Newspaper Club - nine
Jock!Bucky x Nerd!Reader
Summary: You transferred in for your senior year, already behind on credits and scrambling to fill an elective. As an aspiring journalist, you opt for the school newspaper—only to discover it’s a ragtag group of students who mostly shouldn’t be there. One, in particular, stands out: an infuriatingly arrogant jock, stuck in the club as punishment, who seems determined to make your life miserable.
Warnings / Tags: 18+ mdni, smut, enemies to lovers, avengers au, breakfast club vibes?, bff!bob, cheerleader!nat/wanda , football!sam/steve/walker, emo!ava, freshman!peter, big early 2000's tv show drama, annoying sharon, reader is insecure
Word Count: 7.4k hehe
Series Masterlist
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You were unrecognizable.
A few short months ago, the thought of lying on Bucky Barnes’ bed—bare legs stretched across his sheets, swallowed in one of his t-shirts while working on your Media Ethics paper—would have repulsed you.
Now?
Now, when he glanced over from where he lounged in his desk chair, controller in hand, forearms flexing as flashes of neon light from the game reflected off his face, you couldn’t stop the soft, sheepish smile that tugged at your mouth.
Outside, winter was settling in—frost creeping along windowpanes, the world hardening into something brittle and cold.
But your heart?
It was thawing.
“You let me know when you get lonely over there, Specs,” he murmured, eyes never leaving the screen as rapid bursts of gunfire echoed faintly from his speakers.
“I wouldn’t want to interrupt your very intense, very noble adrenaline seeking,” you replied lightly, flipping a page in your notebook.
You heard it—the subtle click of plastic as he set the controller down. The scrape of chair legs against the floor. Slow, deliberate footsteps approaching.
“I have a way better idea for some adrenaline,” he said.
And then he was there.
His hand—large, warm—tilted your chin upward just enough to meet his gaze. The teasing glint in his eyes lasted only a second before his mouth claimed yours.
You leaned back onto your palms, laptop still balanced on your thighs, breath catching as his kiss deepened. He shifted the computer aside with an easy flick of his hand, attention fully redirected.
His mouth trailed downward—slow at first, then hungry—brushing along your jaw, your throat, the curve of your collarbone. His hands spread over your thighs, thumbs tracing idle, possessive paths against your skin.
“I was working on that,” you whispered, though your voice betrayed you—thin, unsteady—as his lips dipped lower.
He paused just long enough to glance up at you, eyes darkened, amused.
“Keep working,” he murmured, teeth grazing lightly at the hem of your underwear.
A shiver raced through you so quickly it felt electric.
“Don’t mind me.”
“Bucky,” you warned softly—but there was no real bite in it. He didn’t respond, just sunk his fingertips deeper into your skin.
“I was actually writing something important,” you tried again, though your voice thinned as his lips pressed a lazy kiss just above the waistband.
“Mm,” he hummed, unconvinced. “Read it to me.”
“You’re not even listening.”
“I can multitask.”
The challenge in his voice sent warmth rushing through you far faster than the cold outside ever could.
You swallowed. “You’re distracting.”
“On purpose.”
Your head tilted back as one finger hooked into your underwear, nudging it to the side. His other hand gently pushed your thigh, opening space for him to kneel between.
“I told you—ah,” Your mouth fell open as his tongue lapped at your slick heat, a groan emitting from his throat at the taste. “I would only come over if you promised to let me write my paper.”
“Then write the fuckin’ paper, baby,” he murmured against you, voice rough, unsteady in a way that betrayed how much he was enjoying this. His thumb traced slow, deliberate circles that made your hips jolt. “Show me what a good student you can be.”
”Bucky,” You couldn’t help but allow the moan to flow from your lips. His focus was singular now—intent, consuming. The teasing pace he’d started with dissolved into something hungrier, more certain, as though he’d decided patience was overrated.
As if he’d been waiting for the sound, a slow grin curved against your skin. His mouth brushed along your inner thigh, a teasing nip there before he rose over you, one hand framing your jaw as he captured your lips in a kiss that felt less playful and more inevitable.
“You’re done pretending,” he murmured against your mouth.
His hands were everywhere at once—urgent now. The shirt you wore disappeared in one swift motion, tossed aside without ceremony. His gaze dragged over you, slow and heated, like he was committing the sight to memory before hunger overtook him again.
Then he was shedding his own clothes just as quickly, movements impatient, breath heavier than before.
The breath punched out of you at the sudden closeness, at the way he filled you so completely it felt dizzying. Your hands fisted into his hair, ankles locking around his waist to keep him there—deeper, closer, impossibly closer.
His forehead dropped to yours for half a second, a rough exhale leaving him like even he hadn’t been prepared for how it would feel.
The first few thrusts were controlled, almost measured—like he was savoring the way you responded to him. The way your nails dug into his shoulders. The way your mouth fell open. The way your body arched to meet every movement without hesitation.
“That’s it,” he muttered, almost to himself. “Just like that.”
