Chapter Text
The townsfolk of Hawkins were just beginning to file into the church for Sunday Mass.
After everything that had happened; the strange disappearances, the unexplainable events, the creeping sense that something was deeply wrong, most families still clung to routine.
They dressed in their Sunday best and went to church, as they always had. Faith, for many, became a lifeline. A sign that they could still do some good. That God might still be listening.
Sunlight filtered through the stained glass, washing the congregation in hues of gold, white, and soft pinks, the effect almost heavenly. In the aftermath of chaos, the town had turned toward God with renewed fervor.
Not everyone had been welcomed into that refuge.
Some families—like the Munsons—had been driven out.
After the incident, Wayne Munson was all but banished. A handful of students had been killed in brutal, horrifying ways, and though the murderer was never caught, the town didn’t need proof to decide who to blame. Eddie Munson’s name spread through Hawkins like a sickness.
He had been bullied for years; first for being strange, then for playing Dungeons & Dragons, which on its own shouldn’t have mattered. But satanic panic had taken hold of Hawkins with a violent grip, and suddenly D&D was no longer a game. It was a symbol. A warning.
Eddie became the embodiment of everything the town feared. The ring-leader of Satan’s desires.
It also maybe didn’t help that he had been the last person seen with all three victims.
Whispers turned into accusations. Accusations turned into certainty. Eddie Munson was labeled a devil worshipper, blamed for every terrible thing that had befallen Hawkins. A few weeks later, an altercation broke out between Eddie and members of the basketball team and after that, Eddie disappeared.
No one ever truly knew what happened to him.
Rumors filled the void. Some said he skipped town. Others claimed he was murdered and dumped in the lake. A few insisted he’d taken his own life just to escape it all. Most suspected foul play, but there was never a body. No evidence. Nothing concrete to prove any version of the story.
Wayne Munson was left behind to bear the consequences. For months, he was a wreck. He lost his job. His house was vandalized every few days, SATAN’S SERVANTS spray-painted across the garage in dripping red letters. Eddie’s grave was defaced and eventually torn in two by angry townsfolk. Eventually, worn down by grief and hatred, he left Hawkins altogether.
And the town went back to church, like nothing had ever happened.
Steve had always been aware of Eddie’s presence in Hawkins whether he realized it at the time or not. Eddie had always been there.
They’d gone to school together, though Eddie was two grades below him. Steve hadn’t noticed him much back then. Then again, Steve hadn’t noticed much of anything in school. His focus had been narrow and unwavering: good grades, clean discipline, devotion to the church.
It was only in death that Eddie became impossible to ignore. Suddenly, he was all anyone talked about. And Steve noticed him more, not just the rumors, but the way Eddie had cared for the same kids Steve now looked after. Fiercely. Protectively. In that sense, Steve couldn’t bring himself to think Eddie was all that bad.
The church, officially, claimed indifference. Publicly, they said rumors were just that, rumors. But Steve knew better. Beneath the polite sermons and careful prayers, most of the clergy believed Eddie Munson had been hell-sent to ruin their lives.
Steve glanced toward the rest of them now.
He had always risen quickly through the ranks. He’d completed his communions and confirmation faster than the rest of his class, his dedication unquestionable. Youth pastor came easily. Then mission pastor. And when the original priest left, Steve had been pushed—almost without ceremony—into the role of senior pastor.
King Steve, they called him, half-joking, half-reverent.
It felt strange. Here he sat, a disciple of God, elevated like a ruler, bearing what they called his God-given right to lead. The weight of it still unsettled him.
Steve watched as the congregation settled into their pews. He checked his watch, inhaled once, and lifted his head.
And so it begins.
His voice carried along the wooden walls as he spoke, calm and practiced. “Please rise for the choir.”
The people of Hawkins rose as one, shifting in their pews and pulling hymn books free, quick to follow the lead of their king. The choir lifted their voices in praise, sound swelling through the church full and powerful, almost overwhelming in its devotion.
Steve turned. At the subtle motion of his hand, the choir fell silent, the final notes dying obediently on their lips. Now it was his turn to sing heaven’s praises, his way.
He spoke the written word of God with practiced ease, voice steady and intent, carrying a passion born of a life devoted entirely to faith. Scripture flowed from him effortlessly, familiar and precise, each verse delivered with quiet authority.
As the sun shifted behind the stained glass, his voice lowered, settling into a reverent hum. Light streamed through the windows, casting gold and crimson across his features, making him appear almost godly himself, as if the words he spoke were not about God, but spoken unto one.
