#stripper!reader

Your hand wraps near the top of the pole and your feet leave the ground, spinning around the pole and swaying your feet.

He’d already started to throw some dollars onto the stage, and you see Hotch at the bar, drink in hand heading over to the stage.

You slam down onto the floor, legs splayed in the splits. He throws more dollars, landing near your legs and you start a floor routine. On all fours you rock to the beat and crawl to the side of the stage the unsub was sat at. You end up shaking your ass in his direction with a quick glance over to Hotch, he was doing everything but looking at you on the stage.

Moving back to the pole, you twist yourself around it, spinning around and catching the light. Your legs push you up the pole, doing the walk around the pole again, swinging yourself up and holding yourself upside down.

You’re on the floor again, in the splits and shaking you ass again, flipping your hair you look to him again, still not watching. However the unsub was showering you in dollars.

Leaning back on your forearms, bringing your heels together with a loud bang. It catches his attention and he finally looks at you, and you widen your eyes.

Luckily, he gets the hint and starts to also throw money in your direction and now it’s his turn to have your ass in his direct eye line.

Refusing to meet his eyes you keep them firmly planted on the unsub who was ticking, hating that you were showing attention to other men.

He coaxes you forward with a wagging finger and you crawl across the stage towards him.

“Can I pay for a private room?” His smile is wide, flashing his wallet and you nod.

“Of course.” You point towards the bouncer, “He will set it up for you, I have to finish my dance.”

And you do. A mix of pole and floor routine and you try to ignore Hotch but you can’t help it. The red light made his jawline look sharper, and his eyebrows look darker. It was clenched and his eyebrows were furrowed, hands gripping the edge of the leather chair. His slacks were pulled tight across his lap as he plants his feet firmly on the floor.

You feel like you’re on fire every time he looks at you, it’s just him watching you closely so you have no excuse for what you do next.

Sliding off the stage you end up stood in between his spread legs, bending over you shake your ass, bringing it down, hovering directly above him.

You feel the strap of your thong lift off, then flicked back down with some rolled up money underneath. It has a tangy sting as it hits your skin.

“Be careful.” He whispers, hand swiping your hair to the side. “I’ll be watching on the cameras, and I definitely pissed him off.”

With that you nod, the music stops and you climb back on the stage as the DJ sends you off, “That was Kitty, she’s new and will be back on the stage later tonight.” You blow a kiss to the club, bending down to scrape all of the money off of the stage, someone in the back whistles.

Rushing off the stage, you dump the money in the dressing room, the other girls getting ready to go on.

“I’d put that in your bucket or someone will pick at it like a crow.” One of the girls calls over her shoulder, mascara wand in hand.

“Keep it, share it between yourselves.” You shrug, almost running through the corridors, slowing when the black suit catches your eye, hunched over the monitors with some of the security guys.

“What’s the signal?” He jumps slightly at your intrusion, turning on his heels and a light cough escapes his throat.

“Three fingers, scouts honour.” He holds them up, his eyes firmly planted on your face, but he can’t help but let his eyes rake down your body. He didn’t even know they made bikinis that small.

“Alright.” You take a long breath in and out, wringing your hands out, “I’ll get him to confess.” You nod, determined and you set off to the private room.

“Man, I couldn’t work with that.” The security guy snorts, a long whistle accompanies it. A cold glare from Hotch silences him, “Right.”

A bouncer leads you to the room, and opens the door for you, shutting it behind you and you give a sheepish wave to the unsub.

“Hey handsome, so before we start i’ve got to go over the rules, just policy.” You start, sitting down on the plush couch next to him. “So you get thirty minutes which you’ve already paid for and once that time is up, Tony will come in and let you know we’re done. At that point you can pay for an additional thirty minutes if you’re not done. No touching, only looking.” You smile sweetly at him, “Apart from the contact I make with you obviously.”

You hide behind your hair slightly, an airy giggle fills the room and you click play on the stereo. It’s a slow melody, quieter than normal so the bug hidden behind the couch could pick up the audio.

“So what do you do for work?” You ask, straddling his lap, flicking your hair off of your shoulders.

“I work in an office, I’m a lawyer.” It was a lie, you held back the deep eye roll that you wanted to unleash. Instead, you nod and gasp.

“No way! That’s so cool.” Your fingers play with the hair on the back of his neck, “You must make so much money.”

“I mean, I was throwing it at ya.” He winks, the bravado making your stomach churn.

“Thank you, you made the night for sure.” Turning around you sit on his lap, “Works boring,” You shrug. “What do you do for fun?” Biting your lip and glancing over your shoulder.

“Come to places like these.” His hands come to the back of his head, leaning back, spreading his legs more.

“I better be your favourite huh, Josephine’s is the best!” You drop to the splits and move to the pole, doing simple tricks and spins. Enough to keep his attention on you.

“It’s my favourite right now.” You’re back on his lap, grinding lightly.

You let out a mock gasp, “Have you heard about all those girls going missing? I’m so scared to come to work.” You hope and pray he takes the bait, so you can put some full clothes on. “What if it’s me next, yaknow.”

“You’re safe with me, sweetheart.”

“I bet the guy is such a loser, gets no girls or anything. Thinks the stripper is in love with him.” You snort, still on his lap. The muscles in his jaw twitch, and his fingers crick against the leather as he grips the edge of the seat.

“Probably never had a girl even look his way,” You roll your eyes, “Too ugly, bet his face is all crooked.” His leg bounces beneath you.

“Small dick too.” That you were right about, feeling a rather disappointing bulge in your lap, more like a cocktail sausage.

You don’t even see him move, but she’s squeezing the tops of your arms hard, fingers bruising your skin.

“Fuck you bitch!” You knew they had to wait, for him to either admit to the murders or to try and murder you.

It looked like the latter. He’d shoved you against the wall, the tips of your shoes skirting against the wooden floors. His forearm pressed on your throat and your eyes dip down, the tattoo that a witness had described front and centre. The vines climbing up towards your chin.

You’d had enough, knee coming up between his, planting into his balls hard and he stumbles back from you, hand coming back to steady himself as he scrunches to the floor. Finally, the door swings open. Hotch storms in first, gun drawn and handcuffs ready to go. He throws the unsub to the ground, the metal clinking around his wrists and being hauled out by the security guard.

“Are you ok?” His hand hits your bare shoulder and your head snaps up to him, still bent over and catching your breath.

“I’m fine.” Your voice is hoarse, and you nod.

“I’m sorry, we had to wait.” His thumb smooths over your skin and a trail of goosebumps appears in its wake. Your words are caught in your throat, unable to form a coherent sentence without an embarrassing squeak. “You must be cold.”

Shrugging off his blazer, he drapes it over your shoulders and you finally stand upright. It hurts a bit to swallow, and your back presses against the padded wall. "Thank you." You smile at him, the ever present furrow in his brow still there.

"You have to get checked out by the paramedics." He's back to business, back to the hard ass boss, as if you weren't basically grinding on him not even an hour earlier.

His cool stare shocks you back into reality. He was you boss, he didn't want you on his team, and you were basically naked. Quickly, you wrap his jacket around you, covering you down to mid thigh. "I'll get changed and meet you out front."

The girls in the back stare at you like you're an alien.

"You're like a spy?" One of them questions, mouth hanging open.

"No, I work for the FBI. I'm a profiler." You smile, digging around in your duffle bag for your clothes, sweatpants and a baggy t-shirt. Pulling it over your head you lean back in the chair and another one of the girls appear behind you.

"So did you like save our lives."

"Not exactly." You smile, the sweatpants now covering your legs.

"But he would have tried to kill us?" She questions, hands panted on your shoulders, and handing you a makeup wipe.

"Maybe." You shrug.

Its an ambush of hugs then, all of them descend on you covering you in hugs and thanks. They each thank you intensely, one of them even crying lightly.

"So who was the guy that was with you, is he FBI too?" The girl, Diamond, had pulled up a chair as you wipe the glitter from your face.

"Yeah, he's my boss." You glance to his blazer that you had folded and put on the vanity.

The look they all exchange makes your cheeks burn red. "You gave your boss, a lap dance" She giggles, hand flipping through the money you had given to them.

"It wasn't a-" You try to reason, a puff leaving your nose and your head shaking violently.

"It so was." She exclaims, a loud laugh coming from her. "But don't worry it looked like he was having a good time, the veins in his neck looked like they were about to explode. So I'd say he wants to be a lot more than your boss."

You gaze at her in the mirror, long slow blinks as you puff out a long breath. "Have you ever considered becoming a profiler?"

"Have you ever considered becoming a stripper?" She fires back, "You pulled more money than most of us do."

"Been there done that." You laugh, standing up and flinging your duffle over your shoulder. "However, your profile is wrong. The tight neck muscles indicate that he was uncomfortable with me being sat on his lap."

With that, you hold up a hand in a wave and leave out of the back entrance. Heels in hand and you see the SUV waiting directly at the end of the alley.

"You need to get checked out." Hotch says as you as you climb into the car, the door slamming behind you.

"I'll go before we get on the jet tomorrow."

The drive to the hotel was deadly silent, each second ticking by one by one. You could hear the crackle of the gravel under the wheels as the town flew by, unable to look at him directly. Diamonds words echoing in you mind.

The hotel was seedy and cheap, slightly yellow walls and a funky smell that hung around. He hands you your key card without a word, nodding you wander away, waving behind you. Your limbs are heavy as you buzz the door open, flopping face down on the bed. Feet flying up and then tucking them under yourself.

Finding the remote on the side table and you actually take a look around the room. The fading wallpaper is floral and has some weird stains that had no explanation, the bedding at least looked clean and the small desk in the corner looked rickety as if it would fall if you placed anything on it.

The shitty tv show you had picked filled the silence as you lie back on the bed, staring at the.. peeling ceiling. Then a knock rings out, and you groan silently but trudging over to the door anyway. You'd assumed it was Derek or Emily coming to see how you got on.

"Oh." The surprised sound comes from you. It's Hotch, no longer in the suit you had become so familiar with. He's in a plain white t-shirt, and some blue checked bottoms.

"Can I come in?" He asks and you nod, stepping to the side so he can move in. The door clicks closed. He doesn't say anything, just looks.

You shake your head. "Oh sorry, did you want your jacket?" You scurry to your duffle, pulling it out of the bag and outstretching your hand.

He takes it but shakes his head. "I came to check on you." He motions for you to sit on the edge of the bed and you do, feel kicking slightly. The bed dips he joins you on the edge, your hands hanging in your lap. "I'm going to check on your neck." It's not a request, and you don't want to make him hate you more so you tip your head back giving him access to your throat.

His fingers press lightly on your neck, first closer to the edge. No pain comes from that. Then closer and closer to the middle and then onto your windpipe. His breath fans across your face, and you make eye contact for the first time since you planted yourself in his lap ass first.

You take a sharp inhale and it hisses through your teeth and he keeps prodding. "Ow." You say flatly, yanking away from his fingers.

"It'll bruise."

"Well done Sherlock, I wouldn't have guessed that." You roll your eyes and that cold, unmoving expression is back. "Look I'm sorry, I get it It's awkward." You sigh, "You don't want me on the team, Strauss forced you to take me on, I'm a relatively bad profiler, inexperienced. The last thing you want is a lap dance from me."

