Summary: An unexpected visit to the new OB-GYN in town results in a less than professional exam.
Word count: 2.4k
Warnings: SMUT, NSFW, 18+, MDNI, fingering, oral (f!receiving), allusions to infidelity, porn with (some) plot, gynaecological exam, undefined age gap, very unprofessional doctor!Joel lol, pet names, lots of fluff at the end!!
A/n: Thank you to the very lovely anon who requested this! You can find the request here. The idea is from a wonderful Bridgeton fic by @ao3loveisstrong, which you can read here! Thank you so much again for letting me use your idea ☺️❤️ hope everyone enjoys!
There’s nothing particularly warm about the waiting room. Of course, for all the gynaecology offices you’ve visited, that’s pretty par for the course. Just stone-grey walls, the paint chipping in parts, and posters stuck up that may have once added colour but have faded now into barely-legible antenatal support numbers and information on STIs.
The only noise that fills the space is the mechanical click click click of the receptionist’s typing, the only sound she’s made apart from a grumbled “sit over there” when you first walked in. Anytime you tap on your phone she shoots you a death stare from over her desk, so you instead opt for sitting with your hands on your lap and staring at your feet.
“Ma’am? The Doctor’s ready for you now.”
You look up to find the nurse looking right at you, her friendly smile about the only thing brightening up the room.
You follow her down the corridor, just as dull and drab as the waiting room, to the final door where a sign reads ‘Dr. Miller, OB-GYN’ in scratched letters.
“Just through here,” she gestures, knocking the door and quickly getting a “come in” in reply. You straighten your top, even the waistband on your skirt and give the nurse a quick smile before slipping into the office.
Dr. Miller’s room is brighter, the walls clearly treated to a fresh lick of paint, with ‘thank you’ cards pinned to a corkboard beside the window. You can tell he’s made an effort to make it more welcoming, more comforting, and it works. It’s still clinical, all-white with tools and sanitising solutions dotted around, but his touches of personality make it almost like a home. There’s a picture frame on his desk, a little too far away for you to see the detail on it, but the black-clad, larger frame holding the smaller white-draped one tells you it’s a wedding photo. It’s sweet.
And sat at the desk, of course, is the man himself, his eyes trained on you from the moment you walked in.
Doctor Miller stands, tugging on the shirt of his white scrubs. “Ah, hello -”
“Y/N,” you interject, and a small grin tilts his lips upwards. He’s cheeky, confident. He’s hot.
“Right, Y/N,” he pauses. “Your appointment was made quite last-minute today.”
He makes his way to the exam table as he talks, patting where he wants you to lie down.
You let your eyes wander from his hand, trailing up his arm to his jaw, covered in a soft, greying beard that gives him an irresistible ruggedness. He’s tall, with big broad shoulders that overshadow your own, the structure of his face harsh yet perfectly sculpted.
“Well, it was an emergency, Doctor,” you reply, leaving your coat and bag on a nearby chair before hopping onto the table and trying not to let your gaze linger on his frame. He’s just trying to do his job, after all.
You swing your legs onto the table and lay down, legs bent and knees in the air, exposed. Dr. Miller’s already towering figure hangs over you, his eyes on yours, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up past his elbows.
“Comfy?” He asks, something playful underlaying his tone. Like he’s teasing you.
You shrug, “are these things meant to be comfy?”
The Doctor laughs and shakes his head, landing a hand on your covered knee. “Unfortunately, I don’t think so. But I’ll make things as comfortable as possible for ‘ya.”
His southern drawl is prominent, but for his rough appearance, it’s soft and gentle. Kind to the ears.
You just nod and smile, satisfying him as he takes a seat on the stool before the table and asks, “what’s the problem then, darlin’?”
Darlin’. A name that drips so easily from his lips, so smoothly, and yet it sets your tummy on fire and it’s all you can do not to squeeze your legs back together right there in front of him.
You swallow. “I think it’s best if you see for yourself, Doc.”
His gaze falls to your crotch, carefully pushing the mesh of your skirt up over your legs to reveal your underwear, the ones you can feel a puddle of arousal forming in. You know he must see your wetness when he sighs out, his eyes stuck on your crotch for a moment longer before he looks back up to you again.
“You’re married,” he observes, having noticed your wedding band.
You’d be hard-pressed not to notice his hands drifting along your thighs as you answer with a soft “mhm”.
“And how’s your sex life?”
The question is blunt, direct, genuine. Hopeful, perhaps. “It’s… okay. A little slow,” you answer, biting your lip when you see his brows knit together.
“Slow? You don’t have sex often?”
“No, no,” you answer quickly. “He’s just slow in bed. I think it’s ‘cos he’s so old.” There’s a firmer grip on your thighs now, and you try not to giggle, focussing on the ceiling so as not to give yourself away as he stares up at you.
“Right,” is all he replies, before startling you with how quickly he rips off your underwear and throws them onto the floor. Unprofessional, unsanitary, uncaring.
Desperate.
“How’s it look, Dr. Miller?” You tease. He slowly, painfully, brings a finger to your entrance; his thumb if its thickness is anything to go by.
“You’re wet,” he whispers, almost inaudible. “You always get this wet? For your husband?”
Your heart races, and you don’t realise you haven’t answered the Doctor until he pulls his hand away, tracing it back along your inner thigh. “You seem distracted, (Y/N). Maybe we should reschedule our app-”
“No!” You all but yell, an embarrassed flush quickly joining the heat in your cheeks. You can’t see his face, but you know Dr. Miller’s smirking, and you shuffle awkwardly on the table. “Need you to check up on me, Doctor,” you whine.
“Well in that case, ma’am…” he stalls, though you’re acutely aware of his presence at your core, so much so you can almost feel his breath hit your clit. “I need you to lay extra still for me. Can you do that?”
You nod, not saying anything, and he laughs. “Very well then.”
You jolt as Dr. Miller swipes his thumb over your clit, throbbing and sensitive at his touch, desperate for more. He goes lower, using two fingers to spread your folds apart, his voice noticeably deeper as he groans.
“You’re dripping, sweetheart.” The Doctor’s gentle cadence is gone, pure lust soaking his words.
“That a good sign, Doctor?” You ask, willing yourself to stay calm as you feel the tip of his fingers tease your entrance.
His other hand moves to the top of your knee, holding it in place as he pushes two fingers inside you, so big they stretch out your cunt with ease. “Very good,” he breathes, too occupied with watching his fingers push in and out to even register his own words.
The two of you are silent for a few moments then, the only sound in the room that of your laboured breathing and the wet slick of your cunt tensing around Dr. Miller’s fingers. He’s skilled, moving in all the right ways and finding a rhythm that makes your toes curl, straining against the table at his mercy.
“You need another one. ‘Ta make sure everything’s fine,” Dr. Miller mutters. His words are strained, like he’s resisting his own urge to moan out, to go completely feral on you while nurses and receptionists shuffle around on the other side of the door. You wish he would.
“O-okay, Dr. Miller. Whatever you want, sir, please,” you gasp, a wave of pleasure flooding you as he finally reacts to your words, groaning a “fuck” and quickly spreading you even further with a third finger. Your hands go to grab his hair on instinct, but your position on the exam table makes it impossible, so you grip the sides of the metal frame instead and squeeze as he curls his fingers deep inside you and fucks you with them harder, faster.
You bite your lip, desperate to halt the moans that threaten to break out far too loudly, sure to draw attention from anyone passing by. But the coil in your lower tummy tightens, led by the Doctor’s expert movements inside you, and you whimper “I’m cu- cumming, oh my god, I-” before arching your back off the table and -
He stops. He removes his fingers, the feeling of emptiness immediate, and you cry out as he goes back to caressing your thighs.
“Sh, shh,” he soothes, placing a gentle kiss to your knee. “I need to see how you taste, baby. Can I do that? Can I fuck you with my tongue?”
You don’t, can’t, even speak, just frantically nod and buck your hips into the air for some sense of relief. You hear the Doctor chuckle against your skin, his kisses trailing back down your leg until his nose is nestled in the crook of your pubic bone, not where you need him but just close enough to bring tears to your eyes.
“Please, Dr. Miller, I need it, please-”
He hears you. He hears you, and you know it gets to him when you call him that, and before you can even register his movements he’s driving his tongue inside you and nudging his nose against your cunt. You yelp, hands once again gripping the metal frame of the exam table, heels digging in to the cushioned mat where you’re lay.
The Doctor moans, the vibrations hitting your clit and making you moan back, the fast pace of his movements making it almost too overwhelming. “So good,” he grunts, flicking his tongue against your clit as he takes a moment to breathe. “So fucking good, baby. Such a gorgeous little pussy. So perfect.”
“It’s yours, Dr. Miller. Oh god, it’s yours. Please just - oh, just make me cum, Doctor, please.”
You sound pathetic, you know you do, but you can’t find it within yourself to care. You know he loves it because he groans again, still breathless but diving back into your cunt and pushing his tongue even deeper inside you, wet and warm and hitting all the right spots.
You’re getting close, and he must sense it because he releases his bruising grasp on your knee to thumb your clit, fast and needy, losing the rhythm he’s built in his own desperation.
“Come on, sweetheart, cum for me. Cum on my tongue,” he demands, pushing and pushing until you stutter over the edge and finally reach your release. You clasp a hand over your mouth, ignoring the tears that fall down your cheeks and arching up from the table, seeing stars as Dr. Miller coaxes you through your orgasm and finally begins to slowly, gently, bring you down from your high.
“Alright baby, alright.” His voice is starkly different to how it was just moments ago; calm, gentle, caring. You lay still for a little while longer, the rising and falling of your chest starting to settle, the pattern on the ceiling more visible where it once whirred with your dizziness.
And then you sit up, Joel’s face already tracking yours, a grin playing on his lips.
“Too old, huh?” He recalls, less-than-impressed although you know he’s only being playful. “I may be older than you, sweetheart, but I doubt none of them younger boys could make you squirt in my office.”
“I squirted?” You ask, shocked. You didn’t even realise, too caught up in the pleasure and the way he filled your senses.
