Hello Everyone! I appreciate your interest in my blog. This is to make the viewing of my works easier because the variety is wide, and the blog is long. I hate having to search so here you go :) Also, if I reply to any of your comments my primary blog will be shown, but I will make sure to sign off as my blog. Don’t be confused
P.S I literally love requests so pretty please send them my way. I write for Sam and Dean Winchester, Edward Nygma, Jerome Valeska, Loki, Bucky Barnes, Steve Rogers, Sweet Pea, Thomas Shelby, Draco Malfoy, Sirius Black, Remus Lupin, Fred Weasley, George Weasley and Geralt of Rivia. I don’t write pregnancy and/or children. (Gifs will never be mine, if it’s yours let me know and I’ll give you credit)
𝔼𝕕𝕨𝕒𝕣𝕕 ℕ𝕪𝕘𝕞𝕒
One shots
Pancakes and Waltzing
Are You Scared?
𝕃𝕠𝕜𝕚
One Shots
Manic Pixie Dream Girl
Ripped Apart Part 2 Part 3
Eyes on the Glass
Gift Wrapped
All Alright
𝕊𝕥𝕖𝕧𝕖 ℝ𝕠𝕘𝕖𝕣𝕤
The Plan
Self Satisfied
Boredom
𝔾𝕖𝕣𝕒𝕝𝕥 𝕠𝕗 ℝ𝕚𝕧𝕚𝕒
One Shots
To the Bone
Silence
Fighting Terrors
Remember Them
Body of Fire
Havandra
Like Her Better
Home
The Danger in Surprises
Stone Cold
Said and Done
Blood
Blinded
Satin Ribbons
A Terribly Difficult Job
No Reprieve
Looking Back
Soft and Steamed
Series
The Witcher and the Princess Masterlist [completed]
SYNOPSIS - when you find someone so good as Father Jud, you either admire him or you hate him; you did both.
CONTENT - !smut. corruption!kink. maneater!reader. fem!masturbation. religious guilt. fucked up thoughts. heavily inspired on the ethel cain song.
WC - 3.9k
NOTE - two hours ago I was like "oh I can't write for jud" and then bang. part 2 here!
The silence in the parish was unsettling, at least to you. Your eyes wandered to the glass so carefully designed in the windows, the stained glass in the shape of saints being illuminated in various colors through the colored panes with the help of the harsh sunlight. Your hands groped along the large wooden pew, steadying yourself as you sat down, the cold wood touching the palms of your hands. It was a very beautiful place, without a doubt, filled with an intense presence and, at the same time, such calm. The scent of wax from the recently extinguished candles mixed with the faint trace of your perfume. You were not sure what you were feeling — everything seemed like a great mix inside your heart: lightness, sadness, curiosity. Being in the church again after running for so long from your faith was overwhelming.
You could not describe what you truly expected to find in the parish; you knew it would not be an unexpected revelation or a feeling of belonging. You had not felt that you belonged anywhere for a long time. You joined your palms over your thighs in an unnoticed act of insecurity. Your heart felt heavy. Your mind was filled with thoughts and, at the same time, unable to settle on any clear thought.
A small noise echoing through the large walls caught your attention, a metallic clink falling onto the stony, cold floor. Your gaze immediately followed the sound, leading you to the figure of a young man a few steps ahead of you, dressed in black clothes and an unmistakable white collar — a priest.
— I’m sorry. Did I scare you? — His voice was sweet, gentle. A melody so pleasant and comforting. Exactly what one would expect from a priest’s voice.
— Just a little. — You smiled timidly. — The doors were open, I hope I’m not bothering you.
— No, no. Not at all. — He quickly walked to where you were, his hands extending toward you with a gentle smile on his lips. — I’m Father Jud. What brought you to the church?
— Nothing specific, actually. I was just passing by and, well, I wanted to take a look inside. Architecture is one of my fascinations.
— It’s beautiful, isn’t it? — He looked around for a second before turning back to you. — Are you Catholic?
— No. Far from it. — He kept staring at you, perhaps waiting for some kind of clarification. You sighed lightly. — I have a complicated relationship with religion.
— We all do, don’t we? — Father Jud let out a low laugh.
— Yours seems very stable.
— It’s not always. That’s the beauty of vocation. Persisting even when not everything is well.
As he spoke, you could not help but notice his eyes shimmering shyly when pieces of light struck them — eyes blue like the ocean with soft touches of green, the eyes of a man who seemed to have lived impressive stories before binding himself to the church. You suddenly wondered what leads a young man to devote his entire life to a religion, to confine himself within “rules” that, if broken, would lead him to hell or eternal regret.
— You’re right. It really is like a relationship, isn’t it?
— With God, yes. Leaving a few parts out. — He smiled again. It was a beautiful smile, captivating, just like him. His features were comforting.
— Why did you decide to become a priest? If you don’t mind me asking. — He shook his head and sat on the pew in front of yours.
— When I was younger, I reached a very low point in my life. I lost myself and got trapped in vicious cycles of sadness, violence… and after a long time, I finally managed to open up and confess myself to Christ, and in doing so I realized that living His love and spreading that love is my purpose.
His words sounded so convincing, so full of passion and truth. Anyone could see and feel that he truly believed in it, that his passion for Christ was strong and immeasurable. And that was beautiful. For a few moments, you stayed silent, simply watching him, capturing the way his hands gestured so calmly and the way the light seemed to seek him — almost as if it belonged to him, beautifully sacred. It was painful. Your back pressed against the cold wood, a small and imperceptible reminder that you were not touched by the light the way he was. That your existence was not even half as precious or meaningful as his. That you drowned in your own greed, ambition, desire, anguish, and frustration, while he was loved by God, so well cared for and protected. Father Jud was everything you would never be. As you were profane and felt desire corrode your flesh and thoughts.
— That is… beautiful, Father. — Your tone was nothing more than a murmur. Jud tilted his head slightly, his piercing eyes measuring your expression.
— What afflicts you? — he asked. His voice so low and serene, as if he were trying not to scare you, not to make any sudden movement, like we do when dealing with a wounded and frightened animal. His eyes met yours. You opened your mouth and closed it again, trying to say anything that made sense, yet you couldn’t. A faint smile of disbelief appeared on your lips.
— I’m not Catholic, Father. I can’t confess.
— We’re not in a confessional. You can speak to me as a simple man having a conversation with a simple woman. — You looked up at the ceiling, feeling cornered.
— Have you ever felt undeserving of Christ’s love? As if… your soul were too rotten to be touched by something divine and pure? — you said, your gaze ashamed and unable to meet his, your fingers focusing on the fabric of your pants.
— I used to feel that way, yeah. — Jud searched for your eyes, watching the way your fingers touched your clothes with such nervousness, your hands suddenly trembling. — Listen, I can assure you that no matter what you’ve done, or what you’ve been through, you deserve God’s love as much as anyone else.
— Do you really believe that? That everyone deserves God’s love? — You lifted your eyes. He nodded. You raised your eyebrows quickly and smiled, almost ironically. — You’re very optimistic, Father.
Your visits to the church became weekly. You didn’t know exactly why, but you were fascinated by him. Father Jud Duplenticy. So devout, insanely good and kind. The kind of man who could be nothing but a saint — and you swore he was exactly that. A saint. Perfect. A mixed and confusing feeling rose in your thoughts every time he was in your presence; you hated him for being so good and admired him for the same reason. But you were flawed, carnal, and profane, as you had admitted yourself. You also desired him, but with fear. If before you already didn’t feel worthy of divine love, now you were certain of it. Malignant and imperfect, broken beyond repair, longing for the piercing gaze of a being so sweet and lovable. How could you feel so guilty and yet ignore such concern? It was a mystery.
You sat every Friday in the last pew, the one closest to the door, and watched him like a hawk, no movement forgotten or left unseen. His words filled your mind and carried you into sleep late at night, with your hands between your thighs, sad and insatiable moans slipping softly from your mouth. Such an intimate and sinful secret. And yet, terribly delicious. You wanted him as much as you wanted to find divinity; it was dirty and wrong. It was you in your purest and simplest essence.
Sometimes you stayed longer than necessary, just so he would notice you and walk over with calm steps, sitting beside you and offering you a serene smile. He was so gentle. You noticed it as you watched him talk and offer comfort to the older parishioners. It was something beautiful to witness. In your mind, everything blended together and confused you. For weeks you avoided the way your stomach twisted and leapt at the sound of his voice, or the way your core seemed to burn, aching and longing for his — not so gentle — touch. You fought against the desire, but it was stronger than you, who had given in to temptation so many times before and so easily. However, after the nights when you would imagine his touch satisfying the carnal will within you, you would lie down, staring at the white and empty ceiling of your apartment. You questioned whether what you felt was truly the desire to be physical with a man or if your desire was merely a joke of your ego trying to induce you to prove that he was no better than you — that Jud was just a man and that, like all others, he would give in to temptation, for we are all flawed and imperfect beings made to succumb to the temptation of the flesh. You wanted to ruin him. You wanted to be the reason a perfect soldier gave up heaven just to satisfy you. How perverse were you for that? That was how the bitter doubt was planted in your mind.
Now you watched him — after another successful mass, talking to an old woman near the door, his eyes drifting to yours from time to time. A silent message telling you to wait for him. Which you would, without any problem. The air in the parish was cold that night, seeming to carry a different atmosphere than all the others. Perhaps it was just your heavy energy affecting your surroundings. You didn’t know yet.
Very observant and yet not noticing the way Jud’s eyes looked so hungry that night. He could barely focus on the conversation with the poor woman in front of him, holding his hands with an almost maternal affection. He smiled one last time, saying goodbye to the woman and watching her leave in short steps from the church. His heart was racing — a lot. Jud sighed, head slightly turned, staring at the floor, watching small leaves in shades of green and brown being carried by the wind toward the church door. He closed the large doors, and the sound echoed throughout the place, making you look at the action with a suspicious expression.
Perhaps he had noticed the malice in your gaze. Suddenly, you felt nauseated, as if you could vomit right there, ashamed. With your arms behind your body, hands clasped together, you saw him approach you. His jaw clenched and his eyes staring at you more intensely than ever.
