#jud x reader

[demigoddessqueens]

oh nothing much….just imagining Father Jud’s neck being all marked up with hickies and how he bashfully tries to hide them or an old part of him wants to show off your handiwork to the congregation

[liololli]

I'm a little disappointed in the Father Jud Tumblr community.

Why am I the one who has to bring up the thought of Father Jud beating up a guy for not taking no from the reader as an answer. How has this not been done yet? Truly a devastation.

[noctunis]

𑣲 ‧₊ PERFECT LOVE CASTS OUT FEAR .

— ৩ fandom knives out: wake up dead man — ৩ character jud duplenticy — ৩ notes no notes today unfortunately ..

one of the first things you learned about father jud is that he listens with his whole body.

his hands neatly clasped behind his back, eyes glued to you as his ears perk up to hear — the broad slope of his shoulders drifts closer like the tide pulled into something inevitable, intentional with the way he listens.

when you see him, a kind smile painted on his face (almost boyish in a way) and the glare of the sun pooling against his skin from past the leaky shadows of the trees, talking to the goers after mass had ended, you realize how much he enjoys this. you see the way his eyes scan each person, how helpful he seems to be; his eyes bunched tight as he murmurs prayers for these people despite the sideways glances and confused brows, his heart catching on every thorn.

you’ve been a donor of the church for a while, attending service every now and then. jud notices your silhouette in the pews every time. your gaze never settles; your attention splintering. flickering over to the monsignor and his endless discourse, to the fractured light of the stained glass glowing overhead, and then to jud. his eyes always seem to find you — even if just a glimpse of your sunday’s best fleeing his line of sight when you leave after the service.

you like him, you think — father jud. he seems genuine from whenever you’ve spoken to him (with what few times you have). there’s an honesty in the way he speaks, pauses included.

you’re not sure what to think when the news of the monsignor reaches you. “a dagger buried in his back,” they’d told you — nor are you sure what to think when the rumor surfaces that father jud was the one who did it.

the door groans softly when you push it open, wood complaining the way it always does. it’s late afternoon, that in-between hour when the light goes honeyed and slow, deep wine reds and ocean blues, slanting through the stained glass and pooling in muted color along the floor.

your shoes thump softly as you walk the center aisle, each step echoing up into the ribs of the vaulted ceiling. the sound feels louder than it is, quickly swallowed by arches.

you scan the area until your gaze settles on tousled curls, messy and dark, peeking out at you.

jud is sitting halfway up the nave, alone in a pew, shoulders slightly hunched. a book rests open beside him, forgotten. when he hears you, he looks up too quickly, like if he’s pulled from thought.

“oh,” he says, startled into a smile. “i didn’t expect—uhm,” his head whips around at the sound of stray papers falling, bending at the waist to pick them up. you step over and grab one, handing it to him as he sheepishly nods in head with a small, “thank you.”

he shrugs, patting his hands on his pants. “hello,” he says, trailing off in an awkward laugh.

“hi.” you smile, lips curling at the corners in a way that makes him grin (politely).

jud clears his throat, lashes fluttering as he looks up at you, brows slightly pinched. “i didn’t hear you come in.”

“am i interrupting?”

“no, no. i’m just,” he sighs. “thinking, i guess.”

you hum, your head nodding sympathetically — and the pit of his stomach clenches at the thought that he can’t stop staring at the way your lips twitch with every movement in your expression, the way your eyes soften when they make contact with him.

he tells himself he’s just fond of you: how altruistic you are. you, helping around the church, spending what savings you have as a devotee as it makes up for your absence. you help with flowers. you sit in quietly for service. tea for the older ladies who stay late gossiping in the hall. jud thanks you every time, like it’s the first.

it takes some time for him to tear his eyes away; the sun is low and gold through the stained glass, painting you in color—blue along your jaw, red at your throat.

he glances at the seat next to him before his head snaps back up and utters a quick apology, moving his stuff onto the ground with a motion for you to sit.

you fold your hands together, joined at the thumb, before you take a seat next to jud; your hands neat in your lap. the wood creaks as you lower yourself next to him. it’s old wood, worn smooth by generations of kneeling knees and folded hands. it feels grounding.

you hear a soft hum from him, buzzing low in his throat. the sound of the rasp makes you swallow dryly. “i wasn’t expecting you,” he blinks. “what—what’re you doing here?”

shrugging, you jest, “i was around.”

jud scoffs a bit. it’s meant more as a half-hearted laugh, but you understand in translation. “is anyone ever just around a church at this hour?”

“besides you?”

he smiles, lips tugged until dimples crease his cheeks. “i’m a priest.”

he looks down at his hands, rubbing at the curvature of bone beneath flesh — the ridges in his fingers, in his knuckles.

you eye the texture on his skin: the dusting of faint freckles dotting his nose and neck (alongside the inked skin peeking out from beneath his collar), the incessant tapping of his shoe against the floor. a bittersweet taste settles onto your tongue.

“so, what’s up with you?” you ask, tone light and airy. his eyes flicker up at you, a dull blue-green gone glassy in the church’s dim light, like lake water after a storm. reflective. the words seem to echo in his skull as well as against the inertia of the empty building.

“yeah,” he huffs, breath ghosting out of him. “funny.”

you grin. “i’m serious.”

he hesitates, jaw tightening, then exhales through his nose. “well,” he says, voice dry, “being publicly named the killer priest of chimney rock has certainly… added variety to my week.” his brow creases. “i mean, i’m not sure what else to say.”

you tilt your head, studying him. he continues, fingers flexed at his sides, “everyone keeps asking me to explain myself,” he adds. “as if i could make it make sense if i tried hard enough.”

a lull settles between you two. he smoothes the crinkles in his pants, gazing straight ahead. you eye the crucifix that the wall adorns and everything surrounding it. the altar looks barren in the dim light.

you tap your heels against the ground, floor meeting sole. “you could start with how you’re holding up,” you say.

that strikes something in him. he straightens, turning fully toward you, knee knocking softly against the pew as he moves. his hand lifts, flexed in front of him like he’s about to conduct an argument that hasn’t quite decided what it wants to be yet.

“i—” he starts, then stops. laughs once, under his breath. he rubs his thumb against his fingers, then gestures vaguely toward his chest. “i don’t know.” his brow creases. “everyone else seems to have picked a feeling for me.”

you shake your head. “i mean you.”

he exhales, long and uneven. “i promise you when i say i didn’t do this.” his eyes are droopy, genuine. leaky with desperation. but you can’t help but believe him. lashes fluttering, he gives a small shrugs and looks up in thought.

“yes, the monsignor was,” he pauses. “less than pleasant and we—we’ve had our differences .. maybe more than expected, but i assure you—“ the words tumble out faster than he seems to intend. his shoulders tense, breath shallow, and for a moment he looks less like a pastor and more like someone bracing for reprimand.

you only feel the slightest bit guilty about your eyes straying away from his eyes to glance at his lips every now and then.

then he stops.

a sharp breath in. a long one out.

jud straightens abruptly, color rising in his cheeks. he turns to you, embarrassed.

“i’m sorry,” he says quickly. “that wasn’t appropriate. and uncharitable,” he swallows. “i shouldn’t speak that way, especially to you—you’ve been so generous to the church for so long, and i—”

“don’t be,” you simply say. jud blinks owlishly.

“sorry?”

“don’t be sorry,” you smile. he feels the tip of his ears grow warm at the sight, soft parentheses creasing at the corners of your mouth; the apples of your cheeks widening. like looking into the eyes of summer. “i know how he could be.”

the doesn’t say anything after that, simply swallowing to quench the desert of his mouth, sandpaper against his tongue. you nod mindlessly, eyes big and wide and staring at jud, mind fumbling for what you could say to him, with the rubik’s cube of this conversation.

“does anybody pray for you?” he hears you say, voice threatening to thunder against the deafening silence despite you only murmuring it.

glassy eyes dart towards you. along your face. he makes a face and a small laugh tries its hardest to slip past your lips with nonchalance, instead coming out a little awkward and pitched. like knees against the asphalt.

“you’re always the one doing it,” you explain. “for everyone else.”

something in his expression shifts—caught, maybe. vulnerable. “that’s all right,” he says gently. “it’s what i’m here for.”

he chuckles and it rolls over smoothly, much smoother than yours. his brows knit together as he gives a small shake of his head, mind racing to find the words. “i don’t know how i’d feel about that,” he grumbles, tone light. “being .. the focus.”

you smile at him, full of mirth and fondness. “then let me ask.”

he turns fully toward you now.

“jud,” you say softly, “may i pray for you?”

the question hangs in the air for a moment; the sky slowly darkening from beyond the window. he takes a moment before nodding once, his lips twitching at the gesture.

and without quite thinking about it, you reach for his hands. he stiffens, just for a moment, then lets you take them.

(his palms are warm, textured, the faint roughness of work and habit. his fingers curl around yours, hesitant, and yet he still lets himself be distracted by the warmth of your skin.)

you bow your head. he follows.

