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adrinktostopyourthirst · 5 months

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Bucky Barnes | Series | Loose

Part two of the Rebellion Series

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Plot: You and Bucky have no idea whether you can trust each other. There is an understanding, but you're not sure of what that understanding is and why it seems to run so deep.

Warning: Angst, violence and fluff (?)

Words: 4,1OO

It is hard enough already for Bucky to fall asleep at night. Yes, it has gotten better in recent years, but there will always be that part of him – awake and aware – that registers every sound and movement, even when he should be knocked out. Though he wouldn’t admit it, that part of him sat more alert ever since you had joined the building. Perhaps because Bucky still wasn’t so confident in your allegiance.

He can’t stop overthinking it. He has seen what you’re capable of. Would you be capable of even more if people cornered you? If you felt like you had no other choice but to manipulate and kill your way out? After all, wasn’t it possible that you felt like you had moved from one prison to the next?

You’d been a delight at dinner two nights ago, but Bucky can’t turn off his brain. This is the part that made you win people over. The way you’d gotten along with Natasha like a house on fire, the way you’d shared stories like you and his team had been friends all along… Yet you had no trouble letting a side of yours slip through the cracks that tantalised Bucky beyond belief. The way you had looked at him, teased him–

The faintest rustle has Bucky shooting back to his current place in time. Lying in bed and staring at the ceiling. He holds his breath in an effort to hear better.

Nothing.

However, something doesn’t sit right. Something is off. He’d learned that hypervigilance was a side effect of his trauma, but he had a hard time believing his intuition would betray him like that. Not when he had relied on it so successfully for years.

“F.R.I.D.A.Y.?” he whispers to the dark ceiling.

“Yes, sergeant Barnes?”

“Is everyone in their respectable rooms?” he tries.

“I cannot divulge that information,” the voice sounds and Bucky sighs. He musters up some strength and swings off his duvet before climbing out of bed.

Yeah, he doesn’t trust you for a second.

…

Your heart is pounding in your throat. This isn’t part of your skillset – the escape and combat. Though perhaps if you do the former correctly, you won’t have to resort to the latter. Escaping the compound had been surprisingly easy, which strangely made your chest hurt. It was way too easy to escape. But it made sense. Steve had told you that you weren’t being held captive and you being here was all in good faith.

Faith you just broke by making your escape.

You probably should have been more patient. Winning their trust a bit more and then making an escape, make sure they really don’t see it coming. But the dinner had made you antsy and impatient. You had to get out.

If you’re entirely honest with yourself, you know that getting attached to a new group of people and deciding to escape then – or worse, leading them into their demise later – would be worse than getting away now that no one has attached themselves to you. Or you to them…

Breaching the edge of the surrounding forest, you finally let go of the breath you’ve been holding. You did it. Out of sight, out of mind. You’re free. No more captivity, no more expectations. All you need to do now is leave the country, change your name and possibly dye your hair. Sounds easy enough. A bit dramatic, but not impossible.

That is, until you get dragged backwards by a hand over your mouth and you lose your footing. The hard body behind you is the only thing keeping you from tumbling to the muddy forest grounds. Your breathing is ragged as your hands both fly to grab the forearm attached to the hand covering your yelp.

The metal forearm.

“Rule number one of making your escape: never assume you’re in the clear,” Bucky’s voice rumbles through the night air, his mouth so very close to your ear. “Shouldn’t have dropped your guard when you reached the edge of the forest.”

His gloved hand removes itself from your mouth, but you know better than to make a run for it, or to scream. He twists you by your shoulders and you muster some playful guilt to your face, masking your disappointment. Disappointment… but you feel strangely relieved. Maybe the largeness of finally being free felt somewhat overwhelming. Move to another country and change your name? It’s ridiculous. And that, when the people here have been so patient and kind to you…

You let out a soft laugh, “Worth a shot, no?”

Bucky studies you intently and something in your gut stirs at it. Not even Natasha seems to have as good of a read on you as Bucky does. It makes you feel naked. Makes you feel like all of your carefully crafted plans are flimsy and no good. Makes you feel like you have to stay far, far away from Bucky. Like you need to run. Now.

And how the hell did he manage to figure out you were making your escape?

You wait for him to tell you off, preach against your indolence and call in backup to shove you into something more similar to a prison cell. But Bucky sighs, disappointed and tired.

He seems so, so tired.

“Let’s go back inside,” he says and you furrow your brows at him.

