The King's Last Concubine
AN: Welcome, welcome to the short one-shot that spiralled a little out of control. I’m sure none of you will complain. If you like cheesy historical romance and Bucky then you’ve come to the right place. In all honesty I could have made this story much, much longer, but unfortunately I don’t have the time, so it’s wrapped up a little fast and without as many misunderstandings as the usual Harlequin/Mills and Boon normally contains. I hope you like it anyway.
Beta’d by the lovely @seriouslydex - thank you for your assistance in wrangling this into coherence.
Likes are loved, reblogs are golden
Mood board by me and dividers by @firefly-graphics
Bingo Fills - @buckybarnesbingo Square U1 - Kink: Concubine
Master list | BBB Master list
Summary: When Bucky takes over the throne after his Father’s death, he has better things to deal with than the group of concubines he’s inherited. He thinks the tradition is abhorrent and vows he wants no part of it. When he meets the newest member of the harem he finds his moral stance tested. How can he want the woman who was bought to please his father?
Relationship: King James ‘Bucky’ Barnes x Female Concubine Reader
Chapter word count: 10.2k
CW: Historical AU, Flowery historical language, Angst, Servitude, Lust, Male masturbation, Fluff, Miscommunication, Self-loathing, Jealousy, Fluff, Mutual Pining, Attempted Sexual Assault, Explicit Sexual Content, Declaration of feelings.
A quiet tension filled the air as you wandered your way around the gardens and corridors of the place you’d called home for the last six months. That’s when you’d been purchased - a gift for the elderly and ailing king, meant to boost his spirits and reignite his youthful zeal. However, all the youth and beauty in the world could not turn back the sands of time.
For the last few weeks the king had been getting weaker, not leaving his private rooms or entertaining any guests apart from his long faithful Queen, his heir, Prince James and his daughter, Princess Rebecca. It was a waiting game now, for the Royal Family, the country, and for you and the other members of the Harem.
Entering the solar, where all of you could spend your days in conversation, needlework, painting and reading, you could see Merith, the King’s favourite in an agitated conversation with Katya, the next concubine down in the pecking order. They had the most to lose when the inevitable happened, because it would be very unlikely that the Prince would wish to keep them around. Not only were they older than him, they had both also borne the King numerous children - it would be very strange for a new King to keep the mothers of his half siblings as concubines for himself. At best, the two women might hope to be housed somewhere pleasant in their retirement, maybe with a semi-wealthy husband. At worst they could be turfed out of the palace along with any of their children that the King hadn’t yet made provisions for.
As for your fate, that was also completely unknown. However, due to your age and the fact that you had only been here a short time, with very few interactions with the King, there was a chance that the Prince would want to keep you. You’d never seen him in the flesh, but you knew he was handsome from the glimpses you’d had of his portrait when you’d been led to and from the King’s chambers on those few occasions he had requested your company. However, despite what you had been purchased for, you had never actually lain with the King. He had tried and, as it was in your best interest, so had you, but the King was old and tired.
Instead you’d provided him with company as best you could, rubbing his back, stroking his hair and reading him stories until he fell asleep and you could call the guards to escort you back to the Little Palace.
Of course, no-one knew what had occurred within the privacy of the King’s chambers, and if other concubines had had similar experiences they didn’t talk of it openly - it wouldn’t do to discuss the failing manhood of the person who held your life in their hands. However, what this meant was that you were still untouched by a man, with no experience other than what you had gifted yourself.
With a sigh, you crossed to the far side of the room, taking your place amongst the other younger and newer members of your unconventional community, picking up the sampler you’d been working on. There was no music being played and all conversations were kept to a minimum and spoken in whispers, out of a combination of respect and anxiety. The limbo dragged on.
Suddenly, the doors to the solar crashed open, and the King’s Equerry walked in, flanked by several guards.
“The King has died,” he announced. “Long live the King.”
The ladies fell into disarray.
“I really have to deal with that now?” Bucky asked of Coulson, his father’s, and now his, Equerry.
“I’m afraid so, your Majesty. It’s been two weeks since the late king passed away and decisions need to be made about those whose services you do not wish to retain. There may be some obvious candidates, but with others you may not know how you feel until you meet them.”
Bucky, now King James, sighed. It hadn’t come as a surprise when his father, King George, had passed away. His various ailments had worsened over the last few months and Bucky had actually felt relief for him at the end. The funeral had been last week and since then he’d been stuck in back to back meetings with the men who were now officially his advisors, sorting out matters of state. Admittedly, the fate of those who resided in the Little Palace hadn’t really occurred to him as important. It was an archaic tradition as far as he was concerned. Servants were one thing, but owning women just so you have a choice about who to fuck without any repercussions, just struck him as something that belonged firmly in the past. He still couldn’t get his head around how his mother had never once complained or commented about the practice - had never flinched when another Royal bastard was presented to the court so his father could make provision for them as he saw fit.
There was no question that any of the women who had provided his father with children - he wasn’t going to call them siblings - would have to be looked after in some way. He wasn’t a monster. The problem would be the others. There were about twenty or so of them, his father collecting them like fine artwork over his years on the throne and a few - and this thought turned Bucky’s stomach a little - were as young as his sister Rebecca. He didn’t feel as though he could just turn them out, however he didn’t want to keep them either. Without some kind of royal approval the women could be ostracised from normal society if their past were to become known, but could he really justify supporting all of them from the Royal purse for the rest of their days? Although, undoubtedly, there would be some noblemen more than happy to have his father’s cast offs as wives, especially as there had been no lack of suitors for their daughters. Those that had offered for them had obviously been hoping it would grant them a modicum more influence at court. Little did they know that wouldn’t be the case with him.
It also didn’t help that while Coulson could understand wanting to remove certain members of the Little Palance, he didn’t understand why the new King didn’t want to ‘get to know’ the rest of them. According to the Equerry, they were all very beautiful, demure, and accomplished, any one of them a suitable companion for lonely evenings. Apparently telling the dour man that if he was that taken with them he should feel free to fornicate with one himself, was not the done thing, but Bucky thought the look on Coulson’s face had been worth it. He’d then tried arguing that the ladies of the Little Palace deserved better than what they currently had, but his personal advisor had brushed the comment aside.
“These women want for nothing, Your Majesty. They sleep in the finest sheets, wear the finest fabrics, and eat the finest foods. Some would say they have a charmed life and what they gave up for it is very little in comparison to what they gain.”
“Fine,” he said with a defeated sigh. “I will at least deal with Merith, Katya and the other few that my dearly departed father put babies into, and maybe speak to the others. Let’s get this over and done with.”
Coulson smiled, obviously thinking that he’d won this round, and Bucky decided not to disabuse him. You have to pick your battles, as his mother was fond of telling him.
This time when the Equerry appeared, a fortnight after the death of King George, he sent nearly all of you out to the gardens, only keeping Merith, Katya and a few other of the ladies inside. It was clear that the women who were mothers to the late King’s bastards were about to find out their fate.
You walked slowly between the roses with your friend, Lila, the concubine who’d been obtained just a few months before you, swapping inconsequential small talk, neither wanting to verbalise what was actually on your minds - to say it out loud would be to court disaster. When the Royal Guards suddenly came outside you all stopped what you were doing, wondering if Master Coulson was going to deliver news to you all as well, but when a different, unexpected man appeared, you all lowered your gazes and dropped into deep curtsies. The King - the new King - was here.
Anxiety rode through you, and all you could hear was the pounding of your heart. You were vaguely aware, from your peripheral vision, that Master Coulson was introducing the King to each member of his harem. You caught snatches of conversation, when the King asked each woman in turn their name and how long they had lived here. When they got to Lila next to you, you heard your friend giggle when the King asked her the same questions and you fought the urge to roll your eyes. You liked her, but she was always a little silly. Maybe she thought to flirt her way into the King’s affections?
When the two sets of feet stopped in front of you, you waited for Coulson’s say so before coming out of your curtsey and raising your head.
“And here, Your Majesty, is our newest young lady. You may greet the King, my dear.”
You stood, glad to get out of the deeply uncomfortable pose, and prepared to finally see him in the flesh for the first time.
“Your Highness,” you said, your voice a little more breathy than anticipated, but that was because it had been knocked from your lungs at the vision that greeted you.
King James was tall and broad in the shoulders. It was clear that the painting you had seen had been created when he was still a young man, only just into his adulthood. The man who stood before you now was no stripling. He was fully grown and oozed confidence and authority. His eyes, a cross between pale blue and grey, which had not been adequately portrayed by the Royal artist. His cheekbones were high and pronounced, and his jaw exquisitely chiselled, even if it was partially obscured by his facial hair. The hair on his head was short at the sides, but fluffy and slightly untamed on top, just tempting you to run your fingers through it. Now you knew why Lila had giggled.
He took your hand in his, and you marvelled at how large and strong it looked in comparison to your own. You could clearly see the resemblance to his father, but this was a man in the prime of his life and the thought that he would have none of the problems in the bedroom that had beset the late King flashed across your mind, unbidden.