“o lord,” you begin, voice quieter now. “please see him. see the way he carries things without speaking of them. the way he keeps showing up.”

his thumb presses faintly against your fingers. you screw your eyes shut tighter.

“thank you,” you continue softly, “for the good that lives in him. for the patience in his voice, for the gentleness in his hands, for the stubborn hope he refuses to abandon—even now.”

the candles crackle somewhere near the altar. wax sighs as it bends. you murmur again, “remind him that he is not measured by rumor. nor by fear. remind him that he is known.”

you hear him sigh through his nose, quiet. a faint smile pulls at your mouth. “perhaps nudge him—subtly—into accepting a little help now and then.”

there’s the smallest huff in front of you. a reluctant, breath-warmed chuckle.

you peek one eye open just enough to catch the corner of his mouth tipping upward before he schools it again. his lashes are lowered, but you can see the smile he’s trying to hide.

you close your eye again, satisfied.

“keep his heart steady,” you finish softly. “let him feel how deeply he is held—by you, and ..” your voice dips just slightly, “.. by those who stand with him.”

“amen,” you say.

“amen,” he mimics, lids slowly opening as his eyes meets yours.

you can feel the faint pulse in his wrist. the warmth of him. the slight tremor. you pull away, the heat of his palm leaving yours.

“thank you,” he breathes.

you cock your head, eyes squinted with feigned expectancy. “that’s all?”

he blinks. “what were you expecting?”

“i dunno,” you shrug. “maybe a candle lit in my honor.”

“i’m not canonizing you,” he replies immediately, but there’s the faintest smile tugging at his mouth.

“not even a feast day?”

“absolutely not.”

you hum with a sharp exhale soon after. jud’s eyes trail the slope of your nose. only for a moment — and a quiet laugh slips out of him before he can stop it. not overtly loud but loud enough that it cools the space between you.

you manage a meager smile of your own. it almost makes the two of you forget the way a body thudded against the carpeted floor of the church.

“it did mean a lot,” he adds. “i just don’t mean to sound so ..”

“earnest?”

he winces faintly. “yes.”

“you’re allowed to be earnest,” you say. “just don’t make a habit of it. ruins your mysterious reputation.”

he chokes back the light scoff at your words. him? mysterious? he sees you only in what feels like once a month. but instead, it earns you a paltry look, his lips quirking at the corners.

“i don’t have a mysterious reputation.”

a brow raises. “have you seen the newspapers?”

he gives you a look at that — half warning, half amusement. you feel the heated itch that pets your spine; you manage a short laugh, drawing his attention away from the poor joke.

“sorry,” you mumble, sheepishly.

he shakes his head with a small wave of his hand. “no harm,” he says. the act drops and a grin soon conquers his face. “thanks for coming.”

and as you look at him, you find the rivulets of sweet kindness stain your tongue as you gorge yourself on goodness. you can’t help but feel a little selfish when you indulge in conversation with him.

(maybe you’ll just visit jud a little bit more often. you’re sure nothing will ever happen. he is a man of god, after all.)

[scariffs]

ok maybe Jud not feeling well but feeling obligated to work anyway because he cant abandon the flock or something and reader convinced him to rest???? I love your writing thank youuu

omg i think this wld be cute!!!

he knows he shouldn't be leading mass today. his palms feel clammy along the wood of the church's lectern, clenching more than holding. his head feels like a soup of thoughts, some purely liquid nothings and others half-mushy solids. it's not the best state for a priest (or anyone) to be in. jud knows better and yet... "i can make it through this mass," he mumbles, turning to you, "i'll rest after. promise."

doting, darling you. a recent new-hire at the church, taking over the duties of the late martha delacroix as the church's diligent secretary. you're nice, duplenticy thinks. a hard worker, if nothing else, dedicated to our lady of perpetual grace despite the church's past. maybe even because of the church's past— jud doesn't like to linger on it, really, though he must admit, at least to himself, that he questions everyone still interested in the church after the series of unfortunate events that occurred there not too long ago. regardless of your motivations, you were here and you were earnest; duplenticy would be a fool not to accept you with open arms.

following the long stretch of red carpet, you take several steps closer, arriving next to the ornate lectern. "you can barely stand on your own feet." you keep your voice low, but no less firm. "father," you start, only to be cut off by the sound of jud inhaling shakily.

"i just have to breath and then i feel a little better. i won't pass out, i'll be right here, leaning against the lectern. you'll sit front row, just in case," he insists, gesturing to the first wooden pew. it's your seat, not out of ownership but out of habit: you'd sat there your first mass and happened to never sit anywhere else. "it will be fine."

"let me feel your forehead, at least," you mutter, reaching out with the back of your hand. this, he obliges you, leaning towards you and offering his forehead. duplenticy's eyes close as your skin meets his, a wave of heat washing over his entire body. just the fever, certainly... "you're burning up," you remark, flipping your hand to press your bare palm against his forehead before pulling away. "i'd say 102.7."

"you don't know that," he chuckles some, lifting his head. his gaze, tired but amused, meets yours, concerned and unrelenting. "you can't just say a number."

"102.7," you repeat, "check for yourself if you'd like. you can do it while i announce that mass will not be held today." your posture straightens ever so slightly before you gesture for jud to move. "out."

"fine, fine," he acquiesces, finally, lifting his hands in a playful surrender as he leaves the lectern. reaching up, he messes with some of his black curls. then, he speaks again, "checking my thermometer will be the first thing i do, you know."

"mm, is that so?" you hum out, walking him down the red carpet. your arms are folded neatly, crossed but not angry, no... never that, not with father jud. "so you don't trust me."

a laugh leaves the man's lips, echoing along the church walls. "no, no. it's not that. i trust you plenty— you've done great things for the church, for the community. it's just, well, you pulled a number out of thin air." sincerity fills his words, a strong desire to not offend you present in the room.

"you'll see," is all you reply with, guiding him to the rectory. "enjoy your rest, father. the flock will be patiently waiting for you to return in good health."

"thank you," he says, but his legs don't move. lingering, duplenticy smiles at you, awkwardly avoiding the painful part of every meeting: the ending, the parting, the walking away. he's always been affected by sentimentality. the fever's only making it worse, urging him to stay with you. to be taken care of by someone other than christ, for the first time in a long time. it's an innocent want, but it's one he can't indulge in, knowing how slippery a slope it is. "thank you," he ends up repeating, nodding his head a little before turning away. you say you're welcome or something of that sort, but jud's already lost in his own thoughts by the time you say it.

the first thing he does is sleep. when he wakes up, though, stretching slowly about his bed, duplenticy remembers to check his temperature. he slides out of bed, sludging over to one of his drawers before finding a medical kit. after popping it open, he grabs the thermometer and slides it into his mouth. then he waits for the beep, his eyes closing once more.

the sharp, aggressive beep of the thermometer sounds after just a few moments, and jud has to resist the urge to laugh all by himself as he looks down at the recorded number.

102.7 degrees on the nose.

he'd have to call you to tell you about it. maybe later, though... right now, all he can think about is listening to his body and laying down for another nap. you end up being the last thought in his head before he settles back into sleep.

first time writing jud kinda nervous... </3 i think this is so cute though. idk, i hope i captured his essence.

[father-jud-duplenticy]

Pan!c at the Prayer Group Meeting

Masterlist

Helping Jud prepare snacks for the first Prayer Group meeting and helping him with the aftermath. (Idk I suck at summaries)

A little blurb based on this post by @piteouspider This is also part 2 to this post, but you can read either one as a standalone fic as well.

Word Count: ~4.2K

Taglist: @chickenmim @quietly-kept @capitanperoxide @lmaridi

Hope you enjoy! If you liked it, please consider dropping me a comment! :)

“Ok now the veggie tray should probably stay refrigerated until like right before.” She said, arranging the last cookie on the plate, a perfectly stacked cone of fresh baked chocolate chip cookies they had spent the afternoon baking. “Oh and sorry, I ran out of ham right at the end, and so a few of the sandwiches are just cheese, but I made sure I put them on the very bottom, so who knows, maybe no one will even get to those!”

Jud’s eyed the sea of refreshments laid out on the kitchen counter before them; he didn’t think that would be a problem. With the veggie tray, the picturesque plate of cookies he probably would have burned if he tried to make them on his own, the homemade sweet tea, chips and dips, some kind of mini tart things she said had apples and brie in them, and the giant tower of perfectly cut triangle sandwiches, it was safe to assume no one would find out about the couple of ham-less sammies at the bottom. 

He wasn’t expecting much of a turn out, but it warmed his heart that she’d think he’d have enough crowd here to even begin to make a dent in this feast. He’d make sure to tell everyone to try her brie and apple thing. Maybe they can take the leftovers to the shelter across town?

“You do know there’s only like 30 people who go to this Church right?” He asked with a little laugh. “And I know for a fact at least 1 person who isn’t going to be there.”

