like maybe she's there with some friends to watch him and his team (ofc there's steve and sam) play and it can somehow get smutty or something
idk i just can't stop thinking about him looking so big (he is) in those clothes
You don’t mean to stare.
Actually, that’s a lie—you absolutely mean to stare. Because your boyfriend is out on the ice looking like sin carved into six feet of muscle and velocity, shoulders stretching the dark jersey like it was stitched directly onto him. The pads only make him bigger, broader, more ridiculous. Every time he glides past your section, your stomach flips, thighs clench, and your friends side-eye you like they know exactly what kind of thoughts are running through your head.
They're not wrong.
There is no question; Bucky Barnes looks obscene in hockey gear.
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.”
And then he disappears inside, leaving you with shaking hands, a racing heart, and friends texting in all caps asking what the hell just happened.
Hey, welcome to Stuff-A-Plush! If you have any questions, feel free to ask Veevee here and she'll happily help you out! Between you and me, I think she's been itching for a nice, long conversation, I'm sure you'll have her full attention~
Comm from jintally!! Check toy out, it's the best the best <3
softdom!rommulas, teasedom!rommulas (phd in war crimes), praise kink fully activated, he’s collecting your tears now
Part 3/? WC: 1111
You don’t move for a full minute after he leaves you in the closet. Your soul is buffering. Your legs are unemployed. Your pussy just filed for disability.
Somehow you walk back into the main room looking like you got hit by a truck and then reverse-cowgirled the truck.
2hollis is leaned back in the booth chair, feet up on the mixing desk, spinning a blunt between his fingers. He clocks you instantly, one eyebrow raised so high it’s in orbit.
“Damn,” he drawls, lazy smirk, “he do that with his tongue or just eye contact?”
You flip him off on pure reflex.
Rommulas doesn’t even look up from the screen. “Told you she’s helping me mix.”
Hollis snorts so hard he almost drops the blunt. “Yeah, I bet she’s helping you mix something.”
Rommulas finally glances over, eyes flicking to Hollis in a shut-the-fuck-up way that somehow still looks polite. Hollis just grins wider, hits the blunt, and blows a perfect “O” in your direction like he’s applauding.
Rommulas spins the desk chair, legs spread obscenely wide, pats his thigh once. “Sit.”
It’s not a question. It’s a death threat wearing sweatpants.
Hollis whistles low. “I’m staying for this one.”
Rommulas doesn’t even blink. “Headphones on, Hollis.”
“Nah, I wanna see how long till she cries.”
You’re going to murder both of them and plead temporary insanity.
You hate how fast you obey anyway. You perch on the edge like you still have rights. Rommulas snakes one arm around your waist and yanks you fully down, ass flush against him. Your skirt is basically a suggestion at this point. His hand settles high on your bare thigh, thumb tracing the fishnet like he’s reading braille for “ruin her.”
Hollis is literally eating this up. “Bro she’s already shaking. You’re sick.”
Rommulas ignores him, leans in, mouth at your ear, voice so low only you can hear it over the beat.
“Still with me, baby?”
You nod. Can’t speak. Words are cancelled.
He hums, pleased. “Good girl.”
Hollis fake-gags from across the room. “I’m gonna throw up and it’s gonna be cute.”
Your spine tries to exit your body.
Then Rommulas actually starts working. Tweaks a snare, nods along like you’re not grinding against his thigh just to survive. Every tiny shift of his leg is deliberate. Every time you chase friction he tightens his grip and murmurs “stay still” like it’s easy.
Hollis keeps side-eyeing y’all, grinning like this is the best entertainment he’s had all week. At one point he pulls out his phone and pretends to film. Rommulas doesn’t even look up—just flips him off with the hand that isn’t currently destroying your sanity.
After approximately nine hundred years Rommulas spins the chair again so you’re facing him. His eyes flick to your lips, then back up.
“Remember what you said earlier?” You nod, terrified. “Say it louder.”
Your voice is a corpse. “Please.”
Hollis cackles. “Oh this is gonna be good.”
Rommulas tilts his head, lazy, cruel. “Please what?”
You swallow. The bass thumps in time with your clit. “Please show me.”
Hollis actually pauses the beat. “Wait, pause—record this shit, I need it for the intro skit.”
Rommulas finally looks at him. “Touch that record button and you’re walking home.”
Hollis raises both hands, still laughing. “Bet.”
Rommulas turns back to you like nothing happened.
“Show you what, exactly?” Thumb drags across your bottom lip, slow enough to be considered assault. “Spell it out for me, baby. I wanna hear how desperate that pretty mouth can get.”
You’re shaking. “Please show me what you meant by taste tester.”
He makes a low sound, almost proud. “There it is.”
Then he lifts you off his lap like you weigh nothing and sets you on the edge of the mixing desk. Empty Monster cans clatter to the floor. He steps between your legs, hands braced on either side of your hips, caging you in completely. His chain swings forward and brushes your chest with every breath.
Close enough that his exhales ghost across your lips.
“Look at me.”
You do.
“You want this mouth on you?” His thumb traces your bottom lip, slow, presses just inside so you taste him. “Or you want yours on me?”
Your brain is static.
He leans in until his lips are a millimetre from yours; still not kissing, just letting you feel the heat.
“Answer carefully,” he whispers. “Because once you pick, I stop playing nice.”
You’re shaking. “Both.”
His eyes flash. “Greedy.”
He drops to his knees right there between your thighs.
Hollis, sprawled on the couch like it’s his personal theatre, actually pauses mid-blunt-hit. “Oh this is the main event. Chat is this allowed?”
Rommulas doesn’t even glance at him. “Shut up or leave.”
Hollis grins, hits record on his phone anyway. “For the archives.”
Hands slide up under your skirt, thumbs digging into the soft skin where fishnet meets flesh. Rommulas looks up (big brown eyes, chain dangling, devil in human form) and waits.
“Spread.”
You spread. Instantly.
Hollis whistles low. “She folded in 4K.”
Rommulas ignores him, just stares like he’s memorising every detail: the soaked patch on your panties, the way your thighs tremble, the white-knuckle grip you have on the desk.
Then he leans forward and blows one slow, deliberate stream of cool air straight over your clit through the lace.
Your hips jerk so violently the desk scoots an inch.
Hollis loses it. “BRO SHE JUST SHORT-CIRCUITED—”
Rommulas pins your hips down with one hand flat on your lower stomach, smirking. “Sensitive.”
Then he leans in again, closer this time, and just breathes you in (warm, slow, filthy) like he’s getting drunk off the scent alone.
You make the most broken, desperate sound known to man.
Hollis actually drops his phone. “I’m becoming religious.”
Rommulas pulls back, stands up slow, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand like he already tasted you and wants to keep the flavour.
You’re crying now. Real, frustrated tears sliding down your cheeks.
Hollis fake-gasps. “She’s leaking on both ends now, that’s talent.”
Rommulas finally looks at him, deadpan. “One more word and you’re producing the next track with a broken jaw.”
Hollis mimes zipping his lips, still wheezing.
Rommulas turns back to you, thumb catching one tear, smearing it across your cheekbone almost tenderly.
“Already crying?” he murmurs, voice dripping fake sympathy. “We haven’t even started.”
Then he leans down and presses the softest kiss to the very corner of your mouth (still not your actual lips, still just the cruellest promise).
Pulls back.
“Studio’s closing in ten,” he says, casual as hell. “I’ll walk you out.”
•’J/N: Might make this to where I do one of these for each member???•’
You’re not sure what’s hotter—the Seoul summer night or the way Mingi’s gaze keeps finding you across the crowded rooftop. The “Lemon Drop” album release party is in full swing, neon lights flickering over the city, the air thick with the scent of citrus cocktails and anticipation. You’re here as an idol, a peer, but tonight, you feel like prey.
