✿ ms.wanye, the amazon imagine the build up of how bruce wayne meets his future wife, you, and it just turns out that you happen to be the sister of wonder woman.
✿ batboys with a partner who is obsessed with looking good imagine each of the batboys dating someone who's main priority is to look good always!
✿ slipping through my fingers in which bruce wayne finally comes to terms that his daughter is no longer his little girl.
DICK GRAYSON/ NIGHTWING
✿ batboys with a partner who is obsessed with looking good imagine each of the boys dating someone who's main priority is to look good always!
JASON TODD/ RED HOOD
✿ batboys with a partner who is obsessed with looking good imagine each of the boys dating someone who's main priority is to look good always!
TIM DRAKE/ RED ROBIN
✿ batboys with a partner who is obsessed with looking good imagine each of the boys dating someone who's main priority is to look good always!
CLARK KENT/ SUPERMAN
☆ tear up my stockings in which clark kent gets to do an exclusive interview with wayne!reader, bruce's younger sister, about wayne tech in place of him. however, the charm of the seems to disract the reporter, leading to a tension between the two... and little more.
✯ lace me up kent following the interview with our wayne!reader, clark can not get his mind off what happened at the tower or you in general. so it's a miracle when you and bruce so happen to visit the daily. being your first time there, when you get a tour from clark, things get a little hot quickly.
☆ only in journalism our wayne!reader visits clark after he has a long tiresome day of work. when tries to finish up his newest story, she's a bit distraction to him by all the affection she gives him as he tries to finish up his newest story. but when clark doesn't complete the story, don't worry. she has his back always!
WALLY WEST/ THE FLASH & KID FLASH
✿ ace doesn't like speedsters imagine wally dating batsis!reader who is also the main caretaker of ace, aka, bathound. however, ace doesn't seem to take a liking to the speedster on bit and believes that he's taking away his owner from him and plots against him. now wally has to be faced with this "slight issue".
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MCU
BUCKY BARNES/WINTER SOLDIER
✿ full star power imagine being a tamaranean member of the new avengers and being confused when bucky says you two aren't together, which you mistake for him not wanting to be friends with you.
✿ star-shaped hearts imagine the tamaranean!reader revealing to the team and bucky that she's never celebrated her birthday before. it catches some of them by surprise as she begins to dive into how she deeply wishes she could. however, she wouldn't know which particular day it would even be set on. however, there's a surprise coming for her
✯ can you handle all that? bucky's got quite the interesting type, who knew the winter soldier had a thing for cat burglars? that only begs the question if he could handle you?
PETER PARKER/SPIDERMAN
☂ wendigos webs imagine being trapped in the mines as the wendigo chases both you and peter. you're injured and cut up. both of you are hidden, you're terrified and peter keeps watch to make sure the monster doesn't find you two. so in the adrenaline of the moment you silently begin to confess to him incase you never get the chance too.
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JJK
coming soon...
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ONE PIECE
coming soon...
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AOT
coming soon...
-peachessprincess is the creator of the all work shown above. please don't paste my work onto any other site
TAGLIST-- OPEN!!
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summary: in which bruce wayne finally comes to terms that his daughter is no longer his little girl.
tw: just pure fluff, fiancé/husband!roy harper mention! a little angst, based of two songs, "slipping through my fingers" and "maybe", crying bruce and batfam? father-daughter love chat. "father of the bride" based a little?
notes: i've had this on my mind for a while now and i always wanted to do a platonic batfam story so hear it is!
(check out my masterlist!)
he couldn't handle coming face to with this because today was the day he was supposed to let go.
BRUCE has faced many more difficult trails and tribulations than this one... so why was he having trouble with this one? maybe it was because it wasn't a life or death situation with the purpose of saving gotham from a bomb that would cause havoc for the entire city square.
this was something much more personal.
something concerning family.
it was your wedding.
it was about giving you away today, something he was slightly dreading for a while. don't get him mistaken. he was elated when he found out that roy had proposed to you, your entire engagement made him feel so proud and he was happy along with the rest of the family.
but it was only when he was on patrol with jason that the reality practically slapped him square in the face when jason said, "you ready to walk her down the aisle, old man?"
bruce froze on the rooftop ledge once he heard that, and then he thought of it. you were getting married. his little girl was getting married.
then the day finally came.
and now he was standing outside your dressing room, practically too paralyzed to knock.
prior to this, he had admitted one of his concerns to clark, but it only lead to the blue boy scout laughing square in his face which made bruce glare daggers at him. "i– i just didn't expect out of all the problems in your life that this one bothers you so much that you had to talk with me!"
bruce just sighed over clark's continuous laughter before he felt a firm grasp on his shoulder. clark looked at him and shifted his glasses back up onto his face, "listen bruce, this day was going to come one day or another, and whether it's hard or not... she's not your little girl today."
she's a woman now.
those words rang through his mind and bruce closed his eyes, taking soft breaths before moving his hand up towards the door and knocking gently.
the ceremony was about to start soon, the time was coming. the time was coming to give you away.
the door opened to reveal cassie with steph peeping right behind her. as soon as they saw him, two big grins appeared on their face, practically gleaming with joy. "HE'S HERE!— bruce cover your eyes and turn around."
chuckling softly, bruce put his hands up in surrender and covered his eyes, slowly walking in backwards into the room. both girls guiding him to make sure he didn't trip over anything.
giggles could be heard and he could just imagine the smiles all around him. the smells of rose, strawberries and vanilla clouded his scent, bringing a deep warmth feeling to his chest. it was soon that he had to look you in the eyes, the eyes of his little girl.
"okay you can look now!"
he uncovered his eyes, taking in the room in all its glory, elegant and ornate. its intricate white molding and decorative carvings adorning the walls and door frames.
bruce turns around, and then the air is kicked out of his lungs as soon as he sees you. his eyes widened at the sight of you.
the wedding ball gown is a cascade of ivory and lace that seemed to breathe as you stood in it. the bodice, sculpted with delicate embroidery, while the sheer sleeves wrapped yourr arms in a veil of elegance, traced with threads of silver light. you hold a bouquet of light pink flowers, and your hair is pinned up with grace as a floor length veil falls behind you.
"hi dad... " you say softly as you smile brightly, watching him take the most cautious steps towards. you look like an angel. you were his angel, a blessing that he was so grateful for.
then he felt it, the tears beginning to pool in his eyes as he felt them burn. he takes the handkerchief out his suits pocket and covers both eyes with them. he can't contain it anymore.
you're a woman now, in all your glory.
you feel tears weld in your eyes and you try to fan them away in order to not mess up your makeup. "you're gorgeous... you look perfect... " you hear bruce mutter as he tries to contain a choked up sob.
your lips quiver and you let out a soft hiccup before you shuffle towards him, steph and cass making sure to hold up your dress from behind so you wouldn't fall. you cry as you wrap your arms around bruce, you sob as if you were a kid again and hearing this made it even harder for him.
because you had always been his little girl for forever in his eyes.
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he didn't want to let go of you when you both started to walk down that aisle.
he felt like he'd be losing something that he could never get back ever again. bruce didn't want that, but you were so happy, and seeing you that happy made his world.
"grayson— please stop slobbering all over yourself, i'd like to watch my sister get married in silence." damien said, glaring at his older brother who couldn't control the waterworks. dick continued to cry into a rag given to him courtesy of starfire, who let him cry into her shoulder.
each step you took down the chapel towards the alter was a step closer and closer to what he had been dreading. but when he felt the way you held his arm in such a comforting way, he knew what was for the best.
he watched how roy take in every second of beauty and grace. jason stood behind him, putting a hand on his shoulder whispering something to him, probably "not to fuck this up." or whatever else he'd say to his best friend.
as you reached the altar, bruce felt your touch loosen before you let go of his arm. then you gave him one last smile before you gently kissed the side of his cheek, "i love you dad... " you whispered before you carefully took your place infront of roy.
bruce looked towards roy, something that he would hate to admit was scared to do, but here he was.
"... keep her safe."
roy's response was a courteous, solem nod, which was all bruce need. which was what gave him that final peace.
as he walked to his seat in the front row and sat down, he watched you interlock a hand with roy.
it was then that bruce finally realized that he would never come home to see you at the top of the stair case excited to see him again.
he'd never get to see you extatic on christmas morning after opening your gifts and immediately jumping on him to hug him again.
he'd never see you peep into the batcave because you had a nightmare and wanted to fall asleep next to him again.
you had simply grown up.
slipped through his fingers in the blink of an eye.
he drowned out the music, the excessive sobs from dick and damien telling him to shut up. he was just focused on how happy you looked up there.
he had to face that struggle of seeing you as a child.
he wished that you could stay the same forever.
but that's not how time is, isn't it? you were a woman now, and he would not hold you back.
-peachessprincess is the creator of this work. please don't paste my work onto any other site
dividers by (i lost creators @, if you know who made them please tag creator so I could give credit)
summary: in which bruce wayne finally comes to terms that his daughter is no longer his little girl.
tw: just pure fluff, fiancé/husband!roy harper mention! a little angst, based of two songs, "slipping through my fingers" and "maybe", crying bruce and batfam? father-daughter love chat. "father of the bride" based a little?
notes: i've had this on my mind for a while now and i always wanted to do a platonic batfam story so hear it is!
(check out my masterlist!)
he couldn't handle coming face to with this because today was the day he was supposed to let go.
BRUCE has faced many more difficult trails and tribulations than this one... so why was he having trouble with this one? maybe it was because it wasn't a life or death situation with the purpose of saving gotham from a bomb that would cause havoc for the entire city square.
this was something much more personal.
something concerning family.
it was your wedding.
it was about giving you away today, something he was slightly dreading for a while. don't get him mistaken. he was elated when he found out that roy had proposed to you, your entire engagement made him feel so proud and he was happy along with the rest of the family.
but it was only when he was on patrol with jason that the reality practically slapped him square in the face when jason said, "you ready to walk her down the aisle, old man?"
bruce froze on the rooftop ledge once he heard that, and then he thought of it. you were getting married. his little girl was getting married.
then the day finally came.
and now he was standing outside your dressing room, practically too paralyzed to knock.
prior to this, he had admitted one of his concerns to clark, but it only lead to the blue boy scout laughing square in his face which made bruce glare daggers at him. "i– i just didn't expect out of all the problems in your life that this one bothers you so much that you had to talk with me!"
bruce just sighed over clark's continuous laughter before he felt a firm grasp on his shoulder. clark looked at him and shifted his glasses back up onto his face, "listen bruce, this day was going to come one day or another, and whether it's hard or not... she's not your little girl today."
she's a woman now.
those words rang through his mind and bruce closed his eyes, taking soft breaths before moving his hand up towards the door and knocking gently.
the ceremony was about to start soon, the time was coming. the time was coming to give you away.
the door opened to reveal cassie with steph peeping right behind her. as soon as they saw him, two big grins appeared on their face, practically gleaming with joy. "HE'S HERE!— bruce cover your eyes and turn around."
chuckling softly, bruce put his hands up in surrender and covered his eyes, slowly walking in backwards into the room. both girls guiding him to make sure he didn't trip over anything.
giggles could be heard and he could just imagine the smiles all around him. the smells of rose, strawberries and vanilla clouded his scent, bringing a deep warmth feeling to his chest. it was soon that he had to look you in the eyes, the eyes of his little girl.
"okay you can look now!"
he uncovered his eyes, taking in the room in all its glory, elegant and ornate. its intricate white molding and decorative carvings adorning the walls and door frames.
bruce turns around, and then the air is kicked out of his lungs as soon as he sees you. his eyes widened at the sight of you.
the wedding ball gown is a cascade of ivory and lace that seemed to breathe as you stood in it. the bodice, sculpted with delicate embroidery, while the sheer sleeves wrapped yourr arms in a veil of elegance, traced with threads of silver light. you hold a bouquet of light pink flowers, and your hair is pinned up with grace as a floor length veil falls behind you.
"hi dad... " you say softly as you smile brightly, watching him take the most cautious steps towards. you look like an angel. you were his angel, a blessing that he was so grateful for.
then he felt it, the tears beginning to pool in his eyes as he felt them burn. he takes the handkerchief out his suits pocket and covers both eyes with them. he can't contain it anymore.
you're a woman now, in all your glory.
you feel tears weld in your eyes and you try to fan them away in order to not mess up your makeup. "you're gorgeous... you look perfect... " you hear bruce mutter as he tries to contain a choked up sob.
your lips quiver and you let out a soft hiccup before you shuffle towards him, steph and cass making sure to hold up your dress from behind so you wouldn't fall. you cry as you wrap your arms around bruce, you sob as if you were a kid again and hearing this made it even harder for him.
because you had always been his little girl for forever in his eyes.
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he didn't want to let go of you when you both started to walk down that aisle.
he felt like he'd be losing something that he could never get back ever again. bruce didn't want that, but you were so happy, and seeing you that happy made his world.
"grayson— please stop slobbering all over yourself, i'd like to watch my sister get married in silence." damien said, glaring at his older brother who couldn't control the waterworks. dick continued to cry into a rag given to him courtesy of starfire, who let him cry into her shoulder.
each step you took down the chapel towards the alter was a step closer and closer to what he had been dreading. but when he felt the way you held his arm in such a comforting way, he knew what was for the best.
he watched how roy take in every second of beauty and grace. jason stood behind him, putting a hand on his shoulder whispering something to him, probably "not to fuck this up." or whatever else he'd say to his best friend.
as you reached the altar, bruce felt your touch loosen before you let go of his arm. then you gave him one last smile before you gently kissed the side of his cheek, "i love you dad... " you whispered before you carefully took your place infront of roy.
bruce looked towards roy, something that he would hate to admit was scared to do, but here he was.
"... keep her safe."
roy's response was a courteous, solem nod, which was all bruce need. which was what gave him that final peace.
as he walked to his seat in the front row and sat down, he watched you interlock a hand with roy.
it was then that bruce finally realized that he would never come home to see you at the top of the stair case excited to see him again.
he'd never get to see you extatic on christmas morning after opening your gifts and immediately jumping on him to hug him again.
he'd never see you peep into the batcave because you had a nightmare and wanted to fall asleep next to him again.
you had simply grown up.
slipped through his fingers in the blink of an eye.
he drowned out the music, the excessive sobs from dick and damien telling him to shut up. he was just focused on how happy you looked up there.
he had to face that struggle of seeing you as a child.
he wished that you could stay the same forever.
but that's not how time is, isn't it? you were a woman now, and he would not hold you back.
-peachessprincess is the creator of this work. please don't paste my work onto any other site
dividers by (i lost creators @, if you know who made them please tag creator so I could give credit)
pairing: king!bucky barnes x commoner!reader, cinderella au
warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, dilf bucky, age gap, burn marks (from fireplace), a man who yearns is a man who earns, smoking, alcohol, misogynistic comments, miscommunication, kinda angsty, jealousy, possessive behavior, virginity loss, sexual tension, banter, semi-public sex, power dynamic, breeding kink, size difference, pet names: "my dear" "sweetheart" "my love"
word count: 19.6k
masterlist || 𝓹𝓽.2
a/n: this is my contribution to the bwa fairytale collaboration! i know it's been a while, but i hope the word count for this fic makes up for it! this was the playlist i had on repeat while writing.
synopsis:
The Prince of Brooklynne is hosting a grand ball to find a future princess. But when you secretly slip away from your chores to attend, it isn't the Prince’s heart you capture—it’s his father’s, King Barnes.
You retracted your hands the instant the embers made burning contact with your fingertips. You swore quietly to yourself, pulling your hand to your chest and squeezing your eyes shut.
You had been burned countless times in this house. Burned while tending the fireplace, burned while cooking, and pricked by splinters from the worn wooden broom. Your life was a cycle of being on your hands and knees, scrubbing every inch of the floor until it was spotless for your step-monsters.
While you nursed your finger to ease the burning pain, your stepmother’s voice, Beatrice, rang from the room just over. She was shouting at the top of her lungs about another party invitation.
“An invitation sent from the palace!” she announced, waving the paper around. “Girls, come here!”
You stayed where you were. You knew better than to approach; when she said “girls,” she meant everyone in the house but you.
The sharp, obnoxious clack of your stepsisters’ heels echoed from the top of the staircase down to the marble floor of the foyer. Their voices were already rising obnoxiously, high enough, you thought, to shatter every piece of glassware in the house.
“An invitation from the palace?” one of your stepsisters, Agnes, squealed. “Prince Jamie is hosting a ball?”
Your other stepsister, Margaret, gasped so sharply she nearly choked on her own breath.
“Has the time finally come? Is Prince Jamie finally looking to wed?” Her eyes were wide with excitement as she looked between your stepmother and Agnes. “Is it true, Mother?”
You tilted your head, catching a glimpse of them huddled in a tight circle. Beatrice’s red lips tilted into a wide grin. “It is true, ladies. Your moment has finally arrived. The Prince is looking for a bride—”
“I want to read it!” Margaret exclaimed, lunging for the parchment that Beatrice held just out of reach.
“No, I want to read it! I’m the eldest, it’s only fair!” Agnes argued, reaching over her sister.
“Now, settle down, ladies,” Beatrice cooed, pulling the paper back to her chest and holding it primly. “Why exclude your sister from the fun?”
Beatrice’s gaze drifted past the living room archway, where the fireplace glowed and the furniture sat in pristine order. The warmth she had held for her own daughters vanished the moment her eyes landed on you.
“Stop sucking on your finger like a common infant and come here,” she commanded, her voice suddenly sharp and cold. “Read the letter to us.” She added, waving the parchment at you.
You stiffened, slowly lowering your hand. You had seen this coming. Every time an invitation arrived, you were forced to read it outloud. It wasn’t that they couldn't read; it was about rubbing salt into the wound.
These letters always went into agonizing detail about beauty, grace, and royal splendor—things meant to make any girl’s heart soar, and things you were never meant to have.
You were bound to this house, their maid for as long as they allowed you to live.
“Your father taught you well before he passed, didn’t he?” Beatrice asked, her eyes narrowed. It wasn't a sincere question; it was a reminder of what you had lost. “Read it clearly. I want to hear every single detail of the King’s requirements.”
You stood quickly, your legs wobbly from kneeling on the hard floor for so long. Wiping your hands on your soot-stained apron, you crossed the room. As you reached for the parchment, the coarse paper grazed your injury and agitated the burn on your fingertips, making you flinch slightly.
“Well?” Agnes prodded, leaning in so close you could smell her cloying floral perfume. “Don’t just stare at it!”
You cleared your throat, your voice sounding small and raspy against the high-ceiling room.
“By Royal Decree of His Majesty,” you began, trying to focus on the elegant calligraphy instead of the throbbing pain in your finger. “To the noble families and citizens of the kingdom, you are cordially invited to a Grand Masquerade Ball at the Palace, to be held on the final Saturday of the Harvest Moon.”
Margaret let out a squeal, but a look from Beatrice silenced her immediately.
“The festivities shall begin at sundown,” you continued, “It is the King’s wish that every eligible young woman in the province attend, for on this night, Prince Jamie shall choose the one who will stand by his side as the future Princess of Brooklynne.”
The room went deathly silent for a heartbeat before the sisters erupted. They squealed and hollered, clutching each other's hands and jumping in circles. But your eyes remained fixed on the final line, written in a large, aggressive script at the bottom.
You read it under your breath, quietly to yourself.
“… attendance is mandatory for all households…”
Agnes and Margaret were too busy celebrating to heed your words. “That means the entire province! Mother, we’ll have to stand out. We’ll need the finest silk and the most intricate masks!”
Beatrice ignored her daughters, her gaze fixed solely on you. She reached out and snatched the letter back, her sharp nails grazing your burned skin. You hissed a breath through your teeth, clutching your hand to your chest.
“Mandatory for noble households,” Beatrice corrected cruelly. “I’m sure the palace wouldn’t want the ballroom floor stained by the soot of a kitchen maid.”
“Mother, may we please go dress shopping now?” Margaret begged, clutching her mother’s arm and bouncing impatiently. “We must get the finest gowns before anyone else does! We have to absolutely stand out.” She turned to Agnes, her eyes gleaming. “Isn’t that right, sister?”
Agnes nodded quickly, her hair whipping. “Absolutely! We can’t risk looking like commoners. We need to be the center of attention the moment we step into that ballroom!”
“Very well,” Beatrice sighed. “We shall leave today. There is no time to waste if we are to secure the best seamstress in Brooklynne.”
The sisters shrieked happily, already rushing towards the door to grab their cloaks. But before Beatrice followed them, she paused. She turned back to look at you, her gaze cold and belittling, as if you were nothing more than a speck of dirt on her rug.
Her eyes grazed over the room, landing on a stray speck of ash near the baseboards.
“While we are gone, I expect the house to be spotless by the time we get home,” she demanded. “That means the floors waxed, the silver polished, and the laundry pressed. If I find so much as a single ember out of place in that fireplace when I return, you will find yourself sleeping in the stable tonight.”
When the doors finally slammed shut, leaving you alone in the silence of the massive house, that is exactly what you did.
While your step-family was out hunting for the finest silks, you spent the day bent over a scrub brush. You deep-cleaned their bedrooms, waxed the floors until your knees were bruised and aching, and scoured the silverware until it shined like a mirror.
As you swept the house from top to bottom, your mind kept wandering back to that final sentence in the invitation.
Attendance is mandatory for all households.
You had read countless invitations in your life, yet none of them had ever included those specific words—much less a direct command from the King himself. If the decree was absolute, what would happen if you, a member of this household, failed to attend?
Beatrice had married your father before he passed, and despite her cruelty, the law saw you as family. You were a member of the household, not a servant. You weren’t just a maid; you were a daughter of the house.
And if the King demanded every eligible woman be there… perhaps Beatrice’s ‘rules’ were no match for the King’s law?
No.
It was silly to indulge in such foolishness.
Beatrice would never let you leave this house unless you were hanging laundry, tending the gardens, hauling bags after their shopping sprees, or feeding the chickens.
But after spending the day scouring the house until it was immaculate, and considering the King’s explicit command, surely… she would let you attend. Even if it were just for one night. Right? You had been a good girl. You had done everything they asked of you.
With hesitant footsteps, you retreated to your basement chambers and dug deep into the shadows of your closet. Pushing past the clothes stained with soot and grime, you reached into the very back and pulled out a neatly wrapped box.
The moment you lifted the lid, the familiar aroma of dried lavender drifted up to meet you.
Nestled neatly inside was your mother’s gown, a dress she had tucked away and passed on to you for a momentous occasion that had yet to arrive.
You pulled it out, the fabric shimmering even in the dim light of the basement. It was beautiful and uniquely your mother’s. You remembered how your father had lavished her with the finest gowns when you were young, and you had always dreamed of finding someone who loved you enough to do the same.
Stripping away your rags, you stepped into the dress.
You expected it to be too loose or too tight, but as you pulled up the bodice and fumbled with the fastenings, you gasped. It fit almost perfectly like a glove, though you struggled to lace the back properly by yourself. Still, the silk hugged your waist and flowed over your hips as if the gown had been designed for your body alone.
Standing before the small, cracked mirror, you didn’t see a housemaid.
You saw a girl who rightfully belonged in this house—or even a palace, if only you knew how to do your hair.
You smiled softly at your reflection, your cheeks warming at the sight. For once in your life, you finally felt beautiful. And if the King insisted that every member of the household attend, then you were going.
You were actually going to the ball.
Suddenly, the front door swung open. Beatrice, Agnes, and Margaret burst inside, their heels clicking against the floor. Their obnoxious laughter echoed all the way down to the basement where you stood.
“Where is she?” Beatrice barked impatiently, already expecting you to greet them at the door—likely to bring their bags to their room.
You scrambled up the basement stairs, the long silk hem bunching in your hands as you moved. You rounded the corner into the foyer, nearly bumping into the wall, just as Beatrice was peeling off her leather gloves. Agnes and Margaret were already surrounded by a sea of colorful shopping bags, tossing aside the tissue paper like spoiled children.
“I’m here!” you called out, catching your breath.
The three of them froze.
The rustling of their shopping bags ceased instantly at the sight of you. Beatrice turned slowly, her eyes traveling from your face down to the shimmering hem of your mother’s gown, her expression cold and unreadable.
“What,” Beatrice hissed, her voice unsettlingly low, “are you wearing?”
You looked down at yourself. “It was my mother’s,” you said softly, stepping into the light of the chandelier. “I’ve finished every chore you set for me. The house is spotless. And since the King’s invitation said attendance is mandatory for every member of the household…” you stood as tall as you could, despite the way your hands trembled, “I’ve decided I’m coming with you.”
The house went silent as they stared back at you, wide-eyed.
For a moment, you half-expected them to agree—to accept your declaration and welcome you with open arms. But the moment the sisters erupted into laughter, you realized just how naive you had been.
“You? In that relic?” Agnes laughed. “You look like a ghost that’s been trapped in an attic for twenty years!”
Margaret scrunched up her nose. “And that smell—it smells like rotten fruit. Do you honestly think the Prince would want to dance with someone who reeks like that?”
You bit your lip. You would think that for girls who lathered themselves in expensive floral perfumes, they’d at least recognize the scent of dried lavender.
“Now, settle down, girls,” Beatrice intervened. “There is no need to insult your sister when she’s spent all this time trying to make herself look... pretty.”
She began to walk towards you, the slow clicking of her heels sounding like a death knell against the marble. A taunting smile played on her thin lips as she circled you.
“Turn around,” she commanded. “Let me get a good look at the bodice.”
You obeyed, your heart beating faster as you felt her cold presence behind you.
Because you had scrambled to get ready in such a rush, the delicate lace in the back was a tangled mess of knots and uneven loops. You had tried your best to tie the bodice alone, but it was clear you had failed.
“Poor thing,” Beatrice cooed, her breath cold against the nape of your neck. “You can’t even get the dress on right. You look quite pathetic, actually.” She looked over her shoulder at her daughters, her eyes glinting. “Girls, be saints and help your poor sister, would you?”
Agnes and Margaret shared a look, their lips curling into identical, malicious smirks. “Okay, Mother,” they sang in unison.
They stepped forward, and your naivety got the best of you once again. You actually thought they might reach for the laces to tighten them. But as their hands clamped onto your shoulders, you realized for the second time just how wrong you were—and how low they were willing to stoop to make your life miserable.
A sickening tear echoed through the foyer as Agnes’s fist tightened around your silk sleeve, yanking until the seam burst.
“This lace is far too old!” Margaret hissed. She grabbed the delicate ruffle at your neckline, tearing it away with a sharp, violent tug. “It’s doing you no favors!”
“Stop! Please!” you cried, spinning around to protect the last piece of your mother you had left, but they were like a pack of wolves, their hands biting at you to shred the silk.
Both sisters refused to stop until the shimmering silk was reduced to hanging ribbons. They pulled and yanked frantically, their faces flushed with the thrill of destroying the only beautiful thing you owned. The delicate lace your mother had saved for years was now scattered across the marble floor like dead leaves.
Only when there was nothing left to tear did the sisters finally grow bored. They stepped back, wearing smug grins as you collapsed onto your knees.
You didn’t bother trying to get back up, because you knew they’d only kick you back down.
You just stayed there on the cold floor, fingers trembling as you clutched the tattered scraps of the skirt to your chest, trying to shield the small bits of fabric that still smelled of lavender. The tears finally broke, blurring your vision as you sobbed into the ruins of your only treasure.
Beatrice stood over you, adjusting her pristine shawl. She looked down at your heaving shoulders with cold, clinical detachment. She wouldn’t even give you the pleasure looking a bit guilty; there was only the grim pleasure of a lesson well taught.
“I hope this will make you think twice before asking to attend the ball,” she said. “Or any ball, for that matter. We did you a favor by taking you in after your father passed. Do not mistake a few yards of silk for a change in your station.”
She turned to her daughters, her voice light as if she hadn't just destroyed a young girl’s heart.
“Come, girls. Let’s go try on your new accessories.”
As the three of them began trekking up the stairs, their laughter echoing in the foyer, Beatrice looked back down at you one last time.
“And don’t forget to clean up this mess.”
It was the day before the Grand Masquerade Ball, and Bucky found himself strolling through a narrow cobblestone alley, far from the gilded gates and suffocating comfort of the palace. He didn’t look like a King today. He had traded his heavy ceremonial robes for simple cotton clothes and a cloak to shield his face.
Through a small window, he watched as an elderly woman— his late mother’s dearest friend—threaded a needle with trembling hands.
As he pushed the front door open, a bell jingled overhead. The seamstress didn’t even need to look up to know it was him.
“You shouldn’t be here, Bucky,” Martha sighed, pushing up her circular glasses. “The Royal Guard will have a collective heart attack if they find you’ve slipped away from your duties again.”
“They worry too much,” Bucky replied, his voice a low, tired rasp as he lowered his cloak.
He leaned forward, resting an elbow on her worktable.
“The palace is suffocating, Martha. Everyone there is wearing a mask long before the ball even begins. I needed to see someone who would give me a breath of fresh air.”
