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CHAPTER 27 of Blood Must Have Blood (AO3 links)

Links on tumblr; Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6, Chapter 7, Chapter 8, Chapter 9, Chapter 10, Chapter 11, Chapter 12, Chapter 13, Chapter 14, Chapter 15, Chapter 16, Chapter 17, Chapter 18, Chapter 19, Chapter 20, Chapter 21, Chapter 22, Chapter 23, Chapter 24, Chapter 25, Chapter 26

Summery of fic: Reader/Jess Harper has already survived abuse and sexual assault by stepbrother Nate Millers, but the reward was a prison sentence for murder at Litchfield penitentiary…

What happens when you/Jess come face to face with Nate’s old colleagues and friends, Correctional Officers Steve Rogers and James ‘Bucky’ Barnes, who both seem set on making you pay for your mistakes. Will you be able to survive it all over again?

Pairing (kinda): Steve Rogers x Reader, Bucky Barnes x Reader, Nate Millers (OMC) x Reader

Words: 8151

Warnings: DARK AU, dubcon/noncon elements, Dark!Bucky, Dark!Steve, implied sexual acts, sexual acts, mention of murder, mentions of death, mentions of violence, mentions of NC/SA and death, mentions of blood

You have been warned.

Chapter 27

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Sleep had done little to either one of the men in the case of forgiveness versus guilt. If it wasn’t for the aid of over-the-counter sleeping pills, neither one would have gotten any shuteye. Last night’s events, well, this night’s events, were still very present in their minds. They didn’t know which part ranked highest on the list of occupying thoughts, it all kind of muddled together.

Bucky knew he shouldn’t have searched for any of the videos or news regarding you, but he just couldn’t help it. He still had an hour or so before they needed to head to work, and he just couldn’t resist the temptation. Before long, he found himself several clips deep, fighting to hold back the anger. So far, he had seen Nate beat the shit out of you twice, his friends joining in once, and glimpses of a rape in the latest video. You looked quite young in a few, still in your teen years, which meant that the abusive relationship had lasted for several years and not just a short period of time. Not that it would be any better if that was the case, but still.

He had shut off his computer after seeing that last part, and gone outside to have a go at the punching bag they had hanging from a tree out in the garden. He was pounding away, punching the anger out with each hit. Minute after minute of punching left him breathless and sore, but he still wouldn’t cave. He had to get it all out. He had to tire his body and mind out enough so the guilt would stop. But no matter how hard, or how much he hit that sandbag, his shame wasn’t lessened.

Steve came walking out into the yard, wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt which seemed to be one size too small, clinging to his body like it was painted on. Bucky had shorts on, having already discarded his shirt inside, knowing it would just get sticky with sweat. The sun was beaming down on him, joining in the efforts of slicking his skin in salty pearls running down his chest and abs, bumping along the muscle and glistening in the light.

Bucky saw Steve approaching, but didn’t stop his defenseless fighting, exhaling loudly with each punch. Steve stopped not to far away from him, hands deep in his pockets as he just watched on.

“Unruly mind?” he asked, which was answered firstly by a loud huff.

“Could say that,” Bucky said breathlessly, but still wouldn’t give in.

Steve nodded at him, not expecting him to drop any time soon.

“You watched some clips too, I take it?” he asked in a somber tone, and Bucky perked an eyebrow at him. Of course, he wasn’t alone in his curiosity.

“A few,” he grunted, and gave a particular harsh punch.

Steve waited a beat, letting Bucky work out his frustration on the bag, lest risk it all being verbally directed at him. But when Bucky still wouldn’t stop, even when his punches started becoming erratic, unprecise and too quick for any accuracy, Steve stepped in between and grabbed the bag.

“Hey, stop, stop,” he said with a hand up, and Bucky backed off.

He still looked heated. He was shaking out his hands, kicking his feet about and breathing like he’d just ran a marathon. And that should not be the case for him after only a few minutes with a punching bag, no matter how hard the hits.

“Calm down,” Steve said in a low voice, trying not to sound too demeaning.

“Calm down?” Bucky mimicked, finding any offence he could. “How the fuck am I supposed to calm down, Steve? Huh?”

Steve didn’t say anything in response. He just waited for Bucky to get ahold of himself again, watching him pace back and forth, trying to reel himself in again. He managed it after a minute or so, and eventually stopped pacing.

“Okay,” he said, both to himself and Steve, as if to give the go-ahead for a lecture, which Steve was a master at.

Steve hadn’t come out to give Bucky a lecture though. He had come out just to be there, to find comfort for himself too, and not be so alone with what he was feeling. They were both going through the same thing, they were in this together so they might as well stick it out together.

Bucky started undoing the wrapping protecting his knuckles, drawing deep breaths to calm his racing heart as he spun the elastic around.

“At least you remembered to wrap your hands,” Steve pointed out, his tone now lighter.

Bucky raised a brow at his friend, before finding an amused scoff in himself.

“Imagine that,” he said, and jokingly threw the damp piece of elastic band right at Steve’s chest.

Steve couldn’t help the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, even letting out a small chuckle. This was their jargon. This was how they worked. It was both domestic and familiar, and therefore, comforting.

Instead of discarding of the damp cloth, he started wrapping the band around his own hand, testing the tightness of it. Bucky threw the other one at him once he was finished unwinding it, and went to stand to the side, hands on his hips as he drew a lungful of air to calm down.

“I tried to find some information on who leaked the footage,” Steve said as he wrapped the other hand. “Couldn’t find anything. Seems to be a mystery.”

Bucky nodded as he listened. He had wondered the same a few times, and still couldn’t understand how it even went missing in the first place. But there was about fuck-all he could do about it so…

“Give it time,” he said, and kicked a stick away. “I’m sure they will come to some sort of conclusion on the matter.”

Steve perked an eyebrow at his friend. Wasn’t like him to be the reasonable one of the two, yet here they were. He tied off the elastic by his wrist, and tested the tightness of his fist.

“You seem hopeful,” he said, and threw the first of many punches on the smooth surface.

“Gotta be, right? What do we have if we ain’t got hope?”

Steve stopped hitting the bag in front of him and looked befuddled at his friend where he stood. Bucky raised a questioning brow.

“What?” he said. “Isn’t that what they say? Carpe diem and all that shit?”

Steve couldn’t help but laugh at that, grabbing his chest even.

“Sure, sure,” he said through his chuckle. “Seize the day, my friend.”

Bucky knew Steve was mocking him, but laughter started brewing in his chest, and he just had to join in.

“Jerk,” he said, before nodding to the bag, which hung calm and still. “Come on! You’re gonna hit it, or what?”

Steve just shook his head with a smile, and started hitting the bag, landing hard punches. Both men liked the routine of it all, the familiarity. This wasn’t contaminated by everything that had happened, everything that they had done. Whether they were in a good mood or a bad mood, the bag was there to be punched. It was like having a live-in therapist.

Bucky waited a beat, letting the slap of Steve’s fist hitting the bag fill the silence for a moment or two, before he spoke.

“So, uh… Think anything’s changed now? I mean, after the apology and… whatnot.”

Steve quirked an eyebrow at him, and jerked his head sideways, but he didn’t stop his hits from still meeting the leather.

“Who knows?” he grunted. “I mean, the trust is pretty much shot, I doubt that’s gonna change. But… maybe she’ll be more comfortable around us? I don’t know.”

Even though he said it, Steve doubted any of it. How were you supposed to be comfortable around the men that hurt you so badly? It probably didn’t matter that they had said they were sorry. Break a plate and apologize, but that won’t put the plate back together. But he wanted to hope that it helped at least.

Bucky nodded slowly, still watching Steve.

“Yeah, maybe,” he said, but he didn’t sound as hopeful as before. “I never thought it was gonna end up like this.”

Steve stopped what he was doing, huffing and puffing with a few beads of sweat crowning his forehead.

“What was?”

“Our little… sexcapade,” he said through a snort. “You know, trying out the waters of that dom/sub thing. Never thought we’d both be so blind and not see what the fuck we were actually doing.”

It hurt to know that they had been so stupid and so delusional to the whole thing. They had wanted to try it out for quite some time, to really dominate someone, to take charge and maybe do a little hurting. To have someone be so utterly defenseless and submissive that she would just have to take what they were giving. But this was not that. The pain was supposed to heighten the pleasure. It was supposed to be playful in its seriousness. It was supposed to be a moment of control, the power of pleasure and pain, and the balance of the two.

But anger, hate and eagerness had seized their minds, and morphed what really happened into their fantasy. Placed all the pieces so it resembled domination, and not rape. They had let their want mix with their need for justification for Nate, and twisted and turned everything until all the pieces fit the puzzle. And your participation was simply demanded.

Steve sighed, deeply lost in what he was trying to hide from but couldn’t. How he had enjoyed certain parts, relished in them even, but was utterly disgusted by others. How could he say that out loud? That he simply whished it was consensual, but that the rest was welcomed. Would Bucky feel the same? Or would he think Steve was sick for feeling like that? Only one way to find out.

“Really should be something you discuss with a partner first, shouldn’t it?” he said, and threw a glance at Bucky, who nodded.

“Yeah. Shouldn’t be something you demand like that, something forced onto her. She should want it too, you know?”

Bucky was wearing his heart on his sleeve saying that, hoping that Steve wouldn’t find him repulsive for not completely hating what had taken place. He hoped Steve would feel the same, at least to some extent. They had discussed it a few times before after all, both sharing fantasies and ideas on the matter. Some which even took part in what they had done, like the cuffs, the manhandling, holding you down like that against the table, completely defenseless. But the tears and screams of terror, of fright, weren’t supposed to be there. At least not under those circumstances.

Steve nodded slowly, treading carefully.

“It was kind of a rush, wasn’t it? The power of it. The violence. If you take out all the bad parts. Even though we overdid it…”

Now it was Bucky’s turn to nod nervously.

“Yeah, it was,” he said. “Imagine how it would have been had she enjoyed it too.”

Both stood there, silent. If not for the wind rustling the leaves of the trees, it would be quiet as the grave. The mood was a bit tense, but not entirely. There were elements of apprehension, of doubt and uncertainty mixed in there.

“I just hate that it wasn’t consensual, you know,” Steve said, finally breaking the silence. “That we hurt her like that, that we… I don’t know. Broke her?”

Shame got mixed into everything as well, and it damn well should. Neither really wanted to escape it. They wanted to feel bad for what they had done. It was a relief to know that they weren’t that kind of monsters, that they would make sure that it never happened again. With anyone. That they might enjoy domination, but not rape.

“Me too,” Bucky said with a deep sigh. “But what’s done is done, there’s nothing we can do about it now. We can’t take it back, we can’t undo anything. We can only look out for her, help her in any way she needs, and, who knows… she might be alright in the end. After everything blows through.”

“You really think that?” Steve asked, liking what Bucky had said, but severally doubted it all.

“No,” Bucky said as a-matter-of-factly. “But what do we have if we ain’t got hope, right?”

Repeating the sentence was a way of tricking his mind into believing it. He really wanted you to be okay, he really wanted everything to be okay. As did Steve, who smiled back at him, before he started pounding the bag once again.

After they had both cleaned up and gotten dressed for work, and ate some very delayed breakfast, they headed off to work. It was a nice day out, and the next one should be too, so they opted for their bikes in the fresh air. Whenever the opportunity presented itself, they were quick to take it. The ride to work wasn’t far, one of the upsides of living on prison grounds.

They parked in their places, which just happened to be next to Luscheck’s parking space, and the contrast of their bikes was stark. Luscheck’s bike was a loud red, all plastic and sport-like, whereas theirs were shiny metallic against a sleek and clean black, made for style and power. It really looked like a toy next to theirs, which kind of pissed of Luscheck whenever he saw it. And neither Bucky nor Steve were going to lie and say they didn’t enjoy his jealousy.

They went through security where their fellow colleague patted them both down, then went to the staffroom to put away their lunches in the fridge. They hung off their jackets, and grabbed their belts and radios from the shelf, and headed out to start their day. Or evening as it was already late afternoon.

But they didn’t get too far before they bumped into Joe Caputo who had only just left the confines of his office. He perked up when he saw the two officers.

“Ah, Barnes, Rogers,” he said, and all three stopped in the middle of the tight corridor.

“Mr. Caputo,” Bucky said with a nod of his head, and Steve did the same.

“Glad I caught you,” Joe said and looked around, but the corridor was vacant. “I just got off the phone with Harper’s lawyer. Turns out a game of phone tag has been the issue here,” he said with a chuckle, before turning serious. “Any ways, he needs to speak with her immediately and let her know what’s going down. Could-could you please send her to my office, and I’ll… I don’t know, prepare her maybe?”

Bucky nodded just as Steve opened his mouth.

“Of course. I’ll get her right away.”

“Thank you, Rogers,” Joe said and patted a grateful hand on his arm. “I’ll be… yeah, I’ll be in my office,” he said with a nervous scoff, like he didn’t know what to do with himself.

Joe turned on his heel and headed back towards his office, and Steve and Bucky headed to more densely populated areas. Bucky deviated towards the cafeteria, seeing as dinner was approaching, and Steve headed for the dorm, taking a fair guess of your whereabouts. You hadn’t really been anywhere else if you could help it.

He found you in your cube, sitting on top of your bed with your knees up and arms wrapped around them in a comforting embrace. You looked pale, and kind of out of it. Your gaze was dark but vacant, and deep lines had worried between your brows. Just like he had gotten used to seeing you. And he hated what he saw, hated himself for making you this way.

You saw a figure move into your line of vision, and visibly flinched. A gasp ran from your mouth at the realization of who it was, and you subconsciously pressed back harder against the wall. Officer Rogers was stood just outside your cube. His hands were on his belt, looking more menacingly than he meant to. When he saw what your eyes kept darting down to, he immediately let go. But the memory of the taser still caused a shiver to run down your spine.

He cleared his throat, running an anxious hand through his hair.

“Mr. Caputo wants to see you in his office,” he said.

The expression on your face must have been something of a mixture between utter worry and confusion, if Steve’s reaction was anything to go by. He looked awkwardly around for a quick moment, not wanting the encounter to seem like something it wasn’t, but he still wanted to reassure you.

“You’re not in trouble,” he said, with a small smile on his face.

You couldn’t understand why the… vice warden? wanted to see you. You didn’t even know what title he had, or what his job entailed, but you knew he was one of the higher-ups in the prison administration.

It couldn’t be about what happened with CO Rogers and Barnes, not if Steve was calmly coming to get you. Could it be about rumors? Nothing to explicit, cause then again, the guards would be in trouble as well. Unless it was nameless rumors of course, and no officer’s name had been mentioned. Or maybe he wanted to grill you on the events of your broken wrist? The options were endless.

You slowly moved to the end of the bed, awkwardly standing up and trying not to cause yourself too much pain in the process. You stood there for a second or two, just looking at the officer. Your gaze jumped to his once, before quickly darting back down again.

“O-okay, sir,” you said, and started walking.

Steve stepped back to allow you to move in front of him. He walked with you, keeping a respectable distance as to not cause any misconstrued assumptions, but close enough that it was still clear you were following an order.

The officer’s tall and proud stature was a sheer contrast to your own scrunched up shoulders and fragile looking state. His feet moved with determination, whereas yours merely shuffled along the floor to get where you needed to go, following someone else’s order. You hated how small you felt next to him, how clear the threat of his body was. You remembered how it felt when he held you trapped against his body, unrelenting and unmoving, no matter how much you thrashed around. You weren’t a match for him. At all.

When you reached Mr. Caputo’s office, Steve knocked twice on the wood of the ajar door, before stepping in and allowing you to follow suit. He planted himself at the entrance, guarding, as was his job. You took a nervous step inside, making sure to keep away from the officer out of respect. You didn’t want to know what he would do to you should you not give him the respect he deserved. Especially in front of his superior.

Joe had looked up from his desk when he heard the knock, and stood up to greet you both.

“Ah, Harper,” he said and pointed a hand at a chair before his desk. “Please, take a seat.”

An uncertain lump of dread had wedged itself in your throat, and your heart was doing tumbles in your chest. What was this all about? Why had you been called into his office? Surely if there was anything small, you would be in your counselor’s office, Mr. Healy, but you weren’t.

Joe gave Steve a warm smile and a nod for bringing you, which he returned in kind. Caputo cleared his throat as he sat back down, shuffling papers around.

You sat timidly in your chair, hands together between your knees. You wanted to press them together, for multiple reasons, but the shot of pain running up your arm held you back. So, you opted for the still and quiet option, and waited to hear what Mr. Caputo had to say.

“I, uh… I just got off the phone with your lawyer, Howard. He’s been trying to get in touch with you, regarding your case.”

You sat still in the chair, just listening to what Mr. Caputo had to say on the matter. You didn’t know what to make of it. Why would you need to talk to your lawyer?

“Oh…” you said, voice low and hushed. “W-well, I don’t have his number, sir.”

“That’s okay, I thought as much,” Joe said, and fished out a note from the sea of papers crowding his desk. “So, I’ve written it down for you. Now, he said he’ll be waiting by the phone until he hears from you.”

He handed the note to you, and you gratefully took it from him. You noticed his gaze bopping down to your incased wrist as you reached for the note.

“What happened to your arm?” he asked, and pointed down to the cast.

Steve felt like he just got kicked in the stomach again at the mention. Anything regarding you being hurt seemed to do that to him nowadays. Anything that reminded him what a scumbag he was, and what he had done. But he was right to feel that way. It was all true.

You looked down at your wrist, forcing a small smile to appear as you spoke.

“I just fell, sir.”

Caputo nodded, and ran a hand over his moustache like he usually did when he was unsure of what to do or say.

