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{Sexology 101}

Pairing: Professor!Bucky Barnes x cam girl!Y/N

Summary: Y/N is starting her last semester of college when an unexpected change in the course schedules has her sitting in on the class of the newest- and hottest- professor: Dr. Bucky Barnes. She'd probably be able to make it through the class without a problem if it wasn't an entire course on the human relationship to sex.

Warning: DNI if you are under 18!!!!!!!!! this is probably one of the filthier things I've ever written so with that being said...SMUT, obvious language, alcohol, slut-shaming, size-kink (more the fantasy of it, I guess?), age gap, power imbalance (Bucky's literally her professor), former-pornstar!Bucky, camgirl!Y/N

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It’s a small apartment building. Despite the fact it’s located in a college city and there are always thousands of students looking for places to live, the building isn’t suited for a college town. At least, not her college town.

The building itself is only five floors, four residential and one main that houses the gym, pools, sauna, grill patio, mailroom, and community lounge. It has its own parking unit too, which is awesome. Of course, the rent isn’t exactly cheap, which is why Y/N is sure she’s the only college student who lives there. Which isn’t a bad thing, per se.

While the building itself is small, the apartments are not. Each has two bedrooms, two and a half baths, a full kitchen and living room, in-unit laundry, and a balcony. Plus, the closet space is to die for.

After hearing some of the horror stories of on-campus living and the cheaper apartments, Y/N is more than glad she lucked out on having the money to pay for her building.

Usually, she’s one of four people utilizing the gym at five in the morning but now she’s one of five. This newcomer is just that, someone she’s never seen before. Must be someone’s boyfriend or friend. She’d take advantage of using this gym for free if it wasn’t already.

He’s definitely hot, that’s for sure. A stupid but fresh wave of jealousy sparks through her at the thought of someone else being able to enjoy those broad shoulders, beefcake level arms, and thicker than sin thighs. The toe of her shoe skids on the treadmill as she briefly- BRIEFLY- imagines what it would be like to feel that dark stubble against her own skin. Her train of thought derails into further salacious territories as she fantasizes about what that metal prosthetic hand would feel like wrapped around her throat.

She ups the pace of the treadmill and inhales sharply. She cannot be thinking thoughts like this. Not now. Not with her final semester of college starting next week-

Wait.

Now is the perfect time. Once school starts next week, she’ll be in no-stop mode until graduation in May. And after that…real life starts. Now is quite literally the perfect time to burn all the sexual frustration out of her.

“Hey.”

It takes most of her effort to not trip over herself at the startle of a deep voice behind her. She brings the treadmill to a slowed stop and half-turns her head.

Oh, fuck.

Hot New Gym Guy is so much hotter up close. Those blue eyes look like precious gems and through his sweat-dampened muscle tank she can see the etchings of Greek god worthy pecs and abs.

Is she…? Shit, is she drooling?

She glances around, wondering if he’s talking to someone she can’t see. But no, he means her. He gives a breathy chuckle at her confusion that makes her knees feel a little like Jell-O.

“I was wondering if-?”

She practically hops off the treadmill. “Yeah! No, for sure, it’s all yours.”

Hot New Gym Guy side-eyes the piece of equipment. “Could you point me to the sauna?”

The sauna. The sauna. A hot and steamy private place where he’d be alone and shirtless. Most likely only in a towel.

Y/N shifts on her feet. “Oh. Uh, yeah, for sure. I’m actually headed there anyway.” Because that totally sounds believable.

He raises an eyebrow. “Guess I have good timing.” She muses that she supposes he does.

Hot New Gym Guy trails behind her silently as she leads him to the back part of the gym where the sauna and door to the pools are.

“So,” she double-checks that the sauna is empty- which it is-, “when’d you move in?”

His muscles flex and ripple as he scratches the back of his neck. “That obvious, huh?” She shrugs. “Early last week.” Y/N points out that there are separate changing rooms for the sauna and pool, fully stocked with towels and showers. “Guess I’ll see you in there, then.” He smiles a little crooked.

“Huh?” She blinks.

“In the sauna…?”

God, how rotted is her brain?

It takes her all of about four minutes to shed her sweaty gym clothes and swap them out for a towel. Hot New Gym Guy is already sitting on the wooden bench in the sauna when she swings open the door from the women’s changing room. Thankfully, it’s still empty other than the two of them. She sits down a respectable distance from him and makes sure not to manspread her legs in any kind of way. He glances up from the floor to give her a brief smile before turning his attention back to the ground.

The uncomfortable silence squirms over her skin about two minutes before she can’t take it anymore.

“You just move in with your girlfriend?” Y/N leans her head back against the wooden planked wall.

He looks up at her. “Nope. No girlfriend. Just me.”

Just him. What kinda guy that looks like him is single? Beefy hot dudes aren’t just single. Especially not the ones that can afford an apartment in a building like this one.

“So what’s wrong with you?” Did she just- fuck, she said that out loud. To his face! Sauna heat or not, her face is turning hotter than a bee sting. She sits upright and covers her mouth.

“Uh-?”

She wants to rip out her tongue and then swallow it, choke, and die. This is awful. Worse than half the shit guys on campus say to her or behind her back all the time. “I didn’t mean it like that. Shit. I’m so sorry. I just-.”

“You just what?”

She shakes her head quickly. “You clearly have money- this building isn’t cheap- and well, ya know, you’re hot. I mean, handsome. Good-looking. Attractive. Sorry?”

His palm slides down his face, chin, and the column of his throat. Hot New Gym Guy doesn’t hesitate to admit that the past few years he’s been single due to the fact he’s been focusing on getting his doctorate degree- which he just accomplished a few months ago from NYU.

“Oh, wow. Doctorate, like a PhD? No shit?” She breathes. Y/N scoots closer to him. “In what?” His voice stumbles a bit when he tells her it’s in Psychology.

This has to be her lucky day or something. Hot New Gym Guy lives in her building and he’s a Psych genius? No fucking way.

“This is so weird.” She sighs.

“What?”

“I’m a Psych major at the college here. I’m starting my last semester next week.” If she hadn’t been so zoned in on the details and intimate structures of his face, she would have missed the minute way the corner of his mouth turned down. “What? Am I being weird?”

He says no quickly. “I moved here for a job. I’ll be teaching some classes at the college a couple times a week.”

Oh.

Goddamn it. There it went. The chance. The only one she had. Gone like the fuckin’ wind. Just her luck.

“Cool.” The word doesn’t even sound nice coming from her mouth. It’s all flat and boring. “Okay, well, I’ve gotta go do…stuff, I guess? Uh, it was nice to meet you-” ugh, she can’t even rightly call him Hot New Gym Guy now- “Professor Neighbor Guy?”

It’s such a lame nickname. But it makes him laugh a little bit. He’s got a nice laugh, like he doesn’t do it a lot so it’s been bottled up a long time.

“Bucky. My name’s Bucky. Barnes.”

Bucky Barnes. Professor Bucky Barnes.

No. Doctor Bucky Barnes.

Shit, that’s hot. Shit, life sucks.

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Psych 405 is not on her schedule. That can’t be right. It’s definitely not right. She’d made this schedule back in November with her advisor. Psych 405 was her last elective course she would need and the only one available in the elective pathway. Without that class, she was three credits behind. Without that class, she wasn’t graduating in May.

Life lately was one big joke for her. Between Hot New Gym Guy turning out to be a professor at her college- and therefore unobtainable-, her dryer going out, the heat in her unit being wonky, and now her class missing…What had she done to piss the universe off?

Y/N pounds her fist five times outside her academic advisor’s office door. The tendons in her ankle are sore from tapping her foot on the ground by the time the door opens.

“Y/N, hi! How was your-?”

“Psych 405. Where is it?”

Gilbert Layne stares back at her. Gilbert kind of reminds her of a dearly beloved grandpa who’s maybe a little too old to be staring at a computer screen all day and going up and down stairs. But he’s spry for his age and gets around well and deals with technology better than most people her age. He’s always in a pair of dark toned khakis, a muted button down, and some kind of wacky sweater vest.

“You didn’t get my email, then?”

She blinks. Over the past few years, she’s made a pretty strict habit of not checking her student email over holiday breaks. She’s on break, which means no school stuff.

“What email?”

He ushers her inside and leaves the door cracked. She tosses her bag on the extra chair and sits in the one in front of his desk. She likes his office, always has. It smells like cedar and the grass after it rains. The chairs are worn and cushy and he’s got five billion pictures of his wife, Aggie.

Gilbert slides into his chair and pulls up the course registration documents and pathways. “I sent you an email about a week after final exams. Dr. Edmunson left us to conduct research. While we were all very happy for him, his departure left some blanks in the course pathways. All classes to be taught by him had to be voided and-.”

“Well, what am I supposed to do?” She leans closer to his desk. “I needed that class, Professor Layne. Now I’m three credits short and I’m supposed to graduate in May.”

He pushes his glasses up further on the bridge of his nose. “Right, yes. There is good news, Y/N, stop worrying so much.” She asks what that could be. “After Dr. Edmunson left, we did some juggling on the course pathways. We had to activate a few courses to be eligible for completing the elective pathways left incomplete by his voided courses. I think there are now four possible classes you could take to supplement that course and complete that elective pathway.”

Oh, thank God.

He asks to see the paper copy of her schedule and she forks it over. She looks around his office as he does a few things on his computer. He’s added a few more pictures of his wife since the last time she was there in November. They don’t have any kids, just two people in their 70s madly in love. Based on the pictures and their frames, they travel a lot on holidays and breaks. The most recent Christmas one looks like it was taken on a cruise ship.

“Where’d you guys go over Christmas? It’s a beautiful photo.” Aggie’s hair is all sorts of windswept but in a Hollywood way not the rollercoaster way. Her patterned dress billows and her face is forever etched in a laughing smile.

Gilbert looks up briefly to smile at the picture. “We went on a cruise through southeast Asia. It was wonderful.” He hands her the paper copy of her schedule back. “So, there are only two courses left of the four that will fit your schedule. 310 is Psychology of Trauma and then 411 is Psychology of Human Sexuality. They’re both at-.”

“I’ll do 310.” She says quickly. “Trauma Psych, please.”

No way in hell is she taking a Human Sexuality class. The only people who ever take those are disgusting perved out guys who act like they’re in 7th grade. She does not want to be stuck in a room with those idiots.

Gilbert nods and goes back to his computer. “Okay, just one more click and- oh.”

It’s not a good oh.

She peers over his desk and squints her eyes to get a better look at his computer screen. Even from feet away, she can read plainly what is being displayed. Full. The class is full. In fact, it’s already two people over capacity which means she is not getting into Trauma Psych.

Which also means-.

“I’m sorry, Y/N. It looks like Psych 310 is completely full, even a little over. But…” He trails, his lost voice accompanied by the clicking of his mouse and buttons on the keyboard, “Psych 411 still has some spots open.”

She wants to beat her head against a brick wall until her brain leaks from her ear canals. “If that’s the only option, I guess I don’t really have a choice.”

“‘Fraid not, dear.” He clicks his tongue in sympathy. He gets her registered for the course in no time flat. “You came at a great time, though. The instructor is in this office block and I believe he should be here now. Since you missed the first class, it may be a good idea to get yourself introduced to him and find out about materials.”

In her heart, she knows he’s right. Gilbert is always right. But she’s so done with the day that she just wants to go back home, curl up in her bed, and cry for seven hours until her whole body aches.

“Uh, yeah. Okay. I’ll do that.” She’s so not doing that. She grabs her bag and the new version of her schedule that now has Psych 411 added. Tuesdays and Thursdays from 3-4:30pm. God. What a fucking disaster. Y/N thanks Gilbert for all his help and pretty much hightails it from his office.

If this day gets any worse…No, no, it can’t get worse. It has to be universally unable to get worse. To make matters a little less dire, it’s Tuesday which means at some point today, she has to work.

She doesn’t necessarily like her job, but she doesn’t hate it. It’s sort of fun sometimes and it pays the rent and she’s always got a good deal of leftover funds to feel secure financially. By no means is she booking cruises to southeast Asia but she can order Thai takeout when she wants. Plus, she sort of makes her own schedule anyway, which means she can be as flexible as she wants about working and still make all the money she needs.

But she likes routine so Tuesdays and Fridays are set. Occasionally, Saturdays. But those-.

“Y/N?”

She looks down at the base of the small set of stairs leading out of the office block of the Psych building. Lo and fuckin’ behold, Professor Hot Stuff himself: Dr. Bucky Barnes. “Oh. Hi.”

He takes the stairs two at a time, reaching her spot at the apex in no time. “You just getting out of class?” He looks awfully spic-and-span for a Tuesday afternoon. Then again, he is just starting a new job. Navy tight-fit dress pants that really accentuate just how thick his thighs are, a crisp white button down that tucked in, sleeves rolled up at his elbows. A simple silver tie that brings out the flecks of silver in his short-cropped hair. He’s shaved down the stubble. Damn.

She doesn’t want to tell him she’s been hassling her academic advisor over something that wasn’t his fault. God forbid she sound brattier than she is. Not that it really matters because nothing between them will ever happen, but she likes keeping a good impression. And sounding like a whiny spoiled idiot is not a good impression for someone to have of her.

So, she lies. Lying is always better.

“I was actually looking for someone but-.”

“Who?”

Fuck. God. Why do people ask questions? Why can’t anyone just take shit at face value anymore?

She shifts her weight from one foot to the other. “Uh, a professor. I just had to register for a different class but I missed the first lecture. I just sort of don’t know who it is so…”

He nods, looking around. “What class is it? Maybe I can help?”

She unfolds her schedule and shows it to him. He leans closer to her to get a better look. Most of his cologne has faded but the hints of spice, pepperwood and something sort of smoky still linger on his skin. It takes everything in her not to close her eyes and inhale as much of it as she can. “It’s Psych 411: Psychology of Human Sexuality. It’s new, I think, but it was the last class with open spots and-.”

His blue eyes have a little twinkle in them. Falling down the stairs may be her only option to get out of this encounter without totally making a fool of herself. He taps the paper with the pad of his index finger and says he knows where the professor’s office is and he’s glad to show her.

“Thanks. Uh, yeah, thanks.” She folds the paper back up and stuffs it in her bag. She readjusts the bag on her shoulder before beginning to follow him. “Did you have classes today?” Quietly, he says yes. “How’d they go? I bet you were a big hit with everyone.”

He glances over at her. “Why do you say that?”

It’s not like she can freely say that it’s because he’s hot. Now that she’s keenly aware of his employment status as a professor, she has to be careful not to toe anywhere near an inappropriate line of conduct. “You’re new. We Psych kids love fresh blood.”

His laugh is just a short huff of breath but it’s more than her dumb joke warrants in the first place. They round the corner to a new set of offices and he points that the office is just down the hall.

“He’s a nice guy. You’ll like him, I think. Fresh blood and all that.” Bucky lets her walk in front of him- thank God so now she can stop checking out his ass. She scans over the doors and nameplates, asking which one she’s looking for. “Nameplate should say Dr. B. Barnes.”

Y/N pauses. Something feels stuck in her throat. A cosmic joke, probably. This cannot be happening. There is no way-.

“You-?”

He stuffs his hands in the pockets of his pants. There’s a shit-eating grin on his face, blue eyes sparked with amusement. “Like I said, you’ll like him.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Y/N takes a decent sized chug of her vodka soda. She’s trying not to let her fingers touch the grimy bartop. “Do you remember Hot New Gym Guy?”

Celina’s eyes traverse the packed college bar, hunting for her next piece of prey. Celina goes after boys the way cheetahs go after antelope. “I think? Is he the one with the skull tat on his arm or the one that turned out to be a professor?”

Y/N reminds her best friend that skull tat guy was a good four months ago. “Hot professor. And, as of today, my Psych 411 professor.”

It’s enough to snap Celina’s eyes back to her. Her eyes are wide, mouth open in animated interest. “No fuckin’ shit? Holy fuck.” Celina takes a swig of a pink-toned strawberry-lemonade vodka mix. “Oh my God, I just had the best idea. You should totally bomb a paper or something and meet him for office hours. Tell him you’ll do anything to raise your grade.” The worst thing is that Celina is one hundred percent serious.

Y/N snorts and immediately vetoes that idea. She reminds Celina that she wants to actually graduate without any sexual harassment charges on her file. Propositioning her professor- who she’s already admitted to finding attractive- is not the way to go.

“Please.” Celina rolls her eyes. “You have guys literally paying you twice a week to act like some pouty little bimbo for two hours. You get paid to stream yourself being hot and bothered. He’d be an idiot to take his freebie and turn it down. Hell, your little moron subscribers would probably draw and quarter him if they knew.”

Y/N takes a small drink of her vodka soda. It’s not like Celina doesn’t have a point. Two or three times a week- but always Tuesdays and Fridays- she gets online and sits in her underwear for two hours. And dudes pay her for it. Saturdays, when she’s up to it, so usually once or twice a month, she cranks it up a notch and produces a bit more scandalous content. Makes a show of taking off her shirt, fondling herself, touching herself. Those one or two Saturday night contents are enough to cover her month’s rent.

Whoever came up with OnlyFans is her saving grace.

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t the video star herself.”

Based on the look on Celina’s face, Y/N probably doesn’t want to deal with whoever just came up behind them. Nevertheless, she spins around on the barstool.

Everett Carmichael could be considered her worst enemy. If she was a person who had enemies. She just really fucking hates him. He’s smarmy and smells way too much like Polo ‘cologne’ all the time and always has some shit to say about her job. Even after she broke his nose two years ago.

“Do you need something or did you just come over to be a prick?” She raises an eyebrow.

He doesn’t laugh. She doesn’t expect him to. “It’s Tuesday night. Shouldn’t you be home filming a porno or something?”

She leans back against the bar. “Why is that your concern? Daddy’s money burning a hole in your wallet?”

His ears tinge red. “I’ve been thinking-.”

“A miracle.” Celina drawls.

Her little jest earns a small smile from Y/N.

Everett ignores it. He crosses his arms over his chest and watches Y/N take another drink. “I figured you only get on there and let those sickos watch you go to town on yourself because you can’t find anyone who actually wants to touch you.”

“Huh.” She says. “A really astute observation, Everett, I’m impressed it only took you two years to think of that.”

The rest of his face goes beet red. The blood tinges down through his neck and a vein pulses in his forehead. “You bi-.”

