Pairing: Professor!Bucky x Fem!Student!Reader
Word Count: 306
Audience: Mature
Synopsis: Your professor lectures the class while teasing you.
A/N: June 6th submission for June Jukebox Scribbles with the song prompt Therefore I Am by Billie Eilish. Lyrics in bold.
Event Masterlist | Main Masterlist | AO3
"I think, therefore I am," he states, letting the famous quote float through the classroom. His brow quirks up as he waits for the words to stir up something in one of his students, but the lecture hall stays quiet.
"I think," he says again, sitting on the edge of his desk, "therefore I am."
You squirm on the hard wooden bench seat, trying to focus on his lecture and not on the eraser that's still on the floor from where you knocked it off the ledge with your foot earlier. You brush at the chalk dust on your black skirt, willing it to disappear. I think you should disappear, therefore do it, you beg the stain to no avail.
"It's Descartes," he says, disappointment lacing his tone. "Please read your textbooks. I know philosophy can be dry, but at least allow yourselves the opportunity to be enlightened."
"Does anyone care to argue against this viewpoint?" He stands up straight now and walks to the lecturn. His gaze glides over every student, landing on you last. "You."
"Me?" You ask, looking around the room before back to him.
He nods.
You clear your throat. "Rocks exist, but they don't have the capability of thought. Does this mean rocks don't exist?"
"Good. Simple, but right on the money," he says with a glint in his eye. "Miss…?" He trails off, pretending not to remember your name - pretending like he wasn't panting it into your ear minutes before class started.
You give him your name with a quiet smile.
"Why don't you come up and write that on the board?" He asks, gesturing to the chalkboard.
Your cheeks immediately heat, knowing that your panties are in his desk drawer and that there's a very real possibility of him dripping down your legs when you stand.
Summary : Your literature professor, James Barnes, has assigned you a particularly hard project to earn extra credit
Prompt : “You make it very hard to think.”
Word Count : 280 (look at me following the rules professor bucky 😏)
Warnings : 18+ MDNI, Filthy language, smut, age gap (reader is in her 20s and bucky is 10ish years older, idk imagine how you want it)
A/N : I have no idea how my brain came up with this 😐 it's Filthy
January Jumble Scribbles Masterlist l Main Masterlist
The pen clatters on the table from your shaking hands. You try to pick it back up, but the buzzing in your brain won't stop. Your legs are trembling, nerves are tingling, body begging to be touched.
“Something wrong, sweetheart” he mumbles around your ear, lips grazing the shell of it, sending a shiver right through you.
He's asking as if he doesn't know what's wrong. As if he isn't the reason for it. He has you perched on his cock. Filling you so deep, you can feel every vein, every ridge, every twitch of the muscle when he refuses to move.
You pull back just enough to glare at him, but he smiles in return, sweet, wicked thing, and words tumble out of your mouth before you can stop them “Please, just move. I can't take it anymore”
His smile doesn't falter, if anything it gets more smug “I Will move sweetheart. I'll move when you finish your essay. Gotta earn that extra credit right?”
"You make it very hard to think, professor" you counter and try to grind onto him but his hands immediately find your hips, halting your movements as he raises a brow at you “What did I tell you about following the rules?”
Your spine straightens at the warning in his tone “Sorry professor, won't happen again” you pout as he kisses your cheek.
You get back to writing with a sigh, muttering something under your breath about regretting that you ever agreed to this.
And bucky, evil little bastard that he is Leans in close and nips at your neck, licks at your jaw, before whispering against your ear “Come on, sweetheart. Finish that essay and I'll fuck you however you want”.
Dividers : @dividers-are-us
Tag list : @redstarleftarm, @sweetserendipity65, @sambuckystony, @nymphhbabiee, @darlingdenise, @quantumbarnes
Distinguished professor Dr. James Barnes accidentally teaches impressionable, malleable, hot-mess college student Steve Rogers that the best way to deal with stress is to fuck it out only to discover that he literally has to peel Steve off him during finals week because Steve's now helpless to not get flustered and hot whenever he's overwhelmed. It's entirely involuntarily. His heart races with stress, then, oh fuck, suddenly his knees feel a little weak.
He doesn't want to think, he wants James to hold him down by the throat, choking him, forcing him to take it, and fucking him until he can't think anymore. He doesn't need his degree that badly, does he? Can't he just be James' professional bed-warmer for the rest of his life? Can't his occupation just be occupying the space beneath James' desk, relieving his stress as he grades papers and gives lectures? Can't—
God, fuck, can't James just fuck him already? What else does he have to do? To beg? He's already got tears in his pretty doe eyes, lower lip wobbling, so pathetic as just the best, most teachable impressionable student.
minors dni, no serious warning except public masturbation and tiny speck of smut
She stumbled outside the class tripping over thin air right as she collided with a strong hard chest when two soft hands circled around her waist to stop her from falling.
“I’m sorry I’m so sorry” she muttered looking up at a pair of cloudy grey eyes, her heart racing as she felt her body freeze.
“uh” the mystery brunette started but hung his head down making his hair brush y/n’s nose. She closed her eyes scrunching her nose up when heat rushed to her cheeks noticing the close proximity, they were in.
The mystery brunette let go of her his cheeks tinged a darker shade of pink as he coughed “it’s okay, be on time from now on”
As the words left his mouth all the cliché enticed feelings left her body and her eyebrows shot up in anger “and who are you to tell me that”
Smirking he took a step forward and straightened his back “Bucky Barnes, your psychology professor…... doll” he said leaving the girl flushed outside the classroom.
“….and that is what the branches of psychology are” said Bucky’s thick masculine voice as his eyes looked right past y/n’s
All the while y/n kept staring at the clock trying to make sense of what happened outside she had felt the tension between them or maybe she was just imagining it in fact he hasn’t even looked at her ever since class started not even once, maybe he’s keeping his façade up said the tiny devil sitting on her shoulder.
Taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes imagining bucky bending her over his desk and thrusting his thick cock deep into her cunt “take my fucking cock my dirty little slut, yes fucking your professor aren’t ya” “my dirty cumslut” Bucky groans into her right ear, his swollen cock grinding wetly against the swell of her naked ass placing open mouthed kisses on her neck.
Desperate for some release she slipped her hand in her panties looking right at bucky while she touched her swollen clit.
Not being able to help the tiny gasp that escaped her mouth she bit her bottom lip her eyes rolling to the back of her head and her body loosened like she was melting wax under a raging flame.
As the sudden sound of the bell ripped through the air her eyes shot open staring at the darkened eyes of bucky staring right at her.
“Miss y/l/n I want you to stay back after class”
Fear ran through her body as she tears made their way to her cheeks how could she be stupid enough to touch herself in class she was going to get suspended and there was no future for her anymore.
“sir I’m so so sorry I promise it won’t ever happen agai-“ before she could finish Bucky’s mouth was on hers, Maybe time stopped when his lips met hers, but the flutter only intensified. y/n’s heart pounded in her chest as her knees got weaker. She could only focus on how soft he felt against her mouth, how addictively he invaded all her senses. It still wasn’t clear if she dreamed this moment to life, but there was raw emotion in the way his fingers curled around hers. His wet tongue nudged her bottom lip as she parted her mouth letting him attack her mouth slowly feeling her cunt dripping with pleasure she groaned grinding against his bulge which resulted in a mind numbing groan from him. “You’re gonna be the death of me princess, but I wan ya to be punished for the stunt you pulled in class first” he said sitting back in his chair and motioning her to come forward.
She tilted her head looking confused as she tried to sit on his lap “not so soon princess wan ya to put your pretty mouth on my cock while I talk to steve” her eyes widened as she obeyed sitting down making him grin “good girl”
Recently divorced Bastian Barnes had landed his dream job. A doctor in the field of the occult and supernatural studies, he wanted to run away from the city life and go somewhere where he’s not reminded of his ex-wife.
Little did he know that the new college he was hired to teach at had some peculiar staff and students. One fellow professor, Miss Primrose Honey, had caught his eye.
Will Prim help Bastian forget his past, or will she take his heart, in more ways than one?
A moodboard created for @the-slumberparty "What's Your Aesthetic" Challenge. Using this aesthetic generator, I got...
This is not a fic. I have no plans on turning it into a fic. This was just the blurb I had in my head when I was creating the moodboard.
You walk up the stair to the class room and open the door seeing Bucky standing at the white board writing out lesson plans.
“Morning Mr. Barnes!” You cheerfully say going up to him holding you the tray you got from Starbucks that holds a muffin and coffee for him.
He chuckles looking at you in your happy state and takes the tray.
“Thank you.” He says leaning to you kissing your cheek you blush slightly still not used to your professor being your boyfriend. He goes to his desk setting it down.
It’s been 3 months with Bucky and he’s the best thing that’s happend to you.
“Come here.” He says to you. Sitting on the edge of his desk. You put down your backpack and coffee at your desk before going over to him.
“I missed question seven on the quiz yesterday.” You say tucking you hair behind your ear. He shakes his head admiring you as you walk to him your over sized jacket for the color weather making you look small, your jeans and converse your hair windblown from Natashas convertible top being down. She drove you to school today since your car broke down.
“It’s fine.” He says
“N-no. Rachel did great I don’t even know how I studied and all but you werent much help on Friday.” You say referring to when you spent the night and all he wanted was your attention.
He chuckles softly pulling you in by your waist. You stand between his legs.
“If I failed-“
“Why don’t I cancel class today?” He says you frown
“Why?” You ask
“So I can spend the day with you.” He says brushing his knuckles against you cheek as he admires your features.
“B-Bucky you can’t you’ve got a class to teach.
“Mhm. But I’ve also got you.” He says moving closer his nose brushing against yours.
Your breath hitches.
“You really don’t know do you.” He says
“W-what…?” You reply
“…how much I love you.” He says his lips brushing against yours.
You close the gap pressing your lips against his your fingers grabbing at his hair only making him pull you in closer to him deepening the kiss.
“His prosthetic hand grips your waist through the thick jacket.
You pull back slightly to speak. Your lips parted letting out a small whimper. Which only makes Bucky peck your lips.
“Do you mean that?” You ask
“I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t. I love you.” He says
“I love you.” You reply. Kissing him again for a short time.
“C-can I ask you something?” You ask sheepishly.
“Anything doll.” He says kissing the corner of your mouth.
You take a second to breath building up courage. ‘Don’t be a coward’
“C-can we go back to…to your house today?” You say he frowns in confusion and compliance.
“Yeah. We can go after class.” He says you shake you head no.
“Gotta use your words.” He says stroking your cheek with his thumb.
“N-now..” you say your hands gripping at his sleeves fiddling with the fabric.
“So I should call off class today.” He says you nod
“I’ll ask Steve to cover for me.” He says standing up kissing your forehead he walks around the desk grabbing his phone and calling Steve.
“Hey can you do me a favor?” Bucky asks
“Can you come sub for my class today..” Bucky says and looks back at you as you fiddle with your sleeves.