“Oh,” was the best he could do for the moment. “Well, prison is a dangerous place for many reasons, am I right?” he said with an unsure snort.

The familiar sting of tears started burning in your eyes, and your immediately blinked them away. The dangers of prison were far more than you had first anticipated. You had thought you could get by if you just kept to yourself and kept your head down. But instead, you were tortured and threatened by the guards, violently raped, and you had made an enemy of every inmate currently serving time. So, yes. Prison was a dangerous place.

“Yes, sir.”

Steve noticed the solemn tone of your voice, taking a fair guess as to what you were thinking about. It must be truly horrible for you to be spoken to with such words, unbeknownst to the speaker what pain it caused you to hear the simplicity of the statement.

“Okay,” Caputo said and broke the growing tension, and Steve straightened his back.

You still sat there, quietly in the chair with the note safely in your hand. You looked down at it.

“Uhm… When can I call?” you asked.

“What?”

“I… My lawyer’s number… It isn’t on my approved call-list, sir.”

Another gut punch for Steve at the reminder of your innocence, your sweetness. Your meekness. Even in a dire situation like this, being called into Mr. Caputo’s office and all, your politeness and following of rules still wouldn’t budge. Most people would have thrown themselves at the nearest phone at the slightest mention of their case, but not you.

“Oh,” Joe said, with an uncertain chuckle. “That’s okay, we’ll—we’ll make an exception, of course.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Joe just nodded, not knowing what to say. A moment passed before he spoke, seeing as you weren’t leaving like he thought you would. He raised his eyes and looked over at Steve, where he stood patiently waiting by the door.

“Officer Rogers will show you to the phones right away.”

Steve cleared his throat and smiled at Joe, and the side of your head seeing you still hadn’t looked up from the note in your hand.

“Of course,” he said reassuringly, earning a grateful nod from Joe.

“Great,” he said, and looked to where you were still sitting. “That’ll be all.”

Once given the go head, you rose from your seat. It hurt to go from sitting to standing, but you could hide your pain well. Years of practice, and or course the slow lessening of pain, helped greatly.

“Thank you, sir,” you said, and turned on your heel.

Steve was still standing by the door, seemingly waiting for you to exit so he could follow. He gave you a short and tight smile, despite you not looking up to face him. The furthest you got was his chin, and that was pushing it.

Just like before, Steve walked along beside you, following your pace and not hurrying you in any way. You could feel the heat radiating off of him, and you were glad it was nothing but the simple warmth of his body. It still made your stomach churn though.

You walked through the corridors along with CO Rogers to get to the phones, which were mounted to the wall outside the cafeteria. You had noticed them before, along with the very long line of inmates waiting to use the phone, but that was during phone hours. You suspected that was the reason for Steve's presence by your side. That, and the unapproved number you would be calling.

Steve stopped a few feet away, and you almost stopped with him. But he nodded you along towards the phones with a smile, so you did as he silently asked, with an appreciative nod to him.

Just as you grabbed the handle of one of the phones, your newfound friend Pennsatucky walked by. She was heading for the cafeteria, which had only just opened for dinner. But the sight of you holding a phone, made her stop in her tracks.

“These aren’t phone hours,” she pointed out cockily, with a matter-of-factly raise of her eyebrows.

You slowly started putting the phone back as your eyes jumped from her to officer Rogers, not sure what you were looking for. But Steve turned his body towards Doggett, his crossed arms tensing slightly as he did.

“She’s exempt,” Steve said in a stern voice, and Doggett just raised her hands in defeat and started backing away.

“If you say so, officer.”

You didn’t miss the telling look she gave you before she turned on her heel and all but skipped into the cafeteria, and you did not like the feel of it. The firmness of Steve’s voice left no room for argument, and you hated that it once again was in your defense. Fuel to the fire. Again.

You swallowed hard, and gave Steve an asking look. He just nodded, both at you and the phone, telling you it was okay to go ahead. So, you grabbed the phone again, and dialed the number scribbled down on the note. You anxiously listened to the steady beeping, and then a recording played; an inmate from Litchfield federal prison is attempting to contact you. To accept this call, please press ‘one’. There was a click heard from the other line, and then the familiar voice of your lawyer Howard.

“Hello?” he asked, his voice hurried and tense.

“Hi, it’s Jess Harper. I-I was told you wanted to talk to me.”

“Oh, Jess,” he said, now sounding relieved. “So glad I finally got ahold of you. Yes, yes, I have some information regarding… well, you.”

You listened carefully, your heart now starting to increase its steady beat. His voice was sharper, more unsure than you had ever heard him, and it was not a comforting thought. He went on.

“I hate to be blunt, but I know you said that some evidence existed of what Nate had done to you, that he sometimes… filmed what he did? Well, that evidence has been found.”

You turned your body to hide from the scrutiny of anyone’s gaze, your shocked expression probably being quite the showstopper. Not too much though, you didn’t want to give the officer the cold shoulder and risk being reprimanded.

“What…?”

You didn’t know whether to be relieved or terrified of what he would say next, and in your mind a million different questions needed answering.

Steve stood silently by, looking from your turned form and to the people around who all gave your turned away face the side-eye, acting like a blockade between you and them. And by the sound of your voice, fearful and uncertain, you must have just gotten the news. He swallowed his own worry, and waited.

“Yes, it… Some of the footage has been anonymously leaked to the media.”

Oh, no. The media? Meaning people have seen it… Who had seen it, who knew about this? Mr. Caputo obviously did, seeing he was the one who had contacted Howard in the first place. But did Steve and Bucky know?

Still facing the wall and not the people, you turned your eyes to the side, hoping to catch a glimpse of Steve’s expression in your peripheral. You couldn’t see much. He was still standing there, about eight feet away, arms over his chest and head bent down. Did he know what Howard was telling you? Had he seen any of the footage?

“W-what…?”

It was a miracle Howard caught what you said, your voice was barely even a whisper. And the tremble didn’t make it any easier.

“It leaked a few days ago. Or, yesterday morning, I’m not sure. But I haven’t managed to get in touch with anyone at Litchfield until now to tell you.”

Photos or videos, or maybe both, had been leaked to the media. Someone had found it, and leaked it. How it even managed to disappear in the first place was still a mystery, and this didn’t make any more sense of it.

“W-wha… What does that mean?”

You waited for what felt like a lifetime. You could hear Howard sighing on the other end, probably trying to find his words. You rapidly tried to blink away the ocean forming in your eyes, but it was no use, they stayed put, blurring your vision.

“They’re reopening your case,” Howard said finally.

The tears fell silently, covering not only your cheek, but the handle of the phone as well. You released a breath you didn’t realize you had been holding as you waited for him to answer, and the shake of it was enough to send a tremble through your entire body. You caught yourself against the phone box, the pain in your wrist be damned, and closed your eyes to shut out the world.

They were going to reopen your case. It was going to be reviewed again. Once again, you would have to go through the speculations, the questions and the disbelief of the truth. You would have to bare them coming down on you with assumptions and theories, anything to clear Nate’s name, and tarnish yours, questioning every minute of that night. And you weren’t sure you could take that again. You weren’t sure you had it in you, or even wanted to.

Steve saw how you almost crumpled, how you barely managed to bring your wounded hand up to keep yourself upright. Your head was leaned down, your forehead coming to rest against the top of the phone box. He had to hold himself back from going up and hugging you, comforting you. He wanted to help you so bad, to be there for you, seeing no one else was. And that was all his doing.

“Jess?” Howard asked worriedly. “Jess, you still there?”

Fighting to find your voice again, you swallowed down the tears, swallowed down the scream that desperately wanted to escape, and answered him.

“Yes. Yes, I’m here.”

Your heard him sigh heavily, most likely finding it all troublesome to talk about. You could agree, it wasn’t the most joyous topic to talk about. But you forced yourself to open your eyes again, facing the part of the world that was your home; prison. Even if that was just a wall.

“Okay,” he said. “What’s gonna happen is we’re gonna get a court date set, and bring it up to trial again. But everyone needs a bit of time to look everything over, to review the newfound evidence and go through all the paperwork from the trial before. I will need to speak with the judge and the counsel for the defense, and until then, you will have to stay in prison.”

It was all mumbling to you, all nonsense you couldn’t comprehend. It all went in one ear, and out the other. He could might as well have been reciting Latin verses to you. Your mind was filled with static, with buzzing mosquitoes all taking on the shape of your memories. Each one carried its own pain, its own fear, its own bloodshed. Like small, flying pieces of glass that made up the image of who you once were.

Howard took your silence as a sign of worry, and he wasn’t completely wrong.

“Now, I promise you, I am doing everything in my power to move this along and get you out of there as soon as possible,” he said, and seemed to break through the barrier of your mind.

“Okay…” you said, even nodding as if to convince yourself.

It was painful to think about. So many things had changed since your first trial, since you fought for yourself. So many things had been made clear since then, things you didn’t know about before, or simply didn’t want to believe.

But now you did. Now you knew. You knew that the fear wasn’t locked to Nate. It was all men. You knew that it wasn’t just Nate who wanted to hurt you. It wasn’t just Nate who liked to torture you, liked your pain. It was everyone. You were like a beacon for pain, for hurt. Something so deeply rooted in you, that you just couldn’t help but rub everyone the wrong way by merely existing. It was you. It was your fault. And no matter what any tapes showed, no matter what any pictures showed, or even the scars littering your body, nothing could change the source of it all. You.

“Okay,” Howard said. “I’ve spoken to a Mr. Caputo at Litchfield, and I will continue to be in contact with him regarding your case, and what will happen. I would speak directly to you, but seeing as I can’t reach you directly when I might need to, I will sort everything out with him. Except for any details of your case or trial, of course, you have my word. That is all confidential. Is that alright with you? Cause if not, we will find another way, Jess. Perhaps you could call me on certain hours?”

Seeing as you had barely digested anything Howard had said to you, that might be the worst idea ever. Mr. Caputo seemed able enough, and seeing he already had been in contact with your lawyer, he could continue that contact.

“No,” you said, trying to raise your voice enough to a normal speaking tone. “That will be fine, sir, thank you.”

Steve looked up when hearing the ‘sir’. You hadn’t said much, and he couldn’t make anything out, or put anything together enough to know what was being said on the other end, but he had a pretty good understanding of it all. And your lawyer was working for you, meaning he should do what you said, not the other way around. But he of all people could understand your politeness, and perhaps the occasion called for that sort of gratitude. But mostly, he just figured you were too deeply set in your ways to know anything else.

“Alright,” Howard said. “I’ll let Mr. Caputo know should I need to speak with you, and you can call me. And please don’t hesitate to do so, Jess. We will figure this out. We will get you out.”

You nodded, before realizing that wasn’t enough when on the phone, and you had to draw a straining breath through your tight chest to speak.

“Okay. Thank you, sir. For everything.”

“Of course, Jess. I’ll talk to you later. Bye.”

“Bye…”

As if moving in slow motion, you hung up the phone again, your hand heavier than it needed to be. Slowly, you took another breath, and held it for a few seconds before letting it go again, hoping it would take some of the tension with it. It didn’t.

Instead of giving answers, Howard had given you more questions. Questions you weren’t quite ready to hear. He probably thought he was baring good news, who wouldn’t when they said that someone’s case was being reopened, that they might get to leave prison? And most would be glad to hear it.

Steve waited to see if you would move from where you stood frozen, but you didn’t. You still kept your head down. He wondered if you were perhaps crying. After all, you must have heard some pretty gruesome news.

He dared a step closer, making sure to make noise as he did. You raised your head, wiping off what must be tears, but you didn’t recoil from him like he thought you might.

“You alright?” he asked kindly, keeping his voice somewhat down for privacy.

You swallowed down the rest of the tears, and wiped the ones already fallen, and turned towards him.

“Yes, sir,” you said, voice carrying a bit of a tremble.

Steve nodded, wanting even more now to just hold you, to tell you it was all going to be okay. But by doing so, he was probably sending the opposite message. But seeing the streaks of tears, the redness of your cheeks, made him wish even more that everything was different.

“Okay,” he said, and smiled warmly down at you, even though you never looked higher than his chest.

You went to take a step, hoping to get back to the confines of your bunk, the privacy and comfort of your bed, but Steve stopped you. Not by force, but he turned his body enough to let you know that you weren’t allowed to leave yet. Had you messed up? Again? Your entire spine went rigid, like the cartilage had turned to stone.

“You should probably get something to eat,” he said, and turned his torso towards the doors to the cafeteria. “You’ve been through a lot today.”

He knows. Oh, god, he knows. He knows about the photos, about the videos, about whatever may be out there, circling around on media platforms. Has he seen any of it? Has he seen what Nate did to you? What did that mean in terms of what they had done to you? They had said that it was all for killing Nate, and you were responsible for that, but would this change anything? Would they see you any differently? You could never be completely sure that Steve and Bucky didn’t know anything about what Nate had done to you, you just thought it was more plausible that they didn’t. But maybe they did… Maybe this wasn’t news to them.

Had they perhaps already seen some of this footage that had been leaked? Should you hope for that? Was it better if they didn’t know about any of it, or only just learned?

You felt bile rise in your esophagus. Your breathing quickened to the point where you thought you were going to black out if you didn’t get it under control. But with several deep breaths, it slowly calmed down. Though your heart was still racing in your chest. You didn’t know what to think, how to make sense of any of it. What should you hope for?

Steve bowed his head down with a sigh. He worried that he might have given away to much, or perhaps too little. There was no telling what the information might do to you, and he didn’t know what your lawyer has just told you. Could just be more things piling on top of each other for all he knew, and you were slowly being buried underneath it all.

He was almost startled when he heard your voice, meek and low as it was.

“Yes, sir.”

He raised his head again, though he didn’t need to much, seeing how small you were in comparison, and you still wouldn’t meet his eyes. But he started stepping back, allowing you more space to pass him and walk into the cafeteria. Slowly you walked by, keeping your chin tucked in out of respect.

It felt like it was written all over you. Like everything that had been done to you, by Nate, by the guards, had been branded like a scarlet letter on your skin. Like everyone could see it, and shame you for it.

You moved like in a haze, like the fog had seeped out from your mind and covered the whole room in its misty gloom. Everything was just going through the motions; standing in line, taking a tray, finding a seat. It was all done without you, yet there you sat. In the middle of the busy room where everyone moved at lightning speed, and you were frozen in time.

The sea of questions and fears was growing like the tide. It didn’t stop. You couldn’t answer anything, you couldn’t even make up a scenario of what you should hope for. And it all just kept coming, kept growing. It felt like you were standing at the edge of an abyss with no one to pull you back. There was no one there.

You hadn’t gone unnoticed by Bucky. He saw the state you were getting into, going further and further into yourself, retreating back into the comforts of your mind. Or maybe it wasn’t comforting at all. It certainly didn’t look it.

Steve came walking in, taking his place next to his friend where he stood by the water beakers, overlooking things. He sighed deeply, letting go of his worries all in one breath.

“How’d it go?” Bucky asked, concerned by the tension.

“She didn’t say much,” Steve said, looking over at you sitting at the table, picking at your food. “I don’t know what the lawyer said, but she sounded shocked. She cried a bit, so I suppose he told her something about the tapes. Poor thing,” he added, feeling the hurt brewing in himself.

Bucky looked at you, taking in the mental picture of what might have been said.

“Let’s hope they get it all under control soon,” he said. “Get this shit over with and get her out.”

Steve turned to face Bucky.

“You don’t think she did it? Or, meant to do it?”

“No, I don’t. I think it’s like she’s tried to say; self-defense gone wrong.”

Neither said anything more, letting the thought grow in their minds instead. There were so many possible outcomes. It was one big shit-show of a mess, and you were simply caught in it, caught in the bureaucracy.

Both men thought that it was probably as you had tried to say; self-defense. That it wasn’t deliberate at all, but something that happened by mistake. By accident. Every time they had said to you what a liar you were, a murderer, that you deserved to rot behind bars and simply take what they were dishing out, all played back in their minds. How wrong they had been. How blind and foolish. It was a hailstorm of self-loathing and misery. For all.

The officers weren’t alone in watching you. You had truly friendly eyes on you as well, and not the threatening kind like Pennsatucky. Nicky spotted your hunched over figure, sitting there almost like a statue if it wasn’t for the slow picking in the food. Her feet slowly led her closer, but she stopped herself. She noticed the guards, Barnes and Rogers, and they noticed her.

She clenched her jaw, fighting not to roll her eyes as she sighed at the frustrating situation. But she remembered officer Barnes’ words, and she had to look out for herself and her family. So, she aimed for another table.

But when she passed the officers, having no choice but to, Bucky took a step forward, blocking her.

“You should probably eat with Harper,” he said lowly. “She might need it.”

Nicky gave a slightly nervous scoff, not really believing the trickery.

“And risk hellfire raining down on me? As tempting as that sounds, officer, I-I’m gonna pass.”

She took a step to pass him, but he parried her, grabbing her arm. She prepared herself for more threats, maybe just simple ones of getting a shot or extra work, but the struggle he had to find the words, let her know something else was coming.

“You’re not gonna get in trouble for it,” he said, voice clearly strained, as if he was trying to control himself. “Not now or… ever. Just go sit with her.”

She raised a brow, but wasn’t about to question. He met her calculating gaze, trying to figure him out, and he just waited. Eventually he let go of her arm, remembering himself, and took a step back. And she didn’t linger.

She turned back around, not surprised to find you staring off into the abyss of the meatloaf, or what was supposed to resemble meatloaf. Placing her tray loudly on the table right opposite you, she managed to get a raise of your gaze.