She holds up a hand and then finishes her drink. She sets it on the bar and slides off the stool. “Although, I seem to remember seeing your name pop up on my list of super-subscribers several times the past few months. Which is weird, considering you have such a hatred of me fucking myself on camera.”

Celina snorts so hard pink liquid comes from her nose. Everett is looking straight ahead at the bar, shoulders tensed and hands balled into fists at his sides. His mouth is drawn in a tight line.

“Makes me wonder if you have to watch me touch myself because you can’t touch me.” She grabs onto his shoulder and leans up on his tiptoes. Y/N pulls him down so that her lips brush the shell of his ear. “Just remember: when I’m fucking myself with my fingers, I’m doing something you’ll never do.” A vein in his neck tenses. “Making me cum.” She lets him go, a smile on her face as his eyes look as if they’re about to burst from the sockets. She smacks him lightly on the bicep. “Have a great night, Everett. I’m sure you’ll see me later.”

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The email comes through around 8 in the morning Thursday.

Please see me in my office at 2:30. Dr. B. Barnes, Department of Psychology & Human Studies

She’s looked at it about a hundred times already. Wait no, a hundred and one. It’s stupid, this insane fascination she has with someone who is now her professor. Someone who, academically, she should look up to. But really, she wants to be on her knees looking up at him.

She really needs to get a grip.

Y/N glances up at the clock in the office block of the Psych building. It’s 2:25. Being five minutes early isn’t a crime. Right?

She hoists her bag over her shoulder and marches over to his office. The door is primly closed and a soft classical music is drifting beyond the wooden barrier. She knocks twice before a gruff “Come in,” ushers her to open the door.

Bucky- no, he has to be Dr. Barnes now- is sitting behind his desk. Feet propped up on the corner of the desk, he’s leaned back in his chair with his eyes glued on a book. A Spotify playlist chock full of classical music is pulled up on his desktop computer. The gauzy gray curtains are not quite pulled shut and an oil diffuser permitting a delicate citrusy smell is on the shelf in the corner.

Dr. Barnes looks up from his book. He swings his feet off the desk and sits upright. “Y/N, please, have a seat.” He gestures to the dark blue linen sofa opposite his desk. She leaves the door cracked as she slips in and takes a seat. “I just wanted to go over a few things with you before class today.”

She hasn’t even been to his class yet and she’s already in trouble. Great. The universe is really out to get her this semester.

“Oh. Uh, did I do something? I know I missed on Tuesday but there was that mishap-.”

He holds up his hand, waving her worry aside. “No, there’s no issue. I just didn’t want you to feel singled out in class today. I thought it would be less embarrassing if I met with you early to give you the materials.” He pulls a large stack of bound paper from an unseen desk drawer and then a laminated sheet of paper to put on top of it. Dr. Barnes slides the stack across the desk to her.

As she flips through them, he explains that the stack of bound paper includes all the readings and diagrams she’ll need for the semester. He had passed out copies to everyone else on Tuesday. The laminated paper is the syllabus for the semester.

She takes that paper and skims over it. Holy…God, this was going to be a nightmare. Sexual anatomy…Arousal physiology and response…Adult sexual behavior…wait. Her eyes jolt back to the top of the list.

Sex as a Commercial & Economic Factor in the World

Y/N places the syllabus down on the desk and slides it so he can see perfectly what she’s pointing to. “What exactly do you mean here?” She clears her throat. “Like, what are we going to discuss?”

His dark brows furrow in confusion. As if he can’t believe she’s so oblivious to what would be described as sex work. “Prostitution, exotic dancing, pornography, things along that line. Their status as sexual employment and its societal and economic effects.”

“Oh.”

She brings the paper back to her and places it atop the stack of readings. Deep breath. One, two, thr-.

“I’m sorry, Y/N,” Dr. Barnes says softly, “I assumed when you signed up for this class that you understood what the content would be…? Is this going to be too uncomfortable for you to handle?”

She finishes her breathing. Y/N looks across the desk at him. Might as well be honest. “I didn’t want to sign up for this class.” She admits. Tries to lie to herself that the wounded look on his face doesn’t make her feel guilty. Why should she feel guilty? She didn’t do anything wrong! “I wanted Trauma Psych. I don’t mean to be crass or hurt your feelings, I’m sure your class is going to be great but-.”

“But it’s not what you wanted.” He nods slowly. “I understand.”

“Do you?”

He stands up and flattens his palms against the top of the desk. Another tight pair of dress pants. Another muscle-smothering button-down. Today, his tie is deep blue. Like his eyes. The veins on the backs of his hands are strained with tension. Without thinking, her eyes waver over the crotch of his pants. The material there isn’t loose enough to conceal his obvious and- yeah, definitely quite impressive- package.

“Of course.” He taps a finger against the desk. “Human Sexuality wasn’t the class you wanted. But, it’s what you got stuck with and there’s nothing you can do.” He checks the subtly nice watch that’s around his left wrist. “Class starts soon.” His eyes find her. “You go on, I’ve got to get some things together.”

Y/N stands and hastily gathers her things. She carefully shoves his pile of readings in her bag and folds the syllabus down in as well. She’ll color code a new copy later onto her calendar and put the readings in a binder.

“Y/N?” He calls when she’s about to push through the door. When she looks back at him, he’s putting an accordion file folder into a messenger bag on his desk. “I promise I won’t go too hard on you.” When he smiles, she’s reminded of the first warm day after winter. “Not unless you ask me to.”

This semester is going to suck so bad.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The worst thing about missing the first day of class is not getting to pick her own seat. By 2:55 when she walks in to the Psych 411 room, almost all the seats are taken. Apparently, stakes were claimed on Tuesday and automatically recognized today.

Y/N spends an awkward minute at the front of the room canvassing over any places that would hold an empty seat. She’s only got two options: a seat at one of the front tables or right next to some guy in the world’s most obnoxiously colored-. Fuck, is that-?

“You’re taking this class?” Everett Carmichael low whistles, leaning back in his chair. “Somehow I’m not surprised.”

Y/N has never once willingly sat in the front of a classroom but if her only other option is next to that douche…She finds her seat quickly and tosses her bag on the table. As she rifles through for a pen and a notebook, it’s nearly impossible not to hear Everett whispering to someone about how ironic it is she’s taking a class on Human Sexuality. While her seat is better than sitting next to him, it’s still not far enough away that she can reasonably ignore him. It’s a small classroom with only about fifteen tables meant to sit two people each.

There’s about a table difference between hers at the front and Everett’s in the middle.

The door squeaks as it’s closed shut. Y/N purposefully doesn’t look up as she dates the front piece of paper in her notebook. It’s probably best she doesn’t see the way Dr. Barnes’ pants hug his legs.

“Class, good afternoon.” There’s a quiet thud as he lays his bag down on the desk at the front of the room. “I hope everyone is having a good day?”

There’s a murmuring chorus of responses, to which Y/N neglects to join. As he writes the lecture title on the whiteboard at the front of the room, she copies it down on her paper. In fact, that’s the way most of the class goes. Whatever he writes on the board, it goes in her notebook. She’s got squiggles and arrows, circles, and three-time underlines. Phrases and definitions written as small as she could get them. By the time there’s ten minutes left, she’s already used two and a half sheets of paper. Each one is messier and harder to transcribe than the last.

She’ll have to keep a spare notebook for this class so she can rewrite all her notes perfunctorily after each class.

Y/N pulls her planner from her bag and makes a note under tomorrow- Friday- to rewrite today’s 411 notes and do the assigned reading for Tuesday’s class.

Dr. Barnes erases everything he’s written so far on the board, leaving only streaky marks of black. “This was a great class today, thank you guys. But I have just one more thing to say before I release you.”

She looks up from her planner and half-expects him to be staring her down. But he isn’t. Thank God. Right? If that’s a good thing, why isn’t she relieved? Why is she…disappointed?

“You may have noticed on your syllabus that you’re going to be tasked with a research paper for this class.” Somewhere in the back there’s an audible groan. Dr. Barnes smiles good-naturedly. “I’m allowing you to choose the topic of your research, however it’s subject to my approval. For the dates on which your annotated bibliography, first draft, revised draft, and final draft are due, please see the syllabus.” Three drafts? “As for your research proposal, I’ll expect those on Tuesday when class begins. Questions?”

His eyes scan the room but no one’s hands are raised and no one has an inquisitive look. He waves a hand, dismissing them and wishing them a good weekend.

She gathers her things, pushing them into her bag, and jolts up from her chair.

“Y/N, I bet I can guess what your research will be on.” Everett jogs to catch up with her as she heads toward the door. “I won’t even need three guesses.”

She suddenly can’t remember why murder is a bad thing. “Wow.” She drawls. “You’re evolving quickly. I wish Charles Darwin were still alive to witness this miracle.”

Everett worms his way next to her, filing out the door beside her. “I’m not sure it’ll be so fair if you do your paper on your little job. Too much insider intel, not enough actual research.”

She blows a breath out of her mouth. “If you think it’s so unfair, maybe you should stop subscribing. Trust me, I won’t miss the $150 every week.” The $150 comes out judgmental and low.

Everett’s head whips around sharply- most likely to ensure no one who actually knows him heard what she just said. “Never heard a slut complain about getting her bills paid before.” He slings his arm over her shoulder. “Seriously, though, that’s my research topic. Agree to pick something else and I’ll up my little donations to your charity fund. Deal?”

God, the audacity of this prick. Insult, act friendly, bribe, degrade. He knows no bounds of self-humiliation and annoyance.

Y/N shoves him away so hard he lands against the wall. “Touch me again and I’ll break something a little more serious than your nose. And don’t ever try to-.”

“Everything okay here?”

Her shoulders go rigid. Flattened against the wall, Everett looks past her to Dr. Barnes. She keeps her gaze locked on Everett, silent threat after threat oozing from her expression.

Everett stands up straight and adjusts his shirt. He tosses his backpack over one shoulder. “Just a little friendly rivalry, Professor.” He shoots Y/N a look before stalking off.

Y/N looks back as Dr. Barnes palms her shoulder. His skin, even through her shirt, is warm. “Are you all right?” His gaze is soft but questioning. She can see he wants to ask what was going on, why she’s so pissed off.

“Fine. Nothing I’m not used to dealing with by now. He’s just a bigger ass than most guys. ”

His eyes flicker down the hall and then back to her. “Y/N, if he’s harassing you, sexually or-.”

She shrugs his hand from her shoulder. He takes a step back, hand slowly falling back to his side. “Not everything in my life is about sex, Dr. Barnes. I have to go.”

God, she thinks as she walks away, wouldn’t that be a fucking nightmare case? Sexual harassment from Everett Carmichael. He’d drag her so deep in the mud she’d never be able to do anything again. And despite the fact her job isn’t dirty work, it isn’t majorly considered respectful. She doesn’t doubt some would say she’s practically asking to be harassed on campus if she’s willing to get online and show her tits for extra cash.

Fucked up world.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Saturday Special.

As if it’s some sort of diner special. Except, instead of meatloaf and mashed potatoes, she’s palming her tits through a lacy pink bra. Rather than a slice of key lime pie, breathy whimpers push through her lips as she pretends to be enjoying herself.

Y/N has never actually gotten any sort of satisfaction from her breasts. Maybe the nerves there aren’t good enough or something. Lots of women receive sexual stimulation from their tits, some don’t. She’s just one who doesn’t. But if she acted the way she felt, her bank account would have a lot less money in it.

Which is why on Tuesdays, Fridays, and Saturdays the air conditioner in her apartment is down as low as she can stand.

Half the time, she barely registers the words that come out of her mouth. They aren’t things she’s ever said to someone and most likely never will (how depressing). Every so often, her gaze fixes on the screen so she can read off all the filthy and borderline disgusting things horny guys from Wherever, USA want to hear come from her mouth. So they can sit in front of their computer screens and jerk off to the fantasized scene in their head of them doing these things to her.

Would it feel different if it were someone else?

Her eyes fixate back on the screen, a playful smirk turning up the corners of her mouth. “I know you can’t wait to feel me.” Her chest heaves in dramatic flair as her fingers play over the lace flower in the middle of her bra. Her index finger trails up the hill of her breast. “I can’t wait any longer. I’m tired of all this teasing, too.” Her voice belongs to an entirely different person. It’s raspy and sultry, full of wanton desire and pure lust.

The laptop dings with a new message.

Rager77248: ever thought of doing movies?

She laughs, and while it’s genuine, it comes out in a high-pitched giggle. “Have I ever thought of doing movies?” As she talks, she slowly eases her hand down her sternum and stomach, inching toward the frilled white lace of her panties. “You’re too sweet! I don’t think I’d be a very good actress.”

Says the girl who fakes orgasms on the internet for money. Not that any of these morons know that. There’s no way in hell she’s going to actually climax on camera. That’s a little too intimate for strangers to see.

She slips two fingers under the band of her panties. The sensation of warm skin sends a tingle down to her toes.

Rager77248: pornos. just like this, only someone’s actually fucking u. i’d watch them all.

It’s not really the compliment Rager77248 thinks it is. Nevertheless, she smiles again and gushes out a gratitude that sounds sincere, telling them she’ll take it into consideration. Which, like fucking hell she will.

She’s read enough horror stories about how awful those working conditions are, especially for the women. Not to mention the entirely unrealistic standards they set for what sex should be like and how harmful those expectations can be when it comes to real life. If sex was really-.

That’s it.

That’s her research topic. The toxicity of the pornography industry. God, it’s so perfect she sort of wants to cry.

The pads of her fingertips brush over the folds of her pussy. She’s not close to aroused enough, head now swimming with how great this paper is about to be. Dr. Barnes will probably be so impressed with-.

Fuck.

Dr. Barnes.

Before she can stop it from happening, her brain is on a whirlwind track all about him. Specifically, how her fingers beginning to dip inside her would feel if they were his fingers beginning to dip inside her. Her hand shakes a little as the fantasy takes full form in her mind.

They’re in his office, late after everyone else has gone home. It doesn’t matter how or why they’re alone, but they are. She’s sitting on his desk and he’s in front of her. His pointer finger drags up her leg and creates rings of patterns, each time drawing closer and closer to the apex of where her thighs meet. His other hand curved around the side of her throat, tongue whetting over his lips as he watches his hand disappear under her dress. No panties, huh, he chuckles softly. Her breath catches, it really does, when he confidently, pridefully, slides three fingers into her pussy, and his mouth pulls into an arrogant grin. Gotta get you ready for me, sweetheart. Gotta make sure you can take me. Dr. Barnes makes finger-fucking look effortless, makes it look like a goddamn hobby. He eats up every breathless moan she lets out and coaxes more from her with each twist and hook of his fingers inside her. His mouth hovers over her collarbone to leave hot damp memoirs of his lips, teeth scraping against bone when her walls flutter and clutch to his digits.

And just like that, Y/N is cumming on her fingers.

Sweat sheens over her skin in a thin, sticky coat. The thrum of messages on her laptop is a constant. She rests her back on the headboard of her bed and trains her eyes on the ceiling. The scent of her arousal flames in her nose, head dizzy, toes tingling, bones numb.

What the fuck did she just do?

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

She watches herself four times. Four. Just to be sure. Saturday’s stream is practically burned into her memory. Her eyes ache at having scoured over it so diligently. She just had to be sure. The reassurance is final after that fourth and final viewing of the recording.

Despite the fact she got herself off on some twisted fantasy of her professor, she never once uttered his name. The only noises she makes are wordless pants, breaths, and moans. Thank God. Truly and honestly, thank God.

“Wow.” Celina huffs a breath. “I don’t really…I just…wow.”

Y/N peeks from behind her hands. Celina may be her closest friend but there are still some things Y/N gets embarrassed to admit to. And what happened Saturday night is one of those things.

“Was it good?” Celina questions.

Y/N’s hands fall into her lap. Celina is staring back, waiting for a response. “Was it-? Cece, you know it was in my head, right? That didn’t actually happen. I was fantasizing.”

Celina shrugs her shoulders and turns back to the Netflix home screen on the tv. “I know it was in your head, dumbass. I was just hoping your freaky little brain didn’t make him bad at sex.”

She chooses a movie, some raunchy flick from the early 2000s that will have them both slightly uncomfortable and also laughing in stitches by the end. She offers Y/N the bowl of popcorn and she declines. Nothing worse than having kernels stuck in her gums and between her teeth.

“God,” Y/N throws her head so it rests on the back of the couch, “how the fuck am I gonna look him in the eye Tuesday to hand in my research proposal?” Humiliation is already taking deep root in her. It’s going to be impossible to hand in that proposal and not recall every salacious thing about her little daydream. And to sit in that class the rest of the semester? Mere feet from him? Hell’s goddamn bells.

She’s just counting her lucky stars she hasn’t run into him yet in the apartment building.

“Easily?” Celina side-eyes her. “It’s just Trauma Psych right? Unless you picked some kind of sexual trauma topic and then maybe you should email it and be sick Tuesday.”

Trauma-? Why does she think 411 is Trauma Psych?

Celina protests when Y/N snatches the remote away and pauses the movie. “It’s Psych 411, Cece. Psych 310 was Trauma Psych.” Celina asks 411 is. Y/N rolls her eyes. “Human Sexuality.” She jumps back when Celina hops up onto the couch, resting on her calves. She grabs Y/N’s hands and clasps them tightly. “Ow, you freak! Let go!”

“This is perfect!” Celina tugs on her. “Why didn’t you tell me? Ugh! This is too easy, Y/N. You’re gonna have so many perfect opportunities to make this little sexy professor fantasy happen. I’m jealous.”

Y/N wretches her hands away. She loves her friend, she does, but the girl doesn’t have but one rational thought in her head at a time. And clearly, it’s on vacation. “I’m not going to sleep with my professor, Cece.” Duly, she asks why not. If he’s so hot and she’s fantasizing about him, it seems perfect. Y/N cuts her eyes. “He’s my professor, Celina. I shouldn’t have to tell you how inappropriate that would be. Plus, he’d probably lose his job.”

“Professor Qeuntin didn’t get the ax when he slept with me.”

If there would’ve been water in her mouth, Y/N would’ve spat it out. This time, she grabs Cece’s hands and squeezes them.

“You slept with Professor Qeuntin?!” She practically screeches. “You bitch! When?”

