my catholic guilt is screaming at me for wanting this but i NEED priest!jason todd
thank you for a yummy yummy request nonnie :3 [and for giving me an excuse to write this nastiness]
summary ⤷ father jason crawled out of his grave years ago. now, he's a man of faith. that is, until he sees you.
pairing ⤷ jason todd/fem!reader
cw ⤷ smut, discussion of sex, angst, priest kink, sacrilegious shit, blasphemy, light praise kink, light corruption kink, masturbation, religious/catholic guilt, pathetic jason todd, strangely tender, jason todd is unfortunately in love AND horny (two things he is Not supposed to be!), kinda coquette!reader, light corruption kink, confessional booth sex, virgin!reader & jason, bible scripture, religious imagery
wc ⤷ 5.2k (plot got my ass)
Jason was reformed, saved, reborn. He had clawed his way out of his own grave. There was no explanation for the sudden breath of life he was given. None, but by an act of god. He remembered his life before the Joker. He remembered bruises and scrapes that healed quickly on his adolescent skin. He remembers a father, a mother, and another father after that. He remembers the bright yellow and green he once donned, recalls the feeling of pride. When he lay motionless over the turned dirt of his grave, he could only remember the name Robin. When the cemetery keeper found him, he helped him into the house on the grounds, a hobbled cabin where the groundskeeper lived. It was a private church, and a catholic one. The man rarely spoke, only to ask him what happened. Jason, as the man had called him, could only remember the darkness. It felt fuzzy and strange, being dead. And then there was a sudden pain, and a moment later, his nails were digging into the wood of his own coffin.
The man did not tend to Jason for long. He took him to the church, left him with a rosary, and Jason never saw him again. He never returned to his own grave, which was once his eternal resting place. No, he could barely stomach it. Little by little, as his days at the church carried on, things came back to him. Everyone at the parish walked timidly around him, as if a slight breeze might send him pummeling to the ground. But he was getting stronger, and the only thing tethering him to this world was Sunday mass.
The smell of incense and the ringing of bells became his only reprieve from the onslaught of nightmares he had as the months passed. They had given him a small room with a small bed, but Jason spent most nights curled up like a stray dog on the rough carpet of the altar. He was a humble worshipper by day, and a mess of scars and horrors by night. The only solace was sleeping at the foot of the crucifix of God.
The parishioners were kind to him. They could’ve kicked him back out on the street, but instead, they made him an altar boy. He helped with communion and attended catholic school every day. With every prayer, every bent knee, he felt a strange sense of gratitude bloom in his body. It stemmed from the darkness of his heart, lighting it up with a newfound hope. Perhaps, he considered one night, knelt beside his bed, the linen sheets lit only by a single candle, perhaps my life was a gift from god, and not a curse. Maybe he had been given a second chance, not as a punishment, but as a miracle.
He worked at the Sunday school until twenty-five, when he became a priest. With each passing night and day spent with people seeking to better themselves, Jason’s heart softened, healed. Yet, there was a brokenness lingering within himself, every moment tainted with the knowledge of what he used to be—a fighter, a rebel, a criminal. He stole and fought, and for that, a lingering resentment buried itself deep in his bones. But the routine of mass and prayer eased the ache most days.
It wasn’t until he met you that the past’s ugly head came rearing to. He was no longer a sinner, of that he was sure. He was reformed, ordained, and holy. He preached and taught and fed the hungry—both those starving by mind and body. He had confessed his many sins, and God had mercifully forgiven him. He had dedicated his life to the holy word, and that was the best he could do. Until you.
You, so shy and sweet. You began attending church in Jason’s third year as priest. You floated down the aisle to receive communion like an angel bestowed on the parish, on him. Your confessions were so precious and innocent. “I accidentally killed a spider yesterday,” you had confessed once, through muffled cries which Jason could hear through the partition. You were a divine being, he was sure. Perhaps a fallen star or a sacred spirit who got lost on the way to heaven, and found herself kneeling in Jason’s pews three times a week.
His gaze found yours during every sermon, and your wide eyes and frilly dresses made his heart pinch. You were adorable and pure, like a newborn lamb.
