Chapter Text
The sound of a storm, pouring heavily outside with wind howling, knocking against the windows, and being as loud as the skies allow, it was now tainted. Painted. It would never be the same for you.
Not when it was the soundtrack to Bucky standing right behind you, his whole body's front glued to your back, one arm wrapped around your shoulder as his hand held your face in his hand, and the other arm wrapping around your middle, his other hand busy making a mess of every cell in your body. Touching you. Buried inside your panties, his fingers circling your clit or dipping inside of you.
His breath on your ear and the stubble rubbed on your neck and cheeks turned you delirious. A whole month of doing nothing more than a few kisses and in one night, he does this.
In your ear, Bucky groans. "So good like this. I missed hearin' the little noises you make," his mouth kisses the part that it can reach of your face, and you want to tell him to speed up, but then remember what brought you to be bent over his kitchen counter with Bucky turning your reality to something mellow, and red, and sinful:
"I just wanna see you feel good for a little. I wanna touch you. Can I? Can I take my time just... touching you?"
That's when you learned Father James would be the death of you.
It all started because you decided to help him clean after the Church's latest event instead of going home.
Bucky accepted your help, and you two managed to update one another on your week as you helped him around the Church. Outside, the sky did its watercolor dance throughout the last hours of the daylight, and you two smiled and flirted while moving boxes, cleaning the kitchen, and discussing yourself as well as others.
After what happened at the confessional, Bucky had done what he said he would:
Took you on dates. Picked you up, asked you more questions now that were not only about the world and the wonders, and 'did things the right way'. For the past month, you got to know more of him than you did in a whole year.
It was fun. Exciting, emotional, and nerve-wracking.
Bucky's eyes on you made you feel things you thought could only be felt in books or movies—the way he looked at you sometimes did that.
The things he said.
"It's kinda hard for me to let... people in. Most of the time. But not with you."
"I like it when you tell me these things that go through your mind. No, really—don't look at me like that. I do. I meant it when I said I liked you, and you are who you are with all those things. Knowing what goes on inside that pretty head makes me... happy. ... Even if you can be a cute lil' weirdo sometimes."
All those things—the dates, phone calls, the kissing.
Bucky deserved for you to try and do the impossible too and allow yourself to try.
That's what you're thinking about when the noise amplifies out of nowhere outside the heavy wooden doors.
Not expecting a flood pouring from the sky, both of you are caught off guard:
Bucky only takes public transportation, you came with a ride: the only solution is to go for it; you two run until the bus stop and, soaked to your bones, opt for you two to get down at his place which is closer than yours.
He wrapped his arm around your shoulder right there, in the middle of the bus where anyone could see, and got as close to you as possible.
"Your mouth's so pale," he told you. It made your gaze drop to his lips, too, and you understood what he meant.
You nodded. "Yup." Yours too.
Bucky chuckles then kisses your temple. "My bad. You stayed to help me."
Even with the chill in the air freezing your fingertips, your chest warms up for a second. "It's ok, Buck. I stayed 'cause I wanted to."
"Thanks, dove."
Fuck. He used the nickname so rarely now that you shuddered when it came, and you were thankful you could blame it on the cold. If Bucky noticed the electricity running higher in you for a second, he kept quiet about it.
You should have seen it then on the bus.
The way the world diminished until only the two of you existed.
You'd been there before and yet, you missed it.
Too lost in how cozy Bucky's words and gesture of holding you made you feel, you missed all the cues, and when you realized that both of you had set up and walked into the Universe's trap again, it was too late.
Bucky welcomed you into his house with you two shaking so violently that all you wanted was some whiskey, to be quite honest.
"Stay put," he told you the minute you two walked in.
Then, he started removing as many clothes as possible right at the door.
Right, you remembered. My little neat freak.
Your heart skipped a beat, and you ignored it. Bucky took off his black pants, sweater, t-shirt, and socks, leaving nothing but his underwear on, and put down his shoulderbag there with all the wet clothes, then padded softly upstairs.
That's my cue, I guess.
You did the same as him after waiting a few minutes, giving him time to switch to warm and dry clothes and pick out some for you.
After you two were changed and the wet clothes were in the dryer, Bucky looked at you standing there in front of the door still.
He frowned.
Then you realized you never really came inside his house.