“Ah, Bucky. Always the charmer,” Martha chuckled. “You and Rogers haven’t changed one bit. I bet Prince Jamie is starting to grow up just as you have.”
“My son,” Bucky groaned, dragging a tired hand over his face. He looked every bit the weary father and not the formidable King of Brooklynne.
“He is moving far too fast to find a wife,” he complained. “My father always pushed me to wed as soon as I could—it was all about the line of succession and political alliances. Jamie should be lucky I’m giving him some slack, but instead, he’s rushing headfirst into it as if he owes the kingdom a debt.”
Martha smiled softly, her needle never stopping through the fine silk. “He’s just trying to make you proud, Bucky. He sees the way you carry the responsibilities of this kingdom alone, and he thinks having a Princess by his side is how he proves he’s ready to help you.”
Bucky scoffed. “The kid has no idea that the wrong partner is only going to be a burden. Half the women coming tomorrow wouldn’t know a plow from a pincushion. They want the crown, not the duty.”
He rubbed the tense lines between his brows, already agitated by the thought.
“I made sure to state in the decree that attendance is mandatory for all households. I’m hoping to find someone who hasn’t spent her whole life rehearsing to wed my son. But I fear Lady Beatrice and her ilk have already decided the outcome. They’ve been flooding the palace with letters.”
Martha opened her mouth to speak, your father’s name on the tip of her tongue, but she was interrupted by the soft chime of the door.
You stepped inside, your silhouette framed by the sun poking through the open windows and doors. You looked utterly spent, your shoulders tense as your arm tiredly held up a heavy wicker basket filled with various produce.
“I’m so sorry I’m late, Martha,” you said, breathless. “The mistress had extra chores for me today. I’m here for the gowns for Lady Beatrice and her daughters.”
Bucky quickly turned away, his shoulders stiffening at the dreadful and familiar name. He forced his fingers busy, brushing through the fabric swatches pinned to the wall to keep himself discreet.
“It’s no problem at all, dear,” Martha smiled warmly. “They’re in the back. Let me get them wrapped up for you.”
She gave Bucky a small wary glance before turning away, pulling the heavy curtains aside to retreat into the back of the shop.
With Martha gone, an awkward silence took over the shop, aside for the bustle of the street outside. Your eyes subtly drifted towards the only man in the store.
It wasn’t often you saw a man at a seamstress shop. He was a bit older, perhaps he was a butler picking up clothes for a household, or a father stopping by to commission a dress for his daughter?
Bucky’s gaze caught yours as he peeked from the corner of his eye, and you immediately looked away, your face flushing with embarrassment.
Not wanting to be caught staring again at the stranger, you began to roam the small space, your fingers hovering just over the vibrant dresses on display.
You admired them quietly, your eyes lingering on a soft, almost sky blue fabric that reminded you of your mother’s dress—the one you had lost only nights before. A small, wistful sigh escaped your lips.
To anyone else, these were just clothes. But to you, they represented a world you were no longer allowed to inhabit.
Bucky watched you, his heart tugging with sympathy at the way you looked at the dress. He cleared his throat, the sound feeling loud in the cramped room.
“Are you picking up a dress for yourself?” he asked carefully, his gaze still fixed on the fabrics in front of him. “For the ball tomorrow night, I presume?”
You jumped slightly, nearly knocking over a mannequin as you whipped around to face him.
“Oh—no, sir. I’m just picking up the dresses for my step-sisters,” you said, forcing an awkward smile. “They’ll be the ones attending the ball. Not I.”
Bucky raised a brow, turning his body slightly to look at you. “But the decree said attendance is mandatory for all households,” he explained. “Does that not apply to you?”
You let out a small, breathless laugh that held no joy.
“The Royal Barnes family is a busy lot, sir. I doubt the King or the Prince will notice if one woman from one house is missing. Besides, he likely meant the families... not the help.”
Bucky lifted his head slightly, amused. He paused, waiting to see if you would recognize the face on the coins in your pocket, or the man from the portraits in the village square. But your expression didn’t change; you simply looked tired.
“The help?” he repeated, his brow furrowing as he leaned back against the table. “But you said they were your stepsisters, did you not? That makes you family, regardless of the chores they set for you.”
You adjusted the heavy wicker basket to your other hip, raising a brow. You didn’t know who this man was, but his insistence on “family” was a luxury you couldn’t afford—and his assumptions about you only made him come across as hopelessly ignorant.
“I’m not sure how things are handled in your home, sir,” you said, a bit sassier than you’d like. “But not every household in Brooklynne can afford a fleet of servants. Sometimes, it is up to one of us to make sure the fires are lit and the floors are scrubbed. And that person just happens to be me.”
Bucky blinked, genuinely taken back.
Usually, people spoke to him in hushed, respectful tones or with forced flattery. He wasn’t used to being corrected, let alone by a girl with a smudge of charcoal on her nose and rags for clothes. A low, rich laugh resonated in his chest—a sound that felt far too sophisticated for a simple stranger in a cramped tailor shop.
“Fair point,” he conceded, his lips curving into a genuine smile. “I suppose I deserved that. It was a foolish question. I apologize.”
As he tilted his head back to let out a soft chuckle, you caught a glimpse of his strikingly handsome features.
There was something hauntingly familiar about him—but with his slightly messy hair, tired eyes, and simple clothes, you couldn't quite place where you had seen him before. All you knew was that he was undeniably attractive, and that was more than enough to make your heart skip a beat.
You relaxed your shoulders and smiled back at him.
“Kind of,” you teased, which only made his smile grow wider. “But you’re forgiven.”
The shop fell quiet again. You expected him to return back to his fabrics or even leave the store, but he remained rooted to the spot, his gaze still on you.
Feeling a bit self-conscious under his stare, you turned back to the display, trying to keep your hands busy. You ran your fingers down the skirt of the sky blue gown, tracing the fine embroidery.
“That’s a beautiful dress,” Bucky said suddenly. “You should try it on.”
You glanced at him, brows raised in surprise. You couldn’t tell if he was poking fun at you or if he was being serious. You let out a short, airy laugh, shaking your head.
“You’re very funny, sir,” you chuckled respectfully, taking a step away from the mannequin and back to the counter, setting your basket down. “I don’t think a girl like me would do a gown like that any justice. Besides, I have a schedule to keep.”
You expected him to join in on the joke, but when your eyes found his again, his expression was completely serious. His eyes were blue, quiet, and intense, and it only making the tense air in the shop thicken.
Just then, the heavy curtains parted and Martha finally stepped out, balancing the three voluminous garment bags for your sisters. Before you could even reach for them, Bucky spoke up, his voice suddenly carrying an authority that hadn’t been there before.
“Martha,” Bucky said, gesturing toward the sky blue gown you had been admiring. “She would like to try this dress on.”
You blinked, stunned. “I’m sorry?”
“Oh. Let me correct myself,” Bucky cleared his throat. “I want her to try this dress on.”
Martha paused, looking between Bucky’s stern expression and your panicked one. Then, a slow smile spread across her weathered features. She set the garment bags down on the counter and began to round the desk.
“Is that so?” Martha hummed, her eyes twinkling as she looked at you. “Well, who am I to argue with a gentleman’s request? Especially one with such good taste.”
“Martha, please,” you whispered, catching her arm as your face heated up. “The mistress will be expecting me. I have to get back!”
“The mistress can wait ten minutes for her vanity,” Martha countered, already reaching for the dress and lifting it from the display. She turned to you, her expression softening almost motherly-like. “Let’s see you in the light for once, dear. No more rags and dull dresses that are too big for you. Just for one moment.”
“Martha, I couldn’t possibly—”
Before you could even finish the sentence, she seized your wrist. The elderly woman’s grip was surprisingly strong as she began dragging you towards the changing rooms in the back. She even hoisted the heavy silk gown over one arm as if it weighed nothing at all.
You found yourself stumbling along behind her, barely able to steady your footing as she steered you away from the shop floor and towards the back of the shop to the changing rooms.
As you were being hauled away, you managed to look back over your shoulder, shooting a sharp glare at the stranger who had started this whole ordeal.
Bucky didn’t look even remotely guilty. He leaned back against the wall, crossing his ankles and folding his arms over his chest. As Martha dragged you toward the back, he simply let out a soft snicker, his eyes filled with mischief as he gave you a small, teasing wave until you disappeared behind the heavy velvet curtains.
Once inside, Martha wasted no time. She stripped you of your potato sack of a dress and began guiding you into the silk.
“Stop wiggling, child,” she commanded softly. “You’ll look so beautiful in this, darling. I assure you.”
“That’s not my worry,” you muttered, your shoulders stiff. “The dress is gorgeous, and I know I’ll fall in love with it the second it’s on. It just hurts knowing I have no money to buy it—and no occasion to wear it to. This is all pointless, Martha.”
Martha didn’t answer; she simply helped your arms through the puffy, delicate sleeves.
She didn’t even need to finish tying the laces for you to get the full picture—the gown was absolutely breathtaking. You shuddered as she laced the back carefully, the bodice molding to your frame as if the dress was woven specifically for your body.
That heart clenching realization, that you had neither the coin nor the freedom to ever truly own this, only returned tenfold.
“Seriously,” you sighed, a sad, bittersweet smile tugging at the corners of your lips as you looked at your reflection. “What was that man thinking?”
Martha chuckled softly as she tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear. She leaned in close, studying your eyes through the mirror’s reflection.
“I think,” Martha whispered, “that man was thinking that a beautiful dress is just fabric until it’s worn by the most beautiful girl in the kingdom.”
The compliment made your heart flutter, though you quickly tried to brush it off with a roll of your eyes. “He’s a stranger, Martha. He’s probably just bored and looking for a way to pass the time while his own clothes are being mended.”
Martha just smiled, shaking her head as she bent down to adjust the hem of the gown. As you stared at yourself in the mirror, your mind wandered back to the familiarity of the man in the other room. You recognized him—surely—though you couldn’t quite pin down where from, and the mystery was eating at you.
“Speaking of that man… how do you know him?” you asked suddenly.
Martha lifted her head to give you a knowing, secretive smile, and your face immediately flushed. You realized how hopeless you had sounded asking that.
“I-I mean,” you stammered, “I’ve just never seen him walking the streets before, is all. I was curious.”
Martha gave the hem of the dress one last fluff and stood up with a small groan.
“How I know him?” Martha repeated, letting out a soft hum as if trying to buy herself time to come up with an explanation. “Oh, he’s an old family friend. A very long standing connection, you could say. He’s a good man—extraordinarily hardworking. A father, too. He carries the burdens of his entire household on those broad shoulders of his.”
A father?
Your shoulders deflated just a little, the magic of the blue silk losing a bit of its luster. Of course he was a father. A man that handsome, that observant, and that commanding was bound to have a wife and a brood of children waiting for him in some cozy cottage. It explained the tired eyes and tense shoulders you had noticed earlier.
You looked down at the faint burn marks on your hands, suddenly feeling foolish for the way your heart had been racing.
“Oh. Well... his children and wife are lucky to have such a dedicated provider.”
Martha noticed the sudden change in your posture immediately. A small, reassuring smile spread across her face as she leaned in closer.
“He is quite dedicated. Though, he’s doing it all on his own these days. He’s a widower, you see. Quite single. And I imagine he’s been very lonely in that very big, and very empty house of his.”
Your head snapped towards her, breaking eye contact with the reflection to look at her face-on. Your cheeks burned hot in a matter of seconds.
“Martha!” you hissed, embarrassed by how easily she had read you.
There was a soft knock against a wall, and you went silent the instant you realized Bucky was standing just outside the curtains.
“Martha, I’ll be leaving soon,” his voice came in, closer than you expected. “But I’d like to see that dress on the maiden before I—”
Before you even had time to react, Martha reached for the velvet and swept it aside swiftly. She stepped out of the way, leaving you completely exposed to Bucky’s view.
You immediately straightened your spine, your heart beating faster in your chest as you were barely mentally prepared to face yourself in the mirror, let alone reveal yourself to him.
Bucky felt like the air had been physically knocked out of his lungs once he saw you. He didn’t move an inch, nor even blink. And for a long moment, he didn’t even breathe.
He was the King of Brooklynne—a man who gave speeches to thousands and commanded armies—yet, staring at you, his words failed him. You stood there with a faint smudge of charcoal on your nose and messy strands of hair framing your face, and he was defenseless.
He had seen a thousand women in fine gowns, but he had never truly seen a fine woman in a gown.
Your hands came up to bunch the shimmering blue fabric of the skirt, lifting it just an inch off the floorboards. You looked everywhere but at him—the spools of thread, Martha’s shoes—before finally forcing your eyes back to his.
“Well?” you whispered, the word barely catching in your throat. “Is it as you expected, sir?”
Bucky finally blinked, snapping out of his trance. He cleared his throat and rubbed the back of his neck, his face flushing a deep, sudden red.
“It’s, uh...” he started, his voice cracking slightly before he forced it deeper. “It’s very... blue.”
You tilted your head, a little confused. You had gone through the effort of putting this dress on at his demand, and all he had was to point out the color?
“Blue?” you frowned.
“Yes. Blue,” he repeated, nodding far too many times. He seemed to realize how pathetic that sounded and tried again, gesturing vaguely with his hands.
“And it’s... it fits. The parts of the dress,” he motioned toward the bodice, “they fit your... body well. I mean—you look... not like a maid at all. Which is... good. Very good.”
You and Martha just blinked at him.
Bucky looked as though he wanted the ground to swallow him whole right up until a soft giggle bubbled up in your chest, escaping before you could stop it.
The sight of this large, commanding man, who looked so tired and overworked, being reduced to a stammering mess over the color of a dress was almost ridiculous. Yet, seeing him like this only made you fonder.
“I’m glad you approve of the color, sir,” you teased with a bright smile. “I can only imagine the insults you’d say if the dress had been green.”
Bucky’s ears turned an even more embarrassing shade of crimson. He looked at Martha, who was shamelessly enjoying his suffering with a snicker, and then back at you. He looked completely out of his depth, his usual stoic composure deserted him entirely.
“Right. Yes. Well,” he muttered, taking a step back until he nearly hit the wall. “I must get going. I have... uh, matters to attend to.”
He turned to Martha, his voice suddenly regaining that same authority he had used when he insisted you try the gown on. “Martha, wrap this up for her. Make sure it’s packed carefully.”
“I’m sorry—what?” your eyes went wide, and you let out a disbelieving laugh. “Sir, you can’t possibly—”
The words—the protests that you couldn’t afford it, that your stepmother would never allow it—were immediately cut off the moment Bucky stepped closer. He caught your hand in his and brought it to his lips, pressing a soft kiss against your knuckles. Your breath shuddered in your chest. It had been a long time since a gentleman had greeted you with such grace, not since your father had passed.
“I…” you tried to break the tense silence, but your voice failed you as Bucky’s face pulled away from your hand and something else caught his attention.
Carefully, he turned your palm upward, his thumb tracing the old burn marks that tainted your skin with a gentle touch that made your heart beat even faster.
With his head still bowed, his eyes slowly drifted up to meet yours. You felt goosebumps trail over your skin as he stared at you so intently. He parted his lips as if to speak, but he hesitated, and no words came out.
What happened?
How’d you get these burn marks?
You figured he’d ask, but he didn’t.
Instead, his grip tightened ever so slightly, a silent acknowledgment of a pain he seemed to recognize all too well. He finally broke his gaze, turning his head to Martha without letting go of your hand just yet.
“On my dime, Martha,” he stated. His tone was final, leaving no room for argument. “Everything. The gown, the alterations, the shoes. All of it.”
“Sir, please, I can’t accept—”
Bucky stepped back, his eyes searching yours one last time. This time, there was no more stuttering, no more awkward talk about the color of the fabric. There was only the confidence of a man who was used to being obeyed.
“I’ll see you at the ball tomorrow night,” he said. It wasn’t an invitation; it was a vow.
Before you could find the words to tell him you couldn’t even go, he turned on his heel. He moved quickly, pulling his cloak over his head as he pushed through the shop door and into the busy street.
The bell rang out, leaving you standing in the center of the shop in a gown worth more than your life, blinking as you watched him disappear around the corner through the shop windows.
Martha let out a long, theatrical sigh behind you. “Well,” she spoke, her voice gleeful. “What a charming man, isn’t he?”
She walked over, her boots thumping softly on the hardwood as she began to inspect the stitching of your bodice one last time.
“I take it he’s rather fond of you,” she teased, her voice a little playful. “A man doesn’t pay for royal silk and French lace on a whim, dear.”
“Enough with your foolishness, Martha,” you shook your head, trying to keep calm despite your frantic heart beating.
You looked down at your hands—at the skin he had just graced with his lips and the scars he had traced with such tenderness you’ve never felt before.
“He’s only doing it because he pities me. He saw a girl in rags and felt a momentary lapse of charity.”
You smoothed the silk over your hips, the fabric cool and.. almost mocking beneath your scarred fingers. “Besides... a man like that? A man with that kind of presence, that kind of look? He belongs in the stories you tell children. A woman like me can only dream of someone like him.”
Martha stopped her work and stood tall, placing her hands on your shoulders. She looked at you through the mirror, her eyes bright with wisdom that felt older than the shop itself.
“A dream is a wish your heart makes, my girl,” she whispered, her voice warm and melodic. “And if you wish hard enough, the universe has a funny way of making sure your heart gets exactly what it wants.”
You looked at your reflection, feeling like a stranger in blue silk, and let out a tired sigh.
“I’ve been dreaming for a long time now, Martha.” You forced yourself to look away from the mirror. “They don’t come true.”
It was the night of the ball, and the house was unnervingly silent only after the whirlwind of your sisters’ screaming and your stepmother’s frantic demands had finally vanished behind the rattle of a carriage.
They were currently dancing on polished marble floors, while you were on your knees, the scent of lye and old wood filling your lungs. When you had arrived home from the shop yesterday, it was a miracle you managed to sneak the dress into your closet without Beatrice and her gremlins noticing. They had been so preoccupied with their own vanity that they mistook your large garment bag for a pile of clean, pressed laundry.
With the dress hidden away and quietly taunting you in its small corner of the house, the memory of the man’s voice kept echoing in your mind, drowning out the scraping of your scrubbing brush.
“I’ll see you at the ball tomorrow night.”
You thought about his hands—how large they were compared to yours, yet how carefully he had handled you.
He hadn’t looked at your burns with disgust.
He had looked at them with pain and deep sympathy.
It was a look you didn’t get often—not from your family, and certainly not from strangers.
You tried to imagine him in that crowded ballroom; a widowed father standing awkwardly by the refreshments, looking out of place in a room full of preened lords. You imagined him fumbling over his words while trying to flatter the high born ladies, just as he had fumbled with you.
You couldn’t help but let out a soft snicker at the thought.
You looked down at your current state—dull dress, a darkly stained apron, hair tied back with a piece of frayed twine.
The beautiful gown was sitting just a few feet away, a masterpiece bought on his coin, haunting you.
If you went, you risked everything.
If you stayed, you would spend the rest of your life wondering if he had actually waited for you near the entrance, looking for a girl who never showed up. You would spend the rest of your life wondering if you would ever see him again.
As the clock on the mantle ticked, it was like something clicked inside of you as well.
You dropped the brush into the bucket with a splash. You knew you couldn’t stay. Even if it was only for an hour—even if you had to run back before the clock struck twelve and return to this life of ash and dirt—you had to know why a man like that looked at you as if you were something special.
You scrambled to the basement, your breath hitching as you hauled the dress from its hiding place.
You removed your dress with urgency, but the second you stepped into the blue silk, realization hit you hard.
You didn’t know why you had expected the gown to fit as perfectly as it had in the shop. And without help, the luxury felt like a mockery.
This wasn’t a fairy tale—it was a logistical nightmare. You couldn’t reach the laces in the back, and the more you tugged, the more the bodice sat lopsided and gaping against your skin. You tried to pin your hair up, but the strands were limp and dull, escaping the pins and falling into your eyes.
“No, no, no!” you whispered, hot tears of frustration pricking your eyes.
You looked like exactly what you were. A servant girl playing dress-up.
Grabbing a heavy, hooded travel cloak, you threw it over your half fastened gown, cinching the hood tight to hide your disastrous hair and face. You burst out the back door and ran. You ran until your lungs burned and your feet ached, through the dark alleys and over the cobblestones until you reached Martha’s shop.
The ‘open’ sign was being flipped just as you reached the glass. Martha was reaching for the lamp, her coat already draped over her shoulders as she was preparing to leave.
“Martha!” you cried in a panic, slamming your palm against the door. “Martha, please!”
The older woman froze, her eyes widening as she recognized you through the glass. She fumbled with the locks and pulled you inside, the bells on the door jangling frantically.
“Child, what in heaven’s name—”
You threw back your cloak, revealing the tangled laces and the disheveled dress underneath. “I can’t do it! I… I can’t get the laces right. My hair is a mess, and I look like a fool. Please, Martha. You said the heart gets what it wants, but my hands can’t even help make it happen!”
“Hush now,” Martha reassured. “We have no time for tears. Stand on the pedestal. Feet apart, shoulders back.”
The minute you stood on the pedestal, her hands wasted no time as her fingers flew over the laces, tightening the bodice until it sat perfectly against your waist. She did you hair into a neat, sophisticated style that was a far difference from how it was before. Then, with a damp cloth, she wiped away the tears from your cheeks and applied subtle touches of makeup that highlighted your best features, making your eyes shimmer in the warm overhead light.
She knelt before you, taking your tired, aching feet and slipping them into heels so clear and pristine that it looks like it could be made out of glass.
Finally, Martha reached into a velvet-lined drawer and pulled out a pair of pristine, elbow-length white gloves. She took your hands gently, smoothing the cool fabric over your fingers and up your arms. She paused for a moment as she tucked the silk over your palms, ensuring the scars were completely hidden from view.
“There,” she breathed, patting your hands. “Can’t have these burn marks showing off at the royal palace now, can we?”
You stared at your reflection, breathless. The girl in the mirror didn’t look like she had spent the morning scrubbing a hearth or weeping in a basement.
She looked like she belonged in a palace.
“Martha, I… thank you—”
“Oh! Before I forget…” Martha took a step back and hurried to the rear of the shop, rummaging through a hidden chest. You waited until she finally stepped back out holding a mask.
She had several masks displayed throughout the store, but you had never seen this one. It was ethereal, made with such delicate detail that it looked like it was made to go hand-in-hand with your dress.
Martha held the mask up to the light, its delicate silver filigree shimmering like frost against the dim shop interior.
“It’s a masquerade ball, isn’t it?” Martha asked knowingly, stepping forward to carefully tie the silk ribbons behind your head.
When the knot was secure, she stepped back to look at you, her eyes softening. “My darling,” she sighed wistfully. “You look beautiful.”
A lump formed in your throat, and you parted your lips to speak, ready to drown her in a sea of gratitude. But before a single word could escape, the clock above the dresser ticked—a sharp, metallic strike that made Martha’s head snapped toward the sound instantly.
“The late-arrival carriages are passing through the square right now,” she informed you, already ushering you toward the door with a sudden burst of energy. “If you miss them, you’ll be walking three miles in glass slippers, and I didn’t spend my after hours getting you dressed up just for you to ruin the hem in the mud.”
“Martha, I truly don’t know how to—”
“Don’t thank me, sweetheart,” Martha interrupted, her voice softening as she gave your gloved hand a final, affectionate squeeze.
She looked at you not as a seamstress looking at a client, but with the pride of someone watching a long held wish finally take flight.
“Just go. Enjoy yourself—that’s the best way you can thank me,” she smiled with a wink. “And don’t you dare come back until you’ve danced at least once.”
Bucky stood on the dais, his back straight and his expression stern, though his mind was miles away from the gilded splendor of the ballroom.
He felt more restless than he usually did at these gala affairs. With one hand tightened around a wine glass, his eyes tracked his son, Prince Jamie, who was doing his best to look interested while cornered by a pair of sisters in the center of the dance floor.
Jamie was a good kid, and it usually wasn’t difficult for the average woman to capture his attention, yet Bucky could see the way his son’s jaw clenched as the two women flitted their fans and chirped in high, piercing voices.
Agnes and Margaret. Bucky remembered them from previous balls and the overwhelming mountain of letters they had mailed to the palace—all of which hadn’t bothered reading.
He knew it was his duty, not only as the King but as Jamie’s father, to see his son settled with a rightful match—especially one that offered political advantages. But tonight, his focus was fractured. His eyes began to wander, scanning the sea of masks and trying to look past the peacock feathers and velvet. Every time a flash of sky-blue caught his eye, his heart thudded in anticipation, only to sink when he realized the shade was wrong or the stature wasn’t quite right.
As the night wore on, Bucky’s impatience grew thinner and thinner.
“I’ll see you at the ball tomorrow night.”
Had he not been clear enough?
Now, he felt like a fool.
Why would you come? He had seen your hands—hands that clearly told the story of the life you lived and the hardships you endured. He knew the barriers that stood between a girl like you and a palace gate.
And beyond that, there was the gap in your years.
You were younger.
Much younger.
Bucky swallowed hard, before bringing the cup to his lips. He drained his glass in multiple long gulps. The wine was cold, yet it did nothing to douse the heat building in his skin.
He was a King, a widower who had long ago accepted that his heart—and his body—had gone cold. He was old, or… at least he felt it in the marrow of his bones. He had assumed the days of blood rushing desire were behind him.
But tonight, his body was making a liar out of him.
His mind kept looping back to the age gap. He shouldn’t be feeling this restless, yearning ache for a girl who was likely half his age. It was improper, and it was dangerous.
But as he watched the dancers, he wasn’t thinking about trade levies or Jamie’s future. He was thinking about the way your small hand had disappeared inside his. He was thinking about the way he caught a glimpse of you through the velvet curtain in the changing room, his eyes lingering on your bare shoulders and the curve down your lower back as you got fitted into the gown.
He shifted, the heavy fabric of his royal trousers suddenly feeling restrictive.
A self-deprecating laugh rumbled in his chest. He was a king, a father—and here he was, standing on a dais with a goddamn hard on because of a girl who smelled like smoke and looked like a dream.
“King Barnes?”
Bucky turned to the attendant.
“Sir Rogers and Sir Wilson are in the back gardens, Your Majesty,” he stammered, bowing low. “They sent word that they are... well, they’re waiting for a smoke with you. They said the night air might do you some good.”
Bucky let out a slow, heavy breath. His friends knew him all too well—they had probably caught the way he was gripping his glass and the way he was staring at the door like a starving man.
“Tell them I’ll be there shortly,” Bucky rasped, a little frustrated.
He took one last look at the grand staircase for good measure, several people walking in with fancy gowns and suits—yet none of them were you.
“She isn’t coming”, he told himself. “She has more sense than you do, James.”
He stepped off the platform, his boots clicking sharply against the polished marble as he turned his back on the ballroom. Several guests attempted to intercept him, their mouths opening to offer empty flatteries, but he gave them nothing more than a dismissive nod as he pushed past.
He needed that smoke. He needed Steve and Sam to humble him—to laugh at him for being an old fool pining after a girl who likely saw him as nothing more than a kindly stranger who had bought her an expensive dress.
He made his way through the arched side exit, the orchestra fading into the background as he stepped into the cool, floral scented air of the royal gardens. He spotted them near the center—two broad and tall silhouettes casting long shadows over the stone water fountain.
“About time,” Sam called out, sensing Bucky’s approach without even turning around. “We thought we were going to have to come up there and drag you off that throne ourselves.”
“Find your lucky girl yet, Buck?” Steve asked, finally turning to face his old friend. He held out a cherry-wood smoking pipe, the embers already glowing.
He gave Steve a sharp, side-eye look that would intimidate most people, but it just made Steve laugh.
“No,” Bucky grunted roughly, his voice dropping into a low gravel. “I haven’t found the ‘lucky girl.’” He took a slow, deep inhale from the pipe, letting a thick gust of smoke roll from his lips into the cool night air. “I just need Jamie to hurry up and pick a girl out of the crowd so we can get this ball over with.”
“The boy turns eighteen and the first thing he does is look for a woman to settle his crown,” Sam barked a laugh, leaning back against the stone fountain. “He’s a player—just like his father was at that age.”
Bucky rolled his eyes, the embers in his pipe glowing bright as he took another breath. “I was not. I wasn’t that restless—”
“You’re right,” Steve laughed. “You were worse. You just had the benefit of not being a King yet.”
While the three men shared a rare moment of peace, obscured by the shadows and the scent of pipe tobacco, the last carriage of the night finally pulled up to the palace gates.
It was silent and unassuming, no one would’ve cared for whoever was inside, yet it held the only person Bucky had truly been waiting for.
You stepped out of the carriage and approached the looming marble staircase. The palace was huge, making your heart beating anxiously in your chest like a trapped bird. You almost wanted to retreat back into the carriage and hurl all over your pristine heels, but you just sucked in a deep breath and kept pushing forward.
You gathered the shimmering hem of your sky blue gown, lifting the silk to keep from tripping on staircase.