He’s impossible to miss, even in a room full of stars. Long hair loose, white shirt clinging to his frame, Mingi looks every bit the fantasy the world is thirsting for this comeback. He catches your eye from across the bar, lips curling into a smirk that promises trouble. You sip your drink—lemon drop, of course—and try to ignore the way your pulse skips.
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.
Summary: Dew wasn’t looking for trouble when he went to the club. He found it anyway. Wrapped in velvet, smirking under a pair of lopsided bunny ears.
Warnings: strip club setting, public teasing, power play, bratty rain, sexual tension so thick you could drown in it, smut vibes but no actual smut (yet...), mutually assured destruction, Dew is going through it™, a living ode to Rain's ass, emotional support via bullying, sweat, alcohol, cigarette smoking, bunny tail
a/n: happy new year, you filthy animals. i know i know its not DIR, but that should be updated (finally) next week!! always a huge thank you to the friends that infect my brain 🫶
· · · — 𖥸 · 𓃹 · 𖥸 — · · ·
Dew’s not here for anything in particular.
He’s already tipped a dancer or two—nothing crazy. A few bills tucked into lace, a slow nod when one of them blew a kiss his way. He’s halfway into a drink he doesn’t remember ordering while Ifrit’s saying something next to him, but the sound’s just warm background noise as the club hums around them.
Low lights, bass like a second heartbeat, bodies moving just enough to blur.
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.
Just a fun little drabble @19blackbutterfly97-blog and I came up with for our boy. Enjoy!
Pairing: Rockstar Bucky Barnes x Reader
Word Count: 1,349
Rating: M (fluff, not quite smut)
Chapter: 1/1
Summary: You didn't think it would get such a reaction from Bucky. It's just a nickname after all. But it did...and now you make it your mission to use it every chance you get, just to watch him short-circuit.
Tag List: @solemnlywickedwolf @mrscarlislecullen @buckys-girl-blog @quantumbarnes
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.
Summary: This meeting definitely should have been an e-mail.
Warnings: Rain in various assorted outfits and compromising positions; Rain stretching; Phantom making An Attempt; Dew's general embarrassment and related hard-ons; a new bombshell enters the villa (actually two! three? i've lost count)
a/n: my hobbies include cuticle care and making Dewdrop suffer
· · · — 𖥸 · 𓃹 · 𖥸 — · · ·
Dew is fine.
He's been fine since eleven-fifteen last night, when he walked home, showered, and went to bed like a normal ghoul. He was fine when he woke up. He's fine right now, standing in the hallway mirror adjusting his cuff with steady hands and absolutely no memory of velvet shorts burned into the back of his eyelids.
Fine.
The espresso machine hisses from the kitchen as he returns to his phone, scrolling through overnight reports with one hand.
His hair's still damp from the shower, combed back neat and ruthless. Black button-down tucked into tailored slacks. Black silk tie tight and sharp, gold sigil collar pins gleaming in the light.
He is immaculate. Efficient. Completely in control of himself and his morning and the fact that he is absolutely not—
His phone buzzes.
He flinches.
One text from Ifrit away from spiraling.
Cowbell's already at the kitchen island, tablet in one hand, Dew's triple espresso in the other. He doesn't bother looking up.
"Morning. Espresso, no sugar, because you hate joy. I moved your meeting with legal to Monday and slotted a check-in with acquisitions at eleven."
He finally glances up, clocking the suit. "Nice collar pins. Shame about the attitude."
Dew grunts, takes the espresso, and downs half of it in one drag. "Keep going," he says, deadpan. "I'm so close."
Bell scrolls without missing a beat. "You're due uptown at nine to review the Helion project. Three p.m. is Aether—he's having you meet onsite. Dinner with Ifrit and the investors is still at seven."
Dew goes very still.
"Onsite," he repeats.
"Onsite," Bell confirms, scrolling. "He seemed quite enthusiastic about it. Said something about wanting you to get a feel for the atmosphere." He doesn't look up. "I believe his exact words were 'tell him to dress down.'"
The eye that twitches is the left one. Always the left.
"...Does he know I was there last night."
"I couldn't possibly say." Bell tucks the tablet under his arm and looks up to find Dew looking three steps away from something that resembles prayer.
"I'm firing Ifrit, how hard could it be to find a new concept artist," Dew growls to himself, poking at his phone.
Bell has the grace to pretend he doesn't hear.
"Am I driving, or are you taking the wheel today?"
Dew finally meets his eyes. "I'm driving."
"Very well," Bell nods. "Helion first, a visit to the office for some decompression time, and then your meeting at Tempt."
He says it lightly. Carefully. Like he doesn't want to die but is absolutely willing to risk it.
Dew says nothing for exactly one second too long.
"It's just a business meeting."
"Of course," Bell says sweetly. "And last night's visit was… anthropology, then?"
He tilts the tablet slightly, just enough to catch the reflection of Dew’s face.
“Do tell—how was the field study?”
Dew sets the empty cup down with quiet finality and reaches for the lacquered valet tray near the door. His rings catch the light as he rifles through it.
"Remind me to revisit your salary structure," he grumbles.
Bell doesn't even blink. "Yes, I've been meaning to talk with you about my hazard pay."
Dew pulls the Alfa key with a mostly fond roll of his eyes. Bell slides his leather portfolio across the countertop.
"By the way, Ifrit said you left quite an impression."
Dew exhales slowly. "Ifrit says a lot of things. None of them actionable."
Bell reaches for his jacket with a mild snort.
"Come on, Mister Delmere. Let's go look at your next empire."
Dew doesn't answer.
He tugs on his coat—soft worn leather, meticulously tailored to his small frame—and shoulders it like armor. Like something that might hold him together for the rest of the day.
He walks out the door.
Bell follows, already smiling at his screen.
· · · — 𖥸 · 𓃹 · 𖥸 — · · ·
The morning's sharp-edged and too bright.
Dew slides into the driver's seat of the Alfa and exhales through his nose as the engine purrs to life—clean, quiet, powerful.
Like him.
Like he's supposed to be.
He sits for a moment before pulling out, breath fogging faint on the window. Lets the silence hold him as Bell climbs wordlessly into the passenger seat.
The car, at least, doesn't ask anything of him.
He decides to take the long way.
He needs the motion. The control.
He tells himself it's just to clear his head.
It's not.
He adjusts the heat. Rolls his neck.
Tells himself it doesn't matter that his first business exploded overnight all those years ago. Doesn't matter that he was barely old enough to drink when he signed his first licensing deal. Doesn't matter that every room he walks into still expects him to be either charming or cutthroat, and he hasn't decided which mask fits better.
He's earned this.
The cars. The corner office. The stupid collar pins.
Hasn't he?
His fingers tighten on the wheel. The tie around his throat feels a little too tight.
Or maybe it's the memory of lips parting around a cigarette filter, smoke curling sweet, a stranger—not a stranger, stop it—looking at him from under his lashes like he was a problem worth unraveling.
He shifts gears without thinking. Lets the engine roar just once on the freeway curve before sliding clean back into quiet.
By the time Helion rises in the distance, his jaw's unclenched.
Almost enough to forget how he feels.
Almost.
"You're doing it again," Bell says from the passenger seat.
Dew doesn't answer.
"The whole 'I'm a lucky fluke and any day now they'll figure me out' thing." A pause. "You know. That one."
Dew's lips twitch—just a little. "Didn't ask for commentary."
"You didn't have to. I've seen that grip on the wheel before. Usually before quarterly reports."
The car slows at the curb. Dew shifts into park but doesn't move to get out.
Bell's tone softens—only slightly. Just enough for Dew to hear the steel beneath it.
