summary: your ex-husband is absolutely insufferable when picking up your kids
content: ex-husband!george , flirting , sexual tension , mentions of sex and past experiences , swearing , children
notes: first ex-husband!george fic i’m so excited for this AU hehe // cooked this up rlly quickly because i wont be posting tomorrow, hopefully this is good enough as an intro to their dynamic xx
THE KIDS WERE driving you up the walls. Charlotte was bouncing off the walls, too focused on doing some Just Dance routine that was blaring obnoxiously loud from the television, and Joey was bawling his eyes out in his room, frustrated because you told him he couldn’t take his entire playmobile play-set with him to his dads.
“Joey, baby, you have one at daddy’s house.” You said calmly to the four-year-old.
“Not the same!” He wailed, trying to drag it out of his room but you stopped him.
“Charlotte! Have you packed your bag?!”
“Not yet, mummy!” The eight-year-old shouted.
“Well go and do it then!” You snapped.
“No! I’m dancing.”
“For fucks sake.” You muttered, forcefully tearing Joey’s hand off of his play-set, making him screech loudly. “No, go downstairs.”
“No!”
“Joey.”
“No!”
The doorbell rang then, only adding to your multitude of stress.
You let Joey go, leaving him to cling to his toys while jogging down the stairs. While brushing through the living room, you took the TV remote and turned it off, keeping it in your hand.
“Mummy! I was doing that!”
“Go and pack your bag.”
She stuck her tongue out at you but bounded up the stairs.
You unlocked the door, revealing your ex-husband on the other side.
“Hi.” You huffed.
“You look good.”
You give him a disgusted look while letting him in, “Shut up.”
George snickered, standing in the living room, “Why’s Joey screeching?”
“I won’t let him bring his entire toy set with him.”
“No!” He gasped like it was an offence, “Not the entire toy set!”
You must admit, that did make you laugh, but you played it off with a soft chuckle.
He snorted himself, watching you begin to clean up the living room, putting toys into boxes and folding blankets, putting them in the basket in the corner.
“Haven’t changed the sofa, I see. I remember when you—“
“George.” You stopped him immediately.
“What?” He shrugged innocently, “Just sayin’. Fun times.”
“Whatever, just stay here while I go and sort out our son that got your annoying habit of being stubborn as shit.”
“I’m not allowed to follow you upstairs anymore? You too scared we’ll have a repeat of last time?” George smirked.
“I really don’t miss your mouth.” You sneered.
“Oh, you do.” He furrowed his eyebrows and nodded.
You glared, cheeks burning as you turned your back on him.
“Also, Joey’s got both of our best traits, therefore his stubbornness must be a good thing!” He shouted after you as you went up the stairs.
You peered over the bannister on the landing, “Is your ability to be an insufferable dickhead also one of your ‘best traits’? Because I sure as hell hope he doesn’t inherit that one.”
“You love my dick and my head.” George rolled his tongue over the inside of his cheek.
God, you were so lucky Joey couldn’t hear anything over his own screeching and Charlotte was blasting music deafeningly loud from her room.
You shot him a look that could kill before going into Joey’s room.
“Time to go to daddy’s house.” You picked him up off the floor, despite him still wailing.
“Toy! Toy!”
“Nope.” You huffed, hauling him downstairs and putting him in George’s arms, dumping his Thomas the Tank Engine backpack at his dad’s feet.
“Daddy!” Joey sniffled, wrapping his arms around George’s neck.
“Hey, little man. What’s all the tears for?”
“Toy … want come with.”
“But you’ve got loads of toys at my house.” He hummed, stroking his son’s wet cheek.
Joey nodded, burying his head into his neck.
What the fuck? Why’d he listen to George and not you? Rude.
“Charlotte! Time to go!” You yelled.
“Okay!” You heard faintly before she shut her music off and game jumping down the stairs with her bag.
“Daddy!” Her entire face lit up as she threw herself at him, arms around his waist and face at his tummy.
“Hey, princess. Ready to go?”
“Mhm!”
You smiled softly at the scene of your children crowded around their father as you stood beside them, a snapshot of an image of what could’ve been.
“Right, you two!” You cleared your throat, refusing to get into that mindset again, “Have fun! Be good for your daddy.”
“We’re always good.” Charlotte beamed.
“Your brother? Yes. You? Not so much.” George teased, making her pout up at him.
“Daddy, that’s not fair!”
You just chuckled, hugging her and kissing her forehead.
“Bye mummy, see you on Monday.”
“Bye, Lottie.”
“Bye mummy.” Joey croaked.
You leaned over, kissing his head as well, making him smile at you.
“What, daddy doesn’t get a kiss either?” George pouted.
“Don’t push it.” You glared.
He just laughed, making his way to the door with Joey on his hip and Charlotte already out the house, dancing around the path in little spins.
“See you on Monday?”
“Yeah, normal time.” You nodded.
“Cool.” George nodded back, “I meant it, by the way. You look good.”
With that, he turned on his heel and made his way to the car, unlocking it.
You watched as Charlotte leaped in while Joey got strapped into his booster seat before the door closed on them. George gave you a wave and a smile, to which you returned, before getting into the drivers seat.
His car purred to life, and he gave you three honks of his horn before driving off down the road.
You gnawed the inside of your cheek, closing the door and locking it.
The house was silent and empty without the disordered chaos that came with having two young kids and an ex-husband that relentlessly flirted with you.
How about some sub Oscar or Lando where the reader teases them by wearing sexy outfits or even going commando under a skirt 👀👀👀
why not both😛 (though Oscar’s is so much longer)
Warnings for Lando: commando in public, use of “good boy”, sub!lando, cowgirl, unprotected piv, pet names
warnings for Oscar: lingerie, teasing, sub!oscar, tit job, use of “good boy”, unprotected piv, edging, begging, use of y/n & pet names
Commando for Lando
“I’m ready to go!” You smiled sweetly in a flowy little summer dress. “This is okay, right? It’s just brunch?”
“It’s perfect, baby.” His smile was strained, hiding his truth. The well of your breasts over the neckline was already getting him hot, and it would be in no time when he started getting bothered to.
Crossing the room to you, he ran his hands up yours sides, under your dress.
He paused. Breath hitched.
You were completely bare underneath.
Before he could protest, you were already skipping out of the flat.
Brunch was torture. His pants too tight. Brain too foggy. Too sweaty despite being in an air conditioned space.
You didn’t even make it through the door before he was begging for you.
“I’ve kept my hands to myself all brunch. Please. I need you so bad.”
Your smile was a false sense of security. “Yeah? You think you’ve been good? Think you deserve me?” Your words were feather light, as were your hands as they slipped under his shirt.
“Yes,” he sighed, eyelashes fluttering.
A nod, then a wave of your hand. “Go get undressed for me. I’ll be there in a bit.”
Clothes were thrown hazardously around the room while he sat in the middle of the bed waiting for you.
When you entered the room, you paused. Tutted. “Lando, what’s this mess?”
Of course, how could he forget that you liked things neat? He was on his feet in an instant, folding his clothes neatly and placing them on his dresser. You undressed while he found a spot on the bed, sat up against the headboard.
“So good for me.” You cooed, crawling up to where he sat. You stopped, hovering over him. His sea glass eyes pierced yours, needy, glazed over. You tilted your head. “What does my boy need?”
He whimpered. “Need to be in you.” A beat. “Please.”
Taking him in your hand, you lowered yourself just enough for his tip to ghost over your sobbing hole. You paused. Lando threw his head back. “Fuck, please baby.” He panted.
Slowly, you took him a centimeter at a time. Agonizingly slow. His hips twitched, but he had the mind to not thrust into you. After all, he had to be your good boy.
He moaned as you slipped the last of him in, fully seated on him now.
Pausing to adjust to the size, you observed his face. Eyes half lidded and darting all around your body. His lips bitten and moist from the constant swipe of his tongue. Your nails scraped his chest, his abs. You gave an experimental roll of your hips, gasping at how deep he felt. Another roll, another gasp. Roll. Gasp. “You fill me up so well,” you moaned into his mouth, lifting yourself halfway off his cock before impaling yourself again. “Make me feel so good.”
You were kissing all over his face, his neck, any exposed skin you could reach. His moans vibrated his throat vibrated under your lips with every bounce of your hips. He sat like your good boy, taking everything you were giving him. He only spoke to whimper a warning. “‘M gonna cum,” it was quiet. Hardly coherent.
But you didn’t need his words, not when his cock was twitching inside you.
“Come on then. You’ve been so good for me, made me feel so good. Come on.” You babbled, pecking his lips between thoughts.
He came with your name on his tongue. White, hot cum spilled inside of you. It triggered your own orgasm. You shuttered, slumping against him. Your lips pecked his chest while you came down from your highs.
“Shower?” He offered, and you nodded against him.
Lingerie and the sim with Oscar
A brand new lingerie set hugged your skin. It was your color. Fit you in all the right places. Now the best pair in your collection.
Oscar had been on the sim all day. He brushed you off when you asked him if he wanted lunch. Didn’t even flinch when you kissed his cheek. You were over it.
“Oscar, baby,” you cooed, stepping into his sim room. “I was thinking of making some salmon for dinner.” Your hands found his hair and you ran your fingers through the messy strands. “What do you think?”
“That’s fine.” He muttered.
You rounded the seat, standing next to him for a moment. He didn’t even spare you a glance. Not a single twitch of his expression to indicate that he’d seen your choice of clothing.
Even when you climbed into his lap and straddled him, he looked right past you. You rolled your eyes and grabbed his face, forcing him to look at you. “What else do you want with it? Asparagus? I can steam some broccoli?”
His eyes trailed down your body, focused on the swell of your breasts, his jaw gone slack. There was now something hard pressing against your inner thigh. It hadn’t been there before. The wheel bounced behind you, angry that the car had found the wall. “You-“ was all he managed to get out.
A dry laugh. “Oh now I’m on your menu?” Too busy salivating over the treat you were presenting him, he didn’t notice the cruel tone of your voice. “I’m feeling in the mood for asparagus.” You shrugged, removing yourself from his lap.
“No- wait-“ he tried to catch your waist, pull you back down to his lap and fix the raging problem in his shorts. His fingertips barely ghosted your thigh.
He met you in the kitchen, trailing like a lost puppy, whining like a wounded one. “Where are your clothes?”
“They were uncomfortable, so I took them off.” You shrugged, bending over to retrieve a skillet from the cupboard. Innocent, big eyes, you turned to him. “Will you open the windows for me? I don’t want to set off the smoke detectors.” You smiled.
He didn’t listen, coming up behind you. He wrapped his arms around your waist, pulled you into him, rubbed his hard dick against your ass.
You pushed him away. “Go open the windows.”
He stumbled back, but listened this time. Though not without a scoff. His hands found your body again, becoming more exploratory while you prepared the salmon.
“Oscar, dear?” You called sweetly. He hummed, kissing your neck. “Will you go sit down?” He hummed again, a sound of protest. He kissed you again, and again, rubbing against your ass. “Oscar.” You called again, more stern.
He huffed, pulled away. “Dinner can wait ten minutes. Please?” You didn’t even look at him before shaking your head. “You’re walking around like this and you expect me to not need you?” He continued, tugging your arm gently.
“I will finish dinner, we can eat, and then maybe I’ll help you out. Okay?” You told him, a fabricated sweetness.
He spent all dinner staring you down, hardly enjoying his meal with how tightly wound he was. He finished his food in record time, and threw his plate in the sink. You were only halfway done with yours.
He whined your name, palming himself through his shorts.
You pouted, grabbing his face. “Aw, poor boy. Need me so bad that you’re whining?” You tilted your head, clicked your tongue. “You could always take care of yourself.” His face twisted at the idea. Seeing that, you hummed—low and teasing. “I guess you’ll wait then.”
So he did. Kneeled at your side, watching in anticipation and desperation as you sucked the juice from your asparagus. His cock twitched and he shuttered a breath. A drop landed on your tit, and all he could imagine was that it was him leaking onto your tits. “God, baby please.” He groaned.
You blinked at him. “What happened to all that huffing you were doing earlier?” He didn’t have an answer, just licked his lips. The chair squeaked against the floor as you stood up. He got to his feet just as quick. “Go get ready for me in the bedroom.” You waved him off, and when he didn’t move, “I’ll meet you in there after I clean up my plate.”
When you sauntered into the room, he was sat on the edge of the bed. Completely naked. Staring at you with big, brown puppy eyes. “You’ve been acting like a dog since I got you off that sim.” You laughed sweetly. “You gonna be good like one, too? Take everything I give you?” His cock was angry and leaking all over, given that fact, he wasn’t in a place to disagree. He nodded urgently.
You got to your knees in front of him and he twitched at the sight. “Do you know why I’ve been neglecting you for the past two hours?”
He shook his head.
“You’ve been on that sim all day. Ignoring me.” You frowned. “But all I had to do to get your attention was show you a little boob.” You reached behind you and unclipped the bra.
Oscar shuttered a breath as it fell to the floor.
“Want me to fuck you with them?”
He groaned at the thought. Bottom lip caught between his teeth, he nodded.
“Didn’t you agree to be my good boy? Good boys use their words.”
“Yes, fuck, shit, please, please fuck me with your tits.” His hands fisted the sheets.
“That’s better.” You muttered, leaning forward with your tits cupped in your hands. You hadn’t even squeezed them together, he was only sat between the valley of them and yet moans were filling the room.
He groaned loudly when you pushed your boobs together, hugging his cock tight. When you hadn’t moved, he threw his head back. “Please, I promise-“ he panted.
“Hm? Promise what?” You asked, tongue darting out to lick his tip.
“Fuck!” He gasped. “To- not ignore you- hm,”
“Good.” You smiled wickedly. You started to move, his pre-cum slicking your tits like lube. Needy moans filled the room, high in pitch and frequency.
Your tongue stuck out again, licking his tip every time it poked above your tits.
“Fuck, shit, fuck.” He moaned, unable to tear his gaze away from where your tits swallowed him. “You’re so hot,” he sighed. His fists flexed in the sheets. “Close! Fuck! I’m gonna cum!”
You pulled away at that, earning a pained mewl. “I’m sorry! I said I was sorry!” He squeezed his eyes shut. “Please just- ngh- please let me cum,” he panted, chest heaving.
Hand on his chest, you pushed him into his back. “Scoot up the bed, osc,” you murmured, backing away from him. He did as you asked while you shed your panties.
You crawled up the bed. Hovered over him. Took his face in your hands. “Gonna make me feel good?”
“Yes! Yes, use me, please.” He moaned as you gripped his dick in your hand. His tip ghosted over your hole. “Make me cum, please. I need to cum.” He babbled, eyes half lidded.
You kissed him as you sunk down on him. Your moans melded into one sound, the both of you swallowing every noise you gave each other. “So, fuck, you’re filling me so good.” You panted into his mouth.
He groaned in response. “So tight around me.”
You shifted, lifting your hips. He shuttered as he slipped out of you. Almost all the way. “Beg me. Beg me to let you cum.” Your chest heaved as you spoke into his mouth.
His brows twisted. “Please. Please. I need you so bad. Please let me cum.”
“Have you deserved it? After ignoring me all day?” Despite your cruel tone, you slowly sank onto him again.
“No! Yes! Fuck, please I’m sorry! I’ll never do it again,” he rambled, unsure of the answer you desired. “Please, y/n, please please please ple- ah fuck!” He gasped when you took him fully, hips slapping together.
No more teasing, you started bouncing on his cock right away. Moans mingled with the squelching and the skin slapping. Sounds of pure sex. You could feel every inch of him, every ridge. You leaned forward and his tip hit your cervix at the new angle. You shouted at the feeling. “Nghph, hah, Oscar.” You moaned, foreheads touching, “makin’ me feel so good.”
He whimpered. “Baby, I’m so close,”
“Wait. Don’t cum before I say.”
The pace of your hips sped up, riding him with purpose. “Fuck, you’re so deep in me.”
“Don’t- ngh- don’t talk like that”
“Why? Gonna make you cum too soon?” You grinned. You were close, your walls squeezing around him.
He moaned, the sound too close to a whine. His nails dug deep into your thighs as he panted into your mouth. He shook his head. “Please, I can’t hold it I-“
“You said you’d be good.” You reminded him. “And you have been, letting me use you like this.” You kissed his face, slow, sloppy. “Just a little longer.” You promised.
The coil in your stomach was wounding tight now. The tension licked flames of pleasure up your spine. Oscar was licking your face, your neck, leaving hot, open mouthed kisses anywhere he could reach. Then he sucked on your tit, and you came with a gasp of his name.
“Please can I- fuck, it hurts, please let me cum I’ve been so good for you.”
You nodded, already reaching the end of your high. “You deserve it. Cum for me.”
But as soon as you gave the order, you slipped away. You heard his protests as you left for the bathroom.
When you came back, he was glaring at you. It wasn’t very strong, though. Clouded by a ghost of pleasure and disappointment. “That wasn’t fair.” He muttered.
You hummed, cleaning him up with a wet washcloth. He twitched and groaned, sensitive. “What wasn’t fair?”
He looked embarrassed. “You didn’t… you ruined it.”
You laughed dryly. “Did I?” You feigned innocence. The washcloth was thrown somewhere behind you as you got under the covers. “Well, I guess lesson learned, huh?” You smiled, curling into his chest.
“Yeah.” He grumbled, but kissed the top of your head anyway.
summary : In which, you start to realize how much your boyfriend really does respond to praise and test his limits on multiple occasions
listen up : a sweet and sexy request <3 smut!! p in v. praise kink duh! some smau!! hot texts from a hot man. my first oscar fic wowza i hope u like
words : 777
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It started off simple, congratulating Oscar on little things, complimenting his haircut or his shirt… completely normal things for a girlfriend to say.
You noticed his mood shift after a particularly steamy night. Muttering the words, “So good for me…” while you looked up at him from between his legs. He came right then and right there, flushing immediately when he realized the amount of time he lasted.
Oscar thought it was embarrassing, you found it hot.
The second time was when things started to really heat up. You both sat in his drivers room, watching him change with a little too much excitement, knowing he had to go out and drive so soon.
“You've gotten bigger.” Oscar practically falls on his face when you say it, standing up quickly, his fireproof half on.
“Sorry?” He chokes out.
You nod innocently, “Your back. All that time in the gym is paying off.”
He turns to the mirror, flexing his back which is faced towards you as if you’re not already wet. “You think?” He slides his fireproof down, covering the skin you want to mark so badly.
“Yeah. It’s hot.”
He’s on you in seconds, his mouth against yours and his hands grasping at any sliver of exposed skin on your body.
You weren’t lying when you said he was big, he towers over you, your hands grabbing the back of his neck as if your life depends on it.
He holds your hips tightly, pulling you closer to feel him against you. “Fuck Osc- You’re so perfect.” You mumble into the kiss, bringing out a whine from him that goes straight to your core.
You grin against him while he kisses you harder. Oh this will be fun.
⋆༺
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He’s in a suit, you’re in a dress. You’re by far the most good looking couple in here. ‘Here’ as in the giant theater where opera performers prance around the stage.
Oscar had been invited and at the time, it felt rude to say no. Now, when the man who invited him disappeared across the room, you felt less bad about distracting your terribly bored boyfriend.
It’s been a few weeks since you started intentionally playing into Oscar’s praise kink and… wow. He’s always been great in bed but shit- it’s like you switched something in him.
Slipping your hand onto his shoulder and leaning in close you whisper, “I can’t stop thinking about last night.”
“Y/n…” He whispers back, not turning his head to look at you.
“I’m still sore.” You bite your lip when you see his jaw clench. “Just couldn’t stop, huh?” He’s still silent, besides his breathing growing heavier. Your hand slips to his upper thigh, covered in fabric more expensive than your rent. “That’s fine. You make it easy to go again with.”
“I know what you’re doing.” He bites out just as a satisfied smile breaks across your face and your palm meets his groin.
“Yeah and you like it.” He grabs your hand and in a second, you’re both exiting the row with no regard for the people you pass.
Oscar looks on, his hand gripping your wrist tighter as you exit the theater. The first bathroom he sees is the one he drags you into.
“Excuse me there’s only one allowe-” a poor worker tries to stop you two but the lock sounds behind you and the feeling of the cold door meets your back.
Before you know it, your dress is bunched around your waist and his hand is down your panties. He loves getting you off, the look on your face when his fingers curl into you is engraved into his memory.
You make that same face now, your head tilting back as you let out a moan. “Osc- I need you. Now.”
“You’re so beautiful.” He kisses your neck while you unzip his pants, “This dress- I knew I wouldn’t make it through the night.”
“Thank god for that.” You say just as he aligns himself with you, pushing in without a second thought. You both moan this time, not caring about your surroundings, just the feeling of skin against skin. “So big-”
“So tight.” He mumbles, moving slowly at first. “Mmm…”
“Please.” You groan as he picks up his pace, his head falling onto your shoulder as he breathes heavily. Nail scratching against his back, your panties ripping, Oscar slamming his hand against the door before moving you to the sink… it’s a blur of pure adrenaline and sex, one that ends with lace in his pocket and you practically limping out of that bathroom.
CAN U DO A GEORGE MACKAY NSFW ALPHABET IF U HAVENT
*cracks knuckles* WE’LL SEE I GUESS
A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)
George’s aftercare game is peak honestly. He’d help clean you up and be the first to initiate a spooning session afterwards.
B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)
George is your #1 hype man, so picking a favorite part of your body would be difficult, yet he can’t help but favor the small space where your hips connect to your leg. It’s such an intimate part of your body, he’s almost always pressing gentle kisses to the area.
C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)
George has a massive breeding kink, it’s obvious, so his favorite place to cum is probably inside you. Something about marking you as his and sharing that intimate moment just gets him fucking going.
Also, the idea of releasing on your chest has always sparked unnecessary horniness in the man.
D = Dirty secret (pretty self-explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)
George has always wanted to be in a threesome with you and another guy, just to try it.
E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)
George gives off massive childhood-sweethearts vibes so I have a feeling you guys were each other’s first and had to grow sexually together. That being said, he’s down for anything as long as it makes you happy.
F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)
Cowgirl. Man loves being dominated and being able to watch you get yourself off on him. That imagery is often what keeps him company when he’s away for a film or press tour.
G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)
Whenever he feels the tension in the room heavying between the two of you, he cracks a joke. Even when he’s finally returned from being away, he finds a way to lighten up the room.
H = Hair (how well-groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)
He’s well-groomed, not like completely smooth, but not enough hair that it gets in your way when you’re on your knees for him.
I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)
Romantic? Hell yes. This man would do anything for you, especially if it’d have you moaning his name. He’d go out of his way to please you, whether that be upon request or he gets a hunch you’d like more passion.
J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)
As previously stated, he doesn’t do it until you’re apart. The man is loyal asf so even his pleasure fantasies involve you, whether it be the most recent time the two of you were tangled together in the shower or when he was taking you from the back before he left.
K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)
This man is hella submissive. He loves when you absolutely take control, tying him to the headboard or degrading the fuck out of him. If you’re in charge, he’s absolutely smitten.
That doesn’t mean he’s not down for absolutely demolishing you if you requested.
L = Location (favorite places to do the do)
Anytime anywhere.
No, I’m joking. He’s more into unwrapping you at home, but once the front door locks, he’s down for anywhere.
The steps? Watch him grip your hips harder to “keep you in place.”
The kitchen? Bon appetit.
Wherever you wanted, just as long as you liked it.
M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)
Whenever you nonchalantly mess with him in public. You could be eyeing him from across the dinner table at a restaurant, slipping your hand up his thigh in the cinema, or whispering in his ear while you were standing in line at the grocery store. When he calls you on it and you play innocent is what sends him into a feral friendsy. Wait until the two of you got him.
N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn-offs)
George hates when you cry, so anything that made you uncomfortable or something that you weren’t 100% into.
O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)
He loved pleasing you, so probably prefers giving, yet as soon as you remotely hint at wanting to get him off he’s treating it with the same kind of worship as if you were giving him a piece of your soul.
P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)
It really depends on where you guys are at and what the context is, but more times than not he’s into the roughness.
Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)
George loves quickies just as much as he loves the latter. When he’s finally back from his press tour and can’t keep his hands off you before you leave for work, quickies tide the two of you over until you get back and can cherish the fuck out of each other for a few hours.
R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)
George is down for absolutely everything. If that includes pegging, fun. If it revolves around buying a cheap knight costume, he’s on his way. Literally whatever you want, he’s down with no questions.
S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)
George probably has the stamina but that doesn’t mean he can last. Example: your first round probably lasts only a few seconds just out of his pure excitement. He’ll make it up to you almost immediately but just expect it.
T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)
The two of you have probably bought toys together, but the condition is that if it’s outlandish, you both have to come up with random other uses for it just for fun. They have to be a multipurpose tool. Those nipple clamps work as chip clips too, George. Chile.
U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)
George sucks a teasing and most of the time forgets that was his intent as you beg for him, neediness in your eyes. He’d just give in no matter what.
V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)
This man is a praise seeker, so he’s probably pretty loud. His accent drops like three octaves when he asks you if something feels good or if he’s doing something right. When your moans turn into words of affirmation, he’s completely unraveled for you, his noises low and guttural like an animal.
W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)
This isn’t exactly sexual (unless you make it like that), but George loves to be the little spoon when you guys are cuddling.
X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)
Look at your hand, the space between the tip of your middle finger to the base of your palm is his size.
Hello, to my tall readers ;)
I’m joking.
Unless….
Anyway, George is pretty average but knows what he’s doing so you have no complaints in that department.
Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)
Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)
He’s usually out like a light after the two of you get cleaned up. He’d wrap your arms around him tighter and just drift off.
Hey, y’all! I hope this is okay! As always, let us know what you think and leave us requests if you’d like :)
Summary: When you run into your celebrity crush in an airport, and end up checking off the 80th box on the rice purity test #commonoccurance (2.7k words)
Warning(s): Fingering, Dirty talk, Sex in an airplane (don’t do this, it’s illegal), mirror sex if you squint, unprotected, public/risky sex, overall smut.
A/N: sorry I disappeared for a week … oopsies ! (Not proof-read as I accidentally deleted this and had to rewrite it. all the ‘…’ are sections where I don’t remember what I wrote, and honestly was too tired to improvise)
"WILL LENNEY?” YOU TAPPED his shoulder timidly, a slight shake in your voice as you stared at the back of the tall boy. Turning, he completely towered over you. A smile crossed his face, his eyes squinting in that perfect way you had seen countless times while watching his YouTube content.
...
You were in an airport, or more specifically, the Qantas Business Lounge of Sydney Airport. Sitting with a glass of complimentary champagne, you sipped carefully while mindlessly scrolling through your emails on your laptop. A heavy sigh escaped your lips, your head tilting to hit the back of the chair as your hand covered your eyes.
Slamming your laptop shut and pushing it into your carry-on, you stood up and trudged on to the gift shop. Bored out of your mind and restless in the scratchy seats, you figured there was very little better to do. You browsed the sweets aisle, moving slowly on to the electronics, and looping around to the books. Nothing seemed to satisfy your discontent.
That was, until the sight of a tall brunette boy piqued your interest. You knew that face, that haircut, that uneven walk.
You'd seen that man countless times. Through your television screen and your TikTok feed, with numerous edits saved shamelessly in specifically organised folders. You placed down the book you were previously intrigued by, now seeming irrelevant and completely unimportant.
"Will Lenney?" You gently tapped his shoulder to draw attention, a little unsure it was him, though Mikey was standing in the corner, along with all of Will's crew; you knew this was real. He turned, a slight look of confusion plastering his face before he looked down at you.
"Hello, darling." He smiled, eyes squinting in the adorable way you loved to see on screen. Your face lit up, the fangirl inside of you gnawing at the walls as you stood face to face with your favourite content creator. You mumbled a few incoherent words, apologising quickly and clearing your throat.
"Hi." You giggled, covering your mouth in embarrassment of how awkward you had suddenly become. Will chuckled at your reaction, extending his arm outwards as if he was inviting you to hug him. He was. You melted, reaching an arm over him and giving him a brief hug on the tips of your toes before dropping down.
"Oh my god, happy birthday!" Your eyes shot wide as you remembered. God, how could you forget? Wait, why was he in Sydney? "What are you doing in Australia for a birthday?"
"Awh, thank you. For a video, actually. 50-hour birthday challenge." He smiled, going on to explain how the challenge worked and forcing you to swear not to tell anyone until it had been posted. You talked for a while; after he had told you he was stuck in the airport for another couple of hours until his flight, and accepted your offer of company.
Explaining his day, he told you all about the challenge they were undertaking, what he and his friends had been up to thus far, and their plans for Hawaii. You were still in awe that you were sitting across from Will and his friends, the group having migrated back to the business lounge. Will asked you a few questions, mostly about how and when you had found his videos and what your favourites were.
"God, I'm sorry, I didn't realise how long it's been. I probably look like a crazy fan, following you around." You glanced up from your watch, roughly an hour after running into him. He stood up, giving you another hug and thanking you for your support. Saying a quick goodbye to everyone else, you grabbed your bag and headed back to the gift shop to complete your purchases for the flight to Hawaii you had ahead of you.
...
As you boarded the plane, bag in hand, while walking towards your seat, you found yourself fantasising about Will. You weren't proud of it, but you honestly couldn't help yourself. He was more attractive in person than you could ever imagine, and you wanted nothing more than to catch just one more glimpse of him before you very likely would never see him again.
You were horribly wrong, disproving yourself about two seconds after the thought by making eye contact with the very same man you had been thinking of.
You smiled at Will awkwardly as you stowed your bag in the overhead, figuring that bothering him in the airport was already crossing boundaries, so anything more than a smile after boarding would be considered to be on the verge of harassment. Of course he'd be in Business Class, you thought. Why would he be in the Business lounge and not be in Business Class seats? Maybe sleep deprivation was getting to you.
As you got comfortable in your seat and pretended to be busy on your laptop, you watched Will out of the corner of your eye while he celebrated quietly with Mikey, a vlog camera in each hand, which led you to assume the others were in economy. Unfortunately, you couldn't spend the entire flight eye-fucking him, being genuinely busy as you were technically on a work trip.
You hadn't even noticed how long it had been until the lights overhead were dimmed, a slight blue glow coming from the lamps on your seat, and only one other. Wills.
Being Will, he had decided not to sleep as he believed the challenge wouldn't count if he did. He was left sitting very tiredly, nibbling slowly on a cupcake. You smiled to yourself, though keeping your head down to at least respect his privacy.
"Hey," Will mumbled, and you tried your best to ignore him since you assumed he wasn't talking to you. He repeated himself, still whispering, though a little louder. "Hey!"
You looked up, eyes tracking to find his seat on the other side of the aisle, a few chairs back. He was looking dead at you, a weary expression on his face as he attempted to smile through tired eyes. He opened his mouth to speak, quickly closing it again, before opening it once more to ask you the question you had least expected.
"Can I buy you a coffee?"
...
Another few hours had passed, and everything had changed. Will was now sitting in the empty seat beside you, after the two of you were told off for talking too loudly. You had gone through a couple of cups of coffee each, enough to keep you both awake for the rest of the flight. Now, you were talking mindlessly, the two of you bantering and getting to know each other. You would be stupid to say you couldn't feel at least a little chemistry between you two.
The way he leaned in to hear you better as you whispered, or the way he effortlessly held your knee while you both tried to laugh as quietly as possible. He wasn't the only one flirting, and he definitely picked up on the way you had been staring at him.
You bit your lip as you laughed, trying your best to muffle the sound though finding it difficult with how funny Will was. You had assumed YouTubers scripted their jokes, or if not, cut out the unfunny jokes. Will was different; everything he said made you giggle. Each joke made you want him more, along with every smile that reminded you why it was his favourite feature of yours.
You talked for what could have been hours, moving from topic to topic. You both became more flirty as the conversation went on. Each grab of your knee trailed higher, eventually becoming your thigh, and then just resting on your upper thigh as his thumb brushed circles. You stared down at where his skin met yours, the warmth inviting and comforting.
…
His hand stammered higher up your thigh, moving inwards with a lick of his lips, and a shaky breath. His pinkie finger twitched, touching the damp spot of your panties. He bit his lips with a sharp inhale, glancing up to ensure nobody was around. His middle finger trailed a long swipe over your underwear. Suppressing a whine, you brought your finger up to your mouth and bit the side of it.
