I’ve read so many fics about Jason Todd and Dick Grayson that I can no longer enjoy Bruce Wayne x reader content, because I feel disgusted with myself…what have I done
Whether it's a quick peck on the cheek or a long messy kiss on the mouth, he always needs to have his lips on you as soon as he sees you. He says 'hello' by grabbing your face and planting a soft kiss on your mouth. That very quickly turns into something messy, as he sticks his tongue inside your mouth (a welcoming, expected intrusion you suppose). It doesn't matter if you're around other people, his greeting is the same as always, which is probably why Roy and Jade stopped asking you guys to babysit. He kisses you with the intention of turning it into something raunchy. Tongues clashing in each others' mouths, your lipgloss transferring to his lips, hands grabbing your backside and squeezing, giving everyone a show. You don't even get embarrassed anymore, in fact you've grown to crave it.
He can't not kiss you during sex. He swears that he needs to do it, otherwise he won't be able to finish. He'll put you in a mean mating press, your legs pushed against your chest, making you feel a delicious stretch, just so he can put his mouth on yours. During prone, he'll push your back down onto the covers but will grab your head to turn it and face him. If it's not the lips on your mouth, it's the lips between your legs. He'll take his time, kissing and sucking for hours as you cry out in pain and pleasure.
He can't help it, he just loves kissing you!
a/n: im actually so pissed at myself for deleting that baby daddy!jason post by accident. i wrote this in my physical journal instead of the next part..... dw once i get over myself i will be back with more of that family...hopefully
as always thank you for reading, i hope you enjoyed!
it’s that love they talk about on a sunday afternoon.
adoration practically leaks from jason todd’s pores, shining like rays of light on your skin, rejuvenating at every turn.
the kind of love that makes your heart feel warm and fluttery and it just radiates off of him easily. knowing what temperature you liked the house to be at or how you always toss your balled up socks in one corner of the room than the other.
jason is not the type to hide that he loves you and will remind you constantly.
he’s not passive about it and keeps it abundantly clear that the two of you are written in the stars for him. he’s like the embodiment of devotion because it’s fundamentally rooted in him to communicate and try to understand you more daily. he doesn’t assume anything, but he learns more and more.
he’s also the type of man to bring you flowers just because. at first it really is sweet. he brings them over on every date. then every time he makes an excuse to see you, he’s got flowers tucked away somewhere on his person even when you told him he didn’t have to bring it on every outing.
sometimes it’s just flowers he picks up on his way to get you, intricately picked and tied with a stem, like he really took his time choosing them. other times, it’s when he picks you up from work with a massive bouquet of snapdragons cause you said you liked them once. he’ll wait outside patiently, one hand in his pocket and the other gripping the flowers, biting the inside of cheek until you come outside.
it’s always to see the smile on your face and the hint of surprise even when you knew it was coming.
he lives for that look.
when you call him drunk for the first time, having a friend phone him for you at a party you didn’t even want to go to, even then he brought a dozen roses. arriving to pick you up in under five minutes with a thin layer of sweat over his brow. he even apologized while he held your hair back when you threw up and continued while you drifted off asleep after he tucked you in.
“—seriously though, i would’ve brought a bigger bouquet but the store was closing and it was all they had so i just put the good flowers from the remaining together and—”
when you woke up in the morning with the flowers in a mason jar because all of the other vases you had were currently being used, you tried to tell him they were getting to be too much. the man claimed that’s nonsense and that there’s no such thing while continuing to softly sing whatever he was playing while cooking breakfast for when you woke.
then, he danced with you in the kitchen to distract you from protesting. but when he spun you and you groaned all groggy and hungover, he kept you close to his chest instead, humming the soothing tune. rocking the two of you back and forth in your dingy kitchen, shifting from either leg until you melted right into him. cheek pressed to his hard chest.
the music plays softly from the kitchen and he coos by your ear while he steadily dances you over to the couch with him, lyrics pouring from his love stricken lips.
“she looks just like an angel.” tucking your head into the crook of his neck while you bask in his warmth. still humming the same tune as he softly sings, “—when she walks across the room.”
it’s so easy to fall into him when he’s like this.
later in the week he thrifts you a dozen more vases that went with the decor of your house along with a couple extra trinkets he thought you’d like.
he keeps a photo of you from that morning in his wallet, tucked in his arms and mouth parted in sleep. he’s smiling with his head tilted just barely in the frame, though the focus is on you resting on his chest. next to it is a kiss you left when he pulled out his wallet to show you. lipstick mark staining his cheek in the photo.
he actually got it laminated so your kiss never fades away.
when he slowly moves his life into your home from all the late nights he stays over, he insists on paying the rent and utilities just because he can. your name is on the lease but he doesn’t give a shit because he meant what he said when he told you what’s mine is yours.
he starts buying mundane things in pairs too because, “i couldn’t just buy one, they come in pairs, you can’t just split them up.”
he’s made any excuse to buy you things that remind him of you, and that meant a lot since he turned out to be more sentimental than you thought. jason would buy you pastries and chocolate with the cheesiest line like i thought of you because it’s sweet like you.
that’s how you knew i love you came in many forms with him.
at first he struggled with saying it so instead you see it in his actions. though the man is sentimental and the first time he says it and you repeat it right back, the hearts in his eyes expand and he slots your hand into his. jason never struggles to remind you after that time. the love that he drowns you in is the only kind you’d want to receive, and that’s just the kind of man he is. and jason todd is that type of man to do acts of service for you solely because he is capable without ever being told to.
you hate washing the dishes? that’s okay with him! jason has no problem wiping them down and scrubbing them clean.
“you know the saying, if life is a loop full of dirty dishes and laundry, all that means is it’s a lifetime full of home cooked food and clean clothes.” humming gruffly while he scrubs, turning his head back to find you still staring like you’d fallen for him all over again and grin, “or something like that ma.”
and physical contact? he’s like velcro to your skin.
while you cook, his head is tucked between your neck and your shoulder while he’s pressed against your back. occasionally touching your hand and stirring for you.
even after having a long night and getting in after you, he’ll wake up with you for work and watch you get ready for the day. he’s leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed and his hair disheveled. watching you with eager eyes as you do your skincare or dress yourself. it didn’t make you feel embarrassed because it wasn’t exactly lustful. it felt like he was burning the memory and ingraining you as the sole purpose of everything good in his life because that’s exactly what he’d tell you that you are.
or you could be sitting on the couch and watching television when jason decides it’s time to strike. just moments after coming home, he plops his full weight ontop of you and groans. you make a sound that resembled a cushion losing air but he just settles a leg between yours to take some weight off of you. he pulls your shirt up just enough for him to slot his head underneath and steal some of your warmth from your skin.
you complained that he’s gotta at least wash his face. told him he’s stretching the collar of your shirt out with his head when his hair pokes out to touch your chin. but slowly, you press a kiss against his lips, watching him deepen it before it gets sloppy and he starts to trail his way back down your neck. lower and lower before disappearing beneath the fabric. he groans cause you’ve got no bra on. when he rubs his face between your breasts and nuzzles until he’s comfortable, you gasp softly. the stubble on his chin rubbing against the sensitive skin, side to side until he stops to take a bite of the plush flesh.
you laugh when he settles. “did you just motorboat me?”
jason blows against your skin while he huffs and does it again to get you to squeal and shove him away just for him to grip onto you tighter.
“can’t a man just appreciate a work of art?”
a/n: idrk what this is but i love jason and he’s the cheesiest, loverboy to ever exist idc
Jason wants to know why his girlfriend doesn’t sing around him + dancing together in the kitchen. reader who can’t sing well/has a bad singing voice basically. #projecting time cause i’ve literally programmed myself to not sing around people🫶 this is SO self indulgent so jay gets a little ooc towards the end like SERIOUSLY 😭
Singing draws Jason to the kitchen, fresh out of the shower, hair still damp as he runs a towel through it, a thin dark grey shirt stretched across his upper body and sweatpants around his lower, his skin moist as steam from the bathroom following him as he softly exists the bedroom, padding softly without a sound.
Music plays through a cheap speaker, one that you had an unreasonable attachment to, insisting that music just sounded better from it. The music blasted through the kitchen, not too loud to disturb the neighbours but just loud enough to be satisfying to sing along, and sing along you did.
Your voice was free, in a way Jason had never heard before, loud and unrestrained as you sang along to one of your favourite songs. You were off-key, considerably so, and your voice broke every so often, you’d loose your breath mid-lyric, taking a breath before continuing on. All as you didn’t register Jason leaning against the doorframe.
It was one of the small things that tugged at Jason’s brain during his quiet moments, when he was left alone with his thoughts and you weren’t there to reassure him. You loved music, not only did you voice it but there was always music playing in the apartment, either in your headphones or through the speaker.
Whenever Jason was around, you’d mumble the words along, not singing, just your lips silently moving with the pleasant sounds but never singing. Anytime it was just you, he’d hear your voice through the walls but you’d stop the moment you heard his footsteps. You’d smile when you see him, brightly and with love, and go back to just mumbling along.
Even now, the only reason you were still singing was because you were distracted with throwing spices into the pan in front of you, whatever dinner you were cooking up. Jason’s arms were crossed across his chest, such a loving smiles stretched across his lips. Goodness, even if you were the worst singer on the planet, Jason would listen to you screech for hours and days, because all he wanted to do, was to see you free and happy.
You continue singing without care, bringing up the spatula to act as a microphone as you swayed your head to the music and sang your heart out. Then, you caught the slightest movement across the corner of your eyes that causes your entire body to jump backwards. “Fuck!”
“Just me, baby.” Jason holds his hands up defensively, that lovesick smile still pressed on his lips. “Oh my gosh!” You exclaimed, your hand clutching your chest at the fright he gave you. You knew your boyfriend was a vigilante but you never got quite used to how silent his presence was.
Jason holds his hands up still defensively as he pushed off the door and moved through the space, turning to corner to stand behind you. You don’t glare up at him, but glance up nervously like he would say something.“Sorry, princess. ‘M sorry.” Jason apologises again into your ear and his hands surrounded your waist, hugging you from the back as you continued cooking.
You turned your head, pressing a kiss to his cheek, you could feel the dampness on his skin. You lean back just a moment and look at him with a crease between your eyebrows but Jason just…smiles at you. You press another kiss, on the same spot then turned back to the pan.
You continue to hum along to the song as you sway and Jason sways with you. He presses a kiss to your head, warm arms around you and a comfortable atmosphere settled in the kitchen. The song switches as it ends, another song you adored by the same artist, a song that even Jason knew the words to because of how much you played it.
“Why do you stop singing the moment I show up?”
Jason’s soft question startled you slightly, your hand pausing just a moment before you continue stirring. It was your turn, you and him took turns cooking alternate days and it was your turn. He presses another kiss to your earlobe. “Hm?” You prompt him to explain.
“You sing so much, you love singing. But you stop whenever you hear me around. Why?” Jason asks, voice soft to not overpower the music, both of your bodies still swaying. You stay quiet for a few moments, collecting your thoughts and honestly trying not to cry. “‘Cause I sound bad.” Is what you settle on finally.
“No, you don’t.” Jason counters immediately, causing you to snort a laugh as the blatant lie, the sounds in turn causing Jason to frown. “Do not lie to me.” You retort. You loved to sing, but you knew since you were younger that you didn’t sounds quite nice when you did. So you stopped in an audience.
“Okay. You don’t sound bad to me.” Jason whispers again, his voice slightly gravely in your ear. The tips of your lips quirk up as you shake your head. “Nothing about me is bad to you.” You weren’t wrong. You’d never felt so loved, the unconditional nature of Jason’s love unnerved you sometimes.
“Mhm. Exactly.” Jason agreed. The song in the background dips into a calmer tone, a jazzier turn and Jason takes that as a sign to pull the spatula away from your hand, despite your playful chuckle of his name, and he turns you with his gentle calloused hands on your waist, pulling you away from the stove and into a dance.
You giggle, you’ve done this exact dance with him about a hundred times maybe as he spins you and pulls you back into close embrace. Jason leans down, pressing his lips to yours as you smile into the kiss. “You could sound like a velociraptor and I’d still think it’s the most beautiful song in the world.” He murmurs right against your lips without pulling away.
“Fuckin’ loverboy.” You murmur back as you both continue swaying and moving around the kitchen in dance, stealing kisses between musical beats. “Yeah…Your loverboy.” Jason drawls
ᯓ★'s P.S. almost cried as i wrote this and oh my gosh it got SO self indulgent at the end omg forgive me.
don't forget to comment and reblog if you enjoyed!
