#princess! reader

You were told not to stray far. You were told to stay clean, stay quiet, stay still.

But the forest called to you like a memory you had never made.

It began as it always did-your footsteps light on the gravel path as dawn stretched across the horizon, the pale pink glow of morning casting everything in a dream. The dew was still thick on the grass, catching the hem of your dress, turning you into something mythic as you crossed through the orchard and slipped through the secret gate carved into the stone wall.

Beyond it: a world untouched.

The forest didn’t care for crowns or titles. It bloomed in wild defiance-flowering where it pleased, sprawling in tangled glory. Soft moss cushioned your steps. Ferns brushed your legs like welcoming hands. And the light-oh, the light-it filtered through the canopy in long, golden beams, gentle and holy, like the sky had lowered its veil just for you.

You walked until the birdsong became louder than your thoughts. Until your heart stopped racing from the thrill of escape and settled into a quiet rhythm that matched the wind’s hush.

Here, the world was kinder. You could be something more-or something less-and it wouldn’t matter.

You found your favorite clearing: a secret glade tucked beneath a flowering tree, where the grass grew soft and unbroken. Petals drifted through the air like snow, catching on your shoulders, in your hair. A brook murmured nearby, glittering like a spilled necklace beneath the morning sun. You knelt beside it, brushing your fingers through the water-cool, clean, alive.

You didn’t hear him at first.

It was the stillness that gave him away.

The birds fell silent. The breeze paused, like the forest itself had drawn in a breath.

You rose slowly, instinct prickling at your spine. Turning, you saw movement beyond the veil of pink blossoms-something dark and slow and deliberate. A figure emerged from the shadows, half-silhouetted by light. His presence didn’t feel like danger. Not exactly. But it felt like something had shifted, like the story you thought you were living had turned a page without your knowing.

He stepped into the clearing.

A knight-clearly, unmistakably. But not in the ceremonial sense. His armor was worn, dull with travel, the blackened steel catching flecks of gold where the sun dared to touch it. A sword rested at his hip, its hilt wrapped in leather, well-used. His eyes-dark, piercin-swept the glade before landing on you. He didn’t reach for his weapon. He didn’t move at all.

You stared at each other across the wildflowers.

The silence stretched, weighted not with fear, but with something ancient. Like two threads finally meeting after being pulled through separate worlds.

And then-

“I didn’t expect to find anyone here,” you said, your voice barely above the hush of the leaves.

He didn’t answer at first-only watched you, as though trying to determine if you were real or some enchantment woven from mist and morning light. You felt the weight of his gaze, not harsh or hungry, but careful, like you were something sacred he dared not disturb.

His voice, when it came, was low and quiet, almost reluctant to break the spell. “Neither did I.”

You let the silence settle again, thick with unspoken questions. He took a step forward, slow and measured, the petals at his feet parting for him as though the forest had given him permission to walk there.

“I thought I was alone,” he added. “That this place… was forgotten.”

You shook your head gently, curls brushing your cheek. “The forest forgets no one. It simply waits.”

That made something shift in his expression. A small crease near his brow. Interest. Understanding. Maybe even a sliver of longing.

He looked around the glade with new eyes now. Took in the way the branches arched over the clearing like cathedral rafters, how the blossoms clung to the edges of sunlight, how the brook laughed softly in its bed of polished stone. Then his eyes found yours again.

“You come here often,” he said, not quite a question.

You nodded. “It’s the only place where no one tells me who to be.”

A pause. His jaw clenched, just slightly, like he knew exactly what you meant.

You tilted your head, studying him with the same quiet wonder. “Are you a knight?”

The corner of his mouth lifted-just barely. “I was.”

“What are you now?”

He exhaled through his nose, not a sigh exactly, but something close. “A man without a banner. No orders. No oath. Just… passing through.”

His gaze swept over you again, slower this time, like he was committing every detail to memory. “But I didn’t expect to pass through a fairytale.”

Your breath caught. The compliment didn’t feel like a line-it felt unintentional. Honest. And something in your chest tightened unexpectedly.

“You speak like a poet,” you murmured.

He gave a soft, almost amused huff. “Not often. Only when the forest makes me forget myself.”

Another breeze stirred, lifting strands of your hair into the air. You didn’t brush them away. He didn’t look away.

“What is your name?” you asked.

He hesitated.

