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sse0jin · 23 days ago

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More Than Right

A Bucky/Sam Priest and Angel AU | 5.3k Words, Explicit, Priest! Bucky and Angel! Sam

When Bucky was a young man, he died. Trapped under snow and ice, the frozen hands of death pulled him under. Dragging his mind and soul away from the body he called home, and even further from the home he called family. He doesn’t remember much after that. Darkness and frost wrapped around his lungs, freezing them shut, and for a while, Bucky wondered if this was how he went out. A nameless body buried in the Swiss Alps, just another casualty of a war-torn world. And then, then he’s breathing.

Barely, honestly, it hardly counts as breathing, but he was. He could feel his chest pushing against the compacted snow as the frigid air entered through his nose. He couldn’t focus on it, not when he was seeing the sun again. Sparks of light slipped through the snow as someone moved it away, digging him out. All at once, he was blinded by the light until a figure blocked it out again. Sun rays form a halo behind the stranger, their wings spread wide as the stranger pulls at him. Dark brown hands, impossibly soft and warm, even after digging through ice and snow, hold him close. He couldn’t see them, not well. He was only able to chart out the broad strokes of their face and body.

Soft, feather-covered wings wrapped around him, pulling him close against the warmest linen tunic and heated skin. A delighted smile with a gap between the two front teeth. The man didn't speak, didn’t do much besides caress his face as he inspected Bucky. He moved them away from the blood-filled pit Bucky lived in for God knows how long. His left side felt light, too light to be anything good, and the lucid part of his brain was telling him to apologize. Apologize for leaning into the angel, because that’s all the man can be, who, other than an angel, could save him like this? He should’ve apologized for staining the pure white of his tunic with his blood, he’s dealt with enough wounds to know that it’s more than a pain to get out.

But his heart was beating, and Bucky was warm, and so, so tired. The stranger stood, holding Bucky like he was something precious, close to his chest and embraced by the warmth of another living being. Bucky fell asleep.

The next few days, or maybe months or even years, were a blur. All that Bucky knew was that someone gave him a shiny metal arm to replace the one he lost and that he had been roaming around the world. Bucky thinks it was the angel that did it. The arm was several metal plates that fit together like scales, shiny and glossy from his fingertips to his shoulder, connected to a piece that covered the remains of his left arm and most of his upper left side. His hair had grown longer, considerably longer than he last remembered having it. Reaching his shoulders compared to the cropped look the military required.

His clothes were different too, solid, warm, and soft, unlike the military uniform he wore like a second skin. No rifle on his back or knife strapped to his boot. Without the dog tags clinking against themselves and his skin, he would’ve believed that his military days were just a dream. The sun was blinding, too warm for him. Brooklyn summers were never as hellish as this. He went inside the first building he saw, uncaring of its purpose. Turns out, he interrupted a sermon. A small handful of followers, all of them looking like they had been beaten down to their lowest. Some heads turned to face him, a strange recognition in their eyes as they looked at him.

Bucky sat down in the empty seats in the back, distanced himself from the others as they prayed to someone he didn’t know. He didn’t plan to stay long; just wanted to cool off in the church and then leave to wander the world again. Maybe change his name and build a new life, or maybe he’d live as a ghost until he joined his angel in the clouds. He ended up staying to the end. The preacher was a strange comfort to him. Reminded him of being back home with Ma and his sisters, getting dressed in their Sunday best before walking down 10th Avenue to the church where Ma had gotten married. That preacher was a loon, but he made Ma smile, and the preacher here was just the same.

Bucky watched the man speak with the people around him, meeting each one at their level, maintaining eye contact, and seeing them. Truly seeing them. When the man reached Bucky, he didn’t speak until he was seated in the pew next to him. Wearing a white tunic, with twine and ribbons tied around his waist. The sunlight from stained glass windows wrapped around them like a hug.

“I haven’t seen you around before. What’s your name, son?”

“James. My Ma named me James.”

“A good name,” the preacher nodded, “a good strong name for a man running from something.”

“Thank you, Father.” Bucky wasn’t sure the last time he said his name was. Couldn’t remember the last time he heard it. Was it during the early days of his enlistment? Was it when he promised Becca he’d come home? His eyes started to water, and the preacher guided him through the church. He pointed out the different rooms, bathrooms, on-site sleeping quarters, the kitchen, and more, but there was one room that stood out.

