My Crown Upon Your Head
Ch. 1
Prince!Bucky Barnes x Reader
Synopsis: When an arranged engagement between Prince James of Brookland and Princess Natasha ushers the discovery of the existence of a marriage contract between you and said prince, you readily agree to a divorce for the sake of the kingdom. At first, you had been willing to be separated from Prince James but as you spend more time with your husband, you begin to feel things that are forbidden. It does not help your case when James shares the same sentiments. As you combat the emotions that excite and scare you, the discoveries you make of the people that surround you make you suspect there is something else at play...
WC: 3.9k
Warnings: period-typical misogyny, 18+ for delicate issues, typos, not beta'd
A/N: Hi! Welcome to my first Bucky fic! If you think you've read this before... uh, no you didn't ;) Likes, comments, and reblogs makes beananacake a happy writer lol
Once upon a time, there was a girl who accidentally married the prince.
That would have been a story to be told for ages, you thought ironically to yourself. It would have made for an everlasting tale by the Brothers Grimm; storytellers whom you had met during one of your travels to the distant land of Prussia with your diplomat father. They were an odd sort; old men whom you would never have thought to have been the authors to the short tales you loved reading as a child. Their stories were rather macabre despite the hopeful beginnings. After all, not every Once Upon A Time ended with a happy ever after.
I wonder how they would have written my story, you mused rather distractedly as you stood before the King of Brookland.
You had been summoned to the palace the moment your ship had docked into the kingdom’s port. There was no preamble as to why you were wanted; they had only loaded you unto the carriage and had been presented to the monarch without so much as a change of clothing. You were not vain but it would have been more preferable to be wearing the proper attire when meeting with the king. Instead, you met him in your leather breeches, a silk dress shirt, and a waistcoat that you had fashioned from your father’s old vest—all of these articles of clothing were scandalous by themselves, but not as scandalous as knowing the reason why you had been summoned.
“You see, my son is set to marry the Grand Duke’s niece but we find ourselves in an unusual predicament,” said King George II of Brookland as he stood from his throne.
You had no voluminous skirt to tuck your hands into when you were nervous. Instead, you only clenched them at your sides, clutched into fists to calm the nervous quake about you.
“My secretary has found a marriage certificate binding you and my son in matrimony.” The king said disdainfully as he looked down on you. He was a classically handsome man if a bit gaunt and pale. His blue eyes were kind yet piercing. His jaw was strong and covered with a beard that was white as it was thick. His voice rasped with every words as though he labored them out. He was an old man, stooping because of his many years but it did not dampen the regal, commanding aura he had about him.
“You had been married to my son for two decades.”
Twenty years? You would have been but six years! Surely, there must have been a mistake.
You took a discreet step back, afraid of the silent fury in his voice. You had no idea of this marriage to the prince but your lapse in memory only seemed to make the blaze of anger in the king's eyes grow.
“Forgive me, Your Majesty, but I have no idea of this certificate of which you speak.”
A harsh scoff sounded from the man who stood beside the throne. Your eyes flitted to the Grand Duke and the cruel severity from him made you step further back. His features told you he did not belong to Brookland; rather than possessing the strong jaws and high cheekbones of the Brooks, he appeared more foreign. The Grand Duke—an honorable title reserved only for the king’s advisers—had his lips drawn tight, his brown eyes beady as he regarded you.
“His Majesty will not tolerate insolence, child. I suggest you answer in truth.” His words, while spoken calmly and simply, chilled you. His eyes betrayed nothing nefarious but there was an air about him, of something that made him unfriendly to you. Then again, it was his niece the prince was promised to and you had unknowingly married said prince.
“My apologies, Grand Duke,” you bowed your head as you lowered into a curtsy. You could not bear to look him in the eye for one more time.
“Tell me your name again,” commanded King George.
You kept your head low as you said your name.
“If you are who you say you are, then it must be you who signed this contract.” The soft unraveling of the scroll drew your attention and you looked up as the king thrust it before you.
There it was. Your name, written by the hand of a six-year-old child. It was a mess of letters but it was discernible enough for anyone to read your name. Beside it was Prince James’s inscription, no better than yours but still enough to be recognized as the name of the kingdom’s future monarch.
The royal seal of the Barnes of Brookland—a crowned lion standing atop a shield that bore the coat of arms of the family—brought about a memory that had long been buried until that moment.