You stand, walking slowly to the window. Tucking your hands behind you, staring at the rather unimpressive sight of the carpark and a singular dying tree.

The warmth from him hits you first as he appeared behind you, you didn't hear him make his way across the room, surprisingly light on his feet.

“I’m sorry if I haven’t been, welcoming.” His voice is deep and you’re sure your knees almost buckle under you. “I apologise, Strauss has been known to come for my team, our team.”

“I know, she thought I’d give her ammo if she promoted me higher than I ever should have gotten.” You focus on your feet, too scared to turn around, he takes a step back.

“You’re a good agent, tonight you proved that.” His tone is softer than what you’re used to ordering you around in the field, so you turn around.

“Thank you.” Your cheeks burn at the compliment, and your teeth clench to your lip, tasting your cherry lip balm.

You guys stand there for a beat, neither making an effort to leave the others presence.

“And you know, as far lap dances go, it was great.” With that the both of you burst out into laughter doubling over and grabbing your stomach.

“I couldn’t tell by the money you shoved in my underwear.” You giggled, shaking your head, “And that’s me rusty, imagine with some practice.” You joke, but then you hear the words outside of yourself and advert your eyes away from him.

“I think that would end up being a problem for HR.”

You stare at him in disbelief, mouth open and eyes wide, a thick swallow that slightly hurts your throat makes you grimace.

“Do you know how unfair it is,” He steps foreward, “For me to have to focus on anything but you.” Another step, “And then to have to watch you climb all over him in that bikini, that you’re still wearing now.” Another step and he’s directly in front of you. His finger finds his way under the shoulder of your shirt and pings the strap again.

“Jesus.” You whisper, sighing. “I’m glad you liked it.” Your eyes search his and the corner of your mouth ticks up. “If it’s any comfort, it was all for you.”

His lips are on yours as he grips the sides of your face, pulling you up to his lips. They’re softer than you’d imagined, not that you’d been imagining it. Arms snaking around his neck, pressing yourself against him. His fiddle with the hem of your top, pulling it up over your head. Pausing the kissing to drag his eyes down your torso.

“How much did this cost?” His hands circle your waist and lead you backwards to the squeaky bed in the middle of the room.

“I think if you bring it up to Rossi, he might try and strangle me.” You giggle, and the backside of your knees hit the sheets.

He doesn’t find it amusing. “I think we’ve had enough strangling for the night.”

“Right, right.” The smile on your face is unmissable. “Maybe another night.” You wink.

The growl that pools in the bottom of his throat hits your ears and a hand hooks under one of your knees, the other at your waist and throwing you back onto the bed. You bounce and hold yourself up on your elbows.

You bring your feet together again, no heels this time and he yanks off his own shirt. Throwing it to the growing pile of clothes. Your eyes rake over his bare chest and your lip finds home in between my teeth. The way he crawls over you is predatory, eyes dark like you were about to be his last meal.

“You drive me crazy.” He kisses the side of your neck, fingers stroking the rhinestones on the bra.

“I thought you hated me.” Your fingers dig into his shoulder muscles, they’re bigger than they look under the suit.

“Does it feel like I hate you?” He grabs your wrist, guiding it to his cock. The bulge very present in his pyjama bottoms.

“No.”

He chuckles at that, diving back into your neck, kissing down to your boobs. Sucking on the swell of one, leaving a red mark in his wake. The cups of the bra get yanked down and your tits spill out, nipples peaked up to attention.

One gets surrounded by the warmth of his mouth, the other pinched gently in between the pads of his fingers. His tongue circles it, making your back leave the springy mattress in an arch.

He pulls off with a pop, now moving his attention to sliding your sweatpants down your legs. He yanks you forwards by your ankles, face to face with the wet spot on the matching thong.

“I’m tasting this next time.” The buckle of his belt clinks as it hits the floor and his slacks go with them in a crumple. Your face flushes at the thought of a next time.

Grabbing your hips he flips you onto all fours, leaning down and pressing a kiss to one of your asscheeks.

Ruffling through your go bag, you hand him a roll of condoms.

“That’s a lot of condoms.” He snorts.

“Hey! You never know, and see they’re useful.” You bite back, looking over your shoulder.

“Oh, so you’ve thought of it.” He smirks, a light smack hitting your ass where he’d kissed previously.

“I didn’t say tha-.” You’re cut off by him pulling your thong to the side, and his tip nudging inside of you, then the rest of the thickness long after.

Your forehead hits the sheets, and he drags out of you to the tip then all shoving back in at once. The strangled noise that squeaks from you is muffled by the sheets. The head of his cock hits your g-spot every deep, hard thrust that he pumps into you.

“What was that?” He questions as he bottoms out again, hands gripping your hips and bringing you back against him.

“Ah fuck.” Your hands grip the sheets, pulling them up slightly.

He chuckles again, setting into a pace that knocks the breath out of your lungs every single thrust as your hands struggle to keep you up. Fucking into you at a rough pace, ragged gasps leave him as he sneaks his hand under you, grabbing one of your tits as he leans over you, caging you in.

His breath his warm on the shell of your ear, the shift of position making him deeper inside you than before, and your eyes roll back.

You bounce back, meeting each of his thrusts with a press of your ass and the deep groan that erupts from him, eggs you on, matching his rhythm.

Your breathing gets laboured and your knuckles turn white, the pressure building up in your middle at each scrape of him hitting that spongy place inside you.

His fingers slide down your middle, two of them hitting your clit and dragging light circles over it.

“Aaron!” You cry out, never having called him by his full name, his fingers circling faster makes that band inside of you snap. A long winded whine disappearing into the mattress.

He becomes erratic as you cum, the vice like grip throbbing around him. With one last deep thrust, he stills and spills into the condom, panting into your ear.

It’s still for a moment as you both catch your breath, then pulling out, tying the condom off and it thumps into the bin.

He moves around the room quickly, passing your clothes over, turning around as you pull off the rhinestone bikini.

“You just fucked me, you don’t have to turn around when I get changed.” You laugh and pat the bed next to you.

“Strauss is going to have my head.” He states, leaning against the headboard, still shirtless.

“Your head! I’m supposed to be the plant, I think she’d kill me personally.” You laugh.

“I won’t let her do that you know.” He’s serious again, all semblance of a joke gone. “You have a permanent spot on this team.”

“Thank you, Aaron.” You tuck a strand of rouge hair behind your ear, and your head hits his shoulder.

-

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Bucky stood frozen in place with his coat still buttoned and tie perfectly knotted, as pair of his so-called colleagues cheered from a nearby booth. One of them had a drink in hand, the other was whistling at the stage like a high schooler, and Bucky… Bucky wasn't supposed to be there.

They had practically hauled him in, called it a "mandatory boys' night", and told him he needed to look more sociable around other congressmen if he wanted to survive another election cycle. He'd said no… twice, actually. But then they'd hit him with the "come on, Barnes! Don't be weird," and suddenly it felt like refusing would start another Cold War on the House floor.

"Lighten up, James!" someone barked behind him, giving his shoulder a slap. "You've been wound up since the budget hearings. Let loose a little!"

Congressman Barnes tried to smile as he followed them through the neon-lit doorway, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. His palms were sweating as the bass rattled through his ribs. He could hear ice clinking in glasses, even in the ones far away. The air smelt like mix of perfumes and sex, suffocating him more than any warzone ever had. The second he stepped inside, everyone scattered—laughing, shouting, ordering drinks, and leaving him stranded in the middle of the club like some lost saint who had taken a wrong turn on the way to church.

Bucky decided not to sit right away. Just hovered there, awkwardly shifting his weight from one polished shoe to the other, while his eyes were bouncing anywhere but the stage.

The dancers moved under the hot lambent lights with their silhouettes arching and swaying, and Bucky's gaze ricocheted away so fast he nearly gave himself a whiplash. He stared at the floor, the ceiling, a random EXIT sign, his own hands… Anything that wasn't a woman taking her clothes off.

God, what the actual fuck was he doing here? This wasn't him, this wasn't his place, and he definitely didn't know what part of his amends program involved being shoved into a velvet booth at a strip club in the middle of the week.

One of the congressmen raised a glass toward him, already tipsy and obnoxious. In response, Bucky gave a polite smile and sat down only because standing any longer would make him stick out even more. His hands were resting folded over his knee, as he tried to look somehow composed. This night will definitely be talked about in his next therapy session.

"This better count for something," Bucky muttered under his breath, still keeping his eyes down. Honestly? If the universe was testing him, it was doing a hell of a job.

Eventually, and inevitably, his looked upward. Just a quick glance, he told himself. Just to look normal. Just so his colleagues could fuck off.

That was a mistake.

You stepped into the light like you'd been born from it. All shimmer and confidence, glitter sparkling in your hair, and moving with ease he wasn't even able to describe. You looked like a woman he would've written sonnets about if the circumstances were… different.

The realization hit him with an uncomfortable force. You were a stripper. He wasn't supposed to be looking at you like that. Not with his position. Not with his career. Not when he'd spent his whole life (or rather parts of it) trying to be decent. Not when he'd been dragged here against his will. Not when he'd lost some invisible test of character. He could practically sense the shame growing in his chest, tightening around his ribs like a reminder he should know better.

Yet, his steel blues kept wanting to return to you. There was something magnetic about you, as if he was drawn by a string he hadn't agreed to tie. This wasn't right nor smart, but God… he couldn't remember the last time someone lit up a room so completely.

The next time he glanced up, you caught him. Your gaze swept lazily over the room, and then landed right on him—the man in perfectly pressed suit who was staring at you like a lost puppy. He didn't look drunk or smug, wasn't elbowing his friends or waving cash like a flag. His eyes widened the second yours met. You let out a slow, charming smirk curl at the corner of your mouth and he looked away immediately, of course, but you managed to catch the flush blooming across his cheeks and how his throat worked around a swallow he couldn't hide.

Adorable.

You casually looked away as you turned, letting the glow catch your skin in all the right place, and letting the music guide your pace. And Bucky… poor thing looked like he was about to combust in that booth. Shoulders tight, pretending very hard to be absorbed in the drink menu he hadn't even opened. And that was right when one of the congressmen he came with noticed.

"Damn, Barnes," the man muttered, leaning over with a grin far too wide, making Bucky stiffen instantly. "Didn't know you had it in you."

"I wasn't— I'm not—"

Bucky wasn't even able to finish his stammer, the congressman was already waving you over with two fingers.

"Sweetheart! Over here!"

You peeked over your shoulder, then walked toward their seats with the practiced composure of someone who knew exactly how to make an entrance, while Bucky looked like he wanted the ground to swallow him whole. The man sitting next to him, draped an arm across the back of the booth, drink in one hand.

"You see my friend here?" he said, jerking a thumb toward Bucky. "This old man needs to relax. Think you can help him with that?"

"I'm fine!" Bucky interfered instantly, shaking his head and nearly drowning further into his seat. "I'm good."

The congressman laughed loudly at that, waving his hand dismissively. "Don't listen to him. He's wound up tighter than Capitol's budget. Why don't you take him on a private dance? On me."

You let your gaze drift to Bucky, smiling already and letting yourself admire him for a moment—slicked back hair, broad shoulders, the loosened up tie that you will definitely end up pulling later… then you noticed the way he was flushed.