— Hi. — That was all he said. The anticipation was driving you crazy.
— Hi, Father. Is everything okay? — The concern in your voice was genuine.
— Everything... everything’s fine. — He swallowed hard. You noticed his Adam’s apple move, a subtle detail you really liked about him. — I need to talk to you, all right?
— Of course… Did I do something that offended you, Father?
— No. Just… can you sit down? Please? — His voice was more rigid than his usual tone, tense, restrained. You simply sat, crossing your legs and gripping the edge of the cold pew. Jud did the same, his posture was just as rigid and uncomfortable as yours. Which was strange. None of your conversations had been like this in any of the five months you had attended his masses.
— I need to… be honest with you. — He swallowed hard again, his fists clenching. The sight shouldn’t have, but it made you discreetly squeeze your thighs together. — I’ve been having thoughts. Thoughts I shouldn’t have, regarding you. So I wanted to ask you something. It hurts me deeply, but I would like to ask that you find another church to attend.
He couldn’t even look at you as he spoke those words. Ashamed and frustrated with himself, he had no choice. Jud tried everything: he prayed, fasted, kept vigil to contemplate his decisions, prayed even more, and nothing — nothing removed you from his mind. Nothing erased the sinful dreams he had of you, or the sensation of your sweet eyes staring at him. The desire grew with each passing day and he became resentful. He tried to avoid your presence but couldn’t — he couldn’t deny the word of Christ to anyone, especially to someone like you who had come to him alone, lost and silently asking for help. He wanted to help you and wanted to be a good priest, and he couldn’t at that moment, because every night all he could think about was the soft curve of your breasts or your nails painted in such a deep shade of red, holding a shining rosary, your lips slightly parted as your tongue moistened them in the middle of his mass. It was horrible, disturbing, and incessant. Jud had no other way out. He needed you to leave, to stay as far away as possible — because he feared and knew that temptation could be the first step toward his ruin.
Jud was not naive. He had lived his life before becoming such a devout priest. He knew the danger of the flesh — and with him the temptation was stronger, because he had already tasted it. He did not enter the church so early; he had experienced so many things that could easily lead him to perdition. One touch was all it would take for his vow of celibacy to be broken. Your touch.
You were speechless. Dreaming, perhaps. It was unbelievable. It was impossible, wasn’t it?
— Impure thoughts? — you murmured, as one does when telling a secret. He still wasn’t looking at you. — Since when?
— Three months. — he murmured back, full of guilt.
— And what are they like? — That was enough to make him look at you. He seemed shocked now, eyes slightly widened and mouth half open.
— Improper. — Jud hid his face in his palms, his voice muffled by them. — It doesn’t matter what they’re like. They need to end.
He looked less like a saint now and more like an ordinary man — small, imperfect, almost pathetic and sad. How tragic was that? Beneath all his holiness, that was what hid there. A man. Thirsty for something everyone thirsts for. Your game of hunting the prey — him — had reached its final stretch. He had bitten the hook, and you were ready, oh, so ready to reel him in.
— I’ve had thoughts too. Maybe it’s time for me to confess, Father. — You leaned in calmly, with great precision, and brought your fingers to his wrists. — You. You were all I thought about. All I could think about.
Jud stared at you. So intensely that his gaze burned.
— Do you want me? Want to take me to your room, take my clothes off and see me on my knees? — you whispered as you brought his heavy hand to your face with gentleness, letting your lips touch the tips of his fingers, lightly wetting them.
Jud did not look away. Did not step closer. Did not react. He only watched you, eyes fixed on the movement of your mouth, without even blinking. He could feel the discomfort in his pants, the blood rushing to his cock, igniting something inside his body. A living, bright, dangerous flame. It was desire. You no longer felt the cold breeze brushing against your arms and giving you goosebumps. Now the whole place seemed so hot. Your body was on fire, every small sensation of his skin on your mouth heating you further.
— I can’t. — He closed his eyes, but did not remove his hand from your face. Clearly fighting internally.
— But you want to? — Perhaps a “yes” was all you needed to abandon the small and ridiculous obsession you had fed for months. Perhaps not. — If it’s so good, it can’t be so wrong… can it?
The man absorbed your words as if he were hypnotized, like a sailor drinking in the soft voice of a siren — whom he knew was trying to possess him, drag him to the bottom of the sea, and yet he did not cover his ears. He questioned himself. Was it lack of faith? Was it temptation from the Lord Himself testing him? Jud didn’t know — nor could he focus on anything. He would regret it, that much he knew. But not now. Not when he could focus on the warm touch of your skin.
— Forgive me, Christ, for I have sinned. — He whispered so inwardly that you did not hear him. Slowly removing the white collar and placing it on the pew.
In a second, very quickly, Jud stood and went to you, pulling you up to your feet and kissing you. Hard. His lips were dry and unregulated, with so much intensity that it could hardly be called a kiss — it certainly felt more like a struggle for dominance, full of anger and restrained desire. He wanted to dominate you — perhaps punish you — for having dominated him. And you would let him. Without hesitation, without even thinking. You needed that. The pain. The shame. The forbidden. The secret. It was everything that kept you alive, what reminded you how human you were.
Your hands flew to his hair, caressing, pulling, holding on. When he broke the kiss, you stared at each other. It was the kind of look one never forgets. The kind you could not describe even if you tried. It was a feeling stronger than anything you had ever felt. It was Jud. He grabbed your hand and dragged you with very quick steps. Near the main door of the church, between the last pews, there was an open path. This side corridor led directly outside, functioning as a discreet passage used only by priests when they went to confess in the open back part of the church. Along this corridor, a simple wooden door opened into a reserved, almost hidden space. It was there that the altar boys organized everything that would be used in mass: the candles carefully aligned, the containers of the anointing oils, the vestments, and small liturgical objects. The place carried a faint scent of wax and incense, which you barely noticed because as soon as you entered the small room, Jud was on top of you again. Quick, hungry hands circling your waist, his mouth descending to your neck, sinful and wet sounds filling the space.
It was incredible. He was incredible, different from how you had imagined him — he was not gentle or careful. He was like a spoiled child playing with an expensive toy without any kind of care. He knew it was his, and that was all that mattered. It was messy and desperate, just the way you wanted it. In the dim, nearly extinguished light, you noticed every expression on Jud’s face, his poorly kept beard, his rosy lips, and the small marks on his forehead. He was so beautiful. So imperfect. Vulnerable. Majestic. He avoided speaking, perhaps afraid of scaring you or perhaps afraid of facing the reality of what he was doing; he preferred to keep the bubble intact, to leave his fears and regrets for later.
He held the back of your head with one hand, fingers threading through your hair. His warm breath brushed your ear, drawing an involuntary shiver from you. You brought your hand to the buttons of his black shirt, undoing them hurriedly. He watched every movement, a corner smile on his lips and a look that bordered on something dangerously close to affection. Jud helped remove the shirt and then delicately kissed one of your wrists, never taking his eyes off yours. Then he undressed you with an almost solemn reverence, an absurd serenity for the situation you were in. His gaze traveled over your body repeatedly and attentive, while his fingers traced every curve of your skin, leaving no space untouched.
You tried to do the same: memorize every detail of him, drink in his image until it was engraved in the depths of your mind, until you could see him even with your eyes closed. You did not want to forget him. Between kisses, you felt his hand slide down to your panties, pushing the fabric aside carefully before caressing your core from the outside in circular motions. Jud was precise. Even if somewhat inexperienced, he knew exactly how to touch you. Without hurry, he pushed one finger in, then another, until a low sound escaped your lips, making your eyes close, surrendered to pleasure. His rhythm was firm, controlled, deliberately slow.
He made you sit on the old polished wooden table, the rough contact of the piled papers contrasting with the heat of his body. Jud’s tongue traced paths along your neck, sometimes rising to your ear, sometimes to your cheek, nibbling at the corner of your mouth. It didn’t take long before your orgasm came like an overwhelming wave, drawing a muffled moan from you as you bit his shoulder.
The pain made him hiss softly. Jud pulled your head back and stared at you, breathless.
— You can’t mark me — he said, out of breath.
— Sorry, Father — the title left your mouth like poison.
— Jud. Just Jud. — You silenced him with a hungry kiss.
He fitted himself back between your legs, his pants impossibly tight with his evident arousal. You did not look away from him for a single moment. There was no regret or doubt in your eyes. You brought one hand to the hem of his black pants, while the other teased him over the fabric. His lips parted, his brow furrowing as the wave of sensations hit him even before direct contact. His breathing was heavy, uneven.
You were about to unbutton his pants when a noise echoed through the old church. The door of the main hall opening. A look of panic was exchanged between you. Jud acted quickly, grabbing his shirt and putting it on in record time before going to the door of the small room. He raised a finger to his lips, asking for silence.
— Stay here. — was all he said. He opened the door and closed it again from the outside. His hurried footsteps echoed down the corridor.
It seems that your priest had to return to his holy duties.
A moment of weakness and God's sense of humor leads Jud to mistakenly assume he is talking to a phone sex operator named Lilith when he calls you, an unsuspecting artist. The awkward encounter surprisingly develops into a close friendship. However, nothing is as innocent as Jud would like to believe, and soon he is not only at God's mercy, but also at yours, body and soul.
Part I | Part II | Part III | Masterlist
Pairing: Jud Duplenticy x reader (female)
Word count: 6.8k
Warnings: romcom logic and shenanigans, reader uses the artistic alias „Lilith“, mentions of sex work, breach of the celibacy vow, religious guilt, sexual themes, (consensual) voyeurism, (mutual) masturbation, phone sex
Note: Unfortunately, I am not immune to the hot priest propaganda. My deeper thoughts and feelings about wake up dead man are shared with my friends, while tumblr is responsible for the thirst. A warning in advance: I did a bit of research, but I myself have a complicated relationship with faith and was not raised catholic, nor do I live in the usa. Since I don't want to offend anyone's beliefs, please read the warnings carefully before continuing. And as always: English is not my native language or the one I primarily use. Hope you enjoy it anyway! :)
Even before the first dial tone rang out, regret crept upon Jud. This was a mistake.
