my existence is a scandal

Candlelight had been your sole provider of light for most of the evening. Your tired eyes creased at the corners as you scanned over the various drafts, letters, and requests that had overtaken your dining table, your mind reeling in a dizzying whirl trying to organize it all. Your husband's own duties had piled up of late, with him leaving your bed well before dawn most mornings and secluding himself in his solar far into the night. And on fortunate days when he returned to your chamber earlier than anticipated, he retired to bed earlier than you, with one of his histories in hand and his wine perched on the bedside table; he sipped it carefully, glancing at you between pages. "Do you think the Baratheons and the Tyrells would be tolerant of one another?" you asked in a resigned tone, rubbing your eyes with the back of your wrist.

"Mm," he mused into his glass while he turned the page. His mismatched gaze briefly flicked up to where you sat, lingering on the stubborn jut of your jaw as you muttered thoughtfully to yourself. "I think your eyes need rest, and the issue will resolve itself tomorrow." A grumble of annoyance escaped you. His mouth curved slightly in response as he returned his attention to the book. "I believe Lord Lyonel will find anyone tolerable so long as he has enough ale at his disposal." "Fair point," you huffed in agreement, eyes dragging up to rest on where he sat atop the deep-red covers of your shared bed, clad in a robe as black and silken as a raven's feather. The ties had come loose in the hours since you helped him into it, allowing you a generous view of his lean chest and the dark hairs that adorned it. A familiar heat settled low in your stomach at the sight, knowing he would shed it all soon when you both retired fully for the night. The longer the thought lingered in your mind, the more you felt the ache in your neck and the strain in your wrists. And the more you wished to curl up against his chest and bask in his warmth while he read until his own eyes started to tire. A small draft carried through the room, filling your lungs and snapping you out of your thoughts. You dropped your gaze to the inky cloth you had been using all evening, running it deftly across your hands before you stood, crossing the room to the balcony. "You won't find the answer out there," he called from where he sat, a hint of amusement coloring his voice. You rolled your eyes at that, folding your arms against your chest and propping yourself against the wind-kissed stone of the archway. Each slow inhale of night air eased the tension your mind refused to cast aside. Baelor looked up from his novel once more, noting the contemplative distance in your gaze and the way you chewed on your thumbnail, just like you always did when you were nervous or troubled. His watchful eyes moved over every taut line and gentle curve painted by the faint blue gleam of night across your skin. The fragile silence that had settled between you was soon broken by the soft thud of him closing his book and setting it aside with a sigh. "Come to bed, my love," he commanded quietly, propping himself on his elbow while his gaze dipped briefly to your backside. It had become rare to even speak to him past noon, much less to have him calling you so sweetly to bed, with only the wish to hold you and savor the few moments unburdened by his duties. The familiar tinge of guilt gnawed at the back of your mind, wanting nothing more than to fall into his embrace and let his strong arms and tender hands soothe your constant pondering and the day's aches. But your mind would not rest until you at least had some semblance of structure for the seating chart. When you did not answer after a moment, he pressed further, tilting his head to the side. "My love," he said, a slight edge creeping into his tone. The usual stern crease of his brow deepened as he saw you turn back towards the table.

"Hm?" you mused, making your way back to the table. Your hands immediately found purchase against the hard oak, urgently sifting through scattered papers for your quill as an idea popped into your head. The heavy weight of his stare tracked every movement you made. "Don't make me ask again," he said with that soft-spoken authority that usually made you pause. But in this instance, you had been so consumed by the fleeting idea that you neglected to even hear him rise from the bed with a hushed grunt or notice the unhurried steps he was making towards you now. "I still need to wash my hands and put out the—" You stopped when his slender fingers wrapped around your arm, halting your gestures; his other hand snagged your earlier cloth off the table. His eyes met yours instantly; the dying embers of the hearth melted into the warm amber of his left eye—silvery gleams of moonlight along the tiled floors reflected into the striking blue of his right. A sight that had never failed to enchant you, even more so when you felt him take the cloth tenderly to your fingers, wiping away every worry and idea you had been contemplating. "No more excuses," he stated, raising his brows in the barest of an arch. His eyes never left yours, almost daring you to protest while he worked the cloth over your stained fingers with the leisure and practiced ease of a man who had all the time in the world. Never rough, never chaste, just sure in his movements, sure in bringing you comfort. You held his stare for a long moment, letting out a resigned sigh when you realized any protest you made in your defense would be futile.

"Fine," you conceded, as he licked the edge of his thumb, brushing it tenderly over the worn dot of ink on your cheek until it refused to mark your skin any longer. The gentleness of his touch against your stressed form reminded you of the heaviness that had been settling over you all evening, slow and inevitable as a stone finding the bottom of a pond. "I don't usually have to battle you to get you to lie beside me," he murmured fondly against your forehead, his hand coming to cradle the back of your head as he pulled you into him. "You're right; I usually have to battle you for the privilege," you said, only partially in jest. He chuckled lightly at that, knowing the truth in your words. Your hands glided to the loose opening of his robe, reveling in the warmth of his skin. He hummed at the notion, pulling away just enough so he could rest his calloused palms on your hips, just a bit too low to be proper in any other instance.

"I will deal with the seating arrangement tomorrow," he said, looking down at you, watching the way your eyes followed your fingers as they came up to thread through the grey edges of his beard. Your arms eventually came to rest around his neck, partially resting your tired weight against him.

"Baelor, please—"

"No, I will not hear any of it, no more about this seating arrangement tonight," he stated as he hoisted you up with ease, in spite of the fatigue he carried. You yelped in surprise, legs wrapping around him instinctively as he carried you to the bed. He set you down gently against the pillows, placing a delicate kiss on your lips before leaning back to admire the way your hair fanned out along them. The way he looked at you, like he was trying to brand this sight into his mind as a remedy for every hour you spent apart, made your heart flutter against your chest.

"Entirely unfair; I can't pick you up," you grumbled, your eyes lingering on the way he slipped his robe off his shoulders, leaving him in just his small clothes.

"You've never complained about me picking you up before," he said wryly, tossing the robe onto the nearby chair. Your eyes dipped to the gentle lines of aged muscle along his abdomen as he climbed over you, the bed dipping marginally under his weight. His lips lowered to plant slow kisses across your neck before dragging them across the subtle curve of your jaw to nibble your earlobe between his teeth. You giggled, squirming slightly at the soft pricks of his beard against your skin. The retort that had been building on your tongue slowly ebbed away like the dying light of a candle.

A moment later his lips reluctantly parted from your skin as he dropped next to you fully, the bed creaking softly as he rolled onto his back. His arm snaked its way around your side, pulling you insistently into him. The hard planes of his body melted against the delicate frame of yours. Your hand rested along his chest, while his slender fingers caressed the smooth skin of your shoulder through your nightgown.

"I will allow your help under one condition," you hummed, a hint of exhaustion creeping into your tone. His ministrations faltered for the barest of seconds as he swallowed the urge to press the matter; a long sigh left him instead.

"I don't recall saying the matter was up for negotiation," he said simply, his fingers climbing up your shoulder, beginning to rub the stiff muscles along your neck.

You let out a hushed groan as his fingers pressed tighter into a particularly sore spot. "I want you to be here when I wake," you said, your voice strained as you ignored his deflection.

He shifted slightly, devoting his full attention to you. The dim lighting of the room rendered you unable to fully discern his features but you could see enough to notice the way his gaze softened as he registered the stubbornness in your eyes.

"Very well," he relented with a slight bow of his head. You smiled immediately at his words, scooting your body closer to his as you chased his warmth. His lips ghosted over yours in a feather-light touch before sealing them in a tentative kiss. A slow heat spread across your skin, unraveling the tension that still lingered.

"My darling wife! You look like you've swallowed a lemon."

"I look like-- Lyonel your face is battered!", you shouted back, rushing towards him.

"Ah yes, that... Has it turned you off me?"

He wrapped you in his arms with a wince and a groan, his clothing no doubt hiding even more of the atrocities doled on his person. His lips pressed a quick kiss to the crown of your head as his free hand rubbed your shoulder. You could feel him leaning on you for support even as he tried to disguise the gesture as affection. Every time he crossed the threshold of your castle, you worried yourself sick that he wouldn't come back. And every time he proved your worries right in some form or another. You would age twice as fast if the stress did not let up.

"Did you enter the list?", you accused, brows furrowed.

You pushed away from him to take a better look at his face. He laughed but did not respond. There was an edge of mischievousness in his warm brown eyes, a slight darkening there. Whether that was anger brewing or something else, you were yet to say. Your fingertips traced the cuts at his cheekbone, the purple arch of his eyebrow, the split lip. So much damage. You sucked your teeth at him and took another step back, arms crossed. Resolute. If he thought he could use his charms to buy your silence and quiet your questions, he had learned nothing.

"I demand to know what's happened to you!"

Lyonel rolled his eyes and made for the doors as you scurried after him. His stride had always been much quicker than yours, even wounded it seemed. Nevermind the fact that he moved with the grace of a dancer and the pace of a warhorse. Your husband might have been a force of nature, but you were the mountain his storm would break upon today.

"Some fucking hedge knight got into a fight with one of them Dragon boys, I forget which one, so I lent a hand."

"You... You defended a hedge knight against House Targaryen? Have you lost all senses? You could have been killed!"

You were this close to giving him a beating of your own. It seemed 'suicidal' needed to be added to the ever growing tally of his least desirable adjectives. You hadn't even been married a year! If this was the sort of tomfoolery he expected you to put up with for the rest of your years, he would soon find out the consequences. You had married him out of choice rather than duty, the offer impossible to refuse since you had both been so besotted with the other. The courting had been fast and decisive. The first few months of your marriage was a blur of parties, sex, and laughter. And it was still the case, minus his lapse in judgement similar to this one.

Lyonel tossed his caplet onto a chair by the fire burning in the hearth, the crutch he had been using long forgotten by the door. You followed him like a vengeful bee and paced about. Your initial anger had been completely replaced by worry. But there was little you could do about it when he got his hands on you, pressing you close to his chest and letting his hands wander across your sides and back. He was drawn to the laces of your dress like a moth to a flame. Your home had seen much worse than his curious hands though. It seemed your husband's privacy extended to every room of the castle he saw fit for lovemaking. There weren't many surfaces left for him to defile with you... You were still surprised each time the mood struck him, however. It seemed almost random, whatever you wore that day, your mood or energy levels, he simply wanted you.

"It sounds so noble coming from your sweet lips.", your husband smiled, tongue caught between his teeth.

"Do not try to charm your way out of this, Lyonel."

"I rather think I'm succeeding."

"Get off of me!", you batted at his chest.

Your attempt at freeing yourself only served in tightening his iron grip on you. His hands were already busy undoing the laces of your dress while his face was buried in your neck. There was no stopping him once he was set in motion. Only a firm, stern hand could have discouraged him and you did not have it in yourself to protest when he so clearly desired you. There was a desperate hunger, a heat, a need to his voice and feverish hands on your skin. His bearded lips scratching upon the column of your neck seemed to quiet almost all thought in your head... almost.

"I haven't had anyone in well over two weeks, I couldn't wait to be home and--"

"I must send for the Maester at once.", you continued, ignoring his rambles.

Your head might have been spinning from his lust, but your first priority remained his wellbeing. If it meant he had to wait a moment and nurse his stiff cock for an hour more, then so be it. He'd been able to do so for two weeks, or so he said, a moment longer would not kill him. He deserved a bruise to his ego as well.

"Are you even listening to me, woman?"

Clearly, he thought otherwise. You stilled as he clasped your hands at your side, leaning down so that your faces were inches apart. His eyes were glued to your lips as he spoke.

"I'd like to have you flat on your back so I can put a babe in you this instant, so stop fussing over me."

"What?", you blinked at him.

"Take that fucking dress off, go on."

You took a beat to stare at each other while the fire crackled beside you. Whether he meant those words or not, whether the intention to have a child was as alive in his mind as it was in yours, you didn't care. Simply saying it was enough.

You caved instantly.

Grabbing his neck, you urged his lips onto yours. You wouldn't have admitted to the noises that left you under threat of torture, too lost in your need of him to care who heard you. You were vaguely aware of a servant hurrying past and leaving the room. Your mind quieted down as soon as your dress was past your shoulders, your husband pushing you back onto the large table nearby. You tasted blood in the kiss. A cruel reminder of the state of him.

"Gods, I missed those tits."

He had both hands on them, pressing them to his face and bruising the skin with love bites and kisses. Your back arch off the surface of the table at the feel of his thumb tracing your nipple, teasing it to a peak. His tongue came to replace the digit quickly, teeth grazing the surrounding skin teasingly. It was almost impossible not to squirm against the thigh he had lodged between your legs, yet he held you firmly in place by the hips. This was torture. You chased after the friction regardless. Burying your hand into his curls, you pleaded softly. For him to stop or for more, you weren't certain. He seemed content to let you ride against his thigh and dampen his garments while he toyed with you. It was only after he felt your nails against his nape, hard enough to draw blood, that he revised himself.

"Where are my manners?"

Pulling you to the very edge of the table, your husband dropped to his knees in front of you and draped your legs across his shoulders. You played with his hair as he worked kisses from your knee to your slit. Your hips bucked at the first feel of his tongue on you, crying out his name. If there was one thing Lyonel could be cocky about for a good reason, it was this. His skill with his tongue upon your flesh was undeniable. He could have you squirming, begging for release within seconds. Just as he was doing now.

He seemed utterly drunk on your small, whimpering sounds, his hands gripping at the flesh of your ass as he drank you in. The expert push of his tongue against your entrance had you grinding against his face, chasing your climax. Lyonel moaned as your grip tightened on his hair, the vibration sending you over the edge. You steadied yourself against the edge of the table, body shaking with the effort of holding still.

It didn't take long for your husband to rise and unfasten his pants, the head of his cock already lining up with your entrance. He let out a sound between a moan and a grunt as he pushed in to the hilt. Lowering himself to your chest, he buried his face in your neck once more as his hips began to rock into yours. You wrapped your arms around his back and found more fresh cuts there. A thorough inspection was due, when your brain was less addled by sex and the delicious grind of his cock inside of you.

"Fuck, you take me so well...", he praised.

"Missed you... so much...", you gasped between his thrusts.

"Yeah?"

His pace picked up, one hand reaching up to grip your chin and tilt your face up towards his. Your own hand came to join his and clutched at his wrist desperately. He could get drunk on the way you looked. With your full lips parted, your hair whiled, your pupils swallowing the colour of your eyes, you looked like a goddess.

"Lyonel, please..."

You had barely caught your breath when you felt his release inside you, an overwhelming sensation of warmth and fullness. He continued to desperately seek more relief, his hips snapping at a slower rhythm while you soothed your hands along his spine and dug your fingers into a bruise there. He hissed at the sharp pain, finally pulling out. The look on his face was one of amazement and glee.

"I won, if you'd care to know.", Lyonel said smugly.

"I gathered on account of you being alive, yes."

He sighed fondly, pressing another heated kiss to your lips. You chuckled giddily and stretched your limps out. You would soon find yourself with matching bruises, it seemed.

“If you keep fanning yourself like that, your hand will fall off, my dearest,” you heard your husband’s voice beside you, with that exasperating calm that only he could maintain in the height of summer. “Why don’t you ask one of your ladies-in-waiting for help?”

Instead of answering, you turned your gaze to three young ladies sitting at a respectful distance from you. They looked like three little flowers dozing in the shade of the awnings, their wrists moving so slowly that it seemed more fitting for an elegy than for a day of such heat.

You looked at Baelor again.

"They're fanning too slowly."

The corners of his lips curved slightly.

“You are too demanding, my sweet wife.”

You looked at him with the last trace of exasperation that the stifling heat had not taken away, and he, instead of laughing—which would have been an insult at that moment—silently pulled a white handkerchief from his black doublet, the edges of which were embroidered in red thread with intertwined figures that looked like a maze of vines, and in the centre, a B in Gothic script.

He wiped a bead of sweat from your temple that had begun to race down your skin, intent on reaching your jawline. The gesture was so sweet and so characteristic of him that you knew you could not hold onto that exasperation much longer.

The prince bowed his head and placed a brief kiss on the spot. At the same time, one of his hands seized your wrist—the one so desperate to bring you a little breeze—and stopped your movement. Then his fingers began to caress that spot, numb and aching from the use of the fan. You felt the chill of his rings against your heated skin.

“Would you like something cold?” he murmured against your skin.

“I’m fine.”

Baelor, not entirely satisfied with the answer, made a subtle gesture to which you paid little attention. He looked at you again.

“You just have to hold out for a few more hours and we can leave,” he said as he brushed a strand of hair from your face.

You paused. Your irises met those two-toned eyes.

“Shall we have a bath?” you asked, with more hope than you meant to show.

“A bath,” he smiled. “We can ask them to put mint leaves in the water, if you like.”

You were tempted to close your eyes and imagine the scene for a second: that sensation of cool water on your skin, the mint leaves dancing on the surface, your husband’s large hands caressing every inch of your body and his lips on your neck. All of that far removed from the cheers and the clang of steel, from the stifling humidity and the oppressive heat.

You refrained from sighing longingly.

“That would be perfect,” you said, a smile on your lips.

It was then that you felt it: a sharp, dull thud from within. The smile vanished instantly.

Apparently, that day, Valarr — that was what your husband had insisted on calling him, because he was convinced that the life growing inside you was going to be a little prince and not a princess, as you were convinced — had that energy so uncharacteristic of a day as hot as that.

"By the Seven, the baby is really out of control today." You placed a hand on your swollen belly.

Baelor looked down at your hand and quickly covered it completely with his own.

"He’s excited," he said in a soft voice, almost more to himself than to the others. "He likes tournaments, just like his father." He paused for a moment. “When he grows up, he’ll win them all.”

You tilted your head and looked at him more closely. Baelor had an expression he didn’t usually show in public, but only in the privacy of your chambers, when you let him rest his head on your chest to gaze more tenderly at your belly: a seamless blend of pride and something more fragile, more tender.

The horn blared, shattering your intimate moment, and you stifled a snort.

The maelstrom of voices, the sound of the fabric of the dresses brushing against one another, and the excited laughter swirled around the seats as the audience settled in, eager, ready to watch the jousts.

Likewise, you too settled in as best you could amidst that unbearable heat and the bulge of your belly. Resigned, you opened your fan once more and fanned yourself, knowing you would spend the hours of the tournament repeating the same mechanical gesture.

Before the incessant sound of the horn died away, you heard the sweet voice of one of your ladies-in-waiting to your left.

“Here, my princess,” the young woman announced as she handed you a goblet. You raised an eyebrow.

“But I haven’t asked for it, my lady.”

"It was Prince Baelor, my princess," she explained with a smile. You took the goblet at her almost insistent gesture. "Oh, and you dropped this." She bent down and picked up something, placing it on your lap. "Enjoy the tournament; if you need anything, I’ll be at the back."

You froze for a split second.

Then, you looked at the cup: it was full of cool water.

Next, you looked at your leg: Baelor’s handkerchief, with crimson figures embroidered around the edges and his initial adorning the centre.

You turned your gaze to your husband, who already had his eyes fixed on the list with a perfectly neutral expression—and one that was innocently admirable for someone who had just given himself away.

You drank in the same way, and, along with the water, you swallowed your pride because, after months of marriage to Baelor, you realised that those gestures were entirely his own and that, surely, he knew you better than you knew yourself.

You set the goblet aside and, next to it and without thinking, your fan.

This time you didn’t let the thick air dry your sweat; this time you wiped it away with your handkerchief, with the same calm sense of someone who has finally decided to stop fighting the summer heat.

Now it was you who fixed your gaze on the pitch.

The colours of half the continent fluttered in the boxes, and the stands were swallowed up by all manner of flowers—an enthusiastic decision by the decorator, which had provoked incessant sneezing amongst the spectators and the horses.

The tournament had been organised to celebrate yet another year of the kings’ marriage and, consequently, the full annexation of Dorne to the Crown.

Daeron II and Myriah Martell presided from the royal box with that kind of calm dignity that comes from celebrating the historic milestone that was an alliance cherished by the realm.

Baelor was seated three chairs to the king’s left, the place that was rightfully his as heir to the Iron Throne and Prince of Dragonstone. Ever since the tournament had begun, he had been watching the arena with the focused, slightly bored expression of someone who had been to enough tournaments to know when each rider would fall before they actually did.

However, this time, Baelor was wearing a dark doublet studded with rubies rather than his steel armour. For the first time, he was not living up to his nickname. Today he was not breaking spears, today he was watching them being broken.

Baelor had announced this to the Small Council two weeks earlier.

It had been a premeditated decision and contrary to his father’s opinion, who was always keen for his eldest son to demonstrate his skill with the hammer on such occasions — as if anyone doubted the prince’s worth.

The reason Daeron had heard: Baelor would not be attending, so as to allow young knights to demonstrate their skills in such an important tournament.

What Myriah had understood: it all had to do with the figure now sitting beside her son.

You were seated to Baelor’s left.

You were bathed in silver jewellery; the earrings weighed heavily on your ears and your necklace — a gift from your mother on your wedding day — adorned your bare neckline.

You wore a sky-blue dress with wide sleeves and silver embroidery, a dress that had required two weeks of alterations and three separate conversations with your seamstress, because your stubbornness had made you insist on wearing those garments despite your prominent bump. The result had been dignified and comfortable; ‘cool’, however, was not an adjective you would have used to describe it.