His innocent interest in you was hardly noticed by anyone, not even Jason himself. He admired your dedication to god, your understanding of scripture, and your careful demeanor. You were a holy thing, and he appreciated you as any child of god would. He didn’t think a thing of it until you began waiting after mass for him. It started simple enough; you had lingered after the final prayer and song to introduce yourself to him. You had attended his church for a few weeks, and he hadn’t known your name. It was the polite thing to do. He shook your hand warmly and welcomed you to the parish with a gentle smile, which had made your cheeks tinge pink.
The second time you waited for him was to ask about any volunteer opportunities the church might have. He told you about the community garden, which was mostly still a work in progress, but one that Jason was passionate about. You had eagerly agreed to help him with it, and after that, he saw you every Friday evening.
He forwent his robes and collar when working out in the field behind the church, and was pleased to find you dressed down, too. You had shown up the first day with overalls and a simple white, flowing undershirt, and wasted no time in helping him water freshly planted tomatoes and pluck blooming sprigs of rosemary. Your outfits followed a similar pattern as the weeks went on.
“Have you ever had one of those rosaries made of real rose petals?” you asked him curiously one day, kneeling next to where he was pulling weeds. He looked up at you, squinting against the sun, which lit up your hair and surrounded you as if you were a gilded icon. He lost his words for a few moments, and only snapped back to reality when you murmured, “Father?”
He cleared his throat and turned back to the weeds. “I haven’t, no.”
“I make them,” you admitted shyly.
“You do?” You nodded bashfully. “That’s wonderful. Is it difficult?”
You shrugged. “My grandmother taught me. Feels like second nature now.”
He hummed thoughtfully, smiling down at the ground. You were a sweetheart. “Maybe next week you can bring one by, and let me have a look,” he suggested, standing up. “Maybe I'll bless it for you,” he teased.
You blushed so prettily before reaching into the front pocket of your overalls. Last week, they had ripped a bit in the side, and this week, a patch of floral cloth had been sewn over the tear. You produced a deep reddish-pink string of beads, held together by gold links. “Actually, Father, I made this. For you.”
He stared for a long moment, unable to help the grin that tugged at his lips. He took it gently from your hands, ignoring the spark of electricity he felt as his fingers brushed yours. He was terrified to be holding the rosary. It felt so fragile and sacred. It was made by you, by your hands.
When he said nothing, you began to ramble, a nervous habit he had noticed you had. “I used darker petals for it, and gold. Usually, I use pink roses and silver, since it's more traditional. Well, the silver is more traditional, I just like the pink. But you like the color red, don’t you? And the cross you wear is gold, too. Maybe I shouldn’t have assumed; if you don’t like it, I can—” he cut you off by taking your hand. You clamped your mouth shut dutifully without him even having to tell you to. You were so good at following instructions, you usually anticipated what he might ask of you.
“It’s beautiful,” he said soothingly, brushing his thumb over the ridges of your knuckles. He draped the rosary over your head, pulling your hair out of the way as he did so, until the beads rested around your delicate neck. He took the golden cross in his palm and began his prayer. "Let us pray. O God, by whose word all things are made holy, pour out Your blessing on this object.” He turned the cross over and noticed your name etched into the back. He barely caught his breath enough to go on. “Grant that whoever uses it in accordance with Your will and Your law may experience by Your power health of body and protection of soul, as he invokes Your most holy name.” Your eyes didn’t leave his, and despite how his focus was meant to be on the rosary, he didn’t let his eyes stray from yours either. It was as if he were blessing you. “Through Christ our Lord. Amen"
“Amen,” you echoed softly.
“You wear this,” he explained, setting the cross down at the center of your chest, letting it slip from his grasp. “You think of me when you pray. The colors are mine, and the blessing is yours.”
You nodded enthusiastically, eyes wide. You hand cupped the cross in your palm, the metal warmed by Jason’s touch. “Thank you, Father,” you breathed.
A bolt of something sharp rattled Jason’s insides, the feeling foreign but heady, “And you give me one of your pretty pink ones, okay?” he asked. “That way I’ll never forget who made it for me.” He brought the golden cross to his lips, pressing into it like a twisted kiss. “Who brought me such a kind gift.”
“Of course, Father,” you replied, grinning up at him, lashes long and fluttering.
