Bucky Barnes - False God
A/N & WC - I think this was requested as a blurb for an event that closed a couple months ago, but I liked the idea so wove it into another concept I'd had, and this happened. I don't own the character of Bucky Barnes, nor do I claim to. Please remember that the views I write aren't always my own and that I don't condone these actions, specifically big age gap relationships and underage drinking. This is, first and foremost, a work of fiction. 8.3k.
Warnings - Family friend!Neighbour!suburban!artist!Bucky, pet names, age gap relationship (reader is 20), underage drinking, fake ID, creep in the bar, Bucky being protective, smut: thigh riding, boob play, mutual masturbation. 18+
Summary - Your plans to rile Mr Barnes up backfire, but you might just get away with it. Religion's in your lips, and Mr Barnes is New York City.
‘Just docked in Auckland! Are you keeping the house clean? Is Mr Barnes checking in? NO PARTIES! Text back ASAP!’
You throw your phone across the room the second it buzzes, interrupting your jam to Taylor Swift. When your parents went away on a four month, worldwide cruise, the last thing you expected was a text from them at every single port reminding you to clean the house and cook nutritious meals and not leave laundry lying around. Nothing about how much they miss you, if at all. The closest they got to that was telling you from Bangkok not to have a big party to fill the ‘parent-sized hole’ in the house. As if. Mr Barnes is company enough, and he pops over every few nights with fresh groceries or a new book, just to stop you from getting deathly bored. It’s been over a month, and other than commutes to college, he’s the only face you’ve seen. And a bloody gorgeous one, too. His check ins have been the highlight of your time in the new house. And, though you’d never outwardly confess it, he played a big part in your choice of an in-state college rather than another New England school, despite his promise to visit. He never had to, because he always saw you for bi-weekly dinners with your parents during term time, and now in the holidays, he’s been left ‘in charge’ of you. What a joke, even he knows you don’t need minding, which is why his visits are fleeting. But something tells you that’s not the only reason.
You finish swiping on red lipstick and adjust your LBD. Alexa turns off your music, halting right in the middle of False God. I still do it for you, babe. All that’s left to do is slip your phone into the hidden pocket of your dress and buckle up your heels.
You double check the house one last time, locking the door as you leave. Your house is tucked up a crescent that’s virtually just grass. Off the track are driveways enough for two cars, but space between houses is just lawn, to the point you share a yard with three other houses, including Mr Barnes’.
His is the smallest house on the crescent since he lives alone, but the cottage he swells in is by far the cutest home around, from it’s trimmed garden to florally-adorned porch. It’s a typical 1920s cottage with a dark-wood door and interior design, including the banister. It’s quintessential of Mr Barnes, and though you’ve only been in there a couple times, it’s homely.
You walk up the path, tottering in your heels, and step by the porch swing. Mr Barnes opens the door after a single knock, his tight, layered shirts rolled up to his elbows, displaying his single muscular forearm.
“Y/N!” he says cheerfully, meeting your eyes, but a frown appears on his face when he glances down at your outfit. “Good to see… so much of you.”
You smirk to yourself, his reaction the one you desired. “I was heading out into the city for drinks with some friends… Am I allowed?”
“To drink? No, you’re underage.”
His arms fold over his chest, accentuating the muscles rippling beneath.
“Mr Barnes, I’m just meeting some college friends,” you lie, cocking your head to the side and batting your lashes enticingly, “please?”
He rolls his eyes, and you begin to bounce on your feet, one hand coming up to grip the door frame. Led by blind faith.
“Only if you let me drive you, and let me wait until your friends arrive. I��m your guardian for the time being, I’m responsible for you. I’ll collect you at midnight, as well, and stay in the city just in case.”
“Mr Barnes—” you protest, pouting like a child. This was not the outcome you desired.
“Bucky, c’mon.”
“Fine, Bucky. You don’t have to treat me like I’m five. I am an adult.”
“Yeah,” he scoffs, unfolding his arms to grab his leather jacket from the coat hook, “and you’re sure acting like it now. If you wanna go into the city to meet your friends, I will drive you there and back. Yes?”
Fuck. This is gonna backfire, and now you’ll still worship, and you might just get away with it. “Yes, Bucky.”
His car keys are in his hands a second later. “You’re wearing my jacket,” he then warns, “that boob-tube is unacceptable. You know what men are like.”
The warmth of his flesh hand bleeds into you from his hold on the small of your back. You want to shrug him off, prove you’re capable of walking to the car on your own, but it’s comforting. He opens and closes your door before sidling into the driver's seat and handing you the aux.
“Do you want me to stay closeby?” he asks, his voice tender, worried.
“What? No. Why would I?”
“In case anyone tries to pick on you and your friends. In case a man tries to spike your drink. In case a man comes too close. C’mon, doll,” his voice drops to a clandestine whisper, “I wish I could change all men, make them better people, but I can’t and I just want you safe.”
His heart is in the right place, as per, so you indulge him as Taylor Swift starts to play over the speakers.
“I’ll think about it.”
