father jud's eyes that were squeezed shut in ecstacy were now open. and they'd never looked so vulnerable. sad, shameful eyes, almost on the verge of tears. there was nothing but his rosary between the two of you, flopping on his taut abdomen with every thrust, catching him in the act. witnessing sin.
a small of course left your lips and you instinctively pulled him into a hug, your bodies still attached to one another. he hugged you tighter, impossibly tighter, as if he was trying to erase any distance between the two of you. his large arms wrapped around your torso, pulling you close. he seemed to unwittingly slip deeper inside of you, and you felt the pleasure caught in your chest.
he nuzzled his face into the crook of your neck, hiding away. the few seconds of silence seemed to stretch indefinitely creating a cold stillness in the air you were hesitant to interrupt. but you had to.
"is everything okay?" you whispered. if he wasn't so close, he'd barely be able to hear you. you heard him sniffle.
"i- i don't know. i thought i was better than this. i really did."
you swallowed. you didn't want it to come to this. or maybe you did. part of you knew this would never end well. he wouldnt leave the priesthood, not that you'd want him to. you'd never become a catholic. even if you did, exceeding in devotion and singing the psalms all through chimney rock, it wouldnt end well. he wasnt that kind of person. he'd never make this mistake again. you knew, if the day ever came, you'd have to make the most of it.
but why were you guilty then? you had no obligation. no oath. no vow.
"we can stop. you know that right? just tell me and we can just –"
"i don't want to," he interupted. "the worst part is, i don't want to. and even now..."
you run your nails down his back, softly. he squirms inside of you.
"...you feel so fucking good." with this shameful confession, he buries his face back into the nape of your neck. there's nothing you can do but sigh. you want to hold him, till the end of time, till he doesn't have to feel this way.
"fuck, i'm so sorry."
"you're just a person, jud. a vessel of the lord's message, sure, but still a person. c'mon, look at me," you say, and he does. his face, as beautiful as the first day you saw it, now stained with a single tear. you can feel him trying to apologize, you can see the guilt circling his eyes.
"and so am i. i'm not some sinful temptation sent by the devil," you say, cupping his face in your hands, "you wouldn't fall for that."
"i don't want to make you feel like that, ever. it's not you. it's me, i came here. i came here hoping, praying even, to land up where i am."
you wipe away the tears from his face, kissing him on his cheeks.
"praying worked out for you then," you say. he smiles. for the first time in what feels like forever, he smiles that same abashed smile, his gaze downcast and innocent. it makes your heart flutter a bit. he licks his lips before softly planting them on yours. its almost chaste, slow at first but all the more erotic. his hand presses against your back and you feel the cold metal of the cross on your stomach.
"i guess i should probably make the most of it then."
summary: you come to chimney rock for the winter season, not expecting to become acquainted with the new priest of our lady of perpetual grace*
pairing: jud duplenticy x fem!reader
word count: 6.3k
tags: spoilers for wake up dead man (2025), meet-cute, strangers-to-lovers, yearning, minor religious guilt, light drinking, porn-with-plot, oral sex (f!receiving), p-in-v sex, a dash of angst — 18+, MINORS DNI
cross-posted to ao3
a/n: first-time (maybe last time?) writing smut, but the fic was asking for it SMH enjoy
Chimney Rock is too small. You’re only there for Winter, staying in upstate New York for a couple months of break with family, and there simply isn’t enough to do. Your choice of leisure ranges from driving to the supermarket twenty-minutes out, making your way all the way down to New York City, or going to church down the street. A month ago, you would’ve chosen the supermarket.
You’re late to the very first homily you decide to haul yourself over to. It’s snowing out, and you’re trying to drudge your borrowed white-pickup down the road to the local church. It’s only when you park that you see that the rooftop is dusted with a generous layer of snow, and you realize then that the building’s likely too old for central heating. Twenty-minutes late. You decide to take your coat. You let yourself in through the front doors, pulling the left-side open, slipping yourself through the open crack, and gently shutting it closed. When you turn around, you see that the pews are already well-filled with members of the parish—bundled up in heavy coats and packed alongside one another. The priest—yes, that’s him—stands in the empty center of the pulpit.