His defeat has your chest clenching tightly. You want him to punish you, scold you. At least show that he cares. Why? You’re not sure. Maybe you need to know that the relief you felt from being caught is somewhat mutual in a sense. That the people here don’t just see you as a weapon, despite the burden, but that you’re someone worth saving. Worth keeping around.

Worth healing.

“That’s it?” you ask. “No scolding or punishment?”

Bucky scoffs humourlessly. “You get a kick out of punishment, darling?”

You roll your eyes. “Seriously.”

“I’m not your fucking baby sitter,” he mutters and starts walking back to the building, rightfully assuming you’ll follow. “If you want, I can ask Steve to tell you off in the morning. He’s better at that sort of thing anyway.”

Some pathetic part of you wants to sulk at his response like an ill-tempered child. “Then why come after me?”

It stays quiet for a second as you cross the field towards the compound. “I couldn’t let a poor escape plan be successful.”

You can’t help but snort at that answer and decide that fine, you’d play along for now. But you wonder if the curious Bucky you’d seen a few days ago had completely vanished since that dinner.

…

The next morning, Bucky gets cornered by you after breakfast. He looks down his nose at your defiant face.

“You didn’t tell anyone about last night?” you ask him and he raises his brows, unimpressed.

It had surprised you that no one at breakfast mentioned anything or gave you even so much as a dirty look. Clearly, none of them are aware that you tried to make your escape last night. And you cannot for the life of you figure out why Bucky is taking it easy on you. Is he smart enough to assume that your own guilt will do more damage than he ever could? Is this part of some bigger scheme of his? Perhaps he is actually as tired and unbothered as he looked when you saw him in those woods.

“What happened last night?” he asks with a telling smirk. The current look on your face is worth the lack of sleep he had tonight. It’s too easy to rattle you. You roll your eyes and Bucky smirks even wider at that. Is he… flirting?

“Why didn’t you tell anyone?” you try again.

Bucky remains quiet and fights to keep a straight face. He did expect your question, but why didn’t he tell anyone? Because he thought you and him would get along after those tiny moments during that first dinner? Because the team would have let you walk away? Because Bucky doesn’t want you to go… Because he thinks he can help. Help the world. Help you. He thinks he can help you. And you can help him. And–

“Want me to tell them now?” he says instead.

He barely notices the flash of panic in your eyes before you cover it with an annoyed scoff and turn on your heel to walk away. He watches you. Every step until you are out of sight.

“You said she trusts you,” Steve’s voice sounds from behind him and Bucky schools his face back to bland interest before he turns to Steve. “That doesn’t look like she trusts you.”

“It’s a work in progress.”

Steve frowns pensively. “Well, speed up the process. We have an important mission and we need her for it.”

“What?” Bucky almost loses his restraint, his body flaring in alarm. “Steve, she hasn’t had any training. She was locked up for months. It’s too big of a risk–”

“I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t desperate, Buck,” Steve tells him regretfully, but instantly notices that Bucky isn’t buying it. “This is the thing we needed her for.”

“She isn’t some kind of weapon!” Bucky exclaims and he notices Natasha turning away from her conversation in the nearest common room to see what the commotion is about. He gives her a warning look, then lowers his voice. “Steve. This could’ve been me,” Bucky breathes. And there it is. Recognition flickers in Steve’s eyes. “We can’t use her like this. She’s all alone.”

Steve looks past Bucky’s shoulder as if you’re still walking away from him. Angry frown, uptilted chin and swaying hips– Bucky almost looks. Then Steve sighs and looks back at his friend. “Take all the time you need. If she’s ready, I’ll explain the mission to her. I think she might want to help.”

…

Bucky reads over the file until his eyes turn bleary. Steve was right, you will want to help.

He thinks you can handle it, but… what if you encounter a trigger on the way? What if it all becomes too much? Bucky realises he isn’t nearly close enough to care this much, and he doesn’t, but who else but him is going to care whether you live or die? Sometimes Bucky wonders if even you care whether you live or die. What would have happened to Bucky if everyone had given up on him? He knows damn well that he’d be long dead if not so many people found him useful.

But that’s the thing, isn’t it? Bucky never had a choice. So he finds himself knocking at your door at 10pm with the file in hand.

After opening the door, you barely manage to get a word out before Bucky extends the folder towards you. “Steve needs your help on this. It should be fine, but the choice is up to you.”

