I’m in a bit of a pickle yall. I need to pay a toll bill, my tag, and my insurance in my car all by the 30th. I have just about all of it but about $100. I miscalculated a payweek and need help until the 7th. Anything is greatly GREATLY appreciated
Venmo is a digital wallet that lets you make and share payments with friends. You can easily split the bill, cab fare, or much more. Downloa
Go to paypal.me/kristenrose94 and type in the amount. Since it’s PayPal, it's easy and secure. Don’t have a PayPal account? No worries.
Content: small age gap (reader is a few years older); fingering; oral sex (fem receiving), reader’s genitalia are described as “pink” in color, unprotected sex, creampie, one use of pussy pronouns, one brief mention of a fatality caused by drunk driving; if there's anything else lmk!
18+ Minors DNI
Synopsis: Four years after the death of your husband, you've rekindled old flames with your brother-in-law Bucky. Your son calls him Dad. You call him your man. But Bucky wants to call you more.
A/N: THANK YOU for so much love on the first (and what I thought would be only) installment of First & Last. I hadn't written any Bucky in a while, and this community welcomed me back with enthusiasm, open arms, and horny memes. You are all wonderful. I hope you enjoy this follow-up/final part to their story! Also ty for @buckybarnes82 for beta reading & discussing dick vs cock lmfao.
Need to play catch-up? Check out part one here!
4 Years Later…
"Hen, we have one more birthday gift for you," Bucky says with a smile as he walks into the living room with something small and wriggling under his flannel. You shake your head lovingly, knowing that your life with these two wild boys is about to get a lot more loud and fun. You didn't think that was possible, and yet.
"What is that, Daddy?" Your son asks. He'd taken to calling Bucky daddy as soon as he could talk. You'd both sat Henry down about six months ago and told him that his "first" Daddy was in Heaven looking down on the three of you. You thought the conversation was going to be hard, but it was surprisingly therapeutic for all of you. "You're still my daddy, though, right?" He'd asked Bucky with glassy eyes to which Bucky nodded enthusiastically, swallowing back a lump in his throat. "I'll always be your daddy, kiddo," he assured his nephew, enveloping him in a massive hug. You'd all cried, smiled, and turned over a new leaf that day. A family - for real.
"Well, you remember when we went to Grandpa George's ranch last month and his Mama Dog had those tiny puppies?" Bucky asks, watching Henry's eyes widen hopefully.
"Yeah," Henry replies, warily optimistic.
Bucky removes the blue-mottled puppy from his shirt and Henry jumps up from your lap with a gasp. Bucky places the squirmy pup into the little boy's arms. "Happy birthday, kiddo. She's excited to meet you."
Henry immediately sits down on the floor, still cradling the furry bundle in his arms. When he looks up at you both, tears are in his eyes. "I love her so much. Thank you, thank you!"
Bucky smiles and settles in next to you on the couch. You lean into his familiar body and rest your head into the crook of his neck.
You watch Henry nuzzle into the soft puppy. "You're welcome, honey," you say while rubbing a hand lovingly on Bucky's bicep as a silent thank you for keeping the pup fed, watered, and hidden in the barn for the past two nights.
"Does she have a name?" Henry asks, petting her gently. The puppy is standing on her hind legs and licking at the boy's face.
You look at Bucky and he shakes his head. "No, kiddo. You'd better think of one. She's going to help us keep the cattle in line, so make sure it's somethin' tough."
Henry considers this as you all hear the rooster crow outside the open window. "Rooster?"
"Yeah," you reply. "He loves to harass those hens."
"No, Mommy. I want to name her Rooster."
Bucky chuckles. "You want to name the dog Rooster?"
"Yeah Daddy! You said something tough. That rooster is tougher than nails."
You and Bucky both burst into laughter. "Tougher than nails, huh, Hen? Where did you learn that?"
"Grandpa George," he answers with a smile. "He teaches me funny words."
You look at Bucky with narrowed eyes. "I'm sure he does."
Two months later, Henry and Rooster, or Roo, as you've all affectionately nicknamed her, are inseparable. She even sleeps in Henry's bed.
"You want to go for a ride with me while your mama gets her nails done?" Bucky asks, leaning into Henry's bedroom doorway. Roo pokes her head up at his voice and cocks it to one side, recognizing the word "ride". She's graduated from riding in a saddlebag with her tiny head poking out to balancing on the horse's rear end. She licks Henry's hand to rouse him.
"Yeah!" Henry exclaims in a groggy voice. He sits up in bed, and his dark hair is sticking up in every direction.
"Okay, I'll be in the kitchen when you're ready," Bucky says. "Take your time, son."
He follows the scent of your peachy vanilla lotion to the bathroom off of the bedroom you now share together. Bucky officially moved in when Henry was almost two. Most of his stuff was here anyway, slowly intermingling with your things as the time passed - pairs of socks rolled up side by side in the top drawer, toothbrushes with the bristles touching in a cup by the sink, three sets of boots in the mudroom. The evidence of a steady migration toward normal again.
"What color should I get today?" You ask, looking down at your bare toes. You'd love to get a manicure, but the ranch doesn't allow it. It's only a matter of hours before a nail breaks or chips from doing something hardy with your hands. You always stick to pedicures, plus Bucky loves to pick out the color.
"Hmm," he considers, wrapping his arms around you from behind and admiring your reflections in the large mirror. He plants a kiss to your neck before bringing a calloused hand up and under the neckline of your dress and over your breast. Your eyes flutter closed. You don't think you'll ever get used to how good he feels, and not just sexually, although that's another level of good. Just his breath on your skin and his deep voice in your ear are enough to sustain you for days. "So sexy," he groans with a gentle squeeze.
"We can't right now," you say, biting your lip. "My appointment is in twenty minutes, Buck."
He growls and releases your breast, but keeps his arms around you.
"What color?" You ask again, this time wiggling your toes. He looks down and sighs out a laugh.
"Hmm," he hums as he turns you and sets you on the bathroom counter top before he steps between your thighs. "There's this shade of pink I can't get out of my head," he whispers as he nips at your ear. "It's becoming one of my favorite colors."
You sigh in a sharp breath as one of his hands runs up your thigh and under your sundress. He traces the lace edge of your underwear with a warm finger before pulling the fabric to the side. A delicate moan escapes you as he draws a line up the seam of your pussy. "Yeah, such a warm shade of pink. Perfect for -" he pauses as he presses in knuckle-deep, "summer."
"More," you gasp, rocking your hips into his hand, but he removes his finger and pulls your underwear back into place with a devilish grin. Your gaze widens as he lifts his hand to his mouth and sucks the digit clean. He leans in and whispers. "You'd better come back with those toes painted pussy pink."
