naiadonis

[naiadonis]

illicit affairs (II)

summary: bucky’s time as a congressman requires extra assistance, in more ways than one.

pairing: congressman!bucky x communications director!reader

warnings: smut [18+], oral (m+f receiving, some of it in a vehicle), fingering, unprotected sex, soft dom!bucky, a clearly inappropriate work relationship, mentions of jealousy, talks of the alien invasion from the first avengers movie, set during thunderbolts* so there are spoilers if you still haven’t seen it

word count: 6.5k

a/n: this indeed got away from me a bit which is why it took so long to update… my sincerest apologies but i think the content will make up for the wait <3 

series masterlist

WASHINGTON, D.C.

The nation’s capital was one of your favorite places in the whole country. The feeling of belonging wasn’t lost on you, with plenty of years spent roaming government offices with your parents as a child. Washington was never a place you’d feel out of place in, though it could never replace New York.

Seeing the landmarks never got old, walking (or in your current case, driving) through the history of a very complicated mass of land. As you looked at the cherry blossom trees, still standing tall and beautiful after the near-destruction of the National Park several months prior, the uncertainty of a world without heroes dawned on you. The Founding Fathers might have been ahead of their time in building such a nation. Still, you were certain they never imagined mutants and superheroes, let alone the President turning into a giant, red Hulk in the middle of a press conference on the South Lawn, then proceeding to fight Captain America in the heart of the city. 

Sam does all that he can, and it’s more than admirable how much he’s been able to accomplish in his three years as Cap. Precariousness unfortunately takes over when he isn’t around, busy somewhere else, or reminding himself that he has his own life away from the shield. It also prompts the discussions of how much success he’s actually had, but the doubters never affected his work; rather, it fueled his desire to protect people one mission at a time. 

It’s the same desire that has become impossible to miss in Bucky’s eyes, when he’s watching the news about Sam or scrolling on his phone and seeing people vent about missing the Avengers—he misses putting his hands to work, joining a fight on his own accord. He’s tired of fighting, he claims. He doesn’t do that anymore. But you couldn’t ignore the way he worries about Sam when he’s assigned, wishing he were there to ease some responsibility off of him and Joaquín. The day he decided to drop the niceties and return to what he knew as second nature never came. Even so, watching him investigate Valentina’s mischief told you that day wasn’t far. 

Once your driver made a turn on Independence Avenue, you texted Bucky about your arrival. It wasn’t in your plans to come down to D.C. today, but an invitation to an Honoring NYC Heroes gala piqued your interest. Congressional staff rarely ever received invitations to government events, but Bucky pulled some strings to get you on the guest list. After he claimed he needed you to help deal with his Valentina issue, you couldn’t say no, but you knew if it were up to him, he’d have you in D.C. all the time.

Commuting from the city to DC every day wasn’t ideal, but you couldn’t relieve yourself of the lease on your apartment in Brooklyn. The travel was a few hours and eating away at your funds a bit, but the eager super soldier who needed to see you every day was more at fault for that. Your job responsibilities could have easily been carried out at his Congressional office in Brooklyn, but Bucky insisted that you come to D.C. He offered to let you stay at his apartment in the city during the week, but you felt that it would be intrusive. After the first refusal, he offered to reimburse your travel expenses, but you assured him the pay from your position was more than enough.

Thanking your driver with a soft smile as he stopped in front of the building where Bucky’s office was located, you grabbed your bag and exited the car. Fall in the city started to become more noticeable, the current breeze making you wish you’d packed a sweater. You quickly rushed towards the Cannon House Office Building, using the staff entrance to make your way inside. After flashing your staff badge to the security guard, you walked towards Bucky’s office. 

Office 245 — Rep. James B. Barnes, NY-10

You knocked on the door twice, about to hit a third time before Bucky opened the door, smiling as his gaze landed on your face. He was in a greyish-blue suit, his burgundy tie loosened a bit as it was past 5 PM. Quickly grabbing your wrist, he pulled you inside his office, shutting the door behind you and locking it. 

Bucky pulled you in for a hug, the musk of his cologne invading your senses as you returned the embrace. “Fuck, baby, I’ve been waiting to see you all day,” he whispered in your ear as he squeezed you, vibranium arm whirring as he tightened his grip.

Your relationship with Bucky was nothing official, but more than certainly exclusive. Sam even called and thanked you for getting Bucky out of his hole more often after he was sworn into office. It was a mutual decision not to label anything that could threaten the nature of your professional relationship, a scandal being the last thing Bucky needed during a congressional term many felt he wasn’t ready to carry out.

Originally, Bucky wanted you as his Chief of Staff. After all, you would have to check in with him daily, manage and implement all of his policy objectives, and supervise his entire Congressional staff, among other things. Most importantly, you’d have to move to Washington. Though you knew you’d be fantastic at the job, the concept of uprooting your life for a position under the man you’d shared a bed with was anything but intriguing. 

It didn’t help that he was so smitten either, with a constant gaze of infatuation so noticeable that it could make you melt through the floor every time you caught him.

“I can control myself in public,” Bucky defended himself, a playfully offended look on his face. 

“You couldn’t even stop staring at me while you were getting sworn in,” you countered, and his expression changed to one of defeat. “I mean, Sam taunted you for it for an hour when we were out for dinner.”

He rolled his eyes. “Fucking Wilson. But I can still control myself,” he pushed, letting you know he wouldn’t relent, but you knew you couldn’t accept his offer. “No one would be better than you at this job, and I don’t want to be stuck with some asshole.”

“And you won’t.” You shook your head, moving a stray hair out of your face before you sat on his lap, your legs hanging off his thighs. “You and I both know it won't end well. I can still be part of your staff, but I’m more than positive any of your interns would know you were screwing your Chief of Staff.”

He chuckled, wrapping his arms around your waist. “We’re not just screwing,” he emphasized, kissing your cheek twice, “but alright.”

Becoming his Communications Director was the best option. Your experience as his campaign manager was more than enough to get the job, even with murmurs of surprise at your rejection of the higher position. It was still risky, but you would be directly handling his relationship with the media and were more than cautious.

“You’re squeezing me, Buck,” you squeaked out, pushing him to release his grip. He looked down at you with his hands now placed on your cheeks. His face was flushed, a rare sight to see Bucky blushing. He looked so cute.

“Sorry,” his usual grimace on his face. “I missed you.”

“Well, when trying to get to Penn Station this morning, the trains, of course, were delayed because of some person walking on the tracks,” you complained in typical New Yorker fashion, making Bucky chuckle. “I almost missed the Amtrak to get here, but that’s another 3 hours, and then I got an Uber to drive me here.”

“I would’ve had someone get you.” Bucky removed his hands from your cheeks, placing them on your hips, rubbing them gently.

“It’s okay,” you reassured him, kissing his cheek. “I missed you, too, but we have got to talk about that press interview, Bucky.”

Bucky was no people person, but after a more-than-successful campaign and your explicit presentation about speaking to journalists, you trusted that he could hold his own without you in his ear. Much to your dismay, you were flooded with an onslaught of messages from the congressional staff losing their minds. As the CD, everyone mentioned you in their rambles, the ceaseless buzzing prompting you to look at your phone while you were drafting your agenda for the next day on the train. 

“Damn it, Bucky,” you whispered to yourself watching the video. 

It was expected that when he refused to read every packet that came his way, the pile would slowly but surely start to crowd his kitchen counter, and he’d run out of things to say. It was safe to say you didn’t anticipate it happening so quickly into his term, but you only had yourself to blame for not pushing him a bit harder.

Bucky sucked a breath in as he turned to walk towards his desk. “It was that bad, huh?”

“You could’ve said worry a lot less.” You grimaced as you shook your head, setting your bag down on one of the chairs in front of his desk. 

Bucky clenched his jaw, arms crossed, as he turned back toward you and leaned against his desk, crossing one leg over the other. As you walked toward him, he scanned your face and furrowed his eyebrows.

Your attention was on the table, where a photo of him and Sam faced you, along with some pictures of him with Steve behind it. There was a Polaroid of the campaign staff after Bucky won the election, with the big ‘VOTE BUCKY ‘26’ banner in the background of the dozens of people in the picture. You and Bucky were in the middle, a huge smile on both of your faces.

“Luckily for you,” you said with your eyes still on the Polaroid, “Valentina’s hearing is making more noise online. But we won’t have the CIA Director facing impeachment to cover you for the next year and a half.”

Bucky expected the backlash after he walked away from the press, immediately recognizing that maybe he should’ve said he wasn’t taking questions instead.  He would be lying if he didn’t somewhat enjoy it when it happened, but it was never his intention to seek your fated reprimand. Your relationship never got in the way of your job, so he knew you’d give him your usual stern but sweet scolding. Bucky wished he’d put you in such a position less often, sowing more of his doubts about his work in his role. 

Thankfully, the first hearing with the impeachment trial committee did offer a distraction from his screw-up. Masking his irritation about her irresponsible usage of government resources, Bucky knew Valentina would be lying out of her ass. Most assumed he’d be part of the impeachment committee, seeing as the Sentry Project was an experiment reminiscent of his time as the Winter Soldier. Others in Congress sounded off against the possibility, citing his very time with Hydra and his work with the Avengers as conflicts of interest. Bucky agreed, deciding to help from the outside, which meant he would also have to talk a lot less. 

During one of your visits to D.C., you found out that Bucky’s suspicions about Valentina played a role in his congressional interest. You had doubts of your own about the CIA Director, becoming more suspicious when Bucky gave you his own opinions. As a lifelong observer of the government, her impeachment trial came as no surprise to you. The committee seemed a little out of their depth, and Valentina wasn’t an idiot. You weren’t expecting her to get anything more than a slap on the wrist, as most politicians were getting these days, if they got any punishment. Bucky was confident about putting a stop to her work with OXE; however, you didn’t express your judgment of the situation.

As soon as the first day of hearings was adjourned, he received your text, reminding him of the inevitable lecture coming his way. He never minded though; you were too damn good at your job. Bucky’s approval rating still sat above 50%, and his addresses to the media had all been less than okay. He hadn’t passed a single bill in six months, most people in Congress suspected he’d fizzle out before his term was over, and many laughed at the idea of him running for re-election. You managed to control the narrative every single time, highlighting that Bucky’s gratitude and dedication to his district were more important than anyone skeptical of his progress.

Anyone else would have been tanking in the polls and among their party, but Bucky had the best Communications Director in either chamber.

“Maybe this gala’s a good opportunity to chat some people up?” You suggested, still racking your brain for solutions to Bucky’s public flounder, sitting in the empty chair beside you. “Valentina’s using it to cover her ass, so why can’t you?”

Bucky shook his head in response, prompting you to tilt your head.

“I have to find out what she’s up to, see if her assistant might crumble and give me information,’ the gears turning in his head. “This gala isn’t to make her look good, it’s a distraction. Typical play out of a con’s book.”

You hummed. “Do you really think her assistant is gonna share information with a former Avenger about her boss, who is trying to replace the Avengers?”

“You think it’s a bad idea.”

“It’s not bad, just not quite realistic if you don’t handle it properly,” you expressed your opinion, slightly referring back to his earlier fumble. He knew it was well-intentioned. “She’s easier to crack than Valentina, but you can’t go in there all broody and bad at words.”

Bucky rolled his eyes with a smirk, moving from his desk to lean forward in your direction, grasping the armrests of the chair you were seated in. His face was mere inches from yours, closing his eyes as he inhaled the vanilla notes of your favorite perfume before staring into yours.

“Good thing I have you to help me, right?” His voice was soft-spoken, with remnants of the scent of gum on his breath. 

You nodded without a word, biting down softly on your bottom lip. Bucky loved it when you got shy in front of him, your usual commanding nature absent in seconds.

His eyes flutter closed before pressing his lips against yours, a deep kiss that had you tasting the mint on his breath as he swiftly slid his tongue in your mouth. His hands were still on the armrests as he groaned into your mouth, one of your own moving upwards to tug on his hair. 

Bucky pulled away as you moved to cup his face, a grin on his face.

“We should head out,” he teased, pecking your lips once more as you raised your eyebrows and then stood straight.

Scoffing playfully, you hit his stomach. “You fucker, you did that on purpose.”

Bucky chuckled, grabbing your bag from the other chair and slinging it on his right shoulder, grabbing his own bag from beside his desk with his left hand. 

“You love it.”

NEW YORK CITY, N.Y.

The Battle of New York happened over a decade ago, but you could recount your entire day like it was yesterday. 

After taking your last final, you were packing up your belongings to head back home from your dorm. Freshman year was mostly a blur, with how fast time went, but you managed to finish strong. 

Once you’d filled up your last storage bin with your kitchen items, you closed the lid and pushed it towards the rest with your foot. As you pulled your phone out to call your dad, you felt the building shake. An earthquake in New York wasn’t impossible, but insanely rare. While going to check the news, you saw a giant ship fly right by your window, the sky above completely ripped apart and spitting out aliens.

Everyone in New York called it The Incident. Seeing the Avengers’ items on display, the big ‘A’ from the old Stark Industries tower in the middle of the room, brought back every memory of that day and the aftermath. Your parents almost forced you to commute to school the following semester, not wanting to run the risk of being separated from you in the event of another alien invasion. Thankfully, your persuasive nature convinced them otherwise.