“Hey there, kid,” she said, but you could only stare at her.

What was she doing? She was going to get in trouble for this! The officers were in the cafeteria, they wouldn’t miss this.

But she ignored your horrified expression, and your lack of acknowledgement at her company.

“What happened?” she asked and nodded to your cast.

She didn’t know. Of course, she didn’t. No one really knew what had happened, and no one had cared before. You had no one.

“I.. I had an accident.”

She just nodded, ignoring her own growing concern for your hollow voice and vacant expression, and she really didn’t believe the tale of the ‘accident’. But she wouldn’t push.

“Okay,” she said, not wanting to pressure you more, but rambling was her specialty. “You’re not eating?”

Your gaze slowly traveled back down to your food.

“Not hungry.”

“Okay, sure, fine, I-I get it. It’s not the best. Here, take my yoghurt. That’s always good.”

She all but threw the cup of strawberry yoghurt at your tray, then adding a spoon from her tray.

She seemed erratic to you. Like she was trying too hard to make up for a mistake that wasn’t even hers. Like she was nervous. And maybe she was. She was defying a direct order from officer Barnes and Rogers, that would rightfully make anyone nervous. What would they do to her for simply sitting with you? Would they do to her what they had done to you? Or did you have to murder one of their friends before they took it that far?

It felt good to have Nicky there, to have someone talk to you. She was friendly and easygoing, albeit a bit strange, but who wouldn’t be after doing drugs for several years. It added to her whimsical persona.

You didn’t know what compelled you to share with her, but for whatever reason, you were glad to get it out in the open.

“My case is being reopened.”

There. There it was. You had kept your voice down, knowing these type of things were not spoken of in prison. Not unless you wanted to get all the attention, and that meant more than the good kind. And you already had plenty of that, you really didn’t need any more.

“What?” Nicky asked in disbelief, leaning in closer.

“I probably shouldn’t say that, I shouldn’t say that,” you mumbled, but Nicky placed a calming hand atop of yours.

“Hey, that’s amazing, kiddo!” She was smiling from ear to ear. “You’re gonna go to trial again?”

You nodded, remembering Howard saying something like that.

“Yes,” you said.

“What’s the reason?”

Nicky started eating her food, ecstatic by your luck, and truly happy for you. So much so, that she missed the fearful furrow of your brows, the glossy shine of your eyes, and where they were looking. The officers were both looking over at you, and you weren’t quick enough to avert your eyes, before finding theirs.

They must know. They must have seen the footage, heard the story in the media. They must have seen something, something they hadn’t seen before. They looked shamed, remorseful even. There was no anger in their eyes, no hatred. They looked almost sad when they met your eyes, as did their shy smiles trying to comfort you. They hadn’t known. But now they did.

“Newfound evidence.”

It's midnight when there's a commotion at your door— numerous hushed voices outside, grumbling and arguing.

After you and Bucky broke up, you moved to rural California. There was nothing left for you in Brooklyn. So you packed up your things and you left.

There was no chance you'd bump into him here. In the middle of nowhere. Half way across the damn country.

You move quietly towards the front door, gently unclipping the gun you keep hidden under your entryway table and clutch it tight in your hand.

Three solid knocks that sound like something about to come straight through the wood and then a deep, booming voice, "Hello? Anybody home!"

You swing the door open, clicking off the safety fast and pressing the barrel against the man's forehead.

"Hi," You deadpan, "I'm home."

There's a chorus of shouts, more complaining, but one makes your breathing hitch as the voice says your name.

Bucky fucking Barnes has followed you all the way to California.

He pushes the man out of the way, and the gun in your hand falters.

"Hey," His tongue swiping over his bottom lip which you know he does when he's uncomfortable, "We need somewhere to lay low. Just until the morning."

You jaw ticks, and you shove the gun into his chest, "What makes you think I'm gonna give you any kind of sanctuary?"

"We're all gonna die otherwise." Someone chirps blandly from the back.

John Walker.

Great.

You honestly consider it, leaving them out in the cold to fend for themselves. You don't owe Bucky a goddamn thing.

But he gives you that look, that stupid look with those stupid blue eyes, and suddenly you're letting his band of misfits inside.

"Thank you." He whispers softly.

"Don't," You hiss, "I will swallow my pride this one time. If you're not out of here by morning? I'll kill you all myself."

He nods once. Quiet and resigned, the weight of destruction between you that had been left to rot heavy on both of your hearts.

But you both know that your threat's empty.

You pulled the covers off of you as you swung your legs off the side of the bed and stood up. You were dressed in a simple nightgown, and your cheeks warmed at the realization that someone had changed you.

Looking around, you saw a pile of clothes sitting on the desk and quickly dressed, surprised to find that they were all your size. You supposed that if they had taken the liberty to dress you, they had also taken note of what size you likely wore.

You wrinkled your nose at the thought. The clothes were comfortable, though. A pair of soft pants and a loose t-shirt. You folded the nightgown and placed it on the bed.

There was another door off to your right, this one closed. Quietly, you padded over to the door and pressed your ear against it. It was faint, but you could hear voices in the distance. A man and a woman.

The metal of the doorknob was cold as you closed your fingers around it, slowly opening the door as quietly as you could.

Outside the door was a hallway. You could see several other doors lining the hallway, though none of them were open. At the end of the hallway was a window, and you could see blue sky beyond a cityscape. You were high up, that much you could tell. When you turned to look the other direction, you saw that the hallway opened up into a much larger area.

Slowly, you crept down the hallway, keeping to the wall.

"-supposed to let her run around?" the woman's sharp voice echoed off the walls.

"I'm not going to let you dispose of her," the man replied brusquely.

Heels clicked against the floor. "Then what would you suggest?"

The man sighed. "I think she should stay here."

You came to the edge of the hallway and peeked around the corner. The room was huge, a large dining table that could fit at least twelve people at it was right to your left. Across the room was a massive TV with some couches and a coffee table. On the other side was an open concept kitchen with an island and a few stools set up.

It was in this kitchen that you could finally see the people talking. Bucky stood tall at the edge of the counter as a woman grabbed a bottle of amber liquid out of the cabinet. The woman was dressed head to toe in black, her blazer ironed crisply, black heels clicking as she turned.

She unscrewed the top of the bottle and started to pour herself a drink. The woman had shoulder-length brown hair with two white chunks framing her face where her mouth was tensed into a thin line, eyes sharp as she turned back to Bucky. "Absolutely not."

"If we let her go home, they already know where she lives, she's not safe."

"Well, that's unfortunate. And also not our problem." She took a sip of her drink and winced at the taste. "What did Alexei do to this?"

Bucky shrugged distractedly. "Who knows. And it is our problem. Aside from how it would look from a PR perspective, she knows about Bob. She's now someone we have to be concerned about from a security standpoint."

The woman bobbed her head in understanding. "Then let's take her out back."

"She's a civilian, Valentina, not a dog. And I already told you that none of us are willing to dispose of her. Multiple times."

The woman, Valentina, sighed dramatically. "So, you want me to use valuable tax dollars to house some random woman who saw too much one day? What's she going to do? Sit around watching TV?"

He scoffed. "We can't keep her from working."

Her eyes widened. "Your honest-to-god solution is to give this woman house and board as, what, a trade for her silence? What would keep her from going to the press anyway?"

"You wouldn't do that, would you?" a sudden female voice said from behind you.

Your head swiveled to face the woman who was crouched right above you, her face only inches away, and couldn't contain the scream that escaped your throat as you fell backwards.

Valentina and Bucky were on you instantly.

"You," Valentina sneered. "Were you spying on us?"

"I-I wasn't spying!" you spluttered. "I just woke up and heard you--"

"And failed to make yourself known," she finished. "Ava, how long was she listening?"

The woman behind you, a tan woman with long brown hair pulled into a ponytail said, "Only a few minutes." She had an accent, British, you thought.

Your head whipped around. "You were watching me?"

"You were watching them," she retorted.

Valentina crouched down in front of you and grabbed your chin in her fingers, pulling your face to look at her. "Who do you work for?"

You could feel your body trembling. Her brown eyes bored holes into your skull. "I don't work for anyone," you said, your voice barely above a whisper. "I work at a coffee shop, ma'am, I take pictures, I'm not a spy."

"I'm telling you, Val, she's just a civilian," Bucky said again, pulling Valentina off of you. "She needs our protection, not whatever this is."

The older woman huffed, but straightened up. "What is your name," she said, looking down at you.

You scrambled to your feet and took a step back, not meeting her gaze as you told her.

"I'm going to run a background check on you and everyone you've interacted with in the last week, and if I find a single person with connections to any of the groups that have it out for us," she started, taking a step towards you, "you're finished."

You nodded.

"Until then," Valentina continued, "you call into work sick, and that is the only call you make. No contacting any of your colleagues or family until we confirm you really are 'just a civilian'. You are to stay in this building where someone can see you, and you do. Not. Leave. Am I clear?"

"Crystal."

She hummed in disdain but looked at the other woman, Ava. "You're in charge of keeping her here, got it?"

"Got it," Ava replied, leaning back against the wall. "No leaving, no calls."

Valentina started to walk out towards what looked like an elevator on the far wall and called out behind her, "Be back in a few hours, don't kill each other while I'm gone."

"We never do," Ava muttered under her breath. Then she turned to you. "So, you're the one Bucky and Bob saw the other day."

Bucky nodded. "Yup."

"The same one who makes the best 'milkless latte' John's ever had?"

"Is that what he called it?" you asked, your voice still a bit shaky. "It's just a double espresso."

Ava shrugged and wandered over to the couches. "That's what he said."

"Where are you going?" you asked, watching her flop onto a loveseat.

She turned back and looked at you with a confused expression. "...Sitting on my couch?"

"Aren't you supposed to, like, watch me or something?"

Ava sighed and let her head rest on the cushion. "That's what Valentina wants me to do, but I highly doubt you'd try to escape this place. You couldn't even escape a crack house."

Is that where I was? you wondered, thinking back to where you were held.

Bucky shuffled beside you and your body tensed. He was tall, taller than you remembered, and muscular. His black long-sleeve shirt did nothing to hide his flexed biceps as he crossed his arms. "Sorry about that," he said quietly. "I didn't know you'd wake up so soon?"

You shook your head. "It's... it's fine. Uh, how long have I been here?"

He gestured to the chairs at the dining room table and you moved to take a seat. "We found you at about two in the morning last night. It's almost noon."

You groaned and put your face in your hands. "My boss is gonna kill me. I need to call in."

Bucky pulled your cellphone out of his pocket and slid it across the table to you. "Go ahead."

Confusion grew on your face. "What happened to no calls?"

"That's what Val said, but she also told you to call in sick, so," Ava called from across the room, "do what you need to, I won't tell."

A small smile cracked across your lips and you took the phone to call your boss.

He wasn't happy about your no-show today, but quickly forgave you when you started to fake cough. Even told you not to come in the next day either.

When you hung up, you sighed deeply. "Well, that's that."

***

Two hours later, Valentina strutted back onto the floor, a much more refined air about her. She saw you sitting on the couch with Ava and stopped at the arm. You tensed immediately as you looked up at her. Something about this woman felt wrong; she was so sharp, so unreadable.

She put her hands on her hips and leaned in. "Alright, here's the deal," Valentina said firmly. "I'll allow you to stay here on three conditions. One, if you need to go somewhere that isn't this tower, you have a chaperone. I don't need you having secret meet-ups with the press or our enemies. Two, you sign a non-disclosure agreement to never speak of anything that happens in this tower to anyone. Three--"

"Doesn't that make the first point invalid?" Ava interrupted, lazily glancing up at the woman. "If she signs an NDA, she can't say anything to anyone."

Val pursed her lips. "Don't interrupt me, Ava. And just because you sign a contract doesn't stop you from breaking it."

Ava raised her hands in surrender. "Fair point."

"As I was saying," Val continued, flipping her white curl behind her shoulder. "Three, this agreement is only valid until we are able to develop a way of controlling Bob's powers. The only reason we have to be so careful right now is because we don't have the answers we need. As soon as those answers come along, you are out. Understood?"

You nodded. "Yes, ma'am." Your voice shook and you winced at yourself.

"Good. I'll have my assistant Mel bring you the papers before the end of the night." She turned to leave, then hesitated and turned back, a smile on her face that looked more predatory than warm. "I hope you enjoy your stay here."

You watched the woman click away and let out the breath you'd been holding in.

Ava smirked. "Don't worry, it's all for show. You'll get used to her."

"I wish I didn't have to," you muttered.

"Well, welcome to the tower, roomie," she laughed dryly.

OUACS Masterlist ~ Next Chapter (coming soon)

Main Masterlist

Your father nearly wept from joy. His daughter was to be the Caesar’s wife! His bloodline would forever be tied to the imperial house. His name was secured in marble, law, prayer now! He agreed so quickly the ink had hardly dried before the whole city knew.

James, meanwhile, didn’t care about your father’s joy, or his bloodline, or the Senate’s approval. James cared that you looked at him with heart eyes during the betrothal feast, smiled behind the rim of your cup, and made the emperor of Rome feel like a trembling boy offering flowers at a goddess’ altar.

Years passed after James took you as his empress consort, and impossibly, over the years, James loved you more.

It should have gentled with time, but it did not. If anything, it grew worse. James loved you like conquest, like you were the only law Rome had ever written that he cared to obey. He would have waged war for you without blinking. He would have emptied the treasury if you asked nicely enough. He, in fact, fed every senator who insulted you to the lions and slept peacefully afterward with his face pressed to your stomach.

And gods, you loved him, too. Not because he was Caesar. Not because the city screamed his name or because provinces bent beneath his standards. You loved James when the laurel came off. You loved the man who crawled into your bed exhausted and kissed your hand like victory in the political chambers of Rome meant nothing until you touched him. You loved the man who could command armies and still looked at you before making any choice that mattered, as if your nod was worth more than every omen in Rome.

When he came home from war missing an arm, Rome held its breath.

James raged through fever and pain, half-mad with humiliation while physicians whispered of new medicine generals paced outside his chamber like war dogs without a master. The bronze-and-gold miracle that would become his new arm had not yet been forged. Rome only knew that its emperor had returned from campaign broken, and that was enough to make the Senate bare its teeth.

You had no heir yet. For whatever reason the gods had chosen to keep your womb empty, and every ambitious old man in the capital looked at your husband’s missing limb and your untouched nursery, and mistook them for weakness.

You thought it was laughable, really.

So you stepped into court in his place.

You wore imperial purple for three years. You sat beneath his eagle. You lifted your chin and reminded them, with a smile cynical enough to pass for mercy, that James was still Caesar, still beloved by the legions, still chosen by Rome, and still very much alive. How dare they look upon his suffering and see an opportunity to seize the throne? How dare they mistake recovery for surrender? How dare they question your husband’s rule?

After that, the Senate learned to approach you with caution.

You listened to senators and praetors attempt to test you. You answered them so coldly, that their little traps died in their mouths. By the time James could stand again, Rome had already learned to bow twice: once for Caesar, and once for the woman who guarded his throne. 

Some whispered you must have been Minerva's daughter. There was no other explanation to how you won the war your husband started. 

Others were wise enough to whisper nothing at all, because they feared you almost as much as they adored James.

Even the consuls, Sam and Steve, your husband’s oldest friends, who had seen James bloody, foolish, young, and half-starved in campaign tents, bowed their heads to you with the same loyalty they gave him. Not because James demanded it, but rather because you had earned it. Because while your husband learned to live with the automaton arm his engineers built for him, you kept Rome from eating itself alive.

James never forgot that.

The arm made him look more divine to the people. It was a beautiful bronze and gold fitted over what war had taken from him, plates shaped so elegantly to his shoulder and muscle that poets started calling it proof the gods still favoured Caesar. To Rome, it was a miracle of empire and invention. A gleaming symbol that James could not be diminished, not by blade, not by blood loss, not by any foreign king foolish enough to think removing one limb could make him less of an emperor.

But you knew the truth that the inner workings were vibranium.

It was gift from the Wakandan royal family, though gift was too simple a word for it. You had built that alliance during James’s absence from the throne. You saw the ink on treaties and felt the weight of foreign jewels in your palm. The Wakandans gave you the brilliance hidden beneath Roman gold because you had loved him so much, entire nations had to answer.

But you also knew where the straps bit into his skin. You knew the phantom pain. You knew the days he hated the weight of the arm, hated the shine, hated the way people looked at him like he had become myth when all he felt was wounded and less himself. You knew the nights he woke shaking, bronze fingers clenched hard enough to dent the bedframe, and you climbed into his lap, took his face between your hands, and held him there until Caesar disappeared and he was only James again.

The worst of it was that he could no longer train with his men.

Not because he was too weak, but rather because he was too strong.

The first time he returned to the camp, everyone cheered until he picked up a practice sword and nearly shattered the post clean through. The second time, Sam laughed at him, lifted his shield, and was promptly driven backward so hard the rim split beneath James’ bronze hand. Steve didn’t fare much better. His shield lasted longer, which only made James more annoyed when it finally cracked straight down the centre.

You had to write to Wakanda again for stronger shields, because the emperor’s consuls could no longer survive sparring with him, and your husband was becoming insufferable about it.

James had sulked for three days, though denied it, of course. He sat in your chambers with his jaw set and his arm gleaming in the lamplight, pretending to read reports while glaring at nothing. You had climbed into his lap without asking, plucked the scroll from his hand, and kissed him until his bad mood gave way under your mouth.

“You broke two shields, my love,” you murmured against his lips.

“They were poorly made.”

“You hit them like you were trying to punish the gods.”