“..and tomorrow” he says
“Thanks I’ll leave the door open and keys behind the projector. Uh yeah I guess so haha thanks.” He says and hangs up.
“Come on doll.” He says you heart skips a beat as you rush over to your things.
“I got it.” Bucky says holding out his hand for your backpack. You hand it to him he slings one strap I’ve his shoulder.
You walk out of the classroom. And down the stairs
“Did you drive today?” He asks.
“No Natasha dropped me off.” You say he nods taking your hand in his.
“I don’t want you driving that death machine you call a car.” He chuckles
“Only her breaks went out.” You say
“Mmhm exactly” he says
THANKS FOR READING LET ME KNOW IF YOU WANT A SPICY PART 2
summary: bucky spent one fateful night with someone he shouldn't have. the guilt drove him to resign from his teaching position. a hasty choice may have been his best mistake.
warnings: discussion of grief/loss. smut in future parts. slowish burn.
a/n: this prompt idea originally came from @thornsnvultures: "I'd love a college au Bucky. English Lit professor!Bucky who loves to teach Tolkien, maybe? 🤔" I hope you enjoy! this will likely be about three parts. all poetry is my own.
series masterlist
– – – – –
Resigning was easy.
Telling her was herculean. How do you tell a woman she’s the reason you quit your job?
Nobody knew about them. They didn’t go out on dates, or steal longing glances at one another in the dim light of the overhead projector, while some freshman stumbled over Hamlet’s soliloquy.
It happened once, a month prior.
One fleeting evening, in a distant city–a footnote on the Summer break, below a citation for an unusually cool August, and the number of students projected to be out with Mononucleosis. But it consumed him.
Nothing occurred between them until her fellowship presentation at a writer’s symposium in Massachusetts, on the brink of the new semester. He wasn’t sure why he went–except she was his best student, his mentee, and she invited him (with a handwritten letter, no less). So he drove four hours to attend her presentation, and immersed himself in her work until he was drunk on her. And she was so exuberant in the afterglow of a standing-room-only exhibition, it was easy to accept her invitation to a dive bar in Amherst afterwards, and pretend like he wasn’t her Graduate Advisor.
She kissed him. Neither of them imbibed–Bucky because he planned to make the trip back to New York that night, and her because she wanted to ‘experience every raw thing.’ Apparently, he qualified. If she wanted a man with a heart still on the vine, she couldn’t have chosen better. There were plenty of reasons why she shouldn’t have snuck him into her room, especially a student building.
But she did, and Bucky experienced something which put him in jeopardy: a thing with no name, something which rooted itself at the base of his spine and began climbing with fury. The moment she fell asleep, he yanked on his trousers and left. He drove back to New York shoeless, sober–ruined. It was unbearable to be without her skin against his; he viciously hungered with nothing to sate him, at his own peril.
The further away from her he got, the more he realized what a mistake it was to feel anything at all.
–
She wasn’t sure which hurt more: waking up alone, or walking into his classroom on the first day of class to find his TA had taken over ‘for the semester’, after spending forty-five minutes hyping herself up to face him again. The interim instructor handed out essays which had been intended as a pre-semester litmus for the class’ overall skill, submitted in the last week before the school year began; Professor Barnes had allegedly graded the papers, but hers had no such notation until the last page. The blue ink there was barely legible. If the first nine words hadn’t been her own, plucked straight out of a poem from her fellowship, she might not have known them at all, but the more she read, the clearer they became:
‘you will do better the less you have of me’
How wise the author. How true of you.
I couldn’t bring myself to read this essay. This was a trite assignment compared to the kind of work you showed in your presentation. I have no doubt you served the subject admirably. Your grade will reflect as much.
What I did was unfair to you, unethical to my position, and cruel to myself. I’ve resigned.
JB
She experienced a hollowing as his fingers reached through the deeply scrawled words, into her chest. A snapped rib would be a comfort by comparison. She froze, staring at the personal note, while memories of him from one beautiful night filtered in. Every one was sallow under scrutiny: His soft kiss, a warning. His bashful smirk, a mask. His socks, forgotten under her bed–the only proof he had been there at all, except for a purple bruise above her left breast, and the scent of his cedar cologne on her pillow.
More than anything, she wished she had woken up when he slipped out of bed, so she could tell him what beauty she saw in him, and thank him for sharing a piece of himself she was sure he rarely showed, if ever. Or that he had the courage to face her in class, share an awkward look, and move on.
His note read like a challenge. Not that he intended it as such. He seemed to be saying I don’t deserve a single thing, and I'll ruin you. Maybe she wanted to be ruined for other men, like the types which clogged academia, with their egos one ducked to avoid. Perhaps the best thing to happen to a woman who made sense of the world through poetry was a man for whom words were a commodity.
She always thought her crush unrequited. She had invited him to her symposium on a brave wine-induced whim, expecting he’d see the Amherst address and beg out. Professor Barnes was the kind of instructor one changed their major for the privilege of studying with. He never minced words, he didn’t deify dead white scribes, and most of the time, he had thoughtful critique–which was as useful as it was cutting. He cared enough about her work to dislike some of it, let alone read it. She became addicted to his feedback, and the twinkle in his blue eyes when some inspiration sparked.
Professor Barnes was handsome, to be sure, but he didn’t wear the designation like a medal. Most of the time, he seemed to have misplaced his razor, he couldn’t keep his hair contained in a tie (draping as it did over his forehead), and he wore long sleeves even in the height of Summer, with the cuffs rucked up to his elbows. His concern was always with his students’ success, not his appearance. It was hard not to adore someone for whom teaching wasn’t his gateway into the arms of popularity or politics.
The only arms he fell into were hers, and he didn’t think himself worthy of that.
She kicked herself for not thinking about how something as simple as asking him for a drink could put him in an ethical conundrum. If the Dean found out he slept with a student, even someone only a few years his junior, he could be fired in disgrace. No wonder he resigned.
She slumped down in her chair. What had she done?
–
He stared at the envelope–well, the corner, anyway, which bore her name. Alpine’s snowy puff of a belly obscured the rest of the words. Bucky’s curiosity got the best of him, and he liberated the letter. The cat made a sullen mewl. He scratched her chin.
He’d wallowed for two days in his dark apartment, so he winced as he turned on the side table lamp. The envelope was postmarked in the East Village, but bore no return address. With one finger, Bucky broke open the seal.
A wave of lilac perfume filled his nostrils, pushing him deeper into the cushions of his sofa. He unfolded the paper within.
JB–
Enclosed you’ll find several items which I hope you will do me the honor of reading. As you have deemed any of my non-poetic works ‘trite’ compared to those performed in my workshop, I have also included poems to pad the delivery.
I hope this note finds you. I’d wish that it found you well, but you’d think I was being sarcastic. But all I want is for it to reach you, in whatever shape or form you’ve taken. Does that form still give critique? I have to submit three of these poems to complete my thesis by next Monday. You’re still the only person I trust.
You’d do better, I think, with *more* of me. If you read the poem more closely, you’d remember the line directly following:
‘but I will waste and waste like something unheavenly’
I’m unheavenly, JB. Please write back. I don’t care if you have nothing to say. Mike will get it to me.
His heart lurched. Mike? The letter was unsigned. She did indeed send poems, eight in total. He read them. Three, four times. The more he perused them, the lighter he felt.
He chose his favorites, or at least his top five (not including the two he gave honorable mention), and wrote down his thoughts as quickly as his fingers could go under each poem, as he had in the run up to her fellowship, attempting to advise her all the way from New York–’it’s a vivid word but ‘aqueous’ drags, pick something which doesn’t take away from the cadence’--’you’ve got something here, I wonder how it would read if you broke at conjunctions’--’this isn’t hitting. I think it’s got something to do with the focus. It’s too outward. Point inward, you’ll be there.’
Something else in the envelope caught his eye: a business card for a whiskey bar called ‘Howlers’, which appeared to be a joint in Bed-Stuy, just fifteen minutes away on foot (according to his gps app). He flipped the card.
Ask for Mike.
–
The bar was dimly lit, but packed. Most of the crowd had a decade on Bucky, maybe more, and there were few places to perch next to the bar to draw the bartender’s eye–perch, but not sit; it must have been ladies’ night, because women in tight jeans and faux leather jackets shared stools, a cheek apiece on the wooden circles topping the seating (many of whom became acquainted because they pressed their hips together).
Bucky meandered through the crowd. The only person he could easily identify as working for Howlers was the bartender, so Bucky did his best to hug the far wall and sidle up next to the pick-up plane, where servers might have restocked trays of drinks, if there was a server to be had. The bartender gave him a nod, but took almost ten minutes to step away from a slew of customized martinis. By the time he approached Bucky, Bucky had gotten unwillingly dragged into a conversation with a pair of women celebrating a recent divorce, by virtue of being a man who they could ply with questions like why DO men leave their underwear on the floor? For Bucky’s part, all he could do was shrug. Bucky was fastidious at home–call it his Army conditioning, or the ever-present anxiety thrumming through his veins. He could not speak to such an epidemic.
“What can I getcha?” The bartender braced against the mahogany counter. “Please don’t say a martini.”
“No, uh–Mike?”
“You got ‘im.”
Bucky extended the envelope toward him. “I am supposed to give this to you.” The shell of his ears burned as he flushed.
Mike raised an eyebrow. “So. You’re the guy.” He didn’t take the envelope. In fact, he whistled at the divorcees beside Bucky, and pointed to a newly vacated hightop against the far wall. The women squealed and abandoned their stool. Mike gestured for Bucky to sit.
Bucky did, but every nerve in his body told him not to. If Mike hadn’t set a tumblr on a napkin in front of him, and poured two fingers of Bucky’s favorite scotch therein, he probably would have fled, envelope be damned. But he understood: find Mike, stay for a drink. Of course she couldn’t let him make the drop and run…
“Was she right?” Mike asked, pointing to the glass. “Fifteen year.”
Bucky sighed. “Yeah.”
Mike snorted. “She annoys the shitta me too, man, but it’s part of her charm.” He was flagged down by more patrons at the other side of the bar, so the bartender left Bucky to his drink.
A lock of hair escaped from his ponytail, which almost sent him over the edge. Bucky removed the tie and carded both hands through his too-long locks.
“Didn’t think you’d actually show.”
Bucky would know her voice if he heard it in the depths of a coma. He had memorized the vocalizations in the back of her throat when she disagreed with something in class, her tendency to emphasize adverbs like they had a sharp edge… and the softness with which she said the word you. He closed his eyes, wishing to be swallowed up by the floor.
“Are you okay?” She muttered the question at his elbow, with fingers curling into his sleeve. Bucky didn’t look at her. He took a swig of his drink and let it burn its way down his throat, without the tiniest wince.
“Guess I sorta get that.” She rubbed his forearm for a moment.
“You’re here,” he growled, because that was certainly the reason why he could in no way be described as ‘okay.’
