Rugby!Simon who shot to worldwide fame practically the moment he stepped onto the pitch.
He gets well known through the league as one of the most dangerous players in the game, the one you want on your team, a member of the national team's bomb squad. Players know that when Riley's in between them and the try line to be prepared to get melted and to feel it for days after.
He's also well known for having absolute dogshit PR skills.
He absolutely hates the cameras and microphones shoved in his face. He hates seeing the back of a phone pointed in his direction out of the corner of his eye constantly. He hates seeing his name and face jumpscare him when he's trying to scroll the news.
He's a mean looking bastard, he knows that.
Huge, scarred, tattooed. His shoulders alone take up the frame of a camera shot. He towers over the interviewers and reporters. Sometimes they'll catch him when he's just come off the pitch and his jersey is still soaked through with blood.
Now, he doesn't try to be a total dick to the journalists unlucky enough to be the ones to have to deal with him. But that doesn't mean he makes it easy for them. (The first time some newly graduated, dolled up sports journalist tried flirting with him on camera he did nothing but hit her with such a stone cold, dead eyed look that the internet blew up. It became an instant meme).
Which is why when a lucky reporter manages to snap a couple of shots of him looking at you after a game, the online rugby world goes nuclear.
Your back faces the camera, standing near him where he sits just off the touchline near the barricades looking up at you with what can only be described as the world's sappiest, loving, puppy-dog eyes beyond what anyone could imagine Simon Riley to be capable of.
He looks at you like you're the first sunrise after a lifetime of darkness. Like for the first time in his life he can finally feel his heart beating in his chest and it beats perfectly in time with yours, because it knows that they are one and the same. That it only beats because yours does. He looks at you as if the mere presence of you is a miracle, one that brought him back from the dead.
The internet goes wild. Memes are made, twitter threads are on fire, people are even making bloody tiktok edits of it.
And inevitably, when some interviewer brings it up, the bomb that Simon drops sends everyone into a frenzy all over again:
winery!au with the 141 part 1 (price and gaz). price owns a winery and vineyard where the rest of the 141 is employed and they just hired you on to work the wine tasting room <333 (i barely know how wineries work, this is based on vibes only!!)
tags: nsfw and feminine!reader
-> john price
head of operations at the vineyard, it's his family's land thats been passed down through generations
none of his crew besides gaz are particularly great at handling the wine tastings and customers. and with the influx of customers they're expecting for tourist season, price puts up an ad for a hostess. but wine tasting can be a niche field and they need someone quick (looking for someone enthusiastic and can learn on the job, no prior experience required)
literally takes every once of willpower to not pull you into his lap when you walk through his door for your interview
he thinks you're just adorable!! you're so eager to work hard and try your best
you show up to work in the cutest sundresses with your name tag pined on your chest!! ((you had no idea what to wear but it seemed winery appropriate)) and price has half a mind to tell you to take the day off so he can wine and dine you himself in your pretty dress
god theres nothing he wants more than to stick his face up your dress and into that pretty little cunt
one day, you were cleaning sweeping up the steps leading into the winery. a gust of wind comes through and blows your dress up and price just happens to be looking out the window of his office when it happens and catches a glimpse of your lacy panties
he has to close the windows so he can jack off, he wasn't about to walk around with a hard-on all day
price wants to keep it professional but he also wants to fuck you in the vineyard
there's a grassy little knoll on the edge of the property and he lovesss to think about taking you out there and laying in the sun with and fucking you on a picnic blanket
ohhhh he wants you to wear that little blue sundress -- the length is right around your mid calf, dainty straps and a tasteful amount of collar bone
wants to lift your skirt up and pull your top down and rail you until there's cum dripping out of your cunt and on to the grass
when you're in his office, price always needs to sit down so you dont see his massive boner
price would totally fuck you on his desk!! doggy style with you bent over his desk, your tits out and pressing onto the scattered forms and paperwork
-> kyle "gaz" garrick
you work the tasting room with him
in between groups, you two always have some fun banter. gaz is easy to talk to and he's v v knowledgeable
one time, gaz walks away from a group to take care of something else and a group of girls here for a wine tasting ask if you two are thing
you laugh and say no but you see one of the girls making eyes at gaz and you feel a pang of jealousy bc you would def date gaz if it wasnt for the fact you were co workers
she leaves her phone number on a napkin and you're half-tempted to throw it away before gaz can see it
but he just shrugs it off!! "girls do this all time but i never pay them any mind" well that doesn't make you feel better per say but you like that he didn't keep her number
sometimes you guys like to put on a show but the customers that loveee to feel like they're in on the drama that goes on in the winery
