~Meeting Evan Peters at Indiana Comic Con 3/16/2014~
Okay, so let me just begin by saying that I was originally trying to get a photo-op but those were sold out. Anyways, so in total we probably waited two and a half hours (I can explain the whole story if anyone cares) but I mainly wanted to talk about this video.
So, when I walked up to him, I was so nervous that my voice was kinda doing that stuttery-wave thing. He asked me if I was nervous, and I said yes. Then he said "I don't bite... HARD." Then, deciding to be a witty lil' bitch, I resonded, "Don't tease me, just please me." Then he made some reference to Austin Powers, I think. Anyways. I then said, "Sorry, I want a quote. I'm lame." He said, "Who's calling you lame?" I responded with "I'm calling myself lame." Then he said the sweetest thing I ever heard, "You're not lame. You're a rockstar."
At this point in my life, I needed to hear that. So now my autograph reads: "Marissa, You are the only light I've ever known. You are a rockstar. I love you." He ADDED 'you are a rockstar'.
Never have I ever met anybody who was half as kind, lovely, and sweet as he is. He also gives a pretty damn good hug.
Now, it's kinda hard to put myself down, because I keep hearing him say, "You're not lame. You're a rockstar."
After feeling like the lamest for nearly 18 years, I finally feel like a rockstar thanks to a man in a wool cardigan.
Prompt: An attempt to maintain a professional façade at the History department Christmas party collapses when your (lover) professor, James Barnes asks you to dance.
Pairing: Professor James Barnes x Teacher's Assistant reader
Word count: 2.5k
Notes / warnings: professor x student; age gap (reader is mid twenties, bucky is early forties); secret relationship; implied sexual content (very brief!!); flirting / suggestive dialogue; public displays of affection (no kissing though); no use of Y/N; unbeta'd
The air in the college ballroom is thick with the scent of pine and expensive champagne, a contrast to the usual mustiness of the History Department common room. You’re used to the smell of old books, buried in shelves people haven’t touched in years, endless pages and documents with lifelong stains, low lights that make your eyes strain. Now, you’re staring at fairy lights twinkling relentlessly, casting the familiar faces of the faculty and the TAs an innocent glow.
You take a slow sip of the sparkling cider you’d poured yourself, trying to look absorbed in a conversation with Dr. Steve Rogers about the proper citation format for obscure 19th-century periodicals. Your heart, however, is playing a frantic drum solo against your ribs, a rhythm only Professor James Barnes could inspire.
He’s across the room, talking—or rather, charming—Dean Maria Hill. Even from this distance, the effect of his pinstripe suit is devastating. It’s less a college professor’s attire and more something a 1940s mogul would wear.
You had agreed to be meticulously professional tonight. No lingering glances, no accidental brushes of hands, and absolutely no acknowledging the hours you spend together outside of office hours, where the subject was decidedly not the decline of the Austro-Hungarian Empire. The risk of your professional and academic entanglement being exposed feels perilously high here, surrounded by the watchful eyes of your colleagues.
A smooth laugh drifts over the cluster of people. His laughter. You feel your cheeks flush, a reaction you immediately suppress by forcing a smile at Dr. Rogers’ latest mention of something work-related (something you definitely were not paying attention to until now). Focus, you silently chided yourself. Modern History. TA. Professional.
But your resolve wavers as he turns his head, his eyes scanning the room before locking on yours for a fraction of a second. It is a micro-expression, a subtle downturn of the corner of his mouth that only you would recognize as a loaded message. The kind that said I see you. Don’t look away.
Your breath hitches. You quickly focus your gaze on the glittering Christmas tree by the piano, pretending the brief moment of undeniable connection hadn’t just happened. You hope no one else noticed the silent exchange that has just obliterated the professional distance you were supposed to be maintaining. The sheer audacity of that look. A silent violation of your mutual agreement to maintain the façade, and it sends a fresh wave of heat to your face.
“...and so the key is really in distinguishing between a pamphlet and a periodical based on the print run and the intended audience,” Dr. Rogers concludes, seemingly oblivious to the seismic event that just occurred between you and the man across the room. He adjusts his glasses, waiting for your response.
You force your brain back to 19th-century publications. “… Yes, of course. An important distinction, if one doesn’t intend to make the bibliography a living nightmare.” You manage, painfully aware that that’s hardly a noteworthy conclusion, although it truly is the most elaborate thought you can conjure up at this moment.
As if on cue, a familiar voice cuts in, smooth as aged whiskey, cutting through the music around the room and also your conversation. “Bibliographical nightmares. Sounds like an absolutely riveting discussion for a Christmas party, Stevie.”