The public trusted the Avengers almost immediately after The Incident. While the city’s destruction left people in turmoil, it was better than being killed by extraterrestrials. People couldn’t thank them enough, with banners and murals decorating the city shortly after, flowers and letters left outside of what had then turned into Avengers Tower. It felt weird seeing their things as artifacts, a reminder that they were really gone. 

Bucky stared at you as you took in the scenery, fiddling with your fingers. You wore a silk, cream-colored dress, draped off your shoulders. Your hair was slicked into an updo, perfect curls hanging loose on top. Teardrop diamonds hung from your ears, twinkling perfectly in the light, a matching diamond necklace sitting right beneath your collarbones. 

He was fighting his urges all evening— as the two of you got ready, while you were in the car, and now as he further took in your appearance at the top of the steps in the room. Bucky took his chances to give you a good scan when you weren’t looking, knowing you’d give him one stern look – an unspoken warning to behave. But he couldn’t help himself when you were the most gorgeous person in the room, taking the moment to study you like he wanted—needed to memorize every single feature. 

“There’s Valentina and her assistant,” you pointed out once you finished observing the room. You turned your head, meeting your eyes with Bucky’s, who’d shifted his expression once you looked at him. “Bucky—”

“Behave,” he interrupted. “I know the rules, boss.”

“You’re my boss,” you corrected him.

“I like it the other way around,” he said lowly as he got closer to you, a smug grin on his face while you turned away from him, your cheeks suddenly warm.

“The assistant just left Valentina’s side,” you returned to the original topic, gripping Bucky’s left upper arm to shove him forward gently. “Go. Remember what we practiced.”

Bucky took a glance back at you as he walked towards Valentina’s assistant, who was staring at the same Stark ‘A’ you saw when you walked into the room. 

Once you saw him chatting her up, you made your way around the room. A few recognizable faces made conversation with you, distracting you enough that you’d lost sight of Bucky. 

Figuring that he’d find you later, you continued your walk around the room. Reading the cards for each artifact, the tools used by heroes you knew so well, yet still knew nothing at all. The Battle of New York remained as a distant memory, one you lingered on before someone tapped on your shoulder, interrupting your thoughts as a foreign voice said your name.

Turning around, you were met with an unfamiliar face. A tall man, short, blonde hair parted to the side, combed perfectly. He was wearing an all-black suit; it reminded you of Bucky’s taste, one you told him he couldn’t wear as a Congressman. Not professional enough, too intimidating, would cause controversy. The lapel pin he wore matched Bucky’s, signifying a member of the House. You hadn’t recognized him, but there were 435 of them. Clearly not a notable figure, you assumed he’d approached you for some help.

It was all you’d been lauded for all evening, turning around the image of the Winter Soldier. You gave Bucky most of the credit in every quick conversation, mostly telling the truth. Of course, you’d helped, but it was easier to commend his willingness to adapt than draw any attention to yourself. You had enough of that growing up.

“I’ve seen your work with Barnes, pretty impressive,” the man in front of you praised, not even bothering to introduce himself. “Care to help another man get re-elected?”

“My schedule’s already filled with unnamed Congressmen up for re-election, sorry,” you said as you avoided his gaze, trying to walk past him as your eyes landed on Bucky walking across the upper balcony of the room. 

“Hey,” he stopped you with a grip on your wrist. It wasn’t threatening in any way, soft enough for you to pull your hand away as quickly as you did, but still just as annoying. “I’m sorry, didn’t mean to work you. Christian Reynolds, I oversee the 17th here in New York.”

He extended his hand for you to shake, which you did firmly. 

“You often try to talk to people at events without introducing yourself?” You furrowed your eyebrows as you stared up at him, dropping your hand back at your side.

“You’re a harsh one, huh?” He teased back. “I can see why Barnes keeps you around. Feisty and quick, I like it. But to answer your question, no, I think you’re the first. Guess I got flustered around a beautiful woman.”

You scoffed playfully. “Nice save.”

“I try.”

You crossed your arms across your chest, noticing the way his eyes fluttered down before landing on your face again. You rolled your eyes instinctively before he could notice.

“How about I buy you a drink and we can talk about my campaign?”

Narrowing your eyes, you smirked. “Thanks, but I’m unavailable.”

“Unavailable for a drink or unavailable to help with my campaign?”

“Both,” the familiar voice popped behind you.

You heard Bucky before you saw him, stealthy as ever as he walked up beside you, eyeing the man in front of you with his usual menacing stare—brows knitted together, lips slightly pouted. How did he get here that fast?

“No harsh feelings, Barnes,” Reynolds put his hands up in surrender. “Not a crime to talk to a pretty woman. She’s on your staff, not mine.”

“Harass a lot of Congressional staff members?” Bucky questioned, his posture straightening, face becoming more stoic.

“We should go,” you butted in, looking at Bucky with a coy smile on your face. “Lots to talk about, policies to discuss, bills to pass. Right, James?”

Bucky nodded once, catching your drift as he agreed, though not meeting your gaze. He bid goodbye to Reynolds before he led you out of the room. 

Once you made it up the stairs and out of the front entrance, Bucky signaled for his driver. Getting the door to the limo for you, Bucky watched as you slipped inside, entering the limo once you were situated and shutting the door. He looked over to find you staring at him, trying to conceal the grin on your face by biting down on your lip, failing miserably.

“What?” Bucky asked, gaze dropping to your lips before meeting your eyes again.

“Haven’t seen you jealous before.”

“Jealous?” He repeated incredulously. “Reynolds is no good, accused of shit in the past. Can’t have you around that.”

You hummed once. “Just protecting me, then? Gonna help me find a nice, professional boyfriend?”

Bucky shook his head, a smirk on his face as he inched closer to yours.

“You already have one,” he whispered as he brought his right hand up to cup your cheek, caressing it lightly. “You looked beautiful tonight.”

“And you behaved,” you whispered back, leaning into his touch.

Bucky locked his eyes on yours, darting his tongue across his bottom lip. 

He had been restraining himself all evening, trying to ignore how hard he was getting as he watched the way your hips swayed as you walked around the room, having to turn his attention elsewhere before it got obvious. 

After talking to Valentina’s assistant, Mel, and having a rather unproductive conversation with Congressman Gary, the one overseeing the impeachment trial, all Bucky could think about was getting back to you. He stood atop the balcony, inspecting the room before he landed on your figure.

It wasn’t difficult—you stood out in the best way possible. Everyone moved towards you, trying to grab your attention for more than 30 seconds at a time. You never let them, never wanting to leave someone with enough information to form an opinion of you. But you remained approachable, a practiced smile on your face for events like this one.

He’d felt guilty at first for dragging you to it, adding something to your already-long agenda. Even so, he felt amazing knowing no one could get a taste of you like him, figuratively and literally. None of these people knew you, nor would they ever. Not the way he did.

“You’ve been driving me fucking insane all night,” he said lowly, his voice only loud enough for you to hear. Not like the driver cared anyway, the partition always rolled up. “All dolled up, talking to all those fucking people you know you don’t care about. Wearing that perfume that you know is my favorite, and the jewelry I bought you. Had to stop myself from dragging you to the bathroom and taking you apart right there.”

“You wouldn’t,” you teased. “You couldn’t.”

“Yeah, I couldn’t,” he repeated, leaning his face into your neck, inhaling your scent before planting a few kisses, mumbling against your skin. “I should’ve.”

“Bucky…”

“Should’ve shown everyone in there you’re more than just unavailable,” he kissed across your jaw before he met your eyes again. “Should’ve shown them how well you fall apart, just for me. Are you gonna let me take you apart right here, baby?”

You nodded, the tsk, tsk falling from Bucky’s lips with a shake of his head.

“Answer me. With words, sweetheart.”

“Take me apart, Bucky. Please.”

Bucky smirked as he moved his hand from your cheek to the back of your head, slotting his lips against yours in a sloppy kiss, eager and quick like he couldn’t control himself anymore.

Sliding his tongue past your lips, he kissed you like he wanted to devour you whole, smelling the sweet scent of the lip gloss you were wearing, now smeared all over his lips and ruined on yours.

Moving your left hand over the bulge in his pants, you rubbed slowly, eliciting a groan from Bucky right into your mouth. Getting hold of his belt, you used both hands to unbuckle it before unbuttoning and unzipping his slacks. Bucky pulled away from your lips, kissing across your jaw and sucking down your neck, making sure to leave a mark. 

Pulling his cock out of the confines of his boxers, you stroked him gently. Bucky couldn’t help but moan against your skin, your soft hands working him so well as he felt so sensitive to the touch.

“I want you in my mouth,” you said softly, Bucky leaving one last mark on your neck before looking up at you, lips swollen and pupils dilated. The tone of your voice made it sound like a plea, but Bucky knew you wouldn’t take no for an answer.

He didn’t say a word, only watched as you pressed your thumb on his tip, a broken groan escaping his lips. 

“Will you let me?” You whispered against his lips. “You were so good today,” you continued to stroke him, his dominant resolve crumbling under your touch. “Let me thank you, please.”

“You sure you want to, baby?” He asked, slight concern on his face as you nodded. “I need words, pretty girl.”

“I want to.”

Bucky moved his hand down to the back of your neck as you leaned your head a bit forward, lining it above his crotch. After gathering spit in your mouth, you let it drip down on his shaft, making it easier to slide your hand up and down. Before you could move to get on your knees, Bucky gripped your waist with his left hand, grabbing your attention as he told you to hold on.

He slid his blazer off, spreading his legs before setting it on the floor between his feet. 

“Don’t wanna ruin your pretty dress, baby,” he said with a peck to your lips.

You moved to rest on your knees between his legs, left hand squeezing Bucky’s thigh while you started stroking him again with the right. Moving your head forward, you swirled your tongue around his tip a few times, a broken exhale leaving his mouth. Bucky rested his hands against your cheeks as you took him in your mouth, sucking on his tip for a moment before making your way down his length slowly, taking your time. You relaxed your throat inch by inch, exhaling through your nose.

“Shit,” Bucky groaned out, feeling the warmth of your mouth and the movement of your tongue around him for the first time was indeed a fucking reward. “So fucking good, sweetheart. You’re doing great, baby.”

Hollowing your cheeks as you reached the bottom of his length, you started to bob your head up and down, pace still slow but faster than you’d taken to have him fully inside your mouth. Bucky was stuttering your name from above, locking his fingers together behind your head, trying hard not to rock his hips as his tip hit the back of your throat. 

You squeezed both of Bucky’s thighs, picking up your pace around his shaft as you proceeded to rub them. Drool slipped slightly from the sides of your mouth, moving your left hand at the same time as your mouth to stroke him, moaning around his length.

You could feel Bucky flex his thighs, tightening his grip around the back of your head. Looking up, you saw his head tilted back, brows knitted together, lips parted. He looked down at you as you slowed your pace, breaths still heavy and fast, before closing his eyes again, face contorted in pleasure.

You moved back down his length, eyes still locked on him until his tip hit the back of your throat, exhaling roughly in an attempt not to gag. Sliding back up to his tip once your throat started to burn, you sucked on it, using your left hand to gently squeeze his balls, a pornographic moan escaping his mouth.

Bucky moved his hands back to your cheek, starting to lift his hips a bit, hesitating in fear of being too rough. You squeezed his thighs again, prompting him to look at you as you nodded, assuring him.

“You sure?” He gasped out, leading you to nod again, your mouth not leaving its current ask. “Shit, baby, you gonna let me fuck that pretty mouth?”

Moaning around him again, Bucky moved his hands back behind your head. Rocking his hips up gently, he set a calm pace for his thrusts. Spit crowded around his length as you slurped, trying to ignore the ache in your throat as Bucky fastened his pace. 

“Look at you, so fucking gorgeous—fuck, that’s so fucking good—so pretty while you let me use your mouth, doll,” he praised with groans in between while your mouth glided over him in a fast, steady rhythm. “Such a good girl for me, always so fucking good for me.”

His breath quickly became more jagged, letting you know he was close. You tapped his thighs, his thrusts halting as he looked at you, completely out of breath.

“Are you okay? Was I too rough?” He spit out quickly, cupping your face as you pulled off his length with a pop.

“We’re home,” you said, his attention snapping to the window as the limo came to a stop outside of his place. “And I want you to fuck me in your new house.”

“Jesus Christ,” he said, quickly situating his pants as he pushed the door open eagerly. 

You made your way out first, looking back at him as he fumbled inside the limo with a shit-eating grin on your face. Bucky quickly grabbed his blazer off the floor before following, kicking the door shut. He made his way over to you, wrapping his arms around your waist, bending down to carry you over his shoulder despite your protesting between laughs. 

He quickly opened the front door with his keys, slamming it shut and locking it after walking inside. Throwing his blazer on the floor, he set you back down on the floor facing him. You walked backwards to your left—his right—towards the couch, Bucky matching your slow strides.

You stopped in front of the couch, with Bucky licking his lips as he towered over you. Angling your eyes upward, you bit down on your lip as you turned around. Bucky quickly moved his hands to pull your zipper down, your dress pooling around your feet as you stepped out of it, heels still on. 

You opted for no bra with your gown, Bucky’s gaze traveling down the length of your back before falling on your white, lace underwear. Turning around, Bucky immediately grabbed onto your hips, pushing you backwards. The back of your knees hitting the couch forced you to sit, your eyes still focused on the man in front of you. 