You two always hanged outside, or in the year.
When Bucky extended his hand, you walked in trying not to be too obvious about how giddy it made you feel.
"I'll heat up some of yesterday's leftover. Is that okay?" He asked.
"Sure." You felt like a caterpillar trapped in the blanket cocoon. Sitting on the chair, you looked around as he rummaged through his kitchen. "I didn't expect this many... stars," you commented.
His house was filled with space things.
Bucky looked over his shoulder and smiled at you. "You're never getting inside my room," he laughed.
You rolled your eyes. The teasing was obvious in his face. "Duly noted, Father.
"D'you want anything else?" He asked.
There was nothing religious-themed in his house, and you felt weirdly relieved as you looked around. "Uh—do you have whiskey?" If there were Jesuses staring down at you from everywhere, you'd reluctantly pick to hang outside every time you came over.
Bucky closed the fridge with his foot, and you learned another neat trick of his crazy moby mobility.
He sometimes did stuff without even looking at them, like he had perfect air.
"You're for real?" He asked, making you look away from the constellation painting he has hanging up on the wall behind you.
"Yeah," you nodded. You gave him a cheeky smile. "Gotta warm my insides."
He gestured dramatically to the leftovers he was putting inside the pan. "What's this?"
"Sustenance," you answered. The smile widened. "I need hot."
In a rare display of cockiness, Bucky gestured at his own body.
Your cheeks flamed, and he laughed at you.
"No fair," you mumbled. It's not like you're giving it to me, a bratty voice said in your brain.
"I'll give you a shot, you pouty thing," Bucky said when he was done laughing. "Gimme a moment."
When you weren't thinking about all the cool things you did know and were learning about him, your mind diverged to his past which he disliked so much and hid in his mind attic.
Where was he from?
Bucky's accent was definitely not from here.
He had an easiness to his step that said big town, too—his cheekiness told you that Bucky's years had been well lived.
Even his leftovers tasted amazing.
What kind of man knew how to take care of themselves so well? Not many, that's who.
"D'you like it?" He asked.
You two sat on the couch finishing your food, and after the two shots of whiskey you both shared, the deluge outside was just great soundtrack.
Bucky's legs tangled in yours underneath the blankets moved a little and his foot poked your thigh. "Answer me," he said, smiling on the corner of his mouth.
As if you hadn't told him already you liked it.
Bucky loved the praise.
"Shut up," you whined, laughing with a mouth full of food. "I'm eating."
He nudged your thigh again, moving your plate. "Your cheeks are red."
"That was really good whiskey."
He did the foot thing again and you yelped when he moved your plate a little too much. "Tell me it's good—"
"Father James if you put that foot against my leg one more time I will bite it." He burst out laughing. "You're gonna make me drop my plate. That's blasphemy."
He laughed harder. "You're impossible."
"And you're a good cook, now shush and let me eat," you said.
He nodded, pleased, and put his empty plate on the center table.
Bucky watched you eat — like a weirdo! your brat teased — and made a few comments every now and then that you agreed with a hum or disagreed with a nose scrunch, and when the food was over, he pulled you to his lap, adjusting your legs on either side of them.
It was the most compromising position you two had been in weeks.
And then he used it to kiss your nose, and ask you, "'You warm, dove?" in a low whisper.
God.
"Yes, I am."
"Good," Bucky leaned his head up, angling for a kiss. "Gimme a kiss and I'll make you hot chocolate."
You felt even warmer if that was possible, but in more than just one place.
His face was so gorgeous.
Flashes of that closed booth and that pretty face between your legs made you shiver.
You hid in a kiss that you tried your best to keep innocent.
Four weeks ago, Bucky had told you, "I wanna take it... slow. So we can... think better, getting into this. Is that ok?" and yes, it was.
But at the same time—hmnm.
He tasted so fine.
When he pulled back from the kiss and smiled, you whined.
"Ah—don't," he warned. "I'm making you hot chocolate even though you're bad and told me my place is decorated like a ten-year-old with a Nasa obsession. No whining."
You snorted, trying to not laugh.
"You're so bad," he said, unable to hide his own smile.
That's how you two ended up in the kitchen for the second time.
