Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/5781514.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Captain_America_(Movies), Captain_America_-_All_Media_Types
  Relationship:
      James_"Bucky"_Barnes/Steve_Rogers
  Character:
      James_"Bucky"_Barnes, Steve_Rogers, OCs
  Additional Tags:
      Church_AU, Brother_Barnes, Church_Sex, Public_Sex, Deepthroating, semi-
      public_blowjobs, 69, Anal_Fingering, Role_Reversal, Piss_Play, Raunch,
      Demonic_Impetus_v2, Priests_AU, Roman_Catholicism, Size_Kink, huge_cock,
      porn_tags, First_time_anal, unrealistic_post-coital_refractory_periods,
      Throat_Fucking, Hell, we_are_ALL_going_to_hell, it's_going_to_be_a_bumpy
      ride_motherfuckers
  Series:
      Part 3 of steve_rogers_on_being_a_good_christian
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-01-21 Words: 3198
****** Magnificat ******
by ifuckboyswhofuckgirls_(cadmiumredvulpini)
Summary
     And in the mirror you are David, facing that Goliath of a cock. Steve
     Rogers, choir boy.
      
     sequel to: Act_of_Contrition
     Beware underage cross-generational church sex.
Notes
     600 words of plot development.
     The rest is pure, absolute smut.
See the end of the work for more notes
He’s looking at you.
 
Oh, shit, he’s looking at you.
 
Your two hands are in your loose-fitting thrift shop navy blue slacks--the only
other pair of pants you got for churchgoing--and they’re clutching the
(doubtedly) spare change your momma’s given you for the offertory an hour
later. And, shit, something else shows up in your baggy slacks.
 
He’s looking at you. And, oh, fuck, your mind supplies you all those dirty,
dirty things you'd done.
 
Well, what he'd done to you. And, oh, shit, shit, shit… you can’t hide that
look that passes on your face (and you can’t hide your bulge anymore, no matter
how loose those dollar store slacks are.) So, instead, you put your thighs
together and pray, earnestly pray to the Holy Father, to your Holy
motherfucking Ghost and to the only begotten fucking son, that he won’t notice.
 
And, Jesus Christ, dear lord, these vivid flashes of heaven, of hot, white,
wet, pleasure rocking through you, and then the red, red, cold wash of shame
and guilt and running wet through the convent corridors and out the street with
come, and water, and soap and Brother Barnes slathered and soaking on the front
of your pants.
 
And, by the grace of the Virgin Mary, were you the laughing stock of the other
choir boys who were chomping down on sinful vanilla ice cream that would mar
their angelic, permanently pre-pubertal voices ten feet away in the creamery
beside the convent. Cherubin they would call after you in the small cloistered
courtyard, in the sight of the priests and brothers and maybe once, even, in
front of Brother Barnes—and they would smile, nod, and even agree, because you
were this miniscule blonde boy, and yesterday, only yesterday, you ran into
Brother Barnes and he nodded curtly, whispering under his breath “Cherubin,
eh?” And excellently, like a perfectly innocent boy who knew nothing about
sinful gay sex in a convent common room, you ran about-face, tail between your
legs, dick hard, into the nearest bathroom to compose yourself.
 
(But you knew, oh, how you knew, that outside those sacred walls and tall,
hypocritical pillars of that holy institution, Cherubin was Cheru-piss, who ran
through Brooklyn with urine down his front.)
 
“Come, Steve.”
 
Holy shit he’s right behind you. “Yes, father?” You manage, suppressing, well,
suppressing everything.
 
“BrotherBarnes. Not yet a fatherexactly.” Definitely adaddyto you, comes across
your mind and if you could slap your subconscious you would.
 
“Y-yes… Sorry.” The apology comes quick—almost reflexively.
 
“Sorry sir.” You thought he’d tell you. You wish he’d tell you.
 
“Come, follow me.” And shit, he put his heavy, forever cum-stained hand on your
shoulder and led you out of that seminary with your dick hard and your
conscience as clean as Detroit air and Hollywood tabloid.
 
And the last time he’d had his hand there you’d found yourself in a
confessional booth with his hands on your sides and his mouth on yours, you
didn’t know what’d happened next but the next thing you know you were coming on
your shirt and running out of that wooden box of heaven and hell.
 