His sermons were concise by design. Long enough to inspire, short enough for those who were busy but still felt the pull of church on Sunday mornings. Stories and prophets followed one another, blending into a tapestry of faith and reassurance, offering hope and love to a town that desperately needed both.
When he finished, the choir began their final hymn.
People slowly trickled out as Steve descended the steps of the altar, turning to greet those who lingered, parishioners with quiet questions, requests for guidance, or simple words of gratitude. He answered each with patience, with care.
As the crowd thinned, Steve noticed a young man still seated in the pews near the back, his attention fixed on the stained glass, expression unreadable.
One by one, the church emptied until only three remained: Steve, the quiet stranger, and one of the altar boys.
The boy approached Steve cautiously, glancing over his shoulder toward the man in the pews. Most of the clergy, especially the younger ones always approached Steve with the same mixture of awe and reverence. In their eyes, he could do no wrong. He was holy in every way that mattered.
The altar boy bowed his head. “Forgive me for bothering you, Father,” he said softly. “That man over there says he won’t leave until he speaks with you. He’s… very insistent. Says it has to be you.”
Steve followed the boy’s gaze back toward the pews.
Steve nodded. “Ah— well, I’ll speak with him,” he said gently. “After all, that is what we’re here for, yes? To help those in need.” He offered a small, reassuring smile. “Thank you, Jeremiah. I’ll take care of it.”
Jeremiah bowed his head and stepped away as Steve made his way down the aisle, slipping into the very last pew. The man didn’t look at him.
Instead, his attention was fixed on the stained-glass window above, it held the same palette as the others: yellows and whites softened by pale pinks and blues, yet all of it overwhelmed by red. Jesus hung upon the cross, crowned with thorns, fat crimson drops spilling down from His brow. It drew Steve’s eyes as well and a pulse went through him.
King looking at King.
Steve’s gaze traced the crown, lingering. He wondered, briefly, what it would feel like to bear that kind of weight. Then the thought settled heavy in his chest, he already knew. Every time he buttoned the stiff black fabric of his clerical clothes, every time he tucked the white collar into place, he set his own thorned crown upon his head.
He cleared his throat, turning to look at the man instead. “I heard you wanted to speak with me?” Steve said at last.
The man turned. Steely brown eyes met his wary and uncertain, dark loose curls falling into his face as he offered an uneasy smile.
“I did,” he said quietly. “I’ve… done something bad. And, well- church is where you confess your sins, right?”
Steve nodded. “If you need to confess, this is the place for it. And there’s no better person to hear you.” He hesitated only a moment. “Would you be more comfortable in the confessional booth, or here in the pews?”
The man glanced back up at the stained glass, tension tightening his shoulders before he looked at Steve again. “The booth,” he said quickly. “I don’t think I can do this with him staring down at me.” He swallowed. “I mean- I know He’s always watching. That’s kind of the point. But… not like that.”
Steve understood. He rose and led the man away from the pews, guiding him into the confessional. As they settled into place, Steve didn’t notice the faint flicker of the lights outside, or how the opposite side of the booth seemed darker than usual, shadows pressing in thicker than they should have.
When Steve spoke, his voice was calm, practiced, almost mechanical, a phrase repeated so often it no longer felt like his own. “Speak,” he said, the word echoing softly in the confined space.
There was a pause. Then the man’s voice came through the grille, low and steady. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”
Steve hadn’t realized how much he despised that phrase until it lodged painfully in his chest. His next words caught in his throat before he forced them out. “And how long has it been since your last confession?”
A quiet chuckle answered him, the sound resonating strangely through the barrier between them. “Too long, Father. Years, perhaps.” The pause returned, heavier this time. “But I believe I have sins worth confessing tonight.”
Steve took a steadying breath. “What did you do,” he asked quietly, “that was so terrible you felt the need to come here— to confess it to me?”
In the hush of the confessional, Steve heard the soft rustle of fabric as the man shifted in his seat. His head hung low, posture closed, as though the weight of the words pressed him down.
“I killed a man.”
Steve’s breath caught. His heart slammed hard against his ribs, loud enough he was sure it could be heard through the thin wooden partition. “You’ve committed a mortal sin,” Steve said after a moment, his voice careful but firm.
“I cannot say such a thing is easily forgiven. Scripture tells us that whoever sheds the blood of man, by man shall his blood be shed—for God made man in His own image.” He swallowed, forcing himself to continue. “Still, I will listen. I will pray for you. Redemption does not come from my judgment—it comes from His.”
On the other side of the screen, the man gave a sound that was almost a scoff. Not defiant. Amused.
Steve frowned. This wasn’t someone seeking absolution.
