⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀let this be the record of a man reborn.
it begins here. my name's atlas jonah roscoe, although jonah is seldom called into the room — I keep him in the middle to remind me that identity can be avoided, swallowed whole, yet still return more my own than ever.
I am a transman. As I say that now without rehearsal, the word fits in a way that feels ordinary at last, and yet it took me nearly a decade to claim it without reaching to retract it.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀background
I was born in 2007 in Kyiv — a city I knew first as a horizon and a bastion, as pale cathedral spires at dawn, in which I found my earliest sense of home. It has all of my loyalty.
As of now, I am presently a student at the Kyiv Polytechnic Institute of Igor Sikorsky, pursuing my bachelor's in IT. I enjoy academia so much I might go after postgrad ed, too.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀thank you for staying 𖹭
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀what i post about
my interests
fics i write, hcs. ratings may vary, M/E, labeled
my plants, which I dearly adore
reblogs of mature content, labeled
kinkposting in a way where I blurt something moderately freaky and disappear in the fog
my pronouns.page:
Usage examples of personal pronouns and gender neutral language.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀my boundaries
since I gained quite a number of following after liking tons of wudm content, I should set my boundaries.
first — I am an adult, please keep that in mind when you follow or interact. secondly, I might post some kink-related posts whenever I feel like it — so curate your own experience, please.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀clarification
wanted to specify — I am not religious. Though I was raised catholic, I abandoned the doctrine and no longer believe. I very much believe in hot priests, though.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀my condition
I live with chronic knee pain and take medication that can make me drowsy; replies may be slower at times. Thank you for your patience.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀some interests
movies: challengers, god's own country, knives out: wake up dead man, frankenstein, inside llewyn davis, interview with the vampire, etc.
special interests: academics, my field of study (informational systems & tech), horticulture, gothic literature & architecture, ink calligraphy, oil painting
my hyperfixations (will be updated once in a while): josh o'connor, academia, ww2, queer history, classic literature, britain.
donate to ukraine here:
Learn about Nova Ukraine, a nonprofit providing humanitarian aid and supporting civil society in Ukraine. Discover our mission and work.
links to my artworks:
[under construction until I figure out where I want to host my art]
The myth that “masculinity is always privileged over femininity” has gone so far that people literally tell trans men “no one is stopping you from being a man or masculine” to trans men/mascs like transphobia doesn’t exist.
Disgust has absolutely no ethical weight. If you are basing your ethical positions on the emotion of disgust you should stop, it is entirely unjustified and leads to a huge amount of harm.
I don’t say this to be inflammatory. This is something I wholeheartedly believe because I see it myself all the time. Violence and transphobic rhetoric about transgender men is so normalized that it doesn’t even register to people and often gets repeated.
One of the most obnoxious examples of this is about once a month I see post/post cast clip/hear from someone irl that they think JK Rowling is an in denial trans man. They’ll take the quotes from her about how were she born in this generation, she would’ve been trans and that “the allure of escaping womanhood would have been too much to resist” and say she obviously a trans man.
But by believing this you haven’t discovered some secret of hers. Rowling quite literally wants you to believe she would’ve been trans to lend herself credence into the trans conversation. And you are agreeing with her and the TERFs that reason transmasculine people transition is because of internalized misogyny and peer pressure.
Why can you understand she’s a lying, manipulative demon when she speaks about trans women or trans people broadly, but take her and TERFs at their word when it comes to trans men? You are dangerously susceptible to propaganda and absolutely spineless.
tags: forced proximity (dancing), mutual pining, soft banter, so much longing, friends to ???
summary: For a moment, you forgot yourselves and what lingers after feels dangerously permanent.
word count: ~ 1,1k
read on ao3
It’s already dark when you make your way down to his office through the church. Steps echoing off the walls. It’s not night yet, but that deepening blue where the stained glass loses its color and turns into shadow. The church feels bigger like this. Emptier.
His office light is still on. You pause in the doorway, arms folding automatically. For a moment you just watch him, being lost in paperwork. His dark eyebrows scrunched in concentration.
“Do you ever go home,” you ask, leaning your shoulder against the frame, “or is this your full-time personality now?”
Jud startles slightly, like he wasn’t expecting you, or anyone for that matter.
“I—” He glances at the clock like it personally betrayed him. “I lost track of time.”
“Clearly.”
You step inside without being invited this time, eyes flicking over the stack of papers, scattered across his desk. His sleeves are rolled up. Collar slightly loosened.
He looks tired like this. The shadows under his eyes are more prominent in the golden light of his desktop lamp. You don’t like seeing him like this even if, technically, you have no right to.
“You’re going to burn out,” you say, softer now but no less firm. “Even saints take breaks. I’m pretty sure that’s somewhere in the fine print.”
A corner of his mouth twitches. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“You won’t.”
“No,” he admits quietly.
You sigh, pushing yourself off the door and walking further in. “Stand up.”
That gets his attention. “What?”
“Stand up,” you repeat, like it’s obvious. “You’ve been sitting here for hours.”
There’s a pause where he studies you, like he’s trying to understand what exactly you’re doing. He still obeys, pushing himself off the chair slowly.
“Good,” you nod. “Progress. Now—”
Your eyes flick to the small radio on the shelf. Old thing. Probably hasn’t been touched in years. You walk over and switch it on before you can overthink it further.
When you turn it on there’s static first. Then—music. At Last by Etta James. It’s an old soul classic and your mouth twitches involuntarily.
The first notes of it fill his office and you immediately swing your hips just slightly. But Jud instead goes very still behind you.
“…What are you doing?” he asks, voice already cautious.
“Intervention,” you say simply, turning back to him. “Step one: you remember you’re a human being.”
He huffs. “I am aware of that.”
“Debatable,” you shoot back. Then, softer— “Come on.”
You hold out your hand, but he doesn’t take it. Instead he looks at your extended palm like it personally offended him.
“Absolutely not,” he says, but there’s no real force behind it.
“It’s just a dance,” you shrug. “Relax. It’s not a scandal.”
“That’s—” He exhales through his nose. “It’s not appropriate.”
“Neither is working yourself into the ground,” you counter gently. “Pick your sin, Father.”
That earns you a look. Tired, a tad bit amused and also something else—something quieter underneath.
You don’t lower your hand.
“…It’s just one song,” you add, softer now. “No one’s here. No one has to know you’re secretly capable of fun.”
There’s a long moment of silence, you study him, fully expecting him to reject you. But instead he steps closer. Not all the way, but enough to feel him.
His hand hovers near yours before he finally—carefully—takes it.
“Just one,” he says. If he’s saying that to himself or you, you can’t tell.
“Sure,” you smile.
You guide him gently, your other hand settling—hesitant for half a second—against his shoulder. He stiffens immediately at the contact, barely perceptible before he adjusts.
His free hand finds your waist, but it’s careful. So careful. Like even the idea of holding you properly is something he has to measure, restrain, dilute.
You notice, of course you do.
“Relax,” you murmur. “I’m not going to break.”
“That’s not what I’m worried about,” he says under his breath.
You pretend you didn’t hear that. The music fills the small space. Slow and steady. You sway first, guiding him into it, and after a moment he follows.
A little clumsy at first. A little too controlled, but you don’t rush it.
Ultimately he loosens a little, not fully. Never fully. But enough that it feels real. Less distance between the both of you in every sense of the word. Soft, unnamed truths spilling into the notes of the song—words neither of you had dared to voice.
Your bodies fall into a rhythm. Natural, like you did this in another version of this moment a thousand times already. Small steps, quiet turns. The kind of closeness that doesn’t need to be big to be overwhelming.
Your hand shifts slightly on his shoulder. His fingers tighten—just a fraction—at your waist.
And suddenly it’s close. Too close. You can feel the warmth of him through the thin space between you. The steady rise and fall of his breathing. The way he’s very deliberately not looking at your mouth.
So you look at his face instead.
Big mistake. His jaw is tight. Eyes focused somewhere just past you, like if he looks directly at you, something might slip past his carefully crafted armor.
“See?” you whisper. “You didn’t combust.”
“…Not yet.”
You huff a quiet laugh, but it catches in your throat because—
God. This is the closest you’ve ever been. Not accidental in passing. Not fleeting.
Intentional. And he knows it too. You can tell by the way his grip falters for half a second before tightening again. By the way his breath stutters when you shift just slightly closer without thinking. This close you can see his Adam’s Apple shift when he swallows like he’s trying to push something down.
“Jud?” you ask softly.
And that’s it, that’s the moment something shifts without permission. You feel it in every fiber. He exhales, shaky and quiet, and finally his eyes find yours.
The storm in them is undeniable. The eye contact is brief, but it still shakes you both. Everything he’s trying not to let you see visible in them.
The song ends and you step back first. Because if you don’t do it now, you can’t pretend you don’t want to close the distance further.
He immediately tries to rein himself into professionalism again, like distance is the oxygen he needs to breathe again.
“Better?” you ask lightly, even though your voice isn’t quite steady yet.
He nods once. “Better,” he echoes.
But he won’t look at you again. As you turn to leave his office, you glance back over your shoulder one last time—like there’s something you should say, something sitting right at the tip of your tongue. But you swallow it. You offer him a small smile instead, and then you leave.
Jud stands there for a long time after you left, turning off the radio.
He looks at his hands—the same hands that held you just seconds ago—and tells himself not to think about the warmth you left behind. But it lingers anyway, imprinted into his skin like a second fingerprint he won’t be able to wash off.
Thanks for reading 🩶
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tags (tell me if you wanna out or in!) @rhapsodyofdarkness @judasjud @rosetintmworld @likedovesinthewnd @ch3rrybl0ssomtree @poetrypoesblehhh @sidelit @knives-out-boy @soealt @explorerof-theunknown @post-apocalyptic-rebel-leader @strawberrymochi07 @peelfreshapple @sea-eyed-dream @roryheartz @prxncess-gestirn @doomprincesswrld @dumb-blondeee
my birthday is in three days and I can feel the existential dread taking hold of my mind, what do you mean I'm nineteen uhhh I feel stuck in january 2022
ᯓ★ tags: love triangle, mutual pining, emotional infidelity, Patrick is a bastard in this (sorry not sorry), pre-priesthood, a fistfight, twin dynamic, slow burn, angst, hurt/comfort, soft smut, quiet intimacy
summary: Patrick filled every room. Jud made space in the quiet. Somewhere between them, you learned what love actually sounds like.
word count: ~ 10,6 k
read on ao3 ᯓ★
Patrick is mid-story when you realize you’ve stopped listening.