"James Buchanan Barnes," you whisper-shout in shock as you hop off the counter and adjust your dress. "You're crazy."
"Crazy for you, honey," he says with a kiss. "I'm taking Hen and Roo out for a ride this mornin'. Gonna mend that piece of fence the herd took down."
"Okay, there's breakfast sandwiches on the stove for y'all. I'll be back in a couple hours."
You finish getting ready while Henry and Bucky eat their breakfast. You give them both a kiss, pat Roo's head, and grab the truck keys from the hook on the wall.
"Pink!" Bucky shouts with a grin as you close the door behind you. Naughty, perfect man.
When you get to the nail salon, you find that you're scheduled for a manicure and a pedicure. "No, that's a mistake. I'm sorry," you explain. "I'm just here for the pedicure."
"Oh, well, your husband called earlier and added on a manicure," the receptionist says and repeats your name to confirm.
"Yeah, huh, that's me," you say with a puzzled expression. Bucky isn't your husband, but you let that assumption slide.
"It's already paid for," she explains.
"Oh, well, okay. I guess I'll do both then."
"Okay, go pick your color," she says, pointing to the wall behind you.
"Pink," you say under your breath and feel your cheeks heat. He's such a quiet man. You'd never know how deeply naughty and affectionate his is unless he was yours. You study the rainbow of shades and pick a "warm, summer pink" that you think is the closest to… well, you know.
The nail technician leads you to a chair where she gets you started with a hot, soapy soak for your feet. You show her the color you want - yes, for both fingers and toes - and she gets to work. Your eyes flutter closed and your head hits the massage chair pillow at some point during the treatment. You wake up from your semi-slumber with a soft tap on your knee. Your toes and nails are now pink and you smell like a sugar-scrubbed coconut. You admire the color - it is the perfect summer pink.
Meanwhile at the ranch, Bucky and Henry are getting back on the horse with Roo in tow.
"That's a good lookin' fence there, Hen," Bucky says, offering up his hand for a down-low high five. "Thanks for the help, buddy. And thanks for talkin' with me."
"You're welcome Daddy," he says, settling back into the saddle against Bucky's chest. As Bucky looks out over the land, he feels a slight pull at his heartstrings. He misses his brother. He wishes he could have seen his amazing little boy grow up. He didn't even get to meet him, and that's a damn shame. Fucking drunk drivers. Henry falls asleep against him as they ride slowly back to the house. Bucky spots your truck pulling up the gravel drive and his heart pulls again, but this time it's for different reasons. It's you - your strength, your beauty, that fact that you're stubborn as hell, smart as a whip, and everything he's ever needed - the fact that you helped him feel like himself again. You helped each other heal together. He's never letting you slip through his fingers again. You get out of the truck and hold a hand over your head to shield the sun. Here comes your world, all on the back of a horse. You can tell Henry is sleeping by the way he's slumped against Bucky's chest and you smile. You meet them in the barn and carefully carry your boy inside to his bed. You'll change the bedsheets later. Who knows what they got into out in those fields,but you don't want to chance changing him out of his little jeans and t-shirt.
You pour Bucky a quick glass of iced tea and walk out to the barn. He's hanging up the saddle as you round the corner.
"Hey," you say. "Thanks for the royal treatment." You hand him the glass, showing off your surprise manicure.
"You deserve it," he says, taking the glass from you with a nod before taking a long drink. "Thank ya. Lemme see 'em again," he says, gesturing to your hands.
You hold your hands out in front of you and the side of his mouth quirks up in a smile. "That's a good color," he mutters, "but I think we'd better color match 'em." Before you know it, the empty glass is on stable ledge and Bucky has you in his arms. "Hen stay asleep?" He asks, carrying you bridal style to the old desk in the corner of the barn.
"Yes," you answer through a gasp as he sets you down on the desktop and drags the fabric of your dress around your hips.
"Good. Now spread your legs," he groans, hooking his hands into your underwear and pulling them down around your ankles. He stops and runs his knuckles over the arch of your foot. "So soft." He plants a kiss there.
"Bucky," you whine, but before you can say anything else, he drags your body to the edge of the desk and kneels down, licking a broad swathe up your center with a grunt and he inhales.
"So sweet for me," he mutters as he nuzzles his nose against your clit and tongue fucks you. "Touch yourself, baby."
You comply and bring your freshly manicured nails to your swollen bud. "Perfect match," he says, smiling up at you with a pleased expression. You swipe your thumb across his glistening lower lip, and he takes your wrist in his hand before bringing it up to his mouth. He sucks your arousal off. The action makes you clench and Bucky notices with a needy sigh. He doesn't say anything, just stands up and unbuckles his belt. His eyes never leave yours as your chest heaves in anticipation. Every time with him feels like the first in the best way.
"I'll be right back," he says as he leans in to kiss you and turns on his heel toward the house, presumably to get a condom.
"Buck, don't go," you beg. "We could just…"
"What are you asking?" He presses with a raised brow.
"I'm saying I want to feel you, please."
A whimper erupts from his throat. "Bare?"
You nod, eyes pleading, and he answers you by unbuttoning those Wranglers you'll never get enough of, and putting your hand down the waistband of his boxers. He's all heat and girth and veins, and you know he's it for you. No one else could ever compare. You've done it countless times over the past few years, but never like this, and you shiver in anticipation. Something about seeing him with Henry earlier on the horse, maybe? The manicure he insisted on? No, it's nothing specific. It's all the little things - the way he lets you sleep in on the weekends while he gets up to eat big bowls of cereal and feed the horses with Hen, his strong silence that makes you feel safe and like nothing can touch you, how he understands that even in the thick of bliss and happiness together you still get hit with bouts of grief over the death of his brother, the generosity of his spirit and hands - "Oh," you moan as he lines himself up and looks at you one last time for confirmation.
"I want all of you," you whisper across his lips. He nods and swallows, pressing in slowly, carefully until he's fully inside.
"There's all of it," he rasps. "God, I love you."
"I love you, James."
He starts to move, wrapping his arms around you and keeping most of your body weight off the desk. There's a handful of positions that feel amazing with Bucky, but your favorites are the ones where you're face to face like this. Watching each other come undone - the dilated pupils, the sharp intakes of breath, the flushed cheeks, sometimes even tears - it's everything.
"Fuck honey," he groans. "I can feel everything. Fuck."
His breathing is labored and delicious and hot against your neck as he starts to move faster. He brings a thumb to your clit. It's warm in the barn already, but now you can feel sweat start to form on the back of your neck as your body heats.
"Feels… bigger," you manage to breath out, gripping at his biceps. He keeps working slow, methodical circles on that sweet spot as he fucks you a little bit rougher against the desk. The tension in your lower belly snaps.
"Mmm, can feel you squeezin' me," he grunts. "Come for me, Junebug."