----
The drive is spent in relative silence while Bucky expertly navigates the backstreets of your suburb and out onto the highway until you approach the city. The navigation reads him the directions from there. Every now and again he turns his head towards you, his blue eyes catching on something, but the intrigue in him seems to have evaporated by the time you meet his gaze.
“Doll, why did you choose the lower east side? Are you sure you’re gonna be safe?”
“Um, yeah?” you say, albeit naively, because with his worry and, well, the fact you're a young woman, you can’t be too sure. “It’s convenient, close to the Williamsburg Bridge. You can wait with me if you want, though.”
“Just lemme find somewhere to park…” he trails off, strained, his eyes focussed on the road, his forehead lined, “this place is a goddamn slalom.”
“What’s a slalom?”
He deigns to face you, surprise pulling at his stubble-dusted cheeks as his metal hand controls the wheel. “An English major at NYU and you don’t know what a slalom is? You’re proper West Village.”
Whether you’re affronted or complimented you can’t be sure. Was it a compliment, an insult or a statement? Yes, NYU is right next to Greenwich, but you know… stuff.
“Well did you even go to college, Mr Barnes?” you challenge defiantly, enjoying watching his patience slip as he winds past honking yellow taxis into a side street just a five minute walk to the bar you claimed to be meeting your friends at. Maybe they’ll still turn up after you hectically texted them just after leaving Mr Barnes’ house. Doubtful.
“I attended Auburndale Art School in the thirties,” he announces, melancholy laced in every syllable. The car stalls, and the world hurries on outside your little bubble. “Graduated accelerated, first class with honours. Where do you think all the art in my house comes from?”
“You did all that?” Astonishment dizzies you as his home spins around your mind. Landscapes and contemporary pieces are in his hallway, kitchen and living room, framed and on canvas. You knew he did art, he always had a sketchpad and a pencil around, and you saw an easel that one time you slept over when you got locked out and your parents wouldn’t let you in. “Fuck, Mr Barnes, you’re incredible!”
“Well I’d better be,” he jokes, absently swearing at someone through the window, “because if my art didn’t sell then I wouldn’t be able to afford a place in the suburbs.”
“You could always live with me,” you blurt out, feeling his body temperature rise in the small vehicle. “Heaven knows my parents don’t give one, and I could do with the help.”
He chuckles again, but it’s not all in mirth, not as his flesh hand clasps around your thigh, sending electricity shocking throughout your every neuron. How does he always elicit such a reaction from a simple move?
“Maybe I’ll move in for the next three months, keep you in line, Doll.”
We might just get away with it. Religion’s in your lips.
“Or I could move in with you and just clean the house top to bottom before they get home?”
His lithe tongue darts out from between his lips, swiping over his upper lip and then his lower before it slips back in, before his arm finds its way around your shoulders, his darkening eyes honed in on your every precise move.
“As long as I have you all to myself doll. I might be able to teach you a thing or two about how to close your curtains…” ohhhh fuck. Your thighs clench involuntarily. “Or about how to hang laundry. Or how to use a lawnmower. Your domesticity is pitiful: I’m a man from the war era and I still know how to correctly iron linens.”
“Show off, you.”
He resumes laughing, deep and honeyed, feigning pain when you nudge him, only to dissolve into more laughter to match your giggles. He clicks open his door and slips, agile, around the side, opening your door and passing you the jacket.
“Come on,” he says, “let’s see if your friends arrive.”
He takes a vice grip on your wrist and hoists you up to the point your feet are barely on the ground. He then wraps his flesh arm around your waist, and uses his metal one to wave the traffic around the two of you until you reach the sidewalk on the street where the bar is. Even when he puts you down your heart doesn’t stop racing, your chest doesn’t stop tightening, your core doesn’t stop fluttering. He lifted you and carried you across the road like you were as light as a feather. Holy grief…
“Hand,” he demands.
“What?”
“Hand. You’re holding my hand before someone kidnaps you.” you arch a single brow at him, already knowing that pedestrians are going to be pissed at you for holding up New York walking traffic even in an evening. “I don’t trust men and I don’t trust you in the city.”
“You’re a man. Why should I trust you?”
Pain briefly flickers over his face before he realises you’re joking, exhaling as he seizes your hand with his flesh one and twines your fingers. He should know you trust him: he has a key to your home which he can use at any time, and he’s even used it before while you were asleep because he needed a cooking ingredient. He’s the trusted adult you turn to in times of need. How could he doubt himself? They all warned us about times like this.
“This is it,” you say after a few minutes of walking down the street hand in hand. “You can go now. I’m sure you have plans.”
“Doll, have you ever known me to do anything with anyone?”
You lean back against the wall of the establishment, thinking. That’s a good point actually. He’s a damn recluse. You’ve seen him with a nice man named Sam a couple times, but that’s been when you’ve taken sick days, and possibly with some girl you vaguely recall being called Rebecca at some point, but no. He rarely ever has company other than the neighbours, which is more of a courtesy than a friendship.
“Fair point, Mr Barnes.”
“Bucky. Call me Bucky. My name is Bucky, not Mr Barnes.”