He’s good at this. Always has been. Voice warm, animated, hands moving as he talks, pulling people in like gravity works a little harder around him. When you first met him, it felt intoxicating — like being chosen by the brightest thing in the room.
Back then, the way he took up space thrilled you. The way he pulled you close in public. The way his confidence bled into the bedroom — all heat and urgency and hands that didn’t hesitate. It felt like being wanted in bold letters. You craved this kind of attention. But what you quickly realized was that you mistook intensity for depth.
Now, sitting at the table with your friends, you watch him interrupt you for the third time.
“No, no,” he says, laughing lightly, touching your knee like it’s affectionate. “That’s not how it happened. She always exaggerates.”
It’s harmless on the surface. Playful. The kind of thing couples do. Your friends smile, one of them chuckles, agrees even.
You open your mouth to clarify — not even to contradict him, just to finish your thought — but he keeps going, reshaping the story with you sitting right there.
He squeezes your knee again. Not hard. Just firm enough to anchor you in place.
“She gets so serious about these things,” he adds, like he’s letting them in on a secret. “I tell her she needs to relax.”
The table hums with easy agreement.
And you laugh too. Because what else are you supposed to do? Correct him? Make it awkward? Prove his point?
You catch your reflection in the dark window behind him — smiling, nodding, shrinking just slightly at the edges. Too far away from who you usually are.
It’s not cruel, that’s the problem. It’s small. Repetitive. Dismissive in ways that don’t leave bruises, just a kind of quiet erosion.
Across the table someone asks you a question, and Patrick answers before you can.
Again.
Slowly you realize something that settles heavy in your chest: The fire that once made you feel alive now just feels loud. And you are so, so tired of burning for someone who doesn’t notice the smoke.
*****
The night drags on. By the time your friends start peeling off and the music turns from loud to irritating, you’re exhausted in a way that has nothing to do with the hour.
Patrick checks his phone and frowns. “Car’s still in the shop,” he mutters. “I’ll call him.”
You swirl the melted ice in your glass. “Call who?”
“My brother. He should be around.”
You look up. “Your brother?”
“Yeah.”
He shrugs like you asked if he has a charger.
“You have a brother?” You let out a small laugh because clearly this is a joke. Surely you would know that.
Patrick gives you a look. “Yeah. He’s my twin, actually.”
The word lands strangely.
Twin.
“You have a twin brother,” you repeat.
“Yeah,” he says again, amused now. “Identical.”
Identical.
And he grins like this is charming. Like it’s a fun fact he just remembered to share. You think about the months you’ve known him. The stories about high school, about girls, about fights, about Cabo and almost getting arrested and professors who hated him. You’ve memorized his childhood in pieces. Not once has he mentioned someone who shares his face.
“That’s kind of a big detail, Patrick.”
“It’s not that deep,” he says easily. “We’re not glued at the hip. We just share a face.”
Just share a face.
Headlights sweep across the windows.
“That’s him, come on.”
Outside, the car idles at the curb. Dark, unassuming. When the driver’s door opens, the first thing you notice is the quiet.
He steps out and for a second your brain stutters. Same height. Same build. Same dark hair. Same sharp line of jaw.
Same fucking face.
But where Patrick moves like he owns the pavement, his brother moves like he’s aware of it. Grounded. Controlled. There’s no performance in him.
The resemblance is striking, almost unsettling. You’ve spent months memorizing Patrick’s features, tracing them with your eyes and hands, and now there’s someone standing in front of you who looks identical and he just… never thought to mention it?
His eyes flick to Patrick first, then to you. Assessing, or maybe just tired. It was late after all. His eyes don’t skim over you, they settle. He’s looking at you with quiet curiosity.
Patrick claps him on the shoulder. “Took you long enough.”
“Sorry, traffic,” he says.
His voice is lower. Rougher. Softer in a way that doesn’t beg for attention.
Patrick gestures lazily. “This is—” he says your name like it’s an afterthought. “My girlfriend.”
The word feels thin.
His brother nods once. “Hi.”
No smirk, no commentary. No comment about finally meeting the infamous girl Patrick stayed long enough with to almost make it look serious.
Patrick is already sliding into the passenger seat when he calls over his shoulder, “Get in.”
You blink. But before you can reach for the back door, his brother is already there, opening it for you like it’s instinct. You murmur a thank you and climb in.
The car smells clean. Looks clean. Nothing like Patrick’s chaotic interior. As the engine hums and you pull away from the curb, you lean forward between the seats.
“So… how come Patrick never told me about you?”
“Jud,” he says gently, catching your eyes in the rearview mirror. His eyes look slightly different than Patrick’s, less sharp green, more muted blue in this light. “And I was gone for a while.”
“Gone?” you ask.
Patrick exhales loudly. “Don’t make it a thing.”
Jud doesn’t look annoyed. He just keeps his eyes on the road.
“I was behind bars for a bit,” he says simply. No self-pity. No drama. “Trying to do better now.”
The words are steady. Matter-of-fact. Your chest tightens nonetheless.
Patrick shifts in his seat. “He’s on his redemption arc,” he says, half-joking, half-dismissive. Jud glances at him briefly. Not offended, just calm.
“Our golden boy always liked the spotlight,” Jud says lightly.
Patrick scoffs. “Please.”
You can feel it now — the undercurrent. Not explosive. Not loud. Just years of comparison packed into small sentences.
You look at Jud in the mirror again. He doesn’t look ashamed, just careful.
The rest of the drive is quieter. Patrick scrolls on his phone. Occasionally throws out a comment about the bar, about someone who annoyed him.
Jud listens.
When you reach Patrick’s place, Jud parks neatly at the curb.
Your boyfriend is out of the car first, already walking toward the building without looking back.
You step out slower.
“Thanks for the ride,” you say.
Jud meets your eyes properly this time as he looks over his shoulder. “Of course.”
There’s a quiet, shared understanding of noticing when you leave the car. And for the first time all night, you were looked at like you weren’t shrinking.
*****
Patrick’s apartment is warm when you step inside.
He’s already talking again as he kicks off his shoes and pulls you into him like the night didn’t just press something uncomfortable into your ribs. Like he didn’t hide a whole fucking sibling for months.
He kisses you before you can respond.
He’s always been like this. Physical first, heat before reflection.
You used to love that about him.
His hands are confident. Certain. He knows your body well enough to move without hesitation, to press you back against the door, to lift you like it’s instinct. The fire is still there, it always is. Immediate and all consuming.
You respond the way you always do, because this part still works.
His mouth at your neck. His breath warm against your skin. The urgency that once felt intoxicating.
You let yourself fall into it and for a while, it’s easy. The noise fades, the dismissal in the bar disappears. The uncomfortable conversations blur at the edges.
There’s only heat. Familiar pressure. The rhythm of shared passion.
You close your eyes.
And for one split second —
Uninvited.
A different pair of eyes.
Not hungry, not claiming. Just steady. Looking at you in the rearview mirror like you were something to be careful with.
Your breath stutters. It’s so fast you almost miss it and Patrick mistakes the hitch in your breathing for something else. Smiles against your skin like he’s proud of it. Like he won, again.
You open your eyes quickly, grounding yourself, nails digging into his back.
This is your boyfriend, the man you chose.
You cling to him a little tighter. Almost defiant. But somewhere beneath the heat, beneath the urgency, beneath the practiced way your bodies fit — there’s a thin, unfamiliar crack running through the moment.
And once you’ve seen a crack, you can’t pretend the glass is seamless anymore.
*****
Days turn into weeks without much happening. Patrick’s off at some local tournament, chasing the win as always.
It’s Friday night and you agreed to stay at his place while he’s gone, since your own roommate decided your flat is the perfect place to turn into a practice room for their electric guitar. Even your best noise-cancelling headphones don’t do much, so you’re more than thankful for the silence in Patrick’s place.
The first thing you do is open all the windows and start tidying up. Patrick’s a goddamn mess. You do some laundry, wipe the counters, wash the dishes. Anything to turn his place from a man cave into something livable. You’re standing there with your hands on your hips, loose strands of hair escaping your ponytail and a swear under your breath, looking out over the city when you hear a car door close outside.
You don’t pay much attention, probably just one of the neighbors. But a few seconds later the doorbell rings and you startle. You walk over and look through the spyhole.
Your heart stops.
It’s Jud.
Despite your better judgment — and with more flourish than necessary — you open the door.
“Patrick’s not here,” you say automatically, almost defensive.
Jud looks at you like he’s seen a ghost. Slowly he blinks, rubbing the back of his neck.
“Oh. I didn’t know. Is he gone for long?”
You shrug. “Depends how long he lasts in the rounds.”
“I see.”
Silence stretches between you.
“I was just in the neighborhood,” he says after a moment, “and found something in my car that I think might be yours.”
You frown as he reaches into his jeans pocket and pulls out an earring. The silver moon — the pair to the star you’re always wearing.
You reach up to touch your left ear. Sure enough, it’s gone.
“Oh. I didn’t even notice.”
“Thank you,” you say, taking the earring from his hand. It’s a small, fleeting contact, but it might as well be electricity.
Jud lets go immediately, like he noticed it too.
“You’re welcome.”
He rocks back slightly on his heels, hands slipping into his pockets. “You taking care of his dying plants while he’s gone?”
Your mouth lifts. “Bold of you to assume he even has plants. Honestly, I’m amazed this man is still alive at this point.”
Jud’s mouth twists — just a little — but it’s enough to make your heart skip again.
“I’m here because my roommate turned our place into a garage band,” you add. “Without the garage. And it’s fucking loud. So I’m hiding here instead.”
“Oh. Not a fan of rock music?”
You lift a brow and cross your arms. “I am a fan of rock music. All kinds of it. If it’s good. Not what they’re doing. Sounds like nails on a chalkboard.”
That finally makes Jud laugh — a quiet cackle as he shakes his head in something dangerously close to fond amusement.
