the sweetest pair
friends-to-lovers 40s!bucky x female!reader
summary: a wholesome 'not a date' to rockaway beach ends with you sharing a bed with your charming neighbour bucky barnes
⤷ warnings/tags: MDNI 18+ SMUT, neighbour-friends to lovers, pining, mutal attraction, beach date, breast play, nipple play, boobjob, cum play (external), praise, use of petnames (sweetheart, pretty) // 1940s setting (i tried my best), all the cliche tropes but specifically: oh no there's only one bed, forced proximity, "not a date", plot convenient weather events, first time together but they fuck like hoes
word count: 6.5k
⤷ author’s note: someone came into my inbox and basically said 40s bucky is a titty person and this is my thesis in support. also an attempt to fulfil @star-and-shield-monthly's april challenge. prompt: in bloom or in gloom - i'm specifically thinking about slice of life! and well... bosoms, i mean blossoms
+ more bucky from me
It happens in the most unremarkable way possible, which is how things tend to happen with Bucky Barnes.
You’re halfway through hanging laundry on the line out back, sleeves rolled, hair pinned up in a way that does nothing against the wind, when you hear your name called by your favourite neighbour.
He’s leaning against the fence like he’s been there a while – which, knowing him, he probably has – watching you work with a soft expression on his face.
When you’ve finished the last of the linen, he calls out, “Hey.”
“Hey,” you return, because that’s the rhythm of you – easy, practiced, a hundred small conversations stitched together over years of living too close not to know each other well.
There’s a pause as you turn around to face him, basket resting against your hip, extra clothespins in your free hand.
“You got plans tomorrow?” he asks, and it lands just slightly off.
Not wrong, just a little unexpected.
You narrow your eyes a little. “That depends. Is this you making conversation, or am I going to regret it?”
He huffs a quiet laugh, scratching at the back of his neck in that tell you’ve learned to recognise – the one that means he’s thinking too hard about something that should be simple.
“Don’t read too much into it,” he says immediately, which of course guarantees that you will. “I just – there’s this thing. A day trip. To Rockaway.”
You blink. “Rockaway Beach.”
“Yeah.”
“With you?”
“Yeah.”
Another pause.
He presses on, words coming a little faster now, like he’s trying to get ahead of your reaction.
“I had a ticket – well, two tickets. Was supposed to go with Steve, but he’s not feeling great again, so –” a shrug, casual in a way that really isn’t “– I’ve now got an extra. Thought maybe you’d want to come. No pressure. It’s not –” he gestures vaguely between you “– not a date. Just… a trip.”
It is, without question, the most not a date invitation you have ever heard.
You tilt your head, studying him. “Bucky Barnes,” you say slowly, “are you asking me to skip my perfectly respectable Saturday plans to accompany you to the seaside – purely as a matter of logistics?”
He meets your gaze, jaw tightening just slightly. “Yes.”
“And not,” you add, with deliberate innocence, “because you enjoy my company.”
“That’s –” he stops, recalibrates. “That’s not what I said.”
“Mm-hm.” You let the syllables stretch, just enough to make him shift his weight.
There’s something almost endearing in it – the way he refuses to name things outright, like if he keeps them small enough they won’t scare you off. Or himself.
“So what you’re telling me,” you continue, turning back to the clothesline, “is that you’re abandoning your shift at the shipyard –”
“I’m not abandoning –”
“– skiving off, then,” you correct, sweetly, “in order to take me on a completely platonic, entirely incidental outing to Rockaway Beach.”
“They said they didn’t need me this week,” he mutters, which is not quite a denial.
You smile to yourself, smoothing out a sheet, just to give your hands something to do.
“And Steve’s just – what? Conveniently ill?”
“He is ill.”
“I’ll tell him you said that.”
You turn to face him, hands on your hips, letting him see the full extent of your scepticism.
He holds your gaze this time. There’s something in it – steady, quiet, a little too intent for a man who’s just offering up a spare ticket.
“Come with me,” he says, softer now. Not pushing. Just… there.
And that does something inconvenient to your chest.
Because the truth is, you would have said yes before he even finished asking. Because you have always been a little bit in love with him, in that patient, undramatic way that settles into the bones and refuses to leave. Because there is a part of you that has been waiting – foolishly, persistently – for him to look at you like this.