You followed him there, too cozy in his presence to be too many feet away from it, and watched as he separated the ingredients: the milk, chocolate — which he was going to grate — and everything else.
You picked up your phone from where it was charging when you arrived and took some pictures. Then, you played some music while he stirred the pot, and you retired the blanket over the back of the couch, not feeling cold anymore.
When the mugs were served, Bucky opened his cabinet, put on the marshmallows in it and slapped your hand away when you tried to pick up yours.
"Ah. It's hot," he warned you off.
You rubbed the sting away from your hand, and stared at him. "Outch," you said.
Bucky was leaning against the kitchen counter.
The black sweatpants were identical to yours, but his navy Harley looked way cooler on him than the black one looked on you.
At least you thought so.
"—enough for you?" Bucky's voice finishes.
Fuck. You were staring.
Licking your lips, you look away from his body. "Huh?"
Bucky arches one eyebrow up. "You didn't hear me?"
Double fuck. You shook your head, feeling hotter out of nowhere.
Bucky nods. "Hm." His eyes rake you up and down. "I said... I know of your sweet tooth, so I wonder if this one will be sweet enough for you?"
There was a lump in your throat.
The energy this man radiated made you weak in the knees. "I'm sure it will," you replied with a weak smile.
On his face, a smile grew like a flower blossoming at night. "So polite out of nowhere..." he comments, feigning wonder. Bucky's head tilts to the side. "No one would believe you mean you were to me on that phone call yesterday."
Shit. Shit, shit shit—you thought Bucky's grunts and extended silences as you got ready to go out with your friends with him on the other side of the phone right after you shower, lotioning up your body, and talking about which outfits you'd wear were just him playing. He talked normally most of the time. You thought he was just going along with your teasings.
(You might've had too much wine before the shower. No one could blame you for teasing him.)
Right now, he looked like he was enjoying something.
You.
"That was me being nice," you said. it came off in a whisper.
Bucky stayed in silence for a second, his eyes on your face and his hands gripping the counter behind him. "C'mere," he said.
You walked over, and he held you close to him. One hand on your waist, the other holding your face.
His hand caressed your cheek and time started moving differently as you gazed into each other's eyes.
The air got a little thicker. Static.
Your eyes closed, and your face leaned into the touch.
"I like seeing you happy, dove," he whispered.
Whether it was the nickname or the sentiment behind his words that hit you harder, you were unaware, but the feeling took over at the speed of light: happiness, all over and around you. "Bucky," your whole body dropped against his, and you angled your head in search of a kiss. "You make me so happy."
His lips on his were his answer.
The short, weak grunt on his mouth as he kissed you hard, lips smashed on yours.
He pulls back only to say, "You make me happy too, dove," then he dives right in.
It had been so many days without kissing him like this that you forgot what it was like.
The power that he could have.
The way his kiss deepened with each stroke of his tongue on yours, and how the deeper and more in the rhythm that you two were with one another, the more his body came alive, limb by limb.
First, Bucky stood up straighter, cupping your face in both of his hands, and moving your head to his wish, opening your jaw wider. Then, his hand flew to your hair, and the other started exploring your body.
It was exactly like the rain pouring outside.
When it all started, it was too late already.
You moan so loud when Bucky pulls your hips to his with force and grips your hair in his fist that it's all fucked from the start.
"Oh," he mutters, a single inch and a string of saliva separating your lips. "Y/n."
"Bucky," his name already sounds like a prayer.
He closes his eyes, and nudges his nose on your face. "Baby..."
The way he extends the word makes you realize how hard you're holding onto him. Your hands grip his shoulders so tight that your fingertips hurt a little, but all you want is a little more.
Then, Bucky whispers. "Dreamt so much of you these weeks." He takes a step forward, guiding your body to where he wants. "It was so hard. So—fucking—difficult," the last three words he punctuates by caging your body against the counter instead of his, then pulling you up by your waist to sit on it, then pulling you by your ass to fit against his body.
You lunge forward like a starving madwoman.
Bucky takes it very well.
He gives back, much to your relief, and to your utmost pleasure.
With his mouth, Bucky manages to answer all the doubts you have not even dared ask yourself, and he tells you his secrets with his hands as they roam you, as desperate for a feeling of your burning skin as you are for him.
