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Sam can’t quite tell if the tightness in his throat is because of nerves, or because he’s got the clerical collar on too tight. Probably a bit of both.
He adjusts the collar as he stares into the mirror, scrutinizing his reflection. In the flickering golden light, he looks… good.
He had originally bought a cassock to go along with the collar, but had ultimately decided that it crossed the line from “sexy” to “goofy as fuck.” He went instead with dark tailored pants, a white button-up, and a black waist jacket with shining buttons and pockets big enough to hold one of those travel-sized Bibles (which he doesn’t actually own, but there are a few equally blasphemous surprises waiting in there).
All in all, he’s doing a pretty good job at channeling Spencer Tracey in the 1938 film Boy’s Town. Which he assumes is an accurate portrayal of what a priest would’ve looked like back when Bucky was younger.
Several weeks ago, Sam had impulsively stopped at a church on Ash Wednesday. He hadn’t done it in years, isn’t religious in the least these days, but he’d been missing all the Mardi Gras celebrations back home; the too-sweet king cake from the grocery store hadn’t cut it. The scrape of the ashes against his forehead simultaneously sated and deepened the nostalgic yearning.
He hadn’t been expecting Bucky’s reaction when he got back to their apartment. How he’d sunk to his knees and freed Sam’s cock from his pants basically as soon as Sam had shut the door.
Right before swallowing Sam down and then rimming him until he came twice in a freakishly short period of time for someone his age, Bucky had explained that growing up, he’d experienced unholy feelings towards his priest. Ash Wednesday held special significance: the quick brush of the priest’s fingers against his skin had given Bucky something to jerk off to for weeks afterwards.
Sam had bought the clerical collar later that night, while Bucky slept draped on top of him. The rest of the ensemble he’d put together in the following weeks, along with the small white candles now lighting the room.
He takes a deep breath. After they’d finished the cake, he’d made Bucky wait for the rest of his birthday surprise. He can practically feel Bucky’s impatient curiosity radiating from the other side of the door.
“You can come in now,” he calls, and then feels silly, because is that what a priest says? He’s already not doing this right because Bucky’s old priest-crush would’ve given mass in Latin, and Sam doesn’t know any—
The hunger fills Bucky’s expression as soon as he sees Sam. He kicks the door shut behind him and drops to his knees in an almost singular motion.
“Bless me Father, for I have sinned,” he breathes out.
Oh, so that’s what they’re doing. Sam lets go of any last-minute doubts about if he should’ve run this by Bucky first and raises an eyebrow.
“It’s been… eighty years since my last confession. I’ve sinned more times than I can count.”
He stares up at Sam through his eyelashes. “I’ve been having these… thoughts lately.”
Sam fingers the items in his pocket. “I’m sure the Lord will forgive you. But I can’t give you penance until I know what kind of thoughts we’re talking about.”
Bucky bites his lip. “Lustful thoughts, Father.”
There’s no way that Bucky calling him “Father” should be making him as hard as he is right now. Sam crosses his arms over his chest. He’s gotta stay in character.
“Maybe the first step is to stop going to wherever you’re having these thoughts, my child.”
Bucky actually shudders when Sam calls him that.
“That’s the problem. See, I keep having these thoughts in church. And they ain’t about the nuns. When I’m watching you sing hymns, I’m thinking about what other sounds might come out of that mouth. When you’re placing the Eucharist on my tongue, I gotta keep myself from sucking at your fingers. And when I’m on my knees praying…”
He trails off, eyes fixed on the bulge doubtlessly visible through Sam’s black pants.
Sam reaches forward and grips Bucky’s chin. Bucky’s eyes snap back up to his face, lips parting in that little smirk that shows up when he knows he’s about to get what he wants.
“If you’re going to come into the house of God and start spewing that sort of filth, then the only way to save your soul is to keep you from talking. And since I’m responsible for your salvation…”
He shifts his grip from Bucky’s chin to the top of his head. With his free hand, he unzips his pants and shoves his briefs down just enough to get himself out.