Quick. Brief. He’s just the messenger and the decision is all yours. Bucky turns and makes to walk away – before you can spot all of the thoughts crossing his mind – but your voice stops him.

“Will you be there?”

The question takes him by surprise. Turning back towards you and slowly walking to the doorframe you’re standing under, he creases his brows together. “You need me to come along?”

You shrug abashedly. “Will you?”

Bucky studies your face intently. “Yes,” he lies. He’ll figure something out with Steve.

“What if I can’t do what you need me to do?” There it is again. He doesn’t get why this vulnerable side of you keeps surprising him so much.

“You’ll be useful,” are his terrible words of comfort. He wants to palm himself in the face.

The suppressed smile you give him heats his face and he’s sure you’ll call him out on his horrible people skills, but you stay quiet. The silence grows and grows and Bucky starts to shift nonchalantly, wondering if he should walk off and let you read the file in private.

“Okay,” you say softly.

“You’re coming?”

“Yes,” you affirm and look up at him, handing the file back. “Do you not want me to go?”

“It’s your choice,” he tells you and gently takes the folder.

“That’s not what I’m asking.”

Some wall snaps up inside of him at that tone – at that hopeful look in your eyes. “You could use the mission to make your escape,” he says with a shrug and makes to turn away from you again. “I won’t stop you this time.”

He walks away, leaving you to gape at his retreating form.

…

The mission was simple enough.

Sam, Natasha, Bucky and you would be attending a gala. Supposedly, there is a certain divide between the guests in attendance. Your job is mainly to feel out just who will be willing to join your cause. What goes unsaid is that you’re also required to butter them up to spring into action when your team would deem it necessary.

The party is in full swing and everyone is finally losing their mask of formality and enjoying their evening. You just hit the sweet spot of their susceptibility and you sweep into casual conversation about politics. Seeing who keeps quiet, who isn’t scared to speak up, whose faces harden at the prospect of change, etcetera. All of your antennas are on and when you know people have stopped paying attention to you, that’s when you dare a glance across the room where you know Bucky is standing.

All dapper and handsome, wearing a very expensive suit.

All of you have taken thorough action to look exceptional and to blend in perfectly with the high class crowd. Being charming is easy enough, looking it was a necessity – yet, all of it does still feel very far removed from yourself. Like a betrayal to the woman who was locked up mere weeks ago. However, being a true professional, you don’t allow your thoughts to linger too much and channel back to the matter at hand.

Then you feel it.

The searing heat that starts at your legs and spreads all the way up to your chest and cheeks. Like a virus burning over your skin. And you know what it is – know who it is. So you look back in the direction of Bucky, if only to catch him in the act.

But he’s unbothered. Brooding and observing from the bar in the shadow of the room, somehow alone and undiscovered by most of the crowd (a skill you assume he has acquired over the years). And his eyes are still on you. They glide down and back up for even more emphasis and you swallow away the dryness in your throat.

Gliding a sensual hand over the arm of the man next to you, you excuse yourself with a warm smile and slowly stride over to the culprit. Bucky waits patiently, and you swear you see a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as you walk over. He hands you a spare glass of champagne and turns his back to the room when you’re close enough to hear him.

“It’s working,” he says and you swear he sounds slightly impressed.

“Did you assume I’d fuck up?” you taunt and lean over the bar, sipping at the glass flute between your fingers. Bucky turns to you and his eyes sweep over the curve of your partly exposed back, the hollow of your spine and the curve of your ass. Then he holds his breath for a moment.

“Wouldn’t be mad if you did,” he tells you and his tone sounds gentle. You know that’s why he’s here, even though neither of you said it out loud, you know he’s here to stick up for you if you can’t get it done yet. If you’re not ready to be that person again.

Just like he probably knows that you’re here because the guilt of trying to escape from your saviours was eating you alive. And you didn’t want to prove Bucky right by escaping. You had glanced at the exits a few times and debated it, yes, but then looked at your team and thought against it. Looked at Bucky and–

“We’ll leave in five minutes,” Bucky murmurs as he finishes his glass. “I noted down all the people you signed as potential allies and who definitely isn’t.”

“There’s a few we can convince to help,” you cut in.

“What? The woman who runs that capitalist shitshow?” Bucky frowns. “Nah, she’s only motivated by money.”

You smile at him knowingly. “Money is a great motivator and our movement could benefit her greatly, so you just have to nudge her in the right direction.”

