#jock!bucky

"Why the fuck did you think it was a good idea to scare me when I'm barely running on coffee?!" You retort, catching your breath.

He shrugs, running a hand through his messy, but still perfect locks. Shorter on the sides and long in the middle, fringe flopping over his forehead.

"You weren't snoring away next to me, so I thought you would've been here." He says simply, holding out a hand to help you get up.

You roll your eyes as you stand, sitting back down and opening your computer again. "Not all of us have finished their exams, Barnes."

Bucky rests his chin on the top of your head, pressing a light kiss to your hair as he smirks.

"Ooh, Barnes, how cold, what's got you so wound up sweetheart? Why're you so grumpy?" He grins sarcastically, and normally you'd be giggling at him and pulling him in for a kiss, but right now? You're fucking irritated.

"Look," you turn around to glare at him, trying to ignore the fact that he looks so cute in his loose varsity jacket, white t-shirt and boxers, "I need to fucking study! I have a goddamn exam tomorrow at noon, and I'm not ready! So for fucks sake, leave me alone!" It's pretty rude, for a normally gentle person like you, and it seems like Bucky's shocked as well. He takes a step back, eyes wider than normal. He nods once, his eyes flicking down and you're instantly guilty, for snapping at him. Before you can apologise, he turns away, pulls his varsity jacket tighter around him and goes back out to the hallway, shutting the door quietly.

You close your eyes, because why do you have to be such a bitch when you're studying? You can feel tears well up but you try to turn your attention back to your document, suddenly feeling much, much more uninspired than before. You can vaguely hear rustlings and thumps inside the bedroom, but you don't pay any notice to it, really. Now, along with the lack of motivation, you're feeling guilty.

About 20 minutes later, when you've pulled yourself together, you feel two soft hands at your shoulders, and you look up in confusion.

"Buck?" You ask, scrunching your eyebrows up. He doesn't even look the slightest bit mad, he's just got a slightly cocky smile on his lips, and you can't help but smile back.

"You, my sweetheart, are not going to be doing any more work tonight." He says firmly, moving to the side of the seat to give you a peck on your cheek.

"But I have to-,"

"No, you don't. This is punishment for being a grumpy kitten, so I get to choose what you do for the rest of the night." He replies, pulling off his jacket and draping it around your shoulders.

You're about to protest, once again, when he shuts your computer quickly and picks you up, hooking an arm underneath your knees and one around your back. You squeak, batting his chest as he laughs softly, pulling you closer as he leads you out into the hallway. He crosses the hall before reaching the bedroom and opening the door, stepping in and kicking it closed.

You curse his footballer muscles because goddamn it you can't escape his grip and- holy shit. You let out a gasp, bringing your hands to your mouth as he grins at your surprise.

"You like it?" He murmurs, and you can't do anything but nod.

He's pulled extra blankets over the bed like a canopy, draping over perfectly. You can see a cardboard box of Christmas ornaments pushed to the corner of the room, which the fairy lights must've come out of. They're strung up around the room and around canopy, giving the most perfect atmosphere and making the room look tumblr-esque. Bucky's also connected his phone to the speaker, playing soft rain sounds, knowing that you adore to sleep when there's a storm blowing outside. Not to mention the dozens of pillows that are now strewn across your bed and a fluffy blanket over the duvet. You're also pretty sure he sneaked down the hallway to make the two of you steaming cups of hot chocolate, complete with marshmallows and whipped cream. The tears really do come now, stressed tears and thankful tears, because your jock of a boyfriend has the sweetest heart. Even if the way you met was him accidentally kicking a football into the side of your head. And you knew that he wasn't going to apologise because he was an arrogant asshole, but he sort of became smitten with you after that. So you're glad that he did come and say sorry.

"Oh my god, Bucky, you didn't have to..." you whisper, leaning up to kiss him gently.

"I know, that's why I did it. You seem stressed, because you're normally like, a quiet kitten, but you were a growly kitten tonight. You really do need some rest darling. Now come on, you can get your study in tomorrow morning. You have time, and you'll feel much more refreshed." He tells you, handing you your pyjamas.

You give a watery smile and let out a soft laugh. "Says the footballer, hm?" He snorts, waiting as you change.

"Hey, I can give good advice sometimes. Emphasis on the sometimes." Bucky says, disappearing into the ensuite as you brush your hair back.

He comes out with a wet towel to freshen up your face as you turn up the speaker a little, yawning loudly and stretching. You rub the towel over your face before putting it to the side and wrapping your arms around your boyfriend's waist. He raises an eyebrow but smiles back tenderly, holding you close and rocking you gently. You nuzzle into the crook of his shoulder, feeling his back muscles ripple as you run your hands over them.

"Sorry for being a bitch earlier." You say quietly, closing your eyes as he picks you up again slowly.

He pulls his face away to rest his forehead against yours. "Don't apologise, I was being sort of a dick earlier anyway. Exams are fucking annoying, I get it."

He pulls back the sheets and settles you in, kissing your lips again.

"I promise you," Bucky murmurs as you both properly get into bed, surrounded by fairy lights and the pattering of synthetic, yet still so real, rain, "you'll be fine. It's hard now, I know, but tomorrow you'll feel fresh and ready to revise. Your mind will be clear, to remember all your notes."

You smile at him, looping an arm around his waist to pull him closer and nod, feeling your eyes drift close already. He tangles your legs together, tracing the emblem of his varsity jacket lazily.

"I love you Buck." You say sleepily, your voice fading away already.

"I love you too darling."

permanent tags (OPEN): @thecrownedrose / @vibranium-arm / @gallifreyansass / @omalleysgirl22 / @girlwith100names / @buckysinthesinbin / @cameronahugenerd / @imsecretlyromanburki / @megan-atthedisco-blog / @buckys-fossil / @iamwarrenspeace / @sofiathearab / @yikesbuckster / @buckyappreciationsociety / @debbielovesbucky / @metal-armed-dino / @helloitscrowley / @sebastian-stans-thighs / @fantastic-fantasy-fanfics / @sebastian----stan /  @feelmyroarrrr

“I can hear you breathing, Specs,” he murmured through the door—far too clearly.

You mouthed a quiet shit, hand flying to the doorknob. You cracked the door just wide enough to poke your head out, eyes immediately dropping to his grey sweats. Definitely not event attire. Definitely not date-with-Sharon attire.

“W-What are you doing here?” you managed, your cough doing nothing to hide the wobble in your voice.

“I left my water bottle earlier,” he said, like this was the most normal thing in the universe. His eyes dropped—briefly, unmistakably—to your bare thighs and oversized shirt. “Wanted to grab it before practice tomorrow.”

“Oh.”

In your defense, it was the only word your brain supplied.

“You didn’t answer my text.”

His voice was casual, but it hummed with something underneath—something that made the back of your neck spark.

“I was, um…” You nudged the door open wider, stepping aside so he could slip in. “Busy.”

“With?” he asked, not even pretending he wasn’t nosy as his eyes swept the kitchen. They landed immediately on the forgotten water bottle sitting by the sink, but he didn’t move toward it.

“I told you—homework,” you started, but your voice cut off as he walked right past it and headed down the hall.

“Hey!”

You scrambled after him, socks sliding traitorously on the wood floor. By the time you caught up, he’d already let himself into your room, standing inside like he owned the place.

You stopped in the doorway, breath catching at the sight of him calmly surveying your space—the rumpled bed, your open laptop, your headphones still pooled like a crime scene, and the pillow you’d screamed into lying face-up on the floor.

Your brows knit together, mouth falling open.

“What,” you demanded, “are you doing?”

“Just seeing what you were busy with.”

He finally turned toward you, clearing his throat like he’d said something neutral. “Where are all your books?”

“My what?” You planted a hand on your hip, staring him down.

“Your textbooks. Notebooks.” His chin tipped toward your perfectly neat desk. “You’re a disaster when you’re actually working, so… where are they?”

“Uh…” You blinked, brain momentarily buffering. “In my bag.”

“Thought you were doing homework.”

You let out a frustrated breath, shaking your head. “Okay—what is this?”

He didn’t flinch. “Are you here alone?”

“Yes?” It came out like a question. Because seriously—what the hell?

His eyes dropped, pointedly, to your bare legs. “Then where are your pants?”

Your cheeks ignited. Right. Those.

You tugged uselessly at the hem of your shirt, like two inches of cotton were going to magically fix this. “In my dresser.”

“Why aren’t you at the event?” he asked, jaw ticking.

You huffed. “Why aren’t you?”

“I asked you first,” he murmured.

You swallowed. “I told you, I didn’t feel like going.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“Neither is ‘I left my water bottle,’ but here we are.”

His eyes flicked over your face, lingering like he was trying to decode you. “You avoiding me?”

“That’s a reach.”

His eyes narrowed at you. “What the fuck was that earlier?”

“What was what?” You crossed your arms, annoyed, defensive—mostly because you had no idea where he was going with this.

“With Wanda’s brother.” He said it like a diagnosis. His eyes flicked around your room as he talked, catching on the newly rearranged posters, the cleaner desk, the subtle signs you’d tried to pretend you weren’t spiraling alone in this space. Something in his stare made your stomach twist, like he was seeing more than he should.

“He was all over you,” Bucky muttered.

“There’s nothing between me and Pietro,” you half-laughed, half-exhaled.

“That’s not what it looked like at Blip.”

“What do you care?” you shot back before you could stop yourself. “You had a date for the event anyway.”

He groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “How are you this dense, Specs?”

“Excuse me?”

“I was lying, okay?” He said it fast, like it physically pained him. “I didn’t have shit to do besides sit at home.”

You blinked. Your arms slowly dropped from their defensive fold. “Why would you lie?”

He looked everywhere but at you, tongue pressing against his cheek in frustration—at himself, not you. “Because he’d fucking asked you to go,” he finally said, voice low, flat, like it was obvious. “And I didn’t wanna show up looking like an idiot with nothing.”

Your breath tangled in your throat.

He didn’t move closer, but the room suddenly felt smaller anyway. He shoved his hands into his sweats pockets, jaw tight.

“I didn’t want you walking in with him,” he muttered. “Happy now?”

“Probably not the word I’d use,”

“Why did you ignore those texts?” His voice was low now, like he could pretend you didn’t hear the question.

“Which texts?” you asked, your stomach knotting.

“You know which ones,” he said, jaw tight.

Your tongue went numb. You’d been trying to forget those words, pretending they were nothing, but now they were here, alive and dangerous in the small space between you.

“I… I didn’t think—” You faltered, twisting your fingers together. “I thought maybe you were just drunk, or… or saying it to mess with me.”

“Drunk?” His laugh was short, almost bitter. “I wasn’t drunk. I meant it. I meant all of it.” His eyes softened slightly, but the heat underneath didn’t fade. “And then I saw you with him,” he gestured vaguely toward your walls as if Pietro’s presence haunted the room, “and I… I didn’t want to look like a fool, so I stayed quiet.”

You froze, heart hammering, mind spinning. “Wait… you—”

“I wasn’t gonna let anyone else get to you first,” he admitted, voice dropping to a low growl. “Not him, not anyone.”

The weight of it pressed against your chest. You wanted to protest, to explain, but the words caught in your throat.

“And that’s why I’m here,” he added, stepping a fraction closer. “Because I can’t… I can’t just let you sit there thinking I didn’t care.”

Your face twisted then, scoffing. “You’re so fucking confusing,”

His brows raised. “Me? I’m confusing?”