“Sorry,” you say meekly, and shoot him an apologetic glance that you hope he catches in the dusk light closing in, tinged pink, on Manhattan. The silhouette of the skyscrapers looks heavenly, stars twinkling above, but you can barely see it all through the clouds of pollution that invade ninety percent of the sky. “My friends should be here soon.”
“No rush, doll.”
If you’re West Village, Bucky is New York City, and as he leans against you, his arm brushing mine, you don’t care whether or not your friends come… to the unconfirmed plans.
But then five minutes pass. And ten. Bucky hoists you up with one arm and sits you on his strong shoulders when he sees you’re struggling to stand in your heels. He says nothing to start a conversation, so you don’t either, and just thread your fingers through his dark locks. But then it’s been fifteen minutes. Twenty. And you don’t know what else to do.
Your cheeks flare, burning with an embarrassment that has you stumbling over your words and purposely avoiding his eyes when he settles you on your feet.
“They’re not coming are they?” he asks tenderly, sympathetically, tucking an errant lock of hair behind your ear. You shake your head. “I’m so sorry your friends are so flaky. You got all dolled up for nothing. Come inside with me, let me buy you a drink, hm? Then we can drive home.”
“Okay,” you whisper, “thanks Bucky.”
He holds the door for you to slip inside, shuffling over to the bar as he shucks his thumb over to the men’s room with a half smile. He may look in his late thirties—the age your parents believe him to be—but certain elements of his body, including his bladder, prove he’s a hundred. Chuckling, you shrug his jacket off once you reach the sleek black bar and lay it on the stool beneath you. Scanning the bottles, you begin to concoct your cocktail for the night depending on the brands. You’d usually order a strawberry daiquiri but you’re ont drunk enough to stomach their only brand of Malibu just yet. As you reach for your purse, though, there’s a looming presence behind you that doesn’t smell of cedarwood. This is why Bucky wanted to stay. We were stupid to jump, or at least you were, to the conclusion that you’d be safe from the creeps Bucky would carve his soul out to protect you from.
“Hey sweetheart,” his tenor voice croons, “you look like you need some company.”
Ew.
“No thank you,” you answer with confidence, not even bothering to look at him, “my neighbour is in the bathroom. He’ll be out in a moment.”
“Your neighbour?” He scoffs. “I’ll be your daddy if you let me buy you a drink. How about a vodka martini?”
“I said no thank you,” you repeat, grating out every word through gritted teeth.
“You don’t mean it though baby,” he slurs, beer scented breath invading your nostrils like poison, “just take the fuckin’ drink and don’t be a brat, eh? I’m giving you attention, complimenting you. That’s what you want in a dress like that, ain’t it?”
“HEY!” Bucky yells, and all of a sudden, the world is at rights again. “You get the fuck away from her, ok?”
His voice is warning as he speed walks, the villain walk that scares you. He’s got a very dangerous arm, you know he has, and he’s not afraid to use it.
“You the neighbour?” This bloke chokes. “She doesn’t need your ride home, she’s coming with me.”
Shit.
“Bucky...” you whimper, feeling him come closer.
“You’re okay, Doll,” he assures you.
This man won’t be, not as Bucky crowds towards him. He reveals his metal arm now, rotating it all the way round as he clenches his fist, metal crunching as he does so. One hand lands posessively on your shoulder.
“Jeez, ok I’ll leave her alone,” the sleaze concedes. “Maybe just wear a smarter dress next time.”
A flash of metal blurs in the corner of your eye, and the pound of flesh sounds through the entire bar, followed by the subtle squeaking of Bucky’s arm around this man’s throat.
“She said no. Multiple times. Her choice of dress reveals nothing about her sexual availability, just like your shitty talk says nothing about your dick size. Besides, she isn’t even old enough to drink. I warned you to get away from her. If you don’t leave right now then you won’t live to regret it. Yes?”
He nods and scampers away the minute Bucky’s metal fingers slacken, wheezing for breath. Bucky then sets his arm straight, brushes off his shirt, and shakes his head, sidling up on the barstool beside you. The bartender looks over at the two of you from the opposite end of the place, and nods. The singular movement says ‘he deserved it.’ Yes he did. But Bucky won’t meet your eyes, and instead stares out of the bar to where you were standing before. Staring out the window like I'm not your favorite town.
“Mr Barnes? What is it?”
“I’m looking for your friends. Are they the ones who come over for those pamper nights where you never close your balcony doors?”
Slightly startled, you reply, “Yeah, um, Ophelia and Yoe and Bon.”
“I thought so. They’re rude.”
“Bucky! You’ve never even met them!”
“Yeah I have.” His attention turns towards you now, his gaze fixated, focussed as he explains. “I’ve been outside gardening once or twice when they’ve come over. I said hello, shouted that the door was open, because it always is with you,” true, “and they didn’t even say anything, but went on gossipping.”
“That’s because you’re fit as fuck,” you deadpan, and his reaction clearly tells of his surprise, “they don’t know how to speak to you.”
“What? I’m not attractive! Well, I used to be. 40s handsome, y’know? But no one’s interested now.”
Before you can reply to his obliviousness, the bartender waltzes over and asks for your orders.
“Pink gin and elderflower tonic. Single, please,” you order, and flash your fake ID for long enough to pacify them.