Bucky kneeled down, spreading your legs open with his palms before placing them on your waist again. He leaned down, kissing on top both of your knees, making his way up with kisses across your thighs. He grabbed the waistband of your panties, sliding them down your legs and discarding them on the floor. 

You instinctively spread your legs more, his breath warm against your sex. Wasting no time, Bucky slotted his mouth onto your clit, your back arching as soon as you felt his touch. He slid his arms under your thighs, gripping them in place with his hands as he slid his tongue down your folds, your arousal coating his lips as he moved languidly. 

You moved your hands to grasp onto his shoulders, moans filling the living space as Bucky’s tongue swirled around your clit, the sensation overstimulating as the rest of your body warmed up. Pulling away slightly, Bucky released your left thigh, moving his right hand towards your folds, two fingers smearing your slick up and down your cunt before sliding them slowly inside your walls. You bit down on your lip as you whimpered, your waist squirming while Bucky pumped his fingers in and out.

“Gonna get you nice and ready, baby.” Bucky lapped his tongue over your clit again, curling his fingers inside you the way you liked while he savored your taste. 

“Fuck, I’m close, Jamie,” you gasped out, a broken moan following as Bucky picked up the pace of his fingers, his thrusts deeper, simultaneously sucking your clit more intensely. 

You situated your left leg over his shoulder, his tongue flat as he slid it back down your cunt, moving back up to circle your clit, then repeating the motion. Your moans triggered groans while he relished in his action between your legs, the vibrations making your grip tighten on his shoulders. Bucky felt your body as it tensed, your hold on his shoulders impossibly rigid, back arched as the coil tightened. Leaving his mouth wrapped around your clit, he suuuuucked until you spasmed under him, clenching around his fingers while his thrusts didn’t relent.

Once your moans became desperate from the overstimulation, Bucky pulled away, sliding his fingers out. He looked up at you as you caught your breath, eyes shut and mouth ajar. 

He put his left hand on your cheek, cool metal soothing your warm face.

“You okay?” He asked softly.

“Yeah,” you breathed out, opening your eyes to look at his ocean blue ones, wrapping your left hand around his metal wrist. “I’m great.”

Bucky chuckled, watching in lust as you moved your hand from his left one to his right, pulling his hand to your mouth, sucking his fingers while he groaned lowly.

Bucky pulled his hand from your mouth, moving above you as you moved to lie on the couch. Nudging your legs apart with his knee, he rested his forearms on either side of your torso, leaning down to press his lips against yours. Your hands moved to pull his bowtie off, then unbutton his shirt and pull it off, throwing it on the coffee table and leaving him in a tank top.

Bucky slid his pants down, never rebuttoning or rezipping them in the limo. His boxers followed, cock still just as hard as it was earlier. You moved your right hand down to wrap around him, sliding his tip up and down your folds before positioning it at your entrance. Bucky thrust in slowly, taking his time for you to adjust until he reached the hilt.

He set a steady tempo, a whine leaving both your lips before Bucky drove into you hungrily, the warmth of your walls as they clenched around him so quickly stimulating. He grabbed your legs, folding them towards your chest to angle himself deeper, pounding relentlessly while he moaned in your ear. You tugged on his hair, leaning your head back as his tip kissed your cervix repeatedly, his determined thrusts staggering a bit. 

His whines in your ear only aroused you more, your name repeated on his tongue with mixes of praises that made you melt.

“My sweet girl,” he grunted, meeting your eyes while he plunged into you. “You’re so insatiable—shit— feels so good when you’re wrapped around me like this. Taking me like this pussy was made just for me, hm? Made only for my cock to be inside?” 

His moans were incessant between his words, uncontrollable as they coexisted with yours in the space. Warmth filled the area between you, your arms wrapping around his neck to pull his body closer to yours. 

“Cum with me, Jamie,” you pleaded, feeling his body tense on top of yours. You knew he was close. “Please, I want it.”

“I’m gonna give it to you, doll,” he assured you, his thrusts irregular as he got closer to his climax. “Cum for me, again, baby. Fall apart for me like you always do, like the good girl you are.”

Bucky quickened his pace, moving his left hand to circle your clit, speeding up your release to come right before his. Your muscles tensed up before your body shook as you came around him, Bucky thrusting impatiently a few more times, the familiar warmth filling you up as he grunted above you. 

“I should make you jealous more often,” you said once your breaths evened out, Bucky lying on your chest, softening while still inside you. 

“I wasn’t jealous,” he defended as he pulled out slowly, the emptiness afterwards a feeling you’d never get used to. 

Bucky stood up, turning around to head to the bathroom.

“Nice ass,” you called out, smirking as he shook his head when walking back out. 

Bucky wiped you clean with a towel, cleaning himself off before sliding his boxers back on.

“Food?” He asked, fishing his phone out of his pants to order something. 

“Mm, can we try that new chili bowl from Ben’s?” 

He nodded, typing away at his phone.

“Anything for you, sweetheart.”

[naiadonis]

do you take requests? and if so can you do a dick grayson x reader? also your bucky fic.. 😵‍💫

as of right now i do not take reqs but i have things cooking, i promise 😭 just trust me!

[naiadonis]

breathe, hold, release (pt. 2)

joel miller x f!pilates instructor reader 

part one here

summary: joel comes to fix the sink and you both finally stop avoiding what's between you.

tags: mdni (18+ only), no outbreak au, no use of y/n, reader is afab/able bodied, has long hair, no other physical descriptors, age gap (joel is 40, reader is 28), catch the mr. darcy reference, kind of a slow burn bc i love tension, dom!joel, praise kink, fingering, mirror activities, oral sex (f receiving), body worship, unprotected piv (be smart), slight voyeurism ig?, creampie (reader is on bc cause i’m nasty), joel is a freak in this omg, please DO NOT attempt sex on a reformer, if anything is missing pls let me know!

word count: way too fuckin long 10.3k 

a/n: first of all, thank you SO much to the response to part one. it warmed my little heart that so many people enjoyed it. i hope this makes up for the long wait! thank you to my three pookies (@naiadonis, @tmpestuous, & @imaginesbymonika) for beta'ing and feeding my delusions. this will be the last part but i would love to write some drabbles for these two, so please send in requests if you have any! enjoy ♡

Your mornings always started the same: shades up, door open, music low. The soft hum of downtown Austin stretched itself awake in time with you, the city exhaling with the same slow rhythm you followed to start your day. Even the most mediocre sleep melted away when you clasped your hands together and pressed them toward the ceiling, arching your back, breath spilling from deep in your abdomen. 

You weren’t a Texas native – that much had been obvious the second you stepped on the plane. Southern drawls of varying intensities filling your ears, the heat coating your skin with a wrathful flair. California still lingered at the edges of your thoughts, sun-warmed pavement and salt in your hair. You’d built a life there; mornings guiding people through movement, regulars who felt like old friends, a humble studio tucked between your favorite bagel place and a long-abandoned repair shop.

You’d memorized the ebbs and flows of that neighborhood like the back of your hand. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was yours. And for a while, it felt like enough. But comfort has a funny way of turning stale the moment you let your guard down. In the middle of all that comfort, a crack had started to form – subtle at first, then impossible to ignore.

The breakup didn’t knock the wind out of you – it eroded you slowly. You and him lived parallel lives for months before either of you said anything; passing the coffee creamer, taking turns with laundry, showing up to mutual plans like clockwork. He wasn’t cruel, just tired in a way that made everything feel like effort, including you. Eventually you stopped trying, learned to keep your heart tucked behind a smile. It was safer.

When it ended, it wasn’t explosive. It was practical, like canceling a subscription. You moved out quietly, took on more classes at the studio, pretended you were unbothered. Clinging to your routine made you feel like maybe, just maybe, you wouldn’t fall apart.  But the spark was already dimming, and maybe deep down you’d known it was time for something new long before you let yourself admit it. A couple of months passed in a blur. You picked up more classes, then lost them. By the time the text came in, you were already half-unraveling.

It came through late at night, and you had stared at the blinking cursor of a blank calendar where you’d been drafting next month’s schedule far too long. Of course. Your studio’s owner, who’d always joked that she’d die with a foam roller in her hand, announced that she was retiring with her family. The space sold faster than you thought possible, and within a week, the foundation you’d built everything on was gone. You tried to patch things up with rec rooms, park sessions under swaying palms, but the roots had already loosened.

When Nia called from Austin, practically buzzing through the phone with excitement, the last of your resistance crumbled. Unlike you, Nia had discovered her need to get the hell out of dodge much earlier. She’d always been more adventurous, brave enough to step foot in a new place and carve a spot for her regardless of anyone’s opinion about it. You’d met in training years ago, the kind of instant bond that felt more like a reunion than an introduction. 

She’d caught wind of a space opening downtown, and somehow decided you were the perfect person to take it over. At first, you dismissed it. You’d never been one for cowboy boots or country music, and the thought of leaving everything familiar behind made your chest ache. The more you sat with it, the emptiness of your space, the fading glimmer of your routine, the exhaustion – her offer sounded less like risk and more like possibility. 

So, you said yes. You packed up your life, let go of the familiarity, and tried your best to embrace the unknown. You said goodbye to the Pacific, but most of all to the version of you who thought she'd never leave. You started again from scratch; introduced yourself to strangers, tried to find your new normal, and smiled so much your cheeks hurt. For the first month or so, the smiles were fake. You spent your days rebuilding what you’d lost, piece by piece, and your nights wondering if you’d made a mistake.

But soon enough the days stopped feeling so foreign, and all the things from home that you thought were irreplaceable began to lose their appeal. You built up rapport with new clients, had a new favorite lunch spot, and the barista a few doors down memorized your name and regular order. Week after week, familiar faces returned to the studio, fulfilling your purpose. Your first classes of the day were usually quiet, made up of older clients who enjoyed waking up hours before the sun. They liked your calm and the way it seemed like you were a morning person just like them. You knew who was rehabbing a bad hip, who didn’t like too much tension, who needed extra encouragement. 

It wasn’t about doing a hundred perfect reps or getting people’s stomachs as flat as possible. It was about watching someone walk taller after six weeks, saying they’ve never felt stronger. About a woman thanking you because her back didn’t hurt for the first time in years. That mattered to you, it always had. That’s why you’d started teaching, to show the ways movement could soften even the hardest parts of someone’s day. Pilates was precise, yes, but it was also gentle in a way the world often wasn’t. You’d had students cry during classes before. You never asked why – just helped them breathe through it.

Saturday mornings became your favorite. You weren’t held to the five a.m classes like you were on weekdays, accommodating teachers and early risers who started their day in the quiet of the studio. Saturdays moved slower, giving you time to relish in each stretch, each song, each thought. You had time to sip your coffee between check-ins, time to let your voice warm into the room instead of launching straight into the rhythm of cues and counts. 

Then, you met Joel. 

Met was a generous word – you were more so acquainted with him. His jaw tight, hands stuffed into his pockets nearly the entire first interaction. Clearly he’d be more at ease with those boots in dirt rather than on the pristine tile. You’d thought, at first, he was just being a dad – maybe irritated he had to wake up on his day off to drive her, maybe just tired. 

You greet him the way you greet everyone, with warmth that borders on effortless. It’s second nature by now, this instinct to disarm. You lead with brightness, offer softness in your tone, a joke curled lightly at the edge of your mouth. And it usually works. You’d encountered your share of prickly people around Austin, but most of them put on a performance: a polite smile or a stilted joke. Everyone yielded to it eventually. 

But not him.

Not when you beam at his daughter. Not when you hand him the clipboard with the sunflower pen that you’d made during your lunch break yesterday. What you get is a squint and a dry, unimpressed “Really?” Like you’d just offered him a glittering child’s toy instead of a waiver. He doesn’t play the part, doesn’t pretend to be someone easier to be around. His face is unreadable in a way that feels unintentional – like he’s so accustomed to his indifference that it’s not even spiteful anymore. 

You try – gently, playfully to pull something out of him. A smirk. A single syllable of amusement. Anything. You laugh, easy and unbothered. “I know. But everyone seems to like them.”

Still nothing. His shoulders stay locked in place, pen aggressive on the page like the words themselves are offensive. His handwriting is slanted and uneven, rushed like he can’t get out of there fast enough. 

Sarah is the complete opposite, it seems.

She’s light – bright-eyed, curious, open in a way that feels rare in teenagers these days and even rarer in the people who raise them. You take to her instantly, eased by the amiability in her voice, the bounce in her step. You can’’t help but wonder where it comes from – because it’s certainly not him. You follow the movement of his hands, rugged and large. 

No ring.

You shouldn’t be curious, but you are.

You take the clipboard back, eyes scanning to the bottom of the page. “Thanks… Joel,” you say, softening the syllables like you might smooth over rough fabric. He grunts in response, a low, noncommittal sound. You get the sense he’s not used to taking people up on kindness. Like it costs him something. You invite him to stay, watching him struggle to look for a response. For a moment you think he’s going to say something. 

He doesn’t.

You feel his eyes on you the entire class. At first, you tried to explain it. Maybe he was zoning out like other parents did, counting down the minutes until they could beat the traffic back to their neighborhoods. But Joel wasn’t checking his phone repeatedly, wasn’t tapping his foot, didn’t look around. He just… watched. Not an ambient glance or idle observation. It was intentional. Trying not to notice was futile. You were trained to read bodies; breath patterns, posture, hesitation. And you see all of it in Joel. 