You stepped forward. Just once. Just enough to bridge the space between wildflowers.

“I won’t tell anyone,” you added, softer now. “It can stay here, in the forest.”

“…Mattheo,” he said, voice just above the wind. “Mattheo Riddle.”

The name settled between you like a secret offered willingly. You repeated it once in your mind, turning it over like a stone in your palm. It suited him-dark, sharp, something ancient pressed into something human.

“And you?” he asked, though something in his voice told you he already knew.

You considered lying. But it felt wrong, here, in the place where truth hung like sunlight between branches.

“You may call me whatever you like,” you said with a smile. “But they call me princess.”

Something in his expression darkened-not unkind, but knowing. You wondered what he saw in the word. A symbol of what he’d lost? Or something he’d never believed in to begin with?

Still, he gave a small bow, hand to his chest. “Then forgive me, Princess, for trespassing.”

You stepped forward again. Close now. The distance between you just enough for the scent of moss and summer flowers to mingle between your breaths.

“I’m not angry,” you said. “Perhaps you were meant to find this place.”

He looked down, just briefly, at your hand-where it brushed the petals of a low bloom. Then back to your eyes.

Bodies were left on the battlefield, banners fallen and torn beyond recognition. Dead horses lay abandoned on the muddy ground, eaten by crows or scavenged for meat by desperate folk. And those were the lucky ones, some bannermen were taken as prisoners, tortured, mutilated, the evidence of the cruelty left hanging by the roadside.

You couldn’t see them, but you heard them in the night, their screams echoed beyond the tree line of the king’s road, their flames flickering in between the trees. You have no idea if those people within the woods were on your side or not, but you weren’t brave enough to even peek through the carriage window.

Even though you’ve learned your lesson not to look, you could still smell it, the death and the rot that eats away at your realm. A stench that has made its home in your nose. The meadows that used to have blossoming wild flowers, and clear babbling brooks are now laden with the scars of war, ashen soil, half buried bodies, and red flowing waters. You thought that the smell coming from the stables and the rookery back home were horrible, but you haven’t smelled a bloated decaying body before, no matter how much you take a whiff of your perfume, it stays, never leaving, sticking to your very soul.

As a princess of the realm, you were spared from the fighting and the scheming. You were sheltered, shielded by the horrors that your family’s hand has wrought. But you weren’t safe from it all for you had to be bartered off to some lord’s son for a much needed alliance. You would’ve thrown a fit, cried for your mother and clung to her skirts, but you ran out of tears a long time ago. Your house is losing, you might not be allowed in the war room, but you know it from the whispers through the halls, hushed and afraid, afraid that they might wake up to blades at their throats, at men wearing a different sigil pillaging the castle, afraid of losing a war that the common folk had no hand in.

Your father, the king, is a prideful man, never one to cower. Not once in your life you remembered a smile upon his lips, not even when your little siblings were born, not when your older brother was married, he never showed a hint of emotion except for disappointment. Whenever you failed to memorize your prayers, or whenever you skipped out on your lessons, he’d look at you with tightly closed lips, a subtle furrow of his brow and eyes so cold and distant that you’d think you’ve done him a dishonour. But he did love you, you know he did, because if he didn’t, he wouldn’t have started this war over your brother’s murder. Because if he loved his son, your twin, he must’ve loved you too, right?

As you sit there in the plain carriage twiddling your thumbs and biting your lip, the road grows closer to your new home, to your husband that you have never met.

The carriage is bare and plain, made of simple oak and painted in black with a black flag fluttering in the wind. Making it look that the carriage is carrying remains of the dead, not a princess of the realm. If people knew what, or who lies inside, you would’ve been dead on the road moons ago.

You have a single guard with you and your handmaiden, enough to keep you company, no more no less. Enough to not garner attention from wandering folk. Once on the road for the first time in your life, you heard the sound of footsteps coming from the opposite side, maybe a dozen or so. Your handmaiden whispered to you then, “refugees,” she uttered quietly, afraid to be heard when the carriage was supposed to carry the dead. “They’re trying to get to the capital.” You didn’t know why they’d leave their home back then, but when you saw the scorched earth that the opposing houses have left, the retreating footsteps made more sense like how the night follows the morn.

There’s a soft knock coming from outside of the carriage, and your handmaiden, Thena, nods her head and pauses from her embroidery. “We’re almost there, princess.”

