Archive of Our Own ^beta

If one looked at Father Zemo’s church, one might assume his community to be quite large. It was a beautiful building, built out of stone with colourful glass in its windows and hand-made sculptures of holy men and women alike adorning the premises. The flower garden up front was always filled plenty with the most beautiful colours and plants, the vegetable patch in the furthest corner big enough to feed not only Zemo but some of his flock whenever the opportunity arose, and while some of the elders of the village had at first scoffed at the mere idea, Zemo was especially proud of the playground they had built a few summers ago, giving even the youngest of his proteges a safe place to play under the watchful eyes of the Almighty Father. 

Indeed, the church was one of the biggest, most beautiful for miles away - but that was also caused by it being the only church in a significant sphere. That was just a natural consequence of being in a fly-over state, where there were more cows than people (and so much more corn than cows and people alike). 

And yet, there was another factor that had helped the church and the local community develop so exponentially. Father Zemo might joke that it was the wonderful Christmas play he prepared each year with the local children, but in fact, it was their location just a stone-toss away from the highway, with no other towns connecting to it in miles. If you wanted to leave the farms, cows and corn behind? You had to pass by Father Zemo’s church. You wanted to take a break, fill up your car, grab a bite to eat, take a night’s rest in a family owned motel? You had to pass by Father Zemo’s church. Your next chance would be two hours away in one direction, and four in the next. 

Not surprisingly, many took the chance. And while they were already here? They might as well go to church, and spend their change from the diner on the other side of the street in the donation box. 

It was ironic, in a way. Where everyone else had Sundays off, it was easily the most busy day of the week for Zemo. He had mass in the morning, baptised an infant right after, had a youth mass just before lunch, did some baptismal prep for the next weekend, counselled two couples… The list went on and on. Like every Sunday afternoon, though, he took a bit of a break in the confessional. Most of his parishioners came right after the morning mass to speak of their sins, seek his counsel and be absolved. However, Zemo always wanted to give them the chance to return without the watchful eyes of the whole village on them. Some matters were only between a person and God, and sometimes Zemo felt more like he was intruding on what should be a private conversation between them and the Almighty Father, rather than being necessary to guide his parishioner to absolution. 

Most of the time, though, the two hours on Sunday afternoons he spent waiting for anonymous confession were also two hours that Zemo could spend praying up and down his rosary, seeking enlightenment, reflecting upon the last week and his own mistakes. Even priests committed sin - and Zemo tried to pay penance for his own gluttony, the laute as Thomas Aquinas had coined it. Once more, Zemo had been tempted to overindulge in delicacies and expensive foods, and had not been able to resist enjoying three finely seared steaks this week alone.  

Zemo had hardly finished his third prayer, fifty-six more to go to finish his rosary, when he heard the massive wooden front doors of the church open. Immediately, he placed his hands onto his lap and sat a little straighter, waiting for the poor soul to reach the confessional booth so he could help them find the light, offer some counsel and assign some penance. 

The steps of the man were heavy and loud. With the way the booth was set up, Zemo would need to step out of it to take a glance at who was going to come and join him - which would defy the purpose of offering anonymous confessions in the first place. There even was a thick, purple cloth the sinner could pull in front of his half of the booth to hide his face from any other passerby. And between them, a fixed partition was placed, small holes creating the pattern of a cross allowed for easy conversation, even for the recognition of some movements, but did not reveal enough to truly identify faces, details. 

And yet, Zemo did not even need to take a look to know that this was not a man of his usual flock. He smelled like smoke, cigarettes, and something that Zemo had no experience with but could guess was weed, motor oil, sweat and musk and maybe some cologne. It was not… pungent, but it was there as the man let himself fall into the booth, making the wooden box shake a little with his impact. 

“In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen”, the stranger spoke. From the shadow of the partition, Zemo could tell that he was not all too tall, but that he was built strongly. Broad shoulders, at the very least. He was taking up a good amount of space in his booth. The light, provided by three flickering candles and the slowly setting sun of an early autumn evening, allowed Zemo to make an educated guess about the stranger’s hair being long, being dressed in black. Not suited for church - but Zemo did not judge. He was always glad to see another lost sheep return home and seek guidance. Chances were that this man was a trucker, maybe, one of the many that stopped by throughout the week, taking their mandatory break in his quaint little town. And thus, it would be nothing but unfair to expect a good Sunday suit. 

“May God, who has enlightened every heart, help you to know your sins and trust in His mercy”, Zemo replied, his voice calm, kind. He was paying attention, his own worries forgotten while he did his best to focus on the man and his problems. Only his hands were still playing a little with his own rosary, twiddling it between his fingers, tracing over the pearls and the little cross. 

The stranger did not miss a beat. Most took a while to push past humiliation and shame and guilt to start speaking of their mistakes, but it was clear to Zemo quickly that this man knew exactly what he needed to confess. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been a week since my last confession. These are my sins.”

A week, huh? Now that was a bit surprising. Most men working on the road, or just travelling for longer periods of time were not quite this diligent about their confessions. Well. Zemo would say that not even a fifth of his own flock came to him each week. Most of those who did were older ladies who just wanted to have someone to chat with - and Zemo was more than happy to provide. That too was his role as the priest of this community. 

“I killed three men.”

The statement hung in the air - and Zemo blinked. Had he heard that one right…? Maybe – maybe the accent…? “My child, would you… would you mind to elaborate?”

Oh, the man did not mind at all. He leaned back a little, hummed in gentle agreement - and started laying out exactly what he meant. 

“Yeah, of fucking course, see–.”, the stranger started - but Zemo tutted immediately. 

“Language.”, the priest scolded softly, even if he clearly was not too upset. “No cussing under the Lord’s holy roof.”, he corrected gently, before humming to make the other man continue. 

The stranger laughed, loudly, amused by Father Zemo’s correction. Were the things he was going to say much worse than the f-bomb. Unphased, he continued: 

“Well, just last Sunday, my gang and I crossed the state lines to Nebraska. Had a few leads - and it was not difficult at all to find the church. The first one was an old parish priest. Man had been moved from place to place through the diocese, hidden away. Loose tongue though. Gave me a lot of information, especially when I tied him up, and bent him over the altar rail. You ever see a man struggle with a lit candle jammed his ass? Guess he thought squealing like a pig would save him? Didn't though, because once I show up....nothing is gonna help you. At least not if you're the type to rape women or kids. Father, this priest loved women. Finding them drunk outside bars, promising them a way home. Pushing them into alleys and sinking into their ass, because he couldn't get them pregnant of course. God wouldn't fucking like that, would he?" Bucky scoffed, the sound of his distaste loud in the small booth. "Killed a couple of them from what I understand. Church covered it up. Lots of hush money. Well, I hushed him up properly. As that sizable candle - you know the ones, huh? One of the Easter ones - burned down towards his bleeding, torn asshole, I hacked off his dick. Let it throb and twist in my hand as the blood ran out. Then I shoved it so far down good old Father Walsh's throat he didn't have much to say after that. Bled him like a pig after. There's just something to be said for desecrating an altar."

Zemo heard the squeak of the bench as the man leaned forward, muted light casting over the edge of a jaw. Zemo was able to pick up another aroma in the complex scent of the stranger, almost as if the terror of the situation made him more susceptible to his senses, a different smell, coppery and strong. Blood? But he didn’t have long to think as the man began to speak again, only enough to feel his stomach sink at the terrible truth that lay below all these crass words.

"The second one. That one was good too. Unfortunately, it was, I don't know, a little stereotypical, but ya can't always be creative. Sometimes you just want to get the job done. Wham, bam, thank you, ma'am, and all that shit. Father Connelly had a bit of a gambling problem. I say a bit, but apparently, he had gone through his entire salary three times over. And Father, I'm sure you know that Catholic priests make decent money. And he owed a lot to the type of people you might expect someone to owe a lot of gambling debt to. But instead of coming clean with the diocese, or, I dunno, fucking anything else, he decided to start dipping into the collection box. Into the money set aside for social programs. Taking from the poor, the hungry. I'm sure your Jesus has something to say about that, right Father?" 