You realize it’s the first time you’ve seen him relax.
“That’s cruel, honestly.”
A beat passes before he clears his throat. “Guess I should go then.”
He’s already turning before you really think it through.
“Actually,” you say quickly, “I was about to order some Chinese. I wouldn’t mind some company.”
Jud stops like you’ve pulled a string. He lifts his head, eyes narrowing slightly as he studies your face.
“I don’t know if I’m good company.”
That lands somewhere tender.
“I’m sure you are,” you say softly. “You don’t have to talk much. We can also just sit. It’s up to you.”
Jud drags a hand over his mouth and the light stubble along his chin.
“Okay,” he says slowly. “I think I can stay. If that’s alright with you.”
“More than,” you say, stepping aside and opening the door wider to let him in.
The food arrives faster than expected.
You spread the little cartons out along the narrow kitchen counter that passes for a dining space in Patrick’s apartment. There’s no proper table, just two bar stools tucked under the island like an afterthought.
You slide one of them toward Jud.
“Hope you like fried rice,” you say, opening a container. “Patrick mostly survives on takeout anyway.”
Jud pulls the other stool out and sits, long legs folding in carefully. The space between you isn’t large, but it doesn’t feel cramped.
“Works for me,” he says.
You hand him a pair of chopsticks and take your own seat. The city glows faintly through the windows behind him, reflecting softly off the counter.
For a few moments you just eat. The quiet isn’t awkward. It’s the kind that settles naturally between two people who don’t feel the need to fill every second with words. Your shoulders drop without you really noticing.
You pick at your noodles, then glance up. “You know, I actually like quiet nights,” you say after a moment. “Even if some people think that’s boring.”
Jud looks up from his food. “Doesn’t sound boring to me.”
The words are simple, but something in your chest shifts slightly like a door cracking open somewhere you hadn’t noticed before. You find yourself leaning a little more comfortably against the counter.
“When Patrick’s around,” you add slowly, “everything is so loud. I can barely hear my own thoughts sometimes.”
Jud spears a piece of fried chicken with his chopsticks and pops it into his mouth. He chews thoughtfully, like he’s actually considering your words instead of waiting for his turn to speak.
“He’s always been… a lot,” he says finally.
You huff out a small laugh. “That’s one way to put it.”
Jud’s mouth lifts faintly at the corner, but he doesn’t look defensive. If anything, there’s something almost familiar in the way he says it.
“You two were always like that?” you ask. “Opposites, I mean.”
He rolls the chopsticks between his fingers for a second. “Not exactly opposites,” he says. “Just different volumes.”
You tilt your head.
“Our parents liked Patrick’s volume more,” he adds, almost lightly. “Teachers too. Coaches. People tend to notice whoever talks the loudest.”
The comment is matter-of-fact, not bitter.
“Did that bother you?” you ask.
Jud shrugs one shoulder. “I got used to it.”
He picks up his carton again. “Patrick’s good at being the center of a room. Always has been.”
There’s no resentment in his voice. Just observation. You study him quietly for a moment. It’s strange hearing someone describe Patrick this way. Like you’re suddenly seeing the same man through a completely different lens.
“And you?” you ask.
Jud pauses before answering.
“I didn’t mind the quiet.”
He says it so simply that you believe him. For a moment the only sound in the kitchen is the soft clink of chopsticks against cardboard containers and the distant hum of the city outside the windows.
You reach for your drink and take a small sip, as you catch Jud glancing at the carton in front of you, then back at your face.
“You don’t like the mushrooms,” he says.
You blink. “What?”
He nods toward your takeout box. “You’ve been pushing them to the side since we started eating.”
You look down. There’s indeed a small pile of mushrooms collecting in the corner of the carton. A laugh slips out of you before you can stop it.
“I didn’t even realize I was doing that. But yeah, I hate them. The texture is so gross.”
Jud shrugs, like it wasn’t anything worth mentioning.
“Habit, probably. And I get it.”
You shake your head, still smiling slightly. “Patrick’s known me for months and I’m pretty sure he still thinks I like mushrooms.”
Jud’s mouth twitches faintly. “He probably never noticed.”
The comment isn’t cruel, just honest. But for some reason, that lands heavier than it should. You push the mushrooms a little further aside and glance up at him again.
It’s strange, you think. How someone you just met properly a few weeks ago can notice the quiet things.
After a while, you finish eating. You’re still laughing about some ridiculously adorable anecdote Jud told you about him and Patrick. He then proceeds to gather the empty takeout boxes and drops them into a trash bag.
He turns to take it out as you both linger for a second by the door. You lean against the frame with your shoulder.
“Thank you for the company,” you say with a small smile.
Jud glances over his shoulder, mirroring it just slightly before he nods. “No, thank you.”
When you close the door behind him, the apartment feels quiet again. And you realize, with terrifying clarity, you didn’t miss the noise.
*****
In the days that follow, it somehow becomes easy.
Not planned. Not intentional. It just… happens.
Jud stops by once to drop off a bag of groceries Patrick apparently asked him to grab and then forgot to mention. Once he simply knocked because he was ‘in the neighborhood again’.
Each time you end up talking. Sometimes only for ten minutes in the kitchen while the kettle heats up. Sometimes longer, leaning against the counter while the city hums quietly outside the windows.
There’s nothing secretive about it.
You don’t hide it. Jud doesn’t linger in ways that feel inappropriate. If anything, he seems almost careful about it — always standing a little closer to the door than necessary, like he’s aware of boundaries you haven’t even named.
But the conversations come easily, easier than they should. There’s this peace you feel whenever you’re with him and that is definitely new.
One night you end up on the fire escape.
The air is cooler than it has been all week, the kind of late-evening breeze that makes the city feel softer around the edges. You sit side by side on the metal steps, your shoulders almost touching but not quite.
Below you, traffic moves in slow ribbons of light. Jud rests his forearms on his knees, looking out over the street. You haven’t been talking for a while and that was precisely why you enjoyed his company so much, he gave you room to just exist, without expecting you to perform some role.
You clear your throat. “Can I ask you something?”
Jud glances over. “You can.”
You hesitate for a second, suddenly unsure how delicate the question should be.
“When we first met,” you say carefully, “you mentioned… being gone for a while.”
Jud doesn’t look surprised. He just nods once, like he expected the question eventually.
“Yeah.”
You shift slightly on the step, pulling one knee closer to your chest. “What happened?”
He watches the street for a moment before answering.
“A drug deal went wrong,” he says simply. “Got involved with the wrong people. Thought I was smarter than I actually was.”
There’s no self-pity in the words. Just quiet acceptance.
“I ended up doing time for it.”
You let that settle for a second.
“That must’ve been…” You search for the right word and fail. “…a lot.”
“It was,” Jud says.
He scratches lightly at his jaw before continuing, then he’s rubbing his thumb in his palm, a gesture you noticed him doing a lot when he was lost in some corner of his mind.
“But it also gave me a lot of time to think.”
You tilt your head slightly, waiting.
“I started volunteering with the prison chaplain while I was there,” he says. “At first just to get out of my cell for a few hours.”
His mouth lifts faintly. “Turns out talking to people who’d hit rock bottom makes you look at your own life a little differently.”
You study him quietly. “So now you’re… becoming a priest?”
Jud nods once. “Working on it.”
You blink. “Wow,” you say before you can stop yourself. “That’s a full three-sixty.”
A small smile appears at the corner of his mouth at that and you mirror it without knowing why.
“I didn’t know you were religious.”
“I wasn’t,” he says.
He pauses for a moment, searching for the right words. “It’s a little more complicated than that.”
You lean in slightly, resting your elbow on your knee. “How so?”
Jud looks out at the cityscape again. “It gives me something steady,” he says finally. “A purpose. A way to do some good for once.”
He exhales slowly. “And it helps with the guilt.”
The honesty of that lands quietly between you. You don’t rush to fill the space. For a moment you just sit there beside him, listening to the distant hum of traffic and the faint rattle of the fire escape beneath your feet. You’re closer than you’ve been all evening, shoulders brushing faintly now.
“You don’t seem like someone who’s running away from something,” you say softly.
Jud glances at you from the corner of his eye. “Maybe not running,” he says. “Just trying to walk in the right direction.”
Something in your chest tightens a little at that. You’re about to say something else when your phone suddenly vibrates in your pocket. The sound cuts through the quiet like a bubble popping.
You pull it out and glance at the screen.
Incoming call Patrick…
You hesitate. Jud’s eyes flick down to the phone, then back to your face. Neither of you says anything but there’s something strange in the moment — not guilt exactly, not tension, but some sort of awareness that wasn’t there a second ago.
You stand, brushing your hands against your jeans.
“I should take this.”
Jud nods. “Of course.”
You linger for half a heartbeat longer than necessary before stepping back through the window into the apartment. When you answer the call, you can still feel Jud’s gaze lingering on your back.
You slide the window shut behind you and press the phone to your ear.
“Hey.”
Patrick’s voice bursts through the line, bright and warm and completely unaware of the quiet he just interrupted.
“There she is,” he says. “Did you miss me, babe?”
You lean against the kitchen counter, exhaling sharply.
“I’m fine,” you say.
“Fine?” Patrick laughs lightly. “That’s it? I’ve been gone almost two weeks and all I get is fine?”
You rub your forehead with your free hand. “I didn’t realize this was a test.”
“Relax,” he says. “I’m kidding.”
There’s a pause before he launches into a story about the tournament. His last round, about some guy who ‘played like a complete idiot’, about how the crowd reacted when he pulled off a shot he’s clearly still proud of.
You make the right sounds in the right places.
“Mhm.”
“Yeah?”
“No way.”
Your eyes drift toward the window. Out on the fire escape, Jud is still sitting on the metal steps, elbows resting loosely on his knees, looking out over the street.
Patrick’s voice fills your ear. “And then this guy has the nerve to tell me I got lucky. Can you believe that?”
“Sounds shocking,” you murmur.
“You’re distracted,” Patrick says immediately.
You straighten slightly. “I’m not.”
“Yeah, you are,” he replies. “What’s going on over there? Throwing a party without me?”
Your gaze flicks back to the window again. Jud shifts slightly, glancing toward the glass like he can feel you looking. For a charged second your eyes meet through the reflection.