Your husband just grins further, and you roll your eyes, though you match his smile.
“You gotta start warnin’ me when you visit the office, sweetheart. You’re wearing me out,” he laughs, finally standing from his little stool to settle between your legs where they dangle off the exam table.
“Shouldn’t be a problem since you’re so not old,” you quip back, making him roll his eyes. He takes your hands in his larger ones, brushing a messy piece of hair from your eyes and kissing the spot just above your brow, whispering “I love you” against your skin.
You adore when he’s like this; so gentle, so sweet. And you know that no matter how much he complains, he loves it when you come to visit him at work. He’s only moved into this office recently, the both of you still getting used to the new area, and you couldn’t be prouder of how far he’s come.
“I love what you’ve done with the place, baby,” you tell him, nuzzling his bearded jaw and resting a hand on his chest. “I’m so proud of you.”
Joel only hums, modest as ever, holding you closely. He knows you mean it. You’ve been with him from the start, through everything, making the highs higher and the lows easier; every day he wonders how he’s gotten this lucky, even if you do leave him endlessly flustered with your surprise office visits.
You lean up to press a gentle kiss on his lips, grinning as he moans into you, and ots only then that you notice how hard he still is beneath his scrubs.
“What time are you home?” You ask, your hands playing with his collar and the scruff of his beard.
“Around 5:30, hopefully,” he replies, though he looks in his own world as his eyes flutter closed at your touch and his head tips into your hand.
“Alright,” you press another kiss against his jaw, “well as soon as you’re back, I’ll fix this.” You gently squeeze his throbbing cock over his pants, making him moan and his hips stutter.
“Baby, you ruin me,” Joel whines as you remove your hands and jump off the table, collecting your bag and coat before turning to face him with a giggle. You cup his jaw again as he rests his hands on your waist and you kiss him, deeper this time, not wanting to let go. “You love me,” you retort, grinning even wider as he cocks a brow but laughs all the same.
“I do, sweetheart. So much.”
He stares into your eyes, thumbing your hips, his forehead pressed against yours. It’s such a sweet little moment, intimate, and you wonder why you keep on visiting him at work when it means you can’t stay there all day. He wonders the same.
“I love you too, Dr. Miller” is your final reply as you head for the door, sending your husband a little wave and giggling as he mutters, “stop calling me that. Drives me crazy.”
Of course, you know he loves that, too. “Whatever you say, Dr. Miller,” you laugh, slipping out of his office and already thinking of how you’ll treat him when he gets home.
─── ･ .✧: .☽ . :✧. ･ ───
Tag list: @vickie5446 @skysmiller @none-of-this-makes-any-sense @letmehavemyfictionalmen
Synopsis: You feel guilty about your own desires, and you find yourself going to church, maybe for absolution. Instead you find Reverend Jud Duplenticy, who only seems to increase your desires. You feel worse, and then you feel better.
(Or: reader wonders if their dominant sexual desires make them a bad person, and they hate themself for it. Jud can't bear to see someone feel that way and he'll do anything to help. Maybe it will help him too.)
content: gender neutral reader, soft dom reader, submissive!Jud Duplenticy, pain play (mild), choking, kneeling, finger sucking, masturbation, religious themes
You never thought you'd go back to being religious, after fighting it for so long but hard times call for desperate measures. You had always observed the church from the outside, it had been one of the reasons you moved to the small village, it was beautiful. The whole place inspired you, it felt fitting, distinctly gothic with a contrasting air of freedom - the perfect place to write.
The church was the centerpiece of the whole town, you had watched it from afar many times. Seeing the people spilling in and out every week, appearing miniature in the distance yet somehow making you you feel like the small one. This tight knit group, all sharing something, all happy, all normal - it brought back that feeling that you knew all too well. The feeling that there was something deeply wrong with you. That you would never be a part of that, of anything, that you were weird.
That sometimes something dark swirled inside you. More than sometimes, actually. Especially lately, it had been on your mind, replaying memories of times when you had indulged.
Dreams of your hands pressed into soft flesh, leaving bruises. Hands wrapped around a throat, carefully, always carefully. Fingers pressed past lips. Choked out sounds, and big wet eyes. Trembling, and begging, and all of it was in your hands. The thrill up your spine when it all finally came crashing back into their body. The pleasure that you were in control of.
They always asked for it, that was the best part. To know they wanted it from you like that. Still, you know it makes you a bad person. That you held them afterwards, and stroked their hair, and pressed your lips to their head. Because you felt bad. And then you'd leave them, go sit somewhere and just sob. Sometimes you'd spend what felt like hours trying to wash it off you.
In the heat of the moment you forget, and then it cools down and you remember. Normal people don't want that. They don't do that. You feel it in the eyes on you, like everyone can read your mind and knows that you're sick.
When you finally slip into the church service it's due to a rare, but intense, masochistic impulse. The one that tells you that if you lean into the guilt, press on it like a bruise until it hurts just the right amount, then maybe you'll be absolved. That if you stop trying to avoid it, and instead go through it, you'll finally come out the other side. Although, in the midst of it, the pain will be unbearable.
It's the same masochistic impulse you always associated with God.
The service had already started so you get a few head turns when you enter, making you feel embarrassed. You look up to the priest giving his sermon, anticipating a look of disapproval, and getting ready to return it with an apologetic one of your own.
Instead, when you lock eyes, you are met with a deep and welcoming warmth. You can feel it physically wash over you.
His eyes are so deeply kind, in fact, that it takes a moment before you can even see the rest of him. He has continued talking, his eyes no longer on you when you fully take him in.
Unfortunately, your first thought is: cute.
You bring a hand to pinch yourself on the thigh for that thought, chastising yourself. You didn't think of yourself as especially repressed, you didn't feel guilty about sex in general just... certain parts of it. Certain thoughts you had. Wants. Either way, mentally commenting on the attractiveness of a priest whilst you are literally in church listening to him preach is definitely wrong, everyone knows that.
He is really cute though. Absurdly cute. Frustratingly cute. Stupidly cu-
You pinch yourself four times for that.
You slip back out before it ends not wanting to talk to anyone afterwards, not wanting to answer questions.
There's a pink mark on your thigh from all the pinching, and when you get home you have an overwhelming urge to write for the first time in weeks. You've been feeling so blocked lately, praying for a wave of inspiration and well, your prayers have been answered.
Divine intervention, your brain supplies.
Hmm... no, you're not that naïve. It's not God, it's just a well practiced cure for writer's block - getting out of routine. Of course that's enough to get the creative juices stirring. More than just that, everything is stirring.
And that part is definitely not God. It's somebody a little closer to home.
His eyes had just been so welcoming, it was dangerous. You might start feeling like it's all okay. His eyes wouldn't be so kind if he knew the type of things you thought about, wrote about even.
So you have this blessing, fallen right in your lap, and you can't take it. It would be wrong. You finally have the ability to write again but there's only one thing you want to write about, and you absolutely can't.
Now that feels like God - cockblocking you from doing what you want.
-
You manage to hold off from writing for a while, even though you keep going to the services. You arrive late and leave early each time, just existing in the group but not participating. Not quite part of it yet.
You keep waiting for him to slip up, for his eyes to falter and lose their kindness but he never does. This man, Reverend Jud Duplenticy you learn, is pretty much infallible. And getting cuter by the day. Fuck.
You just keep turning up to the services, it's not about what he's saying it's how he says it. It's so different from all your memories of church, it's not lecturing or fearmongering, it feels like explaining. Like you go in there all tied up in knots, and you leave completely undone. Everything feels simple.
You can see it in the other churchgoers too, it's nothing like your old church. Not these rows of identical rigid backs, all so still and silent and terrified of having even a hair out of place. When you look at everyone, it feels like you couldn't imagine somebody seeming like they didn't belong. Anyone and everyone just slips into place.
Jud speaks to all of them, and you can tell they all feel it too. That he means it. The kindness in his eyes is real.
You think that if this is how he looks at his parishioners, the people he pledges to look after, then how must he look at God? When he's praying to the person that looks after him instead? Is it devoted? Is it pleading? Is that what praying is? Begging God to look after you?
Probably Jud wouldn't have to beg, he and God must know each other pretty well at this point. Maybe he just expresses gratitude, clasps his hands together and says thank you.
You can keep guessing about that, but you don't need to guess about how he looks now. When he gets really passionate, his eyes shine even brighter, a desperate quality to it. It seems worried, like he's scared that there's somebody out there who doesn't feel his kindness. It's like he's just feeling so much that it can't possibly be contained. Sometimes his eyes appear almost damp with it, and you wonder if he's about to start crying.
You don't follow that line of thought much further, you know where it leads.
The urge to put it all down in writing is almost unbearable now, yet you hold out. Keeping your distance.
You finally crack, visiting the church outside of the regular sermon. You don't even know if he'll be there, it's just a visit on a whim. You've gone when you know it'll be quiet, maybe hoping it'll be empty, but more than that you hope he's there.
You open the door quietly, as if you can tell there's something delicate inside that shouldn't be disturbed.
You were right.
You stand in the doorway, seeing his figure at the altar, sinking to his knees.
He's praying. Knelt down, hands pressed together, muttering something quietly you can't hear. His head tilts up and you wish you were in front of him, that you could see his face and have all your questions answered.
From here it looks like pleading.
His head hangs down after that, which isn't something you considered. That looks like guilt. Maybe he's not saying thank you, he's saying sorry.
Then he's bending forwards, still on his knees and still with his hands clasped together. His arms stretch out in front of him, his forehead resting against the stone floor. Your eyes drift over him for a second before you catch yourself, having to physically turn your head to stop yourself looking.
You're so focused on not looking that you don't even notice how your feet are taking you forward. You have enough sense to not let the door slam behind you, but the sound is still enough to startle him.
"Sorry," you automatically apologise as he turns quickly to face you, "I can leave, I didn't mean to interrupt."
"No, you didn't interrupt, it's okay," he's standing up, those eyes on you, "you can stay."
"Alright," you agree, tentatively.
"So, how can I help?" He asks with a soft smile, of course he does. This is the closest you've been to him, and he's even better with all the details. Fuck.