He moves a hand to the back of your neck and adjusts your head so it's level with his. He looks into your eyes. "Come," he demands.
"Buck - I," is all you get out before your thighs start shaking around his hips and your orgasm takes hold.
"There you go," he encourages you, keeping your head in place to talk you through it. "Look at me when you come on my cock."
"God!" You exclaim, a groan escaping your throat.
"So wet," he gasps. "I'm so close."
You catch your breath and make him look at you this time by tugging gently on his hair. "Don't pull out," you whisper.
"Sorry?" He whines like he didn't fully hear you.
"I wanna feel you, Buck. Please."
His mouth collides with yours, tongues dancing together as he whimpers, spilling into you. You both stay where you are, breathing in tandem, coming down from your highs. After a half minute or so, he shifts his hips to pull out with a hiss. He stands back and admires his handiwork with a blush and grin. "She looks real pretty all full of me."
"You have such a mouth on you," you reply with a giggle. "But I love it."
"I love you," he blurts out again. "I-"
He looks nervous all of a sudden, then moves to you to pull down your dress. "I'll clean you up inside, but Junebug… I gotta ask you somethin' first."
"What?"
He buckles his belt quickly, takes one more glance at you like he's never loved anyone more, and kneels on the hay-laden ground.
"Will you marry me?"
"Bucky-" you start as your heart starts beating wildly in your chest.
"I have a ring, I swear," he says, eyes widening in panic.
You hop down from the desk and walk to him, kneeling in the dirt as tears fill your eyes.
"It's inside, I'm sorry, I-" he panics.
"Bucky, yes," you say, putting your hands on each of his cheeks in an attempt to calm him.
"Wait, what?" His eyes snap to yours.
"Yes, I'll marry you."
"Oh, thank God," he sighs and picks you up. "I had this whole night planned, and I don't know, I just had to ask you right now. I love you so much. I love Henry. I love our little life that we've built from the ashes. I can't imagine anyone but you guys as my forever."
"Bucky, I love you so much. I want this forever with you too," you answer.
"Wait, is this why you had me get a manicure today?" You ask through a giggle, admiring your shiny nails.
"Well yeah," he admits sheepishly. "I figured you'd want them nice for pictures."
"You're so thoughtful."
"Oh, and I already asked Henry while we were mendin' that fence earlier. He said, and I quote, "I don't know why you're askin' me for Mama's hand when you already hold it all the time anyway."
You choke up at that. Right before you walk back into the house together, a junebug lands on your sleeve and you know that one more very important person is sending their blessing down from above. Bucky notices too.
"Thank you," he says, looking up into the bright blue sky. "I'll take care of both of them. Forever."
When Bob started coaching a tee ball team with Bradley, he was surprised to find how much he enjoyed it. But the last thing he expected was to fall in love with Molly, the beautiful and exciting aunt of one of the players on the team. Bob is hooked after one look at her, but he's afraid that he could never be enough.
This story accompanies my fic Batting Practice! Thanks for the banner @mak-32! roosterforme masterlist
pls do a fic where reader is usually the soft, sweet one but during sex she snaps and flips the dynamic—grabbing bucky by the jaw, telling him exactly how she wants him to fuck her—and he is completely gone, no thoughts head empty
oh, now this is yummy
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Bucky always swore you were the gentlest thing that had ever touched him.
Soft hands. Soft voice. Soft smile. Everything in you was ease; warm patience, careful affection, the kind of sweetness that made his chest ache in a way he’d never learned how to name.
So in his head, it made sense that the sex was usually soft too. He loved it that way—loved how you sighed under him, how your nails skimmed instead of dug, how you guided him through your body like he was something precious.
But tonight?
Tonight you crack and Bucky never stood a chance.
You’re beneath him at first, your thighs parted around his hips as he kisses down your neck, slow and reverent the way he always is. That big body caging you in, lips tracing your pulse, his metal hand stroking lazy circles on your waist.
Suddenly you tighten your hand in his hair, tugging just hard enough to make his breath hitch.
“Up,” you murmur.
He lifts his head, confused and a little dazed. “Doll?”
You sit up in one clean motion, your palm catching his jaw—not gently, not sweet, but firm, controlled, possessive. His pupils blow wide instantly, like his brain short-circuits at the feel of your fingers digging in.
“Sit back,” you tell him, tone low, steady, leaving no room for anything but obedience.
And Bucky…obeys. Immediately. Without thought. He shifts back onto his heels, spine straightening, chest rising like he’s waiting for inspection. Head empty, instincts buzzing.
You crawl into his lap, slow enough to make him swallow, and wrap your hand around his throat, not to squeeze, just to hold, to guide.
“You listening to me, Bucky?”
His lips part. “Yeah,” he breathes, already wrecked. “Yes, ma’am.”
The title slips out without intention, like his body gives the answer before his mind catches up. Heat floods your stomach.
Your thumb strokes the hinge of his jaw. “Good. Because I’m going to tell you how I want you to fuck me.”
Bucky chokes on air.
Your nice, soft, sweet girl is gone. Or maybe she was always this too; maybe she just hadn’t let it loose until now.
You lean in, nose brushing his as you roll your hips deliberately against his cock, dragging a moan out of him that sounds embarrassingly desperate.
“I want you deep,” you whisper, lips ghosting his. “As deep as you can give me. I want you holding my hips open and fucking me until I forget how to stand.”
His eyes flutter. A ragged sound tears from his throat. He nods so quickly it’s almost frantic.
“You want that?” you ask, tilting his head up by the chin like you’re examining him. “You want to give it to me?”
“Yes—yes, fuck, anything—”
You cut him off with a slow kiss, your fingers tightening around his jaw until he melts. Not a soldier. Not an Avenger. Just a man reduced to trembling putty in your hands.
“Good boy,” you murmur against his mouth.
Bucky whimpers.
Actually whimpers.
Your smile turns sharp.
“Lay down.”
He drops back instantly, muscular body hitting the mattress in one smooth, obedient motion. You straddle him, palms on his chest, watching how his breath stutters. His cock is heavy against his stomach, twitching with every pass of your eyes.
You drag your nails lightly down his ribs. “Look at you,” you taunt softly. “Already gone and I haven’t even gotten on your cock yet.”
“Please,” he whispers, voice cracking like he’s been edged for hours instead of minutes. “Please, doll, I—I need—”
“You’ll get what I give you.”
His hips jerk, the words hitting him like a punch to the gut.
You line yourself up, but you don’t sink down yet. You trace the tip along your folds, letting the sensitivity torture him. His fists clench in the sheets, metal hand denting the fabric.
“Hands on my hips,” you order.
He grabs you instantly, grip firm but reverent, as if he doesn’t know how strong he’s allowed to be anymore. Like he’s scared to do anything wrong.