When he pulls back, Bucky holds you by the hand fisting your hair at the nape, and the sight of his swollen pink lips is a bit much.
"Dove," he groans.
"What?"
"I'm... I don't know if I'm ready to do anything, but—are you? Because—fuck, I miss touching you so much. It was only once but I miss my hands on you—making you feel good."
"Bucky, please," you nod, desperately. "Please."
He smiles, and nods too. "Yeah?" He confirms. "I just wanna see you feel good for a little," he says, starting to leave a trail of kisses on your neck. "I wanna touch you," he licks your earlobe in his mouth and hears chuckles when you whine like a cat made of puddy in his hands. "Can I? Can I take my time just... touching you?"
"Please," you beg.
"Okay, dove." There's one more kiss on your neck before he pulls you down from the counter. "C'mere."
That's when Bucky turns you around and presses your back against his front, bending you over the counter a little. He holds your upper body up with his left arm wrapped around your shoulders, his left hand gripping your chin and moving to his waiting lips while his right hand is doing the most.
On your sides, under his shirt, and on your breasts, getting a feel of them, pinching and grazing your nipples like a feather right next.
There's thunder and lightning, and then there's you, whining and moaning like you're in heat before his hand even drops to your panties.
Your soaked through panties.
"Oh, god, oh my god," Bucky mutters under his breath.
Bucky can fit one and then two fingers between your folds with ease due to how wet you are.
He tells you as much. "All of this for me, dove?" He asks, breathless. Your neck is going to be a red mess tomorrow—his kisses, teeth sinking on your neck and shoulders, the beard he keeps rubbing on you like he's a wolf and you're his to mark—it'll be a mess, and you whine even louder at the thought of it.
He takes that as your confirmation.
"So good for me," Bucky kisses your cheeks like he's thanking you. "Still your hips. I'm in no rush," he laughs.
He sounds like he's having so much fun. If it's possible, that aids in making you even wetter.
You can feel the outline of his cock through both the sweatpants pressing against your ass, and Bucky's hips buckle sometimes, grinding minimally against you.
If there's one thing to get on your knees for and thank this evening is how strong this man is underneath all his clothes.
Bucky spreads your legs apart wider with his feet and then goes to town.
He starts on your clit, with a light, but speedy touch. It's certainly a quick way to get your pussy clenching and begging for more in minutes. It makes your hardened nub so sensitive that you start begging under your breath for more, and Bucky ignores you for a couple of minutes until out of nowhere, he slips a finger inside of you.
You moan, happily, leaning your weight on his arm, in the direction of the counter.
Bucky's hips grind on you again, and then there's one more. He pumps his fingers in and out of you, fucking you with them properly until he stops, pulls them out and grabs your cunt with his whole hand, getting a feel of how drenched you are. Spreading your slick on his palm.
His breath on your ear and the stubble rubbed on your neck and cheeks turned you delirious. A whole month of doing nothing more than a few kisses and in one night, he does this.
In your ear, Bucky groans. "So good like this. I missed hearin' the little noises you make," his mouth kisses the part that it can reach of your face, and you feel like you're gonna cry.
He circles your clit more, and you want to grind back against them, but even in your delirious state, you remember what he said.
"Please," you cry. The only thing holding you up is his arm and his hand between your legs. "Please."
"Please what?" He says as he slowly pushes his middle finger in, curling it in the perfect spot.
"Fuck!"
Bucky sighs happily on your neck, and goes, "Hmhm," with another chuckle.
He enjoys this, and it's in the next few minutes you understand why:
In this position, Bucky can take all the time in the world.
He can go back and forth between fucking two or three fingers deep inside your cunt, moaning alongside you when you start filling his kitchen with your pleas of his name and your near-screams and then playing with your clit as he pulls you back from an impending orgasm.
His hand won't get tired like this; his wrist won't crane in a weird direction.
When your orgasm comes, it's a tsunami.
Bucky edges you three times before your body can't take it and you cum with a scream, chanting his name as your body convulses, legs shaking violently as you cum, probably more than once with how he doesn't stop.
He lets you come down from your high.
Bucky holds you up with his arm around your waist, pressing several kisses on your nape, and down your back.
The whispers of, "Did so good for me. You're amazing," are repeated until you hear them.