The restraint that lived in the corners of his mouth, the divet between his brows each time you moved. You catch the way his jaw locks and releases when your spine curves, the faint twitch of muscle beneath his cheekbone as your voice dips into instruction. The way his hands, broad and calloused, strained and flexed against his knees like he was holding something back.

It took a lot to throw you off balance, but the autopilot you’d relied on all these years began to short-circuit. You roll your shoulders back a little straighter, suddenly being extra mindful of your posture, paranoid that you’ll trip over a mat, or hit the carriage against the board with too much strength. The weight of his stare clings to you like humidity, slick and unrelenting. It prickles at your neck, curls low in your belly. You keep moving, voice steady, but inside, everything is fraying. 

You blink, adjust a client’s foot bar and try to refocus, fighting the urge to look over. Just once, that’s all you needed. Just a second to confirm if you were making it all up. You were not new to attention. You’ve been watched before, admired even. But this was something else entirely. Joel watches you like he’s trying not to break. Like there’s some quiet part of him that doesn’t believe he deserves to look, but can’t help it anyway.

You’re pulled from the fantasy as you check on each student, moving down the line until you get to Sarah. With your fingers on her ankles you guide her through, encouraging her as she starts to get the hang of it. She looks towards the bench, a hopefulness in her eyes that makes you melt. You follow her gaze instinctively – and see how Joel’s expression softens the moment their eyes meet. Pride blooms across his face and tugs at something in you, and you have to push down the guilt that starts to creep up your throat. 

You don’t mean to look directly at him, you just wanted a glance. A peek into his true nature, not the barricade he’d placed around him. His head turns before you think it will, and you both seem to go rigid. The right thing would be to turn around, check on someone else – anything. But you’re held there.

His eyes move over you with slow precision, and you welcome it. They seem to be mapping your body, the slope of your throat, the line of your shoulders. While he inspects you, your head is fueled with images of him taking you apart with his hands. You wonder what he sounds like when he groans, what his mouth would feel like against your skin. Wonder how many times he’d make you come before showing mercy, or would he? Would he be as merciless as he looks, ruining you and apologizing for none of it? 

You let him see that you see it; let him feel your curiosity inch toward want. Let him know you’re not innocent to it. You blink slowly and pull yourself away like it hurts. You turn your attention back to the class and pretend that he didn’t just strip you bare with a single look.

With each passing Saturday, the two of you moved in a quiet orbit. It stayed innocent enough for your guilt to dissolve under layers of niceties and easy chatter. Joel never volunteered much information, but the little he gave felt like something hard-won. Over time, you both softened. A brush of your fingers against the firm curve of his bicep. Smiles that lingered in the space between you, unhurried and a bit too long. But Joel never crossed the line, and neither did you. 

Some days, you wondered if you'd imagined that first flash of heat. A byproduct of a lonely year, a new city, a fresh start. But then he'd show up again, every Saturday, planted on that bench watching you and Sarah. Sarah. She slipped into your life like she’d always belonged there. There’s a quick intelligence behind her humor, a deep-rooted enthusiasm for life you definitely didn’t have at her age. You take to her immediately, starting to look forward to seeing her just as much as seeing Joel. 

You didn’t ask her to help around the studio, she just started doing it. She’s unfiltered in the best way, and underneath all of it, achingly sincere. She asks questions about your day, offers commentary that makes you laugh from the gut, and more than once, makes jokes about her dad being single. 

Today was no different. The 11:30 class wrapped right on schedule, and Sarah darted to the back to fold towels, unprompted. Joel waited at the front, leaning casually against the desk, ready to talk to you. Today the exchange between you, once cushioned civility, stretched into something charged. You saw it in the way his smile faltered, like he'd strayed too close to a thought he wasn’t supposed to have. In the drawl of his voice, the dry wit, the way his eyes dipped to your mouth and quickly back. You pushed a little further, let your words flirt with implication, and watched the color rise in his face.

“And here I thought you were sitting in here cause you liked the view.” 

He hesitates and you see the moment the mask slips. You let the silence stretch, not to punish him, but to watch him squirm beneath the weight of his honesty. There’s something tender about the way he tries to walk it back, like a man afraid of his own shadow. He offers a stammering apology, but you give him a way out with a smile. Make it clear he hadn’t misread you. His name tastes good in your mouth. 

When he pivots to the sink in the men’s room and offers to take a look, you catch the flicker of something behind his eyes. It’s cute, the way he tries to pass it off as nonchalant. Like it’s not a thinly veiled excuse to stay close – and you say yes.

Not just because the sink needs fixing, but because the thought of him here on a Monday, with no Sarah and no audience, pulls something tight in your chest. Sarah clocks the shift immediately, the shared glance and unpulled string taut between you and her father. Her smirk is sharp and knowing as you offer her a pin, a feeble attempt at distracting her. Joel groans like it physically pains him to be perceived and you know there’s no avoiding it anymore. After that, Joel barely meets your eye. He stumbles over a “See you Monday,” and follows Sarah to the door. 

Your heart thuds with something warm and bright that you haven’t felt since California. You exhale slowly. The studio falls quiet again, save for the soft hum of the air conditioning.

The thing you’d been tiptoeing around was no longer unknown. It had a name now – Monday. 

The air is thick with the beginnings of Austin heat when you step outside of the coffee shop, keys jingling between your fingers and you grasp onto two, not one, cups this time. In your left, the usual overly-sweet latté that you made no exceptions for, and in your right – hot, no cream or sugar. Just bitter and bold. It was a hunch, but Joel didn’t seem like the type to ask for his cup to be drizzled with caramel sauce and topped with sweetened cream. Weeks of him sitting in your studio, gruff and unreadable informed your guess. The barista, knowing your usual, couldn’t help herself as she asked if it was for a special someone. You’d laughed as if it was silly, but it wasn’t. 

The way your body anticipated waking up kept you from getting any meaningful sleep. That, and the fact you’d spent a couple hours imagining Joel’s voice in your head; gravel-worn and measured, your fingers easing yourself open. It was scary how easily you’d pictured it. His weight on top of you, the ache in the pit of your stomach, his lips forming the filthy things you wanted to hear him say once he let go of whatever had him wound up so tightly. There was too much of him beneath your skin.

The door to the studio groaned as you pushed it open with your shoulder, and you set the drinks down on the front desk with care. You busied yourself next, giving your hands something to do until Joel showed up, if he even did. Maybe you had been too forward and scared him away. Maybe he was being polite, appeasing your ego so as not to embarrass you in front of his daughter. 

The soft jingle of the bell sends a jolt through your body and you emerge from the back with too much excitement in your limbs, smoothing your beige tank top like it mattered. Joel stood just inside the door, a heavy tool bag hanging from one hand, the other raking through his hair in that nervous, unconscious way he did when he didn’t know what to say. You had picked up on that, too. 

“Mornin’,” he says, his voice low, roughened with what you assumed was sleep. You looked at him and every line looked the same, but it felt… warped. Like a song you knew well played a few keys too low, breath baited while you tried to figure out what was off. 

“Good morning,” you replied, offering a soft smile.”You’re right on time, that’s good for business.”

He gives a small nod in response. Not unfriendly, but definitely distant. No trace of the quiet fondness you’d seen Saturday. No lingering look, no hush of amusement curling up at the corner of his mouth. Odd, you think. Still, you press on and gesture toward the front desk, the coffee waiting there.

“I got you something, no cream or sugar. I took a gamble,” your fingers grasp the cup and you extend it out to him. His eyes flick to the drink, then to you. There’s a beat of hesitation before he steps forward, his fingers brushing against yours to take the offering. 

“You didn’t have to do that,” he says, unreadable.

You shrugged, smile unwavering as you try to keep it light.

“I know. Dinner might need a little more planning,” you reply, half a shrug rolling through your shoulder. That earned you something. His mouth twitches slightly, almost a smile. It doesn’t quite reach his eyes, but it’s better than nothing. 

Joel shifts his weight to his other leg and jerks his chin towards the back. “I should get started, get outta your hair.” 

Your heart sinks into your stomach, but you nod without protest. He doesn’t wait for you to follow, or respond. Just turns and walks down the hallway like it made him ill to be in your presence. You swallow hard, the anticipation you’d felt all day yesterday subsiding. It felt more like dread now – your worst fears starting to be confirmed. You take a deep breath and let your head fall back, willing away the stress building with little accomplishment. 

Unwilling to let the distance, physical or otherwise, settle too thickly between you, you follow him a few moments later. He’s already crouched by the sink, sleeves pushed up and wrapped around his elbows a bit too tight, not that you were complaining. His tool bag lay open at his side, the cup of coffee sitting to the left of the faucet. He doesn’t look up when you settle in the doorway, just keeps fidgeting with the knobs and studying the sluggish flow. You try not to let your disappointment come through your voice. 

“So, gotta toss the whole thing out or can it be saved?” You ask, trying to get a peek at whatever it was he was doing. 

“Pipe’s just backed up with debris. Gotta pull it apart, clean the whole thing out.”

You don’t respond, caught up in watching his hands reach for whatever tool he was looking for. Joel sits back on his heels and starts unscrewing the pipe beneath the basin with a practiced ease. The muscles in his forearms flex with each turn, veins taut beneath sun-warmed skin, and you can’t help but follow the motion, mesmerized by the quiet focus. His knees brace on the tiled floor as he leans in closer, the worn cotton of his shirt pulling taut across his back. You can hear the faint grunt of exertion as he loosens something stubborn, followed by the hollow clatter of old water draining through rusted metal. 

Joel grunts something under his breath, more to himself than to you, and reaches for a cloth, wiping his hands absently before adjusting the trap. He’s all concentration; jaw set and brows drawn. Despite the task in front of him, he knows you’re watching. He can feel it. 

“Don’t know how anything was getting through this,” he says without looking up. He dives into an explanation of what was keeping the drain moving so slow, but your brain is turning to mush the longer you stare. You hum in acknowledgment, but the words barely register. All you can think about is the way his fingers move, capable and deliberate. 

Joel finally glances up at you, but you’re unaware. His eyes linger, still no smile on his lips as he tracks your gaze down. He clears his throat and your eyes snap up, like a camera flash freezing you in the act of wanting.

There’s no teasing in his expression – no smug lift of his mouth or arch of his brow. Just… quiet. You try to speak, some flimsy defense, a redirect. But your throat is dry, your mouth clumsy with words you don’t trust yourself to say aloud. Suddenly you realize how he must have felt on Saturday. He tilts his head slightly, brow furrowing as if trying to make sense of it. Of you. Then his head is shaking and he turns back to his work, but his hands aren’t as steady now. 

“Just here to fix the sink,” he mutters. It sounds like a rehearsed mantra he’d created to keep himself in line. 

“What?” you say softly, watching his brows furrow. 

“You’re not makin’ this easy,” he says louder this time. You exhale slowly. 

“Did I –” The words stick for a moment, and you try again. “Was I too forward? If I made you uncomfortable, I’m sorry.” 

He shakes his head, slow and almost imperceptible. “No, it ain’t that.” For a moment, it seems like that’s all he’ll give you. He sets the wrench down with a quiet clink. "Thought if I kept my head down, didn’t look too long, it’d go away."

You blink, caught off guard by his honesty. “I didn’t mean to push,” you say quietly, unsure whether you’re trying to reassure him or justify yourself.

“You didn’t, it was easier to pretend I was just passin’ time staring at you from that bench,” The words weren’t bitter, but they weren’t easy, either. They landed with the weight of confession, like he hated admitting it almost as much as he needed you to hear it. 

“Sarah knew, can’t keep shit from her. Knew the very first day when I shelled out that money like that.” His thumb twitches on the edge of the counter, a small sign of Saturday Joel, the one who did let himself look too long, who smiled when you caught on.

Joel takes a breath and keeps fiddling with the sink. “And now, I’m here fixin’ a sink for a woman I can’t stop thinking about, trying not to say somethin’ I’ll regret.” 

The words fold into the stillness between you. You don’t move, don’t breathe either, it felt like. You’re not sure how much time passes before Joel pushes to his feet, still not meeting your eyes. You wish he’d just look at you, give you any indication as to where this was going. 

Joel turns his back to you and twists the faucet open, letting the water rush against his palms as he washes his hands. His focus stays on the steady stream, testing the pressure and checking his handiwork. Anything to avoid looking at you too soon. The running water stops and he stays there, both palms braced on either side of the sink. Then, he straightens, his shoulders rolling back as he turns to face you. When he does, there’s no mask left. His eyes have softened, and you’re standing face to face with the Joel you’d become fascinated with. His hands settle on his hips and he looks at you expectantly. 

“So tell me what you want me to do. ‘Cause I can’t keep standin’ in front of you like this if it’s not gonna mean something.” 

You don’t answer right away. Your throat is tight, heart knocking against your ribs like it’s trying to get free, and the air between you has taken on a weight you don’t know how to carry. But you feel the shift – the choice he’s making, the seemingly timid and hesitant version of him long gone. You’re yelling at yourself to say something, to not throw away the fact he’s willing to present himself so openly to you.

You blink at him, pulse thrumming like a struck wire. “I don’t…you can do whatever you want.”