The moment you crossed the entrance, the cavernous ballroom seemed to expand, the soaring ceilings and gold leafed pillars making the space feel even more bigger than it had from the outside. You stood at the very precipice of the grand staircase, your gloved hand tightening on the silk of your skirts.
As you stood there, the frantic gossip and the laughter of the debutantes slowly died into a collective whisper. One pair of eyes landed on you, then two, then several, until the entire sea of masks was turned upward, captivated by the girl in sky blue.
At the center of the dance floor, Prince Jamie froze.
You were beautiful.
Your gown looked rich, the fabric shimmering with the kind of quality that suggested a woman of high standing and ancient lineage.
You looked exactly like the kind of woman his father would expect him to marry—and exactly like the woman Jamie had been waiting for all night.
He had been trapped between Agnes and Margaret, half-listening to their desperate chirping, but the moment you appeared, it was like a new sense of determination flooded through him. He didn’t wait for a polite opening; he didn’t even offer the sisters a parting nod—a dismissive streak he had clearly inherited from his father.
“Excuse me,” Jamie murmured, his voice clipped as he stepped back, cutting them off mid-sentence.
The further you descended, the more the air suffocated you with the scent of expensive cologne and heavy perfume. Before your foot could even touch the ballroom floor, the path was blocked.
A flock of men swarmed the base of the staircase like vultures circling a prize. They were a blur of colorful sashes and different colored masks, their voices rising over the orchestra as they tried to catch your attention.
“A dance, my lady? I am the Earl of Hydra—”
“Pray, allow me the honor of the first waltz!”
“Ignore them, fair vision, look this way—”
You clutched the railings. You felt like an imposter, a trapped bird in borrowed feathers, as the crowd pressed in and closed off your exits.
You scanned the room frantically through the narrow slits of your mask, searching for a single familiar face—the kind man from the shop who had bought you this dress and insisted you come. But all you saw was a sea of strangers draped in silk and greed.
“Gentlemen,” a sharp, authoritative voice interrupted. “I believe you are crowding the lady.”
Your ears immediately perked at the sound of the voice. It was familiar, a resonance of the man from the shop—yet it wasn't quite the same as it was more youthful.
The men stiffened and turned, their expressions falling behind their masks as they realized the Prince of Brooklynne had arrived. They dipped their heads in respectful bows, scrambling to step aside to clear a path for him.
Jamie stepped into the center of the circle, the only man in the entire party not wearing a mask.
Your heart skipped a beat as you looked at him. There was something hauntingly familiar about his face—the same jaw, the same carved chin, and those stern cold blue eyes. But he lacked the weary, aged shadows beneath them.
“I believe the vultures have had enough of your time,” Jamie extended his gloved hand with a charming smile. “I am Prince Jamie. And while the tradition of this ball is for me to find a match, I find myself suddenly uninterested in anyone else in this room. May I have the honor of this dance?”
Every noble, every servant, and every debutante held their breath.
But you already felt as though you were suffocating.
You looked down at his hand, then out at the sea of faces. “A dance… with me?”
As you spoke, your eyes drifted to the edge of the ballroom.
There, standing near a marble pillar, were Agnes and Margaret. Their faces were twisted into masks of pure, venomous hatred, their glares so sharp they felt like they could pierce right through your silver mask and uncover the truth themselves.
Behind them, your stepmother stood like a looming shadow, her eyes narrowed like she could kill you alone with her glare.
The candles, the orchestra getting louder, the different wafting smells of perfume and cologne, hundreds of eyes watching your every breath—it all became too much.
You weren’t a princess.
You were an interloper in a silver mask who didn’t even know how to dance.
One wrong move, one misplaced step, and the dream of finding the man from the shop would be crushed like a bug beneath a royal boot.
“I… I cannot,” you whispered.
Jamie’s brow furrowed in genuine shock, his hand still suspended in the air. “My lady?”
“I am sorry, Your Highness. I need air,” you gasped out, barely audible.
Without waiting for the Prince’s word, you immediately turned on your heel and bolted to the first exit that wasn’t already blocked by people. Behind you, the silence of the room snapped into already gossiping whispers.
Jamie stood frozen, his pride wounded. He watched the shimmer of your skirt disappear into the darkness of the garden, but before he could take a step to follow you, the lady vultures were already making their move.
“Your Highness, she was clearly unwell!” a woman cried as she fluttered her fan. “Perhaps a dance with someone more... stable would clear your mind?”
You hurried deep into the greenery, the hem of your gown whispering against the gravel until you reached a thicket of towering hedges and blooming jasmine. As you leaned against a cold stone pillar to catch your breath, you heard deep, masculine laughter drifting through the leaves from a distance.
Your heart leaped. You knew that laugh.
It was the same sound of the man you had met in the shop.
Quietly, you crept through the shadows, peering through the dense leaves of a large plant.
Three men were standing by a stone fountain, the glowing cherries of their pipes lighting the darkness. Two were tall and broad, but it was the man with his back to you who caught your attention. When he turned to laugh at something the blonde man said, the moonlight hit his face, and your heart nearly melted.
It was him.
The man you had risked everything to see just once more.
Who also happened to be the King of Brooklynne.
He looked far different than he had in the shop; his hair was slicked back neatly and he was draped in heavy royal regalia that shimmered under the moon. But the face was the same one you had memorized. You took a small, hesitant step forward, your hand reaching out to part the branches, ready to call to him—to tell him that you were here, that you had come for him.
But as the conversation continued, the words that left their lips made you freeze.
“You’re brooding over nothing, Buck,” Steve said with a smirk. “You’re the King. You could bed any woman you’d want in that room, or ten of them. You’re rich enough to cover the tracks and powerful enough that no one would dare whisper a word.”
Sam barked a laugh, blowing a cloud of smoke into the air. “He’s right. One snap of your fingers and you’ve got a new ‘favorite’ for the week. Why settle for pining?”
You waited for Bucky to rebuke them. You waited for the ‘good man’ and ‘hardworking father’ to say he wasn’t looking for that.
Instead, a slow, dark grin spread across his face—a look of cold, royal entitlement you hadn’t seen at all in the shop.
“It would certainly break the boredom of this godforsaken castle,” Bucky—no, the King—replied. “There’s a certain thrill in taking what you want, isn’t there? The perks of the crown are the only thing keeping me sane these days.”
Steve let out a low whistle, pointing his pipe toward Bucky. “Ah. There he is. I was worried for a moment that fatherhood made you soft, but I see the old wolf is still in there.”
Bucky chuckled, a sound that lacked any of the warmth you had felt in the small tailor shop.
“Soft? Hardly,” Bucky scoffed so exaggerated, it seemed forced. “I’ve spent half my life fighting for this kingdom. If I decide to take a girl as a ‘prize’ for a night or two to pass the time, I think I’ve earned that much. Besides,” he added, a little lower, “most of the women in there would consider it the greatest honor of their lives to be used by their King, regardless of how quickly I forget their names the next morning.”
You felt like you were going to collapse.
The man you had met—the one who stuttered over his words trying to compliment you and kissed your hand with such gentleness—felt like a ghost. This man in front of you was a stranger, a cold-hearted ruler who likely saw you as a nameless ‘prize’ to be discarded at the shop.
Was that why he wanted to buy you this dress?
Was that why he insisted you come tonight?
The realization made your head hurt. You knew it was too good to be true. You felt the bile rise in your throat, and you instinctively moved to flee.
You took a frantic step backwards, but in your haste, you didn’t see the heavy iron watering can sitting at the base of the hedge. Your heel caught the edge of it with a loud, metallic clang that echoed through the quiet garden.
The laughter died, and Sam perked his head up.
“Who’s there?”
Bucky straightened up slowly, his gaze narrowing to the exact spot to the greenery you were hiding behind. The orange glow of his pipe illuminated the sharp, dangerous lines of his face.
There was no point in hiding. They already knew you were there. You forced your legs to move, stepping out from behind the heavy jasmine vines.
“I apologize,” you said, your voice brittle and trembling. “I… I must have gotten lost. Excuse me, Your Majesty.”
You bowed your head, refusing to meet his eyes, and hiked up the heavy silk of your skirts—the very fabric he had paid for, which now felt like a brand of humiliation against your skin. You turned to retreat towards the palace, desperate to vanish into the overwhelming crowd—so long as you get away from him.
Bucky stood frozen, the pipe nearly slipping from his fingers. The moonlight caught the shimmer of that familiar sky blue fabric, and the realization punched the air out of his lungs.
It was you.
You were the girl he had been waiting for all night, the one who had occupied his every thought since the moment he laid eyes on you in the shop. Even behind the silver mask, you were the most beautiful woman he had seen this evening. He saw the way your shoulders shook and the way you wouldn’t even glance at him, and a sickening dread made his heart cold.
You had heard it all.
Every arrogant, cold-hearted word he had spat out just to impress his friends.
Steve, completely oblivious to the internal collapse Bucky was experiencing, let out a dry chuckle and nudged Bucky’s shoulder.
“See? What’d I say, Buck? You’re the King. You’re powerful enough to cover the tracks of any little wanderer. She won’t say a word.”
Bucky didn’t laugh this time. He couldn’t even look at Steve. His face dropped from a mask of royal arrogance to one of unadulterated panic as he realized he had just destroyed the only real thing he felt in years.
“Excuse me, gentlemen,” Bucky rasped, his voice tight.
He broke into a stride, his heavy boots thundering against the gravel as he chased after you before you could reach the safety of the ballroom.
“Wait!” he called out, his voice no longer commanding, but a desperate plea. “Please—wait!”
You didn’t look back. The blood rushing in your ears drowned out his voice. As you passed the archway back into the ballroom, the sudden blast of orchestral music and chatter filled your ears immediately.
Behind you, Bucky skidded to a halt right before the doors. He watched as you re-entered the lion’s den, and for a split second, he nearly followed you in like a madman. But then he saw dozens of eyes—the eyes of his court and his people—turning toward the doors.
As much as he wanted to chase after you, he was the King.
He couldn’t chase a woman through his own ballroom without causing a massive scene.
“Dammit,” Bucky gritted his teeth, forcing himself to stand straight and compose his features.
His eyes never left yours. He forced himself to remain calm, but the minute he saw a familiar figure weave through the crowd toward you, he felt his face burn with a sudden, hot anger.
His own son approached you before the other lords could, his youthful face lighting up in visible relief.
Bucky stood near the entrance, paralyzed. He couldn’t believe it. He felt betrayed by his own flesh and blood as he watched Jamie close the distance between you.
“I fear the night air had stolen you away forever,” Jamie said softly, bowing low before you.
Jamie—who you know now was Bucky’s son—seemed far kinder than the version of the man you had just overheard in the dark. The resemblance was striking and understandable now, but the warmth in Jamie’s voice made your heart ache for what you thought you had found in the shop.
“Please,” Jamie continued. “One dance? Titles aside, I’m the most competent when it comes to dancing in this room,” he joked, flashing a charming smile that highlighted his blue eyes.
You hesitated, the silver mask hiding your weary expression as you fought to keep your composure. You looked over your shoulder, and you could feel the King’s gaze glaring daggers down your back, almost making you second guess.
But as the nasty words he had exclaimed in the yard just a few seconds ago echoed in your mind, your heartache turned into a cold, sharp resolve.
You decided right then to spite him.
To him, you were just a ‘prize,’ but you wouldn’t be his.
Following Martha’s wish for you to have at least one good dance of this night, you turned your back on the King. With a steady breath to settle your racing heart, you finally placed your hand in the Prince’s.
Jamie’s gloved fingers curled yours gently as a triumphant smile spread across his young face. As he led you to the center of the gilded floor, you didn’t dare to look back—especially because you didn’t need to. You could feel Bucky’s eyes following you. It was heavy, but you were determined to ignore it as you used his son as your shield.
“I don’t know how to dance,” you admitted softly to the Prince.
“Don’t know how to dance?” Jamie blinked at you, slightly taken aback, before letting out a disbelieving chuckle. “A Lady who doesn’t know how to dance?”
You expected him to mock you, but instead, he gave you an encouraging smile and adjusted his stance, placing a steady hand on your waist and lifting your other to proper height.
“Then it’s a good thing you’re with me,” he reassured kindly. “Just follow my lead and keep your eyes on mine.”
As the violins grew louder, Jamie moved gracefully, his hand firm on your waist as he began the first slow rotation of the waltz. You stumbled almost immediately, your heel landing right on top of his polished leather boot.
“I—I’m so sorry,” you gasped, your face flushing in embarrassment beneath the silver mask.
“Don’t be. My boots have survived worse than a lady’s dance. Besides,” he leaned in, voice playful, “it gives me a reason to hold you a little tighter so you don’t fall.”
You couldn’t help but chuckle at how romantically corny he was. His words were smooth and charming—a miracle, considering he was the heir to the man you had just witnessed in the garden. As you finally caught the rhythm, a small, genuine smile spread across your lips. After the disaster in the garden, you had expected your night to be ruined, but this dance was almost enough to make up for it.
Then suddenly, the crowd near the edge of the floor parted like a wound opening up.
Bucky didn’t wait for the song to end. He marched onto the floor, his heavy royal mantle trailing behind him like a dark cloud. His presence alone was so suffocatingly dominant that the couples dancing around you slowed to a halt, watching him cautiously.
Bucky stepped directly into your path, forcing Jamie to stop mid-turn.
“Son,” Bucky greeted coldly. Then his eyes turned to you, cold and sharp. “My Lady.”
He extended a hand towards you—not as an invitation, but a demand. “The music is just beginning to peak. Shall I take over?”
Jamie’s brow furrowed, his hand tightening slightly on your waist. “Father? We are in the middle of a waltz. It’s highly irregular to cut in on the first dance.”
Bucky looked back at his son, his jaw clenched hard. The ‘good man’ from the shop deserted him entirely, he was acting like a man who knew exactly how to use his power to get what he wanted.
“Tradition is a suggestion, Jamie,” Bucky said, stepping closer until he crowded your space. “But a command from your King is not. Step aside.”
Jamie swallowed hard, and you felt yourself go stiff between the two most powerful men in the kingdom.
“I suppose I cannot argue with the King,” Jamie murmured, a little defiant sass seeping through his polite tone.
Reluctantly, he took your hand one last time and bowed his head low, his eyes never leaving yours as he pressed a slow, lingering kiss to the back of your gloved hand. It was the same hand Bucky had kissed at the shop just yesterday—and a gesture Bucky knew all too well.
It was the kind of goodbye a man gives a woman he fully intends to find again.
Bucky’s brow twitched violently. It took everything in his power to keep from snarling while the entire court watched. The sight of his own son’s lips touching your glove—the very silk he had held in his hands and bought with his own coin—was almost more than his composure could bear.
“That will be all, Jamie,” Bucky snapped.
Jamie ignored his father as he took a step back from you, eyes still never leaving yours. “My Lady,” he bid goodbye with a final, pained smile, before turning to disappear into the sea of masks.
The space Jamie left was immediately filled by Bucky’s suffocating presence. He didn’t wait for your permission as he stepped into the gap, his large hand slid firmly onto your waist—exactly where his son’s had been—except he pulled you so tight against his chest that the surrounding guests began to murmur.
He didn’t just want to dance.
He wanted to reclaim what he felt was his.
As Bucky slowly began moving you along to the music, your eyes trailed over his shoulder, where Jamie retreated into the crowd.
Bucky sensed it. His grip on your waist tightened, his body tensing as he realized your mind was still with his son.
“You look at me when I’m holding you,” he commanded, low and possessive. “Not him.”
You stayed quiet as you looked up at him through the slits of your mask. His gaze on you was almost cold and authoritative—the kind of look most people would be scared to meet, let alone break. But you looked down anyway, your eyes finding his chest as you forced yourself to follow his lead.
Bucky’s grip on you didn’t waver, but his voice softened just slightly.
“You look beautiful in this gown,” he murmured, his eyes still on your face despite you not looking at him.
You said nothing, and he continued on anyway.
“In the shop… you looked beautiful,” he admitted, his thumb gently grazing the back of your bodice, subtly playing with the laces. “But now you’re even more stunning. Absolutely breathtaking.”
He waited for a blush or a shy smile like the one you had given him just yesterday. Instead, he was met with a wall of silence. You kept your chin tucked, your eyes anchored firmly to the silver crest on his chest, as if you were constantly reminding yourself of his rank.
Bucky let out a deep sigh. He tilted his head down, trying to force his way into your line of sight, an act of vulnerability a King would never normally show.
“About what I said in the garden…” he started, guilty. “I was… my friends, they—”
“I heard nothing, Your Majesty.” You interrupted.
Bucky’s jaw clenched. He knew that as the King, he held the power to silence anyone in the entire kingdom of Brooklynne… yet, the one person he was desperate to hear from was treating him like a brick wall.
“I was playing a part,” he whispered with a desperation he’d never shown a soul in this palace. “Sir Rogers and Sir Wilson... they’ve known me since I was a boy. They expect a cold-hearted King. I said those things because—”
He choked on the words, his pride warring with his heart.
“Because I didn’t want them to know how much a girl from a tailor shop had actually shaken me.” He looked around warily, his eyes darting to the side to ensure the surrounding couples were caught up in their own movements and not eavesdropping on the King’s unraveling.
“Please, Your Majesty,” you said, and you couldn’t help but let out a sharp laugh that passed for a scoff. “I’m sure a maid you happened to come across in a dusty tailor shop is hardly a ‘prize’, as you call it.”
“You aren’t a prize,” he rasped, his hand tightening almost painfully around yours. “I shouldn’t have said it. I was a fool, trying to play the part of the man they think I am.”
“Oh, don’t be so modest, Your Majesty,” you countered sarcastically. You tilted your head, catching his pained gaze with a cold, mocking look of your own.
“I’m sure there are many other, more eligible, ‘prized’ women in this room who would consider it the greatest honor of their lives to be used and then forgotten by their King.”
The final note of the waltz hung in the air before fading into the polite applause of the court. You didn’t wait for the silence to settle or for Bucky to utter another word. You retracted your hand and gathered your skirts to drop into a shallow, perfectly stiff curtsy.
“Thank you for the dance, Your Majesty,” you said, though your voice held no warmth and even less appreciation.
You turned on your heel and began to weave through the crowd. You had gotten exactly what Martha wanted—one good memory, or at least a story to tell. You had danced with a Prince, and you had danced with a King.
That should be more than enough.
But as you neared the exit, all you felt was a deep, aching stupidity. You had risked everything and snuck out in a dress that felt like a lie, all for a man who had treated your heart like a parlor trick for his friends.
You were over the music, over the masks, and most of all, you were over him.
The grand staircase you had entered from was now a wall of people. Nobles stood in clusters, laughing and sipping wine, completely blocking your path to the main doors.
Panic flared in your chest. You couldn’t stand to be in this room for another second.
Searching for a way out, you spotted a narrow side corridor draped in heavy velvet curtains. It was dim and seemingly abandoned. You slipped through the fabric, your silk skirts rustling against the stone floor as you hurried away from the noise.
The air here was cooler, smelling of old paper and beeswax. You didn’t hear the click of boots on the marble behind you. You didn’t see the shadow that detached itself from the ballroom doorway, moving with a predatory grace of a hunter.
You only focused on the door at the end of the hall, desperate for the night air and escape.
Just as your hand reached for the brass handle, a heavy weight hit the door beside your head, pinning it shut. A gloved hand clamped hard around your wrist, jerking you backwards until you hit a broad chest.
“Did your King say you were dismissed?” Bucky growled, his voice a low, dangerous vibration against your ear.
“Y-your Majesty—?”
With a swift, forceful movement, he kicked open the door to a private study, hauled you inside, and slammed it shut. The click of the lock turning felt like the final snap of a mousetrap. Bucky leaned his back against the heavy oak door, his chest heaving as he watched you through the dim light.
“You’re not going anywhere.”
“Please move,” you snapped, no longer caring about pleasantries or protocol.
You tried to shove past him, but it was like trying to move a mountain. He didn’t budge, simply adjusting his weight to block the handle.
“I am not letting you walk out of here thinking those things.”
“Oh, so now the King is concerned with my thoughts?” you let out a harsh, mocking laugh and spun away, pacing the small room like a caged animal.
You tried for the window, but he was there in three long strides, his arm extending to block your path before you could even touch the latch.
“Stop trying to run away.”
You turned on him, your eyes blazing behind your mask.
“Was this just another one of your cruel royal games, Your Majesty? You buy a poor maid a gown, make her beautiful for a night, and then...” you choked on the words, your gloved hands balling into fists at your sides. “And then what? You get to boast to your friends about how easily you can sweep any woman off her feet? How lucky a commoner should feel to be bedded by the King?”
“It wasn’t a game,” Bucky rasped, reaching out to catch your shoulders, but you slapped his hand away.
“Your Majesty, if I were you, I’d quit wasting my time with a common peasant,” you spat, “and go find someone in the ballroom more suitable to bed—”
“I said those things because I was terrified!” he finally roared, the sound echoing off the wood paneled walls.
His chest heaved in frustration. He ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the strands until they fell messily over his forehead, obscuring the cold gaze of a King.
“I am the King. I am supposed to be calculated. I am supposed to be cold,” he confessed, his voice growing agitated. “And then I met you. Suddenly, I’m stumbling over a simple compliment. I’m staring at the doors, waiting for you to arrive, hoping—praying—that you’d actually show up.”
Bucky took a heavy step forward, the floorboards creaking under his shoes.
“You’ve been on my mind from the moment I laid eyes on you at the shop,” he murmured, humming so low that it made your skin prickle. “Every hour since then… until now.”
His hand reached out, slow and careful as he hooked his fingers under the edge of your silver mask, lifting it gently. As the silk and lace came away, he set it down on the mahogany table without ever breaking eye contact.
“I wanted you to try this dress on because I knew it would look beautiful on you,” he whispered, his eyes dark, hungry, and appreciating as they traveled from your face down to the curve of your throat.
Bucky let his hand trail down to your sleeve, his knuckles grazing the tender skin of your inner arm. The contact was light, yet possessive. His gaze followed the path of his hand, appreciating you from head to toe, admiring the way the silk hugged your body.
“And now,” he stepped even closer, his shadow completely swallowing you as he leaned down until his lips were inches from yours. “The only thing I can think of is how you would look with this dress off.”
Bucky pulled his gloves off, tossing them aside as his hands slid from your arm to your face. His large, warm palms cupped your jaw.
His thumb traced the line of your lower lip, tugging it down just enough to reveal the plump, wet flesh beneath. He leaned in until the tips of your noses brushed, his lips hovering a mere breath away from yours.
“Did you have fun dancing with my son?” he murmured, his voice a low vibration.
“Forgive me, Your Majesty,” your brows furrowed in confusion. “But I don’t see how this has anything to do—”
“Enough,” he interrupted. He gave your jaw a light, commanding squeeze. “You know this has to do with everything.”
You swallowed hard, nodding instinctively before you could even find your voice.
“Did you like the way he held you?” he pressed, his breath ghosting over your lips as he tilted your head back further, exposing the vulnerable line of your throat to his hungry gaze.
“Did you enjoy the way he looked at you? Because I hated every second of it. I hated that his hands were where mine should have been. I hated that you smiled for him when all you’ve given me tonight is the cold shoulder.”
His gaze dropped from your eyes to your shoulders. His hands left your jaw, tracing a slow, burning path down the sensitive skin of your throat until his fingers hooked into the delicate elastic of your puffy sleeves.
With a slow tug, he slipped them off your shoulders. The silk bunched at your elbows, leaving your shoulders bare and vulnerable under the warm glow of the candlelight.
“Tell me you’ve been thinking of me too, my dear,” he rasped, almost pleaful.
He stepped even closer, his body pressing nearly pressing against yours, pinning you between the heavy desk and his own body. One of his hands slid around your lower back, pulling you upward until your chest brushed against his.
“That’s why you came here tonight,” he whispered, his breath hot against your lips. “You wanted to find me. You wanted to show off the dress I bought you... isn’t that right?”
You looked up at him, your breath hitching as the heat from his body seemed to seep through the silk of your bodice. Being this close to him—without the mask, without the safety of the ballroom crowd—was overwhelming.
“I…” you sucked in a breath, “I came because I wanted to see the kind man I met at the shop yesterday. Not a heartless King.”
“How can you call me heartless,” he frowned, almost taunting, “when my heart only beats for you, my dear? It hasn’t known a moment of peace since I walked into that shop.”
Bucky’s hands began to wander more boldly. One hand stayed firm at your lower back, while the other slid up from your waist, his thumb grazing the undersides of your breasts through the thin silk of your gown. You let out a soft, broken whimper, your knees feeling weak as the friction of his thumb sent jolts of heat through your entire body.
“You’re so reactive, sweetheart. So innocent in the way you look at me,” he murmured, his hips tight against yours until you could feel the hard, undeniable bulge that pressed against his pants. “It makes me wonder.”
His thumb returning to your chin to tilt your face up, forcing you to meet his burning stare.
“Tell your King the truth,” he warned. “Has anyone ever laid a hand on you? Has a man ever touched you so… intimately in your life?”
You swallowed hard, the lump in your throat feeling like a stone as you struggled to find your voice.
“I’ve never been touched, Your Majesty,” you admitted softly. You lowered your gaze, unable to maintain the intensity of his stare. “Still pure.”
Bucky’s grip on your waist tightened, his fingers digging slightly into the silk of your dress as if he were already marking his territory.
“Like a flower,” he breathed, his voice sounding both awestruck and dangerous.
He leaned down, his nose dragging slowly along the curve of your jawline until he reached the sensitive skin just below your ear. He inhaled deeply, taking in your scent as if it were the only thing keeping him alive.
“A perfect, white lily,” he murmured against you, lips grazing your skin.
“And to think,” he rasped, his hand sliding up from your back to tangle in the hair at the nape of your neck, tilting your head back to force you to look at him. “That I am the first man to see you like this. The first to hold you so… closely like this.”
His gaze dropped to your mouth, his thumb dragging across your bottom lip again, more forcefully this time.
“It makes me want to keep you locked away in this room,” he confessed. “So that no other man, not even my own son, ever gets the chance to breathe the same air as you again.”
Before you could take another breath, Bucky leaned down and captured your lips with a hunger that was long overdue. For a King usually so poised, the kiss was a collision—hot, messy, and desperate.
Caught off guard, you met him with everything you had, but your movements were frantic and uncoordinated. Your hands clutched at his shoulders, fingers digging into the expensive fabric of his coat as you tried to keep up with his relentless pace, your kisses coming out sloppy and breathless.
Bucky let out a low, vibrating chuckle against your lips and gently pulled back. He didn’t go far, as his forehead was still resting against yours.
“So young and inexperienced,” he grinned, his thumb swiping a stray drop saliva from the corner of your mouth. He didn't sound disappointed; he sounded enthralled.
“But it’s okay, sweetheart. I’ll take care of you. I always take care of my people.”
Your body felt so hot, the dress suddenly felt suffocating. The way he said my people made it clear—you weren’t just any person anymore; you were his.
He took a slow step back, creating a sliver of space that felt freezing after exchanging body heat. His hands went to his waist, his fingers eager as he unbuckled his heavy leather belt. The entire time, his eyes were glued to you—his jaw slightly hung as he was breathing heavy in anticipation for whats to come.
He tossed the belt onto the nearby chair, his expression darkening.
“Now,” he rasped. “I want you to step out of that gown. Slowly. Let me see what I missed out on by being stuck on the other side of that dressing room.”
You reached slowly for the fastenings at your side, but you didn’t pull them just yet. You tilted your head, playing into the innocent maiden he thought you were.
“And tell me,” you whispered, voice low and sultry, “is this a request... or an order from my King?”
Bucky’s eyes flickered darkly with amusement. He liked the bite in your tone; he liked that even now, even after the cold shoulders and witty responses, there was still a part of you that wanted him. His hand moving down to firmly palm the heavy length of himself through his pants, his knuckles teasing his own fabric as he began to stroke himself with a slow pressure.
“Everything I say from this moment on,” he groaned, his gaze dropping to the curve of your chest, “is an official order from your King. And I suggest you obey it with haste.”
You swallowed hard, holding his burning stare as you reached for the hidden laces. With a soft tug, the structure of the bodice gave way. Despite his command, you moved slowly, letting the heavy, expensive silk slide down your body inch by agonizing inch.
The gown pooled around your ankles in a cloud of white and silver, leaving you standing before him in nothing but your thin, sheer chemise and stockings.
Bucky could see everything just shy under the white sheer slip. He let out a groan, hand moving faster now as his thumb traced the ridge of his length through his pants as his eyes raked over every newly exposed inch of you.
“All of it, my dear,” he commanded gently. “But keep the stockings on.”
Your fingers trembled against your thighs as you reached for the hem. Slowly, you gathered the sheer fabric and pulled it up over your head, the cloth grazing your skin one last time before you tossed it onto the growing pile of discarded clothes.
You stood there, flushed and completely exposed, save for the white lace topped stockings that clung to your legs.
“Like this, Your Majesty?” you whispered, small and breathless.
