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fandoms-writings · 1 year

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Adoring Fool

Part 1

Pairing: knight!bucky barnes x queen!reader

Word Count: 7.7K (don’t come at me, y’all voted for this to be a long one)

Summary: Sir James competes in the annual tourney every year, always winning in your name. But with how things have been the past couple weeks, his heads not quite in the game, not with the decision he’d made regarding his feelings for you - and the mystery person you mentioned courting.

Warnings: smut 18+ ONLY MINORS DNI, katoptronophilia (sex involving a mirror), fingering, p in v sex, angst, minor injury, hurt/comfort, bucky is dense but so is reader a little bit, bucky and reader are emotional messes, forgive me for anything that doesn't line up with historical accuracies - i took a lot of creative liberty with this one. I will include a divider where the smut begins for those of you who do not wish to read it.

A/N: Thank you so so so much to my friend @perdidosbucky-yyo for talking with me on this and bouncing around ideas with me and for helping me bring these two to life and for beta reading it! I love youuuuu <3

Series Masterlist || Bucky Masterlist || Main Masterpost

The kingdom was busy recently, bustling with constant energy as everyone worked to ready for the Annual Tourney being held in your name. Townsfolk and servants alike had spent days readying the south field for the events and the town was decorating itself in the kingdom's colors as they prepared for the fair that would follow.

Usually, plenty of visitors meant that James was as near as ever, always keeping close just in case. But you hadn't seen much of him.

Steve had taken over most of his shifts during the day, and they'd switch around supper time. You'd asked him after the second day where he had been and he'd claimed he was training for the tourney. You missed having him near, talking and eating with him throughout the day, but he fought in the tourney every year. He fought in your name, for your honor - and won every year - so you didn't argue against him.

However, you couldn't help but feel something was wrong. You knew he was training, you'd walked past the training grounds enough times to see him with your own two eyes, so it wasn't that.

Rather, it was the way he carried himself.

He didn't speak too much anymore and when he did, his tone was clipped, cold even. It'd grown difficult to carry a conversation with him without feeling like you were prying too much or without feeling desperate, so you'd let whatever exchange you were having die. You weren't sure what happened to make him so drastically change, but it was like he wasn't your James anymore, your Jamie.

You knew it had to do with what you'd told him at the gala a few weeks ago, but you didn't expect him to pull away from you like he had. So, even though you'd said you'd tell him, and you have had a few moments where you could have said something - where you wish you felt like you could - but you didn't want to anymore. Not until he was himself again.

You'd hoped that this tourney would do just that. Maybe after he let off some steam in the one on one combat he always competed in, he'd be back to normal. You'd even caught him in the halls early that morning, stopping him to wish him luck. He'd returned your wish with a glance and a small smile, looking down as he grew bashful like he always did. It filled you with a certain confidence that things were on the mend.

However, there was one thing that made that hope short-lived.

As per tradition, before each of the games commenced, the knights were given a moment of time to request the favor of whom they wished. They usually asked the ladies of the visiting houses, the women accepting and tying their fabric token to the knight's arm or the hilt of their sword.

When it came to James's turn, he sat atop his armored horse, Bandit, his helmet under his arm and his hair pulled back and tied in a low bun as he rode up to the stands. Your back straightened and your grip on your token tightened - he always asked for your favor, everyone knew it and it was why no one else dared to try to ask for it before he had the chance. This year, thinking that maybe this could be a chance to lift his spirits, you'd put a lot of work into it.

You'd embroidered flowers from the gardens that you two walked through on a weekly basis, making sure to include the ones he would always pick for you. You watched as he pulled Bandit's reins to stop him, the gray horse shaking his head, making his tourney armor rattle.

He glanced up at you, but it was fleeting as his eyes shifted to the seat next to you, and your heart stopped.

"Lady Natalia," he greeted her. You couldn't pull your eyes off of him as she, and every one of your other ladies, fell silent. "It would be an honor to have your favor on this day."

With that, your heart sunk through the floor, buried under the stands you and your ladies perched upon. You swallowed around the sudden lump in your throat.

"Um," She looked at you and you tore your eyes from his form. You glanced at her, giving her a small nod. It would be rude for her to deny him, and you weren't so pretentious to deny him asking someone who was not you. She looked back to him with a nod before standing and walking to the edge of the stands. She held her token out and once he closed the distance and offered the hilt of his sword, she tied the fabric there, the vibrant red a clash against his black armor.

Natalia took her seat next to you with a somber look in her eyes. She wouldn't look at you as she sat, holding her hands in her lap as she picked at her nails.

She knew how you felt about your knight, she was one of the few who did. You trusted her, and you also knew that had you not given her the go ahead, she wouldn't have accepted his request. Reaching over, you gently grabbed her hand and pulled it into your lap, making her look at you.

"I'm so sorry," She whispered and all you could do was give her a small smile.

"It's alright, don't you fret over it one bit," You replied, stroking her face with your knuckles and she nodded, squeezing your hand before you looked back up to see James turning to ride to the sidelines where he would wait for the event he was participating in to start.

The next knight, Sir Victor Creed, rode in and stopped at the same spot James had. He and his brother, Sir James Howlett, were well known through the kingdoms. Two brothers refusing to go anywhere without the other, never wavering in their duties and no matter the circumstances, always returning home in one piece. The Sabertooth and The Wolverine were names given to them by their brothers in arms.

"Your majesty," His voice was rough and clear, but gentle as he greeted you, bowing his head slightly, "Would you grant me your favor on this day?"

You glanced down to the embroidered token in your lap, twisting it between your fingertips before a hand entered your view. You looked over to see Natalia reaching for the token. You let her take it from you, replacing it with a spare. It was sage green, matching your dress, and had a simple pattern along the corners in gold. Bless her for coming prepared. You gave her a smile and a nod before standing, walking to the edge of the stands.

Victor gave his horse a nudge with his heels and met you at the edge with a soft smile, his gray eyes shining with pride in the sun. You placed your hand in his large outstretched one, allowing him to grasp your fingers and bow his head. He leaned forward, gently placing his lips over your knuckles, as he did any time he greeted you, though it was rare you two saw each other.

He reached for his sword, holding it by the blade so you could tie the token on the hilt.

"It's not every day anyone gets the chance to ask for your favor, your grace," He stated, watching your hands leave the fabric. "I had to seize the opportunity."

You granted him a smile, "Indeed you did," You held your hands in front of you, "I wish you luck, Sir Victor."

He smiled back, his eyes crinkling, "Thank you, your grace. I will not dishonor you."

You nodded, dismissing him. He sent a smirk your way before turning his horse and moving to wait beside your James. He was looking at you, having just watched your interaction with Victor, the scowl on his face prominent.

Your smile slipped, your lips resting in a straight line before you turned to walk back to your seat. Two could play in this game. If he didn't want anything to do with you - fine. You could keep to yourself. You'll go back to the way you were when he first arrived at your castle when your father was still king.

Silent, and uninterested.

Remaining detached grew difficult when James's event started.

He always participated in the hand to hand, one on one combat, every year. And every year, he won, easily.

This year was different though.

He was put against Sir John Walker, a selfish and arrogant knight. You knew James could beat him, he was more experienced, more aware of his surroundings and less focused on how he looked. He took his time analyzing his opponents instead of just rushing in blind.

But something was wrong.

James had been caught off guard more times than you'd ever seen happen before.

You couldn't really see him as he fought, the visor covering his face, masking any identifying features. But you could see in his movements that he was distracted. He was slow, sluggish in his blocks and counters. He'd taken a few hits to the side and the head and though their swords were often dulled for these events to prevent catastrophe, they still had the potential to do some significant damage.

Sitting on the edge of your seat, you clutched Natalia's hand in yours as you worried the skin of your lip between your teeth. The sound of the wooden shield in Sir John's hands cracking against your James's armor rang through the air and it took everything in you to not stand from your seat.

The wood splintered and scattered in multiple pieces along the dirt floor as James used his sword to keep himself from falling past his knees, his helmet rolling along the floor when it slipped from his head. Droplets of blood falling and sinking into the dirt. John raised what little shield remained strapped to his arm and looked out at the crowd - all of whom were shocked to see your usual champion on the floor.

James glanced up to you, expecting to see you distracted, not even watching his match. He hadn't looked your way the whole time, trying to not pay you any mind but failing as thoughts of you tying that damn token around Victor's sword flooded his mind. But now, as he finally locked eyes with you, and saw the fear pouring from your expression, his heart clenched.

Your eyes were wide, Natalia next to you holding you down - keeping you from making a scene, and even from where he was kneeled in the dirt, he could see your lips practically bleeding from you chewing them. When you realized he was looking at you, your eyebrows pinched together and your lips were forming silent words.

He couldn't tell if he couldn't hear you because of the roaring of the audience, the ringing in his ears, or if you were just silently mouthing his name, though he doubted it with the state you were in. Once he realized it was his name you were calling, that you were pleading, and he saw the tears streaming down your cheeks - he was back in the fight. He couldn't let you watch him lose. He wouldn't let that happen, not when it clearly upset you as much as it did. He quickly decided that he may not be able to love you in the way he wanted, but he'd always fight for you.

He glanced above him, seeing John assuming victory and took his chance. Swiping his arm with his shield attached out, he knocked John's legs out from under him, knocking him to the floor. James threw down his sword, and wrestled John in the dirt, knocking the side of his visorless helmet with the band of steel around his shield.

That hit gave him another moment to overpower John, straddling his chest and pressing his knees into his arms, pinning him to the dirt. Before John could try and get some leverage, James shifted his shield to rest against his opponent's neck.

"Yield," he gritted out between his teeth. John sneered, trying to wiggle free of James's body, refusing to give up.

James pulled his shield back, knocking his fist into the side of John's helmet, stunning him before he ripped the helmet off. He pushed the shield into John's throat again, knocking his head into the dirt.

"I said yield," James said again, watching as John tried to remain fierce, even as the fight left his eyes.

Soon, John's body relaxed, his blade falling from his hands as he looked away from James - yielding. With a heavy breath, his body relaxed and he stood, pulling John up with him, though he could tell his opponent didn't want the help.

When James looked back up to where you were seated, he was hoping to find you relieved. No more worry in your features and maybe even happy he won. All his eyes found was your empty seat.

"Leave us, please," You announced in a gentle manner once you pushed your way into the infirmary. The staff working around James didn't need to be told twice, or who you were referring to. They saw the way your eyes locked on to his slouched figure sitting on the cot and they rushed past you, out the door in a frenzy. The wrap on James's head was seeping through with red from the wound that Sir John gave him, but he made no move to fix it.

You stood still, watching, waiting for him to look up at you. When he wouldn't, and you'd been waiting too long to be appropriate, you released a heavy breath through your nose.

"You aren't even going to say hello?" You muttered, your confidence shrinking. You'd never had him blatantly ignore you like this, you weren't sure what to do, what to say. It left an odd feeling in your chest you weren't used to - one you didn't like.

He sighed, lifting his gaze to meet yours and you had to keep from stepping away from him. He didn't look like himself, not like how you'd come to know him. He looked like he did when he first was assigned to you. Stone-cold, emotionless, only ever thinking about the task at hand and not wanting to talk to you regardless of how often he was with you.

You didn't think you'd ever see him revert back to that, to see it again after so many years was startling.

"Hello, your grace," He gruffly said, his voice the only indication that he was still the James you knew. He was just hiding.

"What's going on with you?" You asked, still in the same spot. You had a feeling that if you were to try to get closer, he'd back away, and you didn't want to feel the hurt that would bring.

"I'm not sure I know what you're talking about, your grace," He feigned innocence and you scoffed.

"Don't do that," You started, "Don't pretend as if you haven't been avoiding me for weeks. As if you haven't been lying to me."

His brows pinched at your suggestion and he shook his head, "I have not lied to you, your - "

"Stop." You cut him off, now refusing to stay still as you stepped towards him. "Stop saying 'your grace'. And don't tell me you weren't lying."

He took a moment to answer, but still, he denied it.

"I apologize, I'm not sure I'm following. I have not lied to you." He held his ground and you stopped in your tracks just two feet away.

"Oh you haven't?" You asked. "Then why did you almost lose?" His face paled at your question. "Yeah, you know what I'm talking about, don't you?"

"Your gra - "

"I said to stop it with that." You took another step forward as you let the anger slip away, sorrow taking its place in your words and your features. "What on earth has gotten into you, Jamie? You tell me you're not around because you're training for the tourney, and then you fight like that? Sloppy, unorganized. I didn't see any real effort from you until the end. So don't tell me you've been training the whole time you've been missing."

He looked back down to the ground, and you took the moment to take another step towards him, keeping your hands to yourself even if you wanted to reach out to touch him. To feel his gloved hands, the metal of his chain mail, or finally feel the skin of his face and the scruff of his growing beard as you hold him between your hands.

"Jamie," You said, getting him to look back up to you, "What's wrong?"

He took a breath, looking down before he stood, towering over you but seeming so small at the same time. You were ready to talk about whatever was bothering him, get him back to normal. Whatever it was, you would fix it.

But when his voice finally filled the room, your heart sunk to the floor.

"Your grace, I would like to request a transfer of post."

It was as if time stopped.

Surely, he didn't mean it. He was just jesting, he had to be. He'd been by your side for over five years now. He was the only one you trusted with your life the way you did. He was supposed to be your friend.

"I'm sorry?" You asked. Maybe you just heard him wrong. He'd tell you he was just exhausted. That he just needed rest and that he'd be back to normal in the morning. He had to.

"I would like you to reassign me. To the outer walls." Your lungs vacated the air that occupied them and you had to root yourself to your spot before you stumbled. You never thought he'd ever ask to leave your side.

"No." You said, fighting the growing lump in your throat and pain in your chest. "Not without reason."

He stared back, eyes wide as he tried to come up with something, anything, to get what he was asking. When he couldn't come up with an answer, you shoved down the hurt in your chest and stood tall, craning your neck to look up at him.

"You are the only one I trust the way I do. You've been by my side for over five years, Jamie," You tried not to cringe at the strain - the pain - in your voice, instead choosing to push forward. "I will not reassign you unless you have a proper reason to request it in the first place. I will not place my well-being in someone else's hands, someone who hasn't earned it the way you have."

"Please, your grace," he whispered, his own voice straining and barely audible. "Reassign me."

Your face contorted in frustration as you turned from him, pacing the room unable to stand so close while he shattered your heart.

"I will not reassign you," You watched him as you crossed the room. "I would never see you again, Jamie. You would go off to one of the watches on the border and I'd never see you again."

You stopped at one of the empty cots, dragging your fingers along the surface, the tremble in your fingers making you ball your fist at your side instead as you turned to face him.

"You don't wish to be by my side anymore," You muttered. "Is that it?"

"That's not. . ." He sighed as he looked down, unable to finish his words.

"Then what is it?" You asked, "Because, though it would pain me to not have you near, to watch you go off and possibly never return," You paused your willpower diminishing as you stared up at him, "I will grant it to you if you can just tell me why."

"I. . ." He started, his jaw falling open as his voice evaded him.

You scoffed, the pain in your heart becoming too much to bear. "You have until sunrise to bring me an answer. Otherwise," You closed the distance, getting nose to nose, "You will stay in your position for as long as I deem fit."

You turned on your heel, walking out the door, leaving him on his own.

He didn't chase you. He didn't even call your name.

Maybe it was time you let him go.

James stood outside your chamber doors, staring at the swirling grain in the wood, trying to gather the courage to knock.

He'd spent supper in the dining halls watching you on your throne with your ladies surrounding you - comforting you. He could tell by the nasty looks Lady Natalia was sending his way that she knew what had happened.

And he couldn't blame her.

He knew his request would pain you, that it would hurt. But he'd decided that he needed to be stationed away from you. He didn't know if he could handle seeing you with your mystery courter, and he would rather save himself the pain of finding out.

He could hardly watch your interaction with Victor, the bastard having won all of his events and, since he had your favor, was also seated next to you at supper. He had to watch as Victor smiled at you, flirted with you. He knew Victor would never appreciate it like he should, never truly understand what an honor it is to be the center of your attention.

James knew you wouldn't take his request well, you were friends, but he never should've allowed your relationship to become even that. It was improper. Negligent.

So, here he stood, struggling to gain the strength to hit his fist against the wood.

The rest of the castle was almost silent, other than the occasional stirring of the overnight servants cleaning up after the festivities from earlier. He glanced at the windowsill, the night air bringing a chill as he watched the stars.

He was running out of time. If he didn't come up with a reason for you to send him away soon, he'd be stuck watching you wed someone else. Someone not himself.

It wasn't like you could marry him anyways. He was just a knight. You were a queen. It would be unbecoming for you to not wed a noble, or someone of royal descent.

He couldn't lie to you though - you were always too good at reading through his fibs, he was an open book to you. Any time he tried to give you even the slightest lie, you'd catch on and call him out on it - which made it hard to give you surprises.

Maybe if he told you the truth, you'd be empathetic enough to let him go.

It was his only hope, and he needed to do it before he lost his prowess.

James's knock against the wood and the clang of his armor echoed off the stone walls through the corridor and his heart leapt into his throat as he waited for your response.

It wasn't long before the door opened to reveal Lady Natalia, scowling at him like she had been all night.

"Oh," She said with pursed lips, "It's you."

"Let him in, Natalia," Your strained voice came from beyond the threshold and James watched as your lady's shoulders sagged. "And head to bed, I'll see you in the morning."

Natalia turned and curtsied, "Yes, my lady." She ducked around James, but not before eying him down with a fierce look, and took her leave down the hall. If looks could kill, he'd be six feet under by now, just by her eyes alone.

"Are you going to just stand there all night," you called, "Or are you going to come give me your reason?"

He swallowed his nerves, stepping past the door and closing it behind him.

Your chambers were dimly lit with candles placed on your hearth and windowsills and tables. Perched on the lounge by the large window, you were facing the stars, just as he had been a moment ago.

"Your grace," He greeted, stiff in his movements to walk towards you, trying not to bump into anything, or break something. He'd never been in here, and he didn't want to leave you hurt and with a broken piece of possible sentiment.

"Do you have your reason?" You asked, the shortness in your tone sending a wave of sorrow through James's chest. He knew he didn't deserve your friendliness anymore. Your warm and welcoming voice. He deserved the coldness you were greeting him with, he knew that.

"I do," He quietly said, watching as you turned your head to slightly face him. And though the circumstances were anything but pleasurable, he was still in awe of the beauty you held, the side profile of your features causing him to pause.

Could he really go another day without seeing you again?

"Well?" You asked, shooting your eyes to his, "What is it?"

He took a moment to take you in, the way you were poised on the lounge, facing him only the slightest. Your feet were tucked under you, one of your arms thrown over the back of the lounge and resting on the windowsill. You'd rid yourself of your dress from earlier, the bodice and large skirt surely thrown in some grand closet of yours. You were in a simple nightgown now, the white of the thin fabric catching the light from the candles.

A flush crept up his neck and across his cheeks as he realized this was the first time he'd seen you like this. He expected you to somewhat have a more presentable attire on and he averted his eyes from you, clearing his throat.

"Forgive me, your grace," He paused, almost on instinct, expecting you to argue against the title he greeted you with, but nothing came. "I was not expecting you to be so. . . underdressed."

"Have you never seen a woman in a nightgown?" There was no emotion in your voice, no sarcasm, no teasing. The guilt built in his chest as he tipped his head.

"I have, your grace," He answered, staring at the stone in the wall.

"Then stop being a prude and look at me when you're speaking to me." He'd never had such authority dripping from your voice pointed at him. It was odd, the feeling it left in his chest as he obliged, turning his gaze back to you.

You'd turned to face him fully now, one of your legs still tucked under you and the other stretched out to the floor. Your arms both thrown over the back of the lounge, the scowl still present on your face, though it was cast in shadow.

"I wish for you to reassign me," He started, trying to keep his words as steady as he could - steadier than he felt. "Because I cannot watch you court someone who does not deserve you, your grace."

Silence filled the room as he waited for your response. When his hand started shaking, he rested it on the hilt of his sword, wrapping his fingers around the metal.

"What do you mean?" You asked, all hostility gone from your words, catching him by surprise. "Watch me court someone? Who am I courting?"

Who? Why would you ask such a question? Surely, you knew. You'd told him yourself that someone already held your heart in their hands.

"Back at the gala," he recounted, trying his best to keep his emotions at bay, "You mentioned someone already having your heart. I cannot stay by your side and watch you court them, should you decide to."

You were still for a moment, eyeing him, as he tried not to rock on his feet, waiting for you to say something.

Soon, you let out a sad laugh, reaching for your cup of wine from the table and taking a sip. You stood, walking toward him with the cup in your hand. It was only when you were close enough for him to smell the wine on your breath did he notice the red of your eyes - the sadness that filled them.

"Tell me, James, what is the reason you want to leave me?" You whispered, setting the cup down on the hearth without so much as shifting your gaze.

He swallowed, trying to ignore the way he wanted to get lost in your eyes, no matter how sad they were, no matter how much guilt built in his chest like water behind a dam, threatening to crack and shatter the stone. How he wanted to reach out and hold you and apologize for making you upset.

"Because, your grace" He muttered, matching the softness of your own tone, "The feelings I bear for you are no longer befitting of my station." He stated, watching your features soften and your eyes start glistening. "From the bottom of my heart, I adore you."

A sigh left your lips, the smell of wine and fruits flooding James's senses being the only warning of you closing the distance between the two of you.

His eyes widened at the feeling of your bitten lips on his and your hands pulling him down by the breastplate of his armor. It was over before he had a chance to react and he stared down at you, the pieces slowly starting to click together.

"You're such a fool," You whispered, letting go of his armor and walking back to your lounge.

He followed you, standing near your now seated figure. "Your grace?"

"Stop calling me that," You looked up to him, the light from the moon shining off the tears that now streaked down your cheeks. "You never let me tell you the rest," you muttered, "You've been hiding from me, avoiding me for weeks." You gave him a sad smile when the realization dawned on him. "It's you."

A deep breath escaped his lungs in a huff, as he stared at you. Surely he misheard you, he thought, you couldn't have said that. But the next words from you proved him wrong.

"I was talking about you."

At your admission, his resolve crumbled and he fell to his knees before you and closed his eyes, hanging his head. He had asked to leave. You were going to let him. He was going to leave you here when you were in love with him as he was you. He never would've seen you again.

Your voice calling out for him made him lift his head and open his eyes and only then did he realize how close he was to you. You were seated on the edge of the lounge cushion as you watched him, the tiniest bit of hope flickering in your eyes. His breath stuttered as he tried to gain his voice.

"I - " He started, the dam in his chest cracking, starting to break. He reached for your hands, slowly in case you pulled away, grasping them in his own when you didn't reel back from him. He leaned forward, resting his head in your lap, letting the smell of you calm him. "I'm so sorry, your grace."

You gave his hands a squeeze and leaned forward, your lips resting on his temple. "As am I."