His dreams that night were filled with the sweet scent of roses and thyme. The drape of your hair down your back and the curve of your mouth tormented him, leaving him sweaty and frustrated come morning. As he blinked against the early sun streaming in through the curtains, that electric feeling coursed through his body. It spread hot and alive through each limb and settled low in his stomach. His breath came fast and desperate as he turned over to shove his face into his pillow. The heat swirling through his veins was unbearable. His hips pitched forward, and a whine tore itself from his throat. He must be ill.
But as his body continued to seek out the mind-numbing friction of his crotch against the mattress, it dawned on him what this feeling was. Lust. The sensation was making his head spin, and he pushed away from the mattress like he’d been burned. He wanted you. His sleep pants strained against his growing desire, brought upon him by the force of the lucifer himself. Something wicked within him had twisted your kind smiles and pure nature into something sensual, something that left him gasping with need.
He kneeled beside his bed like he did every morning, asking God for strength. Not the strength to serve his community or teach the parish. Strength to fight this heat boiling his insides.
His sermon went on like usual, but with the caveat that his eyes, which once sought yours out, now avoided you altogether. When he’d seen you kneeling in the second row just before communion, his heart had palpitated painfully in his chest. You were wearing a soft white dress, and the dark red of the rosary around your neck stood out like a brand. His brand. He kept his eyes down.
After mass, you waited patiently by the altar, kneeling on the steps and praying like a saint. Your dress rode up just above your knee, and Jason was about to dismiss you when you caught his eye and smiled brightly.
“Good evening, Father,” you greeted softly. Your voice was like a balm. You presented a rosary. A pink one. It would match perfectly with your little dress, and stand out like a sore thumb against his black robes. He swallowed. “This is for you,” you explained, holding it out to him.
He took it, his hands shaking just slightly. He could smell the rose wafting off of it, off of you. You must wear perfume. He nodded dumbly, twirling the beads around his fist. It matched the puckered scars he knew littered his body. It was as if you could see right through him.
“Keep it in a case if you want the rose smell to last,” you advised with a small wink, surely meant to make him laugh. It made his face go hot instead.
“Thank you,” he whispered. You beamed.
“Of course, Father. Thank you for… making me feel so at home. I was scared when I first came here.” Jason’s brows furrowed at that, the duel between good and evil within his wretched mind being briefly forgotten at the prospect of your discomfort.
You shifted nervously. “Well… I– I just, I was just a little intimidated. I hadn’t gone to Mass since I was little. But you’re so lovely, it’s made everything easier. I know I’m not perfect, but–”
You blinked and met his gaze, lips parted with surprise. “Father, I–”
“You’re wonderful. You have nothing to worry about. God is lucky to have you kneeling at his altar,” he explained, resisting the overwhelming urge to take your hand in his.
Your eyes grew a little teary, and you gave him a sad smile. “I have sinned, Father.”
“We have all sinned,” he conceded. “Would you like to confess?”
Your eyes darted to the confession booth, and you blushed. “It’s late.”
Jason smiled, took a deep breath, and with a hand on your lower back, guided you over to the room. “I can’t leave you with guilt on your conscience. I don’t mind spending a little extra time here in the chapel.”
You smiled timidly, your shoulders slouching with a release of tension. “Thank you so much, Father,” you gushed, stepping into your side of the booth. He closed the door and went to his side of the confessional. He sat down, held his breath for a beat, then let all the air out of his lungs. Perhaps it was a fluke. Desire is fickle, and maybe the stress of his days simply got to him. You were a pure little thing, and he would never dream about defiling you (even though he already had). He was a good man; he dedicated himself to God.
But the smell of you overtook every inch of the confessional, and Jason was having trouble breathing.
“Father,” you began, your voice shaking lightly. “Bless me, for I have sinned. I wish to confess. It has been two weeks since my last confession.”
You were silent for a long moment before he heard you shift in your seat. “Father, I… I have been having thoughts. Impure thoughts. And I don’t know how to make them stop.” Your voice was low and despairing, and Jason felt heat rise in his face.
“How are these thoughts impure?”
“They… Father, I can’t—” he heard a small thunk, and when you spoke again, your voice was muffled, like you’d put your head down. “I can’t do this, Father Todd, I’m sorry.” You sounded broken.