Bucky couldn’t wait another second. He let out another low groan, stepping into your space quickly as his hands made desperate contact with your waist. He tilted his head down and slammed his lips against yours once more, sliding his tongue that tasted of wine and pure need against your own.
You muffled and moaned against his lips, head spinning with equal desire. When he finally pulled away, his eyes were dark and blown out with lust. He reached down and grabbed your hand, his large palm covering yours as he guided it towards the center of his heat.
He pressed your palm firmly over the hard, throbbing length of him, trapping your hand against the rough fabric of his pants. With a shudder, he began to move your hand in a slow, rhythmic motion, palming himself using your smaller hand as a buffer.
“Yes,” he gasped, letting out a sharp hiss of pleasure as his head fell back. “Just like that. Feel what you’ve done to me. Feel how much your King wants you.”
Every twitch and pulse of him that you felt underneath your palm only made your heart beat faster.
“You…” you breathed, your eyes wide as you looked from his face down to where your hands were joined. “You’re… big.”
Tentatively, you gave him a small and light squeeze against his trousers, making him gasp.
It was true that as King, he could have had any woman in the kingdom at his beck and call, but the truth was much bleaker; he had been starved of a genuine touch for years. Despite his body’s natural withdrawals, he hadn’t bothered to seek out a woman just to ease his pleasure.
He didn’t want a body; he wanted a soul.
He wanted you.
Bucky’s hands were under your arms immediately. Using little strength, he hoisted you up, making you let out a sharp, startled squeal. He turned and pressed you onto the massive mahogany desk in the center of the room. He swept aside a stack of royal documents and a heavy inkwell with one forceful arm, the items clattering to the floor haphazardly.
You let out a sharp gasp as he laid you flat, the cool wood a shock against your bare back. Your legs dangled over the edge, and your hair spilled messily across the dark surface.
Bucky didn’t spare you a second to adjust. He stepped between your thighs, looming over you, his eyes dark with a hunger that needed to be sated.
His hands left your body and reached to zip down his pants, finally freeing himself.
Your breath hitched, a sharp gasp escaping your lips as you saw him fully for the first time. The sight of him—thick, pulsing, and bobbing with his need for you—made your head spin.
“Your Majesty…” you stammered, your eyes wide as you instinctively tried to press further back into the wood of the desk. “I never… I don’t know how— I’ve never done this.”
Bucky kept his eyes glued on you. His hand wrapped around his length, stroking himself agonizingly slow as he took you in. His gaze drifted down to where your thighs were parted, landing on the glistening, bare slit.
“It’s okay, my dear. Just relax,” he reassured deeply. He leaned over you, his free hand reaching down to find your wet folds. “I told you, didn’t I? A King takes care of his people…”
He began to rub the tip against your entrance, the slick friction making you cry out softly. At the same time, his thumb found your clit, circling it with an experienced pressure that sent tingling waves through your lower belly.
“I’ll take care of you,” he whispered against your lips, his forehead resting against yours as he watched your eyes flutter shut. “I’ll take goood care of you. Just let me in, sweetheart.”
Bucky retracted his thumb, his hand finding your waist to hold you tight while his other hand guided himself against your entrance, testing you with a slow push past your walls.
The sensation was already overwhelming—a relentless invasion of just the head of him that felt like it was already claiming every part of you. You were so incredibly tight, your body unaccustomed to such a feeling, and you let out a sharp, choked cry, your back arching off the cool mahogany of the desk.
“Your Majesty... it's... too big,” you gasped, your voice breaking as he pushed in further, forcing your body to accommodate him. “You’re stretching me already—! Please—”
Bucky gritted through clenched teeth, his body trembling.
It was taking everything in him not to lose his restraint and slam into you, breaking you open right then and there.
“I know it hurts,” he groaned, his voice vibrating deep in his chest. “But don’t worry... we’ll make it fit. Just breathe for me, my dear. Just breathe.”
You mewled, your hands frantically finding his broad shoulders for support, your fingers clutching his royal jacket. There was something deeply arousing about the contrast—the King, fully dressed in his regalia from head-to-toe, looking down at you while you were reduced to nothing but a pair of flimsy lace stockings and your own skin as he deflowered you.
He was much older, and the social chasm between you was so deep you could drown in it—a King and a commoner, a master and a maid.
But that’s what made this feel even dirtier, even better.
The fact that he was staining his royal reputation just to claim your innocence on the very desk where he signed his laws.
Bucky rocked his hips even deeper, feeling your walls clench and flutter, trying to accommodate him. You whimpered, fingers digging into his shoulders as a dark, prideful smirk tugged at the corners of his lips.
He leaned down, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear so his hot breath could coat your skin.
“You’re losing your virginity to a King, my dear,” he murmured, sheer arrogance in his voice. “Isn’t that such an honor?”
Bracing his weight on his forearms, he groaned lonely and gave you one final thrust.
“Oh my god—!” you whined.
He sheathed himself fully inside you, his heavy cock pressing against your womb. You let out a long, broken moan that could shake the high ceilings of the study, your toes curling in your stockings as the world seemed to tilt around you.
The stretch was absolute. It was unfamiliar. It was a heavy, throbbing fullness that made your head fall back against the wood of the desk.
Bucky froze, buried to the hilt, his eyes squeezed shut as his cock savored the tight, clenching heat of your innocence. His chest heaved against your breasts, the medals on his jacket feeling cold against your hot chest.
“You’re a maid…” he murmured, his thumb tracing your lower lip possessively as he watched your chest heave. “So you know how to take care of a home. You understand the responsibilities of keeping a house and a family afloat.”
You blinked up at him, your vision slightly blurred. Your brows furrowed slightly in confusion, your body still shaking as his heavy, thick length kept you completely plugged.
As you looked at him, his eyes told you everything. It wasn’t just lust, but the deep, yearning of a man who had everything except the one thing he actually wanted. The one thing he actually needed.
“Y-your Majesty?”
“I’m a King who has spent too long without a Queen to steady him,” he gritted out. His gaze drifted over your flushed face and the way your hair was fanned out across the table, a beautiful mess on his orderly desk.
“A man who needs someone soft to come home to,” he rasped, his hand sliding from your lip to cup your jaw, his thumb pressing firmly into your cheek. “Someone who understands the value of service... and the sacred duty of taking care of her husband.”
You swallowed hard, heart beating anxiously fast. “… Husband?”
Bucky rocked his hips forward in a painfully slow, agonizingly deep roll. He was buried to the very root, the girth of him making you wince and whimper. He pumped out deep thrusts, his breathing growing heavier as he fucked you slow against the desk.
“My son’s been lonely in this castle, you know?” he grunted, the suggestion sending a shiver down your spine. “The halls are too quiet. Maybe you can give him a sister… or a brother to protect.”
As those dark, possessive thoughts took over him, the slow rolls of his hips turned urgent and frantic. He reached down and caught your leg, his large hand firm behind your knee as he hiked it high over his broad shoulder. The new angle allowed him to sink to his very limit, his heavy cock bottoming out against your cervix so deeply it made your head toss back, your fingers scrambling desperately to grip the edge of the desk for balance.
Your entire body shook the moment he pressed his face against your inner thigh. The roughness of his salt and pepper beard tickled your sensitive skin as he trailed wet, worshipful kisses along your leg.
“That’d be so wonderful, my dear,” he rumbled against your skin. “Seeing you bred with royalty… carrying the Barnes bloodline.”
Every word was punctuated by a heavy, wet thrust of his hips as he drove into you.
Your mind was spinning with these depraved ideas. You couldn’t form a single coherent sentence as your body was being ruined by the King of Brooklynne.
“I can see it already,” he panted, his eyes snapping back to yours, dark and unfocused with desire. “You, heavy with my child, walking through these gardens… knowing that you’re the most precious thing in this entire kingdom. That you belong to me, and me alone.”
Bucky’s hand tightened on your thigh, his fingers digging into your skin as he used his thumb to circle your clit in a fast, circular motion. He was thrusting deeper and harder now, his rough movements making the heavy desk creak and groan beneath you.
The sound of his moans mingling with your breathless mewls, and the echoes of his scandalous promises still ringing in your head, finally broke the last of you.
Your vision blurred as your body reached its limit, your sensitive, well-fucked walls fluttering and clenching tightly around his shaft, already milking him.
“Your Majesty… I—” you gasped, turning your head away as embarrassment and shame washed through you. “I… it’s too overwhelming. I’m going to—”
“No,” he grunted roughly in disapproval.
He moved forward, his weight pinning you more firmly as he hiked your leg even higher, folding you back until you felt completely open to him. He reached out with his free hand, his fingers catching your chin and forcing your face back toward his.
“Don’t you dare hide from me,” he commanded, practically snarling. “Look at me. Look at your King while you take this. I want to see you come apart for me.”
As you completely lost control of your own, you let out a shattered, high-pitched cry. And in return, he let out a low, gravelly chuckle that was more a growl of satisfaction than a laugh. “Christ. You’re wet, my dear.”
Bucky watched as your face flushed with warmth and your eyes rolled back. Your body arched so sharply off the table that your spine barely touched the wood, your entire being coming undone all over him.
You were so incredibly tight, your walls fluttering and pulsing in a desperate grip that milked him, demanding his own release.
The feeling was the final blow to his crumbling restraint. Bucky’s smirk vanished, replaced a grimace of pained ecstasy as he reached his limit.
“Yesss,” he hissed through gritted teeth, his hands moving eagerly at your thighs. “That’s it. I’m close, sweetheart. You’re going to take every drop, do you hear me? I expect—hah—nothing less from my girl.”
With a final, deep thrust that made the desk groan one last time, he buried his cock completely inside and stayed there.
“God—take it,” he rasped, his voice breaking. “I’m going to pump you full.”
His body went rigid, his head snapping back as a roar of ecstacy tore straight from his throat. You felt the hot, heavy pulses of him filling you—the throbbing of his release pumping deep inside your womb. You let out a breathless gasp, feeling him claim you from the inside out, marking you with the Barnes bloodline just as he had promised.
Bucky remained draped over you for a long moment, his forehead resting against yours as you both fought to bring air back into your lungs. The study that once smelt like wood, paper, and ink was now heavy with the smell of sex and sweat.
Slowly, he shifted his weight to his forearms, looking down at you with a gaze that had softened from hunger into gentleness. His thumb reached out, gently caressing your warm cheek, tracing the line of your jaw before moving up to brush sweat dampened strands of hair away from your eyes.
“Beautiful,” he graveled with appreciation. “Absolutely beautiful.”
Slowly and carefully, he finally pulled out.
You let out a small, shaky exhale at the sudden absence of him. He stood between your thighs for a moment, his eyes lingering on the sight of you absolutely ruined on his desk before he turned to compose himself, zipping his trousers back up that seemed to signal the return of the King.
You mentally prepared yourself for a curt dismissal, expecting him to revert to the cold, distant man you had encountered in the garden.
But instead, he reached for your discarded dress, lifting the fine fabric from the floor gently.
He stepped close, sliding his large hands under your arms to help you sit up on the edge of the desk. The scene felt like a distorted, intimate mirror of the dressing room at the shop yesterday; only now, there was no Martha, no sooted clothes, and no rush.
Bucky dressed you slowly, as if he were handling a piece of priceless porcelain. He guided your arms through the puffy sleeves, his fingers grazing your skin with feather light touches that made you shiver for entirely different reasons.
When he turned you around to begin the long row of tiny buttons down your back, he leaned in, his lips ghosting over your shoulder before pressing a series of soft, delicate kisses against your skin.
“My God,” he said quietly, turning you around slowly as his hands rested firmly on your waist. “Stunning.”
His eyes bored into yours deeply, soft and vulnerable. “I want you here. I want you in this palace, by my side. I think... I think I’ve fallen for you, my love.”
Your eyes softened, your breath hitching in your chest.
A King falling for you was the very thing a little girl’s dreams were made of. After the way he had just made love to you—marking you with vows and promises to keep you safe—there was nothing you wanted more than to say yes.
But just as your lips parted to speak, a sharp, rhythmic knock echoed through the heavy oak doors.
“Your Majesty?” a muffled voice called from the hallway. “The delegates are requesting your presence. The midnight toast is approaching.”
You gasped, your heart leaping into your throat as you instinctively tried to pull away, looking for a place to hide. But Bucky didn’t flinch. He kept his grip on your waist, his expression remarkably calm.
“Relax,” he soothed, sensing your panic. “They know better than to enter without my word. They are my people. They are loyal to me, not the gossip of the court.”
He leaned down, pressing a warm kiss to the top of your head. “Stay here. Compose yourself. I’ll be right back to come get you, I promise.”
With one last possessive squeeze of your hand, he straightened his jacket, his face masking back to royal indifference, and retreated into the hallway.
You sat on the edge of the desk, the silence of the study feeling unnervingly tense now that his warmth was gone. You waited and waited, replaying the way he had looked at you—not as a maid, but as his future.
As the seconds ticked by, the grandeur of the room began to feel like a cage. When the ornate grandfather clock in the corner began its slow, sonorous chime for midnight, you were suddenly hit with restless anxiety.
You couldn’t just sit here and wait any longer.
Trembling, you picked up your mask from the desk and slid it back over your face, the silk cold against your flushed, warm skin. You stepped out of the study, your footsteps ghosting over the marble floors as you followed the distant, echoing sound of orchestral music and hundreds voices.
You peeked your head past the curtains to look at the ballroom, where Bucky had disappeared to, and it was like the King was a sun at the center of a glittering solar system.
Bucky was surrounded—generals in stiff uniforms, foreign princesses in diamonds that were nearly blinding, and advisors whispering in his ear. He looked untouchable. He looked like a man who commanded armies and decided the fates of nations.
You looked down at your hands—hands that spent every day red and raw from lye and scrubbing—and then back at the women dancing below in silks that cost a year of your life.
It wasn’t just a distance of wealth.
It was an impossibility of worlds.
He belonged to history.
You belonged in a basement.
As you stood there, watching him at a distance, a soft cough sounded just behind your shoulder. You jumped, spinning around to find one of the high ranking attendants—the one who had knocked on the study door earlier—watching you with a face as unreadable as stone.
“Miss,” he said, low and professional. “The toast ceremony is beginning. Would you care to join?”
You hesitated, your gaze flickering one last time to the ballroom floor. You looked for Bucky, but he was almost entirely obscured now, buried under a sea of medals, silk sashes, and the rich laughter of noblewomen.
The attendant followed your gaze, then looked back at you. His expression changed subtly, like hollow kindness in his eyes—the kind of look one gave to a guest who had overstayed their welcome.
“Or,” he added, a little quieter, “shall I fetch you a carriage in discretion? The side gate is clear this time of night.”
Discretion?
You looked over your shoulder at the attendant, your eyes widening as the realization of his offer sank below the depths of your already fragile heart.
He offered you a quiet exit as if he had done this a dozen times before for a dozen other girls who had been found in that study, breathless and glowing with the false hope of a King’s favor.
To him, you weren’t the future Queen Bucky had just promised you would be.
You were a mess to be tidied up before the morning sun hit the marble. You were a secret that needed to be swept away.
You realized then that while Bucky might have meant those words while his pulse was racing against yours, the world outside that study had no room for a maid with red, raw hands and a borrowed dress. You were just another body to fill his bed, another face to distract him from the crushing responsibilities of the crown until the next pretty thing caught his eye.
How could you have been so foolish?
“A carriage,” you whispered, your voice sounding small and fragile in the vast, echoing hallway. “Please. In discretion.”
“Of course, Miss. Follow me.”
Down in the ballroom, Bucky stood at the very center of the dais, raising his glass.
“To my son, Jamie,” he announced, voice forcefully bright with a smile that was sore. “May you find a woman who doesn’t just wear a crown, but one who truly understands the importance of a family.”
He held his glass steady, but his eyes kept flicking to the velvet curtains that hid the hallway to his study.
“May you find someone who knows the grace of a Princess, yet possesses the heart to steady you as a Prince when the world grows too loud. Look for the soul who has the strength to turn a cold, stone castle into a home, and a man into a husband.”
A roar of cheers erupted from the crowd, the guests raising their glasses in unison.
The moment the toast was finished, he didn’t linger for the pleasantries. He turned on his heel, his heart already racing back to the quiet sanctuary of his study where you were—or should’ve—been waiting for him.
He was stopped three times. First, by a General demanding orders for the spring campaign; Bucky dismissed him with a curt, icy nod. Then, by a Duchess who tried to lace her arm through his; he stepped away so sharply it was an insult to the poor woman. Finally, by his own prime minister, whom he practically pushed aside.
“Not now,” Bucky growled, his long strides eating up the hallway.
He had only one thing in mind—and that was to get to you.
Bucky reached the heavy oak doors of his study, his breath hitching in anticipation. He had a vision of you still flushed and waiting, perhaps curled up in his chair trying on his royal cloak.
A soft smile already formed on his lips by the time he pushed open the doors.
“I’m sorry for keeping you waiting, my dear. I’m—”
The word died in his throat and his smile faded.
The room was silent.
The fire in the hearth had burned down to glowing embers, casting long, lonely shadows across the desk where you once laid. Papers were still scattered about, and the scent of you still lingered in the air like a taunt, but the space between the chairs was empty.
Bucky’s heart didn’t just sink. It felt as though it had been physically torn from his chest.
He rushed to the window, searching the dark courtyard, but he saw nothing.
“No,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “No, no, no!”
He spun away from the window, his movements jagged and violent. “Goddamnit!” He roared.
His boot connected with a cluster of ink bottles that already fell on the floor during your lovemaking, shattering and staining the expensive rug in deep, mocking blacks. He didn’t care. He began to pace like a feral caged animal, stomping over the very papers he had been working on earlier, his heavy footfalls ground the royal decrees into the floorboards.
He shoved his hand through his hair, pulling at the strands until his scalp stung.
“How?” he hissed to the empty room, his chest heaving. “How could she just go?”
He thought of the way you had looked at him on that desk just a moment ago—the vulnerability, the way you had clenched around him as if you never wanted to let go.
Did you not believe a word he said?
The thought was like poison. No. You couldn’t have not believe him. He remembered the look of shame that had crossed your face when you tried to turn away from him. He remembered the way you had trembled when he called you his girl.
Did you still think he was that kind of man?
Did you still think that he was that cold-hearted rake you overheard in the garden? That it was all just a game to him?
Bucky’s gaze fell to the floor, his eyes catching a white shape near the leg of the desk. He reached down, his fingers trembling as he retrieved the familiar glove.
He brought it to his face, inhaling deeply. His eyes fluttered shut as your scent—that intoxicating mix of rosewater, soap, and the warmth of your skin— filled his senses.
It was the glove for your right hand. The very glove that hid the burn marks on your palm, the marks he had kissed with such gentleness at the shop just yesterday. The marks that proved you were a woman of hard work and sacrifice, everything he admired and everything he wanted to protect.
By the time he opened his eyes, the vulnerability and sadness had been completely replaced by a cold resolve. His fingers curled tightly around the delicate glove, crushing it against his palm as if he were already reclaiming the skin it once covered.
He was going to find you.
He would tear the city apart stone by stone, he would burn down every basement and scour every shop until he found you. He didn’t care for your hesitation or your social standing.
Bucky had marked you as his on that desk.
And the King was going to do whatever it took to bring his property home.
Bucky pushed out of the study, his heavy royal cloak back on and billowing behind him. He didn’t get far before he spotted the same attendant from earlier. The man stopped, bowing low, but Bucky didn’t offer him the grace of a greeting. He stepped directly into the man’s personal space, his towering frame looming over him.
He held the glove up between them, snarling.
“Find her,” Bucky seethed. "I don’t care who you have to threaten or what doors you have to break down. Find what is mine and bring her back to me. Now."
19.6K WORDS I AM SO SORRY SHE'S SO LONG but if you've gotten this far, thank you so much for taking the time to read my work and i hope you enjoyed it 😭♥️
again, i've made a playlist for this fic that i listened to nonstop while writing. if you'd like to listen, here's the link!
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synopsis: sculpted from clay and given life by the gods, you were created alongside your sister, diana of themyscira, your twin in form, and fate. gifted the divine fruits of invulnerability and truth-compelling abilities. you once walked amongst a world filled with gods and goddesses. but after your sister is to depart from the island you once called home, you beg her to to let you come with her to help her in aiding the mortal world of man. destiny would lead you to being a hero, then to where you would eventually find love in your husband, bruce wayne. how will the chronicles of your life follow in you balancing being the wife to a billionaire, the mother to his children and an amazon all in one?
tw: suggestive themes, sexual themes(no nsfw), spice, harassment and stalking, intense situations/anxiety, threats of violence, physical cofrontation, mentions of slight injuries, bruising, mention of poison, child endgarment,
notes: hello! ahh first chronicle of goddess is here, i am so happy that it is! i apologize for the long wait laptop issues were happening and so was writer's block! if you were not mentioned in the taglist, comment below or follow to keep up! if you like the story make sure to like, repost and comment!<3
GODDESS, mrs.wayne, the amazon | NAVIGATION
"do you hear the well, my little heartbeat?..." hippolyta asked, her voice like the humming of a hive. she ran a hand over your hair, her eyes tracking diana as she chased a wave. "the gods were greedy with the souls of the world... but for me, they were kind. they reached into the very bottom of the well of souls— the place where the last breath of the innocent waits— and they gave me two...."
she picked up a handful of wet sand, letting it crumble through her fingers. "you and your sister are twins of form and fate. she is the spirit of the champion, meant to lead. you... you are the spirit of the anchor. given the blessings not just to survive, but to stand as a shield for those who can not bear the weight of the world..."
she leaned in, whispering into your ear, her breath tickling, a secret meant only for the daughter who shared the last essence of the well. "i never want you to forget that you were born beautiful, little one. do not be convinced you are not... even when the world of man tries to convince you otherwise..."
you spent your life in what was paradise. an isolated utopia that could be described as your very own eden. what could only look to be the gates to a heaven to outsiders.
imagining life outside of themyscira wasn't something that you had ever dared to cross your thoughts. you were a princess, hidden from the world of man, your life was serene, it was the most regal, and you had everything that one could dream for. a home, a destiny, and a duty to follow the word of the gods. but most of all, you had your mother and, more importantly, your sister.
diana.
they say twins are two halves of a whole, duality and balance. they couldn't be more wrong.
diana was always your complete half. a connection of life. the other half of your soul.
so the day she was going to leave themyscira, driven by the desire to protect the world of man and fight against the evils that were set free in this world. distraught wasn't even the complete feeling that spun through your veins in a frenzy, once the reality of the words that escaped her lips hit you like a solid gut punch. you were a strong blooded amazon. you faced greater obstacles, taken deeper kicks to the side, and had suffered more bruises and cuts that one could count when training.
but nothing could have held you back in that moment when tears gathered in the corners of your eyes, almost like they were turning to glass. not even diana would've thought you would fully run towards her just embracing her in a hug, begging her to not go, as your chin quivered, so small, so involuntary.
they say twins are two halves of a whole, and in that moment half of you felt like it was being torn away.
"why?– you don't have to go.... diana, please don't go..." the pleads fell from your lips as you tightened your arms around diana. you refused to budge, your weren't going anywhere as you both stood at the at the cliffside of the island, the breeze gushing against you both, diana's hair flowing through the wind as the breeze ran its fingers through her hair. she furrowed her brows in a way that felt bitter-sweet. seeing you cry over her announcement of her departure felt like a dagger was being jabbed repeatedly in the gut, breaking through her armor.
"it is my duty now... my destiny bestowed upon me by the gods y/n–... to protect the weak who have been kicked down onto their knees to cower below monsters who tremor before the likes of them." she spoke subtly, running a hand down your back, her fingers grazing along the cotton garments of your robe.
biting down on your lip, you pulled yourself back from her her brace and stared at her eyes still red, puffy, and glassy. the sound of your silent but noticeable hiccups followed before you abruptly slapped your hands onto her shoulders, almost immediately locking eyes with her and glaring at her.
"fine... i'm coming with you."
your teeth gritted as you said it, in your mind, thoughts began to rush. this time, you had truly spoken without even giving yourself a chance to think about the actions that you were willing to take just for your sister to not leave. gods! you didn't even know if the mortal world was for your calling. your heart began beating uncertainly as you truly started to take into account of what you had just said.
diana looked at you as if you were insane. she grabbed your hands and removed them from her shoulders, and began to slowly shake her head, you couldn't tell if it was disapproval or disappointment, maybe both. "sister, do not be obscene! you know mother would not refuse to letting the both of us go– do not make such brash decisions out of the complications of your emotions!–" she scolded you, a look of worry had washed over her face. she refused, she couldn't live with herself in knowing you could be harmed.
"but i want to diana... i too am allowed to make my own decisions!– please, think of this.... the two of us are better than one!" you hastily shouted as diana began to walk away and you followed after her in an urgency. she wouldn't hear you out, she wasn't doing it, she refused.
then you stopped and yelled, "DIANA PLEASE!... please i–.... i want to fight by your side–" your voice broke as tears still slipped down your cheeks, blurring your vision in the process.
she stopped once she heard you yelling, turning around slowly to meet your saddened gaze, listening to the cracking of your voice. "–not only as your sister... but as a warrior. an amazon.... diana i beg you, to let me join you in protecting the weak."
you didn't even know if you would truly be viewed as protector to the world among men. what did the world beyond themyscira even offer to you to truly protect? what if you were really just thinking too boldly in wanting to follow your sister's desire to protect the human world?
you would just have to find out, won't you?
diana sighs, you could tell it's deep, the low rumble of her breath escapes into the salty air of island's beach. "...i suppose we are to make a good argument to mother, let's go now."
the relief soared through your body in a way that made you want to drop to your knees.
sculpted from clay and given life by the gods, you were created alongside your sister, to go onward and protect the weak with the fruits bestowed upon you from birth.
as you follow diana down the path of the cliffside, you could only ponder on what outside world had to offer for you.
what did destiny have to offer you now?
"you are so damn beautiful. tell me how did i get so god damn lucky with you hm?"
you let out a series of giggles and laughter. sets of kisses were pressed along your jaw slowly running down your throat. so this is where life had brought you?
it had been so very long since you had left the place you had once called paradise and your home. since you had left to join your sister in a journey to a world beyond your own discoveries that laid outside of themyscira. life was unimaginable for the longest while, you did miss your home. you missed your mother most of all, but you knew hippolyta would want you and diana lead on with stride of the way of the amazons.
world was a culture shock for you. the people. the life was so different from back home.
it made furthered you to want to protect sacred balance of life. but you had never expected such evils to lie in a place where beauty should bloom and flutter from all corners of the earth. you wouldn't let anything keep you from your of being a shield to the people who needed it. you were devoted to being the blessing that people needed for your entire life, you weren't going to slow down, not when you were by diana's side or as she began to be called by the people, wonder woman.
that all changed in a click, though.
"must you no?... it's incredibly early!" you whisper shouted to your husband, as you cupped his head. gently caressing each of your thumbs along the back of his neck as made his way down your chest, softly peppering kisses all over your skin and collar bone. "i can't love my wife? don't tell me i married you for no purpose, sweetheart?" he raised a brow, hands slowly creeping under the night shirt that you had worn to bed that night. tracing circles on your skin, that went closer and closer up to your bra.
"bruce! it's 5 in the morning!" you shout silently at him and slap his back, laughter continues to escape your lips.
never in your wildest dreams, had you expected to get married. you didn't imagine yourself falling in love, it seemed like only the type of things hippolyta would read from old stories to you and diana when your were just children. but, you are to never doubt destiny, right?
it was sort of shocking the way you and bruce ended up together. after years of fighting with diana as a duo together, you both had gone your separate ways. you both figured that you'd do good work if you were able to travel to other places around the world and help more people. the decision was mostly made on your part, though it meant actually being away from your sister this time, and no convincing one another to come.
but those years lead you to discover powers in yourself that you had never known. you were goddess walking among men.
in that time you knew she joined, she wrote to you saying they were named the justice league. that's how you would find out about a hero named batman. that's how you'd meet bruce.
"you just got back from patrol, darling... i believe it's time for you to rest." you spoke in a hushed tone, giggling once more as you felt him hoist your legs up around his waist and your earnestly secured your place, wrapping your legs around him. his hands traced the curve of your waist, his touch slow and reverent. the soft glow of the bedside lamp, you watched him look at you as if your were the only thing that existed, your own breath catching in your throat as your lips were caught in a sudden kiss.
you were his everything, the day that you both were on the same page, he knew you were his. bruce had been used to his fair share of women in his youth, he didn't get the title of "billionaire playboy" for nothing. his charm with women had been a facade for some time to mask his true nature, its what made him in sense. but when it came to you, it became all true.
you were his wife, he would do anything for you.
as your bodies molded against eachother in a desperate need for closeness, you both were flushed together. bruce's fingers began to slip their way downward of your hips, running along the lining of your underwear. he continued to kiss you with an intensity of longing, like he couldn't wait to return to you after his patrol of gotham. he was still in the bottom half of his armor, that's how much he couldn't wait.
the breaths you let out were shaky, your giggles were still stifled by his lips. there were moments were you gasped against his lips, as moans escaped yours, pulling his face closer to yours. "bruce lock the door–"
the sound of door to your bedroom, suddenly being opened immediately made your eyes jump open from a state of pure relaxed, lust to immediate horror as if you had scene pure ware. the light in the hallway entered the room, and like it was a stage light, it shun on both you and your husband. from the entrance you could see a tall figure towering there.