You remained like that for a moment, eventually pulling your hands from his to wrap around his head, his hands moving to hold your legs, the tremble evident in his hold. When you sat up, pulling back, he lifted his head from your legs, looking up at you. Your eyes were full of hope as you giggled and smiled, cupping his cheeks with your hands.

"We're both fools aren't we?" You asked, and he couldn't stop the lighthearted feeling that filled his chest, making him laugh with you.

"I suppose we are." He gripped your hips through your nightgown, ignoring the heat that rose to his cheeks when he finally took notice of your position. And just how thin your gown was.

He was so close to touching you, to actually touching you. To feel your skin against his. Your hands on his face, tracing the wound on his forehead didn't count for him. He wanted to feel you between his hands.

"Can we take off this bulky stuff?" You whispered, pulling on the breastplate of his armor. He nodded, moving to unbuckle the straps when your hands met his. "I'll do it." You muttered, and he lowered his hands.

Your fingers brushed against him as you undid the buckles and he caught the pieces before they landed on your feet. You attempted to lift the chain mail over his head, but it was heavier than you expected and he took over. After peeling away the layers of leather, he was left in just his undergarments and a flush on his cheeks.

Ever since you'd pulled his gloves off, he'd kept his hands to himself, nervous in a way he'd never experienced before. Your hands found their place on his shoulders, one of your hands reaching back to thread through his hair and he sighed at the contact.

When he still hadn't reached for you, you reached down, grabbing one of his hands and putting your cheek in it. His breath hitched at the feeling of your soft skin against his, the way you delicately traced his knuckles as he mapped your face with the tips of his fingers, trying to record all of it to memory.

He'd almost lost this chance with you. Had he come up with a believable excuse for leaving, he never would've gotten to feel you like this. To be this close enough to pick up on the floral smell in your hair. To feel your hand pulling him closer, gripping the hair at the base of his skull. To taste the wine on your tongue when your lips met his.

He craned his neck up to reach you, sighing into your mouth and gripping the side of your face. Moving his hand to wrap around your lower back, he pulled you to the edge of the lounge cushion, groaning when your legs wrapped around his waist.

He pulled away when he absolutely couldn't breathe anymore, resting his forehead against yours, "I'm so sorry," He muttered again, opening his eyes to find yours already on him. He knew he'd already apologized, but he needed to say it again.

"It's alright," you whispered, "I wasn't really going to let you go." His lips broke out in a smile as a wet laugh erupted from his chest.

Your hands moved to his face, wiping away the wetness there before you pulled him back in. There was more of a desperation in his movements now - needing to be closer to you, to feel every inch of you - you'd given him a taste and now he needed more.

"Have you ever," you muttered in between kisses, "lay in a queen's bed?"

"Never," his words swallowed by your lips.

You smirked against his lips, tightening your legs around his waist. "Let us go then."

He wrapped his hands under your thighs, slowly standing and taking you with him. He stumbled a bit, trying to find your bed with you occupying his line of sight, but eventually his knees knocked the side of it, the soft covers tickling his skin as he leaned over, resting you on top.

His hands started to wander over your gown and without breaking away from him, your hands grabbed his and placed them under the fabric, finally getting him to touch your skin, pulling a groan from deep in his chest. His hands mapped your body, every dip and curve, branding the feeling of your soft skin into memory.

Your hands reached under his shirt, your fingers gripping bits of his muscle as they traveled up, pushing the fabric out of your way. You pushed him back, making him straighten his back and remove his shirt.

Your hands stilled over his skin and when he looked down to you, your eyes were locked on to his ribs. Your fingers gently traced the outline of the bruising there, one of the many consequences of his sloppiness in his battle with John. He sucked in cool air when your lips grazed his skin, pressing kisses to the bruising before looking back up to meet his gaze.

You gave his waist a small push, and he backed up to let you stand, too caught in your tenderness to refuse you. Allowing you to push him and maneuver him how you wanted him, the backs of his legs hit the bed and he sat on the plush surface.

"Get up there," You smiled at him and he nodded, quickly shifting up to the back of your bed.

You joined him, straddling his hips, but refusing him your lips. He went to ask - to beg really - to let him taste your tongue again but the words died on his tongue as your arms wrapped around you, grabbing the sides of your gown. The air was sucked out of his lungs as you pulled the fabric up and over your head, dropping it off the side of the bed.

It was like his brain stopped working, seeing you like this, completely bare and hovered over him. The way the candlelight caught the edges of your skin, lighting you in a soft silhouette, but still giving enough light to where he could see you. The gaze you held on him, it held him there like an obedient hound but he didn't mind at all. He liked being under your control.

He was knocked from his stupor when you placed your hands on his chest, rolling your hips into his, your lips parting to allow a sinful whine to fill his ears.

He reached forward, grabbing your waist and pulling you closer to him, pressing your hips roughly into his as he sat up, capturing your lips with his own. Your arms snaked around his neck as his hand shifted between the two of you, his thumb brushing small circles over your clit, making you gasp against his mouth.

He snuck his hand lower, between your legs, his fingertips tracing along the edges of your folds, gathering the slick there.

"Is this all for me?" He muttered, letting you suck his tongue into your mouth as you nodded. You pushed your hips into his hand and he groaned, dragging his fingers through your folds, prodding at your entrance.

He sunk two digits in, cooing at the whine that left your lips. His other hand reached up to wrap around the back of your neck and pulled you off his mouth so he could see you. The way you fought to keep your eyes open, your jaw slack as you grinded on his fingers.

He curled his fingers, finding that soft spot that had you keening in his lap and he grinned, holding you as still as he could while his fingers pumped in and out of you. He'd never seen you so vulnerable and he knew he wasn't going to be able to get enough of it.

He grinned against your cheek as you moved to bite at his neck, finally moving out of his direct line of sight, and what he saw made his cock twitch.

Set up in front of your bed, was your dressing table, the mirror open. He could see the lines of your back as you circled your hips against his hand, the bend in your legs and the curve of your ass - it gave him an idea.

He pulled you from his neck and pulled his fingers from your cunt, your whine at the loss, making him chuckle. He kissed your lips again before telling you, "Turn around for me?" The look that passed through your eyes told him you knew what he was suggesting - and you wanted it.

You pulled him in for one more press against your lips, your tongues gliding against each other for just a moment before you pulled away. Throwing your leg over his knees, you turned around, watching him behind you through the mirror as he shifted to follow you. The bed dipped under his weight as shifted, ridding himself of his trousers before he moved to his knees, coming up behind you, eyes locked on yours through the reflection.

His hand wrapped around your front, cupping your breast, pinching at your nipple as his lips met your neck. He sucked on the soft skin there, taking a moment to bask in the sound that left your lips before pushing you down into the blankets, his hand remaining between your shoulder blades as he looked down to your core. It was glistening and he couldn't help but drag his fingers through it again.

Your body flinched as you moaned at the little contact he was giving you. "Please, Jamie."

Your begging sent chills down his spine. You never begged. Not for anything.

To be granted the space to hear you do that, made him feel stronger than any suit of armor or handcrafted blade ever could.

Pulling you by your hips back to his, he sighed when his cock slid against your folds through your slick, watching you arch your back. He repeated the movement just two more times before the head of his member caught your entrance.

"Oh, fuck," his breath shuddered as he watched your cunt suck him into your heat. He wanted to watch as he sunk all the way in, but the deliciously loud moan you let out had him raising his gaze to see your reflection.

Your back arched, your face in the blankets as you reached out for purchase on one of them, gripping it with white knuckles.

The sight alone could bring him over the edge, but then that would leave you and he couldn't have that.

Using his knees, he moved your legs further apart so he could lean over you, the new angle pulling another keen from your chest. Resting his weight on his right arm, he reached around to grab your breast, rolling the sensitive bud of your nipple between his fingers.

When he started rocking his hips into yours, he didn't expect you to push them back against him, meeting his thrusts and pulling sounds out of his throat to match yours. Releasing your breast, he moved to slide his hand up your arm, grabbing your wrist and leaning down to suck on the skin of your shoulder.

When you started begging again, chanting please, please, don't stop, please over and over again into the blankets, he knew you were close and allowed himself to drown in your pleas just once more before giving you what you wanted.

His hand left your hip, diving down to circle your clit as his other reached for your chin, tipping your head up so he could see your face in the reflection.

"Let me see your eyes," He muttered into your neck, watching your eyes flutter open, "there we go."

Your eyes widened when his fingers quickened their circles over your clit. And he knew he was hitting the right spot when your jaw slackened and your arms tensed.

"C'mon, your grace," His lips brushed against your ear, "I wanna see you when you cum."

That was all it took for your body to seize up, a shout leaving your lips as your cunt gripped him and he had to catch himself so he didn't crush you. His fingers kept circling your clit and he didn't stop his pounding into you until you were crying out again, a second orgasm quickly taking over your body.

"There you go," he grunted, thrusting just a few more times before he quickly pulled himself from you, your whine making him wish he could stay inside you. He gripped his cock, giving it a few tugs before he released himself on your back, trying to quiet his moan as much as he could. He didn't know if you wanted anyone in the castle knowing and he wasn't about to make that decision for you.

Your body was slack against the bed, and when he looked up to your reflection, he found your eyes already on him - like they always were. A heat took his cheeks but he refused to look away from you, especially when you gave him that lazy smile and giggle. His lips split into a grin as he joined your soft laughter, moving out from behind you and helping you unbend your legs, laying on your stomach.

You pointed him to the wash bin where there was a damp cloth from your bath earlier. And after getting you cleaned up and resituated in your bed, he sat on the edge, wishing he could stay.

But he didn't want to start any gossip around the castle.

You tugged on his arm, "What's wrong?"

"I should go," he muttered, reaching for your face, "Don't want the castle finding out do you?"

Your brows pinched as you sat up and wrapped your hands around his head, "James, you better get in this damn bed."

His eyes widened, "Are you sure? I'm supposed to be guarding you."

"And what better place to do that than by my side."

He sighed and nodded, crawling in next to you, sighing at the softness of your bed. He'd been too preoccupied moments ago to notice how nice it was, but compared to his bed in the barracks, this was heaven on earth.

"I have something for you," You muttered before you reached over to the side table, turning back around with a little folded up cloth. You placed it in his hand, wrapping his fingers around it. "This was supposed to be my token for you," You started, pulling your hands to rest in your lap, "before you asked Natalia for hers."

The guilt started to grow in his chest again as he unfolded the fabric, revealing embroidery of some very familiar flowers. Your initials were in the corner, the way they were stitched telling him you made it by hand.

"Your grace," He muttered, "I don't deserve this."

"I get to decide that," You whispered back, leaning over him, lightly pressing your lips to his. "You carry that with you, so you don't forget."

"Forget what?"

"That I adore you as well."

As always, thank you for reading! Comments, reblogs, and likes are all very much appreciated.

If you liked the story, please consider checking out my Ko-Fi

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steveandbuckysdaughter · 4 months

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Personal review regarding what if…? season 2 episode 8 (spoilers)

No ok, I must admit, the episode was good in some aspects.

Wanda was majestic. Loki and Scott were hilarious and I loved every single moment with them.

Thor was amazing, dark and serious out of loss but still enjoyable, and the crumbs of his relationship with Hela were very nice.

I’ve actually liked Tony for the very first time in my life, probably because I tend to like him a lot more in AUs and fanfictions than I do in the normal timeline.

And then… there were those two.

I will never comprehend why marvel wants Steve to be so dependent on Peggy. And I will never comprehend why, to make him interact with her, they have to destroy or sideline every other relationship he has built, or make his character flat.

Bucky being friends with Scott was amazing, but the fact that him and Steve interacted like two times was extremely disappointing. You’d expect “best friends in every universe”, if you dislike the romantic pairing so much, to acknowledge themselves for more than a few scenes, in only one of which they’re in frame together (Bucky was literally 😐 while his best friend disappeared, come on now).

And the storyline about Peggy coming from another world to save the universe was just… Mbah. It could’ve been executed in another way without including her and it still would have made sense. It really feels like a Y/N insert.

Seeing literally any other character was so good, so fun, and they had to ruin it this way, making Peggy once again the self insert and girlboss she didn’t need to be.

Plus, forgive my constant complaining, but it’s extremely infuriating how all of Steve’s friends were eliminated to put the focus solely on Peggy. Where’s Sam? Where’s Nat? Where’s Clint? It’s not an underrated friendship we’re talking about, a big chunk of the fandom loves the cap quartet or team cap, and after civil war it would have been nice to see them interact, especially after its popularity and popular demand. Outlaw team cap would have been glorious, a good chance to bring back many characters who aren’t here anymore in the right way, and involve characters that are rarely involved in What if in the storyline, for a change.

The treatment of Sam in this series particularly angers me, and even more so in this episode. I understand not involving him in other storylines, but Sam was a big part of CATWS and he wasn’t even in the episode centered on that film. What, because Steve met him while running he can’t be introduced in any other way? And oh, there’s no excuse for this episode. If there was one episode they could have placed Sam in, it was this one. Sam was there in infinity war, where the mess happened, and he should have been with the other avengers in this one.

If marvel wanted to involve someone from another universe so bad, it should have been a Captain America Sam from another universe. Can you imagine the poetry of seeing Steve and Nat again after endgame? Can you imagine having closure with them both, and having fun in the process? It would have been so great.

Another great storyline without involving characters from other universes would have been one where Steve, who touched the time stone, accidentally brought everyone in the past, and he was the only one to remember it. And to go back and prevent everyone’s distraction, he had to recruit the avengers, who don’t know him and don’t trust him but that in the end become his friends and companions. It would have been so interesting to see the original avengers involved in something different from being some side characters or extras in the one woman show that seems to be What if, constantly centered around the same bland, one dimensional reimagined side character. Peggy’s blandness is so obvious in these episodes (aside for some random remarks that made me smile) that literally everyone who’s involved directly with her must be bland like her, otherwise risking to overshadow her.

I don’t think I was supposed to cringe and look away as much as I did during Steggy’s forced scenes, but I did. If they had to force Steggy and Peggy down our throats, at least they could have done something different from the same bland and boring storyline as always. I wouldn’t be as mad as I am now if Peggy and Steve’s relationship wasn’t as bland. I would have preferred an enemies to lovers type of twist or change, where Steve doesn’t trust Peggy and struggles with her because he sees in her a different version of the Peggy that died in that universe. But noooo, god forbid, let’s go with the same old song.

An episode five or ten minutes longer with a better, avengers-centric or Steve-centric storyline would have been much better than what we got.

And given that this was my most anticipated episode, I was very disappointed by it. I hope for the next seasons, if there’s other ones, Marvel will listen to the general complaint regarding Peggy and will give her a break. I don’t think any of the original avengers or relevant MCU characters made as much appearances as Peggy, and being a main focus in four episodes out of nine is ridiculous.

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holylulusworld · 1 year

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Before you (6)

Summary: King Steven Grant Rogers once was a good king and a gentle alpha. Now he’s a cruel shadow of his former self. Can he find the light again?

Pairing: King(Alpha)!Steve Rogers x Maid(Omega)!Reader

Characters: Knight Sam Wilson, Bucky Barnes

Warnings: angst, language, grumpy and loud Steve, Bucky is the best (soft Bucky is a warning, okay), mentions of loss of loved ones, undefined age gap, a hint of fluff, true mates, a/b/o, scenting, Steve is a little possessive in this…

Before you masterlist

<< Part 5

“Steve! BROTHER! Open the door,” you flinch as it seems that Bucky wants to tear the door down with his bare hands. “If you hurt her, you’ll regret it. She’s your true mate.”

“Bucky, stop this immediately or you’ll end up in the dungeon. I swear if you threaten my claim, you are no longer my brother,” Steve warns.

There is a commotion behind the door, and then silence.

“He-he means well, my king,” whimpering in fear you look up at Steve. “Please don’t punish him. He pities me. Please.”

“You’ve got a soft spot for my brother,” he grits his teeth. “How far did he go? Did he touch you?”

“What? He wouldn’t…no. Your brother is a good man. All this time he tried to help me, my king. I swear on my father’s grave,” you sniffle. “Please…”

“A good man,” he huffs. “Unlike me?” The king questions. He waits for you to protest but you press your lips into a thin line. “I wasn’t always like this. Hard. Cold. Careless.”

“I don’t know you, my king,” you drop your gaze. “You’re a king. You have all the right to treat me like…this.”

“Look at me,” it’s an alpha command and your head immediately snaps upward. “I promised to keep you safe, and I will. No one will ever hurt you again or break your heart.”

“It’s too late for that.”

Steve swallows thickly as you start trembling. “Why’s that?”

“My family is gone,” you whimper. “And the only boy I ever loved forgot about me.” You give him a sad smile. “Promises are meant to be broken, my king. I don’t know if yours are meant to be kept.”

“My love,” your eyes round as he steps closer to cup your cheek with his right hand. “I never forgot about you. And I never wanted to break my promises. My father has forbidden me to come back to you. One day, he said you died in the fire with your family.”

“I-I don’t understand,” you press your hands weakly against his chest. “What is the meaning of your words, your highness.”

“Do you remember the horseshoe? I gave it to you,” he speaks as softly as he can. It’s hard to control his emotions after he got to know about Peggy’s betrayal.

“Horseshoe.”

Your heart wildly beats in your chest. This can’t be. No.

“You still have it.”

“A boy named Grant gave it to me, my king. I would remember being friends with a king.”

“A crown prince, my love,” he whispers lowly. Steve leans closer to sniff at your neck. “My name is Steven Grant Rogers. King of Brooklyn. My father wanted me to hide that I am the crown prince back then. So, I used my middle name.”

“No—no,” you cry. “My friend was a good person. He would’ve never treated people like you do. Grant was kind and so nice. He gave me my first kiss…my only kiss.”

“I never forgot about our kiss,” Steve tries to bring you into his arms but you fight him. A king can take whatever he wants, but you won’t give in without a fight. Your innocence is all you’ve got left.

“You’re not him,” he wins. You end up in his arms, your face pressed into his chest. You are forced to scent the king and feel his warmth. “You can’t be him. He would’ve saved me. Grant will come for me one day. I know it.”

“Y/N, I’m here. I would’ve come for you. I didn’t know you are still alive. I swear,” he sniffs as you wiggle in his grip. “Please, Y/N. I still go the flower you gave me.”

You stop wiggling and lift your head. “What kind of flower?”

He smiles now as you place your hands flat against his chest. “I’ll tell you if you stop fighting me.”

“I-“ you nod, but cautiously watch Steve. He lets go of you to walk toward his bed. He kneels to look under the bed and gets a small golden chest out. “What’s this?”

“My treasure,” he places the chest onto the bed and opens it. “Look,” Steve gets a small book out. He opens the book to show you a pressed flower, hidden in the middle of the book. “It’s a daisy.”

You wrap your arms around yourself. This can’t be. No. The king cannot be the boy you loved for so long.

“No. What happened to you? How can you be like this?”

“I lost everything when my father told me you died in that fire,” he carefully closes the book again. “Peggy became my queen, even though, I only ever wanted you to become mine.”

“She died,” you softly say. “I heard it from Bucky. He said something along the lines when I took care of her horse.”

“It’s not her horse,” he grits out. “She said it’s hers, but it wasn’t,” Steve says. “I asked my father to get it from your father before all of this happened. I wanted to gift it to you. She took it away from you. Peggy stole your place by my side with lies and her treacherous words.”

“It never was my place,” you step toward the door. “Even if you are Grant, you are not the man I had hoped you’ll become.” You sniff. “My king, you know that a maid cannot take a queen’s place. You and that woman were meant to be. Not us.”

“Please don’t say this,” he begs. His eyes fill with tears as you reach for the doorknob. “We were always meant to be, omega. No one can stop an alpha from claiming his true mate. You’re mine, and I’m yours.”

“Not hours ago, you wanted me gone.”

He flinches as something hits the door from the other side. You shriek and fall to your knees to crawl away. “Y/N.”

Steve runs toward you. He goes down on his knees to wrap his body around your trembling form.

“STEVE!” the door finally bursts open, and a very angry Bucky, followed by Samuel storms into the room. “Where? What did you do?”

“Nothing,” Steve mutters. “You just destroyed my door.”

“I thought…I mean,” Bucky huffs as you cling to his brother’s body. You hide your face in his chest, crying as you are scared to hell and back. “You didn’t hurt her.”

“Of course not,” Steve bites back. “I told you to read Peggy’s diary and leave us alone. I need to talk to Y/N and explain a few more things.”

“Did you already tell her?” the brunette lifts a brow as his brother sighs deeply. “I guess things didn’t go well?”

“She doesn’t believe me, Bucky. I got the flower and all,” the king whispers. “What else can I do to make her believe that I’m Grant, the boy who fell in love with her so many years ago?”

“Steve let’s be honest. You treated her like the worst since you met her for the first time,” Bucky tries to make his brother see that you won’t be able to forgive the king so easily. “I told you that she’s special.”

“I know,” Steve gently rocks you in his arms. “You must read the diary, Bucky. I need to talk about it with someone. Peggy betrayed me, brother.”

“I asked Lord Barton and Samuel to find out more about Rumlow, and the knights attacking Y/N’s family that night.”

“Good. I want him in the dungeon. He’ll pay for what he did,” Steve runs one hand up and down your back. “Can you leave me alone with Y/N for a little longer? Maybe find someone to take care of the door.”

“Steve, I think you should leave Y/N alone for a while. It’s a lot to take in,” you lift your head to look at the kind brunette. “She can sleep in one of the spare chambers next to yours.”

“No,” you whine as Steve wraps his arms tighter around your body. “She must stay here. We don’t know if one of Peggy’s allies will go after her. No one can take her away from me ever again.”

“Brother you need to calm down. You’re scaring her. It’s no good to let your alpha take over at the moment,” Bucky tries again. “I want you to tell me what this is all about. Rumlow. Peggy. The fire.”

“You need to read the diary, Bucky. We will talk after you read it,” Steve nuzzles his nose in your hair to inhale your scent deeply. “She’s still scared.”

“Of you.”

“No! She’s not scared of me,” the king talks back as you start to squirm in his hold again. “She cannot be scared of me. I finally found her again after believing I lost her five years ago.”

Bucky reluctantly leaves the room to find someone to take care of the door and read the diary. “Steve, be gentle. Y/N is a blooming flower, don’t pick her too soon.”

“I’ll wed her first,” Steve mutters under his breath. “She’s going to be a queen and I’ll treat her like one. I won’t steal her innocence without making her, my wife.”

Bucky clears his throat at Steve’s words. “That’s not what I meant, Steve. I wanted you to be careful and not yell at her again.”

“Oh Steven,” Bucky closes the diary. He wipes a single tear off his cheek. “How could she do this to you and Y/N? I knew she was a treacherous snake, but this is unforgivable.”

He sighs deeply. What else can he do? One moment his brother wants to chase you away, and the next he’s talking about marriage and making you his queen.

