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quandledlngle69 · 3 months ago

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"FUCK AROUND & FIND...INK?"

☆ CONTENT: After your fiancée gets cold feet two months into your engagement, you find yourself booking a trip to Berlin with your girlfriends. After a night of hardcore clubbing and alcohol still running through your veins, you impulsively decide to get a tattoo. You find the only studio open so late, and a handsome mysterious tattooist that awaits inside. ☆ GENRE/THEMES/WARNING: Heart break, reader is mentioned to have been engaged before, brief mention of reader having braids, height difference, mention of drinking and clubbing, tattooist AU, reader is black, reader imagining kaiser in sensual ways, reader basically being a horny dog Kaiser is a tattooist, suggestive, tension, close proximity, physical touch, needles, sexual innuendos, reader thirsting over Kaiser lol. ☆ PAIRING: Tattooist!kaiser x Black!Femreader ☆ W.C. 1.9K ☆ NOTES: This one–shot was asked for by this anon, enjoy.ᐟ

After a particularly bad heartbreak–what do most people do?

Cry–maybe go to the bar and drown their sorrows out with the devils piss, maybe snap and throw everything around in their apartment.

Maybe you did everything you just listed in order–maybe you didn’t.

After your fiancée got cold feet and dipped on you two months after he got down on one knee, and the only thing you were thankful for was that you hadn’t poured your chunk of savings into the wedding yet.

You decide to impulsively book a holiday with your girls. A nice European country–a capital city. You and your group settle on Berlin for a week. You had heard about the wicked nightlife and the electric atmosphere of the clubs that whisked you towards it. Not only that, you were a foodie and a fat history nerd. The first two days were spent dining in fancy upscale restaurants and sight–seeing until your feet felt like they were going to fall off. The third day however–was raves and clubbing. After a night of dancing, you and your girlfriends found a quiet spot, a booth, to relax in. A hazy, reckless thought takes hold of one of your more risks–taking friends: getting tattoos. A long thought that had popped up in casual conversations a few times, but a concept no one took seriously until now. While the strawberry daiquiri you had still ran in your veins, you agreed with enthusiasm. Something small, something impulsive. Something that will leave a mark beyond just memories.

It was such a stupid and impulsive decision, using google maps to find the nearest tattoo shop which was open at this time, (mind you, it was almost midnight) there was one a twenty minute walk away, surprised it was still open, you and your girlfriends collectively decide to make the suggestion a concrete choice. It was as you envisioned, in a dingy alley covered in graffiti, the rest of the shops seemingly little merchandise and cafes of different kinds. You and your girlfriends stumble into the dimly lit tattoo studio, the bell ringing softly above you. It was the kind of place that looks like it only exists for those who know where to find it. It had a scent of antiseptic, ink and a certain musk. And that’s when you see him.

He’s behind the counter, a messy mullet of blonde hair; the tips a deep electric blue falling into his sharp, angular face. His tattoos are what stand out on his skin the most, a spiral of black thorns snaking up his forearms and–fuck–thick biceps, a blossom of blue roses on his neck to finish it off. You had the sudden, reckless urge to trace them with your fingers.

Or your tongue.

Your eyes skim him shamelessly, taking in the mysterious man.

Kaiser.

Well, that's what the pin on his black vest says anyway. A name of a past emperor, something you remembered from your history classes.

He’s got that effortlessly cryptic, slightly disheveled look—like he just rolled out of bed but somehow still looks like sin. His eyes flick up when they enter, sweeping over your girlfriends once, but you, twice.

"Looking for something?" His voice is deep, thick with a german accent, making the words feel like a slow drag over your being. You know he’s addressing all of you, but it feels like the comment was directed at you only.

Your more extroverted friend is the one to take the wing and talk. You can see him clearly consciously taking in everything she’s saying–even nodding his head slightly from time to time, but his eyes would dart away. It was subtle, so subtle no one would notice, well, except for you. Because it was you he was glancing at.

He cleared his throat, snapping you out of your trance as he crossed his arms. “Which one of you ladies is up first then?”

“I’ll go first,” you interjected as you stepped forward. Cringing internally, you hoped you didn’t sound too desperate.

His smirk was lazy, his swivel chair turning slightly to peer at you better from over your friend's shoulder, his head tilting a little, almost as if he was enjoying the view. "What and where?"

You mindlessly swallowed, your voice sounding less confident than you hoped for. "Something small–like a quote. On my ribs."

His gaze flickered lower, and just like that, the air between you both shifted.

"Ribs are sensitive," he murmured, almost a borderline flirty jab. "Are you sure you can handle it?"

You arched your brow. "I can take it."

The way he smiled—just a little, just enough to feel dirty—it made something hot coil in your stomach.

It was like the company you came with didn’t even exist anymore, and it was just you and him in his dingy studio.

He abruptly stood up from his chair, nodding as he gestures for you to follow him to the back.

If you weren't sober before, you were definitely stone cold sober now.

Your girlfriends give you an excited send off before you turn the corner, stepping through the door to the back. You trailed behind him like a slug, the form of his back making your jaw go slack, it was so defined in the fluorescent light–there were muscles for days. Your mind raced around to create scenarios in your head–like how pretty it would look with scratch marks from your manicured nails. Or maybe it was the height distance that made you throb more, knowing your cheek would barely brush the top of his shoulder, even in your inched heels.

The air feels as heavy as a weight as you look around the small room, filled with small pieces and parts of the unknown man's personality, making him a little less mysterious in your mind. The antiseptic and ink smelled a lot stronger here. He waved at you to sit and lay on the bed, which you did, stiffly. It made your mind race even harder knowing the placement was directly under your tit. While he was busy setting up the equipment, you were trying to bask in the silence and not focus on the fact this guy was handsome enough to have you sweating and stuttering over your words. Your friends would tell anyone how picky you were when it came to men–It even surprised you. A man grabbing your attention like a vice was as rare as a blue moon event. You thought you would have lost an appetite for men for a long while after your heart break. You shift the bottom of your flimsy baby tee up until a slither of your lace bra peeked out, enough, you think, to give him a comfortable space to work.

When his gloves finally touch your bare skin, it's like a flip switched in your brain, your once tense body almost instantaneously melting back into the leather fabric. The pain is prickly, but your mind is somewhere else entirely—on the heat of his body, the scent of his masculine cologne, the way his arms flex as he works, the way he occasionally glances up through his blonde lashes, like he knew what ran through your mind down to the last detail. His fingers are firm yet gentle, the warmth searing through his gloves like a cauterisation. He positions you exactly how he wants–his breath occasionally ghosting over you as he leans in to work. His whole forearm rested on your waist, and you internally groaned with each flex of his muscular bicep.