He’s young, can’t be older than mid-thirties—and he’s… really too much your type. Aside from the purple-and-gold chasuble he has on, the combination of his dark features and the rugged look he has about is pleasing to the eye. It’s strange, his look, because it doesn’t nearly match up to the soft timbre of his voice. The priest is midway reading off a stack of pages he has resting on the pulpit when you slide yourself into the last row of pews, drop your leather bag off to the side on the stone floor.
“I have seen the burden God has laid on the human race,” he recites, “He has made everything beautiful in its time. He has also set eternity in the human heart; yet no one can fathom what God has done from beginning to end. I know that there is nothing better for people than to be happy and to do good while they live.” You’re very sure that his eyes pass over your general area, the empty last-row, save for one. It’s a flight-response that makes you lower your gaze down to your shoes.
“You know, I think it’s unbelievably easy to feel down on your luck. Especially in times like these. We go into debt, we get into accidents, we watch the news… we feel awful. Many people—faithful or otherwise—go through this life lacking any feeling of agency. Dread, it’s like an illness that you can’t shake off. It’s only human. But, there is a plan set, ordained by God. You only have to remind yourself that it’s there.”
Shockingly, you don’t find yourself sticking it out. You’re not sure if it’s because he’s good-looking, or if you’re actually taking in what he’s saying. Something about the way he speaks makes your chest feel a bit lighter. A good speaker, that’s all he is, making you feel. Everything he says—minus the verses, which you often hear can’t quite grasp—seems grounded in mundane things like this. And, when the homily ends, you find yourself somewhat aloof.
You let yourself take in more of your surroundings that you passed off on your entry inside, while the rest of the parish trickles out. Our Lady of Perpetual Grace is a beautiful building, no doubt. All the vaulted arches, the stained-glass windows, and dark-oak pews make for a very nice architectural design—though, you’re very sure that a small-town church like this is made more out of concrete mixes than it is marble. It smells just like an old bookstore, save for the tall pine-scented candles that have been scattered around the perimeter of the nave.
In your little look-around, you realize that you’re the last person seated. The tactful murmuring between churchgoers has all but disappeared, and not having intended on sticking around, you go to gather up your bag off the floor and rush for the lot. Your book and wallet have appeared to slip out of the main pocket. It isn’t until you go to gather them back up that you see the leather shoes park right next to them. He’s there, the priest, right beside you—chasuble shed, a black-button up and black trousers. He gives polite nods to the last couple of congregants who thank him intently as they leave, hands tucked into his pockets—before looking down at you. Two things run through your mind. First: you regret sticking around, because you really don’t want “the talk.” Second: he’s even more handsome up-close.
“Father Duplenticy,” he offers to you. Warm eyes. He hastily slips his hands out of his pockets to shake your hand—like he’s just remembered his manners—and he makes sure to clasp his hand over yours with the handshake. His fingers are tinged with warmth as they brush the back of your hand. A short respite from the shivering-cold of the church. “Jud,” he tells you, “You’re welcome to call me Jud.” Deliciously handsome. You return your name back to him as you pull your bag over your shoulder… he only smiles at the sound of your voice traveling back to him. He drops your hand, and you let it fall into your lap with your other.
“It’s very easy to recognize a new face here. Are you just passing through town, or have you moved?” he asks you.
“Here for the Winter, actually. Staying with family down on Moor Street.” His head tilts. Thoughtfully, it seems he’s trying to map out where your place is; you remember hearing some townspeak about him at the supermarket or the butcher’s. Relatively new to town, a priest new to the parish, took over the church in some odd long-past tragedy…
“Oh! That’s close,” Jud hums. It takes another moment for him to ask you (because he’s bound to ask): “Catholic?”
You resolutely shake your head. “I believe things happen the way they’re supposed to. I don’t know whether it’s God, fate, or something unnameable,” you tell him, “Haven’t ever cared much to find out. But, I just figured it would be good for me to get out of the house and be around people. So I came.” He’s not as disappointed as you think he’s going to be—or, at least he doesn’t show it. Only listens, with his soft smile.
“You came,” Jud echoes, hands back into his pockets. “That’s the most I can ask for.”
“Would you like to sit down?”
“Oh, may I?” he asks. “I hope you’re not in any rush to go.” Your small scoot across the pew and the movement of your leather bag to the other side of you gives him ample space to sit. And, he leaves ample space between the two of you. It’s then that you see it: the slightly-faded tattoo printed into the side of his neck—peeking just outside of his collar. It takes quite a bit of effort to peel your eyes away from it and back towards the nave. He huffs, “You’d be surprised how much time I spend on my feet here.”
As far as you know, he’s the only person running this entire place. It seems like far too much work. “Do you get lonely?”
“Well, there’s always the parish. People pop in and out when they need to, and the quiet’s actually very nice. I grew up in Albany, so—”
“So, you don’t miss the city at all.”
He chuckles, scratching the scruff of his beard, “Not one bit. Maybe I’ll pop in to see family every once and while—but it gets tiring, you know? All the bustle. Packed streets. Dulls in comparison to somewhere like here.” There’s nothing but trees for at least a couple acres out, and you suppose he could be right. Peace in solitude. Then again, you just have to ask:
“So, you don’t get freaked out about someone breaking in while you’re sleeping? Or… ghosts?”
He lets out a breathy laugh, the kind that you’d kill to hear again. “I don’t live in the church. There’s a house just past the trees, that way.” He shoots his index finger up towards one of the side-windows of the church.
“Ah, that’s nice. You’ll have to show me it sometime.” It rolls off your tongue too easily. What are you doing? It’s not even in your nature to flirt—let alone flirt with a priest. The worst part is that he doesn’t even bat an eye.
“Sure. Just say the word.” Maybe, it’s the nature of his job that makes him say it. Or, he feels just as warm as you do.
You don’t know what you’re trying to offer him. But, you know he’d do well with company. You want to spend time with him. But, you try to remind yourself that you can’t enjoy it too much. You’re on limited time in Chimney Rock, and he’s got a calling. So a little window-shopping sort of fascination with him—church on Sundays—is all you’ll allow.
—
Which brings you to a holiday luncheon outside the church, a month after. His idea. There are a couple of the regulars (the quirky, disparate kind you haven’t quite chatted with yet); kids from the main town waddling around in circles around the foldable tables, amongst the throes of mingling parents; a handful of seniors driven over by bus from the old folks’ home; and you. Jud has portioned off a section of the lawn with an array of wooden posts, with white Christmas lights strewn across the tops. It’s pretty.
You yourself have come along in the most churchly sort of outfit you could whip up. You’re not sure why. Because you don’t want to stand out. Or, you want to impress him. You detest yourself for not bringing a thicker coat. All you’ve got on is a cotton sweater, a long pleated-black skirt, white calf-length socks, and your leather loafers. You also detest yourself for not having many friends in town to bring to this thing. There’s only him.
Same-old all-black, little white-tab of his clerical collar peeking out from his thick jacket. He’s the cool priest. Young, tattooed, ring on his pinky finger, rosary hanging out of his pocket. The parish flock to him, naturally—buzzing alive to meet his boyish enthusiasm.
You’re leaning against one of the outer walls of the church, clinging to yourself as you watch Jud peel into a tangerine off the snack table. He seems to be talking to one of the parents—whose juvenile teenager is running along somewhere, probably smoking a cigarette behind the church; the parish is never short of needing help, and Jud’s never short of advice. He digs his thumbnail into the skin of the fruit, spritzing up citrus. It’s clean-cut, the way he runs his long, nimble fingers just beneath the husk of the fruit to make one long orange strip. It’s in this same fashion that you imagine he completes his little woodworking projects, taking the chisel to the block, curling rounded chips onto the floor. He slips slices of the tangerine past his lips as he listens to the mother’s ardent complaints. What kills you—really, kills you—is the sight of him glancing over at you every now and again. He’s making sure that you’re still there.
You’re very sure that God will want to smite you down himself if you stare any harder. So, you look back around towards the senior’s table and try not to tremble from the cold. Another couple of minutes pass. Jud dismisses himself from the conversation, leaving a comforting pat upon the distressed mother’s arm. Then, he comes to meet you at the wall.
You’re almost dazzled when he takes your hand softly into his and presses the other half of the tangerine into your palm. He leans against the wall with you. “Having a good time?”
“You know, I don’t really know anyone here but you,” you tell him, taking a tangerine slice into your mouth and chewing, “But all things considered, it’s not a bad party.” Jud crosses his arms.
“Right,” he grins. “Well, if you stick around, there’s going to be White Elephant.” Your eyes trace a couple of elementary-school kids who are playing tag right in front of the two of you; they shoot straight past Jud, and he tries to give them a gentle warning to slow down, before turning back to you.
“I didn’t bring a gift, but I’m sure it’ll be a fun watch,” you snort. Right about now, it’s an hour in, and you’re just happy to have gotten the chance to chat with him. You toss another slice into your mouth. “You got volunteers this time. That’s really good. Less of you running around like a headless chicken.”
“Alright, that’s a little bit facetious of you.” Jud tries to be as scornful as he can, but you’re only making him grin even wider. “Seriously, though. The women from the thrift store in town have been extremely kind in their willingness to help me set this up. I think I’d better give them a thank-you card or a gift for the holidays.”
“I think they probably just want you wrapped up in a bow.” Jud gives you a wary look, but doesn’t try to correct you on it. A bit of a blush creeps up his neck and fanning across his cheeks. Some kind of guilt wracks your body for teasing him like this, so you give him a murmured “Sorry.”
“I think they’re calling me,” he slips out. He pushes himself up off the wall and makes his way across the lot. You swear you can see him pulling at his collar as he walks back towards the snack table.
—
A couple hours later, the luncheon’s all wrapped up—and it’s nearing sundown. You’ve stuck around to make sure that you can give Father Duplenticy a more ardent apology for your being too much. You see him hauling foldable chairs from the parking lot back into the church, so with a bit of urgency you take up one with each hand and follow closely behind him.
He must hear your clunky footsteps, because as soon as he reaches the storage closet inside the church, with you on his tail, he softly says: “You really don’t have to stick around to help me with this.” Very dismissive. You’ve got a good view of his back as he lifts the chairs into closets. Deliberately, Jud takes the two chairs from your grip, and loads them into the closet with the rest.
“I don’t have anything better to do,” you remind him. “And, I’m still very sorry for being so… you know, flirty. So I owe you one.” He shuts the closet door, finally, and turns around to face you—sucking a deep breath in through his teeth, and letting out a gentle sigh.
“You haven’t done anything at all. It’s me. I… should be more clear with my intent. I’m supposed to be—no, I need to be,” Jud rambles on, “I was too hasty in becoming your friend.”
“Too hasty?” you murmur. Needless to say, you’re very confused. Up to this point, you’ve been convinced that you’ve been treating him too casually. To hear this shakes you up, just a bit. It’s like Jud’s sweating himself out, and you aren’t even sure why.
“You’re very pretty, and I should’ve turned you away. Showed you to the door,” he clenches his jaw. So, that’s why. He’s attracted to you, too—and he doesn’t know what to do with himself. You swallow nervously, unconsciously smoothing your skirt down with your palms. Jud himself rubs his palms together, trying to ascertain what you’re thinking; clearly, he doesn’t come up with much, because he’s just waiting for you to respond with something. Anything.
“Do you drink?”
—
It’s neither of your goals to get sloshed. It’s against your dignity, and it’s certainly against his priesthood. So, the two of you pocket the flask out of the back of your pickup and then run along to Jud’s house in the woods—alternating taking little swigs. Back-and-forth. A part of you wonders if this is the most you’ll be getting from him. Indirect kisses from the metal lip of the flask.
Sometime on the walk between the pick-up truck and Jud’s, he swings his thick coat over your shoulders—clearly having taken note of your suppressed shivering. You trample atop the mulch, past the tall trees. You’re astounded that Jud knows how to navigate through this thick woods, especially in the dark. It’s only a ten-minute walk away from the church that you come upon them: the large red-brick house, straight out of some kind of storybook. “Holy shit.”
“Parsonage,” Jud says, leading you down the path. “That’s what they call the house designated for clergymen.” All things considered, it is his normal. The two of you make it up the porch; Jud is quick to unlock the front door with the keys in his pocket.
“This place is way too big for just you,” you comment, “What is it—three beds?” He swings the door open, stepping aside to let you walk in first. He takes his coat off of your shoulders (regretfully, you wish he’d just let you keep it) and tosses it onto the coat rack just beside the front door.
“Three beds, two bathrooms. Attic, too. And, an office space—just here,” he nods towards the left of you two. To the right, there’s a rather sizable living room with enough space for a large family. Everything’s already well-decorated—all sconces and old, sixties-style patterned furniture. You’re certain that the majority of it doesn’t belong to him, but to the Church. Or, the previous members of the clergy. Still, it’s a beautiful, homely space.
“I’ll give you the tour. Come on.”
—
The house is in a pretty good condition for its age, and it’s essentially fully-furnished. You’d be jealous of Jud, a whole place to himself, if it weren’t for the events of last year. He gives you a smooth tour of the entire first floor—office, living room, kitchen… It’s only in the attic, a punching bag hanging on metal chains, that holds you up. You don’t even have to ask for Jud to give you the rundown.
“I used to be a boxer. When I was a kid,” he tells you. The tattoo makes more sense now. You try to picture it in your head. Jud Duplenticy, the boxer—bruises littering his cheeks, a busted lip. The guy you know, but a little bit younger and a lot more nutty. Then, you have to think about him using it now. Black-sleeves rolled up to his forearms, flurrying the bag with hard-knuckles punches.
“That’s a pretty big switch.”
“Had to. It wasn’t good, or right, for me. I was reckless, haughty, easy to pick a fight with, and I… killed a guy. In the ring,” he confesses to you. Your eyebrows furrow. Jud looks at you with a bit of a wince across his face, in anticipation of your reaction. “I had a messy life before I started doing this. Before going to school, getting ordained. Before cleaning myself of the blood.”
The urgent need to grab his hand, to make him feel better, gets roused out of you. You can feel the callouses on his palms brush against yours. You want to tell him that he’s a good priest—a good man—but the sentiment gets caught in your throat. You think he gets it, regardless. His lips part for just a moment, and then quickly shut, blue-gray eyes glazed-over. So, you’re a bit buzzed. He’s a bit buzzed, too.
Jud guides you out of the garage by your hand and back into the main hall. The walls are lined with frames of historical pictures of Chimney Rock, photos of the church, and some of Jud with the parish. He looks contemplative at them, and then at you. Cautiously, he lowers his voice: “I was meaning to tell you earlier that your… uh…” With his free hand, Jud points to your getup, from the top down: the cotton sweater, a long pleated-black skirt, white calf-length socks, and your leather loafers. You want to die a little bit inside.
“Please, don’t mention it. I thought I’d dress up more like a churchgoer for your luncheon thing. I don’t know why.” You pull both of your hands up to plant them over your face—too embarrassed to even consider the implication of it. You, a people pleaser of all things.
“No, it’s nice. You looked very nice today. That’s what I was trying to say.” Jud pries your hands away from your face, voice crackling as he tries to contain his laugh, all stuttery-breathed. It’s hard for you not to snicker with him as he wrestles both of your hands into his. Once the two of you finally settle, melded together like two wily teenagers that Jud asks, “Did you dress like this for me?”
“I wanted to play good congregant.” Jud’s fingers laces between yours.
“You don’t have to ‘play’ it. You already come around all the time to watch the sermons. You pray—or, pretend to, I think. You help clean up after the events. The only thing you don’t do is confess.”
“That might be the one thing you can’t get me to do,” you chortle. He gives you that look again. You know what he wants from you—and by now, it’s very clear that you’ve got very little discipline when it comes to Jud. You tell him—only half-serious, “Fine. Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. My last confession was… well, now’s the first time. And, I confess that I’ve continued to entertain impure thoughts. Possibly, sacrilegious thoughts. And, I’ve come to church to satisfy my own greed.”
“How’s that?” It sobers you up—this look that he has on his face. All… hopeful. He already knows the answer, and he wants you to say it to him.
“My priest wants me as badly as I want him. And, even though I should opt to preserve his calling, all I’d really like to do is let him indulge.” You can see Jud’s jaw clench tight—the tattoo shifting with the strain of his neck. All he does is look at you. Your eyes, your lips, your clothes, and back up. In a sudden moment, Jud lets go of your hands to strut a ways away from you down the hall. You can see him run his hands through his dark hair, turned away from you. It’s the same sort of flight you saw earlier at the luncheon. It’s temptation and it’s terrible.
“I can leave,” you volunteer. “I should leave.” You can leave through the front door now, walk back up the path to your pick-up truck, and drive back home. You’re truly about to, taking a stalled step toward Jud.
He murmurs under his breath, “God, forgive me for what I’m going to do,” before making long strides down the hall and back to you. He wraps his hands desperately around your face to kiss you. You can’t help but melt into it. It’s nothing but pent-up feelings being passed between the two of you. Your hands travel down to his stomach—and Jud pushes you rough (rougher than intended) against the wall. “Sorry. Sorry,” he mutters, before going back in for seconds. The sensation of his mouth moving against yours gets you lightheaded and needy. He’s insatiable, kissing you like it’s the only thing he knows.
—
Jud takes you up to his room by the hand. There’s a standing lamp in the corner that he turns on dim so the two of you can see each other. He positions the two of you in the center of the room, wrapping his hands around your hips to press you against him. He leaves heavy kisses against your neck as you take a peek around the bedroom. There, you get a better picture of him. The room itself isn’t ostentatious at all. A made bed, a framed print of a street in Brooklyn. There’s a bunch of letters stacked on top of his desk—you can recognize his handwriting from a mile away; the sight of the wax and seal make you adore him just a bit more. “Do you have a pen pal?”
He pulls away from you, swiveling his head to look at the letters. “First friend I made in Chimney Rock. He doesn’t even live here.”
“Am I your second friend?” Jud turns to look down at you, eyes dilated.
“Yes,” he admits, swiping his thumbs against the flesh of your hips. “And, you don’t live here, either.”
“I can write to you, too.” Something about the sweetness in your voice conjures him to give you a gentle peck on your lips, not coated in the intensity that he’d had prior. It’s genuine. It makes your chest flutter. You remind him, “We don’t have to do anything, Jud. We can go back downstairs. Play a card game, or something.”
“I know. I just…I want to make it worthwhile for you,” he murmurs. It’s only then that you realize what he's trying to say. There’ll only be one time. After this, he goes back to Our Lady of Perpetual Grace. And, eventually, Winter will end, and you’ll leave Chimney Rock. The nature of this relationship—if you can even call it that—is fleeting. There’s a due date to it, and Jud wants to make the most of what he has of you.
As soon as you get on your tip-toes to kiss him back, Jud lets out a strangled sigh. He leaves another soft peck on your forehead. You pull his hands to the hem of the sweater. He pulls it over your head, and tosses it over his desk chair—before getting a clearer view of your body under the light. You’ve got a lacy white bra on. It makes him shudder. He helps you slip off your loafers, and places them neatly at the foot of his bed. While he moves them, you unzip your skirt and step out of it, revealing the matching bow-adorned white panties you’d chosen for the luncheon.
He swallows at the sight of your bare body. “Did you dress like this for me, too?”
This time, you give a measly: “Just in case.”
“Fuck.” He nudges you back, guiding you to lay on the bed. You prop yourself up just momentarily to get a better look at him straddling you, before letting your head hit the pillows. Jud has to smile to himself, running his hands from your ribs down to your stomach. The feeling of his roughened hands against your flesh makes you gasp. Jud comes up to give you another open-mouthed kiss, tugging soft at your bottom lip. “So pretty,” he huffs against the skin of your neck. Then, he moves to the center of your chest, hovering his lips over your sternum.
“I wanted to stay clean, you know. But, when you walked in on my homily that first time…” Jud continues down to your stomach. You writhe under his touch. “I liked you too quickly. I knew it, too. I liked you when you snuck in late, when you sat down, when we shook hands, and we chatted like you weren’t checking me out from the pews.” He never talks like this—with such a lack of caution.
Jud retreats away from you, off the bed. It’s chilly in his absence, but the sight of the warm lamp streaming against his body—lighting his slack-jawed face—makes the tension in your stomach grow. He makes sure to flip his collar up first, to click off his clerical collar and place it on the desk next to his letters. Then, he unbuttons his shirt a few down, and rolls up his sleeves. Jud pats the bed for you to scoot up to the edge, and you oblige. He takes his nimble fingers and uses them to slide your panties down your thighs and into his back pocket. He drops to his knees, straight onto the wooden floor with a soft thud. Then, he nudges your legs open, hands wrapped around them.
A small sensation of cold pressing against the back of your thigh makes you flinch; this startles him nearly as much as it does you. His hands are raised a couple inches from your skin, no closer. “Are you okay? Did I do something—?” So polite.
You hum, “No. It’s your ring, that’s all.” He looks down at his hand. Yes—he’s got a ring there that he wears everyday.
“Hold on,” Jud mumbles, pulling back from you. He slips the ring gingerly off of his pinky, and reaches for your left hand. You surrender it over to him, and he slides the sterling piece onto your ring finger. A perfect fit. You have to stop for a moment, glancing between the ring and him. Him and the ring. You suppose this is one way to lighten the sin. He caresses your calves with his hands, lays a soft kiss on your inner-thigh. “Better?”
“Yeah.” You take Jud’s fingers to your lips—leaving a soft kiss to his fingertips, and then guiding him between your legs. He circles his fingers around your clit, once, then twice, before finding a good pattern to pleasure you to. It isn’t long before he leans his head in to flattens tongue against you. You can only tilt your head back and soak in the sensation. He suckles at you and all you can do is let out wanton little noises in place of actual words. As soon as he hears you, Jud hums pleased, leaving lowly vibrations right onto your core.
The sight of his head buried between your legs is priceless. Worse, he’s pleased when you push his head in closer—letting out an unwavering groan as your fingertips brush over his scalp. The ring glints on your hand as he moves to lap at you. You roll your hips, trying to meet the pressure he’s giving to you. It doesn’t take long for you to get all wired, with Jud making quick swipes against your clit; in place of his mouth, he determinedly sinks his two middle fingers into you. Jud eases them into you slowly, curling them against your walls—watchful of what makes you the most responsive. It’s almost strategic, the way he finds just the right places to touch you. You can feel the muscles of your stomach tighten up as he works at your core. You cum hard on his calloused fingers, thighs jittery as you pant out his name.
Brazenly, he brings his fingers up to get a taste of you. The sight of his swollen lips and the languid movement he makes to lick his fingers clean makes you think too hard. “What’re we doing, Jud?”
He thinks for just a moment, hands resting on your thighs. “Things that I’ll have to repent for later. Heavily.” He lays another line of kisses on your thigh, still knelt down on the floor. “Can I…? I want to be inside you.” Jud wants permission. Your permission. You’re testing his will, his ability to follow through with his calling, and he still wants to be sure that you want it as much as he does. It makes you awfully forlorn, how temporary this whole ordeal is. How you’d like to spend most of your nights like this.
“Please,” you tell him. He gets back onto his feet, makes brisk movements to undo the buttons of his shirt, tugging it off and onto the floor. The white undershirt beneath—which gives him an almost domestic air about him—comes off too. After he kicks off his shoes, you help him undo his belt, sliding it out of the loops and dropping the heavy leather onto the floor. You note, as you reach to undo his zipper, that he’s pitched a generous tent. Probably all worked up from pleasing you. When you look up at him, still seated on the plush comforter of his bed, you can’t help but stare. He’s all toned, probably from the practiced boxing, and you’re too enamored not to reach out and trail your hand from his stomach down to the waistband of his boxers. He blows out air, trying to suppress a hearty groan.
“Lay back for me?” he murmurs, tracing his fingertips along the straps of your bra, over the lace of the cups. He unclasps your bra with a careful hand—gets your socks, too—and places them over his bedside dresser. You realize that this is the same kind of gentle-handedness that he uses with vestments and relics in the church. He’s careful with you, and your things, and it makes you want him all the much more.
You scoot onto the center of Jud’s bed and let him straddle you. Both of you are bare now, skin-to-skin. Against the mellow light, you can see him eyeing your tits. You lock him into another kiss, before guiding his hands to massage them; he squeezes them tenderly murmuring indescribably under his breath. Some mixture of “so pretty,” “perfect,” and “divine.”
It isn’t long until he positions himself at your entrance. You sling your arms over Jud’s shoulders—legs wide-open—as he eases his tip inside of you. You can only toss your head back, breath hitched. He stretches you out easily. Then, he stalls. Jud’s as stiff as a board, panting at your neck. “One second,” he slips out, “Just a second.” At first, you’re wondering if he’s regretting it. You want to tell him to relax, maybe ask again if he wants to stop. Jud must see the regret begin fester on your face, because he begins to shake his head eagerly, squeezing at your hips.
“No, no—it’s not that. It’s just… it has been a long, long time since I’ve been intimate with somebody, and I’m trying very hard… not to come before you do,” he rambles on. You want to laugh. It’s not funny. At least, not very funny. Jud lays his head onto your shoulder. His dark-black hair sweeps against your skin. “Oh, God.” Now, he’s embarrassed.
“No, it’s fine,” you giggle. “Jud, I don’t care. It’s whatever. It’s hot.” Though you’ve only known him for a short amount of time, it’s difficult not to treat Jud like an old friend. All casual and airy. He tilts his head up to look you in the eye, almost on the verge of laughing along. He lets out a bit of a smile, before thudding his forehead against yours.
“I do want to make this worthwhile, like I said. I’m not trying to waste this,” he reasserts.
“I’m completely confident that you aren’t going to.”
Another kiss, and he builds up the will to move inside of you. His movements waver at first, making sure that you’re alright, that he isn’t hurting you at all, before laying more heavily into you. Jud’s big—so big that you’re very sure that you aren’t going to last. He thrusts into you—one hand anchored to your hip and the other keeping a beating pressure on your clit. It’s like he slots naturally inside of you, built for it, and you don’t want him to stop. The roll of his hips, the way he’s teasing your clit with his thumb, hand coming up to swipe your bottom lip.
“Doing so good for me,” he hums. “Would you give me one more, honey?” Domesticity strikes again.
You’re not sure how much time passes. It’s this flurry of movement, you and Jud grinding against one another in missionary. Push-and-pull. He learns his way around your body quickly, taking easy note of what you appear most reactive to. He runs his hands all over you, and you him. When he feels that you’re close, Jud makes sure to pick up the pace—punching hard into your core. Your legs are aching, and you can feel the muscles of your stomach contract from the pleasure. It’s with pure fervor that he begins to ram into you, chasing the high. “C’mon, baby,” he grunts softly.
Jud finishes with one last push into you, releasing white-hot onto your walls. He lets out a whimper, a real, bonafide whimper, as soon as he’s buried to the hilt, pumping into you. A couple rough swipes onto your clit and you’re no better, hands clawing at his back—trying to pull him into you as you cum. Your bodies meld together in ecstasy—all sensitive and spent. Jud rolls off of you, before pulling you against him.
“Terrible,” you murmur, only half-sarcastic. “We are terrible.” By now, the ring wrapped around your finger is well-warmed by events of the night. Body heat, his and yours. Sweat. The band is just a little bit too big on you—so clearly his. You eye it, hand resting on the pillow. Jud reaches around to take your hand, examining the fit. “I want you to keep it,” he says, toying with your ring finger. He’s yours, and yet he isn’t at all.
Jud has a calling. He’s good at what he does, and you can’t get in the way of that. You know that you’ll have to wake up early in the morning to move your pick-up out of the lot of the church—not wanting to rouse any suspicions with the parish. You know very well that he’ll probably ask you not to come around again. I need you to stay away from the church for the rest of Winter. And, you will leave Chimney Rock until next holiday, return, and even then… For now, you’ve got a nice place to rest. Your back flush to Jud’s chest. He leaves kisses on the back of your neck that you try to commit to memory.
The new 'prayer' emoji looks like Father Brian from 911 looking very exasperated trying to explain that Eddie might be gay but Eddie isn't understanding him.