"This is yours," he says. "You built it. You earned it. And no one gets to take that away—not even you."
Dew says nothing.
"Besides," Bell sniffs, like sentiment is a virus he refuses to catch, "if you implode now, I'll have to reschedule your whole week. And I just optimized your Friday."
Dew huffs a quiet breath that might qualify as a laugh.
Bell reaches for the handle. Pauses.
"You're going to be alright, you know."
He says it simply. Like a fact. Like he's already checked the numbers and this is just the result.
Then he's out of the car, tablet in hand, not looking back.
· · · — 𖥸 · 𓃹 · 𖥸 — · · ·
The day moves fast. It has to.
Helion is crisp and spotless, all white marble and silent luxury. The renderings are clean, the budget's tighter than projected, and Ifrit's visuals—well. They're showy, but on-brand. Dew signs off with a few restrained nods, leaving Bell to handle the minutiae while he keeps the rest of the schedule on rails.
Just before he goes, Ifrit flips to the back of the portfolio.
"Been playing with a few mural ideas," he says, breezy. "Nothing official."
Dew glances down, already halfway toward the door and freezes.
Tucked in the corner of the last page: a sketch in sharp ink, loose and fast, clearly a warmup. Just a rabbit. Cartoonish. Overly long ears. Big eyes. One paw lifted like it's about to bolt.
Not meant to mean anything.
But it means everything.
Dew shuts the folio a little too fast. Smooths a hand over the cover like that'll help.
"Maybe outside," he says. "On the west wall. Something calming."
Ifrit clicks his pen. Writes something in the margin. Then, very gently, turns the page back toward Dew.
He's drawn a little meadow around the rabbit.
"Very calming," Ifrit agrees.
Dew looks at him for a long moment.
"You're fired."
He walks out.
Ifrit's grin follows him all the way to his car.
· · · — 𖥸 · 𓃹 · 𖥸 — · · ·
Dew makes it through the rest of the morning on momentum alone.
Drive to his office. Check-in with acquisitions. Half-hour conference call with finance. Thirty minutes carved out to review contracts from legal—except he only makes it twenty before his attention splinters and he's standing at his floor-to-ceiling window with no memory of getting there.
He takes lunch standing at his desk with a mountain of emails for company.
By one-thirty, he's outside. Alone. Phone in one hand, cigarette in the other.
He tries not to smoke more than one a day.
He watches the tip of a second one burn red. Exhales in a long, steady stream and lets the city blur gold around the edges. The scent of it makes something uncoil behind his ribs with the way it curls, sweet and familiar, into the back of his throat.
Got a light, mystery man?
Dew crushes the cigarette out and stomps back inside.
He pulls the Alfa around at quarter to three.
Bell is waiting at the curb. Of course he is. He folds himself into the passenger seat and blissfully says nothing about the destination.
The console glows gentle under Dew's hand. His folio's behind him, every document in perfect order. His tie's still straight. His shoes still shine.
And yet his heart still kicks once, hard, when the club's violet neon slices through the midafternoon haze.
Tempt.
He tells himself it's just a business meeting, but his knuckles are white on the wheel.
He parks clean at the curb, kills the ignition, collects the folio, steadies his breath.
Bell gives him a smile that knows too much.
"I'll stay in the car for this one. Call if you need me."
Dew looks at him for a long moment before checking his reflection in the rearview mirror. He straightens a collar pin that didn't need to be adjusted and gets out without a word.
· · · — 𖥸 · 𓃹 · 𖥸 — · · ·
The club looks different in daylight.
No haze machines. No laser strobes. No bass shaking the walls. Just tinted skylights filtering soft sun across velvet booths and brass rails. Dark wood floors gleaming like water, polished so clean they catch the light.
Without the noise and bodies, the club feels disarmed—stripped down to muscle and bone. The faint whirr of a vacuum backstage. The soft clink of glass as someone preps syrups behind the bar.
Dew steps deeper in, letting his eyes adjust to the gold-tinged gloom.
The place is opulent, designed to seduce. The artwork's not signed, but it doesn't have to be. Every inch of it feels like being inside Ifrit's head—bold and sharp and hungry. Burnished gold leaf flickers along the ceiling trim. Murals curl across the back wall in blood-red and black, all hunger and motion. A phoenix motif etched into a mirrored column near the lounge. Dew immediately recognizes it from the Helion portfolio.
Of course he's been using the place as a private gallery.
Ridiculous. Gorgeous. So over the top it nearly loops back around to brilliance.
He's barely taken three more steps before he's stopped by the stage. His eyes land on it without his permission.
In the heat of last night it was a different world. Now it's just—wood and chrome and brass. Empty.
Quiet.
Somehow that's worse. Because his brain fills it in anyway.
The afternoon light shifts and catches the pole.
He thinks about the way Rain looked wrapped around it—thighs gripping the chrome, spine curved, head tipped back like gravity was something that happened to other people.
The side door thuds shut.
Dew's brain empties like someone pulled a plug.
Rain.
Stepping into the club, gym bag on one shoulder, headphones looped around his neck, mid-laugh at something on his phone.
Devastating in daylight. Worse, somehow, without the stage lights and the bass and the merciful cover of darkness. Just him—loose joggers slung low, cropped hoodie riding up over a line of taut stomach, curls soft from the shower with a few still damp and clinging to his temple. Shimmer dust caught in the hollow of his collarbone like he couldn't quite scrub the night off.
He doesn't notice Dew at first. He's mid-step, jaw working, thumb flying across his screen.
Dew stays exactly where he is. Professional. Measured. Entirely in control of himself.
His pulse says otherwise.
Rain's gaze lifts and lands squarely on him.
One long beat.
His head tips slightly, the motion loose like he's got all the time in the world. He lets his eyes drag down the length of Dew's body.
Clenched jaw. Collar pins. The white-knuckled grip on the portfolio.
The immaculate line of his slacks.
Right back up again, even slower.
Dew looks—professionally, of course.
That's when he sees it—a small gold bar catching the afternoon light, a blue stone swaying just above the waistband. It winks once when Rain shifts his weight.
Dew's eyes snap up.
Too slow.
Rain's brow lifts just a fraction more.
The barest flicker of acknowledgment, like Dew is a curiosity. An interesting problem someone left… unsupervised.
Then the corner of his mouth curls sharp and knowing and completely, catastrophically unhurried. Like he already knows the answer to a question Dew hasn't figured out he's asking yet.
He keeps walking.
Brushes past him close enough that the scent of clove and mint and warm skin hits Dew square in the chest like a fist. Close enough that Dew could reach out and—
"Mister Delmere."
Mist appears at his elbow like a conjuration—silver piercings flashing, bob immaculate, phone in hand.
Dew turns. Very calmly. Definitely not caught red-handed by his own brain.
"Boss is expecting you."
She turns on her heel before he can reply.
Dew looks back.
Rain doesn't.
He adjusts the cuff of his already perfect sleeve and tightens the grip on his folio.
"This way," Mist says, already moving.
He follows, just barely catching the shimmer of movement where Rain disappears behind the curtains.
· · · — 𖥸 · 𓃹 · 𖥸 — · · ·
Rain lets the curtain fall shut behind him.
He drops his gym bag on the dressing room bench, kicks his slides off, and lasts approximately twelve seconds before his phone is out.
--
you will NEVER guess who's at the club rn
before opening
in a full suit
--
👻:
don't say little mr. meltdown
don't say it
i am begging you
--
black button-down 💀
gold collar pins
trying SO hard not to stare
--
👻:
I WILL BE THERE IN 12 MINUTES
do NOT eat him alive until I can witness it with my own eyes
DON'T RUIN THIS FOR ME
--
no promises 💅
--
👻:
RAIN
--
· · · — 𖥸 · 𓃹 · 𖥸 — · · ·
The elevator ride to Aether's office is short and silent. Mist stands beside Dew like a loaded weapon—phone tucked close, mouth set in an unreadable line.