“One minute you’re acting like nothing matters, like I’m just part of your weird orbit, and the next you’re—” You gestured haphazardly toward the memories piling up in your mind. “…here, saying things that make me think maybe you do care. Or maybe you don’t. I can’t tell, and it’s exhausting.”

He blinked, eyes flicking to your hands nervously fidgeting, then back up at your flushed face. “I’m not… I don’t mean to confuse you. I just…” He paused, voice rougher, quieter. “I don’t know how to do this right. You’re not easy to ignore, Specs. Not for me.”

You stared at him, caught somewhere between exasperation and disbelief, your chest tight. “Not easy to ignore,” you echoed, almost under your breath.

“Yeah,” he admitted, stepping closer, the space between you shrinking. “Not easy at all.”

The weight of his gaze, the intensity in his voice, made your heart stutter. You didn’t know if you wanted to scream, laugh, or collapse entirely, but one thing was certain—you couldn’t walk away from this. Not now.

“Can we just go back?” he asked, voice low, almost careful, like he wasn’t sure he wanted your answer.

“To what?” you whispered, voice small, caught under the weight of him staring at you like that.

“Just… not this,”

You nodded quickly, eyes falling to where his lip darted to wet his lips. They slid into a grin before his eyes flickered down a final time. “Good. Now go put some pants on. This is inappropriate.”

You frowned, cheeks burning as you yanked at the hem of your shirt like it would somehow save you. His smirk widened, the kind that promised he knew exactly what he was doing—and that only made your pulse spike faster.

You spun around, yanking a pair of sweatpants from your dresser before ducking into the closet. Behind you, the soft thump of the twin bed sinking echoed through the room—he’d hopped on, just like he always did.

The tension in your chest eased slightly, a quiet relief settling over you as he slipped back into his familiar, teasing-but-not-threatening self.

When you stepped back out, you caught sight of him—leaning against the wall, legs dangling off the side of the twin bed, earbuds in, eyes fixed somewhere beyond the room. The second he noticed you, his gaze snapped up, a small, crooked grin tugging at his lips.

“You know,” he started as you made your way over and eased onto the bed beside him, “they make these without wires now.”

“I know that, asshole,” you rolled your eyes, a small smile betraying your annoyance. “They’re also expensive.”

He hummed, glancing down at your phone lying on the pillow you’d dropped earlier. “I like this song.”

One earbud popped free, and he held it out to you. Your fingers brushed his briefly as you took it, slipping it into your ear. The chords of Linger by The Cranberries floated in, and instinctively, you scooted closer, keeping the wire from pulling taut.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. Just the music, the faint brush of his hand against yours, and the quiet closeness that felt heavier than anything either of you had said.

“Surprised you’d like a band like The Cranberries,” you murmured, voice barely above the music. “Doesn’t seem like your thing.”

“If it’s your thing, it’s my thing, Specs,” he said softly.

Heat rushed to your cheeks—you knew you were blushing, and now there was nowhere to hide it.

“Do you even know my name?” you scoffed, trying to break the tension, to distract yourself from the closeness pressing in.

But then he said it. Your name—low, familiar, yet like a breath of fresh air. It pulled you in, your gaze locking with his, so close you could feel his breath on your face. His eyes flicked to your lips and back up to yours, and suddenly the music around you faded, drowned out by the rapid beat of your own heart.

Slowly. Achingly slowly, he leaned in—and you didn’t pull away. His lips brushed yours, soft, testing, lingering for the briefest moment before he pulled back just enough to look at you.

The shift in his expression made your stomach dip.

For a heartbeat, panic flickered. Did I do something wrong?

Your hands lifted on instinct, fingers brushing the frames of your glasses, thinking maybe they were the problem—

His voice stopped you cold.

“Don’t you dare take those off.”

Then you met his eyes. Blue flecks burning with something fierce, something wanting. And just like that, he was on you again, lips pressing harder this time, hands sliding to your forearm, squeezing gently. A shiver raced down your spine, and for the first time all night, you felt the weight of his attention, of his desire, fully on you.

He pressed closer for a moment longer, letting the heat of his lips and the intensity in his eyes anchor you in the moment. Then, almost cruelly, he pulled back just enough to let you breathe, though your chest still heaved and your lips tingled from the contact.

“Okay there, Specs?” His grin was slow, teasing, the kind that promised he knew exactly the effect he had on you. His hand stayed on your forearm, thumb brushing along your skin, a silent tether.

You wanted to complain, to shove him away, to call him every expletive you knew—but the words stuck in your throat. Instead, you just blinked up at him, caught somewhere between exasperation and wanting more.

“You’re adorable when you’re flustered,” He commented, fingers still tracing circles on your arm.

“I,” You gulped, feeling the heat on your face from his attention. “I’ve only…done it once.”

He blinked, a slow, deliberate blink, like he was processing your words. “… you’ve only done it once?” His voice dropped low, almost a growl, and the faintest edge of something possessive threaded through it.

You nodded, twisting your fingers together in your lap. “Yeah… I thought I just needed to… check a box. I didn’t know it could feel like… this,” you admitted, voice trailing, cheeks burning hotter than ever.

Bucky leaned closer, his gaze intense, flicking between your eyes and lips. “Huh,” he murmured, the single word heavy with curiosity, disbelief, and something sharper, more protective. “And here I thought… maybe you and Pietro…”

Your stomach twisted, embarrassment and irritation sparking simultaneously. “I would never!” you snapped, though your voice was quieter than you meant it to be.

He raised his eyebrows, half-amused, half-surprised. “I mean, you didn’t have pants on,”

Maybe it was the way he was looking at you now, but a surge of confidence ripped through you when you said, “Maybe I was hoping you’d come over,”

His pupils darkened, and a deep, low noise escaped him, vibrating in his chest. “Careful, Specs,” he murmured, inching closer. “I might just make it twice for you… maybe three.”

Before you could react, his hand reached up, cupping your face, fingers warm against your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek. Your breath caught as he leaned in, eyes locking with yours. Time slowed, the hum of the apartment fading to a single point: him.

His lips brushed yours before pressing harder, more insistently. You felt yourself melt into the kiss, heart hammering, the room shrinking until it was just the two of you.

Then—footsteps. Loud, unmistakable, stomping and chatter through the front door.

Wanda and Nat.

You both froze, eyes snapping apart, the sudden intrusion slicing through the tension. Bucky’s grip on your face lingered just a moment longer before he stepped back, running a hand through his hair with a frustrated groan.

“They’re home,” you whispered, breathless, voice tinged with panic and disbelief.

Before you could even register the panic fully, Bucky shot up. His movements were quick, precise—almost predatory—as he crossed the room and quietly pulled your bedroom door shut, the click of the lock echoing like a punctuation mark in the suddenly quiet space.

Your eyes widened, heart pounding in your chest, but before you could protest, he turned, gaze smoldering, and strode toward the bed.

“You’re gonna ruin me, Specs,” he muttered, voice low and rough, as he stood in front of the bed, between your legs. In one swift motion, his hands gripped firmly behind your knees, and pulled your thighs to wrap around his waist. The sudden closeness made your breath hitch, your body pressed flush against his.

His hands slid to your hips, steadying you as he captured your mouth in a kiss that stole your breath. It was fierce, demanding, yet there was a possessive gentleness woven in that made your stomach drop. You clutched at his shoulders instinctively, nails digging into fabric, as the world narrowed down to the heat of his lips and the strength in his arms.

Outside, the faint echo of footsteps from the hallway reminded you both of reality—but here, now, in the thick tension of the room, it might as well not exist.

Your body was on fire, your mind screaming at you to stop, to slow down—but you couldn’t, not with the way he was looking at you, not with the way his hands held you as if you were the only thing keeping him from unraveling.

“Roomie!” You heard Wanda’s happy voice sing from outside your door, your head turning toward the door as Bucky’s lips fell to your neck, like he’d starve without your skin in his mouth.

“Studying!” You meekly called back, your voice cracking at the way his teeth nipped at your ear.

“Human anatomy,” he murmured into your ear, the words low, rough, teasing, and a strangled laugh escaped your throat despite yourself.

You reluctantly nudged him back, eyes wide as you looked up at him. “You have to go.”

“I have nowhere better to be than here, Specs,” he murmured, voice low, a dangerous grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“You feel like explaining what we’re doing in here behind a locked door?” Your voice wavered, part accusation, part flustered panic.

For the first time that night, you saw the cogs in his mind turning—the potential explanations, the justifications, and the sudden intrusion of reason threatening to break the spell. He let out a long sigh, dragging a hand down his face as if to wipe away the intensity of the moment.

Your gaze drifted, unbidden, to the curve of his sweatpants, the evidence of his arousal impossible to ignore. Heat pooled in your stomach, your mouth going dry as the reality of him—right here, so close, so impossibly tangible—hit you like a punch.

Your chest heaved, matching his, the heat of the moment still lingering in the space between you. Sweat clung to your skin, and for a long moment, neither of you moved—just breathing, letting your racing hearts set the pace.

Finally, he straightened, running a hand down his neck, eyes dark but softened. “Okay,” he said, voice low, almost reluctant. “I’ll… sneak out.”

You blinked, “Sneak out?”

“You’re right, too many questions and they’re probably drunk anyway,” he murmured, glancing toward the door, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “But… I’ll be around, Specs. Don’t think you’re getting rid of me that easily.”

Your lips parted, words faltering, but all you could do was nod, feeling the echo of his presence linger long after he slipped toward the door, leaving the room heavy with warmth—and possibility.

You sat on your bed, chest still heaving, fingers lingering on the edge of the comforter as your mind replayed every brush of skin, every tug of clothing, every whispered breath. Minutes passed in silence, the room heavy with the lingering heat of what had just happened.

Then—your phone buzzed. The screen lit up, startling you in the dim glow of your bedside lamp.

Asshole: don’t ever answer the door like that again unless you know I’m on the other side.

A slow, maniacal grin spread across your lips, teeth catching the light. That smug little message? Definitely deserved a reply.

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard, heart hammering as the memory of his hands, his lips, the dark heat in his eyes replayed in your mind. Finally, you typed:

You: noted. asshole.

Days went by.

You were still reeling from what had unfolded in your dorm, the lingering scent of him on your pillow the only proof it had really happened. That little secret—shared just between you and Bucky—thrived in the subtlety, in the way it existed only in the spaces you both occupied.

In Newspaper class, your gaze flicked toward his desk, almost by habit, only to find him already watching you. He chewed on his pencil, canines peeking just enough to remind you of the way he’d nipped at your neck, and a shiver ran down your spine despite the crowded room around you.

Pepper’s words washed over you like background noise, the soundtrack to a scene where the world existed only around you and him. Every glance, every movement replayed in your mind like a film you couldn’t pause.

After class, he was swept away by the boys, leaving your attention to be hijacked by Bob’s insistence that you stop by the photo room. Reality intruded, yanking you out of the lingering haze, though your eyes kept flicking toward where Bucky had just been.

It existed only in two places—your mind, replaying every stolen breath and heated whisper… and your phone, where he’d littered your inbox with messages that made your pulse stutter.

I like that top on you.

Can’t focus on the teacher. only thinking about you.

Say you’ll come over later.

Each text felt like its own spark, warm and dangerous, lighting up your screen in a way that made you want to hide your phone against your chest and grin like an idiot.

The kind of messages no one had ever sent you before.

The kind that made you feel chosen.