“Not sure how else to talk to you, given that I don’t have your number and you aren’t responding to email. And as much as I enjoy snail mail correspondence, I’m much more of an instant gratification kinda girl.” She gave the envelope beneath his arm a tug until he lifted it.
Bucky cleared his throat. “I made notes. Going forward, if you need feedback, get with Wilson–”
“No.” She thumbed open the flap.
He slapped a palm over her fingers as they went for the note card. “Don’t read that, alright.”
“Why?” she tried to pull her hand free, but his grip tightened.
“It’s irrelevant.”
“Did you tell me to fuck off?” she scoffed.
“Does that sound like me?”
“I don’t know you, Barnes. I thought I did. But I also didn’t peg you as a coward.”
Bucky’s head snapped up in insult, but she had been forced to stand so near to him that her face was inches from his, and the sadness in her eyes hit him.
“That was harsh,” she said apologetically, but he shook his head.
“Apt, though.”
“Give me ten minutes, at least?” She didn’t wait for him to give his consent, but it was clear he was meant to follow.
Bucky threw a twenty on the bartop, along with his dignity, and he followed her out the front door. She waited at the curb. By the time he joined her, she was digging in her bag, with a cigarette balanced on her lip.
“Since when do you smoke?” he asked.
She smiled from one corner of her mouth, and lit her cigarette with a bright pink lighter. “You found the place okay.”
“The neon sign helped. How do you know Mike?”
“My cousin.”
“Ah, so. Not a guy friend.”
She laughed off the question. “There’s a park a few blocks west. You wanna walk?”
“Alright.”
They walked, dyssynchronous; she stepped in time with sleepy puffs from her cigarette, while Bucky caught his toes on raised concrete cracks from dragging his feet. She looped her hand through his elbow after a violent shiver, and they were in forced tandem. He told himself–I hate her lilac perfume–even as he held her wrist against his ribs. She grew tired of smoking but kept it upright like a pathetic candle. Waiting. He took it from her. He felt her gaze on his mouth as he took a hit, confirming what he had already suspected: this was his brand. He let the smoke escape slowly from between his teeth to punish her, but all she did was make a titter at the back of her throat.
“I only do it when I drink. But. That’s why.”
“I’m a bad influence.”
“Sure are.” She made a pinching motion with her fingers to ask for it back.
“What do you want, doll?” He flicked the stub into the gutter, where it hissed against the sludge from the first surprise snow of the Autumn.
“You’re not happy to see me?”
He glared at her out of the corner of his eye. “I think you know the answer already. I came down here because I’m a sucker.”
“Knew it.” She squeezed his arm. “I missed you too.”
It had only been a month since he had last seen her, but god–Bucky missed her with his entire being. From the moment he put his resignation letter in the hands of the Dean, the feeling intensified. The idea of not seeing her tortured him. Talking to her, having her cling to him–it was worse and better, and his heart raced, and he had never wanted to run more. So he covered her hand with his… because he was human, and it was okay to want someone you shouldn’t if nobody saw.
She chose a picnic table by a street light in the small park, and sat with her feet up on the bench. She patted the wood next to her, and Bucky followed suit.
The silence stretched. He stared at the basketball court, with its orange hoop rings dangling like they’d been swung from one too many times. The woman beside him leaned back on her hands.
“You left your socks,” she said simply.
“Didn’t even put my shoes back on. Drove home barefoot,” he said. “I don’t know how I didn’t wreck.”
She sighed. “You could’ve stayed, Barnes. James–god, that’s weird. I don’t think I’ve ever said your first name before.”
The corner of his mouth turns up. “‘S not what people usually call me.”
“Right,” she said. “Bucky, yeah? Wilson called you that during the faculty basketball game.”
“You went?” he scoffed. “I was lucky they didn’t make me play the whole time.”
“You’re really bad.” She laughed, and Bucky couldn’t help but chuckle.
“It wasn’t about skill.”
“Clearly.”
Bucky glanced at her. She smiled at him. Before he could think better of it, he brushed her cheek as if he might never get another opportunity. He blew out a slow breath as her skin filled his palm. She leaned into the touch, grasping his wrist.
“I’ve never, ever put myself in jeopardy like this,” he said. “Plenty of girls in my class have batted their eyelashes at me, but–” he shrugged. “Never felt anything except annoyance. And then… you. I’m screwed up about it, doll, you have every right to be pissed–”
“Slow down,” she said. She laced their fingers. “Let’s back up, I’m–I was angry, but I’m not anymore. I’m confused.”
Bucky gulped. “Um. I left, and I didn’t tell you.”
“Yeah.”
He clutched her hand against his knee. “I don’t do that kinda thing. Never. I mean, I’ve done it before but with women I dated, who were totally outside the campus community. They were short-lived–not even relationships. I…”
“You freaked.”
“Do you blame me?” Bucky groaned. “You’re in my class!”
“I didn’t plan it–”
“I’m not blaming you. For me to do that, with my own grad student, stone-cold sober. Thank god neither of us were drunk.”
She let out a long breath. “I didn’t think about it once.”
“No,” Bucky agreed.
“It doesn’t make it better, I realize. But for once in my life… I didn’t rationalize my way out of something that felt good. Kissing you didn’t bring me to my senses, either.”
“Hmm.”
“Was it… did you hate it–?”
“No. Far from it.”
“Then what?”
He couldn’t make the fear in his chest manifest into words, so he tapped the envelope which peeked out of her coat pocket and stood, stuffing his hands in his pockets. Despite the impulse to run, he remained at her feet. Waiting for her to see the declaration he wrote and rewrote a million times. She opened it.
She read it under her breath. Bucky held his. Every second which lapsed without her speaking was agonizing, but he dug his heels in. She deserved that much.
He didn’t hear her scoot off the table, so when her hands came up to cradle his face, he jumped.
“You are punishing me, too,” she whispered. “Maybe we should’ve thought about it. I own that. But why is the only option never speaking to or seeing me again? Huh?”
Bucky tugged out of her grasp. “Do you know what the university would do? You might be barred from defending your thesis, or have it blocked from publication, or get expelled–”
“Who am I going to tell?”
He threw his hands in the air. “Your friends! I don’t know!”
“Barnes–I don’t have a circle, here! My best friend lives in Alaska with her wife who works on a fishing boat, and my parents have never heard a detail about my personal life because the entire population of their neighborhood would know in an INSTANT. Unless YOU were planning on telling the Dean, I sure wasn’t!”
“What if photos of us pop up?”
“At my symposium? You’re my mentor–it makes sense for you to be there!” Her protests echoed off the cement court. “I didn’t invite anyone else!”
“You didn’t? There were a lot of people.”
“The whole city of Amherst shows up for this workshop, it’s a big deal! I didn’t know anybody but you and the other poetry fellows.”
“You kissed me.”
“In a cab!”
Bucky put his fists on his hips. “You snuck me into student housing.”
She poked him in the chest. “Seemed more appropriate than straddling you in the back of a taxi!” Bucky opened his mouth to say more but she clamped her hand over his mouth. “You didn’t resign a tenured teaching position to protect me, so why the hell did you do it?” When she pulled her hand away, she lingered toe-to-toe with him.
Bucky let his head fall back in frustration.
“I’m a shell, doll,” he started. “My ma passed away last year. Should’ve taken a sabbatical. But I pushed through to keep myself busy.” Bucky hazarded a glance at her. She said nothing, but motioned for him to continue.
“We were a real close family. My sisters are still devastated. If my father hadn’t gone a few summers ago, this would’ve sent him. I’m hollow, doll. Most days I can’t feel a thing.”
“Easier sometimes,” she murmured.
“No. God, it’s miserable. I get addicted to anything that makes me less numb.” Bucky fixed her with a glare. “Then… you asked me to be your advisor. All of a sudden, I looked forward to getting out of bed. Figured I was finally pushing through grief, or something. But I’d go home after meeting with you… empty. I didn’t put it together until you were asleep on my chest.”
She pressed her lips in a thin line. “You think you’re gonna forget her. If you’re happy again.”
Bucky looked away. “I already had, before she died. I never saw her. She lived five blocks from this park, doll, and I didn’t visit. I took it for granted that she would always be there when things slowed down for me.”
“So, when you took me on as an advisor…”
“Did it to fill up my free time. She asked me every time I saw her when I was gonna have the family I’ve always wanted, and I couldn’t stand to look her in the eye and say I wasn’t trying anymore. Doll–I hate teaching, but I stuck with it because she was so proud of me. She had my book on her bedside table.”
“So do I.” The woman clasped his elbow with a sad smile. “You still would’ve made her proud if you told her you wanted something else. Prouder, still, if you let someone in. Whether or not that someone is Me.”
Bucky’s arms floated upwards, and tentatively hovered at her waist. “With what? What do I have to offer right now?”
“I dunno–”
“Oh, great,” he scoffed.
“No! You’re so smart, but you’re an idiot.” She stood on her tip-toes to level her eyes with his. “You made me feel incredible. Did I return the favor?”
Bucky flushed. “...more than.”
“That’s enough. Doesn’t have to be complicated. You’re a human being–we go through shit times, and it doesn’t make us unworthy of something good.”
“Doll, I did resign because of you, but I didn’t do it to lash out at you. Or because I slept with you–even though it was the ethical thing to do.” Bucky sat with a heavy sigh. “I did it… because you’ve worked so hard. Your thesis work is stunning–those poems are no exception. I have never been as passionate about anything the way you are about words. You made me think there could be something like that, for me.”
“Wow,” she breathed. “When was the last time you did something for yourself?”
Bucky snorted. “Enlisted for Dad. Got out, went to grad school for Ma. Here I am.”
“I forgot you were in the Army.”
“Not something I advertise, doll.”
“No, but I’ve looked at the company photo in your office a million times,” she said. “How’d you get out?”
“Honorable discharge.”
“For?”
“Throwing myself on a grenade.”
“A habit of yours.” She let her head fall against his shoulder. Bucky remained stiff and upright, but he let a sense of warmth at the affectionate position fill him. He almost missed her next words because he was so focused on the sensation of her against his side.
“I don’t want to lose you,” she said.
“Why?” Bucky couldn’t prevent the question from slipping out. She turned her face so they were nose-to-nose.
“Because I love poetry, but it means nothing if the subject isn’t part of my life. Every poem I write, every goddamn word. They’re about you.”
The sentiment jump-started his heart. It had pumped once a day since his mother died–enough to keep his blood flowing. But with that admission, she renewed him. He scanned over her expression for any sign of hesitation.
“May I?” His breath tickled her lips.
She smoothed her hands over the front of his coat. “As much as I want you to, it’s late. I can’t be sure if this is exhaustion, or whiskey, or Bucky. I–” She stopped to touch his jaw. “I can’t kiss you and wake up to nothing, tomorrow. But in the light of day, if you still want to…” Her thumb worried his shallow dimple as she trailed off. Her eyes flicked back and forth, searching to make sure they were on the same page.
Bucky swallowed hard. “I understand.”