Bucky sits, open mouthed staring at you with incredulity dancing in his eyes. A smile dissolves as he shakes his head a little. “Whiskey on ice, please. You don’t need my ID.”
“Got it, Sir,” they say, and nod to the both of you, heading off to make your drinks.
Bucky says, “Fake ID? Really?”
At the very same moment you tell him, “You’re the most gorgeous person I’ve ever seen.”
Which ends in a simultaneous, “What?!” But he gestures for you to go first once your glasses slide across the bar in front of you, sweat dripping from them.
“I have a fake ID so I can drink. Pretty self explanatory, I think. I rarely use it. And yes, you are very, very attractive.”
“You really think so?” he inquires, almost timid.
Is this 6-foot Herculean God seriously asking if his tall, dark and handsome (and peachy) ass is attractive?
“Yes.” You take a sip from your drink. “Everyone in the crescent does.”
The affrontation with which he blinks has you in giggles.
“I didn’t realise. Why? What makes me attractive?” He drinks from his glass, slamming it back down with his eyes widening the moment you arch a brow. “Shit, I keep forgetting that you’re twenty. I beg your pardon, don’t answer. God, I’m sorry…”
“No, no, it’s fine,” you assure him, “you’re a ‘dilf’ by your age, even though you have no children.”
“And what, pray tell, is a dilf?”
“A dad I’d like to fuck,” you state, sipping your drink, “fuck, no not me. Just that’s what it means.”
“Alright, doll. Whatever you say.”
“Why?” you inquire, “did the girls not think you were handsome back on the day?”
He drums his fingers against the bar, deep in thought. He shifts his jean-clad legs until his knee brushes yours, the faintest contact rippling through you like a firework. His answer is pensive.
“In the forties, the ladies said I was attractive, like boyish cute. But they liked me for my reputation. I could please them, and I was pretty well, um, y’know…”
He darts his eyes away, subtly sipping on his drink.
“No, Mr Barnes. I don’t know. Please tell me. Please spell it out for my naive little mind.”
“You ain’t that naive,” he grumbles under his breath. If only he knew. “They said I was well endowed. The serum, um, built that up. I’m not sure if I’d even fit in anyone now.”
“I’m happy to be a test dummy,” you say, giggling drunkenly, the gin going to your head. You’re joking, of course, but watching Bucky pale and nearly spit the final mouthful of his whiskey out is worth it… even if you weren’t entirely kidding.
“Shut up. The point is that they liked me for my size, for sex, not looks. I was always insecure about that.”
“Bucky! I don’t want to know about your dick!” You do, but he can’t know that.
“Sorry, doll. My turn to ask.”
Devilishly, you smirk, daring him to go far. “Fire away.”
“Why did you kiss me last year?”
Not that fucking far, Jesus Christ. You wheeze so loudly you could swear the entire bar population turns to look at you, but as your eyes dart around the half-dim establishment, they all seem to be absorbed in their own worlds. Bucky’s head is cocked to the side, expectant. “Can you un-ask that question, please?”
“No take backs,” he smirks.
You huff, downing the rest of your gin and tonic, slamming the glass down with the stem. “Fine. I was drunk, stupid. I’d just turned nineteen and I wanted to be a little reckless. Besides, you kissed me first.”
Does he always look so owlish when he’s surprised? And since when has his voice gone that high? His cheeks so flushed?
“What, when?!” he demands.
“On your hundredth birthday. I bought round that cake, and the letter I petitioned for from the queen, and…” you trail off and squeak, the memory already flustering you despite the pure innocence of it, “you kissed me.”
“Yeah,” he laughs breathily, relief floating in his tone, “on your cheek you horndog.”
You raise my eyebrows, prying, “You don’t know what a ‘dilf’ is but you’ll call me a horndog? Wow.”
“Shut up!” He nudges you with his shoulder, electricity shocking your clouched frame upright. You cross your legs. “Your question now.”
“Why do you not like being called Mr Barnes?” You have some ideas…
“Because it makes me feel old.”
“But you are old.” Were we not just talking about his life in the forties? About his hundredth birthday? Christ…
He gapes momentarily, hastily adding, “That’s not the point,” before pushing his glass across the bar. “Come on, doll. Time to go.”
“No!” you whine in protest, keeping your feet planted on the legs of your barstool, eyes skimming the bottles on the shelves in debate of your next drink…
“Yes.”
And the next second you’re thrown in a fireman's lift over his shoulder, his metal arm hooked around your lower back: dangerously close to your bum. He fishes a ten dollar bill and a couple coins from his back pocket and slams them on the black, sticky bar before exiting. You can’t stop giggling over his shoulder even as he carries you unabashedly down busy New York streets at night, your fists playfully beating on his strong chest as the blood swirls in your head. It doesn’t even pass your mind that your dress is very short and that your panties are even smaller.
We were stupid to jump.
He all but throws you into the car, clearly not co-operating with your antics tonight, perhaps exacerbated by your daring questions. Or maybe, wishful thinking getting the best of you, it could be something else, for example something straining his jeans that definitely weren’t that tight when you left the house.