"I just came here to sit," is all you can say because you don't know what other excuse there is.
He gestures towards the pews with his hands, "be my guest."
You sit down, you're in the front row for the first time. Your eyes catch on the crucifixion statue before you, "it's even more beautiful up close," you comment, feeling like it must be written on your face that you're talking about more than Jesus.
"Yeah, you usually sit near the back right?" He comments, making you feel watched.
"You've noticed," what you really mean is that he remembered, you know that he's seen you. He sees everyone.
"I like to keep an eye on everyone, make sure nobody slips through the cracks," he leans back, resting a hand on the other aisle of pews. It makes him appear shorter, and you wonder if that's on purpose, if he's uncomfortable with towering over you.
"Do I seem in danger of slipping?" You find yourself asking, and it's a lot more genuine than you meant. He doesn't seem surprised at the question, which gives you the answer you need, "so that's a yes, then?" You smile at him.
"I can't answer that for you but," he pauses, "can I sit?" You nod, moving over to let him in, his thigh presses against yours, "maybe it seems like you came here to do more than just sit."
You don't say anything, unsure where to begin, what to admit.
"You're allowed to just sit if you want," he assures at your silence, "but if not, it's my job to listen, and I would like nothing more than to do that."
"I don't even know what I'm doing here, I haven't been to church since I was a kid and I always hated it back then," you admit the easy part, still nervous that this might upset him anyway. Upset is better than horrified. Better than disgust.
"I think most kids hate going to church," he muses, "I think it's because it's just another thing on the long list of places they're forced to go to, you know, school, the dentist, and then church."
"And even worse, it's at the weekend," you point out.
He laughs a little at that, "yeah, we never really stood a chance."
"I think for me it was like, being forced to go somewhere and then on top of that, you're forced to believe in something," you speak as if realising it for yourself, "and it kind of feels like if you don't, then there's something wrong with you, that you don't think the same as everyone else."
"Well I'm sorry it made you feel like that," he seems genuinely apologetic so you cut in.
"It's not your fault," you assure, "you're different anyway."
That seems to please him, "has different worked for you?"
"I'd been having trouble writing, kept getting stuck, and I guess since coming here I've been unlocked," you tell him.
"That's good, isn't it?"
"Hmm, not so much, all I want to write is stuff that shouldn't be put on paper," you continue so he can't ask about it, "and it feels kind of like a trick, you know?"
"A trick?" He asks, intrigued.
"Sometimes I wonder if religion is like gambling, you know, God gives you a big win right off the gate to get you hooked, in this case he fixes my writer's block" you look at the crucifix again, "then next thing you know you're on a losing streak you can't get out of because you'll do anything to relive that first high."
For some reason he smiles at that, so you question him, "what?"
"Just, I've never heard that one before, wasn't expecting it," his smile softens, "normally when people are uncertain it's because they're not sure if they believe in God," he muses, "but it sounds like you believe, you're just not sure if you like Him."
"More like I'm not sure that He likes me very much," you correct, smiling too.
"So, if you hated church, why do you think you decided to go again?" He asks, trying to locate your knots so he can begin to untie them.
"I felt guilty," you reply honestly, he brings that out in people, "I'd been feeling guilty for a while and trying to avoid it but it got exhausting so I decided to lean into it instead, and I thought I'd let God have a crack at it, I think he's pretty good at guilt."
You can tell he wants to push back on that, but instead he asks you the question you were worried about, "what do you feel guilty about?"
"Uh, I don't know if I can say," you look down, fiddling with your fingernail.
"I won't force you but you should know that I'm not here to make judgements, I'm used to hearing what people think are their greatest sins," he smiles at you, "you can tell me anything, if you think talking about it would help."
"Shouldn't we be in the confession booth or something though?" You wonder, genuinely, "like aren't there procedures to follow?"
"The church has a lot of traditions, some that I love and others not so much," he tilts his head, "I like confession but it doesn't have to be like that, I just want to do whatever will help you unburden the most. We could do the confession, and I could tell you to count Rosary Beads or say a couple Hail Mary's if you want," he lets you process, "or we could just talk, and I can just listen, and maybe give you advice, if you wanted it."
"Yeah, Rosary Beads don't really mean shit to me, no offense," you put a hand over your mouth, "and sorry for swearing."
"Swearing's fine," he laughs, "and we can just talk then."
"Are you sure? I wouldn't want you to betray your traditions or something," you double check.
"Look, I am not here to be in service of traditions or procedures, I'm here in service of people," he flashes those kind eyes, "in service of you."
Doesn't he know how dangerous he's being right now?
You go to shove the feeling down but then you remember you're supposed to share, that Jud is waiting for you to unload all over him. Bad wording. He's waiting for you to unburden.
"It's sort of," you take a deep breath, "it's sexual, if that's okay to talk about? I don't remember all the religious rules so I'm not sure if that in itself is a sin or whatever."
"Yes, that's allowed, a lot of people have guilt about that," he doesn't seem that taken aback, "and no, sex isn't a sin, at least not in this church, I don't believe we should feel guilty about that."
"Okay, good," you sigh, wondering if you can back out, "I don't know where to start."
"Are you feeling guilty about sexual thoughts, or things that you've actually done?" He asks, all casual and it feels weird to hear it coming out of a priest's mouth.
"Both, I guess, but more so the thoughts lately," it has to be thoughts, you can't feel guilty about sex that you're not having, not for a while at least.
"Well, like I said, sex is natural, it's healthy and-"
"Yeah, I know that, don't worry you don't have to go into all that, I don't feel guilty about sex in general," you interject, "it's more the type of sex I feel bad about."
"Oh, well of course we welcome everyone here, I hope you know that," his eyes shine even kinder somehow, "whoever you want to think about, or be with-"
"Oh, you're talking about being gay," you say, cutting him off again, "it's not that either, it's not about who, it's about, uh, something a little more specific."
"Shit, sorry for making an assumption I just really thought that's where you were going," you smile at him swearing, and for the first time you see him falter, not in being any less caring, just in a different way. He seems more human.
"No, I mean I do swing both ways so you weren't entirely wrong," you offer as consolation, "I just don't feel bad about it."
"Well, good, you shouldn't," he grins, "I'm glad I didn't fuck up."
That's two swears now. You grin back. He's so cute.
"Yeah, I thought it was sweet," you can't help saying.
"So, which part are you feeling guilty about?" He's so patient.
"The things that I like in bed," you finally get clearer.
"What do you like?" You hadn't expected him to just ask that outright, he seems to notice his own forwardness too, "not that you have to answer that."
His apologetic tone brings it out of you, "I like uh, I don't really know how to say it, but I guess when it comes down to it," it then comes out too abruptly, "I like pain."
He needs a moment to adjust, to figure out what to say before speaking again, "well, any activities between two consenting adults are nothing to feel guilty about, and as long as you're safe, it's uh, it's all okay I think, it's fine."
He's stumbling over his words but he hasn't suddenly changed and banished you from his church so you suppose that's a win.
"I guess I know that, but it's just hard to not think that it makes me a bad person for wanting it, for thinking about it all the time," you confess.
"I don't believe we should punish ourselves over our thoughts. We can't always control them and even when we do, they don't harm anyone except ourselves," you can tell he really believes this, maybe even has experience with it, "you'll drive yourself crazy berating yourself for every thought you consider bad."
"But isn't there something strange about getting off on hurting people?" You find these things are coming out of you easier, and easier, like the pressure of keeping it in is getting released.
"Oh," he's caught off guard, and you can see the way his cheeks flush a little. Shit, you've said too much.
"I'm sorry, I know you said I could tell you anything but I definitely just pushed it there and I shouldn't have," you feel panicked, "I'll go."
"No," he says quick, "no, that wasn't too much, I just hadn't expected it and needed a moment."
"Okay," you say, cautiously, feeling embarrassed about the whole thing.
"Shit," another swear.
"What?" You question.
He has that desperate look on his face, the one where he's worried about his kindness not reaching everyone.
"I fucked up didn't I?" He seems more real than ever, "I broke the trust."
Oh, he feels bad about this. He feels like he failed.
He continues, "seriously, I meant it when I said you can unburden, I'm sorry for making you doubt that, making you feel unsafe to speak."
God, he's too sweet. All he did was blush and say oh, it's not like he started grimacing or yelling.
"It's not broken," you say, realising it's true as you say it, "I want to keep talking, if that's okay."
He actually sighs in relief at that.
"Yes, absolutely," he thinks for a moment, choosing a question, "so, this urge you have, you've indulged it before?"
"Yes," you breathe out.
"And the person wanted it?" He checks
"They asked me for it," you confirm.
"Well then, there you go, seems perfectly okay in my eyes," he nudges your shoulder, like you're just two friends talking, "sounds like a good time to me."
Your eyes flick up at him at that, "yeah?"
He seems to realise what he's just said, blushing again, "I mean for you guys, it sounds like you both had fun," he corrects himself.
You hold back a laugh, "yeah, I guess so."
"Is that what you wanted to write about, the stuff that shouldn't be put on paper?" He asks, hitting the nail on the head, and all you can do is nod, "you should do it, don't hold yourself back."
"God's not going to smite me or something?" You ask, only half joking.
"No, I don't think he's in the business of smiting people anymore," he grins, "not sure he ever was."
You suddenly find yourself yawning, your own exhaustion taking you by surprise. It's like you just relaxed for the first time in weeks, and it all hits you at once.
"You been sleeping alright?" He questions, eyebrows knitted with concern.
"No," you admit plainly, "not really."
"Think you'll be okay tonight?"
"Yeah, I actually feel sleepy instead of just tired," you smile softly, "I might uh, make use of that."
"Should I walk you back?" He offers.
"That's okay, I like walking alone," which is true, but is also because you still feel like you'd interrupted his praying.
"Let me give you my number," you must look shocked because he adds, "it's something I do here, so that everyone can reach me whenever they need."
You hand him your phone letting him type it in, "I'll text you when I get home," you say automatically, "just so you know I made it."
"Please, do," he urges, genuine.