“You can give me your number.” She fished her cell phone out of her back pocket and unlocked it so he could type his number in. He did so, and when she presented her cheek… Bucky leaned down and brushed his mouth against her skin. She giggled when he dithered a hare’s breath from her lips.
“I’ll text you, so you have mine,” she said softly.
“I, um.” He swiped his thumb over his bottom lip. “I have to clean out my office this weekend.”
“...do you want help?”
He smiled. “Yeah.”
“I can move my schedule around. Make some time for you.” She nudged his arm, and then tucked the nearly-forgotten envelope into her pocket. “Call me?” She turned, swinging her bag over one shoulder.
“Hey, doll–”
She stopped, peering back at him.
“I didn’t say it at your symposium, but I’m proud of you.”
She straightened, and her mouth twisted like she was trying not to cry. “Thanks, Professor.”
Bucky watched her walk away in the direction of the nearest train station until she disappeared into the shadows. His phone vibrated in his pocket. A text from an unknown number.
I’m proud of you too.
Bucky stared at those five liberating words. He didn’t reply, but about two minutes later, another text arrived from the same number.
Howlers is hiring. Barback. 12/hr plus tips.
Ask Mike.
–
She waited in the shadow of a tree at the end of a block, and watched his mouth turn up in a smile as he read her second message. Walking away after he asked to kiss her had been nearly impossible; the hairs on her body stood up, craving the deepest level of intimacy they had shared before, but if he wanted to make things right, he needed to do it for himself.
Still, it was something to hang her hope on. More than a cryptic note, or no words at all.
Her phone chimed.
BUCKY: thank you doll
BUCKY: i really did miss you
–
Us
you will do better the less you have of me
but I will waste and waste like something unheavenly.
what feeds you might bleed me but
mete out my punishment gently.
Part 2
– – – – –
thanks for reading and sharing! :)
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Summary: You and Professor Barnes had been at each other's throats from the moment you met, and when a tenure position opens up in your department, the claws come out.
Warnings: Rivals to lovers, Smut (oral, p-in-v), unprotected sex (wrap it up, kids!). 18+ only, no minors.
A/N: This is an old one I repurposed to feed my Professor Bucky addiction so if you've read this before, no you haven't...
You and Professor Barnes had been rivals from the start—the year you both started as assistant professors in the Neuroscience Department. You were both bright and ambitious and competitive by nature, but your relationship with each other had been volatile from the very beginning. Professor Barnes was cocky and arrogant, and even though every professor had a doctorate, he was one of the few that insisted all his students call him Doctor. You were more laid back in the classroom; you never acted above your students. Your main goal as a professor was to help shape and nurture the next generation of great minds in the field, to instill in them the same passion for the subject that you had. You left your mellow attitude at the door when it came to James, though. He had a way about him that had brought your claws out from the very first day you met.
You had been nervous the morning of the New Faculty Orientation. The pressure was on: a full day of meeting colleagues, getting acclimated to what life would be like at the university, and just generally trying to put your best face forward and start off on a good note. You had always been a science nerd and not much of a people person, though your social skills had gotten much better over the years, so you approached the orientation a bit more meekly than perhaps you should have, but you thought to yourself that there was no harm in being humble and taking it all in. You had a lot to learn, and the people you would meet had a lot of wisdom to provide you.
Professor Barnes had first caught your eye in the morning seminar. He was handsome, but that’s not why he stood out. It was the way he was sitting there, shirtsleeves rolled up and jacket discarded, lounging back in his chair with his feet up like he owned the place even though it was his very first day. Everyone else was attentive, but he looked completely checked out, like he had better things to do. You didn’t yet know his name or anything about him, but he’d left a bad taste in your mouth almost instantly, and it only got worse when you formally met.
There had been a lovely cocktail reception after the full day of orientation, with a dinner to follow, and both being fresh meat in the same department, you had been assigned the same table. He was drunk—not overly so, but it was obvious that he’d done some damage during the cocktail hour where you had been too nervous about first impressions to have more than one glass of wine, and even that was just to calm your nerves. He plopped into the seat next to you, putting his bottle of beer on the table with more force than was necessary, and introduced himself.
“Dr. James Barnes,” he’d said, sticking out his hand and cocking his head to the side, “but you probably know that already. So, you’re the new golden child on campus, eh?”
You had been confused and you must have looked it because he just laughed at you. The sound would have been infectious if he hadn’t been oozing condescension from every pore.
“I know who you are,” he’d said. “I did my research before I showed up. I take it from the look on your face that you didn’t. Not a great start, hon.”
“You’re right,” you’d said. “I don’t know who you are. And don’t call me hon.”
From that moment forward, the two of you had a contentious relationship. You would have liked to keep your distaste for each other more discrete, but James—or Bucky, as his friends (of which you were not one) called him—loved a good show. He liked one-upmanship, he liked to be the smartest guy in the room, and he didn’t seem to give a fuck that these unfortunate character traits made him come off like the most arrogant asshole ever to roam the campus. It infuriated you to no end, not wholly because of his attitude but also because no one could deny that he was brilliant. You wouldn’t go so far as to say he was smarter than you were, but he had the brains to back up the bullshit. It didn’t help matters that he was sexy and he knew it. It was to be expected that his female (and some of his male) students would be smitten, but the shameless flirting by some of the faculty came as something of a shock to you. With the exception of the near-constant bickering between you and Bucky, you were a consummate professional, and while (though you were loath to admit it) you understood his appeal, you found it in poor taste to be so blatant about it.
Not surprisingly, Bucky loved the attention—whether because he was an egomaniac or because it was just another way he could put himself above everybody else, you didn’t know—and he walked around most of the time with his signature cocky swag and that little smirk of his that made your blood boil. Whenever he would point it in your direction, you felt the urge to slap it straight off his face. You never gave him that kind of attention, would never give him the satisfaction of knowing that you were secretly attracted to him. You had no interest in actually exploring those thoughts, though, because the second he opened his mouth he became ugly to you, and that man never could shut the fuck up. One of the highlights of your first year at the university had come at the end-of-year faculty party when Bucky had hit on you and you’d shut him down. Later he’d claimed he’d had “beer goggles” and that he wouldn’t fuck you if you were the last person on Earth. You’d responded in kind, but he just laughed at you and shook his head. He was dismissive and haughty and it pissed you the fuck off, but you let it go because you knew he was just trying to get a rise out of you and you weren’t going to let him.
Back then you’d thought that maybe he was just trying to save face, but the string of women he had dated over the years (if one could even call it dating) was proof to you that you were most definitely not his type. He went for women who were beautiful but vapid, and it didn’t surprise you that one of his prerequisites was to be of superior intelligence to his partner. He liked arm candy—women he could fuck and chuck without forming any sort of emotional connection to complicate things. You found it sad but fitting, and you let it go without commentary, accepting it as yet another example that Bucky Barnes was the type of man you wanted nothing to do with. On occasion, when he would parade his latest conquest around, you would experience a hint of jealousy—not because you wanted to be the woman on his arm but because you were, for the most part, always alone. You never could find the time to date properly, and the few men you’d started relationships with over the years always came second to your work. You found that men didn’t like that, and after a while, you’d just stopped trying.
As the years passed, your relationship with Bucky remained competitive, but your bickering grew more playful than nasty. Like it or not, you had been forced to work in close quarters for a long while, and the more time you spent with him, the more you started to understand what made him tick—or at least you thought you did. No longer did your skin crawl the second he opened his mouth, nor did his arrogance immediately put you off. You still wanted to punch him in the face half the time, but you grew to appreciate his humor and respect his intellect, even though you thought he had the absolute worst way of showing those two sides of himself. You even actually started calling him Bucky instead of James.
Vicious arguments turned to banter and teasing, and you stopped letting Bucky get to you. You just found it funny now—the way he always had to be right, always had to have the last word, always had to be bigger and better and brighter than everyone else. Maybe part of it was that you grew more confident in yourself as you got older and, no matter what kind of shit came out of his mouth, he couldn’t make you feel insecure. Maybe it was because you were convinced that deep down he was plagued with self-doubt. Or maybe, despite everything, you’d just grown somewhat fond of him for reasons you couldn’t explain. Bucky Barnes was just the kind of man one loved to hate.
Regardless of the way your relationship had progressed, all niceties went out the window when an associate professorship in the department opened up. The battle for tenure was always ugly, but no two people were more fiercely competitive with each other than you and Barnes, to the point where members of the department had a not-so-secret pool going as to which one of you would go farther in the process, with side bets as to how many public arguments you two would have before it was all said and done. You weren’t the only qualified candidates, but in Bucky’s mind the position was already his, and you wanted it so badly you could taste it. You had both published extensively, you were both well respected, and you were both exceptionally gifted. Your areas of research, however, were vastly different. Your research was on the neurology of human sexual behavior where Professor Barnes’s focus was on Alzheimer’s. It was the one thing about him that you found genuinely admirable: the passion and dedication with which he threw himself into his research and the search for a cure.
He didn’t share the same respect for your work, though, and it pissed you off. He made a habit of waltzing into your lab late at night, throwing his glasses down on the table and hoisting himself up on the table to sit next to you while you pored over research results, talking shit and trying to distract you. One night, about a week before your tenure package was due, he was especially obnoxious.
“How’s the rat fucking going, Bunny?”
You fucking hated that nickname, but ever since your first year—when one of your rabbits got out of her cage and he caught it—he’d christened you with the obnoxious little pet name. He finds it hilarious; you want to rip the skin off his face every time he says it.
You spoke without taking your eyes off your work. “Can you not contaminate my workspace?”
“Just came to watch the show,” he said, smiling condescendingly.
“Not that it’s any of your business, Barnes, but I haven’t used the rats in months.”
He laughed that painfully arrogant laugh of his and jumped down off the table.
“What?” he said, his voice dripping with mockery. “Wasn’t doing it for you anymore?”
You looked at him with disdain but he kept going, trying to get a rise out of you as usual.
“Don’t worry about it, Bunny. Everyone has their kinks. I mean, probing rat brains and watching them go at it isn’t really for everybody but to each her own, am I right?”
You sighed deep, trying to keep your focus. “Don’t you have work to do, Barnes?”
“Nah,” he said. “I’m practically done. Besides, I’d much rather sit here and watch the genius at work. Really important stuff you’re doing, Bunny. Groundbreaking.”
You tried her best to control yourself but you’d never been much good at it where Bucky was concerned.
“Get the fuck out of my lab,” you snapped.
“Hit a nerve, did I? Don’t be so touchy. You’ll get wrinkles if you keep scowling like that.”
You threw your pen down and turned to him, seething.
“I hope you go down in flames, you arrogant fuck.”
He just smiled. “You know what your problem is, Bun?”
“Oh, this should be good. Please, tell me what my problem is.”
“You spend all your time studying sex but you’re not getting any.”
That was below the belt and you both knew it, and the two of you stood in a silent staring contest for a while. You hated yourself for doing it, but you broke first and turned away.