You look away first.
“No party,” you say.
Patrick hums thoughtfully on the other end of the line.
“Well,” he says, his tone turning playful again, “you better be behaving while I’m gone.”
You let out a quiet breath. “I’m literally sitting in your apartment, Patrick.”
“Good,” he says easily. “Miss you though.”
The words land softer than his stories did.
“Yeah,” you say after a second. “I know.”
Outside, Jud finally stands, brushing his hands over his jeans as if he’s about to leave.
Patrick’s voice cuts back in. “I’ll be back in a few days. Then I’ll remind you how much you missed me.”
The grin in his voice is obvious and you catch yourself rolling your eyes at that.
You glance toward the window one last time, but Jud is already gone.
Your chest tightens faintly.
“Safe travels,” you say.
Patrick laughs again. “You’re terrible at flirting, you know that?”
You huff. “Goodnight, Patrick.”
“Goodnight, babe.”
You hang up before he can add anything else.
*****
Two weeks later Patrick is back in the city, and he makes sure everyone knows it. He won the tournament and he’s still riding the high of it, talking louder than usual, laughing a little sharper, basking in every congratulations that comes his way.
You haven’t seen him since he returned. And frighteningly enough, you hadn’t missed him much either. Still, tonight you try. You put some effort in. The dress you know he likes. A little makeup. You even wrestle your usually wild waves into something resembling order.
When you step into Patrick’s apartment, the noise hits you all at once. Bass thrums through the walls, voices collide in the air, strangers shout over the music like they’ve known each other for years. The place is packed with people you don’t recognize and, frankly, have no interest in getting to know.
You push your way through the crowd, scanning the room and hear him before you see him. Patrick’s laugh cuts through everything else. He’s in the center of the living room, surrounded by a cluster of people hanging on every word. When his eyes land on you, something in his expression softens for just a second.
There you are.
He moves toward you, pulling you into his side like it’s instinct. “Look who finally made it,” he says, grinning.
For a moment, it almost feels like it used to, but then his eyes travel slowly over you.
“Damn,” he adds loudly enough for the people around him to hear. “Finally showing what you’ve got, huh?”
The laughter that follows is immediate and something in your chest snaps tight.
You know Patrick well enough to recognize the signs — the shine in his eyes, the restless edge in his movements. This isn’t just alcohol. There’s something sharper in his system tonight, something that takes the worst parts of him and turns up the volume.
You step out of his arm before he can pull you closer again.
“I need some air,” you say.
He barely notices, already turning back to the group and launching into another story like the emotional weather didn’t change at all.
The hallway outside is blissfully quiet and you exhale a shaky breath, before your hand hovers over your phone for a second before you finally hit the call button.
Jud answers almost immediately. “Hey.”
You swallow. “Can you come pick me up? I can’t drive, I had a drink or two.”
There’s no hesitation on his side. “I’m on my way.”
Jud arrives twenty minutes later. The shift in the room as he does is immediate. Patrick notices him right away, his grin sharpens.
“You called him?” Patrick asks, loud enough for half the room to hear. The word ‘him’ sounds like it tastes bitter on his tongue.
You fold your arms across your chest. “I couldn’t drive.”
Patrick laughs, glancing around like the whole thing is some kind of joke meant for the audience.
“Oh yeah?” he says. “What did you call him for? For picking you up or for a shoulder to cry on about me?”
A few people snicker. Jud stands a few feet away, calm but alert, like he’s already bracing for impact. His arms are folded as well, stance steady, eyes darkened, shoulders squared.
“I’m just here to take her home, Pat,” he says evenly.
Patrick’s smile fades. “Oh wait,” he says suddenly, snapping his fingers like something just occurred to him. “I get it now.”
His gaze flicks between the two of you.
“You banged her while I was away, didn’t you?”
The room goes terrifyingly still and Jud’s eyes are already burning.
“I would never do that to either of you.”
Patrick scoffs. “Oh please,” he snaps, shaking his head. “You’re always acting so noble, like you’re better than the rest of us.”
He steps closer, voice dropping. “When we both know exactly who you are.”
Before you can even make sense of it, Jud moves. The punch lands clean across Patrick’s jaw. Gasps ripple through the room as Patrick stumbles backward into the kitchen island. For a split second everyone just watches.
Then Patrick lunges back. The twins crash into each other in a blur of fists and shouts.
Patrick fights dirty, swinging wild, grabbing, shoving his brother. Jud moves differently — controlled, measured, blocking and striking with frightening precision.
A glass shatters somewhere, collateral damage of their anger. Someone shouts for them to stop. Patrick manages to drive Jud back against the wall, but Jud plants his foot and sends him crashing onto the floor. He looms over him, ready to swing again, when someone finally grabs him and pulls him back. Patrick spits blood onto the floor, his eyes blazing with fury.
He is seething, his whole body shaking with humiliation. Jud is breathing hard, his lip split open, a bruise already blooming ugly across his cheek. That’s when you finally step forward.
The look you give them both could freeze a lake. You ultimately turn to Jud, hand resting loosely against his shoulder, blocking his view on Patrick.
“Let’s go.”
Patrick’s voice explodes behind you. A mix of hurt pride and something even sharper.
“If you leave with him, we’re over!”
You pause at the door, glancing back over your shoulder. “We both know, it’s been over long before tonight,” and then you leave.
*****
As you reach Jud’s car he winces, one hand pressing briefly against his side. You extend your hand toward him, palm up.
He looks at you, puzzled, one eyebrow lifting.
“Your car key,” you clarify.
He shakes his head immediately. “I can drive.”
You shoot him a look. “You’re barely standing upright, Jud.”
For a split second you can see him weighing his options. “But you had a drink.”
“I’m fine,” you say. “I promise I won’t crash your car.”
Jud sighs, reaching into his jeans pocket before placing the key in your hand.
“Turns out watching my boyf—” you stop yourself, correcting quickly, “ex-boyfriend fistfight his twin brother strangely sobered me up.”
He lets out a quiet, defeated huff of laughter before sinking carefully into the passenger seat.
******
The drive to your place is quiet.
The radio hums softly in the background while streetlights slide over the windshield in slow intervals. Jud spends the whole ride looking out the window, jaw tight, one hand resting lightly against his ribs.
When the familiar streets of your neighborhood finally appear, you pull up in front of your building and kill the engine. You quickly step out and walk around to open Jud’s door. His head is tipped back against the headrest, body slumped heavily into the seat.
You lean one arm against the open car door. “You okay?”
Jud stays still for a moment before lifting his head just enough to look at you. His eyes look tired, defeated, the storm-blue color muted in the dim light.
“Do I look like I’m okay?”
Your mouth twitches slightly. “You look like you just fist-fought your twin brother.”
He exhales long and slow. “Not funny.”
“I wasn’t trying to be.”
A small pause. “C’mon,” you say gently. “Let’s get you upstairs so I can look at those battle scars.”
Jud braces his hands on his knees before pushing himself upright like the movement costs him. You close the car door and lock it, then the two of you make your way inside and up the elevator.
Only when the doors slide open on your floor does it occur to you that Jud has never been here before. Under normal circumstances that realization might have made you more nervous. Tonight, after everything that happened, it barely registers.
Still, when you unlock the door and step inside, the awareness lingers faintly.
Your apartment greets you with the soft glow of fairy lights in the living room. You flip on the small kitchen light and gesture toward one of the bar stools by the counter.
“Sit.”
Jud obeys without argument.
You head quickly to the bathroom and return with the first aid kit. When you reach the kitchen, you step between his knees, the closeness suddenly feels more noticeable than it should. You tilt his chin slightly with careful fingers so you can look at the cut on his lip.
The split is small but angry.
“Hold still,” you murmur.
You soak a cotton pad with disinfectant and press it gently against the cut and Jud hisses under his breath.
“Sorry,” you say softly, though you don’t pull away.
Up close you notice details you hadn’t before — the clean curve of his mouth, the sharp line of his cupid’s bow. You catch yourself staring a second too long before refocusing on the task, but Jud doesn’t comment. His hands rest on his thighs, palms flat, respectful even in the close proximity.
“Why’d you do it?” you ask quietly after a moment.
Jud exhales through his nose.
“He called me a lot of things tonight,” he says. “Most of them I could’ve ignored.”
You finish cleaning the cut and step away long enough to grab an ice pack from the freezer.
“But?” you prompt.
After you wrapped a kitchen towel around the pack, you press it gently against his cheek. He flinches slightly at the sudden cold.
“But he made it sound like I’d take advantage of you,” Jud says, voice low. “Like I’d do that to him.”
Your hand stays steady against the ice pack.
“I couldn’t let that stand.”
For a moment neither of you speaks, then Jud’s hand lifts. His fingers close over yours where you’re holding the ice against his cheek.
Not rough. Just firm. The contact stills you instantly. His eyes lift to meet yours, pinning you in place. And there’s a new kind of intensity to them you haven’t seen before.
The air between you shifts into something quiet but charged as you finally say, your voice small, “Patrick says a lot of things when he’s high.”
Jud searches your eyes. “He’s an asshole.”
You hold his gaze. “Not always.”
“No,” he says, a corner of his mouth twitching faintly despite the split lip. “But pretty consistent recently.”
You huff out a small breath, the tension loosening for half a second.
Then it settles back in again. You’re still standing between his knees, one hand resting lightly against his cheek where the ice pack presses into the forming bruise. His hand is still over yours, large and warm even through the cold sensation.
Neither of you moves.
“Tonight wasn’t about you,” Jud says quietly after a moment. “He’s been waiting for a reason to swing at me since we were teenagers. Honestly surprised it didn’t happen sooner.”
Your breath catches slightly. “And you gave him one.”
His eyes soften, just a little. “No,” he says. “He gave himself one.”
Your throat feels suddenly tight. You’re very aware of how close you both are now. The warmth of his breath. The faint scent of soap and something metallic from the dried blood at his lip.
Jud’s hand slips from yours and for a second you think the moment is ending. Instead his fingers settle lightly at your hip. Your breath hitches at the contact. It isn’t possessive, if anything, it feels careful. Like he’s giving you time to pull away, but you don’t.