You walk back feeling lighter than you have in months, years even. When you get back you practically melt into bed, feeling calm, and seen. Normally vulnerability makes you feel rough and raw, replaying your words over and over to find fault in them. Jud makes it feel like a warm bath, or a soft sweater.
You: I'm home, goodnight!
You: And thank you.
Jud: I'm glad, and you're welcome! Text me, call me, see me, anytime you need :) goodnight.
The next day you spend writing, writing so much you can't stop.
-
The nice feeling doesn't stay, and the sleepless nights return.
You cope better, you try to go to services and you talk with Jud sometimes. Nothing any more detailed than the first time but seeing him is always enough to keep you afloat.
He always asks if you've been sleeping okay, and you lie that you have because he's already given you so much. His eyes seem to linger on you which makes you feel even more guilty. Lying is a sin too.
You start helping him out in the office, just menial filing work, nothing too difficult but it feels nice to be helpful.
Your writing is all over the place, there's plenty of it but it's filthy. So filthy that you can feel your notebook burning a hole in your jacket pocket, and yet you keep it with you at all times. You always get inspiration after spending time with Jud.
You feel disgusting, but you've changed the names and the occupation to add distance. In the book he's called James, and he's a farmer. Nothing he loves more than tending to his flock. It's exceedingly cheesy, and way too on the nose but it flows out of you so smoothly. He puts everything into keeping his flock healthy and alive, yet sometimes he needs somebody to tend to him.
You think back to Jud, the desperate dampness his eyes sometimes fill with. That was your latest inspiration - in your writing James had just lost one of the new calves, and was feeling guilty. He looks to you with wet eyes and you try to soothe him but it won't help, he wants to be punished, wants the emotional pain to take a physical manifestation. It's the only thing that calms him down, and you can help him get there.
In Jud's office this evening you're thinking about it, and desperately trying not to. It makes you feel awful, all the thoughts you're having about him whilst he's being so kind.
You're so tired lately, but you force yourself to work hard for him. Late nights, and long hours sat behind this desk.
"You don't have to do this, you know?" Jud tells you, like he always does when you stay this late.
"I want to," you say genuinely.
"It's late, I wouldn't be offended if you'd rather be asleep in a warm bed than sifting through mail in a cold office," he smiles, kindly as ever.
"Not like I'd sleep anyway, might as well make use of myself," you joke, only realising what you've said once it's too late.
"You haven't been sleeping?" He questions, eyebrows knitted together.
"No, I- I have, I just," you stumble over your words, trying to come up with an excuse.
"You should've told me," he sounds dejected and it makes you feel sick suddenly.
"I'm sorry," and then, for some reason, your lip starts to tremble.
As though this voicing of the sentiment you've been playing in your head, makes everything else spill over too. Sorry, sorry, sorry. You're a liar, and a fucking pervert too.
Jud's eyes dart down to your lips, and his face crumples, "are you-"
"I'm not crying," you cut him off right as the first tear falls.
"Oh," he breathes out, moving quickly to kneel beside the desk chair you're sat on, reaching a hand to brush your forearm with his thumb, "what's wrong?"
"I shouldn't have lied to you," you look down at his eyes, too earnest for your presence, "I'm sorry."
"Hey, I wasn't angry, you don't have to apologize to me," you feel slightly embarrassed at his tone, like he's speaking to a scared animal, "I just meant that I'm here, I'm always here, it's not a burden, it's," his eyes shine brighter, "it's my purpose."
"I know," you mumble weakly.
"Do you?" He presses, a gravely tone, "because if you did, we wouldn't be here," he's looking up at your wet face.
You can't even answer, whatever you might've said just catches in your throat.
Jud drops his head, "shit," he breathes deep, "I'm sorry, that came out too strong, it's my fault not yours" the apology is written on his face, "I could see the dark circles and I let you lie to me anyway... I'm failing you, and I can't bear it," his fingers twitch on your arm, "tell me how to help you."
"You're not failing, I just feel bad asking for your help," you assure.
"Why?" He asks.
"You're so good, and kind, and clean, Father, and I-," your voice cracks pathetically, "I'm dirty, and selfish, and horrible."
"That's not true," he tries to console you.
"Sure."
"C'mon, I mean it," he's begging but you have to look away, you don't feel worthy of locking eyes with all that light. He takes a breath and you think he might be giving up but then, "let me read your work."
That gets you to look at him, "what?"
"Your writing," he clarifies although you knew he meant that, "this stuff that you seem to think is so awful."
"Why?"
"It's all your darkest desires, right? So you let me read and I'll be the judge," he explains, "I'll tell you that it doesn't make you evil."
"I can't make you do that," you still feel shocked with the offer.
"You're not making me, I want to," he promises.
"It's too much," you try to reason with him.
"Please let me do this for you," like he needs this as much as you do.
That need is what makes you agree, "okay," reaching for the notebook in your pocket, handing it to him but not letting go, "it's not very structured, and there might be mistakes, and-"
"I'm a priest, not an English teacher," he jokes.
"In this case, that's actually worse," you joke back.
"You can trust me," he urges, and you do believe him.
"I know," you say much more certainly this time, letting him take the notebook. He says he's going to read it that night.
When you go home, you wonder if you've just made a huge mistake. You can't stop thinking about him in bed reading it, a look of disgust slowly creeping on his face. Oh God.
Despite the anxiety creeping in, you still sleep better after talking with him, feeling the ghost of his fingertips at your arm.
-
It was a mistake. Not that he says that. Not that you give him a chance to say anything really.
The first time you see him after handing over your writing, you can tell there's a shift in the atmosphere. You had been heading to his office but you catch him outside the church, a few people gathered around. It's for the best, he'd probably say something if you were alone and you don't want to hear it.
His eyes don't quite meet yours for the first time. Yeah. He can't bear to look at you. You knew this would happen. It was too much for him, you shouldn't have let him convince you. He's just too helpful, too helpful for his own good.
You walk away and that's probably the kindest thing you could do because otherwise he'd have to tell you how bad it was. How dirty you are. And he'd feel bad about it, but he wouldn't be able to lie either.
You walk away, and you don't turn up for service or to help out in the office. You pinch at your arm, and your leg to keep it inside.
-
It's a Friday, just over a week since you gave Jud your writing, and then stopped talking to him. It feels longer. Much longer.
You're in a bar, the only bar in this town really. It's actually quite charming in here not that it matters, you're not there for charm you're there to get wasted. Alone.
You'd ordered two tequila shots right away, and then a vodka cranberry to sip on pathetically in a booth in the corner. You were on your second one of those, definitely drunk but not wasted yet, when you heard a high pitched intake of breath.
You looked up, and there he was, eyes wide in shock. Jud.
"You're here," he says simply, and you notice he's not standing so straight.
"You're here," you repeat back, and then because you're slightly worried he'll fall over, "and you're drunk, sit down."
He plops down, not on the opposite side of the booth like you expected, but instead right next to you, "so are you."
You look at the drink in his hand that miraculously hasn't spilled over, "are you drinking a vodka cranberry?"
"Yes, is that weird?" He sips from it, vaguely self consciously.
"No, I am too, I just didn't know you drank I guess?" You keep watching him, "are priests allowed to drink?"
"They are if they're sad," he says into his glass, and you think it's a joke but honestly don't know. That part isn't important, the part where he just said he's sad is.
"You're sad?"
"I'm sorry," he answers, "I really fucked it up, even when I had just told you that you could trust me."
"No, it's okay," you say weakly.
"But," he holds a finger up to punctuate the word, "you didn't let me talk to you okay, so I couldn't do anything, you should've let me speak to you," he rambles out.
"I didn't need to speak to you, I could see it all over your face," you argue.
"See what?"
"You were uncomfortable because you knew you weren't able to absolve me," you can see his facial expression behind your eyes.
"I wasn't uncomfortable, I was awkward," he protests.
You scoff, "same thing."
"No," he points his finger at you, "not the same. Uncomfortable would be because of you but awkward was because of me."
"I don't get it."
"I liked the writing," he suddenly says, on a half whisper, "it was good, it was entertaining, it was creative."
"You don't have to lie to me."
"I can't lie, I just sometimes skip parts out," he looks like he wishes he was able to, "you're not evil, if anything, for a sexual sadist I thought the main character was actually very kind."
You snort at that, at the words 'sexual sadist' and 'kind' coming out of his mouth at the same time.
"What?" He looks at you, a smile just barely creeping onto his own face at getting you to laugh.
"Nothing just," you gesture your hand vaguely, "kind doesn't seem fit."
"To me it does, I mean the character is doing all of this for him right?" He's leaning in a little close, "it makes the guy feel better, he wants it, it seems kind to me."
"Or maybe it's just easy to write it that way?" You wonder aloud.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean maybe it's an excuse, I write it like that to feel better about myself," you explain, "to trick myself into thinking I could ever be helping someone."
"It's not a trick," he says quick, and then shuts his mouth tightly.
"No? Come on, you don't have to be nice," you can't stand the pity, "I'm just justifying my thoughts by pretending that somebody would want it, that it could be a good thing."
"People want it," he still insists.
"And how would you know?" Maybe it comes out a little sharp, but you're drunk too, "just tell me I'm sick."
His eyes look more pained than ever as he watches you, then suddenly he's saying, "I want it."
"What?"
"I like that sort of thing," his head dips, "so you're not awful okay, not at all."
"I don't understand," you mumble out in shock, "and I don't believe you."
"Jesus Christ what do you want me to say?"
"Explain it to me, make it make sense."
"I just, I," he struggles to find his words, "is it okay if I talk to you about something inappropriate?"
Again you want to laugh, "isn't that what we've been talking about the whole time?"
"Yeah, but I just wanted to make sure," he leans in, "and this is, okay, it's between us."
That alone heats you up, "of course."
"Sometimes I feel guilty too, I have a past, I've hurt people," you can almost see the guilt appear on his skin, "and sometimes it gets so much, too much to keep inside."
You stay quiet letting him talk.
"So, like the guy in your book, I need to feel it on the outside, physically," he keeps going, "and it makes me feel good."