Bucky studies your face then and you might have found it less penetrating when he looked at your body with that stare. That intrigue. “And you already have a plan to tip her over to our side,” he concludes.

“You chose me for this for a reason, did you not?” you ask.

His eyes drop to your mouth. “I like a woman who takes her job seriously.”

You have no idea where that came from, but decide to go along with it anyway. You smirk and empty your flute, gently setting it down on the bar after. “Here I was, thinking you didn’t like anyone,” you purr and saunter off to find your other teammates and round up today’s mission.

You turn around when you hear Bucky yelling out your name, but then the room spins and debris flies everywhere. You’d cry out if the wind didn’t whoosh from your body and your ears don’t hollow out. You want to voice your discovery, as futile as it is, but the scream dies in your throat.

Someone just blew up the building.

…

It feels like there’s ash in your mouth. And throat. Your body bleats in pain, but nothing too severely. Maybe you’re in shock. Maybe you can’t feel a limb that’s no longer there. Maybe–

The room is dark except for an orange hue that travels over the ceiling and walls every few seconds. You’re slumped in a velvet chair and your fingers pluck softly at the fabric. One by one, your senses weave together and you hear the soft sounds of someone working on something. Paper ruffling, some gentle work, someone who’s trying to be quiet. You rasp in a raw breath and see a shadow at the bottom of your vision. But your body is relaxed. Or… Well, as relaxed as it can be.

There was an explosion.

“Have some water,” Bucky offers from his kneeling position between your legs and nudges his chin to the glass at the small table next to your chair. His voice is soft, raw. And when you squint at him while you blindly reach for the glass, you see soot on his face, dust on his suit.

“Are you alright?” you ask and your voice reminds you to take the drink. The water feels like heaven in your throat and you nearly gulp down the whole glass.

Bucky pauses at your question and surely he didn’t expect that to be your first question. “I’m fine,” he grumbles and focuses on the task at hand. Which, you quickly realise, is cleaning up the wound on your thigh.

Next to him, there’s a small container with small shards of glass in there and a used pair of tweezers. You feel the prickle of the wound at your thigh and observe closely as he presses some gauze to the puncture wounds. His hands are firm and steady as he wraps a bandage around your thigh to secure the gauze. His calluses scrape against your soft skin and you almost swear he takes more time than he should securing the bandage.

You heave a deep sigh and straighten up in the chair. “Natasha and Sam?”

“Natasha was sent to hunt down the ones responsible and needed an aerial patrol, so she took Sam.” Bucky clenches his jaw and you have a feeling it took some convincing to get Bucky to not go after the bastards himself, to let Natasha handle it instead. “There were deaths, lots of wounded.”

You flinch at that.

Bucky notices it. The glaze over your eyes and the tightening of your fingers into the soft fabric of the chair. He barely allows himself to hesitate and he covers your left hand with his right one, taking your fingers and stroking his thumb over your knuckles. “We got out as many as we could, no one saw the explosion coming,” he explains and hopes the information brings you some peace. He’s desperate to take that haunted look off your face, but doesn’t know how.

He gives you time then. Allows you to sort through your memories and shush them. He strokes his thumb gently and squeezes your fingers every once in a while to anchor you to here, to being safe. Your breaths go from shallow to deep as they slow. He hears your heartbeat steady and watches clarity fill your eyes again.

Fuck him. Those eyes.

“Tomorrow, we go over your list and see what we can do. Let’s get some rest for now.” He pushes to a stand and moves to remove his hand from yours, but you hold onto him.

“I’m sorry for trying to escape,” you rasp and Bucky tenses at that. He did not expect that confession. Didn’t expect an apology either – he didn’t think one was warranted.

You slowly push to a stand and Bucky’s heartbeat spikes as you wobble on your legs before you steady yourself. His eyes search your face frantically and he tries not to linger at your lips for too long. You gently stroke a hand down his arm before brushing past him in thanks, and Bucky has to take a deep breath. A flash of you doing the same thing to one of tonight’s guests comes to him and jealousy hits him, a little too viciously. Just like it did when he saw it earlier tonight.

He turns around and watches as you walk up the small bag he packed for an instance like this. You pull out some clothes and Bucky shamelessly stares while you do it. He almost sighs as the sight of that orange hue travelling over your form, most of the sleek dress still intact and definitely still doing its job of making you look good enough to eat.

“I’m glad you’re alright,” he blurts. But he stands still as he watches you freeze. You slowly turn to him and tilt your head at him curiously.

