#public teasing

Sam skates by and smacks Bucky’s ass on his way to the bench, and even from up here, you see Bucky whip around and bark a laugh. Steve yells something chirpy back at him from across the rink. But then Bucky searches the crowd—he always does—and the moment he finds you? He brightens. Like someone lit a fuse behind his smile.

Your friends squeal when he lifts his chin in that tiny greeting he only gives you, but you barely hear them. Your whole body is tuned to him, your blood synced to every scrape of his blades.

You lean over the railing between periods just to watch him skate closer. It’s supposed to be casual, an “I happened to be standing here” kind of thing. But when he gets near your section, he slows down, biting back a grin that is anything but innocent.

“You’re trouble,” he calls, chest rising, breath fogging.

“You’re the one staring at me,” you shoot back.

He smirks. “Hard not to when you look at me like that, doll.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re already thinking about taking all this gear off me.”

Heat roars to your cheeks. Your friends gasp. Someone behind you hollers, “GET A ROOM.”

Bucky only looks more smug.

“Play your game, Barnes,” you tease, leaning just a little closer. “I’ll think about it.”

“Yeah?” His eyes drop to your mouth for a beat. “Think harder.”

The ref whistles, and he pushes off with a wink that sinks directly between your legs.

---

The crowd is deafening during the third period—tie game, seconds left—and Bucky steals the puck like he was born with it. He curves around another player, weaving through bodies with that infuriating ease he always pretends is “just luck.”

You’re screaming before you realize it, hands gripping the railing.

He shoots.

The red light flashes.

The arena explodes.

Bucky skates directly toward your section, slams both gloved hands against the glass, and shouts, “THAT WAS FOR YOU!”

Your friends shove you, shrieking, “OH MY GOD. HE’S SO IN LOVE WITH YOU. WHAT THE—”

You can’t respond. You’re too busy trying not to melt straight through your seat.

---

The guys linger on the ice for photos, interviews, and obnoxious celebrating, and you head toward the tunnel because Bucky texted, meet me by the locker room door don’t make me beg.

You’re waiting only a minute before the heavy door swings open and he emerges—still in most of his gear, carrying his helmet, hair sweat-mussed, cheeks flushed red from exertion. And you swear he somehow grew even bigger. Or broader. Or both.

“Hi,” he says, breathless, the word low and warm like it’s only for you.

“Hi.” You grin up at him. “Nice win.”

He doesn’t even let you finish laughing before he tugs you into a darker corner of the hallway, away from foot traffic. One hand cups your jaw, the other grips your hip, and then his mouth is on yours—hot, hungry, grateful.

His chest plate pushes against you, firm and immovable, pinning you lightly to the wall. You gasp, fingers digging into the top of his pads.

“You have no idea,” he murmurs against your lips, “what it does to me when you’re out there cheering. Nearly got myself benched.”

“Oh yeah? For what?”

“Thinking about you riding me instead of watching the clock.”

Your breath stutters. “Bucky—”

He kisses you again, deeper this time. His tongue sweeps in, slow but possessive, like he’s savoring you after three full periods denied. You feel him hardening through his compression shorts, the gear doing nothing to hide the size of him.

You whimper.

He hears it. Of course he hears it.

And the bastard smiles.

“Tell me,” he says softly, “did watching me out there get you a little worked up?”

You try to answer. Truly. But your voice is gone.

His hand slides lower on your hip, thumb pressing into the soft place above your thigh. “Doll…”

“Yes,” you breathe. “Okay? Yes.”

Bucky drops his forehead to yours, exhaling shakily like he’s the one barely holding it together. “I gotta shower and do media. Twenty minutes max. Then I’m getting you home.”

Your knees wobble.

“And when we get there,” he continues, voice darkening, “you’re gonna sit on my lap and tell me everything you were thinking while I was skating. Every dirty thought. Every time you squeezed your thighs together.”

You swallow hard.

“And then,” he finishes, brushing your lips with his, “I’m gonna make good on all of it.”