She steps out first when the doors open, heels noiseless on the matte flooring.
The hall is narrow, dimmer up here. Walls lined with vintage gig posters and framed photographs, their corners softened by time and low light.
Dew follows, folio tucked under one arm, already running numbers in his head. Square footage. Revenue per square foot. Projected—
He stops.
On the wall between two vintage gig posters, framed in simple black, is a photograph.
Promotional, probably. The kind of high-definition, carefully lit image that's meant to sell something.
Doing its job flawlessly.
Rain, mid-routine, a chair beneath him like a throne. Head tipped back, throat exposed, the line of his neck caught in dramatic light. One hand trailing slow up his own inner thigh, fingertips just brushing the hem of his shorts. The other arm extended long, showing the full lean stretch of his torso—stomach taut, that gold bar catching the light like it was placed there deliberately.
Like everything about him is placed deliberately.
The bold glitter along his collarbone. The damp curl stuck to his temple. The way his mouth is just barely open.
The way the barely there fabric is doing absolutely criminal work across the full, unmistakable—
Dew's folio hits the wall.
He doesn't remember walking closer.
"Mister Delmere."
Mist, from the end of the hall. Not looking back.
Dew swallows thickly and keeps walking.
Aether's office smells like sandalwood and old leather. The couch along the far wall is plush—slouch-worn, well-loved, the kind that holds a thousand secrets. Behind the desk, wide windows look down over the club floor, empty for now but glittering in the shifting half-light.
Aether's already there. Sleeves pushed up, bracelets stacked on his forearms, a grin pulling at one corner of his mouth.
Dew steps inside.
"I was starting to think you'd gotten lost," Aether says, warm as anything. "Can I get you a drink? You look like you need one."
"It's barely past three."
Aether gestures at the low table anyway. Two glasses already waiting. Cut crystal, golden liquid catching the light.
"You're in full funeral drag," he adds. "Least I can do is offer a toast."
Dew's mouth twitches, just barely. He crosses to the couch, folio still under his arm.
He doesn't sit.
Aether watches him. Expression shifting into something quieter.
"Been a long time," he says. "Last time I saw you, you were panicking over fire code violations and crying into an expired lease."
"I don't panic."
"Right. You pivot. Violently." Aether grins. "Usually into success. Which is why I called you."
Dew sets the folio on the table but stays standing. He folds his hands like he's closing an argument.
Aether softens. Just enough to mean it.
"You look good," he says. "Sharp. Little taller than I remember."
Dew huffs quietly. "Same couch. Same bad lighting."
"Different ghoul."
"Have to be," Dew says. "I couldn't build something on borrowed ground. There wasn't a safety net."
Aether meets his eyes. "You had me."
"I know."
The quiet that follows is heavy with the weight of years and distance and everything that dissolved without either of them meaning it to.
Aether reaches for his glass. Nudges the second one an inch closer to Dew.
"Still taking it neat?"
Dew looks at the glass. Doesn't touch it.
"It's efficient."
Aether looks at him for a moment. Just looks. The way you look at someone when you knew them before they had anything to protect.
"You used to take it however it came," he chuckles quietly. "As long as it was free."
Aether meets Dew’s eyes.
"Sit down, Dewdrop."
Something old and unguarded flickers across Dew's face. There and gone.
He sits.
Not all the way back. Perched at the edge of the cushion like he might need to leave quickly. But he sits. And after a moment, almost against his own better judgment, he reaches for the glass.
Holds it too tight in his palm.
Aether doesn't comment. Just lets him have the moment.
"I wasn't sure you'd actually come yourself," he says eventually.
"I owed you that much."
Aether's mouth curves. Soft. "You don't owe me anything."
"I know," Dew says again. Quieter this time. "That's not what I meant."
Another silence passes between them. Heavier than the last one.
Aether swirls the amber in his glass, watching it catch the light.
"Protein bars and spite," he says, mostly to himself. "You remember that stretch? Three months on my couch. Wouldn't sleep until the mood lighting was sorted."
"The branded robes were your idea."
"They were a joke."
"They tested well."
Aether laughs. Genuine and warm, filling the office like smoke. "God, you were insufferable."
"I was motivated."
"Same thing."
Dew's nose crinkles. Just the smallest bit. Something loosening despite himself.
"There he is," Aether grins, softer now.
"I didn't come here for nostalgia."
"I know." Aether leans back, studying him. "But it's good to see you. Really."
He means it. It lands.
Dew looks down at the glass in his hands. Finally takes the smallest sip, like it's a concession he's making to an older version of himself.
"It's good to see you too," he says.
He doesn't say: I should have come sooner. He doesn't say: I didn't know how to reach out. He doesn't say: I kept meaning to.
Aether already knows.
"Well," he says, setting his glass down and rising with a faint crack of joints, "come on then. Let me show you what you'd be taking on."
They move through the office door and back into the low-lit hallway, Mist nowhere in sight. Aether walks unhurried, one hand brushing the wall as they pass framed vintage posters, sepia-toned shots of earlier nights: sequins and shadows, ghouls in stages of glittering transformation.
That picture of Rain that's probably illegal in six countries.
Aether leads him down a half-hidden staircase at the end of the hall, the kind you'd miss if you didn't know to look.
Ifrit's got art here, too. One of the canvases in the stairwell is unmistakably his—red and gold and riotous, a flame that never stops licking the edge of its own frame.
They descend into the mezzanine, just above the floor. No lights flashing yet, no music—but Dew can't help glancing down at it.
He looks away before his brain can supply something helpful again.
Aether leans on the railing, arms folded.
"She's held up."
Dew lifts a brow. "She, huh?"
"The club. The energy. The madness. I built this place to feel like a spell, you know? One foot in this world, one foot in something hotter." He smiles to himself. "Sometimes I think I succeeded too well."
Dew hums. "You've never been one to do anything halfway."
Aether glances sideways at him. "And you were never one to rest, even once."
Another beat of silence.
"You know I don't just want to sell," Aether continues. "I want to pass it on. To someone who understands what it is."
"You could pass it to anyone. You've got half the Ministry neighborhood in your contacts."
"But I didn't call them. I called you." He taps a finger against the rail. "I know what you looked like with nothing. Everyone else would run this place. You'd understand it, the heartbeat. And I think that you'd protect it."
A flicker of emotion crosses Dew's face. Gone in a blink.
"This place is different," Aether goes on. "It's alive. It needs someone who understands that power isn't just spectacle—it's curation. Restraint. Intention."
He looks out across the quiet floor, voice softer.
"It needs someone who won't just run it. Someone who'll love it."
Dew is quiet for a moment. Then, almost despite himself, he looks out across the floor. Lets himself consider the potential, the future, the growth.
"When would you want to move forward?"
Aether's about to answer when footsteps on the mezzanine stairs announce a new arrival.
Cirrus appears at the top, tablet tucked under one arm, hair pinned in clean loops, dressed down in soft slate leggings and a deep violet tank. Her ballet flats barely make a sound as she steps onto the landing.
She stops when she sees them.
"Sorry," she says, polite and direct, eyes moving to Aether. "Mist said you were up here. I need you to sign off on Aurora's schedule adjustment before tonight."
Her gaze slowly travels back to Dew. His hair. The rings. The generally pressed and stressed appearance. Her smile curves slow and knowing.
"We've seen each other," she says pleasantly. "Haven't we."
Aether glances between them, already enjoying himself—catching the way Dew's jaw goes just slightly tight.
