The Pastor's Son

The cross above the chapel hadn't changed.

Neither had the brick steps leading up to it, or the way the stained glass bled color across the front pews when the sun hit it just right.

But I had.

Ten years away had a way of doing that to a man.

I stood on the church's front walk with my hands clenched in my jacket pockets, staring up at the steeple like it might fall on me. Like maybe I deserved it.

"Ralph," my mother had said on the phone, "just come home for Easter. One Sunday. You don't even have to go inside."

But I had. And now I was standing here, back in his shadow. My father's. Reverend Stephen Whittaker. Shepherd of the flock. Condemner of the queers.

And still the man who never once said my name after I came out.

I was twenty-nine now. Leaner. Harder. A little colder around the edges. But I still felt twelve when I stepped into this town--like the walls could talk, and they remembered every shameful thing I'd ever done.

I stepped inside the church. The smell hit me first--candles, wood polish, old Bibles, and lilies. Easter lilies. They lined the aisle in white and gold, like purity had a scent.

And then I saw him.

At the front of the sanctuary, adjusting a mic stand, hair the color of sand and honey, sleeves rolled to his elbows like he didn't know how much forearms could undo a man.

Danny.

Choir boy turned choir director. My first kiss behind the baptismal curtain. My last kiss before I ran.

My chest ached.

He turned. Saw me. Froze.

For a long second, neither of us moved.

Then--"Well, well," he said, voice softer than I remembered, but deeper. "If it isn't the prodigal son."

I laughed, but it came out like a cough. "Guess the pigs got tired of me."

Danny set the mic down. Walked forward. Every step a heartbeat.

"You came back."

"Just for the weekend."

"Your father know?"

"He will soon enough."

Danny raised an eyebrow. "Still got that fire in you, huh?"

I shrugged. "Still got that mouth on you?"

A flicker of heat passed between us.

He looked down. Then up. "You staying for rehearsal?"

"You always make a habit of flirting with apostates in God's house?"

Danny stepped closer, close enough to smell like cinnamon and coffee. "Only the hot ones."

-----------

The choir left around 8:30. Danny didn't.

Neither did I.

The sanctuary was empty but still warm, voices echoing off the rafters like ghosts. He sat on the piano bench, fingers idly pressing keys, humming something half-sacred, half-sinful.

I leaned against the pulpit. "You always this casual with sinners?"

Danny glanced up. "Ralph, you think too highly of yourself. I flirt with lots of broken boys."

"You think I'm broken?"

"I know you are."

I walked down the aisle, slow. "And what about you?"

"I stayed," he said. "What do you think that did to me?"

We stared at each other. Two boys grown into men, each holding the other's unfinished sentence.

"I used to think about you," I said.

Danny's voice dropped. "I used to dream about you."

I stopped in front of him. The tension crackled like thunder before a storm.

He reached out and touched my wrist. "Still feel the same?"

"No," I said honestly. "I feel worse. Because now I know what I missed."

Danny pulled me into him.

The kiss wasn't gentle.

It was ten years of rage, grief, and heat poured into a single mouth.

His fingers curled into my jacket. Mine fisted in his shirt. Our teeth clashed. Our tongues fought. And then--

He shoved me back, breathing hard. "Not here."

"Why not?" I whispered.

"Because if I take you here, I won't stop."

I pressed my forehead to his. "Then don't stop."

-------------- The back room of the church wasn't holy anymore.

He locked the door.

I dropped to my knees.

He didn't say a word as I unbuckled his belt, pushed his pants down, and took his cock in my mouth. But his fingers trembled as they dug into my hair.

"Jesus, Ralph," he whispered.

I smiled around him.

He tasted like lust and control undone.

I went slow at first--just enough to make him squirm. Then faster, wetter, filthier. The sounds he made were a hymn of their own.

"Fuck, you still know what you're doing," he groaned.

I pulled off, wiping spit from my mouth. "I never forgot."

He yanked me up. Spun me against the wall. Mouth on my neck, hands on my ass.

"You want it?" he whispered.

"Like resurrection," I gasped.

He spit in his palm. Pulled my jeans down. Pressed into me--hot, thick, maddening.

I choked on a moan as he filled me. My head fell back.

"Say it," he said, thrusting slow, cruel. "Say you missed me."

"I missed you."

"Say you wanted me."

"I want you."

"Say you came back for me."

"I came back for you."

And I meant it.

He fucked me like salvation and sin combined. Like he'd waited ten years to break me open. His rhythm punishing. His grip desperate.

When he came, he bit my shoulder. Hard.

And when I came--my whole body shook.

Later, lying on the choir robes we'd stolen from the storage closet, he looked at me with soft eyes.

"You staying long?"

