ramp-it-up

[ramp-it-up]

TYSM for sharing! 😁

Run to You

Summary: His job was to protect you. You were supposed to keep your distance. But history and heat don’t fade.

Word count: 5.7 K

Pairing: Nick Fowler x Pop Star!Reader

A/N: This was written for @artficlly's Spin the Trope Challenge. My tropes were security guard x one bed. I was inspred by the movie The Bodyguard starring Whitney Houston and Kevin Costner, IYKYK. 😍 Sorry it's so late 😬 This is supposed to be a one shot, so…. This was a nice break from Bucky, and I hope you like it! Tell me how you feel by reblogging, commenting, sending asks, dm'ing and the like. Interaction is life.

Warnings: 18+ Only, Minors DNI. Read at your own risk. Angst, flashbacks, deception, lies, Prague, idiots in ---, Nick being Nick, cheating, talk of violence, Dom Nick, bratty reader, insinuations of oral (m receiving) and anal. Slapping, rough sex, fingering, oral (f receiving), raw p-in - v, size kink, praise kink, talking you through it, a tiny bit of aftercare if you squint. Angst.

I no longer have a taglist. Please follow @rampitupandread and turn on notifications to learn when I post! 😘

I Do NOT Consent to my work being reposted, translated or presented on any other blog or site other than by myself.

-------

Nick had promised himself he was done with this kind of work.

High-profile gigs. Celebrities. Chaos.

He preferred quiet contracts now, private clients who didn’t need headlines and didn’t pull the kind of stunts that could get themselves killed. 

Keep them alive, keep it clean, cash the check, move on.

But when he was offered this job, he came.

Not because of the money. Not even because the threat was as credible as they come.

Because it was you.

And no matter how much time had passed, or how badly it had ended, you were the one name he couldn’t ignore.

It wasn’t just the fact that you were a multi-award-winning pop star with a voice that sold out arenas and an ass that had half the world obsessed. 

It wasn’t even that you were worth millions, and an icon the industry would burn down cities to protect.

It was because maybe, just maybe, he wanted to see you again.

And annihilate anyone who thought about hurting you.

He’d told himself he wouldn’t think about Prague.

About the balcony, the whiskey, and the way you’d looked at him like he was the only thing that felt real in a city full of flashing lights.

He’d definitely told himself he wouldn’t think about the aftermath. How you’d gone silent the second you found the burner phone in his jacket. How you’d walked out without a word, without a backward glance, like the three nights you’d spent tangled together had been nothing.

Yet when he pushed open the door to that rehearsal hall and felt the room tense, he knew two things instantly:

One, nothing had changed. Two, he was screwed.

You were at the center of the chaos, perched on a speaker with your knees tucked under you, a vision of messy perfection, hair in pigtails, lips slick with gloss, still in the sweat-dampened tank from soundcheck.

Nick felt that he had x-ray vision because all he could see were those famous nipples and the taste of you came back vividly. 

He forced his eyes away and checked out the room.

Even mid-tour, even with managers and stylists circling like bees, you didn’t look breakable.

But Nick knew better. He also knew, with the kind of certainty that he hated, that the people threatening you didn’t care how untouchable you looked on stage.

Off stage, you were just another soft target.

—--

The room didn’t exactly quiet when he walked in, but it shifted like someone had thrown a weighted blanket over the noise.

“Everyone,” Val, your manager, called out brightly, voice cutting through the hum. 

“This is Nick Fowler. He’ll be leading security for the rest of the tour.”

You didn’t look up at first. Not until she said the name. Your head snapped up. And for a second, everything stopped.

The man you’d met in Madrid, back when you’d burned out and taken a year your label barely tolerated. The one person who hadn’t cared about your history as a child star, your co-star ex, or the vultures waiting to pick you apart.

The man who’d traveled with you to Prague and sat with you on a balcony, whiskey in hand, his fingers tangled in your hair as he murmured “Princess” against your throat.

The man who turned out not to be who he said he was.

Jack Carmichael never existed. Only Nick Fowler, ex-CIA, hired by your label and someone else you still didn’t know, to protect you, monitor you, and drag you back when they thought you might slip too far away to make them money.

Heat flared in your chest.

Val, oblivious, kept smiling. “Nick, this is…”

“I know who she is,” Nick cut in. 

His eyes found yours and didn’t waver. Not an ounce of apology. Not even a flicker of discomfort.

Your pulse spiked, and a rush of anger along with something you didn’t want to name. You stood slowly, forcing your voice not to shake.

“Absolutely not.”

Val blinked. “What?”

Nick’s mouth curved slightly, the faintest ghost of a smirk.

“Nice to see you too, Princess.”

The nickname hit like a lit match to gasoline, causing every nerve in your body to spark

“The fuck is he doing here, Val?”

“Saving your life,” Nick said, his tone maddeningly calm. “Someone wants you dead. I’m the one who makes sure that doesn’t happen.”

Val shifted uncomfortably, glancing between you both. 

“The threats escalated last night. They broke into your Malibu place. We don’t have a choice. He’s the best.”

Nick’s eyes stayed locked on you, unblinking, cool, and too familiar.

It was infuriating.

And worse, you hated when he looked at you like that.

As he brushed past you on his way out, his shoulder barely grazing yours, his voice dipped just low enough for only you to hear.

“Relax. I’m not here to start anything… just to keep you breathing.”

But there was something in his tone, a faint edge that told you he hadn’t forgotten Prague either.

—--

Nick was silent, but you could feel him. Always a few steps behind in the tunnels, a shadow at the wings, a quiet presence near the dressing rooms.

Close enough to clock every angle. 

Far enough to look like nothing but the job.

He swept the exits, murmured into his comm to his second, Jake Jensen, and adjusted crowd plans. 

When your choreographer lost his mind over the new LED platform, Nick didn’t even glance up, just leaned on a barricade, eyes tracking every moving piece like he was calculating how fast he could get to you if everything went to hell.

You tried to ignore him. To bury yourself in the music, in the comfort of routine.

But you felt it every time.

The weight of his attention. 

The way his eyes caught on you, never long enough for anyone else to see, but long enough for heat to creep up your spine before he looked away like nothing happened.

You felt like a mouse he was stalking, and you were always wary, lest you fall into his snare.

Because Nick Fowler taught you a lot in those three short days and nights in Prague, about how high you could climb the peaks of pleasure with him as a guide. Nothing was like his touch, his mouth, and his cock carved a space no other man could quite fill.

Not even your boyfriend Cameron. You needed to be careful and in control at all times around Nick Fowler.

By the time the crew cleared for lunch the next day. and the hall quieted, you’d worn down the batteries on your phone trying to drown the tension out of the air with music. You doubled back to grab your charger and stopped in your tracks.

The door to the small security lounge was cracked, a soft glow spilling into the corridor. 

Inside, Nick sat with one ankle hooked over his knee, tablet in hand.His brows were drawn, expression unreadable, as he tapped back a few seconds on the video.

You didn’t need to see the screen to know which one it was.

One of your older videos, the one that cut to that infamous red carpet. That dress was sheer, crystal-studded, and you had nothing on but a flesh-colored thong beneath. The camera had eaten you alive that night, and the world hadn’t stopped replaying it since.

Nick rewound again. And again. Slowly watching the lens trace the line of your body.

You leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, your stomach doing that thing.

“Should I send over a signed copy? Or are you just planning to keep pirating my content for free?”

His thumb paused, but he didn’t even flinch. He set the tablet down and met your eyes, calm as ever.

“Professional review,” he said, voice flat. “Knowing what people see when they’re looking at you helps me assess risk.”

You arched a brow. “Risk.”

“Exactly.” His gaze didn’t waver. “That dress pulls more than attention. It makes some people stupid. Stupid gets dangerous.”

“Mm.” You tilted your head, pretending to think.

“And rewinding it three times? That’s just part of the security briefing?”

Nick’s mouth ticked, barely.

“Just making sure I didn’t miss anything.”

Your chest felt tight, whether it was irritation or something else, you didn’t care to name.

“Well, don’t strain yourself, Fowler. Wouldn’t want you losing sleep on my behalf.”

His gaze dipped down the length of you before returning to your face.

“Sleep’s not really on the table these days, Princess. Not until I make sure no one gets to you.”

He stood then, brushing past you on his way to sweep the next checkpoint, the faintest trace of his cologne trailing behind him, clean and sharp, and enough to make your toes curl even as your jaw tightened.

—---

Cameron was waiting when you stepped into the green room.

Golden-boy actor. Studio polish. Smooth British accent. All easy charm. Everything Nick wasn’t.

He was attentive.

He held your hand in public, texted good-morning photos from set, and remembered your tea order before soundcheck.

He touched you gently, kissed you slowly, and whispered that he missed you in the quiet hours when you shared a bed between shoots and shows.

It wasn’t electric, but it was solid. Predictable.

And you never lost control.

He rose when you entered, slipping his phone into his pocket, his smile warm. His arm slid around your waist, pulling you into a familiar hold. You relaxed a little, because you genuinely cared for him.

He was safe.

“You disappeared,” he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. “Thought we were grabbing lunch.”

“Rehearsals ran long,” you said lightly, though you felt the faint knot of tension in your stomach. “Platform drama.”

He chuckled, as he brushed his thumb along your back. 

“Skip the PR dinner tonight, then? Room service. Just us?”

You nodded, letting yourself lean into his warmth because it was steady. But even as his lips brushed your temple, your pulse was tracking the echo in the hallway. 

And sure enough, there was a knock.

“Five minutes,” Nick’s voice carried through, an extra edge of aggression that wasn’t there earlier. “Press call’s moved up.”

“Your bloke’s a ray of sunshine,” Cameron muttered, jaw tightening faintly.

You forced a small smile, but your mind was already following those footsteps back down the hall.

—--

The show went off without a hitch.

Two encores, the crowd screaming your name so loud your ribs thrummed with it, and every light and cue landing like clockwork. By the time the stage lights cut and the last ovation died down, sweat clung to your skin and adrenaline still buzzed in your veins.

Nick and Jake were already in motion before you hit the wings, their dark suits like moving shadows through the chaos of crew and equipment. Jake cleared the hallway, murmuring into his comm, while Nick fell into step beside you without a word, his eyes tracking every shadow, every stray tech crossing the corridor.

They were efficient. Silent. Always watching.

And you were done with it.

So when Cameron met you at the dressing room, new fit, still glowing from the performance, his hand sliding to your waist, you didn’t even let Nick get a word in.

“Changed my mind. Let’s go out,” you murmured against Cameron’s jaw as he helped you with your mic. “One club. One drink.”

Cameron grinned, fingers brushing the back of your neck. 

“Your security detail’s gonna love that.”

“I don’t care,” you whispered. 

And you meant it. You were tired of being shadowed and managed.

Nick was waiting by the door when you emerged, Jake a few paces back. His eyes flicked to Cameron’s hand at your waist, then back to you, unreadable but heavy enough to make your pulse skip.

“Where are we going?” 

Nick’s voice was flat, but Jake glanced up from his tablet, already frowning.

“The Mayan,” you said breezily, like it was a done deal. “Just for a drink.”

“No,” Nick said, no hesitation.

“Yes,” you shot back, tilting your chin. 

“Unless you plan on locking me in my hotel room until the tour ends.”

Nick didn’t blink.

“That can be arranged.”

“Jesus,” Cameron muttered under his breath, smoothing his hand over your back. 

“It’s one drink, man. Relax.”

Jake stepped in, voice calm but firm. 

“The place has two narrow exits and no controlled entry. We can lock it down, but it’s not ideal with the current threat level.”

“Then lock it down,” you snapped, your temper rising. 

“Or sit in the car and brood. I’m not spending another night staring at four walls because someone out there doesn’t like me.”

Nick’s jaw ticked once, but he didn’t argue further.

“Fine,” he said at last, voice quiet enough that it didn’t sound like a concession. “But when this goes sideways, we leave. No discussion.”

—------

The club was a bad idea.

You knew it the second you walked in, the crush of bodies, the bass pounding through your ribs, the way phones lit up like fireflies the moment someone clocked Cameron’s face next to yours. But for a little while, it was intoxicating.

The music thrummed through your veins, Cameron’s hand on your hip grounding you just enough, and for a few beats you felt alive again. 

Not managed. Not contained.

Until someone screamed.

It was hard to see through the strobe haze, but Jake’s voice cut through the chaos over Nick’s earpiece, sharp and clipped.

“Got a breach. East entrance. Unknown with a blade. Moving fast.”

The crowd surged. Shouts rose over the music. A flash of metal cut through the chaos near the bar, and suddenly Nick was there, one hand curling around your waist, the other steady on his weapon as Jake intercepted the would-be attacker with brutal efficiency.

“Move,” Nick ordered, his voice low and lethal.

The air was hot and heavy with sweat and bass, bodies pressing in from every direction, until Nick’s grip tightened and the world shifted. His chest was solid and cool against your overheated skin, his jacket rough against the bare skin on your back as he hauled you up into his arms.

Every step he took carved a path through the chaos, the crowd shoving and shouting as his heartbeat stayed maddeningly even beneath your cheek.

And every pulse of it reminded you of Prague, the way his chest had felt under your palms as he’d pressed you into the balcony railing, whispering “Princess, breathe for me” against your mouth while his hand moved lower, teaching you how to hold yourself together and come undone at once.

Your stomach knotted, heat sliding through the adrenaline haze.

Through the corner of your eye, you caught Cameron stumbling after Jake, pale and wide-eyed as he was ushered into a separate car. He didn’t look at you, too busy trying to keep up.

Nick set you in the back seat of an SUV, slid in beside you, and barked the destination into his comm, his hand still locked around your wrist.

“Safehouse. We’re dark until further notice.”

You jerked against his hold, glaring up at him even as your pulse hammered. “I didn’t ask to be…”

Nick’s gaze cut to yours, cold and unyielding. Whatever protest you had died in your throat.

“Doesn’t matter,” he said, voice low and steady, the calm that always made your skin prickle. 

“You’re done calling shots tonight.”

His hand lingered a second longer than it should have, his thumb brushing once against your pulse, before he finally released you.

But his eyes stayed on you, unreadable, as the SUV peeled into the night.

—--

The SUV sped through the city, headlights cutting through the dark. Jake’s voice buzzed over comms, calm and clipped, but Nick hardly heard it. The air in the back seat was already humming, thick with leftover adrenaline, and something else.

Your pulse was still echoing in his hand. The memory of the rhythm it had been in Prague when you’d clenched around him, biting his name into his shoulder as he showed you how far pleasure could take you. 

But you’d flipped it, too, dragged him under, made him taste what it was to be caught in something messier than lust.

Love was something he’d sworn he’d never do.

He told himself not to think about it. Not tonight, not now, with you inches away in a dark car and his jacket still carrying the ghost of your perfume. 

Or the faint sting of your nails where you’d clutched his neck as he carried you out of the club.

You sat rigid beside him, chin tipped up like a challenge. But he saw it, the tremor in your knee, the way your fingers spun your ring to keep them busy, the faint catch in your breath when the SUV hit a bump and his thigh brushed yours.

Most people he’d dragged out of danger folded once they were clear, shaking, crying, clutching for reassurance. 

Not you. 

You sat there daring him to notice that his proximity affected you. 

Or daring him to do something about it.

Nick flexed his hand against his thigh, trying to burn off the electricity crawling through his veins, but his mind slipped anyway. 

Back to Prague. 

Back to the rasp of your breath in his ear as he’d murmured, “Princess, don’t stop. Take it for me.”

Back to the way your body had shivered around him as he taught you exactly how to break apart, how to climb higher until your legs trembled beneath you.

He could lock those nights away for months. 

Years. 

And still, here they were, slamming back into him now in the dark, your shoulder a breath from his, your scent in his lungs. He dragged his thumb over a ridge of scar tissue in his palm, his old habit to ground himself. 

It didn’t help much.

“Status,” he murmured into his comm, voice low.

“All clear,” Jake’s voice replied.

“The second team’s ahead, the perimeter's clean and the cameras are live.”

Nick gave a brief acknowledgment and let his eyes cut toward you. The streetlight glow skimmed across your face, catching the faint sheen of sweat still clinging to your skin. 

You weren’t looking at him, your gaze stayed on the blur of buildings sliding past the window, jaw tight.

He knew that tension. The sharp line of it. 

The way it coiled under your skin, prickling just beneath the surface. It wasn’t fear. 

And it wasn’t only anger, though he could feel that radiating off you too.

“We’ll be at the safehouse until I get clearance,” he said finally, his voice calm but pitched lower than it needed to be.

That got you to turn your head, your eyes catching his with just enough defiance to spark something hot in his chest.

He didn’t look at you, but he could feel it, that spark of defiance bristling beside him, the way your head turned just slightly toward him like you were about to argue.

For a second, he almost wanted you to. 

Just to see if your pulse would kick again under his fingers like it had in the club. But you stayed quiet. And Nick kept his gaze forward, cataloging the last two turns before the safehouse.

The hum between you didn’t fade with the silence. It only coiled tighter, hotter, until the building finally appeared in the darkness ahead.

—----

The place was silent when Nick pushed the door open.

Every sound, the faint hum of the fridge, the creak of old floorboards, the soft click as he locked the door behind you felt amplified.

He swept the room in seconds, the same way he’d swept dozens like it before. Blinds down. Corners clear. Window locks checked. 

The space was bare-bones: one couch, one bed, a kitchenette that looked like it hadn’t seen use in months. Temporary. Functional. 

Exactly what he needed.

What you needed, even if you didn’t like it.

Nick holstered his weapon and finally turned toward you. 

You were still by the door, arms crossed, looking composed instead of frayed. You might’ve steadied on the way here, but he could still see the adrenaline riding you, the quick rise and fall of your breath, and the way your knuckles whitened against your arms.

“You’re staying here until I say go,” he said, voice low but even. 

“No clubs. No midnight walks. No arguments.”

You arched a brow. “And if I don’t?”

He didn’t move, but his gaze locked on yours. The silence stretched, your mouth twitching like you were daring him.

That got him to close the distance, not all the way, but enough that the air between you shifted. The faint bite of his cologne cut through the sterile room, his presence filling the space in a way that made your pulse jump whether you wanted it to or not.

His voice dropped a shade lower, softer but edged.

“Then I do my job. Which doesn’t involve asking twice.”

Your breath caught before you could stop it. 

“Is that a threat?”

Nick’s mouth ticked, not quite a smile.

“No. That’s a reminder.”

His eyes flicked down briefly, to your throat, where your pulse fluttered, before lifting back to yours. Just that flicker, but it sent heat curling through your chest.

He didn’t reach for you. But he didn’t look away, either.

“You remember Prague,” he said quietly. 

“You remember what happens when I stop holding back.”

Your fingers tightened on your arms.

“And what if I’m not interested in a repeat performance?” you shot back, voice cooler than you felt.

Nick’s gaze didn’t waver.

“Then we don’t have a problem,” he said evenly. “But we both know what you want.”

Then, as if the tension wasn’t hot between you, Nick stepped back, unclipped his comm, and set it on the table with a soft click.

“You know fuck all, Fowler. That’s probably why you washed out of the CIA and now you’re just another rent-a-cop to the stars.”

His calm gaze didn’t waver, but his jaw flexed once. His eyes flicked to your mouth, quick and deliberate, before sliding back to your eyes.

“You keep pushing,” he murmured, his voice low and steady.

“Same way you did in Prague. But if you keep pushing, Princess, you don’t get to pull back when I finally respond.”

The words landed like a live wire, sparking down your spine.

“And if I want you to?”

Nick raised his hand and his thumb brushed hair back from your temple, a slow, deliberate pass, just enough to make your stomach twist. His voice dropped lower, almost a whisper.

“Then we stop talking about it.”

He stepped back, making you want to chase him. It was maddening.

“Get some sleep,” he said, his tone flat again. “We’ll talk about Vegas security in the morning.”

But then he turned away, leaving your chest tight and your pulse climbing all over again.

—--

The safehouse didn’t sleep easy.

Not with Nick’s voice still curling around your body. Not with his words replaying every time you shut your eyes.

Nick claimed the couch, more to keep distance than comfort. You drifted in and out on the bed, half-hearing him move through the place, boots on the floorboards, water running, coffee brewing.

None of it was the reason you couldn’t sleep.

The reason was him. A man built of stillness and steel, pacing in the next room.

You remember Prague. You remember what happens when I stop holding back.

Sometime past two a.m., the soft creak of floorboards pulled you out of the spiral. You sat up, blanket slipping to your waist, just as Nick appeared in the doorway. A dark henley and sweats replaced his suit, hair still damp, the faint scent of soap following him.

He leaned against the frame, arms crossed, eyes drifting over you in the half-light. Controlled, but heavier than before.

“You’re still awake,” he said finally, his voice low enough that it sank into your skin.

You met his gaze, tugging the blanket higher even though you weren’t cold.

“Hard to sleep when someone’s circling like a guard dog.”

One corner of his mouth ticked, not amusement, not annoyance, but something tighter. He pushed off the frame, closing a few steps until he stood at the edge of the bed, close enough to feel his warmth.

“You want me to stop pacing?” His tone was soft, but it landed heavy.

“Or you want me to stop pretending I don’t know why you’re still awake?”

Your breath hitched. He moved to the footlocker, pulled out plain black sweats, and tossed them to you.

“Take a shower. Get out of that club gear. You’ll feel better.”

You looked at the sweats, then back at the locker. 

“No underwear in there?”

“This is all we’ve got. Improvise.”

Your stomach tightened at the thought, but you huffed and took the clothes, locking the bathroom door behind you. You stared at yourself in the mirror, towel in hand, trying not to imagine how easily you would beg.

—--

The problem was, Nick couldn’t control his cock around you.

Nick prided himself on control.

In the CIA, your body was just another weapon. But with you, none of that held. Didn’t matter how many ops he’d run, how many firefights he’d walked away from steady and calm. 

The second you stepped out of the bathroom in nothing but a towel, drops of water sliding down your collarbone, those thighs glistening in the dim glow of the safehouse light, every ounce of discipline went right out the window.

You didn’t flinch under his stare. You stepped closer, your eyes locking on his, testing him again. His pupils blew wide.

“Kiss me,” you said.

Nick didn’t hesitate.

He leaned down, one hand wrapping firmly around your throat, the other gripping your thigh like it was nothing to lift you. His fingers slid along your ass into the slick heat between your thighs, and you gasped as the towel slipped, your hips rolling against the thick ridge in his sweats.

He kissed you hard and deep, until you made that sound in the back of your throat the one he could never forget, the one that always undid him. Then he set you down carefully, watching your chest heave as you panted.

He tasted you off his fingers, his voice low, dangerous.

“You’re wet for me. You want the Princess treatment?”

Nick stepped toward you, and you backed up even as your eyes locked on his. He caught the edge of your towel and pulled, letting it drop to the floor as his gaze raked over you, slow and hungry. His tongue dragged over his bottom lip.

You slapped him, sharp and unexpected.

He smiled, unbothered. Thrilled, even.

“There’s my answer.”

His hand closed around your arm, not harsh, but firm, and in one smooth motion, he spun you and pushed you down so your chest hit the bed. His grip slid to your hips, hauling you up so that your ass was high, his palms spreading you as he dropped to his knees behind you.

The first swipe of his tongue made you jolt, fingers clutching the sheets. He held you steady, mouth working you open, slowly at first, then deeper, harder, until your thighs trembled against his shoulders.

Nick pulled back just enough to speak, his voice low, and his breath hot against your pussy as he pushed down his sweats and started stroking himself.

“Does Pretty Boy know the Princess likes it rough?” His tone sharpened, a ghost of a smirk at the edge. “That this pussy only curves to my dick?”

And Christ, that dick.

Nick wasn’t blind. He knew what you thought the first time you saw it. Long and thick and heavy in his hand, a weapon he’d never needed to advertise. 

But when blood rushed hot through him, when you dropped to your knees in Prague and he pulled it out, he’d seen your eyes widen as you realized exactly what you were dealing with.

It was sizeable, thick and gorgeous, with a perfect mushroomed head and just enough of a curve to hit exactly where you needed it to. It was the kind of cock that felt made for your mouth, made for your cunt, and the reason no other man ever stood a chance after he’d been inside you.

Talk about a concealed weapon.

Nick’s hand dragged down your spine as he ate you out, until it settled at the curve of your hip. You were trembling, your breath catching with every lick of his tongue and suck of his lips until he finally pulled back, his mouth slick as he wiped it with the back of his hand.

“Don’t move,” he murmured, voice calm enough to make your pulse spike.

His cock was already thick and aching as he climbed on the bed behind you.

You’d always done this to him. He could’ve gone months without even jerking off, no trouble. But one look at you, hips tipped high, cunt slick and wanting, and he was already leaking, already twitching in his grip.

Nick gripped your ass, spreading you open as he leaned forward, dragging the blunt head of his cock over your soaked slit. You whimpered, the sound vibrating through the thin walls, and his jaw flexed as he leaned close to your ear.

“You wanna feel that curve, don’t you?” he rasped, his voice low and rough. 

“This is why no one else can fill you properly, Princess. This dick was made for you.”

He pushed in slow, the stretch deliberate, letting you feel every inch. You gasped, your fingers clawing at the sheets as he bottomed out, the subtle bend hitting deep, right where he knew you needed it.

“Jesus, fuck, Nick,” you moaned, voice ragged.

“Yeah,” he muttered against your shoulder, his hand sliding up your stomach to grip your throat, tilting your head so your cheek brushed his jaw.

“Say it. Let me hear it.”

He started to move, long, deep thrusts, controlled and steady at first, each one driving his cock into you until your body shuddered. He angled his hips just so, letting the curve of him grind against that spot that always made your breath stutter and your thighs shake.

“Nick, please!” you gasped, the words breaking on a moan, almost singing.

He growled low in your ear, his thrusts picking up, hips snapping harder, enough to make your teeth rattle. 

“That’s it. Take it. Take every inch. You wanted the Princess treatment, didn’t you? So take it.”

His fingers found your clit, circling in time with his thrusts, and your moans pitched higher, your body arching, every nerve lit.

“Come on,” he murmured against your ear, his breath hot, his thrusts relentless. 

“I can feel how close you are. Come on my cock, Princess.”

You shattered around him, your cry muffled against the mattress as he held you through it, grinding deep until your shudders eased. Then he flipped you onto your back, his eyes dark and wild.

“Not done,” he rasped, hooking your legs over his forearms and driving back in, rougher now as he chased his own release. You could see it in his face, the tight jaw, the blown pupils, the flicker of restraint barely holding as he buried himself deep, again and again.

When he came, it was with a low, rough groan against your neck, his hips pressing flush to yours as his body shook with the force of it.

Nick stayed there for a minute, his weight heavy but grounding. Then he pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, his fingers brushing your jaw with surprising gentleness.

“Now,” he murmured, a faint smirk curving his mouth, “you can sleep.”

He eased out of you slowly, guiding you down to the mattress. You were still trembling, your breath soft and uneven. He pulled the blanket over you, pressing his mouth to the side of your throat, a kiss softer than anything he’d given you all night.

“Breathe,” he murmured, his hand smoothing along your ribs until your pulse slowed beneath his fingers. “Sleep now. I’ll handle the rest.”

And for once, you didn’t fight him. The exhaustion from the club, the scare, and everything after pulled you under.

—----

The next morning, Nick was already up and dressed, his holster back at his hip. The coffee pot gurgled faintly from the kitchenette.

“Get dressed,” he said, his voice as flat and professional as ever.

“Jake’s cleared everything. Threat’s neutralized. We’re moving.”

You stared at him from the bed, the sting of his detachment hitting harder than you wanted it to. He didn’t meet your eyes as he checked his phone, tapping out a message.

“Back to your hotel,” he added. “Your schedule picks up this afternoon.”

And that was it. No trace of last night, no softness, no hint of the man who’d kissed you until your knees gave out or murmured in your ear while you came apart. Just Nick Fowler, ex-CIA, the shadow your label had shoved back into your life.

By the time you were dressed and back in the car, you could feel the wall going up between you. 

His, yours, both.

When Jake pulled up to your hotel, Nick didn’t walk you in. Just gave a short nod, his blue eyes unreadable behind his sunglasses in the morning light before the SUV pulled away.

Inside, your phone buzzed. Cameron’s name lit the screen. You didn’t hesitate before pressing the button forcing the smile into your voice as soon as he spoke.

“Hey Love. Are you okay?”

“Hey,” you said softly, sinking into the plush hotel chair. “I’m good. Are you busy? …No, I’m back now. Can you come over? Yeah, I could use the company.”

You didn’t mention the safehouse. Or Nick. Or the way your thighs still ached in the best and worst ways.

Some things, for now, needed to stay in the shadows.

[ramp-it-up]

TYSM for sharing, Love!

Run to You

Summary: His job was to protect you. You were supposed to keep your distance. But history and heat don’t fade.

Word count: 5.7 K

Pairing: Nick Fowler x Pop Star!Reader

A/N: This was written for @artficlly's Spin the Trope Challenge. My tropes were security guard x one bed. I was inspred by the movie The Bodyguard starring Whitney Houston and Kevin Costner, IYKYK. 😍 Sorry it's so late 😬 This is supposed to be a one shot, so…. This was a nice break from Bucky, and I hope you like it! Tell me how you feel by reblogging, commenting, sending asks, dm'ing and the like. Interaction is life.

Warnings: 18+ Only, Minors DNI. Read at your own risk. Angst, flashbacks, deception, lies, Prague, idiots in ---, Nick being Nick, cheating, talk of violence, Dom Nick, bratty reader, insinuations of oral (m receiving) and anal. Slapping, rough sex, fingering, oral (f receiving), raw p-in - v, size kink, praise kink, talking you through it, a tiny bit of aftercare if you squint. Angst.

I no longer have a taglist. Please follow @rampitupandread and turn on notifications to learn when I post! 😘

I Do NOT Consent to my work being reposted, translated or presented on any other blog or site other than by myself.

-------

Nick had promised himself he was done with this kind of work.

High-profile gigs. Celebrities. Chaos.

He preferred quiet contracts now, private clients who didn’t need headlines and didn’t pull the kind of stunts that could get themselves killed. 

Keep them alive, keep it clean, cash the check, move on.

But when he was offered this job, he came.

Not because of the money. Not even because the threat was as credible as they come.

Because it was you.

And no matter how much time had passed, or how badly it had ended, you were the one name he couldn’t ignore.

It wasn’t just the fact that you were a multi-award-winning pop star with a voice that sold out arenas and an ass that had half the world obsessed. 

It wasn’t even that you were worth millions, and an icon the industry would burn down cities to protect.

It was because maybe, just maybe, he wanted to see you again.

And annihilate anyone who thought about hurting you.

He’d told himself he wouldn’t think about Prague.

About the balcony, the whiskey, and the way you’d looked at him like he was the only thing that felt real in a city full of flashing lights.

He’d definitely told himself he wouldn’t think about the aftermath. How you’d gone silent the second you found the burner phone in his jacket. How you’d walked out without a word, without a backward glance, like the three nights you’d spent tangled together had been nothing.

Yet when he pushed open the door to that rehearsal hall and felt the room tense, he knew two things instantly:

One, nothing had changed. Two, he was screwed.

You were at the center of the chaos, perched on a speaker with your knees tucked under you, a vision of messy perfection, hair in pigtails, lips slick with gloss, still in the sweat-dampened tank from soundcheck.

Nick felt that he had x-ray vision because all he could see were those famous nipples and the taste of you came back vividly. 

He forced his eyes away and checked out the room.

Even mid-tour, even with managers and stylists circling like bees, you didn’t look breakable.

But Nick knew better. He also knew, with the kind of certainty that he hated, that the people threatening you didn’t care how untouchable you looked on stage.

Off stage, you were just another soft target.

—--

The room didn’t exactly quiet when he walked in, but it shifted like someone had thrown a weighted blanket over the noise.

“Everyone,” Val, your manager, called out brightly, voice cutting through the hum. 

“This is Nick Fowler. He’ll be leading security for the rest of the tour.”

You didn’t look up at first. Not until she said the name. Your head snapped up. And for a second, everything stopped.

The man you’d met in Madrid, back when you’d burned out and taken a year your label barely tolerated. The one person who hadn’t cared about your history as a child star, your co-star ex, or the vultures waiting to pick you apart.

The man who’d traveled with you to Prague and sat with you on a balcony, whiskey in hand, his fingers tangled in your hair as he murmured “Princess” against your throat.

The man who turned out not to be who he said he was.

Jack Carmichael never existed. Only Nick Fowler, ex-CIA, hired by your label and someone else you still didn’t know, to protect you, monitor you, and drag you back when they thought you might slip too far away to make them money.

Heat flared in your chest.

Val, oblivious, kept smiling. “Nick, this is…”

“I know who she is,” Nick cut in. 

His eyes found yours and didn’t waver. Not an ounce of apology. Not even a flicker of discomfort.

Your pulse spiked, and a rush of anger along with something you didn’t want to name. You stood slowly, forcing your voice not to shake.

“Absolutely not.”

Val blinked. “What?”

Nick’s mouth curved slightly, the faintest ghost of a smirk.

“Nice to see you too, Princess.”

The nickname hit like a lit match to gasoline, causing every nerve in your body to spark

“The fuck is he doing here, Val?”

“Saving your life,” Nick said, his tone maddeningly calm. “Someone wants you dead. I’m the one who makes sure that doesn’t happen.”

Val shifted uncomfortably, glancing between you both. 

“The threats escalated last night. They broke into your Malibu place. We don’t have a choice. He’s the best.”

Nick’s eyes stayed locked on you, unblinking, cool, and too familiar.

It was infuriating.

And worse, you hated when he looked at you like that.

As he brushed past you on his way out, his shoulder barely grazing yours, his voice dipped just low enough for only you to hear.

“Relax. I’m not here to start anything… just to keep you breathing.”

But there was something in his tone, a faint edge that told you he hadn’t forgotten Prague either.

—--

Nick was silent, but you could feel him. Always a few steps behind in the tunnels, a shadow at the wings, a quiet presence near the dressing rooms.

Close enough to clock every angle. 

Far enough to look like nothing but the job.

He swept the exits, murmured into his comm to his second, Jake Jensen, and adjusted crowd plans. 

When your choreographer lost his mind over the new LED platform, Nick didn’t even glance up, just leaned on a barricade, eyes tracking every moving piece like he was calculating how fast he could get to you if everything went to hell.

You tried to ignore him. To bury yourself in the music, in the comfort of routine.

But you felt it every time.

The weight of his attention. 

The way his eyes caught on you, never long enough for anyone else to see, but long enough for heat to creep up your spine before he looked away like nothing happened.

You felt like a mouse he was stalking, and you were always wary, lest you fall into his snare.

Because Nick Fowler taught you a lot in those three short days and nights in Prague, about how high you could climb the peaks of pleasure with him as a guide. Nothing was like his touch, his mouth, and his cock carved a space no other man could quite fill.

Not even your boyfriend Cameron. You needed to be careful and in control at all times around Nick Fowler.

By the time the crew cleared for lunch the next day. and the hall quieted, you’d worn down the batteries on your phone trying to drown the tension out of the air with music. You doubled back to grab your charger and stopped in your tracks.

The door to the small security lounge was cracked, a soft glow spilling into the corridor. 

Inside, Nick sat with one ankle hooked over his knee, tablet in hand.His brows were drawn, expression unreadable, as he tapped back a few seconds on the video.

You didn’t need to see the screen to know which one it was.

One of your older videos, the one that cut to that infamous red carpet. That dress was sheer, crystal-studded, and you had nothing on but a flesh-colored thong beneath. The camera had eaten you alive that night, and the world hadn’t stopped replaying it since.

Nick rewound again. And again. Slowly watching the lens trace the line of your body.

You leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, your stomach doing that thing.

“Should I send over a signed copy? Or are you just planning to keep pirating my content for free?”

His thumb paused, but he didn’t even flinch. He set the tablet down and met your eyes, calm as ever.

“Professional review,” he said, voice flat. “Knowing what people see when they’re looking at you helps me assess risk.”

You arched a brow. “Risk.”

“Exactly.” His gaze didn’t waver. “That dress pulls more than attention. It makes some people stupid. Stupid gets dangerous.”

“Mm.” You tilted your head, pretending to think.

“And rewinding it three times? That’s just part of the security briefing?”

Nick’s mouth ticked, barely.

“Just making sure I didn’t miss anything.”

Your chest felt tight, whether it was irritation or something else, you didn’t care to name.

“Well, don’t strain yourself, Fowler. Wouldn’t want you losing sleep on my behalf.”

His gaze dipped down the length of you before returning to your face.

“Sleep’s not really on the table these days, Princess. Not until I make sure no one gets to you.”

He stood then, brushing past you on his way to sweep the next checkpoint, the faintest trace of his cologne trailing behind him, clean and sharp, and enough to make your toes curl even as your jaw tightened.

—---

Cameron was waiting when you stepped into the green room.

Golden-boy actor. Studio polish. Smooth British accent. All easy charm. Everything Nick wasn’t.

He was attentive.

He held your hand in public, texted good-morning photos from set, and remembered your tea order before soundcheck.

He touched you gently, kissed you slowly, and whispered that he missed you in the quiet hours when you shared a bed between shoots and shows.

It wasn’t electric, but it was solid. Predictable.

And you never lost control.

He rose when you entered, slipping his phone into his pocket, his smile warm. His arm slid around your waist, pulling you into a familiar hold. You relaxed a little, because you genuinely cared for him.

He was safe.

“You disappeared,” he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. “Thought we were grabbing lunch.”

“Rehearsals ran long,” you said lightly, though you felt the faint knot of tension in your stomach. “Platform drama.”

He chuckled, as he brushed his thumb along your back. 

“Skip the PR dinner tonight, then? Room service. Just us?”

You nodded, letting yourself lean into his warmth because it was steady. But even as his lips brushed your temple, your pulse was tracking the echo in the hallway. 

And sure enough, there was a knock.

“Five minutes,” Nick’s voice carried through, an extra edge of aggression that wasn’t there earlier. “Press call’s moved up.”

“Your bloke’s a ray of sunshine,” Cameron muttered, jaw tightening faintly.

You forced a small smile, but your mind was already following those footsteps back down the hall.

—--

The show went off without a hitch.

Two encores, the crowd screaming your name so loud your ribs thrummed with it, and every light and cue landing like clockwork. By the time the stage lights cut and the last ovation died down, sweat clung to your skin and adrenaline still buzzed in your veins.

Nick and Jake were already in motion before you hit the wings, their dark suits like moving shadows through the chaos of crew and equipment. Jake cleared the hallway, murmuring into his comm, while Nick fell into step beside you without a word, his eyes tracking every shadow, every stray tech crossing the corridor.

They were efficient. Silent. Always watching.

And you were done with it.

So when Cameron met you at the dressing room, new fit, still glowing from the performance, his hand sliding to your waist, you didn’t even let Nick get a word in.

“Changed my mind. Let’s go out,” you murmured against Cameron’s jaw as he helped you with your mic. “One club. One drink.”

Cameron grinned, fingers brushing the back of your neck. 

“Your security detail’s gonna love that.”

“I don’t care,” you whispered. 

And you meant it. You were tired of being shadowed and managed.

Nick was waiting by the door when you emerged, Jake a few paces back. His eyes flicked to Cameron’s hand at your waist, then back to you, unreadable but heavy enough to make your pulse skip.

“Where are we going?” 

Nick’s voice was flat, but Jake glanced up from his tablet, already frowning.

“The Mayan,” you said breezily, like it was a done deal. “Just for a drink.”

“No,” Nick said, no hesitation.

“Yes,” you shot back, tilting your chin. 

“Unless you plan on locking me in my hotel room until the tour ends.”

Nick didn’t blink.

“That can be arranged.”

“Jesus,” Cameron muttered under his breath, smoothing his hand over your back. 

“It’s one drink, man. Relax.”

Jake stepped in, voice calm but firm. 

“The place has two narrow exits and no controlled entry. We can lock it down, but it’s not ideal with the current threat level.”

“Then lock it down,” you snapped, your temper rising. 

“Or sit in the car and brood. I’m not spending another night staring at four walls because someone out there doesn’t like me.”

Nick’s jaw ticked once, but he didn’t argue further.

“Fine,” he said at last, voice quiet enough that it didn’t sound like a concession. “But when this goes sideways, we leave. No discussion.”

—------

The club was a bad idea.

You knew it the second you walked in, the crush of bodies, the bass pounding through your ribs, the way phones lit up like fireflies the moment someone clocked Cameron’s face next to yours. But for a little while, it was intoxicating.

The music thrummed through your veins, Cameron’s hand on your hip grounding you just enough, and for a few beats you felt alive again. 

Not managed. Not contained.

Until someone screamed.

It was hard to see through the strobe haze, but Jake’s voice cut through the chaos over Nick’s earpiece, sharp and clipped.

“Got a breach. East entrance. Unknown with a blade. Moving fast.”

The crowd surged. Shouts rose over the music. A flash of metal cut through the chaos near the bar, and suddenly Nick was there, one hand curling around your waist, the other steady on his weapon as Jake intercepted the would-be attacker with brutal efficiency.

“Move,” Nick ordered, his voice low and lethal.

The air was hot and heavy with sweat and bass, bodies pressing in from every direction, until Nick’s grip tightened and the world shifted. His chest was solid and cool against your overheated skin, his jacket rough against the bare skin on your back as he hauled you up into his arms.

Every step he took carved a path through the chaos, the crowd shoving and shouting as his heartbeat stayed maddeningly even beneath your cheek.

And every pulse of it reminded you of Prague, the way his chest had felt under your palms as he’d pressed you into the balcony railing, whispering “Princess, breathe for me” against your mouth while his hand moved lower, teaching you how to hold yourself together and come undone at once.

Your stomach knotted, heat sliding through the adrenaline haze.

Through the corner of your eye, you caught Cameron stumbling after Jake, pale and wide-eyed as he was ushered into a separate car. He didn’t look at you, too busy trying to keep up.

Nick set you in the back seat of an SUV, slid in beside you, and barked the destination into his comm, his hand still locked around your wrist.

“Safehouse. We’re dark until further notice.”

You jerked against his hold, glaring up at him even as your pulse hammered. “I didn’t ask to be…”

Nick’s gaze cut to yours, cold and unyielding. Whatever protest you had died in your throat.

“Doesn’t matter,” he said, voice low and steady, the calm that always made your skin prickle. 

“You’re done calling shots tonight.”

His hand lingered a second longer than it should have, his thumb brushing once against your pulse, before he finally released you.

But his eyes stayed on you, unreadable, as the SUV peeled into the night.

—--

The SUV sped through the city, headlights cutting through the dark. Jake’s voice buzzed over comms, calm and clipped, but Nick hardly heard it. The air in the back seat was already humming, thick with leftover adrenaline, and something else.

Your pulse was still echoing in his hand. The memory of the rhythm it had been in Prague when you’d clenched around him, biting his name into his shoulder as he showed you how far pleasure could take you. 

But you’d flipped it, too, dragged him under, made him taste what it was to be caught in something messier than lust.

Love was something he’d sworn he’d never do.

He told himself not to think about it. Not tonight, not now, with you inches away in a dark car and his jacket still carrying the ghost of your perfume. 

Or the faint sting of your nails where you’d clutched his neck as he carried you out of the club.

You sat rigid beside him, chin tipped up like a challenge. But he saw it, the tremor in your knee, the way your fingers spun your ring to keep them busy, the faint catch in your breath when the SUV hit a bump and his thigh brushed yours.

Most people he’d dragged out of danger folded once they were clear, shaking, crying, clutching for reassurance. 

Not you. 

You sat there daring him to notice that his proximity affected you. 

Or daring him to do something about it.

Nick flexed his hand against his thigh, trying to burn off the electricity crawling through his veins, but his mind slipped anyway. 

Back to Prague. 

Back to the rasp of your breath in his ear as he’d murmured, “Princess, don’t stop. Take it for me.”

Back to the way your body had shivered around him as he taught you exactly how to break apart, how to climb higher until your legs trembled beneath you.

He could lock those nights away for months. 

Years. 

And still, here they were, slamming back into him now in the dark, your shoulder a breath from his, your scent in his lungs. He dragged his thumb over a ridge of scar tissue in his palm, his old habit to ground himself. 

It didn’t help much.

“Status,” he murmured into his comm, voice low.

“All clear,” Jake’s voice replied.

“The second team’s ahead, the perimeter's clean and the cameras are live.”

Nick gave a brief acknowledgment and let his eyes cut toward you. The streetlight glow skimmed across your face, catching the faint sheen of sweat still clinging to your skin. 

You weren’t looking at him, your gaze stayed on the blur of buildings sliding past the window, jaw tight.

He knew that tension. The sharp line of it. 

The way it coiled under your skin, prickling just beneath the surface. It wasn’t fear. 

And it wasn’t only anger, though he could feel that radiating off you too.

“We’ll be at the safehouse until I get clearance,” he said finally, his voice calm but pitched lower than it needed to be.

That got you to turn your head, your eyes catching his with just enough defiance to spark something hot in his chest.

He didn’t look at you, but he could feel it, that spark of defiance bristling beside him, the way your head turned just slightly toward him like you were about to argue.

For a second, he almost wanted you to. 

Just to see if your pulse would kick again under his fingers like it had in the club. But you stayed quiet. And Nick kept his gaze forward, cataloging the last two turns before the safehouse.

The hum between you didn’t fade with the silence. It only coiled tighter, hotter, until the building finally appeared in the darkness ahead.

—----

The place was silent when Nick pushed the door open.

Every sound, the faint hum of the fridge, the creak of old floorboards, the soft click as he locked the door behind you felt amplified.

He swept the room in seconds, the same way he’d swept dozens like it before. Blinds down. Corners clear. Window locks checked. 

The space was bare-bones: one couch, one bed, a kitchenette that looked like it hadn’t seen use in months. Temporary. Functional. 

Exactly what he needed.

What you needed, even if you didn’t like it.

Nick holstered his weapon and finally turned toward you. 

You were still by the door, arms crossed, looking composed instead of frayed. You might’ve steadied on the way here, but he could still see the adrenaline riding you, the quick rise and fall of your breath, and the way your knuckles whitened against your arms.

“You’re staying here until I say go,” he said, voice low but even. 

“No clubs. No midnight walks. No arguments.”

You arched a brow. “And if I don’t?”

He didn’t move, but his gaze locked on yours. The silence stretched, your mouth twitching like you were daring him.

That got him to close the distance, not all the way, but enough that the air between you shifted. The faint bite of his cologne cut through the sterile room, his presence filling the space in a way that made your pulse jump whether you wanted it to or not.

His voice dropped a shade lower, softer but edged.

“Then I do my job. Which doesn’t involve asking twice.”

Your breath caught before you could stop it. 

“Is that a threat?”

Nick’s mouth ticked, not quite a smile.

“No. That’s a reminder.”

His eyes flicked down briefly, to your throat, where your pulse fluttered, before lifting back to yours. Just that flicker, but it sent heat curling through your chest.

He didn’t reach for you. But he didn’t look away, either.

“You remember Prague,” he said quietly. 

“You remember what happens when I stop holding back.”

Your fingers tightened on your arms.

“And what if I’m not interested in a repeat performance?” you shot back, voice cooler than you felt.

Nick’s gaze didn’t waver.

“Then we don’t have a problem,” he said evenly. “But we both know what you want.”

Then, as if the tension wasn’t hot between you, Nick stepped back, unclipped his comm, and set it on the table with a soft click.

“You know fuck all, Fowler. That’s probably why you washed out of the CIA and now you’re just another rent-a-cop to the stars.”

His calm gaze didn’t waver, but his jaw flexed once. His eyes flicked to your mouth, quick and deliberate, before sliding back to your eyes.

“You keep pushing,” he murmured, his voice low and steady.

“Same way you did in Prague. But if you keep pushing, Princess, you don’t get to pull back when I finally respond.”

The words landed like a live wire, sparking down your spine.

“And if I want you to?”

Nick raised his hand and his thumb brushed hair back from your temple, a slow, deliberate pass, just enough to make your stomach twist. His voice dropped lower, almost a whisper.

“Then we stop talking about it.”

He stepped back, making you want to chase him. It was maddening.

“Get some sleep,” he said, his tone flat again. “We’ll talk about Vegas security in the morning.”

But then he turned away, leaving your chest tight and your pulse climbing all over again.

—--

The safehouse didn’t sleep easy.

Not with Nick’s voice still curling around your body. Not with his words replaying every time you shut your eyes.

Nick claimed the couch, more to keep distance than comfort. You drifted in and out on the bed, half-hearing him move through the place, boots on the floorboards, water running, coffee brewing.

None of it was the reason you couldn’t sleep.

The reason was him. A man built of stillness and steel, pacing in the next room.

You remember Prague. You remember what happens when I stop holding back.

Sometime past two a.m., the soft creak of floorboards pulled you out of the spiral. You sat up, blanket slipping to your waist, just as Nick appeared in the doorway. A dark henley and sweats replaced his suit, hair still damp, the faint scent of soap following him.

He leaned against the frame, arms crossed, eyes drifting over you in the half-light. Controlled, but heavier than before.

“You’re still awake,” he said finally, his voice low enough that it sank into your skin.

You met his gaze, tugging the blanket higher even though you weren’t cold.

“Hard to sleep when someone’s circling like a guard dog.”

One corner of his mouth ticked, not amusement, not annoyance, but something tighter. He pushed off the frame, closing a few steps until he stood at the edge of the bed, close enough to feel his warmth.

“You want me to stop pacing?” His tone was soft, but it landed heavy.

“Or you want me to stop pretending I don’t know why you’re still awake?”

Your breath hitched. He moved to the footlocker, pulled out plain black sweats, and tossed them to you.

“Take a shower. Get out of that club gear. You’ll feel better.”

You looked at the sweats, then back at the locker. 

“No underwear in there?”

“This is all we’ve got. Improvise.”

Your stomach tightened at the thought, but you huffed and took the clothes, locking the bathroom door behind you. You stared at yourself in the mirror, towel in hand, trying not to imagine how easily you would beg.

—--

The problem was, Nick couldn’t control his cock around you.

Nick prided himself on control.

In the CIA, your body was just another weapon. But with you, none of that held. Didn’t matter how many ops he’d run, how many firefights he’d walked away from steady and calm. 

The second you stepped out of the bathroom in nothing but a towel, drops of water sliding down your collarbone, those thighs glistening in the dim glow of the safehouse light, every ounce of discipline went right out the window.

You didn’t flinch under his stare. You stepped closer, your eyes locking on his, testing him again. His pupils blew wide.

“Kiss me,” you said.

Nick didn’t hesitate.

He leaned down, one hand wrapping firmly around your throat, the other gripping your thigh like it was nothing to lift you. His fingers slid along your ass into the slick heat between your thighs, and you gasped as the towel slipped, your hips rolling against the thick ridge in his sweats.

He kissed you hard and deep, until you made that sound in the back of your throat the one he could never forget, the one that always undid him. Then he set you down carefully, watching your chest heave as you panted.

He tasted you off his fingers, his voice low, dangerous.

“You’re wet for me. You want the Princess treatment?”

Nick stepped toward you, and you backed up even as your eyes locked on his. He caught the edge of your towel and pulled, letting it drop to the floor as his gaze raked over you, slow and hungry. His tongue dragged over his bottom lip.

You slapped him, sharp and unexpected.

He smiled, unbothered. Thrilled, even.

“There’s my answer.”

His hand closed around your arm, not harsh, but firm, and in one smooth motion, he spun you and pushed you down so your chest hit the bed. His grip slid to your hips, hauling you up so that your ass was high, his palms spreading you as he dropped to his knees behind you.

The first swipe of his tongue made you jolt, fingers clutching the sheets. He held you steady, mouth working you open, slowly at first, then deeper, harder, until your thighs trembled against his shoulders.

Nick pulled back just enough to speak, his voice low, and his breath hot against your pussy as he pushed down his sweats and started stroking himself.

“Does Pretty Boy know the Princess likes it rough?” His tone sharpened, a ghost of a smirk at the edge. “That this pussy only curves to my dick?”

And Christ, that dick.

Nick wasn’t blind. He knew what you thought the first time you saw it. Long and thick and heavy in his hand, a weapon he’d never needed to advertise. 

But when blood rushed hot through him, when you dropped to your knees in Prague and he pulled it out, he’d seen your eyes widen as you realized exactly what you were dealing with.

It was sizeable, thick and gorgeous, with a perfect mushroomed head and just enough of a curve to hit exactly where you needed it to. It was the kind of cock that felt made for your mouth, made for your cunt, and the reason no other man ever stood a chance after he’d been inside you.

Talk about a concealed weapon.

Nick’s hand dragged down your spine as he ate you out, until it settled at the curve of your hip. You were trembling, your breath catching with every lick of his tongue and suck of his lips until he finally pulled back, his mouth slick as he wiped it with the back of his hand.

“Don’t move,” he murmured, voice calm enough to make your pulse spike.

His cock was already thick and aching as he climbed on the bed behind you.

You’d always done this to him. He could’ve gone months without even jerking off, no trouble. But one look at you, hips tipped high, cunt slick and wanting, and he was already leaking, already twitching in his grip.

Nick gripped your ass, spreading you open as he leaned forward, dragging the blunt head of his cock over your soaked slit. You whimpered, the sound vibrating through the thin walls, and his jaw flexed as he leaned close to your ear.

“You wanna feel that curve, don’t you?” he rasped, his voice low and rough. 

“This is why no one else can fill you properly, Princess. This dick was made for you.”

He pushed in slow, the stretch deliberate, letting you feel every inch. You gasped, your fingers clawing at the sheets as he bottomed out, the subtle bend hitting deep, right where he knew you needed it.

“Jesus, fuck, Nick,” you moaned, voice ragged.

“Yeah,” he muttered against your shoulder, his hand sliding up your stomach to grip your throat, tilting your head so your cheek brushed his jaw.

“Say it. Let me hear it.”

He started to move, long, deep thrusts, controlled and steady at first, each one driving his cock into you until your body shuddered. He angled his hips just so, letting the curve of him grind against that spot that always made your breath stutter and your thighs shake.

“Nick, please!” you gasped, the words breaking on a moan, almost singing.

He growled low in your ear, his thrusts picking up, hips snapping harder, enough to make your teeth rattle. 

“That’s it. Take it. Take every inch. You wanted the Princess treatment, didn’t you? So take it.”

His fingers found your clit, circling in time with his thrusts, and your moans pitched higher, your body arching, every nerve lit.

“Come on,” he murmured against your ear, his breath hot, his thrusts relentless. 

“I can feel how close you are. Come on my cock, Princess.”

You shattered around him, your cry muffled against the mattress as he held you through it, grinding deep until your shudders eased. Then he flipped you onto your back, his eyes dark and wild.

“Not done,” he rasped, hooking your legs over his forearms and driving back in, rougher now as he chased his own release. You could see it in his face, the tight jaw, the blown pupils, the flicker of restraint barely holding as he buried himself deep, again and again.

When he came, it was with a low, rough groan against your neck, his hips pressing flush to yours as his body shook with the force of it.

Nick stayed there for a minute, his weight heavy but grounding. Then he pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, his fingers brushing your jaw with surprising gentleness.

“Now,” he murmured, a faint smirk curving his mouth, “you can sleep.”

He eased out of you slowly, guiding you down to the mattress. You were still trembling, your breath soft and uneven. He pulled the blanket over you, pressing his mouth to the side of your throat, a kiss softer than anything he’d given you all night.

“Breathe,” he murmured, his hand smoothing along your ribs until your pulse slowed beneath his fingers. “Sleep now. I’ll handle the rest.”

And for once, you didn’t fight him. The exhaustion from the club, the scare, and everything after pulled you under.

—----

The next morning, Nick was already up and dressed, his holster back at his hip. The coffee pot gurgled faintly from the kitchenette.

“Get dressed,” he said, his voice as flat and professional as ever.

“Jake’s cleared everything. Threat’s neutralized. We’re moving.”

You stared at him from the bed, the sting of his detachment hitting harder than you wanted it to. He didn’t meet your eyes as he checked his phone, tapping out a message.

“Back to your hotel,” he added. “Your schedule picks up this afternoon.”

And that was it. No trace of last night, no softness, no hint of the man who’d kissed you until your knees gave out or murmured in your ear while you came apart. Just Nick Fowler, ex-CIA, the shadow your label had shoved back into your life.

By the time you were dressed and back in the car, you could feel the wall going up between you. 

His, yours, both.

When Jake pulled up to your hotel, Nick didn’t walk you in. Just gave a short nod, his blue eyes unreadable behind his sunglasses in the morning light before the SUV pulled away.

Inside, your phone buzzed. Cameron’s name lit the screen. You didn’t hesitate before pressing the button forcing the smile into your voice as soon as he spoke.

“Hey Love. Are you okay?”

“Hey,” you said softly, sinking into the plush hotel chair. “I’m good. Are you busy? …No, I’m back now. Can you come over? Yeah, I could use the company.”

You didn’t mention the safehouse. Or Nick. Or the way your thighs still ached in the best and worst ways.

Some things, for now, needed to stay in the shadows.

[ramp-it-up]

TYSM for sharinggg! 🥰

The Pupil

Summary: Restraint gives way to obsession.

Word count: 7.7 K 😬

Pairing: College Student!Bucky Barnes x Professor!Reader

A/N: No one asked for this. This idea hit me when I was contemplating my career choices because I started work Thursday and gremlins come next week, and I thought, if I was a professor and Bucky Barnes walked in my class….🥹 .This is long, it is self indulgent and it is my therapy. I apologize for the length, but it could have been much longer. Hit me up to tell me how you feel about it.

Warnings: 18+ Only, Minors DNI. Read at your own risk. Smut! Power imbalance (professor/student, age gap 38/26) raw p in v sex, sexting, phone sex, masturbation, video sharing, unprotected sex. Obsession, emotional repression, and blurred lines. Reader self-deception and power/control themes. Bucky is feral, intense, and fully locked in. Young dom Bucky all the way. Angst, mutual unraveling, no fluff, all heat. Not Beta'd. All errors my own.

I no longer have a taglist. Please follow @rampitupandread and turn on notifications to learn when I post! 😘

I Do NOT Consent to my work being reposted, translated or presented on any other blog or site other than by myself.

----------

You didn’t always dress like this.

Not in the elegant high-waisted trousers that elongated your already long legs, and the silk blouses in slate and cream, each one buttoned up and tucked just so.

And not in the heels, expensive, pointed, and high, meant to remind you, and everyone else, that control starts at the ankle.

There was a time you tried to disappear.

Back when you were married to a man who said he liked your brain but openly resented your ambition. Who told you quiet was dignified and called you “intimidating” instead of a boss.

Back then you wore flats and cardigans and neutral tones and made yourself smaller in rooms where you should’ve stood tall.

And then one day, you stopped.

Your divorce wasn’t explosive.

It was silent.

You kept your name, your tenured position, and the apartment with the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. He kept the excuses.

And the you learned to love your own company. Late-night reading by lamplight. Coffee in silence.

Fresh sheets, open windows, and no one to bend for.

You built a life that didn’t need anyone else in it. You weren’t lonely. You were whole.

Or so you thought.

Five years after the divorce, at 38, you were tenured, respected, published, and a bright star in Brooklyn College’s English Department. 

You strode into the lecture hall in heels and pencil skirts, your hair up, your lipstick bold, and your syllabus uncompromising. Your specialty was desire on the page, Womanist texts, subversion in narrative form.

The literature of hunger and restraint.

And you were good at it.

You were used to being the subject of attention from your students, attention that extended beyond a concern for their grades. 

Sometimes they were just curious. Sometimes they were crude. Occasionally, they flirted, tried to make you laugh, or tried to match your intellect with theirs.

But you handled it. You shut it down.

You had been with colleagues once or twice, brief encounters that scratched an itch but never lingered. They never made you miss someone when they left your bed or made you want to stay.

There had never been any encounter that made you pause in the doorway of your own classroom and forget, for a split second, what the hell you were about to say.

Until him.

Until James Buchanan Barnes.

—--

You didn’t notice him when you took roll, not at first.

You were focused on your board notes, your syllabus, the usual opening-week checklist, names, majors, who looked restless, who would drop by week three. 

But then you turned, mid-sentence, scanning the room, and your eyes landed on him.

He hadn’t raised his hand. He hadn’t made a sound. But the way he held himself drew your attention like a magnet. 

He sat with the rigid stillness of someone trained for tension, shoulders wide and braced inside a seat not built to hold him, his spine so straight it looked like a kind of discipline.

He wasn’t fidgeting and he wasn’t distracted; he was just silent, present, and alert.

That should have been your first clue. But it wasn’t the way he sat that stopped you.

It was the rest of him.

The overlong dark hair tucked neatly behind one ear. 

The worn black T-shirt pulled across a chest that didn’t belong in a sophomore seminar, and the way his lips pressed together in concentration as he read your syllabus like it was a puzzle to be solved.

The large, veined hand curled around a pen instead of a keyboard, and his notebook was full of cramped, deliberate handwriting.

He looked like someone who had seen the world, someone too young to have such old eyes, though he was older than the others in your class.

He looked like someone who was trying very hard not to be noticed. And it didn’t work.

Because the second he lifted his eyes to meet yours, brilliant blue, sharp, and unwavering, it was over.

You told yourself it meant nothing. He was just a student. One of many.

But then he spoke.

And his voice was low, steady, and crackling with an alluring tenor that almost masked how smart he really was.

And then he argued.

Not with arrogance, but clarity. Citing Baldwin and Heller without a trace of hesitation, pushing back just enough to make it interesting, enough to make your breath catch.

And suddenly you knew.

This one was going to be dangerous.

—--

He knew professors were supposed to be older.

Seasoned. Maybe tired-looking. Overworked and underpaid, carrying canvas tote bags and books with cracked spines.

He wasn’t expecting you.

You walked in like you owned the entire department, heels sharp against the tile, jaw set in a way that made him sit straighter without thinking, and not a single strand of your hair was out of place.

You were wearing a slate grey silk blouse, tucked into high-waisted black trousers that clung to your shape with elegant precision. And your lips were a color that made his mouth go dry.

And Bucky Barnes forgot to breathe.

He picked up his pen before you even spoke.

Not because he was trying to impress you, but because something about you told him that half-assed wasn’t welcome in your presence.

You didn’t look directly at anyone when you entered. You set your bag down, clicked your pen once, and began to speak with the urgency of someone who had no time to waste.

In less than ten minutes, you quoted Morrison, asked a question no one dared answer, and looked directly at him when he did.

That was the first time your gaze met his. And it turned his stomach inside out.

You were older than him, but not in the way that word often implied. You didn’t look tired. You didn’t look diminished. You looked like power.

You looked like someone who had learned to survive, and who didn’t flinch when she walked away from the battle.

He wanted to impress you, of course.

But more than that, he just wanted you to look at him like that again.

——

The semester moved forward, and Bucky was in the front row every class, early enough to see you walk in. He didn’t fidget, he didn’t scroll his phone, and he didn’t scribble anything until you started talking.

His eyes were always on the door, and when you walked through it, his pulse kicked like a reflex.

You were striking.

Every week, in silk blouses, pencil skirts, or tailored trousers, always poised and sharp-edged, never once looking like anyone else on campus.

But what unstrung him was not how you looked.

It was the way you never once looked at him like an object. You never treated your students like they were interchangeable. When you looked at him, you saw him.

And Bucky felt it.

He hadn’t expected to enjoy Postmodern Literature. It sounded like the kind of class where people tried to out-theorize each other, but it surprised him.

And it was the first time since returning to school that he felt like he belonged.

Before your class, he felt like a ghost in the hallway.

Older than most of them at 26, but younger in other ways, like he’d lost time, like he was trying to catch up to a life that had kept going without him.

The Army was paying for his education. Six years in, two years out, into places no one ever talked about. He came back with too many memories and not enough peace.

Literature helped. Reading gave the noise somewhere to go. He filled notebooks just to keep the chaos from spilling over.

And you made it matter.

When you spoke, he listened with his entire body. Every word felt like a match being struck. Every question you asked set something in him on fire.

He kept his face blank when you entered, but inside, something locked into place every time.

“This isn’t a survey course,” you said on the first day. “This is an excavation. We’re going to talk about hunger, about power, about desire, and about what happens when stories lie to us.”

Bucky Barnes was going to learn everything you had to teach.

And not just from the syllabus.

—-

The first time Bucky Barnes had you shook was unexpected.

“Stanley Kowalski isn’t just a villain,” you told the room.

“He’s a study in what happens when masculinity hides its own fragility. What’s worse, being violent, or pretending you’re not?”

There was a pause.

Then his hand went up.

“Yes…?”

“Barnes. James Barnes,” he said, as if you didn’t know his name. You knew his name.

“I think pretending is worse. Because then people convince themselves it’s not violence at all. It’s just… what men do.”

The room went quiet. It was a good point. A sharp one. You nodded, your lips curving just slightly. 

“Interesting. Care to elaborate, Mr. Barnes?”

He leaned forward on the desk, shoulders tense but voice calm. 

“Stanley’s problem isn’t just power. It’s that he thinks he’s entitled to everything. Stella. The apartment. The air they breathe. And when someone tells him he’s not, he loses his mind.”

Your breath caught.

“An excellent observation,” you said, forcing your tone steady.

And you moved on to the next point, your pulse racing.

—---

He didn’t mean to linger. But he did.

Most of the class had already filtered out into the dark, backpacks slung over shoulders, the last few stragglers murmuring their way toward the exit. The lateness of the class cleared the room quickly. 

But Bucky stayed seated in the front row, fingers drumming quietly on the edge of his notebook, eyes fixed forward, on you.

You moved with quiet purpose as you erased the board, your blouse soft under the glow of fluorescent light, and your heels clicking softly against the tile.

You always moved like that, like you had all the time in the world. Like you knew he was watching, and you didn’t care.

Or maybe you did. Maybe that was the problem.

When you turned to face him, your expression was unreadable, carefully professional. 

“Did you need something, Mr. Barnes?”

He stood slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. 

“Just wanted to thank you. For the lecture.”

You raised a brow.

“You’re paying tuition. No need to thank me.”

“Still,” he said, shifting his weight, but not too close. 

“Most professors don’t talk about Streetcar like that. You didn’t soften him. You didn’t make Stanley a hero. You called him what he was.”

Something flickered across your face. Amusement, maybe. Or curiosity. Your mouth curved, just barely. 

“Is that supposed to impress me?”

He smiled warmly. Not cocky, but careful. 

“Would it work if I said yes?”

You stared at him for one beat too long. And then you laughed quietly. The sound was beautiful.

It hit him square in the chest.

“Goodnight, Mr. Barnes,” you said. But you weren’t dismissive.

It would’ve been easy to say something he shouldn’t. Something about how well that skirt fit the curves of your ass, or the slope of your neck, or the way you looked like a woman a man could ruin himself for, and thank her for it.