Not only was he about to breach his vow of celibacy (again) but now he also involved a stranger in his sin. Nervously, he fiddled with the hem of the white bedspread. Jud sat fully clothed in the small chamber that he had been assigned after his arrival in Albany, only the warm light of a single night lamp tracing the outlines of the room. No matter how minor the offense seemed compared to a physical sexual encounter, and no matter how much he longed for that kind of human contact, this clearly crossed all lines. He lowered the phone, about to hang up, when the ringing abruptly ended and a gentle voice responded.
“Hello?”
Jude almost choked on his own heartbeat. Instinctively, he answered.
“Yes! Uh...Hello. I, erm -” He cleared his throat, arranged the words in his mouth before speaking them. “I'm calling about the ad on your website, but I've reconsidered and no longer need...your services.”
“Oh, that's a shame,” you said. “Could you possibly tell me what changed your mind, if that's not uncomfortable for you to share?“
The simple design of the website had indicated a rather professional company. No erotic photos of women in compromising poses or ambiguous wording, just the elegantly curved font announcing that you would find the perfect voice for every fantasy here. Jud hadn't been sure what to expect, but certainly not this. Your composure took him aback so much that he just replied honestly.
“Well, I'm a priest, so - you know…”
You laughed a little. The sound made him flinch.
“Now I understand,” you said. “It's because of the alias I work under, isn't it? Lilith.”
Lilith. Of all the phone sex workers in this country, he had to wind up with one that used a pointedly biblical name. Jud couldn‘t recall seeing a stage name or a list of performers, only a number you were supposed to call to be transferred to the right person. But he ended up with Lilith. It seemed like a divine warning to him, or at least bitter irony. A sign to hang up immediately.
When he didn't respond, you continued:
“That initially deters some devout clients, especially clerics, from engaging me. But their concerns usually subside once they talk to me personally and get a sample of my work. Regardless of their beliefs, I try to create a comfortable environment for all my clients during our collaboration.”
“Some of your clients are clergy?,” he asked, once again drawn in by your casual manner of speaking, allowing this strange encounter to continue unnecessarily. Jud wrinkled his brow. How could a collaboration respect a person’s faith when its goal was to infringe upon one of its disciplines?
“It has actually become my main source of income, although I never planned it that way,” you replied. “So there's no need to be nervous, you're in safe hands.”
By the sound of your voice, he could tell you were smiling. Something about the way you said it reminded Jud of how he spoke to congregants when they sought his guidance. A kind of recognition, a shared understanding filled him. He believed you. The tension in his chest eased a little. Nevertheless:
“I'm sure you're very professional, but I regret calling at all. This...This just isn't right,” he said.
“Hmm, if you tell me what your concerns are, maybe I can address them directly?”
Jud shifted his weight, the narrow bed beneath him groaning disapprovingly.
“I had no intention of using your services at first,” Jud began hesitantly.
Even before you had taken the call, the moment of temptation had passed, but something must have driven him here in the first place. Surprisingly, you had managed to steady him in this moment of weakness. Perhaps it was a good thing that he ended up with you of all people today. Who was to say that another priest could advise him better in his situation, understand his desire for intimacy more than a sex worker? Maybe it was worth a try.
“I haven't been a priest that long yet,” he explained. “In a previous life, I was a boxer and lived on the streets for a while.”
“Holy shit - Sorry! Sorry. I didn't expect that. The transition must have been quite challenging.”
A small smile crossed Jud's face.
“Yes, it is,” he admitted. “Some things are easier to get used to than others. I love what I do for the people, it fuels me, makes me who I am. But I also struggle with myself sometimes, have to convince myself that some things no longer belong in my life.” He hesitated briefly, his words faltering. “Like...intimacy with another person. Sexuality in general, you know?”
“Are you talking about...celibacy?” Your voice suddenly sounded stiffer, slower, as if you couldn't quite follow him. The warmth was still there, but it wasn't radiating as strongly anymore.
“Yes, I assumed that your other clients from clergy seek out this service for similar reasons. It’s not just that you miss, um, the act itself, it’s also about the connection with another person.“
There was dead silence on the other end of the line. His hands began to sweat. Had he said something wrong?
“Wait a minute - what kind of service are you looking for exactly?”
An uneasy feeling rose in the pit of his stomach, just like in training, right before he had to step into the ring.
“Well, I think the website said something about voices for every fantasy...or, uh, something like that.”
Another beat of silence. Then:
“Are you talking about phone sex?”
Phone sex. Hearing the term so plainly and bluntly from someone else’s mouth felt like the cold shower Jud needed. The accumulated weight of regret he had felt briefly at the beginning came rushing back, hitting him like a cold wave.
“Well, erm...yes? I - I think so,” he stammered. “I stumbled across your website, but it was a stupid idea and that’s why I didn’t want to…ah. Yes.”
You paused for a moment. The quiet stretched on for an eternity. Then, finally, you said:
“The only thing you’ll find on my website are photos of stained glass windows.”
Jud didn't understand, your words came through to him over the phone, but they formed no sense in his mind.
“I'm an artist, not a sex worker. When you mentioned an ad, I thought you wanted to place an order for a restoration or redesign of windows, like other churches,” you explained calmly.
Artist. Not sex worker. Slowly, the realization sunk in. And to Jud's horror, you confirmed exactly what he had just figured out.
“I think you have the wrong num -“
He hung up before you could finish the sentence.
In the following days, Jud Duplenticy experienced what was essentially a hell on earth designed specifically for him. The confession did not lighten his conscience by even the weight of a single feather. Not only did he have to confess his impure thoughts, he also had to explain the misunderstanding and relive it all over again. He knew that Bishop Langstrom did not condemn him (which was why he had asked him to take his confession), but the smirk that his Excellency suppressed after they had finished their conversation didn't escape Jud‘s notice. Again and again, he picked up his phone, ready to tap your number in his call list to apologize, and each time he lost the courage to do so, sinking into a new spiral of shame.
It was only about a week later that Jud managed to find a moment of peace. He had offered his help in tending the gardens during his lunch break. In a secluded part of the grounds, he dug through the damp earth, weeding the flower beds. The midday sun warmed his skin below the rolled-up shirt sleeves, fresh air and silence soothed his soul. Unfortunately, the latter did not last long, as a mechanical ringing sounded through the garden, shattering the idyll.
“Hello?”
Jud's voice came through muffled from the phone he'd wedged between his shoulder and head, pulling off one gardening glove, the other still between his teeth, which he'd taken off to answer the call.
“Hi, it's me,” you said on the other end. When Jud didn't react, you added: “The artist slash presumed sex worker.”
With a soft plop, the glove fell from Jud's open mouth into the flower bed. He managed a weak greeting in response to yours, but then fell silent immediately. Now he severely regretted not having found the guts to reach out to you when he had a rehearsed apology ready. This call caught him completely off guard.
"I've been thinking about our conversation the other night for a few days now and came to the conclusion that, in true priestly fashion, you're probably beating yourself up over this silly mix-up. So I've decided to offer you the only way out I can: I forgive you."
Jud had expected just about anything: anger, accusations, questions, laughter. Unsolicited forgiveness had not been part of the scenarios his guilt-ridden brain had come up with in great detail.
“Why?” he asked.
“I'm no expert, but forgiveness is one of the virtues taught by the Church, isn't it? Besides, I wasn't offended. Looking back, I find it quite funny, to be honest.”
“Well, I couldn't really laugh about it.”
“A priest trying to hire a woman named Lilith for an erotic encounter, come on! That sounds like the beginning of a bad joke that people crack after three beers at the local bar.“
You laughed and the sound spread through Jud like the warmth of the sun, from the roots of his hair to his toes. He couldn't suppress a small smile.
“Thanks,” he said.
“It was easy,” you replied, now more serious again, “You seemed like you just needed someone to talk to, to be honest. If you want…”
You left the end of the sentence hanging in the air, a sincere offer.
“Oh, no! That's very kind, but I um...no,” Jud declined, even though a small part of him wanted to accept. The part of his soul whose desire for honesty was stronger than his sense of embarrassment.
“Okay.”
You paused. Jud's fingers rubbed nervously over the leather of his gloves. He was unsure how to end this call. Or whether he even really wanted to.
“Can I ask you a question?” you asked, resolving the matter for him.
Jud straightened up, reverting to his natural demeanor as a priest. Always ready to help, to serve.
“Of course.”
“What makes a boxer follow the path to priesthood?”
Over the next few months something strange happened, even weirder than the mix-up and the forgiveness that followed: somehow, against all odds, you became friends.
After Jud had answered some of your questions in the garden - his life story had undoubtedly piqued your interest - he called you again a few days later. It bothered him that he never formally apologized to you, he claimed, and another conversation ensued. After that, you called him one evening requesting further explanation of some Bible passages that a client wanted to see incorporated into a piece. Although you were accepting more and more commissions for churches, your own relationship with faith remained complicated, which was why you valued a second opinion.
A quick google search led Jud later to your website (the right one this time) and he studied the photos of your artwork in detail. A selection of beautiful stained-glass windows that you had designed or restored for various churches and some other buildings, as well as private customers. He liked how you used color to create mood and the symbolism (whether colors or individual elements) that you skillfully employed; sometimes subtle, sometimes provocative. He hovered the cursor over a tab labeled about me for a while before clicking on it. Relief washed over him when no headshot appeared next to your biography. He didn’t want to know what you looked like. Or rather, he did want to know, and that was precisely where the cross was buried.
Your friendship rested on two simple principles: anonymity and honesty. Since you had been brought together by chance (your version) or divine providence (Jud's version), but only communicated over calls, you never met in real life. Neither of you would recognize the other even if you were standing right in front of each other, giving you the comfort of talking freely. It was easy opening up to someone when you didn't have to look them in the eye, and each of you had qualities that further enhanced this ease. You liked Jud's empathetic nature, how he remained true to his beliefs in forgiveness and love no matter what, his warmth. He liked your wit and open mind, the curiosity driving you to explore the world and people around you without prejudice.