Your eyes drop before you can stop yourself. To his mouth, again. The air crackles with an invisible undercurrent.
“This is a terrible idea,” you say softly.
Jud nods once, his own eyes now fixed on your lips. “I know.”
But he doesn’t move away. Instead he shifts forward just slightly, close enough that his breath brushes your lips and without either of you really deciding to, you bend down a little to meet him. The ice pack slips from your hand and hits the floor with a dull thud the second his lips meet yours.
The kiss is immediate and electric, like something that’s been building quietly for weeks finally finding a way out. Your hands tangle instinctively in his hair. Jud inhales sharply against your mouth and then his arms are around you, pulling you closer with surprising strength for someone who just got out of a fight.
You let out a small squeak of protest as he lifts you easily into his lap.
“Jud—” You laugh breathlessly against his mouth. “I’m too heavy—”
One hand steadies firmly at your hip, while the other slides gently to the back of your neck, thumb brushing just below your ear.
“You’re not,” he murmurs against your lips.
When he kisses you again, slower this time, the whole room feels like it’s holding its breath.
You straddle him now, your feet barely brushing the floor. The kiss deepens naturally, your head tilting to give him better access as your mouths move together, learning each other in a way that feels both new and strangely familiar.
God, he’s a good kisser.
The hand that had been resting on your hip slides lower, fingers spreading over your ass as if he can’t quite believe you’re really here. He pulls you closer, guiding you instinctively, like the small space between your bodies suddenly feels unbearable.
You respond without thinking, shifting against him, seeking the friction and something that grounds the dizzying rush of it all.
His breath catches.
Jud’s lips leave yours only to trail slowly along your jaw before moving down the side of your throat. You tilt your head automatically, giving him space, and the soft sound that escapes you feels embarrassingly needy in the quiet apartment.
Every place his mouth touches burns.
“Jud—” you gasp softly, hand tightening in his hair. He hums against your skin in answer, one hand sliding up your back, the other steady at your hip again, guiding you without pressure, like he’s memorizing the way you move.
For a few seconds the world shrinks down to warmth and your pants and the quiet sound of both of you trying to breathe through the intensity of it.
Then suddenly he stops, completely. His hands still touch you gently but his forehead drops forward until it rests against your collarbone. His breathing is uneven, warm against your skin.
For a moment you don’t understand what changed. His fingers bunch the fabric of your dress at your sides as he exhales.
“We can’t—” he says, voice rough. He swallows, shaking his head faintly. “No. We shouldn’t.”
The words land like cold water. You blink, taken aback, still trying to catch your breath yourself. Your arms come around him almost automatically, hands sliding up into his hair again as you hold him there, fingers threading gently through the dark strands.
It takes both of you a moment to come back down from the edge of whatever that was.
Jud stays where he is, head bowed against you, breathing slowly now, and you run your fingers lightly through his hair, grounding both of you in the quiet that slowly returns to the room.
“Did I do something wrong?” you ask quietly, almost ashamed.
His head lifts immediately from your collarbone. His lips are kiss-bitten, brows furrowed in confusion.
“God, no,” he says quickly. “It’s just…”
“Just what?”
“I don’t want to take advantage of this moment.”
The words sit heavy between you. For a second you nod, like you understand. Like you agree. But the warmth of him is still wrapped around you, the echo of that kiss still buzzing in your veins, and suddenly the closeness feels unbearable.
You slip off his lap without much ceremony. Your feet hit the floor softly, but the space that opens between you feels enormous.
Jud notices immediately. “Hey—”
You shake your head, arms crossing loosely over your stomach as if to hold something in place.
“I get it,” you say, though your voice comes out thinner than you intended. The ice pack is still on the floor where it fell, already starting to melt and you bend down to pick it up, only to have something to do that conceals the feeling of rejection.
Jud stands too quickly, wincing as the movement pulls at his ribs.
“Damn it,” he mutters under his breath.
You don’t look at him immediately.
“That’s not—” he starts, then stops, like he’s searching for the right words and none of them feel big enough.
“It’s not because I don’t want this.”
That makes you look up, his voice is quiet but certain. He rubs the back of his neck. As he meets your eyes, something conflicted flickering there.
“I do,” he admits. “Probably more than I should.”
Your chest tightens.
“But tonight—” he continues, gesturing vaguely toward the door, toward the ghost of the fight still hanging in the air, “you just broke up with my brother. We’re both half out of our heads.”
Despite yourself, a breath of a laugh slips out. He huffs softly at that in response.
“I don’t want the first time to be like this,” he says. “I’d hate myself for it tomorrow.”
Silence settles again, not the easy kind this time you grew used to when being around him. The heavy kind.
Jud grabs his jacket from the back of the stool, movements a little clumsy now that the adrenaline has worn off.
“I should go,” he says finally.
The words land like something small breaking and you nod even though part of you wants to stop him.
“Okay.”
He hesitates by the door, glancing back once like he might say something else. Instead he just gives you a small, tired smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.
“Get some sleep,” he murmurs.
Then he steps into the hallway, the door closes behind him with a soft click but the sound echoes through the apartment anyway.
For a long moment you just stand there in the quiet. You press your hand against your lips without thinking, they still feel warm. Still taste faintly of antiseptic and him and somehow that makes the silence ache even more.
*****
The next few days the moment in your kitchen replays behind your eyelids with torturous persistence. You nitpick every second of it, turning it over and over in your mind like something fragile you’re afraid you might have broken without noticing. You ask yourself if you misread anything. If he regrets it. If you should feel more guilty about almost fucking your ex’s twin brother.
You don’t.
Mostly, you feel stood up.
And the worst part—the most inconvenient part—is that you want more. The kiss set you on fire and the heat of it refuses to fade. Days later the desire still burns somewhere under your skin, simmering low and stubborn.
Not that things with Patrick in that regard had ever been bad. Quite the opposite. He was—unsurprisingly—very good in bed.
But Jud…
Jud had held back.
Restraint seemed to live in his bones, but you had felt it anyway. Or at least you thought you had. The quiet intensity beneath it. The way his hands had been sure without ever demanding. The way something dangerously close to reverence had surfaced as his mouth moved across your skin.
You wonder if he’s thinking about it too. If he feels it too—that slow simmering want that hums like a distant calling.
But there’s no way to know.
Your phone stays silent.
No messages. No calls.
And you have never chased anyone or anything in your life, no matter how much you wanted them.
By Thursday the quiet is starting to grate.
You stop by Patrick’s apartment to grab the last of your things. The elevator doors slide open and you’re just stepping into the hallway when you hear his voice.
Angry. Unmistakably.
“I told you to stay the fuck away—”
Another voice answers, quieter.
“Pat, I just wanted to talk. I didn’t—”
Patrick scoffs loudly. “Don’t play the moral apostle. I don’t care what you want—”
You round the corner and both men turn toward you at the same time. Patrick’s expression twists immediately in something that looks an awful lot like hatred.
“You have to be kidding me,” he spits.
Jud just looks at you. Not annoyed. Not angry. More like you weren’t supposed to see this.
Patrick barrels on before either of you can say anything. “You know what? Take your girlfriend’s stuff and leave. I don’t wanna see you or her ass around here ever again.”
Then he grabs a handful of things from the entry table—clothes, your charger, a book—and throws them straight at Jud’s chest. Jud tries to catch them but he’s a beat too slow. Your things scatter across the hallway floor. The force of it makes him stumble half a step back.
The front door slams shut immediately afterward.
You step forward without a word and start gathering your things from the floor. Jud crouches beside you automatically, picking up the book and the charger.
For a moment neither of you speaks.
“Well,” he murmurs finally, “that went great, I think.”
You huff something dangerously close to a laugh. “If he could curse us, he would,” you say dryly. “Honestly I had expected my underwear to be thrown out the window, so that’s a slight upgrade.”
You quickly shove the pair of lace panties into your bag.
Jud clears his throat before standing and handing you the rest of your things.
“I’m sorry.”
You look up at him. “For what?”
“This,” he says simply, gesturing vaguely toward the door behind you. He doesn’t elaborate.
A beat passes.
“I can drive you home if you want,” he adds quietly.
You nod before you even realize you’ve decided.
The car ride starts in silence.
Jud’s car looks slightly more chaotic than you remember. There’s the faint smell of motor oil and old coffee somewhere. Your bag rests in your lap while the city drifts past outside the windows.
For a long while neither of you says anything, then Jud exhales softly.
“About the other night,” he says.
Your fingers tighten slightly on the strap of your bag.
“I don’t want you thinking my distance meant lack of interest.”
Your heart does something inconvenient inside your chest.
“I figured,” you say carefully.
He glances at you briefly before returning his attention to the road. “Did you?”
“Not really,” you admit.
A faint huff of a laugh escapes him at that.
When he pulls up in front of your building, neither of you moves right away. The engine ticks quietly as it cools.
You sit there just breathing in sync before Jud suddenly leans back and reaches into the backseat, rummaging around for a moment before pulling something forward.
It’s small.
Wood.
He holds it out to you and you take it, turning it carefully in your hands.
It’s a little duck carved from pale wood. The surface is smooth but you can still see the faint lines where the knife shaped it. The wings are suggested with soft curves along the sides and the head tilts slightly forward, like it’s about to waddle somewhere important.
The craftsmanship is simple but thoughtful.
“Did you make this?” you ask quietly.
Jud nods. “Yeah. Helped keep my mind busy.”
You study it more closely, your thumb brushing over the carved feathers.
“It’s really beautiful,” you say honestly. “You’re talented, Jud. Maybe your real calling is carpentry.”
He huffs a quiet laugh that fills the small space of the car. “I don’t know about that.”
You hand the duck back but he doesn’t take it.
“I want you to have it.”
You blink. “Why?”
His answer comes after a pause. “So you don’t forget me.”
Your stomach drops.
“Forget you?” you say slowly. “How could I—”
You stop.
“…wait. Why would I forget you?”
Jud’s gaze drops briefly to the steering wheel before lifting again.
“I’m leaving.”
Your throat goes dry.
“What?”
“I got accepted into another program,” he says quietly. “Upstate. Seminary placement.”
The words settle heavy between you.
“It starts next week.”
Your chest tightens painfully.