← ゛masterlist ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆
taglist꩜ .ᐟ ALL WORKS @hepprine, @apollos-notes, @cenna-luna, @solasyra, @vanillakirstein, @arabellas-barbarella-swimsuit12, @lovehadlovelost, @buckybarnesismyhusband, @xxreyofsunshinexx, @amandjslpz, @punkrockrr, @artisticmindsunite-blog, @freakkay09, @champagnesbiggestproblem, @shazzark, @winchesterslullaby, @bat2nsignia, @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger, @arfemiz
ALL DC WORKS @indigoscribe, @t1mbits, @coastalcowgirlie, @uxavity, @jaydennicole, @shadowviolets, @athenxt, @soggywhore, @rayaofstarlight, @madi-iii, @kekeanna266, @skin2bone111, @fanficboysarebae, @willow-vixen, @fairyspcll, @mathpotstew, @thesunshoe
JASON TODD WORKS @avengingangel14, @cherrylicious03, @the-ultimate-quokka, @drdeathifying, @queenofviolenceandnerds, @rainystrangerwasteland, @caterppillar, @profoundgreenturtle, @celestills, @only-dot-nicky, @sirenoftheeast, @s0zzbat, @vampiranne, @kiraflowersworld
contents: oral fixation, french kissing, cunnilungus (f!recieving), penetrative sex, overstimulation, porn without plot
words: 400
Clark Kent is a tongue man.
When he's kissing you, even the slightest opening of your mouth is enough for him to slip his tongue into your mouth. If you moan or whimper or gasp - he's there. Never demanding, never invading, but intensely, fiercely intimate.
When he's prepping you for his cock (because God knows it's always a stretch to fit him inside) he doesn't just finger you or lick your clit - he's eating you out. Tongue thrusting deep into of you, licking up all the juices spilling from you with how good he makes you feel. His nose is rubbing against your clit, tongue flicking that spot that makes you see stars while he slips a finger or two inside as well, just for good measure.
It's the way his body works - all of his senses are so much more sensitive than those of regular humans, and that includes his taste. It's like your invading his mind with your taste, a haze of love and lust settling on his mind every time.
When he is done, he will always, without fail, bring his fingers up to his mouth, swirling his tongue around them so he can lick every bit of you off of them.
And don't even get him started on your fingers in his mouth.
You don't even do it on purpose - actually, you don't even do anything at all. You're too lost in the pleasure of Clark's cock dragging through your folds to even think coherently as you reach up to place a hand on his cheek. His eyes are on you, taking in all of your expressions like he is trying to commit this moment to memory.
But when you innocently trace your thumb against his cheek, he turns his head and catches your thumb in his mouth, his eyes never leaving yours. They end up half closed as he sucks on your finger, his hips suddenly driving the fat tip of his cock deeper, harder into you. He's moaning around your digit as his tongue caresses the skin of it, tasting you, taking you.
After you've both come down from your highs, he takes his sweet time slipping out of you, not resisting the urge to just press into you one last time before he does, deep but gentle as the aftershocks run through your system, before bringing your knees up to your chest. His big hands holding you steady and open for him, gripping at the back of your thighs as he dives his tongue into you again. He's slow and gentle, but unrelenting until he has tasted every last drop you can give him.
They say that the tongue is a muscle, and Clark intends to give it a good workout every time he's with you.
jason todd has a soft spot for you pt.2 | fluff | part one
Soft Boyfriend! Jason Todd, who preps fruits and vegetables for you on a random weekday night. After a particularly long day, you came home with sore feet and heavy eyelids, telling Jason you were so tired you’d decided to put your meal planning off until tomorrow. The next day, you notice them sitting in tempered glassware when you open your fridge: each cruciferous and root peeled and cut with fine care; every fruit washed and stored. On top, a post-it note he’s left for you.
Was up late, figured I’d just do it for you — J
You smile when you see he’s signed it with his initial. As if anyone else would raid your fridge in hopes of easing your daily routine.
Soft Boyfriend! Jason Todd, who, contrary to popular belief, tries to maintain a clean space wherever he goes. He extends his tidiness to your apartment, offering to fold your laundry or easily lifting the sofa while you vacuum all the crumbs and dust hiding underneath. His heap of clothes, as bulky and heavy as he is, is softly folded in “his section” of your room, as if trying to take up as little space as possible. You rarely have to ask for help, as his hands are always quick to move furniture aside or find the nearest cleaning spray.
Soft Boyfriend! Jason Todd, who still shovels the glut of mushy, overcooked spaghetti into his mouth after you accidentally left it on the stove for too long. “Jay, you don't have to eat it if you don’t like it. let’s just order takeout.” He slurps on the noodles, small sticky stains painting the corners of his mouth a muddy red, and just cocks an eyebrow.
“Takeout f’what?” Another swallow. “m’fine wih this.” His fingers swirl around the rim, coating it with the thick, gloopy sauce. Because Jason Todd is not one to waste when it comes to food or the carefully crafted devotion of the person he loves most.
Soft Boyfriend! Jason Todd, who writes you letters. Each page is lettered in neat cursive, every dotted letter inked with eager sincerity. It was your idea at first, a personal project meant to reduce your screen time that metamorphosed into a habitual routine. He rambles about mundane tasks. Remembers the name of a cute little kid with a wide tooth gap, or muses about Gotham’s particular smell, which he insists is "part of her charm.” He weaves each sentence and maps out a web of everyday moments, allowing you entry to his intimate thoughts and feelings. And nothing makes him happier than having you to share them with.
Soft Boyfriend! Jason Todd, who welcomes you home and takes care of you after you’ve been out with friends. He lets you wrap your legs around him as you embrace him like a koala, looking at him with a smeary smile and glossy, intoxicated eyes. “Someone’s happy to see me,” he laughs as he guides you.
He soaks a warm washcloth to gently clear your face of any sweat, because he knows you’d complain about not washing your face before bed. He grabs your toothbrush, slotted in its usual place with his, and opens the seams of your mouth to brush each tooth. You reward him with a frothy, toothpaste-glazed grin. When he’s done, he wipes his thumb across your mouth and plants a chaste peck at the corner of your lips.
Soft Boyfriend! Jason Todd, who is indifferent to birthdays and most holidays, but will relish every opportunity to celebrate them with you. Your birthday is coded into his internal index of important information, secretly circled in red marker on the calendar that hangs on his wall. Even cheesy Hallmark holidays like Valentine's Day have an unprecedented, looming gravity for him.
Your apartment is filled with mementos and gifts he's given you. A shitty birthday card, the ones with corny jokes that play music when you open them, because he knows you find them fun. Ivies and succulents planted on your windowsill, pots with blooming perennials, or the occasional vases with roses. Poloraids time-stamped and named with every place he's taken you, ranging from local diners and restaurants to planned trips on the salt-air coast. Never materialistic but always sentimental and intentional.
Soft Boyfriend! Jason Todd, who is a terrible flirt. His attempts to coax a blush from you range from tooth-rottingly sweet compliments to cheesy, overused pick-up lines. He'll ask you, "Are you made of angel dust? You look heavenly." Or, you’ll be kissing him goodbye on your way to work, while his large frame eases through the doorway, a cheeky smile plastered on his lips as he sighs, “I hate to see you leave, but I love watching you go.” You roll your eyes as you turn back at his very self-satisfied expression.
Soft Boyfriend! Jason Todd, who never officially asks you to move in. After all, it would be presumptuous of him to assume you’re as ready as he is to handle the reins of domesticity. Instead, every visit brings a mounting assortment of items: an extra toothbrush at his place and one at yours; his well-loved shampoo and soaps in your shower; his favorite mugs now lining your cabinet. So it isn't until you wake up one morning, his head nuzzled into your neck and spooning you for the sixth time this week, that you decide to ask. “Jay, why don’t we just get our own place?”
His sea-colored eyes flutter open, lashes tickling your jaw, and you feel his smile through the nape of your neck. And without hesitation, as if he was waiting for the question, he responds, "I think that's a really good idea."
a/n: this is unofficially dedicated to the sweet anon who was interested in a part two. it sort of turned into pure domestic fluff lol. hopefully, this cures me of my terrible writer's block.
AUTUMN DURALD ARKAPAW
becomes the first woman ever to win the Best Cinematography Oscar at the 98th Academy Awards for her work on "Sinners" — March 15, 2026
pairing: king!bucky barnes x commoner!reader, cinderella au
warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, dilf bucky, age gap, a man who yearns is a man who earns, jealousy, possessive behavior, daddy issues, physical violence and parental abuse, arguments, sexual tension, banter, semi-public sex, power dynamic, oral f!receiving, fingering, breeding kink, size difference, pet names: "my dear" "sweetheart" "my love"
word count: 16.3k
masterlist || 𝓹𝓽. 1
a/n: due to popular demand + the new bridgerton season inspiring me. fic playlist
synopsis:
After fleeing the palace, you are now the most wanted woman in the kingdom—caught between Prince Jamie, who won't let go, and his father, King Barnes, who refuses to lose.
After your discreet exit from the palace, you hadn’t expected your step-family to return so soon. You had hoped for a few hours of solitude to bask in the memory of the King’s touch—to hold onto the feeling of his lips against your skin before reality reclaimed you.
But Beatrice wouldn’t even spare you that small courtesy.
When you had tentatively mentioned your surprise at their early arrival last night, Beatrice had ripped her gloves off with a look of pure agitation—already in a bad mood.
“The King cleared the entire ballroom,” Beatrice snapped, her voice trembling with indignant rage. “Apparently, some woman he was seeking went missing without his notice, and he turned into a madman. He ended the festivities right then and there, nearly throwing the delegates out of the palace in his haste to find her. The Prince had to deliver the King’s order because of how upset he was.”
She narrowed her eyes at you, unaware of the way your heart quickened anxiously at her words.
“A complete waste of a perfectly good gown. All because of some nameless little tramp who didn’t know how to stay put.”
Beatrice paused, her tirade dying in her throat as she noticed your hesitation.
She took a slow step toward you, the sharp clack of her heels against the floors made you snap back to a reality you weren’t ready to face.
“I’m surprised you’re still awake,” she pointed out suspiciously. Her eyes trailed over you, scanning from your head to your toes as if searching for a single hair out of place.
You blinked, forcing your spine to straighten despite the ache in your muscles.
“I—I had only just finished the kitchen,” you stammered. “I was about to climb into bed when the door opened.”
Her eyes narrowed into thin, venomous slits, and you swore you saw her eyebrow twitch as if she realized something. She stepped closer, invading your personal space until you could smell the expensive perfume. For a terrifying heartbeat, you were certain she would call you out, strip you of your dignity, and banish you from your own home and onto the streets to fend for yourself.
But she didn’t.
Instead, a cruel, satisfied smirk curled her lips.
“Good girl,” she said, the praise sounding more like she was addressing a well-trained hound than a human being.
And now, with the morning sun rising over the large windows, you find yourself on your hands and knees again, the soaked sponge scrubbing against the marble floors. You were scrubbing a surface that should have already been polished—had Agnes not stomped across the foyer in her muddy riding boots without a care in the world.
“And don’t forget to polish the shoes right after! I’m going riding again later.” Agnes called out, kicking her boots off haphazardly.
They tossed in your direction, hitting the floor with a heavy thud that splattered even more fresh droplets of muck across the area you had just cleaned.
You winced at the sound, your shoulders aching with a deep, bone weary exhaustion. Your body was utterly spent, and your mind was miles away, still lingering in a dark study filled with the scent of ink, papers, and sex.
You remembered the way the King’s body had pressed into yours, the feel of his salt and pepper beard tickling your chin just before his lips collided with your own. He was a King who never knew what it was like to be hungry, yet he took you and made love to you like a man starving.
Agnes let out a tired groan, dragging her feet to meet her sister Margaret on the couch. She slumped down next to her, tossing her head back against the cushions with a weary sigh, acting as if she even knew what a truly hard day felt like.
“I can’t believe it,” Agnes whined, her voice high and grating. “Such gorgeous dresses wasted on a night that lasted a mere—what? Three, four hours? Ugh, I just can’t believe it!”
“Tell me about it, sister,” Margaret sighed, flipping the page of a book she was hardly reading. “Prince Jamie throws the most beautiful ball—and then his father comes in with a snap of his fingers and ruins it all.”
“I didn’t see much of King Barnes last night either,” Agnes added, leaning in closer like she’s sharing a secret. “He appeared for the toast and then vanished like a ghost. He didn’t even acknowledge the receiving line!”
Margaret let out a sharp, cynical laugh. “King Barnes is always out and about, hardly ever present at his own balls, much less his son’s. Makes you wonder why he ended it early in the first place. You know, I hear His Majesty has been messing around with several women behind closed doors.”
You felt your body go rigid.
“Margaret! You mustn’t speak of the King that way!” Agnes giggled, though she didn’t look the least bit offended.
“What? It is true! There are rumors,” Margaret insisted, smiling wide. She leaned in, using the book as ‘cover’, though her whispers were anything but quiet.