“I will make sure you’ll not hurt Y/N. If your heart’s not in this, I’ll bring her away from here…”

“I want to go,” you press the bundle with your belongings to your chest. “I don’t belong here, my king. Please let me go.”

“Y/N, I know you don’t believe me, but I’m Grant,” he carefully approaches you. “How can I convince you?”

“You can’t be him,” stubbornly shaking your head you step back as Steve gets closer. “How could you change so much?”

“I lost you and my father forced me to marry Peggy. She died during childbirth,” he shrugs. “Peggy was all I had left after my father passed away. I was suddenly a king, and she was my salvation. Or so I thought.”

You remain silent and look away.

“She died, and my son didn’t live longer than a few days. I felt like the world betrayed me and turned my back on my people, even my brother,” Steve sniffs. “Peggy’s death opened old wounds. Wounds that never healed.”

“You can’t be him,” you repeat.

“Maybe you’re right. I’m not the Grant you used to know,” he takes another step toward you. “But there is still the young man falling in love with you inside of me. Can you help me find him again?”

“I’m only a maid, my king,” you glance at Steve. Your heart aches at the sadness in his eyes. He’s barely a shell of the young man you used to know. “How could I help you?”

Tags in reblog.

#steve rogers #alpha!steve rogers #king!steve rogers #Before you (6)#king!steve x peasant!reader #king!steve x reader #king!steve rogers x maid!reader #a/b/o #medieval au #steve rogers x reader #bucky barnes

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 9 months

Note

In Tapestry what if the reader went with Bucky, would he have let her? Or what if she had asked him to stay?

Let Us Be Away

Note: thanks in advance for any feedback you have. This is a bit shorter but I like it <3

“Take me with you,” you whisper as you lay beside him, the warmth and dampness of your intertwined bodies clouds around you.

“I cannot, you know that,” he looks at you, dragging his thumb along your cheek, “he would never let you–”

“I wasn’t asking. You or him,” you insist as you twist your body, hooking your leg into his, “he needn’t know. Wherever we go, we won’t go as us. Not as a queen or a lord. Just as lovers. As we should be.”

“He would find us–”

“And? I’d rather however long we could get together than a lifetime apart,” you breathe, hovering just before his lips, “or would you have me be unhappy? Abandon me to him?”

“I would have you alive,” he turns his head before you can kiss him.

“And if one day came, when we’re apart, and I cannot live any long without you?”

“Do not speak of it,” he grabs your hand and clutches it to his chest. “I couldn’t think of it.”

“And if it is not my choice? If he finds another, as he is want to do, and I take Eleanor’s place. I kneel at that block at his behest–”

“No,” he croaks, “no, I cannot dream of it–”

“But you’ve seen it. We both have. Infatuation cannot last.”

He’s quiet. He cradles your head and kisses your forehead. He lays back and closes his eyes.

“Where would we go?” He asks at last.

You smile and rest your chin on his shoulder.

“To a village, somewhere,” you suggest, “we would work the fields, as those on my father’s hold do. And when we have children, well, I will sew their clothing from the sheep’s wool. You know I am quite talented with a needle…”

“How many?” He tickles your naked back.”

“How many?” You echo.

“Children.”

“We shall see, as many as we can have,” you avow.

“I would like daughters. Pretty as their mother,” he says, “and so I pray, as sharp-witted.”

#tapestry #drabble #what if #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #mcu #marvel #winter soldier #medieval au #au

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artficlly · 9 months

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lady of the ghosts [chapter 8]

After a great plague ravages your city, you are looking to marry to secure safety for your people. With a war finally ending, the nearby kingdoms are looking to celebrate. King James "Bucky" Barnes decides to continue his family's tradition of hosting a courting season. A medieval courting marvel AU.

Pairing: king!bucky x lady!reader

Warnings: FLUFF, sexual tension, some angst, mention of sex work, mention of war, mention of funeral, tiny amount of anxiety/doubt, swearing, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 3.5

A/N: i wanted to make this a smaller chapter before shit hits the fan, very dialogue heavy and fluffy. please let me know what you think and reblog/like! sorry for any typos - enjoy!!

chapter masterlist | main masterlist

It was said that Neume once dwelled in the waters surrounding Faliene. As a guardian of the city, she waited beneath the waves. If she detected malice on the ships that entered her waters, she would rise from the ocean floor, her body hulking and blue with seaweed and barnacles entangled across her flesh. She would seize the ships with an iron grip, the wood splintering and cracking under the strain. She would drag the sailors to the bottom of the dark, sandy sea, where they would either drown or perish in her crushing grip.

She was a protector in more ways than one; her presence wasn’t only to instill fear in those who ventured into the Falienean waters but also to aid those who worshiped her. They claimed she would herd the fish towards the fishermen who sailed off the coast, easing the giant schools into the hand-woven nets. On quiet, empty nights, some claim you could hear her singing. Her hums were reminiscent of whales, eerie and lonesome as they reached across the vast, vacant waters. Her song would lull the creatures to sleep, and only then could she be at peace.

According to legend, Nemue's deep sleep, brought on by her own song, is what caused Faliene's misfortunes to start. As her children waited for her to return, disease and evil crept into her beloved city and slowly poisoned those who remained. Faliene held her breath, waiting in anticipation for the return of her song. The north had been stuck in a slumber for too long; it was time for her to come alive once more.

The breeze was stronger than usual up on the rocky cliff of The Fishhook. The slowly rising sun partially melted the snow and ice below, where the waves pounded mercilessly along the exposed coast.

James squinted his azure eyes against the whipping wind, his hair tousled, and his cheeks pink. The two of you had decided to hike up the southernmost point of Faliene’s coastline before it turned to mountain and sea. You had taken the daunting and winding path upward to the peak of The Fishook, a large curved outlook that had been creatively named due to its shape. Halfway up the path, Steve and Peggy had left you behind in favor of exploring a tiny, frozen cave. You knew it was so they would have a moment alone to continue their activities from the Pass; it was harder to do so with King Harrison’s ever-watching eye.

“Do you see it?” The winds hurtling along the coast have left your lungs burning, and words are nearly stolen as your breath is ripped from you.

“You might have to point it out to me.” James’ admits sheepishly, eyes darting as he surveys the blue, glacial waters below. You step closer to him, careful and slow on the icy rock below, as the two of you are close to the dangerous edge. If the plummet didn’t kill you, the freezing waves crashing against the rocks certainly would.

With a gloved hand, you point at a darker patch of water, where presumably the ocean floor is deeper than the rest of the bay. James ducks his head, his eyeline following along to where you point. Your gaze is on the side of his face, watching each emotion cross while studying every twitch of his eyebrow or jaw.

“It’s supposed to look like a woman curled up on her side.” You explain, watching as he tilts his head ever-so-slightly, as if trying to see from a different perspective. James had been insistent on his prior promise of falling in love with the ghost city. Unlike the other guests, who mainly remained in the warmth of Fort Faliene, drinking and laughing their days away, James required endless exploration.

Sometimes you wondered if it was somewhat of a ploy to get you alone, as even if Steve and Peggy came along as ‘escorts’, the two of you frequently found yourselves abandoned by the pair. Steve and Peggy had more interest in each other's mouths and bodies than the sights of Faliene, unlike James, who remained enraptured by every story and sight you showed him.

You had toured him through the docks, the city, and the surrounding areas. The people of Faliene watched on with knowing smiles; even Brannigan seemed chuffed by your apparent familiarity with the King of Galanta. From what you gathered, the Falieneans were secretly pleased and were growing to forgive you for your lack of engagement. Why pester you about marrying a lord when you were actively seducing a king?

“I see it.” James speaks up from beside you, his confused expression melting into a grin. “Her head is facing the east.”

Your eyes flickered over the now familiar planes of his face, watching as he rubbed the stumble across his jaw out of habit. A small smile plays across your face, words leaving you despite your attention being nowhere near the shape of Neume in the waters below. “I know it’s silly, that it’s just the shape of the seafloor, but Falienean’s have always said it looks like Neume sleeping on her side.”

“You know, everyone always talks about how superstitious the north is, but I think it’s simply that we Southerners are too boring.” He replies, his eyes abruptly cutting to yours. There is a small smirk across his features as he notices your stare, and you look away, cheeks pink, now not only because of the cold.

“I don’t think you’re boring.” You hum quietly, your words nearly stolen by the next gust of wind as you look to your feet.

“We definitely are.”

You sucked on your teeth for a moment, tilting your head so you could see him through your peripherals. A smile crosses your face as you realize he’s been watching you the entire time, gloved fingers reaching out to brush a loose strand of hair from your face. You finally pluck up the courage to look back at him. “Tell me a story about Galanta, then. I will be the judge of whether it is boring or not.”

James lets out a long sigh, looking upwards at the horizon in thought. “They are all stories of war and death, I’m surprised I didn’t die of boredom as a child having to listen to all those tales–”

“You know that I like history.” You cut him off, playfully pushing at his chest. Your cheeks warm up more, realizing that the hard muscle beneath doesn't give under your touch. James chuckles, running a hand through his hair as he looks down at you. “Tell me a story about when you were at war then. Maybe that will be more exciting because you were actually fighting–”

“People who tell their own tales are always bragging.” James grumbles with a hard look, which quickly softens as he catches your pleading look. He shakes his head with a sigh, humming as if in thought. His hands mindlessly come to your cloak, gloved fingers twisting through the fur trimming.

“During the war,” He begins. “Steve and I stumbled upon Prince Micheal in a whorehouse. He was so drunk on ale that he could barely see, let alone walk. The girls were sick of him, so we offered to take him back to camp. The trip was short-lived, though… We grew tired of dealing with him, so we left him passed out in a pig pen. He didn’t return to camp until the next day, it was lunch when he stormed in. He was all covered in filth. He didn’t remember a thing, but he knew Steve and I had something to do with it, we could hardly keep a straight face due to the stench.”

A laugh bubbles in your chest, and you shake your head at the brunet. Steve had often mentioned how he and James tormented the Prince when they could. Those were tales that Steve would whisper to you over dinner, while Michael bragged and boasted about exaggerated stories further down the table. Though this was not a story you had heard before, you quickly learned that Steve was not as open with you about his secrets as you first assumed – his and Peggy’s affair being just one example. You wondered how many tales from the war were lost to you due to Steve's reluctance to share. This story seemed to have a glaringly obvious reason why.

“You and Steve frequented whorehouses?” You ask innocently, and you hear James suck in a sharp breath, his head tilting to look away guiltily. A teasing smile plays across your lips as you lean closer to him. “The good King James and his knight Sir. Rogers getting their cocks wet? How scandalous.”

You could imagine the girls in the whorehouses would have loved to be visited by James and Steve – rich, handsome war heroes? They would’ve been snatched away before they even put their foot in the door. You didn’t have envy or malice for the whores, unlike some ladies of court who bickered about the ‘filthy harlots roaming the war fronts’. You imagined James and Steve would’ve been a welcome break from the usual soldiers who would’ve wondered their way.

Beside you, James swallows hard, his adam’s apple bobbing, and he looks back at you with surprise in his guarded eyes. You wondered if he had ever heard you speak in such a vulgar way before — Steve definitely had, especially when he schemed and got you a few drinks in. His hands reach out, gripping your waist to tug you even closer to his body, and you oblige with a satisfied sigh.

“It’s just the way of things during war.” He says, his voice husky and low as he looks down at you. His words hesitate, his tongue wetting his lower lip as he scans your face. “You’re telling me you didn’t bed a knight or two during the war? While you were all alone in Haiford Castle?”

Your smirk spreads. “You think King Harrison would’ve let me stay if he had any inkling that I wasn’t a virgin?”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

You allow your eyes to roam over his face as you take your time answering his question. You note the way his pupils have dilated and the subtle strain in his jaw, as if silent worry was clawing behind his cool demeanor.

“No. I didn’t.” You reply honestly. “You really think I would invite one of your knights into my bed, or even worse, a Haifordian knight?”

James grins at that, as if secretly pleased by your answer. You could imagine he made assumptions about you, considering your affinity for finding trouble and irritating authority. Even if you often made it your mission to irritate Prince Michael or King Harrison, you had never fallen to the depths of sleeping around with men you despised.

“I must be good then if you’re willing to have me.” He replies, his voice still low and rumbling in his chest.

“And who said you were invited into my bed?” Your eyes flutter upwards as you look at him through your lashes, a coy smile forming in response to his smirk.

James hums, his hands squeezing tighter as he presses a soft, gentle kiss to one of your exposed collarbones. His grin is cheeky as he raises his head once more, his expression near ravenous as he watches your breath hitch slightly, goosebumps raising across your skin. Everything about his touch and scent is intoxicating, and you nearly forget you are standing on an exposed cliff as you lean heavily into his touch.

“I am going to speak with King Harrison tonight.”

“About what?” You manage to stutter out. Your mind is hazy and confused as you try to focus on something other than the pattern he is tracing across your ribcage with his thumb.

“Us. Peggy.” James begins, and you stiffen under his touch. “I am going to gift Steve land and make him a lord – maybe a duke or a count. Something high-ranking enough for him to marry Peggy.”

“I haven’t even agreed to marry you.” You say through narrowed eyes. “Don’t you think this is too early?”

James looks down at you with a frown. “Where else will you go now that the funeral is complete? You can’t return to Haiford… If we settle this issue with King Harrison, you could return to Galanta with me–”

“What if I want to stay here?” You interrupt, and James snaps his mouth shut.

There is a long pause between the two of you, with James sighing slowly through his nose as his grip around your waist eases, his fingers no longer tracing delicate circles.

“Well…” James begins hesitantly. “Once we are married, you will have to balance your time between Faliene and Galanta, as will I. If you cannot lead Faliene until our marriage, it would be wise that you return to Galanta until the ceremonies–”

“I want to be married in Faliene.” You interrupt once more.

“I thought you said you hadn’t agreed–” He starts with a grin, only for you to cut over him again with a huff.

“Hypothetically. If there were a hypothetical marriage between us, I would want it to be here–”

He is still grinning as he speaks, as if amused. His eyebrows arch as he speaks. “You do realize the Galantaians would riot, right? Robbing them of a wedding celebration–”

“I am only just winning back the trust of my people, they would be insulted if I snubbed them–”

“Well, it is tradition for the wife to be married in the husband's–”

The playful tone that had built through your exchange quickly snaps, and a scowl crosses your face as you take a step back from him. “Please don’t tell me you’re under the assumption that a husband should be the only one in charge simply because he is male–”

“No – Y/N. No.” James gasps, exasperated. His gloved hand raises up, cupping your cheeks as he looks down at you with a frown. “If we are married, Faliene would be run by you and only you. I will sign whatever papers you ask me to, and I will not interfere unless you ask my opinion.”

You blink at him slowly, exhaling sharply out of your nose as you lean into his touch despite the stubborn look across your face. A small part of you is anxious; you have been hesitant and cautious to trust all of your life. What if, like Rumlow, James was trying to fool you into marriage so he could control the seafaring of the continent?

“Are you telling the truth?” Your voice is quiet, nearly lost to the winds. Thankfully, James doesn’t seem insulted by your wariness.

“Of course I am. I know that if Faliene is to flourish, it can only be under your rule, not mine.” James hums, his thumb gently swiping over the skin of your cheek before he pulls away. “Maybe it is best we leave the talk of weddings until after I deal with King Harrison. Deal?”

He offers his hand in the small distance between the two of you. You chew on your lip for a moment, nodding your head as the apprehension in your gut eases. You reach out, grasping his forearm near his elbow. The muscle is bulging and swollen in comparison to your small hands. His fingers wrap around your own forearm, engulfing the clothed skin entirely as you both shake hands on this new agreement.

“Deal.” You mutter back, though you can’t fight back the smile that has formed.

There is a new feeling growing in your gut.

Hope.

—

“Does King James always fuck you with his eyes?” Wanda asked from behind you, her nimble hands expertly washing the soap from your hair. Your strands were lazily dangling over the side of the tub, the water trickling off into the bucket below. Your eyes rolled back into your head, a small huff leaving your lips as you leaned harder against the warm metal.

Once returning from The Fishhook with Steve and Peggy in tow, Wanda managed to sneak you back into your rooms before your presence was requested elsewhere. Tonight there would be one final feast before most of the guests returned home, and it seemed everyone wanted your attention or opinion on the most mundane of subjects. You had been practically assaulted with questions about dining displays and menus, while the Asgardian Princes, Thor and Loki, somehow managed to trick you into showing them the wine cellar.

As if sensing your rising stress levels, Wanda had pulled you away, declaring she needed to help you bathe and dress for the dinner to follow.

“You can act all coy, but we’ve all noticed it. Brannigan is biting at the bit to start organizing a wedding.” Wanda continues, and you groan loudly, slipping deeper into the warm water.

“Do not let him organize anything.” You grumble, and the woman chuckles behind you.

“When you said you knew the Galantian’s well, I didn’t realize it was because you had invited them into your bed–”

“He has not been in my bed.” You protest, sinking even further into the water until it reaches your chin.

“Ah. Matter of time. You can see it on his face that his cock gets hard everytime he looks at you–”

“Wanda.” You cut over her sternly, wrapping your arms across your chest as you turned in the tub to face her with a scowl. The water sloshes around you at your sudden movements, Wanda withdrawing as a small wave departs the tub. “I have already upset King Harrison enough, I can’t upset him more by having rumors spread around.”

“I am sorry.” Wanda sighs, elbows braced against her thighs, as she leans over to look at you. “I am just excited for you.”

You can’t help but let a small smile grace your lips at her words. As much as you wanted to be annoyed, there was always a sincerity and sweetness to Wanda that made you cave. You move forward through the water, your breasts pressed against the metal as you cross your arms over the lip of the tub.

“I am sorry for keeping secrets… It is just that to keep the peace between Haiford and Galanta, we have to be careful.” You mutter softly. Wanda gives you a sympathetic look, ringing out the damp cloth in her hands.

“King Harrison is still expecting Princess Peggy to marry King James?” She asks quietly, abandoning the cloth over the lip of the tub. You press your lips together tightly, watching as Wanda fetches you a dry towel.

“Unfortunately.” You grumble in return, standing. You allow most of the water to cascade off your skin and hair before wrapping yourself in the towel and carefully stepping out of the tub as Wanda readies your dress.

You quickly dry yourself before the cold sets in, scoffing as Wanda speaks up once more from across the room. “He must be blind if he has not seen the way Princess Peggy and Sir Rogers dance around each other.”

“I think I may have accidentally helped Peggy by distracting King Harrison.” You admit sheepishly.

Wanda snorts. “He seems to be looking everywhere but at Princess Peggy. Gods, he spends more time enamored with Lord Rumlow than–”

“What do you mean?” You cut over her abruptly.

Wanda arches a brow at you. “King Harrison and Lord Rumlow, they’re always constantly muttering away in the corner, haven’t you noticed?”

“I have.” You say it with a frown. At least you had noticed it more back in Galanta, but these past two weeks between the funeral, James, and organizing, you had barely had time to play spy. It was harder to notice the small things of court when you were now the center of attention rather than a ghost slinking around on the outside of conversation.

“Maybe King Harrison has grown bored of wives – Maeve says that the two of them remain locked up in King Harrison’s rooms most days and nights. She scarcely has time to clean!” Wanda says as she helps you pull on your dress, a thick, dark material with fur trimmings and silver beading around the waist.

“Does she know what they are doing in there?” You pry cautiously, tugging the sleeves in place and shooing Wanda away as you begin to lace the front.

“No. They always grow quiet when she knocks, and they send her away. The staff are making bets over what date they’ll announce their affair.”

You don’t reply, instead pondering over this newfound information. Wanda begins muttering about the hairstyle she will craft for you tonight. You are barely listening as you sink into the seat in front of your mother's old vanity. With any hope James’ and King Harrison’s chat goes well tonight, you felt a pit of dread growing in your stomach at the thought of what Rumlow might be scheming.

taglist | @liter4ti @just-someone11 @champagnejoker @scooobies @queerqueenlynn @fanfictionjunkie1112 @themotherof10 @diaries-of-a-hopelessromantic @lady-loki-barnes-djarin @riffstorm

#bucky barnes #bucky x reader #bucky fanfic #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes fanfiction #james buchanan barnes #bucky x y/n #bucky barnes series #james bucky barnes #marvel au #marvel fic #marvel #royalty au #medieval au #fantasy au #lady of the ghosts

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betterthanworse · 1 year

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The Baron offers redemption, but his eyes are too cunning to take him at his word. The Soldier suspects he has unwittingly aligned himself with an entirely different kind of God.

#a medieval bucky set in the colonial era #tfw your fanfic ideas are too ambitious so u make fanart of it instead #loosely based off *that* scene in tfatws #someone write this plz #helmut zemo #baron zemo #winterbaron #winter soldier #bucky barnes #mcu #fanart

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plantswithme · 4 months

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so you mean to tell me that in S2EP8 of what if…? peggy could be there but sam couldn’t be a part of steve’s crew? i’m so tired

#steve was literally from the main timeline right?? where sam is!! why the fuck was scott there and not sam??#they could’ve had sam and bucky be steve’s crew and they could’ve kept getting into trouble bc of their bickering oh i feel robbed #imagine animated medieval sam with some form of wings?? his outfit??? HIM!?! 😭#what if season 2 #sam wilson

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foxgloveprincess · 2 years

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Another Taste Of Devouring Rush

Pairing: Pagan Gods Stucky x Female Reader [First Person Narrator]

Word Count: 8.8K

Summary: Growing up in a brothel, you’ve known and prepared for the fate that awaits you. But your madam’s scheme is looking for the highest bidder, and two potential bidders have caught your eye—though you’ve never seen their faces.

Warnings: Dark (Soft Dark Stucky), Medieval(ish) AU (Historical Inaccuracy because it’s a fictional setting), Polytheistic/Pagan Beliefs, Mythology, Yandere Behavior, Obsession, Possessiveness, Manipulation, Dubious Consent, Smut (Foreplay, Vaginal Penetration, Unprotected Sex, Loss of Virginity), Forced Escorting/Companionship/Prostitution, Virginity Auction/Bidding on Virginity, Innocence Kink (sorta), Minor Character Death, Abuse/Violence, Blood/Gore. All characters depicted/discussed as SWers are over the age of 18. Minors do not interact (18+).

A/N: This is in the same universe as A Little Touch of Heavenly Light. Though I think it’s perhaps darker than Tony’s tale. Not just Steve and Bucky, but also the reader’s circumstances make this one a bit of a doozy. Anyone who gets the Man of La Mancha nod, you’re my new favorite person.

I love feedback, so go ahead and reblog if you want. No permission given to copy, translate, rewrite or post my work, at all. I cross-post to my own AO3 account. Seeing this anywhere else means it’s been stolen/plagiarized.

Title from “Breath of Life” by Florence + the Machine

This is not Beta’d, so all mistakes are my own.

Enjoy!

Please DO NOT click ‘Keep Reading’ if you are not 18+ years of age or unwilling to read/consume dark content, thank you!

I was born in a ditch, left naked and alone to die. Too cold to even cry out for my mother. A mother who abandoned me.