There's a sigh from the compartment next to Zemo, a bit of anger riding on the backside of it. 

"He was in the basement of the church, trying to go through some of the more expensive things in storage when I walked in. Thought I was just another traveller, kind of like you probably do. But, well, I'm a little more than that, he found out. It's tough to take off a part of a person's body, Father. Hard to explain, really. Unless you've had it done to you, which I have. Maybe I can show you?" 

Dark chuckles followed.

“He had this golden shovel thing, not sure what it was, honestly. Maybe something to tend to coals? I dunno, exactly. But it took about 10 strikes with that to get through the flesh, split down to the bone. I had to really work on the bones...ended up slamming them with the heel of my boot until they snapped, then used the shovel again. Bent the thing in the end. Cheap, wouldn't have gotten much at pawn, I don't think. You should have seen how he tried to beg for forgiveness, pulling his blood-spattered stumps together like he was praying. Crying. Sobbing. Asking for God's help? What a thing, hmm? Asking for God's help when you are stealing from God's flock. Ballsy. Ended it by shooting him in the head, long after he had mostly bled out. There's something about watching a person go pale, and slack…does something to you. Sexually, I mean.”

"Last night, though, Father. It was the sweetest one yet. One of those bishops, you know, the ones who turn a blind eye to what those pieces of shit are doing in their parish? He was at the local church, a couple of hours ago, listening to the radio, humming to himself while some kid was getting fucked in some rectory under his watch. Imagine that, Father? Listening to the fucking radio while something like that was happening, and not stopping it. Couldn't let that slide, you know?"  

The man shifted in the confessional again. The creak of leather loud like a shot. Was he - was he counting? On his hand? Was that the gesture that Zemo could perceive just barely through the mesh of the confessional wall? 

"He wasn't expecting it. I love when they aren't expecting it. Makes the fear real, could almost taste it. You ever used drugs, Father? Of course not, but let me tell you, nothing beats the first high, but killing people who deserve it? That high never goes away."

Zemo took a sharp breath, but kept the exhale soft and steady, even despite the horrific things the man was listing. Definitely counting on his fingers, Zemo was certain now, as he recalled one gruesome action after the other. 

"There's no good way to crucify someone, did you know that? You can use nails, or rope, but it's all so messy and slow. I mean, that's the point right? Drag it out. Well, Father, let me tell you, there's nothing as nice as hammering nails into the milky white hands of a man who turns a blind eye to someone who fucks a kid. When I tore down the Jesus, and replaced it with Bishop O'Malley, I could have cut glass with my cock, it was so hard." 

Another creak, the sharp coppery smell again. 

"A man sprays a lot of blood if you cut him just right. But if you want to bleed him slow, you gotta make sure to kill the pressure, slit their throat nice and deep. Still messy, but I filled up the wine vessels, with the blood, put some in the tabernacle, the others spilled over that cursed altar. Can't wait for them to find it. Can't wait for them to find *him*. But wanna know the best part, Father?" Bucky leans forward, eyes twinkling. "His eyes. Those babies that looked the other way? Plucked them out of his head while he was still alive, still screaming from the nails, with this knife here," Bucky pats his hip, "and stuck them right there on the altar, so he could see the damage I did to it, one last time."   

Zemo’s mind was sprinting, as quick and laboured as his breath, as he tried to keep up with what he was being told. At the end of the day, no matter how much Zemo had studied and believed the holy script - he could see how some may think that they were all just animals in one way or another, led and motivated and driven by instincts mere rationality could not suppress. 

His pulse was high, his forehead sticky, his mouth dry. Fight or flight - there was no other option. This man had killed just hours prior, spoke so casually about his sins, and now he was here, in Zemo’s town, in his church, in his confessional booth. Like the other pastors, Zemo was meant to fall under the man’s rough hands, he was certain.

Now, Zemo liked to think that he took good care of himself. He played soccer with the kids sometimes, and could easily keep up with most of them despite being their senior by three or four decades. He went jogging and even swimming on occasion, he kept an eye on his waistline. But he wasn’t strong . If the church needed some fixing, there were plenty of repairmen in this town that could lift and adjust things. They’d never let their beloved Father lift more than the Bible he was preaching from. 

There simply was no way he could keep up with a man of this stranger’s size and body build alone. And that was even ignoring that likely, the stranger had come prepared to deal with him!

No. Fighting was not an option. And so - well. If there were only two options, and the first wouldn’t work… Why even waste time thinking about the second? 

Zemo didn’t even stand up - he just ran. “Oy!”, the stranger complained loudly, clearly offended for Zemo to just dash off - but Zemo didn’t even feel guilt in disappointing this particular man. Dark leather loafers carried him over the stone floors of his church, as quickly as he could, his cassock waving through the air as his panicked steps echoed loudly through the otherwise silent hall. If he just made it through the front door, if only for a moment, just to yell loudly and call for help— 

But the Almighty Father above did not have any mercy to spare that afternoon. Before Zemo could even reach the end of the wooden benches, he was being tackled to the floor. Not only was he no match for the man when it came to raw power, he also clearly was no match when it came to trying to outrun him. 

He crashed onto the cold stones hard, yelping, before the priest immediately started to struggle. He’d be all bruised up tomorrow. If there was a tomorrow…  “Son of a…”, the stranger muttered, trying to keep the smaller man down, while Zemo continued to kick and to squirm, managing to ram an elbow into the other’s ribcage.

“Let me go! Lemme—”, Zemo started to demand, voice high and panicked, racing to the same beat as his heart, which only seemed to anger the stranger further. He really was not all that much taller than the priest, but he was heavier. Packed with muscle, and maybe a bit of a beer belly. Enough weight to pin the smaller man down - enough muscle to flip him over onto his back. And once he sat down on the priest’s thighs and had pinned his wrists over his head with both his hands, there really was not much Zemo could do but whimper and squirm. 

It was the first time Zemo could take a proper look at the man. Long, dark hair. It looked a little silky, but Zemo couldn’t tell if it was from grease or from some hyper-manly product that had been pushed into his hairdo. That beard, though, thickly framing his entire jaw was clearly spoilt with beard oils from time to time - how else could it ever look this lush? There was dried blood on his cheek, his knuckles seemed rubbed raw where they would meet with an opponent when swung to hit, and Zemo was certain that the dark splatters on that guy's jacket weren't just motor oil. The man was wearing a leather jacket, the one that clearly implied some membership to some club or another. Maybe a club for truckers. Or a biker gang. The dark shirt beneath it was so tight, Zemo could already see it stick to the other man’s chest through sweat alone. There were dog tags jingling around his broad neck, and they didn't look like mere accessories or memorabilia. If even half the things this man said were true, a military background only made sense. 

Maybe, if Zemo would just stop struggling for a minute or two, he could hold still enough to read them. But what good would that be? Zemo didn't need to know the man's name - he needed to get out of here. 

"Father.", the stranger tried to calm the bucking priest. "Father." , he tried again, sounding more exasperated. He didn't seem to struggle to hold Zemo down - muscles alone probably made him weigh one and a half times what the priest's scales would show, and so, sitting on his thighs was a good way to keep him pinned down. However, it seemed as if holding him down was not enough to silence him though. 

With one strong movement, the stranger backhanded Zemo. Bloody raw knuckles cracked loudly against pale, perfectly shaven skin as he slapped the smaller man strongly enough for Zemo's head to loll back into the direction of the slap. The last time Zemo had been involved in a fistfight must have been in middle school. 

He did not remember it hurting this darn much. 

The pain made him whimper, but the impact stunned him to silence, his shouting and pleading quelled if just for a little while. That seemed to please the stronger man, who by now had easily collected both of Zemo's wrists into one large hand of his. A… a metal hand, Zemo noticed, blinking lightly at it. A prosthetic that developed…? If Zemo has had any hopes to better slip away from a single hand pinning him down, these hopes were thwarted in an instance. 