When he asked your name in his deep but clear voice, you had to swallow before you answered so you didn’t stutter like a schoolgirl.
“Master Coulson said you were new. How long have you lived here?”
“Just over six months, Your Majesty.”
“And you like living in the Little Palace?”
You hesitated for a moment, working out the best way to answer. The other’s hadn’t been asked this question. “It’s very pleasant. Thank you for asking Your Majesty.”
His lips, full and pink, twitched, picking up on the diplomacy of your answer. “Only pleasant? Oh dear. Well maybe we can improve upon that in the near future.”
He skillfully removed his hand from yours and turned back to his Equerry, and you returned your gaze to the floor. As he walked away you realised your heart was still beating fast within your chest. However, it was no longer anxiety that made it do so, but rather the newly unfurled bloom of desire.
As soon as Bucky returned to the Palace proper, he dismissed Coulson and headed directly for his private chambers. His time in the Little Palace had mostly gone as well as expected, Meredith and her cohorts fawning over him dramatically in thanks for his generosity and then meeting what seemed like a legion of beautiful, yet dull as dishwater, young women, who his father had acquired to make himself feel young. What he hadn’t been expecting though was that last young lady - he didn’t even want to think about the word concubine and all of the linked meanings it held. He’d never seen someone so beautiful, and it had been clear from the short exchange of pleasantries that you had intelligence and humour to match.
He felt the rolling heat of lust raise its head and desperately tried to push it aside. As unique in his experience as you may be, he shouldn’t - couldn’t - think about you in this way. Not when he knew you’d spent time with his father. It was more than he could bear. But he couldn’t get the image of you from his mind. The curves of your body that deserved to be traced and explored with reverence. Your large, expressive eyes that tempted him to drown in their depths. Your lips that called him to kiss you over and over until you couldn’t speak or even breathe due to how much you wanted him.
Entering his room he shut the door harshly, but he didn’t care. He was unbearably hard within his trousers, and while not a new sensation by any means, it wasn’t one he’d felt in some time. As the Crown Prince he’d had to be circumspect in his affairs,but there was no-one he’d been actively courting. Now he was King the pressure would be on for him to find a suitable wife and start producing heirs. However, he didn’t intend to be like his father. Once he was married he would be faithful and treat his wife with respect. The devil on his shoulder reminded him that he wasn’t married yet and was free to do what he desired, but he tried to push it aside.
Bucky threw himself down on his bed but every time he closed his eyes you were there, hovering behind his eyelids. He palmed himself over his trousers, trying to get some relief from his state of arousal, but it was no good. Almost unconsciously he undid the fastenings, letting out a small sigh as the pressure was lessened, but then it was just too easy to take himself in hand. A few small strokes, just to take the edge off, became harder and longer, and the vision of you behind his closed eyes smiled at him coyly, tempting him to ruin her.
He imagined kissing you and touching you. Tracing every peak and valley with his lips and tongue. He imagined you doing the same to him, taking him in your mouth, lips stretched wide and tears in your perfect eyes. He imagined driving into you, again and again, while you gripped his shoulders and tangled your legs around his waist. Marking you - claiming you - as you called out his name over and over and trembled around him.
Bucky came with a cry, his spend spilling over his hand and stomach, and leaving him with an aching, hollow feeling of disgust with himself. He needed to release you and the rest of the ladies of the Little Palace and there-by banish you from his thoughts.
The next day he put his plan into action. He set Coulson the task of going through the remaining residents, from oldest serving to newest and finding them a new situation. Respectable marriages were the first preference - the Crown could provide a dowry - but failing that independence and a stipend until they became financially solvent on their own. If this plan had the effect that you would be the last to leave, that was just an unfortunate by-product of the most logical way of sorting the whole thing out, wasn’t it?
The edict by the King that the Little Palace was being disbanded was met at first with some trepidation. The women were all of a flutter, wondering what it would mean for them, but when Marie, the most senior of the concubines now that Merith and the others who had children had retired, was informed that, should she approve him, a husband had been found for her, any anxiety morphed into jubilation. Over the coming weeks, the number of you dwindled and you couldn’t help but feel a little lost amongst all the celebration. You were a strange sisterhood, that was certain, and you hadn’t gotten along with everyone, but you wished them well with a smile, and mulled over your sense of unease in private.
You weren’t sure what it was that was making you worried. It wasn’t as though you’d be forced into anything you didn’t want. Letitia had rejected three potential husbands before settling on a fourth, much to Master Coulson’s despair, and Tiffany had outright declared she wanted no husband at all, her and Dana wishing to set up house together and start a school. This came as no surprise to any of you.
It also wasn’t because you were so entrenched in this life that the thought of anything else was scary - you’d had more life outside these walls than in it - however you had found a camaraderie here, a sense of belonging, as strange as that may seem, that you hadn’t had before. And despite the fact that the idea of being intimate with the old King had been stomach churning, once he realised each time that it wasn’t going to happen, you’d found you’d enjoyed providing him comfort and some sort of friendship. Maybe being here had spoiled you? You’d admit it wasn’t a hardship to live somewhere where all your meals and clothes were provided and all you had to do was entertain yourself unless your services were required, although you did wish for more sometimes - a cage was still a cage, no matter how gilded and glittered.
Maybe having a husband wouldn’t be so bad. Hopefully he’d let you have some freedom - have some hobby or interest to keep you occupied, other than keeping house and popping out babies. You couldn’t help but be nervous though, especially as the numbers of you lessened until it was just you and Lila left.
Each time one of the ladies was preparing to leave, the King would come and thank her for her service. How any of you managed to keep a straight face when he said that was beyond you, but it did give you the chance to watch him unobserved. He really was handsome, and seemed so kind and earnest in his thanks. A true King and diplomat. But that wasn’t all he was. Every so often he would catch your eye and you would feel… something. And you couldn’t explain what it was, other than that you felt like a moth captivated by a flame, longing to get nearer and nearer, even if it would mean your doom. It wasn’t just physical, either - although you couldn’t deny that you’d had thoughts about that. You wanted to get to know him. The real him. His hopes and dreams. What motivated him.
You got your chance when you were sitting in the solar, enjoying the sun that streamed through the windows as you read your book. Lila was outside in the garden, taking a walk with her potential fiancee, a man named Lang who was apparently some minor aristocracy. Guards trailed them at a discrete distance, but you didn’t think there was anything to worry about. From the glimpses you’d caught of them, Master Lang appeared to be a convivial and respectful fellow. He walked with his hands behind his back, not trying to touch or grab at your friend, but he leant in close to talk intimately. He also appeared to be letting Lila hold an equal part of the conversation and you watched as she giggled behind her hand at a number of points in response to what you guessed were jokes.
“They appear to be getting on well.”
A voice from behind you, made you jump and turn in your chair. At the realisation that King James was standing there, you leapt up and then immediately leant forward into a deep curtsey.
“Your Majesty.”
How had you not noticed him enter? Why was he here?
“Please stand. There’s only the two of us here. I wanted to see for myself how Master Lang was comporting himself and this seemed like the best place to watch unobserved.”
He walked closer to the window and you continued to stand, your hands clasping each other, as you watched him from under your lowered lashes. Despite the number of times you’d seen him recently you were no less dazed by his beauty than you had been the first time. You allowed your gaze to travel over his body, admiring the way his clothes were cut to show off his defined figure. Silver threads were woven through the black fabric of his coat and they shimmered in the sunlight. You itched to smooth the cloth over the broadness of his shoulders.
As if sensing you watching him, the King turned back to you.
“Please don’t let me disturb you from whatever you were doing. Pretend that I’m not here.”
Your lips twitched. “That would be difficult, Your Majesty. You do stand out.” You gestured to the walls of the solar, a pale pink colour, and then at his attire. He looked down at himself and you were taken aback by the flush that made its way to his cheeks.
“Aah, yes. I see what you mean.” He moved away from the window then, and toward the chair opposite the one you’d been occupying when he’d surprised you. “Maybe then we could sit and talk for a while? What have you been doing with your days these last weeks?”
You gave him a small nod and took your seat. “Very little, Your Majesty, other than helping the others pack up their belongings as they leave. Some reading, some needlework. I have been practising my languages too. What have you been doing? Important affairs of state I would imagine.”
“It is not nearly as glamorous as people think. Lots of meetings that seem to stretch on forever, but that is nothing to the never-ending paperwork. I swear everyone in the country will have my signature soon. Lots of time to relax and do what you will, seems wonderful to me. I admit to being a little envious.” He smiled as he spoke, his face lighting up in boyish amusement.
“I assure you,” you stated, “that after a while even relaxing becomes as dull as any paperwork.”
The King chuckled at that. “Does it now? I’ll have to take your word for it. Now, tell me, what languages do you speak?”
“French and Spanish. A little Portuguese. And I’m trying to improve my Greek.” You lifted up your book to show him the writing on the front. He smiled at you and your heart beat faster.
“Impressive, my lady. My Greek is somewhat rusty, although my Russian is still good. Come, read for me and we shall see if I can follow you.”