He shakes his head, not in dismissal, but refusal. Refusal to let you duck behind hesitation like you’d both been doing the last month. He needed a clear answer. Your weight shifts to your other leg as you take a shaky breath, stepping closer with quiet bravery. 

Your voice cracks a little when it comes. “I want you, Joel. But I don’t want you to regret it.” 

No flourish, just fact. 

He exhales hard, like you knocked the wind out of him. “No way in hell I’d regret this,” his voice dips lower. “But there’s no going back after this, no more pretending. You okay with that?” He lifts a hand and lets his fingers brush your jaw, slow and tentative, like he's still restraining himself. 

You were trembling, not visibly, but deep inside – where his words struck chords you’d kept hidden. Where all your what-ifs and daydreams had lived quietly until now.

You meet his eyes without flinching, and you nod.

His thumb grazes your cheekbone, then he leans in, and you can feel your heartbeat throb between your legs. When he kisses you it’s not rushed. His mouth meets yours, warm and sure, a slow press of lips that steals the air from your lungs. 

He pulls back just an inch, his forehead pressing against yours. “Tell me if you want me to stop,” he whispers, voice rough with restraint.

You don’t. You can’t. You shake your head, small and certain. “I don’t.”

And that’s all it takes.

His mouth finds yours again, hungrier this time, and his palm presses to cradle the small of your back. You arch into him, realizing the room feels too small now. His body crowds yours as you feel him take a step forward, trying to guide you out of the bathroom. 

Joel pulls back just enough to speak before his lips are back on yours, his voice thick. “Not here.”

You both stumble a little in your own urgency, breathless as he leads you through the hallway into the open space. Your legs bump against one of the machines, but he never wavers. You get a bit paranoid, wanting to peek and make sure you were, in fact, alone. You wouldn’t survive something interrupting this. One part of the studio is cast in gold from the completed sunrise pouring through the window, the rest of the blinds pulled down. The cold from the mirror’s glass meets your back, sharp and startling – but Joel is there, warm and inviting.

Joel’s hands slide up under your tank top, the compressive material molding to your body. You feel his thumbs dig into your hips as he pulls away. Your eyes are closed as you relish in the fact you now know what he tastes like, a tinge of bitterness mixed in. You take it you were right about the coffee. 

“Take this off f’me,” he requests.

“Gonna need help,” you laugh softly, no time wasted as you move to pull it up, the stubborn fabric unforgiving in your haste. 

“Relax, baby,” Joel steadies your hands, his smile reaching his eyes for the first time all morning. You huff and shake your head, heat rising to your face. You let him take the lead and lift your arms up, momentarily blind as he pulls it up over your head. Joel tries not to stare, but like every time before, he fails. His touch grows more confident, more consuming. You feel it in the way his lips press in a pattern over your neck, the way his fingers deliberately press through your leggings right where you’re aching for him.

“These off too,” he mumbles, already peeling away at your matching leggings. He’d imagined taking these little outfits off of you so many times, and he wanted to take his time, but god he’d been waiting for what felt like years. 

Your breath hitches as he traces his fingertips over your back, body shuddering from the chills he left behind. The fact he’s still completely clothed doesn’t escape you, but a part of you likes that. The fact he’s here, in your space, staking his claim and undressing you. 

“Joel, wait –” You interrupt him, his eyes flickering up at you in confusion. 

“You want me to stop?” He asks, about to stand back up and help you with your clothes. 

You lick your lips, hyper-aware of your heart pounding. A few seconds of silence pass before you’re shaking your head. “No,” you whisper, “I just… I want to see you too.”

That earns a pause.

Joel’s gaze softens, something tight in his expression releasing as his hands still at the curve of your hips. He tilts his head, the corner of his mouth lifting just slightly. 

“Yeah?” he asks, voice warm. You nod again. 

You reach for him as he moves, fingers slipping under the hem of his shirt. The fabric drags up over rigid muscle and sun-kissed skin. Your eyes rake over him – the strength in his chest and arms, the scattered scars, the way his shoulders stiffen with your eager eyes drinking him up. 

You press your palms to his bare chest and feel his heart kick. Then, he takes your wrists and turns you towards the mirror, hovering behind you. His hands trail down your sides, thumbs tracing the skin just beneath your ribs before they settle on your hips. You try not to squirm when you feel his hand dip lower. One is running down the length of your back, the other nestling between your legs. He presses two fingers against your clit, rubbing small circles as your body tenses. He feels it, and glances up at you like he knows you’re in your head. 

You hear your name and look at him through the mirror, lips parted in awe that he was touching you. “I’ve got you, okay? Just relax,” he tells you again. His voice is rough, breath warm against the back of your neck. The rough denim of his jeans scratches against your bare skin when he ruts into you, and you feel all of him – even through the thick fabric. You’re unprepared when you feel his fingers circle your entrance before they’re slipping in up to his knuckles, slow and brushing over every ridge. You gasp and dig your palms into the wooden barre. 

“Look how fuckin’ beautiful you are,” he murmurs behind you, his hand steady at your hip.

His words aren’t lost on you, but you can’t bring yourself to look; can’t watch the way your mouth parts with every stuttering breath as he works you open after months of being touch starved. You squeeze your eyes shut and dip your chin down, flustered, but he notices.

“Nuh-uh,” he says, the hand at your hip shifting to your jaw, moving your chin back up to center. “Let me see that pretty face, wanna see you feel it.”

It’s not a demand – it’s a plea. Joel thinks he should slow down, ease up and let you process what’s happening. But you’d stirred something in him that he thought had gone dormant for the foreseeable future, and he just couldn’t get enough of you. 

A noise of protest sounds from your lips but you listen anyway, looking at yourself and taking in your already disheveled appearance. Then, you look at Joel. Your eyes meet again, and despite his clenched jaw and furrowed brow, he looks back at you with a tenderness you’ve never received. 

“Fuck, Joel –” you whimper, hips rocking helplessly against his fingers. “Feels so good…” Your hips stutter, back arching as you start to match the push and pull of his fingers. Each stroke is measured, not hurried, like he’s trying to memorize how you come undone. 

He feels your pussy clench around his fingers and groans, unable to stop thinking about how much he wishes it was his cock. But this was about you, not him. He listens for every catch in your throat, every tiny twitch of your hips, adjusting his touch like he’s tuning an instrument.

And God, do you feel it – the dragging weight of his fingers as they bury inside you. The nights chasing this feeling felt ridiculous, your own fingers no match for his. Your grip falters on the barre as he moves with unshakable focus. Not a single part of you feels untouched; not with his breath ghosting over your ear, his hand buried between your legs like he belongs there. 

Your thighs clench and Joel can feel it before you say anything, the sound of your moans like music to his ears. Two thick fingers stay buried inside you, curling with maddening precision. They move just right, pressing into the soft spot so deep in your pussy it makes your whole body lurch forward. He tightens his grip on you and chuckles in realization. 

“Shit – there, huh?” he mutters, almost to himself, and the pads of his fingers rub slow, earnest circles against that soft spot inside you while his thumb finds your clit again. He watches you unravel in the mirror, lips parted, skin flushed, straining toward every stroke. 

Your breath stutters when he curls his fingers again, his name leaving your lips like a prayer. “You’re crazy,” you say with a weak laugh, and Joel shakes his head in amusement. 

“Yeah,” he agrees. “‘Cause of you.” His fingers go impossibly deeper, like he’s carving his name into you. The mirror captures everything: your parted lips, the desperate crease in your brow, the flushed skin blooming over your chest. His hand never falters, fingers relentless now, faster, messier, wetter – until you cry out, your whole body seizing against him.

Your knees buckle but he’s already there, holding you up as your orgasm rolls through you, wave after wave. Your walls clench around his fingers, and he groans into your skin, biting down gently as if to anchor himself through it.

“Attagirl,” he growls, helping you through the end of it, slower now. “Jesus, baby. Feel so fuckin’ good, makin’ a mess all over my hand.” You sag in his arms, panting, skin damp and shining in the low studio light. Joel doesn’t let go, holding you to his chest like you’re something precious. 

You’re in a haze, acutely aware of Joel guiding you to sit on the nearest reformer slowly, letting you catch your breath. The carriage shifts under your weight, none of the springs keeping it steady, making you brace yourself on the frame. Immediately, his brow knits.

“How the hell d’you keep this thing from moving?” he mumbles, frowning down at the machine like it’s insulted you.

You let out a faint, dizzy laugh. “You’ve gotta put the springs on, all of them keep it pretty still,” you explain.

Carefully, he reaches under the carriage, fingers brushing over the cold metal until they find the spring hooks. One by one, he pulls them forward with quiet effort, securing them into place until the carriage holds steady. 

“What about you?” you ask, reaching out to latch your fingers into the top of his jeans, wanting to return the favor. Before your hands make any progress, he catches your wrist firmly.

“I’m okay, don’t need that from you, sweetheart.” Joel shakes his head once, his eyes scan over your body like he’s already thinking about what to do with it next. You open your mouth to insist, but the moment falters when he interrupts you.

“Lie down for me.” 

You blink at him, still swimming in the aftershocks. “What?”

He says it again, more pointed this time. “Lie back, on the machine, baby.” 

There’s no edge in his voice – just heat, thick and steady, anchored by the quiet rasp of someone who’s holding back far more than he’s letting on. His palm slides to your lower back, coaxing you down gently until your spine meets the carriage. He moves then, straddling the machine and pausing when it groans under his weight. 

“This thing gonna hold me?” he asks, and you roll your eyes. 

“It’ll hold,” you reassure him. He hums skeptically, but settles down anyway, his back to the footbar. You watch him adjust, and it wrecks you a little. Because you’re not sure when this stopped being about flirting, or power, or just the thrill of wanting someone impossible. You want him. Want him when he’s steady and quiet and full of things he’ll never say out loud; and also like this, in power and unafraid.

“What’s that move you do?” he asks suddenly, interrupting your thoughts. He asks like he’s been saving the question. You blink, caught off guard and he clarifies. “The one with your ass up in the air.”

You lift your head from the headrest and laugh, eyebrows arched up. “You mean bridging?” 

“That’s the one,” he drags out the first word, his hands running up your calves. You smile knowingly. 

“Knew that one would stick, you liked that move, huh?” you ask, and Joel smirks. 

“Couldn’t get it outta my fuckin’ head,” he admits, laughing with you. You both trail off and you meet his eyes, a suspicious glint in them. His gaze lingers, heavy and fixed – and that’s when you realize where he was going with the line of questioning. His thumbs skim the soft crease behind your knees, pulling up gently and you feel your breath hitch. 

“Do it for me,” he says, almost pleading. He guides both of your legs up on top of his shoulders, and you’re completely stunned. How can you say no to him? 

You breathe a little hard from your nose amusedly and lift your hips from the platform with slow precision. You shake a little this time, legs still aching from your first orgasm, but anything Joel wanted – you would give it to him. Your spine peels from the carriage in a slow roll, just like you’ve done a thousand times. You remember when you did it in class, intentionally putting on a show for him while he struggled with his own desire in the corner of the studio. 

His mouth parts slightly, eyes dragging over the new shape of you; exposed, tilted, perfectly on display for him. He’d seen it from that bench in the corner, but now up close, he was losing his mind. 

“Fuck,” he breathes. You go silent, every nerve pulled tight like the springs beneath you. 

And then he leans in, no more hesitation, like he’s got something to prove – with his mouth, this time.

The first brush of his tongue is featherlight, but it’s enough to steal every thought from your head. When he hears you whine, he flattens his tongue and licks a stripe from your entrance to your clit, slow and considerate, like he’s memorizing the taste of you in case he never gets to have this again. He stays there, focused, with one hand steady at your hip while he wraps his lips around your swollen center, a soft cry echoing this time. 

“Jesus, Joel –” you choke out, head thrown back, both hands clutching the side rail. 

He pulls back just a touch, teasing now, cruel in the only way Joel can be, with praise that tears your heart open. 

“You taste so fuckin’ good, baby,” his voice is thick and guttural. “Knew you’d sound pretty like that when I finally got my mouth on you,” he tells you between soft kisses to your thighs, his beard scratching the skin.

Before you can reply, he lowers his mouth to you, his tongue parts you, warm and searching. Your hips twitch under his hold, toes curling as he pulls you tighter against his mouth. Thankfully he knows you can’t hold yourself up, one of his hands gripping your hip and the other supporting you just under your tailbone. Your body bows, thighs tensing around his neck. 

You say his name repeatedly, chest heaving, and that only seems to drive him deeper. His hand brushes behind your knee and he grunts, sending a vibration through to the pit of your stomach. He draws circles, then suckles gently, alternating pressure until your grip on the frame turns white-knuckled. He hums low in his throat, pleased with the way you respond, the way you buck your hips towards him. Joel’s in a trance, his brows furrowed with concentration while he devours you. 

“Oh my god,” you whine, the air in the studio starting to feel stuffier. His only reply is a soft growl of encouragement and the tightening of his grip as he pulls you closer, lapping up your wetness like he’s been waiting his whole damn life for the chance. Like you’re the center of the fucking universe. 

He pulls back just enough to talk, his voice rough as gravel and thick with praise. “So fuckin’ good, can’t get enough of you.” The sound of his voice alone makes you whimper, head tilting back. 