Baelor had noticed it even before you left the Red Keep to head out into the countryside — just as he had noticed every change, however slight, since you’d been pregnant, because, apparently, to your husband, you were now made of glass — which was why he wasn’t down there.

He had no intention of spending that day in the lists when he could be exactly where he ought to be: sitting by your side, watching for every little gesture that might betray tiredness, pain or discomfort, as if that were a battle far more important than any joust.

He could have won another tournament in any other year.

Moreover, he was curious to see who might have been his rivals.

It was then that Ser Gwayne Oakheart entered.

He had a presence so commanding that it stood on its own, an impeccable reputation built over decades of loyal service, and a habit of doing what he believed to be right without regard for what was expedient.

He was a man of principles, and this afternoon his principles had led him to win most of the afternoon’s jousts with a fluidity that had drawn shouts and applause even from the most demanding stands.

Now he rode around the perimeter of the field, his visor raised, the silver leaves carved into his breastplate glinting in the morning light, and that sly smile of someone who knows he has the crowd in the palm of his hand for the rest of the tournament.

Baelor watched him complete the first quarter of the circuit. Then the second, and so on until the end.

As the knight slowed his pace in front of the royal box, the prince looked at him with polite attention, settling into his seat and twirling the rings on his fingers.

Ser Gwayne looked towards the dais.

His green eyes swept over the faces of the ladies-in-waiting, strategically placed there by fathers with well-calibrated ambitions, their skirts adorned with those wreaths of flowers that hoped to be worn by some handsome knight.

Then they turned to Queen Myriah, who wore a stern yet calm expression, enough to remind any sensible man where overly bold knights ended up.

He paid them little heed: that day he was being crowned the best knight of the tournament and he wanted to continue proving it without ending up with his head on a pike.

Finally, they paused at your figure, standing imposingly to your husband’s left, like a treasure made up of a hundred gold dragons guarded by steel.

He rode up to the foot of the dais. When he stood before it, his regal eyes fixed upon it, he leaned forward from the saddle with a defiant expression and extended his mustard-and-green-striped lance towards you: princess by name of the Seven Kingdoms, wife of Baelor Targaryen and future mother of the child of the heir to the Iron Throne.

“My princess,” Ser Gwayne spoke in a steady tone, as though the blood of a reckless man did not run through his veins, “I trust you will forgive my boldness.”

Baelor felt something in his chest which, after a moment of genuine bewilderment, he identified as indignant surprise. You remained still in the seat, your hand halfway through wiping away your sweat.

“But I thought that, if I fought today with the favour of two Targaryens, perhaps I might have twice the luck.”

The field fell into an expectant silence, and for a few seconds the only sounds were the chirping of birds and the air rustling through the leafy branches of the trees and flowers.

You blinked twice.

You processed his words.

You wondered if it was really happening, if it was just a dream or simply a hallucination caused by the extreme heat of the day.

You even wondered if that proposal was really meant for you or for someone who, surprisingly, bore the same features as you.

But no, as far as anyone knew, there was only one heir to the Iron Throne; he had only one wife and was expecting only one child.

You opened your mouth, but, as if the words had died in your throat, you closed it again.

You looked around. Everyone was staring at you, but you searched only for the one pair of eyes that weren’t on you at that moment and that you needed most.

Baelor continued to stare straight ahead as he slid the rings on his fingers up and down, insistently. His chin was raised and his eyes had darkened, looking almost jet-black.

With no help from your husband, you turned your gaze to the sides. That day you weren’t wearing a wreath of flowers, as all the women in the boxes were, because you thought that, given your condition, no one would approach you.

You had greatly underestimated men.

You clutched the fabric of the handkerchief in the palm of your hand.

The audience was plunged into silence, eyes wide open and waiting with bated breath to see what would happen next.

Daeron II looked at you with a wary expression, his eyes darting between you and his son, who stood right beside you, not moving an inch. Meanwhile, Myriah also looked at you with the same gleam in her eyes as a woman who understood just how uncomfortable it was to be dragged by force into a situation like that.

Five, six, seven seconds of complete anticipation passed.

Finally, with the composure of someone who had spent far too many hours with her septa learning the proper manners of courtly behaviour, you rose with the limited ease afforded by your condition of the past six moons and approached the edge of the dais with slow steps.

“You are very generous, Ser,” you said in a tone that was utterly courteous and inscrutable. “It would be an honour.”

You placed the handkerchief on the tip of the spear—the one with the edges stained with red designs and your husband’s initial in the centre.

A wave of applause and whistles swept across the field, and that oppressive silence vanished in a matter of seconds.

Ser Gwayne flashed a smile that shone like the sun, took the handkerchief, tucked it into his gauntlet, clicked his spurs and rode off with the quiet satisfaction of having done the right thing.

You sat back down in your seat. You looked back at Baelor, who still had his gaze fixed on the front.

He didn’t say a word to you about it all day.

Not even when Ser Gwayne won every joust and earned the honour of naming the Queen of Love and Beauty.

Not even when he saw you accept the gift and, in the next moment, place the crown of pink lilies in your hair, only for it to sit askew because no one had measured the shape of your braids and it was a little too small for you.

But even though he hadn’t said a word, you already knew what was going on.

You’d known it ever since he’d stopped making the occasional comment about how he thought the joust would end—and getting it spot on—or when, on the carriage ride back, he’d simply offered up fleeting replies whilst gazing out of the window, when he’d always devoted himself to listening to your comments and critiques of the day’s events whilst caressing you and playing with your fingers.

That had been even more refreshing than that glass of water, because since you’d married Baelor, you could count on one hand the times he’d been jealous, and you wouldn’t even use all the fingers.

You’d never admit out loud that you loved seeing your husband like that.

It was more fun to try and prolong the situation, not out of cruelty, but because you didn’t know when it would happen again.

Your shared chambers fell silent when the last handmaiden left the room after the creak of the large wooden door.

You were sitting on a chair next to the bathtub placed on one side of the room. You had freed yourself from the confines of that dress that was constricting your skin and now wore only your white chemise, which reached down to your ankles. Your hand moved back and forth, slowly touching the surface of the water. It was warm and, just as your husband had promised, the mint leaves floated aimlessly.

You heard Baelor take off his cloak and drape it over the back of the chair. He loosened the clasp at his neck.

Usually, he didn’t do that himself, yet that evening, he was doing it, with the methodical calm of someone whose mind is occupied by something that is taking up more space than expected and causing him to be oblivious to his surroundings.

As if his mind were filled with the persistent image of a white handkerchief with red trim and a wreath of flowers tilted over his wife’s hair.

“What a lovely evening,” you said with a sigh of satisfaction after dousing the nape of your neck with that crystal-clear water.

He didn’t look at you.

“Aye.”

You did look at him.

“The tournament was very well organised.”

You heard the metallic clink of his silver brooch as he set it down on the table.

“Lord Penrose has improved since last year.”

“You mean Elaena,” you corrected. You smiled slightly when you saw that Baelor still wouldn’t look at you. “She’s spread the word well; she’s managed to gather some fine knights.” You paused. “Ser Gwayne rode very well.”

No one spoke for a moment.

“He rode well,” said Baelor.

“He’s a fine knight; I’m sure he’ll win greater tournaments in the future.”

“Hm,” he murmured, still not looking at you. “That was a very kind gesture, the crown.”

You smiled.

“Very chivalrous,” you remarked, almost as if it were of no importance. “It’s the first time I’ve been crowned and asked for a favour at a joust; it made me happy.”

This time, Baelor turned.

You hadn’t moved: one hand was still skimming the water with your fingertips, the other resting on your swollen belly. On your head, the crown of lilies, now sitting perfectly because your braids had been undone; a decision you’d made consciously and which he was choosing not to comment on. You wore an expression of innocence so carefully crafted that it seemed as though you’d been practising it your whole life just for him.

He leaned against the table and looked at you from across the room.

The moonlight streamed through the window, casting a more imposing silhouette of your husband.

“Are you going to take that off?” he said, nodding slightly towards the crown.

“What?”

He let out a perplexed snort and looked away again.

You managed not to laugh.

“Ah, the crown,” you said. You touched the flowers with your fingers, just as you had done that afternoon in the royal box. “I was thinking of taking the bath with it on, in honour of Ser Gwayne’s lovely gesture.”

Baelor looked at you again and crossed his arms.

It was a posture that, in the Small Council, conveyed honour and princely authority, whereas in private, in your opinion, it suggested he was trying to appear calmer than he actually was.

He took a deep breath and you saw his jaw clench slightly.

“You are the Crown Prince’s wife,” he said in a serious tone.

You nodded: “I am.”

“Pregnant, too.”

You looked down at your belly. The six moons were already noticeable beneath any garment. You looked back at your husband.

“Quite noticeably.”

He lifted his chin and leaned further against the small wooden table, which seemed to be the only thing keeping him from losing his temper.

“And Ser Gwayne Oakheart, with his reckless boldness and his spotless reputation, has decided that you were the fairest in the whole field, after having asked for your favour.”

You blinked twice and settled back in your chair.

“That is what he did, yes,” you said, calmly. This time the pause was barely a second. “Do you think he was wrong?”

Baelor tilted his head to one side. In the dim candlelight, the contrast between the violet and brown of his eyes—now darkened—was barely discernible.

After a few seconds, Baelor approached you with measured steps. The sound of his boots was muffled by the carpets; yet, even though you could not hear that tinkling, authoritative sound, you felt a shiver run down your spine.

When he stood before you, he lowered his gaze just as you raised yours. Your gazes merged into one.

He raised his hand and traced the line of your jaw with his thumb, then moved upwards, drawing an imaginary line to your cheekbone. His fingertips were rough, worn from the use of weapons, and yet you knew full well that he was the person who could convey the most tenderness when he caressed you.

Finally, he brought his hand to the wreath of lilies and removed it with more care than might have been strictly necessary given the circumstances.

He placed it on the side table.

“He wasn’t wrong,” he said at last, in a low voice.

He ran his fingers through your hair tenderly and slowly, and the look of feigned innocence had vanished from your face because, no matter how elaborate your plan might be, Baelor could unravel it with just the touch of his fingers.

"No?"

"No," he confirmed.

You took a deep breath and clasped your hands in your lap. You felt your chemise getting wet from the water you’d carried from the bath to the fabric.

You tilted your head.

“You could have given me the crown yourself.” There was something softer in your voice now, intertwined with a touch of humour; nevertheless, there was no lie in your words.

Baelor’s hand tightened in your hair.

“I didn’t win the tournament.”

“You could have if you’d taken part.”

“It’s my parents’ anniversary; it wouldn’t be proper for the heir to take part.”

You raised an eyebrow. That had sounded more like an excuse than a reason.

“How convenient.”

Baelor looked at you with his two-coloured eyes and sighed. He ran his hand through your hair and let silence fill the conversation for a few seconds.

"Valarr," he murmured finally, in a low voice, and at last you understood his concerns. He didn’t want any surprises, he didn’t want any nerves. As always, he was overly concerned for your well-being.

"He likes tournaments…" you repeated the words he’d spoken to you hours earlier. "Just like his father. When he grows up, he’ll win them all."

The prince swallowed hard.

Perhaps what you really wanted was for him to have been the one to crown you.

Perhaps he, as your husband, should have been the one to crown you for the first time.

You struggled to your feet — instantly feeling your husband’s hands steadying you, as if you were performing the most arduous task in the Seven Kingdoms —, resting your hands on the edge of the bath and the chair, until you stood facing Baelor. Your chests were brushing against each other and your husband lowered his face slightly, almost as if his heart were inevitably compelling him to draw closer to you.

“Next time,” Baelor spoke calmly. He rested his forehead against yours. “Next time there’s a tournament, I’ll participate. And I’ll win. And the crown will be placed upon your head by the one who ought to do so.”

You smiled faintly.

"By the one who ought to do so" you repeated, sealing that promise.

Then, he kissed you.

His lips on yours were soft and still. It didn’t last long, just long enough for you to feel it fully, not on your skin, but somewhere deeper inside, in that place hidden beneath the layers of flesh where butterflies flutter energetically and the heart beats far too fast.

His hands slid down to the small of your back and you felt the warmth of his skin even through the linen.

When he pulled away, he didn’t pull away completely. His breath brushed your mouth, and for a moment neither of you said a word, for there was no need. Everything had already been said: you had already tempted him and he had already answered you in his own way, with that cold reserve of his that only appeared on those occasions that could be counted on one hand.

With your eyes locked, your breaths in unison, and your hands clutching his dark doublet, you smiled; and after that, you let out a genuine laugh—one that made you clasp your hands to your ribs, for it seemed that even laughing whilst pregnant was torture.

“If you think about it, it was you who gave your favour,” you remarked between laughs, and you saw Baelor smile and roll his eyes.

“It was my favourite handkerchief.” He raised one of his hands to where yours lay, resting on your ribs. “Don’t you feel even a little guilty about what you’ve done to your poor husband today?”

"I like seeing you jealous."

"You're cruel."

"I'm not cruel, I'm your pregnant wife, so be nice to me."

"I'm perfectly nice to you, my dearest."

You bit your lip, still wearing a mischievous smile.

"Ser Gwayne would have been nicer."

The prince rolled his eyes again and wasn’t sure if he was doing it because of the comment or because, after he’d done so, you started laughing again as if you’d pulled a prank.

You settled against his chest with the same calmness of someone who’d achieved exactly what they’d set out to do.

Baelor leaned over to test the water. It was still lukewarm.

He began to undress you with the unique tenderness he possessed, now caressing your neck with his lips and playing with the fabric, all perfectly within the bounds of propriety, without a trace of jealousy.

Meanwhile, the crown of lilies remained on the little table until the following day.

The silver-backed brush moved with a steady, hypnotic rhythm through your hair, each long, slow stroke pulling a soft sigh from your lips. Your lady's maid worked with practiced care, her fingers gentle as they untangled the day's knots from the thick, curly mass that fell to your waist. The air in your chambers was warm and still, scented with the beeswax from the candles and the faint, clean smell of fresh linen on your bed. Two other maids moved in quiet tandem, folding away the gown you'd worn for dinner and laying out a simple silk robe for the night. The familiar ritual was a balm to your restless spirit, a lullaby for a body that refused to settle.

You had been counting the days. Fifty-seven. Fifty-seven nights since he had ridden out of the same gate he was due to return through soon. The tour was a necessary duty for Baelor, a display of loyalty and strength, but it had stretched on longer than either of you had anticipated. Each night, you had sat at this very desk, the tip of your quill scratching across parchment, pouring out all the things you could never say in a raven meant for a prince's eyes. All the wicked, wonderful, aching things you wanted to do to him when he returned.

"Almost finished, my lady," your maid murmured, her voice a soft whisper in the quiet room. You closed your eyes, leaning into the touch, letting the sensation ground you. Three days. The phrase was a prayer on your tongue. In three days he would be here, and the hollow ache in your chest would finally be filled.

Then it came. Not at first a sound you could name, but a vibration. A deep, rhythmic thrumming that seemed to rise up through the stone floors. It grew, becoming distinct, undeniable. Hoofbeats. Dozens of them, a thundering drumbeat against the packed earth of the bailey. Your eyes snapped open. Your ladies froze, the brush pausing in your hair. The sound was too cohesive, too purposeful for a mere patrol. This was a procession.

Before anyone could draw breath to speak, a single, clear note cut through the night air. The horn. Long and low, it was the signal for a royal arrival. Your heart leaped into your throat, a wild, frantic bird beating against your ribs.

You were out of the chair before you realized you had moved, the silk robe fluttering around your ankles as you crossed the room in quick strides. You threw open the heavy shutters of the arched window, the cool night air a shock against your heated skin. Below, the bailey was a flurry of motion. Torches cast a frantic, dancing light, turning the familiar courtyard into a chaotic painting of light and shadow. Men on horseback, their banners limp in the still air, were pouring through the main gatehouse. And at their head, a single rider on a massive black destrier, his dark head unmistakable even from this distance.

Three days early.

Your hair was a wild halo around your face, your body clad only in the thin silk robe meant for sleeping, and none of it mattered. The thought didn't even have time to form before you were already moving, turning from the window with a surge of purpose that sent your ladies scurrying.

Addressing your maids, your voice was sharp and clear, all traces of sleepiness gone. "A bath. As hot as the boilers can manage. Now. And warm towels. The sandalwood soap."

You were already at the door, your bare feet silent on the stone flags. "Lyra, to the kitchens. The roast boar, if it's still warm. Bread, cheese, fruit. Whatever is quickest. And a flagon of the good Arbor red."

You didn't look back to see if they were moving; you knew they were. This was your household, your domain, and you ran it with a quiet, unshakable efficiency. You swept out into the torchlit corridor, your mind a whirlwind of commands, your body a vessel for the sudden, overwhelming joy that threatened to spill over. Every command you issued set another wheel in motion, a well-oiled machine springing to life. By the time you reached the heavy, carved oak doors of the hall, the entire keep was humming with a new, urgent energy, all of it focused on one thing. Him.

You pushed through the doors just as he was clearing them from the other side, shrugging off the dust of the road with the very air around him. He stopped dead, and so did you. The Great Hall, vast and echoing, fell away, leaving only the space between you. He was travel-worn, yes. A fine layer of gray dust coated his black riding leathers, his dark hair was longer than when he'd left. But his eyes were fixed on you with the same unwavering intensity they always held. You glided forward.

"My Prince," you said, your voice steady.

"Wife," he replied, his voice a low, familiar rumble that vibrated through your very bones. He closed the distance in two long strides, his hand cupping your cheek, his thumb stroking the skin there. He bent his head and kissed you. It was not the chaste, formal kiss of a public reunion, but the deep, possessive kiss of a man who had crossed half a kingdom to come home. It tasted of dust and wind and sheer, unadulterated relief. When he pulled back, you saw that your ladies, who had followed you down, had found something fascinating to examine in the far corners of the hall. You took his gloved hands in yours, working the soft leather off his fingers, and passed them to a hovering servant without a word.

"Come," you said softly, your hand finding his, lacing your fingers together. "You must be exhausted."

Baelor let you lead him, his larger, calloused hand a warm, grounding weight in yours. You walked him through the familiar corridors, your footsteps echoing in companionable silence. He saw you now, in this state of casual undress, and he said nothing. He just looked at you, his gaze lingering on the deep red fabric against your skin, and you felt a flush rise on your chest that had nothing to do with the warmth of the corridor.

"The tour?" you asked, your voice a little too bright. "Was it successful?"

"The travel was fine," he said, his eyes never leaving your face. "The roads were manageable." He paused, his thumb tracing circles on the back of your hand. "I thought of you in the Reach. The roses, you would have loved them. They grow in such wild, beautiful abandon."

"I missed you," you whispered, the simple truth of it a sudden lump in your throat.

His gaze dropped from your eyes to your mouth, then back up, a slow, deliberate perusal. He looked at you, and the air between you grew thick, charged with a current that made your breath catch. "It was a long time to be away from home," he said, his voice low and certain. The words were simple, but they landed with the weight of a vow. You went warm all over, a liquid heat spreading through your veins, pooling low in your belly.

The door to your chambers was open, steam already curling out into the corridor. Inside, the copper bathtub sat, filled with water that shimmered in the firelight. The air was thick with the scent of sandalwood and hot stone. You led him inside, releasing his hand to help him with his riding coat. Your fingers worked at the heavy laces beneath, your knuckles brushing against the hard plane of his chest. You could feel the tension coiled in his muscles, the weariness of the road etched into his very frame. You passed the coat and the dusty tunic that followed to a waiting servant, never breaking the flow of your conversation.

"The lords welcomed you, then?" you asked, as he stood before you in just his breeches, his chest bare and dusted with dark hair.

"Welcoming enough," he said, his eyes on you. "The king will be pleased. It was exactly what it needed to be." Baelor stepped toward the tub, then paused, turning back to you. A small, knowing smile played on his lips. "The ravens you sent," he said, the words easy. "I received every one."

Your heart gave a nervous little flutter. "I only wanted you to have something to read in the evenings," you said carefully.

He laughed, a soft, warm sound. "Did you?" His tone was deceptively pleasant. "And do you consider what you wrote suitable evening reading for a Prince on a royal tour?"

You said nothing, suddenly finding the pattern on the rug intensely interesting.

"Where," he continued, stepping closer, the heat from his body radiating into the space between you, "does a young noble lady learn such things?"

"The books," you blurted out, your cheeks flaming. "My lady — she gave them to me. To pass the time. I was simply —"

He silenced you with a look, his eyes dancing with amusement and something deeper, something far more dangerous. "I intend to remind you to thank her," he said, his voice a low purr. "In fact, I should consider giving patronage to whatever author inspired such sinful thoughts from my sweet little wife." He said it with such complete, genuine warmth that you couldn't decide whether you wanted to hide your face in your hands or burst out laughing.

He leaned in, his lips brushing your ear. "And I intend," he whispered, his breath hot against your skin, "to hold you to every single one of the promises you put to paper."

You swallowed hard, your throat suddenly dry. "Oh," you whispered back, the word barely audible.

He turned then, and with a smooth, fluid motion, stepped into the tub. He sank into the scalding water without so much as a flinch, a long, low sigh escaping him as the heat enveloped his weary body. He leaned his head back against the rim, his eyes closed, the steam rising around him. You settled onto the low wooden stool behind him, the heat of the fire warming your back. You dipped your hands into the water, then placed them on his shoulders, your fingers finding the tight, knotted muscles there. You began to knead, working with firm, steady pressure, and he let his head fall forward with a groan of pure relief.