Feeling shy, you lifted your book and began, haltingly at first, to read out loud, your tongue trying to wrap around the unfamiliar syllables. It had been a while since you had spoken out loud, normally preferring just to read, but as you became more confident the words flowed easier and you managed to glance up at him now and again.
The King was sitting, relaxed in his chair, legs outstretched with his ankles crossed. His eyes were closed as he rested his head on the chair back, arms settled on his chest with his fingers steepled. For a moment you could almost pretend this was a domestic scene of a wife reading to her husband after a long day. However, you were not his wife and he was not destined to be your husband. That would be someone else.
When you reached the end of your chapter, you gently closed your book, placing it on the side table, and the King opened his eyes and sat up again.
“You have a wonderful reading voice and you navigated the words very well - better than I’d have done, I’m sure. I’ve always thought learning languages a worthwhile endeavour and it is my deepest regret that I do not know more. I’ll take note to ensure that my Equerry looks to place you in a situation where your skills will be appreciated. I have a feeling,” he said with a glance back towards the window where his friend was still busy gently wooing yours, “that you will soon be the only one here.
You felt heat rushing to your cheeks at the compliment. “That would be greatly appreciated, Your Majesty. I know that not all men wish for an intelligent wife, but it would be nice to not have to appear vapid just to gain favour with my spouse.”
King James snorted. “I’ll admit that I do not understand those who only wish for a doll for a wife. If you’re going to spend the rest of your days together, would it not be better to have someone to converse with. Someone to challenge you mentally. It would be rather dull otherwise.”
“I suppose,” you ventured, “that those men are probably the type to find other ways - other people - to keep them occupied.” A small smile crept across his lips at your statement.
“And I suppose you are correct, my lady. But if that is the case then those men have chosen poorly. I cannot imagine marrying someone, only to then spend all my free time avoiding them. Somewhat defeats the point of it all, in my opinion.”
“Well, I had guessed some of that about you, Your Majesty. What with you getting rid of this age-old tradition.” You gestured once again to the room around you but when you turned back to him, it was to see that the King’s eyes had narrowed slightly, studying you.
“And how do you feel about that?”
You sensed his words were a test and you licked your lips nervously before you answered.
“I have no real opinion, Sire. I live to serve and am happy to do what my King commands of me.”
There was a strange look on his face. He was no longer smiling and while he didn’t appear angry with you, his demeanor was now far more chilly than it had been a moment ago.
“And were you happy to carry out the commands of my late father?”
You hesitated before answering. “His Royal Highness was most kind to me. I was happy to serve him.”
You barely heard him mutter “I bet you were” under his breath before he suddenly stood, and you scrambled to your feet after him.
“This has been an illuminating chat, my lady, and I thank you for your company. Soon you will be free of this place and can put this part of your life behind you.”
He nodded his head and once again you dropped into a deep curtsey, your eyes locked to the floor. You stayed that way as his footsteps retreated across the marble floor and you wondered what it was you had said that had turned him so cold.
Once again, Bucky found himself stalking into the sanctuary of his private chambers. Damn you, damn his father, and damn this ridiculous fascination of his. Whilst he’d tried to tell himself that the only reason he went to the Little Palace was to get a feeling for whether his friend was getting along with his potential betrothed, he also couldn’t deny the fact that he’d known you would be there as well, all alone.
He’d been enjoying your conversation until he’d been reminded why you were even there in the first place and sabotaged himself by bringing up his father. Then you’d all but admitted that you’d enjoyed doing what you did. Bucky felt sick at the thought.
Images of you tortured him day and night, and spending time with you today had obviously been ill-advised because now he had more memories to draw on. The way you spoke so passionately and knowledgeably about the ways of the world. The way that you smiled and joked when you were relaxed.
Bucky’s fingers longed to pick up a charcoal and try to capture the way the sunlight had slid over the planes of your face, giving you an ethereal, other-worldly look, like some fae creature sent to enrapture him. Instead he tugged on the bell-pull, asking the page who appeared to go and fetch Coulson. He then paced up and down the room, chewing on his thumb nail for the few minutes it took the Equerry to appear.
“How can I serve you, Your Majesty?” Coulson asked with a low bow.
“I want the matters with Lang organised as soon as possible and the remaining occupant of the Little Palace resituated with all speed. It’s high-time this issue was finished, once and for all.
It had been a week since Lila left. A week in which you’d spent nearly every waking moment alone, other than when the servants were helping you dress and bringing you food. Although you mustn’t forget the omni-present guards stationed outside various doors. Which meant it was two weeks since the conversation with the King that had left you feeling more confused than ever.
Lila had returned from her sojourn around the garden gushing about Master Lang and his attributes. About how handsome and kind and funny he was, and how certain she was that they would suit. You plastered a smile to your face and said all the right things, but you couldn’t seem to concentrate on your friend’s happiness, your thoughts consumed by the memory of how the King’s face had looked at the end of your exchange.
He’d been so happy and relaxed, then suddenly so cold and closed. It was obviously no secret that he didn’t like the fact that his father had had concubines, but it had happened and to deny why you were living there would be foolish. Which is why you’d answered so diplomatically - he didn’t need to know what did or didn’t happen in the privacy of the late King’s chambers, and he probably didn’t want to know. What son would want those details? But he had asked a question and you’d answered the best way you knew how.
It hurt because you’d actually been enjoying yourself, and thought that maybe he’d been enjoying himself as well. There’d been a strange warmth inside you as the pair of you had talked and teased and joked, and over the last few days you found yourself wishing you could feel it again.
However, now you had something else to occupy your mind. Almost as soon as Lila had left to get married - and you were sad you couldn’t be with her on her big day - Master Coulson had come to tell you that arrangements were being made at pace for your own future. It was only mildly surprising then, when he’d come to you this morning to tell you that a potential husband had been found and you should prepare yourself to have dinner this evening. He passed you over some papers, giving you details of the man you were to meet.
Apparently he was a Baron, a widower, and a few years older than King James. His seat was on the other side of the country and apparently quite large, with the main house boasting stables, a library, and a formal rose garden. As you read through the information you pulled your lower lip between your teeth. It all looked good on paper, but you needed to be sure. You didn’t want to swap one cage for another - you had to at least like Baron Zemo, and him you. It seemed as though he spoke numerous languages, so at least you had one thing in common with him. Hopefully all would go well, and you could consign this place and thoughts of the King to the past.
A few hours later and you were putting the finishing touches to your toilette. You dabbed some rosewater behind your ears and smoothed your hands down the front of your gown. It was one of your favourites and you’d worn it every time you’d been to visit the late King. He’d always complimented it, saying that the colour of the silk brought out your eyes. You hoped the Baron would like it as well. With a gentle knock on the door, one of the servants let you know that your guest had arrived and was waiting for you in the solar. You took a deep breath and walked down the hall.
As you entered, you saw a man, dressed in deep purple, looking out of the window, with his back to you.
“Baron Zemo, you are most welcome,” you said as you dropped into a curtsey. You heard him turn and then a be-ringed hand appeared in front of your eyes, offering to help you back to your feet.
“Thank you for having me here, my lady,” he replied as you stood. “I have been intrigued to meet you ever since the King wrote to me about your situation.”
You took in his features as he smiled gently at you. He had warm hazel eyes, straight, mid-brown hair that lay across his brow, and was clean shaven. He was slightly taller than you, but not by much and you pushed away the rogue thought about how King James virtually towered over you.
“Shall we sit and dine, and hopefully get to know one another better, sir?” you suggested.
“You’ve read my mind, my dear. There is nothing like good food, good wine, and good conversation, is there?” The Baron walked you over to the small dining table that had been set up and assisted you into your seat, and you felt like a grand lady.
The next two hours passed by amenably. The Baron was eloquent and charming, and when he found out that you spoke other languages he insisted on conversing with you in them, gently correcting your pronunciation and helping you when a particular word or phrase was outside your knowledge. At the end of the meal you were full, warm and a little tipsy from the wine - it wasn’t in your nature to imbibe often.
“Maybe,” Zemo suggested, “we should take a turn about the gardens? A walk in the cool night air would probably help aid digestion. What do you think, my lady?”
“I think that would be delightful.” You allowed him to help you with your chair once more and when you stumbled he linked your arm into his and walked you outside, away from the guards and servants who’d been present in the solar with you.
The garden was illuminated with lanterns in addition to the lights from the solar, and the pair of you walked companionably along the pathways. So far he’d done nothing to worry you, and hadn’t been at all standoffish. You would have to give serious thought into accepting his suit, especially as you were unlikely to receive better. The problem with being the last to be situated was that it also meant that your options for a suitable marriage were narrower.
“You’re awfully quiet, my dear. What’s going through that beautiful head of yours?” You ducked your head at the compliment and couldn’t help but smile.
“In all honesty, my lord? I was thinking about how lovely this evening has been. I will admit to some trepidation, which I’m sure you can forgive me for. Things like this are all too new for me.”
“No forgiveness needed,” he said with a smile, one much wider than those he’d displayed earlier and you felt your heart pick up in your chest, although you couldn’t immediately say why. “It’s completely understandable. But can I say that you have vastly surpassed my expectations. The information given to me about you greatly downplayed your beauty and intelligence. And, if I may be so bold, I find myself captivated.”