so you and kyle like to flirt and banter in front of the customers
its been a whole day of flirting in front of the customers bc some of them loveee to see the drama but then you two had a lil too much wine
you're sitting on top of the bar, swinging your legs and kyle moves to stand in front of you with his hands on the bar on either side of you
there's sooo much sexual tension, like you could cut it with a knife
your pussy is wet just from the way kyle looks at you and you have to cross your legs for an ounce of friction
kyle eats you out while you sit on the bar and he tries really hard to not cum in his pants
a/n: missed you guys. the knives out franchise has been my favorite since its release in 2019, so i figured it was fitting that it gave me inspiration for the first time in weeks 6 years later in 2025. not my best work, but it's work. i hope y'all enjoy :)
warnings: CONTAINS SPOILERS FOR WAKE UP DEAD MAN. SMUT 18+, religious imagery, angst with fluff and smut, slight emotional grapples with catholicism, i am not catholic so inaccuracies are very much possible, this is not proofread because i just don't want to
There was plenty of evidence to help you understand how he was feeling. It was in the heaviness of his breath; the stomp of his feet against the floor; the scowl that had frozen his warm smile over; the deep, deep trouble behind his usually calm eyes. It could have been any of that. But truly, what it was, was the dust particles floating through the air, catching in the light that slipped through the garageās single window. They only flew with each thud of his bare fist against the punching bag, the one that had sat, untouched, for years now.Ā
When you married him, he had suggested to just throw it away or donate itāno need to have a visual reminder of the violence he was so desperate to leave behind. He had found God, and He had helped him find you. The new Reverend was not interested in letting his sinful, hateful past thread between the fibers of his new life. You, however, had insisted he keep it. Let it take up space. Let it be there, ājust in case.ā And today, years, later, case there was.
He could feel your presence in the doorway. You knew it, too, that your presence, leaning against the doorway, filled his peripherals with each grunt that escaped him. You didnāt dare speak, though. Not out of fear, but out of respect for him, his emotions, and his commitment to his calling. He wouldnāt share with you. He couldnāt. The sacramental seal was the last thing he would betray. But still, youād wait for him to say anything. And as the first, slow tear trickled down from his eye, mingling with the sweat that had dripped into the collar he had yet to remove, his mouth finally opened.
āI canāt tell yāā
āI know.ā
He finally stopped punching, his head sagging forward against the bag. You stepped into the garage, stopping just in front of him, and erached toward his throat. With sharp, efficient care, you undid the small, brass clasp. The damp, rigid plastic of the Roman collar came away, peeling off his neck like a useless bandage. You let it drop. It made a tacky, pathetic sound hitting the floor.
āMonsignor Wicks, isnāt it?ā you ask slowly, your voice quiet before you meet his eyes. āItās obvious how much he doesnāt want you there.ā
Jud sighs, going to go sit on the workbench on the side of the garage. Your wedding ring catches the sunlight as you follow him.Ā
āEvery week, itās the same shit that he forces me to listen to,ā Jud breathes, letting his head fall to his hands. āI am happy to take his confession. Itās my job to help him reconcile with God. Itās my job to be the shepherd. But they expect the shepherd to be a silent, stainless vessel. And they forget that sometimes, the vessel can crack.ā
āYouāre shaking,ā you remark, catching the tremble of his hands.Ā
āIām still angry,ā he replies, clenching his fists. āAnd I wouldnāt have to be here if I had just been less hateful in the first place.āĀ
āThe deacon deserved it,ā you quickly retort, rolling your eyes. āHe sucked. He got what he had coming.ā You reach for one of his clenched fists, forcing it open to place your hand in it. He finally lifts his head, meeting your eyes. āYou donāt have to be the Reverend, or the shepherd, or the father, right now,ā you say quietly. āYou can just be Jud, if you want.ā Your fingers thread between his.Ā
The instant those words leave your mouth, his eyes flash. Not quite hope, but certainly bent in that direction by the strength of his tension. āYour husband,ā he breathes. āJust Jud.ā
You nod, a thin smile on your face.Ā
Marriage had saved Jud. You two were young when you made your vows, barely 20 years old. Somehow, though, wise enough beyond your years to have married as soulmates. Plenty of time had passed, and still, those vows rang as true as the day they had been spoken before the lord.Ā
āYour husband,ā he breathes once more, before letting his lips crash to yours. āItās everywhere,ā he pants between desperate kisses, leaning over you. āHis words. Theyāre everywhere. In my head. In my mouth. I can taste his hatred. I need to make it stop. It needs to stop.ā
He moves with the practiced, coiled speed of a boxer, seizing you. The bench you sat on was forgotten. He maneuvers you against the cold concrete wall, his body caging yours, blocking the humiliating light of the overhead utility strip.
His hands, thick and strong, go to his own clothing first. Once he rips his shirt off, he throws it. The motion is an aggressive rejection of the spiritual uniform, a physical act of defiance against the man who misused the collar's authority.