Someone from inside the locker room yells, “BARNES, MOVE YOUR ASS!”

He mutters, “Fuck off,” then steals one more kiss—quick, filthy, promising—before jogging backward toward the door.

“You better be right here when I’m done,” he warns playfully, pointing at you.

You lean against the wall, dizzy. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He winks. “Good. ’Cause after that game? I need you more than a victory speech.”

The music shifts, the bassline of “Lemon Drop” thrumming through the speakers. Mingi’s voice slides through the crowd, low and teasing:

“You caught my attention, eyes locked onto you. You’re the kind of muse that I admire…”

You’re not immune. Not when he’s looking at you like that.

He weaves through the crowd, never breaking eye contact. When he finally reaches you, he leans in, voice barely above a whisper. “You look like trouble tonight, y/n.”

You arch a brow, feigning nonchalance. “I could say the same for you, Mingi. The whole world’s watching, you know.”

He grins, close enough that you can smell the lemon on his breath. “Let them watch.”

You’re both idols, both used to the spotlight, but this feels different—dangerous, electric. The rooftop is packed, but it feels like it’s just the two of you, heat simmering between bodies and beats.

He offers his hand, and you take it, letting him lead you to the edge of the dance floor. The city sprawls out below, lights twinkling like the promise in his eyes. He pulls you close, one hand at your waist, the other tracing lazy circles on your bare shoulder.

“Did you like the album?” he asks, voice rough with nerves he’ll never admit.

You nod, letting your fingers toy with the buttons of his shirt. “It’s bold. Grown-up. Makes me want to do something reckless.”

He laughs, low and dangerous. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

The song shifts, the crowd pressing in, but Mingi’s focus is razor-sharp. He leans in, lips brushing your ear. “We could sneak out. Find somewhere quieter. Or we could give them a show.”

You feel your face flush, but you don’t look away. “What did you have in mind?”

He grins, wicked. “Let’s see how well you can keep up, superstar.”

He spins you into the music, bodies moving in sync, every touch a dare. His hands are everywhere—waist, hips, the small of your back. The world blurs, all heat and lemon and the taste of something forbidden.

The song crescendos, and Mingi pulls you flush against him, breath warm on your cheek. “You drive me crazy, y/n. All night, all I can think about is you.”

You let your lips ghost over his jaw, just enough to make him shiver. “Then stop thinking.”

He doesn’t hesitate. His mouth finds yours, hungry and sweet, tasting of lemon and longing. The crowd erupts around you, but you’re lost in him, in the way he kisses you like you’re the only thing that matters.

When you finally break apart, breathless and grinning, he presses his forehead to yours. “Stay with me tonight,” he murmurs, voice rough, honest.

You nod, heart pounding. “Always.”

Phantom zips by with a tray of empty glasses, winged eyeliner still perfectly sharp despite the hour, and Swiss is perched near the stage in his usual lean, arms folded, shirt sleeves rolled up like he’s waiting for a reason.

Dew doesn’t give much of a fuck about the schedule. He’s content to let the night pass slow, amber-thick. His boots up on the rail, eyes half-lidded, drink just cold enough.

At least until the song changes, drops into something darker. Slower.

The crowd shifts, everyone leaning in a little closer.

"The next one's always great," Ifrit murmurs, tilting his chin towards the curtain.

Dew turns to look.

The ghoul that emerges steps into the spotlight like it belongs to him.

Black velvet ears flick with every sway of his hips. The rest of him is just as indecent—shredded fishnet crop that clings where it should drape, matching velvet micro shorts with a cut so high it’s criminal, and a little white puff of a tail that bounces when he walks.

Thigh-highs. Heeled boots. A single velvet ribbon tied in a bow at the base of his throat that gleams under the lights.

Dew’s mouth doesn’t fall open, but only because his jaw locks.

He seems to be made of three things: legs, ass, and sin, and he moves like slow fire. Like he’s been choreographed by something divine and deeply fucked up.