“Get out,” you said.
“Bun-“ he started, but you cut him off.
“NOW.”
He didn’t say another word, just gathered his things and left, and you didn’t look up until you knew he was long gone. You knew he was just trying to throw you off your game and you were used to his little digs at you and your work, but for whatever reason—be it the stress or the lack of sleep or the fact that he was right in assuming you hadn’t been laid in longer than you cared to remember—he really got to you that night, in a way he hadn’t since your first year of working together. It was a jape but it was a cruel and unnecessary one, and even though you had tons of work left to do, you decided to call it a night. Your focus was completely gone. He’d gotten what he’d come for.
When you saw him at the coffee truck the next day you ignored him. Your usual routine was to get into some verbal spar over breakfast, but that day just the sight of him made your stomach turn. You didn’t give him the satisfaction of a nasty look; you just grabbed your usual large coffee and bagel and headed up to your office. You locked the door and pulled the blinds, not because you thought he’d follow you but because you needed to be completely alone, with a laser focus on you work, or you wouldn’t have a chance in hell at beating him out for tenure—and you had to now. If any part of you would have been happy for him before, it was gone, and all you wanted in the world was to see the look of abject humiliation on his face when you bested him.
You managed to avoid him for the rest of the week. He’d stopped coming down to the lab, if he was going down to the truck it wasn’t at his usual time, and if you had walked past each other coming and going on campus you had been too busy stressing over completing your package to notice. You ended up submitting it a day early, not that it would have any bearing on your chances, but it was a small victory and you decided to celebrate it. You made plans to have drinks with a friend from the English department and finished grading some assignments, and for the first time in as long as you could remember you felt relaxed. It was out of your hands now, and you’d done the best she could.
You met up with Mo at your favorite bar. You liked it less for the ambiance and more for the fact that it was far enough off campus that it wasn’t filled with students, and only a few of the professors ever went there. The ones who did frequent the place all did so for the same reason: the unspoken rule that faculty members were not to acknowledge each other within the confines of those walls. Mo bought the first round of drinks and you toasted and laughed and chatted about things completely unrelated to academia. Mo was painfully familiar with your history with Bucky, but you hadn’t told her about your last encounter, so when she brought him up in passing and you clenched your jaw, she knew something was up.
“What did that asshole do this time?”
“Oh, nothing. He was just being himself.”
Mo laughed and took a swig of her beer.
“You know he wants to fuck you, right? Please tell me you know that because you cannot possibly be that stupid.”
Now it was your turn to laugh. “No, he really doesn’t. But he has no problem reminding me that no one else does either.”
“Well, that’s one approach,” she said.
You rolled your eyes and sighed. “Just let it go.”
Mo was about to respond but something at the door caught her eye and she cursed under her breath.
“What?”
“Lothario incoming,” she said with a smile.
“Great,” you said, taking down the rest of your wine. “And I was having such a lovely day.”
“Just ignore him,” she said. “Them’s the rules.”
You busied herself by getting the next round and you were able to forget him for a while, but you couldn’t help but notice him in the corner booth with his laptop, papers strewn everywhere, looking miserable and stressed as fuck. It made you happy to see him like that after all the shit he’d pulled with you. For all his big talk, you had finished before him and, with hours left on his deadline, he was sitting in a bar looking like he would never make it.
“I’m sorry,” you said. “I just have to. This is too good.”
“Don’t…”
“No, fuck that. All he has done for weeks is give me shit and try to sabotage me. I get one.”
You didn’t wait for Mo’s response because you didn’t care. If there was a moment tailor-made for you, it was this one, and you grabbed your drink off the bar and strode purposefully over to Bucky’s booth. You put your glass on the table and sat down without an invitation, flashing him the same variety of smirk he’d been giving you since the day you met.
“Cutting it a little close, aren’t we, Barnes?”
You took a sip of your wine, expecting him to retort with some kind of cheeky comment or insult or some combination of the two but instead he just looked at you through his horn-rimmed glasses and he had the saddest face you’d ever seen. His steel-blue eyes were glassy and you thought for a moment he might cry, and while it was wrong and you should have gotten up that second and left him alone, you continued your verbal assault.
“Don’t cry, hon.” You spit the last word at him like venom. “We can’t all make the cut. Maybe next time.”
You sat there waiting for him to respond with something vicious but he didn’t say a word, just took his glasses off and held them in his hand while he wiped his brow. He was sweating, though the bar was air-conditioned, and you noticed how completely disheveled he looked. His tie was loose enough to be a necklace and his white button-down was wrinkled. He’d missed a button, too, and his hair was all over the place. You sat back and took him in for a second and you knew that something was very, very wrong. He usually looked immaculate, which you took as part of his never-ending quest for perfection, but sitting there surrounded by unfinished work and a half-drunk beer, he looked like he was on the verge of some sort of breakdown.
“I’m sorry,” you said, your voice and words sincere. “That was mean. I’ll leave you alone.”
You got up to leave but he reached out and grabbed your arm with a hand so large it could wrap all the way around with room to spare.
“No,” he said, his voice so soft it was barely audible over the music playing. “I’m the one who should be sorry. Sit. Please.”
“Are you OK?” you asked, sliding back into the booth.
You found herself genuinely concerned and it was a strange feeling because just moments before you wouldn’t have pissed on Bucky if he was on fire.
“No,” he said. “Not really.”
“You’ll get it done.”
“It’s not that,” he said. He was looking down with a pained expression, his brow furrowed beneath the errant chunks of hair that fell across it. “It’s my dad.”
You were in shock, not only because Bucky was allowing himself to be vulnerable in front of you but because he had never once, in all the years you’d known him, spoke of his family. People in the department would gossip about it, coming up with crazy theories about why he avoided the topic, but you’d always found that childish and distasteful. You just accepted that mysterious part of him, like so many other strange things you’d become accustomed to, and you would never dare ask him. Even now that he’d brought it up, you were scared to say anything so you just waited for him to continue.
“He’s… he’s sick. Has been for a long time. He had an episode last night and… well, it’s bad. He’s in the hospital. They don’t know if he’s going to make it.”
Before you even knew what you were doing, you reached out and grabbed his hand.
“You should go home, Bucky. I know you’ve worked really hard but you should be with him.”
“He wouldn’t recognize me if I went,” he replied, and then he looked at you and everything made sense.
You wanted to say something kind and reassuring, to let him know that you understood him and that you could forgive him for all the bullshit, but all you could say was, “Oh.”
“Look, I don’t expect you to give a shit. I’ve been really horrible to you.”
“Stop.”
“No, I mean it. I’m really sorry, Bunny. I just…”
He trailed off and squeezed you hand where you held him.
“Let me help you. You’re almost done, right?”
He looked at you like you were insane. “Why would you help me?”
You gave him a gentle smile. “Because despite how hard you try to be, you’re not actually a horrible person.”
“You don’t have to do this.”
“I know,” you said. “Get your shit. I’ll meet you at your office.”
You gave Mo the briefest of explanations before you made your apologies and left. You grabbed two large red-eyes at Starbucks on your way back to campus and when you got to Bucky’s office he was already there, staring at the files and papers that defined his life’s work. He looked paralyzed, and if you’d had any doubts about helping him get his package finished, they were gone when he took the coffee from your outstretched hand and let it linger there for a moment.
He looked into your eyes and said “Thank you” and it was the most sincere you’d ever heard him sound. You suddenly found herself nervous but you didn’t pull your hand away.
“I haven’t done anything yet.”
“Yes,” he said, “you have.”
You spent the rest of the night into the early morning getting all his ducks in a row. He was surprisingly disorganized for such a perfectionist and you would have given him shit for it if circumstances were different. You held your tongue, though, because you weren’t there to shame him. You understood now how intensely personal his work was to him and while you still wanted the position—and badly—somehow it wouldn’t seem as satisfying to get it if he wasn’t in the running. It wasn’t about besting him anymore; if you were going to get the job, you wanted to beat out the best of the best.
It had been nothing but the sound of clacking keyboards for god knows how long before he broke the silence.
“Go ahead, you can say it.”
“Say what?” you asked, because you really didn’t know.
“That I was full of shit when I said I was practically done, that I’m a complete mess, that I’m a prick and an asshole… whatever you want. Just say it. I know you’re thinking it.”
“I’m really not,” you replied.
“You can’t sit there and tell me that some part of you isn’t happy about all this.”
You looked at him for a minute before you responded. He had some of his spirit back and you could tell he was ready for you to lay into him, that maybe he even wanted it, but he was wrong about you.
“If you’d asked me a few hours ago I would have been ecstatic that you were completely in the weeds,” you said. “But now… I just don’t feel that way.”
“So you pity me, is that it?”
“Jesus, Barnes, will you shut the fuck up and listen for a minute?”
He laughed but he let you continue.
“I know we fight all the time and I call you an asshole and you tell me I’m pathetic and can’t get laid but-”
“I never said you couldn’t get laid,” he said. “I said you aren’t getting laid. There’s a difference.”
“How the fuck do you know whether or not I’m getting laid, anyway?”
“Come on, Bunny. I know an unfucked woman when I see one.”
You rolled your eyes but you had to laugh because dammit if he wasn’t right. “I hate you so much sometimes.”
“Then what are you still doing here?” he asked, and you would have thought he was trying to push you away if it wasn’t for that little bit of mischief sparkling in his blue eyes.
You realized quickly enough that he just needed your usual bullshit banter. He needed to distract his mind and feel like himself again.
“I’m wading through this hot mess of yours so I can beat you fair and square,” you said with a smirk.
“You still think you have a shot?” he asked. “I could submit this incomplete and have a better chance than you.”
“Go ahead, then,” you said, and got up and walked toward the door—you had no intention of leaving, though, but he didn’t need to know that.
He was close enough to being done at that point. He could have let you walk out and finished it up on his own, maybe even with time enough to catch a quick nap before submitting it, but he called out from behind you.
“Wait.”
You turned and looked at him over your shoulder. “What?”
“You know what,” he said.
You put your hands on your hips and looked at him. “I have no fucking clue what you’re talking about, Barnes.”
“Are you going to make me beg, Bunny?”
“You don’t even need my help anymore.”
“That’s not… I… Will you just please come back here? Christ.”
“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t walk out of this office right now.”
A tiny smile played at the corner of his mouth and he leaned forward in his chair, pushing his glasses down the bridge of his nose to stare at you over the rims.
“If you stay, I’ll tell you a secret.”
You couldn’t help but be intrigued, and the wicked way he was looking at you wasn’t helping. You walked over, stopped in front of his desk and crossed your arms.
“I’m listening.”
He leaned back in his chair and placed his arms on the rests, twiddling his fingers a bit before he began. You noticed those prominent veins in his hands and the bit of his forearms you could see where he’d rolled his sleeves up. However much you’d hated him at times, you never hated the view.
“I had a dream last week,” he said. “You were standing just about where you are now. You’d got the tenure, you’d come to gloat, and you just went on and on—really ripped me a new one. It was impressive.”