“Thena, tell me about him again.” Your fingers drag along your necklace of white gold rope, an owl, your sigil that rests upon your neck, a silvery pendant in the middle that opens to a lock of your mother’s hair and a piece of dried nightshade.

“For the road,” your mother, the queen consort said calmly when she placed it inside the locket, as if she had just given you a simple snack for your journey, not a deadly poison. They called her aloof and comely before she wedded your father, now they call her mad after the death of your brother. “Or for your husband.” She then whispered to you, voice laden with heaviness of untold stories. You never got to ask her anything, it would be your biggest regret in life, but in truth, you’ll be lighter for never knowing.

“Your lord husband?” Thena flicks her amber eyes at you, crow’s feet prominent around her eyes as she sighs under her breath. “Didn’t I already tell you everything you needed to know about him?”

“Please.” The owl leaves indents right on the skin of your thumb as you press on it tighter.

If she senses your nerves, she doesn’t say anything, to which you thank her for. “Alright, princess.” Clearing her throat, the carriage moves from side to side without a sign of stopping. “Your husband is the heir apparent to house Wayne, they said that he’s gallant, won a many tourneys before the age of six and ten. They also said that he’s quite handsome, striking eyes that matches the sea beside their manor. He’s young, kind, and handsome, your father found a perfect husband for you, princess, you need not worry. Some noble women have fared worse.”

“I know,” you swallow thickly, biting the inside of your cheek. “I consider myself lucky for that.”

Nodding, Thena resumes her embroidery, an owl taking flight beside a bat, surrounded by glittering stars. You were never one for embroidery, you loved reading and playing the harp more, but the symbolism in her embroidery isn’t missed by you.

“What…” your voice squeaks before you hastily clear your throat. “What of his family? Are they as kind as him?”

There’s a slight furrow on her brows, unease mayhaps, or pity. “The Lord Wayne is as gallant as he is,” that brings a soft smile on your face, “They have said that his mood is as cold as the storms that frequent there and he is as strong as the castle walls of your keep. He doesn’t bend to the will of men easily, and it has been known that he is far greater on the battlefield than managing his own home. But it’s because the gods haven’t given him a fair hand all his life.”

“His parents, and his lady wife?” There’s sorrow underneath your eyes.

“Aye,” she answers, lips pursed. “A cruel thing indeed, but he has fared better for it. His people have said that he is just to them, and if need be, he’ll use his iron fist to straighten them up. But nothing heinous or cruel, he sees that justice is done, that’s all.”

Nodding, you resort to resting your clasped hands on your lap, right atop the silk of your skirt, a pale blue fabric lined with embroidered silver feathers and moons. “What about his brothers? I heard that my husband has a few.” The title curdles on your tongue.

“There’s not much known of his siblings.” Thena inserts the needle into the fabric, head tilted and eyes squinted at it. “He has three, all younger than him of course.”

That’s better than facing off older brothers that are strangers to you. If they’re anything like your own brothers, they’d just avoid you in favour of training. But if they’re anything like your older brother, you might grow to love them like they were your own as much as you loved him.

“But.” Thena’s word pricks at your skin like how her needle pierces the fabric. “I have heard a lot about the second son—”

The carriage stops to a sudden abrupt halt. Almost flinging you in front as Thena keeps you upright with her firm hands on your shoulders.

“Blasted man,” she curses under her breath, comporting herself immediately as the horses neigh and the sound of large rattling metal doors open outside. “We’re here, your grace.”

You take a deep breath, and another then another as your nails dig further into your skirt. You feel as though the world would cave in from under you, swallowing you whole. You’re afraid, rightfully so when you were plucked out of your home with no say on the decision whatsoever.

Thena rests her embroidery beside you to take your hand in hers. “All will be well,” she whispers. “You are of royal blood, they cannot harm you without the crown knowing about it. Your great aunt will see to it.”

“She’s all the way back home, Thena.” you sound defeated as you squeeze her hand. Your great aunt is a formidable woman, someone who has lived through two kings and has survived it all, including the almost annihilation of her house. “She might be the master of whispers but even her ears cannot reach this far.”

Her head tilts, smiling at you faintly. “Aye, but her birds can.”