One hand trails down the pole as he circles it, every step calibrated. He doesn’t look at the crowd. Doesn’t need to. They’re already watching him like the second coming.

And then he drops.

One slow, brutal split. Arms raised. Back arched. Bunny ears tilting just-so as he tips his head, tongue dragging over his bottom lip like he’s tasting the air.

The room exhales.

Dew doesn’t.

Every step is paced like a countdown, hips rolling on a slow fuse, thighs flexing with each deliberate sway. The music thrums low and dirty, something with teeth—synth and bass and just enough drag to make your blood feel thick.

Rain moves through it like smoke. Like a problem.

Like seduction incarnate.

He takes the pole in one hand, slides around it with a twist of his hips, one heel dragging lazy across the stage before he throws his weight backward—head tipped, spine curving, those mile-long legs stretching wide as he lowers himself to a crouch.

The crowd is silent. Breathless.

Rain lifts one hand, trails it from his thigh to his chest, fingertips teasing the hem of that tattered crop top, fabric clinging and riding up. Flashes more of that taut stomach, all muscle and glinting body glitter.

It gets worse when he turns.

Dew sees it and forgets how to swallow—the kind of ass that makes you stupid. Round, high, devastating. Perfectly framed by strained velvet.

He finds himself praying for a rip, and Rain’s not even halfway through the song.

Bunny ears sway gently with every roll of his hips. That ridiculous white tail bounces like a tease, enough to make him start to ache.

Rain climbs the pole next, gripping it with bare thighs, and turns upside down in one fluid motion. He hangs there like it’s nothing, like gravity is optional, and only lets go when he’s good and ready, landing soft and flawless.

Not once does he look at the crowd, like they’re not even worth his gaze.

Dew watches anyway. Can’t not.

Watches the curve of Rain’s spine, the stretch of his thighs, the stupid, smug little bounce of the tail with every grind. Watches him like a starving thing, desperate for even a glance.

But Rain doesn’t give it.

He arches again, muscles flexing, and the light glitters on his skin, on his sweat.

And it’s the sweat that does it.

Not the heels. Not the tail. Not even the obscene way Rain’s thighs frame the pole when he slides down it.

Just the sweat. Glistening. Begging to be tasted.

A single bead forms at the nape of his neck, catches the light like a secret. Dew watches it gather, heavy and slow, then slip down the line of Rain’s spine.

It hits the frayed waistband of his shorts, clings there for a moment before the fabric drinks it in.

Dew licks his lips.

The motion’s automatic. Reflex. He doesn’t blink, doesn’t move, barely breathes—

He just watches, like he could crawl through the air and taste it himself.

Rain turns his body to show the curve of his collarbone, slick with heat. His chest rises slow, breath matching the music, his flimsy excuse of a shirt damp where it clings to his skin.

Another droplet slides along his sternum, trailing lower, lost beneath the velvet.

Dew’s eyes follow like a hound.

He can feel Ifrit watching him. Doesn’t care.

Rain plants both hands on the stage, arches his back like a cat stretching in the sun, one leg bent, the other extended long enough to make a weaker ghoul whimper. His ass tilts higher, tail twitching, hips rolling to the rhythm of sin given shape.

Still—no eye contact. Dances like no one here matters.

And that should piss Dew off.

But all he can think about is what that shirt would taste like. How hot Rain’s skin would be beneath it.

And what it would take to make him look.

The beat drops and Rain moves with it.

One leg bends, the other extends, slow and decadent as syrup sliding down glass. He palms the floor, back arched, then rolls his body forward until he’s sprawled full-length near the edge of the stage, chest pressed to the floor, heels kicked up, ears askew.

Right in front of Dew.

And now?

He looks.

A flicker of his eyes beneath fluttering lashes. A tilt of the head. A glint of sweat on his jawline that captures the light and all of Dew’s attention.

If Dew stopped breathing, who would blame him?

His fingers twitch around the glass in his hand, his thigh jumps once. His cock pulses in his jeans, hot and tight, and there’s nothing he can do to stop it.