He hops into the car half-smiling and, jamming the key into the ignition, starts to roll away. One good evening together and you had to go and blow it all up by mentioning the very reason why your parents shouldn’t have left you under his ‘supervision’ for the months they’re away. Not only are you an adult, he’s clearly sensitive, and you don’t know your boundaries if one comment can cause him to react like this.
At least he still lets you choose the aux, Taylor Swift filling the car while no words are exchanged between the two of you.
They say the road gets hard. They aren’t wrong.
True dusk closes in and envelops your world as you drive further from the bright lights of the big city and approach the sparse suburbs, trees shadowed and arching around your hometown. Even the stars that shine don’t shine so bright, twinkling in the sky as you’re able to see the ink spilling over the earth.
Your romanticism of the journey home and the acoustic tracks that spill from the speakers don’t make the drive any less tense. He opens your door when you get back to his house, still, and makes his way up the path, unlocking his own door and leaving it open for you as he drops his keys in the bowl and saunters through the house. You half smile at the casualness of the action. We might just get away with it.
Gathering your belongings, you step out of the car on unsteady footing and totter inside, glimpsing at your house. It’s so… unhomely compared to Bucky’s. It barely even looks lived in. Both cars are in front of the house, the kitchen and landing lights on, the alarm system activated, the latter two which you can control with your phone. You can survive without going home.
“Mr Barnes?” you call when you step into his humble abode, closing the door behind you as you hang your coat and bag on the hooks built into the wood paneling by the front door. The house swallows your voice, but Bucky appears from the kitchen, his hair more mussed than before.
“Hey doll,” he says tiredly, “make yourself at home. Mi casa es su casa and that. Pick a film out, your choice. Want anything?”
Your heart skips a beat, your body suddenly growing tingly as you direct yourself into his living room and tuck yourself up into the corner of his beat-up couch. The remote balances on the arm, half slipping between the cushions. You put his TV on and instantly hook up the netflix app from your phone, since it’s the most basic TV you’ve ever seen; big, yes, but with three channels and nothing else. He has a VCR player, but where he stores those you’ve no clue.
Just as the credits of your chosen movie begin to play, the fanfare blasting out through the speakers, you stand up and reach for the heavy curtains draped over the front bay window, but one warm, heavy hand lands on your hip before you can.
“They’re stubborn,” he whispers in a half-strained voice as an explanation for touching you in such a way and leaning right over you, his body pressed flush up against yours. He is built, and he’s making you incredibly flustered, so much so that he can probably feel the heat radiating off every part of your body right now. Nonetheless he sorts the curtains and leads you back to the couch with his hand still on your hip. He doesn’t even let go once he’s seated beside you, but shifts his grip lower and settles on your thigh. And, of course, he man-spreads, the sight instantly sending your hormones berserk. And with good reason, too. The sheer bliss riding one of those tree trunks would entail…
“What movie we watchin’, doll?”
“Notting Hill,” you tell him, batting your lashes.
“How long is it?”
“Two hours,” you trail off, but hasten to add, “b—but we can finish it another day, or not at all. I know it’s too late to stay and to bother you.”
His grip increases, his eyes darkening to a hard shade of royal blue as his metal arm plays absently with the spine falling off a book on one of the built-in shelves spanning the walls. “I thought we’d been through this. You can stay as long as you like. If you wanna grab some stuff from your place you can live here while your parents are gone, or even just stay for the night. If you don’t want to stay then you don’t have to, I’ll try not to be offended,” his smile softens this blow, “but whatever works, it’s up to you.”
Wow. Unfortunately you don’t hear that often. Everything in your life is centred around your parents, which isn’t exactly fun, especially when it gets you landed alone in the house for months on end, your only company the neighbour you made out with that one time when you were drunk out your mind. Staying sounds nice, though. Earlier it seemed like a joke, but now? You could see yourself living in his cosy home, at least for the foreseeable future.
“Thank you, Mr Barnes.”
“Bucky!” he cries. “My name is Sergeant James ‘Bucky’ Barnes so even calling me Mr is wrong. Doll, just call me Bucky.”
He’s not angry, thankfully. His outburst is one of tension release, not of fury thankfully.
“I’m sorry. It’s not you, it’s me—”
“It’s ok, Bucky,” you assure him, calming the storm of remorse in his eyes. “I get it.”
Your smile segues into the start of the movie, Hugh Grant bespectacled and clad in his nice button-up shirt, and both you and Bucky are transfixed, but he still doesn’t move his hand.
I know heaven's a thing, I go there when you touch me.
You watch the film with the same enamoured expression you wore the first dozen times you watched it, warmth from Bucky’s unmoving hand seeping into your skin and intoxicating your soul.
Bucky pretends to be keeping up with the movie, pulls surprised faces at the right time and makes occasional comments about Spike in particular, but the entire time, his eyes are on you. You can feel it, the way his baby blues hone in on you when you bite your lip, or smile, or start to mime the words… yeah, his main focus is your lips. Other than when something big happens and you clasp his large bicep, or when a cringe scene comes on—“oh my fucking god, it’s the horse and hound bit,” you cried—and you bury into his shoulder.