"I thought you didn't believe in people punishing themselves," is all you can say.
"It isn't about punishment," he insists, "it's more about remembering."
"Like making sure you don't forget about the hurt you caused?" You clarify.
He smiles, "yeah, exactly," seeming relieved, "also I find that it calms me down, I still sometimes get angry which scares me but this helps me," he pauses for a moment, "and, like I said, it just feels good."
"And when you say this, you mean," you have to know, "like with other people."
"Well, just myself really."
It feels like a bombshell.
"Oh my God," you say, wondering if that's blasphemous, "Jesus Christ," you say anyway.
"Does that help?" He asks, too earnest for his own good.
"I just can't believe it," you're still processing.
Before he can reply his eyes catch at something on your forearm, the pink part where you pinch yourself.
"What's that?"
"Nothing just," and you struggle to lie to him as well, "something I do when I'm feeling like I'm bad."
His eyes get damp, and his face crumples. Whatever you thought he was about to say next it definitely wasn't, "do it to me instead."
"Huh?"
He clasps your hand, bringing it up to his own forearm, "c'mon, instead of punishing yourself, just do it to me," he breathes in, "let me help you."
His pleading gets to you, and you find your fingers twitching against his arm. Another look in his eyes and he's encouraging you, so you can't help yourself.
It's over the clothes so not too intense but you pinch the flesh between your fingers. He keeps his eyes locked on yours and your breath catches in your throat. You can hear his does too, and you watch him ever so slightly pull his bottom lip between his teeth.
You let go, "sorry."
"Do it again," he says and your eyes flick up to him in question, "I can see that you feel guilty, so take that impulse out on me instead, I want it."
So you do, this time watching him even closer, allowing yourself to enjoy his face a little more. You pinch, and he breathes in again. Those shining eyes looking right at you as he bites his lip again.
You release him, "that okay?"
He nods, "is there anywhere else you pinch yourself?" And now you nod, so he tells you, "pinch me there too."
You can't believe it.
You think about your thighs, "um, I don't think I can do it in public, but really you've done enough we can st-"
"Should we go somewhere private?" He interrupts, "I really... I need to help you, please let me."
Those eyes are dangerous. The kindness was bad, the tearing up was difficult, and this begging is fucking impossible.
"My apartment is close," you say against better judgement.
"Perfect," he smiles all warm, but doesn't move.
"Uh, you're gonna have to slide over if you want to go," you point out.
"Shit, yeah," he laughs, getting up and letting you lead the way. You love it when he swears, like you're bringing something out of him.
It's a short walk, and you make it quietly, neither of you seems to mind. You're both drunk in the fuzzy way, not too far gone, just enough that you forget what personal space is and keep bumping shoulders.
Right before the turning to your apartment, Jud almost wanders the wrong way so you place a hand at the small of his back, guiding him in the right direction, "it's this way," you almost add a sweetheart on the end.
He blushes ever so slightly, a bashful smile at his lips, "oops."
Your hand still rests at his back before you pull it away. You want to guide him, control where he walks, keep an eye on him. Like he does for others. You want to keep your hand on his back, or maybe further up. Yeah, a hand at the back of his neck, holding him as you show him the way.
The thought makes you stop, suddenly feeling bad.
He picks up on it quickly, "what are you thinking about?"
"Something I shouldn't be," you tell him, knowing that a lie wouldn't work.
"Tell me," he pleads.
"I liked having my hand on you, guiding you," you admit.
He seems to consider it before reaching for your wrist, bringing your hand to his waist, and linking your fingers through his belt loop.
"There you go, now you can take me where I need to go," he notices the uncertain look on your face, "you're being helpful, making sure I don't get lost."
That's a nice way to think of it. Not keeping a dog on a leash to punish him, just to keep him out of danger.
Your hand stays attached to the belt loop, guiding him to the building entrance, and then up the stairs.
You're in the apartment before you realise it, shutting the door, and guiding him up against it.
He lets you move him so easily. You don't press yourself against him, just standing and watching his wide eyes.
"Nobody else is here," he says, "you can pinch me now."
Your hand reaches forward, "it's the thigh," you warn, "can I?"
"Please," is all he says.
Your fingers brush his inner thigh, then you press your thumb and forefinger into the sensitive flesh there, pinching. Your eyes dart up to his face, wanting his reaction. Again he sucks his bottom lip between his teeth.
"Is that how hard you do it to yourself?" He asks.
"Normally it's harder," you confess.
"Do it like that," he tells you, "I can't help unless you're honest with me."
You watch him as you pinch harder, a short gasp escapes him and his head drops. Fuck. Your stomach swirls. You release him, "is it too much?"
"I liked it," he breathes heavy, and you follow his eyeline downwards. Oh. A distinct bulge presses against his tight black pants.
"You weren't lying," comes out like a whisper.
"I told you, I won't lie," he insists, "you really don't believe me?"
"I'm starting to," you're still in awe at the sight of the tent in his pants, the flush on his cheeks.
"What can I do?" He searches your eyes.
"You said that you," you can't believe you're asking this, "that you do this to yourself?"
He nods.
"Can you show me?" You ask.
You think maybe you've pushed it but then he's nodding again, "yeah," he pauses, "I'm usually laying down."
"Let's go to the bedroom then," you begin to turn but he stays frozen, looking at you expectantly, and then down at his waist.
Oh right. You smile to yourself, God he's so cute. You slip your fingers back into his belt loop, leading him to the bedroom. He follows obediently.
You don't shove him onto the bed, instead gently guiding him into a sitting position on the mattress while you take a desk chair and sit opposite him.
"Lay back," you order, and he follows, "how do you normally start?" You ask once he's comfortable against the pillows.
"I get undressed," he answers.
"Do it," you order gently, "keep your underwear on."
He obeys silently, slowly unbuttoning his shirt, and then undoing his belt, until he's topless with his trousers round his ankles.
He's flushed, breathing in and out just watching you for the next direction.
Your eyes drift to his thigh, a pink mark there from where you had pinched.
"Can you press that mark for me?" You suggest.
He follows, digging his finger into it.
"How does it feel?"
"Hurts a little," he admits.
"And?" You push.
"Makes me feel good that I helped you," he smiles, "I like it."
"You really do, don't you?" You smile back, "so you like pain but do you like being ordered around?"
"I'm a priest, of course I do," he grins, "I literally wear a collar."
You can't help but laugh, "yeah, I guess I didn't think about it like that."
"It's not so much about being yelled at or having strict rules it's just," he stops to think for a second," I like having directions you know, a clear instruction on how to help someone... I like to be told how to be good."
"I understand," you say softly.
"Tell me how to be good for you, in this moment."
You think, "are you sensitive anywhere?"
His cheeks flush before he answers, "my nipples."
"Do you play with them when you're like this?"
"Yes," he breathes out, pinker still.
"Show me," you direct.
He does, slowly dragging his hands up himself to his chest, his palms resting on each pec. He rubs his flat hands over them for a moment, lifting his hand to show you that they're hard already. Then he brings a finger to each pink bud, circling them as his chest begins to rise and fall.
"Do you like this?" He asks you.
"Yes," comes out heavy, "pinch them for me."
He nods, bringing each nipple between his fingers and squeezing.
"Harder," he follows your direction, eyebrows knitting together and you can't get enough, "twist them," a whine escapes his throat as he obeys that.
You watch over him, his deep breathing, his scrunched up face, his desperate eyes. It's so much. You catch the almost imperceptible way his hips jut upwards. Shit.
"You can let go," you tell him.
He does, looking at you, "was that good?"
"It was for me."
"And me," he agrees.
"What else do you like?"
He doesn't speak, just silently brings his hand further up his body to his, oh my God, throat. Fuck. He doesn't squeeze, just lightly grips his neck with his hand.
"You like choking?" You question, though it's obvious what he means.
"So do you," he notes, then sees the confusion on your face, "I read your notebook remember," he explains, "you wrote about choking a lot."
You can't even feel too embarrassed because the sight is too satisfying. You're glad he's doing it to himself because those ridiculously large hands fit around himself more than you could anyway.
"And why do you like it?" You wonder.
"I don't usually choke myself properly, I just like to keep the hand there, squeeze a little, as a reminder," he demonstrates, tightening his grip ever so slightly, "it reminds me that I can be violent, I can feel angry, and that's okay, that's human," he rubs his thumb at his windpipe, "but I don't want to hurt people, and I'll do my best not to, I'll find other outlets for the violence."
"Can you touch yourself?" Comes out of you without thinking, so you adjust it slightly, "just over your underwear, I want you to rub yourself."
"Yeah," he breathes out, bringing his spare hand down over himself, a flat palm against his crotch. His hips press up into it, his hand tightens on his throat, and then, he moans.
"You are doing your best," you tell him, "you're always helping people," he moans again, "you're a really good priest, you know."
He thrusts his hips up at that, and you keep watching him but you can barely contain yourself with all the small noises he's making, the way he's looking at you, hanging on for your next words, "fuck," you mutter under your breath.
"Is this good?" He manages to ask.
"Very good," you say, "too good."
He releases the hand on his neck, and pauses the one at his crotch, "too good?"
"It's making me want more," you tell him.
"More?"
"I can't," you lament.
"Tell me anyway," he pleads.
"I wish I could have you on your knees for me, you always look good like that, and I wish I could have your mouth on me," spills out, because fuck, the way his mouth hangs open as he gasps is too much. Those wet pink lips are so alluring.
"I shouldn't," he says, "I'm not allowed."
"I know," you tell him, "it's okay."
"Can I move?" He asks for permission and all you do is nod before he's crawling off the bed, moving towards you.
Then, he's on his knees between your spread legs as you're sat in the chair.
"You just said you're not allowed," you get out in shock.
"I can't do all of it, but I'm allowed to be on my knees for you," his eyes look up at you, and it's all you wanted. You see it now, what he's saying with his eyes when he's on his knees like this. When he's praying. He's not saying thank you. He's not apologising either. He's just asking how to be good.
"I always wondered how you'd look like this," you admit, "I'm sorry."