He doesnāt remove your clothes so much as he simply displaced them, urgently creating skin-to-skin contact. His movements are rough, driven by the frantic need to replace the vile, lingering residue of Wicks's presence with something pure, honest, and realāthe reality of his wife, the reality of his marriage.
His lips fall to yours once more, his hands sliding anywhere they can, desperate to anchor himself to his greatest salvation: you. With a ragged gasp, he pulls back, but immediately brings his kisses down your neck, across your collarbone, and to your waiting breasts.Ā
āIs this what you need from me?ā you softly pant, your eyes wide with both want and concern.Ā
āI need to feel you,ā he replies. āIām so mad.ā His hands travel between your parted thighs, rubbing at the growing wetness of your pussy, eager to get you ready for him. āI need you,ā he hisses again, tongue swirling around your peaking nipple.
āBed,ā you reply. The snap in your tone makes him look up. āItās cold in here!ā you sheepishly reply. He canāt help the whisper of a smile that takes over his lips at that moment. He lifts you against his naked body, leaving the pile of both of your clothes behind as he treks to the bedroom.
He wastes no time when he places you down, spreading yout legs wide open to slide one finger into your waiting heat. A short gasp escapes you, your hands finding his toned chest, sliding down to his rippling abs.Ā
āLean down,ā you huff as he slides the second finger in. āLet me kiss you.ā
He smiles, endeared, as he brings his face closer to yours, his fingers thrusting at an angry pace. Your lips flutter over his neck, tracing the lines of his tattoo and down his throat.Ā
āI donāt want to hurt you,ā he pants, thumb rolling your clit, now. āI need to be inside you, but Iām so upset. I donāt think I can be nice.ā
āYou wouldnāt hurt me,ā youāre quick to reply. āAnd you donāt have to confess anything to me. I want you to feel better. I want to help you feel better.ā
āI donāt want you to be mad at me,ā he practically whines. āI canāt hold it back.ā
āI couldnāt be mad if I tried.ā
One final look of assurance is all it takes before Jud is sliding his hands to your hips, his thick, wide cock thrusting into you with the anger and speed of a man truly scorned.Ā
āHe shouldnāt be allowed,ā Jud grunts out, though you can barely hear him over your own moans and the slap of his skin against yours. āHe shouldnāt be allowed to run a church. Heās so selfish. Heās terrible. Heāsāheās scum.ā
Itās hard to focus on Judās emotional rant when youāre already close to seeing stars, but you try your best. āMhm,ā you manage to whine out. āHeās a poor excuse for a priest. Iām so sorryāoh my goodnessā!ā
The cries that youāre unable to contain bring him back to whatās in front of him: his loving, caring wife, whoās inches from a mind-boggling orgasm.
āDonāt even think about him right now, Jud,ā you gasp out. āJust focus on this. And yourself. Does it feel good?ā
āSo good,ā he mutters, his eyes relaxing as he hears you. āYou feel so good. Youāre everything. Youāre perfect.ā He pulls out slowly, chest heaving, before slamming back into you, hard enough to steal your breath. His eyes lock on yours as he begins to drive himself even harder than before. "You," he gasps out with every thrust. "I need you. This is the truth. This is the only truth."
The rage was now completely subsumed by desire. The roughness wasn't about pain, but about absolute, uncontrolled passionāthe kind of messy, glorious, release that only a deeply bonded couple could share. His face was a mask of sweat and agony and intense satisfaction, his back muscles pulling tight with the strain.
You felt the tension coiling impossibly tight inside you. You were seconds away from breaking, propelled by his furious devotion.
āSo close,ā he groans, his head falling to your neck, hot pants escaping onto your skin. āYouāre so good. You feel so good.ā His eyes are shut in bliss and concentration as his hips grow impossibly faster, both of you inches from your release.Ā
Finally, it hits him. The sound that tears from his chest is a deep, ragged groan of pure relief, a primal sound that has nothing to do with collars or churches, and everything to do with being twenty-something, furious, and utterly loved. He trembles as he releases, his fingers rubbing over your clit with intent and devotion.
āPlease give it to me,ā he begs. āLet me have this from you. I know you can do it, I know youāā
āJud!ā you gasp out, back arching, toes curling. āJ-Jud, Judāyes!ā Your orgams crashes over you, and his fingers drag those waves of pleasure through you until your hips are beginning to twitch from the overstimulation. Slowly, he removes his hand, his body lowering onto yours.Ā
The room is silent for several minutes, the sound of both of your breaths mingling with the descending sunlight that filters through the window. Finally, when your heart rate has slowed enough for your eyes to open, you speak.Ā
āSo we can both agree that I was right about keeping the punching bag, right?ā
He snorts at your remark, his eyes fluttering open as he tilts his head slightly to meet your gaze. āYou can be right about whatever you want. Youāre right about everything, okay? I love you.ā
āI love you too.ā Your voice is quiet once again, your smile small yet warm.