Your breath grew uneven, chest rising and falling faster, hips lifting instinctively to meet him. He adjusted instantly, one hand gripping your thigh, pressing it higher around his waist, changing the angle just enough to make your vision blur at the edges.
“Oh—”
The sound escaped you before you could swallow it down.
His eyes darkened at that.
“Yeah,” he rasped. “Right there.”
The pace sharpened—not frantic, but relentless now. Each thrust hit deeper than the last, pulling tighter reactions from you. The tension in your stomach coiled, hot and electric, spreading outward until your fingers trembled in his hair.
You felt it building—that unfamiliar, dizzying swell that made your body feel too small to contain it.
“Bucky—” His name broke apart in your mouth.
“I know,” he said, voice low and strained. “I feel it.”
Your body tightened around him without permission. He groaned—deep, wrecked—and his hand slid down between you, thumb brushing in slow, intentional circles that made your back arch off the bed.
The coil snapped tighter.
Your thighs locked around him. Your pulse thundered in your ears. Every nerve felt lit, humming, stretched to the breaking point.
He didn’t slow.
If anything, he drove you harder.
“Look at me,” he demanded softly.
The pressure crested—and broke.
It tore through you in a white-hot wave, your breath stuttering out of your lungs as your body arched beneath him. Your fingers tightened in his hair, your thighs locking around his waist as the sensation rippled outward, sharp and blinding and impossible to contain.
His name fell from your lips like a confession.
He didn’t look away.
Not for a second.
“Fuck,” he breathed, voice wrecked now, watching every flicker of your face as you came undone around him. “That’s it. That’s my girl.”
Your body trembled, tightening instinctively, and that was what finally shattered his control.
He groaned low in his throat, rhythm faltering for just a moment before turning urgent. His forehead dropped against yours, breath hot and uneven as he chased the edge right behind you.
You could feel the way he was holding himself together by a thread — every muscle taut, every movement deeper, harder, desperate. Your hands slid down his back, pulling him closer like you could anchor him there.
“Don’t you dare stop,” you whispered, still breathless, still trembling.
That did it.
His restraint snapped in a broken exhale, hips driving forward one last time as his jaw clenched and his shoulders tightened under your hands. He buried his face against your neck, a low, guttural sound escaping him as he let go.
The room fell quiet except for the sound of your breathing.
Bucky eased out of you slowly, the shift drawing a quiet breath from both of you. He rolled onto his back beside you, chest rising and falling in a rhythm that gradually matched yours, the room settling into a warm, heavy silence.
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
He turned his head first.
You were still staring up at the ceiling, lips parted, glasses slightly askew where they pressed into the bedspread. Your hair fanned around you, cheeks flushed, body languid and loose in the aftermath.
A slow, satisfied grin tugged at his mouth.
When you finally turned your head toward him, the faintest blush colored your face—shy, but proud. You mirrored his grin, smaller but no less triumphant.
“You’re fucking incredible,” he murmured, voice lower now, stripped of its earlier edge.
His fingers found yours without looking, threading through them. He lifted your hand to his mouth, pressing a deliberate kiss to the back of it—not teasing. Almost reverent.
“If I fail this paper, it’ll be your fault,” you muttered, pushing up onto your elbows, hair falling into your face.
He only chuckled, completely unbothered. The mattress dipped as he stood, dragging on a pair of sweats and a clean t-shirt like he didn’t have a single academic responsibility in the world. He padded toward the bathroom, emerging a second later with a warm cloth, tossing it to you with an ease that made your cheeks heat all over again.
As the heat between you settled into something softer, you reached blindly for your phone.
Your eyes narrowed at the screen. “Oh, shit.”
You were on your feet instantly, the calm evaporating. Clothes lay scattered from earlier—evidence of impatience and distraction. You scrambled to gather them, tugging fabric into place, yanking your sweater over your head and fighting with your boots.
“What?” he asked casually, tipping his head back to drink from a water bottle. His throat flexed as he swallowed, maddeningly calm.
“How is it already—class starts in like seven minutes!”
“We’re five minutes from the building, Specs.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Relax.”
“I always walk to newspaper with Bob,” you shot back, shoving your notebook into your bag. “And Bob will have approximately nine hundred questions if I walk out of your building with you.”
Bucky sighed.
Not annoyed. Just… aware.
There it was. The reality you both kept skirting around.
For weeks now, this had existed in corners. Late nights. Closed doors. Strategic timing. Wanda being the only one in the know—thanks to that one desperate evening when you’d needed her “sextpertise,” as she’d proudly coined it.
That night had changed everything.
And now here you were, sprinting around his room trying to look like you hadn’t just been breathless in his bed mere minutes ago.
Bucky stepped closer, adjusting the strap of your bag where it had twisted.
“You act like it’s a crime,” he said quietly.
“It’s not,” you replied too quickly. Then softer, “It’s just… ours.”
His eyes held yours for a second longer than usual.
