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Steve Harrington sat in the third pew from the front, palms pressed together so tightly they hurt.
The church was quiet, hushed, like it was holding its breath. A few scattered families dotted the rows behind him: Mrs. Chandler with her twin daughters whispering into gloved hands, Mr. Ainsley nodding off two rows back, old Miss Carter clutching her rosary like it was the only thing keeping her alive. The usuals. A sparse Sunday crowd. Enough to feel watched, not enough to feel hidden.
Morning light filtered through the stained glass, painting halos in red and gold across the stone floor. The Virgin looked down from her alcove, serene and knowing. Steve couldn’t meet her eyes.
He was trying to be good. He was. The Sunday suit itched around his throat, and the collar sat too tight, like it knew he was lying. Like it could smell the sin on his skin.
He’d come early on purpose. To sit and pray. To try and carve the hunger out of himself with penance and holy thoughts. But nothing ever stayed clean in his head for long.
Then the door creaked open, and he walked in.
Eddie Munson.
Not part of the regular crowd. Never had been. He looked wildly out of place against the soft golds and greys of the sanctuary - like a sin made flesh. Jacket worn thin at the elbows, stretched over a Black Sabbath tee. The leather was black, cracked at the seams. His raven curls were a mess, as always. Untamed. He hadn’t even taken his damn boots off.
He trailed behind his uncle, who gave a polite nod to the usher before guiding Eddie toward a pew in the back. Wayne looked tired. Eddie looked... bored. Like he’d rather be anywhere else.
And yet - he was here.
Steve couldn’t stop watching.
Eddie slouched into the corner of the pew and propped one booted foot up on the kneeler. His eyes roamed, lazy and lidded, before locking briefly on Steve. Just a flicker. But it was enough.
Steve’s heart kicked like a trapped thing.
The thoughts came back, ugly and sweet. He tried to push them down. That wild mouth, whispering filth in the dark. Those hands, rough and clever, gripping his hips, his throat, the small of his back. The cross around his neck catching against teeth.
He swallowed hard.
What was Eddie doing here?
Was it Wayne, dragging him in like a last-ditch Hail Mary?
Or did he know?
Had he come because he knew Steve would be here, upright and golden, trying and failing to be pure?
Steve bowed his head fast and whispered a prayer.
Lord, cleanse me. Strip it from me. Make me clean.
But behind his closed eyes, all he could see was a flash of curls and leather. All he could hear was the soft scrape of boots on marble.
And all he could feel was heat.
Steve stayed in the pew even after the final hymn faded out.
He waited until most of the others had filtered out - until Mrs. Chandler wrangled her girls, until Miss Carter clutched her purse and shuffled off, until the space grew thin with absence. He needed the time. Needed to breathe.
The guilt was still a thick rope coiled in his chest.
He moved toward the vestibule on autopilot, hands tight in his pockets, throat dry like he’d swallowed ashes. Just water. That was all. Just cool his head. Wash away the thoughts.
But as he bent over the water cooler, a voice slid up behind him like smoke under a door.
“Didn’t take you for the praying type, Harrington.”
Steve choked.
He turned too fast. Spilled water down his wrist. Eddie was leaning against the wall, one boot crossed over the other, expression unreadable. He hadn’t even bothered to take his leather jacket off.
Steve wiped his hand on his slacks, throat working around something that wasn’t quite a breath.
“My mom,” he said, trying for casual. “Makes me come.”
Eddie tilted his head. “Sure. Must be real convincing, the way you were practically vibrating in that pew.”
Steve’s heart stuttered. “I wasn’t--”
Eddie held up both hands. “Hey, I’m not judging. This place vibrates me too. All that incense and fire-and-brimstone stuff? Real heavy metal.”
He winked.
Steve forgot how to blink.
Then Wayne called Eddie’s name from the door, voice scratchy and tired. Eddie didn’t move at first. Just looked at Steve like he knew… something. Like he was peeling layers back with his eyes.
“See you next Sunday?” he said, already turning.
And then he was gone.
Steve stood there, hand still damp, burning.
* * *
That night, Steve dreamed in red.
The chapel was empty, but the candles burned like they were starving. The stained-glass windows bled colour onto the floor - reds and oranges and golds, all flickering like flame.
And Eddie was there.