And as you walked toward the photo room, the hallway buzzing with the noise of everyone else’s normal lives, you had to force yourself not to unlock your phone again just to reread them.

“You’re really distracted today,” Bob remarked, leaning against the doorway with a raised brow.

You just grinned, cheeks warming, refusing to shatter the fragile veil of secrecy. The thought of anyone else knowing—the excitement, the thrill—you feared it would vanish like smoke if it escaped. So you let yourself ride it, letting the grin linger a moment longer than necessary.

But then came the doubts—sharp, sudden, uninvited.

How long would Bucky even stay interested?

A guy like him—sure of himself, experienced, wanted—what could you possibly offer that he hadn’t already had a dozen times over?

You tried to replay his words in your head, the way he’d said your name like it meant something, the way his hands steadied you like he’d been waiting—wanting—but the warmth of it wasn’t enough to smother the insecurity flaring up inside you.

It spread quick, licking up your ribs, settling hot beneath your skin.

A reminder: You were new to this. He wasn’t.

And you hated how small that made you feel.

So you wanted to do something.

Something bold.

Something that told Bucky—without a doubt—just how badly you wanted this…just how badly you wanted him.

The thought alone sent your pulse sprinting, but the moment you tried to type anything flirtatious to him, your fingers froze. Every draft sounded either painfully awkward or plain pathetic. There was no middle ground.

You needed help.

Real help.

Someone who knew how to toe the line between subtle and suggestive without combusting from embarrassment.

There was only one person you trusted with that kind of vulnerability.

The only person who held her own secret in your hands…and who could hold yours in hers.

Wanda.

And luck was finally on your side—an away game meant the boys were occupied, and Wanda was holed up in her room nursing an ankle sprain instead of screaming on the sidelines. No roommates barging in, no Bob taunting you, no Natasha grilling you with knowing eyes.

Just you. And Wanda. And the terrifying task of asking for advice on how to flirt with a boy who’d kissed you like you were oxygen.

You padded down the hall, rehearsing what to say—something casual, maybe a joke—before promptly deciding that was impossible. You paused outside her room, inhaled like you were about to enter a courtroom, and knocked gently.

“Come in!” Wanda called, cheerful despite her injury.

You slipped inside. She was sprawled on her bed, ankle propped on a pillow, scrolling through her phone. The second she looked up at you, her brows pulled together.

“You look… panicked,” she said slowly. “What happened?”

Perfect. You didn’t even have to ease into it.

You shut the door behind you, heart pounding.

“Wanda,” you whispered, crossing the room, “I need your help. Like… girl-to-girl help.”

Her eyes widened with interest, her grin growing. “Oh, this is going to be good,” she said, patting the bed. “Tell me everything.”

“I’ll just come right out with it,” you said, nodding like you were bracing for impact. “I kissed Bucky.”

Wanda gaped—a full-body jolt—nearly toppling off her bed.

“What?”

“I know,” you rushed, hands lifting like you were surrendering. “I’m sorry I wasn’t more interested in your brother—”

“Oh, screw my brother,” she cut in, eyes sparkling. “This is so much better!”

“It is?”

“It IS,” she squealed, bouncing in place despite her injured ankle. “I knew something was happening, but you two are so hot and cold I was getting literal whiplash!”

“You and me both,” you muttered, dropping onto the edge of her bed. “So… will you help me text him?”

“Text him about what?”

You felt the heat blooming across your neck immediately—too warm, too obvious. “Well… I wanted him to have something to be excited about after the game tonight.”

Wanda’s jaw fell open, her grin slowly morphing into something wicked.

“Roomie,” she whispered reverently. “I apologize. I was unfamiliar with your game.”

She leaned in, eyes gleaming like she’d been waiting her whole life for this moment.

“Alright,” she said. “Let’s make Barnes lose his mind.”

Bucky’s whole body throbbed with that familiar, post-game ache—the burn in his shoulders, the pulsing fatigue in his legs, the sting along his ribs where someone had thrown an elbow. Worth it. All of it. They’d blown the other team out of the water, and the bus buzzed with victory chatter: plans for Blip, trash-talk, a couple guys already passing around an aux cord.

But he sat alone, stretched out in his own row, sweat cooling sticky beneath his jersey. His heartbeat hadn’t quite come down—not from the game, but from something else entirely.

He dug through his gym bag, shoving aside shoulder pads and a half-crushed water bottle until his fingers closed around his phone. The screen lit up in the dim aisle, casting a soft glow across his face.

A notification blinked at him.

Specs: how was the game?

A slow smile tugged at his mouth. He unlocked his phone, thumb pausing for half a second—not because he needed to think, but because it felt…good. Like something about this message mattered more than it should.

He typed back:

We won

The typing bubble popped almost instantly.

He exhaled, chest tightening in a way that had nothing to do with sprinting up and down a field for two hours. The idea of you, curled up somewhere with your phone in your hands, thinking of him—waiting for him—spread heat through his veins, curling low and addictive.

Another text appeared.

Specs: so you’re in a good mood?

He chuckled under his breath, head tipping back against the stiff bus seat.

Even better now that I have your attention.

The reply barely gave him time to breathe.

Specs: good

Specs: i was looking to have yours for a few minutes

Something kicked low in his stomach—sharp and immediate. He shifted in his seat, fingers already flying.

All yours now

Specs: I’ve been thinking..

Bucky’s throat tightened, thumb tapping the screen slower this time, like he suddenly needed to choose his words with precision.

What have you been thinking about, doll?

The bus droned on around him—teammates laughing, someone yelling about a missed call, music bleeding through cheap speakers—but Bucky only heard the blood rushing in his ears as he waited for whatever you’d say next.

Your fingers tightened around your phone, knuckles blanching as doll echoed through your head in his voice—low, rough, lived-in. It played like a movie trailer, all smoky lighting and slow motion.

Wanda leaned over your shoulder, chin propped in her hand as she read it with you. Her eyes widened, then sparkled with a kind of delighted mischief.

“Damn, Roomie,” she breathed, grinning so hard it nearly split her face. “I don’t even think you need my help. He’s already halfway feral.”

You groaned, burying your face in her pillow before popping back up like a jack-in-the-box. “Don’t say feral, oh my god.”

“I’m sorry, but he is!” Wanda giggled. “You sent ‘I’ve been thinking’ and the boy basically sat up straighter in another time zone.”

”Okay, what about—”

You began to type.

Across town, Bucky sat up straighter in the velvety stadium seat, the roar of the crowd fading behind him as he read your message. The words hit him like a hand to the chest, breath catching, pupils darkening.

Specs: the way your hands sank into my skin the other night, pulling me closer

Back in your room, Wanda let out a full-bodied howl. “The other night?!”

“Uh—don’t worry about it!” you squeaked, cheeks blazing. You stared at the screen like you could will the typing bubble to life.

And then it appeared.

Asshole: oh yeah?

Asshole: hasn’t left my mind once

Your stomach dropped and lifted at the same time—roller coaster physics and pure adrenaline.

Wanda leaned over again, then choked. “Do you have him saved under ‘Asshole’?”

You slapped your phone to your chest like that might smother the evidence. “It was an accurate label at the time!”

“Roomie,” Wanda said, wiping tears of laughter from her eyes, “I’m starting to think you two might actually destroy each other, and honestly? I support it.”

“What do I say now?” you whispered.

Wanda grinned like an agent of chaos. “Something that’ll make him lose every brain cell in his jock head. So… what do you want him thinking about?”

The message hit Bucky like a punch to the gut.

His eyes dragged over each word slowly, like his brain needed time to register just how bold you were being. His breath stuttered. A low burn crawled down his spine, pooling hot and heavy as he shifted in the velvet seat.

He hovered forward, elbows braced on his knees, one hand gripping the fabric of his warmup pants in a desperate effort to ground himself. The bus felt too warm, too close, too loud—even though no one was paying him any attention.

Then he re-read it.

Specs: i need to feel that again. Need to feel how desperate you are to touch me, how hard you breathe when you’ve got me right where you want me. How hard I’ll breathe when you climb on top of me

His pulse jumped.

“Jesus,” he muttered under his breath, dragging a hand over his face. He could swear he could still taste you on his tongue. The memory of your breath against his jaw the other night flared white-hot.

Another shift. Another subtle, futile attempt at adjusting himself without drawing attention. He swallowed, throat dry as chalk.

If he’d been in a good mood after winning, this… this sent him skyrocketing into another universe entirely.

His fingers trembled with the effort to keep his reply coherent.

And somewhere miles away, Wanda stared at you in stunned awe.

“…Okay,” she whispered, “I take it back. You might be the one who destroys him.”

“Am I doing okay?” You nervously chewed on your lip.

“Roomie, I think I’m into you right now.”

You barked a laugh, almost forgetting the anticipation of his next message.

Asshole: how quickly can you get to my dorm?

You’d created a tornado of chaos in your room, clothes flung across every surface as you hunted for something—anything—that matched the moment you were marching toward. Every shirt felt too casual. Every sweater felt too sweet. Every bra felt too innocent… except the one.

The good one.

The one with the tags still attached, sheer fabric whispering against your fingertips as you pulled it on. It pinched slightly as it settled over your chest, but it made your silhouette look sinful in the mirror—so you ignored the sting and let the thrill tighten low in your stomach.

Thank God you’d done an everything-shower the night before. Your skin was still soft, still carrying the faint scent of the lotion you’d taken your time rubbing in. You checked your reflection one last time, breath unsteady, and grabbed your jacket.

The night air slapped you the moment you stepped outside. A sharp chill bit through your jeans, tugging a shiver out of you, but your pulse didn’t slow. If anything, it beat harder—thick and humming under your skin—as you crossed campus toward his dorm.

Every step was a countdown.

There was a thrill rushing through you that you didn’t recognize at first—a nervous, electric anticipation that soaked into your bones. Before Bucky, you’d thought the most you could feel about sex was the urgency for it to be over. A thing you endured more than you enjoyed.

But tonight?

Tonight you walked through the cold with goosebumps decorating your arms at the thought of it beginning.

At the thought of him.

Seconds passed between your knock and the moment the door yanked open—Bucky filling the frame, chest rising, hair damp from showering off the sweat. His eyes swept over you in one slow, stunning pass, and whatever he saw made his jaw tighten. Before you could breathe, his hand wrapped around your wrist and he pulled you inside.

The last time you’d stepped into this room, you’d come with one objective: finish your pitch.

Tonight, you had something else to finish.

“Anyone home?” you murmured, watching him flip the lock with a quiet click that vibrated straight through you.

“Steve went to Blip with the rest of the team.” He turned back to you, gaze sharpening, zeroing in like he’d suddenly remembered what hunger felt like. “I had no idea you had that in you, Specs.”

Be confident, Wanda’s voice echoed in your skull like a spell.

You lifted your chin, pulse tripping but your voice steady. “Well… you never asked.”

“I’ll regret that forever,”

Bucky pressed you against the front door, his hands sliding to your hips, fingers curling against the skin beneath your jacket. His lips found yours with an urgency that stole your breath, tongues tangling in a heated dance as you pressed into him, soft gasps punctuating the rhythm.

Then, with a smooth, effortless motion, he dipped lower, scooping you up. Your legs curled around his waist instinctively as he backed you against the solid wood, holding you close. The world outside the dorm faded, leaving nothing but the heat between you and the thrum of your own racing heart.

Bucky’s grip on you never wavered as he lifted you higher, your arms instinctively wrapping around his neck. The warmth of his body pressed against yours made your pulse spike, and the steady, confident rhythm of his steps sent a shiver down your spine.