You watched closely as your father, a scholar and one of Brookland’s diplomats, poured hot wax on the space between where he and another had signed. It was a rich blue with gold flecks, the colors and symbol of your country’s opulence. You were always curious as to why he did the ritual of laying his ring on top of the molten wax after signing the papers. You asked him.
“It is a promise, Y/N,” your father had replied as he took of his signet ring and placed it sigil-down on the paper.
“Like friendship, papa?” you had asked in your small, excitable voice.
He chuckled fondly, caressing your cheek as he watched you in the candlelight. “Of a sort. This paper is a memory of that friendship with our country and this country’s king.”
“Can I do it with my friends?” You watched with curious eyes, taking note of where he had written his name and the fact that it must be sealed with wax and his ring.
“Of course, little one. I shall have to teach you how to write your name so you can sign your promise.”
You beamed, eager to employ this newfound knowledge and practice of sealing your promises of friendship.
You were unable to read as well but it was no matter, your papa will teach you. It was your memory that was prodigious and you remembered his process. First, he took parchment from his sheaf of papers. He signed his name on the first empty space, then the other man did as your father had. They shook hands. Your father poured hot wax and placed the sigil on the promise and placed it on different sheaf of papers.
It was simple enough for you to do.
You recalled that moment you had done it. You had visited the palace with your father and he had let you play around the grounds while he conducted business with the other diplomats of the kingdom. Prince James had been but a boy then, a little older than you were but not old enough to talk affairs of the kingdom. He had been in the garden alone and you approached him with the idea of trying your newfound way of sealing friendships. You had not realized that you had plucked a marriage certificate from the Great Study because, truly, all of your father’s contracts appeared one and the same to you and you had assumed as much for all the papers. You innocently scrawled your name, taking good care in spelling it right as your father had told you. The prince had done the same and with your father’s ring, you sealed your—and the prince’s—fate.
“You recognize it then,” asked the king as he snatched the offending paper away.
“Your Majesty—” The apology did not slip past your lips.
“You may look innocent but I sense ambition in you, girl,” remarked the adviser. There was a hint of malice in his words and you flinched.
“Grand Duke.” There was a warning edge to King George’s tone. He turned to you once more. “You recognize this certificate?”
You steeled yourself, standing erect as you drawled out slowly. “It was not my intention to bind myself in marriage to the prince, Sir.” You swallowed. “My father introduced contracts to me as a way of keeping friendships. As a child of six, I did not know of diplomacy or the legitimacies of binding contracts nor the numerous different kinds of it. I only took the paper as I had assumed all were one and the same. I signed my name and had the prince sign his and stamped it the ring my father had me hold for safekeeping. I did not know that any agreement signed by the prince and sealed with the royal stamp would be legally binding even at so young an age.”
The silence that followed echoed in the throne room. Your boots scraped against the marble floor and you were once again reminded that you were unfit to be meeting with the king in such a state. Women, even common folk, were expected to be in dresses and long skirts. You shunned those articles of clothing whenever you were traveling the waters, finding breeches, shirts, and practical boots better than the full hoops of the skirt that often got in the way whenever you walked about the ship. The sailors were used to seeing you in this garb and did not find it offending at all that you were not dressed like a lady but to the eyes of the king and the Grand Duke and perhaps the many a footman you had passed before entering the throne room, you looked downright scandalous.
“We will keep you in the palace, Y/N.” proclaimed the king, which made you turn to him once more.
Evidently, the news shocked the Grand Duke as well because he turned to the monarch with his question plain on his face. King George held up a hand to his adviser and sat on his throne before answering.
“We will keep you in the palace until we find a solution to this impasse.”
“Of course, Sir,” you replied because what else was there to say?
“Surely, you understand the delicacy of this matter. I would not have you proclaiming to the people that you are the new princess—or rather, had been their princess for near two decades already.”
You were offended at his insinuation but did not show it. You had no right to show indignation towards the king.
“In here, you are contained. You shall still be free to roam the palace grounds as you please but we will not have you out of it. If so, you shall have a chaperone and we would be informed of your itinerary.”
You only nodded. You were a creature of adventure; the very notion of being confined within the palace grounds was comparable to have your wings clipped. But I had started this problem and I must pay for my childish ignorance, you thought to yourself.
You were set to sail with your father once again to the return to the distant land of Wakanda. It had been your life; traveling from one kingdom to another. You had learned of cultures and languages, of food and dance, and everything it was that you could ever beheld. Your home kingdom might be tiny and beautiful but the world beyond held more possibilities that you never once thought was within your grasp.