For a long moment, the only sounds were the crackle of the fire and the gentle slosh of water as your hands worked their magic. You could feel the tension slowly melting from his body, layer by layer. You pressed your thumbs into a particularly stubborn knot at the base of his neck, and he shuddered, a full-body tremor that had nothing to do with cold.

"Gods," he breathed, his voice thick with exhaustion and pleasure. "I've dreamed of this."

You smiled, leaning forward to press a soft kiss to his damp shoulder. "I'm here now."

He shifted, turning his head just enough to look at you from the corner of his eye. "I missed you."

You stilled your hands, resting them on his shoulders. "I thought of you every day."

He turned fully in the tub, water sloshing over the sides onto the stone floor. The steam rose thick between you, obscuring the world beyond this small, heated circle. His eyes were warm, but they were also entirely, terrifyingly focused. They held a look you recognized, a look that always preceded a storm. He took your face in his wet hands, his thumbs stroking your cheekbones, and kissed you slowly, deeply, in a kiss that tasted of promise and the raw, desperate need of two people who had been apart for far too long. When he pulled back, his gaze dropped to the red silk robe you wore, and something in him shifted, settling into a certainty that was both thrilling and terrifying.

"You wrote about this dress," he said, his voice a low growl. "Or one like it. The color. I have been thinking about you in this color for months."

He stood then, water cascading from his body in rivulets. He reached for a towel, but only used it perfunctorily, a quick swipe at his face and chest before letting it drop to the floor. He stood before you, naked and unashamed, his body hard and lean in the firelight, dusted with dark hair that narrowed to a line leading down to the thick, heavy cock that was already rising to attention. He looked at you, and the dominance that was always a part of him, always present just beneath the surface, came roaring to the forefront. The letters had given his natural certainty a particular, razor-sharp edge tonight.

Your breath hitched. You stood, your hands going to the sash of your robe. The silk whispered as you pulled it loose, and the garment pooled at your feet, leaving you bare before him. His eyes roamed over your body, a slow, possessive inventory that made your skin pebble into gooseflesh. He took a step closer, his body heat a palpable force.

"On the bed," he said.

You moved without question, climbing onto the soft furs and linens, your heart hammering against your ribs. He followed, his movements deliberate and unhurried, a predator stalking his prey. He knelt over you, his knees bracketing your hips, his hands planting on either side of your head. He lowered himself, not onto you, but just above you, his body a bracket of heat and muscle that caged you in.

"You wrote," he murmured, his lips brushing against your ear, "that you wanted me to taste you. That you wanted my mouth on your cunt until you forgot your own name."

A whimper escaped your lips. Your hands, which had been lying limp at your sides, came up to clutch at his shoulders.

"Is that still what you want, wife?" he asked, his voice a dark, velvet tease.

"Gods, yes," you managed.

He smiled, a slow, wicked curve of his lips. "Good."

He began his descent, a slow, torturous journey down your body. He kissed your throat, your collarbone, the hollow between your breasts. His mouth was hot, his tongue a wet, velvet rasp against your skin. He took his time, lavishing attention on every inch of you, his hands stroking and caressing, mapping the curves of your body as if committing them to memory all over again. He lingered on your breasts, his tongue circling your nipples until they were tight, aching points, his teeth grazing them just enough to send a jolt of pure electricity straight to your core.

By the time he settled himself between your thighs, you were writhing, a mindless, needy thing. He pushed your legs wider, his hands firm on your inner thighs, holding you open for his gaze. You felt exposed, vulnerable, and more turned on than you had ever been in your life. He looked his fill, his eyes dark with lust, before he lowered his head.

The first touch of his tongue was a shock. A wet, hot, perfect shock against your swollen, sensitive flesh. "Baelor!" You cried out, your hips bucking off the bed. He held you down, his grip like iron, and began to lick you in earnest. This was a man fulfilling a promise, a man staking a claim. He licked you with long, broad strokes, from your dripping hole to your throbbing clit, his tongue flat and demanding. He sucked your folds into his mouth, nibbling and licking, driving you insane with a pleasure so intense it was almost pain.

He found your clit then, focusing all his attention on that tiny bundle of nerves. He circled it with the tip of his tongue, then flicked it rapidly, again and again. He sucked it into his mouth, his lips creating a tight seal, and hummed. The vibration was your undoing. Your back arched, a strangled scream tearing from your throat as your orgasm crashed over you, a tidal wave of pure, unadulterated bliss that left you shaking and breathless.

But he didn't stop or even slow down. He rode you through it, his tongue relentless, his mouth demanding, pushing you higher, forcing pleasure upon pleasure until you were a sobbing, incoherent mess. Your hands were fisted in the sheets, your body trembling uncontrollably. Just when you thought you couldn't take another second of it, he pulled back.

He rose up over you, his face glistening with your juices, his eyes burning with a fierce, possessive fire. He positioned himself between your legs, the thick, blunt head of his cock nudging at your soaking wet entrance.

"You also wrote," his voice a low, guttural growl, "that you wanted me to fuck you. Hard. That you wanted to feel me for days after."

With one powerful thrust of his hips, he buried himself to the hilt inside you. You cried out, a sharp sound of pleasure as he stretched you, filled you, completed you. He was so big, so thick, and the sudden, full invasion was overwhelming. He paused for a moment, letting you adjust, his forehead resting against yours, his breath coming in harsh pants.

"Fuck," he groaned. "You're so tight. So wet for me."

"Please," you breathed.

Then he began to move. He set a punishing rhythm, his hips snapping back and forth, his cock pounding into your willing cunt. This was a raw, desperate, hungry claim after weeks of abstinence. The bed creaked in protest, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room, mingling with your cries and his grunts of exertion. He was making love to you, that was always what it was with him, you felt it in every desperate thrust, in the way his hands gripped your hips, in the way his eyes never left yours. It was a communion, a sacred act of worship.

He shifted his angle, and the head of his cock brushed against that spot deep inside you, the one that made you see stars. You screamed, your nails raking down his back. He did it again, and again, driving into that spot with ruthless precision. You could feel another orgasm building, coiling low in your belly, a tight, hot knot of pressure.

"Look at me," he commanded, his voice harsh, demanding.

Your eyes, which had been squeezed shut, fluttered open. His face was a mask of intense concentration, his eyes blazing with a fire that threatened to consume you both. Your vision was blurry with tears of pleasure, but you forced yourself to hold his gaze.

"I want to see you," he said, his voice low and certain, each word a deliberate thrust. "When I put my child in you."

That was it. That was the final, shattering blow. The words, the possessive claim, sent you over the edge into pleasure so profound it was agony. You came apart completely, your body convulsing, a silent scream tearing from your throat as wave after wave of ecstasy washed over you. Your cunt clenched around him, milking his cock, and with a loud, guttural roar, he followed you over the precipice. You felt him pulse inside you, a hot, thick flood of his seed filling you, spilling out, marking you as his.

He collapsed on top of you, his body a heavy, welcome weight, his face buried in the crook of your neck. You were both panting, your bodies slick with sweat, the room smelling of sex and sandalwood and satisfaction. You lay like that for a long time, your hearts beating a frantic, syncopated rhythm against your ribs.

He pushed himself up on his elbows, looking down at you. A slow, lazy smile spread across his face. "You wrote quite a lot," he said pleasantly. "And we have only just begun."

You just stared at him, your mind still reeling. He looked back at you, his eyes full of wicked promise. "You're not going anywhere," he said, his tone soft but absolute.

He was methodical and thorough. Patient while working through every promise you had so carefully, so wickedly, put to parchment. He took you from behind, his hands gripping your hips, pulling you back onto his cock with every thrust, his fingers finding your clit and bringing you to another screaming climax. He had you ride him, his hands on your breasts, his thumbs teasing your nipples as you set the pace, chasing your own pleasure until you were a quivering, exhausted mess. He even fulfilled the one you had been shyest about, the one that made your cheeks burn to even write about, spreading your ass and licking your tight, forbidden hole until you were begging him for more, then slowly, carefully, working his thick cock into you until you were so full you thought you might break, the pleasure a dark, intense, addictive thing.

You went again and again, the night blurring into a haze of sweat and skin and desperate, gasping pleasure. He was relentless, his stamina seemingly inexhaustible, fueled by the weeks of longing and the explicit, detailed roadmap of your desires you had so thoughtfully provided. He made you come so many times you lost count, your body a pliant, willing instrument for his pleasure, and yours.

It wasn't until the candles had burned down to nothing but sputtering pools of wax, until the fire in the hearth had died to a bed of glowing embers, until the first gray hint of dawn was visible through the window, that he finally relented. He collapsed beside you, utterly spent, his chest heaving. You were a wreck, your body aching in places you didn't know you had, your hair a tangled mess, your skin sticky with sweat, release, and saliva.

You couldn't move or think. You could only lie there and listen to the sound of his breathing, slowly evening out into the deep, steady rhythm of sleep as he held you tight against him.

He was home.

Bucky could only stare in awe as he watched you standing there in the middle of the crowd, glowing in the pink band tee he made just for you.

He had never played the drums this hard, this passionately in his life. Was this how Ringo Starr felt when he saw his wife in the crowd at their shows? He started to let his imagination run wild—maybe in the future, if Civil War ever got big, he could bring you—as his partner—along on their tours.

Maybe even make you a backup-lead singer, just like Bruce Springsteen and his wife Patti Scialfa.

He let his imagination run wild as he rocked out hard on the drum set. Every word that Steve sang out, every word that Bucky had written in his song journal, was a word that was written for you.

When he looked up from his sticks, his eyes only found you. His eyes traced the way you danced and smiled—your pretty Mac lipstick spread wide just for him. It reminded him of the night when he first saw you like this, and just that sight alone was enough for him to fall in love all over again.

Performing was his favorite thing to do, but he wanted nothing more than to pull you backstage and fuck you right behind the curtains—to rip the shirt that he designed off your body and press sloppy kisses all over you.

Their set finally came to an end, and the crowd was cheering wildly. Steve yanked the mic off the stand, the sharp feedback only seemed to rile the crowd up even more. These weird kids loved loud noise.

“Alright, alright!” Steve beamed into the mic. “Thanks for stickin’ around and listening to our...” he turned, motioning to the rest of the band, “very mediocre playing.” The crowd laughed. “We’re Civil War, which sounded way cooler when we came up with it at two a.m.! Thanks, and goodnight!”

The crowd erupted into the loudest cheer Bucky had ever heard. He was pretty much stumbling over the drum kit as he made his escape. Steve usually insisted on a band debrief post-concert with a side of beer and cigarettes, but Bucky couldn’t wait for any of that.

He had to get to you.

“Buck, where are you going?” Sam called from the stage, lifting the strap of his guitar over his shoulder.

Bucky paid him no mind. He jogged down the backstage steps and pushed the side door open, intent on getting to you. But the moment he stepped out, he collided with a group of girls camped right outside, and they all reeked of stale beer.

“It’s Bucky!” one girl gasped, and the rest swiveled toward him like a school of fish suddenly spotting a regular piece of white bread.

“Oh, fuck,” Bucky muttered, his hand flying back to the doorknob, twisting it urgently to escape.

Locked.

“Bucky, you were amazing out there!”

“I could see your muscles through your shirt. You were banging on the drums really hard—”

“Bucky! I’ve got something else you can bang on—”

“Jesus Christ,” he groaned.

This wasn’t the first time Bucky had been swarmed by girls trying to get laid by a band member. He used to be fond of the popularity and attention that came with being in a rock band. But ever since he met you, the only attention he craved was from the girl who gave him nasty side-eyes and snarky comments all while clutching a pink handbag.

He spun around, pounding on the door with his fist and rattling the knob. “Sam! Let me in!” he shouted. But his prayers were left unanswered. Seriously—that guy was shouting his name just a few seconds ago, and now he’s up and vanished?

Bucky stiffened when he felt a surprisingly strong hand clamp down on his shoulder, spinning him back around to face the girls. They stepped closer, pressing him against the door as the girl’s hand lingered on his bicep, giving it a firm squeeze through his shirt.

“He really is strong!” she said gleefully.

“Get your hands off of me,” he gritted, his hand immediately wrapping around her wrist and prying it away from his arm.

“You don’t have a girlfriend, do you, Bucky?” she frowned. “I did my research. All of the members in Civil War are single.”

One of the girls behind her gasped. “Is that true?”

He swallowed hard. Maybe if he gave this girl an answer—any answer—they would finally leave him alone.

“Not necessarily—” the word barely left his lips before his eyes caught on something at the end of the dim, packed hallway.

You.

You were standing right there, square in the middle, blocking people’s paths with your arms crossed tight. Your hip was slightly jutted out, your mini-skirt rising and falling as you tapped your heeled toe impatiently against the floor. Your manicured fingers were gripping your arms tight as you glared directly at him. Your pretty face was twisted up into the sourest expression he’d ever seen, your lips pursed in utter disgust.

Normally, that look of yours would give him a raging hard-on. But right now? He was absolutely fucking terrified.

The overheard light flickered once, and he swore that if he looked away for even just a second, you would slit his throat with your fingernail.

“—shit,” Bucky muttered under his breath. He straightened up quickly, forcing a nervous grin. “Hey, I was just—uh, on my way to find you—”

“Oh, I’m sure you were,” you interrupted, your eyes narrowed into a searing glare aimed at the girls. “You don’t want to sleep with him, girls. Trust me. I’ve also done my research. Heard he has the smallest dick size in the band and can last about thirty seconds max. Try Rogers instead.”

Silence fell as all the girls just blinked. Before Bucky, or any of them, could utter a word, you spun on your heel and stomped out of the hall. Your hips swayed and your hair swooshed like a stuck-up princess making a grand exit. The girls all took a step back as your words processed in their minds.

Fuck, you were mean.

You got the girls off his back at the expense of his pride, but Bucky didn’t care about that. He knew you were pissed. He knew you were possessive of anything that belonged to you. And although you would never say it out loud, you were most particularly possessive of him—because he belonged to you too.

“Hold on—” Bucky pushed his way through the crowd of girls, calling out for you. “Hey, baby—wait!” He caught up to you in quick strides, grabbing your arm and stopping you.

“Don’t ‘baby’ me,” you snapped, spinning around angrily in the middle of the bar and jabbing a finger square into his chest.

He furrowed his brows. “Don’t tell me you’re actually upset—”

“Upset? Why would I be?” you scoffed, clearly upset. “How do I know I’m not the only one you call ‘baby’?”

Bucky sighed, running a hand through his shaggy hair. He should have expected this. Steve was right when he said girls came throwing themselves at him after every show. Since this was your first time watching him play, he should have warned you. But to be fair, he hadn’t expected you to even show up at all.

“Come on, baby,” he flashed the smile he knew you loved. He grabbed your hand, pulling you close until you nearly collided with his chest. “Can’t you just tell me how good I played? I’m so happy you showed up, really. I mean—I played extra hard for you,” his hand slinked around your waist, pulling you closer. “And I know how much you love it when I play hard. If you know what I mean—”

You pushed him away and let out a frustrated groan. You crossed your arms again, glaring at him. Bucky had to bite his lip to keep from smiling, because... how could he not? Especially when you were standing there, dripping in designer pieces, yet wearing a cheap cotton T-shirt that read, “CIVIL WAR” in bold lettering.

“That shirt looks so damn cute on you.”

“Yeah? Why don’t you go make your little groupie a couple of matching shirts, then?” you sneered.

Bucky blinked. This was the first time he had witnessed you like this. You had been protective over your designer bags and shoes, but never over him. You were feisty, crude, yet for some reason, he was drawn to it. He felt an overwhelming sense of pride knowing that he could make you—a girl with her head so steady on her shoulders—jealous.

“I can’t believe the pretty princess is actually jealous,” he took a step closer, immediately closing the pitiful distance you created.

“It’s not like we’re... really in a relationship, are we?” He questioned, and immediately regretted his words once he saw your face twist.

Although the question sounded more like he was the one who needed reassurance, it seemed you took it the wrong way—like a taunt. He realized now just how terrible he was with words. Writing songs came naturally, but saying things out loud was another thing entirely.

He tried to backtrack before it was too late. “Okay, hold on. I didn’t mean—”

You barked out a harsh, humorless laugh. “No,” you shook your head. “You’re right. We’re not in a relationship. So really, I don’t know why I’m here in the first place.”

Your face was starting to flush, and Bucky was smiling before he could stop himself. He knew he wasn’t helping the situation, but he genuinely couldn’t hold back when you were standing there looking like Tinkerbell with a scrunched-up, angry red face. He didn’t know what possessed him to say the next words—maybe it was the adrenaline from playing just moments ago, or the insistent pressure of his cock against his zipper at seeing you riled up.

“Wait, princess—don’t you want to at least give me a kiss for playing so good?”

Your eyebrow twitched with annoyance. “I can’t believe you,” you spat, rolling your eyes and spinning on your heel, leaving him standing in the middle of the room alone with all eyes now turned on him.

Bucky continued to call after you, but you refused to listen. You were here, in his space—the odd one out—and he was taunting you rather than defending you. You knew Bucky was bad with words, but you weren’t going to stand here and let yourself get humiliated for any longer.

As you left, Steve, Sam, and Natasha were standing by the bar in silence, a drink in each hand, their faces stunned.

Natasha scrunched her face up, looking utterly confused, while Steve’s jaw hung open. “I can’t believe Bucky is—”

Sam cut in with the same realization. “—they’re screwing each other?”

“I can’t believe you’re actually playing around with her,” Sam huffed, his arm resting lazily on the couch. “I mean—when did this happen? How did this happen?”

It was the next day, and Bucky could not hear the end of it. After your little jealous outburst at the bar, the band had discovered his relation-not-so-ship with you, and since then, he had been subjected to their unrelenting teasing.

“Barnes is not unattractive,” Natasha said, her fingers idly plucking at the strings of her bass. “I’m not surprised he was able to snag one of the popular girls dressed in pink.”

“Thanks, Nat,” Bucky said, his chest rising and falling after he downed a water bottle. “I don’t know why Sam is acting like I haven’t touched a woman in my life—”

“Though I bet she tops him.” Natasha included.

“What the fuck, Nat.”

Steve snorted, letting himself fall into the open space next to Sam. “So, all the times you’ve ditched practice in the middle of the night, was for her?”

Bucky tried to hide his flushed grin, feeling sheepish. “Yeah,” he admitted bashfully, smiling behind his drum set like an idiot.

“Unbelievable,” Sam groaned, tossing a throw pillow at him, hitting the cymbal on the way. “Our boy Barnes is out here ditchin’ practice to get laid—”

“Shut the hell up, Sam,” Bucky hissed, cheeks burning as he threw the pillow right back even harder.

“She’s like the last person I expected you to be with,” Steve chuckled, grabbing an opened beer bottle on the floor and taking a swig. “How long have you two been seeing each other?”

Bucky rested his hands in his lap, fiddling his fingers like a child. “For a few weeks now. I saw her at one of the backyard gigs,” he shook his head as he recalled the fond memory. “She looked so beautiful that night.”

Sam had to hold back a laugh while Steve gave him a smack on the back, shutting him up. Steve nodded his head, urging him to continue. “Jesus, Buck. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this head over heels over a girl since, like—” he tapped his chin, “the third grade.”

“You must really like this girl, don’t you?” Sam questioned.

“Shut up, guys,” Bucky mumbled, though the red shading on his ears and the smile he wore were clear signs he didn’t mind the teasing—because to him, it meant he got to talk about you more.

Natasha finally looked up from her instrument. “So, you two have been screwing around for a few weeks—nearing a month... and you two are... what?”

“What do you mean?”

Natasha just shrugged. “Like talking, or just hooking up?”

Bucky finally lifted his head, and his fingers stilled. “Uh—I don’t know.”

Steve and Sam exchanged a look before looking back at Bucky.

“We heard you at the bar—I mean, everyone heard you at the bar. You said you two weren’t ‘really in a relationship,’” Sam said, using air quotation marks. “But then she got jealous when you were surrounded by chicks. What’s up with that?”

Bucky shrugged, rubbing the back of his neck. “I mean… she has every right to be jealous,” he said casually, as if it were obvious. “Even if she isn’t officially mine or I’m not… hers.”

There was a brief pause, where the three of them just exchanged glances, already all thinking the same thing.

“Hold on,” Sam shook his head, trying to wrap his head around it. “You’re telling me that she gets the right to be jealous even though you two aren’t official? Is that what I’m hearing right now?”

“We don’t need a title to feel things.”

Steve exhaled slowly, fingertips idly tapping against the glass bottle. “Okay, but do you two even talk about what you are? Or are you just hoping she’ll eventually call you her boyfriend?”

Bucky’s jaw tightened, his smile slowly fading. “It’s not that simple, Steve.”

Natasha turned to him, one hand resting on the neck of her bass and the other on her hip. “Then explain this, Barnes,” she tilted her head. “If she gets to be jealous, you get to be jealous too, right?”

“Look,” Bucky sighed, resting his hands on his legs and leaning forward as he eyed each and every one of them. “If this is about Walker—she already told me they aren’t dating.”

Natasha pressed her lips together, like there was more she wanted to say but the right words wouldn’t come out—so instead, Steve spoke up first. “It’s just… every time we see her walking around campus, she’s always with Walker,” he started, eyeing Bucky’s reaction carefully.

Bucky stayed quiet, keeping his jaw tight as he picked up his drumsticks. “We should just rehearse—”

Natasha scrunched her face, oblivious to Bucky’s growing unease. “He’s practically glued to her hip. Like—every hallway, every table in the dining hall—he’s always right there. He’s like some emotional support frat boy.”