She sighs in mystified jealousy as Celina recounts her sordid hookup with their old Science 105 professor from freshman year. He was at least fifty but didn’t look a day over thirty-three. Sort of lanky in a hot nerdy kinda way, always cleaning his wire-frame glasses. Neither of them really knew what made him so hot but facts were facts.

“When was this?” Y/N asks, smacking Cece’s arm lightly. “Over break?”

Cece smiles secretively. “Remember when I totally bombed that test on Newton’s Laws or whatever? And I got a retake?”

Her whole mind shifts. Cece bagged a retake by bagging their professor. Holy shit. And Y/N went all this time without ever knowing.

Cece unpauses the movie. “But don’t like, fail just to fuck him you know? He’ll see right through that bullshit. See, I was actually bad at science so my failing the test was just the trigger. If you fail something in that Psych class, he’s gonna know you’re up to no good because you’re a Psych major.” She puts her feet up on the coffee table and smushes a handful of popcorn in her mouth. Y/N waits as she chews, wondering if she’s going to elaborate any further. But she never does.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Y/N rewrote her proposal seven times. None of them seemed to be good enough so in the end, the eighth and final version was a conglomeration of the previous ones. Deciding it was as good as it was ever going to be, she printed it off.

Now, the piece of paper is held tightly in her hand as she stands outside Dr. Barnes’ closed office door.

His voice on the other side is muffled and she thinks there’s someone else in there, but she can’t be sure. Only when the door opens and she has to step aside. The girl breezes out, coconut and vanilla perfume filling the air. Y/N’s eyebrows raise slightly at the low-cut and very short dress the girl is sporting. Her hair flows as she turns her head and tells Dr. Barnes she can’t wait to see him in class later.

As she passes by Y/N, she mouths so hot before scurrying off.

Huh.

Y/N taps her knuckles against the door.

“Yes?”

She peeks inside his office. “Dr. Barnes, hi.” He looks up from the papers on his desk, grimace on his face. “Is this a bad time? I’m sorry, I should’ve scheduled for office hours but-.”

He has on glasses. Black rectangle frame glasses. He pulls them from his face, folds them, and places them in a violet purple case. “You’re fine. Come in.” His voice suggests all is not fine and she should not come in. But she does anyway, leaving the door open as she does.

Y/N takes a seat on the couch, placing her bag at her feet. She smooths over the printed sheet of paper in her hand before looking back at him.

Dr. Barnes has his forearms on the desk, hands clasped together, as he leans toward her. “I assume you want to tell me about your research proposal?” How did he-? At her blatant confusion, he smiles. “I’ve had a mass of your fellow peers through my office today.” He admits that all the girls want to boast about their topics for the research papers. Most of them have needed gentle redirecting toward an actual topic, as they can’t just talk about the euphoric effects sex has on the human mind.

She stifles her laugh. “Told you everyone would like you.” She reminds him. “Uh, I did wanna meet about my research proposal,” she doesn’t miss the way his eyes roll toward the ceiling, “but I actually wanted some advice?”

That seems to perk him up. “Advice?” She nods. “Is that it?” He points to the paper in her hand. She reaches and hands it to him across the desk. Barely, just barely, his fingers skim hers. Static electricity jolts through her and she’s automatically sent back to that lurid daydream from Saturday.

God, what he would actually feel like against her-.

“You want to conduct your research paper on porn?” His blue eyes are wide with surprise.

Y/N gets up from the couch and goes to stand closer to the desk. She leans over to point to specifics in her proposal. “Not just porn, no. I want to talk about how dangerous it is, especially for young people.” She can’t reign in her rambling about how constant exposure to pornography, especially without censorship, can lead to children and teens creating unhealthy relationships with sex and sexual partners. Therefore leading to adults having unrealistic and potentially harmful views on intimacy and sex. “I just…” she breathes through her nose sharply, “I don’t think anyone ever really thinks about how unsafe consuming copious amounts of porn can be for the brain and, in extent, sexual relationships.”

Dr. Barnes stares up at her. He lays the paper flat on the desk. The room is silent, save for her blood pounding in her ears. He must have added new oil to his diffuser because now it smells like lavender and laundry detergent.

Her shoulders slump in his silence. “It’s a bad idea.” She murmurs. “Um, okay. This is fine. I can change-.”

Warmth sparks her hand. She doesn’t have to look down to know his hand is covering hers. There are calluses from his sessions in the gym, their roughness superseding the smoothness of the rest of his palm. “It’s a great idea, Y/N. I’m actually amazed at the level of thought and passion you’ve put into just the proposal. And I’m not easily impressed.”

Relief floods through her. She sighs, wanting to smile. Neither makes a move to move their hands away from the other. “Oh, God. Thank you. I mean, you had me worried there for a second. I did not want to have to find another idea after rewriting that one seven times.”

His eyes flicker to the proposal. “Seven, huh? That’s…that’s a lot.” Y/N quietly confesses that she just wanted to make sure it was good enough. She goes so far as to reassure him that she got the reading done for class later by Friday night and spent the early part of Saturday recopying Thursday’s lecture notes. He toys with the tip of his thumb corked in his mouth as she speaks, staring up at her with darkening eyes. “Wow. Let me guess: on Sunday you did work for all your other classes?” Maybe she imagines him squeezing her hand. Maybe he actually does squeeze her hand.

“No, actually, I slept all Sunday. I usually get everything done by then so I can just…catch up on sleep from the week.”

His thick brows come together. “That doesn’t sound healthy.”

Y/N puts her weight against the desk. She could get used to the feeling of his hand over hers. She could come to relish the way it feels when his skin touches hers. “I work nights. Tuesdays, Fridays, and sometimes Saturdays. St-shifts are usually kinda long and taxing so I just take Sundays to recuperate.”

Something sparks in his eye. His hand slides off hers but it’s a torturously slow movement that leaves his fingers trailing the back of her hand. “I get it. I used to work nights in grad school, all the way through my Ph.D. You must earn a lot to be able to afford our building. Must be a pretty good job.”

She is so not about to tell her Human Sexuality professor- who is so totally hot- that she’s a cam girl. Talk about awkward. If she did that, she’d might as well admit to masturbating to the thought of him Saturday night. And she’s definitely not going to do that.

She takes her paper from his desk. “Yeah. Uh, I’m a waitress at one of those ungodly fancy restaurants uptown. You know, the ones where you’ve gotta call two years ahead to get a reservation?”

A small smile graces his lips. “Uh-huh.” He taps her paper. “It’s good, really good. Can’t wait to get my hands on what you deliver.”

Her mouth dries. She swallows the salacious thought bubbling in her head, tries to ignore the warming feeling in the pit of her core, and promises to see him later in class.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The semester falls into a steady, stable rhythm. She has two classes on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, a class that only meets Mondays and Wednesdays, and then her 411 on Tuesdays and Thursdays. So, from 10am to 2pm on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, she’s booked; in class from 3-4:30 on Tuesdays and Thursdays; working every Tuesday, Friday, and Saturday night. On Fridays she’s really only in class until eleven, which means she spends the rest of the day catching up on rewriting her notes, listening to lecture recordings and jotting extra information down, trying to complete readings, and any other school work.

Once Y/N got settled into this new and final semester, she relegated Saturdays to a personal day. She spent them at the grocery store or cleaning, staying in and watching movies. And on Sundays, she sleeps.

Now, she’s staring at the screen of her computer, wishing she’d chosen a different research topic.

The first draft of her research paper is due in two weeks. While she’s already turned in her annotated bibliography, which is crammed full of useful sources, she’s also decided that actually watching porn would be helpful to her research.

She’s never really watched it before. Sure, she creates content that could technically be streamlined as pornography but what she’s looking at now consists of an entire industry of film entertainment. They have different studios and sets and actors, script-writers and producers. This is the x-rated dark side of Hollywood staring back at her.

Wearing the face of her Human Sexuality professor.

This cannot be real. There’s no way that’s actually him.

The video is paused and it certainly looks like Dr. Barnes…? If Dr. Barnes was scruffy in the face, had long locks of hair that curled around his chin, and lacked a prosthetic arm made out of vibranium. His hands are vice gripped into the woman’s hips, her face shoved down sideways into the bed, as he pushes himself as far into her as humanly possible. The woman’s stilled face is contorted into something that’s a mix between pain and pleasure. Y/N paused the video when she realized the woman was crying.

She takes a screen-capture of the video and then pulls it up separately. Zooms in as much as she can without distorting the image. Her core cinches.

There’s no mistaking those blue fucking eyes.

Dr. Bucky fuckin’ Barnes. In a porno.

Her fingers pull at her bottom lip as she exits from the picture and goes back to the video displayed on the site. Takes a deep breath and unpauses. The volume is low, but not so much that she can’t hear the animalistic grunts ushered from his throat, the whimpering cries of the woman. One of his hands goes and tangles itself in her hair, pulling hard. The woman is sobbing as he fucks into her with a ferocity Y/N didn’t know existed. The smack of flesh on flesh echoes in the deepest parts of her ears. When he’s done with her, he clambers off the bed and Y/N’s fingers rush to pause the video again.

Is that-?

Holy fucking shit.

She’s always known those pants didn’t hide much but…seeing a bulge through his pants and seeing his actual dick are two very different things. She can’t tell much about an accurate measurement but she knows an impressive penis when she sees one. It looks thick, long, filling…satisfying…

Y/N swallows before clicking another video, the thumbnail a grainy image of Dr. Barnes raking his hand through his hair.

This time, it’s a bar setting. Typical, nothing flashy, nothing expensive set or costume wise. A man- represented by Dr. Barnes- sees a woman- all breast and ass- across the bar. There’s no plot. They see each other. There’s a silent conversation and the next thing Y/N knows, they’re getting it on in a seedy bathroom.

When his hand grabs at the woman’s breast, Y/N finds herself pawing at her own tits. Imagining, pretending that she’s the woman playing alongside him. When he hisses in the woman’s ear about how he saw her and knew he had to have her, Y/N closes her eyes and pretends he’s saying that in her ear.

It has her wet. Soaking. Before she knows it, her sweats are on the floor and her panties down around one ankle as she hastily pushes two fingers between the slickened mess of her folds and up into her pussy. Her chest rattles with brief, short-lived relief. He’s mindlessly, relentlessly fucking that woman up against the wall of a bathroom and she’s barely getting any sort of real satisfaction just from getting her fingers a little wet.

On the screen, Dr. Barnes takes two fingers and puts them in the woman’s mouth, effectively gagging her while he slams his cock into her from behind. Y/N fumbles in her bedside drawer for her rabbit toy. A pool of sweat slicks in the valley between her breasts as she presses the button three times at the base of the toy. Her fingers slip out with ease and are quickly replaced with the vibrating shaft of the translucent purple toy.

Fragile satisfaction blossoms in her core.

She shifts her eyes to the screen, pumping the toy at the same rate Dr. Barnes is going in the video. Barely closes her eyes so she can delude herself into believing it’s his cock filling her up, it’s her ear he’s muttering filthy nothings into. Just a little…a tiny bit…she can almost feel his lips on her throat. His fingers in her mouth, tainted with the taste of her arousal.

The small ear of the rabbit toy flicks and vibrates against her clit, sending small bursts of euphoria through her nerves. She lets herself believe that it’s his tongue pleasuring her, imagines his voice telling her how sweet she tastes, how he wants to tongue-fuck her stupid.

The orgasm rips through her like a tornado. Every molecule inside her busts open in a million tiny explosions and her vision goes bright white, fading out into a hazy gold before blurring back to normal. Her toes feel like jelly and her legs are shaking uncontrollably.

Hand wavering, she pauses the video and closes her laptop.

This is bad. This is so bad.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Celina is busy. Cece, who is never busy, is fucking busy. On the night Y/N decides to lose her fucking virginity, her best friend is busy.

She’s sure if she told Cece what her plan was, she’d promptly become unbusy and tether herself to Y/N’s side to ensure she got what she deserved- a good and proper first time. But there are some things Y/N assumes she has to do on her own.

Losing her virginity is one of them.

Well, she needs a guy but…you know.

She takes another nursing sip of her vodka soda and scans the room again. She’s chosen a more upscale, classy bar than the one they usually frequent. She doesn’t want some overly horny frat guy to be her first time. She wants an older man who knows what he’s doing, who will appreciate this delicate matter and really take his time making sure she feels safe and comfortable and-.

“Y/N? That you?”

She’s on fire. Or she wants to be. Please, God, set her on fire!

Dr. Barnes is shuffling through the crowd and then suddenly, he’s in front of her. He looks different outside of his teaching clothes, like a regular person. Dark jeans, a pair of nice brown leather dress boots, and a cream colored sweater. Hair gently tousled, a shadow of stubble gracing his face. Eyes impossibly blue, as always.

Her eyes flick to the vibranium hand visible. He told them on the first Thursday of class how he lost his left arm in a hiking accident a few years back. A friend from college owned a tech company and had the vibranium prosthetic built for him. It functions like a regular arm, fingers moving like normal fingers.

“Is this where you work?” His smile is so damn pretty. She wants to take a picture and have it framed somewhere in her apartment where she’ll always see it.

Her mouth opens but nothing comes out. His head cocks to the side and she remembers telling him she worked at a nicer place uptown. “Oh, no. I’m actually-.” No! Do not tell your professor you’re trying to find a guy to lose your virginity to! TOO MUCH INFORMATION! “I’m on a date.”

What. A. Stupid. Fucking. Lie.

His eyebrows raise up. It’s barely noticeable but she swears his eyes darken just a tad. “A date, huh?” Not so subtly, he looks around. In fact, she is sitting at a high top table all by herself.

She looks the part of being on a date. Her hair is styled in a messy but classic updo, several pieces falling to frame her face. Her makeup is light, subtle, but noticeable with a sheer pink lipstick. She’d considered wearing her low cut black halter dress but instead opted for something a little more…interesting. It’s a baby pink number that barely covers down to the middle of her thighs, shimmering tulle shoulder tie-straps, a sweetheart neckline that does everything for her tits, and a shimmer scalloped tulle hem. Paired with strappy white heels, she looks more confident in her endeavor than she is.

She knows she could easily find someone to have sex with, but she needs it to be right. She needs him to be…to be…well, if he could be Dr. Barnes, it would be perfect.

But, that’s obviously not gonna happen.

“I’m a little early.” She smiles tightly. “I’m a very punctual person.”

Dr. Barnes gives her a grin. “I’ve noticed.”

A hand slides down his shoulder from behind. A beautiful, fucking gorgeous really, woman all but materializes behind him. Like she’s marking her territory, her palm presses flat against his pectoral muscle. “There you are. I’ve found us a table.” She doesn’t even acknowledge Y/N.

Dr. Barnes slides out from her grasp and takes her hand. “It was nice seeing you, Y/N. Enjoy your date. Be safe.” As he walks away with the woman, she hears him tell her that Y/N is one of his best students in class and shows real promise for being a good psychologist one day.

Her heart thuds in her chest. He thinks she’s the best? And she’ll be a good psychologist? He’s barely known her for two months. That must be good, then.

She eases back into herself, taking another drink. Her eyes scour the room again. Yeah, there are plenty of guys here but are any of them the right one?

It must be at least an hour that passes. An hour in which she consumes two more vodka sodas and a round of vodka martinis supplied by a very generous donor at the bar. One who, thankfully, never comes to talk to her.

This is hopeless, she thinks to herself. You’d be better off getting some douche college dude than one of these guys. It may not be satisfying but it’d be over.

She’s plenty drunk enough to decide that’s a good idea. She’ll just pop over to one of the chronically inhibited college bars and have her pick of the litter. She’s hot enough and well-known enough that any guy would beg on his knees for a chance between her legs. That’s good enough for her.

Dr. Barnes slides into the seat across from her. Y/N stills as he makes himself comfortable in the leather cushioned high top stool seat. He leans against the back and looks at her from across the square table.

“I’m guessing your date never showed…?” He eyes the littering of empty drinks on her table. Before she can reply, he heaves a sigh. “Mine just ditched me for some Tom Holland lookalike.” His pretty lips fold into a grimace.

Y/N’s fingers twitch in her lap. She wants to reach for her drink, have something to do, but she’s afraid moving will only make this worse. Speaking, may also make this worse. But she can’t ever seem to shut herself the fuck up. “I wasn’t really waiting for a date.” She blabs.

His arms cross over his chest. The action, the stance itself, makes him look beefier than he already is. The sweater does little to hide the definition in both his human arm and the metal one. And his current stance only enhances the appearance of strong pectoral muscles. “You weren’t, huh? What’re you doin’ here alone then?”

She reaches for her drink and makes a last minute decision to grab the cocktail napkin instead. Her fingers pull at it, ripping small pieces up and piling them. “Trying to find someone to have sex with.” Laughter bubbles up inside of her and then spills out. It’s quiet, a little unnerving, and somewhat awkward. Somewhere between a giggle and a cackle. She tosses the napkin aside and throws her hands. “I’m just tired of being a twenty-two year old virgin.”

Dr. Barnes is silent. Sitting across the small table from her, mouth pursed in tight and stoic thought. Metal fingers tap a medley against his bicep. His brows are knitted together in concentration. For a second, just a brief piece of time, her brain short circuits and hopes he’s going to offer to do it for her. Be her first time. Take her virginity.

Her mind replays those two videos from earlier. His cock buried so deep in her, her face streaked with tears. Inside her chest, her heart speeds. A familiar heat rises in her core and she clenches her thighs together.

“Sorry.” She says quickly. “You definitely didn’t need or want to know any of that.” She takes a quick drink of the last martini she was given. “That was super inappropriate. There are definitely things you don’t tell your professor and that’s one of them!” Another uncomfortable giggle stumbles from her mouth.

She can’t tell if he laughs at her or with her.

He scratches his temple, uncrossing his arms and relaxing in his seat. “So,” he flags a waitress down, “how’s your research comin’?”

Y/N falters. “M-my research?”

Dr. Barnes nods. Reminds her that the first draft of her research paper is due soon. A waitress comes and he orders himself a Scotch and her a water. When he looks back at Y/N, he tells her how compelling he found her proposal and he’s excited to read her thoughts on the adult film industry.

“I bet you are.” She mumbles, looking down at her lap.

“Excuse me?”