He searched for the right words. He had never heard you like this before, sounding so distraught. “God… God cannot forgive you if you do not confess,” he reminded softly. He heard a small groan come from beyond the partition, and he smiled, shaking his head. “You’re a good woman. I will not judge you, and neither will god.”
“I just… I have been thinking about—a… about sex,” you whispered. Jason blinked, his vision blurring around the edges.
“Yes, Father.” You continued, your words rushed and quiet. “I can’t stop thinking about it. I think the devil has planted a seed within my mind. At night, it’s all I see.”
Jason shifted in his seat, suddenly very aware of the hardness growing in his slacks. This was wrong. But you needed to confess, and this was his duty. “Tell me about these visions,” he implored, trying to keep his voice even.
“I see… I just wanted to feel it. I’ve never done it. I will wait for marriage, but I want it now. I’ve never wanted it before. There must be something wrong with me,” you concluded, your words trailing off into a whine. He could hear you crying, plagued with the sin of desire. His heart clenched.
In a moment, he was out of his room and tugging the door of your booth open.
“Father?” you asked, surprised by his sudden appearance. He fell to his knees before you, as if he were praying at the altar.
“Don’t cry,” he soothed, cupping your cheek, tears smearing against his palm. You were sobbing in a moment, sinking to the floor and into his warm embrace. He wrapped his arms around you and stroked your hair. “That’s it, sweet thing. It’s okay. God forgives you.”
“I need help, Father,” you whimpered, pulling away. Your cheeks and nose were flushed pink, and your eyes were glassy as you looked up at him. “I’ve prayed so much, asking for His guidance, His help. For strength. Yet my thoughts won’t stop. I even—” you cut yourself off with a sniff, your eyes downcast.
“You what?” he pressed.
“I touched myself,” you whispered. God’s own will wasn’t strong enough to keep Jason’s thoughts from spiralling. The idea of you in your pretty church dresses, sliding your hand into your panties, and trying to relieve yourself… It was enough to drive him mad.
Jason kept you close, pressed your face into his chest, his hand resting on the back of your head. “He will forgive,” he panted, trying to keep himself in line, trying to focus on anything but the warmth of your body against him. It was fruitless. You were curled into him, your breath heavy against his neck. The room felt like it was a million degrees.
“It won’t help,” you wept. “I can’t make it stop. Even now, I feel it.”
He pulled back, meeting your red-rimmed gaze. Even now, you felt it?
“I need someone else, Father. I don’t know how long I can resist this temptation.”
He was silent for a long while, watching as you wiped your damp cheeks and refused to meet his eye. This was wrong. But maybe this was God's plan. Maybe he was supposed to help you. It can’t be a sin if a vessel of god does it, can it? Jason caught your chin and tilted your face up to his. “I can help you.”
He nodded slowly. “Just this once.” Your brows pinched in confusion. “I’ll let you give in to this temptation just once. It will make it better.”
Your mouth gaped. “But, Father… Then you’ll sin, too.”
He clenched his jaw. “I already have. I will confess tomorrow, and you will confess to me.” You nodded distractedly as you watched Jason undo the buttons of his vestments. You were practically salivating as he tugged off his chasuble. “You can say no. But I will do everything to try and help you.”
You barely missed a beat before replying, “Please.” Jason wasted no time. He helped you back onto the bench of the confessional and stood across the small space, watching you.
“Show me how you sinned.”
Your cheeks were flushed, and your hair fell in your face as you hiked up your lacy church dress. “Yes, Father.” The rosary around your neck hung low. If your clothes were off, Jason bet it fell just below your navel. You had the cutest set of cotton shorts under your dress. You were so holy, so perfect. You were breathing hard as you slipped a hand into your underthings.
“Where’d you learn to do this?” Jason asked breathlessly, eyes fixated on where your hand disappeared.
“I, I woke up. From the dream, I was all wet down here. I didn’t know what else to do. It felt—feels good,” you explained, your wrist moving slowly. You were on display in front of him, your lips plump and your skirt bunched up at your waist. If Jason didn’t know you, he might think you were a demon sent to whittle down his will and faith with every rub of your fingers against yourself.
“Has anyone ever touched you?”
You shook your head. “No, Father.”
“Keep it that way,” he warned, moving to crouch before you. His face was level with your cunt now, and he could make out a wet spot staining your white shorts. Christ, he was barely holding on. “Recite the Act of Contrition,” he instructed.
