Academic rival!bucky x f!reader
Summary: Amid midterms, debate practice, and endless assignments, one person is the bane of your existence: Bucky Barnes. Your rival since day one, he’s smart, smug, and impossible to ignore. But behind the classroom arguments and public hatred lies a private rivalry of a very different kind—one that only surfaces in secret. There’s just one problem: your boyfriend has no idea.
Warnings / Tags: 18+mdni, avengers au, academic setting, rivals to lovers, CHEATING (not on Bucky). LOTS OF CHEATING, fr dont come at me for the cheating its bucky ok, bf!walker, secret rendezvous, public-ish sex, lots of swearing, unprotected p in v with bucky, unethical use of school facilities, breeding af, mutual pining but in denial of it, debate club (barely), possessiveness, reader will break up with boyfriend but isnt ready to admit her feelings, avoidance of feelings, eventual confessions
Word Count: 13.5k (yallll i had funnn)
A/N: IN HONOR OF 600 FOLLOWERS ( :') u guys warm my heart) i wrote this bc its been stuck in my head for a whileeee . Also kinda inspired by @unificsation recent fic, go check it out!!
In your opinion, a chalkboard is a foolish excuse for a teaching tool for several reasons: it’s messy, it’s wasteful, it’s unnecessarily time-consuming—
The shrill scrape of chalk skidding across the board slides straight down your spine. Goosebumps stir like a small stampede across your skin, and you flinch before you can stop yourself.
And of course he sees it.
You lift your gaze from your notebook, scowling toward the perpetrator of the ghastly noise. Bucky Barnes stands there with that infuriating half-smirk—part triumph, part challenge—because he absolutely did it on purpose.
Your eyes track him, unblinking, as he strolls back to his desk at the front of the classroom. Front row. Because of course the professor assigned seats alphabetically, giving Barnes prime chalkboard real estate and you the purgatory of the third row. Which means his hand shoots up faster, his answers land quicker, and his voice takes up just a little more air than yours.
And with it, the academic validation he—and you—crave like oxygen.
“Wonderful work, Mr. Barnes,” Professor Fury’s voice hums. “We’ve got hydride shift potential here. What’s the final stereochemical outcome?”
You raise your hand, confident.
“A racemic mixture,” you answer.
Fury tilts his head. “Not quite. Good try.”
You sit back, heat creeping into your cheeks.
Bucky’s voice follows, annoyingly smooth: “It’s actually a single enantiomer, sir. The shift creates a chiral center with retention.”
“Exactly,” Fury says. “Well done.”
You glare daggers at the back of Bucky’s head, which he absolutely feels—because his shoulders lift with a tiny, self-satisfied breath.
He turns slightly in his seat as Fury faces the board again—just enough for his profile to angle back toward you. His eyes catch yours, sharp and smug, and he flicks you a single, deliberate wink.
It lands with the force of a gut punch.
Not just bruising to your ego, but to the running tally—your scoreboard.
The one neither of you has ever acknowledged out loud, but both of you update religiously.
A scoreboard that started four years ago, on the very first day of freshman year.
You’d met Barnes in the administration office, both of you clutching misprinted schedules and fuming over being dumped into basic-level classes. You were strangers then, but cut from the same irritated, ambitious cloth—both of you determined to claw your way into higher-level courses where you actually belonged.
He’d gone first at the registrar—again, cursed alphabetical fate—and snagged the last open seat in Quantum Mechanics. The last seat you had planned on taking.
You still remember the pinched smile of the advisor telling you, “You can try again next semester.”
And your first recorded loss to Bucky Barnes.
Since that day, you’ve fought him tooth and nail over everything academic—and sometimes, everything personal.
The last sugar-free energy drink in the vending machine?
The parking spot two feet closer to the building?
The only lab station with decent lighting?
If one of you wanted it, the other did too.
If one of you reached for it, the other reached faster.
There has only ever been one mode between you and Barnes: competition. And competition, as it turns out, breeds the deepest, most stubborn kind of hatred.
The kind that looks a lot like obsession if anyone stares too long.
The shrill sound of the bell ripped you out of the hellscape that was memory lane with Barnes. Around you, the room erupted—textbooks slamming shut, zippers rasping, chairs screeching against the floor. The chaos snapped you back into your body just enough to start packing up.
You swept your pens and color-coded highlighters into your front pouch with practiced efficiency before slinging your bag over your shoulder. Then you stepped into the hallway—already a traffic jam of bodies and voices. Freshmen weaving like lost ducklings, seniors shouting across lockers, someone dropping a binder and cursing about it. Pure chaos.
But it all washed over you as if you were underwater.
Because beneath the chatter, beneath the slamming lockers and the squeak of sneakers—you heard him.
That low, infuriating voice, close enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath ghost the shell of your ear.
“A racemic mixture, Ace?”
Smug. Condescending. Enough to spike your blood pressure on sight.
You didn’t bother turning. You could sense him—tall, broad, annoyingly sure-footed—matching your pace like he was glued to your shadow.
You scowled at the nickname. God, Ace. He’d been calling you that for so long you couldn’t even remember the exact moment it started. To everyone else, it sounded flattering.
To you, it was a middle finger wrapped in one syllable.
“Don’t tell me you’re starting to fall behind in Fury’s class,” he drawled, weaving one hand lazily into his front pocket. “That content was two chapters ago.”
“Was busy this weekend,” you said, trying for breezy, but the tightness in your jaw gave you away. He heard it. He always did. “I know the concept of social plans is foreign to you.”
“Wow,” he said dramatically, hand pressed to his chest in mock injury. “Let me guess—drive-in night with Pretty Boy Walker and his band of protein-powder-packed idiots? Sitting in the back of his big truck, smoking ‘doobies’ and pretending he’s interesting?”
His mocking smirk was audible.
“Enticing, Ace,” he finished, letting the nickname slide out like a knife.
“They don’t smoke,” you said, rolling your eyes so hard it almost hurt.
Weaving through a sharp corner, you and Bucky navigated the hallways like pros, sidestepping clusters of students without breaking stride.
“What’d you do this weekend, hm? Jerk off to the sight of your Orgo textbook?”
“Still more dignified than whatever sorry position Walker had you in when it took him twenty seconds to finish,” he shot back, smirk in full swing.
You scoffed, knuckles tightening on your backpack straps until your fingers threatened to blanch. “God, you’re an asshole.”
He shrugged like it was a compliment. “If you want, you can borrow my notes—assuming you can understand them, that is.”
“Barnes, I’ve seen your handwriting. I’m surprised you can even read that shit—actually, I’m surprised you can read at all.”
He tilted his head, mock offended. “I outscored you in every single bullshit English credit we’ve taken, Ace. Your insults? They attack like a warm hug.”
You hated how accurate that was.
You’d been in almost every class together throughout the years, strategically placed on the same track to graduate with the highest GPA in your year. Harder classes carried more weight at your school—a system that was only ever fair if you could stomach hours of misery in labs, essays, and lecture halls. And so, like two apex predators in a jungle of equations and essays, you’d both planted yourselves firmly in the center of academic chaos.
You and Bucky turned one final corner, slipping into a hallway devoid of anyone else.
“Had you not made that god-awful screech with the chalk, I would’ve gotten that question right,” you muttered, voice tight. “You’re so desperate for my attention, it’s laughable.”
He only chuckled, fingers brushing the worn doorknob before twisting it. The heavy door creaked open, and he stepped aside with exaggerated courtesy, letting you slip in first.
You dropped your backpack to the floor with more force than necessary, letting it hit with a thud that matched the tension you were carrying from the classroom.
The door shut softly behind him. Bucky turned, smirk firmly in place like it had been custom-painted for him. “If I’m so desperate for your attention,” he murmured, voice low, “then where does that leave you?”
Your eyes drifted upward, straining to meet his gaze. Even standing close, he had always towered over you—always making you crane your neck, reach a little further, feel a little smaller.
“Just shut up,” you muttered, too breathless for more.
His lips slammed into yours, hard, claiming. His hands gripped your hips with a pressure that bordered on painful, anchoring you against the cement wall. Your own hands scrambled over him, tearing at the fabric of his shirt, claws tangling in the thick strands of his hair.
A groan tore from his throat, low and urgent. Your back arched reflexively, pressing harder into the wall as he pushed closer, the confined space amplifying every movement, every ragged inhale.
A soft, involuntary moan slipped past your lips.
And in that cramped closet, the world outside—the hallways, Walker, the classes, the scoreboard—ceased to exist.
“We only have four minutes this time since you walked so slow,” You muttered against his lips, frowning when you felt the scoff hit your face.