But he didn’t.

He just cleared his throat and said, “Goodnight, Professor.” 

And then he walked out. Before he could make a mistake.

—---

You were at your desk during office hours, door open, glasses on, red pen in hand, halfway through dissecting an undergrad’s overwrought interpretation of Beloved when you heard a knock.

You didn’t need to look up.

You already knew it was him.

There was a particular rhythm to the way James Barnes moved that was controlled and deliberate. That soldier steadiness in every step. You took a breath before looking up, willing your heart not to react, willing your body to stay still.

“Professor,” he said, low and polite, leaning just slightly into the doorway.

“You got a minute?”

“Of course,” you said, gesturing to the chair across from you like it was just another Wednesday.

Like you hadn’t been hyperaware of him since the moment he walked into your class. 

“Come in.”

He did, wearing a dark henley, jeans, and a backpack slung over one shoulder. He sat down slowly, and you caught a whiff of his scent.

It made your mouth dry.

“I wanted to talk more about the reading,” he said. “If that’s okay.”

“Always.”

He pulled out his copy of The Awakening, pages heavily annotated. 

You should have been focused on what he was saying, but you weren’t. Not entirely.

His voice had that textured quality that hummed through your spine when he spoke. And the way he watched you, like everything you said mattered, was dangerous. 

It made you lean forward. And it made your next question softer than it should have been.

“Do you think Edna is selfish? Or just trapped?”

He tilted his head.

“Both. But I think the trap came first.”

God. He was good.

You pushed your glasses up the bridge of your nose and tried not to notice how the room suddenly felt too warm. 

He spoke like it was casual. But he knew it wasn’t. Not to you. He could tell by the way your eyes lit up. 

He could get addicted to that.

He could tell that you were impressed, and that you didn’t want to be. 

That knowledge made something hot flicker in his chest.

He thought about what you’d look like letting go.

He thought about backing you against that desk and hearing you say his name. Not Mr. Barnes, Bucky.

He thought about dropping to his knees and making you forget every reason you were telling yourself not to want him.

“Mr. Barnes,” you said, clearing your throat lightly, “are you trying to impress me again?”

“Not trying,” he said, voice even. “Just telling the truth.”

That stopped you for a second. And in that second, you smiled.

That was your mistake.

Because in that smile, you gave something away.

And he knew it.

That smile wasn’t dismissive. It wasn’t professional. 

And it definitely wasn’t safe.

It told him that you were thinking about it too.

Even if you wouldn’t admit it.

He didn’t say any of that. Not yet. But one day soon, he might.

—--

You weren’t expecting to see anyone you knew at Prospect Park.

This part of Brooklyn is your quiet zone. Your weekend escape. You come for the live music, the breeze off the trees, the way the city softened just enough to let you breathe.

You were wearing a sundress, nothing scandalous, but light, flowing, a little backless. Your hair was loose and you were comfortable. Free. 

Younger than you usually let yourself feel.

You had your blanket spread out near the edge of the crowd, a book open on your lap, eyes closed as the saxophone swelled. And then…

“Professor?”

Your stomach dropped. Because you knew that voice. You opened your eyes slowly and turned your head, and there he was.

James Barnes.

He was standing a few feet away, hands in the pockets of his jeans, t-shirt snug across his chest. He had a water bottle hooked through one finger, and he looked… stunned.

You blinked, and sat up slowly. When your eyes met his, they widened just enough for him to see the truth: you hadn’t expected to see him either. 

And you weren’t ready.

“Mr. Barnes.”

His eyes raked over you, quickly, respectfully, but there was no hiding the way they lingered. 

You looked… radiant. Relaxed. And so young. Relaxed in a way he’d never seen you. Unguarded.

Your sundress moved when you shifted, a flash of bare shoulder and the curve of your neck knocking something loose in his chest. 

For a second, he forgot you were his professor. 

He just saw a woman so beautiful it felt unreal to look at you out of context. 

You watched the moment he really saw you with your hair down and your sandals off and your mouth slightly parted in surprise.

He didn’t say anything for a second too long.

And it rattled you.

You were used to being looked at. But not by him. Not like this.

“You here for the show?” you asked, trying to sound calm.

He nodded slowly as his eyes dragged over you again.

“Yeah. Didn’t expect to see anyone from campus.”

You raised an eyebrow.

“What, professors don’t like jazz?”

“No,” he said. “I just didn’t think you looked like this… out in the wild.”

You laughed, too loud. Embarrassed. And a little flattered.

“Well. Surprise.”

He didn’t look away.

And that’s when you realized, you were not in control of this moment. Not the way you usually were. Because for the first time in years, you’re the one who doesn’t know what to do with your hands. Or your mouth. 

Or your rapidly racing heart.

Bucky made small talk, played it cool, but he couldn’t stop staring.

He didn’t know you could laugh like that. He didn’t know a simple sundress could make his brain short-circuit when he’d spent weeks imagining what you look like underneath all that silk and structure.

He could leave. He probably should.

But you’re not telling him to.

And for a moment, just one long, buzzy moment, Bucky wondered if the line between you already broke, and you both just keep pretending it’s still there.

—---

You patted the edge of the blanket before you could talk yourself out of it.

“Feel free to sit,” you said, tone light, professor-pleasant. 

He hesitated only a moment, then lowered himself onto the corner, legs stretched out in front of him, careful not to sit too close. You straightened your spine but didn’t lean into the warmth.

“So,” he said after a beat, eyes forward, voice casual.

“Didn’t take you for the Prospect Park jazz type.”

You hummed softly, keeping your gaze on the stage. 

“Everyone needs a little fresh air.”

He nodded, giving you room. You sat shoulder to shoulder in a comfortable silence that allowed you to think too much.

The set ended with a soft cymbal roll and a murmur of applause. You clapped, grateful for the distraction and for something to break the silence that’s been stretching between you like a tripwire.

Bucky, James, Barnes, Christ, brushed his palms on his jeans and stood slowly. You stayed seated, not trusting your legs just yet.

“Well,” he said, his voice quiet but steady. “I should get going.”

You nodded, eyes on your book even though you haven’t read a word of it since he sat down.

“Of course. Thanks for saying hi.”

He paused. You felt it.

“I’ll see you in class,” he said finally.

And you nodded again. Too fast. Too clipped.

“Goodnight, Mr. Barnes.”

“Goodnight, Professor.”

Your name on his tongue would ruin you. You knew that. So you were grateful, in a sick way, that he didn’t use it. That he kept the mask on, even as he walked away without looking back.

Only once he was far enough away do you finally exhale.

—----

The next week, he waited until the last twenty minutes of your posted office hours.

Long enough that you probably thought no one else was coming.

You were behind your desk, papers stacked to your left, a half-empty yogurt cup in the trash beside you. Your hair was pinned back tight, the way you always wore it on days when control mattered most. The soft hum of your laptop filled the quiet, a jazz playlist coming from the speakers.

You looked like calm incarnate. But he saw the hesitation when you glanced up and saw him standing in the doorway.

"Mr. Barnes," you said, voice as composed as your posture. "Come in."

He did, quietly and carefully keeping his distance. He always did. He asked about Baldwin. Giovanni’s Room. His tone was casual, almost too casual, but the tightness in his jaw gave him away.

And then…

“I’ve been thinking about what you read in class,” he said, voice low.

“The part about self-deception.”

You looked up slowly. You knew where this was going.

“Is that what this is?”

You didn’t answer.

“I can’t pretend anymore,” he continued. “Not with you.”

The air in the room changed.

“I want you,” he said, firmer now.

“I’ve wanted you since the first class. I thought I could ignore it, bury it under respect, or rules, or whatever you needed from me. But it’s still there.”

You couldn’t breathe.

Not well. Not normally. Not with him standing there saying that like it was a truth he’d been carrying in his bones since the beginning of the semester.

You stared at him, searching for something you could use to shut it down. Immaturity. Fantasy. Entitlement. But it wasn’t there. 

He wasn’t testing you. He wasn’t fantasizing. He was telling you the truth. And now it was here.

Said aloud in your office.

“I’m not confused,” he said. 

“And I’m not asking for anything. I just needed you to know I’m done pretending I don’t feel it.”

You folded your hands in your lap because you didn’t trust them not to move. Not to reach. Not to tremble.

“This isn’t possible,” you said, voice thin. “You’re my student.”

“I know.”

But he didn’t back down.

You exhaled, and let the silence grow.

That usually made people fumble excuses to fill the void. And when he didn’t retreat, didn’t apologize, didn’t break, you reached for the only weapon left: distance.

“You’re twenty-six.”

“Almost twenty-seven.”

“I’m thirty-eight.”

“I know.”

“That’s over a decade.”

“I’m aware.”

You hated how calm he was. You hated that some stupid, aching part of you wanted him to lose control, because at least then it wouldn’t feel so dangerous. Or deliberate.

“You’ve seen things,” you said. “You’ve survived things. But you’re still figuring out who you are.”

He didn’t argue. And somehow, that made it worse.

“I’ve worked my whole life for this career,” you snapped. “I’m not throwing it away for a moment in a park or a crush you can’t separate from fantasy.”

“It’s not a crush,” he said. “And it’s not a fantasy.”

“Stop,” you said, louder than you intended.

He did.

And your throat burned. When you finally spoke again, your voice was softer.

“I need you to leave.”

He didn’t argue, just looked at you and nodded.

“Of course, Professor.”

You didn’t watch him go. You kept your eyes on the stack of ungraded essays in front of you, pretending they mattered more than the fact that you hadn’t really wanted him to leave. 

You wanted him to stay. 

And close the door.

—--

You didn’t assign any reading the next week.

You told yourself it was because midterms were coming. You told yourself it was merciful.

It wasn’t.

It was preparation.

You kept it clean in class, composed. Cold, even.

You called on him once, just to prove you could, and he answered in that low, calm voice like nothing was wrong. Like you weren’t wet under your skirt for the full fifty minutes.

And when the room cleared, and he stayed in his seat, you just stood.

“I need to see you in my office about last week’s meeting, Mr. Barnes.”

He just sat there and watched you walk out of the door, listening to your heels click their way down the hall to your office.

You left the door unlocked.

You waited.

And when he finally stepped into your office and shut the door behind him, you just looked at him. And he looked at you.

And that was all it took to understand.

You stepped back against your desk and swallowed hard.

“We don’t talk about this after,” you said, quietly.

“Okay,” he said, eyes dark.

“But you need to say it.”

You nodded once. “It’s just sex.”

Bucky knew you were lying, but you were offering him something and he was going to take it. He moved toward you.

You held his gaze.

“I’m on birth control.”

“I’m clean,” he said. “Tested last month.”

“So am I.”

A pause. You lifted your chin.

“I want it raw.”

He exhaled through his nose, something primal flickering across his face.

“Jesus. You sure?”

You nodded again. “You?”

“Yeah,” he said, voice rasping now. “Fuck yeah.”

And when his hands finally landed on you, you felt your control collapse. And it felt so good.

He kissed you like you were already his, like he’d spent months imagining this exact moment, how your mouth would part, how your hands would clutch at his shoulders, how your body would give the second he asked.

You moaned into him, soft, needy, and unguarded. And that was all he needed. He lifted you in one clean motion and set you back on your desk.

Urgently. You shoved the papers aside with one sweep of your arm. Something fluttered to the floor. You didn’t care.

His hands pushed your skirt up to your waist, exposing your bare thighs, and when he realized you weren’t wearing anything underneath…

“Fuck,” he whispered, looking down at you like he’d never seen a pussy before.

You hooked your ankles around his hips. 

“Don’t waste time.”

He looked up, eyes locked on yours, and slid two fingers through your cunt, like he wanted to memorize how wet you already were for him.

“Jesus,” he muttered. “You were like this all through class?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Your head tipped back when he sank to his knees.

He didn't tease and he didn’t take his time.

His mouth was on you in seconds, hot and filthy, his tongue licking up your slit, mouth closing over your clit like he’d been studying for this moment. And he had.

You gasped, one hand flying to the edge of the desk, the other buried in his hair as he groaned into you. It was too much. Too fast. Too good.

You’d touched yourself thinking about this. Pictured it. Fantasized. But nothing had prepared you for the way he devoured you. Like he needed it to breathe.

Your thighs shook. Your hips rolled into his mouth. And when you came, you heard him groan like he felt it, too.

He stood quickly, shoved his jeans down just enough, and lined himself up without another word.

You looked down and your breath caught. You wanted it. You asked for this. You reached between your legs and guided him in yourself.

You both groaned.

He filled you in one slow thrust, inch after inch of hard, perfect pressure, and you nearly came again right then.

His hands gripped your thighs. He drew back and thrust again, so hard the desk creaked.

You bit your lip to keep from screaming.

“Look at me,” he growled.

You did.

His eyes were wild.

“I’ve wanted this,” he said, voice breaking on the words. “Wanted you.”

You wrapped your arms around his shoulders. “Then fuck me like you mean it.”

He did.

Every thrust was deep, deliberate, devastating. The sound of skin on skin filled the room, slick and obscene. Your body took him like you were made for it, like this was inevitable. Like finally.

He slid one hand up your blouse, pushed your bra up, palmed your breast, and groaned when you arched into it. His mouth was at your throat, biting, sucking, and praising through gritted teeth.

“So tight. Fuck you feel so good.”

You clawed at his back.

“I’m gonna come,” you gasped. “Don’t stop! Please”

He buried his face in your neck. 

“Not stopping. Not, fuck, not pulling out…”

You came hard. Writhing, and breaking beneath him.

And when he followed,seconds later, pulsing inside you with a choked groan and a helpless thrust, you realized: This would never be just sex.

And you were never going to forget this.

—----

He knocked the next week at office hours. You almost wished he wouldn’t.

You looked up, your expression blank. “Come in.”

He stepped inside. Closed the door gently. Not locking it. 

You gestured to the chair. “Sit.”

He did.

You watched him for a moment. He looked good. Too good. Calm again. Always so goddamn calm. You folded your hands in your lap.

“This can’t happen again.”

He didn’t flinch. Just waited.

You cleared your throat. 

“What happened in this office was unprofessional. And dangerous. For both of us.”

Still, he said nothing.

“I don’t care how quiet we are. If anyone finds out…”

“They won’t,” he said softly.

“That’s not the point.”

You didn’t raise your voice. But it felt like a scream.

“I worked too hard for this. I have too much to lose.”

“I know.”

You blinked. “That’s it?”

He met your eyes. 

“If you’re done, if you really don’t want me to touch you again, say it.”

You opened your mouth. But no words came out. Because that wasn’t true. And you both knew it.

So instead, you said: “This ends now.”

And he nodded once. But his eyes didn’t believe you.

And when he stood to leave, your body betrayed you again. Because you wanted him.

You said it before you could stop yourself.

“James.”

It was soft, a sound you weren’t aware you were capable of. Not so full of need like that. 

But he heard it. He paused in the doorway. Shoulders tensed. One hand still on the knob. He turned and met your eyes.

And you didn’t take it back.

He stepped back into the room and shut the door behind him, locking it this time.

He crossed the room in three strides, hands on your body, spinning you around with authority. And you let him. 

Your blouse was still buttoned. Your trousers were still on. But you were soaked the moment he touched you. 

“You knew I couldn’t resist you,” he said, voice low behind you.

His mouth grazed your ear as he pressed into you, hard beneath his jeans.

“You don’t want me to.”

You didn’t deny it, just unbuttoned your pants and let them fall.

No panties again.

His hands were on you in an instant, dragging you back against him, cursing under his breath when his fingers slipped between your legs and found you already dripping.

“You wanted this.”

“Don’t talk,” you breathed.

But you didn’t mean it.

He pushed your blouse up, leaned over you, one hand planted on the desk beside yours, the other between your legs.

“You still want it raw?”

You nodded.

“Say it.”

“Yes,” you whispered. “Please.”

He undid his jeans. You felt the press of him against your thigh, hot and thick and ready.

And when he pushed into you, you gasped.

There was no easing in. Just a deep, brutal thrust that forced a broken moan from your lips. You slapped a hand over your mouth, but he grabbed your wrist and pulled it away.

“Let me hear it.”

He fucked you hard. So hard that your desk rocked.

You forgot how to breathe as your cheek pressed against the cool surface of your desk and as your hands gripped the edge. 

He fucked you like he owned you, like this was always going to happen. 

Like he knew exactly what you needed, and he wasn’t going to let you hide from it again.

“You’re mine right now,” he panted. “No lies. No rules. Just this.”

You came fast, unexpectedly, a sob punching out of your throat as you clenched around him. He groaned and followed you seconds later, spilling inside you with a sharp cry, his hips stuttering against your ass.

For a long moment, there was nothing but breathing. He leaned over your back, both hands braced on the desk now, chest heaving.

You stayed still beneath him, your body still shaking.

Neither of you spoke.

Because what could you say?

—--

It was break week, and of course you could survive without seeing Bucky. 

It was just sex, and you were a grown woman. You wouldn’t text him; he didn’t have your number and you only had his because you had his student information.

You told yourself you wouldn’t. 

It was unprofessional.

You told yourself that if you just made it through Monday without texting, the rest of the week would be easier. And you almost believed it.

But by Thursday afternoon, your resolve had withered under need. Your apartment was too still. Your phone was too close.

You typed the message three times. Deleted it each time. Then sent it anyway.

You Did you finish Baldwin yet? Figure out the nature of self-deception?

You threw your phone across the couch the second it delivered.

Five minutes passed.

Then ten.

Then…

James: Did you really just text me about Baldwin while I’m picturing your ass bent over your desk?

Your stomach flipped.

You told yourself not to respond.

You absolutely responded.

You: I was being professional.

James: You didn’t sound very professional last time I had my fingers inside you.

You closed your eyes. And your pulse dropped straight between your thighs.

And then, another buzz.

James: Should I stop?

You stared at the screen.

Then your thumbs moved on their own.

You: No.

And that was it.

That was the beginning of the end.

Because now he had your number. And he didn’t just use it to flirt.

He used it to unravel you.

James: What are you wearing right now?

You shouldn’t have answered. But you did.

You: Nothing you’d be allowed to see if we were in class.

James: I wouldn’t need to see it.

You: No?

James: I’d just need to hear you.

Your breath caught as you watched the bubbles.

James: Want me to call you?

Your heart pounded as you stared at the screen.

Then you typed.

You: Yes.

—---

You answered without thinking.

He didn’t even say hello.

“Take your hand,” he said, voice calm, “and put it between your legs.”

Your breath caught instantly. 

“James…”

“Do it.”

You did.

And it was worse than being touched. Because now, every movement was yours, but every command was his.

“Are you wet?” he asked.

You nodded, forgetting he couldn’t see you. 

“Yes.”

“Fuck,” he muttered. “You miss me?”

You closed your eyes, head dropping back onto your pillow. 

“Yes.”

“How bad?”

“Don’t make me say it.”

“I want to hear you,” he growled. “You started this. Now I want you to tell me what you’ve been thinking about.”

You swallowed.

“Your hands on me. Your mouth. The way you sound when you come. The way you…”

“Touch yourself.”

You gasped at the sound of his voice in your ear, that subtle shift to something darker, something claiming.

“Just two fingers,” he said. “Keep the pressure light. Don’t come yet.”

You obeyed.

“Good girl.”

Your hips bucked slightly.

“Oh, you like that?” he asked, smug now. “I bet you’re soaked.”

“I hate you,” you breathed.

“No you don’t,” he said, quieter now.

“You love this. Being ruined without me even being in the room. So fucking desperate for it you couldn’t go one more day without hearing me.”

You whimpered, and his voice dropped further.

“Circle your clit. Slowly. Just like that. Stay with me.”

You could hear his breathing now. It wasn’t clean. He was hard. He was touching himself too. You knew it. You heard it in his voice.

“I want you so fucking bad,” he groaned.

“That desk wasn’t enough. I need to fuck you until you cry. Until you forget how to teach. Until you forget every name but mine.”

Your hips jerked.

“You close?”

“Yes, fuck, James, I…”

“Not yet.”

You froze.

“I want you begging.”

“I am.”

“No. Say it.”

You shook.

“Please, James. Let me come. I need it. Please…”

“Now,” he growled. “Come for me. Right now.”

And you did.

Hard. Gasping. One hand clamped over your mouth, the other between your legs, writhing into the mattress as the sound of his voice pushed you right over the edge.

On the other end, you heard him break too, a low, broken grunt, a whispered fuck, the subtle sound of his body surrendering.

Silence followed. Thick. Heavy. Full.

“Still just sex?” he asked finally.

You didn’t answer.

You couldn’t.

Because that was the lie. And you’d both just drowned in it.

—----

You didn’t sleep. Not really.

Every time you closed your eyes, you heard his voice.

Touch yourself. Good girl. Come for me. Like a current under your skin. Like a drug you couldn’t shake.

By midmorning, you gave up trying. You poured coffee, opened your laptop, stared at the stack of essays you were supposed to grade.

And then you reached for your phone.

No plan. No script.

Just the ache.

You: What are you doing?

He replied almost immediately.

James: Whatever you want me to be doing.

Your thighs pressed together. You were hopeless.

You: You’re insufferable.

James: You’re obsessed.

You didn’t argue.

James: Send me a photo.

Your pulse spiked.

You: Of what?

James: You. Just your mouth. No smile. Nothing posed. I want to see the version of you I shouldn’t have.

You hesitated.

Then turned on the front camera.

Hair messy. No makeup. Pillow creases still pressed into your cheek. Lips parted. No performance.

You sent it.

Seconds passed.

Then,

James: Take your shirt off.

You stared at the screen.

James: I want to see your tits while I jerk off.

Your breath caught.

You looked around your empty apartment like someone might be watching.

Then you pulled your shirt over your head.

You weren’t wearing a bra.

You angled the camera down just enough.

You took the photo and stared at it.

You looked... undone.

You sent it anyway.

James: Fuck. You’re perfect.

Another message followed right after.

James: Next time I want video.

You: What do you want me to do?

His reply came fast.

James: I want to hear what you sound like when you finger yourself and look into the camera like it’s me.

You dropped the phone onto the bed, your face burning, your body already responding.

You hated how much you wanted it.

And you loved that he asked.

—------

You turned off every light but one and propped your phone up on your nightstand, angled carefully. You could see yourself in the frame, messy, flushed, bare.

Your pulse was already high and your mouth was dry. Your fingers shook as you hit record.

"Hi,” you whispered, embarrassed.

Then you bit your lip and tried again.

“James…”

His name felt like a weight in your chest. Your thighs shifted.

“I can’t stop thinking about you.”

You lowered the camera slowly, past your collarbones, over your breasts, down your belly. You spread your legs.

No teasing. No preamble.

You wanted him to see the truth of it. The urgency. The craving.

You let your fingers slip down, just two, and parted yourself. You were already, still, wet. You couldn’t fake it.

You circled your clit, slowly as you said his name. 

“James…”

Your free hand slid up your body, palming your breast, pinching your nipple until you gasped.

The camera caught everything. The angle of your hips. The arch of your back. The way your mouth opened when you slipped the two fingers inside yourself.

You looked into the lens, right at him

“You want this, don’t you?” you whispered. “You want to watch me come thinking about your cock inside me?”

You fucked yourself harder.

Faster.

“Is this how you want me? Needing you?”

You whimpered, unable to stop.

“You’d fuck me so good if you were here.”

You knew he’d watch it more than once, you wanted him to. You wanted him wrecked.

“I’m gonna come,” you gasped, hips bucking. “I’m gonna…fuck…James…”

You came hard, legs shaking. Your body exposed in all the ways you swore you never would be.

You let the camera roll as you caught your breath, chest heaving.

Then you leaned in and whispered, “Your turn.”

And stopped the video.

You sent it. No warning. No text. Just the file.

Seconds later, he responded.

James: Jesus fucking Christ.

Then a voice message.

You hit play.

He was breathing hard.

“Baby,” he said, wrecked and reverent, “I’m gonna come just thinking about what I’m gonna do to you next time I see you. You think I fucked you hard before? You don’t even know.”

You lay back, smiling.

You did this.

You ruined him.

—----

Your phone buzzed.

You sat up straight and your heart kicked like it had been waiting. You pressed play.

The image loaded.

And what you saw was dim lighting, the camera angled low. And there he was, naked, stretched out on his bed, one arm tucked behind his head, the other wrapped tight around his cock.

He was hard. Thick, And leaking from the thick mushroom tip that destroyed your soul.

“Baby,” he said, hoarse. “What the fuck did you do to me?”

Your breath caught instantly.

Baby.

No one had called you that in a long time.

He stroked himself slowly, base to tip, eyes locked on the screen.

“You send me that video, looking like that, saying my name like it’s the only word you know, and you expect me to be calm?”

His hand tightened. His abs tensed.

“You were dripping, weren’t you? So fucking wet. Just thinking about me.”

He dragged his thumb over the head of his cock and groaned.

“I can’t stop watching it. Can’t stop seeing your fingers inside you, your mouth, your tits, those little sounds you make when you’re about to fall apart.”

He was close. You could see it in the way his hips shifted, the way his free hand gripped the sheets.

“I swear to God, the next time I’m inside you, I’m not stopping until you beg me to. I’ll hold your legs open and fuck you so fucking deep. There will be no hiding.”

You whimpered.

It was like he heard it. He smirked.

“I want to feel you shake under me. Want to feel your nails in my back, your come on my cock, your voice saying my name.”

His eyes flicked down.

“I’m gonna come,” he panted. “You watching, baby? You gonna come with me next time?”

He grunted, low, raw, broken, his body tensing as he came hard, ropes of it spilling over his hand, across his stomach, the sound of it filling the room.

You were breathless.

He looked straight into the camera, chest heaving.

And said, “Next time, you ride me until I forget my own name.”

The video ended.

You sat there, phone still in your hand, thighs pressed tight, pulse racing.

And that was the moment you knew this wasn’t a fling. This wasn’t just sex. This was an addiction.

And you wanted more.

—--

You didn’t think. You didn’t ask. You didn’t play.

You watched his video in your bed, one hand clutched in the sheets, thighs slick and trembling, your whole body strung tight with need.

You didn’t touch yourself. Didn’t move. You just stared at the screen.

And then, you opened the message app, tapped his name, and sent him your location.

No text, no explanation. Just a pin.

Come here.

That’s what it meant.

You knew he’d understand.

You stood up and unlocked the front door. 

Then you waited.

And when you heard his knock, you didn’t hesitate, you opened the door.

He stood there, hood up, breath ragged, eyes already dark. No words.

No one said a thing.

He pressed you against the wall, lips crashing into yours, hands already sliding up your sides, lifting your shirt to bare your breasts.

Your legs parted on instinct.

His knee pressed between them, his hands gripping your waist like he couldn’t believe you were real. You pulled at his hoodie. He dragged it off.

He wasn’t gentle and you didn’t want him to be. You guided his hand between your legs.

He groaned.

“You’re so fucking ready for me,” he rasped. “All I did was show you how bad I want you.”

You didn’t answer. You just reached for his belt.

Because this wasn’t sexting.This wasn’t a video. This wasn’t pretend.

This was real.

And you needed him inside you like oxygen.

—--

He pressed you against the wall like he was starved. He was frantic. There was no careful undressing. No asking. Just taking.

Your shirt was gone before you even realized it. You didn’t remember lifting your arms. You only remembered the sound of him groaning when he saw your bare chest, the heat of his mouth on your nipple, the way he bit down just enough to make you gasp.

He unzipped his jeans and, shoved his boxers down. His cock sprang free you almost dropped to your knees. But he grabbed your face, and kissed you again, deeper this time. 

“Not tonight,” he muttered. “I need to be inside you.”

You didn’t argue,  you just turned and pressed your hands against the wall and arched your back, giving him everything.

He groaned. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

He dragged the head of his cock through your soaking wet folds, and then with one sharp thrust, he entered you. 

You gasped loudly.

He filled you, raw and perfect, like your body had been made to take him.

“Fuck,” he whispered. “This pussy’s unreal.”

You pressed your forehead to the wall, eyes shut, trying to breathe.He pulled back, then slammed into you again. Again. Again.

The sound of it was obscene.

Your walls clenched around him, as one hand slid under your body, finding your clit. He rubbed in tight circles as he fucked you deep.

“You close?” he panted. “You gonna come on me already?”

“Yes, God, don’t stop…”

He slammed into you harder.

“You want me to fill you again?”

“Yes, fuck, yes….”

“Say it.”

“I want your come,” you choked. “I want it inside me.”

He groaned, gripped your hips harder, and pounded into you like he meant to stay.

You came hard, shaking, gasping, and ruined.

He followed seconds later, burying himself deep and coming with a sound that made your whole body throb. You felt every pulse of it. Every drop.

He stayed like that for a moment. Inside you. Chest against your back. Breathing hard.

Then he kissed your shoulder. Softly. Almost sweet.

And that scared you more than anything else.

-----

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[ramp-it-up]

I'm in deep. Thanks for all the support, Love!

The Pupil

Summary: Restraint gives way to obsession.

Word count: 7.7 K 😬

Pairing: College Student!Bucky Barnes x Professor!Reader

A/N: No one asked for this. This idea hit me when I was contemplating my career choices because I started work Thursday and gremlins come next week, and I thought, if I was a professor and Bucky Barnes walked in my class….🥹 .This is long, it is self indulgent and it is my therapy. I apologize for the length, but it could have been much longer. Hit me up to tell me how you feel about it.

Warnings: 18+ Only, Minors DNI. Read at your own risk. Smut! Power imbalance (professor/student, age gap 38/26) raw p in v sex, sexting, phone sex, masturbation, video sharing, unprotected sex. Obsession, emotional repression, and blurred lines. Reader self-deception and power/control themes. Bucky is feral, intense, and fully locked in. Young dom Bucky all the way. Angst, mutual unraveling, no fluff, all heat. Not Beta'd. All errors my own.

I no longer have a taglist. Please follow @rampitupandread and turn on notifications to learn when I post! 😘

I Do NOT Consent to my work being reposted, translated or presented on any other blog or site other than by myself.

----------

You didn’t always dress like this.

Not in the elegant high-waisted trousers that elongated your already long legs, and the silk blouses in slate and cream, each one buttoned up and tucked just so.

And not in the heels, expensive, pointed, and high, meant to remind you, and everyone else, that control starts at the ankle.

There was a time you tried to disappear.

Back when you were married to a man who said he liked your brain but openly resented your ambition. Who told you quiet was dignified and called you “intimidating” instead of a boss.

Back then you wore flats and cardigans and neutral tones and made yourself smaller in rooms where you should’ve stood tall.

And then one day, you stopped.

Your divorce wasn’t explosive.

It was silent.

You kept your name, your tenured position, and the apartment with the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. He kept the excuses.

And the you learned to love your own company. Late-night reading by lamplight. Coffee in silence.

Fresh sheets, open windows, and no one to bend for.

You built a life that didn’t need anyone else in it. You weren’t lonely. You were whole.

Or so you thought.

Five years after the divorce, at 38, you were tenured, respected, published, and a bright star in Brooklyn College’s English Department. 

You strode into the lecture hall in heels and pencil skirts, your hair up, your lipstick bold, and your syllabus uncompromising. Your specialty was desire on the page, Womanist texts, subversion in narrative form.

The literature of hunger and restraint.

And you were good at it.

You were used to being the subject of attention from your students, attention that extended beyond a concern for their grades. 

Sometimes they were just curious. Sometimes they were crude. Occasionally, they flirted, tried to make you laugh, or tried to match your intellect with theirs.

But you handled it. You shut it down.

You had been with colleagues once or twice, brief encounters that scratched an itch but never lingered. They never made you miss someone when they left your bed or made you want to stay.

There had never been any encounter that made you pause in the doorway of your own classroom and forget, for a split second, what the hell you were about to say.

Until him.

Until James Buchanan Barnes.

—--

You didn’t notice him when you took roll, not at first.

You were focused on your board notes, your syllabus, the usual opening-week checklist, names, majors, who looked restless, who would drop by week three. 

But then you turned, mid-sentence, scanning the room, and your eyes landed on him.

He hadn’t raised his hand. He hadn’t made a sound. But the way he held himself drew your attention like a magnet. 

He sat with the rigid stillness of someone trained for tension, shoulders wide and braced inside a seat not built to hold him, his spine so straight it looked like a kind of discipline.

He wasn’t fidgeting and he wasn’t distracted; he was just silent, present, and alert.

That should have been your first clue. But it wasn’t the way he sat that stopped you.

It was the rest of him.

The overlong dark hair tucked neatly behind one ear. 

The worn black T-shirt pulled across a chest that didn’t belong in a sophomore seminar, and the way his lips pressed together in concentration as he read your syllabus like it was a puzzle to be solved.

The large, veined hand curled around a pen instead of a keyboard, and his notebook was full of cramped, deliberate handwriting.

He looked like someone who had seen the world, someone too young to have such old eyes, though he was older than the others in your class.

He looked like someone who was trying very hard not to be noticed. And it didn’t work.

Because the second he lifted his eyes to meet yours, brilliant blue, sharp, and unwavering, it was over.

You told yourself it meant nothing. He was just a student. One of many.

But then he spoke.

And his voice was low, steady, and crackling with an alluring tenor that almost masked how smart he really was.

And then he argued.

Not with arrogance, but clarity. Citing Baldwin and Heller without a trace of hesitation, pushing back just enough to make it interesting, enough to make your breath catch.

And suddenly you knew.

This one was going to be dangerous.

—--

He knew professors were supposed to be older.

Seasoned. Maybe tired-looking. Overworked and underpaid, carrying canvas tote bags and books with cracked spines.

He wasn’t expecting you.

You walked in like you owned the entire department, heels sharp against the tile, jaw set in a way that made him sit straighter without thinking, and not a single strand of your hair was out of place.

You were wearing a slate grey silk blouse, tucked into high-waisted black trousers that clung to your shape with elegant precision. And your lips were a color that made his mouth go dry.

And Bucky Barnes forgot to breathe.

He picked up his pen before you even spoke.

Not because he was trying to impress you, but because something about you told him that half-assed wasn’t welcome in your presence.

You didn’t look directly at anyone when you entered. You set your bag down, clicked your pen once, and began to speak with the urgency of someone who had no time to waste.

In less than ten minutes, you quoted Morrison, asked a question no one dared answer, and looked directly at him when he did.

That was the first time your gaze met his. And it turned his stomach inside out.

You were older than him, but not in the way that word often implied. You didn’t look tired. You didn’t look diminished. You looked like power.

You looked like someone who had learned to survive, and who didn’t flinch when she walked away from the battle.

He wanted to impress you, of course.

But more than that, he just wanted you to look at him like that again.

——

The semester moved forward, and Bucky was in the front row every class, early enough to see you walk in. He didn’t fidget, he didn’t scroll his phone, and he didn’t scribble anything until you started talking.

His eyes were always on the door, and when you walked through it, his pulse kicked like a reflex.

You were striking.

Every week, in silk blouses, pencil skirts, or tailored trousers, always poised and sharp-edged, never once looking like anyone else on campus.

But what unstrung him was not how you looked.

It was the way you never once looked at him like an object. You never treated your students like they were interchangeable. When you looked at him, you saw him.

And Bucky felt it.

He hadn’t expected to enjoy Postmodern Literature. It sounded like the kind of class where people tried to out-theorize each other, but it surprised him.

And it was the first time since returning to school that he felt like he belonged.

Before your class, he felt like a ghost in the hallway.

Older than most of them at 26, but younger in other ways, like he’d lost time, like he was trying to catch up to a life that had kept going without him.

The Army was paying for his education. Six years in, two years out, into places no one ever talked about. He came back with too many memories and not enough peace.

Literature helped. Reading gave the noise somewhere to go. He filled notebooks just to keep the chaos from spilling over.

And you made it matter.

When you spoke, he listened with his entire body. Every word felt like a match being struck. Every question you asked set something in him on fire.

He kept his face blank when you entered, but inside, something locked into place every time.

“This isn’t a survey course,” you said on the first day. “This is an excavation. We’re going to talk about hunger, about power, about desire, and about what happens when stories lie to us.”

Bucky Barnes was going to learn everything you had to teach.

And not just from the syllabus.

—-

The first time Bucky Barnes had you shook was unexpected.

“Stanley Kowalski isn’t just a villain,” you told the room.

“He’s a study in what happens when masculinity hides its own fragility. What’s worse, being violent, or pretending you’re not?”

There was a pause.

Then his hand went up.

“Yes…?”

“Barnes. James Barnes,” he said, as if you didn’t know his name. You knew his name.

“I think pretending is worse. Because then people convince themselves it’s not violence at all. It’s just… what men do.”

The room went quiet. It was a good point. A sharp one. You nodded, your lips curving just slightly. 

“Interesting. Care to elaborate, Mr. Barnes?”

He leaned forward on the desk, shoulders tense but voice calm. 

“Stanley’s problem isn’t just power. It’s that he thinks he’s entitled to everything. Stella. The apartment. The air they breathe. And when someone tells him he’s not, he loses his mind.”

Your breath caught.

“An excellent observation,” you said, forcing your tone steady.

And you moved on to the next point, your pulse racing.

—---

He didn’t mean to linger. But he did.

Most of the class had already filtered out into the dark, backpacks slung over shoulders, the last few stragglers murmuring their way toward the exit. The lateness of the class cleared the room quickly. 

But Bucky stayed seated in the front row, fingers drumming quietly on the edge of his notebook, eyes fixed forward, on you.

You moved with quiet purpose as you erased the board, your blouse soft under the glow of fluorescent light, and your heels clicking softly against the tile.

You always moved like that, like you had all the time in the world. Like you knew he was watching, and you didn’t care.

Or maybe you did. Maybe that was the problem.

When you turned to face him, your expression was unreadable, carefully professional. 

“Did you need something, Mr. Barnes?”

He stood slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. 

“Just wanted to thank you. For the lecture.”

You raised a brow.

“You’re paying tuition. No need to thank me.”

“Still,” he said, shifting his weight, but not too close. 

“Most professors don’t talk about Streetcar like that. You didn’t soften him. You didn’t make Stanley a hero. You called him what he was.”

Something flickered across your face. Amusement, maybe. Or curiosity. Your mouth curved, just barely. 

“Is that supposed to impress me?”

He smiled warmly. Not cocky, but careful. 

“Would it work if I said yes?”

You stared at him for one beat too long. And then you laughed quietly. The sound was beautiful.

It hit him square in the chest.

“Goodnight, Mr. Barnes,” you said. But you weren’t dismissive.

It would’ve been easy to say something he shouldn’t. Something about how well that skirt fit the curves of your ass, or the slope of your neck, or the way you looked like a woman a man could ruin himself for, and thank her for it.

But he didn’t.

He just cleared his throat and said, “Goodnight, Professor.” 

And then he walked out. Before he could make a mistake.

—---

You were at your desk during office hours, door open, glasses on, red pen in hand, halfway through dissecting an undergrad’s overwrought interpretation of Beloved when you heard a knock.

You didn’t need to look up.

You already knew it was him.

There was a particular rhythm to the way James Barnes moved that was controlled and deliberate. That soldier steadiness in every step. You took a breath before looking up, willing your heart not to react, willing your body to stay still.

“Professor,” he said, low and polite, leaning just slightly into the doorway.

“You got a minute?”

“Of course,” you said, gesturing to the chair across from you like it was just another Wednesday.

Like you hadn’t been hyperaware of him since the moment he walked into your class. 

“Come in.”

He did, wearing a dark henley, jeans, and a backpack slung over one shoulder. He sat down slowly, and you caught a whiff of his scent.

It made your mouth dry.

“I wanted to talk more about the reading,” he said. “If that’s okay.”

“Always.”

He pulled out his copy of The Awakening, pages heavily annotated. 

You should have been focused on what he was saying, but you weren’t. Not entirely.

His voice had that textured quality that hummed through your spine when he spoke. And the way he watched you, like everything you said mattered, was dangerous. 

It made you lean forward. And it made your next question softer than it should have been.

“Do you think Edna is selfish? Or just trapped?”

He tilted his head.

“Both. But I think the trap came first.”

God. He was good.

You pushed your glasses up the bridge of your nose and tried not to notice how the room suddenly felt too warm. 

He spoke like it was casual. But he knew it wasn’t. Not to you. He could tell by the way your eyes lit up. 

He could get addicted to that.

He could tell that you were impressed, and that you didn’t want to be. 

That knowledge made something hot flicker in his chest.

He thought about what you’d look like letting go.

He thought about backing you against that desk and hearing you say his name. Not Mr. Barnes, Bucky.

He thought about dropping to his knees and making you forget every reason you were telling yourself not to want him.

“Mr. Barnes,” you said, clearing your throat lightly, “are you trying to impress me again?”

“Not trying,” he said, voice even. “Just telling the truth.”

That stopped you for a second. And in that second, you smiled.

That was your mistake.

Because in that smile, you gave something away.

And he knew it.

That smile wasn’t dismissive. It wasn’t professional. 

And it definitely wasn’t safe.

It told him that you were thinking about it too.

Even if you wouldn’t admit it.

He didn’t say any of that. Not yet. But one day soon, he might.

—--

You weren’t expecting to see anyone you knew at Prospect Park.

This part of Brooklyn is your quiet zone. Your weekend escape. You come for the live music, the breeze off the trees, the way the city softened just enough to let you breathe.

You were wearing a sundress, nothing scandalous, but light, flowing, a little backless. Your hair was loose and you were comfortable. Free. 

Younger than you usually let yourself feel.

You had your blanket spread out near the edge of the crowd, a book open on your lap, eyes closed as the saxophone swelled. And then…

“Professor?”

Your stomach dropped. Because you knew that voice. You opened your eyes slowly and turned your head, and there he was.

James Barnes.

He was standing a few feet away, hands in the pockets of his jeans, t-shirt snug across his chest. He had a water bottle hooked through one finger, and he looked… stunned.

You blinked, and sat up slowly. When your eyes met his, they widened just enough for him to see the truth: you hadn’t expected to see him either. 

And you weren’t ready.

“Mr. Barnes.”

His eyes raked over you, quickly, respectfully, but there was no hiding the way they lingered. 

You looked… radiant. Relaxed. And so young. Relaxed in a way he’d never seen you. Unguarded.

Your sundress moved when you shifted, a flash of bare shoulder and the curve of your neck knocking something loose in his chest. 

For a second, he forgot you were his professor. 

He just saw a woman so beautiful it felt unreal to look at you out of context. 

You watched the moment he really saw you with your hair down and your sandals off and your mouth slightly parted in surprise.

He didn’t say anything for a second too long.

And it rattled you.

You were used to being looked at. But not by him. Not like this.

“You here for the show?” you asked, trying to sound calm.

He nodded slowly as his eyes dragged over you again.

“Yeah. Didn’t expect to see anyone from campus.”

You raised an eyebrow.

“What, professors don’t like jazz?”

“No,” he said. “I just didn’t think you looked like this… out in the wild.”

You laughed, too loud. Embarrassed. And a little flattered.

“Well. Surprise.”

He didn’t look away.

And that’s when you realized, you were not in control of this moment. Not the way you usually were. Because for the first time in years, you’re the one who doesn’t know what to do with your hands. Or your mouth. 

Or your rapidly racing heart.

Bucky made small talk, played it cool, but he couldn’t stop staring.

He didn’t know you could laugh like that. He didn’t know a simple sundress could make his brain short-circuit when he’d spent weeks imagining what you look like underneath all that silk and structure.

He could leave. He probably should.

But you’re not telling him to.

And for a moment, just one long, buzzy moment, Bucky wondered if the line between you already broke, and you both just keep pretending it’s still there.

—---

You patted the edge of the blanket before you could talk yourself out of it.

“Feel free to sit,” you said, tone light, professor-pleasant. 

He hesitated only a moment, then lowered himself onto the corner, legs stretched out in front of him, careful not to sit too close. You straightened your spine but didn’t lean into the warmth.

“So,” he said after a beat, eyes forward, voice casual.

“Didn’t take you for the Prospect Park jazz type.”

You hummed softly, keeping your gaze on the stage. 

“Everyone needs a little fresh air.”

He nodded, giving you room. You sat shoulder to shoulder in a comfortable silence that allowed you to think too much.

The set ended with a soft cymbal roll and a murmur of applause. You clapped, grateful for the distraction and for something to break the silence that’s been stretching between you like a tripwire.

Bucky, James, Barnes, Christ, brushed his palms on his jeans and stood slowly. You stayed seated, not trusting your legs just yet.

“Well,” he said, his voice quiet but steady. “I should get going.”

You nodded, eyes on your book even though you haven’t read a word of it since he sat down.

“Of course. Thanks for saying hi.”

He paused. You felt it.

“I’ll see you in class,” he said finally.

And you nodded again. Too fast. Too clipped.

“Goodnight, Mr. Barnes.”

“Goodnight, Professor.”

Your name on his tongue would ruin you. You knew that. So you were grateful, in a sick way, that he didn’t use it. That he kept the mask on, even as he walked away without looking back.

Only once he was far enough away do you finally exhale.

—----

The next week, he waited until the last twenty minutes of your posted office hours.

Long enough that you probably thought no one else was coming.

You were behind your desk, papers stacked to your left, a half-empty yogurt cup in the trash beside you. Your hair was pinned back tight, the way you always wore it on days when control mattered most. The soft hum of your laptop filled the quiet, a jazz playlist coming from the speakers.

You looked like calm incarnate. But he saw the hesitation when you glanced up and saw him standing in the doorway.

"Mr. Barnes," you said, voice as composed as your posture. "Come in."

He did, quietly and carefully keeping his distance. He always did. He asked about Baldwin. Giovanni’s Room. His tone was casual, almost too casual, but the tightness in his jaw gave him away.

And then…

“I’ve been thinking about what you read in class,” he said, voice low.

“The part about self-deception.”

You looked up slowly. You knew where this was going.

“Is that what this is?”

You didn’t answer.

“I can’t pretend anymore,” he continued. “Not with you.”

The air in the room changed.

“I want you,” he said, firmer now.

“I’ve wanted you since the first class. I thought I could ignore it, bury it under respect, or rules, or whatever you needed from me. But it’s still there.”

You couldn’t breathe.

Not well. Not normally. Not with him standing there saying that like it was a truth he’d been carrying in his bones since the beginning of the semester.

You stared at him, searching for something you could use to shut it down. Immaturity. Fantasy. Entitlement. But it wasn’t there. 

He wasn’t testing you. He wasn’t fantasizing. He was telling you the truth. And now it was here.

Said aloud in your office.

“I’m not confused,” he said. 

“And I’m not asking for anything. I just needed you to know I’m done pretending I don’t feel it.”

You folded your hands in your lap because you didn’t trust them not to move. Not to reach. Not to tremble.

“This isn’t possible,” you said, voice thin. “You’re my student.”

“I know.”

But he didn’t back down.

You exhaled, and let the silence grow.

That usually made people fumble excuses to fill the void. And when he didn’t retreat, didn’t apologize, didn’t break, you reached for the only weapon left: distance.

“You’re twenty-six.”

“Almost twenty-seven.”

“I’m thirty-eight.”

“I know.”

“That’s over a decade.”

“I’m aware.”

You hated how calm he was. You hated that some stupid, aching part of you wanted him to lose control, because at least then it wouldn’t feel so dangerous. Or deliberate.

“You’ve seen things,” you said. “You’ve survived things. But you’re still figuring out who you are.”

He didn’t argue. And somehow, that made it worse.

“I’ve worked my whole life for this career,” you snapped. “I’m not throwing it away for a moment in a park or a crush you can’t separate from fantasy.”

“It’s not a crush,” he said. “And it’s not a fantasy.”

“Stop,” you said, louder than you intended.

He did.

And your throat burned. When you finally spoke again, your voice was softer.

“I need you to leave.”

He didn’t argue, just looked at you and nodded.

“Of course, Professor.”

You didn’t watch him go. You kept your eyes on the stack of ungraded essays in front of you, pretending they mattered more than the fact that you hadn’t really wanted him to leave. 

You wanted him to stay. 

And close the door.

—--

You didn’t assign any reading the next week.

You told yourself it was because midterms were coming. You told yourself it was merciful.

It wasn’t.

It was preparation.

You kept it clean in class, composed. Cold, even.

You called on him once, just to prove you could, and he answered in that low, calm voice like nothing was wrong. Like you weren’t wet under your skirt for the full fifty minutes.

And when the room cleared, and he stayed in his seat, you just stood.

“I need to see you in my office about last week’s meeting, Mr. Barnes.”

He just sat there and watched you walk out of the door, listening to your heels click their way down the hall to your office.

You left the door unlocked.

You waited.

And when he finally stepped into your office and shut the door behind him, you just looked at him. And he looked at you.

And that was all it took to understand.

You stepped back against your desk and swallowed hard.

“We don’t talk about this after,” you said, quietly.

“Okay,” he said, eyes dark.

“But you need to say it.”

You nodded once. “It’s just sex.”

Bucky knew you were lying, but you were offering him something and he was going to take it. He moved toward you.

You held his gaze.

“I’m on birth control.”

“I’m clean,” he said. “Tested last month.”

“So am I.”

A pause. You lifted your chin.

“I want it raw.”

He exhaled through his nose, something primal flickering across his face.

“Jesus. You sure?”

You nodded again. “You?”

“Yeah,” he said, voice rasping now. “Fuck yeah.”

And when his hands finally landed on you, you felt your control collapse. And it felt so good.

He kissed you like you were already his, like he’d spent months imagining this exact moment, how your mouth would part, how your hands would clutch at his shoulders, how your body would give the second he asked.

You moaned into him, soft, needy, and unguarded. And that was all he needed. He lifted you in one clean motion and set you back on your desk.

Urgently. You shoved the papers aside with one sweep of your arm. Something fluttered to the floor. You didn’t care.

His hands pushed your skirt up to your waist, exposing your bare thighs, and when he realized you weren’t wearing anything underneath…

“Fuck,” he whispered, looking down at you like he’d never seen a pussy before.

You hooked your ankles around his hips. 

“Don’t waste time.”

He looked up, eyes locked on yours, and slid two fingers through your cunt, like he wanted to memorize how wet you already were for him.

“Jesus,” he muttered. “You were like this all through class?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Your head tipped back when he sank to his knees.

He didn't tease and he didn’t take his time.

His mouth was on you in seconds, hot and filthy, his tongue licking up your slit, mouth closing over your clit like he’d been studying for this moment. And he had.

You gasped, one hand flying to the edge of the desk, the other buried in his hair as he groaned into you. It was too much. Too fast. Too good.

You’d touched yourself thinking about this. Pictured it. Fantasized. But nothing had prepared you for the way he devoured you. Like he needed it to breathe.

Your thighs shook. Your hips rolled into his mouth. And when you came, you heard him groan like he felt it, too.

He stood quickly, shoved his jeans down just enough, and lined himself up without another word.

You looked down and your breath caught. You wanted it. You asked for this. You reached between your legs and guided him in yourself.

You both groaned.

He filled you in one slow thrust, inch after inch of hard, perfect pressure, and you nearly came again right then.

His hands gripped your thighs. He drew back and thrust again, so hard the desk creaked.

You bit your lip to keep from screaming.

“Look at me,” he growled.

You did.

His eyes were wild.

“I’ve wanted this,” he said, voice breaking on the words. “Wanted you.”

You wrapped your arms around his shoulders. “Then fuck me like you mean it.”

He did.

Every thrust was deep, deliberate, devastating. The sound of skin on skin filled the room, slick and obscene. Your body took him like you were made for it, like this was inevitable. Like finally.

He slid one hand up your blouse, pushed your bra up, palmed your breast, and groaned when you arched into it. His mouth was at your throat, biting, sucking, and praising through gritted teeth.

“So tight. Fuck you feel so good.”

You clawed at his back.

“I’m gonna come,” you gasped. “Don’t stop! Please”

He buried his face in your neck. 

“Not stopping. Not, fuck, not pulling out…”

You came hard. Writhing, and breaking beneath him.

And when he followed,seconds later, pulsing inside you with a choked groan and a helpless thrust, you realized: This would never be just sex.

And you were never going to forget this.

—----

He knocked the next week at office hours. You almost wished he wouldn’t.

You looked up, your expression blank. “Come in.”

He stepped inside. Closed the door gently. Not locking it. 

You gestured to the chair. “Sit.”

He did.

You watched him for a moment. He looked good. Too good. Calm again. Always so goddamn calm. You folded your hands in your lap.

“This can’t happen again.”

He didn’t flinch. Just waited.

You cleared your throat. 

“What happened in this office was unprofessional. And dangerous. For both of us.”

Still, he said nothing.

“I don’t care how quiet we are. If anyone finds out…”

“They won’t,” he said softly.

“That’s not the point.”

You didn’t raise your voice. But it felt like a scream.

“I worked too hard for this. I have too much to lose.”

“I know.”

You blinked. “That’s it?”

He met your eyes. 

“If you’re done, if you really don’t want me to touch you again, say it.”

You opened your mouth. But no words came out. Because that wasn’t true. And you both knew it.

So instead, you said: “This ends now.”

And he nodded once. But his eyes didn’t believe you.

And when he stood to leave, your body betrayed you again. Because you wanted him.

You said it before you could stop yourself.

“James.”

It was soft, a sound you weren’t aware you were capable of. Not so full of need like that. 

But he heard it. He paused in the doorway. Shoulders tensed. One hand still on the knob. He turned and met your eyes.

And you didn’t take it back.

He stepped back into the room and shut the door behind him, locking it this time.

He crossed the room in three strides, hands on your body, spinning you around with authority. And you let him. 

Your blouse was still buttoned. Your trousers were still on. But you were soaked the moment he touched you. 

“You knew I couldn’t resist you,” he said, voice low behind you.

His mouth grazed your ear as he pressed into you, hard beneath his jeans.

“You don’t want me to.”

You didn’t deny it, just unbuttoned your pants and let them fall.

No panties again.

His hands were on you in an instant, dragging you back against him, cursing under his breath when his fingers slipped between your legs and found you already dripping.

“You wanted this.”

“Don’t talk,” you breathed.

But you didn’t mean it.

He pushed your blouse up, leaned over you, one hand planted on the desk beside yours, the other between your legs.

“You still want it raw?”

You nodded.

“Say it.”

“Yes,” you whispered. “Please.”

He undid his jeans. You felt the press of him against your thigh, hot and thick and ready.

And when he pushed into you, you gasped.

There was no easing in. Just a deep, brutal thrust that forced a broken moan from your lips. You slapped a hand over your mouth, but he grabbed your wrist and pulled it away.

“Let me hear it.”

He fucked you hard. So hard that your desk rocked.

You forgot how to breathe as your cheek pressed against the cool surface of your desk and as your hands gripped the edge. 

He fucked you like he owned you, like this was always going to happen. 

Like he knew exactly what you needed, and he wasn’t going to let you hide from it again.

“You’re mine right now,” he panted. “No lies. No rules. Just this.”

You came fast, unexpectedly, a sob punching out of your throat as you clenched around him. He groaned and followed you seconds later, spilling inside you with a sharp cry, his hips stuttering against your ass.

For a long moment, there was nothing but breathing. He leaned over your back, both hands braced on the desk now, chest heaving.

You stayed still beneath him, your body still shaking.

Neither of you spoke.

Because what could you say?

—--

It was break week, and of course you could survive without seeing Bucky. 

It was just sex, and you were a grown woman. You wouldn’t text him; he didn’t have your number and you only had his because you had his student information.

You told yourself you wouldn’t. 

It was unprofessional.

You told yourself that if you just made it through Monday without texting, the rest of the week would be easier. And you almost believed it.

But by Thursday afternoon, your resolve had withered under need. Your apartment was too still. Your phone was too close.

You typed the message three times. Deleted it each time. Then sent it anyway.

You Did you finish Baldwin yet? Figure out the nature of self-deception?

You threw your phone across the couch the second it delivered.

Five minutes passed.

Then ten.

Then…

James: Did you really just text me about Baldwin while I’m picturing your ass bent over your desk?

Your stomach flipped.

You told yourself not to respond.

You absolutely responded.

You: I was being professional.

James: You didn’t sound very professional last time I had my fingers inside you.

You closed your eyes. And your pulse dropped straight between your thighs.

And then, another buzz.

James: Should I stop?

You stared at the screen.

Then your thumbs moved on their own.

You: No.

And that was it.

That was the beginning of the end.

Because now he had your number. And he didn’t just use it to flirt.

He used it to unravel you.

James: What are you wearing right now?

You shouldn’t have answered. But you did.

You: Nothing you’d be allowed to see if we were in class.

James: I wouldn’t need to see it.

You: No?

James: I’d just need to hear you.

Your breath caught as you watched the bubbles.

James: Want me to call you?

Your heart pounded as you stared at the screen.

Then you typed.

You: Yes.

—---

You answered without thinking.

He didn’t even say hello.

“Take your hand,” he said, voice calm, “and put it between your legs.”

Your breath caught instantly. 

“James…”

“Do it.”

You did.

And it was worse than being touched. Because now, every movement was yours, but every command was his.

“Are you wet?” he asked.

You nodded, forgetting he couldn’t see you. 

“Yes.”

“Fuck,” he muttered. “You miss me?”

You closed your eyes, head dropping back onto your pillow. 

“Yes.”

“How bad?”

“Don’t make me say it.”

“I want to hear you,” he growled. “You started this. Now I want you to tell me what you’ve been thinking about.”

You swallowed.

“Your hands on me. Your mouth. The way you sound when you come. The way you…”

“Touch yourself.”

You gasped at the sound of his voice in your ear, that subtle shift to something darker, something claiming.

“Just two fingers,” he said. “Keep the pressure light. Don’t come yet.”

You obeyed.

“Good girl.”

Your hips bucked slightly.

“Oh, you like that?” he asked, smug now. “I bet you’re soaked.”

“I hate you,” you breathed.

“No you don’t,” he said, quieter now.

“You love this. Being ruined without me even being in the room. So fucking desperate for it you couldn’t go one more day without hearing me.”

You whimpered, and his voice dropped further.

“Circle your clit. Slowly. Just like that. Stay with me.”

You could hear his breathing now. It wasn’t clean. He was hard. He was touching himself too. You knew it. You heard it in his voice.

“I want you so fucking bad,” he groaned.

“That desk wasn’t enough. I need to fuck you until you cry. Until you forget how to teach. Until you forget every name but mine.”

Your hips jerked.

“You close?”

“Yes, fuck, James, I…”

“Not yet.”

You froze.

“I want you begging.”

“I am.”

“No. Say it.”

You shook.

“Please, James. Let me come. I need it. Please…”

“Now,” he growled. “Come for me. Right now.”

And you did.

Hard. Gasping. One hand clamped over your mouth, the other between your legs, writhing into the mattress as the sound of his voice pushed you right over the edge.

On the other end, you heard him break too, a low, broken grunt, a whispered fuck, the subtle sound of his body surrendering.

Silence followed. Thick. Heavy. Full.

“Still just sex?” he asked finally.

You didn’t answer.

You couldn’t.

Because that was the lie. And you’d both just drowned in it.

—----

You didn’t sleep. Not really.

Every time you closed your eyes, you heard his voice.

Touch yourself. Good girl. Come for me. Like a current under your skin. Like a drug you couldn’t shake.

By midmorning, you gave up trying. You poured coffee, opened your laptop, stared at the stack of essays you were supposed to grade.

And then you reached for your phone.

No plan. No script.

Just the ache.

You: What are you doing?

He replied almost immediately.

James: Whatever you want me to be doing.

Your thighs pressed together. You were hopeless.

You: You’re insufferable.

James: You’re obsessed.

You didn’t argue.

James: Send me a photo.

Your pulse spiked.

You: Of what?

James: You. Just your mouth. No smile. Nothing posed. I want to see the version of you I shouldn’t have.

You hesitated.

Then turned on the front camera.

Hair messy. No makeup. Pillow creases still pressed into your cheek. Lips parted. No performance.

You sent it.

Seconds passed.

Then,

James: Take your shirt off.

You stared at the screen.

James: I want to see your tits while I jerk off.

Your breath caught.

You looked around your empty apartment like someone might be watching.

Then you pulled your shirt over your head.

You weren’t wearing a bra.

You angled the camera down just enough.

You took the photo and stared at it.

You looked... undone.

You sent it anyway.

James: Fuck. You’re perfect.

Another message followed right after.

James: Next time I want video.

You: What do you want me to do?

His reply came fast.

James: I want to hear what you sound like when you finger yourself and look into the camera like it’s me.

You dropped the phone onto the bed, your face burning, your body already responding.

You hated how much you wanted it.

And you loved that he asked.

—------

You turned off every light but one and propped your phone up on your nightstand, angled carefully. You could see yourself in the frame, messy, flushed, bare.

Your pulse was already high and your mouth was dry. Your fingers shook as you hit record.

"Hi,” you whispered, embarrassed.

Then you bit your lip and tried again.

“James…”

His name felt like a weight in your chest. Your thighs shifted.

“I can’t stop thinking about you.”

You lowered the camera slowly, past your collarbones, over your breasts, down your belly. You spread your legs.

No teasing. No preamble.

You wanted him to see the truth of it. The urgency. The craving.

You let your fingers slip down, just two, and parted yourself. You were already, still, wet. You couldn’t fake it.

You circled your clit, slowly as you said his name. 

“James…”

Your free hand slid up your body, palming your breast, pinching your nipple until you gasped.

The camera caught everything. The angle of your hips. The arch of your back. The way your mouth opened when you slipped the two fingers inside yourself.

You looked into the lens, right at him

“You want this, don’t you?” you whispered. “You want to watch me come thinking about your cock inside me?”

You fucked yourself harder.

Faster.

“Is this how you want me? Needing you?”

You whimpered, unable to stop.

“You’d fuck me so good if you were here.”

You knew he’d watch it more than once, you wanted him to. You wanted him wrecked.

“I’m gonna come,” you gasped, hips bucking. “I’m gonna…fuck…James…”

You came hard, legs shaking. Your body exposed in all the ways you swore you never would be.

You let the camera roll as you caught your breath, chest heaving.

Then you leaned in and whispered, “Your turn.”

And stopped the video.

You sent it. No warning. No text. Just the file.

Seconds later, he responded.

James: Jesus fucking Christ.

Then a voice message.

You hit play.

He was breathing hard.

“Baby,” he said, wrecked and reverent, “I’m gonna come just thinking about what I’m gonna do to you next time I see you. You think I fucked you hard before? You don’t even know.”

You lay back, smiling.

You did this.

You ruined him.

—----

Your phone buzzed.

You sat up straight and your heart kicked like it had been waiting. You pressed play.

The image loaded.

And what you saw was dim lighting, the camera angled low. And there he was, naked, stretched out on his bed, one arm tucked behind his head, the other wrapped tight around his cock.

He was hard. Thick, And leaking from the thick mushroom tip that destroyed your soul.

“Baby,” he said, hoarse. “What the fuck did you do to me?”

Your breath caught instantly.

Baby.

No one had called you that in a long time.

He stroked himself slowly, base to tip, eyes locked on the screen.

“You send me that video, looking like that, saying my name like it’s the only word you know, and you expect me to be calm?”

His hand tightened. His abs tensed.

“You were dripping, weren’t you? So fucking wet. Just thinking about me.”

He dragged his thumb over the head of his cock and groaned.

“I can’t stop watching it. Can’t stop seeing your fingers inside you, your mouth, your tits, those little sounds you make when you’re about to fall apart.”

He was close. You could see it in the way his hips shifted, the way his free hand gripped the sheets.

“I swear to God, the next time I’m inside you, I’m not stopping until you beg me to. I’ll hold your legs open and fuck you so fucking deep. There will be no hiding.”

You whimpered.

It was like he heard it. He smirked.

“I want to feel you shake under me. Want to feel your nails in my back, your come on my cock, your voice saying my name.”

His eyes flicked down.

“I’m gonna come,” he panted. “You watching, baby? You gonna come with me next time?”

He grunted, low, raw, broken, his body tensing as he came hard, ropes of it spilling over his hand, across his stomach, the sound of it filling the room.

You were breathless.

He looked straight into the camera, chest heaving.

And said, “Next time, you ride me until I forget my own name.”

The video ended.

You sat there, phone still in your hand, thighs pressed tight, pulse racing.

And that was the moment you knew this wasn’t a fling. This wasn’t just sex. This was an addiction.

And you wanted more.

—--

You didn’t think. You didn’t ask. You didn’t play.

You watched his video in your bed, one hand clutched in the sheets, thighs slick and trembling, your whole body strung tight with need.

You didn’t touch yourself. Didn’t move. You just stared at the screen.

And then, you opened the message app, tapped his name, and sent him your location.

No text, no explanation. Just a pin.

Come here.

That’s what it meant.

You knew he’d understand.

You stood up and unlocked the front door. 

Then you waited.

And when you heard his knock, you didn’t hesitate, you opened the door.

He stood there, hood up, breath ragged, eyes already dark. No words.

No one said a thing.

He pressed you against the wall, lips crashing into yours, hands already sliding up your sides, lifting your shirt to bare your breasts.

Your legs parted on instinct.

His knee pressed between them, his hands gripping your waist like he couldn’t believe you were real. You pulled at his hoodie. He dragged it off.

He wasn’t gentle and you didn’t want him to be. You guided his hand between your legs.

He groaned.

“You’re so fucking ready for me,” he rasped. “All I did was show you how bad I want you.”

You didn’t answer. You just reached for his belt.

Because this wasn’t sexting.This wasn’t a video. This wasn’t pretend.

This was real.

And you needed him inside you like oxygen.

—--

He pressed you against the wall like he was starved. He was frantic. There was no careful undressing. No asking. Just taking.

Your shirt was gone before you even realized it. You didn’t remember lifting your arms. You only remembered the sound of him groaning when he saw your bare chest, the heat of his mouth on your nipple, the way he bit down just enough to make you gasp.

He unzipped his jeans and, shoved his boxers down. His cock sprang free you almost dropped to your knees. But he grabbed your face, and kissed you again, deeper this time. 

“Not tonight,” he muttered. “I need to be inside you.”

You didn’t argue,  you just turned and pressed your hands against the wall and arched your back, giving him everything.

He groaned. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

He dragged the head of his cock through your soaking wet folds, and then with one sharp thrust, he entered you. 

You gasped loudly.

He filled you, raw and perfect, like your body had been made to take him.

“Fuck,” he whispered. “This pussy’s unreal.”

You pressed your forehead to the wall, eyes shut, trying to breathe.He pulled back, then slammed into you again. Again. Again.

The sound of it was obscene.

Your walls clenched around him, as one hand slid under your body, finding your clit. He rubbed in tight circles as he fucked you deep.

“You close?” he panted. “You gonna come on me already?”

“Yes, God, don’t stop…”

He slammed into you harder.

“You want me to fill you again?”

“Yes, fuck, yes….”

“Say it.”

“I want your come,” you choked. “I want it inside me.”

He groaned, gripped your hips harder, and pounded into you like he meant to stay.

You came hard, shaking, gasping, and ruined.