“Oh–O my God,” you began, your breath coming in quick little bursts. “I am sorry for my sins. In choosing t’sin,” you slurred, your head lolling back as your fingers continued to work on yourself. “In choosing to sin, and failing to do good, I have sinned against you and your church.” You choked off with a sweet moan, which only made Jason’s resolve crumble quicker. “I–I firmly intended, with the help of your—God!”
“Your Son,” Jason corrected. “With the help of your Son. Keep going.”
“With the help of your Son, to make up for my sins—aah, Father, I can’t, I–”
“Shh, yes, you can. Finish the prayer,” he demanded, wrapping both hands around your quivering thighs. His touch seemed to only push you closer to the edge, and Jason reveled in the feel of your hot skin against his. The smell of your sex mingled with the rose and made him dizzy.
“A–and to love as I should,” you finished through a keen.
“Now say Amen,” Jason reminded.
“Say Amen, and then you can come.”
One of your hands rested on his head, your fingers curling in the dark strands of his hair as you choked out, “A–amen.” The second the word left your lips, your body shuddered, and your breath caught in your throat. You were shaking and whining, and Jason could tell you had come. You had come in the booth of the confessional with your one hand buried in your cunt and the other tangled in your priest’s hair.
“That’s it,” he soothed, drawing circles on your inner thigh, which trembled under his delicate touch. “So good, sweetheart, y’did so good for me.” You nodded mindlessly, your breath attempting to even itself out, your hand still clenching and unclenching in Jason’s hair. “Come on,” he starts, standing again, and helping you up. “Stand up for me—good, good job,” he praises. He takes your seat and guides you to perch on his lap, your back pressed snugly against your chest.
“Father,” you breathe out, your head resting against his shoulder, eyes meeting his.
“I know. I’ll help you, and then we can repent.”
“Okay, okay,” you murmur.
Jason adjusts your legs to hang over his knees, your thighs spread obscenely wide. You’re a portrait of sin and temptation, and Jason is helpless against it. This is what’s right, he thinks over and over, but he knows it's not. He knows this is a grave sin, that he will be punished. But his hands move on their own, as if possessed, to cup you over your shorts, and then his hand is shoved down the front of your panties, and your back arches weakly against him at the new sensation. At the feeling of someone else touching you for the first time. Jason buries his face in the crook of your neck, eyes rolling back at the smell of your skin, the feel of how drenched you are against his fingers, and above all, how he is the only man to ever touch you like this. You’re such a sweet innocent thing, and you’re spread out on his lap, writhing against him as he plays with the slick bundle of nerves at the apex of your thighs. The desperate noises you make are heaven-sent, and Jason wants nothing more than to feel you all around him. As two fingers sink into you, he considers it, considers throwing his whole life away. You’re clenched tight, and everything is warm and heady and smells like the rosaries you made. How could this be a sin? It feels so good, having you on top of him like this, feeling you squirm and shake as he fucks his fingers in and out of you.
But it is a sin. Of course, it's a sin. This is the epitome of depravity—having you like this. He is selfish and gluttonous. He is ruining you, and it only makes his cock harder. You’re whimpering and pleading with him, and your broken, wanton moans only make him want to drag out this pleasure even longer. He’s damned.
“Father, please,” you squeak as his thumb catches on your clit. Every shift of your hips presses the warmth of your body into his growing erection, and when you notice the hardness against your back, your whole body shivers. “I need you,” you pant.
“I’m helping you, now,” Jason grits out. His self-control is dangling by a thread, splitting further as you grind back onto him purposefully now. Maybe he was wrong about you, maybe you are a child of the devil. Maybe you were sent here to drag him back to hell. You feel so good against him; he can’t even care. “My saint,” he curses as you clench harder around his fingers.
“Oh god,” you sob, and a moment later, Jason’s hand is grabbing your chin.
“Don’t say his name,” he grunts. “Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain while you sin,” he hisses, and it’s meant to remind you why he’s doing this to you, that this is for your confession, but instead of reminding you of that good, catholic faith you live by, it just makes you whine louder.
“I’m sorry,” you cry, and Jason presses his lips against the soft curve of your jaw.