Which, apparently, he will.
You sigh, as though the world’s most put upon woman.
“Well,” you say, with great deliberation, “it would be terribly wasteful to let a perfectly good ticket go unused.”
Something in his shoulders eases – just a fraction, but you see it.
“Right,” he says. “Yeah. Exactly.”
“Purely for financial reasons,” you add.
“Of course.”
“Because Steve’s sick.”
“Because Steve’s sick.”
You hold his gaze for a second longer than necessary.
“Pick me up at eight,” you say.
And if he looks a little too pleased about it – well, that’s not your problem.
Bucky is early.
Not conspicuously so – nothing so gauche as arriving half an hour before the appointed time – but early enough that when you glance out the window and see him already on the stoop, hat in hand, hair still damp at the temples like he rushed a little more than he’d admit, something in your chest gives a small, traitorous tilt.
You take your time.
You smooth your hair, unnecessarily. Adjust the line of your sleeve. Consider, briefly, whether your new baby-blue pleated dress is too much for a seaside excursion conducted under the strictest understanding that it is not, under any circumstances, a date – and decide, with equal parts logic and stubbornness, that there will be no better occasion for it.
When you open the door, he looks up immediately – and then, just as quickly, looks away.
“Morning,” you say, as though the air between you is not suddenly carrying more weight than it did yesterday.
“Morning.”
Another beat. His gaze flicks back, steadies, then catches – just for a second – on the line of your dress, the way it sits just a touch nicer than it strictly needs to for a day trip you are both pretending is incidental.
You lift an eyebrow. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“Mm-hm.”
You step past him and onto the stoop, close enough that your sleeve brushes his arm – light, intentional, entirely defensible.
He goes still.
And you smile, because you are, at heart, a terrible person.
The trolley rattles like it resents the rails, all sharp corners and jostling turns, its windows thrown open to the heat of the city. You sit side by side on a narrow bench, your knees knocking every time it lurches, the air thick with the smell of hot metal and something sweet – caramel, maybe, from a vendor who boarded three stops in and never left.
Bucky spends the first half of the journey looking at everything except you.
He watches the conductor, watches the passing streets, watches the reflection in the window as though it might offer him an escape route. You, in contrast, watch him – openly, unbothered – taking quiet inventory of the way his shoulders relax by degrees as the city gives way to stretches of open sky, the way his hand rests on his thigh, fingers tapping out a rhythm he doesn’t seem aware of.
“By the way,” you say almost idly, as the trolley begins to slow at the sight of the ferry stop, “I saw Steve this morning. He sends his regards. He also asked me to inform you that you are, in his words, a knucklehead.”
Bucky startles. “What?”
“I went to see him,” you continue. “To make sure he wasn’t gravely ill or anything. You’ll be pleased to know I’ve never seen him look better. I caught him halfway out the door – something about trying to enlist again.”
He goes a touch sheepish.
You smile, already stepping ahead of him toward the water.
The ferry is better – unexpectedly so. Broad and steady, with benches worn smooth by years of use, the salt air cutting clean through the lingering heat of the morning. The city recedes behind you, all steel and concrete softened into something almost distant and manageable. Ahead, the ocean stretches out in that impossible, endless blue.
Someone hands you a picnic basket on boarding – sturdy wicker, tied with a ribbon that feels just a touch too nice for a Iittle day trip. You settle onto the bench beside him and untie it with ceremony.
Bucky watches – not the basket, you. You feel the quiet weight of his attention, and take your time with it. Inside: two sandwiches wrapped in wax paper, a small jar of something that might be jam, a wedge of cheese, and – most importantly – two plums, dark-skinned and perfectly ripe.
You lift one, pleased. “Well. This alone justifies the ticket pricing.”
You can hear the thoughts form in Bucky’s head. He’s looking at them – no, not just looking. Considering, in that careful, understated way of his, coming to a firm decision that he won’t regret.
A little puzzled, you offer them to him. “You like plums, don’t you?”
It’s not a question.
He exhales, almost a laugh. “They’re… alright.”