Her head snaps up. No. No. No way she did not just say that. Stop talking, don’t say another word, get up and-. “I saw you.” The words just happen. She doesn’t want to say them, but she does. “I-in a video. A porno. You were in it.”

A muscle in his face twitches. “Oh.” The waitress arrives back at the table. She hands Dr. Barnes a tumbler of amber liquid with little ice and slides a large glass of water with a straw toward Y/N. Bucky thanks her quietly and waits until she’s gone to take a long drink of his Scotch. “Well,” he stares right at Y/N, “what did you think?”

She nearly spits out her mouthful of water. Quickly, she swallows and puts the glass down in case she drops it. “W-what did I-? Huh?” Is he…? He can’t be…? There’s no way he’s actually so calm about this when she’s freaking the fuck out inside.

“The video.” He says slowly. “What did you think?”

This is an adult conversation. He is an adult. She is an adult. He’s her professor, yes, but he’s her Human Sexuality professor and pornography is a topic they’ll be discussing. Nothing is wrong here. He’s asking her professional, academic opinion. This is fine. It’s totally fine.

In fact, this could be really good for her research. She could get the opinion of someone who knows the industry well, can make a real case and testament to the unhealthy conditions and expectations.

Y/N leans back in her chair, mimicking his posture. “It was certainly a porno.” She says coolly. And then, “Your hair was long. And your arm…”

He nods absently. “I cut my hair when I started teaching. Stopped doing the movies after I lost my arm. Used the money to fund my doctorate pursuit.”

Sort of like the way she’s using her OnlyFans site to fund her degree (and a lot of other things) currently. It’s a weird thing to enjoy having in common with her professor but she likes it.

Dr. Barnes takes another drink. “Back to the video, Y/N. Did you…” He trails, eyes floundering around as his brain calculates for a sentence, an intellectual discussion starter, “did you like it?”

Did. You. Like. It?

WHAT THE FUCK SORT OF QUESTION IS THAT?

That’s not intellectual or academic! That’s…That’s fucking personal!

“I-I-” She stammers, not knowing what to say. If she says no, that’s a lie and it’s rude. If she says yes…well, that’s a whole other can of worms. Lying and being rude may be her best option here.

He places his drink on the table. His foot hooks around the bar at the bottom of her stool and he careens her forward. His hands catch the edges of her seat to stabilize the movement. She finds their faces inches from one another.

The smell of his cologne, that citrusy pepperwood musk burrowing deep into her nostrils and nerves to root itself forever. His thumbs, one hot flesh and one cool metal, burn where they touch her bare thighs, rubbing gentle circles across her naked flesh.

“Be honest with me, now, Y/N.” When he speaks, the warmth of his cinnamon breath greets her face- the blazing fire after the freezing cold. “Did you enjoy it?”

She may faint. Truly and actually, she may faint.

Her lips part, dry and in desperate need of being kissed. The heat pooling between her legs has turned to a soaking wetness she can feel in her underwear. His vibranium hand curls around the undercap of her knee, pressurizing slightly as his other hand splays out across the side of her thigh.

“Dr. Barnes-.”

He intercedes what would be a useless, helpless plea to be satiated. “That’s the point of watching pornography, sweetheart.” Sweet…sweetheart. If she died right now, she would die happy. Sexually frustrated and unsatisfied, but happy nonetheless. “No one watches it for the cinematography. They watch for self-pleasure. So, tell me,” he leans into her so close that now his lips brush the shell of her ear, “did you find pleasure in what you saw?” The movement of his lips against the sensitive skin of her ear sends shivers down her spine all the way to her toes. The tip of his nose brushes the conch of her ear and she swears his tongue tastes her earlobe.

Blood is rushing through every major vein in her body. Her thighs are cinched as tight as they can be, ankles crossed. She swallows, throat dry. “...Yes.” The word barely comes out in a pathetic pant.

When he pulls away from her, there’s a mile-wide smirk decorating his mouth. His hand skirts down the length of her thigh and squeezes her knee before he ceases all physical contact with her. “Good, that’s good.”

The absence of his touch leaves ice cold markers on her body. Suddenly, every place that had just been hot and demanding is now solid ice.

Something mischievous and taunting dances in his eyes. Like he knows what he does to her. Maybe he’s known ever since that first day they met in the gym of their building.

Y/N sits up straight in her seat. She can play this game. Hell, her bills get paid playing this game. Props her elbow up on the table and rests her chin in her hand. Uses her other arm to act as a prop for her tits as she pretends to need to rest her hand in the crook of her elbow. He isn’t discreet when he checks out her cleavage, doesn’t bother hiding the way his tongue pokes out and whets his bottom lip.

“I dunno,” she heaves out a chest-moving sigh, “I just feel weird.” He asks why she feels weird about finding pleasure in something that’s supposed to provide just that. “Well, I mean, you’re my professor. I watched my professor fuck a woman so hard into a mattress that she was crying. Don’t you-?”

The chuckle that pops from his mouth is light, airy. Amused. He scratches his nose with his thumb. “It was that one?” He laughs again. “That one’s one of my favorites. But,” he looks around as if he’s about to tell her a secret, “you know those aren’t real, sweetheart. She wasn’t actually crying. Though,” he smiles like a crocodile knowing it’s caught dinner, “I’m pretty certain I could have made her if my heart had been in it.”

If that was him fucking without his heart in it, she was a little worried about what it looked like when his heart was in it.

“I’m a cam girl.” The words spill out of her like vomit. She covers her mouth, eyes wide as he looks at her. His eye twitches. Does he…surely he knows what that means? There isn’t any going back now. She’s already said it and she can’t undo it. Besides, he’s just fully admitted to being a porn star. That makes her little job seem squeaky clean. “That’s my job, I’m not a waitress.” She lets her hand fall back into her lap. “It’s how I pay for school and my apartment and well, everything. I have a site and I get naked on camera on a livestream two or three times a week and I tell strangers on the internet what they wanna hear, touch myself the way they want me to.”

“I know.” He says solemnly.

She blinks. Twice. Three times. He knows. He knows? How the fuck does he know that? Unless-Everett. She’s going to kill him and then bring him back to life and kill him again! “You know?”

He nods his head slowly. “For a while now.” He says in a gentle voice. It’s such a sharp turn from the low, sexy tone he’d promenaded a few minutes ago. “I overheard some of the guys in your section talking about it and before that, you and Everett Carmichael were arguing after class one day…I never mentioned it because I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable but since you know my little secret…”

Her mouth dries. She scrambles for her water and takes a healthy drink. This is a brave new world to be entering with her professor. Then again, who better to enter it with? “Oh. Um…” she tries to find the right words, “Have you…Have you ever gone on there…? On my site, I mean…”

Dr. Barnes shakes his head a little too fast for her liking. Something deflates inside her. “I’d never violate your privacy like that, Y/N. Not without you knowing, not without you giving your consent, I wouldn’t-.”

Whatever takes hold of her inhibitions, whatever makes her bold and determined, also makes her a little stupid. “I think it’s only fair.” She cuts him off. “That you watch it some time. You know, since I’ve seen you fuck a woman against a bathroom stall door and gag her with your fingers.”

Dr. Barnes tilts his head to the side. “How many of those did you watch?” He asks quietly. She admits in a low voice that she only watched those two. He gives a grunting noise that she can’t discern. “Can you be honest with me again?” She doesn’t say anything, waiting for him to ask his real question before she decides on an answer. “Did you-did you touch yourself when you watched?”

When she looks in his eyes, his pupils are blown.

Pupils dilate when you see something you like. She remembers that.

Just for confirmation, to ensure it isn’t a trick of the dim light, she sneaks a glance at the crotch of his pants. The dark denim material is strained overtop his erection, one he isn’t attempting to hide. Either he’s purely shameless or he knows it isn’t any use. She remembers how large it looked on the screen of her laptop.

“Until I came all over myself.”

The corner of his mouth clicks up. He slides off the barstool and pulls her down from hers. Fishes a hundred dollar bill from his wallet and tosses it on the table. His vibranium hand is secured around hers as he pulls her through the thinning sea of people in the bar and closer to the back. The hall twists and winds until he’s pulling her into an ‘employees only’ restroom. He all but shoves her inside and locks the door once he’s in.

The look on his face when he finally meets her eye is something she can only describe as feral. There’s only a thin ring of blue left in his eyes. His face is flush with heat. He stalks toward her, predator on the hunt for prey, and she can’t move. She’s frozen still in her place, waiting for what is inevitably going to happen.

What she thought would never happen.

The tip of his pointer finger traces over the hills of her cleavage. Goosebumps are left in his wake as his finger trails up the glimmering tulle strap. “So,” his voice is guttural, rasping with desire, “you want me to watch your little sex show?” With one little pull, her strap is untied. He huffs a breath, smiling. His finger retraces its path, down her shoulder, across her cleavage, up the other strap. He holds the tail of the bow between his index and thumb. “Yes or no?”

“Yes.” She breathes.

The bow is undone.

Her teeth capture her bottom lip as she waits for his next move. He pulls her lip from her teeth and wipes his thumb over it roughly. “Such a pretty mouth…” In a flash, his hand is curved around her neck and he’s pushing her up against the wall. “You don’t know…the things I wanna do to you…Wanna fuckin’ ruin you…” His flesh hand slides up the inside of her leg, fingers pressing and pinching the supple skin. Her breath hisses out her nose when he reaches her panties and gently slides his fingers across the material. “My fuckin’ God, you’re soaking fuckin’ wet.”

His fingers breeze over the material again, drawing a meek whimper from her lips. “Please-please, Dr. Barnes-.”

His nose skates up the column of her throat until his mouth hovers over hers. She can practically taste his breath in her panting mouth when he says, “Honey, it’s high time you start calling me Bucky.”

The permission to use his first name sends a shock wave of want through her. Y/N practically humps herself against his hand and draws him forward by his sweater. His mouth misses hers by a millimeter but she doesn’t care. His fingers take no ease in slipping her panties to the side and delving in her.

It’s like fresh goddamn air.

She chokes on her own breath in her throat. He pumps his fingers ceaselessly in her heat, mouthing his lips down her jaw, her throat, her tits. Y/N palms at his erection over his jeans and he pushes her harder against the wall.

“God-your pussy-so fuckin’ wet-so tight-.” His words are mere grunts against her skin. His fingers hook sharply inside of her before he pushes them further.

She works her hands at undoing his belt, fussing with his zipper and button, sliding his pants down so they fall at his ankles. His cock is strained against the material of his boxer briefs. Y/N’s stomach lurches in realization that she’s about to live a fantasy she watched happen earlier on a screen. Except this time, instead of her fingers, it’ll be him.

Her fingertips graze over the bulge in his underwear and his cock twitches at the sensation. She dips her hand below the waistband and encircles it around the length of him. Bucky moans as she slowly works her hand up and down, spreading the precum from the head to the hilt. It’s just like the video, albeit real life provides a better image quality. This cock is thick, longer than she thinks the average is, a pink and red vivid that pulsates with her every slight move.

His teeth nip at her throat. “M’gonna fuck you. Huh? You wan’ me to fuck you so hard you can feel me every time you move?”

Y/N can’t even find an answer that seems good enough. Yes doesn’t seem right, strong enough. She wants him, wants him to ruin her. Defile her.

“I gotcha. Gonna make you mine, don’t worry, baby.”

His mouth finally captures hers. It’s a clash of tongues and teeth and spit. His tongue barrels into her mouth, declaring dominance and total control over her. He can have it. Whatever he wants, it’s his. A third finger pushes inside of her and her bones turn to putty when he whispers, Gotta make sure you can take all of me, sweet girl. His motions never ease or turn languid. He fucks his fingers into her as if he finds all of life’s joy doing so.

Bucky’s hands wrap around her thighs and he picks her up, wrapping her legs around his waist. Her back is flush against the wall. The thick velvet of his cock is pressed against the damp mess of her folds, but just enough to cause a painful torturous satisfaction. She rubs herself against him, gyrating her hips and slicking his cock with her arousal. His hands dig into her hips, hugging her down on him.

“God, fuck,” he moans, “such a pretty pussy, baby.” His grin is toothy, wild. Eyes blown as he takes in the sight of her waiting to take him in. “Don’t worry, I’ll wreck her real good and nice for you. Treat her the way she oughtta be.” His fingers brush over her folds again in a tickling sensation and he pinches her clit between his fingers. “Wanted to fuck you the first time I saw you. Every time after.” His cock bumps against her core as he rocks his pelvis toward hers. “Every time you show up to my office hours, acting like you don’t know what you do to me.” His metal thumb drags down her lips and parts her mouth, hanging her bottom lip down. “Every time you raise your goddamn hand in my class, pretending you aren’t the smartest fuckin’ person there.” She whines, something high pitched and keening as he pulls his hips back and lets the head of his cock drag through her folds. “Know how many times I’ve wanted to bend you over my fuckin’ desk? Make you a wet, writhing mess? How many times have I wanted to shove my dick in your mouth and watch you gag on it? Bury my face in this goddamn fuckin’ cunt of yours until you’re nothing but a limp, dribbling mess? Want me to fuck you til you cry, Y/N?”

She nods, head bobbing furiously. “Please-please, Bucky-I need you to-please.”

When she moans out his name, his cock twitches. He shakes his head, laughing. “Promise my heart’s in it now, honey.”

Her breath stutters at the tip of his cock tantalizing the outermost edges of her folds. She hears his own breath shake through his chest and whistle out his nose. He’s barely pressing himself inside her, the girth of him already stretching her pussy in a painfully glorious manner.

A groan reverberates in his chest. “M’gonna love fuckin’ you, can already feel how well that pretty little pussy of yours is gonna take-.”

“Hey!” Is followed by four sharp bangs on the bathroom door.

Bucky stills. She quite literally feels every muscle in his body tense.

“This is an employee only bathroom! Finish whatever you’re doing and get out!” On the other side of the door, the worker huffs about ignorant and uncaring customers.

Slowly, Bucky eases her feet back on the floor. Turns away as he pulls his jeans back up. She squints her eyes closed, tears burning her eyes as she pulls her dress down. She fumbles with the straps, unable to get them to lay right so she can redo the bows she had precariously tied earlier.

“Here,” Bucky murmurs, “I’ll do it.” His fingers barely brush her bare shoulders before she’s jerking away from him. “Y/N-.”

“Don’t.” She throws her hand up at him. “Just…just don’t, okay? I can do it myself.”

He stands with his arms crossed and watches as she struggles to get the tulle straps tied back together. Finally, she relents with a huff. He takes a cautious step. His fingers are tedious, too slow almost, to be tying a strap into a bow.

“You know that no one can know about what just happened between us, don’t you?” He finishes the first bow. Puts his hands on her waist and spins her carefully so he can work on the other. “I’m a professor and you aren’t just a student at the college, Y/N. You’re a student in my class. This should never have happened. I have an authority position over you and-.”

As soon as the second bow is finished, she steps back from him. “And you started it.” She snaps at him. “You pushed the porno thing. You led me back here. You touched me first.”

His hands ball into fists at his sides. “I know, I know that but-.”

She silences him with a glare. “So you don’t get to give me the guilt trip and say you didn’t want this to happen. I am not going down because you can’t keep your dick in your pants. You, of all people, do not get to slut shame me.

He grabs her by the shoulder, backing her up against the wall and sealing his mouth to hers. His tongue barely parts her lips before he’s releasing her and pulling back slightly. “Do you make it a habit to jump to incredibly obtuse conclusions, Y/N?” He doesn’t bother letting her answer. “I was never going to say I didn’t want this to happen. I very much want this to happen. But that doesn’t change the fact that it can’t happen.” He takes another step back. Rakes his hands through his hair. “It’s not ethical, it isn’t right, despite how it feels. I’m fifteen years older than you. I’m your professor. Entering a relationship like this, or of any kind, with you would cost me my job and probably my license. I apologize for my momentary lapse in judgment, I just…hearing you say those things, knowing you saw what you did…”

Y/N stands up straight and adjusts her dress. “I don’t think I want to hear anymore.”

When she attempts to walk past him to get to the door, his hand circles around her wrist. “Y/N, please.” It’s low-spoken. Not the way he groaned and grunted earlier, but it’s intimate. Vulnerable. “Can you just…I’m not writing this off. I want this, I want you. But while you’re in my class, it can’t happen. We can’t have a relationship, physical or otherwise.”

She hates how quickly the idea pops into her head. Hates that she is now at the point where she’ll do whatever, concoct whatever distorted story to keep him invested in her. Her hand finds his and laces their fingers together. They both look at the conjoined fist at the same time. “You’re my professor.” She says slowly. In a tired voice, he confirms this. “Which means you’re supposed to advise and nurture my academic pursuits?”

His brows knit together. “Where are you going with this…?”

She rubs the back of her neck and rocks closer to him. “Well, you’re my Human Sexuality professor. So, say I needed help understanding the erogenous zones or why people are sexually attracted to certain others. Or maybe I needed a little extra help on my research paper and analyzing why some people are more susceptible to pornography addictions than others…Wouldn’t it be your job to help me better understand those concepts?”

Bucky’s lips split into a stupid, goofy grin. “Huh. You know, I think you’re right. That would be in my job description.” His fingertips lightly skim over the place where her neck and shoulder meet. Shivers flutter down her spine like butterflies when his lips, warm and plump and soft, fold a kiss there and his sigh is pressed deep into the bone. Bucky’s hands rub up and down her arms until he’s pulling her flush against his chest. “This is the last time I touch you until May. Gimme a second to just…”

She doesn’t know what he’d say. He never says anything else. Just holds her there for a minute, mouth never moving from that place on her shoulder. When he’s done, he steps back from her and gestures toward the door.

The last thing she sees as she leaves the restroom is him staring at her through the mirror.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Her problem is most likely no longer identifiable as a problem. It’s becoming a full blown obsession.

As far as she’s aware, there are thirty-six adult films in which her Human Sexuality professor is the male star. Which means there are thirty-six adult films downloaded to a hidden file on her laptop. She can lie all she wants and say watching them is important to her research paper but really, she just needs to watch. To see. Pretend what’s happening on the screen is actually happening to her.

Is it mildly delusional? That’s an understatement.

Is it the only thing keeping her sane until May? By far.

For weeks she’s replayed the events of that bar bathroom over and over and over again. So often that each time, it becomes a little clearer. The weight of his tongue in her mouth a little heavier. The feel of his fingers landscaping her breasts more clandestine. The velveteen head of his cock gently, barely inside her a little more mind numbing.