“Specs,” he murmured, brushing his thumb briefly along your jaw before letting his hand fall. “You know I don’t care who sees me walk out with you.”
Your stomach flipped.
“That’s not what I’m worried about.”
A beat passed between you.
Then he smirked faintly, stepping back and grabbing his jacket. “C’mon. I’ll walk you halfway. You can peel off and meet Bob like the upstanding academic citizen you are.”
You huffed, but you couldn’t fight the smile.
Class, in a way, became foreplay.
You became addicted to the idea that what existed between you and Bucky stayed just that—between you two. A secret stitched into the margins of your notebooks. A private headline no one else could print. You basked in the illicit sweetness of it—the improbable truth that a girl like you had somehow captured a man like him, and the only thing capable of interrupting it was the indifferent clang of a bell.
You guarded that reality like it was sacred.
The morning after that first night, Bucky had been insufferable in his happiness. He’d looked ready to carve your initials into every available surface—had half a mind to scrawl your name across the dorm door in thick black Sharpie like a territorial declaration. It took all your coaxing, all your whispered promises and sly smiles, to convince him to keep it quiet. To let it be yours.
Now, secrecy made everything sharper.
Across the classroom, beneath the hum of fluorescent lights and Pepper’s steady lecture about editing styles, you felt him like a live wire. The way his knee bounced under the desk. The subtle drag of his hand over the back of his neck—his tell. The small, unconscious tic that said he was thinking about you and not commas or syntax. You counted every one of those gestures like stolen coins.
When your eyes met, it was brief—never long enough to be obvious—but long enough to feel like a touch.
You’d tilt your pen between your fingers and pretend to take notes while your pulse stuttered. He’d lean back in his chair, jaw tight, gaze flicking down to your mouth before snapping back up to the board as if burned.
It was ridiculous.
It was intoxicating.
So when class finally ended, when chairs scraped and backpacks zipped and the world resumed its noise, you didn’t rush.
That was part of the game.
You gathered your things with deliberate calm. Laughed at something your roommate said. Waited until the hallway filled, until Bucky slipped out ahead of you like nothing at all was different. And then, only then, you followed.
Depending on whose roommate had practice, whose had a study group, whose door would be blessedly empty—the two of you mapped escape routes like seasoned criminals. Down the back stairwell. Across the quad.
By the time you reached a dorm room—his or yours—it was barely about urgency anymore. It was about the build. The restraint. The quiet click of a door shutting. The suspended second where the world outside ceased to exist.
Bucky would look at you then like he’d been holding his breath for hours.
And you would smile, slow and knowing, because you had.
The bell ripped you from your thoughts.
You startled slightly, as if you’d been caught doing something far more incriminating than daydreaming, and hurried to gather your things. Papers slid into your bag in uneven stacks, pen tucked behind your ear in a motion that looked practiced but felt rushed. You hummed lightly at some offhand remark Bob made, offering him a distracted smile that you prayed passed as normal.
But if he suspected anything now, he gave no indication.
No narrowed eyes. No teasing smirk. No pointed question wrapped in casual humor.
Just a shrug, a comment about the upcoming assignment, and the scrape of his chair against the tile floor.
Still, your pulse thrummed as you slung your bag over your shoulder.
Suddenly, you heard your name.
The break in your carefully rehearsed routine made you flinch. Your eyes snapped toward the sound, landing on Sam, who stood beside Bucky near the door. He lifted his hand slightly, clearly calling you over.
Your stomach dropped.
Your gaze shifted to Bucky. He was watching you with open amusement, like your internal spiral was the most entertaining thing he’d seen all day. There was no panic on his face. No concern. Just that faint, knowing curve to his mouth.
You, on the other hand, felt like you’d just been called to the headmaster’s office.
You adjusted your bag and walked over, trying to keep your steps even. They were standing just to the side of the doorway, as if they’d been waiting for you to pass. Your fingers tightened around the worn leather strap of your bag. You blinked once. Twice. You were suddenly very aware of your breathing.
Breathe, you told yourself.
This wasn’t new. You’d talked to Sam and Bucky together plenty of times before. Nights at Blip. Newspaper meetings. Random hallway conversations.
It just happened to be the first time since Bucky had been inside you.
The thought hit hard and fast, and you hoped to God it didn’t show on your face.
“Hey,” you said, aiming for casual. Normal. Completely unbothered.
Sam took one look at your face and immediately lost it.
His hand flew to his chest as he leaned back, mouth falling open in full, unrestrained laughter. It wasn’t subtle. It wasn’t polite. It was loud enough that a few people in the hallway turned.
Your brows pulled together. You shot another look at Bucky, who only lifted one shoulder in an infuriatingly calm shrug.
“Wow,” Sam managed, swiping at the corner of his eye. “You guys are not subtle at all.”
“W-What?” You coughed, heat climbing up your neck. Your eyes narrowed at Bucky. “You told him?”
The three of you fell into step naturally as you filtered out into the hallway, backpacks bumping lightly against your shoulders.