You’re able to sit still with him for almost an hour and a half before you’re getting antsy.
“M— Bucky?” His head perks up as you call his name and pause the movie. “I’m going to the restroom and grabbing a drink. You need anything?”
He’s already scrambling up from the sofa, using your thigh as leverage. “I’ll get you a drink, doll. What do you want?”
“I’m already going that direction. Loo still behind the utility?” He nods. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
You pry his fingers from your leg and adjust your dress, pulling it down your thighs as you stumble out of the room, clutching the wood paneling and glancing at the wonderful paintings spanning the house.
Meanwhile, your phone screen keeps flashing with notifications, and since you left it on the couch and on airplay, they’re all currently being projected onto the TV. Bucky couldn’t not see them even if he wanted to.
Mom: We’re back on the boat, niow. Why didn’t you text us back? Call us the second we text next!
He ignores that one, but those from your friends catch his attention more than a little.
Lia: we here! where u at?
Bon: did he not invite u in omfg wtf u looked too hot in that dress
Yoe: At the bar bby ,,, sorry we’re late ! Did he drive you home? Lmk xo
“Doll?” Bucky calls, “come here, please.”
Your stomach sinks. All you were doing was grabbing some water, what the fuck has happened?
“What is it, Mr Barnes?” Your eyes flicker to your phone in his hand, texts continually coming through in your notification bar, and then they fly to the TV screen.
He presses the power button, and it switches off. He then holds one arm, the metal one, out expectantly, waiting for you to fall, apparently, into his lap judging by the beckoning movements of his robot hand.
“Care to explain these?”
Your cheeks must be radiating heat at this point. You place your glass of water down as you settle into his grip. His vibranium hand slides to grip your waist.
“It’s not what it looks like, Mr Barnes.”
“Really?” He arches a dark brow. “Because it looks like you weren’t supposed to meet your friends in the first place, but were expecting someone to invite you in.”
You squeak, wilting under his intense gaze that you can’t seem to meet. Your voice is quiet when it comes out, “Okay it’s exactly what it looks like. But I wanted you to invite me in, not let me go out. You’re so nice… why did you have to let me do that when I could’ve come in the first time?”
“Because you deserve to be an adult and have your freedom, doll. But if you pull something like that again, I’ll send you back to your house, ok? No going out, no coming here.”
“So you’re not gonna punish me?” you ask naively, knowing the double entendre your words hold.
You can't talk to me when I'm like this, daring you to leave me just so I can try and scare you.
“No baby girl…” he trails off. “I know what you wanted.”
Shit. If he knows now, he can put it all together. Everything from tonight, from the past year…
You pluck at the couch cushion and whisper in a broken voice, “What did I want, Mr Barnes?”
“To not be alone,” he states, as plain as day. His flesh hand comes up to your cheek, brushing your hair away from your face as he cups your jaw with a tender caress, his cerulean eyes searching yours. “I know you’ve never been alone in the house for this long before. It must be a lot for you to suddenly be left alone for months on end. But you don’t have to— to plot in order to come round. Just drop me a text and ask to watch a movie with me, or knock on the door. I like you, y/n. I like spending time with you.”
Your heart is in your throat, your head swarming with memories as doubt settles like a heavy stone in the pit of your stomach. “I didn’t think you would. Not after…”
“After you kissed me last year?” You nod sheepishly. “Why would I not want to spend time with you?”
“Because you never talked about it again.” He moves to speak, but you cut in first, suddenly finding your voice, your flame, your strength. A smith overtakes your lips “And I’m fine with being alone, Sergeant Barnes. I wanted you to see me in this dress and want me. I wanted you to pull me into the house and kiss me til I was breathless, take me the way you wanted to. I didn’t want company, Bucky. I wanted you.”
But we can patch it up good, make confessions and we're begging for forgiveness.
Flame darkens his eyes the second yours meet them, searching for something, anything. Just as they start to cloud with lust, his lips are on yours, rough and carnal and hard. You gasp at the sudden pressure and he grants himself the opportunity to slip his tongue into your mouth, sweeping and tangling with your own tongue that takes a moment to react, your chest colliding with his, feeling every muscle ripple.
He’s certainly made you breathless, and his kiss alone brings back memories from your fateful nineteenth birthday. The way he pushed you away with a feeble hand on your bare shoulder after you planted one on him, only for it to fall to your hip the second you parted your kiss-swollen lips and batted your doe eyes at him. He pulled you in then similarly to today: his grip strong and his mouth hungry. He’s a man who knows what he wants, and the second he kisses you tonight, every ounce of guilt from the year before dissipates. Once he got a taste of you he knew he’d want more. And he has. Every. Single Day. Seeing you in your little skirts and your crop tops was a living hell… but you never mentioned it. So neither did he. Despite being able to taste the build up of wantonness in your first embrace. Every time he’s come over the past month he’s had to leave before pinning you to a wall and feasting on you until you cry from the pleasure he knows only he can provide.
You draw back for air, taking in your forgotten surroundings. Bucky leans back, his eyes transfixed by your chest, your pert nipples and heavy breasts.
“I’ve barely been able to keep my eyes off your tits all night, Doll. You really should’ve chosen a less see-through dress.”