“Four minutes should be a marathon for you,”
His hand reached down to his belt buckle, fingers frantically undoing the clip and pushing down his jeans just enough. Then his hands were back on you, lifting you against the wall and trapping you between his torso and the brick.
Your skirt was pushed up your thighs, pooling at your waist and crumpling the fabric. A sharp inhale left you as his fingers slid your panties aside, leaving no suspense as he pushed his cock into you.
He grinned against your skin as his hands groped your ass, holding you as he stretched you wide open, folds clenching down on him like it was instinct. “So wet already, Ace? Are you that touch-starved that you’ll get soaked from a little kissing?”
“I got fucked all weekend, Barnes,” You grit out. “I’m hardly touch-starved.”
A bold, stupid, transparent lie.
You’d barely been touched in ages—at least not in any way that mattered. Walker treated you like an accessory, something to hold and not savor, a warm body to drape an arm around when people were watching.
And you didn’t even care.
Not when you knew you could get your fix elsewhere.
Not when he was your elsewhere.
You could tell he didn’t like your comment. His grin dropped, fingers digging into the skin of your ass as he picked up the pace. The heat radiating off his body pressed into yours, a mix of warmth and pressure that left your knees weak.
He rocked his hips against you, cock sliding in and out of your slick heat while he grunted against your neck. Your mouth brushed his ear, breathy moans spilling out of you as he snapped his hips up into your core.
Your thighs squeezed against his torso, claiming his skin if only for four minutes, and pushing him farther into you. He took you deep, tip grazing the back of you from the angle he held you at.
He tilted his head, teeth barely grazing your skin, just enough to make you shiver. “So desperate for someone who claims they’re satisfied,” he murmured, voice thick with amusement and something darker you couldn’t name.
You tried to pull away, tried to regain control, but he followed every movement, every twitch. Fingers in your hair, palms along your sides, hips brushing, noses nearly touching.
He continued to fuck you harder, stretching your core open with ease from his thickness, that ache in your belly getting closer and closer—which, by his calculation, was when you started to get louder.
Even these coveted four minutes were calculated. Observed. Theorized.
He reached one hand from underneath your ass to clamp it over your mouth, tightly smothering your escalating whimpers—a theory he had proven right on the second time: you loved when he did that. It drove you crazy.
It was wrong. You knew that. But something about him stifling your noises while plowing into you against a dingy supply closet…you’d climax any second now.
“Give it to me, Ace,” He coaxed softly, hips snapping with haste now, getting sloppier by the second.
And he was right. Your folds began to tighten and twitch against his cock as you came crashing down against him, legs shaking violently around his body before you went limp. He held you steady, coming to his own close as he thrust harder and harder before finally filling you with his seed.
Your chest rose and fell, hands gripping his shoulders, the walls closing in around the two of you, the rest of the world fading to white noise. Four minutes—or whatever little time you had—suddenly felt like an eternity in the tension you could barely contain.
Even the silence between breaths was loud, charged with everything neither of you would admit outside this cramped, secret space.
He finally stepped back, giving you a fraction of space, though his presence still pressed against you like a shadow. His hand reached for the small box of tissues you’d tucked into the corner after the third time, plucking one out with that same precise, deliberate motion he used in class.
He held it out to you, and you took it without a word, your fingers brushing his just enough to send a spark through your chest.
You dabbed at yourself, taking a moment to regain composure, straighten your skirt, and breathe through the residual heat of being pressed so close to him.
He watched you quietly, that smirk softened just a fraction, like he was both amused and entirely satisfied with the chaos he’d caused—both outside and inside the closet.
“That’s one minute to spare,” he remarked, glancing at the clock like he enjoyed having evidence. “Might even be enough time for something… extra.”
“I’ve told you before, Barnes,” You breathed, discarding the tissue in the small waste bin by the door. “This is as far as it goes. Quick fuck between classes. No kissing, no foreplay. We get to blow off steam for a moment so we can recharge for going at each other’s throats for another few hours.”
He hummed, hands red and veiny as he rubbed his chin, stalking closer to you. “I get it. You’re frightened by the sheer amount of pleasure you’d get if you let me between those legs.”
“No,” You smiled, though it dripped with sarcasm. “Just don’t want you thinking I’ll ever get on my knees for you.”
“You will.” He smirked. “One of these days, you’ll get bored of Walker’s mouth and you’ll beg for mine.”
He stepped closer, closing the small amount of space that was left. His voice dropped to a slight whisper, pupils blown wide as a reminder of what had just taken place. “And then, you’ll beg to use yours.”
Your breath caught—more from anger than anything else, you told yourself.
And then, without warning, he pushed open the closet door. Light from the hallway spilled in, dissolving the fragile, dangerous bubble the two of you constantly built and burst.
“See you in class,” he murmured, stepping out first like he hadn’t just turned you inside out.
The Quad was hilariously named.
The massive stretch of grass, encircled by broad concrete steps, looked nothing like the neat geometric shape the name suggested. If anything, it resembled an amphitheater—round, sloped, and built for people-watching. Whoever christened it ‘the Quad’ was either an optimist or an idiot. Probably both.
Still, it was where everyone gathered once classes spat them back out into daylight. Little clusters formed across the hillside, each one claiming its territory the same way high school cliques once did.
Walker and his fellow football players occupied their usual kingdom at the top steps beneath the old oak tree—the one with branches big enough to block the sun and, apparently, boost egos. They lounged like gods on Mount Olympus, tossing protein bars, trading jokes, debating statistics you couldn’t care less about.
Across the amphitheater, almost perfectly opposite them, was Barnes’ domain.
He sat with an ease that annoyed you, usually perched on the concrete ledge with a coffee he didn’t drink and a backpack that looked far too organized. Steve Rogers—top-ten poli-sci golden boy—was almost always beside him, posture straight enough to pass a military inspection. Natasha Romanoff, junior engineering major with the brain of a supercomputer and the attitude of someone who tolerated exactly no one, usually occupied his other side.
Their little group looked like the start of a college brochure: academics thriving in natural sunlight.
You’d be lying if you said you didn’t wish you could sit with them—Barnes, Romanoff, Rogers.
People who debated political theory and quantum paradoxes for fun, who argued over research ethics and historical context instead of, well… whatever the hell Walker’s friends talked about.
But here you were, perched in your usual spot beneath the oak tree with the jocks and their cheerleaders, enduring a very different kind of debate:
“What face d’you think Professor Potts makes when she—”
You shut that down immediately by opening your textbook wide enough to block out the sight of them. If your soul left your body, you were certain no one here would notice.
You drowned them out. Went right back to cramming two chapters of Orgo into your skull—because you’d be damned if Barnes beat you again. One slip-up in class was enough ammunition for him for an entire week.
Every so often, though, you felt it—the itch at the back of your neck, the pull of someone’s attention.
And there he was, across the amphitheater, eyes on you like he’d been waiting for you to notice.
Sometimes it was a scowl, jaw clenched, elbow propped casually on his knee as if your mere existence annoyed him. Sometimes it was a smirk, arrogant and sharp, like he knew something you didn’t.
When you catch him looking at you, something shifts. Even just for a moment, everything around you falls away, and you can pretend. You can pretend you’re not sitting with Neanderthals, you can pretend that you don’t date Walker to make you feel better about yourself, you can pretend that you’re good enough.
Because in that supply closet, though only for minutes, the score doesn’t matter. Nothing matters.
For those few stolen minutes, there was no rivalry.
Just the way he touched you like he already knew all your sharp edges and wasn’t afraid of a single one.
“Babe?” Walker’s voice yanked you out of your staring contest.
Your head tilted just enough to give him an easy smile, rehearsed and harmless. His eyes followed the trajectory of yours, landing on Barnes—who suddenly found his coffee riveting, like it contained the secrets of the universe.
“That asshole giving you trouble again?” Walker asked, jaw tightening with performative concern.
“No,” you hummed, tapping your pencil against your notebook like the picture of academic serenity.
“Who’s that?” Sam Wilson cut in, his voice lazy as the cheerleader draped across his lap twirled a strand of her hair around her finger.
Seriously—God. Every day felt like a live broadcast of National Geographic: College Edition, featuring the painfully average male in his natural habitat.
“Bucky Barnes,” Walker answered, his tone dripping with contempt thick enough to drown in. “Fucker’s always getting under her skin.”
You nearly inhaled wrong, coughing into your fist.
Walker’s hand immediately landed between your shoulder blades, patting like you were a toddler eating grapes unsupervised.
You couldn’t even pretend he was a bad boyfriend.
Well…depending on the metric. He didn’t abuse you, didn’t yell or belittle you, didn’t make you fear walking through the door. In a very practical, measured sense, he was fine.