Enclosed and heavy with the scent of incense, he saw many like himself gathered around a portrait of a man who only embraced him in his dreams. With a gold frame, the portrait sits in the middle of the wall. An offering table is laid out in front of it, full of food and gifts they think his angel might like. His angel is surrounded by clouds and birds, looking out to the room of followers with the same caring smile he gave Bucky all those years ago.

“Do you know who that is, James?”

“Not his name,” Bucky replies, shaking his head slightly. His eyes were wide, and he felt breathless as he stared. “But, I know him.”

“That is the story many of my children walked in with.” The preacher sighed. He sat on the carpeted ground, tugging on Bucky’s wrist so he’d join him. “That is Saint Samuel. The Patron Saint of Lost Souls. He comes to you whenever you’re at your lowest, and gives you another chance to find peace. All our members have stories of almost dying, or even being dead when Saint Samuel found them.”

Bucky was silent as he listened, his heart drumming out a pattern that rattled his ribs. The preacher looked at him again, his lips quirked up in a small smile. Bucky met his eyes, and he wondered what the man saw. Dark eyes caught the flames of the candles, reflecting their flickering light as he stared into Bucky. A hand is placed on his shoulder, and the preacher pulls him close. “Saint Samuel spoke to me recently. Said someone would find our little Neverland, carrying a weight they can’t bear alone.”

“You think that’s me?”

“Yeah,” he says softly, “yeah, I do.”

James Barnes is not a saintly man. When he arrived at the church, he couldn’t remember the years between being saved and walking through the church doors. However, sleeping here brought him nightmares. Nightmares of him killing people, nightmares of blood and gore, nightmares of hearing Russians talk idly as they used his body for their own needs. The nightmares were too vivid, too real, to be just nightmares. Bucky was smart enough to understand that much. Though he isn’t saintly for other reasons. In between nightmares and dreamless sleeps, his angel finds him. Naked under the golden frame, his angel’s eyes watching him as he awaits judgment. His angel is on top of him, warm hands tracing the hard planes of his body, sending sparks across his skin. Soft lips pressed against his neck before the stinging pain of teeth biting down on him. His hands on his arms, going up and down, forcing shivers down his spine. He’d wake hot under the covers, his breathing loud but his heart louder.

He is not a saintly or holy man. A saintly man wouldn’t think of their angel in such a way. A holy man wouldn’t use cold showers as a crutch to avoid the heat throbbing between his thighs. He started wearing long-sleeved shirts and gloves whenever he left the church, and became known as Preacher Boy or Jimmy to the locals. Tried to hide the perverse thoughts under scholarly attire. Not like it worked, but at least he was trying.

Researching the time between his enlistment and now has told him a lot. He was an assassin or perhaps a serial killer? Does the term matter when you’re killing hundreds against your will? Bucky also found himself thinking of his angel more. It’s rude to say his angel, Saint Samuel saved many lives, not just his. Doesn’t change the way his heart raced, staring at the portrait, or the many late nights spent on his knees in front of it, speaking to Sam as if he were there. Sam would likely disapprove of the familiarity, but it kept the warm feeling that bloomed in his chest alive.

His angel definitely gave him the arm. It was attached with too much kindness and care, love built into its circuitry like veins. He refused to even humor the idea of it coming in tow with the murder sprees. Even now, looking in the mirror, he doesn’t recognize the face of the Winter Soldier he used to be. His hair brushes against his shoulders, framing his face softly. He has stubble along the edge of his jaw, and while his eyes are icy and blue, he looks more alive. The clothes on his bed are new, fitted to fit him perfectly, and yet, he’s scared.

The old preacher died, old age claiming him, but Bucky knew he died happy. Happy he lived a full life with the second chance Sam gave him. Still, didn’t think he’d be the one to replace him. How do you give hope and faith to those still reeling from their worst moments? His hands find the necklaces around his neck, dog tags and a pair of silver wings. He holds them tight, squeezing them in the palm of his hand to ground himself as he thinks of his angel’s smile.

He dresses himself in the dark clothes, the cape and scarf, airy compared to the rest of the outfit. He lets his necklaces sit on top, their shining silver holding him to the earth beneath his shoes. He leads the sermon, just as his predecessor did, watching both the familiar and unfamiliar faces brighten with a new resolve. A resolve for more, to be and do better, to live and live freely. And then, then he sees him.