In his brief search to satisfy a certain need, Jud had instead found a loyal friend. However, the harmlessness of this relationship, which he had ascribed it due to the impossibility of ever getting physically close to you, lulled him into a false sense of security. It clouded his perception, made him believe in its innocence, even though he awaited your calls with increasing anticipation and worried about you disproportionately often. The longer he talked to you, the more he nurtured an affection for you that shouldn't grow any further if he didn't want to risk stoking the fire he tried to extinguish.
This dilemma reached its climax on a seemingly random Tuesday evening.
Jud sat on his bed, bathed in the dim light of the meager bedside lamp. For the past hour, he had drunk chamomile tea, read a few pages of a book, and closed it again after five minutes. He had done some breathing exercises, stretched, prayed the rosary a second time, flipped through a church magazine without even registering what he was looking at, and then rearranged and cleaned his entire room. None of these activities showed the desired effect. His thoughts circled incessantly, he was both tired and restless, and yes, that was the biggest problem, also a little bit turned on.
He reached for his phone on the bedside table, read the displayed time, and sighed. It was a stupid idea. You were probably already asleep and there was no guarantee that talking to you would take his mind elsewhere.
His fingertips drummed on the black plastic.
Then he unlocked the display again and tapped on your number at the top of the recent calls list.
It took a while for you to pick up, much longer than usual.
“Jud?”
Your voice sounded distant, a little husky and somehow... a bit out of breath?
“Hello! Hi. Do you have a moment?”
“Well... I, um -” You cleared your throat. There was muffled rustling in the background. “I guess?“
Jud frowned. Something was wrong. You normally had no trouble finding words, always the direct one out of you two. Sometimes a little too direct, even though he liked that about you. On the other hand, was there anything he didn't like about you?
“Is everything okay?” he asked concerned.
“Oh, yes! I was just, um...lying in bed.”
The guilt set in immediately. Of course you were lying in bed, he shouldn’t have called you so late in the evening.
“Oh! I’m so sorry. Did I wake you?”
“No, no! I was just... well, I - um... actually, uh.” You stopped, exhaling sharply through your nose, annoyed with yourself. Then you took a deep breath and whispered quietly but clearly, this time without stuttering:
“Actually, I was just masturbating.”
Your statement reached Jud's ears, but it took him a moment to comprehend what you had just revealed to him. It wasn't unusual for people to share details about their sex lives with him during confession. But this wasn't confession and he wasn't your priest.
“Oh. OH. Sorry, should I - um - should I hang up?”
Jud ran his hand over his face and pinched his eyes shut. So much for the idea that talking to you would distract him. Involuntarily, an image rose in his mind of unfamiliar hands digging into a sheet, caressing naked skin. The husky tone in your voice - did it always sound like that when you touched yourself? He banged the back of his head against the headboard, a futile attempt to knock these indecent thoughts out of him.
“It's okay,” you said, a slight smile on your lips, back to your usual temperament. “To be honest, it reminds me a bit of how we met, only with reversed roles in a way.“
“Please don't remind me, I have no idea what came over me that evening,” he groaned, his eyes still covered. The mixture of desire and shame that had risen within him now shifted almost entirely to shame.
“Oh for sure! You were so nervous and completely clueless.”
Your giggle echoed through the line. The sound loosened the knot in his throat a little, enough that he dared to open his eyes again.
„Hey, you can't blame me for that! I mean, how is something like that even supposed work?"
“Well, you can give each other instructions on what to do,” you answered his question, although it was meant to be rhetorical, “but you can also just listen and let the other person describe what they’re doing to themselves.”
The last sentence lingered suggestive in the air. Your playful tone had given way to tense silence. Nervously, Jud listened to the static crackling on the other end, letting your words resonate within him. Describing what you did to yourself, turning the other person into an uninvolved, almost innocent audience. Sharing your own pleasure without the other person having to break any disciplines. He swallowed hard, heat creeping up his neck.
“So, like you describing to me what you were doing before I called,” he murmured.
“Yes,” you said. Your voice now soft - not shy, but rather full of anticipation.
A test, it struck him.
This is a test, and the only right thing to do now would be to say goodbye and hang up. He had to put an end to this temptation before he crossed a line that could not be undone. Something that would not only weighed on his faith, but could also sever your delicately woven bond of friendship. He had to hang up.
Instead, he heard himself whisper:
“For example?”
His heart raced so fast he could hear the blood rushing in his ears. A thick silence settled over the room, pressing down on his lungs. No air to breathe, only your voice keeping him alive.
“For example,” you began, barely a whisper, “I took off everything except my underwear and T-shirt, slipped under the covers...” You paused briefly, unsure whether you should continue, if you were allowed to continue. When he didn't dissuade you, you proceeded: “Let my hands wander over my body.”
“Where?” he murmured.
The question left his mind as easily as a raindrop falling. Gravity, attraction. Simply Unstoppable.
“My neck... my breasts - hmm, my stomach. Moving lower -”
Your voice trailed off. Jud imagined fingers gliding over your bare body, lower and lower until -
“Jud... I -” you mumbled. Your voice trembled slightly, your breathing quickened.
“Don’t stop.”
The plea just slipped out. He waited in awe for your heavy breathing, the moan you tried to suppress as you slid your fingers under the waistband of your panties.
“Keep going,” he begged. “Please.”
Jud closed his eyes, concentrating on the lustful sounds coming from you, pressing the phone against his ear as close as possible to not miss a single one of your sighs.
It was obscene, it was human, it was breathtaking.
You gave yourself fully to your desire while Jud listened. Sounds of pleasure, gasps and quiet moans, shaky breathing poured through the phone. He breathed harder, in harmony with you, but unlike you, he fought the urge to touch himself. If he broke his celibacy now, he would have to make a confession tomorrow and this intimate moment between you would be destroyed. He wanted to be a part of your pleasure, hear you moan as you tipped over the edge, and seal this sound away inside him forever.
You grew louder, your breathing hastened, until you reached your climax with a tembling oh god. A shattering sound that washed over him like a powerful wave, knocking him off his feet and spitting him out again. Sweat dampened Jud‘s clerical collar without him having lifted a single finger.
The very next morning, less than five hours later, he went to confession. Jud omitted the part of the story where a phone call with you had escalated into a voyeuristic-erotic experience and told the priest in the confessional a version in which he had been tempted and given in to unchaste thoughts. The man granted him absolution, comforted him by saying that all clergymen struggled with such thoughts and needs from time to time, congratulated him for his fortitude in not going further, and advised him to focus on his calling. Which Jud did.
Unfortunately, when he ignored your calls, he could neither lie to God nor to himself that he was doing so for a noble reason. The truth was simple: he was scared. Dealing with the guilt of struggling to keep his vow of chastity was something he had to work out between himself and God. But the fact that he had broken the innocence of your friendship by using you for his desires weighed heavy on him. He knew he had to fix the situation, but it took him a few days to gather the courage he needed.
This time he called you first. Jud had prepared the words beforehand and sought refuge in the most secluded part of the garden, the place he felt safest beyond the walls of his room (which stirred up too many memories of you). Sheltered beneath the green of trees, he felt liberated and, above all, unobserved enough to openly address this delicate matter.
The first dial tone hadn't even faded before you picked up.
The next few minutes were a jumble of apologies, clarifications, and forgiveness. Clear words alternated with guilty stutters and relieved, albeit still timid, laughter. Nothing had changed regarding your friendship; you didn't consider him a perverted priest and he didn't accuse you of seducing him into sin. None of your fears turned into bitter reality. The clear air and relief of his conscience towards you made Jud a little light-headed. The two of you joked that the purpose of your first encounter had been fulfilled after all, just differently than expected.
“That was by far the dumbest thing I’ve ever done,” you muttered, your tone not entirely convincing.
“Yes, so dumb,” Jud echoed.
The leaves above him rustled, raindrops began to fall on the small awning above him, but he hardly noticed. In his mind, scenes from that very night played out, one that would never be repeated. A stupid fantasy, indeed. You, completely vulnerable and eager to open yourself up to him, to make him the sole audience for your desire, touching yourself and - suddenly, his mouth felt dry, his pants a little tighter. The rising wind offered no relief from the heat growing within him.
“Jud?”
When you started speaking again, your voice was rough and quiet, carefully testing the waters.
“Yes?”
“Do you want to...do it again?”
It was embarrassing how quickly the pleading yes escaped his lips.
Going forward, two things changed. Firstly, Jud went to confession more often than before. Not so often that it was noteworthy, but often enough that a small portion of shame and guilt almost became part of his priest's robe. Secondly, he stopped ignoring your calls on days that followed erotically charged conversations.
You were still friends who confided in each other about all the major and minor aspects of your lives. You still shared stories, reflected on your problems together, analyzed doubts and dreams, laughed over silly jokes, and recommended music, books, or movies to each other. Sometimes, however, Jud just listened to you touching yourself. The only moments when he felt this kind of intimate connection without breaking his vow of celibacy in a physical way. It was pure martyrdom, pure indulgence. Surprisingly, apart from the vow, nothing about it felt like the sinful seduction, which one might ascribe to the arrangement when viewed from an outsider's perspective. You were simply two people sharing every aspect of their lives, including their sexuality. Natural. Human.
But one evening, Jud pushed it too far.
He probably shouldn't have answered your call in the first place. Last week, you mentioned in passing that a friend had given you some expensive black lingerie, an attempt to bribe you into accompanying her to a new bar in the neighboring town. According to her, the amount of time you spent working on your current project in a church had apparently led you to believe that you, too, had to remain celibate. The thought of you, dressed in sexy lingerie (temptation), flirting with a stranger (anger) kept Jud's mind spinning and his emotions in turmoil.
Your phone call had actually started quite harmless, you spoke about your difficulties with the project in question and the conflicts within the church administration regarding your artistic vision. But one topic led to another and you ended up talking about former relationships, which, to your surprise, Jud had a few of. Perhaps it was less a surprise and more envy. Jealousy towards the people he had freely given himself to when that opportunity still existed.
“I'm sure you had no shortage of suitors, but phone sex was obviously not part of the package,” you teased him, alluding to how you met, in order to distract yourself from this nagging feeling.
“Not really,” Jud replied. “One of my exes wanted to try it once, but I was terrible. How do you start a conversation like that without sounding unnatural or creepy?