"C'mon, no saying sorry, I told you," his hand brushes at your ankle, "you can stand up if you like, look down on me properly."
"You want that?"
"I do," he says, his neck tilting up as you stand, even better from this position.
"And maybe," his eyes avert from your gaze, "I can't put my mouth on you properly, but we can pretend," his looks back to you, "if you want."
"Show me what you mean," you ask, although your breath is already catching.
He reaches for your hand, placing it at the level of your crotch, he takes two of your fingers so they're pointing out towards him and then... he puts them in his mouth.
You look down at him sucking your fingers into his mouth, eyes looking back up at you.
Everything blasphemous wants to come out of you. Oh my God. Jesus Christ. Fucking Hell. And even, oh Great Heavens.
His mouth is warm, and wet. He takes your fingers deep, swirling his tongue around them. Deep until he gags a little.
"Oh my God," you groan, "can you get off like this, can you touch yourself?"
He nods around your fingers, and you feel the vibration of him humming. One of his hands grips your calf, and the other snakes down inside his own underwear. It must be a slightly awkward angle but it seems to work for him anyway, a moan escaping the both of you.
He pulls off your fingers with a pop, "you still think this makes you bad?"
"I don't know," you get out breathlessly, looking at the sight of him on his knees for you, "but how can it be wrong when you look this good?"
His hips press into his hand at that, so you thread your fingers into his hair at the back of his head, pushing him back onto your fingers.
He goes even more fervently now, his groaning sounding like he might be getting close which drives you insane. He's actually going to get off from humping his own hand while he sucks off your fingers. Fuck.
"I want you to finish for me okay?" You listen to him hum in confirmation, "squeeze my leg when you're about to."
His hand moves up from your calf to you thigh now, getting a better grip so he can push himself more aggressively down your fingers.
He gags especially hard, the sound going right to your groin, and then squeezes tight at your thigh.
"There you go, I need you to come for me," you stroke his head, "you're so good Jud, so good," his hips speed up into his hand, then stutter frantically as he whines loudly at your words, "such a good priest."
His body seizes up, and you know he's finished, even though he stays around your fingers. You have to be the one to pull them out.
He falls back breathing heavily, still on his knees.
"You can get off too," he says quick, barely even down from his own orgasm and he's thinking about you.
"Is that okay?" You're uncertain of the rules, but also so horny you might faint.
He nods, "I'm here to serve you aren't I?"
You shrug, "alright."
"I can keep putting on a show for you, keep touching myself while you get off," he offers, a desperate tone to his voice.
"Isn't that going to be a little overstimulating for you, since you literally just finished?" You wonder.
He just smiles, "yes."
"Fuck," is all there is to say as he begins touching himself again, biting into his lip and whimpering at the sensitive sensation.
Your hand reaches into your own underwear, stroking and circling until you're right on the edge, you've been on the edge since you got through the door really.
"I'm almost there," you get out between breaths.
His eyes lock onto yours as he brings fingers up from his own underwear, covered in his own come, and he sticks them right in his mouth and sucks.
Shit.
You hunch over as you orgasm, the vision of his wide eyes in your mind.
"Fuck," you repeat, "how'd you know that would get me over the edge?"
"You keep forgetting I've read your notebook," he grins, pleased with himself, "I know how to help you now."
You can't even say anything, you just walk over and collapse on your bed. He moves to sit next to you.
The both of you just sit in comfortable silence for a while, until he has to break it.
"I should go before it gets too late," he says regretfully.
"I've already kept you up too late haven't I?"
"No, it's Saturday tomorrow it'll be alright," he assures, "I mean why do you think the early services are on Sundays?" You raise an eyebrow so he continues, "because all the priests are too hungover to do it on Saturday."
You laugh at that, and he smiles, then looks at you seriously, "thank you."
That surprises you, "shouldn't I be thanking you?"
"You helped me," he says simply.
"I think you helped me," you argue.
"Okay, we helped each other," he counters, and when you still look uncertain he adds, "all I know is that I came into that bar feeling miserable, anxious, and useless, yet now I feel happy, calm, and helpful."
"Really?"
"Really." He confirms.
"I guess we did help eachother then," you concede.
"And how can that be anything except good?" He asks, and he's right. There's nothing to say to that.
You think it's the first time you haven't cried after sex. It wasn't even really sex, and yet it was probably the most erotic experience you've had. Most importantly, you didn't feel guilty about. Not yet. Can't feel anything except warm with Jud next to you. You trust his judgement, and if he just let you do that to him, it can't be too bad. You can't be evil.
He sits with you until you fall asleep, and then walks back to the rectory. He told you to call him anytime if you ever feel guilty again, if you get any impulses, and that he wants you to take them out on him.
He wants to be of service to you, it's what he lives for, and you're more than happy to give him that.
-
an: thank you for reading, I hope to continue this as I had more scenes in my head but it was already 9k and I wanted to get something out there
father jud's eyes that were squeezed shut in ecstacy were now open. and they'd never looked so vulnerable. sad, shameful eyes, almost on the verge of tears. there was nothing but his rosary between the two of you, flopping on his taut abdomen with every thrust, catching him in the act. witnessing sin.
a small of course left your lips and you instinctively pulled him into a hug, your bodies still attached to one another. he hugged you tighter, impossibly tighter, as if he was trying to erase any distance between the two of you. his large arms wrapped around your torso, pulling you close. he seemed to unwittingly slip deeper inside of you, and you felt the pleasure caught in your chest.
he nuzzled his face into the crook of your neck, hiding away. the few seconds of silence seemed to stretch indefinitely creating a cold stillness in the air you were hesitant to interrupt. but you had to.
"is everything okay?" you whispered. if he wasn't so close, he'd barely be able to hear you. you heard him sniffle.
"i- i don't know. i thought i was better than this. i really did."
you swallowed. you didn't want it to come to this. or maybe you did. part of you knew this would never end well. he wouldnt leave the priesthood, not that you'd want him to. you'd never become a catholic. even if you did, exceeding in devotion and singing the psalms all through chimney rock, it wouldnt end well. he wasnt that kind of person. he'd never make this mistake again. you knew, if the day ever came, you'd have to make the most of it.
but why were you guilty then? you had no obligation. no oath. no vow.
"we can stop. you know that right? just tell me and we can just –"
"i don't want to," he interupted. "the worst part is, i don't want to. and even now..."
you run your nails down his back, softly. he squirms inside of you.
"...you feel so fucking good." with this shameful confession, he buries his face back into the nape of your neck. there's nothing you can do but sigh. you want to hold him, till the end of time, till he doesn't have to feel this way.
"fuck, i'm so sorry."
"you're just a person, jud. a vessel of the lord's message, sure, but still a person. c'mon, look at me," you say, and he does. his face, as beautiful as the first day you saw it, now stained with a single tear. you can feel him trying to apologize, you can see the guilt circling his eyes.
"and so am i. i'm not some sinful temptation sent by the devil," you say, cupping his face in your hands, "you wouldn't fall for that."
"i don't want to make you feel like that, ever. it's not you. it's me, i came here. i came here hoping, praying even, to land up where i am."
you wipe away the tears from his face, kissing him on his cheeks.
"praying worked out for you then," you say. he smiles. for the first time in what feels like forever, he smiles that same abashed smile, his gaze downcast and innocent. it makes your heart flutter a bit. he licks his lips before softly planting them on yours. its almost chaste, slow at first but all the more erotic. his hand presses against your back and you feel the cold metal of the cross on your stomach.
"i guess i should probably make the most of it then."
synopsis: your visit to chimney rock was only supposed to just be a stepping stone to your new future, but instead it leads you right back to the man you used to love and the faith you left behind — now intertwined.
author’s note: saw wake up dead man in theatres last week and absolutely could not get tattooed priest josh o'connor out of my head, so here we are.
focused on this to clear my head and got ridiculously carried away, i fear, but i'll be honest, i'm actually really excited about this fic <3
this is going to be a multi parter, and i think later on will have spoilers for wake up dead man, even though this one is spoiler free.
wordcount: 2,401
part one.
Jud Duplenticy x Reader
All you had wanted was to clear your head.
Your visit with your parents had been going about as well as you’d expected, filled with unhelpful suggestions for your future and barbed comments about, well, everything. It’s been years since your last visit, and it’s becoming increasingly obvious why you left it so long to come back.
The town they moved to upstate isn’t particularly small, but it feels like it – everyone knows everyone, and in turn everything, and you immediately feel suffocated by it.
Just trying to get a coffee earlier had resulted in the barista asking you to give your mother back her tupperware, as well as passing along a copy of a book she’d enjoy, and you’d smiled thinly while shoving the items in your bag before hightailing it out of there.
This is why you’d chosen to rent a place a few towns over in Chimney Rock, allowing yourself to plant even a modicum of distance between them and yourself at the end of the day, but it still doesn’t feel like enough.
You miss the city, the energy of it, the direct and unapologetic attitude of the people, the anonymity it afforded you.
Just having lunch with your parents had put you in a foul mood, your entire drive back filled with iterations of your argument and what you should have said back, but didn’t. When you finally get back, you park your car and close the door with a more aggressive slam than necessary. God, you just need a break.
The woods at the back of your rental present themselves to you as the perfect opportunity, as does the church you stumble upon while walking through them. Our Lady of Perpetual Fortitude, the sign reads.
You’re cautious about entering, having a… tumultuous history with the faith, but the architecture is nice and you’re curious and in need of somewhere to hide from the world for a while.
You hesitate at the steps, but the doors are unlocked, and when you step inside, the air is cool and smells of dust and old paper. It feels familiar, nearly comforting, and for a moment, alone, you’re able to pretend that’s all it ever has been to you.
The light inside is warm, filtered through tall stained-glass panels depicting saints whose names you used to know by heart. It spills across the pews in slanted bursts of color – violet, amber, red – pooling on the floor like pieces of a broken kaleidoscope.
You’re halfway down the center aisle, fingers running along the smooth wooden backs of the pews, your head tilted back to study the carvings on the vaulted ceiling, when you hear it.
The creak of the door, and then footsteps. Moving toward you. Your stomach drops.
