pause.
James | 5:34PM
Fuck, baby. You’re playing a dangerous game tonight, aren’t you?
You bit your lip, thumbs flying.
You | 5:35PM
Maybe I like dangerous. Especially when it’s you.
His next message was slower to come, like he was thinking—or picturing every word you’d sent him.
James 5:36PM
And maybe I like that you never make it easy for me to concentrate.
Keep this up and I’m going to give you a office hours you won’t forget.
Your lips parted, breath shallow. It felt like you could feel him already—hands gripping your waist, his mouth dragging along your neck—and all you could do was keep him hooked.
You | 5:36PM
That’s exactly what I was hoping for. You always look at me like you want to ruin me.
A tiny typing bubble appeared… then disappeared. Then came his reply, short and direct:
James | 5:37PM
I already have.
You shifted on your bed, breath coming faster as you thought of him sitting at his desk across town—tie loosened, sleeves rolled up, probably pinching the bridge of his nose the way he always did when he was focused.
God, you ached for him.
Your hands moved before you could overthink it, sliding your skirt up just enough as you set your phone to take another shot. This one was closer—your fingertips brushing against the inside of your thigh, your panties barely in frame.
You hit send, then quickly followed with a message before you lost your nerve:
You | 5:39PM
Still working? Or did I just make that a lot harder?
You held your breath, heart thudding in your ears as you stared at the screen.
His reply came fast.
James | 5:39PM
Keep going. Show me what you’d let me do to you if I were there.
Your thighs pressed together instinctively at his words, a dizzy little thrill running through you.
You | 5:40PM
Not so fast, Professor… Maybe I’ll write you something instead, hm?
Your phone buzzed almost instantly after you hit send.
James | 5:40PM
Tease.
Your lips curled into a cocky little smile as you rolled onto your stomach, kicking your feet idly behind you. Your heart was still thudding wildly in your chest—you could feel the anticipation humming under your skin.
You bit your bottom lip and typed back quickly:
You | 5:40PM
Mm, I think I have some idea, professor…
And then, after a beat—before he could send anything else—you added:
You | 5:40PM
Let me show you properly. Give me a few.
Your hands were trembling just a little as you grabbed your laptop off your desk, already knowing exactly what you were going to do. The glow of the screen lit up the darkened room as you pulled up a blank document and took a breath.
You could feel him waiting. You could feel him already aching for you.
And God, the power in that—it was heady and intoxicating.
Your fingers moved before you could overthink it, spilling all the need and heat and breathless tension you felt straight into words, painting a picture for him of exactly what you wanted him to do to you. Of how he made you feel. Of what you thought about when you touched yourself to him. Every filthy, worshipful thought you’d been holding back.
You | 5:58
[PDF FILE ATTACHED]
Every time I’m alone, I find myself thinking about you in a hundred secret ways.
I wonder what it would feel like to have you pressed against me when I can barely catch my breath — your hands everywhere at once, hands that seem to know my body better than I do.
I picture your lips tracing a slow path down my neck, my collarbone, my ribs, and how you’d look up at me like you’re savoring every inch, making me ache before you ever truly touch me.
I want you to pin my hands above my head and kiss me until my lips feel swollen, until my whole body is trembling just for you. To feel your weight and your heat, your voice telling me how good I am for you, how much you need me — and I’d believe every word.
I close my eyes and I can already feel you inside me, deeper and slower this time, like we have forever, like you could take me apart one gentle thrust at a time. I want to moan your name into the dark and hear you groan mine back as you hold me so close I forget there’s even a world outside the bed.
You waited few minutes for his reply.
James | 6:01PM
You have no idea what you just started.
Your heart leapt at his words, heat pooling between your legs all over again.
Your thumbs flew across the screen before you could stop yourself.
You | 6:01PM
Oh yeah? What is it?
You stared at your phone for what felt like forever—one minute turned to ten, then fifteen, then thirty.
You thought maybe you’d scared him off, and were about to put the phone down when it buzzed again.
Your breath caught as you opened the message.
James | 6:33PM
[PDF FILE ATTACHED]
You say you want me but you never see what burns beneath my skin. You don’t know the way I ache to brand you, to leave my hands and lips where everyone else can see.
To taste you until you’re trembling, to press you into my sheets so deep you’ll never wash my scent off your body.
And God help me, I want them all to know you’re mine. I want them to look at you and see my name written in the purples on your throat, in the bruises I leave at your hips.
You make me greedy, you make me feral, and all I want is to have you tangled up beneath me, moaning my name so loud it drowns out any thought—except one—you’re mine.
You stared at the words, pulse thudding in your ears, eyes tracing each devastating line again and again.
Your hands were trembling — you could hardly catch your breath.
And there was only one thought repeating in your mind as you reread his message for the third time: God, I want him.
You stared at your phone in stunned silence, his words practically burning into you.
Your fingers hovered over the keyboard before you finally sent back a single, breathless reply:
You | 6:35PM
Wow…
Almost immediately, your phone buzzed again.
James | 6:35PM
Are you free this weekend?
Your heart leapt into your throat.
You | 6:35PM
Yeah…
Three tiny dots appeared and disappeared—like he was thinking, deciding—before his next message hit your screen, heat rolling through you as you read every word.
James | 6:36PM
Good… Maybe you can fix that homework grade. I remember you said something about writing with my fingers inside you in one of your “works”…
You sucked in a shaky breath. Your thighs pressed together involuntarily as a dizzy little thrill ran up your spine.
God, he never missed a thing you wrote—and knowing he wanted to make it real just for you had your body already aching.
Your fingers moved before you could second-guess yourself.
You | 6:37PM
Guess I’ll need my professor’s hands-on guidance, then.
And just like that, you knew—this weekend was going to be unforgettable.
James | 6:37PM
Mhm… See you at my place tomorrow then. Come any time you want.
You smiled stupidly at your phone, warm fluttering in your chest as you stared at the text. A little giddy, you bit your lip and quickly typed back.
You | 6:37PM
I’ll be there <3
You didn’t expect another reply, not really. But then your phone buzzed again.
James | 6:38PM
What’s that?
You scrunched your brows in confusion, a tiny smile already tugging at your lips.
You | 6:38PM
What’s what?
You stared at the screen, nerves and amusement coiling together.
James | 6:39PM
That <3 thing.
A laugh bubbled up before you could stop it—the kind that made you cover your mouth like someone might overhear. Poor old man.
You | 6:39PM
It’s a heart, James… Flip your phone to the side…
You tried not to wheeze as you could picture him frowning at the screen, turning his phone around like a puzzle. The image was too cute—your grin grew wider.
James | 6:40PM
Oh.
I see it now…
Your breath caught as a tiny pause appeared, the typing bubble blinking once, twice.
James | 6:40PM
<3
Your face felt so warm it was ridiculous. God, he was so cute.
You pressed the phone to your chest, heart thudding wildly as you stared at the ceiling, already looking forward to tomorrow more than you could put into words.
Part 5 soon 💋
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