He doesnāt need to speak again. He simply buries his face in your hair, his body relaxed and slack, the tension finally burned away. The young man who had been terrified of his own anger minutes ago was now just your exhausted, safe husband.
āIt was a devil and an angel tattoo. It said something underneath: Serendipity. I really loved the idea of being in this quite formal priest uniform with the dog collar ā and thereās this little bit of his past creeping up. That is how Father Jud is attempting to be this version of himself. Heās not denying his past, hence he still has the tattoo. But that anger is still there.ā ā Josh O'Connor (x)
synopsis: you find yourself at Our Lady of Perpetual Fortitude three times: once for your cousin's wedding, once for a relative's funeral, and once for...well, maybe you shouldn't say.
word count: 3k
need to knows/warnings: jud x reader, reader isn't particularly religious, jud teaches reader self-defense/how to box š, yearning, smutty but not full smut.
author's note: i feel the jud community getting larger each day ;) thank you sooo much for reading. <3
The first time you stepped foot in Our Lady of Perpetual Fortitude, there were certainly no holy thoughts crossing your mind.
Your favorite cousin was getting married, and you wished that this event was something to feel more sentimental about. To put it simply, her husband-to-be was a complete asshole, consoling only in his hefty bank account. You respected her hustle, frankly, but it was still difficult to watch a person you loved so much commit to someone so undeserving of her heart.
In protest, you wore all black.
The ceremonyāas most Catholic weddings areāwas ordained by a priest, one dressed in a large green robe with gold detailing. Throughout the long pre-nuptial mass, your eyes wandered towards the ceiling, then around the sides at a reading room and confessional stall. You'd never taken much of an interest in religion, but had to admit the church's architecture was a sight to behold.
Vows were exchanged, and in a flash, the ceremony was over.
There was a reception nearby, one which you chose to attend only for the open bar. Family was family, but sometimes it seemed more peaceful to avoid them. All they asked these days was if you had a boyfriend, and it was getting tiring. This was the 21st century, for christ's sake, and you had no interest answering to the elderly about your relationship status.
Before heading over to the party, you hung back in the pews. Looking around at the stained-glass windows and silent echo of the walls, you could see how someone might feel drawn to come here every week. If only they hosted a book club in this place, you mused.
Ten minutes or so passed in the comfortable quiet, and then a figure approached you from the altar. It was the priest from the wedding, now changed into a more casual uniform: black slacks, a black knit sweater with the sleeves pushed up, and a clerical collar. A tattoo accompanied his left wrist, and from the corner of your eye, you could make out more hidden black marks on the side of his neck.
Suddenly, your cheeks felt warm. Since when did they make priests like that? Surely that only happened in Fleabag.
"Hi, were you here for the wedding?"
You cleared your throat, tucking a lose strand of hair behind your ear and smoothing down the skirt of your dress.
"Yeah, I'm so sorry, am I in your way?"
The priest shook his head.
"Not at all. Stay as long as you want. I think there's a party, though. And I heard something about an open bar."
You liked him already, which made things much more difficult.
"Oh, yeah, I'll make it there eventually...I just, I don't know."
The priest motioned towards the empty spot beside you. Your nod in the affirmative was perhaps a little too quick.
"I'm not really religious," you prefaced. "But this place is really good at peace and quiet, I've got to say."
The priest laughed softly, and nodded in agreement.
"Yeah, it definitely is."
A beat of comfortable silence passed, and then he asked:
"Something on your mind I could help you with? Not as a priest or anything, if you're not into that. Just as a regular person."
You thought briefly that you were into it for a very different reason, but gave yourself a mental slap in the face.
"Oh, not really. It just sucks to watch the people you love marry such assholes."
He smiledājust barelyāand made an agreeing hum.
"Yeah, I could sense some kind of friction. Like they weren't exactly marrying for love."
You sighed dramatically.
"It's a shame. My cousin, she's the bride. She is so full of love, and I wish she'd chosen to marry someone who could give that back to her. I think she's just trying to please my aunt and uncle."
"Family can be tricky. You want them to be your number one source of comfort, but a lot of the time..."
"They're the biggest fuck-ups of all?"
The priest looked at you, a little charmed, and laughed.
"Yeah, you could say that."
"Sorry, you're off the clock and I'm a stranger. I don't mean to dump all this onto you."
"Oh, I'm never off the clock. And I really don't mind. It's nice to talk to someone who says it as it is. Sometimes I wish I could teach the people here to be a little more honest with themselves. But it's really not my place to pass judgement," he said.