"Cirrus, this is Dewdrop Delmere. He's looking at acquiring Tempt."
Cirrus goes still for just a fraction of a second.
"Of course he is," she says plainly.
Dew goes very still.
This is totally normal, a typical response to meeting a prospective buyer.
One of Aether’s brows lift with barely concealed delight. He takes the tablet from Cirrus and signs without looking at the screen.
She takes it back and tucks it under her arm, turning to go.
And just when Dew thinks he might be allowed to breathe again, she pauses in the doorway and looks directly at him.
"You've made quite the impression," she says, almost kindly. "Strange that I'm only now hearing your name."
Then she's gone, ballet flats silent on the stairs.
Aether's brows have left his face entirely.
"...Well," he says eventually. "That's interesting."
Dew doesn't look up.
"Numbers," he says, instead. "We're talking numbers now."
"Right," Aether says, still far too amused. "Numbers."
They stay at the railing.
Aether settles against it like he's got all the time in the world, bracelets chiming soft as he folds his arms. Below them, the floor hums with the quiet industry of pre-opening—the soft thwack of a mop, the clink of glassware, the distant thump of someone testing the sound system one bass note at a time.
"In all seriousness," Aether says. "Tempt's profitable. Always has been. But I want it in good hands. Someone who understands what it is and what it could be. Not just the numbers."
Dew nods, eyes on his folio. "I've reviewed the last five years. Projections are clean. Profit margins steady. Staff turnover's low. Brand loyalty's high."
"And?"
"And if I'm in, I'd want full creative control." He flips a page. "House takes a 30% cut. We can lower it to 25% after six months, assuming revenue increases post-rebrand."
"You planning some big changes?"
"Not structural. But I'd like to expand wellness perks for contracted dancers. Coverage at Helion—massage, PT, manicures. Physicals and labs too—"
Aether whistles. "Luxury benefits? You trying to put me out of business before you even buy it?"
"It's good for retention. Better performances. Marketable, too."
He flips another page and stops.
"Something wrong?" Aether asks.
Dew's voice is very flat. "...What is your extras policy."
"My what?"
"Private attention. Companion services. Envelope dropped at the table without a word."
Aether gives him a look that says he's put together a little too much.
"...So you have visited the club."
It's not a question.
Dew's jaw tightens. "I was doing preliminary research."
"Preliminary research," Aether repeats, like he's tasting the words. His smile is slow and absolutely criminal. "Right. And you got Phantom'd, didn't you."
"I got offered a service."
"Same thing."
"I didn't accept," Dew mutters.
Aether clutches his heart. "Tragic."
Dew closes the folio with unnecessary force. "This entire establishment could become a hazard to my professional credibility."
"Phantom's a menace, but they only proposition people they think can take it."
"I said no."
"Which only makes them hungrier."
Dew's jaw tightens. "And your official policy?"
"Extras are at personal discretion. Some do, some don't. I don't require it, I don't ask. They set their own rates, boundaries, and preferences. Mist keeps the client registry locked up tighter than her jawline."
Dew taps his pen and nods. Exhales slow.
"Your highest earner—" Dew flips to a fresh page, pen ready, very busy, very professional. "I'd want to use their contract as a benchmark. Restructure the others around it. Every dancer should have access to the same earning potential."
"Rain," Aether says without hesitation.
Dew writes something down that is probably not a real word.
Aether watches Dew very carefully.
"...Tell me about his contract."
"Rain's... picky," Aether says, far too smug. "Very high return rate. Doesn't take just anyone, doesn't perform unless he feels like it. But when he does—" He whistles low. "Moneymaker. We always sell out when he's on the floor. Got regulars flying in just to watch him stretch."
Motion at the stage catches Dew’s eye.
Curtains ripple and Rain steps out onto the floor like he owns it.
Which, Dew is increasingly aware, he might.
He's changed—skin-tight black workout set, breathable fabric clinging everywhere it shouldn't. He moves across the stage with the unhurried ease of someone completely at home in their body, leans in to press a kiss to Cirrus's cheek, soft and familiar, and rolls his neck once before dropping into a stretch.
Dew does not look.
He is absolutely, professionally, not looking at the way the fabric pulls across Rain's thighs as he folds forward. He is not noticing the way sweat is already blooming at the base of his spine. He is not noticing anything at all.
Aether says something about back-end percentages.
"Mhm," Dew says.
Rain shifts into a deep squat, says something to Cirrus that makes her roll her eyes and smile. His thighs flex. The fabric does something criminal.
"—cut's been stable for six months," Aether continues. "Phantom flirts with the line, but Rain anchors the numbers."
Dew's knuckles go white around his pen.
"He seems like a valuable asset," he says.
"Oh, absolutely." Aether doesn't even try to hide the smirk. "He knows it, too."
Stability, Dew thinks desperately, is important.
Rain drops into a pushup without warning—legs sliding back into a full plank, then lowering to the floor with practiced ease. Up. Down. Up. Down. Slow and controlled.
Like he knows someone's watching.
Cirrus glances up at the mezzanine, only once. Then back down at Rain with a smile that knows entirely too much.
Dew exhales through his nose and loosens his tie one fraction of an inch.
"You alright there, Dew?"
"Fine," Dew says. Too fast. "Perfectly focused."
Aether hums. Looks back down at the floor. "Would you like to come back tomorrow, then? See the club at its peak? Friday's are packed."
Dew doesn't take his eyes off the middle distance.
"Yes," he says. "Absolutely."
A pause.
"For an… observation."
"Right," Aether says. "Observation."
Below them, Rain flows back up to standing, completely unbothered, and reaches both arms overhead in a long, devastating stretch.
Dew closes the folio.
"My team will be in touch," he says, with the energy of a man fleeing a burning building in a very expensive suit.
"No rush," Aether smiles, watching the floor with the quiet satisfaction of someone who built something good.
It's alive with prep hour energy.
Near the far pole, Cirrus has Aurora upside down in a split, one hand on her ankle making minute adjustments with the patience of someone who has done this a thousand times. Aurora wobbles. Cirrus waits.
A few feet away, Phantom is working through a routine with genuine focus—hips rolling into the pole, form surprisingly clean, something Rain-like in the line of their body.
Rain himself is now stretched long across the stage, one leg extended, spine curved forward, completely in his own world.
Three separate disasters in various stages of assembly.
Dew grips the railing.
The moment is broken when a bass beat hits like a dropped body.
“Whoooo wants to see what I've been practicing?” Phantom yells, spinning toward the others with a wicked grin.
Rain raises a single unimpressed eyebrow as distorted synth and heavy trap drums swell through the empty club.
"Do we get a choice?" Cirrus winces, clearly reconsidering all of the decisions that led to this moment.
The drop kicks in—something slinky and aggressive, the kind of remix that sounds like it was designed specifically to get someone arrested on the Garden State Parkway.
Rain sits up and tilts his head. “Did you find this on a playlist titled 'songs for getting fingered in a mall parking lot'?”
“Yes,” Phantom beams. “That’s exactly what I’m going for.”
Cirrus sighs. “This is not what I meant when I said ‘practice together.’”
“Too late,” Phantom grins. “You invited chaos and I RSVP’d.”
"Phantom's been training seriously for about six months," Aether says, almost conversationally. "Started as a dishwasher and couldn't keep them off the stage. Something about the attention, but Rain really took them under his wing."
Dew makes a noncommittal sound.
Below them, it's immediately apparent that some of it has stuck.
Phantom moves to the pole with actual purpose—hips rolling into it, one leg hooking clean, body arching back in a slow invert that's genuinely, objectively, devastating. Their form is good. Better than good, honestly. There's real heat to it, real control.
Cirrus releases Aurora's ankle with a quiet word and she rolls to dismount, landing soft.