“They say he’s a coldhearted rake who keeps a string of nameless girls in the west wing just to pass the time. He probably found a new plaything in one of the corridors and decided the ball was no longer worth his attention.”
You squeezed the scrub brush until your knuckles turned white, the soapy water burning the small cuts on your hands. Every word out of their mouths made you feel sick—almost disgusted with yourself.
They were talking about the man who had held and kissed your hand with such kindness, the man who had looked at your burn marks and seen beauty instead of a blemish.
But to the world, he was just a predator who took what he wanted simply because he could—and you were nothing more than a nameless rumor to be laughed at over morning tea.
“Now, ladies,” Beatrice’s voice rang from the stairs, echoing off the high walls.
Her hands gripped the railing as she stared down at everyone from above, slowly making her descent. With each step, the sharp clicks of her heels sounded like a threat.
“That’s not the way to talk about our King,” she warned.
“It wasn’t fair!” Agnes continued anyway, picking at a loose thread on her sleeve. “The Prince didn’t even look our way. He spent the entire night dancing with that… that nobody.”
“A random woman,” Margaret scoffed, finally shutting her book with a sharp snap. “She wasn’t even that beautiful. Her hair was far too simple, and that dress? It looked like something from a past decade. Where was she from, anyway? Some… obscure foreign land?”
“She must have been,” Agnes added, her voice rising to a whine. “Did you see her? She could hardly even dance! The Prince asks you to dance and you can’t even deliver? Ridiculous.”
Margaret leaned forward, her eyes malicious. “And the Prince only had eyes for her. But that wasn’t even the scandalous part—she danced with the King, too! Right in front of the entire court.”
Agnes blinked, as if piecing something together. Then, she let out a sharp gasp that made you jump.
“What if Prince Jamie is no better than his father? What if they’re just alike? Perhaps they shared her in a corridor in the west wing before the night was through.”
They both broke into fits of snickers, their hands covering their mouths as they giggled at the mental image of your degradation.
You just wished the marble floors would open up and swallow you whole.
To them, the most beautiful and profound moment of your life was nothing more than a dirty joke.
Beatrice met them in the living room, crossing her arms over her chest. “Fret not, ladies. She was probably some impoverished Duchess from the North, trying to sink her claws into the crown before the night was up.”
You kept your head down, your fingers tightening around the damp handle of your scrub brush. Your skin crawled as they picked apart your appearance, your dancing, everything. They were completely unaware that the so called ‘impoverished’ woman they were mocking was currently kneeling in the dirt at their feet.
Every insult only felt like a splash of cold water, reminding you that in their world—and Bucky’s—you were merely an interloper who didn’t belong.
From the corner of her eye, Beatrice noticed the frown on your face. A slow, cruel smile tugged across her red lips. To her, your grimace was nothing more than bitter jealousy. She turned to you, smoothing her skirt as her eyes locked onto yours with a sympathy so forced she might as well not have bothered.
“It’s a shame you couldn’t have gone,” Beatrice said, her voice sweet and fake. “The palace was truly beautiful. The way the light hit the gold… it’s a world you can’t even begin to imagine, isn’t it, dear?”
You bit your tongue so hard you tasted copper. You wanted to tell her. You wanted to look her in the eye and tell her that not only had you shared a dance with the Prince they sought after, but the King had worshipped you.
He had called you his girl.
He hadn’t ‘ruined’ the ball—he had ended it because he couldn’t stand a single second of it without you by his side.
But you knew that arguing with the ignorant would get you nowhere, so you did what you did best, which was staying silent and unassuming.
“But then, someone has to stay behind and make sure the house doesn’t fall into ruin. We can’t all be Princesses for a night.” Beatrice let out a small, airy laugh—as if this was all just a joke to her.
“Anyway, back to work!” She suddenly commanded. “Agnes’ riding boots won’t clean themselves, and I expect the foyer to be spotless before afternoon tea.” She glanced at her daughters slouching on the couch. “Up, girls. It’s time for piano lessons.”
Agnes and Margaret pushed up from the couch, giving you glances they would as if it giving it to a insect—though, they’d probably look kinder than that.
You dipped your brush into the bucket, the cold water stinging the raw skin of your hands. You had dreamt of him in the few short hours of peace you’d found in your bed, and even now, amidst the dirt and cruel insults, your mind was still entirely consumed by him.
You could still feel the phantom sensation of his touch against your waist and the husky rasp of his voice calling you his.
His girl.
And even though you knew deep down that a maid had no chance of being with a King, a small, stubborn part of you couldn’t help but wonder.
You wondered if he was standing in that cold, empty study right now, staring at the empty space on the desk you’d left behind. You wondered if, despite the crown and the kingdom, he was still thinking about you all the same.
Back at the palace, the morning sun bled through the towering windows, but the light felt intrusive. Bucky stood eerily still, staring out over the kingdom that belonged to him, his tired gaze fixed on the town below.
He hadn’t changed his clothes. He hadn't slept.
In his hand, he held your white lace glove. He squeezed it so tightly his knuckles turned white, the delicate fabric bunching against his palm. He kept finding himself closing his eyes, bringing the lace to his face to inhale the fading scent of rosewater that still clung to the threads.
Every time he exhaled and opened his eyes, those icy blue orbs were filled with a dangerous mix of both yearning and fury.
How dare you leave him?
He had marked you. He had claimed you. And yet, you had slipped through his fingers like smoke, leaving him with nothing but a scrap of lace and a hollow, agonizing ache in his chest.
He knew he should sleep. He should take a hot bath, wash the scent of the night off his skin, and finally eat—but he couldn’t.
Not when you were still clawing your way into his mind, nearly driving him mad.
A set of footsteps approached him with caution. It was the same attendant from last night, looking pale and trembling.
Bucky knew he should have sent the man to the gallows the moment he realized the attendant had helped you escape. It would have been easy. But it also would have been unreasonable—the man was simply doing his job and doing what he was used to with… Bucky’s shameful previous moments before you.
“Sire,” the man stammered, bowing so low he nearly tipped over. “Regarding the girl... and the abrupt end to the ball.”
Bucky didn’t bother turning around. “Speak.”
“It seems Prince Jamie also ordered the ballroom to clear shortly after you left the dais,” the attendant whispered. “He told the guests it was by your direct command—that the King demanded the palace be emptied for a search. He spent the remainder of the night with the captain of the guard, scouring the lower gates for a ‘missing guest.’”
Bucky’s grip on the glove tightened until the lace threatened to tear.
Jamie.
His own son had used his name to chase after the same woman. Bucky’s jaw clenched so hard his molars ached. The boy gets one dance with a pretty woman and he forgets himself. He forgets who he is—and more importantly, who his father is.
“He did, did he?” Bucky’s rumbled.
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
The silence between them was so still and heavy, that the faint ticking of the clock across the room sounded like a hammer against an anvil. The attendant remained rooted to the spot, standing so rigidly perfect that his spine began to ache, his breath held in his chest as he waited for the King’s next move.
“Bring him to me,” Bucky finally ordered. He glanced at the attendant over his shoulder. “My son. Bring him to me. Now.”
“Y-yes, Your Majesty!”
The attendant gave one final, frantic bow before scrambling away to fetch Jamie. Left in the sudden quiet, Bucky turned his gaze back to the window, his mind a turbulent storm of a million different thoughts.
Bucky had always prided himself on being a good King. He was a man who ruled with a steady hand, treating his people with a fairness that was rare for his station. He gave everything to the land and asked for very little in return; he was hardly ever a selfish man.
He took that same pride in his role as a father. He had raised Jamie with meticulous care, shielding him from the hardness of his own past. He had taught the boy how to be a gentleman, how to be polite, and above all, how to treat a woman with kindness—all the virtues Bucky himself had lacked growing up.
But now, staring out at the kingdom he had built, Bucky realized that his own teachings had backfired.
He had taught his son how to recognize a woman of worth, and now, they were both hunting the same girl.
“Father,” Jamie panted, the words catching in his throat as he reached the top of the stairs. He came to a halt behind Bucky, maintaining a respectful distance between them—the gap between a Prince and his King.
“You called for me?”
Bucky turned slowly to face his son. He didn’t offer a greeting; rather, he simply watched, his eyes tracking the way Jamie’s shoulders rose and fell with every labored breath. He took note of the sheen of sweat on the boy’s forehead and the way he struggled to compose himself after the lengthy climb.
Bucky pursed his lips, a small pang of disappointment hitting his chest as he judged his son’s lack of stamina.
Perhaps he hadn’t been such a good father after all. Because as he stood there, watching Jamie stumble over his own exhaustion, the only thing Bucky could think was that the boy was outmatched.
Jamie was too soft, too unseasoned. He could never hope to catch up to a woman like you—and he certainly wouldn’t be able to catch up with you in bed.
“I hear that you cleared the guests out shortly after I performed the toast,” Bucky said, dangerously calm. “I couldn’t quite remember if the invitation mentioned the ball ending at midnight. I found myself wondering why the palace was being emptied with such… urgency.”
Jamie stayed quiet.
Bucky took a step closer.
“I was also told that you ordered every guest to leave under my command,” Bucky added, his tone dropping deeper and quieter. “Using my name to finish a party that you were so excited to host. Why is that, son?”
Jamie stood up straighter, his own blue eyes sparkling with an enthusiasm that made Bucky’s eyebrow twitch. He didn’t see the storm brewing in his father’s expression; he only saw an opportunity to confide in the man he looked up to.
“I had to, Father,” Jamie admitted, a small, sheepish smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “There was a woman. I’ve never seen anyone like her—she wasn’t like the usual court vultures. She was... magnetic. But she vanished the moment the clock struck twelve.”
Jamie took a deep breath, his chest puffing out slightly as he warmed to the subject, completely oblivious to the fact that his father was slowly losing his grip on his patience.
“I used your name because I knew the guards wouldn’t question it. I needed the halls clear so I could find her before she slipped past the gates. I just… I couldn’t let her go without knowing who she was. I think I might be in love with her, Father. I’ve never felt this way about anyone before.”
Every word out of Jamie’s mouth felt like a personal insult—a boy’s shallow infatuation trying to claim territory already conquered by a King.
A desperate part of him hoped, prayed, that the woman Jamie was describing wasn’t you. He wanted there to be a small, flickering chance that Jamie had met someone else, anyone else, who wasn’t the girl in the silver blue dress.
“In love?” Bucky repeated bitterly in disbelief. “You shared a single dance with a stranger, and you’ve decided it’s love?”
“It was more than a dance,” Jamie insisted, his voice rising with that same stubbornness Bucky had at his age. “There was a connection. I could tell she felt it, too. She was shy, hesitant, but there was a fire in her. Surely, you understand? You danced with her, too.”
Bucky felt like he wanted to punch a wall.
“You saw her up close. She was beautiful—even underneath the mask. Her eyes were so kind—”
Bucky couldn’t stand to hear another word.
“—and her laugh was hypnotizing. She didn’t even know how to dance, but she was the sweetest thing in the room—”
Bucky felt like he was going insane. He had never, ever hated anyone as much as he hated his own son in this very moment. Each compliment Jamie uttered felt like a hand reaching for a prize that Bucky had already locked away in his soul.
“Son—”
“—I want to marry her, Father,” Jamie interrupted, his voice suddenly stern and determined.
His blue eyes—so like Bucky’s own—met the King’s with a steady gaze, and Bucky felt a wave of nausea roll through him.
“I finally found her—my Princess. I want her to stand by my side at court as my wife. She would be the most perfect woman for it,” Jamie continued, a small, subtle blush creeping onto his cheeks at the mere thought. “Princess Barnes…”
Princess Barnes?
Bucky scoffed, a rude, incredulous sound that escaped his throat before he could stop it. Jamie’s head tilted, noticing the reaction, but Bucky was far beyond caring about appearances. Princess was a title for a girl playing at house. It was a secondary rank, a title that lived in the shadow of another.
No. That wasn’t right at all. You weren’t meant to be a Princess. You were meant to be a Queen. Queen Barnes. His Queen. His equal, his partner, his obsession. Not his son’s plaything.
Bucky forced himself to reel back, drawing a slow, heavy breath into his lungs. He was a father first, a King second. He needed to speak carefully, to dismantle this before it ruined them both.
“Do not be a fool, Jamie,” Bucky said. “You are talking about a woman you do not know. You are rushing into a fantasy. Marriage is about stability, about the crown—not about a girl who didn’t know how to waltz... or… or one who didn’t even have the decency to stay!”
It was cruelly ironic. He was lying through his teeth, and the taste of it was bitter. Every criticism he hurled at you felt like a sin, but he had to dissuade his son.
He had to make you sound small, sound insignificant, so that Jamie would stop looking for you.