“Not here.” You whispered, staring into his eyes with all the trust in the world. This was absolutely the thing you expected least when you got in the taxi on your way to the airport earlier that day, and you couldn’t help but prematurely imagine how he’d feel inside you as he nodded with a desperate gaze in his eyes.
“Go to the bathroom, I’ll be there soon.” He waited for your approval, before you stood up and walked to the back of the plane.
After a few minutes of checking yourself in the mirror, you heard the door slowly slide open, and you watched in the mirror as Will walked in and locked the door before meeting your gaze. He very quickly grabbed you by your waist, turning you around to face him before turning the both of you around and pinning you against the wall. His hands caged you, resting on either side of your head and pressed firmly against the wall.
He licked his lips, his eyes glued to yours as you mimicked him, tongue darting out. He leaned in impatiently, jaw moving against yours as he kissed you with hunger. His tongue slipped into your mouth strategically, moving against yours in perfect synchronicity. He pulled away, wiping his thumb over his bottom lip before sucking his thumb pad.
“You’re gonna be quiet, yeah? And tell me if you need to stop.” He asked, eyes trailing your body with desperation while his hand teased the hem of your skirt. The second you nodded, his lips connected with your jaw. He trailed open mouth kisses down your neck, pulling the collar of your shirt to the side as he sucked on your collarbones and shoulders.
His hand slipped under your skirt, pulling at the waistband of your panties until they pooled by your feet. You kicked them off, gasping a sharp inhale as a cold finger slid from your aching hole to your clit, collecting your slick and using it to rub fast circles. He mumbled approval in your ear, praising you for how wet you were and how much of a good girl you were for not making noises.
Wanting to keep hearing his praise, and of course not wanting to be caught, you leaned your forehead on his shoulder and bit down on one of your fingers. Your free hand trailed up his chest, up the back of his neck, and grabbed a handful of his mullet. He whined slightly, not expecting to be so turned on by something so simple.
“Can I keep going?” He asked, lifting your head up by the chin. A strand of drool connected your lip to your finger.
“Please,” you whispered back, choking on your words and having to bite his shoulder to stop yourself from moaning as he pushed a finger inside you. His cold ring felt strangely good as it pressed against your entrance, his fingered bottoming out before he started to jerk them in and out.
“Doing so good.” He gripped a handful of your hair, pulling you off his shoulder to connect your lips with his. Something in the way he kissed you felt like more than lust, or an airplane bathroom hookup. You could feel his hard cock strain against his shorts, pressing up on your thigh. His hips bucked involuntarily, begging for friction.
He kissed your neck once more, giving you a minute to realise how good the two of you looked in the mirror ahead of you. Even through his shirt you could see his back muscles, his biceps clearly visible as his free hand resting against the wall, fingers flexing and balling into a fist. You watched your body bounce gently against the wall as hair stuck to your sweaty forehead and your lips darkened in colour.
“Are you watching us in the mirror?” He whispered in your ear, his fingers pumping in and out of you at rapid speeds. “You dirty girl.”
“Will, please.” You whispered, voice breaking. “So close.”
“Say my name baby.” He grunted as he picked you up by the back of your thighs, the loss of contact when you were so close causing you to whimper.
“Will,” you moaned as quietly as you could in his ear.
He reached down, pulling the front of his shorts down, along with his boxers, freeing his cock as it hit his stomach. It was massive. At least 8 inches, very likely more.
You braced yourself, reaching down and pulling his cock out fully as you gave it a few strokes. You lined him up with your core, biting your lip and furrowing your eyebrows as his tip pressed against you. He held you up, letting you lower yourself at your own pace until you were fully clamped around him.
“You feel so perfect.” he panted, hands squeezing your thighs tightly as he held you up against the wall. He began to slowly thrust in and out, his bucking hips meeting the way he lifted you up and down. Your hooded eyes met themselves in the mirror, rolling back slightly with each thrust as they got faster with each breath.
Your teeth clenched, head hitting the wall behind you. The feeling of wills tongue licking and sucking hungrily at your neck mixed with the way he thrusted into you while lifting you up and down was driving you crazy. You were a little embarrassed to be so close to climax already.
“I’m c-close.” You warned him.
“Hold on for me darling.” He sped up, hoping to cum at the same time as you. “You’re doing so so good for me.”
The sound of him slapping against you grew louder, very likely louder than you should be, but neither of you cared. It was Will’s birthday, after all. Will grunted and groaned, his head dug into the crook of your neck as he listened to your sweet, sweet moans.
“Oh fuck.” He swallowed a groan, his throat dry and hoarse, his breath hot against you. “Gonna cum.”
You took that as permission, finally letting yourself go. Your back arched, eyes rolling back as your legs shook around his body. The way your pussy squeezed around him pushed him over the edge, spilling into you with hot ropes. He caught his breath, head still resting on your shoulder. He slowly lifted you off him, a wave of panic crashing over him as he watched his seed drip out of you.
“You’re on the pill, right?” He asked, nervous. You chuckled, reassuring him you were. He helped you clean up quickly in the sink, crouching down to assist you step into your panties before he pulled them up, planting a kiss on your thigh as he stood all the way up. He smoothed out your hair, a smile lingering on his lips as he did. You couldn’t help but smile back, still in disbelief that you had just hooked up in an airplane, not just with anyone, but with your celebrity crush.
“So uh, could I get your number?” He asked, half joking but half serious. You giggled to yourself, taking his phone and typing in your digits. Once you handed it back, you stood on the tips of your toes for a moment, planting a soft kiss to his lips.
“I’ll go first.” You checked yourself in the mirror one last time, before gently clicking open the lock and making your way back to your seat. Mikey had woken up sometime during everything, and clearly Will had noticed too as he sat in his original seat instead of the one beside you after successfully sneaking out of the stall.
A notification from an unknown number drew your gaze from the handsome man a few seats behind you to your phone. You quickly glanced at the time (6am) before checking the message. When you did, you smiled to yourself, rolling your eyes.
“You busy tonight? Believe it or not, it’s my birthday ;)”
A/N: Thank you for requesting !! Hope this lives up to what you asked for <3
YOU’VE ALWAYS HATED WILL. There was just something about him that pissed you off, whether it was his annoying, high-pitched voice or his stupidly square head. He hadn't necessarily done anything wrong; in fact, it made you feel quite guilty that you hated him so strongly. So you tried your best to keep the peace and stay civil, every interaction filled with tight-lipped smiles and twitching eyes.
That was until he started making small jabs at you. Little comments every now and then, enough to piss you off to the point where you dropped your facade completely. It spiralled from there, and before long, everyone knew about your mutual hostility. Your friends, presumably not wanting to deal with your petty arguments, learnt to stop inviting you to film shoots or group hangouts together.
Though it wasn’t always avoidable. Which was how the two of you were now glaring at each other from across the table, your knuckles white from how hard you were clenching your fork. You and a group of friends were in Brighton for an event Chris had dragged you to.
“Remind me again why he is here?” You turned your head to George, one of your closest friends, eyes still locked on the boy you hated most.
“Ask Chris.” He cocked a brow, gesturing to the short boy as he rambled to Will, who seemed like he couldn’t care less about whatever he was saying. You rolled your eyes, not caring enough to ask and especially not in front of Will himself. You disliked him, sure, but you didn’t want to embarrass him at the dinner table.
Once your food had arrived and the conversation around the table started to become interesting, your mood flipped immediately. You were laughing with your friends, enjoying your night, and trying your best to ignore the feeling of Will staring at you. You weren’t going to entertain his immaturity and ruin your night, especially with how well it was going.
“Wow, that was lovely.” You smiled, wiping the corners of your mouth with a napkin. Everyone nodded in agreement, mumbling their own praises and grabbing their belongings. Grabbing your vlog camera, the group of you paid for the meal and made your way onto the streets of Brighton.
The cold air hit you hard; winter nights are always underestimated by you, as evidenced by your lack of jacket. Mist came from your mouth with each exhale, hands instantly digging into your jeans pockets.
“Cold?” George asked, with that gorgeous smile on his face that says ‘I told you so’, warming you up anyway. You nodded, blushing, partly from the crisp air and partly from George’s gesture as he shrugged off his jacket and slung it over you. You pulled your arms through the sleeves, thanking him as you felt yourself already warm up.
Abruptly, a sharp, intentional jolt hits you from behind. Will's shoulder slams into yours, not hard enough to send you sprawling, but enough to sting and steal your breath. The force of it makes you stumble slightly, a clear message delivered: he's furious, and he wants you to know it.
But why? You hadn’t done anything all dinner. Not any of your usual insults or glaring daggers. You were civil, you were peaceful, you were everything your friends had begged of you for tonight, and it still wasn’t good enough for him. What was his problem?
“Oi, mate?” George called out to Will as he walked beside Chris in front of you. He turned his head to the side, glancing at George with furrowed brows. George copied his expression, eyes squinting slightly. “You bumped into her.”
“My bad.” Will shrugged, not even looking at you as he muttered his half-assed apology. George sighed harshly, wrapped an arm around your shoulder. Will finally glanced at you, a weird look in his eyes that you couldn’t quite recognise. It looked like a mix of studied indifference and something more. His jaw clenched, eyes softening slightly, though his eyebrows remained in their furrowed position.
You tried not to pay much attention to it, or the weird emptiness in your stomach you got from the feeling of George’s arm around you. As soon as you got back to your hotel, you could have a warm shower, go to sleep, and forget any of this even happened.
Or so you thought. After saying goodnight to your mates and spending an extra minute in the lobby locating the vending machine and enjoying a nice iced tea, you made your way up to your hotel room. Rummaging in your purse, your breath hitched when you couldn’t locate your room key. After a minute of digging, you got so desperate that you resorted to laying all your belongings on the hallway floor before coming to the realisation that you really had lost the key.
Your shaking hand grabbed your phone, texting the group chat and explaining your somewhat embarrassing situation. Biting your lip anxiously, you waited for a reply. Anyone.
Anyone but the one person who opened your message.
“unlucky lol”
Of course, he’d be no help. Not that you would ever be desperate enough to share a room with him anyway; you’d rather sleep in the elevator. You pulled out your vlog camera, deciding that if you really were in this dumb of a situation, then you should at least make content out of it.
You had no idea that just down the hallway, Will was staring at the message with unease. He was stuck on what to do, knowing he couldn’t leave you there. He tried calling Chris, huffing in annoyance when it went to voicemail and biting the inside of his cheek. Letting out one more groan, he got out of bed and left his room.
“I seriously don’t know what I’m gonna do.” You sighed to your camera, holding it up to your face before panning it down either side of the hallway as you sat with your back to the door.
“Come on then.” A voice from the end of the hallway made you jump. You turned your head, your face dropping from one of hope to one of disbelief as Will stood in his pyjamas, arms crossed. Turning to your vlog camera, you mouthed the words ‘help me’ before shoving it into your purse with the rest of your scattered belongings.
“I’m not sleeping on the floor.” You mumbled, stomping alongside him towards his room. He chuckled, shaking his head and rolling his eyes.
“Of course you’re not.”
…
Once you got back to his room, you took a long shower, washing off the weirdness of the day and thinking about how awkward tonight would be. You got into bed as Will got in the shower, the faint sound of running water soothing you as you relaxed under the covers. Filming a quick recap for your vlog, you turned off the camera and started mindlessly scrolling through your phone.
You tried not to stare as Will emerged from the shower, hair dripping wet and shirtless, a pair of baggy sweatpants hanging from his waist. The band of boxers was peeking out, and you had to keep your mouth from dropping open as his thumb hooked under the waistband, easing the fabric away and unsticking it from his damp skin before it snapped back.
You glanced back at your phone, not daring to look him in the eyes despite feeling his gaze locked on you. He turned the bedroom light off, the lamps on either side of the bed creating a lovely, warm lighting that just made you even more tired.
“What are you doing?” Your eyes widened as he pulled back the covers, climbing into bed beside you, though keeping a reasonable distance.
“Getting in bed?” He replied, plugging his phone in and turning off his lamp.
“You’re not sleeping on the floor?” You assumed.
“It’s my room.”
After a moment of turmoil and silence, knowing that you couldn’t exactly argue with him after he had let you stay in your room, you replied with a sigh before clicking off your lamp. “Just- … stay on your side, yeah?”
…
“Oh fuck- Will!” Your back arched as you moaned, head hitting the pillow and legs spreading wider.
“You like that, darling?” He groaned, thrusting into you with a level of hunger you didn’t expect. “Do I make you feel good?”
You shot up, sweat covering your body, and your heart beating rapidly. You were dreaming. You ran a hand over your face, pulling your lip between your teeth for the hundredth time today.
Your pussy was undeniably wet, the throbbing feeling distracting you as you tried your hardest to get back to sleep. As ridiculous as it sounds, you found yourself awake an hour later, staring at the ceiling with restlessness due to the mere fact that you hadn’t had a wank. It had become a habit of yours, specifically before bed, considering it seemed to help you sleep; something you often had trouble with.
That, along with the dream you had earlier, made you insanely tense. You couldn’t help but let your mind wander, along with your hand as it migrated down to your waistband. Turning your head towards Will to ensure he was still asleep, feeling relieved to see his back facing you.
You shamelessly dipped your hand under your panties, biting your tongue to stop yourself from gasping as you realise you’re wetter than you thought. You slowly circled your clit, leg twitching measly. Keeping up the pattern of slow circles and glancing to the boy sleeping next to you every few moments, you gained a little more confidence and possible delusion as you believed he’d stay asleep.
Picking up the pace, you stuffed the neck of your shirt into your mouth as your hips bucked up desperately. You couldn’t help but think of the boy you had dreamt of. Suddenly, Will’s breathing shifted. Heavier, yet somehow softer in a way, as if it had a whine to it. Your movements stopped, legs twitching every few seconds in expectancy.
“I know you can hear me,” he whimpered, turning slightly. Was he… jerking off? “Let me help you, if you’ll help me.”
After a moment of silence, he turned fully, lying on his back and lazily stroking his cock, the sheet outlining the silhouette of his hand. He looked at you, eyes desperately needy. Nodding, you moved closer, reaching under the covers to grab his hand as you replaced it with yours. He did the same, matching your slow strokes with tight circles around your clit.
“Will,” you breathed, legs spreading wider as your body instinctively moved towards him. You sped up your jerks, being met with the same treatment. You knew how this worked, now. Growing more desperate by the minute, your hand sped up, paying attention to his tip as you rolled your fist around it, thumb darting out to wipe the drop of pre-cum and use it as lubricant.
Will bucked his hips, mumbling a quick praise before dipping his middle finger inside your soaking pussy. He groaned, head hitting the wall and turning to watch the pleasure in your face as you moaned, mouth hung open.
“Fuck,” he whispered, using his free hand to grab your jaw, turning you to face him before capturing his lips with yours. His tongue protruded into your mouth, moving against yours with possessiveness and hunger. He spat, “I hate you so fucking much.”
You moaned into his mouth as he added a second finger, pumping quickly as the wet sounds filled the room. Your hand stammered around his cock, jerking him harder and faster. His mouth separated from yours, attaching to the side of your neck as open-mouthed kisses left marks.
Tilting your head back to give him more room, he left soft bruises around the base of your neck. Moans filled the room as he added a thumb, circling your clit tightly as his two fingers pumped into your pussy perfectly. Your legs shook tensely, back arching off the mattress as your head hit the pillow.
"Will, oh my god!" You moaned, chest heaving as your whole body tightened before the knot in your stomach snapped, and you coated Will's fingers in your arousal. Despite your now drunken state, you kept up the pace on his cock for a few more strokes before warm ropes of cum sputtered out, dripping down the sides of your hand.
He moved away from your neck, letting himself slump against the headboard as he panted. You brought your hand up to your mouth, lapping at his cum and moaning lightly when the saltiness hit your tongue.
"Fuck." He shook his head in disbelief. The two of you caught your breath for a moment before Will got up and stumbled to the bathroom, returning with a damp towel and cleaning you up gently. The two of you stayed up for another hour or so, chatting mindlessly and, for once, not being rude to each other.
And somewhere along the way, his voice sounded less annoying than usual. Maybe even comforting. You found yourself falling asleep to the sound of it, the last thing you recall before drifting to unconsciousness being the warmth of the blanket gently pulled over your body, and a kiss planted on the top of your head.
I just finished my hot pilates class & can’t stop thinking about dragging joe along 🫡
he would be so excited just to be involved and invited to be completely honest. until he gets there and he's in the weirdest position. muscles he didn't even know he owned are aching. also, why is he pouring sweat?
"why are we doing pilates in hell?"
"joe, shut up."
you're having to hush him because he's whining about everything ten minutes into the class. he's also not going to give up or do the alternative move because he translated it as 'giving up'.
he's also set up behind you and not beside you so he's just staring at your ass the entire time. he did this on purpose and you knew it. so now he's half hard trying to do some fuck ass move called the seal.
as you're both leaving, he's practically dying and you're fine. he's staring at you like you're some sort of alien. then he's like, "that's kinda hot-"
Summary: Watching Sabrina arrest Joe awakens a fierce jealousy inside you—time to remind your boyfriend who he belongs to.
Word count: 7.6k
Warnings: +18 MDNI. SMUT (m!receiving oral, deepthroating, unprotected p in v), established secret relationship, reader is chronically offline, insecurity and jealousy themes, ANGST
a/n: the 1k special! this is dedicated to all of you. im so grateful for your support. love u forever. -liv
Befriending musicians is boring until you find a genuine connection. It may be a girl with your same humor that will end up producing songs with you, or it may be a handsome, shy man who has your same music taste and ends up kissing you after letting you rant about why Ringo Starr was the best Beatle.
Both of them were in the Austin City Limits festival lineup, right on the same day, with your show between them.
Your dear friend and fellow singer Sabrina texted you the night before to have you as her ‘Juno’ arrested person. But even though you really wanted to, there was no time with your presentation following hers.
Y/N: oh, but I can tell Joe! he loves doing random stuff and people won't see it coming!!
Sabrina: which Joe?? Keery?
Y/N: ofc dummy, he’s downstairs cooking something. i’ll talk to him asap.
Sabrina: ahhh right. forgot u two were dating lollll
It had been an odd message, you couldn’t lie, but it was Sabrina; she was silly sometimes.
You still remembered the day you met her vividly. She went backstage after one of your concerts and begged you to go to her birthday party, claiming she was one of your biggest fans and saying, “I’ve DM’ed you for months and you never answer!” which made you re-download Instagram.
While she was a complete pop star with the million fans, the blonde hair, and the catchy songs, you were more of an indie, sad-songs, barely-went-to-any-events singer. Some of your songs got extremely famous on TikTok and it overwhelmed you to the point of closing all your socials. But at her birthday party, you realized how many of your fellow singers admired you.
They convinced you to reopen your socials and to attend some parties with them, yet after forcing yourself for a month, you went back to your home studio with your favorite producer and your guitar to write a song about how much you hated the music industry.
Sabrina loved it. She texted you, posted you on her stories, tweeted one of your lyrics, and sent you memes on Tiktok. God, she was insistent. But… she was funny and caring, so you let yourself have a different friend.
Joe loved your songs more, though.
At one of the many parties Sabrina dragged you to, the host begged you to sing on stage. You refused, but there’s not much one can do against social pressure, and you sang your little sad song you wrote at fifteen that people at Tiktok used for their sad ship edits.
Joe approached you at the bar. “Hey.”
He had been thinking of a hundred opening lines, but when he reached your side and smelled your perfume, his mind went blank.
You lowered your second vodka cranberry and smiled politely at him. “Hi.”
Joe cleared his throat and sat on the stool next to yours. “Big fan.”
His obvious nervousness was endearing for you. “Thanks. What’s your name?”
He blinked, taken aback, but replied calmly, “Joe.”
You weren’t a constant show watcher, preferring movies, so Stranger Things didn’t even ring a bell in your mind.
You shook his hand. “I’m Y/N.”
“Really? Had no idea,” Joe joked, making you chuckle. Wow, he was already finding your laughter cute. He tried to be discreet about his crush on you and started some small talk. “I’ve been a fan since 2018.”
You narrowed your eyes and smirked. “I don’t believe you.”
“I am!” he insisted and pulled out his phone.
He scrolled quickly for almost a minute until he found an old Instagram story he had posted for his close friends. It was a screenshot of your first album with the text, “I’M OBSESSED.”
Your jaw dropped as you placed your hand on his bicep—oh, he was strong. “Wow, I hardly meet OG fans. Most come from my last one.”
Joe got so distracted by your sudden touch that he forgot to exit Instagram. The next old story appeared, a screenshot of your Instagram page with the text, “And the singer is so fucking hot. I’m gonna marry her.”
Your cheeks turned red. “Oh—”
He hurriedly closed the app and accidentally dropped the phone on the wet bar. You rescued it before it hit the water and chuckled at his clumsiness.
“I don’t… It was a long time— I didn’t even remember—” Joe stumbled over his words.
“It’s okay,” you assured him. “Odd way to ask me to marry you, but sure. Let’s do it.”
Joe smiled and chuckled nervously. “You accept?”
You shrugged. “Yeah, you’re hot too. Isn’t Las Vegas close by?”
That night, you didn’t go back to Sabrina’s California mansion. Instead, you found yourself at a mini golf court with Joe until three in the morning. In less than two weeks, he asked you to be his girlfriend.
For almost two years, Joe and you had managed to keep your relationship a secret. It wasn’t that you wanted to hide it; it was more about needing privacy. People were hungry to know every detail about your personal life, so it felt great having Joe all to yourself.
Joe was always insisting that he didn’t really care if people knew, but you were a bit paranoid and overprotective of him. Even though Stranger Things was a huge success, Joe never felt assaulted by paparazzi or fans. He could walk across a park, sit in a cafeteria, and have a calm time. But if people knew he was dating you… that peace would be gone.
After writing some songs on Short n’ Sweet for her, Sabrina and you got closer. You had never written such horny, sexy lyrics, but dating Joe provoked sensations you never thought possible.
Sabrina knew about Joe. She hadn’t met him, not even the night you met him, but she was on your close friends and saw your constant pics and videos with him. Since Espresso ended up being such a big hit and opened many doors for Sabrina, you had almost no time to see each other.
Sabrina: ahhh right. forgot u two were dating lollll
You kept staring at the message for two long minutes, still trying to understand the mood.
Y/N: for almost half a year lol. keep up girlie
Sabrina: when is the hard launch coming? a tip: don't have him staring at one of ur videos!
The memory of her ex-boyfriend, Barry something, appearing on the Please, Please, Please video made you chuckle. Her producers, her closest friends, and you had warned her not to do it, but Sabrina was stubborn.
Y/N: dont worry. yk i dont like shooting music videos
Sabrina: bo-bo-boring!
Y/N: will probably hard launch a picture of us in our wedding day lmao
She left you on read, but you paid it no mind. You kept mentally preparing for tomorrow’s festival. Your fans almost died when you announced your appearance. Some of them nicknamed you ‘shooting star’ since they saw you once or twice a year.
Joe finished cooking your favorite dish, chicken lasagna, and set the table while you talked about the next day’s event.
“Oh, Brina texted me,” you remembered. “She wanted me as her Juno arrest for tomorrow, but I think it’ll be funnier if it’s you.”
Joe stopped serving your plate. “What the hell is a Juno arrest?”
You briefly explained Sabrina’s bit and looked for videos. “It’s always a celebrity. She arrested Millie last year, I think.”
He was very hesitant about the whole idea, not really seeing the funny part of it.
“Joe, everyone’s hyped ‘cause Stranger Things is returning next month,” you tried to convince him. “People will love it. I will love it. I literally wrote that song about you, baby.”
“But… okay, fine,” he gave up. “Just ‘cause you want it.”
You giggled and kissed his nose, but Joe grabbed your hips and pressed his lips against yours. “And just ‘cause I’m the song’s muse.”
“Partly. Sabrina’s ex also inspired her and—”
Joe scrunched his nose. “Ew, ew. Don’t remind me I share songs with a cheater.”
Throughout the night, he kept kissing you and making you laugh until the festival’s stress vanished from your mind.
But almost twenty-four hours later, as you watched Sabrina’s show from a backstage television… you regretted all your recent choices.
Sabrina, looking extremely hot with a purple dress and her messy curls, was performing her Juno arrest, asking Joe for his name. “Joe, it’s cuffing season.”
The crowd roared wildly as your boyfriend excitedly offered his hands for the handcuffs while grinning broadly.
Sabrina passed the fluffy pink handcuffs to a security guard and giggled, “You seem so eager! That’s rare.”
Joe bit his bottom lip as he reached for the cuffs. Once he got them, he waved the object to the camera and a flustered, blushing Sabrina covered her chuckles with her hand.
“This next song is dedicated to Joe, everybody,” she said.
Your head started to ache, your left eye started to twitch, and your hands were turned to clenched fists. Other crew members kept watching the television, not noticing as you rushed back to your dressing room.
You weren’t a jealous person. Not that much. It obviously made you uncomfortable whenever someone flirted with your man in front of you but it never made you genuinely insecure.
But his reactions… his excited smile he usually only gave to you.
And then there was Sabrina, looking so beautiful and sexy with her high heels, sparkly dress, and suggestive poses.
Oh, God… Joe would be in the first row, watching the Juno pose of the night. You felt on the verge of passing out.
What were you thinking by offering your boyfriend to be seduced by one of the hottest women alive?!
You closed the door behind you and, with shaky hands, grabbed the nearest cushion. That damn message from the night before was making everything worse in your mind. You screamed your lungs out into the cushion, effectively muffling your screams.
Sabrina: ahhh right. forgot u two were dating lollll
What did she fucking mean by that?! How do you forget that?!
You threw the cushion at the wall and pulled at your hair anxiously. A thousand fatalistic thoughts invaded your mind in milliseconds.
Sabrina wanted to steal your boyfriend; it was obvious. It made all the sense in the world. Why wouldn’t she? Joe is the cutest man ever. And, oh, he definitely wanted to fuck her too. Who wouldn’t? She was hot, sexy, adorable, and… for some reason she was never wearing jeans.
You felt an immediate guilt at the sort-of slut-shaming against your friend. Sabrina was one of your few genuine friendships in the industry. She had a unique humor and was always kind to you. It wasn’t fair to jump to conclusions.
Driver’s License by Olivia Rodrigo played in your mind. Oh, shit. Sabrina had done it before, according to the song. You had never asked her about the truth behind it, but if the Olivia girl wasn’t lying… You weren’t one to call a woman a ‘whore’ or ‘slut,’ but the horrible word ‘homewrecker’ appeared at the tip of your tongue.
You grabbed the closest thing you found—a sunscreen bottle—and threw it at the wall. “Stupid, stupid. I’m so stupid!”
“Umm…”
The sudden voice behind you stopped your heart. Gasping, you turned around and found a backstage assistant holding a water bottle at the end of the dressing room. She seemed absolutely terrified of you.
“I’m sorry, ma’am. Was just going to leave and—"
“It’s okay! I’m sorry,” you interrupted her with a forced smile. “I didn’t notice you, uhm… Thanks for the water.”
The assistant slowly placed the bottle on the table and walked towards the door, her back glued to the wall to avoid approaching you.
You licked your lips nervously and looked at the floor, ashamed. When she reached the door, you said in a shaky voice, “I really appreciate the water!”
The woman was out in a flash. You slumped down on the couch and rested your head in your hands. “What am I doing…?”
The door opened and closed as your best friend—and manager—entered swiftly. She was typing on her phone while she spoke. “You’ll be on stage at fifteen. Everyone’s ready, the fans—”
“Am I crazy?” You rose to your feet and grabbed her arms. “Didn’t you see what just happened?”
Mary looked up from her phone, frowning. “Ehm… Sabrina’s show?”
“No! I mean, yes. When she arrested Joe and—” you tried to find non-dramatic words. “And almost fucked him right there in front of everyone!”
She sighed deeply. “Girl, they’re actors. They were acting. You know what that is?”
Mary instinctively entered Twitter to check what people were saying about you, but the first tweet was tonight’s Juno arrest. She paled and tried to quickly cover the screen.
“Show me, show me,” you whined as she raised her phone out of your reach. “Mary, please!”
“Okay, but let me schedule you an appointment with your therapist for tomorrow first.”
You took it from her hands and felt your stomach drop. The tweet had almost half a million likes already. All the internet was ‘shipping’ your boyfriend with Sabrina.
“Girl, give me—” Mary tried to recover her phone.
You turned away and looked for Joe’s name in the search tab. Everyone, like, literally everyone, was talking about how cute they would be as a couple and how obvious his crush for her was.
“I’m gonna pass out,” you mumbled, dropping the phone on the carpet. You knelt down and tried to calm your breath.
Mary whimpered, looking around for something to help. She passed you the water bottle. “Here. Drink, breathe… Umm… Okay, let’s be rational. People think Joe’s single, so it’s normal for—”
“I doubt they ‘ship’ her with everyone she arrests. People noticed the chemistry between them,” you snapped. “That wasn’t acting, Mary. I’ve seen Sabrina flirt at parties a thousand times, and Joe, well… with me, you know?”
Mary knelt next to you and seized your shoulders. “Exactly. With you. He wants you. He loves you. I’ve never seen a man so in love with someone, baby. Twitter doesn’t know shit, okay?”
You crawled to the table and grabbed your phone, determined to download the app. Mary reached for your phone, but you kicked her away.
She held your leg and pushed you to the floor. “Don’t!”
You rolled around and crawled away. “Leave me alone!”
“No! I’m your manager so you have to obey me.”
“Literally no, it’s the opposite—
Mary pulled you back by your ankle. “Give me that phone, young lady!”
“We’re the same age, idiot.”
The door opened and an event crew member leaned in. She looked around until her eyes found you two on the floor. “Uhm… Okay? Miss Carpenter is wrapping up. I’ll need Miss Y/L/N in five minutes to get her ready.”
Mary stood up and forced a smile. “Thank you, she’ll be there.”
The woman nodded and looked at her clipboard. “Oh, and Mr. Joe Keery is coming to say hi.”
“No!” you whined but the woman was already gone. You looked horrified at Mary. “He can’t see me like this. I’m a mess. I’m gonna break down and—”
Mary gave you a harsh slap. You gasped and held your cheek confused and shocked.
She pulled you up and gripped your shoulders. “Listen to me, idiot. Half of the crowd out there came for you. Your fans miss you; they haven’t heard you sing in almost six months, so you’re going to forget everything about your personal life for an hour and give them the best show of the night, understood?”
It was true; the last time you had sung live had been on SNL at the start of the year… which you still regretted to the present. It had been a good presentation, but you were forced to attend the afterparty and socialize.
Horrible scenario for you.
You nodded quietly, still soothing your cheek. “But… If I see Joe, I’ll cry. I just know it! And I’m a horrible liar!”
Mary groaned and looked around the room. “Uhm, alright. Hide somewhere; I’ll distract him.”
And then you heard his voice coming from the hallway.
“Oh, no, no,” you whimpered.
The bathroom was too far away, so you jumped into a tight, wooden closet and closed the doors firmly. You sat down between shoes and covered your mouth, feeling like you were in A Quiet Place.
Mary sighed deeply, mentally preparing for the next five minutes. A soft knock came before Joe opened the door. He had an excited smile that wavered at the lack of your presence.
“Hi, Mary. Umm, where is she?”
Mary hid her shaky hands behind her. “Changing. She’s getting on stage soon and— No, wait!”
Joe walked to the bathroom, opened the door, and frowned at the emptiness. “What—?”
A boot beneath you slipped and made you lose your balance. You tried to cling to a dress, but your feet stumbled and made you fall out of the closet.
“Ouch!” you whined as your butt hit the dressing room’s carpet.
Mary wanted to die, while Joe just smiled and rushed to help you up. “There you are!”
You avoided his eyes and pretended to wipe off dirt from your dress.
“Look what I brought you,” he sang before waving those damn pink handcuffs.
You cleared your throat and mumbled, “Oh, you did that? Okay.”
Joe frowned but kept smirking. “What do you mean? You told me to! Wait, you watched it, right?”
Well, you had to keep lying. You shrugged and crossed your arms. “No, sorry, I was… preparing my voice.”
Joe’s jaw dropped. “What? Nooo,” he whined. “It was fun; you were right. I’m sure I can find a video somewhere.”
You froze as he pulled out his phone. If he entered Twitter, he would see everyone’s theories of Sabrina and him dating.
“Wait—Uhm, I’ll see it later. I have to be on stage soon.”
His eyes widened excitedly. “Oh, right. I’ll be there, front row, cheering for you.”