“Wanda knows,” Bucky said, voice low but thoroughly entertained. “Someone of mine should know.”
“Not Steve?” you asked before you could stop yourself.
“Okay, ouch,” Sam scoffed, placing a hand over his heart again.
Bucky shot you a look. “If Steve knows, Nat knows.”
You winced. “True.”
Sam huffed. “For the record, nobody told me. I went up to Bucky after class because I just watched him stare at you for the last forty-seven minutes like you’re some desert oasis and he’s the last starving camel in the Sahara.”
Bucky groaned. “Wonderful imagery there, Wilson.”
“I enjoyed it,” you said lightly, despite the way your stomach flipped.
Sam pointed at you. “See? She enjoyed it. And I’m right.”
Bucky muttered something under his breath, but he was smiling now—wide enough that he wasn’t even pretending anymore.
“Were you really?”
Bucky leaned a little closer as you walked, lowering his voice just enough. “You make it hard not to.”
Your pulse jumped.
Sam gagged dramatically. “Oh my God. I regret everything. I don’t need front-row seats to whatever this is.”
But he was grinning.
And despite the embarrassment, despite the fact that your secret suddenly felt a little less airtight—you couldn’t help the small, satisfied smile tugging at your mouth.
Maybe you weren’t subtle.
But apparently, neither was he.
Sam rolled his eyes. “This weekend is the last Blitzmas before we graduate. Go as Bucky’s date and stop pretending no one is picking up on the eye-fucking.”
Simultaneously, Bucky groaned while your brows pulled together.
“That’s this weekend?”
“What the hell is that?”
Sam just grinned wider, clearly thrilled to be the one delivering the information. “I forget you’re still new. It’s this massive party in the woods behind the football field. Last day before winter break. Giant bonfire, ugly sweaters, terrible decisions. Very poetic.”
“And a concerning amount of substances,” he added casually.
Your eyes widened slightly, and you turned to Bucky.
He already looked like he was bracing himself for your reaction.
“You don’t have to do anything,” Bucky cut in quickly, shooting Sam a pointed look. “It’s just tradition. Break starts the next day, so technically there’s a pause in testing for the athletes. The football team named it, because of course they did.”
“Blitzmas,” Sam said proudly. “Blitzed. Christmas. It’s layered.”
“It’s stupid,” Bucky shook his head.
“It’s iconic,” Sam corrected.
You glanced between them. “So this is like… mandatory?”
“Socially?” Sam shrugged. “Kind of.”
Bucky bumped his shoulder into Sam’s. “Ignore him. You don’t have to go.”
But there was something in his tone—hopeful, maybe. Careful. Like he wanted you there, just not at the expense of your comfort.
Sam smirked. “Just saying. Last one before we graduate. Might as well make it memorable.”
Your gaze flicked back to Bucky, catching the way he was watching you—curious, a little cautious.
Blitzmas.
Bonfire. Woods. Ugly sweaters. And apparently, no one buying that the two of you were subtle.
You exhaled slowly. “I would need a very good sweater.”
Sam snapped his fingers. “That’s the spirit.”
Bucky tried not to smile.
Failed.
“I just want to get this straight,” Nat’s voice came out garbled around the toothbrush hanging from her mouth. “Not only are you going to Blitzmas, but you’re going with Bucky?”
You gave a small, sheepish shrug, unable to stop the smile tugging at your lips.
Wanda was posted in your doorway like this was live entertainment, eyes bright with a mix of excitement and vindication.
“When the hell did this happen?” Nat demanded, spitting into the sink and pointing her toothbrush at you like an accusation.
“If you weren’t so busy with Steve’s tongue down your throat,” Wanda chimed in sweetly, “you would’ve noticed the way they stare at each other in newspaper.”
You groaned, dragging a hand down your face. “Okay, seriously. Are we that obvious?”
“Yes,” they said in unison.
You grabbed the nearest throw pillow and smashed it into your face, hoping it absorbed both the sound of your embarrassment and the heat crawling up your neck.
“I can’t believe this,” Nat said, grinning at you through the mirror. “Look at us, roomie. Dating best friends. That’s efficiency.” She wiggled her brows. “Now if only Wanda would get on board and jump Walker—”
Your eyes shot to Wanda’s.
She looked at you with blatant panic, wide-eyed and silently begging.
You’d promised her. And meant it.
So you cleared your throat loudly and pulled the pillow away. “Do you have an ugly sweater I can borrow?”
Nat dropped the Walker commentary instantly.
“Yes,” she gasped, abandoning the sink and grabbing your wrist. “Absolutely. Wait until you see the one I wore sophomore year.”
You barely had time to brace yourself before she was hauling you toward her closet.
Behind you, Wanda mouthed thank you.
You just gave her a quick nod before Nat flung open the closet doors dramatically.
“This,” she announced, digging through hangers, “is going to be the best Blitzmas yet.”
And somehow, that felt both thrilling and mildly concerning.