And he leads you to the second room past the corridor, the big one where all
the priests chat and get ready for the mass the consquent hour, preparing their
homilies and songs. And you’d inhaled deeply, before you stepped into that
rose-scented, heavily fragrant air—air thick with old rosaries and old robes
and old men—so unlike the thick scent of Brother Barnes’ masculine,
testosterone-laden musk that should really have been covered up by the
aftershave; but instead the cologne only enhances it, and the scent just sends
your olfactory nerves running wild.
 
You pass by one of the priests—Father De Ocampo, the one who sings well and
leads your choir group, god, if he’d known—who just nods to you and Brother
Barnes as he passes, and then Brother Barnes is leading you to this corner,
with thin white walls of cotton and floor-length mirrors on two walls—it’s one
of the larger changing areas, and holy mother of god, Brother Barnes closes the
curtain behind you as he prods you inside and as he grows closer, you decide to
look away. Wrong move, apparently, because in the mirror the image is clear,
and superlatively sinful:
 
Your eyes gone wide like a prized gazelle under the heated gaze of a predator,
Brother Barnes, his long, slicked back hair unraveling into this lion’s mane,
his flesh golden and, oh, fuck, oh holy fuck, under his roman collar, the shirt
opens up and you see this peppering of hair across his hard, lean chest—and
from this distance, you can feel that heat wafting off his skin… and lower,
still, following the line of hair leading down below his belt is his, wow, even
after seeing it twice, no, thrice, now, bulge, heated and heavy.
 
And Brother Barnes drags one hand down his trousers laconically, taking his
time searing his fingers with the masculine heat of his chest, and bringing the
other one against his lips, his index finger rising: be quiet, it says. And he
pulls himself out whole in the cool changing room air.
 
And in the mirror you are David, facing that Goliath of a cock.
 
“Don’t want anyone to overhear, do we?” Brother Barnes whispers as he leans
forward and oh shit, oh shit… he hands his cock into yours, massive and
compelling and you start to shake, and again, his heavy hands land on your
shoulders and—oh, fuck—he shoves you on your knees, gripping your hair between
his thick, smooth fingers that hold the bread and wine.
 
Now holding you, the alabaster boy from midtown Brooklyn, roughly, threatening
to shatter you.
 
“Good boy,” he mewls when you lap at his balls, both your hands occupied by his
monster cock, hard and drooping with signature Brother Barnes flavor. Right now
the scent of him is almost too much, right now, the only scent you can smell is
him, right now it feels so right, no holy ghost no holy trinity just Brother
Barnes and hot, hung, cock. “Such a good boy, Steve…”
 
And you run your tongue over his balls one last time, his skin like smooth
scotch, wild and fiery and addicting. And then you risk a glance at the mirror
where behind the white sheets parting you from hell itself, are the slihouettes
of the grand hypocrites, rising and chatting and laughing, and then there’s
you, a fair-haired sinner under penance, on his knees, blue eyes begging and
pink lips finally closing over god’s chosen punishment.
 
Contrition is divine, and you choke on forgiveness as you try to take in as
much of Brother Barnes as you can, pushing yourself as far as you can on his
cock, the space between your hands and your lips growing smaller as your throat
loosens, allowing him in—yes, there it is, repentance when his cock head meets
the walls of your throat. But you can’t swallow him whole and as you smooth his
way out, your fingers following where your mouth was, where your saliva is, you
hum out ‘Ave Maria’ on his cock.
 
“Oh… shit, oh fuck, Stevie, so good.” He says, his hands on your corn yellow
head pulling you close. “Do that again,” he ministrates, and you obey: you take
him in as best as you can, cock deep in your mouth again as he recites the
sinner’s litany, “mother of fuck, Stevie,” “Jesus Christ,” “good boy, good
boy.”
 
And then the quiet grows—the priests have stopped talking, instead they’re
praying some kind of silent reverence and you can do quiet, it’s fairly easy
when you’re gagging on cock—but not for Brother Barnes, and you’re bent on
making it harder for him.
 
You do the same thing you do, humming the sacred lyrics to praise songs, and
take him out, running your fingers over the ridge of his head, and he lets out
a soft breath, not enough, you think. So you bare your teeth a little and let
your tongue run circles into the slit of his cock head and you can taste the
precum leaking out of him and he’s gripping your head and it hurts, goddamn it
hurts, but it’s not enough, so you grip his waist, and you hold in your breath
as you try to take all of him in you, “sshh…” he whispers, but it’s hissed and
you can hear the priests collective murmur, and Brother Barnes is wincing in
absolute pleasure as his cock slides down your tight throat, your jaw slacking
and his cock running through your lips and there’s something about the look in
his eyes like a gorilla in a rage and, a last millimiter in, and he snaps.
 