She turned around, shoving a cookie, a misshapen little reject cookie, probably Jud’s doing, that had no place among the pretty display she made, into his hand.

“Here, eat this and stop sulking.” She said, “I told you, I don’t really play well with others, and group activities give me the ick. – it’s nothing personal.”

“I’ll try not to take it to heart.” He teased, taking the first bite of the still warm treat; the chocolate melted as soon as it hit his tongue – it tasted divine, it tasted like love. He was glad this one hadn’t turned out right, because it meant he got to have this moment of enjoying it. 

He was glad that night at the bar, all those months ago, hadn’t turned out right either.

That she came and sat with him

That he’d had one beer more than he should have (Or else he might not have had the nerve to stay as long as he did) 

... that he had punched that guy in the nose.

Because it meant that he got to spend the afternoon baking cookies with a friend and laughing over her latest office drama: how someone keeps leaving open containers of yogurt in the break room – untouched (‘who does that, right?’ she laughed, as she stirred the batter) – how some department head had accidentally emailed “I miss us… :(“ to the head of HR…with the entire company cc’d on it. 

Everything that’s ever happened to him, led him to being able to enjoy these moments of her company, and it made him glad that some things didn’t turn out how he hoped, because he couldn’t have ever hoped for something half as good as this.

“Oh! Wait!” She exclaimed, putting a hand up to signal him not to take another bite, before turning to rummage through one of the reusable bags she had used to bring all this delicious food. He hurried to take another bite before she turned back around, afraid whatever she had planned would keep him from getting to indulge in another taste. She saw him, and gave his arm a little smack, before opening the little jar of sea salt, and sprinkling some of the flakes on his cookie. 

He didn’t even think he could dream of feeling this much love before. One bite of the gooey, rich brown butter now complimented by the hint of saltiness, had him ready to get down on one knee right then and there. She sprinkled the rest of the cookies with the flaky goodness, and so help him god, he was ready to risk it all, delirious off the sugar rush.

He’d give it up in a heartbeat if she asked.

He’d hang up the collar, find another way to serve out his purpose, he’d find a way to make it work.

But she never asked him to. Never made him choose between his purpose or her heart. No, she listened to him go on and on about his mission, his worries, how he didn’t feel like he was really able to connect with some of the members. 

She was the one who suggested he try to get them all together, without Wicks, to see if the absence of his ever-judging presence would help to tear down the walls between them.  

“Tear down the walls between…” he repeated, nodding along with her words.  “That’s good. Do you mind if I steal that? I think I could use that in the meeting.”

She spent her Saturday helping him prepare for this meeting, that she isn’t even a part of, for people whom she didn’t particularly care for and whose treatment toward Jud she held against them on his behalf. Like for pete sakes, she baked chocolate chip cookies with little sea salt flakes for people she can’t stand just so she could support his endeavor to help the very people who reject and alienate him. That’s how much she supported him.

And he would give it – all of it – up without a doubt, if she ever so much as asked. 

But she never did.

And it made him love her all the more because of it. 

She didn’t make him choose, didn’t ask him to change anything about himself. She met him where he was, loved him as he was – all bruised fists and heavy heart – she made him feel like could just be himself and that that was enough. 

“I can’t thank you enough..” He said, savoring the last bite as if it would truly be the last one he’d ever have in his life. Thanks couldn’t begin to cover the gratitude he felt for all that she’d done. His tone made her pause momentarily from gathering up the last of the unused supplies she brought. He stilled her before him, tupperware discarded to the counter behind her, hands on her shoulders, head slightly ducked to look at her directly. Words couldn’t do him justice, so he hoped she’d be able to read it in his eyes, to see all the things he wants to say but can’t, like he knows only she can. “For everything.”

“You have no idea how much this means to me…” He continues.

She does. Of course she does. She can read it on his face, every small act of kindness, every little show of affection, nothing goes unnoticed by him. And he makes no effort to hide his appreciation. He couldn’t hide anything from her, even the parts they both know can’t be said out loud, are understood and acknowledged in a way that was all their own. There was no room for shame in his feelings for her, for the connection that carried him through, even on the toughest days. It was one of the few things he felt no guilt in his heart for. He didn’t know what to call this, but he didn’t care. He was content to love and be loved by her to whatever extent was granted to him.

Her hands come up to mirror his, her touch melting away the tension in him he didn’t know he was carrying. He didn’t know why he was so nervous about this. He wishes she’d stay. He almost thinks about asking her to. To come to the meeting to support him. He knew without a doubt that she would, too. She’d put aside all her objections and she would be right there by his side, mouthing the words he knew she didn’t really believe, and linking hands to pray with Martha, whom he knew she especially disliked. She’d do it with no hesitation, if he asked her to. He doesn’t ask her to. 

“You’re gonna do great.” She said, the tip of her tongue always ripe with the exact words Jud needed, which even he himself didn’t always know what they were. She rubbed her hands up and down his biceps encouragingly. “Everything is going to work out fine. You got this! I believe in you.”

She gave him a reassuring smile and he was powerless to stop the grin that bloomed across his own lips, his whole face immediately lighting up with the optimism that borderlined naivety, that she had come to know and love. She believed in him…the words echoing in Jud’s head. He doesn’t hear that often… It sounds …nice. 

 He helped her pack up the last of the stuff, insisting on carrying it all out to her car, the least he could do, he says. 

“Alright, I’ll be by later to help with clean up. Oh, and I looked it up and the shelter serves dinner at like 6, so I think we can get any leftovers dropped off before then if we hustle. So does 5ish sound good?“ She asked, as they walked out to her car. He nods with an affirmative as she opens the driver door. She stops and turns on her heels to give him a hug and a final little boost of confidence. He’s caught off guard for the slightest of moments, before meeting her hug, as is in his nature, with everything he’s got. 

Jud is a hugger, she learned, much to her disdain. He’d greet everyone with a hug if he could, she thought. But when he’s flinging those long arms around ya, doesn’t matter who you are, how long he’s known ya, you can feel the pull, like a magnet, trying to merge a piece of his soul with yours. His hugs feel like what hugs are supposed to feel like. So she doesn’t mind them. But it’s still rare for her to be the one to offer, and Jud knows her feelings on it, so the gesture really touches him. He makes sure to cherish the moment, as she pats his back in a comforting way, before pulling away to get into her car. 

“Ok so don’t forget to throw those tarts in the oven at 350 for like 3-4 minutes before you serve them, ok? Oh and the veggie tray, double check that I put it in the fridge.”

He confirmed he heard her directions as he leaned against her frame, as he tends to do, while she rambled off last minute details.

“I can’t wait to hear all about it!” She tells him, as she turns the cars to start the car. Jud leans back and starts to close her door. She rolls the window down and yells one final bit of encouragement as she pulls away..

“Go get em champ!” 

—----------------------------------------------

He did not in fact “get em” nor did he feel like a champ. Jud didn’t know how he expected the first meeting of the “Father Jud’s Prayer Group” to go, but even he could not have anticipated it would go down like that. 

“Holy…Shit.” He breathed out, too worn out to watch his language, his head in his hands, alternating between rubbing his eyes and his temples in frustration. This was insane, truly, he felt like he was actually going insane. He’s trying to see things from their perspective, he swears he is. …But really, this is some cult shit, right? 

“Oh god.” He buries his face in his hands again, still sitting in the same spot in front of the fireplace. He hasn’t moved since Martha left, a palm over each eye. Alright, if this is some cult shit, that’s more reason for him to keep trying to help these people. He can’t let God’s message be twisted to serve as a tool of oppression, of fear, of HATE.

These people HATED him. 

Hated his guts. 

He opened up to them, shared his own painful memories, not because he wanted to, but as an act of faith, a plea for connection, an olive branch. He shared the most vulnerable details of his own struggle, because he wanted them to know that it’s not about being perfect in God’s eyes, but about being open and able to accept the part of ourselves that are flawed, because God still made that, and not accepting that is not being able to accept God’s love.  

….And Cy is going to post it online and monetize it.

Fuck.

His deepest personal struggles, on Youtube, next to a clip of some asshole’s podcast where he’s talking about why God says women shouldn’t vote or something.

He hopes the video gets flagged. 

He feels guilty for hoping for that, that’s gotta be like textbook Wrath for sure…

He hangs his head in his hands a little while longer, trying to collect himself. He needed to reel it in. He couldn’t let his own frustrations cloud his judgement, filling his heart with hate won’t do him any good here. He still had a responsibility to these people. His duties don’t change just ‘cause he got knocked down, the fighting spirit in him beaten. He’s not gonna let this keep him down, he’s gonna get back up and try again ….and again ….and again..

Martha’s words repeated in his head, her tone, the way she looked at him with such contempt. 

“Sorry your little Coup failed.”

It was a PRAYER GROUP. …Who even says shit like that? 

And he didn’t believe her when she said that she could confess to Wicks, that she’s not afraid of him, of his judgement. Bullshit. 

