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The cool, dim light of the church filtered through the stained-glass windows, casting fragmented colors across the pews. Jon Kent knelt at the altar, his fingers trembling as they gripped the edge of the wooden bench. His heart raced, not from prayer, but from the shameful thoughts that had been plaguing him for weeks. Thoughts he could no longer ignore.
He glanced up at the crucifix above the altar, the figure of Christ gazing down with solemn eyes.
Forgive me
, he thought desperately,
but I can’t stop thinking about him.
Father Damian Wayne. The new priest. The man whose presence seemed to ignite something dangerous within Jon—something sinful, something forbidden. Damian was young, only a couple of years older than Jon himself, but carried himself with an authority that made him seem older.
And He wasn’t like the older priests Jon had grown up around. No, Damian was… different. He was sharp, commanding, and…
gorgeous
. His dark hair, always perfectly combed, His piercing green eyes seemed to see straight through Jon, leaving him feeling exposed in ways he couldn’t explain.
That smirk—that damn smirk—it always lingered just a little too long, teasing something sinful beneath the surface. And his voice… God, his voice. Low and commanding, it sent shivers down Jon’s spine every time Damian spoke during Mass.
It wasn’t just Jon who noticed. He wasn't the primary priest but every girl in the congregation seemed to swoon whenever Father Damian stepped into the pulpit. But for Jon, it wasn’t admiration or a simple crush. It was something deeper, something darker. Something that kept him awake at night, his sheets tangled and damp with sweat as he imagined what it would be like to feel Damian’s hands on him, to hear that voice whispering commands in his ear.
Today, after weeks of torment, Jon couldn’t take it anymore. He needed absolution. He needed to confess.
The confessional booth loomed ahead, its dark wood carved with intricate patterns of crosses and vines. Jon’s throat tightened as he approached, every step feeling heavier than the last. He slid open the door and stepped inside, the familiar scent of incense and aged wood enveloping him. He knelt on the cushioned kneeler, his hands clasped tightly in front of him.
“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” he began, his voice trembling.
There was a pause, then a low, calm voice came from the other side of the screen. “Go on, my child.”
Jon closed his eyes, his breath hitching. He hadn’t planned this far ahead. How could he possibly put these thoughts into words? But he had to. He couldn’t keep carrying this weight alone.
“I’ve… I’ve been having impure thoughts,” he whispered, his cheeks burning. “About… about someone I shouldn’t.”
Another pause. Then, “Someone you shouldn’t?”
“Yes, Father. Someone… holy. Someone who is supposed to guide us, to lead us closer to God. But I… I can’t stop thinking about them. About… about how they look, how they sound. Their eyes, their mouth…” Jon’s voice broke, and he swallowed hard. “I want things I shouldn’t want. Things that are wrong.”
The silence that followed was suffocating. Jon could hear his own heartbeat pounding in his ears. Finally, the voice on the other side spoke again, softer this time, almost… curious.
“Tell me more, my child. What do you want?”
Jon hesitated. This was it. The moment of truth. If he didn’t say it now, he never would.
“I want them to… to touch me,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “To tell me what to do. To command me. I want them to… to take me. To fuck me until I forget everything except them.”
The words hung in the air, heavy and damning. Jon’s entire body shook with the weight of his confession. He felt exposed, vulnerable, as though he had torn open his chest and laid his soul bare. It felt lighter than when he first came in.
“I am sorry for these and all my sins,” he said, his voice trembling as he let out a shaky sigh.
A moment of silence stretched, heavy and sacred, before the low, steady voice broke it. “Go in peace.”
“Thanks be to God,” Jon mumbled hastily, his words almost overlapping as he rose and made his way out.
As he stepped outside, the cool air brushed against his face, and for the first time in weeks, his chest felt lighter—like a burden he’d carried for too long had finally been set down. The knot of guilt that had twisted in his stomach began to loosen, and he allowed himself a deep, unsteady breath. It wasn’t much, but it was a start.
“What’s wrong, Mr. Jonathan?” Father O’Conner asked, his brow furrowed as he noticed Jonathan fidgeting near the pews before the church service began.
Jonathan glanced at him, his mind racing for a believable excuse. “Nothing, Father O’Conner,” he replied, forcing his voice to sound steady.
But it wasn’t nothing. The thoughts of Father Damian had returned—stronger, fiercer, more relentless than before. Those unholy thoughts were like a fire consuming him from the inside, leaving behind only guilt and dread. The confession had been a balm, soothing him for a time, but the relief was fleeting. Now, the weight of his sins was back, heavier than ever.