Rain smiles a little. Like he knows.

He holds Dew’s gaze as one delicate hand trails to the waistband of his shorts—tugs it open and holds it there, low and expectant.

Well?

Dew shifts in his seat. One hand sliding to the back pocket of his jeans. His fingers close around the small roll of cash he keeps there—tight, pre-folded, slightly sweaty from his skin.

He pulls it out to relieve the unbearable pressure of needing to do something.

He fumbles a bill loose and leans forward, one trembling hand reaching across the rail to tuck it into that waiting waistband.

Rain holds perfectly still until the tip is secure, and then he grinds.

One slow, deep roll of his hips. Just enough to make the velvet stretch, to make the waistband twitch against Dew’s fingers like a fucking heartbeat.

Dew loses it.

The rest of the cash slips from his hand in a rush like his grip’s gone boneless.

Bills spill across the rail. Slide over his palm. Scatter onto the stage like something broke open.

A couple get caught in the lights. One lands on Rain’s thigh and sticks—sweat-slick and obscene, like it belongs there.

He doesn’t stop dancing. Doesn’t even flinch. Just arches deeper, lets his thighs flex wide, and rolls again, milking it.

Dew’s still hard. Still watching.

Still humiliated.

Rain is smiling like he just made a ghoul come currency.

He dips lower again, thighs spreading, ass arching high—and glances back over his shoulder at the pile of bills scattered beneath him.

His mouth curls, one brow raises. Offers Dew one slow, indulgent look that says:

That all for me?

Dew feels it like a punch to the chest.

His jaw tightens. His cock throbs, the fucking traitor. He should leave, should take what's left of his dignity and go, but he's pinned to the spot. Drenched in heat and sweat and shame.

Rain winks.

“You alright there, champ?” Ifrit doesn’t even try to hide his smirk, elbow digging into Dew’s ribs.

“Need a second? Maybe a cigarette? Someone to help you walk it off?”

Dew glares at him. Or tries to. It’d probably land better if he wasn’t still flushed to the collar, eyes blown wide, thighs pressed way too tight together under the rails.

“Don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

“No?” Ifrit leans in, voice low and gleeful. “You sure? 'Cause from where I’m sitting, that little bunny just sniffed you out and skinned you alive.”

Phantom breezes past behind them with a tray. “You want a towel, Mister Dewdrop?”

“You want a concussion?”

Phantom just laughs.

Dew downs the rest of his drink in one pull, ice clicking against his teeth. His pulse is still pounding in his throat. His cock’s not so much hard as aching, heat caught low in his belly.

He glances back at the stage and nearly chokes.

Rain’s climbed the pole again. One leg hooks effortlessly around the chrome, the other extended, toe pointed. He hangs for a moment, body bent into a sinuous arch, hair clinging damp to his cheek.

The lights catch on his thighs, on the little white puff of tail perched like punctuation over the most obscene ass Dew’s ever seen.

And then the beat drops again.

Slow. Hard. Dirty.

Rain rides it down like thunder, like a storm wrapped in velvet, like every sin Dew’s never quite let himself imagine in detail.

Ifrit lets out a low whistle. “Oh, you’re fucked.”

Dew grips the edge of the stage like it’ll keep him from drowning.

The second song pulses in with a darker rhythm. It's grittier, bass dragging like leather across bruised skin

Rain drops to his knees again, and this time there’s no slow buildup.

He sprawls, legs spread wide, spine bowed like he’s about to pray—or be sacrificed. One palm to the floor, the other running slowly, obscenely up the inside of his own thigh until his fingers disappear beneath the hem of those tiny shorts.

Dew doesn’t realize he’s leaned forward until his elbow hits the rail.

Rain rolls onto his stomach and arches—shoulders pressed down, hips up, thighs shaking just enough to make it look unscripted. His ears flop sideways from the force of the movement, tail twitching with every grind.

His heels click together once on a beat.

And then he slides across the stage like liquid sin.