“Mm-hm,” you hum as you hand him the larger one. He turns it once in his hand, and then presses it back into yours
“Here.”
You blink. “That’s yours.”
“I know.”
“Bucky –”
“Take it.”
There’s something in the way he says it – quiet, certain – that makes you pause.
“You like them,” you repeat, softer now.
He shrugs, eyes already drifting out toward the water as though the conversation has concluded. “You’ll like it more.”
It’s a terrible argument, but you find that you accept it anyways.
“Fine,” you say, even as your heart skips a little beat. “But if it’s bad, I’ll expect compensation.”
That gets you a look – brief, sharp, amused. “Noted,” he says.
You bite into the plum, the skin giving way cleanly, juice spilling over your fingers before you can quite catch it. You squeak, more at the suddenness than anything else.
“Careful –”
Too late. The juice runs over your thumb, your wrist. You laugh, a little under your breath, and try to catch it, which only makes it worse.
“Here,” he says, already reaching. The handkerchief appears as though he’s been expecting this, and his hand closes lightly around your wrist to steady it.
It is, objectively, a practical gesture.
It does not feel like one.
His thumb presses briefly against the inside of your wrist as he wipes away the juice, slow enough that you are aware of it, quick enough that it could still be denied.
“Messy,” he mutters, more to the situation than to you.
“You gave it to me,” you point out.
“Yeah,” he says, a little rougher than before. “I did.”
A beat.
You glance down at the second plum, still resting untouched in the basket, then back at him.
“Here,” you say, and hold your half out.
He looks at it – at the mark of your bite, at the juice still bright along the edge. There’s a flicker – hesitation, something more complicated than that.
Then he leans in. He’s not close enough to touch you – close enough to take a bite. The moment stretches – thin, precise – as he straightens again, swallowing.
“Good?” you ask, lightly.
He nods once and doesn’t elaborate.
You don’t push, but you don’t miss the way he doesn’t look at you immediately after. Or that when he finally does, there’s something there that hadn’t been before – something quieter, and far less easily dismissed.
The both of you finish the plum together, passing it back and forth without comment, the sticky sweetness lingering on your fingers, your lips, the space between you.
The ferry cuts steadily through the water. The quiet that settles is not empty. It is, if anything, fuller than before.
Rockaway, when you arrive, is bright and loud and unapologetically alive.
The beach is crowded in that cheerful, chaotic way telling of a Saturday well spent. Families are staked out under striped umbrellas, children shrieking at the edge of the surf, vendors calling out over the crash of the waves. The sand is hot underfoot, the sun relentless, and the two of you fall, without quite discussing it, into the earnest choreography of settling in – he shakes out the blanket, you catch the far edge before it snaps back, both of you adjusting it in small, overlapping movements until you’re distracted from how little distance there is between you.
You insist on wading out farther than is strictly sensible, daring the waves to knock you off your feet; Bucky follows, muttering under his breath, but never more than an arm’s length away. When a particularly ambitious swell catches you off guard, it’s his hand that closes around your wrist, steady and unyielding, hauling you back before you can go under.
“Careful,” he says, low and sharp, like it’s a warning meant for himself as much as for you.
“You’ll catch me,” you reply, easy, as though that settles it.
It does not, but he doesn’t argue.
You spend the afternoon stretched out on the sand, the picnic basket between you, the sun turning everything slow and golden. You talk – about nothing, about everything, about things that don’t quite matter and things that very much do, slipping between them without friction. He tells you stories in fragments, as though he’s testing the weight of them in the air before letting them go; you meet him there, never pushing, never pulling away.
At some point, you fall quiet.
Not because there’s nothing left to say, but because the day has softened around you, the heat pressing your eyelids heavy, the sound of the ocean settling into something almost hypnotic. You lie on your back, staring up at the endless blue, aware of him beside you in that particular, heightened way that proximity creates.
When you turn your head, he’s already looking at you.
He looks away first.
By dusk, you are both exhausted in the best ways – sun-dazed, hair full of salt, skin warm and pink from the day’s indulgence. A good kind of tired.
The platform for the night streetcar back to Brooklyn is narrow, poorly lit, and entirely inadequate for the number of people now gathered upon it, all of them clutching bags and blankets and the vague hope of getting home before the storm breaks.