Standing at the altar. No leather this time. Just his skin and smoke and that Sabbath tee, clinging to him like a second sin. His eyes were firelight, rimmed in kohl-dark shadows, pupils blown wide like he’d swallowed the devil whole. Eddie stepped forward. The heavy clink of rings - no, chains - echoed through the chapel.
Steve knelt in front of him.
Not because he chose to. Because he had to.
His knees pressed to cold stone, fingers twitching useless at his thighs. His mouth parted on a gasp. He didn’t know if he was praying or begging.
Eddie looked down at him like a god.
Like a curse.
“You look good on your knees,” he said, voice low and unholy. “Holy boy. You think kneeling’s gonna save you?”
Steve tried to speak, but his mouth wouldn’t obey. His lips only moved to yearn.
Eddie stepped closer. Boots echoing across marble. He reached out, dragging rough fingers under Steve’s chin - tipping his head back until their eyes locked.
“Saint Steve,” Eddie murmured, voice like velvet dragged through ash. “Did you pray for this?”
Steve couldn’t answer. His mouth was too dry, too full of heat and guilt and want. His throat worked uselessly around a moan. Those words curled in his gut like a hand around his cock.
The chapel air thickened. Candle flames leapt higher, their shadows writhing. Smoke clung to the rafters. The smell of incense - sweet and suffocating - wrapped around Steve like a noose.
“God have mercy on me,” Steve whispered.
“Why?” Eddie smirked. “He made you this way.”
He dragged his thumb across Steve’s bottom lip, and Steve - shaking, helpless- opened his mouth and sucked it in.
The sound Eddie made was filthy.
Steve didn’t care. He wanted more. He needed to be touched, used, burned down to bone and ash. He rocked forward on his knees, already hard, already leaking into his boxers like a desperate sinner begging to be unmade. Eddie's hand slid into his hair. His rings were gone - but his grip was holy.
And then Eddie undid his belt.
The sound echoed like a sermon bell.
Steve opened his mouth again.
Eddie fucked into it slow. Controlled. Like a man delivering communion. His cock slid heavy over Steve’s tongue, and Steve’s eyes rolled back, tasting sweat, salt, salvation. He choked, swallowed, moaned, the cross around his neck slapping against his chin as he bobbed his head like he was worshipping at a darker altar.
Above him, Eddie groaned.
Steve whimpered around his cock. His hands fisted in the fabric of Eddie’s jeans. He wanted to touch himself but couldn’t. He shouldn’t. The denial made it worse. Better. Holy.
Then he pulled out, and Steve gasped - lost, ruined.
Eddie grabbed him by the chin and kissed him - filthy, messy, claiming. And as Steve kissed back, sobbing into it, Eddie said:
“Hellfire.”
Steve came in his sleep with a strangled cry.
* * *
The church was empty.
No choir, no sermon, just the creak of old wood and the ghost of incense still clinging to the air. The candles at the altar had long burned out. Outside, the sun was setting - long shadows stretching through the stained glass like fingers.
Steve had waited for this moment. Until everyone had left. Until even the priest had disappeared into the rectory.
But the confessional door was still open.
He stepped inside like a man walking to the gallows.
The wood creaked under his weight as he knelt, the small space pressing in on all sides. The velvet curtain muffled everything, including the sound of his own heartbeat, which pounded in his throat like a warning bell.
He made the sign of the cross with shaky fingers.
"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned."
Silence.
He swallowed hard.
"It’s been… I don’t know how long since my last confession. A while, I guess." He laughed, breathless. “Probably too long.”
Still no response.
He hesitated, then whispered, “I think I’m going to Hell.”
The silence didn’t stop him.
“I’ve been having… thoughts. About… another man.”
His voice cracked. The weight of the words left his lips and floated into the hush.
“I dream about him. Think about him. Touch myself thinking about him.”
His hands clenched his thighs.
“And it’s not just about wanting him,” he added, voice low. “It’s about wanting to be owned. I want him to take me. I want him to use me. I want to feel his hands on me.”
He took a shaky breath, head bowed.
“I see him everywhere. In my dreams. In the back pew. In the firelight behind my eyes when I close them too long. I want him to ruin me.”
A pause.
No answer.
Steve’s chest tightened.
“Why aren’t you saying anything?” he whispered. “Did I go too far? Are you-- do you think I’m too far gone?”
He felt the stir of movement on the other side.
The curtain slid back with a whisper of fabric.
And there he was.
Eddie.