With a heavy sigh, he lifted his head, resting his chin on clasped hands as he looked out at the empty room. The veggie tray untouched. No one ate anything they spent all day making. He didn’t even have a chance to warm up the brie things, everyone leaving before he could even get the oven preheated.

Their cookies… with the sea salt…

—----------------------------------------------

“Knock, Knock!” She said, peaking her head around the corner. “Hey! How’d the prayer meeting ….”

Her sentence tapered off, tone dampened with realization as she walked in to Jud, sitting alone, in a chair in front of the fireplace, eating one of her little sandwiches. In front of him, the spread they had made looked just as she left it, a single triangle missing from the bottom of the whole tower, and it was currently being eaten by the saddest, kicked puppy of a man in front of it. 

He raises the sandwich a little toward her.

“This is pretty good. What kind of cheese is this?”

She could hear the defeat in his voice. She could see it in his eyes, a little red around the rims. She let out a long sigh, making her way towards him. 

“Why are you eating one of the ones from the bottom?” She asked, pulling up a chair beside him and plopping down in it. He shrugged his shoulders, taking another bite. “I told you those were the bad ones.”

“I’ve had worse.” He said, mouth full of mostly just bread.

“I believe it.” She responded back. “And it’s some kind of smoked swiss, I think.”

“It’s good.” He said, popping the final piece in his mouth. She scoots her chair closer and he leans his head on her shoulder. After a minute, he lets out a long sigh, deflating.

“That bad, huh?” She asked, picking out a baby carrot and taking a bite. She wasn’t going to push him for anything, it didn’t go well and Jud was crushed, that’s all she needed to know, the rest Jud would tell her in his own time. Knowing the details wouldn’t change anything.

They sat in mutual silence. Jud was thankful for this. He didn’t want to tell her about how it went. He didn’t want her to know that for how much she believed in him, he blew it. He didn’t want to let her down. 

“I’m still proud of you for trying.” She gently whispered. He looked up at her from where his head rested on her shoulder still, his eyes asking her why. He actually managed to make the situation with Wicks and the flock worse, somehow. She turned her head to look at him and he straightened up a little so she could. She gave him a gentle smile. “You tried something, it didn’t work out, at least you tried to do some good. I think that counts for something. Besides, now there’s just more we can take to donate, right? That’s still doing some good!”

His eyes start to water and he ducks back into her shoulder. He had no qualms with someone seeing him cry, there’s no shame in it for him. He just felt overwhelmed for a moment and sitting there crying on her shoulder just felt like the only place he felt he belonged for a moment. Her arms felt like the only arm to have ever opened for him. He was so glad he punched that guy in the bar that night.

“What is it about me?” Jud asked, shaky voice barely above a whisper. 

“What do you mean, Jud?” She asks. They’re both looking forward into the empty rectory, like some unorthodox reverse confessional situation. The thought almost makes him laugh. He was ready to confess all his sins to her…all of them. That thought actually makes him laugh. He thought back to a couple nights ago, a wave of embarrassment overcame him. He’d have to tell her that one too – all meant all. 

“What’s so funny?” She asked, trying to turn to look at him again. He doesn’t know what came over him, but he tugged at her arm to stay. He wasn’t ready to leave the comfort of her shoulder yet. He knew he shouldn’t, but he wanted more, and at that moment, he didn’t care about the morality of it. Right now, he knew he didn’t have to be anything else. He could just be. He felt like he could allow himself to want. To be human, and flawed, and to love…and to be loved. 

He knew she loved him. 

She never said it, she knew she didn’t need to. He’s learned how to read her now too…To understand and be understood, that was love to him.

And she loved him like no one else.

“Do you think they’ll ever come around?” He asked, fingers tracing his knuckles – now healed – a nervous habit he’d never be able to shake. “Will they ever accept me?”

She took both his hands between hers, giving them a squeeze. She sighed. 

“They might not.”

For once, the answer she gave him wasn’t exactly what he needed to hear. He knew it was the truth though, and so he guessed in the end, maybe it was what he needed, just not what he wanted. He wanted to be in her arms. He wanted to smell her perfume wherever he went, to have it hit him at random times and be reminded of this moment. He wanted to spend his Saturdays baking cookies with her. He wanted to carry her bags and walk her to her car every time. He wanted to hear about her work drama every night and he wanted to vent to her when Wicks was being a dick and he wanted her to call him that and try to convince Jud to report his antics to the Church. He wanted her to never stop calling him out on his shit and he wanted to be there in her corner, so she could tell creeps to fuck off and never have to worry about her safety from doing so. 

…He wanted to stay in this moment forever.

“What can I do?” He asked helplessly. 

“Nothing you can do I’m afraid.” She said, nonchalant. He sighed. That wasn’t what he wanted to hear either. “You’re just gonna have to live with the fact that you’re not for everybody, Jud.”

“Phffp, yeah thanks for that.” He laughed. “I’m well aware.”

“You know what I mean.” She said, pulling away and moving her hands up his arms to hold him by the shoulders, to make him face her. She wanted to see him. She wanted him to see her, to look into her eyes and know that what she’d say is genuine, that she’s being straight with him. Jud felt a shiver running up his arms and down his spine from her touch.

“Listen Jud, you know as well as I do, that you have a good heart.” She began. He could already feel the tears welling back up in his eyes, a lump in his throat. She looked at him with such a soft expression and spoke with so much compassion, it felt like a moment of divine intervention. He felt compelled to believe her. “And you’ve made mistakes, you have your flaws, and you’ll always have your moments. You’ll never be able to escape that.”

He felt the tears on his cheeks. Her hands flew up to brush them away with her thumbs, cupping his face in her hands. He melted into them and they both leaned into one another. What a sight they would be, if someone walked in right now. For once he prayed for the emptiness he’d come to associate with the church, what once felt isolating, felt precious now. 

“But you wake up every single day, with nothing but pure intentions and a desire to do good. And some people aren’t going to like that. That doesn’t mean you need to change for them. I know you, Jud, you’d never fight fire with fire, you’d sooner let yourself burn. …But I won’t let them burn you, Jud.”

She paused, tilting her head to examine him, with tender eyes and a brush of her fingers on his cheek.

“You have people in your corner, you know that right? Remember, the world’s not all wolves. There are people out there, who crave the kind of compassion and empathy that you work so hard to carry inside you, and knowing you, I know you’ll find them. You can’t help everyone Jud. That’s just the harsh reality of life. Don’t ask me why – You can take that up with the big man upstairs. – I just know it is. 

But the thing about you is you’re still gonna try. You will give all of yourself, every fiber of your being, to try to help others. You’ll sacrifice whatever it takes, because you know you can survive without… because you have for so long. But you don’t have to now. You’re selfless to a fault like that…”

They both crack a little smile at this. The tears are flowing freely now, and he puts his hand over hers.

“But Jud, you have to learn to show yourself the same kind of grace you show to others…You deserve it as much as anyone else. And you don’t have to keep punishing yourself. You are allowed to want things, you’re allowed to enjoy life, and you should! You deserve to be happy and there’s nothing about you that makes you hard to love… I can tell you first hand, you make it incredibly easy to love you..” 

His heart jumps in his chest, his eyes widen at her last words. She smiles and brushes a stray curl out of his face.

“When someone is talking, you make them feel heard. You look for ways to ease the burden for others, without being asked. You eat the misshaped cookies and the bad sandwiches, so you can leave the good ones for someone else, and you treat it as a privilege to do so. You make people feel safe, safe to be who they are, safe to make mistakes, safe from judgement.”

She smiles a big smile now.

“You are incredibly easy to love to anyone who’ll give you half a chance and I pity those who’ll miss out on the opportunity, because that’s their loss Jud, not yours.”

Always exactly what he needed to hear. Jud was overcome with emotions, his heart felt like it was going to explode out of his chest, he was sobbing now, and he pulled her into a hug so tight she couldn’t tell where she ended and he began, it didn’t matter, because in that moment, they were just two people, who loved one another, and nothing else felt real. 

Neither one of them needed to say it, they both knew, they both knew the other new, but they both wanted to say it – so they did.

“I love you.” He whispered into her hair.

“I love you more.” She whispered back. 

—--------------

If you enjoyed this fic and want to make my day, drop me a comment! Thank you for reading!

[andrea-eyebright]

It had to be you...(?)

aka this scene from fleabag but its Jud Duplenticy YES I HAVENT MOVED ON IT WILL NOT PASS, drabble, yes the title is a frank sinatra song, entirely self indulgent because i think smoking with someone is so intimate

the dusty clay brick wall met your back as you took a deep, deep, drag from your cigarette in the back alley of the restaurant. the fire on the cherry of it dancing under the breezy night air.