You lean down and kiss him, slow and filthy. “Bucky,” you breathe against his lips, “I want you to fuck me. Not be gentle. Not hold back. I want all of you.”
He makes a broken sound—half moan, half prayer.
But before he can thrust up, before he can even think about taking over, you sink down onto him yourself, inch by inch, watching his expression crumble into pure ruin.
“Doll—oh god—f-fuck—”
Your hand flies to his jaw again, forcing his gaze up to yours. “Eyes on me.”
He obeys instantly, eyes wide, shiny, helpless.
“Now,” you say, settling fully on him, swallowing the thick length of him in one slow, devastating push, “fuck me exactly the way I want.”
His hips snap up so hard it steals your breath—and you laugh. Breathless. Pleased. Addicted to the sight of him unraveling.
Your nails drag into his shoulders. “That’s it. Just like that. Give it to me.”
Bucky’s gone.
Completely.
His head drops back, mouth open, groaning like he’s being pulled apart. His brain is mush, his thoughts turned to static under the weight of your commands, your hands, your body milking him with every roll of your hips.
“Good boy,” you whisper again, and he swears he could come from the praise alone.
You ride him harder, using him, taking exactly what you asked for, exactly what you wanted, and Bucky can only hold your hips and obey, panting, shaking, overwhelmed, worshipful.
When he finally comes undone, it’s with your name gasped like a confession, like salvation.
And when you collapse onto his chest, his arms wrap around you tight, still trembling.
“Doll?” he whispers, kissing your temple.
“Hm?”
“You can… do that again. Whenever you want.” A beat. “Maybe… right now?”
You laugh against his skin.
“Head empty?”
“Completely,” he admits without shame. “Please don’t fix me.”
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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word count: 2.4 k (fluff)
summary: Bradley wasn’t used to having someone waiting for him to come home, but when he returns to his girl's apartment after deployment to find something familiar in her apartment, he hopes he’ll never have to leave again.
-
He’s dreamed of being exactly where he is right now for weeks. He’s in your bed and his side is warm from where your bodies are still connected. He’s had longer deployments, but this one felt especially long. There is no doubt in his mind why time seemed to move slower for the last twelve weeks. You.
He moves slowly not wanting to break whatever bubble you’re in. The sun is starting to pour in through the windows due lack to the curtains that you were too lazy to close last night. He got in late and you had fallen asleep on the couch waiting up for him. He had to admit, it was hard for him to decide to wake you or just join you. He knew nothing would beat waking up in your bed this morning.
For the first time in a couple months he’s not waking to a bunkmate getting up or boots stomping down the hall. Announcements being blared calling them to sudden attention. Instead, he’s waking up to you. In your bed. Tangled up in your sheets.
“Morning, sweetheart.” His voice raspy, revealing how early it really is.
“Mmm.” You groan back, still half asleep.
Bradley leans down to press a kiss to your bare shoulder. Another on your neck. Another behind your ear. He feels you shift around a little.
“M’gonna make breakfast.” His lips pressed against your ear.
“Not yet.” You finally turn in his hold and take a possessive claim of him by wrapping your arms around him. He settles in a little more, leaning down to press a kiss to the top of your head. He looks around your room while soaking it in for a few more minutes. He listens to you fall in and out of sleep with uneven breaths.
You have books piled high on your dresser, a receipt tucked in between the pages as a bookmark. One of his sweatshirts you’ve borrowed and never returned is tossed on the chair with obvious frequent wears. There’s a couple plants that lean closer to the window. He’s sure once you're actually awake you’ll claim it’s untidy and it’s a mess you meant to clean before he got back, but to him it’s divine. He’s never spent so much time in someone’s place that felt so clearly like home.
He knows it’s a privilege to be here. To be in your room. To be in this small piece of heaven.
“You know,” He starts, waiting for you to pick up your head to show that you are in fact awake, “I think this is my favorite place.”
“Really?” You grin, “My bedroom?”
He smirks, looking down at you.
“Your bedroom.” He confirms, “Your sheets. Your pillows. You.”
You laugh and Bradley soaks it in. He would say anything to get a laugh from you.
“I’m glad I made the list.” You slide your hand against his bare chest. You use it to pull yourself up closer until your noses almost brush. It feels intoxicating to be so close. You both have been craving this for weeks. Months.
“Twelve weeks felt like forever.” He confesses.
“I’m glad it wasn’t just me counting down the minutes.”
He shakes head, taking advantage of the short distance to press a slow kiss to your lips.
“I finally feel like I’m home.”
A small piece of heaven.
Two weeks before Bradley’s deployment…
“Wanna fly out to Virginia with me this weekend? I’ve got some storage stuff to go through… and I wanna show you my parents place.”
Bradley’s question was completely out of the blue. So much so that you almost dropped your morning coffee over the question. He blurted it and immediately turned back to face the stove.
“You want me to meet Virginia-Bradley?” You tease, setting down your crossword and the drink you nearly spilled.
“Yeah, sweetheart. I really do.” He admits, setting down his spatula and facing you again.
You get up from the stool you were sitting on at the counter and make your way around to him. You're just wearing his shirt and a pair of panties, he slides his hand under the bottom of the hem to rest on your ass.
“If you want me there, I’m there.” You place a hand on his chest.
"I want you to come."
That’s how you ended up on a last minute flight out East to Bradley’s hometown. You had heard stories and seen pictures but in the months you’ve been dating you had never been out. Bradley said he doesn’t go back that often, just to check on the house and get things out of storage when needed.
Natasha had confessed to you months ago that he’s never brought a girl back to his parents house. This was in fact a big deal.
They rented a car and drove it to the small town that he called home. He pulled in the driveway and pulled out a set of keys with a familiar ease. It was easy to forget that he didn’t live here full time. He just had his parents' old house and whatever base living arrangement he had been assigned. He hasn't been one to have much of a landing pad.
“Brace yourself, it’s pretty much the same as when my mom was still around.”
He swings open the front door and you’re met with a clean house that looks picture perfect the same as you're sure it looked nearly twenty years ago.
In the hallway, Bradley’s school pictures line the wall.
“Oh my god.” Your hand flies to cover your mouth in awe of the young version of him, “Look at baby Brad!”
“Oh this is just the beginning. My mom was a hoarder.” He shakes his head, but his smile is still proud.
He was not wrong.
Scrapbooks. Boxes of pictures that they sort through. Little league trophies. Model airplanes.
“I think we have enough to get a good Bradshaw museum started.” You hold up a picture of him with a saxophone, posing with the middle school band.
“Put it away.” He pushes your hands away and you fight back a snort.
Together, you go through more, eventually finding his parents' wedding scrapbook that brings tears to your eyes.
“They look so happy.” You sigh, fingers tracing the edge of the page.