You felt your cheeks warm, but you also felt a little uncomfortable, at his zealousness. Or maybe it was the wine? “That is kind of you to say, sir. However, I’m finding myself getting a little chilled. Maybe we should return inside?”
With a swiftness that startled you, the Baron took hold of your shoulders and steered you backwards until you came into contact with the wall. You gasped in shock at both the impact and his change in demeanour.
“Maybe I can find a way to warm you up?” He quipped before his lips came down onto yours, his tongue thrusting into your mouth and one hand falling to your leg, inching your skirts upwards. You tore your mouth from his and turned your head, but his lips just zeroed in on your throat instead, sucking and nipping.
“Sir! Get off me!” You tried to push him, but his bulk had you pinned. His questing hand breached the hem of your skirts and he started to grope at your thigh, and his lips trailed further down to the neckline of your dress. “I said get off!”
The Baron raised his head and stilled his hand, but didn’t move away. “Surely you must miss this? The touch of a man. And think how much better it will be with someone who is younger and knows how to please a woman.”
“I miss it less than you think,” you ground out between clenched teeth. “And I did not ask you for this. Let me go.”
He smiled predatorily and slid his hand up to cup your mound over your underwear. “Did you really think I would offer for you without seeing if you had all the necessary attributes I’m looking for. I need an heir, and intelligence and beauty can’t provide that. And let’s face it, it’s not as though you’re a missish virgin keeping herself pure for her wedding night.”
His hand started to tug at your underthings and you closed your eyes tight as fear started to take over. However, just as you felt the first touch of his fingers on your intimate flesh his weight was suddenly gone.
“I believe the lady said no, Baron Zemo.”
Your eyes shot open, and there was King James, standing between you and the Baron, who was now sprawled on the ground. The dim light of the lanterns partially lit his face and that, combined with his expression, made him look like an avenging angel. Then he turned towards you and his expression softened.
“Are you alright, my lady?”
Without the Baron’s hands on you, your skirts fell back to your ankles and you pushed yourself away from the wall to stand.
You nodded and gave a little cough to clear your throat. “I’m fine, Your Majesty.”
The Baron scrambled to his feet and brushed the dust and gravel from his coat.
“Just a little misunderstanding between my fianceé and myself, Your Majesty. No harm done,” he said, his voice smooth and oily.
You took a step forward, your body trembling with anger. “I don’t believe that I’ve accepted your suit, sir. And after that display of ungentlemanly conduct I am now fully disinclined to do so.”
The Baron’s eyes snapped to yours, narrowing and he let his facade fully drop away. “Be quiet, whore. Who else would have you? You’re used goods, even if the one who did the using was the former King. You should be grateful I’m even considering you.”
You shifted, intending to step forward again and slap him, but the King held out his hand stopping you.
“You are out of line, Baron. No matter her history, the lady is still just that. A lady. And how you treat her is tells me that, despite your title, you are no gentleman.” His voice was steady, but you could pick up the undercurrent of rage - could see it in the way he was holding himself and the tick in his jaw.
Baron Zemo let out a bark of laughter, apparently oblivious to the danger he was in. “My dear James, I cannot believe how much you are defending one of your fathers handmaidens. She was obtained by him for one purpose, but you think it’s unreasonable for me to see if she lives up to that purpose before I marry her.” He peered at the King, then his eyes widened as though he’d made a startling revelation. “Do I sense some jealousy raising its head here?” He laughed again. “I should have realised there was a reason you kept her until last. Of course - she’s your whore as…”
He didn’t get to finish his vile words, because King James’ arm snapped out and he punched the Baron right on the jaw, then watched impassively as the man crumpled back to the ground. Then, just as suddenly, he turned towards you fully and without a word scooped you up into his arms. You squeaked and threw your arms around his neck as he walked briskly back towards the solar. As he made his way inside, the guards stood to attention but didn’t turn to look at you, however, you still hid your face in his neck from embarrassment.
“There’s some filth in the garden to be sent packing.” The King’s voice rumbled in your ear as he spoke to the guards, and then he was turning with you in his arms and striding down the corridor that led to the private chambers.
“Which one?” he asked gruffly, and you uncurled from his chest slightly so you could point. He shouldered your door open and then kicked it shut before letting you down, your body sliding over his as he did so.
You looked up at him, eyes wide and heart racing, not even noticing that your hands still rested on the slope of his chest and that his hands were still on your waist.
“You’re sure you're alright?” he queried again, looking down at you with concern.
“Absolutely. You stopped him. You…” You started to shake then as you realised how close you’d come to real harm. Without a word, the king steered you over to the edge of your bed and you both sat down, your small hands held in his larger ones, one of his thumbs rubbing over the delicate skin near your knuckles.
“Just breathe, my lady. You’ve had a shock. I’m glad I was there…” he stopped mid-sentence and freed one of his hands to turn your head and bare your neck to him. You swore you heard him growl. “He marked you. I’m going to kill him.”
You took hold of his wrist and pulled it down so you could turn back to face him. “It’s nothing. Really. It will fade and in a few days it’ll be a memory. Then we can try again.”
He peered at you, confused.
“Try and find me a husband,” you clarified and then smiled in an effort to lighten the atmosphere in the room.
“No.” King James pulled himself away sharply and stood, his back to you.
Now you were the one who was confused. “What do you mean,’No’? ‘No’ to a few days or ‘No’ to a husband? I don’t understand.”
“Either. Both,” he snapped, still not turning around.
“Alright,” you replied. “We’ll find me somewhere to live, then. Discuss a suitable stipend amount like Master Coulson did with some of the others who refused a husband.”
“Not that, either.” He ground the words out and you felt your patience waning, frustration overtaking your confusion. You stood up and stepped closer.
“So no husband and no stipend. What are you suggesting? That I just leave?” You couldn’t keep the hysterical note from your voice.
He spun on his heel and moved into your personal space, just as the Baron had done only a few minutes ago. However you didn’t feel anxious or uncomfortable, and the warm feeling inside you was back, despite your anger at how contrary he was being.
“Not at all,” he said quietly, his eyes trained on you.
On your face.
On your lips.
“I thought you wanted me out of here. You don’t want any concubines, remember?” You arched your eyebrow, challenging him.
He leant forwards and your breath caught in your throat, his stormy eyes now all you could see.
“I still don’t,” he murmured and then pressed his lips to yours.
This kiss was entirely different to the Baron’s assault. It was soft and gentle. Coaxing, not claiming. The King’s hands came up to cup your face and you curled your own into the front of his jacket. The heat within you rose in intensity and you kissed him back, opening your mouth and letting him in. He moaned when you did, one hand sliding to your hair and the other to the small of your back, pulling you close to him. You could feel the evidence of his arousal, but it didn’t scare you. In fact it thrilled you. It was all the deepest thoughts you’d kept to yourself come to life, and they took you over.
Your nimble fingers worked the buttons of his jacket and as they came undone the King let go of you to shuck it off. That was followed quickly by his cravat and waistcoat, thrown without care across your room, and then he pulled his shirt free of his trousers and toed off his shoes. He took you back in his embrace then, kissing you with more passion and your hands found their way under his shirt, stroking across the hard planes of his chest. He nipped at your lower lip in retaliation and you gasped as the brief stinging shot to your core.
“Tell me you want this,” he breathed into your mouth.
“I do,” you whispered back. You’d never been as sure of anything as you were now - consequences be damned. They were a problem for tomorrow.
Part of Bucky couldn’t believe what he was doing, because he really shouldn’t be doing it. He was a King and should be the better person. But, oh, how he wanted to be selfish for once and slake this longing he had for you.
He hadn’t been able to stop himself from coming to see how you and the Baron were getting on, partially to assuage his guilt and partially to torture himself. When he’d found you both absent from the solar, one of the guards had told him you’d gone for a walk together. As he’d stepped outside and neither of you had been in the closer part of the garden a sense of unease had washed over him. Then he’d heard you shout and raced around a corner to see you pushing at the Baron as he held you against the wall, trying to violate you.
He’d barely been able to restrain himself when he saw that, only daring to separate you and check that you were alright. But then the Baron had started to spew his hurtful, cruel words and his resolve had crumbled. He’d had to make sure you were safe. He’d needed it like air.
Upon getting you inside, he’d told himself that he would just double check that you were alright and then leave, but then he’d seen the bruise on your neck and you’d tried to placate him with talk of trying to find a new suitor and he’d lost any sense of decorum.
There would be no other husband, no grand house and pension, because you were his. You were his oxygen - his sunlight. His joy and his misery and his desire all rolled into one. So he’d kissed you, almost no better than the Baron, but then you’d kissed him back. Clung to him. You’d made it plain that you wanted him too, first with your actions and then your words.
Mentally calling himself a fool, Bucky spun you around and tugged at the closure of your dress, the multitude of tiny buttons that held it together flying across the room. He didn’t care, though. He could buy you a new dress. A thousand new dresses. He eased the open neckline over your shoulders and pushed the multiple layers of silk down your frame. Taking your hand, he helped you step out of the froth of fabric and you kicked off your slippers at the same time with a giggle that shot through him like a bolt of lightning.