“There, there.”, the man said, almost soothingly, a flesh hand moving to gently cup the cheek he had just hit. A thumb carefully circled carefully over quickly reddening flesh, tickling Zemo at the corner of his lips. “Look at what you’ve made me do, Father,” the other man cooed, ever so gently, clearly disappointed in Zemo. The furrow of his brows, the shake of his head… Why did that blossom guilt in Zemo’s chest? He shouldn’t feel guilty for… making another man slap him? “You know. Some of the local newspapers… they've called me the Winter Soldier. But just because they call me a soldier, doesn't mean I enjoy what I do, mh?", the man continued to tut. The Winter Soldier… Zemo might have heard that here and there over the past few months. More myths than reality that needed to be taken seriously, but the news of holy men being found dead had spread, even into Zemo's quiet village. Only that Zemo certainly had never expected to see the man here of all places. 

The Soldier chuckled a little and shook his head. "Alright, alright, Father, don't look at me like that. I'll admit it - I do enjoy it.", he said, casually, as if his bloody retelling had not been enough indicator prior. "But that doesn't mean I want to hurt you, Father. You just made me. All that because you just wouldn’t listen, Father.”, Zemo got scolded, his cheek burning hot from the slap. And maybe also, from the gentle touch. “Isn’t that your job, Father? To listen?”, he asked - and as Zemo continued to simply breath loudly, wide eyes continued to be fixed on the stranger, his chest heaving from adrenaline, his guts clenched in fear, not a word on his lips, the hand on his face tightened in a silent threat. “Isn’t it?”, the man demanded to know, voice low and dangerous, finally making Zemo jump into action. 

“Y-yes.”, he croaked. His voice sounded unstable. Looking at the Soldier didn’t make it any better, and so he tilted his head back, exposing some of his throat under the stiff collar of his cassock, looking up at the ceiling. It was a beautifully painted ceiling. Originally, when Zemo had got here two decades ago, only the part above the altar had been painted. Over the years, many high school art projects had happened on the walls of his church. Beautiful, and full of the personality this town held. He had been especially proud of those students of his who had been accepted to art schools with scholarships, pictures of their corners of the painted ceiling the core of the application. Right above him, Abraham was leading Isaac to be sacrificed, the beautiful golden applications having guaranteed the girl who had painted the scene a spot at Rutgers. It was one of Zemo’s favourite pieces - beautifully painted, a sometimes needed reminder to just trust in the Lord. 

Right now, it reminded him that sometimes, one just had to trust, to cooperate and to believe - even if one was certain that blood was going to flow. 

“I listen, I– My job is to act in the person of Christ with the authority of Jesus to listen and to g-guide and speak the word of absolution.”, he pressed out, his voice shaky, his eyes fixing onto the man’s hand as it continued to pet him. It would be almost sweet, really, but Zemo suddenly understood quite well why the bunnies in the backyard didn’t like being picked up and cuddled by the little girls after mass. 

“And provide penance.”, the Soldier corrected, but he didn’t sound upset. He only provided gentle correction while he continued to brush his fingers over freckled, soft skin. 

“And… and provide penance.”, the priest agreed, squirming a little once more - only for the other man to grip his jaw tighter. 

“Only that you do not do that much, Father, do you?”, the other asked, and Zemo stilled, trying to read him. What did it matter? Why were they talking about this at all? Was this some kind of test Zemo had to pass? Or would he be slaughtered as his three colleagues had been just the same. “See, we talked to your sheep here…”, the Soldier started, finally lifting a hand from Zemo’s face to push back his dark, long hair. 

“W-we?”, the pastor asked, his voice mousy and hardly loud enough to be carried in the large hall of his church. But the stranger had heard him clearly, it seemed. 

“My gang.”, he said, and shrugged lightly, placing his hand down to rest - right onto the middle of Zemo’s chest. “...just a group of bikers who cull the wolves among the shepherds. Some of my men came here earlier this week, while I was still busy in the East, ya see.”, he explained casually, and hell, maybe Zemo has seen some more bikes than he usually would have. He just hadn’t paid much attention, had been glad for the new faces at his masses, had greeted and smiled at them and always offered them to join for their community meals and get-togethers. Just like he always did with strangers who came to a stop in his village. “They had some little chit-chats. Saw what was going on here. Were looking for the skeletons in the closet, you see? And so far… Well. We always found some. Usually many.”, he explained, while his fingers started to play with the button on Zemo’s cassock. 

“But see, I came here this morning, Father, was ready to deal quickly with the situation - with you - and then they told me that there is nothing to deal with. That you listen, and you guide, and you speak the word of absolution. And you do so much fucking more, Father, don’t you?”, the Soldier said, and shook his head, clearly disbelieving, before he barked out a laugh. “You invite the poor into your home to have dinner with you. When that mother struggled to pay her rent that week? You paid it for her with money from your own savings. You offer stranded strangers your couch when the motel is overfilled - and when they worried about their back not being able to handle the couch? You offered them your bed instead. You skipped out on your lunch break, just to help that kid deal with his little weed problem - even though that really isn’t what the after school program is for, huh?. Father - you are a true man of the Lord.”

When Zemo looked at the man’s face again, he knew that look. He had heard it described often, the perfect ideal of what seeing the Lord’s gifts should look like, but even after three decades, he had never seen it himself. Not this pure. Not this open. Vulnerable. 

Reverence. 

Zemo’s breath hitched, confusion creeping into the fear still bubbling under his skin. He didn’t think anyone has ever looked at him quite like that. Was that… Was that respect? Devotion? But…? Or something else completely? 

The Soldier chuckled. Darkly. Amused. The hand on his chest started to rub small, reassuring circles onto Zemo’s chest. Only that they were not at all reassuring. “I suppose you would not be quite used to people hitting on you, Father.”, the man purred, before strong, bloodstained fingers moved to undo the small, black plastic button keeping Zemo’s cassock tightly to his chest. “Let me put it plainly, then, Father. I wish to reward you. For all the good deeds you have done.”

Zemo froze, for a moment not even breathing as big eyes looked at the man above him in disbelief - before he started to squirm once again, testing the hand above him, trying to push himself away by putting pressure onto his shoulders. “That is – That is my calling; Serving my flock is reward enough.”, Zemo stated, and he meant it. He didn’t want any other rewards, didn’t need them. Definitely shouldn’t be getting any from a man who had killed at least three of his kind, no matter how wicked, and was likely to repeat it. Possibly with Zemo himself.

And that only seemed to make the man more dedicated to what he was doing. “Shush now, Father. Your humility is appreciated by more than just the Lord himself. But you’ve been doing so much more than just your calling. So much more in a world where the bare minimum rarely if ever gets served.”, he explained with a soft shake of his head, while his hand moved to the next button, pressing down lightly onto the pastor’s chest to push him to the floor and stop him from squirming. 

“Let me reward you with something that the Lord, the Bible, will never let you experience, Father. Something that only I would be willing to give. Me, already damned with unforgivable sin.”, the other man promised, his voice deep and calm and almost quiet. 

Zemo would be lying if he wasn’t at least curious. And maybe that could be a sin on its own, but knowing at least a little bit more…? “H-how do you mean?”, he asked, the stinging in his cheek having faded, but the colour still there. 

“Let me show you the pleasures of the flesh, my good Father.”

Oh no. 

If the Soldier's announcement had not been enough, the hand slipping down over Zemo's chest and stomach to slowly settle onto his crotch was a good indicator of what exactly the man had in mind. A long, slow squeeze was all that was then needed to spur Zemo into action. 

Zemo struggled. Immediately and viciously, with little rationale about how little it would actually accomplish, with little mind to how much he was hurting his own wrists by fighting against the metal pinning them down. “No!”, he yelled, thrashing like a fish out of water, the sweat on his skin making him hot and cold and awfully nauseous as he became more and more clammy - but not any more likely to slip out of the grip the other man had on him. “Do not – I do not wish – No! ”, he gasped for air, his whole face reddening now, though this time from exertion, the veins on his forehead popping out, becoming more visible due to his futile struggles. 

"I know, I know.", the Soldier tutted and shook his head a little, his hand starting to gently knead the untouched flesh beneath it. The priest wasn't hard yet, but they would have time to rectify that. "A good catholic man like you… You treat your abstinence seriously, don't you?" 