But he also didn’t cherish you.
Didn’t notice the little things, didn’t read you when you were on edge, didn’t make you feel…seen. You were as much an accessory as he was an anchor. You made him look better—at homecoming, in pictures, at the charity gala—but he didn’t make you feel like you belonged anywhere.
And that’s exactly why you dated him.
Safe. Reliable. Predictable.
Boring was the safety net you clung to.
Walker didn’t demand anything from you—except to exist with him. That was manageable. That was safe. And for someone like you, who craved control and order in every other corner of your life, that was enough.
You were free of Bucky Barnes outside of the classroom for the most part—except for the one place you were stupid enough to willingly share leadership with him:
Small, cramped, and chronically underfunded, it was made up of exactly four members:
Peter Parker, the overachieving freshman who talked too fast; Bob Reynolds, who only showed up because he thought it “looked good on resumes”; Wanda Maximoff, the only other competent senior; and then the two of you—the co-chairs who couldn’t agree on a single thing except that this club needed saving.
You liked the banter that bubbled up between rounds, the laughter that slipped out when Peter got flustered and talked himself into a corner, Wanda muttering corrections under her breath.
Even Barnes, pacing like a drill sergeant, arms crossed over his broad chest as he snapped,
“Again. Start over. You lost your entire argument the second you stopped breathing, Parker.”
You rolled your eyes every time. He ignored it every time.
And yet—not once did you miss a meeting.
Because in Debate Club, the two of you weren’t exactly enemies.
Not exactly teammates, either.
More like… two sides of the same dangerous coin, orbiting each other in a too-small classroom, every sarcastic comment sharpened to a blade.
Sometimes, when the others were talking, you’d feel his eyes on you.
A lingering second too long.
And it was always followed by something barked, dismissive, territorial—
“Ace, stop biasing the freshman with your terrible logic.” or “If you’re done being wrong, maybe we can move on.”
But the room never felt as loud as those moments.
Debate practice had already devolved into chaos by the time you arrived—Peter was frantically shuffling note cards, Bob was scrolling on his phone, and Wanda was quietly eating crackers like she was watching a nature documentary.
Leaning against the teacher’s desk like he owned the place, sleeves rolled up, hair a little mussed, tapping a pen against his stupidly smug mouth.
“Nice of you to join us, Ace,” he drawled without even turning his head.
“You’re early,” you shot back. “Congratulations. Want a sticker?”
Wanda snorted. Peter choked on air.
Bucky straightened, crossing his arms. “We’re running the environmental ethics prompt today. You’re moderating.”
You blinked. “Since when?”
“Since I decided,” he said smoothly. “Unless you’re scared you’ll screw it up like Fury’s exam the other day.”
Wanda’s eyes flicked between you two like she was ready to place bets.
“Alright,” you said, dropping your bag onto a desk. “Fine. First pair—Wanda and Bob. Peter, you time.”
The debate started, Wanda obliterating Bob in under ninety seconds, but you barely heard it.
Bucky kept pacing behind you—close enough that you felt the heat of him, close enough that you could hear the quiet huffs of his breath when he was annoyed with your calls.
Every time you raised your voice to correct Bob, you felt him pause.
Every time you leaned over the desk, his presence sharpened.
Every time you inhaled, you swore he stepped closer.
You called time on Wanda’s argument, and Bucky immediately cut in:
“That was absolutely biased.”
Your head snapped up. “Biased? She was making a structured argument. Bob was talking about—about carbon emissions giving people depression.”
Bob looked up. “I stand by that.”
“Your call was biased,” Bucky repeated. “You always go soft on her.”
“Maybe I just don’t reward stupidity,” you hissed.
“Oh?” His brow ticked. “So what do you call what you did in Fury’s class?”
Peter whispered, “Ohhhh no,” like a middle schooler watching a fight.
You crossed your arms right back, stepping into Bucky’s personal space.
“If you have a problem with how I run practice, then do it yourself.”
“Gladly,” he bit back. “Since you’re clearly too distracted.”
His eyes dipped—just for a half second—to your mouth.
“You tell me,” he murmured, low enough so no one could hear.
Heat sliced through you like a blade.
Wanda closed her notebook. “Okay. I think we’re… done for today.”
Peter was already packing. Bob bolted like someone had yelled fire.
As the door shut behind the last person, silence thickened.
You turned on him. “You’re unbelievable.”
He stepped in—one slow stride. “Say it again.”
But your breath hitched as his hand brushed the small of your back, claiming, familiar, already pulling you toward that steep drop neither of you ever admitted to.
You pushed his chest, though your fingers stayed curled in his shirt. “We are not doing this here.”
“No,” he agreed, voice rough. “We’re doing it where we always do.”
And that’s how you ended up in the supply closet for the second time that week.
This time, though, Bucky’s hand was tightly coiled around your ponytail, tugging back without an ounce of tenderness. Your exposed neck was laid out for him to enjoy—and he did, by dragging his teeth over that soft spot behind your ear, biting down just hard enough to make your knees buckle.
“Hold yourself up,” he murmured against your skin, voice low and sinful. “If you can’t handle it, Ace, just say so.”
“Shut— up—” The words broke apart as your breath hitched, your body desperate for his closeness.
Your hands were braced against the cold cement wall, fingers splayed and curling, trying to grip something flat—anything—to ground yourself. It was useless. The wall didn’t move.
His hands slid down your waist, your hips, until they settled underneath your skirt, pushing it up to expose your ass.
“Damn, Ace,” he murmured, voice molten and smug, large hands palming you without a hint of hesitation. His fingertips dug into the softest parts of you, dragging against your skin as he kneaded your flesh like he owned it. “Starting to think you wear this shit for me.”
You scoffed—sharp, incredulous—because the audacity of him.
Never mind that your breath hitched when his thumb brushed the lace.
Never mind that heat curled in your stomach at the accuracy of his assumption.
Never mind that you had, in fact, stood in front of your dresser an hour before debate and picked your best pair—the expensive ones, the ones you absolutely did not buy with anyone in mind.
You wore them because they made you feel dangerous. Untouchable.
It had nothing to do with him.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” you hissed, though your body betrayed you by pressing back into his touch, hips tilting like muscle memory. “Some of us have self-respect.”
“Yeah?” His laugh ghosted over your spine, low and infuriatingly knowing. “That why you’re shaking every time I touch you?”
“I’m not—” But your breath stuttered, cutting off the lie.
His hand slid down, the heel of his palm pressing against the heat between your thighs through that thin, humiliating scrap of lace. “This says otherwise.”
And because you hated that he was right.
And because you hated even more how good it felt.
His mouth brushed your shoulder, teasing, warm. “Tell me again you didn’t put these on for me.”
You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Your silence was louder than any admission.
And he grinned against your skin—slow, victorious, devastating.
Then he pushed into you—desperate and deep. His cock painfully stretched you, sticky, sweet pleasure guiding him into you like he was welcome. Only a few times had he taken you like this. Hard against the wall, hips snapping against your ass so feverishly that the sound was almost incriminating.
Your moans were instant. His hand shot up, muffling your cries so that this sacred secret wasn’t revealed. He grunted, like fucking you this hard pained him—but you knew better.
If this were like any of those few times, he’d be spilling into you any minute now.
“Yeah,” he groaned, the sound vibrating against your neck as he felt you clench down on him harder. “There’s my girl—”
“Not— your— girl—” you panted, even as your thighs trembled around him.
“Keep lying to yourself,” he said, punctuating it with a sharp snap of his hips, “but don’t do it in my ear.”
He was obsessed with it—the sight of your ass bouncing against his hips, soft skin meeting hard muscle in frantic little ripples, all framed by that stupid pleated skirt you pretended not to wear for him.
A fantasy he’d had for years, long before he ever got his hands on you.
Long before the arguing turned into something sharp enough to cut through both of you.
But he couldn’t—not when you arched like that, not when you took him like you were built for it, not when every grind of your hips made his brain white out.
“Fuck,” he groaned, eyes fixed on the place your bodies met, on the lace pulled tight over your thighs, on the way you pushed back like you were trying to break him. “Look at you.”
His fingers dug into your waist, guiding your movements, using you, encouraging you—he didn’t even know which anymore.
All he knew was that you felt too good.
Your nails scraped the wall, thighs trembling as you kept rhythm with his thrusts, the wet slap of skin-on-skin echoing off concrete.
You hated how much you wanted him.
And he hated how much he wanted you.
But right now, in this moment, in this cramped supply closet—you were his favorite contradiction.
And an even bigger fucking wet dream.