You manage a soft snort. “She’s not a witch despite what others might say.” Her wrinkled hands and keen eye would be missed by you, she was known to be kinder to her kin, but ruthless to folk who dare harm a hair on their head.

Thena squints, eyes glinting as her smile stretches on her aged face. “Or mayhaps there is some truth to it.”

Chuckling, you squeeze her hands back as the carriage moves once again. “Not even a month away from the keep and you’re already whispering traitorous words.”

“My words aren’t traitorous if they’re true.” Letting go of your hand, the sound of rattling chains and metal echo outside once again.

Your curiosity gets the better of you, and with a tentative hand, you move the black curtains away from the carriage window and take a peek behind.

The cold breeze immediately kisses your cheeks welcome, the high walls of the manor stretches high, as grey as the sky, making it seem like they are one, melting together into one great wall of stormy clouds and stone.

As you follow the rattling sound, you turn your head towards the back of the carriage, seeing two large metal gates close, leaving you but a glimpse of the road before it finally closes with a thud. Narrowing your eyes, you gaze at the fine carving of the steel plates, hundreds of bats are etched along it, taking flight in the cloudless night sky, sending shivers down your spine.

This is your home now, and the bats would be your sigil, gone are the days of looking outside your balcony to look at the colourful gardens that your great grandfather commissioned for his great love, gone are the days of basking in the sunlight that’s now replaced by the cold grey sky. You must comport yourself, this is your duty, your way of helping and winning the war, so you must bear it all, even if you miss home.

Because this is nothing compared to the violence and death of a battlefield, so you must endure, for this is your battle to conquer, yours and no one else’s.

You don’t wield a sword or a battle axe to this battle, you’re armed by nothing but your wits and resilience. Something that the women in your house have greatly taught you the moment you took your first breath with your older brother.

You straighten your shoulders, chin held up high as the carriage continues to ride along the sides of the mountain pass, a singular lane that has been described as treacherous to traverse. With one false move the carriage would tumble down into the rocky cliffs below, and you could feel every rattle and thump of the wheel as the horses neigh outside and your guard huffing and whipping at the reins.

If the carriage should fall, your marriage would have already ended before it started. A part of you doesn’t mind it, but a part of you fears for your younger sisters at home, they’d send them in your place, you know they would, until one manages to get to the manor without falling off the stubborn cliffs of house Wayne.

Thena seems more courageous than you, unlike the brave face that you had to don for yourself. She’s even humming a tune, one that you remember fondly from your childhood whilst she finishes her embroidery, and while you hold your breath with every sharp turn the carriage takes.

“Do you remember why house Wayne built their manor up here?” Your handmaiden asks, trying to test your knowledge when she had been the one who taught you most. Her breath stills in her throat as the air thins from the height.

“Harder for sieges, and harder for an army to get past the mountainous pass if they manage to break through the iron gates.” You recall your studies, hands wringing around your skirt. You could feel the cold air enter your lungs as you take a deep breath. “Can I open the curtains?” Hand to your chest, you try to intake air that doesn’t choke you. “Y–you said that we were already here.”

“And what would the house do to the ones that manage to get up on the pass?”

“Thena—”

“Princess, you need to distract yourself.” She says sternly, eyes reminding you of your father’s. “How do they stop them?”

“Rocks,” you cough, nails scratching at your neck, leaving marks on your skin. “scalding hot rocks that they pour on the side of the mountain and from underneath their manor, crushing their foes with stone and fire.”

Thena finally moves to your side, arms open as she embraces you like she has always done ever since you were a little girl. “Calm now,” her knuckles caress along your arm. “Princess, take a deep breath.”

“Please open the windows!” Your breath staggers, legs feeling numb as your fingers twist like rusted chains.

“Trust me, you do not want to see what’s outside.” She whispers in your ear. “Close your eyes, why don’t we hum, hm?”

You obey immediately, eyes closing, humming the same tune as her as you try to breathe in as much as you can, cradled like a babe in her arms.

Before you knew it, the carriage finally stops, ceasing its wobbly movements as you inhale deeply. You could smell the faint smell of the sea, and the scent of petrichor lingering in the air, as if a storm is just waiting to welcome you to your new home. The cold nips at your skin as the feeling in your hands returns.

“We’re here, my lady.” She softly says, patting your shoulder for you to open your eyes. “Comport yourself, your husband is waiting.”

—

You were right about the storm coming, but Thena was wrong about your husband waiting for you.