He followed seconds later, burying himself deep and coming with a sound that made your whole body throb. You felt every pulse of it. Every drop.

He stayed like that for a moment. Inside you. Chest against your back. Breathing hard.

Then he kissed your shoulder. Softly. Almost sweet.

And that scared you more than anything else.

-----

Send asks, reblogs, comments. Let me know if you feel the way that I feel. 🫠

[ramp-it-up]

We all deserve the princess treatment. Thanks, Love!

Run to You

Summary: His job was to protect you. You were supposed to keep your distance. But history and heat don’t fade.

Word count: 5.7 K

Pairing: Nick Fowler x Pop Star!Reader

A/N: This was written for @artficlly's Spin the Trope Challenge. My tropes were security guard x one bed. I was inspred by the movie The Bodyguard starring Whitney Houston and Kevin Costner, IYKYK. 😍 Sorry it's so late 😬 This is supposed to be a one shot, so…. This was a nice break from Bucky, and I hope you like it! Tell me how you feel by reblogging, commenting, sending asks, dm'ing and the like. Interaction is life.

Warnings: 18+ Only, Minors DNI. Read at your own risk. Angst, flashbacks, deception, lies, Prague, idiots in ---, Nick being Nick, cheating, talk of violence, Dom Nick, bratty reader, insinuations of oral (m receiving) and anal. Slapping, rough sex, fingering, oral (f receiving), raw p-in - v, size kink, praise kink, talking you through it, a tiny bit of aftercare if you squint. Angst.

I no longer have a taglist. Please follow @rampitupandread and turn on notifications to learn when I post! 😘

I Do NOT Consent to my work being reposted, translated or presented on any other blog or site other than by myself.

-------

Nick had promised himself he was done with this kind of work.

High-profile gigs. Celebrities. Chaos.

He preferred quiet contracts now, private clients who didn’t need headlines and didn’t pull the kind of stunts that could get themselves killed. 

Keep them alive, keep it clean, cash the check, move on.

But when he was offered this job, he came.

Not because of the money. Not even because the threat was as credible as they come.

Because it was you.

And no matter how much time had passed, or how badly it had ended, you were the one name he couldn’t ignore.

It wasn’t just the fact that you were a multi-award-winning pop star with a voice that sold out arenas and an ass that had half the world obsessed. 

It wasn’t even that you were worth millions, and an icon the industry would burn down cities to protect.

It was because maybe, just maybe, he wanted to see you again.

And annihilate anyone who thought about hurting you.

He’d told himself he wouldn’t think about Prague.

About the balcony, the whiskey, and the way you’d looked at him like he was the only thing that felt real in a city full of flashing lights.

He’d definitely told himself he wouldn’t think about the aftermath. How you’d gone silent the second you found the burner phone in his jacket. How you’d walked out without a word, without a backward glance, like the three nights you’d spent tangled together had been nothing.

Yet when he pushed open the door to that rehearsal hall and felt the room tense, he knew two things instantly:

One, nothing had changed. Two, he was screwed.

You were at the center of the chaos, perched on a speaker with your knees tucked under you, a vision of messy perfection, hair in pigtails, lips slick with gloss, still in the sweat-dampened tank from soundcheck.

Nick felt that he had x-ray vision because all he could see were those famous nipples and the taste of you came back vividly. 

He forced his eyes away and checked out the room.

Even mid-tour, even with managers and stylists circling like bees, you didn’t look breakable.

But Nick knew better. He also knew, with the kind of certainty that he hated, that the people threatening you didn’t care how untouchable you looked on stage.

Off stage, you were just another soft target.

—--

The room didn’t exactly quiet when he walked in, but it shifted like someone had thrown a weighted blanket over the noise.

“Everyone,” Val, your manager, called out brightly, voice cutting through the hum. 

“This is Nick Fowler. He’ll be leading security for the rest of the tour.”

You didn’t look up at first. Not until she said the name. Your head snapped up. And for a second, everything stopped.

The man you’d met in Madrid, back when you’d burned out and taken a year your label barely tolerated. The one person who hadn’t cared about your history as a child star, your co-star ex, or the vultures waiting to pick you apart.

The man who’d traveled with you to Prague and sat with you on a balcony, whiskey in hand, his fingers tangled in your hair as he murmured “Princess” against your throat.

The man who turned out not to be who he said he was.

Jack Carmichael never existed. Only Nick Fowler, ex-CIA, hired by your label and someone else you still didn’t know, to protect you, monitor you, and drag you back when they thought you might slip too far away to make them money.

Heat flared in your chest.

Val, oblivious, kept smiling. “Nick, this is…”

“I know who she is,” Nick cut in. 

His eyes found yours and didn’t waver. Not an ounce of apology. Not even a flicker of discomfort.

Your pulse spiked, and a rush of anger along with something you didn’t want to name. You stood slowly, forcing your voice not to shake.

“Absolutely not.”

Val blinked. “What?”

Nick’s mouth curved slightly, the faintest ghost of a smirk.

“Nice to see you too, Princess.”

The nickname hit like a lit match to gasoline, causing every nerve in your body to spark

“The fuck is he doing here, Val?”

“Saving your life,” Nick said, his tone maddeningly calm. “Someone wants you dead. I’m the one who makes sure that doesn’t happen.”

Val shifted uncomfortably, glancing between you both. 

“The threats escalated last night. They broke into your Malibu place. We don’t have a choice. He’s the best.”

Nick’s eyes stayed locked on you, unblinking, cool, and too familiar.

It was infuriating.

And worse, you hated when he looked at you like that.

As he brushed past you on his way out, his shoulder barely grazing yours, his voice dipped just low enough for only you to hear.

“Relax. I’m not here to start anything… just to keep you breathing.”

But there was something in his tone, a faint edge that told you he hadn’t forgotten Prague either.

—--

Nick was silent, but you could feel him. Always a few steps behind in the tunnels, a shadow at the wings, a quiet presence near the dressing rooms.

Close enough to clock every angle. 

Far enough to look like nothing but the job.

He swept the exits, murmured into his comm to his second, Jake Jensen, and adjusted crowd plans. 

When your choreographer lost his mind over the new LED platform, Nick didn’t even glance up, just leaned on a barricade, eyes tracking every moving piece like he was calculating how fast he could get to you if everything went to hell.

You tried to ignore him. To bury yourself in the music, in the comfort of routine.

But you felt it every time.

The weight of his attention. 

The way his eyes caught on you, never long enough for anyone else to see, but long enough for heat to creep up your spine before he looked away like nothing happened.

You felt like a mouse he was stalking, and you were always wary, lest you fall into his snare.

Because Nick Fowler taught you a lot in those three short days and nights in Prague, about how high you could climb the peaks of pleasure with him as a guide. Nothing was like his touch, his mouth, and his cock carved a space no other man could quite fill.

Not even your boyfriend Cameron. You needed to be careful and in control at all times around Nick Fowler.

By the time the crew cleared for lunch the next day. and the hall quieted, you’d worn down the batteries on your phone trying to drown the tension out of the air with music. You doubled back to grab your charger and stopped in your tracks.

The door to the small security lounge was cracked, a soft glow spilling into the corridor. 

Inside, Nick sat with one ankle hooked over his knee, tablet in hand.His brows were drawn, expression unreadable, as he tapped back a few seconds on the video.

You didn’t need to see the screen to know which one it was.

One of your older videos, the one that cut to that infamous red carpet. That dress was sheer, crystal-studded, and you had nothing on but a flesh-colored thong beneath. The camera had eaten you alive that night, and the world hadn’t stopped replaying it since.

Nick rewound again. And again. Slowly watching the lens trace the line of your body.

You leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, your stomach doing that thing.

“Should I send over a signed copy? Or are you just planning to keep pirating my content for free?”

His thumb paused, but he didn’t even flinch. He set the tablet down and met your eyes, calm as ever.

“Professional review,” he said, voice flat. “Knowing what people see when they’re looking at you helps me assess risk.”

You arched a brow. “Risk.”

“Exactly.” His gaze didn’t waver. “That dress pulls more than attention. It makes some people stupid. Stupid gets dangerous.”

“Mm.” You tilted your head, pretending to think.

“And rewinding it three times? That’s just part of the security briefing?”

Nick’s mouth ticked, barely.

“Just making sure I didn’t miss anything.”

Your chest felt tight, whether it was irritation or something else, you didn’t care to name.

“Well, don’t strain yourself, Fowler. Wouldn’t want you losing sleep on my behalf.”

His gaze dipped down the length of you before returning to your face.

“Sleep’s not really on the table these days, Princess. Not until I make sure no one gets to you.”

He stood then, brushing past you on his way to sweep the next checkpoint, the faintest trace of his cologne trailing behind him, clean and sharp, and enough to make your toes curl even as your jaw tightened.

—---

Cameron was waiting when you stepped into the green room.

Golden-boy actor. Studio polish. Smooth British accent. All easy charm. Everything Nick wasn’t.

He was attentive.

He held your hand in public, texted good-morning photos from set, and remembered your tea order before soundcheck.

He touched you gently, kissed you slowly, and whispered that he missed you in the quiet hours when you shared a bed between shoots and shows.

It wasn’t electric, but it was solid. Predictable.

And you never lost control.

He rose when you entered, slipping his phone into his pocket, his smile warm. His arm slid around your waist, pulling you into a familiar hold. You relaxed a little, because you genuinely cared for him.

He was safe.

“You disappeared,” he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. “Thought we were grabbing lunch.”

“Rehearsals ran long,” you said lightly, though you felt the faint knot of tension in your stomach. “Platform drama.”

He chuckled, as he brushed his thumb along your back. 

“Skip the PR dinner tonight, then? Room service. Just us?”

You nodded, letting yourself lean into his warmth because it was steady. But even as his lips brushed your temple, your pulse was tracking the echo in the hallway. 

And sure enough, there was a knock.

“Five minutes,” Nick’s voice carried through, an extra edge of aggression that wasn’t there earlier. “Press call’s moved up.”

“Your bloke’s a ray of sunshine,” Cameron muttered, jaw tightening faintly.

You forced a small smile, but your mind was already following those footsteps back down the hall.

—--

The show went off without a hitch.

Two encores, the crowd screaming your name so loud your ribs thrummed with it, and every light and cue landing like clockwork. By the time the stage lights cut and the last ovation died down, sweat clung to your skin and adrenaline still buzzed in your veins.

Nick and Jake were already in motion before you hit the wings, their dark suits like moving shadows through the chaos of crew and equipment. Jake cleared the hallway, murmuring into his comm, while Nick fell into step beside you without a word, his eyes tracking every shadow, every stray tech crossing the corridor.

They were efficient. Silent. Always watching.

And you were done with it.

So when Cameron met you at the dressing room, new fit, still glowing from the performance, his hand sliding to your waist, you didn’t even let Nick get a word in.

“Changed my mind. Let’s go out,” you murmured against Cameron’s jaw as he helped you with your mic. “One club. One drink.”

Cameron grinned, fingers brushing the back of your neck. 

“Your security detail’s gonna love that.”

“I don’t care,” you whispered. 

And you meant it. You were tired of being shadowed and managed.

Nick was waiting by the door when you emerged, Jake a few paces back. His eyes flicked to Cameron’s hand at your waist, then back to you, unreadable but heavy enough to make your pulse skip.

“Where are we going?” 

Nick’s voice was flat, but Jake glanced up from his tablet, already frowning.

“The Mayan,” you said breezily, like it was a done deal. “Just for a drink.”

“No,” Nick said, no hesitation.

“Yes,” you shot back, tilting your chin. 

“Unless you plan on locking me in my hotel room until the tour ends.”

Nick didn’t blink.

“That can be arranged.”

“Jesus,” Cameron muttered under his breath, smoothing his hand over your back. 

“It’s one drink, man. Relax.”

Jake stepped in, voice calm but firm. 

“The place has two narrow exits and no controlled entry. We can lock it down, but it’s not ideal with the current threat level.”

“Then lock it down,” you snapped, your temper rising. 

“Or sit in the car and brood. I’m not spending another night staring at four walls because someone out there doesn’t like me.”

Nick’s jaw ticked once, but he didn’t argue further.

“Fine,” he said at last, voice quiet enough that it didn’t sound like a concession. “But when this goes sideways, we leave. No discussion.”

—------

The club was a bad idea.

You knew it the second you walked in, the crush of bodies, the bass pounding through your ribs, the way phones lit up like fireflies the moment someone clocked Cameron’s face next to yours. But for a little while, it was intoxicating.

The music thrummed through your veins, Cameron’s hand on your hip grounding you just enough, and for a few beats you felt alive again. 

Not managed. Not contained.

Until someone screamed.

It was hard to see through the strobe haze, but Jake’s voice cut through the chaos over Nick’s earpiece, sharp and clipped.

“Got a breach. East entrance. Unknown with a blade. Moving fast.”

The crowd surged. Shouts rose over the music. A flash of metal cut through the chaos near the bar, and suddenly Nick was there, one hand curling around your waist, the other steady on his weapon as Jake intercepted the would-be attacker with brutal efficiency.

“Move,” Nick ordered, his voice low and lethal.

The air was hot and heavy with sweat and bass, bodies pressing in from every direction, until Nick’s grip tightened and the world shifted. His chest was solid and cool against your overheated skin, his jacket rough against the bare skin on your back as he hauled you up into his arms.

Every step he took carved a path through the chaos, the crowd shoving and shouting as his heartbeat stayed maddeningly even beneath your cheek.

And every pulse of it reminded you of Prague, the way his chest had felt under your palms as he’d pressed you into the balcony railing, whispering “Princess, breathe for me” against your mouth while his hand moved lower, teaching you how to hold yourself together and come undone at once.

Your stomach knotted, heat sliding through the adrenaline haze.

Through the corner of your eye, you caught Cameron stumbling after Jake, pale and wide-eyed as he was ushered into a separate car. He didn’t look at you, too busy trying to keep up.

Nick set you in the back seat of an SUV, slid in beside you, and barked the destination into his comm, his hand still locked around your wrist.

“Safehouse. We’re dark until further notice.”

You jerked against his hold, glaring up at him even as your pulse hammered. “I didn’t ask to be…”

Nick’s gaze cut to yours, cold and unyielding. Whatever protest you had died in your throat.

“Doesn’t matter,” he said, voice low and steady, the calm that always made your skin prickle. 

“You’re done calling shots tonight.”

His hand lingered a second longer than it should have, his thumb brushing once against your pulse, before he finally released you.

But his eyes stayed on you, unreadable, as the SUV peeled into the night.

—--

The SUV sped through the city, headlights cutting through the dark. Jake’s voice buzzed over comms, calm and clipped, but Nick hardly heard it. The air in the back seat was already humming, thick with leftover adrenaline, and something else.

Your pulse was still echoing in his hand. The memory of the rhythm it had been in Prague when you’d clenched around him, biting his name into his shoulder as he showed you how far pleasure could take you. 

But you’d flipped it, too, dragged him under, made him taste what it was to be caught in something messier than lust.

Love was something he’d sworn he’d never do.

He told himself not to think about it. Not tonight, not now, with you inches away in a dark car and his jacket still carrying the ghost of your perfume. 

Or the faint sting of your nails where you’d clutched his neck as he carried you out of the club.

You sat rigid beside him, chin tipped up like a challenge. But he saw it, the tremor in your knee, the way your fingers spun your ring to keep them busy, the faint catch in your breath when the SUV hit a bump and his thigh brushed yours.

Most people he’d dragged out of danger folded once they were clear, shaking, crying, clutching for reassurance. 

Not you. 

You sat there daring him to notice that his proximity affected you. 

Or daring him to do something about it.

Nick flexed his hand against his thigh, trying to burn off the electricity crawling through his veins, but his mind slipped anyway. 

Back to Prague. 

Back to the rasp of your breath in his ear as he’d murmured, “Princess, don’t stop. Take it for me.”

Back to the way your body had shivered around him as he taught you exactly how to break apart, how to climb higher until your legs trembled beneath you.

He could lock those nights away for months. 

Years. 

And still, here they were, slamming back into him now in the dark, your shoulder a breath from his, your scent in his lungs. He dragged his thumb over a ridge of scar tissue in his palm, his old habit to ground himself. 

It didn’t help much.

“Status,” he murmured into his comm, voice low.

“All clear,” Jake’s voice replied.

“The second team’s ahead, the perimeter's clean and the cameras are live.”

Nick gave a brief acknowledgment and let his eyes cut toward you. The streetlight glow skimmed across your face, catching the faint sheen of sweat still clinging to your skin. 

You weren’t looking at him, your gaze stayed on the blur of buildings sliding past the window, jaw tight.

He knew that tension. The sharp line of it. 

The way it coiled under your skin, prickling just beneath the surface. It wasn’t fear. 

And it wasn’t only anger, though he could feel that radiating off you too.

“We’ll be at the safehouse until I get clearance,” he said finally, his voice calm but pitched lower than it needed to be.

That got you to turn your head, your eyes catching his with just enough defiance to spark something hot in his chest.

He didn’t look at you, but he could feel it, that spark of defiance bristling beside him, the way your head turned just slightly toward him like you were about to argue.

For a second, he almost wanted you to. 

Just to see if your pulse would kick again under his fingers like it had in the club. But you stayed quiet. And Nick kept his gaze forward, cataloging the last two turns before the safehouse.

The hum between you didn’t fade with the silence. It only coiled tighter, hotter, until the building finally appeared in the darkness ahead.

—----

The place was silent when Nick pushed the door open.

Every sound, the faint hum of the fridge, the creak of old floorboards, the soft click as he locked the door behind you felt amplified.

He swept the room in seconds, the same way he’d swept dozens like it before. Blinds down. Corners clear. Window locks checked. 

The space was bare-bones: one couch, one bed, a kitchenette that looked like it hadn’t seen use in months. Temporary. Functional. 

Exactly what he needed.

What you needed, even if you didn’t like it.

Nick holstered his weapon and finally turned toward you. 

You were still by the door, arms crossed, looking composed instead of frayed. You might’ve steadied on the way here, but he could still see the adrenaline riding you, the quick rise and fall of your breath, and the way your knuckles whitened against your arms.

“You’re staying here until I say go,” he said, voice low but even. 

“No clubs. No midnight walks. No arguments.”

You arched a brow. “And if I don’t?”

He didn’t move, but his gaze locked on yours. The silence stretched, your mouth twitching like you were daring him.

That got him to close the distance, not all the way, but enough that the air between you shifted. The faint bite of his cologne cut through the sterile room, his presence filling the space in a way that made your pulse jump whether you wanted it to or not.

His voice dropped a shade lower, softer but edged.

“Then I do my job. Which doesn’t involve asking twice.”

Your breath caught before you could stop it. 

“Is that a threat?”

Nick’s mouth ticked, not quite a smile.

“No. That’s a reminder.”

His eyes flicked down briefly, to your throat, where your pulse fluttered, before lifting back to yours. Just that flicker, but it sent heat curling through your chest.

He didn’t reach for you. But he didn’t look away, either.

“You remember Prague,” he said quietly. 

“You remember what happens when I stop holding back.”

Your fingers tightened on your arms.

“And what if I’m not interested in a repeat performance?” you shot back, voice cooler than you felt.

Nick’s gaze didn’t waver.

“Then we don’t have a problem,” he said evenly. “But we both know what you want.”

Then, as if the tension wasn’t hot between you, Nick stepped back, unclipped his comm, and set it on the table with a soft click.

“You know fuck all, Fowler. That’s probably why you washed out of the CIA and now you’re just another rent-a-cop to the stars.”

His calm gaze didn’t waver, but his jaw flexed once. His eyes flicked to your mouth, quick and deliberate, before sliding back to your eyes.

“You keep pushing,” he murmured, his voice low and steady.

“Same way you did in Prague. But if you keep pushing, Princess, you don’t get to pull back when I finally respond.”

The words landed like a live wire, sparking down your spine.

“And if I want you to?”

Nick raised his hand and his thumb brushed hair back from your temple, a slow, deliberate pass, just enough to make your stomach twist. His voice dropped lower, almost a whisper.

“Then we stop talking about it.”

He stepped back, making you want to chase him. It was maddening.

“Get some sleep,” he said, his tone flat again. “We’ll talk about Vegas security in the morning.”

But then he turned away, leaving your chest tight and your pulse climbing all over again.

—--

The safehouse didn’t sleep easy.

Not with Nick’s voice still curling around your body. Not with his words replaying every time you shut your eyes.

Nick claimed the couch, more to keep distance than comfort. You drifted in and out on the bed, half-hearing him move through the place, boots on the floorboards, water running, coffee brewing.

None of it was the reason you couldn’t sleep.

The reason was him. A man built of stillness and steel, pacing in the next room.

You remember Prague. You remember what happens when I stop holding back.

Sometime past two a.m., the soft creak of floorboards pulled you out of the spiral. You sat up, blanket slipping to your waist, just as Nick appeared in the doorway. A dark henley and sweats replaced his suit, hair still damp, the faint scent of soap following him.

He leaned against the frame, arms crossed, eyes drifting over you in the half-light. Controlled, but heavier than before.

“You’re still awake,” he said finally, his voice low enough that it sank into your skin.

You met his gaze, tugging the blanket higher even though you weren’t cold.

“Hard to sleep when someone’s circling like a guard dog.”

One corner of his mouth ticked, not amusement, not annoyance, but something tighter. He pushed off the frame, closing a few steps until he stood at the edge of the bed, close enough to feel his warmth.

“You want me to stop pacing?” His tone was soft, but it landed heavy.

“Or you want me to stop pretending I don’t know why you’re still awake?”

Your breath hitched. He moved to the footlocker, pulled out plain black sweats, and tossed them to you.

“Take a shower. Get out of that club gear. You’ll feel better.”

You looked at the sweats, then back at the locker. 

“No underwear in there?”

“This is all we’ve got. Improvise.”

Your stomach tightened at the thought, but you huffed and took the clothes, locking the bathroom door behind you. You stared at yourself in the mirror, towel in hand, trying not to imagine how easily you would beg.

—--

The problem was, Nick couldn’t control his cock around you.

Nick prided himself on control.

In the CIA, your body was just another weapon. But with you, none of that held. Didn’t matter how many ops he’d run, how many firefights he’d walked away from steady and calm. 

The second you stepped out of the bathroom in nothing but a towel, drops of water sliding down your collarbone, those thighs glistening in the dim glow of the safehouse light, every ounce of discipline went right out the window.

You didn’t flinch under his stare. You stepped closer, your eyes locking on his, testing him again. His pupils blew wide.

“Kiss me,” you said.

Nick didn’t hesitate.

He leaned down, one hand wrapping firmly around your throat, the other gripping your thigh like it was nothing to lift you. His fingers slid along your ass into the slick heat between your thighs, and you gasped as the towel slipped, your hips rolling against the thick ridge in his sweats.

He kissed you hard and deep, until you made that sound in the back of your throat the one he could never forget, the one that always undid him. Then he set you down carefully, watching your chest heave as you panted.

He tasted you off his fingers, his voice low, dangerous.

“You’re wet for me. You want the Princess treatment?”

Nick stepped toward you, and you backed up even as your eyes locked on his. He caught the edge of your towel and pulled, letting it drop to the floor as his gaze raked over you, slow and hungry. His tongue dragged over his bottom lip.

You slapped him, sharp and unexpected.

He smiled, unbothered. Thrilled, even.

“There’s my answer.”

His hand closed around your arm, not harsh, but firm, and in one smooth motion, he spun you and pushed you down so your chest hit the bed. His grip slid to your hips, hauling you up so that your ass was high, his palms spreading you as he dropped to his knees behind you.

The first swipe of his tongue made you jolt, fingers clutching the sheets. He held you steady, mouth working you open, slowly at first, then deeper, harder, until your thighs trembled against his shoulders.

Nick pulled back just enough to speak, his voice low, and his breath hot against your pussy as he pushed down his sweats and started stroking himself.

“Does Pretty Boy know the Princess likes it rough?” His tone sharpened, a ghost of a smirk at the edge. “That this pussy only curves to my dick?”

And Christ, that dick.

Nick wasn’t blind. He knew what you thought the first time you saw it. Long and thick and heavy in his hand, a weapon he’d never needed to advertise. 

But when blood rushed hot through him, when you dropped to your knees in Prague and he pulled it out, he’d seen your eyes widen as you realized exactly what you were dealing with.

It was sizeable, thick and gorgeous, with a perfect mushroomed head and just enough of a curve to hit exactly where you needed it to. It was the kind of cock that felt made for your mouth, made for your cunt, and the reason no other man ever stood a chance after he’d been inside you.

Talk about a concealed weapon.

Nick’s hand dragged down your spine as he ate you out, until it settled at the curve of your hip. You were trembling, your breath catching with every lick of his tongue and suck of his lips until he finally pulled back, his mouth slick as he wiped it with the back of his hand.

“Don’t move,” he murmured, voice calm enough to make your pulse spike.

His cock was already thick and aching as he climbed on the bed behind you.

You’d always done this to him. He could’ve gone months without even jerking off, no trouble. But one look at you, hips tipped high, cunt slick and wanting, and he was already leaking, already twitching in his grip.

Nick gripped your ass, spreading you open as he leaned forward, dragging the blunt head of his cock over your soaked slit. You whimpered, the sound vibrating through the thin walls, and his jaw flexed as he leaned close to your ear.

“You wanna feel that curve, don’t you?” he rasped, his voice low and rough. 

“This is why no one else can fill you properly, Princess. This dick was made for you.”

He pushed in slow, the stretch deliberate, letting you feel every inch. You gasped, your fingers clawing at the sheets as he bottomed out, the subtle bend hitting deep, right where he knew you needed it.

“Jesus, fuck, Nick,” you moaned, voice ragged.

“Yeah,” he muttered against your shoulder, his hand sliding up your stomach to grip your throat, tilting your head so your cheek brushed his jaw.

“Say it. Let me hear it.”

He started to move, long, deep thrusts, controlled and steady at first, each one driving his cock into you until your body shuddered. He angled his hips just so, letting the curve of him grind against that spot that always made your breath stutter and your thighs shake.

“Nick, please!” you gasped, the words breaking on a moan, almost singing.

He growled low in your ear, his thrusts picking up, hips snapping harder, enough to make your teeth rattle. 

“That’s it. Take it. Take every inch. You wanted the Princess treatment, didn’t you? So take it.”

His fingers found your clit, circling in time with his thrusts, and your moans pitched higher, your body arching, every nerve lit.

“Come on,” he murmured against your ear, his breath hot, his thrusts relentless. 

“I can feel how close you are. Come on my cock, Princess.”

You shattered around him, your cry muffled against the mattress as he held you through it, grinding deep until your shudders eased. Then he flipped you onto your back, his eyes dark and wild.

“Not done,” he rasped, hooking your legs over his forearms and driving back in, rougher now as he chased his own release. You could see it in his face, the tight jaw, the blown pupils, the flicker of restraint barely holding as he buried himself deep, again and again.

When he came, it was with a low, rough groan against your neck, his hips pressing flush to yours as his body shook with the force of it.

Nick stayed there for a minute, his weight heavy but grounding. Then he pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, his fingers brushing your jaw with surprising gentleness.

“Now,” he murmured, a faint smirk curving his mouth, “you can sleep.”

He eased out of you slowly, guiding you down to the mattress. You were still trembling, your breath soft and uneven. He pulled the blanket over you, pressing his mouth to the side of your throat, a kiss softer than anything he’d given you all night.

“Breathe,” he murmured, his hand smoothing along your ribs until your pulse slowed beneath his fingers. “Sleep now. I’ll handle the rest.”

And for once, you didn’t fight him. The exhaustion from the club, the scare, and everything after pulled you under.

—----

The next morning, Nick was already up and dressed, his holster back at his hip. The coffee pot gurgled faintly from the kitchenette.

“Get dressed,” he said, his voice as flat and professional as ever.

“Jake’s cleared everything. Threat’s neutralized. We’re moving.”

You stared at him from the bed, the sting of his detachment hitting harder than you wanted it to. He didn’t meet your eyes as he checked his phone, tapping out a message.

“Back to your hotel,” he added. “Your schedule picks up this afternoon.”

And that was it. No trace of last night, no softness, no hint of the man who’d kissed you until your knees gave out or murmured in your ear while you came apart. Just Nick Fowler, ex-CIA, the shadow your label had shoved back into your life.

By the time you were dressed and back in the car, you could feel the wall going up between you. 

His, yours, both.

When Jake pulled up to your hotel, Nick didn’t walk you in. Just gave a short nod, his blue eyes unreadable behind his sunglasses in the morning light before the SUV pulled away.

Inside, your phone buzzed. Cameron’s name lit the screen. You didn’t hesitate before pressing the button forcing the smile into your voice as soon as he spoke.

“Hey Love. Are you okay?”

“Hey,” you said softly, sinking into the plush hotel chair. “I’m good. Are you busy? …No, I’m back now. Can you come over? Yeah, I could use the company.”

You didn’t mention the safehouse. Or Nick. Or the way your thighs still ached in the best and worst ways.

Some things, for now, needed to stay in the shadows.

[ramp-it-up]

The Pupil

Summary: Restraint gives way to obsession.

Word count: 7.7 K 😬

Pairing: College Student!Bucky Barnes x Professor!Reader

A/N: No one asked for this. This idea hit me when I was contemplating my career choices because I started work Thursday and gremlins come next week, and I thought, if I was a professor and Bucky Barnes walked in my class….🥹 .This is long, it is self indulgent and it is my therapy. I apologize for the length, but it could have been much longer. Hit me up to tell me how you feel about it.

Warnings: 18+ Only, Minors DNI. Read at your own risk. Smut! Power imbalance (professor/student, age gap 38/26) raw p in v sex, sexting, phone sex, masturbation, video sharing, unprotected sex. Obsession, emotional repression, and blurred lines. Reader self-deception and power/control themes. Bucky is feral, intense, and fully locked in. Young dom Bucky all the way. Angst, mutual unraveling, no fluff, all heat. Not Beta'd. All errors my own.

I no longer have a taglist. Please follow @rampitupandread and turn on notifications to learn when I post! 😘

I Do NOT Consent to my work being reposted, translated or presented on any other blog or site other than by myself.

----------

You didn’t always dress like this.

Not in the elegant high-waisted trousers that elongated your already long legs, and the silk blouses in slate and cream, each one buttoned up and tucked just so.

And not in the heels, expensive, pointed, and high, meant to remind you, and everyone else, that control starts at the ankle.

There was a time you tried to disappear.

Back when you were married to a man who said he liked your brain but openly resented your ambition. Who told you quiet was dignified and called you “intimidating” instead of a boss.

Back then you wore flats and cardigans and neutral tones and made yourself smaller in rooms where you should’ve stood tall.

And then one day, you stopped.

Your divorce wasn’t explosive.

It was silent.

You kept your name, your tenured position, and the apartment with the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. He kept the excuses.

And the you learned to love your own company. Late-night reading by lamplight. Coffee in silence.

Fresh sheets, open windows, and no one to bend for.

You built a life that didn’t need anyone else in it. You weren’t lonely. You were whole.

Or so you thought.

Five years after the divorce, at 38, you were tenured, respected, published, and a bright star in Brooklyn College’s English Department. 

You strode into the lecture hall in heels and pencil skirts, your hair up, your lipstick bold, and your syllabus uncompromising. Your specialty was desire on the page, Womanist texts, subversion in narrative form.

The literature of hunger and restraint.

And you were good at it.

You were used to being the subject of attention from your students, attention that extended beyond a concern for their grades. 

Sometimes they were just curious. Sometimes they were crude. Occasionally, they flirted, tried to make you laugh, or tried to match your intellect with theirs.

But you handled it. You shut it down.

You had been with colleagues once or twice, brief encounters that scratched an itch but never lingered. They never made you miss someone when they left your bed or made you want to stay.

There had never been any encounter that made you pause in the doorway of your own classroom and forget, for a split second, what the hell you were about to say.

Until him.

Until James Buchanan Barnes.

—--

You didn’t notice him when you took roll, not at first.

You were focused on your board notes, your syllabus, the usual opening-week checklist, names, majors, who looked restless, who would drop by week three. 

But then you turned, mid-sentence, scanning the room, and your eyes landed on him.

He hadn’t raised his hand. He hadn’t made a sound. But the way he held himself drew your attention like a magnet. 

He sat with the rigid stillness of someone trained for tension, shoulders wide and braced inside a seat not built to hold him, his spine so straight it looked like a kind of discipline.

He wasn’t fidgeting and he wasn’t distracted; he was just silent, present, and alert.

That should have been your first clue. But it wasn’t the way he sat that stopped you.

It was the rest of him.

The overlong dark hair tucked neatly behind one ear. 

The worn black T-shirt pulled across a chest that didn’t belong in a sophomore seminar, and the way his lips pressed together in concentration as he read your syllabus like it was a puzzle to be solved.

The large, veined hand curled around a pen instead of a keyboard, and his notebook was full of cramped, deliberate handwriting.

He looked like someone who had seen the world, someone too young to have such old eyes, though he was older than the others in your class.

He looked like someone who was trying very hard not to be noticed. And it didn’t work.

Because the second he lifted his eyes to meet yours, brilliant blue, sharp, and unwavering, it was over.

You told yourself it meant nothing. He was just a student. One of many.

But then he spoke.

And his voice was low, steady, and crackling with an alluring tenor that almost masked how smart he really was.

And then he argued.

Not with arrogance, but clarity. Citing Baldwin and Heller without a trace of hesitation, pushing back just enough to make it interesting, enough to make your breath catch.

And suddenly you knew.

This one was going to be dangerous.

—--

He knew professors were supposed to be older.

Seasoned. Maybe tired-looking. Overworked and underpaid, carrying canvas tote bags and books with cracked spines.

He wasn’t expecting you.

You walked in like you owned the entire department, heels sharp against the tile, jaw set in a way that made him sit straighter without thinking, and not a single strand of your hair was out of place.

You were wearing a slate grey silk blouse, tucked into high-waisted black trousers that clung to your shape with elegant precision. And your lips were a color that made his mouth go dry.

And Bucky Barnes forgot to breathe.

He picked up his pen before you even spoke.

Not because he was trying to impress you, but because something about you told him that half-assed wasn’t welcome in your presence.

You didn’t look directly at anyone when you entered. You set your bag down, clicked your pen once, and began to speak with the urgency of someone who had no time to waste.

In less than ten minutes, you quoted Morrison, asked a question no one dared answer, and looked directly at him when he did.

That was the first time your gaze met his. And it turned his stomach inside out.

You were older than him, but not in the way that word often implied. You didn’t look tired. You didn’t look diminished. You looked like power.

You looked like someone who had learned to survive, and who didn’t flinch when she walked away from the battle.

He wanted to impress you, of course.

But more than that, he just wanted you to look at him like that again.

——

The semester moved forward, and Bucky was in the front row every class, early enough to see you walk in. He didn’t fidget, he didn’t scroll his phone, and he didn’t scribble anything until you started talking.

His eyes were always on the door, and when you walked through it, his pulse kicked like a reflex.

You were striking.

Every week, in silk blouses, pencil skirts, or tailored trousers, always poised and sharp-edged, never once looking like anyone else on campus.

But what unstrung him was not how you looked.

It was the way you never once looked at him like an object. You never treated your students like they were interchangeable. When you looked at him, you saw him.

And Bucky felt it.

He hadn’t expected to enjoy Postmodern Literature. It sounded like the kind of class where people tried to out-theorize each other, but it surprised him.

And it was the first time since returning to school that he felt like he belonged.

Before your class, he felt like a ghost in the hallway.

Older than most of them at 26, but younger in other ways, like he’d lost time, like he was trying to catch up to a life that had kept going without him.

The Army was paying for his education. Six years in, two years out, into places no one ever talked about. He came back with too many memories and not enough peace.

Literature helped. Reading gave the noise somewhere to go. He filled notebooks just to keep the chaos from spilling over.

And you made it matter.

When you spoke, he listened with his entire body. Every word felt like a match being struck. Every question you asked set something in him on fire.

He kept his face blank when you entered, but inside, something locked into place every time.

“This isn’t a survey course,” you said on the first day. “This is an excavation. We’re going to talk about hunger, about power, about desire, and about what happens when stories lie to us.”

Bucky Barnes was going to learn everything you had to teach.

And not just from the syllabus.

—-

The first time Bucky Barnes had you shook was unexpected.

“Stanley Kowalski isn’t just a villain,” you told the room.

“He’s a study in what happens when masculinity hides its own fragility. What’s worse, being violent, or pretending you’re not?”

There was a pause.

Then his hand went up.

“Yes…?”

“Barnes. James Barnes,” he said, as if you didn’t know his name. You knew his name.

“I think pretending is worse. Because then people convince themselves it’s not violence at all. It’s just… what men do.”

The room went quiet. It was a good point. A sharp one. You nodded, your lips curving just slightly. 

“Interesting. Care to elaborate, Mr. Barnes?”

He leaned forward on the desk, shoulders tense but voice calm. 

“Stanley’s problem isn’t just power. It’s that he thinks he’s entitled to everything. Stella. The apartment. The air they breathe. And when someone tells him he’s not, he loses his mind.”

Your breath caught.

“An excellent observation,” you said, forcing your tone steady.

And you moved on to the next point, your pulse racing.

—---

He didn’t mean to linger. But he did.

Most of the class had already filtered out into the dark, backpacks slung over shoulders, the last few stragglers murmuring their way toward the exit. The lateness of the class cleared the room quickly. 

But Bucky stayed seated in the front row, fingers drumming quietly on the edge of his notebook, eyes fixed forward, on you.

You moved with quiet purpose as you erased the board, your blouse soft under the glow of fluorescent light, and your heels clicking softly against the tile.

You always moved like that, like you had all the time in the world. Like you knew he was watching, and you didn’t care.

Or maybe you did. Maybe that was the problem.

When you turned to face him, your expression was unreadable, carefully professional. 

“Did you need something, Mr. Barnes?”

He stood slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. 

“Just wanted to thank you. For the lecture.”

You raised a brow.

“You’re paying tuition. No need to thank me.”

“Still,” he said, shifting his weight, but not too close. 

“Most professors don’t talk about Streetcar like that. You didn’t soften him. You didn’t make Stanley a hero. You called him what he was.”

Something flickered across your face. Amusement, maybe. Or curiosity. Your mouth curved, just barely. 

“Is that supposed to impress me?”

He smiled warmly. Not cocky, but careful. 

“Would it work if I said yes?”

You stared at him for one beat too long. And then you laughed quietly. The sound was beautiful.

It hit him square in the chest.

“Goodnight, Mr. Barnes,” you said. But you weren’t dismissive.

It would’ve been easy to say something he shouldn’t. Something about how well that skirt fit the curves of your ass, or the slope of your neck, or the way you looked like a woman a man could ruin himself for, and thank her for it.

But he didn’t.

He just cleared his throat and said, “Goodnight, Professor.” 

And then he walked out. Before he could make a mistake.

—---

You were at your desk during office hours, door open, glasses on, red pen in hand, halfway through dissecting an undergrad’s overwrought interpretation of Beloved when you heard a knock.

You didn’t need to look up.

You already knew it was him.

There was a particular rhythm to the way James Barnes moved that was controlled and deliberate. That soldier steadiness in every step. You took a breath before looking up, willing your heart not to react, willing your body to stay still.

“Professor,” he said, low and polite, leaning just slightly into the doorway.

“You got a minute?”

“Of course,” you said, gesturing to the chair across from you like it was just another Wednesday.

Like you hadn’t been hyperaware of him since the moment he walked into your class. 

“Come in.”

He did, wearing a dark henley, jeans, and a backpack slung over one shoulder. He sat down slowly, and you caught a whiff of his scent.

It made your mouth dry.

“I wanted to talk more about the reading,” he said. “If that’s okay.”

“Always.”

He pulled out his copy of The Awakening, pages heavily annotated. 

You should have been focused on what he was saying, but you weren’t. Not entirely.

His voice had that textured quality that hummed through your spine when he spoke. And the way he watched you, like everything you said mattered, was dangerous. 

It made you lean forward. And it made your next question softer than it should have been.

“Do you think Edna is selfish? Or just trapped?”

He tilted his head.

“Both. But I think the trap came first.”

God. He was good.

You pushed your glasses up the bridge of your nose and tried not to notice how the room suddenly felt too warm. 

He spoke like it was casual. But he knew it wasn’t. Not to you. He could tell by the way your eyes lit up. 

He could get addicted to that.

He could tell that you were impressed, and that you didn’t want to be. 

That knowledge made something hot flicker in his chest.

He thought about what you’d look like letting go.

He thought about backing you against that desk and hearing you say his name. Not Mr. Barnes, Bucky.

He thought about dropping to his knees and making you forget every reason you were telling yourself not to want him.

“Mr. Barnes,” you said, clearing your throat lightly, “are you trying to impress me again?”

“Not trying,” he said, voice even. “Just telling the truth.”

That stopped you for a second. And in that second, you smiled.

That was your mistake.

Because in that smile, you gave something away.

And he knew it.

That smile wasn’t dismissive. It wasn’t professional. 

And it definitely wasn’t safe.

It told him that you were thinking about it too.

Even if you wouldn’t admit it.

He didn’t say any of that. Not yet. But one day soon, he might.

—--

You weren’t expecting to see anyone you knew at Prospect Park.

This part of Brooklyn is your quiet zone. Your weekend escape. You come for the live music, the breeze off the trees, the way the city softened just enough to let you breathe.

You were wearing a sundress, nothing scandalous, but light, flowing, a little backless. Your hair was loose and you were comfortable. Free. 

Younger than you usually let yourself feel.

You had your blanket spread out near the edge of the crowd, a book open on your lap, eyes closed as the saxophone swelled. And then…

“Professor?”

Your stomach dropped. Because you knew that voice. You opened your eyes slowly and turned your head, and there he was.

James Barnes.

He was standing a few feet away, hands in the pockets of his jeans, t-shirt snug across his chest. He had a water bottle hooked through one finger, and he looked… stunned.

You blinked, and sat up slowly. When your eyes met his, they widened just enough for him to see the truth: you hadn’t expected to see him either. 

And you weren’t ready.

“Mr. Barnes.”

His eyes raked over you, quickly, respectfully, but there was no hiding the way they lingered. 

You looked… radiant. Relaxed. And so young. Relaxed in a way he’d never seen you. Unguarded.

Your sundress moved when you shifted, a flash of bare shoulder and the curve of your neck knocking something loose in his chest. 

For a second, he forgot you were his professor. 

He just saw a woman so beautiful it felt unreal to look at you out of context. 

You watched the moment he really saw you with your hair down and your sandals off and your mouth slightly parted in surprise.

He didn’t say anything for a second too long.

And it rattled you.

You were used to being looked at. But not by him. Not like this.

“You here for the show?” you asked, trying to sound calm.

He nodded slowly as his eyes dragged over you again.

“Yeah. Didn’t expect to see anyone from campus.”

You raised an eyebrow.

“What, professors don’t like jazz?”

“No,” he said. “I just didn’t think you looked like this… out in the wild.”

You laughed, too loud. Embarrassed. And a little flattered.

“Well. Surprise.”

He didn’t look away.

And that’s when you realized, you were not in control of this moment. Not the way you usually were. Because for the first time in years, you’re the one who doesn’t know what to do with your hands. Or your mouth. 

Or your rapidly racing heart.

Bucky made small talk, played it cool, but he couldn’t stop staring.

He didn’t know you could laugh like that. He didn’t know a simple sundress could make his brain short-circuit when he’d spent weeks imagining what you look like underneath all that silk and structure.

He could leave. He probably should.

But you’re not telling him to.

And for a moment, just one long, buzzy moment, Bucky wondered if the line between you already broke, and you both just keep pretending it’s still there.

—---

You patted the edge of the blanket before you could talk yourself out of it.

“Feel free to sit,” you said, tone light, professor-pleasant. 

He hesitated only a moment, then lowered himself onto the corner, legs stretched out in front of him, careful not to sit too close. You straightened your spine but didn’t lean into the warmth.

“So,” he said after a beat, eyes forward, voice casual.

“Didn’t take you for the Prospect Park jazz type.”

You hummed softly, keeping your gaze on the stage. 

“Everyone needs a little fresh air.”

He nodded, giving you room. You sat shoulder to shoulder in a comfortable silence that allowed you to think too much.

The set ended with a soft cymbal roll and a murmur of applause. You clapped, grateful for the distraction and for something to break the silence that’s been stretching between you like a tripwire.

Bucky, James, Barnes, Christ, brushed his palms on his jeans and stood slowly. You stayed seated, not trusting your legs just yet.

“Well,” he said, his voice quiet but steady. “I should get going.”

You nodded, eyes on your book even though you haven’t read a word of it since he sat down.

“Of course. Thanks for saying hi.”

He paused. You felt it.

“I’ll see you in class,” he said finally.

And you nodded again. Too fast. Too clipped.

“Goodnight, Mr. Barnes.”

“Goodnight, Professor.”

Your name on his tongue would ruin you. You knew that. So you were grateful, in a sick way, that he didn’t use it. That he kept the mask on, even as he walked away without looking back.

Only once he was far enough away do you finally exhale.

—----

The next week, he waited until the last twenty minutes of your posted office hours.

Long enough that you probably thought no one else was coming.

You were behind your desk, papers stacked to your left, a half-empty yogurt cup in the trash beside you. Your hair was pinned back tight, the way you always wore it on days when control mattered most. The soft hum of your laptop filled the quiet, a jazz playlist coming from the speakers.

You looked like calm incarnate. But he saw the hesitation when you glanced up and saw him standing in the doorway.

"Mr. Barnes," you said, voice as composed as your posture. "Come in."

He did, quietly and carefully keeping his distance. He always did. He asked about Baldwin. Giovanni’s Room. His tone was casual, almost too casual, but the tightness in his jaw gave him away.

And then…

“I’ve been thinking about what you read in class,” he said, voice low.

“The part about self-deception.”

You looked up slowly. You knew where this was going.

“Is that what this is?”

You didn’t answer.

“I can’t pretend anymore,” he continued. “Not with you.”

The air in the room changed.

“I want you,” he said, firmer now.

“I’ve wanted you since the first class. I thought I could ignore it, bury it under respect, or rules, or whatever you needed from me. But it’s still there.”

You couldn’t breathe.

Not well. Not normally. Not with him standing there saying that like it was a truth he’d been carrying in his bones since the beginning of the semester.

You stared at him, searching for something you could use to shut it down. Immaturity. Fantasy. Entitlement. But it wasn’t there. 

He wasn’t testing you. He wasn’t fantasizing. He was telling you the truth. And now it was here.

Said aloud in your office.

“I’m not confused,” he said. 

“And I’m not asking for anything. I just needed you to know I’m done pretending I don’t feel it.”

You folded your hands in your lap because you didn’t trust them not to move. Not to reach. Not to tremble.

“This isn’t possible,” you said, voice thin. “You’re my student.”

“I know.”

But he didn’t back down.

You exhaled, and let the silence grow.

That usually made people fumble excuses to fill the void. And when he didn’t retreat, didn’t apologize, didn’t break, you reached for the only weapon left: distance.

“You’re twenty-six.”

“Almost twenty-seven.”

“I’m thirty-eight.”

“I know.”

“That’s over a decade.”

“I’m aware.”

You hated how calm he was. You hated that some stupid, aching part of you wanted him to lose control, because at least then it wouldn’t feel so dangerous. Or deliberate.

“You’ve seen things,” you said. “You’ve survived things. But you’re still figuring out who you are.”

He didn’t argue. And somehow, that made it worse.

“I’ve worked my whole life for this career,” you snapped. “I’m not throwing it away for a moment in a park or a crush you can’t separate from fantasy.”

“It’s not a crush,” he said. “And it’s not a fantasy.”

“Stop,” you said, louder than you intended.

He did.

And your throat burned. When you finally spoke again, your voice was softer.

“I need you to leave.”

He didn’t argue, just looked at you and nodded.

“Of course, Professor.”

You didn’t watch him go. You kept your eyes on the stack of ungraded essays in front of you, pretending they mattered more than the fact that you hadn’t really wanted him to leave. 

You wanted him to stay. 

And close the door.

—--

You didn’t assign any reading the next week.

You told yourself it was because midterms were coming. You told yourself it was merciful.

It wasn’t.

It was preparation.

You kept it clean in class, composed. Cold, even.

You called on him once, just to prove you could, and he answered in that low, calm voice like nothing was wrong. Like you weren’t wet under your skirt for the full fifty minutes.

And when the room cleared, and he stayed in his seat, you just stood.

“I need to see you in my office about last week’s meeting, Mr. Barnes.”

He just sat there and watched you walk out of the door, listening to your heels click their way down the hall to your office.

You left the door unlocked.

You waited.

And when he finally stepped into your office and shut the door behind him, you just looked at him. And he looked at you.

And that was all it took to understand.

You stepped back against your desk and swallowed hard.

“We don’t talk about this after,” you said, quietly.

“Okay,” he said, eyes dark.

“But you need to say it.”

You nodded once. “It’s just sex.”

Bucky knew you were lying, but you were offering him something and he was going to take it. He moved toward you.

You held his gaze.

“I’m on birth control.”

“I’m clean,” he said. “Tested last month.”

“So am I.”

A pause. You lifted your chin.

“I want it raw.”

He exhaled through his nose, something primal flickering across his face.

“Jesus. You sure?”

You nodded again. “You?”

“Yeah,” he said, voice rasping now. “Fuck yeah.”

And when his hands finally landed on you, you felt your control collapse. And it felt so good.

He kissed you like you were already his, like he’d spent months imagining this exact moment, how your mouth would part, how your hands would clutch at his shoulders, how your body would give the second he asked.

You moaned into him, soft, needy, and unguarded. And that was all he needed. He lifted you in one clean motion and set you back on your desk.

Urgently. You shoved the papers aside with one sweep of your arm. Something fluttered to the floor. You didn’t care.

His hands pushed your skirt up to your waist, exposing your bare thighs, and when he realized you weren’t wearing anything underneath…

“Fuck,” he whispered, looking down at you like he’d never seen a pussy before.

You hooked your ankles around his hips. 

“Don’t waste time.”

He looked up, eyes locked on yours, and slid two fingers through your cunt, like he wanted to memorize how wet you already were for him.

“Jesus,” he muttered. “You were like this all through class?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Your head tipped back when he sank to his knees.

He didn't tease and he didn’t take his time.

His mouth was on you in seconds, hot and filthy, his tongue licking up your slit, mouth closing over your clit like he’d been studying for this moment. And he had.

You gasped, one hand flying to the edge of the desk, the other buried in his hair as he groaned into you. It was too much. Too fast. Too good.

You’d touched yourself thinking about this. Pictured it. Fantasized. But nothing had prepared you for the way he devoured you. Like he needed it to breathe.

Your thighs shook. Your hips rolled into his mouth. And when you came, you heard him groan like he felt it, too.

He stood quickly, shoved his jeans down just enough, and lined himself up without another word.

You looked down and your breath caught. You wanted it. You asked for this. You reached between your legs and guided him in yourself.

You both groaned.

He filled you in one slow thrust, inch after inch of hard, perfect pressure, and you nearly came again right then.

His hands gripped your thighs. He drew back and thrust again, so hard the desk creaked.

You bit your lip to keep from screaming.

“Look at me,” he growled.

You did.

His eyes were wild.

“I’ve wanted this,” he said, voice breaking on the words. “Wanted you.”

You wrapped your arms around his shoulders. “Then fuck me like you mean it.”

He did.

Every thrust was deep, deliberate, devastating. The sound of skin on skin filled the room, slick and obscene. Your body took him like you were made for it, like this was inevitable. Like finally.

He slid one hand up your blouse, pushed your bra up, palmed your breast, and groaned when you arched into it. His mouth was at your throat, biting, sucking, and praising through gritted teeth.

“So tight. Fuck you feel so good.”

You clawed at his back.

“I’m gonna come,” you gasped. “Don’t stop! Please”

He buried his face in your neck. 

“Not stopping. Not, fuck, not pulling out…”

You came hard. Writhing, and breaking beneath him.

And when he followed,seconds later, pulsing inside you with a choked groan and a helpless thrust, you realized: This would never be just sex.

And you were never going to forget this.

—----

He knocked the next week at office hours. You almost wished he wouldn’t.

You looked up, your expression blank. “Come in.”

He stepped inside. Closed the door gently. Not locking it. 

You gestured to the chair. “Sit.”

He did.

You watched him for a moment. He looked good. Too good. Calm again. Always so goddamn calm. You folded your hands in your lap.

“This can’t happen again.”

He didn’t flinch. Just waited.

You cleared your throat. 

“What happened in this office was unprofessional. And dangerous. For both of us.”

Still, he said nothing.

“I don’t care how quiet we are. If anyone finds out…”

“They won’t,” he said softly.

“That’s not the point.”

You didn’t raise your voice. But it felt like a scream.

“I worked too hard for this. I have too much to lose.”

“I know.”

You blinked. “That’s it?”

He met your eyes. 

“If you’re done, if you really don’t want me to touch you again, say it.”

You opened your mouth. But no words came out. Because that wasn’t true. And you both knew it.

So instead, you said: “This ends now.”

And he nodded once. But his eyes didn’t believe you.

And when he stood to leave, your body betrayed you again. Because you wanted him.

You said it before you could stop yourself.

“James.”

It was soft, a sound you weren’t aware you were capable of. Not so full of need like that. 

But he heard it. He paused in the doorway. Shoulders tensed. One hand still on the knob. He turned and met your eyes.

And you didn’t take it back.

He stepped back into the room and shut the door behind him, locking it this time.

He crossed the room in three strides, hands on your body, spinning you around with authority. And you let him. 

Your blouse was still buttoned. Your trousers were still on. But you were soaked the moment he touched you. 

“You knew I couldn’t resist you,” he said, voice low behind you.

His mouth grazed your ear as he pressed into you, hard beneath his jeans.

“You don’t want me to.”

You didn’t deny it, just unbuttoned your pants and let them fall.

No panties again.

His hands were on you in an instant, dragging you back against him, cursing under his breath when his fingers slipped between your legs and found you already dripping.

“You wanted this.”

“Don’t talk,” you breathed.

But you didn’t mean it.

He pushed your blouse up, leaned over you, one hand planted on the desk beside yours, the other between your legs.

“You still want it raw?”

You nodded.

“Say it.”

“Yes,” you whispered. “Please.”

He undid his jeans. You felt the press of him against your thigh, hot and thick and ready.

And when he pushed into you, you gasped.

There was no easing in. Just a deep, brutal thrust that forced a broken moan from your lips. You slapped a hand over your mouth, but he grabbed your wrist and pulled it away.

“Let me hear it.”

He fucked you hard. So hard that your desk rocked.

You forgot how to breathe as your cheek pressed against the cool surface of your desk and as your hands gripped the edge. 

He fucked you like he owned you, like this was always going to happen. 

Like he knew exactly what you needed, and he wasn’t going to let you hide from it again.

“You’re mine right now,” he panted. “No lies. No rules. Just this.”

You came fast, unexpectedly, a sob punching out of your throat as you clenched around him. He groaned and followed you seconds later, spilling inside you with a sharp cry, his hips stuttering against your ass.

For a long moment, there was nothing but breathing. He leaned over your back, both hands braced on the desk now, chest heaving.

You stayed still beneath him, your body still shaking.

Neither of you spoke.

Because what could you say?

—--

It was break week, and of course you could survive without seeing Bucky. 

It was just sex, and you were a grown woman. You wouldn’t text him; he didn’t have your number and you only had his because you had his student information.

You told yourself you wouldn’t. 

It was unprofessional.

You told yourself that if you just made it through Monday without texting, the rest of the week would be easier. And you almost believed it.

But by Thursday afternoon, your resolve had withered under need. Your apartment was too still. Your phone was too close.

You typed the message three times. Deleted it each time. Then sent it anyway.

You Did you finish Baldwin yet? Figure out the nature of self-deception?

You threw your phone across the couch the second it delivered.

Five minutes passed.

Then ten.

Then…

James: Did you really just text me about Baldwin while I’m picturing your ass bent over your desk?

Your stomach flipped.

You told yourself not to respond.

You absolutely responded.

You: I was being professional.

James: You didn’t sound very professional last time I had my fingers inside you.

You closed your eyes. And your pulse dropped straight between your thighs.

And then, another buzz.

James: Should I stop?

You stared at the screen.

Then your thumbs moved on their own.

You: No.

And that was it.

That was the beginning of the end.

Because now he had your number. And he didn’t just use it to flirt.

He used it to unravel you.

James: What are you wearing right now?

You shouldn’t have answered. But you did.

You: Nothing you’d be allowed to see if we were in class.

James: I wouldn’t need to see it.

You: No?

James: I’d just need to hear you.

Your breath caught as you watched the bubbles.

James: Want me to call you?

Your heart pounded as you stared at the screen.

Then you typed.

You: Yes.

—---

You answered without thinking.

He didn’t even say hello.

“Take your hand,” he said, voice calm, “and put it between your legs.”

Your breath caught instantly. 

“James…”

“Do it.”

You did.

And it was worse than being touched. Because now, every movement was yours, but every command was his.

“Are you wet?” he asked.

You nodded, forgetting he couldn’t see you. 

“Yes.”

“Fuck,” he muttered. “You miss me?”

You closed your eyes, head dropping back onto your pillow. 

“Yes.”

“How bad?”

“Don’t make me say it.”

“I want to hear you,” he growled. “You started this. Now I want you to tell me what you’ve been thinking about.”

You swallowed.

“Your hands on me. Your mouth. The way you sound when you come. The way you…”

“Touch yourself.”

You gasped at the sound of his voice in your ear, that subtle shift to something darker, something claiming.

“Just two fingers,” he said. “Keep the pressure light. Don’t come yet.”

You obeyed.

“Good girl.”

Your hips bucked slightly.

“Oh, you like that?” he asked, smug now. “I bet you’re soaked.”

“I hate you,” you breathed.

“No you don’t,” he said, quieter now.

“You love this. Being ruined without me even being in the room. So fucking desperate for it you couldn’t go one more day without hearing me.”

You whimpered, and his voice dropped further.

“Circle your clit. Slowly. Just like that. Stay with me.”

You could hear his breathing now. It wasn’t clean. He was hard. He was touching himself too. You knew it. You heard it in his voice.

“I want you so fucking bad,” he groaned.

“That desk wasn’t enough. I need to fuck you until you cry. Until you forget how to teach. Until you forget every name but mine.”

Your hips jerked.

“You close?”

“Yes, fuck, James, I…”

“Not yet.”

You froze.

“I want you begging.”

“I am.”

“No. Say it.”

You shook.

“Please, James. Let me come. I need it. Please…”

“Now,” he growled. “Come for me. Right now.”

And you did.

Hard. Gasping. One hand clamped over your mouth, the other between your legs, writhing into the mattress as the sound of his voice pushed you right over the edge.

On the other end, you heard him break too, a low, broken grunt, a whispered fuck, the subtle sound of his body surrendering.

Silence followed. Thick. Heavy. Full.

“Still just sex?” he asked finally.

You didn’t answer.

You couldn’t.

Because that was the lie. And you’d both just drowned in it.

—----

You didn’t sleep. Not really.

Every time you closed your eyes, you heard his voice.

Touch yourself. Good girl. Come for me. Like a current under your skin. Like a drug you couldn’t shake.

By midmorning, you gave up trying. You poured coffee, opened your laptop, stared at the stack of essays you were supposed to grade.

And then you reached for your phone.

No plan. No script.

Just the ache.

You: What are you doing?

He replied almost immediately.

James: Whatever you want me to be doing.

Your thighs pressed together. You were hopeless.

You: You’re insufferable.

James: You’re obsessed.

You didn’t argue.

James: Send me a photo.

Your pulse spiked.

You: Of what?

James: You. Just your mouth. No smile. Nothing posed. I want to see the version of you I shouldn’t have.

You hesitated.

Then turned on the front camera.

Hair messy. No makeup. Pillow creases still pressed into your cheek. Lips parted. No performance.

You sent it.

Seconds passed.

Then,

James: Take your shirt off.

You stared at the screen.

James: I want to see your tits while I jerk off.

Your breath caught.

You looked around your empty apartment like someone might be watching.

Then you pulled your shirt over your head.

You weren’t wearing a bra.

You angled the camera down just enough.

You took the photo and stared at it.

You looked... undone.

You sent it anyway.

James: Fuck. You’re perfect.

Another message followed right after.

James: Next time I want video.

You: What do you want me to do?

His reply came fast.

James: I want to hear what you sound like when you finger yourself and look into the camera like it’s me.

You dropped the phone onto the bed, your face burning, your body already responding.

You hated how much you wanted it.

And you loved that he asked.

—------

You turned off every light but one and propped your phone up on your nightstand, angled carefully. You could see yourself in the frame, messy, flushed, bare.

Your pulse was already high and your mouth was dry. Your fingers shook as you hit record.

"Hi,” you whispered, embarrassed.

Then you bit your lip and tried again.

“James…”

His name felt like a weight in your chest. Your thighs shifted.

“I can’t stop thinking about you.”

You lowered the camera slowly, past your collarbones, over your breasts, down your belly. You spread your legs.

No teasing. No preamble.

You wanted him to see the truth of it. The urgency. The craving.

You let your fingers slip down, just two, and parted yourself. You were already, still, wet. You couldn’t fake it.

You circled your clit, slowly as you said his name. 

“James…”

Your free hand slid up your body, palming your breast, pinching your nipple until you gasped.

The camera caught everything. The angle of your hips. The arch of your back. The way your mouth opened when you slipped the two fingers inside yourself.

You looked into the lens, right at him

“You want this, don’t you?” you whispered. “You want to watch me come thinking about your cock inside me?”

You fucked yourself harder.

Faster.

“Is this how you want me? Needing you?”

You whimpered, unable to stop.

“You’d fuck me so good if you were here.”

You knew he’d watch it more than once, you wanted him to. You wanted him wrecked.

“I’m gonna come,” you gasped, hips bucking. “I’m gonna…fuck…James…”

You came hard, legs shaking. Your body exposed in all the ways you swore you never would be.

You let the camera roll as you caught your breath, chest heaving.

Then you leaned in and whispered, “Your turn.”

And stopped the video.

You sent it. No warning. No text. Just the file.

Seconds later, he responded.

James: Jesus fucking Christ.

Then a voice message.

You hit play.

He was breathing hard.

“Baby,” he said, wrecked and reverent, “I’m gonna come just thinking about what I’m gonna do to you next time I see you. You think I fucked you hard before? You don’t even know.”

You lay back, smiling.

You did this.

You ruined him.

—----

Your phone buzzed.

You sat up straight and your heart kicked like it had been waiting. You pressed play.

The image loaded.

And what you saw was dim lighting, the camera angled low. And there he was, naked, stretched out on his bed, one arm tucked behind his head, the other wrapped tight around his cock.

He was hard. Thick, And leaking from the thick mushroom tip that destroyed your soul.

“Baby,” he said, hoarse. “What the fuck did you do to me?”

Your breath caught instantly.

Baby.

No one had called you that in a long time.

He stroked himself slowly, base to tip, eyes locked on the screen.

“You send me that video, looking like that, saying my name like it’s the only word you know, and you expect me to be calm?”

His hand tightened. His abs tensed.

“You were dripping, weren’t you? So fucking wet. Just thinking about me.”

He dragged his thumb over the head of his cock and groaned.

“I can’t stop watching it. Can’t stop seeing your fingers inside you, your mouth, your tits, those little sounds you make when you’re about to fall apart.”

He was close. You could see it in the way his hips shifted, the way his free hand gripped the sheets.

“I swear to God, the next time I’m inside you, I’m not stopping until you beg me to. I’ll hold your legs open and fuck you so fucking deep. There will be no hiding.”

You whimpered.

It was like he heard it. He smirked.

“I want to feel you shake under me. Want to feel your nails in my back, your come on my cock, your voice saying my name.”

His eyes flicked down.

“I’m gonna come,” he panted. “You watching, baby? You gonna come with me next time?”

He grunted, low, raw, broken, his body tensing as he came hard, ropes of it spilling over his hand, across his stomach, the sound of it filling the room.

You were breathless.

He looked straight into the camera, chest heaving.

And said, “Next time, you ride me until I forget my own name.”

The video ended.

You sat there, phone still in your hand, thighs pressed tight, pulse racing.

And that was the moment you knew this wasn’t a fling. This wasn’t just sex. This was an addiction.

And you wanted more.

—--

You didn’t think. You didn’t ask. You didn’t play.

You watched his video in your bed, one hand clutched in the sheets, thighs slick and trembling, your whole body strung tight with need.

You didn’t touch yourself. Didn’t move. You just stared at the screen.

And then, you opened the message app, tapped his name, and sent him your location.

No text, no explanation. Just a pin.

Come here.

That’s what it meant.

You knew he’d understand.

You stood up and unlocked the front door. 

Then you waited.

And when you heard his knock, you didn’t hesitate, you opened the door.

He stood there, hood up, breath ragged, eyes already dark. No words.

No one said a thing.

He pressed you against the wall, lips crashing into yours, hands already sliding up your sides, lifting your shirt to bare your breasts.

Your legs parted on instinct.

His knee pressed between them, his hands gripping your waist like he couldn’t believe you were real. You pulled at his hoodie. He dragged it off.

He wasn’t gentle and you didn’t want him to be. You guided his hand between your legs.

He groaned.

“You’re so fucking ready for me,” he rasped. “All I did was show you how bad I want you.”

You didn’t answer. You just reached for his belt.

Because this wasn’t sexting.This wasn’t a video. This wasn’t pretend.

This was real.

And you needed him inside you like oxygen.

—--

He pressed you against the wall like he was starved. He was frantic. There was no careful undressing. No asking. Just taking.

Your shirt was gone before you even realized it. You didn’t remember lifting your arms. You only remembered the sound of him groaning when he saw your bare chest, the heat of his mouth on your nipple, the way he bit down just enough to make you gasp.

He unzipped his jeans and, shoved his boxers down. His cock sprang free you almost dropped to your knees. But he grabbed your face, and kissed you again, deeper this time. 

“Not tonight,” he muttered. “I need to be inside you.”

You didn’t argue,  you just turned and pressed your hands against the wall and arched your back, giving him everything.

He groaned. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

He dragged the head of his cock through your soaking wet folds, and then with one sharp thrust, he entered you. 

You gasped loudly.

He filled you, raw and perfect, like your body had been made to take him.

“Fuck,” he whispered. “This pussy’s unreal.”

You pressed your forehead to the wall, eyes shut, trying to breathe.He pulled back, then slammed into you again. Again. Again.

The sound of it was obscene.

Your walls clenched around him, as one hand slid under your body, finding your clit. He rubbed in tight circles as he fucked you deep.

“You close?” he panted. “You gonna come on me already?”

“Yes, God, don’t stop…”

He slammed into you harder.

“You want me to fill you again?”

“Yes, fuck, yes….”