“You’re insane,” you murmured, half-laughing, half-breathless.

“Only for you,” he whispered back, a low grin brushing against your ear as he carried you through the dorm. The hallway seemed impossibly long, every step a mix of tension and anticipation, your legs tightening around his waist as if to anchor yourself to him.

When he reached his room, Bucky didn’t pause. He kicked the door closed with a swift motion, the click of the lock echoing in the small space. You barely had a moment to catch your breath before he lowered you gently onto the bed, hovering above you, lips finding yours again with a renewed intensity. Your hands fisted in his shirt as the world narrowed to the heat of his gaze, the brush of his fingers across your skin, and the intoxicating closeness that left you dizzy with desire.

“Had me nearly shaking on that bus,” His husky voice spoke in your ear, fingers toying with the hem of your shirt. “I need to feel you, doll,”

His hands slid up your sides, brushing against the edge of your bra as he lowered himself slightly, chest warm against yours. Every brush of his skin set sparks along your nerve endings, leaving you trembling with anticipation.

“You have no idea what I’m going to do to you,” he whispered, eyes dark with need, lips brushing yours in a teasing, dangerous half-kiss.

“Show me,” you breathed, chest rising and falling against his.

“First…all of this is in the way.”

You shifted, letting him pull your sweater off, leaving you in just the bra. His eyes roamed your chest, and a low, guttural gulp slipped past his lips. The way he looked at you—like he’d never seen anything so perfect—made your heart stutter.

“Fuck…Specs, all for me?”

You met his gaze, pulse hammering in your ears. “All for you,” you whispered.

He leaned closer, forehead resting against yours, lips barely brushing yours. He didn’t rush. Not yet. Instead, he let his forehead press against yours, breathing mingling with yours, fingers trailing lightly along the curve of your sides, just enough to make your skin tingle. Every inch of him radiated heat, and you could feel it pressing into you, a magnetic pull you didn’t want to resist.

“You’re driving me insane,” he murmured, lips brushing yours in fleeting, teasing touches.

Your knees went weak as his hands trailed lower, fingers brushing the waistband of your jeans. You tried to steady your breathing, but your pulse betrayed you, hammering in your ears, echoing the ache between your thighs.

He smirked against your lips, sensing your reaction. “Patience, Specs. I could stay here all night, making you guess…making you wait.”

You shivered, pressed closer, heart thundering. “I don’t know if I can wait,” you whispered, voice shaking.

“Good,” he said, voice low, dangerous. “Because I don’t plan to.”

And then his lips captured yours fully, slow and demanding, leaving no space for thought—just the heat, the need, and the undeniable pull of two people finally giving in to what had been building between them for months.

“Want every part of you…” he murmured, letting his hands linger on your sides before pulling away just enough to tease.

You tried to steady yourself, heart pounding, as he began pulling off his own shirt, revealing the muscles flexing with every small movement, the lines of his chest and arms stark in the dim light of the room. You couldn’t help but stare, heart hammering, heat pooling low in your stomach.

Every movement he made seemed to demand your attention—the way his shoulders shifted, the curve of his biceps, the sharp line of his jaw catching the soft light. You felt drawn in, powerless to look away, and the tension between you twisted your stomach in ways you weren’t entirely prepared for.

You tried to focus on anything else—his messy hair, the faint scrape of stubble along his jaw—but it only made your pulse race faster. Every brush of his hand against your arm, every step he took closer, seemed to ignite something inside you. You could feel it in the way your body warmed, the subtle hitch in your breath, the way your knees went weak, and it was all because of him.

There was no pretending anymore; your attention, your desire, was entirely his.

“Not leaving anything between us tonight,” he whispered, leaning close again, breath hot against your ear. “You feel that?”

Your knees went weak at the intensity, and you could only nod, biting your lip as he inched closer, pressing his chest to yours, fingers brushing lightly over your arms and shoulders.

The room was silent except for your rapid breaths, and the tension between you both was so thick it felt like it could pull you under.

“Listen to me,” he muttered, his voice rough, edged with restraint. “If at any point you want to stop, you tell me, okay? We’ll go only as far as you want to.”

“I have no intention of stopping,” you breathed, heat pooling low in your chest.

“That’s my girl,” he murmured, a low growl of approval in his throat.

The words were like oxygen, filling you with a mix of heat and confidence. You pressed closer, needing him as much as you wanted to be needed, every heartbeat echoing in the silence between your ragged breaths.

He paused, letting his hands linger at your hips, giving you a moment to catch your breath. “You’re incredible,” he murmured, voice low and steady, almost reverent. His fingers traced the sides of your jeans before slowly tugging at the waistband, sliding them down with careful, deliberate movements.

You felt a rush of heat, a mixture of anticipation and nerves, as he settled closer, positioning himself between your legs—not rushing, just holding space with a steady presence. His eyes met yours, searching, asking without words if you were okay.

“Look at me,” he whispered, his thumb brushing your thigh. “Tell me if it’s too much. Just… let me be here with you.”

You nodded, chest rising and falling with excitement and nerves. He smiled, a flicker of mischief in his eyes, and lowered his mouth to the inside of your leg. His fingers delicately thumbed you through the fabric of your panties, mouth pressing kisses against your skin.

Then, without warning, his forefingers hooked around the band, pulling slowly. You lifted your hips to allow him to pull your panties off, a low sound in the back of his throat as he kept his eyes on you. His tongue swiped against your heat, your head falling back against his pillow. He made another stroke, sucking gently against your bud.

He kept that pace for a moment before picking up his pace, jaw working as he slid his tongue into you, moans vibrating against you. Your fingers curled around his comforter as he swirled around the hood of your pussy, quickening in short laps.

“Fuck,” You whispered, gasping for air at the sensation you’d never felt before.

His finger hooked into you as his tongue worked, slowly pumping in and out of you to keep the pace of his mouth. He began to devour you, motivated by the sound of your moans getting louder.

“You like that, baby?” He murmured.

You couldn’t respond—words had fallen short as the sound of him licking and sucking enveloped your mind.

“No one’s ever touched you like this,” he continued—not a question, but a certainty, spoken with a reverence that made your stomach twist. He bit the inside of your thigh, slow and deliberate, claiming inch by inch. “No one’s ever had you like this.”

“And no one else will,” he whispered against your skin, voice rough with something possessive and hungry. His hand slid up your waist, steadying you, grounding you. “You hear me?”

“Yes,” You yelped as he lapped again, licking a long stripe against your slit and curling his tongue as he reached the top. “God, yes,”

Your stomach tightened, a fire igniting inside you as the sensation built, overwhelming in its intensity. He didn’t pause, didn’t slow—just held you, guiding, grounding, and drawing every shiver from you.

Your eyelids squeezed shut, breath hitching in rapid bursts, heart hammering in your chest as the sticky hot pleasure struck like lightning, a loud moan escaping your mouth as you felt your release arrive.

“That’s it,” you could feel the satisfaction in his words. “Come right on my mouth, doll,”

You obliged, legs beginning to shake against his face, white behind your eyelids as you rode the wave of sheer pleasure.

He didn’t bother wiping the glistening sheen from his chin as he lifted himself up to press a kiss to your lips, hunger evident in his eyes as his hands worked to pull the sweatpants off his body. In your haze, you glanced over to see the way his cock sprung free from the waistband, bobbing back up to slap his stomach.

You couldn’t help but feel the way your mouth dried. Somewhere in the low light, you heard a packet rip open, latex rolling over skin.

“You okay, baby?” He murmured as he climbed on top of you. “Tell me you want this,”

“I want this,”

He smirked, arm muscles twitching as he settled between your legs. “I want to hear how much you want it,”

“Badly,” You groaned, nails dragging up his forearms. “W-Want it really badly, Bucky,”

“There it is—say my name again,”

“Bucky,” Your hand snaked up his neck, pulling him closer to you, “Please,”

“What a good girl,” He cooed, dipping down so that the soft flesh of his head brushed your throbbing core. Your breath was uneven as you kept your eyes on his.

His muscles didn’t give way when he continued to lower, tip pressing and stretching into you. A groan escaped his lips at the way you tightened around him, swallowing him whole.

“This okay?” He breathed, lips brushing yours from the proximity.

“Keep going,” you pleaded, desperate to feel the way he filled your hole.

That’s all he needed—confirmation to fully enter you, permission to split your folds with his twitching cock. His hips began to move with fervor, sliding in and out with ease from the remnants of your peak. Your nails dug into his back, head tilting back even further in response to his quickening pace.

It didn’t take long before his thrusts became hasty, like you were a missing puzzle piece. You couldn’t stop the way your breath turned into full-on moans, but you couldn’t bring yourself to be embarrassed. The way his face twisted in pleasure after each one gave you enough reassurance that they were music to his ears.

“So fucking tight,” he murmured, lips against your neck as he buried his head in your shoulder in an effort to be closer to you. “You were made for me,”

His words ignited flames in your stomach, licking at your core. You’d be more verbal if you weren’t in a state of utter euphoria.

You wrapped your legs tightly around his waist, forcing him harder into you as you clawed at his back.

“Keep doing that and I’ll be done for,” he groaned, angling his hips so that he took you even deeper.

You shuddered slightly. “Want you to fill me up,”

“Jesus Christ,”

His thrusts became sloppier, breathing more ragged. The sound of skin slapping filled the air around you as your ears began to ring—you were about to come crashing down again.

You both came undone, in tandem and loudly. His grunting was labored as he snapped his hips into you a final time, seed spilling into the latex around your clenched walls. Your chest rose and fell rapidly as he pulled out of you, settling beside you on the crumpled comforter.

After a moment, he stood, stalking toward the bathroom to discard the evidence—returning with a washcloth. Delicately, he wiped you clean, the warmth of the fabric comforting your aching core.

He pulled on his sweatpants before handing you the sweater you arrived in, looking slightly reluctant to do so. Once you pulled it over your head, he offered you a blanket once he glanced at the way your legs softly shook.

“How was that? Are you okay, doll?”

His voice came out low, warm, almost tender in the dim light.

You nodded, eyes fluttering, still half-lidded and hazy. Breath shaky. Muscles molten.

A soft huff of laughter left him. “Don’t think I’ve ever seen you this quiet.”

You managed a crooked smile. “Guess you fucked the words out of me.”

Fire sparked in his eyes again—amusement, pride, something darker curling behind it. His grin edged smug. “Such a dirty girl, Specs.”

“Just because I’m into school doesn’t mean I’m a prude,” you shot back, breathless but not defeated.

The mattress dipped as he sat down beside you, back hitting the wall, long legs stretched out. The shift jostled you slightly, bringing you closer to the heat of him.

“Oh, no,” he said, head tilting as he looked at you like he was replaying every second just passed. “The way you were texting me? You’re far from a prude.”

You let your fingers trace absently along the sheets. “What can I say? I like to write.”

He chuckled under his breath, a low sound that vibrated in his chest. “I’m hoping there’s more where that came from.”

There it was—quiet, unhurried, but unmistakable.

A request. An invitation. A desire for more, spoken like a secret he trusted you with.

And you were grateful.

Grateful that he said it first. Grateful that the moment didn’t demand answers you weren’t ready to give. Because just because he’d growled possessive things into your skin didn’t mean it was an oath or a promise.

“I can practically hear you thinking,” he murmured, nudging your knee with his. “What’s going on up there?”

“What…” You cleared your throat, trying to gather the words that kept slipping through your fingers. “What do we do next?”