"Well," you started lightly, eyes never leaving his. You bent over the table, resting your chin in your palm, elbow propping yourself up. The movement only pushed your chest forward and made your boobs pop out more in the slutty bra you were wearing. Intentional or not, Bucky almost fainted at that. His eyes snapped down, then up again, then down again, only to be brought back up again by your voice, "if he wants one…"

"Uhm… Well, I—" his mouth opened and closed and he sounded like a man speaking for the very first time in his life.

"Come on, soldier. Don't be shy," you encouraged.

He froze at the word, and you could have sworn you saw the dread and shock flickering across his face. Maybe shame too.

"You—" he swallowed, voice barely holding together," you know who I am?…"

"Mhm…" you hummed, clearly unbothered.

Before Bucky could panic himself into cardiac arrest, you reached out and rested your hand on his shoulder— the metal one. His entire body jerked, flinching from it before he gave in with heat rushing to his cheeks and the tips of his ears.

"Come on," you said, giving the arm a gentle but confident tug. He stood up so fast he almost knocked over the table.

And you? You didn't even give him time to rethink it. Your fingers curled around the material of his suit, guiding him away from his colleagues and their derisive gaze.

The music faded, leaving you only with the feeling of bass under your feet, as you led Bucky toward the hallway full of private rooms. He followed you like a man under a spell, no thoughts behind his puppy eyes whatsoever.

When you reached the destined booth, suddenly the world outside didn't exist. The room was dimly lit with reddish pink neon signs on the wall. You locked the door after him, and the sound of the clicking sent a shiver through Bucky's spine. When you turned to him, he stood still next to the doorframe, as if not sure what's about to happen, and if it's really happening and isn't just some fever dream.

You nudged him forward with a hand at his back, pushing him onto the single velvet armchair in the center.

"Sit," you commanded with a hint of gentleness in your voice.

He obeyed instantly, lowering himself into it. His knees stayed glued together, hands clasped tightly and shoulders straight. In all your years of work, you probably haven't seen anyone who looked so stiff. So you took one step back, smirking like the devil and eying him up and down, already knowing what it does to him.

Bucky's jaw clenched. He swallowed hard, but as you were looking at him, you saw how he wasn't even trying to hide how wound up he was.

You took a slow breath, then swung one leg over him and settled into his lap, straddling him and bracing your hands on his shoulders. His body tensed, every muscled locked up like you'd just activated The Winter Soldier programming.

"Easy…" you cooed, leaning in just enough for your lips to brush his ear. "You're okay."

His fingers dug into the edge of the armchair, making the knuckles of his right hand turn white.

"Bucky, Bucky, Bucky…" you murmured with an intention to soothe all his worries away. "You're so tense…"

Beneath you, his chest rose and fell unevenly, while his metal arm adjusted under your touch, not sure where to put it or what was safe to do with it.

"I—I'm not..." Bucky tried to defend himself somehow, but as a reply, you let out a sympathetic hum and cupped his jaw tightly with one hand, until he had no choice but to meet your eyes.

"There you go," you whispered politely and your thumb began moving, caressing his cheekbone. "Just look at me. Can you do that for me, soldier?"

When he did look at you, Bucky took one more shaky breath, then sighed in relief, finally starting to relax.

"Good boy," you praised with a smile. "See? Not so scary, huh? Now lemme take care of you."

With that, your hands slid lower down the line of his shoulders, and you decided to pull playfully at the shirt of his suit, just a bit to keep the teasing act, and hoping it'd pull a reaction out of him.

It didn't. Bucky stayed frozen, except for the growing bulge in his pants that began to threaten how horny he was. You caught that, of course. Chuckled at the sight. Then couldn't help the urge to push him a little bit further. You rolled your hips against his lap.

Bucky let out a sound that was half a gasp, half a whimper, but you didn't stop. Didn't dare to. You placed your hands on his chest, fingers grabbing the end of his tie, and started to move again. It wasn't long until you found a proper rhythm— his moans definitely helped. With every grind, your thighs were pressing him deeper into the armchair, making Barnes lose his mind.

"Fuck—" he groaned, gripping the arm of the chair with his vibranium one so tight it might've snapped.

"You like it, sweet boy?" you whispered into his neck, letting your breath ghost over his skin.

"Ugh…" he breathed. "Yes… s'much…"

You smiled at that, then leaned back, giving him a view he definitely wasn't ready for—your body moving atop of him, back arching. As much as you wanted to keep your hands on him, you forced yourself to take them off, and traced them down your own waist instead. Bucky's eyes followed every motion, wide and frantic until your palms rested on his thighs.

"You're so—so pretty…" the awe in his voice almost made you pout. Almost. Your moves didn't falter, if only you were getting more desperate to push him towards the edge.

"Oh yeah? And you're doin' so well f'me," you replied with a giggle, followed by another roll. To say you were satisfied with how his body was reacting would be a huge understatement, and you figured out the needy man hasn't been properly touched in years.

"Hggmph—" Another sound escaped his lips, one he clearly hadn't meant to make. Bucky's eyes closed involuntarily. His body twitched beneath you, and his metal arm lifted instinctively, reaching for your waist like he needed something to hold onto before he lost his mind. But the moment his fingertips grazed your hip, you caught his wrist harshly and put it back.

"Nu-uh," your voice dipped into a soft purr. "No touching allowed. That's the rules here, sweetheart."

He let out another helpless noise, and his head tipped back against the armchair while his eyes squeezed shut. He hated being denied, but what else could he do except follow your orders? At least that was something he was good at.

"Mrghhh—" his jaw tightened when you rubbed yourself against him, with much more pressure this time. "Fuck— I… I can't—"

"You can, Congressman," you coaxed. "You handled Hydra tortures but you draw the line at some random stripper girl soaking your thighs through her panties?"

"Fuck—" he moaned. "If you keep talking like that—"

"Then what?" you teased, a cruel smile painting your face.

"Nothing—just— fuck…"

"Mmm… what delicious sounds you make…" you said, and the one of your hand drifted to his nape, pulling slightly at the strands of his longer hair. "You like it, baby, hmm?"

Bucky only whimpered. Keeping his eyes closed, and letting you do whatever the fuck you wanted.

"Answer me, soldier," you demanded, but your voice was still soft. "Has anyone ever touched you like that?"

"N—No…" he stuttered, as his eyes fluttered shut for a brief moment just to catch the look on your face and the lust written all over it.

Barnes tried to steady himself, he really tried but his breath was shaking and he couldn't help but begin to move his leg, making it easier for you to grind.

"God… if only you knew," you murmured, fingers still playing with his hair, tugging. "If only you had a clue how damn hot you are… sitting here like a saint and letting me make you come undone."

"Don't—" he tried, voice cracking. His throat was bobbing hard as he swallowed. "I'm not… coming undone."

That earned a chuckle out of you. You tilted your head, studying him.

"No?" you giggled. Then rubbed your cunt against him harder this time. "Well you do feel like you're falling apart, baby. "You're shaking… not to mention your erection, honey," You leaned in, grazing his neck with your lips and teeth. "But go on. Tell me how in control you are."

"That… That's not fair. I can't touch you," his voice was filled with restraint, and obviously, he did have a point. But you only shrugged.

"Rules are rules. That's the whole point. You sit there… and you take it. You wanted fair?" you muttered, letting your nails trail lightly down the side of his face.

"No, I just—"

"Then shut up and be a good boy, Congressman."

The command hit him like a slap to the face. His wholy body jerked under you, cock included.

"F-fuck—" he choked out, squirming beneath you. "Fuck, I can't— I can't—"

You dragged your body again, letting yourself barely grind right against the thick line of his cock beneath his slacks. His hands fisted uselessly at his sides, then his hips moved upward, followed by a wrecked, loud moan.

"There it is…" you teased, fucking his tight relentlessly.

"Fuck! I'm trying—" he panted, legs trembling. "I'm— fuck—I'm trying—"

You cupped the back of his head, forcing his dazed blue eyes to meet yours, and that was it. Bucky's body tightened, except for his hips who buckled once despite himself.

Your gaze dropped down, right to the forming white damp spot on his pants, and your mouth fell open at the sight.

He came. He fucking came. Just like that, without you even touching him properly. Without you even starting the actual "dance".

Bucky's eyes fluttered, and you loved the way his jaw dropped in a whimper as the release washed through him. You kept him steady with a hand in his hair, soothing, guiding him through every shudder and extending his pleasure.

"Oh, sweetheart…" you cooed, brushing your thumb across his flushed cheek. "You did so well for me…"

Eventually, his breathing slowed down, but his gaze was still unfocused. Cute, that's how he looked to you. Maybe a bit pathethic, but still cute—fucked out and hazed like that.

You lifted yourself of his lap slowly, making him twitch one last time. When you stood, you glanced down just to see how you soaked his thigh, and you tried your best to hold back a giggle.

"Goodbye, Congressman," you said lightly, fixing one of your bra straps as if nothing ever happened. "I gotta go collect my bill from your friend."

Bucky's head snapped up. Still dazed, still hoping for more.

"W—what?" he choked out, blinking hard in disbelief, and trying to catch up. "You're already leaving?… Wait!"

In quick action, he tried to push up from the armchair with knees weak, suit wrinkled, and his cum leaking out of his underwear.

"Hold on!"

Too late. You were already gone. The door clicked shut behind you, leaving him with only the scent of your perfume, and glitter clinging to his clothes.

And even though Bucky never wanted to end up in this place, he already feared it wouldn't be the last time.

sophie's note: hope you enjoyed the fic! part two is coming soon because i need them to actually fuck. AND i’ve started writing it already, so hopefully you won’t have to wait long! </3

UPDATE: Part Two

💌 taglist: @iamthatonefangirl @superbassbuck @bckyslover @flockoff-featherface @unificsation @firingstars @54nboo @earthsmightiestbenders @umbreoni @opheliabbarnes @its-in-the-woods @winterdecember18 @houseofhyde @blowingbarnes @tw1sters @thatsbucknasty @buckybarneswife125 @peanutbutt3rcup @avengemepercy @gottareadthosefics2 @sassandscribbles @avgdestitute @lovinqbella @amethystbucky @nairafeather @eterna1reverie

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R. C. M A S T E R L I S T | T A G L I S T F O R M

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Pope sheltered himself in the gradual withdrawal of light, a passenger in the shadows, stiffness lining the folds of his shirt. The perpetuating speckle of colored lights shadowed the bridge of the booth seat where he sank low, seedy club swarming with stumbling fools, trailing after expensive girls glittered with rhinestones. Eyes dim like the fading light shadowed pitch black under the purplish and red hues that danced across the walls, scanning the vacant stage, the clack of thick heels drumming in chorus to the loud music vibrating the base of his seat. The purplish haze thrummed under the heavy bass of the music, lilted laughter crafted faux interest, the long smooth legs of the dancers switched hips across the floor, leading cash stuffed palms to private rooms. The spherical daze of alcohol lingered in men's hooded eyes, thick stubby fingers grabbing at the plush skin swaying infront of them, effectively guided away with disarming smiles.

“Andy,” the lilt of your pretty voice broke Pope from his steady gaze across the floor, your dazzling smile curled just for him. “Are you ready to go?”