Bucky waits until you look back over your shoulder before he pulls his hands from inside the pants, and instead of going to wash them, he licks them.
"Oh my god," you whisper.
He shrugs his shoulder at you, and licks his fingers clean. "Hmmm," he hums. Don't say it, don't say— "You taste good."
Your cunt pulses at the words, and you hate yourself for wanting even more.
Can your legs move? No. Do you still wish to wrap them around his waist and sit on him, again?
"Shut up, Father."
Bucky laughs, "Alright. I see how it is," he kisses your cheek, and your lips. "I—" he takes a deep breath. "Am going to shower. You—hot chocolate. Drink it." He kisses your nose. "I'll be back."
You nod. "Ok."
Don't look, don't look, don't look.
You have to repeat the words to yourself as Bucky walks away to take care of his own problem. You'd call it 'little problem' if you hadn't felt that problem inside of you, and knew that there was nothing little about it.
Or about how much of a problem he was. To your health, at least—feeling this hot shouldn't be normal.
You get your mug of hot cocoa and put his inside the microwave for when he comes out, then go back to sit on the couch.
With your brain too fuzzy from the orgasm, most of Bucky's absence goes into white noise. Then, when you hear the shower turning off, your brain turns on.
It doesn't shut up when he comes back, or when he heats up his cocoa and sits behind you on the couch again.
"Watch something?" He asks, making himself comfortable as your couch pillow.
You shake your head. "Hm." If he loves hearing the thoughts in your brain so much, then he might not hate you for asking this. "Bucky?"
"Yeah?"
"Did I do something... wrong... that day?" You ask.
Bucky lowers his drink, and he has a hot cocoa mustache. "What?"
You wipe it off with your thumb, sucking it in your mouth. "That day. Confessional day."
Bucky puts his mug on the table and turns your body to the side a little so you two can look at each other. "You did absolutely nothing wrong that day. Why would you think that?"
"Because... my head likes to overthink?"
He narrows his eyes, but within a second, a look of realization dawns on him. "Right. Y/n—me wanting to take it slow has nothing to do with you, dove." He cups your face in his hands. "Please don't think that. I promise you it doesn't. It's gotta do with me."
"And I can't help you with it?"
He shakes his head. "Not really, no."
"How are you so sure of it?"
"Because you can't change the way my brain's wired, cute thing," he chuckles. His fingers caress your cheeks, then tuck your hair behind your ear. Bucky likes to touch you as he thinks. "I can, though. And I'm trying to."
Still feeling lost, you frown. "What's wrong with your brain's wiring?"
Bucky takes a moment to look at you before he answers the question, searching for something in your eyes. If you mean the question, you imagine. When he nods, all serious and taking a deep breath, you know you were right.
"A lot," he chuckles, deprecatingly. "But when it comes to this—to sex, it was never so bad. At least I think not. See... I wasn't interested in many people in my life, but I guess that even with the ones that were just a fling, I was always a bit... aggressive. Dunno if that's the word. Rough, maybe. And I know all of them liked it—I'm not—you know. They asked for it." Like you did, your mind provides. "But I always wondered why I didn't wanna all that sweet love-making stuff most people do. Never thought too much about it. Just enough to feel a little like a dick sometimes. Now... I don't wanna be like that with you, dove." He pierces you with his blue oceans, looking at you earnestly. "You mean too much for me to think about you and my brain to just use these—these degrading shit. You know?"
The words sink in slowly, like a body at the sea.
As they do, one single thought forms in your brain:
Am I this man's damnation?
To put it simply, you're turned on once again.
"Bucky..." give me a second to think.
He does it without you even asking for it.
It's a power he has—delivering your needs regardless of words.
"Okay." You take a deep breath, too, and then sit face to face with him, both of your hands laid on his chest. "I'm gonna try to... explain the way I see things, and then you tell me if they make sense to you, okay?"
Bucky takes a moment, then nods. "I'm listening."
Good. You swallow the knot his words twisted in your throat. "Bucky, I feel like... there's a lot of negative connotations on certain feelings we have, and they were placed there by people who want to weaponize our very fucking... human experience. You know? Like—how we're not allowed to be too curious, or how they make being educated so difficult, and how sexuality which is the most normal thing in our species became an issue, and then a... thing to repress." You swallow an even thicker knot, this time for being talking about the very institution for which he works. "Does that make sense to you?" Because continuing if that doesn't would be hard.