His lips twitched. “Soon as you catch your breath, we do it again.”

A surprised laugh broke out of you—warm, involuntary. “No, I mean… what does this mean? For—”

“For us?” he finished, voice low but steady. You nodded, grateful he intercepted your floundering.

“You tell me,” he said. “And please don’t say you came here thinking it would be a one-time thing.”

“I didn’t,” you blurted, heat blooming across your cheeks. “I just didn’t know if you did.”

He let out a quiet breath, almost something like disbelief that you could even imagine otherwise. Then, softly but without hesitation:

“Specs, I’m not going anywhere.”

Your gaze lifted to his—eyes meeting through the slight fog on your glasses. You searched his expression for the usual smirk, the cocky half-grin, any trace of teasing or bravado.

But there was none.

Just certainty.

“Me neither.”

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

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A/N: AHHH OMG I LOVED WRITING THIS HOLY SHIT. Finally;)

Main tag list: @flockoff-featherface @avgdestitute @loganficsonly @the-salty-asian

With what little strength you could gather, you lifted yourself just high enough to reach for your phone on the nightstand. The screen blinked awake—10:27 a.m. Your eyes widened, panic skimming through your veins until you remembered one miraculous truth: it was Sunday.

A shaky sigh of relief slipped from your lips as your body melted back into the mattress. You were just about to drift off again when something brushed against your arm—warm, stiff, and…leathery?

You turned your head slowly, squinting through the haze of your hangover.

A polyester letterman jacket.

Crumpled into a vaguely human shape, soft and solid enough that it took you a second to realize you weren’t just lying next to it—you were cuddling it.

A startled yelp escaped your mouth as you jolted upright, disentangling yourself from the offending garment like it had personally betrayed you. The floorboards were icy beneath your bare feet, but that didn’t stop you from stumbling out of your room, heart hammering in your chest as you made a beeline for the living room—

But you weren’t alone.

In front of you, the scene was inescapable: Wanda stood halfway out of her room, laughter spilling into the air as she leaned against the doorframe, dressed in nothing but a bralette and pajama shorts. And behind her—still in last night’s clothes, boots thudding softly against the hardwood and a glint in her eye that could only mean one thing—was Ava.

And now, both of them stared back at you in horror.

Wanda coughed out your name, her voice cracking as she tried to recover with a crooked, too-bright smile. “You’re usually at the library by now!”

“I, uh—” your eyes darted between her and Ava, who was suddenly very interested in the floorboards, “Um, drank too much. I just woke up—what…?”

“Ava and I were working on an assignment!” Wanda blurted, a touch too loud, her hands flying up in some vague, unconvincing gesture. “And she ended up just sleeping over because we were—”

“Working on an assignment,” you echoed flatly, disbelief bleeding into your tone. “After being at Blip?”

“I’m gonna go,” Ava muttered softly, not daring to meet your eyes as she brushed past you, the scent of her perfume lingering faintly in the air before the door clicked shut behind her.

Silence.

You stood there, mouth parted, the events of the last twelve hours colliding in your head like badly edited film cuts. Wanda, still frozen in place, blinked once—then twice—before sighing, shoulders slumping.

“Well,” she said weakly, “that could’ve gone better.”

“Wanda, what the fuck? You’re…?”

“I don’t really go one way over the other,” Wanda said casually, padding into the kitchen like nothing seismic had just happened. Her fingers brushed through the cabinet before landing on a mug she deemed worthy. “But Ava’s… she’s so fucking cool, and—”

“Does anyone know?” you interrupted, still half in disbelief, half in awe.

She turned, mug in hand, and offered a sheepish smile. “You.”

“Just me? Not even Nat?”

Wanda scoffed, pouring herself coffee like this was any other morning. “Do you really think Nat would be shoving Walker at me full-force if she knew I was getting topped by a random girl from the newspaper club?”

You blinked. “You’re a… bottom?”

“Absolutely,” Wanda said, utterly unbothered, punctuating it with a wink.

For a beat, silence hung heavy between you—and then laughter burst out of you, sharp and uncontrollable. The awkwardness, the shock, the whole ridiculous mess—all of it cracked apart like glass underfoot.

Just like that, everything felt normal again.

“Sorry to ditch you last night,” Wanda sighed, a ghost of a smile tugging at her lips. “Duty called in the bathroom stall.”

“You didn’t miss much,” you muttered, though the words felt half-hearted.

“No? None of the boys give you a hard time after I left you to the wolves?”

You hesitated, your mind flickering through fractured snapshots of the night before—music too loud, laughter spilling over sticky tabletops, Bucky’s voice low and teasing beside you. You remembered walking home with him, a half-argument about something you couldn’t quite place, the echo of his smirk under the streetlights.

But then there was the jacket. You could still see it, crumpled in your bed like a ghost of the night before. His jacket.

When had he even given it to you?

You rubbed your temples, the dull throb of your hangover pulsing in time with the question. God, had you really been that drunk?

“You’re not gonna tell Nat, are you?” Wanda asked suddenly, worry flickering across her features. “I’m gonna tell her eventually, I just—”

“Wanda, of course not.” You shook your head, voice softening instinctively. “I’d never out you like that.”

Her shoulders eased, the tension slipping away as she smiled. “Thanks, roomie—oh my God, wait. I do remember saying I’d set you up with my brother!”

“Oh, uh—”

“I’m gonna go call him!”

And just like that, she was gone, disappearing into her room with the energy of someone who’d had way less to drink than you.

You stood there for a moment, blinking at the empty doorway, before letting out a tired laugh. “Of course you are,” you muttered under your breath.

Your headache throbbed in protest as you made your way back to your room, silently praying that maybe—just maybe—you’d imagined the whole jacket thing. But when you pushed open the door, there it was.

Mocking you.

The dark, crumpled letterman jacket still laid across your sheets, right where you’d left it—right where he’d been.

You sighed, crossing the room and picking it up between your thumb and forefinger like it might bite. With a resigned shake of your head, you dropped it onto your desk chair—officially a problem for later.

Grabbing your phone off the nightstand, you thumbed through your notifications, half-expecting a message from Bucky demanding his jacket back. Instead, when you opened his text thread, your eyes widened.

Two unread messages from around half past midnight.

Both from him.

Both ones you didn’t remember seeing.

Asshole: You couldn’t be more different than her.

Asshole: That’s what I like about you, Specs.

Your eyes nearly bulged out of your head, rereading the words until they stopped looking like English and started floating somewhere above you like a fever dream.

Different than who?

Your mind scrambled, pulling threads of the night back together—and then it hit you. Sharon. Her smirk, the dig about you being out of your depth, the condescending tone she used when talking about your piece–

Oh God.

Had you… drunkenly cried to him about it?

Your stomach twisted, embarrassment prickling up your spine as you stared down at the screen.

What I like about you—

Bucky Barnes liked something about you?

You weren’t sure if you wanted to faint, throw up, or call him just to ask what he meant. Your heart was pounding hard enough to drown out your thoughts, confusion and disbelief clawing at each other for dominance.

Your thumbs hovered over the keyboard, the blinking cursor mocking you. What the hell were you supposed to even say to that?

Because, truth be told, you believed Sharon. You couldn’t shake the image of him falling right back into her arms, the embodiment of the perfect high school cliché, while you sat tucked away in the corner of the library.

And why did it matter so much? Sure, Barnes had, on occasion, stopped being the asshole you thought you knew—so much so that even the contact name seemed inadequate—but that didn’t mean anything beyond him making the best of your forced partnership. For all you knew, he and the guys laughed behind your back at the sight of you, in your “lame” glasses, bossing around the school’s golden wide receiver.

You winced at the memory of him glancing at your spare glasses. Were they even worse than your usual pair?

Why do you care?! Your inner monologue screamed, hammering at your skull with a thunderclap of pain.

Bucky Barnes was just a boy.

A stupid, thoughtless, sarcastic, mocking, charming, annoyingly hot—

Headache be damned, you buried your face into the pillow and let out a frustrated scream.

You were overthinking it. Barnes probably sent that text because you were a drunken mess, and he felt a little guilty. Still, you couldn’t let yourself spiral into whatever game he might be playing. You grabbed your phone, fingers flying over the screen as you typed a message and hit send before doubt could creep in.

You wouldn’t fall for smooth words that would leave you the punchline for Sharon and her crew. You were here to become a journalist, not the first lady of the football player.

You: when should I give you your jacket back?

Glancing at the message again, a small measure of satisfaction settled over you. If you ignored his words, pretended they didn’t exist… maybe you could forget them altogether.

Right?

Hell is subjective.

Everyone had their definition of what it looks like. Most likely, everyone has a few options–and so did you. For one, Hell could look like the library at 6pm during exam week. Or the supermarket on a Sunday with all seven of your siblings waiting while your mom argued with the cashier over whether or not a product was eligible for SNAP.

And finally, your newest Hell: family weekend at the Stark School for Aspirers.

You weren’t sure if it was the hundreds of doting parents glued to their students’ sides, the clogged sidewalks thanks to campus tours, or the simple fact that six extra people were currently crammed into your dorm like it was a clown car—but you knew one thing for certain: you hated Family Weekend.

You hadn’t even bothered sending the newsletter to your parents. They had other kids to wrangle, bills stacked higher than your GPA, and absolutely no time—or money—for a last-minute road trip. And you sure as hell weren’t going to ask them to haul the small army you called siblings across state lines.

Not unless you wanted Wanda and Nat to witness your younger brothers arguing like WWE contenders in public, or your toddler sister collapsing into full-body tantrums anytime someone dared not give her their undivided attention.

Nope. Better to spare everyone that particular circus.

So you skimmed the list of Family Weekend activities put on by the Student Government Association with a small, stubborn frown, pretending the complimentary cooking class didn’t sound fun to do with your mom—or that your dad wouldn’t light up at the idea of a full tour of the football facility.

You told yourself you didn’t care.

“They’re all staying with you?” Bob gaped, eyes lifting to yours from behind his laptop screen.

“Yep,” You sighed, pinching your brows in frustration, “Between Wanda’s mom and Nat’s sister, let’s just say there are too many cooks in the kitchen.”

“They’re cooking?”

“Wha–no, just like, too many people in a small space,”

“The kitchen, you mean.”

You grunted, “Bob, no one is in the kitchen,”

“Tragic,”

“Please say you’ll come to Blip’s later.”

“Mother taught me not to lie,”

You threw your hands up, earning a chuckle from him. “It’s not my fault you keep committing to these outings,” He continued, fingers widening an image on the touchscreen feature.

“I didn’t realize rooming with Wanda and Natasha came with fine print,” you muttered, weaving between families clogging the hallway.

“Shouldn’t you be happy you’re going?” Bob nudged your shoulder with a smug grin. “I’m sure Barnes will be there.”

There it was—the letterman-jacket-shaped elephant in the room. Bucky Barnes.

The boy you hadn’t spoken to since the confusing exchange in which you returned his jacket outside the Newspaper room.

It hadn’t been as awkward as you’d imagined, but the air between you had definitely thickened with a hundred unsaid things—things you were too cowardly and he was too cryptic to name. Pepper’s arrival had saved you both, the door swinging open so abruptly that you and Barnes jolted like you’d been caught committing a federal crime.

And Bob? He still had no idea.

You hadn’t breathed a word about jacket-gate, half out of embarrassment, half out of the instinct for self-preservation. Bob already roasted you enough for the way he’d caught you staring at Bucky in Newspaper; the last thing you needed was him finding out about drunken texts and abandoned letterman jackets.