“Are you sure it was a dream and not a premonition?” you said, cocking your head and wearing the type of smirk only he could get out of you.
“Part of me hopes it was the latter,” he replied.
“And why might that be?”
You asked the question because it felt like the right thing to say, but you knew. And if you had any doubts they were gone the second he got up out of his chair and circled the desk to stand directly in front of you. He was so close you could feel the heat coming off him.
“Because this is how I got you to shut up.”
He reached around and grabbed you, lifting you onto the desk and moving in for a kiss in one smooth motion—like he’d been practicing it in his head, and maybe he had been because his kiss was hungry and perfect and in that moment all rational thoughts flew out of your head. Everything was his pillow-soft lips and the tip of his tongue, insistent without being greedy, and the way his big hands seem to span the width of your back as he held you so tight you couldn’t have gotten away if you’d tried. You didn’t want to, though, and you wrapped your legs around him and brought your hands from the back of his neck down to the curve of his ass. It was nice and meaty and it felt as good as it had always looked in those tight khakis he wore, and you couldn’t help yourself. You took two handfuls and squeezed, eliciting a delicious little grunt from him that made you ache for more than you were willing to give.
When he ran a hand up your back and into your hair you moaned into the kiss and it just egged him on; his mouth took more of yours, his hands gripped you tighter, and you could feel him start to swell in his pants as your thighs strained to pull him closer. It could have been an hour or it could have been a minute but eventually you pulled away because you had no air left to breathe. He didn’t let go, just stood there between your legs, panting and waiting to see what you would do. You didn’t want to but you had to push him off because if you didn’t stop now you weren’t sure you would be able to.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“No, you’re not,” you replied.
You smiled and he smiled back and then you were laughing for what seemed like an eternity and you’d lost your breath again. When you recovered he was laying on the floor, still chuckling with his eyes crinkled up at the corners, and you hopped down off the desk and stood over him.
“You need to finish,” you said.
He smirked up at you. “Finish what?”
He reached up and grabbed your hand to try to pull you to the ground on top of him but you snatched it away.
“Your work, you idiot.”
“Don’t you want to know how the dream ends?”
You walked towards the door and grabbed your purse from the chair and looked over your shoulder at him with a playful half-smile.
“Maybe another time.”
You walked out and closed the door behind you. You were halfway down the hall when you heard him call out from his office.
“I hate-fucked you on the desk.” You stopped dead in your tracks and bit your lip. “And you liked it.”
“Keep dreaming, Barnes,” you yelled back, and you left the building, the whole way having to consciously keep yourself from walking back into his office and making his dream a reality.
By the time you got home, it was almost four in the morning, and though you were exhausted you were still reeling from everything that had happened that night. It was more than just the kiss, though your mind was playing it on a loop and taking it further still, into territory you hadn’t explored; it was him—this person you thought you knew, who you could barely stand to be around except for the thrill of winning an argument or getting in a good dig every now and then. He’d always been an adversary, and even those times when you’d enjoyed your banter and games you’d never felt anything real towards him. He’d managed to keep himself so guarded all this time that you’d taken him as one-dimensional. He wasn’t, though. You knew that now, and you felt like, for all the years you’d known him, you’d only just got a glimpse of the person he really was under all the bravado and bullshit.
You wondered if he really felt anything for you or whether he had just turned to you for comfort at a difficult moment. More than that, though, you were confused about the feelings you were having for him. Maybe it was nothing more than your pent-up sexual desire and frustration coming out, because you had always found him handsome, even from the very beginning, and he’d only gotten better looking with age. You felt a bit stupid for falling into his arms without a fight, but then again he had opened himself up to you that night, told you something he’d never told anyone and shown you a gentler side of himself that you never would have dreamed existed. Besides, you hadn’t been kissed like that in a very very long time and it felt good to want and be wanted. You decided you would make no apologies for it, whatever the consequences.
The next morning you arrived at your office to find a note from Bucky slipped under your door.
Made it in under the wire. Thanks for everything—and I do mean everything. Good luck, Bunny. You’ll need it.
He’d signed it James Barnes, Ph.D., and though you rolled your eyes and muttered “asshole” under your breath, deep down it pleased you. You contemplated crumpling it up and throwing it in the trash but you didn’t, telling yourself it would give you good ammunition for whatever stupid argument you would get into next, but really you just wanted to keep it. You tucked it safely in your drawer under some work papers and wore a satisfied smile on your face as you readied yourself for class. You had to pass by his office to get to your classroom and you had no intention of dropping in but when you saw a note on his door you had to stop and read it. It was brief, informing students and faculty that he would be on leave for a week and providing the information for his substitute. You knew he had most likely gone home to see his father and you suddenly felt immeasurably sad, but you had a class to teach and work to do and you had to shake off all thoughts of him or you wouldn’t be able to focus on anything else.
Over the course of that week, you contemplated calling or texting Bucky on occasion, even going so far as to compose a message one night. You didn’t send it, though; you just let him be even though you knew that, whatever was happening back at home, he must be going through a rough time. You wanted to let him know that he was in your thoughts, but something stopped you from contacting him. You didn’t know exactly where you stood with him and, even though you were the only one who knew what was going on, in the end you thought it best to just leave him alone.
The week seemed to stretch on forever, not only because Bucky was constantly on your mind in his absence but because you knew that the tenure committee meetings were in progress and decisions were already being made behind closed doors. When Friday night rolled around you couldn’t relax despite it being one of the first free weekends you’d had in ages, and you realized that it had been so long that you had absolutely no idea what to do with free time on your hands. It didn’t help matters that the official announcement was being made on Monday, and by Sunday night you were a ball of nerves. You tried to go to bed early that night but it was pointless, and you ended up watching mindless TV to try to take your mind off of what was to come. You were marginally absorbed in some stupid reality show when your phone rang.
“Did I wake you?”
Bucky’s voice sounded terrible and you just knew.
“No, but it wouldn’t have mattered. Are you back?”
“Yes,” he said, “but not for long.”
“Is he…?” You couldn’t say the word, but you didn’t have to.
“Yeah,” he said, and his voice cracked a bit. “Yesterday afternoon.”
“I’m so sorry, Bucky.” You heard him sniffle at the other end of the line and you felt the tears come. “I should have called you. I almost did a bunch of times but…”
You trailed off because you couldn’t for the life of you think of a good enough reason why you hadn’t.
“I thought you might,” he said. “But I understand why you didn’t.”
“Are you OK?”
“No, but that’s not why I called.” He cleared his throat and continued. “I had a lot of time to think this week and I just wanted to tell you that I’m really sorry for everything.”
“You don’t owe me anything.”
“Yes,” he said. “I do. Listen, whatever happens tomorrow, will you come over for dinner tomorrow night? I have some stuff I want to say.”
“You really don’t have to do this.”
“I want to do it. I need to do it. Just say you’ll come.”
“I’ll come,” you said. “Should I bring anything?”
“Booze maybe? Though I think the type of booze will depend on the committee’s decision.”
You laughed and he laughed with you and it made you happy to hear that sound again.
“Will do,” you said. “What time?”
“How’s eight work?”
“Perfect,” you replied. “And Bucky, I really hope you get it.”
You said it because it was true, and he was silent for a minute before he spoke.
“I was going to say the same to you.”
You could tell he was sincere and it choked you up a little bit but you managed to say goodnight without your voice betraying you. He did the same and when you hung up you felt some strange combination of sadness and anxiety and excitement and had to take a pill to get to sleep.
You would have been groggy in the morning but you were so jacked up from anxiety that just a few sips of your morning coffee gave you the jitters and made your stomach turn. You had to choke down your bagel, and you did so outside by the truck in the hopes that Bucky would show up but he didn’t. His office lights were dark and the blinds drawn and you had no idea where he was but you let it go, knowing you would see him later on. The thought both frightened and excited you, but you couldn’t dwell on it because you spent the entire day worrying and wondering and waiting for the announcement.
They waited until the very end of the day, and they did it by email: you didn’t get it, and Bucky didn’t either, and you weren’t sure how you felt about it. The person who got the position was undoubtedly qualified and deserving and you held no animosity toward her, but you were conflicted. You were obviously disappointed that you didn’t get it, but there was a part of you that was even more disappointed for Bucky. With the week he’d had, you didn’t know how he was taking the news. It was only a few minutes after the email went out that you got his text.
So, whiskey then?
You responded immediately: Definitely whiskey.
Good. And for God’s sake bring something decent, Bunny. I’ve had a rough week.
You smiled. You were in the mood for a good old-fashioned verbal spar and you could tell he was too.
You’ll drink what I bring you and like it, Barnes.
Is that any way to speak to a man who is cooking you dinner?
I don’t know. I would have to ask a real man.
You wouldn’t know a real man if he bit you on the ass.
Biting isn’t really my thing.
Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it.
I’ll pass.
I’ll just queue up The Notebook on Netflix for you then. Maybe light some candles.
You’re an asshole.
You love it. See you at 8.
You tried to think of a response, some way to get the last word on him, but your mind was drawing a blank and you knew he’d never let you win anyway. More than that, he was right, and where normally you would have hated yourself for feeling that way, you just didn’t give a shit anymore. You felt like flirting and drinking and fucking, and if he wanted to leave a few bite marks on you, you’d give as good as you got.
You still had work you could have been doing but you found yourself unable to concentrate on anything other than what might be in store for you that evening. You left your business unfinished and headed to the liquor store, picking up some Johnnie Blue before going home to shower and change. You found yourself standing in a towel, staring into your closet and wondering what the fuck one is supposed to wear in a situation like this. There was no need for pretense so it seemed silly to dress up, but it felt strange to go completely casual since you’d never seen him in anything but his work attire, which for years had consisted of various button-ups and slacks, with a sweater or a blazer or a suit jacket and tie depending on the season and occasion.
You stood there so long you started to run late and you knew you’d never hear the end of it if you were tardy and overdressed, so you went for a pair of snug jeans and a tank top with a cardigan. It was something you might wear to the store or for a drink with friends, something that didn’t smack of your desperate need to be fucked properly. You wore your nicest bra, though—the lacy one that made your tits look phenomenal—and the panties to match. You were never one for complicated hair and makeup so you kept it simple and natural. You gave yourself one last once-over in the mirror and, content with the results, you grabbed your purse and the bottle of booze and started the short walk over to Bucky’s house, only a few blocks away from your own.
You were fifteen minutes late and when you rang the bell you readied yourself for the inevitable barrage of shit you were going to take for it. When he opened the door you held up the bottle in silent apology but it didn’t get you off the hook.
“What’s up, loser? Forget how to read a clock?”
You took a step to move inside but he blocked you, his broad body filling the doorframe. He was wearing black jeans and a tight black t-shirt, and while it was odd to see him dressed down, you liked it. Despite everything, he looked relaxed, and it was a good look on him, especially the exposed biceps. You’d only ever imagined what they might look like straining under the fabric of his dress shirts and the reality did not disappoint.