You wondered how it would feel around your head–

You failed miserably to focus on the buzzing of the needle, every time he repositions, every time his touch lingers just a little too long, your breath catches ever so quietly. The tension is unbearable—thick, heavy, and smoldering.

At one point, he shifted, his knuckles brushing against your underboob, and you barely held back a whine.

He noticed.

"Careful, liebling." he murmured, lips so close to kissing your skin you trembled. "Wouldn’t want me to mess up, would you?"

It was a taunt. A blatant, teasing challenge, and the heat between you thickened, turned dangerous.

You went deathly silent in response. You hoped he wasn’t looking for one anyway, because whatever sentence next spilled from your lips at that moment would have an old woman clutching her pearls.

By the time he’s finished, the air between you is downright suffocating.

The loss of his touchy warmth was almost unbearable. He wiped your freshly inked skin down cautiously for the final time, his fingers dragging the skin under your rib cage just a second to long. And then, as you sat up slowly, he leaned in—just close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off him. His sharp blue eyes dragged over you, slow and assessing. It was that point you noticed his large hand splayed out on your knee, squeezing it slightly, a ticklish feeling that grounded you like concrete. His eyes flicked to your glossy lips, almost as if he was wondering what they tasted like.

"You handled that well," he hums, and it tingles deep in your bones, his voice low, teasing. "Thought you'd squirm more."

"I told you," you whispered back with feigned triumph, pulse hammering. "I can take it."

Something dark flickered in his gaze. And then—so subtle it almost didn’t happen—his fingers skimmed your thigh, barely there, but enough to send a bolt of heat straight to your core.

"If you ever want another…" he said, voice low, thick with promise. "I take private late-night appointments."

The straight up erotic innuendo had you wanting to pounce on him right then and there.

You should leave. You should stand up and walk out. Maybe declined his offer, knowing this was only a vacation, and you would probably never see him again. Maybe to keep your self–respect, at the very least.

You had thrown that out the window ages ago.

Instead, you meet his intense and heavy gaze, your lips curve into a slow, almost giddy smile.

"Good to know."

You had spent the next two hours zoning out on the waiting chair in the lobby, watching each of your friends go in the back for their tattoo. Meanwhile, you were thinking over the whole interaction from start to finish more times than you could count on your fingers and toes. Your mind was already racing, planning on shoving more of your hard earned money towards another few days stay in Berlin. Damn, your girlfriends would definitely catch on to this little fling–(if you could even call it that) with the tattooist with the way you're twirling your braids around your finger and kicking your feet like a little girl.

Once they were all finished, you definitely wanted to throw a tantrum as everyone got ready to leave. Yet when your eyes caught the sharp cerulean ones again, he beckoned you to come over from his place behind the counter. As you stepped forward, your heel clacking echoing on the wooden floor, you could see him scribbling something on what looked liked–a receipt.

“Uh, what's this–”

“My number, hübsches Mädchen."

“Oh.”

The heat rose from your chest to your neck as he smoothly grasped your wrist, putting the receipt in your open palm. The pads of his fingers were rough, the opposite of yours. You noticed the crown design on the front of his hand, and the way his nails were perfectly painted black before he pulled away.

“Oh yeah–ah–thank you–” You were too busy stumbling over your words to notice your girlfriends pulling you out of the door.

And as you stepped outside, the cool air making you shiver, your skin still burning from his touch, you knew one thing for certain—

You were definitely coming back.

･ﾟ★ credits for dividesr.ᐟ: @penissekai

#.𖥔 ݁ ˖ light!lock #blue lock x reader #bllk x reader #blue lock #bllk #micheal kaiser x reader #micheal kaiser #kaiser x you #kaiser x reader #bllk kaiser #kaiser x y/n #kaiser michael #blue lock manga

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encachette · 1 month ago

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smart mouth 1

Part 1 of 2.

❣ Professor! Bucky Barnes x F!student

❣ uni au, F! student is in her 20s (she’s meannnnnn to our boy, I’m trying to write an unlikable FMC ok)

❣ cw: this is just the build-up to a pwp ch. 2, mentions of university tenure system (sorry, I’m in academia), political science (derogatory), crackfic

❣ MDNI

❣ Word Count: 8.1 k

❣ Summary: The last year of your university career is spent figuring out your life and bickering with taking out your anger on a the new professor in your department. Completing your degree feels endlessly tedious amongst the pile of bills and low prospects of career advancement. So maybe you let yourself indulge in a little game of catch-and-release with a handsome professor who falls over his own feet trying to keep up with you. But sooner or later the man cracks.

❣ Author’s Note: heavily inspired by a professor I had in an undergrad class on “human rights in the 20th century.” The professor himself was a bit of a fuckwit, but still reluctantly very nice to me against all effort on my part. I just wanted to make him scream.

I honestly won’t ever watch superhero movies but I thought Sebastian Stan’s public personality is quite himbo-ish if not a bit shallow, so he was kind of perfect for this piece. (Sorry to his fans, but ain’t no way that man has read Marcus Aurelius. His copy of the book in that GQ interview advertisement had a perfectly un-cracked spine.)

smart mouth, part 1.

“Miss, would you mind taking those out of your ears, please?”

Dr. Barnes mimed at you with a tight-lipped smile, forefingers and thumbs of each hand plucking out wired phantom earphones. You look up him, cocking an eyebrow and trying not to give a smirk — too early in the class to start challenging the doofus — and repeat his motions back to him, making a show of rolling the wires around your slender fingers before shoving them into your jacket pocket. No need to start today’s little sparring session over such a petty attempt to annoy you.

There would be countless errors in his pedagogy or lecture for you to pick at during the course of the hour, no need to tear into him quite yet.

You pull out your notebook and pen, letting out a loud yawn before leaning back in your seat and hiking your feet up on the seat next to you. You’re front and center, your usual spot in every course. At the computer, Dr. Barnes was fumbling around, trying to pull up another one of his bland presentations that would inevitably regurgitate the reading material. You sigh, leaning back and lacing your fingers behind your head, scanning him as he’s trying to remember his password to his Google Drive.