You nodded in understanding, and then he spoke again.
"And now here I am, dumping problems onto you. Sorry. It's not very proper etiquette in my position."
Shaking your head, you smiled ever-so-slightly.
"Well, I'm not a Catholic. So that kind of etiquette doesn't really apply to me."
Then, the priest gave you an unreadable look. Had you offended him? No, it was something else. Sort of like he was at war with the thoughts in his head.
You checked the time, and let out a tired huff of air. This was the first moment you'd wanted to live in since this morning, but your absence at the reception was probably starting to become obvious.
"I should go, my family is probably looking for me. Thank you for the company, really."
"Anytime," the priest replied.
It seemed like he really meant it earnestly.
You stood from the pew, heading toward the aisle, when the kneeler underneath the seat caught on your shoe.
One foot tripped over the other, and it seemed like you were doomed to fall overāuntil the priest's tattooed arm gently steadied at your hip for balance. You felt it right in your stomach.
Both of you stood in the aisle then, and he cleared his throat. Was he blushing?
"I'm sorry, I didn't meant to, uh..."
You shook your head swiftly.
"No, don't be sorry. You just saved me from falling flat on my face."
Like a true gentleman, he walked you to the church door and held it open. Before walking out into the warm, humid summer air, you turned to face him.
"Father, I never got your name."
He swallowed thickly.
"I'm Jud. No Father necessary."
"Well, Jud, I hope to see you around."
~
The second time you stepped foot in Our Lady of Perpetual Fortitude, you felt completely immoral.
A highly removed elderly relative of yours had passed away of old age. He wasn't particularly kind to you, and had a very archaic way of thinking. There was no reason for you to be in attendance, really, but when your parents had forwarded the address, it was impossible to say no.
You felt slightly embarrassed to admit that the subject of your desires had not changed once since the wedding, but it was the truth. Jud consumed all of your thoughts: sometimes innocently, and occasionally not so much. It was exactly like you to have a crush that was completely unattainable, but it wasn't something that could be helped.
He was accepting and kind and so hot and unlike anyone you'd ever met, but you sensed there were secrets he kept close to his chest. Jud was like a painting, the kind that made you notice something new at each glance.
You sat in the same pew as last time, dressed in the same black ensemble.
Jud noticed you amongst the crowd quicker than he'd like to admit. After the wedding, Jud hosted mass every week with his eyes glued to the very pew you'd met on, guiltily replaying the interaction in his mind.
He thought your presence must have been God testing his resistance to temptation, chastising him for all the thoughts he'd had about you before going to sleep.
After the funeral ended, something hit your love-sick brain like a brick: what if he didn't even remember you? It had been over a month. Surely, with charm like his, there was a lot of foot traffic in this place.
Slowly collecting your things, you stalled an exit, giving Jud the chance to approach you first.
Once the crowd shuffled out, your eyes met his. Jud smiled slightly and approached your pew.
You were having some major deja vu.
"Hi, Father."
He winced, just barely.
"You really don't have to call me that. Unless you forgot my name, which I would understand."
"Definitely not."
Then, you nervously bit the bottom of your lip, like maybe even that was too suggestive a reply.
"I'm really sorry to have you back here on such difficult terms," Jud said sympathetically.
You furrowed an eyebrow, then looked at your black clothes in acknowledgment.
"Oh, yeah. Don't be, he was bound to kick the bucket. He was, like, 1000 years old and kind of misogynistic."
He laughed, this time more indulgently than you'd seen from him before.
It was now or never, you realized. Visiting this church by coincidence a third time would be stalker-ish.
"Well, listen, you've done a lot for my family this past month. Can I buy you coffee?"
Jud ran a hand over his face.
"I'm not sure that's such a good idea."
You put a hand on your hip.
"What, priests aren't allowed some caffeine every once in a while? Or am I really that bad."
"No, it's notāyou're not..."
Jud looked up at the ceiling in some kind of silent communication with God, and then said:
"You know what, sure. That's what I should have said. Thank you for offering."
~
Coffee turned into dinner, which turned into drinks. It was dangerous how much it felt like a date, and Jud fought with himself to let go of the very same sentiment. But just as he'd feared, it would be impossible to quit you.
"I'm surprised you're drinking," you said, seated across from him in a booth. "I thought there was some kind of rule against that."
"There is, but I'm not always so traditional."
You hated the part of you which wondered how lenient he might be about other aspects of his life, especially after the disappointing internet search you'd made last night.
Are priests allowed to date?
The answer was a resounding no.
"Can I ask what you did before becoming a priest? Tell me if I'm being too nosy."
Jud gestured with his hands like he didn't mind.
"I was a boxer."