This little quaint town of Chimney Rock was already damn bad enough—and then youre shoved into the dining table with people, (whom you should call family) that either ignored you for the rest of the evening or asked intruding and undubitably sensitive matters.

you huffed under your breath, head tilting back against the brick wall as you shoved the two pounds lighter back into the pocket of your leather purse. The cigarette sat limply between your index fingers as you took a moment to let your eyes fall shut.

live music and muffled chatters clamored over the distance—probably from the the restaurant. That, until you jolt your head to the sound of footsteps from the other end of the alley, the dull thudding sound pulling you out from the haze. only to find father Jud approaching you with a faint tilt of his lips and his hands tucked behind his back.

"you smoke." he muttered, unexpectedly absent of any judgement. you hum in response.

"...do you- got a spare one?" he asks skittishly as he stood beside you—and well, that surprised you even more. nonetheless, you nod.

"sure." you murmur with barely concealed amusement.

your fingers nimbly dug inside your purse for the metallic tin can that held your blunts and the lighter, thumbing the lid open you hand him one of the spare cigarettes you always brought. he muttered a soft "thankyou." in return.

he leaned down with the cigarette tugged between his fingers, letting you flick the flame for him. and you do, ofcourse. the lighter made a soft hiss as you flicked the wavering flame to the butt of his cigarette—illuminating a dim light between the two of you.

a sigh escaped his lips as he briefly tipped his head down to billow the smoke, you allowed yourself to indulge in the sight for about two seconds before looking away and taking another drag.

"are you okay? i mean i could... walk you home." he spoke softly. priestly courtesy—you assume.

"i'll lend you my coat, its wo-" he offers as you exhaled a wisp of smoke, ready to shrug off the black coat that draped over his shoulder. you cut him off, turning on your heels and plainly walking away, what street was this again? you'll just walk home, its a small town.

his face slightly torts as he tilted his head to your direction, more amused than offended as he watched you go. but not for long.

"fuck you then." he scoffed, loud enough for you to turn your back.

you paused, turning your head over your shoulder mid-steps from his words. your eyebrows knit together as your gaze lands on his sheepish yet playfully boyish grin—the kind a kid has when caught stealing sweets from the counter. it was frustatingly endearing.

"im kidding," he mouths with a shrug, still with that playful grin. your lips pulls into a smile against your will, shaking your head before inevitably getting back on your feet and parting ways.

Jud watched your retreating back, taking one last drag from his cigarette before forcing his gaze down and deliberately dropping his cigarette to the ground. he stumped it with his worn leather shoes, the scattered ash probably stained the sole.

yknow i rlly wanted u guys to interpret it yourself but im itching jud stubs the cig because he doesnt rlly smoke he just wanted a reason to talk to u

[orins-musings]

Threshold

Jud x reader

Plot: Jud folds under the pressure of his desire

Warnings: religion, nsfw, reader has a pussy but is not referred to with any gender, my 3rd ever fic and first Jud fic

Divider by @saradika-graphics, Thank you!!!

It's not a sin as long as he's not the one cumming. It's not a sin as long as he's not moaning out as your hands travel over his body and cock. It's not a sin as long as he doesn't ease himself into your gushing cunt, his whole body trembling from the onslaught of pleasure and how he can feel you clenching around him-

A groan of annoyance and frustration makes its way out of Jud, doing little to quell his racing thoughts or erection. A jolt of worry hits him as he remembers he's not alone in his bed, your peaceful sleeping body beside him. A glance in your direction proves that his exasperation didn't awake you. Good. You need your rest. You're still naked after the activities of last night, but as always Jud is still in a tshirt and shorts, a pathetic attempt at maintaining some sort of modesty that does an even more pathetic job of hiding his current hard on. The reminder of the fabric creates further irritation for his mind and arousal, so he turns his body towards you, trying to find some kind of peaceful solace in your steady breathing and calm expression.

It works, if only for the moment, as he finds himself forgetting about carnal pleasures and focusing on just how much he loves you. His furrowed brow smooths over as affection grows wildly uncontrolled within his chest. He doesn't know what he'd do without you. He'd felt so lost for so long. Turning towards communal duties helped a bit. He did find fulfillment in helping people, but parts of him still felt untethered within the church. And then he met you. Uncaring of religion, skeptical of the fire and brimstone preachers loved to fear-monger about, but still kind and just to others despite the common churchgoer's fear that a lack of religion meant a lack of morality. He'd felt smitten for so long, jumping at any chance to share time with you or assist you however he could. Those opportunities were rare at first. His position as a Father brought some noticeable skepticism and wariness towards his intentions with someone who didn't believe in god (or said they just didn't like him if he did possibly exist), but eventually enough of Jud shone through instead of the religious role he played, and your company became a daily part of his schedule.

You reminded him how to live, how to actually feel and enjoy life amongst the onslaught of hate and fatigue in the world. Your presence brought so many small joys to things he used to pass over as daily habits, mistakes, or necessities. The little bit of glee you got out of him letting out the occasional swear... "Not so holy sounding there Father." That tease usually resulted in a flustered man trying to explain himself, a reproachful teasing look at your words, or most commonly Jud trying to duck his head or find some way of hiding his crotch to hide the effects of you using his title. He knew you never failed to notice the flush of his cheeks, no matter how hard he tried to hide it. Wearing his more elaborate church attire usually resulted in similar teasing, more focused on how over the top or silly the clothing could be. Sometimes you made fun of passages in the Bible, or an over inflated sounding bit in a sermon. You helped him feel grounded, like a real person, a whole being. Not just a tool or figurehead.

It didn't take long for his will to crumble under the pressure of his growing affection for you. Your first kiss came from a moment of his self control breaking, hovering his lips above yours begging for you to tell him to stop if you didn't want this. You didn't say anything. You just pulled him the rest of the way by his collar, and he broke under the soft caress of your lips against one another.

The relationship grew naturally from there. Hangouts became dates which eventually became the two of you spending most of your time at each other's homes until he asked you to move in.

The aspect that didn't grow as steadily was the physical side of your relationship. Jud knew he wasn't a sinless human being. His past spoke well enough for that. But he held himself to a certain threshold of sinning because of his duties as a Father. Kissing? A sign of affection, an action that didn't necessarily have to be sexual. He had to remind himself of this whenever he pinned you to a wall and you explored each others mouths in a messy mixture of spit and gasps. Cuddling? Friends could cuddle. There was nothing inherently more to the action of pressing your bodies together. It was soothing and calming to feel one another's presence, to remind each other physically that you loved each other and were there.

It's the subject of sex that Jud found he couldn't quite think his way around for a while. You never pushed him, never expected more affection than he was willing to give... But the issue wasn't that he didn't want you. He craved you. He needed you in as many ungodly ways as he could manage with his mortal sinful body. It got to the point that the mere suggestion of your body had him desperately searching his mind for something to distract from his arousal, often failing and choosing to shove himself under an ice cold shower where he would shiver and allow himself to suffer for his lack of self control.

Jud needed you but that threshold still remained. He had to maintain some sort of righteousness or he felt he would be a lying Father, a false preacher to the people who relied on his religious teachings or advice. So he didn't cross the line, he just... Added some footnotes. Clarified some rules.

If he didn't come he wasn't engaging in the sin of lust. If he didn't let you touch his cock, jerk it until he reached completion he wouldn't have to pray for forgiveness. If he didn't fuck you with his cock, he wasn't having sex. Pathetic excuses. Deceitful attempts at trying to redefine the concept of sex, but he wasn't willing to give you up or consciously give up all aspects of his religious side. And you understood. You were so sweet and kind when he brought it up with you, checking on him to make sure he was okay, if he was certain about this being what he wanted. You were both confident in his certainty when he not long-after buried his face between your thighs and ate you out like a starving man. He only paused once after your first orgasm, checking on your well-being before diving in for more. You lost count of how many times you came, only aware of the scrape of his facial hair against your skin and his lips and tongue devouring your sensitive flesh.

Your sexual life continued in a similar fashion afterward. Jud would touch you, tease you, bring you to completion over and over with any part of his body but his cock, and maintained his false dignity. You were wary of touching him at all at first, but he encouraged you to hold on to him. Sometimes the only thing that kept him from snapping while he drove you over the edge was feeling you cling to him, dependent on the comfort and stability his presence brought you while he broke your sanity in two.

He didn't need anything more. He could bring pleasure to you for the rest of your lives, satisfied with how he could serve you. He would maintain his sanctity, to however small a degree such restraint did.

More lies. Lies that were harder to deny the longer time went on. He found himself reaching similar peaks of self-labeled pathetic-ness as before any sexual active occurred between you. When he fingered you, he felt his cock start to pulse along with your pussy clenching down on him. When he ground you against his leg, it took every bit of will inside him to not move you just a bit closer to him, close enough that your leg would grind against his cock with your movements. When he ate you out, he practically sobbed at your taste and the arousal gushing out of you. He was helpless against the thoughts of his cock replacing his tongue inside you, obsessed with the heat and softness of your walls. He was breaking, but he still held himself back, just barely.