Bucky pulled you back to him with a groan and walked you towards the bed, laughing with you when you both tumbled onto it with a bounce. Your hands, so small and delicate, found his chest again, and he lent up and pulled his shirt over his head, watching you as your eyes darkened with desire as you took in what you saw. You traced your fingers over the definition of his abdominals and pectorals and Bucky shivered.
“I want you, Your Majesty.” Your voice was low and breathy, and fuck did he just want to bury himself in you. Feast on you.
“Bucky,” he rasped. “Call me Bucky. There is no King here tonight.”
You came back together, kissing and touching and through it you both messily and awkwardly helped each other remove the rest of the clothes that separated you. As soon as your breasts were bared to him, Bucky couldn’t hold back, latching onto your puckered nipples, one after the other, drawing squeaks and moans from you, more intoxicating than any sounds he’d imagined in his private imaginings.
His right hand skirted down your body, finding its way between your legs and you opened for him. He moaned around breast as he found your wetness and began to toy with you. Bucky teased your clit and stroked your folds, captivated by how more arousal spilled from you. When he slid a testing finger into you, you gripped his hair and arched into his hand, your soft mewl turning to a strangled gasp and he felt undeniably powerful, a small part of him, one he didn’t want to really acknowledge, feeling as though he was competing with the memory of his father. He was determined to erase it. After tonight there would only be him.
When Bucky added a second finger into your warm channel and circled his thumb on your clit, you whimpered his name. Not ‘Your Majesty’ or ‘Sire’, but ‘Bucky’ as he’d asked you. He lifted his head and rose back up your body, capturing your lips and swallowing your cries as he drove you higher and higher. Your hands now clutched his shoulders, your short, manicured nails digging into him, using him as an anchor, lest you float away into the ether. He felt your body quiver beneath him as you neared the precipice of your pleasure and then the next second you were tumbling over it, your body spasming around his fingers, your mouth drawing all the oxygen from his lungs into your own.
Bucky kissed you through it, slowing his hand before pulling it away slowly. He shifted on the bed, kneeling between your limp legs, and as you watched him with hooded, lust filled eyes, he brought his fingers to his mouth and tasted your essence. He groaned as he did so, promising himself that he would drink directly from your source soon, but he couldn’t hold back his desire to fully claim you any longer.
As his hand dropped to his cock, your eyes followed it, and you took your first real look at him. He couldn’t help but smile as your eyes widened and you tentatively raised your own hand towards his erection. He took hold of it and wrapped it around his length, marvelling at how your fingers didn’t meet. Your gaze flicked between his face and his cock, unsure which you wanted to watch. However, after a few minutes it was too torturous, and he repositioned himself to kiss you again and run his cock between your wet folds. Your hips rolled beneath him as you let out small whimpers of need and desire and he couldn’t hold back any longer.
Bucky reached between you, lined himself up and sank into your warmth.
The cry of ecstasy you let out caught him by surprise and he looked down into your eyes. The truth shone out of them as you pulled in breath after ragged breath, your body struggling to adjust to his size, despite what he’d done to you only minutes before. He couldn’t really process it, but an animalistic part of him howled in pleasure at the realisation that you’d been untouched and consumed any remaining restraint.
Bucky snapped his hips, watching in awe as your eyes rolled in your head and the breath was pushed from your lungs. It was an addictive sight and he thrust into you again and again, unable to stop, needing to see your reaction. You clutched his biceps as he braced himself, your head thrown back and he never wanted to see you any other way - debauched and ruined on his cock.
“God, you’re so fucking beautiful. Can you touch yourself for me, sweetheart?”
You mumbled incoherently but did as he’d asked, your hand moving between you, and Bucky knew when you’d found your centre from the way you clenched around him. He groaned at the sensation and let it spur him on. He dipped his hips, changing the angle of his thrusts and when you let out a wail he knew he’d found the right spot.
“That’s it, beautiful. Come apart for me. Come on my cock.”
You screamed and spasmed around him and his rational brain knew he should pull out and spill himself over the sheets, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t not have this. He cried out, throwing back his own head, and surrendered to the inevitable.
It took you a while to come back to yourself, because what you’d just experience was so different from what you’d been told about. The King - Bucky - was cuddled up behind you, his arms holding you close and his nose pressed into your hair, dozing. You turned in his embrace and his long, dark eyelashes fluttered open.
“Hi,” you breathed cautiously, unsure of how you should be acting. However, when he softly smiled at you, you felt your heart leap inside your chest.
“Hello, yourself.” He dropped a gentle kiss to your lips and you smiled in return and relaxed. He was obviously content to stay in your private, intimate bubble for at least a short time more and you were more than happy to indulge him. You didn’t want to think about how you’d feel when this ended, it would hurt too much.
Pushing yourself up onto one elbow you looked down at him and idly traced invisible designs across his chest with your finger tip.
“So, Bucky, huh? Where does that come from?”
He chuckled at your teasing tone. “From my sister, Princess Rebecca. Or as I call her, Becca-Boo or Sprout. My second name is Buchanan, and when she was learning to talk she couldn’t say it. Whenever she said ‘Bucky’ it would make me laugh, so she kept doing it and then refused to call me anything else. Then my mother picked it up, because if she called me James, Becca would stamp her foot and tell her off. And I liked it. It helped me separate the two parts of myself - Bucky, the normal man with normal wants, desires and hobbies etcetera, and James, heir to the throne, with duties and responsibilities who has to keep himself apart from those around him.”
There was a melancholy tone to his words, and you couldn’t help but bend down and press a light kiss to his lips. “Well I like Bucky.”
He brought his hand up to the nape of your neck, returning the kiss, and you wished that reality could just stay firmly outside for the rest of time.
When Bucky broke the kiss, he looked up at you with searching eyes.
“Why didn’t you say anything?” he asked quietly and you immediately knew what he was talking about. You shrugged one shoulder.
“Does it matter? Would it have changed what just happened between us? Would you have thought differently of me?”
“No, it wouldn’t have changed what just happened, but I won’t lie and say I wouldn’t have treated you differently. I thought harshly of you, driven by jealousy. How could I allow myself to like you, desire you, when you had lain with my father? I was jealous of a ghost for having claimed you first, and I hated myself for feeling that way. That was why I acted coldly to you when we conversed in the solar. What you said. You made it sound as if you’d enjoyed being with him and ugly thoughts filled my head.” Bucky’s brow furrowed as he spoke and you itched to smooth out the lines that formed there.
“Well, it isn’t really the done thing to speak out loud about the King’s impotence,” you pointed out. “Especially with his own son. I was trying to answer truthfully, but without going into detail. And I suppose I did enjoy spending time with him. He may not have been the type of father you wished, or the husband your mother wanted, but he was still a man. We’d talk, mostly. I like to think that I gave him some comfort and companionship. I can’t say that I’m unhappy about the way things turned out.” You looked at him coyly from under your lashes and he laughed.
“You liked being claimed by me? You wanton wretch,” he teased.
“It was definitely different, and much better, than what I’d been led to believe.” He growled playfully, and in one deft move rose up and pushed you back to the mattress, caging you in with his arms. You brought your hand up and brushed the back of it over his cheek. “If I’m going to be a concubine, I’m glad that I’m yours.”
At your words, Bucky reared back, as if you’d slapped him and you immediately started to apologise. “I’m sorry, Sire. I shouldn’t have presumed…” Shame and guilt washed over you at how far you’d sunk into your daydream, and you fought your way out of the sheets. Rising from the bed, you found your shift in the heap of clothing on the floor and pulled it over your head. “I will leave you to your dressing and wait for instructions from Master Coulson later.” You bobbed a curtsey and turned toward the door, your hand reaching for the handle, eager to put space between you.
“Stop!” His command made you freeze mid step, your arm lowering back to your side. In a moment he was behind you, his hands firmly gripping your upper arms.
“You are not my concubine. I never wanted one, and I won’t start now.” He spun you, and when you didn’t raise your head, staring instead at a freckle near his collarbone, he tucked a finger under your chin and made you look at him. “You deserve more than that, my darling.” His tone softened. “You will be my wife. That is, if you will have me?”
You looked at him in shock. “What? How can I be your wife? You are the King and I am, well, just me.”
“And as the King, I can do what I want. And for anyone who gets pedantic about your previous status, there is precedent. Concubines have been turned into Queens before.”
You pulled yourself from his hold, raising your arms up in confusion. “You do not need to speak of marriage, just because you have bedded me and do not want a concubine.”
“This is not solely because we have lain together, sweet fool. I love you.”
His words made you stop and you wondered if you’d misheard, but he continued.
“I fear I have done since I first laid eyes on you. And I just hope that maybe you can learn to love me too. Bucky, that is. Not just James, your King.” He reached out imploringly toward you. You looked back at him and then at his hand, before accepting it as you stepped forward, a broad smile making its way across your face.
“Learn to love you? That implies that I don’t already. How could I not, even if you were being grumpy and contrary.”