The lamplight of your living room hung over the space in a mask of yellow-orange dimness, the splintered shadows of you and Popes melting together against the wall. Your lips slotted against Popes, sticky gloss spreading across his parted lips, eagerly guiding his broad hands over the expanse of your covered thighs. Your lips were soft, tentative at first, easing him into the feeling of your warm mouth on his before your lips pressed to part his lips, prodding your tongue against the seam of his lips. Your tongue soothed slowly over his own, nose brushing the warm apple of his cheek, tongue sweeping along the back of his teeth in a way that was foreign to him, pulling an excitable rumbling hum from the back of his throat, his fingers clutching to the soft pants you had slipped on after your exhaustive shift. 

He felt like a teenager again. Fingers winding to tug at your baggy clothes, cinched at your bent knees on either side of his thighs on the sunken couch, gathered at your rolling hips over his hardening cock. You were exhilarating. The sweet curl of your smile pulled against his lips, seeking for you when you pulled away, panting into his wanting mouth, eager hips pressing down to roll against the stiff outline of his cock, catching the seam of your cunt through your thin pants, “‘S that feel good, Andy?” Pope's chin titled up and down with eagerness, breathing deep through his nose when the gentle sweep of your lips pressed to his throat, the thrumming pulse under his skin tugged between your perfect teeth, “You want me to touch you?” 

Pope's chest heaved, a soft plea leaving his lips watching you shift back onto his bent knees, nimble fingers working at the buckle of his jeans. His cock hit the taut muscle of his abdomen once you pulled the edge of his boxers down, tugged into your waiting palm, blushing red tip beading precum into your spread fingers, “Look at me,” you hummed, stroking down on the slippery girth of his cock. “Wanna see you while I make you feel good.”

Pope's heavy gaze fell on you, fingers clutching tightly to your shifting hips, subtly rolling over the ridged muscle of his thighs, thumb sweeping over the bulbous tip of his cock. A shuttered moan left his lips, hips rutting pathetically up into your palm, watching you lean forward, a string of spit falling from your lips and spread over the length of him. Your wrist turned, tugging up and down, experienced hand working him closer and closer to the edge, a slur of curses tumbling from Pope's parted lips, “Fuck—please—can I touch you? Wanna—fuck—wanna make you feel good too.”

“This does make me feel good,” you murmur, lips brushing his cheek, rocking against him when his hips stutter up into your palm, his achingly hard cock pushing up to fuck your hand, like he can’t help himself. His fingers unfurl from the fabric of your pants, tugging at the loose hem, sliding along the hip band of your panties.

“Let me? Please,” he breathed, fingers tentatively reaching to cup your pussy over the soft cotton panties you had slipped into, much softer than the jagged jewels of your work outfit. You sigh heavily when his fingers easily slip beneath the fabric, quickly following your permitting nod. You whine at the feeling of his callous fingers stroking against the slick of your cunt, circling your clit the pads of his thick fingers. The taut muscle of his arms flex with the menstruations of his fingers working against your cunt, tendons flexing as he presses two fingers into your eager hole, groaning as your tight walls hug around him, slick gushing into his palm and leaking down his knuckle with each curl of his fingers, “Yeah? You like that?” he murmurs, palm hitting up against your clit, watching how you keen forward, fingers squeezing around the base of his cock, “Tell me how it feels.” Your lips part to gasp, hips rolling against his palm, fucking yourself into his open hand, “No one else gets to see you like this. No one.”

“No one,” you pant, eyes caught in his hard gaze, “Just for you, Andy. Never want anyone else.”

The room is uncomfortable.

The metal of the bench bites through the thin layer of your stockings. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, one bulb flickering every so often. No velvet. No shadows. No places to hide.

You sit with your arms crossed, spine pressed back against the wall like you’re daring it to push first.

You're freezing.

You're still in your “uniform”—lace, straps, barely-there fabric that was never meant for fluorescent lighting or cold metal benches. The stockings are slightly torn at the knee, a ladder running just enough to catch your eye every time you shift. Your heels are gone, lost somewhere between the squad car and booking, leaving your feet flat against the floor.

Disgusting.

One of the deputies had muttered something about “a statement” before disappearing.

You haven’t been told anything since.

Typical.

Your jaw tightens as you replay it again—his hand, the way it grabbed, entitled and careless. The slap that followed, sharp enough to turn heads. The way his expression twisted after, ego bruised deeper than his cheek.

Assault, he’d said.

Like you were the problem.

You huff under your breath, shifting slightly on the bench, the movement making your left stocking slide down your thigh slightly. You tug it back up without thinking, irritation prickling under your skin like static.

“Comfortable?”

The voice cuts through the room cleanly.

You look up prepared to snap at another officer, then freeze when you see him.

For a second, your brain doesn’t quite catch up. It’s like seeing him out of context has knocked something loose. No low lighting. No quiet room. No heat curling between you.

Just Spencer.

Your lips part before you can stop yourself. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

It’s the lighting, you think distantly. That’s what makes it feel wrong. He doesn’t belong under fluorescent buzz and chipped paint, doesn’t fit between scuffed floors and holding cells. The last time you saw him, everything had been gold and shadow and heat—something soft-edged and dangerous.

This is… sharp. Real.

And it’s been weeks.

Not a few days. Not a blur you could brush off as a one-night lapse in judgment.

Weeks.

Long enough for him to settle into memory instead of expectation. Long enough that you stopped glancing at the door during shifts. Long enough that “later” started to feel like a lie you told yourself.

And yet—

Here he is.

Your gaze drags over him, slower this time, taking him in properly. He's wearing a button-down, sleeves neatly cuffed, a sweater vest pulled over it like something out of a lecture hall, tie slightly loosened at the collar. Dress pants, leather shoes, windbreaker folded over his arm. He looks basically the same as he did that night at your club.

One corner of his mouth lifts—not amusement, not quite—but something close. “Nice to see you again, too.”

You let out a short breath through your nose, still staring at him like if you look long enough he might glitch out of existence.

“Don’t tell me this is your usual hangout,” you mutter, shifting on the bench. “What are you doing here—are you like… what, an office assistant or something?”

It’s meant to be dismissive. A little sharp. Something to take the edge off the way your pulse picked up the second you recognized him.

Spencer’s brow lifts slightly, like he’s filing the comment away for later.

“Office assistant,” he repeats, almost tasting the words. Then, dry, “That’s new.”

Your lips twitch despite yourself. “You’ve got the whole academic thing going on,” you add, gesturing vaguely at his outfit. “Thought maybe you alphabetize reports or something.”

“I don’t,” he says simply. “I was called in.”

“Called in,” you echo slowly. “To…?”

"Your case was flagged."  

You just stare at him."I don't know what that means.”

Spencer shifts his arm slightly, a small, careful motion—like he’s not trying to draw attention, but refusing to hide it any longer.

The windbreaker slips down his forearm.

And there it is.

A badge. And a holstered weapon at his hip.

Your brain takes a second too long to process it.

Not because you don’t see it. Because you do. Very clearly.

Your gaze drops again, slower this time, like if you look at it from a different angle it’ll turn back into something normal. Something explainable. Something that fits the version of him you’ve been carrying around in your head for weeks.

It doesn’t.

He's an officer. You flirted with an officer. You were fingered by an officer.

“I… honestly thought you were, like, a doctor or something before,” you admit.

“I am, technically,” he says. “Doctor Spencer Reid. I’m part of the Behavioral Analysis Unit of the FBI. I was investigating your club the night we met.”

Silence snaps into place. It’s not loud. It’s worse than loud.

You let out a short laugh that doesn’t have any humor in it. “Oh? You mean the night you fing—?”

“I’m not here to discuss that,” he says evenly.

Your head tilts. Something in your chest tightens, hot and ugly.

“Right,” you say slowly. “Of course you’re not.”

You look away from him then, just for a second, because if you keep looking you might do something stupid like remember the way his hands felt instead of the badge you just saw.

The fluorescent light buzzes overhead like it’s laughing at you.

When you speak again, your voice is quieter. Worse somehow.

“So let me get this straight,” you say. “You walk into my workplace undercover, you let me flirt with you, you let me think you’re just some random guy, you don’t tell me you’re FBI, and then I get hauled in here because some cop groped me. And my case was flagged because, what, I work at the club you're investigating?”

“Yes, that exactly,” he says. “I have some questions to ask you. I'm here to take you to Quantico.”

“Quantico,” you repeat flatly.

Spencer doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t soften it. Just holds your gaze like he’s waiting for you to catch up to a reality he’s already standing in.

You exhale through your nose, sharp. Annoyed. A little stunned. A lot of both.

You push yourself off the bench.

The metal complains under your shift in weight, cold peeling away from your thighs as you stand. The windbreaker slides again, too big, too useless, and you tug it down out of pure spite more than modesty.

“Alright,” you say, like you’re agreeing to a schedule change instead of your entire life tilting sideways. “Let’s go then.”

Spencer’s gaze drops as you step forward. His expression shifts. “Where are your shoes?”

You glance down at your own feet like you’ve forgotten they belong to you at all. Bare against the cold floor, toes curling slightly as if that might somehow fix the situation.

For a second, you just stare. Then you shrug.

“I don’t know.”

It comes out simple. Almost bored. Like you’re talking about a missing pen instead of your entire dignity.

Spencer doesn’t respond immediately.

That’s worse.

He looks past the bars, briefly, toward the hallway where the deputies had brought you in. His jaw tightens by a fraction, so small you almost miss it.

Then his attention comes back to you.

Still calm. Still composed. But sharper now.

“Did they remove them when you were booked?”

You lean your weight onto one hip, arms folding again like you can physically hold yourself together through sheer irritation.

“I guess?” you say. “Everything happened kind of fast.”

A beat.

Another.

His eyes flick down again, slower this time, taking inventory without lingering where it doesn’t belong. Stockings. Torn knee. Bare feet on institutional tile.

Then back to your face.

“I brought this for you,” he says, holding out the windbreaker tucked over his arm.

You glance down at it like it might’ve grown teeth since you last looked at it. “I didn’t ask for it.”

“I know.”

That, somehow, makes you bristle more.

You shift your weight, arms still folded tight across your chest like you can physically out-stubborn the situation. “I don’t want it.”

Spencer doesn’t react right away. He just looks at you.

Not the kind of look that slides over skin or lingers in the wrong places. Something steadier. He’s not evaluating your body, your outfit, your attitude.

He’s waiting you out. Like he has time.

The silence stretches.

Fluorescent light hums. Somewhere down the hallway, a radio crackles and dies again.

You tilt your chin slightly, daring him to break first.

He doesn’t.

Of course he doesn’t.

Your jaw tightens. “Are you always this annoying when you’re working?”

“I’m not being annoying,” he says calmly. “I’m being patient.”

“Same thing.”

A faint flicker crosses his mouth. Not quite a smile. More like the idea of one, carefully restrained.

Then he lifts the windbreaker slightly.

“I brought it because it’s cold,” he says. “And you’re clearly underdressed.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

Spencer doesn’t even blink at your tone.

It’s almost worse that he doesn’t. Like you’re the only one in the room reacting to anything at all.

His grip tightens slightly on the windbreaker, just enough to crease the fabric.

“It means,” he says evenly, “stop being difficult and put on the jacket so I can get you out of this damn holding cell and out of being arrested for an act of self-defense.”

The words land clean. Too clean.

Like he’s already said them in his head a dozen times before ever walking in here.