Then, a slow smirk spreads over your face and your brows raise playfully. Bucky frowns as he tries to read the expression on your face, even if the lightness of it makes him want to drop to his knees in relief. This is much, much better than that haunted look that was there mere minutes ago.

Until one of your hands lifts from the bag, a small scrap of lace dangling from your fingers. “I am never letting you pack our getaway bag again.”

Bucky matches your smirk and strides over to you, close enough that you have to tip your chin up to maintain eye contact. “You can choose not to wear it,” he shrugs and the nonchalant gesture makes your legs weak. Slowly, he starts unbuttoning his own pants and shirt, stripping himself of his clothes and tempting you to break that eye contact. “But we’re sharing a bed, so you decide what is less tempting for me to look at.”

It takes everything inside of you not to balk at this… flirtation. But it’s nice – so fucking nice to deflate that balloon of tension after a mission like the one you had tonight. To have banter and humour and perhaps a little friendship.

“I better not catch you looking at all,” you snipe, but have a hard time keeping the smile off your face.

Bucky smiles too then and gives you a wink powerful enough to set your clothes aflame. “Too bad. You can’t ask that of me and look like that.”

That does render you a bit speechless and Bucky takes his win as he strips himself to his boxers. Climbing under the sheets, Bucky’s powerful body shifts and ripples with movement.

This is going to be a long night.

#ok this is NOT worth the wait #but its here which is a HUGE win for me #i hope you like it #not me being way too impatient to write a slow burn #the upcoming smut better be good too #pls tell me what u think i have obviouslty not forgotten about you guys #<3 #rebellion series #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes x reader #writing #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes oneshot #oneshot #series

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grocerystorelist · 9 months

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the body of christ – matty healy

brash and rogue, you don't know what to do with how you feel about the new priest in town. so, you find yourself in the confessional booth... aka priest!au

minors dni. dom/sub undertones, oral fixation, oral sex, unprotected sex, the man hasn't kissed anyone in a decade let him live!! wc: 3.2k

The church is dark when you approach the confessional booth, the heels of your boots ringing out and echoing throughout the cavernous room. You wonder if he hears you. A single lamp is turned on next to the booth, yellow beams dancing across the shifting fabric. You can hear Matty shuffling around inside, the shiny tips of his shoes barely visible beneath the black hanging.

It’s been a week since he kissed you, all teeth and tongue on the bench outside of his apartment, an insistent hand burning a path around your waist.

“I’ve come to confess, Father.” You smirk to yourself, crossing your ankles and shifting on the wooden seat to sit on your hands. There’s something girlish about the way you’re sitting, and you remember when your parents used to make you frequent this very booth several years ago. Then your confessions were about swiping your best friend’s eyeshadow palette, worried hands picking at your bright blue nail polish as you pleaded for forgiveness from an elderly priest. Now, the darkness of the booth no longer scares you.

“I’ve been having all of these thoughts… fantasies, if you will.” You strain your ears to your left, hoping to hear a gasp, a reaction from Matty. “I think about him all the time, and I don’t know what to do because he just won’t let himself.” A low ache settles itself between your legs, and you know that he can hear your legs cross and uncross themselves as you try to relieve yourself. As you smooth your black skirt down your thighs, you finally hear a shaky breath through the tiny window.

“I wanted him right there on a bench a few nights ago but he stopped himself after kissing me.” Your mind flashes back to the witty back and forths of that night, dangerously toeing the line of inappropriate.

“It was dark and quiet and the only thing I could hear was his heart pounding against mine.” Your cunt throbs, filled with the image of you climbing on top of him on the bench. “I tried to get off when I got home, but nothing worked.” A beat.

“What did you do?” He breathes out. In disbelief, you manage to say through the haze, “I touched myself. I touched– I was so desperate for anything. “ The wood of the confessional booth creaks as you continue.

“I couldn’t stop thinking of him bending me over, the way his fingers looked wrapped around the bottle that night.” A thunk emanates from beside you, a groan resonating throughout the booth as you squirm. “I wanted his head between my thighs, I wanted to get down on my knees in front of that bench as he fucking ran his mouth.”

“Have you-” Matty starts, hesitating. You interject before he can continue.

“I’ve never had anyone before.” You run your tongue over your bottom lip. “But I want him.”

“Stop.”