Dark brown skin, his hair shaved short with a goatee attached to his mustache, and Bucky feels weak. His voice is shaky as he attempts to breathe, his eyes never leaving the man standing beside the church doors. He’s dressed for the wrong season, the tank top, long shorts, and sandals just wrong for the late autumn chill. The setting sun strikes him beautifully, painting his eyes in a golden glow and casting his body in shadows. Not that the shadows hide his wings. Large beautiful things with white feathers, Bucky could almost cry remembering how they felt across his skin. His angel smiles at him across the room, and Bucky stumbles through the latter half of his sermon. By the time it’s over, his neck feels hot and his face is beyond flushed.

Someone approaches him, a young girl missing a hand and a foot. She’s got braids with beads on the ends and large, dark eyes as she stares up at Bucky. He squats down to her level, wearing a small smile. “Hello, little miss. Something wrong?”

“I… I don’t know why I’m here.”

“Well,” Bucky starts putting a hand to his cheek, “are you looking for something? Or someone?”

“Yes! An angel! A very nice angel. I think…” She pauses, throwing herself to the floor as she squishes her cheeks together. “I think I died. The angel found me, and now… I’m here.”

“Can I let you in on a little secret?” The girl nods, eager to hear whatever Bucky has to say. He sits down in front of her, putting a hand to his mouth as he leans closer. “I died too.” He pulls off the glove on his left hand and pushes the sleeve of his shirt up, showing off the metal arm his angel gifted him. “The nice angel that saved you, saved me too.”

The little girl smiles, clapping the prosthetic hand together with her flesh one as she tells Bucky the last thing she remembers. When she finishes, she hugs Bucky before running off to join her friends. She’s waving at Bucky, eyes closed as she smiles widely, not looking where she’s going as she bumps into someone. Bucky watches her look up, and his heart goes haywire again. His angel is there, smiling down at the girl, that beautiful gap-tooth grin dazzling Bucky even from so far away.

The main room of the church is empty after the girl and her friends leave. Bucky and his angel, and for a second, he wonders if he’s dying again. Sam walks over, closing the distance with an easy-going smile. His angel has a gorgeous smile. The thought hijacks his mind as he stares with what he’s sure is a dopey grin. He doesn’t have any of the smoothness he used to have; he’s sure of it, but Sam still helps him up from the ground.

“You look a lot better than when I last saw you. I like the hair.” His hand brushed against Bucky’s cheek as he twirled a lock of his hair around his fingers.

“Sam…” Part of him hates how breathy he sounds, too awestruck and too needy; he wants to lean into the slight touch. He wants a lot, if he’s allowed to be honest. Wants to feel Sam’s hands on him, wants to touch Sam, wants this to be more than a dream he conjured up in the early hours of morning. Wants Sam to be here, with him again, tomorrow. “Ah… apologies… Hello, Saint Samuel.”

“It’s been a while since anyone ever called me Sam.” His eyes lose their gleeful shine, suddenly solemn as he pulls away from Bucky. His hands clasp together in front of him as he looks down, looking at something that isn’t quite there, seeing something long forgotten. “You’d understand it, though, how long has it been since you were Bucky and not Father James or Preacher Boy, hm?”

“Too long. Far too long.” The sun has long since set, the halls of the church dark save for the stray candle left alight. Though as Sam passes each one, a flame bursts into existence on the wick. It’s enchanting, the world bends to him as if trying to stave off any potential hurdles to whatever his goals may be.

They end up in the altar room, Sam’s portrait still hung on the wall, but it’s different tonight. His eyes are close, and a shield sits against his shoulder; it reminds him of the shield Steve would carry. Though he must be long dead by now. Sam stares at the portrait, his mouth tugging into a tight line as he walks up to it. His hands touch the taut canvas, pressing into the dried paint as if he could poke the man in the painting.

“That painting doesn’t do you justice.”

“Really? Why’s that?” He asked, crossing his arms over his chest with a slight grin. Bucky feels almost choked as he looks down at the floor, hesitant to meet Sam’s eyes.

“It’s… too manicured…” Sam raises a brow, tilting his head to the side as he waits for Bucky to elaborate. “I know my memories aren’t the best, but when I think of you, I see kindness and understanding in your eyes. That portrait doesn’t have those eyes.”