Begrudgingly, you allow yourself to notice how handsome he was; especially so in today’s sky button down and perfectly tailored slacks. The sleeves were haphazardly rolled up, exposing a few veins snaking up his forearm before hiding again under a bunch of white fabric at the crook of his elbow. You follow along the hard lines, eyes dragging up Dr. Barnes’ muscular form and to his face — that creeping shadow from one or two missed days of shaving, angular lines framing downturned, pouty lips. You wanted to bite into them and see the blood rush to the surface.

“Alright gang, we’re up and running. I hope you all finished the book and the accompanying article about…” You tune him out, reviewing in your head the reading material and finding logical flaws with the arguments, preparing to play with Dr. Barnes a bit as he makes his way through his lesson plan.

Today was a particularly irritating day. Your boss at your part-time nonprofit job spent too much time berating you about incorrectly formatted documents, and you sat in on one too many meetings that should have been one email. Plus, you had a stack of reading you had to do for your lectures this week — for classes that actually nurtured your intellectual curiosity. Running on three cups of coffee, your meds, and a spiteful attitude (you had forgone breakfast in exchange for an extra five minutes of sleep this morning), you had skulked into the humanities building and jerkily settled into your seat without your usual patience. In retrospect, maybe this was why you were more ruthless than usual today. Unfair, if you really thought about it.

Dr. Barnes was a perfectly nice guy, when you were feeling generous. Not particularly bright, but still a hard worker who seemed to like teaching; rigorous intellectual interrogation wasn’t a prerequisite for a PhD, evidently. Armed with a travel mug of tea and that stupid leather messenger bag, he was always exactly five minutes early to class, bright-eyed and bushy tailed and ready to prostrate in front of dimwitted little college students in exchange for the raving course evaluations necessary for tenure promotion. He was overeager, if you were totally honest.

Today, his tendency to prolong out his lecture — lingering on obvious concepts that any high school half wit would have understood — was grating on your last nerve. That slow voice he uses to read verbatim from his presentation slides (a sign of insecurity, in your eyes, that an alleged expert needed notes to prompt his lectures) to the class reminded you of the way adults spoke to you when you were five, shooing you away so you wouldn’t insert yourself into their adult conversations.

You’re leaning back in your chair, feet up on the seat next to you, scribbling a few chicken scratches of notes you have no intention of revisiting when you catch an opening in his lecture to interject. Perfect.

“And so, several scholars in the field have argued that practices in these countries have been unable to achieve the same standard of human rights that we find here in the United States,” Dr. Barnes finishes reading off of his lecture slides and aims a bright, toothy smile at the class. “Any questions before we get to discussion of the material?”

Your hand and a corner of your mouth shoot straight up, smirk deepening when Dr. Barnes’ eyes sweep over the class before reluctantly calling on you. You can almost hear his silent prayer, begging for any other student in the class to speak. You feel that beginning sparkling sense of fated victory bloom when he calls your name.

“So, these scholars…” you begin, voice saccharine and playful, “what methodologies did they use to get to that conclusion?” You start easy, asking a question you know he can’t answer, like circling around your prey pretending to decide whether to go in for the kill.

“Uh, well. I’m sure they used comparative methods and used the United States as a control,” he says, so unsure. Your eyes positively gleam at the opening he’s left for you.

“You’re sure, Dr. Barnes? So you’re saying that the United States gets to define ‘human rights’ in these studies?”

“Yes, that’s explicitly in the lecture today,” he says. Aha. He thinks he can rely on his little notes to save him. Too confident.

“So the United States should be the final arbiter of ‘human rights’ in the international political stage, is that what your lecture is arguing?” Fingers formed in air quotes, you’re practically simpering at this point, staring at his expression — he was too satisfied and sure that he had averted a land mine.

Somewhere behind you, you hear a stifled chortle, which seems to have an unnerving effect on Dr. Barnes. You make a note of how his shoulders have a tendency to tense upward when he’s defensive, when he’s faced with a challenge. So, with pure delight in your eyes as you raise an eyebrow, you challenge him to do something. Anything.

He clears his throat before saying your name, real nervous and slow, gravelly. Almost sexy in how pitiful it was. But you continue to speak, steamrolling right over his short-lived moment,

“Because the United States is famously really good at upholding human rights, right Dr. Barnes?” You relish in that little indignant flash across his baby blues, satisfaction dancing through your body the sight of your professor, squirming under your gaze. You made him squirm, someone who was ostensibly a figure of authority over you; some idiot who, by the skin of his teeth, might be a passable researcher but in no way possessed the chops necessary to be a good teacher.

It was cute, the few false starts Dr. Barnes stuttered through before fake laughing — nervous, pink-tinged cheeks curving upward. You almost wanted to flush yourself, a bit too focused on the scruff of his shadow, wondering what it’d be like for it to drag against your skin.

You blink that image out of your head, poised and ready to give your final contribution to the discussion,

“Weird that this is a lecture about the United States’ role in global politics and not a single reading about imperialism was assigned. Pedagogically irresponsible, if you ask me.” You bless him with your brightest smile, uncrossing your legs and crossing them again in opposite order — the sarcasm and smugness practically drips from your gaze. Dr. Barnes’ eyes flash indignantly, but you don’t miss that swift glance down toward your thighs, exposed under the skimpy hemline of your miniskirt.

The sound of laptops shutting and shuffling zippers and paper draws the both of you out of your staring contest.

Dr. Barnes clears his throat again, running his metal hand through his hair and pushing a few loose locks back from his forehead. Your bratty little demeanor remains undisturbed, and you think maybe Dr. Barnes is holding your gaze just a smidge too long before he tears away from you and back into his surroundings.

“Don’t forget to schedule your one-on-one office hour with me so I can approve your final paper research topics. Instructions are on the syllabus!” His last few words are drowned out by the hubbub of chairs screeching against the linoleum and students filling out the door.

Dr. Barnes turns toward you as you’re shoving your notebook into your bag, his handsome face shadowed in a scowl so childish you almost want to reach out and pinch his cheeks. Almost.

“That was extremely disrespectful conduct, Miss —“

“Hey Barnes, you got a minute?” Dr. Barnes’ fuming was abruptly cut off by a cheery masculine voice. You both turn to see Dr. Rogers — one of these days you’ll be able to snag a seat in his research class.