Joe left the handcuffs on the table and pulled you into a tight embrace. You noticed Mary’s hard eyes behind him while mouthing to you, “Hug him back!”
You awkwardly patted his back, not really in the mood to be near anyone. He pulled back immediately. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, just… very anxious and on the verge of jumping off a bridge,” you mumbled.
Joe pouted and kissed your forehead. “Everything will be alright, honey. I promise. No need to be nervous.”
You felt your eyes getting wet. Oh, no, why now? You quickly turned around and pretended to look for your shoes.
“Yeah, whatever. It’s just an hour,” you whispered.
Mary noticed Joe’s furrowed brows and intervened, “She needs to be on stage soon, Joe, so… please leave.”
He knew he couldn’t exactly fight your manager, even though she was more of a friend than your employee.
Joe gently held your arm and turned you around. You closed your eyes as he kissed you softly. “I love you. You’ll do great.”
Now you wanted to cry from the guilt. Of course Joe didn’t want Sabrina; he loved you and demonstrated it every day.
You pulled him into a hug so he couldn’t see your tearful eyes and whispered. “I love y-you too.”
He soothed your back and gave you a final kiss on the cheek. “I cleaned my gallery for tonight. I’m going to record every second of the show.”
Mary stepped between you firmly. “Okay, you’re the sweetest boyfriend ever, we get it. Goodbye!”
She dragged him to the door as he kept looking at you. There was something in your eyes, in your quietness, that worried him.
“I love you,” Joe repeated before Mary closed the door on his face.
She sighed deeply and rested her forehead on the door. Usually, you were her best client. You didn’t use social media, you barely went out of your house, you made albums once a year, everyone loved them, and you disappeared again.
It was the easiest job to manage you. But, of course, everything had to go wrong on the only time of the year that you were going on stage.
“I don’t wanna wear this dress,” you whined at your mirror’s reflection.
The fairy-like long green dress made sense with your music genre, but now, you could only compare yourself with Sabrina’s outfits. Next to her, you were the most unsexy nun.
Mary felt like a vein would explode in her head. “You begged for this dress, honey, and we don’t have time to change—”
You opened the closet and hurriedly changed for something else. There was a tight white dress with revealing cleavage.
“Babe, no.” Mary tried to take it from you. “We haven’t done an outfit test with this; it’s too risky.”
“I wanna wear it.”
“Are you deaf or just ignoring me completely?” Mary was losing her patience.
You unzipped your long dress and put on the tiny one. It looked too tight on you. “Perfect!”
Mary passed a hand through her hair anxiously. “Y/N, I swear to—”
A knock came from the door as the same crew member arrived to take you to the stage.
You were trembling from head to toe while you followed the woman. Mary was walking beside you, giving you advice you didn’t listen to.
Three people placed microphones and an earphone while a stylist finished fixing your hair and makeup.
“Okay, you look hot, just don’t… kneel down or it may break, or show your panties—”
You cut off Mary’s rambling. “I need a shot. Vodka.”
Mary frowned and tried to stop the several crew members that rushed to get you one. “Honey, everything will be fine—”
“No, no. I wanna go home; I hate this. I hate this day—”
“Don’t make me slap you again,” Mary muttered as she squeezed your cheeks. “You got this, Y/N. Listen to the people cheering. They need you. They have traveled from all over the world to see you!”
You whined but nodded. “Alright. I can do this. For the fans.”
“For the fans,” Mary agreed and pushed you to the stage.
The music and the cheers started the moment you walked in. You awkwardly waved at the crowd and rushed to the microphone. After a small speech you had rehearsed a hundred times, someone passed you your guitar and the show started.
The few other times you have had a concert have been the same: you get incredibly anxious for a couple of days, but the second you’re on stage you transform to ‘Singer Y/N’ and everything turns out easier.
You avoided looking down at the front row, knowing the moment you saw Joe you’d get nervous again.
Wow, Joe was watching you perform. Everyone was hearing your last album for the first time live and you felt a bit sad that the debut of it hadn’t been in a concert of your own.
“Okay, we’ve got time for one more song,” you said, making the crowd whine. You chuckled. “I know, I know. I would stay all night with you if I could.”
Total lie. Well, no, you would do that for your real fans… in a very small venue and not televised.
“This one is a gift… An unreleased song.”
Your jaw dropped at the loud level of cheers. They were being too dramatic; you had released an album at the start of the year, and they had been fed enough.
“I wrote this for…” Suddenly, adrenaline took over your mind. “For my partner.”
This time, you were sure some people had passed out from how loud they had screamed.
“My partner is here tonight, so yeah… this one is for you, honey,” you said before starting to sing your first romantic song.
On the first row, Joe felt his heart stop. No one around him knew you were singing to him, that those sweet, poetic words were for him. He could’ve cried right there, but in the middle of the song, event assistants escorted him backstage for his upcoming show.
Once you finished, waved goodbye, and stepped off the stage, you felt your soul come back to your body.
Mary hugged you tightly. “That was amazing! The last song was so cute, I almost cried!”
You smiled weakly while crewmembers took off all the cables from your body. “I had a great time… Can’t believe I just admitted that.”
“Me neither!” Mary shrieked excitedly. “Oh, this means I can plan a tour—”
“Absolutely not,” you stopped her.
A hand squeezed your shoulder behind you. “Great show.”
You could recognize that voice in any crowded room. Joe was smirking at you, resisting the urge to kiss you in front of everyone.
Placing a hair behind your ear, you blushed and smiled. “Thanks. Good luck!”
To anyone around you, it was the first time you had ever interacted. When in reality, you could never get used to his compliments. In your head, it was insane that such a good man like him could love someone as damaged as you.
When you expressed that thought to him, Joe had to sit up from the surprise. He hated that you could see yourself in that way.
“See you later?” Joe said as the festival announced his stage name.
You shrugged teasingly. “Maybe.”
He looked you up and down, licked his bottom lip, and swiftly leaned in to whisper, “I’m going to rip that dress off of you at the hotel.”
As if nothing had happened, Joe went onto the stage and started his show, leaving you flustered and shocked.
Your core clenched at the mental image he had provoked.
He was a pro with the crowd, talking to them and hyping them up for his songs. You watched your boyfriend, entranced for a minute, until someone tugged your arm hard and pulled you into a hug.
“I loved your show, girlie!” Sabrina squeals in your ear. She had taken off her heels, so you almost had to double down to hug her back.
“Thanks,” you said awkwardly.
She pulled back but kept her hands on your shoulders. “You were amazing. Joe said you were nervous, but I didn’t notice.”
You tensed at the mention of your man from her lips. It had been a very small thing, but your mind was already tweaking.
“We were on the front row watching your show together,” she explained. “He protected me from some fans; you know how they get!”
There were too many people around you that would be potential witnesses of your potential choking of Sabrina Carpenter. No way in hell was she thinking her words weren’t harming you; she wasn’t stupid.
“Then we got escorted on the last song ‘cause he had to get ready, but he recorded almost all your show. So cute,” she said in a fake voice.
Well, it had been in a normal tone but in your mind, everything coming from her suddenly seemed fake.
You felt your stomach drop. “Wait, he didn’t listen to the last song? It was for him.”
She shrugged and gave you a pity look. “Sorry, honey. He heard, like, half of it. He loved what he heard, though!”
Sabrina frowned when you shoved her hands away and hurried to your dressing room.
It wasn’t really Joe’s fault that he had to leave mid-song, but the fact that Sabrina had been next to him all the time, probably chatting and chuckling since they were both so funny.
Actually, they weren’t that funny; they just had charisma. There were a thousand funnier people in the world! It wouldn’t be a big deal if you cut off all communication right there with everyone, right now.
“What happened now?” Mary muttered, closing the door behind her and leaning against it. “I saw they talked to you. Did they confess they have an affair, two kids, and a house in Italy?”
You glared at her, not liking the joke one bit. Mary’s smirk vanished.
She sat next to you on the couch and placed a hand over your shoulders. “Babe, you can’t let your insecurities ruin your night. You did something big today! You went out of your comfort zone. I’m so proud of you.”
Her last sentence triggered something deep inside your heart. Your eyes got tearful and before you realized it, you were crying with your head on her lap.
Mary soothed your head and looked worriedly at the door. “Don’t you wanna watch his show? He’d be sad if—”
“I hate this,” you sobbed. “This is not like me. I’ve never been the jealous type, you know it! Tell me I’m not crazy.”
She sighed—she seemed to be doing this a lot with you today—and said in a tender voice. “You’re not crazy. It’s normal to feel like that, but… honey, Joe loves you, and Sabrina is your friend; they would never do anything to hurt you.”
You sat up. “What would you do in my shoes? I know you have jealousy issues.”
Mary’s jaw dropped in indignation. “I’m not… always that jealous. Just—”
“You cut it off with James when he sat next to a girl in an airport.”
“There were a hundred empty seats and he made the conscious choice of sitting next to her. He knew what he was doing, that fucking prick,” she muttered.
You shook her by the shoulders. “What would you do if you were me?”
“Talk to him about your concerns—”
“I need you to be honest, not healthy!”
“That’s crazy to ask—”
“Mary, please!”
She whined and pushed your hands off her. “Fine! I would deepthroat his cock until the only sound coming from his mouth is my name!”
Your friend covered her mouth, ashamed, while a smirk grew on your face. “A blowjob. Of course! That’s a great idea.”
Mary lay back on the couch, looking at the ceiling, and whispered. “I’ll schedule you two therapy sessions for next week.”
You stood up and started pacing around the couch anxiously. “Okay. You once told me you’re amazing at it. Teach me!”
The manager went still. “Excuse me?”
“At Anne’s dinner last month you said you were great at deepthroating. I told you I can’t do it and Anne said there’s a spray to relax your throat and—”
“I’m not buying you fucking throat spray—”
You dramatically fell to your knees in front of her. “Mary, I’m begging you. Joe’s show lasts an hour. Enough time to get it.”
Mary regretted ever offering to be your manager. “Why can’t you just… try to relax it?”
“I can’t! And Joe is so big—”
Mary covered her ears. “Ew, I don’t wanna know that!”
You jumped to sit next to her and jokingly murmured, “Big, long, veiny cock—”
“Stop!” she whined and pushed you back to the floor. “I told you I don’t need to know about your sex life unless you get accidentally pregnant.”
You hugged her left leg. “C’mon, Mary, just google the closest sex store. I’ll give you a raise.”
“I already earn millions a year thanks to you.”
“I’ll get you a date with Paul Mescal.”
Mary gasped. “You wouldn’t… He has a girlfriend. That singer girl that’s always sorry about something.”
You shook your head with a wide smirk. “Sabrina told me they broke up a month ago. He is single and very ready to mingle.”
Mary shrieked excitedly, stood up, then sat down again. “Okay, okay, alright. I’ll buy your stupid spray.”
Jumping to your feet, you leaned down to kiss her forehead. “I love you. This is why we’d be wives in a universe where you like girls.”
She rolled her eyes and grabbed her purse. “I’ll leave it hidden in that drawer. Go watch your man’s performance or I’ll tweet a pic of the spray in your account.”
— — —
Guards and assistants escorted you to a special, secluded place in the front row. You waved at some fans, signed some of their vinyls, and took three selfies.
Joe noticed the commotion down the stage and smirked at the sight of you, still in that sexy dress with your beautiful eyes up on him. Even after a year and a half of dating, he got flustered by your attention.
The show continued as planned, but he doubled his efforts to impress you. Joe was deeply in love with you and wished everyone could know it. For a second, he imagined jumping off the stage and claiming your lips without a care in the world.
But above all, he respected your decisions completely and would never risk exposing your relationship without your consent.
When Joe finally finished his presentation and left the stage, he walked straight to his dressing room, thanking everyone who stopped him to compliment his show.
The light was off. Odd.
Joe gasped after he turned it on and saw you sitting cross-legged on the couch. You turned around and smirked. “Hey. Did you see me in the crowd?”
He smiled instinctively and approached you. “How could I not notice my prettiest fan?”
As he leaned down for a kiss, you placed a hand on the nape of his neck and met his lips halfway.
Joe smirked against your lips and let you deepen the kiss while hovering awkwardly over you. His hands caressed your cheeks tenderly.
But you didn’t want tender and romantic; you needed passionate, hot sex.
You rose to your feet and shoved him to the closed door. Joe was taken aback by the sudden roughness but welcomed it with a nervous smile.
He gasped as you attacked his mouth again, pressing your body flushed against his. You could feel his already hard cock restrained by his jeans.
You locked the door and swiftly started unbuckling his belt. His cheeks turned red. “Here? Are you sure? The walls are kind of thin.”
“Shut up,” you muttered before biting his bottom lip.
He whined and touched his bleeding lip, surprised… and deeply excited. “You’re feisty tonight, huh?”
“I told you to shut the fuck up.”
Joe gulped at the dark lust in your eyes and nodded quietly. You shoved his jeans and boxers down in one go before falling to your knees.
After the disgusting spray numbed your throat, you listened several times to Mary's voice message explaining how to give an amazing blowjob. It was the moment to leave your shy self behind and evoke your sexual persona.
You licked your right hand, grabbed his cock, and rubbed his slit with your thumb.
“Fuck—!” Joe almost screamed from the pleasure. With one hand he held your head while the other covered his mouth.
Never had you seen him react like that, so you kept going. Joe threw his head back to the door as you kept pressing and moving your thumb on his tip’s slit, already causing precum to come out of it.
Your eyes remained on his as you took his tip in your mouth slowly, making him groan at the wet feeling enveloping him.
Joe tangled his fingers in your hair and turned it into an improvised ponytail. He was torn between holding you tenderly or fucking your mouth roughly.
Obeying Mary’s instructions, you sucked the tip and then swirled your tongue around it.
“Jesus, fuck—” His hips shifted involuntarily.
Your jaw slackened before you took him deeper, your cheeks hollowing to create a suction sensation that turned him into a whimpering mess. Joe felt vulnerable, exposed, like a teenager receiving his first blowjob as his body reacted in ways never discovered before.
Thanks to the numbness, you continued pushing him into your mouth until you almost reached his hairy base. Joe looked at you surprised and overwhelmed. No one had ever taken him that far. Not even you. He felt as if one of his many fantasies of you was becoming true right in front of him.
“Just like that, baby,” he grunted as you moved slowly yet urgently. “Keep your eyes on me.”
Your tearful eyes stayed on his as you finally took his cock completely, deepthroating for the first time ever. Joe felt himself hardening at the messy sight. He gripped your hair hard, not able to control himself, as he bit his lip to avoid moaning.
But you weren’t backing down. You pulled back to the tip, then pressed forward until your nose touched his pelvis again. Joe was starting to feel his self-control slip through his fingers as his legs trembled with the effort of holding back. He was already close to finishing, and he needed it to last longer.
Joe was in heaven.
You held onto his firm thighs and fastened your pace. It was incredibly difficult to breathe through your nose while your tongue traced around his cock while also sucking him hard. How did so many people enjoy doing this?!
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he whined loudly, his mind too lost to think clearly. “Y/N, don’t stop. You feel so good, honey.”
The feeling of your throat constricting around him, the tight fullness of his cock into you, your complete surrender to him… Fuck, he was fighting hard to not thrust animalistically.
You gagged slightly and hummed around him, a single tear rolling down your cheek, and he was a goner. Joe’s right hand left your hair and searched urgently for one of your hands.
A bit confused, you let him hold your hand tenderly.
“Baby, I’m close,” he warned with a ragged, broken voice. You almost laughed at how choked up he sounded, almost on the verge of tears. “Please…”
You took him deeper, staying there and giving him the permission he was desperately begging for. The simple act shattered the last thread of control.
“Fuck, Y/N!” Joe couldn’t suppress the trembling groan and spilled into your mouth.
The hot, white waves of cum shot into your numb throat like a consuming ocean. His entire body went still as he squeezed your hand tightly.
And following Mary’s last advice, you swallowed all of it. He sensed it and, for a second, almost got hard again.
You pulled back, wiped your mouth with the back of your hand and stuck your tongue out to show him you hadn’t left a single drop. Joe groaned and pulled you up to a messy, open-mouthed kiss.
“I love you so fucking much, baby,” he murmured against your lips. “I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve you.”
You smiled proudly at your success, feeling your peace coming back. Your throat had taken his cock. He was hungrily kissing your lips. He was in love with you and only you.
Joe was yours.
— — —
Life got better after you became a blowjob expert.
Who knew the key to making a man that happy was sucking his cock?
Maybe that was why Mary had so many men desperately calling her. But, well, she now only had eyes for her man.
It was odd seeing your childhood-friend-turned-manager in paparazzi pictures with Paul Mescal.
Joe and the irish actor became good friends after Mary forced all of you to double-date.
On the opposite stick of friendship, Sabrina and you drifted away slowly until your only communication was exchanging memes once a week.
You never told her or Joe about your jealousy that night, but why would you? Joe was wrapped around your finger, Sabrina was banned from your private life, and insecurities aren’t eternal.
Months passed and the December holidays were just around the corner.
Apart from a brief trip to California two days before Christmas, Joe was glued to your side. You’d share Christmas Eve with your family in London, then fly together to Chicago to spend the holiday with his.
The night before his trip, music videos were playing on a low volume on your television while Joe fucked you on the couch.
You arched your back and let him pull your hair as you moaned, “Oh, fuck, baby! Harder!”
Joe spanked your ass and railed into you. “Want me to ruin you, honey?”
Nodding desperately, you gripped the cushions and whimpered, “Please, please… Fill me up.”
He loved hearing those words since you started taking birth control pills and let him fuck you raw. Joe had no idea what had sparked this sudden transformation over the past three months, turning your previously tender sex life into something freakishly passionate, but he wasn’t complaining in the slightest.
“Gonna be a good girl and take all of me?” Joe grunted while rubbing your clit.
Just as you were about to nod, you noticed Harry Styles’ Lights Up video was playing. Your pussy clenched instinctively at the sight of the shirtless singer. Joe’s eyes followed your gaze before he ceased his movements.
He turned off the television, gripped your neck, and pulled you to him until his chest met your back. “Are you serious, Y/N?”
Too cockdrunk to process what was happening, you whined. “What? Why are you stopping, babe?”
Joe knew you weren’t even thinking of the british singer when you clenched around him, but he couldn’t ignore the jealousy on his chest. His hold on your neck tightened as he drove into you with a newly found might.
“Oh, fuck!” you cried as he rubbed your clit with his free hand. “I’m close, so close. Don’t stop, baby.”
He bit your earlobe. “Scream my name when you come, sweetheart.”
You arched your back painfully and let the trembling orgasm hit you. It rolled all over your limbs like the warmest, most pleasurable buzz. “Joe!”
At the powerful clench of your pussy around him, he let go and released himself deep inside you.
You both fell faceforward onto the couch, Joe on top of you. He moved your head to the side and gently kissed your cheek. “Are you okay, baby?”
“Mhm,” you hummed weakly. “Amazing.”
Joe pulled his softening cock off you and started looking for a towel to clean you.
“You want a glass of water?” he asked as he delicately wiped your overwhelmed pussy.
You nodded and pouted, silently asking for a kiss he delightfully gave you. Once he was gone, his phone buzzed on the coffee table. You rolled to the side and squinted your eyes. “I think your mom is calling you.”
From the kitchen downstairs, he yelled, “Answer her! It’s probably about the Christmas dinner!”
Your legs were too weak with the afterglow of it all, so it took you too long to sit up and reach. Just as you grabbed it, the call dropped. You sighed and started to unlock it to call your mother-in-law back… but a notification froze you.
Sabrina: everything’s ready. see u tomorrow :)
Sabrina: remember to delete the texts. cant have her finding out ;)
Sabrina: [PHOTO]
Your head felt dizzy as your stomach did a thousand turns. The phone fell from your hand to the carpeted floor. You couldn’t even bring yourself to open the SMS conversation and snoop more; those messages were enough to mess with your head, your body, your heart… the unbearable pain was everywhere.
For the entire past week, Joe had avoided answering your questions about his upcoming California trip, claiming that it was music-related. You hadn’t paid it enough mind until now. So he was going to California to see her… Wow. Just wow. He hadn’t even mentioned they had each other’s personal numbers, much less that they were friends.
Or whatever the fuck they were.
Trying not to break down, you got dressed quickly, grabbed your biggest purse, and packed your essentials.
Joe came back with a pair of boxers on and a big glass of cold water in his hand. “What did she say…?” His voice quieted when he noticed your trembling hands shoving stuff into your bag. “Honey, what’s wrong?”
You closed the purse and walked past him. Joe tried to grab your arm, but you hurried down the stairs. A mix of confusion and fear ran through him as he left the glass on the floor and followed you.
“Y/N, wait! What are you doing?”
He finally took hold of your arm to stop you, stepping in front of you to study your face. Your eyes were wide and glassy, your gaze lost in the wall as your entire body trembled.
“What’s wrong?” he whispered worriedly. “Baby, talk to me.”
The endearing term brought you back to the present. Your sadness turned to anger as you shoved him off you. “Don’t touch me.”
He stepped back, surprised. His chest ached from your words. “What—?”
“Don’t call me, don’t text me, and don’t even look at me. We’re done,” you brokenly mumbled before turning back to the door.
Your coldness struck him as he watched you walk out of your shared apartment. For a second, he thought you could be pranking him… but it wasn’t like you to do something so cruel.
When he heard the elevator down the hallway arrive, he reacted. Joe ran out of the apartment in a flash. “Y/N! Wait! Please—”
The elevator doors closed in his face. He pressed the button anxiously and unsuccessfully. Since he was on the fortieth floor, Joe had to wait for a new one to arrive, but deep down, he knew he had lost you, unannounced and out of the blue.
Inside the elevator, you rested back on the wall while trying to calm your breath. But the realization of it all, of the end of your idealized relationship, crashed into you at once. You covered your mouth to muffle your sobs as you slid down to the floor.
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!
Summary: Fred hides his feelings for you, but when he sees you with Cedric, all hell breaks loose. [angst, fluff, more angst, smut, and even more fluff]
Word Count: 5.8k
A/N: okay okay...I heard you!!! sorry for the delay in getting this last part out, life has been busy and I have been uninspired :/ enjoy and feel free to leave me a request <3
Warnings: MDNI! arguing, profanity, sexual content
Links: part 1, part 2
----
You were anxiously tapping your foot, trying to keep yourself together as you waited for Fred. George had let you in to their room, promising to bring Fred to talk to you. Fred had no idea that you were waiting for him, and it was probably for the best to take him by surprise.
He had still been avoiding you, coming up with excuses to be away from the group. George's plan to get him alone with you was finally coming to fruition. Now you were just waiting.
You had rehearsed what you wanted to say to Fred at least one hundred times in your head. You didn't want to settle for being just friends anymore, you wanted more. This was your chance to express it.
The door opened, revealing the twins. They were in the middle of a conversation, and Fred hadn't noticed you yet. George hovered by the door, making eye contact with you while Fred continued to talk to him.
Fred turned to George, following his line of sight. When Fred's gaze finally rested on you, a flurry of emotions crossed his face. Initially, he was shocked. Then it molded into what seemed to be frustration, aiming it at George.
"You two need to talk," George said, still standing in the doorway. "You're not leaving until you work it out."
George had his arms crossed, waiting for a response from Fred. Fred's eyes flickered between you and George.
"Fine," Fred huffed, leaning on his dresser.
George nodded at you, closing the door as he left. It was just you and Fred now, and the silence was deafening.
"You told him?" Fred asked, his tone accusatory. He was angry.
"I didn't--" you started before he cut you off.
"If you didn't tell him, then why is he doing this?" he pushed, looking at you skeptically.
"Don't interrupt me," you said, standing from your place on George's bed. "We're going to talk through this, and you're not going to be an arse to me."
You stared at Fred, challenging him. He let out a breath, looking away from you.
"Okay, whatever," he said, still not looking at you. "How does he know?"
"He asked me how long we've been shagging at dinner on Wednesday," you replied. "I tried to deny it, but you know how George is. He sees right through me."
"How much does he know?" Fred prodded.
You shrugged. "Not much. I told him that we shagged and you've been avoiding me ever since."
Fred scoffed at you. "Avoiding you?"
"Oh get off it, Fred," you said. "What else would you call what you've been doing?"
"I would call it 'having a life,'" he shot back, looking up to glare at you.
You sighed, pressing your fingers to your temples. He was being impossible.
"I don't want to fight with you," you said. "I just want to know what's going on."
Fred was quiet, considering his next words while he looked at you. You were hoping that he would crank down the hostility, but knowing Fred, it was unlikely. He's never been great at working through conflict.
"All of this was a mistake," he finally said, his voice low.
You gaped at him. "A mistake? You were the one that pursued it."
"I know, and it was a bloody terrible idea," he replied.
His expression was unreadable. You were used to being able to read Fred like a book, but his guard was up.
"Why do you think that?" you asked genuinely, trying to tame the fury that was bubbling up.
Fred huffed. He paced toward his own bed, taking a seat.
"We're much better as friends," he shrugged. "We shouldn't have ever crossed that line."
"What the fuck, Fred?" you burst out. "You were the one that wanted the contract. You were the one that said we should have started hooking up sooner. What in the bloody hell is going on?"
Your face was burning with frustration, and Fred just sat there looking at you, his face absolutely blank. You took a deep breath, trying to calm down.
"Sit," he said, patting a spot next to him on the bed.
You walked over to join him, eying him cautiously. You perched yourself on the bed, putting plenty of space between the two of you.
"It shouldn't have ever happened," he said, watching you fidget with your hands in your lap.
"So you regret it?" you asked, desperation lingering in your words.
Fred let out another sigh, finally making eye contact. "I regret it. I would take it back if I could."
Your eyes dropped to your lap. "Fuck," you muttered.
There were tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. How did things change so quickly?
"You knew how I felt about you," you said softly, still not looking at Fred. "And yet you still wanted that contract."
It wasn't a question, it was a statement of fact. How was Fred going to explain that?
"I know," he said. "It was stupid. I shouldn't have played with your feelings like that."
A tear slipped down your cheek. You wiped it away immediately, wanting to keep your composure in front of Fred.
"I thought...fuck, Fred," you said, letting out a shaky breath. "I thought you felt the same way."
You dared to look at him, your eyes blurring with tears. He had a pained expression on his face. His hand twitched like he was going to reach out and touch you, but he changed his mind.
"I don't," Fred said quietly. "I don't want to be with you."
His words felt like a punch in the gut. Your chest was aching, making your breaths come in shallow spurts.
"So...what, are we back to friends now?" you asked, your voice wobbling.
Fred played with his hair nervously. "Maybe in a bit," he said. "We should take some space."
You let out a deep breath. "This is not how I expected this conversation to go," you admitted.
Fred turned his head to look at you.
"We were never going to be a couple," he said. "I thought you understood that."
You chuckled in surprise.
"You thought I understood? You almost kissed me the last time we were together. You were going to break your own rule," you said, standing from the bed so you could put more space between you and Fred.
"It didn't mean anything, I got caught up in the moment," Fred replied.
A blush was blooming on his cheeks. The only time that Fred Weasley blushed was when he was lying. This realization clicked in your head. He was lying to you.
"You can keep telling yourself that," you said, narrowing your eyes at him. "Let me know when you want to be honest about how you actually feel."
Your legs carried you all the way out of the room before he could reply, not even turning around for a backwards glance as you left. George was waiting in the hallway, leaned up against the wall.
"How did it go?" he asked, a concerned look on his face.
You slowed your pace for a second to talk to him. "Why don't you ask your brother?"
You kept walking, taking yourself as far away from Fred as possible.
----
You hadn't spoken to Fred for the past week. You had barely even seen him. The group could tell that you had a falling out, and they split their time between you and Fred. Angelina was almost constantly at your side. You hadn't told her what happened, but she knew that whatever it was, it wasn't good.
Meals were especially awkward. Instead of sitting with your usual crew, you had been sitting with Alicia and her friends. Sometimes Angelina would join you, but she mostly sat with the boys. She would spend the entirety of mealtimes sending you apologetic glances.
More than anything, you were angry with Fred. Angry that he wasn't being honest with you or with himself. If he didn't think you should be together, fine. But he was lying about his feelings. You couldn't understand why.
You and Angelina were squished together in front of the vanity mirror in your room, getting ready for the Hufflepuff party. The Hufflepuff vs. Ravenclaw quidditch match had happened earlier in the day, and you were going to the party to celebrate the Hufflepuff victory.
You were only going because Cedric had asked you to. He caught up to you in the stands after the match, asking if you would be his date. You and him had been on the outs, but you agreed. As awful as it sounded, you wanted a distraction from Fred. Maybe getting back together with Cedric would help.
"Can I borrow your lip gloss?" Angelina asked, rummaging around the vanity table. "I can't find mine."
"Sure," you said, using your wand to lure the tube over from its place on your dresser. "Why are you even bothering with lip gloss? It's just going to end up all over George anyway."
You nudged her in the side playfully, grinning at her.
"Yeah right, I could say the same about you and Diggory," she jabbed back. "Are you getting back together with him?"
You shrugged, getting up from your place at the vanity. "I don't know, I'll see where things go tonight."
You smoothed down your skirt, checking yourself out in the mirror. "Is this too short?" you asked, turning toward Angelina.
She glanced up at you mid-lip gloss application. She shook her head. "No, you look smashing."
You were wearing one of Cedric's Hufflepuff jerseys, tying up the extra material in the front so it landed just along the waistband of your skirt. The skirt was short and tight, and if you made one wrong move, you knew that your knickers would be on full display.
"Are the twins going to be there?" you asked warily.
"No, George said they were going to hang with Lee. I don't know what they're getting up to, but they didn't plan on going," Angelina replied, putting the final touches on her makeup.
You inspected yourself in the mirror again, feeling an unsettling rush in your stomach. Fred wasn't going to be there. It was what you wanted. But somewhere deep down, you wanted to see him. More like you wanted him to see you. Especially in your tiny skirt.
"Ready?" Angelina asked, approaching you in the mirror.
She threw her arms around your shoulders, hugging you from behind. You leaned back into her, accepting the affectionate gesture.
"You're gorgeous," she said, almost as if she could read your mind. She could tell that you were feeling a bit anxious.
You took a breath. "I'm ready."
----
The Hufflepuff common room was crammed with students. The music was loud, and there was a bar set up in the corner of the room. Angelina led you over to it, handing you a shot of firewhiskey.
"Bottoms up," she said, clinking your plastic cup with her own before taking the shot. You followed suit, trying not to cough after you gulped it down. Firewhiskey wasn't your favorite, but you felt like you would need the liquid courage.
You searched the room for Cedric, finding him chatting amongst some of his quidditch teammates. He locked eyes with you, nodding for you to come over.
"I'm going to talk to Ced really quick," you said, leaning in to speak into Angelina's ear so she could hear you over the music.
She nodded, giving you a light smack on the bum as you walked away. You shot her a glare over your shoulder, and she winked at you. Angelina wasn't the biggest fan of your relationship with Cedric, but she wanted you to be happy. She was going to support you in whatever you did, whether she liked it or not.
As you approached Cedric, you could see him taking in your appearance. A smile appeared on his lips when he realized that you were wearing his jersey.
"I wondered where that jersey had gotten to," he said once you were close enough to hear him.
You shrugged, returning his smile. "I had a feeling that I would probably be wearing it again."
His hand found its way down to your hip, pulling you in closer to him.
"I've been wanting to talk to you," he said, leaning down to speak to you so you could hear him over the noise. "What do you think about getting back together?"
You looked up at him, surprised at his directness. "I need to think about it for a bit," you replied. "But I'm happy to be here as your date."
He leaned down to kiss you on the cheek. "Do you want to dance?" he asked.
You took his hand, leading him toward the group of students closest to the stereo. You began to dance, moving your hips in time with the music.
Cedric's hands wandered down to your hips, pulling your back up against his chest. Your bum pressed up against him as you danced.
You spotted a flash of red hair in the crowd. It was George. He was near the bar talking to Angelina. You could feel your stomach drop. If George was here, that could only mean...
Fred was standing no more than ten feet from you and Cedric, a drink in his hand. He was watching you. His gaze was pinned on Cedric's hands on your waist.
You looked away, trying not to think about him. Cedric leaned down, placing wet kisses along your neck. Your gaze snagged on Fred again, and you noticed the way that his jaw tensed. He looked angry.
The song ended, and you turned to Cedric to tell him that you were getting another drink. You had barely left his grip when you could feel Fred hovering by your side.
