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Oneshots | PROFESSOR!BUCKY BARNES X READER

Summary:: a bad grade ruins you. Problem is, he's a moody,grumpy old man. Oh,wait — that's your type.Tension slowly builds between you until it snaps,and so does he.

Warnings:: I don't even know where to start lol,18+only,Student–professor dynamics,age gap (not stated),smut,angry — ANGRY sex,spanking,Bucky being a grumpy man,reader making a very QUESTIONABLE life choice lmao,Yelena being a menace,PIV then doggy,I probably lost it at the anatomy lol,table sex,he calls reader pathetic,sir kink,unprotected sex,no aftercare

Word count:: 12k

Bucky Barnes never imagined he’d find himself in the hallowed halls of academia.Once, a long time ago—in a completely different life—he had something to do with politics. Too much, in fact. Long enough that he eventually turned his back on it. There was nothing heroic about the decision, no grand realization. He just… got tired of it. Also..he sucked as a congressman,but that's beside the point.

The university, though, it felt like the next step,or at least it was the only place where people didn’t ask too many questions.Still, strange, wasn’t it? Him, a teacher? Bucky didn’t fully understand it himself.

He got a position in the history department, and if he had to choose, Modern Military History (20th–21st Century) was the only subject he could more or less speak about.Not from books or lectures, no, from somewhere else entirely.

Maybe that was the trouble all along. He didn't teach like the others, those petty and dull idiots.He didn’t care how well someone could memorize dates, and he was especially unimpressed by nicely worded but empty answers. His students quickly learned that you couldn’t “slide by” in his class.

You either knew the answer… or you were lost. And if you were lost? He knew it in a heartbeat.Most of them hated him, called him cruel, impossible, but it didn't sting. Truth was, he knew it too. He had become this bitter old soul. A grumpy old man.

At the university, Bucky Barnes’s name became a concept pretty quickly.Not in a good way.

Freshmen heard about him in their very first week. Not officially, of course. Information like that never made it into any syllabus or orientation guide. It was passed along in hallways.

“Don’t take Barnes’s class.”

And if you were foolish enough to ask why, you'd just get this hollow little laugh. The 'you poor thing, you'll understand soon enough' kind.

There were stories too.Small, half-true,half-exaggerated ones.That once he just stared at a student for minutes after an answer, without saying a word.That he sent someone out of class simply because they “weren’t mentally present.” That he never raised his voice, yet somehow it was worse than shouting.

It all began in a dreamy haze of coffee steam, where laughter intertwined with the faint glow of your phone screen, half-listening to your friends' chatter. And then someone dropped his name.

“Barnes.”

“Jesus, no.”The reaction was immediate

“Who the hell is Barnes?”Your heart fluttered, igniting curiosity.

For a moment there was silence, then your friend just shook her head.“Modern Military History. History department.And if you have a choice, don’t take him.”

For some reason, it drew you in, didn't scare you away. It was intriguing, like a mystery.Not that you needed it.Your International Relations degree already had plenty of courses,but it would look good. A slightly “harder” class. Something more than pure theory. Seemed like a good idea then.It didn’t last long.

After the first class, you knew you made a mistake, tragic mistake. It wasn't about not understanding; it was deeper. There were no easy answers,you could memorize. No safe feeling that if you studied enough, you’d be fine.

Bucky Barnes didn't teach like that; he asked questions,and when you answered, he didn’t tell you if you were right.

He just looked at you,judging you all silently.Like he was waiting for something you hadn’t even managed to put into words yet.

You're a good student. International Relations make sense—connections, analysis, all the right things to say. But this…this was different. Every answer felt incomplete. Wrong.

But it just… didn't work. And that was the real tragedy. You were lost.Your notes were filled with unanswered questions, lines underlined desperately. Things that would've been clear in another class, but here… it always felt like you were missing something.

When you got your first paper back, you already had a feeling.The red ink wasn’t excessive. It wasn’t covered in corrections, not every second line crossed out.Just a grade. And underneath a short note.“try harder”

It wasn't just one bad grade. The first felt like some warning.Something you’d fix later,find the right answers,read more.But then the second came, and the third... after that, who's counting? Your Pages were bleeding with red ink.But you knew, that your answers weren't a mess,that's what made it ache. It just wasn't enough for him.

You really tried, to see the world through his eyes. But the more you chased the answers,the deeper you fell.

Then came that paper in the hazy night, the same tired hope that maybe this time things would turn out a little brighter. But the grade, it was just the same as always. And the note at the end made you snap.

'You're still writing what you think I want, not what you really mean.This isn't high school. Effort doesn't buy you nothing here.'

Suddenly it wasn’t just that you weren’t doing well.It was that he could see it clearly,and he wasn’t helping you fix it.Just letting you run into the same wall again and again.

That night, you just sat there, lost in your notes and books like they could help you. But you weren't exactly reading,you just...well,stared.You closed the book, made up your mind. You were going to office hours.

...

The café was crowded, as it always was after classes.Somehow, you stumbled upon a table tucked away in the corner.Your cup sat half-empty in front of you, but you hadn’t even noticed how long you’d been stirring the same coffee.

“Okay,” Yelena finally spoke, watching you with narrowed eyes.“Something's off.”

“Nothing at all,” you whispered, a little too fast.

Natasha let out a quiet scoff over her mug.“That wasn’t ‘nothing’s wrong’ stirring,” she noted dryly. “That was ‘I’m about to do something stupid’ stirring.”

Wanda tilted her head, studying you carefully.“What happened?”

You hesitate, then let out a sigh. “Barnes.”

That was enough. A name like a curse.Yelena recoiled. “No.No, no, no.”

“I haven’t even said anything yet,” you looked at her.

“Don't need to, sugarplum,”she murmured. “Anything with 'Barnes' in it is automatically a tragedy.”

Natasha set her mug down and looked at you.“What grade did you get?”

“That's beside the point—”

“How bad?”

You went quiet for a moment.“…it was more than one bad grade.”

Wanda’s expression tightened slightly.

“Okay,” she said softly. “And?”

You took a breath, like you were about to drown.“I'm going to his office hours.”

Yelena laughed. “This is a joke, right?”

“No.”

“Then it's even sadder.”

Natasha just stared. “Are you sure,you want this?”

“No,” you confessed.“But nothing is working out. No matter how hard I try. And…” you shrugged. “At least I'll find out what he wants.”

"Nothing," Yelena breathed, "That's the cruelty of it. He wants nothing, just stares until you see all your life's pretty little mistakes shimmering back at you."

Wanda spoke up softly, "Heard someone went to see him… came out more lost than before."

“Thanks, that’s very reassuring,” you muttered.

Natasha shook her head slowly "He doesn't play by the rules, sweetie."

You raised a brow, a flicker of skepticism. "This is a university. There must be rules."

Natasha’s gaze darkened for a moment.“Yeah,” she said quietly. “There should be.”

Yelena leaned in, "Don't let him pull you into that strange, wicked game of his, okay?"

“He won’t,” you said.

“Everyone says that.”

Wanda took a gentler approach.“If you go… just… don’t take what he says too personally,” she said softly. “He’s… different.”

"Yeah, I noticed."

Natasha sighed. "When are you going, love?"

"Tomorrow."

Yelena groaned, "Too late to stop you, I suppose?"

"Yes."

"Shame."

For a moment, there was silence.The noise of the café buzzed dully around you, but at the table everything remained strangely tense.And you just stared into your cup.Because you had already decided.

When the time came standing in front of the door, it suddenly didn’t seem like such a good idea anymore.

The hallway was too quiet.Occasionally someone passed in the background, but the sounds were muted, like they didn’t quite belong here.

Your hand hovered over the doorknob, not quite daring to touch.This was foolish.Just a simple consultation.Nothing more.And yet…something held you back.Maybe all those stories you’d heard about him. Or the way he looked at you in class, like he knew exactly that you weren’t where you were supposed to be.