Because here, competition did survive—not in GPA points or who spoke first in class, but in this frantic, breathless collision of bodies.
Not who could hate the other more, like you both pretended—but who could last longer without giving in, without breaking, without letting the truth bleed into the open:
Desire had replaced rivalry a long, long time ago.
You’d gotten a break from Barnes for a bit after that disaster of a Debate practice—a mercy you hadn’t asked for, but felt down to your bones.
Midterms were creeping in with the cold, your small college looking annoyingly picturesque under the canopy of burnt-orange leaves. And as the threat of Christmas break approached—yes, threat, because nothing terrified you more than academic momentum grinding to a halt—you were forced to face a truth you’d been avoiding:
One more sprint to the finish line.
Then you’d get your degree, get your job, get your life in order.
You should’ve been happy about that.
He’d spent four years being your personal irritant—your thorn, your rival, your worst distraction.
But somewhere in the haze of arguments and orgasms, insults and stolen minutes in closets, he’d become… something else.
The library had started to fill up as midterms loomed, and it irritated you more than it should.
Seasonal students, the ones who only crawled out of whatever frat basement they lived in during exam week, suddenly decided they deserved your space, your quiet, your sanctuary.
You were here year-round—rain, shine, burnout. You put in the work. You earned these tables, this silence, these aisles.
You were, however, one of the only students to ever use the library’s archives, which baffled you. There was treasure in those shelves, just aching to be used. Your fingers skimmed the spines as you walked deeper and deeper into the archives, eyes scanning for a specific title to use as a primary resource on your final paper.
And just like you had a sixth sense for him—like your body could feel the shift in the air before your mind caught up—you realized you weren’t alone.
“Looking for a primary for Potts?” he drawled from the end of the aisle, one brow kicked up, that signature smirk already carved into place. “Crazy coincidence…I’m doing the same.”
“I wonder if this legally qualifies as stalking,” you mused, refusing to give him the satisfaction of your full attention as you continued down the row. Leather soles whispered against carpet. You could hear him fall into step beside you; you could feel him more. His fingers skimmed the spines on the shelf across from yours, close enough that your arms brushed every few steps, like static searching for somewhere to land.
“This is a public domain, Ace,” he murmured, pretending to scan titles. “Can’t stalk you if I’m just enjoying its contents.”
He sighed before remarking, “You’ve been busy,”
“It’s midterms,” You deadpanned. “Not to mention, I’m the president of like four clubs—”
“Spare me your resume, Ace, at this point I know it by heart.”
“Then why are you so shocked you haven’t seen me?”
“Because,” He drawled, lazily stopping to pull a dusty book out from the shelf, inspecting it but ultimately putting it back. “Such a busy time means the increased need for some self-care—and I know Walker isn’t helping you relax,”
You scoffed, sharp and defensive. “How could you possibly gather that? For all you know, he’s got me on my back every night, helping me calm every nerve in my body.”
In the dim light of the archives, you couldn’t see the way his eyes glowered.
“As enticing as that mental picture is,” he said, voice low, “something tells me that isn’t happening.”
“No?” You stopped at the end of the aisle—the narrow corner of the archives where the shelves funneled into shadow—and you turned to face him, arms crossing like armor you hoped he couldn’t see through. “What makes you so sure?”
He didn’t hesitate. Not for a second.
“You don’t even let him fuck you raw,” he said, tone maddeningly matter-of-fact, like he was citing a textbook. Your stomach dropped, heat punching low and hard. “You don’t let your own boyfriend feel every single…” His mouth dipped down, breath brushing your jaw. “Tight…wet… ridge.”
“But,” he continued, leaning back against the shelf with infuriating ease—like he hadn’t just stolen your breath and tucked it neatly into his back pocket. “You’d take my cock right now if I let you.”
“Jesus Christ,” you exhaled, half-laugh, half-desperation. “You’re so full of yourself. Where do you get off?”
“Inside of you.” His grin turned slow, wolfish, smug in a way that made your pulse stutter. “Every time.”
“Yeah, well…” You had nothing. Despite being one of the best members of the Debate team, you had absolutely zero rebuttal to his accusations. Because he was right. A long time ago, you’d made the decision to use condoms with Walker so you could feel every single vein Bucky had to offer.
And you hated yourself for it.
“See? You’re so tightly wound that you can’t even form a coherent argument against me. So unlike you, Ace.”
His hand landed on your shoulder in an almost-platonic gesture, but the way his fingertips pressed—just hard enough to leave a mark in your awareness—was a message all its own.
“You’re literally the reason I’m tightly wound,” you shot back, voice low, clipped.
“Seems to work out in my benefit,” he murmured, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
His other hand slid down to rest on your hip, the feather-light touch grazing your side before settling on your skirt.
Your breath hitched, sharp and sudden, caught somewhere between shock and want.
In the quiet of the archives, surrounded by the smell of old paper and dust, there was nowhere to hide.
“You know the rules,” you murmured, voice low, breath hitching as his proximity pressed against every nerve. His warm exhale brushed your ear, sending a shiver straight down your spine. “Only in the supply closet.”
“Tell me you don’t need to relax,” he countered, voice laced with feigned concern, but sharp, dangerous around the edges. “Tell me you’re not overwhelmed with everything.”
“Tell me you don’t want me to touch you.”
“Barnes.” Your whisper wasn’t a warning—it wasn’t even a word of protest. It landed like an invitation, soft and electric.
“What’s a little touching gonna do, Ace?” His lips twitched in a smirk against your skin. “We still have our closet. We still have our rules. But right now…let me just…”
His hand slid closer to the sensitive curve of your inner thigh, teasing, testing. Your fingers closed around his wrist—half to stop him, half…not. You didn’t pull away.
His lips grazed your earlobe, voice dropping to a low growl full of want. “Tell me to stop, and I will.”
Your eyes squeezed shut. Your brain short-circuited.
You couldn’t say it. You wouldn’t say you didn’t want it.
But saying you did? That was another story entirely.
You let him linger there, letting the heat and tension speak for you.
His digit plunged into you, a soft breath leaving his mouth as your legs instinctively widened for him. Your back was resting on the shelf, his hand cradling the back of your head.
His hand pressed against you, grounding you against the shelf, and a shiver ran through your body at the heat of his touch. You instinctively leaned into him, caught between wanting to pull away and wanting more.
“So fuckin’ wet,” He murmured, dipping another finger into you. Your lips squeezed together as he hooked into your folds, in and out, riding the stickiness of your arousal.
As he plunged deeper, you stifled a moan—the heel of his hand adding pressure to your aching bud, a skill you hadn’t uncovered until now. You wouldn’t ever let him do more, because you knew what would happen. Knew how your body would react. Knew how your heart would take it.
It’s why you never let him kiss you either.
You ground your hips against his hand, damn near fucking it, chasing that pleasure.
“See how good you feel when you let yourself have more?” He chuckled, pressing the heel of his hand harder onto you.
Your eyes snapped to meet his, mouth parted and lips swollen from how hard you were biting them to stay silent. “You mean letting you have more?”
“Don’t worry, Ace, you don’t have to tell me how much you’re enjoying it. I can feel how soaked you are against my hand right now,”
And then—just like that—he pulled back.
Your chest hitched. Your body pressed against the shelf as if it were holding you upright, and you froze, a flush creeping over your cheeks. “What—what are you—?” you stammered, barely finding words, your pulse hammering in your ears.
He didn’t answer immediately. Just smirked, leaning casually against the edge of the shelf, arms crossed like the world was his playground.
“I didn’t think you needed it so badly,” he said, voice slow, teasing, every word dripping with smug satisfaction.
You could only gape at him, breath catching, a mix of exasperation and heat flooding through you. “Are you serious? You—”
He cut you off with a quiet laugh, the kind that made your stomach flip. “Relax, Ace. You’ve still got the closet. Rules still stand.”
And just like that, the tension didn’t vanish—it coiled tighter, leaving you flustered, flustered in the best, most maddening way, wondering how he always knew exactly how to get under your skin.
And then, he brought his fingers to his mouth.
Without breaking eye contact, he sucked every remnant of you from his two fingers, lips puckering as your soul left your body. He took them out of his mouth with a soft pop, before chuckling.
Your chest tightened. Your knees felt suddenly weak, and your breath caught in your throat as your mind went completely blank.
“My theory was correct,” He hummed. “You taste so fucking good, Ace.”
Just like that. Out of the archives, shoulders relaxed, hands shoved casually in his pockets, smirk still tugging at his lips as if he hadn’t just dismantled your carefully constructed composure.
Leaning against the shelf, chest heaving, fingers gripping your notebook like it could anchor you back to reality. Heart hammering, knees weak, cheeks aflame—you were an absolute puddle.