Oh, how you would have wanted to walk your father’s footsteps as Brookland’s new diplomat. You learned from all the travels you have done; your father had made you his apprentice and had taught you everything he knew of his trade. People still underestimated you. It was unheard of for someone of the fairer sex to be an ambassador, so you had never tried. You only acted as an adviser to your father within the confines of his office walls, honing your innate talent of persuasion and diplomacy.
Sadly, your dreams were once again stalled.
“Your Majesty, since I am common folk, my presence in the palace will arouse suspicion.”
The king nodded. “It is all being taken care of. My son's cousin will be arriving soon and you shall pose as a guest with him. You are merely early in your arrival.”
“Of course, Sir.” You paused and looked down to your clothes before turning back to the monarch “There is also a matter of my trunks, Your Majesty. I have arrived empty-handed.”
King George looked at you from your head to your boots. “Are all your clothes thus?”
You shook your head. “No, Sir. This is what I wear when I am traveling the seas. I do not find it practical to wear a skirt whilst I am on deck and the tides are high.”
“Ah, yes. You travel with your father.”
“Yes, Sir.”
He nodded. “I cannot allow you to leave the palace so soon after we have talked. Write him a missive for your trunks but do not mention your business here.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“You may go.”
“My King,” you genuflected at the monarch before doing the same to the Grand Duke. “Your Grace.”
You stepped backwards, keeping the front of your body towards the king as you slowly went out of the throne room. Once the doors had closed, you heaved a great sigh and straightened, only to knock against someone behind you. You turned and gasped, rooted in place, at the sight of the man before you.
It was the prince. Prince James Buchanan Barnes. Prince James with his dark hair and fiercely blue eyes and features that told you he truly was the son of Brookland. He had grown handsome over the years, which shouldn’t come as a surprise as his father was a handsome man as well. James—were you allowed to address him as James?—had a firm look on his face, a bit reminiscent of his father’s gaze as he watched you. Broad of the shoulders and fit of the body, his muscled legs were encased in tight white breeches and his coat brought out the color of his eyes. They were as blue as the sea and as clear as the sky.
Your husband. What an absurd notion!
“Careful,” he said as he held you by your arms. His voice was deep and smooth and it caressed you in places that you never thought were possible.
You ogled at the prince. As much as you wanted to look away, you cannot. His gaze held you, searching your eyes and quite frankly, perhaps even your soul. Even if you had nothing to hide, you were scared of the things he would find there. Like the matter of your being bound to him in marriage.
Your heart skipped a beat. It had nothing to do with your being nervous of him finding out about your accidental ploy of being married to him but more of the fact that you had never been looked at like how he was looking at you. Your appearance was unkempt and you had not been able to properly tie your hair but something about his stare made you feel like you were much more beautiful than you truly look. He made you feel emotions not even the best of the world could offer and for the life of you, you had no idea why.
Your knees buckled and you bent down in an ungraceful curtsy. It did not escape your notice that your arms were still caged by his fingers. The heat from his hands seeped through the soft cotton of your shirt into your skin and you gave a shaky breath. “Your Highness, my apologies. I did not see you—”
“James. I thought the hunt would have run you ragged.” You heard the king say as the doors open behind you.
Princes James gave you curious smile and you realized he had no idea of who you were or why you were there. Would it change if he knew? You wondered absently. Your eyes still lingered on his lips.
“It is all right. No need to apologize.” he said.
You turned to his eyes as you rose to your full height. His hands left your arms and the imprints that he left warmed you as you were ushered away.
…
…
…
Prince James Buchanan Barnes was, for all intents and purposes, an apprentice. His whole life he was schooled to be the next king of Brookland. He was taught to be a soldier to know of battle strategies. He had masters who taught him philosophies and history. He was knowledgeable in three languages because his parents had insisted he learn two more so he can converse with more people. He was, essentially, an apprentice monarch. And a king, even one still learning the trade, needed a queen.
Which brought him to the matter at hand. His father had promised his hand to the Grand Duke Zemo’s niece. He had never set eyes on her before and was only sent a portrait that he and his father had looked at and had deemed her beautiful. Her country was powerful and Brookland—albeit teeming with natural and mineral resources—needed to ally with a kingdom for its protection. Marrying a princess from a rich and powerful country was the correct step in ensuring the best for the kingdom. It was what his father had done with his mother. It was fortunate that his parents had fallen in love despite the circumstances.
“I was not aware Princess Natasha was arriving today,” James said as he pried his eyes away from your retreating figure.