Another woman, named Aida, wandering through the cold streets deep in the night, stumbled across me and carried my fragile, near-frozen body to her abode. Tucked close to her breast, beating warm and welcoming.

The sign for The Broken Beast has always hung crooked over its doorway, welcoming customers to a small establishment of the world’s oldest profession. Not the most ideal situation for a growing girl. But no one ever touched me. Not the patrons, not the prostitutes. Not unless they wanted Aida’s wrath to rain down upon them like the tide of the Gods’ Blood. And it has been all I’ve ever known.

“You’re special, my jewel,” she says, brushing away my worries with the strands of my hair that stick to my forehead. “Only when you are ripe shall you be plucked.”

And every day I wait, learning from the women and men of the brothel—my siblings in trade. Etiquette, composure, seduction, sensuality. Blossoming and utilizing my developing talents to become appealing—the perfect fantasy. For I know, one day, that is my fate.

Yet every dawn, when their weary legs carry their heavy hearts to the small temple at the edge of the city and they bow before Ari the God of Pleasure and Passion, I weave my way toward others. The Righteous Captain and his companion, The Freed Soldier.

Of course, they remain silent. What use would two gods have for a future wretch. It soothes my soul, though, surrounded by their offerings. Gorgeous works of art and ornamented trinkets. No spark of envy in my heart, but a longing for that beauty. True beauty, when my world constructs it from fantasy more fragile than a butterfly’s silken wing.

I bow before them, my head resting against my hands, prayers muttered on syllables barely a whisper. My heart clenches in my chest and tears prick at my eyes. Hope a withering thing in my chest. Anticipating the day my precarious peace will shatter.

Shuffling feet alert me to an approach. Skye, her kind eyes gazing upon my prostrated form with pity. Not much older than I, but a mistress to many lonely souls. Still she remains soft, the closest person to a friend I have.

“Let’s go home,” she beckons with an outstretched hand.

I accept, as I must.

“You come closer every day, my jewel,” Aida declares, the flimsy material of her curtains obstructing her view of the street below.

My shoulders slump, sinking into my chair as my spirit droops within.

Swallowing around the lump in my throat, I conceal my distress with a pristine,“Of course, ma’am.”

“How are your lessons?” she asks, turning her eyes to pierce through me. Locked on every movement with an exacting precision. Never in my life have I been able to hide from her scrutiny.

“They teach me well,” I reply, folding my hands in my lap and shifting upon the cushion of the chair, sitting straight. I clear my throat of despair, biting back the temptation keen to voice my deepest desires and greatest fears. My ankles cross behind the chair’s leg, uncomfortable no matter how I settle. I feel it, deep in me. The question rises from within my gut, and before I can halt its progress I ask, “Shall I be presented upon the dais tonight?”

Aida scoffs, a fond smile tilting her lips. “Oh, my gem.” She stands and saunters toward me, lifting my chin with a gentle finger. “You shall be the most prized whore in all of the Nine Kingdoms.” She pats my cheek and returns to sit behind the sturdy mahogany of her desk. A ledger falls open before her, pages filled with names and sums. Her voice stills like water after it ripples, tone clear and dispassionate. “You shall begin to entertain tonight. But only the one who desires you most will have the chance to gaze upon you and enjoy your deflowering.”

I clamp my lips together, a distressed noise stuck in my throat. My gaze drops to my lap and my fidgeting fingers before I glance back up. Aida’s quill scratches more names into her book, waiting. She knows me too well.

“There are others, far more beautiful than I. My features bear nothing exquisite,” I insist with a gesture toward myself, heart pleading for my freedom toward the only mother I have ever known. Yet, as well as she knows me, she never seems to hear. “Should any new courtesan not do just as well?”

Regretful eyes meet mine. “Oh, my jewel, you are far more precious.” Her hands fold together and prop her chin atop her desk. She sighs. “Your innocence is far more potent in attraction than any fine face. And it shall win us a grand sum.” She stands and leans forward on her palms. “You shall be my crowning glory.”

The tears well along my waterline, blinked away and choked down. I nod. Anguish creeps along my spine, grasping at my heart and squeezing until my breath hitches.

“Of course, ma’am.” With my final word, I stand, bowing my head and retreating from her stifling expectation.

Descending the steps to the vast main room with its bar and many tables, my steps grow heavy, bile churning in my gut at the thought of strutting across this floor and seducing patrons for Aida’s purse.

Melinda greets me from her stool with a stoic nod. She tips back her drink and shifts silently in her seat. Though she says nothing, barely acknowledges me, her eyes flicker with the briefest glimpse of sympathy. It’s enough to draw me closer, settling beside her and dropping my head to the smooth, well-worn wood. Her presence—the slightest sense of her understanding—washes over me like the flames of a cozy fire in the dead of winter.

A bottle of aqua vitae clinks on the bar before my eyes, Melinda’s hand wrapped around it’s neck. She pours me a small glass, watching as I stare wide-eyed at the spirit.

“Don’t let them have more than they need.” The caution in Melinda’s voice startles me, the quiet woman not one to often offer advice. “Keep something for yourself. Your rage, your humor, your joy—keep something and tuck it away.”

“Thank you,” I whisper as I straighten to meet her gaze, gratitude lacing every word. My throat grows tight with emotion, tears pricking at the back of my eyes.

She says nothing more, grabs her bottle of mead, and swaggers away. Chin held high, shoulders straight, yet burdened by the many years of her trade.

I remain at the bar, staring into the cup before me and the rippling drink within. It’s never touched my lips before, but I’ve heard of the acrid burn, the numbness. Too many girls getting lost in drink before entertaining their suitors. The dangers and temptations. Delicate fingers trace the rim, a debate rampant and inconclusive whirring through my mind. In the end, I push it away. Deserting the bar for the solace of my shared room.

The day passes in distraction. Evening draws nigh. The sun dipping toward the horizon. As the others leave for the bar downstairs, to get to work and earn their keep, I begin the transformation. Style my hair. Rouge my cheeks. Dress in my finest rags.

Voices swell below, raucous laughter and tittering giggles of delight. A farce. But one that brings coin and keeps customers returning again and again. My lungs expand on a deep breath and I stand without another look in the mirror.

“No,” Aida chastises from the doorway with only a glimpse of me, her frustration leaking from her pores. “This shan’t do.” Her fingers pluck in disgust at my cheeks. A sneer contorts her lip, hands grabbing at my chin.

A cloth wipes rough against my cheeks and her hands peel away the unsatisfactory outfit. She insists I wash again and presents a fine garment of crystal blue—pure, almost holy in its shade. Her foot taps as I scramble to appease her, turning once I am finished and awaiting her approval.

Her face remains a careful mask, though preferable to the disgust of before. She reaches out her hand. “Come.”

I nod and follow, navigating the hallways of the brothel until we reach a room empty of occupant, but not of purpose. This place, once used for boarding, looks nothing like the barren chamber of the rooms where we sleep. Cushions in lush textiles line the floors. Colorful lamps swing overhead, flickering their flames. Swaths of fabric drape over once bare walls. A table rests before a long, translucent purple curtain partitioning the room.

Aida draws me over and places me behind it. “You shall sit here,” she instructs, waiting to continue until I find my place. Raised upon a platform to survey the room before me. “Entertain your guests and who knows? One may desire to keep you.” She smiles, no warmth to her eyes, but a greed that consumes her. One with which I am well acquainted. It strikes me with her every glance in my direction.

“Yes, ma’am,” I whisper.

She hums and spins on her heel, exiting with a click of the latch on the door.

Many pass over the threshold throughout the night, curious eyes seeking the Beast’s jewel. Some leave after a glimpse of the gossamer barrier. Others stay longer, sitting before me for a moment of my time. Ever demure in tone and bearing, I entertain them—ask of their stories and charm them as I’ve been taught.

It is not until the late hours of the night, when a kind older man departs with promises of a return, do I receive my final callers.

Two figures enter. Strutting into the room with all the air of royalty. They sit like kings across the cushions, sprawling in a display of regal leisure.

“My lords,” I greet, my chin dipping toward my chest, a gesture of deference still visible through the barrier.

They do not speak for a moment. The silence elongating until I shift in my position and contemplate how I should continue to address them.

“What’s your name?” one asks, pleasant and genuine curiosity lacing his rich baritone.

Whether he expects a pseudonym or the truth, I answer with my name on a stuttered breath, struck by his gaiety and left intrigued.

“Your age?” he inquires.

Again, I answer with the truth, counting the years of my life. Older than the youngest who sell themselves here, well into womanhood and past the hopefulness of youth. The perfect age, Aida once said, to know better, yet not know at all.

He hums. His companion remains silent. The companion’s head tilts, and I shift once more. Despite the gossamer partition fixed between us, his eyes bore through me. I swallow and match his stare, waiting.

“Tell me of your tastes,” the first continues. And my gaze drifts from the silent figure.

“Tastes, my lord?” I question, not quite grasping his meaning. “Do you wish to speak of certain proclivities? Or—”

“Your favorites,” he intones, voice warm and soft with a tinge of amusement rife on his tongue. It’s sweet and disarming. I pause, contemplating the correct answer when he prompts, “Just the truth will suffice. Tell me of the foods you enjoy. The colors that catch your eye. The songs to which you long to dance.”

“I,” The words cuts off as my mind scrambles for the truth—too many thoughts whirling like a windstorm in my mind. I focus on the response most easily given. “My palate may not be as well traveled as some, sir, but I enjoy the sweet buns from the bakery down by the temple.”

“You enjoy sweets, then? All the better,” he jests with the confirmation of my reluctant nod, “for now I know a weakness. I must use it to my advantage.”

A laugh—a spontaneous thing, unpracticed and genuine—bursts from me. My lips spread in a smile.

“And you, sir? What are your weaknesses?” I inquire, with an honest interest lurking behind my words. Never have I felt the necessity of knowing potential paramours in such a way, but something within my belly yearns for it now.

“He’s bullheaded, and always pursues heavenly creatures without relent,” the companion speaks for the first time.

His voice, soft and smoky, wraps around me and dizzies my head. My eyes trace his obscured form, and I breathe a laugh again. The delighted sound accompanied by them both.

The rest of our night, we spend in each other’s company, exchanging pleasantries and small tidbits of favor until Aida shatters our peace to escort the potential bidders out.

Disappointment sits heavy in my gut, but I wait for my madam’s return. She sweeps into the room and brushes the curtain away, a twinkle of triumph in her eyes. My lips part on a question. Yet it goes unanswered, guided as I am to my rooms to sleep and prepare for the rigors of the next evening.

Many more visit the second night. More the third. But each night, I wait. Bated breath and hopes high, anticipating the the arrival of the two lords who begin to occupy my every waking thought.

Each night, always the last, they return, enlivening me with their attention and gentle affections. They grow bolder, sneaking closer toward the curtain. Prodding at the boundary between us.

“Why deep purple, little blossom?” one asks, soft voice reaching me. His fingers skim the fabric, catching on the tips and tugging until it flutters. “I have seen many don the color here. Is it the brand of your establishment?”

I swallow, leaning away from his unconscious lure. So close to them, so thin a barrier between us. The impulse tickles my spine and bids my fingers move—but I resist.

“My lord,” I explain with caution, “surely you know, in these lands, purple is the mark of a whore.”

Silence stretches.

Broken by a growl—an almost inhuman sound, accompanying a cutting assertion, “You are not a whore.”

I swallow, a spike of fear flickering at the base of my skull at the strict remonstrance. Lips parting, my mind scrambles for an apt response. Working through stunned and fluttering thoughts, I reply, “I am not, as of yet, my lord.” My head bows, unwilling to peek at their figures behind the delicate material. Heat warms my cheeks. “But I might be yours.”

A sharp inhale meets my ears.

The door bursts open, Aida ready for her nightly routine. The men stand, unmoving for a moment as they attempt to peer at my visage. To no avail as the curtain remains in place, not a shift or quiver.

No, the only quake comes from my blood, thrumming through my veins in an intoxicating rush. I wait, as I always do, for their reaction—just one more word from either of their lips. My fingers sink into the cushion beneath me, threatening to rip the cloth and expose the feathers and fluff beneath. But they remain as silent as me.

In incremental movements, I begin to stand. My legs untuck from under me, lifting me up. A shaking hand reaches forward. Fingers brush the fabric and begin to grip. Though my reason rebels against the instinct, every fiber in my being wishes to gaze upon their faces. To trace their features and drink in their presence without any impediment.

“My lords, if you would follow me,” Aida insists. Her tone breaks me from my thrall, barbed and biting—her ire roiling behind a composed guise.

When she returns, her nails dig into my arms, grip tight and painful. There is no gentleness in her treatment that night. Only a threat and a lesson learned.

Journeying with the others the next morning, I find the temple on an empty stomach, coaxed to deliver the first of my offerings to the God of Pleasure.

Everything within me revolts at his feet, bowing my head and refusing to utter my prayer. But I offer a coin from my meager purse before weaving my way toward beauty.

It feels right, supplicating myself to the patron of lost souls. The Freed Soldier looking upon my fatigued frame with indifference.

“I cannot go on,” I lament at his feet, unable to glance at the altar of the Righteous Captain, knowing too well how conflicting my position is to his virtue. Only the Soldier may be my confessor this morning. “This venture, it taints me—spreading like a stain until it will cover every part of me.” Beneath my skirts, I loose a tiny sachet from around my thigh—a few aromatic herbs, a shard of iridescent glass, and a speckled pebble encased inside. “Please, I beg you. I will be loyal all my days.” Tears drip down my cheeks, and splash across the tiled floor. “Help me,” I whisper from quivering lips.

There is no answer.

The night falls, as it must, and I return to my shrouded position. The faces blur in their familiarity from behind my curtain. Voices returning from the nights previous. Aida keeps new, curious gazes away—culling the interest pool to those wealthy enough to bid for my innocence.

The older man returns from the first night, his voice jovial. Though he doesn’t tell me it, his name sits scrawled on a piece of parchment resting under Aida’s arm, along with the others who vie for my attentions.

They’ve started to sit closer, their curiosity feeding a need to discern my appearance. But none catch a glimpse—none that I wish to catch a glimpse.

Except for them.

Only one comes that night. His companion absent from his side. My heart sinks, distraught and cycling through notions of my failure before he speaks.

“I hope you will forgive me,” the man excuses, sitting before the curtain, pressing probing fingers across the translucent cloth. “I wished for a moment of your time, alone.”

My throat clears, mind searching for the words to express my curiosity and sate my incompetence with answers. “Then your friend has no need of my services?”

“No, no,” he rushes to reassure, “business calls him away this night. Though he should return tomorrow, neither of us wished to lose an opportunity to see you.”

Relief floods through my veins, a grin stretching my lips. “I suppose that will do.”

“Be assured, my sweet, we shall only ever have you together.”

Heat rushes to my cheeks. His implications and passion striking me to my core. His figure leans closer to the drape, so close I might perceive his features if it were more sheer. Even still, his proximity ensnares my senses, scenting the faintest hint of sage on his clothes, the brush of his breath. My heartbeat thumps in my ears.

“You shall be my sweet, shan’t you?” he questions no louder than a whisper.

Before my thoughts can form coherence, my lips murmur, “yes,” without pause, fervor rife in the declaration.

“Then I have something for you.”

He turns away, hands procuring a bag tied to his belt. He offers it out. Just on the other side of the curtain but no further. I reach for it, charades of anonymity and mystery cursed to the riverbed.

The curtain parts around my arm, fingers grasping at the pouch. A hand locks around my wrist, lips descending for a tantalizing caress. I gasp.

The man smooths his fingertips over my skin. Such tenderness, reverence in the gesture. And I sit still, unable to break the sanctity of the moment until he releases me with a final kiss to my knuckles.

I swallow, a lump forming in my throat, impeding any sentiment I might utter. My eyes flick away from the shadow of his face, locking onto my gift and untying the ties. Pulse fluttering beneath my skin, every fiber of my being grasps for composure.

Peeking into the linen bag, my fingers pluck out a small, dark shard which melts in my touch.

“Eat it,” he encourages, eager and insistent. “It’s called chocolate.”

I hesitate, wondering at the food, trying to discern its flavor without a taste. Yet chocolate is not something with which I am familiar. But the shard finds its way to my mouth, melting as it did between my fingers. It coats my palate with sweet bitterness. A sound of delight trills in my throat, looking to the man who offered such a fine gift.

“Thank you,” I whisper, still struggling to form words and lost in the pleasures of the treat, and even a simple offering of gratitude feels ill-equipped to convey my appreciation.

“Steve.”

“What?” I ask in confusion, glancing toward the pouch now resting in my lap and back to the gossamer.

“Steve,” he repeats, a patience to his voice, “it’s my name.”

“Steve.” It repeats on my tongue, sweeter than the chocolate still lingering. “A pleasure to know your name, my lord.” A smile pulls at the corners of my lips. An ache growing within my chest—inexplicable yet all-consuming. Akin to tenderness, affection. Accompanied by a pang, worse than those of a growing body. Knowing he and his companion are still but one of many who might win my innocence. Possibility and probability and favor warring against our fates that may not align.

But I disregard it. Allowing my own indulgence, engaging Steve in conversation and gaiety—as if I were not hiding behind a veil, and he were any man I might meet on the street.

And the next night, they return together. My endearment to them growing even more incisive. Heavy as a boulder within my chest and piercing through me. Yet I have been taught well. A charming air shielding my true feelings from them, just as my face remains concealed.

“What think you of your other suitors?”

The jubilance of my laughter ceases. Stunned by the man’s inquiry. Steve turns to face his companion, fidgeting in his seat. My eyelids blink, batting away bewilderment.

“They are of no concern, my lord,” I rush to say, stumbling over the words. Dread slithers down my spine, colder than winter’s frost. “You may be my only master, should you wish it.”

“And what would be the price of that?” he growls.

“James,” Steve reprimands, cautioning his companion and introducing me to him for the first time.

Though my throat dries and my nerves pluck with discomfort, I reply, “I will never set the price, my lord. It is not one I wish to collect from you.”

Silence settles between the three of us. Long moments spent with our own thoughts. A chair creaks. A cup clinks. My breath stays within my chest, refusing to escape my lungs.

“Do you wish to be ours?” James asks, an edge to his words that I cannot define nor fathom.

“More than any other,” I reply.

“No matter the price,” Steve intones, question woven with an intensity much like his companion’s.

“Yes, my lord.”

It is the last thing I say to them. Their bodies rising as one and exiting the room. A strong, determined steeliness lining their shoulders and regimenting their gait.

Aida barges into my room, expression a blazing inferno of rage. Her nails sink into my arms, dragging me from my bed and shoving me against the floor.

“You think to trick me, to make a fool of my endeavors?” she questions, tone sharp and pointed.

My chin ducks, unaware of my slight against her. Trying to puzzle together whatever infraction I have committed.

She tilts my gaze up, fingers squishing my cheeks and nails biting at my skin. “I own you,” she seethes. “Until the breath leaves my lungs and my soul fords the Gods’ Blood, you are mine and no one else’s.” She pushes me away and I yelp, head smacking against the frame of Skye’s cot. “Play your games with your suitors, my gem,” she spits, “but do not think you may challenge me.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I whisper, still lost and perplexed by her sudden wrath. But unwilling to provoke it further.

“Now,” she straightens, smoothing her hands over her bodice and turning her gaze from me. Yet still it sends a shiver down my spine. “You shall pray with your sisters and brothers at the temple. And come the evening, you shall see no more of those two lords who think themselves your keepers.”

I swallow hard, nodding and waiting to gather myself until her steps retreat down the hall. Head dizzy, I stumble to my feet and brush away the tears lining my eyes. For I know of whom Aida speaks. No two other men had sought me so ardently than James and Steve. I sniff away the distress and smooth my dress. Leaving my sorrow tucked away in the empty room.

My steps tread heavy toward the temple. My knees aching before Ari. Sorrow clings to me like a shroud and I cannot remember the words of my prayers before his feet.

I stay with my siblings at the temple, too forlorn to find my way to any other god to plead my case. Aida has spoken. As the madam of the brothel, her word equates to law and I cannot defy her. I cannot even fathom any strength to try.

Skye wraps her arm around me, guiding me back toward the temple door. Passing by a priestess with a half-veiled face, my steps falter. Her hand stretches before my waist, blocking my exit.

“You so often find your way to this temple,” she states, her voice smooth and deep. A curl of shocking red hair falling to brush her cheek. Feline eyes scrupulous as they survey my frozen form.

My throat dries, a spark of fear curdling in my belly. “Yes,” I reply on a stuttered breath.

“You do not seek out your gods today,” she presses, gaze narrowed.

Skye’s hold tightens upon my arm, a firm tug urging me away. But even she knows the respect owed to those in service of the gods. I release myself from her grasp and turn more fully to the priestess, whose emerald eyes shine with some divine knowledge.

“You know our station, sister,” Skye replies for me, biting even as her gentle hands reach for my waist. “Our prayers are sent to Ari in the morning light.”

“Yet her prayers are not yours,” the priestess refutes, turning her attention away from the woman at my side.

I swallow, lips parted on some protestation that does not come.

The priestess’s hands enfold mine, a small object placed in my palm. Voice soft, she whispers, “I have seen this appear upon their altar only when your prayers are the most sincere. Yet you have never noticed that it is yours.” With no further explanation, she bows her head and spins on her heel, returning to other duties of the temple and leaving me stunned with the weight of such a holy gift in my hand.

“Come,” Skye urges, wrapping her guiding arm around me again. Her eyes trail after the priestess, confused and wary.

My hand drops to my side. The points of the trinket prick at my palm, but every notion in my head knows without doubt that this precious thing must be protected. That Aida must never know it has come into my possession. It slips beneath my pillow, a ten-pointed star strung upon a smooth string. Out of sight and safe and mine.

The evening looms closer with the passing of hours, my heart heavy in my chest. For I know, with Aida’s supervision, I won’t see Steve or James again.

As the sun descends on the horizon, despite my disappointment, I carry myself with charm and poise. Hoping to endear myself toward one of my few other suitors. For I must. My life hangs in the balance of their favor.

“So, my dear,” the older gentleman inquires, “what shall I bring you?”

Swallowing down my dry throat, I reply with words fit to choke me, “Just yourself, my lord. I only wish for you.” The falsehoods are bitter on my tongue, forced. And I cannot help but compare them with the truths often spoken with my two favorites, the ones forbidden to me.

Instead, I am left to please strangers, to lure the rich and bait them with innocence and false fidelity. It drains me each night. The first passing with no sign of Steve and James. The second falling with little hope.

Until a crash sounds from outside my room. A cacophonous racket that sends me jumping in my seat. It startles my suitor as well—a younger man pleased by strokes to his ego and unconcerned with truth.

“What in the Land Beyond is happening out there?” he huffs, standing from his place and stomping toward the door.

Only to be forced back as it bursts open and another figure storms inside. He calls my name, his rough voice a boon, lifting my spirits—James.