You stare at him. Then at the jacket. Then back at him again, incredulous.

“Self-defense,” you repeat slowly, like the concept itself is insulting. “So you do know what happened.”

“I do,” he says.

“And I’m still in here.”

“You don't have to be.”

Your jaw tightens. You hate that your body is cold enough to make this even remotely persuasive. You hate more that he noticed before you even said anything.

With a sharp, irritated exhale, you snatch it from him.

“Fine,” you mutter. “Happy?”

“I will be when you’re warm,” he replies.

That earns him a look so sharp it could’ve cut glass.

You turn your back to him just enough to shrug into it, the oversized fabric swallowing your arms first, then your shoulders. It smells like him in a way that’s annoyingly subtle—like sage and old books, something that makes your brain misfire for half a second before you can stop it.

You refuse to acknowledge that.

Absolutely refuse.

You adjust it roughly, yanking it the rest of the way on like it’s guilty of something. It hangs long, brushing mid-thigh, covering more than you expected and somehow still not enough.

Spencer watches the whole thing without comment.

When you finish, you cross your arms immediately over your chest.

“I’m not zipping it,” you say.

“I didn’t ask you to.”

You narrow your eyes. “Good.”

The hallway is worse than the cell. Too bright, too open, too aware. Everything echoes here—your heels would’ve clicked if you had them, but now it’s just the soft, slightly uneven sound of your bare feet against the floor.

You reach the front desk. The officer there straightens slightly when he sees Spencer, posture shifting into something more attentive.

“Doctor Reid,” he says.

“Is she cleared for release into federal custody?” Spencer asks.

The words are calm. Professional.

A pause. A glance at you. Then back to him. “Yeah. She’s yours.”

Yours.

You hate the way that lands in your chest, like it shouldn’t fit there but does anyway.

Spencer doesn’t react to it. Just nods once. “And her personal effects?”

The officer doesn’t answer right away—just blinks, like he’s been pulled out of autopilot.

“Oh—right. Yeah. I’ll grab it.”

He disappears down the hall with a kind of hurried eagerness that wasn’t there a second ago, like Spencer’s presence alone rewrote the tempo of the room.

When he comes back a moment later, he's carrying a clear evidence bag, the plastic crinkling softly with each step. “Here we go,” he says, holding it out toward Spencer first, then adjusting mid-motion and offering it to you instead.

Inside: your shoes, slightly scuffed. A thick wad of cash, folded tight with a rubber band. Your lipstick, cap a little loose like you’d shoved it in a hurry.

You take it without a word. The plastic is cold in your hands.

“Sign here,” the officer adds, sliding a clipboard across the counter.

You shift the bag to one hand, scribbling your name with the other. It’s messier than usual. You don’t care.

“Thanks,” you mutter, already stepping back.

You don’t bother stepping aside.

You just hook your fingers into the straps of your heels, lift your foot slightly off the ground, and slide them on—one, then the other. Smooth. Balanced. Like you’ve done it a thousand times without thinking.

Because you have.

The leather settles against your skin like something familiar, something that belongs to you in a way none of this does. The extra height shifts your posture instantly—shoulders back, chin up, weight redistributing like a switch flipping back into place.

Armor, in its own way.

When your heel clicks softly against the floor again, you straighten fully.

Better.

You adjust the windbreaker once more, tugging it into place like you’re negotiating with it instead of wearing it, then glance up at him.

“Happy now?” you ask, tone dry.

Spencer’s gaze lingers for half a second—taking in the shift, the regained composure, the way you’ve rebuilt yourself piece by piece in under ten seconds.

Then he nods once. “That’s more practical.”

“Thrilling answer,” you mutter.

He doesn’t rise to it. Of course he doesn’t.

Instead, he gestures subtly toward the exit. “We should go.”

Outside, the air hits different. Cooler. Cleaner. Real in a way the station wasn’t.

It slips under the edges of the windbreaker, brushes your bare thighs, makes you more aware of your body than you’d like to be. The night is quieter here, stretched thin beneath a half-moon that hangs low and watchful above the parking lot.

Spencer walks beside you without touching you.

Not guiding. Not hovering. Just… there.

It’s strange. After everything, you almost expect his hand at your elbow, his voice telling you where to go next. But he doesn’t. He lets you walk at your own pace, heels clicking steadily against the pavement, each step grounding you back into something familiar.

Then you see it.

All black. Clean lines. Government-issued, but polished enough to feel intentional.

He steps ahead of you just slightly, reaching for the passenger door and pulling it open.

You pause, one brow lifting as you glance between him and the SUV.

“Fancy,” you say, the word dipped in sarcasm, like you’re testing how it sounds in your mouth.

Spencer doesn’t take the bait. He just stands there, one hand on the door, waiting.

You hold his gaze for a second longer than necessary, like maybe you can force a reaction out of him through sheer stubbornness.

Nothing.

Your lips press together, something like a huff slipping through your nose before you slide into the seat.

The leather is cold. Smooth. Too nice for the kind of night you just had. He shuts the door behind you with a quiet, solid click.

A moment later, the driver’s side opens. Closes. The engine turns over, low and steady, like it knows exactly what it’s doing.

Figures.

The ride is quiet.

You sit with your arms crossed, angled slightly toward the window, watching the world slip by in streaks of dim streetlights and empty roads. The half-moon follows, or maybe you’re following it—hard to tell.

Your reflection stares back at you faintly in the glass.

Windbreaker too big. Hair slightly out of place. Lipstick faded at the edges.

You look… off.

Not wrong. Just… not put together the way you like.

You hate that he saw you like that. You hate more that he didn’t say anything about it.

The silence stretches.

Five minutes. Maybe ten.

You lose count somewhere between one streetlight and the next.

Spencer’s voice finally cuts through the quiet, measured but softer than before.

“You seem upset.”

You don’t turn right away.

You let the words sit there for a second, like you’re deciding whether they even deserve a response. Then your eyes flick toward him, flat, unimpressed.

“I am,” you say. “Thanks for noticing.”

“Can I ask why?”

“Can I ask why you're taking me to Quantico?”

“You owe me.”

The words land cleanly. Like a fact. Like something already filed away in his head.

You blink once, then turn toward him slowly.

“Oh, I owe you now?” you repeat, voice raising in disbelief.“Do you think you did me some amazing favor?”

His brow lifts slightly, like he’s genuinely trying to understand where you’ve lost him.

“Uh—yes,” he says.

That gets a sharp laugh out of you. Not warm. Not amused. Something edged.

“Of course an FBI agent would think he did me a favor,” you say, leaning back into the seat. “By, what? Taking advantage of me while I was at work?”

Spencer’s hands tighten on the wheel.

“What? No.” The words come out too fast for his usual control, clipped by something sharper underneath. “I got you out of an assault on an officer charge.”

You tilt your head, watching him now like he’s suddenly more interesting than the road.

“Wow, thanks,” you say slowly. Then you glance at him, eyes narrowing slightly. “What do you want in return? A blowjob?”

The SUV swerves half a fraction before Spencer corrects it immediately. His head snaps toward you.

“Could you stop being so dramatic?” he says, incredulous. “I want information.”

“Information.”

“Yes.”

You study him for a moment. His jaw is set, his attention never fully leaving the road—even when he’s speaking to you, like control is something he refuses to loosen even for a second.

“And if I don’t have any?” you ask.

Spencer’s gaze flicks to you briefly. Then back forward.

“Then after the interview, I’ll take you home,” he says, voice leveling out again, “Your home.”

Your lips twitch before you can stop them.

“Generous,” you murmur.

The silence in the SUV thickens after that, like the air itself has decided to stop pretending this is professional.

Outside, the road unspools in pale ribbons of streetlight. Inside, everything feels too contained. Too aware. The kind of quiet that starts listening back.

You shift slightly in the seat, one leg crossing over the other with slow intention, the hem of the windbreaker sliding higher up your thigh again. You don’t fix it this time.

His eyes stay forward, hands steady on the wheel, but there’s a subtle tightening in his grip. A small betrayal of composure.

“You’re doing that on purpose,” he says after a beat.

You hum lightly. “Doing what?”

“That.”

You glance at him, feigning innocence. “I’m sitting?”

His jaw ticks once, barely there. “Adjusting your posture.”

A pause.

Then, quieter, “And the jacket.”

A soft smile tugs at your mouth before you can stop it. “Maybe I’m just cold.”

“You’re not cold.”

That lands sharper than it should.

“And you're not telling me the full truth.”

He hesitates. Just for a fraction of a second. “It’s complicated.”

You laugh under your breath. “That’s FBI for ‘I don’t want to explain it.’”

Spencer glances at you, quick and sharp this time. “It means there’s an ongoing investigation, and you’re connected to it whether you like it or not.”

“Charming,” you say. “So you show up, you take me out of a holding cell, you put me in your car, and suddenly I’m what… evidence?”

“You’re not evidence,” he says immediately.

The speed of it catches you slightly off guard.

You watch him for a second longer. “Then what am I?”

“A lead.”

You lean back into the seat, letting that settle.

“A lead,” you repeat slowly. “That sounds less flattering than I think you meant it to.”

“It’s not about flattery.”

“No,” you agree softly. “It never is with you, is it?”

That earns you a glance. Longer this time. A little less controlled.

“You’re upset,” he says again, like he’s circling the same conclusion from a different angle.

You sigh, tipping your head back against the seat. “Observant again. Give the man a medal.”

“Is it because I didn’t come back?”

You blink once.

Then again.

Your first instinct is to laugh it off. To turn it into something sharp, something light, something that doesn’t stick to your ribs on impact.

“Not everything is about you,” you snap.

The words land sharp, like you meant them to cut and not just deflect. The inside of the SUV feels smaller immediately, air tightening in a way that has nothing to do with physics and everything to do with him suddenly going very still beside you.

Spencer doesn’t answer. No correction. No rebuttal. No gentle unpacking of your tone.

Just silence. Spreading over the next minute.

Until, finally, you give up.

A small, irritated exhale slips out of you as you lean back harder into the seat, staring at the ceiling like it personally offended you.

“Fine,” you snap, the word sharper than you intend. “Yes.”

Spencer glances at you—too long, just a fraction past what’s safe—and then forces his attention back to the road. The car stays steady anyway.

“What can I do,” he asks quietly, “to make up for it?”

You stare at him for a moment.

At the way his hands are still fixed at ten and two, knuckles just a shade too tight against the wheel. At the way his jaw has that quiet tension in it again, like he’s holding himself in place piece by piece. At the way he asked that—what can I do—like he actually meant it.

Like he doesn’t already regret it.

So, naturally, you go for the worst possible answer.

Your lips curve, slow and deliberate, something sharp-edged and a little reckless. “Let me give you that blowjob.”

Spencer doesn’t even blink.

“I’m getting the impression,” he says, eyes fixed on the road ahead, “that you’re used to getting what you want by saying things like that.”

The response lands softer than a rejection—and somehow cuts deeper for it.

Your smile falters.

Just for a second.

You recover quickly, of course. You always do. Your chin tilts, your expression sliding back into something sharper, more practiced.

“Is that a no?” you ask innocently, batting your lashes.

Spencer doesn’t answer.

Not a word. Not even a glance.

It’s almost impressive, the way he just… absorbs it. Like you tossed something sharp at him and he decided it wasn’t worth catching.