"We need to talk," he said, walking alongside you as you approached the bar.
You grabbed another shot, glancing over your shoulder at Fred. "Fuck off, Fred."
You gulped down the shot, tossing your cup into the garbage bin. You made to walk back toward Cedric, but Fred had grabbed you by the wrist. He dragged you into the nearest bathroom, locking the door behind him. Your back was pressed against the door, trapping you with only inches between you and Fred.
"What the fuck?" you said, trying to push at his shoulders.
"I said that we need to talk," Fred repeated, holding his stance. Your attempts to push him away were useless, and he stood planted in front of you.
"And I said to fuck off," you replied, obviously frustrated.
You were staring at Fred, anger burning in your eyes. He stared back, his gaze softening the longer he looked at you. The last thing you needed right now was his pity.
The only sound in the tight space of the bathroom was the thumping music coming from the other side of the door and your breathing. You were trying to slow it down, but the anger coursing through you had your chest heaving. You were waiting for Fred to speak.
"You wanted to talk so badly, so talk," you spat at him, eyes flashing.
He considered you for another moment before he opened his mouth.
"Don't get back with Diggory," he said, so quiet that it was almost a whisper.
A flurry of emotions ran through you. A laugh burst out of your mouth, a combination of surprise and disbelief.
"Who in the bloody hell do you think you are?" you questioned, angry giggles bubbling out of you. "You don't want me, but Merlin forbid someone else does. You have no right to tell me what to do."
Fred's hand slammed on the door beside your head in frustration, letting out a "fuck" as his palm made contact with the wood. You jumped, pulling yourself back as close to the door as you could. He craned his neck down, your noses almost touching.
"You're wrong," he growled, the calm tone in his voice long gone.
"I'm wrong?" you challenged, holding the intensity of his gaze. "Please enlighten me, Fred, because I have no clue what the fuck you're talking about."
The air between you and Fred felt flammable, like a single spark could ignite an all-consuming fire. You glared at him, unwilling to back down. You caught the moment that his gaze dropped to your lips, and the next thing you knew, his mouth was on yours.
Fred had lunged forward, shoving you even tighter against the door. His kiss was searing, and it took you a few seconds to register what was happening. You tilted your head back, opening your mouth to allow his tongue access. Your teeth and tongues clashed, a ferocious fight for dominance.
Fred's hands were on your hips, digging into the tight material of your skirt. You grabbed at his hair, pulling hard as he kissed you relentlessly. One of his hands wandered down to the bottom of your skirt, his fingers dancing along your thigh as he played with the hem. You knew exactly what he wanted, and you wanted it too.
His mouth moved to your neck, biting and sucking at the sensitive skin. You couldn't help the moan that fell from your lips.
"Fred," you breathed out, gently pushing at his shoulders. He pulled back, looking at you with concern.
"I need you inside me," you said desperately.
Fred smirked at you, placing a soft kiss on your lips. "Your wish is my command, love."
He pulled you over to the sink, giving you a few more bruising kisses before he turned you around. Your bum was pressed up against him as he bent you over the sink, watching your facial expressions in the mirror.
"I need you now," you rasped, getting more and more desperate as each second passed.
Fred clicked his tongue at you. "So impatient," he said, pulling your skirt up to rest above your bum.
Your knickers were exposed to him, and you were grateful that you had put on a cute lacy pair. His fingers ran along your center over the lacy fabric.
"Ready so quickly for me, hm?" Fred teased, pulling your knickers all the way down your legs.
You watched him in the mirror as he looked at you, his fingers coming back to touch the wetness between your legs. He dragged two fingers down to your clit, working slow circles into it. You groaned, trying not to buck you hips back into him.
"Inside, now," you demanded, losing almost all of your self control.
He grinned at you in the mirror, taking in your flushed cheeks and dilated pupils. He knew that you were desperate, and he was teasing you anyway.
"So bossy," he said, bringing his fingers down to your opening.
He teased you, dipping his fingers in for a moment before pulling them back out. You were whimpering, dying for more contact. He took his fingers off of you suddenly, causing you to suck in a breath.
You could hear the clinking of his belt as he started to take off his trousers.
"I really want to take my time with you," he said, pulling his trousers and underwear down his legs. "But I need you hard and fast. Is that okay?"
"Please," you whined, too desperate to even be embarrassed about how pathetic you sounded.
Fred gave himself a few pumps before positioning himself at your entrance. One of his hands gripped onto your waist as the other guided him as he pushed inside of you. He pushed in easily, much less resistance than there was the first time. You both moaned at the contact, and you pushed your hips back toward him. You wanted more. So much more.
It only took a few pumps before he was all the way inside of you. He sped up, his hips slamming into yours. You couldn't stop the whines that were coming out of your mouth.
"Please...harder," you whimpered. You knew that he didn't want to hurt you, but you wanted it all.
"Are you sure, love?" he asked, his pace staying the same. "Look at me."
You looked up into the mirror, making eye contact with him. You nodded your head frantically.
"Yes," you said, still holding his gaze.
Fred's grip on your hips tightened, pulling you back onto him as he pushed forward. He was fucking you hard, hitting a deep spot within you with each thrust. Your jaw dropped open in complete bliss. It was just what you needed. You closed your eyes, overwhelmed by the feeling of Fred so deep inside of you.
"Keep looking at me, love," Fred said, his voice struggling to stay even.
You opened your eyes, staring at Fred in the mirror. His face was focused, a crook in his brow from concentration.
"You like watching me fuck you?" he asked, his voice gravelly. "Watching me fuck you in another bloke's jersey."
Fred's mouth quirked up, satisfied with himself. You hummed in response, not able to form words.
"I want you to touch yourself," he said, not slowing down for a second. "I need you to finish for me."
You obliged, prying one hand off of the edge of the sink that it was latched onto. You reached around to rub circles on your clit, getting closer to your orgasm. The combination of Fred pounding into you and your own fingers on your clit was enough to make you want to scream.
"Come on, love," Fred encouraged. "Need you to finish before me. I'm so close."
His voice sounded strangled, as he wanted to make you feel good before he finished. You were watching Fred come undone behind you through the mirror, and it pushed you over the edge to your own finish.
It felt like a cool bucket of water rushing over your skin, and your legs trembled as your orgasm hit you. You were holding on to the sink to try to stabilize yourself, but the only thing keeping you standing was Fred's hold on your hips.
Fred finished not long after, groaning as he eventually stuttered to a halt. Both of you slumped over the sink, Fred leaning on top you. You were both breathing hard, and you could still feel a tremor in your legs.
Fred let out a breathy chuckle. "So...should we talk?"
You replied with a tired giggle. "Definitely."
You both straightened yourselves up, trying not to give away that you just shagged in the bathroom. The music was loud and it was a busy party, so nobody had heard...right?
Fred swept your hair back into place, tucking a piece behind your ear. He gazed at you for a second before placing a gentle kiss on your lips, a grin forming as he pulled away.
"How about we head back to my room?" he suggested, his hand finding yours and twining his fingers with your own.
You nodded, still feeling fuzzy from the intensity of your hookup. Everything had happened so fast. One moment, you were yelling in Fred's face. The next, he was kissing you and fucking you over the sink. It was enough to make you feel dizzy.
Fred led the way out of the bathroom. He caught George's eye from across the room, nodding toward the exit. He walked you out of the common room, and George, Lee, and Angelina followed shortly behind.
George noticed your linked hands, a smirk curling at the corner of his mouth.
"I see that you made up," George said, a tad of smugness in his words.
"Made up? I didn't even know that you had a quarrel," Lee spoke rapidly. "I had thought that -- wait, why are you holding hands?"
"We're, uh..." Fred turned to look at you. "We're together."
He said it with a sureness that you weren't expecting. You hadn't even been quite sure that you were together. That's what the talk was going to be for.
"I knew it!" Angelina squealed, gripping onto Lee's shoulders. "You owe me five galleons!"
"Damn it," Lee hissed out.
He fished the galleons out of his pocket, putting them in Angelina's palm. She beamed with satisfaction at the coins in her hand, then turned her smile to you and Fred.
"It's about bloody time," she said, pushing at Fred's arm. "George and I have been waiting for you two to get together for years."
"Years?" you asked in disbelief. You had only told her about your feelings for Fred last year.
"Love, it's been obvious since third year," she replied. "And Fred has been pretty much just as obvious."
"I have not," he retorted, shooting Angelina a playful glare.
"Fred, have you seen your face when she's around?" George chimed in. "You're either smiling like a fool or just about drooling."
"Whatever," Fred said, rolling his eyes at his twin. "We're going back to the room. We need to talk some things over."
You nodded in agreement, squeezing Fred's hand as you stepped closer to him. This night had gone much differently than how you had imagined it would. It was so much better.
"Have fun 'talking'," Lee said, waggling his eyebrows at you both. "I'm going to go try to 'talk' to that cute Hufflepuff prefect."
"You're a fiend," Angelina said to Lee, shooting him a chastising glance. "I'll have George stay over in our room then. Good night."
Angelina kissed you on the cheek and reached up to ruffle Fred's hair. She turned to George, taking his hand.
"Good night, don't tear up the place too much," George teased.
The three of them headed back into the party, leaving you and Fred in the hallway alone.
"So, are you ready to talk?" he asked, staring down at you.
"Let's go," you replied, already tugging at his hand.
----
You were sitting on Fred's bed wearing an old jumper of his. He couldn't stand you wearing Cedric's jersey for another second. Fred was changing his own clothes, pulling a clean t shirt over his head before he joined you on the bed.
"I need to apologize," he said, his head turned toward you.
"For which part?" you teased, cocking your head to the side as you looked at him.
Fred chuckled, letting out a long breath.
"You were right about me lying. Lying about my feelings, that is," Fred clarified. "I just...everything felt really intense and I didn't know what to do. Pushing you away seemed like the best solution. I thought that if I had some space from you, I would finally be able to breathe."
You looked at him with sympathetic eyes. He was almost never this honest. This vulnerable.
"But the more space I put between us, the harder it was," Fred continued. "And then it all made sense. You are my air. I needed you to breathe, and not having you at all was killing me."
Your hand found his, squeezing tight. He was looking at you with his big hazel eyes, and it made everything inside of you melt. Just like it always did.
"And...when did you realize that?" you asked, your voice soft.
"Right after you left, when we fought last time," he said. "I thought that putting an end to everything and denying how I felt would make everything better. I thought it would make things go back to how they were. But I don't want things to go back to how they were."
He pulled your hand into his lap, placing his other hand on top of yours.
"I want to be with you," he said. "I knew it then and I know it now. Bloody hell, I knew it before we even signed that stupid contract."
You let out a breathy giggle, remembering the absurdity of your "experiment". How had both of you been so foolish?
"Why did you want the contract then?" you asked.
Fred shrugged.
"I knew that you fancied me, but I also knew that you were never going to admit it," Fred nudged your shoulder with his own. "I thought that it would get you to confess. And I also couldn't resist a chance to shag you."
You laughed harder this time, nudging Fred back.
"I had kind of thought the same thing," you admitted. "I really wanted to know what it was like to shag the Fred Weasley."
Fred chuckled, leaning his head onto your shoulder.
"This has all been so bloody stupid," he said. "George has been telling me for ages to just ask you out. Risking our friendship felt scary, but I think it's worth it."
You rested your cheek onto his head, his ginger locks tickling your face.
"I can't believe that you knew I fancied you," you said, a wave of embarrassment coming over you.
"Love, I think everyone at Hogwarts knows, including Snape," he teased with a light chuckle. "You're the only girl that's brave enough to tease me back. Plus, you turn redder than a beet every time I flirt with you."
As if on cue, your cheeks reddened. Fred pulled his head off your shoulder, looking at you. He knew that his words would have that effect.
"Bugger off," you said, laughing and turning away from him.
Fred grabbed you by the waist, pulling you into his lap to straddle him. He began assaulting you with kisses, peppering them anywhere between your face, neck, and hair.
"Your cheeks are almost the color of my hair," he teased between kisses.
"Fredrick Weasley!" you squealed, trying to push him back by his shoulders.
He just pulled you in tighter, hugging you to his chest. He held you there, and you melted into his embrace. This was what you had been missing. The teasing, the easy camaraderie, the affection that made your pulse race. You had missed Fred so much.
Your brain was mulling over his words, almost in disbelief that this was real. That Fred had come to his senses, that he apologized. That he was holding you in a way that made you feel safe, something that came easily with Fred. How had everything gotten so messed up in the first place?
You let out a heavy sigh into the crook of his neck, nuzzling yourself further into his warm skin.
"What are you thinking about, love?" he asked, tracing lazy patterns across your back with his fingers.
"I can't believe how much we both fucked this up," you said, a chuckle tumbling out toward the end of your sentence. "How much easier everything would have been if we had just talked."
"Since when have Weasleys been any good at talking about their feelings?" Fred joked, pulling you back so he could look you in the eye. "When you make a potion that overrides stubbornness, let me know. My family will need a bulk order."
You rolled your eyes at him. He never took anything seriously.
"I mean it, Fred," you replied. "These past few weeks have been miserable. We have never gone that long without talking, even when we have been cross with each other. I still had Ang and sometimes George and Lee, but I was lonely. I didn't know what to do without you."
Fred's hand cupped your jaw, his thumb stroking it gently. He gazed at you, taking in the emotions that played across your features.
"I've been so angry," you continued. "Angry that you wouldn't be honest. Angry that you weren't talking to me. Angry that we couldn't still be friends. All I could think about was how much I missed you and also how much I wanted to destroy you."
Fred chuckled as your speech came to an end. "Destroy me? That's my girl."
"I'm being serious!" you cried, shoving at his chest. "Everything has been terrible. I can't lose you like that again."
Fred's eyes softened.
"I know, and I really am sorry," Fred said, his hands migrating downward to hold your hips.
"I've never..." he trailed off, letting out a breath. "I've never liked someone in the way that I like you. Of course I've fancied other girls, but it's been temporary. I've liked you for ages. I thought that if I kept just being your friend, it would go away. But it hasn't. I've only wanted you more and more, and I can't deny myself any longer."
"Freddie," you murmured, transfixed by his words. Your thumb traced along his cheekbone, skidding across the freckles that dotted his face. You loved him like this. When his eyes were soft and he relaxed under your touch. It was rare to see Fred so unguarded, and you cherished the snippets of openness that he shared with you.
"I want you to be my girlfriend," he said, his voice soft but steady. "I have made a lot of questionable decisions in the past month, but I know for certain that I want you to be mine. That is, if you'll have me."
Fred's gaze was serious, something that was incredibly uncommon for him. His stare held a vulnerability that made your heart ache. He truly did adore you, and you could see it plain as day.
"I want to be your girlfriend," you replied. Fred let out a breath he was holding upon your answer, and it made the corner of your mouth turn up in a grin.
"But you need to take me on a date first," you continued, your grin turning into a full fledged smirk. "You need to razzle-dazzle me with your charm, just like you have done with the other girls."
Fred returned your smirk. "No problem, love. Want me to give you my initialed scarf? Or send you a paper bird during Transfiguration? No, I'll make a firework show for you over the quidditch pitch."
"That last one sounds like a punishment," you joked. "I want romance, not public humiliation."
"Aren't those the same thing?" Fred replied, quirking up an eyebrow.
"Shut it," you said, trying to wriggle out of the confines of his grip. You held his shoulders as you moved your hips, trying and failing to get yourself out of his lap.
"If you keep moving like that, there will be consequences," Fred quipped, giving you a mock stern glare.
You gaped at him for a moment, shocked at the turn in conversation. You shouldn't have been shocked; it's Fred.
You recovered, trying to pull yourself into an act of indifference. "Maybe we shall revise the terms of our original contract? Continue our experimentation? For science, of course."
Fred matched your haughtiness with a raised eyebrow and diabolical smirk.
"Perhaps," he answered in his best 'scientist' voice, holding you by the hips so he could flip you onto the bed. "I do have a new hypothesis that I would like to test. This testing would require for you to sit on my face."
You couldn't stop the giggle that flew out of your mouth. Fred loomed over you on the bed, the smirk still on his lips.
"Who am I to get in the way of science?" you muttered, grabbing a fistful of his t-shirt so you could pull him closer.
You kissed him hard, relishing in the way that his lips moved against yours. How had you let him deny you this for so long? To think that you had once agreed to a contract where you couldn't kiss Fred.
Fred pinned your wrists above your head, holding them easily with one hand. He wedged a knee between your legs, grinding it down onto your center. Your back arched off of the bed at the contact, a surprised moan coming from your mouth.
He pulled back, his lips already pink from your searing kisses. He gazed at you, feeling smug at how easily he could turn you on.
"I shall let you know what my findings are after the experimentation," he said stiffly, schooling his features to be serious.
You groaned at him, trying to suppress a grin. "Just fuck me already," you said, playing up your exasperation.
"I suppose our contract revision can wait," he teased, already working your knickers down your legs. "I do hope that I'm allowed to kiss you this time around."
Sometimes God sends you exactly what you’re looking for, and sometimes He sends you Lilith. Unable to determine whether your presence in Chimney Rock is a blessing or a calamity, Jud finds himself teetering between faith and despair. A quick lie, a heartfelt conversation, an unexpected confession, a drunken coincidence, and a murder ensue.
Part I | Part II | Part III | Masterlist
Pairing: Jud Duplenticy x reader (female)
Word count: 7.8k
Warnings: (religious) guilt, alcohol, being drunk, mentions of throwing up, washing feet, sexual themes, (references to) oral sex (f receiving), mentions of murder and blood, Geraldine being gay because I said so
Note: Well, here we are - you starving animals pushed me to continue this fic, which was meant to be only a one-shot. But seriously, thank you all so much for your kind words, it really floored me in the best way possible! <3 This part is a bit different tone-wise from the first one, but I thought of it as the emotional foreplay for what's gonna happen in Part III. (Yes, there will be a third and final Part with a lot more spice!) I'm not too satisfied with how it turned out, but that's for you to decide, I guess. As always, the warnings regarding religion and the themes covered in Part I still apply. Enjoy!
Even before the doorbell stopped ringing, regret crept upon Jud. This was a mistake.
In that moment, he could not grasp why this feeling had overtaken him at your doorstep. After all, he had come with the intention of cleansing his conscience and clarifying the situation.
Five days later, however, in his retelling of the events surrounding Holy Week to Blanc, he chose to omit this part of the story, because as the pen danced across the paper, the same regret washed over him once again. This time, he recognized its origin. A mirage, an illusion that deceived the eyes but revealed its true nature upon closer inspection, for the regret did not concern the actions themselves - the visit, the confession, the evening after the bar - but rather the lie accompanying them. A lie whose selfish intentions had poisoned all its ensuing consequences. Blanc would have no use for it, it played no part in the theatre of Wicks‘ murder. Leaving out the dishonest part would not harm the investigation. Jud would only have to confess before God and himself - and yes, before you.
Everything began on the morning of Holy Monday, the day God had tilted the axis of the world a few degrees by leading you over the threshold of Our Lady of Perpetual Fortitude. An act of brutal violence that He balanced by withdrawing you from the church again before Jud had to decide on his response regarding this test of his fortitude. Another emergency demanded your attention (not of a work-related nature, but a personal one), and you waved Jud and Martha a hurried goodbye, phone still pressed to your ear, as you stepped out of the church as swiftly as you had entered it. Without recognizing Jud.
He would have preferred to leave it at that. But sooner or later - knowing this small town and considering his current luck, sooner rather than later - your paths would cross again, or someone would mention him around you. Maybe you would recognize his voice, or wonder how likely it was for there to be two priests named Jud from Albany, or discover some unforeseeable detail that would raise your suspicions. There was no escaping it. He had to face the inevitable.
Which led him here today, right outside your door, the very next day on Holy Tuesday.
There was no need to check the address he had copied from Martha's filing cabinet. This was unmistakably your house. A brick cottage, smaller than the rectory with fewer gables and bay windows, simpler. The stone was so dark it almost seemed black, except ivy covered most of the exterior, concealing its former gloom. The shutters had been painted a soft white, flowers of every color spilled out into the small front yard, and an iron knocker in the shape of a dove adorned the center of the green-glazed front door. Everything felt warm and inviting. Like coming home.
Nervously, Jud ran his fingers over the neatly folded piece of paper in his pocket. The words he wanted to say to you: an explanation, an apology, and a plea. He had spent the whole night searching for them, stringing them together and polishing them. Of course, he knew them by heart, the stiff paper served only as encouragement to speak them aloud, an anchor, a lifeline. Because - by God - he knew it would only take a glimpse of you, one look into your eyes, and his courage would melt away like the last snow under the spring sun.
Lord, give me the grace to carry what lies ahead.
When the doorbell fell silent a muffled rumbling sounded from somewhere further back in the house. Jud heard a loud curse, more rumbling, your faint voice and footsteps, then the door swung open with a flourish, revealing you. Hair tied up, paint-splattered work overall on, flushed cheeks, bright eyes - no matter what he had told himself, Jud wasn't prepared to see you again.
His heart made a somersault and got stuck way too high in his throat.
“I'm really sorry, but I can't take on a commission of this size at such short notice.”
These words weren't meant for the unexpected guest at your door, but the person you were talking to on the phone. A flicker of surprise flashed across your face upon finding the unfamiliar priest at your doorstep, although it quickly gave way to a friendly smile. With the phone wedged between your shoulder and head, you waved him in, your other hand holding a white cloth. You swung the door shut with your foot and rushed deeper into the house, still talking to the person on the phone, while Jud hesitantly followed you into the kitchen.
He was unsure how he would have hoped to broach this difficult conversation, but catching you off guard at the worst possible moment had certainly not been part of his plans. His hands fidgeted with the paper in his pocket while yours opened drawers and rummaged through cupboards in search of something until they dug up a band-aid from some corner. Suddenly, Jud understood what the white cloth was for: you had cut yourself, probably distracted by the phone call and the doorbell. Guilt shot through him on cue and he instinctively stepped forward to help you, holding out his hand in a silent offer.
Grateful, you smiled at him. Spring sun melting the snow.
He gently took your hand and wiped off the dried blood covering the cut on your index finger. The first touch you shared. Without meaning to, his pulse quickened. As he applied the bandage, his thumb brushed your skin a little too slow, lingering longer than appropriate, unwilling to let go of your hand.
Jud's inner turmoil completely escaped you, being occupied with reciting the number of a fellow artist from a note on the refrigerator to the customer.
It would have been pointless trying to convince himself that the warmth flowing through his veins derived from the act of aiding. Your hair glistened in the sunlight streaming through the kitchen window, gently illuminating you. Jud stood close enough that he catched a faint note of your soap. You weren't wearing any perfume and light sweat had formed on the back of your neck from focused work. If your natural scent smelled this good, just how delicious would it taste on his tongue? He swallowed hard.
Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy on me.
“So, that’s settled then,” you said, placing the phone on the table and withdrawing your hand from Jud’s, leaving it colder than before. “Sorry about the chaos, Father, I wasn’t expecting visitors so early in the morning. Tea?”
You held up a teapot in question.
“Oh, err - yes. I’d love some,” Jud replied automatically.
A soothing cup of tea to settle his nerves and emotions was exactly what he needed right now. You handed him a steaming mug, that he eagerly reached for, the heat only a poor substitute for your touch.
“And no need for apologies. After all, I sort of, erm - ambushed you,” he admitted as he followed you into another part of your house.
The room had not been visible from the front of the property, it was connected to the garden at the back, which could be accessed through french windows. Every one of them was left open, allowing the mild spring air and morning sun to flood into the workshop. It was difficult to discern the color in which the room was painted, as the walls were covered with sketches. Workbenches, a drawing table, and some type of graphic cabinet with drawers holding glass pieces of various shapes filled the space. Fascinated, Jud absorbed the impressions of your home's heart and soul, the space where you devoted yourself to a craft that moved your spirit as deeply as prayer did his.
You gestured for him to sit on a wooden stool, front row to your work on a table in the center of the room, where a patterned paper lay spread out. He watched spellbound as you cut the glass on top of it with effortless precision and secured it to a sort of easel that held the same pattern in form of an intricate metal frame.
“I assume you're here to check on the window repair?” you asked, guiding the cutter across the glass with a steady hand. “The schedule, list of materials, and estimated expenses are waiting on my office desk. I'll pack them up for Martha and Samson on your way out.”
“Oh, the window, right,” Jud mumbled. Of course, you thought that was the reason he had dropped by. What other explanation could there be, from your point of view? Lifting his voice a bit, he said: “I was surprised you offered to help, considering Martha’s, um, attitude toward you.”
“Because she calls me a harlot? A drifter, a witch’s daughter, and a punk? She manages to make even the latter sound like an insult, even though I take it as a huge compliment.”
Your laughter lit up the room, spreading to Jud, who couldn't suppress a smile. He had missed you these past nine months. Talking to you, your laughter, just being with you in general. With his hands wrapped around the cup, the note rested forgotten in his pocket, far out of reach.
“And are you? The daughter of a witch, I mean,” he teased you.
You grinned at him, leaning over your workbench.
“I don’t believe in witchcraft, but if there is such a thing as witches, my mum certainly was one, and that’s a compliment,” you replied.
He understood. Your mother had raised you alone, working as a gardener and freelance painter, an artist like your grandfather, with whom she had fallen out a very long time ago. The subject of some vicious rumours, much like Grace - another unfortunate result of Wicks‘ influence in this community. Your Grandfather was a religious man, faithful follower of Wicks' flock, according to Martha's account yesterday.
She was such a sweet child, a lovely girl, so much artistic talent. Learned the craft from her grandfather, yet chose to call herself Lilith and create those deviant images of heresy. The poor man, first losing his daughter to a life in sin, then his granddaughter. May his soul rest in the peace of Christ.
With that, Martha crossed herself. She spoke disapprovingly of the path you had chosen in life, away from the church and yet somewhat still in its service, but a spark of warmth flickered in her eyes as she spoke of your childhood, surprising Jud. Affection for the child who did not yet bear the name Lilith. He was familiar with the “heretical images” - feminist Bible interpretations you had turned into provocative stained glass windows in your youth, something he knew from your long-distance calls.
He knew the story, and yet he enjoyed hearing bits and pieces of it again from your mouth, how you shared it with him as a new acquaintance. He enjoyed chatting with you about the peculiarities of this town, the people, asking questions he hadn't thought of before, filling in the picture he had of your life as he watched you piece together a new work, bit by bit, shard by shard.
“In the end, I feel like neither of them would be pleased with my decisions,” you said, securing a delicately curved piece of glass in the easel. “I create windows for churches and live in his house, something my mum still rolls her eyes at today. And yet I am not the devout Catholic my grandfather tried to mold me into.”
You paused briefly, glancing out at the garden in front of you, the sun kissing your face. A little more quietly, as if to yourself, you continued:
"I just can't believe that the glory Wicks preaches, that which is far greater than ourselves, lies in the condemnation of a higher power looking down on us. Light streaming into my room, wind in my hair, the caring touch of a friend, the feeling of seeing a finished window installed at a church for the first time - that's the only glory I can feel, something almost touched by God."
For a moment, you remained in complete stillness, your gaze fixed on something Jud couldn't see, bathed in the delicate gold-pink of the morning sun. Like a scene from a dream. Your words resonated with him, touching his innermost being.
Then you flinched, awaken from your reverie, suddenly aware that this was a rather personal topic for a relatively new acquaintance, especially one of the clergy. He probably considered you a heretic now, too. A little embarrassed, you cleared your throat.
“Where are my manners? I've been chatting your ear off and roped you into a conversation, even though you only stopped by for a quick check-in."
You laughed, a bit awkward, not quite as sincerely as before. Jud raised his hands, the empty mug long since cooled, resting on a drawing table.
“Not at all! I'm really enjoying our conversation,” he assured you. “I love…” - talking to you - “…getting to know the people I work with.”
You smiled at him, genuine this time. Your eyes met, and for a split second that stretched into eternity in Juds mind, he lost himself in your gaze, in this moment with you in your workshop, imagining that this could be his life. Would it feel like this if he hadn't given in to temptation on the phone, never breached his vow of celibacy, and crossed the line between friendship and something more? Would he have met you in Chimney Rock as Harlot Lilith and befriended you over drinks at Nikolai's Bar talking about faith and art? Or would you have embraced him as an old friend when he arrived here, joking with him about Wicks, easing each other's burdens a little?
But in the part of his soul that could neither lie to God nor himself , Jud knew it would have made no difference. You had undeniably been created to be loved - in this reality and every other. Because when he fantasized about this life with you, he didn't just envision chatting over tea while you worked or dinner and movie night at his place. He pictured walks through the woods hand in hand, breakfast at your workshop, boxing training and painting lessons, swimming in the lake at sunset, holding your sleeping body at night, kissing you. He wanted you so much, in a way that was not at all friendly or befitting his vows, that it almost hurt physically.
The wave of emotions unleashed by this realization threatened to knock him off his feet. He leapt of the stool to avoid it, tearing his gaze away from you.
“These, um, these sketches, are they for - er - your current project?” he asked in a desperate attempt to divert his attention to something else, clinging to the first thing his eyes landed on.
With his back turned to you, his face averted, he rubbed his eyes, took a deep breath, trying to steady himself.
“Oh, um, yes. It's for a private client, an older couple. Their daughter wanted to gift it to them for their wedding anniversary, a small window for the front door with their wedding candle as motif,” you answered.
“A wedding candle, lovely.”
His voice wavered dangerously. So much for the distraction.
“And, um - this one?” he asked, turning to his left and pointing to a larger sketch.
“This one is for a church in New York, they...” Your voice trailed off for a moment, then drifted slower from your lips, more drawn out. An explanation dressed as a question. “They wanted a triptych that, um - that focuses on Caritas.“
Jud turned to you in question. Your gaze was fixed on his neck. The tattoo, it struck him. His fingers shot to his clerical collar, shyly tugging it higher.
“A lot of - um - love in your life.”
The words just slipped out and he bit his tongue, angry with his mouth that always moved faster than his brain, betraying him, especially when it came to you. In disbelief, you still stared intently at the spot of his tattoo, now concealed by his hand adjusting the collar.
“Yes, at least in my professional life,” you replied, your voice a bit hollow, your thoughts elsewhere.
“Oh, I'm sorry about that.”
You seemed to snap back to reality, your gaze briefly flitting up to Jud's eyes, then quickly back to your work. Was it the lighting, or did your cheeks look more flushed than before?
„You don't have to," you said, your voice firmer now, your brows drawn together in concentration. The blade slid swiftly across the glass, breaking it in two. “I just lost my heart to someone who can't accept it.”
It took a moment, but when the realization finally hit Jud, it was like a punch to the gut.
She's talking about me.
The person she lost her heart to, because they couldn't accept it, is me.
Strange what cruelty could reside in having one's most deepest longing fulfilled. Before Jud could savor the full extent of this bitter reality, a ringing came to his rescue. Not a phone or a doorbell, but an old-fashioned alarm clock sitting on the cabinet.
“Shit,” you exclaimed, spinning around to turn it off.
“I’m afraid I have to kick you out, Father,” you explained as you practically shoved him into the hallway, navigating around a spot by the workbench. "Careful, loose tile! I have an appointment for a - for a video call with a client in a minute. Oh, right! Martha!"
You left Jud standing in the open front door and disappeared somewhere into the depths of the house. Shorty after, you returned with an envelope in hand, extending it to him. The documents for Martha and Samson. Jud reached for it, but when he tried to take it, you didn't let go. Questioningly, he lifted his gaze, meeting yours directly.
You studied him, not curious or hostile, but something in between. As if he were a crossword puzzle on your breakfast table. To his misfortune, he knew you solved those incredibly quickly. The uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach intensified, his hands sweating slightly.
“You know, Father,” you said, your eyes slightly narrowed, “we've been talking for so long now and you still haven't told me your name.”
In Jud's life so far, he had experienced three moments in which he had clearly felt his soul being subjected to scrutiny, the eyes of the world and God focused solely on him. A person, stripped bare to their innermost being, an otherworldly light shining down on them, a light that would irrevocably reveal the truth. Only one chance to do the right thing.
The first time in a worldly court, when he had to give his testimony about the murder in the boxing ring.
The second time in a heavenly court, during his very first confession.
This was the third time.
His other hand curled around the folded paper in his pocket. The monologue dug into his fist, cutting his flesh, in the same part that had caressed your hand before.
“Duplenticy,” Jud said. “I’m Father Duplenticy.”