“Say it.”

“I want your come,” you choked. “I want it inside me.”

He groaned, gripped your hips harder, and pounded into you like he meant to stay.

You came hard, shaking, gasping, and ruined.

He followed seconds later, burying himself deep and coming with a sound that made your whole body throb. You felt every pulse of it. Every drop.

He stayed like that for a moment. Inside you. Chest against your back. Breathing hard.

Then he kissed your shoulder. Softly. Almost sweet.

And that scared you more than anything else.

-----

Send asks, reblogs, comments. Let me know if you feel the way that I feel. 🫠

[ramp-it-up]

The Pupil

Summary: Restraint gives way to obsession.

Word count: 7.7 K 😬

Pairing: College Student!Bucky Barnes x Professor!Reader

A/N: No one asked for this. This idea hit me when I was contemplating my career choices because I started work Thursday and gremlins come next week, and I thought, if I was a professor and Bucky Barnes walked in my class….🥹 .This is long, it is self indulgent and it is my therapy. I apologize for the length, but it could have been much longer. Hit me up to tell me how you feel about it.

Warnings: 18+ Only, Minors DNI. Read at your own risk. Smut! Power imbalance (professor/student, age gap 38/26) raw p in v sex, sexting, phone sex, masturbation, video sharing, unprotected sex. Obsession, emotional repression, and blurred lines. Reader self-deception and power/control themes. Bucky is feral, intense, and fully locked in. Young dom Bucky all the way. Angst, mutual unraveling, no fluff, all heat. Not Beta'd. All errors my own.

I no longer have a taglist. Please follow @rampitupandread and turn on notifications to learn when I post! 😘

I Do NOT Consent to my work being reposted, translated or presented on any other blog or site other than by myself.

----------

You didn’t always dress like this.

Not in the elegant high-waisted trousers that elongated your already long legs, and the silk blouses in slate and cream, each one buttoned up and tucked just so.

And not in the heels, expensive, pointed, and high, meant to remind you, and everyone else, that control starts at the ankle.

There was a time you tried to disappear.

Back when you were married to a man who said he liked your brain but openly resented your ambition. Who told you quiet was dignified and called you “intimidating” instead of a boss.

Back then you wore flats and cardigans and neutral tones and made yourself smaller in rooms where you should’ve stood tall.

And then one day, you stopped.

Your divorce wasn’t explosive.

It was silent.

You kept your name, your tenured position, and the apartment with the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. He kept the excuses.

And the you learned to love your own company. Late-night reading by lamplight. Coffee in silence.

Fresh sheets, open windows, and no one to bend for.

You built a life that didn’t need anyone else in it. You weren’t lonely. You were whole.

Or so you thought.

Five years after the divorce, at 38, you were tenured, respected, published, and a bright star in Brooklyn College’s English Department. 

You strode into the lecture hall in heels and pencil skirts, your hair up, your lipstick bold, and your syllabus uncompromising. Your specialty was desire on the page, Womanist texts, subversion in narrative form.

The literature of hunger and restraint.

And you were good at it.

You were used to being the subject of attention from your students, attention that extended beyond a concern for their grades. 

Sometimes they were just curious. Sometimes they were crude. Occasionally, they flirted, tried to make you laugh, or tried to match your intellect with theirs.

But you handled it. You shut it down.

You had been with colleagues once or twice, brief encounters that scratched an itch but never lingered. They never made you miss someone when they left your bed or made you want to stay.

There had never been any encounter that made you pause in the doorway of your own classroom and forget, for a split second, what the hell you were about to say.

Until him.

Until James Buchanan Barnes.

—--

You didn’t notice him when you took roll, not at first.

You were focused on your board notes, your syllabus, the usual opening-week checklist, names, majors, who looked restless, who would drop by week three. 

But then you turned, mid-sentence, scanning the room, and your eyes landed on him.

He hadn’t raised his hand. He hadn’t made a sound. But the way he held himself drew your attention like a magnet. 

He sat with the rigid stillness of someone trained for tension, shoulders wide and braced inside a seat not built to hold him, his spine so straight it looked like a kind of discipline.

He wasn’t fidgeting and he wasn’t distracted; he was just silent, present, and alert.

That should have been your first clue. But it wasn’t the way he sat that stopped you.

It was the rest of him.

The overlong dark hair tucked neatly behind one ear. 

The worn black T-shirt pulled across a chest that didn’t belong in a sophomore seminar, and the way his lips pressed together in concentration as he read your syllabus like it was a puzzle to be solved.

The large, veined hand curled around a pen instead of a keyboard, and his notebook was full of cramped, deliberate handwriting.

He looked like someone who had seen the world, someone too young to have such old eyes, though he was older than the others in your class.

He looked like someone who was trying very hard not to be noticed. And it didn’t work.

Because the second he lifted his eyes to meet yours, brilliant blue, sharp, and unwavering, it was over.

You told yourself it meant nothing. He was just a student. One of many.

But then he spoke.

And his voice was low, steady, and crackling with an alluring tenor that almost masked how smart he really was.

And then he argued.

Not with arrogance, but clarity. Citing Baldwin and Heller without a trace of hesitation, pushing back just enough to make it interesting, enough to make your breath catch.

And suddenly you knew.

This one was going to be dangerous.

—--

He knew professors were supposed to be older.

Seasoned. Maybe tired-looking. Overworked and underpaid, carrying canvas tote bags and books with cracked spines.

He wasn’t expecting you.

You walked in like you owned the entire department, heels sharp against the tile, jaw set in a way that made him sit straighter without thinking, and not a single strand of your hair was out of place.

You were wearing a slate grey silk blouse, tucked into high-waisted black trousers that clung to your shape with elegant precision. And your lips were a color that made his mouth go dry.

And Bucky Barnes forgot to breathe.

He picked up his pen before you even spoke.

Not because he was trying to impress you, but because something about you told him that half-assed wasn’t welcome in your presence.

You didn’t look directly at anyone when you entered. You set your bag down, clicked your pen once, and began to speak with the urgency of someone who had no time to waste.

In less than ten minutes, you quoted Morrison, asked a question no one dared answer, and looked directly at him when he did.

That was the first time your gaze met his. And it turned his stomach inside out.

You were older than him, but not in the way that word often implied. You didn’t look tired. You didn’t look diminished. You looked like power.

You looked like someone who had learned to survive, and who didn’t flinch when she walked away from the battle.

He wanted to impress you, of course.

But more than that, he just wanted you to look at him like that again.

——

The semester moved forward, and Bucky was in the front row every class, early enough to see you walk in. He didn’t fidget, he didn’t scroll his phone, and he didn’t scribble anything until you started talking.

His eyes were always on the door, and when you walked through it, his pulse kicked like a reflex.

You were striking.

Every week, in silk blouses, pencil skirts, or tailored trousers, always poised and sharp-edged, never once looking like anyone else on campus.

But what unstrung him was not how you looked.

It was the way you never once looked at him like an object. You never treated your students like they were interchangeable. When you looked at him, you saw him.

And Bucky felt it.

He hadn’t expected to enjoy Postmodern Literature. It sounded like the kind of class where people tried to out-theorize each other, but it surprised him.

And it was the first time since returning to school that he felt like he belonged.

Before your class, he felt like a ghost in the hallway.

Older than most of them at 26, but younger in other ways, like he’d lost time, like he was trying to catch up to a life that had kept going without him.

The Army was paying for his education. Six years in, two years out, into places no one ever talked about. He came back with too many memories and not enough peace.

Literature helped. Reading gave the noise somewhere to go. He filled notebooks just to keep the chaos from spilling over.

And you made it matter.

When you spoke, he listened with his entire body. Every word felt like a match being struck. Every question you asked set something in him on fire.

He kept his face blank when you entered, but inside, something locked into place every time.

“This isn’t a survey course,” you said on the first day. “This is an excavation. We’re going to talk about hunger, about power, about desire, and about what happens when stories lie to us.”

Bucky Barnes was going to learn everything you had to teach.

And not just from the syllabus.

—-

The first time Bucky Barnes had you shook was unexpected.

“Stanley Kowalski isn’t just a villain,” you told the room.

“He’s a study in what happens when masculinity hides its own fragility. What’s worse, being violent, or pretending you’re not?”

There was a pause.

Then his hand went up.

“Yes…?”

“Barnes. James Barnes,” he said, as if you didn’t know his name. You knew his name.

“I think pretending is worse. Because then people convince themselves it’s not violence at all. It’s just… what men do.”

The room went quiet. It was a good point. A sharp one. You nodded, your lips curving just slightly. 

“Interesting. Care to elaborate, Mr. Barnes?”

He leaned forward on the desk, shoulders tense but voice calm. 

“Stanley’s problem isn’t just power. It’s that he thinks he’s entitled to everything. Stella. The apartment. The air they breathe. And when someone tells him he’s not, he loses his mind.”

Your breath caught.

“An excellent observation,” you said, forcing your tone steady.

And you moved on to the next point, your pulse racing.

—---

He didn’t mean to linger. But he did.

Most of the class had already filtered out into the dark, backpacks slung over shoulders, the last few stragglers murmuring their way toward the exit. The lateness of the class cleared the room quickly. 

But Bucky stayed seated in the front row, fingers drumming quietly on the edge of his notebook, eyes fixed forward, on you.

You moved with quiet purpose as you erased the board, your blouse soft under the glow of fluorescent light, and your heels clicking softly against the tile.

You always moved like that, like you had all the time in the world. Like you knew he was watching, and you didn’t care.

Or maybe you did. Maybe that was the problem.

When you turned to face him, your expression was unreadable, carefully professional. 

“Did you need something, Mr. Barnes?”

He stood slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. 

“Just wanted to thank you. For the lecture.”

You raised a brow.

“You’re paying tuition. No need to thank me.”

“Still,” he said, shifting his weight, but not too close. 

“Most professors don’t talk about Streetcar like that. You didn’t soften him. You didn’t make Stanley a hero. You called him what he was.”

Something flickered across your face. Amusement, maybe. Or curiosity. Your mouth curved, just barely. 

“Is that supposed to impress me?”

He smiled warmly. Not cocky, but careful. 

“Would it work if I said yes?”

You stared at him for one beat too long. And then you laughed quietly. The sound was beautiful.

It hit him square in the chest.

“Goodnight, Mr. Barnes,” you said. But you weren’t dismissive.

It would’ve been easy to say something he shouldn’t. Something about how well that skirt fit the curves of your ass, or the slope of your neck, or the way you looked like a woman a man could ruin himself for, and thank her for it.

But he didn’t.

He just cleared his throat and said, “Goodnight, Professor.” 

And then he walked out. Before he could make a mistake.

—---

You were at your desk during office hours, door open, glasses on, red pen in hand, halfway through dissecting an undergrad’s overwrought interpretation of Beloved when you heard a knock.

You didn’t need to look up.

You already knew it was him.

There was a particular rhythm to the way James Barnes moved that was controlled and deliberate. That soldier steadiness in every step. You took a breath before looking up, willing your heart not to react, willing your body to stay still.

“Professor,” he said, low and polite, leaning just slightly into the doorway.

“You got a minute?”

“Of course,” you said, gesturing to the chair across from you like it was just another Wednesday.

Like you hadn’t been hyperaware of him since the moment he walked into your class. 

“Come in.”

He did, wearing a dark henley, jeans, and a backpack slung over one shoulder. He sat down slowly, and you caught a whiff of his scent.

It made your mouth dry.

“I wanted to talk more about the reading,” he said. “If that’s okay.”

“Always.”

He pulled out his copy of The Awakening, pages heavily annotated. 

You should have been focused on what he was saying, but you weren’t. Not entirely.

His voice had that textured quality that hummed through your spine when he spoke. And the way he watched you, like everything you said mattered, was dangerous. 

It made you lean forward. And it made your next question softer than it should have been.

“Do you think Edna is selfish? Or just trapped?”

He tilted his head.

“Both. But I think the trap came first.”

God. He was good.

You pushed your glasses up the bridge of your nose and tried not to notice how the room suddenly felt too warm. 

He spoke like it was casual. But he knew it wasn’t. Not to you. He could tell by the way your eyes lit up. 

He could get addicted to that.

He could tell that you were impressed, and that you didn’t want to be. 

That knowledge made something hot flicker in his chest.

He thought about what you’d look like letting go.

He thought about backing you against that desk and hearing you say his name. Not Mr. Barnes, Bucky.

He thought about dropping to his knees and making you forget every reason you were telling yourself not to want him.

“Mr. Barnes,” you said, clearing your throat lightly, “are you trying to impress me again?”

“Not trying,” he said, voice even. “Just telling the truth.”

That stopped you for a second. And in that second, you smiled.

That was your mistake.

Because in that smile, you gave something away.

And he knew it.

That smile wasn’t dismissive. It wasn’t professional. 

And it definitely wasn’t safe.

It told him that you were thinking about it too.

Even if you wouldn’t admit it.

He didn’t say any of that. Not yet. But one day soon, he might.

—--

You weren’t expecting to see anyone you knew at Prospect Park.

This part of Brooklyn is your quiet zone. Your weekend escape. You come for the live music, the breeze off the trees, the way the city softened just enough to let you breathe.

You were wearing a sundress, nothing scandalous, but light, flowing, a little backless. Your hair was loose and you were comfortable. Free. 

Younger than you usually let yourself feel.

You had your blanket spread out near the edge of the crowd, a book open on your lap, eyes closed as the saxophone swelled. And then…

“Professor?”

Your stomach dropped. Because you knew that voice. You opened your eyes slowly and turned your head, and there he was.

James Barnes.

He was standing a few feet away, hands in the pockets of his jeans, t-shirt snug across his chest. He had a water bottle hooked through one finger, and he looked… stunned.

You blinked, and sat up slowly. When your eyes met his, they widened just enough for him to see the truth: you hadn’t expected to see him either. 

And you weren’t ready.

“Mr. Barnes.”

His eyes raked over you, quickly, respectfully, but there was no hiding the way they lingered. 

You looked… radiant. Relaxed. And so young. Relaxed in a way he’d never seen you. Unguarded.

Your sundress moved when you shifted, a flash of bare shoulder and the curve of your neck knocking something loose in his chest. 

For a second, he forgot you were his professor. 

He just saw a woman so beautiful it felt unreal to look at you out of context. 

You watched the moment he really saw you with your hair down and your sandals off and your mouth slightly parted in surprise.

He didn’t say anything for a second too long.

And it rattled you.

You were used to being looked at. But not by him. Not like this.

“You here for the show?” you asked, trying to sound calm.

He nodded slowly as his eyes dragged over you again.

“Yeah. Didn’t expect to see anyone from campus.”

You raised an eyebrow.

“What, professors don’t like jazz?”

“No,” he said. “I just didn’t think you looked like this… out in the wild.”

You laughed, too loud. Embarrassed. And a little flattered.

“Well. Surprise.”

He didn’t look away.

And that’s when you realized, you were not in control of this moment. Not the way you usually were. Because for the first time in years, you’re the one who doesn’t know what to do with your hands. Or your mouth. 

Or your rapidly racing heart.

Bucky made small talk, played it cool, but he couldn’t stop staring.

He didn’t know you could laugh like that. He didn’t know a simple sundress could make his brain short-circuit when he’d spent weeks imagining what you look like underneath all that silk and structure.

He could leave. He probably should.

But you’re not telling him to.

And for a moment, just one long, buzzy moment, Bucky wondered if the line between you already broke, and you both just keep pretending it’s still there.

—---

You patted the edge of the blanket before you could talk yourself out of it.

“Feel free to sit,” you said, tone light, professor-pleasant. 

He hesitated only a moment, then lowered himself onto the corner, legs stretched out in front of him, careful not to sit too close. You straightened your spine but didn’t lean into the warmth.

“So,” he said after a beat, eyes forward, voice casual.

“Didn’t take you for the Prospect Park jazz type.”

You hummed softly, keeping your gaze on the stage. 

“Everyone needs a little fresh air.”

He nodded, giving you room. You sat shoulder to shoulder in a comfortable silence that allowed you to think too much.

The set ended with a soft cymbal roll and a murmur of applause. You clapped, grateful for the distraction and for something to break the silence that’s been stretching between you like a tripwire.

Bucky, James, Barnes, Christ, brushed his palms on his jeans and stood slowly. You stayed seated, not trusting your legs just yet.

“Well,” he said, his voice quiet but steady. “I should get going.”

You nodded, eyes on your book even though you haven’t read a word of it since he sat down.

“Of course. Thanks for saying hi.”

He paused. You felt it.

“I’ll see you in class,” he said finally.

And you nodded again. Too fast. Too clipped.

“Goodnight, Mr. Barnes.”

“Goodnight, Professor.”

Your name on his tongue would ruin you. You knew that. So you were grateful, in a sick way, that he didn’t use it. That he kept the mask on, even as he walked away without looking back.

Only once he was far enough away do you finally exhale.

—----

The next week, he waited until the last twenty minutes of your posted office hours.

Long enough that you probably thought no one else was coming.

You were behind your desk, papers stacked to your left, a half-empty yogurt cup in the trash beside you. Your hair was pinned back tight, the way you always wore it on days when control mattered most. The soft hum of your laptop filled the quiet, a jazz playlist coming from the speakers.

You looked like calm incarnate. But he saw the hesitation when you glanced up and saw him standing in the doorway.

"Mr. Barnes," you said, voice as composed as your posture. "Come in."

He did, quietly and carefully keeping his distance. He always did. He asked about Baldwin. Giovanni’s Room. His tone was casual, almost too casual, but the tightness in his jaw gave him away.

And then…

“I’ve been thinking about what you read in class,” he said, voice low.

“The part about self-deception.”

You looked up slowly. You knew where this was going.

“Is that what this is?”

You didn’t answer.

“I can’t pretend anymore,” he continued. “Not with you.”

The air in the room changed.

“I want you,” he said, firmer now.

“I’ve wanted you since the first class. I thought I could ignore it, bury it under respect, or rules, or whatever you needed from me. But it’s still there.”

You couldn’t breathe.

Not well. Not normally. Not with him standing there saying that like it was a truth he’d been carrying in his bones since the beginning of the semester.

You stared at him, searching for something you could use to shut it down. Immaturity. Fantasy. Entitlement. But it wasn’t there. 

He wasn’t testing you. He wasn’t fantasizing. He was telling you the truth. And now it was here.

Said aloud in your office.

“I’m not confused,” he said. 

“And I’m not asking for anything. I just needed you to know I’m done pretending I don’t feel it.”

You folded your hands in your lap because you didn’t trust them not to move. Not to reach. Not to tremble.

“This isn’t possible,” you said, voice thin. “You’re my student.”

“I know.”

But he didn’t back down.

You exhaled, and let the silence grow.

That usually made people fumble excuses to fill the void. And when he didn’t retreat, didn’t apologize, didn’t break, you reached for the only weapon left: distance.

“You’re twenty-six.”

“Almost twenty-seven.”

“I’m thirty-eight.”

“I know.”

“That’s over a decade.”

“I’m aware.”

You hated how calm he was. You hated that some stupid, aching part of you wanted him to lose control, because at least then it wouldn’t feel so dangerous. Or deliberate.

“You’ve seen things,” you said. “You’ve survived things. But you’re still figuring out who you are.”

He didn’t argue. And somehow, that made it worse.

“I’ve worked my whole life for this career,” you snapped. “I’m not throwing it away for a moment in a park or a crush you can’t separate from fantasy.”

“It’s not a crush,” he said. “And it’s not a fantasy.”

“Stop,” you said, louder than you intended.

He did.

And your throat burned. When you finally spoke again, your voice was softer.

“I need you to leave.”

He didn’t argue, just looked at you and nodded.

“Of course, Professor.”

You didn’t watch him go. You kept your eyes on the stack of ungraded essays in front of you, pretending they mattered more than the fact that you hadn’t really wanted him to leave. 

You wanted him to stay. 

And close the door.

—--

You didn’t assign any reading the next week.

You told yourself it was because midterms were coming. You told yourself it was merciful.

It wasn’t.

It was preparation.

You kept it clean in class, composed. Cold, even.

You called on him once, just to prove you could, and he answered in that low, calm voice like nothing was wrong. Like you weren’t wet under your skirt for the full fifty minutes.

And when the room cleared, and he stayed in his seat, you just stood.

“I need to see you in my office about last week’s meeting, Mr. Barnes.”

He just sat there and watched you walk out of the door, listening to your heels click their way down the hall to your office.

You left the door unlocked.

You waited.

And when he finally stepped into your office and shut the door behind him, you just looked at him. And he looked at you.

And that was all it took to understand.

You stepped back against your desk and swallowed hard.

“We don’t talk about this after,” you said, quietly.

“Okay,” he said, eyes dark.

“But you need to say it.”

You nodded once. “It’s just sex.”

Bucky knew you were lying, but you were offering him something and he was going to take it. He moved toward you.

You held his gaze.

“I’m on birth control.”

“I’m clean,” he said. “Tested last month.”

“So am I.”

A pause. You lifted your chin.

“I want it raw.”

He exhaled through his nose, something primal flickering across his face.

“Jesus. You sure?”

You nodded again. “You?”

“Yeah,” he said, voice rasping now. “Fuck yeah.”

And when his hands finally landed on you, you felt your control collapse. And it felt so good.

He kissed you like you were already his, like he’d spent months imagining this exact moment, how your mouth would part, how your hands would clutch at his shoulders, how your body would give the second he asked.

You moaned into him, soft, needy, and unguarded. And that was all he needed. He lifted you in one clean motion and set you back on your desk.

Urgently. You shoved the papers aside with one sweep of your arm. Something fluttered to the floor. You didn’t care.

His hands pushed your skirt up to your waist, exposing your bare thighs, and when he realized you weren’t wearing anything underneath…

“Fuck,” he whispered, looking down at you like he’d never seen a pussy before.

You hooked your ankles around his hips. 

“Don’t waste time.”

He looked up, eyes locked on yours, and slid two fingers through your cunt, like he wanted to memorize how wet you already were for him.

“Jesus,” he muttered. “You were like this all through class?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Your head tipped back when he sank to his knees.

He didn't tease and he didn’t take his time.

His mouth was on you in seconds, hot and filthy, his tongue licking up your slit, mouth closing over your clit like he’d been studying for this moment. And he had.

You gasped, one hand flying to the edge of the desk, the other buried in his hair as he groaned into you. It was too much. Too fast. Too good.

You’d touched yourself thinking about this. Pictured it. Fantasized. But nothing had prepared you for the way he devoured you. Like he needed it to breathe.

Your thighs shook. Your hips rolled into his mouth. And when you came, you heard him groan like he felt it, too.

He stood quickly, shoved his jeans down just enough, and lined himself up without another word.

You looked down and your breath caught. You wanted it. You asked for this. You reached between your legs and guided him in yourself.

You both groaned.

He filled you in one slow thrust, inch after inch of hard, perfect pressure, and you nearly came again right then.

His hands gripped your thighs. He drew back and thrust again, so hard the desk creaked.

You bit your lip to keep from screaming.

“Look at me,” he growled.

You did.

His eyes were wild.

“I’ve wanted this,” he said, voice breaking on the words. “Wanted you.”

You wrapped your arms around his shoulders. “Then fuck me like you mean it.”

He did.

Every thrust was deep, deliberate, devastating. The sound of skin on skin filled the room, slick and obscene. Your body took him like you were made for it, like this was inevitable. Like finally.

He slid one hand up your blouse, pushed your bra up, palmed your breast, and groaned when you arched into it. His mouth was at your throat, biting, sucking, and praising through gritted teeth.

“So tight. Fuck you feel so good.”

You clawed at his back.

“I’m gonna come,” you gasped. “Don’t stop! Please”

He buried his face in your neck. 

“Not stopping. Not, fuck, not pulling out…”

You came hard. Writhing, and breaking beneath him.

And when he followed,seconds later, pulsing inside you with a choked groan and a helpless thrust, you realized: This would never be just sex.

And you were never going to forget this.

—----

He knocked the next week at office hours. You almost wished he wouldn’t.

You looked up, your expression blank. “Come in.”

He stepped inside. Closed the door gently. Not locking it. 

You gestured to the chair. “Sit.”

He did.

You watched him for a moment. He looked good. Too good. Calm again. Always so goddamn calm. You folded your hands in your lap.

“This can’t happen again.”

He didn’t flinch. Just waited.

You cleared your throat. 

“What happened in this office was unprofessional. And dangerous. For both of us.”

Still, he said nothing.

“I don’t care how quiet we are. If anyone finds out…”

“They won’t,” he said softly.

“That’s not the point.”

You didn’t raise your voice. But it felt like a scream.

“I worked too hard for this. I have too much to lose.”

“I know.”

You blinked. “That’s it?”

He met your eyes. 

“If you’re done, if you really don’t want me to touch you again, say it.”

You opened your mouth. But no words came out. Because that wasn’t true. And you both knew it.

So instead, you said: “This ends now.”

And he nodded once. But his eyes didn’t believe you.

And when he stood to leave, your body betrayed you again. Because you wanted him.

You said it before you could stop yourself.

“James.”

It was soft, a sound you weren’t aware you were capable of. Not so full of need like that. 

But he heard it. He paused in the doorway. Shoulders tensed. One hand still on the knob. He turned and met your eyes.

And you didn’t take it back.

He stepped back into the room and shut the door behind him, locking it this time.

He crossed the room in three strides, hands on your body, spinning you around with authority. And you let him. 

Your blouse was still buttoned. Your trousers were still on. But you were soaked the moment he touched you. 

“You knew I couldn’t resist you,” he said, voice low behind you.

His mouth grazed your ear as he pressed into you, hard beneath his jeans.

“You don’t want me to.”

You didn’t deny it, just unbuttoned your pants and let them fall.

No panties again.

His hands were on you in an instant, dragging you back against him, cursing under his breath when his fingers slipped between your legs and found you already dripping.

“You wanted this.”

“Don’t talk,” you breathed.

But you didn’t mean it.

He pushed your blouse up, leaned over you, one hand planted on the desk beside yours, the other between your legs.

“You still want it raw?”

You nodded.

“Say it.”

“Yes,” you whispered. “Please.”

He undid his jeans. You felt the press of him against your thigh, hot and thick and ready.

And when he pushed into you, you gasped.

There was no easing in. Just a deep, brutal thrust that forced a broken moan from your lips. You slapped a hand over your mouth, but he grabbed your wrist and pulled it away.

“Let me hear it.”

He fucked you hard. So hard that your desk rocked.

You forgot how to breathe as your cheek pressed against the cool surface of your desk and as your hands gripped the edge. 

He fucked you like he owned you, like this was always going to happen. 

Like he knew exactly what you needed, and he wasn’t going to let you hide from it again.

“You’re mine right now,” he panted. “No lies. No rules. Just this.”

You came fast, unexpectedly, a sob punching out of your throat as you clenched around him. He groaned and followed you seconds later, spilling inside you with a sharp cry, his hips stuttering against your ass.

For a long moment, there was nothing but breathing. He leaned over your back, both hands braced on the desk now, chest heaving.

You stayed still beneath him, your body still shaking.

Neither of you spoke.

Because what could you say?

—--

It was break week, and of course you could survive without seeing Bucky. 

It was just sex, and you were a grown woman. You wouldn’t text him; he didn’t have your number and you only had his because you had his student information.

You told yourself you wouldn’t. 

It was unprofessional.

You told yourself that if you just made it through Monday without texting, the rest of the week would be easier. And you almost believed it.

But by Thursday afternoon, your resolve had withered under need. Your apartment was too still. Your phone was too close.

You typed the message three times. Deleted it each time. Then sent it anyway.

You Did you finish Baldwin yet? Figure out the nature of self-deception?

You threw your phone across the couch the second it delivered.

Five minutes passed.

Then ten.

Then…

James: Did you really just text me about Baldwin while I’m picturing your ass bent over your desk?

Your stomach flipped.

You told yourself not to respond.

You absolutely responded.

You: I was being professional.

James: You didn’t sound very professional last time I had my fingers inside you.

You closed your eyes. And your pulse dropped straight between your thighs.

And then, another buzz.

James: Should I stop?

You stared at the screen.

Then your thumbs moved on their own.

You: No.

And that was it.

That was the beginning of the end.

Because now he had your number. And he didn’t just use it to flirt.

He used it to unravel you.

James: What are you wearing right now?

You shouldn’t have answered. But you did.

You: Nothing you’d be allowed to see if we were in class.

James: I wouldn’t need to see it.

You: No?

James: I’d just need to hear you.

Your breath caught as you watched the bubbles.

James: Want me to call you?

Your heart pounded as you stared at the screen.

Then you typed.

You: Yes.

—---

You answered without thinking.

He didn’t even say hello.

“Take your hand,” he said, voice calm, “and put it between your legs.”

Your breath caught instantly. 

“James…”

“Do it.”

You did.

And it was worse than being touched. Because now, every movement was yours, but every command was his.

“Are you wet?” he asked.

You nodded, forgetting he couldn’t see you. 

“Yes.”

“Fuck,” he muttered. “You miss me?”

You closed your eyes, head dropping back onto your pillow. 

“Yes.”

“How bad?”

“Don’t make me say it.”

“I want to hear you,” he growled. “You started this. Now I want you to tell me what you’ve been thinking about.”

You swallowed.

“Your hands on me. Your mouth. The way you sound when you come. The way you…”

“Touch yourself.”

You gasped at the sound of his voice in your ear, that subtle shift to something darker, something claiming.

“Just two fingers,” he said. “Keep the pressure light. Don’t come yet.”

You obeyed.

“Good girl.”

Your hips bucked slightly.

“Oh, you like that?” he asked, smug now. “I bet you’re soaked.”

“I hate you,” you breathed.

“No you don’t,” he said, quieter now.

“You love this. Being ruined without me even being in the room. So fucking desperate for it you couldn’t go one more day without hearing me.”

You whimpered, and his voice dropped further.

“Circle your clit. Slowly. Just like that. Stay with me.”

You could hear his breathing now. It wasn’t clean. He was hard. He was touching himself too. You knew it. You heard it in his voice.

“I want you so fucking bad,” he groaned.

“That desk wasn’t enough. I need to fuck you until you cry. Until you forget how to teach. Until you forget every name but mine.”

Your hips jerked.

“You close?”

“Yes, fuck, James, I…”

“Not yet.”

You froze.

“I want you begging.”

“I am.”

“No. Say it.”

You shook.

“Please, James. Let me come. I need it. Please…”

“Now,” he growled. “Come for me. Right now.”

And you did.

Hard. Gasping. One hand clamped over your mouth, the other between your legs, writhing into the mattress as the sound of his voice pushed you right over the edge.

On the other end, you heard him break too, a low, broken grunt, a whispered fuck, the subtle sound of his body surrendering.

Silence followed. Thick. Heavy. Full.

“Still just sex?” he asked finally.

You didn’t answer.

You couldn’t.

Because that was the lie. And you’d both just drowned in it.

—----

You didn’t sleep. Not really.

Every time you closed your eyes, you heard his voice.

Touch yourself. Good girl. Come for me. Like a current under your skin. Like a drug you couldn’t shake.

By midmorning, you gave up trying. You poured coffee, opened your laptop, stared at the stack of essays you were supposed to grade.

And then you reached for your phone.

No plan. No script.

Just the ache.

You: What are you doing?

He replied almost immediately.

James: Whatever you want me to be doing.

Your thighs pressed together. You were hopeless.

You: You’re insufferable.

James: You’re obsessed.

You didn’t argue.

James: Send me a photo.

Your pulse spiked.

You: Of what?

James: You. Just your mouth. No smile. Nothing posed. I want to see the version of you I shouldn’t have.

You hesitated.

Then turned on the front camera.

Hair messy. No makeup. Pillow creases still pressed into your cheek. Lips parted. No performance.

You sent it.

Seconds passed.

Then,

James: Take your shirt off.

You stared at the screen.

James: I want to see your tits while I jerk off.

Your breath caught.

You looked around your empty apartment like someone might be watching.

Then you pulled your shirt over your head.

You weren’t wearing a bra.

You angled the camera down just enough.

You took the photo and stared at it.

You looked... undone.

You sent it anyway.

James: Fuck. You’re perfect.

Another message followed right after.

James: Next time I want video.

You: What do you want me to do?

His reply came fast.

James: I want to hear what you sound like when you finger yourself and look into the camera like it’s me.

You dropped the phone onto the bed, your face burning, your body already responding.

You hated how much you wanted it.

And you loved that he asked.

—------

You turned off every light but one and propped your phone up on your nightstand, angled carefully. You could see yourself in the frame, messy, flushed, bare.

Your pulse was already high and your mouth was dry. Your fingers shook as you hit record.

"Hi,” you whispered, embarrassed.

Then you bit your lip and tried again.

“James…”

His name felt like a weight in your chest. Your thighs shifted.

“I can’t stop thinking about you.”

You lowered the camera slowly, past your collarbones, over your breasts, down your belly. You spread your legs.

No teasing. No preamble.

You wanted him to see the truth of it. The urgency. The craving.

You let your fingers slip down, just two, and parted yourself. You were already, still, wet. You couldn’t fake it.

You circled your clit, slowly as you said his name. 

“James…”

Your free hand slid up your body, palming your breast, pinching your nipple until you gasped.

The camera caught everything. The angle of your hips. The arch of your back. The way your mouth opened when you slipped the two fingers inside yourself.

You looked into the lens, right at him

“You want this, don’t you?” you whispered. “You want to watch me come thinking about your cock inside me?”

You fucked yourself harder.

Faster.

“Is this how you want me? Needing you?”

You whimpered, unable to stop.

“You’d fuck me so good if you were here.”

You knew he’d watch it more than once, you wanted him to. You wanted him wrecked.

“I’m gonna come,” you gasped, hips bucking. “I’m gonna…fuck…James…”

You came hard, legs shaking. Your body exposed in all the ways you swore you never would be.

You let the camera roll as you caught your breath, chest heaving.

Then you leaned in and whispered, “Your turn.”

And stopped the video.

You sent it. No warning. No text. Just the file.

Seconds later, he responded.

James: Jesus fucking Christ.

Then a voice message.

You hit play.

He was breathing hard.

“Baby,” he said, wrecked and reverent, “I’m gonna come just thinking about what I’m gonna do to you next time I see you. You think I fucked you hard before? You don’t even know.”

You lay back, smiling.

You did this.

You ruined him.

—----

Your phone buzzed.

You sat up straight and your heart kicked like it had been waiting. You pressed play.

The image loaded.

And what you saw was dim lighting, the camera angled low. And there he was, naked, stretched out on his bed, one arm tucked behind his head, the other wrapped tight around his cock.

He was hard. Thick, And leaking from the thick mushroom tip that destroyed your soul.

“Baby,” he said, hoarse. “What the fuck did you do to me?”

Your breath caught instantly.

Baby.

No one had called you that in a long time.

He stroked himself slowly, base to tip, eyes locked on the screen.

“You send me that video, looking like that, saying my name like it’s the only word you know, and you expect me to be calm?”

His hand tightened. His abs tensed.

“You were dripping, weren’t you? So fucking wet. Just thinking about me.”

He dragged his thumb over the head of his cock and groaned.

“I can’t stop watching it. Can’t stop seeing your fingers inside you, your mouth, your tits, those little sounds you make when you’re about to fall apart.”

He was close. You could see it in the way his hips shifted, the way his free hand gripped the sheets.

“I swear to God, the next time I’m inside you, I’m not stopping until you beg me to. I’ll hold your legs open and fuck you so fucking deep. There will be no hiding.”

You whimpered.

It was like he heard it. He smirked.

“I want to feel you shake under me. Want to feel your nails in my back, your come on my cock, your voice saying my name.”

His eyes flicked down.

“I’m gonna come,” he panted. “You watching, baby? You gonna come with me next time?”

He grunted, low, raw, broken, his body tensing as he came hard, ropes of it spilling over his hand, across his stomach, the sound of it filling the room.

You were breathless.

He looked straight into the camera, chest heaving.

And said, “Next time, you ride me until I forget my own name.”

The video ended.

You sat there, phone still in your hand, thighs pressed tight, pulse racing.

And that was the moment you knew this wasn’t a fling. This wasn’t just sex. This was an addiction.

And you wanted more.

—--

You didn’t think. You didn’t ask. You didn’t play.

You watched his video in your bed, one hand clutched in the sheets, thighs slick and trembling, your whole body strung tight with need.

You didn’t touch yourself. Didn’t move. You just stared at the screen.

And then, you opened the message app, tapped his name, and sent him your location.

No text, no explanation. Just a pin.

Come here.

That’s what it meant.

You knew he’d understand.

You stood up and unlocked the front door. 

Then you waited.

And when you heard his knock, you didn’t hesitate, you opened the door.

He stood there, hood up, breath ragged, eyes already dark. No words.

No one said a thing.

He pressed you against the wall, lips crashing into yours, hands already sliding up your sides, lifting your shirt to bare your breasts.

Your legs parted on instinct.

His knee pressed between them, his hands gripping your waist like he couldn’t believe you were real. You pulled at his hoodie. He dragged it off.

He wasn’t gentle and you didn’t want him to be. You guided his hand between your legs.

He groaned.

“You’re so fucking ready for me,” he rasped. “All I did was show you how bad I want you.”

You didn’t answer. You just reached for his belt.

Because this wasn’t sexting.This wasn’t a video. This wasn’t pretend.

This was real.

And you needed him inside you like oxygen.

—--

He pressed you against the wall like he was starved. He was frantic. There was no careful undressing. No asking. Just taking.

Your shirt was gone before you even realized it. You didn’t remember lifting your arms. You only remembered the sound of him groaning when he saw your bare chest, the heat of his mouth on your nipple, the way he bit down just enough to make you gasp.

He unzipped his jeans and, shoved his boxers down. His cock sprang free you almost dropped to your knees. But he grabbed your face, and kissed you again, deeper this time. 

“Not tonight,” he muttered. “I need to be inside you.”

You didn’t argue,  you just turned and pressed your hands against the wall and arched your back, giving him everything.

He groaned. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

He dragged the head of his cock through your soaking wet folds, and then with one sharp thrust, he entered you. 

You gasped loudly.

He filled you, raw and perfect, like your body had been made to take him.

“Fuck,” he whispered. “This pussy’s unreal.”

You pressed your forehead to the wall, eyes shut, trying to breathe.He pulled back, then slammed into you again. Again. Again.

The sound of it was obscene.

Your walls clenched around him, as one hand slid under your body, finding your clit. He rubbed in tight circles as he fucked you deep.

“You close?” he panted. “You gonna come on me already?”

“Yes, God, don’t stop…”

He slammed into you harder.

“You want me to fill you again?”

“Yes, fuck, yes….”

“Say it.”

“I want your come,” you choked. “I want it inside me.”

He groaned, gripped your hips harder, and pounded into you like he meant to stay.

You came hard, shaking, gasping, and ruined.

He followed seconds later, burying himself deep and coming with a sound that made your whole body throb. You felt every pulse of it. Every drop.

He stayed like that for a moment. Inside you. Chest against your back. Breathing hard.

Then he kissed your shoulder. Softly. Almost sweet.

And that scared you more than anything else.

-----

Send asks, reblogs, comments. Let me know if you feel the way that I feel. 🫠

[ramp-it-up]

The Pupil

Summary: Restraint gives way to obsession.

Word count: 7.7 K 😬

Pairing: College Student!Bucky Barnes x Professor!Reader

A/N: No one asked for this. This idea hit me when I was contemplating my career choices because I started work Thursday and gremlins come next week, and I thought, if I was a professor and Bucky Barnes walked in my class….🥹 .This is long, it is self indulgent and it is my therapy. I apologize for the length, but it could have been much longer. Hit me up to tell me how you feel about it.

Warnings: 18+ Only, Minors DNI. Read at your own risk. Smut! Power imbalance (professor/student, age gap 38/26) raw p in v sex, sexting, phone sex, masturbation, video sharing, unprotected sex. Obsession, emotional repression, and blurred lines. Reader self-deception and power/control themes. Bucky is feral, intense, and fully locked in. Young dom Bucky all the way. Angst, mutual unraveling, no fluff, all heat. Not Beta'd. All errors my own.

I no longer have a taglist. Please follow @rampitupandread and turn on notifications to learn when I post! 😘

I Do NOT Consent to my work being reposted, translated or presented on any other blog or site other than by myself.

----------

You didn’t always dress like this.

Not in the elegant high-waisted trousers that elongated your already long legs, and the silk blouses in slate and cream, each one buttoned up and tucked just so.

And not in the heels, expensive, pointed, and high, meant to remind you, and everyone else, that control starts at the ankle.

There was a time you tried to disappear.

Back when you were married to a man who said he liked your brain but openly resented your ambition. Who told you quiet was dignified and called you “intimidating” instead of a boss.

Back then you wore flats and cardigans and neutral tones and made yourself smaller in rooms where you should’ve stood tall.

And then one day, you stopped.

Your divorce wasn’t explosive.

It was silent.

You kept your name, your tenured position, and the apartment with the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. He kept the excuses.

And the you learned to love your own company. Late-night reading by lamplight. Coffee in silence.

Fresh sheets, open windows, and no one to bend for.

You built a life that didn’t need anyone else in it. You weren’t lonely. You were whole.

Or so you thought.

Five years after the divorce, at 38, you were tenured, respected, published, and a bright star in Brooklyn College’s English Department. 

You strode into the lecture hall in heels and pencil skirts, your hair up, your lipstick bold, and your syllabus uncompromising. Your specialty was desire on the page, Womanist texts, subversion in narrative form.

The literature of hunger and restraint.

And you were good at it.

You were used to being the subject of attention from your students, attention that extended beyond a concern for their grades. 

Sometimes they were just curious. Sometimes they were crude. Occasionally, they flirted, tried to make you laugh, or tried to match your intellect with theirs.

But you handled it. You shut it down.

You had been with colleagues once or twice, brief encounters that scratched an itch but never lingered. They never made you miss someone when they left your bed or made you want to stay.

There had never been any encounter that made you pause in the doorway of your own classroom and forget, for a split second, what the hell you were about to say.

Until him.

Until James Buchanan Barnes.

—--

You didn’t notice him when you took roll, not at first.

You were focused on your board notes, your syllabus, the usual opening-week checklist, names, majors, who looked restless, who would drop by week three. 

But then you turned, mid-sentence, scanning the room, and your eyes landed on him.

He hadn’t raised his hand. He hadn’t made a sound. But the way he held himself drew your attention like a magnet. 

He sat with the rigid stillness of someone trained for tension, shoulders wide and braced inside a seat not built to hold him, his spine so straight it looked like a kind of discipline.

He wasn’t fidgeting and he wasn’t distracted; he was just silent, present, and alert.

That should have been your first clue. But it wasn’t the way he sat that stopped you.

It was the rest of him.

The overlong dark hair tucked neatly behind one ear. 

The worn black T-shirt pulled across a chest that didn’t belong in a sophomore seminar, and the way his lips pressed together in concentration as he read your syllabus like it was a puzzle to be solved.

The large, veined hand curled around a pen instead of a keyboard, and his notebook was full of cramped, deliberate handwriting.

He looked like someone who had seen the world, someone too young to have such old eyes, though he was older than the others in your class.

He looked like someone who was trying very hard not to be noticed. And it didn’t work.

Because the second he lifted his eyes to meet yours, brilliant blue, sharp, and unwavering, it was over.

You told yourself it meant nothing. He was just a student. One of many.

But then he spoke.

And his voice was low, steady, and crackling with an alluring tenor that almost masked how smart he really was.

And then he argued.

Not with arrogance, but clarity. Citing Baldwin and Heller without a trace of hesitation, pushing back just enough to make it interesting, enough to make your breath catch.

And suddenly you knew.

This one was going to be dangerous.

—--

He knew professors were supposed to be older.

Seasoned. Maybe tired-looking. Overworked and underpaid, carrying canvas tote bags and books with cracked spines.

He wasn’t expecting you.

You walked in like you owned the entire department, heels sharp against the tile, jaw set in a way that made him sit straighter without thinking, and not a single strand of your hair was out of place.

You were wearing a slate grey silk blouse, tucked into high-waisted black trousers that clung to your shape with elegant precision. And your lips were a color that made his mouth go dry.

And Bucky Barnes forgot to breathe.

He picked up his pen before you even spoke.

Not because he was trying to impress you, but because something about you told him that half-assed wasn’t welcome in your presence.

You didn’t look directly at anyone when you entered. You set your bag down, clicked your pen once, and began to speak with the urgency of someone who had no time to waste.

In less than ten minutes, you quoted Morrison, asked a question no one dared answer, and looked directly at him when he did.

That was the first time your gaze met his. And it turned his stomach inside out.

You were older than him, but not in the way that word often implied. You didn’t look tired. You didn’t look diminished. You looked like power.

You looked like someone who had learned to survive, and who didn’t flinch when she walked away from the battle.

He wanted to impress you, of course.

But more than that, he just wanted you to look at him like that again.

——

The semester moved forward, and Bucky was in the front row every class, early enough to see you walk in. He didn’t fidget, he didn’t scroll his phone, and he didn’t scribble anything until you started talking.

His eyes were always on the door, and when you walked through it, his pulse kicked like a reflex.

You were striking.

Every week, in silk blouses, pencil skirts, or tailored trousers, always poised and sharp-edged, never once looking like anyone else on campus.

But what unstrung him was not how you looked.

It was the way you never once looked at him like an object. You never treated your students like they were interchangeable. When you looked at him, you saw him.

And Bucky felt it.

He hadn’t expected to enjoy Postmodern Literature. It sounded like the kind of class where people tried to out-theorize each other, but it surprised him.

And it was the first time since returning to school that he felt like he belonged.

Before your class, he felt like a ghost in the hallway.

Older than most of them at 26, but younger in other ways, like he’d lost time, like he was trying to catch up to a life that had kept going without him.

The Army was paying for his education. Six years in, two years out, into places no one ever talked about. He came back with too many memories and not enough peace.

Literature helped. Reading gave the noise somewhere to go. He filled notebooks just to keep the chaos from spilling over.

And you made it matter.

When you spoke, he listened with his entire body. Every word felt like a match being struck. Every question you asked set something in him on fire.

He kept his face blank when you entered, but inside, something locked into place every time.

“This isn’t a survey course,” you said on the first day. “This is an excavation. We’re going to talk about hunger, about power, about desire, and about what happens when stories lie to us.”

Bucky Barnes was going to learn everything you had to teach.

And not just from the syllabus.

—-

The first time Bucky Barnes had you shook was unexpected.

“Stanley Kowalski isn’t just a villain,” you told the room.

“He’s a study in what happens when masculinity hides its own fragility. What’s worse, being violent, or pretending you’re not?”

There was a pause.

Then his hand went up.

“Yes…?”

“Barnes. James Barnes,” he said, as if you didn’t know his name. You knew his name.

“I think pretending is worse. Because then people convince themselves it’s not violence at all. It’s just… what men do.”

The room went quiet. It was a good point. A sharp one. You nodded, your lips curving just slightly. 

“Interesting. Care to elaborate, Mr. Barnes?”

He leaned forward on the desk, shoulders tense but voice calm. 

“Stanley’s problem isn’t just power. It’s that he thinks he’s entitled to everything. Stella. The apartment. The air they breathe. And when someone tells him he’s not, he loses his mind.”

Your breath caught.

“An excellent observation,” you said, forcing your tone steady.

And you moved on to the next point, your pulse racing.

—---

He didn’t mean to linger. But he did.

Most of the class had already filtered out into the dark, backpacks slung over shoulders, the last few stragglers murmuring their way toward the exit. The lateness of the class cleared the room quickly. 

But Bucky stayed seated in the front row, fingers drumming quietly on the edge of his notebook, eyes fixed forward, on you.

You moved with quiet purpose as you erased the board, your blouse soft under the glow of fluorescent light, and your heels clicking softly against the tile.

You always moved like that, like you had all the time in the world. Like you knew he was watching, and you didn’t care.

Or maybe you did. Maybe that was the problem.

When you turned to face him, your expression was unreadable, carefully professional. 

“Did you need something, Mr. Barnes?”

He stood slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. 

“Just wanted to thank you. For the lecture.”

You raised a brow.

“You’re paying tuition. No need to thank me.”

“Still,” he said, shifting his weight, but not too close. 

“Most professors don’t talk about Streetcar like that. You didn’t soften him. You didn’t make Stanley a hero. You called him what he was.”

Something flickered across your face. Amusement, maybe. Or curiosity. Your mouth curved, just barely. 

“Is that supposed to impress me?”

He smiled warmly. Not cocky, but careful. 

“Would it work if I said yes?”

You stared at him for one beat too long. And then you laughed quietly. The sound was beautiful.

It hit him square in the chest.

“Goodnight, Mr. Barnes,” you said. But you weren’t dismissive.

It would’ve been easy to say something he shouldn’t. Something about how well that skirt fit the curves of your ass, or the slope of your neck, or the way you looked like a woman a man could ruin himself for, and thank her for it.

But he didn’t.

He just cleared his throat and said, “Goodnight, Professor.” 

And then he walked out. Before he could make a mistake.

—---

You were at your desk during office hours, door open, glasses on, red pen in hand, halfway through dissecting an undergrad’s overwrought interpretation of Beloved when you heard a knock.

You didn’t need to look up.

You already knew it was him.

There was a particular rhythm to the way James Barnes moved that was controlled and deliberate. That soldier steadiness in every step. You took a breath before looking up, willing your heart not to react, willing your body to stay still.

“Professor,” he said, low and polite, leaning just slightly into the doorway.

“You got a minute?”

“Of course,” you said, gesturing to the chair across from you like it was just another Wednesday.

Like you hadn’t been hyperaware of him since the moment he walked into your class. 

“Come in.”

He did, wearing a dark henley, jeans, and a backpack slung over one shoulder. He sat down slowly, and you caught a whiff of his scent.

It made your mouth dry.

“I wanted to talk more about the reading,” he said. “If that’s okay.”

“Always.”

He pulled out his copy of The Awakening, pages heavily annotated. 

You should have been focused on what he was saying, but you weren’t. Not entirely.

His voice had that textured quality that hummed through your spine when he spoke. And the way he watched you, like everything you said mattered, was dangerous. 

It made you lean forward. And it made your next question softer than it should have been.

“Do you think Edna is selfish? Or just trapped?”

He tilted his head.

“Both. But I think the trap came first.”

God. He was good.

You pushed your glasses up the bridge of your nose and tried not to notice how the room suddenly felt too warm. 

He spoke like it was casual. But he knew it wasn’t. Not to you. He could tell by the way your eyes lit up. 

He could get addicted to that.

He could tell that you were impressed, and that you didn’t want to be. 

That knowledge made something hot flicker in his chest.

He thought about what you’d look like letting go.

He thought about backing you against that desk and hearing you say his name. Not Mr. Barnes, Bucky.

He thought about dropping to his knees and making you forget every reason you were telling yourself not to want him.

“Mr. Barnes,” you said, clearing your throat lightly, “are you trying to impress me again?”

“Not trying,” he said, voice even. “Just telling the truth.”

That stopped you for a second. And in that second, you smiled.

That was your mistake.

Because in that smile, you gave something away.

And he knew it.

That smile wasn’t dismissive. It wasn’t professional. 

And it definitely wasn’t safe.

It told him that you were thinking about it too.

Even if you wouldn’t admit it.

He didn’t say any of that. Not yet. But one day soon, he might.

—--

You weren’t expecting to see anyone you knew at Prospect Park.

This part of Brooklyn is your quiet zone. Your weekend escape. You come for the live music, the breeze off the trees, the way the city softened just enough to let you breathe.

You were wearing a sundress, nothing scandalous, but light, flowing, a little backless. Your hair was loose and you were comfortable. Free. 

Younger than you usually let yourself feel.

You had your blanket spread out near the edge of the crowd, a book open on your lap, eyes closed as the saxophone swelled. And then…

“Professor?”

Your stomach dropped. Because you knew that voice. You opened your eyes slowly and turned your head, and there he was.

James Barnes.

He was standing a few feet away, hands in the pockets of his jeans, t-shirt snug across his chest. He had a water bottle hooked through one finger, and he looked… stunned.

You blinked, and sat up slowly. When your eyes met his, they widened just enough for him to see the truth: you hadn’t expected to see him either. 

And you weren’t ready.

“Mr. Barnes.”

His eyes raked over you, quickly, respectfully, but there was no hiding the way they lingered. 

You looked… radiant. Relaxed. And so young. Relaxed in a way he’d never seen you. Unguarded.

Your sundress moved when you shifted, a flash of bare shoulder and the curve of your neck knocking something loose in his chest. 

For a second, he forgot you were his professor. 

He just saw a woman so beautiful it felt unreal to look at you out of context. 

You watched the moment he really saw you with your hair down and your sandals off and your mouth slightly parted in surprise.

He didn’t say anything for a second too long.

And it rattled you.

You were used to being looked at. But not by him. Not like this.

“You here for the show?” you asked, trying to sound calm.

He nodded slowly as his eyes dragged over you again.

“Yeah. Didn’t expect to see anyone from campus.”

You raised an eyebrow.

“What, professors don’t like jazz?”

“No,” he said. “I just didn’t think you looked like this… out in the wild.”

You laughed, too loud. Embarrassed. And a little flattered.

“Well. Surprise.”

He didn’t look away.

And that’s when you realized, you were not in control of this moment. Not the way you usually were. Because for the first time in years, you’re the one who doesn’t know what to do with your hands. Or your mouth. 

Or your rapidly racing heart.

Bucky made small talk, played it cool, but he couldn’t stop staring.

He didn’t know you could laugh like that. He didn’t know a simple sundress could make his brain short-circuit when he’d spent weeks imagining what you look like underneath all that silk and structure.

He could leave. He probably should.

But you’re not telling him to.

And for a moment, just one long, buzzy moment, Bucky wondered if the line between you already broke, and you both just keep pretending it’s still there.

—---

You patted the edge of the blanket before you could talk yourself out of it.

“Feel free to sit,” you said, tone light, professor-pleasant. 

He hesitated only a moment, then lowered himself onto the corner, legs stretched out in front of him, careful not to sit too close. You straightened your spine but didn’t lean into the warmth.

“So,” he said after a beat, eyes forward, voice casual.

“Didn’t take you for the Prospect Park jazz type.”

You hummed softly, keeping your gaze on the stage. 

“Everyone needs a little fresh air.”

He nodded, giving you room. You sat shoulder to shoulder in a comfortable silence that allowed you to think too much.

The set ended with a soft cymbal roll and a murmur of applause. You clapped, grateful for the distraction and for something to break the silence that’s been stretching between you like a tripwire.

Bucky, James, Barnes, Christ, brushed his palms on his jeans and stood slowly. You stayed seated, not trusting your legs just yet.

“Well,” he said, his voice quiet but steady. “I should get going.”

You nodded, eyes on your book even though you haven’t read a word of it since he sat down.

“Of course. Thanks for saying hi.”

He paused. You felt it.

“I’ll see you in class,” he said finally.

And you nodded again. Too fast. Too clipped.

“Goodnight, Mr. Barnes.”

“Goodnight, Professor.”

Your name on his tongue would ruin you. You knew that. So you were grateful, in a sick way, that he didn’t use it. That he kept the mask on, even as he walked away without looking back.

Only once he was far enough away do you finally exhale.

—----

The next week, he waited until the last twenty minutes of your posted office hours.

Long enough that you probably thought no one else was coming.

You were behind your desk, papers stacked to your left, a half-empty yogurt cup in the trash beside you. Your hair was pinned back tight, the way you always wore it on days when control mattered most. The soft hum of your laptop filled the quiet, a jazz playlist coming from the speakers.

You looked like calm incarnate. But he saw the hesitation when you glanced up and saw him standing in the doorway.

"Mr. Barnes," you said, voice as composed as your posture. "Come in."

He did, quietly and carefully keeping his distance. He always did. He asked about Baldwin. Giovanni’s Room. His tone was casual, almost too casual, but the tightness in his jaw gave him away.

And then…

“I’ve been thinking about what you read in class,” he said, voice low.

“The part about self-deception.”

You looked up slowly. You knew where this was going.

“Is that what this is?”

You didn’t answer.

“I can’t pretend anymore,” he continued. “Not with you.”

The air in the room changed.

“I want you,” he said, firmer now.

“I’ve wanted you since the first class. I thought I could ignore it, bury it under respect, or rules, or whatever you needed from me. But it’s still there.”

You couldn’t breathe.

Not well. Not normally. Not with him standing there saying that like it was a truth he’d been carrying in his bones since the beginning of the semester.

You stared at him, searching for something you could use to shut it down. Immaturity. Fantasy. Entitlement. But it wasn’t there. 

He wasn’t testing you. He wasn’t fantasizing. He was telling you the truth. And now it was here.

Said aloud in your office.

“I’m not confused,” he said. 

“And I’m not asking for anything. I just needed you to know I’m done pretending I don’t feel it.”

You folded your hands in your lap because you didn’t trust them not to move. Not to reach. Not to tremble.

“This isn’t possible,” you said, voice thin. “You’re my student.”

“I know.”

But he didn’t back down.

You exhaled, and let the silence grow.

That usually made people fumble excuses to fill the void. And when he didn’t retreat, didn’t apologize, didn’t break, you reached for the only weapon left: distance.

“You’re twenty-six.”

“Almost twenty-seven.”

“I’m thirty-eight.”

“I know.”

“That’s over a decade.”

“I’m aware.”

You hated how calm he was. You hated that some stupid, aching part of you wanted him to lose control, because at least then it wouldn’t feel so dangerous. Or deliberate.

“You’ve seen things,” you said. “You’ve survived things. But you’re still figuring out who you are.”

He didn’t argue. And somehow, that made it worse.

“I’ve worked my whole life for this career,” you snapped. “I’m not throwing it away for a moment in a park or a crush you can’t separate from fantasy.”

“It’s not a crush,” he said. “And it’s not a fantasy.”

“Stop,” you said, louder than you intended.

He did.

And your throat burned. When you finally spoke again, your voice was softer.

“I need you to leave.”

He didn’t argue, just looked at you and nodded.

“Of course, Professor.”

You didn’t watch him go. You kept your eyes on the stack of ungraded essays in front of you, pretending they mattered more than the fact that you hadn’t really wanted him to leave. 

You wanted him to stay. 

And close the door.

—--

You didn’t assign any reading the next week.

You told yourself it was because midterms were coming. You told yourself it was merciful.

It wasn’t.

It was preparation.

You kept it clean in class, composed. Cold, even.

You called on him once, just to prove you could, and he answered in that low, calm voice like nothing was wrong. Like you weren’t wet under your skirt for the full fifty minutes.

And when the room cleared, and he stayed in his seat, you just stood.

“I need to see you in my office about last week’s meeting, Mr. Barnes.”

He just sat there and watched you walk out of the door, listening to your heels click their way down the hall to your office.

You left the door unlocked.

You waited.

And when he finally stepped into your office and shut the door behind him, you just looked at him. And he looked at you.

And that was all it took to understand.

You stepped back against your desk and swallowed hard.

“We don’t talk about this after,” you said, quietly.

“Okay,” he said, eyes dark.

“But you need to say it.”

You nodded once. “It’s just sex.”

Bucky knew you were lying, but you were offering him something and he was going to take it. He moved toward you.

You held his gaze.

“I’m on birth control.”

“I’m clean,” he said. “Tested last month.”

“So am I.”

A pause. You lifted your chin.

“I want it raw.”

He exhaled through his nose, something primal flickering across his face.

“Jesus. You sure?”

You nodded again. “You?”

“Yeah,” he said, voice rasping now. “Fuck yeah.”

And when his hands finally landed on you, you felt your control collapse. And it felt so good.

He kissed you like you were already his, like he’d spent months imagining this exact moment, how your mouth would part, how your hands would clutch at his shoulders, how your body would give the second he asked.

You moaned into him, soft, needy, and unguarded. And that was all he needed. He lifted you in one clean motion and set you back on your desk.

Urgently. You shoved the papers aside with one sweep of your arm. Something fluttered to the floor. You didn’t care.

His hands pushed your skirt up to your waist, exposing your bare thighs, and when he realized you weren’t wearing anything underneath…

“Fuck,” he whispered, looking down at you like he’d never seen a pussy before.

You hooked your ankles around his hips. 

“Don’t waste time.”

He looked up, eyes locked on yours, and slid two fingers through your cunt, like he wanted to memorize how wet you already were for him.

“Jesus,” he muttered. “You were like this all through class?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Your head tipped back when he sank to his knees.

He didn't tease and he didn’t take his time.

His mouth was on you in seconds, hot and filthy, his tongue licking up your slit, mouth closing over your clit like he’d been studying for this moment. And he had.

You gasped, one hand flying to the edge of the desk, the other buried in his hair as he groaned into you. It was too much. Too fast. Too good.

You’d touched yourself thinking about this. Pictured it. Fantasized. But nothing had prepared you for the way he devoured you. Like he needed it to breathe.

Your thighs shook. Your hips rolled into his mouth. And when you came, you heard him groan like he felt it, too.

He stood quickly, shoved his jeans down just enough, and lined himself up without another word.

You looked down and your breath caught. You wanted it. You asked for this. You reached between your legs and guided him in yourself.

You both groaned.

He filled you in one slow thrust, inch after inch of hard, perfect pressure, and you nearly came again right then.

His hands gripped your thighs. He drew back and thrust again, so hard the desk creaked.

You bit your lip to keep from screaming.

“Look at me,” he growled.

You did.

His eyes were wild.

“I’ve wanted this,” he said, voice breaking on the words. “Wanted you.”

You wrapped your arms around his shoulders. “Then fuck me like you mean it.”

He did.

Every thrust was deep, deliberate, devastating. The sound of skin on skin filled the room, slick and obscene. Your body took him like you were made for it, like this was inevitable. Like finally.

He slid one hand up your blouse, pushed your bra up, palmed your breast, and groaned when you arched into it. His mouth was at your throat, biting, sucking, and praising through gritted teeth.

“So tight. Fuck you feel so good.”

You clawed at his back.

“I’m gonna come,” you gasped. “Don’t stop! Please”

He buried his face in your neck. 

“Not stopping. Not, fuck, not pulling out…”

You came hard. Writhing, and breaking beneath him.

And when he followed,seconds later, pulsing inside you with a choked groan and a helpless thrust, you realized: This would never be just sex.

And you were never going to forget this.

—----

He knocked the next week at office hours. You almost wished he wouldn’t.

You looked up, your expression blank. “Come in.”

He stepped inside. Closed the door gently. Not locking it. 

You gestured to the chair. “Sit.”

He did.

You watched him for a moment. He looked good. Too good. Calm again. Always so goddamn calm. You folded your hands in your lap.

“This can’t happen again.”

He didn’t flinch. Just waited.

You cleared your throat. 

“What happened in this office was unprofessional. And dangerous. For both of us.”

Still, he said nothing.

“I don’t care how quiet we are. If anyone finds out…”

“They won’t,” he said softly.

“That’s not the point.”

You didn’t raise your voice. But it felt like a scream.

“I worked too hard for this. I have too much to lose.”

“I know.”

You blinked. “That’s it?”

He met your eyes. 

“If you’re done, if you really don’t want me to touch you again, say it.”

You opened your mouth. But no words came out. Because that wasn’t true. And you both knew it.

So instead, you said: “This ends now.”

And he nodded once. But his eyes didn’t believe you.

And when he stood to leave, your body betrayed you again. Because you wanted him.

You said it before you could stop yourself.

“James.”

It was soft, a sound you weren’t aware you were capable of. Not so full of need like that. 

But he heard it. He paused in the doorway. Shoulders tensed. One hand still on the knob. He turned and met your eyes.

And you didn’t take it back.

He stepped back into the room and shut the door behind him, locking it this time.

He crossed the room in three strides, hands on your body, spinning you around with authority. And you let him. 

Your blouse was still buttoned. Your trousers were still on. But you were soaked the moment he touched you. 

“You knew I couldn’t resist you,” he said, voice low behind you.

His mouth grazed your ear as he pressed into you, hard beneath his jeans.

“You don’t want me to.”

You didn’t deny it, just unbuttoned your pants and let them fall.

No panties again.

His hands were on you in an instant, dragging you back against him, cursing under his breath when his fingers slipped between your legs and found you already dripping.

“You wanted this.”

“Don’t talk,” you breathed.

But you didn’t mean it.

He pushed your blouse up, leaned over you, one hand planted on the desk beside yours, the other between your legs.

“You still want it raw?”

You nodded.

“Say it.”

“Yes,” you whispered. “Please.”

He undid his jeans. You felt the press of him against your thigh, hot and thick and ready.

And when he pushed into you, you gasped.

There was no easing in. Just a deep, brutal thrust that forced a broken moan from your lips. You slapped a hand over your mouth, but he grabbed your wrist and pulled it away.

“Let me hear it.”

He fucked you hard. So hard that your desk rocked.

You forgot how to breathe as your cheek pressed against the cool surface of your desk and as your hands gripped the edge. 

He fucked you like he owned you, like this was always going to happen. 

Like he knew exactly what you needed, and he wasn’t going to let you hide from it again.

“You’re mine right now,” he panted. “No lies. No rules. Just this.”

You came fast, unexpectedly, a sob punching out of your throat as you clenched around him. He groaned and followed you seconds later, spilling inside you with a sharp cry, his hips stuttering against your ass.

For a long moment, there was nothing but breathing. He leaned over your back, both hands braced on the desk now, chest heaving.

You stayed still beneath him, your body still shaking.

Neither of you spoke.

Because what could you say?

—--

It was break week, and of course you could survive without seeing Bucky. 

It was just sex, and you were a grown woman. You wouldn’t text him; he didn’t have your number and you only had his because you had his student information.

You told yourself you wouldn’t. 

It was unprofessional.

You told yourself that if you just made it through Monday without texting, the rest of the week would be easier. And you almost believed it.

But by Thursday afternoon, your resolve had withered under need. Your apartment was too still. Your phone was too close.

You typed the message three times. Deleted it each time. Then sent it anyway.

You Did you finish Baldwin yet? Figure out the nature of self-deception?

You threw your phone across the couch the second it delivered.

Five minutes passed.

Then ten.

Then…

James: Did you really just text me about Baldwin while I’m picturing your ass bent over your desk?

Your stomach flipped.

You told yourself not to respond.

You absolutely responded.

You: I was being professional.

James: You didn’t sound very professional last time I had my fingers inside you.

You closed your eyes. And your pulse dropped straight between your thighs.

And then, another buzz.

James: Should I stop?

You stared at the screen.

Then your thumbs moved on their own.

You: No.

And that was it.

That was the beginning of the end.

Because now he had your number. And he didn’t just use it to flirt.

He used it to unravel you.

James: What are you wearing right now?

You shouldn’t have answered. But you did.

You: Nothing you’d be allowed to see if we were in class.

James: I wouldn’t need to see it.

You: No?

James: I’d just need to hear you.

Your breath caught as you watched the bubbles.