Right – small towns. Probably someone who actually goes here, wondering why some outsider is poking their head around where they’re not welcome. You spin on your heel, hands lifted slightly in preemptive apology.
“Sorry, I don’t mean to intrude, I was just–”
You don’t finish.
Because you see him.
And he sees you, stopping in his tracks like he’s run into a wall.
The light from the vaulted stained glass windows drapes across him strangely – gold painted across his cheekbone, crimson brushing the collar of his shirt, blue dancing across his shoulders.
He looks cleaner, softer than you remember. His hair is shorter. His eyes are the same.
You forget how to breathe.
For a second, neither of you speaks. The silence stretches long and thin, suspended between the person you used to know and the person standing in front of you now.
“...Jud?” Your voice is thick with disbelief.
Jud Duplenticy just stands there, eyes wide, fingers twitching by his side like he doesn’t know what to do with them. Finally, his mouth parts, about to speak, when a voice rings out from behind the altar, startling you both.
“Oh, Father, there you are!”
Father? Your mind reels, and then you finally put it together – the church setting, the black clothes, the little notch of white nestled at the center of his throat. Father.
He flushes suddenly, focused on something behind you, and you spin to face the severe looking elderly woman appearing from the door at the side of the altar.
“The Monsignor wanted me to make sure– Oh!” She finally spots you, and you manage to offer a small wave through your shock, though her expression only seems to twist into further displeasure at the greeting. “I didn’t realize you had… Company. I’ll return later.”
She disappears back through the door, which creaks closed behind her comically loudly, and then the church is deafeningly silent once more.
Jud still hasn’t said a word, but there’s a brilliant shade of scarlet blooming across his cheeks as you turn back to face him.
“...You’re here.” He says eventually, dark brows furrowing over his eyes as he just stares, drinking in the sight of you.
“You’re here,” you throw back at him, initial shock wearing away to something sharper, then fading to something warmer. “And you’re a… Priest.”
Jud smiles thinly, nodding once as his gaze drops to the floor. You see his throat work as he swallows, watch him shift nervously from side to side, and then– Oh, fuck it.
You collapse the distance between you in a few strides, throwing your arms around his torso and pulling him close. “It’s good to see you.” You mutter against his neck, and his hands tentatively slide around your waist, squeezing once.
“Yeah,” he nods against you. “Yeah, you too.”
You pull away, smiling gently at the relief evident on his face. His nervousness had always been one of his most endearing qualities, the gentle, kind-hearted side of him only coming out in rare moments – though, you suppose, those sides probably appear more frequently now that he’s a priest.
“You look– You look good.” You give him a once over, shoving down the way your heart flutters as you sweep your eyes over him.
It’s true, though, he does look good. He’s taller, he has facial hair now, he looks less hardened, and the way he’s looking at you makes you feel seventeen again.
His hand rises instinctively to rub the back of his neck, his thumb brushing across the inked skin that peeks above the clerical collar – one of the tattoos you gave him. The one he used to touch when he was nervous, before his fights, after you would kiss him–
He drops his hand quickly, like the memory burns.
“Yeah, you too.” He says, again, and you fold your arms over your chest, resisting the urge to tease him about his repetition. And then, finally, he asks, “What are you doing here?”
“My, uh, my parents moved up here. Well. A couple towns over.” A beat passes and you watch his face grow more somber, both of you remembering all the late nights spent telling each other about your families and your pasts. “I’m just… Visiting.”
He nods, obviously on the verge of asking more questions but holding himself back. It’s almost painful, the politeness that dampens this interaction, and your heart aches at the imposed formality of near-strangers just being civil.
“Visiting,” he repeats, then stops and clears his throat, the sound echoing loudly in the hollowed quiet. “For how long?”
“A few days,” you reply, trying not to read into the way his expression tightens in disappointment. “Just until I can get my feet back under me.”
He blinks, looking like he wants to ask more, but he stops himself again. “Right.”
He folds his hands together, then releases them, like he’s remembering how to stand still. You notice the way he keeps a careful distance from you, like proximity itself is dangerous, and you swallow thickly.
“And you?” You glance around the church again, looking anywhere but his eyes, his neck, his hands– “How long have you been here?”
“Oh, not long,” he says. “Just a couple months. I’m still settling in.” There’s more to be said there, you can see the tension in his shoulders when he says it, the discomfort that crinkles the corners of his eyes.
“In this church?”
He nods. “I was… Reassigned.”
The way his eyes dart away fills you in on what happened, and you almost smile. Almost. “That have anything to do with you getting yourself in trouble?”
A ghost of a grin flickers across his mouth before it fades, his head ducking low. “Something like that.”
Silence presses in again. It’s different now – dense with all the things you aren’t saying.
You open your mouth, the words you’ve been dying to say to him hovering at the tip of your tongue – why didn’t you write, why did you leave, did you ever think of me when you learned how to pray, how come you found God when I lost Him–
You flinch at the sound of the door creaking open once more, followed by footsteps echoing down the aisle. Jud visibly straightens as well, spinning on his heel to face the door. You both squint against the sunlight at the silhouetted figure that appears.
“Father Jud.” The voice is warm, practiced, and as he gets closer, you can see the man approaching you is older, gray-haired, draped in fine vestments, his smile measured in a way that fills you with odd unease.
“Ah,” he says, noticing you. “We have a visitor.”
“I was just–” You begin, preparing to apologize.
“Admiring the church.” Jud says immediately, and you glance at him nervously. His posture has turned defensive, the smile lines at the corners of his eyes gone.
“Yes,” the man agrees, eyes sharp despite the smile. “Our Lady has a way of drawing people in. Monsignor Wicks.” He offers you his hand.
You take it tentatively, giving your name, but when you go to pull back he doesn’t let go.
“And what brings a visitor like yourself to Chimney Rock?” His grip is firm, and you try to tug away again gently without seeming rude, but he plants another hand on top of yours, holding you firm.
“Just visiting family.” You answer nervously, a polite smile stretched tight against your face.
“Visiting family,” he repeats, as though testing the words. “How… Good of you.”
Jud straightens in place beside you, inching closer, and you catch Wicks tracking the movement.
“Martha said Father Jud had a visitor,” Wicks continues lightly, “So nice when old connections resurface, isn’t it?”
His gaze flicks – brief, deliberate – to Jud. The implication of having caught him out sits heavily, and you’re immediately perplexed at the notion that the old woman from before went running to snitch on Jud to this man.
“We were just catching up.” Jud says evenly, with a terse smile.
“Were you?” Wicks replies, then deflects, dropping your hand and smiling broadly. “I was hoping to speak with you about preparations for mass.” He turns his attention back to you. “I’m sure our visitor wouldn’t want to impose.”
Jud’s jaw tightens, but you take the cue, stepping back, pulse thrumming. “I should go.”
“Probably for the best.” Wicks says, smiling.
Jud walks you to the door, glancing over his shoulder. Outside, the light feels too bright, too exposed.
“I’m sorry about… I’m glad I saw you.” He says quietly, honestly, and you smile.
“So am I.”
He hesitates, then blurts out, “Would you– could we talk? Later. Somewhere else.”
Your heart aches at the careful hope in his voice. “Yeah– Yes,” you say. “I’d like that.”
Relief crosses his face, swift and unguarded. “I’ll find you.” He promises, then disappears back into the dark of the church.
Only once you start to walk back towards the woods, the church doors closing behind you, do you realize your hands are shaking.
As soon as you get home, you try to distract yourself, but to no avail. Before you know it, you’re in your bedroom, trying desperately to remember which of your many bags holds what you’re looking for. You spot the green duffel on the floor and recognition hits.
Your knees hit the wooden flooring, throwing open the lid of the bag and digging through clothes and books and ornaments until your fingers close around smooth leather.
You tug the journal out, flipping it open and turning the pages back – way back – until you find it. Nestled there, face down, lies a polaroid, one that you gently reach for and flip around to face you.
It’s from many, many years ago, taken awkwardly while curled up together on your beaten up old couch. His hair looks scruffier, curling slightly around his temples and the nape of his neck, and the perpetually healing bruises he always had are littered across his face. The stupid little single gold hoop in his left lobe glints in the flash.
You’re almost completely cropped out, the angle of the camera entirely miscalculated, but it captures Jud’s profile and the press of his lips to your cheek – the tiny curl of your smile just barely visible. You both look so young. His neck tattoo is fresh and centered in the frame, uncovered by a clerical collar.
The memory that arises from the sight of it forces you to suppress a smile – Jud, hissing and muttering all sorts of curses as you’d etched it into his skin, his bruised knuckles turning white as he gripped the chair beneath him, the pillow on his lap, and eventually, your thigh.
You’d teased him mercilessly about his whining, but you’d honestly been surprised at how well he’d handled the pain, how still he’d stayed for you.
God help you, you remember it all.
You remember his fists. His victory grin. The nights he came to your place smelling like sweat and chalk and adrenaline, collapsing onto your couch and letting you clean the cuts on his knuckles. You remember him sitting in your chair, skin bared, heartbeat thrumming under your hand as you inked permanence into him.
You were teenagers then, young and dumb and both on bad paths to worse places, but you had each other. You were happy, if only superficially, if only temporarily.
Fuck.
Why is he here, in this town of all places? In this church?
“Is this some kind of sick joke?” You ask the ceiling in a whisper, wringing your hands together.
Jud's crucifix dug into his palm, the metal hot now, searing. He could smell the iron tang of his own blood where the chain bit in.
warning (s): explicit, religious trauma, sacrilege, power imbalance, clergy/confession kink, obsession, guilt, mature themes
author's note: not intended to mock real faith practices. boxer jud (if u squint)
"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned." The booth smelled like old wood and candle wax.
Jud shifted on the padded kneeler. The vinyl creaked under his weight. Through the lattice, he could see the silhouette of the penitent.
"How long has it been since your last confession?"
"Three years." The voice was rough, like gravel under a boot.
A pause. Jud's fingers tightened around his stole. He knew that voice.
Knew the way it rolled certain syllables. Had traced them once with his tongue against a sweat-damp collarbone. The memory hit like a fist to the solar plexus.