James’ mouth twitched into half a smile, but he tried very hard to hide it, so you kissed him again, sweeter this time. His human hand settled at your waist first, then tightened as if he could not help himself.

“I miss it,” he admitted eventually, so quietly you almost did not hear him.

You smoothed your thumb over his cheek. “I know.”

He missed the clash of bodies and the bite of exertion. James had always loved bloodsport, but now that he could no longer trust himself in the training yard, watching the gladiators in the arena became much more than just a pastime.

It was to scratch an itch he could not reach.

At first, he made appearances for occasional big matches. Then, he did so more often. He would eventually watch with a focus you recognised too well, the same hunger he brought to battlefields.

So he started choosing champions, but they never seemed to last very long. 

He once chose a man who had power, but no discipline. Another had beauty, but no instinct. A third had the crowd eating from his palm until he started believing applause mattered more than survival. James favoured them briefly, dressed them well, sent royal physicians to make sure they survived longer, placed bets through Sam just to annoy the Senate.

And every single one disappointed him in the end.

“They never last,” James said one afternoon, grim and irritated, as he came to you smelling faintly of sun-warmed marble and arena dust. “My champion is dead. Again.”

You looked up from where you were reading scrolls by the window.

He was trying to sound merely inconvenienced, but you knew him better than that. He wanted someone worthy to look at. He wanted a gladiator to hold his attention. brutal enough to make him forget, for a little while, that his own hands had become too dangerous for friendly combat.

The fallen champion had been strong, James told you. He was strong enough to please the crowd for a season, strong enough to make the bookmakers nervous, strong enough that his death in the arena that morning had earned a proper roar.

But he clearly wasn’t strong enough to be remembered.

He looked less like a grieving patron and more like a man offended by mediocrity.

“I need a new one,” he said. “Someone worthy. Someone the people can love too.”

You glanced up from your scroll and smiled. “May I come with you and choose?”

James turned to you, and for one brief second, he looked every inch the emperor: A man who commanded legions and broke kings. Then you tilted your head and blinked up at him through your lashes.

His whole face softened into hopeless defeat. The same sweet love that had ruined him in a theatre years ago, with the absolute stupidity of a young emperor in love, that Rome could burn as long as he had you.

So he walked across the room, took your hand from the scroll, and pressed his mouth to your knuckles.

“Of course, darling,” he said, because he would have rearranged the empire just to see you smile.

—

The training grounds were less like a spectacle and more like an animal pit. From the upper gallery, the yard looked almost elegant: warriors moving through dust as trainers calling instructions like generals shifting pieces on a map. Up here, with James’ hand resting at the small of your back, it smelled of sweat, leather, old blood baked into sand, and ambition so desperate you could almost taste it. Every man in that yard knew the emperor was watching. Every man wanted the patronage.

You adored it, which meant James noticed immediately.

He stood beside you in purple, watching the men below with the stern dissatisfaction of a man who had been disappointed too many times. But even as he observed the fighters, you knew part of his attention remained on you. James liked to pretend he was above jealousy when he indulged you. He was not. He simply loved you more than he hated wanting to keep you all to himself.

One of the trainers hurried to meet you, bowing deeply to James and then to you. He began explaining the men on the field, naming strengths, records, bloodlines, schools, failures, promising bodies and disappointing minds. James listened, but you drifted past the words. 

And to be fair, you didn’t even know what you were looking for until you saw him. 

He was not the largest man on the grounds, though he was broad enough through the shoulders to make the others look unpolished. He didn’t posture for the trainers or laugh with the other fighters or glance up at the imperial gallery in desperate hope of being noticed. He stood still while his opponent circled him, a delicate knife in one hand, head slightly tilted.

“That one,” you said, tilting your chin, “What’s his name?”

The trainer followed your gaze. “Dex, domina.”

Dex. Short, almost abrupt. You liked the sound of it at once, liked the way it sat in the mouth.

“He has not bloodied the Colosseum yet,” the trainer continued, careful not to overpromise in front of Caesar. “But he is promising.”

Promising was a dull little word for what happened next.

The man opposite Dex rushed him with too much confidence and not enough patience, and Dex simply let him come. He didn’t meet force with force. He waited, watched, measured the distance with a lovely accuracy your James had once loved. When the man came too close, Dex moved aside and threw his knife without flourish. The blade struck his wrist and the sword dropped. A second knife from his belt hit the sand beside his throat as he fell, close enough to make every man in the yard freeze. Dex stood over him, breathing steady, blood on his face, one last blade still waiting in his hand.

Gods.

James glanced at you.

You were smiling.

Not the smile you gave senators when you wanted them afraid but unsure why. This was private, because you were delighted. James knew this expression too well, because it was the same one you had worn the first time you saw him return from battle with dried blood at his cheek and fury still in his eyes.

He exhaled through his nose. “I’m not blind.”

You looked up at him, innocent as a temple offering. “I did not say anything.”

“You did not need to.”

The trainer suddenly became extremely interested in adjusting the leather strap on his wrist. Wise man.

James’ mouth twitched, but there was recognition under the amusement. He knew you had a type, and unfortunately for his dignity, your type flattered him enormously. You liked men with soldier’s bodies and haunted eyes. Men who could kill without hesitation, but would go still beneath the right touch. Men who seemed dangerous to everyone else and obedient only when they decided you had earned it. Men who looked like they slept badly, loved violently, and needed a hand at the back of their neck more than they needed mercy.

James, tragically, fit the description perfectly.

And now this gladiator in the yard did, too.

Dex was called into another match. He wiped blood from his eye with the heel of his hand and left a red smear across his temple, making himself look worse and better at once. The second fighter was quicker than the first, cleverer too, and now even James gave him his full attention then. You felt it in the way his hand shifted against your back, fingers pressing more firmly through the fabric of your gown. Dex moved like he was learning the man in front of him piece by piece. Not just fighting. He was studying, letting his opponent reveal himself, then punishing every mistake with precision.

By the time Dex put the second man down, James was no longer merely indulging you.

He was watching.

Dex straightened in the sand, chest rising and falling, blood bright against the pale angles of his face. Someone spoke to him, but he didn’t answer immediately. His eyes lifted instead, drawn up to the imperial pair standing at the upper gallery. For one breath, he looked at you, and there was enough heat in it to amuse you, enough interest in your beauty to make your smile widen.

Then his eyes moved to James.

And stayed there.

Oh.

It was not a simple admiration. It was not the clumsy hunger of a man looking at power and wanting proximity to it. Dex looked at James like a starving man looking at a fixed point in the sky. Like the emperor was not simply a patron or ruler, but a direction he needed to survive.

The trainer cleared his throat delicately. “He needs refinement, domina. But the instinct is there. 

James turned his head slightly, finally looking down at you.

He was already yielding. He had been yielding from the second your attention caught and held. 

“You think he is the one?” James asked.

“I know he is.”

“You like him because he is covered in blood.”

“I like him because he looks good covered in blood.” James gave you a flat look, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him.

“And,” you added sweetly, he does not seem to care whether the other men like him. He wants to be useful more than admired.”

James’ gaze slid back to Dex, who was now standing alone while the trainers spoke around him. His shoulders were squared, not arrogant and simply waiting.

“Useful,” James repeated.

You touched James’ wrist, thumb sliding over the seam where living flesh met metal miracle. “Can we please have that one, my love?”

James closed his eyes for half a second, as if asking every god in Rome to grant him patience. After all, James would have choked on his own laurel before denying his empress anything.

“As you wish,” he said.

You beamed up at him.

The trainer bowed quickly, already prepared to run off and make the necessary arrangements, but you lifted one hand to stop him.

“And have him washed properly,” you said, watching Dex stand bloodied in the sand. “Then send him to dinner.”

James froze.

You kept your face serene, as though you had suggested nothing unusual at all, as though inviting an untested gladiator to dine with the emperor and empress was merely a practical extension of patronage and not an indulgence you had already begun to enjoy.

James turned his head slowly. 

“He should meet his patrons properly,” you nodded.

“His patrons,” James repeated. He stared at you for a moment longer, then sighed as he lifted your knuckles to his mouth and kissed them with all the resignation of a man who had already lost.

—

Dex arrived washed clean and dressed in a fresh tunic.

The blood was gone from his face, which you thought was a shame, but the bath had left him flushed in a different way. His hair was damp at the ends. His skin still held the warmth of steam. The clean linen made him look too soft. He stood at the entrance of your private dining chamber with his hands at his sides and his eyes moving over everything: servants, exits, lamps, table, knives, James, you.

He was careful about it, which only made it more obvious. Dex did not stare like the bored nobles at public feasts. He looked, stopped himself, then looked again when he thought no one noticed. His attention caught on the gold at your throat, the bare line of your shoulder, the way James’ gold hand rested against your waist with shameless familiarity, as if even the emperor’s miracle of an arm had been made to hold you.

James had been touching you since Dex entered the room. Nothing scandalous by your standards, even when his hand dropped to circle the inside of your thigh over the imperial robes. You and James had done far worse in rooms full of senators, so half the Senate probably thought the two of you were indecent. The clever half knew better than to say so.

So this, really, was nothing.

It was just marriage, by your measure.

Dex looked as if he didn’t know what to do with it.

That pleased you.

“Sit,” James said.

Dex obeyed at once.

Not meekly, but as if command gave him relief. He sat with his spine straight, eyes lowered just enough to be respectful, hands still and visible beside his plate. The servants brought wine, figs, roasted game, olives, and honeyed cheese. Dex didn’t touch his cup until James lifted his first, and when he did drink, it was careful, almost ceremonial, like he was learning the rules of the room by copying one gesture at a time.

You smiled.

James sighed, and his hand settled over yours between you, bracketing your fingers. He could pretend to scold you all he liked, but he loved this too. The imperial couple on one side, the chosen champion on the other. It was a hierarchy so clear it didn’t need to be spoken aloud.

Dex loved it even more. You could see it in the way his shoulders eased when James asked him about his weapons, in the way his eyes relaxed when the conversation turned to balance, weight, and accuracy. The way he seemed to settle into himself once he understood what was being asked of him. Dex didn’t want flattery. He didn’t want aimless attention. He wanted direction. He wanted to know where to stand, when to speak, what pleased the people holding his future in their hands.

James was good at that.

For all the war stories, your husband had always been a diplomat when he wanted to be, even if nowadays it was harder to come by. He listened, and yet he could turn a question into a leash even the other man thanked him for it.

“So,” James said, watching Dex over the rim of his cup. “The throwing knives.”

Dex’s expression steadied at once. “Yes, Caesar.”

“Why do you prefer them?”

Dex glanced at the dinner knives on the table, decorative and useless, then back to James. “A blade is only honest if the hand is honest first.”

James chuckled and nodded.

There he was. Your James. The soldier under the emperor. He understood Dex before, and that was precisely what made him curious.

You leaned into your husband’s side. “Like you, my love.”

James didn’t look at you, because he knew he’d fold if he did. “Don’t start.”

Dex looked between you both, but his attention was fixed on the ease, the teasing, the way you could prod at Caesar without fear, and the way James allowed it, even craved it. The way his hand tightened around yours when you called him my love, as if the title mattered more than emperor ever could.

Dex understood hierarchy.

And this hierarchy was intoxicating.

James belonged above the world. You belonged beside James. And somehow, you had both looked down into the sand and chosen him.

“My wife has a good eye,” James said.

Dex turned to you with restrained attraction, made more tempting by the effort he put into controlling it. He thought you were pretty. Obviously he did. Most men did, and far less gracefully. But Dex looked at you like it was only part of the problem. You were not merely aesthetically pleasing to him, but you were the hand that had pointed. The reason he was sitting at an imperial table instead of sleeping in a barracks with blood under his nails.

It was almost too easy to see the obsession beginning.

“Did you know I chose you?” you asked.

Dex swallowed. “No, domina.”

His eyes dropped to your mouth for half a breath, then to where your hand rested inside James’. He corrected himself quickly, eyes returning to the table, but James saw it and smiled, though not kindly.

“My wife is beautiful, don’t you think so, Dex?”

You tilted your head toward your husband, amused. “James.”

“What?” he asked, almost scowling. “It’s a simple question.”

It was not simple at all, and Dex knew it. There was no safe answer, only a correct one. Too eager, and he disrespected the emperor. Too restrained, and he insulted the empress who had chosen him. Silence, and he failed the test entirely.

Dex took one careful breath. “Yes, Caesar.”

James hummed. “Only yes?”

You bit back a smile.

“She is…” Dex stopped, and for the first time all evening, his composure faltered. Pretty was insulting. Even divine felt dangerous to say in front of the emperor, though looking at you made him understand why men built temples, why they dragged marble from mountains, why they carved women into goddesses and still failed to make stone look alive. His eyes dropped, as if staring too long might be its own kind of offence. “She is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.”

You arched a brow, amused by how hard he was trying not to make it sound like confession.

“But,” Dex looked down for half a second, then forced his face back up. “She is difficult to look at properly.”

James frowned. “Difficult?”

“Yes, Caesar.”

“Why?”

Dex swallowed once. His hands remained perfectly still beside his plate. “Because looking too long feels disrespectful. Looking away feels impossible.”

Huh.

James stared at him, jealousy and pleasure moving behind his face in such quick succession that anyone else might have missed it. James liked the answer. Hated that he liked it. 

“Good,” he said.

Dex’s attention snapped to him.

James leaned back, one arm draped behind you, bronze fingers resting near your shoulder like a visible claim. “Would you fight for her?”

Dex didn’t hesitate. “Yes, Caesar.”

James’ smile deepened. “Of course?”

Dex lowered his head in certainty, and echoed him. “Of course.”

You felt James’ hand tighten gently against you. “And if she asked you to bleed?”

Dex looked at you then. There was no performance, no arena bravado. There was no desperate attempt to charm you. 

“If she asked,” Dex said quietly, “I would try to make it worth her attention.”

Oh. Oh.

You leaned in and kissed your husband’s cheek before his pleasure could sour into jealousy. His hand rose automatically to your face, thumb brushing beneath your chin, touch possessive and tender all at once. Dex watched that too, like he was studying not only you, but the sacred rules by which you and James existed together.

James gave him structure.

You gave him purpose.

Together, you gave him a north star to follow.

And from that night onward, Dex didn’t merely want to win.

He wanted to be chosen again.

—

Dex’s first fight in the Colosseum was meant to be a test. A public measure of whether your chosen gladiator could survive when the sand was real, the blades were real, and the crowd was real.

Dex did more than survive.

He made the Colosseum go quiet.

There was a stunned pause after the first knife left Dex’s hand and struck true, after his opponent lost the use of his sword arm before he even got close enough to swing. The crowd had expected a strong man with a shield or a loud man with charm. 

Instead, they got Dex.

Cold, bloodied, silent Dex, moving across the sand like he already knew how the fight would end. He didn’t roar or preen. He didn’t waste himself trying to be loved. His knives flashed in the sun, and men twice his size fell around him.

By the time the last opponent hit the sand, the silence shattered and the Colosseum erupted.

Dex stood at the centre of it, blood streaking down one side of his face, one blade still loose between his fingers. The people screamed his name like they had known it for years.

Dex. Dex. Dex.

It rolled upward, shaking the imperial box beneath your feet.

You looked at James.

James was already looking at you.

His face was composed for Rome, of course. The emperor didn’t gape at his own gladiator. The emperor didn’t look openly pleased. The emperors certainly didn’t look at his wife with irritation, awe, and reluctant arousal all tangled together, as if he hated how right you had been and loved you far too much to resent it properly.

You laughed beside James, delighted, your hand tightening around his bronze fingers as Dex lifted his eyes to the box. Not to the roar of Rome offering him its first taste of worship, but to James first. Then to you.

The people screamed his name, but Dex looked only at the two of you, blood on his face and chest rising beneath battered leather, waiting for command more than praise.

“He is good,” he said simply.

You turned your head toward him.

“He was wonderful.”

James didn’t answer.

Gods, he knew that tone. You had used it for jewels you didn’t need, silks you wanted, and treaties you had already decided he would sign because your mind had reached the end of the game before his advisors knew they were playing. 

You wanted Dex.

And of course because James could not please you, and definitely not because anything was missing in your marriage. James knew exactly how to make you fall apart. He knew the sounds you made when no one else was permitted to hear them, knew the vicious sweetness of your mouth when you wanted to ruin his dignity.

You did not need Dex.

You wanted him.

And James, jealous as he was, could deny you nothing.

“What prize could possibly match that?” you asked innocently.

James’ bronze fingers flexed. The plates clicked once, quiet beneath the thunder of the crowd.

“Coins,” he said.

You hummed, unimpressed.

“Better quarters.”

Another hum, but sweeter this time. 

“New knives,” James added, already hating himself for negotiating with a woman who had conquered him years ago.

“All lovely,” you murmured, leaning closer until your lips nearly brushed his ear. “But not enough.”

James closed his eyes for half a second.

He didn’t need you to spell it out for him. He knew when you desired. He could feel it in the way you held his hand, in the pleased little smile you wore while Dex stood bloodied below.

“You want him,” James said.

You didn’t pretend otherwise, but you did dress up nicer. “No,” you shook your head, “after that showing, he deserves me.”

The honesty was worse than coyness would have.

James looked at you then: his wife, empress. His impossible problem. 

You were not a coin purse. Not a trinket. Not a feast favour to be tossed to a victor.

To James, you were the prize above all prizes.

That was what made this make sense.

If Dex had fought like that, then no gold in the treasury was enough. No better room was enough. No blade, no title, no public honour could match what James valued most in the world.

Only you.

Only a night in your presence.

Only the empress he adored so completely that even his jealousy was no match for her wants.