He grimaced at the memory.
“Well, a safe bet would be to start by asking what the other person is wearing,” you answered his question much more honestly than you intended. When you realized in what risky direction you had steered the conversation, you added: “But that would be a waste of time with you. I bet you’re lying in bed wearing full black priest’s getup again.”
Jud glanced down at himself. Black socks. Black trousers. Black button-down. His belt (also black) rested on the nightstand, and the sleeves of his shirt were casually rolled up. Bull's-eye. Only the white clerical collar stood out.
“Well then, what are you wearing?”
Before Jud noticed what his question implied - that he had basically hit on you with a standard opening line for phone sex - it was already too late. Nervous, he chewed on his bottom lip.
“Coincidentally, the perfect outfit for an erotic phone call,” you said a little more hushed. “I'm getting changed right now and am basically just in underwear.“
A single question lit up in his mind. But he couldn't possibly ask that. He had to say something else, anything else, a harmless compliment or a distraction, just not the question that was most pressing on his tongue right now.
“What color?” he whispered.
“Black.”
Black. Of all things. The expensive underwear you were supposed to wear when you met other men at your local bar (with a devil theme, how ironic), flirting with them, maybe even taking them home with you. But you didn't wear it for other people. You wore it while calling him. Was it so wrong of Jud to get carried away for a moment and believe you were wearing it for him?
A slight pause, then your voice, with a hint of promise and vulnerability, capturing his full attention: “Jud, what do you want me to do?”
A million possibilities rushed through his mind. I want you to get dressed and make some tea so we can end this day on a calm note. I want you to hang up and go out with your friends instead of spending your Saturday night on the phone with a priest. I want you to stop telling me all these things about your life that make me want to be a part of it. I want to stop thinking about you all the time. That's what he should have said.
But that would have been a lie and priests don't lie.
“I want you to take it off,” he murmured.
The events flowed into each other like the unstoppable waves of the sea, following their natural rhythm. Jud couldn't say exactly how it had come about, all he could hear now was your voice clouded with lust. Today you appeared more agitated than usual, repeatedly pushing yourself to the edge only to stop or slow down again. You had already come once and felt more sensitive than before, but that hadn’t satisfied you yet. It was the sweetest torture for Jud. His arousal was almost painful, his trousers uncomfortably tight.
“Oh god, I'm so wet,” you moaned into his ear, earning a stifled groan from him.
He needed relief, however small, or he would give in. With trembling fingers, he pushed up his shirt a little and unbuttoned his trousers, making room for his arousal. His knuckles accidentally brushed against it, a feather-light touch that, against the backdrop of your heavy breathing, sent a shiver through him.
“It feels so - so good,“ you mumbled.
Yes, it did. It had been ages since anyone had touched him like that, since he had touched himself that way. When he closed his eyes, he could imagine your hand teasing his skin. Before Jud managed to gather his thoughts again, his hand reached down, gliding up a single long stroke. Pure pleasure shot through him. A low groan he had held for far to long poured from the back of his throat. Your reaction followed immediately, your breathing quickened, having picked up the pace, whimpering and begging for release. Hearing how his own arousal stirred you felt overwhelming. When you moaned his name, something you had never dared before as it felt too intimate, all restraint was lost.
He was at your mercy, body and soul.
The last remnants of control Jud believed himself capable of exercising vanished. Hearing his name on your lips this way fundamentally rewired his brain. The hand he imagined was yours slid over his length, sweat dripped down his neck, trickling over his tattoo. Fueled by each other's sounds, you pushed each other further, getting closer to heaven. There was only the touch, the heat, the breathy moans of the other. It felt so good that Jud swore he could see stars. His brows were furrowed in concentration, he was so close to reaching fulfillment already that he could almost taste it.
Just a little more. A single touch from you. Please.
“I want you so much,“ he blurted out.
Your answer was a rambled mess of affirming words and some profanity. Your breathing quickened, Jud knew you were just as close as he. But then you managed to utter a husky, barely audible sentence:
“You have me.”
That was all it took to push him over the edge. A jolt shot through his body and twitching, whining, he spilled over himself. Your climax poured out of the phone shortly after, a divine sound leaving Jud temporarily in a cloud of pure bliss before abruptly pulling him back to reality. His pulse pounded in his ears, his breathing still somewhat irregular, attempting to calm itself. Slowly yet uncomfortably quickly, Jud realized what had just happened.
He had sex with you.
Not in the conventional way, he hadn't been anywhere near you physically. But you had felt sexual desire for the other, turned each other on and brought each other to climax. You had called out his name and he - he had admitted wanting you. He wanted to sleep with you and if you had been there in the same room at that moment, by God, he would have done it.
The revelation hit him like an uppercut, with brutal force: it had never been just about friendship or desire.
It was about you.
The real danger didn't lie in seeing you, in fantasies of physical intimacy, against which he thought himself safe due to the harmless nature of a phone call. Far more disastrous was the bond formed between your souls, an attachment he should have severed from the very first moment. Selfishly, he had repeatedly found excuses to maintain - no - to strengthen a relationship that would forever remain beyond reality.
And at that moment, he understood that this was precisely why he had to end it. In his heart, he believed God would never punish him for a feeling of true affection, that his love was enough for both his mission to serve God, the world, and you. However, he also recognized the commitment he had made to God and the Church, accepting principles that conflicted with his desire of loving freely. He was accountable not only to Christ, but to the Church as an institution, and even if He approved of this connection, it would still be impossible in the eyes of the later. A game of hide-and-seek for a relationship that only took place over the phone - neither he nor you deserved that. Delaying the inevitable end of this relationship would just be unfair to you.
This time it felt like a punch in the gut. He had to hurt you in order to protect you from longer suffering, but you would feel used, without him being able to soothe that pain. The thought was agonizing.
Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner.
“Jud?” Your voice reached him only faintly. “Are you okay?”
“I, um - I'm so sorry, but I have to go. Sleep well, okay?”
You took a breath, about to reply, but he hung up.
Coward.
The next morning, Jud's fist struck the Deacon's face.
The gossip indicated at least some agreement that this confrontation had been in the making for a long time; everyone knew that Deacon Clark was a prick, but Jud knew his reaction would have been not as drastic on any other day. Before entering the gym, where he was about to give his statement on the incident, he sent you a text message. It was quite detailed and well written: warm tone, understanding, explaining the difficulty of the situation without resorting to blame or clichés, rounded off with honest wishes for your happy future. Yet the essence could be reduced to a single sentence: Whatever we had is over.
When Bishop Langstrom informed him of the committee's decision, it seemed like a sign. The task Jud was given, the relocation - as if God was telling him to take a new path and lay the past to rest. He should devote himself to his work, refocus on the calling he had taken the priesthood for. Not question some rules attached to the title and long for an unattainable bond.
As it turned out, Our Lady of Perpetual Fortitude had some trials of her own in store for him, and Jud faced them even more eagerly in light of his recent failings. He wasn't going to stray from his path again. With shame, he thought of this good intention as he stood in front of shattered glass from the window he'd smashed the previous night after getting pretty toasty.
“Rowdy teenagers, riots,” Martha grumbled as she swept the shards into a bucket.
“Should we, um, call someone about the repair?"
Guilty, Jud scratched his dark curls.
“With Easter so close, no contractors will take on new jobs, but I’ve contacted someone in town who’s just returned from a long work trip and might be able to lend a hand at short notice,“ Martha replied. “Even though it makes me sick to ask that harlot for help.“
Before Jud could follow up on what she meant by that, the church doors burst open with a crash and a gentle, albeit somewhat teasing voice echoed from the stone walls, filling the whole building.
“Would you look at that, Martha? I crossed over the church’s threshold and didn’t burst into flames.”
You strode toward Martha, swinging your arms in a broad gesture inviting her to examine your unharmed body. Jud noticed the vigor in your step, the playful sparkle in your eyes - if not for the thousand other things going through his mind at that moment, he might have admitted how attractive he found you.
“Yes, yes,” Martha growled as Jud helped her to her feet. Annoyed, she brushed off her black skirt.
Meanwhile, you had walked over to the broken window and greeting Jud with a friendly nod, before inspecting the damage with raised eyebrows.
“Well, I don't know what you expect me to do here, but there's no way I can fix this in a day. Especially not with my amateur knowledge of installation and the materials I have in my shed.”
Something about you evoked an association in Jud that he couldn't quite put his finger on. His brain was working overtime, but to no avail.
“So you're not a contractor?,” he asked.
“Lilith is an artist,” Martha answered in your stead, emphasizing the last word with a condescending intonation. Although the whole sentence had a single condescending emphasis.
She stepped up to you, eager to negotiate the possibility of repair with you, completely oblivious to the fact that she had just pulled the rug out from under Father Jud. He had quite a bit of trouble controlling his heart and utterly shocked expression. It felt as if God had tilted the axis of the earth out of alignment, and no one noticed but him.
“Lilith?” he choked out.
“Just a creative alias that kind of stuck, don’t worry,” you called back over your shoulder, then carried on discussing realistic work output with Martha. You argued a little about the ratio of time, effort, and your abilities until Martha eventually gave in to your reasoning and abandoned her ideas as unfeasible, since you completely agreed with Samson's earlier assessment of the situation. He would have to seal the window with tape or boards until a professional company could install a replacement.
Jud couldn't hear a single word. Your request not to worry fell on deaf ears, because at that very moment he realized what he had only suspected before.
Your alias from when you started painting glas, which had somehow gained traction (Lillith), your work for churches that you never offered to your local church because there was some tension with the Monsignor (Wicks), your favorite bar with the devil theme (Nikolai's bar il diavolo), your home town you only moved back to because you inherited a house (Chimney Rock). The pieces of this puzzle that was your life, which Jud had so often wished to solve, all fell into place. But he didn't like the picture they formed one bit.
It was the worst case scenario.
After breaking off contact, he had hoped - prayed - that he would never cross paths with you again, and even if he did, that he wouldn't recognize you. He had hoped that - as awful as it sounded - even in such a scenario, he simply wasn't attracted to your looks, that your presence in person was different, that the fantasy would lose all its appeal and the spell would be broken.