The grand hall of the manor, or castle more like, reminds you of a cathedral, if a cathedral is made out of a carved mountain. It’s all jagged stone just like from the outside, some protrudes from the walls, a reminder of how it came to be. As you glance up, you see the famous domed ceiling of Wayne manor, curved to perfection, marble and granite that makes the hall otherworldly, as if the waves itself carved it for the ancient house. It’s cavernous, so much so that there are bats flying about the dome, sleeping upside down, blending into the dark stone.

Something thumps behind you loudly, causing you to look over your shoulder.

“Sorry, m’lady.” The knight that came with you, Ser Andros, gives you an apologetic look as he sits up one of your trunks. The rain drenches its leather sides, as soaked as the cloak clinging onto your shoulders and head.

You give him a forgiving nod, before walking around the hall, head raised up to gaze into the deep cavernous ceiling. You swear that you could see clouds drift upon it. A bat squeaks and opens its eyes, more likely from the loud interruption as it flies around whilst you follow its flight.

You back away out of instinct, afraid that it might bite you as it swoops down onto the large throne, idling atop it as the seat looks as sharp as a blade. Tilting your head, the bat tilts its head back, and you let out a quiet chuckle that echoes around the quiet hall.

“Let me get this off you before you catch your death.” Thena crosses the distance towards you, the dim torch lights bounces off her face.

“Where are they?” You softly ask, a tad hurt by the lack of welcome as you whirl to face her before she could take off your coat.

“Perhaps the storm quieted our arrival.” She says with a kind smile, perhaps to make you feel better. “I’ve sent one of their guards to fetch someone, anyone, the castellan, or more preferably your husband.”

Your hand drifts onto your necklace once again. “I don’t know, Thena, something doesn’t quite feel right—”

The double doors burst open from the harsh wind outside, causing your trunks to fall down like dominos on the marbled floor, clanging against it like the thunder outside. Poor Andros sighs tiredly under his breath. Lightning strikes and flashes as a silhouette on a red roan horse as crimson as rust on steel appears from within the downpour. A patch of bloodied red upon a sea of grey and rain.

Your breath gets stuck in your throat, as your grip onto the necklace tightens on instinct. You could feel Thena freeze beside you, barely moving as her eyes follows the hooded man’s movements.

He dismounts, taking the dead wild boar from the horse’s dock, flinging it onto his shoulder with ease as the rain pours down on him. His free hand rests upon the pommel of his sword, arrows clanging from his hip as the large bow strapped to his back pinches at his chest.

“That must be the game master.” Thena mutters beside you, but your attention is on the tall rakish man with broad shoulders, and muscle befitting a knight, who is now walking into the grand hall with wide strides. His cloak is soaked to the bone, dragging along the marble floor, as is his leather doublet that sticks to his skin. He tracks mud and rainwater into the throne room, unbothered by the mess he’s making. “Good Ser—”

“Princess.” He utters steadily in a deep tone, sure of himself, face hidden underneath the shadow of his hood. “You’re late.”

That’s the last thing you thought he would say. “What?” You could smell the rain on him that reminds you of the days you would rest by the gardens and reach your hand just beyond the awning to feel the cold water on your palm. “I was delayed…” the scent of rain gets stuck in your throat, overwhelming you while his heat radiates off him like waves. “We were trying to be discreet.”

“Ah, yes, for your safety.” A chuckle, akin to a scoff, escapes from the stranger’s lips.

“Well, yes.” Your hands clasps together behind you, fingers wringing together but you hold your head up high despite your nerves striking like lightning into your chest. “It would be quite rude to appear before your lord all chopped up.” Thena almost chokes beside you.

Even with the hood cascading a shadow over his face, you could still see the glimmer of a smile on his lips. “Well met, princess.”

“And I, you, Ser…?”

“Ja—”

“My lord,” someone calls from within the hall, appearing from behind the large stone throne. His blue eyes are frantically wide, almost distressed but his body doesn’t show it as he strides towards you with calculated steps. “Back from the hunt already?”

You almost choke on your spit just like Thena but you hold it together as you turn your gaze towards the supposed hunter. “Are you…?” Embers fly inside your stomach as you feel your fingers grow numb. You haven’t even noticed that you’ve bitten the inside of your cheek until you could taste copper on your tongue.