He wrapped you up in his embrace and looked down at you, eyes full of mischief. “Contrary? Is that anyway to speak to your King?”
“It is how a Queen speaks to her husband,” you joked back.
“Is that so? Then I must make you my Queen as soon as possible.” He closed the remaining distance between you, kissing you with vigour before lifting you and returning you both to the bed.
“However, nothing can be done until tomorrow. Whatever shall we do until then?” he drawled with mock innocence.
“I have a few ideas, Your Majesty,” you replied, mimicking his tone.
He shook his head. “Bucky, remember?”
“Bucky,” you agreed.
The End
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𝐀 𝐅𝐀𝐓𝐀𝐋 𝐇𝐀𝐁𝐈𝐓
𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: growing worried about the degree of your nail biting habit, nico ignores the advice of his boyfriend and takes matters into his own hands.
𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: nico di angelo x platonic!gn!reader
𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭:: 1.7k
𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭: a curse word i think, nail biting
Agitated was the only word to express how Nico Di Angelo felt, watching as you picked at the hangnail currently torturing you. The two of you were sitting in a mythos lesson at Camp Halfblood, but neither of you were listening.
While you were focused on getting rid of this hangnail—biting off half your nail in the process—Nico gritted his teeth as he observed the horrible nervous habit of yours. Finally, he had enough, and swiped your wrist away from your face.
His glare was firmly planted on your face. “Stop. You could get an infection that way.” He retreated into his seat beside you, slouching over. “Plus, its gotta hurt like a devil.”
You shrugged in reply as you tucked your hands in your hoodie pocket to keep them away from your mouth. “Eh. It does. Can’t help it though.”
“I know,” your best friend said through a sigh, a tiny grin sipping across his pale face.
“Besides, I won’t actually get an infection from biting my nails, Nico.”
His brows rose just slightly. “How do you know?”
“Because,” you snapped back, messing with your nails in the confines of your pocket now, waiting for when Nico was gone to finish evening them out. “That’s stupid.”
He scoffed and looked away. “Go ask Will, and he’ll tell you it’s not.”
“He’s biased.”
“How?”
It only took one look, one raise of your brows, and the boy’s pale face was flushed as he shoved your shoulder. “Shut up.”
“I didn’t say anything,” you laugh, and the discussion was over. For now, at least. If anything, you’d only made Nico even more determined to prove you wrong.
He understood, of course. You really couldn’t help it. But he wanted to help you, at the very least, and if that meant scaring you into kicking the habit, so be it.
“Could you talk to them about it?” he asked—begged—Will. He was practically chasing his boyfriend around the infirmary, ranting about his deep rooted worry for their mutual friend.
Will was being patient, or, he was really trying to be, but with the previous day’s Capture the Flag game gone awry, and every bed in the infirmary holding a whining little shit camper, Nico was really testing him.
“Nico,” Will finally said, leading him into the supply room and away from the gossiping ears of those around. “I’ll talk to them, but I think you should too.”
“I have been–”
“I mean talk to them and listen too.” Will silenced Nico with a look, pursing his lips as he chose the right words. “Have another conversation about it, okay?”
Nico wanted to ask again, but anytime he brought it up, you just shut down and found an excuse to leave. Weeks went by, and Nico’s worry got the better of him. He decided to take matters into his own hands, much to the exhaustion of Will.
Coming out of the shadows, Nico entered into the throne room of Hades. The place was dim, torches alighting the walls just enough for him to make out the pillars and, most importantly, the three thorns at the end of the ling chamber.
Each throne was empty, but someone was there. He felt them, their presence, somewhere nearby. Scanning the area, Nico zeroed in on the archway leading out to the palace gardens, where all the beloved plants of the Queen were grown. Bingo.
Nico slinked outside, setting eyes on a pallidly beautiful woman tending to a patch of black roses. Her back was to him, but instantly, she rose from her knees and turned, her gaze burning into him with a malice.
Nico halted a few feet from her, hands stuffed in his hoodie pockets and his hair falling into his face. “Hey.”
Persephone looked down her nose at him. “Bastard son.” A subtle smile settled on her face. “About time you came home.”
He shrugged. “Haven’t had time, you know? Anyway, is Dad around?”
With a light scoff the Queen of the Underworld twirled her hand, sending black roots to wrap around Nico’s ankles. “No time for your stepmother? Typical. I give you and that nice Apollo boy gifts every birthday, and this is the thanks I get?”
Nico chuckled as he shook the roots off and said, “Sorry, I just have something really important I need from him.”
“Fine,” Persephone snapped. “Hades!”
A moment later Nico’s father stepped out of the shadows, frustration seeping off of him. He gritted out, “Yes, my love?”
Persephone pointed to Nico, who waved weakly when his father’s eyes found him. “Oh. Hello, boy. What do you need?”
Nico looked out of the garden, and in the distance he could see the Fields of Asphodel. “How many people have died from biting their nails?”
“Honestly,” said Hades as he and his son approached the fields, shades parting for them as they went. “To think I can just tell you off the top of my head is ridiculous. Do you have any idea how many have died?”
Nico gave him a look. “Are you going to tell me?”
“No, because it’s impossible,” snapped Hades. “You can have your look around. Surely someone fits your description.”
Nico raised his brows. “No way I’m doing this alone. You see how big this place is?”
Sighing, Hades gave his son a withered look, before bellowed, “Come forth those who have died of... What was it?”
“Nail biting.”
Hades paused, questioned his immortal life choices, and continued, “Those who have died of nail biting!”
To Nico’s surprise, around thirty shades stepped forward. Hades stuck around for the time being, having the shades stand in single file as Nico interviewed them one by one.
By the time Hades grew bored and his departure inspired the scattering of the shades, Nico had what he needed, and promptly dragged a ghost to the Overworld.
“Brooklynn,” he called for you, walking into the Big House where you’d been filing papers for Chiron--for a price, of course. This wasn’t free labour.
You smiled at him. “Sup.”
Nico was nervous about something, you noticed quickly, abandoning your work for a moment to see why he was fidgeting with the end of his jacket. “You okay?”
“Oh, yeah,” he assured. “I just had something to show you.”
As you stood there waiting, Nico called out for someone, but instead of entering through the door, they just materialized out of thin air. Startled, you simply looked from the shade to your best friend. “Who’s this?”
“Oh,” Nico blanked. “I never asked.”
“I–I’m Jim, Your Highness” said the terrified shade.
Nico nodded. “Right, this is Jim.”
Confused beyond all else, you screwed your brows together and just stared at him. “Nico, what is this?”
“An intervention,” he put simply, turning on the shade with shary eyes. “Jim, tell Y/N why you’re dead.”
“Nico!” you seethed.
The shade—Jim—shook his head hurriedly. “No, it’s no trouble, Your Highness. I–well, I–I died of a heart attack.”
Impatient, Nico waved him on. “Caused by…”
“Oh, uhm, it was septicemia.” At my puzzled look, Jim elaborated. “A blood infection.”
Nico still wasn’t satisfied, rolling his eyes and urging, “And how’d you get it, Jim?”
The gloomy shade glanced down at his hands, holding them up and saying, “Well, I had a nervous habit. Bit my nails down to the nub every day. I guess I caught something ‘cause of the constant open wounds.”
Now it all made sense. With your eyes locked on the shade, you became conscious that you were picking at a hangnail on your thumb as you stood there, peeling away skin and opening a fresh cut. “Oh.”
“See,” said Nico cheerfully, trying to clap Jim on the back, but his hand only passed through the shade. “Told you. You can die from biting your nails.”
The longer you said nothing, and the longer you stared into space, the more uncomfortable Nico got. He glanced over and locked eyes with Jim, who offered a shrug in reply. Nico sighed. “You’re dismissed.”
And the shade faded as quickly as he’d arrived, leaving only Nico and you. He rocked on his heels, watching you carefully. “Y/N?”
As his hand reache dout to poke you back to life, you swatted him away and did just that, but you weren’t as grateful as Nico had hoped you’d be. Instead, your eyes were narrowed and your fists were tight at your sides. “Nico, what the fuck?”
“I–” he stammered. “I thought this would help. Motivation to stop…”
“It didn’t,” you snapped, voice cracking. Nico’s breath hitched; your eyes were red and your chin shook. What had he done wrong?
“I… I don’t get it.”
You held up your hand, littered in Bluey bandaids fresh from Will’s kit. “I can’t stop, Nico. I’ve tried.”
Try harder, he thought, but didn’t say. “I–I’m sorry. I thought I was helping.”
“Helping would be leaving me alone,” you said slowly, swallowing thickly.
Now, Nico wasn’t great at this comfort thing, but he knew one thing for certain: leaving was mostly never the right call. Will had taught him that. Talk to them and listen too. “Y/N, I really am sorry.”
Your eyes didn’t meet his, shame crawling up your neck as you hid your hands in your hoodie pockets. “Yeah, I know. I know. Just… leave it, okay?”
“Okay…”
He didn’t bring it up again. He was always too scared of hurting you to do that. Instead, he listened, and watched for when your fingers were particularly more wounded than usual.