Aurora has forgotten to catch her breath entirely while Cirrus watches with her arms folded, both of them studying Phantom's form with very different expressions.
Rain takes a sip from his water bottle, watching Phantom work. He says something just loud enough to be heard over the music and Phantom adjusts their grip, extends the line of their leg, and the whole thing suddenly becomes twenty percent more lethal.
"Perfect," Rain says.
Phantom positively glows.
"They're getting good," Aether says lightly, from somewhere beside him.
"Mm," Dew says.
Aether nudges him with one elbow. Very gently. Just enough.
Dew's jaw tightens.
"Phantom," Rain calls, "show me the transition."
Phantom cracks their knuckles. Rolls their neck. Backs up to the pole with the energy of someone who has absolutely trained for this moment and is choosing, deliberately, to leave preparation at the door anyway.
They leap—
grip—
and immediately—
thud.
The spin evaporates entirely. Legs flail. Knees connect with the stage floor in a clatter that makes Cirrus actually wince.
Swiss, behind the bar, does not look up. Just exhales through his nose.
Dew watches the whole disaster from the mezzanine railing and feels something loosen in his chest for the first time all day.
He is not the biggest disaster in this building.
It's genuinely, pathetically, comforting.
"You okay, sweetheart?" Rain calls.
Phantom throws two thumbs up from the floor. "Nailed it."
"You know you're supposed to stay on the pole," Rain says, already moving toward them.
"Maybe I like being on my knees," Phantom purrs.
Rain crouches beside them, unimpressed. "Then do it with intention."
He rises slow. Grips the pole one-handed.
And then he just—does it. The exact move. Clean and controlled and sickeningly effortless, body moving like the pole is an extension of something he was born understanding. Up. Around. The hold. Down.
He lands soft.
Doesn't even look winded.
"That's it," Cirrus says, from somewhere below. She doesn't even glance up from adjusting Aurora's form.
"God, I love when Daddy shows off," Phantom sighs dramatically from the floor.
"Don't make it weird, you little nightmare," Rain huffs.
"Don't make it hot!" Phantom shoots back. "With your stupid, perfect form and your skin-tight pants and your devastating core strength."
"And he's not even wearing the ears," Cirrus adds, still not looking up.
"Justice for the ears," Phantom echoes mournfully.
Rain leans into the pole, smug as original sin. "Just imagine if I was."
He glances up, casual and unhurried, like he already knew exactly where to look.
His eyes find Dew at the railing—folio clutched to his chest, tie loosened one fraction of an inch, the expression of a ghoul who has been holding very still for a very long time and is running out of reasons to keep doing it.
Rain's mouth curves.
That same smirk from the hallway. From the alley. The one that says still watching, mystery man?
He holds it for exactly one second.
Then turns back to the pole. Back to Phantom. Back to a room that already belongs to him.
Like Dew is a detail he'll get back to later.
Beside him, Aether says nothing.
Just watches Dew's knuckles blanch.
Dew clears his throat.
"I'll get the paperwork to you within a week," he tells Aether.
He does not run.
He walks.
Quickly.
With purpose.
Folio tight to his chest like a shield, heading for the exit like a ghoul with somewhere extremely important to be that is not here, not this room, not anywhere near that smile.
The door swings shut behind him.
Aether looks back at the stage, where Rain has already turned away, already back to correcting Phantom's grip, already completely unbothered.
He smiles to himself.
Interesting, he thinks. Very interesting indeed.
· · · — 𖥸 · 𓃹 · 𖥸 — · · ·
Dew returns to the Alfa with a devastating lack of grace and a flush high across his cheeks.
He pulls the door closed, a little too hard. Lets the folio hit the floor behind the passenger seat and tosses his phone into the cupholder with a little more force than necessary.
Bell looks him over once before returning his attention to his tablet, the email to acquisitions already prepped and ready.
Dew's jaw is tight, one hand white-knuckled on the wheel as he pulls away from the curb, the other dragging through his hair like that'll somehow erase the feel of Rain's gaze tracking him across the room.
He shouldn't still be spiraling.
He shouldn't be this affected by a fucking look.
The city unfolds in gentle streaks of gold and grey. The light turns red. He stops.
Stares at the middle distance.
Not at smug blue eyes. Not at the little upnod. The glint of knowing. The smirk that said everything without saying a single word.
The light turns green. He doesn't move.
His pulse is still in his throat.
He hits call. Ifrit picks up on the second ring.
“I’m moving forward with the acquisition,” Dew says, flat and absolutely professional. "It's a good opportunity."
He can practically hear Ifrit grinning through the phone.
“Mmhmm. And how much of that decision was influenced by the view?”
Dew does not answer the question.
"See you at seven," he growls, smashing the disconnect button on his steering wheel with the pad of his thumb.
He glances over at Bell, immediately clocking a grin that could power an entire city block.
"Not a fucking word."
Bell says nothing, but his smile stays exactly where it is.
Public Teasing! MDI Interact. Not edited! Obviously, there is smut! Kinktober Ted Masterlist! Inconsistent schedule posting.
A night of celebration at Mae’s turns into a slow, public torture for Ted when you slip your hand onto his thigh under the table. Between off-key sing-alongs, clinking pints, and Beard’s knowing stare, Ted struggles to hold himself together while you keep inching higher. By the time he drags you out into the alley, he’s red-eared, half feral, and whispering promises you’re not sure he can keep. The walk home is a blur of filthy vows and shaking hands until the apartment door clicks shut behind you and Ted finally snaps.
Mae's pub throbbed with victory, oak beams creaking overhead, brass taps dripping condensation, and the tang of spilled ale clinging to the air. A dozen voices ricocheted off the wood-paneled walls as the lads jammed into every nook, pints sloshing over worn tables, laughter rolling like thunder. Ted sat jammed between Sam and Beard on the battered bench, cap flipped backward, shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, shoulders lax as if he belonged in the din. He roared at Dani's off-key rendition of "Sweet Caroline," caught Sam's eye and clinked glasses, and hummed along as Beard muttered about shifting formations beside him.
Then your hand settled on his thigh. It started like a feather brushing denim, nothing more than a shift in your seat. But when your fingertips lingered, pressing gently into the fabric, Ted's grin flickered. His back stiffened, breath hitching in his chest.
He willed himself not to look, not to betray the electric thrill shooting down his spine. Yet every cheer and stomp around the table only nudged your hand higher, each millimeter inching toward the hollow where thigh meets hip. Ted's heart rattled against his ribs; he tightened his fingers around his pint so hard the glass sweat pooled beneath it.
"Coach, you good?" Isaac's deep drawl cut through the racket. He leaned forward, dark eyebrows arched, a half-empty pint in hand, watching Ted's Adam's apple bob.
Ted cleared his throat with such force that it echoed through his skull. He slapped a smile onto his face. "Oh, absolutely, juicier than a peach at Sunday supper. Just keepin'...uh... hydrated." He lifted his glass in a too-brisk salute; foam foamed over the rim and dribbled down the side.
You bit your lip to hide a grin. Ted caught that glint in your eye, the slow curve of your mouth, and his knees almost buckled. He dropped his gaze, but your fingers inched upward again, tracing a lazy path along the sensitive crease of his leg.
Beard saw it. Of course he did. His dark eyes flicked south and then back up, lips twitching in sly amusement. Ted shot him a warning glare, Don't you even, but Beard just tilted his pint and sipped, deadpan.
Meanwhile, Ted was unraveling. He leaned toward you, voice barely louder than your pulse in the roar of the pub. "Darlin', please. Don't make me do somethin' foolish out here. You're playin' with fire, and I'm about one breath away from puttin' on a show, and I ain’t talkin’ community theater."