I stand, stepping toward the gossamer partition and wait for his approach. My tongue ties in my mouth, unable to exclaim in curiosity or astonishment, simply gazing at his form through the curtain. Sounds from without reach my ears, more crashes—broken cups and chairs. A ruckus that must have stemmed from him.

“You entertain them still?” he questions, hushed and incredulous. Reaching through the barrier between us, his touch wraps around my wrist. With a gentle tug, he attempts to draw me forward—an attempt I reluctantly resist. “You need not. Come.” He urges me forward again.

“My madam forbids it, sir,” I protest, voice quiet as a mouse yet as loud as I can make it. I do not budge from my spot before my pedestal, nerves a flurry of fear and confusion fluttering within my chest.

He pauses, grip pulsing around my wrist with a stern strength. “You wish to stay here with them?” James spits the words with contempt, releasing me as if I scalded him.

My lips part on a confirmation I cannot voice, silenced by an inability to form the proper words on my tongue. Tears prick at my eyes, dripping in cool rivulets down my cheeks.

He huffs a scornful bark of a laugh, shaking his head and turning toward my evening’s patron. “You think you may have her?” he questions, tense shoulders held like a threat, feet stalking forward. “You will not.”

“Wait!” I cry, hiccuping a sob in distress. My hands grip the curtain, threatening to tear it from its hanging. “Please, James. Don’t—”

Another figure fills the doorway, just as broad and strong. He steps inside and closes the door behind him.

“Are we ready?” Steve asks, his voice sure and soothing.

“She will not come,” James replies, turning his attention back toward me and approaching on ominous steps. “Yet.” He whispers the word, almost against my lips through the thin barrier between us.

His head tilts. A moment of calm passes, our breaths shared. But striking out in an instant, his hand wraps around my nape and drags me forward until his lips crash against mine.

The fabric remains between us, but I taste his ardent desire in his touch and kiss, shaking me to my core. His heat burns me, tantalizing and tempestuous. And just as suddenly as he had ravished my senses, he releases me.

“You have promised yourself to us, lost little blossom, do not forget,” he murmurs against my lips before stepping back toward his companion.

They both leave through the door without a glance back. And I am left stunned. Lifting gentle fingers to trace my lips, my knees weaken beneath me and I fall upon my cushioned seat.

Dazed, I continue my duties of the night, inattentive and lost to contemplation. Of Steve and James’ reappearance and urgency—of the hunger in James’ kiss. Ill-defined figures pass before the curtain, shadows forming the men left in my cadre of callers. Even in my dreams, hand tucked under my pillow and clinging to the star, I cannot bid my thoughts settle. Instead, it replays in my mind over and over. The press of James’ lips. His hand on my skin. His heat. The piercing of Steve’s gaze. His soft voice. His calm in the midst of chaos. Fantasies weaving together, leaving me in fits of sleep and waking with a gnawing need.

It is the first time my prayers ring sincere as I bow before Ari—beseeching his lenience, desire threatening to overwhelm and consume me.

Sitting before his feet, morning light soft against my skin, I prostrate myself, bending low and touching my forehead to the cool stone floor.

“Ravenous One, God of Passion and Pleasure, patron to lovers and the fallen, grant me clarity, I beg.” I speak through the dryness of my throat, spine pricking with awareness, knowing the bodies lined beside me might overhear my whispered plea. Yet I persevere knowing I can neither abide nor endure my heart beating for two men I shall never have. “Give me strength to fulfill my duty, to obey my madam, to forget those I—” Words threaten to fall from my lips, perched precariously on my tongue—words of love and affection I cannot entertain. I finish the thought, swallowing down those tempting utterances which wish to be spoken, “to forget those I fear I cannot.” My voice cracks, as fragile as my state of mind, searching for mercy—from my desires, from the gods, from myself. I lick my dry lips and stumble over the rest. “So I may serve you in all ways, a loyal and ready supplicant to indulgence. And may the Gods’ Blood flow forever and ever.”

The candles before the god’s feet flicker. A soft draft brushing against them. I sigh and stand, patting my hands against my skirts and placing my offering upon the altar. A strip of luxurious fabric taken from my cushion wrapped around a small flask of Melinda’s best mead.

Staring up at my new patron god, tears sting my eyes. A soul-deep acceptance settling within me. His fiery eyes gaze down at me, unseeing and unsympathetic.

Preparing for the night brings me to the partitioned room, shrouded in secret and ready to beguile.

An hour passes. Aida’s presence stifling in the close quarters. We wait in silence, yet my madam cannot stay still. Her irritation and uncertainty growing with each passing second. Her shoulders tense. Her fingers pressing to her cheeks and kneading the flesh there. She casts glances toward me over her shoulder, staring at the door with a glare.

“What have you done?” she grits out between clenched teeth. Though she doesn’t turn, she waits for my answer.

“Nothing ma’am, I don’t understand. I thought—”

She raises her hand to silence me, storming from the room.

Alone, I puzzle over the absence of my suitors. For they had all been eager—if not for our carefully constructed rapport, than for the thought of defiling my body. Surely they could not have all lost their interest in the span of one day.

My teeth sink into my lower lip, worrying over the flesh as dread rises like bile up my throat. To disappoint Aida would be a sentence worse than death—for she would make it so. Hands clasped before my chest, I mutter a prayer to Ari, pleading for my salvation.

And it comes with the opening of the door.

The older gentleman, the one with kind words and a penchant for trying to charm me in return, enters my room and sits before my curtain.

“You must forgive me my tardiness,” he excuses with a good nature. “I was discussing some business with your madam.”

“Please, sir, uh, do not fret over such matters,” I rush to appease, stumbling over the placation with a huff of relief. “I will wait for you, with pleasure.”

He makes a happy little sound in the back of his throat and eases into his chair, conversing with me freely and distracting me from the lack of other men eager for my company. He stays until Aida collects him at the end of our night, ushering him out with promises of satisfaction.

And my routine shifts abruptly. When I stand to weave my way back to my bed, the latch on the door will not budge. Locked in the lavish room, I’m once again left waiting with no explanation.

The door opens again, a delighted Aida waiting for me without. My brow creases with worry, unsure of this abrupt change in temperament.

“My jewel, come with me,” she begs with a gentle hand guiding my elbow. “Master Radcliffe quite enjoys your company and has just this night bid for your maidenhead.” She smiles over at me, brushing her fingers against my cheek.

Everything within me braces so that I do not flinch under her touch. “So he will be my new master, ma’am?” I inquire, keeping my voice steady though it wishes to crack and crumble into sobs.

She hums an amused sound. “Only for one night.” She tucks my chin with her finger before drawing me toward her personal chambers. “If he wishes to own you, he shall have to pay a much more fine price.” Her fingers pinch at my upper arm. “If you wish for more, you shall have to please him, shan’t you?”

She chuckles and prods me into her room. Her bed sits pushed into the corner adjacent to the window. Before the window, her desk. Across sits a cabinet—one I know well.

The box bed waits with its doors open, the bed still small and cramped and lined with soft linens. My childhood spent locked away during the night, to keep me from wandering eyes and hands. It used to make me feel safe and protected. Now, the space sends a bolt of fear up my spine.

“Ma’am?”

“In you go, my dazzling jewel,” she urges with a tinge of impatience, pushing me toward the door and dipping her hand between her breasts to retrieve an old, iron key. “We must assure your innocence only one day more. I promised Master Radcliffe we would take every precaution.” She smiles, a sinister glee sparkling in her eyes. “I will bring you your meals and allow you to bathe before your formal introduction.”

My feet hesitate, stuck to their spots on the floor before the bed. My lips part on a plea, but there is no time for its utterance.

“Get in,” Aida insists, a firm hand on my back shoving me inside.

My legs tuck beneath me just as the doors swing shut, the lock clicking into place and leaving me in darkness.

Her steps retreat and her door latches, though the flame in her room continues to flicker on its wick. The candlelight a sliver between the seam of the bed’s doors.

My knees fold beneath me, the flat pillow cradled to my chest, face tucking into the cushion. Filling my body with air, I struggle to remain calm. Forgotten memories flash before my eyes, nights spent crying within these sheets, waiting for a kind word or comforting embrace.

Skimming over the wood to my side, my fingers find the small notch of a carving. The two stars well-worn by so many years spent tracing the crude shapes. Sinking into the bed and turning on my side, my shaky breaths calm, legends of the Righteous Captain and the Freed Soldier stirring a gentle warmth within my chest. Years of learning my destined craft accompanied by an overheard story, a whisper of legend, a glimpse of splendorous offerings.

My lips press together. My eyes close. There are no more prayers for me to utter, but still I spend a restless moment with thoughts of them before I drift off to sleep.

The doors rattle. An unsteady hand presses the key into the lock of my bed, the iron clicking several times. I jolt awake, body forced upright.

“Is everything alright?” I ask, fearful of the answer. Despite the fatigue clinging to my limbs, I remain alert, heart pounding as no response returns. “Aida?”

The low light of the early morning greets me when the doors swing open. The grey fog outside Aida’s window tints the room with its dreary presence. Befuddlement strikes me. It is far too early for the girls to be awake and readying for their prayers. And I was sure I would not be permitted for the sake of my intact innocence. But instead of Aida standing before me, Skye’s wide eyes stare back in terror.

“What’s wrong?” I whisper, foreboding dripping down my throat and pooling in my belly.

“You,” her voice cracks and she glances away a moment before sniffing and turning back to me, “You have to come with me.”

Her hand reaches toward me in offering, spattered with crimson drops. My head tilts as I accept. Sore bones from the cramped space protest when I stand. But I make no complaint, focused on my friend—her mind wandering on thoughts I cannot comprehend.

She rushes away, dragging me behind, her steps quick and frantic toward the room I share with her and a few others. Though their beds are disheveled from sleep, they are absent. My lips part in inquiry, but Skye proceeds with urging me to wash and dress, glancing over her shoulder after every move.

“Wear this,” she insists, helping me don the gown of crystal blue—the one I wore my first night behind the veil—though it sparkles more now, shining incandescent in the dim light. “It is what they want.”

“Aida and Master Radcliffe?”

Skye’s head shakes in denial, but her quivering lips do not grant me any other crumb of information. So I am left following her, and stuck in bewilderment. The house remains far too quiet as she finishes readying me. Only thoughts of Aida’s endeavor make sense as Skye checks my appearance. No other explanation forms within my mind. Yet she denied it.

“Hurry,” Skye beckons with urgency. “We can make them wait no longer.” Her voice cracks over the words, eyes shiny with tears.

I only pause one moment, reaching beneath my pillow to take the gift from the gods and shove it within the pouch of my pocket. Then my hasty steps mirror Skye’s, unsure yet scared for her distress, descending the stairs to find a captive crowd.

By the time my feet find the middle step, the scene stretches before me in gruesome spectacle. Cowering in fear, my brothers and sister of the brothel remain by the bar—dotted by the same crimson splattered against Skye’s hands. On their faces, their clothes, staining their skin. Before them, lining the floor sit eight heads. Unfamiliar faces filthy and sitting in a pool of blood, their mouths open and eyes bloody and burnt hollows. Flies buzz about the room, landing upon slack lips and tongues, burrowing into the empty sockets. The stench curls in my nose, death and decay striking pungent and vile. Bile rises in my throat and I freeze. The horrific sight, inexplicable and grotesque, stays my step. Even as Skye prods me forward, I cannot force myself to continue.

Then I hear my name, honey sweet and calm, from a voice I know so well. “Please, join us, my sweet.”

I comply on trembling legs, swallowing hard and fighting back the urge to heave and scream.

Steve and James stand in the center of the room, swords brandished and dripping. Pride in their bearing, a confidence borne of their bloodthirst. Just as crimson speckled as the rest, yet faces alight with satisfaction.

Skye scurries toward our siblings, stepping carefully around the congealing substance on the floor. Welcomed into their terrified and protective embrace as all eyes turn to me.

And I’m alone at the foot of the stair, unable to tear my gaze from the two men I once thought my salvation. Our focus does not waver, though mine darts between the two. Trying to fathom the meaning behind their display. Unable to place a name to their face—seeing them for the first time, unprepared for their beauty and their brutality.

“Who,” I croak, clearing my throat in the attempt to speak louder than a whisper, “Who are those men?” My trembling hand gestures toward the macabre sight.

“You do not recognize them?” one asks, brow tilted in skepticism. That voice—James? My head shakes in response, denying any knowledge of the men. He hums, pleased by the response. “They thought themselves worthy of you. To sit beside you and relish in your company.”

My eyes blink, a slow motion that tempers the faint feeling that assaults my head. A hand reaches out, gripping the bannister of the stairs and my other plunges into my pocket through my dress, grasping the pendant in an effort to ground myself.

Lined up in a row, the men who bid for my maidenhead. Tracing their features with my eyes, sickness assaults my senses. My knees bend beneath me, weakened by the thoughts flurrying through my mind. The meaning of such violence. The cause for such ghastly arrangement.

And then I see her. Behind the line of dismembered heads, contorted in an unpleasant pose sprawls Aida’s corpse. Her eyes staring blind toward the ceiling and arms splayed to her sides in unnatural angles. A thick, jagged line of red slices across her throat, no longer spurting her blood, but slick with it. It coats down her dress and across the floor—the source of the pool beneath the necks of those unfortunate men.

I hiccup a sob, the sound stuck in my throat. Crashing around me, the world slips from beneath my feet. My legs collapse. Only the strong grip which wraps about my waist keeps me upright. Not Skye or Melinda or any other from the brothel. No. My head tilts, the sight of my rescuer churning my guts in a nauseous wave. The brown hair that brushes his shoulders, the crystalline gaze which pierces through my very soul.

He shushes my whimpers, caressing his fingertips across my cheek, a look of awe brightening his features. He smiles.

“Loyal for all your days,” he murmurs, focus attracted to the parted flesh of my lips. An aborted noise of horror chokes in my throat. “There will be many of them.” The promise rings in my ears as he rights me on my feet and gathers me close, bringing me toward his companion.

“I believe formal introductions are in order,” the other says, standing tall and stalwart beside the severed heads, triumph straightening his shoulders. “We’ve waited for this moment for so long. Though I will admit, we hoped for more amenable circumstances.” His hand reaches up, scratching at the beard on his cheeks, a sheepish smile pulling at the corner of his lips.

I’m released by the brunet’s arm, left standing where the pool of blood just grazes the side of my shoe.

A babble of noise rises from those by the bar, harsh and harried. One swift glance from the blond stops it short, before a single phrase may form.

He turns back to me, catching my eye and bowing his head. The softness of his expression, the warmth of his stare, before he utters the words, I know. “I’m Steve, little sweet.”

“I’m James,” the brunet intones, a smirk plucking at his upper lip. He holds himself with a bold smugness I do not understand, until he open his mouth to speak again. “Though perhaps, despite our many meetings, you might know us better by a different title.”

A subtle glow begins to form around them both. Not from the rising of the sun, though it does begin to crest the horizon. It is something innate within them that grows and brightens. Almost until it burns.

He gestures to Steve with a tilt of his head. “Patron to artists and carrier of justice.” His hand sweeps before himself as he steps forward, snaking his arm back around my waist. “I shoulder free will and aid lost souls.”

I do not need to speak the words aloud. Though they sit, perched on the tip of my tongue. Instead, the Soldier sees them in my terrified gaze and nudges my chin with one of his fingers. But my head shakes and shakes and shakes, denial coursing through me.

“Will you come with us now?” Steve asks, stepping forward, a hopeful tilt to his brow. He reaches forward and gently grasps my arm, lifting it until my wrist sits within his grasp and he can brush his lips across the skin of my hand.

“Or must we extinguish this whole place?” Bucky inquires, whispering into my ear with a glance sent toward the people standing by the bar.

I swallow, heart stuttering in my chest and heave a deep breath. “I will go with you,” I reply around the lump in my throat.

In the Land Beyond the River, where the gods reside, time moves differently. Every morning I wake to a new day, full of luxury and leisure. Yet every night it is the night of my ruin.

Wandering hands, whispered words—over and over and over. My innocence taken from me again and again with the same affection and tenderness as the first night when I was stolen from The Broken Beast and found myself in the God’s Domain.

“Here, little blossom,” James coos, pressing a ripe fernberry to my lips, “taste this and let me savor it on your tongue.”

My teeth pierce the flesh, tears already welling in my eyes—waiting for the moment it comes. When he will brace himself on my thighs and sink into me. Juice dribbles down my chin, tilted back so that Steve might lap at the sweet nectar.

“You are divine, my sweet,” Steve sighs, fingers cradling my jaw and holding me steady.

Contorted as I am, I never ache—at least not for long. No matter how they may handle my body, my muscles never weaken and never tire. Instead, their ravenous embrace holds me tight until each is satisfied and I might drift away on pleasurable waves of respite.

“Say it,” James prompts, the same words every night.

I swallow around them, stuck behind my teeth. Though each night it gets easier and easier to say it, to confess and lay myself upon their mercy, to believe it with my whole heart. “I love you,” I say, repeating it like a chant, captured by Steve’s lips until they’re muffled in his kiss.

My thighs part wide, held by caring hands that smooth over the skin with a devoted reverence.

“And we love you,” James assures with a soft smile, “more than you will ever know.”

His member, thick and turgid, brushes against my delicate petals. My breath catches in my throat as it taps upon that sensational bundle of nerves.

Fingers ease his way, stretching me until my lips parts on a moaning gasp, the very core of me weeping for them both. Then, with a tilt of his hips, James begins the plunge. It stings, as it does every night. No amount of gentleness or preparation readying me for that initial thrust.

His hips rock against mine, furthering himself into me. Steve holds me secure, cradling me against his chest, keeping my legs wrapped over his, and my arms locked to my sides. He murmurs sweet sentiments into my ear until my mind turns hazy, dripping with their syrupy honey.

“That’s it. I’ve got you,” he coos in my ear, “our most precious girl.”

“Yes,” I moan as James stills, the sting of his length accompanied by an all-encompassing hunger. The longer he remains dormant within me, the more ravenous it grows.

James presses a kiss to my cheek, lips drawn in a smile. “Right where you belong.” He grasps my chin with sticky fingers, tongue licking into my mouth and tasting the sweet fruit and passion that coats my palate. He hums and consumes.

And I let him, reveling in it. Aching for it.

How many days have passed thus, I cannot count. Each as steady as the way James plunders me. His hips striking against mine in his fervor. He chases our ecstasy and drags me with him until we plummet into bliss. And Steve does the same. Maneuvering my body to his whims. His tender attentions guiding me until I fall again and again. Until no thought lingers in my mind, but of them. Not the slickness of the sweat on our bodies nor the coolness of the silk cushions. Not the brilliant moon lighting the horizon nor the crash of the river upon its shore.

Just them. Always them.

read Wanda and Pietro’s myth in A Dream of a Life

read Loki’s myth in My Heart is a Hollow Plain

#steve rogers x reader #bucky barnes x reader #stucky x reader #medieval au #polytheistic au #mythology au #the avengers pantheon #dark #dark fic #tw dub con #dub con #yandere vibes #smut #heed the warning #18+#minors dni

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leehanji · 1 year

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Bucky’s face turned towards him and when he opened his eyes Steve swore he saw starlight glittering in their blue depths. He smiled back, lost in the way the moonlight made Bucky’s skin glow. Bucky’s hand found his on the cool stone railing and his warmth sent shivers down Steve’s spine. “Steve,” he breathed, sliding his thumb across the back of Steve’s hand. “I—“

...Coming soon to an AO3 near you.

Patreon || NSFW

#stucky #steve x bucky #steve rogers #bucky barnes #medieval AU #captain america #winter soldier #my art #marvel #mcu #leehanji

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avecra · 2 years

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A Change In Duty - Masterlist

series summary: Change has been no stranger to you your entire life. So, when the dear friend that you work for engages to a King and requests you to accompany her to her new home, you are beyond happy; a perfect way to start a new change in your life. In the Northern Lands is where you meet Natasha’s fiance, King Steven and right hand man Captain James Barnes, who takes an affinity to you quickly, though you are hesitant to trust him. As the months go by, you find yourself swiftly falling for the knight. But when a familiar darkness begins to loom over the kingdom, you won’t hesitate to uphold the duty to your royals to protect them. And Captain Barnes will do anything to ensure the safety of the Queen’s Lady.

pairing: knight!bucky x lady!reader (medieval au)

series warnings: canon level violence, romance, angst, period-typical misogyny, mentions/references to abuse, protective!bucky is backkkk, hurt/comfort, fluff, knight!bucky because hes a warning

* set in a separate time than this one shot. they have similarities, but have no correlation whatsoever.

a/n - my obsession with knight!bucky is unhealthy :'), i will be posting wednesdays every other week

CURRENTLY ON HIATUS

❧ One

❧ Two

❧ Three

❧ Four

❧ Five

❧ Six

❧ Seven

❧ Eight

❧ Nine

❧ Ten

❧ Eleven

❧ Epilogue

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes story #medieval au #knight!bucky

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fandoms-writings · 1 year

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Pairing: Knight!Bucky x Queen!Reader

Summary: Sir James Barnes has served at your side for over five years. For five years, he’s silently adored you from behind his metal armor. But what would happen if he could no longer keep it a secret from you? Could you possibly harbor similar affections for him? Afterall, he’s just a knight - you’re the queen.

Warnings: smut 18+ ONLY (smut will be indicated with a ❂︎), angst, hurt/comfort, fluff, flirting. Secret relationship. Each installment will contain it’s own warnings.

Installments are organized in chronological order. If you have any suggestions, or questions about the pair, please send an ask! It may be turned into a chapter <3

Yes, Your Grace

Adoring Fool ❂︎

Masked Stranger

If Only for a Moment

Moodboards:

a little picnic

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sjsmith56 · 6 months

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A New World - Chapter 1, Lord Buchanan

Summary: A modern young woman suddenly finds herself in a strange medieval world. As an unaccompanied woman she requires the protection of a man to survive, finding it in the enigmatic and handsome Lord Buchanan.

Length: 4.8K

Characters of note: Ileana (named female character described as chestnut haired), Lord Buchanan (that world’s version of James Buchanan Barnes)

Warnings: Assault of female character, threat of violence, courtly language (of a sort), formal language (of a sort), description of preparing a hunted animal for food (it was either that or go hungry).

Author’s notes: Inspired by the photo edits of Instagram artist nixakimbo this story can be found in its entirety on Wattpad and AO3, under my username SJSmith56. It is a complete fantasy concept that initially was supposed to be a “bodice ripper” so just enjoy the ride. It was a lot of fun to write. Series masterlist to come.

🗡️

Ileana looked at her closet trying to figure out what to wear for this blind date. She had only agreed because she trusted her friend Haydn not to set her up with someone like Jeremy. That relationship had ended badly when she came home from work one morning to grab her forgotten laptop and she had found him in bed with a waitress from the diner where they ate Saturday morning breakfasts. Pulling her suitcases from the closet she had thrown everything in there while he tried to convince her the girl meant nothing. Meanwhile the poor girl looked like she would rather be anywhere but naked in a bed watching the guy she just slept with say she meant nothing. Over the next few weeks Ileana had stayed with Haydn in her spare room until she found her own place, a small one bedroom flat. Haydn's boyfriend Sam had convinced her to set up the blind date with his friend Bucky. Who named their son Bucky?