“I just feel a little faint,” Jonathan added quickly, avoiding the priest’s penetrating gaze.
Father O’Conner’s skeptical expression didn’t waver, and for a moment, Jonathan was certain the priest knew. He
had
to be the one on the other side of the confessional last week. The thought made Jonathan’s stomach churn.
“Make sure you’re eating, my child,” was all Father O’Conner said before turning to assist the altar boys preparing for the service.
Jonathan stood frozen for a moment, watching the priest’s retreating figure. His chest tightened. Did Father O’Conner
really
not know, or was he just playing coy? Jonathan shook his head, trying to push the paranoia away. The church bells rang, signaling the beginning of the service, but Jonathan’s mind was elsewhere—trapped in a battle he wasn’t sure he could win.
Jon sat in the dimly lit confessional booth again, his hands trembling as he clasped them tightly in his lap. The familiar scent of incense lingered in the air, mingling with the cold sweat that clung to his skin. His heart pounded so loudly he was sure it could be heard through the thin wooden partition separating him from the priest on the other side.
Father Damian.
The thought alone was enough to make his breath hitch. He’d been trying to push those thoughts away for weeks now.
“Father, forgive me, for I have sinned,” Jon began, his voice barely above a whisper. He swallowed hard, his throat dry as dust. “It’s been… it’s been two days since my last confession.”
Silence greeted him on the other side. It stretched on, heavy and suffocating, until Jon wondered if the priest had even heard him. But then, just as he opened his mouth to speak again, a low, familiar voice broke through the quiet.
“Go on.”
Jon froze. That voice—he knew it instantly. It wasn’t Father O’Connor, the usual priest who heard confessions. No, this was… Damian. His stomach twisted into knots, his palms slick with sweat. How? Why was Damian here? Did he know? Could he tell?
I can’t do this
, Jon thought, panic rising in his chest. But another part of him—a darker, more desperate part—urged him to continue. Because if Damian was listening, then maybe… just maybe…
“I-I’ve been having… impure thoughts,” Jon stammered, his voice shaking. “About… someone.” He paused, biting his lip so hard he almost drew blood. “Someone I shouldn’t.”
Another stretch of silence. Then, almost imperceptibly, he heard a soft exhale on the other side of the partition. It sounded almost like… amusement?
“Who?” Damian’s voice was calm, measured, but there was an edge to it that sent shivers down Jon’s spine. “Who are these thoughts about?”
Jon squeezed his eyes shut, his face burning with shame. He shouldn’t say it. He couldn’t. But the words tumbled out before he could stop them. “Damian,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “They’re about Father Damian.”
For a moment, there was nothing but silence. Then, slowly, the confession door creaked open. Jon’s eyes flew wide as Damian stepped into the small space, his tall frame filling the booth. The light from the stained-glass window outside cast shadows across his sharp features, making him look almost otherworldly. His cassock hugged his broad shoulders perfectly, and the cross hanging from his neck gleamed softly in the dim light.
Dear God,
Jon thought, his breath catching in his throat. He looked… dangerous.
Damian’s gaze locked onto Jon’s, his green eyes intense, unblinking. He took a step closer, and Jon instinctively pressed himself back against the wall, though there was nowhere to go. The air between them felt charged, electric, as Damian reached out and gently cupped Jon’s chin, tilting his face upward.
“Do you know what you’re getting into?” Damian asked, his voice low and smooth, like velvet. “Because if I do this,Jonathan, I won’t hold back.”
Jon’s heart stuttered in his chest. He should say no. He should turn away, run out of the confessional, and never look back. But the way Damian was looking at him—like he could see every dark, hidden desire Jon had been burying for weeks—it left him paralyzed. His body screamed yes even as his mind hesitated.
“Y-yes,” Jon managed to choke out, his voice trembling. “I… I want it.”
A slow, predatory smile spread across Damian’s lips. “Good boy,” he murmured, his fingers tightening slightly on Jon’s chin. “Then let’s make sure you sin properly.”
Before Jon could process what was happening, Damian leaned in, closing the distance between them. His lips crashed against Jon’s with a hunger that made Jon’s head spin. The kiss was rough, demanding, and Jon could do nothing but surrender, melting into the heat of it. Damian’s hand slid from his chin to the back of his neck, holding him firmly in place as their mouths moved together in a clash of desperation and need.
When Damian finally pulled away, Jon was gasping for air, his lips swollen and tingling. Damian’s eyes were dark now, filled with a fire that made Jon’s stomach twist in anticipation.