Zemo felt bile brewing in his stomach, threatening to overpower the fear with disgust. Was it the words the Soldier spoke? Or the hand that started to undo his belt? 

"Don't you?", the man repeated, demanding an answer with a painful squeeze of his metal hand. His iron grip was tight and solid, and suddenly Zemo had no doubt that the Soldier could crush his wrists into dust if he truly wanted to. 

"Yes.", the priest whimpered, quiet and pitiful, and it seemed to please the Soldier an awful lot. He hummed and loosened his grip a little, brushing cold fingers over Zemo's wrist almost apologetically. 

"Of course you do.", he purred. And somehow, Zemo had no doubt that to him, it was erotic. 

And maybe that was what made Zemo's own blood boil, a pinch of heat in the pit of disgust. When was the last time someone had looked at him with desire in their eyes? The Soldier was looking at him like a minor deity, with so much admiration and passion… Zemo tried to think back at his first and only girlfriend in middle school, and could not remember her looking even remotely this interested in him as the Soldier was.
Or maybe it was the warm hand gently playing with the little trail of fur from his navel to his groin, while the man slid his large fingers under Zemo’s belt that made his blood coil and his cheeks fluster. 

“No sex before marriage, and no marriage as a priest. Only married to the Lord, the church, your work, they say.”, the man hummed, in that kind of tone of voice that clearly implied that he thought the whole ordeal to be kind of silly - even if Zemo didn’t doubt the admiration in his eyes, that gentle nudge stating that the Soldier didn’t think he could accomplish such a feat. “So no sex for you, Father.”

“Y-yes.”, the priest gasped, and once more squirmed a bit. Away from the hand. Of course. Of course . “So c-could you pleas–”, he started, trying to see if a different approach would be more successful. 

Clearly, though, the dark stranger had no intention of listening to whatever Zemo had to say. Suddenly, his trousers are open and roughly pulled down, if just a little, just enough to expose the tight, white underwear the man of the church was wearing. A little tighter than they usually were, even. “Say, Father, do you masturbate?”, the other asked, casually, with just a pinch of curiosity in his voice. 

Instantly, Zemo flushed even darker, feeling blood rush to his face, his neck, so embarrassed that even his chest reddened. Now, even Zemo was just a man. He too had needs and desires. But Zemo was a man of the church - and so, he dealt with these desires the only acceptable way; With prayers. (And yes, maybe, occasionally, a cold shower.) Sometimes he thought back to the time before he picked up his theology studies, the years of middle and highschool where he did spend many sinful nights playing with himself. Without failure, he always came to the conclusion that it had been a small price to pay to give up his lustful thoughts and desires to be able to live a life in harmony with God. 

The Soldier gave his wrists another warning squeeze, motivating him to speak, causing him to squeal at the pain and so, the priest does. “N-no.”, he gasped, and shook his head, tilted it aside, so he wouldn’t need to look at the man while he speaks of such sinful things. 

The Soldier cooed . “God, aren’t you adorable.”, he murmured, and appreciatively stroked the back of his hand against the half-hard erection the priest was sporting. “Never fucked, never wanked — don’t tell me you’ve never kissed a woman either, Father.”, he muttered - and clearly, was able to read from the priest's embarrassed expression that no, he certainly has never kissed a woman either. The only thing Zemo kissed was his altar and the Bible. The other man laughed, loud and long. It's not an outright cruel laugh, but there wasn't much missing. Clearly, the man was enjoying himself at the priest's expense. 

"You're missing out, I tell ya.", he said and shook his head. "But don't worry, Father. I'm not gonna break your abstinence. You don't have to worry about your pearly gates.", he promised - and truly? It did help Zemo to relax a little. 

He let out a relieved little sigh, let his eyes flutter shut for a moment, letting himself fall against the ground. Well then. If he had any right to trust the stranger, there wasn’t much to worry about, then. He could feel the cold stone floor against his skin. Against his arms. Against his nape. Against his upper thighs… Right. Because they were still exposed with his trousers janked down, and the man’s hand on his cock. “...then aren’t you going to remove your hand?”, the priest asked , voice a little more even now. A little bit defeated, though. 

The Soldier grinned - and squeezed Zemo’s dick hard, making him gasp. “Oh, you are misunderstanding me, Father.”, he tutted, and finally moved to pull his underwear down as well. His cock was a nice blush pink colour, caramel coloured little curls framing his groin. “Quite a disservice, to keep this pretty guy here from other people…”, the man murmured, causing Zemo to start squirming again.

“H-hey, you just said you wouldn’t—”, he started to protest. Maybe it had been stupid of him to let his guard down. Then again, it wasn’t like he could have changed anything either way… 

“Shush.”, the other tutted, and wrapped his flesh hand around the slowly swelling organ. The cold church air was not helping, but the Soldier was seeing interest there already. “I said I wouldn’t be breaking your abstinence, Father.”, he repeated himself, allowing the breadth of his thumb to gently circle over the tip of the priest’s dick. “...and you aren’t breaking your abstinence if you didn’t have a choice in it, huh?”

Father Zemo’s eyes flew open, as he looked at the other man in alarm. “What? No! I do not wish–”, he started to protest loudly again, started to squirm and to buck. Unfortunately, that also meant rubbing the sensitive, swelling flesh between his legs into the hand that was gently fondling and teasing him, supplying more and more friction where the Soldier hadn’t even intended much stimulation yet. 

There was a sheen of sweat on the priest’s face now, his lips parted as he panted. Was it from exhaustion? Or from arousal…? The Soldier decided that it both meant the same, and he started to wrap his fingers around the priest’s length in earnest. 

Zemo gasped - causing the other man to chuckle again. “So responsive.”, he praised gently, making sure to squeeze a little bit more around the man’s base, before softening the pressure as he led his hand to his tip. It was a routined little handjob, the exact kind the Soldier gave to himself at the end of an exhausting day cleaning up vermin. Only that the priest was a lot more receptive to a large hand massaging his shaft and calloused fingers tickling his balls than the stranger was to his own touches. Years of practice clearly had numbed him a little bit - while for the priest, the touches were almost foreign, and thus, exciting.  

Quickly, all his little ‘no’s turned into ‘oh’s. And well, the ‘please’s still stayed the same, but who was the Soldier to know if he was asking for more or for less?

Well, fine. His constant kicking and wriggling was a decent sign that the priest was not wanting more - even if his body was clearly enjoying the attention. 

There was heat cursing through all of Zemo’s body. He certainly didn’t remember masturbating to feel like that - feel that hot, and tingly, and wicked .

He couldn’t deny his hips stuttering and bucking, no longer to push the man off, but to push himself against him. He started to hate the hand pushing his wrists down, not because it pinned him to the floor, but because it kept his hands in place, where they couldn’t sneak to his own cock. Or to the man’s chest. Such a broad, muscular chest… Why did he want to touch it? 

The embarrassment was difficult to deal with though. The embarrassment, the shame, and the guilt. Because certainly, the man could blame that Zemo had no choice in this and was therefore not impeding his abstinence, but did he not defile the Lord’s will and this holy place by simply liking it? 

“You like this, mh? There, there.”, the other man tried to shush him - while Zemo hardly realised his wanton little moans and the little mewls that were coaxed out of his body with every pull of the man’s hand. “Who would have thought you’d be such a slut, Father?”, the other man tutted and laughed, while twisting his hand a little bit in the next upward movement. His words may be cruel, but his hand was heavenly, reminding Zemo once more that the devil knew how to seduce the weak willed with pleasure and easy gratification. And now, it seemed, like a rough hand knowing what it was doing on his dick was all that was needed to turn Zemo weak willed as well. “I told you; The pleasures of the flesh are a high price to pay even for eternal life, Father. Aren’t you glad I’m giving you a little sneak peak? So you don’t have to miss out…”, the man grunted, licking his lips as he continued to stroke the other man to completion. 