However, you were at a complete loss when it came to translating the social cues—Bucky’s face when you handed his jacket back, the way he completely ignored his own late-night texts, and how the two of you now existed in this awkward in-between: half-friends, half…whatever the hell else this was supposed to be.

Your next safest bet for help was Wanda. Since you were harboring her secret romance, maybe she’d return the favor and help you make sense of your Bucky situation. But judging by the sheer excitement she had about introducing you to Peter—Petro—whatever his name was? Yeah, you didn’t think now was the time to bring up your spiraling confusion.

God, if only How to Be a Person in Relationships were an elective. You would’ve signed up twice.

It would certainly help now, as you sat at a high-top table at Blip’s, tapping your nails against the wood in time with the Journey song currently being butchered at karaoke by someone’s very enthusiastic parents.

“Doubt this’ll be the last time we hear Don’t Stop Believin’ tonight,” a voice said beside you, warm and amused. You turned, and your eyes met a soft brown pair framed by a messy head of curls—Wanda’s brother, if you were guessing correctly. “I’d put money on…three more times?”

Your lips curved, fingers tightening around your water glass. “That’s probably the safest bet anyone’s made in this bar.”

He grinned—earnest, boyish, completely unbothered by the chaos of karaoke behind him. “Wanda told me her roommate was coming out tonight,” he said, leaning an elbow on the high-top, “but she definitely left out the part where you’re, uh…a model.”

Heat shot up your neck. You laughed, quiet and caught off guard. “I’m definitely not—”

“Yeah, alright,” he teased lightly. “I’ve met models. You’re in the category.”

You shook your head, smiling again despite yourself.

And you didn’t notice it at first—not until the prickling sensation hit the back of your neck. That strange awareness. That sense of being watched.

So when you glanced across the bar, eyes drifting past the crowd and the neon sign above the bottles, you found him.

Bucky.

Leaning against the end of the booth with the guys, beer bottle in hand, expression unreadable. His jaw was tight, the vein in his neck drawn like he’d just clenched it. He wasn’t even pretending not to stare—his eyes were fixed right on you, right on Wanda’s brother standing too close, right on the soft pink still clinging to your cheeks.

You looked away first. You always did.

Wanda’s brother didn’t notice. “So,” he continued, smiling like he hadn’t just unknowingly stepped into the direct line of a supernova-level death glare, “Wanda said you’re the brains of the operation in your dorm, right?”

“Hardly,” you murmured, still feeling the weight of Bucky’s stare like a hand at the back of your neck.

“He’s been looking at you this whole time, you know,” Wanda’s brother added casually, sipping his soda.

Your breath hitched. “…Who?”

He nodded subtly toward the far end of the bar.

You didn’t have to look. You already knew.

“Steve’s friend, Brock, I think?—”

“Barnes,” you corrected without thinking.

Pietro’s brows shot up. “Right,” he echoed, the corner of his mouth pulling into a knowing smirk as he lifted his beer. “So what’s the story between you two?”

“Story?” You nearly choked on your water. “There’s no story.”

“He’s looking at you like there’s a story.”

“There’s not,” you insisted, though the heat crawling up your neck said otherwise.

“Want my help?”

Your head snapped toward him, eyes narrowing. “Help?”

Pietro chuckled, low and amused. “Wanda was right—you’re adorably clueless.”

“She said what—”

“Here,” he murmured, leaning in, casually bracing an arm on the high-top beside you—close enough to corner your space without touching you. “Just follow my lead.”

Across the room, Bucky froze mid-sip.

He hadn’t meant to look over again—he’d been pretending to listen to Sam, nodding at all the right moments—but the second Pietro leaned in, arm braced on the table beside you, Bucky’s eyes moved on their own.

You didn’t even flinch.

You actually tilted your head up at him, lips parted like you were about to ask a question.

Bucky’s grip tightened around his beer bottle.

Pietro said something—too quiet for Bucky to hear—but it made you huff out a shy little laugh, the kind you tried to hide behind your glass. Pietro’s grin widened like he’d earned it.

Bucky’s jaw clenched, a muscle ticking once. Then again.

He shifted in his seat, the leather booth creaking under the motion, but he didn’t look away. Couldn’t. His eyes tracked the way Pietro crowded your space just enough to suggest something, but not enough to be inappropriate. The kind of calculated move a guy makes when he’s testing the waters.

Bucky hated that he recognized it.

He hated even more that you didn’t seem to.

Sam nudged him with his elbow. “You good, man?”

Bucky didn’t answer. Didn’t blink.

Because Pietro was leaning closer again, murmuring something with that stupid, smug smile—and your cheeks were going pink.

“How does he look?” Pietro whispered against your ear.

Your eyes flicked over to where Bucky stood across the bar, his hand wrapped so tightly around his beer bottle you swore you could hear the glass protesting from here. You couldn’t make out a word he and Steve were saying, but you could definitely see the way the veins in his forearm pressed against his skin. A shiver crackled down your spine like lightning.

“He looks pissed.”

“Bingo.” Pietro grinned, smug as hell.

“Now what?”

“Now, we wait.”

“For?” you asked, brow lifting.

“For them to come over.”

You swallowed hard. “Won’t have to wait long.”

Sure enough, Pietro shifted just enough to glimpse the approaching group—Steve and Sam leading with easy smiles, greeting Natasha’s parents as they slid back into their seats. And Bucky…with a face that was absolutely not friendly. Not anymore.

“Hey, gang,” Pietro drawled, flashing a sardonic grin that nearly broke your composure into a giggle. “Pretty cool place, huh?”

“Where’d Wanda run off to?” Sam asked, nodding toward Pietro. You kept your eyes locked anywhere that wasn’t Bucky—though his gaze had undeniably locked on you.

“Not sure—think she went to grab tickets for that event tomorrow,” Pietro said, before turning back to you with an unbearably smooth smile. “You wanna go with me? Pretty sure it’s half-off if you bring a date.”

Your mouth opened, but nothing came out. You turned back to the group, trying desperately to look casual. “Are you guys going?”

“Yeah, Nat got our tickets yesterday,” Steve replied. “Sam? Buck?”

“Haven’t gotten a date yet,” Sam said with an exaggerated eye roll.

“I got one lined up,” Bucky answered.

Your head snapped toward him so fast your neck almost popped. He looked…calm. Completely unbothered. Like he hadn’t been practically strangling a beer bottle forty-five seconds ago.

Before you could say anything, Wanda materialized beside Sam, eyes sparkling with mischief as she spotted you and Pietro.

“There you are!” she beamed. “See? I told you guys they’d look cute together.”

“Sam, I’ll go with you if it gets Walker off my back,” she added.

“Deal,” he said.

“Looks like we’re all going!” Wanda announced brightly.

And Bucky still hadn’t looked away from you.

You spent the entire next day holed up in your room, buried beneath readings and half-finished introduction paragraphs for the mountain of papers on your to-do list. Anything—literally anything—to distract yourself from the looming “event” and everything it implied.

Mainly: who Bucky was bringing.

Your brain, unhelpfully, tossed Sharon’s name to the forefront, complete with a mental slideshow you shut down as fast as it appeared.

He wouldn’t.

…Would he?

Not after the texts.

Not after that walk home.

But then again, maybe that was worse—imagining that in the microscopic span of time since he walked you back to your dorm, he’d already found someone else. Which was entirely possible. The guy could flirt with an inanimate object and you were pretty sure it would sprout a mouth just to say yes.

You sighed, stabbing at your keyboard like it personally offended you. Anything to stop thinking about him. Anything to stop picturing the girl on his arm tonight.

You were absolutely failing.

But how fair was that?

You were the one who ignored his text—ignored your chance. Assuming it even was a chance. Assuming he even meant anything by it in the first place.

You thought you’d finally shaken it off when you were sprawled in the living room with Wanda and Pietro, trading stories about his boarding school days and realizing he was actually decent company when he wasn’t trying to “finish the story,” or whatever sly little mission he’d appointed himself.

Just when the idea of Bucky Barnes started fading into the background noise where it belonged, a knock sounded at the door. Nat drifted out of her room to answer it, and there they were—Steve, Sam, and three guesses who.

The trio filed into your kitchen, sweaty, out of breath, and wearing only basketball shorts, under the flimsy excuse that Steve was helping Nat’s dad build her a new desk. Sam immediately slipped into conversation with Wanda, leaving you on the couch with Pietro, who snapped back into that teasing-big-brother persona like it was muscle memory. His arm stretched along the back of the couch while you curled yourself into a pillow, half-listening to his story.

The other half of you?

Your eyes wandered.

To where Bucky tilted his head back, mouth open, squeezing water from a bottle straight into it. A bead escaped the corner of his lips, sliding in a slow trail down his jaw before disappearing into the faint sheen of sweat across his chest.

You were unapologetically staring—so blatantly that you didn’t even register Pietro’s story tapering off.

“Careful,” he murmured under his breath, “you’re about to drown just watching him drink.”

You snapped your eyes back to Pietro so fast you nearly gave yourself whiplash.

“I wasn’t—I mean, I wasn’t staring.”

Pietro’s smirk said sure, and I’m the Queen of Genovia.

“Right,” he drawled, leaning in slightly. “Then why is he looking at you like that?”

Your pulse stuttered. Against all better judgment, you chanced a glance back toward the kitchen.

Bucky wasn’t talking to Sam anymore.

He wasn’t even pretending to.

His hand was still wrapped around the water bottle, but his eyes—blue, sharp, unreadable—were fixed on you. Not subtle. Not casual. Not accidental.

Hot.

You jerked your gaze away, heart doing something humiliating in your chest.

Pietro snorted under his breath. “Yep. That’s what I thought.”

“I wasn’t— It’s not—” you sputtered uselessly.

“Relax,” he whispered, his voice annoyingly calm. “I’m not judging. I’m just saying…whatever this ‘no story’ thing is?” He tilted his head toward Bucky, whose gaze had not shifted away.

“There’s definitely a story.”

Your stomach flipped. Hard.

And just when you were praying for the couch cushions to swallow you whole, Wanda appeared from her bedroom, cheerful and oblivious.

“Who wants snacks?”

You exhaled shakily.

Pietro grinned like the cat who got the cream.

Across the room, Bucky finally—finally—blinked, dragging his gaze away as if it physically pained him.

And you?

You pretended you weren’t shaking.

There was paint chipping on your ceiling.

You hadn’t noticed it before—not once in the months you’d lived here—but now it was all you could focus on. Flaking, curling at the edges like it was trying to peel away from the very place it was supposed to stay. Fitting, you thought.

The Cranberries blasted through your wired headphones, drowning out the muffled hum of campus nightlife outside. Your phone lay face-down beside you, your hands folded over your stomach, your head tipped back on a pillow gone slightly flat with age.

An hour ago, your dorm had emptied—Nat, Wanda, Pietro, all of them heading to the event with bright eyes and way too much enthusiasm. They pleaded, tag-teamed their arguments, even Pietro tried guilt, charm, and whatever was in that stupid smirk of his, but you stayed firm.

You weren’t going.

The thought of keeping up the farce Pietro created—playing along like you were some flirty, carefree girl with no emotional landmines—already made your stomach twist. And seeing Bucky with some girl? Whoever he’d lined up for his so-called “date”? That would’ve been the final blow. The grenade. The crater. Whatever metaphor fit the quiet, pathetic ache in your chest.