"Just the weekend."

"That's not long enough."

"I know."

Danny reached for my hand. "Then make it count."

-------------

It had been ten years since I'd touched another man in that church.

Ten years since Danny's hands had been on me--fingers trembling, breath shallow, lips trembling like he wanted to pray and moan at the same time. Yet here we were again, in the dark of the church's back room, lying half-naked on top of choir robes that still smelled like mothballs and frankincense.

My pants were around my ankles. His shirt was unbuttoned, chest rising with shallow breaths, flushed and still glistening from the sweat we'd worked up. I had bite marks on my neck, scratches down my spine, and the burn of his last thrust still blooming between my thighs like a second heartbeat.

"Jesus," Danny breathed, and not in reverence. "I forgot how tight you were."

I laughed, a low sound in my throat, and rolled onto my back, cock still half-hard. "You forgot a lot of things."

His gaze dropped to my stomach, then between my legs, hungry and unrepentant. "Not everything."

His hand reached for me again, fingers curling around the base of my dick, slow and deliberate. "You hard again already?" he whispered, biting his lower lip as he began to stroke me.

"Maybe I missed this more than I thought," I murmured, hips lifting into his touch.

Danny leaned over me, his mouth ghosting over mine. "You think God's watching?"

"If He is," I said, voice thick, "He can take notes."

And then his lips were on mine again, and I stopped thinking about theology.

He kissed like he was still trying to figure me out--tongue teasing, lips pulling, hand never breaking rhythm as he jerked me with long, practiced strokes. He knew what I liked. He remembered. That made me harder.

"Turn over," he said, voice husky. "I want you on your knees this time."

I obeyed. There wasn't even hesitation. There never was with him.

I felt the cool air on my bare ass, then the warm press of his hand. A firm smack landed across one cheek, and I groaned. It wasn't pain. It was ownership. His mark on me. The only one I ever wanted.

Danny knelt behind me, one hand gripping my hip while the other guided himself back inside. He pushed in slower this time, savoring every inch, like he needed to memorize what I felt like from the inside out.

"Fuck, Ralph," he hissed. "You feel like home."

My forehead pressed against the old wood of the wardrobe as he began to move, slow and deep at first, grinding into me with the kind of rhythm that made my legs shake and my voice break. The slick slide of his cock inside me was perfect--hot, raw, real.

His fingers dug into my hips as he sped up, the sound of skin slapping against skin echoing off the walls like a second liturgy. And God, I needed it. I needed every filthy second. This wasn't about lust anymore--it was memory, pain, forgiveness, and a decade of unsaid things being fucked out of me with every thrust.

"You used to cry when you came," Danny growled in my ear, one hand fisting in my hair to pull my head back. "You still do?"

"Try me," I gasped, voice broken.

He reached around, wrapped his fist around my cock again, pumping in time with his thrusts, and I shattered like stained glass--my climax ripping through me in a guttural, helpless cry. My knees buckled. My vision went white. I came all over his fist, all over my stomach, and probably a good chunk of choir robe.

Danny groaned, deep and guttural, and buried himself in me one final time before his hips stuttered. I felt the warmth of him spilling inside, thick and hot, and I bit down on my own arm to muffle the sound I made.

It wasn't holy. It was fucking sacred.

--------------------- We lay there in silence after, tangled in each other's sweat and regret, the scent of sex and lilies thick in the air.

"You think we're going to Hell?" I asked eventually, eyes on the water-stained ceiling.

Danny traced circles on my chest with his fingertips. "If we are, I'll burn with you."

I turned to him. "That's the most romantic thing anyone's ever said to me."

"I'm serious," he said, face suddenly soft. "I prayed for you, you know. Every night for years. After you left. I asked God to make you safe, to make you happy... but mostly, I asked Him to bring you back."

I swallowed. Hard.

"And now that I'm here?"

Danny leaned in, kissed my cheek, and whispered, "Now I don't know how I'll let you leave."

-------------

I hadn't meant to stay past the weekend.

One church service. A few awkward conversations. Maybe a stolen kiss if Danny still wanted me. Then I'd leave like I always did--pack up my guilt and head back to the city where I could pretend none of it had ever happened.

But then he touched me like I was holy.

And now I didn't want to go.

------------- Sunday morning came like judgment. Bright, sharp, inevitable.

The congregation gathered in their pastel dresses and pressed suits, full of smiles and resurrection joy. Easter hymns rang through the church, but my stomach twisted like I was back in the confessional--except this time, I didn't feel shame.

I felt defiance.

Danny was across the aisle, standing with the choir in his fitted navy slacks, sleeves rolled up, lips curved in a smile that was half angel, half devil. He caught my eye mid-hymn, and for one long, electric second, he winked.