That string of restraint grew just a little thinner as he swept his gaze over what he could see of your body. You chose to stay naked after your bath, often noting how soft the blankets felt against your newly cleaned skin. Part of Jud also suspected that you were trying to extend the amount of skin to skin contact the two of you would get to share, but that was a thought he would never share or berate you for. He treasured that time far too much.

But the more he stared, eyes slowly making their way downwards to the parts of you covered by the blankets, he could feel his arousal growing again. You had always been very open about enjoying somnophilia, but he felt a tad guilty as he started to scoot himself farther under the sheets. He had been a bit insatiable lately as his restraint grew thinner and tauter. Jud knew you had noticed but were waiting for him to be comfortable enough to talk to him about whatever was going on, something he dearly appreciated, alongside the sight that was currently gracing him as he crept towards your legs.

Your thighs were absolutely covered in bruises and bite marks, the effects of Jud's obsession with how soft they felt in his hands or around his head. He spent a few moments admiring the marks, stroking a few of them. He would likely add a few more to the collection after you woke up, but for now, he gently pulled your thighs apart and placed his body in the newly freed space.

His fingers were the first to travel up your legs and to your slit, gently teasing them back and forth, occasionally drawing them up to play with your clit. The stimulation was quick to have the intended effect, arousal beginning to collect around his fingers as the occasional sigh left your still sleeping body. That's all the sign Jud needed to bring his fingers back to his mouth to (needlessly) clean his fingers. He'd lie about not wanting to make too much of a mess if asked, but he knows that he just enjoys your taste too much.

He nudges himself just a little closer, breathing you in for a second before opening his mouth and gently dragging his tongue from your hole to your clit. He's careful not to use too much pressure too soon. He's also found himself enjoying somnophilia the more he indulges in it, the sleepy unaware sighs and whines leaving you only further confirming how much you want him, even in your sleep. He wants you to wake up fully immersed in pleasure, hurtling towards an orgasm before you even know you're being eaten out. It's an art he's started to master and find great satisfaction in, doing just enough to make you needier but holding back to prevent you from waking up. Part of him wonders if he feels less guilt if there are less eyes on him while he's committing such an act, but the thought is brushed aside anytime you open your eyes. You don't make him feel guilty. You make him feel seen, and loved. And wanted.

The more restless your slumbering body becomes, the more effort and pressure Jud puts into the brush of his nose and tongue against your cunt. You're clenching around him anytime his tongue makes its way inside, desperately trying to keep him in as he withdraws it repeatedly only to push it back into your wet walls. His nose grinds against your clit as he begins to pant, trying to breathe you in and taste you at the same time. The taste and smell combined with your clenching start to drive him mad, pushing his face even closer to you. It's this new aggressive behavior that finally wakes you up with a moment of hazy confusion before a shocked moan rips itself out of your lungs. Your cries don't decrease in volume, only growing as you scream his name at the sudden addition of his fingers inside of you. Jud thinks he could die here. Whole, complete, lost in how you feel and taste and sound, both begging for mercy and more. If he ends up in front of God's judgement, face covered in your arousal, he'll hold no shame in being able to serve you so well.

It's this train of thought and focus on you that prevents Jud from noticing a growing feeling within himself. Every pant, whine, moan, pulse, or new wave of arousal making a mess of his face pulls the thread of restraint tighter and tighter. That thread finally snaps when you come, soaking his face and screaming his name as you jolt in his grip, trying to escape overstimulation as he stays between your thighs. Jud cries out between your legs, suddenly finding himself overwhelmed with pleasure of his own, hips uncontrollably grinding against the bed as he laps against your folds.

It isn't until you quiet down and his mouth slows against you that he realizes what just happened. The feeling of his soaked garments make him stiffen in horror. You feel him go rigid, quick to look down and ask what was wrong. He stays still for a moment, waiting for the wave of sin and guilt to crash into him. But it never comes. Instead he finds himself slowly feeling relief and a growing sense of freedom. Then he lifts his head to meet your gaze, and the realization finally hits him.

There's nothing stopping him from fully enjoying you now.

You two watch each other for a moment, Jud's stare unwavering and your gaze concerned. Your soft call of his name seems to break him out of his stupor as a flurry of movement suddenly occurs under the sheets. The next thing you know, a shirtless Jud is hovering over your body, his expression just as focused as it was before when he watched you. You don't even get a chance to ask if he was okay before he clashes your mouths together, rough and messy and desperate as he shoves his tongue into your mouth. You let out an undignified squeal of surprise when you realize that not only has he begun grinding his hips against yours, but he's no longer wearing anything and his cock is freely getting covered in your slick and stimulating your clit as he slides against you. The revelation makes you arch back against him, sobbing into his mouth at the feeling, but he's quick to place a hand on the side of your neck and your hip to force you back down on the bed. There's nothing in Jud's head but the feeling of your skin against his, your pussy clenching on nothing as his cock grinds against you, and the grinding of your bodies as you try to squirm under the onslaught of pleasure. Any thoughts of questioning his behavior completely flee from your mind as his cock catches on your entrance, Jud slowing his thrusts to try and find a way inside without having to move his hands. He's lucky on the fifth attempt, and slides home in one long stroke. There's practically no resistance, you being so aroused and Jud's previous orgasm completely soaking his cock making it feel as though his dick had always belonged there, deep inside with no chance of you getting away. The sensation of being so filled makes you scream in ecstasy as you're suddenly hurdling towards another orgasm, Jud's previous behavior having been enough to quickly get you worked up again. His groans join yours as his hips start to jolt at the sensation of your walls squeezing him so tightly. You're both panting when you come down from your high, Jud occupying himself with your neck as you recover, hands gripping your hips, feral with need but patient enough to wait for your comfort. He waited for so long, he can wait just a little more so that you both enjoy yourselves.

That patience disappears the moment you cant your hips upward, desperate to feel more of him. The groan that sounds out against your throat practically sounds like a growl as he finally thrusts his hips, only withdrawing a bit before pushing back in. He's pretty sure he'd die if he had to leave your cunt. He immediately picks up the pace, the bed shaking with each thrust of his cock into your body.

Neither of you can stay quiet as he repeatedly finds your sweet spot, making light burst in your vision and him practically blind as his eyes roll back into his head. It's all he can do to keep from sobbing as your soaked walls squeeze him, begging him to finish what he started. He can feel your third orgasm approaching in each clench, and his second isn't too far behind but he's determined to either come with or after you. His body decides for him when you start to jolt in his grip, pussy clamping down on him as he feels you soak his pubic hairs. He's helpless to his own orgasm,the pleasure hitting so hard that his body seems incapable of stopping the moans and sobs that escape him. This one's so much stronger than the first, made extra sensitive and lasting longer thanks to your spasming pussy. When the final waves of pleasure peter out between the two of you, he goes lax, collapsing on your body. Neither of you move or speak for a long time, simply recovering and enjoying the connection of your bodies.

Jud raises his head when he feels your hands carding through his hair, a soft expression on your exhausted face. You look worried. That makes something twinge unhappily in his chest, and he quickly moves upwards to give you a gentle kiss. "I'm okay," he murmurs. "I'm alright." You don't look convinced. He sighs against your chin after giving it a line of kisses and settles for a moment, trying to form the words he needs to speak.

"...I was stupid to ever think I could resist this, resist you."

The guilt on your face is immediate but he's quick to shut it down. "No. Don't blame yourself it's not your fault. I don't regret this..." His voice is but a whisper as he quietly admits "I could never regret you."

It's quiet again as you both fumble for words but Jud is once again the one to speak up. "This was gonna happen eventually. I was just making up excuses. But I'm happy it did. I'm happy I got to do this with you..." His nose brushes your skin as his voice grows with affection. "You're everything to me. And let's be honest, this relationship has never been a conventional Christian one, but we still work. And frankly if God is looking down sorting out sins on the earth..." The sudden nip to your skin makes you squeak. "He and humanity have got a lot more to worry about then a couple of people who love each other having sex." He pauses, thinking, a wry smile making its way to his face. "Like that group of neighbors on Garden Drive. God only knows what's going on there."

You laugh at the reminder of that particular feud. After the last church potluck, a few neighbors had started to accuse one  another of putting unholy things in their food. No one understood what exactly they were accusing each other of putting in their food, and none of the participants would say what it was, unwilling to let "blasphemous words" linger in their mouths. You and Jud had started a growing list of guesses, each idea worst than the last. You liked to add to it occasionally just to see the horrified expression on his face at the idea of it.

You both go quiet again, resting in the stillness. "You gonna be okay?" Jud hums in response, thoughtful in tone. "I will be. Eventually. I don't feel as shit as I thought I would, I just feel like a human being. But there's a little of that old religious guilt to shake off..." He graces you with several kisses to your neck before humming again. "... But we've got plenty of practice with that."

You smile, hands once again finding their way to his hair. It's a relief to not see him fighting himself anymore. You could have lived without a sexual side to your relationship for his sake, but it was clear that wasn't what he really wanted. And now you could both relax and enjoy each other to your hearts content. Your peaceful train of thought is interrupted by the sight of the date on the clock. "Don't you have a sermon to host today?"