“Guys,” Bucky cut in with an awkward laugh, “we should—”

“And,” Sam added, “he keeps bragging about having her at his side. Didn’t he say something like—what was it? ‘She’s practically mine, she just doesn’t know it yet’?”

Natasha nodded. “Yeah. That.”

Bucky let out a low and agitated exhale. “Walker is full of shit. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.” He scratched his temple, his foot tapping impatiently against the floor as he kept his gaze steady on the drum set. “Look—can we just fucking practice already? We’re wasting time here.”

Steve leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, and adopted a softer, gentler tone. “Buck, we’re not trying to piss you off. We’re just worried about you, you know? You ditch our practices to go to her every time she calls you—and apparently, you two have been screwing around for weeks, and we didn’t know about it until—” he looked at the rest of the group, “now.”

Sam nodded. “And she won’t put a label on you, but she’ll happily be seen with Walker?”

Bucky kept his head down, pretending to be occupied with the marks on his snare drumhead. “It’s more complicated than that,” he muttered. “You guys wouldn’t get it.”

Sam opened his mouth, likely to push further, but Steve clamped a hand on his shoulder—a silent warning to stay quiet. “Alright,” with a groan, Steve sat up and took another swig of his beer. “We’ll drop it.”

With one last swig, he set the glass down on a crooked side table and picked up his Fender. “Let’s practice.”

Steve adjusted his strap, rolling his shoulders back. Natasha stood up straight, her hands already over the strings of her bass. Sam sat up and grabbed his pick off the table. Bucky’s grip tightened on his sticks—his palms slick and clammy. He leaned forward, trying to settle in as Steve counted them in.

“One…”

Bucky shut his eyes, his leg already bouncing up and down as he tried to keep his hands tight around the sticks.

As much as he hated to admit it, everything his friends said was true. The entire time you two had gotten close, he was your dirty little secret. You didn’t want to be seen with a guy like him. You claimed you didn’t want a title—yet you were prancing around with John fucking Walker?

“Two…”

You told him you and John were nothing—just like all the guys before—and he believed you. He wanted to believe you. Hell, he thought he could see it in your eyes every time you hung around those frat boys. Bucky knew he was special to you—otherwise you wouldn’t have shown up to his gig, wearing the shirt he made you… right?

But then your reaction to the girls after the show had thrown him off. You wanted to keep whatever you two were a secret, yet you were openly jealous—and then you hadn’t spoken to him since.

Neither of you had.

“Three…”

All the words the band told him were racing in his mind, his heart already beating faster than the tempo of the song they were about to play. His palms grew sweatier despite not having hit anything. He imagined you—hanging out with God knows who—someone who wasn’t him.

Maybe after seeing how many girls were interested in him, you grew uninterested.

Maybe he should have tried reassuring you that there was no one else but you. Maybe he shouldn’t have mocked your anger as a joke.

But why would you have the right to be jealous when you couldn’t even call him your boyfriend?

“Four!”

The song started off with Sam’s strumming—a tight rhythm, quick downstrokes. Then Bucky smacked the snare and hit his cymbals, kicking off the beat. Natasha’s bass followed right behind, and then Steve leaned into the mic as his lead guitar part came in.

Then, Bucky’s drums came in hard.

The drums were supposed to match the upbeat, punchy tempo that everyone else was following—those crisp snare hits and rapid-fire pop-punk bursts that kept the momentum alive. But Bucky slammed into the kit like he was trying to blow through the song rather than play it.

Sam tried to maintain his rhythm, but Bucky was already pushing the tempo.

Natasha held the groove, but Bucky kept speeding up.

Steve tried to sing in time, but Bucky’s snare cracks nearly swallowed his voice.

“The needle on my record player has been wearin’ thin…”

Another hit—too sharp, and too damn loud.

“This record has been playing since the day you’ve been with him—”

Bucky’s jaw clenched, his face scrunched up into an ugly sneer as he kept banging on the drums. He hit the crash cymbal hard enough that the whole kit rattled. Steve glanced at him over his shoulder, giving him a look that clearly signaled he was offbeat, but he kept singing.

But Bucky was no longer just playing the beat.

He was attacking it.

His hi-hat hits were sharper than they needed to be; it was more like he was trying to dent the cymbals. The snare cracks turned into heavy, punishing smacks that echoed through the entire garage. His fills came in too early, too strong, slamming across the toms instead of sliding cleanly through them.

Every time the chorus hit, instead of tightening the groove like the original track, he opened the crash cymbal with an explosive force, the ringing so loud Steve actually winced mid-strum.

It wasn’t a song anymore.

It was Bucky’s heartbeat—rushed, uneven, and utterly pissed off. Pissed off over the fact that still, to this day, after everything you two have been through, you still weren’t his.

The audacity to get upset seeing him with other girls—when you had a new frat boy on your hip every week. His kick drum hammered the floor like he was trying to kick his foot right through it. His shoulders were locked, his arms were flexed, and his knuckles were white from gripping the sticks too hard.

Steve’s voice was muffled by the ringing in Bucky’s ears—his face warming up with anger.

“Have I waited too long?”

“Have I found that someone?”

“Have I waited too long, to see you?”

Bucky raised his arm up and hit the snare—once, twice, and then another way too hard.

Then his sticks snapped.

The wood split clean in his grip.

“Fuck!” he shouted, the sound ripping straight out of his chest and echoing through the garage. He hurled the broken sticks; they clattered across the concrete. Steve’s guitar cut off mid-chord. Natasha’s hands froze over her strings. Sam stopped entirely.

All three turned toward him with cautious, wide-eyed glances. Then it went silent. A heavy, stunned, and tense silence. The only sounds were Bucky’s breathing, his chest heaving as he ran a hand through his hair in frustration. His leg was still pacing up and down—but he was desperately trying to keep his breathing in check.

“Buck?” Steve said softly.

Bucky didn’t look up. He just swallowed hard, made a face, then spoke through clenched teeth.

“Take five.”

Before any of them could get a word out, he quickly scrambled out of his kit, heading to the door and swinging it wide. He left a puff of angry, tension-filled air in his wake as he exited the garage and retreated back into the house.

They all looked at each other—and they didn’t even need to speak to know what to do.

With a quiet exhale, Steve slipped off his guitar, set it gently against the amp, and followed him inside.

Bucky was already pacing back and forth in the living room, his thumbs shaking as they hovered over the keyboard on his phone.

He knew he was being selfish. Irrational. Messy. But how the hell was he supposed to walk back into that garage and pretend he wasn’t falling apart? His hands could bleed from splintered sticks, he could break a dozen more, but none of it compared to the ache clawing through his chest at the thought of you—so close, yet so far from him in every possible way.

“Buck—” Steve’s voice came in rough, cutting through the static in his head.

“I have to text her, Steve.” Bucky’s voice came out hoarse and desperate. He didn’t even look up, scrolling through his contacts until your information sat there, staring back at him. “I can’t just let her walk away. I can’t let her go. Not to John fucking Walker—”

“Bucky. Hey—” Steve stepped closer, placing a solid and grounding hand on his shoulder. “Calm down.” He squeezed gently, forcing Bucky to meet his eyes.

“I hear you, man, I really do—we all do,” Steve sighed, choosing his words carefully. “You’re head over heels for this girl—I can see that. But Buck, our band is finally getting some traction. We’ve got gigs lined up, real offers coming, people finally paying attention to us. This is what we’ve been working our asses off for.”

Bucky swallowed hard, his eyes landing back down on his phone.

“And we can’t afford to lose you to this,” Steve continued gently, “to a girl who—look, I’m not saying she’s a bad person. But she’s caught up in... all that.” He waved his hand around vaguely, making a displeased face. “Handbags, social circles, cliques, who’s-who on campus. That stuff matters to her.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched. “You don’t know her like I do.”

“I know you’re hurting,” Steve said softly, leaning in closer. “And I know you’d probably burn the whole campus down for her if she asked... but Buck, she’s not giving you the same thing back. She doesn’t need you right now, man. We do. The band needs you.”

Bucky stayed silent, chewing the inside of his cheek. There was so much that Bucky wanted to say. He wanted to fight for you, to defend you, because only he knew who you truly were. But how could he? When all his friends had seen was you only giving him half your heart?

“We need you here,” Steve continued. “Not half here. I mean, we can’t even get through the first song without you—”

“I get it, okay?” Bucky finally said, the words strangled in his throat—tight, shaky, like there was a lump trying to claw its way out.

His fingers curled around his phone one last time before he let out a slow, and defeated breath. The screen dimmed and went black, and he shoved it deep into the pocket of his jeans.

Steve frowned, taking a step back and giving him some space. “I’m sorry, Buck.”

Bucky let out a dry and humorless laugh—one that didn’t reach his eyes. “Don’t be.” He forced himself to look at Steve, holding his gaze even though every part of him felt like it was splintering apart. “You’re right. You are. We should just… get back to practice.”

And before Steve could say anything—to offer comfort, an apology, anything—Bucky brushed past him. Shoulders tense, jaw clenched, and his heartbeat loud in his ears as he forced himself to pick up his feet and move back to the garage.

You didn’t know why Bucky’s sudden popularity bothered you so much. The entire time you’d known him, he was always surrounded by the same three people; Steve Rogers, Sam Wilson, and Natasha Romanoff. It was always those same people with the same hole-ridden T-shirts, ripped jeans, and dirty shoes. That’s how it had always been. That’s how it always should be.

So, to see him surrounded by those girls—girls dressed like him, girls who loved his music, girls who seemed like they would be a better fit for him than you—it absolutely pissed you off. You didn’t like it when people touched things that were rightfully yours.

Being in that bar, surrounded by Bucky’s crowd, you felt like the dirtbag in his world this time around—and you weren’t sure you were a fan of that, either. You were used to people flocking to you, looking up to you for attention. You were never the odd one out.

You hadn’t talked to Bucky in what felt like months, even though it had only been a week. A painfully long week.

And it wasn’t like you didn’t try. You did text him—once. Your pride was already shattering from sending the first message, so you drafted a short, simple message that sounded like you didn’t care as much as you truly did.

👑: hey, we should talk.

He saw it.

You knew he did, but he never replied. That was the part that shocked you the most, because Bucky always answered you—instantly, annoyingly, and reliably. It was like he was always waiting for your name to pop up on his phone.

Maybe you had overreacted when you saw him drowning in attention from those other girls. Or maybe your stupid pride made you say the wrong thing, walk away too fast, and slam a door a little harder than necessary. But ignoring you? That wasn’t like him at all.

Your mind was so occupied with these thoughts that America’s Asshole had to snap his fingers to bring your attention back to him.

“What, John?” you muttered, poking at your lunch.

“You weren’t at the party last Friday night,” he pointed out. “We missed you after the game. What happened?”

“I had better things to do,” you replied flatly. “I was at a show.”

“A show?” John’s face scrunched up, almost in disgust. “What kind of show? What show could’ve possibly been better than my party?”

John’s voice drowned out just as face as it came as you caught a familiar, grungy, and broody figure in the corner of your eye. Your head turned instinctively in the direction, and you caught sight of the same man who never failed to send butterflies through you since the day you’d met him.

“Bucky,” you muttered under your breath, nearly inaudible.

“Sorry, what was that?” John asked, leaning in closer to hear you.

Without further explanation, you quickly got out of your seat, abandoning your lunch and John Walker entirely as you made your way toward him. Déjà vu hit you hard as John shouted your name—which you made it a habit of ignoring.

“Bucky, wait—” you called out, your heels clicking sharply against the dining hall’s floor and catching the attention of other students. “Bucky. Hold on—”

His shoulders tensed up at the sound of your voice, and he paused for a second. But instead of turning around to face you, he continued walking.

As if you didn’t exist.

You furrowed your brows, frustration bubbling as you picked up your pace until he was finally within reach. You clamped a hand on his shoulder, his body stiffening immediately.

“Bucky, Jesus—” you huffed. “I told you to wait—”

Slowly, he turned to finally face you. He didn’t have that usual sparkle in his eyes that he usually had when you two locked gazes from across campus. He didn’t have that obnoxious and teasing grin or sheepish smile when he’d see how beautiful you are.

No words, no greeting, no warmth.

Just a look.

A look so sharp and unrecognizable that it actually knocked the breath from your lungs. Bucky had never looked at you like that—not even on the day you insulted his entire outfit to his face.

His jaw was clamped tight, his eyes flat and unreadable, a tension in his expression that felt almost... guarded. Like he’d put up a wall between you while you weren’t looking.

A part of you wanted to step back and leave him be, but pride straightened your spine before anything else could.

Plus, you missed him.

“Why didn’t you answer my text?” you asked, crisp and direct—like you hadn’t spent the last week losing your mind over it.

Bucky’s eyes flicked past you, over your shoulder, and toward the table you’d just abandoned. With John. His jaw ticked slightly, then his eyes fell back on you.

“Been busy with the band,” he said flatly.

You crossed your arms. You knew it was bullshit. Every time you texted him—even for one simple text—he was always there for you. And standing here, underneath his cold gaze, you’re realizing just how much you’d taken all that—taken him—for granted.

“Busy,” you repeated, nodding once sarcastically. “Right.”

He didn’t respond. His shoulders slouched slightly, and his hands were shoved deep into the pockets of his denim jeans. His entire body language screamed that he didn’t want to be here—and that hurt.

“Look, I’m trying here,” you said, forcing your voice to steady. “I texted you. I tried to talk to you. I know things got... weird after your gig, okay? But you don’t usually just ignore me like this.”

Still no response.

“Bucky,” you tried again, firmer. “I’m talking to you—”

“What?” he interrupted you coldly, his voice coming out louder than expected. “You expect me to always be there, answering your every call or text like some kind of lap dog?”

You blinked at the unexpected tone.

“W-what?”

Bucky pressed his lips together, looking around warily, making sure no one was close enough to hear—because that’s what you cared so much about, right? People hearing about you two, discovering you two.

He took a step closer, leaning in slightly. You thought he was going to apologize, press a kiss to your head right here in the middle of campus, and grovel at your feet. And you’d laugh, call him an idiot, and tell him to get up.

But he doesn’t. He doesn’t apologize. He doesn’t do anything of that.

“The band and I have been talking,” he started, his voice so quiet you could barely hear. “We’re actually picking up momentum. We’re starting to get recognized. And I can’t afford to—” he hesitated slightly. He swallowed hard before continuing. “I just can’t afford to waste my time with you.”

“Waste your time with me?” you repeated, as if giving him the opportunity to take his words back.

He kept his head down at your shoes, his thumb rubbing anxiously along the seam of his pocket as he exhaled hard through his nose.

“Bucky,” you leaned in closer, lifting your hand to reach for his cheek, but he leaned back slightly—just enough for you to get the hint.

“They’re right,” his voice was strained, “You and me—it’s not a good idea.”

You stared at him, stunned. Every sentence felt like a slap to the face—humiliating and unexpected. Your lips parted to speak, but his voice pushed on through.

“I just can’t understand it,” he continued. “We won’t talk for days, and then you’ll come crawling back to me when you need me. You get jealous, but you won’t put a title on us?” He shook his head like he was trying to clear it. “I can’t keep up with it anymore.”

Your throat tightened so sharply you had to swallow around the burn. “Bucky, that’s not—”

“And let’s be real,” he cut in, lifting his eyes to meet yours for half a second before they darted away again. “This would be easier for you too.”

“Bucky—”

“You can hang out with any guy you want without me holding you back. No arguing, no hiding, no getting mad at each other because some asshole looks at you or someone at my show says hi to me.”

Your face scrunched up, your bottom lip trembling slightly.

“Bucky… I never—I don’t—‘holding me back’? That’s not—”

“You were literally sitting with John Walker not even ten minutes ago,” he snapped quietly, but still loud enough to catch the attention of some people nearby. “So don’t stand here and act like I’m saying something you don’t already know.”

His eyes finally lifted to meet yours—tired, hurt, and cold. It was a look you’d never seen from him, a look you never wanted to see ever again, and a look you were already beginning to hate.

“I’m just… trying to make this easier,” he muttered. “For the both of us.”

But it didn’t feel easy.

It felt like he had clawed his way into your chest, dug deep, and pulled your heart right out.

You felt the blood drain from your face, the sting of tears suddenly sharp behind your eyes. You searched his cold gaze, refusing to accept the words you had just heard.

“You don’t actually think that way, do you?” you whispered, your voice sounding weak and brittle. “You know our relationship is more complicated than that, Bucky. They don’t know—”

“A relationship?” Bucky scoffed. “Can you even call it that?” He took one step back—just one small step, yet it felt like miles.

“I can’t do this right now,” he said, shaking his head. He didn’t sound angry anymore—he sounded tired, defeated. “I’m done making excuses for you. For myself.” He swallowed. “Just let it go.”

You wanted to reach out to him, to apologize for everything you’d done wrong, to yell at him for not fighting for you because of a few words from his friends who didn’t understand the whole situation, to hug him and never let go.

But he didn’t wait around for an answer. He turned slowly, then he walked off. No more lingering over-the-shoulder looks, no second thoughts, and no chance for you to grab his hand before it slipped away.

Just the sound of his boots thudding against the floor as he left you standing there in the campus’ dinging hall—where everyone, including John Walker, stood and sat staring at you.

Since that day, the tension between you and Bucky was palpable. You both hadn't spoken to each other—not even a single text. But whenever you two saw each other in passing, you would steal glances.

You would catch him staring at you right before he forced himself to look away, and every time he did, he swallowed hard, his face shifting into a grumpy expression—the look he’d always give to people he didn’t like. He never gave those looks to you before, and now he is.

You hated this. You hated how he was always within reach—just barely close enough to graze, yet too far to hold onto.

Was this how he felt when you kept backing away from turning the relationship into something more serious?

At first, you were heartbroken when he essentially broke off your non-official relationship. But after days of subtle glances and side-eyes from across the campus—always watching, always curious—you couldn’t take it anymore. Especially when he sat and laughed with his friends, the very ones who filled his head with doubts about you without giving you the chance to even explain yourself.

He continued playing with his band at gigs, and every time you weren't present, your mind traced back to the night he was surrounded by girls. But one thing really set you off.

Seeing Bucky laughing with some girl outside the music building.

And then jealousy filled you. Hot, white, burning jealousy filled you from your toes to the very top of your head.

Like a mental switch flipped inside your head, you started telling yourself, “If he doesn’t want me, then fine.” You were going to do what you did best, and that was pissing him off from a distance. If Bucky wanted to act cold, then you’d act unbothered.

You started dressing even hotter than usual—short skirts, and the heels you knew would always catch Bucky’s attention—he told you himself. You always made sure to walk near him, because the clacking sound of your heels against the floors always seemed to “turn him on.”

“Those heels make your legs look so fucking hot,” he’d said to you. “Wanna see them hiked over my shoulders, heels dangling in the air while I fuck you stupid.”

“Stop being a pervert, Barnes.”

You drowned yourself in the perfume that you knew he loved—the scent was another weapon. Every time he held you in his arms, his nose would find the crook of your neck and inhale deeply, his hands coming up to cup your cheeks, tilting your head to the side as he kissed and suckled on your sensitive column.

“So good, pretty princess,” he’d groan. “Always smellin’ so sweet—lookin’ so pretty. Can’t ever get enough.”

And you would always giggle. “Bucky, stop. You’re tickling me.”

Those methods partially worked. You would catch his eyes taking you in up and down from a distance—tracing your legs and calf muscles accentuated by the heels. He’d inhale deeply, his chest rising as you walked past him, your sweet perfume lingering in the air.

Just when you thought his patience would finally snap, he’d reel himself back in, going back to hanging around with his friends as if nothing ever happened.

But you knew one thing would really get him riled up. And that was wearing his shirt. The shirt he made for you.

Next to John Walker.

You were standing near the door of the union, wearing the soft pink cotton shirt with “CIVIL WAR” spread across your chest, loud and proud. John glanced down at it, raised a brow, and looked back up at you.

“Uh,” he started. “What’s with the shirt?”

In the corner of your eye, you saw Bucky, sitting with his friends as per usual. Except this time, instead of sneaking glances, he was glaring daggers at you. Sharp, cold daggers. And instead of doubling down, you took a step closer to John, batting your lashes at him.

“Well,” you twirled your hair, smiling. “Do you like it?”

Flustered, John only smiled back. “Yeah—I mean, I guess it’s cute. But what’s Civil War?” he asked, acting as if he had totally forgotten the time he was face-to-face with Bucky and his band posters.

Your eyes flickered back to Bucky’s at a distance, and this time, he didn’t look away when you caught his gaze. Your smile grew wider, and you looked back at John, raising your voice loud enough so Bucky could at least make out a few words.

“Oh, Civil War? Maybe some one-hit wonder band that disbanded? I don’t know—this shirt was passed down to me.”

Bucky still had his chin resting against his fist, glaring down at you two from across the union, his other finger tapping against the table and his leg bouncing impatiently.

Sam was talking—probably about their performance for the football game’s halftime. He should’ve been stoked for it, playing in front of the whole damn school, yet no words registered in his ears.

He had tried to get over you these past few days, but how could he when you were tempting him with those damn high heels, the sweet scent of you, and now the so-called one-hit wonder band tee shirt he made for you?

Bucky knew you were purposefully taunting him, and he didn’t know if he could take it anymore.

“—so since we’re only able to play two songs, I think we should choose—”

“I’m writing a song,” Bucky cut back into the conversation.