"ma, dick wants to know if you could hold his hand while he's gettin' stitched– OH FUCK! JESUS, WHAT THE FUCK?" it was jason, one of your sons, of it was him. only that boy could swear like he was the captain of a ship.
the red helmet he once held to his side, drops to the carpeted ground in an immediate thud as he groans loudly in utter disgust(and betrayal) using his hands to shield his eyes from what he had to bare witness.
the embarrassment clouds over you and throw a pillow straight at jason's head, your aim meticulous. "CLOSE THE DOOR!" you yell at him, shoo-ing him out because he's clearly drawing attention. if your face could change its color entirely, you'd most likely be the shade of a tomato.
"oh my god... oh my goddd– this changes everything for me, bruce you seriously couldn't keep it in your pants we just got back!" okay, now he's just being dramatic. i mean, who could blame him? if someone were to walk in on their parents having sex, they would probably want to rip their eye balls out of their eye sockets too.
"GET OUT AND CLOSE THE DOOR!–" Bruce shouts and jason stares at him and his face scrunches in disgust, "YOU'RE STILL ON TOP OF HER!"
"jason, you're yelling really loud, where's mom?– AH! AH! AH!–" tim, another one of your sons, appears from behind his brother who's standing there, body completely stunned from the shock of what he's looked at. unfortunately, like jason, tim yells, voice at the highest bass and pitch. the color from the boy's face completely drains at the sight of bruce half naked on you. your poor babies.
"BOTH OF YOU GET OUT, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD!" bruce yells once more, getting off of you and off the king-sized bed. you cover your face turning away to face the large curtains. you were blessed truly, you had a husband, and with him came children who you vowed to protect like your own.
but moments like this, made you question your sanity.
both tim and jason are dragged out of the room by bruce, you could hear him sternly scolding jason especially on a key concept of knocking.
breakfast was going to be god awkward in a few hours time.
your life with your husband had its moments. through everything you only loved bruce. however, you learned of the risks that it would have being of someone with his status. the entire world practically knew the last name "wayne". if you didn't, you must've been on mars definitely.
when the press found out you both were dating, it was practically hell on earth. you both had to meet in the most secret and secluded spots. at times he invested in his private islands. you both would even be dressed head to toe in the most ridiculous disguises. you fondly remember laughing at the time he showed up to one of your spots in a realistic mask that made him unrecognizable.
but when you both got engaged, the public erupted.
paparazzi would swarm bruce's private cars as you both left galas together. they were like a ravenous wolf pack, hungering to photograph "billionaire, bruce wayne and his mysterious fiancée?" seeing who would be the first one to push out the story of spotting you both to the public.
they were relentless, never ever stopping for a second. you remembered finally making it into the car with bruce the night of a charity ball, and the anxiety that crawled up your skin when the night turned into a blinding, stuttering slideshow of flashes nearly made you crack. a swarm of paparazzi had cornered your car, their shutters clicked in a deafening, metallic chorus. you both barely made it out of there.
not a single lesson from the amazons could've prepared you for moments like those. you had a strong will, you were a "tough cookie" according to your oldest, dick. but you sometimes could never handle the fame that came to being bruce wayne's wife. being mrs.wayne was sometimes enough to make or break you... but you would persevere. atleast you tried?
"i do not understand why we must partake in such childish errands, y/n." damien said to you as he held the ice-cream cone in his hand, staring down at the dessert as if it was alien to him. the nine year old tilted his hand, a thick, sugary ribbon of vanilla, already losing its shape, snaked down the side of the cone and onto his knuckles. his teeth grits in annoyance before he sucks his teeth, "it's getting everywhere..."
you grab a napkin, sighing as you hold onto his wrist to wipe of the remnants of the melted ice-cream on his hands before they could get to the cuffs of his school uniform. "damien, you are a child... use your mouth and eat it. i can assure you that it is not poisonous, see– it tastes good– mmm" you murmur wirh a sweet smile on your face, licking your lips from the taste of chocolate from your own cone. damien rolls his eyes licks around the sides of the waffle cone, he stops for a short second as the flavors hit the receptors of his taste bud. maybe he doubted this too quickly.
"well, i doubt regular poisons would affect you considering you aren't a human... but i suppose this does taste satisfactory to me." he says silently as he continues to eat his ice-cream before sitting down on the park's bench. you chuckle at his response before taking a seat next to him.
damien was, an "interesting" child to say the least.
being his stepmother felt so odd. in themyscira, "motherhood" was a communal heartbeat, it was a shared raising of sisters by sisters. but here, in the silence of the manor some of your children weren't there, the title felt like a suit of armor that didn't quite fit. damien did not require nurturing, he was a child that was forced to grow up much faster than he was intended to do. he was a creature of edge and instinct, a fledgling hawk who had been taught to hunt before he was taught to speak. for you to even offer him a soft hand would be to invite a blade. instead, you learned to offer him your respect.
even as damian begrudgingly admitted the ice cream was "satisfactory" the peace of the park felt fragile, like glass ready to shatter under the weight of the wayne name.
the first flash was a familiar sting, a sharp, artificial spark that didn't belong in the natural dappled light of the trees. then came the second. And the third.
"mrs.wayne! is this the new heir?" a voice barked, thick with a nuisance greed that made your blood slowly begin to boil. "ay kid, look this way! 'gimme a smile for the front page!" just like that two men emerged from the bushes like scavengers circling a wounded animal. they couldn't give two fucks or more if damien was only a child. they only saw dollar signs.
damien's posture stiffened instantly. the vanilla cone remained in left his hand, but his right dropped to his side, fingers curling into the precise shape of a strike. the shade of green color of his eyes, usually full of youthful arrogance, turned cold and lethal. he wasn't a boy in a park anymore, he was a weapon unsheathing. an al ghul.
your jaw tightened, your grabbed his hand pulling him up, fixing the biege trench coat you wore. "let's go, just ignore them and don't respond..." you whisper down to damien, holding him close to you, your heels clicking against the concrete of the pavement as you walked with sheer determination to get away from those men.
but they didn't stop, they never do.
the taller paparazzi laughed from behind, continuing to run after you both, his camera shutter clicking in a deafening, metallic chorus. "come on, mrs. wayne, give us a quote! is it true the boy was raised in—"
he wouldn't finish. he ran infront of you both, lunging forward, trying to get a close-up of damian’s face, effectively cornering the boy against the park bench and breaking his hold away from your hand. you stumbled backward, nearly falling onto the ground with the sudden push. you were thankful that you caught onto the fountain next to you, and that's what finally did it for you.
fuck preserving.
in a quick motion, you stood up throwing your purse to the side. you tried not hurt people who were weaker than you, it went against your moral code. but today, this man was finally testing it against you. when you left themyscira all those years ago, you made an oathe to protect others from threats that could harm them and it was safe to say... this could be defined as a threat.
in a blur of motion, you were between that paparazzi and damien. hand shooting out catching the photographer by the thick knot of his collar and with a single, effortless jerk, you hoisted him off the pavement. his boots dangled, four inches above the grass. his camera swung wildly on its strap, hitting his chest with a dull thud. his partner froze, the color draining from his face, immediately he realizing he was looking at something far more dangerous than a "socialite."
you lean close to his face, voice calm, but your eyes spoke otherwise. they were clearly running with a aggressive force of anger.
"you have mistaken my patience for weakness..." you said to him, grip tightening just enough to make the fabric groan. "this is not a public forum. this is my child. if you do not cease this harassment and vanish from this park immediately, rest assure that i ensure you will regret ever drawing breath near his vicinity... do we understand?"
you didn't need to shout, you were pretty sure he got the message clear.
"i said do we understand... am i clear?"
the photographer nodded frantically, his eyes wide with a primal terror. once you dropped him, he stumbled back, nearly tripping over his own feet. without a word, both men scrambled toward the parking lot, their "wolf pack" mentality utterly broken by the sheer presence of a lioness. as they retreated, you could hear one of them yell, "chick's fuckin' crazy!" you didn't need to care, all that mattered was that damien was safe.
you took a slow breath, smoothing you dress from the underneath of your coat, and turned back to damian. he was watching you, his hand no longer a fist. for the first time, you saw a flicker of something that wasn't defiance in his eyes, it was recognition. a softeness.
"your form was... acceptable." damian muttered, flicking a stray drop of melted vanilla off his knuckle, staring at the ice-cream cone that he dropped in the process of what had happened. "though a strike to the larynx would have been more efficient."
you laughed and took up a napkin wiping his knuckles. "i still achieved victory in knowing your safety wasn't breached..." you said and smiling before taking his hand once more. your heart warmed when you felt him hold back onto you, it gave your pride knowing he too could be nutured. he was still a child.
but gods.... the press get everything.
"HAAHAHA!!– LOOK AT HIS FACE BRUCE LOOK AT HIS FACE!!" dick laughs as he holds his phone up to your husband's face, but could barely contain his laughter and he falls onto the couch, then rolls onto the ground. he heaves, holding his stomach in pure glee at what he looked at on his phone. bruce could only sigh at his son's antics, but directs his atttention towards the vidoe on dick's phone, before his slightly widens at the sights.
turns out at the park, when you those photographers were harassing you and damien, a passerby happened to record the entire altercation... including the part where you lifted the man off the ground by his shirt collar. now it's blowing up everywhere.
you sighed, though a flush of heat was creeping up your neck. the video on the screen looped for the tenth time, your arm extended with effortless grace, the paparazzi’s feet dangling uselessly like a broken marionette’s. "t-the way his camera just... clattered against his chest!" dick wheezed, rolling onto his back on the rug, clutching his stomach. "b-bruce, look! you can see the exact moment he realizes he’s not dealing with a gotham socialite."
"dick please, you're going to hyperventilate..." you say as you rub the bridge of your nose. bruce didn't laugh. he remained standing, his eyes fixed on the footage with that analytical squint he usually reserved for crime scenes. his silence felt heavy, making the "suit of armor" feeling return to your chest. your throat felt dry, this time you felt as if you had snapped your moral obligation in half, almost as if you had messed up this time for the worse.
"bruce i–... the situation was escalating," you began, your voice firm but carrying a hint of apology. "he was cornering damian, the boy was merely seconds away from taking the man's eyes out with his fingers–" you stammered out, hands still shaking slightly as you attempted to explain yourself.
"i would've had the situation under control, father... but I suppose her form of neutralization was "simpler"..." damian snapped from the armchair, his arms crossed tightly over his turtleneck. he looked more annoyed by dick's volume than the viral video, though he pointedly refused to look at the screen. tim, sitting on the edge of the sofa with his laptop, let out a dry, tired huff. "damian, you would have been on interpol’s radar by sunset. at least this way, the headlines just say 'billionaire's wife is secretly a worldclass powerlifter.'"
"yeah, maybe you should say thank you, you little shit–" jason grunted rolling his eyes grunted from the corner, leaning against the bookshelf. he kicked at dick’s foot. "can you shut the hell up up for five minutes? some of us have a headache." jason spat out, a vein of irritation growing on the side of his head.
dick didn't shut up, he just let out a fresh peal of laughter.
you turned back to your husband. "i am sorry if this complicates things for the company, bruce. i know we try to keep a low profile, but seeing them swarm him like wolves... no lesson from themyscira teaches you to just stand by while your own are hunted..."
bruce's expression softens at your genuine apology. he steps toward you, his expression warm in a way the public never got to see. he ignored the cackling from the floor and the bickering of his sons, he just reaches out, his hand resting steady and warm on your cheek. "sweetheart, you don't need to defend yourself to me." bruce said, his voice a low, grounding rumble. "you protected damien. you de-escalated a league-trained assassin and a persistent harasser without a single injury. as far as i'm concerned, that’s a win."
he glanced down at dick, who was now showing the video to alfred. "besides–" bruce added with the ghost of a smirk, "–it’s nice to see someone else in this family taking the heat for once. it’s almost satisfactory, wouldn't you say, damian?" damian's eyes narrowed, but he didn't argue, he only scowled.
"you're doing such a good job..." bruce murmured bringing you into a hug wrapping an arm around your waist. you nuzzle your cheek into his sweater and sigh, gripping onto his side. "mrs. wayne" the title feel less like ill-fitting armor and more like a badge of honor. "you're a hero in ways the world doesn't see. keeping this family together, keeping him safe from himself, is a feat greater than anything before..."
he leaned in, his forehead resting against yours for a brief, raising your chin up so you can meet his eyes. you were breathless just for a second before he pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your lips. it was a grounding kiss, one that tasted of home and shared secrets, momentarily silencing the noise of the world outside and the laughter still bubbling from the floor.
"oh fuck– not this again..." jason breaks the moment with a face that looks like he's scene hell itself. his nose wrinkles as his lips curl into a sneer. tim on the other hand, looks up from his laptop and immediately freezes still before he closes his laptop, takes it out and walks out of the room. the memories of that morning had clearly rushed back to his mind and polluted it immediately.
"tt. utterly unrefined," damian muttered, though he didn't look away quite as fast as he usually did.
bruce pulled back just an inch, a rare, genuine smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he kept his arm draped protectively around your waist. dick laid on the ground scrolling through his phone, just shaking his head. that's mostly because he's seen worse.
you were an amazon, a warrior, a wife, and more importantly a mother. all those roles aligned in a way that you never thought destiny could bring to you. when you really thought the world beyond themyscira had nothing at all to offer you. a new paradise had opened it gates to you, and you couldn't ask for more.
"mom, you practically have everyone on your side. they're calling you amazing in the comments under this video." dick says in awe to before turning the phone screen to you. you look at one of the hundreds of comments that reads, "mrs.wayne is literally a goddess. did you see that grip strength? she didn't even break a sweat. if were that paparazzi, i'd move to another continent immediately. we stan a queen who protects her kid!"
synopsis: sculpted from clay and given life by the gods, you were created alongside your sister, diana of themyscira, your twin in form, and fate. gifted the divine fruits of invulnerability and truth-compelling abilities. you once walked amongst a world filled with gods and goddesses. but after your sister is to depart from the island you once called home, you beg her to to let you come with her to help her in aiding the mortal world of man. destiny would lead you to being a hero, then to where you would eventually find love in your husband, bruce wayne. how will the chronicles of your life follow in you balancing being the wife to a billionaire, the mother to his children and an amazon all in one?
tw: suggestive themes, sexual themes(no nsfw), spice, harassment and stalking, intense situations/anxiety, threats of violence, physical cofrontation, mentions of slight injuries, bruising, mention of poison, child endgarment,
notes: hello! ahh first chronicle of goddess is here, i am so happy that it is! i apologize for the long wait laptop issues were happening and so was writer's block! if you were not mentioned in the taglist, comment below or follow to keep up! if you like the story make sure to like, repost and comment!<3
GODDESS, mrs.wayne, the amazon | NAVIGATION
"do you hear the well, my little heartbeat?..." hippolyta asked, her voice like the humming of a hive. she ran a hand over your hair, her eyes tracking diana as she chased a wave. "the gods were greedy with the souls of the world... but for me, they were kind. they reached into the very bottom of the well of souls— the place where the last breath of the innocent waits— and they gave me two...."
she picked up a handful of wet sand, letting it crumble through her fingers. "you and your sister are twins of form and fate. she is the spirit of the champion, meant to lead. you... you are the spirit of the anchor. given the blessings not just to survive, but to stand as a shield for those who can not bear the weight of the world..."
she leaned in, whispering into your ear, her breath tickling, a secret meant only for the daughter who shared the last essence of the well. "i never want you to forget that you were born beautiful, little one. do not be convinced you are not... even when the world of man tries to convince you otherwise..."
you spent your life in what was paradise. an isolated utopia that could be described as your very own eden. what could only look to be the gates to a heaven to outsiders.
imagining life outside of themyscira wasn't something that you had ever dared to cross your thoughts. you were a princess, hidden from the world of man, your life was serene, it was the most regal, and you had everything that one could dream for. a home, a destiny, and a duty to follow the word of the gods. but most of all, you had your mother and, more importantly, your sister.
diana.
they say twins are two halves of a whole, duality and balance. they couldn't be more wrong.
diana was always your complete half. a connection of life. the other half of your soul.
so the day she was going to leave themyscira, driven by the desire to protect the world of man and fight against the evils that were set free in this world. distraught wasn't even the complete feeling that spun through your veins in a frenzy, once the reality of the words that escaped her lips hit you like a solid gut punch. you were a strong blooded amazon. you faced greater obstacles, taken deeper kicks to the side, and had suffered more bruises and cuts that one could count when training.
but nothing could have held you back in that moment when tears gathered in the corners of your eyes, almost like they were turning to glass. not even diana would've thought you would fully run towards her just embracing her in a hug, begging her to not go, as your chin quivered, so small, so involuntary.
they say twins are two halves of a whole, and in that moment half of you felt like it was being torn away.
"why?– you don't have to go.... diana, please don't go..." the pleads fell from your lips as you tightened your arms around diana. you refused to budge, your weren't going anywhere as you both stood at the at the cliffside of the island, the breeze gushing against you both, diana's hair flowing through the wind as the breeze ran its fingers through her hair. she furrowed her brows in a way that felt bitter-sweet. seeing you cry over her announcement of her departure felt like a dagger was being jabbed repeatedly in the gut, breaking through her armor.
"it is my duty now... my destiny bestowed upon me by the gods y/n–... to protect the weak who have been kicked down onto their knees to cower below monsters who tremor before the likes of them." she spoke subtly, running a hand down your back, her fingers grazing along the cotton garments of your robe.
biting down on your lip, you pulled yourself back from her her brace and stared at her eyes still red, puffy, and glassy. the sound of your silent but noticeable hiccups followed before you abruptly slapped your hands onto her shoulders, almost immediately locking eyes with her and glaring at her.
"fine... i'm coming with you."
your teeth gritted as you said it, in your mind, thoughts began to rush. this time, you had truly spoken without even giving yourself a chance to think about the actions that you were willing to take just for your sister to not leave. gods! you didn't even know if the mortal world was for your calling. your heart began beating uncertainly as you truly started to take into account of what you had just said.
diana looked at you as if you were insane. she grabbed your hands and removed them from her shoulders, and began to slowly shake her head, you couldn't tell if it was disapproval or disappointment, maybe both. "sister, do not be obscene! you know mother would not refuse to letting the both of us go– do not make such brash decisions out of the complications of your emotions!–" she scolded you, a look of worry had washed over her face. she refused, she couldn't live with herself in knowing you could be harmed.
"but i want to diana... i too am allowed to make my own decisions!– please, think of this.... the two of us are better than one!" you hastily shouted as diana began to walk away and you followed after her in an urgency. she wouldn't hear you out, she wasn't doing it, she refused.
then you stopped and yelled, "DIANA PLEASE!... please i–.... i want to fight by your side–" your voice broke as tears still slipped down your cheeks, blurring your vision in the process.
she stopped once she heard you yelling, turning around slowly to meet your saddened gaze, listening to the cracking of your voice. "–not only as your sister... but as a warrior. an amazon.... diana i beg you, to let me join you in protecting the weak."
you didn't even know if you would truly be viewed as protector to the world among men. what did the world beyond themyscira even offer to you to truly protect? what if you were really just thinking too boldly in wanting to follow your sister's desire to protect the human world?
you would just have to find out, won't you?
diana sighs, you could tell it's deep, the low rumble of her breath escapes into the salty air of island's beach. "...i suppose we are to make a good argument to mother, let's go now."
the relief soared through your body in a way that made you want to drop to your knees.
sculpted from clay and given life by the gods, you were created alongside your sister, to go onward and protect the weak with the fruits bestowed upon you from birth.
as you follow diana down the path of the cliffside, you could only ponder on what outside world had to offer for you.
what did destiny have to offer you now?
"you are so damn beautiful. tell me how did i get so god damn lucky with you hm?"
you let out a series of giggles and laughter. sets of kisses were pressed along your jaw slowly running down your throat. so this is where life had brought you?
it had been so very long since you had left the place you had once called paradise and your home. since you had left to join your sister in a journey to a world beyond your own discoveries that laid outside of themyscira. life was unimaginable for the longest while, you did miss your home. you missed your mother most of all, but you knew hippolyta would want you and diana lead on with stride of the way of the amazons.
world was a culture shock for you. the people. the life was so different from back home.
it made furthered you to want to protect sacred balance of life. but you had never expected such evils to lie in a place where beauty should bloom and flutter from all corners of the earth. you wouldn't let anything keep you from your of being a shield to the people who needed it. you were devoted to being the blessing that people needed for your entire life, you weren't going to slow down, not when you were by diana's side or as she began to be called by the people, wonder woman.
that all changed in a click, though.
"must you no?... it's incredibly early!" you whisper shouted to your husband, as you cupped his head. gently caressing each of your thumbs along the back of his neck as made his way down your chest, softly peppering kisses all over your skin and collar bone. "i can't love my wife? don't tell me i married you for no purpose, sweetheart?" he raised a brow, hands slowly creeping under the night shirt that you had worn to bed that night. tracing circles on your skin, that went closer and closer up to your bra.
"bruce! it's 5 in the morning!" you shout silently at him and slap his back, laughter continues to escape your lips.
never in your wildest dreams, had you expected to get married. you didn't imagine yourself falling in love, it seemed like only the type of things hippolyta would read from old stories to you and diana when your were just children. but, you are to never doubt destiny, right?
it was sort of shocking the way you and bruce ended up together. after years of fighting with diana as a duo together, you both had gone your separate ways. you both figured that you'd do good work if you were able to travel to other places around the world and help more people. the decision was mostly made on your part, though it meant actually being away from your sister this time, and no convincing one another to come.
but those years lead you to discover powers in yourself that you had never known. you were goddess walking among men.
in that time you knew she joined, she wrote to you saying they were named the justice league. that's how you would find out about a hero named batman. that's how you'd meet bruce.
"you just got back from patrol, darling... i believe it's time for you to rest." you spoke in a hushed tone, giggling once more as you felt him hoist your legs up around his waist and your earnestly secured your place, wrapping your legs around him. his hands traced the curve of your waist, his touch slow and reverent. the soft glow of the bedside lamp, you watched him look at you as if your were the only thing that existed, your own breath catching in your throat as your lips were caught in a sudden kiss.
you were his everything, the day that you both were on the same page, he knew you were his. bruce had been used to his fair share of women in his youth, he didn't get the title of "billionaire playboy" for nothing. his charm with women had been a facade for some time to mask his true nature, its what made him in sense. but when it came to you, it became all true.
you were his wife, he would do anything for you.
as your bodies molded against eachother in a desperate need for closeness, you both were flushed together. bruce's fingers began to slip their way downward of your hips, running along the lining of your underwear. he continued to kiss you with an intensity of longing, like he couldn't wait to return to you after his patrol of gotham. he was still in the bottom half of his armor, that's how much he couldn't wait.
the breaths you let out were shaky, your giggles were still stifled by his lips. there were moments were you gasped against his lips, as moans escaped yours, pulling his face closer to yours. "bruce lock the door–"
the sound of door to your bedroom, suddenly being opened immediately made your eyes jump open from a state of pure relaxed, lust to immediate horror as if you had scene pure ware. the light in the hallway entered the room, and like it was a stage light, it shun on both you and your husband. from the entrance you could see a tall figure towering there.
"ma, dick wants to know if you could hold his hand while he's gettin' stitched– OH FUCK! JESUS, WHAT THE FUCK?" it was jason, one of your sons, of it was him. only that boy could swear like he was the captain of a ship.
the red helmet he once held to his side, drops to the carpeted ground in an immediate thud as he groans loudly in utter disgust(and betrayal) using his hands to shield his eyes from what he had to bare witness.
the embarrassment clouds over you and throw a pillow straight at jason's head, your aim meticulous. "CLOSE THE DOOR!" you yell at him, shoo-ing him out because he's clearly drawing attention. if your face could change its color entirely, you'd most likely be the shade of a tomato.
"oh my god... oh my goddd– this changes everything for me, bruce you seriously couldn't keep it in your pants we just got back!" okay, now he's just being dramatic. i mean, who could blame him? if someone were to walk in on their parents having sex, they would probably want to rip their eye balls out of their eye sockets too.
"GET OUT AND CLOSE THE DOOR!–" Bruce shouts and jason stares at him and his face scrunches in disgust, "YOU'RE STILL ON TOP OF HER!"
"jason, you're yelling really loud, where's mom?– AH! AH! AH!–" tim, another one of your sons, appears from behind his brother who's standing there, body completely stunned from the shock of what he's looked at. unfortunately, like jason, tim yells, voice at the highest bass and pitch. the color from the boy's face completely drains at the sight of bruce half naked on you. your poor babies.
"BOTH OF YOU GET OUT, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD!" bruce yells once more, getting off of you and off the king-sized bed. you cover your face turning away to face the large curtains. you were blessed truly, you had a husband, and with him came children who you vowed to protect like your own.
but moments like this, made you question your sanity.
both tim and jason are dragged out of the room by bruce, you could hear him sternly scolding jason especially on a key concept of knocking.
breakfast was going to be god awkward in a few hours time.
your life with your husband had its moments. through everything you only loved bruce. however, you learned of the risks that it would have being of someone with his status. the entire world practically knew the last name "wayne". if you didn't, you must've been on mars definitely.
when the press found out you both were dating, it was practically hell on earth. you both had to meet in the most secret and secluded spots. at times he invested in his private islands. you both would even be dressed head to toe in the most ridiculous disguises. you fondly remember laughing at the time he showed up to one of your spots in a realistic mask that made him unrecognizable.
but when you both got engaged, the public erupted.
paparazzi would swarm bruce's private cars as you both left galas together. they were like a ravenous wolf pack, hungering to photograph "billionaire, bruce wayne and his mysterious fiancée?" seeing who would be the first one to push out the story of spotting you both to the public.
they were relentless, never ever stopping for a second. you remembered finally making it into the car with bruce the night of a charity ball, and the anxiety that crawled up your skin when the night turned into a blinding, stuttering slideshow of flashes nearly made you crack. a swarm of paparazzi had cornered your car, their shutters clicked in a deafening, metallic chorus. you both barely made it out of there.
not a single lesson from the amazons could've prepared you for moments like those. you had a strong will, you were a "tough cookie" according to your oldest, dick. but you sometimes could never handle the fame that came to being bruce wayne's wife. being mrs.wayne was sometimes enough to make or break you... but you would persevere. atleast you tried?
"i do not understand why we must partake in such childish errands, y/n." damien said to you as he held the ice-cream cone in his hand, staring down at the dessert as if it was alien to him. the nine year old tilted his hand, a thick, sugary ribbon of vanilla, already losing its shape, snaked down the side of the cone and onto his knuckles. his teeth grits in annoyance before he sucks his teeth, "it's getting everywhere..."
you grab a napkin, sighing as you hold onto his wrist to wipe of the remnants of the melted ice-cream on his hands before they could get to the cuffs of his school uniform. "damien, you are a child... use your mouth and eat it. i can assure you that it is not poisonous, see– it tastes good– mmm" you murmur wirh a sweet smile on your face, licking your lips from the taste of chocolate from your own cone. damien rolls his eyes licks around the sides of the waffle cone, he stops for a short second as the flavors hit the receptors of his taste bud. maybe he doubted this too quickly.
"well, i doubt regular poisons would affect you considering you aren't a human... but i suppose this does taste satisfactory to me." he says silently as he continues to eat his ice-cream before sitting down on the park's bench. you chuckle at his response before taking a seat next to him.
damien was, an "interesting" child to say the least.
being his stepmother felt so odd. in themyscira, "motherhood" was a communal heartbeat, it was a shared raising of sisters by sisters. but here, in the silence of the manor some of your children weren't there, the title felt like a suit of armor that didn't quite fit. damien did not require nurturing, he was a child that was forced to grow up much faster than he was intended to do. he was a creature of edge and instinct, a fledgling hawk who had been taught to hunt before he was taught to speak. for you to even offer him a soft hand would be to invite a blade. instead, you learned to offer him your respect.
even as damian begrudgingly admitted the ice cream was "satisfactory" the peace of the park felt fragile, like glass ready to shatter under the weight of the wayne name.
the first flash was a familiar sting, a sharp, artificial spark that didn't belong in the natural dappled light of the trees. then came the second. And the third.