“Please don’t stop,” the words tumble out before you can catch them, raw and aching with need. They crawl under his skin and burrow there, hopefully for a long time, he thinks. Hopes. The coil in your belly tightens with every pass of his tongue, your body beginning to shake for the second time. He hums, hungrily and intentional, sending a pulse through you that makes your vision blur. You’re back on that ledge faster than you anticipate. 

“Joel,” your voice breaks, a warning more than anything. 

He doesn’t let up, doesn’t pause. If anything it only fuels him. His mouth seals over your clit while two fingers slide into you again, immediately finding your sweet spot after memorizing it like scripture. 

Your hips jerk, thighs trembling around his head, but his grip holds you firm – one hand on your ass now, the other working in time with his mouth, and it’s too much. Too good. The pressure builds fast, white-hot and blinding. He groans again, savoring it, and the vibration is what does it.

Even when your cum coats his tongue he doesn’t stop, holding you through it, mouth and hands steady, guiding you through each convulsion until all that’s left is the soft, trembling aftermath. Your leg threatens to slide from his shoulder, but he steadies it, finally pulling back only when your head falls back onto the headrest with a thump. 

When your eyes flutter open, he’s already there; watching you like you’re the only person in the world. Lips glistening, eyes dark and endlessly soft. There’s nothing cocky in his expression, just something reverent – like he’s grateful to have been the one to bring you there. You force yourself to sit up, dabbing at your forehead with the back of your hand. Joel’s hands are there at your sides, helping you up. 

There's too much to say, too much swelling in your chest that you’re not ready to name. So instead, you let your fingers curl around his shoulder, dragging him in close, and kiss him. He doesn’t hesitate. His mouth meets yours hungrily, tongue pushing past your lips so you can taste yourself on him. You groan against his mouth, and Joel grunts, like it’s taking every ounce of control he has not to press you back down and fuck you right there on the reformer – if that was even possible. 

“You with me?” he asks, voice low, hands cupping your face now.

You nod, barely able to speak. “Fuck – I mean, yes. I’m with you.” You correct yourself with a shake of your head, and Joel smiles. 

“Good,” he says, and his eyes don’t leave yours, not even when your fingers trail to his waistband again. This time, he lets you pop the button free and his shoulders relax when the zipper follows. His breath catches when your hand brushes against him through the fabric, warm and straining – waiting for you. The sound he makes is nothing short of wrecked.

“Lift a little,” you whisper, and he does without question, just enough for you to ease the denim down his hips. His legs spread slightly for balance and you move to straddle him, calves pressing against the wooden frame. 

You shift forward on your knees, reaching between your bodies until your fingers graze his cock. He’s already hard, sucking in through his teeth when you wrap your fingers around it and squeeze. With your hips lifted you guide him to your dripping core slowly, pushing only the tip through your slick folds. 

Joel’s hands wander; up your back, on your waist, to your thighs – like he doesn’t know where to touch first. They only settle with his fingertips digging into your hips the moment you begin to sink down, lips parting as you relish in the stretch. It isn’t too uncomfortable, thanks to Joel’s incredibly thorough services. His hands are there, guiding you not to take too much at once, letting you go at your own pace despite the overwhelming temptation to fill you up the rest of the way. 

“Here,” he mumbles, helping you angle your hips. You wrap your fingers around the footbar behind him for balance, eyes locked on his as you take the rest of him. He’s big, thick and hot and perfect. You both exhale like it’s a relief to finally, finally feel this. The moan he lets out is guttural and desperate. You grin, teeth dragging lightly across your bottom lip as you start to move. A quick drag up, a slow slide back down onto his cock. His breath shudders out, and you feel that he’s still tense, like he's holding himself back. 

“Christ,” he rasps, and you can feel his thighs tense under yours. “You feel so fuckin’ good, baby. Like you were made for me.”

The words make you clench around him, his head tipping back for a second before he’s looking at you again, unable to miss another second of it. “Don’t stop,” he begs, and you don’t – you can’t.

Your rhythm stays steady; a slow grind that leaves you gasping each time you take him a little deeper. Your grip tightens on the footbar, the metal cool under your palms, grounding you as the pressure builds. He lets you take what you need, lets you move at your own pace, but his hands never stop roaming; thumb stroking your thigh, palm sliding up your back, hands guiding you  while you tuck your face into his neck. The closeness allows you to feel every breath he takes, hear every strained noise he makes. 

The reformer creaks beneath you with each rise and fall of your hips, the tension cords beneath the frame stretching in tandem. His mouth grazes over your collarbone, warm and wet, and then without warning, he starts to fuck up into you. It makes you sit up straight, and Joel’s hand comes up to your neck, his fingertips grazing your throat. He’s all concentration as he looks between your bodies, watching you take him like it’s his last chance. 

In his fervor, you feel his fingers dig into the side of your neck, but he’s so absorbed in you he doesn’t notice. His fingers flex softly at your pulse like he’s feeling how hard your heart’s racing. Your legs work to meet his thrusts, one of your hands leaving the bar to rest on his shoulder. The muscle contracts each time he moves, and the sight of him so focused, jaw tight and brows tense, makes you melt. Your pace quickens, the sound of your skin slapping together echoing in your ears. 

And then, his fingers tighten. Your breath catches in your throat, and your pussy clamps around him even tighter like it’s been waiting for it. Joel feels it instantly. His eyes rip up to look at you, catching the pleasure written in all of your features. 

“Oh, you like that, baby?” he asks, brow ticking up in amusement at yet another discovery. You can only nod in response, breath slipping out in a fractured moan.as he continues bucking up into you, deep and sharp. 

The pressure in your belly builds fast again, molten and consuming. His hand tightens, just holding you there and squeezing the sides in a way that makes your mouth practically water. A firm reminder that he’s the one guiding you now, that he’s been controlling you this whole time, bending you to his will. Your hips stutter, thighs shaking, and Joel speaks up, voice rough at the edges. 

“Gonna cum for me again?” he whispers, voice rough at the edges. Your hips stutter, thighs shaking, and Joel keeps his grip on your throat secure. 

“I can’t –” you whine, the words fragile and disbelieving, more plea than protest. Your body is heavy with the weight of sensation, the sharp edge of overstimulation skimming close to pain, but it only winds you tighter.

“Yes, you can.” His lips brush your cheek, his words sounding more like a demand than encouragement. “Ain’t so easy when someone else is in charge of your breath, is it?” His voice is thick with satisfaction, power lacing every syllable, and something about the way he’s so in control, so certain – it only makes you burn hotter. 

You laugh, breathless and wild, but it turns into a whimper as he bucks into you again, perfectly timed with the curl of his fingers at your throat – and the tension snaps. Your head falls forward against his shoulder as your body jerks in his lap, thighs shaking uncontrollably. A third orgasm rips sharp and stunning through you, a strangled cry lost against his skin. Your remaining grip on the footbar slips, both hands squeezing his shoulders instead, clinging to him. 

Joel holds you through it, easing the pressure at your throat immediately, his other hand stroking up your spine as he murmurs against your neck. “That’s it, baby,” he whispers. “So good. So fuckin’ perfect.”

Your whole body sags into his, boneless and raw. He cradles your back like you’re something precious, chest rising and falling in sync with yours. You can feel he’s still inside you, still hard – but he makes no move, doesn’t chase his own release. He just holds you. You lift your head slightly, eyes fluttering open to find him already watching you with something that guts you. .

“Still with me?”

You nod, barely. “Yeah. Just… need a second.”

“Take all the time you need,” Joel says earnestly. “Ain’t goin’ anywhere.”

You smile, heart hammering, breath still shaky. You press your forehead to his, grounding yourself. His touch never falters, just warm and steady like an anchor. He notices you’re still shaking and traces shapes on your back, trying to assist. 

“Gotta breathe, darlin’," and you do, letting him coax air back into your lungs one breath at a time. His thumb strokes your cheek in soothing circles. His cock is still pulsing inside you with need, begging for something he’s ignoring. 

You shift slightly in his lap, your thighs still trembling but pliant now. You feel the way his breath stutters when you clench around him, slow and gentle. It makes him grunt softly in disapproval, his head shaking once. 

“Baby,” he murmurs, voice hoarse. “You don’t gotta do that.”

“Let me,” you whisper, insisting. Joel pulls back just enough to look at you. His pupils are blown wide, lips parted, forehead creased with something deeper than pleasure. He cups your face like it’s the only thing tethering him to earth. 

Your hips roll forward with care, not rushed this time, but steady; giving him what he wouldn’t take for himself. His hands twitch on your hips, not guiding anymore, but bracing. He buries his face against your neck like he’s trying to hold on, trying not to break too fast.

“Took such good care of me, you deserve it too,” you say, barely audible above your shared breath. That undoes him. He finally lets go, hips thrusting up into you again in slow, devastating strokes. You meet each one, nails digging into his shoulders as you let him bring himself to the edge with your pussy. You're still reeling from your own high, breathing through it the best you can.

You feel the tension winding tighter in him, the way his breath falters, each sound caught between a groan and a prayer. His hand trails down, settles at the base of your spine, pressing you down to meet each thrust.

“Fuck, baby, I’m –” His voice breaks off as his head falls back, jaw slack. You ride him through it, holding him steady, giving him the same patience he gave you.

“Give it to me,” you whisper against his mouth. 

It’s a full-body thing; a shudder that takes him over completely, pulling him under in waves. He lets out a broken moan as he spills inside you, hips stuttering, one arm banding tight around your back while the other cradles the side of your face. You stay with him through it, stilling only when he does, pressing your lips gently to the line of his jaw, then his cheekbone, then his temple. 

His heart is racing. So is yours. Joel lets out a long, shuddering exhale, forehead dropping to yours again. His voice is soft, breathless. “Fucking hell,” a shaky laugh catches in his throat. “Can’t believe you’re real.”

You smile, stroking a hand through the sweat-damp curls at the nape of his neck. “The feeling is mutual.” 

His arms still holding you close, bodies still joined and glittering with sweat. 

“Was that three?” he asks after a beat, eyes fluttering open. You nod with a faint, dazed grin, and he groans, like that knowledge alone is enough to destroy him all over again. “Shit, I’m sorry.” 

It makes you pause, your forehead touching his. “Sorry?” you echo. “If that’s what sorry looks like, I hope you mess up more often.”

He smiles, corners of his eyes scrunching and you can’t help but stare. For just a moment, the world outside of the studio doesn’t exist. There’s only this. Neither of you moves, not wanting to be anywhere else. 

Joel breaks the silence with a tap on your thigh, motioning for you to stand up. He helps you, steadying you until you find solid ground again. You’re still dazed, but start to pull your clothes back on – the thought of his cum filling you makes your heart soar. You catch him watching you like he’s half expecting you to disappear.

He dresses himself while you spray down the machine, unable to bite back the smile on your face. Every damn class, he’d be imprinted on your mind, the machine taunting you with reminders and flashbacks. Then, as you toss the towel in the bin, you hear him speak behind you.

“I ain’t good at this,” he says. “Talkin’ like this, feeling like this. But I swear, it’s been damn near impossible to think of anything else lately.” His brows twitch like he wants to smile more, but something vulnerable tugs at the edge instead.

You close the distance, instantly reaching up to caress the edge of his jaw, catching the coarse stubble there. You can see something hovering over him, almost like he’s still waiting for permission from you, to have you outside of the studio walls. 

“I’m not asking you for anything you can’t give,” you say reassuringly. “I just didn’t want to pretend like it wasn’t there. And… I really like you.” You admit it out loud, and he lets out a stunned chuckle. He’s floored, not quite able to believe you’re equally as fascinated with him as he’s been with you. 

“I really like you too,” he says, quiet but sure. “More than I probably should.”

That earns a real laugh from you. “We’re way past shoulds, don’t you think?”

He huffs, amused but in agreement. His head dips just enough to brush his lips against your forehead. 

“Should’ve said this before I had you ridin’ me on that damn machine,” he mutters, gesturing vaguely toward the reformer, like the memory alone short-circuits his brain a little. “You maybe... wanna get dinner sometime?” He rubs the back of his neck, eyes darting anywhere but your face for a second.

You smile so wide it hurts. “Joel Miller,” you chide, tilting your head, “Are you asking me on a date?”

He smirks, eyes crinkling in that way that already feels like home. “Think I might be.”

You lean in close, pressing a gentle kiss to his lips. “Then yeah, I’d like that.”

That charged, delicate silence that always hummed between you two is still there, but neither of you feels strange about it now. He squeezes your hand once reluctantly before stepping back, going to the bathroom to collect his tools – but not before you give him your phone number. 

As he opens the door, sunlight spilling into the quiet studio, he pauses with one hand on the frame. He glances back at you, lighter now, like the weight he’s been carrying finally lifted.

“See you Saturday?”

You meet his eyes, warmth blooming in your chest. “Yeah,” you say, light but certain. 

“See you Saturday.”

Joel steps through the front door just after lunchtime, toolbox in hand, shirt wrinkled and clinging faintly to his back. He’s quieter than usual, like he’s moving through a dream he hasn’t quite woken up from.

Sarah doesn’t look up from the couch right away – she’s mid-scroll, headphones half on, but her eyes flick toward him when the door shuts.

“How’d fixing the sink go?” she asks, one brow arched.

Joel sets the toolbox down on the floor with more care than necessary, grunting as he stands up straight. “Went fine,” he says plainly, avoiding her eyes. 