Nico made sure there was always a fun box of bandaids in your cabin, and he knew the Paw Patrol and Strawberry Shortcake ones were your favorite. You were never out of neosporin, and new shades of nail polish showed up on your nightstand every once in a while.
And though you never said anything about it, you were grateful, and you liked how he smiled when you painted your nails and got them to grow out a bit before it chipped away and the cycle restarted.
Occasionally, a joke about a man named Jim will come up, first by you of course, and Nico could only stand locking eyes with you for two seconds before he keeled over laughing. No one else understands, and neither of you care to explain.
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18) waking up with amnesia au pretty please! I was delighted with how many of the prompts you've already done, it was a really fun bingo!
Best friends sibling = band au
knocking on the wrong door = actually name of the fic
Nanny/single parent au = Nannykin
Etc etc etc!
hello hello this was sent january 10!! hope you still want some waking up with amnesia au! this just demonstrates how long i can hold onto a prompt i have every intention of completing
(from this prompt list) (& this is the waking up with amnesia au prompt fill i did a few years ago when i first reblogged that prompt list!)
(3.5k)
(warnings: angst but not incredibly sad. more like. here there lies some future manipulation/mind fuckery because of angst established in this ficlet but not resolved in this ficlet but would be in the future)
(also warning: vader)
It is somehow both the hardest and easiest part of the day, every time.
It is easy to let his feet turn in the direction they beg to go during all his waking seconds. It is easy to allow them to lead the way. It feels as if a great and crushing weight has been lifted from his shoulders the moment that he sees the pillars standing sentry at the entrance of the Halls of Healing. It is so easy to give into his body’s desire to allow it to find its other half.
It is almost harder to stay away, to pretend to be the respectful and poised Jedi master he masquerades as during those long moments of the day that he is not by Anakin’s side.
But what is infinitely harder than journeying there or keeping his distance is arriving. Is what waits for him within the Halls.
“How is he today?” he asks the moment he sees a healer—it does not matter which one these days. They must all know him by now, know the series of questions he demands answers to.
This time, the man he finds is healer Ramak, at least, one of the primary specialists on Anakin’s case. Rarely can Obi-Wan corner him. Ramak is incredibly busy both within the Temple and outside of it. He has numerous priorities.
Obi-Wan really only has one priority. Often this puts them at odds.
“Ah,” Ramak says, adjusting his robes. “Master Kenobi, hello.”
“Yes, hello,” Obi-Wan says. And then, “How is he today?” In case Ramak has missed his question.
“He is much the same, Master Kenobi,” Ramak replies. “As he was yesterday.”
Obi-Wan swallows. The words get stuck in his throat for a moment and he has to force them up past his teeth. “What does…what has he remembered?”
Healer Ramak’s face slides from reluctantly indulgent to pitying. It would grate against Obi-Wan’s rather impressive sense of pride if he did not already know exactly how pitiful he is.
“Memories are not stored within the mind chronologically, Master Kenobi,” Ramak says carefully. Obi-Wan has heard this before. Obi-Wan could recite this speech.
Obi-Wan listens to it silently anyway. Perhaps this time, Ramak will find the correct combination of words to explain his loss to him in terms he can understand. “Uncovering them again is not simply a matter of starting from the beginning of his life and moving forwards. We cannot simply recover and present him with all of his memories from age nine, from age thirteen, to now.”
Obi-Wan can feel a muscle tick in his jaw and he crosses his arms. Another healer crosses behind him, jostles him in their hurry to get to another patient. Differing priorities.
But Obi-Wan only has one.
“It is like…” Ramak trails off, thinking. “Picture the rain. What do you think of?”
It is much too transparent, what Obi-Wan thinks of when he thinks of the rain. He thinks of Anakin as a youngling. The ashes of Qui-Gon’s body had not fully cooled before the skies of Naboo had broken open in a torrential downpour, and the boy, padawan braid that was both his and Obi-Wan’s newly weighing on his shoulder, had escaped from the palace in Theed, ran outside with arms raised up in wonder.
“When you think of rain, you do not recall your memories chronologically,” Ramak says kindly, as if he understands where Obi-Wan’s mind has gone. “That is to say, you do not immediately think of the first time you experienced it. Our minds store memories based on their significance to us, the meanings they hold for us, which makes mind-healing to this degree incredibly difficult. Not to mention, not only was Knight Skywalker stripped of his memories, tortured, and indoctrinated, he was held for several months. Long enough for new neural pathways to form, new connotations and memories to take the place of the ones he lost.”
“Master, please,” Obi-Wan says. When he holds up his hand to forestall the other man’s words, it is shaking slightly. “Please just tell me.”
Will he recognize me?
Will he hate me?
Will another day go by where he does not know me?
“He has a long way to go yet,” Ramak says finally, lifting his hand to stroke over his beard. “His time as Vader left scars—”
“His time captured,” Obi-Wan interrupts. “He was a hostage.”
Ramak looks at him. Anakin, kidnapped by the sith, without his memories, trained to be deadly and taught to Fall, was more than a hostage. They both know that. Everyone in the galaxy knows the dangers that Darth Vader represented to the Republic.
Very few know that Darth Vader was Anakin Skywalker. It had been a terrible surprise. It had been the sweetest sort of relief too, to find him at all.
“Yes,” Ramak finally allows. “His time as a hostage left innumerable scars, Obi-Wan. Even after he regains all his memories, he will have a long journey ahead of him.”
“How is he?” Obi-Wan repeats, even though it is rather rude to cut the healer off. “How is he today?”
Ramak hesitates for a moment and then another, and his Force signature tenses as if at war with itself. “He requested to see you,” he finally says. “We’re not sure that’s a good idea.”
Obi-Wan’s breath catches in his throat. The Jedi saved Anakin Skywalker from the Sith five weeks ago, and though Obi-Wan has spent each of those days trekking from his quarters to the Halls of Healing and back, accousting various healers and Council members alike, desperate for any information they can give him…he has not yet been able to sit beside Anakin. He has not been allowed to talk with him at all.
It is for the best. That is what he’s been told and that is what he must believe. It is for the best. Anakin does not remember him. He remembers the word master—he does not remember that he used to say the same word with respect. With affection. He does not remember Obi-Wan at all.
He remembers his master, Sidious. He remembers his master on Tatooine. He does not—Obi-Wan doesn’t understand why he cannot remember him.
Anakin has never once asked to see him.
“I want to see him,” Obi-Wan says immediately, turning towards the wing where they are keeping Anakin.
“Master Kenobi, it is not a good idea,” Ramak says, but it does not matter what they think is a good idea. It is what Anakin wants and it has been so long since Obi-Wan has been something Anakin wants.
Something of what he’s feeling must flash across his face, because the healer sighs and rubs at his forehead as if he finds the whole ordeal incredibly trying.
“I will not hurt him,” Obi-Wan says quickly, and Ramak shakes his head, dropping his arms to his sides.
“That is not the concern, Master,” he replies, but his shoulders have slumped. His forehead is wrinkled, but his Force signature has relaxed. He has given in. Obi-Wan has won. “I—”
But Obi-Wan has won. And so he has already stepped away, intent now on seeing his padawan. He leaves the healer behind where he stands, pushing through the doors of the wing and finally—finally to Anakin’s room.
He’d been so volatile at first, when he was still Vader. The Jedi rescuing him probably felt more like being captured. Without his memories of the Order, of the Temple, of Obi-Wan, he’d Fallen so quickly as far as anyone knows. Sidious had taken him and twisted him and when he was found again, he’d fully believed in the Sith doctrine. He’d killed two Jedi before he was subdued.
So when he’d been brought into the Temple, into the Halls of Healing, they’d outfitted him with Force suppression cuffs. Given him his own room in order to protect the other patients.
Obi-Wan knows he still wears the Force bracelets and collar, but there’s knowing and then there’s seeing.
The seeing part takes his breath away. It looks so wrong, Anakin, his Anakin, wearing the cuffs and the collar.
Anakin, his Anakin, with yellow eyes watching him intently from the moment he enters the room.
“Anakin,” he murmurs, a reflex. The sounds are punched out of him.
He is thinner. His hair is greasy. There are dark shadows under his eyes. The skin around the collar is red, rubbed raw. He looks a thousand times older. Guant and hollowed out as if the captivity and the Darkness has leached away all of his youthful energy.
“Master,” Anakin says reproachfully. And it sounds—it sounds so much like him, like Obi-Wan’s Anakin, that he has the rather ridiculous urge to cry. Master, master.
“How are you feeling?” Obi-Wan asks, though it is a useless sort of question. He isn’t sure what to do with his hands. What to do with his tongue. He suddenly cannot remember the last time he asked Anakin how he was feeling. It was never a phrase that was part of their lexicon—for so many years, they shared a training bond. Obi-Wan was able to ascertain his padawan’s emotions with a gentle Force touch across the planes of his mind. More often than not, he was telling Anakin to search his own feelings. He was not asking him to interpret them for Obi-Wan’s sake.