"mrs.wayne! is this the new heir?" a voice barked, thick with a nuisance greed that made your blood slowly begin to boil. "ay kid, look this way! 'gimme a smile for the front page!" just like that two men emerged from the bushes like scavengers circling a wounded animal. they couldn't give two fucks or more if damien was only a child. they only saw dollar signs.
damien's posture stiffened instantly. the vanilla cone remained in left his hand, but his right dropped to his side, fingers curling into the precise shape of a strike. the shade of green color of his eyes, usually full of youthful arrogance, turned cold and lethal. he wasn't a boy in a park anymore, he was a weapon unsheathing. an al ghul.
your jaw tightened, your grabbed his hand pulling him up, fixing the biege trench coat you wore. "let's go, just ignore them and don't respond..." you whisper down to damien, holding him close to you, your heels clicking against the concrete of the pavement as you walked with sheer determination to get away from those men.
but they didn't stop, they never do.
the taller paparazzi laughed from behind, continuing to run after you both, his camera shutter clicking in a deafening, metallic chorus. "come on, mrs. wayne, give us a quote! is it true the boy was raised in—"
he wouldn't finish. he ran infront of you both, lunging forward, trying to get a close-up of damian’s face, effectively cornering the boy against the park bench and breaking his hold away from your hand. you stumbled backward, nearly falling onto the ground with the sudden push. you were thankful that you caught onto the fountain next to you, and that's what finally did it for you.
fuck preserving.
in a quick motion, you stood up throwing your purse to the side. you tried not hurt people who were weaker than you, it went against your moral code. but today, this man was finally testing it against you. when you left themyscira all those years ago, you made an oathe to protect others from threats that could harm them and it was safe to say... this could be defined as a threat.
in a blur of motion, you were between that paparazzi and damien. hand shooting out catching the photographer by the thick knot of his collar and with a single, effortless jerk, you hoisted him off the pavement. his boots dangled, four inches above the grass. his camera swung wildly on its strap, hitting his chest with a dull thud. his partner froze, the color draining from his face, immediately he realizing he was looking at something far more dangerous than a "socialite."
you lean close to his face, voice calm, but your eyes spoke otherwise. they were clearly running with a aggressive force of anger.
"you have mistaken my patience for weakness..." you said to him, grip tightening just enough to make the fabric groan. "this is not a public forum. this is my child. if you do not cease this harassment and vanish from this park immediately, rest assure that i ensure you will regret ever drawing breath near his vicinity... do we understand?"
you didn't need to shout, you were pretty sure he got the message clear.
"i said do we understand... am i clear?"
the photographer nodded frantically, his eyes wide with a primal terror. once you dropped him, he stumbled back, nearly tripping over his own feet. without a word, both men scrambled toward the parking lot, their "wolf pack" mentality utterly broken by the sheer presence of a lioness. as they retreated, you could hear one of them yell, "chick's fuckin' crazy!" you didn't need to care, all that mattered was that damien was safe.
you took a slow breath, smoothing you dress from the underneath of your coat, and turned back to damian. he was watching you, his hand no longer a fist. for the first time, you saw a flicker of something that wasn't defiance in his eyes, it was recognition. a softeness.
"your form was... acceptable." damian muttered, flicking a stray drop of melted vanilla off his knuckle, staring at the ice-cream cone that he dropped in the process of what had happened. "though a strike to the larynx would have been more efficient."
you laughed and took up a napkin wiping his knuckles. "i still achieved victory in knowing your safety wasn't breached..." you said and smiling before taking his hand once more. your heart warmed when you felt him hold back onto you, it gave your pride knowing he too could be nutured. he was still a child.
but gods.... the press get everything.
"HAAHAHA!!– LOOK AT HIS FACE BRUCE LOOK AT HIS FACE!!" dick laughs as he holds his phone up to your husband's face, but could barely contain his laughter and he falls onto the couch, then rolls onto the ground. he heaves, holding his stomach in pure glee at what he looked at on his phone. bruce could only sigh at his son's antics, but directs his atttention towards the vidoe on dick's phone, before his slightly widens at the sights.
turns out at the park, when you those photographers were harassing you and damien, a passerby happened to record the entire altercation... including the part where you lifted the man off the ground by his shirt collar. now it's blowing up everywhere.
you sighed, though a flush of heat was creeping up your neck. the video on the screen looped for the tenth time, your arm extended with effortless grace, the paparazzi’s feet dangling uselessly like a broken marionette’s. "t-the way his camera just... clattered against his chest!" dick wheezed, rolling onto his back on the rug, clutching his stomach. "b-bruce, look! you can see the exact moment he realizes he’s not dealing with a gotham socialite."
"dick please, you're going to hyperventilate..." you say as you rub the bridge of your nose. bruce didn't laugh. he remained standing, his eyes fixed on the footage with that analytical squint he usually reserved for crime scenes. his silence felt heavy, making the "suit of armor" feeling return to your chest. your throat felt dry, this time you felt as if you had snapped your moral obligation in half, almost as if you had messed up this time for the worse.
"bruce i–... the situation was escalating," you began, your voice firm but carrying a hint of apology. "he was cornering damian, the boy was merely seconds away from taking the man's eyes out with his fingers–" you stammered out, hands still shaking slightly as you attempted to explain yourself.
"i would've had the situation under control, father... but I suppose her form of neutralization was "simpler"..." damian snapped from the armchair, his arms crossed tightly over his turtleneck. he looked more annoyed by dick's volume than the viral video, though he pointedly refused to look at the screen. tim, sitting on the edge of the sofa with his laptop, let out a dry, tired huff. "damian, you would have been on interpol’s radar by sunset. at least this way, the headlines just say 'billionaire's wife is secretly a worldclass powerlifter.'"
"yeah, maybe you should say thank you, you little shit–" jason grunted rolling his eyes grunted from the corner, leaning against the bookshelf. he kicked at dick’s foot. "can you shut the hell up up for five minutes? some of us have a headache." jason spat out, a vein of irritation growing on the side of his head.
dick didn't shut up, he just let out a fresh peal of laughter.
you turned back to your husband. "i am sorry if this complicates things for the company, bruce. i know we try to keep a low profile, but seeing them swarm him like wolves... no lesson from themyscira teaches you to just stand by while your own are hunted..."
bruce's expression softens at your genuine apology. he steps toward you, his expression warm in a way the public never got to see. he ignored the cackling from the floor and the bickering of his sons, he just reaches out, his hand resting steady and warm on your cheek. "sweetheart, you don't need to defend yourself to me." bruce said, his voice a low, grounding rumble. "you protected damien. you de-escalated a league-trained assassin and a persistent harasser without a single injury. as far as i'm concerned, that’s a win."
he glanced down at dick, who was now showing the video to alfred. "besides–" bruce added with the ghost of a smirk, "–it’s nice to see someone else in this family taking the heat for once. it’s almost satisfactory, wouldn't you say, damian?" damian's eyes narrowed, but he didn't argue, he only scowled.
"you're doing such a good job..." bruce murmured bringing you into a hug wrapping an arm around your waist. you nuzzle your cheek into his sweater and sigh, gripping onto his side. "mrs. wayne" the title feel less like ill-fitting armor and more like a badge of honor. "you're a hero in ways the world doesn't see. keeping this family together, keeping him safe from himself, is a feat greater than anything before..."
he leaned in, his forehead resting against yours for a brief, raising your chin up so you can meet his eyes. you were breathless just for a second before he pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your lips. it was a grounding kiss, one that tasted of home and shared secrets, momentarily silencing the noise of the world outside and the laughter still bubbling from the floor.
"oh fuck– not this again..." jason breaks the moment with a face that looks like he's scene hell itself. his nose wrinkles as his lips curl into a sneer. tim on the other hand, looks up from his laptop and immediately freezes still before he closes his laptop, takes it out and walks out of the room. the memories of that morning had clearly rushed back to his mind and polluted it immediately.
"tt. utterly unrefined," damian muttered, though he didn't look away quite as fast as he usually did.
bruce pulled back just an inch, a rare, genuine smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he kept his arm draped protectively around your waist. dick laid on the ground scrolling through his phone, just shaking his head. that's mostly because he's seen worse.
you were an amazon, a warrior, a wife, and more importantly a mother. all those roles aligned in a way that you never thought destiny could bring to you. when you really thought the world beyond themyscira had nothing at all to offer you. a new paradise had opened it gates to you, and you couldn't ask for more.
"mom, you practically have everyone on your side. they're calling you amazing in the comments under this video." dick says in awe to before turning the phone screen to you. you look at one of the hundreds of comments that reads, "mrs.wayne is literally a goddess. did you see that grip strength? she didn't even break a sweat. if were that paparazzi, i'd move to another continent immediately. we stan a queen who protects her kid!"
SYNOPISIS: “we are all born beautiful… the greatest tragedy is being convinced we are not.”
sculpted from clay and given life by the gods, you were created alongside your sister, diana of themyscira, your twin in form, and fate. gifted the divine fruits of invulnerability and truth-compelling abilities. you walk amongst a world filled with gods and goddesses.
however, in a mortal world, you find an unlikely mirror in bruce wayne, a man forged by grief and secrecy, whose life is defined by masks and unspoken truths. as his wife, you become both his anchor, his reckoning, and his beloved. as a mother, you become a protector to the children you've vowed to guard with gifts that were bestowed upon you the day you took a breath in this world.
how will the chronicles of your life follow?
OUR MAIN CHARACTERS: bruce wayne(batman) x amazonian!reader
OUR SUPPORTING CHARACTERS: alfred pennyworth, dick grayson, jason todd, tim drake, damien wayne, duke thomas, cassie cane, stephanie brown, barbara gordon, diana prince, the justice league and whoever graces the screen.
CONTENT WARNING: this storyline may contain mentions of violence, death, explicit or suggestive language, use of alcohol, angst, trauma, injuries, mentions of the death of a loved one, depression, use of substances, suggestive themes, as well as sexual themes.if you are uncomfortable with any of these themes, please avoid reading.
for starters, one, i would deeply like to apologize for my hiatus on this app!
ALOT happened, mainly concerning how i publish my stories on tumblr, mainly through the use of my computer. i broke that and ended up losing most of my drafts for new stories i was coming out with. that had me in a little rut, but thankfully i got my hands on a new laptop so yay!!
secondly, writer's block is a bit of a bitch. when i lost one of my main stories i was writing, i couldn't come up with how to re-write it(cause i lost the draft notes for those too). i was also really lost on how i could make other stories that could be different from others and ones that i've made before.
however, it's time for me to make my ultimate comeback for you, the people!
so, starting in a while, i'd like to list out a few stories that will soon(HOPEFULLY AND WILLINGLY) be released. i am still very busy with my life, so releasing stories will take HEAVY amounts of time, i am sorry...
1. navigation post for a batmom series, based off one of my posts. where the reader is the twin sister of wonderwoman
2. my first jjk post, nanami x black!reader
3. thunderbolts fic, where the reader is a kryptonian
4. supergirl x fem!reader
this is the current list of stories that i'm planning on releasing in order, hopefully lol. feel free to ask for requests that so that I can have new ideas on what i can do next!
pairing: teenage dirtbag!bucky barnes x popular girl!reader
warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, banter, enemies w/ benefits, bucky bashes on trap music (sorry if you like it), pining but semi unrequited, john walker (kind of slandering him. also sorry), angst if you squint, miscommunication, fluff, semi-public sex, alcohol, jealousy, m!masturbation, soft dom!bucky, dacryphilia, degradation, dirty talking, pet names: "pretty princess" "angel"
word count: 11.7k
masterlist
a/n: getting a lot of rodrick x regina edits on the tiktok tl... so i had to whip out a fanfic inspired by that. i called bucky a teenage dirtbag but they're in college. dedicated to the biggest teenage dirtbag rodrick rules herself @54nboo. erin rules.
synopsis:
You're the picture-perfect popular pretty girl—all style, smiles, and social status. Bucky is the typical campus dirtbag—loud music, attitude, and bad decisions. You can't stand him, and he fucking hates your guts.
That is, until one house party changes everything. When Bucky catches you headbanging to classic rock instead of pop, instead of hating your guts, he ended up being inside your guts.
You’re desperate to keep your arrangement quiet for the sake of your reputation, but Bucky is growing tired of being your dirty little secret.
Metallica. AC/DC. Led Zeppelin. Guns N’ Roses. Iron Maiden.
Bands that unite everyone with sick riffs and pure rock energy that still blasts through people’s headphones and car stereos to this day. Timeless. Monumental. Sensational.
You could be complete opposites with someone—hell, even sworn enemies—but there’s one thing people will always agree on, and that’s good fucking music.
And that’s exactly why Bucky can’t stand what he’s seeing right now.
Because there you are—sitting in the student union—withJohn fucking Walker beside you, talking your ear off about “seventeen thirty-eight,” “strip clubs,” and “trap beats.”
All telltale signs of shitty music. Music Bucky hates—and music he definitely knows you hate too.
Yet there you sat, in your cute little pink outfit, twirling a strand of hair around your finger and nodding along to every word America’s Asshole had to say.
“Buck,” Steve called, his eyes glued to his laptop screen. “Did you already submit your article for—” he glanced up mid-sentence and paused when he noticed Bucky’s glare fixated somewhere past him.
Steve’s eyes followed, glancing over his shoulder, and he let out an agitated sigh at the sight.
“So fucking stupid,” Bucky muttered under his breath, clicking angrily at his pen.
“Buck,” Steve tried again.
Bucky sat up straight, tearing his eyes away from you. “What?”
“Stop looking at her,” Steve lectured, tapping away on his laptop. “You’ve got no chance.”
Bucky let out a harsh, disbelieving laugh, shaking his head. He’d heard that claim a hundred times from his friends, but only he knew the truth.
He did have a chance with you.
He had a chance with you that night weeks ago, when he locked eyes with you across the crowd at a house party. He remembered the night clearly. Some underground garage band was thrashing in the backyard, and he was squeezing through the crowd to find the bathroom—that’s when he saw you. All the breath was knocked out of his lungs. He thought you were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.
He never expected to find someone like you—someone who’s popular and thrives on the attention of football players—at a party like that, much less listening to music like this.
The whole concept of popularity in college was stupid. He thought that shit ended in high school, but you proved him wrong, and he hated you for it. Every man turned their head when you walked by, girls started dressing like you, and everyone scrambled for an invitation to the parties you hosted.
God, he fucking despised girls like you.
But there you were that night, stripped away from all the popularity, the tight clothes and short skirts, and the preppy makeup. You were just… a dirtbag.
Just like him.
Bucky didn’t know what came over him, but he started moving before he could think, his feet carrying him through the crowd toward you. He tapped you on the shoulder and you turned, eyes bright and wild. He said your name, and you… just stared at him.
He remembered that face clearly, a blank look that told him he was no one to you.
Of course you didn’t know his name. You were complete opposites after all.
He immediately regretted walking over to you. At that point, he wished the ground would’ve just swallowed him whole.
Just as he turned to leave, you snagged his wrist and smiled.
Then you said, “Bucky Barnes, right?”
And then that night, he took you to the bathroom, where he fucked you hard against the sink, the door, and the toilet seat—kept you full of his cock until you were a crying, moaning mess. It was the best night of his life. The sloppy sex, your voice crying his name through the music, your manicured fingernails digging into his back and gripping his hair. He could never forget it, because that night replayed in his mind every time he jerked off to the thought of you.
You exchanged numbers, and the next morning, he woke up to a text message from you that ended your guys’ story before it could even start.
👑: hey
👑: can we keep what happened last night between the two of us?
No explanation. Bucky didn’t need one.
And like the stupid idiot he was, he let you get away.
bucky: yeah
bucky: looks bad
From there on, you were his dirty little secret.
And he was yours.
“I don’t know why that girl’s got you wrapped around her perfectly polished finger,” Steve continued, snapping Bucky back to reality. “You’ve got girls throwing themselves at you after every show, yet you can’t stop staring at her. I thought we hated girls like her?”
Bucky’s jaw clenched, his eyes drifting back to you and John. “I do hate her.”
“Hate her or want to fuck her?”
Bucky shot him a sharp glare. “Steve.”
Steve chuckled and raised his hands up in surrender, shrugging. “I’m just sayin’. It’s hard to tell nowadays with you.” He shut his laptop and got up, swinging his backpack over his shoulder. “And don’t forget about the gig this—”
Steve grinned, ruffling Bucky’s shaggy hair before Bucky swatted his hand away. “Good boy.”
“Get out of my face, Steve.”
Once Steve was out of the way, Bucky’s eyes naturally flickered back to you. By the time he was looking, you were already staring at him—not at John Walker, but at him. You should’ve looked away, but right now, the only interesting thing in this room was Bucky. Not the blonde droning on about “sicko mode” or “mo bamba,” whatever the hell those words even meant.
And how could you possibly look away when Bucky was holding your gaze just as intensely?
But then, with an agitated sigh that you could practically hear across the union, he swiped his belongings off the table and left the room, breaking the silent staring contest.
“So anyway,” John spoke up. “Are you coming this Friday?”
You turned to him, reluctantly. “What’s happening on Friday?”
John laughed, almost disbelieving. It was very obvious from the start that you weren’t listening to him—nor did you have the intention to—yet he still stayed. John was persistent: he’d get into the skirts of any attractive, popular girl on campus, and for a football player like him, having a hot girl on his arm was simply an ego boost.
“The big game is on Friday,” he said flatly, as if you were the stupid one. “And then the frat party right after.”
“Oh,” you blinked, trying to play dumb. “Right.”
A small, almost doubtful smile tugged at his lips. “So you’re coming, right?”
You forced a smile so wide it hurt. “Of course I am.”
John let out a low whistle, clapping his hands together loud enough to make a few heads turn. You had to bite the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from cringing.
“That’s my girl!”
My girl?
You couldn’t hold the cringe back anymore, your face scrunching up into a sour expression before you could stop it. John was too far ahead of himself to even notice. You got up suddenly, snapping John out of his little victory dance.
“I’m going back to the chapter house to study—”
“Oh!” John immediately jumped up with you. “Let me walk you back, then.”
“I can walk myself,” you said, flashing a polite smile as you pushed your chair in and made your escape before he could argue.
Behind you, you heard John gathering his things frantically, the chair squeaking as he scurried after you. “Wait!” he called out, but you continued walking, pretending not to hear him.
You pushed the door open, and just as it was about to swing shut, John slammed his hand against the frame, barely catching it as he held the door open for himself.
“Wait—hold on—”
You rolled your eyes and continued walking, but you stopped short at the sight of Bucky standing in front of the message center. He was messily pinning up posters, scattering them across the board and blatantly covering the existing ones before his. Once John caught up, he opened his mouth to speak but noticed your attention was caught elsewhere. His eyes followed yours—and then he saw Bucky.
Bucky was covering up the frat party posters John had hung up earlier today, not even trying to be sneaky or ashamed about it.
“That fucking asshole,” John muttered under his breath, already stomping angrily toward Bucky.
“John,” you reached out, trying to stop him, but it was too late. “Wait!”
“Dirtbag Barnes!” John called out, finally catching up to him. His face was twisted in an angry, unpleasant look. He scrunched up his nose, looking down at Bucky like he was trash—even though there was only about an inch difference in height.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Bucky gave him an impassive look. “I’m putting up posters for my gig this Friday. What else?”
John scoffed. “You’re covering up my flyers for my party.”
“No one wants to go to that shit anyway.”
John let out a disbelieving laugh, shaking his head. His jaw clenched, and he fisted his hands at his sides. Just as he was about to raise one for a punch—leaving Bucky completely unflinching—you stepped in the middle.
“Jesus Christ, John!” you glared at him, putting your hand out defensively—a small, absurd barrier against a football player. You knew John was an asshole, but you also knew he wouldn’t risk his reputation and his spot on the team by laying a hand on a woman.
John sneered, dropping his hand reluctantly.
Bucky, meanwhile, offered him a smug, taunting grin. “Would you look at that,” he drawled. His eyes tracked you up and down slowly, before flicking back to John. “Your guardian angel, dressed in pink, here to rescue you.”
John let out a cruel, barking laugh at the comment. The taunt should have offended you, but you found yourself physically tilting your head down, trying to hide the pink flush on your cheeks as you bit back a smile, because... well…
Bucky had called you an angel!
“I don’t need ‘rescuing,’” John crossed his arms, completely oblivious to your reaction. “If anything, she was the one who saved you. If it weren’t for her, you already would’ve been doubled over on the floor with a bloodied fucking nose.”
“Great,” Bucky’s smile only grew wider. “Having a bruised nose would look sick when I perform on Friday.”
John made a face of disgust. “You’re fucking disgusting.”
“And you’re a fucking asshole. What else is new?”
“Bucky,” you warned.
His shoulders deflated just slightly. John mumbled something under his breath, already half-turned away and seemingly forgetting his mission to "walk you back to the house."
“Don’t linger around that dirtbag for too long,” John scoffed. “Unless you want to start smelling like trash.”
He gave Bucky one last dirty look, then turned back to the poster board, violently ripping one of Bucky’s posters down. He crumpled it in his hands, tossed the ruined paper haphazardly at Bucky, and finally walked away.
Once John was out of sight, Bucky turned his full attention to you. You didn’t even need to look at him to know the expression on his face; you could feel his judgmental glare burning into the back of your head. You turned to meet his eyes.
“Hey, loser.” You teased, trying to play dumb.
“John fucking Walker,” he said with an incredulous laugh. “Him, out of all people? Seriously?” He looked down at the crumpled paper in his hands, slowly unfolding it. “Can’t say I’m surprised,” he mumbled the last part—but you heard it perfectly clear.
“John and I aren’t dating—”
“Yeah?” Bucky cut you off. “Then why is he following you around like some lost fucking puppy?”
“I don’t know! He won’t leave me alone. He only keeps an arm around my shoulder because it makes him look good. It’s nothing serious,” you said defensively.
You honestly didn’t know why you’d let John hover around you like this for the past few days, or why you had done nothing to stop it. You were used to guys—especially the popular ones—flocking to you; being near you gave them an incredible ego boost. You were just an accessory, and before, you hadn’t cared. You thought the same thing of men like John. You weren’t any better.
But after meeting Bucky, after letting him touch and defile you the way he did at the house party, a deeper part of you couldn’t help but keep John slung over your shoulder just to see Bucky riled up and jealous.
“Nothing serious,” he nodded, the understanding look completely fake. “Just like the guy before? And the one before that?”
You crossed your arms. “What are you insinuating? That I’m some kind of slut?”
Bucky just grinned, playing with your reaction.
“No. Not at all, angel.” He took a step closer, his fingertips catching the ends of your hair, twirling it tauntingly in his fingers. “Because those guys haven’t had you the way I had you, is that right?”
You sucked in a sharp breath and glanced around warily. You hated how easily your body still reacted to him. You circled his wrist, prying his hand away with a shaky grip.
“Bucky,” you sighed, managing a firmer voice. “What we had weeks ago—it was a one-time thing. Someone like me would never—”
“...fuck around with a sleaze like me?” he tilted his head down at you, the look almost condescending despite the self-insult. “Is that what you were going to say?”
Truthfully, you were drawn to Bucky as powerfully as he was drawn to you. But you couldn’t date someone like him. College was about networking, surrounding yourself with upstanding people who would connect you to future success. Being around Bucky—all dark, baggy clothes, shaggy hair, stubble, and loud music—felt like a direct detour from that steady path.
Yet, you relished the way he fawned over you.
But then a colder feeling snapped you back to reality—maybe Bucky was no different from John. Maybe, by having a woman like you on his arm, he was just building his own brand of reputation, too.
That reminder alone was enough to bring you crashing back hard down to earth.
“Bucky, let’s be real,” you insisted, jutting a hip and crossing your arms to maintain confidence. “Aside from our music taste, we have nothing in common. We have no chemistry.”
You expected Bucky to be upset by that—to finally give up and retreat. But Bucky, unpredictable as always, only smiled wider. He leaned in, his warm, low breath feathering against your ear.
“Oh, princess,” he cooed, his voice low and raspy. “You didn’t even know what chemistry was until you met me.”
Your face immediately warmed with sudden heat. You couldn’t understand how Bucky—a guy who managed to set most people off with an unintentional string of words and only hung out with the same three people—could make you melt with such a simple phrase.
“Th-that’s…” you cleared your throat, already turning halfway, “…so unbelievably corny.”
Bucky chuckled behind you, but before you could take three full steps, he called your name.
Like an idiot, you stopped and turned back around.
“Can you make it this Friday?” he asked, and suddenly he didn’t sound so confident. His brow furrowed just slightly, and his shoulders slumped a little with genuine appeal.
“To your gig?” you frowned.
He nodded, handing you the crumpled, unfolded paper of his flyer. You glanced down at it; in big, bold black letters, “CIVIL WAR” was written in the center in a messy grunge, edgy style.
Bucky pressed his lips together, already knowing what you were thinking. John had his football game and the frat party on the same night. And one thing Bucky knew about you was that you never skipped out on a party.
He glanced at John’s remaining poster on the message board, then back at you.
“Come on. Just skip a party for one night and come watch me play instead,” he pleaded. “Listen to actual good music. Not that… trap shit Walker was going on about.” He motioned lazily with his hand toward John’s poster.
“I won’t go,” you said flatly. But despite your words, you folded the crumpled paper neatly and tucked it into your shoulder bag.
He smiled as he watched you. “That’s a shame. I want to see my pretty girl in pink cheering my name in the crowd.”
You felt like the breath got knocked out of your lungs. When John Walker called you his girl just a few minutes ago, you wanted to double over and hurl vomit all over his pristine Nikes. But hearing Bucky call you his girl—his pretty girl—made you want to drop everything and run into his arms.
But instead, you inhaled a steady breath and turned on your heel. “I’m not going to that dump just to watch mediocre playing,” you shouted over your shoulder.
Bucky just barked a laugh behind you—a sound that couldn’t help but make a smile tug reluctantly at your lips.
“Alright. I’ll see you there, princess.”
It was Wednesday night, and Bucky was practicing drums in his garage with the rest of Civil War: Steve on lead guitar and vocals, Sam on backup guitar and vocals, and Natasha on bass.
Mid-song, Nat stilled her fingers on the strings and shook her head, letting out an exasperated sigh. “Steve, are you getting sick? You sound off.”
Steve turned from the microphone and gave Nat a look. “I’ve been singing for two hours straight. Of course, I sound off.”
“Amateur,” Bucky coughed behind his fist.
Sam and Nat chuckled until Steve turned and gave them all a dirty look that silenced them. “Shut the hell up, Buck. You’re drumming off-beat too, and it’s throwing the rest of us off.”
Bucky huffed a laugh. “That’s impossible. I’m the drummer, so technically, you all have to follow me.”
Sam scrunched his face. “That’s not how it works.”
“Whatever,” Nat cut in, already lifting the strap of her bass over her head. “Let’s all take five,” she said, pointing a finger at Steve. “Go drink some water.”
As everyone scattered, their idle chatter filling the garage, Bucky’s thoughts raced back to you. He’d sounded so confident when he said, “I’ll see you there,” but in reality, he wasn’t confident at all. He knew girls like you were avid partygoers, and he hadn’t cared until he met you—until he had a taste, until he had marked your body and claimed it as his.
Now, the idea of you going to that party, vulnerable among assholes like John Walker, sent his blood boiling.
He pulled his phone from the back pocket of his worn jeans and opened social media. Of course, he immediately saw a bunch of stories from tonight’s party. Seriously, what was the appeal of all these parties anyway? On a Wednesday night, too. It was unbelievable, he thought, even though he was staying up way past midnight rehearsing for his own gig.
His thumb idly scrolled through stories until a particular one stopped him cold. It was a brief video of you, dancing exuberantly—and clearly drunk—to loud music. You were in your typical cute little outfit; short skirt, heels, and plenty of pink. Bucky’s jaw tightened as he replayed the clip, devouring every detail. Your skirt was riding high, giving the camera—and everyone nearby—an ample view of your legs. The way you moved, the way your body was bouncing as you danced…
It sent a thunderbolt of desire straight through his body and right to his dick.
“Alright, break time’s over,” Steve announced, tapping the microphone so the sound echoed through the garage. He looked over his shoulder at Bucky, who was still absorbed by his phone.
“Buck. Did you hear me? I said break time’s—”
“I gotta use the bathroom,” Bucky snapped, shoving himself out of his drum seat. The cymbals clanged loudly as he bumped into them in haste.
“What? Where the hell are you going—!” Sam barked, but Bucky was already past the door.
Bucky scrambled quickly to the bathroom, slamming the door shut and locking it. His phone shaky in his hands, he kept replaying the video of you over and over again. How badly he wanted to send you a text, to drive over there and pick you up just so he could keep you for himself. He wanted to be the only one to see you like this—not John Walker, not your stupid sorority posse of mean girls.
Just him.
His erection was pressing insistently against his boxers and jeans, and he knew he couldn’t go back out there in… such a state.
He set his phone down on the bathroom sink, unbuckling his belt quickly, pushing his jeans down along with his boxers. His cock sprang out, heavy, slapping against his lower belly—aching to be touched. He replayed the story a few more times, then shut his eyes as his eager hands went down to his dick with a low groan.
“Fuck,” he groaned to himself, tossing his head back as his mind started to fill with flashbacks of the night he had you.
He remembered you on your knees on the bathroom tile, taking him in your perfectly puckered lips that shined with a shimmery lip gloss.