You regretted asking. This was all getting way too horny. Why couldn't he have said something that didn't give such a vivid visual image?
"Wow," you said stupidly. Then: "What made you leave that behind?"
It seemed like he didn't want to elaborate.
"You don't have to tell me. I've kind of wanted to learn, maybe not boxing, but some kind of self-defense. I just don't want to feel susceptible to being fucked with, you know?"
Jud nodded.
"I get that."
You realized you'd probably had one Aperol Spritz too many after asking:
"Could you give me some tips sometime? Teach me some technique, or something?
Jud realized a similar thing when he replied:
"Yeah, of course."
The evening passed quicker than it came, and although he'd technically offered to be your self-defense coach, you sensed sadly that this might be your last night together.
The two of you walked back to the church, where your car was parked by its lonesome in the dirt.
"Well, this is me," you gestured.
Jud furrowed an eyebrow, like he suddenly remembered alcohol had consequences.
"You really shouldn't be driving home."
And you probably, definitely shouldn't be, but just to be polite, said:
"Oh, I'll be okay. I'm staying at my parent's for the weekend, it's not far."
Jud shook his head.
"No, really, it's dark, and I think we both had too much to drink. I can make up a bed for you in the church."
"I really wouldn't want to put you out."
"It's really not a bother. You'd be putting me out a lot more by making me worry about you out on the road."
It was settled.
By "making up a bed," Jud had just meant giving you his, which caused another half-hearted, tipsy argument.
"Noooo, please, I'll take the couch. You've done enough for me."
"Y/N, you're not taking the couch."
Your heart fluttered at the sound of your name coming from his mouth.
"Well, can't we just...share the bed then?"
You regretted it immediately.
Jud looked at you with widened eyes, dropping the pillow he'd pulled from the closet for you.
"Um, Iā"
You were mortified.
"Oh, God, I'm so sorry, I should not have said that. I've had a little too much to drink andā"
Jud gave you a familiar contemplative expression, the kind you'd seen many times since meeting him in the church but still couldn't seem to crack.
"I'll put a glass of water and an Advil by the nightstand. I have the heater running, but let me know if you need any extra blankets."
Once Jud left for the kitchen, you screamed into the pillow. Just to make matters worse, it smelled just like him.
~
The next morning, you had a minor headache but felt surprisingly spry.
Your eyes fluttered open, scanning the room around you. After a moment of tired dazing, your mind caught up to your body.
"Oh my God," you whispered to yourself.
Before you could race out of bed and run towards the door, Jud knocked lightly.
"Want any coffee?," he asked.
Too late to avoid the embarrassment now. It was slightly surprising he wasn't already ushering you out the door. Very polite, you thought.
"Sure," you said hesitantly, and then: "I'm sorry, I must have been acting so inappropriately last night, I hope I didn't make you uncomfortable orā"
Jud brushed the air with his hand, dismissing your worries.
"Not at all. I'm a little hungover myself, I have to say."
Twenty-four hours ago, you were certainly not expecting to be eating breakfast in Jud's kitchen. You wondered desperately what he was thinking, but felt for some reason that it wouldn't be right to ask.
When you finished your mug of coffee, Jud took it from the counter for a refill.
"Were you serious about learning self-defense?," he asked with his back facing you.
You were surprised he remembered at all.
"Honestly, yeah. Were you serious about giving me a crash course?"
~
Around noon, you met Jud outside the church, stopping home to change into more appropriate clothes.
If you did say so yourself, you were quite the natural.
"Okay, make sure your thumbs aren't tucked in. Pretend I'm...someone you really hate, someone who's really fucked with you."
You wanted to tell him that it was probably impossible to hate him, even hypothetically, but tried your best, throwing a punch at his raised, open palms.
"Good," he said. "Just try to keep your arms up to protect your face. Not that I don't enjoy looking at it."
And that went straight to your core, so you threw another good punch to force the feeling away.
After a few more rounds of punching practice, Jud moved on to another skill.
"Now, tackle me to the ground."
You furrowed your brow.
"Oh, I don't know if I have the strength toā"
"Yes, you do. Just tackle me onto the ground, and once you're on top, thrust your knee in between mine. A kick to the groin is an immediate kill, at least for a guy."
Thrust, groin, on top. You felt like some kind of sex-obsessed frat guy, unable to focus on anything but Jud's figure, sleeves pushed up with a little sweat on the bicep on his arm.
Get a grip, you said to yourself like a mantra.
You made your advance, trying to remember that this was a useful skill which should garner more serious attention.
Running forward, you tackled Jud to the ground, hovering over him and slotting your knee between his, just as he instructed. You decided to cut him some slack and be gentle with the leg.
"Yeah, good. I definitely wouldn't want to fuck with you," Jud said, slightly out of breath.