“I’m not the only loser here. Just let me in so I can start drinking.”
He shook his head and grinned at you. “I don’t tolerate tardiness in my classroom. Why should this be any different?”
“I swear to God, Barnes, if you don’t let me in right now I am going to break this bottle over your head.”
“I think you should apologize.”
“Are you serious?”
He smirked at you and nodded and you rolled her eyes but part of you loved the game and you were more than willing to play it.
“Oh, Professor Barnes, I am soooo sorry,” you said, your voice dripping with sarcasm. “It won’t happen again I swear.”
“Better not,” he said, and he moved aside so you could enter.
His house looked like you’d expected it to: clean but masculine, not unlike the man himself. He came around from behind you and snatched the bottle out of your hands and you were struck by the smell of something delicious coming from the kitchen.
“What’s for dinner?” you asked.
“I haven’t decided if I’m going to feed you,” he replied, walking over to the stovetop where he had some sort of sauce working in a pan.
“Fine, then. No whiskey for you.”
“It seems we’re at an impasse,” he said, removing the sauce from the heat and stirring in some butter and herb blend. “But since you brought me the good stuff, as requested, I’ll cut you a break.”
“Oh, you’re too kind. Point me to the glasses. I need a fucking drink like I need air.”
He tapped on one of the cabinet doors as he continued his prep and you grabbed two heavy-bottomed tumblers off the shelf.
“Ice?”
“Really, Bunny?”
“Didn’t think so.”
You poured yourselves a few fingers each and brought his glass over to him, peeking over his shoulder to see what he was working on.
“You never answered my question,” you said as he took his glass from your hand.
“Chateaubriand,” he replied. “You can thank me later. So what are we toasting to because I can’t think of anything even remotely positive right now.”
You wanted to toast to the way his fucking arms looked in that shirt but you thought that might be a bit forward and you thought of a much more appropriate subject, however difficult.
“Why don’t we toast to your dad?” you said, and the second you did you regretted it because his face fell, but then he turned to you with a sad smile on his face.
“That’s a good one,” he said softly. “I like that.”
You clinked glasses and took your respective sips and it was silent for a while before Bucky spoke.
“I think he would have gotten a real kick out of you,” he said. “Would have loved to watch you call me on my bullshit.”
You smiled. “Someone’s gotta do it.”
Bucky huffed out a laugh. “He used to say the same damn thing every time my sisters and I would get into it when we were younger.”
“So you were always a little shit, then?”
He smiled as he grabbed a carving knife from the drawer. “Pretty much.”
He took the foil tent off the roast and it looked and smelled so good your mouth began to water.
“Go sit,” he said as he started to slice. “I’m almost done.”
“Can I help?”
“I think you’ve done enough, don’t you?”
He looked at you, and you could see his grateful eyes behind his glasses. They were black-rimmed ones, not his usual pair, but they fit his face quite well and you smiled before you took a seat at the table.
“I have to say,” you said as he brought your plates to the table, “I never took you for much of a chef. I half expected Chinese takeout.”
“Well, I’m just full of surprises, now aren’t I?” He set your plate in front of you—perfectly cooked meat and golden brown potatoes drizzled in sauce—and it looked like it could have come from the kitchen of a five-star restaurant.
“Nice presentation,” you said, picking up your fork and knife.
He plopped down in his seat across from you and winked. “I try.”
When you took your first bite you had to stop yourself from moaning. He just watched you, waiting to hear what you would say. You held off at first, mostly because you were absolutely starving and wanted to devour everything on your plate, but once you had a few sizeable bites in you, you had to compliment the chef.
“It pains me to say this, but this is really good.”
“I have many hidden talents.”
He was using that fucking tone of his that drove you crazy but you didn’t care because he had just cooked you a lovely dinner and he looked good enough to eat himself and all you could do was laugh at his hubris and keep working on your food until it was gone. If you were alone you would have licked the plate clean but you exercised the necessary restraint, gently setting down your silverware before grabbing your glass of whiskey.
“That was delicious,” you said. “Thank you.”
“No,” he replied, “thank you.”
His mouth was half full and his words were a bit garbled but you got the message just fine.
“You really don’t need to thank me, Bucky.”
He wiped his mouth with his napkin and threw it aside.
“Yes, I do. I’ve been a complete dick to you since the moment I met you. You had absolutely no reason to help me and every reason in the world not to but you did. I don’t know why you did, but you did, and I just need you to know that it meant a lot to me and that I’m sorry.”
You didn’t really know what to say, but you had questions for him and you figured there was no time like the present.
“Can you ask you something?”
“Anything.” His face was dead serious and you knew that, if you were going to ask, it had to be now.
“Why do you act the way you do? Because it is an act, I know it is.”
“Are you referring to the way I act with everyone or the way I act with you?”
“Are they different?”
“Yes.” He rubbed his eyes underneath his glasses and took a sip of his drink. “Well, maybe not the way I act but the reason behind it.”
“Well then please tell me because I really want to understand.”
“The term ‘daddy issues’ comes to mind,” he began, “but that doesn’t really cover it. It’s complicated and I’ll spare you the gory details but some of the bullet points… gifted child, high expectations, middle-child syndrome, blah blah blah. Fast forward to when Dad got sick. I was still an undergrad and I remember thinking ‘this is what I’m supposed to be doing,’ but no matter how hard I studied then or how much work and research I did after, nothing changed. It just kept getting worse and I felt so helpless and it gave me this fucking complex where I feel like I constantly have something to prove.”
“There are better ways to go about it than being a complete prick. Everyone knows you’re a genius.”
“Well, I don’t feel like one.”
“Look,” you said. “I get it. I do. I’m really not as stupid as you think I am.”
“That’s another thing,” he said, and he paused, taking down the last of his drink before continuing. “I don’t think you’re stupid. I never have. But I still cut you down and belittled you and your work every fucking chance I got, and when I tell you that there is nothing I’ve done over the years that I regret more than that, I mean it.”
You looked at his face and you could see he was nervous, but he was sincere and you believed him and forgave him, though you knew you probably shouldn’t. One apology after years of his bullshit seemed like too little, too late, but you didn’t want to be mad at him—not now, not after everything he’d been through, not when you were just starting to scratch the surface of this man you’d thought you’d known.
“Well thank you for saying that,” you said. “And for the record, I knew you didn’t think I was stupid. I thought you just enjoyed getting a rise out of me.”
“I did,” he said, and he smiled. “Still do. You do this thing where you purse your lips and then breathe all heavy when you get really pissed off and it’s the sexiest fucking thing I’ve ever seen in my life.”
“What?” you snapped.
“You heard me. Some days I just need to see it and I don’t give a fuck what I have to do to get it.”
You just stared at him, incredulous for a moment, before you could gather your thoughts enough to speak.
“So you’re telling me that you’ve been taunting me for years because you like the way I look when I’m angry?”
“That’s a very simplistic way of looking at it, but yes. Basically.”
“Un-fucking-believable.”
You got up and grabbed the bottle from the kitchen and brought it back to the table, pouring yourself a fresh glass. He held his out for a refill but you just pushed the bottle towards him.
“You mad?” he asked. He was grinning like an idiot and you didn’t know whether to slap him or rip his shirt off or both.
“I don’t even know what to say to you right now.”
“Come on, Bunny. You had to know. Maybe you really are stupid.”
“Fuck you,” you spat.
He licked his lower lip and flashed his signature smirk at you. “That an invitation?”
You had to smile, though you were shaking your head.
“Oh, Professor Barnes, what am I going to do with you?”
“Well you are the resident expert in human sexual behavior. I’m sure you’ve picked up a few things over the years.”
“Well,” you said, matter-of-factly as you could given the circumstances, “disappointing as this may be for you, your brain is your largest sex organ.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” he said, and there was that fucking smirk again.
“Sad, but true,” you said and continued. “Men tend to respond to visual stimuli. So if I were to, say, take off this cardigan, your brain might start to react.”
You shed your top layer but he kept his poker face.
“Not doing it for me,” he said, and he got up out of his chair and stood behind you and spoke low in your ear. “Maybe lose the shirt, too.”
He reached down and hooked his fingers under the bottom of your tank top, lightly grazing your skin before pulling it up. You raised your arms to let him get it off you and when it was gone he tossed it aside.
“Let’s have a look,” he said, and you rose from your chair and leaned back against the table. He took you in for a moment and cocked his head. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”
“Now comes the fun part.” You reached out and touched his chest to feel his heartbeat and you smiled before you took his pulse. “Right now your hypothalamus is stimulating your pituitary gland to produce sex hormones and release them into your bloodstream. Your sympathetic nervous system is increasing your heart rate and your blood pressure to get it down to its target gland.” You ran your hand down his chest and let it come to rest between his legs, gently cupping his balls. “Here.”
He reached out and pulled your bra straps down your shoulders as he brought his lips to your ear.
“I love it when you talk dirty.”
“I could keep going,” you said, letting your hand linger on his groin and feeling him harden beneath the fabric of his jeans.
“I think that’s enough for today, Professor. But I think I need more visual stimuli.”
He let his hands travel down to the waistband of your jeans and ran his fingers under it before working the button open and the zipper down. By the time he had your pants off you felt your own heart racing and your arousal throbbing and insistent between your legs. He took a step back and drank in the sight of you half-naked in front of him.
“God damn,” he said, and then he moved in closer.
He reached around and cupped your ass, pulling you into him, and leaned in for a kiss—starting slow but building to an intensity that had you clawing at his back and his neck and pulling his hair. He tore his lips from yours just long enough to reach back and rip his shirt over his head in one fluid motion, and the sight of his bare chest and prominent V-line sent a surge of heat straight to your core. You didn’t have much of a chance to admire him, though, because he was back on you in a moment, his kiss hungry as he grabbed your hips and nudged you towards the side of the table not littered with used plates and cutlery.
He moved his lips to your neck and kissed and licked his way down to your collarbone and you moaned, and when he reached around to unclasp your bra with one hand and tore it off you with the other you let out a little gasp when the air hit your bare skin. He took your hardened nipple in his mouth, and his hot breath coupled with the warm skin of his palm cupping your other breast felt like heaven. You were wet already but now you were soaking and aching for him, and though you could have stayed like that forever you were more than happy when he reached down and slid your panties to the floor. You stepped out of them and kicked them away, but when you reached for his belt he grabbed your wrists and stopped you.
“Get on the table,” he said. “It’s time for dessert.”
You hoisted yourself up, feeling the wood cold against your bare ass, and before you knew it he had you flat on your back with your ass hanging off the table’s edge, your thighs pushed back as far as they could go as he buried his face between your legs. He wrapped his arms around your thighs, holding you in place as he spread your pussy open with his thumb and forefinger, his other hand flat on your stomach as he began to drag his tongue up your slit. You arched your back when you felt his lips wrap around your clit but he held you in place. A few quick flicks of his tongue and he moved it back down, dipping it inside you as his thumb started working your nub in slow circles. He found a rhythm and speed that pleased you and you let him know it with every moan. You weren’t shy about it either, and each time his given name passed your lips he would moan against your flesh and bring you even closer.