Now though, their bond is severed and Anakin does not recognize him as anything more than another Jedi, another man who he once called master, and Obi-Wan stands across the room from him and does not recognize him either, save for all the ways that he does.
“Surely they have been giving you updates,” Anakin murmurs. “I know you have visited every day.”
“Yes,” Obi-Wan says because he will not lie to Anakin. He doesn’t think he remembers how. It has been—so long. Since he has last seen him. It is all he can do to stay standing now. To keep a respectable distance between them. To not fall to his knees. To not stumble forward and take Anakin’s hand in his own.
“What have they told you?” Anakin asks, and he tilts his head slightly. His golden eyes are as disconcerting as they are beautiful. They’re his. They’re his eyes, set in his face, and Obi-Wan has missed that face for so long. For months. He’d thought he’d never see it again, and he is just now realizing that he has no defenses left against Anakin. None at all. The boy could ask him for anything and he would fight to the death to give it to him.
The Force is in flux in the air around them, bucking up, riled, in a way Obi-Wan usually interprets as danger. But the Force could be screaming a death knell and Obi-Wan, in this moment, would only be able to hear a sweet cry of wild joy.
Anakin, this is Anakin. This is his Anakin and he is here. Back—partially. Back, incompletely. But back. Obi-Wan…he’d stopped hoping he’d ever get him back.
Instead of answering his question, he presses the backs of his fingers against his mouth to try and stop their shaking. Every day he has walked here, accosted the healers, demanded to know the latest. And he has never once realized how incredibly difficult it would be to lay eyes on Anakin. How incredibly difficult it would be to maintain his composure, to hold himself in.
Anakin’s eyes glow gold, but Obi-Wan’s eyes are that of a starving man. All he can see is honey.
“Come here, master,” Anakin says, reproachful. “Did you not miss me?”
The words move him forward where his own feet could not. “Of course I did, Anakin,” Obi-Wan whispers. Hoarse, too hoarse. Too trembling and old, but it has been so many months. He had thought him lost forever. Dead and gone and one with the Force, and for the first time in his life, that had given him no comfort.
Anakin holds out his mechno hand, palm up, fingers slightly crooked. He’d built them that way on purpose, Obi-Wan remembers. At fourteen, he’d broken his index and middle finger in a duel, bones shattering under the blow of another padawan’s sabor. A lucky hit, an unlucky outcome. Though they’d healed near perfect due to bacta, they’d always remained slightly bent out of place. When he lost his arm to Dooku five years later, he’d fiddled with the replacement until the mech digits tilted the same familiar direction.
Obi-Wan stares at them, caught up in the tide of the memory.
Had Vader ever looked down at his mechno hand and wondered about the imperfection? Had he thought to fix it once he had the time? Had he spared a thought for the black spots in his memory, the cavernous gaps in his past?
His fingers fall to rest against the sensors of the mech tips. They’re sensitive enough that he can see Anakin shiver at the touch.
“Did you not miss me, master?” Anakin asks again, and his hand closes around Obi-Wan’s tightly, pulling him forward another few steps.
Obi-Wan nods, then shakes his head. Yes, he missed him. No, missing—missing is not a vast enough word.
“You asked for me,” he hears himself say. “Do you—what do you….”
Do you remember me?
You must. You call me master. And you want me close.
But they pulled the memories of the word master from your mind days ago, and you hated me then. You did not want me near you. What has changed? What have you remembered?
“I wonder if they would treat any patient like this,” Anakin says. He uses his hold on Obi-Wan to pull him even closer, til his thighs brush the edge of the bed. “If it is the war that makes me special, if it’s my own power. Or if it’s you.”
Obi-Wan tenses. Him? He doesn’t—
“They’ve tried everything they can think of to trigger my memories of you, Obi-Wan Kenobi,” Anakin says. When Obi-Wan tries to move back, take a step away, find the air in the room to breathe, Anakin tightens his hold and pulls him forward until the only option is to either topple over onto his padawan’s chest or sit on the bed at his hip.
He sits.
“They debated for many days, you know,” Anakin says. His mech thumb begins to sweep over the inside of Obi-Wan’s wrist. “If they should trigger the connections my mind has made to the word master. It’s a weighted word for Anakin Skywalker. Surely you know that.”
“I do,” Obi-Wan says carefully. When he tries to breathe, he can only do so shallowly as if his entire chest has shrunk to half its capacity.
“He was enslaved before he was a padawan,” Anakin explains as though Obi-Wan has not spoken at all. Maybe he hasn’t. For the past several months he has not been able to speak to Anakin aloud, could only talk with him in his mind—could never hear a reply. Perhaps he has forgotten how. “They were worried that after ten years studying under you, after two years fighting side by side with you, my strongest connotations to the word master would still be to slavery.”
Anakin ducks his head slightly, tilts it to the side to give Obi-Wan a small, private grin, as if the healers’ concerns are so unfounded that they are amusing. As if the concept that something could outweigh Obi-Wan’s importance to Anakin is so foreign and preposterous that it’s funny.
His smile knocks into Obi-Wan’s chest like a punch to the solar plexus.
“But they decided to risk it,” Anakin says. His voice is light as a feather. Airy and unconcerned. “Perhaps they should have started with smaller things. A light saber. A braid. A pear. A planet. But they wanted to re-establish my firmest conneciton to the Light as quickly as possible. And they thought that was you.”
Obi-Wan holds his breath, eyes leaping from their connected hands to the yellow of Anakin’s eyes. He has still fallen. He has not been healed. He is still—he is still—
“So they gave me back my masters,” Anakin pitches his voice low. “All of them, though I suppose I remember Sidious well enough. But they gave me back the Toydarian. And they gave me you.”
“They said you did not want to see me,” Obi-Wan whispers. “Why, Anakin, if you remember, why would you—”
“Because I hate you,” his padawan says as if it’s the easiest thing in the galaxy. “Because they could give me back Master Kenobi, but wherever Anakin Skywalker kept his love for you, it was not in your title. He hated your title.”
Obi-Wan flinches back so violently that his forearm slips from Anakin’s grasp. Before he can move from the bed completely though, his padawan’s hand lashes out and curls around the fabric of his tunics.
“No,” Obi-Wan says because he must deny this—he cannot stand to hear it and not deny it. No, Anakin—there was love there, in the way he pronounced the word master. The way he looked at Obi-Wan: admiration shining in his eyes when he was younger, cooling off over the years into acceptance and affection. They had their arguments. They had their—misunderstandings, but Anakin did not resent him for his role in his life as his old teacher. His master. “You’re wrong.”
“He hated it more than he hated his actual slave master,” Anakin murmurs. Lightly, airily. As if his words are not landing devastating blows on all of Obi-Wan’s softest spots. “Do you know why?”
“I don’t believe you,” Obi-Wan whispers because he doesn’t because he can’t. Because he’d have known. Because this is Anakin, this is his Anakin, but there are still cavernous dark spots and gaps in his mind. This is not entirely his Anakin. He is still missing things. Thousands upon thousands of memories and moments and learned contexts and—
“I think you know why,” Anakin says as if he has not spoken. Funny, as Obi-Wan had thought he was screaming.
“I assure you I do not,” he snaps, spitting the words out as quickly as he can so that his voice cannot break between the syllables.
“Because Anakin Skywalker believed til the day he died that if you had not been his master, you would have allowed him to kiss you. To take you. To be taken by you. Don’t you remember, Master Kenobi?”
Obi-Wan tears himself away from the bed, from the boy in it. Just a boy. Not a man. Not when he was seventeen and drunk for the first time, slinging his arms around Obi-Wan’s neck and pressing his face into his chest, whining and begging and pleading—and not when he was eighteen either, bold and staring at Obi-Wan's lips, not when he was nineteen, on the verge of his Knighting ceremony and demanding to be given into.
Just a boy, just his boy. But never—never anything else.
“Like I said,” Anakin but not Anakin murmurs. Anakin, but Vader too. “Wherever Anakin Skywalker kept his love for you, they have not yet been able to find it in my mind. I can only assume he loved you at all.”
Obi-Wan flicks his eyes over the familiar face, the beloved face. The stranger’s face. If it were anyone else sitting before him, he’d have a retort already on his tongue. He’d have raised his shields, gone on the offensive. There are few people left in the galaxy that can land a blow on him, and many have tried.
But this is not anyone. This is Anakin. This is his Anakin and this is something for which he has no defenses prepared.
“How ashamed did you make him feel for loving you, master?” Vader asks, tilting his head in cruel curiosity. “That he compressed all of it into something so small that a whole Temple of healers have been unable to find it?”
“Don’t call me that,” Obi-Wan snaps and this time he does not get the words off his tongue quick enough. His voice breaks in the middle of the demand, ribs cracking and parting to reveal the heart of him. “Not if—” not if you do not know what it means for him. For me. For us.
“Why not?” Vader says, and he raises his flesh hand to tuck a piece of greasy hair behind his head before allowing his fingers to fall to rest against his collarbone, ghosting against the Force suppression collar around his neck as if it’s a diamond encrusted necklace. “After all, am I not wearing your chains, master?”
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