It never fails to bring a mess to her fingers or her vibrator.

But now she has something else.

Thirty-six pornos that provide new fantasies for her to indulge in. Thirty-six scenarios she can delude herself into starring in alongside him.

She’d feel worse about it if he didn’t get some sick kick of it himself. The twisted joy he seems to derive from knowing she watches the videos actually makes her feel better. Especially since he gave her the list of names for the videos. Told her it would be influential to her research if she was truly dedicated to immersing herself in how the industry worked.

And, boy, was she dedicated.

She woke up at four this morning after a restless night. Her stream lasted a little longer than usual (not a bad thing for her bank account) because she was having a difficult time getting herself off. After finally deciding to fake it just to get offline, she tried again in the shower. Unsuccessfully. She tossed and turned all night, unable to fully immerse herself in sleep, ultimately deciding to roll out of bed at four and burn everything off in the gym.

She ran for an hour on the treadmill until her legs felt like they were going to fall out of her hip sockets. Spent fifteen minutes on the hip abductor to try and push the frustration out. With no success, she gave up and has spent the past thirty minutes sitting on a yoga mat in a Burmese meditation pose with her eyes squinted shut.

Energy still radiates through each nerve-ending like an open electrical wire. She tries to hum it away, focus her brain on anything but what it really wants: release.

Something burns the back of her neck and she pops open an eye and turns around. Bucky is on the lat pulldown machine, shirt forgone so each muscle of his upper body is on full display. The raised pink scars on his left shoulder rippled with each lift and pull he gives and she finds herself focusing on those more than his abs or pecs.

God, what she wouldn’t give to just-.

No!

She can’t think like that. It’s barely the middle of February. He made a solemn, God-awful swear not to touch her until May, after she graduates. Real life Bucky and porno Bucky have to exist separately. She can’t mix up fantasy and reality.

Y/N scrambles to her feet and bolts for the changing room in the back. She strips down to nothing and tightens her ponytail. Grabbing a towel and wrapping it around her, she heads into the sauna and sits back in the far corner. She closes her eyes and rests her head against the warm wood of the wall behind her.

“Everything okay?”

Ugh. He’s everywhere. How is she supposed to not focus on him if he’s always around begging to be focused on?

Y/N doesn’t open her eyes. “Yeah.” The word comes out tight, strained. “Why do you ask?”

The bench creaks. Her eyes flutter open to find him sitting near her, towel wrapped around his waist. “You’re tense. Shoulders are up to your ears.” He comments with a gesture. “Also, I’ve never seen someone fake an orgasm so badly until last night.”

This time, her eyes fly open. He acts as if he hasn’t said something insane, like he didn’t just admit to watching her masturbate online for an hour and a half.

“I did not-.”

His mouth flattens. “Don’t lie to me.” Four words. One order. Not to be disobeyed. “I think I can help you.”

She glares at him from the corner of her eye. Crosses her arms over her chest. “Who says I need your help?”

It’s impossible not to watch the way he moves his tongue over his lips. The way his eyes rove up, down, back up her barely covered body. “Sweetheart,” his voice hitches, “you can’t even make yourself cum. I think that requires help.”

“From you?”

His mouth formulates a breathtaking smile. “It’s all about the erogenous zones, honey. Think that I, who just so happen to be your Human Sexuality professor, can teach you a thing or two about those.”

In a quiet voice, she reminds him that they’re on strict no-touching limitations. Which means he cannot be of help in this instance.

Bucky hums. He stands up, towering over her. He reaches down and carefully undoes the tuck that’s keeping her towel secure around her chest. Without touching her at all, he manages to get the towel open and spread behind her at the sides so her naked form is on full display. He takes several long, quiet moments to look over her. His gaze leaves a fire in its wake, from her face to her calves and back again. “I don’t need to touch you, Y/N. I just have to tell you where to touch yourself.”

She squirms in her seat as he goes and jimmies the door so it won’t open for anyone trying to come in. He doesn’t sit back down, choosing to stand in front of her for proper observation.

“We’ll start with the basic areas first.” He speaks softly. “And so this is a little easier for you, it’s okay to pretend I’m the one touching you.”

Y/N swallows, nodding in agreement. She was probably going to do that anyway. When he instructs her to lightly run a finger down the stretch of her sternum, just between her breasts, all the way down to her navel, she does so without complaint or comment. Her finger goes on command when he tells her to trace patterns on the lower part of her stomach between her belly button and above her pubic area.

“You’re doin’ so good, sweetheart.” He crones. “Now go on. If you skim up those thighs of yours, run your fingers along the inside of them, I bet that’d feel good, wouldn’t it?”

She lets her fingernails scrape lightly into her skin when she drags her fingers up and down the inner parts of her thighs. It’s a gentler rendition of what he had done to her a few weeks back. A baby sigh slips from her mouth.

“Told you.” Bucky chuckles. “Try the crease where your thighs meet your pelvic bone. Not a lotta people know that one.”

Electricity sparks through her veins at the delicate sensation of her fingertips roaming through those creases. Her knee twitches in the second go-around. Without prompting, she looks up at him. “No one’s ever touched me there before. I didn’t know it would feel like this.”

He gives her a sympathetic pout. “No one’s ever touched you right before. But don’t worry, I will. Keep goin’. Want you to go back up, to your tits.” Y/N shakes her head, refusing to move her hands in the direction he’s instructing. “Y/N, sweetheart, if you wanna relieve all that tension, you gotta do what I say. Your tits are a good-.”

“It won’t work.” She says quickly, running her fingers back down her inner thighs and through the upper creases again. “I don’t…I don’t get a lot of stimulation from them. Waste of time.”

He lets out a gruff noise. “All right. Your mouth then.” This time, she listens. Her finger follows the order of tracing the undercurve of her lower lip, the bowing of the top lip, running over the plump shape of them. She even goes so far as to stick two fingers in her mouth without him telling her to.

“God.” He strangles out. “What I wanna do to that mouth…”

She lets her fingers drag their way from beyond her lips, watching him not-so discreetly touch himself over his towel. He couldn’t hide his own arousal if he tried, the towel not doing much of anything to conceal his erection.

Y/N’s hand wanders back down to the supple mound of flesh above her pubic bone. Their gazes lock as she creates small circular patterns across the area. At his sides, his fingers twitch and she wonders if he would do any of this differently. Would he use these same motions, this same path of movement from zone to zone if he could put his hands on her? Her ass slides down a little and her legs fall open further.

“Take off your towel.” Y/N directs him. “If you get to watch me, I get to watch you.”

He doesn’t hesitate or question her sudden interest in giving an order. One small tug on his towel and the white cotton material is in a heap at his feet. Something primal startles in her chest at the sight of his dick, hard and twitching, raised to attention so that it bobs against his lower stomach.

“I don’t think you need me to tell you the simplest erogenous zone.” Bucky’s hand palms and rubs over his cock. “The clitoris. Easily one of the most sensitive places on a woman’s body. Go on, show me how it works.”

There’s already a thin coating of wetness when her fingers slick down between the throbbing folds of her pussy. Tingles erupt all over her as she delicately pushes her thumb into that sweet, sweet spot. Without being told to, mind frazzled and searching for something to bring release, Y/N inserts three of her fingers inside herself.

“Sweet mother of God.” Bucky hisses.

She looks up at him through her lashes. She’d give anything for her fingers to be his, to wrap her own hand around the thickness of his cock. She’d pay whatever price to push him down on the bench and climb onto his lap, sinking herself over him, letting each undulation of her hips bring him to a deeper, sweeter spot.

Both their hands are slick with their own arousals. She loses herself in the depths of her mind, fascinated by the way he works his hand over and over his cock. The grunts he lets out are music to her ears, overshadowing her own thin and whining noises.

Her fingers don’t reach where she wants them-no, needs them to. Just out of reach, not quite attainable. She knows he could get there, he would instantly. Her back arches to try and salvage the rising feeling of her orgasm. Each delving of her fingers, each circular motion of her thumb against her swelling clit, does little to get her where she needs to be.

The moist heat of the room smothers over her. The sweat pooling on her chest, stomach, over every inch of her skin. Her breaths become shallow and labored.

“C’mon, honey.” Bucky’s voice coaxes her from somewhere close, somewhere too far. “Lemme see you make a mess all over yourself. Show me how bad you want it. Show me how you want me to touch you when I finally get the chance.”

The cry she lets out when her climax forces itself through her is garbled and weak. Her shoulders slump back against the wall and her head lolls to the side. Y/N barely possesses the strength to limply remove her fingers from herself.

Her vision blurs as she watches Bucky fist himself and work his hand over his length. His movements are sharp and methodical. He’s a man who knows what works and doesn’t often switch up on himself. His knees buckle, forearm twitching, breathing quickening, and then he’s grabbing the towel and covering his cock with it. His own shallow breaths even out as his release ebbs through him.

He wipes the back of his flesh hand across his forehead. “Feel better?” He arches an eyebrow.

Y/N stands, wrapping her towel around herself. “Much. Thanks for the extra lesson, Dr. Barnes. I really think I understand methods of arousal now.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

For several weeks, they play this game. Finding ways to skirt around the rules in illicit fashions without actually breaking said rules. She pours over each of his adult films until she practically has them memorized. His alternate account becomes commonplace in her stream viewership. In class, they pretend to hardly know one another.

Lately, she’s spent every night she can in the campus library. The revised draft of her 411 research paper is due Thursday, their last class time before Spring Break next week. While her first draft was handed back with minimal red markings suggesting errors and mistakes, there are plenty of blue markings. He’d left suggestions of readings, interviews, and documentaries she should investigate.

She’s watched several of the interviews and barely been able to make it through them. Retired adult film stars, directors, consumers of the media…regardless, they never hold back from the honest to God truth.

Usually she spends Spring Break just decompressing. One week, all alone at her apartment, no one to answer to. But it’s their senior year of college and Cece has roped her into actually going on a trip. A big group is going down to Miami for the week. Cece got invited by a guy she knew and of course, refused to accept until Y/N agreed to go with her.

Y/N is currently staring down the cream colored gift box on her coffee table. A satin pink ribbon tied in a bow is wrapped around it. Cautiously, she tugs on the tail of the bow and it collapses in on itself. She takes her time undoing the rest of the ribbon from the box and then lifting the lid up and sliding it away.

Whatever it is, it’s wrapped in pink tissue paper. She’s careful not to tear the tissue paper as she unwraps whatever is tucked away inside. At first, all she sees is baby pink lace and white embroidery. She holds the garment up, sucking in a breath.

It’s a slip dress. Based on the way it looks being held up, it won’t go down very far at all. It’s mostly made up of baby pinks and whites. The skirt is a pink mesh littered with teeny embroidered flowers and a short ruffled hem. The top is an underwire bustier that has eye-hooks for closure in the back. The underwire portion of the bra is outlined in a brighter pink and the rest of the top is detailed in light green embroidered swirls and white embroidered flowers. There’s a small light green bow between the cups of the bra and one right at the place where the top and skirt meet. The skirt ties in the back with a delicate pink string and the straps are the same. Still tucked away is a matching pair of underwear. A thong with cutouts in the front, more pink and white frills, complete with scalloped bands.

She picks the panties up and holds them together with the slip dress. Under where the garments had been is a cream colored card. She lays the dress and panties down on the table and goes for the card.

For tonight. You look stunning in pink.

She’d recognize that looping handwriting anywhere. Bucky.

Y/N holds the card close to her chest and then glances back at the lingerie. Inspects the tag on the inside of the dress. The name is in French. French lingerie. He bought her French lingerie. Nice, expensive French lingerie. Lingerie he wasn’t even able to see her wear in person or take off her.

Just for that, she plans to make this video the best one.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Her shower takes upwards of an hour. Despite the fact no one would actually know whether she completed an ‘everything’ shower, it makes her feel better to do it. Everything gets shaved and scrubbed down with an exfoliator. Her hair gets washed and deep conditioned. She scrubs down her feet with a pedi tool so her heels are baby smooth. When she gets out, she immediately lotions and applies under-eye masks and paints her fingernails and toenails a shade of pink that compliments her new lingerie. Does a seaweed face mask to make sure her skin will glow.

Completes a light makeup routine. Blow dries her hair and uses a round brush to give herself large movie star curls.

By the time she’s finished, she barely recognizes herself.

The lingerie fits like a dream. She doesn’t care how he managed to get the right sizing. The material of the thong is soft and the lacy edges don’t itch at her skin. And the slip…oh, the slip. Her boobs look about twice their normal size thanks to the shape of the top’s cups and the underwire. Underwire which does not dig into her skin! The slip hugs and caresses her the way only good lingerie can.

She grabs her white satin robe from the back of her bedroom door and pulls it on. Ties the waist-string in a firm knot.

When the clock on her laptop rolls onto 10pm, she slides into her desk chair, turns her camera on, and plants a sticky sweet smile on her face. Notifications bubble and ding in as her dedicated (and horny) subscribers join the stream.

“I missed you.” Y/N says to no one in particular. Her lips pull down into a sexy pout. “It’s been so long. I’ve been so lonely all by myself. I’m glad you’re here now.”

Comments flood in about how great her hair looks and how her face is glowing. She gushes out genuine thanks and replies to each. That’s easy peasy. She runs her fingers through the curls, twirling strands around her finger as she twinkles and smiles for the blinking red light of the camera on her laptop.

The notification that garners her attention is from xxcrybabyx. No comment, just that they’ve joined the stream. This is where the real show begins.

“Do you wanna know something?” She leans a little closer to the camera. “I have a surprise. I think you’ll like it.”

Dozens of them flood the comments about how she’s so sweet and they need to know the surprise immediately! No one is as thoughtful as her, no one’s heart is as big as hers. Someone says they hope she’s upping her videos to a regular three times a week every week and weeks with Saturday specials will have four videos.

“It’s for tonight.” She whispers like it’s a secret. “It’s special.”

Y/N stands up from her desk chair and backs away. In a small box on the screen, she can see herself in her room. This is a good angle. A perfect angle.

Her tongue pokes out a little in rushed excitement. She tries to hide the tremble in her fingers as she unties the bow at her waist and pulls the robe open. She stands there for a moment, grinning wickedly into the camera before she pushes the robe off her shoulders and lets it fall to the floor. She doesn’t register the comments as she twirls and spins in the lingerie set to show every angle and view. She fiddles the hem of the skirt in her fingers, lifting it slightly in a peek-a-boo style to tease. When she does lift it to showcase the panties, she is sure to drag her finger along the inner creases of her thighs in talking about the scalloped bands. She scurries back to her desk and leans into the camera, putting her tits on full display so she can point out the intricacies of the embroidery and tie straps.

“I think it’s so pretty.” She gushes, heaving her chest. “Isn’t pink just stunning on me?” Y/N slides her finger down her shoulder and across the hills of her cleavage. “You don’t care so much about it on, though, do you?” She simpers. “You only wanna see me take it off.”

There are hundreds of agreements on that front. They want the lingerie off. It’s pretty but it has to go.

“Well,” she stands with her hands on her hips, “I don’t much feel like being obliging tonight.” She fingers the hem of the skirt again. “This is just too pretty to take off so I think I’ll leave it on.” The series of groans is almost audible. “Don’t worry.” Y/N pushes the skirt up and hooks two fingers into the waistband of her panties. “Can’t do much with these on.”

One good tug and her panties are falling down her legs and she’s stepping out of them. She kicks them aside, sad to see them go.

She hooks a finger in the corner of her mouth and looks at the camera through her lashes. “I hope you’re ready to shower after this. I’m feeling a little filthy tonight.”

The ache between her thighs, deep in her core, is rooted and settled and vicious by the time Y/N has done a thorough work-through of the slight touches that bring the most pleasure. Skimming her thighs, running along those inner creases, tapping light melodies into her lower stomach and pubic mound. She’s worked up a haze in her brain and a slickness between her legs when she finally bites the bullet and slips three fingers inside herself.

Three because it’s the closest she can get to what two of Bucky’s fingers were like. Three because it’s the closet she’ll be to his cock in a while.

Her fingers drag and press against her a-spot so many times on instinct that her toes are curling. Tiny breaths whistle out her nose as her climax crescendos and climbs until it’s crashing through her like a riptide. She fumbles one hand for her rabbit toy on the desk, the other squeezing and grabbing at her tits through the top of her dress. Her fingers stumble over the buttons, turning the toy on before she flashes it to the camera.

Her grin is wobbling when she says, “I pretend this is you. All the fuckin’ time.”

She isn’t gracious or easy when she plunges the shaft of the toy inside her. A sharp breath kicks through her chest and out her mouth as she adjusts to the vibrating sensation inside her and against her clit. Sometimes, if the ear of the toy hits her clitoris just right, she can delude herself into thinking it’s Bucky’s teeth.

Y/N pulls the top of her dress down, fully displaying her tits for the camera. Two weeks ago, Bucky talked her through stimulating herself using only her nipples. It didn’t really work, playing with her tits still didn’t provide any satisfaction for her sexually, but she couldn’t disagree that just playing with them was fun. She rolls her nipple between her fingers, pinching and prodding the pebbled bud. She squeezes the mound of flesh several times before moving to do the same to the other.

She ups the vibration pattern on both the shaft and ear of her toy, abandoning her tits to grip the headboard of her bed.

Bucky’s voice loops in her head, so vivid it feels like he’s really there, teasing her, coaxing her toward sweet release.

Keep going. Atta girl, sweetheart. Just like that. You look so pretty all fucked out.

Everything from her calves to her toes seizes. “Oh-.”

Goddamn it, honey, you want me to ruin that tight little cunt of yours? Want me to fuck you til you can’t stand? My girl gonna cry on me cause she takes my cock so well?

It hits like a goddamn train. Her orgasm barrels through her and leaves her wrist and hand twisted around the spiraled post of her headboard. Everything in her lower body feels like it’s unattached and has been electrocuted. She hastily turns off her toy and tosses it aside.

Y/N is slow sitting up on her bed. She looks at the camera, her laptop poised perfectly at the foot of her bed on the other side so every bit of her was just a performance made for other people to do what she just did.