Your nails traced a deliberate arc higher still, brushing the thin skin where his thigh met the hem of his shirt. Ted's jaw clenched, breath stuttering; he even managed a strangled chuckle that died before it formed. At the far end, Jamie was mid-story, words lost in the haze of his own excitement, unheard over the tick of Ted's racing blood and your relentless touch.
His hand cracked against the wooden table, rattling pint glasses and sending Colin's elbow skidding through a puddle of beer. Sam's eyebrows lifted. "Everything alright, Coach?"
Ted's lips stretched back from his teeth in something closer to a grimace than a smile. "Yep! Fantastic!" His voice was pitched an octave higher than usual. "Just remembering those, uh, orange cones we need for, " His Adam's apple bobbed. "For the thing. Tomorrow." He yanked his cap brim lower, the tips of his ears glowing crimson beneath it. The words "Sweet Jesus" disappeared into the foam of his pint.
The pressure against his inner thigh shifted upward. Ted's lungs seized. A strangled noise escaped, half-hiccup, half-groan, that he buried in a theatrical coughing fit, thumping his sternum with a closed fist. Dani's voice cut through the laughter: "Coach needs more water!"
Ted's thumb jerked upward while his eyelids clamped shut, the muscles in his jaw twitching beneath his beard.
The chair legs shrieked against the floorboards as Ted lurched upright. Half the table swiveled toward him, conversations dying mid-sentence. He jabbed a finger toward the exit, his shoulders hunched nearly to his ears. "Fresh air!" The words tumbled out too loudly, "Ventilation! Important for the lungs!"
Dani's voice faded beneath the thundering pulse in Ted's temples. He leaned in as he passed, his mustache tickling your earlobe, his breath coming in short, ragged puffs against your skin.
"You're in so much trouble when we get home, darlin'," he whispered, voice cracking on the last syllable. "Mark my words."
His fingers fumbled with his cap brim, yanking it lower as he stumbled toward the exit, shoulders hunched to his ears. His lips moved the entire way, a steady stream of words you couldn't quite catch except for "Lord almighty" rising above the pub's roar.
Outside, the night air raised goosebumps along his flushed neck. Ted ripped the cap off and scrubbed his fingers through flattened hair, leaving it in sweaty tufts. Three steps right, pivot, three steps left. His boot heels scraped against wet pavement as he circled the alley.
"Hydration," he choked out, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. "Ventilation." A strangled laugh escaped. "Cones." He pressed his palms against the cool brick wall, letting his forehead thunk against it. "Cones, while her hand was, " His voice dissolved into a groan that echoed off the narrow
The door creaked open as you stepped onto the slick cobblestones, amber light from the pub's low-hanging lantern washing over your shoulders. That teasing curve at the corner of your mouth appeared before Ted's gaze even settled on you, and he groaned, running a rough hand through his mussed hair.
"You nearly killed me back there," he whispered, voice hoarse. His finger wobbled toward you. "Under the table, in front of the boys, Darlin', I was this close," he pinched, "to confessing every sin to Mae and the Almighty."
You leaned back against the cold brick, arms crossed under your chest. The mortar dug into your coat, but you didn't flinch. "Had fun, though."
Ted blinked, chest rising and falling. "Fun? Sweetheart, I almost choked on my own beer. Thought I was gonna meet my maker mid-sip when you touched my thigh."
You let out a low laugh that echoed off the walls. "That little cough didn't fool anyone."
A slow burn colored his cheeks. He closed the distance in two long strides and pinned you, palms splayed on either side of your head. The brick's roughness pressed into his fingers. "You think this is amusing? Making me stutter in front of my own team? I’ve coached playoffs with less pressure than whatever it is you’re doin’ under that innocent little smile."
You tilted your chin, lip brushing against his collar. His pulse throbbed under his shirt. "Honestly? It was adorable. You blush hotter than Dani's cleats after a win."
Ted groaned, forehead settling against yours. His breath was warm, tinged with hops and desire. "You're merciless. Gorgeous, but merciless. Watching me squirm while your hand…" He caught himself, jaw clenching. "I can't even say it without combusting. You're gonna be the death of me, darlin'. And I’ll go smilin'."
You traced your lips along his jawline, your voice a soft purr. "No need to say it. I felt every second you tried to pull away."
He exhaled a strangled laugh that rattled his chest, hips pressing forward until you felt the exact result of your teasing. "Yeah? And now? Still funny?"
Your heartbeat stuttered, but you held his gaze. "You're seconds from losing it. I love watching you unravel."
He closed the gap in a harsh, urgent kiss, stubble scratching your skin, lips bruising yours. He broke away with a growl, voice low and ragged. "Keep this up, and I won't make it home. I'll take you right here against this wall."
A thrill shot through you as you skimmed your thumb across his jaw. "Maybe I want that."
A guttural growl rumbled in his chest, reverberating through your shoulder. He pressed his forehead to yours like a prayer. "Lord, you're lethal. I'll be arrested for indecent exposure."
You tipped his chin, whispering against his lips. "Or you could bring me home and really show me what happens when I tease you in public."
His eyes darkened, playful spark gone feral. He seized your hand, fingers curling until your knuckles blanched, and tugged you down the narrow alley. A flicker of lantern light caught his grin. "Home. Now. And darlin', you're not leaving that bed until you learn your lesson."
Ted's fingers curled around yours like steel bands as he yanked you off the curb and onto the cracked pavement. His baseball cap was pulled so low that the streetlight only caught the edge of his jaw, tight and hard, as if one wrong move would snap him in two. Behind you, the pub's neon "Open" buzzed and hissed, mingling with the thump of your racing heart. Ahead, the city at night droned on: distant sirens, a car backfiring, the soft hiss of tires on wet asphalt. But inside Ted, everything was white-hot chaos, his pulse hammering through his wrist, the heat of you still fizzing under his skin from that bold graze of your hand beneath the bar table.
You strolled beside him, swinging his hand like you owned the sidewalk. Your heel clicked against a rusty manhole cover. "You're walking awfully fast, Coach," you quipped, tilting your head under the halo of a flickering lamp. "In a hurry for something?"
He shot you a fierce glance that made your spine prickle, eyes dark, half-wild. "Darlin', don't start with me. Not out here. Not when I'm ten seconds from…" He cut himself off, exhaling raggedly, mustering, "Lord almighty, I can't even finish that sentence in public."
You let your shoulder brush his arm, the sway of your hips full of innocently wicked promise. "You were stammering in front of the whole team, Ted. Face red as a cherry. I thought you thrived under pressure."
He groaned, pressing a palm to his forehead as if to knock some sense back into his skull. "Pressure? Sweetheart, I almost called a timeout in the middle of a bar. I'm supposed to be the grown-up in that room!"
You arched a brow, your lips curving. "Seemed like you were enjoying it."
That did it. Ted braked so hard your feet skidded; his other hand shot around your waist, pulling you flush to him. Moonlight gleamed off the stubble on his jaw. His voice dropped to a husky growl. "Enjoying it? You had me harder than iron in front of Mae and the whole damn squad. I couldn't even form a sentence without tripping over my spit, do you know how mortifying that is for a man who literally makes pep talks for a living?"
You traced a fingertip along the seam of his coat. "Might've been mortifying. Or maybe it was…exciting?"
He laughed, a sound rough as gravel, and his fingers twitched around yours. "Sweet Jesus, you're evil." Then he lunged forward, his strides suddenly long and frantic, as if forward motion alone would keep him from covering you with kisses right there under the yellow street lamps.
You leaned in close enough for your breath to tickle his ear and whispered something too dirty to echo down the empty block. His whole body shuddered; a soft groan got stuck in his throat. He bit down on his lower lip. "Do not, do not, say things like that on a public sidewalk. I'm hanging by a thread here, sweetheart. One more word and I might do something…reckless."