She stopped and took a breath, realizing she was over thinking it again. Bucky could be a nickname. Haydn said he was attractive if a little brooding and being friends with Sam meant that he likely had manners as Sam wouldn't hear of a man mistreating a woman. Finally Ileana pulled out a lacy white top to go over her camisole and a longer lacy black skirt. Pulling on her black boots she was satisfied that she looked acceptable. Feminine but confident. Grabbing her coat and purse she ran out and tried to hail a cab. She didn't want the guy to pick her up so she said she would meet them at the restaurant. Now she was running late and it was at least a twenty minute walk. No cabs stopped for her so she started walking.

About ten minutes into the walk Ileana became aware of footsteps behind her. Grasping her purse tighter she crossed to the other side of the road at the next corner. The footsteps followed her. Turning the following corner after that they still followed her. Seeing a convenience store up ahead she ducked in and went to the back. Peeking over the rack she saw a man in a black hoodie with a green hood walk by peering in. For the briefest of moments she thought he saw her but he kept walking.

"Now what do I do?" said Ileana to herself. "He could be waiting around the corner for me."

She dialled Haydn on her cell phone. "Hey, could you ask Sam to come and get me? I couldn't get a cab and started to walk. There's a guy following me. I'm at a convenience store on Maple and First."

"We were wondering what was keeping you," said Haydn. "Hold on."

She could hear Haydn talking to Sam. There was another voice, male, soft but definitely sexy.

"Bucky will come and get you," said Haydn. "He said don't leave the store. You'll know him as he's wearing a dark blue suit with a navy shirt, no tie. His hair is longer and he has a beard. Very, very handsome."

Ileana hung up and browsed the aisles. She nodded at the clerk who after a few more minutes asked if she was going to buy anything.

"I'm just waiting for a friend," she said defensively.

"No loitering," he replied pointing at a sign beside the door. "Sorry, you'll have to wait outside."

She tried buying something but the clerk refused to ring it through and ordered her out. Stepping out into the night air she felt exposed and tried to stay as close to the door as possible but the clerk kept giving her dirty looks. With a sigh she moved away from the door and into the shadows.

"You have a light?" said a voice next to her.

Turning Ileana saw it was the man in the black hoodie with a green hood. He smiled a dirty smile at her and looked her up and down.

"Sorry, I don't smoke," she replied and walked back towards the door.

"Hey, don't go turning your back on me," he said with an edge. "Talk to me. I can be nice."

"Please, I don't want any trouble," she said over her shoulder. "I'm just waiting for a friend."

Before she left the shadow he put a hand on her shoulder and pulled her back.

"Come with me now or I'll hurt you," he said, showing the knife he held in one hand.

Before she could react he gripped her wrist hard and started dragging her to the side of the building. She pulled herself away and fell backwards, hitting her head on the sidewalk. Her head felt like a bell had been rung inside her head. Within seconds Ileana was aware of nothing.

******

She felt someone fumbling at her chest and realized someone was feeling her up. Opening her eyes she slapped away the hand on her breast. Two grimy looking men in black and green clothing were bent over her, one feeling her breasts the other lifting her skirt.

"Get off of me," she yelled, kicking at them. "Help! Help!"

They laughed and kept going. Tearing her top and camisole off of her the first one said he would hold her down while the second one had a go. In desperation she began biting and received a punch to the head for her trouble. Just as the second was about to uncover himself she heard a horse snort and the sound of someone jumping to the ground. A metallic sound followed like the sound of a sword being pulled out of it's sheath.

"Leave the lady alone," said a man's voice and the two men stopped fearfully, looking back at the intruder.

"M'lord," said the first one. "We found the lady like this and were just tending to her."

"I doubt that," said the swordsman. "I heard her cry for help. Now stand up or I will run you both through this moment."

Ileana clutched her tattered blouse to her chest and sat up as the two men stood and faced the swordsman. He was tall, dark haired with a beard and wore a suit of blue leather with a dark blue tunic underneath. His breathing was heavy as if he struggled to keep his temper with the two men. He had a second sword attached to a belt that hung lower and she got the feeling he could fight with either hand or both. As the two would-be rapists grovelled before him he looked directly into her eyes with his stunning blue eyes.

"Are you injured?" he asked. "Lady...?"

"Ileana," she replied. "No, but they have destroyed my blouse and my undergarments."

He nodded and turned his attention back to them. "I should dispatch you both to your maker," he said. "It is within my rights as lord of these lands to do so. However the lady is not injured and I do not wish her to witness what I really want to do to you. Both of you are banished from my lands. If I see either of you here again I will execute you summarily. Begone with you."

He dismissed them and watched as they trudged away before sheathing his sword. Going to his horse, a black giant of a horse with the longest mane Ileana had ever seen he opened a saddle bag and brought out a white shirt.

"I'm not in the habit of carrying ladies clothing with me but you should be able to wear my nightshirt," he said, handing it to her then turning his back so she could put it on.

It was soft and silky. She marvelled at its feel as she slipped it over her head. There were no buttons and it did expose quite a bit of cleavage but it covered her and that is what was important.

"Thank you sir," she said.

He turned and looked her over. "Lord Buchanan," he said bowing. "At your service."

She offered her hand and he helped her up from the ground. Keeping her hand in his he touched it briefly with his lips.

"You are not of this world," he stated. "Your clothing is from a future world. How did you find yourself here?"

"You know of future worlds?" she asked puzzled. "You don't seem surprised."

"It happens," he replied, shrugging slightly. "How did you come here?"

"I was attacked by a man and pulled away," she answered. "I hit my head and blacked out. When I came to those two were pawing over me."

He nodded. "We receive "visitors" in various ways," he said. "Sounds like once you come to in your own world you will return to it. In the meantime I will take you into my care. These woods can be dangerous for an unaccompanied woman. There is one problem. I am one day into a tour of my lands and I must continue on or risk others attempting to seize them. There are holders we will come across tomorrow that you may stay with or you may continue with me. The accommodations will be very basic but I assure you that even if we share a bed I will honour your chastity. That is my word as Lord of these lands."

He looked at her with all sincerity and she found herself trusting him and his word. He motioned for her to come closer to his horse and he calmed the horse when it snorted at her.

"Magnus, be kind to the lady," he said softly. "She will ride with us for a time and you must be a gentleman to her."

He reached into another saddle bag and brought out a carrot. Breaking it in half he gave one piece to Ileana and showed her how to hold it on her flat palm. Magnus lowered his head over her hand and took it gently from her. She reached out and stroked his cheek and he leaned into her touch.

"He likes you," said Buchanan with a smile. "He is very particular. You should be honoured."

"I am," she said. "He is magnificent."

"Here, you give him another piece," he said, placing the second piece into her hand.

Magnus took it gently and again leaned into her touch as she stroked his cheek. Lord Buchanan offered her his help to mount the large horse. Then he mounted behind her and took the reins. His closeness unnerved her at first and she found it hard not to lean into him. He must have noticed because he smiled before he spoke.

"You can lean into me if it is more comfortable for you," he said. "The closer we are the more comfortable a ride it will be. It's been a while since I had a woman ride...with me. I will protect you from falling."

She caught the hesitation in his voice and realized he almost said something entirely different. It was her turn to smile that she had obviously had an effect on him. She did lean into him and found she liked how his body also leaned into hers as he rode. She looked at his clothing and saw how finely the pieces were made even though they were made for life on the road. He wore dark leather gloves and she was almost overcome by a desire to see his hands on her. Dismissing the thought she looked up at him for a moment and he smirked.

"Keep your eyes forward, Lady Ileana," he said. "Or you may find yourself on your arse on the ground. A sudden turn is all that is needed to throw one of us off."

As if to prove his point Magnus stopped dead and they both were wrenched from the comfort of their position.

"What is it, Magnus?" he asked, suddenly looking around. "What do you sense?"

The horse snorted and pawed the ground. Lord Buchanan switched the reins to his left hand and turned the horse in a circle, trying to see what had spooked his horse. He put one arm around her.

"When I tell you I want you to lean forward," he said closely to her ear. "Bend forward as closely to Magnus as you can. Grasp his mane firmly if you must to keep on."

An unnatural sound from some creature nearby broke the silence and she could feel his body tense as he gauged when to make his move.

"Now," he said loudly, as he dug his heels into Magnus' flank. "Magnus, go!"

Ileana leaned forward grasping the horse's mane as it leaped straight into a gallop. Buchanan leaned over her as he spurred his horse on away from the danger. After several minutes at a full gallop he allowed the horse to slow down and finally to a stop. Magnus' sides were heaving and Buchanan jumped off to the ground, taking his horse's head in his hands and touching his forehead to the great black beast's forehead.

"Good boy, Magnus," he said, softly. "You flew us away from danger. My brave steed."

He began to walk, leading the horse along the path.

"Should I get down?" asked Ileana but he waved her away. "Please, let me walk with you."

He stopped and helped her down. She walked beside him, glad she still had her boots on. His pace was steady as was his manner of walking. He seemed like a man sure of himself. He looked down on her and cleared his throat.

"Tell me about yourself, Lady Ileana," he said. "I understand the women of future worlds work instead of staying strictly in the home looking after their children. Your husband's all approve of this?"

"I'm not married," she said, "but many husbands do approve. Some even stay at home looking after the children while their wives work."

He scoffed. "That does not seem right to me," he said. "To expect a wife to toil away in factories or sweatshops while he enjoys the laughter of small children is criminal.”

"How much do you know about future worlds?" asked Ileana, wondering what he really knew.

"The Sorceress has told us of great factories that bellow smoke and flame while workers toil inside in the heat making great metal poles to build tall buildings that soar into the sky," he said. "Or the merchants of food gathered under one large roof, with tables and shelves laden with every food one could ever want. What is it that you toil at instead of bringing children into the world?"

"I work in a creative space," she said, trying to figure out how to say she designed websites to a medieval man. "We have the ability to search for information from a device we hold in our hand. I help create that information, how it looks, much like an illuminated manuscript in a book is bright and eye catching. What I create must be colourful and attractive."

He raised his eyebrows, then gave her an answer she wasn’t expecting. "Would that be on the internet?" he asked. "The Sorceress has told us of it but I find it hard to believe."

"It is," she said. "The internet is like a library you can hold in the palm of your hand but it holds the information of the entire world in it."

"You would rather do that than be a mother," he stated.

"I didn't say that," she said. "I do wish to be a mother but I need a husband first. Some women go ahead without a husband but I would rather have someone in my life than try without. My mother divorced my father when I was a child and it was hard for both of us making a go of it without him."

"Divorce?" he said. "Women can divorce? In this world only the husband can divorce if the wife is unfaithful or doesn't produce a son."

Ileana stopped dead. "You're kidding right?" she exclaimed. "A man can be unfaithful but a woman can't? You also know it is the man whose sperm, or seed, which decides if the child is a boy or a girl. If a man doesn't have a son, it's his fault, not hers."

She was angry now. He stood and watched her anger play over her face, amusing him.

"Most men have a wife and several mistresses," he stated. "Only the wife's child is recognized as legitimate. He would have too much respect for his wife to ask her to do some of things he does with his mistresses. As for the other, I find that hard to believe."

"Fuck," she said. "I've been dropped into the paternalist world of hell."

"I'm shocked you would know that word," he said. "You must have been a mistress to know it."

She slapped him, hard. Then she cried and walked away from him. The realization hit him that he had probably insulted her and he ran after her.

"Lady Ileana, please," he said anxiously. "Please forgive me. I forget that your world likely has different beliefs and customs than ours. Obviously the word mistress insulted you and for that I am truly sorry. Please, don't go. I am enjoying your company and I'm learning from you. I would like to know more."

She stopped and looked up at the sky then turned around and faced him. His handsome face was full of regret and he had his hand out in friendship.

"In your world I probably would be seen as a mistress," she said. "I was engaged to be married and for six months we lived together to raise money for the wedding. A month ago I had to run home to pick up my computer for work as I had forgotten it. When I walked in I could hear laughter in the bedroom so I opened the door. There was Jeremy fucking a waitress, a serving maid, in our bed...IN OUR BED. I packed my bags and I left him. I had my heart broken that day. Then today, this evening actually, I was meeting friends and I couldn't get a taxi to the restaurant so I walked. A creep followed me and even though I tried to stay inside a safe space I was told to leave because I was loitering. He attacked me of course and then I woke up here to two scumbags trying to rape me and YOU LET THEM GO! Like it was my fault I woke up in a forest with no idea of how I got here. Now you're giving me all this bullshit about how a woman's place is in the home, having and raising children but if she doesn't produce a son she can be divorced. That's medieval bullshit. I want to wake up. I want to go home back to what is familiar to me. I want..."

She broke down and really started to cry, sinking down to the ground. He kneeled beside her and put his hand on her shoulder. From inside his jacket he produced a silken handkerchief and offered it to her. She wiped her eyes and her nose and slowly calmed down. Then she looked up at him and he suddenly kissed her, gently at first, then firmer and more passionately. He pulled away and stood up, facing away from her.

"Forgive me," he said, loudly. "That was inexcusable of me. I have pledged to honour your chastity and that shouldn't have happened. When we reach the holder's cottage tomorrow I will leave you there and send word to the king to send a carriage for you. Come, we need to ride some more before we reach shelter for the night."

He helped her back onto Magnus, then mounted the horse, took control of the reins and urged the great horse on. Not once did he speak or look at her and he took great care not to lean into her unless he couldn't help it. When they reached their shelter, a small stone hut, he told her to go inside while he tended to the horse. She saw him take the saddle bags down and pull out a handful of horse feed out of one of them, then hand feed it to the horse. He removed the horse's saddle, blanket, and bridle and leaned his forehead against the great horse's forehead.

"Go, find what you need," he said, "but be careful and return here by sunrise, old friend."

He carried everything in then went to find kindling and firewood. Building a pyramid of wood he pulled a flint out of his jacket pocket and struck a knife against it, generating a spark on a piece of dried moss. As it caught he blew on it until it flamed then he placed it into the wood and blew some more until it caught in a rush. Going to the wall he took a bow and a quiver of arrows that hung there.

"I will be back," he said simply. "Keep the fire going but I shouldn't be long."

He came back later with a pheasant and a rabbit. He skinned the rabbit and cleaned it outside. There was a long metal skewer with a handle on the end. Threading the rabbit onto it he then placed it in a bracket over the fire and asked Ileana to turn it while he prepared the pheasant. Taking it outside he plucked it, cut off its feet and head then cleaned its insides out. He gathered up the remains and threw them away from the hut. He threaded the bird onto another long skewer and sat opposite Ileana turning it.

"You seem to know your way around preparing food," she said. "I'm surprised a lord would know this."

"I wasn't always a lord," he said. "I was born in an ordinary family, son of a tenant farmer, then I became a soldier. I became a lord at the pleasure of my king after I helped him reclaim his heritage."

"Who is your king?" she asked.

"Steven of the Broken Lands," he said. "When his kingdom was stolen from him, his old nursemaid smuggled him out of the castle and left him with my father, who had been a soldier with his father before he became a farmer. We grew up as brothers and when he reached manhood we raised an army to recapture his realm from the Mad Titan. It took a long time but we prevailed and he has been king for ten mostly peaceful years. As thanks for our sheltering him and for fighting by his side he made me Lord Buchanan and awarded me my lands. My father lives there still, tending his vegetable garden where he is happiest."

"What is your given name?"

"James Barnes," he said quickly then looked away briefly. "My wife never called me My Lord, she always called me James. When she said it, it sounded like honey coming out of her mouth. My world ended when she died in childbirth and our son joined her six hours later."

"I'm sorry," said Ileana. "You must have loved her very much."

"I did," he replied, looking steadily at her. "I misled you when I said most men have a wife and mistresses. I never wanted mistresses as she was enough for me. We worshipped each other with our hearts, minds and bodies. When I kissed you that was the first time I had kissed a woman in three years."

He looked away towards the door, still open though the darkness loomed. Then he turned back to Ileana and spoke softly.

"You are my Elena," he murmured, his eyes lit up by the flames from the hearth. "Her equivalent from another world. I was attracted to you the moment I saw your face. It's like she is walking with me again. It's unfair to compare you, I know. We will share the bed tonight but I promise on my honour and to the memory of my Elena that I will not violate your trust. It gets cold in these huts at night and we will only have the fire, our body heat and Magnus' saddle blanket to keep us warm. Do you trust me?"

Without hesitation she said yes and he was satisfied with that. Using his knife he pulled a piece of the rabbit off and tasted it. From inside his boot he produced another knife and pulled another piece of the rabbit off and offered it to Ileana. They ate in silence. Ileana thought she would gag at eating it after seeing him skin and clean it but it was tasty and it warmed her up inside. He stood up, then closed and bolted the door, returned to rotate the pheasant. With his knife he cut a piece off and tasted it then took her knife and cut a piece off for her. Like the rabbit it was tasty and warmed her inside. Between the two of them they ate everything until the bones were clean. Gathering them up in his hand he opened a door to a room in the back.

"This is the privy," he explained. "To relieve yourself and to throw our bones into. It's over a cliff so it doesn't attract predators. There is nothing to clean yourself with after so you may want to sacrifice some of your lace skirt if you're so inclined. If you do I would beg some of it myself."

He threw the bones down and closed the door. He went to another corner where there was a sink and showed her the pump. He removed his gloves, jacket and shirt then lifted the handle several times and a stream of clear water came out. He let it pour over his hands then cleaned his face and shoulders. Ileana noticed his lean and muscular body. She also noticed his left arm was badly scarred. He saw what she was looking at and faced her directly so she could see it completely.

"The Mad Titan almost took my arm the day of the final battle," he said. "The King himself saved my life, taking the Mad Titan's head with the help of one of our allies. The Sorceress was able to restore the arm's function but not it's appearance. I have full use of it so for that I am glad."

He stepped back to let Ileana have use of the pump. She stopped and bent over her lace skirt, tearing off the bottom foot of it. She handed him half of the strip. Smiling he dried his face and shoulders with it, his eyes never leaving hers. She raised the handle of the pump until she got a stream of water. Wetting the edge of the lace, she wiped down her face and neck. Then she tore a six inch portion off the lace and used the privy. When she returned he was adding wood to the fire to keep it going all night. The bed was little more than a burlap sack filled with wood chips. He placed the saddle blanket on it, then suggested she get on the wall side of it. He put his shirt on but not his jacket explaining he naturally was warm bodied and didn't want to sweat into the jacket during the night. Ileana faced the wall and he curled up behind her, placing his arms around her. His closeness was disconcerting but he explained their body heat combined should be enough to sleep. Either she was incredibly tired or he was right because she fell asleep within minutes.

For James Barnes, Lord Buchanan, sleep took longer to come. He could smell her dark chestnut hair and the faint scent of perfume from her neck. He wondered if he should have revealed her resemblance to his late wife but it was done and couldn't be taken back. The next morning, after they arrived at the Archer's hut he would leave her there and send the Archer's oldest son to the King for a carriage. She would be safe with the King. For a moment he wondered if the Baron would be at the castle as that could make him change his mind about sending her. For tonight he could pretend it was Elena in his arms during her monthly bleed. That would make it easier to honour his pledge to this strange woman from a future world.

Chapter 2>>

Series Masterlist

Please like, comment or reblog if you liked this chapter.

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes fanfiction #buckybarnes original female character #james buchanan barnes #bucky barnes au #James Buchanan Barnes au #medieval bucky #bucky with a sword #bucky with a horse

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holylulusworld · 1 year

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Before you (4)

Title: Before you (4)

Summary: King Steven Grant Rogers once was a good king and a gentle alpha. Now he’s a cruel shadow of his former self. Can he find the light again?

Pairing: King(Alpha)!Steve Rogers x Maid(Omega)!Reader

Characters: Knight Sam Wilson, Peggy Carter (flashbacks), King Joseph Rogers

Warnings: angst, language, grumpy and loud Steve, hurt reader, Bucky is the best (soft Bucky is a warning, okay), sadness, mentions of loss of loved ones, flashbacks, undefined age gap, jealous Steve?

Before you masterlist

<< Part 3

Flashback - around fifteen years ago, the castle, …

“I don’t care about my status,” Steven raises his voice. “I made a promise to myself and Y/N. She’s my chosen bride. I will not break my word.”

“Son, as a king you will have to break a lot of promises. We cannot choose a mate or queen out of love. Peggy of Carter will make a lovely bride.”

“Noooo!” the prince stomps his foot to the ground and angrily glares at his father. It’s the first time he refuses to listen to the king. “I have chosen my bride. There will be no other for me.”

“Steven Grant Rogers, you are the crown prince. Act like one,” the king’s voice booms through the castle. “You’re still a boy, not a man. In a few years, you’ll see things differently.”

“No. I won’t,” the prince crosses his arms over his chest. He shakes his head. “Next time I see Y/N I’ll give her a promise ring.”

“Well then, you will not see her again,” the king says.

Steven’s heart sinks. It feels like something just grabbed his heart and ripped it out of his chest.

Love can be cruel.

A king can be even crueler. Even though, he knows how his son feels.

“You will forget about her soon enough.”

Around five years ago, the castle, shortly before your father’s and brother’s death, …

“Prince Steve, look at you,” Peggy coos as she steps inside the throne room to greet the king and Steve. “You have grown so much.”

“I can say the same about you,” Steve tries to be polite, but today, it’s even harder to put on a brave face.

Once again, his father refused to let the prince visit his one true love. The wild girl that ran with horses and climbed on trees.

He can barely remember her face. It’s been almost ten years since he last saw her. All he remembers is her laughter, and how her lips felt against his trembling ones.

“Your highness, I’m honored to come here for the feast.”

“The pleasure is all ours,” the king softly says but he gives his son a stern look. “My son’s chosen bride must see the castle before the marriage. Right, son?”

“Chosen bride,” Steven splutters. “Father, a word?”

“No, you can’t do this!”

“I already arranged everything, son. Peggy of Carter will become your wife. You were friends with her before you even met that girl,” the king raises his voice. “My decision is final.”

“How can you do this to me?”

“A king must make decisions not everyone will like, Steven. One day, you’ll know what I’m talking about. Now go out there and dance with your queen…”

Steve reluctantly agreed to dance with Peggy after his father threatened to let the girl he loves lock away. “A nice evening. It’s so good to be back.”

“I thought you wanted to marry King Stark,” Steve tries to be nice, but his heart is shattered. All he can think of is the girl he’ll never see again. “Or so I heard.”