Or maybe it was simply the unknown,you had no idea what to expect.For a moment, the thought crossed your mind to just leave.To make excuses, to postpone until the next grade.

Then you sighed and pressed the handle down.The office was surprisingly neat. Not warm, not inviting, just… neat.Papers lined up on his desk with a soldier's precision, a few books stacked in the right place.

There were no personal items. No photos, no small details that might reveal anything about him.As if he didn’t really inhabit the space.

He was sitting behind the desk.He was studying a paper, pen in hand, as if he had completely forgotten that anyone might come in. Or as if he was deliberately letting you stand there like an idiot.

Then finally, he spoke up,his voice was like velvet."Close the door."

You obeyed on reflex, a puppet dancing to his tune.The click echoed too loudly in the silence. Only then did he lift his gaze.

And he looked at you, with the same knowing look as in class. Too goddamn sharp. He held it a moment too long, then laid the pen down."You wanted to see me."

No shit,Sherlock.You swallowed the first response that came to your mind and stepped closer. “Yes. About my… grades.”

His eyes drifted to the papers, like he already knew which ones you meant."I know," he breathed.

Of course, he did. He always did."Sit," he murmured, gesturing to a chair.You sat, maybe a little more stiffly than you would have liked. He leaned back in his chair, arms resting loosely on the desk, but his gaze never left you.

“My grades,” you sighed. “They’re not really… going well.”

“I noticed,” he replied dryly.

You were about to beat this man up.

“What don’t you understand?”

You blinked.“Well… all of it. I’m trying, but—”

“Specifically.”His voice wasn’t loud, but it stopped you.“Which part?”

For a moment, you searched for the words.“I don’t know what you expect.”

Bucky tensed, but he didn't say a thing.He just leaned in, pulled a page from the stack, and placed it on the desk.He pushed it toward you.It was your paper,covered in notes.

“Here,” he whispered, showing a paragraph. “What did you mean by this?”

You looked down at your words. It was familiar once, but now it just made you more confused.“That… intervention causes instability in the long term.”

“Yes, you wrote that down,” he crooned. “But what does that really mean?”

You looked up, searching his expression.“Well… that—”

“I’m not asking for the textbook definition.”

Your jaw tightened,like a piano wire about to snap.“Then what are you asking for?”

Bucky watched you, like he was deciding if this was worth the headache.Then he stood up,walked around the desk and stopped beside you.

Not too close, but just enough that you could feel his presence.He pointed at the paper.“If you want to do this, then do it properly. What does this paragraph mean?”

You took a breath.“Tension increases. Local forces… react, and—”

“How?”

You faltered for a moment.“Well… resistance, conflict—”

“That’s very general.”

Everything went silent after that.He didn’t move, just watched you,and you sat there, staring at your failures,feeling like you had to rethink everything from the beginning.

Bucky finally spoke.“It’s not that you don’t study.It’s that you don’t go deep enough.”

It was the truth, not a cruel lie and that's why it stung so much.“Okay,” you whispered finally, your voice strung tight. “And how do I dive deeper into this?”

Bucky stepped back to the desk.“Start by not speaking in generalities.” He picked up his pen.“Specific situation. Specific consequence.This isn’t an IR essay.”

He leaned over the paper, underlined a few words, then shifted it so you could see better.“If you write ‘instability,’ then break it down. Who reacts? How? What happens next? Don’t skip steps.”

You watched him as he spoke. He didn’t overexplain, didn’t try to phrase things nicely—he just went through the mistakes as if it were the most natural thing in the world. There was no impatience in him, but not much kindness either.

“Look,sir,I tried to be specific,” you said, a bit more defensive than you intended.

He cut you off, a smile playing on his lips, so calm it was unsettling.“It's not specific enough,” “This”—he tapped the page—“is an introduction. Not analysis.”

You bit your lip, gazing back at the page. He was right,it really did seem… empty. Like you had just circled around something without actually saying it.

Bucky went on,his voice was low.“It's not about pretty words.The goal is to understand what you’re talking about. If you understood it, you wouldn’t write it like this.”

"Then how, tell me?" you asked, more honestly than before.He looked at you, piercing, as if deciding whether you were just playing a part.

Then his gaze returned to the paper.“Pick a specific example. A situation. Say, an intervention. Describe what happened step by step. Who acted, who reacted, what the consequences were. Don’t skip anything.If you can do that, it’ll be enough.”

You listened, trying to catch his words. For the first time, it felt within reach, a glimmer of hope. It wasn't easy, no, but at least there was something to hold onto.

But your eyes wandered from the script,to him.How he sat there, a statue in the twilight, as if this whole performance meant nothing. No nerves, no masks, no desperate attempts to impress. Just a soldier, standing his post.

And the strangest thing of all was,how cold he was, not in a polite way,but in that closed off way.You were left wondering if he had always been like this, a ghost haunting his own life.Or if it was just…what the war had made him.

Everyone knew the legend, the stories whispered in the dead of night. The rumors, the headlines, the half-truths painting a portrait of the Winter Soldier;that past no one talked about openly, but everyone knew was there.Perhaps, that was the answer.

“Are you paying attention?” His voice pulled you back.

You looked up at him.“Yes.”

Bucky was staring right through you, the pen still poised like a weapon.He held your gaze for a moment longer, as if checking, then looked back down at the paper

The professor continued speaking as if nothing had happened.“You don’t need to write a novel.” he drawled, eyes skimming your notes.“It just needs to be precise. If you can’t lay it out properly within two pages, then you don’t actually understand it well enough.”

He tapped the paper once more with his pen, then set it aside.“Use your sources, but don’t hide behind them. That’s the other problem.”

You nodded, though by now you were only half paying attention to what he was saying. The other half of your focus had shifted—to him. It was hard not to. Up close, he was even more striking than in class.Not in some picture-perfect kinda way. His face, a sharper cut than most and his gaze carried a constant trace of fatigue, even as it stayed alert.

And then there was that beard of hid—salt and pepper, just enough to make it obvious he wasn’t your age. Not even close.That alone should have been enough to put a firm stop to any kind of interest, and yet…The lines visible beneath his shirt didn’t exactly help your situation at all.

You flinched slightly when he spoke again.“Will this work?”

You quickly looked back down at the paper.“Yes, I think so.I’ll rewrite it.”

“Good.”

Silence settled between you at his words.You were about to stand when he spoke again.“You’re not bad, by the way.”

You froze for half a second, then looked up at him.“Sorry?”

Bucky didn't meet your gaze at first, just turned a page in your notes.“Your thinking isn’t bad,” he added. “You just don’t use it.”

Gee thanks. This man really knew how to charm a woman,not that he was trying to. Still.. how do you reply to something like this? 'thanks,professor.That's really kind of you.'

“Thank you…” you said eventually, a little uncertain.

He just gave a small nod,as he chuckled.“Bring it back next week.”

That chuckle made your day,as you moved toward the door, you caught yourself almost looking back,but you didn’t.There was this strange tension still clinging to you in the hallway.

Your steps were automatic, but your thoughts were somewhere else entirely—back to that desk, the papers, the way he looked at you, the way he said, 'You're not bad'.

You couldn't decide if it helped at all, or if it just left you more lost than before.

...

Natasha, Wanda, and Yelena were already sitting at the café at the same table as last time.It was as if they always gravitated to the same spot whenever someone arrived with drama.

Yelena spotted you first. A smile barely gracing her lips. "Well?" she breathed, leaning back. "Was it survivable, or are we diving straight into the trauma now?"

Natasha didn’t even look up from her mug.“Judging by your silence, it wasn’t fun.”

You sat down among them, and for a moment, only the smell of coffee filled the space between you."It wasn't… bad," you sighed eventually.

Yelena laughed. "That's what you say when it was real bad, huh?"

“It’s not what I expected,” you continued. “He doesn’t shout. He doesn’t humiliate you. He just… looks at you. A lot.”