Then, you're hovered over him for much too long, neither of you making a move to untangle from each other.
The air was quiet, aside from the sound of your labored breathing. You could only imagine what the neighbors would think if they saw this.
A piece of hair fell in front of your face, and Jud reached upāthe veins in his forearm slightly flexingāand tucked the strand behind your ear.
Your noses were practically touching at this point, and it would take only the slightest movement for your lips to be touching, too.
"I don't know if this was a good idea," Jud practically whispered.
"Why?"
It was barely above a breath.
Then his lips grazed yours, ever-so-cautiously at first.
"I'm sorry," he starts. "I shouldn't haveā"
Before he could finish his sentence, you kissed him back feverishly. One thing led to another, and you'd flipped onto your back.
"Not out here," Jud said in between kisses.
He helped you up from the ground, brushing a few leaves out of your hair.
Once you were inside the church, your lips collided again. You bunched up his shirt in your hand, and he pulled your hips closer to his.
"You have no idea how many times I've thought about this," you sighed.
"You have no idea how much I've tried not to think about this. It's impossible."
You started to make a move toward a pew, laying on your back.
"No, I'm sorry, I can't fuck you on this wooden pew. There's no way it's comfortable on your back."
You wanted to say that it really was no matter, and you would have been open to fucking him in a ditch somewhere, but refrained.
The walk to his bedroom felt unbearably long, and you were hardly able to keep your hands off of each other. It was a wonder that this hadn't happened sooner.
You pulled Jud's sweater over his head, and guided his hands to pull down your shorts.
As he continued to undress, you pulled your shirt off and laid in his bed with your elbows propped up.
He looked at you, and made the same repressed expression from your first meeting. So that's what that was all about.
Jud swallowed thickly.
"What have you done to me?," he sighed, more to himself than to you.
You moved onto your knees and pulled him on top of you. He kissed your neck down onto your chest, and your hand traveled to his trousers.
"Oh, Jesus Christ."
"Would he appreciate you using his name in vain?," you asked, maybe just to bait him a little.
Jud smiled against you, continuing to kiss down your stomach and then to the place you needed him most.
~
The next morning, Jud planned on a lengthy confession, but recounting the prior night only ended up giving him more to admit.
And each Sunday after Mass, you paid him a visit.
"See you next week, Father."
"Don't call me that," he said, before kissing you against the altar.
wholly self indulgent idea of reader and gaz being childhood friends and then falling in love when kyle has been discharged from the military.
reader goes to an all-girls catholic school, and gaz goes to the corresponding boys one. due to the nature of the schools, even speaking to the other gender is very novel.
you meet during a joint choir carolling service in year 11, and then decide to stay in contact when he signs up for the military and you go to university.
sending messages and letters whenever they can (you can do that a lot, and he does it whenever he can) you're spotting a crush on him over the years, and your heart grows every time you get an email back from him.
the 141 and his other military friends tease him about his "girl back home" except you're not his girl, because you two have never broached the topic of dating each other. you've met each other's parents, but you're too scared of commitment and he's too scared of commitment too, and the two of you know that marriage is the commitment you'd want to make to each other. you've waited for him for ten odd years.
then he gets blown up, sometime when you've finished your masters, he gets shot and blown up and you have to sit through the horrible days where he's been announced KIA, organise the funeral, speak to his parents.
and then you find out that he's been severely injured instead, announced kia because they couldn't find him for a month. tortured and injured and brought to the hospital, he's still gaz but he's hidden behind layers of trauma, and you want to do nothing but peel them back, to get your kyle back again.
i have so many thoughts about this one, story that comes from the heart...if a full fic comes out for this and you want to be tagged, lmk in the comments okey :)
simon āIād rather you shoot me before asking what we areā riley dating a girl with an equally terrible commitment complex.
like this guy is in her home, eating her food, poking around her things every single second of the leave he gets. his clothes hang in the closet next to hers. he has a designated side of the bed. he bought a tool kit just to be able to fix her broken shelf. heās the one that the dentist called when she was up on anesthesia and couldnāt drive herself home. he follows her around at the grocery store and remembers what kind of grapes or apples she likes and gets them without her reminding him. wordlessly pays for everything when heās around. rubs her feet when sheās tired. but theyāre not fucking dating. simon is thirty years old, heās too old to be a boyfriend. itās a liability. this whole thing is out of convenience and he can stop and cut her off anytime he wantsā¦ but no one can blame him for not wanting treat her like shit in the meantime, right?