The air has changed; you notice it first in the wind, how it picks up without warning, sharp and insistent, tugging at the hems of skirts, sending sandy grit skittering across the platform. The sky. Which had been clear for a spectacular sunset not an hour before, is now bruised at the edges, clouds rolling in low and fast.
“Bucky,” you say, tilting your head back, watching the horizon disappear. “I think –”
And the rain arrives all at once.
It’s not a quick sprinkling, not the tentative start of something that can be waited out, but a full, unrelenting sheet of water driven sideways by the wind, soaking through clothes and hair and skin in seconds. Someone swears, ‘Hurricane!’ A little kid shouts excitedly as he gets pulled along by his frazzled mother as the crowd surges instinctively towards the meagre shelter that the platform provides.
Bucky’s hand closes around your wrist before you could even register the movement, pulling you back from the edge, positioning himself between you and the worst of it.
“Stay here,” he says, already scanning the tracks.
As though you could go anywhere.
The conductor appears with the air of a man who has long since accepted that the universe is not interested in his schedule. He shrugs, wide and helpless, rain dripping from the brim of his cap.
“Tracks are flooded,” he calls over the noise. “Last car’s been cancelled. Try again tomorrow.”
There’s a collective groan as you exchange a look with Bucky.
It is, in its own way, perfectly absurd.
“The bus?” you suggest, already knowing the answer.
“Closed,” he says, confirming it anyway.
Another beat.
Then, simultaneously: “We could –”
You both stop, laugh – soft, incredulous, the kind of laughter that comes when there are no good options left and you’ve decided, tacitly, to find that funny.
The only lodging within sprinting distance is Mrs. Doyle’s boarding house above the bait shop, its sign swinging precariously in the wind, paint peeling just enough to suggest character rather than neglect.
Inside, it smells faintly of salt and something that has been fried earlier in the day. Mrs. Doyle herself is a woman of indeterminate age and absolute authority, who takes one look at the two of you – drenched, sand-streaked, dripping onto her freshly polished floor – and says, without preamble, “One vacancy. Double bed. Take it or leave it.”
Bucky opens his mouth to protest.
You stomp on his foot and pay.
He carries your bags up three flights, the narrow staircase creaking underfoot, his jaw set in that particular way that suggests he is very carefully not thinking about something.
You follow, acutely aware of the way your dress clings – heavy with rain, fabric turned sheer in places you would rather it not be. The air is warmer inside, but not by much, and the damp only makes everything feel closer, more immediate. At the top of the stairs, he hesitates for a fraction of a second before opening the door.
The room is small, but not unkindly so. As promised, there is a bed – neatly made – a narrow window rattling in its frame, a chair tucked into the corner. It’s small in a way that offers no illusions about distance or privacy.
You step inside anyway, turning slowly, taking it in with the composed interest of someone who has decided, quite firmly, that you are not going to be flustered, no matter what happens tonight.
Behind you, Bucky sets the bags down with more care than necessary. The door clicks shut.
And then – nothing.
Not the comfortable quiet you’ve grown used to over months of knowing him, but something much thinner, more precarious. The already small room seems to contract around it. Even the storm outside, so loud on the stairwell, is reduced to a dull, steady percussion against the window, distant.
Somewhere, water drips. You fix on it immediately – on the uneven rhythm, the way it fills the space where conversation ought to be. It becomes, very quickly, unbearable.
“I should –” you blurt.
“You can –” he starts, at the exact same moment.
You both stop.
Abruptly enough that you both turn – too fast, too close – and nearly collide with the fact of each other.
For a second, neither of you recovers.
His gaze drops – reflex, unguarded – caught by the damp cling of your dress, the outline it no longer bothers to obscure. Just as quickly, it snaps back up again, ears flushing red in the low light, like he’s been burned by the mistake.
You feel it anyway, that flicker, that look.
The silence that follows is not an improvement.
It lingers, faintly mortifying, as though the room itself has taken notice and is waiting – patiently, expectantly – for one of you to behave with a degree of competence.
It certainly won’t be you.
Your eyes shut for the briefest moment as you gather yourself – too aware of your pulse, of the way the air has shifted, of everything that has just happened without being acknowledged.