If you could help it, you preferred that Bucky and Walker have minimal contact.
It made life…simpler. Easier.
Not that it was difficult—Walker would never dream of enrolling in any upper-level courses, and Bucky steered clear of athletic events like the plague. Their worlds didn’t collide. And you liked it that way.
Because sometimes the universe had a cruel sense of humor.
The Quad was alive with the lazy hum of students enjoying the sun, but your attention was locked on the inevitable disaster unfolding near the steps.
Sam Wilson lobbed a football toward Walker, who was running across the top row with his arrogant swagger. Walker’s grin widened as he caught it with ease—but his foot landed squarely on the tiny historical diorama Steve had painstakingly set up beside him. Miniature buildings crumpled under the careless stomp, streets bending like paper.
You shot upright, suddenly part of the growing circle of onlookers who had heard the crash—and your jaw dropped.
Steve’s face…oh, Steve’s face. The disappointment, the heartbreak, the quiet devastation—it hit you like a punch to the chest. You knew that feeling all too well: putting in endless hours, obsessing over every tiny detail, only to have it obliterated in a single careless moment.
“Oops,” Walker said lazily, glancing down as if he hadn’t just destroyed hours of work. “Gotta watch where you put your nerd toys, old man.”
Bucky’s head snapped toward him, eyes narrowing, lips twitching in that smug line that always made your chest tighten. “Wow,” he drawled, voice carrying across the Quad. “Real subtle, Walker. Destroying someone else’s work to feel big. Classic.”
You sank lower in your seat, wishing for a sudden invisibility spell. You could already feel the heat creeping up your neck, hoping Bucky wouldn’t escalate—but you knew this situation would be different because of who was involved.
Walker chuckled, leaning back like he’d just delivered a knockout blow. “What, he’s gonna cry about it?”
“Hey, Buck, it’s okay—” Steve started, trying to diffuse the attention before it escalated further.
“No.” Bucky’s hand shot out, cutting him off mid-word, firm against Steve’s chest—not harshly, but enough to make it clear he wasn’t joking. “It’s not okay. Punks like you,” he said, eyes zeroing in on Walker, voice low but sharp, “think you can just stomp around, show no respect to anyone, and expect the world to just…roll over.”
You sank a little lower, hiding behind your notebook, heat climbing in your cheeks. You wanted him to stop—but also…didn’t. Every calculated look he shot Walker, every sharp syllable, made your stomach twist in a way you couldn’t admit.
Walker’s grin faltered. Then, suddenly, his jaw tightened, and he grumbled: “You wanna talk about respect? How about my girl, huh? You bother her enough already. No wonder you can’t get any when you treat girls like that.”
Bucky didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. He just smiled—slow, knowing, infuriatingly smug.
You buried your face in your hands, hoping your blush could hide behind the textbook you’d hastily pulled to your chest. Every nerve in your body was screaming, keep your cool, don’t give him the satisfaction.
But Bucky? He was enjoying this far too much.
You knew it would be so easy. So satisfactory to tell Walker every single detail of you. So vindicating to emasculate him where he stood by describing just how secretly, how often, how hard he had you.
Even as a small, traitorous part of you hoped he wouldn’t.
The chaos simmered down. Nat crouched beside Steve, helping him gather the scattered pieces of his diorama, murmuring reassurances that made him look slightly less defeated. Walker stomped back to your side of the Quad, voice harsh and biting as he ranted about “that pathetic nerd,” but you barely registered the words.
Your attention was locked on Bucky.
The way his gaze found yours, just for a moment, carrying that dangerous mix of smugness and intent. It lingered long enough to make your chest tighten, your thoughts scatter.
He glanced toward the corridor, one last calculating sweep of the Quad, before moving quietly away—down the path that led to the empty wing of the building.
You didn’t mean to follow him. At least, that’s what you kept telling yourself as your legs carried you toward the quiet corridor, every step deliberate but impossible to stop.
You rounded the corner into the empty wing, heart hammering, only to find Bucky leaning against the far wall, arms crossed, jaw tight. The smirk was gone—replaced with something sharper, hotter, more dangerous.
“You followed me,” he said, voice low and clipped, eyes narrowing.
“I…” Your words faltered. You hadn’t expected this—the anger radiating off him like heat. “I just—”
“Why are you with him?” he cut in before you could finish. “Walker? That—idiot—doesn’t even see you. He doesn’t care about anything real. And yet, here you are, pretending you’re…what? Happy?”
Your cheeks heated—not from shame, but because he was right. You knew he was right. You looked away, biting your lip. “It’s…safe,” you murmured.
“Safe,” he repeated, incredulous, stepping closer, fists clenching at his sides.
You swallowed hard, words sticking in your throat. Your mind screamed at you to defend yourself, to justify it—but the truth? You couldn’t. And he knew it.
Bucky’s gaze softened slightly, but the heat didn’t leave his stance. “I shouldn’t even have to say this,” he muttered, voice rough with something between frustration and want. “You deserve more than that, and it pisses me off that you’re giving him your time at all.”
“What do you want from me, Bucky?” Your voice cracked, raw with the weight of everything you’d been holding in. “What do you want me to say? That I—”
“That you see it,” he cut in sharply, stepping closer, eyes blazing. “That you actually see yourself the way you deserve to be seen. That you stop pretending safe is enough. That you stop lying to yourself, Ace.”
You shook your head, voice barely above a whisper. “I… I’m fine. I choose this.”
Bucky’s jaw tightened. He ran a hand through his hair, frustration radiating from every taut line of his body. “You don’t choose this. You settle because it’s easy. Because you think it’s safe. And it’s not safe—it’s boring, it’s frustrating, it’s wrong. For you. You’re not meant to settle, Ace. Not for him, not for anyone.”
“I didn’t ask for this,” you snapped, scowling, shaking your head. “I didn’t fucking ask you to care. I didn’t ask you to do anything but—” Your voice caught slightly, “…fuck me in a closet when I need to forget about everything for a few minutes.”
The words hung in the air, sharp and unyielding. You couldn’t take them back. You knew it the instant they left your lips. And you knew by the look in his eyes that you’d hurt him. But hurting him was easier than admitting the truth.
“You don’t love him,” he said quietly, eyes drifting toward the far end of the hall, jaw tight, tone clipped but heavy with truth. “You don’t even like him. You like not feeling alone.”
His gaze returned to yours, piercing and steady. “But you don’t have to be. Have a nice break.”
With that, he turned and walked away, the echo of his footsteps fading down the empty corridor, leaving you raw, unsettled, and painfully aware of what you really wanted.
Thanksgiving break was unbearably boring. No papers to write. No homework to slave over. And no boyfriend to pretend entertained you.
Right before boarding the train with Walker to visit his family for the holiday, you finally did it. Broke it off. Right there, suitcases still in hand, the air heavy with the unsaid.
You weren’t sure what stung worse: the thought of missing the train home, or the way he barely even seemed to notice. His expression was flat, almost indifferent, like the break had been inevitable—and like he hadn’t really cared at all.
You let out a shallow breath, gripping the handle of your suitcase, trying to convince yourself it didn’t matter. That you’d survived worse. That this was a relief, not a wound.
But deep down, you knew the truth: it didn’t feel like freedom yet. Not without Bucky looming in the background of your thoughts, his voice, his smirk, his impossible pull.
The week after Thanksgiving dragged, filled with the dull monotony of classes and study sessions. Your schedule was predictably quiet, almost cruelly so—too quiet. And though part of you relished the absence of Walker’s clueless chatter, another part of you couldn’t stop thinking about Bucky.
It was a Thursday afternoon when you found yourself in the library, tucked into your usual corner with a stack of textbooks and notes sprawled across the table. The quiet hum of students typing and flipping pages usually comforted you, but today it couldn’t drown out the knot of tension in your chest.
Bucky, leaning casually against the edge of the reference section, laughing—laughing—with a girl you didn’t recognize. She had her head tilted toward him, hand brushing against his arm as they talked, the easy intimacy making your stomach twist.
Your pen paused mid-note, your eyes narrowing despite yourself. Something about the sight made your chest tighten, your fingers grip the edge of your notebook a little too hard.
You hated that you felt it. Hated that it hit you like a physical punch. You weren’t supposed to care—he wasn’t yours. He never had been. And yet, watching him so effortlessly engaged with someone else, seeing him smile in a way you knew he never reserved for anyone but you… it left you raw.
You shoved your notes down, trying to tell yourself it was nothing. Just a library encounter. Just coincidence. Just…him being him.