"Please, no, God…” , the priest moaned. The sensation building in his loins was unmistakable. His cheeks were red, his nose was stuffed, his clothes were clinging to his body. There might be a question about the cause of that, depletion or enjoyment, exhaustion or arousal, but there was no question about the cause of the priest shooting his load into the other man’s hand a moment or two later. 

He gasped and writhed once more, before he completely stilled. Only his chest was still breathing hard, his breath was laboured, while the hand on his erection slowly started to slow, after having stroked the man through his orgasm. There was thick seed everywhere , Zemo thought. Clinging to his own genitals, to the man’s hand. To his cassock. There was some on the floor, some on his trousers. Some even on his belt buckle. 

Finally, the metal arm let go of Zemo’s wrists. They were pulsing in pain, and he whimpered softly. But at least, this was over now, right? The priest lowered his hands, circling his wrists to help with the circulation, before he tried to cover his face in shame. The man above him did not appreciate that though. “None of that.”, he tutted, and slapped Zemo’s hands off of his face. He needed to repeat the lesson twice, each time with a little bit more gusto for the lesson to stick, and finally the priest just lets his wrists fall right next to his head, his fingers curled lightly. “You’re too beautiful like that to hide your pretty face away, Father.”, the Soldier hummed, voice thick and low as he spoke the compliment. The priest wasn’t happy, but he didn’t need to be. He came - and that was all that the Soldier needed to know that he had enjoyed himself. 

It was all a little bit much for Zemo - not that anyone could blame him for that - and he squeezed his eyes shut, tightly. The movement was enough to force out a tear, making it spill over his cheek. 

Father Zemo did look absolutely lovely like this, the Soldier thought. From thrashing around his hair got all mussled, those wonderful caramel blond locks creating a little halo around his head. His skin was flushed and his lips were parted, there were beads of sweat that had moistened a few strands of hair around the edges of the man’s face. Perfect little curls in the shape of the crescent moon were stuck to his forehead, making him look so much younger. And then, there was that single teardrop that was crawling its way over freckled skin, just about to disappear off the man’s face - and the Soldier just couldn’t let this go to waste like that. And best of all? It had been him who had caused the priest to look quite this… debauched. 

He leaned forward and - much to Zemo’s horror - licked up the tear, dragging the tip of his tongue over Zemo’s cheek all the way up to his eye. “Delicious.”, the man purred, before he chuckled a little. “God, is that what they call holy water?”

Truly, Zemo could not even care about the blasphemy anymore. They’ve defiled the church already, what was calling the Lord’s name in vain and soiling the meaning of some holy symbols even making worse anymore? 

“Please.”, he said, and tried to keep his voice steady. His success rate though... “Get off now. I– You’ve… you’ve rewarded me plenty.”, he murmured, feeling more sick with every passing minute, moving to place a hand against the man’s chest, trying to exert some pressure. He had no illusions that he’d be able to push the other man off of himself, but his intentions were communicated clearly enough. 

“Oh, do not be ridiculous, Father.”, the other man tutted and shook his head. His grin was reaching from one ear to the other, his teeth white and clear in the low light of the late afternoon, distilled and spread through the many colourful pieces of glass of the mosaic’s in the windows. That alone was more than sufficient to make Zemo’s stomach drop, his limbs freeze. “We’ve hardly just begun.”

As the stronger man ripped Zemo’s trousers a bit lower, he also ripped a sob out of the man’s throat. “No, please–”, he started to plead, broken and hopeless. It had not worked before, so why would it now? 

It seemed like the man was quite adamant about taking off the priest’s trousers now - which also meant needing to get off of him, lest he wanted to block the black fabric with his own body weight. The priest seemed to take it as an invitation to start struggling again, tried to squirm away - much to the man’s displeasure. The Soldier practically grumbled under his breath as his metallic arm shot up to grab Father Zemo’s caramel coloured hair, yanking his head back, harshly. “Stop it.” Maybe the dull sound of the man’s skull hitting the stone floor made him feel a little bit bad, but… Was his own fault for not cooperating, really. 

Zemo was dazzled for a moment, disoriented through the sudden pain at the back of his head. The next thing he noticed though was the stranger grabbing one of his ankles, his trousers discarded at his feet, his tighty whities hanging on to him by his large toe. As opposed to the touch to his wrists and his head, this was almost loving. Almost. With gentle force, the man led Zemo’s leg up, folding it over his stomach. He had tried to push it even further, hold it up against the floor right next to Zemo’s face, properly fold the man in half - but the resistance was just too great, the pastor’s painful hissing not making it sound like a very promising endeavour. “Look at that, Father.”, the stranger tutted with a shake of his head. “...looks like you aren’t quite as flexible as the other virgins I’ve fucked.”

The humiliation drove a blush through Zemo’s face, so hot and glowing that he could almost see it himself reflecting off of his cheeks. It certainly was not helped when the other man moved a hand, letting his fingers brush over Zemo’s spent cock, through the fluff on his balls, right before he allowed his pointer finger to squeeze itself between the man’s arse cheeks. Nice and plump, the soldier noted with an appreciative hum - but while his touch had made the smaller man below him tense, the very moment he placed his finger tip against his asshole, pushing against it just a little bit the man jolted. “No!”, he yipped again, making the soldier roll his eyes. That again… 

He had been just about to sigh and think of a decent way to gag the priest to shut up his grating protests, as Father Zemo did finally come up with something slightly more substantial to say. “N-not here.”, he gasped, trying to kick his leg free to squeeze his thighs together. 

The biker raised an eyebrow in question - and while he didn’t remove his finger, he also didn’t continue pushing any further, waiting for the man to explain his reasoning - and yes, maybe convince him, too. 

Zemo had to think quickly. He doubted that the other would hold himself back for a long time - just as much as he doubted that soiling the house of god like this would be a good reason for the other to retreat. It was too late for that now anyways, the horse had bolted the moment Zemo’s cock had been whipped out.
If he did manage to convince the other though… Maybe he’d have a chance to run, to change his mind, on the way to his pastoral residence. Get some help. Something. Anything.
“S-someone could come in.”, Zemo gasped, nodding towards the large wooden door that he had ran towards just a little while ago. Right now, as they were, if someone were to open the door… They would have prime seats for a show that Zemo was not very willing to have in the first place. The stronger man glanced up, eyeing the door carefully, his tongue poking against the inside of his cheek. He wasn’t convinced, even if he was considering it - and there was panic quelling in Zemo’s chest, able to feel that he was close to getting what he wanted, but not quite there yet. “M-maybe we could go somewhere more private?”, he asked, voice thin and shaky, closer to a mewl than language. “...we’d both be in trouble if someone saw us…”, he gasped - which finally made the other man grunt and nod, starting to climb off of Zemo’s thigh. 

Relief. Relief was flooding his body, but he knew he didn’t have much time to just enjoy that. The second the stranger climbed off of him, Zemo rolled over onto his stomach. He didn’t get much further than this, though. Before he was able to push onto his hands and knees, his ankle was grabbed and pulled lightly - throwing him off balance. Zemo groaned, before his arms flailed as the other man simply pulled him along. Away from the door. “I can – I can walk–”, he started to protest, trying to push himself onto his hands, at the very least trying to help the movement so he wouldn’t be tugged around the cold, uneven floor like a sack of flour. 

“I’ve seen how you can walk.”, the other man huffed, hardly seeming strained to get Zemo where he wanted him. Which seemed to be… seemed to be the confessional? 

“Up.”, he demanded - and didn’t wait for Zemo to obey. His hands moved, one to the priest’s collar, the other to his lower arm, hauling him up. He was picked up by his scuff, manhandled and adjusted like a clumsy kitten. Even if it wasn’t for the man’s underwear still tangled around his foot, and how frazzled he had been made, Father Zemo had little chance to truly fight. Not when he was pushed tummy first against the inner wall of the confessional. The smaller man gasped, somewhere between surprise and pain as he was roughly pushed against the wooden wall. One of Zemo’s knees got folded lightly against the small wooden seat sinner used to confess their misbehaviours on. For once, Zemo did think that providing pillows on this side of the booth, not only on his one would have been a good idea… One strong, metal hand was pushing him against it, being placed right between his shoulder blades - while the other man adjusted the curtains, hiding them from the view of the world, just as much as he hid the view of the still burning candles from the two of them. 