James: Want me to call you?

Your heart pounded as you stared at the screen.

Then you typed.

You: Yes.

—---

You answered without thinking.

He didn’t even say hello.

“Take your hand,” he said, voice calm, “and put it between your legs.”

Your breath caught instantly. 

“James…”

“Do it.”

You did.

And it was worse than being touched. Because now, every movement was yours, but every command was his.

“Are you wet?” he asked.

You nodded, forgetting he couldn’t see you. 

“Yes.”

“Fuck,” he muttered. “You miss me?”

You closed your eyes, head dropping back onto your pillow. 

“Yes.”

“How bad?”

“Don’t make me say it.”

“I want to hear you,” he growled. “You started this. Now I want you to tell me what you’ve been thinking about.”

You swallowed.

“Your hands on me. Your mouth. The way you sound when you come. The way you…”

“Touch yourself.”

You gasped at the sound of his voice in your ear, that subtle shift to something darker, something claiming.

“Just two fingers,” he said. “Keep the pressure light. Don’t come yet.”

You obeyed.

“Good girl.”

Your hips bucked slightly.

“Oh, you like that?” he asked, smug now. “I bet you’re soaked.”

“I hate you,” you breathed.

“No you don’t,” he said, quieter now.

“You love this. Being ruined without me even being in the room. So fucking desperate for it you couldn’t go one more day without hearing me.”

You whimpered, and his voice dropped further.

“Circle your clit. Slowly. Just like that. Stay with me.”

You could hear his breathing now. It wasn’t clean. He was hard. He was touching himself too. You knew it. You heard it in his voice.

“I want you so fucking bad,” he groaned.

“That desk wasn’t enough. I need to fuck you until you cry. Until you forget how to teach. Until you forget every name but mine.”

Your hips jerked.

“You close?”

“Yes, fuck, James, I…”

“Not yet.”

You froze.

“I want you begging.”

“I am.”

“No. Say it.”

You shook.

“Please, James. Let me come. I need it. Please…”

“Now,” he growled. “Come for me. Right now.”

And you did.

Hard. Gasping. One hand clamped over your mouth, the other between your legs, writhing into the mattress as the sound of his voice pushed you right over the edge.

On the other end, you heard him break too, a low, broken grunt, a whispered fuck, the subtle sound of his body surrendering.

Silence followed. Thick. Heavy. Full.

“Still just sex?” he asked finally.

You didn’t answer.

You couldn’t.

Because that was the lie. And you’d both just drowned in it.

—----

You didn’t sleep. Not really.

Every time you closed your eyes, you heard his voice.

Touch yourself. Good girl. Come for me. Like a current under your skin. Like a drug you couldn’t shake.

By midmorning, you gave up trying. You poured coffee, opened your laptop, stared at the stack of essays you were supposed to grade.

And then you reached for your phone.

No plan. No script.

Just the ache.

You: What are you doing?

He replied almost immediately.

James: Whatever you want me to be doing.

Your thighs pressed together. You were hopeless.

You: You’re insufferable.

James: You’re obsessed.

You didn’t argue.

James: Send me a photo.

Your pulse spiked.

You: Of what?

James: You. Just your mouth. No smile. Nothing posed. I want to see the version of you I shouldn’t have.

You hesitated.

Then turned on the front camera.

Hair messy. No makeup. Pillow creases still pressed into your cheek. Lips parted. No performance.

You sent it.

Seconds passed.

Then,

James: Take your shirt off.

You stared at the screen.

James: I want to see your tits while I jerk off.

Your breath caught.

You looked around your empty apartment like someone might be watching.

Then you pulled your shirt over your head.

You weren’t wearing a bra.

You angled the camera down just enough.

You took the photo and stared at it.

You looked... undone.

You sent it anyway.

James: Fuck. You’re perfect.

Another message followed right after.

James: Next time I want video.

You: What do you want me to do?

His reply came fast.

James: I want to hear what you sound like when you finger yourself and look into the camera like it’s me.

You dropped the phone onto the bed, your face burning, your body already responding.

You hated how much you wanted it.

And you loved that he asked.

—------

You turned off every light but one and propped your phone up on your nightstand, angled carefully. You could see yourself in the frame, messy, flushed, bare.

Your pulse was already high and your mouth was dry. Your fingers shook as you hit record.

"Hi,” you whispered, embarrassed.

Then you bit your lip and tried again.

“James…”

His name felt like a weight in your chest. Your thighs shifted.

“I can’t stop thinking about you.”

You lowered the camera slowly, past your collarbones, over your breasts, down your belly. You spread your legs.

No teasing. No preamble.

You wanted him to see the truth of it. The urgency. The craving.

You let your fingers slip down, just two, and parted yourself. You were already, still, wet. You couldn’t fake it.

You circled your clit, slowly as you said his name. 

“James…”

Your free hand slid up your body, palming your breast, pinching your nipple until you gasped.

The camera caught everything. The angle of your hips. The arch of your back. The way your mouth opened when you slipped the two fingers inside yourself.

You looked into the lens, right at him

“You want this, don’t you?” you whispered. “You want to watch me come thinking about your cock inside me?”

You fucked yourself harder.

Faster.

“Is this how you want me? Needing you?”

You whimpered, unable to stop.

“You’d fuck me so good if you were here.”

You knew he’d watch it more than once, you wanted him to. You wanted him wrecked.

“I’m gonna come,” you gasped, hips bucking. “I’m gonna…fuck…James…”

You came hard, legs shaking. Your body exposed in all the ways you swore you never would be.

You let the camera roll as you caught your breath, chest heaving.

Then you leaned in and whispered, “Your turn.”

And stopped the video.

You sent it. No warning. No text. Just the file.

Seconds later, he responded.

James: Jesus fucking Christ.

Then a voice message.

You hit play.

He was breathing hard.

“Baby,” he said, wrecked and reverent, “I’m gonna come just thinking about what I’m gonna do to you next time I see you. You think I fucked you hard before? You don’t even know.”

You lay back, smiling.

You did this.

You ruined him.

—----

Your phone buzzed.

You sat up straight and your heart kicked like it had been waiting. You pressed play.

The image loaded.

And what you saw was dim lighting, the camera angled low. And there he was, naked, stretched out on his bed, one arm tucked behind his head, the other wrapped tight around his cock.

He was hard. Thick, And leaking from the thick mushroom tip that destroyed your soul.

“Baby,” he said, hoarse. “What the fuck did you do to me?”

Your breath caught instantly.

Baby.

No one had called you that in a long time.

He stroked himself slowly, base to tip, eyes locked on the screen.

“You send me that video, looking like that, saying my name like it’s the only word you know, and you expect me to be calm?”

His hand tightened. His abs tensed.

“You were dripping, weren’t you? So fucking wet. Just thinking about me.”

He dragged his thumb over the head of his cock and groaned.

“I can’t stop watching it. Can’t stop seeing your fingers inside you, your mouth, your tits, those little sounds you make when you’re about to fall apart.”

He was close. You could see it in the way his hips shifted, the way his free hand gripped the sheets.

“I swear to God, the next time I’m inside you, I’m not stopping until you beg me to. I’ll hold your legs open and fuck you so fucking deep. There will be no hiding.”

You whimpered.

It was like he heard it. He smirked.

“I want to feel you shake under me. Want to feel your nails in my back, your come on my cock, your voice saying my name.”

His eyes flicked down.

“I’m gonna come,” he panted. “You watching, baby? You gonna come with me next time?”

He grunted, low, raw, broken, his body tensing as he came hard, ropes of it spilling over his hand, across his stomach, the sound of it filling the room.

You were breathless.

He looked straight into the camera, chest heaving.

And said, “Next time, you ride me until I forget my own name.”

The video ended.

You sat there, phone still in your hand, thighs pressed tight, pulse racing.

And that was the moment you knew this wasn’t a fling. This wasn’t just sex. This was an addiction.

And you wanted more.

—--

You didn’t think. You didn’t ask. You didn’t play.

You watched his video in your bed, one hand clutched in the sheets, thighs slick and trembling, your whole body strung tight with need.

You didn’t touch yourself. Didn’t move. You just stared at the screen.

And then, you opened the message app, tapped his name, and sent him your location.

No text, no explanation. Just a pin.

Come here.

That’s what it meant.

You knew he’d understand.

You stood up and unlocked the front door. 

Then you waited.

And when you heard his knock, you didn’t hesitate, you opened the door.

He stood there, hood up, breath ragged, eyes already dark. No words.

No one said a thing.

He pressed you against the wall, lips crashing into yours, hands already sliding up your sides, lifting your shirt to bare your breasts.

Your legs parted on instinct.

His knee pressed between them, his hands gripping your waist like he couldn’t believe you were real. You pulled at his hoodie. He dragged it off.

He wasn’t gentle and you didn’t want him to be. You guided his hand between your legs.

He groaned.

“You’re so fucking ready for me,” he rasped. “All I did was show you how bad I want you.”

You didn’t answer. You just reached for his belt.

Because this wasn’t sexting.This wasn’t a video. This wasn’t pretend.

This was real.

And you needed him inside you like oxygen.

—--

He pressed you against the wall like he was starved. He was frantic. There was no careful undressing. No asking. Just taking.

Your shirt was gone before you even realized it. You didn’t remember lifting your arms. You only remembered the sound of him groaning when he saw your bare chest, the heat of his mouth on your nipple, the way he bit down just enough to make you gasp.

He unzipped his jeans and, shoved his boxers down. His cock sprang free you almost dropped to your knees. But he grabbed your face, and kissed you again, deeper this time. 

“Not tonight,” he muttered. “I need to be inside you.”

You didn’t argue,  you just turned and pressed your hands against the wall and arched your back, giving him everything.

He groaned. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

He dragged the head of his cock through your soaking wet folds, and then with one sharp thrust, he entered you. 

You gasped loudly.

He filled you, raw and perfect, like your body had been made to take him.

“Fuck,” he whispered. “This pussy’s unreal.”

You pressed your forehead to the wall, eyes shut, trying to breathe.He pulled back, then slammed into you again. Again. Again.

The sound of it was obscene.

Your walls clenched around him, as one hand slid under your body, finding your clit. He rubbed in tight circles as he fucked you deep.

“You close?” he panted. “You gonna come on me already?”

“Yes, God, don’t stop…”

He slammed into you harder.

“You want me to fill you again?”

“Yes, fuck, yes….”

“Say it.”

“I want your come,” you choked. “I want it inside me.”

He groaned, gripped your hips harder, and pounded into you like he meant to stay.

You came hard, shaking, gasping, and ruined.

He followed seconds later, burying himself deep and coming with a sound that made your whole body throb. You felt every pulse of it. Every drop.

He stayed like that for a moment. Inside you. Chest against your back. Breathing hard.

Then he kissed your shoulder. Softly. Almost sweet.

And that scared you more than anything else.

-----

Send asks, reblogs, comments. Let me know if you feel the way that I feel. 🫠

[ramp-it-up]

I appreciate you sharing so much! Thank you. 😊

The Pupil

Summary: Restraint gives way to obsession.

Word count: 7.7 K 😬

Pairing: College Student!Bucky Barnes x Professor!Reader

A/N: No one asked for this. This idea hit me when I was contemplating my career choices because I started work Thursday and gremlins come next week, and I thought, if I was a professor and Bucky Barnes walked in my class….🥹 .This is long, it is self indulgent and it is my therapy. I apologize for the length, but it could have been much longer. Hit me up to tell me how you feel about it.

Warnings: 18+ Only, Minors DNI. Read at your own risk. Smut! Power imbalance (professor/student, age gap 38/26) raw p in v sex, sexting, phone sex, masturbation, video sharing, unprotected sex. Obsession, emotional repression, and blurred lines. Reader self-deception and power/control themes. Bucky is feral, intense, and fully locked in. Young dom Bucky all the way. Angst, mutual unraveling, no fluff, all heat. Not Beta'd. All errors my own.

I no longer have a taglist. Please follow @rampitupandread and turn on notifications to learn when I post! 😘

I Do NOT Consent to my work being reposted, translated or presented on any other blog or site other than by myself.

----------

You didn’t always dress like this.

Not in the elegant high-waisted trousers that elongated your already long legs, and the silk blouses in slate and cream, each one buttoned up and tucked just so.

And not in the heels, expensive, pointed, and high, meant to remind you, and everyone else, that control starts at the ankle.

There was a time you tried to disappear.

Back when you were married to a man who said he liked your brain but openly resented your ambition. Who told you quiet was dignified and called you “intimidating” instead of a boss.

Back then you wore flats and cardigans and neutral tones and made yourself smaller in rooms where you should’ve stood tall.

And then one day, you stopped.

Your divorce wasn’t explosive.

It was silent.

You kept your name, your tenured position, and the apartment with the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. He kept the excuses.

And the you learned to love your own company. Late-night reading by lamplight. Coffee in silence.

Fresh sheets, open windows, and no one to bend for.

You built a life that didn’t need anyone else in it. You weren’t lonely. You were whole.

Or so you thought.

Five years after the divorce, at 38, you were tenured, respected, published, and a bright star in Brooklyn College’s English Department. 

You strode into the lecture hall in heels and pencil skirts, your hair up, your lipstick bold, and your syllabus uncompromising. Your specialty was desire on the page, Womanist texts, subversion in narrative form.

The literature of hunger and restraint.

And you were good at it.

You were used to being the subject of attention from your students, attention that extended beyond a concern for their grades. 

Sometimes they were just curious. Sometimes they were crude. Occasionally, they flirted, tried to make you laugh, or tried to match your intellect with theirs.

But you handled it. You shut it down.

You had been with colleagues once or twice, brief encounters that scratched an itch but never lingered. They never made you miss someone when they left your bed or made you want to stay.

There had never been any encounter that made you pause in the doorway of your own classroom and forget, for a split second, what the hell you were about to say.

Until him.

Until James Buchanan Barnes.

—--

You didn’t notice him when you took roll, not at first.

You were focused on your board notes, your syllabus, the usual opening-week checklist, names, majors, who looked restless, who would drop by week three. 

But then you turned, mid-sentence, scanning the room, and your eyes landed on him.

He hadn’t raised his hand. He hadn’t made a sound. But the way he held himself drew your attention like a magnet. 

He sat with the rigid stillness of someone trained for tension, shoulders wide and braced inside a seat not built to hold him, his spine so straight it looked like a kind of discipline.

He wasn’t fidgeting and he wasn’t distracted; he was just silent, present, and alert.

That should have been your first clue. But it wasn’t the way he sat that stopped you.

It was the rest of him.

The overlong dark hair tucked neatly behind one ear. 

The worn black T-shirt pulled across a chest that didn’t belong in a sophomore seminar, and the way his lips pressed together in concentration as he read your syllabus like it was a puzzle to be solved.

The large, veined hand curled around a pen instead of a keyboard, and his notebook was full of cramped, deliberate handwriting.

He looked like someone who had seen the world, someone too young to have such old eyes, though he was older than the others in your class.

He looked like someone who was trying very hard not to be noticed. And it didn’t work.

Because the second he lifted his eyes to meet yours, brilliant blue, sharp, and unwavering, it was over.

You told yourself it meant nothing. He was just a student. One of many.

But then he spoke.

And his voice was low, steady, and crackling with an alluring tenor that almost masked how smart he really was.

And then he argued.

Not with arrogance, but clarity. Citing Baldwin and Heller without a trace of hesitation, pushing back just enough to make it interesting, enough to make your breath catch.

And suddenly you knew.

This one was going to be dangerous.

—--

He knew professors were supposed to be older.

Seasoned. Maybe tired-looking. Overworked and underpaid, carrying canvas tote bags and books with cracked spines.

He wasn’t expecting you.

You walked in like you owned the entire department, heels sharp against the tile, jaw set in a way that made him sit straighter without thinking, and not a single strand of your hair was out of place.

You were wearing a slate grey silk blouse, tucked into high-waisted black trousers that clung to your shape with elegant precision. And your lips were a color that made his mouth go dry.

And Bucky Barnes forgot to breathe.

He picked up his pen before you even spoke.

Not because he was trying to impress you, but because something about you told him that half-assed wasn’t welcome in your presence.

You didn’t look directly at anyone when you entered. You set your bag down, clicked your pen once, and began to speak with the urgency of someone who had no time to waste.

In less than ten minutes, you quoted Morrison, asked a question no one dared answer, and looked directly at him when he did.

That was the first time your gaze met his. And it turned his stomach inside out.

You were older than him, but not in the way that word often implied. You didn’t look tired. You didn’t look diminished. You looked like power.

You looked like someone who had learned to survive, and who didn’t flinch when she walked away from the battle.

He wanted to impress you, of course.

But more than that, he just wanted you to look at him like that again.

——

The semester moved forward, and Bucky was in the front row every class, early enough to see you walk in. He didn’t fidget, he didn’t scroll his phone, and he didn’t scribble anything until you started talking.

His eyes were always on the door, and when you walked through it, his pulse kicked like a reflex.

You were striking.

Every week, in silk blouses, pencil skirts, or tailored trousers, always poised and sharp-edged, never once looking like anyone else on campus.

But what unstrung him was not how you looked.

It was the way you never once looked at him like an object. You never treated your students like they were interchangeable. When you looked at him, you saw him.

And Bucky felt it.

He hadn’t expected to enjoy Postmodern Literature. It sounded like the kind of class where people tried to out-theorize each other, but it surprised him.

And it was the first time since returning to school that he felt like he belonged.

Before your class, he felt like a ghost in the hallway.

Older than most of them at 26, but younger in other ways, like he’d lost time, like he was trying to catch up to a life that had kept going without him.

The Army was paying for his education. Six years in, two years out, into places no one ever talked about. He came back with too many memories and not enough peace.

Literature helped. Reading gave the noise somewhere to go. He filled notebooks just to keep the chaos from spilling over.

And you made it matter.

When you spoke, he listened with his entire body. Every word felt like a match being struck. Every question you asked set something in him on fire.

He kept his face blank when you entered, but inside, something locked into place every time.

“This isn’t a survey course,” you said on the first day. “This is an excavation. We’re going to talk about hunger, about power, about desire, and about what happens when stories lie to us.”

Bucky Barnes was going to learn everything you had to teach.

And not just from the syllabus.

—-

The first time Bucky Barnes had you shook was unexpected.

“Stanley Kowalski isn’t just a villain,” you told the room.

“He’s a study in what happens when masculinity hides its own fragility. What’s worse, being violent, or pretending you’re not?”

There was a pause.

Then his hand went up.

“Yes…?”

“Barnes. James Barnes,” he said, as if you didn’t know his name. You knew his name.

“I think pretending is worse. Because then people convince themselves it’s not violence at all. It’s just… what men do.”

The room went quiet. It was a good point. A sharp one. You nodded, your lips curving just slightly. 

“Interesting. Care to elaborate, Mr. Barnes?”

He leaned forward on the desk, shoulders tense but voice calm. 

“Stanley’s problem isn’t just power. It’s that he thinks he’s entitled to everything. Stella. The apartment. The air they breathe. And when someone tells him he’s not, he loses his mind.”

Your breath caught.

“An excellent observation,” you said, forcing your tone steady.

And you moved on to the next point, your pulse racing.

—---

He didn’t mean to linger. But he did.

Most of the class had already filtered out into the dark, backpacks slung over shoulders, the last few stragglers murmuring their way toward the exit. The lateness of the class cleared the room quickly. 

But Bucky stayed seated in the front row, fingers drumming quietly on the edge of his notebook, eyes fixed forward, on you.

You moved with quiet purpose as you erased the board, your blouse soft under the glow of fluorescent light, and your heels clicking softly against the tile.

You always moved like that, like you had all the time in the world. Like you knew he was watching, and you didn’t care.

Or maybe you did. Maybe that was the problem.

When you turned to face him, your expression was unreadable, carefully professional. 

“Did you need something, Mr. Barnes?”

He stood slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. 

“Just wanted to thank you. For the lecture.”

You raised a brow.

“You’re paying tuition. No need to thank me.”

“Still,” he said, shifting his weight, but not too close. 

“Most professors don’t talk about Streetcar like that. You didn’t soften him. You didn’t make Stanley a hero. You called him what he was.”

Something flickered across your face. Amusement, maybe. Or curiosity. Your mouth curved, just barely. 

“Is that supposed to impress me?”

He smiled warmly. Not cocky, but careful. 

“Would it work if I said yes?”

You stared at him for one beat too long. And then you laughed quietly. The sound was beautiful.

It hit him square in the chest.

“Goodnight, Mr. Barnes,” you said. But you weren’t dismissive.

It would’ve been easy to say something he shouldn’t. Something about how well that skirt fit the curves of your ass, or the slope of your neck, or the way you looked like a woman a man could ruin himself for, and thank her for it.

But he didn’t.

He just cleared his throat and said, “Goodnight, Professor.” 

And then he walked out. Before he could make a mistake.

—---

You were at your desk during office hours, door open, glasses on, red pen in hand, halfway through dissecting an undergrad’s overwrought interpretation of Beloved when you heard a knock.

You didn’t need to look up.

You already knew it was him.

There was a particular rhythm to the way James Barnes moved that was controlled and deliberate. That soldier steadiness in every step. You took a breath before looking up, willing your heart not to react, willing your body to stay still.

“Professor,” he said, low and polite, leaning just slightly into the doorway.

“You got a minute?”

“Of course,” you said, gesturing to the chair across from you like it was just another Wednesday.

Like you hadn’t been hyperaware of him since the moment he walked into your class. 

“Come in.”

He did, wearing a dark henley, jeans, and a backpack slung over one shoulder. He sat down slowly, and you caught a whiff of his scent.

It made your mouth dry.

“I wanted to talk more about the reading,” he said. “If that’s okay.”

“Always.”

He pulled out his copy of The Awakening, pages heavily annotated. 

You should have been focused on what he was saying, but you weren’t. Not entirely.

His voice had that textured quality that hummed through your spine when he spoke. And the way he watched you, like everything you said mattered, was dangerous. 

It made you lean forward. And it made your next question softer than it should have been.

“Do you think Edna is selfish? Or just trapped?”

He tilted his head.

“Both. But I think the trap came first.”

God. He was good.

You pushed your glasses up the bridge of your nose and tried not to notice how the room suddenly felt too warm. 

He spoke like it was casual. But he knew it wasn’t. Not to you. He could tell by the way your eyes lit up. 

He could get addicted to that.

He could tell that you were impressed, and that you didn’t want to be. 

That knowledge made something hot flicker in his chest.

He thought about what you’d look like letting go.

He thought about backing you against that desk and hearing you say his name. Not Mr. Barnes, Bucky.

He thought about dropping to his knees and making you forget every reason you were telling yourself not to want him.

“Mr. Barnes,” you said, clearing your throat lightly, “are you trying to impress me again?”

“Not trying,” he said, voice even. “Just telling the truth.”

That stopped you for a second. And in that second, you smiled.

That was your mistake.

Because in that smile, you gave something away.

And he knew it.

That smile wasn’t dismissive. It wasn’t professional. 

And it definitely wasn’t safe.

It told him that you were thinking about it too.

Even if you wouldn’t admit it.

He didn’t say any of that. Not yet. But one day soon, he might.

—--

You weren’t expecting to see anyone you knew at Prospect Park.

This part of Brooklyn is your quiet zone. Your weekend escape. You come for the live music, the breeze off the trees, the way the city softened just enough to let you breathe.

You were wearing a sundress, nothing scandalous, but light, flowing, a little backless. Your hair was loose and you were comfortable. Free. 

Younger than you usually let yourself feel.

You had your blanket spread out near the edge of the crowd, a book open on your lap, eyes closed as the saxophone swelled. And then…

“Professor?”

Your stomach dropped. Because you knew that voice. You opened your eyes slowly and turned your head, and there he was.

James Barnes.

He was standing a few feet away, hands in the pockets of his jeans, t-shirt snug across his chest. He had a water bottle hooked through one finger, and he looked… stunned.

You blinked, and sat up slowly. When your eyes met his, they widened just enough for him to see the truth: you hadn’t expected to see him either. 

And you weren’t ready.

“Mr. Barnes.”

His eyes raked over you, quickly, respectfully, but there was no hiding the way they lingered. 

You looked… radiant. Relaxed. And so young. Relaxed in a way he’d never seen you. Unguarded.

Your sundress moved when you shifted, a flash of bare shoulder and the curve of your neck knocking something loose in his chest. 

For a second, he forgot you were his professor. 

He just saw a woman so beautiful it felt unreal to look at you out of context. 

You watched the moment he really saw you with your hair down and your sandals off and your mouth slightly parted in surprise.

He didn’t say anything for a second too long.

And it rattled you.

You were used to being looked at. But not by him. Not like this.

“You here for the show?” you asked, trying to sound calm.

He nodded slowly as his eyes dragged over you again.

“Yeah. Didn’t expect to see anyone from campus.”

You raised an eyebrow.

“What, professors don’t like jazz?”

“No,” he said. “I just didn’t think you looked like this… out in the wild.”

You laughed, too loud. Embarrassed. And a little flattered.

“Well. Surprise.”

He didn’t look away.

And that’s when you realized, you were not in control of this moment. Not the way you usually were. Because for the first time in years, you’re the one who doesn’t know what to do with your hands. Or your mouth. 

Or your rapidly racing heart.

Bucky made small talk, played it cool, but he couldn’t stop staring.

He didn’t know you could laugh like that. He didn’t know a simple sundress could make his brain short-circuit when he’d spent weeks imagining what you look like underneath all that silk and structure.

He could leave. He probably should.

But you’re not telling him to.

And for a moment, just one long, buzzy moment, Bucky wondered if the line between you already broke, and you both just keep pretending it’s still there.

—---

You patted the edge of the blanket before you could talk yourself out of it.

“Feel free to sit,” you said, tone light, professor-pleasant. 

He hesitated only a moment, then lowered himself onto the corner, legs stretched out in front of him, careful not to sit too close. You straightened your spine but didn’t lean into the warmth.

“So,” he said after a beat, eyes forward, voice casual.

“Didn’t take you for the Prospect Park jazz type.”

You hummed softly, keeping your gaze on the stage. 

“Everyone needs a little fresh air.”

He nodded, giving you room. You sat shoulder to shoulder in a comfortable silence that allowed you to think too much.

The set ended with a soft cymbal roll and a murmur of applause. You clapped, grateful for the distraction and for something to break the silence that’s been stretching between you like a tripwire.

Bucky, James, Barnes, Christ, brushed his palms on his jeans and stood slowly. You stayed seated, not trusting your legs just yet.

“Well,” he said, his voice quiet but steady. “I should get going.”

You nodded, eyes on your book even though you haven’t read a word of it since he sat down.

“Of course. Thanks for saying hi.”

He paused. You felt it.

“I’ll see you in class,” he said finally.

And you nodded again. Too fast. Too clipped.

“Goodnight, Mr. Barnes.”

“Goodnight, Professor.”

Your name on his tongue would ruin you. You knew that. So you were grateful, in a sick way, that he didn’t use it. That he kept the mask on, even as he walked away without looking back.

Only once he was far enough away do you finally exhale.

—----

The next week, he waited until the last twenty minutes of your posted office hours.

Long enough that you probably thought no one else was coming.

You were behind your desk, papers stacked to your left, a half-empty yogurt cup in the trash beside you. Your hair was pinned back tight, the way you always wore it on days when control mattered most. The soft hum of your laptop filled the quiet, a jazz playlist coming from the speakers.

You looked like calm incarnate. But he saw the hesitation when you glanced up and saw him standing in the doorway.

"Mr. Barnes," you said, voice as composed as your posture. "Come in."

He did, quietly and carefully keeping his distance. He always did. He asked about Baldwin. Giovanni’s Room. His tone was casual, almost too casual, but the tightness in his jaw gave him away.

And then…

“I’ve been thinking about what you read in class,” he said, voice low.

“The part about self-deception.”

You looked up slowly. You knew where this was going.

“Is that what this is?”

You didn’t answer.

“I can’t pretend anymore,” he continued. “Not with you.”

The air in the room changed.

“I want you,” he said, firmer now.

“I’ve wanted you since the first class. I thought I could ignore it, bury it under respect, or rules, or whatever you needed from me. But it’s still there.”

You couldn’t breathe.

Not well. Not normally. Not with him standing there saying that like it was a truth he’d been carrying in his bones since the beginning of the semester.

You stared at him, searching for something you could use to shut it down. Immaturity. Fantasy. Entitlement. But it wasn’t there. 

He wasn’t testing you. He wasn’t fantasizing. He was telling you the truth. And now it was here.

Said aloud in your office.

“I’m not confused,” he said. 

“And I’m not asking for anything. I just needed you to know I’m done pretending I don’t feel it.”

You folded your hands in your lap because you didn’t trust them not to move. Not to reach. Not to tremble.

“This isn’t possible,” you said, voice thin. “You’re my student.”

“I know.”

But he didn’t back down.

You exhaled, and let the silence grow.

That usually made people fumble excuses to fill the void. And when he didn’t retreat, didn’t apologize, didn’t break, you reached for the only weapon left: distance.

“You’re twenty-six.”

“Almost twenty-seven.”

“I’m thirty-eight.”

“I know.”

“That’s over a decade.”

“I’m aware.”

You hated how calm he was. You hated that some stupid, aching part of you wanted him to lose control, because at least then it wouldn’t feel so dangerous. Or deliberate.

“You’ve seen things,” you said. “You’ve survived things. But you’re still figuring out who you are.”

He didn’t argue. And somehow, that made it worse.

“I’ve worked my whole life for this career,” you snapped. “I’m not throwing it away for a moment in a park or a crush you can’t separate from fantasy.”

“It’s not a crush,” he said. “And it’s not a fantasy.”

“Stop,” you said, louder than you intended.

He did.

And your throat burned. When you finally spoke again, your voice was softer.

“I need you to leave.”

He didn’t argue, just looked at you and nodded.

“Of course, Professor.”

You didn’t watch him go. You kept your eyes on the stack of ungraded essays in front of you, pretending they mattered more than the fact that you hadn’t really wanted him to leave. 

You wanted him to stay. 

And close the door.

—--

You didn’t assign any reading the next week.

You told yourself it was because midterms were coming. You told yourself it was merciful.

It wasn’t.

It was preparation.

You kept it clean in class, composed. Cold, even.

You called on him once, just to prove you could, and he answered in that low, calm voice like nothing was wrong. Like you weren’t wet under your skirt for the full fifty minutes.

And when the room cleared, and he stayed in his seat, you just stood.

“I need to see you in my office about last week’s meeting, Mr. Barnes.”

He just sat there and watched you walk out of the door, listening to your heels click their way down the hall to your office.

You left the door unlocked.

You waited.

And when he finally stepped into your office and shut the door behind him, you just looked at him. And he looked at you.

And that was all it took to understand.

You stepped back against your desk and swallowed hard.

“We don’t talk about this after,” you said, quietly.

“Okay,” he said, eyes dark.

“But you need to say it.”

You nodded once. “It’s just sex.”

Bucky knew you were lying, but you were offering him something and he was going to take it. He moved toward you.

You held his gaze.

“I’m on birth control.”

“I’m clean,” he said. “Tested last month.”

“So am I.”

A pause. You lifted your chin.

“I want it raw.”

He exhaled through his nose, something primal flickering across his face.

“Jesus. You sure?”

You nodded again. “You?”

“Yeah,” he said, voice rasping now. “Fuck yeah.”

And when his hands finally landed on you, you felt your control collapse. And it felt so good.

He kissed you like you were already his, like he’d spent months imagining this exact moment, how your mouth would part, how your hands would clutch at his shoulders, how your body would give the second he asked.

You moaned into him, soft, needy, and unguarded. And that was all he needed. He lifted you in one clean motion and set you back on your desk.

Urgently. You shoved the papers aside with one sweep of your arm. Something fluttered to the floor. You didn’t care.

His hands pushed your skirt up to your waist, exposing your bare thighs, and when he realized you weren’t wearing anything underneath…

“Fuck,” he whispered, looking down at you like he’d never seen a pussy before.

You hooked your ankles around his hips. 

“Don’t waste time.”

He looked up, eyes locked on yours, and slid two fingers through your cunt, like he wanted to memorize how wet you already were for him.

“Jesus,” he muttered. “You were like this all through class?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Your head tipped back when he sank to his knees.

He didn't tease and he didn’t take his time.

His mouth was on you in seconds, hot and filthy, his tongue licking up your slit, mouth closing over your clit like he’d been studying for this moment. And he had.

You gasped, one hand flying to the edge of the desk, the other buried in his hair as he groaned into you. It was too much. Too fast. Too good.

You’d touched yourself thinking about this. Pictured it. Fantasized. But nothing had prepared you for the way he devoured you. Like he needed it to breathe.

Your thighs shook. Your hips rolled into his mouth. And when you came, you heard him groan like he felt it, too.

He stood quickly, shoved his jeans down just enough, and lined himself up without another word.

You looked down and your breath caught. You wanted it. You asked for this. You reached between your legs and guided him in yourself.

You both groaned.

He filled you in one slow thrust, inch after inch of hard, perfect pressure, and you nearly came again right then.

His hands gripped your thighs. He drew back and thrust again, so hard the desk creaked.

You bit your lip to keep from screaming.

“Look at me,” he growled.

You did.

His eyes were wild.

“I’ve wanted this,” he said, voice breaking on the words. “Wanted you.”

You wrapped your arms around his shoulders. “Then fuck me like you mean it.”

He did.

Every thrust was deep, deliberate, devastating. The sound of skin on skin filled the room, slick and obscene. Your body took him like you were made for it, like this was inevitable. Like finally.

He slid one hand up your blouse, pushed your bra up, palmed your breast, and groaned when you arched into it. His mouth was at your throat, biting, sucking, and praising through gritted teeth.

“So tight. Fuck you feel so good.”

You clawed at his back.

“I’m gonna come,” you gasped. “Don’t stop! Please”

He buried his face in your neck. 

“Not stopping. Not, fuck, not pulling out…”

You came hard. Writhing, and breaking beneath him.

And when he followed,seconds later, pulsing inside you with a choked groan and a helpless thrust, you realized: This would never be just sex.

And you were never going to forget this.

—----

He knocked the next week at office hours. You almost wished he wouldn’t.

You looked up, your expression blank. “Come in.”

He stepped inside. Closed the door gently. Not locking it. 

You gestured to the chair. “Sit.”

He did.

You watched him for a moment. He looked good. Too good. Calm again. Always so goddamn calm. You folded your hands in your lap.

“This can’t happen again.”

He didn’t flinch. Just waited.

You cleared your throat. 

“What happened in this office was unprofessional. And dangerous. For both of us.”

Still, he said nothing.

“I don’t care how quiet we are. If anyone finds out…”

“They won’t,” he said softly.

“That’s not the point.”

You didn’t raise your voice. But it felt like a scream.

“I worked too hard for this. I have too much to lose.”

“I know.”

You blinked. “That’s it?”

He met your eyes. 

“If you’re done, if you really don’t want me to touch you again, say it.”

You opened your mouth. But no words came out. Because that wasn’t true. And you both knew it.

So instead, you said: “This ends now.”

And he nodded once. But his eyes didn’t believe you.

And when he stood to leave, your body betrayed you again. Because you wanted him.

You said it before you could stop yourself.

“James.”

It was soft, a sound you weren’t aware you were capable of. Not so full of need like that. 

But he heard it. He paused in the doorway. Shoulders tensed. One hand still on the knob. He turned and met your eyes.

And you didn’t take it back.

He stepped back into the room and shut the door behind him, locking it this time.

He crossed the room in three strides, hands on your body, spinning you around with authority. And you let him. 

Your blouse was still buttoned. Your trousers were still on. But you were soaked the moment he touched you. 

“You knew I couldn’t resist you,” he said, voice low behind you.

His mouth grazed your ear as he pressed into you, hard beneath his jeans.

“You don’t want me to.”

You didn’t deny it, just unbuttoned your pants and let them fall.

No panties again.

His hands were on you in an instant, dragging you back against him, cursing under his breath when his fingers slipped between your legs and found you already dripping.

“You wanted this.”

“Don’t talk,” you breathed.

But you didn’t mean it.

He pushed your blouse up, leaned over you, one hand planted on the desk beside yours, the other between your legs.

“You still want it raw?”

You nodded.

“Say it.”

“Yes,” you whispered. “Please.”

He undid his jeans. You felt the press of him against your thigh, hot and thick and ready.

And when he pushed into you, you gasped.

There was no easing in. Just a deep, brutal thrust that forced a broken moan from your lips. You slapped a hand over your mouth, but he grabbed your wrist and pulled it away.

“Let me hear it.”

He fucked you hard. So hard that your desk rocked.

You forgot how to breathe as your cheek pressed against the cool surface of your desk and as your hands gripped the edge. 

He fucked you like he owned you, like this was always going to happen. 

Like he knew exactly what you needed, and he wasn’t going to let you hide from it again.

“You’re mine right now,” he panted. “No lies. No rules. Just this.”

You came fast, unexpectedly, a sob punching out of your throat as you clenched around him. He groaned and followed you seconds later, spilling inside you with a sharp cry, his hips stuttering against your ass.

For a long moment, there was nothing but breathing. He leaned over your back, both hands braced on the desk now, chest heaving.

You stayed still beneath him, your body still shaking.

Neither of you spoke.

Because what could you say?

—--

It was break week, and of course you could survive without seeing Bucky. 

It was just sex, and you were a grown woman. You wouldn’t text him; he didn’t have your number and you only had his because you had his student information.

You told yourself you wouldn’t. 

It was unprofessional.

You told yourself that if you just made it through Monday without texting, the rest of the week would be easier. And you almost believed it.

But by Thursday afternoon, your resolve had withered under need. Your apartment was too still. Your phone was too close.

You typed the message three times. Deleted it each time. Then sent it anyway.

You Did you finish Baldwin yet? Figure out the nature of self-deception?

You threw your phone across the couch the second it delivered.

Five minutes passed.

Then ten.

Then…

James: Did you really just text me about Baldwin while I’m picturing your ass bent over your desk?

Your stomach flipped.

You told yourself not to respond.

You absolutely responded.

You: I was being professional.

James: You didn’t sound very professional last time I had my fingers inside you.

You closed your eyes. And your pulse dropped straight between your thighs.

And then, another buzz.

James: Should I stop?

You stared at the screen.

Then your thumbs moved on their own.

You: No.

And that was it.

That was the beginning of the end.

Because now he had your number. And he didn’t just use it to flirt.

He used it to unravel you.

James: What are you wearing right now?

You shouldn’t have answered. But you did.

You: Nothing you’d be allowed to see if we were in class.

James: I wouldn’t need to see it.

You: No?

James: I’d just need to hear you.

Your breath caught as you watched the bubbles.

James: Want me to call you?

Your heart pounded as you stared at the screen.

Then you typed.

You: Yes.

—---

You answered without thinking.

He didn’t even say hello.

“Take your hand,” he said, voice calm, “and put it between your legs.”

Your breath caught instantly. 

“James…”

“Do it.”

You did.

And it was worse than being touched. Because now, every movement was yours, but every command was his.

“Are you wet?” he asked.

You nodded, forgetting he couldn’t see you. 

“Yes.”

“Fuck,” he muttered. “You miss me?”

You closed your eyes, head dropping back onto your pillow. 

“Yes.”

“How bad?”

“Don’t make me say it.”

“I want to hear you,” he growled. “You started this. Now I want you to tell me what you’ve been thinking about.”

You swallowed.

“Your hands on me. Your mouth. The way you sound when you come. The way you…”

“Touch yourself.”

You gasped at the sound of his voice in your ear, that subtle shift to something darker, something claiming.

“Just two fingers,” he said. “Keep the pressure light. Don’t come yet.”

You obeyed.

“Good girl.”

Your hips bucked slightly.

“Oh, you like that?” he asked, smug now. “I bet you’re soaked.”

“I hate you,” you breathed.

“No you don’t,” he said, quieter now.

“You love this. Being ruined without me even being in the room. So fucking desperate for it you couldn’t go one more day without hearing me.”

You whimpered, and his voice dropped further.

“Circle your clit. Slowly. Just like that. Stay with me.”

You could hear his breathing now. It wasn’t clean. He was hard. He was touching himself too. You knew it. You heard it in his voice.

“I want you so fucking bad,” he groaned.

“That desk wasn’t enough. I need to fuck you until you cry. Until you forget how to teach. Until you forget every name but mine.”

Your hips jerked.

“You close?”

“Yes, fuck, James, I…”

“Not yet.”

You froze.

“I want you begging.”

“I am.”

“No. Say it.”

You shook.

“Please, James. Let me come. I need it. Please…”

“Now,” he growled. “Come for me. Right now.”

And you did.

Hard. Gasping. One hand clamped over your mouth, the other between your legs, writhing into the mattress as the sound of his voice pushed you right over the edge.

On the other end, you heard him break too, a low, broken grunt, a whispered fuck, the subtle sound of his body surrendering.

Silence followed. Thick. Heavy. Full.

“Still just sex?” he asked finally.

You didn’t answer.

You couldn’t.

Because that was the lie. And you’d both just drowned in it.

—----

You didn’t sleep. Not really.

Every time you closed your eyes, you heard his voice.

Touch yourself. Good girl. Come for me. Like a current under your skin. Like a drug you couldn’t shake.

By midmorning, you gave up trying. You poured coffee, opened your laptop, stared at the stack of essays you were supposed to grade.

And then you reached for your phone.

No plan. No script.

Just the ache.

You: What are you doing?

He replied almost immediately.

James: Whatever you want me to be doing.

Your thighs pressed together. You were hopeless.

You: You’re insufferable.

James: You’re obsessed.

You didn’t argue.

James: Send me a photo.

Your pulse spiked.

You: Of what?

James: You. Just your mouth. No smile. Nothing posed. I want to see the version of you I shouldn’t have.

You hesitated.

Then turned on the front camera.

Hair messy. No makeup. Pillow creases still pressed into your cheek. Lips parted. No performance.

You sent it.

Seconds passed.

Then,

James: Take your shirt off.

You stared at the screen.

James: I want to see your tits while I jerk off.

Your breath caught.

You looked around your empty apartment like someone might be watching.

Then you pulled your shirt over your head.

You weren’t wearing a bra.

You angled the camera down just enough.

You took the photo and stared at it.

You looked... undone.

You sent it anyway.

James: Fuck. You’re perfect.

Another message followed right after.

James: Next time I want video.

You: What do you want me to do?

His reply came fast.

James: I want to hear what you sound like when you finger yourself and look into the camera like it’s me.

You dropped the phone onto the bed, your face burning, your body already responding.

You hated how much you wanted it.

And you loved that he asked.

—------

You turned off every light but one and propped your phone up on your nightstand, angled carefully. You could see yourself in the frame, messy, flushed, bare.

Your pulse was already high and your mouth was dry. Your fingers shook as you hit record.

"Hi,” you whispered, embarrassed.

Then you bit your lip and tried again.

“James…”

His name felt like a weight in your chest. Your thighs shifted.

“I can’t stop thinking about you.”

You lowered the camera slowly, past your collarbones, over your breasts, down your belly. You spread your legs.

No teasing. No preamble.

You wanted him to see the truth of it. The urgency. The craving.

You let your fingers slip down, just two, and parted yourself. You were already, still, wet. You couldn’t fake it.

You circled your clit, slowly as you said his name. 

“James…”

Your free hand slid up your body, palming your breast, pinching your nipple until you gasped.

The camera caught everything. The angle of your hips. The arch of your back. The way your mouth opened when you slipped the two fingers inside yourself.

You looked into the lens, right at him

“You want this, don’t you?” you whispered. “You want to watch me come thinking about your cock inside me?”

You fucked yourself harder.

Faster.

“Is this how you want me? Needing you?”

You whimpered, unable to stop.

“You’d fuck me so good if you were here.”

You knew he’d watch it more than once, you wanted him to. You wanted him wrecked.

“I’m gonna come,” you gasped, hips bucking. “I’m gonna…fuck…James…”

You came hard, legs shaking. Your body exposed in all the ways you swore you never would be.

You let the camera roll as you caught your breath, chest heaving.

Then you leaned in and whispered, “Your turn.”

And stopped the video.

You sent it. No warning. No text. Just the file.

Seconds later, he responded.

James: Jesus fucking Christ.

Then a voice message.

You hit play.

He was breathing hard.

“Baby,” he said, wrecked and reverent, “I’m gonna come just thinking about what I’m gonna do to you next time I see you. You think I fucked you hard before? You don’t even know.”

You lay back, smiling.

You did this.

You ruined him.

—----

Your phone buzzed.

You sat up straight and your heart kicked like it had been waiting. You pressed play.

The image loaded.

And what you saw was dim lighting, the camera angled low. And there he was, naked, stretched out on his bed, one arm tucked behind his head, the other wrapped tight around his cock.

He was hard. Thick, And leaking from the thick mushroom tip that destroyed your soul.

“Baby,” he said, hoarse. “What the fuck did you do to me?”

Your breath caught instantly.

Baby.

No one had called you that in a long time.

He stroked himself slowly, base to tip, eyes locked on the screen.

“You send me that video, looking like that, saying my name like it’s the only word you know, and you expect me to be calm?”

His hand tightened. His abs tensed.

“You were dripping, weren’t you? So fucking wet. Just thinking about me.”

He dragged his thumb over the head of his cock and groaned.

“I can’t stop watching it. Can’t stop seeing your fingers inside you, your mouth, your tits, those little sounds you make when you’re about to fall apart.”

He was close. You could see it in the way his hips shifted, the way his free hand gripped the sheets.

“I swear to God, the next time I’m inside you, I’m not stopping until you beg me to. I’ll hold your legs open and fuck you so fucking deep. There will be no hiding.”

You whimpered.

It was like he heard it. He smirked.

“I want to feel you shake under me. Want to feel your nails in my back, your come on my cock, your voice saying my name.”

His eyes flicked down.

“I’m gonna come,” he panted. “You watching, baby? You gonna come with me next time?”

He grunted, low, raw, broken, his body tensing as he came hard, ropes of it spilling over his hand, across his stomach, the sound of it filling the room.

You were breathless.

He looked straight into the camera, chest heaving.

And said, “Next time, you ride me until I forget my own name.”

The video ended.

You sat there, phone still in your hand, thighs pressed tight, pulse racing.

And that was the moment you knew this wasn’t a fling. This wasn’t just sex. This was an addiction.

And you wanted more.

—--

You didn’t think. You didn’t ask. You didn’t play.

You watched his video in your bed, one hand clutched in the sheets, thighs slick and trembling, your whole body strung tight with need.

You didn’t touch yourself. Didn’t move. You just stared at the screen.

And then, you opened the message app, tapped his name, and sent him your location.

No text, no explanation. Just a pin.

Come here.

That’s what it meant.

You knew he’d understand.

You stood up and unlocked the front door. 

Then you waited.

And when you heard his knock, you didn’t hesitate, you opened the door.

He stood there, hood up, breath ragged, eyes already dark. No words.

No one said a thing.

He pressed you against the wall, lips crashing into yours, hands already sliding up your sides, lifting your shirt to bare your breasts.

Your legs parted on instinct.

His knee pressed between them, his hands gripping your waist like he couldn’t believe you were real. You pulled at his hoodie. He dragged it off.

He wasn’t gentle and you didn’t want him to be. You guided his hand between your legs.

He groaned.

“You’re so fucking ready for me,” he rasped. “All I did was show you how bad I want you.”

You didn’t answer. You just reached for his belt.

Because this wasn’t sexting.This wasn’t a video. This wasn’t pretend.

This was real.

And you needed him inside you like oxygen.

—--

He pressed you against the wall like he was starved. He was frantic. There was no careful undressing. No asking. Just taking.

Your shirt was gone before you even realized it. You didn’t remember lifting your arms. You only remembered the sound of him groaning when he saw your bare chest, the heat of his mouth on your nipple, the way he bit down just enough to make you gasp.

He unzipped his jeans and, shoved his boxers down. His cock sprang free you almost dropped to your knees. But he grabbed your face, and kissed you again, deeper this time. 

“Not tonight,” he muttered. “I need to be inside you.”

You didn’t argue,  you just turned and pressed your hands against the wall and arched your back, giving him everything.

He groaned. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

He dragged the head of his cock through your soaking wet folds, and then with one sharp thrust, he entered you. 

You gasped loudly.

He filled you, raw and perfect, like your body had been made to take him.

“Fuck,” he whispered. “This pussy’s unreal.”

You pressed your forehead to the wall, eyes shut, trying to breathe.He pulled back, then slammed into you again. Again. Again.

The sound of it was obscene.

Your walls clenched around him, as one hand slid under your body, finding your clit. He rubbed in tight circles as he fucked you deep.

“You close?” he panted. “You gonna come on me already?”

“Yes, God, don’t stop…”

He slammed into you harder.

“You want me to fill you again?”

“Yes, fuck, yes….”

“Say it.”

“I want your come,” you choked. “I want it inside me.”

He groaned, gripped your hips harder, and pounded into you like he meant to stay.

You came hard, shaking, gasping, and ruined.

He followed seconds later, burying himself deep and coming with a sound that made your whole body throb. You felt every pulse of it. Every drop.

He stayed like that for a moment. Inside you. Chest against your back. Breathing hard.

Then he kissed your shoulder. Softly. Almost sweet.

And that scared you more than anything else.

-----

Send asks, reblogs, comments. Let me know if you feel the way that I feel. 🫠

[ramp-it-up]

Me too. And Thank YOU! 😊

The Pupil

Summary: Restraint gives way to obsession.

Word count: 7.7 K 😬

Pairing: College Student!Bucky Barnes x Professor!Reader

A/N: No one asked for this. This idea hit me when I was contemplating my career choices because I started work Thursday and gremlins come next week, and I thought, if I was a professor and Bucky Barnes walked in my class….🥹 .This is long, it is self indulgent and it is my therapy. I apologize for the length, but it could have been much longer. Hit me up to tell me how you feel about it.

Warnings: 18+ Only, Minors DNI. Read at your own risk. Smut! Power imbalance (professor/student, age gap 38/26) raw p in v sex, sexting, phone sex, masturbation, video sharing, unprotected sex. Obsession, emotional repression, and blurred lines. Reader self-deception and power/control themes. Bucky is feral, intense, and fully locked in. Young dom Bucky all the way. Angst, mutual unraveling, no fluff, all heat. Not Beta'd. All errors my own.

I no longer have a taglist. Please follow @rampitupandread and turn on notifications to learn when I post! 😘

I Do NOT Consent to my work being reposted, translated or presented on any other blog or site other than by myself.

----------

You didn’t always dress like this.

Not in the elegant high-waisted trousers that elongated your already long legs, and the silk blouses in slate and cream, each one buttoned up and tucked just so.

And not in the heels, expensive, pointed, and high, meant to remind you, and everyone else, that control starts at the ankle.

There was a time you tried to disappear.

Back when you were married to a man who said he liked your brain but openly resented your ambition. Who told you quiet was dignified and called you “intimidating” instead of a boss.

Back then you wore flats and cardigans and neutral tones and made yourself smaller in rooms where you should’ve stood tall.

And then one day, you stopped.

Your divorce wasn’t explosive.

It was silent.

You kept your name, your tenured position, and the apartment with the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. He kept the excuses.

And the you learned to love your own company. Late-night reading by lamplight. Coffee in silence.

Fresh sheets, open windows, and no one to bend for.

You built a life that didn’t need anyone else in it. You weren’t lonely. You were whole.

Or so you thought.

Five years after the divorce, at 38, you were tenured, respected, published, and a bright star in Brooklyn College’s English Department. 

You strode into the lecture hall in heels and pencil skirts, your hair up, your lipstick bold, and your syllabus uncompromising. Your specialty was desire on the page, Womanist texts, subversion in narrative form.

The literature of hunger and restraint.

And you were good at it.

You were used to being the subject of attention from your students, attention that extended beyond a concern for their grades. 

Sometimes they were just curious. Sometimes they were crude. Occasionally, they flirted, tried to make you laugh, or tried to match your intellect with theirs.

But you handled it. You shut it down.

You had been with colleagues once or twice, brief encounters that scratched an itch but never lingered. They never made you miss someone when they left your bed or made you want to stay.

There had never been any encounter that made you pause in the doorway of your own classroom and forget, for a split second, what the hell you were about to say.

Until him.

Until James Buchanan Barnes.

—--

You didn’t notice him when you took roll, not at first.

You were focused on your board notes, your syllabus, the usual opening-week checklist, names, majors, who looked restless, who would drop by week three. 

But then you turned, mid-sentence, scanning the room, and your eyes landed on him.

He hadn’t raised his hand. He hadn’t made a sound. But the way he held himself drew your attention like a magnet. 

He sat with the rigid stillness of someone trained for tension, shoulders wide and braced inside a seat not built to hold him, his spine so straight it looked like a kind of discipline.

He wasn’t fidgeting and he wasn’t distracted; he was just silent, present, and alert.

That should have been your first clue. But it wasn’t the way he sat that stopped you.

It was the rest of him.

The overlong dark hair tucked neatly behind one ear. 

The worn black T-shirt pulled across a chest that didn’t belong in a sophomore seminar, and the way his lips pressed together in concentration as he read your syllabus like it was a puzzle to be solved.

The large, veined hand curled around a pen instead of a keyboard, and his notebook was full of cramped, deliberate handwriting.

He looked like someone who had seen the world, someone too young to have such old eyes, though he was older than the others in your class.

He looked like someone who was trying very hard not to be noticed. And it didn’t work.

Because the second he lifted his eyes to meet yours, brilliant blue, sharp, and unwavering, it was over.

You told yourself it meant nothing. He was just a student. One of many.

But then he spoke.

And his voice was low, steady, and crackling with an alluring tenor that almost masked how smart he really was.

And then he argued.

Not with arrogance, but clarity. Citing Baldwin and Heller without a trace of hesitation, pushing back just enough to make it interesting, enough to make your breath catch.

And suddenly you knew.

This one was going to be dangerous.

—--

He knew professors were supposed to be older.

Seasoned. Maybe tired-looking. Overworked and underpaid, carrying canvas tote bags and books with cracked spines.

He wasn’t expecting you.

You walked in like you owned the entire department, heels sharp against the tile, jaw set in a way that made him sit straighter without thinking, and not a single strand of your hair was out of place.

You were wearing a slate grey silk blouse, tucked into high-waisted black trousers that clung to your shape with elegant precision. And your lips were a color that made his mouth go dry.

And Bucky Barnes forgot to breathe.

He picked up his pen before you even spoke.

Not because he was trying to impress you, but because something about you told him that half-assed wasn’t welcome in your presence.

You didn’t look directly at anyone when you entered. You set your bag down, clicked your pen once, and began to speak with the urgency of someone who had no time to waste.

In less than ten minutes, you quoted Morrison, asked a question no one dared answer, and looked directly at him when he did.

That was the first time your gaze met his. And it turned his stomach inside out.

You were older than him, but not in the way that word often implied. You didn’t look tired. You didn’t look diminished. You looked like power.

You looked like someone who had learned to survive, and who didn’t flinch when she walked away from the battle.

He wanted to impress you, of course.

But more than that, he just wanted you to look at him like that again.

——

The semester moved forward, and Bucky was in the front row every class, early enough to see you walk in. He didn’t fidget, he didn’t scroll his phone, and he didn’t scribble anything until you started talking.

His eyes were always on the door, and when you walked through it, his pulse kicked like a reflex.

You were striking.

Every week, in silk blouses, pencil skirts, or tailored trousers, always poised and sharp-edged, never once looking like anyone else on campus.

But what unstrung him was not how you looked.

It was the way you never once looked at him like an object. You never treated your students like they were interchangeable. When you looked at him, you saw him.

And Bucky felt it.

He hadn’t expected to enjoy Postmodern Literature. It sounded like the kind of class where people tried to out-theorize each other, but it surprised him.

And it was the first time since returning to school that he felt like he belonged.

Before your class, he felt like a ghost in the hallway.

Older than most of them at 26, but younger in other ways, like he’d lost time, like he was trying to catch up to a life that had kept going without him.

The Army was paying for his education. Six years in, two years out, into places no one ever talked about. He came back with too many memories and not enough peace.

Literature helped. Reading gave the noise somewhere to go. He filled notebooks just to keep the chaos from spilling over.

And you made it matter.

When you spoke, he listened with his entire body. Every word felt like a match being struck. Every question you asked set something in him on fire.

He kept his face blank when you entered, but inside, something locked into place every time.

“This isn’t a survey course,” you said on the first day. “This is an excavation. We’re going to talk about hunger, about power, about desire, and about what happens when stories lie to us.”

Bucky Barnes was going to learn everything you had to teach.

And not just from the syllabus.

—-

The first time Bucky Barnes had you shook was unexpected.

“Stanley Kowalski isn’t just a villain,” you told the room.

“He’s a study in what happens when masculinity hides its own fragility. What’s worse, being violent, or pretending you’re not?”

There was a pause.

Then his hand went up.

“Yes…?”

“Barnes. James Barnes,” he said, as if you didn’t know his name. You knew his name.

“I think pretending is worse. Because then people convince themselves it’s not violence at all. It’s just… what men do.”

The room went quiet. It was a good point. A sharp one. You nodded, your lips curving just slightly. 

“Interesting. Care to elaborate, Mr. Barnes?”

He leaned forward on the desk, shoulders tense but voice calm. 

“Stanley’s problem isn’t just power. It’s that he thinks he’s entitled to everything. Stella. The apartment. The air they breathe. And when someone tells him he’s not, he loses his mind.”

Your breath caught.

“An excellent observation,” you said, forcing your tone steady.

And you moved on to the next point, your pulse racing.

—---

He didn’t mean to linger. But he did.

Most of the class had already filtered out into the dark, backpacks slung over shoulders, the last few stragglers murmuring their way toward the exit. The lateness of the class cleared the room quickly. 

But Bucky stayed seated in the front row, fingers drumming quietly on the edge of his notebook, eyes fixed forward, on you.

You moved with quiet purpose as you erased the board, your blouse soft under the glow of fluorescent light, and your heels clicking softly against the tile.

You always moved like that, like you had all the time in the world. Like you knew he was watching, and you didn’t care.

Or maybe you did. Maybe that was the problem.

When you turned to face him, your expression was unreadable, carefully professional. 

“Did you need something, Mr. Barnes?”

He stood slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. 

“Just wanted to thank you. For the lecture.”

You raised a brow.

“You’re paying tuition. No need to thank me.”

“Still,” he said, shifting his weight, but not too close. 

“Most professors don’t talk about Streetcar like that. You didn’t soften him. You didn’t make Stanley a hero. You called him what he was.”

Something flickered across your face. Amusement, maybe. Or curiosity. Your mouth curved, just barely. 

“Is that supposed to impress me?”

He smiled warmly. Not cocky, but careful. 

“Would it work if I said yes?”

You stared at him for one beat too long. And then you laughed quietly. The sound was beautiful.

It hit him square in the chest.

“Goodnight, Mr. Barnes,” you said. But you weren’t dismissive.

It would’ve been easy to say something he shouldn’t. Something about how well that skirt fit the curves of your ass, or the slope of your neck, or the way you looked like a woman a man could ruin himself for, and thank her for it.

But he didn’t.

He just cleared his throat and said, “Goodnight, Professor.” 

And then he walked out. Before he could make a mistake.

—---

You were at your desk during office hours, door open, glasses on, red pen in hand, halfway through dissecting an undergrad’s overwrought interpretation of Beloved when you heard a knock.

You didn’t need to look up.

You already knew it was him.

There was a particular rhythm to the way James Barnes moved that was controlled and deliberate. That soldier steadiness in every step. You took a breath before looking up, willing your heart not to react, willing your body to stay still.

“Professor,” he said, low and polite, leaning just slightly into the doorway.

“You got a minute?”

“Of course,” you said, gesturing to the chair across from you like it was just another Wednesday.

Like you hadn’t been hyperaware of him since the moment he walked into your class. 

“Come in.”

He did, wearing a dark henley, jeans, and a backpack slung over one shoulder. He sat down slowly, and you caught a whiff of his scent.

It made your mouth dry.

“I wanted to talk more about the reading,” he said. “If that’s okay.”

“Always.”

He pulled out his copy of The Awakening, pages heavily annotated. 

You should have been focused on what he was saying, but you weren’t. Not entirely.

His voice had that textured quality that hummed through your spine when he spoke. And the way he watched you, like everything you said mattered, was dangerous. 

It made you lean forward. And it made your next question softer than it should have been.

“Do you think Edna is selfish? Or just trapped?”

He tilted his head.

“Both. But I think the trap came first.”

God. He was good.

You pushed your glasses up the bridge of your nose and tried not to notice how the room suddenly felt too warm. 

He spoke like it was casual. But he knew it wasn’t. Not to you. He could tell by the way your eyes lit up. 

He could get addicted to that.

He could tell that you were impressed, and that you didn’t want to be. 

That knowledge made something hot flicker in his chest.

He thought about what you’d look like letting go.

He thought about backing you against that desk and hearing you say his name. Not Mr. Barnes, Bucky.

He thought about dropping to his knees and making you forget every reason you were telling yourself not to want him.

“Mr. Barnes,” you said, clearing your throat lightly, “are you trying to impress me again?”

“Not trying,” he said, voice even. “Just telling the truth.”

That stopped you for a second. And in that second, you smiled.

That was your mistake.

Because in that smile, you gave something away.

And he knew it.

That smile wasn’t dismissive. It wasn’t professional. 

And it definitely wasn’t safe.

It told him that you were thinking about it too.

Even if you wouldn’t admit it.

He didn’t say any of that. Not yet. But one day soon, he might.

—--

You weren’t expecting to see anyone you knew at Prospect Park.

This part of Brooklyn is your quiet zone. Your weekend escape. You come for the live music, the breeze off the trees, the way the city softened just enough to let you breathe.

You were wearing a sundress, nothing scandalous, but light, flowing, a little backless. Your hair was loose and you were comfortable. Free. 

Younger than you usually let yourself feel.

You had your blanket spread out near the edge of the crowd, a book open on your lap, eyes closed as the saxophone swelled. And then…

“Professor?”

Your stomach dropped. Because you knew that voice. You opened your eyes slowly and turned your head, and there he was.

James Barnes.

He was standing a few feet away, hands in the pockets of his jeans, t-shirt snug across his chest. He had a water bottle hooked through one finger, and he looked… stunned.

You blinked, and sat up slowly. When your eyes met his, they widened just enough for him to see the truth: you hadn’t expected to see him either. 

And you weren’t ready.

“Mr. Barnes.”

His eyes raked over you, quickly, respectfully, but there was no hiding the way they lingered. 

You looked… radiant. Relaxed. And so young. Relaxed in a way he’d never seen you. Unguarded.

Your sundress moved when you shifted, a flash of bare shoulder and the curve of your neck knocking something loose in his chest. 

For a second, he forgot you were his professor. 

He just saw a woman so beautiful it felt unreal to look at you out of context. 

You watched the moment he really saw you with your hair down and your sandals off and your mouth slightly parted in surprise.

He didn’t say anything for a second too long.

And it rattled you.

You were used to being looked at. But not by him. Not like this.

“You here for the show?” you asked, trying to sound calm.

He nodded slowly as his eyes dragged over you again.

“Yeah. Didn’t expect to see anyone from campus.”

You raised an eyebrow.

“What, professors don’t like jazz?”

“No,” he said. “I just didn’t think you looked like this… out in the wild.”

You laughed, too loud. Embarrassed. And a little flattered.

“Well. Surprise.”

He didn’t look away.

And that’s when you realized, you were not in control of this moment. Not the way you usually were. Because for the first time in years, you’re the one who doesn’t know what to do with your hands. Or your mouth. 

Or your rapidly racing heart.

Bucky made small talk, played it cool, but he couldn’t stop staring.

He didn’t know you could laugh like that. He didn’t know a simple sundress could make his brain short-circuit when he’d spent weeks imagining what you look like underneath all that silk and structure.

He could leave. He probably should.

But you’re not telling him to.

And for a moment, just one long, buzzy moment, Bucky wondered if the line between you already broke, and you both just keep pretending it’s still there.

—---

You patted the edge of the blanket before you could talk yourself out of it.

“Feel free to sit,” you said, tone light, professor-pleasant. 

He hesitated only a moment, then lowered himself onto the corner, legs stretched out in front of him, careful not to sit too close. You straightened your spine but didn’t lean into the warmth.

“So,” he said after a beat, eyes forward, voice casual.

“Didn’t take you for the Prospect Park jazz type.”

You hummed softly, keeping your gaze on the stage. 

“Everyone needs a little fresh air.”

He nodded, giving you room. You sat shoulder to shoulder in a comfortable silence that allowed you to think too much.

The set ended with a soft cymbal roll and a murmur of applause. You clapped, grateful for the distraction and for something to break the silence that’s been stretching between you like a tripwire.

Bucky, James, Barnes, Christ, brushed his palms on his jeans and stood slowly. You stayed seated, not trusting your legs just yet.

“Well,” he said, his voice quiet but steady. “I should get going.”

You nodded, eyes on your book even though you haven’t read a word of it since he sat down.

“Of course. Thanks for saying hi.”

He paused. You felt it.

“I’ll see you in class,” he said finally.

And you nodded again. Too fast. Too clipped.

“Goodnight, Mr. Barnes.”

“Goodnight, Professor.”

Your name on his tongue would ruin you. You knew that. So you were grateful, in a sick way, that he didn’t use it. That he kept the mask on, even as he walked away without looking back.

Only once he was far enough away do you finally exhale.

—----

The next week, he waited until the last twenty minutes of your posted office hours.

Long enough that you probably thought no one else was coming.

You were behind your desk, papers stacked to your left, a half-empty yogurt cup in the trash beside you. Your hair was pinned back tight, the way you always wore it on days when control mattered most. The soft hum of your laptop filled the quiet, a jazz playlist coming from the speakers.

You looked like calm incarnate. But he saw the hesitation when you glanced up and saw him standing in the doorway.

"Mr. Barnes," you said, voice as composed as your posture. "Come in."

He did, quietly and carefully keeping his distance. He always did. He asked about Baldwin. Giovanni’s Room. His tone was casual, almost too casual, but the tightness in his jaw gave him away.

And then…

“I’ve been thinking about what you read in class,” he said, voice low.

“The part about self-deception.”

You looked up slowly. You knew where this was going.

“Is that what this is?”

You didn’t answer.

“I can’t pretend anymore,” he continued. “Not with you.”

The air in the room changed.

“I want you,” he said, firmer now.

“I’ve wanted you since the first class. I thought I could ignore it, bury it under respect, or rules, or whatever you needed from me. But it’s still there.”

You couldn’t breathe.

Not well. Not normally. Not with him standing there saying that like it was a truth he’d been carrying in his bones since the beginning of the semester.

You stared at him, searching for something you could use to shut it down. Immaturity. Fantasy. Entitlement. But it wasn’t there. 