Yelena just snorted, like it was some tired old joke, replayed a hundred times in her mind. “Yeah, that’s what they call it at the university. The Bucky stare.”

You blinked, all innocent. "The… what, exactly?"

Natasha's lips curved into this faint smile.

“Don’t start,” Yelena said quickly, though she was already laughing. “Seriously. It’s a thing. If he looks at you like that, people either rewrite their entire assignment or suddenly discover a new life purpose.”

Natasha shrugged.“So,” she said, grinning, “did you also get hit with the ‘Bucky stare’?”

You went all quiet at the question, then just shrugged.“Well… yeah. Because I have to rewrite my essay.”

A second of silence followed,then Yelena burst out laughing— like that was the best punchline she’d heard all day.“Of course,” she said between laughs. “That is so typical.”

Natasha just smirked, shaking her head a little, like she couldn't decide whether to cry or laugh with you.

"That's not 'getting hit'," Yelena says, still grinning, "that's a diagnosis, baby."

Wanda laughed more quietly, mostly into her cup, but there was a warm, familiar softness at the corner of her eyes.And you just sat there among them, and for the first time that day, it didn’t feel quite so heavy.

Wanda tilted her head slightly.“And what did he say?”

You went quiet for a moment. The words still felt strange on your tongue.“He said I wasn't bad.”

Yelena almost choked on her coffee.“He said that?”

Silence drifted back,Natasha slowly placed her mug down."From him... that's practically a love letter."

Your breath hitched at her words.A sudden warmth crept up your neck, painting your cheeks in a rosy hue. Did you just blush because of that grumpy old man?

"It wasn't sweet," you snapped back. "It was more like he was stating a fact."

Wanda smiled faintly.“That might actually sound worse than Yelena’s version.”

Yelena leaned back in her chair. “And what the hell do you even want from this man?”

Breath caught in your throat.Oh,you had ideas,a lot...“I just… want to understand,” you said quietly at last. “What he’s asking for. Because what I’m doing now—it’s not enough for him.”

Natasha's eyes narrowed just a touch. "And what if what he's asking for is just… impossible?"

You didn't say anything to that.You were determined to do the impossible.The noise of the café seeped back in between you—the clink of cups, the murmur of conversations, laughter somewhere in the background.

Wanda broke the silence. "What exactly did he say?"

You sighed.“He said not to write in generalities. To be specific. And that if I can’t explain it in two pages, then I don’t understand it.”

A ragged breath escaped your lips,“He said not to write in generalities. To be specific. And that if I can’t explain it in two pages, then I don’t understand it.Still… there’s some logic to it,” you said. “It’s like he actually wants me to think.”

Natasha didn’t answer right away. She just watched you for a moment. Then, with slow, theatrical grace, she set her mug down.“Hmm.”

Yelena’s head snapped up immediately.“What does ‘hmm’ mean?”

The redhead was still watching you.“Nothing,” she said, her voice dripping with dangerous innocence. “Just interesting how much you’re trying to understand him.”

You frowned, feeling your heart beat a little faster against your ribs.“That’s the point, isn’t it?”

“Sure,” Yelena cut in,a glamorous smirk spreading across her face. “It’s just that people usually aren’t this enthusiastic about someone tearing their essay apart.”

A faint smile appeared on Wanda’s lips too.“You do talk about him a bit more than about an average professor,” she noted gently

“I don’t,” you shot back too quickly, your voice betraying you.

Yelena laughed.“Oh, you do.”

Natasha tilted her head slightly, her red hair falling over her shoulder.“You’re saying things like ‘there’s logic in it,’ ‘he actually makes me think’…” she listed with cold, calm precision. “That’s already bordering on a secret fan club.”

“I’m not a fan of him,” you pressed your lips together, feeling the sudden rush of heat color your cheeks.

“Yet,” Yelena added immediately, her voice sweet as poison.

“Yelena,” Wanda said, though a soft laughter danced in her throat.You just looked down at the dark swirl of your coffee for a moment, as if that bitter black liquid held all the beauties of the world.

Yelena leaned forward, resting her elbows on the cold wooden table.“So it wasn’t just the ‘Bucky stare’ that caught you…”

You looked up, meeting her gaze.“Then what?”

Yelena’s smirk widened.“It was Bucky himself.”

“Nothing happened!” you shot back instantly.

“Yet,” Yelena repeated.And though you tried to hold your breath, to keep your composure, you felt the sudden, burning rush of fever color your cheeks.The worst part of it all…was that maybe, just a little, they were right.

The weekend slipped through your fingers almost without you noticing.On Friday night, your plans had been so sweet, so simple. You only wanted to "take a quick look" at the essay. Just open the screen, read the words, maybe rewrite a line or two.

But then, you got stuck.Suddenly, your notes were scattered across the wooden desk, heavy books left wide open everywhere, and the laptop screen cast a glow into the darkness. Beside you, the coffee had turned ice-cold hours ago, but you didn't even notice how many times you had refilled the porcelain cup.

With every single sentence you typed, his voice was there, echoing softly in the back of your mind.

“Don’t speak in generalities.”

“What exactly does this mean?”

“This is nothing but an introduction.”

God,you wanted to impress him.You rewrote the first paragraph.Then, you tore it apart and did it again.And then, one more time.Every word you chose felt too empty, too hollow.

You weren't just searching for what you were supposed to say; you were chasing after what it actually meant. Who reacts. How they fall. What happens when the damage is done. You built the thoughts step by step.And it began to take shape.It wasn't perfect but it wasn’t entirely foggy anymore.

On Sunday night, you leaned back in your chair, your eyes fixed on the glowing screen. The essay sat there waiting for you. It was shorter than the last draft.

Finally, with a soft click, you closed the laptop. A quiet sigh escaped your lips into the empty room.

The weekend died too quickly.By Monday morning, that familiar, heavy ache was already blooming in your chest. The essay lay hidden in the depths of your bag, feeling heavier than it ever should have. It was only a few pieces of paper.And yet... it meant everything. It meant him.

Time dragged its feet, moving in slow motion as the hour of your meeting crawled closer. The afternoon classes stretched out into an endless blur, the professors' words losing all meaning. You found yourself staring at the exact same line of text over and over again, your mind too haunted to understand a single word.

Then, suddenly, the world narrowed down. You were standing right in front of him.The same heavy wooden door. Only this time, you knew the danger that waited on the other side.You closed your eyes for a bittersweet second, letting a shaky breath escape your lips.

Your hand moved on its own, operating on pure instinct, but it froze for one fragile moment right on the brass doorknob.You’ve been in this room before.You survived it once.This is just another hour of your life. Get it together.

Finally, you turned the handle and stepped inside.The office was exactly as you had left it. It was orderly. Too orderly.And there he was,sitting behind the heavy desk, hunched over his papers like the rest of the universe didn't even exist.

Then, his voice broke the heavy silence.“Close the door.”

You shut the door behind you, and this time, the click of the lock sounded less like a trap or maybe you were just getting used to the cage.

His gaze found yours in a fraction of a second.“Did you rewrite it?”

Right, straight to the point.You nodded, your heart hammering against your ribs as you reached into your bag for the paper.

“Yes.” You held it out to him. For less than a heartbeat, the tips of your fingers brushed against his skin. It was barely a touch, nothing more, but the sudden heat of it rushed through your veins like a drug.He took it from your hand immediately.

You sat down in the leather chair before he could even tell you to. You knew the rhythm of his game by now.He scanned the first page. His eyes movedp across your lines, pausing only once or twice at certain words.He didn't say a word.Without even realizing it, your hands tightly clasped together in your lap.

After what felt like an eternity, he turned the page.Finally, he rested the paper onto the dark wood of the desk.

“This is actually something,” he said at last.There was no praise in his voice. It was just a cold, hard fact.

A tiny, hidden breath escaped your lips—you hadn't even realized you'd been holding it inside, suffocating in his presence.

"At least I can see you're trying to think now," he murmured.It was almost a compliment.