After Fury’s class, you didn’t fall into step with him. You barely acknowledged him—and, unsurprisingly, he did the same.
The words exchanged before break lingered in the air, sharp and unrelenting. Breaking up with Walker should have been liberating, but instead, it felt like a trap. For months, Walker had been the perfect excuse—not that you needed one—to ignore what you actually felt. He was safe, dull, predictable. With him, you didn’t have to face the truth: that Bucky Barnes had wormed his way under your skin, that every glance, every smirk, every infuriating word he’d thrown at you had left a mark.
Now that shield was gone. Nothing was holding you back. Nothing—but your own stubborn pride and the dizzying weight of wanting someone you couldn’t admit you wanted.
Your mind buzzed with reminders of all the ways he got to you—how he could make your chest tighten with a look, how he could make your pulse spike with a single word. And it was maddening. Because freedom should have felt good, but instead it left you exposed. Vulnerable. And painfully aware that Walker had been a convenient lie, a reason to keep yourself from admitting the truth.
You tried to focus. You really did.
Debate practice had begun, and your team was sprawled across the room, papers rustling, voices bouncing ideas off one another. But no matter how hard you tried to concentrate, your mind kept spiraling back to the library: Bucky with that girl, the library quiet except for their laughter, and the gnawing realization that he didn’t even know you’d ended things with Walker.
You opened your mouth to counter a point from Peter, then faltered, words tangling in your throat. Wanda glanced at you, brow raised, but said nothing, letting you stumble through your argument like a stranger in your own body.
“Hey,” Bucky’s voice cut through the room, low, sharp. Just your name, but enough to make your stomach lurch. He walked over, his presence a magnetic pull that you couldn’t resist. “Now.”
Before you could protest, he grabbed your wrist, tugging you toward the door. You tried to keep up, heels clacking against the floor as the debate practice noise dimmed behind you, replaced with the rapid thrum of your own pulse.
He pushed open the supply closet door and stepped inside first, shutting it with a soft click. This space that was once a haven for you two now felt like a horror-filled room of mirrors—every angle reflecting the things you didn’t want to see.
Bucky’s eyes bore into yours, and for the first moment, there was nothing playful in his gaze. “What the hell is wrong with you?” he asked, voice low, tight with frustration.
“Nothing,” you scoffed, brushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear.
“Cut the shit, Ace. You think I don’t know when something’s up with you?” His voice was low, dangerous, every word hitting like a punch.
You ground your teeth together, brows knitting. “I’m fine.”
“Yeah, right. Of course. How could I forget? You’re just fine!” His laugh was sharp, humorless, cutting through the cramped silence of the supply closet.
“Why do you care?” You snarled, stepping back slightly, though there was nowhere to go. “Seems like you’ve already replaced me in the span of one holiday break.”
Bucky’s eyes darkened, narrowing, a flicker of incredulity flashing across his face. “What are you even talking about?”
You exhaled sharply, looking away. “That…that girl. In the library. I saw you with her.”
He ran a hand over his face, exasperated, and pinched the bridge of his nose. “God, Ace, the freshman girl I’ve been tutoring? Don’t tell me you’re that stupid.”
“I am not stupid,” You growled.
“And how fucking rich of you—to get jealous when you’re the one who has a fucking boyfriend,”
“I’m not jealous,” You barked, more emotional than you wanted it to be. “And I don’t have a boyfriend anymore.”
Bucky’s eyes narrowed, jaw tight, every line of his body radiating frustration. “Oh, you don’t, huh? So all this…tense energy, the way you can’t keep your head straight in class, the way your hands fidget whenever I’m around—it’s…what? Just air?”
You looked away, heat rising to your cheeks, throat tight. “I…It’s complicated,” you muttered, barely audible.
“Complicated?” He stepped closer, the air between you thick with heat, his voice dropping low, dangerous. “Ace, it’s not complicated. You’re scared. That’s it. You’ve been lying to yourself for months. You’ve been hiding behind Walker because it was safe, boring, predictable—and now that he’s gone, what? You’re still pretending like it’s nothing?”
Your stomach knotted, chest tightening. You opened your mouth to speak, but nothing came.
“Like this is nothing?” It came out quiet. Broken.
Your eyes lifted to his, begging—just know what I mean so I don’t have to say it.
He waited. Longer than he should have. Long enough that you felt the weight of every unsaid word crushing your ribs.
He waited with this bone-deep hope that you’d finally break the spell you’d both been living under—this silent curse that trapped you in dark rooms and stolen minutes and nothing more.
“I’m done,” he finally said.
Your breath stopped. “What?”
“I can’t do this anymore.” His voice was rough, scraped raw. “I can’t sit here and pretend this doesn’t affect me. Pretend I don’t see how it affects you too. If that makes me lose—makes me forfeit this twisted fucking game we’ve been playing for so long—then fine. So be it. I’ll let you have this one.”
The words tumbled out fast, like his lungs were emptying just to survive the truth. “But I can wait. I’ve been doing it for a while now.”
You shook your head, barely, like you were afraid it would all shatter if you moved too fast. Your brows pulled together, pained. “You can’t just say stuff like that.”
“Why?” His head snapped toward you, frustration cutting through the small space like a blade. “Because it forces you to realize you’ve been doing the same?”
His chest rose and fell, slow but heavy.
“Say you don’t feel it,” he whispered, voice cracking open. “Say it, and I’ll walk away. For real.”
And the silence between you proved it.
His jaw flexed. “You know,” he breathed, almost defeated. “I love being right. But I can’t say it feels good this time.”
No lingering stare. No parting jab. No final, careless brush of his shoulder against yours.
The door clicked shut behind him, small and final, and the sound echoed louder than any fight you’d ever had.
You exhaled shakily, wondering—aching—if that was the last time you’d ever be breathless within these walls.
You’d lost sleep over Bucky Barnes before.
Countless times, actually. If you stopped self-sabotaging for more than a second, you’d realize he’d been the most consistent cause of your insomnia for the last four years.
You told yourself it was because he drove you insane in class—because you replayed every argument, every debate, every stupid smirk of his and crafted rebuttals at two in the morning. But it was deeper than that, something you refused to look at too closely.
You tossed and turned thinking about the way your pulse spiked when he cornered you over grades, or how his blue eyes pinned you in place when he had you against a wall. You’d lie awake counting the hours until your next class with him like an addict waiting for a hit.
He hadn’t left your mind in a long, long time.
Even when you were with other people, your thoughts wandered—slipping to him like muscle memory. You wondered what he was doing, what arrogant comments he was writing in the margins of his notes, who he was talking to…
Was he thinking of you too?
Admitting any of these thoughts felt like the biggest loss of all. You didn’t even care about losing the top spot in the class to him anymore—you’d sacrifice every scrap of academic validation if it meant you could win the only battle that mattered now:
Because wanting him first meant wanting him more. And wanting him more meant he could hurt you.
And that was the only score you were terrified to lose.
But he was still there—behind every page you turned, every exam you took, every corner you rounded on campus. Like a shadow you didn’t invite but could always feel.
And that was the real problem.
You hadn’t lost. Not yet.
But you were still falling.
Your hotel bed felt like a torture device.
You’d flipped the pillow twice, kicked the sheets off, pulled them back on, and still—you couldn’t settle. The room was too warm, the hallway too loud, and your brain too full of Bucky Barnes.
Which was pathetic. And infuriating.
You glared across the dim room at Wanda’s peacefully sleeping form, bundled under the blankets like a smug little burrito. Of course she got to rest. Of course your mind had decided to run a marathon tonight.
It didn’t help that this whole mess started before you even left campus—when the list went up assigning room pairings for the debate trip. You skimmed the sheet expecting, at the very least, a moral victory. Something small. Something stupid. Like a private room.
Barnes beat you there too.
His name stood alone, printed bold and proud in the “single room” slot, while yours was neatly tucked under “Room 214: Maximoff” and your last name, written like a sentence. His handwriting, of course.
You’d stared at the list like it had personally slapped you.
He got solitude—space to think. Space to breathe.
Meanwhile, you were stuck trying not to make weird noises in your sleep in front of Wanda.
And now, lying on a bed that felt too hard, you were tossing and turning because of him. Again.
You pressed the heel of your palm against your forehead, trying to rub out the thoughts.
Why did it bother you? Why did he bother you?
Why couldn’t you just be a normal person and obsess over the debate you were supposed to give in the morning instead of the boy down the hall who kept peeling you open like it was his hobby?
You rolled onto your side, facing the hotel curtains.
The room was quiet—peaceful, even—but your chest wasn’t.
Somewhere down the hall, Barnes was probably asleep already, unbothered, smug—even in rest, probably.