Jud lifts his head enough to squint at the numbers. He glares for a moment. "Pass me my phone?" You start to try to scoot up the bed but his hands clamp down on your hips. "Without moving too much." You look down at him, eyebrow crooked upwards. "You feel good. And warm," he mumbled hiding his face in your neck once again.

You sigh, pretending to not find his actions cute, and stretch your arm out, just barely able to reach the phone on the nightstand. Once you hand it to him, he holds it off to the side, typing and clicking where you can't quite see. Your curiosity only grows when he tosses it somewhere on the bed and sighs into your skin. "It time to get up?"

Jud doesn't respond at first, but slowly turns to look up at you. He pauses, and then pushes himself forward to kiss you. It's soft at first, but you're surprised when he suddenly starts pressing his tongue into your mouth, exploratory and languid but firm in its strokes. Your surprise only grows when you feel his cock twitch and start to harden again inside you. When he finally pulls back he meets your flustered gaze and hums, low and rough against you. "Someone's covering for me." He suddenly pushes himself up on his knees, hands firmly holding your waist to make sure he doesn't slip out while you move. The arch in your back makes you newly aware of how much he fills you, making you clench down and whine. His expression slowly becomes confident and lustful as he looks down at where you're joined, and then up to your face. "We have other things to do today."

[sempersirens]

genuflecting ghost | chapter three part one | part two | masterlist

synopsis: three glasses into your impromptu outing with jud, confession begins to spill easier than wine

content: no use of y/n, angst, religion (obvs), allusion to past sexual assault, alcohol

word count: 2.6k

You let out a thin breath that might have been a laugh in another life, one where the word he has chosen does not strike so cleanly at the centre of the thing.

“Violence,” you repeat, eyes fixed on the curve of your glass. “That’s one way of putting it.”

Jud turns the stem between his fingers once and then stills it, his attention settled on you with a steadiness that would be unbearable if it were not also, somehow, the only thing keeping your thoughts from splitting apart completely. There is no appetite in his gaze, no curiosity sharpened into something ugly, none of the covert hunger with which people so often approach pain once they recognise it. He looks at you the way he looked at the candle in the church: carefully, with the sort of reverence that makes you want to destroy something just to prove he is mistaken.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, quieter this time, and the repetition does not feel redundant. It feels chosen.

You swallow, then make the tactical error of reaching for your glass again. The wine has shifted from companionable to treacherous somewhere in the last half hour, and yet you drink it anyway, because self-preservation has never been your most consistent discipline.

“It’s a very funny thing,” you say, your voice taking on that bright, brittle texture you have always mistaken for control, “how quickly your life can become administratively inconvenient. There’s all the expected aftermath, the panic, the insomnia, the deeply erotic experience of realising your own body has joined the opposition, and then there’s the practical side of it, which nobody ever really advertises. Lease agreements. Changed routes. Learning which supermarkets or friends are no longer yours. Deciding whether moving away counts as running, or just efficient problem-solving.”

Jud does not attempt to interrupt the momentum once it starts. He only listens, his shoulders angled toward you now, his expression held in that quiet, pained stillness that makes him look younger and older at once.

“You don’t have to make it smaller for me,” he says.

You give him a look over the rim of your glass.

“I’m not.”

He says nothing, and infuriating, it's the correct response. The silence stretches, and because you cannot bear to sit inside it without doing something to its edges, you add, “I knew him.”

The words fall more heavily than you intend. Jud’s hand tightens around the glass again. There is a minute shift in his jaw, a subtle tension there, the body’s quiet admission of anger before the face has decided what to do with it. The words fall more heavily than you intend. So much for restraint. Maybe it is the third glass of red. Maybe it is Jud, sitting there with those absurdly kind eyes and that catastrophic capacity for listening. Maybe it is some unholy collaboration between the two. You are not, as a rule, given to spontaneous confession. Your heart is thudding, your hands have begun to sweat, and still you keep going, which is frankly humiliating. Why, exactly, are you trauma-dumping to a Catholic priest in a bar called Il Diavolo?

“He wasn’t a stranger,” you continue, and now that the sentence has opened, the rest seem intent on following it. “Which, in theory, should have made things less dangerous. There are entire social scripts built around this assumption. Don’t go home with strangers. Don’t walk alone at night. Don’t accept drinks from men whose surnames you don’t know. Nobody really prepares you for the possibility that danger can arrive, already trusted enough to be let past the door.”

Jud lowers his gaze for a moment, and you watch the movement with strange, drunken attentiveness. He is trying, you realise, not to say the wrong thing. He is sorting through everything he could offer and discarding most of it before it ever reaches his mouth. The effort is visible in the line of his shoulders.

“When did you leave?” he asks at last.

“Two days later.”

He looks back at you.

“That quickly?”

You give a small shrug, though it feels insufficient.

“It was meant to be simple,” you say. “We’d known each other for years. It was… a one-night stand in the most technical sense. The sort people pretend is uncomplicated when they’re feeling optimistic.”

Your fingers tighten slightly around the glass.

“I even made him breakfast the next morning.”

The sentence lands quietly between you. You let out a breath that almost passes for a laugh.

“There wasn’t much to stay for after that. Or perhaps there was, but I no longer had the temperament to enjoy it. The apartment remained expensive and badly insulated. The coffee was still undrinkable. My neighbours continued to practise what I can only describe as weaponised intimacy through extremely thin walls. The city itself had the bad manners to continue as though nothing had happened, which I found strangely rude.”

The corner of his mouth moves, not quite a smile, but the ghost of one. He understands the joke you are making and also the fact that it is not a joke at all.

“Did you tell anyone?” he asks.

The question is so gentle that it gets under your skin more effectively than anything sharper could have done.

“I alluded to a few people,” you say. “Enough to establish that there are, in fact, many ways for sympathy to be exhausting.”

His brow furrows. You set the glass down more carefully than necessary and trace the moisture gathering at its base with one finger.

“Some people become saints the moment they hear something awful,” you say. “They acquire a softness that feels pre-performative, the kind that arrives already aware of its own lighting. Others become detectives. They ask very earnest questions in very calm voices. Had you been drinking? Were you alone? Did you say no in a sufficiently unambiguous register? The modern world is very committed to making women present peer-reviewed evidence for their own violation.”

Jud’s expression closes for a moment, not against you, but around something in himself.

“And the police?” he asks, carefully enough that you know he has considered not asking at all.

You let out a low breath.

“There it is,” you murmur. “The state enters the chat.”

“If you don’t want to answer that—”

“I didn’t,” you say. “Go to them, I mean.”

He nods once. 

“I thought about it,” you continue. “Then I imagined spending months repeating the worst night of my life to a rotating cast of men with government-issued lanyards, and my enthusiasm waned.”

Jud’s gaze drops briefly to his hands, then lifts again. He looks stricken in that quiet, disciplined way of his, every reaction passing first through a chamber of restraint before being allowed into the open.

“You shouldn’t have been left alone with it,” he says.

The words enter you more deeply than they should. They find some battered place that has been refusing translation for months and settle there, warm and devastating.

“Well,” you say, aiming for lightness and landing somewhere nearer grief, “that does seem to be the recurring review.”

His hand moves then. Only a little. It leaves the stem of the glass and comes to rest on the bar between you, palm down, fingers open, close enough that you can see the fine pale line of the scar at the base of his thumb, close enough that the offer is unmistakable and the restraint within it even more so. He does not touch you or presume. He simply places the possibility there and waits to see what you will do with it.

Your chest tightens with something so immediate and involuntary that it almost angers you. You look at his hand. Then at your own. The distance between them is laughably small. A movement of less than an inch would close it. Less than that, even. You have crossed streets for men who deserved less. You have crossed oceans, metaphorically speaking, for far more dubious forms of tenderness.

And still you do not move. Neither does he.

The moment lengthens until it takes on a shape of its own, one that feels old and mythic and a little cruel. You think, absurdly, of thresholds, of underworlds, of the terrible human instinct to ruin sacred things by looking directly at them. You think of Orpheus, of course you do, because your brain is intolerably literary even at the brink of emotional collapse, and because there is something in Jud’s stillness that feels ancient in precisely the wrong way. One turn. One glance. One failure of faith and the whole beloved thing vanishes.

You almost laugh at yourself. Trust you to drag Greek tragedy into a provincial wine bar while half-drunk and quietly coming apart in front of a priest.

“I’m making an absolute spectacle of myself,” you say.

Jud’s eyes lift to yours, startled and soft.

“No,” he says.

“No?”

“No.”

The word is simple. Certain.

You look away first, because if you don’t, you may do something spectacularly unwise, like believe him.

“I do have hobbies beyond this,” you mutter. “They’re just less narratively satisfying.”

That draws the smallest, warmest huff of laughter from him, though something steadier lingers beneath it.