James’ jaw tightened. “He is my champion.”

You smiled, slow and devastating. “Yes, my love.”

His eyes darkened at the patience of it. You lifted his bronze hand and kissed the cold knuckles, gentle as worship, cruel as victory.

“You do not have to,” you said, and you meant it.

James almost laughed.

Because of course he had to. Not because you commanded him. Not because Rome expected it. Because you had asked, and you were looking at him like that, and James had never survived your requests with his pride intact.

Below, Dex bowed his head toward the imperial box.

James stared at him for a long moment, jealousy and interest twisting together until he could no longer tell which one was which. Dex wanted structure. You wanted Dex. And James, doomed with how much he loved you, found the decision already made inside him.

James signalled one of his soldiers closer.

The man approached at once, bowing low beside the imperial seats. “Take him from the arena,” James said.

The soldier waited.

James’ bronze hand tightened around yours once.

Then, with the grim authority of an emperor giving away the only prize worthy of such a victory, he said, “Feed him and have him sent to the empress’ private baths.”

—

Dex entered your private baths like he expected to be punished.

It was the first thing you noticed. Not the blood drying along his temple, though your eyes caught there immediately. Not the sand still on the edges of his hair, or the bruises beginning to bloom beneath the torn straps of his armour. Not even the way he looked, battered and too beautiful for a man who had just made the Colosseum forget how to breathe.

It was the careful way he crossed the threshold. It was the way his gaze found you as he stood at the edge of the baths with victory still hot in his blood and confusion written plainly beneath all that discipline.

You were waiting for him in silk that the steam had made damp against your skin, standing barefoot by the water like you belonged to the marble and the gold and the heat rising between you. Dex looked at you as if he had been handed a god’s favour and didn’t know what to do. 

“Domina,” he said, bowing a little. 

You smiled. “Come here.”

He obeyed.

That was already becoming your favourite thing about him, how command settled him, how it gave his hunger something to latch on to. He moved closer until he was standing in front of you, close enough that you could smell blood beneath the clean mineral steam. Close enough that you could see how hard he was trying not to stare at you.

You reached up and touched the cut at his brow.

Dex’s breath caught.

“You’re still bleeding,” you murmured.

“It’s nothing.”

“I didn’t ask if it hurt.”

His eyes lifted to yours, confused for one bare second before you leaned in and licked the blood from the sharp line of his cheekbone.

Oh, that ruined him.

His whole body locked, because the arena had never prepared him for this kind of your tongue over blood, your lips at his skin, your fingers curled at the torn leather near his shoulder, holding him in place while you cleaned the red from him like you had every right to taste what his opponents had put on him.

When you pulled back, his pupils were blown wide. Lust moved through him like a blade drawn from its sheath.

“Domina,” he said again, but this time it sounded less like respect and more like a warning to himself, a reminder of your rank within the imperial roman household.

You smiled against his jawline. “You did such a good job.”

His hands twitched at his sides.

The praise struck deeper than your mouth at his skin. You watched him absorb it, watched the arena drain from him in pieces.

“You were beautiful out there,” you continued, fingers moving to the fastenings of his armour. “You let them think they had a chance.”

Dex swallowed.

“You liked that?” He asked. 

“I loved it.”

His gaze dropped to your hands as you began to strip him of the leathers, buckles, and strap. The armour that had made him look brutal became clumsy beneath your fingers. Piece by piece, you took the Colosseum off him.

Dex let you.

He endured it like reward and torture were becoming the same thing. His breathing changed when your fingers brushed bare skin. His jaw tightened when you kissed the blood at his throat. He looked almost offended by how carefully you touched him, as if no one had ever taught him bedroom manners. 

“You don’t know why I’m doing this,” you realised.

His eyes flicked to yours. “N-no.”

So honest. 

You laughed.

“You won,” you said. “You pleased the crowd. You pleased the emperor.”

Dex’s whole focus sharpened at James’ title.

“And me,” you added.

That was worse.

His eyes dropped again, not submissive in the way men faked for favour, but overcome by the structure of it. His emperor had sent him here. His blood had bought him not just survival, not just applause, but your attention.

You slid your hand to the back of his neck and drew him down.

“You understand now?” you whispered against his mouth. “This is your prize.”

Dex’s breath broke.

For a heartbeat, he looked genuinely lost.

Then you kissed him.

He didn’t move at first, and not because he didn’t want to. Want was written all over him now, in the tension of his shoulders, the heat of his skin beneath your hands, the painful restraint.

So you gave it what he understood best: an order. 

“Touch me, Dex.”

His hands found your waist with startling care, large and callused and still faintly dirtied from the fight. He kissed like he fought, concentration and instinct, learning you with frightening attention. He didn’t rush until you told him he could. He didn’t take until you made it clear you wanted to be taken. Every sigh you gave him became instruction. Every pull of your fingers in his hair became permission. His hands tightened at your waist when your robe slipped loose in the steam, the silk drifting from your shoulders like it had never belonged there at all. 

You, now bare before him, made him hungry.

You made him good.

You backed him toward the edge of the bath, kissing him down each marble step until the warm water closed around both of you and the last of his uncertainty burned away beneath your mouth. His breath hitched when you praised him again, cruel against his lips. “You’re so good for me.”

That was when you knew you had him.

That was when he accepted his reward because he realised he had earned you.

Because he had fought well enough for James to send him here.

Because Rome could scream his name until the stone cracked, and still nothing would matter as much as your hands on him, your mouth on his, your voice telling him he had done well.

“Again,” he said before he could stop himself.

Your brows lifted, finding his courage of demanding anything from his empress endearing. “Again?”

His eyes dropped. “Say it again.”

Oh.

You touched his face, thumb dragging gently over the place your mouth had cleaned. “You did so good, Dex.”

He kissed you harder then, like gratitude had finally turned into need.

The bathwater stirred behind him as steam curled around both of you. The marble pressed cool beneath your bare feet while Dex held you as if he had been given a prize too precious and too dangerous to survive mishandling. He was careful until you made him bolder. He was quiet until you pulled sound from him. 

And when you let him have you, when you rewarded him with your body, Dex learned that he would burn the whole Colosseum down just to earn you again.

—

Nothing changed after Dex.

James had expected a crack in the holy marble that is your marriage. Maybe an ugly distance when you returned from the baths smelling of steam, oil, and another man’s hands. Maybe a punishment from the gods for giving his champion the one prize in Rome James valued above gold, glory, and his own pride.

Instead, you came back to him.

The first night, he was waiting in your chambers with a scroll open in his hand and not a single word of it read. He looked composed because the emperor had to look composed, even when jealousy had been chewing through him for hours. But the moment you stepped inside, damp-haired from the baths, that composure went thin.

You smiled at him.

James put the scroll down.

You climbed into his lap, and tucked yourself beneath his chin like you had only gone away to return sweeter. His bronze arm locked around your waist first, then his living one followed, holding you so tightly you laughed against his throat.

“There you are,” you whispered.

His mouth pressed to your temple. “Was he obedient?”

You smiled and nodded.

That was how it started, with James holding you in the dark, jealous beneath you, asking in that dangerous voice whether his champion had listened. Whether Dex had touched you only when told. Whether he had waited. Whether he had been good.

So you told him.

You told him how Dex looked at you when you praised him. How he held you with those careful hands, so precise it almost made you sigh. How he kissed like he was learning a battlefield. How he never rushed until you gave him permission. How every sound you made changed him and taught him exactly where to aim next.

James listened like it hurt.

And then his hands would move, and that became the ritual. 

Dex fought. Dex survived. Dex won. Rome screamed his name louder each time because, unlike James’ other favourites, he didn’t die quickly or disappoint. He lasted. He learned. He bled and endured and kept earning the reward James had been furious enough, insane enough to give.

By the third time, telling James of your affair felt like foreplay.

By the fifth, neither of you bothered pretending otherwise.

You would enter his chambers with your robe loose and your mouth still swollen from kisses James had not given you, and he would already be waiting. Sometimes he dragged you to him before you spoke. Sometimes he made himself sit still just to torment himself

Then he would ask.

“Tell me.”

So you did.

You told him where Dex had touched you. How his hands had searched, learned, and course corrected. Dex was the picture of pinpoint accuracy, touching you like every reaction was a target he intended to strike cleaner the next time. He was careful until you made him desperate, until your praise pulled noise out of him, obedient in a way that made James’ heart beat quicker every single time you described it.

James was different.

James was brute force.

He was never careless with you, but he was hungrier. After the arm, he was a war machine trying to imitate a knife throw. He could pin you with effortless strength and still kiss you like he was asking forgiveness for wanting so badly. He had years of knowing you, years of loving you, years of learning exactly how to make your voice break.

Sometimes James copied what you told him Dex had done and did it better.

He would place his hand exactly where you said Dex had held you, lower his mouth to the same place, and ask against your skin, “Here?”

You would try to answer. He would make that difficult.

Other times, he would try to copy him and be worse because jealousy made him clumsy, and you loved that too.

You’d whine and pout and say, “He was gentle there,” and James would go still for one terrible second before pulling you under him with a sound that was almost a growl. 

“With my wife?”

“Mmhmm,” you would whisper, because you were cruel.

Then he would lose the thread completely.

There were nights when the jealousy became filthier, though James never would have admitted in daylight. The palace physicians tracked your cycles with incredible precision, and on your request they would tell you exactly when an heir would be impossible to produce. 

On the days the physicians had marked safe, you let Dex finish inside you, feeling him convulse in your walls as you moaned loud enough for the guards to be suspicious of your… activities. 

Then, you would step through the threshold of your chambers in a loose robe, with warm, sticky, white liquid running down your thighs. 

For one breath, James would only look.

Then he’d catch you by the waist and drag you against him with a ruined noise.

His bronze hand would close at your hip, heavy and cold through silk, while his living hand pulled the robe open like he had run out of patience for knots, fabric, distance, all of it.

“You let him,” he would say, voice rough against your mouth.

“Would you rather I not?”

His jaw would tighten, because no. 

He wanted you like this. He wanted Dex to leave something for him. 

So James would drop to his knees because he had decided that no trace of another man’s victory would remain on you unless he had tasted it too. He grip your thighs, and press his mouth to your core with a hunger that made your hands fly into his hair, and made sure Dex’s seed ran down his throat, too.

He would never admit how much he loved it. But there, in the dark, James loved the filthy proof that you had wanted, taken, returned. He loved the salt-sweet ruin of you, the heat of your body, the intimate evidence of Dex’s reward folded into your own pleasure. He loved turning jealousy into devotion.

Afterward, he would hold you like he had won a war.

You would lie against his chest, satisfied and adored, while his metal fingers traced idle circles over your hip.

“You enjoy this too much,” you murmured once.

James’ mouth brushed your hair. “I hate it.”

“No, you don’t.”

You would earn a small pause before he sighed. “No. I don’t.”

Because James would be lying if he said it was only jealousy.

Yes, Dex had touched what James loved most in the world. But he also loved the filthy thrill of hearing your pleasure described in your own voice. It was the unbearable sweetness of you coming back to him every time. It was the way Dex’s hands gave James something to compete with, something to imitate, something to conquer and fold back into your marriage.

And you loved both.

Dex’s focus. James’ strength. Dex’s careful hands. James’ golden grip. Dex asking to be worthy. James proving he already was.

And James, jealous as he was, kept sending Dex back to you.

—

One day, after a particularly brutal bout, Dex left the arena bloody enough to make even James’ head tilt..

That was how you knew his performance had been exceptional.

Three men had fallen in the sand. One had crawled, one had begged, and the last had gone limp with Dex’s knife buried so close to his throat that the whole Colosseum gasped before it screamed. By the end, Dex stood alone in the middle of all that golden victory, hair slick with sweat, blood at his mouth, chest rising beneath battered leather while Rome howled his name like it had always belonged to them.

But Dex did not look at Rome.

He looked to James as if telling him, I will have my reward now, Caesar. 

Your husband’s bronze fingers tightened around the railing.

“He’s going to the baths,” James said, like routine.

You should have been satisfied with that. Usually, you were. Usually, you let James pretend he was merely rewarding his champion, and you let Dex pretend he was only accepting what his emperor gave him, and afterward you returned to your husband flushed, and smiling, ready to tell him every detail until jealousy turned him needy.

But this time, you didn’t move toward the corridor to change into your robes.

This time, you moved closer to your husband.

Your hand slid over the cool gold of his arm, then up to his shoulder, your body pressing into his side in a way that was far too intimate for the public eye, 

James didn’t stop you. He only looked down at you with those ocean-blue eyes, already bracing himself against whatever impossible task you were about to ask of him.

“My love,” you murmured.

His eyes narrowed, because he knew you too well, because he knew that tone too well. “No.”

You smiled. “I haven’t said anything.”

“You have.”

You bit your lip and giggled, and his teeth clenched because he loved that sound and hated what it did to him. Below, the crowd still screamed for Dex. Above, you tilted your face toward your husband and let your lips graze the edge of his chin, light enough to be deniable, warm enough to ruin him.

James’ hand caught your waist.

You looked down toward the arena again, at Dex being led out beneath the arches, bloodied and unaware that his fate was being changed in real time.

“You’ve seen what he can do alone,” you said, low and sultry. “You’ve watched him throw knives. Watched him bleed. You have witnessed him win.”

James said nothing.

You turned back to him, your fingers curling into the fabric at his chest. “Don’t you want to witness what he does when the prize is in front of him?”

His breath changed.

Even a small break in the emperor’s composure was a little victory, proof that he was imagining it despite himself. He was imagining Dex and you at the baths, the champion he had chosen try to be worthy of the empress James adored.

“You are asking for trouble,” he said through gritted teeth.

“I’m asking for you.”

James looked at you then, and for a moment he was not Caesar at all. He was only your husband, furious with himself for wanting what you wanted, already bending his limitations because he had been bending for you since the day he ever laid eyes on you.

You cradled his cheek.

“If I want you there,” you whispered, “will you deny me?”

His eyes closed for half a second.

And you could see his beautiful, familiar, inevitable defeat.

James could deny senators and kings and entire armies and sleep well afterward. But not you, especially when you asked like that. Not when your mouth was so close to his and your hand was on his face and your eyes the exact sort of desire he had spent your marriage failing to resist.

“If you want me there,” he said, voice rough, “then I’ll be there.”

—

Dex stopped dead at the threshold when he found not only you, but James, at the baths.

The emperor sat in the corner on a low chaise lounge, half-shadowed by steam, dressed in nothing but a loose dark robe belted carelessly at his waist. For the first time since Dex met him, he had no laurel on. It was just James, bare throat lit gold by the lamps, arm resting along his thigh, his eyes fixed on Dex with a calm so heavy it felt like a hand around his neck.

Dex went still in the doorway.

Was this a trap? He thought.

What were the other options?Of course the gods would let him believe he had been chosen, rewarded, wanted, only to place Caesar in the room and watch him hang himself on desire. He straightened his scarred spine, hands open at his sides as if surrendering weapons he did not even carry.

“Caesar,” he said, carefully.

You chuckled from the edge of the bath.

You were standing in loose silk robes, as usual, hair pinned badly enough that a few strands had slipped against your throat. Beautiful, and smiling like you knew exactly what his mind had done to itself the second he saw your husband in the corner.

“Come here, Dex.”

He obeyed, because he didn’t know what else to do. Because despite everything, he still believed he deserved you. 

You reached for him the moment he was close enough, fingers curling into the front of his tunic, pulling him down. His eyes flicked once to James, instinctive and panicked, but you only smiled against his mouth before kissing him.

“Don’t worry,” you murmured. “I invited him to watch.”

Dex didn’t believe you at first.

How could he? The emperor sat ten paces away, watching his champion stand half-ruined in the empress’ hands. Dex could feel James’ stare on him like a blade. 

Then James shifted.

Dex looked before he could stop himself.

The emperor’s face had not changed much. His posture was still almost lazy against the chaise. But his bronze hand had disappeared beneath the loose fall of his robe.

He was stroking slowly, Dex realised.

Dex’s thoughts stopped.

Oh.

James was not there to punish him.

James was watching.

More than that, James, who had scowled all the way here, saw him and instantly realised that he actually wanted to watch.

You smiled and kissed the corner of Dex’s mouth. “There you are.”

Dex swallowed, eyes still fixed on James for one helpless second before he forced them back to you.“He’s—”

“Yes,” you said, sweet and cruel. “He is.”

From the chaise, James’ voice came low through the steam. “Please her.”

Dex’s whole body went rigid, but not with fear this time.

With purpose.

You laughed as his grip tightened on you, as the command settled into him like a blade finding its sheath. Poor thing. He had walked in expecting a trap, and instead found his emperor watching, touching himself, giving him the only order that mattered.

So Dex, who loved structure, who loved command, who loved being chosen by the two of you more than he loved the roar of Rome, bent his head and obeyed.

At first, he was careful. His hands stayed at your waist, gripping silk instead of skin, as if the emperor’s order had given him purpose but not quite absolution. He kissed your mouth, then the corner of it, then your nose, learning each sound you made with the same terrible focus he brought to knives and open throats.

“Dex,” you breathed, tugging at the front of his tunic.

At this point, that whine was familiar to him: it meant you were impatient. It meant you were needy.

Just like that, his mouth turned hungrier. His hands rose, rough and reverent, sliding over your ribs until his thumbs brushed beneath the loosened silk at your chest. You arched into him, and Dex made a groan so deep it was almost wounded. Behind him, James’ breath changed.

You smiled against Dex’s mouth.

“Did you hear that?” you whispered. “The emperor likes watching you touch me.”