You’ve come face to face with your husband.

“Princess,” the steward finally greets you with a small smile and a respectful bow. “It’s a pleasure to have you, my apologies for having us meet this way, we anticipated you yesterday. But I’m sure everything went well on your journey?”

“Y–Yes, my sincere apologies, Ser. There was a delay.” You say softly, eyes still gazing into the hood, trying to get a glimpse of his face. Even with the shadow draped over him, you could feel his eyes on you.

“That’s unfortunate.” The older man turns his gaze back and forth from you to his lord. “We shall do our utmost to make you feel at home. My name is Alfred, Lord Wayne’s steward.” He then clasps the stranger’s bicep, a hand barely wrapping around his arm when the old man’s hand is smaller than his muscle. “And this is—”

“Jason.” The would-be hunter finally introduces himself, gently yanking off his hood as his brilliant green eyes gazes right into your own. His chiseled face, dark hair that could blend into the night with a shot of white streak at the front, has your breath taken right from your parted lips.

“Ah, yes. This is Lord Jason, the castellan.” Alfred winces at the intensity of your gaze upon Jason. “Your brother in law, your grace.”

Your head turns to him in an unladylike way, registering his name in your head lastly when you got lost in the sea of emeralds. “Oh.”

Jason’s warm chuckle has you comporting yourself.

You had taken a ride out just after midday, out to the tip-top of a clearing that overlooks the the forest that surrounds the castle you reside in. Not by yourself though. You had ridden horse-by-horse alongside one of your royal knights, James Buchanan Barnes. A knight that you endearingly called “Bucky,” as per request of him actually.

Bucky was a royal servant of yours, appointed to your side as of your choosing. He was loyal to no one but you, a bless on your half and a curse on others. No one had dare even breathed wrong in your general direction lest they meet the wrath of one of the knight’s deadly blades. Though, Bucky’s steely blue eyes were enough to kill a man if need be.

Bucky and you spent many hours and many days together. Often just you two, by yourselves. You’d walk the often empty castle halls, meandered through the gardens, sleep in the library, or explore the grounds of your kingdom. The last had lead you two to discover this special spot that was a couple hours ride away on horseback from the castle and atop a hill that overlooked the castle grounds on a hill.

Which is where you were currently. While the sun shone down on your both, making your jewelry shine and Bucky’s steel armor glitter. Though you two were far from looking proper with your dressed ruffled and pushed up your thighs, and Bucky’s armor discarded to the side. It left the man’s loose-fitting undershirt exposed, which was pushed up to his elbows. His helmet was discarded as well, showing off his messy, short hair. The knight’s blue eyes shone in the sunlight despite the heavy set of his brows.

Your own self was exposed. The corset that you’d worn over your dress and around your abdomen had been untied and removed. Your dress had been pushed up to reveal the meat of your thighs, the valley of your lower stomach, and what lay between your legs.

And Bucky had been all to pleased to explore your exposed skin with his mouth and hands once more, pressing his fingertips into your skin and leaving love bites to be hidden beneath the layers of your clothes. And he had teased your skin with the sheathed blade of his dagger that he had unlatched from the strap around his midsection. The leather was cool against your skin and the hilt shone when it caught the light of the sun.

Though, the hilt seemed extra shiny with your slick that coated the ribbed leather with every pull from you. The cross guard dripped with your arousal, making even more of a mess.

Both of you laid in the grass. You were on your back and Bucky was laid on his side, propped up by his elbow and his cheek in his hand. He looked down at you endearingly as one arm of yours moved to wrap around his neck and bury your hand in his hair and as your free hand gripped at the soft fabric of his shirt. Your legs were spread, making room for the hilt of the dagger that Bucky fucked you with.

You were sobbing out moans, eyes screwed shut as you voiced your pleasure unabashedly out into the surrounding nature. Your back arched and feet shifted in the grass below you as you squirmed just a tad.

“Messy girl,” Bucky cooed, eyes heavy as he watched you squirm.

He leaned down to press a lingering kiss to your temple. He stayed there to breath in the smell of you, a mixture of soap, flowers, the grass below, and something uniquely you. Bucky could never get over the way you smell, whether it was the smell of your neck or your cunt between your thighs. It was heaven to him. The knight claimed it was better than any flower in the garden.

“How does it make you feel knowing that I’ve killed men with this very dagger I fuck you with?” Bucky asked, voice low and rumbly.