“None of the rumors were true,” Peggy coos. “You’ll make such a good king, and devoted husband.” She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “I’ll make you a father soon, and we can-“

Steve stops dancing and drops his hands. He shakes his head. “I can’t pretend that this is what I want. I can’t marry you, Peggy. I’m sorry…”

“Why?” she gasps. “Your Highness. Please tell me why?”

“My heart belongs to someone else…”

Steve runs off, to leave the castle and get to you.

He doesn’t see Peggy’s features darken or that she digs her nails into the palms of her hands, drawing blood as she stands in the ballroom, all eyes on her…

___

Now, outside the castle, graveyard, …

“What can I do, my beloved wife,” Steve stands in front of Peggy’s gravestone once again. “She’s the one I told you about. I wanted to marry her, and now…”

“Steve, the doctor said you shall come to your chamber,” Bucky huffs as his brother places a single flower on his wife’s grave. “I know you loved her, but there is a girl you loved too in your bed. She needs you.”

“I have a wife and child to mourn.”

“You sure about the child?” whipping his head toward Bucky, the king snarls. “Just saying, rumors inherit truth sometimes. Peggy came around…a lot.”

“I know you never liked my queen,” Steve is in his brother’s face. He pants heavily, and balls his hands into fists, “but you won’t disrespect her likes this.”

“She was away for a month to visit King Howard and his queen, and a week later she’s pregnant after years of trying?” Bucky grunts. “I know you believe she was pure, but Peggy was far from being a good wife…”

“That girl is a maid. If she’s awake, send her away,” Steve presses his wedding band to his lips.

He can’t give in.

A king must be strong. A king must follow the law. A king must not fall in love with someone he cannot have…

“Easy there, mouse,” Bucky helps you sit up. Your head still hurts, and you can only keep your eyes open for a few moments, but you are awake. At last.

“I-I should go,” you grab Bucky’s hand. “Where’s my bundle? I need to…go.”

You whimper when you catch another alpha’s scent.

“Steve, be nice,” his brother warns as the king enters his chamber. “I’ll bring her to my chambers if I must.”

“Do as you please.”

Steve looks tired and sad. Even sadder than after his wife’s death.

“I’m tired and need sleep. Get her away from me.”

“Your highness,” you weakly say. “I’ll get my clothes and bundle, and I’ll be gone. I won’t return.”

“Where do you want to go?” Bucky sadly asks.

“I will try to find someone I knew before my family died,” you clutch your hands together. “Maybe it’s stupid, but he promised to marry me. He was just a boy, and I don’t think he’ll remember me but—”

“You want to find that boy?” The king chuckles humorlessly.

“Yes.”

“Why? To bother him too,” you flinch at Steve’s harsh tone. “Do you honestly believe he remembers a dirty little maid?”

“I wasn’t always a maid.” You sniffle.

“Steve, stop right there,” Bucky hands you your bundle to calm you. “Everything is still there. I made sure of it, Y/N.”

“T-hank you. I will go now.”

“Your highness,” stumbling into the king’s chamber without knocking, Lord Samuel gasps. He didn’t know about you in his king’s room. “I’m sorry for intruding, but I found this in Lady Sharon’s hands. I knew you were looking for it.”

Sam lowers his head as he offers a book to his king.

“Her diary,” Steve whispers lowly. He was looking for his wife’s diary since she died. One day, it was just gone.

“What did Lady Sharon say?”

“Lady Sharon said that her cousin forgot the diary in her chambers. After her death, it was dear to her. She didn’t want to give it away.”

“Hmm…,” running one hand over his thick beard Steve glances at the diary in his hand. “Do you believe her?”

“No, my king. She was very nervous and tried to hide the diary. Lady Sharon refused to hand it to me at first. I had to threaten to tell you about her behavior to get it.”

“I see.”

You frown. Why would anyone steal the queen’s diary?

Well, that’s none of your concern. All you want is to get out of the castle and find some peace and quiet.

Far away from the king…

Around five years ago, weeks after your father and brother died, the castle, …

“Son, we need to talk,” the king is unusually quiet as he places his hand on his son’s shoulder. “I know we thought differently about the girl you liked so much but—”

“Father? What’s wrong?”

Steve gasps as a single tear runs down his father’s cheek. The prince doesn’t know his father respected your father, even would’ve called him a friend.

“There was a fire, Steven. You know, at the stables,” a cold shiver runs down Steve’s spine as his father squeezes his shoulder. “You got to be strong now, son. I sent my knights to get to know more about the incident. It looks like the girl and her family tried to save the horses and all died…”

“No,” Steve falls to his knees. He hugs himself, crying bitterly as his father crouches down in front of him. “This can’t be, father.”

“It’s what my knights told me, son,” the king sighs deeply. “You can cry for now. But when you leave the room, you got to show strength and grace.”

“Where is she buried? Can I visit her grave?” Steve chokes on his tears.

“I heard that there was nothing left to bury and that no one was there to bury them,” the king sniffs. “I’m sorry, son. If only I let you see her one last time…”

The king gets up. He places his hand on Steve’s shoulder, squeezing it.

The king doesn’t know the knights lied, and that your mother and you survived.

He doesn’t know someone hired his knights to get rid of you and your family…

Now, …

“Where is the king?!”

“He returned to his chamber and gave orders not to be disturbed,” Sam says. “He looked a little tense after he talked to Sharon about the diary.”

“Fuck, little mouse,” Bucky hurriedly runs toward the king’s chambers. He told you to wait for him at the chamber, and now, you are all alone with the king once again.

Ten minutes earlier, the king’s chamber, …

“Why are you still here?”

You whimper as the king, not Bucky enters the chamber. You stand next to the door as the king slams it shut. He locks the door before you can slip out.

“I asked you a question,” he looks down at you with angry eyes. “Mouse, answer me.”

“Bucky said I shall wait here for him,” you shyly reply. “I didn’t want to leave without his allowance. He gave me an order, your highness.”

“Oh, he’s your king now, huh?”

“He’s…”

“Answer your king,” he lifts your chin with his index finger. “You should know, you only got one king, and that’s me.”

“I know, your highness.”

You’re full-bloom panicking as the king snatches the bundle with your few belongings out of your hands. He eyes it warily before throwing it onto his bed.

“I don’t think you know, omega,” a shudder runs through your whole being hearing your presentation leave his lips. “But you’ll know soon enough.”

“You’re the only king I serve.”

You drop your eyes to the ground. “I’m your only king. Your only master,” he mumbles as he leans closer to sniff at your neck. “Do you remain untouched or did anyone dare to put their hands on what’s mine, omega?”

“I-“ you shake your head.

“Steve? Steven?” Bucky hammers against the door. “You need to let her go. It was my fault. I told her to wait for me at your chamber. Please…Steve don’t hurt her.”

“I think he needs to learn how to talk to his king too,” Steve growls. His eyes begin to glow as he cups the back of your neck.

You whimper as he leans closer again. He’s so much taller and scarier up close. His stormy blue eyes look you deep in the eyes as he does something you never expected.

He calls you by your name. “Y/N, I need you to go to the balcony and leave me alone before I lose control.”

“Your highness?” you’re scared and confused but follow his orders the moment he releases you. “Yes, your highness.”

“My king,” he corrects. “You’ll address me with my king from now on.”

He watches you snatch the bundle from his bed before you rush toward the balcony. You take deep breaths to calm your nerves as Steve unlocks the door to leave his room.

“Steve? What did you do? Where is she?” Bucky panics as he cannot see you.

“I need to see it for myself,” Steve dips his head to look at his wedding band. “You’ll tell the doctor to check on Y/N, and, she needs new clothes.”

“What do you need to see? Steve?” Bucky frowns when his brother just stares at the wedding band. “Brother?”

“I need to see what’s left of her home and if she’s the one I left behind. I need to talk to the villagers and find the truth behind all of these lies.”

“Steve, you cannot go to the village. Everyone will recognize you and not tell you the truth.”

“Well then, we will hide our identity and find out if my father lied and what really happened that night…”

>> Part 5

#steve rogers #king!steve x peasant!reader #king steve rogers #medieval au #steve rogers x you #alpha!steve rogers #bucky barnes #alpha!steve rogers x omega reader #king!steve x reader #Before you (4)#a/b/o

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 2 years

Text

Thy liege, thy lord

Sequel to Thou Shalt Not Covet

Warnings: this fic includes noncon/rape, coercion, voyeurism, abuse of power, double penetration, cheating, mentions of pregnancy. My tags are not exhaustive, proceed at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Your marriage is challenged by the wandering eye of the king. (Medieval AU)

Characters: Peter Parker, Tony Stark, possible untagged pairings.

Note: So there will be a third part to this because I said to myself, why don’t me make this complicated? And i said back to myself, fuck it up.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. Thanks to everyone who reads this one and thank you for all your energy.<3

Love you all like Prince Charming loves mirrors. Take care. 💖

Peter's fingers work at loosening your laces. You stare at the bed as memories swirl in your mind, like ocean tides beneath the tempest, swallowing you into the depths. He pushes the sleeves down your shoulder as the clink metal draws you from your trance.

The king pours himself a glass and stretches his neck until it cracks before sipping. The second night is no less terrifying than the first. The king wears only his breeches as a large purple splotch marks his ribs, an unceremonious strike landed in the day's sparring.

He nears the bed as Peter peels away your gown and you shy away. You don't mean to but he still feels like a stranger. And how else should you see the man who can hide such depravity?

Like your own husband. A man who never acted thus is suddenly your keeper. You are cattle in a pen to be bartered for a price.

Tony offers his cup. You look him in the eye, bold of you, and he tilts it. You drink from the rim as he holds it, he doesn't stop until it's empty.

"You are nervous still, dove," he muses as he caresses your cheek, "you fear me?"

"No," you lie, "I… do not know, I'm sorry."

"Do not apologise to me," he goes back to the table and pours another cup, "come."

Peter steps back and gathers up your dress as you step out of it. You don't look at him. You haven't been able to since the day before. Your own husband makes you sick, worse, you make yourself sick.

"Behind me, dove," the king bids and you near him, standing at his back as he sits on the stool, "put your hands here."

He touches his shoulder. You obey as Peter approaches and takes the other stool, curiously as he rests an arm over the table.

"Do feel how the muscles are wrought," Tony says as he gulps and plunks the cup down, covering your hands with his, squeezing your fingertips against his flesh, "perhaps you can ease your king."

He lets go and you look down at his dark hair, threads of silver woven in, and you draw lines along his muscles with your thumbs. He groans and grips the edge of the table. Your heart thrums and you knead his shoulders firmly.

"Oh," he puts his head down, "so gentle…"

Peter's watching you. You sense his gaze but cannot meet it. You focus on the king, on his shoulders, his purring voice.

"How fortunate you should marry such a woman," Tony intones, "loving…"

"That she is," Peter affirms, "I love her dearly."

"And how generous you are to share your good fortune," the king rasps.

"I serve my king diligently," Peter returns, "as does my wife. That you might see plain our loyalty and devotion."

"Be certain, I do," the king reaches to still your hand and pulls it down to kiss your knuckles, "in this pit of vipers, one must have a keen eye for fangs and I am surrounded by venomous lords."

Tony curls two fingers to beckon Peter. Your husband stands as the king releases you and bends to hear his liege's whisper. You wonder what vipers he refers to but as you've learned, you have a poor sense for deception.

Peter grins as he straightens, guiding you by the hand to the bed. You try not to show your reticence or how your skin crawls. You never thought you could feel so about your own husband.

He turns you to face the bed, the king along your peripheral and you cry out as he shoves you. You fall forward and hit the bed, bent over the edge as you grasp the coverlet. Peter quickly tugs up your skirt before you can rise.

You whimper as he pushes the linen to your waist and bares your rear to the room. He descends upon you, jostling you on the feather mattress as he crushes you. He grabs your chin and cranes your head awkwardly, straining to kiss your cheek.

"My sweet," he coos, "do you know how I love you? How the king loves you?"

Tony hums his agreement, his arm bending as he draws another mouthful of wine from his goblet. Peter covers your lips with his and his tongue delves deeper as he squeezes your hip. Your roll your eyes back to keep your tears from falling.

His mouth parts from yours and he wiggles atop you. He plants a foot and lifts himself, picking at the front of his breeches. You close your eyes and hang your head as he tickles the curve of your bottom. He pushes his knees between yours and spreads your legs wide.

He guides his tip to your cunt and you fold your hands together, fingers bent in a pious gesture. He is your husband, you are serving your husband, just how God intended. You exclaim as he thrusts into you, flesh slapping harshly and loudly.

He jolts your body as he finds his rhythm, long but hard ruts. You groan and turn your face into the quilted blanket. Your hips ache as your thighs tense, feet arching high as you try not to scream. You hear the scrape of the chair, the clunk of the king’s cup, steady footfalls and the rustle of clothing.

The bed dips by your hands and the king pries them apart as he climbs up on his knees. He places your hands on his thighs, the coarse hair against your palms as you can’t help but latch on. Peter doesn’t let up as Tony snakes his hand down to your chin and lifts your head.

Your eyes glisten up at him as he strokes himself with his other hand. He’s naked, his chest covered in dark hair, stomach lined with muscle, not too defined as his age adds some flesh. He presses his tip to your lips and rubs it there, a dampness smearing in its path.

“Open, dove,” he squeezes your jaw as Peter clasps your shoulder and slows.

You do as he says, you are a good wife and a good subject. So how come it feels so wrong?

He slides past your lips, just a little, a salty flavour seeps onto your tongue. He eases further inside as you stretch your mouth wide. You’ve never dreamed of such a thing, a man’s member prodding at your throat.

You lengthen your neck as he sips down and your body tenses. Peter speeds up, picking up his pace as his grunts mingle with the king’s long sighs. His hand travels up your back and he bends to kiss your crown. The king’s hand stretches around Peter’s on your shoulder as they rock your body between them.

You gurgle around the king’s cock and dig your nails into the blankets. Peter tilts frantically into you, the bed quaking at his loss of control. You know him well, he’s close, already. He holds you still as he snaps into you several times, exhaling as he spills inside.

He groans as he stops, wiggling his hips as Tony keeps your head bobbing. Peter’s breath washes over you as he pulls out and slides off the bed. His hands brush down your ass and thighs as he kneels on the floor. He pushes your cheeks apart as you feel his seed dripping.

You moan as his warm mouth meets your cunt. It’s an act he’s done before, one that always has you blushing, but never after he…

The king fucks your mouth as Peter laps up his cum and his fingers dive between your folds, flicking your bud wildly. Your thighs shake at the tendrils coiling down them, winding around your spine, your muscles taut and tight with tension. You choke as your walls clench and push out a gush, the mess dribbling around Peter’s tongue and down your pelvis.

“Mmm, isn’t he a generous husband, dove?” the king’s fingers stretch across your throat and feel his intrusion within, “does she taste sweet, my lord?”

Peter hums and it flows through you. Tony sinks to his limit as saliva wets your chin, your breaths harder and harder to push out. He twitches and the heat fills your throat and into your mouth, adding to the slickness. You gag as the king sits back, drawing out of you with a deluge of cum and spit.

You garble senselessly as he pets your head and chuckles, “Parker,” he drags his thumb across your sticky lips, “turn her over.”

👑

The third and final day of the tournament sees the lords dressed for a joust. Your place in the queen's box is still barred so you must watch from a bench among those commoners and wanderers from the villages and country roads. You don't mind so much as down there the cheers drown out the judgement.

You peek only once at Virginia and her ladies. You catch Lisbeth watching you in turn, guiltily looking away and whispering to Oriane. In your absence, it appears they've become great companions, though a week before, Lisbeth was gossiping her very name.

The cheer and extravagance of the event is lost on you. You're exiled from all but the king's favour. How can you find any joy in your dejection?

Peter rides out for his first match, against another baron, in his dented and dinged armour. You stand to see him, where is that jump in your chest? Why do you feel only dread watching your own husband?

You wring your handkerchief as you watch him take his lance and ready his shield. You've heard all the talk of the grievous injury of lords in the joust, of splintered wood and shorn flesh. But it is the knight's code to take part and show his skill.

You hold your breath as the start is signaled and the hooves hammer in the beaten dirt. You watch through your fingers at the clouds amidst the legs of the horses and the jostling of armour. The crash is deafening, followed by a long silence as the crowd tries to discern the ruin.

The sudden uproar of the crowd is rapacious as the baron, Corswol, is left hanging from his saddle by a single foot as Peter rides around with his bent lance. They love him as the stomp and holler. You exhale, gladdened to see him alive but afraid of what may come. This victory only promises another run at danger.

👑

The sky glows a deep amber with swatches of red along the horizon, the day wearing to evening with the shattering of bone and wood. The final match of the event sets to ride. Through fate's laughing eye, your husband must face the king in a duel of horse and lance.

They ride around the long post that divides the field and ready, grooms checking buckles and reins. You elbow through the crowd and descend closer to the pit. You stand on your toes as the air turns static with anticipation.

The buzz of the queen’s box quiets. Virginia does not watch as her hand rests over her round stomach, she is instead, enthralled in the ring on her finger, playing with the garish bauble. She yawns and gestures for her maid.

She rises with the help of the young girl, likely not yet bled, and her ladies look at each other in confusion. You peer down at the field, the king’s attention straying for a moment to his wife but giving her show of indifference little more from himself. He rights his lance and nods to the groom by his horse.

"This is a court of ladies, noble and pious," the queen declares, her voice carrying across the lull and drawing those still rapt on the contest below, "those who wish to maintain their reputation will not remain for this farce my husband has arranged. He plays at games of chivalry though he is known to be a philanderer and corrupt. Follow me or cosign his sins."

She turns her chin up and descends from her box, sweeping behind the canopy. The crowd murmurs in confusion as the ladies pause in dismay. The queen has welcomed them to the precipice of treason. You are spared the conundrum as the invitation was not for you, rather at your expense.

Lisbeth is the first to follow, then to much surprise, Oriana, and Maybelle, Wanda and Natasha the queen's closest ladies and highest in the box, bow their heads and remain. Some stragglers take their leave but the ladies of true rank, duchesses and the like, defy their queen, no doubt putting to consideration their husbands and bloodline.

The horn blows and extinguishes the shock of the crowd. They are thrust back into the throes of sportsmanship. The peasants hardly care for the wiles of the court, the scandal hardly affects their plows and plots.

You don't look back as you stare still at the queen's box. Wanda glances over at you and tilts her head, a silent condemnation of the queen. Let her face her consequence with her baronesses and widows.

The crowd erupts and you finally succumb to the display of the knights. The riders urge their horses to a gallop and as the impact looms, the air crackles, but no violent collision comes. Peter keeps his lance skyward and departs from the path trampled from the day's gaming.

He rides out to face the crowd as the king slows his horse and watches. It is devised you know it, a knight of Peter's stature cannot risk besting the king, or worse, wounding him. Peter flips up the mask of his helmet.

"I must resign my lance to the king's glory," Peter shouts to the crowd, "for he has shown him the most esteemed and skillful of gentlemen this day and I cannot think to compare. Long live the King!"

The crowd responds with ribaldry, praising the king and Peter's gallantry with hollers and hoots. It is not unexpected to defer to the crown. The audience can't be disappointed as a feast is promised on tents on castle grounds, all as the nobility sups within. It is more likely, they are impatient to be in their cups.

👑

The queen's chair is left empty at the feast, along with those ladies who bolstered her departure. Her absence is felt by all though the king hardly appears affected. He even goes so far as to send his regrets that she is befallen with her condition and cannot attend. The lie is accepted with smiles and toasts but the whispers foster the truth.

You sit with Peter as you always do. Still, you cannot regain any sense of normalcy. You feel as many stolen glances in your direction as the king's for your own vacancy was noted in the queen's box. The reproof bites at you like a winter gale, even as the hall blisters with the heat of bodies.

"My sweet," Peter takes your hand, "are you well?"

He kisses your knuckles as you force away the melancholy hanging over you. You squeeze his fingers as he lowers your hands between you.

"Very well," you are making a habit of untruth, "I was only… thinking of the queen. Hoping she and her child are well."

"The queen," Peter echoes and his cheek twitches, "I am certain she is. It was a hot day, that wears on even those not in a condition."

"Surely," you agree, the tables are scattered with guests as many take to the floor, the piping and drumming striking up, "the king hardly seems to worry."

"He should not, he is blessed by the Lord," Peter assures, "as his children would be as well." He runs his thumb along the back of your hand, "come, let's dance."

"Oh, but I don't know if I can–"

"You worry too much for hearsay," Peter chides as he stands and draws you up with him, "besides, a celebration is in order."

"For the king's victory?" You wonder.

"No, for mine," Peter grins, "tomorrow, the king will announce my new title and ordain it before the council, yours as well."

"Oh…" you let him lead you along the trestle and down amid the tamping of soles and sway of figures.

"Are you not gladdened? I should think you appeased, your father too. How he doubted my veracity though we wore the same mantle," he broods as he bends his arm and waits for you to meet him for the jaunt. You do quietly, "now I will proudly declare you an earl's wife as happily as I made you my wife in earnest."

"I am happy," you say, eyes flitting around. You can't help but be aware of all those around you.

The king watches from his table. The sight of his dark eyes over the goblet brim remind you of the night before, the way he remains constant, intent like a lion on the deer.

You turn with Peter and brush against another. Wanda's blue eyes meet yours and you wince, not for malice but the lack of. The derision you expect is painted over with a thoughtful smile and a muttered apology. You continue your steps and your mind its descent.

Not all gazes are so kind. You meet the eye of one Duke Barnes, a man you've never spoken too, though his wife has proven an aloof character. You've never gotten more than a word from her and a cool stare.

You quickly avert your eyes, Lady Margaret flicks her lashes down and smiles at her husband, Lord Rogers, who is not so shy. He smiles at you and you return your attention to your husband and the dance.

Everywhere else there is a pair of curious eyes, judging, measuring your morals in the weight of the men who've tainted them.

The drumming slows and your feet follow the rhythm. Peter's cheeks are flush with the warmth of the hall and the effort, you feel the same heat tenfold as shame chases your skirts.

"My lord," the king has you whipping around, feet tangling as Peter steadies you, "since I find myself short a partner, might I borrow yours?"

"Your majesty," Peter lifts your hand and placed it in the kings. Not a care for you or your whims, just these men moving the pieces from square to square.

Tony twirls you away from your husband. You don't miss the sudden buzz of chatter, quickly fading to a whisper drowned beneath the music. The king's ringed fingers press into yours as you demure.

"The season will end soon," he says, "perhaps I should send you some more silks to update your wardrobe."

"Your majesty is too kind," you reply, noticing how the dancers around you slow, not for the tempo but for their intrigue.

"When we return to the capital, a better hearth for you and your husband," he carries on, he is graceful and confident.

"Our accommodation is not inadequate," you insist.

"Modest, humble," he praises, "how I do wish I could be as carefree as you, lady, that I could detach myself from material means and my physical comforts."

"You flatter me, I am neither, I am mortal as we all are and prone to our imperfection," you recite the remonstrance of a priest.

He is quiet for a moment, moving around you lithely.

"Have I wronged you? Offended you?" He asks.