“What? Father-”

“Kneel.” You wait until he repeats himself, sliding off the bench and settling yourself on the floor. “Kneel.” Hands clasped, you close your eyes, waiting for his next directive. In the few moments of silence, your mind wanders before you ground yourself, feeling the grain of the wood through the knees of your tights.

Suddenly, the curtain is ripped open, velvet whipping inches away from your face. You blink through the spots in your eyes to adjust to the light filtering through the stained glass. Dust motes float in a haze around Matty’s head, and you swear you see a halo for a moment. Lips barely parted, his chin is tilted up, considering you as he looks down his nose.

His eyes bore through you, brown irises giving way to widening black pupils. You rise on your knees, breathing shallowly and staring up at him, waiting for him to cut through the thick soup of tension between you two. Matty’s hand rises and his eyes flick to it, as if he can’t believe he’s reaching out to brush a strand of hair out of your face.

The heat of his palm reaches you first, and you instinctively stretch to reach his hand, brushing your reddened cheek to his cool fingers. Matty’s fingers twitch away, only to return to your bottom lip, thumb collecting your sticky red lipgloss. He pushes in further and you take the chance to suck on his finger, gently tonguing at the intrusion. The rest of his fingers come to rest on your jaw, curling around the back of your neck.

He drops to the floor of the confessional and mirrors you on your knees, eyes scanning over your flushed face. Matty slowly pulls his thumb out of your now open mouth, where it joins the rest of his fingers on the side of your face, the glistening digit smearing spit over your cheekbone.

You don’t know who leans in first, but suddenly his lips are on your lips, and you’re gasping wetly as his hand travels down to rest on your hip, pressing you into him. He kisses and kisses and kisses you, a decade of desire being unleashed in the span of a few seconds. You grip onto Matty’s black shirt, running one hand through the gel that holds his curls in place. Delight blooms in your mind, and you grin as you kiss him. A sharp tug has Matty moaning into your mouth, tongue running over your bottom lip before you let him in.

You let out a giggle, realizing you’re the first person he’s kissed in ten years if you don’t count all the hands he kisses in blessing. Matty pulls back, a questioning look on his face, and you take in the string of spit that stretches between your mouths, the rise and fall of his chest, the shadow of the veins on his forearms. Now that you have him, you want to devour him.

He asks first, though. Matty’s hands slide down the back of your skirt, toying with the hem and tracing circles on your sheer black tights.

“Let me taste you,” he tips your head up, pressing a firm kiss to your lips as your head spins. You nod emphatically as you pull away, getting to your feet to sit back on the bench of the confessional. Matty rises too, and you look up at him as he undoes the top button of his black shirt, yanking his white collar out of the lapel and discarding it behind him. It hits the wood of a faraway pew, echoing through the silence.

All you hear is the blood in your ears as Matty gets back on the floor and hooks one hand underneath each knee to drag you to the edge of the bench. You feel your cunt throb with anticipation. He flips your skirt up, sucking in a breath at the visible lace of your underwear. Matty’s hands slide beneath the waistband of your skirt, leaving behind a trail of goosebumps as he fumbles for the elastic of your tights. He hasn’t looked up at you in a minute, transfixed by how the pale skin of his hands looks against the black of your tights.

You lift your hips to help Matty pull your tights off, his hands running reverently down you. They stop at your knees, grasping the meat of your thighs, digging in and pushing your legs apart to bare the damp red lace of your underwear.

“Did you wear this just for me?” Matty rasps out, pressing a kiss to your inner thigh. You whimper your confession, hands falling behind you as you struggle to keep yourself upright, his kisses nearing the lace covering you. He licks at the fabric, contributing to the growing dark spot on the fabric between your legs. Your hips jump, and he presses down with a hand on your hip, silently telling you to stay in place.

“Fuck, you’re so pretty. All wet for me.” His breath ghosts over you as he hooks his fingers on your underwear, slowly tugging down. “Is this what you looked like after I kissed you the other night?”

“Yes,” you manage to gasp out before he pulls them off, balling them up and stuffing them in his pocket. Matty finds your clit with an assured finger, rubbing circles. He bites down into the flesh of your left thigh, tongue soon following to soothe over the spot. Through the daze of the headrush, you see purple blooming as he traces his tongue toward where his finger is focused.

He attaches his lips to your clit, sucking and lapping at it with the same fervor as he had kissed you earlier. Matty eats you like a man starved, like it’s water in a desert, like you’re the sweetest fruit and all he wants is to consume you.