You could always be honest by not saying the unhonest part.
But does omitting the lie truly absolve the speaker of his dishonesty?
If this were the truth, Jud might have had a good night's sleep, and Spy Wednesday might not have started with his banishment.
At least in some sense of the word. Around noon, Wicks was occupied with business matters that apparently required Jud's absence, hence the reason he had been conveniently assigned to confessional duty. A flimsy excuse to keep him out of sight, as most confessions were given on Fridays and Saturdays during Holy Week. On Wednesday around lunchtime, the church was essentially deserted, especially since Wicks had successfully cut Jud off his flock, ensuring that almost no one set foot in the confessional. Plenty of time to surrender to his thoughts, reflect on his own mistakes, and pray to God for guidance.
Right now, Jud was meditating on the words of Psalm 32 and wondering if the silence was eating away at his bones because the guilt of deception weighed on him or the longing for what might have been if he had revealed himself to you sooner. Now he had entangled himself in a lie, whose selfish goal was solely the desire to bask in your warmth a little longer, to be recipient of your smile for just one more day. If he couldn't be the reason for your happiness, maybe he could at least be its silent witness. A childish endeavor doomed to failure, because sooner or later - probably sooner, he had already been here before - the truth would come to light.
Holy Spirit, illuminate my heart. Purge my deceit and help me not to hide from You or from those I have wronged.
But Jud sat in darkness, trapped in the dim light of the confessional. His head leaned against the back wall, the old wood embracing him warmly, the resinous smell of incense wafting from the curtains it had woven itself into over the decades. The weariness of the previous night rested so heavily in his bones that it was impossible not to doze off. Jud had woken up repeatedly, tossing and turning in bed, driven by fragments of strange dreams, images that faded as quickly as they emerged. Sometimes he was the sun kissing your skin, the wind in your hair. In another dream, his hands turned into seawater, caressing your naked body as you swam into the sunset.
The image shattered again when the portal swung open and vigorous footsteps echoed through the church. The heavy curtain of the confessional was drawn aside, a shadow slid across the wall as the woman sat down on the narrow bench. The wood creaked indignantly as Jud startled awake, rubbed his eyes, and crossed himself, apologizing for himself and in preparation to receiving the confession.
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been -” The voice paused, mentally calculating. “To be truthful, it has been over 10 years since my last confession.”
Jud would have recognized that voice and that nervous chuckle anywhere, and yet your presence here of all places caught him entirely unexpected. His pulse echoed off the narrow walls, and he clasped his hands anxiously. What could you possibly have to confess? If anything, he was the one who had something to admit, but now he found himself in the opposite role. The absurdity of the situation threw him completely off balance. He cleared his throat, his thoughts swirling around like the dust stirred up by your entrence.
“Doubt is part of every journey in faith, it doesn’t prevent you from being absolved of your sins,” he assured you. “But if you cannot put your trust in God’s forgiveness yet, I am still here to guide you, even without absolution. You are in safe hands, speak freely.”
He swallowed. Good. Stick to the guidelines. Hear her confession as you would do for any member of the parish. Don't think about how you poisoned her life with a lie, or how her laughter sounds, or how good she smells. He listened intently for your breath, the soft rustle of your clothes as you nervously smoothed them. A strangely familiar feeling.
Lord, give me strength.
“The list of my sins is certainly not short,” you began hesitantly. “I’m not always completely honest, especially with children. I swear too much and use God’s name carelessly. I’m not entirely free of envy and self-righteousness, and I can’t shake the resentment I feel toward my grandfather for things that have long since passed.”
A smile flickered across Jud's face. Surely no one had ever come to confession because of the Easter Bunny lie.
“But those aren't the reasons why I'm seeking your guidance today, Father,” you continued. Your voice carried seriousness with a hint of sorrow that Jud couldn't quite place, but immediately picked up on. “I - I fear I have led a good man of the clergy astray.”
Oh.
“What started out as weird coincidence turned into something wonderful that has spiraled out of control, and now I don’t know - I don’t know what to do.”
The story that Jud knew only too well and that he now heard from your perspective for the first time was both familiar and foreign to him. The individual elements and the sequence of events matched - from spring two years ago until the text message nine months earlier - but some details appeared in a completely different light in your version. He was by no means a bumbling idiot or a deviant priest who risked his celibacy for an accidental acquaintance, but a kind man who had natural doubts about his circumstances and always tried to do the right thing - both in terms of his calling and his friendship toward you. How long had you struggled to suppress your feelings, an impossibility given Jud's lovable character. You liked him so damn much.
And it was you who went too far, not him, who had persuaded him into this sexual arrangement, which you wanted to break away from when you realized its potential negative consequences for him. But you couldn't bring yourself to do it. The very same excuses that Jud had made up in his own mind had also found their way into yours. A stained glass window, assembled without a frame, destined to collapse and shatter at some point. You didn't blame him at all, on the contrary, you felt grateful when he put an end to this relationship. Not because it didn't break you, but because it was the right decision for his salvation.
“It was right of him to send that message. I wasn’t strong enough, trapped in the selfish desire to hear his voice one more time, over and over again,” you admitted. “But now I fear that the damage I’ve left in his life is far greater than I thought.”
Jud fidgeted with his folded hands, staring straight ahead, afraid that his eyes might wander to you. If he caught a glimpse of your face through the delicate curves of the confession screen now, he would not be able to restrain himself, springing up to embrace you in consolation on the other side of the wooden wall. He would fall on his knees to confess his sins so that you no longer had to torment yourself for his faults. But the sacrament of confession bound him as a priest, the confessional suddenly becoming his prison.
So instead, he forced himself to a single word: “How?”
“It's not just the violation of his celibacy. He got emotionally involved with me, far more than would be appropriate. Not to mention all the lies, the secrecy surrounding this relationship. What if he continues to hide it, thinking he protects me by doing so? What if the dishonesty continues to eat away at him? Or worse -”
Your voice trembled slightly, and Jud knew what was coming next. The moment of the confession, when parishioners revealed their greatest fear, their deepest regret.
“What if I've led him so far astray that he's dishonest out of self-protection, betraying his own values?“
Stabbing a knife straight into his heart would have been no less effective.
You were right. He lied to protect himself, breaking his own principles. Did he really believe that breaking off contact and a fresh start in Chimney Rock would settle the matter? Hadn't God sent you over the threshold of this very church in order to show him something still required his attention? If the matter had truly been resolved, Jud would hardly have lied when you asked him for his name, and you would not be giving this confession.
But in one respect, you were wrong. You had not led a man of the clergy astray, for such a breach was solely the responsibility of the faithful in question. He should probably remind you now that he, too, was a person of free will who had consciously taken every step that you wanted to take responsibility for. That no blame could be placed on you for his feelings. Just as the sun was not to blame for the plants striving upward, yearning for its light, or the sea for the river water flowing downward, longing to be united with its magnificence. It was the natural course of things, a law of nature. The way God had created them.
But before he could gather the air or words to respond, you continued speaking. Your voice raw and quiet, its message forever to remain in this confessional, between you, God, and Jud alone. A secret locked within wood, veiled by incense.
“He's such a good priest, the people in his life need him. They - they need him more than I do, and I've distracted him from this duty, from what matters most to him in the world, his true and only purpose, because I -”
Because I love him, even though I shouldn't.
Was that what you didn't dare speak aloud, not even before God Himself? Your voice choked, Jud didn't need to look to know you were crying. Even the salty water of your tears seeped into him, his eyes burning. The priesthood was his true purpose in life, but it wasn't the only thing in the world that mattered to him.
“I want him to be happy, without regard for me,” you whispered. “I want - I want him to know that.”
A tear fell onto the black of Juds pants, a tiny circle of silent emotion on the fabric he permitted himself. Soft rain on his folded hands.
“I’m sorry for these and all my sins.”
Jud closed his eyes, the blurred confessional swallowed up in darkness. He no longer knew whether he was speaking to you or to himself as he imposed the act of penance and spoke the words of absolution.
“May God grant you pardon and peace. I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.”
He crossed himself. The simultaneous amen a seal on the wound of his heart.
Our Lady of Perpetual Fortitude rested in silence, God's house was empty. Following the Mass on the evening of Maundy Thursday, the altar linens and flowers were traditionally removed and all candles extinguished, marking the beginning of the Passion. But this place held a coldness, a barrenness that could hardly be increased. It was a strange feeling.
As Jud closed the large front doors, the hollow sound echoed through his body, which felt as abandoned as the church before him. Wicks had worn him out all day with errands, and the thoughts and fantasies hanging over him since yesterday in the confessional finished the job. Last night he had dreamed of you again, you were crying pearly white tears, so many that the water swept him away and he drowned. From somewhere a deep voice flowed through it, angry with him for forsaking such a precious gift.
He was physically drained and emotionally overfilled. Instinctively, Jud resorted to the only remedy he knew in this situation (excluding a conversation with you) and started walking. He wandered around aimlessly, hoping that the mild wind would clear his head while the movement tired his mind as well as his limbs, allowing him to quickly drift into a dreamless sleep later on.
The sun had set quite a while ago, and the forest stretched out dark and silent before him. Until, closer to the outskirts of town, a single streak of light broke through this scene. Curious, Jud followed the light till he stumbled upon a small side road, a Jeep parked askew on its sideline. He recognized the car: Geraldine.
She stood a few meters away in the headlights, rubbing the back of a woman - no, her wife, Camille - who disposed the contents of her stomach in the bushes. When Jud approached to offer his help, Geraldine visibly breathed a sigh of relief.
“Father Jud, good thing you’re here. I’m so sorry, but could you lend me your hand for a second?”
She nodded toward the open passenger door, a bottle of water and tissues wedged inside. A grateful smile graced her face when Jud passed them to her.
“Thank you, Father!” she said, casting a partly concerned, partly disapproving glance at Camille, who stood a little shaky on her feet as she rinsed her mouth. “I don’t know what came over them today. My wife and our friend are absolute lightweights, they usually drink next to nothing.”
“Oh, don't worry! I'm here to help, outside of church too,” Jud replied politely. He fumbled with his fingers, unsure how else he could provide aid. Just as he was about to inquire about the well-being of said wife and friend, a car door slammed shut and another voice rang out from behind the Jeep:
“Take your sick wife home, Gigi. I'll walk the last bit.”
Jud froze, in every sense of the word, a deer caught in headlights.
The cold light birthed your figure, which slowly staggered in front of the car. A body that moved as exhausted as Jud felt, but was nevertheless showcased in a flattering way thanks to the short dress under the jacket. Desire, concern, and guilt overwhelmed him in a confusing cocktail of emotions.
“The hell you will,” Geraldine warned you, helping Camille back into the passenger seat.
You waved her off nonchalantly.
“It's not that far to my - opps, my house,” you replied.
Your voice wavered slightly, as did Jud's heart at the sight of you. With one hand resting on the hood, you kicked off your heels. No doubt a measure for your impending adventure through the woods. When you straightened up, you suddenly found yourself eye to eye with him. He smiled stiffly at you.
“Hello.”
“Hello,” you replied slowly, your expression unreadable. Not because nothing happened on your face, but rather because too much happened at once for any of it to be comprehensible.
Geraldine tried anyway, her watchful gaze reappearing from behind the car door and darting back and forth between you and Jud. A little too watchful, for Juds liking.
“You know each other?” she asked.
“Ah, yes. Martha, um, she introduced us,” Jud replied on your behalf, grateful for the distraction.
Then it dawned on him that he was merely one direct address away from being exposed as Father Jud in front of you, and his guilty conscience and fear liquefied, running down his neck as cold sweat.
Geraldine's fingers drummed on the door. She inspected Jud (suspiciously nervous), glanced at you (stubbornly drunk), at her wife (sickly drunk), then back at Jud (smiling innocently). She sighed.
“Fine, walk the short bit, I won’t get you back in the car without resorting to physical force anyway. Which I would do if necessary - just so you know,” she finally said, pointing at you.
Satisfied, you grabbed your shoes and slung your handbag over your shoulder, missing your own arm once or twice in the process. Probably the reason why Geraldine added the following condition, pointing at Jud:
“But only if he accompanies you and makes sure you get home safely.”
Despite the short debate this suggestion ignited – you overestimated your abilities, Jud didn't want to impose himself, Geraldine reassured him and scolded you, Camille reminded everyone that she was about to throw up again – you now found yourselves standing in your kitchen for the second time in three days.
At first, Jud worried that a neighbor might notice you two and jump to conclusions - what kind of priest escorted drunk women into their homes at night? But your house was located a little off the road, near the forest, nestled between a spacious garden, tall trees and bushes. He had plenty of time to check every potential angle and view of your door, as it took you at least five attempts to unlock it in the pale light of your porch lamp.
Making quite a racket, you plopped yourself down on one of the kitchen chairs, carelessly dropping your bag and shoes on the floor. This time, Jud didn't linger awkwardly in the doorway, he walked over to your sink as if it were the most natural thing in the world, picked up a mug that had been left there to dry, and filled it with water. You reached for it in a weary gesture when he handed it to you.
While drinking, something seemed to cross your mind, you bent down, your free hand trying in vain to get hold of your sock, a clumsy movement causing you to spill some water.
“Wait! Wait,” Jud pleaded, crouching down in front of you. “Let me help you.”
Gently, he picked up your foot and slipped off the dirty sock, then the other one. An act that earned him a thank you murmured into your mug.
“No problem, should I -?” Jud pointed to your naked feet, equally covered in dirt. The three-minute walk down the street had already been pushing it, and the damp earth in your front yard completed your transformation into a little piglet. If piglets wore black mesh socks with ruffled edges.
You grinned mischievously at him, your eyes glistening a little, not just from the alcohol.
“That depends. Do you have a thing for feet, Father?”
“No! No, I just wanted to, um. I wanted -”
The tips of his ears burned. Seeing him so flustered made you giggle.
“I know,” you said, relieving him of his embarrassment. “Bathroom is down the hall, um - to the left.”
Whilst rummaging through your bathroom cabinets and smiling at the sight of a little notepad next to your toothbrush cup (the best ideas for window designs always came to you while brushing teeth), one question loomed over him:
What in Gods name was he doing?
Of course, he had to offer his help, but wasn't this - the invasion of your privacy, the physical closeness, the attentiveness - a step too far again? Why couldn't he maintain an appropriate distance, why did he repeatedly and deliberately cross this line?
He knew the answer.
It cried out within every fiber of his being, echoing through his head until it was suddenly drowned out by a melody. Returning down the hallway, now equipped with a washcloth and towel, Jud heard you humming in the kitchen. You had apparently been entertaining yourself in his absence, in lack of better options singing a song.
Not immediately recognizing it, the melody danced through his mind as he dampened the cloth at the sink and knelt down before you. He followed its curves, the notes, trying to fill in the blanks, while his hand tenderly wiped over your bare skin, until the words suddenly came to him and his eyes were opened: it was a song from your shared playlist.
And he realized it wasn't the only trace he had left in your life - he had only failed to notice them during his first visit, preoccupied with his plan in his head and your presence in his eyes.
When you entered through the hallway earlier, on the small dresser by the coat rack, right next to the key tray, laid the book he had recommended you last autumn. The plant in your bathroom, the fern, lived only there because he had advised you to move it since the humidity of the room would benefit it. Even the mug you were holding above him right now was coated in his favorite color. Someone - No - you had drawn a small heart in the center of the bottom.
Jud swallowed.
The answer to his question in the bathroom resurfaced, a realization carved in stone that he had desperately tried to bury since your confession yesterday. Avoiding your gaze, he devoted himself to cleaning your feet with the damp cloth. Unfortunately, some parts of the body could not be cleansed so easily. The irony of him washing your feet today of all days did not escape him.
Mandatum novum: Love one another as I have loved you.
He loved you.
It was so simple and absurd. But at that moment, kneeling before you on your hard, cold kitchen tiles, he could finally admit to himself what he had known for too long and felt even longer.
He loved you.
Nine months of wrestling with himself and this place, the effort to forget you and guide this church onto the right path - to guide himself onto the right path - all of that stuggle consumed by the deluge of your existence. Three ridiculous days - a conversation in your workshop, a heartfelt confession, and a drunken coincidence - that was all it took to melt his resolve. Snow under the spring sun. The inevitable course of nature, as God had created it.
He loved you.
The tears threatening to well up again filled his lungs as he swallowed them down. Jud wanted to throw himself in front of the altar, praying to God for guidance, asking Him how to move forward. But he wasn't in his church. He knelt at your feet, your skin soft and warm beneath his rough hands. It would have been so easy to lean his forehead against your legs, to rest in your lap for just a moment.
Hadn't God already shown him the way when He had sent you back to him? The lies had to be cleared up, the misunderstandings resolved, the secrets revealed.
He must confess.
Right now.
Jud took a deep breath, his fingers digging into the soft towel, clinging to you for support. He looked up, ready to let the words break free, but just then something brushed his head and he flinched.
Your fingers danced over his hair, feather-light and curious. Frozen, he looked up at you. When he didn't pull away, you let them slide through his dark curls. His eyes fluttered slightly, the breath caught in his throat escaped him and he barely managed to suppress a deep, satisfied hum.
“I've thought so for…some time now, but you really do have soft hair,” you whispered.
A low hum was the only response Jud could summon.
In your eyes shimmered an expression impossible to decipher. Jud swallowed hard, unable to tear himself away from your gaze, your touch. Involuntarily, his fingertips slid over the towel and glided slightly up along your exposed calf. Your breathing quickened in unison with his. Perhaps his tired, tormented mind was deceiving him, but for a moment he thought he saw you licking your lips. He stared at them in disbelief, heat crawling up his neck.
Then you suddenly jumped up.
The mug slammed down on the table, a loud noise jolting through Jud like a wake-up call.
Had he completely lost his senses?
He was supposed to confess to you, but instead he drowned himself in your eyes. Eyes in which he was virtually a stranger at that. To you, he was Father Duplenticy, the new priest, not Jud, your friend. Apart from failing in his task once again, he had crossed every line of decency, considering your current state.
Sobriety returned to his weary body, a moment of clarity. He shouldn't be having this serious conversation with you right now, nor doing whatever this had been.
Feeling guilty, he gathered the towels and placed them on the table next to the empty mug.
“I - I should go,” he stammered.
You nodded in agreement, stepping out of the kitchen, a little unsteady on your feet. He followed you into the hallway and turned in the opposite direction, his hand almost on the doorknob. But then his concern returned, a second moment of clarity, and he wondered if you would even be able to climb the stairs to your bedroom safely in your condition.
Worried, he turned around, only to accidentally catch a forbidden glimpse of your almost nude silhouette in the dim light of the hallway. You had already ascended a few stairs while simultaneously slipping the dress off your body, leaving only black underwear behind to cover your figure.
The Black underwear.
Of all things, it had to be this one.
Juds body instantly betrayed him. Every memory of your voice - husky through the phone, your moans as his name fell from your lips in a moment of pleasure - which he had tried to block out over the last few months, came flooding back. Now reinforced by the image of you, adorned with nothing but black lace, a vision he could only have dreamed of before. A tightening feeling in his pants reminded him maliciously that he was by no means above basic human desires.
Lord, have mercy on me.
With emphasis, Jud closed the door behind him, the cold air a welcome change of torment. If he had been exhausted before, he was practically destroyed now.
His knees gave way, he fell into the darkness of your garden, folding his hands in prayer.
Mary, Mother most pure, guard my heart and keep me faithful to my vows. Lead me to your Son.
But Mary, Queen of Heaven, Refuge of Sinners, Seat of Wisdom, did not lead Jud to her Son. She led him back to you, for that night he dreamed of you for a third time.
He knelt before your altar of lust. The light streaming through the stained glass to your right and left illuminated your naked body in an almost golden radiance. It made you appear even more unreal and grand, the graceful curves of your body embraced by the black of your lingerie. Your hand buried in his curls, you commanded him to look up at you.
With devotion, he kissed the soft skin of your inner thigh, sliding his hands up your legs. His fingers hooked into the black lace, awaiting your permission. When you wordlessly granted it, he pulled the lace down slowly, swallowing hard, licking his lips.
Then he stretched upward - Eve reaching for the apple - hands buried in your flesh, tongue held out.
A taste of heaven.
Your moan an angels' choir.
The memory of that taste lingered on his tongue even in daylight, the sound ringing in his ears. It was impossible to follow even a single word of Wick's homily on Good Friday.
Then Wicks died, his blood on Jud's hands.
And with him, a small part of Jud's belief that God would not inflict hardship without providing the grace to bear it.
Well, that was Part II - Thank you so much for reading, my dears! I hope you found the tea to your liking. As always, I look forward to seeing your reactions and opinions in the comments!
As I said, Part III (the finale) is already in the works, and afterwards I have a request for Jud on my desk (yes, dear Anon, I haven't forgotten you! Your request is already outlined, I promise!)
If you are interested in joining my taglist, just leave a comment or send a letter to the teashop via my ask Button! Please add whether you would like to be tagged for a specific character, series, fandom or for my works in general!
in the sex lessons au, reader was definitely introduced to porn by patrick. i bet he also gave her massages that “required” her to take off her shirt and bra and always ended up with his hands on her nipple….
Rating: E (18+)
Warnings: SMUT (mutual masturbation, exhibitionism kinda, more manipulative perverts but that’s par for the course)
A/N: how did you know I eat this up. I wrote a 3 part Steve Harrington fic with this exact plot like…. This is my bread and butter simply. Unedited sozz
It was easy to succumb to temptation when it was just the three of you— holed up in Art’s dorm, hidden away from the rest of the world.
A few cans of beer, cold from his mini fridge, the warm press of your legs on top of Patrick’s, of Art’s chest against your back. There’s a movie playing on Art’s laptop— some shitty action movie he’d rented for the three of you.
“Have you ever watched porn?” Patrick asks you bluntly.
Your eyes widen in surprise. “What? No— websites like that give you computer viruses, and stuff.” Art laughs, his body shaking with it. You suppose it is a little childish, but you’re being completely earnest. “What? Doesn’t it?”
Patrick laughs, shakes his head. “If that were true I would’ve gone through a thousand computers by now.”
You grimace, toss an empty beer can at him. “You’re so fucking gross.”
But Patrick just laughs, takes another swig of his beer, leans forward curiously. “So… I mean, do you just use your imagination when you’re touching yourself?”
Heat burns in your cheeks, and you roll your eyes. “Shut up.”
“Well, how do you know what you need to imagine if you’ve never seen anyone fucking? Is it just sweet kisses and hand holding?”
You kick him and Art comes to your defense like the sweetest knight in shining armor. “C’mon, Patrick, leave her alone.” Art’s hand is splayed across your tummy— firm, warm, protective. Patrick pretends like he doesn’t hear him, leans closer.
“I wanna know what innocent little fantasies you get off to. I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.” It’s hard to resist Patrick when he’s so close, when Art’s so close, when you feel warm and dizzy all over.
You sigh softly, relishing as he presses his warm body against your side, so it’s Patrick and Art and you sandwiched hot between them. “You realize you’re being a major fucking perv, right?” You ask in a low tone, meeting his gaze through your lashes. He nods, and you’re so conscious of his hand between your knees as his eyes bear into yours. But he wants you to continue, so you swallow and go on. “I dunno, sometimes it’s not about a fantasy. It’s just about me wanting some stress relief, or, like, my body needing it and it’s too hard to ignore.”
Art’s fingers flex against your stomach and you take a slow breath. “But, I mean, I guess I fantasize about being desired, like, taken care of I guess,” you mumble, mortified that you’re admitting it.
Patrick grins, runs his thumb along the inside of your knee. “That’s so sweet.” You roll your eyes, take a long drink, and try to ignore the heat in your stomach. “Do you want to see what Art likes to watch?”
Art’s eyes go wide, and he shakes his head. “No, no, we’re not doing that,” he says firmly. Patrick brushes him off, ignoring his pleas as he grabs the laptop and pulls up his trusty porn site. You peer over Patrick’s shoulder, eyes going wide as he opens to the home page, to all the recommended videos.
Your jaw drops, just a bit, and you let your eyes rake over the screen. It’s all right there— flagrant. Pretty girls with dicks in their mouths, pussies, hands. Lewd titles, the preview videos playing brief glimpses of obscenity.
“Aww, Art, this is so adorable,” Patrick teases as he scrolls. “Girl best friend deepthroats like a champ. Morning lovemaking ends in creampie.” Art mumbles something against your shoulder, blushing so hard you can feel the heat emanating from his skin.
Patrick clicks the latter and it opens to slow, deep kissing. A mess of tongues, rife with need. You know it’s normal to watch, to an extent— a right of passage, or whatever. But watching it feels so voyeuristic, so invasive. Especially when you’re practically in Art’s lap, when Patrick’s hands are hot against your skin.
Patrick gets bored of soft kissing and wandering hands and skips five minutes ahead in the video. By the time the buffering catches up, they’re fucking onscreen, all slow and sweet. Still kissing, still holding hands. But you also see the way the man’s cock sinks into her, can hear the moaning, the wet sounds of her body taking him in.
Art exhales a shaky breath against your skin, makes you shiver. He’s hard, you can feel that clearly against you, and you know he’s provably fucking mortified over it. But he doesn’t move to turn off the video, doesn’t do anything. His hand twitches against your stomach and you realize he’s still holding you.
The video is short— too short, you decide. The man finishes, you get a close up of the woman’s pussy, of cum dripping from her entrance. It makes your face burn, makes desire burn equally as hot as your embarrassment. The video ends, and Patrick stops auto play.
“Art, that shit is so fucking boring.” It snaps your attention from the paused screen over to him, who seems completely unaffected. You might actually believe he was unaffected if he wasn’t visibly hard.
You peer over at Patrick curiously. “What do you watch?”
He smiles, like he’d been waiting for you to ask, and grabs the laptop. Art makes a weak complaint that Patrick is going to fuck up his recommendations, but is ignored. Patrick logs in to an account and opens a tab for liked and saved videos.
Oh. You lean forward for a better look, expression twisting between shock and interest and confusion and disgust. Patrick’s tastes vary widely— venturing into areas you hadn’t even known were sexual. It’s like he had thrown everything at the wall to see what would stick, and everything just stuck.
“Oh my god, Patrick,” Art mutters, equally as intrigued as you are. “What the fuck, dude.” Art steals the laptop, scrolling through thumbnails of feet and anal and gangbangs and piss and bdsm dungeons and girls in stupid fucking schoolgirl costumes.
Patrick grabs the laptop back roughly, scrolls and clicks. “This one’s good, it’s perfect for when you just want to cum fast. Art, I know you don’t have that problem.”
Art flips him off and looks at the screen, reading the title aloud. “One hour squirting and cumshot compilation. Could you be any grosser?”
“Yes, actually. Sorry I don’t watch your sweet lovemaking bullshit.” Patrick shoves him, then Art shoves him back, and suddenly the laptop is on the floor in front of you and you’re just watching while they squabble on either side of you.
The video is exactly as described— it skips all of the pretense, all of the build up. It’s just people cumming, over and over and over. Your body feels like a live wire as you watch, lit up all over.
You squeeze your thighs together, conscious of the heat and wetness between them. Patrick clocks it— of course he does. A smirk plays at his lips.
“Maybe it’s not so disgusting, Art. She likes it.” Patrick relishes in the hazy, innocent look in your eyes as you meet his gaze. Relishes in the embarrassment and the need. “It’s good, huh? Getting to watch?”
You nod and Patrick takes your hand, slips it beneath the waistband of your shorts. “Go ahead. You want to.”
You shiver, temptation itching down to your fingertips. Sensing your hesitation, Patrick spits into his hand, slips it into his own shorts. You manage to hold out a few more seconds before you let your fingers brush over your clit.
“C’mon Art, don’t be a fucking creep,” Patrick says, moaning as he works his fist faster. Art swears under his breath and quickly shoves his own hand into his boxers.
You’re all so close, bodies pressed together hot and firm. You can feel the way their bodies move with each stroke, the way their thighs tense as they instinctually buck into their fists.
You moan, head falling against Art’s shoulder. His hand splays against you, inches up, brushing against the underside of your tit. It makes you whimper.
Patrick grabs your face, redirects your attention back to the screen. “Keep watching, it’s getting good.” His voice is strained, affected.
He usually lasts longer than this when he’s in your hand or your mouth, but maybe the video really was that good. Surely it didn’t have anything to do with you, panting and writhing as you rubbed at your clit beside him.
For once, Patrick cums first— doubling over, groaning muffled into your hair. Then it’s Art, whining so pretty, pulling you closer, mouthing at your shoulder as he comes down. And then you, overwhelmed by the two boys on either side of you, cumming with a rush of wetness that ruins your already soaked panties.
You sit there panting as the video continues playing— obscene wet, lewd sounds, wanton moans. Art hits stop, shuts the laptop and kicks it away.
You wonder why every time you hang out with them, it always seemed to end like this. And you wonder why you don’t mind, not even a little bit.
NEED art and patrick to find out I'm a virgin and offer to teach me how to kiss and how to fuck and use eachother as examples and guide me and tell me I'm doing a good job and reward me for being such a good student and come back later and quiz me to see if I remember everything they taught me ugh obsessed with them individually and as a unit
This has lived rent free in my mind for literally forever. I can’t stop thinking about it, it haunts my every waking moment.
Rating: E (18+)
Warnings: Making out, Handjob lessons, guys being pervs, not a love triangle they just all want to fuck each other
A/N: unedited bc I wrote this while on the clock okay whatever. Enjoyyyy and if u want me to continue this lmk >:)
“I think it’s sweet,” Patrick said, and you could hear the amusement in his voice, practically dripping from every syllable. “The last American virgin. You belong in a museum.”
You rolled your eyes and tossed your empty Taco Bell cup at him— the ice rattled and it leaked a puddle of condensation onto the ground. “You could try not to be a dick about it.”
Art’s dorm room was hot and sticky thanks to a faulty AC, which meant the three of you lounging on the floor by his open window, sucking down soda watered down by melted ice cubes. You were down to a T-shirt and shorts, they were down to their boxers. It wasn’t lost on you that it was an intimate situation to be in— barely dressed, crammed into the shoebox of a dorm. And of course Patrick had dug his fingers in until you admitted your secret— you had made it all the way to college totally unfucked.
Patrick leaned forward, smiling the smarmy smile that tended to wear at your last nerve. “So you’re a virgin, but like,” he leaned in, so close you could feel body heat radiating from him. He dropped his voice, just above a whisper. “How much of a virgin, really? You’ve at least gone to third, right?” You glared, but shook your head.
“Second?” Art supplied, suddenly jumping in with an eager sort of curiosity.
“What? No, I don’t even know what that means,” you admitted. You sighed before you spoke up. “I’ve only ever kissed one guy and one girl, and it was during a game of spin the bottle, like, junior year.”
“How?” Patrick asked.
Your brows furrowed. “How? I spun the bottle, it landed on the person, I leaned in, put my lips against theirs, and that was it.”
Patrick sighed. “Just fucking show me how.” He looked at you expectantly, inching even closer.
With an annoyed sigh, you leaned in and pressed your lips to his— mouth closed, lips firm. When you sat back, Patrick and Art were both grinning.
“What?” You asked with a frown.
“That’s how you kiss on the playground in elementary school,” Art said, unable to contain his laughter. “C’mere.”
You crawled forward, stopping in front of the blond. His hand settled on your jaw, coaxing you forward.
His lips met yours softly, sweetly. It was easy to lose yourself in the feeling of Art’s mouth, in the gentle brushes of his lips against yours and the way he held your face so tenderly.
The feeling of his tongue pressing against the seam of your lips was strange, but you welcomed it, letting him lick into your mouth.
Each pass of his tongue against yours drew you deeper and deeper into it, into him. You moved into his lap without realizing it, kissing him with sweet, timid laps of your tongue.
Art pulled back first, his cheeks soft and pink and so pretty. “See? That’s how you’re supposed to kiss someone. That was really good.”
You laughed softly, and moved off of his lap sheepishly. Patrick leaned forward, brushing your hair back, holding your face in his hand.
“Okay, show me what Art showed you,” he instructed, then leaned in.
Kissing Patrick was different than kissing Art. He was hungrier, more insistent. His tongue pressed into your mouth like he wanted to chart every inch. You did your best to match what he offered, to kiss the way Art had just shown you, sweetly, like you really meant it.