He applied the same tireless dedication to getting you off as he always did to his work and you sang his praises because he was doing you just right and he deserved every word of it. You told him how good he was, how amazing he felt, how hard you were going to cum, and you could feel him smile against your flesh for a moment before he kept going. You could tell he liked it when you praised him and moaned his name, and as he brought you to the edge you buried your hands in his hair and pulled, crying out louder and louder until he took his hand from your clit and worked two long thick fingers inside you to finish you off. You lost all ability to form words and he held you steady as you came, though you bucked against him, and somewhere beneath the sounds of your pleasure you heard the sound of muffled laughter. It was a sound you knew well, but instead of being infuriating it was sexy as hell, and even coming down from your orgasm you were already thinking of the next one and how he might give it to you.
He let your legs drop and slid his body up on top of yours, stopping briefly to kiss each nipple before kissing you deeply to share the taste of you. He gave your lower lip a little nibble and let out some sort of growling sound and you knew you needed him inside you and soon.
“Fuck me,” you begged. “Fuck me right here.”
He smiled and shook his head.
“I have other plans for you,” he said, and he pulled you upright and off the table.
He steadied you as you stood on wobbly legs, and this time when you went for his belt he let you. He kicked his shoes off and you made short work of his jeans and his boxers, so strong was your need for him, and when his cock sprung loose you couldn’t hide your pleasure at the sight of it. He was hard, though you knew you could make him harder, but even not quite there yet it was impressive in both size and girth. He knew it, too, and he smiled at you as you took him in your hand, but the smile quickly turned to slack-jawed wonder as you stroked his cock as devotedly as you’d stroked his ego. He cupped your neck and kissed you and he moaned into your mouth when you brought your other hand down to join its twin. He pulled out of the kiss and whispered low and gritty against your lips.
“I want you up against that wall.”
“Oh do you, now?”
“If I had a nickel for every time I’ve thought about dragging you out of your lab into the hallway and fucking you senseless against the door to the supply closet I’d never have to work a day in my life.”
“That’s a very specific fantasy, Professor Barnes.”
“I have a lot of them, but that one’s my favorite. Now move.”
You let go of him and started to walk over to the wall in question when he gave you a nice hard slap on the ass and barked, “Faster, Bunny,” He couldn’t see you smile but it didn’t matter because in a flash he’d spun you around and pushed you up against the cold plaster, breathing heavy against your neck as he rubbed the tip of his cock against your clit. He reached up to take his glasses off but you stopped him.
“Leave them on,” you said and he smiled as you brought one leg up and hooked it around his thigh to open yourself up to him.
You brought your arms up and wrapped them around his neck and he told you to hold on as he positioned himself just right. When he was ready he reached down and lifted you by the thighs and you clung tight to him as he entered you slowly. He had been right when he’d said you’d gone unfucked for too long and he could feel how tight you were as he pushed his way inside you. You bit your lip and gripped him tighter as you took him in and he stopped.
“You OK?”
“Oh, just fuck me already, you pussy.”
He laughed and shook his head. “Be careful what you wish for.”
He gave a rough snap of his hips and you groaned because it hurt so good and you wanted it hard and fast and you knew he would give it to you. You weren’t disappointed, and if he’d had any reservations they were gone as he started to fuck you without mercy as he looked deep in your eyes.
“Sweet Christ you are so fucking tight.”
“Like your fantasy?”
He responded with a series of deep thrusts punctuating his word. “So. Much. Better.”
His body was hard against you, and though he was solidly built and perfectly muscled and even stronger than he looked, you could tell his muscles were straining to keep that pace carrying your weight. He was sweating and puffing out air and almost wincing he was working so hard but he didn’t stop. You could tell just by the effort how long he’d wanted this, and the animal way he was taking you was so fucking hot you could barely think much less speak. You let him have you, whatever way he wanted you, and he’d practically fucked you through the wall by the time he dropped your legs and braced himself on the wall.
“Bed?” you asked.
He shook his head. “Couch.”
He practically dragged you into the living room, not that you needed much prompting, and plopped down onto the leather. He reached up and pulled you down on top of him and you straddled him, rubbing yourself up and down his length as you spoke low in his ear.
“Which fantasy is this?” you asked, teasing him with each slow drag of your pussy across his length.
“This one is the couch in my office. You’re wearing that fucking silk blouse with all the buttons I just want to rip off with my teeth.”
You kept sliding yourself along his cock as you nibbled his earlobe. “I didn’t know you had such an extensive knowledge of my wardrobe, Professor. What else am I wearing?”
“That tight black skirt that makes me want to take a bite out of your ass every time I see it. And I push it up and you’re not wearing any underwear and… oh, Christ, just ride me, Bunny.”
“Yes, sir.”
You reached down and ran the tip of his cock across your lips and he jerked up a bit, aching to be inside you again, and when you sank down onto him and started to move he grabbed your hips and started to push and pull in time with your rhythm. You grabbed his muscular shoulders for purchase and started to bounce, and when he moved his hands from your hips to your ass he squeezed so hard you thought he might leave bruises. You didn’t give a fuck, though, because his cock felt like heaven and he was staring at you with his blue eyes blown wide and his mouth open, those pretty pink lips all plump and slick. You hated to break eye contact but your clit was screaming for contact so you hunched over him and started to roll your hips with his cock buried deep inside of you, his treasure trail tickling at your skin as you moved.
You could feel yourself getting close and you picked up your speed, and when your toes started to curl and your breathing grew sharp and heavy he wrapped his arms around your back and started to fuck up into you. You buried your head between his neck and shoulder, moaning his name in his ear. He loved it just as much as he did the first time, and when he felt your pussy start to pulse on him he moaned and buried his cock inside you to the hilt, letting you ride it out on top of him. You grabbed onto his biceps as you came, feeling the muscles hard in your hands, and when you were done you brought your mouth to his shoulder and took a bite. He laughed when he felt it and kept his strokes soft and slow beneath you.
“I thought biting wasn’t your thing,” he said.
You brought your mouth to his and kissed him, taking his bottom lip between your teeth and dragging it as you pulled away. “I lied.”
“I knew it.”
“Did not,” you said, fiddling with his glasses. “So what else you got, Professor?”
“Hmmm… let’s see,” he said, still pumping you slowly. “There’s the one in the backseat of my car.”
“Too cold.”
“There’s the one where I fuck you in the shower at the fitness center.”
“I already showered.”
He smiled knowingly. “I got it.”
You leaned in and whispered, “Do tell.”
“There’s the one where I get you ass up in my bed and begging for it.”
“I think we have a winner,” you said, and you smiled because that thought had crossed your mind a time or two, only it was your bed and not his.
You climbed off of him and he stood, but before you could ask which way the bedroom was, he had you up and over his shoulder and was carting you off to his bed like some sort of Neanderthal claiming a woman as his prize. When he reached the foot of the bed he threw you down, watching your tits bounce and licking his lips.
“Turn over,” he said, his voice gravelly. “And get that sweet ass in the air.”
You flashed him a coy smile as you moved slowly into position—slower than you knew he wanted, but the anticipation was part of the fun and you wanted him to take in the sight of you, palms flat on the bedspread and completely exposed to him. You wanted him to see how wet and swollen you were and know that he had made you that way.
“God damn that’s pretty,” he said, and you felt his strong hands on your ass and his cock sliding between your cheeks before he moved it lower.
“You want my cock, Bunny?”
“You know I do.”
“Beg me.”
“Fuck me, Bucky. I need it.”
He rubbed his tip against your entrance but he pulled away.
“Again,” he said, “and call me Doctor.”
You rolled your eyes, knowing he couldn’t see you, but you did it anyway. “Fuck me, Doctor Barnes. Fuck me stupid.”
He groaned deep then and you knew you had him. He stood behind you at the edge of the bed and got in position before he pushed just the tip inside.
“You better hold on to something,” he said, and then he grabbed your hips and slammed into you so hard you almost lost your balance. “I told you.”
He started thrusting fast and deep, and the sound of his balls smacking rhythmically against your skin mixed with his grunts and your cries as you came formed some sort of beautifully lewd symphony in the room. You knew he couldn’t possibly last much longer at that point, which was almost a good thing because he was really giving it to you, the way you knew he must have done in whatever fantasy he was living out. This one seemed almost angry—the type of thing he must have thought about doing to you after you’d won an argument—and it became even more apparent when he gripped your ass hard and gave it a nice hard smack with one hand before pulling you upright by the hair with the other.
He growled in your ear, “You’ve got a real smart mouth, you know that?”
“Yes, Doctor.”
“You just don’t know when to quit, do you?”
“No, Doctor.”
“Say you’re sorry.”
He fucked up into you viciously and you almost couldn’t breathe to speak but you managed to squeak out the words.
“I’m sorry.”
His thrusts became erratic and you knew he was about to blow. You wanted to watch his face as he came and you would get your wish because he pulled your head all the way back and stared down into your eyes.
“I’m gonna shove my cock in that smart mouth of yours and shut you the fuck up.”
He let go of you and pulled out and you turned around and grabbed the base of his shaft, wrapping your lips around him and tasting your own juices as you sucked and pumped him. You looked up at him while you did it and he wore that smile that used to drive you crazy, but now you were crazy with the need to taste him and watch his face contort in orgasmic bliss and you thought to yourself you'd never wanted anything more than you wanted this.
“Those lips look pretty wrapped around my dick,” he said. “And they’re about to look even prettier.”
You moaned onto his cock and he brought his hands into your hair and fisted it. Your free hand cupped his balls, so tight and ready, and he started to huff and puff.
“Look at me, Bunny,” he said, and you did because his face was all you wanted to see.
When you felt the first spurt hit the back of your throat you swallowed quick and readied yourself for the rest. His perfect pouty lips were moist where he’d wet them and pursed into a perfect O and his forehead was creased in concentration. It was the way his brow always looked when he was singularly focused on something, a look you knew well, only this time his focus was on you and the way you looked as you sucked him dry and swallowed everything he had to give you. When he was finished you broke eye contact and swirled your tongue around his tip, so sensitive now that he jerked a little when he felt you. When he couldn’t take anymore he dropped to his knees in front of you and you placed your hands on his chest, running them up and down the ridges of his muscle with a satisfied smile on your face. He threw his glasses onto the bed behind you and wrapped his arms around your back, pulling you close and nuzzling his head between your breasts. You waited for his breathing to return to something resembling normal before you spoke.
“I’d give that a B,” you said, and he started to chuckle against your skin before looking up at you.
“Are you shitting me? That was A+ material.”
You laughed and tousled his hair a bit before you leaned in to kiss him. You stopped just short of his lips and smiled.
“Don’t worry,” you said. “The semester’s not over yet. You’ll have plenty of chances to earn extra credit.”