She was relentless. She yanked hangers left and right, holding sweaters up to you like they were auditioning for a Broadway role. “This one. No—wait—oh, this one.’ Perfect for Blitzmas.”
You held it up to yourself hesitantly. Red, green, sequins everywhere, a reindeer doing something vaguely inappropriate. Cute? Sure. Subtle? Not even close.
“Nat… this is… loud,” you said, eyeing the sweater warily.
“Loud is good,” she said, holding it against your chest. “You want people to notice you. Especially him.”
You froze at the thought. Him. Bucky. Your pulse jumped at the mental image of walking into the woods behind the football field, everyone looking at you—and him, standing there like your co-conspirator in front of the world.
“Are you even listening to me?” Nat’s hands were on your shoulders now, adjusting the fit, tugging at the sleeves, smoothing down the sequins that pricked your fingers.
“Mm-hmm,” you mumbled, your stomach fluttering, mind buzzing with nerves.
“Breathe,” Nat said, ignoring your distraction. “You look… ridiculously cute. Like, dangerously cute. If I saw you across the room, I’d—”
“Nat!” Wanda’s voice cut in, teasing but worried. “Maybe tone it down before she melts into a puddle of embarrassment.”
You laughed nervously, tugging at the sweater self-consciously. “I don’t know if I’m ready… I mean, going to a party with Bucky… everyone will see us.”
You’d spent the entire day turning the scenario over and over in your head, each iteration more nerve-wracking than the last.
The secrecy you’d cherished, the little bubble where it was only ever you and Bucky, was about to be shattered—right there on the dirt. The woods would be full of bodies, music thumping, bonfire smoke curling, and he would be publicly displaying you as his new girl.
Who just so happened to be the girl that wrote the exposé about his ex-girlfriend.
Which brought you to another frightening thought—Sharon. She was already on your trail at the football game, and you’d attempted to convince her nothing was there between you and Bucky—back when you were also trying to convince yourself.
Now, there was no denying it tonight. You’d be with him, hand in hand as people passed around joints or whatever they did at this thing.
There was no going back. No hiding behind glances across a newspaper room. No “just between us” smiles. Tonight, it was real. Hand in hand. Everyone around, passing joints, bottles, whatever people did at these things. The idea of being watched, judged, dissected—it was terrifying.
And yet… there was that tiny, almost imperceptible spark of thrill, too. Because Bucky was going to be there, and he was going to be yours in a way that couldn’t be secreted away this time.
And somehow, despite the nerves clawing up your chest, you wanted that.
Parties like this, you quickly learned, didn’t really start until after 10 p.m.
By then, the faculty and staff had disappeared, and the campus was quiet enough to make the darkened field feel almost secret. Hordes of students spilled across the grass, their tinsel, sequins, and neon accessories catching the pale moonlight in flashes as they moved.
As much as you hated to admit it, it was… beautiful.
The massive bonfire threw a warm, flickering glow across the surrounding trees, casting long, dancing shadows. Music pounded from strategically placed speakers, a chaotic mix of pop hits and throwback jams. Students in ridiculous sweaters clustered in circles, laughing, swapping stories, some holding drinks, others passing joints, their voices blending into a low, excited hum.
For a moment, you felt like you belonged. Like you were part of something bigger than yourself—a living, breathing moment that this class would carry with them long after winter break ended. You weren’t just an observer tucked at the edges of the night. You were a participant, woven into the pulse of the crowd, part of the memory, the chaos, the reckless joy.
The thought made your chest tighten—not just from nerves, but from the odd, warm thrill of being here. Not alone. Not just you.
Hand in hand with Bucky.
“You’re okay, Specs,” Bucky murmured, his voice low and warm, like honey sliding into the cold bite of the night.
Beside you, Nat and Steve were deep in an animated discussion of past Blitzmas disasters, while Wanda laughed, adding gleeful tidbits to the stories. Sam appeared with a solo cup of cider, warm and spiked just enough to thaw your frozen fingers. You accepted it with a small, grateful nod.
As you sipped, letting the warmth spread through your chest, you allowed yourself to think that maybe… this wasn’t so bad.
“Your nose is red,” Bucky said, peering down at you. His breath puffed small clouds into the cold air. “It’s cute.”
You sheepishly smiled, tugging slightly at the edge of your sweater. “This sweater isn’t very insulating,” you admitted.
Without a word, his hands came up to your sides, rubbing your arms in long, deliberate strokes. Heat spread from his palms, not just along your skin, but deep into your chest, down into your stomach.
You leaned slightly into him, letting the warmth—and the closeness—ground you. The world around you—bonfire glow, music, the chaos of students—blurred. All that mattered was this small, perfect moment, Bucky’s fingers brushing against you, your heart pounding loud enough to rival the music, and the strange, delicious reality that you were his… and he was yours.
Bucky’s hands lingered for a moment before he stepped back, giving you a teasing smile that made your stomach twist.