“They were. Happiest people alive.” He sighs, studying the image. He knows their story was cut short, but it was a hell of a good one. His mom made sure he knew that.
You go through a few more boxes, setting aside some things to mail back and take with them.
“You’re the first person I’ve ever brought back here.” He looks over your shoulder as you flip through a stack of loose pictures.
“What does that mean?”
He knows that you’re aware. Nat has always had loose lips with the girls in his life that she actually likes. You? He knows the two of you are thick as thieves.
“It means you matter, and that this is the closest I can do to bring you home and meet the parents.” He scratches the back of his neck, unsure of himself.
“Hey,” You set down the stack to place a hand on each side of his face, turning his full attention to you. “I’m really glad you asked me to come. There’s nowhere else I would rather be.”
They continued to go through things. Check on the house and make sure everything is still in good shape. He brings you into town and shows you a couple spots. The place he used to play baseball. The old makeout spot where he got his first hickey. The lake his Grandpa would take him fishing at.
The weekend goes by fast but it’s nice, you get to play house for the weekend somewhere much bigger than your apartment. Bradley rakes up the fall leaves that are starting to crunch while you wash the dishes from last night's dinner in the sink. It feels like a whole other life over here. A different kind of heaven.
Present day.
They lazily stayed in bed for nearly another hour before Bradley’s stomach growled too loudly to ignore. He quickly hopped out of bed to get started on breakfast, you promise to be close behind, just needing to get dressed.
Bradley chuckles seeing his tool box lined up against the wall by your front door. He did tell you that you could borrow them because you had claimed you needed to hang some things and who actually has a level? He does. He told you to please use your key and break in so when he came back after deployment he wouldn’t be staring at a crooked wall.
He takes a step closer to admire your handiwork, he’s not surprised to find it looks great. He also wants to see what pictures you picked. Pictures of your travels, sunlit oceans, your friends, a few pictures of him have managed to make their way all the wall which warms his heart. One from when you were first getting to know each other, at the Hard Deck. Another that’s more recent, you kissing his check and he’s blushing like he was caught doing something naughty. He keeps scanning to recognize the faces, his heart fully stalling when he lands on one. He stops.
His parents.
A simple frame. Goose with his iconic and massive grin that is contagious. Carole is half laughing and half trying to wrangle him into behaving for the picture. They look young, happy, and so full of life.
It’s one of his favorite pictures of them. It was clear to see how in love they were.
“Bradley?” You notice his still build taking in the wall in front of him. You know exactly what picture caught his eye.
He clears his throat, but his voice still cracks when he finally speaks, “Where… Where did you get this one?”
You hesitate, taking a step closer to look at the wall by his side. His eyes unwilling to leave his parents.
“When we were in Virginia I had some of those boxes to be sent out sent here to my place. It didn’t feel right to just have them sit in base storage while you were gonna be gone.”
His breathing stills.
“I just thought… it felt right. Like they should be here with you when you came home.”
Home.
He turns to face her, eyes glassy, chest tight with both an ache and warmth building.
“You hung them on your wall.” His voice a whisper, "You made space for them in your home.”
You bite your lip, “Is it too much?”
He cups your cheek with a callused thumb brushing across your cheek.
“Nobody’s ever done something like this for me. Nobody’s ever loved the parts of me that hurt.”
You lean into his touch, eyes starting to shine with his.
“I love all of you,” You whisper, “Even the parts you think you have to protect.”
That undoes him. Bradley swallows, he’s sure his voice would betray him if he tried to respond right this instance. He just holds out a hand for you to turn and both look at the picture of the young couple on the wall.
“I wish they knew you.” Bradley’s voice, softer than you’ve ever heard.
“I know.” You sigh, leaning your head on his shoulder, “I feel like I did by knowing you. I have no doubt you wouldn’t be half as charming as you are if they weren’t so amazing.”
He chuckles, wiping a stray tear from the top of his cheek before it has the time to slide further down.
Before the uranium mission he hadn’t had a home base. He bounced all over the states wherever they needed him to be. The last year and a half have been the longest he has been anywhere since joining the Navy. He spent the first year living on base, and the last few months at Mav’s house. He’s been looking to get his own place, but he was hoping it would actually be your place too.
Bradley thinks for the third time that morning.
This must be what heaven feels like.
“C’mon.” You pull on his arm after hearing his stomach yet again, “Let me feed you.”
“Anything is better than what the Navy’s been reheating the last few weeks.”
“Exactly. You need real food.”
You shuffle into the kitchen with bare feet. You move around each other with the ease of people who have done this a hundred times together. You’re pulling eggs from the fridge, Bradley places one hand on your hip from behind and uses the other to take the eggs.
“I thought I was cooking.”
He doesn’t answer with his words, he simply presses his lips against yours. It lasts a little longer than he intends, but your hands find his hair and it’s way too delicious to end sooner than he has to. You eventually pull away with a laugh.
Bradley steps around you to start cracking eggs into a bowl and begin whisking them. You make your way to the living room and turn on the old radio that sits on your bookshelf. A go to whenever the apartment was feeling a little quiet. Or on mornings like these when you are both slow to get out of bed.
You get started on making coffee while he stares at the eggs in the pan like they hold all the answers.
It’s too soon.
Way too soon.
You have only been dating for a few months. It hasn’t even been a year yet. You are both still finding new things you love about each other.
But.
If you asked him to marry you tomorrow, he would say yes before you could even finish the sentence. He doesn’t want to rush. He doesn’t want to pressure you at all, but he wants to be ready.
Which is why when you were both back in Virginia he got something else out of storage. Something he was too afraid to risk mailing and had to tuck away rolled up in his socks in his carry on.
I hate to ask but I have 3 major bills coming out this week and I can't afford all of them.
If anyone could help me out I'd appreciate it.
Unless I get my tips on time (I won't I'm still owed a couple weeks worth) I'm gonna owe quite a lot of bills so if anyone could help I would appreciate it.
Go to paypal.me/melissaamcrfairy and type in the amount. Since it’s PayPal, it's easy and secure. Don’t have a PayPal account? No worries.
summary: bob lets you see the less reserved side of him through the excitement of a new relationship and accidental confessions
content: reader is a bartender, bob has a habit of watching her from across the room, some sweet relationship fluff and of course lots of smut, dirty talk from our shy king, mutual masturbation, size kink kinda but not really (idk bob talks about how small readers hands are compared to his dick so there’s that), confessions of love, bob getting turned on by emotional intimacy, unprotected sex, cream pie (reader explicitly asks bob to come in her for the first time and his brain short circuits)
word count: 3.6k
author’s note: another day another smut about a man named bob… really though, with the lewis pullman obsession taking over every fiber of my being, it was only a matter of time before i wrote for bob floyd. also i didn’t do an extensive amount of research for this, so apologies in advance if it’s not exactly “lore accurate”
The night Bob Floyd finally worked up the courage to ask you out, you were almost too stunned to respond.