"Tell me your sins."
The penitent exhaled, long and slow, through the lattice. Heat radiated from her, humid with confession.
"Been touchin' myself, Father. Thinkin' about things I shouldn't."
Another pause, weighted.
"Thinkin' about you."
Jud's stole slipped through his fingers. The silk whispered against his cassock like a secret. The booth suddenly felt smaller, the air thick with frankincense and something darker.
He could smell her now. Vanilla and salt, that cheap drugstore lotion she'd worn the summer they'd—
"I see." His throat clicked.
The collar chafed.
"Impure thoughts are—"
"Not thoughts." Her breath came faster now, fogging the lattice between them.
"Actions. Every night since Easter Vigil. Hands under the sheets while the choir sang Gloria. Fingers inside me when you lifted the host."
Vinyl squeaked as she leaned closer.
"You still take it black? Two sugars?"
Jud's stomach dropped. She remembered.
The way she'd teased him about his terrible coffee, perched on the counter of that rented lake cabin. Her thighs bracketing his hips, her sundress rucked up around her waist.
The cassock bunched where his knees pressed into the kneeler.
"Penance requires contrition." His whisper cracked. A bead of sweat traced his spine.
She laughed, low, husky and the sound licked at the lattice like flame.
"Oh, I’m sorry alright. Sorry you weren’t there."
Fabric rustled. Denim sliding, the unmistakable pop of a button.
"Fuck, I can smell your incense through this thing. Makes my mouth water."
Jud's pulse hammered against his collar. The scent of her, now layered with arousal curled through the divider, thick as incense smoke.
"This is sacrilege." His palms burned where they gripped the kneeler.
A wet sound, her tongue dragging over lips he'd once bitten, followed by the slow drag of a zipper.
"Then absolve me, Father." Cotton rustled against skin.
He could see it without seeing: the way she'd arch into her own touch, that hitch in her breath when she found the right pressure.
Just like before. Exactly like before.
Jud's crucifix pressed cold against his sternum. His mouth filled with the phantom taste of her: strawberry gum and communion wine. The kneeler groaned as she shifted again, and he caught the wet heat of her arousal beneath the frankincense.
"You-" His voice broke. He swallowed.
"You must repent."
Her breath hitched: half-laugh, half-moan. "You first."
The sound of skin on skin, slick and rhythmic, punched through the lattice. Her exhale trembled.
"Remember the cabin shower? How you pinned my wrists against the tile?"
A choked noise, deliberate.
"Say it with me, Father. Mea culpa."
Jud's stole slithered to the floor. His knuckles whitened around the crucifix. The scent of her musky and desperate clung to his throat. Somewhere beyond the confessional, votive candles guttered in drafts he couldn't feel.
Her fingernails scraped wood. "Hear that?" she panted. "That's my rosary hitting the floor." A pearl-beaded rattle, then silence. "Guess I'll need absolution for that too."
Jud's hips jerked forward without permission, old muscle memory resurrected by the sound of her losing things. The kneeler's vinyl split under his grip. He could almost feel the shower tile under his palms again, her spine arching away from the cold, steam curling around them like unholy incense. His mouth watered with the remembered salt of her neck.
A muffled whimper punched through the lattice.
"Christ-" she choked, syllables splintering into wet gasps.
The rhythm of her hand stuttered audibly. Jud's cock throbbed against the rough wool of his cassock. Every ragged inhale from her side of the booth carried the musk of her, thick enough to coat his tongue.
The bell above the church door jangled as some pious old woman came to light votives and Jud's stomach clenched. His knees ground into the kneeler, vinyl shards biting through fabric.
She moaned again, lower now, the sound vibrating through the wood like a struck tuning fork. He could see the exact shade of pink her throat would turn, had mapped that flush with his teeth once.
Her zipper rasped upward.
A slow, torturous sound.
"Still there, Father?"
The whisper was sticky with satisfaction. Jud's crucifix dug into his palm, the metal hot now, searing. He could smell the iron tang of his own blood where the chain bit in.
Footsteps echoed on the nave's marble, the old woman's sensible shoes clicking toward the altar. The votive rack squeaked as she lifted a candle. Jud held his breath.
One stray noise. Just one. And the game would shatter.
Her whisper came through the lattice, syrup-thick with mischief.
"Bet she's praying for her grandkids."
A nail traced the divider's woodgrain.
"You ever pray for me?" The vinyl beneath him was damp now, sweat pooling where his thighs pressed.
The votive candle hissed as it caught flame. Jud's pulse roared in his ears, louder than the old woman's murmured devotions.
He could still taste copper from where he'd bitten his own tongue, could still feel the phantom drag of her teeth along his lower lip from three summers ago, the way she'd sucked it between her own just to watch him twitch.
Her fingernail kept tracing the lattice, slow and deliberate, etching nonsense patterns into the wood.
He knew that idle habit.
Knew the exact pressure of it against his ribs when she'd drag those nails down his bare chest, leaving pale trails that burned for hours. The memory lit up his nerves like a struck match.
The old woman coughed, her footsteps retreating toward the baptismal font. The sudden quiet between them felt heavier, charged.
She exhaled and Jud caught the faintest tremor in it.
Not exhaustion.
Anticipation.
"You still have that tattoo," she murmured, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial hush.
"Right above your collarbone. When I bit you too hard." The lattice trembled as she leaned into it, her breath misting the wood.
"You bled on my sheets. Called it stigmata."
Jud's hand flew to the spot instinctively, the raised ridge of skin hidden under his cassock. His pulse jumped under his fingers, alive, traitorous. The old woman's candle flickered at the far end of the nave, casting long shadows that licked at the confessional door.
"Say something," she whispered.
Not a plea. A dare.
The lattice trembled again, her knee bumping against it, the way she used to nudge his thigh under diner tables when she wanted attention.
Jud swallowed the saliva pooling under his tongue. The tattoo burned beneath his fingers. He could still see her grinning up at him afterwards, lips glossy with his blood, the fading sunset through the cabin window painting her shoulders amber.
"You're supposed to be contrite," he managed. The words tasted like chalk.
Her laugh feathered through the lattice.
Softer now, intimate.
"Oh, I am." A rustle of denim as she adjusted, the sound obscenely loud in the hush.
"Every time I cum, I think about how I shouldn't." Her fingertip tapped the divider three times.
Their old signal. Wait for me.
"Funny how that works."
Jud's exhale shook. The votive flames wavered as the old woman shuffled past the confessional, her murmured prayers blending with the creak of the kneeler. He waited until the footsteps faded before leaning in, his forehead nearly touching the wood.
"You left," he whispered. The accusation tasted bitter. "No note. Just...gone."
The lattice hummed with her chuckle. "You packed your bags first." Denim rasped as she shifted. "Found your suitcase half-empty when I got back from the lake. Even took the damn coffee filters."
Jud's thumb dug into the tattoo. He remembered the look on her face when she'd returned: sunburned shoulders, hair damp from swimming. Finding him kneeling by the bed, rosary tangled in his fingers. The way her smile had died when she saw the collar lying next to his train ticket.
"You were supposed to fight for me," she murmured now. The lattice rattled as she leaned away, her voice suddenly smaller. "Or was that another lie?"
Jud's breath caught. His reflection in the polished wood of the divider was warped, stretched wide at the mouth like a scream.
Outside, rain began ticking against the stained glass, turning the saints into blurred watercolors.
He had chosen God because silence was easier than explanations. Because seminaries didn't ask why your hands shook during vespers. Because the lake cabin's shower still steamed behind his eyelids every time he genuflected. Easier to press his forehead to cool marble than admit he'd memorized the exact cadence of her gasps.
She would've laughed if he'd said it out loud, that terrible, bright laugh that made his stomach flip.
You? A priest?
Her fingers would've danced up his chest, pausing at the tattoo.
Bet you still cum thinking about me.
And the worst part, the sacrilegious, unforgivable truth, was that she'd be right.
First month in the rectory, he'd broken three rosaries tangled in his own hands, biting his fist so the other seminarians wouldn't hear.
Rain blurred the stained glass mosaic above them. Mary Magdalene's face dissolving into streaks of cobalt and gold. Jud's knees ached from the kneeler's edge, the vinyl split where his nails had dug in.
The silence between them now was sticky with everything unsaid: the way she'd sobbed into his neck when he told her about the acceptance letter, how he'd still fucked her afterward with the envelope crumpled on the nightstand, her tears salty on his tongue.
"Tell me you don't," she whispered through the lattice.
Not pleading. Testing.
Her knee bumped the divider again, harder this time, the old signal sharpened to a demand. The scent of her lingered in the confessional's close air, vanilla and sweat and the musk of spent pleasure. Jud's collar chafed where her teeth had once marked him.
Rain bled through the stained glass above, turning the confessional's shadows liquid. He could feel her waiting, could almost hear the way her pulse would jump in that delicate hollow beneath her jaw. He'd kissed it first by accident, then with purpose, learning how to make her sigh. Now his fingers found the rosary beads tangled in his lap, the crucifix biting into his palm.
A car horn blared outside. Sharp. Profane. And Jud jerked like a marionette. The kneeler groaned beneath him. Somewhere beyond the lattice, she inhaled sharply. He imagined her lips parting just so, the way they had when he'd first pushed inside her: slow, reverent, until she'd clawed his back raw and cursed his name to the rafters.
"Go," he whispered to the lattice. His stole lay crumpled on the floor, silk twisted like a noose. "Before the next Mass."
"Five Our Fathers, five Hail Marys."
Rain whispered against the stained glass, turning Saint Peter's face into a river of melted gold.
"You're right. It's storytelling. And this church, it's not medieval. We're in New York. It's neo-Gothic 19th century. It has more in common with Disneyland than Notre Dame. And the rites and rituals and costumes, all of it."
WAKE UP DEAD MAN (2025)
dir. Rian Johnson
actually sickening how jud duplenticy is made in a lab for me. he was a boxer, he’s a priest, he has guilt that weighs him down, he’s kind and cares about people and wants to lift them up rian johnson how did you do this. how did you know
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