Leaning in like he’d just heard every single word, and he savoured them.
“I don’t think you’re too far gone, Harrington,” he said, voice rough. “I think you’ve just finally figured out what you really want.”
Steve’s heart stopped.
His breath hitched, shame and arousal slamming through him like a lightning strike. He tried to speak, to stammer out something - anything - but Eddie was already slipping into the booth beside him.
The door shut.
The light disappeared.
All that was left was breath and heat and fire.
Eddie climbed into his lap like he’d been invited. Straddled him. Fisted his hands in Steve’s shirt and dragged their mouths together in a kiss that was sin itself.
Steve whimpered, already hard, already ruined.
“God,” he gasped.
Eddie’s grin was all teeth. “Not quite.”
And then he rocked his hips forward, and Steve forgot how to breathe.
Eddie kissed like a sinner who knew the taste of salvation.
He ground down into Steve’s lap, swallowing his moans, dragging filthy little gasps from Steve’s throat like they were his favourite kind of prayer. His hands slid under Steve’s shirt, nails grazing trembling skin - not cruel, just hungry. Urgent.
Steve was dizzy. Swallowed whole. Every nerve screamed for it. Wanted more. Needed more.
Then Eddie pulled back, panting, lips wet.
“Get on your knees.”
Steve blinked, dazed. “What?”
Eddie’s smile was wicked and warm. “You came in here to confess, big boy. Let’s do it proper.”
He guided Steve gently, turning him around, pressing him down until his chest hit the wooden panel of the confessional wall. Steve braced himself, palms flat, cheek resting against the grain, breath already hitching.
The booth was tiny. Cramped. Hot.
Every surface reeked of sweat and sin and something sacred.
Eddie dragged his slacks and boxers down to his thighs, slow and deliberate, letting his hands linger on Steve’s hips.
“Fuck,” he whispered, voice shaking with restraint. “Look at you.”
Steve whimpered, legs spreading without being asked, back arching into Eddie’s touch.
“You want this?” Eddie asked, voice low and reverent.
“Yes,” Steve breathed. “Please. Please, I need--”
Eddie kissed the curve of his spine. “Good.”
He spat into his hand, then slicked two fingers and slid them between Steve’s cheeks, finding his hole with practiced care. When he pressed in, Steve jolted. Eddie took his time. Stretched him slowly, murmuring, “That’s it… you’re doing so good,” like it was a gift.
He worked two fingers inside, scissoring him open, then added a third. Steve bit down on the back of his hand to keep from crying out.
“Shhh,” Eddie crooned. “Someone might hear. Or maybe you want that.”
“I’ve thought about this,” Eddie whispered. “Thought about bending you over the pew, right here. About hearing you break.”
Steve’s cock dragged against the wood, smearing precome with every motion. He was whimpering, wrecked, eyes rolling back.
“You’re gorgeous like this,” Eddie murmured, curling his fingers. “Fucking perfect.”
Then he pulled his fingers out, lined up his cock, and pushed in slowly, carefully.
Steve gasped - loud and wrecked - as Eddie filled him inch by inch. The stretch was deep and devastating, but his body wanted it. Welcomed it.
“Holy fuck,” Eddie groaned, holding still. “You take it so well, big boy. So fucking deep.”
He started moving. Not brutal. Not cruel. Just needy. Urgent. Like he couldn’t believe this was real.
Steve rocked into every thrust, mouth open, forehead pressed to the wood.
Skin slapped skin. Their breath tangled. The confessional filled with the sound of slick, desperate fucking.
Eddie leaned over him, one hand gripping his hip, the other sliding under to stroke Steve’s cock - already wet, already twitching.
“You love this, don’t you?” Eddie whispered, voice rough with awe. “Being touched here. Being mine.”
Steve shuddered. “Yes. Yes, I-- fuck, I need it--”
“You’re mine now,” Eddie said again, softer. A promise, not a threat.
Steve came with a cry, body arching, cock spurting across the wood. He went boneless, trembling.
Eddie followed seconds later, burying himself deep with a strangled groan, coming in hot bursts inside him, clutching Steve’s hips like he’d never let go.
They stayed like that, panting, hearts racing. The booth was ruined. The air was thick with sex and sin and satisfaction.
Then Eddie pressed a kiss to the back of his neck and whispered, warm and wrecked:
“Bless me, Father, for I am gonna do that again.”