Sam nods, a quiet shrug following as he thinks over Bucky’s words. He turns back to the portrait, and with a quick flourish of his hands, he rips the painting. Bucky runs up, his eyes wide as he watches Sam rip and peel the canvas. Bucky grabs Sam’s wrist with his right hand, using his left to push Sam away from the painting. Sam stares into his eyes, surprise, shock, and finally amusement running through those gorgeous dark eyes as Sam settles into a laugh. His laugh makes Bucky dizzy, it’s beyond angelic. Wind chimes twinkling with a nostalgia that Bucky has never experienced. It stuns him in a way.

“Didn’t know you liked the painting that much.”

“I like you.” He says it without thinking and can feel his face burn as the words hit him. Despite his embarrassment, his thoughts flowed out of his mouth. “I like you a lot. Too much, maybe. I hate to see any image of you, no matter how flawed, tarnished.”

“Unless you do it, correct?” He says it so confidently, and Bucky knows why. He doesn’t want to admit it, but he knows. And he’s sure Sam knows that too. Bucky’s grip on Sam’s wrist slackens, his face burning hotter as Sam pulls him close. There’s no space between them, only Sam’s hands on his shirt, his palms outstretched over his chest. “I can hear you know? Makes my job a tad difficult, kind of hard to give someone a second wind when I can hear my name falling from your lips.”

Sam’s head is on his shoulder, his voice syrupy and sweet as he whispers in Bucky’s ear. “I like it, though. I like hearing you call out to me, quiet and desperate as if you’re ashamed you need me.”

“I’m not,” and he’s being honest. He can’t imagine a world where he’s ever ashamed of wanting or needing Sam.

“Well, if it isn’t that, then maybe… Maybe you’re ashamed of what you’re doing while thinking of me?” He’s teasing him, Bucky knows that. But Sam’s hands have found their way under his shirt, impossibly warm on his skin, drawing short lines up and down his stomach. Feeding a fire that’s threatening to consume him. Bucky’s hands are on Sam’s waist, hiking up the loose top as his fingers dig into the smooth skin there, leaving imprints of crescent moons in their wake.

His head falls onto Sam’s shoulder, too dizzy to hold himself together as he attempts to grind himself against his angel. The honeyed laugh that fills his head forces a groan out of him as he clings tighter onto Sam. As if letting go meant Sam would leave.

“Why are you calling out to me so often? You have my full attention.” He says, pulling away. Bucky whines at the loss of contact, hating how the chill hits him now that Sam isn’t pressed against him. “What did you want?”

“You.” Sam’s hand is on his cheek, and Bucky leans into the touch, his eyes closing softly as the filter between his mind and mouth fades into nothing. “I want you. Want you in a way a priest shouldn’t want his savior. Want you to touch me.”

His other hand finds its way into Bucky’s hair, tugging on the long strands. Bucky opens his eyes, and his breath is stolen from him. Sam stares at him with the most loving expression. Soft almond-shaped eyes with irises the color of cinnamon-infused honey, his smile so full of love, showing off the gap between his two front teeth. Bucky feels insane as he stares at Sam’s mouth. He wants his tongue in his mouth, wants to lick and suck at the wet cavern, and blend his and his angel’s spit into something beautiful.

He’s not thinking when he kisses Sam. Can’t think when he feels like he’s burning from the inside out. He presses Sam against the offering table, his hands slipping under the fabric of the shorts as he grips Sam’s hips. Sam’s wings are splayed out behind him, curling around them as Sam’s arms find their way around his neck. He pulls Bucky closer, biting at his lower lip and forcing Bucky’s mouth open. His tongue moves inside Bucky’s mouth like he owns it. Sucking on his tongue, licking the inside of his mouth like he wants to claim it for himself.

Doesn’t he know he’d let Sam have any part of him? Sam surrounds him, his legs wrapping around his waist, pressing clothed cocks against each other. Bucky shudders as he moans, and he can feel how Sam smiles into the kiss. He pulls away for air, but in an instant, his mouth is back on Sam. Bucky kisses Sam’s neck, nipping and licking at the smooth expanse of skin. He feels overwhelmed, and Sam hasn’t even touched him yet.