“I’ll –” you manage, gesturing toward the adjoining door with a motion that is, at best, approximate.
“Yes – right,” Bucky agrees, at precisely the same moment. “You should –”
Another pause, shorter this time. No less disastrous.
You turn, despite yourself.
He’s already stepped back, as though anticipating your need for space before you did. One hand lifts in a small, almost formal concession – that he drops immediately, like even that was too much.
You nod, as though accepting an invitation rather than fleeing the scene of a minor but undeniable social collapse, and push your way past him with all the dignity available to a woman whose dress is still damp, whose thoughts are no longer entirely under control, and who is, quite suddenly, painfully, aware of both.
The door closes behind you and you allow yourself a single breath – sharp, unguarded – before your breathing settles again into something more manageable. The bathroom is mercifully private; the mirror, though slightly warped at the edges, proves unhelpfully honest. You brace your hands on the edge of the sink and look at yourself.
Your hair’s coming loose. Your skin’s still flushed. The dress – well. The dress is doing you absolutely no favours right now. You straighten anyway, smooth it down. Push your hair back like that’s going to fix anything.
Outside, beyond the thin piece of wood called a door, the floor creaks, just once. He’s still out there, obviously, but the reminder of it – of him pacing, or shifting his weight, or maybe even just standing there thinking is enough to make your stomach twist.
You exhale again, slower.
It would appear you are not the only one attempting, with limited success, to recover a sense of equilibrium.
You draw a steadying breath, turn the tap – not because you need to, but because the small, ordinary sound provides a useful counterpoint to the silence – and allow yourself one final moment of deliberation.
There is, after all, only so long one can reasonably remain in a bathroom without inviting speculation. And speculation, at present, is the last thing you desire.
By the time the bathroom door closes behind you, Bucky has already decided – firmly, decisively – that he is not going to make this worse.
It is, he reflects, a resolution he has arrived at several times over the course of the day, each one with diminishing success for its various reasons.
Mrs. Doyle, with the brisk efficiency of a woman who has seen every possible variation of human foolishness and elected not to comment on any of it, has taken pity on the both of you in the interim. The linens had arrived first – clean, if not particularly soft – followed by an armful clothing that appear to have been liberated from some long-forgotten fishing vessel.
He is, at present, attempting to negotiate with one of the shirts.
It is enormous, evidently owned by a man at least twice as large as Bucky. The cotton is stiff from repeated washing, the collar wide enough to sit awkwardly at his collarbone, and across the front – rendered in a shade of blue that has survived both time and poor judgement – is a fish of such improbable proportions that it can only be described as aspirational.
Beneath it, a slogan.
He reads it once. Then again.
He decides, with quiet finality, not to read it a third time.
The towel in his hands has already done what it can; his hair is still damp at the temples, the ends curling slightly in a way he knows will only worsen as it dries. He drags the fabric once more over the back of his neck, more for the sake of occupation than necessity, and lets it fall.
The room is too small.
Not physically – his room at home honestly isn’t much larger – but in the sense that there is nowhere for his attention to go that does not eventually circle back to the closed door across the room.
He has not sat down. He does not intend to.
The chair – narrow, wooden, positioned by the window in a manner that suggests it has never been expected to serve as a bed – has already, privately, been designated as his bed for the night.
It is, under the circumstances, the only reasonable course of action.
The alternative –
Well, he will not be thinking about the alternative.
The bathroom door handle turns.
He stills, instinctively, the towel going slack in his grip.
The door opens and whatever careful arrangement he has constructed in his mind – of distance, of propriety, of behaving like a man who has known you for years without incident – collapses with quiet, immediate efficiency.
You step back into the room, and Bucky Barnes, aged 23-and-a half, knows he’s well and truly screwed.
Your skin – he cannot, with any certainty, determine whether the colour is owed to the sun or the heat of the shower, and finds, unhelpfully, that the distinction matters. And the shirt – if it can still be called that, given the liberties it has taken with proportion – falls past your thighs, the hem shifting with each step, revealing and concealing in a rhythm that is far more distracting than anything shorter might have been. And the fabric – the fabric has been worn thin. Too thin.