“This wasn’t – this was not what I meant, where I meant…”, Zemo complained. Squeezed as he was, his hands were uselessly trapped under his own body, held in place by his stomach and chest. And where he at least now still had a chance to squirm and try to free his hands, that opportunity was cut off as the singular metal arm was removed, and instead replaced by the other man’s full body. He was pressing himself against Zemo, chest to shoulders, hips to arse, strong arms caging him in.

“Oh. I know .” 

The smell of the other was overpowering, this close. Not bad, per se, just a lot of manly, musky scent that was more than Zemo wanted to deal with. His sense of scent felt sensitive - just as sensitive as his body where it was touched, the exposed skin on his arse, a little cold and yet about to be warmed up by the man assaulting him. He even felt like his sense of taste was running crazy, suddenly aware of how his dry mouth was tasting. His knees were still a little weak from the exhaustion of fighting (and cumming), but the other man had pinned him quite well, not letting him sink to the floor. 

“But I don’t feel like waiting to have fun, pretty boy.”, the other man murmured, voice thick and vibrating in his chest, spoken a mere inch, maybe less, from his ear, Zemo able to feel the rough texture of the man’s beard against sensitive skin.

Helmut felt like a butterfly pinned to a collector’s case. 

Just less beautiful. 

Without his pants and with cum still dripping down his thighs, Zemo felt disgusting at best. 

Maybe it was his heightened senses that allowed him to pick up on the next thing. He could hear the little click, but mostly, he could smell the familiar scent of olive oil and balsam. “Holy Chrism Oil?”, the priest asked, for a moment confused, able to feel the other man shuffle behind him with one hand. He received a hum in reply, not quite able to pin together what the other wanted it for.

Not until he could feel a hand probing at his arse again. This time, it was slick and smooth, easily sliding through thick cheeks, hardly meeting any resistance as a finger decided to start circling his hole. 

Something in Father Zemo just broke. Once more, he started thrashing, announced by nothing but a loud sob, trying to break himself free as the other man held against him to have an easier time assaulting him. 

The same oil that the bishop of the county had blessed last Chrism Mass, the oil that Zemo was using to confirm the belief of the young, that was applied in the form of a small cross to the forehead of every follower of his parish at the Easter Vigil, the oil that he sealed his sheep with the gift of the Holy Spirit, the very same he had used to baptise little baby Peter just this very morning was now being used to guide one - no, two - thick fingers deep inside of him. 

“Shush, Father.”, the soldier seemingly tried to comfort the priest, but Zemo couldn’t help but hear mocking in the undertone. “You’ve not made such a fuss just a moment ago. What is it now, mh? That opposed to a little sodomy?”, he asked, forcing his pointer finger deep inside the hole in front of him, while his middle finger was still just stretching the incredibly tight hole. “I thought that churches were getting more and more accepting of gays, huh? Or is that only true for big cities that struggle keeping a parish together?” 

Zemo was shaking his head quickly. “N-no, that’s not – that’s not it–”, he gasped, protesting, able to taste salt on his lips. This had not meant to be any statements towards the LGBT community - Zemo has always been supportive when his sheep, especially the young ones, came to him, trying to confess something that he did not consider a sin. But the prospect of being fucked, of being raped in his own church with his own blessed oils… 

The other man tutted lightly and moved to rub his beard against the priest’s shoulder and neck, all the while his thick fingers continued coating the insides of his arse with holy oil. 

“It’s alright, it’s alright.”, he shushed. “There are some ideals that even I don’t mind you breaking, Father. Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself over You shall not lie with a male as with a woman; it is an abomination seems like the only right interpretation.”, he grumbled, handing out reassurance as if Zemo had been mostly just concerned with seeking the other’s affirmation. 

“Fuck, you’re tight as hell - and twice as hot.”, the other man gasped, starting to push his middle finger in deeper, forcing it against the tight muscles to make them loosen up a little. “Relax, Father. It’s gonna be a lot nicer for you . ”, he murmured, but the priest was hardly able to do so. The fingers in his hole were foreign and large and just on the edge of pain. And while Zemo did not much about gay sex, he knew that they wouldn’t be the only things that would make their way up his arse. And that was… terrifying enough to make him tense and rigid. 

The other man sighed, tutted, shook his head - but didn’t let off of him. “Suit yourself, Father. I believe myself to be a considerate lover, but if you’d like it the hard way…”, he murmured, sounding clearly disappointed - but not any less convinced to start pushing in a third finger. 

“N-no, please, that’s too much–”, Zemo cried, hissing in breaths as the fingers inside of him started to scissor and curl, trying to pry him open further. 

“Hey, hey. Gotta prep you nice and good. Don’t wanna tear you into pieces, Father. Not much of a reward, would it be?”, the other man tutted. His metal hand moved into the priest’s hair, gently petting it as if he was trying to distract from the warm, slick flesh fingers working themselves into the other’s passage. “I’m being so nice and gentle with your sweet virgin hole. Lots of lube, lots of prep… You’ll thank me, you’ll see. I’m not half as considerate with anyone else, I assure you.”

Zemo was clawing his hands, still trapped under his chest, into the wooden walls of the confessional. But even he had to realise that slowly but certainly, he was loosening up. The man behind him added some more oil once or twice, and whenever his thick fingers removed themselves from him, Zemo could feel his hole twitch. Being empty, in a way, felt worse than being filled. 

His shaking body was soon only held up by the other man and gravity, but neither of them seemed to mind. The next time as the soldier moved back to grab some more oil, though, he did not return his fingers. Something blunt and fat and hot was pressing against Zemo’s opening, just as slick and oily as the fingers had been, but so much bigger. The man behind him leaned forward, brushing his bushy beard against Zemo’s ear, his cheek, nuzzling against him in the macabre parody of affection. “Forgive me, Father…”, he murmured, voice thick with mirth about his own little joke, barely above a whisper as his lips brushed against Zemo’s ear as he spoke, hot breath tickling the sensitive skin. “...for I am about to sin.” 

And with that, the man behind him moved forward to sink in. 

Another fit of energy pulsed through Zemo, once more did he try to push and plead and wiggle away, seeking mercy if not from the man behind him than the Lord above. 

Once more, he was not being spared any. 

As the thick, bulbous cockhead breached his hole, prepared and stretched but yet awfully tight from nerves alone, Zemo hissed out in pain. He tried to flee the intrusion as much as he could, rising onto his toes, trying to disappear into the wood in front of him. If the booth was not standing propped against a wall, Zemo was certain they would have toppled it over by now. 

But it all did not help, and his fate became inevitable. 

The man that had came to his town to confess his sins, with the plan to dispose of him just as he had with the other holy men on his path, just to change his mind in the last possible moment and reward him instead had pushed himself inside of Zemo. 

“Oh, fuck. Jesus, holy shit. Dude . You are – you are tight.”, came the choir of profanities confirming the deed, asserting the other man’s enjoyment, to the soft base beat of Zemo’s sobs, his gasping, his hissing, the little mewled, pained sounds that were being pushed out of him. “I swear, Father, I swear no other virgin has ever been that - that tight, fucking hell. And I prepped you so much…”

Zemo had no concept about how much prepping was a lot, or how much was a little. He just knew that his arse was being forced apart, creating hot, white pain to curse through his body, all the while his knees continued to shake. Not only was the cock that was spearing him open a lot thicker and a lot hotter than the fingers had been, it was also a lot longer - with the man behind him still squeezing in further to get most of it inside. 

“Shush now. Don’t cry. Little virgin boy like you will need a moment or two to adjust.”, the stranger soothed, while Zemo could already feel the tears soaking his cassock. “And besides”, the other man drawled, his flesh hand moving to spank Zemo’s right arse cheek, hard, making him jump and whimper, “it’s your own damn fault for not at least trying to relax some.”

How Zemo was meant to relax was a sheer mystery to him. He was doing his absolute best not to scream, gritting his teeth together and mewling, biting down onto his lips so hard he was tasting blood already.