Your grip on him tightens as his grip on your hair does, and he goes manic when
he fucks your mouth, you feel your body lose control as well as he pushes into
you, your throat, in, and out, and in, and out, in this sinful rhythm of Ave
Maria, Gratia Plena as Brother Barnes bites his lip and seals his teary eyes
shut, small breaths escaping him, crescendoes, Magnificat, Magnificat as your
jaw starts to hurt and you feel sort of proud making him like this, turning him
into raw material desire, his hair everywhere, his sweat trailing down his long
chest, his cock ramming into your mouth.
 
“Ah—Stevie” he warns you, trying to be as quiet as he can, and he spills right
into you, just as he was pulling out, his head sitting on your tongue neatly as
it tremors rope after rope of hot, fresh cum. “Ah… Stevie, Stevie, Stevie…” He
tells you, lightly carding his fingers in your golden hair, riding his orgasm,
cumming into you.
 
And that scent a while ago is now all over you, inside you, and you swallow it,
then, your hands take Brother Barnes’ cock and you kiss it as it drips his
seed, the stream of white slowing down now, finally, and you lick it all up his
frenulum, and Bucky’s manic face is smoothing into his handsome, movie star mug
again, eyes crinkling at the sensitivity.
 
“God, Stevie,” you are, yes you are, you think, and you fall back to sit on
your knees and when you move to wipe your mouth, Brother Barnes kneels right
before you and kisses you earnestly, sincerely, without the manic frenzy of
depravity and solely in the loving haze of his after climax, and he tastes
good, like sweet candied apple and pie, overwhelming and familiar, and warm. It
feels like a thank you, or something of the sort because when he pulls back he
smiles and you smile that smile that makes you want to look away.
 
His hand goes south and when he tries to touch you, you almost recoil, and then
he kisses you again and he slips his hand under the waistband of your trousers
and he pushes you down on the clean holy ground, and you’re already so hard you
doubt he needs to do much to get you finished, but he’s got other things in
mind as he kicks off his pants and shoes.
 
“I owe you,” he murmurs into your lips, your porcelain skin, and then, “you’re
gonna fuck me,” he says.
 
You go still, the words echoing in your head as your cock stands attention, did
he just say that? And as if you asked him to he says “yes, you’re gonna fuck me
Stevie.”
 
He kisses your neck, opening and discarding your cheap white oxford shirt and
following the small invisible hairs to the worn metal clasp of your navy pants,
and he kisses you right on the head of your hard cock, and he rises back up to
kiss your coca cola red lips, like a bright banner, and he takes your hand and
brings them up to his own mouth, and picks out three fingers, nipping, sucking,
and salivating on your digits.
 
His mouth is warm and it’s impossible, this, you fucking him, and it should’ve
been the other way around but you guess you’d done such a damn good job he owes
you somehow (right now you owe the devil more than anything.)
 
And he looks at you with his big bold puppy eyes, ringed with dark circles of
his late night preaching in the clubs and pubs and bars around, and they looks
so soft and careful right now because he owes you everything, and when he
closes them to display his absolute pleasure of sucking your fingers, suckling
on your knuckles as he pulls in your hand deeper, your breath hitches, because
his monster cock is between your legs and, impossibly, blood pumps back into
that, and it meets you right at the apex of your thighs—and yet you wonder if
it’s still you who’s going to fuck him.
 
And you’re transparent, apparently, because he pulls your fingers out and he
tells you “not ready for that yet, baby doll,” and he calls you so sweetly, so
lovingly, then, oh, he guides your hand down his chest, behind his back, and
slides your fingers between his cheeks, and you can’t reach, so he shifts, sits
up, cock under your chin so his ass is right on your chest, within your reach,
and he pushes your shaking fingers along his sphincter, and you pick one out,
your index, to start pushing against his tight muscle.
 
And Brother Barnes’ cock fills up again, impossibly, and hits your lips
squarely—you try to chuckle but his cock is in the way so you just open up for
him, and he lets his oversensitive cock sit in your tongue lazily.
 