It was a simple “What time do you get off?” delivered in a severely underconfident tone, with a weak smile accompanying it.
He had been watching you for weeks. Going to The Hard Deck with other members of his class to let off steam, and subsequently seeing you working behind the bar every night.
You were always so busy taking orders and pouring drinks, but it never stopped you from feeling his stare from across the room.
You noticed him right away; always sat in the back of the crowd, quietly observing with a content smile on his lips.
He didn’t talk much, not even the times he found himself face to face with you at the bar top, just a quick greeting and a straight forward drink order, but his eyes spoke volumes. They were soft and teeming with curiosity. His stare always met yours, but never longer than five or six seconds. However, that short time was enough to have both of you flustered and searching the room in a desperate attempt to play off the mutual attraction.
But Bob was oblivious to your crush on him.
He had convinced himself that there was no way on earth he had a chance with you. Every time he glanced your way and found you already looking in his direction, he felt a twinge of embarrassment for getting caught in the act— stealing a glance at the pretty bartender that was way out of his league.
It wasn’t until the sixth or seventh time everyone found their way to bar for drinks, that a few of the other guys gave him enough flack to actually influence him to ask you out. Succumbing to peer pressure and the notion that maybe, just maybe, you were interested in him too, he let his hesitant feet carry him to the bar.
It was a round-about way of asking you on a date— inquiring what time you got off work— but he was far too chicken to ask you out directly. He figured this way he had a better chance of getting let down easily.
So it took him by surprise when you answered a straight forward “Nine o’clock,” with a sweet smile and your eyes fearlessly locked on his.
That was the night he took you to get ice cream and the two of you walked along the beach, talking for hours with nothing but the glow of the moon reflecting off the tide to illuminate your path on the sand.
He kissed you that night. On the steps of your front porch with his hands holding either side of your face, he gently leaned in. His lips were soft—timid in their descent, but confident once they met with yours. There was an undeniable passion in the way his mouth moved. Even with a simple goodnight kiss, it was obvious to you that there was something more there, hidden and burning beneath his movements.
That soft spoken spark grew into a blazing fire over the next few weeks.
It almost felt silly to you now— your first impression of him— a quiet, shy, and almost dorky man, who you figured might stumble over his words and follow your lead like a lost puppy.
He couldn’t have been further from that when the two of you were alone together.
He may have been shy, but he was far from quiet. There was no doubt that Bob had no trouble holding his own behind closed doors— specifically your bedroom door.
The first time he had you pinned against your bedroom wall, hands roaming down your body and his lips on your collarbone, your knees nearly buckled. You’d been a clumsy kissing mess all the way through your front door and across your living room, until you finally pulled him past the threshold of your bedroom, and let him take the reins.
He carefully pressed your body between his chest and the wall, wasting no time as he explored every inch of you.
You’d severely misjudged his level of experience. Either that or he was gifted with the god given talent of actually knowing how to please a woman. Whatever it was, it resulted in the two of you spending many sleepless nights tangled in your sheets.
Your honeymoon phase of complete toe curling bliss was cut incredibly short by Bob getting enlisted to train for an elite mission alongside some of the other graduates from his class.
While it was a huge honor for him to be involved with such a high profile mission, it meant you saw less of each other.
A lot less.
Not only did he spend most days training from sun up to sun down, but the details of the mission were highly classified, meaning they kept close tabs on all of the recruits involved.
Of course, he still found time to see you, it was just far less than you were both used to after nearly two months of enjoying unrestricted time together.
Although it was temporary, the sporadic and rushed nature of his visits never failed to keep you on your toes. Some days you’d see him, other days you didn’t.
This, however, was the longest you’d gone without seeing him since he was put on the assignment.
Four days.
Sure it didn’t seem like much, but with the blooming nature of your newly christened relationship, four days might as well have been four weeks.
And as you noticed the light hues of orange threatening to cover the clouds outside your kitchen window, you feared four days might turn into five.
And then a knock.
And another.
The two hurried taps against your front door shouldn’t have sent adrenaline coursing through your veins, but you knew it was him. And the excitement of a surprise visit from Bob was enough to have you eagerly striding to your front door, ripping it open at lightning speed.
There he was. Hair falling slightly from its gel slicken place, pins perfectly placed at the pocket of his uniform, glasses sitting cordially on the bridge of his nose, and a wide beaming smile stretching across his lips.
A matching smile burned at your cheeks and a cheerful greeting was due to follow, only he crashed his lips into yours before you even had a chance to speak.
The weight of his body met yours, causing you to stumble backward into your living room. Instinctively, his hand found your lower back, arm snaking around your waist and holding you steady as he worked to guide your feet, walking you further into your entry way with his lips still attached to yours.
He wasted no time. Showing you just how much he missed you in that grueling 96 hour period where he was rendered unable to taste your lips on his.
His hands were quick to find the hem of your shirt, pushing it up your body and allowing you to help him throw it to the floor.
In the time it took you to pull the material over your head, your lips were free long enough to get a few words out, “So I don’t even get a hi, how are you?”
He smiled, but it was unclear if the source of his delight was from your sarcastic remark or the view of your newly exposed skin.
It wasn’t long before you felt his sloppy grin press into your neck, lips peppering gentle kisses just underneath your jaw.
“Hi” His voice was a muffled hum against your skin.
“How are you?” His question teetered on mocking, but the sweet way the words tumbled from his lips and into the crook of your neck made it all the more endearing.
“Better now,” the answer to his question slipped past your lips as you tried your best not to moan with him lightly sucking at a particularly sensitive spot.
It was muscle memory the way your hands found his belt. The motions seemed to be an ingrained pathway in your brain as your fingertips pulled it free from the loops of his pants.
You could feel his breath hitch against your neck, as your hands found the button of his pants.
“God, I couldn’t stop thinking about you.” His lips were still moving against your skin, moving back up your neck as your hand slid into the front of his pants, dipping below the waistband of his underwear.
“You were on my mind, every minute of every day.” His voice was low in your ear as your fingers wrapped around his dick that was already straining against the tight confines of his pants.
“What did you think about?” The question sounded innocent as it purred from your lips, but paired with the way your hand was shoved down his pants, slowly stroking him, your words were aimed to kill.
“Thought about your lips, and how soft they always feel on mine.” He placed a quick kiss to your mouth the second the words left his tongue.
“Thought about your hands…” He pulled away from the kiss, his arms still wrapped around your waist holding you close, but his gaze fell between your bodies at your hand pumping agonizingly slow in his khakis.