“Do you still want this?” Damian asked, his voice husky. “Even knowing it’s wrong?”
Jon nodded without hesitation, his own desire overriding any lingering guilt. “Yes,” he whispered. “Please.”
Damian’s smirk returned, sharper than before. “Then let’s give you something real to confess next time.”
The moment Damian’s hand closed around Jon’s wrist, the world seemed to tilt on its axis. The air inside the confessional booth was thick with tension, but as Damian pulled him out into the dimly lit church, that tension became something else entirely—something electric, dangerous, and utterly forbidden. Jon’s heart pounded in his chest as Damian led him down the aisle, his footsteps echoing against the polished wooden floor. The candles flickered, casting long shadows that danced across the pews and the altar like silent witnesses to their sin.
“F-Father Damian,” Jon stammered, his voice trembling as much as his body. “Where are we going?”
Damian didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he glanced over his shoulder, his green eyes burning with an intensity that made Jon’s breath hitch. When they reached the foot of the altar, Damian stopped and turned to face him. His grip on Jon’s wrist tightened ever so slightly, enough to send a shiver up his spine.
“This is where you belong,” Damian said, his voice low and commanding. “Kneel.”
Jon’s knees almost buckled at the command, not from fear but from the sheer weight of Damian’s presence. He hesitated for only a second before sinking to his knees, the cool stone floor pressing against his skin through the fabric of his slacks. He looked up at Damian, his lips parted, his mind racing with anticipation and guilt in equal measure. The golden cross hanging above the altar gleamed in the candlelight, a stark reminder of the sanctity they were about to defile.
Damian stepped closer, his black cassock brushing against Jon’s thighs as he loomed over him. He placed a hand under Jon’s chin, tilting his head back until their eyes met. “Do you understand what you’re asking for?” Damian asked, his tone sharp but laced with something darker, more primal. “This isn’t just a game, Jon. Once we cross this line, there’s no going back.”
Jon swallowed hard, his throat dry. He wanted to say yes, to scream it, but his voice caught in his throat. Instead, he nodded, his eyes never leaving Damian’s. It was all the confirmation Damian needed.
In one swift motion, Damian leaned down and captured Jon’s lips in a searing kiss. This time, there was no hesitation, no gentleness. Damian’s tongue pushed past his lips, claiming him completely.
Jon moaned softly, his hands gripping the hem of Damian’s cassock as if it were the only thing keeping him grounded. Damian’s hands moved to cradle Jon’s face, holding him in place as the kiss deepened, becoming hungrier, more desperate.
When Damian finally pulled away, both of them were breathing heavily. Damian’s lips curved into a wicked smile as he reached for the buttons of his cassock, undoing them one by one with deliberate slowness.
Jon watched, transfixed, as the heavy garment slid off Damian’s shoulders and pooled on the floor at their feet. Underneath, Damian wore nothing but a simple white shirt and dark trousers, but the sight of him like this—vulnerable yet still so commanding—made Jon’s pulse race.
“Stand,” Damian ordered, his voice firm but tinged with desire.
Jon obeyed without question, rising to his feet on shaky legs. Before he could steady himself, Damian’s hands were on him, unbuttoning his shirt with practiced ease. Jon’s breath hitched as the cool air brushed against his bare skin, but Damian’s touch quickly chased away the chill. His fingers traced the lines of Jon’s chest, lingering over his nipples until they hardened beneath his touch. Jon gasped, his hips jerking forward instinctively.
Damian smirked, clearly enjoying the effect he had on Jon. “So eager,” he murmured, his voice dripping with amusement. “But we’re just getting started.”
With that, Damian guided Jon backward until the edge of the altar pressed against the small of his back. Jon’s eyes widened as Damian leaned in close, his lips brushing against Jon’s ear. “You wanted this,” Damian whispered, his breath hot against Jon’s skin. “Now you’re going to take it.”
Before Jon could respond, Damian’s hands were on his belt, unfastening it with a speed that left Jon dizzy. His slacks fell to the floor, followed by his boxers, leaving him exposed in the most sacred space imaginable. Jon blushed furiously, but Damian didn’t give him time to feel self-conscious. He grabbed Jon’s hips and lifted him onto the altar, the cold marble surface sending a jolt through his body.
Damian stepped between Jon’s legs, his hands trailing up his thighs as he leaned down to capture his lips once more. This kiss was different—softer, almost tender—and it made Jon’s heart ache in ways he couldn’t explain. But then Damian’s mouth moved lower, kissing along his jawline, down his neck, until he reached the sensitive spot just below his ear. Jon whimpered, his hands tangling in Damian’s hair as pleasure coursed through him.