“You’re leaving next week?” you repeat.
Jud nods once.
“Pat already knew from our parents,” he adds. “But I wanted to tell him personally tonight.”
Silence swells in the car. You stare down at the little wooden duck still resting in your hands.
“I thought…” you start, then stop because you’re not even sure what you thought.
Jud watches you carefully.
“This was never supposed to get complicated,” he says softly. “I was going to keep my distance. Do the right thing.”
Your voice comes out thin. “And the other night?”
His jaw tightens slightly. “The other night proved I’m not as good at that as I thought.”
The car feels smaller suddenly. Almost suffocating.
Jud’s voice is quieter now. “I wanted you to have something,” he says. “Before I go.”
The words land like a slow bruise spreading under your skin and you carefully place the duck into your bag.
“I think I—” you inhale, steadying yourself before finishing, “I think I’m going to miss you.”
“Don’t say that, we barely—”
“Barely what?” you cut in softly. “Knew each other? Didn’t feel like that for me.”
The words hang between you, fragile and undeniable. Jud looks like he’s about to argue, then stops. His jaw shifts slightly, like he’s biting back whatever he planned to say.
Ultimately you reach for the door handle. The small movement feels heavier than it should.
“I should go upstairs,” you murmur.
Jud nods, though something in his expression tightens further.
Your fingers rest on the handle but you don’t open the door. Something inside you refuses to let the moment end that quietly. You turn back toward him instead.
“I guess this is… goodbye then,” you say softly.
He nods once, still staring out the windshield. “Yeah.”
You lean across the console, close enough to feel the warmth coming off him. It’s supposed to be simple, just a goodbye. You press a soft kiss to his cheek.
“Take care of yourself, Jud.”
For a second it seems like that will be it but then his hand moves. It slips into your hair like it belongs there, fingers threading through the strands at the back of your head before you can even process what’s happening.
And suddenly he’s pulling you closer.
His mouth finds yours and the kiss is immediate and consuming. It steals the air right out of your lungs. Your hand braces instinctively against his chest as he deepens it, his other hand coming up to cup your jaw.
There’s nothing careful about it this time. Nothing restrained. Just heat and urgency and something aching beneath it all.
For a moment the whole world narrows down to the warmth of his mouth, the way his fingers tighten gently in your hair, the quiet sound of your breath catching between kisses. When he finally pulls back, it’s only a fraction to rest his forehead briefly against yours in the dim light of the car. Both of you breathing a little too hard.
“Yeah,” he murmurs softly, voice rough. “This is going to make leaving a lot harder.”
“Don’t leave,” you plead, your voice softer than you intended.
Jud’s thumb traces gently behind your ear, a quiet, grounding gesture.
“I have to,” he answers, though he hasn’t moved away. Your breaths still mingle in the small space between you.
“Not tonight.”
His brows furrow and he leans back just enough to look at you properly, searching your face like he needs to be absolutely certain.
“Is this what you want?”
You nod, your hand curling into the front of his shirt. Jud exhales shakily, something in his expression shifting like the last thread of restraint snapping loose. He reaches down and unbuckles his seatbelt.
You do the same.
The car doors open almost in unison.
The night air feels cooler now, but his hand finds the small of your back immediately, guiding you toward the building with quiet certainty. The touch is steady, protective, and it sends another ripple of warmth through you.
Neither of you says anything as you step into the elevator or as the doors slide shut with a soft hum.
For a second you both look at your reflections in the mirror across the wall. Your hair is slightly messy, your lips swollen from kissing. Jud’s split lip is still visible, the bruise on his cheek darkening under the harsh elevator light. Evidence of both— something ending and beginning at the same time.
Then he steps closer. His hands settle on your waist, warm and solid. His face dips to your neck, nuzzling gently as his lips brush your skin in fleeting, barely-there touches that still manage to set every nerve ending in your body alight.
“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs quietly.
The words land warm against your skin.
“I don’t want you to ever forget that.”
He lifts his head just enough to meet your eyes in the mirror. Your heart does a full sprint in your chest. There’s something about the quiet conviction in his voice that rattles you more than any compliment ever has.
The elevator dings as the doors slide open.
You barely make it inside your apartment before you’re kissing again.
The same dim fairy lights glow in the living room, exactly as they had a few nights ago, but everything feels different now. The air feels thicker, charged.
You can barely catch your breath between kisses, both of you moving like gravity itself has shifted. Your hands slide under the shirt he’s wearing, palms pressing against the warmth of his skin, feeling the firm lines of muscle beneath your fingers.
Jud inhales sharply. His hands slip beneath your shirt in return, large palms warm against your back. With practiced ease his fingers find the clasp of your bra and release it before you even realize what he’s doing. The loosened straps slide from your shoulders. One of his hands moves to the space between your shoulder blades, holding you close.
You don’t think much about it before you jump into his arms. A small laugh escapes you as he catches you easily, instinctively, like he’d expected it. His arms wrap securely around you while your legs hook around his waist. Still kissing, still half-laughing into each other’s mouths, he starts moving down the hallway almost blindly, guided more by memory of your apartment than sight.
You can feel his frantic heartbeat under your palms that mirrors yours perfectly. The bedroom door appears in the dim light just as his lips trail briefly along your jaw, both of you still completely lost in each other.
He holds you securely with one arm while his other hand fumbles blindly for the door handle. It takes him a second, fingers missing the latch the first time, but eventually the door gives and he nudges it open with his shoulder.
The bedroom is dim, only the soft orange glow of the streetlamp outside spilling through the curtains.
A few steps in and he starts to lower you gently toward the bed. Instead, you pull him down with you. You both land on your sides in a tangle of limbs and breathless laughter that dissolves immediately into another kiss. Your leg hooks automatically over his hip, anchoring him close while your hand slides to the back of his neck, fingers threading into his hair as the kiss deepens.
The urgency between you returns all at once.
Clothes disappear quickly, peeled away with impatience, but even through it Jud remains careful with you. Every newly revealed inch of skin earns the brush of his fingers, his touch slow and reverent despite the heat burning between you.
You gasp softly when his hand trails down your side and he looks at you like he still can’t quite believe this is real. Like he’s been given something sacred he never expected to touch.
Like you are something he might kneel for.
As he finally hovers over you, careful not to put his full weight on you, his arms brace on either side of your head. His lips find your forehead first, then your temple, your cheek, the line of your jaw. Your breath shivers when his mouth moves lower, down your neck, then to the soft curve of your chest.
You arch instinctively, fingers tightening in his hair.
“Jud—”
He pauses just long enough to look up at you, lips parted.
“This okay?” he asks, breath rough.
“Yes.”
The word comes out without hesitation and whatever careful distance he tried to keep earlier melts away after that. When he settles between your legs, the closeness is intoxicating. With nothing separating you, the contact steals the air from your lungs.
You pull him back into a kiss. He groans softly against your mouth.
Your legs wrap around his hips, drawing him closer and you feel the faint tremor in his body. He’s shaking a little, like he’s holding himself together by sheer will.
Your hands cradle his face, thumbs brushing gently over the bruise on his cheek.
“It’s alright, Jud.”
His eyes soften at that, like you just gave him permission he didn’t know he needed. His hand moves between your bodies, finding the place where the tension in you has been building for days. The soft sound that escapes you makes his breath hitch. He moves carefully at first, patient and precise, until the rhythm between you becomes something shared.
Then finally he shifts, lining up with you. When he pushes forward, the sound that leaves both of you is the same. His head drops into the crook of your neck as your arms wrap tighter around him.
“God help me, you feel—”
The sentence dissolves into a breath as he begins to move. Everything about it feels intense, overwhelming in the best way. The days of tension, the restraint, the unspoken things all unravel between you at once granting clarity.
Your nails drag lightly over his back, encouraging him while soft sounds slip from your lips against his ear. He responds instinctively, the pace building as the rhythm between you becomes something neither of you can control anymore.
It doesn’t take long. Not with everything that’s been building. His focus stays on you even as he chases his own release, his touch guiding you there with quiet determination. When the wave finally breaks through you, your hands clutch at his shoulders.
Jud makes a helpless sound against your temple. Something that might be a breathless laugh, or a prayer, or both. He follows moments later, the tension leaving his body in a shudder that makes him press impossibly closer for a second.
And then—
Stillness.
The room settles into quiet again, broken only by the sound of both of you catching your breath.
Jud shifts slightly so his head rests over your heart. Your fingers drift automatically into his hair, combing gently through the dark strands as you press a soft kiss there.
Nothing about the moment feels awkward, just full.
Like something inevitable finally happened.
Jud stays the night. You fall asleep with him half draped over you, the steady weight of him grounding in a way that feels unfamiliar but right. At some point during the night he shifts, pulling the blanket higher over both of you.
You don’t remember falling asleep, but you do remember the quiet. And the warmth of him beside you, seeping slowly into places you thought had gone cold a long time ago.
Early morning slips into the room slowly, the sun barely starts to rise. You barely register the movement beside you when Jud carefully sits up. The mattress dips softly as he shifts, trying not to wake you.
For a moment he just looks at you, his eyes so soft and full of feeling it makes your throat tighten. A moment later he leans down and presses a gentle kiss into your hair.
“Thank you,” he murmurs quietly.
The words reach you even through the haze of sleep. Your chest tightens unexpectedly, a sudden sting behind your ribs that feels dangerously close to tears.
Your gaze drifts toward the nightstand, because you can’t bring yourself to watch him leave. The small wooden duck sits there in the soft morning light.
You let out a small, wet laugh at that.
A sound that feels a little too close to heartbreak.
*****
The apartment is quiet after, your whole life is. After breaking up with Patrick and Jud leaving the city.
Your phone never rings.
No messages appear.
And somehow you understand, without needing confirmation, that this is how it ends.
Not cruelly.
Not dramatically.
Just… finished.
Maybe that’s for the best. Maybe some things are meant to stay almosts.
Almost love. Almost timing. Almost the right life.
Still, the memory lingers.
The warmth of him. The quiet shared understanding. And the way he looked at you like you were something steady in a world that had always been loud.
The ache fades eventually, or at least it softens.