“It’s see through?” you wheeze, eyes widening. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
He leans back nonchalantly, slinging an arm on the sofa behind him, “I was enjoying the view.”
Just as you begin to shield your hands, your dress is ripped from your chest, your boobs spilling into Bucky’s awaiting hand. The metal only emphasises the back-arching pleasure he offers by pinching and teasing your buds, the harsh chill rising goose-bumps from head to toe.
“And don’t think I missed that wet patch in your…” he lets his words fall off pensively, “can you call that scrap of lace underwear?”
If your face turns any hotter you might let off steam. Embarrassment sizzles throughout your nerves, prickling at your fingertips.
“‘M sorry Bucky,” you mumble.
You know how he saw: carrying you over his damn shoulder. But then again a 6ft tall, dark & handsome man with chivalry last seen three-quarters of a century ago carrying one over his shoulder is enough to make anyone wet.
“Oh no, doll,” he reprimands, “don’t be. I really rather enjoyed the sight. Now what d’you say, we get rid of your dress all together.”
You nod, drawing your lower lip between your teeth as you ferret for the bottom of his shirt and begin peeling that up. It’s a fair exchange, and he indulges you. Using the hand prior on the back of the couch, he removes his tight shirts in one fell swoop and reveals his body to you, scars and all. You can’t help your eyes straying to the scratches by his prosthetic.
“Bucky…”
“No baby girl,” he shushes you, “look down.”
You’re met with sculpted abs galore, pale skin taut over his muscles, no hair in sight. A fine sheen of perspiration causes him to glow. When you glance further down, you see the bulge in his pants you felt just hours before. Wow. There ain’t a false god anywhere in sight if that’s what you’re dealing with.
Bucky’s eyes roll back into his head as your nails rake teasingly over his pecs, skimming his abs. He releases a low groan, and his strong hips involuntarily buck up into yours, eliciting a gasp as his hard member slips over your barely clothed core. The groan he emits this time is purely feral.
“You wanna ride my cock doll?” he asks gutturally.
Instantly you flush, body going rigid. “If you’re sure, Sergeant Barnes.”
Apparently this is a dead giveaway, the way you can’t meet his eyes with his vulgar use of language, your legs clamping around his, your chest tightening.
“You’re a virgin?” He brings his fingers up to your cheek, brushing tenderly. You nod abashedly. “Oh baby girl, there’s nothing to be ashamed of. We’ll work our way up to that, no point tearing that pretty pussy open when you’ll look so good riding my thigh instead...”
And that is certainly not what you were expecting either: you were ready to be cast out the door.
“Really?” You bat your lashes.
“Really. Now let’s get you out of this dress.”
He helps you wriggle out of the flimsy material and flings it halfway across the room, discarding it before both of his hands are spanning your spine and drawing you in close until your bodies are so close together there isn’t even a sliver to separate you. And when he kisses you, long and passionate and viscerally raw, you wouldn’t have it any other way. He tastes of whiskey and hope. His shadow of stubble starts to tickle your cheeks, eliciting a faint giggle as you wriggle on his lap.
“Do that again,” he pants between placing kisses to your exposed jaw.
“Do what?”
“Fuck, rub yourself over me.”
As though you’re as light as a feather, he lifts you up with a bruising hold on your hips and situates you above one thick thigh. His muscles tense as you trap him there, lifting you a fraction and sending a ripple of stimulation through your core.
“Bucky!” you mewl.
“Fuckin’ love those pretty little noises baby doll,” he purrs, and upon watching the pleasure contort your face as he drags you over his leg, adds, “and your pretty little face all fucked out for me.”
“For you, Bucky, only for you!”
Your hips begin to move of their own accord, rocking against him desperately. He was on about your face but Christ if his rosy cheeks and parted lips aren’t heavenly. Your pushing and pulling movement causes heavy drags of your clit against his jeans.
“C’mon, you can do better than that.”
His condescension sends a whimper up your throat, your calves quivering trying to keep you upright. You shake your head.
“You want a hand, baby doll? Okay…”
By hand you certainly don’t expect his metal one to come clamping down on your hip, alleviating the tension in your calves which reignites itself right in the pit of your stomach, and suddenly spins into a coil when his movements speed up. And that’s before his flesh fingers pull your string of panties aside and he rubs the part of your pussy he can access between your heart grinds on his thigh.
“Ohmygod, Bucky!” seems to be the only sensical thing you can say.
He isn’t fazed by your outburst, your exasperation, the building heat rippling throughout your every cell. In fact, he’s all lazy smiles and nonchalance as he holds you at his whim and hums to himself in satisfaction, rubbing his fingers through your drenched folds.
It doesn’t just end there, with you barely able to blink from being so entranced by his pure beauty. No. He has to do the most Bucky thing in the world, that has your knees and your pussy quivering, and your throat hoarse from nearly crying out in pleasure.
He brings his slick fingers up to his mouth, holds your gaze, and wraps his tongue around them languorously, only dating his lashes to flutter once the taste of you is invading his senses.
“You taste delicious, Doll. I’ll have to get a proper taste one day.”