“Father Damian,” Jon breathed, his voice trembling. “I-I don’t know if I can—”
“You can,” Damian interrupted, his tone leaving no room for argument. “And you will.”
As if to prove his point, Damian’s mouth continued its descent, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. When his lips closed around one of Jon’s nipples, Jon cried out, his back arching off the altar. Damian chuckled darkly, the vibration sending another wave of heat through Jon’s body. He alternated between teasing bites and soothing licks, driving Jon to the brink of madness.
By the time Damian’s mouth reached his cock, Jon was trembling uncontrollably, his mind clouded with need. Damian paused, his breath ghosting over Jon’s heated flesh, and looked up at him with those piercing green eyes. “Tell me you want this,” he demanded, his voice rough with desire.
“I want it,” Jon gasped, his voice barely above a whisper. “Please, Father Damian, I need it.”
That was all the encouragement Damian needed. He wrapped his lips around Jon’s length, swallowing him whole. Jon cried out, his fingers tightening in Damian’s hair as waves of pleasure crashed over him. Damian’s tongue worked miracles, coaxing moan after moan from Jon’s lips. Every stroke, every flick, brought him closer to the edge, until he was teetering on the brink of ecstasy.
Just as Jon felt himself about to fall, Damian pulled away, leaving him gasping and desperate. Jon blinked up at him, his vision blurred with tears of frustration. “Why did you stop?” he pleaded, his voice cracking.
Damian smirked, his gaze predatory. “Because I’m not done with you yet.” With that, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small vial of oil. Jon’s eyes widened as Damian coated his fingers, the slick sound sending a jolt of anticipation through him.
“Relax,” Damian said, his voice softening as he positioned himself between Jon’s legs. “I won’t hurt you.”
Jon nodded, though his body tensed instinctively as Damian’s fingers brushed against his entrance. The first press was slow, deliberate, giving Jon time to adjust. It burned at first, but Damian’s gentle movements soon turned the pain into something far more pleasurable. By the time Damian added a second finger, Jon was writhing beneath him, his nails digging into the cool marble of the altar.
“Y-you feel so good,” Jon moaned, his words slurred with pleasure. “Please, I need more.”
Damian’s eyes darkened at the plea. He withdrew his fingers, earning a whimper from Jon, and positioned himself at his entrance. “Look at me,” he commanded, his voice firm despite the tremor of desire running through it.
Jon obeyed, his glassy brown eyes meeting Damian’s intense gaze. As Damian pushed inside, inch by torturously slow inch, Jon held onto that connection like a lifeline. The stretch was overwhelming, but Damian’s eyes never wavered, anchoring Jon even as his body screamed with both pleasure and pain.
When Damian was fully sheathed, he paused, allowing Jon to adjust. “You’re taking me so well,” he murmured, his voice filled with a mix of pride and hunger. “You’re perfect.”
Those words sent a thrill through Jon, urging him to move, to fulfill the sinful craving that had consumed him for weeks. He rocked his hips tentatively, eliciting a low groan from Damian. That sound, deep and guttural, spurred Jon on. He moved again, this time with more confidence, and Damian’s composure began to unravel.
“That’s it,” Damian growled, his hands gripping Jon’s hips tightly. “Take what you need.”
Jon obeyed, his movements growing more frantic as pleasure built within him. Damian met him thrust for thrust, each one driving them closer to the edge. The sound of skin slapping against skin echoed through the empty church, mingling with their ragged breaths and muffled moans. Jon could feel the coil in his stomach tightening, threatening to snap.
“Father Damian,” he gasped, his voice breaking. “I-I’m going to—”
“Let go,” Damian commanded, his own voice strained. “Come for me, Jon.”
That was all it took. Jon cried out as his release tore through him, his body convulsing with the force of it. Damian followed close behind, burying himself deep as he spilled inside Jon, his movements slowing to a halt.
For a moment, the only sound in the church was their labored breathing. Damian leaned over Jon, his forehead resting against his as they both struggled to catch their breath. The altar beneath them was a mess, the evidence of their sin impossible to ignore.
Finally, Damian straightened, his expression unreadable as he looked down at Jon. “Are you satisfied now?” he asked, his voice rough but devoid of malice.
Jon stared up at him, his mind still foggy with pleasure. “Y…Yes,” he admitted weakly.
Damian’s lips curved into a faint smirk. “Good,” he said.