And you did mean it. Patrick’s hands moved along your side, up until they cupped your tits through your shirt. You moaned softly into his mouth— the sound was muffled, met with a moan of his own. He gave an experimental squeeze of your tits and you whined softly. So he did it again, amused by the pretty, sweet noises you mewled out.
Patrick was getting hard, pressing against your thigh. It was a new sensation that you were hyper aware of as you unconsciously ground yourself against him.
You pulled back first, cheeks burning hot after you remembered Art was right beside you. You tucked unkempt hair behind your ear, smiled bashfully. “How was I?”
“Good,” Patrick said.
At the same time Art supplied, “So good.”
You laughed softly, shaking your head. “Okay. Cool.”
Art was squirming, fidgeting, holding a pillow over his lap. Patrick was less covert— opting to openly adjust himself, drawing more attention to the fact that he was hard. You rolled your eyes and stole the nearest cup you could find, sipping at watered down Mountain Dew.
“Do you want me to leave?” You teased, raising an eyebrow. Your teeth dug into the plastic straw as you looked between the two of them.
Art stammered, mortified, but Patrick just smiled dizzyingly over at you. “I can teach you something else. You got to first base, so why don’t you steal second?”
You rolled your eyes, but heat flared behind your cheeks. Jesus Christ, he was such a smug asshole. “I still don’t know what that means,” you said, feeling a little embarrassed.
He grinned and mimed jerking off. Your eyes widened, and you laughed softly. “That would be weird,” you said, half-believing it. “Like, if I did jerk one of you off, that leaves one of you just watching.”
You glanced at Art, who looked just as interested as Patrick did, and your heart stammered nervously. “What if I show you how you do it on Art? Look at him— he’s the perfect little practice dummy.” Patrick reached over, pinching at Art’s cheek until the blond kicked his shin.
“Show me?” You echoed. “Like… you’re going to do it to him, and I do it to you?”
Patrick nodded, leaning into Art’s side, his smarmy smile dissolved into something needier. Art swallowed hard, lips parted slightly as he looked over at Patrick.
Patrick’s lips met his slowly, hungrily. You watched wide eyed as Patrick deepened the kiss, as Art eagerly accepted the other boy’s tongue into his mouth.
Patrick threw the pillow out of Art’s lap and sent it careening into the desk on the opposite side of the room. Your eyes widened at the sight of Art, hard and tenting his boxers. Patrick palmed him in his large hands making the blonde whimper into his mouth and buck up, seeking friction.
You swallowed hard, biting down on the straw as you watched Patrick tug at the elastic of Art’s boxers. Art lifted his hips to allow Patrick to tug them down his thighs, just enough to expose his cock to both of you.
“See,” Patrick gasped, leaning back from their kiss. Art chased his lips fruitlessly, mouth ajar, waiting for more. “He’s so fucking easy. Come feel.”
You moved closer, looking at Art for permission. When he nodded, you reached out, letting your fingertips graze the soft skin of his shaft. He exhaled a shuddery breath, eyes fluttering shut. Patrick’s hand covered yours, guiding you to squeeze around his length.
He was warm under your touch, silky soft, pulsing in your grip. Your heart hammered just at that— at the feel of him in your hand. “Feels nice, huh? Knowing how much he wants you.” You nodded, then slid your fist up, testing the waters. Art moaned softly, throbbed in your grip, aching for more. Patrick smiled like the cat who got the cream. “Hands off, just watch me.”
Patrick spat into his hand and replaced your hand with his own. The second Patrick curled his fingers around Art and started stroking him slowly, the blond was mewling for more. “Fuck,” he moaned, his forehead knocking against Patrick’s, mouth open, panting. “That’s good, feels good.”
You watched Patrick rub his thumb over Art’s tip, eyes widening as Art really whimpered for it, hips thrusting up into Patrick’s fist, chasing more of the pleasure the brunet offered.
“You get it now?” Patrick asked. You nodded quickly, and he tugged down his own boxers. “Fuck, okay— fucking show me.”
Your heart hammered with nerves, but you nodded. You held your hand out and spit into it, mimicking what Patrick had done before you wrapped your hand around his cock.
He felt bigger in your hands, but you didn’t say that. One, you worried it might piss Art off, and two, he didn’t need the ego boost. And he was slick, beading precum at his tip so each pass of your hands felt slicker and slicker.
And you couldn’t help but want to be an asshole. “You’re wet like a girl,” you said with a smirk, gliding your thumb over his tip.
And he was shameless, nodding with a sly grin. “That means I like you.” He panted, moaning softly. “Besides, I bet your fucking panties aren’t dry right now.”
Well, fuck. You tried to ignore the rush of heat in your belly that those words caused, to focus only on the glide of your hand on Patrick’s cock— up and down, copying his pace on Art, copying the ways he’d squeeze and twist his hand.
Art was moaning, rutting up into the tight sheath of Patrick’s fist, the muscles of his abdomen tensing and relaxing in unsteady jerks beneath his soft skin.
“Fuck— switch, switch,” Patrick said quickly. Art whined when Patrick stopped touching him, but it was ignored. “Want you to feel it when he comes.”
He guided your hand back onto Art’s cock and nodded for you to move. “Fuck, your hand’s so soft,” Art groaned. “Faster, faster, fuck—“ He was practically begging. You swallowed, increased the pace, squeezed him a little tighter.
Art was touching Patrick— jerking him off while you brought him closer and closer to finishing. Patrick leaned in, kissed you deeply, pulled Art in too until the three of you were a mess of tongues and lips and spit and hands.
Art came first— coating your hand in warm, slick cum, throbbing in your grip. He was panting into your and Patrick’s mouths, moaning softly as you continued to slowly work him through it. Patrick came next, once Art redoubled his effort, focused on making Patrick add to the mess covering your hands.
Patrick was loud, pornographic, messy. Art brought a cum covered hand between his lips, cleaning it up. Your eyes widened.
“Art, c’mon, you’re scandalizing her,” Patrick said, like you weren’t even there.
“Shut up,” you said, shoving him. He laughed and pulled his boxers back up. Art followed suit, and the three of you were left gross and sweating in the heat. You wiped your hand off on one of their discarded shirts and gave a sheepish smile.
They sat there, expectantly. Waiting for you to make the next call. There was a level of want in you, need, but the thought of asking for them to take care of it was mortifying. “Do you want to watch a movie or something now?”
( + read on AO3 )
✣ PAIRING: Father Jud Duplenticy x Art historian fem!reader (2nd person POV)
✣ THEMES AND WARNINGS: NSFW, Minors do not interact!!!! Religious themes, angst, grief/mourning, smut with so many feelings it's embarrassing, penetration (f receiving).
✣ NOTES: Wasn't planning on making a part 2 but as often with me, ideas came and aligned in a way that felt natural; I hope you enjoy this second part as much as I did writing it. ♡
✣ SYNOPSIS: Your souls touched once. He's carried that memory ever since, unaware that you'd cross paths again in his hour of need.
You've always liked the smell of churches. The gilded mystery to it. Heady incense, mildewy stones, the cleanliness of beeswax candles.
You like this church in particular. With its towering spire, the florid shapes in the patterns rimming the choir, pure light beams falling off the window onto the altar cloth.
You like the wiry silhouette standing near that altar. His slightly tense shoulders, dark hair, darker clothes, a modest, shadowy smudge at the end of the nave.
The gentle hum of his voice flits to your ears.
Time has passed since you last heard the distinct click and clank of the entrance to Our Lady of Perpetual Grace. Funny how certain things never truly sink down into the swamps of memory, how they always sit like oil on water, awaiting to be scooped up again at the slightest stir.
You wish you could skulk in anonymity a little longer. Take in the sights of this place you've missed, simmer in the sun like a spoiled house cat, lulled by the murmurs of conversation between the priest and a couple of elderly parishioners.
What is this unnameable weight you feel, shifting and warping in your stomach? Are you nervous? Are you afraid? Is it a hint of enthusiastic thrill?
The congregants are taking leave of him. You try to ignore the thrum in your chest.
Take a breath.
Your voice bounces through the dusty gold beams, splitting in echoes around the sanctuary like images of a kaleidoscope. A little louder than you intended.
“Hello, Father.”
He recognizes your voice before anything else. You can tell from the way his back straightens, head slightly pivoting, unveiling the side of his cheekbone, and long lashes batting two three times as the sole indicator of surprise.
His gaze falls over you next, bathing you in a familiar sea—mixture of water and grass.
“Oh—” his breath hitches, imperceptibly, “—it's you.”
It's you. He says it as if the past year only lasted a few minutes, like you've only been gone for a short break outside, carrying back to him a whiff of birch trees and wet soil to resume a pending dialogue. Like you were always destined to land back onto the edge of his sleeve.
A strange, woolly silence falls through. The profound closeness, rekindled yet elusive, escapes like dry sand between your fingers.
You both speak up at the same time, voices overlapping and crashing back down in an awkward succession of “Please, you go first” and “Sorry, what were you saying?”.
There's another fragment of silence, dismissed by a clumsy laugh on both your parts. Eyes refusing to meet. His hands digging into his pockets, yours picking at your nails.
Eventually, he asks the great question: What are you doing here?
It's expected, yet you find yourself stammering around it. Offering a disjointed explanation despite it being summarized in nine easy words: Gothic Revival and Christian Buildings of the East Coast. It's a book. It comes out in eight months. It needs pictures. You timidly point over to the photographer the publishing house hired. He's traipsing near the walls, nose up in the air, seemingly disinterested in meeting the priest—or interacting with anything from Chimney Rock, for that matter. There's no friendship lost between the two of you, and you're glad to temporarily escape the aura of superiority he radiates to a point of suffocation.
Father Jud barely gazes in the direction of your unappreciative travel companion.
“You wrote a book?”
His warm stupefaction makes your heart weep.
He sounds impressed. He shouldn't be. Nonetheless, you can't remember the last time anyone was that enthused about your work.
“I only wrote the chapter on colored glass,” you try to temper his interest. “I say write, but frankly, it's mostly a fine arts book. The sort people like to buy for the pictures and display on their coffee tables, you know?”
“You never sent that paper you wrote last year, by the way.”
You had promised you would. You also remember distinctly where you made that promise—his head still lying on your chest, body tangled in your bedsheets.
A brutal gush of heat climbs up your spine.
You apologize, blaming your memory. But something in the way you say it makes him think it could've been deliberate. You're quick to change the subject, glad to redirect some of the attention towards him. What about him?
The anomaly would be easy to miss, with how snugly it hides beneath his features, waiting in the dimples of his smile. During those seconds of hesitation, while his eyes carelessly focus on a crack in the tile, you manage to catch it. He's exhausted. There's a grayness to him, a lack.
“Is everything alright?”
The answer lies, eloquent, in the small, fluttering moments of silence.
A click, a clank.
Father Jud's gaze is carried back to the narthex, his attention slipping off you like river water on a pebble. You look over your shoulder. Members of the congregation stepping in, one tall figure dressed in black; two small children with forlorn airs clutching her hand.
All residual color has left Father Jud's face. He apologizes to you, stumbling with his words. He has to take care of this. He hopes to catch you later.
There's an itch in your side, the understanding that something's going on that eludes you. But this realm isn't yours, this town isn't yours, you are but a migratory bird brought back by the whims of the winds. All you can do is witness.
You're silent as you leave. On your way down the nave, you gaze at the kids and their mother. Morosity weighs them down, a dark and heavy corvid perched onto their backs.
For the joyous and easygoing, it is simple to forget churches don't just gather elated, living crowds for weddings and baptisms. Seeping into the hardy walls, pain perfumes the transept too, persistent as mold. Churches were built for mourners too.
You feel eyes pet your spine as you walk away. It could be a mistake, a feeble impression induced by the sporadic rays of light.
You do not glance back to verify.
A funeral mass is held at the church the next day.
You hear about this when the photographer walks up to your table in the dining room of the inn you're staying at, all huffing and puffing, pulling you away from an excellent mystery novel you found at the tiny bookstore down the street. It was supposed to be the perfect hour for photography, according to him.
“Well, we're obviously not going to disturb them now,” you feel the need to issue the reminder.
The thwarted plan doesn't bother you as much as it does the photographer, who whines about it for what seems the better part of the afternoon. When he moves on to complaining about Chimney Rock next and the nothingness of tiny towns, you decide you've had your fair share of empty discourse for the day. Your spirit aches for more. Stimulation. Connection. All things you found here, once.
The evening douses the sky a pensive, grayish-blue when you reach the bar, the boisterous haven you crashed into for hours on end on your first stay around. You're hit with a warm draft of wheat and honey, tobacco, smoked wood. You've barely passed the threshold and the bartender already identifies you. Perhaps because you've spent more than one evening with Father Jud, casually requisitioning a piece of his bar. Nothing worse than patrons who talk and talk to the point of forgetting to drink—that's just no way to run a business.
“If you're looking for the priest, he left already,” he signals to you with fatigued resignation, his voice soaring above the hum of the crowd.
You're a little perplexed, glancing at him, ready to defend yourself, but he swipes his hand fretfully, almost ushering you back towards the exit. You don't know why, you let yourself through the doors again, ousted like a fruit fly, having all but forgotten the prospect of a drink and drowning in the clamor of patrons.
Ink drawn trees bend over the deserted road like claws. The grounds feel spongy and lethargic from the fresh hug of rain. Your feet carry you towards the church. You don't realize you're headed there until the outline of the spire traverses the night sky.
A muffled thump halts you. A soft echo, rippling through the dozy tall grass, perturbing the melodic stridulation of katydids. You can hear mild grunts as you get closer, a scraping, something thrown against a rough surface in a jagged rhythm. You emerge at the end of the path, under a canopy of trees.
You'd recognize his outline even with your eyes closed.
“Father?”
His arm finishes its movement, bending in a gracious curve, pushed into an arrow-straight line. There's another one of those dim hisses; the rock he throws ricochets off tree bark and vanishes under the spell of gravity, swallowed whole by grass. It's such a bizarre spectacle to stumble onto, you're unsure how to react.
He does this a couple more times, oblivious to your presence, before he abruptly bows forward like a broken stick, and you're rushing over, alarmed, thinking he just lost his balance. He's only sitting down, svelte silhouette clumsily set upon the sturdy ground, paying no heed to the muck on his clothes.
You crouch next to him, hiding your disconcertment as best you can.
“Did that tree do something to you?” you whisper.
He's not inebriated enough not to recognize you. Also not inebriated enough to escape the rush of shame once he does. Eyebrows pinched, his nose crumples into a grimace.
“There you are,” he sighs. As if you got lost, somehow, and he had been looking in the woods for you.
He presses both heels of his hands against his eyelids. A low grunt rises from the pits of his throat.
“That tree is huge.”
You'd chortle at the statement if you weren't so worried. You can smell malt on his breath.
The tree's gnarly trunk is fractured from deep gashes, bark split open, unveiling younger rings of wood, torn edges rimmed a queer color—vermilion red, harsh, metallic—like lipstick staining a vulgar and warped mouth.
A widow and two children in a church. A funeral. A lacerated tree. The story weaves itself into your mind, braiding the disjointed pieces together. Someone had an accident here. But a thread is still missing—where does a guilt-burdened priest fit into this sorrowful tapestry?
Your hand carefully reaches for his shoulder.
“Can you walk?”
It turns out he can. With a dollop of help. You pass an arm around his waist to help him up. He smells of the forest and chestnuts, body all warm from the liquor. How long has he been out here, macerating in peat-flavored night?
“If we meet someone, I'll just tell them you had some bad fish.”
His cackle perturbs the remaining chirping creatures lurking in the dark. That sound surprises you enough that you find yourself mimicking him.
You both wobble along the path to the rectory. His legs are longer than yours, but in his state, he could easily crash onto the cobbles, make you tumble along with him.
“Keys,” you tell him once you reach the front door.
He goes through two pockets before he finds them, clammy hands slipping the jingling set into yours. The door glides open. A few last steps. You guide him to the sofa, in which he seems to sink rather than sit. While you remove the plump cushions to give him more space, his forehead nudges your shoulder. Body leaning into yours, limp and indolent. When he exhales, the warmth of his breath penetrates your clothing, tingling your skin. Your hand draws a circle on his back. A gentle stroke, between his shoulders, steady, patient.
“I'm going to make you lie down now,” you forewarn in a murmur.
His eyes flutter shut as soon as he's nestled against the matted upholstery. You gingerly arrange him into a safer position. Steering him onto his side, knees brought closer to his body. Removing his shoes. When you stand back up, his fingers grip your wrist. Thumb pad grazing your pulse. He mumbles something unintelligible. So you wait. A couple of heartbeats that stretch into a minute. His hand drops eventually. You carefully replace it to his side.
You've never been to the rectory before. There was no reason for it, your domain confined to the church alone. But the parlor is homey, the furniture simple—a tad worn out, yet inviting. A slightly collapsed armchair receives you. For what seems like a long time, you doze off gently, coddled by the cushions, the clicking song of insects gathered in pockets of darkness beyond the windows. Eyes floating back to Father Jud every so often, his chest rising gently as he breathes, lashes fluttering, chasing a dream. The glow of the sole lamp keeping you company reflects and divides on the windows turned into a gallery of mirrors, jet-black and hypnotic.
You don't realize your eyes have closed.
A tumbling sound jolts you up.
“Sorry—” you hear him whisper from somewhere behind you, a superfluous precaution since you're the only people here, “—didn't mean to wake you.”
A tartan plaid cloaks your knees. Your mouth feels like cotton. Outside the windows, pale blues are fading into apricot orange, tickling the tree line. The insects have stopped singing. A speck of cool light climbs up your arm.
You wonder what woke him up—anxiety or dawn.
When you ask what time it is, Father Jud replies, a little past six. Your eyes trail from the mug he brings you—that little tea pouch tainting the hot water amber—to him next, trying to read his features.
“About yesterday—” he nibbles on a fingernail, sitting back onto the sofa at arm's length, “—I owe you an apology.” His throat is dry, his voice slightly sibilant.
“You don't owe me anything. You don't even have to explain if you don't want to.”
He ruffles through his already disheveled hair. Not feeling like himself. He would like to curl up on the couch. Forget. Sleep a few hundred years more.
“Hey, take a breath.” You've caught that downcast shadow, trembling near his mouth. You're leaning into him. Hand jutting to meet his. “Listen, when things get a little too overwhelming, I like to go for a walk to ground myself. Let's try that. It's the perfect time for it.”
Your fingers press on his wrist, on that small bone that's shaped like a marble. They're cold, but he doesn't mind. They draw him to you, out of himself. A guiding touch.
“You'll notice most things are still sitting where they're supposed to be.” You're encouraging him now, your knees stretching as you gently pull him to his feet. “Everything's more palpable in the daylight.”
The sun is out now.
Shrouding leafy bosks in a tender, golden mist. You should rejoice in the return of light, but you've forgotten all about the colored glass, the conceited photographer, the book, the motives for your visit back.
Father Jud strides next to you. Took a few clunky minutes to adjust to each other's pace—when he isn't stupored and liquor-dazed, he can saunter pretty fast. His knuckles brush yours from time to time, swift, bashful, not volatile enough to seem entirely fortuitous. Dry brushwood cracks beneath your mirrored steps.
The tree rears at the end of the path. In the daylight, you both see it as it is. Gnarled, ancient, the stuff of stories, all knotted and owl-burrowed, with branches stretching like pianist fingers, playing a symphony of rustles. Slightly less monumental than the darkness painted it to be. Not at all the scythe of Death.
You're picking up a browning serrate leaf, letting it twist between your fingers, while Father Jud lingers a short moment, focused on that textured cut twisting across the trunk. When he pivots back to you, he searches for your gaze.
“I was helping this family—trying to help them.” His tone seems a little more poised. Less frost-thin, less on the verge of dissolving. But it's all in his eyes now, that glasslike sensitivity. “The parents were having some issues, so I've been counseling them these last months.” He rubs his nose, the freckles powdering his skin. They sit with such contrast upon his tired complexion, you can't help but wonder if they'll fly away if you blow on them, like achenes on a dandelion.
“The point is, they were going to be okay. They had a chance to make it work. He wasn't…”
He marks a pause, fingers tensing over his abdomen. Grappling with something intangible, yet cold, frighteningly foreign.
“This—wasn't supposed to happen to them. I struggle to make sense of it. I shouldn't, but I just can't help it.”
He confesses it to you. The crack in the belief, a startling paradox. It's the delirious twist of fate and the void of significance in such a tragedy. His faith stands enlightened on the matter, knowing the futility of running after some divine explanation—if there is one, it remains out of reach, etched on slates in a dialect that he'll never begin to comprehend. But his humanity, fragile, imperfect, and unshakeable keeps scrabbling through the wreckage like a dog, eager for shards that might be assembled to answer the great and doomed question. Why?
“He was on his way to the rectory when the crash happened.”
“I'm sorry. I really am.”
Our Lady of Perpetual Grace emerges before you. Ivy-tangled low wall and intricate frontispiece. You stop before the porch, that very same one under which you both sought escape from the deluge one afternoon, what seems like another lifetime ago.
“It's not your fault, you know?” you tell him. You wonder if anyone has.
“I know.”
His voice sounds hollow. You want to grab his shoulders, repeat it again and again, make it a litany, a canticle, if that's what it takes for him to believe it. You move like a falling acorn, swift, fast, leaving yourself no time to overthink it. Your arms carefully slide around him. He's a little bone-stiff; you pay it no heed. That's how they are, after all, those who haven't been spontaneously held in a long time. When his mind links with his body once more, understanding that it's you, pressing him against your heart, he crumples under your touch, melts into it. For as tall as he is, he suddenly feels minuscule, atom-wide, aching to drown into something greater, this corporeal burst of affection that he wasn't ready for. It's the modest, unsure realization that he craved this, needed this, ignorant to what starved extent until it was given to him.
You let him go a little sooner than he would've liked. You're all clumsy again, tripping two steps back, sniffing. You need to shower, need to change, wipe off the traces of a night spent in an armchair. You promise you'll bother him again soon.
“I'll hold you to that,” he retorts, gently solemn.
Your scent lingers on him long after you're gone.
Behind the altar, hoisted like a star upon the apse's sturdy wall, the Christ effigy is catching the first slivers of light. Its heart bursts into a fire, a transient scintillation, fragmented, condemned to exist for but a mere particle of a moment—one blink of the eye, and it'll be lost until the next day. Father Jud watches it as he does every day, his throat tight, motionless, like the slightest flinch could break the magic. It is gone now, that brief, shimmery interlude. But it will be back again tomorrow, and oddly, he finds comfort in the thought.
His shoulders are draped in the purple stole.
It's the afternoon, and the sun is playing hard to get once more. The curtain to the confessional is removed with a shrill rattle, announcing the penitent's walk out of the stuffy box, welcomed back amongst his peers, now forgiven and absolved.
The curtain stridently sings again a minute later. A blurry silhouette gesticulates behind the screen. Gray light yields to pensive, intimate darkness.
“It's odd, sitting in here.”
The fragrance of your freshly washed hair replaces the preceding congregant's heady cologne.
“—I feel like you can read my mind.”
“It's probably all for the better that I can't,” he smirks.
His palms lay flat onto his lap, awaiting your next stream of thoughts.
“Do people always know what to say when they come in here? Do they rehearse their text beforehand, or do they fumble a little?”
Your question makes him smile.
He can't breach the Seal of Confession, of course, but children and the young, they're oddly the ones who stammer the least when stuck in the stall beside him. They need some guidance, mostly to remain on one trajectory, but otherwise, words flow with such relief out of their mouths, one can only envy their candor. Their lack of filter gladdens him, especially when he's trusted with secrets such as admitting to putting a dead spider in the bed of a sibling or faking a grade to avoid being raked over the coals. He has to remind himself that this is important to those young souls, that all beings who step into the box are to be taken seriously, no matter the nature of what they confide. All equals.
“Depends. Some like the small talk beforehand. It puts them at ease. Someone once took ten full minutes to explain the steps of their anchovy and pear aspic recipe to me.”
“Or,” you scowl, “it was a confession of culinary sins.”
He stifles a small snicker.
“You're doing it now, too, you know,” bringing your attention to your own behavior. “Diversion.”
“I'm sorry. I've never sat in a confessional before. I'm not sure what to say.”
It isn't the mirage of salvation through spirituality that lured you in, but rather old-fashioned, incorrigible human curiosity. He recognizes it with ease, remembering vividly the feeling of being poked by your probing mind, of your indefatigable questioning.
“What constitutes a sin?” you ponder.
A maze-wide question that divides into countless, tortuous answers. He could offer the clean-cut version to you, what's been quoted in catechism over and over again. Or explain the intricacies observed by those who study the complicated field of hamartiology. He could remind you of the difference between mortal and venial sin. But none of those tangents he senses could bring you satisfaction.
“Back at the seminary, I found many in the clergy seem to believe that shame is a gift from God. That it helps recognize sin.”
The slight disdain in this muttered sentence makes you frown.
“You don't agree with them?”
“Not really. No. It's a reductive take. Victims feel shame; it doesn't mean they did anything wrong.”
“What about regret? Or guilt? Are those indicators of sin?”
He blinks, perplexed by your separation of the two words. From his side of the lace-thin motif of the partition, he considers you inquisitively.
“Do you find a difference between regret and guilt?”
“I think I do,” you retort, suddenly grave. “It's etymological.”
It's the first time someone uses the word etymological in his confessional.
“Guilt, you know what it means better than I do. It's, hum—”
“A betrayal of morals, of our own beliefs,” he helps complete when you stagger. “Provoked by acts we know to be wrong and hope to atone for.”
“Yes. On the other hand, I read "regret" comes from Old French, from the word, "regreter". It means to look back on, to long after.”
It's a word tainted with a certain flavor of sorrow, of melancholia. Regret, perhaps, would be a sin against man rather than God. The burden of life not lived.
“You don't find that same intent in guilt. The implication of a desire that hasn't been fulfilled. Of something that's been missed and remains missing.”
When the last word leaves your mouth, it dawns on him, slowly, then all at once, the weight of something, alive, vibrant, caught in between the both of you, in the stale air of the confessional. Something you haven't spoken of and that he's barely mentioned but which has remained attached to every move you've made towards each other. It was there when you helped him stagger back to the rectory at night, when he sheltered your legs with a plaid before dawn reached the sky, when he brought you chamomile tea after rousing you up, or when you urged him to come walk with you, holding him when it felt like he might disappear into the soil.
Every small gesture, like a thin root undulating from a greater stem, like powder off a comet, hiding something unavoidable, unmissable. He'll call it a tenderness, so as not to name it the other, greater, frighteningly, infinitely more complicated word. And it's been hunkering down a long time, obscured, not festering but blooming, because over a year ago he made a choice, knocking on your door, refusing regret, refusing to let whatever this was become something missed, a hole, a smothering of desire.
Was this born from sin?
Why doesn't he feel guilt if it is?
“So tell me,” you continue after a long lull, shattering his trail of feverish thought, “is confession just some mechanical listing of set rules you've transgressed? Regardless of whether or not you understand what you're supposed to feel sorry for?”
“No,” he articulates, once he finds the voice to do so. “That's not all that confession is.”
“Enlighten me then.”
He exhales longly. Grasping for the proper words to materialize his stance.
“Confession means something different to everyone. Because when you reveal what you believe to be a sin, you're also revealing a part of who you are to yourself. Saint Augustine wrote…”
“I don't care what Saint Augustine wrote,” cutting him off abruptly. “Tell me what you think.”
The more you prod him, he thinks, the more he irreparably likes you.
“Fine,” indulging you with a grin. “With free will comes responsibility over our sins. But taking responsibility, that's the real difficult part, isn't it?”
He rubs the knuckles of his left hand, pensive.
“It's more convenient to blame someone else for our wrongdoings. Confession isn't just repenting for offending God. It's a gift to ourselves as well. By speaking our sins, our mistakes out loud, we make them tangible. It's a chance to own up to what we've done. It makes bearing responsibility, if not easier, at least possible.”
He marks a pause.
“There you go, I think it's about courage. About not running away from things.”
His eyes travel to the wooden panel erected between you, trying to pierce through the cruciform-patterned openwork to seek your expression. He catches the glimmer in the depth of your pupils, shadowing his. Your hair, its fragrance, it's haunting him. He wants to reach through the fragile net of wood and touch you.
“Father?”
There's a tremor in your voice.
“Yes?”
“What comes next?”
It takes him a moment to realize you're talking about the sacrament.
“I give you your penance,” he replies, somewhat impersonally. “And you'll recite your Act of Contrition. Basically, say that you're sorry.”
“It's that easy then? A few words, some prayer, and you're forgiven?”
You seem disappointed.
“In the heart of Christ, yes. Why should repenting be difficult for it to count? You still have to live with yourself after; that's tough enough as it is.” His head tilts in your direction, his voice grows softer. “I think it's what matters most. To know you're loved, regardless of whether you deserve it or not. Isn't it what people need in order to do better?”
A silence settles in the booth. Ancient aromas of varnished wood linger around you. If you close your eyes and listen, you can hear his breathing, echoing yours.
Your voice pierces the holy silence. Landing you both back onto mortal soil.
“I think I forgot my phone at the rectory.”
You hear amusement in his voice.
“Well, you could've just led with that.”
You're foraging through the cushions of the sitting area. Nobody pays you any heed. As soon as you walked inside, a timid hand rapped on the door. Father Jud gestured briefly to you—“I'm doing this now,” he meant, and led the visitor into the adjacent office. The garbled hum of a conversation carries through on the other side.
By day, the building is traversed with the regular tapping of footsteps, disjointed fragments of voices, ruffles of all kinds of attires. Night truly throws a distorted spell, for under broad daylight, the rectory shakes off its garb of an empty, silent house, absorbing echoes carried from the village, laughter of children galloping near the flower beds, congregants cycling by and ringing their bells. You nearly don't recognize the room in which you spent queasy, somnolent, dream-stunned hours.
Searching the coffee table, you push aside varicolored origami stars pinched between pages of tattered magazines. The room carries remembrances of people's passage, so many inconsequential belongings abandoned in their trail: small matchboxes stamped with the emblem of the local pub, packets of caramel or gum, a key chain shaped like a snail, one lonely pastel blue pacifier. Scents, too, a disparate bouquet of them, embalming the upholstery, ranging from musky body spray to sickly sweet vanilla. You wonder who they are, what stories they hide, those peregrine beings, passing by the rectory like pilgrims, coming not for a glimpse of a holy relic or to bathe in a pool of sacred water. Even stumbling on his own questionings, his own uncertainties, Father Jud knows how to talk to them, listens to them. He's the anchor that holds them together despite his own fears. If confession takes courage, so does this.
One soul walks out, another comes in. Like in a confessional. The door handle clicks as the mechanism jumps open or shut. The ballet is almost dizzying.
When the last of them leaves, the ashen sky has melted into fuscous, indigo foam. And the house is falling asleep.
He's surprised to find you still sitting there, cozied on the sofa, one leg curled under yourself with an old edition of Country Living open on your lap. You notice his look, asking what his lips do not.
“Felt like a thief, leaving without saying goodbye.” Truth is, time flew by and you didn't notice.
Father Jud asks if you found your phone, and you flash him the culprit, its screen glumly showing off a red and exhausted battery icon. He crashes onto the armchair ahead of you, worn-out and lax-limbed. Despite the attitude, something seems lighter about him. He's exhausted, brain all chewed out by effort and speech, but relieved, compelled by something he hasn't felt for several days. His eyes fix on a dot of reflected light before they trail back to you. He asks if you're hungry, and you shake your head.
You're ready to take your leave—you should've left a while ago already—but his voice pulls you back.
“Thank you, for yesterday. And this morning.”
“Don't mention it. Grief isn't an easy thing to deal with.”
He snickers, a little painfully.
“Aren't you going to ask me why Christians grieve at all, if they believe in an afterlife?”
A year ago, perhaps, that would've been the sort of thing you would've pressed him on. You can see your silence perplexes him. After a moment, you flip the magazine shut and let it slide onto the table.
“It's in your book. "Jesus wept", right? If he grieved when Lazarus passed, I think it's not entirely unthinkable for Christians to experience grief too. Even if you believe in the afterlife, death is still a separation.”
He stays silent a while, slightly disarmed. There's a world in which that's the sort of answer he would've given you, had you asked the question.
“So you did read it?” he ponders, letting his chin rest on his hand. “The Bible I gave you?”
“Sure.” A shrug, looking to the side, suddenly a little coy. “I skimmed through it.”
You notice he's hiding a grin behind his palm.