But you were here, in Our Lady of Perpetual Fortitude, in his church, right in front of him, and he knew it. He knew it was you, and looking at you for the first time now, you were just as you always had been:
Created to fall in love with.
It would be so easy for Jud to reach out and touch your face, to hold you in his arms, as he had so often longed to do. No. He couldn't. That was why he had came here in the first place.
But why did God send him to Chimney Rock, reminding him of his mission, and then deliver you into this very church? The sunlight pouring through the broken window enveloped you in an almost golden glow, as if to say:
Here she is, I have sent her to you once again.
If you enjoyed reading this, I would be ⭒delighted⭒ if you would let me know by leaving a heart, reblog or comment! c:
Taglist: @eliosberry
Want to find out what happens next? Read Part II here!
Description: Percy Weasley has been avoiding her and that will certainly not do.
Percy had been acting weird, not normal Percy weird, more like nervous schoolboy weird. And while Percy behaving strangely wouldn’t have worried Elle any other year, this year it was getting in her way. He was supposed to be her distraction, instead he was avoiding her. She was sure he couldn’t still be annoyed about her disappearing a few days ago. His kiss was enough to prove that. Yet, since then he hadn’t said a word, and ignored her invitations. She yanked her jumper over her head so hard it ripped. It was all she could do not to scream.
As she changed one black jumper to the next, she glanced out the window at the pouring rain. It was only one more thing to glare about. First Quidditch match of the year and she was going to be working in the rain, without warm lips to come back to.
“Hurry up, I want a good seat,” Dinah called.
“I’m coming, I’m coming,” Elle responded stepping out of the bathroom and grabbing her slicker.
“Wow, that’s some incredible house spirit,” Dinah said, noting her black jumper.
“I’m neutral.”
“Sure, until we win and then you drink like the rest of us.”
“Details, details.”
“Just make sure you take care of our team faster than theirs. I have a bet with Quinn, and I do not have the funds for a loss.” Elle rolled her eyes; this was the same conversation they had before every Quidditch match since Elle had started working for Madam Pomfrey in her fourth year.
“Do you want me to promise and lie, or just stay quiet.” Dinah only smacked her with her umbrella in response. “What’s the bet today?”
“Hufflepuff wins due to Gryffindor losing its seeker to an unforeseen injury.”
“You really have to stop betting on details and stick to just the winner.”
“Harry hasn’t been injured for ages.”
“Have you seen the weather; you could be injured in that storm.”
“It’s not that bad,” Dinah says as they pushed the door open, stepping into the torrent outside. The heavy oak pushed them back as the rain instantly soaked them.
“You were saying?” Elle yelled over the wind.
“Shut up,” Dinah yelled back, ducking her head as they marched towards the Quidditch pitch. They were halfway to the pitch when Elle realized she had left her wand sitting on the windowsill by her bed.
“Fuck, I forgot my wand,” she yelled.
“What?”
“I forgot my wand,” she yelled again, making a motion with her hand. “I’ll see you after the game.” Dinah waved her away as she continued her trek towards the pitch. Elle turned and ran back towards the castle, the wind pushing against her back all the way. She yanked open the doors and smacked right into the boy who had been avoiding her. His eyes widened and she accidentally glared.
“Elle-.”
“Move it Weasley, I’m on a deadline.”
“Wait-.”
“No, you’ll have to wait, I forgot my wand,” she growled pushing past him.
“Accio wand,” he announced, “Now, do you have a moment?” She whipped around. He’d been avoiding her, and now he had time to talk.
“Listen here, Percy Weasley, I don’t know who you think you are but-.” And then he was kissing her, right in the middle of the corridor, as if he didn’t give a damn about who came around the corner. She yanked herself away despite not wanting to.
“I’m sorry, they’ve got me following Potter. I haven’t been able to get away,” he said, catching her wand before handing it to her. She licked her teeth and glanced over her shoulder for anyone who might be watching, and then grabbed him by the tie kissing him again. When she pulled away, they were both grinning.
“Restricted section, after the game?” He kissed her again and she took that as a resounding yes. He pushed open the door for her and they both stepped back into the pouring rain that didn’t seem as cold as it did before.
When they reached the pitch, they waved their goodbyes and she slipped into the locker room, searching for Wood. She passed the girls changing and marched into the boy’s locker room.
“Wood!” she hollered, peaking around corners. She ran into the twins who both grinned but pointed her in the right direction without a suggestive comment from either, it seemed they remembered her threat from the last time they had crossed paths. “Wood.”
“Jesus Elle, you’re not supposed to be in here.”
“Oh shove it, I’m here to warn you.”
“About what?” he asked with a cocky grin and she slugged him in the arm.
“Listen, I know you like to take risks, don’t, not with the way it looks out there today.”
“Elle-.”
“Don’t argue with me. Just know there are two ways to fix broken bones, easy ways and hard ways, don’t make it the hard way.”
“You really know how write pep talk.”
“Shut up and win.” With that she walked out, noting Harry as she went and praying that Dinah would be winning money her bet today. She walked onto the pitch and winced at the spray of rain before finding Poppy in the medical tent.
“They shouldn’t be playing today,” the nurse fussed, and Elle nodded, glancing up at the sky.
“I couldn’t agree more.” She prepped everything they might need and sat at the edge of the tent, just out of reach of the rain. As she waited for the players to enter the arena she searched for Percy among the crowds. It wasn’t until Hufflepuff stepped out that she found his ginger curls whipping around in the wind, but she didn’t have long to stare before Madam Hooch tossed the quaffle into the air and the game began.
For being the worst weather she had ever seen, the first half of the game was without much injury. It seemed Wood had headed her warning (there was a first for everything). It wasn’t until the end of Katie Bell’s broom was struck with lightning that Elle was forced to make her way onto the field. She quickly put out the fire and checked the chaser over.
“All clear,” she yelled over the wind and then Katie was gone, back into the downpour the moment she was cleared. Elle returned to the tent only to run back out a few moments later as one of the Hufflepuff beaters was struck by lightning and came crashing down.
He wasn’t getting back on his broom anytime soon. She dragged him and his broom through the mud towards the tent and then levitated him onto a stretcher. She poured a thick white mixture into a cup and tipped it against his lips. Even through unconsciousness his nose scrunched at the smell, but she tipped his head back and poured it down his throat anyway. She was checking him over when she heard the gasps from outside.
She rushed into the rain just in time to see Harry hit the ground and Hufflepuff win the game. It seemed Quinn was going to be making her money today.
She dropped to her knees and checked for a pulse, shocked to find how cold he was. No bones seemed to be broken and he had only suffered from a few minor scrapes and bruises.
“Poppy,” she hollered over the rain, “Bring the stretcher.” She raised the boy onto the stretcher and glanced wearily around at the students watching her. She yanked her attention away from them and back to Harry. “We need to get him warm, but other that he should be fine. Someone stopped him from hitting the ground hard enough for it to cause any damage.” Poppy nodded as she levitated the stretcher towards the castle. Elle rushed back inside and waited for the rest of the teams to wander through for their checks.
No one seemed particularly cheerful as they wandered through her tent. Whether that was the loss or the dementors she couldn’t be sure, but from the gloomy looks on the Hufflepuff team’s faces she guessed the latter. Everyone seemed to be fine but she asked Katie to stop by the Hospital Wing for a quick check up, just to make sure, and then levitated the Hufflepuff boy back to the castle.
Both teams had beat her back, and the Hufflepuffs were waiting patiently for their teammate.
“He should be awake in a few minutes,” she assured them before finding Poppy. The nurse sent her away, assuring her that there was nothing more she could do. She checked just to make sure, but Poppy had no problem swatting her away from patients either. She grinned and turned, doing her best not to sprint out of the Hospital Wing and towards the Restricted Section. However, she was intercepted on her way by a pair of cold hands and warm lips.
“I thought we agreed the Restricted Section?”
“Too far,” he murmured against her lips, locking the door behind him before pushing her against it. “How long will he be in the Hospital Wing?”
“A couple more hours at least.”
“Perfect,” he said before pulling her close again. He was almost as famished as she was as he hoisted her up and set her on a desk. His hands slipped beneath her jumper and she jumped at the cold tips of his fingers. “Are you okay?”
“Your hands are just cold,” she laughed grabbing his hands in hers and blowing softy. She could feel him shiver against her breath. She glanced up to meet his eyes before dropping his hands to cup his face before kissing him again. Warmer hands dropped back to the hem of her jumper before finding her skin once more. This time, instead of jumping away, she leaned in closer, relishing the feeling of his fingers creeping along the dips of her stomach. He peeled off her jumper and goosebumps followed his touch to the band of her bra.
She tilted her head as his lips found her neck and tugged on his curls, still damp from the rain. She was vaguely aware of his fingers tracing the band around to the clasp. He fumbled with it before giving up and simply resting his hand beneath the fabric. His other hand found her thigh, pulling it up against his waist. The denim stretched against the apex of her thighs as he pulled her closer.
“Elle,” he whispered against her skin and she pushed him away only to pull his lips to hers.
“Never again Percy Weasley, you hear me?” she asked against his lips, but he only cocked his hand in confusion. He pulled his hands away, as if he had done something wrong, but she caught him before he could fully retreat. “Never again will you ditch me like that,” she said before kissing him again. She pulled away once more to study his face, “Do you understand me?”
“Crystal clear.”
Excellent,” she laughed, emphasizing her pleasure with a harsh kiss to his jaw. She traced her thumb over the spot where she had kissed him moments before. “Excellent,” she repeated.
“You’re excellent, and trust me, if I’m stupid enough to disappear again I will cast the curse for you.” She grinned and wrapped her legs around his waist, yanking him closer. Tangling her fingers in his hair, she breathed him in, drowning in the euphoria of warm lips while thunder crashed around them.
Summary: Not all Halloween horrors require a mask.
Warnings: fluff, angst
MASTERLIST
horror -n- the thought of you missing
***
It was Halloween and it seemed everyone they knew was at Hogsmeade. Everyone except for them of course. While even Percy enjoyed the occasionally butterbeer at the Three Broomsticks, having Elle in his lap, legs wrapped around his waist as she kissed his neck made him drunker than even the strongest fire whiskey.