It should be a crawl. It should be desperation. But Rain makes it command. Makes it gospel. Moves along the floor, eyes half-lidded as if he’s here in body only.

And still, still—every time he turns his head, every time Dew thinks he’s about to look at him, those pretty blue eyes pass right over him.

Like Dew isn’t even worth the blink.

It’s humiliating.

It’s unbearable.

Dew’s thighs clench. His cock is still stiff in his jeans, painfully so now, straining against the denim with every goddamn arch of that dancer’s back.

Rain kicks up to a kneel again, ass bouncing once, twice—and then slaps a hand to the pole, grinding slow against it with one arm above his head.

His crop top has ridden up completely now, exposing the full line of his torso. He drags two fingers along it.

Brings them to his mouth.

Sucks.

Dew makes a sound in his throat; a short, bitten-off noise. Ifrit hears it. So does Phantom. Even Swiss turns from the stage and gives Dew a look.

Rain doesn’t flinch.

He twists, braces his thighs wide on either side of the pole and rides it. Deep, slow motion—working the chrome like it’s inside him.

His head tips back. His mouth opens. A long, luxurious breath leaves him like smoke.

When his eyes open they land right on Dew.

Just for a second, long enough to say: you still watching, pretty boy?

Then he looks away.

The song builds low, slow, and hungry.

Rain saunters back to the pole.

One hand reaches up and the other trails lazily behind him, fingers still wet from his mouth. He gives the crowd his back on purpose. Ass high, heels clicking softly against the stage. The arch of his spine? Weaponized.

He climbs.

Slow, sensual, muscles flexing, thighs gripping the chrome like a lover. He inverts with a twist, one leg hooking high, body folding and snapping long again like silk caught in motion.

When he spins it's controlled. Deliberate. A final show of strength. Of power.

And then he lets go.

Slides down into a drop that lands hard, knees slapping the stage, thighs spread too wide to be polite.

One hand drags to his inner thigh. The other lifts behind his head, elbow cocked.

Chest heaving. Ears crooked. Hair soaked and glittering.

The lights flash once and the song hits its final pulse.

Rain grinds forward, hips dragging like the air itself is fucking him.

His tail bounces. His shorts ride up.

Dew looks like he might need to be resuscitated.

Rain lifts one hand and reaches back. Smacks his own tail and lets it jiggle.

He looks over his shoulder, finally, and throws Dew a wink so filthy it might need to be censored before he struts offstage like he didn’t just end someone’s life in front of a live audience.

Cash flies.

It rains in bills, in breathless gasps, in low curses and half-drunk praise.

Dew’s gripping the rail with white-knuckled hands, sweat at his temple, lips parted.

His lap is a fucking problem.

Ifrit’s saying something—probably teasing him. Phantom’s laughing, probably at him. Swiss whistles low and gives him a pitying clap on the shoulder like a man offering condolences as he walks by.

None of it registers.

Dew is still looking at the stage.

At the glimmer of one white tail vanishing behind the curtain.

When Dew finally leans back it's like someone’s just pulled a sword out of him.

Slow. Stiff.

Emotionally wounded.

He exhales sharp through his nose and mutters, “I need a fucking cigarette.”

Ifrit loses it.

He slaps the rail with his palm, head thrown back, laugh sharp and deep like it came from his ribs. “Holy shit. You are so cooked.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

“No no no, don’t do that. Don’t act like you didn’t just tip your entire net worth over the rail while bunny boy made zero eye contact.”

Dew doesn’t respond. Mostly because his soul has just started trying to re-enter his body.

“You looked like you saw God.”

“I did.” Dew mutters. “God had heels and a tail.”

Ifrit wheezes. Phantom drops a towel on the bar next to them with a smirk. “You want me to bring you a fan, sweetheart? Some ice water?”

Dew drags a hand down his face.

“Do not speak to me.”

“Aw, babe,” Phantom coos, “you’re blushing.”

Dew stares dead ahead, lips pressed in a line, as the rest of the club starts shifting back into motion around him—like the world just kept going after the apocalypse.