You see Bucky licking his lips, eyes going around his living room, but as they come back to you, there's knowledge there. "Yeah. Yeah, it does."
"Okay. Good. See—I hated myself for years growing up because I was never a very 'sexual' person or whatever the fuck that means, and I had to deal with everyone judging me for it. 'Prude', or 'virgin', or 'is there something wrong with you' or whatever. And then!" You laugh, humorlessly. "Then, when I started to be active because I wanted to and I found who and what makes me feel good, I was judged again. For being sexual, and for being safe about it, and for educating myself and other people around me on it. And then it hit me! They're gonna fucking hate me no matter what."
And I won't live like that.
You touch Bucky's cheek, running your fingers on his bear. "I'll never ask you for anything you don't want to give me. You know that, right?"
"Of course I do."
"Good. Here's the bottom line: what you want to give me, is mine to accept or not, Father James," you whisper. "I don't care if you think... I wanna ruin her. I don't care if you wanna wrap your hands and choke me 'till I can't breathe when you're manhandling me around like I'm a doll—like I'm yours, because if you're doing that, I wanted it too."
The blue that once was the majority is now nothing but a string.
There's very little light streaming through his tiny glass windows so high above in the living room, most of the illumination coming from the kitchen, but you can still see it.
He closes his eyes, shaking his head at you, and the knots start spreading to your stomach before Bucky leans in closer. "How on earth did I find you."
From the way it comes out, it sounds more like he's talking to himself than to you.
"Do you get what I mean?" you ask, feeling his breath on your face. "Those things can't be bad, or your 'brain wired wrong'. They're just—desire. A lot of it," you chuckle, breathless. You can feel it between your bodies—desire, licking its way up like the heat of the sun permeating through the skin. "And I want you too. If you ask me and I'm being honest here... I wanna ruin you sometimes."
Faster than you can catch, Bucky's lips are on yours and he's got your body in his hold.
The kiss is something so desperate that it's more you two biting and licking each other's mouths and kissing, but it's what you two as Bucky holds your legs around his waist and guides you to his room.
He had piggybacked you before.
"Aren't I a little to heavy for this?"
The deadpanned look he threw you almost made you whimper. "Y/n. I carried a backpack with your weight for hours roaming the desert with an arm almost as tall as you on my front. Hop on my back and shush, please."
"What?"
"Your feet's getting more swollen. Hop on, dove, Jesus Christ."
That had been how you discovered his past involved being drafted. It made you shut up now at least whenever he wanted to carry you.
There's no time for you to tease him about any decor because you're too busy pushing him against the wall and dropping to your knees the second he walks in and shuts the door behind him.
"Fuck," he looks up, rubbing his face with his hands. "I thought I couldn't get hard this fast anymore," he laughs at himself.
The hushed reminder that Bucky's in his forties hits you in the face.
So does how hard his cock is in his sweatpants.
He had taken care of his erection earlier on in the shower — you presume — and that thought brings you joy because it means you can taste him as much as you can, and he probably won't cum from it.
"You wanna do this?" Bucky asks as he watches you pull his dick free, sucking air between his teeth. "Fuck."
"I really wanna do this."
"Okay," he nods. "Here. I'll hold it for you," he grabs all of your hair, gathers it in one hand, and then secures it in his grip.
You guide the tip of his cock to your lips and it's inevitable.
His cock is so pretty. Dicks can be so ugly, but Bucky is so damn thick, and he's long — but not long enough that it feels like he's poking your stomach — and the tip starts leaking with your kitten licks on it.
Bucky's great at receiving head just like he's great at giving it.
He keeps his hips still at the start as a gentleman's courtesy: he gives you time to get all of his cock wet with your licks, sucking it into your mouth and pooling drool on your tongue for a better glide. You like this wet, and messy, and if his increasing groans are an indicator, so does he.
The praise doesn't lie, either.
"Look at you, dove." You love how awed he sounds. "Oh. You suck dick as well as you take it—yeah, like that." He looks at you, but sometimes gets lost when you start bobbing your head; his neck cranes back, and he groans to the ceiling. "F-Fuck—oh, your mouth's so wet. No, no—slower... yeah, like that. Wanna feel the tip sliding down your throat. Sounds so good. Suck harder—o-oh my fucking god, you take instructions so—fucking—well."