He tapped the paper with a slow, deliberate finger."This part right here," he said, pointing to a paragraph where the ink seemed to bleed into the margins. "It actually… means something."

He looked up, his eyes catching the fading light. A smile touched the corner of his lips."A dangerous development."

You blinked, caught in the sudden warmth of the room."Excuse me?"

He leaned back, untethered, looking for the first time like a man off the clock, a soldier putting down his armor in the dark."If you keep this up, I might actually be forced to give you a passing grade."

a second, the world stood perfectly still.Then, a laugh slipped from your chest. Did he just make a joke?

It caught him off guard.His brow arched, and a short, dry chuckle escaped him."Don't misunderstand," he added quickly, his voice dropping back into that familiar gravity. "It's still far from perfect."

"I figured," you said, the smile still lingering on your lips.The corner of his mouth twitched again. "But at least it doesn’t hurt to read anymore."

Huh."That’s progress," you shot back.

He looked up at you then, truly looked at you. For a fleeting second, it wasn't that sharp gaze he always wore. It was something else—something blue,nocturnal and soft.Oh,you were fucked.

"So… does this mean I'm not a completely hopeless case?" The question was half-joke, half-dark truth.

Bucky’s brow arched."I didn’t say that."

"Shame," you sighed. "I was just starting to believe it."

"Look at you," he murmured, his eyes drifting back down to the ink on the page. "You're growing.Talking back already."

"Just adapting," you shrugged, your voice dripping with sweet indifference. "Survival instinct."

He looked up again at that."Good," he said, his voice dropping an octave."That’s a useful skill."

Bucky leaned back over the desk and pulled the paper in front of him again.“This here,” he said, his pen cutting a definitive line underneath a sentence. “It’s still too general. If you write ‘escalation,’ then you have to show how it happens. Who moves first, who reacts, what the consequence is.”

He pushed the page slightly closer, a small gesture meant to invite you into his space. But you… you didn’t really see it.

Instinctively, you leaned forward, squinting at the black ink on the page.Bucky paused,the steady rhythm of his lecture just stopped. He looked at you, his gaze curious in the quiet, before he slowly tilted his head to the side.“What are you doing?” he murmured.

You looked up, caught off guard by the sudden stillness. “What?”

His eyes stayed locked on yours, but that strict, academic expression was completely gone.“You’re squinting.”

A second of pure silence hung between you. Then you exhaled, letting your shoulders drop as you gave up the act.“Yeah…” you shrugged, a tiny, helpless smile playing on your lips. “I can’t really see from here.”

Bucky laughed,It wasn't that restrained, quiet chuckle from before.It was a short, genuine laugh that completely broke through his usual seriousness. Hearing it made something untamed spark in your chest, and you laughed too.

“Are you serious?” he asked, the warmth of his smile still lingering.

“Completely,” you nodded. “I just need it… a bit closer.”

“Let’s start with you actually seeing what you’re doing wrong,” he murmured, his voice dropping low.

“That would help,” you muttered, the words disappearing into the space between you.

Paper in hand, he rose from his chair and walked around the desk.You instinctively straightened your posture as he drew near. He didn't rush, nor did he hesitate—he simply stepped into your space with an easy grace.

He placed the paper on the desk right in front of you, then leaned over you slightly, resting one hand on the edge of the page.“Can you see it now?” he murmured.

He was too close.He wasn't touching you, he hadn't even fully bent down over you—but his presence suddenly became overwhelmingly real. His scent, his voice, the calm.

“Yes,” you finally said, a second too late. “Yes, I can see it now.” you added.

“Great.”His voice drifted back to its usual quiet cool, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. His finger slowly traced the lines of text.“Right here,” he pointed to a sentence. “This is almost good. But you’re still skipping a step.”

You nodded, though for a fleeting second, your mind was anywhere but on the words.“I understand,” you said softly.

He didn't speak for a moment, the silence stretching tight between you. Then, he leaned a fraction closer to point out another line.“And here, this is better,” he added. “Do you see the difference?”

This time, you actually looked at the paper, desperate for a distraction.“Yes…” you said slowly. “Here it’s actually broken down.”

“Exactly.”

You leaned in a little as well, just to take another look at the corrections. And somehow… it stayed that way.Your hands remained on the desk, not fully pulled back, because you were still pretending to read the fading ink on the paper. His hands were there too, anchoring the other side of the page.Too close.

His metal arm caught the pale light differently than anything else in the room. It looked colder. Foreign. A heavy relic from a different life. And yet… it felt completely natural on him.For a moment, neither of you moved.Then Bucky’s gaze dropped to your hands.

He had only just noticed the dangerously small distance between your skin and his cold steel. A small tension crossed his face, a sudden fracture in his composure.“Sorry,”

Then he pulled his metal hand back slightly on the dark wood of the desk.“Sometimes… I forget,” he murmured.His voice was more rigid now, but it wasn't cold.

You glanced up at him.“It’s fine,” you said quickly, your voice barely a breath.For a heartbeat, he still didn’t look at you. He stared down at the desk, lost in some distant thought.

Then he finally raised his eyes.He looked...vulnerable in a way that made your heart skip.“I didn’t mean to scare you,” he added.

You instinctively shook your head.“You didn’t.”

Silence settled over the room again. The paper stayed between you, but his hands no longer hovered quite as close.

“That’ll be enough for now,” Bucky said.

You nodded, fingers lingering on the edge of the mahogany desk.“Thank you,” you whispered.

“Don’t thank me,” he replied, not even looking up. “Work with it.”

You finally turned toward the door.“Bye,” you said, looking back over your shoulder.

“Bye,” he answered simply.

The heavy wood door clicked shut behind you. You started walking. One high heel clicking against the floor. Then another.

Panic crept into your mind.Your bag still held your notebook, your essay, your notes. Everything was fine.

Except one thing.You hadn’t agreed on the next time.He hadn’t given you a time. Hadn’t said whether you could come again. Hadn’t said “bring it back next week,” like before.

You stood there in the hallway, staring back at the door.Then you let out a slow breath.“Okay… what was that?” you whispered.

...

The music hit you first, even before the door.Inside, the place was dim, washed in flickering lights and a bass so loud it seemed designed to erase thought entirely. People blurred into each other in the space, glasses clinked, someone laughed too loudly somewhere behind you.

You just stood there in the doorway.“Okay,” Yelena’s voice dripped beside you, sharp as a switchblade. “Something is very wrong.”

Wanda observed you more carefully, sipping something dark, but she nodded too. “It shows on your face, darling.”

“What shows on my face?” you asked automatically, too quickly.

Yelena grinned. “That you either failed or fell in love.”

“Yelena! I'm not in love with him.”

Natasha glanced at you sideways. “So you failed?”

“I didn’t fail,” you said eventually, staring at your chipped fingernails.

“So what is it then?” Yelena commented, leaning against the seat.

You didn’t answer for a moment, watching the ice melt in someone else's abandoned drink.“The consultation… was weird.”

Wanda leaned forward slightly, her silver rings catching the blue light. “Weird how?”

You ran a hand through your hair, completely undone. “He was explaining something, pointing at the paper, and I couldn’t really see because I was squinting.”

“That already sounds bad,” Yelena muttered.

“And then he asked what I was doing, and I said I couldn’t see that far.”

Yelena burst out laughing, loud enough to wake the dead.“You what?”

“I couldn’t see!” you defended yourself, burying your face in your hands. “What was I supposed to say?”

“‘Excuse me, professor, I have a romantic proximity issue.Come closer.” Yelena joked.

“It wasn't even romantic!”

Natasha set her cup down with a soft click. “For now.”

“Natasha!”

Wanda tried to stay serious, but her eyes were glittering with amusement. “And… him?” she asked .

“He… laughed.”

That shifted the air at the table for a second. The teasing faded.Yelena slowed down, her glass stopping halfway to her lips. “Wait. He laughed?”