He wasn’t testing you. He wasn’t fantasizing. He was telling you the truth. And now it was here.

Said aloud in your office.

“I’m not confused,” he said. 

“And I’m not asking for anything. I just needed you to know I’m done pretending I don’t feel it.”

You folded your hands in your lap because you didn’t trust them not to move. Not to reach. Not to tremble.

“This isn’t possible,” you said, voice thin. “You’re my student.”

“I know.”

But he didn’t back down.

You exhaled, and let the silence grow.

That usually made people fumble excuses to fill the void. And when he didn’t retreat, didn’t apologize, didn’t break, you reached for the only weapon left: distance.

“You’re twenty-six.”

“Almost twenty-seven.”

“I’m thirty-eight.”

“I know.”

“That’s over a decade.”

“I’m aware.”

You hated how calm he was. You hated that some stupid, aching part of you wanted him to lose control, because at least then it wouldn’t feel so dangerous. Or deliberate.

“You’ve seen things,” you said. “You’ve survived things. But you’re still figuring out who you are.”

He didn’t argue. And somehow, that made it worse.

“I’ve worked my whole life for this career,” you snapped. “I’m not throwing it away for a moment in a park or a crush you can’t separate from fantasy.”

“It’s not a crush,” he said. “And it’s not a fantasy.”

“Stop,” you said, louder than you intended.

He did.

And your throat burned. When you finally spoke again, your voice was softer.

“I need you to leave.”

He didn’t argue, just looked at you and nodded.

“Of course, Professor.”

You didn’t watch him go. You kept your eyes on the stack of ungraded essays in front of you, pretending they mattered more than the fact that you hadn’t really wanted him to leave. 

You wanted him to stay. 

And close the door.

—--

You didn’t assign any reading the next week.

You told yourself it was because midterms were coming. You told yourself it was merciful.

It wasn’t.

It was preparation.

You kept it clean in class, composed. Cold, even.

You called on him once, just to prove you could, and he answered in that low, calm voice like nothing was wrong. Like you weren’t wet under your skirt for the full fifty minutes.

And when the room cleared, and he stayed in his seat, you just stood.

“I need to see you in my office about last week’s meeting, Mr. Barnes.”

He just sat there and watched you walk out of the door, listening to your heels click their way down the hall to your office.

You left the door unlocked.

You waited.

And when he finally stepped into your office and shut the door behind him, you just looked at him. And he looked at you.

And that was all it took to understand.

You stepped back against your desk and swallowed hard.

“We don’t talk about this after,” you said, quietly.

“Okay,” he said, eyes dark.

“But you need to say it.”

You nodded once. “It’s just sex.”

Bucky knew you were lying, but you were offering him something and he was going to take it. He moved toward you.

You held his gaze.

“I’m on birth control.”

“I’m clean,” he said. “Tested last month.”

“So am I.”

A pause. You lifted your chin.

“I want it raw.”

He exhaled through his nose, something primal flickering across his face.

“Jesus. You sure?”

You nodded again. “You?”

“Yeah,” he said, voice rasping now. “Fuck yeah.”

And when his hands finally landed on you, you felt your control collapse. And it felt so good.

He kissed you like you were already his, like he’d spent months imagining this exact moment, how your mouth would part, how your hands would clutch at his shoulders, how your body would give the second he asked.

You moaned into him, soft, needy, and unguarded. And that was all he needed. He lifted you in one clean motion and set you back on your desk.

Urgently. You shoved the papers aside with one sweep of your arm. Something fluttered to the floor. You didn’t care.

His hands pushed your skirt up to your waist, exposing your bare thighs, and when he realized you weren’t wearing anything underneath…

“Fuck,” he whispered, looking down at you like he’d never seen a pussy before.

You hooked your ankles around his hips. 

“Don’t waste time.”

He looked up, eyes locked on yours, and slid two fingers through your cunt, like he wanted to memorize how wet you already were for him.

“Jesus,” he muttered. “You were like this all through class?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Your head tipped back when he sank to his knees.

He didn't tease and he didn’t take his time.

His mouth was on you in seconds, hot and filthy, his tongue licking up your slit, mouth closing over your clit like he’d been studying for this moment. And he had.

You gasped, one hand flying to the edge of the desk, the other buried in his hair as he groaned into you. It was too much. Too fast. Too good.

You’d touched yourself thinking about this. Pictured it. Fantasized. But nothing had prepared you for the way he devoured you. Like he needed it to breathe.

Your thighs shook. Your hips rolled into his mouth. And when you came, you heard him groan like he felt it, too.

He stood quickly, shoved his jeans down just enough, and lined himself up without another word.

You looked down and your breath caught. You wanted it. You asked for this. You reached between your legs and guided him in yourself.

You both groaned.

He filled you in one slow thrust, inch after inch of hard, perfect pressure, and you nearly came again right then.

His hands gripped your thighs. He drew back and thrust again, so hard the desk creaked.

You bit your lip to keep from screaming.

“Look at me,” he growled.

You did.

His eyes were wild.

“I’ve wanted this,” he said, voice breaking on the words. “Wanted you.”

You wrapped your arms around his shoulders. “Then fuck me like you mean it.”

He did.

Every thrust was deep, deliberate, devastating. The sound of skin on skin filled the room, slick and obscene. Your body took him like you were made for it, like this was inevitable. Like finally.

He slid one hand up your blouse, pushed your bra up, palmed your breast, and groaned when you arched into it. His mouth was at your throat, biting, sucking, and praising through gritted teeth.

“So tight. Fuck you feel so good.”

You clawed at his back.

“I’m gonna come,” you gasped. “Don’t stop! Please”

He buried his face in your neck. 

“Not stopping. Not, fuck, not pulling out…”

You came hard. Writhing, and breaking beneath him.

And when he followed,seconds later, pulsing inside you with a choked groan and a helpless thrust, you realized: This would never be just sex.

And you were never going to forget this.

—----

He knocked the next week at office hours. You almost wished he wouldn’t.

You looked up, your expression blank. “Come in.”

He stepped inside. Closed the door gently. Not locking it. 

You gestured to the chair. “Sit.”

He did.

You watched him for a moment. He looked good. Too good. Calm again. Always so goddamn calm. You folded your hands in your lap.

“This can’t happen again.”

He didn’t flinch. Just waited.

You cleared your throat. 

“What happened in this office was unprofessional. And dangerous. For both of us.”

Still, he said nothing.

“I don’t care how quiet we are. If anyone finds out…”

“They won’t,” he said softly.

“That’s not the point.”

You didn’t raise your voice. But it felt like a scream.

“I worked too hard for this. I have too much to lose.”

“I know.”

You blinked. “That’s it?”

He met your eyes. 

“If you’re done, if you really don’t want me to touch you again, say it.”

You opened your mouth. But no words came out. Because that wasn’t true. And you both knew it.

So instead, you said: “This ends now.”

And he nodded once. But his eyes didn’t believe you.

And when he stood to leave, your body betrayed you again. Because you wanted him.

You said it before you could stop yourself.

“James.”

It was soft, a sound you weren’t aware you were capable of. Not so full of need like that. 

But he heard it. He paused in the doorway. Shoulders tensed. One hand still on the knob. He turned and met your eyes.

And you didn’t take it back.

He stepped back into the room and shut the door behind him, locking it this time.

He crossed the room in three strides, hands on your body, spinning you around with authority. And you let him. 

Your blouse was still buttoned. Your trousers were still on. But you were soaked the moment he touched you. 

“You knew I couldn’t resist you,” he said, voice low behind you.

His mouth grazed your ear as he pressed into you, hard beneath his jeans.

“You don’t want me to.”

You didn’t deny it, just unbuttoned your pants and let them fall.

No panties again.

His hands were on you in an instant, dragging you back against him, cursing under his breath when his fingers slipped between your legs and found you already dripping.

“You wanted this.”

“Don’t talk,” you breathed.

But you didn’t mean it.

He pushed your blouse up, leaned over you, one hand planted on the desk beside yours, the other between your legs.

“You still want it raw?”

You nodded.

“Say it.”

“Yes,” you whispered. “Please.”

He undid his jeans. You felt the press of him against your thigh, hot and thick and ready.

And when he pushed into you, you gasped.

There was no easing in. Just a deep, brutal thrust that forced a broken moan from your lips. You slapped a hand over your mouth, but he grabbed your wrist and pulled it away.

“Let me hear it.”

He fucked you hard. So hard that your desk rocked.

You forgot how to breathe as your cheek pressed against the cool surface of your desk and as your hands gripped the edge. 

He fucked you like he owned you, like this was always going to happen. 

Like he knew exactly what you needed, and he wasn’t going to let you hide from it again.

“You’re mine right now,” he panted. “No lies. No rules. Just this.”

You came fast, unexpectedly, a sob punching out of your throat as you clenched around him. He groaned and followed you seconds later, spilling inside you with a sharp cry, his hips stuttering against your ass.

For a long moment, there was nothing but breathing. He leaned over your back, both hands braced on the desk now, chest heaving.

You stayed still beneath him, your body still shaking.

Neither of you spoke.

Because what could you say?

—--

It was break week, and of course you could survive without seeing Bucky. 

It was just sex, and you were a grown woman. You wouldn’t text him; he didn’t have your number and you only had his because you had his student information.

You told yourself you wouldn’t. 

It was unprofessional.

You told yourself that if you just made it through Monday without texting, the rest of the week would be easier. And you almost believed it.

But by Thursday afternoon, your resolve had withered under need. Your apartment was too still. Your phone was too close.

You typed the message three times. Deleted it each time. Then sent it anyway.

You Did you finish Baldwin yet? Figure out the nature of self-deception?

You threw your phone across the couch the second it delivered.

Five minutes passed.

Then ten.

Then…

James: Did you really just text me about Baldwin while I’m picturing your ass bent over your desk?

Your stomach flipped.

You told yourself not to respond.

You absolutely responded.

You: I was being professional.

James: You didn’t sound very professional last time I had my fingers inside you.

You closed your eyes. And your pulse dropped straight between your thighs.

And then, another buzz.

James: Should I stop?

You stared at the screen.

Then your thumbs moved on their own.

You: No.

And that was it.

That was the beginning of the end.

Because now he had your number. And he didn’t just use it to flirt.

He used it to unravel you.

James: What are you wearing right now?

You shouldn’t have answered. But you did.

You: Nothing you’d be allowed to see if we were in class.

James: I wouldn’t need to see it.

You: No?

James: I’d just need to hear you.

Your breath caught as you watched the bubbles.

James: Want me to call you?

Your heart pounded as you stared at the screen.

Then you typed.

You: Yes.

—---

You answered without thinking.

He didn’t even say hello.

“Take your hand,” he said, voice calm, “and put it between your legs.”

Your breath caught instantly. 

“James…”

“Do it.”

You did.

And it was worse than being touched. Because now, every movement was yours, but every command was his.

“Are you wet?” he asked.

You nodded, forgetting he couldn’t see you. 

“Yes.”

“Fuck,” he muttered. “You miss me?”

You closed your eyes, head dropping back onto your pillow. 

“Yes.”

“How bad?”

“Don’t make me say it.”

“I want to hear you,” he growled. “You started this. Now I want you to tell me what you’ve been thinking about.”

You swallowed.

“Your hands on me. Your mouth. The way you sound when you come. The way you…”

“Touch yourself.”

You gasped at the sound of his voice in your ear, that subtle shift to something darker, something claiming.

“Just two fingers,” he said. “Keep the pressure light. Don’t come yet.”

You obeyed.

“Good girl.”

Your hips bucked slightly.

“Oh, you like that?” he asked, smug now. “I bet you’re soaked.”

“I hate you,” you breathed.

“No you don’t,” he said, quieter now.

“You love this. Being ruined without me even being in the room. So fucking desperate for it you couldn’t go one more day without hearing me.”

You whimpered, and his voice dropped further.

“Circle your clit. Slowly. Just like that. Stay with me.”

You could hear his breathing now. It wasn’t clean. He was hard. He was touching himself too. You knew it. You heard it in his voice.

“I want you so fucking bad,” he groaned.

“That desk wasn’t enough. I need to fuck you until you cry. Until you forget how to teach. Until you forget every name but mine.”

Your hips jerked.

“You close?”

“Yes, fuck, James, I…”

“Not yet.”

You froze.

“I want you begging.”

“I am.”

“No. Say it.”

You shook.

“Please, James. Let me come. I need it. Please…”

“Now,” he growled. “Come for me. Right now.”

And you did.

Hard. Gasping. One hand clamped over your mouth, the other between your legs, writhing into the mattress as the sound of his voice pushed you right over the edge.

On the other end, you heard him break too, a low, broken grunt, a whispered fuck, the subtle sound of his body surrendering.

Silence followed. Thick. Heavy. Full.

“Still just sex?” he asked finally.

You didn’t answer.

You couldn’t.

Because that was the lie. And you’d both just drowned in it.

—----

You didn’t sleep. Not really.

Every time you closed your eyes, you heard his voice.

Touch yourself. Good girl. Come for me. Like a current under your skin. Like a drug you couldn’t shake.

By midmorning, you gave up trying. You poured coffee, opened your laptop, stared at the stack of essays you were supposed to grade.

And then you reached for your phone.

No plan. No script.

Just the ache.

You: What are you doing?

He replied almost immediately.

James: Whatever you want me to be doing.

Your thighs pressed together. You were hopeless.

You: You’re insufferable.

James: You’re obsessed.

You didn’t argue.

James: Send me a photo.

Your pulse spiked.

You: Of what?

James: You. Just your mouth. No smile. Nothing posed. I want to see the version of you I shouldn’t have.

You hesitated.

Then turned on the front camera.

Hair messy. No makeup. Pillow creases still pressed into your cheek. Lips parted. No performance.

You sent it.

Seconds passed.

Then,

James: Take your shirt off.

You stared at the screen.

James: I want to see your tits while I jerk off.

Your breath caught.

You looked around your empty apartment like someone might be watching.

Then you pulled your shirt over your head.

You weren’t wearing a bra.

You angled the camera down just enough.

You took the photo and stared at it.

You looked... undone.

You sent it anyway.

James: Fuck. You’re perfect.

Another message followed right after.

James: Next time I want video.

You: What do you want me to do?

His reply came fast.

James: I want to hear what you sound like when you finger yourself and look into the camera like it’s me.

You dropped the phone onto the bed, your face burning, your body already responding.

You hated how much you wanted it.

And you loved that he asked.

—------

You turned off every light but one and propped your phone up on your nightstand, angled carefully. You could see yourself in the frame, messy, flushed, bare.

Your pulse was already high and your mouth was dry. Your fingers shook as you hit record.

"Hi,” you whispered, embarrassed.

Then you bit your lip and tried again.

“James…”

His name felt like a weight in your chest. Your thighs shifted.

“I can’t stop thinking about you.”

You lowered the camera slowly, past your collarbones, over your breasts, down your belly. You spread your legs.

No teasing. No preamble.

You wanted him to see the truth of it. The urgency. The craving.

You let your fingers slip down, just two, and parted yourself. You were already, still, wet. You couldn’t fake it.

You circled your clit, slowly as you said his name. 

“James…”

Your free hand slid up your body, palming your breast, pinching your nipple until you gasped.

The camera caught everything. The angle of your hips. The arch of your back. The way your mouth opened when you slipped the two fingers inside yourself.

You looked into the lens, right at him

“You want this, don’t you?” you whispered. “You want to watch me come thinking about your cock inside me?”

You fucked yourself harder.

Faster.

“Is this how you want me? Needing you?”

You whimpered, unable to stop.

“You’d fuck me so good if you were here.”

You knew he’d watch it more than once, you wanted him to. You wanted him wrecked.

“I’m gonna come,” you gasped, hips bucking. “I’m gonna…fuck…James…”

You came hard, legs shaking. Your body exposed in all the ways you swore you never would be.

You let the camera roll as you caught your breath, chest heaving.

Then you leaned in and whispered, “Your turn.”

And stopped the video.

You sent it. No warning. No text. Just the file.

Seconds later, he responded.

James: Jesus fucking Christ.

Then a voice message.

You hit play.

He was breathing hard.

“Baby,” he said, wrecked and reverent, “I’m gonna come just thinking about what I’m gonna do to you next time I see you. You think I fucked you hard before? You don’t even know.”

You lay back, smiling.

You did this.

You ruined him.

—----

Your phone buzzed.

You sat up straight and your heart kicked like it had been waiting. You pressed play.

The image loaded.

And what you saw was dim lighting, the camera angled low. And there he was, naked, stretched out on his bed, one arm tucked behind his head, the other wrapped tight around his cock.

He was hard. Thick, And leaking from the thick mushroom tip that destroyed your soul.

“Baby,” he said, hoarse. “What the fuck did you do to me?”

Your breath caught instantly.

Baby.

No one had called you that in a long time.

He stroked himself slowly, base to tip, eyes locked on the screen.

“You send me that video, looking like that, saying my name like it’s the only word you know, and you expect me to be calm?”

His hand tightened. His abs tensed.

“You were dripping, weren’t you? So fucking wet. Just thinking about me.”

He dragged his thumb over the head of his cock and groaned.

“I can’t stop watching it. Can’t stop seeing your fingers inside you, your mouth, your tits, those little sounds you make when you’re about to fall apart.”

He was close. You could see it in the way his hips shifted, the way his free hand gripped the sheets.

“I swear to God, the next time I’m inside you, I’m not stopping until you beg me to. I’ll hold your legs open and fuck you so fucking deep. There will be no hiding.”

You whimpered.

It was like he heard it. He smirked.

“I want to feel you shake under me. Want to feel your nails in my back, your come on my cock, your voice saying my name.”

His eyes flicked down.

“I’m gonna come,” he panted. “You watching, baby? You gonna come with me next time?”

He grunted, low, raw, broken, his body tensing as he came hard, ropes of it spilling over his hand, across his stomach, the sound of it filling the room.

You were breathless.

He looked straight into the camera, chest heaving.

And said, “Next time, you ride me until I forget my own name.”

The video ended.

You sat there, phone still in your hand, thighs pressed tight, pulse racing.

And that was the moment you knew this wasn’t a fling. This wasn’t just sex. This was an addiction.

And you wanted more.

—--

You didn’t think. You didn’t ask. You didn’t play.

You watched his video in your bed, one hand clutched in the sheets, thighs slick and trembling, your whole body strung tight with need.

You didn’t touch yourself. Didn’t move. You just stared at the screen.

And then, you opened the message app, tapped his name, and sent him your location.

No text, no explanation. Just a pin.

Come here.

That’s what it meant.

You knew he’d understand.

You stood up and unlocked the front door. 

Then you waited.

And when you heard his knock, you didn’t hesitate, you opened the door.

He stood there, hood up, breath ragged, eyes already dark. No words.

No one said a thing.

He pressed you against the wall, lips crashing into yours, hands already sliding up your sides, lifting your shirt to bare your breasts.

Your legs parted on instinct.

His knee pressed between them, his hands gripping your waist like he couldn’t believe you were real. You pulled at his hoodie. He dragged it off.

He wasn’t gentle and you didn’t want him to be. You guided his hand between your legs.

He groaned.

“You’re so fucking ready for me,” he rasped. “All I did was show you how bad I want you.”

You didn’t answer. You just reached for his belt.

Because this wasn’t sexting.This wasn’t a video. This wasn’t pretend.

This was real.

And you needed him inside you like oxygen.

—--

He pressed you against the wall like he was starved. He was frantic. There was no careful undressing. No asking. Just taking.

Your shirt was gone before you even realized it. You didn’t remember lifting your arms. You only remembered the sound of him groaning when he saw your bare chest, the heat of his mouth on your nipple, the way he bit down just enough to make you gasp.

He unzipped his jeans and, shoved his boxers down. His cock sprang free you almost dropped to your knees. But he grabbed your face, and kissed you again, deeper this time. 

“Not tonight,” he muttered. “I need to be inside you.”

You didn’t argue,  you just turned and pressed your hands against the wall and arched your back, giving him everything.

He groaned. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

He dragged the head of his cock through your soaking wet folds, and then with one sharp thrust, he entered you. 

You gasped loudly.

He filled you, raw and perfect, like your body had been made to take him.

“Fuck,” he whispered. “This pussy’s unreal.”

You pressed your forehead to the wall, eyes shut, trying to breathe.He pulled back, then slammed into you again. Again. Again.

The sound of it was obscene.

Your walls clenched around him, as one hand slid under your body, finding your clit. He rubbed in tight circles as he fucked you deep.

“You close?” he panted. “You gonna come on me already?”

“Yes, God, don’t stop…”

He slammed into you harder.

“You want me to fill you again?”

“Yes, fuck, yes….”

“Say it.”

“I want your come,” you choked. “I want it inside me.”

He groaned, gripped your hips harder, and pounded into you like he meant to stay.

You came hard, shaking, gasping, and ruined.

He followed seconds later, burying himself deep and coming with a sound that made your whole body throb. You felt every pulse of it. Every drop.

He stayed like that for a moment. Inside you. Chest against your back. Breathing hard.

Then he kissed your shoulder. Softly. Almost sweet.

It that scared you more than anything else.

-----

Send asks, reblogs, comments. Let me know if you feel the way that I feel. 🫠

[ramp-it-up]

Thank you so much for sharing! 😁

The Pupil

Summary: Restraint gives way to obsession.

Word count: 7.7 K 😬

Pairing: College Student!Bucky Barnes x Professor!Reader

A/N: No one asked for this. This idea hit me when I was contemplating my career choices because I started work Thursday and gremlins come next week, and I thought, if I was a professor and Bucky Barnes walked in my class….🥹 .This is long, it is self indulgent and it is my therapy. I apologize for the length, but it could have been much longer. Hit me up to tell me how you feel about it.

Warnings: 18+ Only, Minors DNI. Read at your own risk. Smut! Power imbalance (professor/student, age gap 38/26) raw p in v sex, sexting, phone sex, masturbation, video sharing, unprotected sex. Obsession, emotional repression, and blurred lines. Reader self-deception and power/control themes. Bucky is feral, intense, and fully locked in. Young dom Bucky all the way. Angst, mutual unraveling, no fluff, all heat. Not Beta'd. All errors my own.

I no longer have a taglist. Please follow @rampitupandread and turn on notifications to learn when I post! 😘

I Do NOT Consent to my work being reposted, translated or presented on any other blog or site other than by myself.

----------

You didn’t always dress like this.

Not in the elegant high-waisted trousers that elongated your already long legs, and the silk blouses in slate and cream, each one buttoned up and tucked just so.

And not in the heels, expensive, pointed, and high, meant to remind you, and everyone else, that control starts at the ankle.

There was a time you tried to disappear.

Back when you were married to a man who said he liked your brain but openly resented your ambition. Who told you quiet was dignified and called you “intimidating” instead of a boss.

Back then you wore flats and cardigans and neutral tones and made yourself smaller in rooms where you should’ve stood tall.

And then one day, you stopped.

Your divorce wasn’t explosive.

It was silent.

You kept your name, your tenured position, and the apartment with the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. He kept the excuses.

And the you learned to love your own company. Late-night reading by lamplight. Coffee in silence.

Fresh sheets, open windows, and no one to bend for.

You built a life that didn’t need anyone else in it. You weren’t lonely. You were whole.

Or so you thought.

Five years after the divorce, at 38, you were tenured, respected, published, and a bright star in Brooklyn College’s English Department. 

You strode into the lecture hall in heels and pencil skirts, your hair up, your lipstick bold, and your syllabus uncompromising. Your specialty was desire on the page, Womanist texts, subversion in narrative form.

The literature of hunger and restraint.

And you were good at it.

You were used to being the subject of attention from your students, attention that extended beyond a concern for their grades. 

Sometimes they were just curious. Sometimes they were crude. Occasionally, they flirted, tried to make you laugh, or tried to match your intellect with theirs.

But you handled it. You shut it down.

You had been with colleagues once or twice, brief encounters that scratched an itch but never lingered. They never made you miss someone when they left your bed or made you want to stay.

There had never been any encounter that made you pause in the doorway of your own classroom and forget, for a split second, what the hell you were about to say.

Until him.

Until James Buchanan Barnes.

—--

You didn’t notice him when you took roll, not at first.

You were focused on your board notes, your syllabus, the usual opening-week checklist, names, majors, who looked restless, who would drop by week three. 

But then you turned, mid-sentence, scanning the room, and your eyes landed on him.

He hadn’t raised his hand. He hadn’t made a sound. But the way he held himself drew your attention like a magnet. 

He sat with the rigid stillness of someone trained for tension, shoulders wide and braced inside a seat not built to hold him, his spine so straight it looked like a kind of discipline.

He wasn’t fidgeting and he wasn’t distracted; he was just silent, present, and alert.

That should have been your first clue. But it wasn’t the way he sat that stopped you.

It was the rest of him.

The overlong dark hair tucked neatly behind one ear. 

The worn black T-shirt pulled across a chest that didn’t belong in a sophomore seminar, and the way his lips pressed together in concentration as he read your syllabus like it was a puzzle to be solved.

The large, veined hand curled around a pen instead of a keyboard, and his notebook was full of cramped, deliberate handwriting.

He looked like someone who had seen the world, someone too young to have such old eyes, though he was older than the others in your class.

He looked like someone who was trying very hard not to be noticed. And it didn’t work.

Because the second he lifted his eyes to meet yours, brilliant blue, sharp, and unwavering, it was over.

You told yourself it meant nothing. He was just a student. One of many.

But then he spoke.

And his voice was low, steady, and crackling with an alluring tenor that almost masked how smart he really was.

And then he argued.

Not with arrogance, but clarity. Citing Baldwin and Heller without a trace of hesitation, pushing back just enough to make it interesting, enough to make your breath catch.

And suddenly you knew.

This one was going to be dangerous.

—--

He knew professors were supposed to be older.

Seasoned. Maybe tired-looking. Overworked and underpaid, carrying canvas tote bags and books with cracked spines.

He wasn’t expecting you.

You walked in like you owned the entire department, heels sharp against the tile, jaw set in a way that made him sit straighter without thinking, and not a single strand of your hair was out of place.

You were wearing a slate grey silk blouse, tucked into high-waisted black trousers that clung to your shape with elegant precision. And your lips were a color that made his mouth go dry.

And Bucky Barnes forgot to breathe.

He picked up his pen before you even spoke.

Not because he was trying to impress you, but because something about you told him that half-assed wasn’t welcome in your presence.

You didn’t look directly at anyone when you entered. You set your bag down, clicked your pen once, and began to speak with the urgency of someone who had no time to waste.

In less than ten minutes, you quoted Morrison, asked a question no one dared answer, and looked directly at him when he did.

That was the first time your gaze met his. And it turned his stomach inside out.

You were older than him, but not in the way that word often implied. You didn’t look tired. You didn’t look diminished. You looked like power.

You looked like someone who had learned to survive, and who didn’t flinch when she walked away from the battle.

He wanted to impress you, of course.

But more than that, he just wanted you to look at him like that again.

——

The semester moved forward, and Bucky was in the front row every class, early enough to see you walk in. He didn’t fidget, he didn’t scroll his phone, and he didn’t scribble anything until you started talking.

His eyes were always on the door, and when you walked through it, his pulse kicked like a reflex.

You were striking.

Every week, in silk blouses, pencil skirts, or tailored trousers, always poised and sharp-edged, never once looking like anyone else on campus.

But what unstrung him was not how you looked.

It was the way you never once looked at him like an object. You never treated your students like they were interchangeable. When you looked at him, you saw him.

And Bucky felt it.

He hadn’t expected to enjoy Postmodern Literature. It sounded like the kind of class where people tried to out-theorize each other, but it surprised him.

And it was the first time since returning to school that he felt like he belonged.

Before your class, he felt like a ghost in the hallway.

Older than most of them at 26, but younger in other ways, like he’d lost time, like he was trying to catch up to a life that had kept going without him.

The Army was paying for his education. Six years in, two years out, into places no one ever talked about. He came back with too many memories and not enough peace.

Literature helped. Reading gave the noise somewhere to go. He filled notebooks just to keep the chaos from spilling over.

And you made it matter.

When you spoke, he listened with his entire body. Every word felt like a match being struck. Every question you asked set something in him on fire.

He kept his face blank when you entered, but inside, something locked into place every time.

“This isn’t a survey course,” you said on the first day. “This is an excavation. We’re going to talk about hunger, about power, about desire, and about what happens when stories lie to us.”

Bucky Barnes was going to learn everything you had to teach.

And not just from the syllabus.

—-

The first time Bucky Barnes had you shook was unexpected.

“Stanley Kowalski isn’t just a villain,” you told the room.

“He’s a study in what happens when masculinity hides its own fragility. What’s worse, being violent, or pretending you’re not?”

There was a pause.

Then his hand went up.

“Yes…?”

“Barnes. James Barnes,” he said, as if you didn’t know his name. You knew his name.

“I think pretending is worse. Because then people convince themselves it’s not violence at all. It’s just… what men do.”

The room went quiet. It was a good point. A sharp one. You nodded, your lips curving just slightly. 

“Interesting. Care to elaborate, Mr. Barnes?”

He leaned forward on the desk, shoulders tense but voice calm. 

“Stanley’s problem isn’t just power. It’s that he thinks he’s entitled to everything. Stella. The apartment. The air they breathe. And when someone tells him he’s not, he loses his mind.”

Your breath caught.

“An excellent observation,” you said, forcing your tone steady.

And you moved on to the next point, your pulse racing.

—---

He didn’t mean to linger. But he did.

Most of the class had already filtered out into the dark, backpacks slung over shoulders, the last few stragglers murmuring their way toward the exit. The lateness of the class cleared the room quickly. 

But Bucky stayed seated in the front row, fingers drumming quietly on the edge of his notebook, eyes fixed forward, on you.

You moved with quiet purpose as you erased the board, your blouse soft under the glow of fluorescent light, and your heels clicking softly against the tile.

You always moved like that, like you had all the time in the world. Like you knew he was watching, and you didn’t care.

Or maybe you did. Maybe that was the problem.

When you turned to face him, your expression was unreadable, carefully professional. 

“Did you need something, Mr. Barnes?”

He stood slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. 

“Just wanted to thank you. For the lecture.”

You raised a brow.

“You’re paying tuition. No need to thank me.”

“Still,” he said, shifting his weight, but not too close. 

“Most professors don’t talk about Streetcar like that. You didn’t soften him. You didn’t make Stanley a hero. You called him what he was.”

Something flickered across your face. Amusement, maybe. Or curiosity. Your mouth curved, just barely. 

“Is that supposed to impress me?”

He smiled warmly. Not cocky, but careful. 

“Would it work if I said yes?”

You stared at him for one beat too long. And then you laughed quietly. The sound was beautiful.

It hit him square in the chest.

“Goodnight, Mr. Barnes,” you said. But you weren’t dismissive.

It would’ve been easy to say something he shouldn’t. Something about how well that skirt fit the curves of your ass, or the slope of your neck, or the way you looked like a woman a man could ruin himself for, and thank her for it.

But he didn’t.

He just cleared his throat and said, “Goodnight, Professor.” 

And then he walked out. Before he could make a mistake.

—---

You were at your desk during office hours, door open, glasses on, red pen in hand, halfway through dissecting an undergrad’s overwrought interpretation of Beloved when you heard a knock.

You didn’t need to look up.

You already knew it was him.

There was a particular rhythm to the way James Barnes moved that was controlled and deliberate. That soldier steadiness in every step. You took a breath before looking up, willing your heart not to react, willing your body to stay still.

“Professor,” he said, low and polite, leaning just slightly into the doorway.

“You got a minute?”

“Of course,” you said, gesturing to the chair across from you like it was just another Wednesday.

Like you hadn’t been hyperaware of him since the moment he walked into your class. 

“Come in.”

He did, wearing a dark henley, jeans, and a backpack slung over one shoulder. He sat down slowly, and you caught a whiff of his scent.

It made your mouth dry.

“I wanted to talk more about the reading,” he said. “If that’s okay.”

“Always.”

He pulled out his copy of The Awakening, pages heavily annotated. 

You should have been focused on what he was saying, but you weren’t. Not entirely.

His voice had that textured quality that hummed through your spine when he spoke. And the way he watched you, like everything you said mattered, was dangerous. 

It made you lean forward. And it made your next question softer than it should have been.

“Do you think Edna is selfish? Or just trapped?”

He tilted his head.

“Both. But I think the trap came first.”

God. He was good.

You pushed your glasses up the bridge of your nose and tried not to notice how the room suddenly felt too warm. 

He spoke like it was casual. But he knew it wasn’t. Not to you. He could tell by the way your eyes lit up. 

He could get addicted to that.

He could tell that you were impressed, and that you didn’t want to be. 

That knowledge made something hot flicker in his chest.

He thought about what you’d look like letting go.

He thought about backing you against that desk and hearing you say his name. Not Mr. Barnes, Bucky.

He thought about dropping to his knees and making you forget every reason you were telling yourself not to want him.

“Mr. Barnes,” you said, clearing your throat lightly, “are you trying to impress me again?”

“Not trying,” he said, voice even. “Just telling the truth.”

That stopped you for a second. And in that second, you smiled.

That was your mistake.

Because in that smile, you gave something away.

And he knew it.

That smile wasn’t dismissive. It wasn’t professional. 

And it definitely wasn’t safe.

It told him that you were thinking about it too.

Even if you wouldn’t admit it.

He didn’t say any of that. Not yet. But one day soon, he might.

—--

You weren’t expecting to see anyone you knew at Prospect Park.

This part of Brooklyn is your quiet zone. Your weekend escape. You come for the live music, the breeze off the trees, the way the city softened just enough to let you breathe.

You were wearing a sundress, nothing scandalous, but light, flowing, a little backless. Your hair was loose and you were comfortable. Free. 

Younger than you usually let yourself feel.

You had your blanket spread out near the edge of the crowd, a book open on your lap, eyes closed as the saxophone swelled. And then…

“Professor?”

Your stomach dropped. Because you knew that voice. You opened your eyes slowly and turned your head, and there he was.

James Barnes.

He was standing a few feet away, hands in the pockets of his jeans, t-shirt snug across his chest. He had a water bottle hooked through one finger, and he looked… stunned.

You blinked, and sat up slowly. When your eyes met his, they widened just enough for him to see the truth: you hadn’t expected to see him either. 

And you weren’t ready.

“Mr. Barnes.”

His eyes raked over you, quickly, respectfully, but there was no hiding the way they lingered. 

You looked… radiant. Relaxed. And so young. Relaxed in a way he’d never seen you. Unguarded.

Your sundress moved when you shifted, a flash of bare shoulder and the curve of your neck knocking something loose in his chest. 

For a second, he forgot you were his professor. 

He just saw a woman so beautiful it felt unreal to look at you out of context. 

You watched the moment he really saw you with your hair down and your sandals off and your mouth slightly parted in surprise.

He didn’t say anything for a second too long.

And it rattled you.

You were used to being looked at. But not by him. Not like this.

“You here for the show?” you asked, trying to sound calm.

He nodded slowly as his eyes dragged over you again.

“Yeah. Didn’t expect to see anyone from campus.”

You raised an eyebrow.

“What, professors don’t like jazz?”

“No,” he said. “I just didn’t think you looked like this… out in the wild.”

You laughed, too loud. Embarrassed. And a little flattered.

“Well. Surprise.”

He didn’t look away.

And that’s when you realized, you were not in control of this moment. Not the way you usually were. Because for the first time in years, you’re the one who doesn’t know what to do with your hands. Or your mouth. 

Or your rapidly racing heart.

Bucky made small talk, played it cool, but he couldn’t stop staring.

He didn’t know you could laugh like that. He didn’t know a simple sundress could make his brain short-circuit when he’d spent weeks imagining what you look like underneath all that silk and structure.

He could leave. He probably should.

But you’re not telling him to.

And for a moment, just one long, buzzy moment, Bucky wondered if the line between you already broke, and you both just keep pretending it’s still there.

—---

You patted the edge of the blanket before you could talk yourself out of it.

“Feel free to sit,” you said, tone light, professor-pleasant. 

He hesitated only a moment, then lowered himself onto the corner, legs stretched out in front of him, careful not to sit too close. You straightened your spine but didn’t lean into the warmth.

“So,” he said after a beat, eyes forward, voice casual.

“Didn’t take you for the Prospect Park jazz type.”

You hummed softly, keeping your gaze on the stage. 

“Everyone needs a little fresh air.”

He nodded, giving you room. You sat shoulder to shoulder in a comfortable silence that allowed you to think too much.

The set ended with a soft cymbal roll and a murmur of applause. You clapped, grateful for the distraction and for something to break the silence that’s been stretching between you like a tripwire.

Bucky, James, Barnes, Christ, brushed his palms on his jeans and stood slowly. You stayed seated, not trusting your legs just yet.

“Well,” he said, his voice quiet but steady. “I should get going.”

You nodded, eyes on your book even though you haven’t read a word of it since he sat down.

“Of course. Thanks for saying hi.”

He paused. You felt it.

“I’ll see you in class,” he said finally.

And you nodded again. Too fast. Too clipped.

“Goodnight, Mr. Barnes.”

“Goodnight, Professor.”

Your name on his tongue would ruin you. You knew that. So you were grateful, in a sick way, that he didn’t use it. That he kept the mask on, even as he walked away without looking back.

Only once he was far enough away do you finally exhale.

—----

The next week, he waited until the last twenty minutes of your posted office hours.

Long enough that you probably thought no one else was coming.

You were behind your desk, papers stacked to your left, a half-empty yogurt cup in the trash beside you. Your hair was pinned back tight, the way you always wore it on days when control mattered most. The soft hum of your laptop filled the quiet, a jazz playlist coming from the speakers.

You looked like calm incarnate. But he saw the hesitation when you glanced up and saw him standing in the doorway.

"Mr. Barnes," you said, voice as composed as your posture. "Come in."

He did, quietly and carefully keeping his distance. He always did. He asked about Baldwin. Giovanni’s Room. His tone was casual, almost too casual, but the tightness in his jaw gave him away.

And then…

“I’ve been thinking about what you read in class,” he said, voice low.

“The part about self-deception.”

You looked up slowly. You knew where this was going.

“Is that what this is?”

You didn’t answer.

“I can’t pretend anymore,” he continued. “Not with you.”

The air in the room changed.

“I want you,” he said, firmer now.

“I’ve wanted you since the first class. I thought I could ignore it, bury it under respect, or rules, or whatever you needed from me. But it’s still there.”

You couldn’t breathe.

Not well. Not normally. Not with him standing there saying that like it was a truth he’d been carrying in his bones since the beginning of the semester.

You stared at him, searching for something you could use to shut it down. Immaturity. Fantasy. Entitlement. But it wasn’t there. 

He wasn’t testing you. He wasn’t fantasizing. He was telling you the truth. And now it was here.

Said aloud in your office.

“I’m not confused,” he said. 

“And I’m not asking for anything. I just needed you to know I’m done pretending I don’t feel it.”

You folded your hands in your lap because you didn’t trust them not to move. Not to reach. Not to tremble.

“This isn’t possible,” you said, voice thin. “You’re my student.”

“I know.”

But he didn’t back down.

You exhaled, and let the silence grow.

That usually made people fumble excuses to fill the void. And when he didn’t retreat, didn’t apologize, didn’t break, you reached for the only weapon left: distance.

“You’re twenty-six.”

“Almost twenty-seven.”

“I’m thirty-eight.”

“I know.”

“That’s over a decade.”

“I’m aware.”

You hated how calm he was. You hated that some stupid, aching part of you wanted him to lose control, because at least then it wouldn’t feel so dangerous. Or deliberate.

“You’ve seen things,” you said. “You’ve survived things. But you’re still figuring out who you are.”

He didn’t argue. And somehow, that made it worse.

“I’ve worked my whole life for this career,” you snapped. “I’m not throwing it away for a moment in a park or a crush you can’t separate from fantasy.”

“It’s not a crush,” he said. “And it’s not a fantasy.”

“Stop,” you said, louder than you intended.

He did.

And your throat burned. When you finally spoke again, your voice was softer.

“I need you to leave.”

He didn’t argue, just looked at you and nodded.

“Of course, Professor.”

You didn’t watch him go. You kept your eyes on the stack of ungraded essays in front of you, pretending they mattered more than the fact that you hadn’t really wanted him to leave. 

You wanted him to stay. 

And close the door.

—--

You didn’t assign any reading the next week.

You told yourself it was because midterms were coming. You told yourself it was merciful.

It wasn’t.

It was preparation.

You kept it clean in class, composed. Cold, even.

You called on him once, just to prove you could, and he answered in that low, calm voice like nothing was wrong. Like you weren’t wet under your skirt for the full fifty minutes.

And when the room cleared, and he stayed in his seat, you just stood.

“I need to see you in my office about last week’s meeting, Mr. Barnes.”

He just sat there and watched you walk out of the door, listening to your heels click their way down the hall to your office.

You left the door unlocked.

You waited.

And when he finally stepped into your office and shut the door behind him, you just looked at him. And he looked at you.

And that was all it took to understand.

You stepped back against your desk and swallowed hard.

“We don’t talk about this after,” you said, quietly.

“Okay,” he said, eyes dark.

“But you need to say it.”

You nodded once. “It’s just sex.”

Bucky knew you were lying, but you were offering him something and he was going to take it. He moved toward you.

You held his gaze.

“I’m on birth control.”

“I’m clean,” he said. “Tested last month.”

“So am I.”

A pause. You lifted your chin.

“I want it raw.”

He exhaled through his nose, something primal flickering across his face.

“Jesus. You sure?”

You nodded again. “You?”

“Yeah,” he said, voice rasping now. “Fuck yeah.”

And when his hands finally landed on you, you felt your control collapse. And it felt so good.

He kissed you like you were already his, like he’d spent months imagining this exact moment, how your mouth would part, how your hands would clutch at his shoulders, how your body would give the second he asked.

You moaned into him, soft, needy, and unguarded. And that was all he needed. He lifted you in one clean motion and set you back on your desk.

Urgently. You shoved the papers aside with one sweep of your arm. Something fluttered to the floor. You didn’t care.

His hands pushed your skirt up to your waist, exposing your bare thighs, and when he realized you weren’t wearing anything underneath…

“Fuck,” he whispered, looking down at you like he’d never seen a pussy before.

You hooked your ankles around his hips. 

“Don’t waste time.”

He looked up, eyes locked on yours, and slid two fingers through your cunt, like he wanted to memorize how wet you already were for him.

“Jesus,” he muttered. “You were like this all through class?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Your head tipped back when he sank to his knees.

He didn't tease and he didn’t take his time.

His mouth was on you in seconds, hot and filthy, his tongue licking up your slit, mouth closing over your clit like he’d been studying for this moment. And he had.

You gasped, one hand flying to the edge of the desk, the other buried in his hair as he groaned into you. It was too much. Too fast. Too good.

You’d touched yourself thinking about this. Pictured it. Fantasized. But nothing had prepared you for the way he devoured you. Like he needed it to breathe.

Your thighs shook. Your hips rolled into his mouth. And when you came, you heard him groan like he felt it, too.

He stood quickly, shoved his jeans down just enough, and lined himself up without another word.

You looked down and your breath caught. You wanted it. You asked for this. You reached between your legs and guided him in yourself.

You both groaned.

He filled you in one slow thrust, inch after inch of hard, perfect pressure, and you nearly came again right then.

His hands gripped your thighs. He drew back and thrust again, so hard the desk creaked.

You bit your lip to keep from screaming.

“Look at me,” he growled.

You did.

His eyes were wild.

“I’ve wanted this,” he said, voice breaking on the words. “Wanted you.”

You wrapped your arms around his shoulders. “Then fuck me like you mean it.”

He did.

Every thrust was deep, deliberate, devastating. The sound of skin on skin filled the room, slick and obscene. Your body took him like you were made for it, like this was inevitable. Like finally.

He slid one hand up your blouse, pushed your bra up, palmed your breast, and groaned when you arched into it. His mouth was at your throat, biting, sucking, and praising through gritted teeth.

“So tight. Fuck you feel so good.”

You clawed at his back.

“I’m gonna come,” you gasped. “Don’t stop! Please”

He buried his face in your neck. 

“Not stopping. Not, fuck, not pulling out…”

You came hard. Writhing, and breaking beneath him.

And when he followed,seconds later, pulsing inside you with a choked groan and a helpless thrust, you realized: This would never be just sex.

And you were never going to forget this.

—----

He knocked the next week at office hours. You almost wished he wouldn’t.

You looked up, your expression blank. “Come in.”

He stepped inside. Closed the door gently. Not locking it. 

You gestured to the chair. “Sit.”

He did.

You watched him for a moment. He looked good. Too good. Calm again. Always so goddamn calm. You folded your hands in your lap.

“This can’t happen again.”

He didn’t flinch. Just waited.

You cleared your throat. 

“What happened in this office was unprofessional. And dangerous. For both of us.”

Still, he said nothing.

“I don’t care how quiet we are. If anyone finds out…”

“They won’t,” he said softly.

“That’s not the point.”

You didn’t raise your voice. But it felt like a scream.

“I worked too hard for this. I have too much to lose.”

“I know.”

You blinked. “That’s it?”

He met your eyes. 

“If you’re done, if you really don’t want me to touch you again, say it.”

You opened your mouth. But no words came out. Because that wasn’t true. And you both knew it.

So instead, you said: “This ends now.”

And he nodded once. But his eyes didn’t believe you.

And when he stood to leave, your body betrayed you again. Because you wanted him.

You said it before you could stop yourself.

“James.”

It was soft, a sound you weren’t aware you were capable of. Not so full of need like that. 

But he heard it. He paused in the doorway. Shoulders tensed. One hand still on the knob. He turned and met your eyes.

And you didn’t take it back.

He stepped back into the room and shut the door behind him, locking it this time.

He crossed the room in three strides, hands on your body, spinning you around with authority. And you let him. 

Your blouse was still buttoned. Your trousers were still on. But you were soaked the moment he touched you. 

“You knew I couldn’t resist you,” he said, voice low behind you.

His mouth grazed your ear as he pressed into you, hard beneath his jeans.

“You don’t want me to.”

You didn’t deny it, just unbuttoned your pants and let them fall.

No panties again.

His hands were on you in an instant, dragging you back against him, cursing under his breath when his fingers slipped between your legs and found you already dripping.

“You wanted this.”

“Don’t talk,” you breathed.

But you didn’t mean it.

He pushed your blouse up, leaned over you, one hand planted on the desk beside yours, the other between your legs.

“You still want it raw?”

You nodded.

“Say it.”

“Yes,” you whispered. “Please.”

He undid his jeans. You felt the press of him against your thigh, hot and thick and ready.

And when he pushed into you, you gasped.

There was no easing in. Just a deep, brutal thrust that forced a broken moan from your lips. You slapped a hand over your mouth, but he grabbed your wrist and pulled it away.

“Let me hear it.”

He fucked you hard. So hard that your desk rocked.

You forgot how to breathe as your cheek pressed against the cool surface of your desk and as your hands gripped the edge. 

He fucked you like he owned you, like this was always going to happen. 

Like he knew exactly what you needed, and he wasn’t going to let you hide from it again.

“You’re mine right now,” he panted. “No lies. No rules. Just this.”

You came fast, unexpectedly, a sob punching out of your throat as you clenched around him. He groaned and followed you seconds later, spilling inside you with a sharp cry, his hips stuttering against your ass.

For a long moment, there was nothing but breathing. He leaned over your back, both hands braced on the desk now, chest heaving.

You stayed still beneath him, your body still shaking.

Neither of you spoke.

Because what could you say?

—--

It was break week, and of course you could survive without seeing Bucky. 

It was just sex, and you were a grown woman. You wouldn’t text him; he didn’t have your number and you only had his because you had his student information.

You told yourself you wouldn’t. 

It was unprofessional.

You told yourself that if you just made it through Monday without texting, the rest of the week would be easier. And you almost believed it.

But by Thursday afternoon, your resolve had withered under need. Your apartment was too still. Your phone was too close.

You typed the message three times. Deleted it each time. Then sent it anyway.

You Did you finish Baldwin yet? Figure out the nature of self-deception?

You threw your phone across the couch the second it delivered.

Five minutes passed.

Then ten.

Then…

James: Did you really just text me about Baldwin while I’m picturing your ass bent over your desk?

Your stomach flipped.

You told yourself not to respond.

You absolutely responded.

You: I was being professional.

James: You didn’t sound very professional last time I had my fingers inside you.

You closed your eyes. And your pulse dropped straight between your thighs.

And then, another buzz.

James: Should I stop?

You stared at the screen.

Then your thumbs moved on their own.

You: No.

And that was it.

That was the beginning of the end.

Because now he had your number. And he didn’t just use it to flirt.

He used it to unravel you.

James: What are you wearing right now?

You shouldn’t have answered. But you did.

You: Nothing you’d be allowed to see if we were in class.

James: I wouldn’t need to see it.

You: No?

James: I’d just need to hear you.

Your breath caught as you watched the bubbles.

James: Want me to call you?

Your heart pounded as you stared at the screen.

Then you typed.

You: Yes.

—---

You answered without thinking.

He didn’t even say hello.

“Take your hand,” he said, voice calm, “and put it between your legs.”

Your breath caught instantly. 

“James…”

“Do it.”

You did.

And it was worse than being touched. Because now, every movement was yours, but every command was his.

“Are you wet?” he asked.

You nodded, forgetting he couldn’t see you. 

“Yes.”

“Fuck,” he muttered. “You miss me?”

You closed your eyes, head dropping back onto your pillow. 

“Yes.”

“How bad?”

“Don’t make me say it.”

“I want to hear you,” he growled. “You started this. Now I want you to tell me what you’ve been thinking about.”

You swallowed.

“Your hands on me. Your mouth. The way you sound when you come. The way you…”

“Touch yourself.”

You gasped at the sound of his voice in your ear, that subtle shift to something darker, something claiming.

“Just two fingers,” he said. “Keep the pressure light. Don’t come yet.”

You obeyed.

“Good girl.”

Your hips bucked slightly.

“Oh, you like that?” he asked, smug now. “I bet you’re soaked.”

“I hate you,” you breathed.

“No you don’t,” he said, quieter now.

“You love this. Being ruined without me even being in the room. So fucking desperate for it you couldn’t go one more day without hearing me.”

You whimpered, and his voice dropped further.

“Circle your clit. Slowly. Just like that. Stay with me.”

You could hear his breathing now. It wasn’t clean. He was hard. He was touching himself too. You knew it. You heard it in his voice.

“I want you so fucking bad,” he groaned.

“That desk wasn’t enough. I need to fuck you until you cry. Until you forget how to teach. Until you forget every name but mine.”

Your hips jerked.

“You close?”

“Yes, fuck, James, I…”

“Not yet.”

You froze.

“I want you begging.”

“I am.”

“No. Say it.”

You shook.

“Please, James. Let me come. I need it. Please…”

“Now,” he growled. “Come for me. Right now.”

And you did.

Hard. Gasping. One hand clamped over your mouth, the other between your legs, writhing into the mattress as the sound of his voice pushed you right over the edge.

On the other end, you heard him break too, a low, broken grunt, a whispered fuck, the subtle sound of his body surrendering.

Silence followed. Thick. Heavy. Full.

“Still just sex?” he asked finally.

You didn’t answer.

You couldn’t.

Because that was the lie. And you’d both just drowned in it.

—----

You didn’t sleep. Not really.

Every time you closed your eyes, you heard his voice.

Touch yourself. Good girl. Come for me. Like a current under your skin. Like a drug you couldn’t shake.

By midmorning, you gave up trying. You poured coffee, opened your laptop, stared at the stack of essays you were supposed to grade.

And then you reached for your phone.

No plan. No script.

Just the ache.

You: What are you doing?

He replied almost immediately.

James: Whatever you want me to be doing.

Your thighs pressed together. You were hopeless.

You: You’re insufferable.

James: You’re obsessed.

You didn’t argue.

James: Send me a photo.

Your pulse spiked.

You: Of what?

James: You. Just your mouth. No smile. Nothing posed. I want to see the version of you I shouldn’t have.

You hesitated.

Then turned on the front camera.

Hair messy. No makeup. Pillow creases still pressed into your cheek. Lips parted. No performance.

You sent it.

Seconds passed.

Then,

James: Take your shirt off.

You stared at the screen.

James: I want to see your tits while I jerk off.

Your breath caught.

You looked around your empty apartment like someone might be watching.

Then you pulled your shirt over your head.

You weren’t wearing a bra.

You angled the camera down just enough.

You took the photo and stared at it.

You looked... undone.

You sent it anyway.

James: Fuck. You’re perfect.

Another message followed right after.

James: Next time I want video.

You: What do you want me to do?

His reply came fast.

James: I want to hear what you sound like when you finger yourself and look into the camera like it’s me.

You dropped the phone onto the bed, your face burning, your body already responding.

You hated how much you wanted it.

And you loved that he asked.

—------

You turned off every light but one and propped your phone up on your nightstand, angled carefully. You could see yourself in the frame, messy, flushed, bare.

Your pulse was already high and your mouth was dry. Your fingers shook as you hit record.

"Hi,” you whispered, embarrassed.

Then you bit your lip and tried again.

“James…”

His name felt like a weight in your chest. Your thighs shifted.

“I can’t stop thinking about you.”

You lowered the camera slowly, past your collarbones, over your breasts, down your belly. You spread your legs.

No teasing. No preamble.

You wanted him to see the truth of it. The urgency. The craving.

You let your fingers slip down, just two, and parted yourself. You were already, still, wet. You couldn’t fake it.

You circled your clit, slowly as you said his name. 

“James…”

Your free hand slid up your body, palming your breast, pinching your nipple until you gasped.

The camera caught everything. The angle of your hips. The arch of your back. The way your mouth opened when you slipped the two fingers inside yourself.

You looked into the lens, right at him

“You want this, don’t you?” you whispered. “You want to watch me come thinking about your cock inside me?”

You fucked yourself harder.

Faster.

“Is this how you want me? Needing you?”

You whimpered, unable to stop.

“You’d fuck me so good if you were here.”

You knew he’d watch it more than once, you wanted him to. You wanted him wrecked.

“I’m gonna come,” you gasped, hips bucking. “I’m gonna…fuck…James…”

You came hard, legs shaking. Your body exposed in all the ways you swore you never would be.

You let the camera roll as you caught your breath, chest heaving.

Then you leaned in and whispered, “Your turn.”

And stopped the video.

You sent it. No warning. No text. Just the file.

Seconds later, he responded.

James: Jesus fucking Christ.

Then a voice message.

You hit play.

He was breathing hard.

“Baby,” he said, wrecked and reverent, “I’m gonna come just thinking about what I’m gonna do to you next time I see you. You think I fucked you hard before? You don’t even know.”

You lay back, smiling.

You did this.

You ruined him.

—----

Your phone buzzed.

You sat up straight and your heart kicked like it had been waiting. You pressed play.

The image loaded.

And what you saw was dim lighting, the camera angled low. And there he was, naked, stretched out on his bed, one arm tucked behind his head, the other wrapped tight around his cock.

He was hard. Thick, And leaking from the thick mushroom tip that destroyed your soul.

“Baby,” he said, hoarse. “What the fuck did you do to me?”

Your breath caught instantly.

Baby.

No one had called you that in a long time.

He stroked himself slowly, base to tip, eyes locked on the screen.

“You send me that video, looking like that, saying my name like it’s the only word you know, and you expect me to be calm?”

His hand tightened. His abs tensed.

“You were dripping, weren’t you? So fucking wet. Just thinking about me.”

He dragged his thumb over the head of his cock and groaned.

“I can’t stop watching it. Can’t stop seeing your fingers inside you, your mouth, your tits, those little sounds you make when you’re about to fall apart.”

He was close. You could see it in the way his hips shifted, the way his free hand gripped the sheets.

“I swear to God, the next time I’m inside you, I’m not stopping until you beg me to. I’ll hold your legs open and fuck you so fucking deep. There will be no hiding.”

You whimpered.

It was like he heard it. He smirked.

“I want to feel you shake under me. Want to feel your nails in my back, your come on my cock, your voice saying my name.”

His eyes flicked down.

“I’m gonna come,” he panted. “You watching, baby? You gonna come with me next time?”

He grunted, low, raw, broken, his body tensing as he came hard, ropes of it spilling over his hand, across his stomach, the sound of it filling the room.

You were breathless.

He looked straight into the camera, chest heaving.

And said, “Next time, you ride me until I forget my own name.”

The video ended.

You sat there, phone still in your hand, thighs pressed tight, pulse racing.

And that was the moment you knew this wasn’t a fling. This wasn’t just sex. This was an addiction.

And you wanted more.

—--

You didn’t think. You didn’t ask. You didn’t play.

You watched his video in your bed, one hand clutched in the sheets, thighs slick and trembling, your whole body strung tight with need.

You didn’t touch yourself. Didn’t move. You just stared at the screen.

And then, you opened the message app, tapped his name, and sent him your location.

No text, no explanation. Just a pin.

Come here.

That’s what it meant.

You knew he’d understand.

You stood up and unlocked the front door. 

Then you waited.

And when you heard his knock, you didn’t hesitate, you opened the door.

He stood there, hood up, breath ragged, eyes already dark. No words.

No one said a thing.

He pressed you against the wall, lips crashing into yours, hands already sliding up your sides, lifting your shirt to bare your breasts.

Your legs parted on instinct.

His knee pressed between them, his hands gripping your waist like he couldn’t believe you were real. You pulled at his hoodie. He dragged it off.

He wasn’t gentle and you didn’t want him to be. You guided his hand between your legs.

He groaned.

“You’re so fucking ready for me,” he rasped. “All I did was show you how bad I want you.”

You didn’t answer. You just reached for his belt.

Because this wasn’t sexting.This wasn’t a video. This wasn’t pretend.

This was real.

And you needed him inside you like oxygen.

—--

He pressed you against the wall like he was starved. He was frantic. There was no careful undressing. No asking. Just taking.

Your shirt was gone before you even realized it. You didn’t remember lifting your arms. You only remembered the sound of him groaning when he saw your bare chest, the heat of his mouth on your nipple, the way he bit down just enough to make you gasp.

He unzipped his jeans and, shoved his boxers down. His cock sprang free you almost dropped to your knees. But he grabbed your face, and kissed you again, deeper this time. 

“Not tonight,” he muttered. “I need to be inside you.”

You didn’t argue,  you just turned and pressed your hands against the wall and arched your back, giving him everything.

He groaned. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

He dragged the head of his cock through your soaking wet folds, and then with one sharp thrust, he entered you. 

You gasped loudly.

He filled you, raw and perfect, like your body had been made to take him.

“Fuck,” he whispered. “This pussy’s unreal.”

You pressed your forehead to the wall, eyes shut, trying to breathe.He pulled back, then slammed into you again. Again. Again.

The sound of it was obscene.

Your walls clenched around him, as one hand slid under your body, finding your clit. He rubbed in tight circles as he fucked you deep.

“You close?” he panted. “You gonna come on me already?”

“Yes, God, don’t stop…”

He slammed into you harder.

“You want me to fill you again?”

“Yes, fuck, yes….”

“Say it.”

“I want your come,” you choked. “I want it inside me.”

He groaned, gripped your hips harder, and pounded into you like he meant to stay.

You came hard, shaking, gasping, and ruined.

He followed seconds later, burying himself deep and coming with a sound that made your whole body throb. You felt every pulse of it. Every drop.

He stayed like that for a moment. Inside you. Chest against your back. Breathing hard.

Then he kissed your shoulder. Softly. Almost sweet.

And that scared you more than anything else.

-----

Send asks, reblogs, comments. Let me know if you feel the way that I feel. 🫠

[ramp-it-up]

Sorry! 🤭

Yes, reader is smitten and deluding herself that its just sex. And you’re correct. She deserves!

The Pupil

Summary: Restraint gives way to obsession.

Word count: 7.7 K 😬

Pairing: College Student!Bucky Barnes x Professor!Reader

A/N: No one asked for this. This idea hit me when I was contemplating my career choices because I started work Thursday and gremlins come next week, and I thought, if I was a professor and Bucky Barnes walked in my class….🥹 .This is long, it is self indulgent and it is my therapy. I apologize for the length, but it could have been much longer. Hit me up to tell me how you feel about it.

Warnings: 18+ Only, Minors DNI. Read at your own risk. Smut! Power imbalance (professor/student, age gap 38/26) raw p in v sex, sexting, phone sex, masturbation, video sharing, unprotected sex. Obsession, emotional repression, and blurred lines. Reader self-deception and power/control themes. Bucky is feral, intense, and fully locked in. Young dom Bucky all the way. Angst, mutual unraveling, no fluff, all heat. Not Beta'd. All errors my own.

I no longer have a taglist. Please follow @rampitupandread and turn on notifications to learn when I post! 😘

I Do NOT Consent to my work being reposted, translated or presented on any other blog or site other than by myself.

----------

You didn’t always dress like this.

Not in the elegant high-waisted trousers that elongated your already long legs, and the silk blouses in slate and cream, each one buttoned up and tucked just so.

And not in the heels, expensive, pointed, and high, meant to remind you, and everyone else, that control starts at the ankle.

There was a time you tried to disappear.

Back when you were married to a man who said he liked your brain but openly resented your ambition. Who told you quiet was dignified and called you “intimidating” instead of a boss.

Back then you wore flats and cardigans and neutral tones and made yourself smaller in rooms where you should’ve stood tall.

And then one day, you stopped.

Your divorce wasn’t explosive.

It was silent.

You kept your name, your tenured position, and the apartment with the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. He kept the excuses.

And the you learned to love your own company. Late-night reading by lamplight. Coffee in silence.

Fresh sheets, open windows, and no one to bend for.

You built a life that didn’t need anyone else in it. You weren’t lonely. You were whole.

Or so you thought.

Five years after the divorce, at 38, you were tenured, respected, published, and a bright star in Brooklyn College’s English Department. 

You strode into the lecture hall in heels and pencil skirts, your hair up, your lipstick bold, and your syllabus uncompromising. Your specialty was desire on the page, Womanist texts, subversion in narrative form.

The literature of hunger and restraint.

And you were good at it.

You were used to being the subject of attention from your students, attention that extended beyond a concern for their grades. 

Sometimes they were just curious. Sometimes they were crude. Occasionally, they flirted, tried to make you laugh, or tried to match your intellect with theirs.

But you handled it. You shut it down.

You had been with colleagues once or twice, brief encounters that scratched an itch but never lingered. They never made you miss someone when they left your bed or made you want to stay.

There had never been any encounter that made you pause in the doorway of your own classroom and forget, for a split second, what the hell you were about to say.

Until him.

Until James Buchanan Barnes.

—--

You didn’t notice him when you took roll, not at first.

You were focused on your board notes, your syllabus, the usual opening-week checklist, names, majors, who looked restless, who would drop by week three. 

But then you turned, mid-sentence, scanning the room, and your eyes landed on him.

He hadn’t raised his hand. He hadn’t made a sound. But the way he held himself drew your attention like a magnet. 

He sat with the rigid stillness of someone trained for tension, shoulders wide and braced inside a seat not built to hold him, his spine so straight it looked like a kind of discipline.

He wasn’t fidgeting and he wasn’t distracted; he was just silent, present, and alert.

That should have been your first clue. But it wasn’t the way he sat that stopped you.

It was the rest of him.

The overlong dark hair tucked neatly behind one ear. 

The worn black T-shirt pulled across a chest that didn’t belong in a sophomore seminar, and the way his lips pressed together in concentration as he read your syllabus like it was a puzzle to be solved.

The large, veined hand curled around a pen instead of a keyboard, and his notebook was full of cramped, deliberate handwriting.

He looked like someone who had seen the world, someone too young to have such old eyes, though he was older than the others in your class.

He looked like someone who was trying very hard not to be noticed. And it didn’t work.

Because the second he lifted his eyes to meet yours, brilliant blue, sharp, and unwavering, it was over.

You told yourself it meant nothing. He was just a student. One of many.

But then he spoke.

And his voice was low, steady, and crackling with an alluring tenor that almost masked how smart he really was.

And then he argued.

Not with arrogance, but clarity. Citing Baldwin and Heller without a trace of hesitation, pushing back just enough to make it interesting, enough to make your breath catch.

And suddenly you knew.

This one was going to be dangerous.

—--

He knew professors were supposed to be older.

Seasoned. Maybe tired-looking. Overworked and underpaid, carrying canvas tote bags and books with cracked spines.

He wasn’t expecting you.

You walked in like you owned the entire department, heels sharp against the tile, jaw set in a way that made him sit straighter without thinking, and not a single strand of your hair was out of place.

You were wearing a slate grey silk blouse, tucked into high-waisted black trousers that clung to your shape with elegant precision. And your lips were a color that made his mouth go dry.

And Bucky Barnes forgot to breathe.

He picked up his pen before you even spoke.

Not because he was trying to impress you, but because something about you told him that half-assed wasn’t welcome in your presence.

You didn’t look directly at anyone when you entered. You set your bag down, clicked your pen once, and began to speak with the urgency of someone who had no time to waste.

In less than ten minutes, you quoted Morrison, asked a question no one dared answer, and looked directly at him when he did.

That was the first time your gaze met his. And it turned his stomach inside out.

You were older than him, but not in the way that word often implied. You didn’t look tired. You didn’t look diminished. You looked like power.

You looked like someone who had learned to survive, and who didn’t flinch when she walked away from the battle.

He wanted to impress you, of course.

But more than that, he just wanted you to look at him like that again.

——

The semester moved forward, and Bucky was in the front row every class, early enough to see you walk in. He didn’t fidget, he didn’t scroll his phone, and he didn’t scribble anything until you started talking.

His eyes were always on the door, and when you walked through it, his pulse kicked like a reflex.

You were striking.

Every week, in silk blouses, pencil skirts, or tailored trousers, always poised and sharp-edged, never once looking like anyone else on campus.

But what unstrung him was not how you looked.

It was the way you never once looked at him like an object. You never treated your students like they were interchangeable. When you looked at him, you saw him.

And Bucky felt it.

He hadn’t expected to enjoy Postmodern Literature. It sounded like the kind of class where people tried to out-theorize each other, but it surprised him.

And it was the first time since returning to school that he felt like he belonged.

Before your class, he felt like a ghost in the hallway.

Older than most of them at 26, but younger in other ways, like he’d lost time, like he was trying to catch up to a life that had kept going without him.

The Army was paying for his education. Six years in, two years out, into places no one ever talked about. He came back with too many memories and not enough peace.

Literature helped. Reading gave the noise somewhere to go. He filled notebooks just to keep the chaos from spilling over.

And you made it matter.

When you spoke, he listened with his entire body. Every word felt like a match being struck. Every question you asked set something in him on fire.

He kept his face blank when you entered, but inside, something locked into place every time.

“This isn’t a survey course,” you said on the first day. “This is an excavation. We’re going to talk about hunger, about power, about desire, and about what happens when stories lie to us.”

Bucky Barnes was going to learn everything you had to teach.