“Fuck, angel…” he moaned as he balanced one hand against the wall, his forehead pressing against it as the other hand fisted his cock eagerly. His hand wasn’t nearly as soft, as warm, and as wet as your lips. But this would have to do for now.
He started rocking his hips into his hand as he remembered the way you batted your cute, long eyelashes at him. He groaned, his thumb swiping over his slit, spreading pre-cum over his cockhead.
“God, baby…” he sighed. “This isn’t fucking fair—you shouldn’t be flaunting yourself at these… stu—stupid parties,” his fist moved faster, and his legs started to shake as he remembered your soft legs wrapped around his waist as he held you up and fucked you against the door.
“You should be here… w-with me, fuck, baby.”
He squeezed his eyes shut, his breath hissing out as his hand quickened its pace around his shaft. The more he surrendered to the filthy thoughts of you, the more his cock throbbed and jerked in his grasp.
He replaced the feel of his fist with the tight, wet warmth of your mouth. He visualized the way your tongue trailed along the heavy underside of his cock, lapping at every sensitive ridge. Bucky’s eyes snapped open, his vision blurred as he focused on the floor, imagining you kneeling directly in front of him.
“Fuck… just like that, baby,” he moaned to himself, his hips moving in rhythm with his fist, as if you were taking him in your mouth.
“Gonna… fuck, gonna paint your fucking pretty face with my seed, princess.”
The imagined sounds of your moans and gasps drowned out the guitars and Steve’s singing from the next room. Your sweet voice, the way you cried his name and begged him to cum inside you—it was enough to shatter his control.
His rhythm broke, and his grip turned sloppy over his cock as he pulsed and shuddered. “Fuck… baby, I’m gonna cum—” he groaned, driving a hard and final thrust into his palm, spilling himself all over his fingers.
Catching his breath, he watched his seed drip down his hand and onto the cold tiles. With a soft sigh, he reached for the toilet paper, meticulously wiping himself and the floor clean.
Bucky knew this was wrong, finding arousal in the sight of you drunk at a party and fixating on the memory of the night you shared, but he was powerless to stop.
He claimed he hated you, but the hatred wasn’t for you.
It was for the fact that he couldn’t have you. It was for the fact that you wouldn’t choose him.
Sam’s fist hammered on the bathroom door. “Bucky—what the hell are you doing in there?”
“I’m—uh,” Bucky stammered. “Taking a shit.”
“Well, hurry the hell up. Steve’s getting upset and we need to nail this song down by Friday, man.”
Bucky hauled his jeans up, his belt clanking as he swiftly buckled it into place. “Tell that punk to inhale and exhale for five and I’ll be right out.”
He couldn’t see it, but he could practically feel Sam’s eye roll from just outside the door. Sam mumbled a quiet “whatever,” and the sound of his footsteps shuffled away from the door and down the hall.
Just as Bucky reached for the lock, his phone dinged with a notification. He looked down at the screen, and he felt his breath catch in his throat.
👑: bucky. can you pick me up? please?
And that was all it took.
He pocketed his phone and pushed the bathroom door open. He strode back to the garage to retrieve his jacket—instantly earning a round of “where the hell do you think you’re going?” from Sam, Steve, and Nat.
“I’ve got an emergency, just…” he motioned dismissively, “practice without me.”
They continued to argue right up until Bucky snatched his keys and stomped out the front door and into his car, but he didn’t heed their complaints—you needed him. You needed his help.
And that was the final truth Bucky hated.
He hated how effortlessly he could drop everything—no matter how important—just to answer your call.
Bucky broke every speed limit to get to you, to reach the stupid party you’d gotten caught up in. The entire drive, his mind raced with several thoughts: that you were okay, that you weren’t hurt, that one of those filthy frat boys hadn’t put their hands on you. When he pulled up to the house, you stumbled out by yourself to meet him at his car, but Bucky got out and steadied you, helping you slide into the passenger seat.
You reeked of alcohol, could barely stand, and your hair was disheveled—your makeup was a smeared mess.
“Jesus Christ,” Bucky mumbled as he buckled your seatbelt. “You look like a fucking mess.”
“Wow,” you sighed, your elbow propped on the center console as you struggled to keep yourself upright. “Aren’t you the sweetest thing?”
He only rolled his eyes as he made his way back to the driver’s seat, quickly getting in so no one at the party would spot him. “You also smell like shit.”
“Oh, come on,” you pouted. “Don’t be mean to me!” you whined as you gave his shoulder a playful nudge.
Bucky glanced at you, a warmth spreading across his face as he laughed at your words. This wasn’t the first time since you two met that you had called him in the middle of the night, needing his help. And every single time, he was there for you. Without fail.
“Me? Mean to you? Never,” he teased as he put the car in drive and gently pressed his foot on the gas.
You let out a soft giggle, your face flushed pink, the sound making Bucky’s heart flutter in his chest. He cleared his throat, keeping his eyes steady on the road. The speed he drove now was a complete contrast to his reckless drive to get to you. He was slower now—and despite the risk of you throwing up in his car—he took his sweet time driving you back to your house, all just so he could savor these few minutes with you.
“So…” he drawled, “… did something—”
“No. Nothing happened,” you answered immediately, already expecting the question. Every time Bucky picked you up, he always asked and made sure you were okay. “No one touched me. Well, they tried, but I didn’t let them. You know how these frat boys are.”
You looked out the window, your eyes glossy as the world outside blurred, but you caught Bucky’s reflection, and you spotted the way his jaw clenched.
“I just wanted to get out of there.”
“And the first person you thought to text was me,” he huffed a non-humorous laugh. “It’s starting to become a pattern, isn’t it?”
You, being in a drunken haze and completely oblivious to the strain in his voice, only tossed your head back and laughed.
“But you like it, don’t you? It gives you the excuse to see me,” you leaned over, poking your manicured finger at his cheek. “And I know how bad you want to see me.”
He parted his lips to say something—perhaps try to taunt you back—but the words caught in his throat. Because, despite your drunken state, the truth of your words was undeniable, and you knew it. You knew exactly how badly he wanted you, and here you were, drunk and vulnerable in his passenger seat, dangling that power right in front of him.
You noticed the grumpy look on his face and turned toward him, a lazy smile tugging at your lips. “Oh, don’t be mad, Buck,” you cooed, drawing out his name, which only made his grip on the wheel tighten. “You always look so serious when you’re mad. It’s kinda hot, actually.”
“Christ,” he muttered under his breath.
“What?” you giggled, leaning closer. “You don’t like it when I say stuff like that?”
If you were sober, he would’ve slammed the car into park, dragged you to the back seat, and claimed you for himself. But he couldn’t. Instead, his temper flared with how intensely you were taunting him, knowing damn well how much he wanted you.
“I don’t like it when you drink like this,” he shot back. “Or when you go to parties where you know those idiots can’t keep their hands to themselves. It’s self-sabotage.”
You pouted, the sound of it almost childlike. “You worry too much.”
“Someone has to,” he said with a scoff. “The Barbie and Ken dolls that you love to surround yourself with don’t seem to. That’s why you keep calling me instead—because no one else will.”
Your smile faltered.
His words struck you hard. Painful as they were, they rang true—a truth you never wanted to admit. You surrounded yourself with people like John Walker, who only cared about social status and appearances, always looking out for themselves and themselves only.
Bucky was genuinely the only person who looked out for you.
You leaned back in your seat, crossing your arms defensively over your chest, and turned your gaze back to the window. “Can you hurry up and take me home?” you said, your voice so painfully soft it was barely audible. “I feel sick.”
Bucky sighed, immediately regretting the words as they left his mouth. “Look, I just…” he pressed his lips together, struggling to find words that wouldn’t upset you further. “I worry, okay? You call me because you know I’ll show up. And I do, every time—”
“Yeah. You show up. Then you remind me why you shouldn’t have.”
Bucky exhaled sharply through his nose, frustration building in his chest. “That’s not fair.”
“Neither is what you said.”
A tense silence settled in the car again. He wanted to apologize, to tell you exactly how he felt every time he came to pick you up in the middle of the night. It was always about you—about the way his stomach twisted when you called his name through slurred words, needing him, wanting him, but just never in the way he needed you to.
But he couldn’t say that. Not when you were sitting there looking so small, so hurt.
So instead, he muttered, “Did you have anything to eat?”
You blinked, your eyes hazy as you looked back at him. “What?”
“You need to eat. You can’t drink on an empty stomach.”
“I haven’t,” you said, frowning. “I’m not hungry.”
Bucky flicked his turn signal on. Instead of turning right toward your sorority, he turned left, heading elsewhere. “We’ll stop by a gas station and pick you up something to eat.”
You scrunched your face, your nose wrinkling. “A gas station? That’s all greasy, processed food. I’m not messing up my diet.”
He huffed a laugh, trying to keep things light. “You just shot back a couple of tequilas and now you’re worried about your diet? A chili hotdog for one night isn’t going to ruin you.”
Each protest and whine went in Bucky’s ear and out the other. Once he pulled into the gas station’s parking lot, you sat reluctantly, arms crossed. Bucky laughed at your resistance, unbuckled your seatbelt, and hauled you up in one swift, steady motion. You collided into his chest as he wrapped a strong arm around you, holding you steady against him.
At this point, you weren’t drunk enough to be stumbling over yourself anymore, but you weren’t about to push yourself away from Bucky’s arms. He led you toward the hot food section, and your nose was immediately hit with the smell of the rotating hotdogs.
You made a sour face. “Please tell me you’re not actually going to feed me that.”
He grinned, already grabbing a bun and splitting it open. He grabbed a hotdog—still slick with juices—and slapped it onto the bun. He started loading it with chili from the dispenser, the machine sputtering and making strange noises as it poured itsgoopy contents, nearly overflowing.
“That looks disgusting.”
He only laughed as he started piling on shredded cheese that had been sitting on the counter for God knows how long, followed by diced onions and a drizzle of mustard.
He turned to you and held it up. “There. Five-star dining.”
You blinked down at the hotdog, not even hiding the disapproving look on your face.
When you didn’t move, he let out a low sigh and gently took your hand, guiding the hotdog towards you. “C’mon. Just one bite.”
The warmth of his hand pressed against yours, and for a second, you felt your breath catch in your throat at the contact. You stared at him—the faint smirk on the corners of his lips, the messy hair falling into his eyes—and was that eyeliner?
With a hesitant sigh, you took a bite. Immediately, your face twisted, but you didn’t stop chewing. “Oh my god, that’s so bad.”
He laughed—a real one this time, soft and deep. “You’re a goddamn liar. You love it.”
He turned to make his own hotdog, and you couldn’t help the smile twisting at your lips as you watched him. At the party, there was no one else like him. There was no one with baggy and ripped jeans, scuffed Converse, or shaggy hair who wore eyeliner. You watched his hands as they got to work on the hotdog. His hands were calloused—not because he worked out frequently or obsessed over sports. His hands were rough because of his constant drumming.
And for some reason, that fact made your body warm.
After he paid for the hotdogs, he led you back outside where you two sat in his car, Iron Maiden playing on his speakers at a low volume—music they would never play at the parties you go to, and music you secretly enjoyed.
He had his seat reclined back, arms draped behind him as he ate his hotdog. The both of you sat in comfortable silence—aside from the music playing—as you looked out at the ongoing traffic, the lights and cars zooming past each other.
“I fuckin’ love this song,” Bucky said, turning The Trooper up. “The band and I have been trying to learn it—but Steve can’t even get the beginning riff right.” He shook his head, taking another bite.
“I’m sure Steve’s trying his best,” you casually took a bite. “He’s probably just rushing the gallops.”
Bucky paused mid-bite, turning to you with a surprised look on his face. “Look at that,” he grinned, leaning over and ruffling your hair. “You know what gallops are—how cute.” He finished his hotdog, crumpling up the wrapping paper.
“Sooner or later you’re going to be wearin’ black eyeliner and replace Steve as the lead guitarist in my band.”
“God—no,” you scoffed lightly. “I would rather be caught dead than be seen wearing sloppy dark make up around my eyes.”
He gave you a look. “You’re sayin’ my eye make up is sloppy?”
A small, smug smile tugged at your lips. “I’m saying you could do a better job,” you motioned to beneath your eyes, “at blending it in.”
“Oh yeah? Enlighten me.”
You crumpled up the wrapper of your hotdog and tossed it somewhere in the backseat. Leaning down, you rummaged through your pink handbag and pulled out a black eyeliner pencil.
“Wouldn’t be caught dead wearing it, yet you have an eyeliner pencil in your purse?”
“Shut up,” you mumbled.
You crawled over the center console, squeezing and wiggling your way into the tight space between the driver’s seat and the steering wheel, nestling yourself onto his lap. Bucky’s body suddenly felt so warm, his heart thumping so loudly in his chest that he prayed you couldn’t hear it.
He also prayed that you couldn’t feel his hardening erection.
“Okay,” he tried to say casually, but he couldn’t help but feel giddy.
He went still as your hand came up, your thumb resting just beneath his eye. The car suddenly felt so small—so suffocating. You leaned in, close enough for him to catch the faint scent of your expensive perfume—the exact one he smelt that night he had you.
You were close, so fucking close.
All he had to do was lean in and kiss you.
He let out a shaky exhale, and you furrowed your brow slightly.
“Your hair’s in the way,” you said, your soft hand running through his long hair, pushing it back from his face.
He was so starved for your attention and touch, that the gentle graze alone, the suffocating proximity, your smell, your voice—it was all enough to make his cock unbearably hard. And he knew you could feel it now too; every exhale you let out was shaky, and your hands were trembling just slightly. He was confident you felt the same tension he did when your eyes flickered down to his lips just briefly before looking back up.
Bucky cleared his throat, his hands subconsciously finding your hips and holding you in place. “How are you feeling?”
You paused. “Better now,” you slowly retreated your hand. “Head hurts a little. But I mostly just feel exhausted.”
He nodded. “We should take you home—”
“Wait,” you pulled out your phone, opening the camera app and flicking it to the front camera. “Look. It looks way better, doesn’t it?”
He paused, taking your phone and looking at himself carefully. He huffed a laugh. “Yeah, I guess it does. You know—” he handed your phone back to you, “you should be my makeup artist for my gigs. You’re coming to my show on Friday, right? You can do my makeup then.”
You rolled your eyes. “You want me to be both your makeup artist and your cheerleader? For free?”
His hand couldn’t help but wander to your backside, more instinct than intentional, really. But you didn’t pull away. If anything, you leaned closer to him.
“Come on, just show up for me. I show up for you all the time, don’t I?” his eyes flickered down to your top. “I could even make you a band shirt, and I’ll have it designed all pink and pretty instead of black—just for you. What do you say?”
You couldn’t help but smile. “I’m not showing up to your gig, Buck.”
He smiled back, a little crooked. “Whatever you say, princess.”
You two stared at each other for a moment, neither pulling away. The Iron Maiden track and the sounds of the street began to die down; it was well past two a.m. in an empty parking lot, quiet and dark, leaving the two of you alone in that confined, tense space.
Bucky felt his heart hammering against his ribs. If he could freeze time, he would stop it right here. It was just the two of you—you sitting pretty in the passenger seat of his beat-up car, his favorite band faintly playing. It was perfect. All that was left to do was kiss you.
“You’re so fucking pretty,” he mumbled so quietly it was more for himself than for you.
His face immediately burned when he saw the mischievous glint in your eye and the curl of your lips.
You leaned in closer, your lips barely brushing against his, teasing—taunting. “Am I?”
He shuddered. “The prettiest girl I have ever seen.”
You swiped your tongue across your bottom lip, making Bucky’s breath catch in his throat. Before he could react, you closed the remaining space between you and pressed your lips against his.
His body melted instantly at your touch, as if he’d been anticipating this very moment, and he let out a low groan as his fingers slid into the strands of your hair, his grip tightening just enough to hold you still against him as his lips explored yours hungrily.
You felt him push his tongue past your lips, exploring frantically, tasting you as much as he could—his body moving in a way that was filled with desperation, yet still savoring the moment. He kept kissing you until you were both out of breath. He pulled away, his hand still tangled in your hair, not wanting to let go. He sighed softly and pressed your forehead against his.
“Fuck, princess… I…” he breathed, pressing another messy kiss to your lips. “I’ve been waiting to kiss you all night.”
You huffed a breathless laugh. “I know you were. I could see it in your eyes the minute you picked me up.”
He gave your hips a gentle, yet possessive squeeze as his hands moved up your thighs and around your waist. “There are so many things I want to do to you,” he managed, swallowing hard. “And it fucking kills me knowing I can’t.”
“Do things like what?” you teased, your fingers tracing the pattern of his T-shirt across his chest.
His jaw went slightly slack. He watched your fingers graze his clothed chest, breathing hard. “Like… lift up this tiny skirt,” he muttered, his hand playing with the hem of your miniskirt, “push your panties to the side, and fuck you right here on my lap.”
A small, complacent smile tugged at your lips as you gave your hips a subtle roll, feeling the thick bulge of him against his jeans.
“Yeah?” you leaned closer, your lips brushing against his. “You want me to ride you? Right here, in your car?”
A deep groan rumbled from his chest as his hands shoved the hem of your skirt higher, his erection straining against his denim as he caught sight of your bare and supple thighs.
“Don’t push me, princess,” he muttered, his fingers slinking underneath your panties, gently grazing your mound. His thumb found your clit and rubbed, his fingers dipping a little deeper, and his eyes darkened once he felt how warm and wet you were.
You whimpered, your hips immediately bucking into his touch. Your heart hammered in your chest and your legs felt like jelly just from being so close. The way Bucky called you "princess" made you feel something no other man ever had. You had been called plenty of pet names before, but none of them ever came from the campus dirtbag, Bucky Barnes.
“Call me princess again,” you pleaded.
“Oh, baby,” he rasped, one hand sliding behind you, squeezing your ass through your panties and pulling you impossibly closer. “You’re a princess, my fucking princess. Fuck. I worship the ground you walk on, and I want to keep you all to myself. And you know that—you know you’re my pretty little princess, don’t you?”
You nodded, biting your lip.
Bucky smiled softly at you, but every word that left his mouth was filthy. “You’re such a dirty little girl, yet you still want to be called a princess?” His hands found yours and guided your fingers down to his belt. “If you’re such a princess, why don’t you go ahead and help me out, baby? Go on. Help me out of these pants.”
Your manicured nails clinked against the buckle of his belt as you worked to remove it and unbutton his pants. He lifted his hips slightly, strong enough to hold you up, and helped you pull his cock free from the confines of his denim. He was already hard, already slick and pulsing—begging for your attention.
You gasped softly at the sight. You cupped him in your hands and began to pump him slowly. His hips immediately jerked, his mouth hanging open as he savored the feel of your smooth hand against his warm cock.
It had only been a few weeks since you had last seen him bare and aching for you, but it felt excruciatingly long. You watched him, mesmerized by the way his brows furrowed and his eyes kept fluttering shut under your movements. You knew he missed you just as much as you missed him.
“Does that feel good, Bucky?” you leaned in, pressing your forehead against his.
He sighed. “So good, angel… don’t fucking stop.”
While your palm worked his dick, you slowly rocked your hips back and forth against him, rubbing your clothed pussy against his thigh and making the car shake. Bucky watched the provocative sight; the roll of your hips, the way your miniskirt rode up to your waist—now a sad excuse for a belt.
The sight alone was enough to make his cock throb in your hands.
You looked down at him, letting out soft sighs and moans to help him along. Your hand began pumping him faster and harder, the speed quickly overwhelming him. And as much as he loved the feeling of your soft hands and the sight of your pretty nail polish around his cock, he couldn’t fight his greed.
He couldn’t control the burning desire to be buried deep inside you.
“Fuck—baby,” he grunted, his hands clamping down hard on your hips suddenly. “Hold on.”
“Hold on?” you raised a mocking brow. “But you just told me not to—”
He mumbled something grumpily under his breath that you couldn’t catch, his hands coming roughly to the waistband of your panties and trying to push them down. But his movements were clumsy, urgent, and desperate—nearly tearing your expensive, lacy underwear in his grasp.
“Bucky, baby—wait! You’re going to rip them. They’re my favorite pair—”
He groaned as he tore angrily at your panties, ripping a hole right in the center to expose your wet slit. You let out a sharp gasp at the sudden roughness, but his frenzied need for you sent butterflies to your stomach and made your core clench with anticipation.
“I’m sorry, baby,” he breathed, though he didn’t sound sincere at all. His hand found the base of his shaft, already positioning the tip toward your wet entrance. “I’m sorry. You know I can’t help myself around you, pretty princess. Especially not when you’re right here…” his tip caught your entrance, slowly pushing in—testing you, “…sitting so pretty in my lap, just asking to be ruined.”
Your hands steadied on his shoulders, your hips instinctively pulling away, intimidated by the size you haven’t had in weeks. “Bucky…”
“Don’t shy away now, baby,” he grunted, guiding your hips down. He slowly sank you deeper onto him.
You tossed your head back, gripping his shoulders tighter as he guided you down onto his lap. Your walls were warm as they fluttered around him, clenching down as you took him in slowly but eagerly.
“Fuck, princess…” he moaned, eyes locking onto yours. “You remember how to take me?”
“Of course I do,” you said, trying to maintain confidence. You nuzzled into his neck, pressing a soft kiss. “How can I not after the way you fucked me in the bathroom—oh!”
Your words were cut off by a sharp moan as Bucky rutted his hips up, his cock completely sheathing inside you in one hard motion. You shook in his lap at the rough thrust, and Bucky’s arms immediately hooked behind you, wrapping you tight against his chest as your face remained snuggled in the crook of his neck.
“Fuuck,” he moaned into your hair. “That’s it, baby. You’re taking me so good, aren’t you?” another hard thrust up, but his arms held you steady against him so you wouldn’t jolt again. “I bet your pretty little pussy missed me so much, is that right?”
“Yes!” you moaned into his neck. “I missed you so much, Bucky—”
“Yeah? You missed me?” he groaned, one of his hands tangling into your hair.
You yelped as he gave your hair a harsh tug, pulling your face away from his neck so you were forced to look at him. He held you absolutely still as he continued rutting up into you, his cock fucking you hard and deep. His tight grip on your body immobilized you, forcing you to take every inch of his relentless thrusts.
“Tell me, baby. Tell me how much you missed me.”
“I missed you s-so… so much. God, I missed you so much, Bucky!” you moaned, your neck slightly arched as you looked down at him.
A low, seductive sound rumbled from his throat, and he smiled—a nearly sneering grin. “Goddamn, you’re so cute when you tell me that,” he growled as his hips continued to pound into you, setting the driver’s seat creaking and the whole car shaking.
“I missed you too, princess. I missed you so much—your body... the way it’s pressed against mine... fuck, I missed holding you close—” he rushed out, staring at you with lustful, hazy eyes. “Now, tell me how good I’m fucking you. Tell me how good I’m making you feel—how no one else can fuck you as good as I can.”
Despite being trapped in his arms, you rocked your hips in time with his thrust, desperate for more friction.
“You’re fucking m-me… so good, Bucky. Oh my god, don’t stop—!”
“Now, will you tell me how no one else can fuck you as good as I can?” His voice turned soft and pleading, yet every word felt rough and demanding. “Tell me that I’m the only one for you—that I belong to you and you belong to me. God, please. Will you make me the happiest boy and tell me that, princess? Please?”
Tears prickled at the corners of your eyes as he pounded upward into you. You clung to his shoulders even tighter, your walls fluttering and clenching down on him as he only fucked you deeper; your chest pressed tightly against his with the force of his hold.
“I-I belong to you, Bucky. I only belong… to you!” you moaned, your voice pitching into a whine. “I’m yours, all yours—”
“Goddamn, you moan so pretty, baby,” he said softly.
A soft laugh left his lips as his thumb came up to wipe your tears, smearing your mascara and eyeliner. You felt his cock throb inside you at the sight—teary-eyed, mascara running, and eye makeup everywhere.
“Look at you, princess,” he breathed. His eyes were soft and admiring, but his thrusts were anything but. “You’re a crying little mess on my cock. And your makeup…” His fingers grazed beneath your eye, then gently pushed messy strands of hair away from your face. “You look so fucking beautiful like this. I want to keep you like this, a crying mess on my lap forever.”
Every sense was overwhelmed—the sharp scent of his cologne, his lustful, hungry gaze, the contrast of his gentle hands against his brutal thrusts, the soft sweetness of his voice delivering filthy words. You tightened around him, nearly coming undone.
Bucky groaned, driving another hard thrust as he felt you clench around him. “Fuck, baby, are you gonna cum?” his hands wandered back down, gripping your ass tight as he rutted into you. “Shit, princess. I’m gonna cum too—”
You couldn’t contain yourself. Tucking your head into the crook of his neck, you whined and moaned like a desperate slut as he drove you to release.
“Bucky!” you cried out his name, shaking and trembling in his lap as your climax hit you hard and fast. “I’m cumming—fuck—h-hold me—”
He cooed softly into your ear, his arms never losing their grip. “I’ve got you, baby. That’s it. Cum all over me, baby. Fuck—I’m gonna cum too—”
His words died in his throat as he tucked his face into your neck. Melting into one, you were impossibly close as he gave one final, hard rock of his hips upward, burying himself completely deep inside you. His cum filled you—warm and thick.
“My god, princess—you’re fucking... takin’ everything inside—shit...” he babbled, his hands wandering greedily and desperately all over you. Your waist, your thighs, your back, your hair. Everywhere.
Both of you were left panting in the driver’s seat, his body warm as he held you close. You kept your face buried in the comfort of his neck while he pressed soft kisses to your head. His arms now loosened their hold, his fingers grazing lazily—and lovingly—up and down your spine.
A soft smile curled at your lips. You loved this. You loved being nestled in his lap, held close after the nasty, filthy love he’d made to you. You loved the safety you felt in his arms—a feeling no one else could ever give you.
And in this moment, tangled up in each other’s grasp, you never wanted to leave.
“That was…” you panted, “really, really good—”
“Come to my show on Friday.”
“Bucky,” you pulled away slightly to meet his eyes, keeping your voice light with a soft, tired laugh. “I told you. I can’t—”
“Please,” he pleaded, his voice breathless. “There’s nothing that I want more than seeing my pretty girl in the crowd, cheering me on.”
You bit your lip, hesitant. When he looked at you like that, it made saying no feel impossible.
“Would your band even want someone like me in the crowd?” you asked quietly. “Your friends make fun of girls like me.”
He sat up straighter, as if sensing your slow agreement, and you nearly tumbled out of his lap before he held you still.
“Come on, think about it,” he said, a grin tugging at his lips. “How good I’d look with my arm around you. Everyone would be talking about us. The band would start getting recognized, and you—” he paused, his thumb brushing your waist—“you could finally stop pretending. Listen to whatever music you want. Do whatever the hell you want…”
Bucky kept talking, but the only words that stuck were “how cool I’d look with my arm around your shoulder,” “everyone talking about us,” “my band will start getting recognized.”
It hit you like a punch to the gut—the very fear you’d been trying to bury clawing its way back to the surface. He didn’t want you. He wanted what came with you. The attention. The status. The boost.
He wasn’t any different from John Walker—except this time, you had actually slept with him.
He kept rambling, excitement spilling from his mouth, but the words blurred together, meaningless. Without saying a thing, you slid off his lap, tugged your skirt back into place, and crawled over to the passenger seat.
Bucky blinked, his confusion clearly visible at your sudden withdrawal.
“Take me home,” you mumbled, trying to straighten your clothes back into place.
He frowned, reaching a hand toward you. “Hey—”
“I said take me home,” you bit back, your glare suddenly harsh. “I want to fucking go home.”
His brows rose at your sudden change in tone. “Did I say something—”
“I told you to take me home, Bucky!” you yelled—practically screamed—loud enough that it made him recoil in the driver’s seat. “I shouldn’t have asked you to pick me up, and we shouldn’t have done this.” You motioned a finger between the two of you. “I’m not going to your gig. A girl like me should never be caught with a loser like you, anyway.”
You had to turn back to face the window, because the hurt on Bucky’s face would have otherwise crumbled you to pieces. But you needed to put yourself first. You were tired of being an accessory for men.
“Jesus,” he mumbled, adjusting his seat and quickly putting the car into drive. “Fine. I’ll take you home.”
The drive home was silent. Bucky kept stealing glances at you from the corner of his eye, but you refused to look back—staring hard out the window, putting miles of distance between you even as you sat side by side.
It was obvious he had more to say, but the words never came.
It was Thursday afternoon.
Bucky hadn’t seen you since the moment he dropped you off. He kept replaying every second of that night in his head—the look on your face when you begged him to take you home, the crack in your voice when you called him a loser. He tried to go back to his usual routine, attempting to drown out every thought of you with band practices, loud drums, and hanging out with his bandmates.
But it was no use.
Tomorrow night, he had his gig. And you had your party.
Maybe that’s how things were supposed to be in the end. He was the dirtbag loser in his corner of loud music, instruments, and dark clothes. And you were the pretty princess on your throne, surrounded by mean girls and boys who only cared about their own backs.