“Wait for the reports,” Bucky continued, his voice biting and harsh. His hand tightened around the lace, his grip crushing the delicate fabric more with every word.
“Do not waste your time. Focus on your duties. Do not go chasing shadows in the—”
“Father,” Jamie interrupted suddenly.
“What?” Bucky snapped, his patience fraying.
Jamie took a step forward. The moment Bucky saw his son’s eyes lock onto the white fabric clenched between his fingers, his blood ran cold.
“That glove,” Jamie whispered, his eyes widening with shock. He looked back up at his father, his breath hitching. “I recognize it. It’s hers. I held that hand while we danced... I know the pattern of that lace by heart.”
Bucky pressed his lips together, his entire body coiling like a spring. He braced himself for the explosion. He expected Jamie to yell, to seethe in betrayal, to realize that his father had been hiding the woman he ‘loved’ just a room away last night.
But instead, a bright, hopeful smile tugged at Jamie’s lips. His eyes sparked with a pure, joyous relief.
“You found her,” Jamie breathed, letting out a small, huffing laugh of disbelief. “You found her for me, didn’t you? You saw how much I wanted her... and you went and found her.”
And now, Bucky wished Jamie would’ve just yelled at him instead.
Before he could even respond, Jamie was already beaming with glee. Any other father would relish seeing their own son happy, but for Bucky, he felt like he was suffocating.
“We must arrange a carriage for her at once!” Jamie exclaimed, already pacing the rug. “I need to have her here—in this palace. I have so much to say to her, I—”
Bucky shut his eyes tight, his mouth shuddering as he felt the delicate lace of your glove crushing against his palm. Right now, it felt like it was the only piece he had left of you.
“Son. Enough—”
“This is incredible! I… I never expected you to go out of your way for me like this, Father. I thought you were disappointed, but you were actually—”
Bucky’s heart was clawing its way out of his ribs. It was a frantic, taunting thud that made him feel like he was about to collapse under his own deceit.
“Jamie. Stop it—”
“Thank you, Father! Truly. Once we bring her back here—the moment she steps off that carriage—I’m going to propose. I’ll give her the world. I’ll—”
Propose?
Give you the world?
He wanted to give you the world?
Jamie didn’t even know your world. He didn’t know the way you tasted, or the way you trembled when a real man laid hands on you.
Bucky had given the order to the attendant the moment you vanished. He had planned to have his men quietly intercept you, to bring you back to his private chambers before your carriage could even take you past the palace gates. But Jamie’s ‘fake command’ had ruined everything. The sudden, chaotic crowd of hundreds of guests—the horses, the carriages, the shouting—had created a wall of bodies and steel that Bucky’s men couldn’t penetrate.
The guilt Bucky felt was suddenly swallowed by a surging, irrational wave of resentment. This was Jamie’s fault. All of it.
His son’s childish interference was the reason you were gone. His vanity was the reason Bucky was standing here with an empty heart and a stolen glove.
Bucky’s restraint vanished completely. His arm moved in a blur of pure, enraged adrenaline. His fist collided with Jamie’s jaw with a sickening crack, the force of the blow sending his son stumbling back in pain.
“Goddamnit, Jamie!” Bucky barked, his thunderous voice echoing off the high walls like a cannon firing away. “I said that is enough!”
Bucky’s chest heaved, his eyes widening with horror as dark crimson began to leak between Jamie’s fingers, staining his pristine white cuffs. The adrenaline that had fueled the punch evaporated instantly, leaving behind a cold, sickening hollow. He stared at his own knuckles, then back at the blood on his son’s face.
“Fuck,” Bucky cursed. He took a frantic step forward, his hand reaching out. “Jamie—”
“Don’t!” Jamie hissed, flinching away from the touch. He looked up, his eyes glassy with tears he refused to let fall. He wiped his nose with the back of his hand, but the blood only smeared across his cheek, making him look even more broken.
“I just wanted to make you proud, Father. That’s all I’ve ever tried to do,” Jamie muttered, his gaze dropping to his boots.
“Jamie, that isn’t—”
“I thought you’d be happy!” Jamie’s voice broke. “I thought you’d finally be glad to see me take a wife, to see me grow up. I thought this was my duty—to find a woman who could lead by my side. But… but I can never win with you, can I? No matter what I do, it’s never enough. I’m never enough!”
Bucky felt like his chest was being stepped on.
He had hit his own son.
In all the years of training and discipline, he had never once raised a hand to the boy in anger. The glove remained clenched in his palm—the very thing that had started this—and it suddenly felt as heavy as lead.
“Jamie, please,” Bucky’s voice grew quieter, shakier than it had ever been. “You have to understand. It’s… it’s not that simple. There are things you don’t know—”
“I understand plenty,” Jamie spat. He glared up at his father, a look of such pure resentment that Bucky had never seen before. He wanted to die right then and there.
His own son no longer looked at him like a hero, but like a villain—a tyrant guarding his hoard.
“You don’t want me to have her,” Jamie said, his voice turning to a cold, final whisper. “You don’t want me to have anything.”
“Son, I—”
Before Bucky could grab his arm, Jamie turned and bolted for the stairs. His footsteps thundered down the hall, each heavy stomp of his boot against the cold floor echoing like the heartbeat in Bucky’s aching chest.
“Jamie! Jamie, wait!” Bucky called out, his voice cracking.
He started to follow, but he only made it halfway before he stopped, watching his son disappear around the corner and out of his reach.
You were out in the town again, but the atmosphere felt different, and almost suffocating. As you moved through the market, you couldn’t help but notice the royal guards posted at every corner.
Usually, the guards were a lazy fixture of the town—slumped at tavern tables playing cards or nursing drinks, doing a halfhearted job at best. But today, they were different. There were far more of them than usual, all standing with rigid shoulders, their steel armor gleaming with a sharp, intimidating light against the dusty cobblestone walls.
At first, the way they scrutinized the passing crowd—specifically the women— seemed merely inappropriate. But as you stole a glance, a chill settled deep in your bones.
They weren’t just watching; they were searching.
You saw them whispering in low, urgent tones, gesturing toward various girls and pointing to the shade of a woman’s hair… or the curve of a jawline as if comparing them to a mental checklist.
They were looking for someone with very specific features.
They were looking for you.
You quickly averted your eyes, tucking your chin and clutching your wicker basket against your chest like a shield. You weaved through the morning crowd, trying to make yourself as small and unassuming as possible, desperate to melt into the shadows of the common folk.
You were just steps away from the safety of a produce shop when a commotion at a nearby bread stall caught your ear. Usually, you would have kept your head down, but the desperation in the young man’s voice made you pause.
A boy with a deep hood pulled low was caught in a heated argument with the stall keeper. Even from a distance, you could see his hands were shaking. A dark, ugly bruise was already blooming across the bridge of his nose, accompanied by a faint smear of dried blood.
“It’s just a loaf of bread and some cheese!” the young man argued, his voice surprisingly prideful for a man who’s supposed to be hungry. “You’re charging me five times the worth!”
The stall keeper let out a harsh, mocking laugh, leaning over his counter with a sneer.
“Well, when you’re wearin’ a brooch like that,” he pointed a greasy finger at the glimmering silver pin tucked under the boy’s cloak, “it means you’ve got money. Or you stole it. Either way, pay up or move on, fancy lad.”
“I told you, I don’t have the coin on me! I… I left in a hurry,” the boy muttered, his fingers instinctively clutching the brooch. “I won’t give you this. It’s a family heirloom.”
The keeper scoffed, pulling the tray of food back. “Then starve. I don’t run a charity for runaways.”
The boy looked so small in that moment, his shoulders slumping with a defeat that felt all too familiar to you. Despite the danger of the guards nearby, your heart ached for him. You knew exactly what it was like to be seen as insignificant, to be at the mercy of someone more powerful.
Before you could talk yourself out of it, you stepped forward. You pulled a few copper coins from the deep pocket of your skirt and dropped them onto the wooden counter.
“That should cover it,” you said. “And the change is for your trouble. Let the boy have the food.”
The keeper’s eyes didn’t even glance at you nor the copper. They remained glued on the glimmering silver pinned to the boy’s chest.
“I don’t want your coin, girl,” he grunted, his gaze narrowing with greed. “I want that brooch. That silver alone is worth more than my entire stall.”
The young man bristled, his hand tightening over the heirloom, but before he could snap back, you spoke first.
“Come on, Gary,” you said softly, a small, knowing smile playing on your lips. “Didn’t you used to pride yourself on making your craft affordable for the needy? You’ve helped me out plenty of times when the month was lean. Surely, you can lend a hand to someone else in need.”
Gary finally shifted his eyes away from the boy. When he realized it was you standing there, his harsh expression faltered just slightly. He took a long look at you, then back at the battered, hooded boy, and finally at the humble copper coins on the counter.
He knew you; he knew you worked hard and rarely asked for favors.
“Fine,” Gary grumbled, snatching the coins off the wood with a reluctant huff.
He wrapped a loaf of bread and a thick wedge of cheese in a rough cloth and shoved it roughly toward the boy. “You owe her one, spoiled brat. Don’t let me see you around here again.”
The boy lifted his hands hesitantly to grab the parcel. He swallowed hard, shifting his attention toward you. His face flushed, and you couldn’t tell if it was the humiliation of a common maid helping a man like him, or simply the throbbing pain of his injury.
“Thank you, miss—” he began.
As he tilted his head back to look at you, the sunlight caught the high curve of his cheekbones and the unmistakable cool shade of blue in his eyes.
The Barnes eyes.
Even with the dark, jagged bruise across his nose, there was no mistaking that it was him.
The blood drained from your face so fast, you felt your head spinning. You froze, your hands tightening on the wicker basket. Your heart, which had been steady just now in your confidence with Gary, now thrashed against your ribs like a trapped bird.
“I… I—” you stuttered. You took a step back, bumping into a frantic man who yelled, “Watch your step!” but you paid no mind. Your gaze darted to the guards huddled at the end of the street.
It was no wonder why there were so many of them posted today. They weren’t just looking for you. They were also looking for Bucky’s son.
If they saw you talking to him—if they realized who he was and who you were—it was over.
You braced yourself for Jamie’s face to light up, expecting him to seize your hands and declare he’d finally found you. But instead, his brows furrowed in confusion. He took in your messy hair, your trembling lip, and your simple, soot-stained maid’s uniform.
To him, you were just a kind girl of the working class—a far cry from the elegant vision of silver, blue, and lace he had held in the golden ballroom.
Jamie leaned in slightly, his gaze searching yours with a look of dawning and haunting familiarity.
“Are you quite alright?” he asked softly. He paused, his eyes narrowing as he studied the shape of your face—the curve of your jaw, the fullness of your lips, the depth of your eyes. “Wait…”
He trailed off, and you felt your stomach turn.
“Do I know you from somewhere? You look... strangely familiar.”
“I… no,” you stammered, forced a short, brittle laugh that sounded more like a gasp of air. “It’s a small town. You must have me confused with someone else. I—uh, have a good day, Your Highness—I mean, sir!”
Jamie’s face shifted, a flicker of recognition sparking in his eyes. You sucked in a sharp breath, mentally cursing yourself for that slip-up. Before he could voice the realization, you turned on your heel and bolted, weaving through the thicket of market-goers frantically.
“Ma’am, wait!” Jamie’s voice called out from behind you, sounding strained and breathless.
You didn’t look back. You kept your head down, convinced that every second spent in his presence brought you a second closer to a prison cell.
If the guards found you and dragged you back to the King, the rumors would devour you. You’d be branded a whore. Your step-family would throw you onto the streets without a second thought. The King would never provide for you; he was a King, and you were a maid, for God’s sake. And now, you weren’t just caught up with the King, but with the Prince as well.
“Please, wait!” Jamie’s voice grew more distant and more desperate the further you pulled away.
You rounded the corner into a narrow alleyway. Just as you were about to disappear around the far end to lose him for good, curiosity—or perhaps lingering empathy—made you glance over your shoulder.
Jamie wasn’t running anymore. He was halfway into the alley, his body swaying dangerously. His face, already pale, had turned a sickly shade of grey. He reached out a trembling hand, catching himself against the damp brick wall to keep from collapsing.
You stopped. You were ten feet away from freedom, but you couldn’t move. You watched as his knees buckled, his head dropping as he fought a losing battle to stay conscious.
You hissed a curse under your breath. You were a commoner, a maid who had no business meddling with anyone associated with a crown.
Yet, your feet were already moving back to him.
You hurried back to him, slipping into the shadows just as he began to slide down the wall. You caught him by the shoulders, your wicker basket dropping to the cobblestones as you struggled to stabilize his weight with yours.
“Sir? Sir, look at me,” you cooed, but Jamie didn’t answer.