“How small they are when they’re wrapped around me.” It was like he was in trance, his eyes fixed on your wrist just barely visible at the top of his pants. He watched as it moved in time with your palm gliding against his length, his glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose.
His words were confident but not arrogant. The confessions— regardless of how dirty— were kindly spoken. Each one delivered in an earnest tone despite the shaky breaths expelled between them. He was trying his best to keep his composure while your hand busied itself in his briefs.
Breaking out of his daze, his eyes found yours again, a tiny smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he let one of his hands slide to the front of your body, tracing the skin along the waistband of your pants.
“Thought about how you’re always so wet for me.” Those words held a bit more sensuality as his voice dropped to a raspier octave, and his hand dipped into the thin material of your panties, fingers wasting no time as they found the arousal pooling at your center— evidence of his hushed admission.
His name left your lips in a soft gasp as he teased your entrance with the pad of his middle finger.
There you both were, standing in the middle of your living room with your hands shoved down each other’s pants.
While somewhat pathetic, the desperate sighs of relief and impulsive moans pouring into the space between you were anabashadly hot. It was a primitive display of excitement in finally feeling one another.
He leisurely pressed his finger into you, watching the way your lips parted at the feeling.
A quiet whimper found its way past your opened mouth and Bob groaned in response,
“Thought about those little sounds you make.”
Almost as if the warmth of your pussy wrapped around his finger was too much to handle, his head fell into the crook of your neck.
Your hand was still keeping a steady rhythm, stroking him in his pants, when he mumbled into your neck, “Keep making them for me.”
He was referring to the soft moans and unsolicited whines that bubbled up from your chest every time he curled his finger into you. Adding another digit and working against the restraint of your pants, he had every intention of hitting that perfect spot that would send profanities dripping from your tongue, except you grabbed his wrist, halting his movements and forcing his head from its resting place on your shoulder. He gave you a raised eyebrow and slightly tilted his head in question to your abrupt interruption.
“Bobby.” His name filled the room like a song— soft and sweet from your lips.
“Can you just fuck me already?” The words were rushed and breathless, and the look on his face was a mix between surprise and utter amusement as he freed his hand from your pants and effortlessly guided your body onto the nearby couch.
With your back against the cushions, you maneuvered your hips, pushing your pants and underwear down your legs and tossing them aside, while Bob stood over you eagerly undressing himself until the two of you were completely bare and he was hovering above you, kissing you with passion fuelled anticipation.
He lined himself up at your entrance, eyes flickering between your face and the space between you where your bodies met, watching as he pushed himself into you, slowly stretching you to take every inch of him.
“Fuck- you feel so good.” Your words melted into a moan as he continued to push into you, an agonizing pleasure overtaking your body as he took his time pushing in to the hilt.
“God I love you.” He hummed out, gazing at the way he disappeared between your thighs.
The second the words left his lips he’d filled you completely, dick fully sheathed inside your plush walls, and all he could do was freeze.
He didn’t mean to say it out loud.
Neither of you had used the ‘L word’ yet.
He knew he loved you weeks ago— three weeks ago to be exact— when you were wearing his t-shirt and cooking him breakfast while you giggled at one of his stories from class.
It hit him like a semi truck in that moment, he cared so deeply for you, wanted to spend every waking moment in your presence, wanted to see you in every single one of his t-shirts, and would do anything to make you laugh over and over again just to hear the sound of it. He loved you, but he refused to say it first.
His overwhelming fear of rejection kept him from making the outward profession of his feelings too soon, yet here he was, balls deep in you on your living room couch, the three simple words echoing in the silence of humiliation.
You looked up at him, waiting for any sort of follow up clarification or retraction, only to be met with a very serious and slightly apprehensive stare, and Bob’s heaving chest.
Your hands found the back of his neck, sliding affectionately into his hair and bringing his face down closer to yours.
“I love you too.”
The palpable tension pulling at his muscles immediately melted, and his eyes softened at hearing the reciprocated confession in your gentle voice.
It was impossible to stop himself from lowering his head into yours, kissing you for what felt like the hundredth time in the last half hour, as relief flooded throughout his body, and crashed into your lips.
Still buried inside you, his hips pulled back before thrusting into you with measured intensity.
Over and over again, his hips met with yours as your hands tugged at his hair with messy moans escaping through locked lips.
“Say it again.” His demand was sweet and sincere, as he pulled away from the kiss, continuing to drive into you at the same satisfying pace, with his eyes watching carefully as the words floated from your lips once more.
“I love you, I love you, I love you.” It sounded through the room like a quiet chant on each of your moans, whispering words of praise and affection at every one of his thrusts.
The sweet nature of the moment was drowned out by the guttural groans coming from the man above you. It was like every time you uttered those three little words, something primal lit up in his brain, telling him to push into you harder— faster. Hitting the same sweet spot with each jerk of his hips, and you could feel the familiar coil of release tightening in your abdomen.
“Oh sweetheart, keep squeezin’ me like that.” His voice was a breathless groan, threatening to crack at the pleasure of feeling you pulse around him.
You obliged, tightening around him with every stroke of his cock, throwing your head even further back into the pillows underneath you.
Your hands that were tangled in his hair found their way down, tracing the muscles of his back.
Feeling your hands running down his body sent Bob’s mind into overdrive, as his head dipped down to kiss and nip at your chest.
His mouth worked skillfully, tongue dancing around your nipples, sucking eagerly anywhere and everywhere he could. His actions drew groans of appeasement from you as you laid underneath him, his thrusts working in tandem with his mouth to send you over the edge.
You squirmed and moaned, nails raking into his back as you tensed up, warning signals of your impending climax.
“That’s it sweetheart.” In a pussy-drunk haze, he let out a mumble against your chest, feeling the way you were freezing up underneath him, grasping at his back, letting him know you were close.
His words acted as the final push, tossing you into a pool of utter euphoria as you came around him with a pathetic squeak of his name.
He slowed his thrusts for a second, a gentle hand coming to rest on your face while he met you in a kiss. Sweet whispers of praise left his lips as you came out of your orgasm induced fog, a haphazard smile painted on your face.
His thumb rubbed back and forth across your cheek, his hips stalling with his dick still pushing against your now soft and swollen walls that tensed around him repeatedly.
“So perfect…” His eyes gazed down at you with nothing but affection swimming in them.
Now it was your turn to let something spew from your psyche, completely unfiltered—
“I want you to come in me.”
You could hear him audibly swallow, as his eyes stayed on yours.
While you’d had sex countless times, in plenty of different positions, with condoms, without condoms— relying on the pullout method and the birth control pills you took religiously every night to do their job— you’d never gone into this territory before.
“A-Are you sure?” For the first time since you’d known him, Bob stumbled over his words. His eyes searching yours in an effort to ensure that your request was genuine.