Professor Barnes is suddenly beside you, though you hadn’t even seen him move. His presence always reads like a disruption of the room’s energy, a black hole that sucks all the attention towards him. He stands a little too close, smelling faintly of that expensive cologne you always compliment.
Dr. Rogers turns, his expression mildly affronted. “James! We were discussing the core challenges of historical scholarship. Someone has to keep the academic standards high, even at a festive gathering.”
James allows a disarming smile, the kind that usually makes you stammer through the most normal conversations. “I think we can all agree that the most pressing challenge tonight is deciding whether to go for the turkey canapés or the roast beef skewers.”
Dr. Rogers hesitates for only a moment, clearly wrestling with the urge to argue the importance of citations over canapés, but the lure of the buffet and Barnes’ sheer force of personality win out. He simply nods and moves toward the food table, vanishing into the crowd.
The moment he’s gone, the air between you changes. It crackles with an intensity that seems far too loud for a quiet conversation. Professor Barnes turns his full attention to you, and the downturned corner of his mouth from across the room is now a distinct smirk.
"I'm absolutely sure that there are at least two or three civilizations—documented, I might add, right there on shelf C, row four—that would consider it a terrible crime for someone who looks as stunning as you do tonight to be stuck here talking about citation formats.”
The compliment, delivered with that low rumble in his voice, hits you like a shot of that expensive champagne sitting on a table a few feet away.
You swallow, the sparkling cider suddenly feeling too sharp on your tongue. His eyes are dark, refusing to let you look away, and he’s leaning in just enough that only you can hear him over the festive chatter.
“Professor Barnes,” you manage, your voice barely a breathy whisper. You glance quickly over his shoulder, paranoid that Dean Hill or, worse, Dr. Rogers, might be watching. “We agreed. Tonight. Professional distance.”
The smirk doesn’t leave his face; it only deepens, mischief clear in his eyes. He takes a step closer, closing the last gap between you. His proximity is suffocating, in the best possible way.
“Did we?” he muses, his voice still low. He lifts a hand, and for a terrifying second, you think he might reach out, maybe touch your cheek or push a strand of hair behind your ear—a move that would expose your non-academic entanglement to the entire faculty.
Instead, his hand drops, hovering near your waist, a silent anchor that feels heavier than a physical touch.
“Because if we did, I think that the sight of you in that dress has rendered my short-term memory entirely unreliable. A temporary cognitive lapse, maybe. A consequence of too many late nights researching post-war economic shifts—or perhaps,” he pauses, letting the implication hang in the air, “it’s just the consequence of you looking like this party was put together to celebrate you.”
Your cheeks burn hotter, and you feel the telltale rush of adrenaline. He’s making this impossible.
“James,” you hiss, using his first name in an attempt to sound stern, even though it just comes out as a plea. “You are currently standing too close to your TA at a professional function. And you are being absolutely scandalous.”
He pulls back just enough to lock eyes with you again, his expression unrepentant. “Scandalous? I thought I was rescuing you from boredom at a Christmas party. That’s chivalry, not scandal.” He tips his head, his gaze sweeping over the room and returning, smugly satisfied, to yours.
“You are infuriating,” you manage, trying to sound annoyed, but the emotion is drowned out by the giddy panic in your chest.
He laughs softly, a quiet, rich sound that only you can truly appreciate. “Only when you look this irresistible.”
Before you can formulate a suitable reply, the upbeat, generic Christmas music playing over the ballroom speakers shifts, turning into a smooth, distinctly retro melody.
The opening notes of “Baby, It’s Cold Outside” drift from the speakers, the classic song instantly transforming the mood in the room.
Professor Barnes’ eyes lighten with recognition. The soft smirk on his face melts away, replaced by a look of more focused intent. He extends his hand toward you, mirroring the invitational gesture he might use to help you up a step—or lead you onto a dance floor—palm open, waiting.
“Would you look at that,” he says, his voice now gentle. “The universe is giving us a new academic mandate: show the faculty who the best dancers in this department are.”
You look at his hand, then quickly back at his face, mind racing. Dancing with him here, in the middle of the ballroom, surrounded by every person who holds sway over your academic future, feels like a statement you’re not quite ready to make. Whatever professional façade you’re attempting to keep tonight is flimsy as ever now.
“James, I can’t,” you whisper, shaking your head just slightly. “It’s... too public.”
He takes a small step closer, not retracting his hand but keeping it hovering between you, insistent. Have you ever known James to give up that easily on any matter?
“It’s just a dance,” he counters, whispering your name so quietly the lyrics of the song almost cover it. “Or is it that you think if you get too close, you won’t be able to distinguish between your TA duties and what we really are?”