Bucky fucking your throat makes your hand fly between your legs in a desperate search for some relief, but he catches the motion somehow even with his eyes closed and he laughs.
"Nuh-uh, you better take that hand off." Bucky pulls his cock out of your lips and holds it an inch away from your face. "Did I tell you that you could touch yourself?"
Fuck.
"No, Father."
Bucky's dick twitches right in front of your face. He sighs, angrily, and lets go of his dick to grip your chin and make you look up to his face. "Then don't do it. I'm the only one to touch that cunt. That's all mine, dove. To make it cum, to touch, to make it feel good. Mine. Understand?"
You nod, "Yes, Father."
"Good, precious thing." His hips move slightest, and his dick is close enough that you can guide it back to your lips. "Yes," he groans, loudly. "Suck me really nicely, dove, and I'll ruin you like I've dreamt of."
If there is one truth, it's what James said: you are very good at taking directions and orders.
Guided by the grip he has on your hair, you let Bucky dictate how deep you should be and serve the purpose of being on your knees like this: eyes closed, sucking and bobbing your head on his cock with tears pooling in the corner of your eyes when you hear him lose himself in the pleasure and moan brokenly, calling your name.
It sounds divine.
When Bucky gets enough, he pulls all the way out, and then looks at you with drool running down your chin and your eyes teary and glazed, and he smiles.
"So beautiful," he whispers.
You close your eyes at the praise, clenching your thighs together.
"Get on the bed, dove."
Getting up on wobbly legs is difficult, but you manage. His bed is a queen size, thankfully, and when you lay on his white sheets, Bucky climbs between your legs, stripping you item by item.
"You have no clue how much I missed feeling you," he tells you.
"I do, I have," you whine.
"Poor dove," he coos. "You missed me, hm? Missed feeling my hands on you making you feel so good your smart brain goes a little stupid? Missed me stretching you out so nice you can't think?" When he has you naked and writhing on the bed, he starts taking his own clothes. "We were so irresponsible last time, dove. I just gave you all my cum because you asked so nicely, and I shouldn't have. Not without us talking first. I have condoms here, and also my latest medical check if you wanna confirm that I'm clean for—"
"I believe you," you tell him, sounding desperate. "I do. Please? I don't wanna hear a sermon, Father. I wanna feel you."
You notice the mistake of your words as soon as they're out and Bucky's eyes darken even further.
"What did you just say?" he asks in a lower, interested tone. Bucky kicks his pants outside of the bed and climbs on top of you. "Repeat."
Fucked before you're even fucked. "I—I said I wanna feel you."
Bucky grabs you by your thighs to pull you closer to him, and slaps your right ass cheek, hard. "Don't be a smartass with me."
It burns, and you moan. "I said I don't wanna hear a sermon, Father James. Want you inside me," you finish in a pathetic whimper.
Bucky takes a deep breath, and you hear him going tsk tsk close to your face. You open your eyes to see his smile.
"Get on all fours," he commands in a whisper, one hand cupping your face.
It takes you a second to digest it, but you do as he asks.
Bucky gets behind you, much like he was in the kitchen a couple of hours ago. Oh, how far we've come. He nudges your body until you're close to the headboard of the bed, and places all his pillows in front of you.
"Hands flat against the headboard," he whispers in the shell of your ear.
You place them there, your whole body tingling with the anticipation.
"Now, repeat after me: I should not be a fucking brat."
"What?" you ask, breathless.
The head of Bucky's cock brushes between your folds, and you see his other arm coming up, the hand gripping the headboard.
"If you don't repeat my sermon, there's no fucking, dove," he tells you.
Looking over your shoulder, you see he means it.
Bucky would give you both blue balls right now.
"I should not be a brat," you whisper.
He nods, very pleased. You feel the head pushing in, and both of you moan.
"Oh, I missed you," he mutters.
Bucky's got the same courtesy with his hips now as he did with his dick in your mouth—he knows he's thick and you need a minute, which he gives.
His movements start small and slow, gentle rocking of his hips back and forth until he's seated almost all the way in.