You couldn’t live with that.
Barnes was not going to win tonight.
Not by sleeping better than you.
You grabbed your keycard off the nightstand with a little more force than necessary, swallowing the sudden spike of nerves. This wasn’t about wanting him. This wasn’t about missing him. This was about balance. About clearing the air. About—
Okay, maybe it was also about wanting to see his stupid face.
Quietly, you padded across the dim room, cracked the door open, and slipped into the hallway. The air was cooler here, humming faintly with the sound of the ice machine down the corridor.
Your heartbeat crawled up your throat as you marched toward the last door in the row—the one with ‘Barnes’ typed neatly on the little printed slip underneath the room number.
You stopped in front of it.
And then—annoyed, sleep-deprived, heart pounding—you knocked, sharp and unforgiving.
If he was asleep, he wasn’t anymore.
The door cracked open after a beat, just wide enough for one blue eye to glare out.
“Are you kidding me?” Barnes muttered, voice rough with sleep. You had to pretend it didn’t melt your insides as you crossed your arms. He swung the door wider, revealing a very shirtless, thoroughly irritated six-foot annoyance. “It’s one in the morning.”
“Good,” you shot back. “I hope I woke you up.”
He blinked at you, slow, disbelieving. “You did. Obviously.”
For a moment he just stared, like he was trying to figure out which part of this was a dream he could opt out of. Then he scrubbed a hand over his face and leaned a shoulder against the doorframe.
You hated how your stomach flipped at the nickname—weaponized, this time. Sharp. Punishing.
“I want to talk,” you said.
He let out a short, humorless laugh. “Now you want to talk.”
He scoffed. “You didn’t give me anything worth staying in there for.”
“That’s not—” You clenched your jaw. “I wasn’t—”
“Enough.” His voice was low, but it wasn’t soft. “I’m tired, so if you’re here to get the last word or whatever—”
Your frustration snapped. “Oh my god, everything doesn’t have to be a competition.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Pretty rich coming from the girl who stormed down the hall because I got the big-kid room.”
Your mouth opened, then closed, heat flushing your cheeks. “That’s not why I’m here.”
“No?” He tilted his head, studying you like he could strip the truth straight out of your bloodstream. “Then why are you here?”
Because I can’t stop thinking about you.
But you didn’t say any of that.
Instead, you crossed your arms. “I’m not letting you go to bed thinking you’re not right.”
He whistled low. “And just so I’m on the right page here, what exactly am I right about this time?”
You took a deep breath, eyes glancing around as if you wanted to ensure no one was around for this. Like you could only bear one witness to this admission, and unfortunately, it would have to be him.
His brows furrowed, eyes still half-squinted. “This should be good,”
“Don’t make this harder for me than it already is.” You whisper-growled. “I came here… to tell you that you were right. About everything.”
“I—can I just come in? It’s freezing out here,” You scoffed, scowling at him. He reluctantly stepped aside, allowing you to pad into his small room. It was dark besides for the hall light that he’d flicked on.
You hovered awkwardly in the middle of the room, arms still crossed like they were the only thing keeping you from unraveling. Barnes shut the door with a soft, irritated click.
“Okay,” he said, gesturing vaguely. “You’re in. Now finish the sentence.”
You glared. “Can you not rush me?”
“I was asleep,” he deadpanned. “You woke me up to confess something, apparently. So yeah—speed it up.”
You inhaled sharply, fighting the urge to turn around and leave. But no—you came here for a reason. You weren’t running.
“I said,” you tried again, quieter this time, “that you were right. About everything.”
He crossed his arms now, mirroring you, leaning against the edge of the desk like he had all the leverage in the world. Which he did. Damn him.
“Which part?” he asked. “The part where you were jealous? Or the part where you’re mad at me for something you caused?”
Your mouth tightened. “I wasn’t jealous.”
He scoffed. Actually scoffed at you.
You threw your hands up. “Fine! Maybe I was a little jealous.”
He blinked—once, slow—eyes dragging over your face like he didn’t trust it.
“And?” he said. “Keep going.”
“Nope.” He shook his head, cutting you off. “You woke me up and marched down here like you had a speech prepared. Don’t stop now.”
“I feel it,” you whispered. “Whatever…this is. I feel it. And I hate it. And I hate that you’re right about it.”
He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. He just stared, something flickering behind the annoyance in his eyes.
“So let me get this straight,” he said, voice low. “You came all the way down here to tell me you feel something for me but also that you hate that you feel something for me?”
You winced. “When you say it like that, it sounds stupid.”
You glared at him, heat rising up your neck. “See? This is why I didn’t want to say anything.”
“Then why did you?” he challenged.
“Because I couldn’t sleep!” you snapped, stepping toward him without meaning to. “Because I kept thinking about you being pissed at me, and then I got annoyed because you always get to be the one who’s right, and I—”
You cut yourself off, teeth sinking into your bottom lip.
He stared at you like you’d just handed him a weapon and dared him to use it.
“…And you what?” he finally asked, voice barely above a whisper.
Then, softer, rawer than you intended:
“And I don’t want you going to bed thinking I don’t care about you.”
The silence cracked between you.
He inhaled sharply—like he wasn’t expecting that part. Like that got him.
But then his jaw set, the annoyance sliding back into place like armor.
“Doesn’t change the fact,” he said quietly, “that you still hurt me.”
Your throat tightened. “I know.”
“And it doesn’t change the fact that you had a boyfriend.”
“I said I don’t anymore.”
“Not the point,” he muttered.
Your eyes flashed. “Then what is the point, Bucky?”
His voice came rough, almost breaking despite how hard he tried to keep it steady: “The point is—it killed me. Hearing you talk about him. Seeing you with him. Acting like I was just some… academic rivalry. Some hallway hookup. It pissed me off because I wanted more.”
“And now that you’re here,” he said, stepping closer, “I don’t know if you’re telling me this because you mean it… or because you hate losing.”
And he watched it—watched you—waiting for the truth.
“I’m telling you this because…” You swallowed hard. “It’s always been you—the person who’s been in my head like some virus I can’t shake. You were my rival, but you were also the one thing I could rely on. Always.”
Bucky let out a sharp, humorless breath. “Oh—great. That’s real nice, Ace. I’m glad I could be counted on to fuck you whenever you needed to blow off steam—”
“You knew the terms and you agreed to them, Bucky! You don’t get to act like you were some innocent bystander in this.” Your voice cracked with frustration.
“You’re right,” he bit out, eyes burning into yours. “I blame myself. For getting into this when I already knew I wanted more. For thinking I could handle being the guy you snuck off with when the truth was—I never could. I always wanted more.”
“It scared me, okay?” Your words dropped to a whisper. “It scared me how fast it changed. How fast I changed. How fast it went from what it was supposed to be… to what it turned into.” You met his eyes, heart in your throat.
His jaw clenched, eyes watching you like at any moment, you’d turn and say forget it.
“Walker… I thought it was the practical choice. I was challenging myself in every other area of my life—why choose someone who challenged me too?” you continued, voice trembling as the truth finally clawed its way free. “When I met you, I… I didn’t want to let myself feel that way toward you. Why would I let myself be with someone who might actually matter?”
Bucky’s jaw flexed, but he stayed silent.
“Why would I risk choosing the person who could ruin me if it went wrong?” you whispered. “Why would I pick the guy who saw through me so easily? Who could read me better than I could read myself? Who made everything feel… dangerous.”
“Walker was safe. Predictable. Detached. He never asked for more than surface-level. He never made me think, or feel, or—God forbid—want anything real.” You shook your head slowly. “But you… you were the opposite of all of that.”
His eyes softened, but the guarded line of his mouth didn’t.
“You made me want everything I wasn’t ready to want.”
“Then why stay with him?” He gruffed.
“With him, I had an excuse. I didn’t have to think about what you meant to me, because I was with someone else. I didn’t have to look in the mirror and see that in my eyes, there was only ever one person.”
Then he swallowed hard. “Say it right.”
“You keep talking around it,” he said, stepping toward you now. “Say it the way you actually mean it. No dodging. No metaphors. Just say it.”
You had fought him on so many things—grades, rankings, debates, pride—and lost every single one. This felt like the biggest one of all.
Bucky didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t even blink.
You forced yourself to meet his eyes anyway.
The confession landed like a breaking point—quiet, raw, irrevocable.
Like the final thread snapping.
But when you dared to look at him, it didn’t feel like a loss. The way he looked at you—half stunned, half undone—told you something different. This was a win. Not the kind you gloat about or brag over, but the kind that made your chest tighten with satisfaction. The kind you savored quietly, privately.