Natasha looked at you, her gaze turning serious. “That’s new.”

“He’s not as cold as everyone says.” you explained.

Yelena snorted. “Oh, he’s cold. Just in the ‘legend slowly warming up’ phase.”

Wanda tilted her head slightly. “So what now?”

You shrugged, the weight of the hallway returning to crush your chest. “I don’t know. I don’t even know if there will be a next time. He didn't say.”

Then Yelena leaned back, crossing her legs.“This man functions like a badly documented DLC.”

Natasha nodded slowly, a knowing smile playing on her lips. “You’re going back.”

It was the day of the essay submission in class.Nothing special had happened before it. Same room, same chairs, the same low rustling sound students always made when they tried to figure out how much they were supposed to fear this course.

You placed your paper on the desk with the others.Bucky walked down the row, collecting them one by one. He didn’t say much—just the occasional nod, a brief glance at each submission.

When he reached yours,h took it, skimmed it, then placed it in front of him like all the rest.After a few minutes of silence, he continued the lecture.

At the end, he told you that this is better.The class slowly ended, students started packing up, chairs scraped, conversations began to form.

You gathered your things too.And, completely irrationally, it suddenly hit you. You expected more.All that effort, all that overthinking—just this?

Sure it was a better grade and he gave you half a sentance.You should have moved on.As you stood up, the room gradually emptied around you.

Bucky was already turning his attention to the next stack of papers.And you walked out with that strange, hard-to-name feeling that something you had treated as important had suddenly become… ordinary.

The hallway was already half full by the time you stepped out of the classroom—familiar voices, laughter, hurried footsteps blending into a kind of restless background noise as everyone rushed to their next class or made their escape home.

“So?” Yelena was on you immediately, like she’d been waiting there the whole time. “Did you survive?”

You stopped in front of them for a moment before answering.“It was better,” you said finally.“I got a better grade.”

Yelena let out a short, satisfied huff.“Finally. That means we’re celebrating.”

“That’s good,” Natasha nodded. “Told you he wouldn’t destroy you.”

But Wanda didn’t look away.“And?”

You hesitated, then shrugged lightly.“That’s it.”

A brief silence settled between you.Yelena narrowed her eyes.“What do you mean, ‘that’s it’?”

You exhaled.“He took it, looked it over, said it was better… and that was it.”

Natasha tilted her head, watching you more closely now.“You don’t seem very happy about that.”

“But that was the goal, wasn’t it?” you said, trying for something casual. “A better grade.”

“Sure,” Yelena replied dryly. “And yet you look like you just got fired.”

“I didn’t get fired!”

“Then what?”

You didn’t answer right away.The hallway felt louder than before.“I don’t know,” you admitted after a moment. “It’s just…”

You glanced down, then back up, your voice softer this time.“It’s just… weird. There was always something before. Now it’s just… over.”

Natasha’s lips curved into a faint smile.“Then go back to office hours.”

You looked at her.“I don't know how...”

“Ask something.”

You sighed, shaking your head.“That’s not how it works.”

Yelena raised an eyebrow.“Oh, it absolutely is.”

After a brief pause, Natasha pushed herself off the wall.“Come on,” she said. “Before you change your mind.” And without really thinking about it, you fell into step beside them.

Yelena watched you intently, her eyes lit up with absolute mischief.“Okay. Then we fix it,” she declared with unwavering confidence.

“Fix what?” you asked, narrowing your eyes at her with instant suspicion, fully aware that her version of 'fixing' usually involved property damage or psychological warfare.

“You,” she shot back without a single second of hesitation.“Obviously. Because right now, you are a complete mess.”

Natasha was already rubbing her temples as if physically bracing herself for the incoming disaster.“This is going to be bad. I can already feel the headache this is going to cause all of us.”

“No, this is going to be brilliant—actually, scratch that, it's going to be a masterpiece of modern strategy,” she corrected.

“Listen to me. If you’re this tragically affected by your professor—”

“I’m not affected!” you interjected, your face flushed with a violent crimson as you tried, and failed, to defend your dignity.

“—then it’s time to completely abandon whatever useless defense mechanism you're running and radically change strategy,” Yelena continued.

Wanda let out a soft laugh, her eyes crinkling as she watched the chaotic dynamic unfold.“I have to admit, I’m genuinely curious to hear what you've come up with.”

“Option one,” Yelena announced proudly, raising a single finger into the air. “You write a catastrophically bad essay.”

You made a sharp noise of protest immediately, your jaw dropping in sheer academic horror.“No! Absolutely not!”

“Yes!” she shot back, as if ruining your academic standing was a perfectly reasonable sacrifice. “Just bad enough that he has no choice but to call you back for another one-on-one consultation.”

Natasha slowly shook her head, looking at Yelena with a mixture of disbelief and mild impression.“That might genuinely be the single worst piece of advice I have ever heard in my entire life.”

“Thank you,” Yelena nodded graciously, accepting the criticism as a high compliment. “But don't clap yet, because there’s more.”

“I’m deeply, deeply scared of whatever else is in your head,” you muttered.

“Option two: you march right up to his desk, look him dead in the eye, and say, ‘I strongly disagree with your evaluation of my work.’”

“But I agree with it! He was completely right!” you stared at her in total disbelief, wondering if she had lost her mind.

“A minor detail, completely irrelevant to the grand scheme,” she waved it off with a dismissive flick of her wrist. “The actual grade doesn't matter. The point is the tension. The point is starting the conversation.”

Wanda was smiling, resting her chin on her hand as she leaned forward.“Okay, I’ll give you that one. That’s definitely more of an excuse to get him alone than the first option.”

“Exactly!” Yelena nodded rapidly, pointing at Wanda with an air of immense satisfaction. “Finally! Someone in this room actually gets the vision.”

Natasha turned her attention away from Yelena and looked down at you.“Or...you could just do what a normal student does and ask him a genuine question about the next lecture topic.”

“That’s too normal, Natasha,” Yelena complained, frowning deeply and crossing her arms. “Where is the flavor? Where is the drama in just being a regular student?”

“None of these options are normal. You people have a distorted view of reality.”

“You’re not normal either right now,” Yelena shot back. “Look at what you’re stressing over.”

Wanda stepped a bit closer to you.“You don’t have to go in there and ‘seduce’ him,” she said gently. “Just… find a simple, human reason to talk to him.”

Natasha nodded encouragingly.“And you can do that. You’re smart, you're capable, and you don't need a crazy scheme.”

Yelena crossed her arms tightly over her chest, a stubborn pout forming on her lips.“But if you do choose option one, you have to tell me first. Because I want to see the look on his face when he reads it.”

“I’m not doing that!” you laughed, finally breaking under the weight of their absurdity.

Yelena grinned at you, her mischievous energy returning in full force as she leaned in closer.“So… now that we've established your lack of options, when exactly are you going back to his office?”

You rolled your eyes so hard it practically hurt.“I’m not going back. The case is closed. I am a ghost to him.”

“Of course you’re not,” Yelena said, her voice dripping with an overwhelming amount of sarcasm.

...

You absolutely didn't mean it seriously.You truly didn’t think you were capable of such reckless stupidity.When Yelena had first loudly blurted out that insane proposition, you had just rolled your eyes so hard it physically hurt, dismissing it as classic Belova chaos.

And yet…here you were, hours later in the suffocating silence of your own room, sitting frozen at your wooden desk, staring blankly at your half-finished essay under the harsh glow of your desk lamp, deliberately crossing out a structured sentence just to painstakingly replace it with something weaker and agonizingly generic.

Your hand hovered, trembling slightly, as the ink tip of your pen paused just a millimeter above the ruined page.

“This is absolutely ridiculous, you have officially lost your mind,” you muttered under your breath, you kept going, dragging the pen across the paper.You didn't ruin the piece completely; you couldn't bring yourself to do something that devastating to your academic pride. It wasn't an aggressively bad essay, or filled with obvious errors. It was just… disappointing.