The rest of the band just blinked at each other. Sam chuckled awkwardly. “Uh. What?”

Bucky’s leg stilled, letting out a low exhale as his jaw remained clenched. He faced Sam slowly, almost intimidatingly. “I’m going to write a song.”

“Why?” Natasha furrowed her brows. “When we already have our own songs—”

“Trust me,” he grunted, grabbing his notebook and backpack and slinging it over his shoulder. He glanced back at you, his glare still cold as stone. “It’ll be good.”

Later that day, the band was back in the garage, practicing for the football game. Bucky had been working on a song all day, a song he had written with pent-up emotions that developed after failing to get over you. A song written out of pure, unadulterated pettiness.

And a song that would likely make the athletic director never want to bring them out to perform again.

But he didn’t care. He knew you were going to be there. And it was a song for you.

Bucky pulled out his battered notebook, tore a page out, and handed it to Steve.

“Read it,” Bucky said, crossing his arms.

Natasha exchanged a look with Sam, both leaning in as Steve lifted the paper. There were scribbles everywhere, crossed-out lines, and arrows pointing to rewritten lyrics, but it was fucking good.

“Jesus,” Sam breathed. “This has got to be a diss track or something.”

“Yeah,” Natasha huffed. “No shit.”

Steve shook his head in disbelief. “This is... we could get attacked for this, Buck. I don’t know if we—”

“But it’s good, right?” Bucky interrupted, leaning against the wall and grinning. “Even if they won’t let us perform again, people will dig it, and they’ll start coming to our gigs outside of school.”

Steve shrugged. “I suppose you’re right. Okay. Let’s practice—”

“But,” Bucky pushed himself off the wall. “I want to sing it.”

Natasha raised a brow. “But you’re our drummer. You really think you can sing this without getting winded? You can barely scream backup without losing the beat.”

Bucky shrugged. “So? Don Henley sang ‘Hotel California’ while drumming.”

Sam snorted. “Does that make your girl Stevie Nicks in this little fantasy of yours?”

“That’s not the point,” Bucky glared. “I’m singing it.”

Steve stepped forward, raising the page and scanning the lyrics again. “Buck… ‘Hotel California’ is a seventy-four BPM song. This song—” he flicked the page, “—is eighty-seven. That’s a big difference. And you’ve never sung while playing before. Are you sure you can even keep up?”

He knew it was petty. He knew it was a risk. But man, did he want to perform that song. He wanted to see your pretty little face, eyes wide when you heard the lyrics.

And he couldn’t wait to see your boy-toy all pissed off and riled up after hearing it, too.

“Alright,” Steve said, picking up his guitar. “Take one of Bucky’s song.” He squinted at the title written messily at the top.

“’Johnny Doesn’t Know.’”

You had spent the rest of the week feeling like your insides were scraped hollow.

You kept waiting, and hoping, that Bucky would crack. You hoped he’d text you at two in the morning like he used to, sending some stupid meme or asking what color your nails were that day. But not a single text went through, and every hour that passed without him felt like a painful reminder of every time you pushed him away.

You hated how close he felt just days ago, how easy everything had been—how warm he looked when he smiled at you. And now he was gone, because you pushed him. Because you didn’t want to put a label on it. Because you let your ego talk louder than your heart, and because you let his friends fill his brain with things that weren’t true.

You missed him so bad, it hurt.

The night before the football game, you sat at your desk with a pink stationery card, something you typically received, not wrote on. For the first time in your life, you were writing someone a heartfelt letter.

The pen shook as the words came out. Messy apologies, confessions, secrets about yourself that even he didn’t know. Little things you remembered about him—his smile, the way he fiddled with his drumsticks and bounced his legs when he was nervous, his dark and torn-up clothes and dirty Converse. You wrote that you were wrong, that you missed him, that you wanted him, even if the thought of being in a relationship terrified you.

You folded the letter carefully, slid it into the pink envelope, and sealed it with a cute heart sticker before you could chicken out and tear it up.

Then you added the real surprise.

Two tickets to Iron Maiden.

You’d hunted them down the second you heard they were selling locally—Bucky’s favorite band. The same one he’d rambled about for an hour while lying beside you, tracing patterns over your stomach and promising he’d drag you to a show “one day.”

Today was the day of the football game, and you’re standing in the bleachers next to a group of girls you could hardly call your friends. You clutched your purse tighter against your body—the purse carrying your sacred letter. You knew his band was going to perform today. You knew he was going to be there, and you’d stand there, holding that pink envelope, and tell him everything you should have told him weeks ago.

You were going to tell the biggest dirtbag Bucky Barnes that you were sorry, that you wanted him back, that you wanted to become something more—even if it scared you, even if he walked away again. Because for the first time, the idea of losing Bucky completely terrified you more than putting a label on whatever the hell you two were.

At first, the crowd hesitated—because everyone knew Civil War’s reputation. The misfit band that wouldn’t play anything “family friendly.” The band that made the athletic department nervous every single year. Civil War wrapped up their first song, and the crowd was now cheering loudly, fully won over. Steve stepped away from the mic, grabbing his water bottle. Sam adjusted his strap. And Natasha re-tuned her bass.

But Bucky was doing something different.

He was pulling the mic stand toward his drum kit. Your brows furrowed. You had never seen him touch a mic onstage—ever. He told you once he hated singing on stage, and that you only ever heard his voice along to the radio when he drove you home at night. He was adjusting the height, angling it perfectly toward him, his breath steady and focused, his eyes flicking up toward the bleachers—

Toward you.

Your stomach dropped. A slow, warm flush crept up your neck. You didn’t think he had noticed you at all, but now he was staring right at you. Steve mouthed a count, and instead of the usual instrument buildup they did, the song started with Bucky yelling into the mic and Steve’s heavy guitar riff—immediately hyping the crowd up once more.

And the words that Bucky started singing made your jaw drop to the bleachers.

“Johnny doesn’t know.”

“She tells him she’s out shopping.”

“But she’s under me and I’m not stopping.”

“Johnny doesn’t know.”

“I can’t believe he’s so trusting, while I’m right behind you thrusting.”

“She’s got John on the phone, and she’s trying not to moan.”

“It’s a three-way call and he knows nothing.”

“Johnny doesn’t know. Don’t tell Johnny.”

Heat exploded across your cheeks so fast you genuinely thought you might faint. Those lyrics weren’t suggestive, it wasn’t subtle, and it wasn’t a hint. They were filthy, scandalous, and a direct message to Walker—messages explicit enough to make half the student body choke on their popcorn. Your jaw hung open, your eyes wide, your pulse pounding against your throat. Because Bucky Barnes—the quiet, broody, never-sings-in-public dirtbag Bucky—was onstage in front of hundreds of people, singing about being inside you behind Walker’s back.

You probably should have felt embarrassed or shameful, but your entire body went warm because that meant he’d been thinking about you. Thinking about you like that these past few days. Angry, jealous, petty, needy, and he wasn’t hiding it anymore.

If people didn’t know you two were a thing, then they most certainly do now.

A chorus of gasps shot through the bleachers. One girl next to you gave you a side-eye, whispering to the friend beside her, “Is this… about—” “Yeah, I think it is. That’s so gross.” Meanwhile, the students behind you cheered on, simply enjoying the music.

Down on the field, John Walker’s entire face scrunched—first confusion, then dawning horror, and finally, an angry, red explosion of humiliation. He threw his helmet to the ground and took a furious step forward, like he wanted to rip the entire drum set apart with his bare hands, but his teammates grabbed him by the shoulder and stopped him. Meanwhile, the faculty area was in shambles. The athletic director’s headset nearly fell off as he sputtered into his mic, and the cheer coach looked like she was two seconds away from fainting.

Once the song ended, the crowd, if they weren’t already standing, erupted into a loud cheer—a cheer so loud it made your ears hurt. Steve delivered his outro, the band started to wrap things up, and the football teams were getting ready to play again while the cheerleaders resumed their routine.

You didn’t want to waste another second. Your mission, the messily crafted letter, the fear of losing him—all of it came rushing back, amplified by the public display of his hurt.

You raced down the metal steps, eyes scanning the area behind the makeshift stage. You moved toward the exit ramp where the bands typically packed up, and you spotted him, packing up his kit.

“Bucky!” you called out, but his friends turned to face you first. “Bucky. I need to talk to you—”

“We’re busy,” Sam cut you off, but you ignored him.

You weren’t going to let anyone or anything block your way.

“Bucky, please,” you pleaded, catching your breath. “I just want to talk.”

Bucky paused, looking up from the wires he was looping around. He gave a brief glance at the rest of the band and nodded. “You guys go ahead. I’ll catch up with you later.”

You watched as the group left; all of them threw hesitant glances at you over their shoulders. Once they completely disappeared, Bucky turned his body to face you, giving you his attention. You started digging in your purse for the letter.

“I know we’ve gone through a lot together, and I—”

“What’s the deal with you and Walker?”

You paused, furrowing your brows. “I’ve told you this a million times over. There’s nothing going on between Walker and I—”

“So then why the hell is he still attached to your hip?” he interrupted coldly again, taking a step closer with crossed arms. “And why the hell are you walking around with these damn high heels, flaunting your legs to half the fucking school?”

He took another step closer, and you took another one back.

“And that perfume, that sweet fucking perfume that you only ever wear around me,” he took another step, closing the distance until you were pushed up against a column. “I could smell you from across the campus—taunting me, teasing me.”

His eyes lingered down to your shirt. “And this shirt,” he muttered. “This shirt that got passed down to you—was that what you said?” He taunted. His rough fingers trailed down to the hem of the soft cotton, pinching the fabric.

You felt the roughness of his knuckles graze against your lower belly, making you shudder.

“Wearing the shirt I made you around Walker just to piss me off,” he scoffed. “You knew I couldn’t get over you, huh?”

His fingers tightened in the fabric of your shirt, just enough to make you gasp, tugging you closer.

“Answer me,” he demanded quietly. His voice was low, rough, a rasp of jealousy and frustration that made your knees weaken. “You knew exactly what you were doing, didn’t you?”

His forehead nearly brushed yours, his breath warm against your lips. When you were planning on confronting Bucky, you expected him to push you away or not even hear you out. You hadn’t expected this—him standing toe-to-toe, your nose brushing against his as his fingers played at the hem of your shirt.

Your body couldn’t help but naturally react to him—to his possessive touch and his words—even your body knew you missed him.

And yet, even found in a compromising position, you also couldn’t help but taunt him yet again.

“Aw,” you tilted your head, smiling. “Jealous, are you?”

A low snarl escaped his lips as he leaned in, his lips grazing yours, but not exactly kissing. “Fuck,” he growled, his hands sliding beneath your shirt and up your stomach. You wanted to break the distance right then and there and slam your lips right on his—right where they belonged, but you held back.

If Bucky was going to make a song about fucking you and perform it in front of the whole school, then he had to make the first move.

“And here you are, after everything, still trying to bait me in.” His words came out cold and crude, like he didn’t want you. Yet his eyes looked like he could eat you right up.

“I missed you, Bucky,” you teased again, your hands coming up to the back of his hair and giving it a tug. “Didn’t you miss me?”

Something flickered across his face—annoyance, or maybe pride, or that stubborn self-control he always tried to hide behind. His jaw clenched, and he tried to take a step back, to break the tension between you two for good and leave this all behind.

But you still had your fingers tangled in his hair.

And he still had his hands under your shirt.

He fucking missed you, and you were standing there, batting your eyelashes at him.

“Goddammit,” he mumbled, before he leaned in and slammed his lips against yours.

You had kissed Bucky plenty of times in the short period you’d known him, but this kiss didn’t feel like any other. It was a kiss that conveyed his anger, his frustration, and his hatred for you. But it was also a kiss fueled by pent-up hunger, longing, and love.

His mouth moved against yours wildly, his fingers digging into your waist and dragging you closer until there wasn’t an inch of space left. He held you tight, like he never wanted to let you go again, but his mouth moved like he was punishing you for making him want you this badly. You tried to breathe, tried to keep up, but you were no match against his desperation.

A soft sound slipped out of you, and the second he heard it, you felt his lips curve up into a smirk, because that little, helpless sound confirmed that you’d been needing him just as much. His other hand circled to splay shamelessly across your lower back, his touch hot against your soft skin.

Bucky’s lips broke away from yours just slightly, and you let out a soft whine at the loss of contact, already leaning in for more of his touch. His thumb dragged a slow, burning line along your waist, fingertips slipping under the band of your skirt.

“Christ,” he murmured, resting his forehead against yours, “...are you sure you didn’t miss me?”

Your breath hitched, and the smugness in his eyes sharpened instantly. He angled his head just enough to brush his nose against your cheek, lips grazing the corner of your mouth without giving you a real kiss.

“Because you’re shaking,” he whispered, dragging his hand up and down your spine, your back instinctively arching. “And that cute little sound you made tells me how much you need me.”

“Bucky…”

He leaned in closer. “Should I fuck you right here, right behind the stage, where anyone could walk by and see?” His hand trailed down to the short hem of your skirt. “Lift this tiny skirt up and have you crying my name? How about it, princess? Want this pathetic loser’s cock deep inside you again?”

Your face flushed in hot embarrassment. He wasn’t the same man who was too shy to kiss you when you were sitting in his passenger seat. He wasn’t the same man who stood there helplessly while your “friends” tore him to shreds when he gifted you the band shirt he made for you.

No. Bucky knew what he wanted from the very beginning, and that was you—the gentle, pink light in his dark days. Your soft, feminine laugh that contradicted the loud and gritty music he listened to. You were the luxury brand to his torn-up shoes with frayed laces.

You were everything he needed. And he was yours.

Your dirtbag.

Your mouth parted, ready to tease him again, but the sounds of footsteps shuffling against grass filled your ears. Sounds that were too loud, and way too close. Bucky’s hand immediately flew to cover your mouth, pressing you back hard against the column. His eyes narrowed, warning you not to make a sound. His breath on your cheek did nothing to soothe the building ache between your legs.

Bucky leaned in, lips brushing your ear. “Quiet,” he whispered, low and raspy.

You nodded against his hand, your heart pounding, and he smiled down at you.

“My dirty little secret.”

And that only made your stomach flutter even more.

He waited until the voices faded, tilted his head to make sure the coast was clear, then grabbed your hand. “Come on.”

Before you could ask, he tugged you away from behind the stage. Your heels clicked frantically behind him as you could only stare at him from behind in awe. Him dragging you out away from everyone else just to keep you to himself—it felt like it was straight out of a corny romance movie scene. And when he looked over his shoulder to make sure you were keeping up and flashed you a warm smile, you knew you were done for.

He didn’t stop tugging you along until he found the first unlocked door he could get his hands on. A small, tucked-away storage shed that was mostly used by staff and the athletics team. He pushed it open, pulled you inside with him, and kicked it shut behind you.

The lock clicked, and for a moment, the two of you just stood there—breathless, with hearts pounding in sync. Then you laughed, an exuberant, bubbling laugh that had your hand flying to your mouth as you tried to quiet yourself, which only made him laugh in return.

Bucky’s hair was slightly messy from your fingers, his lips flushed and stained with your lip gloss, his chest rising fast. He was smiling, that cute boyish smile he had when he would watch your reaction after teasing you.

You felt like a girl falling for him all over again.

And before you could think the better of it, the words slipped from your mouth as if you had said it a million times before.

“I love you.”

Then Bucky stopped laughing. His smile lingered for a second, but his eyes... they burned into yours, wide and stunned, as if all the warmth and tension you’d been feeling with him just now was nothing but a silly figment of your imagination.

“I—” you started, suddenly aware of what you had just said.

But he didn’t give you the chance to backtrack.

In one sudden, hungry movement—even hungrier than before—Bucky grabbed your waist and hauled you against him, his lips crashing into yours with a force that knocked a gasp right out of your lungs. The storage shed suddenly felt so tight; the only space that was left was completely occupied by Bucky. His mouth moved against yours—urgent, desperate, like he had been waiting longer than he knew you just to hear those three words fall from your lips.

“Say it again,” he whispered, his voice shaking, almost feral. “Please.”

“I love you,” you repeated, breathless. “I love you so much, Bucky.”

“Fuck—I knew it,” he groaned, his calloused hands coming up to gently caress your face. “I knew you’d come back to me. You were always meant to be my girl—my angel.”

He leaned back in, closing the distance as his mouth found yours again. His lips devoured yours—messy, sloppy, and wet, your favorite type of kiss from him, because it showed how much he needed you. His hands wandered your body greedily, your handbag long forgotten somewhere in this dusty shed as he pushed you up against the wall, the whole shed shaking.

“I love you too,” he moaned against your lips. “I love you so much—you have no fucking idea.”

Bucky had touched you and fucked you in ways that made your mind dizzy—but hearing those three little words come out of his mouth only made your legs tremble and your heart flutter rapidly.

“Bucky,” you clung to his shirt, pulling him impossibly closer. You hooked one leg around his waist, trapping him against you as you pleaded. “I need you.”

“Yeah?” he nuzzled his nose against yours, his voice raspy. “What do you need, baby? Tell me.”

“I need you so bad,” you whined, leaning in closer to try and kiss him again, but he pulled away just slightly, his hand tight on your thigh that was wrapped around his waist.

You groaned, your face twisting. “Stop taunting me, Barnes—”

“Oh, you’re being a spoiled little princess,” he taunted, giving your leg a squeeze. “I always give you what you want, don’t I?” He leaned in, pressing a chaste kiss to your cheek, just barely grazing the corners of your lips. “You’re always making demands and you can’t even say ‘please.’”

You swallowed hard, heat spiraling low in your stomach and pooling between your legs as Bucky held you firmly against the wall. Your thigh was still hooked around his waist, keeping him close—so close you could feel every breath he took—yet he still refused to give you what you were begging for.

“Please,” you whispered, your pride crumbling at his feet. “Bucky… I need you. Please.”

His eyes darkened, a slow, cocky smile tugging at his lips. “There she is,” he murmured. “My sweet girl. My little angel.”

His hand slid up your thigh, pushing your skirt higher until his fingers found the waistband of your panties. He hooked them, pulled once hard, and the thin fabric gave way with an audible rip, falling to your knees.

Your breath hitched, your cheeks burning. “Jesus, Barnes,” you huffed. “You owe me a shopping spree with how many pairs of panties you’ve destroyed.”

He unhooked your leg around his hip, setting it down gently as his hands started to fumble and work at the buckle of his belt and the zipper of his pants. “I’ll buy you new ones—turn around,” he gritted through clenched teeth. “Turn around. Hands against the wall.”

When you hesitated for just a second, his hands found your waist again, turning your body around roughly, making your hands scramble against the wall to keep your balance. His grip on your hips tightened as he pulled your bottom out, forcing you to arch your back and present your bare slit to him that was barely covered by your skirt.

“That’s it,” he encouraged, his hands going back to tug his belt and pants down—the sound of it making your legs tremble. “Look at you, already archin’ for me. You’re so pretty, baby."

You couldn’t take it anymore. You rocked your hips back, seeking any form of friction, and once your bare ass rubbed against his cock—hard and warm—you couldn’t help the pitiful whimper that escaped your lips. It wasn’t nearly enough, so you started to rub your ass up and down against his cock that was barely peeking out of his jeans.

“Jesus,” he groaned, his hands tight on your hips. He tried to hold you still, but the minute your wet and puffy slit ground against his pulsing shaft just right, he couldn’t help but tip his head back into a moan. “Fuck—you desperate little slut.”

He started to palm your ass, giving it a firm squeeze that made you yelp. He wrapped a hand around his cock, freeing himself completely from his pants—giving himself a couple of steady pumps that made his breath go heavy as he positioned the tip against your slit, coating himself in your slick arousal.

Your knees nearly gave out as he probed and teased the entrance, pushing just enough to make you gasp and flutter around him—your walls already ready to accommodate his size, but he doesn’t give you the satisfaction.

“Bucky—” you breathed, your fingers trembled against the wall. Your hips pushed back, desperate for more than just the teasing slide of his tip.

“That’s right,” he rasped, his breath hot against your neck as he leaned over you. “Beg for it. Beg for me for once.”

You whimpered, your forehead pressing against the cool wall. “Please—please, Bucky, I need you—”

He dragged the head of his cock slowly through your folds again, gathering the slick that was dripping down your thighs. His free hand came up to your shoulder, gripping you firmly, keeping you perfectly in place as he pushed forward just an inch.

“You didn’t fuck anyone else while I was gone, did you?”

You shook your head.

“No?” he gave you a shallow and short thrust, his tip going past your entrance and making you gasp. “Not even Walker?”

You squeezed your eyes shut. “N-no…” You tried to rut your hips back, but he held you firmly in place, unmoving.

“Are you sure about that?”

You made a frustrated sound, a whine and a sob that made him chuckle darkly, savoring your sweet torture. His hand slid from your shoulder to your throat, wrapping around it gently, tilting your head just enough to force your back to arch even deeper. “You didn’t fuck anyone else—and you will not fuck anyone else. Not while I’m here. Got it?”

“Bucky—please,” you begged, your voice cracking. “Please—for the love of God.”

His hips moved forward, pushing excruciatingly slow, your walls stretching around his length. You hadn’t given yourself the courtesy of pleasing yourself while you and Bucky were on a 'break,' because you knew nothing could replace the real thing—the real feeling of him splitting you open on his cock.