“I’m going to check in with the guys,” he muttered, nodding toward a cluster of football players heading toward the edge of the bonfire where a makeshift bar had been set up. Steve and Sam had already headed that way.
You blinked. “Shots?”
Bucky shrugged. “Tradition. Don’t worry, I won’t let anyone spike yours.”
And just like that, he was gone, weaving through a crowd of sweating, sweatered students. You sipped your cider, trying to focus on something other than him disappearing from your side.
Behind you, you heard the blink and click of a camera–you turned abruptly, face contorting in excitement when you saw Bob standing there, donning a hideous plaid sweater.
“Oh my god,” You gasped. “I’m so glad you’re here—I’m kind of freaking out,”
“Sam convinced me,” His eyes scanned the crowd. “Dare I say we’re kind of friends?”
“You? Friends with a football player? What twilight zone have I stepped into?”
“The same one where you and Barnes are holding hands in public.”
Your face, warm from the haze of spiked cider and guilt, slowly slid into a smile. “Surprise?”
“Yeah, to no one.” He chuckled. “I was just waiting for the day you two finally gave in,”
“Shut up,” You gave his shoulder a light push. “It’s new,”
“Maybe to you. Not to the rest of us.”
“I am so tired of hearing how damn ‘obvious’ we are,” You laughed, mouth hanging open in shock. “We’ve spent the entire semester at each other’s throats,”
“Fine line,” He sang.
You rolled your eyes but couldn’t stop the grin from spreading across your face. Seeing Bob here—your friend, your safe spot—made holding Bucky’s hand feel a little less terrifying.
Bob tilted his head, nodding toward the bonfire where Bucky and the football guys were taking shots. “So… looks like you survived the public debut with ‘ol Barnes?”
You swallowed, hands tightening slightly around the cup of cider in yours. “Barely. But he’s… he’s fine. I’m fine.”
Bob smirked knowingly. “Yeah, you look fine. I like the outfit. But don’t tell him I said that—he practically sized me up before about being into you.”
You laughed, a little breathless, letting some of the tension in your chest ease as the chaos of the night felt a little more manageable. “You’re joking. Us?”
“Barnes is a man at the end of the day,” Bob said, voice low, almost conspiratorial. “Primal. Ready to fight for what’s his.”
Your pulse hit a new high. “You’re terrible,” you muttered, hiding your grin behind the cup.
“I’m gonna be a freak and take some photos, I’ll see you later—and I’ll be expecting details,” Bob said, lifting his camera toward you with a grin.
“Never,” you giggled, swiping at him playfully before your gaze drifted to Wanda, who was swaying slightly, clearly buzzed from the cider.
“Roomie!” she squealed, flinging her arms around you in a sloppy hug, a sweet, silly smile plastered across her face. You laughed, leaning into her, but your eyes flicked across the party, scanning for Bucky. You already missed him. He was probably somewhere in that mass of macho football players, arms crossed, rolling his eyes at Steve’s antics, perfectly in his element.
“Roomie, I’m afflicted,” Wanda said dramatically, clutching your arm as though your very presence was her only salvation.
“What’s up, Wan?” you asked, still laughing.
Her finger shot to her lips in a comically serious hush. “Ava’s here,” she whispered. “She’s over there with her friends.”
You followed her line of sight and spotted Ava, sitting a little apart from the crowd, all dark grunge and aloofness, clearly untouched by the holiday chaos—or the ugly sweater requirement.
“Why don’t you go talk to her?” you suggested, finishing off the rest of your cider in one gulp.
“She doesn’t want anyone to know. Can’t even talk to her in public,” Wanda whined, dropping her voice to a conspiratorial tone.
Something clicked in your chest.
This… this was how you were with Bucky. Keeping things behind closed doors. All the stolen moments, the hand-holding, the quiet… for what? To dodge judgment? To avoid awkward questions?
Seeing Wanda, affected, worried about someone else’s comfort, made it hit you in a new way. You could almost feel the weight of keeping someone you cared about in the dark, the frustration, the isolation.
Suddenly, you wanted to find him.
“I’ll be back,” you told Wanda, giving her a quick wave before weaving through the crowd, intent on finding the only person you wanted to be seen with right now.
Near the makeshift bar, Bucky had just downed a shot with his teammates, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He tossed the small plastic cup into a black trash bag and turned, immediately spotting someone in his path.
“To what do I owe the honor?” His voice was flat, bored, the kind that dared you to push further.
“Did you seriously pull up to this party with her?”
Bucky’s eyes rolled so far it was almost theatrical. “Did I come to Blitzmas with the girl I’m seeing? Yes. Quite astute of you, Sharon.”
“Bold of you, Bucky,” she said, narrowing her eyes, “after writing that heinous article with her.”
“Sorry you’re meeting the consequences of your own actions,” he said smoothly, shrugging.
Her ponytail swayed as she scoffed, rolling her neck. “I don’t think you want to meet yours.”