He’s still hard. He’s still wrecked. And Rain—

Rain’s somewhere backstage, towel around his neck, probably already halfway through a bottle of water.

Unbothered. Untouched.

Unaware of the ruin he left in his wake.

…Maybe.

Maybe he’s wiping sweat from his collarbone, smiling to himself.

Maybe he knows exactly what he did.

· · · — 𖥸 · 𓃹 · 𖥸 — · · ·

The door clicks shut behind Dew with a hollow thunk.

The alley’s quiet. Still humming with bass, but distant. Just far enough away.

Dew lights up with shaky fingers, cigarette catching on the second try.

He drags deep. Holds it.

The nicotine hits hard, sharp in his lungs.

It doesn’t help.

His cock’s still half-hard, jaw still tight, heart still fucking racing like he’s just finished a fight, or lost one.

He leans back against the wall, exhales smoke slow.

One minute. Two.

He’s just starting to settle when the door creaks again.

Dew doesn’t look. Doesn’t have to.

He can feel it the attitude. Can hear the little scrape of heels on the concrete.

“Didn’t think anyone else came out this way,” comes a voice—low, playful, still a little breathless.

Dew turns his head.

Rain is leaning against the wall like sin given shape.

Cropped shirt damp and clinging, shorts clinging worse, bunny ears still perched askew. The bow around his neck hangs a little looser now, and he’s got a cigarette of his own pinched between two fingers, lipgloss still smudged at the edges.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Dew stares at him. Ash flickers off the end of his cigarette.

“I’m fine.”

“Sure you are.” Rain tips his head, bunny ears bouncing. His gaze drops just low enough to clock the tight set of Dew’s jeans before it flicks back up.

“Hot in there?”

“It’s a club,” Dew says flatly.

Rain laughs. A soft, throaty sound.

“Didn’t catch your name,” he says.

Dew drags slow on his cigarette, jaw clenched. “Didn’t give it.”

Rain nods like that’s the answer he wanted.

“I’m Rain.”

Dew exhales through his nose. “Yeah,” he mutters. “I figured.”

Rain spins his cigarette between long fingers. Leans into him, close enough to feel that exerted warmth rolling off his skin.

“You got a light, mystery man?”

Dew doesn’t answer. Just lifts his hand and snaps. Flame flares from his fingertip, bright and alive.

Rain steps even closer.

Close enough that Dew can smell the sweat at his throat, the faint sweetness of gloss, vanilla and cheap club perfume.

Rain lowers his head to the flame, slow. Nuzzling closer than necessary, really. Tilts the cigarette into it.

His lips part. The filter rests between them like a kiss waiting to happen.

He inhales. Deep.

Cheeks hollow slightly. Eyes half-close. Lets it linger—smoke caught in his chest like a secret.

Then he turns his head, exhales through parted lips.

The smoke drifts lazily in front of Dew’s face, warm and sweet and absolutely intentional.

“Thanks,” Rain says, voice a little husky now.

He takes another drag. Slower this time. Letting Dew watch the way his mouth moves around the filter. The way his tongue flashes just slightly when he adjusts it.

“You always run this hot,” he murmurs, “or is it just me?”

Dew doesn’t answer right away.

He takes a long drag—longer than necessary. Exhales through his teeth, like it might clear something out.

It doesn’t.

Rain watches him with a lazy kind of interest, watches Dew shift. That tight, coiled tension of someone who’s trying very hard not to grab something he shouldn't.

“You always flirt like this with your fans?” Dew says, voice low, almost dry.

Almost.

Rain hums. “You a fan?”

Dew’s jaw ticks.

“Think that’s obvious.”

Rain smiles around the cigarette. “Guess it is.”

The silence stretches. Rain leans just a little closer, smoke trailing from the corner of his mouth, eyes half-lidded and devastating.

Dew’s fingers twitch again.

“You do private dances?”

Rain raises a brow, not surprised. “You asking?”