“What?”
“Honestly, I was afraid you'd use it as a door wedge or something.”
“That's the long-term plan,” you tease. “But I also like to be informed in my skepticism.”
“What's your general verdict?”
He sees you catch yourself before a wave of corrosive, possibly cruel commentary teeters out. You lick your lips, picking the other path, the less predictable one. There's no point preaching to the choir—he's already aware of your cynicism regarding the Holy Scriptures.
“I won't be attending any catechism classes, that's for certain. But—” you pick the tip of your fingernails, gathering yourself. “—But some parts, I'll admit I enjoyed more than I expected.”
“Really?” He sounds attentive, if not bewildered.
“Yeah, I pushed—no, suffered—through Proverbs and Ecclesiastes. I didn't expect what came after that.”
He nods gently, already knowing which part you're referring to.
“Song of Songs.”
“Yes, that's it. The poetry.” The manner in which your hands gesticulate along with your thoughts touches him. “It's lovely. Unexpected. I don't understand what it does there, how it's supposed to fit in everything else.”
He shifts in his seat.
“How does the first one start again?”
“I'm not sure.”
“You said it's like poetry. You don't remember even a little?”
You realize you're fidgeting. Your body betraying a sudden tension, a burst of restlessness. Rubbing your elbow, you pretend to think. You're not sure what convinces you to speak the words that marked your literary sensitivity. His eyes, perhaps. How full of expression they are, and rather enticing. You feel like how you did earlier in the confessional. As if somehow, he could reach into your thoughts.
“Your—”
Stop, swallow, start again. Not so fast.
They're just words. Only words.
“Your lips cover me with kisses;”
Around the lampshade, a moth flutters like a sleeper's runaway dream. You wish the dimness cloaking the room could hold you as well.
“…your love is better than wine.”
He's looking at you. Still looking at you. His irises probing your mouth, focused on each pause you take, every punctuation sign translated into a breath, your tongue curving as it composes the sound. His alertness wrapped around you, seizing your lungs like ocean water.
“There is a fragrance about you;
the sound of your name recalls it.
No woman could keep from loving you.”
You're looking elsewhere now, shifty eyes. Pretending to focus on memory, not on the intent behind the sentences. It's a failed experiment, the words slip out of your mouth like an accident, infused with unruly earnestness. You fear your heart drums louder than the cadence of your voice, fear it might pour out your mouth, naked and sluiced in truth.
“Take me with...”
A strident, mechanical melody pierces the air.
Relief and disappointment swallow you whole.
The landline shrieks, breaking whatever remained of the poem. Father Jud's hand overlays the handset, like he's trying to muffle its cries. Mouthing a contrite apology. He has to pick up. You're so quick on your feet, signing a goodnight to him before darting through the door. All he's left with is your imprint in the fabric where you sat and a wisp of your fragrance, timorously mingled with those still haunting the room.
It's a good thing the phone rang.
He tries to persuade himself of it the better part of the next day. Repeating it a few times, a carrousel of reason twirling in his brain, thinking if it keeps spinning, it'll eventually start sounding true.
In the quiet serenity of the sacristy, he plays and replays the scene. Your flushed face, speaking a poem that didn't belong to you, making it your own by some heedless spell, and all he could do, sitting there, was watch, weary, transfixed, as if he hadn't been the one distilling it out of you. Battling the irrepressible urge of undoing the gap separating him from you, make the unseen tangible, kiss you until your mouth becomes raw, swollen, your voice uttering to him a breathy “What comes next?”
There's the secret reminiscence of what happened once. The intensity of it, of a shared connection that almost seemed fictitious, imagined, as time ushered forward. There was the understood, hinted covenant that it was all a singular deviation, one that could never be repeated. But your voice oscillated in the nave once more, and he's struck with a vertigo he never wants to cure. He fails to perceive this unnamable pull as a slip, a misstep, refuses to call it a skip in wisdom, not when it falls with an inevitability as sincere and natural as the seasons changing. It's a sin to surrender to it. It's a greater sin to bludgeon it. A crime akin to plucking an angel off its feathers.
For two whole days, you throw yourself into your work. Hunting light like a deranged poacher, waiting for sunbeams to emerge from the mantle of plaster-white clouds, stalking the opportunity to immortalize those statufied ladies in the colored glass. It's an enraged pursuit. Almost like some invisible fingers casually rearrange those celestial objects for the sole purpose of slowing you down. On the evening of the second day, going through the raw images captured in the morning, the photographer lets out a half-satisfied huff. He beams at the prospect of heading back home soon. For the first time—could be stress, could be exhaustion—you find no solace in the accomplishment of your task.
There's no explanation as to why the mercurial weather only unveils its softness once shrouded by night. In the buzzing halo of streetlights, you stroll under the canopy of trees. Passing before the napping oak, you notice there's now a mesh wrapped around its trunk, shielding the spot abraded by the collision.
The windows of the rectory are all lit up, gushing warm, fuzzy light that infuses the grass. When you knock, you're met with no answer. You're quick to abandon the porch, diverting your footsteps, pursuing the sturdy lines of architecture that escort you to the back of the house. Father Jud sits in a garden chair, slightly slouching, interminable legs stretched before him.
“Did you put that net up, around the tree?” you ask him, skipping the greetings.
He blenches, shoulders jumping to his ears. Relaxing once he notices it's just you.
“I figured that oak's already been through enough,” he admits. “Cutting it down seemed a little cruel.”
You set yourself onto the neighboring chair, crossing your legs.
Father Jud's wool sweater, a dark shade of pine green, seems directly dyed with the secretive pigments from the garden. With the exception of liturgical vestments, he's so seldom clad in anything other than black or midnight blue, the sight is novel enough that you consider him a little longer than adequate.
“How's the photo session going?” he inquires. You offer a lukewarm response, too drained to get into the details of your sun-chasing, profoundly uninterested in boring him with any of it anyway.
A comfortable silence enmists you both. The night is crisp with a timbery smokiness, laden with the richness of geraniums and tender leaves.
“You didn't finish that verse the other day,” he reminds you—like you needed reminding— “from the Song of Songs.”
You rub your lips together, pinky scraping a particle of chipped paint in the armrest.
“I don't think I remember anymore.”
It's not even a lie. Seems like your memory has evicted most remaining traces of the poem.
He clears his throat, an imperceptible line drawn between his brows, concentration. It surprises you when he picks up where you halted.
“There is a fragrance about you;
the sound of your name recalls it.
No woman could keep from loving you.”
Your head pivots back to him. The angle of his smile slots deep in his cheek.
“Take me with you, and we'll run away;
be my king and take me to your room.”
You want to run your finger on that curved shadow.
“We will be happy together,
drink deep, and lose ourselves in love.”
He recounts a few more sentences.
“…Why should I look for you
among the flocks of the other sheperds?”
His voice wavers, eventually, dimples accentuating before he capitulates.
“Ah,” he sighs. “I don't think I remember the rest either.”
Wrapped in stillness, you gaze back at the skewed shadows of the bushes, where insects croon and whisper. Your arms clasp around you, suddenly chilled.
“You're cold,” he frowns.
“Not that much.”
“It's warmer inside.”
“I should head back to the inn, actually.”
“It's a long walk.” A beat. “You can stay here.”
You swallow.
“Are you sure?”
“I'd like you to.”
Need you to.
A few more seconds flutter by. Neither of you dares to move.
You're the first, mustering enough courage to stand up. Floating closer to him, offering an open palm. He looks up to you—those sea green puddles, you could drown in them. Seizing your hand, he leads you to the house, through the parlor, switching off the lights, all of them. Accustomed to the altered geography of the rectory in darkness, his fingers warm yours, pulling you close so you won't trip on the stairs. In his trail lingers the fragrance of cotton, well known and soothing.
His room is chocolate-box-sized, verging on claustrophobic. A miracle he can even fit in there. You absorb what modestly fills it, loitering like a visitor in a museum, peeking towards the nightstand, the clothing rack displaying various tones and hues of dark, the few shabby shelves, quickly deciphering book titles. When you turn to look at him, you notice he's watching you.
“Will you come closer?” he whispers.
A quiet intimacy washes over the both of you. It's so easy with him. Like it's something you've done countless times before, barely needing to think about it. While he helps undress you, you stifle a long yawn in the crook of your elbow, making him laugh.
“Why are there love poems in the Bible?” you mutter, standing before him in just the shirt he loaned you and your underwear. Rubbing your eyelid with a closed fist.
He cajoles you towards the bed. You cling to his tee-shirt, repressing a satisfied sigh when your body sinks into the mattress.
“It's a metaphor,” he explains in a whisper. The blanket topped with a quilt drapes your legs, climbing up to your shoulders, shielding you both under its weight. “About the relationship between God and His believers.”
Shifting, stirring, fitting yourselves around each other in a rustle of sheets, encased in the narrowness of his bed. Legs tangled, your nose brushes the nook of his neck. The murmur of his voice keeps cradling you.
You vanish into slumber before you even realize it.
Hours later, you jolt up, disoriented, eyes wide in the dark. A cluster of seconds pass by before you remember where you are.
Father Jud's watch is perched on the nightstand. He grunts when you accidentally elbow him while trying to reach it. Emerging from deep sleep, he grumbles. There's the click of the bedside lamp.
“What's wrong?”
“I'm just—I got scared I might've overslept.”
He observes the window, having developed an acute talent at guessing the time by assessing the level of contrast on the glass. He can tell dawn is still far away.
“It's probably around four. Math isn't my strong suit,” he jests in a croaky voice, “but I'm pretty sure that leaves you a few more hours.”
Your head rolls on the pillow.
“I don't want people seeing me slip out the back door like a criminal.”
He pushes himself up on his forearm, brows furrowed.
“I keep procrastinating on hiring someone to help with administration. Nobody comes up here until eight,” he leisurely assures in a half-voice.
His thumb mindlessly caresses the curve of your lower lip. You offer his fingertip a gentle peck once it reaches your Cupid's bow. In the velvet dark, his eyes glimmer like obsidian.
He kisses your collarbone in response.
Something stills in you. Your fingers clasp his shoulder.
“What are you thinking?” he wonders.
Need to pause and breathe before you answer.
“I think—”
A slight twist, under your breastbone. Tension wrenching your lungs.
“I think, unless you're very sure about what you'd like to happen in the next few minutes, that you'd better let me leave.”
He does not flinch. Simply returning your gaze. There's no point in pretending there's nothing here.
“Is this a sin?” you utter.
He doesn't reply.
“Does it feel like one?” you ask again. This one, at least, he knows the answer to.
He shakes his head.
Your breathing syncs.
He kisses your mouth. Tender, languid.
'Your love is better than wine,' said the book. You feel vertiginous.
His knee prompts yours, teasing your legs open. His hair is coarse under your fingers.
You gesture vaguely to the stack of your clothing in the corner of the room. In your jean pocket, there's your card holder, and in your card holder, there's a…
“A—?” he slyly taunts when you let your sentence linger.
He has the restraint not to ask where you've acquired the habit of carrying a wrapped condom. Why it happens to be his size. There's not much air left for questions anyway: you're all open mouths, fumbling hands, occupied with tearing remaining items of clothing off yourselves with hasty, imprecise gestures. As he peels his shirt off, he hits his head on the slanted joists above the bed, and you both burst into giggles like children, shared mirth breaking lingering vapors of uncertainty and fear, feeling gawky and elated.
The plastic wrapper tears. You watch him with bated breath while he gingerly unfolds the latex upon himself.
“You need to pinch the—”
“Yes,” he scoffs, amused, “I know that.”
His nails graze your parted thighs next.
Your heartbeats stack when he lies on top of you, his chest brushing your nipples. His fingers dawdle in that puddle of warmth between your legs. Remembering where to touch, stealing soft moans out of you.
Your hips call for him. For the last distance to be breached.
He holds himself, takes his time. Plays with you a while.
Dip.
Sink.
Splits you open. There's a sharp sting that quickly recedes and you softly whimper, swallowing down the drips of blasphemy that almost slip from your mouth. His knuckles turn white, crumpling the pillow next to your cheek.
He searches your features.
“Does it hurt?”
No, you mouth, your vocal cords frozen.
Your legs wrap around his waist, coaxing him closer. The stretch numbs your mind. Want him to move, need him to.
“Wait,” he restrains you, nose nuzzling yours, “wait for me.”
One hand stoutly holding your waist.
Spearing bliss into you, delicate, callous, ravaging. The bed shivers. Headboard rattles the wall. Your back curves on the mattress. You're not sure your own skin belongs to you anymore, where it ends, where his own begins.
It's just so good.
Pleasure swells where your bodies join. Flesh meeting in rousing strokes.
He stills his rhythm, panting, his forehead bumping yours. You almost choke from the loss of friction, pathetically reduced to an unbearable need. Muscles gripping desperately.
Sweat flavors his kiss, sea-salt tang when he bites your lower lip.
You try to wait for him to gather himself, grasping his bicep. Fighting impatience and the crimson-lit brazier he's set in your core.
“Please,” you sob.
He listens now—how could he not?
You're grabbing full sheaves of his hair, your other hand clutching the back of his shoulder.
Monsoon-wet mist swirls around you both, emanating from the variables of movement. Droplets of arousal and sweat dewing the clean sheets. You'd forget your own name if he weren't singing it in your ear. Calls you good, calls you sweet. Fingers intertwined like ivy tendrils, inseparable.
He shatters you. Builds you a storm. Carves a tragedy down to your bones.
Gifting you something tumultuous, something reckless, that nibbles your thighs, creeps up your navel, steals you away. You come undone in a sob, mouth latched onto his neck, glossing up the dark ink splayed on his skin. Pulsating hard around him. Can barely hold his gaze, how instinct pushes your eyelids shut like the wings of a crazed butterfly, white waves of merciless exaltation undulating through you.
Your bleary vision steadies on his features. His puffed lips, the rosy hues of his cheekbones. You've never seen him like this before, flushed and glowing, lax with pure abandon, all of it your doing.
“You're so beautiful,” you push a murmur onto his tongue, like sacramental bread.
His muscles twitch. You kiss him while he comes, swallowing his moans, taking them all for you; his delicate breakage made your secret, his confession for you to hold and keep. Delighting in his tremors, his somersaulting heartbeat. The deep sighs that break from him, mind alleviated and alarmingly light.
You both lie in silence afterward. Dozing in and out of sleep. Hands roaming on skin from time to time, as if checking for the other's presence. By the time his watch reaches six on the dial, you're reaching down, plucking your clothes off the floor. His lips mark your waist as you slide your jeans up your legs. Your thumb grazes the dark stubble on his cheeks.
You barely speak a word to each other as you tear yourself away from the bed. Your hands are the last things touching when you do, the last part that is let go.
Three days float through before the skies are dusted clean, a meticulous zephyr sweeping all celestial detritus and frayed clouds. Birch trees bend and curve like harps under the implacable gust of wind. Their branches rub, susurrating a discordant melody.
You find Father Jud sitting on the stone bench behind the church. The scene strikes you like an old photograph. How many times have you lingered here, speaking with him, on that very bench?
You wait for the chatter of leaves to subdue before clearing your throat. Letting him know it's you, just you. He's all dressed in black again, the white seal of the clerical collar clutching his throat, a porcelain lock. He scoots over so you can sit.
“Are you almost finished?” he inquires.
The chanting trees are close to swallowing your voice.
“There's one left, the wedding at Cana. It's giving us a bit of a hard time. We'll get it today.”
To any prying, outsider eye inquisitively lurking in, you'd just look like two normal people meditatively staring at bustling foliage. You're both decent and collected now, but it persists still, this thing interweaving you underneath it all, in some raw, membranous, organic way, something you can't properly define or analyze, only observe. You know he feels it too.
“I need to talk to you.”
Nothing great ever came from such words. Your body responds with apprehensive stiffness, closing like a disturbed anemone. Nails digging into the palm of your hands, anxious to hear the rest. His eyes meet yours.
“I've been selfish.”
The declaration puzzles you.
“Selfish?” you stutter, trying to understand. “Towards God?”
“No. Well,” he corrects, “a little, certainly. But, mostly, towards you.”
He chews on his lips, downcast eyes set on a fissure in the sturdy granite.
“You know this—” he tries to dig out the right word, but he's failed at catching it these last days; there's no reason for him to succeed now, “—you know this can't ever become anything else. Anything more.”
“I know,” you patiently remind him. “I'm pretty sure I told you I do.”
He has God, a parish, people to guide, to help, to teach and to learn from. A fervent, sublime purpose, one that you understand, despite marching on your own, entirely opposed path. You know. You've made your peace with everything it implies, as painful as it is.
He leans in, closer.
“I care about you.”
He says it as a substitute for something else, but in his mouth, in this moment, the words ring with more vulnerable significance. Like he's been holding onto it for a while, this living thing, with wings and a heart, now fluttering freely amongst larks and sparrows.
“I want you to go bump into life,” he continues. “Collide with it. Let it hurt; let it bring you joy. Make yourself dizzy on it. Write more books, meet someone, fall in love. I want all this for you, more than anything else.”
His palm flattens on the lichen-specked bench between you, fingers nudging yours.
“Do you understand what I'm saying?”
“I think I do.”
His hand covers yours. You need to ask the question.
“Do you regret it?”
He's quick to reply.
“No. Not even a little.”
He lingers on it a moment. Giving you a bashful grin, all dimple-kissed, the sort you'll carry with you the rest of your life.
“I'll love better now. After knowing you.”
By Friday, you are gone.
Father Jud knows this—he finds a note in your hand, stashed beneath a flowerpot near the front porch of the rectory. In a bumpy handwriting, it reads a modest farewell.
“Don't be a stranger; remember to write.”
Along with the note is a pen. He fiddles with it a moment, struck with recognition. It's the ballpoint pen he let you borrow over a year ago, when you first shared a talk in the church's sacristy.
The wind arises, tousling his hair.
Today, he'll visit the widow of a dearly departed parishioner. He'll get started on the project of building a wooden swing set to distract the children from trampling the flower beds. He'll lead a prayer group, listen to penitents in the confessional booth, practice his Sunday homily. At some point, between those tasks, he'll let his mind wander to you—just a few, indulgent, vaporous minutes.
He could never be a lover. Not in the way you'd deserve. But he could be a few other things. Challenger, teacher, student, confidant, pen pal, friend.
( + read on AO3 )
✣ PAIRING: Father Jud Duplenticy x Art historian fem!reader (2nd person POV)
✣ THEMES AND WARNINGS: NSFW, Minors do not interact!!!! Religious themes, slow burn and mutual pining, angst, irresponsible sex (idk how else to call what happens here), fingering, hand job, oral (f and m receiving), grinding, (this is actually softer than the warnings imply).
✣ NOTES: Yeah when I saw that sweet priest on my screen, I just had to drop everything and write this; hope you enjoy! :)
✣ SYNOPSIS: God might be the flawed invention of an anguished humanity, but the moments you share with the priest who keeps challenging you feel like a touch of grace.
“Finding out their homily is boring is possibly a clergyman's second worst fear.”
The nave was silent before those words—caught in the digestive inertia that often follows the hours after Mass—its regular tiles aligned between vast swathes of light, splashing through colored glass.
You look up from your notepad, blinking, lugged from thoughts of a whole other nature.
“Pardon?”
The first thing you notice are his eyes. A vivid, water-branded shade, like a stream running through woods or algae disturbing the low tide, bluish, not quite green, welcoming as a bed of moss.
“I know,” he continues, in this affable, lightly mischievous tone, “paying attention during Mass can prove itself a challenge.”
It's how he says it, utterly divorced of the solemnity that shells others like him, not austere, not scolding, but like he's young enough to remember the occasional Sunday mornings: being pried out of bed, rammed into uncomfortably dapper clothing, just to fall asleep again on shellacked pews before the first psalms are even read.
“You probably aren't the only daydreamer—but it's unusual, to see one honest enough not to pretend.”
From his pulpit, overlooking the assembly, it was difficult to miss. Yours were the only eyes straying away from the altar, from the crucifix, from him. Oblivious to the words, glancing to the windows like a bored student in a stuffy classroom and giving that pen you're still holding a nibble every now and then. As the prologue of a hymn vibrated through the cool air and the congregation united in a broken falsetto, he wondered, what in heaven could you be scribbling about?
An embarrassed smile climbs up your lips.
“I have a confession to make: I didn't come for the liturgy.”
You readily explain, “I'm writing a paper about the stained glass—” and his eyes flare up, outpacing you.
“Oh, you're that researcher,” he remembers, or feigns to remember. “It's a relief. Here I was, ready to accept my sentence as a terrible bore.”
He jests, of course. Holding anyone's attention never seems to be an issue for him—for better and, well, often times for the worst.
His hand extends forward.
“I'm Father Jud.”
His palm feels warm against yours. A little coarse, perhaps, and drier than it should, results of labor, effort, rinsing, and scrubbing. Something else too, under those knobbly knuckles, secrets of a life-lived, tucked beneath his skin.
Per custom, you offer your name back, along with a glib Nice to meet you.
“I wasn't purposely being disrespectful,” you clarify after the introduction. “It's just, the light is perfect now, and the hours coincide with—”
He cuts you off swiftly, waving his fingers as if to cast out any awkwardness.
“You don't have to explain. It really is rather beautiful here,” he concedes, those not-quite-blue irises traveling in the line of your gaze to the golden beams of the morning sun. “I like to sit in the nave when I can, just to watch the reflections on the lancet windows…”
He stops himself, clears his throat.
“I'll leave you to it. If you need anything, don't be afraid to ask.”
He pivots, ready to traverse the lane, carried by a prudent, discreet gait, shoulders just a little stiff. Leaving behind a whiff of clean soap, clinging to the dark curls of his hair.
You can't help but call back to him, just as he's about to cross the fourth row of benches.
“What's the first?”
Stopping in his tracks, he blinks, slightly confused.
“Mmh?”
Your pen clicks against the pad.
“You said being boring was a clergyman's second worst fear. What's the first one?”
His uncertainty melts into a quizzical grin. Boyish, slightly enigmatic, almost elf-like. Whatever is about to come out of his mouth, you think, it might not be the truth. Aren't men of God forbidden to speak lies?
“Catching altar boys drinking the communion wine, probably,” he hums, humorous.
You can't help but smirk in response.
“Happens a lot, I gather?”
His head gives a light shake, a smile drawing dimples in his left cheek. Quite the smile, too. Strongly curved parentheses framing his mouth, warm, oddly familiar. Like an echo of other smiles, of a beloved childhood friend, a nurturing uncle, or a favorite cousin. You can see why parishioners would trust him. It's the kind of grin that teases ease out of people, a desire to confide. Who knows what anyone else would do with such a gift of a smile—perhaps it's a relief this one chose the cassock.
“Good luck with your research,” he amiably wishes, before making his way to the sacristy.
You don't think of the priest again until a few days later.
Timidly knocking on the very same door Father Jud disappeared through upon the first day of meeting him. You're looking to borrow a pen after forgetting or losing yours, that overchewed lucky charm.
The sacristy is a drab room, smelling stale and a little damp, a mixture of unaired textiles, varnished wood, burnt crackers, and, oddly, the faint, acrid afterscent of cigarettes. He's alone in there, answering your knock after a short beat. Eyes a little glassy, possibly preoccupied. He evulses any sign of aloofness as soon as the hinges creak, inviting you in, asking if you'd like some coffee—he just made some. Your eyes wander around while he fusses about. The preparation room is encumbered with heaps of stuff: mismatched teacups and glasses, markers missing their caps, ruffled books in their worn-out covers, and a crumpled altar linen stained a deep burgundy red, awaiting to be salvaged.
He notices the way you examine the surroundings.
“This isn't all my doing, by the way,” he says about the mess. “Nearby clubs and activity groups in the parish meet up here for the time being. It's a little, ugh, modern.”
“I'm not judging.”
He invites you to sit and slides a ballpoint pen in your direction, along with a cup of steaming coffee. You contemplate his knuckles as he moves, just like you did last time. He has beautiful hands.
Fidgeting with the pen, you raise the drink to your lips.
“What is it you study, precisely?” he asks eventually, finally sitting down in turn.
You swallow before you reply, voice croaky from the heat of the beverage. It's awfully bitter.
“Religious iconography.”
The study of images and symbology in Christian art would be the complete phrasing, but that's just too many words. You always mechanically deliver the shortened version, used to people dropping the subject as early as it is socially authorized to do so.
His gaze shifts, head tilting, cooing out a soft “Oh”.
The topic could've ended here. It doesn't.
He understands your language.
It's simple, because it is his as well.
When he inquires about the figures in the colored glass, the ones that hold your academic interest, it's with an awareness that eludes the profane. Scenes of the Life of the Virgin Mary, Saint Catherine with her wheel, Mary Magdalene's river of flaxen hair—he knows them all. Of course he does. He interrogates you on the specimens exhibited in the aisles, details, features he could've missed. The shape of a leaf, a certain hand gesture—all those small things with meaning, locked in time, awaiting to be read, rediscovered. He offers you the same incandescent smile you've already seen him wear on that first day, stating that he'll need to go take a closer look when he can.
When you ask him which artist was commissioned for the crucifix, with an interest translating your admiration, he is struck, briefly, with the sin of pride. Glancing down to his mitts, marked from the woodworking. Even considering not telling you.
While he ponders, you notice the dark ink, its filigree-thin contrast on his skin, peeking out of his collar. A most unexpected attribute for a priest.
After you tease him, calling his silence an unfair act of gatekeeping, he surrenders the secret at last. You ask how he made the heart of the figure shine, this otherworldly glow that struck your pupil last morning.
There's a story behind that Christ sculpture. One he doesn't wish to share, for now.
So he tells you about the theology of light instead. About the ancient belief, constructed centuries ago by another holy man, conjecturing light as a divine messenger, its passage carefully thought and built into the architecture of churches, through refined windows, roses, translucent glass. Light as a means to exalt devotion in the hearts of the congregants. Light reaching through, the open palm of God.
“… Which is why it's so natural, I guess, to sense His presence in places like this,” he gestures to the doors leading back to the heart of the church. “Still, I'll admit, I find God just as perceptible in less consequential things.”
“Such as?”
“Oh. I don't know—” he chews on his cheek, suddenly bashful, “—someone's laughter. Moonshine on a pond. A cat galloping to greet you. I like to think all those have a touch of holiness to them.”
“Finding beauty in the mundane isn't the privilege of believers,” you point out, perniciously prickly.
He doesn't pick up on the drop of hostility straining your tone—if he does, he hides it well, or perhaps it simply doesn't bother him.
“You speak of beauty, while I talk of faith. But I agree with you. Rejoicing in His creation is not entitled to Christians—”
A knock on the door startles you both, pulling you out of the depths of your conversation. He has lost track of time, glancing at the clock with mild fright. A soft voice pushes through the door, calling for the Father. He quickly ushers you out, with a choice of words and manners devoid of rudeness that almost make you feel like the decision to leave was yours all along.
Priests, you soon learn, are even more sought after than doctors.
This priest, at least.
Father Jud knows he can't fix people. He cannot erase what has been done to them, what they have done to others, what they will do to themselves. It's a bittersweet certainty. Neither his hands nor his words are a cure. But they can be a salve, a balm. Soothing, bringing quiet in the noise, and an uncomplicated, unfastidious incarnation of love. His presence besides members of the community is stable, constant. It doesn't ask for anything in return. That's where he finds his purpose.
After a week or so, he grows used to the sight of your hunched posture in various spots of the church, concentration mistreating your spine.
He knows you're not a convert. Has known ever since he spoke to you in the sacristy.
But one day, you stun him a little.
It happens sometimes before noon.
The rustling of your springy step resonates behind him, right after he's accompanied a parishioner back to the entrance of the church, a recent widower, still grief-bound and numb to the roaring of life around him. Father Jud whispers to him, “Call me when you need, I'll always answer,” squeezes his shoulder, watches him leave. The door shuts with a loud clangor.
He turns to look at you, your bag handle slung across your shoulder, a little sleepy-eyed, with ink-spotted hands.
After some meaningless small talk about the weather, you stifle a yawn.
“I've always found a little ironic—” you comment, peering to the doorway, “—how one can speak to a priest and safely expect an answer but not receive the same from God. He's arguably the most important aspect of this religion. Yet the priests are the ones who listen and offer direct guidance.”
You're always so immersed in your task, he never thinks you might be paying attention to anything else, least of all his own endeavors. But you see the people who huddle in church with the hope of speaking to him, presenting him their woes for some, seeking company void of criticism and judgment for others. He contemplates you with a hint of uncertainty, intrigued by what you might be getting at.
“Could it mean some priests are more important than God?”
There it is, expressed in the muttery tone of hypothesis.
Father Jud stands silent. A brief frown, the slightest show of his stupefaction. There's much he could say, to refute your wandering supposition, but there's no time for him to articulate his thoughts.
“Sorry.” Your wince seems sincere, before you add in a quieter inflection, “It's probably blasphemy, to say things like this in a church.”
“We'll hope He was busy listening elsewhere when it happened,” he comments, a friendly attempt to brush the matter off.
You chuckle at the not-so-funny statement, apologetic and amiable again.
From then on, your path crosses his more often. On your breaks, seemingly aspiring for a chattier counterpart to those silent figures occupying the windows and your attention most of the time. Announcing yourself through an excessively formal “Hello, Father”—solely for the impish joy of making him respond with that peculiar smirk, asking you for a little less dignified stiffness. Cordial isn't the word, to define your chats. You seldom take him by surprise now, the way you did that first time, but you enjoy this, throwing small jabs, curious as to how he'll react. He's not interested in fighting you on the subjects you present to him, never losing his temper, never curt or chafed in his speech, even when he disagrees with you.
And Father Jud and you disagree on many things.
But your world touches his nonetheless; you with the factual eye, probing the memory of civilizations past, their beliefs, their stories, and him, tasked with plucking out what matters from it, perpetuating it, weaving peace or hope with fragments of the myths. You open the past to decipher it; he is a vessel of that past and its ageless promise all in one, its safekeeper.
Religion seems archaic to you. Wasteful in this modern age, when solutions can be found elsewhere, easy replacements for the voice in the sky, rendering God obsolete. Therapy in lieu of confession, science supplanting miracles.
Father Jud giggles when you tell him all this, one late evening. You're so used to speaking to him in the safe constraint of the church, you're a little taken aback to find him sitting in the local bar, deep in conversation with the patrons, local parishioners. Basking in this meek, cordial glow you cannot help but envy. There exists a roughness to his features, not quite pugnacious, but an edge, brash, slightly cutting. It's there, always, oddly balanced by the earnestness in his eyes, and that smile he greets you with, his gift, an invitation.
So he laughs upon receiving your theory. Not a mocking laugh, but the modest, resigned snicker of one who has heard this speech before. You're not the first skeptic he meets with such a contemporary stance.
“It's a pragmatic view. But don't you think it reduces faith to a simple tool? Something utilitarian, transactional?”
“You have to admit it's irrational otherwise. Worshipping something—Someone—who isn't really there.”
“Why are you so sure He isn't?”
“How do you know He is?”
He doesn't get defensive about your rebuttals. Doesn't behave like he's arguing with you.
“That's what separates us—” he declares softly, luminously holding your gaze; and though he uses the term separate, it stands more as a request to get closer, a tug at your own mind, asking for permission to mirror it with a different perspective, “—I'm not interested in material proof of God's existence. You're looking to rationalize it, to explain it, but faith demands to be felt, not thought.”
The bar's prattle quiets down around you as the minutes slide by, and you're both still huddled near the counter, entangled in the exchange, slightly tilted towards each other, like conspirators. Father Jud doesn't touch his glass—or barely; it simply sits there like an ornament—and he's talking to you about religion and philosophy, briefly invoking the writings of Pascal, Kierkegaard or Kant, who stated that God could only be touched through faith and not the rational mind. He doesn't sound pretentious; that's the true miracle.
“I had no idea they taught Kant at the seminary,” you notice, sipping on your own drink, trying to forget the chemical warmth creeping up your face, lodged in your limbs.
“I'm absolutely not an expert,” he confesses, emphasis on the not, the tip of his index finger following the rim of the glass. Your eyes fall to that tattoo again, clasping the side of his neck, the tip of an image you can't quite make out. He catches you staring, forcing you to avert your attention. You look down your glass, cheeks flushed. “… But I find it best to come prepared,” he finishes his sentence, with a slant dimple in his cheek, leading you to believe he knows what you were briefly focused on.