And not just from the syllabus.

—-

The first time Bucky Barnes had you shook was unexpected.

“Stanley Kowalski isn’t just a villain,” you told the room.

“He’s a study in what happens when masculinity hides its own fragility. What’s worse, being violent, or pretending you’re not?”

There was a pause.

Then his hand went up.

“Yes…?”

“Barnes. James Barnes,” he said, as if you didn’t know his name. You knew his name.

“I think pretending is worse. Because then people convince themselves it’s not violence at all. It’s just… what men do.”

The room went quiet. It was a good point. A sharp one. You nodded, your lips curving just slightly. 

“Interesting. Care to elaborate, Mr. Barnes?”

He leaned forward on the desk, shoulders tense but voice calm. 

“Stanley’s problem isn’t just power. It’s that he thinks he’s entitled to everything. Stella. The apartment. The air they breathe. And when someone tells him he’s not, he loses his mind.”

Your breath caught.

“An excellent observation,” you said, forcing your tone steady.

And you moved on to the next point, your pulse racing.

—---

He didn’t mean to linger. But he did.

Most of the class had already filtered out into the dark, backpacks slung over shoulders, the last few stragglers murmuring their way toward the exit. The lateness of the class cleared the room quickly. 

But Bucky stayed seated in the front row, fingers drumming quietly on the edge of his notebook, eyes fixed forward, on you.

You moved with quiet purpose as you erased the board, your blouse soft under the glow of fluorescent light, and your heels clicking softly against the tile.

You always moved like that, like you had all the time in the world. Like you knew he was watching, and you didn’t care.

Or maybe you did. Maybe that was the problem.

When you turned to face him, your expression was unreadable, carefully professional. 

“Did you need something, Mr. Barnes?”

He stood slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. 

“Just wanted to thank you. For the lecture.”

You raised a brow.

“You’re paying tuition. No need to thank me.”

“Still,” he said, shifting his weight, but not too close. 

“Most professors don’t talk about Streetcar like that. You didn’t soften him. You didn’t make Stanley a hero. You called him what he was.”

Something flickered across your face. Amusement, maybe. Or curiosity. Your mouth curved, just barely. 

“Is that supposed to impress me?”

He smiled warmly. Not cocky, but careful. 

“Would it work if I said yes?”

You stared at him for one beat too long. And then you laughed quietly. The sound was beautiful.

It hit him square in the chest.

“Goodnight, Mr. Barnes,” you said. But you weren’t dismissive.

It would’ve been easy to say something he shouldn’t. Something about how well that skirt fit the curves of your ass, or the slope of your neck, or the way you looked like a woman a man could ruin himself for, and thank her for it.

But he didn’t.

He just cleared his throat and said, “Goodnight, Professor.” 

And then he walked out. Before he could make a mistake.

—---

You were at your desk during office hours, door open, glasses on, red pen in hand, halfway through dissecting an undergrad’s overwrought interpretation of Beloved when you heard a knock.

You didn’t need to look up.

You already knew it was him.

There was a particular rhythm to the way James Barnes moved that was controlled and deliberate. That soldier steadiness in every step. You took a breath before looking up, willing your heart not to react, willing your body to stay still.

“Professor,” he said, low and polite, leaning just slightly into the doorway.

“You got a minute?”

“Of course,” you said, gesturing to the chair across from you like it was just another Wednesday.

Like you hadn’t been hyperaware of him since the moment he walked into your class. 

“Come in.”

He did, wearing a dark henley, jeans, and a backpack slung over one shoulder. He sat down slowly, and you caught a whiff of his scent.

It made your mouth dry.

“I wanted to talk more about the reading,” he said. “If that’s okay.”

“Always.”

He pulled out his copy of The Awakening, pages heavily annotated. 

You should have been focused on what he was saying, but you weren’t. Not entirely.

His voice had that textured quality that hummed through your spine when he spoke. And the way he watched you, like everything you said mattered, was dangerous. 

It made you lean forward. And it made your next question softer than it should have been.

“Do you think Edna is selfish? Or just trapped?”

He tilted his head.

“Both. But I think the trap came first.”

God. He was good.

You pushed your glasses up the bridge of your nose and tried not to notice how the room suddenly felt too warm. 

He spoke like it was casual. But he knew it wasn’t. Not to you. He could tell by the way your eyes lit up. 

He could get addicted to that.

He could tell that you were impressed, and that you didn’t want to be. 

That knowledge made something hot flicker in his chest.

He thought about what you’d look like letting go.

He thought about backing you against that desk and hearing you say his name. Not Mr. Barnes, Bucky.

He thought about dropping to his knees and making you forget every reason you were telling yourself not to want him.

“Mr. Barnes,” you said, clearing your throat lightly, “are you trying to impress me again?”

“Not trying,” he said, voice even. “Just telling the truth.”

That stopped you for a second. And in that second, you smiled.

That was your mistake.

Because in that smile, you gave something away.

And he knew it.

That smile wasn’t dismissive. It wasn’t professional. 

And it definitely wasn’t safe.

It told him that you were thinking about it too.

Even if you wouldn’t admit it.

He didn’t say any of that. Not yet. But one day soon, he might.

—--

You weren’t expecting to see anyone you knew at Prospect Park.

This part of Brooklyn is your quiet zone. Your weekend escape. You come for the live music, the breeze off the trees, the way the city softened just enough to let you breathe.

You were wearing a sundress, nothing scandalous, but light, flowing, a little backless. Your hair was loose and you were comfortable. Free. 

Younger than you usually let yourself feel.

You had your blanket spread out near the edge of the crowd, a book open on your lap, eyes closed as the saxophone swelled. And then…

“Professor?”

Your stomach dropped. Because you knew that voice. You opened your eyes slowly and turned your head, and there he was.

James Barnes.

He was standing a few feet away, hands in the pockets of his jeans, t-shirt snug across his chest. He had a water bottle hooked through one finger, and he looked… stunned.

You blinked, and sat up slowly. When your eyes met his, they widened just enough for him to see the truth: you hadn’t expected to see him either. 

And you weren’t ready.

“Mr. Barnes.”

His eyes raked over you, quickly, respectfully, but there was no hiding the way they lingered. 

You looked… radiant. Relaxed. And so young. Relaxed in a way he’d never seen you. Unguarded.

Your sundress moved when you shifted, a flash of bare shoulder and the curve of your neck knocking something loose in his chest. 

For a second, he forgot you were his professor. 

He just saw a woman so beautiful it felt unreal to look at you out of context. 

You watched the moment he really saw you with your hair down and your sandals off and your mouth slightly parted in surprise.

He didn’t say anything for a second too long.

And it rattled you.

You were used to being looked at. But not by him. Not like this.

“You here for the show?” you asked, trying to sound calm.

He nodded slowly as his eyes dragged over you again.

“Yeah. Didn’t expect to see anyone from campus.”

You raised an eyebrow.

“What, professors don’t like jazz?”

“No,” he said. “I just didn’t think you looked like this… out in the wild.”

You laughed, too loud. Embarrassed. And a little flattered.

“Well. Surprise.”

He didn’t look away.

And that’s when you realized, you were not in control of this moment. Not the way you usually were. Because for the first time in years, you’re the one who doesn’t know what to do with your hands. Or your mouth. 

Or your rapidly racing heart.

Bucky made small talk, played it cool, but he couldn’t stop staring.

He didn’t know you could laugh like that. He didn’t know a simple sundress could make his brain short-circuit when he’d spent weeks imagining what you look like underneath all that silk and structure.

He could leave. He probably should.

But you’re not telling him to.

And for a moment, just one long, buzzy moment, Bucky wondered if the line between you already broke, and you both just keep pretending it’s still there.

—---

You patted the edge of the blanket before you could talk yourself out of it.

“Feel free to sit,” you said, tone light, professor-pleasant. 

He hesitated only a moment, then lowered himself onto the corner, legs stretched out in front of him, careful not to sit too close. You straightened your spine but didn’t lean into the warmth.

“So,” he said after a beat, eyes forward, voice casual.

“Didn’t take you for the Prospect Park jazz type.”

You hummed softly, keeping your gaze on the stage. 

“Everyone needs a little fresh air.”

He nodded, giving you room. You sat shoulder to shoulder in a comfortable silence that allowed you to think too much.

The set ended with a soft cymbal roll and a murmur of applause. You clapped, grateful for the distraction and for something to break the silence that’s been stretching between you like a tripwire.

Bucky, James, Barnes, Christ, brushed his palms on his jeans and stood slowly. You stayed seated, not trusting your legs just yet.

“Well,” he said, his voice quiet but steady. “I should get going.”

You nodded, eyes on your book even though you haven’t read a word of it since he sat down.

“Of course. Thanks for saying hi.”

He paused. You felt it.

“I’ll see you in class,” he said finally.

And you nodded again. Too fast. Too clipped.

“Goodnight, Mr. Barnes.”

“Goodnight, Professor.”

Your name on his tongue would ruin you. You knew that. So you were grateful, in a sick way, that he didn’t use it. That he kept the mask on, even as he walked away without looking back.

Only once he was far enough away do you finally exhale.

—----

The next week, he waited until the last twenty minutes of your posted office hours.

Long enough that you probably thought no one else was coming.

You were behind your desk, papers stacked to your left, a half-empty yogurt cup in the trash beside you. Your hair was pinned back tight, the way you always wore it on days when control mattered most. The soft hum of your laptop filled the quiet, a jazz playlist coming from the speakers.

You looked like calm incarnate. But he saw the hesitation when you glanced up and saw him standing in the doorway.

"Mr. Barnes," you said, voice as composed as your posture. "Come in."

He did, quietly and carefully keeping his distance. He always did. He asked about Baldwin. Giovanni’s Room. His tone was casual, almost too casual, but the tightness in his jaw gave him away.

And then…

“I’ve been thinking about what you read in class,” he said, voice low.

“The part about self-deception.”

You looked up slowly. You knew where this was going.

“Is that what this is?”

You didn’t answer.

“I can’t pretend anymore,” he continued. “Not with you.”

The air in the room changed.

“I want you,” he said, firmer now.

“I’ve wanted you since the first class. I thought I could ignore it, bury it under respect, or rules, or whatever you needed from me. But it’s still there.”

You couldn’t breathe.

Not well. Not normally. Not with him standing there saying that like it was a truth he’d been carrying in his bones since the beginning of the semester.

You stared at him, searching for something you could use to shut it down. Immaturity. Fantasy. Entitlement. But it wasn’t there. 

He wasn’t testing you. He wasn’t fantasizing. He was telling you the truth. And now it was here.

Said aloud in your office.

“I’m not confused,” he said. 

“And I’m not asking for anything. I just needed you to know I’m done pretending I don’t feel it.”

You folded your hands in your lap because you didn’t trust them not to move. Not to reach. Not to tremble.

“This isn’t possible,” you said, voice thin. “You’re my student.”

“I know.”

But he didn’t back down.

You exhaled, and let the silence grow.

That usually made people fumble excuses to fill the void. And when he didn’t retreat, didn’t apologize, didn’t break, you reached for the only weapon left: distance.

“You’re twenty-six.”

“Almost twenty-seven.”

“I’m thirty-eight.”

“I know.”

“That’s over a decade.”

“I’m aware.”

You hated how calm he was. You hated that some stupid, aching part of you wanted him to lose control, because at least then it wouldn’t feel so dangerous. Or deliberate.

“You’ve seen things,” you said. “You’ve survived things. But you’re still figuring out who you are.”

He didn’t argue. And somehow, that made it worse.

“I’ve worked my whole life for this career,” you snapped. “I’m not throwing it away for a moment in a park or a crush you can’t separate from fantasy.”

“It’s not a crush,” he said. “And it’s not a fantasy.”

“Stop,” you said, louder than you intended.

He did.

And your throat burned. When you finally spoke again, your voice was softer.

“I need you to leave.”

He didn’t argue, just looked at you and nodded.

“Of course, Professor.”

You didn’t watch him go. You kept your eyes on the stack of ungraded essays in front of you, pretending they mattered more than the fact that you hadn’t really wanted him to leave. 

You wanted him to stay. 

And close the door.

—--

You didn’t assign any reading the next week.

You told yourself it was because midterms were coming. You told yourself it was merciful.

It wasn’t.

It was preparation.

You kept it clean in class, composed. Cold, even.

You called on him once, just to prove you could, and he answered in that low, calm voice like nothing was wrong. Like you weren’t wet under your skirt for the full fifty minutes.

And when the room cleared, and he stayed in his seat, you just stood.

“I need to see you in my office about last week’s meeting, Mr. Barnes.”

He just sat there and watched you walk out of the door, listening to your heels click their way down the hall to your office.

You left the door unlocked.

You waited.

And when he finally stepped into your office and shut the door behind him, you just looked at him. And he looked at you.

And that was all it took to understand.

You stepped back against your desk and swallowed hard.

“We don’t talk about this after,” you said, quietly.

“Okay,” he said, eyes dark.

“But you need to say it.”

You nodded once. “It’s just sex.”

Bucky knew you were lying, but you were offering him something and he was going to take it. He moved toward you.

You held his gaze.

“I’m on birth control.”

“I’m clean,” he said. “Tested last month.”

“So am I.”

A pause. You lifted your chin.

“I want it raw.”

He exhaled through his nose, something primal flickering across his face.

“Jesus. You sure?”

You nodded again. “You?”

“Yeah,” he said, voice rasping now. “Fuck yeah.”

And when his hands finally landed on you, you felt your control collapse. And it felt so good.

He kissed you like you were already his, like he’d spent months imagining this exact moment, how your mouth would part, how your hands would clutch at his shoulders, how your body would give the second he asked.

You moaned into him, soft, needy, and unguarded. And that was all he needed. He lifted you in one clean motion and set you back on your desk.

Urgently. You shoved the papers aside with one sweep of your arm. Something fluttered to the floor. You didn’t care.

His hands pushed your skirt up to your waist, exposing your bare thighs, and when he realized you weren’t wearing anything underneath…

“Fuck,” he whispered, looking down at you like he’d never seen a pussy before.

You hooked your ankles around his hips. 

“Don’t waste time.”

He looked up, eyes locked on yours, and slid two fingers through your cunt, like he wanted to memorize how wet you already were for him.

“Jesus,” he muttered. “You were like this all through class?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Your head tipped back when he sank to his knees.

He didn't tease and he didn’t take his time.

His mouth was on you in seconds, hot and filthy, his tongue licking up your slit, mouth closing over your clit like he’d been studying for this moment. And he had.

You gasped, one hand flying to the edge of the desk, the other buried in his hair as he groaned into you. It was too much. Too fast. Too good.

You’d touched yourself thinking about this. Pictured it. Fantasized. But nothing had prepared you for the way he devoured you. Like he needed it to breathe.

Your thighs shook. Your hips rolled into his mouth. And when you came, you heard him groan like he felt it, too.

He stood quickly, shoved his jeans down just enough, and lined himself up without another word.

You looked down and your breath caught. You wanted it. You asked for this. You reached between your legs and guided him in yourself.

You both groaned.

He filled you in one slow thrust, inch after inch of hard, perfect pressure, and you nearly came again right then.

His hands gripped your thighs. He drew back and thrust again, so hard the desk creaked.

You bit your lip to keep from screaming.

“Look at me,” he growled.

You did.

His eyes were wild.

“I’ve wanted this,” he said, voice breaking on the words. “Wanted you.”

You wrapped your arms around his shoulders. “Then fuck me like you mean it.”

He did.

Every thrust was deep, deliberate, devastating. The sound of skin on skin filled the room, slick and obscene. Your body took him like you were made for it, like this was inevitable. Like finally.

He slid one hand up your blouse, pushed your bra up, palmed your breast, and groaned when you arched into it. His mouth was at your throat, biting, sucking, and praising through gritted teeth.

“So tight. Fuck you feel so good.”

You clawed at his back.

“I’m gonna come,” you gasped. “Don’t stop! Please”

He buried his face in your neck. 

“Not stopping. Not, fuck, not pulling out…”

You came hard. Writhing, and breaking beneath him.

And when he followed,seconds later, pulsing inside you with a choked groan and a helpless thrust, you realized: This would never be just sex.

And you were never going to forget this.

—----

He knocked the next week at office hours. You almost wished he wouldn’t.

You looked up, your expression blank. “Come in.”

He stepped inside. Closed the door gently. Not locking it. 

You gestured to the chair. “Sit.”

He did.

You watched him for a moment. He looked good. Too good. Calm again. Always so goddamn calm. You folded your hands in your lap.

“This can’t happen again.”

He didn’t flinch. Just waited.

You cleared your throat. 

“What happened in this office was unprofessional. And dangerous. For both of us.”

Still, he said nothing.

“I don’t care how quiet we are. If anyone finds out…”

“They won’t,” he said softly.

“That’s not the point.”

You didn’t raise your voice. But it felt like a scream.

“I worked too hard for this. I have too much to lose.”

“I know.”

You blinked. “That’s it?”

He met your eyes. 

“If you’re done, if you really don’t want me to touch you again, say it.”

You opened your mouth. But no words came out. Because that wasn’t true. And you both knew it.

So instead, you said: “This ends now.”

And he nodded once. But his eyes didn’t believe you.

And when he stood to leave, your body betrayed you again. Because you wanted him.

You said it before you could stop yourself.

“James.”

It was soft, a sound you weren’t aware you were capable of. Not so full of need like that. 

But he heard it. He paused in the doorway. Shoulders tensed. One hand still on the knob. He turned and met your eyes.

And you didn’t take it back.

He stepped back into the room and shut the door behind him, locking it this time.

He crossed the room in three strides, hands on your body, spinning you around with authority. And you let him. 

Your blouse was still buttoned. Your trousers were still on. But you were soaked the moment he touched you. 

“You knew I couldn’t resist you,” he said, voice low behind you.

His mouth grazed your ear as he pressed into you, hard beneath his jeans.

“You don’t want me to.”

You didn’t deny it, just unbuttoned your pants and let them fall.

No panties again.

His hands were on you in an instant, dragging you back against him, cursing under his breath when his fingers slipped between your legs and found you already dripping.

“You wanted this.”

“Don’t talk,” you breathed.

But you didn’t mean it.

He pushed your blouse up, leaned over you, one hand planted on the desk beside yours, the other between your legs.

“You still want it raw?”

You nodded.

“Say it.”

“Yes,” you whispered. “Please.”

He undid his jeans. You felt the press of him against your thigh, hot and thick and ready.

And when he pushed into you, you gasped.

There was no easing in. Just a deep, brutal thrust that forced a broken moan from your lips. You slapped a hand over your mouth, but he grabbed your wrist and pulled it away.

“Let me hear it.”

He fucked you hard. So hard that your desk rocked.

You forgot how to breathe as your cheek pressed against the cool surface of your desk and as your hands gripped the edge. 

He fucked you like he owned you, like this was always going to happen. 

Like he knew exactly what you needed, and he wasn’t going to let you hide from it again.

“You’re mine right now,” he panted. “No lies. No rules. Just this.”

You came fast, unexpectedly, a sob punching out of your throat as you clenched around him. He groaned and followed you seconds later, spilling inside you with a sharp cry, his hips stuttering against your ass.

For a long moment, there was nothing but breathing. He leaned over your back, both hands braced on the desk now, chest heaving.

You stayed still beneath him, your body still shaking.

Neither of you spoke.

Because what could you say?

—--

It was break week, and of course you could survive without seeing Bucky. 

It was just sex, and you were a grown woman. You wouldn’t text him; he didn’t have your number and you only had his because you had his student information.

You told yourself you wouldn’t. 

It was unprofessional.

You told yourself that if you just made it through Monday without texting, the rest of the week would be easier. And you almost believed it.

But by Thursday afternoon, your resolve had withered under need. Your apartment was too still. Your phone was too close.

You typed the message three times. Deleted it each time. Then sent it anyway.

You Did you finish Baldwin yet? Figure out the nature of self-deception?

You threw your phone across the couch the second it delivered.

Five minutes passed.

Then ten.

Then…

James: Did you really just text me about Baldwin while I’m picturing your ass bent over your desk?

Your stomach flipped.

You told yourself not to respond.

You absolutely responded.

You: I was being professional.

James: You didn’t sound very professional last time I had my fingers inside you.

You closed your eyes. And your pulse dropped straight between your thighs.

And then, another buzz.

James: Should I stop?

You stared at the screen.

Then your thumbs moved on their own.

You: No.

And that was it.

That was the beginning of the end.

Because now he had your number. And he didn’t just use it to flirt.

He used it to unravel you.

James: What are you wearing right now?

You shouldn’t have answered. But you did.

You: Nothing you’d be allowed to see if we were in class.

James: I wouldn’t need to see it.

You: No?

James: I’d just need to hear you.

Your breath caught as you watched the bubbles.

James: Want me to call you?

Your heart pounded as you stared at the screen.

Then you typed.

You: Yes.

—---

You answered without thinking.

He didn’t even say hello.

“Take your hand,” he said, voice calm, “and put it between your legs.”

Your breath caught instantly. 

“James…”

“Do it.”

You did.

And it was worse than being touched. Because now, every movement was yours, but every command was his.

“Are you wet?” he asked.

You nodded, forgetting he couldn’t see you. 

“Yes.”

“Fuck,” he muttered. “You miss me?”

You closed your eyes, head dropping back onto your pillow. 

“Yes.”

“How bad?”

“Don’t make me say it.”

“I want to hear you,” he growled. “You started this. Now I want you to tell me what you’ve been thinking about.”

You swallowed.

“Your hands on me. Your mouth. The way you sound when you come. The way you…”

“Touch yourself.”

You gasped at the sound of his voice in your ear, that subtle shift to something darker, something claiming.

“Just two fingers,” he said. “Keep the pressure light. Don’t come yet.”

You obeyed.

“Good girl.”

Your hips bucked slightly.

“Oh, you like that?” he asked, smug now. “I bet you’re soaked.”

“I hate you,” you breathed.

“No you don’t,” he said, quieter now.

“You love this. Being ruined without me even being in the room. So fucking desperate for it you couldn’t go one more day without hearing me.”

You whimpered, and his voice dropped further.

“Circle your clit. Slowly. Just like that. Stay with me.”

You could hear his breathing now. It wasn’t clean. He was hard. He was touching himself too. You knew it. You heard it in his voice.

“I want you so fucking bad,” he groaned.

“That desk wasn’t enough. I need to fuck you until you cry. Until you forget how to teach. Until you forget every name but mine.”

Your hips jerked.

“You close?”

“Yes, fuck, James, I…”

“Not yet.”

You froze.

“I want you begging.”

“I am.”

“No. Say it.”

You shook.

“Please, James. Let me come. I need it. Please…”

“Now,” he growled. “Come for me. Right now.”

And you did.

Hard. Gasping. One hand clamped over your mouth, the other between your legs, writhing into the mattress as the sound of his voice pushed you right over the edge.

On the other end, you heard him break too, a low, broken grunt, a whispered fuck, the subtle sound of his body surrendering.

Silence followed. Thick. Heavy. Full.

“Still just sex?” he asked finally.

You didn’t answer.

You couldn’t.

Because that was the lie. And you’d both just drowned in it.

—----

You didn’t sleep. Not really.

Every time you closed your eyes, you heard his voice.

Touch yourself. Good girl. Come for me. Like a current under your skin. Like a drug you couldn’t shake.

By midmorning, you gave up trying. You poured coffee, opened your laptop, stared at the stack of essays you were supposed to grade.

And then you reached for your phone.

No plan. No script.

Just the ache.

You: What are you doing?

He replied almost immediately.

James: Whatever you want me to be doing.

Your thighs pressed together. You were hopeless.

You: You’re insufferable.

James: You’re obsessed.

You didn’t argue.

James: Send me a photo.

Your pulse spiked.

You: Of what?

James: You. Just your mouth. No smile. Nothing posed. I want to see the version of you I shouldn’t have.

You hesitated.

Then turned on the front camera.

Hair messy. No makeup. Pillow creases still pressed into your cheek. Lips parted. No performance.

You sent it.

Seconds passed.

Then,

James: Take your shirt off.

You stared at the screen.

James: I want to see your tits while I jerk off.

Your breath caught.

You looked around your empty apartment like someone might be watching.

Then you pulled your shirt over your head.

You weren’t wearing a bra.

You angled the camera down just enough.

You took the photo and stared at it.

You looked... undone.

You sent it anyway.

James: Fuck. You’re perfect.

Another message followed right after.

James: Next time I want video.

You: What do you want me to do?

His reply came fast.

James: I want to hear what you sound like when you finger yourself and look into the camera like it’s me.

You dropped the phone onto the bed, your face burning, your body already responding.

You hated how much you wanted it.

And you loved that he asked.

—------

You turned off every light but one and propped your phone up on your nightstand, angled carefully. You could see yourself in the frame, messy, flushed, bare.

Your pulse was already high and your mouth was dry. Your fingers shook as you hit record.

"Hi,” you whispered, embarrassed.

Then you bit your lip and tried again.

“James…”

His name felt like a weight in your chest. Your thighs shifted.

“I can’t stop thinking about you.”

You lowered the camera slowly, past your collarbones, over your breasts, down your belly. You spread your legs.

No teasing. No preamble.

You wanted him to see the truth of it. The urgency. The craving.

You let your fingers slip down, just two, and parted yourself. You were already, still, wet. You couldn’t fake it.

You circled your clit, slowly as you said his name. 

“James…”

Your free hand slid up your body, palming your breast, pinching your nipple until you gasped.

The camera caught everything. The angle of your hips. The arch of your back. The way your mouth opened when you slipped the two fingers inside yourself.

You looked into the lens, right at him

“You want this, don’t you?” you whispered. “You want to watch me come thinking about your cock inside me?”

You fucked yourself harder.

Faster.

“Is this how you want me? Needing you?”

You whimpered, unable to stop.

“You’d fuck me so good if you were here.”

You knew he’d watch it more than once, you wanted him to. You wanted him wrecked.

“I’m gonna come,” you gasped, hips bucking. “I’m gonna…fuck…James…”

You came hard, legs shaking. Your body exposed in all the ways you swore you never would be.

You let the camera roll as you caught your breath, chest heaving.

Then you leaned in and whispered, “Your turn.”

And stopped the video.

You sent it. No warning. No text. Just the file.

Seconds later, he responded.

James: Jesus fucking Christ.

Then a voice message.

You hit play.

He was breathing hard.

“Baby,” he said, wrecked and reverent, “I’m gonna come just thinking about what I’m gonna do to you next time I see you. You think I fucked you hard before? You don’t even know.”

You lay back, smiling.

You did this.

You ruined him.

—----

Your phone buzzed.

You sat up straight and your heart kicked like it had been waiting. You pressed play.

The image loaded.

And what you saw was dim lighting, the camera angled low. And there he was, naked, stretched out on his bed, one arm tucked behind his head, the other wrapped tight around his cock.

He was hard. Thick, And leaking from the thick mushroom tip that destroyed your soul.

“Baby,” he said, hoarse. “What the fuck did you do to me?”

Your breath caught instantly.

Baby.

No one had called you that in a long time.

He stroked himself slowly, base to tip, eyes locked on the screen.

“You send me that video, looking like that, saying my name like it’s the only word you know, and you expect me to be calm?”

His hand tightened. His abs tensed.

“You were dripping, weren’t you? So fucking wet. Just thinking about me.”

He dragged his thumb over the head of his cock and groaned.

“I can’t stop watching it. Can’t stop seeing your fingers inside you, your mouth, your tits, those little sounds you make when you’re about to fall apart.”

He was close. You could see it in the way his hips shifted, the way his free hand gripped the sheets.

“I swear to God, the next time I’m inside you, I’m not stopping until you beg me to. I’ll hold your legs open and fuck you so fucking deep. There will be no hiding.”

You whimpered.

It was like he heard it. He smirked.

“I want to feel you shake under me. Want to feel your nails in my back, your come on my cock, your voice saying my name.”

His eyes flicked down.

“I’m gonna come,” he panted. “You watching, baby? You gonna come with me next time?”

He grunted, low, raw, broken, his body tensing as he came hard, ropes of it spilling over his hand, across his stomach, the sound of it filling the room.

You were breathless.

He looked straight into the camera, chest heaving.

And said, “Next time, you ride me until I forget my own name.”

The video ended.

You sat there, phone still in your hand, thighs pressed tight, pulse racing.

And that was the moment you knew this wasn’t a fling. This wasn’t just sex. This was an addiction.

And you wanted more.

—--

You didn’t think. You didn’t ask. You didn’t play.

You watched his video in your bed, one hand clutched in the sheets, thighs slick and trembling, your whole body strung tight with need.

You didn’t touch yourself. Didn’t move. You just stared at the screen.

And then, you opened the message app, tapped his name, and sent him your location.

No text, no explanation. Just a pin.

Come here.

That’s what it meant.

You knew he’d understand.

You stood up and unlocked the front door. 

Then you waited.

And when you heard his knock, you didn’t hesitate, you opened the door.

He stood there, hood up, breath ragged, eyes already dark. No words.

No one said a thing.

He pressed you against the wall, lips crashing into yours, hands already sliding up your sides, lifting your shirt to bare your breasts.

Your legs parted on instinct.

His knee pressed between them, his hands gripping your waist like he couldn’t believe you were real. You pulled at his hoodie. He dragged it off.

He wasn’t gentle and you didn’t want him to be. You guided his hand between your legs.

He groaned.

“You’re so fucking ready for me,” he rasped. “All I did was show you how bad I want you.”

You didn’t answer. You just reached for his belt.

Because this wasn’t sexting.This wasn’t a video. This wasn’t pretend.

This was real.

And you needed him inside you like oxygen.

—--

He pressed you against the wall like he was starved. He was frantic. There was no careful undressing. No asking. Just taking.

Your shirt was gone before you even realized it. You didn’t remember lifting your arms. You only remembered the sound of him groaning when he saw your bare chest, the heat of his mouth on your nipple, the way he bit down just enough to make you gasp.

He unzipped his jeans and, shoved his boxers down. His cock sprang free you almost dropped to your knees. But he grabbed your face, and kissed you again, deeper this time. 

“Not tonight,” he muttered. “I need to be inside you.”

You didn’t argue,  you just turned and pressed your hands against the wall and arched your back, giving him everything.

He groaned. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

He dragged the head of his cock through your soaking wet folds, and then with one sharp thrust, he entered you. 

You gasped loudly.

He filled you, raw and perfect, like your body had been made to take him.

“Fuck,” he whispered. “This pussy’s unreal.”

You pressed your forehead to the wall, eyes shut, trying to breathe.He pulled back, then slammed into you again. Again. Again.

The sound of it was obscene.

Your walls clenched around him, as one hand slid under your body, finding your clit. He rubbed in tight circles as he fucked you deep.

“You close?” he panted. “You gonna come on me already?”

“Yes, God, don’t stop…”

He slammed into you harder.

“You want me to fill you again?”

“Yes, fuck, yes….”

“Say it.”

“I want your come,” you choked. “I want it inside me.”

He groaned, gripped your hips harder, and pounded into you like he meant to stay.

You came hard, shaking, gasping, and ruined.

He followed seconds later, burying himself deep and coming with a sound that made your whole body throb. You felt every pulse of it. Every drop.

He stayed like that for a moment. Inside you. Chest against your back. Breathing hard.

Then he kissed your shoulder. Softly. Almost sweet.

And that scared you more than anything else.

-----

Send asks, reblogs, comments. Let me know if you feel the way that I feel. 🫠

[ramp-it-up]

Soon. ❤️‍🔥

The Pupil

Summary: Restraint gives way to obsession.

Word count: 7.7 K 😬

Pairing: College Student!Bucky Barnes x Professor!Reader

A/N: No one asked for this. This idea hit me when I was contemplating my career choices because I started work Thursday and gremlins come next week, and I thought, if I was a professor and Bucky Barnes walked in my class….🥹 .This is long, it is self indulgent and it is my therapy. I apologize for the length, but it could have been much longer. Hit me up to tell me how you feel about it.

Warnings: 18+ Only, Minors DNI. Read at your own risk. Smut! Power imbalance (professor/student, age gap 38/26) raw p in v sex, sexting, phone sex, masturbation, video sharing, unprotected sex. Obsession, emotional repression, and blurred lines. Reader self-deception and power/control themes. Bucky is feral, intense, and fully locked in. Young dom Bucky all the way. Angst, mutual unraveling, no fluff, all heat. Not Beta'd. All errors my own.

I no longer have a taglist. Please follow @rampitupandread and turn on notifications to learn when I post! 😘

I Do NOT Consent to my work being reposted, translated or presented on any other blog or site other than by myself.

----------

You didn’t always dress like this.

Not in the elegant high-waisted trousers that elongated your already long legs, and the silk blouses in slate and cream, each one buttoned up and tucked just so.

And not in the heels, expensive, pointed, and high, meant to remind you, and everyone else, that control starts at the ankle.

There was a time you tried to disappear.

Back when you were married to a man who said he liked your brain but openly resented your ambition. Who told you quiet was dignified and called you “intimidating” instead of a boss.

Back then you wore flats and cardigans and neutral tones and made yourself smaller in rooms where you should’ve stood tall.

And then one day, you stopped.

Your divorce wasn’t explosive.

It was silent.

You kept your name, your tenured position, and the apartment with the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. He kept the excuses.

And the you learned to love your own company. Late-night reading by lamplight. Coffee in silence.

Fresh sheets, open windows, and no one to bend for.

You built a life that didn’t need anyone else in it. You weren’t lonely. You were whole.

Or so you thought.

Five years after the divorce, at 38, you were tenured, respected, published, and a bright star in Brooklyn College’s English Department. 

You strode into the lecture hall in heels and pencil skirts, your hair up, your lipstick bold, and your syllabus uncompromising. Your specialty was desire on the page, Womanist texts, subversion in narrative form.

The literature of hunger and restraint.

And you were good at it.

You were used to being the subject of attention from your students, attention that extended beyond a concern for their grades. 

Sometimes they were just curious. Sometimes they were crude. Occasionally, they flirted, tried to make you laugh, or tried to match your intellect with theirs.

But you handled it. You shut it down.

You had been with colleagues once or twice, brief encounters that scratched an itch but never lingered. They never made you miss someone when they left your bed or made you want to stay.

There had never been any encounter that made you pause in the doorway of your own classroom and forget, for a split second, what the hell you were about to say.

Until him.

Until James Buchanan Barnes.

—--

You didn’t notice him when you took roll, not at first.

You were focused on your board notes, your syllabus, the usual opening-week checklist, names, majors, who looked restless, who would drop by week three. 

But then you turned, mid-sentence, scanning the room, and your eyes landed on him.

He hadn’t raised his hand. He hadn’t made a sound. But the way he held himself drew your attention like a magnet. 

He sat with the rigid stillness of someone trained for tension, shoulders wide and braced inside a seat not built to hold him, his spine so straight it looked like a kind of discipline.

He wasn’t fidgeting and he wasn’t distracted; he was just silent, present, and alert.

That should have been your first clue. But it wasn’t the way he sat that stopped you.

It was the rest of him.

The overlong dark hair tucked neatly behind one ear. 

The worn black T-shirt pulled across a chest that didn’t belong in a sophomore seminar, and the way his lips pressed together in concentration as he read your syllabus like it was a puzzle to be solved.

The large, veined hand curled around a pen instead of a keyboard, and his notebook was full of cramped, deliberate handwriting.

He looked like someone who had seen the world, someone too young to have such old eyes, though he was older than the others in your class.

He looked like someone who was trying very hard not to be noticed. And it didn’t work.

Because the second he lifted his eyes to meet yours, brilliant blue, sharp, and unwavering, it was over.

You told yourself it meant nothing. He was just a student. One of many.

But then he spoke.

And his voice was low, steady, and crackling with an alluring tenor that almost masked how smart he really was.

And then he argued.

Not with arrogance, but clarity. Citing Baldwin and Heller without a trace of hesitation, pushing back just enough to make it interesting, enough to make your breath catch.

And suddenly you knew.

This one was going to be dangerous.

—--

He knew professors were supposed to be older.

Seasoned. Maybe tired-looking. Overworked and underpaid, carrying canvas tote bags and books with cracked spines.

He wasn’t expecting you.

You walked in like you owned the entire department, heels sharp against the tile, jaw set in a way that made him sit straighter without thinking, and not a single strand of your hair was out of place.

You were wearing a slate grey silk blouse, tucked into high-waisted black trousers that clung to your shape with elegant precision. And your lips were a color that made his mouth go dry.

And Bucky Barnes forgot to breathe.

He picked up his pen before you even spoke.

Not because he was trying to impress you, but because something about you told him that half-assed wasn’t welcome in your presence.

You didn’t look directly at anyone when you entered. You set your bag down, clicked your pen once, and began to speak with the urgency of someone who had no time to waste.

In less than ten minutes, you quoted Morrison, asked a question no one dared answer, and looked directly at him when he did.

That was the first time your gaze met his. And it turned his stomach inside out.

You were older than him, but not in the way that word often implied. You didn’t look tired. You didn’t look diminished. You looked like power.

You looked like someone who had learned to survive, and who didn’t flinch when she walked away from the battle.

He wanted to impress you, of course.

But more than that, he just wanted you to look at him like that again.

——

The semester moved forward, and Bucky was in the front row every class, early enough to see you walk in. He didn’t fidget, he didn’t scroll his phone, and he didn’t scribble anything until you started talking.

His eyes were always on the door, and when you walked through it, his pulse kicked like a reflex.

You were striking.

Every week, in silk blouses, pencil skirts, or tailored trousers, always poised and sharp-edged, never once looking like anyone else on campus.

But what unstrung him was not how you looked.

It was the way you never once looked at him like an object. You never treated your students like they were interchangeable. When you looked at him, you saw him.

And Bucky felt it.

He hadn’t expected to enjoy Postmodern Literature. It sounded like the kind of class where people tried to out-theorize each other, but it surprised him.

And it was the first time since returning to school that he felt like he belonged.

Before your class, he felt like a ghost in the hallway.

Older than most of them at 26, but younger in other ways, like he’d lost time, like he was trying to catch up to a life that had kept going without him.

The Army was paying for his education. Six years in, two years out, into places no one ever talked about. He came back with too many memories and not enough peace.

Literature helped. Reading gave the noise somewhere to go. He filled notebooks just to keep the chaos from spilling over.

And you made it matter.

When you spoke, he listened with his entire body. Every word felt like a match being struck. Every question you asked set something in him on fire.

He kept his face blank when you entered, but inside, something locked into place every time.

“This isn’t a survey course,” you said on the first day. “This is an excavation. We’re going to talk about hunger, about power, about desire, and about what happens when stories lie to us.”

Bucky Barnes was going to learn everything you had to teach.

And not just from the syllabus.

—-

The first time Bucky Barnes had you shook was unexpected.

“Stanley Kowalski isn’t just a villain,” you told the room.

“He’s a study in what happens when masculinity hides its own fragility. What’s worse, being violent, or pretending you’re not?”

There was a pause.

Then his hand went up.

“Yes…?”

“Barnes. James Barnes,” he said, as if you didn’t know his name. You knew his name.

“I think pretending is worse. Because then people convince themselves it’s not violence at all. It’s just… what men do.”

The room went quiet. It was a good point. A sharp one. You nodded, your lips curving just slightly. 

“Interesting. Care to elaborate, Mr. Barnes?”

He leaned forward on the desk, shoulders tense but voice calm. 

“Stanley’s problem isn’t just power. It’s that he thinks he’s entitled to everything. Stella. The apartment. The air they breathe. And when someone tells him he’s not, he loses his mind.”

Your breath caught.

“An excellent observation,” you said, forcing your tone steady.

And you moved on to the next point, your pulse racing.

—---

He didn’t mean to linger. But he did.

Most of the class had already filtered out into the dark, backpacks slung over shoulders, the last few stragglers murmuring their way toward the exit. The lateness of the class cleared the room quickly. 

But Bucky stayed seated in the front row, fingers drumming quietly on the edge of his notebook, eyes fixed forward, on you.

You moved with quiet purpose as you erased the board, your blouse soft under the glow of fluorescent light, and your heels clicking softly against the tile.

You always moved like that, like you had all the time in the world. Like you knew he was watching, and you didn’t care.

Or maybe you did. Maybe that was the problem.

When you turned to face him, your expression was unreadable, carefully professional. 

“Did you need something, Mr. Barnes?”

He stood slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. 

“Just wanted to thank you. For the lecture.”

You raised a brow.

“You’re paying tuition. No need to thank me.”

“Still,” he said, shifting his weight, but not too close. 

“Most professors don’t talk about Streetcar like that. You didn’t soften him. You didn’t make Stanley a hero. You called him what he was.”

Something flickered across your face. Amusement, maybe. Or curiosity. Your mouth curved, just barely. 

“Is that supposed to impress me?”

He smiled warmly. Not cocky, but careful. 

“Would it work if I said yes?”

You stared at him for one beat too long. And then you laughed quietly. The sound was beautiful.

It hit him square in the chest.

“Goodnight, Mr. Barnes,” you said. But you weren’t dismissive.

It would’ve been easy to say something he shouldn’t. Something about how well that skirt fit the curves of your ass, or the slope of your neck, or the way you looked like a woman a man could ruin himself for, and thank her for it.

But he didn’t.

He just cleared his throat and said, “Goodnight, Professor.” 

And then he walked out. Before he could make a mistake.

—---

You were at your desk during office hours, door open, glasses on, red pen in hand, halfway through dissecting an undergrad’s overwrought interpretation of Beloved when you heard a knock.

You didn’t need to look up.

You already knew it was him.

There was a particular rhythm to the way James Barnes moved that was controlled and deliberate. That soldier steadiness in every step. You took a breath before looking up, willing your heart not to react, willing your body to stay still.

“Professor,” he said, low and polite, leaning just slightly into the doorway.

“You got a minute?”

“Of course,” you said, gesturing to the chair across from you like it was just another Wednesday.

Like you hadn’t been hyperaware of him since the moment he walked into your class. 

“Come in.”

He did, wearing a dark henley, jeans, and a backpack slung over one shoulder. He sat down slowly, and you caught a whiff of his scent.

It made your mouth dry.

“I wanted to talk more about the reading,” he said. “If that’s okay.”

“Always.”

He pulled out his copy of The Awakening, pages heavily annotated. 

You should have been focused on what he was saying, but you weren’t. Not entirely.

His voice had that textured quality that hummed through your spine when he spoke. And the way he watched you, like everything you said mattered, was dangerous. 

It made you lean forward. And it made your next question softer than it should have been.

“Do you think Edna is selfish? Or just trapped?”

He tilted his head.

“Both. But I think the trap came first.”

God. He was good.

You pushed your glasses up the bridge of your nose and tried not to notice how the room suddenly felt too warm. 

He spoke like it was casual. But he knew it wasn’t. Not to you. He could tell by the way your eyes lit up. 

He could get addicted to that.

He could tell that you were impressed, and that you didn’t want to be. 

That knowledge made something hot flicker in his chest.

He thought about what you’d look like letting go.

He thought about backing you against that desk and hearing you say his name. Not Mr. Barnes, Bucky.

He thought about dropping to his knees and making you forget every reason you were telling yourself not to want him.

“Mr. Barnes,” you said, clearing your throat lightly, “are you trying to impress me again?”

“Not trying,” he said, voice even. “Just telling the truth.”

That stopped you for a second. And in that second, you smiled.

That was your mistake.

Because in that smile, you gave something away.

And he knew it.

That smile wasn’t dismissive. It wasn’t professional. 

And it definitely wasn’t safe.

It told him that you were thinking about it too.

Even if you wouldn’t admit it.

He didn’t say any of that. Not yet. But one day soon, he might.

—--

You weren’t expecting to see anyone you knew at Prospect Park.

This part of Brooklyn is your quiet zone. Your weekend escape. You come for the live music, the breeze off the trees, the way the city softened just enough to let you breathe.

You were wearing a sundress, nothing scandalous, but light, flowing, a little backless. Your hair was loose and you were comfortable. Free. 

Younger than you usually let yourself feel.

You had your blanket spread out near the edge of the crowd, a book open on your lap, eyes closed as the saxophone swelled. And then…

“Professor?”

Your stomach dropped. Because you knew that voice. You opened your eyes slowly and turned your head, and there he was.

James Barnes.

He was standing a few feet away, hands in the pockets of his jeans, t-shirt snug across his chest. He had a water bottle hooked through one finger, and he looked… stunned.

You blinked, and sat up slowly. When your eyes met his, they widened just enough for him to see the truth: you hadn’t expected to see him either. 

And you weren’t ready.

“Mr. Barnes.”

His eyes raked over you, quickly, respectfully, but there was no hiding the way they lingered. 

You looked… radiant. Relaxed. And so young. Relaxed in a way he’d never seen you. Unguarded.

Your sundress moved when you shifted, a flash of bare shoulder and the curve of your neck knocking something loose in his chest. 

For a second, he forgot you were his professor. 

He just saw a woman so beautiful it felt unreal to look at you out of context. 

You watched the moment he really saw you with your hair down and your sandals off and your mouth slightly parted in surprise.

He didn’t say anything for a second too long.

And it rattled you.

You were used to being looked at. But not by him. Not like this.

“You here for the show?” you asked, trying to sound calm.

He nodded slowly as his eyes dragged over you again.

“Yeah. Didn’t expect to see anyone from campus.”

You raised an eyebrow.

“What, professors don’t like jazz?”

“No,” he said. “I just didn’t think you looked like this… out in the wild.”

You laughed, too loud. Embarrassed. And a little flattered.

“Well. Surprise.”

He didn’t look away.

And that’s when you realized, you were not in control of this moment. Not the way you usually were. Because for the first time in years, you’re the one who doesn’t know what to do with your hands. Or your mouth. 

Or your rapidly racing heart.

Bucky made small talk, played it cool, but he couldn’t stop staring.

He didn’t know you could laugh like that. He didn’t know a simple sundress could make his brain short-circuit when he’d spent weeks imagining what you look like underneath all that silk and structure.

He could leave. He probably should.

But you’re not telling him to.

And for a moment, just one long, buzzy moment, Bucky wondered if the line between you already broke, and you both just keep pretending it’s still there.

—---

You patted the edge of the blanket before you could talk yourself out of it.

“Feel free to sit,” you said, tone light, professor-pleasant. 

He hesitated only a moment, then lowered himself onto the corner, legs stretched out in front of him, careful not to sit too close. You straightened your spine but didn’t lean into the warmth.

“So,” he said after a beat, eyes forward, voice casual.

“Didn’t take you for the Prospect Park jazz type.”

You hummed softly, keeping your gaze on the stage. 

“Everyone needs a little fresh air.”

He nodded, giving you room. You sat shoulder to shoulder in a comfortable silence that allowed you to think too much.

The set ended with a soft cymbal roll and a murmur of applause. You clapped, grateful for the distraction and for something to break the silence that’s been stretching between you like a tripwire.

Bucky, James, Barnes, Christ, brushed his palms on his jeans and stood slowly. You stayed seated, not trusting your legs just yet.

“Well,” he said, his voice quiet but steady. “I should get going.”

You nodded, eyes on your book even though you haven’t read a word of it since he sat down.

“Of course. Thanks for saying hi.”

He paused. You felt it.

“I’ll see you in class,” he said finally.

And you nodded again. Too fast. Too clipped.

“Goodnight, Mr. Barnes.”

“Goodnight, Professor.”

Your name on his tongue would ruin you. You knew that. So you were grateful, in a sick way, that he didn’t use it. That he kept the mask on, even as he walked away without looking back.

Only once he was far enough away do you finally exhale.

—----

The next week, he waited until the last twenty minutes of your posted office hours.

Long enough that you probably thought no one else was coming.

You were behind your desk, papers stacked to your left, a half-empty yogurt cup in the trash beside you. Your hair was pinned back tight, the way you always wore it on days when control mattered most. The soft hum of your laptop filled the quiet, a jazz playlist coming from the speakers.

You looked like calm incarnate. But he saw the hesitation when you glanced up and saw him standing in the doorway.

"Mr. Barnes," you said, voice as composed as your posture. "Come in."

He did, quietly and carefully keeping his distance. He always did. He asked about Baldwin. Giovanni’s Room. His tone was casual, almost too casual, but the tightness in his jaw gave him away.

And then…

“I’ve been thinking about what you read in class,” he said, voice low.

“The part about self-deception.”

You looked up slowly. You knew where this was going.

“Is that what this is?”

You didn’t answer.

“I can’t pretend anymore,” he continued. “Not with you.”

The air in the room changed.

“I want you,” he said, firmer now.

“I’ve wanted you since the first class. I thought I could ignore it, bury it under respect, or rules, or whatever you needed from me. But it’s still there.”

You couldn’t breathe.

Not well. Not normally. Not with him standing there saying that like it was a truth he’d been carrying in his bones since the beginning of the semester.

You stared at him, searching for something you could use to shut it down. Immaturity. Fantasy. Entitlement. But it wasn’t there. 

He wasn’t testing you. He wasn’t fantasizing. He was telling you the truth. And now it was here.

Said aloud in your office.

“I’m not confused,” he said. 

“And I’m not asking for anything. I just needed you to know I’m done pretending I don’t feel it.”

You folded your hands in your lap because you didn’t trust them not to move. Not to reach. Not to tremble.

“This isn’t possible,” you said, voice thin. “You’re my student.”

“I know.”

But he didn’t back down.

You exhaled, and let the silence grow.

That usually made people fumble excuses to fill the void. And when he didn’t retreat, didn’t apologize, didn’t break, you reached for the only weapon left: distance.

“You’re twenty-six.”

“Almost twenty-seven.”

“I’m thirty-eight.”

“I know.”

“That’s over a decade.”

“I’m aware.”

You hated how calm he was. You hated that some stupid, aching part of you wanted him to lose control, because at least then it wouldn’t feel so dangerous. Or deliberate.

“You’ve seen things,” you said. “You’ve survived things. But you’re still figuring out who you are.”

He didn’t argue. And somehow, that made it worse.

“I’ve worked my whole life for this career,” you snapped. “I’m not throwing it away for a moment in a park or a crush you can’t separate from fantasy.”

“It’s not a crush,” he said. “And it’s not a fantasy.”

“Stop,” you said, louder than you intended.

He did.

And your throat burned. When you finally spoke again, your voice was softer.

“I need you to leave.”

He didn’t argue, just looked at you and nodded.

“Of course, Professor.”

You didn’t watch him go. You kept your eyes on the stack of ungraded essays in front of you, pretending they mattered more than the fact that you hadn’t really wanted him to leave. 

You wanted him to stay. 

And close the door.

—--

You didn’t assign any reading the next week.

You told yourself it was because midterms were coming. You told yourself it was merciful.

It wasn’t.

It was preparation.

You kept it clean in class, composed. Cold, even.

You called on him once, just to prove you could, and he answered in that low, calm voice like nothing was wrong. Like you weren’t wet under your skirt for the full fifty minutes.

And when the room cleared, and he stayed in his seat, you just stood.

“I need to see you in my office about last week’s meeting, Mr. Barnes.”

He just sat there and watched you walk out of the door, listening to your heels click their way down the hall to your office.

You left the door unlocked.

You waited.

And when he finally stepped into your office and shut the door behind him, you just looked at him. And he looked at you.

And that was all it took to understand.

You stepped back against your desk and swallowed hard.

“We don’t talk about this after,” you said, quietly.

“Okay,” he said, eyes dark.

“But you need to say it.”

You nodded once. “It’s just sex.”

Bucky knew you were lying, but you were offering him something and he was going to take it. He moved toward you.

You held his gaze.

“I’m on birth control.”

“I’m clean,” he said. “Tested last month.”

“So am I.”

A pause. You lifted your chin.

“I want it raw.”

He exhaled through his nose, something primal flickering across his face.

“Jesus. You sure?”

You nodded again. “You?”

“Yeah,” he said, voice rasping now. “Fuck yeah.”

And when his hands finally landed on you, you felt your control collapse. And it felt so good.

He kissed you like you were already his, like he’d spent months imagining this exact moment, how your mouth would part, how your hands would clutch at his shoulders, how your body would give the second he asked.

You moaned into him, soft, needy, and unguarded. And that was all he needed. He lifted you in one clean motion and set you back on your desk.

Urgently. You shoved the papers aside with one sweep of your arm. Something fluttered to the floor. You didn’t care.

His hands pushed your skirt up to your waist, exposing your bare thighs, and when he realized you weren’t wearing anything underneath…

“Fuck,” he whispered, looking down at you like he’d never seen a pussy before.

You hooked your ankles around his hips. 

“Don’t waste time.”

He looked up, eyes locked on yours, and slid two fingers through your cunt, like he wanted to memorize how wet you already were for him.

“Jesus,” he muttered. “You were like this all through class?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Your head tipped back when he sank to his knees.

He didn't tease and he didn’t take his time.

His mouth was on you in seconds, hot and filthy, his tongue licking up your slit, mouth closing over your clit like he’d been studying for this moment. And he had.

You gasped, one hand flying to the edge of the desk, the other buried in his hair as he groaned into you. It was too much. Too fast. Too good.

You’d touched yourself thinking about this. Pictured it. Fantasized. But nothing had prepared you for the way he devoured you. Like he needed it to breathe.

Your thighs shook. Your hips rolled into his mouth. And when you came, you heard him groan like he felt it, too.

He stood quickly, shoved his jeans down just enough, and lined himself up without another word.

You looked down and your breath caught. You wanted it. You asked for this. You reached between your legs and guided him in yourself.

You both groaned.

He filled you in one slow thrust, inch after inch of hard, perfect pressure, and you nearly came again right then.

His hands gripped your thighs. He drew back and thrust again, so hard the desk creaked.

You bit your lip to keep from screaming.

“Look at me,” he growled.

You did.

His eyes were wild.

“I’ve wanted this,” he said, voice breaking on the words. “Wanted you.”

You wrapped your arms around his shoulders. “Then fuck me like you mean it.”

He did.

Every thrust was deep, deliberate, devastating. The sound of skin on skin filled the room, slick and obscene. Your body took him like you were made for it, like this was inevitable. Like finally.

He slid one hand up your blouse, pushed your bra up, palmed your breast, and groaned when you arched into it. His mouth was at your throat, biting, sucking, and praising through gritted teeth.

“So tight. Fuck you feel so good.”

You clawed at his back.

“I’m gonna come,” you gasped. “Don’t stop! Please”

He buried his face in your neck. 

“Not stopping. Not, fuck, not pulling out…”

You came hard. Writhing, and breaking beneath him.

And when he followed,seconds later, pulsing inside you with a choked groan and a helpless thrust, you realized: This would never be just sex.

And you were never going to forget this.

—----

He knocked the next week at office hours. You almost wished he wouldn’t.

You looked up, your expression blank. “Come in.”

He stepped inside. Closed the door gently. Not locking it. 

You gestured to the chair. “Sit.”

He did.

You watched him for a moment. He looked good. Too good. Calm again. Always so goddamn calm. You folded your hands in your lap.

“This can’t happen again.”

He didn’t flinch. Just waited.

You cleared your throat. 

“What happened in this office was unprofessional. And dangerous. For both of us.”

Still, he said nothing.

“I don’t care how quiet we are. If anyone finds out…”

“They won’t,” he said softly.

“That’s not the point.”

You didn’t raise your voice. But it felt like a scream.

“I worked too hard for this. I have too much to lose.”

“I know.”

You blinked. “That’s it?”

He met your eyes. 

“If you’re done, if you really don’t want me to touch you again, say it.”

You opened your mouth. But no words came out. Because that wasn’t true. And you both knew it.

So instead, you said: “This ends now.”

And he nodded once. But his eyes didn’t believe you.

And when he stood to leave, your body betrayed you again. Because you wanted him.

You said it before you could stop yourself.

“James.”

It was soft, a sound you weren’t aware you were capable of. Not so full of need like that. 

But he heard it. He paused in the doorway. Shoulders tensed. One hand still on the knob. He turned and met your eyes.

And you didn’t take it back.

He stepped back into the room and shut the door behind him, locking it this time.

He crossed the room in three strides, hands on your body, spinning you around with authority. And you let him. 

Your blouse was still buttoned. Your trousers were still on. But you were soaked the moment he touched you. 

“You knew I couldn’t resist you,” he said, voice low behind you.

His mouth grazed your ear as he pressed into you, hard beneath his jeans.

“You don’t want me to.”

You didn’t deny it, just unbuttoned your pants and let them fall.

No panties again.

His hands were on you in an instant, dragging you back against him, cursing under his breath when his fingers slipped between your legs and found you already dripping.

“You wanted this.”

“Don’t talk,” you breathed.

But you didn’t mean it.

He pushed your blouse up, leaned over you, one hand planted on the desk beside yours, the other between your legs.

“You still want it raw?”

You nodded.

“Say it.”

“Yes,” you whispered. “Please.”

He undid his jeans. You felt the press of him against your thigh, hot and thick and ready.

And when he pushed into you, you gasped.

There was no easing in. Just a deep, brutal thrust that forced a broken moan from your lips. You slapped a hand over your mouth, but he grabbed your wrist and pulled it away.

“Let me hear it.”

He fucked you hard. So hard that your desk rocked.

You forgot how to breathe as your cheek pressed against the cool surface of your desk and as your hands gripped the edge. 

He fucked you like he owned you, like this was always going to happen. 

Like he knew exactly what you needed, and he wasn’t going to let you hide from it again.

“You’re mine right now,” he panted. “No lies. No rules. Just this.”

You came fast, unexpectedly, a sob punching out of your throat as you clenched around him. He groaned and followed you seconds later, spilling inside you with a sharp cry, his hips stuttering against your ass.

For a long moment, there was nothing but breathing. He leaned over your back, both hands braced on the desk now, chest heaving.

You stayed still beneath him, your body still shaking.

Neither of you spoke.

Because what could you say?

—--

It was break week, and of course you could survive without seeing Bucky. 

It was just sex, and you were a grown woman. You wouldn’t text him; he didn’t have your number and you only had his because you had his student information.

You told yourself you wouldn’t. 

It was unprofessional.

You told yourself that if you just made it through Monday without texting, the rest of the week would be easier. And you almost believed it.

But by Thursday afternoon, your resolve had withered under need. Your apartment was too still. Your phone was too close.

You typed the message three times. Deleted it each time. Then sent it anyway.

You Did you finish Baldwin yet? Figure out the nature of self-deception?

You threw your phone across the couch the second it delivered.

Five minutes passed.

Then ten.

Then…

James: Did you really just text me about Baldwin while I’m picturing your ass bent over your desk?

Your stomach flipped.

You told yourself not to respond.

You absolutely responded.

You: I was being professional.

James: You didn’t sound very professional last time I had my fingers inside you.

You closed your eyes. And your pulse dropped straight between your thighs.

And then, another buzz.

James: Should I stop?

You stared at the screen.

Then your thumbs moved on their own.

You: No.

And that was it.

That was the beginning of the end.

Because now he had your number. And he didn’t just use it to flirt.

He used it to unravel you.

James: What are you wearing right now?

You shouldn’t have answered. But you did.

You: Nothing you’d be allowed to see if we were in class.

James: I wouldn’t need to see it.

You: No?

James: I’d just need to hear you.

Your breath caught as you watched the bubbles.

James: Want me to call you?

Your heart pounded as you stared at the screen.

Then you typed.

You: Yes.

—---

You answered without thinking.

He didn’t even say hello.

“Take your hand,” he said, voice calm, “and put it between your legs.”

Your breath caught instantly. 

“James…”

“Do it.”

You did.

And it was worse than being touched. Because now, every movement was yours, but every command was his.

“Are you wet?” he asked.

You nodded, forgetting he couldn’t see you. 

“Yes.”

“Fuck,” he muttered. “You miss me?”

You closed your eyes, head dropping back onto your pillow. 

“Yes.”

“How bad?”

“Don’t make me say it.”

“I want to hear you,” he growled. “You started this. Now I want you to tell me what you’ve been thinking about.”

You swallowed.

“Your hands on me. Your mouth. The way you sound when you come. The way you…”

“Touch yourself.”

You gasped at the sound of his voice in your ear, that subtle shift to something darker, something claiming.

“Just two fingers,” he said. “Keep the pressure light. Don’t come yet.”

You obeyed.

“Good girl.”

Your hips bucked slightly.

“Oh, you like that?” he asked, smug now. “I bet you’re soaked.”

“I hate you,” you breathed.

“No you don’t,” he said, quieter now.

“You love this. Being ruined without me even being in the room. So fucking desperate for it you couldn’t go one more day without hearing me.”

You whimpered, and his voice dropped further.

“Circle your clit. Slowly. Just like that. Stay with me.”

You could hear his breathing now. It wasn’t clean. He was hard. He was touching himself too. You knew it. You heard it in his voice.

“I want you so fucking bad,” he groaned.

“That desk wasn’t enough. I need to fuck you until you cry. Until you forget how to teach. Until you forget every name but mine.”

Your hips jerked.

“You close?”

“Yes, fuck, James, I…”

“Not yet.”

You froze.

“I want you begging.”

“I am.”

“No. Say it.”

You shook.

“Please, James. Let me come. I need it. Please…”

“Now,” he growled. “Come for me. Right now.”

And you did.

Hard. Gasping. One hand clamped over your mouth, the other between your legs, writhing into the mattress as the sound of his voice pushed you right over the edge.

On the other end, you heard him break too, a low, broken grunt, a whispered fuck, the subtle sound of his body surrendering.

Silence followed. Thick. Heavy. Full.

“Still just sex?” he asked finally.

You didn’t answer.

You couldn’t.

Because that was the lie. And you’d both just drowned in it.

—----

You didn’t sleep. Not really.

Every time you closed your eyes, you heard his voice.

Touch yourself. Good girl. Come for me. Like a current under your skin. Like a drug you couldn’t shake.

By midmorning, you gave up trying. You poured coffee, opened your laptop, stared at the stack of essays you were supposed to grade.

And then you reached for your phone.

No plan. No script.

Just the ache.

You: What are you doing?

He replied almost immediately.

James: Whatever you want me to be doing.

Your thighs pressed together. You were hopeless.

You: You’re insufferable.

James: You’re obsessed.

You didn’t argue.

James: Send me a photo.

Your pulse spiked.

You: Of what?

James: You. Just your mouth. No smile. Nothing posed. I want to see the version of you I shouldn’t have.

You hesitated.

Then turned on the front camera.

Hair messy. No makeup. Pillow creases still pressed into your cheek. Lips parted. No performance.

You sent it.

Seconds passed.

Then,

James: Take your shirt off.

You stared at the screen.

James: I want to see your tits while I jerk off.

Your breath caught.

You looked around your empty apartment like someone might be watching.

Then you pulled your shirt over your head.

You weren’t wearing a bra.

You angled the camera down just enough.

You took the photo and stared at it.

You looked... undone.

You sent it anyway.

James: Fuck. You’re perfect.

Another message followed right after.

James: Next time I want video.

You: What do you want me to do?

His reply came fast.

James: I want to hear what you sound like when you finger yourself and look into the camera like it’s me.

You dropped the phone onto the bed, your face burning, your body already responding.

You hated how much you wanted it.

And you loved that he asked.

—------

You turned off every light but one and propped your phone up on your nightstand, angled carefully. You could see yourself in the frame, messy, flushed, bare.

Your pulse was already high and your mouth was dry. Your fingers shook as you hit record.

"Hi,” you whispered, embarrassed.

Then you bit your lip and tried again.

“James…”

His name felt like a weight in your chest. Your thighs shifted.

“I can’t stop thinking about you.”

You lowered the camera slowly, past your collarbones, over your breasts, down your belly. You spread your legs.

No teasing. No preamble.

You wanted him to see the truth of it. The urgency. The craving.

You let your fingers slip down, just two, and parted yourself. You were already, still, wet. You couldn’t fake it.

You circled your clit, slowly as you said his name. 

“James…”

Your free hand slid up your body, palming your breast, pinching your nipple until you gasped.

The camera caught everything. The angle of your hips. The arch of your back. The way your mouth opened when you slipped the two fingers inside yourself.

You looked into the lens, right at him

“You want this, don’t you?” you whispered. “You want to watch me come thinking about your cock inside me?”

You fucked yourself harder.

Faster.

“Is this how you want me? Needing you?”

You whimpered, unable to stop.

“You’d fuck me so good if you were here.”

You knew he’d watch it more than once, you wanted him to. You wanted him wrecked.

“I’m gonna come,” you gasped, hips bucking. “I’m gonna…fuck…James…”

You came hard, legs shaking. Your body exposed in all the ways you swore you never would be.

You let the camera roll as you caught your breath, chest heaving.

Then you leaned in and whispered, “Your turn.”

And stopped the video.

You sent it. No warning. No text. Just the file.

Seconds later, he responded.

James: Jesus fucking Christ.

Then a voice message.

You hit play.

He was breathing hard.

“Baby,” he said, wrecked and reverent, “I’m gonna come just thinking about what I’m gonna do to you next time I see you. You think I fucked you hard before? You don’t even know.”

You lay back, smiling.

You did this.

You ruined him.

—----

Your phone buzzed.

You sat up straight and your heart kicked like it had been waiting. You pressed play.

The image loaded.

And what you saw was dim lighting, the camera angled low. And there he was, naked, stretched out on his bed, one arm tucked behind his head, the other wrapped tight around his cock.

He was hard. Thick, And leaking from the thick mushroom tip that destroyed your soul.

“Baby,” he said, hoarse. “What the fuck did you do to me?”

Your breath caught instantly.

Baby.

No one had called you that in a long time.

He stroked himself slowly, base to tip, eyes locked on the screen.

“You send me that video, looking like that, saying my name like it’s the only word you know, and you expect me to be calm?”

His hand tightened. His abs tensed.

“You were dripping, weren’t you? So fucking wet. Just thinking about me.”

He dragged his thumb over the head of his cock and groaned.

“I can’t stop watching it. Can’t stop seeing your fingers inside you, your mouth, your tits, those little sounds you make when you’re about to fall apart.”

He was close. You could see it in the way his hips shifted, the way his free hand gripped the sheets.

“I swear to God, the next time I’m inside you, I’m not stopping until you beg me to. I’ll hold your legs open and fuck you so fucking deep. There will be no hiding.”

You whimpered.

It was like he heard it. He smirked.

“I want to feel you shake under me. Want to feel your nails in my back, your come on my cock, your voice saying my name.”

His eyes flicked down.

“I’m gonna come,” he panted. “You watching, baby? You gonna come with me next time?”

He grunted, low, raw, broken, his body tensing as he came hard, ropes of it spilling over his hand, across his stomach, the sound of it filling the room.

You were breathless.

He looked straight into the camera, chest heaving.

And said, “Next time, you ride me until I forget my own name.”

The video ended.

You sat there, phone still in your hand, thighs pressed tight, pulse racing.

And that was the moment you knew this wasn’t a fling. This wasn’t just sex. This was an addiction.

And you wanted more.

—--

You didn’t think. You didn’t ask. You didn’t play.