And she was wearing black lingerie.
Of course, they had studied at first, for five hours they did nothing but work, but the moment she got bored she feigned heat was getting to her and her shirt came off. That was the end of studying, not that Percy would have been able to focus anyway. Now his mind was practically liquid. That however did not stop him from worrying.
“Elle?”
“Yeah?” she asked, lips still pressed to her neck.
“You didn’t want to go to Hogsmeade?” God, he really couldn’t just enjoy anything could he?
“Nah, until The Weird Sisters or Green Day start playing in the square it’s not really my scene.”
“Green Day?”
“Muggle band, don’t worry about it. Why? Am I boring you?” Grand, now he had offended her.
“No, no of course not. I just-.”
“I’m kidding,” she laughed before kissing him softly. She pulled away and he tucked a piece of hair that had fallen from her braid behind her ear. She shifted in his lap, avoiding his eyes as he did so.
“Why braids?” She paused before answering, and Percy was sure she was considering whether to tell him to mind his own business or answer truthfully.
“Mostly because my mother doesn’t like them.” She had gone with the truth.
“And the rest?”
“Because I like doing them. It’s meditative.” Percy snorted; she didn’t seem like the type to even consider meditation. She quirked an eyebrow. “Don’t believe me.”
“I just can’t imagine you meditating.”
“Not that type of meditating, you dolt. Here, you try.” She began unbraiding her hair, pulling the elastics onto his wrist.
“I don’t know how to braid hair,” he stuttered, and she rolled her eyes.
“I figured. Don’t worry, I’ll show you.” She finished pulling out her hair on one side and the turned nimble fingers towards the other. When she was done, he couldn’t stop staring. Her hair was longer than he had once thought, falling almost to the end of her back and the crimped waves made her look almost ethereal. The small fly-aways were her halo, highlighted by the light of the setting sun as it came through the stain glass windows. It was strange how different someone could look based solely on their hair, but Elle was a completely different person. She turned around as she slid off his lap and onto her knees. He swallowed again, doing his best not to think about it. “I’ll do the first side and you watch, and then you’ll do the other okay?” He didn’t fully trust himself to speak, so he simply nodded, completely forgetting she couldn’t see him.
He watched with unadulterated fascination as her fingers pulled hair around itself, twisting and folding tight braids against her scalp and then all the way down her back. He wished she would leave it down, but when she finished, he allowed her hands to guide his, nonetheless. It took him a couple tires to get the pattern right, but when he finished, as she ran her fingers down his work he couldn’t help but feel her appreciation.
“I’m impressed,” she teased, turning around and resting her chin on his knee. He swallowed again, the position had only gotten worse for his concentration.
“Didn’t think I could?” he managed to ask and she laughed.
“I didn’t. Last man to do my hair was my father and the snarls were awful.”
“I like to think I’m better with my hands than your father,” he said, instantly regretting it when she burst out laughing, disgust curling her lip.
“Oh gross! Please, I beg you, don’t compare yourself to my dad.” Percy could feel blush warming his cheeks as she continued to laugh. He would have defended himself, or apologized, or anything to assuage his mistake had a scream not echoed from the hallway. Her laughter died and he jumped up quickly, pulling on his robe.
“I have to go; it might be nothing…”
“But it also might be something.” Percy nodded sullenly, stalking towards the door.
“Go be a hero, Head Boy.” She yanked him down by his tie to kiss him once more before waving him a goodbye.
He grinned and found himself unable to stop until he reached the crowds that had gathered around the Gryffindor portrait. That was when it seemed like he wouldn’t be smiling for the rest of the day.
“I am Head Boy, let me through,” he yelled over the crowd, shoving through layers of younger students. It this was merely impatience he was going to have a fit. First, screaming over nothing and then the audacity of the Fat Lady, it was enough to make even the most levelheaded explode. But when he reached the top and found the three jagged slashes through the portrait he was instantly on high alert. He could hear Dumbledore pushing through crowd as he had, and he did is best to get them to move, but then he was being trampled as someone called, having found the Fat Lady. He pressed himself against the wall as tightly as he could. He took elbows to the stomach and heavy shoes to feet as they all rushed to find their beloved portrait. He tried to join the rush but kept getting shoved back against the wall. He scowled and shoved them to the side, trampling first years as he went. The rumors flew back through the herd and when he finally caught up to Dumbledore he realized they were all true. She was hiding in a field of cows, screaming about Sirius Black in the castle. His eyes widened and he would have run to find Elle in that very moment had Dumbledore not grabbed his arm.
“Mr. Weasley, I would like you to find Professor Lupin and instruct him to find Mr. Potter and then assist in escorting the students down to the Great Hall. They will sleep there tonight.”
“Yes, Professor.” And then he turned, pushing back through the mob. He made his way towards the classroom where he regularly got destroyed. He threw open the door and found Lupin already talking to the boy he was supposed to be watching.
“Percy,” the professor said surprised and Percy quickly straightened his appearance.
“May I speak to you, Professor?” With a brisk nod, Lupin joined him in the hallway. He filled him in quickly, talking as fast as could. He answered all his questions, anxiously waiting for the moment when he would finally send him away. When he did, Percy had never run faster. He grabbed students who still dared to wander the hallways and hurried them towards the Great Hall.
And that’s all he did for the next five hours.
By the time bells were declaring midnight, Percy wanted nothing more than to crash. He had herded third years, stolen points from seventh years who felt above the rules, and assuaged fears of everyone in between. The doors of the Great Hall were shut and locked. He was dreaming of his bed as he half listened to Dumbledore give instructions. He might have fallen asleep while standing up if a scream didn’t echo around the mostly silent hall. He turned to the Gryffindor corner while Dinah was fighting against the hold of Professor Snape.
Students were sitting up from their beds to watch the excitement.
“Go back to bed,” Percy ordered as he walked towards the commotion. He pulled Dinah away from Snape who looked ready to curse her into submission if someone didn’t remove her immediately.
“Dinah-.”
“No, you listen here, Percy Weasley. You and then entire Ministry of Magic can’t stop me, my best friend is out there with a serial killer,” she yelled and Percy froze, he had forgotten about Elle. Dinah almost slipped out of his grasp, but he pulled her back.
“Dinah, you need to stay here.”
“Oh fuck off, I’m going and-.”
“I’m going to go find her, but I need you to stay here.” Dinah eyed him suspiciously before relaxing. He waited a moment, just to make sure she wasn’t going to run, before releasing her. “Now please, go back to bed.” She took a step back, blue eyes never leaving him. “I promise, I’ll find her.”
“If she’s dead, I’ll kill you Weasley,” she snapped and as Percy marched past curious students and nervous professors, he prayed she wasn’t dead, and not only for his sake.
The castle was completely empty, his footsteps echoing against the stone walls. He wanted to be quiet, the thought of being caught by the murderer sending him spiraling. He checked the classroom where he had left her, the astronomy tower, and every classroom in between. Now he was standing in the library, hollering her name now that Madam Pince wasn’t here to scold him. He was about ready to go and fall under Dinah’s knife when his eyes turned to the restricted section.
He pushed open the gate and walked down the dark aisles until he arrived at the end, where the only table in the restricted section resided. And there she was, sleeping on a book. He let out a breath and fell to his knees beside her. He placed a hand on her shoulder and shook her awake. She glanced up; the edge of the book pressed into her cheek.
“Oh hi,” she said sleepily, a yawn stretching across her face.
“Oh hi? Oh hi? I’ve been looking everywhere for you!” he yelled, and she jumped, anger replacing shock as quickly as it had come.
“Last time I checked; I don’t answer to you.”
“Elle-.”
“No, just cause I’m snogging you doesn’t mean that I have answer your every beck and call.”
“Elle-.”
“Stop interrupting, I-.”
“Sirius Black is in the castle.”
“I- wait what?”
“That’s what the screams were about. Sirius Black attacked the Fat Lady. Everyone is in the Great Hall, except you. Dinah was freaking out and I came to find you. That’s why I’ve been searching for you,” he rushed out. He waited for backlash, but the only thing that came was her lips against his. He pulled her closer and he realized, sleep wasn’t really what he needed at all. He relaxed into her hold, pulling her down to the floor.
“Thank you,” she whispered. He nodded, kissing her again, relishing in the feeling of his muscles relaxing at her touch. “I’d give you a proper thank you, but I think you said there’s a murderer in the castle.”
“Of course,” he whispered breathlessly, cursing every word that came out of his mouth. When she was kissing him, he almost didn’t give a damn about Head Boy, or Sirius Black, or anything in between. She helped him up, throwing her bag over her shoulder and leading him out of the library. He was itching to touch her, but he kept his hands by his side, sparing a touch only as he ushered her through the door. She leaned into his hand before pulling away towards the Gryffindor corner, meeting Dinah halfway. He watched as Dinah hugged her and wished he could do the same. Thirty minutes ago, he had been sure she was dead and now he had to give her back up to the masses. He wished he had been able to convince her to stay hidden a bit longer.
He shook his head, that was dangerous thought, one that implied real care, one that study buddies and snog sessions didn’t allow. She glanced over her shoulder as Dinah dragged her away, mouthing one final ‘thank you’. He awkwardly raised his hand before returning to the Professors.
“I’m glad you were able to find Ms. Wilton,” McGonagall whispered, and his eyes shot to hers, nervous that she knew, nervous that everyone knew.
“Uh, yes, me too.” She turned away and Percy breathed deeply before allowing his eyes to wander back Elle and Dinah. They were whispering to one another, sharing a bed mat as they spoke. He turned away before anyone noticed and followed McGonagall towards the rest of the professors, ignoring all instinct to return his gaze and pushing away all dangerous thoughts
Summary: Defense Against the Dark Arts takes a turn for the worst.
Warnings: angst, fluff
MASTERLIST
mirrors -n- eyes that stare back haunt me, but when you join the reflection becomes clear.
***
Professor Lupin quickly became Elle’s favorite teacher. It wasn’t difficult when the rest of her favorites had raging flaws.