“Stark is asking everyone in the Department to turn in their syllabi for next semester by end-of-business today,” he continues, “Need you to look over my reading list, Buck.” Dr. Rogers stops for a second, clocking that you’re still in the room and clearing his throat, sheepishly correcting himself,

“I meant Dr. Stark; don’t tell him I forgot the ‘doctor’ part, he’s insufferable,” Dr. Rogers speaks to you, slightly nervous chuckle escaping as he offers you a good-natured smile. You make a gesture of zipping your lips, returning Dr. Rogers’ smile as you turn to leave.

Dr. Barnes looks between you and Dr. Rogers before calling your name again.

Hm. Stern, as if he were about to reprimand you.

“We’ll continue this conversation later,” Dr. Barnes glares at you, clearly loathing that smug look you’ve schooled yourself into maintaining. You make a show out of shoving your earphones in and paying attention to your phone instead of him, happily aware that his eyes were boring into your skull as you turn on your heel and strut out of the classroom.

Flippantly, you glance back through the door, a false little smile lighting up your face as you utter a phrase you know won’t do anything but rile up your professor,

“See ya later, Barnes.”

If the academic utopia is meritocracy, you’ll eat your shorts.

✶

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: Meeting re: research topic approval

Hi Dr. Barnes,

Can I stop by your office hours next Monday to talk about my research paper topic?

Thanks.

˚̣̣̣ ꒷︶†︶꒷˚̣̣̣︶ ͡𑁬♱໒ ͡ ︶˚̣̣̣꒷︶†︶꒷ ˚̣̣̣

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: re: Meeting re: research topic approval

Yes, please stop by on Monday.

Thunderbolt Hall, Room 616.

JBB

✶

You can’t help but snort as you close out of your email app on your phone, a bit taken aback by the bluntness of Dr. Barnes’ response to you. Half of the time, the man couldn’t stammer out two coherent sentences to answer your questions. The other half, his answers, delivered in clipped tones, were so cookie-cutter and shallow that you’d inevitably be left a little bored. Never were his responses so blunt.

Sure, maybe you were tiptoeing on that line between childish iconoclasm and outright insolence, but really, Dr. Barnes was an academic. He should be grateful that you were there to keep things interesting. At least your questions were generative for discussion!

Not that you cared, but did you push him too far during the last lecture?

Whatever.

Shoving your phone into your jacket pocket, you pack up your supplies and stumble from around the floor-to-ceiling bookcase, back aching from hunching over your books for the last two hours. Peter Parker is rounding the corner and bounding toward you as you hike your bag up your shoulder, two to-go cups in his hands. One for you, one for him. Thank God for that kid.

“Hey, Parker,” you relieve him of one of the coffees, glad you didn’t have to waste time picking up a source of caffeine before your next shift at work. “What’s going on?”

“Hiya. Locking in before my date with MJ later,” he takes a sip of his own coffee before slinging his backpack onto the desk and occupying the seat you just vacated — you would have complained that someone was using your sacred library work alcove if it were anyone other than Peter.

“Godspeed, buddy. Tell MJ I said ‘hi’ and that I’ll see her for Book Club next week.” You give Peter a goofy salute, stern face struggling to contain a smile, before making your way through the labyrinthine library stacks toward the more populated work areas in the front of the building.

✶

Bucky Barnes is spending his usual Tuesday afternoon deep in the stacks of the social sciences library, cobbling together research for the manuscript he was working on. Piles and piles of dusty leather-bound books surrounded his work station, which rudely occupied an entire table that could have sat several other library patrons.

That day was particularly irritating. Nothing felt right. The deadline for a draft of an article was looming large, and the pressure to publish as often and as much as possible was slowly closing in on him. Helping Steve formulate two undergrad syllabi proved to be a several hour-long endeavor, so Bucky lost an entire morning that he planned on devoting to catching up on his reading. Too many papers to grade, too many faculty meetings to attend, too many articles to review: Bucky was on the brink of burn out.

Despite the organized chaos that was his life as an untenured academic, a significant chunk of that day’s irritation can be attributed to that fucking smart mouth girl in his first lecture of the day. He’d dealt with his fair share of knuckleheads throughout his few years as a young professor, always with an open mind and a kind shoulder — qualities that he felt were essential for a good educator to possess. But you, he pictured you in his head with a sneer.

It was always something with you —

��Actually, that’s the wrong year, Dr. Barnes,” or

“You don’t sound so sure about that, Dr. Barnes,” or

“Dr. Barnes, are you sure that’s how you want to structure the lecture today?” Of course he was fucking sure. He’d been teaching this course for years and his teaching evaluations were top-notch, no thanks to you and your attempts to shake his confidence. Where the fuck did you get off on questioning his authority?

Bucky had spent maybe the first few weeks of the semester mulling over what he had possibly done to provoke you into being such a thorn in his side.

He supposed the first incident happened when he made the mistake of giving you a 98% on a paper and you had decided to grade grub him into oblivion. He thinks about that moment with a derisive snort. Little Miss Overachiever. Bursting into his office, absolutely incensed that a — and this is verbatim — “second round draft pick hire” had the gall to give you anything less than a 100%, the stones to ruin her perfect record.

If he were being perfectly honest, you were much more intelligent than your peers, and part of him understood that your behavior stemmed from boredom. University hadn’t been particularly challenging for you and it seemed to him that you were fed up with it. Figuring out how to fulfill every student’s needs in the classroom tended to be easy for him — his course evals were almost always glowing with praise for his pedagogy. But you. He just couldn’t figure out how to channel all of your spite into something intellectually productive, not only for the sake of peace in his classroom but because he (quite begrudgingly) wanted you to feel like you learned something. That was his fucking job, for fuck’s sake.

Bucky shakes his head, as if his brain were a goddamn etch-a-sketch and he could erase the image of you, sitting so pretty with that petulant smirk that seemed glued to your face. Without fail, always front-and-center. Ready to taunt him, make him flustered, like he wasn’t good enough to be your academic superior. With a deep sigh and a frustration that didn’t seem to dissipate no matter what he did, Bucky tries to knuckle down to finish his task in the library. He would not let some tiny little know-it-all distract him from his work. A know-it-all with a pretty face.