“Please,” he says. It’s barely a whisper, but Sam still hears him. His hands tangle themselves in Bucky’s hair, pulling at it to force Bucky to look at him. Bucky can’t help the way his hips thrust forward at the sharp feeling. Sam’s eyes widen as he does it again and Bucky fucks forward again. “Please, please touch me…”

“Aren’t I already doing that?” He’s so hard it hurts, and he can feel Sam firm against him. Sam tugs on his hair again, and his vision goes blurry with the start of tears. His breathing is labored as he searches for relief. He looks down in a daze, and he can see the prominent bulges rubbing against each other.

“You know what I mean.”

“Tell me where.” Bucky goes to speak, but Sam’s hands are unbuttoning his shirt. It’s like his mind short-circuits when Sam palms his pecs. His thumb brushes against his nipple before he grabs it proper and pinches it. The tears he had been barely holding back spilled in time with the moan that came out of him. Sam’s kissing him again. Kissing away the tears that fall down his face, kissing along the edge of his jaw, kissing his neck, and leaving dark bruises behind him. “I’m not a mind reader, Buck. Gotta tell me where you want me.”

He grounds himself as best he can, letting go of Sam despite how wrong it feels. Pulls away, forcing space between them. Sam sits up on the table, all the while Bucky attempts and fails to undo his pants. Sam’s already naked when Bucky is finally free of the constricting clothing. He’s gorgeous. Well built and firm, he could’ve said he was carved out of stone, and Bucky would believe him. His angel was perfect. He holds his hand out, beckoning Bucky closer.

Overwhelmed and needy, he drops to his knees in front of Sam. He stares reverently as he rests his head on Sam’s thigh. It feels right to be here. He thinks this was where he was always going to end up. On his knees, with his angel smiling down on him and his soft hands in his hair. Bucky’s tongue licks at the cock in front him, kissing and slicking up, listening to the way Sam melted above him. He spreads Sam’s thighs, gripping them as he puts the dick in his mouth. Drool overflows from his lips as he lets Sam control his head. His hands are tight, the pain grounding as he gags.

Messy and depraved, Bucky’s sure he’s disgraced the sanctity of his church. Tainted it somehow. But when Sam cums in his mouth, Bucky lives for the sound that follows. Low and gravelly, it’s heaven on Earth, and Bucky wants more. What a selfish follower he is. He pulls off of Sam, the angel above him still tense. His eyes are squeezed shut, though, that changes quickly when Bucky’s mouth connects with his asshole. His pupils are beyond dilated, blown black, drowning out the amber he was obsessed with.

Bucky is eager as he fucks his tongue in and out of the tight space, pausing to wet his fingers to aid in stretching his angel. Sam’s thighs lock around his head as Bucky focuses his attention on Sam’s ass. There’s something addictive about how the man shakes around him, overwhelming his senses with his very being. His dick is heavy over his face with the distinct dampness of precum oozing into his hair. Bucky wants to touch himself, thinks he could prolly cum untouched right. But the idea of being able to cum inside Sam, to cum inside his angel, and kiss afterwards steels his resolve. Even if it is difficult watching Sam’s hole stretch to accommodate his fingers. One, then two, before he settles on three.

His free hand reaches down to touch himself, only to slick himself up before he pulls away. Sam whines, tightening his thighs further around Bucky’s head to keep him there. As much as he’d love to live between his angel’s thighs, he has to move. His grip is tight on Sam as he flips the man onto his stomach. His hands caress the space between his wings, watching the man shiver under him. His wings twitch and spasm, and Bucky is obsessed with how they react. He traces the joints with his nails, listening to how Sam’s breathing quickens. He arches away from the touch, but Bucky is persistent. His dick sits in between his asscheeks as he teases the man’s wings. It takes a lot to force himself from them, leaving a small kiss in the center of his back.

Lining up his cock with Sam’s hole is easy. The push? Dizzying. It’s a slow push, his hands are so tight against Sam’s waist, he’s sure he’s leaving bruises across them. He can barely wait for Sam to adjust. Sam pushes back against him, and Bucky is thrusting into his angel with a vigor he didn’t know he had. He leans down as he thrusts to mark Sam. Biting at his shoulders and neck, down along his back, and dragging his tongue over the bruises and hickies. He’s drunk on Sam, there’s a lucid part of his brain that’s saying this is something he shouldn’t indulge in. That tainting one of God’s messengers and his saviour is wrong on so many levels, but he can’t hear him. All he knows is this is good, so good, so perfect, and he wants more.