You laughed, warm, triumphant. "Guess I'll just have to push every button you've got."
He threw his head back toward the night sky, as if silently pleading with the stars. "Lord, give me patience. If I make it back to that apartment without hoisting you over my shoulder, it'll be a miracle."
Still, he didn't let go. His grip stayed fierce, leading you in quick, urgent steps. Every time you smirked or brushed your hip against his thigh, he muttered in that soft Kansas drawl, heated promises spilling out.
"You just wait 'til we get home, darlin'. You'll be sprawled out, begging me, and I won't stop 'til you're crying my name so loud the neighbors file a noise complaint."
And in the wild glint of his eyes and the way his knuckles turned white around your hand, you knew without a doubt: he meant every single word.
By twilight, you reached the narrow wooden steps of the porch in front of the apartment. The porch light above the door bathed you in coral light while Ted's grip on your hand cut off all circulation. His jaw was locked so tight you could see each tooth pressing against his cheek; each stride brought you closer to the house, yet further from any control. All along the walk from the pub, he'd leaned in close and whispered half a dozen promises, each one dirtier than the last, sliding across your skin until your cheeks and thighs burned.
At the bottom of the stairs, you teased him, flicking your eyes up at the sliver of moon peeking through the treetops. "Still red, Coach. Reckon the team will notice tomorrow?" The words floated between you like a dare. He froze, shoulders bunching as he drew in a lungful of air, and his fingers dug into your palm like a lifeline. His gaze, wild, reverent, and feral all at once, locked onto yours before he yanked you up the steps in one smooth, rough tug.
Your key rattled in the lock; the door moaned on its hinges as it swung inward. Ted didn't wait a second. He shoved you against the wood until your back hit the doorframe, and the click of the latch echoed like a starting pistol. Then his restraint snapped.
He crashed into you, the brim of his ballcap scuffing the sills, his mouth slamming against yours. It was all teeth and hunger, and the sharp scent of pine cleaner and his own musk filled your nose. One of his hands came up to cup the side of your face, thumb brushing your lips. The other dove beneath the hem of your dress, fingers hooking under the elastic of your thigh, lifting you until you wiggled your leg around the curve of his hip.
"Sweet Jesus," he groaned, voice rough like gravel. His drawl trembled with need as he pressed his forehead to yours. "I've been dying for this since you brushed my arm in that damn pub. You have no idea what you did to me." His mouth trailed from your lips to the line of your jaw, teeth grazing your skin as he reached your throat. You gasped at the sudden sting that turned into a delicious burn.
You leaned in, lips ghosting against his ear as you whispered a tease that made his hips jerk, grinding you harder against the door. A low growl vibrated through his chest. "Careful," he warned, breath hot against your skin. "Talk that sweet talk any more, and I won't even make it to the bed. I'll take you right here, pressed up so anyone outside could hear."
His hand inched higher, fingertips skimming the lace band of your panties. He trembled with reverence and need. "God Almighty, you're already soaked. Just for me." He captured your lips again, this time slower, his tongue sweeping deep inside, each moan echoing off the hallway walls.
When he finally pulled back, you saw him, your coach, your guide, eyes hooded and raw, a boyish grin cracking through the tension in his features. Your dress was bunched in fistfuls around your hips; your hair a halo of loose waves around your flushed cheeks.
"Darlin', I'm about to ruin you," he whispered, voice low and rough. "Ruined in the best way. You ready for that?"
Your brow dipped against his mouth, and you gave a slow nod. A deep, feral laugh rumbled from his chest, dark and hungry, edged with hope. "Good," he murmured, voice thick with promise. "'Cause I don't plan on lettin' you walk straight tomorrow."
Before you could reply, he slid one arm under your thighs and hoisted you up as if you weighed nothing. Your legs curled around his waist, heels brushing the soft cotton of his hoodie. He tucked you close, his free hand pressing feather-light kisses along the pulse at your throat. The narrow hallway walls closed in around you, lit by a single bulb that cast dancing shadows across your skin. Every time he paused for air, a new vow tumbled from his lips in that ragged Kansas drawl:
"Gonna ruin you, darlin'. Make you cry my name 'til it's all you can whisper."
"Lord Almighty, when you teased me under that table, I thought my heart stopped."
"You're mine, every inch, every sound. Mine."
The bedroom door swung open with a soft crash of wood against the wall. He carried you the last few steps and lowered you onto the mattress in one fluid motion, his groan vibrating the springs beneath you. His hoodie and shirt hit the floor, and his fingers flew through his hair. Moonlight slanted in through the window, painting his chest in pale silver. He paused, his eyes dark, his hunger stark, then captured your mouth in a fierce kiss, his mustache scraping lightly, his breath hot and quivering.
His hands were restless. One slid your dress up over your hips in quick, eager tugs; the other traced a path along the delicate curve of your waist, fingertips skimming skin made soft by the chill night air. He broke the kiss, lips brushing your collarbone as he whispered, "So damn beautiful. My good girl." His thumbs hooked into the waistband of your panties, peeling them down inch by inch. You arched beneath him as his mouth followed, soft, worshipful kisses at the dip of your hip, the hollow at the top of your thigh, until every nerve in your body trembled.
Then he settled between your legs. The first press of his tongue was slow, measured, reverent, while one hand spread your thighs and the other fisted in the sheets. His breath rattled against you as he tasted every droplet, each flick of his tongue sending jolts straight to your core. He moaned low against your skin, voice thick: "That's it, sweetheart. You taste like heaven."
You gasped his name, and he answered with a growl, speeding up. His fingers slid inside you, curling perfectly in time with his tongue. Wet sounds filled the room: the slick press of flesh, the rustle of blankets, his urgent groans. You felt him pressing closer, words barely coherent between gasps: "So close. I can feel it. That's it, darlin'. Let go for me."
Stars burst behind your eyelids, your spine arching off the mattress as your nails carved half-moons into his scalp. His tongue never faltered, the vibration of his groan against your center sending aftershocks rippling through your thighs. When your breathing slowed, he pressed his lips to the tender skin where your leg met your hip, leaving a damp trail as he whispered, "Good girl. So proud of you." The room spun as he crawled up your body.
His mouth found yours, the taste of you still lingering on his lips. The blunt pressure of him nudged against you, then stretched you open in one deliberate push. His forehead dropped to yours, sweat beading at his temples, veins standing out on his neck. "Sweet Jesus..." The words caught in his throat. "Gonna break me clean in half."
Each thrust drove the headboard against the wall, thud, thud, thud, as his fingers threaded through yours, pinning your hand beside your head. The calluses on his palm scraped against your knuckles. "That's it. My good girl."
Your oversensitive nerves sparked again, building faster this time. Ted's rhythm faltered as he caught your whimper with his mouth, his drawl thickening. "That's it, sweetheart. Give me another."
Your second release hit like lightning, your body clenching around him as you gasped his name into the salt-slick skin of his shoulder. His hips stuttered, his breath hot against your ear.
He flipped you over without warning, pulling you onto his lap, his hands spanning your waist as he guided you down. The new angle sent him impossibly deeper. His lips found the pulse point at your neck, teeth grazing the sensitive skin. "One more," he pleaded, voice cracking. "Please."
The third time broke you both. Your thighs quivered uncontrollably as Ted buried himself to the hilt with a strangled cry of your name, his fingers digging into your hips hard enough to leave marks.
Afterward, he traced the curve of your spine, lips brushing against your temple, your cheekbone, the corner of your mouth. Even as his eyelids grew heavy, his hands never stilled, fingertips mapping constellations across your skin as if memorizing every inch.