No. Focus, Barnes…

Bucky had started off that day bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, having completed his departmental duties for the week. He even had the time to edit both his and Steve’s syllabi for the course offerings next semester. His house was spic and span, not a spec of dust or a cat hair out of place — no thanks to Alpine. (Bucky loved that little fleabag to bits but goddamn did she shed like it was her full-time job.) The quiet of his morning routine was perfectly routinized to prep him for the bustle of the day. It was almost ritualistic, the warmth of his coffee mug — “Professor of the Year, 2020” garishly printed in university colors — and an apple as he reads through the queue of journal articles he’s behind on editing. Alpine would undoubtedly be inhaling her food (top of the line, grain-free, high protein, expensive cat food) after screaming bloody murder because her kibble landed in her dish at 7:01 instead of 7:00 am on the dot. After breakfast, Bucky lets Alpine go outside in the yard to chase around the critters in his herb garden, which he admitted was wilting at a faster pace than he’d like. Every so often Alpine would up look at him while he flipped through his textbooks, bright eyes blinking at him slowly as he sat on his porch with his one allotted cigarette of the day.

That morning had proceeded like every other morning, calm and restorative. Nothing was out of place, and Bucky was feeling pretty confident in himself that day. Finally. The stress of working toward tenure was wrapping itself around him like a vice, a near-constant suffocation until recently. Bucky thought he was getting a handle on his career, surefooted in his future at such a prestigious research university.

That is, until the venomous game you insisted on playing with him in every lecture finally knocked him off kilter.

˚̣̣̣ ꒷︶†︶꒷˚̣̣̣︶ ͡𑁬♱໒ ͡ ︶˚̣̣̣꒷︶†︶꒷ ˚̣̣̣

“Everyone read the assigned text for this week, correct?”

A weak mix of murmurs and ‘yes’s answered his question as an incessant noise started to permeate through the classroom.

Tip. Tap. Tip. Tap.

Dr. Bucky Barnes’ bright blues, followed the source of the tapping, up the slender hand of its owner before loudly clearing his throat, as was his wont, though he quite hated that habit of his.

“Great, can someone briefly summarize the author’s argument so we’re all on the same page?”

Tip. Tap. Tip. Tap. Perfectly polished nails wrapped around a pencil as its eraser end collided again and again onto the desk. Bucky’s quick to glare at you this time, one eye twitching as he called on some overeager student whose hand shot up immediately.

“Well, Habermas’ idea of the public sphere…”

You raise your eyebrows, but you don’t challenge him, placing your pencil down instead of tapping it harder. A-ha. Victory, Bucky thinks. He doesn’t quite understand why in that moment, but the thought of that small, ever-so-slight advantage he had over you in today’s game sent a burst of warmth through his chest.

Overeager Try Hard pulls Bucky from his slight victory, and he trains his attention on the kid again.

“…and so liberal regimes tend to emphasize intellectual exchange in the public sphere as a basis for the educated voter.” Listening to this kid was such a fucking effort today, but Bucky forces a brighter demeanor,

“Yes, that’s correct —“ Bucky is cut off by a loud snort, much earlier than he expected. His eyes shoot straight toward you, as if he was willing you to combust in your seat. All you can do is roll your eyes at him, like a fucking child, he thinks. He almost bares his teeth when you dismissively mutter,

“Oh, please.”

Bucky takes a deep breath and closes his eyes for about three seconds, desperate to keep his slender grasp on his self-control, before he draws out your name and practically snarls,

“Do you have something to say? Or can we both be adults and have a discussion without your attitude?”

A few mocking “ooh, she’s in trouble” ring out from the rest of your classmates, a low sniggering coming from Try Hard behind you. Bucky almost felt like he was winning — the teasing from your classmates, the brief shock at his assertiveness before your face breaks out into such a bright smile.

To Bucky’s great dismay, that mischievous, evil grin didn’t look anything like a conciliatory “You’re right, Dr. Barnes, I’m so sorry and I’ll never undermine you in my tight little skirts again” kind of smile. No, it was a “You’re in for it now, Barnes,” kind of grin, one that sent shivers up his spine in a way that left him almost… excited? Desperate for you to keep responding to him?

You only look at him, maintaining eye contact that felt much too intense for a lesson about what’s-his-philosopher-face and abstract political theory. Bucky swears he feels the tingles in his spine shoot straight to his heart when you respond in the most unexpected way: you back down.

“Aw, I’m sorry, Dr. Barnes.” That saccharine sweet voice, infused with the most malice he’d heard from you yet; and he almost short circuits when you push your bottom lip out into a pout. “Please, continue the lesson.”

What, no jab about his intellect? No undermining fucking snobby comments about his teaching methods? Bucky didn’t know how to respond, so he moved forward. “Just keep going, Barnes. Class is almost over,” he chides himself.

“Right. So,” Fuck. Stop stuttering, Barnes. “As we were discussing, Habermas’ ideas —“

Tap. TAP. Tap. TAP.

Bucky looks down at you again, no pencil in hand this time so his eyes travel down to the source of the noise. You don’t miss the way they’re caught on the skin left uncovered by your skirt, a sudden rush of heat flowing through your chest when your professor’s eyes slink down your legs toward the source of his annoyance. When Bucky’s eyes land on your boots, one of them tippy-tippy-tapping away in a deliberate attempt to make him go insane.

“Are you kidding me, right now, Ms. LN!?” Bucky blurts out at you, clipped tone threatening to burst into something louder, more powerful in impact because you have needled him one too many times. The sheer delight in your eyes doesn’t do anything but completely infuriate him.

“Oh ho ho! Look who’s finally developed a backbone,” you actually jeer at him. That domineering little smirk that he’s become so familiar with. You stop your tapping, leaning back and folding your arms across your chest. Bucky doesn’t miss the way your chest is pushed against your arms, making them look bigger, big enough to fit into the palm of his hand, maybe. Fucking God, Barnes. Focus.

“You’re way out of line today,” Bucky starts, ready to tear you a new one, let you know how fucking irritating it is to have a know-it-all in a course that he spent so much time, so much meticulous attention into developing.

“I’ll step back in line when you can teach, Barnes,” you scoff. You actually fucking scoff. And Bucky is seeing too much red to pay any attention to the taunting and chittering surrounding the two of you. And maybe, (just maybe) Bucky would grow to regret the words that spilled, unrestrained and furious as he slammed down his pile of lecture notes on the table:

“Listen, you and your smart mouth have been nothing but disrespectful to me and your classmates every single day of this semester. If you don’t like my teaching style, drop the class.”

“This course is required for my major, Dr. Barnes,” you state, too smooth, derisiveness barely concealing a deeper anger. “If I had it my way, I wouldn’t be wasting my time listening to an ‘academic’ so clearly devoid of intellectual depth.”

Bucky swears he feels both of his eyes twitch as he takes a deep, shuddering breath, every drop of will he had channeled into remaining civilized. ‘She’s just a student. Don’t say anything you’ll regret,’ he breathes to himself, over and over. The air quotes you placed around “academic” were too far.