He instinctively leaned into your touch, his head rolling forward until his forehead rested against your shoulder. He was bigger and far heavier than you expected. Realizing you couldn’t hold him up for long, you allowed him to slide down the wall, sinking to the ground with him to act as his support.
He smelled of expensive cedar wood and the sharp, metallic tang of blood. A soft, pained groan escaped his lips, and he weakly gripped your forearms, his fingers digging into the rough fabric of your sleeves.
“I... I have you,” you murmured, shifting your body to support him. “Just breathe. You’re alright.”
Jamie let out a jagged, shallow breath, his eyes squeezed shut as he leaned more heavily into you.
“God… this hurts like hell,” he rasped.
A small frown creased your brow. Despite the danger, the sight of him—so young and so clearly suffering—pulled at a maternal instinct you couldn’t suppress.
“Hush now,” you murmured.
Reaching up, you gently pushed back the heavy fabric of his hood. It fell back, revealing the full extent of the damage. The bruise was even worse up close. A deep, angry purple had swollen the bridge of his nose. You reached out, your fingers brushing his sweat dampened hair away from his forehead to get a better look at his face.
Up close, the resemblance to the King was haunting, but where Bucky’s features were hardened by duties and age, Jamie’s were still soft and pure.
You wanted to ask what happened—how a Prince who was always protected, who had likely never raised a hand in a real fight, had ended up looking like that in a place like this, so far from the safety of the palace.
“Stay here. Don’t move,” you commanded softly when he tried to shift.
You stood up and reached for the clean rag tucked into the waistband of your skirt—a bit of linen you used for work—and hurried to the small stone well tucked into a nook near the alley entrance. The pulley creaked as you splashed the fabric into the bucket, the water coming up icy and clear.
Wringing it out, you rushed back to his side and sank back down onto the cobblestones. Jamie’s head was lolling against the brick, his eyes half open and glazed.
“Here,” you whispered.
You pressed the cold, wet cloth gently against his nose and forehead. He hissed, flinching at the initial sharpness of the cold, but then his eyes fluttered shut as the chill began to numb the throbbing ache.
“Thank you,” he breathed, his hand coming up to weakly cover yours, holding the rag in place. He stayed like that for a long moment, leaning into the coolness and your presence.
Then, without opening his eyes, a small, pained smile touched his lips. “You have very kind hands, for a stranger.”
You swallowed hard, keeping your eyes on the damp cloth. “That’s just what we do in this town,” you spoke softly, your voice barely above a whisper. “We help each other. Even strangers.”
There was a soft, moment of silence in the damp alleyway. Gradually, Jamie’s ragged breathing began to steady into an even pace. He seemed stable enough now to be left on his own—you could leave, you should leave—but for some reason, your feet wouldn’t move. The way his shoulders had completely slumped was a sign that he felt safe.
Safe simply because of your presence.
“Yeah,” Jamie breathed, the word trailing off into the quiet air.
He didn’t open his eyes yet, but his head tilted slightly toward you, his skin appearing ghostly white against the dark, angry bloom of his bruise.
“But you’re not a stranger, are you?”
You froze, your hand still trapped beneath his on the wet linen rag. You didn’t dare look at him, terrified that the recognition in his voice would be reflected in his eyes.
“I… I don’t know what you mean, sir,” you managed to say, though your heart was beating so loudly, you were certain he could feel it through your hand and up your arm.
“Your hands,” he murmured, his thumb brushing over your knuckles, “they feel familiar. Hands I’ve held before. And your voice…” He sucked in a shallow, shaky breath, his eyelashes fluttering as he finally opened his eyes to look at you. “It’s soothing. Just like hers.”
You knew there was no point in playing dumb any longer. Prince Jamie was smart—and he had already seen right through you. Continuing the charade in front of an injured man—much less a Prince— felt less like a safety measure and more like rubbing salt into an open wound.
With a defeated sigh, you tried to pull your hand away, but his grip tightened to keep you there.
It seemed that being unyielding and possessive were simply the many traits of the Barnes bloodline.
“Your Highness—”
“Please,” Jamie interrupted, his voice weak and tired. “Just call me Jamie. I… I hardly look like a Prince at the moment, and I certainly haven’t been acting like one.”
Your frown deepened. You found yourself relaxing under his touch. He looked utterly defeated—lonely, exhausted, and stripped of the regal armor he usually wore so well. Your heart ached for him, and the question slipped past your lips before you could think to stop it.
“What happened, Jamie?”
Jamie’s shoulders tensed, and you regretted the question the second it left your lips. But before you could retract it, he surprised you by actually answering.
“I had an argument,” he began, his voice sounding hollow. “With the King—my father.” He paused, a flicker of pain crossing his features that had nothing to do with his physical injuries. Then, his eyes locked onto yours. “We had an argument about you, actually.”
You held your breath, not daring to speak.
“I wanted to find you,” Jamie continued. “I wanted to find you and make you—” he swallowed hard, a sudden flush of embarrassment creeping up his neck. “—I wanted to make you my wife. I thought you were the perfect woman to stand by my side on the throne. I assumed you were a noble woman in hiding.”
“Oh, dear…” you muttered before you could stop yourself.
Jamie caught the remark and huffed a dry, self-deprecating laugh. He seemed to realize in that moment just how naive his assumptions had been.
“I just wanted to make my father proud. I wanted to do my duty as his son—to finally choose a bride. But when I told him I had decided it would be you, he…”
Jamie’s jaw clenched as he remembered the look in his father’s eyes—the look of a man who had no intention of letting his son claim the woman he wanted for himself.
“I’ve never seen him act like this,” he continued. “He hasn’t slept, eaten, or even changed his clothes since the ball ended. When I told him I was adamant about finding you, he raised his hand to me. And… I left. I couldn't stay in that palace a moment longer.”
He tried to sit up a little straighter, groaning.'
“My father is usually a cold, composed man. To see him lash out like this… to see him unravel over you—it made me realize that I wasn’t the only one who wanted you. And who am I to compete against a King?”
He let out another laugh, though there was no humor in it. Only sadness.
“My father,” Jamie swallowed hard, his sad blue eyes meeting yours. “He loves you. And I can see why. You’re kind, gentle, and…” he looked down at your frayed, dirty dress before tracing back up to your face, “even though you’re a maid, you’ve captured my father’s heart. Terrifyingly so.”
“Jamie,” you sighed, forcing a reassuring smile. You reached up, your hand gently cupping his cheek to try and calm him. “The King doesn’t love me. He loves the woman he saw at the ball. Nothing more.”
Jamie tilted his head, his brows furrowing. The look he gave you was hauntingly similar to Bucky’s—that same piercing, knowing gaze, as if he were silently calling you out on your bullshit.
“He didn’t fall in love with the woman at the ball,” Jamie corrected softly, his eyes searching yours. “He fell in love with the woman he saw at Martha’s dress shop.”
You froze, blinking at him in sheer disbelief. “M-Martha? You know her?”
“Martha is a long-time family friend,” he explained, his voice finally steadying. “She was the first person I ran to after I fled the palace. She told me everything.” He let out a weary, ragged sigh. “Turns out there’s a lot I don’t know about my father these days—like how he often sneaks out of the palace alone just to linger around her shop as a commoner.”
You bit your lip, the memory of that day rushing back vividly. You remembered him acting as a commoner who had been so charming, stumbling over his words as he spoke to you.
To say you hadn’t fallen for him right then and there would have been a lie.
With a tired sigh of your own, you shifted closer, looking him directly in the eye with the firm authority like someone scolding a stubborn child.
“Jamie, you need to go home,” you lectured softly. “There are guards posted everywhere looking for you. Your father must be worried sick in that lonely palace of his.”
You watched his eyes carefully, noticing the deep well of hurt and loneliness they held. It made you want to stay, to protect him—because you knew exactly what it felt like to be cast aside and alone.
“Your injury would be healed much faster by proper medics at the palace, not by one of my cheap rags and cold well water,” you added, offering a small smile and a forced, lighthearted laugh to ease the mood.
But Jamie didn’t budge.
“Probably,” Jamie whispered, his voice so vulnerable that it made your heart ache. He shrugged so weakly that it looked more like a shudder. “But this feels far better. It feels like I’m being cared for by a mother I never had.”
For a moment, you felt as if the air had been knocked out of your lungs.
For a man who held such a prestigious title and a legendary bloodline, he looked so small—so utterly defeated. Every word that left his lips felt like a needle pulling at the strings of your heart.
With a soft, resigned sigh, you knelt back down in the dirt in front of him. You couldn’t leave him like this; you couldn’t send him back to a cold palace when he was clearly starving for even a shred of genuine warmth.
“I know that feeling all too well,” you said, your voice barely a whisper as a sad, knowing smile touched your lips.
“I live in a house that feels far too big for the little space I’m allowed to occupy. I live among people who look at me but never truly see me—who see a pair of hands to do their bidding rather than a heart that’s breaking. I know what it’s like to starve for a kind word in a home that’s supposed to provide shelter.”
You looked at the dark bruising on his face, your own chest aching with every breath he took. “But Jamie… your father isn’t like my family. He doesn’t look at you and see a servant. I saw the way he looked at you at the ball; I heard the speech he made in your honor. He doesn't just love you—he lives for you.”
“He struck me,” Jamie whispered, his lip trembling.
“And you should’ve struck him right back,” you added firmly. “And God knows, if I had been there, I would’ve struck him, too.”
Jamie couldn’t help but laugh—a genuine, breathy sound—at the absurdity of the image. “Strike the King? Do you truly wish for a death sentence for the both of us?”
You couldn’t help but giggle, and the sound seemed to make Jamie’s heavy shoulders ease just a little more. “He wouldn’t do that to you—he values you too much. Me, on the other hand? I’d be ‘off with my head’ before I could even blink.”
He rolled his eyes again, though his lips remained curved in a soft, lingering smile. “Don’t be ridiculous. He wouldn’t dare.”
“So, you understand how kind your father is, despite everything?”
Jamie chewed the inside of his cheek, his gaze dropping to the dirt wedged between the cobblestone. He knew the answer—but just like his father, his pride was a stubborn barrier, refusing to let him admit it aloud.
“I’ll return to the palace,” he said instead. “But only on one condition.” He reached out, taking your hand in his again. “I want you to come with me. My father… he’s been searching for you since the moment you left that ballroom. He’s going insane in there, and he needs you.”
“Jamie, I can’t,” you whispered, pulling back slightly. “I’m a commoner. A maid. I don’t belong in those halls.”
Jamie didn’t argue. He didn’t try to persuade you with logic this time, or even use his title to his advantage.
He simply slumped back against the damp brick wall and crossed his arms over his chest with the indignant, brooding pout of a stubborn child.
“Then I won’t go,” he declared flatly, that princely entitlement coming back into his tone. “I’ll stay right here in this alley. I’ll rot in the dirt and let the guards find me like this. And it will be all your fault.”
You blinked, stunned. “You can’t be serious—”
“Oh, but I am.”
You stared at him, realizing that for all their power and prestige, the Barnes men were impossibly, infuriatingly stubborn. You glanced toward the mouth of the alley where the guards were pacing.
You cared for him, but you had to put yourself first.
If Jamie returned, the hunt might end. The streets would clear. You could complete your chores without looking over your shoulder every five seconds.
You forced a smile and stood up, brushing the dirt from your skirt before grabbing your basket. You reached out a hand to him, and he looked up at you, his eyes wide and shimmering with sudden hope.
“Fine,” you nodded. “Let’s go back to the palace then. Together.”
Jamie blinked at you, his expression frozen for a second as if he couldn’t quite believe you’d actually agreed.
Then, a bright, genuine smile broke across his face. He gripped your hand, using it to hoist himself up—though he was clearly doing most of the heavy lifting—and began brushing the alley dust from his trousers.
“Okay,” he breathed. “Let’s go.”
You let go of his hand and motioned to the end of the alley, where the silhouettes of the guards were still visible against the sunlight. With the wicker basket tucked carefully into the crook of your arm, you gave him a playful bow.
“Lead the way, Prince Charming.”
Jamie couldn’t help but snicker, the sound light and boyish.
As he led you out of the alley, his chin held high and his hood pushed back, the market noise began to ripple and change. The chaotic noises of bartering died down, replaced by whispering as people realized exactly who was walking among them.
“Is that Prince Jamie?”
“Look at the bruises on his face!”
“What is Prince Jamie doing outside of the palace?”
“Is that why there are so many guards?”
One of the guards finally spotted him as the crowd parted like a sea of fish.
“Prince Jamie!” he shouted, stumbling forward as his eyes went wide. “Your Highness! The King has been worried sick—he’s nearly razed the palace to the ground—”
Jamie raised a hand, stopping the guard’s rambling. “I am here, and I am safe,” he said calmly. “Now, arrange a carriage immediately. For me and the maiden. We are going home.”