Without a single word, you just nodded your head, hands gently running across his back.
You wanted this. More than wanted— you craved it.
In your mind there was absolutely no other way for this meeting on your couch to end. You knew it was risky— stupid even, but you needed to feel him in every way possible.
Without needing any more reassurance, he began to move, pulling out of you and pushing all the way back in, savoring the enveloping warmth of velvet between your legs.
Already sensitive and still working your way down from your high, the little sounds you were making in rhythm with each of his movements sent every ounce of blood in his body straight to his dick.
Your moans and the sound of your voice asking him to come in you, replayed over and over again in his head, causing him to pick up his pace, desperately chasing his own high.
You braced yourself for his release, hungry to hear that strangled groan you knew would escape his throat when he came.
“C’mon baby, I wanna feel you.” You were stuck in such a fucked-out headspace that you hardly recognized your own voice as you begged him to finish.
But your words were exactly what he needed to hear for his hips to stutter and a gravelly whine to push past his lips as he spilled into you.
His warmth flooded you, sending your legs wrapping around him.
You pulled him further onto your body as his dick throbbed, sending its sticky heat spreading deeper into you.
Subdued sounds of pleasure and relief filled the room as you both let out an assortment of sighs and moans at the gratification of raw, unrestrained love and desire.
The setting sun sent shades of deep orange and dusty pink into the room, painting the walls and filling the space with an ambiance of peaceful quiet.
Bob’s body fell against yours, naked limbs intertwined with one another as you both squeezed next to each other on your couch, his length still buried inside of you, a mess of release spilling onto your thighs, but neither of you cared.
The only thing on your mind was the comfortable weight of his body pressing into you, and his chest rising and falling calmly as his eyelids fluttered closed.
“We should get up and get cleaned up.” You attempted to reason with him— and yourself, bringing a hand up to run through his hair.
A huff of air was his only response as he hugged you tighter into him.
“I can make you dinner…”
You thought for sure the offer of a warm meal would entice him, but he didn’t budge.
“Just a quick nap,” His voice faded into a deep breath as you played with his hair.
“And then dinner.” He opened his eyes a little, peeking at you with a playful smile on his lips.
You smiled back, nodding ever so slightly as his eyes fell closed again.
You snuggled into his chest, fingertips still running through his hair when you heard a content, “I love you,” leave him in a whisper before he drifted off.
Corruption kinks don't just have to be about dark twisted shit. The sweet stuff can make you much worse too. Kissing can make you so feral your body throbs while you lock lips. Gentle missionary can make you feel like a perfect pathetic toy, penetrated and used like a pretty little plaything. Receiving head can make you feel slutty and needy, like a desperate whore overwhelmed with the desperate need to cum your brains out. Slow fingering can turn you into a drooly empty-headed doll hypnotized by your own pleasure, arching your back and bucking your hips while your entire body shivers with the pleasure of being toyed with
"...clark, what is that." your face froze in shock.
how could you have forgotten that your clark kent was none other than... an extra terrestrial? a kryptonian, at that.
in your defense, his appearance doesn't really scream alien aside maybe from his height, so the information just slipped out of your mind.
it was when you were met face to face with his cock, that you remembered his true nature.
"w-what do you mean? it's.. it's my..." he looked away from your kneeling form, embarrassed at the thought of saying such a word. "I know what that is, I'm asking you what this," and your finger rubbed against the... buds? soft hooks? that were on the side of his dick which made his silently shudder "...is". "is that not a normal thing...? you know, to grab onto you..?" he questioned innocently.
there's a silence for a moment, "clark, I love you, but there's no way in hell you thought every human had... these." you deadpanned before he started squirming, his thighs clenching. "you're making me self conscious..." "don't be! it's just... my first time with an alien, I guess."
he took a deep breath, "you know, if you don't want to do this, I could still just–- oooh, gosh..." he cut himself off with a low moan that rumbled from deep within his chest right when you licked up the buds. "feels nice?" your eyes flickered up at him as he nodded intensely, mouthing a small 'keep going'.
you smiled warmly at him before licking your lips and kissing his bulbous tip, sinking down on him as your jaw struggled to accommodate to his size. his hips jerked when the soft hooks brushed against your cheeks. "shhi– shoot..." he caught himself, his hand sneaking into your hair.
clark caressed your scalp softly as you got down to halfway of his cock, telling you to "breath," and "r-relax f'me, baby..." as if he were any more relaxed than you.
when you paused to breath through your nose, he peeled his eyes open and met your intense gaze, looking up at him with the cutest doe eyes he had ever seen. wet lashes batting up at him in sync with the sounds of your gargling.
the buds didn't feel uncomfortable in your mouth—they were soft and squishy—but it still distinctively different. yet, the thought of sucking extra terrestrial dick did make you squirm a bit.
after a few moments of the both of you catching your breaths, you finally decided to move.
he crumbled.
you were barely a few bobs in before he turned into a whimpering mess, calling out your name desperately as his back ached involuntarily. "oh my– i-it feels so- you're p-perfect, so goddamn perfect..."
the praises go straight to your core, fueling you to go even faster. you pulled up quickly, circling his tip with your tongue and sucking on it harder—which made him whisper out a small "f-fuck.." that you did not miss at all—before moving the side to suck on each bud.
you felt them harden slightly, but you didn't pay much mind to it. you pulled away, opting to stroke him for a moment. "am I doing good, so far?" you knew you were doing amazing, but you questioned him anyway because you loved a good stroke on your ego.
"s-so amazing, pretty." he slurred, his eyes slowly going for the ceiling as he was completely letting go of himself, losing his every thought at each pump of your hand.
your other hand went for his heavy balls, playing with them softly and smiling when you see him completely throwing his head back.
when you put your mouth back on him, he couldn't hold back.
and he tried.
he really did.
but when he felt your pretty lips stretch around his girth to take him, when he felt you warm sticky throat parting to welcoming him again, and when he felt the inside of your cheeks brushing against his buds? he just couldn't hold it in.
suddenly, the 'soft hooks'—as you would describe them—hardened and hooked on the inside of your cheeks, halting any and every movement. his hand that was still in your hair tightened quickly, gripping your scalp as he spilled his seed into your throat, gasping out your name.
"holy– oh my- you're so fuckin'... why are you so fucking p-p-perfect, holy shit..!" he could barely hold in his profanities, the sound of you swallowing his cum too much for him to bear.
when he finished, the buds softened again, allowing you to pull away. he let go of your hair, quickly regaining his lucidity. "o-oh my gosh, I'm so sorry! i-i didn't mean to-" he tried to apologize but you cut him off with a smile made of sin, your gaze darkening.
"those... hooks. don't you think they'd be pretty useful for breeding?"
baratheonpilled
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