He notices this in the same moment that he notices the slightest lift beneath the cloth, your nipples having pebbled into hard little points –
He looks away. Immediately.
The motion is sharp enough that it might, under other circumstances, have been interpreted as abruptness. Here, it is simply self-preservation. He exhales, once, slow and controlled, as though recalibrating something internal that has slipped its alignment.
“Uh –” Bucky begins, because speech, however ill-advised, is definitely preferable to silence. “Mrs. Doyle – she, uh – found some extra things.”
You glance down at the shirt, one corner of your mouth lifting despite yourself. “I noticed.”
He nods, eyes fixed somewhere just to the left of your shoulder, a safe, neutral point that requires no adjustment.
“Yeah. I, uh –” he clears his throat and immediately regrets it “– I’ve got one too.”
He realises, belatedly, that this is not information you require.
“Right,” you say, polite enough not to comment on the irrelevance.
The silence that follows is different from the one before. He moves before it can settle.
“I’ll take the chair,” he says, too quickly to be entirely casual, already turning toward it as though the matter is decided. “You should – take the bed.”
It is a reasonable offer. It is also, judging by the look you fix him with, the wrong one.
“Don’t be an idiot,” you insist.
He pauses.
“I – what?”
You gesture toward the chair, unimpressed. “Yes, by all means – do demonstrate how you plan to fold yourself into that and emerge in the morning with your spine intact.”
“It’s fine,” he insists, stubborn now. “It’s only for one night –”
“Exactly,” you cut in, quick, before you lose your gumption. “One night. So just get in the bed.”
He opens his mouth to argue, but you don’t give him the opportunity.
Your hand closes around his arm – firm, decisive, entirely unconcerned with the fact that this is, perhaps, the worst possible strategy for convincing him of anything resembling calm – and you tug.
He goes.
Not because he’s compelled to – he could, very easily, resist – but because the alternative would require a level of composure he no longer possesses.
The mattress dips as you guide him toward it, the space shifting under the combined weight, the proximity rearranging itself into something that is, quite suddenly, undeniable.
“See,” you say, cheeks pink. “Plenty of room.”
He looks at the bed.
Then at you.
Then, very deliberately, at the bed again.
There is, objectively, space.
This is not the issue.
He rubs a hand over the back of his neck, a gesture that has, over the course of the day, become both habit and refuge.
“Yeah,” he says, finally, voice a touch rougher than intended. “Looks like it.”
The lights have been out long enough that the room has comfortably settled into darkness, the storm reduced to a distant hush beyond the window. The bed, which had appeared adequate in the abstract, has revealed itself – upon practical application – to be barely sufficient.
Or perhaps it’s not the bed.
You’ve chosen to lie on your side – very deliberately on your side – back to him, arms tucked in as though neatness might somehow create distance where there is none.
Because Bucky Barnes is lying – not figuratively, but literally – right there. He’s close enough that you can feel the warmth of him without touching. Close enough that every shift of the mattress registers. Close enough that you are, quite unhelpfully, aware of the rhythm of his breathing.
You close your eyes.
You open them again.
This is fine, you tell yourself. Entirely fine. You have shared space with him before – schoolrooms, sidewalks, picnic mats, conversation that stretches late into the evening – all without incident. This is no different; this is merely an extension of that. A practical solution to a minor inconvenience.
It is not, you remind yourself, anything else. So you will go to sleep. You will –
Ah-choo! you sneeze.
It is loud.
Not catastrophically so, but loud enough in the small room that it feels like a declaration. You flinch immediately after, as though you might take it back, and shift a little under the covers, attempting to recover some dignity.
The silence that follows is immediate.
Then –
“Hey.”
His voice, low in the dark, just behind you.
“Are you asleep yet?”
You freeze.
There is, briefly, a very real consideration of pretending. You could, in theory, commit to it. Regulate your breathing. Ignore the question. People sneeze in their sleep, presumably; stranger things have occurred.
You do not.
“…Yes?” You say hopefully.
Another breath.
“Right,” he says, softly, as though confirming something to himself.
And then – nothing.
This is, somehow, worse.