“Prepared against who?” you joke, covertly changing the subject. “The hordes of heretics?”
He holds a quaint expression, half-grinning, half-pursing his lips—happens each time he feels you coming at him with some hidden scalpel, ready to poke his mind. He's never met anyone as intent on dissecting him, on rattling what composes his box of thoughts.
“I already know you don't believe in God,” he hums, not in an accusatory tone—he never does that—it's the simple statement of a fact. “What holds your faith then?”
Your fingers drum an imaginary tune on the sticky counter.
“How do I answer that? Like some five-year-old child, that I believe in love and friendship?”
“We all believe in something, don't we? Even the cynical and down-to-earth. Love and friendship aren't such silly concepts to put your faith in… Five-year-olds are wise like that sometimes.”
He simply has an answer for everything.
The next day, back at church, you inquire about his favorite passage from the Bible.
He already knows how critical you are of the good book. Many historians are. The magic evaporates as soon as they walk backstage, armed with the analytic eye, pulling out the magnifying glass to see the seams loosely coming apart. Ideas redacted by ghosts who arranged and rearranged traces of the divine in order to fit dogmas of their antiquated times and corrupted spirits.
The word of God, tainted by the hands of man.
“There's plenty,” he muses. “It's hard to just pick one.”
“Indulge me.”
He has a way of looking at you when you ask him questions like this. Flushed but mellow, like you're a small frog perched on the tip of his shoe that he isn't quite sure how to safely nudge back onto the grass without harming.
He scratches the thin stubble on his cheeks before picking a Bible out of a deranged pile of liturgical texts stacked on a table in the sacristy.
He opens it, taps an underlined paragraph with his thumb.
“Here. It's a nice one.”
He relaxedly pushes the Bible between your hands, digits brushing yours during a fleeting instant.
The volume smells of apricot jam. Ochre, child-like fingerprints color some of its pages. Your eyes scan over the first sentence, shooting a puzzled glance at him next.
“Read it. Trust me.”
On this request, he leans against the wall near the window, hands joined in his back, hips relaxed in a stance that's almost graceful.
With knitted brows, obedient for once, you begin to read aloud.
“Love is patient and kind; it is not jealous or conceited or proud; love is not ill-mannered or selfish or irritable; love does not keep a record of wrongs…”
He watches your lips move, your voice shaping the verse he has read and reread himself countless times before. Focused on how you might accentuate one word and not another. Rediscovering the text through your own exploration.
“There are gifts of speaking in strange tongues, but they will cease; there is knowledge, but it will pass. For our gifts of knowledge and of inspired messages are only partial; but when what is perfect comes, then what is partial will disappear…”
You briefly look up to him. He seems caught in the flow of the sentences, reflective, as one would listening to a piece of music they grew up with.
“Meanwhile these three remain: faith, hope and love; and the greatest of these is love.”
After a lull, you inhale deeply.
“Are you showing me this because of what I said yesterday?”
The Bible closes shut, pushing towards your nose delicate aromas of the lingering sweet snack some child must've forgotten between the chapters.
When you gesture to give it back, he shakes his head lightly.
“Keep it. Hard to believe, but I've got a few more copies lying around,” he playfully points out.
Before you disappear, through the slim gap of the door, you hurriedly tell him:
“You're right. It is a nice one.”
And so you're gone, too fast to catch satisfaction tinging his cheekbones.
Father Judd awaits your conversations. A brand new habit, casually slipped into his daily schedule. He likes the way you skip up to him, tapping gently on whatever lies nearest each time to announce yourself—he startles easily when you don't, it seems. You're not sure if he realizes how good he is at picking little truths out of people. Effortless and lenient while doing so. The spell works on you more than once, shrouds you in comfort, closeness, understanding, and you fall silent mid-sentence after a while, offering him a quizzical look, admitting, I see what you've done here.
You turn the tables around when you can. Asking him about books he's read, where he lived in New York, how he found his vocation, if he picked up carpentry as a result of it. People often react a certain way, with pinched unease, when he tells them about what happened when he was seventeen, the event that led him down the path of the church. It's something he speaks about with a disarming deliverance. Wearing his heart on his sleeve.
Inevitably, your discussions will turn to God. When it happens, he wonders how you'll attempt to duel him this time. It's a one-sided fight, if anything. Perhaps you perceive this as a joust, a game of chess, most frustrating to you, since your opponent doesn't move any of his pieces, simply describing them instead. In his eyes, this isn't about winning or losing or displaying any sort of mastery in rhetoric. It's simpler, so much simpler. A friction of minds, invigorating him. Galvanizing his faith.
At night, brushing his teeth, reading, or lying in bed, he'll think of those dialogues, replaying them, wondering how he should've said this and not that, could've formulated a conviction more eloquently, afraid of being misunderstood.
You creep up in his prayer one time. Another after that, then a third. Your name blossoms into a recurrent sound on his tongue.
“I didn't know priests went to confession too.”
It's the middle of the afternoon, the ninth hour, and you're both sitting outside, under the skirts of fussing, ominous clouds. He's taking a break from his upcoming homily while you escape the claustrophobic grayness overflowing the transept. A most delightful form of procrastination.
“Of course,” he confirms. “We sin just like everyone else.”
“Sounds superfluous at best,” you grunt. “What could a priest possibly have to atone for…”
The sentence comes out much more noxious and condescending than you'd hoped. It rings through your ears like a shrill heckle, making you shake your head, irritated by your own behavior. It's unbearable; you don't even like people who talk like that, like they know better and aren't interested in rebalancing what they've taken for granted.
“I'm… That sucked. Forgive me.”
He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His expression hidden from you.
“Don't fret it. I've received meaner punches back in my day.” Spoken like he's verging on his hundredth year of life.
You take advantage of the fact that he can't see you. Gazing at the nape of his neck, where little dark locks gather and swirl, bouncier than apostrophes. You want to reach forward, want to touch them. And his shoulders, how they always seem just slightly hunched, like his body's constantly trying to apologize for taking space, for standing just a little too towering in comparison to others.
“How do you do it?” you ask gently. “Nothing ever seems to bother you.”
He proves you wrong immediately. Swiveling, his eyes shooting to meet yours, brows tense, as if you'd just proclaimed your decision to get baptized.
“Is that what you think?” he asks, incredulous. “That nothing bothers me?”
Just as abruptly, the skies tear open with a rumble.
Pudgy drops crash onto the grass, maculating the stone bench, licking your faces and limbs. He pushes a suspiciously spontaneous curse word into the dampening air, and while you stifle a laugh, you both dishevelledly run back to the church porch.
Petrichor penetrates the breeze, dispersed out of muddy grounds, fresh and nostalgic. From the refuge under the lintel, Father Jud inhales the scent deeply, brushing himself off that water still speckling his hair.
You remember a cluster of words he used your first week here. God's presence in the inconsequential. You wonder, looking at him, if that's what he's doing now, watching God through the lincel of scintillating water, shrubs changed into jewels by drizzling alchemy; all of it hiding an everlasting, mystical love.
“I've thought about what you said last time,” you dare to speak, pulling his attention to you. “When you asked what I believed in, if not God...”
Your hand whips the air softly. Gathering your words or reaching for something otherworldly and transcendental—he isn't quite sure.
“The church is perfect. The sculptures—that Jesus effigy you made. The colored figures in the glass. They're perfect, so we don't have to be.”
Your fingers run over the knotwork mimicking foliage that decorates the door.
“And they're all man-made things. I suppose I believe in that, you know? This… ability, to transcend our own nature. To make things better than what we are. You'll say that it's God, of course; I wouldn't even know how to name it exactly. Maybe it's inspiration. Or hope. It doesn't matter. I believe in it, whatever this is.”
You can see the weather flicker in the millpond of his irises, the brief moment it lingers on you. Father Jud turns away at last, and you both stand without another word, watching the rain, listening to its soft pitter-patter.
He steps closer to you. You almost miss it. This guarded move, one prudent step. The skewed shadow his body casts on the uneven ground blends with yours. Right hand gingerly stealing up to your face, attentive not to startle you. Fingers trembling.
You close your eyes.
The pad of his thumb catches the raindrops lingering on your lashes. Featherlight. Gliding down, he wipes the water off your cheekbone, an imperceptible stroke.
As daintily as they began, his knuckles recede. Hand tugged back to his chest, splayed on his sweater-clad form. Like it's trying to erase itself of what just happened, this surreptitious incident.
“I think—”, he grasps for a proper sentence. “I think—and I mean this with… the utmost regard… It would be best if we didn't speak, for some time. Anymore.”
His stammered words fall with the same staccato as the rain, skittish, disorienting.
You feel lightheaded in a bad way. Your mouth opens, but he stops you with a raised hand, a broken imitation of a Christ-like exposed palm, the gesture of blessing.
“No—don't.”
Those eyes, the same color as rain-battered grasslands, quietly begging you.
“Don't say you don't know what I'm talking about. Please.”
His arm drops back to his side.
“You're welcome to finish your work. But I'd be grateful if you just—” he sucks in a sharp breath, “—stick to that.”
He leaves you there, with your mouth agape, petrified, while he furiously scurries off in the rain. Piercing through the line of trees towards the rectory, paying no attention to the gushing downpour. Miserable and lost and a little in love with you, sparked with that same incomprehensible fondness he keeps for the scent of freshly cut pine wood, the stained glass that has captivated you, or that verse from Corinthians he has committed to memory and heart.
Night falls, and with it comes anger. A small amount of it directed at God.
His fists clench and unclench. He wants to punch something, blame someone, he isn't sure who, maybe himself.
Mostly himself.
How did this happen? Why did this happen? It crept up on him like a vicious cold. Now there's no sweating out the fever.
That following week, though you never found the chance to make the promise, you keep to what he has asked of you.
Your eyes lurk in before you pass the narthex, examining the church pews, ensuring yourself of his absence. You do this every time you enter.
Five more days before you fly home, leaving Chimney Rock for good. It can be done. You can manage.
It's the last stretch of the morning, an indolent, sluggish hour. People are more concerned with what they'll have for lunch than whether they should come to church light a votive candle.
A purposely picked moment.
You're not supposed to run into him. Not while turning the corner to reach the path, nearly sent reeling from the blow of the collision. Maybe it's God's nasty sense of humour. The strong wall of the church's northern flank eats you both in its shadow. Too bad it can't make you disappear.
You both stand, facing each other, like future roadkill trapped in car lights. Not sure which is which.
Father Jud's under eyes bloom a mean purple, an unusually wan complexion stamped beneath his freckles, signs he hasn't slept at all. His pants are crumpled, a pale powder, thinner than dust, smudging the fabric. His sleeves are tucked up to his elbows. There's another tattoo, on his forearm, one you hadn't noticed before.
Taking a harsh breath.
Say something, you try to urge yourself, so you can run off.
“I'm just leav—”
Your shoulders are smashed against the sturdy stones.
He hasn't shaved, his stubble grazes your cheeks when he kisses you. A scattered, almost painful collide of mouths and teeth, stealing what remained of air in your lungs. His clothes smell of the eternal white cotton soap, but his body exhales something arboreal, musky; of timber and metal mixed with sweat. His fingers grip your shoulders, slide up the side of your neck, nails scraping your jaw.
It's too early in the day, to feel this drunk on someone's touch.
The buckle of his belt etches its harsh outline in your waist while your fingers grip his back, exhorting him closer. His tongue pushes yours and against all reason and dignity, you moan into the kiss.
A cool current.
Your bodies separate.
Your lower lip hurts. And that spot on your elbow too, abraded by the stone you're leaned against, hiding your shaky legs.
Father Jud's eyes are still fixed on you. On your lips. His own now crudely reddened, his pupils shot with an impossible shine. Holding one hand slightly lifted, like someone realizing they've just shattered a porcelain vase.
For a split second, in between raspy breaths, it seems he's about to say something to you. Eventually, his eyes flicker to the tufted grass. Only capable of murmuring a flimsy “I'm sorry.”
It rings in your ear like an insult.
You're the one who flees this time. Pissed off and muddled with humiliation, damning the church, its windows, God, but above of all the priest.
Five days, and you'll be going away for good.
Five days later, you've finished scrubbing the tiny cottage you've rented for the duration of your stay. Keys awaiting to be returned, laundry folded, your almost done-and-packed suitcase slumped in the path between the open kitchen and the living room.
Ponderous clouds throng the sky outside your windows, drowning all last remnants of blue. You watch as rain sinks into the sidewalk, splashing the quaint gardens of the neighborhoods, ready to swell into a storm.
There's a quick thumping on your door.
Glancing through the curtains cloaking the doorlight, you regret moving at all once you recognize the willowy silhouette standing on the front steps.
You could, of course, creep back into the home, feign your absence. But he knocks again, and for some reason, pretending you've ceased to exist isn't an option anymore.
The locks turn with a melodious clatter. Door sliding open just a little, enough to frame you in the thin gap, almost like you don't want him to see where you've lived during the past weeks.
“Hello, Father.”
Your tone isn't formal now, nor incorrigible like it used to be, when saluting him. It's just a bundle of neutral words.
“Hi.”
He appears a little sounder than the last time you saw him. Ironed shirt and pants, not sawdust-strewn anymore; the clerical collar shining like some ironic lighthouse in the sea of all black. Father Jud licks his lips, his thumbnail scratching the handle of his umbrella.
“I was hoping to talk. Can I come in?” he inquires.
“I don't think that's a good idea.”
He tries to speak again, but you're quick to cut him off.
“Let me put this in better terms: I'm not interested in being the source of anyone's guilt.”
“That's—” he stammers, “—that's fine, and I respect it. It's just—I biked here, but now it's raining cats and dogs, and I don't think it'll stop until the next—” he looks around, assessing the flooding menace, “—half-hour, or something.”
“A half-hour isn't that long.”
In the murky pond of his eyes, you spot a flotsam of distress. There's something heart wrenchingly winsome about him. Always has been. Especially now, spindly silhouette with shoulders dotted in rainwater, that poor carcass of an umbrella hanging over his head.
Charity seizes you by the scruff.
This is a mistake, whispers the seraphim on your shoulder.
“Fine. One cup of tea.”
“Thank you,” he sighs in relief.
He's standing in the middle of your kitchen. Sheepishly glancing around, unsure what to do with himself. You've refused his help—it's just boiling water; doesn't take four hands and two brains to conjure up.
“Are you leaving?” he asks upon noticing the sulking suitcase, still stuck in its corner.
“Yes.”
He marks a pause.
“You've finished your paper already?”
You hum, meaning no. Clumsily rummaging through the cabinets, wondering where you've left the last box of decent tea bags.
“I don't have the proper documentation here; I'll finish at home.”
Another way of stating you haven't mustered the courage to walk back into the church at all. All this, just to have him directly seek you out at home. You wonder if his scent will linger long in the room, after he leaves. You never thought cotton could smell so heady.
“Please sit down,” you mumble. “You're hovering, it makes me queasy.”
He pulls up a chair to the kitchen table, its feet scraping the linoleum.
“I hope you haven't been avoiding the church because of what happened.”
Discerning, he certainly is. Always so frustratingly discerning. That's a trait the angels weren't stingy on, while bringing it to his crib.
You smack the spoon drawer shut. Leaning against the countertop.
“What did you come here for? You didn't really say.”
“To talk to you. I want to apologize.”
His bony index finger scratches his forehead. When he speaks again, it's in a gentler tone. Meditative.
“Remember when I told you being boring was my second worst fear?” He wasn't serious then. But he is now. “You asked me what my first one is, and—” he shakes his head, waving like none of this matters, “—I don't even recall what I said back then. But, the truth is, I think it's something like this.”
A movement, short and vague, yet so damn eloquent: his index finger, travelling from him to you.
The low hiss of the kettle begins rattling the air. His wrist falls, glare fixed on his fingernails. Speaking feels difficult, each word a little too large as it passes through his gullet.
“You never think those things can happen until they do.” His voice, almost reduced to a dwindling streak. “And when it does…”
He looks up from his bruised knuckles, encasing you in his gaze.
He doesn't realize how long he looks at you like this. The exact same way you do when sitting before the stained glass. Like he does, after dawn, alone in the nave, waiting for the precise moment the sun reveals itself through the windows of the sanctuary.
You pivot to halt the screeching of the kettle. The spell is severed.
“Maybe I should go now.”
“It's still raining.”
He stands regardless.
“Thanks for the tea.”
“You didn't have a drop,” you blankly point out, in a feeble voice.
You precede him in the vestibule nonetheless, a bad taste of deja vu souring your mouth—of his slender silhouette, black and navy blue, disappearing into the deluge.
Your fingers stiffen around the doorknob. A slice of somber weather slithers in through the passage.
His hand covers yours. The door falls back into its frame with a rattle.
“I recognized you. Ever since we first spoke. How is that possible? How do you explain it?”
Recognition, meaning familiarity. An admission of inborn closeness. As he imagines Adam, the first man, would've recognized his missing rib.
“Don't talk about God here,” you warn, sensing where this wind might turn. Your voice shrouds itself in cool admonition, concealing what lies under. “If you want to stay, leave Him at the doorstep.”
“I can't do that.” His voice drops to a whisper. A sweetness lingers on his breath, caressing your face. Syrupy, botanical. You imagine him, nervously chewing on honey drops, the ones shaped like round hives the size of pennies—wishing they'd soothe not just some benign throat pain, but whatever flows further below, nestled in his ribcage.
Gently, ever so gently, his fingers rearrange yours, unclenching them from the knob until they rest in his hand. You can't look up. Your attention remains fixed on his collar—lily-white, perfect, unsullied. Sitting right beneath that black lace of ink, close to his pulse, a patch of skin you're desperate to kiss.
You're incapable of distinguishing who is speaking to you in that moment.
Priest or man. Maybe both.
“I feel closer to Him when I'm with you,” he murmurs.
Not quite a confession. It lacks the weight of remorse.
You frown, eyes trailing up; his gaze catches yours, holds it like a chalice.
“How does that make sense?”
“I don't know. I don't know,” he exhales.
His lips ghost over yours. Breathings merging. He smells so deeply of the rain, loosely doused curls trickling against your forehead.
With great difficulty, you steer him back a little.
“You can still go,” a soft reminder. “I'll understand.”
“At my last confession—” his palm encases the nape of your neck, drawing you back to him, nose brushing the shell of your ear, “—I said that I've been distracted. That I've found myself wanting for what I can't have, what I shouldn't even think to have. Neglected the congregation, people in need... People I want to help, to whom I want to bring Christ's love.”
Your jointed shapes jaggedly step away from the front door. Stumbling down the corridor, still clutching each other. Afraid, nervous. Wanting.
“But I couldn't tell the truth. And I couldn't pray it away. I only made it worse.”
Your absence only made it worse.
“You remind me why I do all this. What it's for. You just do.”
His breathing hastens. Fingers digging into your waist. You feel tipsy, electric, with his thumb mindlessly pulling aside the strap of your top to trace your clavicle. Large hands on your body, reverendly mapping you, like you're made of glass.
The taste of salving candy lingers on his tongue, shared with yours when he kisses you at last. Communion.
You run your fingers through his hair, coaxing him closer. Ankles almost tangling with his while you guide him down the hall, nearly losing balance, gripping the notch of his jacket at the last minute. He removes the jacket, shaking the flimsy sleeves until everything falls to the floor.
The bedroom door slams against the wall when it swings open—you'll need to check later that it hasn't made a dent.
The hems of his shirt hang untucked from his pants. His belt loops onto the ground with a metallic twinkle. Your fingers halt as they're about to unbutton his shirt, and he spots your mild panic, the eyes on his throat. Struck with a certain tenderness for you, once he understands the origin of your hesitance.
He removes the clerical collar himself. Preciously setting it onto the small console table nearby. It doesn't make sense; it shouldn't mean anything to you, but you're holding your breath as you watch him. He turns himself over to you next. Finishing what he started. The tank top is hurled over your head. He does the same with your jeans, fidgeting with the button, undoing the zipper.
Scabbed-over lesions pattern Father Jud's knuckles, like they've ruthlessly been bashed onto a robust surface. You notice this with wrinkled brows, reaching to pull his hands away from the task of undressing you.
“What happened here?”
He improvises.
“Candle holder fell. It's not important.”
He's about to distract you from further questions, but you're bringing his hands to your lips, kissing the abrasions, kissing those hands that can mold wood, that offer drinks or tissues, pat shoulders or other hands, hands that pull out weeds and pick up the phone at three in the morning to pray with tormented insomniacs. Hands that give more than they take.
You lend his fingers back to him with a grin and he collects it, stunned, smitten. Bending down, he frees you of the sheathing denim, pulling the pant legs to slide your knees out of them, one after the other, until you're almost naked, slightly shivering—though not from the cold.
“I can't believe how much stuff you're wearing,” you gently fuss, unveiling the tee-shirt stowed beneath his black shirt. “Do you really get that cold?”
Your rambling makes him wonder.
“Are you nervous or something?”
It's a little unbelievable that he's the one asking this. But it feels impossible to lie to him. The tee-shirt joins the rest of the heaped clothes at the foot of the bed.
“This is probably an intrusive question—” you almost choke on the words from how fast you're pushing them out, thinking the sooner you do, the sooner the embarrassment will subdue, “—but, have you… have you done this before?”
He doesn't seem to understand. When it finally dawns on him, he bites his cheek, swallowing a smile, on the verge of a nervous snicker.
“I wasn't always a member of the clergy, you know. But honestly, it's been a long time since I've—” your fingers nudge him carefully, making him recline on your bed; he props himself up on his elbows, finishing his sentence in a raspy tone, “—since I've done this, yeah.”
You straddle him, hips hovering over his, not quite touching each other.
“Let's take it slow then.”
“Fine by me,” he coos.
He sits up and reaches around you, unclasping your bra, letting it flop down onto his lap. By instinct, you want to shield yourself behind crossed arms, but he's already ahead of you. His knuckles graze the side of your breast, one thumb contemplatively following its curve.
You let him do this almost a whole minute, gulping down whatever it stirs in you, until you can't take anymore and push onto his shoulders to give yourself a breather. His irises consider you curiously while you help him out of his underwear.
“Sorry,” you stutter, upon realizing you've literally just smacked his hand away when he tried to do the same, fingers dipping into the waistband of your panties. “It's just, you're making me really—”
His proximity feels fucking sweltering.
“At any point in this,” you explain, “if you don't want—”
“Hey—” he thrusts himself back up, “I'm here of my own free will.”
His palm cups the side of your face.
“You said we'd go slow,” he reminds you. “Let's go slow.”
He lies back down, tugging you along so you're nestled against him, catching your lips with his in a slow, deliberate kiss. One hand curving around the back of your neck, the other reaching down, rubbing your spine. Making out with you until your body unstiffens, prying you out of your own nest of briars and nerves.
You're astonished he's still here. Letting you touch him, letting him touch you. It all seems like a hazy dream. Your mind stills at last, exiting the fight or flight mode.
Parting from his mouth with a wet sound, you lower yourself a little, your hand slipping over his lean form, flat stomach, coarse black hair climbing up to his navel. Digits bumping his protruding iliac bone, brushing gingerly against his length. When you take him in your hand, your eyes travel back up to him. Exploring his features. Feeling him twitch against your palm and his hips wavering forward, subconsciously begging you. After a bundle of mist-soft kisses peppered down his stomach, your breath hitches atop his erection.
“Can I?”
“Yeah.”
He exhales so quietly, you barely catch the word.
Your tongue follows the trail of a sinuous vein, the fragile texture on this sensitive, conceiled part of him, and his head rolls back, swallowing harshly. Has such a hard time, staying focused on you when it feels like you're scattering stars under his skin, mouth warming his tip, a little further, a little more, your hand gripping him with enough firmness to set ablaze every single nerve in that region.
“You're—” a ragged breath, “—pretty good at this.”
People spurt strange declarations when pleasure heats their core, muddling their reason. All things considered, this isn't too bad.
“You know, I'm never sure whether that's a compliment,” you retort in a light voice.
He laughs. You bite your lip before pressing a soft peck onto his thigh.
Switching between your mouth and your hands, uncertain what he seems to be responding to best, trying out combinations until the melody of his breath changes, wildly losing composure.
You think he's close. It's difficult to tell. Your tongue's too busy anyway to inquire about it. He sits perfectly between your lips, slick with a blend from his own arousal and your mouth. Your face pulls back, searching for air, but your fingers keep building the tension. You want to watch him. His muscles hard and edged with pleasure, his chest rising and falling, that hand of his, the one with the inked forearm, loosely clutching the side of your face.
He whispers your name. Fingers stiffening in your hair.
He pulsates in your palm next. Gravelous moans replacing the rumble of the weather outside, spellbinding. You keep on stroking him, preserving the same pressure that brought him to the verge. His spent lightens your collarbones, trickles down your right breast.
You wait for him to climb down the clouds. Nails grazing his thighs gently. Eventually, his eyelids flutter open. There's a stretched, unhurried silence.
He tries to catch his breath before his eyes travel over to you, rolling back up, not quite back into your realm yet.
“Where's your bathroom?” he croaks after a minute or so.
You're a little taken aback.
“Door over there.”
He vanishes from your touch, and you lie on your back, limbs akimbo, eyes fixed on the ceiling.
Shit.
He's going to walk out of there now, you realize, building the upcoming sequence in your head, trying to prepare yourself. He'll say he has to go, pick his clothes up, get dressed, and leave.
You think of the morning he kissed you for the first time, the woeful glance, the desperate “I'm sorry”.
This was always going to happen.
The door squeaks. He reappears, towel in hand. The mattress sinks as he kneels next to you. It startles you when he begins to run the fabric across your skin, your chest, where traces of him still linger. He's dampened the cloth with warm water first, cleaning you now with almost ceremonious heed.
“You don't need to… do this.” You're not sure what else to say.
He lets out a soft puff. You're right, he doesn't need to. But he wants to.
When he finishes, he casts the towel aside, his face lingering above yours. One palm lying flat on your stomach.
“I don't think we're done yet,” he observes. Instilling in you nothing but the purest trust you could ever offer someone.
He drags the elastic band of your underwear down, finishing what you prevented him from doing earlier. Digits slithering down your pelvis, curving to part the petal-soft flesh.
Your fingertips extend towards him, nimbly tracing over the tattoo on his forearm before wrapping around his wrist. Barely guiding him, only giving a soft nudge, a lax pointer, so his fingers press where you like.
“Here?” he whispers.
“Here.”
With focused eyes, he begins working you up. Attentive to the way you squirm and bite your tongue. When a sudden moan breaks through your lips, he repeats what elicited the cry. Quick, small circles. Languid motions, drawing back and forth. Your arousal coats his long fingers, warm and glossy. He knows more about what he's doing than he's let on.
You let go of his wrist to clasp the comforter. His mouth lowers to your chest, tongue teasing your erect nipple. Catching its bud between his lips, giving it the most delicate nibble.
“Oh, f—please do that again,” you whimper.
So he does, indulgent, compliant. His mouth keeps brushing your upper body, reaching lower, lower, lower. Your eyes are closed, but you sense his weight shift around the bed. His bulk settled between your legs, one hand kneading the back of your thigh.
When he eats you out, his speed, the tension, he adjusts, alters, changes with the sounds you make. Quick flickers of his tongue that almost make you cry. Middle finger pumping into you, true to your agreement of keeping things slow—even if it's only to sow frustration in you—until he inserts his ring finger, pushing knuckles deep, curling them slightly to inflict a mind-stilling caress.
You're certain of it now. He knows so much more than he's let on.
A familiar heat spreads from your core. The tapping of rain on the window melts into a hallucination of angelic chatter.
“Jud. I'm gonna—”
It's the first time you verbally slip, sputtering only his first name, disrobing it of prefix and title. He doesn't have any time to focus on that, to ponder on its meaning.
The very next second, something uncoils between your hips.
You come on his tongue, on his fingers, your muscles squeezing tight around him. He doesn't stop, doesn't slow down, transmuting the initial crash into a wave of pure bliss, and you're sobbing euphoria, all your thoughts scattered, useless.
“Hey,” sluggishly calling to him, once you get your voice back, with slight disbelief, “you're pretty good at this too.”
He shakes his head at your nonsense, amused.
Taking care of you has gotten him hard again. His erection teases your thigh while he climbs back on top of you, his knees poking the back of yours. Your thumb contours his lips, hands framing his face next, absorbing the heat he exudes.
“I don't have protection,” you signal, still panting, hit by the harrowing realization.
He obviously isn't carrying any around either.
“How far's the nearest drugstore?” he leisurely asks, and you burst out laughing.
Some things are simply universally comical, and a catholic priest buying condoms might fit into the list.
He isn't serious, of course, but still. You grab the back of his neck, pulling him in for a kiss. Feels like overheat, when you're close like this, sweat gathering between your chests and stomachs.
Your lower body arches up. Trying to meet him. His hand finishes the gesture, pressed on the small of your back, slotting you against his pelvis.
Lewd sounds densen the air of the room. He looks down to where your bodies touch. Tense skin resting on soft flesh. Only touching. A prologue to an act he can't bring himself to finish, the line that he can't breach. It maddens him, how perfectly you shape the side of his length, your hips swirling to meet his in this captivating, hypnotic motion. As enthralling the sight, he can't watch you forever. His resolve would break.
“I want you so much,” you sob.
“I know,” he heaves back.
Planting a love bite on the side of your neck to make up for it. If he doesn't come soon, he knows he'll end up slipping through, joining your bodies for good, raw and utterly careless.
You want to memorize every shape of the muscles in his back, the rolling motion of his shoulder blades beneath your fingers, the steady bumps of his spine.
God, that friction.
Your hand snugly presses him, massaging him between your core and your palm. The pressure on your clit is perfect. Meticulous, almost torturously slow, trying not to push too fast, too far.
“Fuck, this is—” he gasps, struggling to finish the sentence.
He takes over your grasp, his hand stabilizing himself against you.
“Are you close again?” he wonders.
You nod passionately.
“Do you wanna get there together?”
“Yeah.”
He hums his approval. Grinding a little faster against you, bucking his hips forward.
“I'm almost there,” you whimper.
“I'm gonna…” he begins to warn.
“Just a little more. A little more.”
“'Kay,” lips burrowing into your neck, embracing patience, directing himself so he keeps rubbing your clit. “A little more.”
Swept up in ecstasy, time stills when you break apart around each other. Holding with nails, with teeth, almost afraid of being yanked from one another. Flesh puffed and muscles sore from the jittery movement, you're incapable of a single move. The tiny room feels damp, its air congested and scalding.
His body drops on top of yours, relaxed and heavy. Skin slick with sweat, burdened with reddening patches that will prove difficult to explain, should anyone actually come to notice them.
You're not sure how many seconds elapse before he budges again. You've lost all track of time.
“Oh, shit, I'm smothering you,” he mumbles.
“No, no you're not,” you giggle.
Like ivy, his arms encircle you, catching you in a tightening embrace. Tendrils of dark brown hair tickle your chin.
“When are you leaving?” he hums into your collarbone.
“Tonight. ”
“Do you know if you might…”
His voice falls hushed.
“No,” you admit, because there's no point in lying. No point in pretending whatever just happened could ever exist again outside this room, outside this precise moment. “I don't think there's a reason for me to come back someday.”
Another odd silence. Could almost hear an angel stretch its wings.
“You know I can't—” he begins.
“I know. I would never ask that.”
Your fingers pinch a solitary eyelash on his cheekbone, discarding it without making a wish.
“You don't have to stay. I understand if you're needed elsewhere,” you assure.
He should go. But having to and wanting to are very different things.
“I'm not. Unless you want me to leave.”
“No.”
“Mmh. Good.”
“If there's some time, maybe you can tell me about this.”
Your finger grazes his neck tattoo. He scratches it like a mosquito bite, and you feel the rising of his cheekbone when he smiles, poking you.
“I'll tell you. Whatever you want to know. But, let's just—”
He slides himself off you, now flushed against your flank, one leg caressing yours and arm still wrapped around your waist. His nose teases your temple.
“Let's just stay like this. A little while longer.”
You'll never know, whether God sits somewhere in the room, or if He left on His tippy toes a moment ago, bashful yet softened, bringing gossip back to the Heavens about His endearing mess of a son.
If you are to imagine this God, you want to picture Him loving, forgiving, just like the man in your arms: Father Jud and the pond-blue eyes, the tousled hair and fervent heart, his peaceful restlessness, imperfect enthusiasm, and those coarse hands, delectably tender when they're running across your skin.