“G-good,” You stutter, a whine lacing the words.

You grip even tighter as Bucky’s shirt as you feel the pummel of the dagger drag against that special spot inside you. It sends waves of hot pleasure that bubbles under your skin. The heat boils over as slick arousal slips from your pussy, making a mess of your thighs, the dagger, and Bucky’s fingers that are closest to the cross guard. You shift and squirm under Bucky, pleasuring building inside you.

Almost as if Bucky can read you like a book (he can), he asked, “What do you want, pretty girl? Your body’s just begging for something.”

You whine and moan, practically sobbing at the subtle angle change of the dagger. It’s angled upwards, pressing up into your pelvis more.

“Wanna- wanna cum.. Please!” You beg, chest heaving.

“Well, since you asked so nicely,” Bucky pulled away from your gently. He moved to sit up, but your hand gripping his shirt preventing him from getting far. “Gotta let go, pretty girl.”

You do, letting go his his hair and his shirt. You grip at the fabric of your pushed up dress instead.

“Good girl. Thank you,” With that Bucky moved from his half-laid down position to sit between you thighs.

The movements of the dagger stop momentarily so he can switch it to his left hand, the hand that was scarred and blistered from a fire that happened so long ago. Before you can whine and shift your hips to fuck yourself on the dagger, Bucky pulls it from you into only the pommel stays inside you. Then, he’s easing the ribbed hilt back in, steady his previous steady pace. Bucky splays his right hand on your pelvis, pressing his thumb to your little clit that throbs for attention. He circles his thumb tightly over your clit, glancing between your soaked, heated cunt and your face.

Your thighs are over Bucky’s as he sits between them, giving you no chance to close them around his broad form. You grip the fabric of your dress tightly, knuckles white. Your eyes are screwed shut and your mouth open as you moan and whine below Bucky. There are no words coming from your mouth, and none form in that poor, foggy brain of yours. Bucky’s hands always know how to blank out that brain of yours and make you dumb. It helps that he knows what you need even before you voice it, or try to. Which is why when that familiar coil in your lower stomach starts to tighten, two of Bucky’s fingers replace his thumb to rub slick circles over your clit. His fingers match that pace of his dagger.

“There you go, princess,” Bucky uses your title as a petname. He’s effectively ruined the name for you when anyone calls you by your title. You often have to stave off the heat crawling under your skin and fight of flashbacks when someone calls for you attention. “Feeling so good, huh?”

You nod, closing your mouth to swallow down spit before opening back up with a cry as Bucky changes pace. He goes faster.

“Can feel you tightening up around the hilt of my dagger,” Bucky comments, eyeing the way it shines with every pull from your pussy. “It’s getting harder to pull out.”

The pleasure builds and builds, overwhelming so as it always does with Bucky. Until your thighs are shaking and little whines spill from your lips, sounding out into the open air above you.

It’s like music for Bucky’s ears.

Just before you reach your peak you manage to speak, “Fuck- Bucky- I- I- I’m gonna- fuck- oh my gods!”

Bucky’s fingers over faster over your clit, flicking from side to side as he pushes you over.

The coil in your lower abdomen snaps almost violently and your orgasm washes over you. Your thighs shake and threaten to close, but they obviously can’t. You’re quick to bring a hand up to your mouth to stick to your knuckles into your mouth to bite down on. Your moans are both muffled and clear as day as you cuss and repeat Bucky’s name as if in prayer. But your moans slip into whines as overstimulation set in and you move your free hand down to grip at Bucky’s wrist to stop his movements.

He does, thankfully.

Bucky stops, fingers lingering over your clit to feel it pulse with the aftershocks of your orgasm. Then, he’s pulling off and pulling his dagger out from your fucked cunt.

You peek open your eyes, watching Bucky sit between your thighs. You breath heavily through your nose to catch your breath, not yet pulling your fingers from your mouth. But, your cheeks heat even more as you watch Bucky’s next actions.