My cock stirred.

I adjusted my belt and tried not to burst into flames.

The final song ended. Reverend Whittaker rose to the pulpit in his black robe and shining cross. My father. Still handsome, still poised, still a monument to everything I never was.

He began his sermon with something about new life, about rebirth and forgiveness. His voice boomed, commanding and practiced.

But I wasn't listening.

Not until he said the word perversion.

"As we celebrate the rising of Christ, we must also confront the sins that keep us from Him. The world today celebrates disorder. It preaches lust over love, indulgence over salvation. It tells young men that their confusion is a calling. That the body is a playground. But that is not God's way. That is not the path to heaven."

My jaw clenched.

He didn't say my name, but he didn't have to.

The shame wasn't mine anymore.

I stood up in the middle of his sermon. Heads turned. Gasps fluttered like wings.

My voice was steady. "Is there room in this church for someone like me?"

My father paused. His eyes narrowed. "This isn't the time, son."

"No?" I said. "Seems like the perfect time to talk about resurrection. I came back from the dead too, didn't I?"

A ripple of discomfort moved through the room.

"I left this place because I was told who I loved made me unworthy," I said, louder now. "That being gay meant I had no place in God's house. That the shame belonged to me."

Danny's eyes were locked on mine, wide and wet.

"I believed that for a long time," I said. "But you know what I've learned? The sin wasn't in who I kissed. The sin was in being told I had to hide it."

"Ralph--" my father began.

I kept going. "I'm not here to start a fight. I'm here because it's Easter. Because I believe in rebirth. And maybe, just maybe, if Jesus could rise from the grave, then I can rise too. Not despite who I am--but because of it."

Silence.

Then someone clapped. Quietly at first. Then louder. Then more.

I didn't stay to see the end of it.

I walked out the same doors I'd walked through as a boy, shaking with adrenaline, heart thundering. I didn't know what would happen next. If the town would shun me. If my father would ever speak to me again.

But I didn't care.

Because I wasn't alone.

-------------

I found Danny in the old classroom behind the choir loft.

He didn't say anything when I opened the door. Just pulled me inside, shut it quietly, and crushed his mouth to mine.

There was nothing hesitant now. No fear, no shame, no guilt.

Only heat.

He kissed like a man starving, hands fumbling with my belt, breath ragged as he pressed me against the table. "You have no idea," he growled, "how long I've waited to see you do that."

"Did I do it for you?" I smirked, already kicking off my shoes.

"You did it for both of us."

Our clothes hit the floor in a heap. His cock was already hard, flushed red and slick at the tip. I dropped to my knees again, eager, greedy, taking him into my mouth like I was still trying to worship something--only this time, it wasn't guilt that guided me.

It was hunger.

I licked and sucked, using my tongue like a weapon, swallowing him deeper until I heard him groan and mutter fuck through clenched teeth. His fingers knotted in my hair as he fucked my mouth, eyes dark, jaw tight.

When he pulled out, he wasn't gentle. He bent me over the desk, spit on his hand, and pushed inside without waiting. I was already open for him--aching and slick, desperate.

"Say it again," he said, slamming into me.

"Say what?"

"That you're not ashamed."

"I'm not," I moaned. "I'm not, Danny, I'm fucking proud--"

He slammed into me harder, faster, and I lost the rest in a gasp.

His rhythm was ruthless, relentless, the sound of his hips against me echoing in the little room, loud and obscene. He grabbed my shoulders, pulled me back to meet every thrust, pounding me like he wanted to fuck the last ten years out of both of us.

"You're mine," he growled. "Say it."

"I'm yours," I gasped, pleasure flooding me from the inside out. "Always was."

He wrapped his hand around my cock and stroked me in time with his thrusts. I felt the heat in my gut building, pulsing, rising--then spilling over as I came with a strangled cry all over the table.

Danny wasn't far behind. He groaned, hips jerking, and I felt him throb and fill me again, burying himself deep as he came hard, holding me like he never wanted to let go.

-----------------

Afterward, we lay tangled on the classroom floor, naked except for the sunlight filtering through the blinds.

"I should go," I whispered.

"No," Danny said softly, fingers tracing patterns on my chest. "You should stay."

"I can't. You know I can't."

Danny looked at me, eyes tired and hopeful all at once. "Then promise me one thing."

"Anything."

"Don't let this be the last resurrection."

I smiled. "It won't be."

---------- Epilogue

A year later, the church bulletin read:

"EASTER SERVICE: ALL ARE WELCOME." Guest Speaker: Ralph Whittaker. Musical Director: Daniel Price.

And in the front pew, a couple held hands as the lilies bloomed, unapologetically.

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