Before Bucky could figure out the most civilized, but strict response, you stand up and turn on your heel, careful to tap your boots as annoyingly as possible as you leave in the middle of the lecture. You stop by the exit, turning around and calling over your shoulder to Bucky, again in that deceptively sweet voice, “Whatever, Dr. Barnes, see you in your office hours.”

In a move that was nothing short of uncool, Bucky calls after you, lacing as much menace as possible, as if he was issuing an ominous warning: “Fine! See you then. We’ll be discussing your unruly behavior, Miss LN.” You return nothing but a simpering smirk, fingers wiggling in a facetious wave that boils Bucky’s blood.

He does everything he can to ignore how shiny your hair is as you turn to leave, short skirt hiking up that much further as you tap, tap, tap down the hall.

˚̣̣̣ ꒷︶†︶꒷˚̣̣̣︶ ͡𑁬♱໒ ͡ ︶˚̣̣̣꒷︶†︶꒷ ˚̣̣̣

Even the quiet of the library, with its warm wood and cozy chairs, couldn’t soothe his mood. Bucky decides he needs a break, maybe a cup of coffee to wipe the mishap of today’s lecture from his brain. Maybe he’ll go down to the library café on the first floor and see if they had any of those blueberry muffins he liked so much. He stands up and drags one of the large leather armchairs near him closer to the large, arched windows. A hot cup of coffee and his books next to the window. Surely that’ll return him to some kind of equilibrium.

Bucky sighs and gives a yawn, arms up as he’s stretching out his back before he makes his way through the maze of shelves lined with rich leather-bound tomes, each in its rightful place. He lets that thought calm him. Everything is where it should be in the library. No nagging smart ass student. No irritating boss, because Dr. Stark would rather spend time schmoozing with department donors than in a classroom. No distractions — just Bucky and his stack of books, ready to be digested and organized into coherent research. Nothing out of place in his library until he runs into you, that is. As Bucky rounds the corner toward the elevator, a flash of long hair and a familiar short skirt stops him in his tracks.

He pauses for a second before stepping behind the nearest immediate shelf, able to see you and Peter without being observed himself. Bucky doesn’t really process it in that moment, but a tug of adrenaline sends his heart rate up as he watches Peter hand you a cup of coffee. Your face — annoyingly pretty, Bucky thinks — lit up gratitude as your hands grab for the warmth of the cup. Peter leans in, surely too close for propriety’s sake, to hear you better as the last few whispers elicit a chuckle from him. He watches you give a stupid salute to Peter, and a strange, dark heat bubbling through him and tightening his chest.

That day, head hunched over a few archival parchment documents, all that pranced through through his brain were you and your little attitude and little fucking skirt, and the fact that you had picked the wrong fucking day to antagonize him.

Hours later when he retraced the events of the day before bed, Bucky still really couldn’t explain why he stopped so abruptly, why seeing you with that Parker kid was so frustrating for him.

✶

It’s fucking early. Too fucking early on a Monday for you to be dragging yourself out of bed to make your appointment with Dr. Barnes. Usually you wouldn’t bother getting out of bed before 11 AM, but today was a stacked day: meeting with Barnes, work, then a few hours in the library to finish a few assignments. First on the agenda: getting Dr. Barnes’ office hours appointment out of the fucking way.

Of course, you were aware that you were in for a rather unpleasant conversation with Barnes, but you knew that it was bound to come sooner or later. Your behavior wasn’t exactly exemplary of a bright student on track to attending an R1 research graduate program next year. Oh on the contrary, you recognized that your behavior wasn’t much of a deviation from that of a petulant child who had missed her afternoon nap — grouchy, mean, and desperate for calm. But you couldn’t help it. Every time Barnes wanted to explain something (something you already knew, most likely), he dragged out his words like you were actually four fucking years old, like you were just learning such big words and couldn’t connect ideas together with your own, undeveloped brain. Worse than the over-explaining, you supposed that his worst crime was that you had learned absolutely nothing from him throughout the semester. You didn’t feel intellectually challenged. In a course you PAID TUITION for, no less. It was completely unfair.

So, if he treated you like you were a dumb kid, then you’d make it as unpleasant for him as possible. He made it so easy to argue with him. Often wrong, always timid and slow to rebuke — quite honestly, sometimes you thought that you were doing him a service, pushing him into becoming a better teacher. Forcing him to prove his arguments rather than regurgitating outdated research that had no business being taught in the 21st century.

Obviously, this effort was to no avail.

The chill of autumn seeped into the brick walls of your tiny apartment, kicking on the creaky radiator that sometimes disturbed your sleep with its ghostly noises. Usually, the sounds and smells of your routine, the slowness of the morning, were enough to calm you: the burbling and snap of the electric kettle, fragrant coffee with a hazelnut creamer, your little mackerel tabby, Friday, mewing at you for her breakfast.

“Hi, baby,” you coo at her, all nine pounds of terror weaving between your ankles, “Momma’s gotta be out for the whole day today so you be good.” You scratch her one last time under her chin and pour kibble into her bowl, refreshing her water before you mentally prepare for the gruel of the work day. “Don’t try to chew through the treat bag again or we’ll have a problem.”

It was sluggish, the pace at which you pull on your clothes, guided by the weather app on your phone. With perfunctory, sharp motions, you yank on your knitted tights, skirt, and sweater, the second-hand cashmere a tiny comfort to you as you lock up and trudge to the bus stop, the weight of your school bag exacerbating your misery and irritation as your make your way to Thunderbolt Hall.

Earbuds blasted music through your ears, sunglasses blocking your stare. The scarf you’ve pulled close around your nose and mouth to keep in the warmth swishing in the air as you stomped through the university commons. Any excuse to avoid social interaction this early in the morning. Music gave you an excuse to keep walking, anyone stopping to greet you automatically assuming that you couldn’t hear them, couldn’t see them, or didn’t want to be bothered. Your sensory-deprivation contraption, you think, amused as you trekked toward Dr. Barnes’ office.

✶

Dr. Bucky Barnes hears the tap of your boots before he sees you. He’d been dreading this meeting, unsure of how you’d react to him reprimanding you for your behavior. He was determined to remain civilized today. Last lecture was nothing more than a student getting to him and him losing his cool. It was unprofessional. It felt fucking good, but unprofessional, nevertheless. And Bucky was nothing if not professional.