Dex froze for half a second, eyes flicking over his shoulder.

James’ robe wasn't fully open, but it was opem enough to ruin any pretence of dignity. His human hand moved lazily beneath the fabric, but there was nothing lazy about his face. He looked furious. He looked starving. He looked like he wanted to drag Dex away from you and crown him for the privilege.

“Don’t stop,” James said, though, voice rough.

That was all Dex needed to push you back against the marble wall.

It didn’t hurt, but it was firm enough that your breath left you, firm enough that the cool stone kissed your bare shoulders as Dex followed you in, his mouth finding yours again while your hands worked at his clothes. Buckles came loose and damp linen slipped. His tunic fell somewhere forgotten near the bath steps, and yours followed after it, silk pooling at your feet.

Dex looked at you then, and even now, he still nearly forgot how to breathe.

“Touch her,” James ordered from the chaise.

Dex obeyed beautifully.

His mouth dropped to your throat first, then lower, kissing over warm skin while his hands explored places that made your fingers tighten in his hair. He touched your breast, careful until you mewled, until you dragged him closer and made it clear you wanted less worship and more ruin.

“Good,” James murmured.

Dex shuddered at the praise like it had landed under his skin.

You caught his face and made him look at you. “You like when he tells you that?”

Dex swallowed. “Yes, domina.”

Oh, James liked that.

Dex’s head turned just as James’ bronze hand punched into the wall beside him, splintering a white fracture through the marble.

For one suspended second, no one moved.

James stared at the damage, teeth clenched, breathing hard, hand still half-buried in the broken stone.

Then you laughed delightedly.

“My love,” you said, voice sweet as poison, “jealous?”

James dragged his bronze hand free with a painful scrape. “Continue.”

Dex looked between you both as if he had walked into a temple and found the gods wanting him bloody on the altar.

You reached for him again. “You heard your emperor.”

Dex lifted you before you could take another breath, hands firm beneath your thighs, carrying you to the nearest marble table like your body weighed nothing. He set you down on the edge with shocking care, then stepped between your legs and kissed you until the room narrowed to your lover and your husband’s command still ringing in the room.

His fingers slid between your thighs.

You gasped, head tipping back, and Dex followed the sound like instinct. He watched your face as he touched you, learning where your breath caught, where your thighs trembled, where your body tried to close around his hand.

His grip tightened at your knee.

“Mmm,” Dex hummed, voice ruined with obedience borrowed from another man’s authority. “Keep your legs open for the emperor.”

James made a sound from the chaise that almost sounded like a curse.

Your eyes fluttered toward him.

He was watching everything now. His human hand was moving harder now, rougher, while his bronze fingers flexed against his thigh as if he was seconds from breaking something else just to keep from joining in.

Dex saw it too, and gods, the sight changed him.

He touched you with more confidence after that. He had been ordered to please you, and James was watching him succeed. Every sound you made became proof of it. Every desperate little movement of your hips made Dex’s mouth part like he could taste triumph in the kisses you gave him.

“There,” you breathed.

Dex’s eyes snapped to yours.

“Here?” he repeated, curling his digits in you. 

You nodded, lips parted, fingers digging into his shoulder. “There, Dex.”

He did it again.

James’ bronze hand closed around the arm of the chaise. The wood cracked beneath his grip.

Dex smiled for the first time in a flicker of understanding, because he finally knew that this must be his greatest prize: You trembling open beneath his hand. James watching with jealous, hungry eyes. 

“G-good boy,” you managed, the praise breaking on a gasp as the pleasure finally snapped through you, your thighs tightening around his wrist while you came undone around his fingers.

Dex nearly dropped to his knees.

He would have, if not for your hand catching beneath his chin.

It was just enough to guide him back up, thumb pressed lightly under, making him look at you while his breath came uneven and his hand still trembled between your thighs.

“Oh, sweet thing,” you murmured, smiling as his eyes searched yours. “You please my husband, you know.”

Dex went very still. “W-what?”

You hummed, standing up though your legs still felt flimsy from the orgasm, dragging your thumb along the line of his jaw. “You pleased my husband in the arena. Didn’t he, my love?”

You looked past Dex.

James had gone silent.

That was how you knew the question had struck home.

He sat half-undone like he was holding himself back by the strength of his own pride. His face was unreadable to anyone else, but not to you. You could see the heat there, the terrible fascination he had no hope of hiding now that Dex stood before you, so desperate to be told what to do.

“James,” you said sweetly. “Join us?”

For one second, he didn't move.

Then the emperor stood.

The steam curled around him as he walked by the baths, bare beneath the slightly loosened robe. Dex watched him approach as if watching the sun descend from the sky. His breath caught when James stopped behind you, close enough that the heat of him at your back.

You leaned into your husband with a pleased little sigh.

“Tell him,” you whispered. “Tell him how he pleases you.”

James’ shoulder muscles worked once.

“You’re… precise,” James said at last, voice low. “You don’t waste movement. You don’t beg for the crowd, and that makes them beg for you.” His blue dragged over Dex’s pretty face, possessive now, and not for you. “You obey well.”

Dex shuddered.

You smiled. “There,” you murmured. “See?”

James’ hand settled at your waist. You reached back, caught his wrist, and lifted his bronze knuckles to your mouth. “Now kiss him for me.”

Dex’s eyes widened.

James’ didn’t. He only looked at you, long enough to pretend there was still a decision to make.

You pouted up at him. “Please?”

That was the end of that discussion, of course.

James caught Dex by the back of the neck and kissed him.

It was not gentle. It was not sweet in the way James was sweet with you. It was command first, hunger second, jealousy beneath both, and Dex didn’t push him away. He kissed his emperor like he had been waiting for the order his entire life. His hands hovered uselessly for one breath, then clenched at his sides. You laughed softly. “Poor thing. He doesn’t know where to put his hands.”

James broke the kiss slowly, breathing rougher than before.

You looked at Dex. “Take his robe off.”

Dex obeyed.

His hands were careful as they found the dark fabric at James’ shoulders. Your husband hated how much he liked being handled with such frightened precision. The robe slid down one shoulder, then the other, falling open beneath Dex’s touch until your husband stood bared in the golden steam, all scarred muscle, living flesh, and divine metal.

Dex forgot how to breathe again.

You stepped closer behind him and took his wrist.

“Here,” you whispered against the gladiator’s ear, guiding his hand forward. “Not so nervous. He won’t break.”

James gave you a look.

You smiled sweetly. “Well. Not from that.”

Dex’s fingers touched James with almost unbearable hesitation.

James inhaled.

Oh.

There it was.

You felt the shock of recognition move through all three of you at once. Dex liked this. James liked this. And you, standing between them with your hand wrapped around Dex’s wrist, liked it so much you nearly laughed.

“You pleased my husband in the arena,” you whispered to Dex, your mouth brushing the shell of his ear. “Now let me show you how to please my husband in bed.”

You guided Dex slowly, teaching him the shape of your husband’s pleasure, the pressure, the rhythm, the little changes that made James’ breath catch despite himself. Dex learned with terrifying focus. Dex did everything like survival depended on getting it right, and now he had James in front of him, breathing harder each time Dex followed your murmured instruction.

“Like that,” you praised. “Good boy. Watch his face.”

Dex did.

James hated that. James loved that.

And he did not stop it.

He did not even want to.

Dex looked wrecked by the privilege of it, eyes flicking between James’ face and your hand over his. You could feel his pulse jumping beneath your fingers. You could feel the moment obedience became hunger, the moment he understood this was not punishment, not indulgence, not a trap.

It was an invitation. Especially when you gently pushed him on his knees for his next lesson.

James reached out and caught Dex’s chin, forcing his gaze back up.

“Well?” James said, voice rough enough to scrape. “If you’re going to please me, you should learn from the best.”

—

Well.

After that, it became less about teaching Dex and more about watching both of them realise they liked the lesson.

At some point, your hands fell away from Dex’s wrist because he no longer needed the guidance. James had kissed him harder, meaner, with the kind of lust that should have made the room hostile, except Dex only leaned into it, too. They moved together badly at first, James trying to keep his pride intact while Dex tried to obey and compete at the same time. It was almost funny, really, how quickly your careful little plan had turned into your husband and his champion touching each other with the same hunger they usually reserved for pleasing you.

So you took your rightful place on the chaise.

You sat back in, watching them fuck each other like wild lions in captivity, both in heat. James with his bronze hand braced against the marble, body tense and beautiful, mouth parted around Dex’s name like it annoyed him to say it. Dex on his knees, then standing, then dragged close again, learning your husband the way he learned you, chasing every moan as if he was addicted. They forgot, for a while, that you were anything but witness and goddess and judge.

And gods, you enjoyed watching.

You touched yourself lazily, smiling when Dex looked over and nearly lost himself at the sight of you. James noticed, and grabbed Dex by the cheeks and turned his face back with a possessive warning, and you laughed because neither of them understood yet that this was exactly what you wanted all along. By the end, the baths looked half-destroyed.

There were cracks in the marble where James had gripped too hard. The lamps had burned low. The steam had thinned. Dex was on the chaise now, with his face resting in your lap, loose-limbed and wrecked, his cheek pressed to your thigh while your fingers combed gently through his damp hair. James sat on the floor beside you, back against the chaise, one arm draped heavily over your legs as if he intended to keep both of you there by imperial decree.

Both men looked ruined in the prettiest way.

Your husband’s mouth was still wet from having Dex come undone in his mouth, his breathing still uneven, and when he finally managed to lift his eyes to you, there was accusation there beneath all that dazed satisfaction.

“You planned this,” he said.

You paused with your fingers in his hair. Then you shrugged.

“I don’t see either of you complaining.”

James huffed a laugh against your knee.

Dex shut his eyes, mortified and pleased all the same. 

Of course not.

Dex was still in your lap when James moved closer, bronze fingers brushing damp hair away from his temple before he leaned down and kissed him there.

It was almost nothing, barely a claim.

Dex still froze, though.

James lingered there, mouth close to his skin, voice low enough that it felt meant for the three of you and no one else in Rome.

“Next time,” he said, “I want him with us in our bedchamber.”

Dex’s breath caught.

He looked up too quickly, hopeful before he could hide it. “Next time?”

You tilted your head, almost amused.

Of course there would be a next time.

As if James could look at him now and decide he had no further use for him outside of the colosseum. As if you could watch your husband kiss his champion and not already be thinking about how pretty they would look together again.

James’ eyes narrowed. Dex realised the mistake at once.

His lashes lowered, voice softened into obedience.

“Yes, Caesar.”

—end. 

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You’ve never been athletic; your stamina isn’t the one thing you were praised for growing up. There’s a reason why you work the kind of occupation that has you hunched over a laptop with bad posture for hours on end, fingers chipping away at a keyboard until you feel the ache in your joints. You were meant to be bundled up in a blanket indoors, not outside in the sweltering summer heat in your sneakers that have seen one too many days. 

“It’s really not that bad,” Bucky smirks, “it’s a cooler day today, plus it’ll get nicer when we gain more elevation.”

You — being the stubborn hardass that you are — swallow the urge to say, “We’re still going higher?”

Thirty minutes into this hike and you’re starting to regret caving to your need to prove Bucky wrong. It was a small, offhanded comment about how you haven’t seen the light of day in weeks. You’ve been trapped in your room, glaring at a computer screen to meet your deadlines — glaring mainly because your vision has gotten so blurry that you can’t tell whether to squint or open your eyes wider to get the letters to stop moving on the page. 

He told you all about the great outdoors.

You told him that you don’t need it.

He teased you that you probably couldn’t handle it, being a city girl and all.

That was where you drew the line. You slammed your laptop closed and announced that the two of you were going on a hike. In the great outdoors. 

That was this morning.

Hours later and you’re now hunched over one of the hillier areas that you’ve climbed into. You’re standing on a slope and you’re half-tempted to let gravity roll you all the way back down. You’ve had kids run past you and elderly people zoom by. Bucky doesn’t say anything, knowing that any word that comes out of his mouth would be counterproductive to lifting your mood. 

Though, sometimes, he can’t help himself; he likes seeing you a little riled up.

“I could carry you.”

A gasp wrenches out of your throat. “Absolutely the fuck not. I can get myself to the top.”

“Are you sure? I’ve been working out — you know, outside.” 

Sometimes you can’t tell if this man truly loves you when all he does is cause your suffering. “I am an independent woman and I will make it to the top on my own.”

Fueled by sheer determination and pure petty rage, you somehow do make it to the top. The adrenaline is pumping through your veins like it’s carved into every one of your blood cells. By the time you reach the pinnacle, most of it has worn off and you’re thankfully rewarded with this beautiful view of the peak to revive your dead limbs.

The boulder you stand on is massive and gives you the perfect spot to drink in the gorgeous landscape. Lush greenery spreads far and wide, trees thick climbing up along the mountains. They part like the Red Sea down the middle to a crystal blue river that stretches and disappears into the distance, sparkling like gems underneath the afternoon sun. 

Speaking of sparkling, sweat clings to your skin like it’s nobody’s business and the tightness of the air up here does not help with your labored breathing. Your hair is an absolute mess in this heat. Meanwhile, Bucky looks like he’s just gone on a brisk five-minute walk to the house out back. He still looks stupidly handsome with that thick, lush brunette hair in a windswept muss. You’d think he was modeling for Backpackers Monthly. 

He places a hand on your head, stroking and patting your head like he would a dog. Unfortunately, you wag your tail, preening into his touch because you’ve always liked it when he did that. 

“Good job, look at you,” he smiles, “you’ve proven me wrong.”

At that, you can only harrumph proudly.

You should’ve known that Bucky would come prepared. He sets his backpack on the ground and lays out a thick picnic blanket before he begins opening up the spread for lunch. A good selection of sandwiches, a dessert that looks suspiciously similar to Maria’s famous panacotta, and fruits — perfectly peeled and sliced. 

Bucky Barnes really is the perfect man.

The two of you enjoy the sustenance and the sight for sore eyes for as long as you can. However, when the sun doesn’t relent and the heat begins to make you question whether there is one or two Bucky’s, you know it’s time to go. 

The way down is a little — okay, a lot — easier and Bucky seems humored more than anything to see you humming as you skip down the path. 

“Careful,” he calls out, “paths can be a little slippery.”

As if on cue, the two of you stumble upon two girls halfway down the mountain. One of them is planted on the dirt, wincing as she tries to stand, while the other looks at her warily. You turn to Bucky, worry evident in your expression. 

Before you can approach them, the one standing is trying to help the other get back on her feet, which only results in a yelp that has her slipping with a curse. Your feet move before you can even think, hands reaching out to help her steady. The two of them look at you in surprise.

“Do you two need help?”

“She was running down after I told her not to,” the unhurt one shoots her friend a look. 

You expect Bucky to give you an I told you so look but instead, he looks more concerned with crouching down and gesturing to the girl’s ankle. “May I?”

With a quick assessment (because what can’t this man do?), he determines that it’s a mild sprain but she definitely should not be putting any weight on it. Despite Bucky and her friend’s attempt to help her to her feet, she can’t bring herself to stabilize. 

He looks a little conflicted, so it’s your turn to contribute.

“You should just carry her down, Buck.”

“Oh no, I couldn’t,” she immediately says. “Don’t worry, we’ll be fine.”

“We insist, we don’t want it to get worse,” you smile reassuringly at her, “don’t worry. He might look skinny, but he’s surprisingly strong.”

She laughs, looking at Bucky’s broad, beefy shoulders. “Well, I appreciate it then.”

Bucky crouches with his back before her, the two of you help her climb onto his back, and he quickly hoists her up. It doesn’t look like any effort at all as he begins to climb his way back down.

The two of them introduce themselves — Helen is the one with the twisted ankle and Heather is her friend. They joke that they were always meant to be best friends; they are practically long-lost twins. 

While Bucky tries to keep Helen comfortable, making small talk, you do the same with Heather as the two of you walk close behind. She apologizes profusely for taking up your time with Bucky.

“Don’t worry about it,” you wave it off with a grin, “we live together and I see him enough.”

Bucky tosses you a playfully irritated look over his shoulder at the comment. 

You learn that they’re both visiting from the city and taking a little break from the skyscrapers and rush-hour traffic. You bond over it for a little while, telling her how you’ve just moved up here six months ago, and that visiting the city is your version of a break from all the trees and fresh air. 

“The only place we get that is Park Avenue and nobody would ever go there voluntarily,” she tells you and you can only laugh in agreement.

At the same time, you hear giggles from up ahead. Your curiosity has you straining your ears to eavesdrop on what they could be talking about that has the two of them laughing together like that. 

For a second, your ex’s face flashes across your mind. It nearly gives you whiplash because you haven’t thought of him in a while. Months, really. The last time you really gave him any proper thought was… when you caught him laughing and smiling with another woman. 

Now, Bucky’s arms are wrapped around this girl’s bare legs that stretch out from under her shorts. His back pressed against her front as her own limbs dangled over his shoulders, around his neck. She’s leaning forward. Close. A little too close for your liking. 

You quickly kick the thought away. It’s an unfair, irrational thought. She’s just supporting herself to make sure she’s not making it harder for Bucky and— Bucky is not your ex. He’s far from it, in fact. He’s proven that time and time again. 

Still, your fragile little heart can’t quite shake the feeling. 

Heather bumps your shoulder with hers, smiling. “He’s a sweet one, isn’t he?”

“Yeah, he is,” you murmur. 

And he is — this is just who Bucky is. You’re happy that he’s helping, it makes you proud to stand by his side. You know how he’s built his reputation in town as someone reliable, dependable. 

You curse that stupid green monster that keeps rearing its head, whispering terrible things in your ear like an itch you can’t scratch. All you can do is swallow that feeling.