“That’s alright. God will forgive you. Listen to me,” he instructs. “God, the Father of Mercies,” Jason recites, curling his fingers inside you, drawing another moan from your lips. “Through the death and resurrection of his Son, he has reconciled the world to himself and sent the Holy Spirit among us for the forgiveness of sins.”
“Feels good? Just keep feeling it, sweetheart, and let me absolve you,” Jason purrs. “Through the ministry of the Church may God give you pardon and peace…” His hand is covered in your slick, the sound of your wetness deafening in the otherwise silent church. “...and I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father,” he brings one hand to your forehead, brushing his knuckles against it lightly. “And of the Son,” he presses his palm against your heart. “And of the Holy Spirit,” he says, tapping each shoulder. “Say it with me, okay?”
“Amen,” you both echo. You shake apart a moment later, your cunt pulsing around his digits as they continue to lazily pump into you. Watching your climax roll over you from his knees was one thing—feeling every twitch of your body as you come apart on top of him is another. He’s so hard it hurts, and he’s trying to remember every prayer he knows to distract himself from the feel of you atop him.
“Father,” you sigh, shifting your hips from side to side, trying to keep the aftershocks of your orgasm buzzing through you for just a bit longer. Touching yourself never felt this good. As you come back to yourself, you feel Jason’s breath hot on your neck. He’s begging for forgiveness even as he grinds you down harder onto him.
“F– flee from sexual immorality,” he stutters, his cock leaking through his cassock as he continues to rut against you. “Every other sin a person commits is outside the body, God, b– but the sexual immoral…” Jason cuts himself off with a whine. “Please forgive me,” he pleads, over and over. “I’m sorry, God, forgive me. The sexually immoral person sins against his own body,” he whimpers.
“Is that Corinthians?” you ask quietly, and your question is met with an anguished little groan from the man beneath you. His desperation is only making the fire inside you burn hotter. You want his hands on you again, want to feel him without the barrier of his robes.
“Yes, sweet thing,” he pants. “Please, please, oh God, please for– forgive me,” he begs as he comes. The pleasure is blinding, and he holds you against him as he humps and humps, riding this foreign high for as long as possible.
He’s not sure how much time passes before he hears your sweet voice calling out for him. “Father Todd? Are you okay?”
“I’m sorry,” he whispers.
He feels you stiffen. Slowly, you slide off his lap. He’s ready to look and see disgust in your eyes, but when he dares to glance up, you look sad. “Do you regret it?”
He swallows hard. He’s your priest. He’s meant to be strong and understanding for you. He clears his throat. “No. I hope I helped you. That’s all I wanted.” He does his best to smile up at you, even as shame and longing fight for dominance in his mind. You take his hand and pull him up. He towers over you. Before he can say anything, you’ve wrapped yourself around him, face buried in his chest.
“Thank you, Father,” you say earnestly. “I don’t think any other priest would be willing to sin like this just to help me.”
He hesitates for a moment before giving in to your embrace, and he curls his arms around your shoulders. You’re so warm and sweet against him. The smell of arousal still lingers, but now he just wants to hold you. When was the last time someone held him this tenderly? The parishioners and fellow clergy men, even the nuns—they kept their distance from the boy who dug himself out of his grave. He remembers warmth from his other life, the embrace of a father. This is better—it’s more real. He has a thought similar to those he once had, when he was Robin—he would kill for you. The introspection startles him so badly that he gasps. You don’t get the chance to ask what’s wrong before he drops to his knees, bringing you with him.
There are tears in his eyes as he fetches your pink rosary from his pocket and wraps it around his fist. In turn, you take his red one from your neck and mirror him, holding it in your hands. No words are exchanged as the two of you whisper invocations, still holding each other as close as possible. He ignores the way your usually pressed church dress is wrinkled, and you ignore the wet spot soaking through his robes. You just keep praying.
a/n: this request and subsequent fic is so deeply self-indulgent that i almost feel bad for publishing it. my poor catholic heart couldn't just write smut, i had to make sure we all know how pathetic jason todd is first!!! this will probably be a multi-part series because this concept is soooooo yummy, but you can read this one all on its own!!! i hope you enjoyed ;)
tags: @maeslynn, @probably-a-femcel, @starfiremylove, @thatxcgal
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