“Thinking about it,” Dew says, which is a lie.

He’s not thinking.

He’s already there, already ruined, already imagining Rain crawling into his lap and whispering things he definitely shouldn’t say in a professional setting.

“Well,” Rain says, “you’ve been very generous already.”

He takes another drag of his cigarette, blows smoke past Dew’s face like a challenge.

“But only my best clients get privates,” he says, almost sweet. “And I know all of them by name.”

He drops the cigarette to the ground, ashes it out with one slow twist of his heel, and turns.

Walks away without looking back.

Ears bouncing. Tail twitching.

Leaves Dew standing dumb in the alley.

Still hard. Still breathless.

With nothing but smoke and the echo of a wink.

The smell of coffee is what pulls you from the bedroom. That, and the faint sizzle of something on the stove. Your bare feet pad softly across the hardwood, sunlight slanting through the windows and catching on the hem of his shirt — his shirt — hanging loose and low on your body. The collar hangs wide, exposing your shoulder. No pants. Just warm skin and last night’s glow.

In the kitchen, Bucky’s already up. Shirtless. Hair a lazy mess, barely shoved back off his face. There’s music playing low from his phone on the counter — something bluesy and old-school. He’s focused, spatula in one hand, coffee mug in the other, sweatpants slung dangerously low. You could eat him for breakfast.

“Morning, baby,” he drawls, voice still rough from sleep. “Made your coffee just the way you like it.”

He nods at a steaming cup on the kitchen island. But instead, you move closer to him. Quiet. You step up behind him and slide your arms around his waist, press a soft kiss between his shoulder blades.

“Thanks, lover boy,” you murmur, lips brushing warm skin.

He stops. Completely.

You feel it instantly — the way his whole body goes still under your touch. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t speak. Just…short-circuits. Like someone yanked the plug on him mid-motion.

“Bucky?” you mumble against his back, half-smiling, unaware of the bomb you just dropped.

He clears his throat. Tries to recover. “Yeah. Yep. Eggs are, uh…they’re almost done.”

You peek around him.

Sure enough, one hand’s still holding the spatula over the pan — though the eggs are now bordering on crispy. His jaw is tight. His eyes, when he finally cuts you a glance over his shoulder, are dark.

But he’s holding it together. Just barely.

“You okay?”

“Peachy.” He turns back to the stove with a tight smile. “Just…didn’t expect that.”

You tilt your head. “What, breakfast?”

He lets out a breathy laugh — more a groan if you’re honest. “No. That thing you called me.”

“What thing?” you say innocently, moving toward the kitchen island to slide onto the stool.

“You know what.”

You rest your chin on your hand. Bat your lashes.

“Lover boy?”

CRACK.

He drops the spatula. You bite back a laugh.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters under his breath, leaning down to retrieve it. His ears are red. His hands are gripping the counter like they owe him money.

You sip your coffee — made exactly the way you like it, just how he always does — and grin into the rim of the mug.

“You’re so easy to break in the mornings,” you say softly.

His eyes meet yours again — this time, slowly.

“Keep testing me, sweetheart,” he rasps. “Breakfast’s gonna be the second thing I devour.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

You walk into the grocery store, hand nestled in the crook of his arm. He’s in full don’t-look-at-me mode — hoodie up, sunglasses on, jaw set like he’s ready to duck and bolt. He hates the risk of being recognized, especially when you’re with him. Protective to a fault. But you’d both agreed it’d be a quick run — milk, bread, a few snacks — nothing flashy.

He keeps close, always between you and anyone else in the aisle, scanning like a bodyguard and a boyfriend rolled into one.

You reach up on tiptoe to grab a box from the top shelf — and he takes it from you without a word. Tosses it in the basket. Keeps moving.

“Thanks, lover boy,” you murmur under your breath.

He stops dead.

One hand tightens on the basket handle. His head doesn’t turn — but you see the shift in his body, the way his jaw clenches, shoulders square. Like the word hit him in the spine.

You bite your lip, pretending to study a row of pasta.