When you finally see the sign for the parking lot, you breathe a sigh of relief. Mostly for yourself because at least you can get Bucky back. You have to stop yourself for a moment, scolding yourself internally for being so inconsiderate when someone is injured.

Heather guides the two of you to their car and opens up the back so that Bucky can place Helen gently there. He checks her ankle again to make sure it hasn’t swelled too much. Your eyes are glued to his large hands on her feet. 

He’s saying something about the sprain, how she should be resting and icing it for the next forty-eight hours, how she shouldn’t put any more weight on it and to get herself checked if it gets worse. 

The two of them thank you two aggressively, but there’s a ringing in your ears that muffles all the other noise, even as you part ways and begin to make your way back to your car further down the road. 

Bucky’s fingers squeezing your hand snaps you out of your thoughts, the buzzing swallowed up by the real sounds of nature. 

“Wanna tell me what’s going on in that pretty head of yours?”

You stumble with his words. He catches you and tugs you back towards him. “What?”

“You’re quiet. Have been.” He peeks around to get a look at you. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” you fluster, “just tired.”

Bucky hums, “You wanna tell me or you wanna keep lying to me?”

Nothing gets past this guy. 

You sigh and mumble, “It’s stupid.”

“No such thing.”

“It is.”

“Sweetheart.”

Since he’s switched up from doll to sweetheart, your heart has been beating at odd rhythms more often than not. It’s sweeter, more intimate. It reminds you that his heart belongs to you, and yours to him. 

“It’s so dumb and I know you were only trying to be helpful, which I love — I love that you’re helpful. Just seeing you with that girl…”

Bucky stops dead in his tracks. “I’m not your ex. I wouldn’t—”

“I know,” you hiss, maybe a little too quickly, and flinch. “I know that, which is why I said it was stupid.”

He stops you in your tracks, standing in front of you to cup your face and kiss you. Deep. Deep enough that you let a small whine spill into his mouth. “It’s not stupid. Your feelings are valid. I shouldn’t have gotten so defensive. It’s perfectly normal to be jealous, but I want you to know that that was just me trying to be a gentleman to put you at ease. Wanted to get out of here without you worrying or thinkin’ about them.” 

He’s not wrong. If he hadn’t helped, you would’ve been stressed, wondering if they were okay. If someone else came along to help. “That’s fair.”

“So trust me when I tell you, I only have eyes for you.”

“Okay.”

“Now, what else is bothering you?” You’re about to deny it again, despite the pressing of your heart against your ribs, and Bucky adds, “Don’t say nothing. There’s more.”

“It’s silly.” He gives you a look. “You carried her on your back.” He quirks an eyebrow. “Didn’t like that.”

He laughs, then, before you know it, you’re airborne. Your knees folded, one arm underneath them, the other around your back to press you close to him, your arms flying around his neck. 

“Bucky!”

“What?”

“This is embarrassing.” Your heart beats straight out of your chest as your gaze flies around the parking lot, catching a few curious glances. You bury your face in the crook of his neck, fire licking up your skin, and it’s not the sun. “People are watching.”

“Yeah, I suppose we look like newlyweds.” Heat spreads across your body again as you squirm. “I could propose to you. Right here, right now. It’s not a matter of if, it’s a matter of when.”

Your lips part in surprise as you jerk back to look at him. He looks completely calm, like he’s dead serious. Warmth creeping up on your cheeks again. “Please don’t.”

“Propose to you?”

“Not… here… or now,” you quickly add sheepishly. “Maybe when I’m less sweaty and I didn’t just whine at you.”

“S’cute when you whine,” he grins, “I like seeing you get worked up over me.”

You roll your eyes. “What were you even giggling with her about?” 

He’s biting down on a laugh when he says, “Nothing important.” You swat his chest. “I was telling her about how I’m always fighting off other people when it comes to keeping you to myself.”

Frowning, you deny, “That’s not true.”

“Sweetheart, if Steve didn’t know I’ve been in love with you for as long as I have, he would’ve made a move.”

You get warm again. “No, he wouldn’t.”

“Yes, he would. You’re gorgeous and you’re smart, and I’m just the guy lucky enough to sweep you off your feet first. Once I’m out of things to fix in your house, you may get bored with me.”

“Bucky!”

His lips tip up into a cocky smirk. “Don’t worry. I’m not letting you go that easy. I’ve had to fight off one ex, I can fight off other people too.”

“You’re stupid,” you mutter.

“Yeah, but you love me. Now, kiss me.”

And you do.

bucky is kissing (taglist): @superbassbuck @earthsmightiestbenders @houseofhyde @its-in-the-woods @flockoff-featherface @winterdecember18 @chateaubarnes @54nboo @phoenix-in-writing @tofuonfaiya @avengersfan25 @miraclediviner @averyhotchner @hailmary-yramliah @catclaw1 @heldbybarnes @blowingbarnes @stanmarvelous @pinksplace @lunexiax @54nboo @it-is-rebel-owl-ma-dudes @esunarint @captain-shannon-becker @lunaryoongie @sergeantsebastian @alli0-0 @amoremarveloustime @avgdestitute @natskisses @sarah1barnes @parker-barnes-af @sarah1barnes @onecojg @iamthatonefangirl @stegosaurussims @angelryex @evelynstanmarvel @lokisgirlie @mathcat345 @flippedccc @lynnidc @winnichu173 @singulartoast @zhaixiaowen @c3liaaaaa @buckysdecaflove @epiphanyrogers @itsmadamehydra @cutttteeee

Penelope was kind—too kind, really. She smiled at everyone, let strangers hold the door, chatted with the grumpy old lady downstairs. Bucky noticed her from the start, though he'd never admit it. Average height, soft curves, dark hair always pulled back in a messy bun, dark circles under her eyes from sleepless nights with her baby girl. Jane was a chunk of a baby—chubby cheeks, chubby thighs, brown eyes that sparkled, dark brown wisps covering her round head. Healthy as a horse, and loud as one too.

The first time Bucky banged on her door was at 2 AM. Jane was wailing like someone was skinning her alive. Bucky's fist connected with the cheap wood, ready to tear someone a new one. Then the door cracked open, and Penelope stood there—hair a disaster, spit-up on her shoulder, eyes puffy from crying, holding Jane who was screaming red-faced.

"I'm so sorry," Penelope whispered, bouncing the baby. "She's teething. I can't get her to stop—"

Bucky's anger died in his throat. He saw the empty apartment behind her—secondhand furniture, a pack-n-play instead of a real crib, the fridge barely stocked. A girl alone. A baby alone.

"It's fine," he muttered. "Just… try the freezer. Let her chew on a cold washcloth."

He turned and walked back into his apartment without another word. Penelope stared after him, surprised.

That was the first crack in his armor.

Weeks passed. Bucky kept to himself, but he listened. Heard Penelope singing lullabies off-key, heard Jane's gurgling laughs, heard the TV playing at low volume. Heard her crying some nights when she thought no one was listening.

Then came the night that changed everything.

Bucky was half-asleep when he heard it—Jane crying, yes, but also a man's voice. Raised. Angry. Followed by Penelope's fearful tone, then a sharp smack that made Bucky's blood run cold.

He was through the door before he even thought about it, using his metal fist to bust the cheap lock, splintering wood.

A man—tall, unshaven, reeking of whiskey—had Penelope backed against the kitchen counter, hand raised for another blow. Jane screamed in her crib in the corner. Penelope's cheek was red, tears streaming.

Bucky grabbed the man by the collar and yanked him off his feet with one arm. The boyfriend's eyes went wide, pupils dilated, mouth opening to protest—but Bucky's vibranium fist connected with his jaw, sending him crumpling. He dragged the fucker by the collar, down the hallway, down the stairs, and threw him out the front door into the rain.

"Come near her again," Bucky growled, voice low and deadly, "and so help me God I'll break every bone in your body. One by one."

The man scrambled away, clutching his jaw.

Bucky returned to Penelope's apartment. She was on the floor now, holding Jane, sobbing into the baby's dark hair. Humiliated. Embarrassed that he'd seen.

"I'm sorry," she choked out. "I'm so sorry you had to—he's not usually—I don't know why I let him back in my life, I—"

"Stop." Bucky crouched down, metal arm glowing faintly in the dim light. "Don't apologize for someone else's bullshit."

He helped her up. Made her tea. Sat with her until Jane fell asleep in her arms. They talked—really talked—for the first time.

She told him about her parents, her job, when jane was born and he told her everything, The decades he had no control over himself, when he killed people, ect. They grew closer.

Days turned into weeks. Bucky started coming over more. He'd fix the leaky faucet, change lightbulbs, bring groceries. He'd hold Jane while Penelope showered, looking ridiculous with the chubby baby cradled in his metal arm, cooing at her.

Penelope's smile came back. She laughed easier. She started looking at him differently.

One night, Jane was sleeping soundly in her crib. Penelope and Bucky were on her tiny sofa, sharing a takeout container of Chinese food. The TV played something neither of them watched. The air felt thick.

Bucky set the container aside. Penelope looked at him, nervous fingers twitching on her knee.

"James?"

He didn't answer with words. He leaned in, slow, giving her time to pull away. She didn't. His lips met hers—soft, patient, tasting of soy sauce and something sweeter. Her hand came up to his stubbled jaw, trembling.

He pulled her into his lap, hands finding her ass through her shorts, squeezing gently. She gasped against his mouth.

"I'm… I'm not…" She pulled back, eyes downcast. "I've had a baby. My body's not—I'm not what I used to be."

"Penny." His voice was low, rough, but gentle. "Look at me."

She did. Reluctantly.

"You're beautiful. You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. Don't ever fucking doubt that."

He stood, lifting her with him like she weighed nothing. Carried her to her bedroom—the one with the squeaky bedframe and faded floral sheets. Laid her down gently.

He kissed every inch of her. Her neck. Her collarbone. Her breasts—slightly fuller than before, with soft stretch marks he traced with his tongue. Her stomach, where the silvery lines spiderwebbed from carrying Jane. He pressed reverent kisses there, murmuring compliments against her skin.

"Perfect," he whispered. "So fucking perfect."

Penelope's eyes were wet. No one had ever looked at her like this.

When he finally entered her, it was slow. Deep. His metal hand cradled her hip while the other held her face, thumb brushing her cheek. Their foreheads touched.

"You okay?" he breathed.

She nodded, legs wrapping around his waist. Her hand pressed flat against his chest, feeling his heartbeat under the scars. His hand slid down to grip her ass, the other resting on the soft curve of her stomach.

"I havent...done this before...," she admitted later, when he'd turned them so she was on top, nervous and shaky.

"Then I'll teach you."

He guided her hips, slow and patient, letting her find the rhythm. His hands never left her body—one on her ass, squeezing and guiding, the other on her belly, warm and grounding. She gasped when she found the angle that made her see stars.

"Like that," he groaned. "Just like that, sweetheart."

From that night forward, they were together. Bucky was hers. She was his. Jane learned to call him "Bucky" before she learned "Daddy."

Years passed. They moved out of that crappy apartment into a real house with a yard. Bucky proposed on the porch swing, Jane clapping her chubby hands from Penelope's lap.

They married in a small ceremony. Penelope was finally with someone who treated her with love and kindness. Bucky's eyes were suspiciously bright.

Then came the news that Penelope was pregnant again. Bucky held her in the bathroom when she showed him the test, his metal arm careful and gentle, his other hand pressed to her still-flat stomach.

Another baby. Their baby.

Their love-making changed after that. It was still frequent, still passionate, but slower now. More deliberate. He'd lay her down on their big bed, in their quiet house—no thin walls, no crying baby in the next room—and take his time.

His hands traced her growing belly, kissing the stretch marks that formed, whispering how beautiful she was. He'd enter her from behind, spooning her, one arm wrapped around her bump, the other tangled with her fingers on the pillow. Or missionary, slow and deep, his forehead against hers, their breath mingling.

"I love you," he'd murmur, mid-thrust. "Love you so fucking much."

"I love you too," she'd gasp, legs trembling, hand in his hair.

Their bodies moved together like a familiar dance—patient, trusting, full of years of knowing each other. He'd feel her tighten around him, hear her breath catch, and slow down even more, drawing out every sensation.

"Cum for me, sweetheart," he'd whisper against her ear. "I've got you. Always got you."

And she would, shuddering against him, safe in his arms. He'd follow soon after, burying his face in her neck, groaning her name like a prayer.

Afterward, he'd rest his hand on her belly, feeling the baby kick, and she'd run her fingers through his hair. Jane would be asleep in her room down the hall. The house would be quiet. Peaceful.

Bucky Barnes—the Winter Soldier, the man with blood on his hands and ghosts in his head—had found his home. In a kind woman with stretch marks. In a chubby baby with brown eyes. In the life they built together.

“Okay enough,” Y/N said loudly.  “I was hoping to have a nice girls night with you both but apparently I’m just going to be judged for my life choices.  I’m comfortable, safe and paid.  Why can’t you just be happy for me in that regard?”

“We are,” Natasha said, looking at her sadly.  “But you also deserve love.”

Y/N stared at her and glanced at Yelena before sighing and shutting her eyes, refusing to let any tears show.  “Thank you, but seriously, I’m fine.”

The girls looked at each other worriedly, but dropped the subject.

***

“How are things going with Y/N?” Clint asked Bucky during a work outing.

Bucky finished his drink and smiled.  “It’s been great,” he said excitedly.  “It’s nice to have her with me all the time.  Thanks for the suggestion of the whole sugar baby thing.  I don’t know why I didn’t think of it myself.”

Clint nodded but narrowed his eyes.  “So, you making googly eyes at her all the time is just because you have an in-home fuck buddy?”

Bucky grimaced and snorted.  “Jesus, Clint, you make it sound gross.  No, that’s not it at all.  She’s…”  He paused and swallowed harshly.  “She’s one of my best friends, to be honest.  She’s helped me a lot over the past few years and I like her.”

Clint raised his eyebrow, giving him an unimpressed look.  “Just ‘like’ her?”

Bucky looked down and dragged his lip through his teeth.  “I…it doesn’t matter how I feel,” he said quietly.  “I’m paying her.  She wouldn’t be with me if I wasn’t.”

“That’s so not true, it’s ridiculous,” Steve piped up as he walked up to the table.  

Bucky jumped as he looked to see Steve and Sam sitting down with them.  “Oh god,” he rolled his eyes.

“Are we talking about Y/N again?” Sam asked, and when Clint nodded he made a smacking noise with his lips against his teeth.  “Come on, man, just tell her,” he said with an annoyed huff.  “She likes you, too, remember?  You’re just refusing to accept it.”

“Can we all move on, please?” Bucky begged, running his hand through his hair nervously.  

Clint grimaced and then groaned.  “Ugh, I’m not supposed to do this.  Natasha’s going to kill me,” he said.  They all looked at him curiously.  He faced Bucky and sighed.  “Y/N loves you,” he said firmly.

Bucky’s eyes widened, his mouth dropping open as the other two scoffed.  He stared at Clint for a long moment before shaking his head.  “What?” he asked.

“Y/N loves you,” he repeated.  “She has been in love with you since before she moved in.  I suggested you take her on as a sugar baby as a way to get you guys closer together, since I knew you were too afraid to tell her how you felt and she would be too afraid to date you since you would most likely not be okay with her work while being with you.  But she’s in love with you, man.  I’m serious.”

Steve clapped Bucky’s back as Sam pumped his fist triumphantly.  “I knew it!  Damn I’m good,” Sam said, thumping himself on the chest.  “So just tell her you want it all to be real!”

“But she’ll need reassurance,” Clint said.  “She’s gonna still want some independence of some kind.  She’s had to work for so long that giving it all up and leaning on you fully to take care of her is gonna be a hard sell, even with her being in love with you.”

Bucky was still looking shell-shocked, unsurety on his face as he blinked rapidly.  Steve leaned forward and put his arm around him.  “Buck,” he said, getting him to focus on him.  “She loves you.  You love her.  You both deserve to be happy together in a real relationship.”

Clint nodded along then grew serious again.  “Don’t tell Natasha I told you,” he said earnestly.  “We’ve been trying to let this all happen organically but obviously some things need a bigger push than we thought, and I can’t stand seeing you two orbit around each other’s feelings anymore.  It’s driving me nuts.”

***

Y/N thought over what the girls had said over the next few days.  She deserved love, she knew that.  So did Bucky.  And in this dynamic it was hard to know whether the way he treated her was because of the perks that come with a sugar baby relationship or because he actually liked her.  But there were times where the look in his eyes, the way he touched her, seemed to mean more.  But another part of her was too afraid to ruin it.  Everyone else seemed to think Bucky was in love with her already.  God, she wanted that.  She just couldn’t rely solely on him for everything, though.  The last time she had done that she had been left high and dry, and it took years for her to get back on her feet.  She wasn’t willing to struggle like that again, or ever.

Bucky walked into the room and she looked up at him expectantly.  “Let’s take a drive,” he said with a big smile.  “Got a few errands to run.”

“Okay,” Y/N said.  She could use some time out of the house.  As they drove through town she looked around and frowned when he turned down a street she wasn’t familiar with that was lined with different official looking buildings.  “Where are we going?” she asked.

“The bank,” he said.

Y/N side-eyed him.  It was a weird errand to run with her.  She had never been there with him before.  When they parked he got out and opened her door for her before taking her hand and leading her inside.  The moment he walked in he was greeted by a man across the lobby sitting at a desk.  “Mr. Barnes!  Long time no see,” he said, standing up as Bucky pulled her toward the desk.  “So, we’re adding a joint onto your accounts, is that right?”

