There are fingers brushing on the inside of your wrist, making an infuriatingly light trail away from your hand. Testing. Exploring. The touches linger, tingly and ethereal and barely-there. You bite your lip and snatch your hand away. Steve chuckles, releasing your arm.
“Oh, come on. It can’t be that bad.”
“Well, it is.” You pout, heat racing up your neck; why Steve thought it was a good idea to ask exactly how ticklish you are is beyond you.
“Wow, you’re worse than Bucky,” he mutters, making a sort of cursory glance behind him despite the fact that you’re standing alone in the lounge.
“What? I said I was ticklish! Happy?”
“Yeah, I just have a couple more questions-”
“Steve, you fucking-”
“Ah, language!” He reprimands, poking your side as a threat.
“Hey, I thought I was exempt from your profanity policing!”
“Not when I have leverage,” forget swearing - that grin shouldn’t be allowed.
“Look, don’t tickle me. Or I’ll- I’ll tell Bucky. He’ll help me.” Cap pauses for a second, cogs turning in his head.
“Did you just threaten me?”
Shit.
“No. You’re threatening me. I’m defending myself.”
An eyebrow raises. Fuck.
“I’m just saying, I’m the victim here-”
He barrels into you, strong arms gripping your waist and hoisting you up over his shoulder. Oh no.
Steve says something lost in between your shouts of protest and your squirming. Couch cushions catch your writhing frame, but there’s not enough time to scramble away before Steve pins you in place; tugging to escape from him is the equivalent of nudging a brick wall; there’s no way you’re getting out now.
“Cap-Steve- please! I swear I’ll get Bucky-”
Your companion tuts, hovering a hand over your torso. “Did you just threaten me twice?”
“Um-I-” you trail off into silence as Steve’s fingers twitch, then curl slowly into a claw.
“What?” The fingers wiggle. You’re pretty sure you’ve never been more flustered in your life. You shoot him one last pleading look.
“You don’t have to do this.”
“No, but I want to,” Steve smiles, too sweetly for someone about to wreck their friend. His hand feigns a lunge towards your skin, pulling back at the last second - the feather-light touches from earlier shoot from your wrist to your side, creating phantom sparks of sensation that fade slowly. At some point giggles sprung from your throat, and they don’t seem to want to stop.
“Steheheve, don’t!”
“I haven’t!” He laughs. A beat.
“Though I will now.”