Bucky moves his dagger up to his lips, keeping eye contact with you. He sticks out his tongue to lick across the cross guard, up and between the ridges of the hilt, and around the pommel. He groans at the taste of you, eyes fluttering shut and shoulders completely relaxing. When your knight opens his steely blue eyes back up, he catches the droplet of your clear arousal sliding down the leather of the sheath. While still maintaining his deadly eye contact, he’s darting his tongue down to the tip of the sheath and dragging back up to follow the trail of your arousal backwards until he’s effectively cleaned his dagger of you. Without as much as wiping his dagger dry, Bucky latches the sheath and dagger back onto the strap around his midsection. Then, he’s leaning forward and tutting at you.

“Enough of that,” Bucky scolds softly, leaning over you and propping himself up on his left hand beside your head. “Gotta open on up for me.”

Bucky pulls your fingers from your mouth, tugging to encourage your teeth to loosen their hold. When you let go, Bucky pulls your hand down to give himself clear passage to your mouth. He grabs at your chin with his fingers and thumbs at your bottom lip, eyes lingering to watch the skin move. Then, he’s pushing his thumb into your still-open mouth to press down against your tongue gently.

The muscle is slick and wet below his thumb, but you keep it still. Bucky uses this leverage to keep your mouth open. Though, his gaze finally meets yours once against when you whine.

You’re looking at his almost expectedly, but full-on desperate.

“Oh, I know what you want, pretty girl,” The knight’s words are laced with teasing. “I’m gonna give it to you, yeah?”

With some movement of his tongue and a purse of his lips, a string of spit falls from Bucky’s mouth slowly. It’s almost too long until it meets the tip of your tongue, where the string is pulled taunt and snaps. Bucky keeps his thumb pressed into your tongue, watch the glob of spit slide down you tongue. Then, he’s pulling away before the spit hits the back of your throat and he’s patting your cheek gently.

“Swallow,” Bucky demands gently.

You do, eager to swallow down the taste of him.

“Good girl,” He pats your cheek again.

Without another word, Bucky leans down to press a gentle kiss to your lips. His lips are soft and warm, though a little wet. The knight lingers there until he pulls back with a need for air. He’s then sitting back on his haunches and rubbing at the skin of your thighs.

“Let’s get you situated, yeah?” Bucky tilts his head in question. “But I’m keeping these since I gave you your last pair back.” He holds up his right hand, your panties dangling in between his fingers as he wiggles his eyebrows a bit. Then, he’s moving around to stuff them in the side-waistband of his pants that he wears under the lower torso/legs of his armor. “C’mon, up and at ‘em.”

Bucky stands, grabbing both of your hands to help you stand before him. He smoothes down your dress until it covers your modestly again, adjust the waistline and sleeves. Then, he’s turning you gently as he grabs at your little mid-section corset and sliding it on you again. He cinches it tight enough, which is only enough to comfortably hug you, and tying it back in place like he’s done many times before. Then, finally, he’s turning you back towards to face him.

You let Bucky situate you without complaint or compliment, brain still fuzzy and unthinking. It’s a privilege that you trust Bucky so much to act like this around him, to be vulnerable enough to know that he knows what you need from him. When you face him again, you lean forward to rest your forehead on his chest. You can feel the vibrations of his chuckle against your head. Then, his arms wrap around you in a loose hug.

With a gentle hand, Bucky grabs at your jaw with his large hand, squeezing your cheeks together a little bit, and tilting your head to look up at him. He meets your eyes with endearing ones of his own.

“My poor dumb baby,” Bucky coos, shaking your head a little. “Can’t even think for yourself. I gotta do it for you, yeah?”

You nod, almost mindlessly.

“Well, then we can sit here until you wake up some, and then we can go back to the castle and eat,” Bucky says, lowering you two back down to the grass. His words leave no room for argument.

Bucky sits down, waiting for you to get situated however you want to until he gets comfortable.

You crawl between Bucky’s legs and lay on your back between them. You lay your head on one of his armor-covered thighs, staring up at him as he looks down at you.

The knight only chuckles, eyes crinkling at the edges as he smiles down at you. He drags a hand through your hair, pushing strand away from your forehead and rubbing at your scalp. Bucky rests back on his right arm, his left hand gently grooming your hair.

You stare admiredly at the scars of his left arm. You follow them up to where they disappear under the pushed-up sleeve of his shirt and then reappear from his shirt’s neckline as the scars dance and fade away as they crawl up the side of his neck. You like his scars, and you know he doesn’t mind your staring anymore. So, you’re free to admire as you please, which is often.

“We’ll stay here until you’re ready,” Bucky sighs, still looking down at you.