Life moves forward the way it always does. You leave the apartment. Then the neighborhood. Eventually the whole city. The weight of the failed relationship and the almost that followed feels too heavy to keep carrying through the same streets.
A few years pass like that. Not entirely unpleasant nor overly exciting. Just a going with the flow.
Some days you forget entirely, other days you don’t.
One afternoon you wander into a church off state. You’re not particularly religious. Never have been. But the building is beautiful—high ceilings, old stained glass that scatters colors across the wooden pews like spilled paint.
And it’s quiet. That’s what you really came for.
You sit near the middle, letting the stillness settle around you. The faint smell of candle wax and old wood hangs in the air. Sunlight filters through the windows in soft golden patches.
For a while you just sit there.
Just breathing, thinking about nothing particularly.
Then the air shifts beside you. You feel it before you can name it. The same warmth from all the years back.
“Can I?”
The voice is gentle. Familiar in a way that makes something deep in your chest tighten.
For a second you don’t move. Time does something strange in that moment Slowly, you look up and there he is.
Jud.
Older now. The years have softened the sharpness of his face, but his eyes are exactly the same—steady, storm-blue and warm all at once. Around his throat sits the thin white band of a priest’s collar.
For a moment everything goes still, then your mouth lifts in a small, private smile.
“You made it,” you say softly.
Jud mirrors your smile, something calm and familiar settling in his expression.
“Barely.”
Thanks for reading 🩶
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tags (tell me if you wanna out or in!) @rhapsodyofdarkness @judasjud @rosetintmworld @likedovesinthewnd @ch3rrybl0ssomtree @poetrypoesblehhh @sidelit @knives-out-boy @soealt @explorerof-theunknown @post-apocalyptic-rebel-leader @strawberrymochi07 @peelfreshapple @sea-eyed-dream @roryheartz @prxncess-gestirn @doomprincesswrld
Alright girlie-pops, theys, and gays, I’m starting a discussion board and participation is part of your grade so let’s go:
I was gonna make a Jud headcanons post and then I thought: it’s COLLAB TIME ™and now you’re all roped into this group project with me. Reblog and add your own thoughts on shit you can just feel in your bones is canon about this wet rag of a man and maybe together we can all figure out what the hell his deal is. I’ll start us off, but remember this will count towards your final grade (and also there are no wrong answers, just long as you’re having fun) :
This man gets queasy around blood. Call it trauma, call it a rational response, call it him being baby, but anything more than a paper cut and this man is going to faint. I think it’s a fun dynamic for a character who’s so wholesome, but has also quite literally killed a man before. (Which gives another level of unease to it all)
He’s a tea over coffee guy. The movie backs this up, I think, but doesn’t matter. I can feel it in my heart. I feel like he definitely has troubles sleeping, so he tried to avoid making it worse, plus I don’t see him as someone who’d like the taste. But this man loves him some earl grey. He seems like the type who’d like his drinks as simple as possible, if he had to drink coffee, he’d drink it black, because wants to be as little a bother as possible (call that one trauma response for sure) but if given the choice (and “if it’s not too much trouble”) his favorite is definitely mint tea with honey (LOTS of honey)
Mommy issues no explanation needed here, we all know this is factual. (Someone feel free to jump in and explain for the ones in the back who missed the memo)
He forgets to eat at least once a day, and is a big fan of girl dinner. The guy will shove a handful of goldfish crackers into his mouth on his way out the door and call that breakfast. His whole life he’s lived in the mindset of food is fuel. He doesn’t really start enjoying food until someone starts cooking for him. Then, it becomes a love language.
So touch starved and desperate for affection. The cashier at checkout can compliment his hair and he’d think about her all day. He’d replay it in his head for the rest of his life. Compliments are few and far in between in his experience, so he holds on to anything he gets. (@quietly-kept touched on this already in a post, so I’ll let her present that part of the PowerPoint lol) but homie will pop a boner if you make eye contact for too long. He. Is. Desperate.
He can hop a fence in record time. Don’t ask him how/why he got so good at it.
Definitely tries to always be sweet and tender, but sometimes in the heat of the moment he can get carried away. When everything feels too good and he accidentally lets himself slip, he forgets his own strength, conditioned into thinking anything good is bound to be ripped away as soon as someone notices, and so subconsciously when something’s good he’s trying desperately to gorge himself as much and as quickly as he can. His kisses sloppy and desperate, his grip too tight, just a stream of consciousness coming out his mouth of the most unhinged thoughts that would have him reeling if he had half a working brain cell that wasn’t completely locked in on how good it all felt right then.
Psst…hey guys, can someone read the next slide? I’m getting stage fright. (Please let me know if you want me to take you off the list, I just think you’re fun and cool and you probably got some shit you wanna get off your chest about this man) (also ANYONE can jump in at anytime, the class isn’t full yet lol)
tags: heartbreak, angst, night phone call, exes to ???, hurt no comfort, mutual pining
summary: A midnight call between two people who loved each other deeply and still weren’t meant to last.
word count: ~ 1,2k
It’s been three months since you ended things with Patrick. Not because you stopped loving him — never that.
But he was a wildfire, and you were exhausted from rebuilding yourself after every blaze. You were tired of being pulled into the gravity of his self-destruction, of mistaking chaos for passion and the aftermath of bad decisions.
So you left.
Now you’re sitting in your tiny downtown apartment, his absence ringing louder than the traffic outside. It was always worse at night, when you had no more daytime noise to hide behind. The solitude of the night intensified everything. It suffocated you slowly.
You try to distract yourself by scrolling through social media, but it is no use.
It’s close to midnight when your phone vibrates.
You almost don’t answer. You know that number. It’s muscle memory at this point.
Three months of silence. Three months of pretending you don’t check tournament schedules. Three months of deleting drafts you never sent.
You pick up anyway.
“…Hey,” you murmur, sitting up slowly from your sofa.
“Hey,” he says. “Did I wake you?”
“No, it’s okay.”
A beat.
“Are you drunk?” you ask quietly.
“Does it matter?”
“Why do you call me?”
Silence. A beat of suffocating silence.
“I screwed it up.”
That’s new. No sarcasm, no deflection.
You swallow.
“Patrick—”
“I’m not calling you to ask you to come back,” he cuts in quickly, pride still clinging on by a thread. “Don’t twist it like that.”
Another pause.
“But I was wondering if you still think about me?” he asks.
“I do. A lot.”
He goes quiet again, but this time it isn’t absorbing. It’s bracing.
“Yeah,” he says after a moment. “I figured you would.”
“This is not about arrogance,” you murmur.
“I know.”
There’s a small sound — not quite a laugh. Not quite a sigh.
“It’s just… you were the only person who ever really stayed long enough to see me when I wasn’t winning.”
That hits. You don’t answer right away. On the other end, you hear him shift, fabric rustling, the dull thud of him leaning his head back against something solid.
“They all love the version of me that walks onto a court,” he continues, voice lower now. “The one who knows exactly where to stand. What to hit. How to smile.”
A pause.
“You knew the one who sits on the bathroom floor after and stares at his hands like they belong to someone else.”
Your throat tightens.
“Patrick…”
“I don’t let people see that,” he says quickly, almost defensive, then softer, “You know that.”
You do.
“Are you okay?” you ask cautiously, as if you wouldn’t know the answer already.
“I haven’t been sleeping much,” he admits suddenly, like it slipped out. “Every hotel room feels the same. I keep thinking if I open the door you’ll be there, complaining about the carpet or the ridiculously high minibar prices.”
That’s so painfully specific it almost makes you laugh, instead the pain crawls under your skin.
“Do you want me to lie?” he asks after a second.
“No.”
“Then yeah,” he breathes. “I’m not doing great.”
Not I’m falling apart.
Not I need you.
Just: I’m not doing great.
And that’s worse.
“You think I don’t know why you left?” he adds quietly. “I do. I just didn’t think it would feel like someone cut the oxygen off.”
You swallow.
“That’s not my job anymore,” you say gently.
“I know,” he says again.
And he does. That’s the tragedy.
There’s another pause. Thicker now.
“I tried to hate you for it,” he confesses. “For being the one who was strong enough to walk away.”
You inhale sharply.
“Did it work?”
“No,” he says immediately.
A fragile half-laugh follows.
“Turns out I respect you too much.”
And there it is. Not rage, not manipulation. Just a man who is finally aware of what he broke. He exhales slowly on the other end. Not scoffing. Not snapping back. Just breathing through the ache. And that alone feels like growth.
“But none of that changes the fact that we were a disaster. And maybe, if you’re really honest with yourself, you know we were never meant to last.”
“You’re right,” he says after a moment.
And that’s not something Patrick says lightly.
“We weren’t built for the long run.”
It sounds like it costs him to admit it, you hear him shift on his end. He laughs once, but it’s not amused. Just broken around the edges. Tired.
“I miss you starshine,” he admits.
Your heart clenches.
“I know,” you say.
Your breath leaves you like you’ve been punched.
God. He stopped calling you like that somewhere between the heartbreak and the last time he was still yours. It started as a joke. You once got glitter all over his car after a stupid themed costume party. It took him weeks to get it out of the seats. He complained the entire time, dramatic and scandalized, calling you a walking biohazard. Typical of him. You told him glitter was existential.
“You’re like stardust,” he’d said, brushing a speck off his sleeve. “Get everywhere and impossible to get rid of.”
It became a tease. An eye-roll. A smirk. Now it feels like he just reached inside your ribcage and squeezed the most tender parts of you. Made you bleed all over again, when you finally finished stitching yourself up.
“Don’t,” you whisper. “Please.”
But he continues.
“You still get everywhere,” he murmurs. “I can’t—” He exhales shakily. “I can’t go anywhere without thinking about you.”
Your throat burns. Because that nickname was never about glitter. It was about how you got under his skin. Into his habits. Into the quiet spaces no one else was allowed to touch. You saw the man behind the armor and he let you.
You press your palm to your chest like you can physically hold yourself together, eyebrows scrunched.
“Patrick,” you say, and your voice betrays you. “That’s not fair.”
“Fuck, I know,” he says immediately. No defensiveness, just the ugly truth. “I just— I didn’t know what else to call you.”
Because your real name feels too distant now. Too formal. Like strangers who just happened to bump into each other at a crossroad.