When you finally leaned back in your chair to review the finished product, a deeply unsettling sensation crept over you.

Once class began, you went through the familiar routine of handing in the assignments along with everyone else. However, you held onto your specific papers for a fraction of a second longer than necessary before placing them onto the growing stack, almost as if you were desperately hoping you could still reclaim them.

Of course, you couldn’t turn back now.Bucky moved methodically down the rows of desks, collecting the pages one by one with an practiced efficiency. When he finally reached your seat, he took your essay in the exact same casual manner as he had taken all the others, offering absolutely no outward reaction.

It was entirely expected, after all, because there was no logical reason for him to behave any differently.He returned to his desk, sat down, and immediately began reading through the submissions.

The entire room fell into a heavy silence, which was punctuated only by the soft, rhythmic rustling of turning paper. During this time, you found yourself paying far too much attention to his every movement, analyzing his posture with an intense focus.

The exact moment he reached your essay, you caught the subtle shift in his demeanor. It was visible in the sudden stillness of his posture as he paused mid-action—not in an obvious way that anyone else in the room would ever detect, but you knew his habits well enough to notice.

He remained focused on your page for a moment significantly longer than necessary, then deliberately flipped back to the previous section to read it once more.Your stomach instantly dropped with anxiety because you knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that he had noticed the change.

Even so, he didn’t cast a single glance in your direction or utter a word of disapproval; he simply placed your paper down with the rest of the completed stack and moved on to the next task. Somehow, that complete lack of an immediate confrontation felt infinitely worse than an angry outburst.

He finally stood up to address the room again.“Most of the essays you submitted today… were perfectly fine,” he stated calmly. “A few of them were actually particularly good.And one or two represented a distinct step backward.”

Your heart skipped a beat in your chest, and though he still didn’t look directly at you, you knew with absolute certainty that he was referring to your work.For the very first time since the critique began, he lifted his gaze from the desk, and this time he looked straight at you.

The contact didn’t last long, but it lingered just long enough to deliver an unmistakable message.“We will be talking about this after class,” he said simply.His voice remained incredibly calm and suddenly, you weren’t nearly as confident as you had been before that this entire scheme had been a good idea.

The class went on as if nothing had happened.Bucky explained with the same calm, precise rhythm as always—concepts, examples, questions—everything in its place, everything logical, everything easy to follow.And you… tried to pay attention.You really did.

But your thoughts kept slipping back to the exact same two statements: “A step back” and “We’ll talk about it.” Great, this was a disaster.

Every now and then, you glanced up at him, almost without realizing it.He, on the other hand, didn’t look at you once.As if he had already forgotten the whole thing.

The class slowly drifted toward its inevitable end. Pens slowed down, note-taking completely faded away, and students started shifting impatiently in their seats while bags quietly zipped shut around you. It was that familiar, restless atmosphere when everyone knows the lesson is almost over.

But you didn’t move from your spot. You didn’t pack your things. You just sat there in silence—and waited. You knew exactly that you weren’t going to just walk out of the room with the others.

Bucky closed his notebook and let his gaze sweep across the room for a brief moment.“That’s all for today,” he said clearly.

Chairs moved immediately, casual conversations sparked up, and life seemed to rush back into the room all at once. You stayed exactly where you were. You watched as people slowly filtered out, noticing how the room grew emptier with every passing second.

You didn't rush to move, because you didn’t want it to look like you were staying on purpose—even though it was entirely obvious.Within minutes, only a few of you remained in the classroom. Then there were fewer. Until finally, the last door closed, and it was just you and him.Bucky calmly sorted through the papers on his desk, acting as if your presence didn’t matter to him at all. But he didn’t send you away, and he didn’t look up immediately either. You stood up, then walked over to his desk, taking it step by step, and finally stopped right in front of him.

His steady gaze landed on you immediately, heavy with expectation.“What happened?” he asked.

There was no preamble. He didn't bother with any polite small talk. You held his sharp gaze for half a second before looking away.

You shrugged your shoulders.“I don’t know…” you said, speaking a little too quickly to sound natural. “I just had a lot of other things to do.”

Bucky’s calm expression didn’t change at all.“Did you,” he replied flatly.

“Well… yeah, actually. I’m not even a history major. I just took this class as an elective...”

Even as you said it, you could tell it didn’t sound right, and the words seemed to hang heavily between you.

Bucky’s expression tightened slightly.“I see,” he said, and his voice had gone noticeably colder.“Then was it a conscious decision?” he asked.

“What?” you breathed, the word slipping out before you could stop it.Now he was looking directly at you, his piercing gaze locking onto yours with an intensity that made it impossible to look away.

“To put less effort into your work.” There was no accusation in his voice, no anger behind his words. And somehow, that complete lack of emotion made it feel infinitely worse than if he had yelled.

“No…” you said, shaking your head slightly as you tried to find your footing. “I just—”

“Because if it was a conscious choice,” he cut in calmly, his voice smooth and entirely unbothered, “then we can stop this right here. You can simply drop the course.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” you said finally, your voice dropping much quieter than it had been before.

Bucky didn’t move an inch, his posture remaining perfectly still and composed.Somehow, that calm, expectant silence was far worse than any angry outburst or harsh reprimand he could have given you.

You let out a long, shaky breath and shook your head slightly.“That… sounded incredibly stupid,” you added, looking down for a brief second. “I’m sorry.”

He didn’t soften his features or offer an easy smile of forgiveness.But that earlier sharp, biting coldness in his demeanor seemed to dull—just a tiny fraction.

“I know this history class isn’t my major,” you continued.“I just… completely failed to manage my time properly this time around.”

Lie,lie,lie.You just wanted drama and mostly his attention.Did you regret it? Well...yeah. Will you probably get more office hours? Yeah!

Bucky remained completely silent for a long moment, letting the heavy quiet stretch out between you.After a tense silence, he finally offered a slow, barely perceptible nod of his head.“Alright,” he said

“Then you’ll fix this,” he stated, his voice flat. It wasn’t a question, leaving absolutely no room for negotiation. “Same topic,” he added, his voice cutting through the silence. “But this time—be specific.And you bring it back.”

You swallowed hard, feeling the sudden dryness in your throat. “I will,”

Then, after what felt like an eternity, his rigid shoulders relaxed and he gave a small, almost imperceptible nod of approval.“Good,don’t be late.”

You nodded in understanding, the movement simple and deliberate.“I won’t,” you replied softly.

“Alright,” he murmured.That was all there was to it.He didn't say another single word to you.

You were the one who made the first move to break the stillness.You gathered your scattered notes from the table, moving perhaps a little too quickly, just to give your trembling hands something to focus on.

You didn't stop moving or hesitate until you finally reached the safety of the door.Your hand was already resting on the cold metal handle.You could have turned around and said something more to him.But you chose not to.Instead, you pressed the handle down and stepped out into the brightly lit hallway.

The background noise of the building returned to you instantly — distant conversations, heavy footsteps, and someone laughing somewhere down the hall.

...

The weeks that followed, darling, they just kinda dissolved like a memory. One revision turned into endless nights.Just one more question, one more glance… always a reason to drift back.

A reference, a forgotten word, something never fully clear. All accidental, of course. Your talks turned less formal, less… armored.Bucky, he didn't soften, no,but… the rhythm changed.

Fewer explanations, more of that sweet silence. And those silences, strangely, they didn't sting. They just lingered. And in the glow of it all,you started to notice things about him.

Things you shouldn't have noticed. The first was how he remembered small details. Not grand gestures, not prying questions. “You're squinting again,” he'd say.

You'd fire back, "I'm not squinting," before even looking up.

“You are.” And he'd be there, standing over the pages, pointing with his pen. “You can't see,”

Coffee.

You realized it after the third or fourth time you stayed longer than you were supposed to. He always had one on the desk, usually already half gone by the time you sat down. Black,no sugar,no milk. And always cold by the end of the consultation, because he never drank it while talking.He’d take a sip only after you left, if at all.