Sarah’s eyes narrow, and before she can comment back, they zero in on the back of his shirt: the tag sticking out and wiggling as he walks past the air conditioner to the kitchen. A slow, knowing smile takes over. 

“Your shirt’s inside out,” she remarks, smirking triumphantly when Joel freezes mid-step. 

His hand lifts automatically to the back of his shirt, fingertips brushing over the telltale edge of the tag. He frowns, mutters something that sounds suspiciously like “God damn it.” 

Sarah watches him retreat toward the stairs, his inside-out shirt like a billboard for guilty as charged. His boots thud heavily against each step, and before disappearing, he throws a glance over his shoulder; a sharp look that’s more of a warning than denial.

“Don’t start,” he mutters gruffly. 

“I didn’t say anything!” she chirps, clearly enjoying herself. The bathroom door clicks shut a second later. Sarah barely holds in her laughter as she pulls out her phone, putting the other headphone back over her ear. She opens her text messages and clicks on the thread with Vic. 

dude... i think my dad just hooked up with our pilates teacher.

[naiadonis]

oh my gosh this really made my day 🤭 my boyfriend was wondering what had me giggling like shh i’m trying to secure my next big break 😭 pls tell me you’re going to write more

first of all, thank you so much 😭 and secondly, yes! i have so many ideas don’t worry, there’s more where that came from, i promise

[naiadonis]

Yelena: oh shit it looks like there’s a ship coming in from another dimension?? omg what do you think we should do????

Bucky:

[naiadonis]

popular — b. barnes x f!reader (18+)

word count: 5.1K

summary: some people are destined to be famous, and others just need a little ..help to get there. what happens when an aspiring actress is given the opportunity to climb a little higher on the social ladder?

tags: mdni 18+ only, modern au, y/n is able bodied and uses feminine terms and pronouns, one-shot, power dynamic (reader is a struggling actress, bucky is a wealthy film producer) smuuuuut, oral (m! + f! receiving) unprotected sex (always wrap it before you tap it, folks!)

a/n: please be gentle it’s been a while… thank you to my bffs who read this first <3

The industry party is already half a blur by the time you get to your third glass of champagne. Los Angeles feels like it’s been chewing you up and spitting you back out for months, and while you’re good at faking confidence, lately you’ve been questioning whether this city has a place for you at all. The last agency you were with booked you for a toothpaste commercial and a recurring role as “Hot Girl #3” in a show that didn’t even survive its pilot. You’d had enough.

You’re about to retreat to a corner when a familiar voice calls out.

“Y/N!”

You turn, exhaling a relieved laugh when you see Joaquin Torres, your longtime friend and occasional lifeline in a sea of snakes. He pulls you in for a hug that smells like cologne and tequila.

“Thought I wasn’t gonna find you,” he says, glancing down at your drink. “You good?”

You give him a tight smile. “Define good.”

He winces. “That bad?”

You shrug, eyes scanning the glittering crowd of producers, actors, and people who only exist in photos. “It’s just all…exhausting. This is the latest I’ve been outside in over a month. I should be binging Real Housewives right now.” You say, and then almost as an afterthought, you add, “And these stilettos were not meant to be worn long term.”

Joaquin huffs out a laugh that’s mostly swallowed by the din of the crowd. “Well, tonight might be different,” He says, tilting his head. There’s a glint in his eye that you recognize; Clearly he’s up to something, and you don’t even have a chance to say no because he’s already reaching for your hand. “There’s someone I want you to meet.”

Your brows lift, but he anticipates your answer with an easy smile, disarming you before you’ve even had a chance to properly turn it—whatever he’s thinking—down. “Not Scorsese,” he says, a knowing smile on his face. “Bucky Barnes.”

You blink. “The Bucky Barnes? As in—”

Your stomach does a small, traitorous flip. You hesitate, your gut twisting with the now familiar cocktail of hope and dread. “I don’t know.. I’ve done this exact song and dance so many times.” You take a nervous sip of what’s left of your champagne, your eyes scanning the crowd once more. “I don’t think I can stomach another disappointment anyway.”

Joaquin studies you for a beat, but it’s clear his mind has already been made up and he’s not taking no for an answer. “C’mon. You’re not even auditioning for anything, not right now anyway.” He jokes, his hands coming to rest on your shoulders. “It’s just a little meet and greet, no harm, no foul.” He said, and with an exasperated sigh, you give in.

His hands slip from your shoulders, and weaves you through the crowd and toward the back patio, where golden lights bathe a group of people standing around with drinks in hand. That’s when you see him.

Bucky Barnes.

He’s not what you expected.

For all his credentials and the air of mystique that surrounds his work, he’s surprisingly…lowkey. He’s standing casually, one hand cradling a drink, while the other is stuffed into the back pocket of his jeans, listening to someone with an easy half-smile. He’s dressed in black, the sleeves of his shirt rolled, a few buttons left undone at the collar. He looks like someone who knows exactly what he’s doing—but doesn’t need to prove it.

You steel yourself.

“Buck,” Joaquin calls, breaking into the circle. “This is Y/N. She’s the actress I’ve been telling you about.”

Bucky looks up, and suddenly, all your nervous energy dulls. His eyes land on yours, and everything slows for a second. There’s no judgment in his expression, no boredom, no performative interest. Just calm curiosity.

“Y/N,” he repeats, like it tastes good in his mouth. “Nice to meet you.”

His voice is smooth, unhurried. You offer your hand, and he doesn’t rush the moment. Doesn’t scan you up and down. Doesn’t launch into small talk like he’s got somewhere better to be. “Nice to meet you,” you say, surprised by how steady your voice is.

He shakes your hand, and you can only hope that he doesn’t feel how clammy your palm is.

“I’ve heard a lot about you,” He said, and your gaze darts to Joaquin, who only gives you a grin and a thumbs up before stepping away.

“All good things I hope, though that would explain the ringing in my ears.” You reply, and he chuckles. The sound sparks something in your chest, but you choose to ignore it for the time being.

He glances at your almost empty champagne glass, and he gestures towards the party. “You want something better than whatever they’re calling champagne in there?”

You laugh—more than you meant to, but you go with it, nodding. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

He waves a waiter over, and orders a cocktail for you, and the two of you find yourselves in an easy flow.

The conversation that follows is effortless, surprising even you. You talk about the state of the industry, the uphill climb for actors like yourself, and how exhausting it is to be underestimated in rooms full of people who smile too much. He listens—actually listens—with a kind of calm intensity that makes you feel seen in a way you hadn’t realized you were craving. He wants to know what drives you. What kind of roles scare you. What you want to do that no one’s let you touch yet. It’s been so long since someone has looked at you like an artist instead of a résumé.

And he’s funny. Dry, understated. Every sarcastic quip you throw at him, he volleys back with ease.

When you call out the hypocrisy of producers who say they want “fresh talent” but only cast the same five people, he chuckles and raises his glass.

“To burning the house down.”

You tap your glass to his.

“To rebuilding it better.”

There’s a beat where the conversation lulls and neither of you fill the silence. You glance over at him, and he’s already looking at you, head slightly tilted, like you’re a puzzle he’s just beginning to enjoy solving.

“You know,” he says slowly, “I’m putting something together. Casting’s still in early stages.”

You arch a brow. “That sounds suspiciously like a pitch.”

“Maybe it is,” he says. “Or maybe it’s just an excuse to get dinner with you.”

You blink. “Dinner?”

“Strictly professional,” he adds, his grin betraying him.

You bite the inside of your cheek, trying to keep your cool. “I usually avoid producers who make vague offers over free cocktails.”

He laughs then—a genuine laugh, that makes the corners of his blue eyes crinkle. “Understandable. But I’m very persuasive, and I don’t make promises that I can’t back up.”

You pause, heart racing a little faster now—the traitorous thing. Then you nod.

“Okay. Dinner.”

He pulls out his phone. “Can I get your number?”

You give it to him, trying not to show the slight tremble in your fingers. He types it in, saves it, then looks back at you with that same, magnetic calm.

“I’ll text you,” he says. “We’ll talk shop.”

You nod, lips curving despite your best efforts. “Looking forward to it.”

You smooth your hands down your dress—a silky, low-cut number you’ve only worn once, and never with this much confidence.

You kept telling yourself it was just dinner.

You told yourself the extra twenty minutes you spent curling your hair wasn’t for him. That the subtle shimmer on your eyelids, the gloss on your lips, the soft sweep of highlighter on your collarbone—those were all for you. Because you wanted to feel your best. Simple. Empowering. Strategic, even.

It had nothing to do with how Bucky Barnes looked at you that night on the rooftop. Nothing to do with how your heart had skipped when he saved your number. Nothing to do with the way his voice had settled into your head and lingered there like a song you couldn’t quite shake.

Right.

He picked the place—low lighting, real candles on the table, waitstaff that smiled like they already knew his order. It was intimate but not too forward, elegant without being stiff. Like him. He stood as you approached, and for a beat, just stared. Not in the uncomfortable, lingering way some men did—but in that quiet, appreciative way that made you hyper-aware of your own skin.

The restaurant is dimly lit and intimate—modern Italian with moody lighting and quiet music. Definitely not the kind of place where deals are typically made.

You raise an eyebrow as you slide into the booth across from him.

“So,” you say. “What kind of role are we pretending to talk about tonight?”

Bucky laughs, tilting his head. “You always lead with sarcasm?”

“It’s a defense mechanism,” you say sweetly.

“I like it,” he says. “Keeps me on my toes.”

You fight the smile tugging at your lips as the waiter comes over. Bucky orders a bottle of wine without looking at the menu, and you wonder how someone can be so effortlessly confident without being unbearable. The waiter comes and goes. Wine is poured. Small talk is easy—dangerously easy.

Bucky asks about your recent auditions, your dream roles, the kinds of stories you want to tell. And when he talks about his work, his voice gets lower, more thoughtful, like he’s letting you in on something sacred. And you surprise yourself by how freely you answer. With most producers, it’s all strategy and filters. But with him, it feels easy.

Safe, even.

Still, there's something beneath the surface. A tension. A current.

It starts small. His gaze dropping a beat too low when you lean forward to reach for your glass. The momentary pause when his eyes catch the way the neckline of your dress curves—and dips.

You notice.

You definitely notice.

And when he looks up and sees you watching him catch himself, there’s a flicker of guilt in his smile—followed by something else. Something darker. Bolder.

“You’re staring,” you say softly, amusement coloring your voice.

He doesn’t flinch. Just leans back in his seat, expression relaxed but eyes locked on yours.

“Can you blame me?”

You tilt your head, letting your fingers toy with the stem of your wine glass. “You said this was strictly business.”

“I did,” he says, voice lower now. “And I meant it. But I’m not blind.”

He runs a hand through his hair, the movement slow, like he’s trying to ground himself.

“You walk in like the part’s already yours,” He says, eyes locked on you like he’s seeing something everyone else missed. “Then you start talking, and somehow you’re even better than how I pictured. You really think I’m not gonna look at you?”

Your lips part, heat rising up the back of your neck—and not just from the wine.

He watches your reaction, eyes flicking between your lips and your eyes, as if he’s waiting for you to shut this down. To draw the line.

You don’t.

Instead, you lean forward, just a little—enough to let him look if he wants to.

And he does.

“I thought we were here to talk shop,” You tease, your voice barely above a whisper.

“We are,” he murmurs, his gaze briefly flicking to your cleavage before snapping back to your face. “But you’re making it really hard to concentrate.”

You smirk, resting your chin in your hand. “Maybe I’m testing your professionalism.”

He exhales a soft laugh, eyes narrowing with playful suspicion. “So that’s what this is.”

You don’t answer, but the way your leg brushes his under the table speaks for you.

The moment hangs there, suspended in candlelight and tension.

Then you lift your glass again, cool as ever. “So. Tell me about this role you had in mind.”

He picks up his drink, but he’s not even pretending to be unaffected anymore. His voice is rougher around the edges now, dipped in something thicker.

“I think you’d be perfect for it,” he says. “But I’m starting to realize the real challenge is gonna be keeping things…professional.”

You smile, sipping slowly.

There it is.

That slow pull in your belly, the warmth that curls beneath your skin and spreads all the way to your throat.

He’s trying to behave. You can see it in the way he clenches his hands now and then. In the way his gaze keeps drifting—just below your neck, just a beat too long on your lips before he forces himself to look away.

“You’re making this very difficult, Y/N.”

Your smile widens, slow and knowing. “I haven’t done anything.”

“That’s the problem,” he murmurs, eyes flicking to your mouth again. “You don’t have to.”

You sit in the silence that follows, tasting the tension between you like the wine on your tongue. Part of you knows you should pivot—say something smart about your range or your process or whatever—but you don’t.

Because it feels good, being looked at like this.

Not like a product. Not like an audition.

Like a woman.

And Bucky Barnes, for all his restraint, is very much a man who’s interested.

The waiter comes with the check, and Bucky doesn’t even glance at it before sliding his card across the table. You let him. You don’t argue.

Outside, the night is cooler than before, and you shiver slightly as you step onto the sidewalk. Without thinking, he slips off his jacket and drapes it over your shoulders.

There’s a charged silence between you, and Bucky’s gaze lingers on your face, on the curve of your neck where the jacket slips just so.