Wants to do this every night, and wake up with Sam next to him, covered in the evidence of their sin. God wouldn’t hate them for this, he couldn’t. How could anyone hate him for finding his own Garden of Eden between the legs of his idol? Sam cums again, squeezing around Bucky to the point he thinks he might pass out. Cumming inside Sam is an out of body experience. One that has him curling over the man, pressing himself as close as he can against the man. He bites down hard against the base of his neck, breaking skin and flooding his mouth with his angel once again. They lay there for what feels like not enough time.

Sam taps him, and he takes it as his cue to move. Pulling out feels like a punishment, too cold, far too cold, especially when he could be on his angel. He helps Sam to stand, his legs wobbly as he leans into Bucky. They walk through the church naked towards the showers. Bucky is silent as he sets Sam down on one of the benches, adjusting the water so it doesn’t shock Sam, and gathering the extra towels and rags.

He doesn’t let Sam lift a finger when it comes to washing. Bucky takes it seriously as he did his studies. Wiping down the spit and spunk, being careful around Sam’s wings and the bruises, even going as far as to clean out the mess he made inside Sam. Even if his intentions for doing so were just to finger Sam and make him cum one last time. Still, he cleans Sam down until the only traces of what they did are marks that would fade in less than a week. Sam does the same for him despite Bucky’s protests for such treatment. He was a priest, serving and caring for his saviour was second nature for him. The same happens when Bucky is drying his angel. Sam’s hands careful along his body, leaving feather-light touches as he rubs a towel across him. Maybe it’s strange to say, but Bucky thinks he could like this. Taking care of his angel just as his angel has done for him.

It’s easy enough for Sam to change, disappearing behind a door only to step out in pajamas. Bucky doesn’t bother with the extras, only boxers and sweatpants, before he collapses onto his bed. He needs to take off his arm, can’t get into the bad habit of wearing it while he sleeps. His right hand reaches over to unlatch the mechanism holding the arm to his shoulder, only for a sudden weight to land in his lap. Sam is there, pulling him up as he works silently on removing the arm.

“I never did say thank you for the gift.”

“Hm?” Sam quirks a brow as he looks at Bucky, the arm held carefully between them.

“For the arm. I remember leaving a nasty hole of blood when you dug me out.”

“Wow,” Sam laughs, “I’m surprised you remember much of anything. The old man was convinced you were beyond saving.”

“And yet, you did.” Sam doesn’t respond, his mouth twisting up into a pout as he thinks over what he should say. Bucky takes the time to look at Sam, from the long lashes that shade dark eyes to the well-maintained goatee, to how no matter where he sits, the lights form a halo around him. Sharp and defined eyebrows, hair cleanly cut down, the sharp curves of his cheekbones, he’s perfect.

“It felt right.” There’s a question Bucky wants to ask, it’s right on the tip of his tongue, but he fears the answer. Fears it’d be taking a bite out of the forbidden fruit, and his Eden would disappear. Sam must know, he knows he’s not being exactly subtle. He can’t meet Sam’s eyes, and doesn’t want to do anything that could disrupt this moment early. “You feel right.”

“Really?” It sounds more reverent than he’d prefer, but he can’t help it. Sam’s arms are around, pulling the two together in an embrace that feels right.

“More than right.”

The sun shines down on a new day. The Baptist Church of Saint Samuel is buzzing with excitement as its members gather inside the pews. Leading the congregation is Father James Barnes, a smile painted in broad strokes across his face as he looks out at the faces he’s grown to call family. Standing by the closed doors, is a man he knows well. Tall and broad, he’s dressed in a pilot's jacket and jeans with Bucky’s dog tags around his neck. He doesn’t have his wings, but the lights of the church still find a way to give him his halo. He smiles at Father James, waving as he listens to Father James speak to those saved by their angel.

When he was a young man, he died. Trapped under snow and ice, the frozen hands of death pulled him under. Dragging his mind and soul away from the body he called home, and even further from the home he called family. But then, with wings of pure feathers, his angel found him. His eyes drift down to the gold band on his finger, identical to the one the man by the doors wears. He has been saved, and it feels more than right.

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