“What do you do,” he asks, “when you’re not writing about descent and arguing with God in cafés?”

The question catches you slightly off guard. You glance at him.

“That sounds suspiciously like an attempt to remind me I’m a person.”

“It is,” he says, simply.

You look back down at your glass, turning it once between your fingers.

“I read,” you say after a moment. “I walk. I have a deeply committed, borderline unhealthy relationship with second-hand bookshops. I pretend I’m going to start running and then… don’t.”

His mouth curves faintly.

“Ambitious.”

“Unrealistic,” you correct. “I also cook. Badly, but with confidence.”

“I find confidence carries most things,” he says.

“Not my cooking.”

“I’m willing to be proven wrong.”

You glance at him again, suspicious.

“That feels like a trap.”

“It’s an invitation.”

There is affection in the words now, carefully banked but impossible to miss, and you hate the way your whole body responds to it, how quickly the animal part of you leans toward gentleness when it appears, how little your nervous system cares for ideological consistency.

You take another sip of wine and regret it immediately. The room tilts by a degree so slight that only you notice, but it is enough to remind you that you are balanced on the thin edge between confession and collapse. Jud notices anyway, and his gaze sharpens.

“Do you want some water?”

The tenderness of the question nearly undoes you all over again.

“I want several things that are probably inadvisable,” you say, then wince. “Water, however, is responsible and therefore yes.”

Jud lifts a hand to catch Marco’s attention, and there it is again, that gentleness wrapped around competence, that curious combination of diffidence and ease. He asks for water in the same tone he seems to ask for everything: quietly, as though the world is more likely to oblige if one doesn’t startle it.

Marco appears, takes in the atmosphere at the bar in one quick glance, and sets down two glasses of water without comment. For once, whatever joke he might have made appears to have been subdued by basic human perception.

You drink too quickly. Jud waits until you slow down before speaking again.

“Did he know,” he asks, and then stops.

You turn to him.

“Know what?”

“That he had frightened you.”

You stare at him for a moment, struck by the precision of the question. Not did he mean to. Not was he sorry. Not even did he understand what he’d done, that bland phrase people use when they are trying to preserve a man’s moral paperwork.

Frightened you. The word is almost unbearably exact.

“Yes,” you say. “I think that was part of it.”

Jud looks down then, and something dark moves through his expression so quickly you nearly miss it. There is anger there, certainly, but also helplessness, and perhaps that is what makes it so difficult to witness. Anger can be admired from a distance. Helplessness is intimate.

“I’m sorry,” he says again.

“You keep saying that.”

“I know.”

“It won’t fix it.”

His eyes return to yours.

“I know that too.”

The honesty in him is almost violent. You have met so many people determined to solve pain in order to excuse themselves from having to sit near it. Jud does not attempt that. He does not rush toward remedy, does not turn your hurt into a task by which he might prove his goodness. He only remains, and for some reason that feels more dangerous than any promise.

“You’re very bad at priestly platitudes,” you say softly.

A faint crease appears between his brows.

“Is that a criticism?”

“It’s an observation.”

A reluctant smile touches his mouth.

“And here I was thinking I’d concealed it.”

“No,” you say. “You’ve concealed other things. That isn’t one of them.”

Something passes over his face then, brief and difficult to name. It looks almost like recognition, and then almost like fear. He takes a sip of water this time rather than wine, and you are irrationally charmed by the gesture. There is something deeply unfair about a man being morally tormented and hydrated in equal measure.

The room has thinned out while you were talking. A couple near the back stand to leave. Marco begins wiping down the far end of the bar with the deliberate energy of someone who has accepted that closing time will have to occur around other people’s crises.

“You should let me walk you home,” Jud says after a while.

The words arrive carefully. He is giving you an option. He is also, rather transparently, asking for one. You turn the empty stem of your glass between your fingers.

“Is that parish policy?”

“No.”

“Pastoral duty?”

He considers this.

“Possibly.”

You look at him. His face is open in that quiet way that keeps catching you off guard, earnest enough to seem almost old-fashioned, and there is something so fundamentally decent in the offer that your first instinct is to ruin it with a joke. You do not. Or not entirely.

“I live approximately seventeen seconds from your church,” you say. “If anything happens on the way, you’ll never recover professionally.”

“That’s a risk I’ll have to take.”

You smile despite yourself. He sees it, and his own smile answers a fraction too quickly.

God help you both.

“Fine,” you say. “You can walk me all the way to the extremely dangerous rear wall.”

Something eases in him then, subtle but unmistakable. Relief, perhaps. Or gratitude. Or merely the knowledge that the evening is not ending quite yet. He reaches for the bill before you can. You catch his wrist on instinct. The contact is brief.

Catastrophic.

His skin is warm beneath your fingers. Warmer than it has any right to be. The bones in his wrist shift almost imperceptibly at the touch, and his gaze drops immediately to the place where your hand rests against him. You let go at once.

“Sorry,” you say, far too quickly. “I have outdated feminist reflexes about men paying for things.”

Jud’s expression does something complicated, then gentles.

“I don’t mind.”

“I do, unfortunately, have principles.”

“I gathered.”

“You should be grateful. They’re the only thing standing between me and a truly humiliating number of bad decisions.”

The words leave your mouth before you can stop them. Silence opens. His eyes remain on your face. Then, with the slightest tilt of his head, almost too soft to bear, he says, “I don’t think you’re humiliating.”

The breath catches in your throat. There are, you realise, some lines that should come with advance warning.

Marco appears at the exact right moment, which is to say the worst possible one, and drops the bill onto the counter with a glance that suggests he has either understood everything or nothing, and you are not sure which would be more embarrassing.

Jud pays before you can resume your ideological protest, then stands and helps you into your coat with a care that feels dangerously close to intimacy. His hands never quite touch your shoulders, though the warmth of them seems to gather there anyway, hovering just above the fabric like an unfinished thought.

You step out into the night together.

The air has sharpened further, clean and cold, the kind that makes every breath feel newly manufactured. The town has quieted almost completely. Shop windows glow like sealed lanterns along the road. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barks once and is answered by nothing.

You walk beside him at an almost comical level of self-consciousness, both of you suddenly aware of the geometry of bodies again. The pavement is narrow. Your sleeves brush once, then again. Each contact lands with absurd significance.

“It’s this way,” you say unnecessarily when the church comes into view.

“I know.”

“Of course you do. Your employer is difficult to miss.”

That gets the small laugh you wanted, though it fades quickly into something softer. The church rises ahead of you, dark against the sky, its windows holding only fragments of moonlight now. The rear wall of your building appears a moment later, plain brick and shadow and the knowledge of how close you have chosen to live to all this. You stop by the entrance. So does he. Neither of you says goodnight.

There it is again, that terrible pause in which anything might still happen, and therefore nothing can. You look at him. Really look. At the unruly softness of his hair in the night air, at the concern he has not managed to conceal, at the mouth that seems perpetually on the verge of saying something unwise and decent. You think, with a sharp and private sense of disaster, that you could love a man like this very quickly. Which is precisely why you must not.

“Thank you,” you say at last, and the words feel too small for what they are trying to hold. “For the wine. And the concern. And your deeply ill-advised choice of second home.”

Jud smiles, though there is strain beneath it now, a faint tightness around the eyes.

“You’re welcome.”

Another pause.

Then, with evident care, he says, “You don’t have to be alone with it tonight.”

The offer enters you like light through a cracked door. You stare at him. His expression changes at once, the moment he hears how the sentence sounds outside his own head.

“I didn’t mean—” he begins, then stops, breath catching slightly. “I mean, if you want, I can stay out here a while. Or we can sit in the church. Or I can…” He exhales, faintly frustrated with himself. “I only meant you don’t have to go upstairs and feel there’s no one in the world awake who knows.”

The tenderness of it is almost unbearable, and you have to look away. Above you, the dark window of your apartment waits with all the indifferent patience of a room that has no idea what has just happened to you in it. When you look back, Jud is watching you with that same impossible steadiness, his hands tucked into his coat pockets now, either for warmth or restraint.

“You say things,” you murmur, “that would be much easier to survive if you were less kind.”

A shadow of a smile passes over his mouth.

“I’ve been told I’m inconsistent.”

“No,” you say. “You’re infuriating.”

That wins you a real smile, brief and boyish and almost enough to break your heart on the spot. You take a breath.

“I think I should go upstairs,” you say. “Before I decide to outsource all my emotional regulation to a Catholic priest, which feels developmentally embarrassing.”

Jud nods, though the nod is reluctant.

“All right.”

You turn toward the door, then stop with your hand on the knob, because of course you do, because apparently tragedy is a muscle memory and you have always been weak to thresholds. When you look back at him, he is still there.

Of course he is.

“Goodnight, Jud,” you say.

His face softens in a way you will spend far too much time remembering later.

“Goodnight.”

You go upstairs without looking back again, and the effort of it feels mythological.