versus his girl that gets crowded and icked out by dating someone and them being in her space constantly. itās so much better to have simon swing by after four months of not seeing him. it lets her keep her routine and gives her space. never mind that simon falls back into her routine effortlessly every time. or that she ignores anything broken at home for when he gets back. that she keeps a list of fun things she wants to do āin the futureā that only gets done when heās there. or that she washes his clothes and makes his food when he returns. or that she sleeps with a leg hooked over his hip, and an extra large pillow lying in his spot when he leaves. that he never tires her out when heās home. because theyāre not dating. having a boyfriend is draining and unnecessary work, and simon isnāt.
thinking about headcanons of simon who can eat and eat and just pack food away... and now im thinking about simon who eats you out like its his last meal....
his whole mouth is devouring you and you feel his tongue circling around your clit and he's two fingers knuckle deep in your pussy
and youre crying and writhing and youve never had your pussy eaten this good!! and simon doesnt give a shit how overstimmed you are!! that man has his hands on your hips and your legs over his shoulder
and afterwards he lovessss feeling ur legs go limp and ur just slumped on the bed/couch/table but its just starting for the night!!! youre sopping wet and stretched out but he somehow can stretch you out evennnn furtherrrr
and he flips you on your stomach and hes fucking you from behind!! and bending over to kiss down your back and moaning quiet praises about how good you feel!!
also also also the immaculate after care!! youre limp and simon is letting you catch your breathe!! and he wipes his mouth his hands and gives you a forehead kiss before getting ur emotional support water bottle for you (he drinks out of it too, thats the only way he drinks water)
it's meee I'm your guardian angel hiiiiii š okayš so. in about six months, you're gonna die of starvation. š„ŗ and if I don't protect you, I will get: #fired! š«¢ and that is No Good š āāļø hahaaa So. š I looked into causes of starvation, and it turns out: Your death is totally preventable! šÆ Uh oh! š There's more than enough food to sustain you without interfering with anyone else's survival, but you're not allowed to have it! š¤Ø Whaaat? š¤·āāļø Apparently, your death is premeditated by thousands of things called "shareholders." So. š I've been killing people,
ā¢ He will never underestimate you because of your height. He respects you all the same, knows what you are capable of. Still, he sometimes marvels at how such a small frame can contain such an attitude. It never fails to amaze him when you tear down men twice your size with only a look.
ā¢ However, he has a deep fixation with the sheer scale of you. He loves how his hand can completely envelop yours, how his fingers can span your entire waist, or how he can circle your bicep and still have his thumb overlap his fingers. It triggers a primal, possessive instinct in him.
ā¢ Hugging Simon feels like being enveloped in a huge, heavy blanket. Your face is inevitably pressed against the hard plane of his chest, your arms barely managing to circle his waist (the only place you can comfortably reach). He, in turn, can wrap his arms completely around you, his hands easily splayed across your back and shoulders, grounding himself by resting his chin on the crown of your head.
ā¢ Stealing a kiss is impossible for you. You have to tug his hoodie hard to make him lean down, signal with your hand to make him lower himself or just stare at him with menacing intent. He always makes you work for it, the smug bastard, raising an eyebrow and asking, "What d'you want, love?" knowing full well what you're after.
ā¢ He, on the other hand, steals kisses with infuriating ease. He has two methods: 1) Heāll hook his hands around your waist, squish you against his torso and then lift you clean off the floor (making you squeak in surprise). He will hold you there, your hands holding his neck for dear life, until heās done with you. 2) Heāll lean down, waaay down, one huge hand cupping your entire jaw and tilting your head up. You still have to stand on your tiptoes to reach his mouth, gripping his shirt just to stay balanced.
ā¢ His default kiss is your forehead or the top of your head. Itās the most accessible target when you're standing. You, in turn, kiss his biceps or his torso over his clothes when you are too lazy to make him lean.
ā¢ You love leaning on his chest. It is so huge, so muscular, that itās just too comfortable to lie on. Most comfortable pillow you ever had.
ā¢ Heās the big spoon by default, draping one massive hand over your stomach, effectively squishing you against his front. He secretly loves it when you try to be the big spoon, though. Your small hands barely link over his waist, your face pressed between his shoulder blades. He finds it absurd and deeply comforting.
ā¢ In the kitchen, youāre convinced he puts your favorite snacks and the good coffee mugs on the top shelves on purpose. Youāll be straining on the counter, balancing on your toes, only for him to walk in, reach over your head from behind and grab the item with zero effort. Heāll hand it to you, his face inches from yours, and grumble, "Gonna break your neck like that, love. Just ask." Then he'll press a quick kiss to your hair before leaving you to it.
ā¢ He loves when you steal his clothes. His t-shirts and hoodies swallow you whole, the hems hanging past your midthigh like a dress, the sleeves completely covering your hands. Heāll watch you pad around the apartment, completely engulfed in his scent, and feel a surge of possessiveness so strong it almost makes him reach for you and crush you in his arms, never letting you go. Thatās where you belong, anyway.
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