Nested at the end of the hall on the fourth floor of an old building foisted aside to be used by underfunded humanities departments, Bucky’s office was lucky enough to enjoy the warmth of the sun streaming in from two wide bay windows. Surrounded by furniture of dark wood, a cozy living room setup sat in front of the fireplace, which would be put to use as the northeast winter arrives in full force. Bucky tried hard to make it comfortable, bringing in a blanket and a few photos that he framed and displayed on the mantle. One of him and Steve the day they both graduate from their PhD programs. A photo of Bucky with a tight smile while shaking Dr. Stark’s hands, taken against his will on the day of his “welcome” party that the department secretary insisted was earmarked in the budget.

In the corner, a coffee machine whirred as it made his usual second cup of morning coffee. Bucky scoots in his fancy leather chair over to retrieve his mug, sipping on it just as he hears your knuckles wrap on his office door.

He waits a second, placing his mug down on a coaster before arranging himself behind his desk, ready to be the responsible adult between the two of you. He has his hands around his coffee mug, the ceramic warming his hands, and clears his throat one last time,

“Come in.” He watches the knob turn before your head pokes in, looking left and right before stepping in, leaving the door ajar. You’re stone faced, making your way slowly to the seat directly in front of Bucky’s desk and facing him. Bucky notices your skirt… barely catching his disappointment when he sees that your legs are covered in cable-knit tights. God damn, focus, Barnes. You cross, and uncross your legs, fidgeting with your bag in your lap, and raise an eyebrow at him.

He doesn’t respond, but just continues to stare at you, challenging you with an arch of a brow. You can make the first move today. He wants to know which way you’re headed.

“Well, Dr. Barnes,” you sigh, “we have a laundry list of shit to get through on the agenda, so where do you want to start?”

He snorts, amused and unable to conceal it, so he smirks and just says,

“Why not the easiest task? Run your research paper idea by me first.” Just as he couldn’t conceal the fact that he found you amusing, you couldn’t hide your surprise at his choice. But you quickly school yourself into a stony face once again.

“Sure. I’m thinking of juggling several ideas in my paper...” you explain as you pull out your notebook, flipping a few pages before turning to a sheet lined with pretty, swooping handwriting. Bucky notices the neatness with each flare of your pen, how organized you are and how it tickles something in his brain when he sees your long fingers wrap around a pen.

“…hello?” You snap a finger in front of Bucky’s face, shocking him out of his daze. Shit, what did she say?

“I’m listening, I’m listening,” Bucky lies, hurriedly trying to get a grip on himself. He was so determined to be in control of the conversation. “Your idea is good. No notes.”

Your face wrinkles, confused and a little frustrated. That pouty lip pushes out a bit, just the way Bucky liked to stare at sometimes when he caught you zoning out in class. Oops. Wrong thing to say, Bucky winces.

“That’s it?” You spat out your words with incredulity, vaguely aware that you had crossed a line somewhere and giving over to your intuition, you tense; ever so slightly, but enough for Bucky to feel his eyes flash in defiance.

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean,” he says as his brows knit together, crossing his leg to rest one ankle on the opposite knee; he can still salvage the situation. But what the fuck would he say? “Sorry, I wasn’t paying attention to a word you were saying, I was too fixated on your fingers and what they could be touching?” The thought of it was enough to make him blush.

“I mean, you have no suggestions at all as to how I can improve my research topic?” Okay. Don’t panic, Barnes. Double down. Just double down.

“I think it’s brilliant, actually,”

“Figures.” You scoff, murmuring under your breath, and by this point, Bucky knows that he’s completely lost control of the situation.

“I’m sorry, can you repeat that?”

“Figures that you’d have nothing useful to say. Thanks for the meeting anyway.” You look at your watch before adding, all lofty and slow, “I have somewhere to be.”

You’re spinning on the heel of your boots — much too smug for someone dangerously close to receiving a referral to the Student Conduct Office — before you stop in your tracks at Bucky’s next command.

“No,” he spits out, “We have one more thing to discuss.” He’ll be damned if he let you out of this classroom without some acknowledgment that you were a pain in his ass.

“And what would that be?” you whirl around, quiet, frustrated, and a little taken aback by Bucky’s harsh tone.

“Don’t start,” he commands. You notice his upper arms, muscular, veiny, flex as he grips the arms of his office chair.

“What, you want me to apologize to you? You want me to say ‘sorry’ to the big man whose ego can’t take a little bruising?” you jab, but the confidence is not quite as striking as usual.

“Sit down,” he commands. Again. Much more assertive this time. He nods his head towards the seat you had previously occupied, and adds, “now.” You had frozen, midstep, with your hand on the door handle, cold brass against your palm making your pulse all the more noticeable.

Bucky is almost gleeful when he sees the surprise on your face at his directions. So surprised. So pretty. He watches you slowly make your way back into the chair, setting your bag on the floor next to you and crossing your legs before leaning back.

“Yes?” You grit out, slowly dragging your eyes up to meet his. Arms crossed, you dare to pull that face that gets Bucky so riled up. He clears his throat before beginning,

“We’re not done talking. Your behavior in class has been disrespectful and disruptive. I know for a fact that you don’t behave like this with other professors. What’s going on?” This was the mature thing to do, Bucky had thought. To sit down, ask his colleagues for help, and talk to you like you were an equal. “What’s your problem with me, huh?”

You don’t react, at least externally. You only smile, that fake sweet smirk that he can’t get away from.

“Why, I don’t know what you mean, Dr. Barnes.” Bucky has to take a deep breath, reminding himself not to get riled up. Not to let you get to him.

“Don’t play dumb, it doesn’t suit you,” Bucky responds, strict and to the point. He keeps staring at you, sure that he was in command of the situation. You watch as he gets up from his chair, making his way to lean back against his desk, directly in front of you. He crosses his arms, mirroring you. You don’t like the confident little attitude he has today. You didn’t know how to deal with this version of him. So you keep poking at him, in a way that you knew, that you were sure would rile him up.

“Aw, Dr. Barnes. Why don’t you explain to me what you’re talking about? As clearly as you can, please?” You keep the shit-eating simper on, but it fades into confused intrigue as he moves closer to you, invading too much of the air around you.