“Christ,” he groaned, leaning forward until his whole body blanketed yours, his nose buried in your hair as he breathed you in. Your scent made his breath stutter, his voice roughening. “Still…” he pushed deeper, inch by devastating inch, “…still so goddamn tight for me.”

It had only been a few weeks since he was last inside you, yet it felt like years.

“Give me all of it, Bucky—please, I need it—”

He let out a dark, low laugh that vibrated against your back, the condescending sound making your walls flutter around him. “So fucking spoiled. You’re such a spoiled little princess.” He pushed forward until he was almost fully sheathed—one sharp thrust away from filling you completely—but he didn’t give it to you.

“I keep calling you a princess, but you always seem to be—” his hand cracked against your ass, the sharp smack echoing in the tiny shed and forcing you to gasp, hands scrambling against the wall. “—getting fucked in the dirtiest places.”

He pulled back just enough to make you whimper—then slammed in, burying himself to the hilt. You choked on a cry as he grabbed your hips and began ramming into you, hard and hungry.

“Getting fucked in the bathroom… in my car…” his rhythm turned punishing. “And now in some—fuck—some dusty little shed...”

His voice dropped lower, smug and vicious. “If it were any other frat boy, you’d want him to take you all soft and sweet on a bed like the princess you pretend to be.” His fingers dug into your hips. “But with me? You’d let me fuck you anywhere. Isn’t that right?”

Your body answered for you; squeezing, fluttering, dripping around him with every brutal thrust.

He groaned, hips snapping forward, your pussy clutching him as though trying to pull him even deeper, welcoming him back exactly where he belonged. Your body went soft and trembling under him, your breath coming out in broken, needy gasps. And Bucky heard every single one—fed off them and drank them in.

“My little fucking princess,” he rasped against your ear, his hips slamming hard. “All dressed up, walking around campus like you’re too fucking good for me.”

His hand slid up your back, fingers tracing your spine before curling around the back of your neck. “—but you always come running back to me. You always do.”

You whimpered, pushing back helplessly against him, chasing every hard thrust. “Bu—Buck…”

“Aw,” he chuckled darkly. “You’re whining. My pretty little princess is whining for it.”

You whimpered again even louder, and he groaned like it was the sweetest song he’d ever heard.

“God, you’re such a fucking mess,” he breathed. “All that attitude, all that sass—but the second I get inside you, you melt. Don’t you?”

You nodded frantically, your hands sliding down the wall as your legs trembled.

“Nuh-uh.” He tightened his grip on your neck, tilting your head up. “Use your words.”

“I—I melt,” you stammered pathetically. “I always melt for you—only for you…”

“Fuck,” he moaned, his hips losing their rhythm at the sound of your helpless and sweet voice. “Cute… that’s real cute, angel.”

Your knees buckled, and the rasp of his voice alone was enough to make your eyes roll back, your cunt clenching helplessly around him as he fucked you just right. “Fuck—Bucky, I’m—”

He smirked against your ear, his stubble scraping your skin deliciously as his hand slid down your stomach and found your clit. His fingers circled it in tight, fast patterns that made your whole body jolt. And if that wasn’t enough, the way his other hand groped your breasts through your shirt—shameless and filthy—sent a shiver up your spine.

“Oh, now you’re close?” he teased, voice condescending. “My sweet girl wants to cum already?”

You nodded so fast it made you dizzy. “Please,” you gasped. “Please, Bucky— I’m gonna—”

“No, you’re not.”

Then both his hands disappeared.

Your legs shook violently, a sob ripping from your throat. You looked back at him over your shoulder—mascara streaking down your cheeks, lip gloss smudged over your chin. “Wha— Bucky, please—!”

He grabbed your hips, holding you perfectly still as he pulled halfway out—only halfway, because he knew if he pulled out all the way, you’d throw a tantrum like a brat. And as mean as he was being, he still wanted to stay buried in your warmth.

“You think you get to cum before I say so?” he murmured, voice soft but every word sharp. “Just ’cause you’re my princess doesn’t mean you get special privileges, baby. You earn them.”

You nearly collapsed, a desperate little cry shaking out of your chest. “Bucky—I can’t— I need—”

“Oh, you need.” He laughed, breath hot at your ear. “You sound so pathetic.”

He snapped his hips forward, burying himself to the hilt again. Your cry echoed off the metal walls.

“Look at you,” he mocked, tangling his fingers in your hair and yanking your head back. “Shaking. Dripping. You want it so fucking bad you’re about to cry.”

“I am,” you choked. “B-Bucky, please—”

“Beg better.”

His fingers returned to your clit—barely brushing, and frustratingly light.

“Please—please, let me cum,” you sobbed. “I’ll do anything—Bucky, please, I’m your princess, I’m your angel, I’m— I’m yours—”

He inhaled sharply, his grip on your hips turning bruising.

“Say it again.”

“I’m yours,” you cried, breaking apart. “I’m yours, Bucky—please let me—please, I love you. Fuck, I love you, and I need you so bad.”

A small, almost broken groan croaked from his throat at the sound of your words. He was buried so deep inside you, the tip of his head pressing against your cervix. His fingers dug deep into your waist, pulling you impossibly closer against him.

“Fuck,” he cursed. “You can’t just say that to me when I’m inside you—” he thrust hard, losing control. “You can’t tell me you love me and expect me to stay gentle.”

Your breath shattered as he dragged out of you, then slammed right back in—deep, hard, and possessive.

“Say it again.”

“I—I love you,” you cried.

“That’s it,” he rasped. “My girl. My fucking girl.” His fingers dropped to your clit again. No teasing this time—tight circles enveloped you, fast and desperate, making your whole body jerk in his grasp.

“God! Bucky—”

“You want to cum?”

“Please,” you nodded hard, crying. “Please—please, let me—”

He thrust hard, pinning you to the wall, his pace brutal and relentless. “Good girl. Cum for me, baby.”

“Fuck, Bucky!”

Then your vision went white. You tossed your head back, your back arching even deeper against his thrust as you fluttered and came undone. You spasmed around him, clenching hard, wet and messy.

“Good girl—fuck, that’s it,” he groaned. “Squeeze me—just like that…”

You trembled uncontrollably, your orgasm rolling through you in sharp, shaking waves, making your release drag him with you. He tried to hold on, tried to make this last longer than it should, but that broken little “Bucky” that left your lips, and the way you’re squeezing him so tight, it was impossible for him to hold back—especially when him and his body missed you so much.

“Fuck—sweetheart—” his hands clamped down on your hips, pulling you back into him. His forehead dropped to your shoulder, his whole body shuddering through each deep, hard pulse of pleasure. “God—” he rasped, his voice shaking, “you feel… you feel too good. I can’t—”

You squealed again, and it made him want to fill you with nothing but filth.

“Shit, shit,” he groaned. “I’m gonna cum inside—fuck, baby. Take it, princess.” He grabbed your hips hard, making you whimper as he held you still, his cock jerking and pulsing inside you as he let himself go—his cum, hot and thick, filling you to the brim as he stuffed you with his love.

Your eyes rolled back, your lips parting in a sharp gasp as he filled you completely. He stayed sheathed inside you, breathing hard as his hands roamed your body lazily, grasping for you as if making sure you were still there with him. Your clothes were a mess, Bucky was sweating above you, and you felt his release trickling down your thigh.

“Jesus,” he moaned, pressing a soft kiss to your shoulder. “Mine. All fucking mine.”

You tried to turn around, to pull him out of you so you could face him, but he held you still, completely inside you. “Don’t…” he mumbled, his voice breaking slightly in short pants. “Don’t move... just stay with me. Okay?”

And for a long moment, neither of you moved. The only sounds were your breathing and the occasional shuffle of feet and student voices just outside the shed.

Bucky’s chest rose and fell against your back, his breath warm as he pressed one last lingering kiss to the side of your neck. His hands smoothed up your sides, his touches gentle and kind now.

“You okay?” he murmured, his voice scratchy.

You nodded, leaning back into him, letting his weight, his warmth, his presence fill your senses. “Yeah,” you whispered. “More than okay.”

He let out a quiet, relieved sound like a laugh, and wrapped both arms around your waist from behind, hugging you tightly. His nose brushed your cheek as he held you close.

“I missed you,” he confessed, barely audible. “So fucking much.”

He didn’t let go until your breathing evened out and your heart beat at a steady, slowing pace. Only then did he ease back, turning you gently to face him. His thumbs brushed your cheeks tenderly, wiping away smudged mascara like it was something precious. Then he pressed a soft kiss to your forehead—so achingly gentle after everything that your chest tightened. He adjusted your skirt, putting it back into place.

“No panties,” he smoothed your hair down, giving you a soft smile. “But you’re still so beautiful.”

When he finally stepped back, he zipped himself back up. His eyes swept the room—and landed on your handbag discarded on the floor.

He huffed a frustrated laugh and bent down to grab it. “This thing is way too expensive to be sitting on the ground of a dusty-ass shed.” He lifted it by the straps, dusting it off. “You treat this bag worse than you treat me.” He joked.

“I treat you great, actually,” you crossed your arms with a grin.

He didn’t deny it. He grinned as he adjusted the bag, about to hand it over to you, but his hands paused in the air as he caught sight of something pink—a small envelope sticking out of the open zipper. The neat handwriting on the front read: To: Bucky.

He looked up at you slowly, his blue eyes wide. “...You wrote me something?” he asked quietly.

And before you could reply, he pulled the note out, eagerly tearing the envelope open and pulling the letter out. Suddenly, all the confidence you had in delivering him the letter before this backfired. You stood there, face flushed and embarrassed as you watched his eyes trace over each word carefully.

His face shifted into a disbelieving smile, even chuckling at your ridiculous string of words.

“Wow,” he let out a low whistle. “Did you make one of your friends write this?” He teased, though the smile and red flush on his ears said otherwise. He looked up at you, trying to hide the grin that he was failing to compose. “This doesn’t sound like you at all.”

His teasing smirk only widened when he saw how red your face got. You stepped forward to snatch the letter back, but he lifted it easily out of reach.

“Give it,” you hissed.

“Uh-uh.” He wagged the paper, backing up a step. “Not after you wrote—what was it?” His voice pitched up dramatically as he read a line from memory. “‘Your music makes me feel safe.’” He pressed a hand to his chest, pretending to swoon. “You trying to make me fall in love with you even more, sweetheart?”

You groaned, mortified. “Bucky—”

“And this?” he tapped another part. “‘I miss you even when I’m mad at you.’” He held the paper to his heart. “That’s so fucking adorable. You really wrote this for me? Little ol’ me?”

You crossed your arms, your face scrunched up into that bratty look. You nodded, unable to meet his eyes. That cute little gesture only made him want to tease you more—but he held back. He stepped closer, nudging your chin up with one knuckle. “Thank you,” he whispered. “I’m gonna keep it forever.”

You swallowed hard, and he gave your cheek a soft kiss—warm, reassuring—before finally grabbing your bag and holding it out to you.

But when he tilted it slightly to get a better grip, the envelope slid in his hands—

And two glossy tickets fluttered out, landing at his feet.

He blinked.

Then slowly, very slowly, he crouched and picked them up.

“...Iron Maiden?” he breathed.

You shrugged, trying for casual but failing miserably as you still had that embarrassing flush on your face. “They’re, um... really good seats,” you mumbled. “The Book of Souls Tour—or whatever it said online.”

He stared at the tickets. Then at you. Then back at the tickets.

“Baby,” he held up both of them. “Do you... do you know how hard these are to get?”

You shrugged again, starting to be fond of the way he was beginning to swoon over you. “I have connections.”

“You do not have connections,” he said, stepping closer, pointing an accusing finger at you. “You fought Ticketmaster to the death. You went to war for this.”

“I did not—”

“You absolutely did.” His grin stretched ear to ear, so wide it looked like he couldn’t contain it. “Holy shit. You got us Iron Maiden tickets.”

Bucky didn’t even try to keep the grin off his face anymore. He just stepped into your space and wrapped his arms around you so suddenly, so tightly, that your bag slipped from his hand and thudded onto the floor. You froze for half a second, caught between wanting to shove him away for being so dramatic... and wanting to melt right into him like you always did. He didn’t give you much time to think anyway.

Because Bucky Barnes—outcast drummer, campus dirtbag—was kissing you everywhere.

Your cheeks. Your jaw. Your forehead. Your nose. Your lips, soft and quick and warm.

You felt his smile against your skin, felt the barely controlled tremble in his hands as if he still couldn’t believe you were here—choosing him for good.

“Bucky—stop,” you muttered, trying to shove him with zero effort behind it. “It’s not that serious—”

“Oh, shut up,” he laughed. “It is serious. You care so much. You love me. It’s adorable.”

You rolled your eyes, but your fingers curled into his shirt anyway. “I do not—”

“You do,” he cut in smugly, brushing a kiss to your collarbone. “And I love you back, princess.”

Another kiss to your cheek. Another to your hairline. Another to the corner of your lips that had you biting back a helpless smile.

You huffed, trying to salvage your dignity. “You’re so obsessed with me, Barnes.”

“You bought Iron Maiden tickets,” he countered, lifting you slightly off the ground as he hugged you again. “You’re the one who’s obsessed.”

You smacked his shoulder, your cheeks burning. “Put me down!”

He finally loosened his arms—only for your eyes to land on your handbag abandoned on the filthy shed floor.

“Bucky,” you said flatly. “What happened to ‘this thing is too expensive to be on a dusty-ass floor’?”

He paused, an eyebrow raising in confusion as his eyes followed yours to the ground. There, lying forgotten on the dusty concrete, was your expensive handbag.

“Oh shit,” he scrambled immediately, dropping into a crouch like a loyal, panicked puppy. “Baby, I swear I didn’t mean—this was a moment—I got distracted—don’t look at me—”

You couldn’t help the grin as you watched him scoop up your bag like it was a wounded animal. He dusted the straps as he stood up, handing it back to you with both hands. “There,” he said earnestly. “Pristine. Untouched. Immaculate. Better than me, honestly.”

You laughed, shaking your head as you grabbed your bag, putting the strap over your shoulder.

“You’re so lame.”

“You know I’d do anything for you,” he grinned.

“Oh. Actually—there is one thing.”

His brows lifted, head tilting slightly as curiosity flashed across his face. “Yeah? What’s that?”

You made a face—scrunched nose, dramatic disgust—like the memory alone annoyed you. “You need to make a shirt that says ‘I love my girlfriend’ or something.”

He blinked. “…Girlfriend?”

You tapped your chin thoughtfully, ignoring him. “Or maybe I’ll print my face on it. Huge. Right across your chest. So every girl knows you’re taken.”

Realization hit him in real time—then he couldn’t help the slow, boyish smile that spread across his face. “Okay,” he nodded. “Yeah. Fine by me.”

“Just something that tells them the drummer is not up for grabs.”

He snorted. “Of course.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Are you making fun of me?”

He shook his head quickly, a soft laugh escaping. “What? No. I’d let you stamp your kisses with lipstick all over my face before I get on stage if you wanted.”

Your cheeks warmed instantly, and you rolled your eyes like you weren’t the one who started this.

“You’re such a loser.”

Bucky smiled, wrapping a tight arm around your shoulder. “And you’re dating me.”

guys.... i finally did it... i finally finished pt 2...... this chapter definitely had more musical influences so if you care to take a gander...

ticket two: hit or miss - new found glory mr. brightside - the killers sugar, we're going down - fall out boy scotty doesn't know - lustra

By hole seven, the sun had turned brutal, baking the course in a hazy shimmer that made the grass look like it was melting. Half your backup inventory went missing from the shed, so you’ve been playing a fun game of “how many ways can I apologize for not having their favorite brand of light beer.” Your head aches, your lower back is a knot, your thighs are damp with sweat under your shorts, and your polo sticks to your spine in the most irritating way possible.

And then, somewhere around hole ten, a stray ball comes screaming in from the neighboring fairway and misses your head by inches, slamming into the cart with a loud, sharp thwack that nearly stops your heart.

You’re still a little shaky from that one.

So yeah. Worst day.

You plaster on your practiced “totally fine, not dying inside” smile as you pull up to the next group. Four men in various degrees of polo and khaki crimes stand around the tee box. Three of them are strangers.

The fourth one isn’t.

James “Bucky” Barnes leans on his driver and looks up the second your cart squeaks to a stop. His cap is pulled low against the sun, strands of brown hair curling at his neck, beard neatly trimmed around a smirk that has more than once made your brain skip a beat. The navy polo he’s wearing clings to his chest and biceps, the sleeves hugging thick, muscled arms that flex when he shifts his weight.

You’ve seen him a lot this summer. He’s become one of the course regulars: the guy who tips well, flirts harmlessly, never lets his buddies get away with treating you like a walking vending machine. You like him. A little too much, if you’re honest.

“Afternoon, gentlemen,” you chirp, even though your voice feels frayed. “What can I get you?”

Two of the strangers immediately ask for beers and something cold, complaining about the heat, the walk, their score. The third wants to paw through your entire selection to see if you have a specific brand you already apologized for being out of five times today.

Through it all, Bucky is quiet.

You can feel his gaze on you, steady and thoughtful, like he’s peeling back the bright service-industry veneer and clocking exactly how close you are to snapping. When you hand over change and force another smile, his eyes dip to your mouth, then back up.

“You good, doll?” he asks, voice low enough that the others don’t really hear it.

You inhale. “Peachy.”

His brows twitch, like he wants to call you on the lie, but you’re already turning to shove the cash box back under the cooler. Before you can straighten fully, a familiar clatter sounds in the empty space behind you.

You turn.

He’s standing there with his wallet in his hand, a thick wad of bills pinched between two fingers.

“I’ll take the rest of it,” he says.

You blink. “The… rest of what?”

He tips his chin toward the cooler. “All of it, sweetheart. Every bottle, every can, the sad little energy drinks hiding in the corner. I’m buying you out.”

The other guys laugh like it’s a bit. “What, you starting a bar at home, Barnes?”

“Something like that,” he says absently, eyes never leaving yours. “What do you say, cart girl? You wanna close up early?”

Your heart thumps, sudden and hard.

“You don’t have to—”

“I know I don’t have to.” His mouth curves around the words. “I want to.”

The way he says it does something to you that has nothing to do with the cash he’s holding and everything to do with the way his gaze warms, soft but unyielding. He’s not teasing. Not really. He looks… concerned. Determined. Like he’s decided something, and that thing includes you not having a meltdown on the eighteenth hole.

“Barnes, man, that’s—” one of the guys starts.

“Put it on my tab if you want,” Bucky interrupts easily. “But I’m serious. She’s done. You all good? You got your drinks? Great. We’ll catch up.”

The golfers grumble good-naturedly, shrug, and wander back to their game. They’re already popping cans and complaining about their swings as they move down the fairway. Within seconds, their voices blend into the general hum of the course.

Silence settles around the cart.

You stare at Bucky. “You really gonna drink an entire cooler’s worth of alcohol by yourself?”

“Who says I’m drinkin’ it?” He steps closer, folding the bills and tucking them neatly into the front pocket of your polo, fingers brushing the fabric over your chest just enough to make you swallow. “Maybe I’m just highly motivated to improve staff morale.”

You snort despite yourself. “You’re unbelievable.”

“There she is,” he murmurs, pleased, because he got you to crack a little. Then, softer: “Seriously, honey. Let me buy you out. You’ve looked ready to bite somebody’s head off all afternoon.”

“You’ve been watching me all afternoon?” you say, because reacting to the first part feels like it might break you open.

He doesn’t deny it.

“Drive me somewhere quiet,” he says instead, voice lowering in a way that threatens to melt your knees. He taps the empty seat next to him as he slides in, his big body making the cart rock gently. “Let Daddy make your day better, doll.”

Heat crawls up your neck.

You shouldn’t love how that sounds as much as you do. You shouldn’t like that he says Daddy like it’s a promise and a question all at once, eyes locked on yours like he’s giving you ample space to say no. You shouldn’t love the lazy confidence, the way he moves like the world bends around him, except when he’s talking to you, he’s… careful. Always careful.

You think of the golf ball that nearly cracked your skull. Of the leering guy who tried to talk you into “riding something more fun than that cart.” Of how tired your legs are, how hot your skin feels, how bone-deep worn out you are.

And then you climb into the driver’s seat and put your hands on the wheel.

“Buckle up,” you tell him, because your mouth is braver than your brain.

His answering grin is slow and sinful. “Yes, ma’am.”

He twists to snag the seatbelt—not even pretending he’s just doing it for safety—and the motion pulls his polo tight across his chest. Muscle presses against cotton, veins shifting in his forearms as he settles in. You put the cart in drive before you can stare too openly.

The path that loops behind the back nine winds through a cluster of trees, where the land dips just enough to tuck you out of sight from the main fairways. You’ve seen couples sneak down here before, in stolen afternoon moments they hope the clubhouse cameras can’t catch. It’s shady and quiet, the air cooler where sunlight filters through leaves instead of blinding off glossy turf.

You guide the cart down the slight slope, gravel crunching under the wheels. The usual hum of the club feels distant now, like something you can shrug off with your uniform in the locker room. For a few minutes, it’s just you, the low whine of the motor, and the solid weight of Bucky at your side.

He rests one arm along the back of the seat, fingers draping behind your shoulders without quite touching. His thigh is a solid line of heat next to yours, stretching his slacks tight. He smells like cedar and cologne and sun-warmed cotton, with a hint of something darker, muskier, underneath.

“You okay?” he asks quietly after a moment. “Really?”