The guard blinked, visibly confused. “Y-your Highness?”
Jamie raised a brow, the Barnes temper flaring just slightly. “Well, don’t just stand there gaping! I said arrange a carriage for me and—” he turned halfway, gesturing to the space at his side where you had been standing just a second ago. “—the maiden.”
But as Jamie looked back, the space was empty.
You were nowhere to be seen.
You found yourself back on your knees in the living room, tending to the flickering flames of the fireplace.
Ever since you’d returned, Beatrice had been even snappier with you than usual. Your encounter with Prince Jamie had made you much later than intended, and for Beatrice, whose patience was already paper thin, this was the final straw.
“Hurry up with those flames,” Beatrice barked from behind her teacup. “And once you’re finished, we need a fresh pot. Make it quick—you’re already falling far behind schedule.”
“Yes, ma’am—”
You hissed as a stray spark leapt from the hearth and bit into your finger. You dropped the iron poker in pain, the metal clattering loudly against the stone.
“Incompetent girl,” Beatrice sneered in disdain. She set her saucer down on the side table with a sharp clack and swept out of the room, leaving you alone in the dim light of the rising fire.
It had been days since Jamie returned to the palace. You felt a twinge of guilt for breaking your promise to go back with him, but you told yourself it was necessary. He was a smart boy— surely, he would understand that a dirty maid couldn’t simply walk through the front gates of a large, pristine palace.
With Jamie home, the number of guards roaming the town had decreased significantly. It was exactly what you had hoped for, yet a small, desperate part of you realized something that hurt.
Bucky hadn’t been looking for you all this time.
He was looking for his son.
Your eyes pricked with tears, though you tried to hide it behind the pain stinging your fingers from the fireplace spark.
It was selfish.
It was sad.
It was pathetic for you to crave the feeling of being desired—of being wanted by the King—yet push away every advance both he and the Prince had given you.
As you pushed yourself up to start a new pot of tea, Beatrice’s voice rang out from the other room, shrill and demanding. “The floors are disgusting! Clean them this instant!”
You called out a quick, “Yes, ma’am!” and retreated outside to the well. After fetching a heavy bucket of water and mixing in some soap, you began to scrub. The water, which had been clear only seconds ago, was already turning a murky gray. You had just deep cleaned these floors yesterday—what could they have possibly done to make them this filthy again so quickly?
As you scrubbed, your body began to ache with every movement. You leaned back on your heels for just a small moment of respite, trying to catch your breath. The sudden sound of horses’ hooves clacking against the cobblestone made you instinctively look out the window.
Your eyes widened as you saw the carriages—fancy, polished, and several of them in a row.
The horses looked powerful and well fed, taken care of far better than you were.
Through the glass, you watched as the carriage door opened, and you felt your heart drop into the pit of your stomach.
King Bucky stepped out, looking every bit the sovereign in his dark, tailored suit. For a moment, you didn’t believe a word Jamie had said about his father lacking sleep or refusing to change his clothes. This was the exact man you had encountered in the garden the night of the ball—clean, determined, and terrifyingly intimidating.
But it wasn’t just his appearance that caught your breath.
It was the small, delicate flash of white tucked into his breast pocket. Peeking out from the dark fabric was a lace glove.
Your glove.
“What are you doing? Did I tell you to stop?” Beatrice’s voice shrieked from the hallway, sharp enough to shatter your moment.
You flinched, tearing your gaze away from the window. “Sorry, ma’am,” you murmured, your voice trembling as you gripped the scrub brush.
You forced your head down, focusing entirely on the floor as you tried to make yourself invisible. You couldn’t understand it—why was he here?
He had already retrieved his son, hadn’t he? What more could he possibly want?
Why couldn’t he just leave you alone?
Three solid knocks echoed through the house. Beatrice let out an agitated groan as she stomped toward the door, completely oblivious to the royalty standing just outside. “Who could be here, disrupting my peace?”
As she swung the door open, her annoyed scowl instantly collapsed into a jaw drop.
“Y-Your Majesty!” she stammered, her face turning red in shock.
At the sound of the title, your stepsisters came tumbling down the stairs, silk skirts rustling as they shoved one another for a better view. You didn’t even need to look back to know they were vibrating with glee.
“The King is here!” Agnes whisper yelled into her sister’s ear.
“What is he doing here?” Margaret stood on her tippy toes, straining for a better view. “My, he’s even more handsome in person!”
Agnes’s eyes widened, grabbing her sister’s arm and bouncing. “Do you think the Prince is here, too? Do you think he’s calling on us?”
“He must be!” Margaret beamed, her smile so wide it looked painful.
They both smoothed their hair, convinced the Prince had finally sent his father to claim them after the ball. You wanted to snort at how ridiculous they were. After your time with Jamie in the alleyway, you knew for a fact he would never look twice at those two.
Bucky stood just right outside the door, his presence so massive it seemed to suck all the air out of the foyer. He didn’t look at the daughters. He didn’t even acknowledge Beatrice’s low, trembling curtsy. His eyes were already scanning the interior of the house, sharp and predatory.
“I am looking for someone,” Bucky stated. “A lady who I believe lives in this household. May I come in?”
Beatrice blinked, her hands fluttering nervously at her throat.
She looked back at the living room, where the bucket of gray water sat and you were still huddled on the floor. “Oh, Your Majesty... please, the house is quite a mess. Our maid is currently cleaning the floors—it’s hardly fit for a King—”
Bucky’s eyes snapped to hers, cold and dangerous. “Are you denying your King entry?”
Beatrice’s breath hitched, and she let out a small, terrified squeak. “N-No! Never, Your Majesty! Please... forgive me.”
Reluctantly, with her hands shaking, she stepped aside. Bucky crossed the doorframe with a heavy, purposeful stride, the heels of his boots clicking against the very floors you had just been scrubbing. He stopped in the center of the room, his gaze landing directly on you.
His stare was so heavy, it felt suffocating. Yet you didn’t dare lift your head. Beatrice scurried to his side.
“Are you here for my daughters, Your Majesty?” she gestured toward Agnes and Margaret, who were still lingering by the staircase. “Agnes, Margaret, come here—”
Bucky raised a hand, silencing her instantly. “No.”
Beatrice’s gaze followed the King’s, and when she saw how intently he was watching you, she let out an awkward chuckle. “I apologize. My maid must be in your way.” Then, her voice sharpened, loud enough to make you flinch. “The floor needs scrubbing over here!”
“Y-yes, ma’am,” you muttered, keeping your head down as you dropped the sponge back into the bucket. You groaned, trying to heave the heavy wooden bucket to the other corner of the room. Bucky watched you, his expression pained as he saw the dirt on your skin and the exhaustion in your movements.
“Well?” Beatrice urged, her voice tight with a forced smile. “Be quick! Don’t get in the King’s way.”
As you hurried your footsteps, your shoe caught a wet spot on the floor. With your arms aching from the weight of the bucket, you lost your balance. You gasped as the bucket tilted, and a wave of dirty, murky water splashed directly over the King’s pristine, polished shoes.
“Oh… my… God—” Agnes gasped from behind, her hand flying to her mouth in horror.
“That imbecile!” Margaret hissed, her eyes wide with shock.
Terrified, you didn’t even dare glance at Beatrice. Your head tilted up instinctively, your gaze locking onto Bucky’s with worried, pleading eyes.
In that split second, you didn’t think about statuses or your station; your eyes gave away everything.
Please, don’t be mad at me.
She’s going to kill me.
Save me, Bucky.
His expression remained completely unreadable, a mask of stone that made you feel utterly alone. Out of all the mistakes you could have made, this was the worst. This was enough to get you thrown onto the streets. All the hiding, all the rejecting the Prince and King’s advances—it would all be for nothing because you were clumsy enough to spill murky water all over the King’s pristine shoes.
Weakly, your voice trembled, so quiet that only he could hear. “B-Bucky—”
But before you could say anything else, Beatrice’s voice barked out like a whip crack. “What the hell are you doing just standing there, girl!”
You finally turned to face her. Her features were scrunched into such an ugly grimace of rage, you felt like you could collapse.
“Clean his shoes!” she commanded, her finger trembling as she pointed at the mess.
“I…”
“Don’t be stupid! Polish the King’s shoes this instant!”
Bucky swallowed hard, his voice thick. “That won’t be necessary.”
But you were already too far gone in your panic. Tears pricked at your eyes, blurring your vision as you dropped frantically to your knees. Your heart was beating so hard it actually ached. All you could think about was the cold rage in Beatrice’s eyes and the threat of being cast out, leaving you with nothing but the clothes on your back.
You grabbed the hem of your apron, reaching out to scrub the murky water from his leather boots with trembling hands.
Bucky’s jaw clenched so tight, he felt a muscle leaped in his cheek. His heart throbbed with sharp, visceral pain. He had spent every waking moment since the ball dreaming of seeing you again—of finally finding you—and now, here you were.
You were finally right in front of him, but you were on your knees. In tears.
In any other context, the sight of you beneath him might have stirred a much darker and hungrier feeling in his blood. But seeing you like this—utterly broken, terrified, and humiliated—only made him want to burn the house down with everyone else inside it.
“Get up, my dear,” he murmured gently.
His voice was so soft, intended only for your ears.
It was so gentle it felt out of place in this cold room, but you didn’t even hear him. You let out a small, pathetic sniffle, wiping a stray tear away with the back of your palm before returning to the frantic scrubbing. You were a mess of desperation at his feet, and Bucky couldn’t bear it.
“Sweetheart, please,” he pleaded.
You ignored him again, your hands moving in a blur as you kept scrubbing and scrubbing.
Bucky didn’t care about his suit or his dignity anymore.
He dropped to one knee right there in the dirty scrub water, his massive frame casting a shadow over you. His large hand shot out, firm but incredibly gentle as he always was with you, and clamped around your wrist to force you to stop.
“Darling,” Bucky’s voice broke, his brows pulling together, pleading. He sounded like a man on the verge of crumbling himself. “Please. Enough.”
As your chin was tilted upward, the wall you’d built around yourself finally crumbled. Your face scrunched up, the effort to stay composed failing as the tears spilled over your cheeks.
You were so tired. Your body ached, and your heart yearned for the very man in front of you.
“I’m scared,” you whispered, the words broken and barely audible, a raw confession that you’ve been holding in for years now.
Bucky let out a ragged, shaky sigh—a sound of pure heartbreak—and pulled you forward. He didn’t care how dirty you were, or that the murky water was soaking into his expensive suit. He had never cared about that. All he cared about was you.
He gathered you into his arms, crushing you against his chest as if he could shield you from the very walls of this house.
“Oh, my dear,” he cooed, nuzzling his nose into your hair and breathing you in. “You have no reason to be afraid anymore. I have you.”
Beatrice watched the scene, her face contorting into a mask of absolute horror.
To her, this wasn’t a reunion; it was a scandal.
She saw her foolish stepdaughter throwing herself at the King, threatening the family’s entire existence.
“What do you think you’re doing to our King!” she shrieked, taking a frantic step forward. “Get up, girl! You’re making us look like a disgrace—Your Majesty, please, forgive her, she’s touched in the head—”
“Silence, you wretched harridan!” Bucky seethed. The insult was so sharp it made Beatrice’s eyes bulge out of her head. “The only thing that is a disgrace in this household is you.”
He stood up slowly, bringing you with him, his arm firm around your waist to keep you steady. He looked down at Beatrice and your sisters as if they were nothing more than insects beneath his boots—exactly the way they had always looked at you.
“You have treated this woman—the daughter of this house—as nothing more than a slave. In truth, you have treated her like trash,” he bit out harshly.
“I’ve read the family ledgers. Your husband—her father, may he rest in peace—was a nobleman of the highest order. This girl is a proper Lady of the house. She has noble blood in her veins, making her more significant than the whole lot of you. You, on the other hand, are nothing but a commoner who married into a title you don’t deserve.”
Beatrice gasped in disbelief, her hand flying to her heart as if she were the victim. “Y-Your Majesty!”
“Enough,” Bucky raised his hand, silencing her. “I don’t want to hear another syllable from you. I came here for one thing—and that was her. Now that I have her, we are leaving.”
He looked over his shoulder, beckoning to the line of attendants waiting by the door. “Collect her belongings. Every last item. Whatever she decides to keep, whether it be as large as a trunk or as small as a ribbon, package it into the carriages. We are returning to the palace immediately.”
All the attendants nodded, bowing low to their king. “Yes, Your Majesty.”
The attendants rushed into the house in a quick blur, you could barely process the shift in your reality.
Only minutes ago, you were on your knees in the dirty water. Now, the world was rearranging itself around you.
Bucky looked down at your sniffling face, his heart visibly breaking as he leaned down to bring himself eye to eye with you. His thumb, rough yet incredibly tender, brushed away the tears that traced your cheeks.