With time, though, the tightly gripping heat did grow more and more used to the assault, allowing the soldier to start moving - even if Zemo himself was still rigid as a board and about as capable of feeling enjoyment. “There, there. Much better already.”, he was praised, making him shudder in disgust, while the man behind him gently started to roll his hips. 

The thrusts were neither fast nor deep, but they were pushing and pulling onto Zemo just as much. He felt fuller than he had any right to be - and yet, it seemed, like with every seesawing motion back and forth, he was filled up just a little bit more. And just like a textbook example of Archimedes’ principle, for every inch that was given, another had to yield, and tears were - almost literally - fucked out of the poor man. 

His crying was loud and noisy, his sobbing wet and his sniffling audible. All the while, the man behind him was still certain that it was just a mere matter of time until the priest would learn to enjoy himself. 

And then, he fell silent instantly, all the noise coming from him suddenly cancelled, as he could hear the familiar rattling of someone trying to open the large, wooden doors of his church. At first they pulled - and then the pushed, and then a few steps were taken inside, all the while still holding onto the wooden doors, as there was no crash of them falling shut heard just yet. 

For a brief moment, Zemo considered himself saved. Whoever this parisher was, they were a god sent, Zemo was certain. Zemo would just need to scream, and they would certainly call the cops. Well. The cop. A town of this size did not require more than one police officer, most of the time, but that would just be enough to deter the man behind him, certainly? 

Before he could take a breath and scream, though, before the man behind him could place a hand upon his mouth to stop him either, the little intruder revealed himself. “Father?”, a soft, squeaky voice asked, a little too loud to be sensible – and Zemo winced so hard that he moaned, having squeezed even tighter around the hot rod buried inside of him. 

Clearly, the man behind him panicked a little as well, having stopped the shifting of his hips as he at least mentally went through his options. The voice belonging to a child certainly seemed to reassure him, but not quite as much as the next word the priest gasped: “ Karl .”

It was a pained little sob, a miserable one. But one that made the soldier behind him grin, broad and pleased. He leaned forward, trapping the body below himself some more, really letting Zemo feel the weight of his against himself. “That’s your favourite altar boy, Father, isn’t it?”, he purred quietly into his ear, sounding satisfied. “A cursed position, in so many churches… But here, all the special attention the boy is getting is perfectly harmless, perfectly fatherly, huh?”

Zemo sniffled before he nodded. Karl was… Karl was like a son to him. He said that about many children and even some adults in his parish, but the little blond boy had wormed himself so deeply into Zemo’s heart, that there might be an envelope for his college fund somewhere in Zemo’s sock drawer. Smart kid. Kind kid. What else did one want? 

“Father?”, the voice called again, louder – and stepped another step or two inside, letting the door behind him go, so it slowly fell shut with a creak and a clasp. 

“You know, my men intercepted him, right after mass. So he and I could have a lil’ chat. Showed him my bike, prodded him a lil to find all the terrible things about you. Only that he didn’t have anything to share, can you imagine?”, the soldier murmured, shaking his head a little. “So if you have anyone to thank, to be spared your fate and to receive this wonderful reward from me… Well, it’s likely little Karl right there.”

Zemo couldn’t help but shudder at that, another little sob being forced out of him. Karl. His wonderful Karl - saved his life. He had no other way to look at it. Karl had saved his life, and the man behind him had damned him to this. 

He needed – he needed to send him away. Before Karl could step in any further and see something that he ought not be seeing. Something that would not only traumatise him, but also put him into a situation that could be dangerous to him. That would put a gang of murderous gangsters onto his trail. 

But how to do that when his body was still being rippled with sobs, his voice shaken with pain? He needed to calm down, and calm down quickly, lest he not draw the boy further towards them. And hasn’t the soldier said something about relaxing making the pain less? Father Zemo took one more shuddering breath, before he forced his body to relax, sagging against the wooden wall in front of him - and against the rod buried in his arse. 

It was still big. Still stretching him. But… it was a lot more bearable, yes. He could practically feel the soldier grin behind him, though, as Zemo calmed himself in an instant. “What a skilled actor.”, the man teased with a shake of his head, not even thinking about stopping his malitration, though. His hips continued to circle, as Zemo found the power to speak. 

“I am giving the Sacrament of Penance, K-karl. Please – please come back another time.”, he said, loudly. As loudly as he could, while keeping his voice steady.

But screaming and crying and whimpering for so long, while continuing to be assaulted would never be markless. His voice was rough, his words were scratchy. He might have done his best, but that would not be enough to fool anyone - not even a child - into believing that everything was alright. 

The boy stopped in his steps, but didn’t retreat. “Are you - are you alright, Father?”, he asked, with true concern in his voice, and Zemo bit his lips, so close to cursing himself. 

Instead, he raised his voice again. “Y-yes!”, he called, louder now - and thus, even more strained. 

But the boy did not seem to be satisfied, taking a hesitant step forward. “Are you crying, Father?”, he asked, clearly unsure about the whole situation. Insecure. A little anxious. Scared, even. Who walked into their priest crying on the regular, after all? Especially a priest like Zemo - who always seemed so in control?  

“Please, let us - let us talk tomorrow.”, Zemo forced himself to reply, still limp against the corner of the confessional booth and the man behind himself. And then, he added a little softer, a whisper against the wood, a quick prayer just for the Lord’s own ears. “Holy God, Holy Mighty One, Holy Immortal One, have mercy on us and on the whole world…” 

And maybe that was when the soldier did take pity on him. Praying for the kid to leave? Literally praying, while he was clearly struggling to speak, hardly able to stay upright? That man truly loved his sheep. And well. Maybe he could be helped out then. 

The man gave Zemo a reassuring little pat on his pretty arse, before he leaned back. Hell. He even took back half a step, until only the very tip of his head was pulling against Zemo’s rim – and so that he could poke his head out through the dark purple curtain of the confessional. 

If Zemo didn’t already feel sick from the violation of the man’s cock quickly being pulled out, the realisation that the man was exposing himself to the boy while still being - at least partially - buried inside of Zemo himself was certainly doing it. Not only did it feel disgusting to involve oneself in any act involving the eyes of innocent children while performing fornication, Zemo’s blood was already running cold at the mere thought of what a man like the so called Winter Soldier could do to an innocent boy like Karl - considering that he didn’t even struggle killing men in the most morbid ways. 

However - the soldier wasn’t interested in doing anything all too terrible. He just grinned at the kid. “Hey Karl.”, he said with a wink, before he shrugged the one shoulder that was peeking out of the curtain. 

“Oh! Mr. Bucky!”, the boy called in recognition - and Zemo blinked. …Bucky? That wasn’t a last name, was it? Was that the man’s real name then? He doubted it. Who would call their son Bucky…? Certainly not a Christian name, that was for sure. 

“Hey kid. I’m kinda makin’ good use of your Father right now.”, Bucky said, sounding almost… apologetic - if it wasn’t for the light circle of his hips that was accompanying him. “He’s gonna be pretty worn out. No point in waiting, I’m afraid. Why don’t cha come back tomorrow?”, Bucky offered - and where Zemo was hardly able to pull himself together, Bucky certainly didn’t sound like he was in any strain at all. 

“Oh, but I just wanted — “, Karl started, sounding disappointed. Before he could quite state the reason of him being there, Bucky clicked his tongue.

“Sorry, kiddo.”, he said, dismissive - even if his smile was sheepish. 

The boy hesitated for a moment longer, before he huffed - and then nodded. “...alright. I’ll come by after school tomorrow, Father Zemo!”, he shouted, and quick feet carried him back to the front door, echoing through the near empty church - instantly making Zemo relax a little.  “Oh. Mr. Bucky?”, Karl asked, hand on the door handle - making Zemo tense a little bit after all. “...is Father Zemo cryin’...?”

Bucky’s hand moved, gently stroking over Zemo’s lower back, drawing patterns - or, to be more specific, a cross. “You see, kid - some of the Lord’s gifts are so overwhelmingly wonderful that we all get a little emotional sometimes.”, he replied - and as the boy did not seem to quite buy it immediately, he soon added; “You’ll get it when you’re older.”