So instead, you stayed home. Secluded. Safe.

Maybe tomorrow you’d get the recap from Wanda. Maybe you’d beg them all not to tell you. Pietro would be gone by morning with the rest of the families—leaving you free to box this entire embarrassing chapter up and shove it somewhere dark, where your crush on Bucky Barnes could shrivel and die as privately as possible.

Not that you’d ever admitted anything out loud—not to Pietro, not to Wanda, not even to yourself without cringing. But Pietro had sniffed it out instantly, like blood in the water.

Which meant maybe Bucky had too.

Which meant you were even more pathetic.

You grabbed the pillow from beneath your head, dragging it over your face and letting out a long, muffled scream—raw, frustrated, and embarrassingly cathartic. When you finally surfaced for air, red-faced and half-feral, a faint buzz beside you cut through your melodrama.

You blindly fumbled for your phone, dragging it onto the pillow next to you as you peeked out from under the cotton like a gremlin emerging from its cave.

Asshole: you at the event?

Your brows pulled together. You sat up, the headphone wire tangling around your torso as the pillow slipped to the floor. Your fingers hovered over the keyboard, trying to craft a response that didn’t scream lonely loser avoiding social interaction.

You: no

Good enough.

Asshole: why?

Why did he care? Shouldn’t he be focused on his date? Picking her up? Charming her? Whatever boys like him did with girls who weren’t…you?

You: didn’t feel like going, lots of homework

Okay, in the game of not sounding like a total loser, you were 0-1.

Asshole: so you’re at your dorm?

Your whole face scrunched. You stared at the message like it would rearrange itself into something that made sense. Why would he remotely care where you were? Nothing came to mind. Minutes slipped by; two full songs played and ended while your thumbs hovered uselessly over the screen.

And then—

A knock.

Sharp. Close.

You jolted, yanking your headphones out and tossing them onto the bed. Heart thudding, you slid off the mattress, toes curling against the cool wood floor as you padded toward the door. You pressed your eye to the peephole—

And your breath caught.

There, distorted but unmistakable, stood Bucky Barnes.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

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A/N: AHHH IDK if i liked this it feels all over the place but like so is reader??? LOL IDK HOPE U LIKED fun things 2 come hehe

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The campus was smaller than you expected, a collection of modern buildings and sunlit courtyards, all tucked away as if the world beyond didn’t exist. Opened by a billionaire you’d only ever seen in headlines, the school boasted just a thousand students—and it promised an education that felt personal, almost intimate, for every mind it claimed.

Your schedule was packed with classes designed to push, challenge, and inspire—but one glaring emptiness remained. In bold red letters, almost accusatory, the words screamed at you: ELECTIVE REQUIRED.

Once you reviewed the list from the registrar, the choice was clear. Writing for the school newspaper wasn’t foreign to you, in fact, you’d been doing it since middle school. You’d barely blinked before selecting that and submitting your choice.

Your trunk scraped against the pavement as you reached the dorm—a sturdy brick building nestled in a circle of similar structures, their sidewalks converging on a wide central field. Sunlight spilled across the grass, where students tossed frisbees, sprawled under leafy trees, and laughed, their voices drifting on the warm breeze.

The key card in your hand beeped you into the building, a crisp rectangle handed to you at the welcome tent for new students. You tried to shrug off the unease curling in your stomach—surely you weren’t the only senior transfer among a sea of pimple-faced freshmen. But as you scanned the room and noticed that nearly everyone seemed to be sporting braces, you began to reconsider. Maybe you really were the odd one out.

Your dorm was on the third floor, easily accessible via an elevator that whisked you up at the swipe of your card. A small blessing, you thought, since lugging your trunk alone had already slowed you down enough.

Pushing open your dorm door, you stepped into a cozy common area, modestly furnished and flanked by three doors. Two girls lounged on the couch, iced coffees in hand, chatting quietly until your entrance. Their heads turned in unison, eyes widening, and bright smiles stretched across their faces, warm and welcoming in a way that made you almost forget the weight of your bags.

“Finally!” One of them jumped up, rushing over to engulf you in a hug. “I’m Wanda,”

You offered your name, a smile tugging at your lips as relief washed over you. At your last school, “roommates” had been your younger siblings—an endless circus of noise, chaos trailing them like shadows. This already felt like a different world.

“I’m Nat,” one of the girls said, lifting a hand in a lazy wave from the couch. “Thank God you look normal. We were seriously taking a chance by choosing ‘random’ for our third slot.”

“You two know each other, I take it?” you asked, eyes flicking to their identical uniforms.

“Yeah,” Wanda laughed, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “We’re both on the cheer team—if you couldn’t tell. The school’s big on image, so we have to wear the uniform around. Kind of over the top, honestly.”

“I don’t mind,” Nat cut in coolly, smirk tugging at her mouth. “This skirt’s helped me in more ways than one.”

You couldn’t help the laugh that slipped out, surprised at how easily you fell into rhythm with them. They showed you to your room—the one tucked furthest from the kitchen, but blessed with the best natural light—and left you to settle in.

It wasn’t big by any means, but it was yours. That alone felt like a luxury. You hadn’t had a room to yourself since you were seven, growing up in a cramped Bronx apartment where privacy was unheard of. Here, there was a bed stripped bare, a wooden desk pressed to the window, and a small closet. Natasha had smirked when she told you good luck fitting your things inside, but you only laughed. To you, it was perfect.

You wasted no time claiming it—throwing familiar sheets over the springy mattress, tucking your grandmother’s knitted blanket across the end. Clothes filled the closet, worn fabric and memories sliding into place. Slowly, the space began to look less like four plain walls and more like yours.

“You didn’t bring any decorations?” Wanda’s voice wafted through your room from where she stood in your doorway.

“I figured I’d decorate as I go,” You shrugged.

The honest truth was you’d never gotten to decorate your own space. You weren’t entirely sure how, but you’d take note from your roommates. In their respective rooms, perfectly coordinated wall art and fairy lights and mismatching pillows screamed of their personalities—but you weren’t worried. You’d get there.

“Let’s see your schedule!” Wanda yanked you into the shared living space, where a binder sat atop the small dining table, papers thrown everywhere. “Maybe we have some classes together,”

“My concentration is journalism,” You spoke, sifting through the thick stack of papers you were given at the tent.

“Oh, I’m fashion marketing, Nat’s cybersecurity.”

“Cybersecurity?” You echoed, brows raised high. “Damn, I didn’t even think this school had that,”

“They have everything,” Nat replied, gum smacking in her mouth from where she lounged on the couch. “Tony Stark wanted every student to be able to study whatever their heart desired, I guess.”

“What elective are you taking?”

“Newspaper,” you replied.

Her face lit up instantly. “See? I told you it was a good idea!”

Wanda groaned, rolling her eyes. “You only signed us up so you could stalk your boyfriend.”

“And because I care deeply about journalistic integrity,” Nat shot back, smirking.

“No, you don’t,” Wanda deadpanned.

“Cybersecurity and journalism go hand in hand,” Nat argued, pointing at you like you were her star witness. “Back me up.”

You blinked. “Uh… I guess?”

“See?” Nat crowed in victory.

Wanda shook her head, turning to you instead. “She dragged me into it so she wouldn’t be alone. Her boyfriend’s Steve Rogers—star quarterback, in case you missed the banners plastered all over campus.”

“Oh, I think I saw one—”

“You did!” Nat cut in proudly. “I designed that. Canva is my bitch. As are most things on a computer.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Well, at least I’ll know a few people in there. I doubt we’ll share anything else, though. My schedule’s pretty stacked for my concentration.”

“The beauty of senior year,” Wanda sighed dramatically. “If I had to sit through one more history class, I was going to combust.”

“Speaking of the beauty of senior year,” Nat perked up suddenly, eyes glued to her phone. “Everyone’s going to Blip tonight.”

“Oh, perfect.” Wanda smirked in your direction. “You can meet the entire senior class.”

You raised a brow. “Isn’t the senior class, like, two hundred and fifty people?”

They only grinned at each other.

“Blip’s a senior-only tavern on campus,” Nat explained, as if that settled everything. “It’s kind of a rite of passage. Perfect way to get your footing.”

“Uh, going out isn’t really my thing,” you admitted.

“That’s not going to work,” Nat shot back with a frown. “We go all the time.”

You hesitated, chewing your lip. “It’s just—I already have thirty pages of reading for Media Ethics, and my Investigative Journalism syllabus says there’s a high chance of a quiz on day one, and also—” You caught the look on their faces and offered a sheepish smile. “Sorry. It’s just… I have to keep a 3.8 to hold onto my scholarship.”

“Hey, no worries.” Wanda’s smile softened. “Another time, then.”

Relief and guilt tangled in your chest. As they bustled around, curling hair and swiping on lip gloss before heading out, you slipped into your room. A mountain of books and notes already waited on your desk, eager to swallow the night whole. You pulled out a chair and sank down, letting the soft hum of music and laughter drifting from the hall fade into background noise.

This was safer. Simpler. You weren’t here for taverns or parties or whatever reckless fun the others chased. You were here for your work, for the future you’d clawed your way toward, for the chance no one could take from you.

Your eyes fell to the words scrawled across your syllabus—academic rigor, dedication, excellence—and you almost believed them enough to silence the flicker of doubt in your chest. Almost.

Your first day was going alright. Yes, you’d gotten lost twice in the expansive campus on your way to History of Printing and had to ask students that looked years younger than you, but you were finding your way.

You tugged at the hem of your plain shirt, making sure it stayed smooth over your straight-leg trousers. The fabric was soft from too many washes, dependable in a way new clothes never seemed to be. Your worn-in Converse, laces tied loose and frayed at the ends, hugged your feet as comfortably as slippers, crew socks peeking just above the edges. You never dressed to impress—comfort always came first—and nearly everything you owned carried the faint, familiar history of second-hand shelves.

You squinted at your schedule, the building numbers blurring together as you tried to make sense of the map in your other hand. Stark’s campus still felt like a maze, every path a dead end.

“Go long!” a voice shouted in the distance.

Before you had time to register, thunderous footsteps closed in—then a body slammed into you at full speed. A startled yelp escaped as you were knocked clean off your feet, the world tilting before you hit the grass with a graceless thud.

The air punched out of your lungs. Looming over you was a tall, broad-shouldered guy who looked completely unbothered by the collision—while you were left sprawled, bag upside down, belongings scattered across the lawn.

You shoved yourself upright, glasses crooked, hair flying every which way. Your curtain bangs fell haphazardly over your eyes, shadowing your gaze like a flimsy shield. He was laughing, football tucked easily in one hand as he flicked off someone yards away. Only then did his gaze drop lazily back to you.

“You good?” he asked.

Your brows knitted. “Do I look good?”

His eyes flicked over you—dirt streaking your trousers, glasses sliding down your nose, ponytail in disarray. A slow smirk tugged at his mouth.

“Not my favorite glasses I’ve ever seen.”

You scoffed, mouth hanging open slightly as your fingers instinctively pushed your glasses further up your nose. They were thick, round frames—sure, not the most popular style at Warby Parker, but they were thrifted and fit your needs. He turned, arm winding back to throw the ball back in the direction of a boy who was too far away for you to register. He turned back to you then, brow raised as if he was surprised you were still on the ground.

“You having fun down there?”

“You ran into me!” You gawked. “Usually people might offer a hand, or at least a ‘sorry’,”

“You walked right into a field where guys are throwing a football. Are the glasses not the right prescription or somethin’?”