“You’re okay now, my dear.” Bucky cooed gently. “I’ve got you. I’m never letting you go again.”
You had spent so much time pushing him away, fearing the consequences or the class divide, but now, even under the scrutiny of your step-family, you no longer cared. You felt your heart pulling toward his, and being in his arms felt like the only sanctuary you had ever known.
Behind you, Agnes and Margaret crept forward, clutching at their mother’s sleeves, their faces pale and twisted with confusion.
“Mother, what is happening?” Agnes whimpered. “Why is His Majesty touching her like that?”
Beatrice ignored them, her eyes locked on the King in a state of pure denial. She shook her head, her voice rising to a shrill squeak.
“Y-You’ve fallen for her, Your Majesty? Truly? B-but she’s just a maid! She’s a servant who spends her days in the kitchen and the dirt! She is nothing!”
Bucky stood back up to his full height, keeping you tucked securely against his side.
“She was a Lady long before you even knew how to spell the word,” Bucky growled, his hand tightening protectively on your waist. “And as for her being a maid? That ended the moment I stepped through that door. From this breath forward, she is the woman who holds the heart of the King. From this moment on, she is your Queen—and you will treat her as such.”
The room suddenly went very quiet.
You looked just as surprised as Beatrice, your breath hitching in your throat. He was actually going to do it. He was making good on every promise he had made to you in the dark room of his study.
Before you could even find your voice to speak, Bucky’s hand found itself on your lower back, guiding you toward the door.
“Come, my dear,” he gestured, his tone leaving no room for argument. “We’re leaving.”
As he led you out of the house that had been your prison for so long, you couldn’t resist stealing one last glance over your shoulder. You weren’t looking to offer sympathy or a farewell, of course. You simply wanted to see if a fly might find its way into their mouths, given how far their jaws had hung.
Outside, a prestigious carriage awaited you. The doorman snapped to attention and pulled the door open as you and Bucky drew closer. Jamie was already waiting inside, seated comfortably on the plush velvet cushions.
Poking his head out, he beamed the moment he caught the sight of you. The bruises on his face already looked a million times better. It was clear that since returning to the palace, he had received the proper care and rest he so desperately needed.
Jamie scooted over, patting the velvet seat beside him with an enthusiastic grin. “I was going to step out to help, but I thought it’d be better if I stayed in here. Your stepsisters would’ve driven me up the wall the moment they saw my face.”
“Jamie,” Bucky interrupted. He stood at the carriage door, one hand on the frame as he leaned in, looking grumpier than ever.
“Out,” Bucky commanded, giving a sharp nod toward the slightly smaller—though still very fancy—carriage waiting behind them.
“What?” Jamie’s brows furrowed. “But we have plenty to talk about! I haven’t even told her about—”
“You can discuss it at dinner,” Bucky said, letting out a heavy, weary sigh. “Right now, I am tired. I want to sit with the woman I just spent three days hunting for without my son’s constant commentary. Move.”
“Oh, I see.” Jamie drawls, eyeing the both of you suspiciously. “The Great King Barnes finally finds his Lady and suddenly his favorite and only son is chopped liver? Is that how it is?”
“Son, consider this a mercy,” Bucky rumbled. “Think of it as punishment for using my name under a false command at the ball. Your sentence could be a lot worse than a private carriage and a bit of silence. Now, move.”
“Truly, the heart of a tyrant,” Jamie muttered.
After a roll of his eyes, he slid out the door, but as he passed his father, he stopped for a brief second. He turned to you, his gaze softening from playful to genuinely warm—like he missed you. He gave you a small little knowing smile—one that said he was glad you were safe, and even gladder that you were finally exactly where you belonged.
“See you at the palace.” He said to you softly.
With that, Jamie hopped down from the steps and retreated to the carriage behind yours. Bucky watched him go until he was settled, then stepped aside and raised a hand to help you up into the plush interior.
As you sat, Bucky occupied the seat across from you. He leaned back tiredly, the carriage creaking softly. For a long while, he just looked at you, his head tilted slightly as he let out a slow, exhausted breath.
Silence filled the carriage. Despite him already declaring you his Queen—his partner—you couldn’t help but sit up straight, folding your hands primly over your lap out of habit and respect for the King of Brooklynne.
You didn’t even know where to begin. You didn’t know if you should thank him for dragging you out of that hellhole you called a home, or if you should apologize for the trouble he had gone through to do it.
“Your Majesty—”
“Sweetheart, please,” Bucky interrupted, his voice sounding almost agitated. “I lost sleep over you. I couldn’t eat. I… I couldn’t even think. I felt like I was losing my sanity every moment I was in that palace and you weren’t there.”
He paused, the clip-clopping of the hooves against the cobblestones filling the space for a second.
“My heart burns for you,” he rasped, almost painful. “The least you can do is offer me the decency of calling me Bucky—just as you did earlier.”
You swallowed hard, your pulse fluttering in your throat. Bucky’s eyes were a cold blue storm of conflicting emotions. You felt as if he were picking you apart, piece by piece, intending not only to love you but to devour you.
He said he couldn’t eat without you, and now that you were here in front of him, he looked as though you were going to be his next meal.
“I’m sorry. I… I just wanted to say thank you,” you admitted softly. You couldn’t maintain his intense gaze, so you looked down, your fingers fiddling anxiously with the coarse fabric of your skirt.
“Thank you for helping me out of that house, and thank you for never giving up on me.”
Your face flushed with a mix of warmth and embarrassment as you continued, still refusing to make eye contact.
“Both you and Prince Jamie have been nothing but kind to me—a mere maid with rags for clothes.”
You huffed a small, incredulous laugh, one tinged with sadness for yourself. “You both extended your hands to me and showed me worlds I never thought I’d experience. In your presence, despite the gulf between our social standings, I have never felt alone. And for that... I am truly grateful.”
Bucky’s frown tightened as he leaned forward, his large hands catching yours and squeezing them firmly to still your fidgeting. The movement forced you to go still, and when he hooked a thumb under your chin to tilt your face up, there was no escaping him anymore.
“Enough,” he rasped, almost desperate. “Enough of this talk about social standings. You know none of that matters to me, not when it comes to you.”
Those piercing blue eyes searched yours, his thumb brushing warmly over the curve of your cheek.
“When I told you I was falling for you in that study,” he continued, lowering himself to one knee in the narrow space between the seats, “I meant every single word with every beat of my heart.”
While one hand remained on your cheek, the other began a slow descent. It traced the line of your ribs down to your waist, giving your hip a firm, possessive squeeze through your dress before trailing lower to rest over your thigh.
“You aren’t a ‘mere’ anything,” he whispered, his lips ghosting over yours. “You are the very air I’ve been gasping for. Ever since the night of the ball, my body and my heart have been craving you. And now that you’re finally here…”
His hand found the hem of your skirt, lifting the fabric slowly, inch by painfully agonizing inch, past your knee. His tongue darted out to lick his bottom lip, a small groan escaping him at the sight of your bare thigh.
“I finally get to have you.”
Bucky leaned forward, his head dipping low as he pressed his face against the skin he had just uncovered. You shuddered at the feel of his stubble pressing against your leg, and he snickered.
He started at your knee, his lips brushing against your skin.
A low, vibrating growl tickled against your thigh as he began to work his way upward. Each kiss was slow, wet, and worshipful. He moved with a starvation that made your breath hitch, his tongue darted out to taste you, marking you as his over and over again.
“These legs,” he growled, his voice muffled by your skin. “I missed feeling them wrapped tight around me. I missed the soft feeling of them in my hands. Did you miss that too, my dear?”
You swallowed hard, your heart hammering against your ribs as you looked down at the King of Brooklynne worshipping your body.
“I-I did, Bucky. I missed that too… being touched by you.”
“Good,” he soothed, his heavy, warm palm dragging up and down your leg possessively. “That’s my good, perfect girl.”
As he continued to worship the curve of your leg, his hand reached beneath the bunched up fabric of your skirt. His fingers hooked into the edge of your thin, worn undergarments, but he didn’t rush; he wanted to savor every second of your undoing.
With a slow tug, he began to peel them down, his knuckles grazing your hips and sending a wave of shivers through you. He watched your face the entire time, his blue eyes dark and hooded, waiting for the exact moment your composure finally shattered.
Bucky was barely holding on. His jaw hung slightly, his lips slick from the way he had been kissing and licking the skin of your legs.
It was an unbelievable sight—the King on his knees, panting over you like a loyal, starving hound.
“I want to break you,” he rasped. His words were threatening, yet his voice was coarse but soft spoken. “I want to see you cry for me while I ruin you. I want to see you come apart for me, just as I did for you when you left me.”
He looked up at you then, still kneeling between your legs, his chest heaving as he took in the sight of you completely vulnerable in his carriage.
“God,” he breathed, taking in your wet slit hidden just beneath the hem of your flimsy skirt. “Is that so wrong of me to want? To see my own woman completely broken for me?”
Bucky’s grip on your thighs tightened, while his other hand went down to cup his own erection through his pants.
“I should hurt you,” he sighed, his voice pent up with frustration. “I should pull you over my knee for daring to leave me... for making me endure that kind of agony. I should bind your arms together so you never even think about defying me again.”
He let out a shaky and jagged breath, his forehead dropping against your knee for just a second before he looked back up, his eyes searching yours, his cock already throbbing at the sight of your pleading face.
“But I won’t,” he whispered, his thumb tracing the smooth flesh of your inner thigh. “I love you and respect you too much to ever truly lay a hand on your pretty little body in anger. You’re my Queen. You’re my soul.”
A dark, self-deprecating chuckle caught in his throat as his gaze dropped back to where he had bared you to the cool carriage air. His fingers twitched, hooking into the waistband of his trousers.
“But fuck, I’m already disrespecting you, aren’t I?” he moved closer, his body hot as he crowded your space, his chest heaving against your knees. “Because we’re nowhere near the palace, and I’m about to fuck you right here in this carriage. I’m about to claim you again before we even reach the front gates. Isn’t that right, sweetheart?”
“You said I was yours, Bucky,” you whispered, your voice trembling despite how hard you tried to keep it steady. “So you can do whatever you want to me. I’m not running anymore. I’m here to stay.”
Bucky let out a low groan of satisfaction, burying his face against your thigh for a moment as if trying to catch his breath. Every word you spoke was like music to his ears.
“Lean back,” he commanded in a rough, broken rasp. “Lean back against the seat and hold on.”
You obeyed excitedly. The moment your back hit the plush velvet cushion, he grabbed your leg, his large hand wrapping around your calf as he hoisted it up, propping your knee over his broad shoulder. The position left you completely open and vulnerable, your thin skirt bunched around your waist as you exposed your cunt to him.
Bucky didn’t waste time with a preamble. He ducked his head between your thighs, his tongue finding the sensitive peak of your clit. Your body jolted at the sudden, wet heat of the contact. He licked you with long, firm strokes, his tongue heavy and wet as he tasted your arousal.
A sharp, needy cry escaped your lips, echoing in the small space. You could only hope the driver was too disciplined to look back.
“Ah! Bu-Bucky…” your hands flew down to his hair, fingers tangling in his brown locks as your toes curled in the air.
Bucky only growled against you, his hand sliding up from your thigh to grip your hip, holding you steady.
His tongue continued to trace eagerly over your wet folds, sucking and lapping in ways that were anything but royal or noble. He was taking everything from you—your pleasure, your scent, the taste of your arousal.
He wanted everything.
When he finally lifted his head to look at you from below, you felt like your heart could leap out of your chest at the sight of him. Drool collected around his chin and his lips were slick and swollen from making out sloppily with your cunt.
Bucky’s smirk was slow and predatory as he took in the sight of you—chest heaving, face warm, and eyes glazed with the pleasure only he was giving you. He looked like a man who had finally reclaimed his throne, but the only kingdom he cared about in this moment was the one between your legs.
“Look at you,” he taunted. “Dripping all over my clean carriage.” He clicked his tongue. “Naughty girl.”
He lifted his hand, his long middle finger dragging slowly up the length of your slit, tracing the seam of your cunt from bottom to top, gently rubbing at the clit before dragging back down and poking his nub against your entrance.
He did it again and again, teasing the entrance until you were whimpering, your hips bucking on reflex for more of him.
“You’re so wet, sweetheart,” Bucky rasped, his pupils blown wide with desire. “Are you this desperate for your King?”
“Bucky, please,” you begged, arching your back against the seat. “Enough with the teasing. I can’t—oh!”
Before you could finish your sentence, Bucky buried his finger deep inside you.
The air left your lungs in a jagged gasp. You were agonizingly tight, your walls clenching and fluttering around him in a frantic, rhythmic pulse that spoke of how long you’d been empty without him. You gripped his shoulder, your nails digging into the expensive fabric of his coat as you tried to pull him closer, your body trying to swallow his finger whole.