Your smile lingers anyway, a little tighter now, a little more deliberate.

Fine.

You shift in your seat, slow, testing. Then you lean toward him.

Not all the way. Just enough that your shoulder angles in his direction, your body turning slightly, like curiosity instead of intent.

Nothing.

His eyes stay on the road. Hands steady. Posture unchanged.

If anything, he looks more focused.

Your tongue presses briefly against the inside of your cheek.

Alright.

You move closer.

The seat creaks faintly under the shift, your thigh brushing the center console this time, your space bleeding into his. The windbreaker slips again, fabric dragging higher, exposing more skin than it covers. The seatbelt tugs against your shoulder, resisting the movement like it knows better. Your breath is closer now, your presence impossible to ignore.

And still—

Nothing.

Something in your chest tightens. Annoyance. Challenge. Something sharper hiding underneath both.

So you push.

Slowly, deliberately, you lift your hand. You don’t rush it. Don’t make it sudden. You let it happen in stages. 

Your palm settles against his thigh. Warm through the fabric of his slacks. Solid. Real.

His leg goes rigid under your hand, the muscle locking like a reflex he refuses to follow through on.

You shift your wrist just slightly, letting your touch travel higher along his thigh. Not rushing. Not forcing. Just testing the line he’s drawn like you’re seeing how much ink will smudge before the page gives out.

Still no glance your way.

You tilt your head, watching him from the corner of your eye like this is all still a game you’re meant to win.

“Still focused on the road?” you murmur softly.

His jaw tightens.

“Yes,” he says, clipped. Controlled.

It makes something in you flare hotter. Your hand continues upward.

The car feels smaller with every inch. The space between you and him no longer behaves like space at all. It behaves like pressure.

Your fingertips brush him through the fabric again, firmer this time, and that’s when everything changes.

Spencer inhales sharply through his teeth.

A clean break in his composure.

His grip tightens on the steering wheel, knuckles whitening in an instant. The car stays steady, but only because he forces it to.

“You’re going to get us killed,” he says, voice lower now, rougher at the edges.

“Seems dramatic,” you tease. “Do you want me to stop?”

Spencer goes very still. His eyes stay on the road. Hands locked at ten and two. Jaw set like he’s holding something back by force alone.

Then, quieter than before, he says, “No.”

The smile on your face is immediate.

You don't wait for permission or a second warning; your hands move with practiced efficiency, undoing his belt with a metallic click that sounds deafening in the quiet cabin. You tug his fly down and reach in to pull him free without a hint of hesitation.

You waste no time on theatrics or teasing. You unbuckle your seatbelt, lean over the center console, and take him into your mouth in one smooth, deliberate motion. The heat of him against your tongue is immediate and overwhelming, and you hear the air leave his lungs in a harsh, stuttering gasp.

"Fuck—"

The curse is barely out before the SUV lurches to the right.

The vehicle grinds to a halt on the shoulder of the road, throwing you forward slightly, but you don't pull away. Instead, you moan around him, the vibration drawing a ragged sound from deep in his chest that is half-groan, half-desperate warning.

His hand is in your hair immediately, fingers tangling into the strands.

You don’t let up. If anything, the sudden stop and his reaction just spur you on.

You flatten your tongue against the underside of him, dragging it up slowly, deliberately, relishing the weight of him on your tongue before taking him deep again.

His hips jerk involuntarily, followed by a ragged groan.  It’s a raw, unfiltered noise—completely different from the composed, clinical agent persona he’s been projecting.

You hum around him again, a low, satisfied sound, and feel his fingers tighten in your hair to the point of pain.

He’s trying to hold back, trying to keep some modicum of control, but the way his breathing has turned into shallow, desperate hitches tells you he’s already losing the battle.

You pull back just enough to swirl your tongue over the head, teasing the sensitive slit before sinking down again.

The response is immediate—his head falls back against the headrest, his eyes squeezing shut as a string of curses escapes his lips, quiet and harsh in the confined space. 

It’s intoxicating, him coming undone like this, stripped of his composure and reduced to nothing but sensation.

You hollow your cheeks, sucking harder, and listen to the way his breath catches, the wet heat of your mouth drowning out everything else.

You can feel the tension coiling in his thighs, the way his entire body is drawn tight like a bowstring. You double your efforts, bobbing your head faster, letting your teeth graze him just enough to elicit a sharp hiss. 

The sounds he's making now are unrestrained—broken moans and harsh exhales that he can't seem to swallow, and you know you've won.

The rush of power is intoxicating—a heady, electric surge that makes your blood hum. You hollow your cheeks, taking him deeper, ready to push him right over that edge, ready to finally crack him wide open.

But then his hand in your hair changes.

It stops cradling the back of your head and tightens—sharp, sudden, insistent. The sting radiates across your scalp, enough to make your eyes water, just enough to make you freeze.

"Stop," he breathes out, the word ragged but absolute.

He doesn't give you a chance to argue or tease, just applies firm, upward pressure with his fist tangled in your hair. The message is clear, stripping away the power play in an instant and replacing it with an undeniable command.

You pull back, the suction breaking with a loud, wet pop that seems obscenely loud in the sudden, heavy stillness of the car.

You sit up, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, your breathing uneven. You look at him, expecting to see bliss or surrender, but what you find is even better.

He’s wrecked—face flushed, chest heaving, eyes wide and glassy.

"Get in the back," he says, his voice rough, stripping away the last veneer of the composed FBI agent.

You blink, stunned for half a second by the sheer authority in his tone. It’s not a request. It’s a command.

Your heart hammers against your ribs as you scramble to obey, clambering over the center console with clumsy haste. 

You barely have time to find your balance before Spencer is there, crowding into the space after you with a frantic lack of grace that makes your breath catch.

He doesn't give you a moment to recover or to regain the upper hand—his hands are on you immediately, gripping your hips to pull you flush against him while his knees hit the floor mats with a dull thud.

The windbreaker is shoved off your shoulders without ceremony, left to pool forgotten on the seat as he looms over you, his gaze dark and heavy enough to pin you in place without him even touching you.

He kisses you then, and it’s nothing like the careful, composed man you’ve been dealing with all night. It’s messy and desperate, teeth clicking together as he pours every ounce of his fractured control into the slide of his mouth against yours.

One hand tangles back into your hair, tilting your head to deepen the kiss, while the other slides down your body, skimming over your waist to grab the back of your thigh, hitching your leg up and over his hip.

The movement presses him flush against your core, the rough fabric of his slacks and your torn stockings dragging together in a way that makes you gasp into his mouth.

"God," he mutters against your lips, the word muffled and wrecked. "Do you have any idea what you do to me?”

“No idea,” you gasp against his mouth, the words breathless and ragged. “Show me.”

He lets out a low, ragged groan that vibrates against your mouth, pure frustration finally snapping its leash. There’s no hesitation left in him, no careful testing of the waters.

His hand slides from your hip and dips straight under the lace covering you.

He doesn’t give you a second to adjust, to breathe, to regain any semblance of the upper hand you thought you held. His fingers slide up the inside of your thigh, blunt and demanding, tracing the wet heat there with a kind of intent focus that feels more like an interrogation than foreplay.

When he finally pushes two fingers inside you, it’s sudden and unrelenting, forcing a cry out of you that he swallows immediately with his mouth, kissing you deeply to stifle the sound.

The angle is awkward, the space too cramped, but he makes it work with a desperate kind of efficiency.

He curls his fingers, and you shudder violently, your head falling back against the headrest. 

The heel of his hand presses firmly against your clit, grinding down in a way that makes your vision go white at the edges. You gasp, your hips bucking up against him involuntarily, desperate for more friction, more anything to ease the ache he’s building inside you.

He slows his pace—just enough to be tormenting—dragging his fingers out almost to the knuckle before pumping them back in, slow and deliberate.

He pulls his mouth back just enough to speak, his breath hot against your lips, his voice a low, rough scrape that sounds more like a challenge than a question.

"Did you miss this?"

He punctuates the question with a deliberate curl of his fingers, finding that spot inside you that makes your whole body jerk. His eyes are locked on yours, dark and heavy, drinking in every gasp and tremor like data he needs to collect.

"Is this what you’ve been thinking of all night?" he murmurs, his tone shifting, dropping into something lower, almost mocking. "While you were dancing on that stage? While you were in that holding cell? Is this the scenario you were hoping for when you decided to test my limits in the front seat?”

"Fuck you," you gasp, the words scraping out of your throat, jagged and breathless. You try to inject it with venom, try to make it sound like an insult, but it comes out wrecked—punctuated by a sharp cry as his fingers crook inside you again.

His mouth ticks up at the corner. It’s not a kind smile—it’s sharp, knowing, and entirely too pleased with himself. "So close to asking for what you want."

A high, broken noise tears out of your throat as his fingers curl again.

Your hips jerk up off the seat, chasing the friction, chasing the pressure, your body entirely betraying the sharp retort dying on your tongue. The heel of his hand grinds down against your clit in slow, deliberate circles that are just shy of enough, keeping you suspended on that agonizing edge where every nerve ending feels raw and exposed.

"God," you gasp, your head falling back against the headrest, your eyes squeezing shut as your hands fist desperately in the fabric of his shirt. "Please—"

"Please what?" he asks. He doesn't stop the movement of his wrist, but he slows it, dragging his fingers against that sensitive spot with maddening precision until your thighs are trembling around his hand. "You’re a smart girl. You know how to use your words. Ask me for what you want."

"Fuck me," you breathe out, the words ragged and scraped raw from your throat. It’s not a request; it’s a demand, a desperate, breathless command born of frustration and a need so deep it feels like it’s eating you alive from the inside out. "Hell, Spencer, just fuck me."

The composure he’d been clinging to shatters instantly. He doesn't hesitate, doesn't tease—he just moves with a sudden, frantic efficiency. He grips himself, lines up, and pushes into you in one hard, deep thrust that punches the air out of your lungs.

The stretch is sudden, a sharp, stinging burn that fades immediately into a deep, overwhelming ache. You cry out, your head falling back against the leather as your body struggles to adjust to the sudden intrusion.

It’s too much, too fast, and for a second, you can't breathe, can't think, can't do anything but cling to his shoulders and ride out the shock of it.

Spencer stills.

He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his breathing ragged and hot against your skin, but he doesn't move. He holds himself there, giving you a moment to catch up, his hand shifting from your hip to cradle the back of your head almost gently.

"Need you to breathe for me, sweetheart." His hand strokes through your hair, soothing where his grip had been demanding only moments before, the contrast making your head spin.

Slowly, almost agonizingly, he starts to move. He pulls back just an inch, then presses forward again, testing your give, watching your face with an intensity that feels like he’s cataloging your every reaction.

"That's it," he breathes, his voice dropping into a warm, approving tone that makes your chest tighten. "You take it so well. Look at you, being so good for me now." He rocks deeper, the slow drag forcing a broken whimper from your lips, and he rewards you with another kiss, this one lingering and impossibly tender. "So beautiful when you let go."

The deliberate pace is a torture of its own design. He keeps his thrusts measured and deep, hitting that spot inside you that makes your vision blur, but he never rushes, never lets the rhythm fracture into something messy. He’s holding all the strings, orchestrating every gasp and shudder with a terrifying, gentle precision.