And for once, it wasn’t just you. This time… both of you won.
Bucky’s eyes burned into yours, stormy and impossible to look away from. His hand hovered near your face for a heartbeat, then cupped your cheek, thumb brushing over your jaw with a feather-light touch that made your breath catch.
“I’ve waited so long for this,” he murmured, his voice rough and low, trembling on the edge of control.
You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. You closed the last inch between you, and his lips claimed yours like a promise—hard, demanding, urgent. His mouth moved over yours with a hunger that made your knees weak, teeth grazing in the sharpest teasing and the softest caress all at once.
Your hands went to his chest, nails sinking into the fabric of his shirt as he deepened the kiss, pressing you back against the wall. The world narrowed until it was just the two of you, heat and breath mingling, hearts hammering in the same wild rhythm.
His free hand roamed down your spine, fingers grazing the sensitive skin of your waist, pulling you impossibly closer. You tilted your head, opening just enough to let him explore, your lips parting as a soft whimper escaped you.
Bucky groaned into your mouth, letting the sound vibrate through you as he shifted, pressing himself flush against you. Every inch of him burned, every movement claiming territory you’d longed for but hadn’t dared to admit.
You gasped against his mouth as his tongue flicked against yours, teasing, demanding, tasting—every motion a silent claim. Your hands tangled in his hair, tugging him closer, pulling him deeper into you.
He broke the kiss only long enough to whisper against your lips, “You’re mine, Ace. Always have been.”
It was all he needed—the final key to unlock every piece of you he’d been craving. His hands were rough but certain, guiding you backward toward the bed. Your knees buckled the moment they hit the mattress, and you fell beneath him with a small, breathless giggle.
He didn’t hesitate. His eyes darkened with want, practically devouring you as his fingers hooked under your pajama shorts, tugging them down in a swift, impatient motion. Your panties followed just as quickly, sliding down your thighs and leaving you exposed to him.
Bucky leaned in, lips grazing the curve of your neck, each kiss a deliberate claim. His hands roamed without shame, tracing the line of your body with a hunger that matched the rapid beat of your heart.
His head vanished between your legs, his tongue swiping a stripe down your slit, finally getting to taste you like he’d dreamed of—and like you’d hoped for. His tongue lapped at you furiously, like he wanted to drink every last drop of you. Your nails tugged at his hair, the scruff of his beard tickling your thighs.
“Fuck,” You whispered, spiraling to catch your breath as his tongue sucked and popped, circling your bud with an gentle pressure. “Bucky—”
“I hear you, baby,” he murmured, lifting his hand from where it had clamped around your thigh, letting his forefinger stroke you with slow, deliberate care. The change in pet name sent violent shudders through you, your legs beginning to twitch. “I’ve got you.”
Without warning, he plunged a second finger inside, the motion sharp, impatient, testing you. Your back arched instinctively, mouth falling open as breathy moans spilled free.
Bucky’s eyes never left yours, dark and consuming, as his fingers moved with a practiced rhythm, stretching and teasing you in all the right ways. His thumb rubbed circles over your clit, fingers curling inside, coaxing you higher, faster, until every nerve in your body screamed for more.
Every touch, every flick of his fingers, every press of his thumb was too much, yet never enough, driving you higher and higher. Your breath hitched, words failing you as a coil of tension twisted tighter and tighter in your stomach.
“Bucky… I—” Your voice broke into a whimper, but he silenced it with the weight of his hand against your thigh, grounding you, holding you there.
Then it snapped. The tension unraveled, crashing through you in violent, breathtaking waves. Your back arched, hips pressing involuntarily against him, and a strangled cry tore from your throat. Heat and pleasure radiated outward, consuming every nerve, every thought, leaving only raw, shuddering need.
Bucky groaned low, deep in his chest, feeling you shiver under his touch. His fingers continued their rhythm, drawing out every last tremor, every quiver, until your body was nothing but molten heat, trembling, gasping, spent.
With a small smirk, he lifted his fingers to his mouth—a flashback to that day in the library, where you’d first ventured outside your contact—and sucked the tips clean. You clawed at his arm, tugging him down on top of you like you couldn’t wait another second without him inside you.
His gaze never left yours, dark and urgent, as discarded the boxers he wore and he positioned himself at your entrance. Your body tensed instinctively, anticipation and want coiling tight in your stomach.
“Ready?” he murmured, voice low, rough, loaded with need.
You nodded, breath hitching, fingers digging into his shoulders.
With a slow, deliberate motion, he pressed inside you. The sensation was electric, every nerve ending screaming as he filled you completely. You gasped, hips instinctively lifting to meet him, and he let out a low groan that vibrated through your chest.
He moved with patience at first, letting you adjust to every inch, every stretch, every burn of pleasure that pooled in your core. Then, when he felt you start to relax around him, he began to pull back slightly and thrust forward with slow, powerful strokes.
Your moans spilled into the room, mingling with his grunts, a rhythm that built faster and faster. He held you close, hands gripping your hips, guiding you, claiming you, as if nothing in the world existed outside of this bed, this room, this moment.
“You feel so fucking good, baby,” he growled, leaning down to press his forehead to yours, lips brushing against your temple. “So damn perfect for me.”
Each thrust was sharper, faster, harder than the last, sending shocks of pleasure through every nerve in your body.
You cried out, hips lifting to meet him, hands clutching his shoulders, nails digging into him as he slammed into you without mercy. His free hand pressed against your thigh, keeping you grounded as his rhythm became a punishing, perfect storm of need and dominance.
The sound of skin against skin, the heat of his body pressed to yours, the harsh rhythm—it all combined, and your back arched, a sharp, shuddering moan escaping as wave after wave of heat pulsed through you.
He didn’t slow. He drove into you harder, faster, each thrust pushing you closer to the edge until your knees trembled and your chest heaved, and all you could do was scream his name, shivering beneath the weight and intensity of him.
“Mine,” he growled again, this time almost a growl against your lips, “always mine.”
Every violent, raw thrust, every heated groan, every stolen breath between you two burned it into your bodies—you weren’t just together. You were consuming each other, claiming each other, lost in the chaos of heat, need, and fire.
“Yours, always yours,” You gasped, feeling your stomach tighten as pleasure overtook you again.
Bucky’s thrusts began to stutter, his grip on your hips tightening as his body trembled with the edge he’d been holding back for too long. His low, guttural groans filled the room, vibrating against your skin, and you arched instinctively into him, feeling the way he filled you completely.
“Fuck,” he growled, voice ragged, and you could feel him tense, his movements stuttering as the climax he’d been building finally broke through. Heat rolled through him in waves, pulsing deep inside you, every muscle in his body trembling against yours as he shuddered, releasing with a harsh, guttural growl.
He buried his face in your neck, letting out uneven breaths, and you held him close, your hands running down his back, stroking him as his body slowly softened against yours. The rhythm of your hearts matched, fast and racing, yet grounding, intimate.
He pulled back just enough to press a gentle, lingering kiss to your temple, lips warm and soft, a stark contrast to the fire that had consumed you both moments ago.
You breathed against him, chest rising and falling in sync, feeling the fierce heat between you settle into something softer, something you both could finally savor—a quiet intimacy in the aftermath of everything that had been burning between you.
And for the first time, in months of chaos and stolen moments, you let yourself sink fully into him, letting the world disappear until there was nothing but the two of you and the steady, soothing rhythm of your hearts together.
“I love you,” you whispered against his lips, and this time, it wasn’t just desire—it was a confession of everything you’d held back, of every stolen glance, every argument, every stolen moment that had led to now.
“I love you too,” he replied, voice low, warm, certain. “Always have.”
And for the first time in years, you didn’t feel the pull of competition, the weight of rivalry, or the ache of hidden desire. There was only him, only you, and the knowledge that whatever came next, you’d face it together.
A/N: EEEE ok I’ll be honest. Does he know by 1d did inspire this fic ok sue me. I HOPE U LOVED AND I LOVE U
Tagging my fav mooties and blogs on here to show appreciation <3 CHECK THESE PEOPLE OUT!! —> @kiatjuddae @peanutbutt3rcup @flockoff-featherface @bucky-barnes-doll @carminebarnes @the-salty-asian @avgdestitute @rorysdead @houseofhyde @barnesflowers @hqwkeyes @wildflowersandvibranium @vunblr @okaytrashpanda @navybrat817 @herejustforbuckybarnes @umbreoni @buckyfmd @sheriff-bodecker @metal-armed-muse @devililithh @milaswink @superbassbuck @54nboo @phoenix-in-writing @spdrveil @kqtholins @flourjscent @castawaycreature @vee061 @whisperingwillowxox @unificsation
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