When he bottoms out, Bucky covers your back with his chest and you hear his delighted groan coming to rest on your ear shell again. "Say: I'll be good for you, Father."
Your moan comes out choked. "I'll be good for you, Father."
Bucky pulls out, and slams his cock back in.
"Do you want me to ruin you?" He asks, slamming in again.
"Yes!"
"Then say it."
"I want you to ruin me, Father," you beg, arching your back to him and whining like the heat has taken over your brain and fried it to dust.
"Oh, god," this one sounds earnest and honest, and it drapes over your skin like praise that Bucky is affected by this, too. "Say: Fuck the words out of me."
Whimpering, you say, nodding, "Fuck the words out of me. Please, please—"
Bucky does.
He holds onto the headboard of the bed and starts his hard thrusts with a pause between them, but the more you fuck yourself back on his cock, the faster he goes.
Bucky's hand that's on your waist suddenly comes up to your shoulder again, and you moan with nothing but pleasure clouding your brain for the second time that night: it's the same position as earlier, except instead of toying with your cunt, he's getting leverage on his bed to fuck the life out of you.
The words out of you.
"Say: Nothing feels better than this," he demands in your ear, slowing his pace a little.
"Nothing feels better than this—faster, please, please—"
"That's not what I said," he pulls almost all the way out, only his head still inside of you.
You cry, and arching again, your neck leaning on the touch of his hand, you mumble, "Nothing feels better than this," now please.
"Yes," Bucky goes back to fucking you, and neither one is able to stop this time.
He takes out his cock sometimes to slap your pussy and clit with it, and the filthy, wet sounds it makes are perhaps worse than your desperate moaning.
The next time Bucky asks for you to repeat his words, all that comes out is his name and please.
Your favorite prayer.
"Have I done—oh—done it, dove?" He sounds so far gone. His hips are faltering. "You close?"
"Bucky, yes!"
"Good. I wanna see it. Cum on my cock and I'll paint your back with mine."
"Nononono, want it inside me—"
The sharp slap makes you scream. "Don't. Y/n, please—"
"Bucky it feels so good," you babble. "Please, please? Don't wanna feel it? I want it—I need it."
"Fuckfuck," Bucky's hips starts hammering you, and your moans turn into screams. "Want me to breed you, dove? I fucking will."
"YES!"
"Then cum for it. Tell me you're gonna cum," he says over the sound of his hips slapping against your ass.
"I'm gonna cum!" You felt it, coiling around your belly and starting to zap in your brain. "Oh—FUCK! I'm gonna cum, James, James—"
"Do it."
You cum in a scream, and you grip the pillows as tight as your cunt grips his cock when it happens. You feel a few more harsh thrusts inside following but it's so tight that all that Bucky says is, "So—fucking—tight—all mine," before he cums too, deep inside you.
Heaven.
Divine.
All you can do is lay and feel it. So holy.
His touch makes you ascend to places you've never been.
When you come down from the white noise that's inside your brain, you realize you haven't moved.
Bucky has. He's gotten a wet cloth and is cleaning between your legs, and he looks at you peeking at him over your shoulder, smiling at you, shyly.
The audacity.
He goes to his bathroom to throw the towel in the washing bin. He removed all the clothes from the floor too and folded them.
Neat freak.
He lies in bed with you, and pulls you to lay on his chest. "You know, you gotta stop doing that—unless; wait. Do you want babies? Like, now?"
Your eyes go wide and you are suddenly very awake. "No!"
"Oh. Good," he laughs. "Then stop being a menace," he tells you, kissing your lips sweetly.
"It feels good," you mumble weakly.
"Oh, I know." He chuckles, kissing your cheeks and forehead. "We can pretend, though. Don't wanna do stuff we'll regret, dove."
He's right, you think. And you shouldn't take him by surprise.
"Bucky?"
"Hm?"
"Was that... good for you?"
Bucky feels the seriousness in your tone and lifts your chin with a finger.
He smiles, all ocean blue eyes, sedated smile, and pink cheeks. "You make me the happiest I've been, Y/n. And that was heavens above 'good' and you know it," he says.
It makes your chest breathe easy. "Okay... good."
"Now sleep. I'll wake us up tomorrow," he says.
With the rain still falling and him wrapping himself around you like an octopus, that's the easiest thing you had to do all day.