Because now you are both awake. Which means the awareness you’ve been trying to ignore is no longer one-sided. Which means he can hear your breathing, the small shifts you make, the fact that you are very clearly not sleeping. You consider, not for the first time, whether turning over would improve or worsen the situation.
You stare at the wall.
This is fine.
This is –
“Cold?”
The question is gentle, careful.
You hesitate.
The air has cooled since the storm broke; the damp has not entirely left your skin, and the thin cotton of the borrowed shirt is doing more for modesty than for warmth. But the question feels – somehow – like more than an observation.
You nod anyway.
The movement is small, almost imperceptible, but in the quiet it feels sufficient. He does not respond immediately, and for a moment, you think – hope, perhaps – that the conversation has reached its natural conclusion.
Then there’s a slight shift behind you. The mattress dips and fabric rustles as he moves closer. Your breath catches, just a little. And then – more deliberate still – his arm comes around you. There’s a fraction of a second, no more, where it hovers, as though awaiting objection.
You don’t.
It settles at your waist, firm but careful, the heat of him immediate now, solid at your back. He draws you in just enough that you’re no longer balancing on the edge of the mattress, no longer pretending there’s distance where there isn’t.
“Better?” he murmurs, close enough now that the word brushes against your shoulder.
You exhale the breath you hadn’t realised you were holding.
It’s not an answer. It is, however, the closest you can manage.
And if you shift – just slightly – into the warmth of him, if your hand, almost without instruction, comes to rest where his arm crosses your waist –
Well.
It is, after all, a practical arrangement.
Nothing more.
And you lie like that for a while – listening to gentle pitter-patter of rain against glass, matching your breaths to his, telling yourself the heat blooming everywhere he touches is simply shared body warmth and nothing more. The quilt is thin, the storm unrelenting; any sensible person would do exactly this.
Still, your pulse flutters each time his thumb idly strokes the curve of your waist, as if it can’t decide whether to soothe or to claim. His breath fans the back of your neck in slow, measured drafts – controlled, disciplined, the way a man sounds when he is counting silently to keep from speaking.
“It’s warm now,” you whisper at last – only to realise how true it is, that the chill has been chased so thoroughly from your skin that every point of contact feels alive. Behind you his breath catches; something firmer than hip bone nudges the curve of your backside, unmistakable even through quilt and cotton.
“Bucky?” you reach back, half-afraid, half-certain, and your fingers brush the rigid outline straining his shorts.
He jerks, mortified. “Sorry – God, I’m sorry. Spent all day tryin’ to keep my head and –”
“Have you?” you roll to face him. A flash of lightning cuts across the room, picks out the hunger he can’t hide – the way his gaze drops to the rise and fall of your chest. You take his hand, guide it over your heart, let him feel the rapid thud beneath your breast and the soft peak beneath his palm.
“You can stop trying,” you hear yourself say, feeling very, very far away.
His answering sound is half-groan, half-confession.
At first, he treats the oversized shirt like fragile gauze, smoothing both hands up your sides as though afraid too much pressure might wake you from whatever spell has let him this close. His thumbs stroke tentative semicircles just beneath the hem of the sleeves, each pass gathers courage and cotton alike until the fabric rides high enough to bare the lower curves of your breasts to the thin storm-light.
Your answering breath, a soft, startled little “oh”, is all that he needs. He exhales, shoulders squaring, and cups you fully at last. Warm palms mould to pliant flesh; his thumbs sweep inward, hesitant, then firmer when a second, needier sound slips from your throat. Shyness melts by degrees – fingers knead, lift, and test weight as if cataloguing proof that you are real and here and his for the holding. “Sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice crushed at the edges, “tell me to quit and I will.”
“Keep going,” you whisper, and the plea opens something in him.
When his thumbs find your nipples – already stiff from cold and want – he pauses, seeking your eyes. You nod, dizzy with the ache of waiting, and he plucks. The quick sting blooms into heat so sweet your spine arches off the mattress. A second pinch, harder, makes your breath hitch; pleasure fissures through the faint scrape of pain, leaving both peaks throbbing and wet under his circling thumbs. You hear yourself whimper; he answers with a low, reverent curse, confidence catching like fire in dry grass.