“Already making demands out of me,” he scoffed, though he was grinning. “You’ve got no shame, do you, my dear?”
He felt the internal squeeze of your muscles around his digit, making his jaw tighten so hard the bone looked ready to snap.
“God, you’re so tight,” he choked out, his thumb finding your clit and rubbing slow, deep circles against it. “Clenching around my finger like you’re never going to let me go. You’re going to break me before I even get my pants off, aren’t you?”
Your vision blurred as you felt yourself getting embarrassingly close. Your hips stuttered against his hand, your breath coming in shallow and broken hitches as you prepared to shatter all over his finger.
“I’m—I’m going to—don’t… don’t stop—”
But just as the peak approached, the sensation vanished.
Bucky abruptly retracted his hand, the wet, sliding sound of his finger leaving you squelching in the carriage. You let out a cry of pure frustration, your body slumped back against the velvet, twitching and unfulfilled.
“Bucky,” you panted in agitation, “why would you do that! I was close!”
He sat back on his heels, still kneeling in the narrow space between your legs. He looked up at you with a wicked light in his eyes, his chest heaving as he reached for the buckle of his belt.
“Not yet,” he teased. “I didn’t give you permission to finish, did I?”
His fingers worked the leather of his belt and the buttons of his trousers irritatingly slow, his gaze never leaving yours. He watched the way you squirmed on the seat, your legs still draped over his shoulders, trembling and desperate for the contact he had just stolen away.
“Look at you,” he scoffed softly, though his hands were shaking slightly with his own restrained need. “So impatient. I spent my time hunting the city for my Queen, and the moment I get her in my carriage, she’s already trying to come without me. Where are your manners, sweetheart?”
Once he finally freed himself, his length sprang forth, thick and pulsing with a bead of pre-cum bubbling at the tip.
You watched, enamored, as his left hand wrapped around your leg, giving it soft, possessive squeezes, while his other hand wrapped firmly around his cock—giving himself slow, deep pumps that made the veins in his forearm jump.
“Fuck, you missed me, my dear?” Bucky’s thumb catching a bead of his pre-cum and smearing it against your aching clit. “Did you spend every night thinking about this? About how I’d feel inside you again?”
You couldn’t even find the words to argue. You just nodded frantically, your head thrasing against the velvet cushion as you let out a broken whimper. Bucky absolutely loved seeing you like this—completely unraveled, stripped of your prim, timid manners, and desperate only for him.
“Good.”
He positioned himself, the slick head of his cock catching against your wet entrance. He paused for a second to catch his breath, his knuckles white where he gripped the edge of the seat, before he slowly—inch by torturous inch —slid inside.
“Fuck,” he gritted through clenched teeth, the word sounding both like a prayer and a curse.
You were so tight—Bucky had to squeeze his eyes shut, his neck muscles flexed with every powerful effort to not simply snap and bury himself in you all at once.
He wanted to savor all of this.
He wanted to feel every ripple of your body as it stretched to accommodate him.
But fuck, you weren’t making it easy at all.
As he tried to maintain a slow, steady pace, your walls began to clench around his cock in desperate pulses. You were squeezing him so hard it was a wonder he could move at all.
“God... sweetheart, stop,” he choked out, his composure fracturing little by little. “If you keep... clenching like that...”
You couldn’t help it. You had missed Bucky, and your body missed being filled by him even more. Every deep, ragged pant he let out—driven by how unbearably good you felt—only made your muscles flutter and tighten more. He was so big, the feeling of him stretching you made your eyes roll back.
“I’m sorry,” you breathed, your nails digging into the firm muscle of his back through his clothes for support. “I can’t help it. I—I missed you. I missed this.”
“Christ...” the groan escaped Bucky’s lips as his head fell back.
He didn’t even try to be gentle anymore.
His hips surged forward, his massive hands sliding from the edge of the seat to your thighs and then your hips, his fingers digging through your dress as he kept you in place. He drew back just enough to gain momentum before slamming into you again, making your body jump against his.
“Ah!” you cried out as Bucky fucked into you again and again, driving his hips deeper each time.
“So… tight. Fuck,” he groaned, his voice a broken rasp of disbelief.
The carriage groaned under the violence of his movements. The wood creaked and strained, the vehicle rocking so violently that no one could possibly excuse the motion as a bumpy road. You were being jostled and slammed against the velvet cushions, the sheer size of him stretching you until you were sure you’d break—and yet, it wasn’t enough.
You wanted more.
He needed more.
“Bucky! Ah—!”
The sound echoed off the carriage walls, dangerously loud. Bucky’s eyes flared with as he quickly brought his hand up, his palm slamming over your mouth to stifle your cries.
“Shhh,” he hissed against your ear, though his own breathing was a series of ragged, wet gasps. “This is a royal carriage, my dear. All eyes are on us right now. Do you want the whole kingdom to hear me fuck you like a slut?”
He quickened his pace, his cock disappearing and reappearing in a blur of friction as he drove himself deeper into your sensitive pussy.
“If that’s what you want… then I’ll just drag you out of this carriage myself,” he threatened, his voice dropping to a dark, possessive growl. “I'll fuck you right there on the gravel where the whole kingdom can watch their King ruin his sweet little wife. Is that what you want, my dear?”
Wife.
You felt like you could collapse from just hearing the word.
The heat and smell of his warm palm against your lips only made you more frantic. You let out muffled, desperate whimpers into his hand, your eyes rolling back as your walls fluttered and spasmed around him. You were seconds away from release yet again, squeezing his cock so tightly he nearly choked on his own breath.
Bucky leaned in even closer, his teeth grazing the shell of your ear as he inhaled the scent of your skin—a intoxicating mix of salt, sweat, and the heavy musk of sex filling the carriage.
“Fuck,” he groaned against your neck. “You’re cumming already? Just from this?”
He taunted you, and although he would never admit it aloud, but he was barely hanging on. He was simply a determined King wanting to watch you shatter first.
“I—mmph, can’t,” you whined into his palm. Your legs hooked around his waist, ankles locking behind his back to pull him even deeper, inviting him in to breed and fill you right there.
“M’gonna—mph—cum…”
Your mind went dizzy, your breath hitching sharply against his hand as the world outside the carriage ceased to exist.
You no longer cared about the palace or the guards. You only cared about the burning sensation of coming around Bucky’s cock. It was explosive—a kind of release that your body had been starved of.
He felt the way you were milking him, the desperate, crushing tightness of your climax nearly forcing him to join you then and there. But he ground his teeth, refusing to let go just yet.
“This is just the beginning, darling,” he rasped, his palm still firm over your mouth to catch your muffled, high pitched cries. “After this, I’m going to fuck you in every inch of the palace. In every room, against every window, on the cold marble floors until you can’t even remember your own name.”
He pulled back just an inch, his eyes dark and blown wide, searching your face to ensure you understood the delicious lack of mercy waiting for you behind the palace walls.
“The next time I see you on your hands and knees, it won’t be for scrubbing floors,” he growled. “It’ll be with your pretty tongue out, servicing my cock.”
Between the sensitive aftermath of your climax and the filthy possessive promises pouring from his lips, your senses were screaming and overstimulated. Every time his cock thrusted back into you, it felt like he was branding your soul.
He slowed his pace slightly once he felt himself getting close. His hips grounded against you in a circular motion that made you whimper for mercy. He leaned down, his lips wetting your cheek as he began to recite your future.
“From this second on, no one touches you but me. I’m going to take such good care of you, my dear. You’re going to have the finest silks, the softest beds, and the heaviest crown—but you’re going to spend most of your time right here, pinned under me.”
He delivered a sharp, shallow thrust that made your hips twitch.
“I’m going to make you my pretty, perfect wife,” he continued, his hand moving from your mouth to cup your jaw, forcing you to look into his blown out, hungry eyes. “And I’m going to spend every single night making sure I knock you up. I want you heavy with my heirs, so round and beautiful that you’ll never even think about running away again. You’re going to be so full of me that there won’t be room for anything else.”
The thought of it, that same reminder of being his Queen, his wife, and the mother of his children—sent a fresh jolt of lightning through your core.
You were a mess of tears and sweat, clinging to his shoulders as he began to pick up the pace again, his movements becoming more desperate, more frantic.
“I’m going to fill you so deep, you’ll feel my love in your chest,” he hissed, his cock pulsing inside as he felt himself get closer. “My wife. My Queen. My life.”
Bucky’s body suddenly went rigid, his muscles locking tight as he let out a final, guttural grunt of your name. His hips slammed into yours one last time, burying himself so deep it felt as though he was trying to merge with you as one.
“Fuck... cumming!” he choked out almost painfully.
His head snapped back, his eyes rolling back as he finally let his body go. His hips froze as his cock pulsed and throbbed. Then, you felt the scalding, thick ropes of cum pumping into your core—a seal on every promise he had just made.
“Mine,” he panted, holding you close. “All mine.”
He stayed buried deep inside you, his heavy chest heaving as he crushed you into the velvet cushions, his heart beating frantically in time with your own.
For the remainder of the ride, Bucky refused to let even an inch of space come between you, like he was scared of losing you again.
He pulled you onto his lap, wrapping his arms around your shaking, overstimulated body. His large hands, which had been so rough and demanding only moments ago, were now impossibly gentle as he stroked your hair and traced the line of your jaw.
Between the sounds of heaving breathing and the trotting of horses, he kept his lips pressed to your temple, murmuring soft, sweet promises into your ear, “My sweetheart,” “I finally have you again.” “My precious, darling girl.”
When the carriage finally lurched to a halt in the palace courtyard, the footman stepped forward, swinging the door wide and offering a steadying hand as Bucky allowed you to step out first.
Just in time, Jamie had hopped out of his own carriage and met up with you both, huffing a breath of relief.
“Finally!” Jamie called out. “That carriage ride felt so long—” he paused, stopping a few feet away, squinting as he took in the sight of you.
Your hair was a bird’s nest, both of your lips swollen, and Bucky’s collar was half-undone and his hair was disheveled with gray locks sticking out in unusual directions.
“Good grief,” he remarked, completely oblivious to the carnal acts that just happened inside the carriage.
“You guys look rough.”
thank you for all the love you guys showed for part one, and thank you for taking the time to read yet another lengthy fic <3 i wasn't planning on writing a sequel at all, let alone this soon, but the new season of bridgerton got me twirling my hair
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regency era jason todd x reader but he’s a street orphan who got adopted to be a dukes son x maid! reader
you two were friends as children—so he begged Bruce to take you too.
“As a daughter?”
Jason at this time had a crush on you and couldn’t fathom being your brother. Kids say dumb things.
“No—no a maid—or or a kitchen girl—“, his tiny voice stammers out
And Bruce listens to him. You become a maid, but you always resent Jason a little from holding you from that life—and as you grow he’s desperately trying to show you he’s not some prim and proper nobleman.
That he was born in filth like you and for the love of god just let him in.
You softly remind him that while he might have been born in filth you remain in it because of him.
You care for him, love him truly. As a friend because the dirt on your skin hasn’t let you see any farther just yet.
and Jason is desperate.
He will get on his knees and clean the dirt off your skin himself.
So he disguises himself.
A new knight has entered the Wayne household.
Red Hood is his title. His armor helmet is said to sheen with the blood of those who he’s killed.
He never takes off his armor, and all the maids are infatuated by him. Someone of their standing who’s just as enticing as the dukes son’s.
You don’t know why he decides to help you do the laundry.
….can you tell what I’m attempting to write in long form again and that I just watched bridgerton.
Can you tell that it’s going to be friends to lovers, courting, yearning and hopefully get across classism struggles..
can u tell its reverse Cinderella
Can u tell it’s gonna get the whole bat fam involved.
I want to say thank ya in advance, to the wonderful fanfic writers for Benedict Bridgerton because I WILL be reading every work of art that comes out after season 4 drops and feed my obsession of that man…y’all the best fr
The concept of a big, manly man turning soft and gooey when you love on him just a little. Yes, he’s enormous and he knows how to take down a bulk of men in a minute but he melts when you kiss that soft spot right behind his ear. One big paw holding you flush against him- pressing you deeper into that spot, urging you to touch him. To make him feel good. Wordlessly begging, “more, more, more.” You’ve got pretty baby chubbing up in his boxers, fat tip dripping because it feels so good to be the one taken care of.
You’re so proud of him for taking what he wants. Usually, he's the one taking such good care of you. But as fierce and stubborn as your man is, he needs to be spoiled too.
But with time, he learns to let things happen. To let himself feel good, feel worthy of this. Worthy of you. Lets himself be pressed into soft sheets, to be kissed dumb until he’s misty eyed and needy- brain cloudy with want. Sweet boy is finally getting what he deserves.
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
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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tangentwithtanner
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