She crawls down to the foot of the bed and lays on her stomach. The pose puts her tits on prime display. She pushes her hair behind her ears and smiles lazily into the camera. “I told you I was feeling filthy.” Her voice is dry and hoarse. “Remember no streams next week, I’m on break. See you soon and don’t forget…” she bats her eyelashes, “dream of me.”

The second she ends the livestream and closes her laptop, there’s a sharp knock on the door of her apartment.

Y/N slides off the bed and grabs her robe and panties from the floor. She darts through the apartment, pulling the robe on and trying not to trip as she hops into her underwear. She pulls the robe over to cover herself before looking out the peephole. Honestly who even-?

It only takes a split moment to register who’s knocking on her door before she’s yanking the door open.

“Bucky-.” She barely breathes out before he’s pushing himself into her apartment. Despite the fact this feels like they’re breaking a major rule, she shuts the door. “What are you doing here?”

He turns to look at her. Eyes the robe wrapped around her. “Take that off. I want to see.” Y/N swallows but does as told. The robe drops off her and to the floor once again. He circles her like a shark, an appreciative noise humming in his throat. He plays with the hem of the skirt but never dares to touch her skin. Pulls at the little bow that sits between the cups of the top’s bra. “Stunning.” He murmurs. “Looks better than I thought it would.”

Her fingers ache to reach out and twist around his. Her entire body burns to be close to his. There is nothing her every molecule wants more than to be wrapped up by him, in him. To be touched by him, to touch him.

“Where are you going for Spring Break?” He bends down and picks her robe up off the floor. He offers it to her, saying if he looks at her in the lingerie any longer, he’ll rip it off her and fuck her on the floor.

Reluctantly, Y/N dons the robe. “Miami with Cece and some other people.”

One of his eyebrows lifts in question. “You don’t sound too excited? I thought all of you were ready to get to the beach and get drunk and party all week…?

She laughs under her breath and says that’s the opposite of what she wants to be doing over her Spring Break. She explains that she’d much prefer to spend the whole week in her apartment watching trashy reality television and taking bubble baths and drinking cheap wine all alone.

“Sounds like what I’ll be doing over break.” Bucky tells her. But he doesn’t sound like he’s kidding. “I like Jersey Shore.” He shrugs noncommittally. He takes an appreciative look around her apartment before whispering that he needs to go.

At her side, her fingers twitch and she has to ball her hands into fists to keep from reaching out to him.

“Y/N?” He says, hand wrapped around the doorknob, door still closed. She hums. “I know I don’t have to tell you to be safe while you’re gone but…” He doesn’t actually say the words. She wonders if he thinks it’s too much, crossing the line, blurring it too much, if he actually says them. “I will tell you to have fun, though, because you need to. You deserve to. Just, uh-.”

“What?” Her head tilts to the side. “What do you wanna say?”

His mouth presses in a firm line. Whatever he wants to say, he isn’t going to say it. Which means it’s against the rules. “Nothing. I’ll see you when you get back, ‘kay?”

She nods, watching him walk out the door.

What had he wanted to say?

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Was this what she’d been missing out on at all those parties she stopped going to? No, this…this has to be better than those.

Miami is a Spring Break hotspot this year. There are hundreds of kids from other colleges in their hotel, sharing the beach with them, sitting hungover in pizza parlors. This club also seems to be a popular spot because it’s packed to the brim.

White, blue, and green strobe lights flash over the dance floor as the DJ remixes popular songs into danceable edits. The dance floor is a mosh pit of sweaty bodies, screamed lyrics, and spilled drinks. It’s the most fun Y/N has had since well…ever.

Cece snakes through the crowd as she dances back toward Y/N, two drinks from the bar in her hands. “My queen!” Cece hands her the vodka soda flavored with strawberry syrup. The glasses here in this club are large, double the size of what they are anywhere else. Which means they pack a higher alcohol content.

Y/N stops dancing for half a second to take a healthy drink. She winces at the unmasked taste of cheap vodka before taking another drink. The strawberry syrup does little to hide the vodka taste but it does make the drink a bit more tolerable to gulp down.

She and Cece clink their glasses together and start dancing again. These are the fifth drinks they’ve gotten for free since arriving at the nightclub two hours ago. Guys have come out of the woodwork all week to pay for their shit. The two of them have hardly spent a dime of their own money since arriving on Sunday.

Y/N knows why too. All these guys know who she is. Either because they’re subscribers themselves or someone has told them and shown them the site. She’s a treasure here, a legend. A queen, as Cece has taken to calling her the past few days. Y/N barely has to ask for anything before some random dude is doing it for her. The craziest part is they don’t ask for shit in return. She isn’t getting hit on or asked to flash her tits or, or anything. They show up, they deliver whatever, and they’re gone.

Even better, despite the fact that Everett Carmichael is tainting Miami with his presence, he’s left her alone and kept his distance.

It’s so fucking nice.

“I’m so glad you came with!” Cece grabs her by the hand and pulls her close so they’re gyrating on each other for a change. “Are you having a good time?”

Y/N hoots out an unintelligible noise and raises her drink up in the air. “Best time!” She shouts over the music.

Cece’s eyes widen as something taps Y/N on the shoulder. Almost immediately, Cece drops her hand and pretends to look busy dancing with someone who’s not even turned toward her. Y/N spins around to face whoever has Cece so spaced out.

And has to keep her own eyes from widening.

This guy is hot. Like, hot hot. He looks the way any girl wants a guy tapping on her shoulder in a nightclub to look like. Jawline sharp enough to cut something on, brown eyes so dark they look black, a tousled mess of dark hair, a hint of stubble, strong nose, full lips. And he’s tall, so tall. Dark jeans and a white linen shirt that doesn’t fit perfectly but you can tell from the muscle definition of his arms that he works out.

He has a killer fucking smile, too. “Hi.” He mouths.

She wiggles her fingers at him in response before taking a sip of her drink.

He has to lean down a significant amount to be able to talk in her ear. The brush of his lips against the conch of her ear sends a jolting shock down her spine. “I’m Heath.”

She has way too much alcohol in her system. There’s no reason his name should echo through her brain the way it does. Heath, Heath, Heath, Heath. “Y/N.”

His laugh is short but it sounds like hearing your old favorite song on the radio for the first time in years. “I know.” Oh, he knows. Of course he knows. At this point, she’d be surprised if there was someone in this fucking city who didn’t know. “I was gonna offer to buy you a drink but,” he motions his hand to her half-full drink, “how about a dance?”

Okay, that’s new. They’ve been in Miami for five days and no one has asked her to dance once. Sure, guys have come up behind her and just started dancing. They always leave after they realize she’s not actually dancing with or on them. And now this insanely, wickedly hot guy is actually asking her to dance with him.

She cuts her eyes at him. “What do you want for it?”

The corners of his mouth downturn. “It’s just a dance, Y/N. Promise I won’t ask for your hand in marriage until after the second one.”

She can’t stop the snorted laughter that comes out of her. Nor can she fail to appreciate the way it makes him smile. Did he actually think that was attractive? “Wow,” she’s already moving closer to him, “you think you’re gonna get a second dance? Awfully ambitious of you.”

Sparks ignite in her skin when he grabs her by the waist and tugs her flush to him. The blunt edges of his fingernails purchase into the bare skin of her hips. The slight shadow of stubble from his jaw rubs across her cheek as he whispers, “What do I have to do to get a second dance? Buy you a drink? Buy your friend a drink? I’ll buy this whole damn club a round of shots if that’s what it takes. Strip naked and run down the street?”

She loops her arm around his shoulder and cups her hand to the side of his neck. A little too much vodka bravery running through her, she tells him they’ll just see how the first dance goes. But she already knows he’s getting a second dance. At least.

He’s courteous in his hand placement, never letting them wander above the bare strip of flesh that sits between the bottom of her cropped tank top and the waistline of her mini skirt. He’s more adventurous with his face, though. His nose bumps against hers, his lips barely skimming hers, his breath fanning in her ear always sending a betraying tingle down to her toes. Heath grins, like a kid on Christmas, when she runs her hand up his shirt to feel over his abs. And just because she feels like it, just because she’s garnering a heat in the lowest pit of her, she lets her fingers brush the piece of his skin that sits by the waistband of his jeans. Watches him tighten at the movement.

“I’m trying to be respectful here.” His fingers dig into her hips.

She looks up at him through her lashes. She can’t think of anything to say, she’s so stunned by a guy actually treating her like a human, so she just keeps dancing.

Y/N hardly notices when the second song ends. He makes no move to leave once it’s finished and she makes no move to let him go either. By the time the third song starts, she’s putting out all the signals. Tugging on his belt loops, rubbing herself against him to formulate some kind of relief, grasping to his shoulder and digging her nails in.

And Heath is receiving them, putting out his own signals. His touch becomes more curious, more wanton. His fingers skim up under the hem of her top, fingertips brushing the undersides of her breasts. She doesn’t say anything when his hand finds itself gripped to the inside of her thigh and his thumb is rubbing circles over her panties. She can’t say anything because words aren’t going to describe the way this feels.

“God, you’re wet.” He breathes into her neck and his tongue strikes out at the skin there before his teeth do. “M’gonna kiss you. That okay?”

No one’s ever asked permission to kiss her before.

Y/N doesn’t think or give a verbal response. She clasps her hand to the back of his neck and pulls him to her, latching her mouth to his. His tongue slips into her mouth, one of his hands dips up her shirt and grabs one of her tits. “Take me somewhere. Anywhere. I don’t care.”

Four years ago, if someone would have told her that she’d be losing her virginity to some guy from a nightclub in Miami on Spring Break, she would have died from laughing so hard.

Now, she isn’t sure how else it would have happened.

He groans when he pulls away from her. Heath takes her by the hand and leads her through the crowd. She half thinks they’re headed to the bathrooms when he passes right by them.

“Where are we-?”

He stops in front of the door labeled Rooftop Access. The roof. Okay, losing her virginity on a roof is probably a little bit safer and a whole lot cleaner than a nightclub bathroom. He looks down each direction of the hall before pushing the door open and pulling her through with him. She can’t help but giggle as they jog up the stairs and push out onto the roof.

The night sky is beautiful. The visible stars are bright, shimmering. The music from the club below is faint but still audible. The air is warm, the breeze just chilly enough to cover her skin in goosebumps.

Before she can lose her courage and determination, Y/N grabs Heath by the front of his shirt and kisses him again. He yanks her shirt over her head and tosses it aside. “You’re stunning. You know that?”

The word carves a pit in her chest. Stunning. Just like-.

No. She is not thinking of that. Not of him. Not now.

“Yeah?” She grins against his mouth, tugging the button of his jeans undone. “Not so bad yourself.”

Heath backs her up against the wall by the door. Runs his hand back up her skirt and grabs her panties, pulling them down. By the time the thin material is hooked around her ankle, he’s cupping his hand over her sex and teasing her clit with the pad of his thumb.

Her hips buck at the sensation. She worms her arms past his and pulls his pants down by the belt loops. There’s a damp stain on the front of his boxers just where the head of his cock sits. She traces up the length of his shaft with the pad of her index finger, watching as his cock twitches and jumps at her light touching. His shoulders shiver.

Y/N gives a good tug to his boxers and they go down.

Heath slips two fingers inside her. Despite the fact she knows it should feel good, that she should feel something, there’s nothing. It should feel like more than when she touches herself. It should feel…well, it should feel good. But it’s as if he isn’t even touching her anymore.

Maybe, she thinks, I’m getting tired of foreplay and I just need to be properly fucked.

She hooks a leg around his waist and he helps to hoist her up so his thighs are holding all her weight. While they’re muscular, they’re by no means as thick and sturdy as Bucky’s. Her skin remembers the feel of his thighs holding her up, the muscles flexing under her weight. She pushes the memory away and kisses Heath again.

His cock, nestled in the crease of her inner thigh, jumps as she grinds herself against him.

But her tongue remembers the way it felt to be inside Bucky’s mouth, her lips remember the feel of Bucky’s lips. Her pussy remembers the velvet throbbing of Bucky’s dick as she’d done this same thing with him, as he’d let the head of his cock barely protrude her entrance.

She wants to slam her head against the wall so hard her skull cracks.

This isn’t fair.

Wanna fuckin’ ruin you. That’s what he had said all those weeks ago in the bar. He wanted to ruin her. And he had. Thoroughly.

Heath pants into her collarbone. “I’m gonna fuck you-.”

“Stop.” She squints her eyes shut, turning her face from his. “Please. Stop.”

To his credit, he does. His head rears back so he can fully look her on. “What? What’s wrong? Did I do something?”

She shakes her head. She pushes gently on his chest and he eases her down without complaint or fuss. “I just…I-.” She doesn’t know how to say what’s happening inside her. She can’t explain to this guy that her body longs for, that it needs someone else. A specific someone else. She can’t tell him that she’s been skirting the rules with one of her professors for months and her body doesn’t seem able to want anyone but him. You don’t say that to guys. You don’t tell them they aren’t doing it for you, that someone else is preferred. So, she says the only thing she thinks will make this slightly easier for him. “I’m a virgin.”

She’s never, ever used that to get out of having sex with someone. Then again, she’s never had to.

“Oh.” He says quietly. “Oh.” Quickly, he pulls his boxers and pants up. “I’m sorry. I didn’t…I didn’t mean to make you think we had to…” He scurries and picks her shirt up off the ground, handing it to her.

She pulls it on quickly, adjusting it over her boobs. “You didn’t. I think I…I’m sorry, Heath. I thought I could just…do it, make it happen, but I can’t. I’m so sorry, really, I am. I just…”

He motions to her underwear still hooked around her ankle and she picks them up. No way those are going back on. She stuffs them into the small pocket of her skirt. “I understand.” He tells her. “You want it to be right, special. Not some hurried thing on the rooftop of a club in Miami.”

“Exactly.” She sighs. She’s going to skip on telling him that there’s only one person she can really see herself losing her virginity to. Probably for the best.

“C’mon,” he grabs her hand, “let’s get another drink and if you’ll have me, I’d still like to dance?”

She squeezes her hand in his. “Yeah,” she agrees, “I’d like that too.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

She’s dying. Legitimately on the brink of death.

Y/N doesn’t think she’s ever been this sick in her life. She’s thrown up more times than she can count, so much that it’s just stomach bile at this point. Whatever she tries to consume gets thrown right back up fifteen minutes later. Not once in the past few days has her fever broken or at least gone below 100. It’s cold as hell in her apartment, despite the fact it’s a decent sixty-five degrees outside. She’s taken to wearing fuzzy socks, sweats, and a big sweatshirt, piling under three blankets just to keep warm. Sleep is a distant memory. Everything she coughs up or sneezes out is thick and bright green. To make matters worse, she can’t remember the last time she showered.

Her only consolation is that Cece is also sick. Not as bad as Y/N, but at least she isn’t alone. Whatever had been in the water in Miami was doing its due diligence in making her regret going on Spring Break last week. She’s sick enough that she wasn’t able to do her stream on Tuesday…when was Tuesday? Yesterday? Three days ago?

She takes a small swig of water, swallowing hurriedly before coughs rack her chest to hell and back. 27 Dresses is paused on her tv screen from her earlier attempt at trying to watch it. She isn’t really sure what time it is but she knows it’s night. Only because when she first put the movie on, it was daylight and now it’s dark out.

Y/N shivers, pulling the quilt back up around her shoulders and unpausing the movie. Thirty seconds in, there’s a pounding on her apartment door. She pauses the movie and struggles getting up off the couch. Sways a couple times. Folds her arms around herself as she shuffles to the door in sock feet. She forgets to check the peephole and pulls the door open.

She rubs her eyes, making sure that she isn’t hallucinating and Bucky is actually at her door. His face is flushed, chest moving up and down with frantic breaths, and a slight sheen of sweat coats his neck.

“Y/N, thank God.”

Something scratches at the back of her throat and she raises her elbow, using it to cover her mouth and nose so she can cough several times. Her breath rattles when she looks at him. “What is it?” Another cough battles its way through her and she has to lean against the door to keep from falling over. There’s no reason he should be at her door. Unless- Oh, fuck. Her research paper. The final draft. “Shit. I forgot to turn my final draft in.” She can barely get the words out without coughing.

His eyes narrow. She half-registers him giving her a once-over. It isn’t appreciative either, not like when he’s checking her out, savoring the way she looks. He looks…concerned. “That’s not due for two more weeks.” He reminds her softly. “You’ve missed both classes this week. I got worried when you didn’t respond to my email.”

Both…? She missed both classes? What day even is it? She must ask that part out loud because he says that it’s Thursday and it’s nearly 9:30 at night.

Y/N rubs her eyes with her fists and leans her head against the door. “Oh. Okay.”

He reaches out with his vibranium hand, fingers flexing like he’s going to touch her. But then his hand balls into a fist and falls back to his side. “Are you sick?”

The nod she gives makes her head spin. She grimaces, hoping she isn’t about to throw up all over him. “Yeah, since late Sunday night. So is Cece. I think we got something in Miami. Like a bug or the flu, maybe. I’ll be fine, it just needs to run its course.”

Right now, there are three Bucky’s looking down at her. Three handsome blurring faces wrought with concern. She blinks several times in the effort of stabilizing her vision as three of his hands reach out to her. And then, there’s only one hand and it’s being pressed to her forehead.

The back of his hand is damp with sweat and cool. It’s a welcome cool, like having an ice cube rubbed on your neck after you’ve gotten too hot. “You’re burning up.” He removes his hand, wiping it on his pants. “Have you taken anything?” She barely shakes her head in fear of vomiting. “Do you have any medicine here?” She shakes her head again. Bucky frowns and then looks over his shoulder. When his eyes find hers again, he seems to have resolved to something. He curves his hand against her face. “Okay. I’ve got some cold and flu stuff up at my place. Can you just…not die until I get back?”

She nestles the side of her face into his palm, despite the fact that the vibranium is freezing. “Mmm.” She could go to sleep. “I think I can survive ten minutes.”

It’s a long ten minutes. It probably would have gone by faster had she sat down and waited. But she relegated herself to standing with the door open until he got back. Head rested against the door, she let her eyes close until there were gentle hands moving her aside and the door was shutting.

Bucky has two reusable grocery bags. He places both on her small circular dining table. From one he pulls a bunch of cold and flu medicine, a thermometer, and electrolyte drinks. “Take this,” he hands her a two-pill package of Nyquil, “and then go get a hot shower. It’ll clear up your sinuses. Cough some of that gunk up if you can. And I’ll make you some of my ma’s famous soup.”

