CODY*

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

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. 

Bucky: