secret perv!dunk who insists on helping you off your horse every single time without fail. makes your heart flutter with it too, how he’ll stumble over the footholds of his ride just to make it over to you before you can even think of dismounting on your own.
none the wiser to the fact that this gentleman — so far and few between in westeros— kind, considerate dunk just really, really loves getting to look down the top of your dress.
when you lean over to put your hands on his shoulders, he’ll scarcely blink because for a split second, your tits are just a hair’s breadth from his face and he can feel them, soft and plush, dragging down his front as he lowers you to the ground.
he never gives you any reason to question his intentions. by the time you get your bearings, dunk’s already tying your horses to the post, leaving them with a gentle brush across their manes and the barest hint of an all-too-pleased grin tugging at the corner of his lips.
—
when you need to bathe, who else would you ask to stand guard, but your loyal hedge knight? he’ll follow you to the river, an obedient, steadfast watchdog who turns to give you privacy as soon as your hand lifts to the laces on your dress.
he holds his breath when the sound of heavy fabric hitting the earth reaches his ears. they burn with the knowledge that all he needs to do to see you is to turn around.
but he couldn’t. it would be an utter betrayal of your trust, of his honour. so he keeps a lethal grip on the hilt of his sword, ears straining as if listening to the sounds of you bathing was the next best thing to looking upon your bare form.
until, of course, you ask him to hand you the cloth you’d prepared to dry off with. it’s just out of your reach on the river bank, so dunk supposes he has no choice now.
he keeps his gaze trained on the ground, and by some luck you don’t notice when it flickers lightning quick, back and forth as if to piece a mosaic image of you in his mind for later.
you’re still in waist-deep water, back turned from him, but he’s close enough to see the divots along your spine and the beads of water trickling down the line of your neck.
dunk swallows, tracing their path with wide, hungry eyes.
the river laps just above the bend of your lower back, and when the current calms for a moment he gets a glimpse of the smooth curve of your ass, but it’s gone just as quick.
dunk has to snap his head to the side when he realises you mean to turn around, and he does so, a tad too quick.
but just in time to hide the way his cheeks burn as red as his ears. it shouldn’t affect him this way, knowing how much trust you have placed in him to keep him around even at your most vulnerable. especially then.
he tries not to wonder if that means he makes you feel safe, protected, because the thought alone is enough to make dunk’s head spin.
—
dunk likes to keep you and egg close. always within arm’s reach, despite how much the latter grumbles and groans.
dunk notes, with pride and something warmer settling in his belly, that you don’t seem to mind nearly as much.
especially now, at this crowded tavern, where the air is thick and everything is just this side of too-loud. you sit squashed to dunk’s side, thighs pressed far too closely together than what would be deemed proper in any other circumstance. but with the steady incoming stream of patrons, you don’t have much of a say.
dunk’s preoccupied with scarfing down his second plate of dinner, grumbling his assent when egg asks for the third time, “please, may i join the other squires, ser?”
“stay where i can see you,” dunk sighs into his mug. the man rolls his eyes half-heartedly when egg flashes you a bright grin before running off in a direction dunk decidedly can’t keep an eye on.
dunk turns his attention to you — seemingly just now noticing how much you’ve been leaning into him, the grimace you make when the woman sitting beside you uncaringly juts her elbow into your ribs.
he frowns, and tugs you with a gentle hand, only meaning to pull you away from the discomfort. though, between his strength and how precariously you’d been perched on the bench, you practically fly into dunk’s lap.
you blink up at him owlishly, because you already knew it but, seven hells, he’s big. you can feel the steady rise and fall of his chest against your back, and your thighs sat over the large expanse of his own, firm with muscle and yet, soft beneath you.
“‘re you alright, m’lady?” dunk’s voice is a deep rumble now that you can feel it, and it sends shivers down your spine when you turn your head to meet those crystal blue eyes. all you find is concern.
“i am,” you say, hoping your voice isn’t as airy as you feel.
with one last contemplative look, dunk shrugs, and goes back to his meal — one handed. the other comes up to curl around your waist, anchoring you more firmly atop him.
you watch him chew, entirely undeterred, as if having you sitting on his lap wouldn’t get you any points and whispers. it certainly would, elsewhere, but it’s late, and everyone in this tavern is drunk or halfway to it, with surely much worse going on in dark corners.
so you settle into him with a sigh, nudging your half-finished plate over just as dunk cleans off his own. he takes it with a hum, fingers rubbing just under your rib cage in thanks.
the tip of his pinkie brushes the curve of your breast, and it makes you twitch. the slightest jolt, your core warming further when you realise the rest of his fingers splay over your abdomen. one large paw right over your middle, almost possessive.
your wide eyes shoot to his, but he makes no indication of anything amiss, sipping his ale as he watches the crowd.
he wonders if you can feel it. feel him. he’s been half-hard in his trousers since the first press of your leg to his, but as soon as your rear planted snug above his length, he went lightheaded with just how fast his blood rushed south.
he’s grateful for the excuse of dinner, busying his mouth and hands. one of them, at least. he tries his luck, stroking his thumb over your stomach and smiling into the rim of his ale when you shiver.
he watches you out of the corner of his eye as he pretends to search for egg. you use his lapse of attention to adjust yourself, hand braced atop one thick thigh, and that’s when it happens.
dunk knows you know.
he hears it in the way your breath hitches, fingers digging in just a little harder into the muscle of his leg. your ass falters midway, only for a heartbeat, before you’re planting yourself back down again.
this time, he can feel you. the heat between your legs, somehow through the layers separating you. dunk’s eyes widen, a choke lodging in his chest because he’s always been a little imaginative, but dunk swears he can feel the seam of you hugging his cock.
he wills himself to breathe normal, not to act. he’ll allow himself this, as long as there’s nothing else. he’ll stay like this until you inevitably get up, and this will be like all the other times — stored in his memory for when he’s got his fist curled around his cock behind a tree somewhere, hot and aching, with nothing but the recollection of you to bring him to his peak.
your hand remains, fingers curled into the fabric of his trousers. you lean back, nuzzling into his sturdy chest. he can smell your hair, the herbs and flowers used in your wash, and it goes straight down to the pulsing mess between his legs.
dunk knows he’s not imagining your hips twitching. he sees the quickening pace of your breaths by the rise and fall of your shoulders, swallowing the urge to curl his own around you, wrap his arms around your waist and manhandle you the way he wants.
then there’s a slow, deliberate drag when you straighten, craning your neck as you pretend to spot something in the distance. he wonders what’s going through your mind. surely, you know what you’re doing? though a proper lady such as yourself might not—
dunk fights back a pathetic groan at the notion that you’ve no idea the effect you have on him, and it takes every ounce of restraint to keep his own hips still. as much as he wants to buck, the roaring chaos of the tavern keeps his mind in check.
he realises too late that he needs you off. he can’t think like this, can’t protect you the way he ought to — not when the idea of you taking his cock just like this is running through his head as clear as day. would you want that?
dunk thinks he gets his answer when your fingers curl between his own that have been clutching your front.
he thinks he hears the tail end of a mourning sigh, and realises it had come from his own lips when you slide off his lap, back onto the now freed-up bench.
he’s confused, because just as much as he’d wanted you off seconds ago, he needs you back where you were now.
he spares a shy glance when your hand creeps back onto his thigh, much higher than it had been.
he only gets a split-second glimpse of your expression, bottom lip pulled between your teeth as your eyes twinkle up at him with a newfound mischief within.
egg comes bounding into view, quickly stealing your attention with a rapid, inaccurate retelling of a pentoshi tale.
you stand when the boy drags you outside the tavern, leaving dunk alone at the table with the ghost of your touch and a big, big problem.
drunk! perv! dunk. let me say it again. DRUNK.. PERV.. dunk.. the possibilities r endless. does he cum fast? does he fall asleep eating it? does dunk fuck you until HE’S overstimulated and basically crushing you? put me in his world and im putting medieval contraceptives to work, or im just locking it down and having his fat stupid babies
babe omfg YOUR MIND ???? i kid u not this ask actually drove my ass to open a google docs file
LOOK AT HIMMMM im getting him pregnant!!
thank you so much for these delicious thoughts anon, i’ll write a whole thing bc this food is too fucking good but walk with me for now
18+ minors dni
drunk!perv!duncan the tall
content: slight intoxication, leg humping (yay!)
imagining a swaying dunk being dropped off at your tent, already through the worst of it, but he still goes moony-eyed at the sight of you.
you take him from lyonel, who leaves you with a grin like he knows something you don’t (dunk spent the whole night rambling into his mug, in great detail, about the filthy dreams he’s been having of you and how badly he wishes it was real).
dunk is touchier when he’s drunk, shoving his clammy face into the crook of your neck when you lead him into your tent. doesn’t even hide how he’s inhaling the scent of you with open-mouthed huffs.
whines when you plop him down on his bedroll, clutching at your leg when you try to go get him something to drink. dunk presses his forehead to your belly, arms locked around you to keep you from leaving.
you know he’ll have a shit time of it tomorrow if he doesn’t sober up soon, but you like being trapped in dunk’s strong, brutish grip a little too much to do anything about it.
your hand buries in those sandy blond strands, scratching at his scalp while you try to figure out how to reach the waterskins.
dunk groans, loud and wet, and you watch with your jaw slack as he ruts his hips against your lower leg. one slow, firm drag that has his shoulders curling in and his broad back bowing.
“fuckkk,” dunk slurs, hooking a thick arm around the back of your thigh, moving you to his liking for a better angle to grind his cock.
your breath stays lodged in your chest, burning you from the inside out when he starts humping your leg in earnest, setting a sloppy, jagged rhythm that has him moaning wantonly into your dress.
“dunk–?” your voice cracks, pitched up in surprised — that he’s using your body for his own pleasure, and that you’re wetter than you’ve ever been watching your hedge knight reduced to the pathetic mess at your feet.
“want you s’bad,” dunk whines, spit pooling at the corner of his lips. he drags those glossy blue eyes up to meet yours, and thrusts even harder at the sight of your face.
“want t’fuck you,” he confesses, pressing himself deeper into the folds of your dress, like if he tries hard enough he can find his way inside. “think about you all the time– i wan’ you crying on my cock. want to know how you taste, m’lady.”
you file away his confessions for later, content to let him use you to his own end.
“bet you’d be sweet,” he grunts, eyes fluttering as he buries his face to your lower body, as close as he can get to what he wants. “–taste like fuckin’ heaven.”
your hands press harder into his head, digging your nails in until he whimpers. the sound goes straight to your core, fluttering and painfully empty.
“does that feel good, hm?” you coo, stroking the back of his head to soothe the sting. “you look so handsome like this, dunk.”
you can feel the heat of him leaking — he’s rucked up your skirts with greedy hands, only so he can soak your soft skin with the wet patch blooming on his trousers.
dunk pants open-mouthed, nodding with desperate jerks of his head. choked out grunts escape his glistening lips and that grip on your thigh is sure to leave a bruise, but none of that matters when he’s spilling into his trousers with a broken whine, cursing and shuddering through the syllables of your name.
all the while, you soothe him through it, distantly wondering how long it’d take him to get going again if you keep calling him pretty.
he’s easier to manoeuvre in his post-orgasmic haze. sits down where you tell him to, cleans himself up and waits obediently while you fetch the waterskin.
though when you hold it out for him to take, he stubbornly refuses to drink, turning his head from the mouth. he’ll dodge and protest, until your hand comes up to hold his head still, fingers gripping his jaw as you tilt the opening against his lips.
only then will he drink, sharp gaze never leaving yours. his blue eyes are clear — so clear you begin to wonder how drunk he’d really been at all.
content: 18+ minors dni, nsfw, perhaps a little ooc bc he’s happy but who wouldn’t be when aerion isn’t around, teasing in public, oral f!receiving, fingering, unprotected piv, smidgen of breeding like two words of it, he bites, lightest choking, possessive baelor, jealous baelor, slightly brat whisperer baelor, mentions of maekar (x2)
word count: 3k
notes: this was so fun to write! did it in pure silence with nothing but a dream and a fire in my loins yes mama!! i’m getting on a plane in like 6 hours but my children get fed FIRST. perv dunk part 2 is next (they fuckin nasty style) but i shall see when that is bc lunar new year celebrations are starting soon!! ALSOOOO i do not wanna see my man get slimed on sunday😔😔😔 (rip in the chat) hope you enjoy this one my loves xoxo
THIS IS AN 18+ BLOG, MINORS DNI
—
your husband, crown prince of westeros, is a pervert who barely bothers to conceal it. he will happily fuck you in the court council chambers until the whole room smells like sex and there’s no way to deny it — not that anyone would ever dare mention it.
maekar enters before the rest, shooting his brother a sidelong glare after you’ve taken your leave on wobbly legs.
if you’re unable to follow on the longer trips baelor must take, he’ll save all his cum for when he gets home. finally uses that princely authority to his own end, ordering peace within the red keep for the rest of the day, and makes his way to your shared chambers where he fucks you until you’re both spent.
he’ll make sure your womb is flooded with him, and the he’ll coo and coax you into pliancy when you whimper at the press of his fingers, pushing his release back inside you. he brings you to another orgasm like that, slow and weaker than the rest, but you cling to him all the same.
when he seals his own lips around his fingers, eyes twinkling at the taste of both your highs, your hand flies up and wacks him in the chest, huffing at his self-satisfied hum.
baelor merely chuckles, and draws you into his arms.
—
at the tourney, he’ll make sure you’re seated beside him. his pretty, kindhearted wife who appeals to the masses and shows a more agreeable side to the targaryens.
close is never close enough, is what your husband tells you with one firm hand wrapped around the rungs in your chair as he tugs you towards him. makes it so you’re close enough to breathe in, your oils and perfumes masking the muck and blood of the sport.
you’ll even try to pull away, maintaining some decorum, even though baelor’s hand cradling the back of your neck and his salt-and-pepper beard tickling your temple is more than enough to make you cave.
“baelor,” you hiss under your breath when his hand descends upon your inner thigh, gripping at the fat through the thick layers of your dress.
the prince’s grin is a wicked one, wiped clean as soon as it comes, because there’s a blanket thrown over your lap for the chill of the winter month, and nobody can see the way his hand is moving progressively higher. nobody pays the pair of you any attention — you are there for the tourney, after all.
“hush, my love,” baelor hums with an inconspicuous peck to your cheek, lips wet and moving against your face, “you’ve a show to watch.”
he’ll tease you like that, forcing you to keep your attention on the jousting, while lithe fingers press insistently against where you need him most.
entirely too knowing of the way you drip for him, the blazing heat causing you to squirm in your seat, nearly unmooring the blanket covering his sin altogether.
your fingers clutch at baelor’s forearm, and to any unsuspecting onlooker, it seems a wife turning to her husband from the violence of the joust. they don’t see the slow, constant drag of his digits over your skirts, palm cupping you with just enough pressure to make your mind go fuzzy.
baelor is infuriatingly calm. much too collected for a man who’s wife is grinding into his palm in plain view of hundreds of smallfolk and noblemen alike. but he’s not worried, because he knows you — as much as you’ll berate him for it later, you’re still tugging his arm harder against your front, grinding your cunt in subtle circles.
and it’s that sureness, that quiet confidence that irks you even more, because by the seven, it shouldn’t be so attractive. all but ignoring your plight, gaze trained on the snapping lances — he looks almost bored. his only tell, the faintest lift at the corner of his lips, a twitch so slight anyone but his wife would miss it.
he watches you hiccup quietly, head pressed into the back of your chair, dragging your eyes helplessly to his. begging him with less than words, even when you don’t quite know what it is you want — for him to stop? for more?
baelor meets your pleading eyes with those mismatched hues, glinting jointly in his delight of tormenting you.
the prince says nothing when you push up from your seat suddenly, a hand on your stomach as you feign discomfort. he watches you wave off concerned ladies and storm into the depths of the castle, counting the seconds before he goes in search of you.
—
he doesn’t search very far before he finds you, pacing in your temporary chambers. at the sound of the heavy door creaking open, you spin around, whip fast and levelling baelor with a lethal glare.
lesser men would have bowed to the irritated scowl on your painted lips, but it only makes his cock swell even further.
“you’re an ass,” you declare, arms crossed under your chest in a way that draws an approaching baelor’s eyes to the swell of your tits.
“mind your tongue,” baelor hums, low and syrupy without the slightest hint of threat, “you speak to a prince of the realm.”
your eyes roll, harder still when he comes to a stop before you, close enough the tips of his boots brush the hem of your dress. his hands, warm and familiar wrap around your wrists, pulling them from your chest, into his own with a knowing smile.
like he’s enjoying every second of the lead-up, just as much as he’ll enjoy the culmination of all your ire.
“you’re an ass,” you huff, adding with a bow of your head, “your grace.”
a long, amused exhale leaves him, before he’s tugging you hard against his chest. it draws a sharp breath from your lips, the hard lines of his chest against the softness of yours.
he watches, lips parted in the beginnings of a smile when you try to school your expression — refusing to give him the satisfaction after he’s teased you so.
“you wound me, my love,” he raises your hand in his, casting kiss upon kiss over your knuckles. flips your palm over and lays his lips across the center, for good measure.
“rightly so,” you mutter, though you’re already visibly melting at the edges. baelor’s thumbs run soothing circles over the backs of your hands.
“i have been rather neglectful, have i not?” he clicks his tongue softly, voice gentle as the way he’d soothe a horse in distress.
and you, entirely weak to baelor’s charms, nod desperately, because by gods, that’s exactly what he’s been doing. since you’d arrived to the godforsaken tourney, baelor’s presence has been everywhere but with you, much to his own dismay.
“my poor darling,” baelor whispers, lifting a hand to cup your chin, leading your eyes shining with frustrated tears to his. “will you let me make it up to you?”
“you’d better,” your eyes narrow, expectant, even as you crane your neck to finally kiss him.
still a little petulant, but that’s alright. baelor likes getting to fuck it out of you.
he backs you up until your knees knock into the edge of your shared bed, and yanks the laces of your dress with as much care as he can muster when it feels like his cock might spear through his leather breeches.
“baelor,” you whine, hastily slipping out of your winter dress, leaving you in only your shift as you lay sprawled beneath him. 
your fingers fumble with the clasps on his doublet, giving up halfway and going for his trousers instead, but the laces won’t budge and baelor isn’t helping at all — lost in a trance, watching your nipples pebble from the cold though the thin fabric.
“baelor,” it’s sharper this time, needier. baelor’s kicked into motion at the sound, blinking back to the present, where his wife is palming at his bulge, too impatient to wait for his touch.
he swats your hand away, ignoring your protests when he descends onto his knees. it still steals your breath, the sight of him between your legs — all his power, yet still on the ground for you.
his eyes hone in on the damp patch at the front of your shift, chest welling with a smug satisfaction. he spreads your thighs spread wide, making room for his broad shoulders as he settles your calves over them.
“no, i-” your cry cuts off when he rucks the hem up to your middle, exposing the hottest parts of you to the winter chill. his breath fans over your wet folds, suckling at your inner thigh.
“-want you inside! please, baelor, i’ve been waiting-”
he shuts you up with a nip to your flesh, laving his tongue over the bite in soothing laps. your hips buck in search for more, but he anchors you down with a firm hand over your lower belly.
“quiet,” he chuckles, eyes barely flitting up from where they’re glued to your leaking pussy. “you wanted my attention, darling girl. now you have it.”
the first moan that leaves you is laced with frustration, but another run of his smart tongue through your slit and any complaints die out on yours.
he eats you like he’s making up for lost time, even as he loses it still. he knows he should get back to the matches, and eventually someone will come looking. but the taste of your cunt makes him forget himself, eyes rolling back while his tongue plunges inside to draw more of your slick from the source.
your high keen is muffled by the pillow you’ve clamped over your face, and irritation flares in baelor. not at you, only that he’s been so lost in devouring you that he hadn’t noticed he was missing out on hearing your gorgeous cries.
the pillow is plucked out of your grasp and thrown over his shoulder.
“none of that,” baelor tells you, low and raspy as he seals his lips around your clit. your back arches, a sharp, strangled cry as your fingers find his hair.
“louder,” baelor growls from between your legs, refusing to be parted from your cunt when he can see the telltale signs of your impending orgasm. your slick dripping down his chin, soaking his beard and all he can think is how much louder you can get—
“fuck!” you cry when baelor slides two fingers inside, meeting no resistance and curling the way he knows will get you to your peak in no time.
and so it does. your hand pulls at his short strands, moans breaking into pathetic whimpers when the band in your belly snaps. baelor watches raptly with a low groan as you ride out your high on his face, swallowing all that you give him.
he sucks a bruise into your hip while you pant like a dog, scratching his scalp to ground yourself. “did so well, my love,” he kissed the bruise he’s left, “made a right mess of me.”
when you push him away, it’s only to get a better look. your core clenches around nothing at the way his chin and lips glisten with you, bright in the candlelight.
you drag him down rougly by his hair, claiming his lips as you all but clean him up. he’s all too happy to let you, sliding the taste of yourself onto your own tongue.
“are you going to fuck me properly now, or shall i find someone else to do it?” you hum sweetly against his lips, and something in his eyes flash before the switch flips entirely.
you’re on your stomach before you can even realise what’s happened, and a sharp crack fills the air a split second before the pain blooms in your asscheek.
baelor breathes heavily behind you, grasping at your hips until you arch for him. at your airy moan, he’ll strike the fat of your ass again, watching with eager eyes for the raised welt to appear in the shape of his hand.
one of baelor’s hands strokes down the length of your spine, enjoying the way you shiver beneath his touch. his free hand spreads your wetness over his pulsing length, the sounds of his fist stroking himself making your pussy clench in anticipation.
daring a look back at baelor, he bares his teeth and pushes your head down with a hand pressed to the nape of your neck.
“brat,” he growls, notching himself at your entrance and pushing in with no hesitation. doesn’t let you adjust to his size, instead setting a brutal pace that has you clawing at the sheets.
“gods–” you choke from the way he pummels into you, abusing your pussy. your entire body flushes with heat at the sounds between you, the stickiness smearing between your thighs and dripping down to the bed. it’s messy, and exactly what you needed.
baelor’s muttering under his breath, driving his hips harder as you push yourself back to meet his thrusts. “‘find someone else’,” he scoffs, reaching around to grope at your tits. “i’d like to see you try.”
your mouth parts on something — a response? nothing comes out except a long, drawn out whine as you try to turn your head, anything to see the glorious sight of your husband ruining your cunt for anyone else, but his grip on your neck tightens.
“could’ve been soft with you,” he grumbles, a little breathless and that’s all you’ll get from baelor to show he’s nearing his end. “wanted to treat you right– been so long– you think anyone else could fuck you like this? have you drooling all over yourself?”
“baelor,” you actually cry, fat tears rolling down your cheeks because it’s too good, he’s too good. you can barely form a coherent thought, but the need to see his face overshadows all else. “please, i need to–”
“answer me,” and it’s halfway to a shout, his hand fisting your hair as he pulls your head up, his own back bowing over yours.
“n-no! only you! oh, gods, need to see you– please let me look at you–”
he relents then, releasing your hair but curling his hand around your throat, bringing you up so your back is pressed to his chest. “so spoilt,” he huffs, but captures your lips in a sloppy kiss, always one to bend to your whims.
you can see him as much as you please like this, slotting your head by his shoulder, and you submit entirely, because there’s no way you’ll last with this new angle.
it’s right there, his swollen tip hitting right where you need it, and baelor is groaning wantonly in your ear, brows furrowed in concentration. it looks a little like he’s angry with you, and that’s enough to throw you over the edge.
your ass pushes back hard when you cum, and the force of your walls clenching without warning has him nearly doubling over, his hand curling tighter around your throat as he releases a sinful moan.
he’s stilled for a moment, watching in awe as you tremble in his hold, baring your neck and curling your own hand around his hand, keeping it there.
when your ears stop ringing, you realise a moment too late that he hasn’t cum. your walls still flutter with the aftershocks, but baelor slides a hand past your breasts, down your navel.
he starts moving again, just as he circles your clit with deft, determined fingers.
“again,” he says, and presses his face to yours so you feel his lips move.
he knows he’s fucked all the fire out of you, because you just nod with a sigh, entirely boneless and pushing your hips into his hand.
baelor’s breaths come hard now as his thrusts lose their pace. it’s too much, how your hole sucks him in and the absolute trust you’ve put in him with your fingers curled around his own at your throat.
there’s a sound bubbling in his chest that he knows is unbecoming of a future king. something between a punched-out whimper and a groan, so he opts to suckle at the skin just under your ear as he spills into you.
the feeling of baelor’s swollen cock twitching inside you and his fingers sliding across your overstimulated clit has you cresting again, milking him as he releases rope after rope of his seed.
there’s so much it spills from where he’s still nestled within you. baelor doesn’t pull out right away, and you can read the look on his face well enough to know he’s sending a quick prayer to the gods that it takes.
he pulls you to lay on your side with him, an arm slung over your waist as he nuzzles into your hair. baelor would never admit it, and yet you still tease how clingy he gets after all but defiling your honour.
“baelor breakspear, have you not enough of your own honour? must you steal my own, too?”
he pinches your ass, and you descend into a fit of giggles. all is well. you’ve half the mind to fall asleep with his bicep as your pillow.
“we’ve got to get back to the tourney,” you say, breaking into a yawn.
“to hells with the tourney,” baelor mumbles, loose-lipped from his orgasm. “‘s been keeping me from my wife.”
“they’ll blame your wife when they realise the reason you’ve been gone,” you poke at the hand inching closer to your breast.
“if they do, i shall have their tongue,” baelor says, and you both know with a shared look over your shoulder that it’s a mostly-empty threat.
a silence falls, and you spend a moment with your husband, limbs tangled and sated amidst the faint sounds of the jousting matches you’d slipped away from.
just as you feel baelor’s breaths begin to slow, lulled into a well-deserved slumber, you shake him awake when you think you hear footsteps in the distance.
“we really ought to get up before someone finds us like this. gods forbid it be maekar. again.”
there’s really no reason good enough to explain why baelor is hardening once more.
ser duncan the tall uses his size to his advantage. he doesn’t press up behind you while you’re reaching for something out of your reach, far too respectful to impose on your space.
instead he uses those broad shoulders to shield you from the pushy, jabbing elbows of the tourney audience. dips his head low to hear you better, utterly unaware of how your cheeks flush when his hands fall to your hips to gingerly angle your body away from the crowd. inadvertently drawing you closer—only so he can better keep you safe, of course.
follows a short ways behind as you and egg make your way through the market. jaw set and eyes narrowing at any leering glance thrown your way. his frame looms in your periphery — a hulking, watchful shadow while you exchange coin for supper.
he takes the bundle from your arms easily, hushing your protests with a hand on the small of your back as he guides the three of you back to camp. you try to listen to egg’s excited chatter, humming in all the right places but all you can focus on is the splay of his long fingers on your cloak.
night falls, and your tent is left empty after egg runs off to play with the other squire boys. dunk remains glued to his spot in the corner, hunched instinctively under the low ceiling, watching — waiting.
he stares from across the short distance, as you let your hair down and unlace your dress. it’s pavlovian, the way his breeches tighten and his fists curl into his knees. even so, he remains still, only his eyes tracking your every move until you’re standing between his spread thighs and your dress is pooling at your feet.
he takes you then, letting you settle atop his lap and sink down slow. one rough hand rests on your hip, the other pawing at the fat of your ass as you drag yourself against him at a torturous pace. still, dunk stays good.
doesn’t buck, doesn’t thrust when gods know he wants to, because the urge to be good wins out. he pants, open mouthed and near slobbering on your tits as you pick up the pace.
you’re mewling so pretty in his ear, clawing at his back when his fat cock bullies that spot inside that makes you choke on a gasp. your fingers drift to his arms, nails digging into his biceps when he takes a nipple in his mouth, blue eyes rolled back at the heavenly heat sucking him in with every shaky jerk of your hips.
you whimper, face tucked into his thick neck when your thighs begin to burn from the effort. “please, dunk–”
he nods, eyes half-lidded as he draws your face to his, catching your lips in a messy kiss. dunk locks those brawny arms around your waist, plants his feet and begins to fuck you in earnest, just like you asked.
the wicked sounds of slapping flesh meet your ears, and when you try to squirm away from the blinding pleasure, dunk drags you back to his lips with a pleased grunt.
“‘re you close, m’lady?” dunk has the mind to ask, like he can’t already tell, with your eyes clamped shut and your walls fluttering erratically around his length. there’s a hint of teasing in his breathless voice, so you clench tight on the next stroke.
dunk’s answering groan, punched out and broken is worth the way he slides a hand down between your bodies and flicks at your clit. the surprise of it has your high cresting, burying your teeth in the meat of his shoulder as your body trembles atop him.
dunk cums like that, with you locked to him and his skin between your teeth. the sharp sting in his shoulder throbs in time with his cock spilling inside you.
when you draw back, spent and hazy-eyed, you see the twinkle in dunk’s own, just a little too proud for a knight. the lazy, satisfied smirk on his lips only grows when your knees buckle as soon as you stand.
(cw: cum play, spitting, squirting, unprotected piv, bob's sloppy with it)
bob reynolds likes it messy.
it’s an inkling of suspicion in the back of your mind the first time you make out with him. his lips are wet, slick from the same tongue that’s sliding over yours.
he’s a little sloppy with it, too drunk on the feeling of your warm mouth to realise he’s kind of drooling. he’s just glad he finally knows what your lip gloss tastes like.
a string of spit keeps him connected to you when he pulls away.
bob goes a little cross-eyed, zeroing in on that glimmering thread. wonders if it’s his or yours, before he licks it away with that greedy tongue.
you get so used to it—wiping the shine away from your mouth every time your boyfriend pulls you in for those deep kisses he’s so fond of. it’s almost instinctual—running a thumb over the bead of saliva at the corner of your lips, smearing it down your chin.
the blown out pupils staring back at you make any complaints wither away in your throat.
he’s glued to the way your skin shines with him, turning your face in his big hands, trying to catch the light. he sees it as a new way of marking you (even if he pouts when it’s washed away with soap and water).
you just wish you would’ve known how all that translated to sex before you bought those expensive, high thread count sheets.
bob reynolds likes you covered in him—likes to be covered in you.
his reluctance to pulling out is nothing new. he whines when he’s balls deep that inside is where his cum is meant to go—he saved it all for you, after all.
it’s a warm, familiar sensation—how his cock twitches seconds before painting your insides. he likes to watch it drip out of you—even pushing down on your lower stomach sometimes to coax it along. he’ll follow the trail all the way down, groaning deep in his chest when his cum pools as the seam of your thigh.
but one day he accidentally slips out, thrusting erratically mid-orgasm, and spills over your belly instead. it’s like the missing puzzle piece when he realises he can scoop up what’s melting into your skin and push it back into you with his fingers.
that way, he can rest easy knowing nothing’s gone to waste, as well as get you to squirt while you writhe from overstimulation.
ever since he’d discovered you could, it’s been his personal mission to feel you gush all over him every time. he starts setting a towel down, and you pack away those fancy sheets because you both know damn well it’s going to get wet.
he’ll fuck you again after, sliding in with an obscene squelch and an even more debauched moan. trickles of his earlier load leak out around where he ruts into you.
you’re so far gone, four orgasms in—barely able to string together words, let alone complete sentences. but bob knows he’s doing a good job, if the white ring gathering at the base of him and the way you’re clinging to him is any indication.
that might be why it makes his brain go haywire. when it’s slippery, sticky and soaking fucking wet, and you’re mewling at him to keep going, he feels that reasurance he constantly craves—loves that you want it just as bad as he does.
he wants to see the embarrassed look you get when you can hear how sticky you’ve gotten between your thighs—wants to make you feel so good you forget why you were even worried.
and of course there are days where the roles are flipped. when you’re on top of him, threads of your combined arousal stretching with each slap of your hips against his.
his eyes roll back into his head, drooling out the corner of his mouth as he savours the way your pussy just keeps getting slicker around him.
and when your hand comes to rest on his sweaty neck, tilting his head back to spit into his eager mouth, it’s no surprise to either of you that that’s what makes him cum so hard he blacks out a little.
everyone talks about how respectful baelor is and all that, but every time i read a fic of him with wife reader the only thing i can think about is corruption kink
omg absolutely
nsfw, 18+ minors dni
just something about seeing a side of his wife that nobody else gets to see! thinking of the blushing bride you’d been on your wedding night. as soon as you get a taste of baelor, the things he can make you feel — it’s like opening pandora’s box.
he’s not young by any means but he’s not old either, and yet he feels nothing but, as he tries to keep up with how often you want him.
tugging him into dark corridors when you manage to corner him between council meetings and public appearances. he fucks you with your hands against the wall and his own clamped over your mouth because for the life of you, you cannot keep it down. how can you, when he’s fucking you within an inch of your life and whispering things in your ear that would make even a septa blush?
it’s become practically a daily occurrence for you to slither into his study in the tower of the hand when he’s working late into the night. you’ll situate yourself at his feet, on your knees like a good girl and wait for his tired, exasperated nod.
he’ll grumble occasionally, and tell you without fail that you don’t have to, but he learns rather quickly that you simply really, really want to.
so he lets you suck his cock under his desk, stroking your hair soothingly as he’s leant back into his chair. the feeling of your hot mouth and eager tongue is enough to sap all the tension out of him.
he’ll spread his broad frame across his chair, and he looks so powerful like that. looking up from between his knees, you see a king lounging on his throne — and it only makes you burn even hotter.
when he’s spilled himself down your throat, you’re eagerly pawing at him, whining and begging for him to fuck you, because look at what he’s done to you. you draw his hand between your sticky thighs, and he sighs deeply at the feeling, jaw muscle ticking because he can’t be inside you — not so soon after you’ve just emptied him. so, he makes you ride his fingers.
“since you’re so desperate,” his voice low and lazy, cocky from how eager you’d been to swallow his spend. he speaks, laced with a condescension that makes you clench around his digits buried deep inside, “just wanted to be filled, isn’t that right, my love?”
and baelor likes to make you wait. he’ll tease you in the early hours, before either of you need to get up for the day. he’ll stop just shy of your peak, stilling his hips, his fingers or his tongue (or both) and leaving you with a kiss to the forehead.
it’ll be hours later, and only when you’re on the verge of full-blown tears, blubbering and begging, does he finally give you what you want.
“that’s it,” he grunts in shameless pleasure, eyes twinkling with his desire and satisfaction when you shove him down to where you want him. “take what you need.”
he’ll let you boss him around, giving as much as you wish to take and never, ever complaining because there are few things baelor takes more joy in than watching his darling wife get what she wants — all she needs is to ask for it.
i've tasted love and it tasted sweet (god's country) • jud duplenticy
pairing: father jud duplenticy x f!housekeeper!reader
series synopsis: after monsignor wicks’ mess, the church gets popular real fast. you assumed this housekeeping job would be easy enough, but nobody thought to tell you about the hot priest on site.
content: nsfw, 18+ minors dni, wake up dead man spoilers, he's in love your honour, religious guilt, jud justifying why he needs to fuck reader nasty style, two freaks obsessed with each other, corruption but he's really okay with it so probably ooc jud, lust in the house of god, making out, jud's a big big kisser, dry humping, oral f!receiving, fingering, unprotected piv, creampie, a hint of cockwarming, religion kink, college grad reader (not mentioned but implied in the series)
notes: hiiii everybody! thanks for being so patient with me, and for the love and support xoxo this is the final part, and i'm honestly blown away by the response. it's been so much fun, and i really enjoyed gettiing to write again even tho i didn't really have a plan for this series. apologies for any mistakes, it's 5am here T-T hope this chapter was worth the wait <3
disclaimer again that i respect all religions and this is entirely a work of fiction and i do apologise if i get anything wrong as i am not religious myself!
word count: 7.8k
read part one, two and three of 《 god’s country 》 here!
masterlist
as always, this is an 18+ blog, minors dni!
there’s a storm brewing in the distance when you pull up to the church for the start of your shift.
the morning starts downcast, and any hopes of the clouds breaking fizzle out by midday when you have to turn on all the lights in the main building just to avoid tripping over your feet, and not because it gets a little spooky when it’s dark.
it’s just as well that the ominous rumbling steadily closing in mirrors your sour mood.
jud’s avoiding you, and you just know it’s because you totally made him uncomfortable by coming on to him in the garage like that. it makes your heart twist in your chest to think that you fucked up so bad he thinks he has to hide.
the worst part is, you wouldn’t even have noticed, because even when he’s trying to avoid you, it’s in such a jud way. still too kind, too sparing of your feelings.
he still asks about your day, and nods periodically to let you know he’s listening, like always — nothing out of the ordinary.
until a lull in the conversation leads to you looking at him for a sustained five seconds. then he’s stammering a half-assed reason on why he has to leave, hightailing it out the door with the tips of his ears bright red.
but you could chalk that up to jud being in a rush yet still making time for you, even with so much on his plate. besides, he’d listened so attentively despite being unable to meet your eyes. surely, he was just busy.
he’s missing at lunch. the kitchen in the rectory is empty when you get inside, even though he’s always made it a point to align his schedule with yours. you find the note he leaves, stuck to the fridge door with a sacred heart magnet — rain check on lunch? duty calls :)
but why would jud lie? he’s never had a reason to, so it’s easy enough to tell yourself it’s fine. the first time, at least.
the next time gives you pause. jud has cleared out from the nave with suspicious efficiency before you can arrive to tidy up. the place is spotless, not even a crumb of communion on the altar. maybe you’re later than you realised, and he’d just cleaned up while waiting? but a glance at the time easily shoots down the flimsy attempt at rationalisation. you spend the rest of the day overanalysing every interaction you’ve had with jud, and it always ends up in the damned garage and your hand on his arm.
it’s really only by the end of today, when you’re on your way out, that these barely-formed suspicions are confirmed and transformed into a full-blown, gut-twisting guilt.
the sky is a grim shade of grey that bleeds into everything else. the rain gets heavier as soon as you step outside, threatening to soak into your socks — the least of your problems.
you’ve just gotten to your car, distracted by another day without jud offering to walk you out. as you stand there, fishing through your bag for your keys, there’s a flash of movement — slow and dark, just out of the corner of your eye.
instinctively, your head tips back to look. raindrops pelt at your cheeks, even with the church-loaned umbrella (jud’s) as you follow the blur all the way up to jud’s attic room. there, in the miniature stained glass window, is the face of none other than the father in question.
it’s dark enough that you need to squint, and the relentless sheet of rain is like static in your vision, but even with only the dim lamplight emitting from his room, jud is unmistakable.
on a good day, just seeing the shape of his back makes your heart stutter in your chest. finally catching a glimpse after two whole days of missing him sends a jolt down your spine, a feeling so palpable it makes you freeze in place as you stare, lips parted on an inhale.
the window obscures half of jud’s face, but what you can see — pinched brows, lips downturned as he worries it between his teeth.
his blue-green eyes look almost black from where you’re standing, and while the shadows cutting across his scruffy jaw make him look more stern than you’ve ever seen him, he doesn’t look angry.
no, you realise as he drags a hand over his mouth. he’s thinking. you know that pensive look, how his eyes tend to narrow and the creases in his forehead deepen as he gets further lost in thought.
that should make you feel better, knowing that jud’s not glaring through his bedroom window as you drive off.
you watch him watch you, and the weight in your chest pulls tight when something in his eyes shifts. the whites of his eyes become visible when they widen, comically large. even though you can’t hear it from the ground, you can make out the beginnings of his startled “oh, shit” just as he stumbles back from the window.
whatever bubble of relief you’d felt pops, right then and there. his silhouette gone entirely. the guilt and shame returns tenfold, making a home in the pit of your belly.
you don’t stay much longer after that.
—
he could’ve asked you to stay.
fuck. he should’ve asked you to stay.
the television in the living room is alive with the ongoing report on the storm landing in the area. jud has to turn up the volume just to hear past the drum of rain.
his cheeks had still been flushed from his blunder upstairs when he made it to the front steps, barely catching your taillights as you pulled off the property into the dark. he had half the mind to chase after you, on his bike and everything, but a window slamming shut somewhere in the house had jolted him back to reality.
he’s still dripping from when he’d rushed through the woods to close up the church, but the small puddle forming on the rug is inconsequential when it really dawns on him that you shouldn’t be driving in this weather.
a pang of frustration flares in jud’s chest — where did this storm even come from, anyway? if not for the torrential downpour, he might’ve been able to stop you before you drove off. then he could’ve apologised for gawking at you through the window like a creep.
but jud knows he’s not really pissed off at the rain. if he were you, he too would drive far, far away from the pervert priest who looks up your skirt and stares at you through windows.
jud buries his face in his hands as a wave of dizziness hits him with how tight his gut twists at the memory of it. he wrenches his mind away from anything relating to you since he’s proven to himself he cannot be trusted with it.
so he decides to keep busy, roaming through the house to triple check the windows and doors, before the paradoxical shame of his lack of it can make him keel over on the spot.
—
he’s only just slipped a dry shirt over his head when the knock comes.
three taps, and then silence. it’s a little eerie, and jud knows better than to let his imagination run wild, but he swears he’s seen a horror movie exactly like this.
the compassionate side of his brain outweighs the caution because what if it’s someone who got turned around in the woods, or someone hurt?
jud’s pulling the door open before he can think to brace himself for an axe-wielding killer.
he should’ve braced a little though, because the sight of you there on his doorstep — soaked to the bone with your wet hair plastered to your face — actually punches the air out of his lungs.
“i’m sorry,” your voice cracks, shoulders caving from the weight of your wet clothes. “i know you’re mad at me and you have every right but my- my car broke down and there’s a tree in the road and i didn’t know where else to go—“
jud can practically hear his heart shatter from the shakiness of your voice. your chin wobbles, and when he looks past your shoulder, he hopes against all hopes that your car will somehow manifest into existence because he can’t bear the thought of you walking through this storm. all the while he’d been safe and in warm shelter, standing there like an idiot debating whether to call you.
“jesus,” jud sucks in a breath through his teeth when you visibly shiver. “c’mere.”
he draws you into his chest with an arm hooked over your shoulder. doesn’t care that his fresh set of clothes are getting wet. his other arm winds around your waist, effectively locking you against him.
the relief is instant, the way you melt into his warmth. your cheek is pressed to his sternum — you can hear his heartbeat like this.
his long fingers stroke over the curve of your shoulder, as he speaks, lips just barely brushing over your hairline. “‘m not mad,” he murmurs, “could never be mad at you, angel.”
jud is almost bewildered by how you’d think that, but he finds himself reduced to the base instinct of needing desperately to make you feel better.
your head lifts, glassy eyes searching his, and when you find no deceit — that he’s not just lying for your benefit — your face crumples, because you simply don’t deserve him.
“hey,” jud’s voice is soft, and he has to try really hard to not smile at how you feel in his arms considering your tears are falling freely now. one hand comes to cradle your cheek, catching the tears in their tracks.
you sniffle, momentarily distracted by how his hand covers the entire side of your face. “are you sure you’re not mad? you’re not just saying that?”
jud can’t stop the soft laugh that escapes his chest. “promise i’m not mad,” he shakes his head, smiling to himself because he’s the farthest thing from it. “we can talk about that later, okay? let’s get you warm first.”
and part of you is still unconvinced, because he’s confirmed there is something to talk about. but he leads you up the stairs with his hand in yours, and he doesn’t let go, even as you come to a stop in front of his room.
you don’t have time to hesitate, nor do you even need to glance up at jud for his assent before he pulls you over the threshold, and there it is.
you don’t even bother trying to hide how you look around, taking in the space entirely his. the coat rack with a single coat, the empty duffle shoved underneath it, the pictures he’s stuck on the wall next to his bed.
you come to a stop in the centre of his room — sitting on his bed feels… overzealous.
jud’s eyes squint when he gives you a reassuring smile before he turns, letting you snoop in peace as he rifles through the small wardrobe.
it hits you then you’ve never actually seen jud in… normal clothes. the all-black is nice — you’d be the last to argue it isn’t — but something about the way his t-shirt sleeves pull tight across shoulders, and how the thin grey fabric does so little to hide the rippling of his back. his sweats hanging low on his hips, drawstring lopsided — it’s the most relaxed you’ve ever seen him.
he turns back to you with a stack of clothes in his hand and a towel in the other.
“i hope you don’t mind,” jud says, and he knows he could probably dig up something better fitting in the church basement, something that doesn’t belong solely to him, but, alas, the rain.
you shake your head, eyes still wide from trying to take everything in, like this is the last time you’ll be in this room. you’re glad he doesn’t know just how much you don’t mind.
“thank you, jud,” you tell him, moving to take the stack of fabric from him. your fingers brush his, and when you look up, his eyes are already on you. the intensity nearly makes you flinch, fingers tightening around the clothes just as he blinks quickly, jerking his hands back.
“sorry- i’ll, uh, i’ll be downstairs,” jud stutters, and nearly bumps into the doorframe in his haste to leave, cheeks dusted in a familiar shade of pink.
you’re left alone in his room with a stack of his clothes in hand, and the thought that maybe you should’ve just stayed in your car. but he’d held you against him so easily, and it had felt so right to be cradled against his chest.
his hand on yours, big and warm as he pulled you through the halls of his home, as if you didn’t know the place inside and out already.
and now you’re about to strip down and put on his clothes, in his room. and you know it’s wrong, so wrong, but you send up a thanks to god for the storm.
—
jud busies himself in the kitchen, working on autopilot as he flicks on the kettle and prepares your tea the way he remembers you like it.
he’s standing there, watching the water boil when the soft padding of footsteps come up behind him. you’re still blotting your hair dry with the towel, but you’re mostly dried and your cheeks have been washed of the mascara tracks.
now that jud knows you’re safe and sound, he should be relieved, but standing there, with a mug in hand, he feels as if he’s walked right into a trap of his own making.
you, in his clothes, nearly fells father jud.
god, and he’d hand-picked the clothes too — his old sleep shirt, worn thin from use and gingham boxers. the sleeves fall nearly to your elbows, and the collar’s long been stretched loose, revealing the dip where your neck meets your shoulder.
he should be better than this. jud curses whatever remnant caveman dna is making his mind go blank at the idea of you wearing him, smelling like him-
“tea?” jud chokes out, holding the mug out in a last-ditch effort of keeping himself from you at arms length.
mercifully, and to his disappointment, you take it from him – this time without your hands touching. he catches the edges of a smile across the steam billowing in front of your face, and when you turn towards the den, he’s following like a dog with a bone.
you settle on one end of the couch, and jud tucks his large frame into the other end, pointedly leaving a respectable gap between his leg and your bare one. jud doesn’t let himself linger on the sight of your soft skin, just curls his fingers into the fabric of his sweats and waits, because by now he knows it’s not a matter of if, but when.
your nail absentmindedly traces the lip of your mug. you pretend to watch the news for a little, trying to remember the words you’d practiced in the car, but with every shift in his seat, your attention flickers over to jud.
he perks up when your throat finally clears, and you set the mug down on the coffee table. he follows your every move, in the hopes he can get a better sense of what you’re thinking.
you twist to face him directly, leg bending as you scoot just the slightest bit closer in the guise of settling in. jud mirrors you, leaning his side into the couch as his arm come up to rest along the back. bridging the distance, yet still so far away.
“jud,” you start, and it feels a little pathetic how he wants to sigh at the sound of his name from your lips.
“i should apologise. i know you’ve been avoiding me–” you shoot him a look when his face scrunches, sheepish as his mouth opens to protest. “– i know you have, and i know why.”
jud’s heart drops to the depths of hell. do you know? did you overhear him in his bedroom that day? his face pales, mortified at the notion that you’ve been forced to work in proximity with your utterly corrupt priest every day since.
“you do?” jud’s voice is weak, dread filling his lungs.
“it was so wrong of me to corner you in the garage like that!” you blurt, hands coming up to cover your face, “-especially after you helped me with the ladder, and said all those kind things about me. i’m so sorry, jud, i was being completely inappropriate.”
jud’s mouth falls open, and the repenting on the tip of his tongue dissolves into thin air. his head tilts, eyes narrowing only slightly as your words sink in.
you’re frowning, hands wrung in your lap as your gaze fixes on his shirt, all too self-conscious to look him square in the face after naming the elephant in the room. all the while you’re none the wiser to the hiccuping delight spreading in jud’s gut because he thinks you might be the sweetest thing he’s ever seen.
this whole time, you’ve been worried you were inappropriate?
if only to assuage your guilt, he has the sudden urge to tell you the reason he’d had to avoid you in the kitchen every day was because all he could think of in there was pressing you against the counter and kissing you stupid. among other things.
like how he couldn’t be in the nave alone with you because it would’ve felt too raw, like picking at a fresh wound for him to be thinking of you in all the ways he shouldn’t under the watchful eye of christ on the cross.
jud worried it would’ve felt more sinful to deny these thoughts in front of him. because if the lord had put you in his path, not as a test, but as a blessing, would it be worse to turn away from the gift, than into it?
jud catches himself before he can lay it all out, even thought he knows he should. the only way out is through, this much he knows. it’s only his luck that his way out is staring up at him with watery eyes and a pink, guilt-ridden pout.
“it’s okay,” jud soothes, low and gentle like approaching a wounded animal.
your head shakes, sniffling as you protest, “it’s not okay. you’re a priest, i should know better, and- and this is your home! if i’m making you uncomfortable you have every right to fire me, or-“
“woah, hey,” jud can’t help it, he shifts closer down the length of the couch, hands coming over yours as they wave frantically through your spiral. “i’m not going to fire you. take a breath with me, c’mon.”
you follow as jud’s chest expands on a deep inhale. on the exhale, the weight of his hands on yours hits you, and your fingers curl tighter into him.
“that’s good,” he smiles, “listen to me for a second, okay?”
when you nod, albeit reluctantly, he sweeps a thumb over your knuckles in reward.
“i’m not mad,” jud tells you, with all the certainty in the world. your shoulders drop a little as relief starts to take hold.
“you didn’t make me… uncomfortable, either.” jud shakes his head. quite the opposite, he thinks, and feels his ears burn in consequence. he tries to conjure the right word for what exactly you made him feel — everything comes up too simple. no single word to explain how he’s been kept up for nights on end because he can’t stop replaying every conversation he’s had with you. how can just one word describe the devout, pathetically hopeful way he scans the pews at every service, hoping to see your face among the rest, even when he knows he won’t?
jud’s always considered himself a man of faith. faith in himself to pull himself out of the ring, all blood and teeth and gore; faith in the lord to embrace him when he least deserves it. and now, with your hand in his, he believes in his very core that the decision he’s making is the right one.
“i should be the one apologising.”
your brows furrow as your expression quickly grows puzzled. you can’t imagine he’s done anything to you to warrant an apology.
“i haven’t been honest,” jud’s voice is uncharacteristically small, and you lean in to hear him better because god forbid you miss a single word. your fingers squeeze his, as though urging him to spill his deepest secrets. if you asked, he would.
“about what?”
the question lands like a punch. jud knows how to take one, but this one feels like there’s no getting back up from it.
your heart is hammering hard and fast in your chest. a hopeful thread begins to unfurl somewhere deep, and the rational part of your brain that screams to not get ahead of yourself, to expect disappointment, is smothered by jud’s thigh bumping into yours. when had you gotten so close?
jud’s chin dips, steeling himself with a breath as the last vestiges of sense lose its grip on him.
“since the day i met you, i’ve been lying through my teeth,” truth pours from him, and he feels himself getting lighter with every word that escapes.
“to you, and to myself. and i’m tired,” jud laughs quietly, because damn, does it feel good to finally breathe his feelings to life.
you’re only slightly concerned, just for a moment, that he could be building to something bad, because it sounds bad. but then—
“i’m tired of pretending i’m not in love with you.”
your ears ring with the confession. love, love, love. jud is in love. jud is in love with you. your head swims as his face softens, lines smoothed in relief. he sits a little taller, filling out his end of the couch as the weight visibly leaves his shoulders.
it’s only when one moment passes into another, and you’re still rooted to your spot, eyes wide and darting all over his face that he begins to feel a little worry.
his hand drags against yours, half like he’s trying to snap you out of it and a little too much like he’s pulling back. both your hands fly to keep him where he is, cradled in your lap.
his eyes flicker up to your face, where you’ve thawed and your mouth is moving with barely-formed sentences.
“you- this whole time? when did- are you-” you stumble over the words, and jud lets you with an perpetual fondness that he’s only now freely letting show.
“are you sure?” you manage, searching for any hesitation in the man sitting before you, knee tucked against yours, letting you take his hand hostage.
jud’s face brightens in a grin, laughing like it’s the easiest question in the world. “yes, i’m sure.”
the corners of your lips droop, unable to stop the doubt from creeping in, even with how quick he’d been to answer. and you really don’t want to ask, afraid to pop the lovesick bubble you’ve found yourself in, but no part of you wants jud to suffer in the face of your actions.
“what about…” your hand waves weakly towards the ceiling.
before he can think better of it, jud’s arm resting on the back of the couch lifts, coming to cup your cheek instead. makes it so you can’t look away when he sighs your name, soft around the edges.
“the lord knows what i feel,” jud tells you, voice hushed but firm with certainty. it reminds you of when he’s up in the pulpit, speaking with gentle conviction. “i’ve asked for signs, for guidance, and every single time, there you are.”
you worry your lip as the possibilities bounce around your head. he could be defrocked, excommunicated, shunned from the community he’s spent so long cultivating. everything he has, put on the line for you.
but he doesn’t seem worried, not the way you are. he looks at you with the peace of a man who’s made up his mind, regardless of the consequences.
like he can read your mind, he lowers his face, all that much closer to yours, and murmurs, “whatever happens to me, it’ll have been worth it.”
nobody could blame you for surrendering. not when the pad of his thumb pulls at your bottom lip, smoothing over the indents left by your teeth. his forehead presses to yours, slow, like you might bolt if he moves any faster.
“i don’t want you to regret this,” you whisper. to regret me.
jud’s head shakes — the barest turn of his face that nudges his nose against yours. you shudder on an inhale as his breath warms your lips.
the last thing you see is jud’s lashes fluttering as his eyes shut, and his tongue darts out to wet his lips before he speaks. “never going to happen.”
your lips quirk on the ghost of a laugh. for a moment, neither of you move. the house is still, and even the rain seems to have calmed, if only to hear the shared breaths in the space between waiting lips.
you’ll never be able to tell who closed the gap, but does it really matter, when jud’s mouth is finally on yours? his lips press into yours softly, as if he’s scared of getting it wrong. just a little self-conscious, because he’s more than a little out of practice.
but you’re moving with him, falling into it — easy as breathing. that’s all he needs. he kisses you like it’s the only thing that makes sense anymore. pulling you in with a hand on the side of your neck, your pulse jumps under his digits with every slot of his lips between yours.
your hands lift from your lap, finding a new home in jud’s hair. fingers curling against his scalp, his mouth opens against you with a groan. to his utter delight, you waste no time in licking into his open mouth, tongue sliding against his as you shuffle closer.
braced on your knee, you lean over jud like this, and he’s quick to grab you by the waist to haul you into his lap. he doesn’t even bother with the pretense of pulling away — not when you’re practically melting into him, lips soft and wet and tasting like a fucking dream. jud’s dignity disintegrated the second he saw you in his clothes, and now he’s greedy, tugging at you like he can’t get enough.
“jud,” you sigh, settling your weight comfortably atop his strong thighs. his lips chase yours, and he manages to sneak two kisses before you’re parting again. blue eyes blink open at the lack of you, but when he’s met with the sight of you atop him, panting and lips swollen, his mind goes blank.
“say it again,” your request follows your fingers lacing at the nape of his neck. jud looks up at you, eyes glazed and blinking slow. his answering smile is content, and just a little too pleased.
“‘m in love with you.” jud murmurs, and before he can finish his sentence, you’re descending upon him again.
his own hands draw a lazy path up and down your sides, less frantic than he had been just moments ago. he wonders briefly if this is a dream, because it wouldn’t be the first time. he kisses you slow and deep, memorising the taste of you just in case it is. jud thinks he could do this forever.
your hips shift just so, and the flimsy boxers do little to disguise the growing hardness beneath you. you feel more than hear jud’s sharp inhale, the sound adding to the heat stirring in your core. his fingers grip at your hips, locking you firmly in place so he can grind up. his head is thrown back, a shameful moan tearing from his throat as his semi nudges at you through the layers of fabric.
“shit-” jud’s voice cracks when you offer one in return, hips drawing slow circles if only to coax more of those sounds out of him. the seam of your boxers nudges at your clit when you drag yourself along his length just right, and you’re whimpering into his ear as you lower your chest to his.
“jud,” you pant, unabashedly riding your priest through his clothes. he chokes back a sigh at the breathy sigh of his name, and slips his fingers up the back of your shirt.
“you’re sure about this?” you ask again, dizzy with the effort it takes to form a coherent sentence as your inner thighs grow sticky.
jud nearly whines, a huff of exasperation as his hardened cock juts into your thigh. “yes,” his big hands span the length of your spine, and you actually feel him twitch when he realises you’re not wearing a bra under his shirt. “you don’t feel how sure i am?”
your eyes roll, capturing his lips with yours once more. when you part, jud’s eyes sober for a moment as he catches your chin, and asks earnestly, “do you want this?”
your fingers play with his hair at the nape of his neck as you pretend to mull it over. jud’s face scrunches at your exaggerated expressions, because if he still can’t tell, then you’ll just have to show him. you tell him as much, pecking him once. “i want you, jud.”
the smile that breaks across jud’s face is like the sun. he carries you up the stairs, and you have to hide the way the easy display of strength has your cheeks heating.
jud’s bedroom door is kicked open, just as your lips latch onto his neck, tracing the tattoo with your tongue the way you’ve always wanted. his grip on you tightens, digging into the backs of your thighs when he feels the light drag of teeth against the sensitive skin.
you finally get to see the tattoo in its entirety, now that jud’s out of his clerical collar. the cherub and its devil counterpart, serendipity inked underneath. jud shivers when you make a happy sort of hum, because serendipity is exactly it. moving back home, taking the job nobody else wanted — it all led you here, straight through those church doors and into jud’s arms.
something possessive swirls in your heart when you’re struck by the desire to leave your mark alongside the permanent. lips sealing just under the angel, you suck at his neck until he whines, or bruises — whichever happens first.
you hadn’t noticed when jud lowered you onto his bed. it smells like him, clean and soft with the mingling of his soap and the old spice deodorant sitting on the nightstand. you shuffle back to give jud space, but the man lowers onto his knees. you’re rendered speechless at the sight of him knelt between your thighs.
“will you let me make you feel good?” jud all but whispers, cheek pressed to the inside of your knee. his pupils have taken over the pretty blue-greens you so love, reverent gaze entirely darkened as he peers up, faltering at your covered core. it makes you clench around nothing, watching him try to drag his eyes up to yours only to flicker back down.
“please.” it comes out a little desperate, and when jud doesn’t move, you think for a split second to be embarrassed. until his entire chest heaves with a deep moan, and presses his face into the inside of your thigh. he leaves a lingering kiss there, murmuring under his breath — thank you, thank you, thank you.
his hands slide up your legs, smiling at the gooseflesh that follows. he finds your eyes, glassy and hopeful, when his fingers tug at the leg of your boxers. “can i take these off?”
your hips lift in response, and he muffles a grateful chuckle that sends heat to your face. “always so helpful,” he hums. the fabric is tossed somewhere behind him, and your head goes fuzzy with anticipation. jud’s warm breaths fan over your core, entranced.
his head dips, and then his mouth is on you. glides his tongue up your folds, and jud thinks he’s died and gone to heaven because you taste better than he ever dreamed. tells you exactly that with his brows pulled tight, muffled by how he can’t seem to drag himself away from your weeping pussy.
he suckles at your clit, and smiles to himself when your hips lift off the bed. any worries of his inexperience quashed as your heavy breaths delve into drawn-out keening. jud eats at you like a man starved, drawing out more of your slick and those pretty moans.
“s’fucking sweet,” he’s practically purring into your pussy, vibrations shooting up your spine when he groans at the feel of your fingers winding through his hair and tugging.
“fuck,” you choke on a moan when that familiar heat begins to stir in your tummy. your head lifts to say something, anything to warn him, but whatever words on the tip of your tug die on a gasp when the tip of jud’s finger sinks inside and curls.
the cry of his name is cracked and utterly broken.
“there?”
you can practically hear the cheeky smirk in his voice and nudge him admonishingly with your knee. he does it again, and your walls clamping down around him is answer enough.
jud doesn’t even need to look to know there’s a growing wet patch on the front of his sweats. it feels so fucking right to be exactly on his knees for you, drinking you in — not even god could drag him away now.
“jud, i think ‘m gonna-”
he pulls away only long enough to say, “let me have it, honey.” he leaves a sweet kiss at your hipbone, mouth shining in the dim lamplight. “please cum for me.”
when you do, you can barely tell apart the rain outside from the rushing in your ears. jud clutches at your hips when your back arches, instinctively trying to move away from the source of your blinding pleasure but he doesn’t let up. lapping at your release with a grateful sigh, he rides you through your high until you’re tugging his head away with your nails in his scalp.
jud looks entirely pussydrunk — dazed eyes, hair mussed, mouth and chin glistening with you and those signature red-tipped ears. his tongue darts out, tasting the remnants of you and wanting more.
“was that- did i do okay?”
you watch, bewildered, as jud rubs at the back of his neck — the same man that had you clawing at his sheets. your hands cover your face, because you can’t stop the giggle bubbling in your chest.
“i’ll take that as a compliment,” jud pulls your hands away with a grin, and face-to-face again, suddenly you’re shy. cheeks blazing, you pull his face to yours and kiss him hard, if only so he doesn’t get the chance to tease you.
you can taste yourself on him, licking into his mouth for more. jud sighs, content to just lay atop you like this and kiss you for hours.
his mind is quickly changed when your hand starts a path down, palming at his cock through his sweats. jud’s mouth drops open, physically unable to keep up with kissing as you loosen the drawstrings and slide under the waistband.
jud pulses in your grip, skin so feverish and soft as you give him an experimental squeeze. his breath stutters as his body draws tight, like he’s bracing for a hit.
your thumb glides over his tip, and the reaction is instant. jud flinches with a surprised groan, head falling into the crook of your neck to hide the way his face tightens at the building pleasure, all from your hand alone. his stubble tickles, but the wet breaths he’s gasping against your jugular is worth it.
you stroke him slow and long with one hand, the other coming up to card through his messy locks. “what do you want, jud?” you whisper, lips brushing his ear while his hips twitch with little thrusts. “-hm? we don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”
maybe it’s something about the tone of your voice. how you’re cooing at him as you cradle his head to your neck, so tender and patient even as he fucks into your hand. jud’s brain goes static, images of everything he does want to do flashing before his eyes. but he knows he doesn’t want to cum like this, with only your hand and layers of clothes separating you.
so he lifts his head, kisses you once and presses his forehead to yours. “i want all of you.”
“you have me.”
something in the air shifts. jud moves against you, still hungry but lacking the hurry, the greed. hearing you say it out loud makes something click in his brain, slows him down. like this, with you in his bed and the storm outside, he can fool himself into thinking he has all the time in the world.
his shirt comes off, and he lets you trace the tattoo across his chest, run your fingers down the planes of his abdomen. in turn, your hands raise for jud to drag the shirt up and over your head.
“you’re so beautiful,” he breathes, lowering his lips to your sternum and kisses his path down. savours the low mewl he earns when he drags a nipple into his wet mouth, and another when he flicks the other between calloused fingertips.
“jud,” now you’re the impatient one, shoving at the band of his sweats as he stays blissfully lost in your chest, sucking lovebites into the tops of your tits. mumbling more to himself, “been dreaming ‘bout this.”
jud hums placatingly at the call of his name, distracted, oblivious to your struggle to not flip him over and have your way. you push up on your heels in search of friction. trying again, this time lacing your plea with a needy whine. “jud.”
“yeah, baby?”
“are you going to fuck me or not?”
it’s bratty enough for jud to pinch your side — not hard, just enough to make you arch even further into him with a surprised yelp,
“i was getting to that,” he tells you with a soft laugh, and finally kicks off his sweats. his cock, flushed an angry red hangs heavy against his thigh. on top of everything else, jud is big.
the sight of all of him bare steals your breath. his body tells a story, scars and ink and lithe muscles coming together to form the man kneeling over you now — your jud. kind, sweet, good jud duplenticy.
he tries his best not to blush, but it’s hard not to when your eyes are roaming over every exposed inch of him. nobody’s looked at him like this in years, and he’d wholly believed nobody would again.
“you’re perfect, jud,” you say it like it’s a fact. he shakes his head, smiling as he looks away, like you’ve just told him something funny. that only strengthens your resolve.
“hey, i mean it,” frowning slightly at his albeit gorgeous side profile, “look at me.”
jud follows obediently, fondly. leans into it when your palm comes up to cup his cheek, your thumb stroking under his eye.
“i love you,” you say, because you want him to know. if within these walls, now, is the only time you get to be with jud, you need him to know.
jud’s head lowers in the softest kiss you’ve shared so far. it’s chaste, and somehow feels like the first ever. jud pours all his heart into it — he’s always been better with action than with words. he thinks about every time his heart’s stuttered because of you, the hours he’d counted until he could see you again, and seals each silent confession with a kiss.
the weight of jud’s body above yours is grounding, because with the way he’s parting your lips with his tongue, you feel like you might actually float. the tension in the room thickens, the sloppy sounds of his kisses reaching your ears.
you’re all too aware of his length between your bodies, slotted by the seam of your inner thigh. he’s so warm, and coats your skin in slick — you don’t think he even realises how he’s rutting against your leg, too engrossed in tasting your spit.
“want you inside,” you pull away for breath, murmuring against his open mouth. his cock twitches on your thigh, and you can see the moment it all hits jud. he thinks there’s something magic about your lips, because the throbbing between his legs returns tenfold the second he’s separated from you.
“mmph- shit,” jud bites his lip to muffle the surprised moan when your leg shifts and his length comes to rest atop your mound. his tip nudges at your clit, and just the slightest contact reduces you to near tears. you’re so wet it hurts, and the sight of his leaking cock so close to where you need him has you clenching around nothing in anticipation.
“please, oh my god, jud,” you cry, chasing the sensation with your hips, “need you– pleasepleaseplease.”
jud’s head clears, tunnel-visioned on how you need him, and how he can make it better. driven by the primal need to take care of you. he nods soothingly, smoothing the sweaty strands of hair out of your face and parting your thighs to slot himself between them.
“don’t have to beg, angel, i got you,” he hums, taking his length in hand and notching it at your entrance. he watches you for any hesitation, and when you call out for him again, he pushes in — slow, for both your benefit.
the stretch is intense, even with your first orgasm. but jud is moaning, loud and unabashed in your ear, and you can feel yourself getting wetter — with each broken whimper, the deeper he sinks.
“oh, god,” jud’s voice trembles when his gaze lowers to where you end and he begins. eyes the way your lips stretch to take him, and the next thrust is involuntary, driving himself almost all the way to the hilt. “you feel so good-”
your fingers fly to his biceps, digging your nails in as he carves a space for himself within you. he’s so big, you feel his blunt cockhead nudging at the spot inside that you’ve always struggled to reach yourself. he watches you go speechless, eyes rolled back into your head.
“taking me so well, honey,” jud whispers, head falling to your collarbone with a guttural groan when he bottoms out. he can feel you pulsing around him, and the gripping wet heat makes him falter before he can even begin to move.
“i’m sorry, i- it’s been a while. don’t think i’ll last long,” jud whines, breathing hard as your nails trail down his shoulder blades. he shudders, and his hips roll experimentally. the drag out makes him see stars, the way your pussy clings to him like you don’t want him to go.
“it’s okay,” you reassure him. a gush of wetness soaks his cock at the image, and jud thinks you really are an angel.
his thrusts start slow, shallow thrusts that give him a fighting chance. when your thighs twitch, he lifts them to his waist. it pulls him in further, and as each thrust grows quicker, harder, your breathing grows more ragged.
jud swears freely under his breath, drawing you up in his arms as he locks you against his chest.
“mhmm- like that,” you whimper, face smushed against his shoulder. he hits that spot with every push inside, and the sticky sounds of his balls hitting your ass makes your ears burn.
“shit- i’m close, so close- i’m sorry,” jud whimpers, sniffling as he actually goes a little misty-eyed from how good it feels. he’s trying so fucking hard not to cum before he can get you there again, but you’re not making it easy with how you keep panting his name like it’s the only thing you can think of.
his fingers drop to your clit, rubbing tight circles in a last-ditch attempt as he feels his orgasm closing in on him. you’re drooling on his shoulder as you jolt, bucking in time with his staccato thrusts.
jud moves to pull out, but your legs stay locked tight around his waist. his brows pinch in panic, but he doesn’t stop. “baby, i have to- need to pull out-”
your head shakes, a hair away from tipping over the edge yourself. staring up at him with tears in your eyes, so, so close. “inside,” you whimper, “‘m safe. want to feel you fill me up.”
jud’s vision goes white, burying himself as deep as he can go when he cums, releasing rope after rope into you. you’re all too happy to soak it all up, milking it out of him as your orgasm hits in quick succession. your back arches, nails cutting into his shoulders as you cling onto him for dear life.
he moans sharp and raw, riding out the aftershocks with gentle thrusts, pushing his release deeper inside your womb as you shudder below him. it all gets too much, and his arms give out, bringing his chest to yours.
the remaining air in your lung whooshes out of you, because jud is heavier than he looks. he laughs, equally breathless. he rolls off of you, still nestled in your heat as he drags you atop him.
“hi,” you grin, leaning in to kiss him, relaxed and familiar. he smiles into it, running a soothing hand up and down your back.
“hello,” jud chuckles. you’re both sweaty, and more than a little sticky, but neither of you can even fathom moving right now.
“that was fun,” you hum, tucking your chin under his as his arms curl around your waist. jud huffs in amusement, lips pressed to your hair.
“that’s one way to put it,” jud’s chest rumbles, and it’s so comfortable like this, curled under the covers, you feel your eyelids drooping against your will.
he thinks you’ve fallen asleep, and lets himself blatantly stare. he still can’t believe this is real, a little scared to fall asleep in case it really is all just a dream. he wonders if he could go back to before, when having you like this was nothing but a doomed, sinful fantasy.
jud gets his answer when you mumble, “have to get my car.” words jumbled together as you fight the edges of sleep, he knows there’s no going back.
“i’ll take care of it,” he promises.
jud must drift off too, because the next time he wakes, the room is cloaked in darkness. you’re still clinging to him, out cold and snoring softly. it’s still raining, and the world is still turning. he thanks god for the path created for him, and with an angel holding his heart in her hands, jud thinks he’s where he was always meant to be.
don't sink in me with your dog teeth (god’s country) • jud duplenticy
pairing: father jud duplenticy x f!housekeeper!reader
series synopsis: after monsignor wicks’ mess, the church gets popular real fast. you assumed this housekeeping job would be easy enough, but nobody thought to tell you about the hot priest on site.
content: nsfw, 18+ minors dni, wake up dead man spoilers, falling in love type shit, a lot of this is in jud’s pov, religious guilt, corruption but he's okay with it (kind of), lust in the house of god, accidental upskirt moment, teasing, m!masturbation, ruhroh a priest jerks off in this one, religion kink, college grad reader (not mentioned but implied in the series)
notes: UM did i rewatch the epilogue and realise the timing in this fic is totally off? why yes! pretend u don’t notice! i'm so so so grateful for all the comments on the previous chapters, and i hope you like this one too! apologies as i edge reader and jud for yet another chapter - i was going to fit the last chapter into this one, but with everything going on ik i probably won't be able to work on the next for a while. disclaimer again that i respect all religions and this is entirely a work of fiction and i do apologise if i get anything wrong as i am not religious myself!
word count: 4.6k
read part one and two of 《 god’s country 》 here!
masterlist
as always, this is an 18+ blog, minors dni!
people start talking by your second month at the church – the mystery young woman loitering into the late hours, particularly friendly with the priest and worst of all, never in attendance at sunday mass.
for all their talk of attendance, you’ve probably spent more time than any of the congregation listening to father jud. you’ve seen him, shoulders hunched and head dipped low as he drafts notes for the week’s sermons.
sometimes he asks if you’ll listen, give him a few pointers — he says it’s good to get an ‘unbiased third opinion’. tries to convince himself, all the while, that the jump in his pulse when you readily agree is entirely unrelated to getting to spend uninterrupted time with you.
(“you don’t think it sounds too… preachy?”)
(“just the right amount, actually.”)
jud doesn’t ask why you’re never among the faces lining the pews, and he doesn’t expect you to tell him. he extends the invitation, anyway.
“well, you’re always welcome,” he reminds you, and because he already knows your answer, he’ll quickly add, “if you ever feel like it.”
he never pushed, but with him sitting you down almost every sunday to go over his pile of talking points, two mugs of steaming coffee between you as you watch him come alive rehearsing the important bits in the warm evening light, you think you’re starting to get the appeal.
—
the congregation is nothing if not nosy, and when he has to reassure yet another elderly couple that no, that is not an unholy spirit disappearing into the supply closet, he decides enough is enough.
the first sunday mass of summer is a busy one. for a lot of people, it’ll be their first with jud, and he really, really wants to make a good impression. he spends the night before pacing in his attic room (he has his choice of rooms in the rectory now, but something about the simple, unassuming space feels right), muttering quotes and openings and closings under his breath.
it feels like half the town is packed into the pews — more than he’d anticipated. up in the pulpit, jud’s hands clench tight around the pages of his worn bible as he looks out at all the faces — some familiar, some new — and then down at the single cue card he’d prepared.
a smiley face drawn in the top left corner, and squished in the margins is your handwriting — you’re gonna nail it!
he runs a finger over the ink, tracing over the ridges left by the pen, by your hand. he can practically hear the way you would’ve laughed at your own joke as you put it to paper.
it crosses his mind a second too late that he’s grinning to himself, up in plain view of the congregation. jud quickly schools his face into something more poised, serene even though his heart is galloping in his chest. he clears his throat, leans into the mic, and begins.
—
towards the end of the hour, when jud would typically bid the congregation a good day, he clears his throat into the mic, breaking the hum of politely hushed chatter.
“before you all go,” he begins, rushing his words, for his sake or theirs — he’s not entirely sure, “as some of you may have noticed, we have a new member of staff here at the church who is very much real and allowed to be on church grounds after hours–”
he falters only a second, debating whether to give your name to the masses. his logical brain, the jud who knows better, says why shouldn’t they know your name? it would even do some good to take away the mystery from what he knows first-hand to be an imaginative crowd. it’s not like you’re a secret, and yet…
jud doesn’t want to share. the worst part is he knows it’s completely wrong and downright possessive, which he’s not supposed to be — he’s not, anymore. but something inside that he believed to be dormant says once they have this piece of you, it’ll be one less for himself — and that’s ridiculous, because he doesn’t get to have you, at all.
your name ends up coming out hoarse, barely audible over the growing buzz in the nave. he can hear the questions bubbling up, and one particularly sharp voice stands out among the rest–
“is she part of the congregation?”
the murmurs die down as the hall waits for jud’s answer. his eyes narrow, only for a second.
“that’s not exactly for me to share–"
“so, you’re saying she’s not? she can work in a church but not attend?” another voice pipes up, pitched self-righteously high.
jud can hear the blood rushing in his ears and wills himself to take a breath. “i understand your concerns, i really do,” his hands raise earnestly, “but everyone is welcome here. when you walk through those doors every weekend, you make the choice to be here, in god’s presence, right?”
the protesting voices blend back into the blur as jud spots heads in the front rows nodding.
“she’s in here almost every day, much earlier than anybody, myself included, keeping this place in the best condition it can be for you, me and the person sitting next to you to come back to. she cares, and i think that matters, above everything else.”
jud’s leans back from the mic with a soft exhale, chest tight as the nave fills with the sounds of hushed agreements and resolution.
“just… try saying ‘hi’, okay? i promise she’s very nice.”
and with that, jud knows it’s time to shut up before he says something embarrassing or worse, incriminating. the congregation files out into the courtyard, and after the few people who stay behind have spoken their fill with father jud, he’s the only one left in the nave, and the only one to see him groan into his hands.
‘very nice’? really? of all the words he could use to describe you, he lands on nice.
‘nice’ doesn’t even begin to cover it. you bring baked goods into the office, claiming you overestimated the measurements and ended up with too much, but it happens often enough that there’s no way it’s an accident every time, right?
you also stay much later than you need to. for all intents and purposes, you should be long gone by the time he returns to the rectory for dinner, but somehow you’re always conveniently tidying up in the kitchen, and whatever leftovers jud had saved the night before are being warmed up in the shoddy microwave.
some days you’ll linger, distracted by how jud asks about your day and how his food goes cold with how intently he’s listening. you watch him lean on his elbows, and you wonder if he even realises he’s inching closer to where your own hands lay on the table.
and then there’s the time you find him asleep at his desk in the office. it’s already dark out, and you’re ready to head home after a long day, but his neck is craned far too low and it looks wildly uncomfortable.
you can already imagine the crick developing in his neck. it’s all too easy, sickeningly natural to move across the room, debating whether it’d be better to wake him or leave him a pillow when he stirs, brows furrowing as he blinks back into consciousness.
“wha– hey,” jud groans softly, tinged with confusion as he sees you watching him with bated breath. “what time is it?”
“just past nine,” you reply quietly, still wondering if you should get him that pillow. his head still hovers over the desk, eyes squinted in a full-face scrunch as he adjusts to the lamplight.
“go to bed, jud.” it comes out gentle, and you may as well be singing a lullaby the way his eyes are drooping again. he presses his forehead flat to the desk and shakes his head, stubborn and sleepy.
“mm– ‘s too far,” he mumbles, muffled by the crook of his arm, “don’ worry ‘bout me.”
but you do, and you don’t think he even notices how much you do, how often you think of the lone priest, left to keep the church running in the aftermath of such a mess. running on fumes, to the point where even sleeping on solid wood is better than making the two-minute journey to his bed.
you almost believe he’s fallen asleep again, when his head shoots up. he’s so exhausted the first place his eyes land is way off to your left.
“are you heading out? i can walk you–”
“will you at least move to the couch?” you cut him off with a fond shake of your head.
he grunts into his arms in agreement, and you take that as a win. you only get a second longer to admire his sleepy form, curled up in a chair a size too small for his long limbs.
jud drags himself over to the far corner of the office where a rickety, worn-down couch awaits and plops himself down on it unceremoniously. it creaks in protest under his weight, but he curls into the cushions and he’s out like a light within seconds.
when jud wakes the next day, he’s covered with a blanket and all the lights are off — not the way he remembers leaving it.
it’s then he registers with a rush that he hadn’t dreamed of you returning last night, and the feeling of you draping the blanket up to his chin wasn’t conjured up by his sleep-addled brain.
it becomes mortifying, when he recalls how he’d reached out groggily, catching your hand in his as he mumbled something that had made perfect sense in the half-asleep, half-awake haze.
(if he ever asks, he’ll find out he spoke all of two words of gibberish, and your name, while his thumb swept circles over the back of your hand.)
—
jud realises, belatedly, all alone in the nave, that you’re taking care of him. the notion punches a breath out of his chest. he turns his face up towards the cross, hand-carved and staring back at him as his features crumple in anguish.
it shouldn’t feel this good. to be looked after, to have the weight lifted from his shoulders by the hands of another. the warmth sours in his chest, because he shouldn’t want for this. he hasn’t needed to in a long, long time. jud knows he is taken care of, by hands he can’t see, the same way he knows the familiar weight of prayer spilling from his lips should be enough.
an icy streak of terror hits him, just as guilt settles heavy in his stomach when he realises he doesn’t know if it’s enough anymore.
jud’s breath comes fast, and he doesn’t know if this counts as a crisis of faith but it feels like one, and maybe he should just get struck down on the spot—
be it a divine signal or the world’s best timed coincidence — a muffled, sustained wail travels through the walls.
jud, still in his vestments, wastes no time in following the sound. his own panic is muted now, temporarily overtaken by the concern for whatever helpless creature was emitting the noise.
by the time he gets to the back of the building, the sound has faded, and to his bewilderment, is replaced by… giggling?
jud rounds the corner with a rush of breath, and he’s met with the sight of you, smack dab in the middle of the hall door with a four year-old glued to your side.
“oh– hi, father jud!” you grin when the pair of you take notice of him, only slightly winded. jud’s eyes rove over your frame, giving you a onceover to make sure you’re okay–
“this is aiden.” you say to jud, before you lean down, whispering to the kid, comically loud,
“that’s who i was telling you about.”
the boy has your hand clutched in his tiny grasp, cheeks blotchy as both of you look up at him expectantly.
jud blinks, blue eyes flickering between you and the boy, then back again with a questioning tilt of his head. “hey there, aiden,” he says, smiling kindly down at the kid, still wondering how he’d even gotten all the way back here in the first place.
“we seem to have an explorer on our hands,” you say, voice warm while shooting jud a look over the kid’s head as you mouth, “looking for mom.”
“ah,” jud nods, crouching so he’s eye-level with the boy, “let’s get you back to your mom. how’s that sound, bud?”
the boy’s head turns to you with a dubious frown inherent to a four year-old, but when you nod encouragingly, he mirrors the motion to jud, who grins and leads the way out to the nave.
the short walk there, you’re talking aiden’s ear off about the cool things you’ve found while exploring the church yourself. jud finds himself grinning lopsidedly amidst aiden’s ooh’s and ahh’s, eyes meeting yours over his shoulder with a wink when you mention getting locked in the supply closet once and waiting a whole hour to be rescued by the same man rescuing you and aiden now.
sure enough, when you make it back to the nave, there’s a woman rushing down the aisle calling out for her son. she thanks you and jud fervently, eyes glassy when she sweeps the boy into her arms.
jud watches you wave to aiden as he goes, until he’s carried past the doors, and then you turn back to him with a wistful smile.
“cute kid,” is all you say, “we should probably think about getting child locks, though.”
jud hums in agreement, but his mind is elsewhere. far, far away, refusing to entertain the possibility that he’s already fallen too deep.
—
the sun’s almost at its peak when jud finds you the next day. he’s starting to think you might have taken the day off, but there you are — in the garage, no less.
it’s hot out, stifling to an almost unbearable degree. jud’s sleeves are rolled up and he already feels his shirt sticking to his back within minutes of stepping out into the sun.
he’s relieved to have found you so quickly, and in the shade, but then he clocks that you’re way higher up than you normally are, and just about has a heart attack on the spot.
you’re on a ladder — the wobbly one with a loose rung — perched precariously as your arms stretch, deft fingers twisting a lightbulb loose. you’re teetering (to him, you are), or maybe you’re only shifting your weight — either way, it kicks him into gear.
“jesus,” he hisses as he rushes over to the open garage door, closing the distance with large strides. “what are you–”
you glance down when the ladder suddenly seems much more firmly rooted to the ground. your brows raise, hands still raised above your head as you find jud with his own hands wrapped around the ladder legs, bracing his weight against it.
“oh! hi, jud,” you grin, turning your attention back to the bulb, “what’s up?”
“this thing is so old, ‘s not safe– you should’ve told me if you needed help,” he admonishes, breathless as his fingers curl tighter around the wood. his focus is cast low, making sure all four legs stay planted.
“i don’t,” you chirp, huffing in victory when the old bulb finally gives. you tilt your head down, finding jud with a triumphant grin that turns teasing, “but you’re welcome to stay, if it makes you feel better.”
it would, actually. and he raises his gaze to tell you exactly that, but you’ve turned away again to fit in the new bulb. it’s in that split second that it all goes to shit.
it’s a hot day, and that’s probably why you’re wearing a dress. no ulterior motive, and you’re always telling him they’re more practical than you’d think, especially in this heat, but he distantly suspects it’s a new method of torture, and a highly effective one at that.
it’s a hot day, and the garage door is lifted to let in the odd gust of cool air. jud questions the ‘practicality’ of your dress, and his own sanity when the hem flutters up with the breeze, and he catches an eyeful of lace and soft, pillowy flesh curving up from the back of your thighs.
the man chokes on a breath, blinking hard and fast to try and erase what he’s just seen. but it’s hopeless — he’s hopeless — jud doesn’t think he’ll ever forget it (nor will he let himself).
he feels dirty, and it’s probably a complete violation of your trust, because this is the one place of all places you should be safe from wandering eyes and he’s just gone and become exactly that–
and god, it’s pathetic, but that one look shakes his very core. he’s been good, holding it together. refusing to let you see just how bad the cracks have spread in his resolve, all from the mere weight of the depth of his feelings for you.
he wants so desperately to be good, but he’s already replaying the moment on loop, and his stomach plummets when he realises he’s actually getting hard, out here in the open, all from getting a two-second glimpse at your fucking panties.
“you doing okay down there?” your voice calls out, and he wonders if you know. would it be better, or worse if you did? if this was intentional, and you’re happy to let him look – would that somehow wash away his sin?
jud hums, but his voice cracks and he coughs into his shoulder before you can question him. he needs to get it together, and he absolutely cannot look at you right now. not just because he can feel how his face is blazing and beet red, he also worries that if you look hard enough you’ll see right through him.
but it’s impossible. his eyes dart all over the garage, only to end up where he started. there are grass stains on the hem of your dress, and he can see up close the soil that’s smeared over your knees.
he pictures you in the garden, on your knees in the dirt, darkened eyes staring up at him straight into his soul, and he has to bite his cheek to stop the ragged gasp clawing up his throat when it hits him that he’s been pressing his hips into the ladder.
he can feel himself throbbing, and he’s so fucking hot under his collar he thinks he might actually pass out. how long does it take to change a lightbulb? have you been done with it this whole time?
he’s both relieved and a little disappointed when you ask him to try the light switch. it offers reprieve, if only for a moment, where he’s not actively caught in your orbit and plummeting faster than he can catch himself.
he conjures up images of literally anything, runs through his to-do list for the day, forcing it to the forefront of his mind so he doesn’t turn back around with an obvious tent in his slacks.
the garage light flickers on with a low buzz when his hand reaches the panel. across the room, you shoot him a satisfied grin, and when you actually do wobble this time, he’s approaching you again without a second thought.
“let me do it next time, okay?” jud says, a healthy distance away from where he wants to be. “don’t want you falling and cracking your head open.”
he really can’t help it when he offers his arm for you to hold onto as you make your way down the ladder. your fingers close around his forearm, and his whole body tenses like he’s been shocked.
a muscle jumps in his forearm, mirroring the clench of his jaw when your nails press lightly into his skin. like he’s watching from outside his body, his other hand hovers over your lower back, close enough to feel your heat as he guides you back to the ground.
he’s already making an escape plan — to hide away in the dark somewhere and have a stern talking to with himself. but your feet come to a stop almost between his, and you’re closer than you’ve ever been. your hand still on his arm.
jud’s chest heaves with the effort it takes to slow his heartbeat.
“thanks,” you say on an exhale, brushing away your hair as it sticks to the back of your neck. jud nods stiffly, thinking you’ll move on to your next task and he can scramble off to wherever he can be alone with his sick mind and that will be that.
but you stay firmly rooted to your spot, going way off script when your gaze drifts over his face. how he’s chewing on the inside of his cheek and it makes his lips twitch, eyes pointedly avoiding yours.
“say…” you begin, releasing your hold on him as your voice takes on a syrupy edge. “you wouldn’t happen to know why three separate people have come up to me today to chat, would you?”
and maybe it’s a little mean to watch jud flounder for a response, the tips of his ears burning red, when you know the answer to your own question. he feels like a mouse caught in the claws of a cat who plays with its food before devouring. that twisted voice in his head hopes for the same treatment.
“i don’t–” he stammers, but then like clouds breaking, his lips spread into a surprised, borderline disbelieving smile, “wait, really?”
you nod, all business-like. “oh, yeah. something about wanting to get to know the new housekeeper and the person keeping their priest fed, and making sure the brand of communion wafer doesn’t change with the leadership–”
jud snorts, shaking his head as he realises you’re messing with him. and damn, he likes it. he relaxes, shoulders falling from where they’d practically been up to his ears. “alright, alright.”
“i’m serious! and i can’t believe you never told me we had a ghost living in the supply closet.”
he breaks into a real laugh at that, bright and melodic as you feign indignance. “i figured any ghost would be more scared of you than you are of it.”
your lips part, eyes twinkling when he plays along, finally meeting yours once more. your brows raise, and up close like this, jud can see the moment you decide what to say next — your lips twitch with the ghost of a smirk.
“is that so?” you lean in, and it’s much too close. if anyone were to walk by now, there’d be no good explanation. but jud doesn’t move away — he lets it happen, wants you close. he can think of an excuse later when he’s on his knees in prayer.
“-because i thought i was nice,” you hum, and when he doesn’t shy from your proximity, your fingers find their place on his arm again, this time tracing the tattoo near the crook of his elbow.
jud visibly shudders, and you bite your lip to hide a pleased grin. you apply more pressure, dragging down the length of his forearm, along the path of raised veins.
“you–” jud’s voice trembles, eyes widening as it hits him that you’re real. your hands are really on him, touching him. “you are nice.”
“very nice?” you murmur, lashes fluttering as you watch his crumbling composure. you can’t tear your eyes away — you wouldn’t dare.
“mmhm.” jud hums, not trusting his voice as his eyes squeeze shut. he’s so lightheaded. maybe the heat will get to him first, but at the rate this is going, you’ll be the death of him.
his pretty eyes are clenched tight, dark brows furrowed as he pants through his nose. he’s oblivious to the way you drink him in, licking your lips at the way sweat beads along his hairline, his pulse jumping in his throat, just shy of the devil cherub tattoo.
your gaze trails lower, hungry and greedy, like this may very well be the only time you get to see him like this.
the hand not preoccupied with yours is clenched by his side. lower, down to where his very obvious problem strains against the stiff fabric of his pants.
your breath hitches audibly, and you might actually hear angels singing. heat coils tight behind your hips, and you feel sticky between your thighs. everything you want is standing right in front of you but–
jud looks in pain, physically and mentally, and if he holds his breath any longer he might actually explode. so you take pity on the poor man, even though it burns you to do it.
“jud,” you murmur, withdrawing your hand. his eyes open wide and uncertain, glassy as he follows your every move as if missing even a second would wound him. “i heard what you said to them. thank you for standing up for me.”
you leave him there before he can think of something to say, brain totally and utterly short-circuited from the barest touch of your skin on his.
—
jud stumbles up to his room, blinking hard to shake the fog heavy in his head. he feels almost drunk, clinging to the bannister. his abdomen clenches with every step he takes, the friction of his starchy uniform rubbing against his cock in a way that forces him to grit his teeth.
he doesn’t even lock the door behind him. just falls to his knees on the wooden floor, forehead pressed to the foot of his bed as a strained groan escapes his bite-swollen lips.
“god,” he groans, hands clamped above his head, “i’m sorry, ‘m sorry–”
maybe there is an unholy spirit. maybe it’s possessed him and that’s why his hands are flying to his belt. the clink of the buckle shoots shame straight at his heart, but it’s not enough to make him stop — not with how his cock pulses within its confines, and it’s becoming uncomfortable and sticky with how he’s leaking like a fucking faucet.
it’s been a while, and when he pulls his length out, jud has to bite on his knuckles with a bruising force to keep his whimpering from echoing down the hall.
he’s not patient. he can’t be when all he can see, even with his eyes wide open are your thighs, the curve of your ass and the dip between your legs where the fabric had darkened slightly–
jud whines helplessly, and with every fevered pass of his thumb over his swollen head, he can feel himself hurtling closer to the edge. he presses his forehead harder against the mattress when he pictures your fluttering lashes, the curve of your lips when you smile.
his hips buck sharply as he thinks of your fingers on his wrist, how they’d feel in his hair, in his mouth, replacing his own around his cock–
it happens too fast, yet not fast enough. the cord snaps, and with it, his resolve. jud cums with a pained cry, teeth catching at his knuckles, at his shoulder when he turns his head to muffle the pathetic sounds seeping out of him. his back bows, hot ropes spilling over his fingers. he pants, open-mouthed into his quilt.
jud stays that way, knelt by the foot of his bed. pandora’s box has been wrenched opened, and he knows the ache will come back, just as he accepts he’s powerless in the face of it — of you.