Soup? She wants to tell him it would be a waste. She hasn’t been able to keep anything down all week. But he’s being nice and really sweet so if she has to choke down soup and hide throwing it up later, she will.

He hands her one of the drinks and she diligently takes the medicine. Y/N peers into the other bag. There’s a handful of carrots, some green onions, potatoes, and-. “What are those?” She pulls out the green plant-looking things and holds them up.

Bucky takes them from her and drops them back in the bag. “Nettles.” Like he can’t believe she’s never seen them before. “Promise they’ll make you feel better.”

Unfortunately, she trusts him on this.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The nettle soup isn’t horrid. Probably because he added a lot of chicken broth and potatoes. But it does have her feeling a little better. That or the meds and the hot shower. Where she did, in fact, cough a lot of gunk up into the toilet. She spent so long sitting on the floor of her shower that he actually came in to check on her. By then, she was overheated and too tired to actually move so he had to pick her up from the floor and towel-dry her off.

He was gentle and sweet as he put a long sleeve shirt on her and handed her some underwear to put on. Brushed out her wet hair and braided it back so it would be out of her face. Every once in a while, his fingers would dance along her neck and across her shoulders. They were soft, tender touches that didn’t seem to hold any meaning other than being just that: touches.

They’ve watched three and a half episodes of Jersey Shore. Within that, he has made her two more bowls of soup and has probably pushed at least a liter of water in her mouth.

“I can’t believe you’ve never seen Jersey Shore.” His voice is quiet. “I thought you liked trashy reality tv.”

Her head is resting on his chest and his hand is rubbing soothing circles down her arm. Her arm is wrapped around his abdomen and she thinks this is what real intimacy is like. She thinks talking will ruin whatever is happening, that it will burst this safe and content bubble they’re in. “I meant more like, Keeping Up with the Kardashians and Real Housewives.” She whispers. “My parents were vehemently against Snooki.” It’s almost ironic. “They’d probably die if they knew what I did to make money.”

His hand stops. “Do you talk to them often? Your parents?”

If it could, if it hadn’t already several years ago, a piece would have snapped off her heart and fallen into the deep cavern of her being. But, that happened forever ago.

Y/N readjusts her head and focuses back on the tv screen. “No.” Surprisingly, her voice doesn’t splinter. “Not since my freshman year.”

He squeezes her gently, like he’s apologizing for something but he doesn’t know what. “Can I…?”

She tells him that before she went off to college, she and her parents got in a huge fight over school. She wanted to go to college and get a Psych degree, and become a child psychologist. They wanted her to stay home and learn the family business so she’d be able to take over one day. “I just didn’t wanna do that. I didn’t wanna spend my whole life running a restaurant. I hate cooking.”

His laughter rumbles in his chest, sending electric shock waves through her. “You hate cooking? Who hates cooking?”

“Me.” She smiles sleepily up at him. “I actually despise it.”

His free hand comes up and touches her face. His palm cups her jaw, thumb rubbing over her cheekbone. “That’s okay. I like cooking enough for the both of us.”

Something about the way he says it…the way he looks at her…She thinks him just saying that, in that yielding warm voice, is more of a rule-breaker than anything physical they could ever do.

She closes her eyes, imagining that nights are always like this between them. That it could happen. Be possible. That they could sit up all night and be tangled in one another’s embraces, soft touches and sleep-soaked smiles. That it wouldn’t be secret or taboo. That maybe they could wake up together in the mornings and walk hand in hand to a coffee shop. Make breakfast together. Take walks in the park. Quick kisses on the sidewalk, grocery shopping-.

“You know-you know I can’t stay, right?” His voice is barely a whisper. Like he doesn’t wanna say the words at all but he knows he has to.

Y/N opens her eyes and looks up at him with a frown. “I never thought you would.” She tells him. “And I wasn’t going to ask you to.”

Something changes. Shifts. Breaks.

“No, I know, it’s just-.”

She pushes herself off him, having to muster all her strength to do so. Her hands press down into the mattress as she stares at him. What had he been going to say? “It’s just…?”

Bucky sits up straight and she moves back from him. Distance. Space. That was it. The bubble. That tender, delicate bubble had popped.

He runs his hand through the short crop of hair. “I’m already toeing the line here with you. And I can’t afford to lose my job over-.”

“Over what?” Something visceral snaps inside her. She scrambles off the bed. “Over a stupid college girl?” His mouth opens but nothing comes out. Oh. “I never asked you to show up here tonight. I didn’t ask you to bring me medicine or-or make me your mom’s fucking soup or any of this.” She grabs a discarded pair of sweats from the floor and pulls them on. He sits, shoulders slumped, waiting for her to go on. “You did all that, on your own. So don’t blame me because you don’t have any goddamn self-control.”

She thanks God that when he gets off the bed, he’s on the other side. She may strangle him if he gets too close. His eyes are the ocean dark before a storm. Nostrils flared in deep-seeded anger. She wants to punch him. To bang her fists into his chest so hard it bruises.

How, how could she have been so fucking stupid?

“Self-?” He chokes out. “You think I don’t have self-control? Y/N,” his voice stutters through her name, “if you only fucking knew what it’s taken these past couple months to keep the distance I have…” His head shakes and he lets his gaze lock on the floor. He doesn’t even look at her when he says, “Maybe this was a bad idea.”

There, there it goes.

That bigger-than-it-should-be piece of her heart. It snaps off, drifts down away into nothing but ash and dust.

She can’t stop her bottom lip from wobbling, much as she wants to. She doesn't want to cry in front of him, doesn’t want to cry at all. But tears are burning her eyes and even if she squints, she knows they’ll fall.

All of this time, all of this waiting, and for what? For it to end like this?

Her face turns away just as he looks to her. “Y/N-.”

She steels herself. Locks her jaw and looks him right in the eye. “What exactly are you saying was a bad idea? Coming here tonight or…?”

The moment his eyes flutter she knows. There had been a tiny sliver of hope that he only meant tonight but now she knows he means all of it. The bar all those weeks ago, the secret mornings in the sauna getting high watching the other touch themselves, giving her the videos, the lingerie, the streams, all of it.

He means all of it.

Her throat bobs when he sighs. “Getting involved with you.” Resentment floods through her at the desperate tone of his words. “Getting close to you. Indulging myself with you. It was reckless, stupid but-.”

Reckless.

Stupid.

That’s what she would always be to him. Some reckless and stupid decision he made, some stupid college student he fucked around with. But he’d never have to feel truly guilty because he never really fucked her.

“Well,” she huffs out a resilient breath, “if being near me is so reckless and stupid, you know where the door is.”

“Y/N-.” He starts to plea.

She shakes her head and gestures to her bedroom door. “I want you to leave. Now.”

She can’t bring herself to watch him actually do it. Instead, she stares up at the ceiling and holds her breath until she hears her apartment door catch shut. And then, only then, does she let the tears fall.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

This might just be the worst.

Y/N didn’t exactly think of the repercussions of getting somewhat involved with her professor and then it going south and ending badly. Mostly because she never anticipated it would actually end. She’d thought the only possible end result of their illicit tryst was, well, was to have sex. She never considered beyond that.

Now, she doesn’t have to.

But she does have to sit in his class twice a week and pretend like looking at him for ninety minutes doesn’t absolutely splinter her soul.

When she turns in the final draft of her research paper (fourteen pages of well-documented and thoroughly analyzed research, two full pages of bibliography, and a cover page), she does so after class when he’s busy erasing the board and can’t see her.

Several times her finger has hovered over the delete button of her keyboard, each of the thirty-six adult films selected. One click and they’d be gone. She never succeeds in hitting the button. Maybe one day she will.

Her heart hasn’t really been locked into her streams the past few weeks. Everything she does to herself is half-hearted and lazy. She’s pretty sure her faked orgasms don’t even sound convincing anymore.

Her pen is drawing lazy doodles across an empty page of her notebook. She’s not usually one to zone out in class but it’s about the only way she’s making it through 411 lectures lately. The doodle ends up a scribble of crooked lines and indistinct shapes.

“Okay,” Dr. Barnes claps his hands together to garner their attention, “let’s have a chat.”

Y/N looks up from her notebook. He’s sitting on the edge of his desk. His pants- fuck, those pants hug his thighs so- she bites down on her tongue and averts her attention to the board. ADULT RELATIONSHIPS & SEXUALITY is written in his large, looped lettering. Great.

“Now that we’re diving into different types of relationships between adults and their sexual behavior, we should have a conversation. Set some parameters, open ourselves up to one another.” He says to the class.

Y/N snorts under her breath. She doubts she needs to open herself up anymore to him than she already has. If she’d been looking, she probably would’ve noticed the look he gives her. She shifts in her seat and goes back to her doodling.

“I want you to raise your hand if you’ve ever been in a relationship before, serious or casual, it doesn’t matter.”

She doesn’t bother looking around the room to see who raises their hand and who doesn’t. Lazily, she lifts her hand in the air. Just as soon as she does, he tells them to lower their hands.

“Okay, now, who’s been in just a serious relationship?”

Y/N half-raises her hand into the air as she accentuates a flower drawing with some leaves on the stem. Drops her hand before he can instruct them to. She adds another flower, deciding to create a small garden of blue inked flora.

“How many of you have ever participated in sexual conduct before?” Her heart stills. “I don’t mean plain sex, either. It can be anything. A little under the shirt action, oral sex, anything involving hands and genitalia.”

She isn’t shy about raising her hand.

His appreciative hmm accelerates through her. She doesn't drop her hand until he says to. “Okay, last question: who in here would be considered a virgin by societal standards? If you aren’t sure what that means, it’s not that you’ve never performed any sort of sexual behavior before, but that you’ve never performed full sexual intercourse.”

Y/N forgets the room. She raises her hand up.

In the back, someone sniggers out a laugh. Another person coughs to not so gently conceal the word “liar”.

Y/N lifts her head from her doodles. Looks around the room. She’s the only one with her hand up. A room full of fucking people and she’s the only goddamn virgin. She casts a glance to Dr. Barnes as she lets her hand fall into her lap.

He nods his head once, if the slight movement can even be counted as such. “Thank you, Y/N, for your honesty. I appreciate it.”

She’s sure he does.

Two tables behind her, Everett snorts obnoxiously. “Honesty? Yeah, right.” He barks out a grating laugh. “Sluts can’t be virgins, Y/N.” She drops her pen and whirls around in her seat. “Half of Miami saw you going to town on the dance floor with that guy on Spring Break.”

Up front, something clatters to the floor.

She barely turns her head so she can see Bucky at the front of the room. He’s standing, a marker in the floor at his feet. And his face…if she didn’t know better she’d think he looked hurt. And then, his face is a passive slate of nothing.

The guy sitting next to Everett gives him a fist bump. Someone in the room is loudly whispering about seeing Y/N over Spring Break and how she’d practically whored herself out for free drinks. White noise floods her ears and her eyes lock on Everett. He’s staring back at her, grinning like he’s finally accomplished his life’s goal: humiliating her.

If he only knew that someone else in the room had already made a fool of her…

She leans down and digs through her bag, producing her checkbook. She secures it in her hand and then gets up. Her chair screeches as she pushes it back and knocks it out of her way. Her footsteps pound on the linoleum floor until she finds herself standing beside Everett at his desk.

“What are you doing?” He sneers at her. “Gonna punch me in the face again?”

While that would be satisfying, this won’t get an assault charge slapped on her permanent record. Y/N bends over his shoulder. “Getting you off my dick for good.”

The entire class is silent. Watching. Waiting for what is about to happen, which could be anything considering it’s Y/N and Everett and they’ve been at each other’s throats for two years. It’s a good thing they’re all watching, that someone is probably recording. He can finally swallow the humiliation he’s been trying to push onto her for the last couple years.

She hopes he chokes on it.

“Y/N,” Dr. Barnes presses, silently urging her to go back to her seat, even his eyes flicker to her abandoned desk table, “we’re in the middle of-.”

She cuts him off by holding her hand up, palm to him. Barely glances at him. “I’m sorry, sir, I really am. This’ll only take a minute, I swear.” She doesn’t even wait for him to say anything before she focuses back on Everett. She lays her checkbook down, opens it, and opts for his pen “You’ve been the prick of a thorn in my side for what, two years now?” Y/N is so laser-focused on getting this over with that she doesn’t give him the time to agree or disagree. “Yeah, that’s right.” She nods to herself. “Because I broke your nose sophomore year at a party. Remember that?” She nudges him with her elbow. She begins filling out the check, not even looking at him. She doesn’t have to see his face to know it’s red as a tomato. And her words are sharp enough to draw blood when she says, “Wait, you probably remember what you said! You told me if I could show my tits on a camera I could show em at a party.”

Everett shifts in his seat. From the corner of her eye, she can see he’s clenched down so hard on his jaw it looks like it’s going to break. And yeah, his face is red as hell.

She dates the check and leaves it to be for a moment. Swipes a piece of his paper. “So, how long before that did you find out about my site?” Y/N gives him a reassuring smile when he realizes she’s just openly admitted to being a cam girl. That this could never embarrass or humiliate her and she’s stolen what he assumed was control and power. “It’s okay, you don’t have to say it out loud. You can just hold up some fingers or write it down.”

But he mutters it out. Three months.

Her head ticks to the side. She does the mental calculations. That’s…that’s about twenty-five months then. Three before the party, twenty-two from then until now. Twenty-five, give or take some days.

She scribbles a number down on the paper and points to it. $150. The amount of money that’s transferred once a month from his bank account to her own. The amount of money a super-subscriber pays to access her site and content each month. Super-subscriber. The second tier above the bottom. “Has it always been this? One-fifty?”

All she gets is a nod.

She does the multiplication on the paper so he can see she isn’t fucking around the numbers. $150 times twenty-five months. She even goes so far as to pull her phone from her jacket pocket and double-check it there to show him her math is correct.

And then she writes that dollar amount on the check in the appropriate places and signs her name at the bottom where it’s due.

Y/N gives the check a final look over before she holds it out to him. “There.” She huffs. “$3,750. All yours.” Everett doesn’t budge. Doesn’t even look at her. His eyes are dead on the check. On the small piece of paper that serves not only as a reminder but also as his public humiliation. “Go on,” she urges with a soft smile, “take the check, Everett. It’s your money anyway.” In his lap, his hand twitches. A breath puffs from her nose and she grabs his hand and stuffs the check into his grasp. “$150 a month for the past twenty-five months. Every fucking cent you’ve paid the past two years to sit at home and jerk off to me and then go out and pretend like I’m the one you’re disgusted with.” Like he has done so many times in the past, Y/N leans down so that her mouth brushes the shell of his ear. “I promise it won’t bounce. I’m good for my money, down to the damn dollar.” She squeezes his shoulder as she stands up. “Not everyone is as cheap as you.”

A tsunami wave of relief washes over her as she returns to her seat. In an incredibly even and nonchalant voice, she tells Dr. Barnes that he can continue on with his lesson.

Dr. Barnes clears his throat. “Actually, um, I think we’ll dismiss early for the day. We’ll pick up Thursday.” She can feel him staring at her but she doesn’t dare look at him. “Y/N, a word.”

If she gets reprimanded for standing up to that fucking asshole, she’s going to punch Dr. Barnes right in his perfect goddamn mouth.

She’s slow gathering her things, waiting for everyone to file out of the room. For once, Everett doesn’t have anything smarmy to say to her. He’s clutching that stupid check in his hand for dear life and his ears are still red. And maybe his shoulders are shaking a little.

Dr. Barnes waits until everyone has left the room and then he shuts the door. She still doesn’t look at him but she does get up and sling her bag over her shoulder. “Are you all right?” He asks in a timid voice.

“Fine.” She snaps, finally deeming to look at him. His features are molded into a tender expression. The blue of his eyes is a soft shade and his mouth is painted into a worried frown. “Nothing I’m not used to.”

He uses his desk to lean against and his arms cross over his chest. “It’s not something you should have to be used to, Y/N. I can report him for harassing you and-.”

“No.” She hisses. “Don’t do that.” She shakes it off. “Not worth it anyway. There’s dozens more just like him.”

His brows lift in question. “Are you sure? Because you shouldn’t let him get away with-.”

He does not get to essentially dump her, leave her high, dry, and alone and then decide he wants to play white knight to her damsel in distress. One, because it’s fucking rude. And two, because she isn’t a damsel in distress.

“Look, Dr. Barnes,” she really hits home with his title, making sure he knows she’s over this bullshit, “I don’t need you to protect me or watch out for me, okay? I’m fine. I can take care of myself. I don’t need you.”

She watches his jaw lock into place. His shoulders go rigid and square. “I see.” Silence sits between them, hangs over them like a hydrogen bomb waiting to go off. His posture shifts, changes. He unfolds from himself and braces his hands against the edge of his desk. “I didn’t-uh-I didn’t know you were seeing someone…that you met someone on Spring Break.” Is that…? No, yes, it is. It’s grief. Hurt. It spills and coats over his words like an oil stain that won’t ever go away. Seeps through them.

Fuck Everett Carmichael. She’s going to rip his fucking throat out with her teeth.

It shouldn’t matter to Bucky if she met someone age appropriate, if she was seeing someone that she could actually have a relationship with. They’re finished. Done. Whatever was going on between them is dead in the water.

So, she isn’t sure why she lies. “Yeah.” It burns coming from her lips, a grease fire. “Since I got back from Miami.”

Something in his metal arm whirs. Gears click into place. Wood splinters under his iron grasp on the desk. “I see.”

She waits a second but he never says anything else. He just stares at her like he isn’t sure who he’s looking at. She doesn’t think she would know either.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Despite the fact that she worked her ass off and spent four years looking to the moment like the light at the end of the tunnel, Y/N actually does not remember much about her graduation ceremony.

It’s a blur of two hours. She can’t recall what the college president or any of the student speakers said in their speeches. The music is just a faint hum in the back of her mind. She remembers her dress being itchy on her back and getting too hot in the stuffy air of the gymnasium. She remembers watching Dr. Barnes walk past her row looking regal as a prince in his doctoral regalia. If she concentrates really hard, she can picture herself walking across the stage and receiving her fake diploma (real one pending via mail service). She does know her parents did not attend, but that’s because she never sent an invitation.

Now all she’s focused on is the celebration.