“Did you just—” His voice is low, quiet, edged with disbelief.

“I said—” You turn with a sweet smile. "—thank you, lover boy.”

He exhales sharply through his nose. Like he’s trying to blow out the fuse you just lit.

“You’re gonna make me lose my mind,” he mutters, following you down the aisle like a man headed for the gallows.

“You’re doing great,” you whisper, voice sugar-sweet as you glance back. “Very composed. Very famous-rockstar-trying-not-to-murder-his-girlfriend-in-a-grocery-store.”

“Keep talking like that,” he growls, “and you’re not making it to checkout. I’ll bend you over the trunk in the parking lot.”

You smirk. “Promises, promises.”

He groans. “You are insufferable.”

But you see it — feel it — the way his eyes darken, the twitch at the corner of his mouth. He’s turned on. Wound tight. And there’s not a damn thing he can do about it.

Not here. Not yet.

So you lean up and whisper, right against his ear, “Behave...”

And then you walk off toward the checkout like nothing happened. You don’t need to look back to know he’s following.

He unloads the basket with perfect control. Places the bread gently. Sets the eggs down like they’re precious. He’s fighting for his life with every item.

You lean against the checkout counter, one hip cocked, looking at gum flavors like it’s the most riveting part of your day. Every now and then, you hum a little tune. Innocent. Sweet. Deadly.

He knows what you're doing.

You wait until he’s sliding a frozen pizza onto the belt, and that’s when you do it.

“Need any help, lover boy?”

His shoulders visibly tense. The pizza slaps onto the belt.

“Stop it,” he mutters.

“Stop what?”

He glares at the gum. “You know what.”

You step a little closer, let your hand ghost along the hem of his hoodie.

“You’re being very grumpy. Need some help?”

“You wanna get fucked on the hood of the car in the parking lot?”

The words come out low. Dangerous. Barely audible. Like a threat wrapped in velvet.

Your eyes go wide.

Then the cashier calls out, “Next!” and you step forward like nothing happened.

Bucky follows, dead silent — like a man holding a bomb in his mouth.

You bag a few items. Smile sweetly at the teen behind the counter. Bucky taps his card, signs with the flair of a pissed-off rockstar.

You grab the last bag. “Thanks for the help, lover boy.”

He turns around so fast, jaw tight, eyes blazing.

“I swear to God—”

You cut him off with a look. Wide-eyed. Playful. Defiant. He groans so loud it echoes across the front of the store. Shoves his sunglasses back on.

“You are so dead when we get home.”

But his ears? Bright red.

You walk alongside him with a grin. “Can’t wait.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

You’re putting away the last box of pasta when you feel it — the heat of his body right behind you. Not touching. Just hovering.

Like he’s waiting. Like he’s plotting.

You hum to yourself, trying to play it off.

“That wasn’t so bad,” you murmur, sliding the box into the cabinet. “Got most of what we needed.”

No response.

You shift to reach for the produce bag and—

A hand slams down on the counter beside you.

The sound makes you jump. He’s still behind you. Still not touching. But his voice is low.

“You think you’re funny, huh?”

You blink. “What?”

“‘Lover boy,’” he growls. “In public. Where I couldn’t do a damn thing about it.”

You swallow. Slowly turn. “You’re still mad about that?”

His mouth twitches — not a smile. A warning. Then he takes a single step closer.

You’re backed against the counter now, cornered between the fridge and the sink. Your breath catches.

“You know what I wanted to do to you?” he rasps. “Right there? On top of that checkout counter?”

“Let me guess—” you start.

“No.” His finger lifts. Presses to your lips. “No more talking.”

He leans in, breath hot against your cheek. His other hand snakes up your thigh, slow and possessive.

“Strip. Right here. Kitchen. Now.”

You blink.

“The groceries—”

He kisses your jaw. “They can wait.”

You hesitate for half a second — and he’s already pulling your shirt over your head.

Groceries forgotten. Fridge still open.

And Bucky?