“Matty-” you moan. He slips his tongue into you, nose bumping your clit as he traces your walls. You grind into his face as he brings one of your legs over his shoulder, pulling you closer to him.

“So sweet making those sounds for me, love,” he says, withdrawing from your cunt to grin devilishly up at you. Matty’s hair is unruly and all over the place, chin glistening with you. He looks like he’s found heaven on his knees, and he brings a hand up to swipe your juices off his face. With a smirk, he brings the hand up to your lips, pushing two fingers in. You take them down to the knuckle, laving around them, and you see Matty reach for the front of his trousers, palming himself.

“Such a good girl for me,” Matty groans, pulling his fingers out of your mouth. “Going to make you come so hard you forget your name, your prayers” He reattaches his lips to your clit and brings his soaked fingers to your fluttering hole, slowly thrusting one in.

The fire in your lower belly is rapidly building, the waves of pleasure reaching new heights as he carefully stretches you around another finger. “Matty, shit, fuck,” you whine, rolling your hips. He diligently laps at you, and the euphoria hits you, trembling on the bench. You feel yourself spasming around Matty’s tongue as he continues to lick you through the ecstasy, legs splayed out for him.

Eventually, you push him away, bringing your thighs together and grinning dopily down to him. Matty is disheveled, his face covered in your juices. The hard line of his pants practically reaches out to you. I did that to him, you think, sticky and sweaty on the bench. Matty comes up to kiss you on the lips, peppering your face with soft devotion as he tugs your skirt down over the evidence of his worship.

The two of you sit together in silence for several minutes, the rise and fall of your chests perfectly synchronized.

“Good first?” Matty mumbles into your hair, playing and twisting your locks. You twist to look at him, an incredulous look on your face.

“You’re one to talk!” Your mouth drops open, laughing at the incredulity of his question. “You haven’t had sex in ten years.” Matty’s face drops momentarily before he runs his hand sheepishly through his hair.

“You’d probably never believe it, but back in the day I used to be quite a catch.” He wiggles his eyebrows. “That’s why they sent me to seminary. The girls couldn’t get enough of me.” You hide your face in his neck so he doesn’t see your reaction, eyes crinkling and mouth widening at the thought of a Matty your age being the talk of the town parties.

Shaking your head, you stand up and push through the curtain, waiting for him to follow you. He emerges from the darkness of the booth like an angel, pushing back the sleeves of his shirt where they’ve started to fall down his forearms.

Matty presses a chaste kiss to your nose as his arms bracket you against the confessional. You tilt your head up to capture his lips, pulling him closer as he trails kisses down your neck. You let him for a moment before you slip out around him, spinning on your heel and smoothing your skirt down. Matty looks dangerous now, not understanding why you’re pulling him away from the booth — his eyes tell you he would take you right over a pew if you let him.

“The rectory,” you say, taking his hand in yours. Matty walks with purpose, his strides long, and you struggle to keep up with him.

“Can my poor girl walk after what I just gave her?” You roll your eyes at the endearment, focusing on putting one leg in front of the other. One wobble and you would answer his question, which you aren’t allowing tonight.

A few minutes later you lie on his soft white sheets, legs parted as you lazily slip your fingers through your folds. Matty stands at the corner of the bed as he pulls his dress shirt out of its tuck, nimble hands unbuttoning and sliding the garment from his shoulders.

“Didn’t know priests could be so fit,” you giggle. “Is there a priest gym?” Matty throws his head back in a laugh.

“The dress code is cassocks, and it’s just rows and rows of priests on weight machines.” He jokes. “It’s practice for lifting babies out of water.” You pull a serious face, nodding solemnly.

“I hope I’m not intruding on your priest gym time tonight.” Instead of riffing off you, Matty decides to lift you up, spinning to land you on his lap. The rough fabric of his pants zaps the nerves in your clit, and you unwittingly grind down, making contact with his length. The air in the room is charged once again, ions waiting to be aligned to carry the spark between you both.

In one move, Matty kisses you square on the mouth and rolls you over. He towers over you, eyes zeroing in on your dripping cunt. You grasp for his belt buckle, yanking it out of the loops and throwing it into a far corner. His hands replace your own as he tugs his pants down first, revealing his tight black boxers.

Your mouth waters at the sight, but your reaching hands are gently stopped as Matty breathes a question. “Condom?” He raises an eyebrow, and you frantically shake your head no. “On the pill,” you briefly explain. Matty’s eyes darken as he slides his boxers down. His cock slaps against his stomach, red and weeping.