When your nails dig into his shoulders, desperate for more friction, he just captures your mouth in a kiss that swallows the sound, murmuring, "I know, I know. You can handle it. You're doing so good, just a little more for me, okay?"

He shifts the angle of his hips slightly, grinding into you rather than thrusting, and the change in pressure makes your back arch off the seat. A breathless moan tears from your throat, and instead of silencing you, he catches your earlobe between his teeth, nipping gently before soothing the sting with his tongue.

"Perfect," he breathes, the word sinking into your skin like a brand. "Look at you—so beautiful. Not arguing, not fighting me. Just taking exactly what I give you."

The praise wraps around your senses, warm and dizzying, effectively blurring the sharp edges of your own defiance until there's nothing left but the friction of his body against yours and the overwhelming need to please him. Every time your internal muscles flutter around him, he lets out a low, hum of approval, rewarding your surrender with deeper, harder strokes that make it impossible to think.

The coil inside you tightens to a breaking point, a trembling inevitability that steals the air from your lungs. "Spencer, please," you gasp, the words tumbling out without permission, stripped of any demand and left as pure, desperate pleading. "I need—"

"I know," he cuts in softly, not unkindly, but with that same quiet authority that makes your bones feel like water. "I've got you. Let go for me." His rhythm never falters, driving into you with a deep, rolling precision that feels less like he's chasing his own end and more like he's guiding you inevitably toward yours. "Come on, sweetheart. Be good and let me feel you."

The command snaps the last thread of your control.

The pleasure crests and breaks, a white-hot wave that tears the air from your lungs. Your body seizes, back bowing off the seat, and in that moment of absolute unraveling, your legs clamp around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back to pull him impossibly deeper.

It’s the involuntary lock of your thighs around his hips that finally does something.

His rhythm—which has been so measured, so controlled, so agonizingly perfect—stutters. A sharp, ragged gasp tears from his throat, his composure fracturing instantly under the sudden, tight heat of your release. He tries to hold back, you can feel the way his muscles lock up, the strain radiating through his shoulders as he fights to keep from taking you too hard, but it's a losing battle with you.

"Spencer, please—don't hold back," you gasp, your voice wrecked and trembling, barely recognizable as your own. The desperation claws at your throat, making each plea jagged and raw. "Fuck me like you mean it, let go—please, I can take it, I promise, just let go for me."

The words seem to snap the last tether of his restraint. A low, guttural sound tears from his chest, something between a groan and a growl, and the careful, measured rhythm shatters entirely. He pulls back, hands gripping your hips with an almost bruising force, and then drives into you with a deep, punishing thrust that knocks the air out of your lungs.

The control is gone, replaced by a frantic, desperate rhythm as he finally takes exactly what he needs. He fucks you into the seat with hard, relentless strokes, the leather creaking beneath you, the world narrowing down to the friction and the heat and the overwhelming feel of him losing himself inside you. "You feel so good," he grits out, his voice ragged and breathless, dropping the praise into your ear like a confession. "Taking me so well—god, I'm gonna—"

It’s not a graceful ending. It’s a chaotic, messy collision, the last of his discipline dissolving entirely under the force of his release. He buries himself to the hilt with a hoarse, broken shout that he tries unsuccessfully to muffle against your jaw, his whole body seizing up as he spills inside you.

The rhythm fractures into short, shallow jolts, his grip on your hips turning desperate and bruising as he rides out the shockwaves, anchoring himself to you like you’re the only thing keeping him from flying apart.

For a long moment, the only sound in the car is the harsh, uneven synchrony of your breathing, the air thick and humid with the scent of sex and heat. 

Spencer collapses against you, his face buried in the curve of your neck, his weight solid and grounding. You can feel the frantic thud of his heart against your ribs, beating a frantic rhythm that matches your own. His hands slowly loosen their hold, one coming up to cradle the back of your head again, with a tenderness that makes your chest ache.

Gradually, the reality of the cramped backseat starts to intrude—the awkward angle of your legs, the leather sticking to the cooling sweat on your skin.

He shifts slightly, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the pulse point below your ear before pulling back just enough to look at you. The dark intensity is gone from his eyes, replaced by a soft, slightly unfocused haziness that makes him look younger, stripped of his defenses.

He reaches out, tucking a strand of sweat-dampened hair behind your ear, his thumb lingering on your cheekbone. "You okay?" he asks softly, his voice raspy and wrecked, sounding less like a question and more like a need to reassure himself.

A breathless laugh escapes you, bubbling up from somewhere deep in your chest, light and dizzying. "Yeah," you manage, your voice sounding scratchy and used. "I'm... I'm good. So good."

Spencer huffs a quiet laugh against your skin, the vibration humming through you both, before he pulls away.

He shifts carefully, bracing one hand beside your head so he doesn’t crush you with his weight, his other hand already moving with quiet purpose.

You feel it before you fully register what he’s doing.

The brush of his fingers at your hip. The gentle tug of lace back into place where it’s twisted wrong. The slow, deliberate smoothing of fabric over your thigh, thumb grazing just a second longer than necessary before moving on.

Just like before. Like this is just… something he does, putting you back together.

You watch him as he works, your head still tipped back against the seat, your body loose and heavy in a way you’re not used to. He doesn’t look at you right away. His attention stays on his hands, on the small, precise adjustments—fixing a strap, pulling the windbreaker back up over your shoulders, tugging it closed just enough to cover you.

“I'm sorry,” he says once he's done.  “For not coming back.”

You look at him properly now, and it’s disorienting in a way that has nothing to do with what just happened in the backseat. His hair is a mess, his tie half undone, his lips still flushed, but his eyes are steady.

Too steady.

“I meant to,” he continues, voice low, rough around the edges but controlled in a way that feels deliberate. “That night wasn’t… it wasn’t supposed to happen like that. I was there to work. I shouldn’t have—”

“You did,” you cut in.

He stops.

You swallow, your throat tight in a way that has nothing to do with earlier.

“You did,” you repeat, softer this time. “And then you just… disappeared.”

There’s no bite in it now. No edge to hide behind.

Spencer’s jaw tightens slightly, like he’s absorbing that instead of arguing it.

“I know,” he says. “And I should have handled it differently.”

A humorless breath leaves you, something that almost turns into a laugh but doesn’t quite make it.

“That’s one way to put it.”

The words hang there for a second, not sharp enough to cut, not soft enough to soothe. Just… there. Like something set down between you that neither of you feels like picking back up.

Spencer watches you for half a beat longer, like he might say something else. Like there’s a version of this conversation where he explains, where he untangles all the threads he left knotted.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he exhales quietly, the sound controlled, deliberate. A reset.

“We should get going,” he says, voice steadier now, slipping back into something more structured, more familiar. “We’ve been here longer than I planned.”

You blink at him, the shift almost jarring in its normalcy. “You’ve got a curfew?”

“Not exactly,” he replies, already reaching for the door, pushing himself back toward the front seat with a kind of quiet efficiency. “But my team will start asking questions if I’m gone much longer.”

You sit up slowly, adjusting the windbreaker around yourself again, fingers smoothing the fabric like it matters more than it does.

You sit there a second longer after he moves, the backseat still warm, still holding the ghost of everything that just happened like it doesn’t quite know how to let go.

The door opens. Shuts. The soft thud feels louder than it should.

Then the faint shift of weight as Spencer settles back into the driver’s seat. Fabric rustling. The quiet click of his seatbelt. The small, controlled exhale he gives like he’s putting himself back into a shape he recognizes.

You don’t follow.

You could. It would be easy. Slide forward, reclaim the passenger seat, rebuild that thin line of normalcy he’s clearly trying to restore.

But you don’t.

Instead, you lean back into the leather, one leg stretching out across the seat, the other bent slightly, your heel tapping once against the floor before going still.

Spencer doesn’t look at you directly. Just a flick of his eyes, quick and measured, through the rear view.

“Here,” Remus says, crooking his fingers at you in the universal gesture for come here, “you drink, I’ll do these.” 

You consider arguing but ultimately concede; your fatigued muscles and dry mouth – likely for more reasons now than the simple issue of dehydration – sees you inching your way towards the edge of the stage so that your calves hang off of it, Remus busying himself with the straps immediately. 

“This bloke bothering you, doll?” Another voice drawls; the arrogant hints of aristocracy making itself known in his syllables even as he saunters over to the two of you like a blissed-out rockstar. 

Remus, for his part, snorts incredulously. “You wish.”

You laugh at the bartender. “Why? Is he just dying for an excuse to have you pressed up against the edge of this stage?”

It earns you a warning tap of your (now free!) ankle as one heel is placed gingerly on the stage next to you and Remus starts on the other. “You’re meant to be drinking, you minx.”

You don’t bother apologizing, more than aware that Remus isn’t actually mad as you bring the glass of water to your lips; Sirius winking at you when you meet his gaze. 

Sirius had shown up for his first shift in the pissing rain; his entire form hidden beneath a hooded jumper layered beneath an oversized leather jacket. His head and face had been covered by the soaking wet hood and his hands were shoved into the pockets of his jacket.

You’d given the owner of the club a strange look regarding the newbie, feeling that – compared to James and Fabian – this bloke didn’t appear to be all that intimidating for a bouncer. He wasn’t particularly tall – though you wouldn't call him short, either – nor was he particularly wide (granted, your point of reference in that regard is James, so, do with that what you will). 

And then two, fully tatted hands emerged from the pockets in order to pull his hood away from his head, exposing a head of onyx hair pulled back haphazardly into a damp and careless bun, fierce, dark brows furrowed as though the rain personally slighted him which gave way to steely grey eyes. The length and fullness of his lashes almost threatened to take away from his edginess, not unlike those of a baby cow, but then those eyes surveyed the room with the assurance of someone who has spent countless years scanning every room for potential threats, and you looked to Minnie in apology for ever doubting her. 

By the time Remus was hired on, you were smart enough not to question the matriarch. 

You survey Remus, then, who’s unwrapping the last of your straps from your ankles and freeing your sore foot from the shoe. He’s not built like a bouncer, either, though you’ve seen him hand a few men their arses when they caught an attitude close enough for him to hear from the bar. You weren’t convinced that the honey colour of his eyes were capable of going ice-cold until you’d seen it for yourself. 

You find yourself feeling particularly lucky to have not found yourself on the receiving end of one of those glares. 

“Good shift, gorgeous?” Sirius asks the way he always does; resting one elbow on the edge of the stage as he splits his attention between you, the bartender, and the last of the patrons petering out of the doors. You give him the same answer every time.

“It was alright.” 

To which he always responds with “you look great.” 

You try to ignore the way he never says you looked great, past tense, but rather that you look great, presently; a pullover quickly shoved over your head as your shoulders gradually sag under the weight of the evening. 

It’s, admittedly, getting harder and harder to ignore. 

“She always looks great.” Remus adds, though it’s not said in opposition but rather in agreement. 

“How about you?” You return the question, not sure how to respond to their unabashed compliments. 

“Oh, no complaints.” Sirius sing-songs, smiling at Remus like they share a secret. “How ‘bout you, Lupin?”

Remus hums in agreement as he rests his forearms against the lip of the stage to your other side, not unlike the way he leans against his bar during lulls in orders or when he’s dedicating his attention to a customer or a dancer. “My shift was quite alright, thanks. My favourite dancer closed out the bar, so, that’s always nice.”