Maybe this was exactly where the two of you belonged.
But as he walked into the student union to hang up a few last-minute posters for his gig, he saw you.
Same corner table. Same group of people. You were laughing as if nothing between you and Bucky had ever happened. John Walker was sitting right beside you, leaning close, whispering something in your ear that made you smile wider.
Bucky stopped in his tracks, the posters clutched in his hand. For a moment, he thought about walking over there—just to say something, anything. Even if it meant a public humiliation ritual in front of your posse. But the look on your face told him he didn’t belong to you anymore.
He crumbled the papers in his hands and turned the other way.
It was Thursday night, the night before his gig. He lay in bed, the screen lighting up his tired eyes. He typed and deleted the same messages over and over.
bucky: can we talk?
bucky: i’m sorry
bucky: i miss you
Then, he sucked in a breath and finally found the courage to send one.
bucky: you looked happy today.
He watched the screen, his heart beating loud in his chest. A few seconds later, the message was marked Read.
And then nothing.
No reply.
Just that tiny, mocking word at the bottom of the screen—reminding him that you’d seen it. That you were choosing silence.
Bucky leaned back against the wall, the screen of his phone fading to black. He’d written a dozen crappy songs about heartbreak before, but none of them had ever felt quite like this.
Like losing someone who was still right there, just out of reach.
It was Friday morning.
Bucky’s gig was later that night, and the campus was already bustling with energy for the football game. Across the square, he spotted you—surrounded by your friends, all dressed in pink and laughing. It was ridiculous how much they all took after you, trying to be you.
In his hand, he clutched a small pink gift bag. He had spent half the week working up the nerve to bring it to you, the other half designing what was inside—his band’s shirt, but re-imagined just for you. Soft pink cotton, delicate script instead of bold print, a design that looked more like something you’d actually wear.
You hadn’t spoken since that night. But he couldn’t let today go by without trying.
He crossed the quad, his worn Converse crunching over the gravel. Your friends noticed him first—a few stifled laughs, some whispered comments he tried hard to ignore. One of them even elbowed you just before he reached your group.
He stopped in front of you, the gift bag dangling awkwardly from his hand. “Hey,” he said quietly, his voice rough.
You blinked. “Hey,” you drawled awkwardly, acting as if he wasn’t speaking directly to you.
“I, uh…” he rubbed the back of his neck, then held the bag out toward you. “This is for you.”
Your friends exchanged looks, trying and failing to hide their amusement. One of them muttered something under her breath that made the others snicker, but Bucky didn’t care. His eyes stayed on you, earnest and pleading.
“I made it,” he said. “Thought you might like it.”
You stared at the pink tissue paper peeking out from the top of the bag, then back at him. He looked tired—dark circles under his eyes, his hair a mess, his denim jacket slightly frayed at the cuffs. But he looked sincere.
With a nervous hand, you reached into the bag and pulled out the shirt. The hoops of the bag dangled on your arms as you spread the fabric wide.
Your eyes widened.
He had made you a shirt, just like he said he would.
“Bucky, I—”
Before you could finish, one of the girls spoke up behind you, loud enough for everyone nearby to hear. “Aww, that’s so cute. He made you a band shirt?”
Laughter rippled through the group, but you weren’t laughing. Your eyes stayed on him.
“Civil War?” one of them scoffed. “Never heard of ’em.”
“They’re probably not that good.”
All their words sounded like a blur to you. You tuned them out completely, focusing only on Bucky, who was the only thing in front of you.
Every word those girls spoke hit him hard, but he tried to hide it. As if sensing your guilt, his jaw tightened. But he didn’t move.
“It’s fine,” he said under his breath, offering you a small, crooked smile that was supposed to be reassuring—it wasn’t. “I just... wanted to see you and tell you that I’m sorry.”
But before you could say anything else, Bucky gave you a small, dismissive nod and turned away. You watched him go, the gift bag still dangling uselessly from your wrist. His broad shoulders—slumped in defeat—disappeared into the crowd, swallowed by the noise of the square.
And behind you, the girls were still laughing obnoxiously.
“Oh my god,” one of them giggled. “Did you see his jacket? Does he smoke or something? I swear, I smelled cigarettes.”
“And that shirt,” another snorted, gesturing at the one still clutched in your hands. “Did he print that in his mom’s basement or something?”
“Please,” someone added, “I can only imagine the kind of songs he wrote for you. That’s so creepy—”
You turned sharply, the sound of your heels cutting through their laughter.
“You done?” you asked, your voice calm in that terrifying, icy way that threw every single one of them off guard.
They exchanged awkward glances. “We were just—”
“No, really,” you interrupted, smiling sweetly. “Please, finish. I want to make sure I hear every single shallow, brainless thing that comes out of your bitchy mouths.”
One girl stammered. “E-excuse me—”
You took a step closer, the pink shirt still balled in your fist. “You sit here pretending you’re better than everyone because you wear pink and flirt with mediocre football players who can barely spell your names,” you sneered, almost laughing in their faces. “But in reality—all of you whores are a herd of sheep who just can’t seem to stop copying me and wanting to be me—”
One girl tried to laugh it off. “God, what’s your problem—”
“My problem?” you cut in, flashing a perfect, pristine smile. “My problem is that I’ve spent way too long pretending you’re all my friends when really, you’re just discount versions of me with worse hair and cheaper shoes.”
The group went silent.
You didn’t bother wasting another breath on them.
Instead, you turned on your heel and walked away, the sharp click of your heels echoing against the pavement as you disappeared into the crowd.
It was Friday night.
The air of Thunderbolt’s Bar, the kind of off-campus dive that always felt held together by duct tape and noise, was thick with the smell of sweat, stale beer, and cheap stage smoke. The crowd was better than usual—shoulder-to-shoulder, the low sounds of conversation punctuated by the clink of bottles and the occasional cheer from someone already half-drunk.
Backstage, Bucky sat on an old amp case, his knee bobbing—a nervous habit—as he twirled a drumstick in his hands.
Steve was pacing, hyped as always before a set. “Place is packed, man. It’s gonna be a good night.”
“Yeah,” Bucky muttered, glancing toward the heavy curtain that separated them from the crowd.
He stood, shoving his drumsticks into his back pockets. He wiped his palms on his jeans and peeked through a slit in the curtain for what had to be the tenth time. The front row was full—faces he recognized from campus, people holding drinks, heads bobbing to the warm-up playlist blasting from the speakers.
But not your face.
“Hey,” Sam called, tuning his guitar. “You good, Buck?”
Bucky forced a smile. “Peachy.”
But his stomach twisted as he looked out one last time. He’d imagined you there all week—standing in the crowd in that pink shirt he made for you, smiling at him like you used to. He had hoped, maybe, you’d show up after all.
Yet, after that night in his car, and after the poor choice of words he had strung together, why would you come to a dump like this for him?
You called him a loser. You told him that a girl like you should never be seen with a guy like him. You had stood there while your friends laughed at him.
And yet, deep down, Bucky knew you didn’t mean it. You couldn’t have.
What you two had—it was different. It wasn’t just some party fling or a drunken mistake. It was late-night drives at two in the morning, listening to Iron Maiden in his car and making love. It was greasy chili dogs. It was smudged eyeliner and band shirts.
He wouldn’t call it love. He wasn’t stupid. Love was too heavy, too final a word for what you two shared. But he cared for you—God, he cared for you so bad it hurt. It sat heavy in his ribs, an ache that wouldn’t go away no matter how big the status quo was or how hard he played his drums.
And he knew you cared for him too, even if you tried to hide it behind the perfect hair, the designer purses, and the flawless smile you put on for everyone else. He’d seen you without all of that—barefaced, soft, and real. The kind of real that made him forget to breathe.
He cared for you so much that maybe it was love.
He just didn’t know what to do with it anymore.
“Barnes,” Nat called, slipping her bass strap over her shoulder. “We’re on. You ready?”
Bucky forced a nod, his chest tight. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”
The stage lights dimmed, and the peaceful hum of the crowd turned into eager whispers. He followed Nat and Steve through the side curtain, the heat of the stage lights hitting him hard. The noise was instant—cheers, laughter, clinking bottles, the pulse of bass-heavy music vibrating through the bar’s floorboards.
Steve was the first to step up to the mic, flashing his trademark grin. “Alright, you beautiful people,” he called out, his voice amplified through the speakers. “We’re Civil War, and we’re about to make your Friday night a hell of a lot louder!”
The crowd erupted. Steve was a great lead; he always knew how to hype them up.
Bucky settled onto his seat behind the drums, his heart thudding in his chest. His fingers tightened around his sticks, the familiar feel of the wood trying to calm him. He looked up, scanning the sea of faces under the flashing pink and blue lights—people pressed against the stage, heads bobbing, phones raised.
He wasn’t looking for fans. He was looking for you.
He knew you wouldn’t come. You said you wouldn’t. He told himself he didn’t care. But the ache in his chest betrayed him, growing sharper with every passing second he couldn’t find you.
As Steve started strumming the opening riff, the sound Bucky had complained about all week, his gaze swept over the crowd. A sea of faces blurred together; sweatshirts, hats, flashing phones—none of them were you.
Until he saw pink.
There, near the middle of the crowd.
You stood out like you always did—soft, glowing, completely out of place and yet exactly where you should have been. You were wearing his shirt, the one he’d made just for you, the one your friends had laughed at. The pink fabric stood out sharply against the black sea of band tees and denim jackets, and somehow, you made it look like the most beautiful thing in the room.
And for the first time in days, everything felt right again.
Your eyes met his across the stage. A slow, knowing smile spread across your face. And from there on, Bucky knew what this was.
This was love.
You mouthed two words that hit him harder than he had hit any drum.
“Hey, loser.”
THANK YOU FOR READING!! i didn't anticipate this fic to be any more than 7k+ words but unfortunately i can't stop yapping.
but anyway. i hope you enjoyed, and thank you for reading!!!! <333 it means a lot to me.
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Yall.... idk what the hell happened but the posts for cat gyal 1-3 have actually fucking disappeared and I am so mad rn that idk what to even say💔 I have absolutely no clue if I'm gonna be able to remake these 3 parts cause I cannot find my saves for where I draft my writing on so rn I'm going through it😭
summary: bucky's got quite the interesting type, who knew the winter soldier had a thing for cat burglars? that only begs the question if he could handle you?
tw: mdni nsfw, smut, scraping, biting, hickeys, reader's a thief guys so there's stealing, dw we have some fluff stuff too, alpine, not proofread, i apologize for ooc
notes: back at it again, i have alot of stuff that needs to be released ngl but enjoy!
(check out my masterlist!)
"be careful, okay?..."
you purred softly into the side of BUCKY'S cheek, pressing a gentle kiss into the scruff of his stuble. you felt his hands slowly run down the curve of your back, the leather suit traced his gloved finger tips.
"a kitty only has claws when it needs to pounce... i'll be fine." you whisper softly near the shell of his ear and pull away to look him up in his eyes. grasping his jacket, you pull him into a deep kiss, bucky let's out a loud, muffled grunt but then relaxes as he pulls you closer against him. your bodies mold against eachothers.
a loud whistle is heard, causing bucky to break away from the kiss and look at sam.
just standing there in all his glory, smug and smirking at them both. "i apologize, i hope i'm not interrupting anything between you both." he says in a teasing way, that causes bucky to deliver and ice cold glare in his direction.
you cough into your hand and smile at them both, "well, i'll be on my way now... i have things to do now." you say with a small smirk plastered across your face as you hold onto bucky's metal arm. "does that include robbing another jewelry store?" sam asks with a brow raised as he looks towards you.
scoffing at him, you roll your eyes, "obviously not... i'm saving that for tomorrow, i'm actually heading to the bank right about now—"
"(y/n)–"
"baby, i'm kidding— call you when I get home." you whispered kissing him on his cheek one last time before waving bye to sam then walking towards your motorcycle.
bucky watched you from behind as you got onto the bike. he just in taked the sight of how that suit fit you so perfectly and the way your ass body looked in it. he'd be lying if he said it wasn't worth the watch.
he was simply simply entranced at this moment as he listened to rumbling sound of the start of the engine. sam coughed, breaking his "deep" focus and he was once again met with that smile.
that damn smile.
"you're having some fun huh?" he asked bucky as walked back towards an alley, the distant lights of the city guiding them as their torch. "yeah... what about it?" bucky asked quietly before looking back at his friend who only shrugged with smug grin still stapled onto his face. at this point it was really gonna piss off bucky really bad.
"i don't wanna come off rude but... can you handle all of that?"
it made him freeze in tracks and pause in thought and he looked at sam immediately. "what do you mean by that?" he asked and crossed his arms, immediately tilting his head.
what did he mean by, him "handling that" ?
"i mean buck– don't get me wrong but, she's like a challenge. you're up for that?"
it was like his eyes darkened at those words, bucky just stood there silent as sam continued to look at him with that shit-eating look on his face. he took a big step towards him, until they were face to face, sam startled at the sudden movement as bucky's face was inches away from his.
"i am the ONLY one who can handle that."
with that he aggressively moved past sam towards his own bike as sam stood there still in slight shock. "well damn—" he could only mumble to himself as he watched bucky drive out of the alley, no bye, no nothing.
▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔
and bucky was not lying. he meant what he said.
he was the only one who could handle you.
the way you'd be pressed on the mattress underneath him, his body would hover over yours as he pressed wet, open-mouthed kissed along your skin. he's the only one who could make your lips purse together in this moment as you squeezed your eyes shut from the fluttering feeling in your stomach.
"b-bucky..."
he's the only man who'd make your toes curl into the mattress sheet, and make your back arch like a cat's.
he'd his when he would feel you claw into him and scrape your finger nails down his back, then run your fingers to feel the definition of his toned muscles once you did.
when his pace would quicken you'd cry and try to grab onto his hair as he bit at your neck, sucking and licking down your cleavage. leaving a series of dark purple marks and bite marks in his trail before he'd latch onto your nipple.
sweat would crowd his forehead, it would make his hair stick onto it. it would run down his chest as he would place one of you legs over his shoulder and fuck into you deeper before it dripped onto you, who was already sweat covered as well.
his teeth would grit as he pushed you leg down so you knee would reach your head, his hips still aggressively rutting deeper and deeper into your velvet walls. your sounds would only cause him to continue.
bucky's feeding off this right now, because he's only proving his point more. he can take on a challenge.
he can handle you.
"p-please... pleaseee!!" you'd squeal as you dug your nails into his shoulder blades, his grunts and gruffs mixed with your ghastly choked up moans and sobs. he knew you loved this. and you did, you couldn't lie. no man makes you feel like fucking good.
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he knows how to get you to stop.
"put me down now!" you yell as you slap and hit at his, he barely even reacts to the hits as he carries you over his shoulder like you're a sack across a rooftop. "bucky... i'm giving you to the count of three!—" he stops and sighs before placing you down onto your feet.
you slap his chest and glare at him waiting for him to say something. bucky looks down at you and rubs the bridge of his nose, "do you understand that i'm trying to keep you out of trouble by not getting you arrested?" he asks and looks at you in the eyes.
you place a hand on your hip and roll your eyes at him, "i'm sneaky for a reason baby... i outrun the police everytime." you say a small smirk curling onto your lips. "you just don't know when to stop huh?" he snaps at you causing you to raise a brow at the shift in tone. "i mean, bucky... when i see something i want, i'm gonna take it. you signed up for this."
he sighs once more, and cups your cheek, tracing his thumb along your cheek bone. "i just wanna make sure you don't get caught up into something alright?" he says softly.
the words make your heart beat faster, and it fills your stomach with butterflies. you coo at him, a blush spreading across your cheeks underneath your mask as you hold his hand that cups your face. "you care for me... what's next for you huh?— wanna marry me?" you tease as you tip toe up to his height.
bucky watches as you lick your lips and stare at him as if he's meat that needs to be torn apart.
he just rolls his eyes and moves his hand down to your hip before he kisses you softly, bring you in towards his body in a swift motion.
"just be careful okay... " he mumbles against your lips. you softly nip at his bottom lip to which he hisses at and you smile.
"fine... i'll keep it on the low."
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his love made it simple to love him.
you'd be cornered near his kitchen counter, as he kissed all over your neck. just holding you close to him.
your arms were wrapped around his shoulders as you ran your fingers through his hair, letting out tinny breaths as he nibbled at you skin. you heard a tiny meow below your feet and gasped before practically pushing bucky off of you, which basically startled him.
you smiled loudly and kneeled down on the ground to look at the cat you just stared at you in confusion before knuzzling its head into your hand. "buckyyy!!... why didn't you tell me you had this cutie?!" you whined with a pout before scooping the cat gently into your arms and cradling it as if it were a baby.
"was pushing me necessary?... and yeah forget to introduce you to alphine..." he said quietly before he reached to scratch the side of the cat's ear.
you listened to the low rumbles of the snow white feline and you looked in awe as the cat comfortably curled into you.
"i wanna come over here forever!" you happily exclaimed, pressing soft kisses repeatedly into his cheek that caused him to chuckle deeply as he wrapped his arm around your waist. "she's gonna steal your attention away from me now huh?" he asked and pressed a kiss into your head.
you ran a finger down his stuble and smirked, "nothing ever steals from me, you'll never lose my focus."
"mhm... i'll count on that, hun."
of course he could handle you, cause who else would?
-peachessprincess is the creator of this work. please don't paste my work onto any other site
summary: in which bruce wayne finally comes to terms that his daughter is no longer his little girl.
tw: just pure fluff, fiancé/husband!roy harper mention! a little angst, based of two songs, "slipping through my fingers" and "maybe", crying bruce and batfam? father-daughter love chat. "father of the bride" based a little?
notes: i've had this on my mind for a while now and i always wanted to do a platonic batfam story so hear it is!
(check out my masterlist!)
he couldn't handle coming face to with this because today was the day he was supposed to let go.
BRUCE has faced many more difficult trails and tribulations than this one... so why was he having trouble with this one? maybe it was because it wasn't a life or death situation with the purpose of saving gotham from a bomb that would cause havoc for the entire city square.
this was something much more personal.
something concerning family.
it was your wedding.
it was about giving you away today, something he was slightly dreading for a while. don't get him mistaken. he was elated when he found out that roy had proposed to you, your entire engagement made him feel so proud and he was happy along with the rest of the family.
but it was only when he was on patrol with jason that the reality practically slapped him square in the face when jason said, "you ready to walk her down the aisle, old man?"
bruce froze on the rooftop ledge once he heard that, and then he thought of it. you were getting married. his little girl was getting married.
then the day finally came.
and now he was standing outside your dressing room, practically too paralyzed to knock.
prior to this, he had admitted one of his concerns to clark, but it only lead to the blue boy scout laughing square in his face which made bruce glare daggers at him. "i– i just didn't expect out of all the problems in your life that this one bothers you so much that you had to talk with me!"
bruce just sighed over clark's continuous laughter before he felt a firm grasp on his shoulder. clark looked at him and shifted his glasses back up onto his face, "listen bruce, this day was going to come one day or another, and whether it's hard or not... she's not your little girl today."
she's a woman now.
those words rang through his mind and bruce closed his eyes, taking soft breaths before moving his hand up towards the door and knocking gently.
the ceremony was about to start soon, the time was coming. the time was coming to give you away.
the door opened to reveal cassie with steph peeping right behind her. as soon as they saw him, two big grins appeared on their face, practically gleaming with joy. "HE'S HERE!— bruce cover your eyes and turn around."
chuckling softly, bruce put his hands up in surrender and covered his eyes, slowly walking in backwards into the room. both girls guiding him to make sure he didn't trip over anything.
giggles could be heard and he could just imagine the smiles all around him. the smells of rose, strawberries and vanilla clouded his scent, bringing a deep warmth feeling to his chest. it was soon that he had to look you in the eyes, the eyes of his little girl.
"okay you can look now!"
he uncovered his eyes, taking in the room in all its glory, elegant and ornate. its intricate white molding and decorative carvings adorning the walls and door frames.
bruce turns around, and then the air is kicked out of his lungs as soon as he sees you. his eyes widened at the sight of you.
the wedding ball gown is a cascade of ivory and lace that seemed to breathe as you stood in it. the bodice, sculpted with delicate embroidery, while the sheer sleeves wrapped yourr arms in a veil of elegance, traced with threads of silver light. you hold a bouquet of light pink flowers, and your hair is pinned up with grace as a floor length veil falls behind you.
"hi dad... " you say softly as you smile brightly, watching him take the most cautious steps towards. you look like an angel. you were his angel, a blessing that he was so grateful for.
then he felt it, the tears beginning to pool in his eyes as he felt them burn. he takes the handkerchief out his suits pocket and covers both eyes with them. he can't contain it anymore.
you're a woman now, in all your glory.
you feel tears weld in your eyes and you try to fan them away in order to not mess up your makeup. "you're gorgeous... you look perfect... " you hear bruce mutter as he tries to contain a choked up sob.
your lips quiver and you let out a soft hiccup before you shuffle towards him, steph and cass making sure to hold up your dress from behind so you wouldn't fall. you cry as you wrap your arms around bruce, you sob as if you were a kid again and hearing this made it even harder for him.
because you had always been his little girl for forever in his eyes.
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he didn't want to let go of you when you both started to walk down that aisle.
he felt like he'd be losing something that he could never get back ever again. bruce didn't want that, but you were so happy, and seeing you that happy made his world.
"grayson— please stop slobbering all over yourself, i'd like to watch my sister get married in silence." damien said, glaring at his older brother who couldn't control the waterworks. dick continued to cry into a rag given to him courtesy of starfire, who let him cry into her shoulder.
each step you took down the chapel towards the alter was a step closer and closer to what he had been dreading. but when he felt the way you held his arm in such a comforting way, he knew what was for the best.
he watched how roy take in every second of beauty and grace. jason stood behind him, putting a hand on his shoulder whispering something to him, probably "not to fuck this up." or whatever else he'd say to his best friend.
as you reached the altar, bruce felt your touch loosen before you let go of his arm. then you gave him one last smile before you gently kissed the side of his cheek, "i love you dad... " you whispered before you carefully took your place infront of roy.
bruce looked towards roy, something that he would hate to admit was scared to do, but here he was.
"... keep her safe."
roy's response was a courteous, solem nod, which was all bruce need. which was what gave him that final peace.
as he walked to his seat in the front row and sat down, he watched you interlock a hand with roy.
it was then that bruce finally realized that he would never come home to see you at the top of the stair case excited to see him again.
he'd never get to see you extatic on christmas morning after opening your gifts and immediately jumping on him to hug him again.
he'd never see you peep into the batcave because you had a nightmare and wanted to fall asleep next to him again.
you had simply grown up.
slipped through his fingers in the blink of an eye.
he drowned out the music, the excessive sobs from dick and damien telling him to shut up. he was just focused on how happy you looked up there.
he had to face that struggle of seeing you as a child.
he wished that you could stay the same forever.
but that's not how time is, isn't it? you were a woman now, and he would not hold you back.
-peachessprincess is the creator of this work. please don't paste my work onto any other site
dividers by (i lost creators @, if you know who made them please tag creator so I could give credit)
HIII!! Thank you all for 300 followers, I haven't had this many people like me writing, and it was quite unexpected! If you all would like to see a special I could definitely do that but other than that thank you!!:D
summary: in which bruce wayne finally comes to terms that his daughter is no longer his little girl.
tw: just pure fluff, fiancé/husband!roy harper mention! a little angst, based of two songs, "slipping through my fingers" and "maybe", crying bruce and batfam? father-daughter love chat. "father of the bride" based a little?
notes: i've had this on my mind for a while now and i always wanted to do a platonic batfam story so hear it is!
(check out my masterlist!)
he couldn't handle coming face to with this because today was the day he was supposed to let go.
BRUCE has faced many more difficult trails and tribulations than this one... so why was he having trouble with this one? maybe it was because it wasn't a life or death situation with the purpose of saving gotham from a bomb that would cause havoc for the entire city square.
this was something much more personal.
something concerning family.
it was your wedding.
it was about giving you away today, something he was slightly dreading for a while. don't get him mistaken. he was elated when he found out that roy had proposed to you, your entire engagement made him feel so proud and he was happy along with the rest of the family.
but it was only when he was on patrol with jason that the reality practically slapped him square in the face when jason said, "you ready to walk her down the aisle, old man?"
bruce froze on the rooftop ledge once he heard that, and then he thought of it. you were getting married. his little girl was getting married.
then the day finally came.
and now he was standing outside your dressing room, practically too paralyzed to knock.
prior to this, he had admitted one of his concerns to clark, but it only lead to the blue boy scout laughing square in his face which made bruce glare daggers at him. "i– i just didn't expect out of all the problems in your life that this one bothers you so much that you had to talk with me!"
bruce just sighed over clark's continuous laughter before he felt a firm grasp on his shoulder. clark looked at him and shifted his glasses back up onto his face, "listen bruce, this day was going to come one day or another, and whether it's hard or not... she's not your little girl today."
she's a woman now.
those words rang through his mind and bruce closed his eyes, taking soft breaths before moving his hand up towards the door and knocking gently.
the ceremony was about to start soon, the time was coming. the time was coming to give you away.
the door opened to reveal cassie with steph peeping right behind her. as soon as they saw him, two big grins appeared on their face, practically gleaming with joy. "HE'S HERE!— bruce cover your eyes and turn around."
chuckling softly, bruce put his hands up in surrender and covered his eyes, slowly walking in backwards into the room. both girls guiding him to make sure he didn't trip over anything.
giggles could be heard and he could just imagine the smiles all around him. the smells of rose, strawberries and vanilla clouded his scent, bringing a deep warmth feeling to his chest. it was soon that he had to look you in the eyes, the eyes of his little girl.
"okay you can look now!"
he uncovered his eyes, taking in the room in all its glory, elegant and ornate. its intricate white molding and decorative carvings adorning the walls and door frames.
bruce turns around, and then the air is kicked out of his lungs as soon as he sees you. his eyes widened at the sight of you.
the wedding ball gown is a cascade of ivory and lace that seemed to breathe as you stood in it. the bodice, sculpted with delicate embroidery, while the sheer sleeves wrapped yourr arms in a veil of elegance, traced with threads of silver light. you hold a bouquet of light pink flowers, and your hair is pinned up with grace as a floor length veil falls behind you.
"hi dad... " you say softly as you smile brightly, watching him take the most cautious steps towards. you look like an angel. you were his angel, a blessing that he was so grateful for.
then he felt it, the tears beginning to pool in his eyes as he felt them burn. he takes the handkerchief out his suits pocket and covers both eyes with them. he can't contain it anymore.
you're a woman now, in all your glory.
you feel tears weld in your eyes and you try to fan them away in order to not mess up your makeup. "you're gorgeous... you look perfect... " you hear bruce mutter as he tries to contain a choked up sob.
your lips quiver and you let out a soft hiccup before you shuffle towards him, steph and cass making sure to hold up your dress from behind so you wouldn't fall. you cry as you wrap your arms around bruce, you sob as if you were a kid again and hearing this made it even harder for him.
because you had always been his little girl for forever in his eyes.
▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔
he didn't want to let go of you when you both started to walk down that aisle.
he felt like he'd be losing something that he could never get back ever again. bruce didn't want that, but you were so happy, and seeing you that happy made his world.
"grayson— please stop slobbering all over yourself, i'd like to watch my sister get married in silence." damien said, glaring at his older brother who couldn't control the waterworks. dick continued to cry into a rag given to him courtesy of starfire, who let him cry into her shoulder.
each step you took down the chapel towards the alter was a step closer and closer to what he had been dreading. but when he felt the way you held his arm in such a comforting way, he knew what was for the best.
he watched how roy take in every second of beauty and grace. jason stood behind him, putting a hand on his shoulder whispering something to him, probably "not to fuck this up." or whatever else he'd say to his best friend.
as you reached the altar, bruce felt your touch loosen before you let go of his arm. then you gave him one last smile before you gently kissed the side of his cheek, "i love you dad... " you whispered before you carefully took your place infront of roy.
bruce looked towards roy, something that he would hate to admit was scared to do, but here he was.
"... keep her safe."
roy's response was a courteous, solem nod, which was all bruce need. which was what gave him that final peace.
as he walked to his seat in the front row and sat down, he watched you interlock a hand with roy.
it was then that bruce finally realized that he would never come home to see you at the top of the stair case excited to see him again.
he'd never get to see you extatic on christmas morning after opening your gifts and immediately jumping on him to hug him again.
he'd never see you peep into the batcave because you had a nightmare and wanted to fall asleep next to him again.
you had simply grown up.
slipped through his fingers in the blink of an eye.
he drowned out the music, the excessive sobs from dick and damien telling him to shut up. he was just focused on how happy you looked up there.
he had to face that struggle of seeing you as a child.
he wished that you could stay the same forever.
but that's not how time is, isn't it? you were a woman now, and he would not hold you back.
-peachessprincess is the creator of this work. please don't paste my work onto any other site
dividers by (i lost creators @, if you know who made them please tag creator so I could give credit)
