Professor Barnes

The office is dim except for the amber glow of the desk lamp, casting long shadows over the stacks of papers that sprawl across the desk. It’s after 9PM — well past office hours — but the two of you are still there, sleeves rolled, red pens uncapped, mugs long gone cold. Your legs are tucked up on the armchair across from him, one ankle bouncing lazily. The stack of essays in your lap is already half-covered in crisp red marks. You tap the tip of your pen against your lip. You know, you murmur, not looking up, your grading rubric is a mess. Across the desk, Bucky glances up slowly. He’s leaned back, legs spread, the top two buttons of his shirt undone. His sleeves are rolled up, showing strong forearms dusted with hair and ink smudges. He smirks. Is that so? You nod. Completely outdated. You’re penalizing structure over argument strength, and half these citations are in MLA instead of APA. They’re freshmen. Ease up. His brow lifts — just slightly. Funny, he says, voice smooth. Didn’t realize I asked for commentary on my teaching. You grin, sharp. Didn’t realize I needed permission. That earns a low chuckle. He leans forward, elbows on his thighs, watching you with a look that’s far too focused for 9PM in a locked office. You’ve been mouthing off all semester, he says, voice pitched a little lower. Always got something to say. You shrug innocently. Maybe if you weren’t so easy to rile. He stands — slow, deliberate — and walks around the desk until he’s looming behind your chair. One hand drops to the back of it. The other brushes your hair back from your shoulder, knuckles grazing bare skin just under the collar of your blouse. You freeze. His mouth lowers, voice hot against your ear. Careful, he breathes. Keep mouthing off… His fingers trail down, curl around the arm of the chair. …and I’ll bend you over this desk right now.