You also started picking up on his timing.He always arrived before everyone else.The first time you got there ahead of schedule, you expected an empty room. Instead, he was already there, papers laid out, everything in place, like he’d been there for a while.He didn’t look surprised to see you.Just nodded once and continued like it made no difference.

Another thing was that he didn’t repeat himself.If he explained something once, that was it. If you didn’t get it, he wouldn’t rephrase it right away — he’d wait. Give you space to figure it out, like he expected you to.

There were other things too.Like how he never checked his phone.Or how he always remembered exactly where you left off last time, without asking.Or how his voice dropped slightly when he was explaining something more complicated, like he expected you to follow even. if he made it harder.

Or that you loved his hands.There was one time when you both reached for the same page.It wasn’t dramatic,your fingers just barely touched, nothing more than a second, maybe less.But neither of you pulled back immediately.And the thing you loved most? That his hands felt warm.

After that, you started noticing the way he said your name.He didn’t use it often,most of the time it was impersonal, efficient. But occasionally, when he wanted your attention immediately, he’d say your name first.

When you looked up, sometimes you’d find that he wasn’t looking at the paper anymore, but at you, just for a brief moment before his attention shifted back as if nothing had happened, returning to that same controlled, neutral focus like it hadn’t meant anything at all — like none of it had, even if you couldn’t quite convince yourself of that anymore.

As the weeks went on, one thing became increasingly obvious to him,you were there too often.Sometimes it was a question about the assignment. Sometimes it was something you “just wanted to quickly check.” Sometimes there wasn’t really a reason at all, not one you could clearly explain even to yourself.

Bucky never commented on it,he never said it was too much. Never told you to stop coming,never treated it like something that needed to be corrected.Truth was — he enjoyed you,so he simply allowed it to happen.

But somewhere in the back of his mind, something else stayed with him.That one essay.The bad one.As if someone had pulled back on purpose.Just enough to be incorrect, but not enough to fail.Just enough to create a reason to come back.

Bucky didn’t ask about it,didn’t bring it up.But now, with you appearing in his office again and again over the following weeks, something about it settled differently in his mind.

It hadn’t been a mistake.And it hadn’t been about the essay.It had been about him,but he didn't comment on it. Because he had no idea what to say, but also there was no reason for him to make you leave.

Bucky didn’t check the clock,he didn’t need to. He already knew when you were supposed to be there.

The papers lay neatly arranged in front of him on the desk, the pen in its usual place. Everything exactly where it belonged.He was waiting for you.

His eyes shifted to the door just before the knock came.“Come in,” he said.

The door opened and you stepped inside.He looked at you briefly.“You’re late.”

You set your bag down.“Not really,” you said, calmer than you should.No further explanation followed,you didn’t offer one.

He gave a small nod.“Show me.” he reached for your papers, but didn’t look down at them yet.

Barnes read through the essay, this time moving much slower than usual. It was not because he was actively looking for mistakes in the text; it felt more like he was carefully weighing every single sentence individually in his mind. He liked what you had to say.

You did not speak in the meantime—in fact, you did not even dare to breathe too loudly. You just sat there, completely still.

When he finally set the paper down, he did not speak right away. Instead, he placed the pen on the desk with calculated precision. Only then did he look up to meet your eyes.“This is good.Very good.”

Huh. That was new.

You could instantly feel your face betraying your relief, the corner of your mouth lifting. It was not a full smile. In that moment, you felt exactly like a dog that had been trying its hardest to behave all day and finally received a well-deserved pat on the head.

The corner of his mouth moved, just barely, creating a faint, almost imperceptible curve. Of course, you noticed it immediately.

“Was that… a smile?” you asked, leaning back in your chair.

“No,” he said. The reply was simple, completely automatic, and devoid of any emotion.

Your smile only grew wider at his stubbornness. “Yes it was.”

“It wasn’t,” he repeated, maintaining the exact same even tone, refusing to give you an inch.

Sensing his defensive walls going up, you leaned forward slightly over the desk, invading his space just enough to tease him. “I think it was.”

“You’re wrong,” he said, his voice flat.

“Do you always say that with this much confidence?” you asked, though your eyes never wavered from his face.

“When I’m right, yes,” he replied, his tone steady, matching the unwavering intensity of his stare.

The corner of your mouth twitched, fighting back an amused grin.“And when you’re not?”

“Then I don’t usually say it out loud,” he admitted quietly.

You smiled a little, the tension in your shoulders relaxing just a fraction.“That’s pretty honest.”

“I don’t play games,” he said, his voice dropping an octave, sounding almost like a warning.

Was he...flirting with you? Or are just delusional?

You tilted your head slightly to the side, studying the rigid line of his jaw. “No?”

“No,but you do,” he said calmly, though the slight tightening around his eyes betrayed his composure.

You didn’t move for a long moment, freezing in place as the weight of his words sank in.Then, deliberately breaking the distance, you leaned forward slightly across the wooden desk. “I’m not playing,” you said, looking straight into his eyes. “I’m just noticing things and acting on them”

His eyes blinked a fraction slower, getting darker, and entirely focused on your lips before snapping back to your eyes. “Like what?”

This time, you didn’t blink, holding his gaze with absolute certainty.“That sometimes you look at me for too long when you think I don’t notice.”

Bucky didn’t move a single muscle after that, barely even breathing.“That’s not a correct conclusion,” he said at last, the words dragging out of him.

You smiled, a slow, knowing expression spreading across your face.“I didn’t say it was correct.I just said I noticed.”

“You should go,” he said.His voice was terrifyingly calm, devoid of any anger or panic.

“I should,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper, yet steady enough to fill the quiet space between you. “But I’m not going to.”

Bucky didn’t just move; he snapped. The carefully constructed wall of military discipline he spent decades building vanished in a single, breathless second.

In one fluid, powerful motion, he stood up, pushing his chair back so hard it screeched against the floorboards. He leaned over the desk, invading your space entirely, forcing you to look up at him.

Before you could even register what was happening. His fingers wrapped firmly around your waist.“You think this is a joke? I told you to leave.”

You didn't pull away. Instead, your hands found their way up to his chest, your fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt, feeling the frantic, heavy thudding of his heart beneath.

You looked up, your eyes wide, meeting his dark gaze. You didn't say a word,you didn't need to. The defiance in your eyes was the only invitation he needed.

Bucky let out a ragged growl.Then, he closed the remaining distance.His lips crashed against yours with a desperate intensity that took your breath away. His hand at your waist tightened, lifting you slightly, pulling your body flush against his hard chest until there was absolutely no air left between you. His other hand flew up, his metal fingers surprisingly warm and unbelievably careful as they tangled into your hair, tilting your head back to deepen the kiss.

The kiss wasn't gentle at all.It was a hungry release of weeks of unspoken tension, stolen glances, and agonizing restraint.

He tasted like mint and unfiltered hunger. Every swipe of his tongue, every desperate press of his lips felt like a man dying of thirst. He was consuming you, pouring all his unspoken words, his dark past, and his fierce devotion into the kiss.

Bucky didn't give you even a single second to catch your breath.Before the daze of the first kiss could clear from your mind, his metal hand slid from your hair down to your hip, while his flesh hand gripped your thigh. With a single, effortless surge of super-soldier strength, he lifted you up.A sharp gasp left your throat as he swiped his arm across the desk, carelessly sending the neatly stacked essays and pens flying onto the floor. The papers scattered like confetti in the quiet room, but neither of you cared. He set you down on the edge of the cleared wooden surface, stepping deeply between your thighs to lock you in place.

He crashed his lips back onto yours with double the intensity. It was a wild, bruising kiss that made your toes curl. Your hands scrambled up his shoulders, your fingers tangling desperately in his hair, pulling him closer, matching his frantic energy with your own.Bucky groaned into your mouth, the sound deep and vibrations rattling through his chest.