It was unusual for him to see a princess not in their finest clothes, either, especially one from a country that was advertised to him as bountiful and rich. He had no qualms, however, about seeing you in such a state. Clad in what was commonly considered as undergarments, you were a small person than what the portrait had let on. You came only until his chin and even then, you still seemed tinier. Your legs were enclosed in buckskin leather, much like his own when he went hunting, and it made him wonder if maybe you hunted as well. You wore a dress shirt beneath a curious piece of waistcoat that you had tucked in the waistband of your breeches and it accentuated your rounded hips and ample bottom. You wore none of those heeled shoes he knew ladies favored. Instead, your feet were clad in flat boots that went up to your knees and showcased your perfect calves. Albeit you were dressed inappropriately, it did not escape him that you were dressed practically. And sensually, he thought to himself.
You were beautiful in the portrait but in person, you were exquisite. The painter failed to capture the smattering of freckles across your nose or the hint of lightness on your hair. There was a small scar on the side of your cheek that he did not notice when he beheld your picture; perhaps the painter found it wise to not include the blemish lest it deterred him from making an offer of marriage to you, even if it was not his idea to be wed to you. Be that as it may, the scar endeared him to you. It made you appear more tangible, more… real, and nothing like the uptight version your uncle had painted you to be.
“Heavens, no. I would never associate myself with that—that thing.” Zemo said, looking at your back in what could only be termed as disgust.
James raised a brow. So you were not the princess. “I would assume that thing has a name and a purpose?” When his question was met with silence, he turned to the king. “Father?”
“Walk with me, boy.” was all the king said. He waved his hand away to his adviser. “Thank you, Grand Duke. We do not need you in this talk.”
“Your Majesty. Your Highness.” Zemo bowed as King George led James away.
He followed his father down the Hall of Portraits. He remembered his lessons of his family’s history, of the important people who had changed the laws and the lives of many. King Alphonse. Queen Mariam. Queen Winnifred, his mother. He knew it best not to dwell on his mother’s untimely death around his father, whom he knew was still mourning her. She had left them so suddenly and they both had not been the same ever since. It did, however, brought them even closer.
“James,” his father started as they arrived in the garden. “There is a matter I wish for you to know.”
Rarely did his father venture this far into the gardens. Queen Winnifred had kept a small alcove for her personal use, locked away but still kept clean by the royal gardener. James often went there when he needed time for himself. His father did not.
“Yes, father?” James asked, watching his father closely as he sat.
Since his wife’s death, the king’s health had deteriorated rapidly. The doctors had deemed it a great depression, one the king will brave in a few months’ time, but James knew his father would never recover from the death of his beloved. Every day he feared his father would leave him so soon after his mother had. The mere idea frightened him.
“You are promised to Princess Natasha,” King George said, to which James nodded. “But there is a small matter we must address before you wed her.”
He raised an inquiring brow. “Does she not want to be wed?”
“She wishes to be wed to you, James. However, we find ourselves at a loss for something you have done some twenty years ago.” He patted the space beside him on the bench and the prince sat.
Twenty years ago? What could he have done at eight years old for his father to remark on now?
“Are we bringing up old sins, father? Because if we are, I do not remember what I had done at eight years old that would bear remembering.”
“My boy,” the king clasped his son on the shoulder. It was a fatherly touch but also that of a king, a touch that brooked no argument.
“You are already married.”
James frowned. Married? Surely, he would have remembered the festivities that came with the union.
“Married? I don’t remember meeting my bride or signing a marriage contract.” He turned to his father. “Are you well, father? Perhaps we should return inside. The sun—” The sun had killed his mother. He did not wish the same for his father.
The king waved his hand away. “I am well, son. Do not worry about my health.” He looked sternly at the young prince. “You are not married to the Princess Natasha but you have been married for two decades now.”
“Father, I must ask you to speak plainly. I had been married for two decades? And not to the princess I was promised? Then who am I married to?”
“Do you know anyone by the name of Y/N Y/L/N?”
James’s frown deepened. He readily denied but stopped short.
Y/N. The name sounded familiar to him. And then he knew. He remembered; the girl he had invited inside is mother’s secret garden and had played with under his favorite tree. Familiar eyes that lit up as they smiled at him, the same ones who had looked upon him just a few moments before. You had brought a paper to him—a promise of friendship, you had said—and he signed it with no hesitation.
“She is that girl you thought was the Princess Natasha, my boy.”
James looked back to the door they had came through, as though he would see you appear if he called your name out loud.
“She is your wife.”