Professor Sprout was incessantly bubbly. She never had anything bad to say about anyone, ever. And while many students found that to be a blessing, Elle couldn’t stand it. Nothing said lack of a challenge like a teacher who never gave bad marks. Some days she messed up purpose, begging for a snap, but one never came. She was always full of sweet, encouraging words that never seemed to do Elle’s work justice. Her sole saving grace was that she allowed Elle to wander around the greenhouse after hours if only to understand her garden’s magical properties and the way they could be combined and altered.
Professor McGonagall cared far too much for technique and not enough about creativity. The lion for example, a beautiful display of transfiguration and she was being punished for it. Didn’t matter that no one had ever been able to accomplish that as sixth year, all that mattered was that her technique was off.
And it goes without saying Professor Snape hated her. The only teacher who managed to keep her challenged while still allowing for creativity hated her for the color of her tie. It’s not to say that in the beginning she didn’t try to make him love her work, and she had certainly succeeded, but that didn’t stop him from hating her every being.
Professor Lupin was the wonder of all three. Creative, challenging, and without the obsession of technique, plus he didn’t seem to hate anyone. Her certainly tolerated her and her temper towards her partner.
It didn’t matter that Percy kept her company in empty classrooms, she still wanted nothing more than embarrass in front of everyone who dared to watch. And as she walked into class that beautiful Wednesday morning that was all she had on her mind, beating Percy Weasley into the ground while wide blue eyes asked why.
However, that didn’t seem to be the plan for this particular Wednesday.
Desks were pushed to the sides and a large shaking wardrobe sat in the center.
Clouds were covering her Wednesday morning.
Percy fell into place beside her, a single finger drawing down her arm alerting her to his presence. She would have flinched a month ago, but a month ago she didn’t have the Head Boy touching her whenever he got close enough. There was no romance to it, neither them were stupid enough to fall for that, but it certainly was edging on addiction. When she had first suggested it she had assumed it was simply an attempt to keep her mind busy and to relieve herself of the incessant drive to kiss him again.
Instead of relieving she only wanted more, and from the number of times he had dragged her into the Restricted Section of the library he had once dubbed to pure, she was sure he was suffering from the same craving.
His finger never left her arm until Lupin stepped in from his office, and then he was back to being the perfect child. It was a good thing he did too, because when Lupin announced the creature hiding in that wardrobe, she might have ended anyone who touched her.
The dreaded Boggart.
She considered refusing, storming away and hiding until class was over. But that would be defeat, and she would let Percy Weasley face the thing he feared very most if she wasn’t going to do the same. That would be cowardice and just as her tie stated, she was not a coward.
Lupin reminded that it was just for fun, one last go around before he had it destroyed. There would be no grade, it was just a bit of relaxer, he assured them.
Elle felt anything but relaxed.
She made her way as close to the end as she could manage, head held high. She thought she had gotten past the lesson of Boggarts in her third year without a hitch. Quirrell was too much of a coward to bring live creatures into the classroom so it had been nothing more than bookwork and theory. Now the shaking wardrobe was standing before her, mocking her and Percy, who had somehow ended up behind her, was going to see her fail for the first time ever.
She gnawed her black nails as she drew closer to the front, biting off the carefully grown ends. Five people, then three, and then one. It turned into a ghost, and then as she cast the spell is dropped to the floor like a forgotten bedsheet. She closed her eyes and took a step forward, breathing deeply.
The sheet rose, a body forming beneath it and then with familiar fingers, it pulled the sheet away revealing something that was almost a mirror. She looked the way she should have, the way her mother would have liked it. Classic, a beige two-piece set, nude pumps, no eyeliner. She didn’t have braids, her mother hated those too. Instead it was let loose, long curls, she could imagine a ribbon tying them back She was longer, more fluid this way. And her grey eyes, the ones that always stared back at her in the mirror, were looking at her the same way she looked at Percy Weasley. Her mirror’s wand was out before she could react, and she was flying across the classroom into the desks that had been placed against the wall.
That dreaded fear of the what-could-have-beens. A stronger, more respected witch stared down at her, mocking her as she advanced. Elle yanked her wand out.
“R-riddikulus,” she stuttered, but there was no fun idea to trade out for the fear that kept inching closer. And then, out of the corner of her eye she caught sight Percy, watching with something that fell between terror and apt fascination. She uttered the spell again, determined to beat him, but her mirror kept advancing. “Riddikulus, Riddikulus, Riddikulus,” she screamed until someone stepped in front of her.
She thought it was Lupin at first, until her mirror image turned to Percy’s. The Head Boy stared down his mirror, and with only a slight tremor to his voice raised his wand and uttered the magical words. It dashed into a thousand pieces like she wished it had done for her.
Lupin was speaking but she couldn’t hear a thing. The blood rushing through her ears made her dizzy as Percy turned, and without a hint of arrogance helped her to her feet. She stumbled a little, catching his shoulder as she tipped forwards.
He caught his hand on her waist. It slid beneath her robe and to the small of her back, a small comfort.
“Meet me.”
“Where?”
“Anywhere,” she gasped before pulling away and gathering her things. Lupin tried to talk to her, as did Dinah, but all she wanted to do was run, and that’s what she did. She relished in the sounds of her boots hitting the floor, grateful they weren’t heels.
How could she be so stupid?
She could already hear the rumors they would make about her. The first time she had encountered a boggart she had been eleven. She had whispered the same things to herself that they would whisper to each other. It hadn’t attacked her that first time, it hadn’t felt threatened, not when she terrified at the sight of herself climbing out of an old trunk. She thought she had been going crazy, she had cried to Madam Pomfrey for what seemed like hours, unable to articulate the sight. Eventually everything was explained, and she was excused to go to her room, but she had vowed to beat it, whatever it meant, the next she encountered a boggart it was going to be different.
It clearly wasn’t.
She ran a hand over a braid and charged into Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom, throwing her book bag against the wall, and staring into the mirror. That was who she wanted to see, this was her, not that preppy priss who managed to tower over her with a single raised eyebrow.
Her grey eyes were still lined with black liner and her hair was still tied in two long braids. That mirage was just that, an illusion that existed only within her mind. She punched the mirror, watching as it shattered upon impact. Carelessly, she watched her knuckles bleed before whirling around at the sound of a girlish laugh. Myrtle was peering over a stall, resting her head on her folded arms. Couldn’t she leave someone to angst in peace?
“Fuck off.”
“It’s my bathroom,” she reminded indignantly.
“Fine, I’ll leave.” She huffed and gathered the books that had spilled across the floor during her tantrum. Blood soaked onto the pages and she swore violently. Could this day really get any fucking worse? She slammed open the door again, ignoring the whispers of the girls who had watched her enter the bathroom in the first place.
“I’d be scared if I looked like that too,” one whispered and Elle rolled her eyes. Fucking fourth years. She allowed her gaze to meet the girl who had spoke and pulled out her wand.
“Want to say that to my fucking face?” The fourth year squeaked as she advanced. Elle was convinced she would have ruined those gossiping pricks entire week had Percy not walked around the corner looking for her.
“Elle!” She considered ignoring him but decided snogging in some dark corner would be better for her mood than removing femurs from insolent children. She sent them one last fiery glare before stalking towards Weasley.
If he wanted anything other than snog her, she was going to explode.
She followed him silently, itching to get her hands on that cocky ginger. The moment they turned the corner into an empty corridor, she pounced. He pulled her into a broom cupboard, locking it behind them as she attacked him with lustful ferocity. She ripped open his shirt, black nails raking along pale skin.
“Elle, you’re bleeding,” he muttered breathlessly.
“Fuck, sorry,” she swore. Truth be told, she had forgotten the moment he had stepped into view. She pulled out her wand to heal the cuts, but he had already beat her to it. With soft movements the cuts closed, and the stains disappeared until there was no evidence of the injury. She sucked in a deep breath as he watched her, already itching to kiss him again.
“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked as she grabbed him.
“No,” she mumbled against his lips, but he pushed her away, hands pressing against her shoulders. “Percy, I said I don’t want to talk about it.” She leaped forward again, but he shoved her against the wall. A mop or two clattered to the ground at the impact and she swallowed.
“Sorry,” he muttered, loosening his grip. She wished he hadn’t apologized. “It’s just, you’re not the only one who saw yourself today.” Elle blinked as she thought back to the moments when he had stepped in front of her. He had seemed without fear then, but now he was shifting nervously, unable to meet her eyes. She reached out and took his face more tenderly than she had anticipated. Blue met grey and her stomach rolled uncomfortably.
“Thank you,” she muttered before kissing him. That was uncharacteristically tender too. When she pulled away, he was smiling softly. “And I’m sorry I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Elle, I’m not saying you have to. I just want you to know you’re not the only one who had to face yourself today.” Behind sharp eyes, Elle could feel herself welling up. From the first time she had seen herself staring back she had felt like an enigma that couldn’t be solved. She had been a solitary being, but now Percy, who couldn’t be more different was the same. Her stomach turned again, and she nodded, quickly kissing him before he noticed the tears building in her eyes.
This time he didn’t try to push her away but pulled her closer. She dug her fingers through his hair and didn’t hesitate to respond as he wrapped her legs around his waist, pushing her up against the wall. Fingers slipped beneath her skirt, denting soft skin with hunger.
“Fuck,” she growled as he wrapped a braid around his fist, tugging it until her neck was exposed to soft lips and harsh teeth. She grabbed his shoulders, holding on tightly as he almost hesitantly nipped at her pulse. He ran his mouth up her neck and along her jaw, nipping at her ear until she was moaning his name. He found her lips again to quiet her soft whispers, catching the taste of his name leaving her lips. She wrapped her arms around his neck as he lowered her legs, pulling him tighter against her lips.
“Good talk,” he muttered when they pulled away for air and she laughed.
“Excellent talk, best one we’ve had yet.”
“Shall we talk some more?”
“McGonagall’s going to hang us.”
“I’ve already explained it to her. You’ve ran off and I’ve gone to check on you, it’s terribly tragic really,” he whispered, and she grinned before pressing herself against him once more.
“I knew I was snogging a genius.” And then they proceeded to talk much, much more.