He leaned forward slightly, peering through the grille that separated them. “How did you kill him?” he asked. “This man you speak of?”
The man lifted his head. In the dimness, Steve could have sworn his eyes glinted gold instead of brown—like fire caught behind glass.
“It wasn’t pretty,” the man said softly. And something in his tone made Steve’s blood run cold.
“He was bullied in school,” the man began quietly. “Didn’t do anything to deserve it. I don’t think he ever did.” His voice was steady, almost detached. “He was different. Liked strange music. Played Dungeons & Dragons. Hung around people everyone else called sketchy.” A pause. “He existed in society, but he was never part of it.”
Steve listened, unmoving.
“He had a few friends. The same kind of kids, outcasts.” Another pause, heavier. “And it didn’t help that he was gay. Trusted the wrong person. The news spread fast.”
The man exhaled sharply. “The guy he liked never cared about him. Used him. The second he was done with him spread pictures of the kid all over school. They spread like wildfire.”
Steve’s hands curled into fists in his lap.
“No one defended him,” the man continued. “They just added to it. Lies. Rumors. Anything to make it worse.” His voice dipped. “I wasn’t innocent either. I said things. Slurs. Told him he was a disappointment. Said the world would be better off without him.”
Steve’s chest tightened.
“And then came the incident,” the man said softly. “You know the one. The town turned on him completely. Even the people who tried to stand up for him got punished just for knowing him.” His voice wavered for the first time. “After he watched his best friend, someone he saw as a brother—someone he wanted to protect—get beaten and sent to the hospital, I finished what everyone else had started.”
Steve swallowed hard.
“I told him the world would be quieter without him,” the man said. “That his friends would be safer. That his uncle might finally have peace.” A breath. “I told him to kill himself.”
Silence filled the confessional.
For a moment, Steve thought he heard regret in the man’s voice. Guilt. Something raw and human.
“He was alone that night,” the man went on, quieter now. “I watched him believe every word. Watched him decide there was no other way out.”
His voice dropped to a whisper. “And I didn’t stop him. I watched as he looked into the bathroom mirror before swallowing all the pills he had on him, muttering how the world was better off without him. I watched as the tub filled with water, the knife in his trembling hands as he cut his arms open from wrist to elbow before dropping a toaster into the tub. As all 1000 watts of electricity flowed through the bloody water I closed my eyes, letting my head fall underwater, feeling the blood from my wrist drip to the floor knowing there was no way I'd be able to survive.”
Steve’s stomach twisted as the truth slammed into place.
The rumors.
The disappearance.
The boy no one ever found.
Steve’s breath came shallow as he realized the man hadn’t been confessing to murder, he was confessing to suicide.
Steve felt eyes on him now, burning and relentless. His eyes, burning like embers, pierced through the screen, leaving Steve's heart pounding.
Steve scrambled to get out of the booth as his laugh echoed through the empty church, sending shivers down Steve's back. Steve backed up against the altar in fear, “You-you’re him aren’t you? Eddie, th-the boy they all talked about?”
He pushed off from the pillar, sauntering towards Steve with a predatory grace. "Oh, Father," he purred, "you catch on quick."
His fingers brushed the crucifix at Steve’s chest, skin grazing skin, and electricity shot through him. “I’m Eddie,” he said softly. “That part’s true.” His smile widened. “But I’m not quite a boy anymore. Not even a man.”
Lightning cracked outside. The candles snuffed out in unison. The doors slammed shut.
Steve trembled as the flames relit themselves one by one.
And when Eddie stood before him again, he was changed— skin grey and pale like a corpse, eyes glowing amber yellow, leathery bat-like wings unfurling behind him. Something long and sinuous moved behind his legs.
His clothes had vanished, replaced by dark, black lacy lingerie. Steve felt heat rush to his face before shame snapped in just as quickly before he remembered what Eddie was, what he represented.
A temptation made flesh. And something he absolutely should not be looking at like that.
Steve’s breath hitched, fear and something else tangling painfully together as he backed against the altar, his hands shook as he tore the cross from around his neck, fingers fumbling as he muttered broken Latin beneath his breath. The words came out jagged and rushed—an exorcism, imperfect but desperate.
Eddie recognized it immediately.
It didn’t work the way Steve expected.
Instead of recoiling or vanishing, Eddie’s body went momentarily slack, his eyes glazing over with an unnatural sheen as he sagged forward, nearly collapsing into Steve. His gaze lingered on the cross clenched tight in Steve’s fist—a silent sentinel, bearing witness to the sins of the faithful.
Something dark stirred in Eddie’s chest.
Not pain.
Not fear.
Hunger.