You keep your eyes on the path. “I almost got decapitated by a Titleist. Found out half my stock mysteriously walked off. Got called sweetheart, honey, and ‘hey you’ in roughly equal measure by grown men who still don’t know how to read the menu on the back of my cart. But sure. I’m fantastic.”

His hand slides down from the back of the seat to rest lightly on your shoulder, thumb rubbing a slow circle through the fabric of your polo. “You shoulda called me over to smack some sense into ’em.”

“What, you gonna beat them with your nine iron?” You glance at him, lips twitching.

“Don’t tempt me.” His eyes flick over your face, softer now. “I really am sorry, doll. You don’t deserve to have your day go like that.”

“Oh yeah?” Your voice goes quiet. “What do I deserve, then?”

The look he gives you makes your breath catch. Heavy and warm and molten, like he’s cataloging every answer he’s been holding back all summer.

“Park,” he says, rough around the edges. “Then I’ll tell you.”

Your pulse thuds in your throat.

You pull the cart off the path into a shaded alcove between two large oaks, wheels bumping over uneven ground until you find a relatively level spot. The canopy above throws dappled shadows across the front of the cart, the air cooler, birds chattering somewhere deeper in the trees. No other golfers in sight. No stray balls.

Just the two of you.

You put it in park. Your hands linger on the wheel like you’re afraid to let go.

Bucky’s fingers still on your shoulder. “Look at me, baby.”

You turn.

It’s not like he hasn’t flirted before. The playful comments, the lingering tips, the way he sometimes slides an extra five into your hand with a wink and a soft “for you, not the cart.” But this—this feels different. Not casual. Not easy.

Focused.

“Any of this too much?” he asks quietly. “We stop, I walk back, you tell the manager I bought out your cooler and took off. You never see me again if that’s what you want.”

The idea hits you like a punch. “I don’t want that.”

“Good.” Relief flickers over his face. “’Cause I’ve been thinkin’ about getting you alone in this damn cart since the first day you rolled up and tried to upsell me on overpriced trail mix.”

“You bought three,” you remind him.

“Yeah, because your lips did this little pout when I said I didn’t want any.” His thumb brushes the corner of your mouth lightly, the touch so gentle it makes your lungs forget how to work. “Drove me insane. Still does.”

Your pulse hammers. “You really notice everything, huh?”

“Hard not to, doll.” His gaze dips to your throat, then lower, sliding down the line of your body. “You’re my favorite part of this course.”

He says it like it’s fact, simple and solid as the trees around you.

Your hands finally leave the wheel and find his chest instead, fingers curling into his polo. The fabric is warm and slightly damp from the heat; under it, his heart beats steady and strong. You don’t even remember leaning in, but suddenly his breath is ghosting over your lips, the brim of his cap casting you in shade through the thin space between you.

“Still wanna make my day better, Daddy?” you ask, the word tasting decadent as it leaves your tongue.

His eyes blow dark.

“Baby,” he rasps, “you got no idea.”

Then he’s kissing you.

It’s not tentative. It’s not careful. It’s hungry in a way that scrapes the bad mood right off your skin. His mouth claims yours like he’s been holding himself back for weeks and finally decided he’s done pretending. His hand comes up to cup the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair, tipping you exactly where he wants you. His other hand spans your waist, tugging you closer across the small space between your seats until your chest is pressed to his and the steering wheel digs into your hip.

You make a small, startled sound against his lips. His tongue swipes along the seam of your mouth, coaxing you open, deepening the kiss until thought melts away under pure sensation. He tastes like mint and beer and something that makes your toes curl in your sneakers.

“Come here,” he murmurs, breaking away only long enough to haul you more fully into his lap.

You go easily, straddling his thighs, your knees braced on either side of the seat. The cart rocks with the shift in weight, a soft creak of metal and suspension. It only makes your heart race more. His hands slide down to your ass, fingers biting through the thin cotton of your shorts as he pulls you down until you’re seated firmly against the thick, growing press of him beneath his zipper.

“Oh,” you breathe, a little helpless.

“Yeah,” he says, voice rough with satisfaction. “There you go, princess. Just like that.”

He kisses you again as he rocks you forward gently, the slow grind sending heat spiraling through your body. The friction of your shorts against him, the solid flex of muscle under your thighs, the sheer size of him—everything conspires to make your head spin.

You break away, panting softly. “We’re really doing this in the cart.”

He smirks, thumb brushing your lower lip. “Got a problem with that?”

“No,” you say, voice breathy, honesty spilling out before you can catch it. “Kinda hoped we would.”

He groans, head tipping back against the seat for a beat like he needs a second to get himself together. When he looks at you again, his eyes are molten.

“Fuck, you’re gonna kill me,” he mutters, fingers gripping your hips tighter. “Gimme a sec. I wanna taste you before I lose my damn mind.”

Your brain stutters. “Taste—”

“Mm-hm.” He taps your thigh. “Turn around for me. Knees on the seat. Hold onto the back rail.”

You blink at him, then at the empty tree line, and feel heat roar to life low in your belly.

“Out here?” you whisper, but you’re already moving, sliding off his lap to kneel on the passenger seat. Your fingers curl around the metal bar at the back of the cart, knuckles whitening. The position makes your shorts stretch tight across your ass, your back arched, your breath catching.

“Out here,” he confirms, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep watch.”

His hands skim up the backs of your thighs, slow and appreciative, fingertips leaving trails of heat on your sticky skin. He hooks his fingers in the hem of your shorts, dragging them up just enough that the fabric rides higher, baring more of you to the warm air.

You gasp as he leans forward and presses a kiss to the inside of your knee, then another on the back of your thigh. It’s almost reverent. Nothing crude, nothing rushed. Just his mouth following a path up, up, up, leaving a trail of soft, open-mouthed kisses along skin that’s never felt particularly special before and now feels like it might catch fire from the attention alone.

“You’ve been running around this course all day for assholes who don’t appreciate you,” he murmurs against your skin. “Least I can do is worship a little.”

Your grip on the bar tightens. “That’s not—ah—necessary.”

“Feels necessary to me, doll.” His thumb strokes the side of your hip. “You want me to stop?”

“No,” you say instantly, voice gone thin. “Please don’t stop.”

“That’s my good girl,” he praises softly.

The words send a shiver straight down your spine.

You feel him shift behind you, the seat creaking, and then he’s undoing the button of your shorts with deft fingers. He takes his time, like every little movement is deliberate. The metal teeth of your zipper whisper down, your shorts loosening around your hips. He tugs them, inch by inch, over the swell of your ass, carefully maneuvering them down until they’re bunched mid-thigh. Your panties cling to you, damp with heat, the thin fabric doing little to conceal how much you want this.

You make a faint, embarrassed noise. He catches it immediately.

“Hey,” he says, voice low and soothing. “None of that. You know how many times I’ve thought about this? About you?”

You swallow. “You have?”

“Baby,” he almost laughs, the sound incredulous. “The way you smile, the way you talk, those little shorts you wear when it’s hot out? I’ve spent an unhealthy amount of time in the clubhouse shower tryin’ not to be a creep about it.”

Your face flames, but your chest swells too—some fragile part of you softening at the idea he wanted you this much and still kept his distance until you were ready. Until you parked the cart and climbed into his lap and said Daddy like you meant it.

His hands slide up the backs of your thighs again, thumbs pressing into tight muscles, working circles that make your knees wobble. He rises slightly behind you, and then his breath is ghosting over the backs of your thighs, the curve of your ass, the thin cotton between your legs.

You gasp sharply when his mouth finally lands over that thin barrier, warm and open and possessive. He kisses you through the fabric, slow and deliberate, like he’s savoring the taste even dulled by cotton.

“Sweet little thing,” he hums, the vibration making your toes curl in your shoes. “Knew you’d be delicious.”

Your hips jerk involuntarily. “Bucky—”

“Hold on tight for me,” he tells you, fingers curling into the sides of your panties. “Gonna take good care of you.”

He eases the damp fabric aside, baring you to the air and his gaze. You can’t see his face, but you feel the way he stills for a heartbeat, breath catching like he’s been punched. Then—

Then he settles in.

The first slow, deliberate stroke of his tongue against you rips a sound from your throat you don’t recognize. You slap a hand over your mouth too late, muffling the rest of it into your palm as your whole body bows against the bar.

“Easy,” he murmurs between slow, thorough licks. “Got you, baby.”

Your legs tremble as he works you, unhurried but relentless, like he’s got all the time in the world and every second is dedicated to mapping exactly what makes you gasp, what makes your hips twitch back toward his mouth. He alternates between long, languid strokes and firmer, more focused attention, letting you ride the waves of it, encouraging you quietly when you whimper and shift.

“That’s it,” he soothes, voice rough with arousal. “Don’t hold back on me. Wanna hear you.”

“We’re—we’re outside,” you manage weakly.

“Tree line’s clear,” he counters, lips curving against you. “Only thing out here is you and me, doll. And right now, you’re the only thing I care about.”

He proves it, too.

His hands bracket your hips, holding you steady when your knees threaten to give out, thumbs spreading you just enough to angle you exactly where he wants you. Every slow drag of his tongue, every swirl, every gentle suck pulls another frayed sound from your chest. You’re vaguely aware of the cart rocking slightly as you brace against it, of the birds still chattering in the distance, of the faint hiss of wind through leaves.

Mostly, you’re aware of him.

Of the way his mouth moves over you like he’s devouring something he’s craved for a long, long time. Of the way his quiet praises spill against your skin, hot and reverent.

“Look at you,” he groans softly when your hips start to roll against his face. “Grindin’ on me like that. Such a good girl, givin’ it to Daddy just how he wants.”

You whine, your hand dropping from your mouth to grip the bar again, because each time he calls himself that, your whole body tightens.

“Please,” you gasp. “Bucky, please—”

“Please what, sweetheart?” His tongue slows to a torturous pace. “Use your words.”

You squeeze your eyes shut. “Please don’t stop. I’m so close, I—”

“Yeah?” he murmurs, and you can hear how smug he is about it. “Then you better hold on.”

He gives up on slow entirely.

He works you with focused intensity, tongue and lips and the steady anchoring pressure of his hands. The pleasure builds fast, coiling tight in your belly, winding higher and higher until your breath is nothing but short, stuttering gasps.

You hear yourself babbling—nonsense words, his name, the occasional broken Daddy when the pleasure spikes hard enough to blur the edges of your vision. He groans each time you say it, like the word feeds him, spurring him on, his grip tightening enough that you’re sure you’ll feel his fingerprints on your hips later.

“That’s it,” he urges against you when your thighs start to shake in earnest. “Give it to me, doll. Wanna feel you fall apart for me.”

You break with a shuddering cry you barely manage to smother against your forearm. Fireworks explode behind your eyes. The world narrows to a point of blinding heat and the slow, grounding sensation of his hands holding you steady while your body convulses.

He keeps his mouth on you through it, easing you down, swallowing your sounds like a man starved.

When you finally slump against the back rail, boneless and trembling, he presses one last, lingering kiss to your tender skin, like he’s sealing something there.

“Still with me?” he asks, voice hoarse.

You nod weakly, forehead resting on your arm. “Gimme a minute. I think my soul left my body.”

He laughs, soft and delighted. His palm sweeps up your spine, warm through the thin cotton of your polo. “C’mere, sweetheart.”

You carefully hitch your panties back into place and shimmy your shorts up enough that they won’t fall off your hips, then turn and practically collapse into his lap. He catches you easily, arms wrapping around your waist, his big hand splayed across your back.

Your legs bracket his thighs again, but this time you’re more aware of the very prominent, very hard ridge pressing against you through his slacks. Your eyes flick down, then back up to his face.

“You didn’t have to—” you start.

“Yeah,” he says dryly, “I kinda did.”

You swat his shoulder weakly. “I mean, you didn’t have to do that without… y’know. Getting anything out of it.”

“Oh, I got plenty out of it.” His eyes darken. “But if you’re worried about fairness, we can fix that real quick.”

Your stomach flips.

“You sure?” he asks, though his hands are already sliding down to your hips, impatient. “You want me?”

You meet his gaze and let him see it—the want, the relief, the trust. The way he made your hellish day feel distant and small with his attention, his care, his mouth.

“Yes,” you say simply. “I want you.”

“Fuck,” he whispers like a prayer. “Okay. Okay, come here.”

He lifts your hips slightly, maneuvering you closer as he reaches down with one hand to undo his belt. The soft jingle of metal and the muted rasp of his zipper fill the shaded space. Your pulse races anew. You feel him free himself from the confines of fabric, the blunt, hot press of him against you making your breath stutter.

He pauses, breathing hard. “You on anything, doll?”

“Yes,” you answer, heart pounding. “And I’m clean. You?”

“Same,” he says without missing a beat. “But say the word and we stop. I’ll just sit here and kiss you stupid instead.”

You don’t think you’ve ever liked someone more in your life.

“We’re okay,” you assure him, cupping his jaw. “I want all of you.”

His eyes flare.

“You’re gonna be the death of me,” he mutters, then slides one hand down between your bodies.

He slips his fingers under the edge of your panties again, finding you still warm and slick from his mouth. You whimper quietly when he drags his fingertips through the wetness, coating himself with it. The blunt head of him nudges at your entrance, the pressure already enough to stretch your breath into a thin line.

“Nice and easy,” he soothes, eyes locked on yours. “Just sink down on me, baby. I got you.”

You brace your hands on his shoulders, fingers digging into solid muscle as he slowly guides you down.

The first inch makes you gasp, a sweet, aching stretch that borders on too much. He’s big, your body adjusting to the intrusion with a mix of burn and pleasure that curls your toes. He watches your face carefully, jaw clenched, restraint written in every tense line of his body.

“Breathe,” he murmurs, thumb rubbing your hip. “There you go. You’re doing so good.”

You exhale shakily, letting your weight settle bit by bit. He fills you, hot and thick, the sensation almost overwhelming. It’s not just the physical stretch of him—it’s how utterly encompassing it feels to have him here, under you, inside you, his arms around you, his voice grounding you.

When you finally sink fully onto him, your thighs flush to his, you both release a sound in unison—his a guttural groan, yours a breathless, disbelieving moan.

“Jesus Christ,” he grits out, head tipping back as he squeezes your hips. “You’re so tight, sweetheart. So fuckin’ perfect around me.”

You shiver. “You’re… big.”

“Good big or bad big?” he manages, trying for humor and mostly just sounding wrecked.

You roll your hips experimentally and feel him hit deep, pleasure sparking so bright you gasp. “Very good big.”

He laughs once, breathless. “That’s my girl.”

The cart shifts beneath you as you begin to move, the old suspension protesting with soft creaks each time you lift yourself a few inches and sink back down. The slight sway adds a strange thrill, a reminder that this is reckless and public-adjacent and absolutely the best decision you’ve made all week.

Bucky’s hands guide you at first, steadying your rhythm, helping you find a pace that keeps the stretch delicious without tipping into discomfort. Once you do, he loosens his grip, letting you ride him how you want.

You take him up on it.

You find a slow, grinding motion that lets you savor every inch, every shift of him inside you. Each time you rise and fall, his eyes darken further, his hands flexing on your hips like he has to physically stop himself from flipping you onto your back and taking over.

“You feel so good,” you whisper against his mouth when you lean in for a messy kiss. “So deep.”

“You’re killin’ me, doll,” he groans, kissing you back with matching hunger. “Look at you. Bouncin’ on Daddy’s lap in the middle of the damn back nine like you own the place.”

“Maybe I do,” you murmur, then yelp as he snaps his hips upward, meeting you halfway with a sharp thrust that steals your breath.

“Maybe you do,” he agrees, voice gravelly. “Especially lookin’ like this.”

His hands slide up from your hips to your waist, your ribs, your throat. He doesn’t squeeze—just cradles the sides of your neck, thumbs tilting your chin up so he can see every flicker of pleasure on your face.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “Fuck, that’s it. Just like that, baby. Take what you need from me.”

You do.

You pick up the pace gradually, your body chasing that familiar coil of pleasure low in your belly. The cart sways more obviously now, rocking on its wheels with each slower, deeper pump, the creaks blending with your soft sounds and his broken groans.

You’re vaguely aware of the absurdity—having the best sex of your life in a golf cart while the rest of the world whacks little white balls around manicured grass—but it only makes you hotter. Only makes the whole thing feel more like a stolen secret carved out of a bad day.

Bucky’s breathing turns heavier as you ride him harder, his hands dropping back to your hips to steady you, to pull you down onto him with each thrust. He meets you halfway now, his own control fraying, the low, filthy sounds spilling from his chest doing nothing to help your impending unraveling.

“Look at you,” he praises, fingers digging in. “Look at the way you’re takin’ me. Fuckin’ yourself on my cock like a good girl. You know how long I’ve wanted this? Wanted you?”

Your eyes flutter, head dropping to his shoulder as the pleasure stars to crest. “Wanted you too,” you confess, words tumbling out unchecked. “Since—since the first time you smiled at me. Thought I was going crazy.”

He curses softly, lips finding your temple. “You’re not crazy, baby. Or if you are, you’re not alone.”

He shifts his angle, dragging a hand down between your bodies to stroke where you’re joined, thumb circling in maddening, perfect little patterns that make you jerk and gasp.

“Daddy’s got you,” he murmurs against your hair when you start to tremble, your rhythm becoming disjointed. “C’mon, sweetheart. Give it to me. Ruin that bad mood for good.”

The combined sensations—him buried deep, his thumb working you just right, his voice in your ear—are too much. You shatter around him with a soft cry, clinging to his shoulders like he’s the only solid thing left in the world. Pleasure rips through you, hot and blinding, every muscle tensing and then melting in waves.

He groans when he feels you clench around him, his own control finally snapping.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he growls, driving into you with a few more sharp, stuttering thrusts. “That’s it, doll. Just like that—”

He buries himself deep one last time and goes still, his whole body tightening beneath you as he comes with a low, guttural sound against your neck. You feel the shudder roll through him, feel him hold you tight, almost crushing, like if he lets go you’ll evaporate.

For a long moment, the only sounds are your mingled breathing and the faint rustle of leaves overhead.

The world slowly tilts back into place.

You sag against him, boneless, your forehead pressing to the side of his neck. His hands stroke up and down your back in slow, soothing arcs, fingers tracing the line of your spine through your polo.

“You okay, sweetheart?” he asks quietly, his voice rough but gentle.

You nod against his skin. “I can’t feel my legs.”

He huffs a soft laugh, chest vibrating under your cheek. “I’ll take that as a good review.”

“Best I’ve had in a golf cart,” you mumble.

He snorts. “There’s a scale for that?”

“Apparently.” You smile, eyes closed, soaking in the feeling of being fully, gloriously ruined and, for the first time all day, completely at peace.

After a few minutes, you reluctantly shift, wincing at the sensitivity as you lift yourself off him. He helps, steadying you, his touch careful again. You readjust your clothes, smoothing your shorts and tugging your polo back into place. He tucks himself away, zips up, and fixes his belt, all while stealing small, fond glances at you.

When you finally flop back into the driver’s seat, your hair a mess and your lipstick long gone, he whistles softly.

“What?” you ask, self-conscious.

“You look happy,” he says simply.

You roll your eyes, but your cheeks warm. “Yeah, well. Someone just bought out my cooler and gave me a very thorough… morale boost.”

He grins, teeth flashing white in the dappled shade. “Anytime, doll. Seriously. I meant what I said. You work too hard for people who don’t appreciate you.”

You snort. “You sound like you’re about to unionize the cart girls.”

“Oh, I absolutely am,” he deadpans. “First order of business: mandatory breaks with one James Barnes, who will personally oversee your stress relief.”

You laugh, reaching for the small clipboard you keep clipped to the dash out of sheer habit. Before you can reach it, he catches your wrist lightly.

“Hang on.”

You raise a brow as he reaches into his pocket again, pulling out the wad of cash he never actually gave you earlier. He flips through it, peels several crisp bills off the top—more than you usually make in tips in an entire day—and then crooks a finger at you.

“C’mere,” he says, voice dropping into something that makes your skin prickle.

You lean in automatically.

He takes the folded bills and carefully tucks them into the cup of your bra, fingers sliding under the edge of the fabric with slow, deliberate intent. His knuckles brush the soft swell of your breast, and your breath catches even though you literally just had him inside you.

“There,” he murmurs, smoothing your shirt lightly. “Hazard pay. For nearly gettin’ your head taken off by a ball, surviving the assholes on this course, and letting me wreck you in a company vehicle.”

You stare at him, speechless for a second. “Bucky, this is too much.”

He shakes his head. “No such thing. Take it, princess.”

You bite your lip, then sigh and sit back, fingers brushing the hidden wad. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously into you, yeah,” he agrees easily. “Also ridiculously serious about taking you out sometime when you’re not technically on the clock and I’m not ambushing you with golf-cart sex.”

Your heart does a funny wobble.

“Like a real date?” you ask, hating how uncertain you sound suddenly. “You don’t have to feel obligated just because we—”

“Hey.” His hand finds yours, fingers wrapping around your knuckles, thumb rubbing over the back of your hand. “Look at me.”

You do.

He holds your gaze steadily, all the smirk and swagger dialed down into something quieter, more sincere.

“I don’t do anything I don’t want to,” he says firmly. “I wanted you before today. I’m gonna want you tomorrow. And the day after that. And every time you roll up in this cart lookin’ like sunshine and sarcasm. Today just… accelerated the timeline a bit.”

Your throat feels tight.

“I, uh,” you manage, trying not to melt entirely. “I’d like that. A date. With you.”

“Good.” His smile tilts warm. “Then it’s a plan.”