Eager as he obviously is, Bucky lets Sam guide him towards his dick. He swallows him down without hesitation, eyes never leaving Sam’s face as he slowly draws back up, licking a stripe all the way up the underside.
Sam keeps his fist tangled in Bucky’s hair tight enough that Bucky knows he has control, but allows Bucky to set the pace. He’s even more enthusiastic than he usually is, taking Sam down to the root almost every time, twisting his tongue in configurations that don’t feel humanly possible, licking pre-come straight from the slit.
Sam lets him go on like this until he’s right on the edge, and then he tugs sharply on Bucky’s hair and pushes him back. Bucky is lax enough that he actually stumbles on his knees, taking a moment to regain his balance. His head lolls back, eyes never leaving Sam as he steps away from him.
“You think that’s enough to absolve you?”
Bucky blinks at him, long and slow. “Like you said, Father. My salvation’s in your hands. Whatever my penance is, I’ll do it.”
“Get undressed.”
Bucky’s usual grace is almost entirely absent; he’s gone deep. The flickering candlelight shifts across his body as he hurries to obey. Sam, for his part, keeps all his clothes on. Putting together this ensemble wasn’t cheap; he’s gonna get his money’s worth.
Once Bucky is completely stripped, he turns to look at Sam. He wishes suddenly that he would’ve gotten some stained glass to hang in the windows. The shadows would’ve looked beautiful against Bucky’s bare skin.
“On the bed. On your back.”
Sam walks over to the side of the bed and wraps his hands around Bucky’s waist, pulling until his legs are hanging over the edge. “Not as good as bending you over the altar, but it’ll do for now.”
Bucky closes his eyes for just a second, shivering, and okay, yeah, Sam definitely nailed that fantasy on the head.
He waits until Bucky’s eyes are fixed on him again before he reaches into his pocket. He makes sure Bucky sees the cross emblazoned on the packaging of the small vial he removes.
It turns out that you don’t need to be a priest or anything to buy holy oil. They sell it on Amazon. All different kinds. There’s a lot of frankincense and myrrh and other stuff that probably shouldn’t be anywhere near your dick, but you can also just get regular olive oil that’s been blessed by a priest. And that’s maybe been held in front of a saint’s dead body or something, but he doesn’t much want to think about that part right now.
“Do you know the Act of Contrition?” Sam asks as he opens the bottle and starts drizzling it on his hands.
“Yes, Father.”
“Say it three times.”
During the first prayer, Sam runs his hands all over Bucky’s body. He rubs the oil into his thighs, over the sharp juts of his hip bones, everywhere but Bucky’s reddened, rock-hard dick. As Bucky breathes out, “—my God, who art all good and deserving of all my love—” Sam drizzles the oil directly onto his chest, then rubs his palms over Bucky’s nipples.
Bucky gasps, stumbling on the words. Sam slaps his cheek so lightly he doesn’t even leave a mark, just a smear of oil against his skin.
“Say it like you mean it. Again.”
“O my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee,” Bucky murmurs, staring straight into Sam’s eyes as he speaks.
Christ. Sam’s not sure he’s going to last through three of these.
He waits until Bucky has finished the first one to press inside of him, pouring more oil directly against his hole as he does. The sensation makes Bucky shudder, but his words stay steady as Sam stretches him open. He’s three fingers deep by the time the final “Amen” passes through Bucky’s lips.
Sam pauses, fingers still inside. “My child, are those sinful thoughts still troubling you?”
It still feels a little ridiculous to call Bucky that, but the flush that spreads all through his body suggests that he’s very much into it.
“I’m trying, Father, but I can’t help it.” His hips jerk upwards, pre-come beading at the tip of his cock. He’s so hard it almost hurts to look at him. “You still think I can be saved?”
Sam pulls his fingers out from Bucky. Without bothering to wipe them off, he reaches into his pocket and pulls one more thing from the depths.
“Hands on your stomach.”