Zemo could practically hear the roll of Karl’s eyes as he huffed - but a moment later a murmured ‘bye’ was spoken, the door opened and the boy disappeared. 

Only for Bucky to pull himself back into the confessional. “Now, where were we…?”, he asked, before he hummed - and with one, smooth movement, slid right back inside of the priest’s tight, not quite so virginal hole again. 

“B-bucky.”, Zemo gasped out, his fingers scratching against whatever he could grasp. The leather of Bucky’s sleeve, the wooden walls. It was a plea to Bucky ’s humanity - but not quite the kind of plea that Bucky was hearing in it. 

“Shush, shush. I’m on it, Father.”, he promised with an amused chuckle, and slowly started to build a rhythm. The man in front of him was a lot softer now. More resigned - which translated to more relaxed. Which allowed Bucky to do more than just mindless seesawing and grinding. 

He could pull out his hips, and push them right back inside. He could grasp onto Zemo’s hips, while he built up some speed. There was finesse in the movement in a way that Father Zemo would never learn to appreciate. Would never learn the pains of sleeping with a partner that didn’t know how to please their partner effortlessly. 

Or at least, that was what Bucky assumed those pained little gasps and moans to be. Huffed little sounds of pleasure, no matter how rejecting Zemo might be of the matter out of principle. 

“Bucky, please .”, the man meowled - and Bucky rewarded him with a particularly harsh thrusts, making him gasp. “No, I don’t want– please–”, he gasped, and Bucky chuckled a little with a soft shake of his head. 

“I know, I know. Wouldn’t be properly abstinent if you would, mh? You’re a good servant of God, Father, I know that.”, Bucky reassured with a soft chuckle, and decided to reward Zemo’s commitment to his abstinence a little bit more by sneaking a hand around Zemo’s sweaty thighs. 

What he found was a soft, almost miserable little cock, swinging with every push of Bucky’s hips. Bucky huffed a little at that, shaking his head, before he let his wrist get to work. “Takes a good while to learn to like this, Father. Some chicks I know needed almost a dozen times before they could get off from anal alone.”, Bucky said reassuringly, draping himself a little bit more comfortably across the slim, sweaty lithe body beneath him. 

Zemo sobbed. Because he didn’t think he could take a dozen times of this . He wasn’t sure he was even able to take this one time, if he was honest. His legs were shaking, his knees felt wobbly, he felt sick to his stomach. And worse of all? There was heat everywhere cursing through him, making him delirious. And with every snap of Bucky’s hips? Faster and faster and harder? The edge of his vision became a little bit white, a little bit blurry. Almost like… almost like it did when Zemo lost himself completely in prayer. His vision was giving him the illusion of seeing God - all the while he was being brutally raped by a man who had just admitted to sacrifical serial killings of his colleagues. Some of which he knew. (Though none he would mourn, if even half the things that Bucky had said were true.) 

The hand was… It was good. It drowned out some of the stinging pain, some of the hurt, without muddying any of the… Should Zemo call it pleasure? He just might. Because… In a way or another, it might just be pleasurable. 

In a carnal way that ought to make him disgusting. That would make him feel guilty and heretical the next time he’d think about it. And the one after. And all the other times until eternity, while he would silently wonder if Bucky was right. If him not wanting this now would truly spare him from breaking his abstinence. Or if he was still meant to pay penance if he was being honest with himself - and acknowledged the hot spurts of pleasure creeping through his body, akin to something he could not quite compare with anything else he would have ever experienced. 

Maybe Bucky was right. Maybe this was one kind of peak human experience that Zemo would have missed out on if it hadn’t been for the handsome stranger who was currently fucking him in the arse with a slick hand stroking his cock and occasionally cradling his balls. 

The long, quick thrusts became less even. Maybe, if Zemo would have had any experience with these matters, even just experience with self-gratification, he might have understood what the quicker, deeper breaths, the rigid little slaps of his hips, the quickened pace meant. That now, Bucky was getting really, really close to catching his own orgasm - instead of just mindlessly chasing it deeply inside of Zemo. 

The man behind him grasped him tighter, making Zemo hiss - and his cock twitch at the rougher handling. Like this, it was becoming more difficult for Bucky to hold onto Zemo, to keep them both on their feet. And so, the situation needed to be rectified. With one swift movement, he grabbed Zemo under the waist with both his hands, hauling him with him as he sat down on the wooden confessional bench - ensuring he would not slip out of the man he had under his grasp. 

Zemo screamed. 

Had he tried to keep silent as not to lure any more innocent visitors inside of his church as Karl has been, sitting on Bucky’s lap, sprawled against his broad chest, feeling the zipper of his jeans digging into his thighs, the leather against his back, and his goddamn cock deeper inside of his tight, virignal asshole than anything has ever been before was just a lot. 

As soon as they sat, though, Zemo’s arse being fed all of Bucky’s fat, dripping cock all the way up to the root, Bucky was coming. He was bucking uselessly up into Zemo, convulsing lightly as he gasped and moaned and groaned, and shot his seed deep inside of Father Zemo. 

Bucky sacked back lightly, humming over the disgusted little whimpers Zemo let out, and lazily stroked Zemo to completion. It only took a little while longer, his touches having turned gentle in his post-orgasmis bliss. And maybe that was just what Zemo needed, because soon he mewled himself, gasping and stuttering as his swollen cock shot out a pitiful attempt at cum into the air - and all over his own lap. 

“There we go.”, Bucky murmured, self-satisfied, stretching himself - before pushing Zemo off of his softening cock. 

With Zemo’s bones having been replaced with jelly and his body having lost all will to stand upright, he just sank to the floor. With his knees and shoulders on the floor, starting to shake slightly as he sobbed and cried, his arse was a little propped up, allowing Bucky a nice view of what he had done. 

The man’s hole was not nearly as tight as it had been before, red and swollen and dripping… well, not only cum. Maybe he should have prepared him a little bit better, that light pink colour did speak of some slight tearing… Oh well. Evidently, Father Zemo had enjoyed himself regardless. 

Bucky stood up, leather boots stepping right next to Zemo as he pulled up his trousers and tucked himself in. The sound of a zipper seemed to make the priest regain some sense of modesty as well, forcing himself onto his hands now, trying to get up. 

Bucky gave him an appreciative little spank onto his bare arse, making sure to squeeze that freckled handful. Only then did he lean down, and pressed his lips against the wrecked man’s temple - a mocking parody of a caring gesture. “See? All done.”, he hummed, nuzzling his nose against Father Zemo’s hairline - making the man shudder. “Not so bad, huh? You liked that quite a bit, my well behaved little disciple. You might miss this, even.”

And worst of all? He might not even be wrong, tearing another sob straight out of Zemo’s rotten soul.

“Don’t worry, though.”, he said, as if he was giving a lover a sweet promise. “I’ll be back, Father. There will be new men replacing those I left for nobody but God to judge now. And once they’ve had a while to get settled? They might just need a visit from the Winter Soldier as well.”, he promised darkly, standing up straight, fixing his jacket and patting off some dust bunnies from his body. “And then? I might just have to come and check on you again, Father. Have a little word with your sheep. See if you deserve to be punished – or maybe, if you might need just another reward.”

And with that, Bucky got out of the confessional, simply stepping over the shaking, crying body to his feet, moving to the front door as if nothing worrisome had happened. “Until then, Father. Good fucking riddance.”

And with that, the man was gone, ready to collect his gang, get onto his bike, and seek out the next village to judge another man of the church. 

All the while, Zemo laid on the floor, curling up tightly as he tried to find some comfort in his own embrace. It would take him a little while to collect himself, to truly grasp what had happened, to push past the pain and the disgust of what had been done to him. By the next time he stirred, the candles had long burned down, leaving his beloved church in similar darkness as the inside of his body.

Before he pushed himself up, though, before he went to disappear and dispose of the evidence… 

"Language.” , he whispered into the night, voice chiding even if still a bit crumpled. “No cussing under the Lord’s holy roof.”