He lifts your hand to his lips and presses a soft kiss to your knuckles, the gesture surprisingly sweet after everything you just did together. It makes your chest ache in a different way.

You breathe in slowly, then glance at the time on the digital clock by the wheel.

“I should probably… y’know. At least pretend to work for another hour before I clock out.”

He chuckles. “Fair. Don’t want anyone gettin’ suspicious that you disappeared with the course menace.”

“You’re only a menace on the green,” you tease. “And apparently in secluded wooded areas.”

He winks. “You haven’t seen me at the driving range yet.”

You groan. “Terrible.”

“You love it.”

You do.

You guide the cart back toward the path, feeling his eyes on you, the weight of his hand resting comfortably on your thigh now like it belongs there. The course noise gradually swells again as you approach the fairways—the occasional shout, the whack of clubs, distant laughter.

But your bad mood?

Gone. Obliterated. Shredded beyond recognition by a man who noticed you were having a crap day, decided he wasn’t going to let that stand, and followed through with his words and his mouth and his body.

When you stop near the next hole, he reluctantly drops his hand from your leg.

“I’ll text you,” he says as he climbs out, adjusting his cap. “And, uh, maybe don’t tell management the exact reason you’re outta stock.”

“Oh, I’m absolutely writing ‘one very persuasive golfer’ in the inventory log,” you retort.

He grins wide, then leans back in for one more quick, searing kiss that leaves you dazed in the driver’s seat.

“See you later, doll,” he murmurs against your lips. “Try not to miss me too much.”

“Demanding,” you mutter, but you know your smile gives you away.

He laughs, shakes his head, and strolls back toward his friends, who are already mock-booing him for ditching them. You watch him go, the swing of his shoulders, the easy way he moves, then force yourself to turn back to your route.

Your cooler is technically empty.

Your pockets, however, are full—of cash, of the phantom warmth of his hands, of the echo of his voice calling you good girl. Your day started with a stray ball nearly taking your head off.

It’s ending with the memory of Bucky’s mouth on you, his body under you, and a promise of something more than stolen moments in a golf cart.

You can live with that.

You put the cart in drive and head off toward the next hole, humming under your breath, the worst day you’ve had all summer officially, thoroughly ruined.

----

You had agreed to be meticulously professional tonight. No lingering glances, no accidental brushes of hands, and absolutely no acknowledging the hours you spend together outside of office hours, where the subject was decidedly not the decline of the Austro-Hungarian Empire. The risk of your professional and academic entanglement being exposed feels perilously high here, surrounded by the watchful eyes of your colleagues.

A smooth laugh drifts over the cluster of people. His laughter. You feel your cheeks flush, a reaction you immediately suppress by forcing a smile at Dr. Rogers’ latest mention of something work-related (something you definitely were not paying attention to until now). Focus, you silently chided yourself. Modern History. TA. Professional.

But your resolve wavers as he turns his head, his eyes scanning the room before locking on yours for a fraction of a second. It is a micro-expression, a subtle downturn of the corner of his mouth that only you would recognize as a loaded message. The kind that said I see you. Don’t look away.

Your breath hitches. You quickly focus your gaze on the glittering Christmas tree by the piano, pretending the brief moment of undeniable connection hadn’t just happened. You hope no one else noticed the silent exchange that has just obliterated the professional distance you were supposed to be maintaining. The sheer audacity of that look. A silent violation of your mutual agreement to maintain the façade, and it sends a fresh wave of heat to your face.

“...and so the key is really in distinguishing between a pamphlet and a periodical based on the print run and the intended audience,” Dr. Rogers concludes, seemingly oblivious to the seismic event that just occurred between you and the man across the room. He adjusts his glasses, waiting for your response.

You force your brain back to 19th-century publications. “… Yes, of course. An important distinction, if one doesn’t intend to make the bibliography a living nightmare.” You manage, painfully aware that that’s hardly a noteworthy conclusion, although it truly is the most elaborate thought you can conjure up at this moment.

As if on cue, a familiar voice cuts in, smooth as aged whiskey, cutting through the music around the room and also your conversation. “Bibliographical nightmares. Sounds like an absolutely riveting discussion for a Christmas party, Stevie.”

Professor Barnes is suddenly beside you, though you hadn’t even seen him move. His presence always reads like a disruption of the room’s energy, a black hole that sucks all the attention towards him. He stands a little too close, smelling faintly of that expensive cologne you always compliment.

Dr. Rogers turns, his expression mildly affronted. “James! We were discussing the core challenges of historical scholarship. Someone has to keep the academic standards high, even at a festive gathering.”

James allows a disarming smile, the kind that usually makes you stammer through the most normal conversations. “I think we can all agree that the most pressing challenge tonight is deciding whether to go for the turkey canapés or the roast beef skewers.”

Dr. Rogers hesitates for only a moment, clearly wrestling with the urge to argue the importance of citations over canapés, but the lure of the buffet and Barnes’ sheer force of personality win out. He simply nods and moves toward the food table, vanishing into the crowd.

The moment he’s gone, the air between you changes. It crackles with an intensity that seems far too loud for a quiet conversation. Professor Barnes turns his full attention to you, and the downturned corner of his mouth from across the room is now a distinct smirk.

"I'm absolutely sure that there are at least two or three civilizations—documented, I might add, right there on shelf C, row four—that would consider it a terrible crime for someone who looks as stunning as you do tonight to be stuck here talking about citation formats.”

The compliment, delivered with that low rumble in his voice, hits you like a shot of that expensive champagne sitting on a table a few feet away.

You swallow, the sparkling cider suddenly feeling too sharp on your tongue. His eyes are dark, refusing to let you look away, and he’s leaning in just enough that only you can hear him over the festive chatter.

“Professor Barnes,” you manage, your voice barely a breathy whisper. You glance quickly over his shoulder, paranoid that Dean Hill or, worse, Dr. Rogers, might be watching. “We agreed. Tonight. Professional distance.”

The smirk doesn’t leave his face; it only deepens, mischief clear in his eyes. He takes a step closer, closing the last gap between you. His proximity is suffocating, in the best possible way.

“Did we?” he muses, his voice still low. He lifts a hand, and for a terrifying second, you think he might reach out, maybe touch your cheek or push a strand of hair behind your ear—a move that would expose your non-academic entanglement to the entire faculty.

Instead, his hand drops, hovering near your waist, a silent anchor that feels heavier than a physical touch.

“Because if we did, I think that the sight of you in that dress has rendered my short-term memory entirely unreliable. A temporary cognitive lapse, maybe. A consequence of too many late nights researching post-war economic shifts—or perhaps,” he pauses, letting the implication hang in the air, “it’s just the consequence of you looking like this party was put together to celebrate you.”

Your cheeks burn hotter, and you feel the telltale rush of adrenaline. He’s making this impossible.

“James,” you hiss, using his first name in an attempt to sound stern, even though it just comes out as a plea. “You are currently standing too close to your TA at a professional function. And you are being absolutely scandalous.”

He pulls back just enough to lock eyes with you again, his expression unrepentant. “Scandalous? I thought I was rescuing you from boredom at a Christmas party. That’s chivalry, not scandal.” He tips his head, his gaze sweeping over the room and returning, smugly satisfied, to yours.

“You are infuriating,” you manage, trying to sound annoyed, but the emotion is drowned out by the giddy panic in your chest.

He laughs softly, a quiet, rich sound that only you can truly appreciate. “Only when you look this irresistible.”

Before you can formulate a suitable reply, the upbeat, generic Christmas music playing over the ballroom speakers shifts, turning into a smooth, distinctly retro melody.

The opening notes of “Baby, It’s Cold Outside” drift from the speakers, the classic song instantly transforming the mood in the room.

Professor Barnes’ eyes lighten with recognition. The soft smirk on his face melts away, replaced by a look of more focused intent. He extends his hand toward you, mirroring the invitational gesture he might use to help you up a step—or lead you onto a dance floor—palm open, waiting.

“Would you look at that,” he says, his voice now gentle. “The universe is giving us a new academic mandate: show the faculty who the best dancers in this department are.”

You look at his hand, then quickly back at his face, mind racing. Dancing with him here, in the middle of the ballroom, surrounded by every person who holds sway over your academic future, feels like a statement you’re not quite ready to make. Whatever professional façade you’re attempting to keep tonight is flimsy as ever now.

“James, I can’t,” you whisper, shaking your head just slightly. “It’s... too public.”

He takes a small step closer, not retracting his hand but keeping it hovering between you, insistent. Have you ever known James to give up that easily on any matter?

“It’s just a dance,” he counters, whispering your name so quietly the lyrics of the song almost cover it. “Or is it that you think if you get too close, you won’t be able to distinguish between your TA duties and what we really are?”

Your sense of caution wavers at the sight of him in that tailored suit, hand outstretched, inviting you into the risk. You hesitate for only another half-second, the logic center of your brain screaming danger, but the rest of you overriding the warning.

Taking a deep breath, you allow yourself one last glance across the room to confirm that Dean Hill is safely engaged in a conversation by the fireplace and Dr. Rogers is still engrossed by the turkey canapés before you finally raise your hand, fingers brushing against the warmth of his palm before settling firmly into his grasp. Immediately, your cheeks warm.

A look of satisfaction takes over James’ face as he holds your hand like it’s the proof of his victory. His hand closes around yours, his grip firm.

“That’s my girl,” he murmurs, too quiet for anyone but you to hear.

James doesn’t walk towards the center of the floor; instead, he subtly guides you a few feet away, towards a less-trafficked space near one of the tall, curtained windows. It’s a small concession to your paranoia, but the moment his other hand settles gently on the small of your back, all sense of place vanishes.

He pulls you closer, a little too close for mere colleagues, and your hand instinctively rests lightly on his shoulder, feeling the solid structure of his muscles beneath the fine fabric of his jacket. You begin to move with him, a slow sway that is definitely too intimate. Teeth gently digging into your bottom lip, you tilt your head back to look at James. “One song, Professor,” you tell him, the words tasting like a boundary you’re not entirely focused on upholding.

His blue eyes lock with yours. “We just started. And it is cold outside. We’re perfectly warm right here. Don’t you agree?”

“I agree that this is professionally perilous,” you answer instead. There’s an attempt to add a tone of concern to your voice, but it comes out sounding more like a confession. Your gaze flicks past his shoulder again, eyes darting around the room, spotting everyone who could watch his interaction and turn it into a problem.

James turns you as he dances, forcing you to look away from wherever you were staring at before. “Don’t do that. I’m right here. Can’t you just dance with me tonight, darling?” He uses the endearment with such an easy familiarity that it makes your stomach flip.

He shifts his weight, pulling you into an even tighter embrace, and you have to suppress a gasp. The air is suddenly squeezed out of your lungs, replaced by the scent of his cologne.

“You know what this looks like,” you whisper, your eyes wide as you search his face.

“It looks like I finally got you to stop talking about dusty books for five minutes,” he corrects, his eyes softening around the edges, a look that always melts your resolve faster than any argument. He dips his head lower, his breath warm against your ear, sending shivers down your spine.

“You look beautiful tonight,” he whispers conspiratorially. “I couldn’t pass the opportunity to dance with you like this. Even if it means risking everything.” He brushes his thumb lightly back and forth on the curve of your spine, the repeated motion mesmerizing.

“That suit has been making me want to kiss you all night,” you blurt out, the truth escaping before your mental censor can stop it. You clamp your lips shut, regretting the heat of the admission instantly.

A flash of pleasure crosses his face, the look of a man who has just heard precisely what he wanted to hear. He stops moving, pausing your dance entirely, and your heart stutters.

“The way you look tonight, you don’t even need to try hard to convince me, darlin’,” he murmurs, his focus absolute, challenging. The festive sounds of the ballroom fade entirely, leaving only the sound of your own ragged breath.

You know that if you don't break this gaze, this moment, you'll cross a line you can't come back from. You try to lean back, to put a sliver of space between you, but his arm tightens, holding you hostage.

“Professor Barnes,” you begin again, firmer this time, recalling the sight of the Dean by the fireplace. “We are not having this conversation here. The moment this song ends, we are returning to our assigned professional duties and maintaining the agreed-upon distance.” You hope your tone conveys the desperate seriousness of your internal panic.

He smiles slowly, a devastating curve of his lips that tells you he knows you're already lost. “An agreement I have already violated, it seems.” He starts moving again, a slow, intimate sway that pulls you deeper into his orbit. The song winds down, its final notes echoing the unsettled tension between you. “Maybe you can meet me after the party to further discuss our duties. Preferably without our clothes on.”

You choke on your own breath, but James is already easing his grip as the music fades. He takes your hand and raises it to his lips, pressing a fleeting, tender kiss to your knuckles. Just toeing the line between appropriate and too personal, but chivalrous enough that it makes you forget everything else.

“Until later,” he says, his voice a promise. He lets go of your hand before turning back and melting into the crowd, leaving you breathless by the tall window, already dreaming of tonight’s meeting.

"If I drink whatever foul thing is in that cup, can I please go see the lights?" You hold back a cough that is itching to escape, as you try to use your best pleading voice and eyes to appeal to that side of him that has a hard time saying no to you. He exhales softly, like what he'll say next won't be easy for him, “You know you can't. You're too sick to go anywhere," he gives you a pointed look, "And don't give me that look, it won't work this time."

Your face falls into an expression that sits between defeat and devastation. Bucky's heart breaks a little just by looking at you. He knows how excited you were to go to the holiday light show Yelena had gotten tickets for the whole team to go to today. It was your first holiday season with them and you were looking forward to doing something fun and festive with them. You weren't planning on catching the nastiest cold you've gotten in quite some time. Face flushed from a fever, throat sore and scratchy like the coughs are trying to claw their way out of you, and a nose so stuffed you're forgetting what breathing feels like.

Needless to say, you would be stuck in bed for a few days.

Bucky tentatively holds out the cup to you, a small smile on his face, “Come on, doll, it's not so bad, it'll make you feel better, I promise. Maybe we can still catch the lights before the last showing." His words are meant to comfort you, but there's little to no comfort offered when you're unsure of what's inside the cup and where it came from. Your biggest fear is it being one of Alexei's concoctions he comes up with that he swears is better than anything you could buy at a store.

You reluctantly take it from his hand, shoulders drooping as you accept your fate. You stare at the dark amber liquid inside of the cup like it were poison. You swirl it carefully and realize it's thicker than you expected and your repulsion deepens. 

“The last showing is tomorrow. I’m not going to feel better by tomorrow,” you point out, an underlying tone of dejection making its way to Bucky’s ears as you put the cup to your lips and swallow the thick liquid. It's impossibly bitter and it takes all of your willpower to not gag at the taste. Bucky doesn’t know how to respond since he knows you're right, and there's nothing he can say or do to magically make you better by tomorrow. So instead, he reaches down to your nightstand and grabs another identical looking cup and hands it to you. You're close to cursing him for it until you realize it contains apple juice, the perfect thing to counteract the lasting taste of the medicine. You immediately gulp it down. 

“See, that wasn’t so bad was it?”

“When you get sick, I’m gonna make sure John gets stuck babysitting you."

Bucky's eyebrows raise like he should be offended, but really he's amused more than anything. He smirks with the kind of mirth you'd be glad to kiss away, “Super soldiers can't get sick, doll.”

Oh, right—curse him and his stupidly perfect genes.

You grumble something under your breath, but Bucky isn't really paying attention. His main concern is getting you comfortably tucked in to bed, so you can get the rest you need. You've been pushing yourself hard lately, almost as if you were trying to prove something, and it seems like your body took it upon itself to get you to slow down. Bucky had volunteered to stay behind with you when he realized you weren't feeling good. The only reason he had agreed to go to the light show in the first place was because you were going, and now that you weren't, he had no reason to tag along. Truthfully, he'd rather be here with you, making sure you were being cared for.

"The label on the bottle said it would make you sleepy, so try to get some sleep, okay?" Bucky tells you as he grabs the styrofoam cups and throws them into the small trashcan beside your bed. You settle into the sheets, wrapping the blanket tighter around you. Bucky seems to be making his way out of your room when you speak up and stop him.

"Could you stay with me? Please? Just until I fall asleep," you whisper, like if you say it softly enough he'd agree. His features soften at your request as he makes his way back over to you and sits at the edge of your bed. "Of course, doll. You want me to read you a bedtime story too?" He teases gently, and you roll your eyes before replying playfully, "Yes."

He huffs out a laugh, playing along and reaching out to grab the book he saw on your nightstand earlier. He was about to pretend to open and read it to you when he notices the book in his hands is The Hobbit.

He gazes at you curiously, “Since when do you have this?” You shrug, the medicine already starting to take effect, making you yawn, “Since you told me it was one of your favorite books. I thought I should give it a try.” There's a warmth that spreads in his chest at your words, his grin shifting into something fond and affectionate. "Let's see if it makes a good bedtime story then."

Bucky opens the book carefully to where your bookmark rests. He clears his throat slightly before he starts to read the tale out loud. His voice is soothing in a way that no medicine could ever replicate, a balm to anything that could ever ail you. It's not long before you fall asleep, his presence alone the perfect cure to any sleepless night.

Bucky waits a few minutes before he carefully removes himself from your bed, so as to not disturb you. He places the book back on the nightstand, before turning to you. He adjusts the blanket around you, making sure you're tucked into bed just right. He brushes off a few strands of hair that have fallen across your face before he slowly pulls away and makes his way out of your room. There's the beginnings of an idea forming in his mind on how he can cheer you up from missing out on tonight's fun. He just hopes he can execute it to your liking before you wake up.

Many hours later, you're stirring awake when Bucky comes to check on you. You're barely registering your surroundings when he's already at your side, the back of his hand pressing lightly against your forehead to feel your temperature. "Your fever's down, that's good, 'cause I got a surprise for you, doll."

He catches your attention at the word surprise, your eyes blinking away the grogginess a little faster. "A surprise?" You ask as if you hadn't heard him correctly. Bucky nods, his hands outstretched for you to take to help you out of bed. Your questioning look meets his bright eyes that hold a sincere anticipation. The kind that easily gets you moving out of bed and out of the comforts of your room. You follow him out into the hallway, still holding on to one of his hands as he leads you down the hall of the tower.

"Are you going to tell me where you're taking me?"

"It wouldn't be a surprise if I did," he quips, a smile he can't hold back on his features. Whatever he has in store for you, he clearly can't wait for you to see it. So with all the trust you hold for him in your heart, you follow him through different rooms and corridors until you end up in a section of the tower unfamiliar to you. There's a faint melody that can be heard behind the door in front of you. You're able to pinpoint the jingle of sleigh bells over other small tunes. It seems like there's Christmas music coming from whatever is on the other side of the door.

"Bucky, what is going on?" You laugh a little nervously, more so out of confusion than anything else. Bucky hums quietly, prolonging the suspense for a moment longer, "Close your eyes and I'll show you." You don't want to wait any longer, so you do as he says. With your eyes closed, you can hear when he takes a couple of steps forward and then unlocks the door. The music gets louder, an amalgamating chorus of Christmas carols, cheerful laughter, and hearty ho ho hos. You can barely process what you're hearing when Bucky tells you to open your eyes. And when you do, you freeze in absolute awe at the sight before you.

In a seemingly unused empty gym, Bucky has set up a festive light show of his own. There's a sea of inflatables and animatronics he must have gotten from one of the many storage rooms in the tower, all lined up in a way to create a small pathway to walk through. Each one is a different character or icon of the holidays, with scattered distinctive looking Christmas trees, some traditional and some made of pure lights. There's flashing bigger than life sized candy canes, twinkling snowflakes that are strung from end to end of the room to create a gorgeous canopy above the display, fake snow falling from somewhere, and the faint scent of gingerbread that makes it's way to you. No matter where your eyes dart to there's something new to see, a magical display of the holidays that would probably win awards if it were displayed outside someone's home.

"I know it's probably nothing like the light show you wanted to see…" He starts, scratching the back of his neck, worried you might not like it at your silence. You shake your head adamantly, taking a step forward to take it all in. "No Bucky this is…this is so much better." Your words are heartfelt as you're captivated by what he did while you were asleep. The effort he must have put into setting all of this up just to make you feel better, it's enough to steal your breath and heart for him to keep.

"You did this?" You know he did, but some part of you just wants to hear him say it.

"I did."

"For me?" The question comes out quiet like you still don't fully believe he would do all this for you.

He nods, a profound twinkle in his eyes when they lock with yours, "For you."

The confirmation settles itself deep in your heart, and you wonder if this little crush you've been harboring for the super solider has been something more all along.

“You know if I wasn't sick I'd kiss you,” you tear up, laughing softly, still in awe at his grand gesture. He slowly walks over to you, cupping your face gently with his hand to wipe a tear away from the corner of your eye. “Super soldiers can't get sick, doll," he reminds you, smile full of gentle warmth and mirth, like if you decided to kiss him he really wouldn't mind at all. He wouldn't, but you would. You'd hate for your first kiss to be interrupted by the cold that still clings to you.

He knows your decision before you say anything, taking your hand instead and motioning towards the entrance of his handmade display. “Come on, let me give you a tour.” You lean into his side as you walk beside him, fake snow falling onto your hair and his like a winter greeting.

If only you had known all along, all you ever needed to feel better was him.

a/n: The rest of my fluffy winter fics will most likely come out in December, but I hope you enjoyed this little advance of what's to come! ♡ Once again, thank you for reading! ₊˚⊹♡ Likes, comments, and reblogs are much appreciated!! ♡♡♡