His hands grew bolder, sliding up under your shirt, his warm skin sending a shockwave of electricity through your spine. He pinned you against his body so tightly you could feel every muscle in his chest tightening, his breathing ragged and completely out of control.

He tore his mouth away from yours for a split second, only to bury his face into the crook of your neck. His hot breath brushed against your skin right before his teeth nipped playfully, then dangerously, at your pulse point. You threw your head back, a breathless sound escaping your lips, which only made him press himself even harder against you.

“You’re driving me insane,” he growled against your skin, his voice raw, completely undone by the smell and taste of you. “You know that?”

“Well,” you whispered, your voice thick with desire. “I think you’re finally losing it.”

Bucky didn't deny it. Instead, a low groan escaped his throat. “I lost it the moment you smiled at me,” he confessed against your throat, before his lips traveled down to your collarbone, leaving a trail of fire in their wake.

His metal hand shot up to the collar of his shirt, and with a single, impatient tug, the top buttons flew off, bouncing quietly onto the wooden floor. He ripped the fabric open, exposing the hard, scarred planes of his chest and the sharp line of his collarbone.Before you could even take in the sight of him, his flesh hand grabbed the hem of your shirt. His eyes locked onto yours, asking a silent, burning question. You answered by raising your arms, and in one swift motion, he lifted the shirt over your head and tossed it carelessly somewhere into the dark corner of the room.

“Look at me,” he commanded softly, his voice vibrating directly against your chest.

God,you loved it, when he bossed you around.He slid his hands down to the button of your jeans, his metal fingers surprisingly warm and precise as they made quick work of the denim. At the same time, his mouth slammed back onto yours, completely swallowing your gasp as he began to slide the fabric down your legs, lifting you slightly off the desk to completely strip away the final barrier between you.He looked at you, his eyes scanning every inch of your body with a raw, reverent intensity that made you flush from head to toe.“You're beautiful,” he breathed out, his voice so deep and raspy it sent a delicious shiver straight down your spine.

You leaned back slightly on your hands, arching your back and looking down at him with a hooded, playful gaze, trying to keep your composure despite your racing pulse.He reached down, his movements fast and impatient now, unbuckling his belt and shedding his own trousers in one smooth motion. The moment he stepped back between your thighs, completely unburdened by clothes, the heat radiating from him was intoxicating. He was all hard muscle, sharp angles, and beautiful, battle-worn skin.

He leaned forward, pressing his chest back against yours, his hands sliding under your thighs to lift them around his waist. You locked your legs securely behind his back, pulling him as close as physically possible.“Bucky,” you gasped, your fingers digging into the muscles of his back, feeling the contrast between the warm, smooth skin of his right side and the cold, intricate seams of his metal shoulder.

He rocked his hips against yours in a soft, torturous preview of what was to come, making a desperate whimper escape your throat.“Say my name again,” he commanded against your mouth, his breathing completely ragged.

His metal hand slid up to cup your jaw, holding you still so he could look directly into your eyes. “I want to hear it again.”You looked straight into those fierce blue eyes, your heart hammering against your ribs.

“Bucky,” you whispered, your voice thick with desire, tightening your grip on him. “Please.”

That was the final breaking point. His gaze darkened with pure, unfiltered possession. He shifted his grip on your hips, aligning himself, and with a deep, breathless groan, he pushed forward, burying himself inside you in one deep, masterful stroke.

You let out a long, trembling exhale, your legs tightening around his waist as your body slowly adjusted to the overwhelming fullness of him.— “Bucky...” you whimpered, your fingers digging into the hard muscles of his shoulders, silently begging for movement.He lifted his head, looking down at you with a gaze so fiercely possessive it made your heart skip a beat.

“I’ve wanted this,” he confessed, his voice dropping into a rough, gravelly whisper that vibrated straight through your bones. “God, you have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do this.”

Even now, with your legs wrapped tightly around his waist and your breath hitching with every micro-movement of his hips, you couldn't resist having the last word. “Why do you think I wrote that essay so horribly wrong?” you spat out, your voice laced with a bitter, provocative edge. “I wanted to see how long you’d play your stupid, perfect soldier routine before you finally snapped.”

“You think I didn’t notice that?” he murmured, his voice laced with a smug confidence.“You think this is a game?” he growled, his voice dropping into a low, terrifying register. “You think you can just mess with my head for weeks, pull my strings, and then mock me for it?”

You gasped as he suddenly drove forward again, deeper and harder than before, as if punishing you for the confession.“You're so cockdrunk,it's pathetic.”

Before you could even answer, he suddenly stopped. With a sharp, ragged exhale, he pulled completely out of you.The sudden cold and loss of his warmth made you gasp, but you didn't even have a second to breathe. His metal hand grabbed your waist, and his flesh hand gripped your shoulder. With a single, brutal surge of super-soldier strength, he gripped your body and flipped you over on the desk.

Your stomach slammed down onto the cold wood, sending the remaining papers flying. He pinned your upper body down, lifting your hips high and leaving you completely exposed and helpless, facing away from him.

“You wanted the Winter Soldier?” Bucky whispered viciously against the back of your neck, his hot breath making your skin crawl. “Fine. You got him.”

The sharp, heavy crack of his flesh hand slamming against your bare skin echoed loudly through the quiet office. A shocked, high-pitched gasp tore from your throat, the stinging heat of the impact instantly blooming across your skin

“That’s for the weeks of playing games,” he muttered.SLAP.Another hard, punishing strike hit you, making your hips twitch reflexively. The pain was sharp, but the rush of adrenaline and the sheer humiliation of being completely his made your core ache with desire.

He didn't give you a single second to recover. He grabbed your hips with both hands, his grip tight enough to leave bruises, aligned himself, and drove himself back inside you from behind in one deep, brutal, uncompromising stroke.

A choked sob escaped your lips as he began to move with a relentless, punishing speed. It was raw, angry, and fast. The desk groaned violently under the impact of his heavy hits. There was absolutely no gentleness left—this was him taking what was his, breaking through your defiance and forcing you to submit to his strength.

You dug your fingernails into the wood of the desk, your head spinning from the sheer intensity of the friction and the stinging heat on your skin. You hated his control, but you were completely consumed by it, crying out as he pushed you harder and deeper than ever before.

“Look at the mess you made,” Bucky commanded, his voice tight and breathless as he slammed into you, his chest crashing heavily against your back.He reached forward, his metal fingers tangling into your hair and pulling your head back just enough to force you to see the ruined desk, the scattered papers, and the utter chaos you had triggered.

“This is what happens when you push me,” he gasped out, his breathing completely wild, his body running on pure, unfiltered adrenaline.The tension inside you snapped like a tight wire. Your body went rigid, your muscles clenching around him in a tight, desperate spasm as a violent, overwhelming release tore through you, leaving you completely breathless and sobbing into the wood.

seeing you break finally pushed Bucky over the edge. With a deep, guttural roar of pure frustration and surrender, he drove into you one last, devastating time. His whole body shook violently as his own explosive climax ripped through him, pinning you flat against the desk under his heavy, sweaty weight until neither of you could move.

For a long moment, he didn't move a single muscle. His face was buried in the crook of your neck, his hot, erratic breath scalding your damp skin. The anger in the air hadn't fully evaporated; it had just transformed into something thick, heavy, and intensely possessive.Slowly, deliberately, Bucky lifted his head.

His metal fingers, still tangled in your hair, tightened just enough to force your head back up, making you look at the mess of papers on the desk again. His blue eyes, dark and entirely unreadable, caught your reflection in the darkened window pane across the room.

“Say it,” Bucky growled softly against your skin, his thumb rubbing a slow, heavy circle over your hip. “Say: Thank you, Sir.”

Bucky let out a long exhale—a sound of absolute satisfaction. The rigid tension in his shoulders finally relaxed just a fraction. He leaned down, pressing a hard, lingering, and surprisingly warm kiss to the back of your neck, right over your pulse point.“Good,” he muttered,

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