“I’ll take my chances. Just leave us alone,” he said casually, keeping his tone measured. He knew by now that Sharon fed off reactions; giving her anything more than indifference was a mistake.
But before he could step around her, she held out a hand, forcing him to pause. She lifted onto her toes, her voice dropping near his ear. “Let’s just get out of here. Forget all the… bullshit we’ve been doing.”
Bucky leaned back slightly, shrugging. “Doesn’t work anymore.”
With that, he finally stepped past her, ignoring the sharp edge in her stare, and strode toward the crowd, scanning the bonfire-lit chaos.
And there you were, standing just a little apart, cider in hand, sweater ridiculous but perfect, looking like the only person in the world he wanted to be with tonight.
His lips curved into a small, unguarded smile. That was all he needed.
He navigated through the throng, dodging dancers and spilling drinks, until he reached you.
“Specs,” he murmured, voice soft now, private, just for you.
You grinned, your nerves melting into warmth. “Hey.”
He held out his hand. You took it without hesitation.
You were still holding Bucky’s hand, feeling a small rush of triumph at finally being seen together, when a sharp collision of elbows and a spray of liquid hit your side.
“Oh—shit!” you yelped, stepping back, and froze as warm cider soaked the front of your sweater.
Sharon stood a few feet away, wide-eyed and pretending to be shocked, her hand flailing dramatically toward the cup she’d “accidentally” knocked over.
“I—I’m so sorry!” she exclaimed, voice exaggerated, completely overdoing it for effect. “Oh my god, I didn’t see you there!”
Your heart sank. Heat—not just from the cider—spread through your chest, mixing with embarrassment. People were already turning, some laughing, some whispering. The bonfire’s glow suddenly felt like it was spotlighting you, highlighting every soaked sequin and ridiculous reindeer.
“Seriously?” Bucky muttered as his hand tightened around yours, his jaw clenching. “Specs…” he murmured, low, warningly, his eyes narrowing toward Sharon.
You shook your head, cheeks burning, and stepped back. “I—I’m fine,” you stammered, though your voice sounded small even to yourself. You couldn’t handle the attention, couldn’t deal with Sharon’s smirk, couldn’t stand the thought of everyone seeing.
Without thinking, you turned and bolted—quietly, hoping to disappear into the edge of the crowd, the trees, anywhere away from eyes and whispers.
“Hey!” Bucky called immediately, sprinting after you, weaving between laughing students and overturned cups. “Wait!”
You didn’t look back. You just ran, trying to ignore the wet cling of your sweater against your skin and the heat creeping into your face from mortification.
“Specs—come on!” Bucky’s voice was closer now, his long strides eating the distance between you. He reached out and caught your elbow, gently pulling you to a stop behind a cluster of pine trees, just far enough away from the bonfire’s chaos.
You leaned against a tree, gulping in sharp breaths, cider soaking through your sweater, cheeks flaming. “I… I just… can’t…”
Bucky crouched slightly to meet your gaze, hands still on your arms, warm and grounding. “Shh. Hey. You’re fine. She’s just…being a fucking—.”
“I feel like everyone saw,” you muttered, voice small, staring at the mess on your sweater like it was a personal indictment.
Bucky shook his head slowly, lips quirking. “No. Not everyone. And even if they did, who cares? You’re with me. I’m not leaving your side tonight.”
“I…don’t belong at this stuff, Bucky. This was just proof—”
“Look at me.” His voice was quiet, demanding. A tone that forced your eyes to his. “Where you belong is with me. End of story.”
Your pulse started to steady, though embarrassment still throbbed in your chest. Somehow, just being with him, even soaked in cider and humiliated, made the night feel survivable.
“Alright,” he said, voice low and teasing, though there was no judgment. “ Let’s fix this.”
You groaned. “I don’t even know where to start.”
Bucky crouched slightly, reaching for the bottom of your sweater. “We improvise,” he said. His fingers deftly tugged and shook out the wet spots, smoothing the fabric as best he could. “Better?”
A little. Not perfect, but better. You gave a small nod, too resistant to meet his eyes.
“Hey,” he murmured, tilting your chin up gently with one hand. His thumb brushed over the wet patch on your cheek, and you shivered. “Don’t look so mortified. You look… ridiculously cute.”
Your breath caught. “Ridiculously?”
“Yeah,” he said, eyes glinting with that mix of amusement and warmth he always carried for you. “Like…I didn’t even know wet cider could look good, and yet here we are.”
You laughed despite yourself, the tension in your chest loosening a little. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Maybe,” he admitted, leaning just a little closer. “But I’ve got to keep my girl from running off crying in the woods.”
Your cheeks burned hotter, but this time it wasn’t just from embarrassment—it was the way he said my girl, so quietly, like it belonged to both of you and no one else mattered.
Bucky tugged gently at your hand, letting you cling to him just enough to steady yourself. “You know what?” he muttered, voice low and easy, eyes scanning the distance back toward the bonfire. “Let’s just get out of here. This stuff…” He gestured vaguely at the crowd, the cider-spilling drama, the flashing lights. “…is overrated anyway.”