He clears his throat. “I was thinking… maybe you’d want to come back with me. For a nightcap. Nothing fancy. Just some whiskey and quieter company.”

Your heart skips.

The sensible part of your brain screams No. You just met him, you barely know this man, and—let’s be honest—you’re tired of people promising things they don’t keep.

But the reckless part—the part you’ve been trying to ignore—whispers Yes. Yes to a night where you forget the struggle. Yes to being wanted. Yes to whatever this is.

You hesitate, searching his eyes for any sign he’s not serious.

He’s watching you, patient. Respectful. But there’s something fierce beneath it, an invitation you can’t quite refuse.

Finally, you breathe out.

“Okay.”

He smiles, half-relieved, half-triumphant, then holds out his arm. You wrap your hand around his forearm, and together you walk towards the sleek, black car he’d parked just around the corner.

The door to Bucky's penthouse clicks shut behind you with a low thud that seems to echo through the sleek, open space. You step forward slowly, taking in the minimalist design, all dark wood, clean lines, and soft lighting. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the city skyline, glittering like spilled diamonds.

“This is…” you begin, turning in place to admire the view.

“Overkill?” Bucky cuts in, lips twitching.

You smirk, shrugging off his jacket and laying it over the back of a velvet armchair. “I was gonna say impressive. But sure, overkill works too.”

He chuckles and makes his way to the bar in the corner, where a decanter of dark amber scotch glows under the low light. You follow, watching as he pours two generous glasses, his forearms flexing as he lifts the crystal bottle.

“Thanks for coming,” he says, handing you a glass.

You take a sip—smooth, smoky, expensive. “I figured I owed you a nightcap after dinner.”

His eyes flick down your body before snapping back to meet yours, and this time, there’s no polite veil. No public persona. Just him. And you.

“You don’t owe me a damn thing,” he says quietly. Then adds, with a crooked grin, “But I’m sure as hell glad you’re here.”

You blink once. Twice. “Well,” you murmur, swirling the liquid in your glass, “You did say you wanted to talk more.”

“I did.” He throws back half his drink in one gulp, eyes still locked on yours. “But let’s be honest, sweetheart. I didn’t bring you up here to talk about casting calls.”

There it is.

Blunt. Shameless. Heat flares low in your belly.

He watches the way you react—how you shift slightly on your heels, your breath catching just enough to betray your interest. He sees everything. He’s looking now, really looking. At your mouth, your neckline, the rise of your chest under your blouse. His gaze drags over you like a physical touch, and he doesn’t bother hiding it anymore.

“You’re gorgeous,” he says simply, the words landing like a strike to your core. “You walk into a room and every man forgets his name. But what gets me the most—what’s driving me fucking insane—is that mouth.”

Your lips part, stunned at the turn. “My… mouth?”

He steps closer. His glass clinks softly on the counter as he sets it down. “You’ve got this sharp little tongue and all I can think about is what else you could do with it. Now that we’re alone, I’m not in the mood to play coy. I want you, Y/N. Plain and simple.”

You don’t speak. You can’t. Not with him standing this close, not with the way his voice has dipped low and rough like velvet dragged over gravel. The warmth of the scotch turns molten in your chest. He steps forward, each stride measured, confident, until he stands just a few feet away from you. The low light accentuates the angles of his face—his jaw, his cheekbones—making him look predatory in the most intoxicating way possible. You glance at his mouth, then back up—his expression hungry, dangerous, focused.

You finally find your voice. “Do you usually mix business with—”

“I don’t,” he cuts in. “But I’ve been thinking about you since the second Joaquin introduced us. And I’m not about to stand here and pretend I’m not imagining how you’d sound underneath me.”

Your knees nearly buckle. He’s still not touching you, but you feel the pull in every inch of your skin, every nerve ending tuned to the moment he might.

“And if I said I wasn’t here for just a nightcap either?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper.

A slow, sinful smile spreads across his face. “Then I’d say stop pretending, and let me show you exactly how much I want you.”

You don’t wait. You set your glass down beside his and he closes the distance, your fingers curling into the fabric of his button-down. His hands are on you in an instant—one at your waist, the other sliding up your spine. He kisses you hard, deep, like he’s been holding back all night and has finally cracked. His mouth is demanding, tongue sliding against yours, teeth grazing your bottom lip as he exhales a growl into your mouth.

You gasp as he lifts you without warning, setting you on the edge of the marble counter. His hands slide under the skirt of your dress, thumbs dragging along your thighs until they reach your hips.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs into your neck, already knowing you won’t.

“Don’t even think about it.”

That’s all he needs.

He slips one hand between your thighs, fingers dragging along the damp heat between your legs through your panties. His groan is immediate, deep and primal. “Fuck,” he breathes. “You’re soaked.”

You tilt your head back as he mouths at your throat, sucking a bruise just beneath your ear. “You’ve been driving me crazy all night in this little dress, pretending you weren’t doing it on purpose.”

“I wasn’t,” you lie, breathless.

His eyes flash as he pulls back to look at you. “Sweetheart, you wore this knowing damn well I wouldn’t be able to stop looking at your tits all night.”

You bite your lip.

“See? Not denying it now,” he murmurs, hooking his fingers into the waistband of your panties and dragging them down, slow and deliberate.

He drops to his knees, parting your legs, and when his mouth finds you, your head hits the cabinets behind you. He’s not gentle—he’s ravenous. His tongue moves with confidence, circling, flicking, devouring until you’re moaning, shaking, fisting his hair as he pushes you closer to the edge.

“Bucky—” you gasp, thighs trembling as he grips them tighter.

“I know,” he murmurs, mouth still moving against you. “Come for me, sweetheart. Let me taste you.”

And you do—your body snapping tight as your orgasm crashes over you. He doesn’t stop until your hips buck, until you’re whining and breathless and begging him to give you a second to breathe.

He rises, mouth glistening, and kisses you again—filthy and deep and tasting like you. Then he scoops you off the counter and carries you down the hall toward his bedroom.

The bedroom door closes behind you, and the room is dim, lit only by the soft glow of streetlights filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows. A king-sized bed dominates the space, sheets the color of storm clouds draped neatly across the mattress.

Bucky doesn’t waste a second. He steps in front of you, pressing you against the wall with a force that sends your breath scattering. One hand tangles in your hair, tilting your head back so he can lean in and kiss the column of your throat. The other hand works on the infuriatingly tiny zipper to this damned dress. He’s about to tear the damn thing off of you, but he finally manages to unzip it.

The dress pools at your feet like water, and his eyes trail shamelessly down the length of your almost-bare body, lingering on the swell of your breasts and the curve of your hips with an audible, appreciative exhale. He presses hot kisses along the valley between your breasts, and then back up again.

“On your knees,” he murmurs, voice thick. “I’m half-hard, and I want you to take care of it.” And you nod obediently. He snatches the pillow from his bed, tossing it at your feet before you kneel before him.

You reach for his belt buckle; fingers fumbling just enough that he chuckles low in his throat. With an impatient sigh, he hooks his thumbs into his belt loops, jerking his jeans down in one swift motion until they puddle around his ankles along with his boxers. The sight of him—naked, upright, unashamed—makes your fingers tremble as you close the gap again, dropping to your knees.

His cock is already slick with precome, aroused at the thought of you. When you take him into your hand and slide the head across your lips, he shudders, throwing his head back softly. You swallow him slowly, lips gliding from head to base, tongue flicking against the sensitive underside. Already he’s gripping your hair, gentle but firm, encouraging you without forcing. He groans, hips jerking ever so slightly, and the vibration through his length is electric against your tongue.

“Fuck,” he rasps. “Just like that. Don’t stop.” He leans against the wall, one hand bracing him while the other fists your hair. You swirl your tongue around the head, then hollow your cheek in a speedy, almost desperate motion. His breath hitches, and his eyes close as though he can’t bear to watch.

When the coil in his body tightens, he pulls you from him and helps you stand, his mouth on yours again. You’re acutely aware of every curve: collarbone, breasts, the hollow at your sternum. He cups you, thumbs brushing over your hardened nipples, eliciting a soft moan from your lips. “Fuck, you’re gorgeous,” he murmurs, voice husky. “So perfect.” He flicks his tongue across one nipple, then the other, and you arch into him, mouth falling open.

His clothes—and yours—have long since been discarded on the floor, a trail of temptation from the hallway to the bed. He pushes you down onto the mattress with a steady hand on your shoulder, the sheets cool against your heated skin. You sit up on your elbows, breath catching in your throat at the sight of him: thick, heavy, and achingly hard, veins pronounced along the length, his tip flushed and glistening. Every part of him is sculpted, taut with restraint, like he’s been holding back since the moment he laid eyes on you. And now, he isn’t.

He stands at the edge of the bed, his hand wrapping around himself with deliberate, unhurried strokes, gaze fixed on you like he’s memorizing every inch of your body—the way your lips part in awe, the way your thighs instinctively press together in aching anticipation.

“You want this?” he rasps, voice ragged with desire. His thumb swirls over the slick head of his cock, drawing a low hiss from his throat. “Tell me you want me, baby.”

You shift closer to the edge of the bed, legs spreading wider, like you’re offering yourself up to him. “Quit being a tease,” You murmur, eyes locked on his cock as he strokes it slowly, “And come fuck me like you mean it.”

He groans at your boldness, that shameless invitation tipping him over the edge of restraint. He pulls you closer to him, then steps between your spread thighs, the heat of his body searing against yours. His hands roam your sides—firm and possessive—before gripping your hips with purpose. You can feel him, thick and pulsing, as he drags the head of his cock along your slick folds, lining himself up with a low, reverent curse.

“Fuck, yes,” he growls, barely holding back, and then he thrusts in.

The first thrust is slow but impossibly deep, stretching you inch by inch until your breath escapes in a broken gasp. He fills you completely, the pressure overwhelming, perfect. He pauses there, buried to the hilt, savoring the moment as your body tightens around him. And then—he moves.

His rhythm starts punishing and purposeful, each thrust punching the air from your lungs, knocking moans out of you that you don’t bother to muffle. Your fingers claw at his shoulders, nails dragging down the sculpted muscle as he pounds into you, over and over, hitting that spot that makes your toes curl. The bed creaks beneath the force, his hips slamming into yours with delicious brutality.

Bucky’s free hand braces against the headboard, gripping it so hard his knuckles go white. His head falls back, sweat-damp hair brushing his temples, jaw tight and mouth parted on a ragged groan as he loses himself in the feel of you—tight, wet, wanting.

You can feel every inch: his cock slick and hot, the way your walls clamp around him with each pass, the slick, wet friction. Your breaths come in ragged pants, and you hook an arm around his neck, tugging him down for a fierce, open-mouthed kiss. Tongues collide, teeth graze, and in that kiss you taste the same hunger you feel in your core.

He pulls back just enough to stare into your eyes, voice rough. “You’re unbelievable,” he mutters, then drives into you faster. “So fucking wet for me.”

You moan, head falling back on the pillows as he hammers into you. The thrusts come harder now, each one a sharp stab at the center of your heat. Your cunt clenches around him, and you can feel the coil tightening—your orgasm building like a star about to explode.

“Bucky!” you cry out, fingers carding through his hair. “Oh God, Bucky—”

He dips his head and sinks his teeth into the hollow of your collarbone, and a bolt of heat races through you, shattering whatever control you had left. Your back arches off the mattress, hips lifting into him as a tidal wave of white-hot pleasure crashes over you. Fingernails graze his shoulders, leaving trails of need, while your breath tears from your lungs in ragged gasps.

He doesn’t relent. With one last series of punishing, relentless thrusts—each harder, each deeper—he drives you even higher. His voice breaks as he grunts your name like a benediction, and you feel the weight of him shuddering as he swells and spills into you. Your body trembles beneath his, every muscle trembling in the aftershock of his release. Then, spent and utterly raw, he collapses beside you. Together you lie there, chests rising and falling, hearts pounding, breaths mingling in the hushed stillness of the penthouse.

The city hums quietly beyond the penthouse glass, a soft backdrop to the silence stretching between the two of you. The air still smells like sex and skin and scotch, and your limbs feel heavy—sated, warm, anchored beneath the lazy sprawl of his arm around your waist.

Bucky’s chest rises and falls gently, the heat of him pressed against your chest. His fingers graze slow circles into the dip just below your navel, but otherwise, neither of you moves. Not yet. Not when everything is still humming between you.

You let the quiet sit for another beat before speaking, your voice sleep-rough and teasing.

“So… that role you were pitching to me earlier...”

He freezes above you. Just for a second.

Then a breathless laugh bursts out of him, low and startled. “You’re unbelievable,” he murmurs, burying his face into the crook of your neck with a groan. “Jesus Christ, Y/N. We just had the kind of sex people write bad poetry about, and you’re still chasing your next gig?”

You smirk, tilting your head to glance at him. “I’m just saying. If you’re done defiling me, I’d like to circle back to the business portion of this evening.”

He laughs again—truly laughs this time, the sound warm and sharp and so completely disarmed that it makes your chest squeeze a little.

“You’re fucking ruthless,” he says, still grinning as he tightens his arm around you, tugging you closer like he already doesn’t want to let go. “Alright, alright. We’ll talk casting.”

You smile, eyes fluttering closed as you sink deeper into the pillow. He kisses your shoulder once, slow and lingering.

“In the morning.”