Steve dropped the cross with a sharp, frustrated motion, watching with dawning horror as the effect lingered, how Eddie seemed almost drawn to it. Eddie’s eyes followed the cross as it hit the floor, the strange glassiness fading as he blinked and looked back at Steve with something newly awakened.
Charged silence stretched between them.
Steve’s breath hitched as he took in the sight of Eddie, how his lips parted slightly, how his attention seemed wholly, terrifyingly fixed on him. Eddie didn’t look away. His gaze held Steve’s with deliberate intent, and when he moved closer, he slowly, deliberately, ran his hand along the length of his thigh. The motion was unhurried, almost gentle.
The air felt electric.
Steve knew he should turn away. Knew he should put an end to this before it went any further. And yet, his body refused to listen, heart pounding too hard in his chest.
Eddie hummed softly. “Mmm,” he said, amused. “Looks like someone didn’t do their research.”
Steve stiffened.
“That little exorcism?” Eddie continued lightly. “Might work on lesser demons—but not on us.” His smile was sharp, knowing. “Incubi and succubi don’t leave until our work is done. Contracts and all that.” He tilted his head. “We don’t vanish. We don’t get cast out. And we certainly don’t get exorcised.”
Steve swallowed.
“And if you’d known what I was,” Eddie went on, voice lowering, “you wouldn’t have reached for that cross.” His hand slowly inched higher, just barely, just enough to make him shudder. “Normal demons are repelled by holy symbols.”
Eddie’s eyes darkened. “But your God,” he murmured, “made us differently.”
The words curled through the space between them.
“Hallowed things don’t drive us away,” Eddie said. “In fact he made us so that whenever we see a holy symbol it spurs us on more. Makes us more wild, more tempting, more dangerous.”
His gaze softened into something dangerously intimate. “Hornier.”
His voice purred as his hand went even higher on Steve’s leg and Steve’s resolve wavered. Eddie was temptation given form—terrifying and alluring in equal measure. Everything Steve had been taught to resist, everything he refused to name even in prayer.
Eddie tilted his head, catching Steve’s gaze, a slow, rakish smile spreading across his face.
“You know, Father,” he whispered, voice a dark promise, “I wasn’t sent here by accident.”
Steve’s mouth felt dry. “Then why?” he asked quietly, even as dread pooled low in his chest.
Eddie leaned in, his breath warm at Steve’s ear. “To tempt you,” he said simply. “I’m the demon God Himself sent to test your faith.”
Steve reeled back, eyes wide with shock and something dangerously close to betrayal. That—that—was not the answer he had been expecting.
“That’s—that’s blasphemy,” he stammered, his voice echoing through the suddenly cold church.
Eddie laughed. The sound slid down Steve’s spine, low and unbothered. “Oh, Steve,” he said warmly, almost fond. “You’re so naïve.”
Steve shook his head, struggling to steady his breath. “God would never—”
“Wouldn’t He?” Eddie interrupted softly. “Don’t you see?” His gaze sharpened. “God doesn’t want to test your faith. He wants to watch you fall. He wants to see what happens when devotion meets desire.”
Eddie stepped closer. Not crowding—never forcing—but close enough that Steve could feel the heat of him, could feel the weight of his presence press in from all sides.
“He wants to see you give in,” Eddie murmured. “To your wants. To your temptations.”
His fingers tipped Steve’s chin up gently, just enough to make him meet his eyes. His thumb brushed close to Steve’s mouth—barely there, but enough to make Steve’s breath hitch.
“He wants to see you sin, Father,” Eddie said quietly. “With me.”
Steve’s heart thundered in his ears. The church—once a place of refuge—now felt like a cage, stone and silence closing in around him. He searched Eddie’s eyes and found no mockery there. No lie.
Only certainty.
Fear flickered through him, sharp and unwelcome. He had always believed himself pious. Steady. Strong. But with Eddie standing before him, that certainty wavered. He reminded himself—this was Eddie’s purpose. Temptation was his weapon. Steve had vows. Faith. Discipline.
At least, he told himself, he thought he did.
Eddie’s smile widened, slow and predatory, like sensing blood in the water. “Temptation is my specialty, Steve. I’m the best there is.” He tilted his head. “That’s why they sent me.”
His hand lifted again, brushing a stray curl away from Steve’s temple. The touch lingered—light, deliberate—tracing the edge of his ear, the line of his jaw.
“I’m everything you’ve ever prayed for,” Eddie whispered. “Everything you’ve ever wanted without daring to ask for.”
He let out a quiet laugh. “And honestly? When they offered me a priest…” His eyes gleamed. “How could I say no?”