“Oh for-” you start, never finishing your sentence as you make yourself busy with downing the rest of the water.

“Awe, Remus; you made her shy.” 

“Okay, that’s it.” You threaten with a wide smile on your face, making to grab your heels and fancy drink only to be stopped by the same hands that brought you said drink and freed you from said heels. 

“Oi, where’re you going in such a rush?”

You don’t bother dignifying him with a response, merely narrowing your eyes at him as he fights against a mischievous smile. He cocks an eyebrow at you.

“To change.” You laugh, neither man deigning to correct you seeing as you’re actually not going to change so much as you’re about to get dressed. 

“Well I don’t see how.” Sirius states plainly, shrugging one shoulder as he gestures towards your bare feet with his opposite hand. “You’ve not got any shoes on.”

“And, what?” You deadpan. “This isn’t exactly a no shoes, no shirt, no service type of establishment.” 

You manage to elicit a cheeky smile out of him for that, the kind that exposes sharp canines and crinkles the corners of his eyes. 

“We can’t have you walking on this dirty floor with your sore feet.” Remus coos in a manner you might have assumed to be being patronizing if not for the honest divot between his brows.

“Quite right.” Sirius agrees as he straightens, moving over in order to stand between your legs with his back towards you. “Up you get.”

“I beg your pardon?” You actually giggle like a sodding school girl. 

“I’ll give you a ride, c’mon.” 

You let out a disbelieving laugh again as you look at your empty glass, your drink, and your shoes. “But-”

“I’ve got it. Up you get, dove.” 

Your cheeks are on fire but you do as told, looping your arms over Sirius’ shoulders and around his neck as he encourages your weight off of the stage. 

He barely manages three steps before James is hollering at him.

“Oi, dickhead! Don’t worry about me then, yeah? I’ve got it?” He jokes as he locks the door behind the last patron. 

“Brilliant! Good lad.” Sirius smiles in return, either ignorant to or in spite of the two-fingered salute he receives from his coworker. 

“Oh, that reminds me: James has been hounding me to exercise more, so if he asks, doll, I’ve been working out with you.”

You try and fail to hide the burst of giggles that elicits out of you into Sirius’ shoulder. 

“Why would you tell him you were working out with me?” 

“That doesn’t sound like the soundest of alibis, mate.” Remus agrees. 

Sirius, for his part, shrugs. “You girls are some of the fittest people I could think of; beats having James yell at me in a public gym.”

“Careful,” you tease, “I’m liable to make you come work out with me just to avoid being complicit in a lie.” 

Sirius makes a rather pleased sound that vibrates in his ribs beneath you, sharing a knowing look with Remus.

“You, me, and a pole? Doesn’t sound like a bad time at all, gorgeous.” 

Remus’ steps falter as Sirius makes his way down the hall towards the girls’ change room, forcing him to speed up lest he fall behind. “Well, now, hang on a second…” 

You had seen him before from afar, but tonight, his piercing blue eyes were locked on you as you moved to the rhythm of the music. But Rafe didn’t just look at you, he anchored you to the spot with a dark, heavy stare that made you feel completely exposed before you’d even taken off a single layer. Your body swayed with practiced ease, hips grinding against the pole as you descended into a split. The routine was muscle memory, your hands trailing down your own body, teasing the audience with glimpses of skin they paid to see, except the mere remembrance of whose eyes were on you made the light cast upon you feel hotter than it actually was. 

Though Rafe wasn't like the others—he didn't throw money or shout crude comments that you’d become accustomed to, even if it did sting at times. He just watched, his intense gaze making your skin tingle in a way that had nothing to do with the stage lights. You found yourself stumbling slightly, a move you'd performed thousands of times, suddenly feeling foreign under his scrutiny.

When your set ended, you collected your tips with forced smiles, your eyes occasionally darting back to where he sat. He hadn't moved, still watching you with that unnerving intensity, with one tailored trouser leg over the other. He didn't smile; he just tracked the nervous twitch of your fingers, his eyes darkening.

"Rafe wants a private dance," your manager whispered, nudging you with his elbow.

“Huh?” You looked at him, wide-eyed, with your anxiety peaking as you took in what he said.

 "Go,” he urged, pushing you towards the room. “He's paying triple."

Your heart raced as you nodded, making your way toward the VIP section. The security guards parted for you without a word, and you then found yourself standing a few feet away from his leather chair, the synth-heavy bass of the club vibrating through the soles of your platform heels. 

Usually, you’d already be in his lap, spinning a web of practiced charm. Instead, you found your fingers nervously plucking at the sheer fabric of your robe. His sheer presence, dripping with absolute confidence and an unspoken, terrifying possessiveness, completely tripped you up.

"H-hi," you managed, your voice steadier than you expected but still not the same confidence you usually managed to exude.

He turned to face you fully, and up close, his presence was even more overwhelming. He was dressed in a tailored suit that probably cost more than your monthly rent, his hair perfectly styled, his blue eyes seemingly able to see right through you.

"Your performance was... adequate," he said, his voice low and smooth. "But I think you're holding back."

"I don't know what you mean," you replied, though you did. You had felt off since you first noticed him watching.

Rafe leaned closer, his cologne—a mix of sandalwood and something that screamed rich—flooding your senses. "Hmmm, I know you’re a smart girl. I know you do.”

"Are you just going to watch?" you asked, your voice betraying a slight tremor that made you internally curse. You tried to recover your usual swagger, shifting your hips and bracing a hand against the velvet wall. "I can see you staring at my tits."

Heat flooded your cheeks as you began to move, your body swaying to the distant music from the main floor. You tried to focus, to slip into the professional persona you usually wore so easily, but his eyes kept distracting you. A slow, wicked smirk finally broke across Rafe’s handsome face. It wasn't a gentle expression; it was the look of a predator who knew he’d already won, and he absolutely didn't deny it. Instead, he unbuttoned his suit jacket, letting it fall open as he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. The sudden proximity made your breath hitch.

As you turned, your back facing him, hear a dark chuckle. "I am staring," he murmured, his deep voice cutting through the thumping bass of the club music. "I mean, can you blame me? They’re magnificent." 

Your breath hitched as his eyes slid down to your thigh, the sight making you feel phantom-squeezing of the soft flesh there. "And your thighs... been imagining them wrapped around my waist since you first stepped on stage."

You turned back to face him, trying to regain control of the situation. "Mr. Cameron, there are rules about—"

"Rules?" he chuckled, a dark, delicious sound that made your core clench. "Y’think I care about rules? Come here.”

His confidence was overwhelming, the kind of absolute certainty that came from a lifetime of never being denied anything. You found yourself faltering again, your usual stripper bravado deserting you completely. 

It wasn't a request. Your thighs felt heavy, almost liquid, as you took the two steps toward him. You straddled his lap, the expensive fabric of his trousers a stark contrast against your bare skin. You meant to grind against him, to take control of the interaction like you always did, but the moment your hands rested on his broad shoulders, he gripped your hips. His fingers dug in, bruisingly tight, staking a claim that sent a shockwave of heat straight to your core.

"Why are you being so shy?" he asked, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. "It's not like I haven't already seen all of you." You froze, your heart hammering against your ribs. You looked down, suddenly unable to hold his intense gaze. Rafe chuckled, a low, gravelly sound that vibrated against your chest. He tilted your chin up with his thumb and forefinger, forcing you to look at him. Before you could form a coherent response, he was standing, pulling you up with him. His grip was firm but not painful, leaving no room for argument.

"You're... distracting," you breathed out, honesty slipping past your defenses before you could stop it.

"Good," Rafe growled. He slid his hands down to the meat of your ass, lifting you slightly just to come down harder against the thick, rigid length hidden beneath his trousers. You let out a soft whimpering gasp, your head dropping onto his shoulder. He owned you in this moment, and the terrifying part was how badly you wanted him to.

He leaned into your ear, his hot breath sending shivers down your spine as his teeth grazed your earlobe. He didn't care that there were other people in the club, or that you were supposed to be working. His possessiveness was a suffocating, intoxicating wave.

"Dressing room, now," he commanded, his voice dropping to a tone that brokered no refusal. You didn't even think about arguing. Your knees were weak, your core was aching, and as he led you toward the back hallway, you knew you were completely at his mercy.

The walk to the dressing room felt endless, his hand possessively on the small of your back as he guided you through the crowded club. Employees and patrons alike stared, but no one dared question the man who owned half the city.

Once inside the privacy of the dressing room, he locked the door behind you. The space was small, cluttered with makeup and costumes, but suddenly it felt charged with an electricity that made your skin hum.

"Turn around," he ordered, and you found yourself obeying without question.

He stepped behind you, his body pressing against yours as his hands roamed freely. "You're even more beautiful up close," he murmured, his lips tracing the line of your shoulder. "Knew you would be."

Your reflection in the mirror showed a version of yourself you barely recognized, flushed and breathless, eyes dark with desire. This wasn't supposed to happen. You were the one in control, the one teasing and denying. But with Rafe, all your carefully constructed defences were crumbling.

"I want to see all of you," he said, his fingers deftly untying the strings of your outfit, the non-existent constraint finally being lifted. "Every inch."

As the fabric fell away, leaving you exposed before him, you expected to feel vulnerable, ashamed. Instead, a thrill ran through you as his eyes raked over your naked form, appreciative and hungry.

"God, you’re perfect," he breathed, turning you to face him. "Absolutely perfect."

His mouth claimed yours in a kiss that was nothing like you expected—possessive, demanding, yet somehow tender. His hands explored every curve and hollow of your body, learning your shape as if memorizing it.

You were lost in sensation, your body responding to his touch with an eagerness that surprised you. Years of performing, of pretending desire for strangers, had never prepared you for this—the real thing, overwhelming and all-consuming.

When he finally lifted you onto the vanity, spreading your legs to stand between them, you were already aching with need. "I've wanted this since I first saw you dance," he admitted, his voice rough with desire. "Watching y’ move, knowing I had to have you."

As he entered you, slow and deliberate, you gasped at the stretch and fullness of his member. It was different from anything you'd experienced before, something that wasn’t transactional, nor a performance, but something truly real.

"Look at me," he commanded, and your eyes met in the mirror as he began to move, setting a rhythm that quickly had you trembling. "I wanna watch you fall apart for me."

And you did, spectacularly, your body arching against his as waves of pleasure washed over you. His name was a prayer on your lips as you shattered, the intensity of your release leaving you breathless and boneless.

He followed soon after, his grip tightening on your hips as he found his own release, his face buried in the crook of your neck. For a long moment, you stayed like that, tangled together in the aftermath of passion. The club seemed miles away, the world reduced to just the two of you in this small room. When he finally pulled away, he helped you dress with surprising gentleness, his fingers lingering on your skin as if memorizing the feel of you.

"I'll be back tomorrow," he said, his tone leaving no room for doubt. "And the night after that."

You nodded, unable to form words as he straightened his suit, once again the composed billionaire you'd first seen. But as he unlocked the door and glanced back at you, those blue eyes held a promise that made your heart race.

You were in trouble, deep, yet thrilling, trouble. As you watched him walk away, you knew with absolute certainty that you wouldn't—couldn't—resist when he returned, already thinking about how you could impress him next time.

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