You blinked, startled. “Leave?”
He shrugged, smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Yeah. I’ve seen enough chaos for one night, and I’d rather spend it somewhere… quieter. Somewhere with you.”
Your chest squeezed, heat rushing back—from the way he said it. Somewhere… with you.
“Okay,” you whispered, letting him guide you through the woods, the sounds of the party fading behind you. Branches brushed against your sweater, cold against your skin, but Bucky’s presence beside you made it feel like the world was shrinking to just the two of you.
And then he led you the rest of the way back to his place, quiet streets and dim building lights guiding you there. The door closed behind you with a soft click, shutting out the chaos, the smirks, the judgments, everything you’d just left behind.
“I’m… sticky,” you muttered, tugging at the front of your sweater. The cider had soaked through, and the cling of sequins to your skin was driving you a little nuts.
Bucky’s eyes softened, but the smirk never fully left his face. “Yeah… I can see that. Want me to help?”
You shook your head, cheeks pink. “I’m gonna… shower. Clean up before I look like a cider zombie.”
He stepped closer, letting a hand hover near your shoulder. “Do you want… company?” His voice was low, teasing but careful, gauging your reaction.
Your eyes widened slightly, heat flooding your cheeks in a mix of leftover embarrassment and… anticipation. “I mean… if you want to.”
He grinned, that slow, mischievous grin that always made your pulse spike. “I want to.”
You let him lead the way to the bathroom, your hand brushing his as you moved, sending little jolts of warmth through you. Once inside, you kicked off your shoes and peeled off the sticky sweater, tossing it into the hamper.
Bucky leaned casually against the wall, watching, eyes flicking to you with a mix of amusement and affection. “Wow,” he murmured. “You really do look cute in disaster mode.”
The moment you stepped under the hot water, the chill of the night and the sticky cider instantly vanished, replaced by the heat cascading over your skin. Steam curled up in thick, curling clouds, fogging the mirror and wrapping the small bathroom in a warm haze.
Bucky stepped in behind you, close enough that you could feel the solid press of his chest against your back. His arms slipped around your waist, hands sliding lightly over your sides. The heat of his skin sent shivers through you, and the contrast with the hot water made your pulse spike.
“You’re… warm,” he murmured, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. His voice was low, teasing, but there was something softer underneath, something steadying.
You shivered again, the sound coming out as a breathy laugh. “You’re shameless.”
“Maybe,” he said, nipping gently at your neck, fingers tracing lightly down the curve of your ribs. “But you like it.”
You tilted your head back against him, water streaming over your hair, over your shoulders, down the slick line of your spine. “I—yeah,” you admitted, breath hitching. “I do.”
He pressed closer, chest flush against your back, hands sliding lower, over the slick skin of your thigh. The steam swirled around you, heavy and warm, making it feel like the two of you were the only people in the world.
“What a mess,” you whispered, a laugh slipping out as he leaned his head near yours, his hair damp and brushing against your cheek.
He hummed, voice husky. “Even soaking wet and sticky five minutes ago, you’re… fuck.”
Your knees wobbled slightly, and he steadied you, one hand on your hip, the other brushing down your side, water mixing with the heat of his touch. “Bucky…” you breathed, and he just grinned against your skin.
“Shh,” he said softly. “Just… let me.”
You gasped, shivering harder, pressing back into him, hair plastered to your face, water streaming over every inch of skin. His hands moved higher, over your sides, fingers brushing along the front of you, teasing, sending sparks of heat and tension through your body.
“Bucky… stop teasing me,” you breathed, but the laugh in your voice betrayed you—every nerve alive, every inch of you humming with the closeness, the steam, the heat.
He chuckled against your skin, voice husky. “Stop? I don’t think so. Not tonight. Not here.”
His lips found yours then, soft at first, teasing, brushing along yours through the mist, before pressing more firmly. The water streamed over you both, hot and heavy, mixing with the heat of your bodies pressed together, steam curling like smoke around every inch.
You melted into him, hands roaming his chest and arms, tugging him closer, letting every brush, every kiss, every touch overwhelm your senses. He groaned softly against your lips, and the sound sent another shiver down your spine.
“God… you’re so good like this,” he murmured, voice low, rough with huskiness. “So warm… so perfect.”
But underneath it all, there was something more. The way he hadn’t hesitated to take care of you tonight, the way he felt like an escape, like safety itself had taken shape in the curve of his arms. The eagerness in him to make you feel seen, cherished, protected—it wasn’t just desire. It was something softer, raw, unraveling quietly in front of you.
And in you… something was falling apart. Fast. Violent in its sweetness. The walls you’d built around your heart, the careful control you’d maintained all semester, were cracking. And the pieces weren’t scattering—they were being pulled, inevitably, irreversibly, into him.
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.
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A/N: r u guys rocking with this .. I write these in increments so I’m sorry if sometimes it’s repetitive 😭
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