Your sense of caution wavers at the sight of him in that tailored suit, hand outstretched, inviting you into the risk. You hesitate for only another half-second, the logic center of your brain screaming danger, but the rest of you overriding the warning.
Taking a deep breath, you allow yourself one last glance across the room to confirm that Dean Hill is safely engaged in a conversation by the fireplace and Dr. Rogers is still engrossed by the turkey canapés before you finally raise your hand, fingers brushing against the warmth of his palm before settling firmly into his grasp. Immediately, your cheeks warm.
A look of satisfaction takes over James’ face as he holds your hand like it’s the proof of his victory. His hand closes around yours, his grip firm.
“That’s my girl,” he murmurs, too quiet for anyone but you to hear.
James doesn’t walk towards the center of the floor; instead, he subtly guides you a few feet away, towards a less-trafficked space near one of the tall, curtained windows. It’s a small concession to your paranoia, but the moment his other hand settles gently on the small of your back, all sense of place vanishes.
He pulls you closer, a little too close for mere colleagues, and your hand instinctively rests lightly on his shoulder, feeling the solid structure of his muscles beneath the fine fabric of his jacket. You begin to move with him, a slow sway that is definitely too intimate. Teeth gently digging into your bottom lip, you tilt your head back to look at James. “One song, Professor,” you tell him, the words tasting like a boundary you’re not entirely focused on upholding.
His blue eyes lock with yours. “We just started. And it is cold outside. We’re perfectly warm right here. Don’t you agree?”
“I agree that this is professionally perilous,” you answer instead. There’s an attempt to add a tone of concern to your voice, but it comes out sounding more like a confession. Your gaze flicks past his shoulder again, eyes darting around the room, spotting everyone who could watch his interaction and turn it into a problem.
James turns you as he dances, forcing you to look away from wherever you were staring at before. “Don’t do that. I’m right here. Can’t you just dance with me tonight, darling?” He uses the endearment with such an easy familiarity that it makes your stomach flip.
He shifts his weight, pulling you into an even tighter embrace, and you have to suppress a gasp. The air is suddenly squeezed out of your lungs, replaced by the scent of his cologne.
“You know what this looks like,” you whisper, your eyes wide as you search his face.
“It looks like I finally got you to stop talking about dusty books for five minutes,” he corrects, his eyes softening around the edges, a look that always melts your resolve faster than any argument. He dips his head lower, his breath warm against your ear, sending shivers down your spine.
“You look beautiful tonight,” he whispers conspiratorially. “I couldn’t pass the opportunity to dance with you like this. Even if it means risking everything.” He brushes his thumb lightly back and forth on the curve of your spine, the repeated motion mesmerizing.
“That suit has been making me want to kiss you all night,” you blurt out, the truth escaping before your mental censor can stop it. You clamp your lips shut, regretting the heat of the admission instantly.
A flash of pleasure crosses his face, the look of a man who has just heard precisely what he wanted to hear. He stops moving, pausing your dance entirely, and your heart stutters.
“The way you look tonight, you don’t even need to try hard to convince me, darlin’,” he murmurs, his focus absolute, challenging. The festive sounds of the ballroom fade entirely, leaving only the sound of your own ragged breath.
You know that if you don't break this gaze, this moment, you'll cross a line you can't come back from. You try to lean back, to put a sliver of space between you, but his arm tightens, holding you hostage.
“Professor Barnes,” you begin again, firmer this time, recalling the sight of the Dean by the fireplace. “We are not having this conversation here. The moment this song ends, we are returning to our assigned professional duties and maintaining the agreed-upon distance.” You hope your tone conveys the desperate seriousness of your internal panic.
He smiles slowly, a devastating curve of his lips that tells you he knows you're already lost. “An agreement I have already violated, it seems.” He starts moving again, a slow, intimate sway that pulls you deeper into his orbit. The song winds down, its final notes echoing the unsettled tension between you. “Maybe you can meet me after the party to further discuss our duties. Preferably without our clothes on.”
You choke on your own breath, but James is already easing his grip as the music fades. He takes your hand and raises it to his lips, pressing a fleeting, tender kiss to your knuckles. Just toeing the line between appropriate and too personal, but chivalrous enough that it makes you forget everything else.
“Until later,” he says, his voice a promise. He lets go of your hand before turning back and melting into the crowd, leaving you breathless by the tall window, already dreaming of tonight’s meeting.
basically my opinion on many many things is “you should be allowed to do that and i should be allowed to be uncomfortable with it and the government and law should not be involved in this whatsoever”
exploring polyamory is a trip. it’s so lovely to be able to express affection for multiple partners, but ensuring every partner is on the same page is… a juggle.