He rolls the tender buds between finger and thumb – slow, deliberate, watching your lashes flutter shut – then bends to flick his tongue over one, soothing, before dragging his teeth across the tip in a barely there scrape. The soft-sharp contrast sends a pulse straight to your core; you gasp, and he does it again, emboldened, mouth and hands working in concert until every breath is a tremor and your world narrows to the bright ache of each practiced pinch and the soft heat of his tongue that follows.
You thread unsteady fingers through his hair. “James –”
“James now, is it?” he murmurs, the rumble of his words travelling straight through you. “Careful – you’re givin’ yourself away.”
Heat climbs higher, immediate and unhelpful.
You huff a breath – something halfway between a laugh and a protest – and push at his shoulder, not nearly as effective as you’d like. You press your lips together, trying – and failing – to compose yourself.
“Am I?” you murmur, and then, before you can think better of it – “You really like them, huh?”
You’d meant to sound teasing – flirty, even – but the words come out breathless instead.
Bucky freezes, cheeks flushing darker than the storm-lit room. “Sweetheart, they’re –” He swallows, eyes fixed where his palms cradle you, thumbs stroking shy little passes over the peaks. “They’re the prettiest damn things I’ve ever seen.”
Something hot and fond twists behind your ribs. You slip the shirt higher, baring skin to the waist. The cool air sets your nipples aching; his gaze goes a little wild.
“If you like them so much,” you murmur, sliding your fingers through the soft hair at his nape, “would you like to…fuck them?”
The word falls from your lips vulgar and velvet. Bucky’s breath leaves in a ragged rush, as though you’ve punched the air from his lungs.
“Jesus, sweetheart.” He sounds half-plea, half-prayer. “Don’t say things you don’t –”
“I do.” You guide his hand, letting him feel the heat low between your thighs – proof slick on his fingers. “I want you to.”
Whatever leash he’d kept on himself snaps. He kisses you, hard and grateful, then lies back, kicking free of his undershorts. Thick and flushed, his cock rests against the taut plane of his stomach, already beaded at the top.
You straddle his legs, breasts swaying just above him. His hands rise – still reverent, but no longer shy – kneading, lifting, thumbs circling until each nipple prickles with sharp pleasure-pain. You press the soft weight together, forming a warm valley.
“Like this?” you ask, voice gone husky.
He cannot speak. Hands rise – one to hold, one to guide – and he slides into the warm valley you create. The head emerges near your collarbones, silvered with moonlit pre-come, before retreating again, slow and reverent. A guttural sound breaks from his chest, half prayer, half disbelief.
You set an easy rhythm, gliding up and down, the soft press of flesh around him made slick with his own want. He groans, fingers flexing against your sides before wandering up to pinch your nipples, gentle at first, then sharper when your soft moan eggs him on. The mild sting fuses with heat, spiralling low in your belly.
“Look at you,” he rasps, the words breaking apart. “So damn beautiful – lettin’ me…fuck your tits.”
Each time the crown peeks near your chin you dart your tongue out, tasting salt. He jerks, fingers tightening on your breasts, urging firmer pressure, faster motion. You close your lips around the swollen tip as it rises, suck once, feel him twitch hard against your tongue. Pace tumbles into ragged thrusts; heat gathers under his skin like a fuse run too short.
“Gonna –” His voice cracks. “Gonna make a mess of you, pretty.”
“Please.” One hand slips between your thighs, circles the throb there, chasing your own crest even as you squeeze him tighter. The coil inside bursts just as he groans your name: thick pulses stripe your throat, chin, breasts in hot, shuddering bands. The sight – moonlight glancing off slick skin, his jaw clenched in blunt ecstasy – tips you off the edge; pleasure crashes through your limbs, sticky and incandescent. After, you fold against his chest, both of you damp and panting while the rain spends itself against the roof. He strokes your hair with fingertips still trembling.
For a long moment there’s only the storm and two hearts racing. Then he gathers you close, lips brushing the slick he left on your skin, thumb stroking a nipple already tightening again.
The morning trains may run, but neither of you will be in any rush to catch them.
yap! why yes, of course they got freaky in the fish shirts
DIVIDER: @/saradika-graphics
+ more bucky from me