“Hey Pietro.  Yes,” he said, pulling a chair out for Y/N before sitting in the chair next to hers.  “This is Y/N Y/L/N.  Y/N, this is my personal banker, Pietro Maximoff.”

Y/N looked back and forth between them in confusion.  “Hello,” she greeted him, shaking his hand across the desk.  “Um…I’m sorry, what’s happening?”

“We’re adding you onto my bank accounts,” Bucky said matter-of-factly.  “That way you have access to everything.”

Her eyes bulged.  “What…why would I need access to everything?” she asked breathlessly.

Pietro didn’t seem phased by the conversation as he typed things into the keyboard on his desk and then moved the electronic signature pad toward her.  “I’ve got everything structured the way we discussed, all I need is your signature on a few documents, Miss Y/L/N, then we can get cards printed for you and you’re all set.”

“Wait, wait wait wait,” Y/N said, holding her hands up in alarm.  “I didn’t…I never asked for this…Buck, what’s going on?”

“I figured it would just make it easier if you were added onto my accounts, rather than the whole process of transferring money over and over again every month,” he said with a nonchalant shrug.  “You’ll have full access to all of my accounts, that way you don’t need to ask permission for anything.”

“Oh, and I got the deed paperwork ready as well,” Pietro piped up, handing over a packet of papers and opening it to a specific page that had a tab saying ‘Sign here.’  “It’ll take a little while to process through the state but it will have her on the deed as well.”

Y/N’s heart felt like it fell into her stomach.  What was going on?  Why was he doing this?  Giving her full access to his money?  Putting her on the deed to the house?  He was intertwining their lives together, not just as a sugar baby contract.  This had never happened to her before so she didn’t know what to do.  It was all too big, too serious, too much, too fast.

“Come on, Mamas,” Bucky said, pulling the electronic pen off of the pad and handing it to her.  The look he gave her was hopeful but confident.  And as scared as she was, she took the pen with a shaky hand and signed the pad screen.

Bucky smiled widely as Pietro kept having her sign the pad over and over again and then the packet of papers in multiple spots.  He left the desk for a few minutes and returned with a debit and credit card, handing them to her before shaking her hand again.  “It’s a pleasure doing business with you Miss Y/L/N,” he said in a chipper tone, then shook Bucky’s hand.  “And always a pleasure, Mr. Barnes.”

“Thank you, P,” Bucky said.  “You’re the best.”

Y/N felt like she was floating, her ears slightly buzzing as he led her back out to the car then took her on a few more errands.  They were all things involving adding her onto his accounts at different places as a joint.  It was the most business-like experience she ever had, and after he picked up some food on the way home for dinner she couldn’t hold it in anymore as they walked into the kitchen.

“Bucky, what the hell?” she asked incredulously.  “What was all that today?”

“What?” he asked, putting the takeout boxes on the island and unpacking them.

“Why would you add me onto everything?” she asked, frowning as she stood on the opposite side of the island.  “I don’t need to be on the deed and have direct access to your money—”

“Why not?” he asked with a smirk as he glanced at her.  

Her frown deepened.  It was like this was a game, but she wasn’t in on what the rules were.  “Because I…I don’t need to…I don’t know—”

“I want to take care of you,” he said, sliding over her food and drink and then getting his food ready.  “I’m not your overlord, you’re your own person and I trust you.  So why not?”

She couldn’t say why not.  Not now, not to him.  She shook her head and looked away.  “I just don’t need it all,” she said quietly.

“Then what do you need?” Bucky asked.  Y/N met his gaze to find him looking at her kindly.  “I want you to feel secure in being with me,” he explained.  “I want you to understand that this may have started as an arrangement, a contract, a deal.  But now it means more to me than any other relationship I’ve ever had in my life.”  He slowly rounded the island until he stood in front of her, then suddenly lifted her to sit on the island counter.  She let out a squeak of surprise as he set her down and stood between her legs, wrapping his arms around her waist to hold her close and making their faces close together.  She stared at him in shock, a jittery anticipation rippling through her chest.  He stared back at her for a moment before smiling softly.  “I wanted to share everything with you because I want you to stay forever,” he confessed quietly.  “As my partner, my girlfriend, my wife, whatever you want to be just…as mine.  I love you.”  

Y/N froze.  He said it.  He actually said it.  Yelena was right.  He loved her.  Bucky was in love with her.  There was no lie in his expression, no wavering in his eyes.  He had done everything he could other than marry and impregnate to show her that he wanted her to stay in his life.  Her past experience had never done anything that extreme for her.  Holy shit, this was real…  “I love you,” she whispered.  Bucky’s eyelids fluttered and he took a deep breath through his nose, his arms tightening around her.  Her hands reached up to cup his face, scratching his beard lightly before she leaned forward.  “I love you, honey.”

He swallowed harshly and closed his eyes for a moment as he leaned his forehead against her own.  “Thank god.  Fuck, I love you so much, Y/N.”  

Bucky kissed her hard, and she sighed heavily through her nose as she kissed him like her life depended on it.  It felt so good to confess her feelings, to let it all out and for him to feel the same.  He wanted her in his life, not just for his pleasure, but because he truly loved her.  It wasn’t often that wildest dreams came true, but for this moment she thanked whatever higher power there was that let her have them come true, even for just this once.

“I love you,” she whispered between kisses and as he kissed down to her neck.  “Goddamn, I’m so in love with you.  I’ve loved you for so long but I…I couldn’t tell you.  I was supposed to just be helping you, you know?”

“I know,” he said reassuringly as he kissed her collarbone and his hands kneaded her love handles.  “I understand.  I should have just asked you to be mine instead of this whole sugar baby thing.  I just didn’t want you to feel trapped or like you were too dependent on me.  I still don’t want that.”  He pulled away to meet her eyes again.  “I’m not trying to limit you or take away any independence or…I don’t know, ‘keep’ you, I just…I wanna take care of you.  Does that make sense?”

“Yes,” she nodded.  “Thank you.”  She kissed him all over his face softly.  “Thank you for understanding me.  I never meant to seem ungrateful for all you’ve done for me or take advantage of the situation when you were my client—”

Bucky shook his head and shut her up with a quick kiss.  “I know,” he repeated.  “You didn’t.  We just…”  He shrugged and scoffed.  “Clicked.  And I’m so grateful we did.”

Y/N smiled widely as she nuzzled his nose.  “I am, too.”

***

1 year later

Y/N squirmed in the large bed, waking up to pulses of pleasure lighting a fire between her legs.  She was having a hard time understanding what was happening until she felt a metal thumb rubbing against her clit and she woke up with a gasp.  She moaned as her eyes opened, her legs already shaking with Bucky’s head between them, lapping at her pussy lips with his eyes closed like he hadn’t even fully woke up yet.  But when he heard her gasp he opened his eyes to look up at her and winked when she met his gaze.

“Good morning,” he said, his words muffled by her swollen lips from the previous night’s activities.  “M’sorry…I couldn’t wait to taste you again.”

She let out a long sigh as she relaxed back into the bed, her legs splaying open wide to give him all the room he needed to eat her out.  He had flown them to New Orleans for their official relationship anniversary, a spot she had always wanted to visit.  It just so happened to coincide with Mardi Gras, so as he took his time pleasuring her she could hear the street bands start and the first parade of the day going by just a floor away.  One of the windows of their old hotel room was cracked open just enough to let in the cool air of the morning, the horns and trumpets drowning out her moans and whimpers.

She was still pretty surprised that he was down there again, after how much he’d cum inside her the night before.  But Bucky never seemed put off by tasting himself along with her.  If anything he was turned on even more, like tasting them together proved just how much she was his and he was hers.  He repositioned himself so his flesh fingers dipped inside her throbbing hole, massaging her sensitive spot inside and drawing out any cum still inside as he sucked on and flicked her clit faster.  Her hips unwittingly started to grind on his mouth, chasing her release as his fingers moved with her movements.  He groaned, and the vibration of the deep, morning resonance in his voice had her cumming with a long, gravelly hum.  It wasn’t enough to make her squirt, but the day was still young and he still licked and swallowed all of the smaller gush of her cum that he could as she shook.

“Fuck, Mamas, that’s it,” he said as he licked up her slit, then got up on his knees.  He shifted her onto her stomach, lifting her hips in the air so she was on her knees with her face smooshed against the bed and getting settled between her legs.  She felt his rock hard cock slip along her wet slit, the tip threatening to catch at her entrance.  “I’m gonna fuck you full of me then eat you out again.  I know we had plans to see the Audubon Aquarium but…we might need to push it back a couple of hours.”

“Mmh, yes honey,” she moaned, wiggling her ass back at him.  “Whatever you want.  Fuck me, please?”

Bucky chuckled lightly and smacked her ass cheek, making her squeal before thrusting in.  They both sighed heavily as he fit himself where he belonged, and she gripped the sheets as he set a slow but steady pace, the sound of skin slapping echoing in the room.  The jazz music and cheers floating through the air from the street below, their moans, slapping skin, crinkling sheets, and Bucky’s huffed praises all created a perfect, heady atmosphere for Y/N to get lost and overwhelmed, her pussy betraying her by already building an orgasm too quick for her liking.  But her first one had set her alight, so the jittery hum under her skin was too much to contain as she came again with a loud whimper.  

He snapped his hips hard, chasing his own orgasm and grunting with how tight her pussy was gripping him, until he came not long after her with what sounded like a growl, his fingers fiercely gripping her hips before his flesh hand smacked her ass again for good measure.  With excited pants he pulled out and pushed her back on her back, immediately moving to his previous position and licking at her pussy.  He moaned loudly at his cum oozing out of her still pulsing cunt, gathering it on his tongue to cover her clit with its warmth.  She shivered at the dirtiness of the act, her left hand reaching down to scratch his hair, her brand new engagement ring catching the Louisiana sun.  

“You always keep me feeling good, honey,” she drawled as her arousal built up again.  “Feeling so good…”

THE END

The decision to split wasn't easy.

It wasn't like there was any love lost between you, it was the opposite. There was an abundance of it, so much so that two tiny humans came from the love that you both had for each other.

But there were one too many threats, one too many enemies that Bucky knew he couldn't keep you from forever.

The easiest and safest thing he could think of? Severing that tie, as much as it killed him.

It's been two months, and it hasn't gotten any easier.

Bucky drives to your house, a place that used to be theirs, to wait for the kids. He took them for the weekend, every weekend since the split without fail.

It was the highlight of his week, being able to spend some time with his babies, but also seeing you. Even if it's just briefly, even with every smile you fake because you miss him, because you miss the way things used to be.

"Daddy!" Winnie cries, bolting out of the front door and crashing into Bucky's legs.

"Hey," He breathes, immediately crouching and cupping her face, pressing a lingering kiss to Winnie's forehead, "How's my girl, huh?"

"Good," She throws her arms around his neck and squeezes tight, "I missed you."

Bucky swallows down the lump in his throat, "I'm always missing you too, sweetheart. Always."

He looks up at the sound of fussing and your tired voice standing at the doorway.

Little baby Bonnie, six months old and currently being a handful.

Her cheeks are flushed and tear-stained as she gnaws on your shoulder, your hand rubbing soothing circles on her back.

"She's teething, hasn't slept," You say softly, and Bucky's heart squeezes at the sight of your own tears you're trying to hold back.

"Winnie, go get some toys from your room and put on some socks," Bucky urges gently, and she nods, scurrying past you and up the stairs.

He approaches you slowly, brushing a hand over Bonnie's head and then catching your glistening gaze.

Bucky presses a kiss to your temple, and gently takes Bonnie from your arms.

He brushes your hair away from your face, his fingers swiping away your tears.

"I miss you." You rasp, your voice sounding so much like Winnie's.

Bucky lets out a shaky breath, and allowing you both this one motion, of him leaning down to press his forehead to yours.

"I know, doll, I miss my girls too."

Your boys were in a cuddle-puddle on the couch when you made it home on Friday night. When the door shut behind you, they both raised their heads to look in your direction, but you waved them back down. They looked too cute and comfortable to disturb – at least right away.

You hummed to yourself as you took a shower, washing away the stress and the grime of the day and looking forward to the evening ahead, as well as the rest of the weekend. It had all been rather hectic recently and while the three of you had been spending time together, it wasn’t the slow, thorough loving that you all craved. 

But that would be fixed this evening.

You took your time getting ready, moisturising every inch of your skin, spritzing on just the right amount of perfume. Finally you eased your way into some of your favourite lingerie, smoothing it over your curves as you admired yourself in the mirror.

Turning away, you pulled your sheer robe on and then dug through the toy box to get out everything you might need for this evening. Yes, having three of you meant there was always an extra hand or two, but no-one wanted to have to break the moment to go rummaging for the lube. 

With a final check of your hair, you exited the bedroom, gliding down the stairs back to your boys. You observed from the doorway for a moment, entranced with how Bucky was lying with his head in Steve’s lap, your artist boyfriend petting his hair.

“Hey lovers,” you cooed, and suprressed a giggle as they both perked up like meerkats on patrol. Their eyes widened as they took in how you looked. You crooked your finger at them.

“Come and get your love.”

You aren’t anything. Not officially.

And it had never really bothered you before.

Until her.

Her name slips into conversations too easily. At first it’s just Sam mentioning a new—or rather, returning—agent joining a mission rotation. Then Steve adds, “You remember her, Buck?” and there’s something in Bucky’s posture that changes.

You don’t think much of it.

Not until she walks into the compound like she belongs there.

Confident. Sharp. Beautiful in a way that doesn’t try—it just is. She greets everyone easily, but when her eyes land on Bucky, something flickers between them. History. You feel it like a punch to the ribs.

“Hey, Buck,” she says, soft but certain.

“Hey,” he answers, quieter than usual.

That’s when it clicks.

Ex.

No one says it out loud, but you can see it in the way they stand a little too close, the way she knows his habits—finishes his sentences, hands him coffee exactly how he takes it without asking. It’s effortless in a way that makes your chest ache.

Because you had to learn him.

She already knows him.

You try not to let it get to you. You really do. But suddenly every moment you’ve shared with him feels… fragile. Undefined. Like it could disappear with one conversation, one look, one decision.

So you start stepping back.

You laugh less at his jokes. You stop waiting up for him after missions. When he brushes past you in the kitchen, you don’t lean into the touch like you used to—you move away.

It confuses him.

You can see it in the crease between his brows, in the way he watches you like he’s trying to solve a puzzle that keeps changing shape.

“Did I do something?” he finally asks one night, catching you before you can slip out of the common room.

You shake your head too quickly. “No.”

“Then what’s goin’ on?” His voice is softer now, careful. “You’ve been… distant.”

You swallow, forcing a shrug. “Just tired.”

It’s a lie. A weak one. You know it, but aren't willing to admit it. He knows it, but doesn’t push.

That almost makes it worse.

Because if he cared enough—if this was something real—wouldn’t he fight harder?

The breaking point comes a few days later.

You walk into the gym and freeze.

She’s there with him, laughing as Bucky demonstrates something, his hand briefly guiding her wrist. It’s innocent. Completely innocent.

But it feels like déjà vu for something you were never a part of.

You turn before they can see you.

You don’t hear him call your name.

---

He finds you later.

Your door swings open without a knock, and you don’t even have the energy to be surprised anymore.

“Okay, that’s it,” Bucky says, voice tight with frustration. “You don’t get to keep shutting me out without telling me why.”

You don’t look at him. “There’s nothing to tell.”

“Bullshit.”

That gets your attention.

Your head snaps up, eyes stinging. “Why do you care?”

The question lands heavier than you mean it to.

Because you care way too much.

Bucky stares at you like you’ve just said something unforgivable. “Why do I—are you serious right now?”

You laugh, but it breaks halfway through. “You’ve got her back, Bucky. You don’t need to worry about me.”

Something in his expression shifts. Confusion giving way to realization.

“…This is about her?”

You hate how small your voice sounds. “It’s not like I can compete with history.”

“Compete?” he repeats, like the word itself is ridiculous. “Doll, there’s no competition.”

“Of course there is,” you snap, finally looking at him fully. “She knows you. She fits into your life already. I’m just—” You cut yourself off, shaking your head. “This was never anything real anyway.”

The silence that follows is deafening.

Then Bucky crosses the room in two strides.

“Don’t,” he says, voice low and rough. “Don’t you dare say that.”

You blink, startled.

“Nothing about this—about you—is ‘not real’ to me.” His hands hover at your arms like he’s afraid to touch you and have you pull away again. “Yeah, she’s part of my past. But that’s all she is. Past.”

You search his face, trying to find doubt. You don’t.

“I didn’t say anything before,” he continues, softer now, “because I thought… I thought we were taking our time. That you wanted that too.”

“I did,” you whisper. “I just… I didn’t know if you ever planned on choosing me.”

Something in his expression cracks wide open.

“Choose you?” he breathes, almost disbelieving. “I already did.”

Your heart stutters.

“Every time I sit next to you. Every time I look for you after a mission. Every time I fall asleep easier just ‘cause you’re in the same damn building.” His voice drops, steady and certain. “I chose you a long time ago. I just didn’t realize you needed to hear it out loud.”

Tears blur your vision.

“So let me make it real,” he says, finally taking your hands. “No more guessing. No more space for you to think you’re anything less than mine.”

Your breath catches.

“Be with me,” Bucky murmurs. “For real. No question marks this time.”

You nod before he even finishes speaking.

“Yes.”

Relief floods his face so fast it almost makes you laugh through your tears.

“Yeah?” he asks, softer now.

“Yeah.”

His grip tightens, grounding, certain—like he’s not letting you slip away again.