He circles his hand around it, stroking and tugging. “You look like a wet dream,” Matty says reverently, sliding down the bed to position himself over you.

Your hand joins him on his cock, and together you guide him to your soaked entrance. He swipes through the mess, coating himself in your cum. Torturously slowly, he finally presses into you.

“So tight love, you feel so good.” You grasp at his forearms, fixating on the curl dangling from his forehead. Matty’s abs flex under your fingers as he slowly pushes into your cunt, burying his face in the crook of your neck. His pants throw a hot spear of need through you, and he stills as he bottoms out. He’s bigger than anything you could’ve imagined. Matty stills between your legs, the two of you suspended in a tableau of sacrilege.

“Move, please,” you whisper, hugging him close as the pressure subsides into pleasure. Matty draws out slowly, and you feel every ridge dragging within you. Pleasure runs up your spine, and you whimper as words leave you, hoping he can tell you want, you need more.

He slowly rocks back into you, hips setting an agonizing pace. You feel so hazy, and you have no idea how to make your mouth work and tell him to give it to you faster, harder. Your head lolls backward, eyes blurry with desire.

“Ask me,” he says, and you shake your head, not understanding. He reaches up to his own forehead, down where the two of you are connected, then to his left and right shoulders.

“Oh-” you gasp, reaching up with both hands to take hold of Matty’s fist. You press a kiss to his knuckles.

“Bless me father, for I have sinned.” Matty moans, his thrusts finding a new vigor. He drills into your cunt, kissing spots in you that have stars exploding behind your eyes.

Bending down, Matty laves over your tits, sucking your left nipple into his mouth as he rubs at your clit. He rolls your nipple between his teeth, spit pooling on your chest. His mouth leaves your breast only to be replaced by a hand expertly tugging and twisting at your nipple.

You spread the spit from your tits, pressing down on your lower belly at the hard bulge of him inside you. And shit – you feel him, tightening your body’s grip on his cock.

“Do you like that, love, me filling you up so well?” Matty groans, dragging his hand down, interlacing your fingers and covering your hand with his. He pushes down to feel his dick in you, watching himself thrust in and out as the head pokes at your belly.

You mewl, digging your heels into his lower back, letting him roll further into you, cock hitting places so deep in you you didn’t realize they existed.

“Where do you want me?” Matty asks with a hoarse voice. You lock eyes with him, wrapping your arms around his neck. “In me.” He swallows the rest of your sentence with a kiss, tongue fucking into your mouth in time with the buck of his hips.

“Taking me so well,” his hips set a frantic pace. Your eyes roll back in your head, spots dancing across your vision. “Come for me, love.” You fight the sensation off, wanting to come with him. Matty’s hand burns circles around your clit as he thrusts mercilessly, filling you over and over.

With the first clench of your walls around his cock he twitches, a low grunt slipping out of his mouth as he hoists your hip up with one hand and somehow hits deeper. You think you might die if you don’t come soon. Hurtling towards the edge, you light up on the inside as you convulse underneath Matty. Eventually, you topple over, arching up into his chest as his cock begins to pulse inside you.

Sticky warmth fills you, and he fucks you through the last waves of his own orgasm. “You’re fucking perfect,” he moans, one hand next to your head as his hips still. His cock softens in you, but neither of you makes any move to shift.

You smile blearily up at him, and he dips his head to press a sweaty kiss to your forehead. His bed suddenly seems all the more inviting, and you both nearly drift off before you start to feel your cum dripping out around him.

Matty shakes some sense in himself to get the both of you cleaned up, and you wince when he slips out of you. The sudden emptiness colors your vision as you clench around nothing. He pads back to the bed with a washcloth, gingerly wiping your folds of cum and throwing the square into his laundry. He slips on a pair of boxers before handing you a matching pair, tugging a faded navy shirt over your head and gathering your hair to pull through the neck.

You feel as if you’re about to burst from the tenderness as you gaze at Matty curled towards you, perfect mirrors of each other.

“Stay,” he whispers, kissing you.

“I will.” You close your eyes, hands reaching out to intertwine with his.

#ok well hi guys! im leila nice 2 meet u all this is one hell of an introduction #fleabag if they fucked in the confessional instead of him being scared off #tell me if u like pls #sorry for the end being abrupt i kind of got sick of it #matty healy #matty healy smut #matty healy x you #matty healy x reader #matty healy fic #the 1975 #priest au #fics

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