Eddie leaned in just enough for his voice to drop into something intimate and dangerous.
“So tell me,” he murmured, “have you ever been tempted to sin, Steve?”
And in the echoing quiet of the church, Steve realized the question wasn’t rhetorical.
Steve's heart pounded in his chest, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He could feel the heat radiating from Eddie's body, the promise of forbidden pleasure in his touch. He knew he should pull away. Eddie's gaze traced the lines of Steve's body, his fingers itching to defile the sacred space, to turn it into a den of sin.
Steve’s eyes flicked to the cross above the church doors, Jesus watching from His place of suffering. This was a test, Steve knew. A challenge to everything he had vowed to be.
Eddie's lips found his neck and pressed wet hot kisses against the small area of skin peeking out above his collar. Steve’s eyes shuttered close, a battle waging within him, between duty and desire, heaven and hell.
Steve's breath hitched in his throat, his heart pounding like a drum in his chest. He knew he should step back, should break whatever spell this was, but the pull was relentless.
Eddie's hand slid down to his collar following the trail of his lips, his thumb brushing the pulse point at Steve's neck, Steve found himself unable to resist the devil in his church. As he felt Eddie’s kisses turn into playful bites his eyes flew open.
The cross above the doors loomed in his vision— Christ strung upon it, bloodied and broken, sacrifice made flesh. A reminder of devotion. Of restraint. Of a body given so others might be spared their sins.
Steve’s breath came unsteady as pleasure and guilt tangled painfully in his chest. He swallowed hard, struggling to find his voice, to remember why he had chosen this life—why he had sworn himself to something higher than want, higher than touch.
Eddie’s closeness burned, intoxicating and insistent, and for one terrible moment Steve feared how badly he wanted to give in.
“You shouldn’t be here,” Steve whispered, his voice barely steady.
“I’m exactly where I’m meant to be,” Eddie replied softly.
Their eyes met, and Steve saw the want there—unapologetic, undeniable—and felt its echo inside himself. He wanted to close the distance, to give in to the gravity between them. He wanted to taste Eddie, to feel his lips, his tongue, his teeth. But inside himself he knew his faith was stronger than the desire of man. He would not give in to Eddie’s temptations, not today. But faith anchored him, heavy and unyielding.
Eddie sensed the struggle. He took a step closer, their bodies fully touching now. Steve could feel the heat radiating off him, could see the rise and fall of his chest. He could feel Eddie’s excitement pressing against his thighs.
“Steve,” Eddie murmured, voice low. “I can feel how torn you are.” He paused, lips hovering just short of Steve’s. “Let it go. Just for tonight.”
He felt as Eddie leaned forwards just enough to press his hard cock against Steve’s own. Steve's heart pounded in his chest. He wanted to. God, how he wanted to. But he couldn't. He was a priest, sworn to celibacy. The temptation surged—sharp and overwhelming—but Steve found his footing at last. He drew in a shaky breath and pushed Eddie back, breaking the spell.
“No,” Steve said, breathless but resolute. “I won’t.”
The silence that followed was thick with everything he had refused—and everything that still lingered, unresolved, between them.
“No,” Steve said, his voice firm despite the tremor beneath it. His hands curled into fists at his sides, knuckles white—the only thing keeping him from reaching out and pulling Eddie back. “I won’t. I can’t.”
For a moment, Eddie simply looked at him.
His eyes were dark with desire—and something else Steve couldn’t quite name. Respect, perhaps. Or patience. Eddie stepped back at last, the distance deliberate. A small smile curved his mouth, softer than anything he’d worn before.
“Alright, Father Steve,” he said quietly. “I hear you.” Then, almost gently, “But I’m not giving up.”
Steve’s breath caught.
“I’ll be here for every Mass. Every sermon,” Eddie continued. “Tempting you. Waiting.” His smile sharpened just a fraction. “I don’t lose, Steve. And one day, you’ll step down from that high seat all on your own.”
His gaze lingered, intent and promising.
“And when you do,” he murmured, “I’ll be there.”
Eddie turned away from the altar and walked toward the doors. As he passed beneath the crucifix, it twisted—slowly, deliberately—turning upside down in his wake.
Steve’s knees gave out.
He collapsed before the altar, breath shuddering, hands shaking as he bowed his head. Fear flooded him—not just of what had nearly happened, but of how much he’d wanted it to.
He prayed then. For forgiveness. For strength. For mercy.
And most of all, he prayed that when Eddie returned—because he knew, with dreadful certainty, that he would—Steve would be strong enough to resist.
Because right now, he wasn’t sure he would be.