You watched his video in your bed, one hand clutched in the sheets, thighs slick and trembling, your whole body strung tight with need.

You didn’t touch yourself. Didn’t move. You just stared at the screen.

And then, you opened the message app, tapped his name, and sent him your location.

No text, no explanation. Just a pin.

Come here.

That’s what it meant.

You knew he’d understand.

You stood up and unlocked the front door. 

Then you waited.

And when you heard his knock, you didn’t hesitate, you opened the door.

He stood there, hood up, breath ragged, eyes already dark. No words.

No one said a thing.

He pressed you against the wall, lips crashing into yours, hands already sliding up your sides, lifting your shirt to bare your breasts.

Your legs parted on instinct.

His knee pressed between them, his hands gripping your waist like he couldn’t believe you were real. You pulled at his hoodie. He dragged it off.

He wasn’t gentle and you didn’t want him to be. You guided his hand between your legs.

He groaned.

“You’re so fucking ready for me,” he rasped. “All I did was show you how bad I want you.”

You didn’t answer. You just reached for his belt.

Because this wasn’t sexting.This wasn’t a video. This wasn’t pretend.

This was real.

And you needed him inside you like oxygen.

—--

He pressed you against the wall like he was starved. He was frantic. There was no careful undressing. No asking. Just taking.

Your shirt was gone before you even realized it. You didn’t remember lifting your arms. You only remembered the sound of him groaning when he saw your bare chest, the heat of his mouth on your nipple, the way he bit down just enough to make you gasp.

He unzipped his jeans and, shoved his boxers down. His cock sprang free you almost dropped to your knees. But he grabbed your face, and kissed you again, deeper this time. 

“Not tonight,” he muttered. “I need to be inside you.”

You didn’t argue,  you just turned and pressed your hands against the wall and arched your back, giving him everything.

He groaned. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

He dragged the head of his cock through your soaking wet folds, and then with one sharp thrust, he entered you. 

You gasped loudly.

He filled you, raw and perfect, like your body had been made to take him.

“Fuck,” he whispered. “This pussy’s unreal.”

You pressed your forehead to the wall, eyes shut, trying to breathe.He pulled back, then slammed into you again. Again. Again.

The sound of it was obscene.

Your walls clenched around him, as one hand slid under your body, finding your clit. He rubbed in tight circles as he fucked you deep.

“You close?” he panted. “You gonna come on me already?”

“Yes, God, don’t stop…”

He slammed into you harder.

“You want me to fill you again?”

“Yes, fuck, yes….”

“Say it.”

“I want your come,” you choked. “I want it inside me.”

He groaned, gripped your hips harder, and pounded into you like he meant to stay.

You came hard, shaking, gasping, and ruined.

He followed seconds later, burying himself deep and coming with a sound that made your whole body throb. You felt every pulse of it. Every drop.

He stayed like that for a moment. Inside you. Chest against your back. Breathing hard.

Then he kissed your shoulder. Softly. Almost sweet.

It that scared you more than anything else.

-----

Send asks, reblogs, comments. Let me know if you feel the way that I feel. 🫠

[ramp-it-up]

The Pupil

Summary: Restraint gives way to obsession.

Word count: 7.7 K 😬

Pairing: College Student!Bucky Barnes x Professor!Reader

A/N: No one asked for this. This idea hit me when I was contemplating my career choices because I started work Thursday and gremlins come next week, and I thought, if I was a professor and Bucky Barnes walked in my class….🥹 .This is long, it is self indulgent and it is my therapy. I apologize for the length, but it could have been much longer. Hit me up to tell me how you feel about it.

Warnings: 18+ Only, Minors DNI. Read at your own risk. Smut! Power imbalance (professor/student, age gap 38/26) raw p in v sex, sexting, phone sex, masturbation, video sharing, unprotected sex. Obsession, emotional repression, and blurred lines. Reader self-deception and power/control themes. Bucky is feral, intense, and fully locked in. Young dom Bucky all the way. Angst, mutual unraveling, no fluff, all heat. Not Beta'd. All errors my own.

I no longer have a taglist. Please follow @rampitupandread and turn on notifications to learn when I post! 😘

I Do NOT Consent to my work being reposted, translated or presented on any other blog or site other than by myself.

----------

You didn’t always dress like this.

Not in the elegant high-waisted trousers that elongated your already long legs, and the silk blouses in slate and cream, each one buttoned up and tucked just so.

And not in the heels, expensive, pointed, and high, meant to remind you, and everyone else, that control starts at the ankle.

There was a time you tried to disappear.

Back when you were married to a man who said he liked your brain but openly resented your ambition. Who told you quiet was dignified and called you “intimidating” instead of a boss.

Back then you wore flats and cardigans and neutral tones and made yourself smaller in rooms where you should’ve stood tall.

And then one day, you stopped.

Your divorce wasn’t explosive.

It was silent.

You kept your name, your tenured position, and the apartment with the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. He kept the excuses.

And the you learned to love your own company. Late-night reading by lamplight. Coffee in silence.

Fresh sheets, open windows, and no one to bend for.

You built a life that didn’t need anyone else in it. You weren’t lonely. You were whole.

Or so you thought.

Five years after the divorce, at 38, you were tenured, respected, published, and a bright star in Brooklyn College’s English Department. 

You strode into the lecture hall in heels and pencil skirts, your hair up, your lipstick bold, and your syllabus uncompromising. Your specialty was desire on the page, Womanist texts, subversion in narrative form.

The literature of hunger and restraint.

And you were good at it.

You were used to being the subject of attention from your students, attention that extended beyond a concern for their grades. 

Sometimes they were just curious. Sometimes they were crude. Occasionally, they flirted, tried to make you laugh, or tried to match your intellect with theirs.

But you handled it. You shut it down.

You had been with colleagues once or twice, brief encounters that scratched an itch but never lingered. They never made you miss someone when they left your bed or made you want to stay.

There had never been any encounter that made you pause in the doorway of your own classroom and forget, for a split second, what the hell you were about to say.

Until him.

Until James Buchanan Barnes.

—--

You didn’t notice him when you took roll, not at first.

You were focused on your board notes, your syllabus, the usual opening-week checklist, names, majors, who looked restless, who would drop by week three. 

But then you turned, mid-sentence, scanning the room, and your eyes landed on him.

He hadn’t raised his hand. He hadn’t made a sound. But the way he held himself drew your attention like a magnet. 

He sat with the rigid stillness of someone trained for tension, shoulders wide and braced inside a seat not built to hold him, his spine so straight it looked like a kind of discipline.

He wasn’t fidgeting and he wasn’t distracted; he was just silent, present, and alert.

That should have been your first clue. But it wasn’t the way he sat that stopped you.

It was the rest of him.

The overlong dark hair tucked neatly behind one ear. 

The worn black T-shirt pulled across a chest that didn’t belong in a sophomore seminar, and the way his lips pressed together in concentration as he read your syllabus like it was a puzzle to be solved.

The large, veined hand curled around a pen instead of a keyboard, and his notebook was full of cramped, deliberate handwriting.

He looked like someone who had seen the world, someone too young to have such old eyes, though he was older than the others in your class.

He looked like someone who was trying very hard not to be noticed. And it didn’t work.

Because the second he lifted his eyes to meet yours, brilliant blue, sharp, and unwavering, it was over.

You told yourself it meant nothing. He was just a student. One of many.

But then he spoke.

And his voice was low, steady, and crackling with an alluring tenor that almost masked how smart he really was.

And then he argued.

Not with arrogance, but clarity. Citing Baldwin and Heller without a trace of hesitation, pushing back just enough to make it interesting, enough to make your breath catch.

And suddenly you knew.

This one was going to be dangerous.

—--

He knew professors were supposed to be older.

Seasoned. Maybe tired-looking. Overworked and underpaid, carrying canvas tote bags and books with cracked spines.

He wasn’t expecting you.

You walked in like you owned the entire department, heels sharp against the tile, jaw set in a way that made him sit straighter without thinking, and not a single strand of your hair was out of place.

You were wearing a slate grey silk blouse, tucked into high-waisted black trousers that clung to your shape with elegant precision. And your lips were a color that made his mouth go dry.

And Bucky Barnes forgot to breathe.

He picked up his pen before you even spoke.

Not because he was trying to impress you, but because something about you told him that half-assed wasn’t welcome in your presence.

You didn’t look directly at anyone when you entered. You set your bag down, clicked your pen once, and began to speak with the urgency of someone who had no time to waste.

In less than ten minutes, you quoted Morrison, asked a question no one dared answer, and looked directly at him when he did.

That was the first time your gaze met his. And it turned his stomach inside out.

You were older than him, but not in the way that word often implied. You didn’t look tired. You didn’t look diminished. You looked like power.

You looked like someone who had learned to survive, and who didn’t flinch when she walked away from the battle.

He wanted to impress you, of course.

But more than that, he just wanted you to look at him like that again.

——

The semester moved forward, and Bucky was in the front row every class, early enough to see you walk in. He didn’t fidget, he didn’t scroll his phone, and he didn’t scribble anything until you started talking.

His eyes were always on the door, and when you walked through it, his pulse kicked like a reflex.

You were striking.

Every week, in silk blouses, pencil skirts, or tailored trousers, always poised and sharp-edged, never once looking like anyone else on campus.

But what unstrung him was not how you looked.

It was the way you never once looked at him like an object. You never treated your students like they were interchangeable. When you looked at him, you saw him.

And Bucky felt it.

He hadn’t expected to enjoy Postmodern Literature. It sounded like the kind of class where people tried to out-theorize each other, but it surprised him.

And it was the first time since returning to school that he felt like he belonged.

Before your class, he felt like a ghost in the hallway.

Older than most of them at 26, but younger in other ways, like he’d lost time, like he was trying to catch up to a life that had kept going without him.

The Army was paying for his education. Six years in, two years out, into places no one ever talked about. He came back with too many memories and not enough peace.

Literature helped. Reading gave the noise somewhere to go. He filled notebooks just to keep the chaos from spilling over.

And you made it matter.

When you spoke, he listened with his entire body. Every word felt like a match being struck. Every question you asked set something in him on fire.

He kept his face blank when you entered, but inside, something locked into place every time.

“This isn’t a survey course,” you said on the first day. “This is an excavation. We’re going to talk about hunger, about power, about desire, and about what happens when stories lie to us.”

Bucky Barnes was going to learn everything you had to teach.

And not just from the syllabus.

—-

The first time Bucky Barnes had you shook was unexpected.

“Stanley Kowalski isn’t just a villain,” you told the room.

“He’s a study in what happens when masculinity hides its own fragility. What’s worse, being violent, or pretending you’re not?”

There was a pause.

Then his hand went up.

“Yes…?”

“Barnes. James Barnes,” he said, as if you didn’t know his name. You knew his name.

“I think pretending is worse. Because then people convince themselves it’s not violence at all. It’s just… what men do.”

The room went quiet. It was a good point. A sharp one. You nodded, your lips curving just slightly. 

“Interesting. Care to elaborate, Mr. Barnes?”

He leaned forward on the desk, shoulders tense but voice calm. 

“Stanley’s problem isn’t just power. It’s that he thinks he’s entitled to everything. Stella. The apartment. The air they breathe. And when someone tells him he’s not, he loses his mind.”

Your breath caught.

“An excellent observation,” you said, forcing your tone steady.

And you moved on to the next point, your pulse racing.

—---

He didn’t mean to linger. But he did.

Most of the class had already filtered out into the dark, backpacks slung over shoulders, the last few stragglers murmuring their way toward the exit. The lateness of the class cleared the room quickly. 

But Bucky stayed seated in the front row, fingers drumming quietly on the edge of his notebook, eyes fixed forward, on you.

You moved with quiet purpose as you erased the board, your blouse soft under the glow of fluorescent light, and your heels clicking softly against the tile.

You always moved like that, like you had all the time in the world. Like you knew he was watching, and you didn’t care.

Or maybe you did. Maybe that was the problem.

When you turned to face him, your expression was unreadable, carefully professional. 

“Did you need something, Mr. Barnes?”

He stood slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. 

“Just wanted to thank you. For the lecture.”

You raised a brow.

“You’re paying tuition. No need to thank me.”

“Still,” he said, shifting his weight, but not too close. 

“Most professors don’t talk about Streetcar like that. You didn’t soften him. You didn’t make Stanley a hero. You called him what he was.”

Something flickered across your face. Amusement, maybe. Or curiosity. Your mouth curved, just barely. 

“Is that supposed to impress me?”

He smiled warmly. Not cocky, but careful. 

“Would it work if I said yes?”

You stared at him for one beat too long. And then you laughed quietly. The sound was beautiful.

It hit him square in the chest.

“Goodnight, Mr. Barnes,” you said. But you weren’t dismissive.

It would’ve been easy to say something he shouldn’t. Something about how well that skirt fit the curves of your ass, or the slope of your neck, or the way you looked like a woman a man could ruin himself for, and thank her for it.

But he didn’t.

He just cleared his throat and said, “Goodnight, Professor.” 

And then he walked out. Before he could make a mistake.

—---

You were at your desk during office hours, door open, glasses on, red pen in hand, halfway through dissecting an undergrad’s overwrought interpretation of Beloved when you heard a knock.

You didn’t need to look up.

You already knew it was him.

There was a particular rhythm to the way James Barnes moved that was controlled and deliberate. That soldier steadiness in every step. You took a breath before looking up, willing your heart not to react, willing your body to stay still.

“Professor,” he said, low and polite, leaning just slightly into the doorway.

“You got a minute?”

“Of course,” you said, gesturing to the chair across from you like it was just another Wednesday.

Like you hadn’t been hyperaware of him since the moment he walked into your class. 

“Come in.”

He did, wearing a dark henley, jeans, and a backpack slung over one shoulder. He sat down slowly, and you caught a whiff of his scent.

It made your mouth dry.

“I wanted to talk more about the reading,” he said. “If that’s okay.”

“Always.”

He pulled out his copy of The Awakening, pages heavily annotated. 

You should have been focused on what he was saying, but you weren’t. Not entirely.

His voice had that textured quality that hummed through your spine when he spoke. And the way he watched you, like everything you said mattered, was dangerous. 

It made you lean forward. And it made your next question softer than it should have been.

“Do you think Edna is selfish? Or just trapped?”

He tilted his head.

“Both. But I think the trap came first.”

God. He was good.

You pushed your glasses up the bridge of your nose and tried not to notice how the room suddenly felt too warm. 

He spoke like it was casual. But he knew it wasn’t. Not to you. He could tell by the way your eyes lit up. 

He could get addicted to that.

He could tell that you were impressed, and that you didn’t want to be. 

That knowledge made something hot flicker in his chest.

He thought about what you’d look like letting go.

He thought about backing you against that desk and hearing you say his name. Not Mr. Barnes, Bucky.

He thought about dropping to his knees and making you forget every reason you were telling yourself not to want him.

“Mr. Barnes,” you said, clearing your throat lightly, “are you trying to impress me again?”

“Not trying,” he said, voice even. “Just telling the truth.”

That stopped you for a second. And in that second, you smiled.

That was your mistake.

Because in that smile, you gave something away.

And he knew it.

That smile wasn’t dismissive. It wasn’t professional. 

And it definitely wasn’t safe.

It told him that you were thinking about it too.

Even if you wouldn’t admit it.

He didn’t say any of that. Not yet. But one day soon, he might.

—--

You weren’t expecting to see anyone you knew at Prospect Park.

This part of Brooklyn is your quiet zone. Your weekend escape. You come for the live music, the breeze off the trees, the way the city softened just enough to let you breathe.

You were wearing a sundress, nothing scandalous, but light, flowing, a little backless. Your hair was loose and you were comfortable. Free. 

Younger than you usually let yourself feel.

You had your blanket spread out near the edge of the crowd, a book open on your lap, eyes closed as the saxophone swelled. And then…

“Professor?”

Your stomach dropped. Because you knew that voice. You opened your eyes slowly and turned your head, and there he was.

James Barnes.

He was standing a few feet away, hands in the pockets of his jeans, t-shirt snug across his chest. He had a water bottle hooked through one finger, and he looked… stunned.

You blinked, and sat up slowly. When your eyes met his, they widened just enough for him to see the truth: you hadn’t expected to see him either. 

And you weren’t ready.

“Mr. Barnes.”

His eyes raked over you, quickly, respectfully, but there was no hiding the way they lingered. 

You looked… radiant. Relaxed. And so young. Relaxed in a way he’d never seen you. Unguarded.

Your sundress moved when you shifted, a flash of bare shoulder and the curve of your neck knocking something loose in his chest. 

For a second, he forgot you were his professor. 

He just saw a woman so beautiful it felt unreal to look at you out of context. 

You watched the moment he really saw you with your hair down and your sandals off and your mouth slightly parted in surprise.

He didn’t say anything for a second too long.

And it rattled you.

You were used to being looked at. But not by him. Not like this.

“You here for the show?” you asked, trying to sound calm.

He nodded slowly as his eyes dragged over you again.

“Yeah. Didn’t expect to see anyone from campus.”

You raised an eyebrow.

“What, professors don’t like jazz?”

“No,” he said. “I just didn’t think you looked like this… out in the wild.”

You laughed, too loud. Embarrassed. And a little flattered.

“Well. Surprise.”

He didn’t look away.

And that’s when you realized, you were not in control of this moment. Not the way you usually were. Because for the first time in years, you’re the one who doesn’t know what to do with your hands. Or your mouth. 

Or your rapidly racing heart.

Bucky made small talk, played it cool, but he couldn’t stop staring.

He didn’t know you could laugh like that. He didn’t know a simple sundress could make his brain short-circuit when he’d spent weeks imagining what you look like underneath all that silk and structure.

He could leave. He probably should.

But you’re not telling him to.

And for a moment, just one long, buzzy moment, Bucky wondered if the line between you already broke, and you both just keep pretending it’s still there.

—---

You patted the edge of the blanket before you could talk yourself out of it.

“Feel free to sit,” you said, tone light, professor-pleasant. 

He hesitated only a moment, then lowered himself onto the corner, legs stretched out in front of him, careful not to sit too close. You straightened your spine but didn’t lean into the warmth.

“So,” he said after a beat, eyes forward, voice casual.

“Didn’t take you for the Prospect Park jazz type.”

You hummed softly, keeping your gaze on the stage. 

“Everyone needs a little fresh air.”

He nodded, giving you room. You sat shoulder to shoulder in a comfortable silence that allowed you to think too much.

The set ended with a soft cymbal roll and a murmur of applause. You clapped, grateful for the distraction and for something to break the silence that’s been stretching between you like a tripwire.

Bucky, James, Barnes, Christ, brushed his palms on his jeans and stood slowly. You stayed seated, not trusting your legs just yet.

“Well,” he said, his voice quiet but steady. “I should get going.”

You nodded, eyes on your book even though you haven’t read a word of it since he sat down.

“Of course. Thanks for saying hi.”

He paused. You felt it.

“I’ll see you in class,” he said finally.

And you nodded again. Too fast. Too clipped.

“Goodnight, Mr. Barnes.”

“Goodnight, Professor.”

Your name on his tongue would ruin you. You knew that. So you were grateful, in a sick way, that he didn’t use it. That he kept the mask on, even as he walked away without looking back.

Only once he was far enough away do you finally exhale.

—----

The next week, he waited until the last twenty minutes of your posted office hours.

Long enough that you probably thought no one else was coming.

You were behind your desk, papers stacked to your left, a half-empty yogurt cup in the trash beside you. Your hair was pinned back tight, the way you always wore it on days when control mattered most. The soft hum of your laptop filled the quiet, a jazz playlist coming from the speakers.

You looked like calm incarnate. But he saw the hesitation when you glanced up and saw him standing in the doorway.

"Mr. Barnes," you said, voice as composed as your posture. "Come in."

He did, quietly and carefully keeping his distance. He always did. He asked about Baldwin. Giovanni’s Room. His tone was casual, almost too casual, but the tightness in his jaw gave him away.

And then…

“I’ve been thinking about what you read in class,” he said, voice low.

“The part about self-deception.”

You looked up slowly. You knew where this was going.

“Is that what this is?”

You didn’t answer.

“I can’t pretend anymore,” he continued. “Not with you.”

The air in the room changed.

“I want you,” he said, firmer now.

“I’ve wanted you since the first class. I thought I could ignore it, bury it under respect, or rules, or whatever you needed from me. But it’s still there.”

You couldn’t breathe.

Not well. Not normally. Not with him standing there saying that like it was a truth he’d been carrying in his bones since the beginning of the semester.

You stared at him, searching for something you could use to shut it down. Immaturity. Fantasy. Entitlement. But it wasn’t there. 

He wasn’t testing you. He wasn’t fantasizing. He was telling you the truth. And now it was here.

Said aloud in your office.

“I’m not confused,” he said. 

“And I’m not asking for anything. I just needed you to know I’m done pretending I don’t feel it.”

You folded your hands in your lap because you didn’t trust them not to move. Not to reach. Not to tremble.

“This isn’t possible,” you said, voice thin. “You’re my student.”

“I know.”

But he didn’t back down.

You exhaled, and let the silence grow.

That usually made people fumble excuses to fill the void. And when he didn’t retreat, didn’t apologize, didn’t break, you reached for the only weapon left: distance.

“You’re twenty-six.”

“Almost twenty-seven.”

“I’m thirty-eight.”

“I know.”

“That’s over a decade.”

“I’m aware.”

You hated how calm he was. You hated that some stupid, aching part of you wanted him to lose control, because at least then it wouldn’t feel so dangerous. Or deliberate.

“You’ve seen things,” you said. “You’ve survived things. But you’re still figuring out who you are.”

He didn’t argue. And somehow, that made it worse.

“I’ve worked my whole life for this career,” you snapped. “I’m not throwing it away for a moment in a park or a crush you can’t separate from fantasy.”

“It’s not a crush,” he said. “And it’s not a fantasy.”

“Stop,” you said, louder than you intended.

He did.

And your throat burned. When you finally spoke again, your voice was softer.

“I need you to leave.”

He didn’t argue, just looked at you and nodded.

“Of course, Professor.”

You didn’t watch him go. You kept your eyes on the stack of ungraded essays in front of you, pretending they mattered more than the fact that you hadn’t really wanted him to leave. 

You wanted him to stay. 

And close the door.

—--

You didn’t assign any reading the next week.

You told yourself it was because midterms were coming. You told yourself it was merciful.

It wasn’t.

It was preparation.

You kept it clean in class, composed. Cold, even.

You called on him once, just to prove you could, and he answered in that low, calm voice like nothing was wrong. Like you weren’t wet under your skirt for the full fifty minutes.

And when the room cleared, and he stayed in his seat, you just stood.

“I need to see you in my office about last week’s meeting, Mr. Barnes.”

He just sat there and watched you walk out of the door, listening to your heels click their way down the hall to your office.

You left the door unlocked.

You waited.

And when he finally stepped into your office and shut the door behind him, you just looked at him. And he looked at you.

And that was all it took to understand.

You stepped back against your desk and swallowed hard.

“We don’t talk about this after,” you said, quietly.

“Okay,” he said, eyes dark.

“But you need to say it.”

You nodded once. “It’s just sex.”

Bucky knew you were lying, but you were offering him something and he was going to take it. He moved toward you.

You held his gaze.

“I’m on birth control.”

“I’m clean,” he said. “Tested last month.”

“So am I.”

A pause. You lifted your chin.

“I want it raw.”

He exhaled through his nose, something primal flickering across his face.

“Jesus. You sure?”

You nodded again. “You?”

“Yeah,” he said, voice rasping now. “Fuck yeah.”

And when his hands finally landed on you, you felt your control collapse. And it felt so good.

He kissed you like you were already his, like he’d spent months imagining this exact moment, how your mouth would part, how your hands would clutch at his shoulders, how your body would give the second he asked.

You moaned into him, soft, needy, and unguarded. And that was all he needed. He lifted you in one clean motion and set you back on your desk.

Urgently. You shoved the papers aside with one sweep of your arm. Something fluttered to the floor. You didn’t care.

His hands pushed your skirt up to your waist, exposing your bare thighs, and when he realized you weren’t wearing anything underneath…

“Fuck,” he whispered, looking down at you like he’d never seen a pussy before.

You hooked your ankles around his hips. 

“Don’t waste time.”

He looked up, eyes locked on yours, and slid two fingers through your cunt, like he wanted to memorize how wet you already were for him.

“Jesus,” he muttered. “You were like this all through class?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Your head tipped back when he sank to his knees.

He didn't tease and he didn’t take his time.

His mouth was on you in seconds, hot and filthy, his tongue licking up your slit, mouth closing over your clit like he’d been studying for this moment. And he had.

You gasped, one hand flying to the edge of the desk, the other buried in his hair as he groaned into you. It was too much. Too fast. Too good.

You’d touched yourself thinking about this. Pictured it. Fantasized. But nothing had prepared you for the way he devoured you. Like he needed it to breathe.

Your thighs shook. Your hips rolled into his mouth. And when you came, you heard him groan like he felt it, too.

He stood quickly, shoved his jeans down just enough, and lined himself up without another word.

You looked down and your breath caught. You wanted it. You asked for this. You reached between your legs and guided him in yourself.

You both groaned.

He filled you in one slow thrust, inch after inch of hard, perfect pressure, and you nearly came again right then.

His hands gripped your thighs. He drew back and thrust again, so hard the desk creaked.

You bit your lip to keep from screaming.

“Look at me,” he growled.

You did.

His eyes were wild.

“I’ve wanted this,” he said, voice breaking on the words. “Wanted you.”

You wrapped your arms around his shoulders. “Then fuck me like you mean it.”

He did.

Every thrust was deep, deliberate, devastating. The sound of skin on skin filled the room, slick and obscene. Your body took him like you were made for it, like this was inevitable. Like finally.

He slid one hand up your blouse, pushed your bra up, palmed your breast, and groaned when you arched into it. His mouth was at your throat, biting, sucking, and praising through gritted teeth.

“So tight. Fuck you feel so good.”

You clawed at his back.

“I’m gonna come,” you gasped. “Don’t stop! Please”

He buried his face in your neck. 

“Not stopping. Not, fuck, not pulling out…”

You came hard. Writhing, and breaking beneath him.

And when he followed,seconds later, pulsing inside you with a choked groan and a helpless thrust, you realized: This would never be just sex.

And you were never going to forget this.

—----

He knocked the next week at office hours. You almost wished he wouldn’t.

You looked up, your expression blank. “Come in.”

He stepped inside. Closed the door gently. Not locking it. 

You gestured to the chair. “Sit.”

He did.

You watched him for a moment. He looked good. Too good. Calm again. Always so goddamn calm. You folded your hands in your lap.

“This can’t happen again.”

He didn’t flinch. Just waited.

You cleared your throat. 

“What happened in this office was unprofessional. And dangerous. For both of us.”

Still, he said nothing.

“I don’t care how quiet we are. If anyone finds out…”

“They won’t,” he said softly.

“That’s not the point.”

You didn’t raise your voice. But it felt like a scream.

“I worked too hard for this. I have too much to lose.”

“I know.”

You blinked. “That’s it?”

He met your eyes. 

“If you’re done, if you really don’t want me to touch you again, say it.”

You opened your mouth. But no words came out. Because that wasn’t true. And you both knew it.

So instead, you said: “This ends now.”

And he nodded once. But his eyes didn’t believe you.

And when he stood to leave, your body betrayed you again. Because you wanted him.

You said it before you could stop yourself.

“James.”

It was soft, a sound you weren’t aware you were capable of. Not so full of need like that. 

But he heard it. He paused in the doorway. Shoulders tensed. One hand still on the knob. He turned and met your eyes.

And you didn’t take it back.

He stepped back into the room and shut the door behind him, locking it this time.

He crossed the room in three strides, hands on your body, spinning you around with authority. And you let him. 

Your blouse was still buttoned. Your trousers were still on. But you were soaked the moment he touched you. 

“You knew I couldn’t resist you,” he said, voice low behind you.

His mouth grazed your ear as he pressed into you, hard beneath his jeans.

“You don’t want me to.”

You didn’t deny it, just unbuttoned your pants and let them fall.

No panties again.

His hands were on you in an instant, dragging you back against him, cursing under his breath when his fingers slipped between your legs and found you already dripping.

“You wanted this.”

“Don’t talk,” you breathed.

But you didn’t mean it.

He pushed your blouse up, leaned over you, one hand planted on the desk beside yours, the other between your legs.

“You still want it raw?”

You nodded.

“Say it.”

“Yes,” you whispered. “Please.”

He undid his jeans. You felt the press of him against your thigh, hot and thick and ready.

And when he pushed into you, you gasped.

There was no easing in. Just a deep, brutal thrust that forced a broken moan from your lips. You slapped a hand over your mouth, but he grabbed your wrist and pulled it away.

“Let me hear it.”

He fucked you hard. So hard that your desk rocked.

You forgot how to breathe as your cheek pressed against the cool surface of your desk and as your hands gripped the edge. 

He fucked you like he owned you, like this was always going to happen. 

Like he knew exactly what you needed, and he wasn’t going to let you hide from it again.

“You’re mine right now,” he panted. “No lies. No rules. Just this.”

You came fast, unexpectedly, a sob punching out of your throat as you clenched around him. He groaned and followed you seconds later, spilling inside you with a sharp cry, his hips stuttering against your ass.

For a long moment, there was nothing but breathing. He leaned over your back, both hands braced on the desk now, chest heaving.

You stayed still beneath him, your body still shaking.

Neither of you spoke.

Because what could you say?

—--

It was break week, and of course you could survive without seeing Bucky. 

It was just sex, and you were a grown woman. You wouldn’t text him; he didn’t have your number and you only had his because you had his student information.

You told yourself you wouldn’t. 

It was unprofessional.

You told yourself that if you just made it through Monday without texting, the rest of the week would be easier. And you almost believed it.

But by Thursday afternoon, your resolve had withered under need. Your apartment was too still. Your phone was too close.

You typed the message three times. Deleted it each time. Then sent it anyway.

You Did you finish Baldwin yet? Figure out the nature of self-deception?

You threw your phone across the couch the second it delivered.

Five minutes passed.

Then ten.

Then…

James: Did you really just text me about Baldwin while I’m picturing your ass bent over your desk?

Your stomach flipped.

You told yourself not to respond.

You absolutely responded.

You: I was being professional.

James: You didn’t sound very professional last time I had my fingers inside you.

You closed your eyes. And your pulse dropped straight between your thighs.

And then, another buzz.

James: Should I stop?

You stared at the screen.

Then your thumbs moved on their own.

You: No.

And that was it.

That was the beginning of the end.

Because now he had your number. And he didn’t just use it to flirt.

He used it to unravel you.

James: What are you wearing right now?

You shouldn’t have answered. But you did.

You: Nothing you’d be allowed to see if we were in class.

James: I wouldn’t need to see it.

You: No?

James: I’d just need to hear you.

Your breath caught as you watched the bubbles.

James: Want me to call you?

Your heart pounded as you stared at the screen.

Then you typed.

You: Yes.

—---

You answered without thinking.

He didn’t even say hello.

“Take your hand,” he said, voice calm, “and put it between your legs.”

Your breath caught instantly. 

“James…”

“Do it.”

You did.

And it was worse than being touched. Because now, every movement was yours, but every command was his.

“Are you wet?” he asked.

You nodded, forgetting he couldn’t see you. 

“Yes.”

“Fuck,” he muttered. “You miss me?”

You closed your eyes, head dropping back onto your pillow. 

“Yes.”

“How bad?”

“Don’t make me say it.”

“I want to hear you,” he growled. “You started this. Now I want you to tell me what you’ve been thinking about.”

You swallowed.

“Your hands on me. Your mouth. The way you sound when you come. The way you…”

“Touch yourself.”

You gasped at the sound of his voice in your ear, that subtle shift to something darker, something claiming.

“Just two fingers,” he said. “Keep the pressure light. Don’t come yet.”

You obeyed.

“Good girl.”

Your hips bucked slightly.

“Oh, you like that?” he asked, smug now. “I bet you’re soaked.”

“I hate you,” you breathed.

“No you don’t,” he said, quieter now.

“You love this. Being ruined without me even being in the room. So fucking desperate for it you couldn’t go one more day without hearing me.”

You whimpered, and his voice dropped further.

“Circle your clit. Slowly. Just like that. Stay with me.”

You could hear his breathing now. It wasn’t clean. He was hard. He was touching himself too. You knew it. You heard it in his voice.

“I want you so fucking bad,” he groaned.

“That desk wasn’t enough. I need to fuck you until you cry. Until you forget how to teach. Until you forget every name but mine.”

Your hips jerked.

“You close?”

“Yes, fuck, James, I…”

“Not yet.”

You froze.

“I want you begging.”

“I am.”

“No. Say it.”

You shook.

“Please, James. Let me come. I need it. Please…”

“Now,” he growled. “Come for me. Right now.”

And you did.

Hard. Gasping. One hand clamped over your mouth, the other between your legs, writhing into the mattress as the sound of his voice pushed you right over the edge.

On the other end, you heard him break too, a low, broken grunt, a whispered fuck, the subtle sound of his body surrendering.

Silence followed. Thick. Heavy. Full.

“Still just sex?” he asked finally.

You didn’t answer.

You couldn’t.

Because that was the lie. And you’d both just drowned in it.

—----

You didn’t sleep. Not really.

Every time you closed your eyes, you heard his voice.

Touch yourself. Good girl. Come for me. Like a current under your skin. Like a drug you couldn’t shake.

By midmorning, you gave up trying. You poured coffee, opened your laptop, stared at the stack of essays you were supposed to grade.

And then you reached for your phone.

No plan. No script.

Just the ache.

You: What are you doing?

He replied almost immediately.

James: Whatever you want me to be doing.

Your thighs pressed together. You were hopeless.

You: You’re insufferable.

James: You’re obsessed.

You didn’t argue.

James: Send me a photo.

Your pulse spiked.

You: Of what?

James: You. Just your mouth. No smile. Nothing posed. I want to see the version of you I shouldn’t have.

You hesitated.

Then turned on the front camera.

Hair messy. No makeup. Pillow creases still pressed into your cheek. Lips parted. No performance.

You sent it.

Seconds passed.

Then,

James: Take your shirt off.

You stared at the screen.

James: I want to see your tits while I jerk off.

Your breath caught.

You looked around your empty apartment like someone might be watching.

Then you pulled your shirt over your head.

You weren’t wearing a bra.

You angled the camera down just enough.

You took the photo and stared at it.

You looked... undone.

You sent it anyway.

James: Fuck. You’re perfect.

Another message followed right after.

James: Next time I want video.

You: What do you want me to do?

His reply came fast.

James: I want to hear what you sound like when you finger yourself and look into the camera like it’s me.

You dropped the phone onto the bed, your face burning, your body already responding.

You hated how much you wanted it.

And you loved that he asked.

—------

You turned off every light but one and propped your phone up on your nightstand, angled carefully. You could see yourself in the frame, messy, flushed, bare.

Your pulse was already high and your mouth was dry. Your fingers shook as you hit record.

"Hi,” you whispered, embarrassed.

Then you bit your lip and tried again.

“James…”

His name felt like a weight in your chest. Your thighs shifted.

“I can’t stop thinking about you.”

You lowered the camera slowly, past your collarbones, over your breasts, down your belly. You spread your legs.

No teasing. No preamble.

You wanted him to see the truth of it. The urgency. The craving.

You let your fingers slip down, just two, and parted yourself. You were already, still, wet. You couldn’t fake it.

You circled your clit, slowly as you said his name. 

“James…”

Your free hand slid up your body, palming your breast, pinching your nipple until you gasped.

The camera caught everything. The angle of your hips. The arch of your back. The way your mouth opened when you slipped the two fingers inside yourself.

You looked into the lens, right at him

“You want this, don’t you?” you whispered. “You want to watch me come thinking about your cock inside me?”

You fucked yourself harder.

Faster.

“Is this how you want me? Needing you?”

You whimpered, unable to stop.

“You’d fuck me so good if you were here.”

You knew he’d watch it more than once, you wanted him to. You wanted him wrecked.

“I’m gonna come,” you gasped, hips bucking. “I’m gonna…fuck…James…”

You came hard, legs shaking. Your body exposed in all the ways you swore you never would be.

You let the camera roll as you caught your breath, chest heaving.

Then you leaned in and whispered, “Your turn.”

And stopped the video.

You sent it. No warning. No text. Just the file.

Seconds later, he responded.

James: Jesus fucking Christ.

Then a voice message.

You hit play.

He was breathing hard.

“Baby,” he said, wrecked and reverent, “I’m gonna come just thinking about what I’m gonna do to you next time I see you. You think I fucked you hard before? You don’t even know.”

You lay back, smiling.

You did this.

You ruined him.

—----

Your phone buzzed.

You sat up straight and your heart kicked like it had been waiting. You pressed play.

The image loaded.

And what you saw was dim lighting, the camera angled low. And there he was, naked, stretched out on his bed, one arm tucked behind his head, the other wrapped tight around his cock.

He was hard. Thick, And leaking from the thick mushroom tip that destroyed your soul.

“Baby,” he said, hoarse. “What the fuck did you do to me?”

Your breath caught instantly.

Baby.

No one had called you that in a long time.

He stroked himself slowly, base to tip, eyes locked on the screen.

“You send me that video, looking like that, saying my name like it’s the only word you know, and you expect me to be calm?”

His hand tightened. His abs tensed.

“You were dripping, weren’t you? So fucking wet. Just thinking about me.”

He dragged his thumb over the head of his cock and groaned.

“I can’t stop watching it. Can’t stop seeing your fingers inside you, your mouth, your tits, those little sounds you make when you’re about to fall apart.”

He was close. You could see it in the way his hips shifted, the way his free hand gripped the sheets.

“I swear to God, the next time I’m inside you, I’m not stopping until you beg me to. I’ll hold your legs open and fuck you so fucking deep. There will be no hiding.”

You whimpered.

It was like he heard it. He smirked.

“I want to feel you shake under me. Want to feel your nails in my back, your come on my cock, your voice saying my name.”

His eyes flicked down.

“I’m gonna come,” he panted. “You watching, baby? You gonna come with me next time?”

He grunted, low, raw, broken, his body tensing as he came hard, ropes of it spilling over his hand, across his stomach, the sound of it filling the room.

You were breathless.

He looked straight into the camera, chest heaving.

And said, “Next time, you ride me until I forget my own name.”

The video ended.

You sat there, phone still in your hand, thighs pressed tight, pulse racing.

And that was the moment you knew this wasn’t a fling. This wasn’t just sex. This was an addiction.

And you wanted more.

—--

You didn’t think. You didn’t ask. You didn’t play.

You watched his video in your bed, one hand clutched in the sheets, thighs slick and trembling, your whole body strung tight with need.

You didn’t touch yourself. Didn’t move. You just stared at the screen.

And then, you opened the message app, tapped his name, and sent him your location.

No text, no explanation. Just a pin.

Come here.

That’s what it meant.

You knew he’d understand.

You stood up and unlocked the front door. 

Then you waited.

And when you heard his knock, you didn’t hesitate, you opened the door.

He stood there, hood up, breath ragged, eyes already dark. No words.

No one said a thing.

He pressed you against the wall, lips crashing into yours, hands already sliding up your sides, lifting your shirt to bare your breasts.

Your legs parted on instinct.

His knee pressed between them, his hands gripping your waist like he couldn’t believe you were real. You pulled at his hoodie. He dragged it off.

He wasn’t gentle and you didn’t want him to be. You guided his hand between your legs.

He groaned.

“You’re so fucking ready for me,” he rasped. “All I did was show you how bad I want you.”

You didn’t answer. You just reached for his belt.

Because this wasn’t sexting.This wasn’t a video. This wasn’t pretend.

This was real.

And you needed him inside you like oxygen.

—--

He pressed you against the wall like he was starved. He was frantic. There was no careful undressing. No asking. Just taking.

Your shirt was gone before you even realized it. You didn’t remember lifting your arms. You only remembered the sound of him groaning when he saw your bare chest, the heat of his mouth on your nipple, the way he bit down just enough to make you gasp.

He unzipped his jeans and, shoved his boxers down. His cock sprang free you almost dropped to your knees. But he grabbed your face, and kissed you again, deeper this time. 

“Not tonight,” he muttered. “I need to be inside you.”

You didn’t argue,  you just turned and pressed your hands against the wall and arched your back, giving him everything.

He groaned. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

He dragged the head of his cock through your soaking wet folds, and then with one sharp thrust, he entered you. 

You gasped loudly.

He filled you, raw and perfect, like your body had been made to take him.

“Fuck,” he whispered. “This pussy’s unreal.”

You pressed your forehead to the wall, eyes shut, trying to breathe.He pulled back, then slammed into you again. Again. Again.

The sound of it was obscene.

Your walls clenched around him, as one hand slid under your body, finding your clit. He rubbed in tight circles as he fucked you deep.

“You close?” he panted. “You gonna come on me already?”

“Yes, God, don’t stop…”

He slammed into you harder.

“You want me to fill you again?”

“Yes, fuck, yes….”

“Say it.”

“I want your come,” you choked. “I want it inside me.”

He groaned, gripped your hips harder, and pounded into you like he meant to stay.

You came hard, shaking, gasping, and ruined.

He followed seconds later, burying himself deep and coming with a sound that made your whole body throb. You felt every pulse of it. Every drop.

He stayed like that for a moment. Inside you. Chest against your back. Breathing hard.

Then he kissed your shoulder. Softly. Almost sweet.

And that scared you more than anything else.

-----

Send asks, reblogs, comments. Let me know if you feel the way that I feel. 🫠

[ramp-it-up]

Join me in my delusion!

I’m back at work as of Thursday(I know, it’s toooo earlyyy) and I’ve been down about it for a couple of weeks.

And you know and I know I have no business, but I’ve been maladaptive daydreaming.

Okay. Walk with me here.

A Professor x Student AU featuring Bucky Barnes

You’re the professor though…

[ramp-it-up]

TYSM for sharing!

Knock You Down Series (Mob/Art Dealer! Bucky)

James Bucky Barnes is an avowed bachelor and one night stand artist. But when he meets you, he finds out that sometimes love comes around, and it knocks you down.

I, II,III, IV

V: …As Hard as I Did

VI: All I Know it Feels So Damn Good

VII: Dessert or Disaster?

VIII: You’ve Got Me Thinking

IX: Worth the Fall

X:Drabble: Bespoke

XI: Answer Love’s Call

XII: Drabble: Good Morning

XIII: Make It So

XIV: At Last

Read the Mob!Steve Rogers x Dancer!Reader Peach Fics

Read Everything In Order, Knock You Down and the Peach Fics.

I, II,III, IV

V: …As Hard as I Did

VI: All I Know it Feels So Damn Good

VII: Dessert or Disaster?

VIII: You’ve Got Me Thinking

Peach I, II, III

IX: Worth the Fall

Peach IV, V, VI,

X:Drabble: Bespoke

Peach VII 7.5

XI: Answer Love’s Call

Peach Ties That Bind

XII: Drabble: Good Morning

XIII: Make It So

Peach Show Off

Insert Muse One through Five Here

XIV: At Last

Peach: Pop Fly

[ramp-it-up]

I love everything about this reblog. You have my heart.

Thank you.

Hearts on Fire

Summary: You and Bucky are a couple now. And the only obstacles between you is what's in your own head.

Word count: 4.2 K

Pairing: Firefighter! Bucky Barnes x Principal! Reader; Jake Jensen x Reader, Platonic.

A/N: I just can't get enough. I have a lot to say about them. Sorry @nissaimmortal, they are not being as good a we thought they should be. 😬 Lot's of you all have given me inspiration for this chapter through your reblogs and comments, so if you see something familiar, yes I did! Here is the previous part. I'm so caught up in these two that I've agonized over this part. Don't know if it's good, but here you go. This was inspired by an abandoned AU from last year and then this ask from a few weeks ago. I can't get him out of my mind. Bucky is a firefighter and both him and Reader are burn survivors. Tell me how you feel by reblogging, commenting, sending asks, dm'ing and the like. Interaction is life.

Warnings: 18+ Only, Minors DNI. Read at your own risk. This fic/au deals with fires, burns, burn survivors and recovery. There are graphic descriptions of burns, injury, and pain. Angst, but definitely smut and fluff. Bucky and Reader are burn survivors. Body image issues because of scarring. People clocking you and Bucky, a precocious messy teenager and his crew. Pining, phone calls, chaos texting, mirror selfies, sweet goodnights, THOSE THREE WORDS, graphic discussions of sex, definitely Dom Bucky, oral (f receiving), talking you through it, bed humping, cuming in pants, but not the money shot.

I no longer have a taglist. Please follow @rampitupandread and turn on notifications to learn when I post! 😘

I Do NOT Consent to my work being reposted, translated or presented on any other blog or site other than by myself.

-------

When you got to school Monday morning, you were smiling.

Which was suspicious. Too suspicious.

Lorraine, your secretary, gave you her usual nod at the front desk, but her eyes lingered like she knew something.

You breezed down the hall, heels clicking against the tile, and had nearly reached your office when Jake materialized, coffee in one hand, tablet in the other, that permanently arched brow aimed squarely at you.

“Someone’s glowing,” he drawled, falling into step beside you.

“Good weekend?”

You tried not to react, but failed, because the corner of your mouth betrayed you with a twitch.

“Actually,” you said carefully, “I was helping my…”

The word caught. Boyfriend still felt too new.

“…Lieutenant Barnes. He was injured Friday night. Cracked scapula, some burns. He’ll be okay.”

Jake’s brow stayed raised, his smirk unreadable.

“Your Lieutenant Barnes?”

You didn’t bite, just met his gaze until he smirked wider and moved on down another hallway.

“Sorry he’s hurt. Guess he’s getting A+ care.”

Your ears burned. You quickened your pace, ducked into your office, and locked the door behind you. Pressing your back against the wood, you let out a long breath.

And, of course, thought about how Bucky had somehow negotiated your staying until this morning.

And leaving your panties behind.

Your used panties.

Your thighs clenched at the thought of what he was doing with them right now. You straightened your pencil skirt in the mirror, forcing your expression into something resembling composure.

You really were glowing.

You were no better than your teenagers, you thought.

But you could be a professional.

A professional with a hot, rugged, needy, maddeningly handsome firefighter boyfriend.

Of course you could.

-----

It didn’t help that Tristan Salazar, senior class president and perpetual thorn in your side, had radar for this sort of thing.

You were halfway through morning rounds, coffee in one hand and clipboard in the other, when he fell into step beside you, curls bouncing, blazer crooked like he’d slept in it.

“Principal Lookin’-Too-Happy,” he greeted, grinning like he’d found a new headline.

“Morning,” you said, not slowing. “That your new campaign slogan?”

He jogged to keep up, eyes flicking over you with unnerving accuracy.

“That glow? Either you got a raise, or you got some serious lovin’ this weekend.”

“That is wildly inappropriate, Mr. Salazar.”

He grinned wider.

“Hey, just saying. Ever since the courtyard popcorn fire fiasco, when you and Lieutenant McHottie were staring each other down like an old-school CW pilot audition, your whole vibe’s different. Good different. But different.”

You stopped walking. He didn’t.

“Not judging,” he added quickly, walking backward now, curls bouncing, eyes bright with mischief.

“Just… maybe warn us if y’all elope. Jensen in charge is chaos.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Elope?”

“I mean, the way you two looked at each other? Half the senior class thought the sprinklers were about to kick on. If there’s a wedding, I want a line in the program under witness to sexual tension.”

You turned on your heel and kept walking. He trailed after you.

“Anyway, I like him,” Tristan added breezily.

“He looks like the kind of guy who reads instructions and folds his laundry. You need that balance.”

You stopped just long enough to level him with a stare.

“You didn’t turn in your AP Lang assignment. You need that credit to graduate.”

His grin faltered.

“And this is why I should keep my mouth shut.”

“Mm-hmm.”

You kept walking. He called after you.

“Just don’t be weird at Homecoming, okay? We need you for the group photo!”

You didn’t answer. But you couldn’t stop yourself from smiling, either.

-----

By lunch, Amyra popped in from her bookkeeping job at central office, salads and seltzers in hand, her grin locked and loaded.

“Jake says you’re glowing,” she announced, dropping into the chair across from your desk.

“And Tristan Salazar says he’s shipping you and Lt. McHottie, which I’m guessing is Bucky’s alias. Should I start dress-shopping?”

You dropped your pen.

“They’re both insufferable.”

Amyra shrugged, spearing a forkful of salad.

“You’re not denying it, though. He’s okay?”

“He’s healing,” you said softly. “Sling, PT, burns. Annoyed he can’t do much, but he’s fine.”

Her smirk grew.

“I have a feeling who he wants to do. Glad you two finally admitted it.”

You lobbed a napkin at her head, but your frown lingered.

“Maybe it’s Stockholm Syndrome, because he pulled me out of that fire. Maybe he doesn’t actually want to be… tied to me.”

Amyra crossed her eyes, sighed, and shook her head.

“You know that’s not...never mind, you have three degrees. I’m not arguing with you.”

Her gaze flicked to your hand, absently rubbing your thigh over your skirt.

“Are you worried about…?”

You exhaled, staring at your desk.

“Sometimes I wonder what he sees. I know he’s seen it before, but…”

“Babe,” Amyra’s tone softened, though her grin stayed. “He literally pulled you out of a fire. Wrapped that leg himself. He didn’t flinch then, and he’s still calling, texting, and apparently making you smile like this.”

She tilted her head, assessing you.

“Let the man look at you the way he wants to. Sounds like he’s dying to.”

You groaned into your hands, unwilling to trust the warmth bubbling in your chest. Amyra just laughed and switched the topic, letting you stew in it.

—---

Bucky, meanwhile, was quietly losing it.

The apartment felt hollow without you. He couldn’t work out, couldn’t even do more than basic PT without Shea threatening to tape him to the couch, and every time he caught his reflection, bandages, sling, prosthetic, burns, it was like looking at a patchwork project.

But then he thought about you.

About you curled up beside him in his bed, drowning in his hoodie, lips swollen from one too many goodbye kisses, laughing softly when he’d murmured, don’t forget to leave me something to remember you by.

His mood shifted fast.

He angled his phone toward the mirror and snapped a shot—sweatpants slung low, bandage covering most of the angry red skin on his shoulder. He wasn’t perfect. Not by a long shot. But the way you’d touched him this weekend, the way you’d looked at him like he wasn’t broken, told him you wanted him anyway.

He grinned as he typed.

Lt. Barnes: Thought you might need motivation to get through your Monday.

He could picture your face the moment you locked your office door to open it.

The photo nearly made you drop your phone.

Shirtless. Hair tousled. Bandages stark on one shoulder, sweatpants hanging low enough to be criminal, a sinful cut of abs and a dark trail of hair disappearing beneath the waistband.

And the outline of his cock, thick and impossible to miss, made your pulse skip.

You scanned the rest of the image, your eyes catching on his stupidly handsome face, the hint of a smirk like he already knew you’d stare at this picture every spare second. But his eyes, dark, hungry, and unashamed, were what made your breath catch.

And then there were the scars. The ridges you’d traced this weekend, not out of pity, but because they were his. Because he’d let you see him, really see him, and hadn’t flinched when you looked.

He hadn’t sent this just to tease. He wanted you to know he was still thinking about you. Maybe that he thought you were beautiful, too.

Your thighs pressed together beneath your desk as you typed back.

Wow.

Your phone buzzed again almost instantly.

Lt. Barnes: Can’t stop thinking about this weekend. From the ER to your arms. Can’t stop picturing you at work, bossy and hot as hell. Can’t stop thinking about that smile you gave me yesterday. Right before you handed me your panties.

Your pulse thudded hard, heat rising to your cheeks.

Lt. Barnes: Can’t stop dreaming about having you back in my bed. Wishing I could have you under me. Around me. But mostly, I just want you here.

That last line hit deeper. Not just lust. Longing.

You swallowed and typed back.

I’ll call you tonight.

Lt. Barnes: I’ll be waiting. Dreaming about you. Wearing my hoodie. No panties. Because I’ve got them. Wrapped around my hand.

You didn’t answer. Not yet. You needed air. Caffeine. Something to stop you from grinning like a teenager who’d just spent all weekend making out with the firefighter of her dreams.

------

By the next week, Bucky was already in a mood.

As quickly as Tuesday, despite you spending most of the weekend taking care of him again, he was back to pacing his place like a caged animal.

The sling chafed, his burns itched, and every time he tried to sleep, he woke up half-hard, aching, and dangerously close to snapping his phone in half because all he wanted was you curled up in his bed again.

Shea’s voice echoed in his head on a loop: No heavy lifting. No weight-bearing. No rigorous activity.

Bucky wanted to fight the man for doing his job.

Instead, he was muttering under his breath, working through PT stretches in the living room, and gritting his teeth as he flexed his shoulder.

The doorbell rang just as he eased himself out of the band, still grumbling.

Steve, Syverson, and Ari were all on his porch when he opened the door. Wearing identical grins.

“Jesus,” Bucky muttered. “Is there a sign out here that says ‘Come Harass Me’?”

Sy brushed past him, dropping sandwiches on the counter.

“We needed to make sure you weren’t laid up and miserable. You’re insufferable when you’re bored.”

Ari lingered near the door, sipping his coffee, his smirk sharp.

“You don’t look miserable. Which is… interesting.”

Bucky narrowed his eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” Ari said smoothly, “I saw your principal leaving yesterday morning. In your sweatshirt. Looking glowy. Hot. And very… not miserable.”

Steve barked a laugh before Bucky could respond to Ari calling you hot.

“No way. She stayed over again? Barnes, you dog.” He grinned. “You already in there?”

Sy gave a low whistle.

“Damn, Barnes. Most guys wait until they’re not strapped into a sling to seal the deal.”

Bucky’s ears went hot.

“It’s not like that,” he muttered.

“Uh-huh,” Steve drawled. “Totally platonic. Just her, staying over, cooking for you, tucking you in.”

Sy smirked. “She must really like you, since Shea hasn’t cleared you for… anything fun.”

Ari finally set his coffee down, tone flattening.

“You can thank me, by the way.”

Bucky frowned, caught off guard. “For what?”

“For dragging your stubborn ass out of that fire,” Ari said, eyes glinting. “You wouldn’t be standing here if I hadn’t.”

The room went quiet. Bucky’s jaw tightened, because Ari wasn’t wrong.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “I know. Thanks. You didn’t have to do it.”

“Of course I did,” Ari said, his voice softening for once. “You’re my brother. Even if you’re a stubborn jackass who doesn’t know when to ask for help.”

Bucky swallowed hard. That one hit.

Then Ari’s smirk slid right back into place.

“So don’t make me fish you out again. And don’t be an idiot trying to prove something to your principal while Shea’s still got you benched. I’m not hauling you out twice because you can’t think with your big head on the job.”

Bucky grunted, heat crawling up his neck. They all knew him too well.

He grabbed a sandwich, muttering, “You all need new hobbies.”

Steve chuckled. “Nah. Watching you squirm? Highlight of my week.”

Bucky glared half-heartedly, unwrapping his sandwich.

“You’re all assholes.”

“True,” Steve said easily, grabbing his own. “But we brought lunch. Eat before you sulk yourself into another injury.”

Despite himself, Bucky’s mouth twitched. He texted you under the table.

Lt. McHottie ❤️‍🔥: Your fan club’s here. They’re annoying. Send help. Or pictures.

He didn't think you would answer right away. But you did. You were still floating from the weekend.

You: Poor baby. Should I send something to cheer you up?

Bucky smirked down at the screen, already typing.

Lt. McHottie ❤️‍🔥: Always.

You glanced around your office, unbuttoned your blouse just enough to reveal pushed-up cleavage, the edge of black lace, and the faint shadow of a hickey along your collarbone. A teasing snap of your fingers brushing your neck and your lips barely visible in the frame.

You sent it with a single caption:

You: Still thinking about your favorite color?

Bucky’s phone lit up on the counter just as Steve leaned over to grab another sandwich.

Steve caught a flash of the photo before Bucky could tilt the screen away. His brow shot up.

“What was that?”

Bucky scowled, locking his phone. “Nothing. Mind your own.”

Sy snorted. “That didn’t look like nothing.”

Ari just sipped his coffee, eyes glinting.

“No wonder he’s not miserable.”

Bucky muttered, “All of you can get the hell out,” but his mouth twitched anyway.

—---

By Thursday, you were at Bucky’s place for the evening PT session Shea had insisted on, watching him try to rotate his arm without looking like he wanted to punch a wall.

“Relax,” you said from behind him. “You’re overcompensating with your back. Let your arm do the work.”

“Easy for you to say,” he grunted. “You’re not the one who feels like your shoulder’s held together with duct tape and a prayer.”

You stepped closer, fingers grazing his good shoulder as you guided his posture.

“Stop being stubborn. You’ll heal faster if you don’t try to brute force it.”

“You bossing me around, Principal?”

“Someone has to,” you shot back.

But when he shifted again and the bandage on his upper chest tugged loose, revealing the faint, angry line of a healing burn, his jaw tightened. His gaze flicked away before landing back on you.

You smoothed the gauze back into place gently, your voice softening.

“Does it hurt?”

“Only when I let it remind me what I can’t do yet,” he muttered.

You hesitated, then brushed your fingers over his hand.

“It doesn’t make you any less.”

His blue eyes softened. For a long moment, neither of you moved, the air tightening as his thumb traced your wrist. Then he leaned in, kissing you deeply, his good hand sliding to your waist.

But Bucky pulled back first, resting his forehead against yours.

“God, I want you,” he rasped. “When I can hold you the way I want. Not careful. Not halfway.”

Your pulse thudded, but you nodded. “Okay.”

He kissed you again, softer, more certain. “It’ll be worth the wait.”

-----

That night, as you brushed your teeth, your phone buzzed.

You pressed play on his voice message, his low, rough voice spilling into your ear:

“Doll… can’t stop thinking about you tonight. The way you kissed me. The way you looked helping me stretch. The color of your nipples. You’re driving me insane.”

There was a pause, his breath catching faintly, before his tone dropped.

“Soon as Shea gives me the green light, I’m taking you apart slowly. Making up for every night I had to lie here hard as a rock, pretending I wasn’t.”

Your breath caught, toothbrush still in hand.

“Save your voice for me,” he murmured, his voice fraying at the edges. “You’re gonna need it.”

You replayed it twice before thumbing back a reply.

You: How am I supposed to sleep now, Barnes?

The typing dots popped up instantly.

Lt. McHottie ❤️‍🔥: That’s the idea.

By Wednesday of the third week, Bucky was practically vibrating by the time Shea walked into the exam room.

The doctor flipped through his chart with the same calm detachment that had been driving Bucky crazy since the hospital.

“Burns are healing well. No grafts needed. Range of motion is good. Sling stays one more week for support, but you can start light duty at the station.”

Then Shea looked up, brow arched.

“And at home, if you’re careful.”

Bucky’s smirk was instant. “Define careful.”

“No lifting anything heavier than a hose or a pair of panties,” Shea deadpanned.

“No overhead reaching, no sudden jerks, and still no full-out weight-bearing. But…”

He snapped the tablet closed.

“You can use what still works. Just don’t make me bandage you up again.”

Bucky grinned, already pulling out his phone as he replied.

“Understood, Doc.”

----

You were halfway through an evaluation write-up when your phone buzzed.

Lt. McHottie ❤️‍🔥: Cleared for light duty. Let me have Friday through Sunday, Doll. Bring your laptop. You won’t get much work done, but bring it anyway.

Your pulse jumped.

You: So Shea approved you for paperwork, not sex.

Barnes: Shea approved me for light duty. May not be able to go all the way, but damn it, he said I’m cleared to handle a pair of panties. Guess you’ll have to come supervise.

By the time Friday rolled around, you were hopped up with anticipation.

You barely had time to kick off your shoes before Bucky’s good hand slid around your waist and pinned you gently to the wall, his mouth claiming yours in a kiss that burned away three weeks of restraint in a single breath.

“Missed you,” he rasped against your lips.

“You saw me Tuesday,” you whispered back.

“Not like this.”

—----

Dinner was a lazy blur of takeout containers, half-empty wine glasses, and you half-heartedly tapping at your laptop. By the time you finally shut it and flicked off the living room light, Bucky was already propped on his good side against the headboard in his bedroom, TV on low, but his eyes fixed on you, not the screen.

You changed in the bathroom, peeling off your work clothes and tugging on a soft tank top and sleep shorts. The mirror caught your flushed cheeks and the nerves you still felt when the hem brushed over the marred skin on your thigh.

When you stepped into the bedroom, he shifted over without a word, the mattress dipping as you crawled in beside him.

His vibranium arm came around you instantly, anchoring you to his side, your cheek resting against his chest.

“I’m not trying to get in your pants,” he murmured, his voice a low rasp.

You smiled faintly against his chest. “Liar.”

He huffed a laugh.

“Okay, I am. But that doesn’t change the fact that I love you.”

Your breath caught. The world tilted. You lifted your head, searching his face in the dim light.

“What?”

His eyes were steady, and he was unguarded in a way you hadn’t seen before.

“I love you,” he said again, softer but firm. “I know it’s fast. I know we haven’t even– ”

You kissed him before he could finish, the kind of kiss that left you dizzy and breathless.

When you pulled back, your voice trembled.

“Good.”

His brow furrowed faintly. “Good?”

“I’ve been waiting for you to catch up,” you whispered.

He exhaled hard, his whole body releasing the tension in his shoulders, the clench in his jaw, and the quiet fear he’d carried since the fire.

“You mean it?” he asked, voice rough.

“I love you,” you said. 

“Didn’t know it until after you stopped taking me to PT. But I can’t stop hearing it in my head. It’s loud.”

His eyes closed, and when they opened again something softer and sure had taken root there. His arm tightened around you, holding you close as his breath warmed your hair.

“I can’t fuck this up,” he murmured, the words brushing your temple.

“You’re not going to,” you promised.

He kissed you softly and smiled faintly against your skin. 

“You came over. You stayed. You love me. And you’re in my bed.”

His voice cracked, soft and hoarse. 

“I think this is the part where I start believing I deserve it.”

You didn’t answer.

You just curled closer, your fingers slipping under his shirt to trace the warmth of his torso, the rain’s steady rhythm filling the quiet as his heartbeat slowed beneath your palm.

------

You woke in the middle of the night to his lips brushing your shoulder, his fingers teasing your nipple as his voice rumbled low against your skin.

"Bucky..."

“Sweetheart…”

You turned your head into his kiss, catching his mouth for a slow, sleepy tangle of lips just as his hand slid down your stomach.

His fingers slipped beneath the hem of your shorts, brushing along the seam of you through your panties, and finding you already hot, wet, and pulsing.

His breath grew heavier as he murmured against your ear, “You’re killing me. You know that?”

Your gasp was half a moan when his fingers slipped under the fabric, circling your clit with slow, expert strokes. The kind of strokes that made your hips lift, your head tip back, and a soft sound escape your lips before you could stop it.

“Bucky...”

“May not be able to fuck you yet,” he rasped, his tone rough, commanding.

“But damn if I’m not gonna make you cum.”

Before you could breathe, he had your shorts and panties stripped away with one hand, tossing them aside as he eased you onto your back. His thumb brushed lazily over your folds, dipping between your slick heat just enough to make his jaw flex.

“Jesus…so wet. You’re gonna break me,” he muttered, voice catching.

You rolled your hips into his hand, biting your lip as he circled your clit with maddening patience, your breath catching on every pass.

Then, without warning, his fingers slipped away. He lifted them to his lips, tasting you with a deep, low groan.

“Sweet as honey,” he muttered, his voice dark.

“Knew it. Christ, I can’t…”

Before you could ask what he meant, he was sliding lower, his good hand gripping your thigh firmly as his mouth replaced his fingers, tongue laving over your clit with unrelenting precision.

He was so good at that.

He savored every reaction, before locking onto your clit and sucking until your hips jerked and a whimper escaped you. He looked up at you, blazing blue eyes locking on yours as his hand tightened on your hip.

“Stay still, babydoll. Don’t make me chase you. I can’t hold you down like I want to yet. Be a good girl for me and take it.”

The words seared through you. His tongue worked you open, stroking and circling until you were trembling, your fingers buried in his hair as your thighs threatened to close around his head.

“You’re so perfect,” he rasped between strokes, his thumb brushing a faint scar along your thigh. “Every inch of you, baby. Don’t ever hide from me.”

You shifted just how he wanted.

“Good girl… just like that.”

He circled your clit again, relentless, building you higher until your breath broke into desperate gasps. Your first orgasm hit hard, your hips jerking as your vision blurred.

But he didn’t stop.

“That’s it,” he rasped, his voice raw.

“One more for me. Let me hear how pretty you sound when I ruin you.”

His mouth angled, flicking and sucking until another climax ripped through you, sharper and harder, your moan strangled as your back arched.

You reached for him, desperate to touch, but his hand caught yours, pinning it lightly to the mattress.

“No,” he growled softly, his breath ragged.

“You can make it up to me when I’m cleared. But for now, let me spoil you.”

You pouted, but his mouth was back on you, his tongue pressing deeper, stroking with a rhythm that had your thighs quivering.

That was when you felt it, the subtle grind of his hips into the mattress, the ragged catch of his breath, the faint stutter in his jaw as he hinged it open and licked you open deeper.

Bucky was unraveling even as he worshiped you.

“Cum with me,” he ordered, his voice fraying at the edges.

“One more, baby. I need to feel you fall apart while I lose it for you.”

That tone, low and commanding, tipped you over the edge. Your third orgasm slammed through you, your body locking tight, his name spilling raw from your lips.

“Ahhhhh. Buckyyyyy!”

That sound undid him. With a guttural groan, his forehead pressed to your thigh as his hips rocked once, twice, and he came quietly against the mattress, his breath hot and stuttering against your skin.

For a long moment, there was only the patter of rain, your ragged breathing, and the faint tremor in his as he slowly eased himself upright.

“Stay,” he murmured, kissing your thigh before slipping off the bed to clean up.

When he came back, fresh sweats slung low on his hips, he slid beside you without a word, pulling you close like he couldn’t stand to let you go.

His lips brushed your temple, his voice soft but steady. “I love you.”

Your throat tightened as you whispered back, “I love you too.”

No hesitation. No fear.

Just truth, steady and certain, as he kissed you slow and deep, his faint smile ghosting against your lips.

His arms held you tight as the aftershocks trembled through you, his warmth anchoring you until your breathing slowed and your body softened against his.

-----

Sunday night, he kissed you slow at the door, his good hand cupping your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek like he was memorizing you.

“Next Friday. Same time. Same place. I’ll be out of the sling, and I’m taking you out. Gonna show you off.”

Your lips curved against his jaw as you whispered, “Can’t wait.”

His eyes softened, lingering on yours for one last beat before you stepped into the cool evening.

The door shut softly behind you, the promise of the next weekend humming between you like a live wire.