When Bucky obeys, Sam winds the cheap white plastic rosary around his wrists, tying them together with a rough knot. It’s laughable as far as restraints go; they both know Bucky could snap it in half a second if he wanted to. But Sam has faith that he won’t.
“Start praying.”
As Bucky starts, “In the name of the Father—” Sam pushes into him.
He tries to go slow, to make this last, but they’re both so close to the edge that he knows it’s a losing battle. He rests his oil-slick hands on Bucky’s sides as Bucky slips into the Apostle’s Creed, his eyes never leaving Sam. Even on a particularly deep thrust, one that makes him shiver all through his body, he manages to keep his voice steady.
It’s when he finishes that prayer and moves on that Sam really loses control. Something about the way that Bucky breathes out, “Our Father, who art in Heaven,” the way his fingers twine around the beads constraining his wrists, the way he reflexively tightens around Sam when he hits the right spot inside of him—it all comes together.
Sam grips the underside of Bucky’s right leg and shoves it up so he can push in at a new, deeper angle. Bucky arches back, and the words of the prayer run together as he twists beneath Sam, and the way he’s trying so hard, so desperately to say it right even as Sam slams into him with bruising force shouldn’t be nearly as hot as it is.
Bucky falls apart on “—lead us not into temptation.” His voice cracks into a cry as he comes, spilling onto his belly, where his hands and the beads around them rest. It’s that sight more than anything that pushes Sam over the edge. He manages a few more thrusts, and then he’s coming inside of Bucky, hands gripping down hard enough that he thinks the marks will still be there in the morning, super-soldier healing or not.
For a moment the room is filled with just the twin sounds of their breathing and the barely-perceptible crackling of the candles. Then Bucky laughs, quietly.
“You think I’m forgiven yet, Father?”
Sam blinks open his eyes. He’s slumped over Bucky, chest-to-chest, can feel Bucky’s bound hands and the rosary pressing right beneath his ribs.
“Go in peace,” Sam says, and kisses Bucky’s forehead, right where that first priest would’ve drawn the ashes.
He pulls out and strips down as Bucky watches him from the bed, too boneless to move. Sam gets rid of the pants, the jacket, and the shirt. He keeps the clerical collar as he reaches down and untangles Bucky’s fingers from the rosary, dropping it onto the nightstand before he blows out the candles.
Bucky finally moves when he climbs into bed, pulling his legs up onto the mattress and rolling over to face Sam. Sam’s back has barely settled onto the pillows before Bucky is on him, pressing their lips together and shoving his tongue down deep. Sam grips his shoulders, conscious of how they’re both covered in oil. Probably they should shower, but that feels a lot less appealing than what they’re currently doing.
When Bucky finally breaks the kiss, he rests his forehead against Sam’s. “Jesus,” he says, and then laughs again.
“Was that good for you?” Sam asks, stroking his hand down Bucky’s back. “I know we didn’t really talk about it—”
“I couldn’t have asked for a better birthday gift. Thank you,” and he kisses Sam again before wrapping his arms around him and pulling him close. “Did you like it?”
“You know, I kinda did,” Sam admits. Most days he feels pretty far removed from the Catholicism of his childhood; his parents weren’t devout enough for him to really feel much grief over leaving the church, but maybe it impacted his psyche more than he realized.
…Or maybe it isn’t that deep. Whatever. It’s not something that needs unpacking right now, or possibly ever.
“I bought a cassock at first,” Sam says. “You know, one of those long robes that priests wear? But I felt like it looked stupid.”
“Hmm.” Bucky nuzzles his neck, right below the clerical collar. “I liked the suit. But if you were in the robe, with nothing underneath…”
Oh, damn. Yeah, he could be into that. “Next time?”
“Next time,” Bucky agrees, kissing Sam’s chest before resting his head down on top of it.
Sam curls into him. He knows he’ll probably never be able to go to Confession again after this, but that’s okay. Lying here, tangled up with Bucky, he can’t imagine ever needing anyone else to tell him he’s absolved.