“Fuck!”
And this god of a man has the fucking audcaity to laugh. Two can play at that game.
Desperately trying to regain some degree of composure, you fumble for his belt. Then the button of his jeans. Then the zip. He’s too preoccupied with his fixation on your bouncing tits to care too much about it… until you wrap your hand around his length and girth, adjusting to his weight in your hand even within the constraints of his boxers.
His low chuckle rumbles through your chest, your knees digging into the sofa for purchase, “You’re salivating, baby.”
And you’re not even surprised, not when his huge member is pulsating with desire in your grip.
Freeing him from the constraints of his boxers, you revel in the glory of his cock, long and thick and beading with pre-cum. Bloody hell, he wasn’t wrong. If you weren’t already teetering so close to the edge with only his hold on you to give your movement a steady rhythm, you might say something about how hard he is just from watching you… You start to stroke him, skilfully, slowly, and you get to watch his resolve crumble, until he can’t take it anymore, and your nipple is in his mouth.
Your blasphemous moans must echo for miles.
“I was sick of watching them bounce,” he shrugs as an explanation, “your tits are so pretty they need to be marked up.”
So they do. Because your one boob looks spectacular with his teeth marks and a hickey forming. But you want to taste him now, feel his tongue wrapped around yours. And that you get, a messy, heated kiss that drives your hips back into action, your hand moving steadily up and down the flesh of his cock. He seems to be enjoying it.
As you ride his thigh, bouncing and grinding and circling your hips, your boobs bounce with you, as he said, but this time, while your mouths are pressed hotly together, he gets hit in the chin, but the groan that escapes him isn’t the anticipated one of annoyance, bur rather one of pleasure, as his grip on you increases, and his kiss becomes more passionate, stealing your breath away.
“Can feel you drenching my thigh, pretty doll. God I’ll need these jeans laundered but if this ain’t worth the hassle…”
Your hips begin canting of their own volition now, regaining the prior friction on his beefy, flexing thigh.
“I still worship you,” he groans.
“Even if I’m a false god, Sergeant Barnes?” you ask, fluttering your lashes.
His lips fuse with yours, “Religion’s in your lips, the altar is your hips. You still do it for me, Doll. You always fuckin’ will...”
With one final punishing drag, your clit tingles, and slowly those tingles ripple through every nerve in your entire body, and you’re falling off the cliff and into an ocean of euphoria you never want to stop swimming in. Your pussy flutters, your fingers lose their grip, but not before you feel a hot sticky substance spill over them. Your pleasure is heightened by the sole thought that you made him come.
When you come around, you find yourself in his arms, your chests flush together as he cradles you softly. Your legs feel a bit sticky from being stuck on the couch for so long, but that’s the least of your problems. You smile dazedly up at Bucky, half lidded eyes widening to see as much of his beautiful face as is humanly possible.
“Hi.”
“Hey, doll,” he greets, a lopsided grin matching his words.
“That was nice.”
“Very nice,” he chuckles, “I agree. More than nice.”
You nod, “What next?”
“Nothing.” This answer causes your eyes to widen, your head tilting to the side as you search his blue eyes for a twinkle of humour that may not have been present in his words, but you find nothing. “We’ve got time.”
“Does that mean I should go back home,” you ask, drawing your kiss-swollen lip between your teeth.
“Of course not! You can stay here tonight. My room or the spare?”
“Yours… if you’ll stay?”
Your final request comes out hushed, a clandestine whisper, but Bucky still hears, and brushes a kiss to the tip of your nose.
“Course, doll.”
He scoops you up into both arms, your clothes long forgotten about, as he holds you close to his chest. His caution ensures your body doesn’t bounce as he makes his way up the stairs, and from the angle, you’re able to see more of the incredible art decorating his cottage. He kicks open the bedroom door with one foot, and lands you on the plush, king-sized bed.
“I’ll be back in a sec,” he tells you.
You watch him disappear through a door built in to look like the wood paneling of his room, and hear his footsteps on the chequered floor as he runs the tap, returning a moment later with a shirt in one hand and a washcloth in the other.
“Open up, doll,” he prompts, his flesh hand prying your knees apart. He dabs around a little down there, gentle in every movement, before passing you his shirt. “Choose a side.”
You do, a smile etched upon your face as you peel back the duvet and snuggle underneath. The pillows smell like him, his woody cologne, and on the wall above you is a mural in Mr Barnes’ style. The night sky, with overhanging branches, mountain peaks and lilypad covered rivers. It feels like a hug from nature, but even that can’t beat the hug from bucky once he slides in beside you.
“Thank you, Bucky,” you mumble as he flicks off the light.
“Anything for you, doll. You feeling okay?”
You hum, but the next attempt he makes at speaking, he doesn’t even get that, since you’re fast asleep. He can’t help smiling to himself as he types out a message to your parents.
y/n is fine, safe and well. She’s just tired from a busy day. Don’t worry: I’ve got my eye on her.
He chuckles to himself at the double meaning, his eyes roving over your pretty face as you sleep, lips parted and lashes fluttering. But one thought passes through his mind as his message flickers over the ‘send’ button;
We might just get away with it.
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