How can you tell a king his sins? That is the maker's duty, not your own. You cannot tell the truth and so he does not know how truly impious you are.

"I tire from the sun and sport," you say, "apologies for my ennui, your majesty."

"Ah, so a bed is in order," he smirks crookedly, "shall I carry you there? Lay you down and tend to you diligently…"

You lower your eyes, his words are unchaste. He snickers.

"I think the court is sated with scandal," he scoffs, "I shall not be so bold as that… I can bide my wants until they can be fulfilled, but cannot help but dream of that delight." He twirls you as the music picks up, "and recall how your body feels flush to mine, bare to me, beholden to me."

"Your majesty," you exhale in a wisp.

"And how you do continue to wilt like a flower, the eternal innocent," he goads, "the dutiful wife."

His remarks remind you of your deviance and you look up to find Peter entranced by your jig with the king. He smiles with content as he holds a stein of the free flowing ale, his overt longing mirrors that of your partner.

Can it be wrong to serve your husband or your king when both affirm it cannot be? Is not the king the voice of the Lord, as Peter has it. Is not your body avowed to all at once?

👑

The king pulls you to your knees, hands crawling from your hips up the thin linen of your shift. The movement sends a shiver through you as he cups your chest and purrs into your neck. Your cunt is swollen from his previous foray, buried to his knuckles until the swell scattered to rippling waves.

He nips at your shoulder as his fingers curl around the fabric and draw it up inch by inch, bunching it in his fists as he growls.

"Lord Parker," he calls to your husband, watching from the foot of the bed, a hand on the post, "will you not join us?"

"Mm, but I cannot think what to do first," Peter grins.

"Then you will watch," Tony declares, "I forbid anything else for your equivocation."

"Your majesty," Peter blinks, "surely, you don't mean–"

"We are enjoying ourselves well enough, aren't we, dove?" Tony taunts, "or do you challenge your sire when he has been so benevolent?"

Peter's brow twitches but he merely bows his head as he stays as he is, gripping the post as his other hand lingers along the top of his breeches. A breath shudders from him and you see his arousal stir beneath the wool.

The king searches with one hand, tilting your forward as he tickles the curve of your ass with his tip. He presses into you slowly, a long sigh slipping out until he has you impaled completely. He bucks playfully so you cry out and he chuckles.

His hands trail up your back and he wraps his fingers around the straps of your shift. He jerks you back as he snaps his hips against you. You exclaim and curl your fingers into his thighs. The angle adds to the pressure and pangs through your bones.

He ruts again, again, harder each time as he forces your body against his. You pants as your walls clench around him and bare your teeth, grunting with each slap of flesh. He's so rough it scares you, all affection replaced by carnal hunger.

"What do you think, Lord Parker? Is she a good wife? Hm, is she?"

Peter nods, entranced by the sight of you, his hand across the bulge in his breeches.

"An obedient wife, I'm sure," Tony snarls, "won't you tell her to cum? She will, won't she?"

He pulls you back, flush to him, hips rocking as he spreads a hand across your throat, the other wandering down your stomach and nestling between your thighs. He presses two fingers to your bud, rolling around the cluster of nerves as his hot breath dampens your cheek.

"Cum," Peter rasps and his throat bobs as he musters his voice, "cum, my sweet."

You close your eyes and whine at the swirling of your wits at the king's fingertips, the striking of cords deep inside, like a lute he plays you melodically. You moan at the sudden burst of fire across your pelvis and you spasm in unrestrained pleasure.

"Isn't that a beautiful vision? Blessed like the Madonna," the king utters, "hm, it would be a sin not to share such a creature."

He pulls his hand around the back of your neck and pushes you down sharply. Your face hits the mattress and it smothers your cry. Tony holds you down as he speeds up, carried away in his lust as his groans storm around you.

"As a king is so generous… to share… his seed," he puffs and shakes your body with his frantic fucking.

He rams into you several times with strangled moans and his thrusts slicken loudly as he spills into you. He drapes himself over you, urging you flat as he keeps his hips rolling, stuttered and slow. He hums and stills at last, trapping you against the blankets.

"The most dutiful wife," Tony pets your hair as you turn your head to suck in a breath, "how you must prove it so, Parker."

The king slips out of you and waves your husband closer. He stands and puts his hand on Peter's shoulder, kissing his cheek and whispering. Your eyes roll back as you resign yourself to another night of their indulgence. After all, was not woman made in service of man?

👑

Peter’s sworn his new vow of fealty as earl. His hold is now twofold, his native castle in Queen’s Heath and his new keep in Ebsil. Your own attachment sees you rising on his arm though you hardly feel jubilant at the promotion. The only change is the whispers, the intrusive gazes, the stain of disrepute.

The lords and ladies gather in trios and pairs, gabbing as the king circulates in his niceties. The formality of the ceremony dissipates as the din permeates the cool stone hall. Peter remains close as you long for it to end. Even without the queen, guilt tingles at your nape.

A shadow approaches along your peripheral. Peter turns to greet Lord Barnes as you lift your chin.

“My lord,” Peter announces.

“My lord,” Barnes echoes, “and lady. Congratulations are in order. It is not often a young baron makes such an impression.”

“Thank you,” Peter’s jaw squares, you can tell there is tension there. You’ve heard him speak of Barnes, who prefers Bucky, and it is rarely done fondly, “it is certainly easier to etch a name in stone when born with silver on the tongue.”

“Ah,” Barnes claps Peter’s shoulder and chuckles, “you do hide your wife away from us. We are all rather curious, you see, for we know the knight who nearly bested the king, but not the woman… bound to him.”

The pause is telling. He would say more but the court is no place for honesty. Cordiality masks truth for the sake of propriety.

“I have met your wife, my lord,” you eke out,.

“She is hard to miss,” he bows his head, “and much unlike yourself, not so soft spoken, nor tractable, as any wife should be.”

“Sir,” Peter says staunchly, “we are grateful for your tidings, I expect however, your wife may seek your return.”

“Ah, but my lord, my wife is my own concern, that I make sure of,” he smirks, “but I shall relent and leave you in peace.” He pauses and turns his brilliant blue eyes in your direction, “my lady.”

Peter touches your sleeve and watches him go. He clears his throat and turns to you.

“Ignore him, he is a man of empty words,” he rolls his eyes, “of jealousy, though the king never liked him. Not as his father was favoured.”

There is some activity at the other end of the hall. You mimic several others and glance over, finding the king nodding as a servant speaks quietly. He dismisses the man with a motion and turns back to his companion, Lord Visfort. They continue their conversation a moment before the king parts.

“Pardon, my lords and ladies,” the king’s voice booms over those others murmuring around him, he presents a hand decorated in silver and gold as he signals for silence, “there is a most pressing matter, the timing is both unexpected but convenient as I have you all hear to share in the joy.”

There is a subtle movement among the crowd, shared looks, tiny fidgets, anxious shifts.

“The queen has gone for her lying in, she will take her seclusion and we can expect our prince to join us soon,” Tony smiles.

Like a stone, your stomach sinks. Not at the birth of a prince, but at the fact that Virginia will labour in such exile. As self-imposed as it is, it is still very much your fault. She would not have recused herself in anger had you not stoked it.

You grasp Peter’s wrist. He smiles over at you. You can hardly see it through your tears.

“I must leave,” you quaver, “now.”

“My sweet?”

“Now,” you insist, “please.”

He hushes you and rubs your arm, “sweet, don’t cry, please,” he coos as he steps to hide you with his body and diverts you to the door.

“Oh, Peter,” you hang your head as you let him guide you, “I thought you loved me…”

He’s silent as he takes you from the hall and into the corridor. You feel him stiffen beneath his brocade and hear the deep breath escape his nostrils. He is irritated. With you. He’s never been irritated with you. Well, he’s done many things these past days he never has before.

👑

You take to bed and cannot find the strength to leave it. Peter offers wine, some food, and even suggests a stroll through the gardens. You refuse it all in what mumbles you can muster. You don’t know what’s wrong. You just feel… worn. Empty.

There are fits of crying when you think of the days past. Of your husband and another stolen from the queen. How can you go on knowing you’ve caused such pain? You couldn’t even imagine what despair would drown you should Peter betray you thus, but to be the amour, the mistress, the other woman…

And Peter. What does he think of you? He calls you wife and treats you as courtesan. Even the internal remonstrance feels so much and you nearly apologise for the unsaid slight. He is your husband, he knows best. You swore before the lord that he did.

He paces, leaves, returns to lay beside you and sleep. You stay awake, listening to the birds, the bats, and the wind. When he rises, he tries to rouse you. Still, you are weak, as ever you have been. For what have you done but pleasured in another’s misery, stolen the place belonging to another.

Again, he goes. He’s away longer that time but when he returns, he is not alone.

The king strides around the bed before he sits. He shakes his head and tuts.

“Dove,” he says, “why do you stay abed?”

You look at him. Your eyes wet and you wipe them. You don’t know what to say. You don’t know why it’s all happening. You’re only humiliated he must see it.

“Apologies, your majesty,” you push yourself up, trembling with the effort, “you needn’t have come–”

“We did not ask for apologies, we asked what keeps you abed? What has provoked this melancholy?”

You sniffle. “Womanly… sorrows,” you lie, “you know how my sex can be and I am wrong for succumbing to it.”

He considers you, “is that what makes you unhappy? Or is it…” he looks to Peter, “someone–”

“N-no,” you stammer, “I love Peter. It is not– could never be him,” you protest, “he is my husband–”

“And me?” Tony intones as he lifts a brow.

“You, your majesty?” you frown, “what do you mean?”

He swallows and looks at you straight, “do you love me?”

The question strikes you like a fist. You don’t hesitate because you cannot. You speak before you think, “of course, I do, your majesty, I love you deeply,” you seize his hand and kiss his ring, “never could I hate you. Ever.”

“You do?” he prompts.

“I do,” you promise, “I love you both but–” you lower your chin, “I was only worried for your wife. The queen. I am ever a loyal subject and suppose I became swept up in my devotion to the kingdom, to your future son–”

The king sighs and gently slips his hand away. He cradles your head and kisses your temple before he stands.

“I see,” he smiles, “dove, I have discovered your mortal sin; jealousy. Let me affirm to you that my wife is bound to me in law but not in spirit. I am wholly at the mercy of you and our Lord Parker.”

You nod. Let him believe it envy, let him excuse your self-pity. He nears Peter and squeezes his shoulder.

“I must away, however,” the king says, “my wife continues in her condition and I must be ready to greet my son. As much as I may long to climb into that very bed with you, dove,” he purrs as he pokes his tongue between his lips, “I swear to make it up to you.”

“Thank you, your majesty,” you dip your head.

“But I do command you, as I never have, as I have been ever forgiving, that you rise and rejoice with your husband on this blessed day. Hearten yourself with the prospect that you may carry a child in this moment yourself. That your husband’s son may stir in your womb already. I have prayed for it, my lady, so do not blaspheme and welcome bad humours which may sour the soil.”

You smile, a brittle smile, and push yourself to the edge of the bed, “as you wish, your majesty, how foolish I am.”

“And Lord Parker,” Tony turns back to your husband, “keep your wife well and merry in my absence.”

“Ever do I strive for it,” Peter avows, “your majesty.”

👑

A week passes and the queen's condition remains the same. Some report that she was stricken by false symptoms of labour, though many women recuse themselves early to prepare. The court exists in a limbo, waiting for their promised prince while musing in the lazy last days of summer.

The king appears, himself waiting, unable to see his wife as prescribed by physicians. Only when the baby is born may her isolation be broken. He hardly seems perturbed by the delay, as ever buoyant.

That day, he announces a picnic lest summer leave before his son's arrival. You cannot complain for it. The castle chambers are stuffy and house the whispers of lords and ladies. You feel it a prison as you're bound by pretension.

Servants carry baskets ahead of the lords and ladies, hems stirring grass blades, boots crunching twigs and kicking pebbles. The smell of dew lingers in the air as you walk beside your husband, another Lord on his other side, the Lord Wilson who is known to many as the Earl of Jest. The king even quipped he need not hire entertainment for the wit of the earl.

He is kind enough. He does not seem to harbour the antipathy of the court, flippantly defying any underlined remark with a jape. He and Peter speak of bows and bolts, both partial to archery over sparring.

As you follow the train of nobles, you are approached by another, footsteps rustling the grass as the near and a sleeve against your own.

You peek over and nearly let your mouth hang open at the sight of Lady Natasha. Her dark red hood lends a rosy undertone to her cheeks as her discerning eyes crack the veneer of a gentlewoman. She thinks much but says little, only what is needed.

"My lady, I regret I was unable to extend my congratulations alongside my husband," her sultry voice cocoons you, "I suppose we've been much preoccupied with the queen and royal heir."

"It is no issue," you assure her, fingers twiddling until her eyes find them and you still, "I have been praying for the queen."

"Have you?" She asks. Is she accusing you? Her tone betrays little.

"Surely, I do–"

"Forgive me if I seem forward, you strike me as the pious type, the effortlessly compassionate," she says, "so meek. It is only you may be the only who would pray on our queen's behalf."

"What do you mean?" You blink dully, "who would not–"

"Those of us with any sliver of wisdom," she smirks, "after her showing at the joust, those who stand with her will share in her culpability."

"Culpability?" You repeat and furrow your brow.

"Even the queen cannot so outwardly declare her treasonous thoughts," Natasha slips her arm through yours and pulls you close as she lowers her voice further. Her steps match your own as you proceed into the clearing, "she does awaken dangerous sentiment and if she cannot deliver the promised son…"

"Is not what you say treason, lady?" You whisper.

"I only speak if the queen's actions," she shrugs, "pretty little pet, my intentions were made clear when I did not follow her insolence."

You purse your lips as your mind reels. You continue on in tandem with her as swaths of cotton and pillows are laid out for sitting.

"Why do you tell me this?" You ask at last.

"Because, pet," she twines her arm tighter with yours, "I have never met a creature on this court who does not twitter as a bird. Not until you. I daresay, I may agree with the king's own yen, at least I might decipher it." Her full lips part and she laughs softly, "won't you sit with us? The Duchess Maximoff and I? We hardly have company but for each other."

"If you should wish it," you acquiesce as Peter tarries with Wilson and they guffaw heartily.

"The lords will be planning their next hunt, such mannish discourse bores me," she leads you onward, "let us ladies speak of finer things."

You glance around at the other bodies dispersing into groupings, sitting on cushions and sheets alike.

The king lowers himself on a velvet pillows and tweaks a brow in your direction. You give an apologetic smile though he seems unbothered. He nods and returns the gesture before he greets Lord Rhodes.

Lady Natasha's own husband is with his usual companion, Lord Rogers, as they point to the tall firs around the clearing, lost on some tawdry conversation. It seems to you an ordinary day, nothing significant, near as bland as any before that day the king dropped a ring in your lap.

Gossip is as mortal as those who speak it. You can only hope your scandal is as forgotten as the last.

👑

You pick at the food, some grapes imported from the south and soft cheese from the north. You haven't much appetite as you're overwhelmed by your new company.

The duchesses, Wanda and Natasha, have only ever been vaunted figures to you; prestigious and untouchable. The former is kind and makes you feel less displaced, speaking of her husband and the wheat mill they levee near that very castle. Natasha remains her usual haughty self, only short remarks between cold silence.

Peter is not far from you, he sits with Wilson and Visfort, the three of them greedily picking apart a haunch of ham and gabbing gleefully. The king remains in quiet repose with Lord Rhodes as his attendant, Hogan, fans him with a span of feathers.

"You look overheated, lady," Natasha says suddenly, "would you join me for a reprieve to the pond? The water is cooling and peaceful."

"Oh, um," you glance at the trees, drawn back by the odd flutter of her fingers, "a pond?"

"I go there sometimes in the evenings, the castle grows mundane and I like to watch the frogs," she says as she stands and shakes out her skirts, "it is my little hideaway, even from my own husband."

"I…" you hesitate and look at Peter. He's twirling a knife as Wilson tries to mess up his trick. "Thank you, lady, I will go with you."

You rise as Wanda sighs and shades her eyes, "I fear I wore my heaviest skirts, I will recline instead, perhaps call to my husband to bring more wine."

"Are you certain, Wanda?" Natasha asks though her tone holds no hope, it is a shallow courtesy.

"This sun," Wanda pats her reddened cheeks, "I could doze in this very spot."

"We won't be long," Natasha assures and swoops her arm through yours as Wanda closes her eyes and slumps against a pillow.

"Only promise you will not fall in, ladies," Wanda giggles.

Natasha turns you away and weaves between the sitting bodies around you. The smell of seasoned meat and stinky cheeses waft with that of leaves and soil. You delve past the tree line, letting her guide you as you haven’t much skill for navigation.

"You know the grounds well? Have you been here very much?"

"I would come here as a child, when the king was still a prince," she says as she runs her fingertips along bark, "he hasn't changed much. Not but for the grey in his hair."

"Were you friends?" You wonder as you step over a root, the voices of the noble party fading behind chirps and chitters.

"I called him a friend but I cannot say he felt the same of me," she answers, "it is the way of acquaintance, not all are enduring, many fleeting."

You consider her words. It may be the distance grew from her marriage to Barnes, a man known to be despised by the king. Though many would not say it aloud, it is believed the Duke had a hand in the old king's demise.

"Don't you ever get lost out here?" You ask as you're disoriented from the thickening brush and the outreaching branches above, "I can hardly see the sun."

"I never get lost, sadly," she says, "though sometimes I may wish I would."

You hear the trickle before you come upon the pond. You're even more dampened with sweat, hairline dripping as hot air is caught beneath your skirts. A large stone stands on the other side of the egg shaped pool and the overgrowth of vines and blossoms frames the far edges.

Natasha sighs, "this place is sacred to me, I think even it is blessed by the eye of God."

"It is beautiful," you breathe. You've come far though the scene feels untouched by time, "I think I might cool my face with some water, I feel a bit… faint."

"As you will," she lets you go, "it is fit for drinking even."

She strolls along the grassy boundary before the pond and you near, peering at your reflection in the crystalline surface as you kneel. You cradle water in cupped hands and close your eyes as a bird whistles. It sounds close as you rinse your face with the cool water, refreshing, almost sanctifying.

You shake off your fingers and wipe your eyes, batting away the droplets in your lashes. You smile at your face rippling in the water and a figure appears over your shoulder. Before you can turn around, you're ripped off your knees and flung into the dirt.

You croak as your back hits the ground and knocks the air from your lungs. It takes a moment to suck in a breath as your vision clears. Lord Barnes crosses his arms as he snickers at you. You try to sit up and a boot pushes you back down as another approaches. You quiver as you gape up at Lord Rogers and squirm.

"Most convincing, Nat," Barnes says, "such a simple creature," he snarls as he comes closer, "the king is never one for a true challenge, is he?"

"What?" You kick your legs as you grasp Rogers' boot, "what are you doing?"

"Did you truly think your favour absolves you? The king is not God though he may presume the same power," Barnes scoffs.

"I… I didn't …" you gasp, "please, I never meant to hurt the queen. I don't want any of it."

"Fuck the queen," Rogers laughs, "you think we prefer either of those coxcombs?"

"Why–"

"What folly is the king playing? What a mockery he makes upon the expense of our coffers. And for what, some pathetic mouse like you? A baron's whore."

"Please, leave me be," you beg as Rogers puts more weight on you, your voice fizzling out.

"You see, we cannot strike against the king, he plays his games and no unity can be found to remind him of his parliamentary duties. No, the lords sell their souls for titles and gold, gold they don't even realise belongs to them already," Barnes hisses, "and your husband, we surely could not strike out at him so openly but you… what will you tell them, eh? That you are the whore they know you to be?"

"My…lady," you force out as you look at Natasha.

"You keep your lips sealed as you ever do, baroness," she snaps out your former title, "you should not play games you know not how to win."

She spins away, skirts swirling behind her and hums as she treads along the water's edge. She sits on the flat stone and takes a hand full of pebbles, skipping them carelessly as she watches them plunk.

The foot slides off your bodice but in an instant, is under you, flipping you onto your stomach gracelessly. You reach out, clawing at the dirt as you get your knees beneath you. Barnes grips your legs through your skirts and pulls you back down.

You exclaim as he climbs over you, straddling you flat to the dirt as you writhe. Lord Rogers stands before you and puts his sole to your veil, pushing your head to the ground. You whine as your nails drag down the leather, helpless to free yourself from either men.

Your skirts are torn up from beneath the Duke and tossed over your back. He wiggles atop you as his knuckles brush your bottom as he picks the laces of his breeches, lashing you with the tips.

He shifts and stretches a hand across the small of your back, spreading his legs as he pushes his other between your thighs. He slides his cock to your cunt as you whimper and plead, tears leaking out into the dirt. He jolts into you and sends a stab up your spine.

He pushes your legs together as he tilts and growls. He slams his pelvis against your ass as he leans his weight on the hand across your back. You cling to Rogers' boot as the pressure feels ripe to snap your bones.

"She's still tight," Barnes chuckles as he fucks you, "dry as flour, though."

"Pl-pl-...Sto-o-op," you sob weakly.

"Listen to her," Rogers chuckles, "I think she said 'don't stop'."

You babble as the duke continues his invasion, rutting into you unlovingly, his pace picking up with each buck. You squeeze your eyes shut and still, hand slipping down the heel of Rogers' boot and onto the ground. You lay, prone, and surrender to their strength.

Barnes grunts and jams into you as deep as he can, gripping your hips as he lifts you slightly and spasms. He empties himself in you with long strokes and pulls out sharply, his cum dripping down from your cunt.

Rogers slides his boot off your hood, his foot startling you as it lands in front of your face. You dig your fingers into the dirt shakily.

You're lifted with an arm around your waist and spun around roughly. Barnes releases you and catches your chin. His grasp is crushing as he forces you to face him and Rogers grabs your skirts before they fall too far.

He twists them in his hand as Barnes shakes you, "look at me, whore."

You sniffle and squeeze your eyes tighter shut. Rogers kicks your feet apart as he pulls at his breeches. His jacket tickles the top of your ass as he lines up with your cunt. He enters you slowly, until you're on your tiptoes as Barnes grips you tighter.

"Look at me," the duke orders.

Your roll your eyes open as your tears stream out ceaselessly. Rogers buries himself completely and you unthinkingly clutch the front of Barnes' coat. The clapping of flesh reverberates in the air and your eyes drift to Nat as she leans back on her hands, watching you from her perch. There is no emotion in her eyes, no pity, not even delight.

"Don't look at her," Barnes snarls, "just me." He pushes his forehead against yours, "wouldn't it be remarkable if the bastard was ours? Hm? Let the king think the welp his own. Let you suffer never knowing."

"Why?" You rasp as your hand falls from his chest.

"You asking me, or yourself," he sneers.

You quiver as Rogers grabs your shoulder, quickening to furious thrusts. Your eyes well and the blue ones before you blur. It will end. Soon.

But what will you do then? What will they do?

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