She and Cece have been dancing the night away the past hour at their favorite bar in town. It’s full of people who are, as of that morning, now college graduates. Y/N has had two vodka sodas and has resigned herself to no more for the night. The last time she drank too much in one night, she almost had sex, came back home sick with some evil variant of the flu, and lost Bucky.

Her heart pangs at the memory. No matter how hard she tries to push it away, she can’t. She misses the times when all she longed for was the weight of him on top of her, grunting the filthiest of phrases into her ear while he took her for all she had. And now on top of that, she longs for those sweet moments where he would just look at her, just run his fingers over her lip, just hold her face in his hands, press his cheek to her temple.

She misses him.

More than she ought to. More than what’s good for her.

“You stopped dancing!” Cece nudges her with her shoulder in a makeshift shimmying movement. “Why’d you stop dancing?” A guy is coming up to them, doing some weird shimmying movement of his own with a pervy grin on his face. Cece practically snaps her teeth at him. “Fuck off, weirdo!”

Y/N tries to shake off the feeling. Tries to let the upbeat music flow through her and move her body in whichever way nature decides. It all comes out half-hearted and limp.

Cece’s mouth distorts in disgust. “Ew. No. Stop that. Don’t…don’t dance if you’re gonna dance like that.”

Great. Now she can’t even dance right.

Cece grabs her by the wrists and pulls her in. She’s still dancing so to everyone else, it just looks like one girl trying to get her stubborn friend to dance along with her. In reality, Cece is using their proximity to have some sort of therapy session.

“You should be happy!” Cece tugs on her. “We graduated this morning! We did it! We made it through college without dying or getting pregnant!” She pauses. “Well, I made it through without getting pregnant.”

Y/N lets her wave her arms around in a dramatic show of excitement. Excitement she isn’t really feeling because she thought she’d be spending this night in a far different scenario. It’s the time past rules, when breaking them wouldn’t matter because the rules wouldn’t apply anymore. Instead of celebrating that fact, instead of spending this time with him, she’s mourning the times when they weren’t allowed to touch each other. Because at least she had him.

“And I made it through still a virgin.” Y/N smiles sardonically.

She’s about to say something when she clamps her mouth shut. Her feet stomp excitedly on the floor like she’s a toddler and her mouth bursts open in a grin. “Go!”

Go? Where the fuck is she supposed to go? Home? Back to her apartment alone so she can be sad and lonely by herself? She’d rather be sad and lonely in a bar full of people making sure her best friend doesn’t crack her head open somehow.

“I don’t wanna go home.” Y/N protests. “It’ll make me depressed.” Even more than she already is.

Cece rolls her eyes. Her hands move up to Y/N’s forearms and squeeze tightly. “Not home, you dumbass. Go to him.” Quietly, Y/N says she can’t. But Cece doesn’t know why she can’t go. Because Cece doesn’t know that for half the semester they were sneaking around pretending they were touching each other having the most sordid non-affair to ever exist. Cece doesn’t know that they got into an argument and she doesn’t know they no longer speak. All Cece knows is that Y/N is no longer a student at their college, which means there are no longer rules. “Yes, you can! You graduated! Go get that dick!”

If only it were that simple. It’s not just about the sex anymore. She wishes she could tell Cece that it became about more than fucking her hot professor and that she wound up losing the most intimate connection she’s ever had.

Y/N shakes her head and says it’s not worth it and he probably wouldn’t be home anyway. She resigns to dancing and pretending like she’s as happy as she should be.

After all, she graduated college today.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It’s not her floor. It’s about two floors off from her floor. But she accidentally- maybe on purpose a little- hit the wrong button in the elevator. And now she’s in front of his door.

She’s replayed Cece’s words in her head all night and even re-evaluated her own rationales. The worst thing that can happen is he never opens the door. No, actually the worst thing that can happen is he opens the door, listens to what she has to say, and then closes the door in her face.

But at least she’ll have said what she wants to say. What she needs to say. That alone is enough.

Y/N rolls her shoulders, takes a deep breath, and then knocks on the door twice.

There’s shuffling on the other side, something that sounds like a groan, and then the door is being unlocked and opened.

He’s been asleep. That much is evident. There’s a dark shadow of stubble decorating the lower half of his face, his eyes are half-lidded and heavy with sleep. No shirt, the only thing he’s got on is a pair of salmon colored boxer briefs. He looks the same. So the same that it produces an ache deep in her heart.

“Hi.” She whispers.

He rubs at his eyes and blinks a few times before really looking at her. “Y/N? What-.?”

The whole big speech she had planned out- okay, well, not exactly planned because it kept changing- but everything she knew she needed to say is gone when he says her name. All those self-righteous and dignified words disappear. Because he said her name and he’s looking at her like he used to.

She says the only thing she can think of: “I graduated today.”

He’s holding the top of the door with his metal hand, the vibranium arm extended down the length of the door jamb and most of his weight being put there. She tries not to zero in on how it accentuates the muscles in his chest or side, or the way his underwear practically look like a second skin on the massive trunks known as his thighs.

Bucky nods his head slowly. “I know. I was there.” He reminds her that, as a professor, he did attend the graduation ceremony.

Her hands are clasped together in front of her, nails picking at nails. This is how she felt at twelve years old talking to the first boy she ever had a crush on. Except, right after she confessed her feelings, he called her gross and made fun of her for the rest of the year.

This can’t go worse than that. Right?

She drops her hands and then immediately scratches the back of her neck. “I’m officially a college graduate. Diploma should be coming in the mail soon.” She doesn’t actually know when soon is.

He smiles at her. All lips, no teeth. Is that a pity smile? Does he feel bad because he knows what she’s here for and he can’t give her that? “Congratulations, Y/N. I’m proud of you.”

“Are you?” She arches an eyebrow.

The corner of his mouth ticks up. “Of course I am.” He says in a soft voice. “I know how hard you worked for this. You’re an exceptionally hard worker. All professors want students with your work ethic and determination.”

She’s fairly certain she’s never had half as much determination for any other professor.

“You know,” she takes a tentative step forward in the effort of closing the sizeable gap between them, “as of about ten hours ago, I’m not a student anymore- yours or anyone else’s, Dr. Barnes.” He doesn’t move when she takes another step, so close she can smell the soap he used to shower. “We’re just neighbors now.”

Bucky’s eyes darken. He leans in so close his breath fans hot over her face and his lips barely touch hers. It takes everything she has not to fall into him right there. “You can call me Bucky. It’s like you said, as of about ten hours ago, I’m no longer your professor.”

In one brief moment, his hand is slipping around the back of her neck and then his mouth is on hers. He pulls her into his apartment and shuts the door, forcing her back against it. Both his hands cup her neck, thumbs pressing against her jawline as his teeth nip at her bottom lip and he forces his tongue into her mouth. The moan he presses past her lips is felt all throughout her body, sending a hurricane of want straight to her core.

“Where’s your boyfriend, huh?” His mouth drags across her cheek, down her jaw, down the column of her throat. “Bet he can’t make you feel as good as I do.”

Boyfriend? She doesn’t have a-. Oh. Right. That.

She smirks, raking her nails up his chest. “Yeah. I never had a boyfriend.” He pulls back, remarking dully that she said she met someone on Spring Break. Y/N forms her mouth into a simper. “I lied.”

“You-?” He stammers. “Why would you lie?”

She hooks a leg around his waist and jerks him closer. “Wanted to make you jealous.” She says, simple as that. Rolls her hips to gyrate her pelvis over his. Her body practically vaults at the way the bulge in his underwear alleviates just too little of the friction. “Wanted you to regret letting me go.” She rolls her hips again, grinning at the way his nose twitches. “Did it work?”

With his vibranium hand he gathers her hands together and clasps his hand around her conjoined wrists, holding them up above her head. With his other hand he presses down on her shoulder to create more pressure against their cores with each of her undulations. “Did it…? Fuck, sweetheart, I’ve never wanted to get my hands around a guy’s neck more.” His mouth finds hers again and his hips rock up to match her movements in perfect sync. “But you didn’t have to make me regret walking away. I did that the second I turned my back.”

Her movements falter.

He drops her wrists and she lets her hands fall onto his shoulders. He asks if she’s all right. If they’re being honest here…she might as well say what needs to be said. “I want you.” She murmurs.

He pushes her hair back behind her ear. “I want you too.”

Y/N shakes her head, biting down on her lip. Her breath is ragged before she says, “I mean, I want you. Not just…not just this but-.”

He nuzzles his face against hers. Kisses her temple. “I know, baby. And I want you too-.”

“But?” She knows it’s coming. It’s always coming. It will always be something.

He’s smiling when he rears back from her. In the way she’s longed for the past few weeks, he cups his hand to her face. “But nothing. That’s it, plain and simple. I want you.”

Plain. Simple.

She wants him.

He wants her.

That easy.

She holds her hand over his and nestles her face into his palm. “You can have me.”

The kiss starts sweet. A little peck that quickly turns into a series. A series that melts into a long and languid motion of tongues swiping and teeth biting and pulling into lips. He pulls up her other leg and winds it around his waist. Hooks an arm under her ass and peels her from the door.

“Where are we-?”

“Y/N, you really think I’m gonna let your first time be against my fucking door?”

She doesn’t say another word. She kisses him again and wanders her hands over his torso. Begins to memorize each divot and dip, each vein, every muscle and jerking tendon. She runs her hand over the scars on his left shoulder and down the vibranium prosthetic. And then her back is hitting the bed.

“Can’t tell you how many times I dreamt this.” He grumbles. “You on my bed…those goddamn noises you make…” She sits up and pulls her dress over her head, tossing it away. “You aren’t…fuck, Y/N, you showed up at my door without any goddamn panties?”

She shrugs, crawling backwards up the bed as he sinks to his knees on the mattress and crawls toward her. His hand curls around her ankle and he yanks her down so she’s laying under him. “What can I say?” She whispers. “I’ve dreamt this too.”

He mouths sticky hot kisses from her ankle to her knee, stopping to plant several in the back crease of her knee. When he starts back up to head to her thigh, he licks and bites, hooking her leg over his shoulder. He rests his cheek against the inner portion of her thigh and looks up at her. “You ever been tongue-fucked before, honey?”

Feebly, she shakes her head.

Bucky grins. It’s maniacal, torturous. Feral. She wants him to say something, give some clue, but he doesn’t. He just wraps her other leg over his shoulder and pulls her hips up so he’s eye-level with her center. Hot breaths from his nose pant out and fan over the dampened folds of her pussy, sending shock waves up her spine and back down toward her toes. His mouth moves in a meticulous path, avoiding the true destination and instead seeking to give pleasure in the creases of her inner thighs. She squirms under his grasp, feet jerking when he runs a singular finger between her folds.

“Any last words?” Her whole body tingles at the way his lips etch words over her pussy.

She digs her ankles into his back to careen him forward. “Stop being a dick and-.”

Her words are effectively lost in the abyss when he suctions his mouth to her center. He’s vicious at it, working his tongue like that’s what it was made for, like it’s his reasoning for living. The throaty hum he lets out tickles deep into her. His nose bumps against the sensitive swell of her clit and then his teeth are scraping against it.

Each movement has her hips bucking up to get as close to him as possible. He focuses his mouth there, on that delicate bud, while he slips three cold metal fingers past her folds and up inside her. Hardly forgotten words ring to the forefront of her mind: Gotta make sure you can take all of me, sweet girl.

The familiar feeling of sweet release finds its way through her, settling deep and knotting, twisting, turning with each drag of his fingers alongside her walls, with each playful and devilish nip at her clit. Her hands fist around the blanket of his bed, heels digging into his back.

“That’s my girl,” he urges, “c’mon and cum on my tongue. Lemme taste you, sweetheart.” His fingers scissor and curve and pressurize before he replaces them once again with his tongue and uses his fingers to pleasure her clit. He rolls circles and pinches, flicks and drags over it until it all becomes too much.

The orgasm rolls through her, limbs going stiff as her hips freeze in bucked movement and he continues to lap away at her like a dog dying of thirst on a sweltering day.

Arousal slicks his face when he finally raises his head from between her legs. His hand snakes up her body and clasps around her throat. “Such a good girl.” He grunts. “Delicious little thing.”

Her eyes are half-hooded as she regards him removing his underwear. “Are you gonna sit there and stare at me or are you gonna kiss me so I can taste myself?” She turns her head to the side.

His grip around her throat tightens and he uses that to raise her up off her back. He settles his knees between her legs, hooking his arm around her back and sliding her up on his lap before capturing her mouth.

It’s a disgustingly filthy kiss. It’s his tongue reaching for the back of her throat, her teeth securing his bottom lip and tugging, her arousal and his saliva sticking and coating her chin to spill down her neck.

“Be honest with me, baby.” Bucky groans into her mouth. “You want me to fuck you ‘til you cry?”

Her mouth smiles against his. Y/N pushes her hips down closer to his and circulates them, slicking his cock and mixing her arousal with his. “I’ll never forgive you if you don’t.”

He grabs onto her hips and taps them lightly. She raises off his lap on command and he situates himself so he’s resting on his calves. Despite the way her body is buzzing and demanding for this to happen faster, faster, faster, she slowly eases herself back down onto his lap.

Her thighs cinch and want to buckle together as she presses herself down around him. The stretch is agonizing. It’s excruciating, the creeping pace she has to sink his cock into her to accommodate the thickness, the length. Her teeth have punctured through her bottom lip, blood tainting her tongue. Until there’s nowhere left to go.

“See?” She breathes hollow through her nose. “It fits.” She’s pretty sure she can feel him in her fucking stomach but.

Bucky’s cheeks are hollowed out and his eyes blown totally dark. “Yeah, baby, it does, doesn’t it?” He rocks her hips with his hands, controlling her movements into lackadaisical and gentle formations. They’re slow and they’re careful but each movement brings a dull ache to her core. “Wanna tell me how it feels?”

Y/N takes her motions into her own control, speeding up the pace just slightly. “Like there’s a massive fucking cock inside me?” She bites out. His laughter splinters into a zillion pieces like shards of sunlight. “I’m serious. I think you’re in my goddamn stomach.”

His cock twitches inside her and she tightens around him. Bucky hisses out and takes her hand, flattening her palm against her lower stomach. “Feel that?” His cock jumps again and holy fuck, she feels it with her hand. “Not quite your stomach but then again, I do remember your mind being elsewhere when we learned female anatomy.” His grin is cocky and arrogant and goofy all at the same time.

He bucks his hips and it forces a sharp breath out of her. It takes a few minutes but she gets adjusted to the feel of him, realizing that the slow burning ache is nothing more than her body’s way of telling her she’s not quite satisfied yet. Her pace quickens and her undulations become a series of rotations punctured by sliding herself up and back down his shaft. His hands dig into her ass, squeezing and pinching the flesh as he helps to stabilize her movements.

It takes one swooping movement for him to put her on her back and spread her legs, hooking one over his shoulder and pushing one as far as it would go without popping out of the socket. One of his hands goes around her throat and the other grabs onto her hand. His thrusts are sharp and precise, methodically timed so that just when she misses the feel, he’s right back hitting that sweet spot.

“Goddamn-,” he croaks, “better than I fucking- so fucking tight-so goddamn perfect.”

Her toes curl. Her hands scramble for purchase wherever she can get it. His hair, his arm. The headboard. Each thrust, each slam, brings a new blazing wave of heat through her. She can feel her climax building and building and building.

“Don’t-stop-keep-don’t,” she can barely get the words out, “feels-.”

Bucky drags his teeth across her collarbone. “Good, I know, baby. Told you I’d treat you right. Told you, didn’t I?” He lifts her hips again, cock burrowing deeper inside of her. He splays his flesh hand over her stomach and grins as he feels himself fuck into her. “Goddamn it, sweetheart. Look how well you’re taking my cock. Like you were made for me.”

A breath catches in her throat. He slams into her, flesh smacking against flesh. Bucky hovers over her, pulling her hips flush to his and slowing his movements. He burrows his face in her neck. His thrusts become languid and each one drags his cock against her walls in a teasing, hateful way. He pinches her clit between his thumb and pointer finger and on reflex, she cinches around him.

“Ah! Fuck.” He laughs under his breath.

She lifts her hand and touches his cheek. He presses his mouth to her wrist, leaving a kiss there. Drags out of her slow, slow, so slow she thinks he’s finished.

He rails back into her, sweeping her into his arms and pulling her back up into his lap. “Oh-oh God-.” She gasps. “Buck-.”

His face nestles into the valley between her breasts, thighs tensing under her weight as he uses those gloriously earned muscles to bury himself further in her each time. “Uh-huh, honey, lemme hear those pretty noises you make. Tell me how good it feels to be ruined like this.”

One good thrust and her second release is pounding its way through her system. She clenches herself around him, trying to match her movements to his to find more of this euphoric rush. He rubs his thumb furiously against her clit, producing a third wave that starts before the second is even over. This one doesn’t even build, it just shatters on impact. Everything is too much. Bucky is still burying himself as far as he can go and he’s relentlessly working his fingers to that swollen and delicate bud.

“Bucky-Buck-I-I-.”

“Give it to me, baby. Go on. Lemme feel how good you are.” He coaxes. Mouths over her breasts, leaving them damp and sticky with his spit. “Make a mess all over my cock, sweet girl.”

Her eyes burn, fuck they’re burning and she has to squeeze them shut as that third release dominates her nervous system. Even behind her eyelids she sees flashing white stars. Hot tears roll down her cheeks and she braces her forehead on his. She clenches her thighs, tightening herself around him and panting out breaths.

“M’gonna-,” his voice is nothing but a hoarse whisper, “god, damn.” His own hips falter and stutter. The warmth of his release coats the inside of her walls and then it’s spilling down on her thighs.

Neither of them makes the motion to move. He wraps his arms around her waist, running fingers through her hair. She rests her cheek against his. His cock throbs inside her, each pulse a damning, aching reminder.

Bucky leans back from her and inspects her face. “Well, goddamn.” He chuckles under his breath. He uses his thumbs to wipe away her tears. “That good, huh?”

Her nose bumps his and she kisses him softly. “Way better than my imagination.” She promises.

He presses a chaste kiss to her temple and another right next to her eye. “Thank God.” He rests his cheek back against hers before dancing his fingers down her spine. “Y/N?” She hums softly. “You can have me too.”

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