You feel him open up for you, feel him tense and shake and relax for your
fingers and immediately, your finger slides deeper, and Brother Barnes pulls
you out all of a sudden—“wait, Stevie,”—and then he turns around, and, oh, god
that’s a beautiful view of his ass. His cock is hanging right over your adam’s
apple and his ass is hovering right at your face, and you can see where you’re
putting your fingers, so you push one in again, loosening him up, and this
position gives him more room to spread, and you prod him with a second, slowly,
tentatively, before slicking it right in “yes, mmm, Stevie, baby.”
 
“oh, god, brother barnes,” you manage when he puts your little cock right in
his big, droopy mouth, sucking you, lubricating your cock, and he does it so
gently, so carefully, the sensations measured, and you get put into his place
and you try so hard to not scream out his name when he’s sucking on your cock.
 
You return to the task at hand, however, and scissor inside him, feeling the
flesh open up at your ministrations, tender and pink and ringed with thick,
dark, Brother Barnes hair and it smells like sin, pure, absolute, sin, when you
reach up your head to nose at his entrance.
 
And he makes a sound when you do that, so as your fingers work him you kiss him
on his perineum, tongue up and down his balls, now loosening again, his cock
resting on your chest. And as you’re about to slip a third finger in, he stops
you—“you’re gonna want it tight, Stevie,” he says.
 
Then he spits on your cock and turns around once more, deftly positioning
himself right on you, and then his hand moves behind his back to angle you in
and—oh, oh, god, that is tight.
Your hands automatically fit into his waist, hugging him as you enter, and you
can see his eyes are closed, but his mouth is open, slack jawed in pleasure. It
feels so good, so dangerously good, and it’s so much better than anything
you’ve ever felt, so much hotter and tighter than anything ever.
 
You realize he’s not that heavy, before belatedly thinking he must be holding
his weight over you, straining his muscles, so you decide to pull him closer,
throw him off his balance and, oh, shit, oh holy fuck, oh jesus motherfucking
christ, the full weight of him falls on you, and your cock gets in deeper into
him, and you’re so close, so impossibly on the edge of orgasm that if he
thrusts you’re gonna—
 
“Ah! Ah, mmm—Brother Barnes!” You call out, and all the fear escapes you
because you hear the bells ringing finally outside, the mass has begun, and all
the choir voices significantly rising as the church bells compete with their
brass, angel voices, lacking one alto boy in the third row. So much pleasure
rocks through you as you cum inside him, and he’s just thrusting against you as
you orgasm, the sensation foreign and amazing and so completely brand new and
your cum just makes it slicker and hotter and tighter… and Brother Barnes
doesn’t stop…
 
You want to tell him to, because it hurts, now, goddamn it hurts, and you’re so
sensitive, but he doesn’t and that manic look is almost back on his face, and
he just thrusts your cock into him in and out, non stop, and the pleasure and
pain is so overwhelming you tremble in his hands, shaking, and you don’t have
any time at all to get hard again, and you feel it coming again, rapidly like a
train coming at you, and you don’t want to, but instead—“oh, yes, oh, yes,
Stevie,” Brother Barnes says and you’re already so soft inside him—he pulls
out, relief washing over you in waves, but it’s still coming at you, and he
sinks down to kiss your cock when you burst, clear, white liquid streaming out
of your cock.
 
Brother Barnes drinks it all hungrily, your piss, making a mess everywhere,
it’s so sinful, so decadent and wrong and he does it all with reverent
eagerness, lapping up the pools of piss forming in your skin, following it up,
up, back to your cock, and you can hear him slurping thirstily, moaning and
licking you.
 
He’s so fucking filthy, and so are you, so lost and depraved, but you don’t
know what to do, watching him with supreme pleasure, your sore jaw open and
moaning and whispering his name, Bucky, Bucky, Bucky.
 
He rises up to kiss you again, full on the lips, still slick and sticky with
your piss, and he tastes like you, now, the dark caramel of his flavor now
light and sweet, and salty, with an astringent scent. And you don’t care how
filthy it is, you kiss him, still, and he’s heaven, he’s hell.
 
And when Brother Barnes pulls back, he tucks himself into you and rests his
head on your fragile chest, lips tight against your skin, tongue darting out to
taste your nipple mindlessly. You resort to smelling his hair, thick and dark,
like his scent, and wonder how the mother of fuck you got yourself into this
infernal mess.
End Notes
     train ride to hell bitches, and a happy new year!
     leave a kudos here as well as on the original.
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