But the most important thing is: you miss him too. In all the quiet, inconvenient ways. But you can’t stay next to him and mistake the flames for warmth again. You’d drown too, eventually and you spent enough time learning how to swim.
You don’t say goodbye, how could you? You just let the silence stretch until it feels almost unbearable.
“I should go,” you whisper.
“Yeah,” he says.
Another beat.
“Goodnight, Patrick.”
“Goodnight.”
And somewhere thousands of miles away, the lights of the court flicker out one by one, the stadium emptying in slow, indifferent silence. Patrick stays rooted in place long after the last switch clicks off, phone slipping from his hand and landing against the cork floor with a muted thud.
The quiet presses in from every side and all that’s left is a man, furious at the version of himself that wasn’t capable of keeping the only person who ever saw him without the armor.
Thanks for reading 🩶
Want more? main masterlist
tags (tell me if you wanna out or in!) @rhapsodyofdarkness @judasjud @rosetintmworld @likedovesinthewnd @ch3rrybl0ssomtree @poetrypoesblehhh @sidelit @knives-out-boy @soealt @explorerof-theunknown @post-apocalyptic-rebel-leader @strawberrymochi07 @peelfreshapple @sea-eyed-dream @roryheartz
Just pretend I've written something meaningful and profound to commemorate the four years since the full-scale invasion, because I have nothing new or deep to say.
My hometown has been under occupation since 2014. My parents probably already have russian citizenship, because you can't survive there otherwise. But I don't ask them about it.
The town most dear to my heart is now in ruins, and Ukraine is slowly losing ground there - but, more importantly, lives. So it has become another cemetery, a concrete desert among many others, like I knew it would. The frontline has now reached the little village where I spent the first few years of my life, and which I still see in my dreams sometimes, however fuzzy - a little house on the hill, summer, tall grass (it probably seemed way taller because I was so small), my great grandma and I harvesting berries in a raspberry patch, a tapestry with deer on it in the summer house. None of it exists anymore, or ever will again.
I saw some war footage with russians hiding in a graveyard, probably somewhere in those parts. It could have been one of countless little graveyards, but for some reason, for the first time, I imagined my great-grandma's grave being uprooted by a missile, and that thought made me sick.
Thinking about any of it makes me sick. I don't think I can feel the normal spectrum of human emotions regarding the war anymore. It's either sickness or nothingness.
Living in Donetsk, in 2016 or so, I remember thinking - it'll be over soon, it can't go on much longer. In 2021, I faced the truth - it's not going to end. I need to leave and try to start over, so I did. In 2026, I'm trying not to think about anything. Not to count years. Not to plan. Not to stare too long as elderly mothers bring flowers to the portraits of their fallen sons and wipe stains off their photograph faces. Because thinking about any of it, looking at it, is unbearable, and only gets worse as time goes on.
May russia crumble into a thousand pitiful pieces.
♰ read on ao3 ♰
tags: psychological tension, exorcism, possession, taunting demon, strong (slightly explicit) language, religious themes (naturally), power dynamics
summary: The newly assigned Jud performs his first exorcism in town, only to discover the demon isn’t interested in screaming, but in exposing the man behind the collar.
word count: ~ 1,3k
a/n: This one leans a little chaotic. Exorcism but make it personal. It's also far out of my comfort zone, so I experimented a little with this. Don’t take it too seriously, I clearly didn’t either. 👹
When Jud enters the room, she’s sitting cross-legged on the bed, not even looking at him, back turned, her hazel-colored long hair falling wildly over her shoulders.
He doesn’t really know what he was expecting, but it surely wasn’t this almost boring calm. She’s not levitating or thrashing. She’s just waiting. Of course the demon knew he’d come. He’s barely moved over the threshold when the door falls shut behind him.
“Oh good,” she says brightly, toying with a strand of hair. “They sent the hot one.”
He steps further into the room, glancing around. He knows her family well— devoted parishioners, every Sunday without fail. She’s their only daughter, bright and full of life. Soft-spoken, until that thing took hold of her. His gaze lands on the crooked cross above her bed.
“I am not here for commentary,” he says as he sets his bag down beside the bed, taking out the ritual book like this is a dentist appointment, not a demonic infestation. Rituals give safety.
She grins at that. Wide. Teeth too white. Head slightly tilted.
“You boxed, didn’t you? I can see it in the shoulders. Bet you hit hard.”
Silence.
“Oh wait,” she chirps. “Didn’t you kill a man in the ring once? Punched him until you heard his bones breaking. Oohh, I like that. Delicious,” she hisses.
Jud inhales sharply through his nose. Of course it knows.
She leans forward, eyeing him, biting her finger, one hand braced on the bed beside her hip.
“You know what I like most about you, Father? You’re always one breath away from punching something. The rage didn’t vanish, it just changed shape. But here’s the thing,” she adds, almost amused. “All that holy restraint has to crack sometime, and I will make sure of that.”
His jaw tightens, just barely.
“You done now, demon?”
“Oh?” She laughs. “No, Father. I am just getting started.”
First week in the parish and he’s already met with a possession. Exactly his kind of humor.
He takes a deep, steadying breath and lifts the rosary in his palm, beginning to read the scripture but she just starts laughing at him, taunting in a way that makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up.
“Me who dwells in the shelter of the Most High will abide in the shadow of the Almighty. I will say to the Lord ‘My refuge and my fortress, my God, in whom I trust—’”
She interrupts him with a cruel snicker. “Really cute, Father. Tell me something…” she grins. “Do you still jerk off to the same porn in your tiny rectory bed?”
He swallows at that. He should’ve known it would go straight for the hidden parts he’s barely admitting to himself.
“I don’t think that’s any of your business, demon.”
She leans back on her hands, eyeing him further, biting her lip. God, it’s enjoying that.
“You really thought the collar takes away the ache? The — how do you call it — carnal desire? You know what I call it…” She pauses, lifting one hand, inspecting her nails, dirty and bloody, though she acts like they’re freshly manicured. “Fun.”
She sighs, as if disappointed or maybe just bored. “You Catholics are really allergic to fun, aren’t you?” she clicks her tongue.
Jud doesn’t answer. He keeps praying. Paternoster. Psalms he truly believes in. Her growl curls from the bed, low and irritated, but he doesn’t look up. He continues the rite.
He feels her move before he sees her. The mattress shifts. Bare feet on the floor. Then she’s circling him. Her fingers trail slowly along the exposed skin of his forearm.
“What a shame,” she murmurs, “all those choices you had, Jud Duplenticy, and you decided to hide behind a collar.”
Her touch drifts higher, almost lazily. Almost affectionate.
“When we both know what’s under there.”
Her fingers barely brush behind his ear and his body betrays him — a subtle tightening, a breath that stutters just once. His grip on the Bible hardens. He hates that she notices.
“All that discipline,” she whispers, close now, breath warm against his skin. “And yet…”
She pauses.
“…you’re still a man.”
“Your tricks are boring me, demon. Don’t mistake my restraint for weakness,” he says, low and she pauses for just a second. “What do you really want from the girl?”
She flops down onto the bed like a child denied a toy. “You mean poor, pure Anne-Claire? She’s the perfect vessel. And most importantly, the perfect flesh wrapping to corrupt a priest.”
His eyes finally lift, narrowing at her, which only makes her triumphant.
“Oh, please. Don’t act coy now. I know you’ve been watching her. She’s always wearing those beautiful summer dresses every Sunday you clearly still think about after mass ended.”
For one traitorous, human second his gaze flickers to her curves under the nightgown, but he trains it back on his Bible just as quickly.
“There he is,” she breathes, watching the flicker in his eyes. “You can preach restraint all you want, Father, but your body doesn’t lie.”
She slides her hands slowly down her own torso, deliberate — not seductive, mocking.
“You think she never noticed you watching?” she asks softly. “You think Anne-Claire never wondered what you’d look like without that collar between you? Didn’t dream about your hands touching her? C’mon, look at her, priest.”
His fingers whiten around the rosary.
“You’re disgusting,” he says, calm as ever, eyes fixed on his hands.
“Oh, don’t be dramatic,” she scoffs. “I’m just saying out loud what you try to bury under scripture every night. Look at me,” she commands again, but he doesn’t obey.
She leans forward instead, voice lowering, heartless.
“You don’t want to save her. You want to prove you’re stronger than the part of you that would ruin her.”
His nostrils flare as he continues, his voice far firmer than he feels. He knows the family waits downstairs — remembers how her mother cried in his office wanting her daughter back. He deliberately steps closer, taking her chin firmly between his fingers.
“You’re not the first thing to tempt me,” he says evenly. “And you’re not the worst either.”
Then he lifts his rosary and presses it to her forehead. She squirms in his grip, wild and furious, but he keeps going, chanting prayers with steady calm.
That’s when the temperature in the room shifts. She’s cursing in Latin now, and his voice grows louder. The cross flies from the wall, landing with a loud clatter on the floor. The lights begin to flicker. A sudden gust bursts the windows open, curtains snapping in the wind.
Oh, it’s angry.
“I command you to let go of this girl and let her rest.”
The cross sears into her skin, leaving an angry mark before Jud is thrown across the room, his back slamming into the wall, chest heaving. Anne-Claire bends in unnatural angles, laughter mixing with sobs as it fills the room. Jud clings to his rosary, repeating words he inhabits.
The lights snap back.
The wind dies.
Dust settles.
And then it becomes eerily silent.
The door swings open and her parents spill in immediately, the mother’s face tear-streaked as she sees her daughter sprawled on the bed and Jud sitting on the ground on the opposite end of the room. She gathers her daughter into her arms. The father joins, pressing kisses into his only child’s hair. Jud slowly stands, brushing off dust from his slacks.
The parents murmur a trembling “Thank you, Father,” and he nods, crossing himself before leaving the room, descending the stairs without looking back.
Back in Anne-Claire’s childhood bedroom, out of his sight, her eyes flash. Her mother holds her close, whispering gratitude to heaven. For a split second, the girl is able to murmur her mother’s name, back in her body. But then the burned mark on her skin cools and vanishes. Her breathing steadies again.
Then her mouth lifts, but it’s not Anne-Claire’s smile, it’s something else wearing her skin.
Thanks for reading 🩶
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