You finally stood, brushing dirt from your leg and giving up on any hope of aid. “Classes start in three minutes, and you’re out here tossing a ball?”

“Barnes!”

Both of you turned to see a boy waving his hands in an impatient ‘what’s the hold up’ gesture. The one you’d collided with—the tall, broad-shouldered guy named Barnes, apparently—finally met your gaze with a resigned sigh.

“You’re right,” he admitted. “I should probably be getting to class. Here—clearly, you’re new. Where do you need to go?”

“Uh… Jarvis Hall, room 616,” you murmured, neck craned back slightly, caught off guard by the sudden… helpfulness.

Without hesitation, he took the map from your hands and launched into a flurry of gestures, pointing in multiple directions with exaggerated precision, until finally he handed the map back, a wide, triumphant smile on his face.

“Thanks,” you muttered, unsure you’d actually retained any of the instructions.

“No problem, Specs,” he said casually.

The nickname landed like a punch. You grimaced, jaw tight, and turned sharply, trudging off in the direction he’d indicated.

You trudged along the path he’d pointed out, muttering under your breath about idiots who play football before class, clutching your satchel like a lifeline. The campus, still a confusing tangle of paths and brick buildings, offered no familiar landmarks.

After what felt like ten minutes—and far too many sharp turns—you reached a door that read “Locker Room – Boys”. Your stomach dropped.

Wait. No.

The echo of a basketball bouncing somewhere inside confirmed your worst fear. You froze, a panicked flush creeping up your neck as laughter and shouts carried from the open door.

“Oh, come on,” you muttered, shoving the door open slowly, hoping maybe—just maybe—you’d slipped into a storage closet or janitor’s hallway instead. But no. The smell of sweat and gym equipment hit you full force, and dozens of wide-eyed boys turned in your direction.

“Uh… I’m—I’m… just looking for… uh…” you stammered, heat climbing, as your satchel slipped from your shoulder and clattered to the floor.

Somewhere across the campus, you imagined Bucky’s grin, smug as ever, and it was all you could do not to groan loudly.

Pissed off and definitely late, you marched back in the direction you came from, map in your hands and angry expression on your face.

“You lost?”

Your head perked up, hopeful it wasn’t another athlete—God knows you’d seen enough of those, today—and smiling when a kind-faced boy with messy curls was staring back at you.

“Yes,” You breathed. “Just need to go to Jarvis Hall. 616.”

“Oh, newspaper? Funny, I’m heading there now. Come on,”

You didn’t think you had any good luck left, until this boy nodded toward the sidewalk, a lop-sided grin on his face at your amazement. “Name’s Bob,”

“It’s nice to meet you, Bob,” You replied, offering your name. “I’m new, and completely lost.”

“Yeah, figured when I saw you leaving the Boys’ Locker Room—unless, that’s where you meant to be, I-I don’t judge.” He tugged on the sleeves of his navy sweater, slightly too big for him.

“No, definitely not.”

“So, what year are you?”

“A senior,”

“A senior transfer? Wow,” He remarked.

“Is that not common?”

“No, not really. They don’t like to accept many Juniors or Seniors here—must’ve made quite the impression,”

“Yeah, that’s what my acceptance letter said anyway. I’m still not convinced I actually go here,”

“You’re in the right hands with the newspaper. I do the photography—s’actually why I’m late. I was grabbing the new lens the editor ordered.”

“That’s so cool!” You beamed.

For the entire seven-minute walk, you and Bob had talked nonstop about your journalism dreams—quoting articles from The Times, swapping funny anecdotes about writing flops, and debating the best ways to snag an interview. By the time you reached Jarvis Hall, you felt lighter, almost giddy. You had made your first real friend here.

Pushing the door open, you murmured a small, automatic apology as every head in the classroom swiveled toward you. The editor, perched casually on the corner of her desk, only smiled—warm, inviting—and gestured for you to come in, her hand a quiet reassurance.

Wanda waved faintly from her seat next to Nat, who offered a brief nod. You hadn’t had a chance to look around yet; the editor’s gaze pinned you gently in place.

“You missed introductions, so you’ll have to catch up later,” the editor said, “but why don’t you introduce yourself to the class?”

Your palms went clammy, heart ticking faster. Every eye in the room focused on you, and you swallowed nervously before giving your name. “Uh… I just transferred in as a senior, and I’m from the Bronx,” you said, your voice quieter than you intended, but steady enough.

“Well, welcome to the Newspaper Club,” She began, her tone warm but authoritative. “I’m Pepper Potts, editor-in-chief—though please, just call me Pepper. You’re right on time; I was just about to hand out your partner assignments for the semester.”

She paused, letting her gaze sweep the room. “Journalism is tough work. Having a partner to bounce ideas off can make all the difference—and, of course, you’ll be graded on how well you collaborate.”

A small smile appeared on her face. “Now, instead of letting you choose, I’m going to challenge you. You’ll be paired with someone you might not even know. Part of being a journalist is learning to adapt—seeing stories through different perspectives, even when it’s uncomfortable. That’s how real growth happens.”

You couldn’t help the grin tugging at your lips. There was something about her—Pepper carried herself with a quiet grace, a confidence that didn’t demand attention but naturally drew it. A writer you could aspire to be, someone who made the craft feel effortless and important all at once.

You waited as Pepper handed out portfolios, each name inscribed neatly on brown paper. Since you’d missed introductions, you sat still, watching the room shift around you—students leaning in to shake hands, trade smiles, or groan at the sight of their partners. Nat drifted toward a tall boy with a linebacker’s build, a letterman jacket draped across his shoulders like it was stitched to his skin. Wanda, on the other hand, slouched her way to the back where a shy, raven-haired girl sat waiting, already regretting her fate.

One by one, pairs settled in. Everyone was accounted for.

Except you.

You pushed yourself up, clutching your portfolio, and crossed to Pepper’s desk. “Miss Potts—uh, Pepper—I think my partner’s not here.”

She gave you a patient, almost knowing look. “Let me take a look…” Her finger skimmed down the roster, then paused. “Ah. You’re with Bucky.”

Her gaze flicked up, scanning the classroom. “Does anyone have Bucky’s number?”

“Steve does,” Nat piped up, tilting her head toward yet another mountain of a boy in a letterman jacket. What was with this campus—did they issue those things like water bottles?

“Here,” Steve’s deep voice carried as he scrolled through his phone, flashing you an easy grin. “I’ll give it to you.”

“Thanks,”

“You’re Nat’s new roommate, right?” His voice was kind, not questioning so much as stating fact. “I’m her boyfriend. Steve.”

You nodded quickly, grasping for words. “Yeah, uh—I’ve seen your posters around campus.”

The second it slipped out, your cheeks burned. Perfect. Now you sounded like a stalker.

But Steve’s grin only widened. “She made those. Talented, isn’t she?”

A shaky laugh tumbled out of you, relief loosening your chest. “Totally.”

You retreated back into your seat, portfolio cracking open again. The smell of fresh ink and heavy cardstock clung to the papers inside—resources, guidelines, a roadmap for the semester ahead. All useful. All complete. Except, of course, for the missing partner whose name already weighed on you.

Pepper’s voice cut through the chatter. “Okay—assignment number one.” She stood tall, the kind of presence that commanded silence without effort. “I want a story for our front page. Something bold. Something that grabs attention and doesn’t let go. This is the first issue of the year, so—” her smile sharpened—“no pressure.”

Pepper continued, “This isn’t about what you write—it’s about why people should care. Pitch due next week, draft in two. Work with your partner, divide responsibilities, but remember—you’ll both be graded on collaboration.” Her sharp gaze swept across the room before softening again. “Questions?”

You glanced around. The faces of the club were diverse: some eager, some indifferent, some confused as hell. It only invigorated you. This was your arena. Here, words mattered more than jerseys. Headlines louder than pep rallies. In a sea of letterman jackets and cheer skirts, you and your tortoise-shell frames could cut through the noise.

Maybe, for once, you wouldn’t be invisible.

You slid out your phone, untouched since this morning, and quickly typed the number Steve had given you into your messages app. You hesitated only a second before tapping out a polite introduction:

We didn’t get to meet today, but since we have a pitch due next week, we should probably meet up! When are you free?

You nodded once, satisfied with your message, and hit send. Already, your fingers drifted back to the crisp pages of your portfolio, ideas sparking to life.

Then—buzz.

You flinched, startled by how quickly he’d responded. Relief flickered for half a second—until you turned your phone over.

Just three words.

Nah, I’m good.

Nat and Wanda dragged you to the campus café, a hotspot where half the student body seemed to live—laptops glowing, mugs stacked, second coffees clutched like lifelines.

After class, they’d introduced you to the three boys in matching letterman jackets: Steve Rogers, Sam Wilson, and John Walker. The trio had claimed the tables next to yours, currently occupied with their own Olympic sport—firing balled-up straw wrappers across the table like artillery fire.

“Did you get a hold of Bucky?” Nat asked, sipping her latte as though she didn’t notice Sam trying to hit John in the eye. “I’m honestly surprised he’s even in newspaper.”

“You could say the same for these buffoons,” Wanda deadpanned, watching Sam fist-pump after scoring a direct hit.

“Yeah, look what he said.” You slid your phone across the table.

Both girls leaned in. Their brows arched, then in perfect unison, they started to laugh. “Steve, look at this.”

Steve’s head popped up at the sound of his name. He squinted at your phone before letting out a low chuckle. “That’s Buck, alright.”

Your jaw fell slack. “Is he always this rude?”

“Only on days that end in ‘y,’” Wanda muttered, unimpressed.

Steve just smiled faintly, shaking his head. “Nah—he’s just… slow to warm.”

“We’re in the newspaper because Coach told us it would be an easy credit,” John chimed in, several beats too late causing Nat to chuckle. “Didn’t think we’d have an assignment on the fucking first day,”

“What about newspaper seemed easy to you?” Wanda questioned aloud.

“Ask Coach Fury,” Sam only shook his head. “At least I didn’t get partnered with the weirdo in the back,”

“Be nice,” Wanda rolled her eyes. “Ava’s cool, she’s just quiet.”

“Speaking of partners,” Steve’s tone carried a smugness that made your stomach twist. His gaze flicked over your head, aimed at someone behind you.

“Hey, Buck.”

Heat rushed to your ears. You turned before you could stop yourself—

And froze.

There he was. The guy who had plowed into you that morning, left you eating dirt, and sent you straight into the boys’ locker room. The one who hadn’t blinked, hadn’t apologized, hadn’t cared.

And now, he was standing right there—staring at you with that same smug, unbothered expression.

“Find your way to class, I gather?” His voice was a drawl, sharp and knowing.

“Yeah, no thanks to you.” The timid tone you’d carried earlier was gone, scorched away by fresh embarrassment. Still, your cheeks burned as the memory flashed: lockers, confused boys, your mortification.

“Oh, so you’ve met?” Nat asked casually, sipping her latte as if she hadn’t just thrown a grenade into your day. “Then why didn’t you realize he was absent from class?”

“What?” Your brain short-circuited. Her words barely registered, not with his eyes drilling into you—god, how did someone stare that hard? And worse—he was doing it in front of his friends. Like he expected you to get up and leave right then and there.

And then, like a bucket of ice water, the truth sank in.

This boy. The one who’d made your first day a disaster.

This was Bucky.

The same Bucky who had texted you nah, I’m good.

The same Bucky you were now tethered to for the entire semester.

Your partner.

Next chapter

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