Your eyebrows knit together in confusion, and Bucky savors that innocent moment of shock on your face before he rests his hands, one on each arm of the chair you were sitting in, your arms and legs still crossed as you failed to keep your breathing even. A vague scent of man and aftershave sending an exhilaration through you and flooding you with a warmth. A familiar warmth you’ve only ever felt in your bedroom at night. After the long fucking library sessions and steaming hot showers, when you’d collapse into your bed utterly exhausted but mentally alert, you’d let your mind wander.

The closer Bucky got to you, the more you could see the little flecks in his blue eyes. He was angry. Furious, even. His mouth had set into a frown, and he was so fucking confused about how out of hand the situation had gotten, how out of control he felt in that moment. So he does what he feels is right, just like you always say what you feel is right. He leans in closer to you, nose almost touching yours as he breathes into you,

“I’ve been so patient with you, you know that Little Miss Smart Mouth?” Bucky looks down at your lips and back at your eyes, rasping, “Every fucking day. You come into my classroom and you torture me.” He watches you uncross your arms and legs, attempting to sit up straighter in your chair. He keeps waiting for you to push him away. For you to say something mean. To reject him.

But you don’t. You stare right back at him, demeanor so bewildered and at a loss for words, Bucky dares to let himself think that you were sexy. Pupils dilated, staring up at him, at a loss for words. Uncharacteristically quiet, and Bucky decides that he likes that look on your face, a little awed, a little defiant, but sexy. He watches you swallow, trying to grasp at words that usually come so easily to you,

“I —” Your stammer sounds so strange, and Bucky relishes in this moment, the chance to catch you off guard and unsure of where the dynamic between the two of you broke. He watches you, as you wonder how you have lost the upper hand.

“What, Miss L.N.? Cat finally got your tongue?” he teases, smirking down as he slowly, ever-so slowly, closes the gap between the two of you.

The press of his lips against yours is hungry. Electrifying. Hot. Bucky groans when you lean into the kiss, your hands coming up to cup his face and pulling him closer. Impossibly closer. He breathes you in as he kisses you, hands traveling up your back and bringing you to your feet. He feels a twitch in between his legs when you moan into his mouth, and he bites your bottom lip when you break the kiss.

Bucky stares at you as his chest heaves, your mouth swollen and pink where he had nipped you. Your eyes are glued to his lips, and he gives you what you want, with just as much desire and urgency as before.

“Can’t be a snarky little know-it-all now, huh baby?” Bucky murmurs into your mouth, fingers carding through your hair and working toward a firm grip at the base of your scalp. He gives a tug, and his cock hardens at the whimper that comes out of you when he turns your face to look at his, at the control he has over you in that moment, at the fact that you couldn’t escape him. You smirk up at him, still wild-eyed, and bite back,

“I don’t know, Dr. Barnes, guess you’ll just have to see.” You giggle, that girlish teasing giggle that drove Bucky fucking crazy. Your hands, just as greedy as Bucky felt, ran up the length of his arms, squeezing his biceps lightly before they settled on his chest.

“God, you’re so fucking sexy,” he sighs into you before capturing your lips again, desperate, savoring the feel of your lips on his. His cock demanded so much more when he felt you smile into the kiss.

But no, he’s in control today. Even if he hadn’t planned for today to turn out the way it did, he was still going to be in control of this. Of you.

The moment you both come up for air, Bucky steps back, trying to catch himself, to calm down. Your eyes trail down his body appreciatively, the glowing smile on your face brightening when you land on the bulge in your professor’s slacks and Bucky feels his cock betray him, twitching under his boxers and hardening even more under your observant gaze.

“Dr. Barnes,” you look up at him through your lashes, glasses slipping down your nose bridge when your lips perk up, “I thought you were an unremarkable teacher before, but now I’m thinking you’re dumber than I originally thought.”

Bucky tenses up even more, arms cross as he leans back against his desk. It’s taking everything in him not to pounce on you. You seemed to obey his commands earlier, when he was losing his grip on his temper. Bucky could do that again, he could be what you wanted, if it meant you’d stay.

If it meant you’d let him get you off.

“Stop talking, Miss Smart Mouth,” he sneers at you, in command of his tone — low, seared with lust when he sees you bite your lip, obeying him. God, fuck. You were just turned on as he was, he knew it. “Strip.” he says, more demanding this time, still not moving from his position against his desk. You weren’t more than a foot away from him. He could just reach out right now, give you both what you wanted.

But Bucky was patient. He was going to drag this out. For himself. For all the times you’ve gotten on his fucking nerves, undermining his authority during class, in front of other students. For getting to his ego, of all things.

He was patient as you stripped, one garment after another peeling off to reveal smooth, glowing skin that he was dying to lay his hands on. A glimpse of your clavicle here, soft thighs there, Bucky wasn’t sure where he wanted to concentrate his stare. Jesus fucking Christ, he thinks to himself when his stare lands on your cleavage; soft, supple, begging to be bitten. By the time you were down to just your bra and panties, Bucky catches himself just in the nick of time.

“Wait, stop.”

You pause, looking up at him and arching an eyebrow.

“Yes, Dr. Barnes?” you ask, timid, in anticipation of what would happen next.

More often than you’d ever admit, your hands would wander under the cloud-soft cotton of your panties, fingers wandering toward your slit and smearing the wetness around your clit, determined to reach an orgasm that would put you into a deep slumber. You’d rather die than admit it, but sometimes, it was Dr. Barnes’ image in your head that brought you to your peak. His muscular forearms, lined with veins and evidently fortified by strength-training, would strain under your grip as he shoved himself in your imagination.

“Come here,” he gestures to you with one hand and moves to clear space on the desk before he taps the wood. The sight of his huge, toned body in front of you, out of reach and ready for you to touch — you felt the cotton of your panties dampen, just like you did on those nights you got yourself off to the image of Dr. Barnes. You take a step forward, hesitant, unable to keep your nerves reigned in.

“Finally found the stones to fight back, huh, Dr. Barnes?” you tease, attempting to get your head back into the dynamic you were used to. You were turned on, but not so much that you were willing to give up your dignity in that moment.

Unamused, Dr. Barnes taps the wood again. His next command is huskier, like he’s not willing to play your game anymore.

“Bend over,” he says, muscles in his jaw jostling with the strength it takes to hold himself back. He couldn’t describe it, this energy between the two of you. A heady, lustful sheen had blanketed the two of you in your own little world. He forgot who he was. He forgot that you were his student. He forgot himself, and all he wanted to do was scream.

#writing in hiding₊‧.°.⋆✮⋆.°.‧₊#bucky barnes #smut #smut fic #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you

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